The Fortunes of Garin

by Mary Johnston

  CHAPTER VII

  THE UGLY PRINCESS

  SHE had a way of dressing, for preference, in dark hues, reds like wineor the deeper parts of rubies, blues like the ripened bunches betweenthe vineyard leaves, browns like a Martinmas wood. To-day she wore thelatter 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, securelybraided, give shadow to her face. Her shape was good, a slender shape,endued with nervous strength. But her face showed plain, dark, andthin, intelligent, but with features irregular beyond the ordinary.The Court of Roche-de-Frêne, beneath its breath, called her the UglyPrincess. She sat now beside her step-mother, Alazais, and made a foilfor that lovely dame.

  In the past two generations there had come a change in the world. Trueit was that to appearance it affected only a small ring—only the topstrata, the capstones of the feudal system; only the world of lords andknights and poets and “ladies.” As the jongleur had told Garin, it wasnot supposed to descend to shepherdesses. Even in the other world by nomeans was it always present. Sometimes the lack of it was as shockingas might be. Sometimes it was there only in very small part, only inunimportant issues. Sometimes it was mere affectation. Sometimes it wasused as a mask, and behind it went on ill realities. But it had itselfcome into the world as a reality. It knew motion and growth, and itmanifested itself, though in degrees. There was much alloy, but at itspurest and best it was a golden thing, a flower of light. It calleditself chivalric love.

  Here and there it was pure and in action, but in between and allaround was imitation, a little gold drawn out into much filagree. Thefilagree was the fashion; it drew being from the real, but the depthof 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 courtand castle, hall and bower, sensuality grew sensuousness with sparksof something higher. But the framework of feudal society imposed allmanner of restrictions. The elaborate gradation of rank, the perpetualrecurrence of “lord” and “vassal,” the swords about women, marriagethat was bargaining for wealth and power—all blocked the torrent’snatural course. Thrown back upon itself, the feeling inbred artificesand illusions, extravagances, sometimes monstrosities. It became themock-heroic, the pseudo-passionate. It cultivated a bright-hued fungusgarden of sentimentality. It rose from earth, not by its own wingsbut by some Icarian apparatus that the first fire scorched away. Itpicked up the bright dropped feathers of the true bird of Paradise,but though it made a mantle of them, its own hue showed beneath. Itdid not understand what it was that it admired, but it made a cult ofthe admiration.... And yet all the while there was something real, andExtravagance and Mistake were dimly its seekers. Life was richer andlonger of stride than it had used to be. A host of perceptions hadat last melted into a concept of mutual love such as had not beforebeen in the earth. Those that the crown fell upon might be silentor not, but no one else was silent. It was the Discovery—the age’sIndies—and polite conversation came round to it as the needle to thepole. Nay, _conversazioni_ were planned to discuss this and this alone.Troubadours sang in contests songs of love—and once more songs oflove. Now and again they might dispute other matters in a _tenso_, lashthe time’s recognized vices in a _sirvente_. But these were asides.Their true business was to sing of love and lovers and the service oflove. Some sang with a springtime freshness, force, and simplicity.Some took all that was strained, far-fetched, and hectic in the time’sregard of the Discovery and made of it a heady drink.

  To-day this garden sat or stood to consider Love—that is, to considerlove of an individual of one sex for an individual of the other. Herewere knights who, when they fought, tied their lady’s sleeve or girdleabout arm or helm. Here were troubadours of note, each of whom flungfar and wide through the land the praise of some especial fair. Andhere were women who were thus praised and sung.

  The age greatly lauded virginity in the abstract. But—saving thesaints in heaven and abbesses on earth—precedence in fact was given bythe world of chivalry to the married woman. Public opinion required ofwedded great dames—perhaps in most cases received—essential regardfor their lords’ honour. This granted, for love they were let turnelsewhere. Theirs chiefly, though not solely, were the knights, thetroubadours, the incense, the poesy. Marriage came so early, marriagewas so plainly the rule, that the unwed in evidence—the throngs ofnuns making another story—were almost always young girls indeed, budsof flowers, somewhat ill at ease with the opened roses. But largelythey were of the rose kind, and, in the bloomy ring of wedded dames,sighed to in _canzons_, “fair friends” of knight and poet, but sawthemselves a little further on. Those in the garden were not of thevery youngest, and they were used to courts and not ill at ease. Theywere rosebuds very sweet, and they took their share of lauds. From themall the ugly princess differed subtly.

  It was not merely that she differed when faces were compared. Whatothers might think could not of course appear, but the duke, who hadconsidered an alliance with Roche-de-Frêne, thought her deficient inevery power to please. It was right enough that, in the presence of herfather and step-dame, before the perhaps oppressive loom of her ownpossible good fortune, she should keep silence. But she should lookfair and complying, not be such an one that the world might say, “OurDuke chose a poor little land, under a gloomy sky!” And when she didspeak she should speak with sense and _à propos_. As it was, she spokefolly.

