Troubadour Tales 3

Troubadour Tales 3

When the counts had saluted the king and taken their places before him,

he commanded a seneschal to bear in the prize; and so the beautiful

collar of jewels was brought in upon a silver tray and placed on a

carved bench beside the king. Then a herald stepped out, and, lifting

the collar upon the point of a flower-wreathed lance, displayed it to

all the company and announced the terms of the contest of song about to

take place.

 

This ceremony was a great deal better and prettier than the customs of

most of the other royal courts of that time. In all the lands except

where King René lived, when the people desired entertainment, they used

to gather together to see contests called tournaments, in which noble

lords tried to overthrow one another with real lances on which were no

garlands. But King René could not endure such barbarous displays, and

so in his palace no one fought another except with pretty verses, and

the best poet was champion.

 

When all the usual ceremonies had been gone through, the king called

Count William to step forth first and sing his song. There was a merry

twinkle in the count’s eyes as he took his viol from Henri, hung the

silken ribbons about his neck, and then, after striking a few soft

notes with the tips of his fingers, began to sing, as his own, the song

made up by Count Reynaurd. He went through the whole piece, although

each time when he came to the Latin lines he mumbled them over so that

the words sounded indistinct, and one could not be certain just what

they were.

 

When he had finished, the king was delighted, and all the listeners

clapped their hands and wondered how it would be possible for Count

Reynaurd to do better. Indeed, they looked rather pityingly on

Reynaurd, as one already defeated.

 

Then, when the cheers had somewhat quieted down, King René commanded

Count Reynaurd to stand forth and take his turn for the prize. Reynaurd

quietly stepped out, and, saluting the king, said:

 

“My royal liege, the song to which you have just listened was not the

work of Count William of Auvergne, but of myself, Reynaurd of Poitiers.”

 

At this, as Count Reynaurd had expected, every one looked incredulous,

and Count William pretended to be very indignant, and declared that

he had not been outside of his own apartments for the ten days; that

he had not set eyes on Count Reynaurd through all that time; and

altogether he appeared to be terribly angry that Count Reynaurd should

hint that the song belonged to him.

 

Count Reynaurd, however, asked but one thing of the king, who readily

granted his request. It was that Count William be commanded to sing the

song once more, and that each time he should sing the Latin lines as

plainly as possible.

 

Count William looked somewhat abashed at this proposal, and began to

suspect that a trap had been laid for him. However, he could not refuse

to do the command of King René, especially when it seemed so simple a

thing; and so he was obliged to sing again, and say the Latin words

plainly, all the while very angry with himself because on the spur of

the moment he could think of no other words to put in place of the

Latin refrain, which was so cleverly woven into each stanza that it

could not be left out without spoiling the rhyme.

 

The king listened attentively, for, as the Count Reynaurd knew, René

was a good Latin scholar himself; and presently, when the refrain came

into the song:

 

Hoc carmen non composui,

Quod cano, quod cano!

 

King René began to laugh; and he laughed and laughed till the tears

fairly ran down his cheeks; for what do you think the words really

mean? They mean:

 

I did not make this song,

That I sing, that I sing!

 

When the king at last managed to stop laughing for a few minutes, he

translated the lines so that every one could hear.

 

At first Count William looked very blank; then, realizing how cleverly

the tables had been turned upon him and he had been caught in his

own prank, he enjoyed the joke as much as anybody, and laughed the

loudest of all. Indeed, such a “Ha, ha!” as went up through the whole

banquet-hall was never before heard, and the very rafters seemed to

shake with glee.

 

The good king was so delighted with the entertainment that he called

Count Reynaurd and Count William both before him, and taking a hand

of each, he declared that the jeweled collar must be divided equally

between them. He at once ordered his goldsmiths to set to work to make

it into two collars instead of one; which they could very easily do, as

it was so wide and heavy.

