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Autism
A Social and
Medical History

Mitzi Waltz
Second Edition
Autism
 Mitzi Waltz

Autism
A Social and Medical History

2nd ed. 2023

Mitzi Waltz
Athena Institute
Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam
Amsterdam, The Netherlands

ISBN 978-3-031-31014-0    ISBN 978-3-031-31015-7 (eBook)

https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-31015-7

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 Preface: Autism, and How We Got Here

In May 2009, as I began work in earnest on the first edition of this book,
my inbox filled up with a flurry of emails from adults with autism and from
researchers who worked closely with them. All were concerned with being
heard in the ongoing process to revamp the autism diagnostic guidelines
for the upcoming fifth version of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of
Mental Disorders. Better known as the DSM, this is the Bible for diagnosis
and billing used by psychologists and psychiatrists in the US and has a
worldwide impact as well.
The past four versions had featured no input from those whom the
DSM describes as ‘autistic.’ However, the sociocultural context of autism
was changing, and one measure of that was the increased importance of
people with autism in debates about diagnosis and other issues.
At the time, to be diagnosed with ‘mental disorder no. 299, Autistic
Disorder,’ a person had to exhibit ‘qualitative impairment in social interac-
tion … qualitative impairments in communication … [and] restricted
repetitive and stereotyped patterns of behavior, interests and activities’
(American Psychiatric Association, 1994). Some further specifics were
included under the descriptions of each of these criteria. Compared to
diagnosis of Down syndrome, with its characteristic chromosomal and
physical differences, deciding whether a person is on what we now call the
autism spectrum was not at all straightforward. Nor is diagnosis in child-
hood a reliable predictor of adult outcomes, or even what kinds of special
education methods, medical treatments or behaviour management
schemes, if any at all, are most likely to be of use.

v
vi PREFACE: AUTISM, AND HOW WE GOT HERE

As a result of interventions by autistic adults, sensory-perceptual issues

appeared in the DSM-V for the first time as something that often affects
people with autism and that should be considered when making a diagno-
sis, though it was not made a diagnostic criterion. It remains remarkable
that it took so long for the internal experience of autism, rather than
aspects of autism that may puzzle or bother non-autistic people, to become
a part of how autism is officially defined.
But when you know about the history of autism, it is not a surprise. As
Laurence Arnold, the first autistic adult to serve on the Board of the UK’s
National Autistic Society, put it:

Autism is a word, with a history and connotations. It is a semiotic pointer

[and] what it signifies is governed not by any natural laws, but by the rules
of communication theory, whereby the originator of the message may not
be completely understood by the receiver because of a variety of cultural,
neurological, environmental and simply accidental and incidental interfer-
ence … [Autism] is not inherently wrong, just different, but that difference
and the varying degrees of that difference are heavily negatively nuanced in
a society and environment to which we are not maximally adapted. (Arnold,
L., 2009, personal communication, 15 May)

This condition that has existed throughout human history did not even
gain a name until 1943, and the process of attaching any depth of under-
standing to that name has been beset by controversy, conflict and even
fraud. Eighty years after the word ‘autism’ was first made semi-official
shorthand for a pattern of child development and behaviour, no agree-
ment has been reached about even the most basic issues, such as causation.
How we got here, and what that process has meant for autistic people,
their families, and the professionals tasked with teaching and supporting
them, is the topic of this book.
It is not a straightforward story of medical progress or increasing social
acceptance but a convoluted tale in which ideas seem to return again and
again, regardless of the evidence base. A disparate chorus of voices emerges
from history, with much to tell us. The story of autism weaves in and out
of the histories of medicine and psychiatry, as well as those of social exclu-
sion and inclusion, eugenics, special education and the disability rights
movement.
I have attempted to relate this history through its impact on the lives of
autistic people and their families, as well as through facts and statistics. In
 PREFACE: AUTISM, AND HOW WE GOT HERE vii

the case of historical events, some necessary licence has been taken with
imagining what might have been. In describing the short life of Ralph
Sedgwick in Chap. 1, for example, I added colour from historical accounts
of everyday activities in his London neighbourhood to turn a set of case
notes and census records into something more like a real boy.
It is also by no means the whole story. Entire volumes will need to be
written to illuminate what happened outside the US and Europe, where
the diagnostic category first emerged—although in this revision, I have
also made an effort to include more sources from outside the Global
North and to consider the correlations between the development and
deployment of autism as a diagnostic category, and racism, colonialism
and eugenics.
New evidence is continually being gathered, and autism research has
taken a direction in the last decade that is surprising—and for a student of
the history of autism, dispiriting. In addition, each person ever diagnosed
with autism has an individual history that, while it intersects with the story
told here, also has its own trajectory. These individual stories and the his-
tory of autism in general form a part of our human history, from which we
still have much to learn about neurodiversity and inclusion.
Like many disability historians, I have a personal stake in the tale I have
chosen to tell. My family includes several people who are on the autism
spectrum, so does my circle of friends and colleagues. In my work as an
academic, I have mentored and learned from dozens of autistic university
students. As a researcher, I have been involved in many projects about
autism, on topics as diverse as development of staff training, media images,
housing, employment, parent support and, most recently, the health needs
of autistic women. In my current role, I am busy with raising awareness of
autism (and disabilities in general) in the context of global health.
This personal involvement has given me a ringside seat for many of the
developments that I will describe in the chapters that follow, and has con-
tributed to continuing hope that we can eventually become much better
at supporting autistic people to have great lives in which their talents and
gifts will be appreciated, exactly as they are.