  For instance. There had been introduced a jongleur, aBabylonish-looking fellow, who had narrated at length and withaction the history of Dido. He had ended amid acclaim and had beengiven largesse. Following the lesser art and performer had come themajor—burst into song the troubadours. They parted between them thepassion of the Carthaginian Queen. One took the May of it, one theJuly, one the Winter. They soared to Olympus and pleaded it beforethe Court of Love; they came down to Europe and placed it in the eyeof brave knights and sweet ladies. The duke was moved. He began tolean toward Alazais; then, policy and the beauty of a virtuous actionprevailing, he bent instead toward the only one there who could linktogether his dukedom and Roche-de-Frêne. “Fair, sweet princess, whatthink you of this great lover, Queen Dido?”

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

  She said no more and her eyes fell again upon her long, brown hands.They were as brown as a berry; they looked as though she had beenroving 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 whenthey sang bent to her as they bent to the other chairs of state. Lordand knight made due obeisance. That marvellous Alazais spoke to herever and anon, and she answered. But her words were few and short; theduke saw that she had not the gift of discourse. He saw no gift thatshe had. Certainly, she was not trying to please a great duke. It wasnot that she showed any discourtesy—that were impossible. But therewas 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 Gaucelmdoated 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, 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 bu
t her praise!”

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

  The entertainment of that forenoon over, they went to dinner—aconsiderable concourse, so considerable that when all were seated thegreat hall appeared to blossom like the garden. At the table of statesat the prince and Alazais and the Princess Audiart, the duke, BishopUgo, and three or four others whom Gaucelm would honour. Musiciansplayed in a gallery. Waiting men in long procession brought theviands—venison and peacocks, pasties of all kinds, mutton, spittedsmall birds, wheaten bread—a multitude of matters. Afterwards camecakes and tarts, with many fruits. Always there was wine served inrich cups. The oddity to a later taste would have been the excess ofseasoning,—the pepper, saffron, ginger, cloves, the heat and pungencyof the solid meats,—and then the honey dropped in wine. At theprince’s table a knight carved, at the others the noblest esquires. Theapparel of the tables was rich; there were gold and silver vessels ofmany sorts, dishes, bowls, fine knives and spoons,—but, high and low,no fork.

  The hall was very large, and so the talk of many people, subdued intone as, of late years, good manners had learnt to demand, created nomore than a pleasant deep humming. For the most part the talk ran uponlove, arms, and policy, the latest, most resounding public events, andthe achievements and abilities, personal adventures and misadventures,of various members of the company. At the raised table it was highpolitics and what was occurring in the world of rulers, for that waswhat the duke liked to talk about and the prince bent the conversationto suit his guest. Bishop Ugo liked it, too. Ugo’s mind ran at timesfrom realm to realm, but there was a main land in which he was mostat home. In that he passioned, schemed, and strove for Holy Church’stemporal no less than spiritual ascendancy. The Hohenstauffen and PopeAlexander—Guelph and Ghibelline—Church and Empire—the new, youngFrench King Philip, suzerain of Roche-de-Frêne—Henry the Second ofEngland and his sons, specifically his son Richard, not so far fromhere, in Aquitaine—so ran the talk. The visiting duke spoke much, inthe tone of peer to them of whom he spoke. Ugo listened close-lipped;now and then he entered eloquently, and always in the Papal service.The prince said little. It was not easy to discover where he stood. Thebarons at the table took judicious part. The dazzling Alazais displayeda flattering interest, and the duke, noting that, gave his destrierfurther rein, shook a more determined lance. He spoke of that sameRichard, Duke of Aquitaine, a man much talked of by his time, and herelated instances that showed that Richard’s strength and weakness.He bore hard upon a fantastic generosity which, appealed to, could attimes make Richard change and forsake his dearest plans.

  The Princess Audiart sipped her wine. She heard the duke as in adream. Atop of all the voices in the hall her mind was off in a forestglade.... She looked across at the prince her father. She had not toldhim of that adventure—of how she had desperately tired of Our Ladyin Egypt and of her aunt the Abbess and of most of her own women, andwould spend one day a-shepherdessing, and had done so. She was going totell him—even though she reckoned on some anger. She had for Gaucelm adepth of devotion.... A forest glade, and an evil knight and a squirein brown and green—and now what were they talking of?

  That afternoon half the court rode out a-hawking. The prince did notgo; he was heavy now for the saddle. But the duke rode, and the twoprincesses. The day was good, the sport was fair; the great thing,air and exercise, all obtained without thinking of it. There was muchmirthful sound, laughter, men’s voices and women’s voices. Alazaisdazzled; so fair was she on her white palfrey that had its mane tiedwith little silver bells. The duke rode constantly by her side. ThePrincess Audiart had for escort Stephen the Marshal, a goodly baronand knight. The duke was well and correct where he was, Alazaisbeing Gaucelm’s princess, and his hostess. Manners demanded towardthe younger princess a decorum of restraint and distance. Only thisrestraint should have been managed with an exquisite semblance ofrepressed ardour, with a fineness of “Truly a fair and precious linkbetween Houses!” This it was that was missing, and noted as missing byevery knight and lady that went a-hawking.

