The Fortunes of Garin by Mary Johnston (finding audrey .TXT) 📕

THE UGLY PRINCESS

She had a way of dressing, for preference, in dark hues, reds like wine or the deeper parts of rubies, blues like the ripened bunches between the vineyard leaves, browns like a Martinmas wood. To-day she wore the latter hue. Around her head was a golden fillet, but no other tire. She wore to-day no Eastern veil, nor did her long, dark hair, securely braided, give shadow to her face. Her shape was good, a slender shape, endued with nervous strength. But her face showed plain, dark, and thin, intelligent, but with features irregular beyond the ordinary. The Court of Roche-de-Frêne, beneath its breath, called her the Ugly Princess. She sat now beside her step-mother, Alazais, and made a foil for that lovely dame.

In the past two generations there had come a change in the world. True it was that to appearance it affected only a small ring—only the top strata, the capstones of the feudal system; only the world of lords and knights and poets and “ladies.” As the jongleur had told Garin, it was not supposed to descend to shepherdesses. Even in the other world by no means was it always present. Sometimes the lack of it was as shocking as might be. Sometimes it was[86] there only in very small part, only in unimportant issues. Sometimes it was mere affectation. Sometimes it was used as a mask, and behind it went on ill realities. But it had itself come into the world as a reality. It knew motion and growth, and it manifested itself, though in degrees. There was much alloy, but at its purest and best it was a golden thing, a flower of light. It called itself chivalric love.

Here and there it was pure and in action, but in between and all around was imitation, a little gold drawn out into much filagree. The filagree was the fashion; it drew being from the real, but the depth of its being was slight. But it was the fashion, no doubt of that. As the jongleur had said, it raged. Where it was received, in court and castle, hall and bower, sensuality grew sensuousness with sparks of something higher. But the framework of feudal society imposed all manner of restrictions. The elaborate gradation of rank, the perpetual recurrence of “lord” and “vassal,” the swords about women, marriage that was bargaining for wealth and power—all blocked the torrent’s natural course. Thrown back upon itself, the feeling inbred artifices and illusions, extravagances, sometimes monstrosities. It became the mock-heroic, the pseudo-passionate. It cultivated a bright-hued fungus garden of sentimentality. It rose from earth, not by its own wings but by some Icarian apparatus that the first fire scorched away. It picked up the bright dropped feathers of the true bird of Paradise, but though it made a[87] mantle of them, its own hue showed beneath. It did not understand what it was that it admired, but it made a cult of the admiration.... And yet all the while there was something real, and Extravagance and Mistake were dimly its seekers. Life was richer and longer of stride than it had used to be. A host of perceptions had at last melted into a concept of mutual love such as had not before been in the earth. Those that the crown fell upon might be silent or not, but no one else was silent. It was the Discovery—the age’s Indies—and polite conversation came round to it as the needle to the pole. Nay, conversazioni were planned to discuss this and this alone. Troubadours sang in contests songs of love—and once more songs of love. Now and again they might dispute other matters in a tenso, lash the time’s recognized vices in a sirvente. But these were asides. Their true business was to sing of love and lovers and the service of love. Some sang with a springtime freshness, force, and simplicity. Some took all that was strained, far-fetched, and hectic in the time’s regard of the Discovery and made of it a heady drink.

To-day this garden sat or stood to consider Love—that is, to consider love of an individual of one sex for an individual of the other. Here were knights who, when they fought, tied their lady’s sleeve or girdle about arm or helm. Here were troubadours of note, each of whom flung far and wide through the land the praise of some especial[88] fair. And here were women who were thus praised and sung.

The age greatly lauded virginity in the abstract. But—saving the saints in heaven and abbesses on earth—precedence in fact was given by the world of chivalry to the married woman. Public opinion required of wedded great dames—perhaps in most cases received—essential regard for their lords’ honour. This granted, for love they were let turn elsewhere. Theirs chiefly, though not solely, were the knights, the troubadours, the incense, the poesy. Marriage came so early, marriage was so plainly the rule, that the unwed in evidence—the throngs of nuns making another story—were almost always young girls indeed, buds of flowers, somewhat ill at ease with the opened roses. But largely they were of the rose kind, and, in the bloomy ring of wedded dames, sighed to in canzons, “fair friends” of knight and poet, but saw themselves a little further on. Those in the garden were not of the very youngest, and they were used to courts and not ill at ease. They were rosebuds very sweet, and they took their share of lauds. From them all the ugly princess differed subtly.

It was not merely that she differed when faces were compared. What others might think could not of course appear, but the duke, who had considered an alliance with Roche-de-Frêne, thought her deficient in every power to please. It was right enough that, in the presence of her father and step-dame,[89] before the perhaps oppressive loom of her own possible good fortune, she should keep silence. But she should look fair and complying, not be such an one that the world might say, “Our Duke chose a poor little land, under a gloomy sky!” And when she did speak she should speak with sense and à propos. As it was, she spoke folly.

For instance. There had been introduced a jongleur, a Babylonish-looking fellow, who had narrated at length and with action the history of Dido. He had ended amid acclaim and had been given largesse. Following the lesser art and performer had come the major—burst into song the troubadours. They parted between them the passion of the Carthaginian Queen. One took the May of it, one the July, one the Winter. They soared to Olympus and pleaded it before the Court of Love; they came down to Europe and placed it in the eye of brave knights and sweet ladies. The duke was moved. He began to lean toward Alazais; then, policy and the beauty of a virtuous action prevailing, he bent instead toward the only one there who could link together his dukedom and Roche-de-Frêne. “Fair, sweet princess, what think you of this great lover, Queen Dido?”

Then had the changeling shown oddness and folly. She lifted eyes that were vair or changeable, and neither shy nor warm, and spoke in a voice as dry as a Candlemas reed. “I hold,” she said, “that in that matter of the bull’s hide, she was wise.”

She said no more and her eyes fell again upon her[90] long, brown hands. They were as brown as a berry; they looked as though she had been roving like an Egyptian. The duke had a strong movement of distaste. She appeared to him as Babylonish as the jongleur.

The court seemed used to her. Naturally, it failed in no observance. She had her ladies, and a page stood at her call. The troubadours when they sang bent to her as they bent to the other chairs of state. Lord and knight made due obeisance. That marvellous Alazais spoke to her ever and anon, and she answered. But her words were few and short; the duke saw that she had not the gift of discourse. He saw no gift that she had. Certainly, she was not trying to please a great duke. It was not that she showed any discourtesy—that were impossible. But there was no right sense of his presence. She sat, young and without beauty, unsmiling, her eyes now upon the watch-tower drawn against the blue, and now upon the face of the singer. They said that Prince Gaucelm doated upon her. He was her father—let him doat!

“What shall a knight do for his lady?
He shall love her, love her, pardie!”

sang Gilles de Valence, reprobation of Messire Æneas being now in hand.

“All his nights and all his days
He shall study but her praise.
Her word against all words he weigheth,
[91]Saith she ‘Stay,’ in joy he stayeth.
Saith she ‘Go,’ all meek he goeth.
A heart in chains is all he knoweth,
From other wit release he showeth!
Wit may plead, but Love is nigher,
Jove may call, but Love calls higher!
What shall a knight do for his lady?
He shall love her, love her, pardie!
All his nights and all his days,
He shall study but her praise!”

Applause arose. Raimon de Saint-Rémy took his lute. But the duke noted how stiff and silent sat the ugly princess.

The entertainment of that forenoon over, they went to dinner—a considerable concourse, so considerable that when all were seated the