AmsterdamMitzi Waltz
January 2023
 Acknowledgements

Revisiting this book ten years later, I remain grateful to those who made
the first version possible. The list of those who have supported me and
sparred with me includes my PhD supervisors at the University of
Sunderland, Paul Shattock and John Storey, and my ‘critical friend’ Alan
Roulstone; my former colleagues at the Autism Centre for Education and
Research at the University of Birmingham: Karen Guldberg, Glenys Jones,
Rita Jordan, Andrea MacLeod, Sarah Parsons and Kerstin Wittemeyer;
and my former Sheffield Hallam University Autism Centre colleagues:
Nick Hodge, Luke Beardon, Nicola Martin and Sue Chantler. The Athena
Institute team at Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam also deserves thanks for
giving me a supportive and intellectually challenging nest, as has the
Medical and Health Humanities group within the VU’s History depart-
ment, especially Manon Parry. Disability Studies in Nederland has been a
crucial partner when it comes to maintaining a critical perspective and
placing the history of autism within the wider perspective of disability
history.
This project would not have been possible without the many people
who have helped me with archival research or agreed to be interviewed. I
can’t name everyone, but special thanks are due to Great Ormond Street
Hospital, the National Autistic Society, the Autism Society of America, the
University of Chicago, the MIND Institute, the Wellcome Trust, Thomas
Anders, Laurence Arnold, John Clements, Uta Frith, Steven Kapp, Wenn
Lawson, Gary Mesibov, Damian Milton, Ari Ne’emen, and the late
Bernard Rimland and Lorna Wing.

ix
x ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Finally, the inspiration to keep working on this project, the impetus to

revise and update it, comes from the very important autistic people in my
life. Knowing and listening to you has changed my life and my ideas about
autism. You are already writing the next chapter of this history.

A Word About Language

In autism, language use matters. Community preferences differ from
country to country, and from person to person. In the UK, ‘impairment
first’ language—autistic person—is preferred over ‘person first’ language—
person with autism. The reverse is the case in the Netherlands and some
other countries. I prefer the first usage, but will sometimes use both in this
book, along with the more cumbersome ‘on the autism spectrum.’
The term ‘intellectual disabilities’ is generally used rather than the UK
term ‘learning difficulties,’ to avoid confusion, as in some other countries
learning difficulties or disabilities is used to refer to conditions like dyslexia
and dyspraxia.
Original language used in historical sources is sometimes retained,
especially when it appears in direct quotes, including terms (such as ‘sub-
normality hospital’ or ‘mentally retarded’) that are today seen as offensive.
 Contents

1 A Nameless Difference  1

2 Autism Before and After the Enlightenment 11

3 Workhouses,
 Asylums and the Rise of the Behavioural
Sciences 29

4 The Social Construction of Autism 53

5 From ‘Pathological Motherhood’ to ‘Refrigerator Mothers’ 83

6 Bedlam, Behaviourism and Beyond 99

7 Parent-Blaming, Parent Power and Research121

8 Parents Behind the Wheel: Danger Ahead?155

9 Autism Self-Advocacy: Achievements and Challenges185

10 Genetics, Genomics and the Medical Model of Autism203

xi
xii CONTENTS

Afterword: A New Politics of Autism?237

References241

Index275
 CHAPTER 1

A Nameless Difference

Ralph Sedgwick1 lay in the bed, where he was tucked tightly in beneath a
crisp white sheet to keep him from wandering. He wiggled his fingers
between his eyes and the light that came streaming in through the large
window at the end of the hospital ward. The year was 1877, the height of
the Victorian era and a time when medical knowledge was expanding
rapidly.
As Dr Dickinson strode down the aisle of beds towards the boy, a young
nurse struggling to keep up in his wake, Ralph took no notice of their
approach. He clasped his hands together and turned them, then brought
them to his face and rubbed his eyes three times. A chair was brought out
for the doctor, and Ralph continued to watch his fingers as they cut
through the beams of light. His reverie was only interrupted by a spasm of
coughing.
‘Ralph Thomas Sedewick,’ wrote the nurse at the top of a blank journal
page, misspelling the child’s name, then paused with pen poised to take
down the doctor’s notes. For quite some time Dr Dickinson sat watching,
occasionally asking questions of the ward sister and consulting his notes
from the previous day, when two-and-a-half-year-old Ralph had been
brought to Great Ormond Street Hospital in London by his parents.
The mother and father had submitted to Dr Dickinson’s incessant
questions for about half an hour before leaving the boy behind. Ralph’s
mother had cried and wrung her hands as they left, hands that twitched in