  The return to the castle was made in the sunset-glow. Supper followed,and after supper a short interval of repose. Then all met again in thecleared hall and the musicians began to play. Gaucelm in red samite satupon the dais, and by him the duke in purple. Alazais, in white, with ajewelled zone and a mantle hued like flame, looked Venus come to earth.Beside her sat the ugly princess in dark blue over a silver robe.

  Before them, on the floor of the hall, knights and ladies trod anintricate measure. Great candles burned, viols and harps, the jongleursplayed their best, varlets stationed by the walls scattered Easternperfumes. The duke, with a word to the prince his host, rose andbending to Alazais offered his hand. All watched this couple—themeasure over, all acclaimed. The duke led Alazais again to the dais,then did what others must expect of him and he of himself. “Fair,sweet lady,” he said to Gaucelm’s daughter. “Will you grace me withthis measure?”

  The ugly princess gave him her finger-tips. He led her upon the floorand they danced. As the measure, formal and stately, dictated, nowthey took attitudes before each other, now they came together, palmsand fingers touching, now again parted. They were watched with stronginterest by the length and breadth of the hall, by both the Court ofRoche-de-Frêne and the duke’s following. A marriage such as this—say,what men began to doubt, that it came to pass—by no means concernedonly the two who married. Thousands of folk were concerned, theirchildren and their children’s children.

  Gaucelm the Fortunate watched from his dais and his great chair, wherehe sat with bent elbow and his chin resting upon his hand. Sitting so,he opened his other hand and looked again at a small piece of cottonpaper that had been slipped within it. Upon the paper appeared, inthe up-and-down, architectural writing of the period, these words:“Messire, my father; do not, of your good pity, make me wed this lord!I will be unhappy. You will be unhappy. He will be unhappy. I do thinkthat our lands and his lands will be unhappy. Messire my father, I donot wish to wed.” Prince Gaucelm closed his hand and watched again.

  The duke was dancing stiffly, with a bad grace masked as well as hecould mask anything that he truly felt. He wished to be prudent, andcertainly it were not prudent to give to Roche-de-Frêne either open orsecret offence. Not yet, even, had he determined.—He yet might, and hemight not.—But he was an arrogant man and a vain, and to his own mindit was important that the world should not think he was fooled. Lastinglove between lord and lady, duke and duchess, mattered, forsooth,little enough! It was not in the bond. When it came to beauty, he hadseen great queens without beauty of face or form. But the duke, thoughhe had it not himself, demanded that beauty in any woman immediatelyabout him, and with it complaisance, bent head, and burning of incense.And he wished men to envy him, in some sort, all his goods, includingthe woman whom he would make duchess. That was where Gaucelm wasfortunate. What living man, thought the duke, but would like to takefrom him golden Alazais?

  He danced as starkly as though he were in hauberk and helmet, andhis hand might have been mailed, so stiffly did it touch Audiart’shand. Who would envy him this Egyptian? He never noted if she dancedwell or ill, if she had some grace of body or no; he looked for noexpression in her face that he might admire. She was outlandish—ugly.There was—as would have become such a changeling—no awe of him, notremulous fear lest she should not please. He had an injured, hotheart within him. Report had been too careless, bringing him only newsthat here was a marriageable princess. He blamed his councillors,determined to withdraw his favour from one who had been called hisbosom friend, but who had advocated this match. He blamed Gaucelm, who,to his elaborate letter, had answered only with an invitation to visitRoche-de-Frêne. He should have said: “Fair lord, you do my daughter toomuch honour, who, you must know—” But chiefly the duke blamed thatprincess herself.

  The measure was over. The duke and the princess returned to the dais.The jongleurs
played loudly. The candles burned, the flung perfumesfloated through the hall. The music hid the whispers. Gaucelm theFortunate sat with a slight smile, his chin upon his hand. For aninterlude there was brought upon the floor the jongleur who had madepart of the forenoon’s entertainment. Elias of Montaudon he calledhimself, and he was skilful beyond the ordinary with balls of colouredglass and Eastern platters and daggers.

  The ugly princess wished the taste of that dance taken from her lips.She watched the jongleur, and because he was all in brown and yellowlike an autumn leaf and was as light as one and as quick as a woodlandcreature, he brought the country to her mind and made her see forestsand streams. Her mother had been a mountain lady, and she herself wouldhave liked to rove the earth. She sat still, her gaze straight beforeher, seeing the coloured balls, but beyond them imagined lands andwanderings.

  The duke spoke across to the prince her father, and the words cameclean and clear to her hearing, and to that of Stephen the Marshal andothers standing near. “I have had letters, sir,” said the duke, “whichmake me to think that I am required at home.”