Part 8 (1/2)

What's she whose coming rivets all men's eyes, Who makes the air so tremble with delight, And thrills so every heart that no man might Find tongue for words but vents his soul in sighs?

(_Transl. by_ SIR THEODORE MARTIN.)

The sentiment which pervades these verses has lifted us into the higher sphere which will henceforth be our main theme. The beloved was more and more extolled; in her presence the lover became more and more convinced of his insignificance; she was wors.h.i.+pped, deified. The overwhelming emotion, the longing for metaphysical values which dominated the whole epoch, had reached its highest characteristic, had reached perfection.

It proved the eternal quality of human emotion: the impossibility of finding satisfaction, the striving towards the infinite; it soared above its apparent object and sought its consummation in metaphysic. The love of woman and the mystical love of G.o.d were blended in a profounder devotion; love had become the sole giver of the eternal value and consolation, yearned for by mortal man. Christianity had taught man to look up; now his upward gaze lost its rigidity and beheld living beauty--metaphysical eroticism had been evolved--the canonisation and deification of woman. The ideal of the troubadours to love the adored mistress chastely and devoutly from a distance in the hope of receiving a word of greeting, no longer satisfied the lover; she must become a divine being, must be enthroned above human joy and sorrow, queen of the world. Traditional religion was transformed so that a place might be found in it for a woman.

The reason for the recognition of spiritual love from the moment of its inception as something supernatural and divine, is obvious. The heart of man was filled with an emotion hitherto unknown, an emotion which pointed direct to heaven. The soul, the core of profound Christian consciousness, had received a new, glad content, rousing a feeling of such intensity that it could only be compared to the religious ecstasy of the mystic; man divined that it was the mother of new and great things--was it not fitting to regard it as divine and proclaim it the supreme value? The troubadours had known it. Bernart of Ventadour had sung:

I stand in my lady's sight In deep devotion; Approach her with folded hands In sweet emotion; Dumbly adoring her, Humbly imploring her.

Peire Raimon of Toulouse:

I would approach thee on my knees, Lowly and meek, I would fare far o'er lands and seas Thy ruth to seek.

And come to thee--a slave to his lord-- I'd pay thee homage with eyes that mourn, Until thy mercy I'd implored, Heedless of laughter, heedless of scorn.

Raimon of Miraval had said, ”I am no lover, I am a wors.h.i.+pper,” and Cavalcanti:

My lady's virtue has my blindness riven, A secret sighing thrills my humbled heart: When favoured with a sight of her thou art, Thy soul will spread its wings and soar to heaven.

Peire Vidal:

G.o.d called the women close to Him, Because he saw all good in them.

And:

The G.o.d of righteousness endowed So well thy body and thy mind That His own radiancy grew blind.

And many a soul that has not bowed To Him for years in sin enmeshed, Is by thy grace and charm refreshed.

The beauty of the adored was divine. Bernart of Ventadour wrote:

Her glorious beauty sheds a brilliant ray On darkest night and dims the brightest day.

Guilhem of Cabestaing:

G.o.d has created her without a blemish Of His own beauty.

Gaucelm Faidit:

The beauty which is G.o.d Himself He poured into a single being.

And Montanhagol, antic.i.p.ating Dante:

Wherefore I tell you, and my words are true, From heaven came her beauty, rare and tender, Her loveliness was wrought in Paradise, Men's dazzled eyes can scarce support her splendour.

Folquet of Romans:

When I behold her beauty rare, I'm so confused and startled by her worth, I ween I am no longer on this earth.

A canzone which has been attributed to Cavalcanti, Cino da Pistoia and Dante, reads as follows:

My lady comes and ev'ry lip is silent; So perfect is her beauty's high estate That mortal spirit swoons and falls prostrate Before her glory. And she is so n.o.ble: If I uplift to her my inward eye, My soul is startled as if death were nigh.