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature 1

Switzerland AG 2023
M. Waltz, Autism,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-31015-7_1
2 M. WALTZ

her lap even when at rest as she talked about her son. Dr Dickinson now
knew the child’s medical history, but little about his day-to-day life or that
of his family.
Ralph was the first child born to this working-class Islington couple.
His father, also named Ralph, had managed to learn to read, write and do
basic maths, despite starting life as an abandoned baby. Nevertheless, he
struggled to make ends meet by helping with a book stall on the street
market. Books were growing in popularity as literacy increased in England,
but there were still days when Ralph’s father felt he might as well not have
showed up to unpack boxes for the owner.
Life wasn’t much easier for Ralph’s mother, Margaret. Her days were
an endless round of cleaning, washing, cooking and trying to figure out a
way to make her husband’s meagre earnings stretch to feed their growing
family. Margaret had always had a bit of a nervous disposition, and since
becoming a wife and mother, her anxieties had settled on her children’s
health and safety. While pregnant with Ralph, she told the doctor, she had
one day seen an idiot boy in the London streets, dragging a gammy leg
behind him. As she stared, she saw him knead his hands together and then
wave them before his eyes repeatedly. Turning away in disgust, she had a
twinge of fear—perhaps it was only an old wives’ tale, but old wives cer-
tainly did say that what you saw whilst pregnant could affect your baby.
Seeing one of those doomed infants with an enormous, lolling head could
cause the same condition in your unborn child, just as surely as seeing a
buggy accident could cause your child to be a fearful little thing who
started at horses. She had walked rapidly away from the unwelcome sight,
holding her swollen belly protectively.
At their interview yesterday, Margaret had looked up at Dr Dickinson
with pleading eyes at the end of this anecdote, seeking affirmation that her
son’s condition had been an accident of fate, not her fault. ‘Write it down,’
he told his scribe wearily. He had learned the hard way that there was no
point trying to tell parents of sick children that their superstitions were
pernicious nonsense.
The doctor prompted her with a standard question about Ralph’s birth,
and Margaret continued her tale. The labour had been blessedly quick, she
said. Her sister had come for the lying-in and helped to clean Ralph up
and bring him to her breast.
The infant had looked as healthy as any baby born to a labouring family
in Victorian England, which is to say that he had serious problems soon
enough. He had the constant cough of a child kept indoors in a small,
 1 A NAMELESS DIFFERENCE 3

smoky room most of the day, breathing the foul air of central London
when his mother took him out to buy food or do her washing in the
courtyard. He had the sunken chest and slightly bowed legs typical of
children fed on a poor family’s diet of porridge, boiled vegetables and not
much else. Ralph’s eyes were rheumy from the start and didn’t seem to
hold his mother’s gaze for long.
‘Do you think there’s something wrong with the lad’s sight?,’ his father
had asked, watching the infant one day as he lay next to his mother on
their pallet, a faraway look in his eyes. ‘No, Ralph—I swear, little Ralphie
can stare at the window for hours if I let him. Don’t know if he’s looking
for birds or what—remember that time I told you about when a pigeon
landed right on the windowsill, and he was so excited?’
Margaret’s private worries centred on herself. Ralph had been a poor
nurser, and it had been touch-and-go for the first two months. Then he
eagerly took a bottle of thin, dubious-looking milk bought from a cut-­
price vendor down the road—but it was an extra expense the family could
scarcely afford. What was wrong with her milk that it made him so sick?
And was the store-bought milk safe? Rumours about market traders whit-
ening water with chalk or who knows what and passing it off as milk swept
the neighbourhood on a regular basis (Hopkins, 1994).
One thing Margaret knew for certain is that little Ralph’s bowels were
a problem and always had been. From the age of eight months on, he had
bouts of diarrhoea. In between these, his belly distended and he screamed
from constipation. Bowel problems were a frequent killer of babies, and
the death of infants was no rarity in Margaret’s world. Mothers could
expect to lose at least one or two in their childbearing years, maybe more
if they were unlucky enough to be exposed to one of the frequent epidem-
ics of contagious disease that ran riot in crowded cities like London. These,
she knew, could take whole families in days. Just thinking about it made
her hold her son closer when she passed someone who looked unwell.
Ralph had survived that crucial first year, but his parents knew some-
thing was wrong. His first word—blissfully, ‘mum’—was never followed
by another. His little legs didn’t seem to work properly either. He had not
even tried to crawl, but then surprised them around his first birthday by
standing alone in front of his beloved window. Margaret and her husband
had expected walking to follow this feat, but it never did. He would pull
himself up to stand at the window, but spent much of his time indoors
lying on the pallet. Margaret still had to care for him like an infant. When
other lads of two or three were toddling about in the grimy courtyard,
4 M. WALTZ