 

Then the king had a lovely silver cup brought in for Pierrot, because

of his cleverness in the Latin tongue; and afterward the whole company

of troubadours and minnesingers and pages sat down and feasted so

merrily that, years later, when Pierrot himself grew to be a famous

troubadour, he used often to sing, in the castles of the French nobles,

of the gaiety of that great festival.

 

 

 

 

THE LOST RUNE

 

THE LEGEND OF A LOST POEM AND THE ADVENTURES

OF LITTLE ELSA IN RESTORING

IT TO HER PEOPLE

 

 

Eery, airy,

Elf and fairy,

Steep me deep in magic dreams!

Charm from harm of water witches,

Guide where hide the hoarded riches

Sunken in Suomi streams!

 

As the strains of Elsa’s voice floated up and wandered away among

the cottage rafters, “Bravo”! cried her father; “bravo, little one!

Already thou singest like the April cuckoo!” Elsa, the little Finnish

girl thus addressed, smiled with pleasure, and nestled closer to her

father’s reindeer coat as he proudly patted her fair hair and gave her

an approving hug.

 

The two were sitting on a rude bench drawn out from the cottage wall;

and here they had been all the evening, singing snatches of strange

old songs, and toasting their toes at the turf fire that blazed in the

great fireplace.

 

It was barely September, but in the far North, the winter begins early

and the winds sweep with a bitter chill across the wide plains of

Suomi, the old name by which the Finnish people love best to call their

land.

 

Elsa’s father and mother—the mother was now drowsing over her

knitting, on the other side of the hearth—were well-to-do peasant

farmer folk. They owned the land, called from their name the “Sveaborg

farm,” and the cottage, which was large of its kind; that is to say, it

had two rooms besides the great living-room and the loft.

 

One of these extra rooms, however, was set apart for the use of

occasional travelers; for in Finland, through the country, inns of any

kind are very few, and at that time, as now, certain of the better

farm-houses were set apart as places where travelers might be sure of

entertainment for the night at least. As Elsa’s home lay on one of the

main roads, the cottage now and then sheltered one of the few strangers

who sometimes journey through the land.

 

The other little chamber belonged to Elsa, who was the only child;

but the main business of living was carried on in the great room with

the hearth. It was a quaint place, broad and low; the walls were

covered with a rough plaster, and overhead the rafters showed brown

with smoke; just below these were fastened two slender poles from one

of which hung festoons of dried herbs, while on the other were strung

a great number of large flat brown rings, which were nothing less

than the family bread for the winter. For the Finnish peasants do not

trouble themselves to bake too often, and they like their bread made

into these curious ring-shaped loaves which they thus hang away until

needed; nor do they mind how hard and dry it becomes.

 

On one side of the cottage walls were several large presses where

cheeses were making; and opposite these were two little doors that

seemed to open into cupboards; cupboards, however, where no Finnish

child would ever think of looking for jam or sweetmeats, for, as is the

custom of the country, behind the doors were fastened in the thick wall

two shelf-like beds, where Elsa’s father and mother slept.

 

But the chief feature, the heart of all the room, was the great

fireplace; at one side of it was built a huge brick oven, in which

Elsa’s mother baked the queer flat-bread for the family, and sometimes,

when the nights were very, very cold, she would make for Elsa a little

bed on top of the warm bricks, which was always so cozy that the little

girl did not care that it was a trifle hard.

 

The broad hearth in front of the oven was also of brick, and this

hearth, as in every peasant’s cottage, was the favorite gathering

place. Here through the long winter evenings, and days when the sun

barely peeped above the horizon, they loved to sit and sing over their

quaint old songs and repeat in verse the strange and beautiful stories

that have been handed down in Finland for hundreds, perhaps thousands,

of years.

 

Indeed, all Finnish peasants have always been wonderfully fond of music

and poetry, and, to this day, as in Elsa’s time—which was nearly a

hundred years ago—in almost every house may be found at least one

of the curious harps of ancient shape, which the people make for

themselves out of bone or wood. There are but few peasants who can not

sing some old story to the music of this instrument which they call

“kantele.”

 

Elsa’s father was an especially skilful harper, and Elsa herself seemed