The Fortunes of Garin. Mary Johnston

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СКАЧАТЬ earthly man walks earthly ways,

       At times he findeth, God the praise!

       Far leagues apart, thousand no less,

       Fresh life, fresh light, that will him bless.

       It cometh not save he do beckon.

       He groweth to it as I reckon.

       And when it comes the past seems grey,

       And only now the golden day.

       Then in its turn the golden day

       Fadeth before new gold alway.

       And yet he holds the ancient gain,

       And carryeth it with him o’er the plain.

       And so we fare and so we grow,

       Wise men would not have it other so.”

      “That is a good rede,” said Garin.

      “It continueth thus,” answered the jongleur.

      “In time of old came Reason, King—

       Ill fares the bow that lacks that string!

       When time was full, to give great light,

       Came Jesu’s word and churches’ might.

       Then Knighthood rose and Courtesy,

       And all we mean by Chivalry.

       These had not come, I rede you well,

       Save that before them rang a bell,

       ‘Turn you, and look at Eve beside, Who with you roameth the world wide, And look no more as hart on hind.’ Now Love is seen by those were blind. Full day it is of high Love’s power. Her sceptre stands; it is her hour. And well I wis her lovely face To Time his reign will lend a grace!— But think ye not is made the ring! Morn will come a further thing.”

      The jongleur ceased to finger his lute; Garin sat silent on the boulder. The light, sifting through the trees, chequered his olive-green, close-fitting dress and his brown mantle. He sat, clasping his knee, his eyes with the blue glints at once bright and dreamy.

      “I have read,” he said, “that it is a great thing to be a great lover.”

      “So all the troubadours say,” quoth the jongleur.

      He put the ribbon of the lute around his neck, stretched himself and rose. “Miles still to the town! The day is getting on, and I will bid you adieu.”

      Garin, too, looked at the sun, whistled to Paladin and left the boulder.

      “My name is Elias,” said the jongleur, “and I was born at Montaudon. If you make acquaintance with a rich baron who would like to hear a new tale or song each night for a thousand running, bear me in mind. I play harp, viol and lute, and so well and timedly that when they hear me, mourners leave their weeping and fall to dancing. Moreover, I know how to walk upon my hands and to vault and tumble, and I have a trick with eggs and another with platters in the air that no man or woman hath ever seen into. I have also a great store of riddles. In addition, if need be, I can back a horse and thrust with a spear.”

      “I know no such lord,” said Garin sadly. “I would I were he myself.”

      “Then perhaps you may meet with some famous troubadour. I will serve none,” said Elias, “who is not in some measure famous. I prefer that he be knight as well as poet. Be so kind as to round it in such an one’s ear that you know a famed jongleur. Say to him that if God has not given him voice wherewith to sing or to relate his chansons, tensos, and sirventes, I, who sing like rossignol and who learned narration in Tripoli and Alexandria, will do him at least some justice. But if he sings like rossignol himself or, God-like, speaks his own compositions, then say that I am the best accompanist—harp, lute, or viol—between Spain and Italy. Say that, even though he be armed so cap-à-pie, there will arise occasions when he is not in voice, or is weary or out of spirits. Then how well to have such as I beside him! Then tell him that I have the completest memory, that I learn most quickly and neither forget nor misplace, and that never do I take a liberty with my master’s verse. When you have come that far, make a pause; then, while he ponders, resume. Say that, doubtless, at that moment, a hundred jongleurs, scattered up and down the land, are chance learning and wrongly giving forth his mightiest, sweetest poems. Were it not well—ask him—himself to teach them to one with memory and delivery beyond reproach, who in turn might teach others? So, from mouth to mouth, all would go as it should, and he be published correctly. Let that sink in. Then tell him that I am helpful in lesser ways—silent when silence is wanted, always discreet, a good bearer of letters and messages, quick at extrications, subtle as an Italian. Say that I am a good servant and honour him who feeds me and never mistake where the salt stands. Say that I am skilful beyond most, and earnest ever for the advancement and honour of my master. Lastly, say that I am agreeable, but not too agreeable, in the eyes of women.”

      “That is necessary?” asked Garin.

      “Absolutely,” answered the jongleur. “Your lover is as jealous as God. There must not be two Gods in one miracle play.”

      “Does every troubadour,” asked Garin, “love greatly?”

      “He thinks he does,” said Elias. “Do not forget, if you meet a truly famed one, Elias of Montaudon. You may also say that I have been in the company of many poets, and that I know the secret soul of Guy of Perpignan.”

      Both left the boulder and stepped into the road. Garin laid his hand on Paladin’s neck.

      “My lord is Raimbaut the Six-fingered,” he said. “His wife, my lady, is half-aged and evil to look upon, and she rails at every one save Raimbaut, whom she fears.”

      “That is ill-luck,” said the jongleur. “There is, perhaps, some neighbouring lady—”

      “No. Not one.”

      “To be very courtly,” said the jongleur, “one must be in love with Love. You need not at all see a woman as she is. It suffices if she is young and not deformed, and of noble station.”

      “She must always be noble?”

      “It doth not yet descend to shepherdesses,” said the jongleur. “For them the antique way suffices.”

      Garin mounted his horse and sat still in saddle, his eyes upon a fair green branch that the sun was transfiguring, making it very lively and intense in hue.

      “Great love,” he said. “By the soul of my father, I think it is a great thing! But if there is none set in your eyes to love—”

      “Can you not,” said the jongleur, “like Lord Rudel, love one unseen?”

      Garin sat regarding the green branch. “I do not know. … We love the unseen when we love Honour.” He sat for a moment in silence, then drew a sigh and spoke as though to himself. “It is with me as if all things were between coming and going, and a half-light, and a fulness that presses and yet knows not its path where it will go. I know not what I shall do, nor how I shall carry life. Now I feel afire and now I am sad—” He broke off СКАЧАТЬ