ducking under the washing and chasing each other with sticks, little Ralph
sat or lay on the ground, playing with his hands and fingers. He would
hold a stick or a rag, but he didn’t play with them as the others did.
Whatever you gave him to hold was sniffed and tasted, no matter how
dirty, then turned about in his hands as though he was blind. If it met his
approval, it then became part of his odd finger-and-hand play, passed back
and forth across his face as if blocking out the light and revealing it again
was the most fascinating game in the world. Ralph would bring his fist up
to his eye, then put his hands together and knead them like a washer-
woman wringing out a shirt. Meanwhile, he would roll his head from side
to side.
Seeing him like that bothered Margaret so much that if she could, she
left him indoors. She knew what other mothers said about those who had
an idiot child.
An idiot child. Just the idea struck fear into her heart. Idiot children
became idiot men. On her worst days Margaret thought of herself as an
old woman, spooning soup into the mouth of a hulking, drooling imbe-
cile. When inside their room, she often watched Ralph as he stood holding
onto the windowsill for what seemed like hours, swaying back and forth,
and tried to imagine him doing that as a grown man. When he lay on the
pallet and brought his feet right up to his belly, pulling at his toes like a
baby, she tried to think what that would look like at 16 or 36.
These thoughts usually gave way to sobs, and the day she brought
Ralph to the hospital, despite the presence of a gentleman like Dr
Dickinson, was no different. Fighting back her tears, Margaret tried to
defend her lad against the unspoken verdict of idiocy. She knew he could
see and hear, she said. Most of the time Ralph would alert to his name
when she spoke to him. Though he wasn’t able to follow new directions,
he knew their daily schedule and would let her know how upset he was
when it wasn’t kept. ‘He does have understanding,’ she said, looking up at
the doctor, ‘I know it. If only he could talk to us!’
Dr Dickinson finished the interview with the usual round of questions
about illness. He was interested to hear that Ralph had never had fits—a
rarity in his experience of children like these at Great Ormond Street—and
that so far he had been spared any illness more serious than the bowel
problems and coughing Margaret had already described. No blood came
up with his cough and neither parent looked tubercular, all good signs as
far as the boy’s survival was concerned.
 1 A NAMELESS DIFFERENCE 5

When the doctor got up to continue his rounds, Ralph senior, who had
been silent through most of the proceedings, stood to shake his hand. He
spoke just one sentence: ‘Doctor, is there anything you can do for the boy?’
This was the moment Dr Dickinson had dreaded. ‘I don’t know, Mr
Sedgwick,’ he said. ‘We don’t know much about these cases, but some-
times things improve while the child is with us. We’ll keep him for a few
days, and see what happens.’
And so they did. No records exist of the regimen applied to Ralph at
Great Ormond Street nor of how he reacted to the unfamiliar experience
of daily bathing and plentiful, healthful food. We do know that when his
parents came to take him home just four days later, his situation was no
better. Ralph was clean and well-fed, but he still could not speak more
than his single word, was unable to participate in the social and economic
life of his family and could not navigate his environment successfully.
He died the following year, perhaps of illness, perhaps as a result of a
beating after soiling the family bed yet again or breaking an important
item, perhaps because his family’s poverty meant that this least productive
member received the smallest portion of their meagre meals. No specific
cause of death was recorded.
Until the Victorian era, sick and disabled children were cared for at
home, with or without medical attention. The medical profession itself
was still quite young at the start of the nineteenth century, and it was a
long time before children (other than those of Royal or very wealthy fami-
lies) were seen as worthy of a doctor’s time. Even upper-middle-class fami-
lies could at best procure the services of a ‘nurse’—nursing was not yet a
profession, so these were generally women with no formal medical train-
ing (Wohl, 1983).
In fact, hospitals for children were a brand-new concept when Ralph
was born. Great Ormond Street, the first such facility in the UK, had been
founded in 1852. Converted from a spacious townhouse in London, it
initially had beds for just ten sick or injured patients. Thanks to powerful
fundraising appeals by patrons like Charles Dickens, it had expanded to
house 75 children in two wings by 1858; a larger purpose-built hospital
was constructed between 1871 and 1875 (Baldwin, 2001).
As a charitable institution, Great Ormond Street turned no child away
for lack of money. The great majority of children in London lived in pov-
erty at this time, leaving lack of information, inclination, transportation
and time as the main barriers to hospital treatment for those in need. Both
6 M. WALTZ

outpatient and inpatient care were available at Great Ormond Street

(ibid.).
Hundreds of children with brain-based conditions passed through the
doors of Great Ormond Street during the late nineteenth century, and a
high percentage of them did not live long. Conditions that can be success-
fully treated with modern medicines, such as epilepsy and tuberculosis,
had a very different outcome at the beginning of modern medicine. Many
of them were attended to by Dr William Howship Dickinson (1832–1913),
who served at Great Ormond Street as an assistant physician from 1861 to
1869 and as a physician from 1869 to 1874. There were no paediatricians
then, much less paediatric neurologists (or neurologists at all, for that
matter)—Dr Dickinson was actually a kidney specialist, who volunteered
at Great Ormond Street as a diversion from his normal rounds at St.
George’s Hospital (Royal College of Physicians, 1955). While best known
for his accomplishments in adult nephrology, Dickinson developed a keen
interest in the effects of ill health on brain function and behaviour in chil-
dren. In the absence of a codified system of diagnosis or treatment, he
relied on his prodigious powers of observation. According to his biogra-
pher, ‘He was a meticulously careful observer and a man of immense
industry … and his example, in the elicitation of patients’ histories and
methodological observation, probably had a permanent influence on the
crowds of students that invariably accompanied him’ (ibid.).
Dickinson’s work occurred at a crucial moment for children like Ralph.
The new practice of gathering young patients into groups within a hospi-
tal made it possible to collate and compare large numbers of patient histo-
ries and to compare the progression of conditions when various treatments
were employed. Through this process, types of injuries, illnesses and dis-
abilities could be categorised, and some attempt could be made towards
systemised treatment or rehabilitation.
Dickinson left behind three volumes of handwritten case notes at Great
Ormond Street, within which the story of Ralph Sedgwick and 23 other
children with neurological symptoms like those we call autistic spectrum
conditions today can be found (Waltz & Shattock, 2004). If Ralph had
suffered an illness like tuberculosis—which actually occupied far more of
Dickinson’s time and energy—these documents might have been the
foundation of growing understanding. However, for complex reasons that
this book will explore, this did not happen.
Nor did Dickinson’s treatment ideas make many inroads, though that
was more the fault of a limited formulary. Some children at Great Ormond
 1 A NAMELESS DIFFERENCE 7

Street were dosed with simple medicines that weren’t far removed from
the herbal remedies available in rural villages 500 years before, such as
senna syrup for those with bowel problems like Ralph’s, made from a
common flowering herb. A few were given early chemical or mineral com-
pounds, such as calomel (mercury chloride).2 The recently discovered salt
potassium bromide successfully treated seizures—but left the patient with
dulled mental faculties, as it was only effective at near-toxic doses
(Sneader, 2005).
Primitive bits of apparatus like child-sized walking sticks and frames had
to be custom-made for those with incurable physical disabilities. Vaccines
and antiseptics were in their infancy, antibiotics had not yet arrived and
even simple surgeries like those to repair a cleft lip could be a life-­
threatening prospect.
If Ralph could have slipped out of his bed one night and walked silently
around the hospital, he would have seen other children with brain condi-
tions ranging from tumours to epilepsy to mental illness. An entire ward
was filled with children in the last weeks and days of tubercular meningitis,
their eyes burning bright but their brains increasingly disordered. Though
Great Ormond Street helped many children who were in need of simple
surgery or rehabilitative care following injury or curable illness, only a few
of those with conditions affecting the brain left improved.
One of the exceptions to this rule was a little girl with symptoms similar
to Ralph’s own, Ida, who had been put into Dr Dickinson’s care five years
earlier. She had suffered seizures since infancy: ‘Not a day has passed with-
out one or two occurring—sometimes she has had as many as 30,’ the
records state (Dickinson, 1869–1882). Her seizures were described as
varying in type, number and severity, with most affecting the left side.
Duration could be as short as a minute or, reportedly, as long as 24 hours.
In the absence of effective seizure control, these events took a terrible toll
on the child’s development.
Many children with epilepsy were seen at Great Ormond Street, but
something about the way Ida presented grabbed the attention of both
Dickinson and the staff. His observations of this child were even more
detailed than his typical case notes. The nature and frequency of Ida’s
seizures are described, but her affect and behaviour were seen as particu-
larly unusual. Dickinson described her sleep pattern as disturbed and her
reaction to people as odd. ‘When awake she sits up and looks about her in
a half unconscious way, or else lies rolling about in bed, moving restlessly
from side to side,’ he said. ‘[Ida] cannot speak, but if moved in bed
8 M. WALTZ

contrary to her wishes, or if anything is done that she does not like, she
makes a half-screeching noise. If toys be given her to play with she takes
no notice of them.’ She was seen to rock in her bed frequently, ‘lurching
herself against the bedstead’ (ibid.).
As well as being completely non-verbal, Ida did not have adequate
receptive speech. Her physical development and general health were rela-
tively normal: she was described as ‘a well-nourished child … with a fresh
colour’ (ibid.) and could stand and walk with minimal support. Dickinson’s
neurological examination revealed no major problems, other than a minor
squint affecting her right eye. Dickinson wrote that there was no history
of a blow on the head, nor of worms, which were then widely believed
responsible for causing seizures and behaviour problems in young children.
Ida did suffer from marked and severe constipation. This was probably
responsible for her nocturnal screaming fits and became a focus of her
medical treatment at Great Ormond Street.
Seizure control was, of course, the first order of business. Dickinson
prescribed three grains of potassium bromide to be taken in a fluid mix-
ture four times daily. He added to this a daily dose of three fluid ounces of
senna syrup to address the child’s constipation. (Senna was also a vermi-
fuge, capable of removing intestinal worms.) Whether bowel problems
were a part of her overall condition, a side effect of confinement to bed or
the result of poor diet cannot be known.
When Ida’s bowels had still not moved by her fourth day at Great
Ormond Street, Dickinson wrote an even more powerful prescription. She
was to be given 11 grains of calomel (mercury chloride), with sugar if
required, to get it down; three fluid ounces of senna syrup and three fluid
ounces of cod liver oil twice daily. Her potassium bromide dosage was also
increased.
This combination produced a remarkable change in Ida. The ward staff
reported that following four bowel movements, her screaming and rock-
ing quieted noticeably, her sleep pattern improved, and she became more
engaged with the world around her.
By 29 November, the situation was very much improved. Dickinson’s
notes read: ‘Bowels regular. No screaming. Appears to notice things rather
more than she did. A book was given her today and after a while she tore
a picture out of it’ (ibid.).
Getting Ida to eat proved to be more difficult than expected, however.
She would not feed herself properly, biting the middle out of a piece of
buttered bread rather than eating the whole piece, and showing evidence
 1 A NAMELESS DIFFERENCE 9

of swallowing problems. The ward nurses were only able to feed her bread
soaked in beef tea.
Feeding problems may have contributed to a dramatic worsening of
symptoms within the first week of December. Ida began screaming and
rocking again, and her constipation returned. It took two very difficult
weeks of treatment changes before improvements returned. ‘Still restless.
Screams and gets in a passion beating herself and the bed with no apparent
cause,’ Dickinson wrote on one visit. ‘In much the same condition as last
note—Bites her jacket, stuffing it into her mouth,’ he noted a few days
later. But by 21 December, Ida was again moving her bowels normally and
no longer rocking in her bed and screaming. Dickinson remarked that for
the first time she exhibited normal behaviour for a child her age, playing
with a doll (ibid.).
Ida went home with her family three days later, on Christmas Eve. It is
likely that she continued as an outpatient, receiving medication at the
Great Ormond Street day clinic. There is no record of readmission.
Ida’s autistic symptoms were in some ways more marked than Ralph’s,
but they were also closely linked to her seizures. Because Ida’s epilepsy was
of early onset, it could be that her communication difficulties were purely
a form of acquired epileptic aphasia: the result of uncontrolled epilepsy. Dr
Dickinson’s diagnosis was ‘convulsive fits, epileptiform,’ so he seems to
have believed that Ida’s developmental and movement differences were
also due largely to epilepsy. The use of anti-seizure medication does appear
to have made a great difference, though at discharge she was still a severely
disabled child who faced a grim future.
For a long time, the fates of children with epilepsy and those with
autism were closely entwined, as we will see in Chap. 3. But first we will
look back at the centuries that preceded the turning point of the
Enlightenment, to uncover factors that continue to affect social and medi-
cal beliefs about autism to this day.

Notes
1. Further information about Ralph and other Victorian children with symp-
toms of autism can be found in Waltz and Shattock (2004). This article is
based on the medical journals of Dr William Howship Dickinson, which are
held in the Great Ormond Street Hospital archives. Birth, death and occu-
pational information about Ralph and Margaret Sedgwick and their eight
children, including Ralph, were obtained through British census records.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 D’autre part, Millin[63] cite un acte de 1040, intitulé: Hommage à
Rajambaud, archevêque d’Arles. Une charte en faveur de Raymond,
évêque de Nice, datée de 1075, est reproduite par Raynouard[64].
Enfin, le poème sur la Translation du corps de saint Trophime, apôtre
d’Arles, attribué à Pierre Agard, en 1152, forme, avec les ouvrages
précédents, un ensemble de documents qui prouveraient, non
seulement que la langue Romane s’est formée en Provence et
qu’elle ne s’est répandue que par la suite dans le Nord, mais encore
que cette province, avant toute autre, donna naissance à des
poètes. On a cité à tort, à notre avis, Guillaume IX, comte de
Poitiers, comme ayant été le premier Troubadour. Un mot à ce sujet
nous paraît nécessaire pour expliquer cette méprise. Le genre
lyrique, frivole et badin, auquel se livraient les Troubadours
provençaux n’avait produit que des œuvres légères que la mémoire
des contemporains pouvait conserver comme de joyeux
délassements, mais qui n’avaient pas assez d’importance pour être
jugées dignes d’une transcription. D’ailleurs, il est probable que
beaucoup de ceux qui chantaient ne savaient pas écrire. Il n’y a
donc rien d’invraisemblable à admettre que ce fut seulement vers
l’époque où le thème héroïque, digne de l’histoire, devint populaire,
que l’on commença à recueillir les inspirations des poètes, surtout
des princes poètes, dont les chapelains étaient les secrétaires
désignés.
Ce fut le cas de Guillaume de Poitiers, dont les œuvres purent
être conservées grâce à ce procédé. D’ailleurs, si l’on compare ses
poésies avec la langue Romane de l’an 1060 à 1125, on constate un
progrès tel qu’il a bien pu faire dire du comte de Poitiers qu’il était le
premier Troubadour de cette époque.
En parcourant l’histoire de ces poètes, on remarque que ceux
dont les productions sont les plus estimées furent généralement de
braves soldats et de vaillants chevaliers[65]. C’est une nouvelle
preuve que l’éducation donnée à la jeunesse féodale, en la
rapprochant de la femme et exaltant son enthousiasme pour toutes
les nobles causes, avait puissamment agi sur ses facultés
intellectuelles; elle savait trouver dans ses heures de loisir une
distraction aussi digne de son rang que de l’esprit français. Ces
progrès dans notre littérature furent relativement rapides pendant un
siècle environ. L’étonnement que l’on pourrait éprouver à voir des
hommes jeunes, dont l’instruction était probablement peu
développée, faire des vers et composer même des romans d’une
certaine importance, est mitigé par la médiocre valeur de ces
premières poésies. Simples et naïves dans le fond, plus ou moins
incorrectes dans la forme, elles donnent bien l’impression d’un début
et d’une période de transformation de la langue. Les conseils d’un
ami, la lecture de quelques chansons manuscrites apprises plus ou
moins bien, les règles de la poésie provençale peu déterminées
encore, une grammaire rudimentaire, tels furent les faibles éléments
qui servirent aux premiers Troubadours pour esquisser les poésies
du Xe siècle. On ne peut nier les difficultés auxquelles ils se
heurtèrent tout d’abord et l’effort qu’ils durent faire pour trouver[66]
des vers nouveaux tant dans la forme que dans l’idée. Ce qui faisait
dire à Pierre Cardinal:
Un escribot farai, quez er mot maitatz
De mots novels et d’art et de divinitatz.

En effet, nous voyons les Troubadours arriver peu à peu à

donner à leurs œuvres une harmonie inconnue jusqu’alors. Leur
style se colore de nuances légères, de mots pittoresques, d’images
saisissantes. D’un idiome bâtard ils parviennent à tirer, dans un
espace de temps relativement court, une langue nouvelle, riche,
correcte et que l’ensemble de ces qualités finit par rendre nationale.
La caractéristique de la poésie chevaleresque au moyen âge fut
la foi: foi en l’amour, en la gloire, en la religion. Cette foi était vive,
ardente, enthousiaste; elle s’accusait avec force dans toutes ses
actions comme dans tous les écrits. Si l’esprit n’apparaît pas
toujours, du moins le cœur bat, et on le sent palpiter dans les
œuvres des Troubadours. Les Croisades, dans le Midi comme dans
le Nord, eurent une influence puissante sur la littérature. En même
temps qu’ils s’armaient, les chevaliers prenaient la plume et
écrivaient non plus des stances à l’amour et de tendres romances,
comme ils en composaient jadis pour les nobles dames, dans la
molle oisiveté des châteaux, mais des poésies énergiques,
violentes, imagées, empreintes de la sainte exaltation qui les
animait. Les princes devinrent les protecteurs des Troubadours, leur
ouvrirent leur cour et leurs demeures seigneuriales, les comblant de
présents, de richesses et d’honneurs; en retour, ceux-ci leur
donnèrent place dans leurs chants. Les châtelaines, sensibles à ces
flatteries, les encourageaient et attendaient agréablement dans leur
société le retour des héros de la Croisade. On cite à ce sujet une
tenson de Folquet de Romans, qui demande à Blacas, pourtant bon
chevalier, s’il partira pour la terre sainte. Celui-ci répond en riant qu’il
aime, qu’il est aimé de la comtesse de Provence et qu’il veut
demeurer auprès d’elle:
Je ferai ma pénitence
Entre mer et Durance
Auprès de son manoir.

Scène de Troubadours.

Mais ceci n’est qu’une exception. Le nombre est grand des

Troubadours qui firent partie des Croisades et en célébrèrent les
gloires. Tout le monde connaît la romance de Raoul de Coucy, les
vers de Thibaut, comte de Champagne, ceux du comte d’Anjou, du
duc de Bourgogne, de Frédéric II, de Richard Cœur de Lion, du
Dauphin d’Auvergne; les poésies de Folquet de Romans, d’Aimeri,
de Péguilhan et celles de Rambaud de Vaqueiras, d’Elias Cairels, de
Pons de Capdeuil, de Ganselme Faydit, toutes vaillantes et
entraînantes, toutes inspirées par l’héroïque épopée dont la terre
sainte fut le but ou le théâtre.

NOTES:
[54] Castrucci, dans le tome Ier de son Histoire de Provence,
donne l’acte de nomination et les noms des évêques qui le signèrent.
[55] Castrucci, t. Ier, chap. III (Extrait des Annales de Reims).
[56] Donat, grammairien latin, auteur du Traité des Barbarismes et
d’autres œuvres très appréciées.
[57] Aide-le: Tu illum juva.]
[58] Nithord, Hist. des divisions entre les fils de Louis le
Débonnaire, liv. III.
[59] Traduction.—Pour l’amour de Dieu et pour le commun salut
du peuple chrétien et le nôtre, de ce jour en avant, en tout, que Dieu
me donne de savoir et de pouvoir, ainsi préserverai-je celui-ci, mon
frère Karle, et par assistance et en chaque chose ainsi que comme
homme par droit l’on doit préserver son frère, en vue de ce qu’il me
fasse la pareille; et de Ludher ne prendrai jamais nulle paix qui, par
ma volonté, soit au préjudice de mon frère ici présent, Karle.
Si Lodhwig garde le serment que a son frère Karle, il jure et que
Karle mon Seigneur, de son côté ne le tienne, si je ne l’en puis
détourner, ni moi ni nul que j’en puisse détourner, en nulle aide contre
Lodhwig ne l’y serai.
[60] D’après un manuscrit qui avait appartenu à l’abbaye de Saint-
Amand (diocèse de Tournai).
[61] Traduction:
Bonne pucelle fut Eulalie,
Bel corps avait, et plus belle âme,
Voulurent en triompher les ennemis de Dieu,
Voulurent la faire diable servir,
Elle n’a pas écouté les mauvais conseillers, etc.
 [62] Composé au XIIe siècle, en vers de douze syllabes, qui,
depuis, prirent le nom d’Alexandrins.
[63] Essai sur la langue et la littérature provençales, p. 7.
[64] Raynouard, Œuvres, t. II, p. 65.
[65] Bertrand de Born,—Guillaume de Poitiers,—le roi Richard,—
Alphonse II d’Aragon,—Blacas,—Savari de Mauléon,—Pons de
Capdeuil,—de Saint-Antoni, etc., etc.
[66] De là leur nom de Troubadour.
 VIII
DE L’INFLUENCE DES TROUBADOURS SUR
LES TROUVÈRES ET LA LITTÉRATURE
DU NORD

Le vers.—La chanson.—Le chant.—Le son.—Le sonnet.—Le planh

(ou complainte).—La cobla (ou couplet).—La tenson.—Le sirvente.—
La pastourelle.—La sixtine.—Le descord (discordance, pièces irrégulières).—
L’aubade et la sérénade.—Ballade.—Danse.—Ronde.—Épître.—Conte.—
Nouvelle.

Sans vouloir revenir sur l’agression que le Jésuite Legrand

d’Aussy dirigea contre les Troubadours, il nous sera permis d’étudier
jusqu’à quel point s’exerça l’influence littéraire de ces derniers sur la
langue du Nord et les œuvres des Trouvères. Nous le ferons sans
parti pris, d’une manière impartiale, en prenant pour base de notre
raisonnement les dates, les faits, les résultats.
Nous avons dit, d’autre part, que le berceau de la langue
Romane (comme son nom l’indique, langue tirée du Latin ou
Romain) était la Provence, c’est-à-dire la partie de la Gaule qui fut la
première et le plus longtemps sous l’influence de Rome. S’étendant
peu à peu, elle pénétra jusqu’au Nord et devint la langue vulgaire,
parlée et écrite de tout le pays. Les pièces et documents cités
précédemment en donnent la preuve. Mais cette nouvelle langue,
née de la corruption du Latin par les divers dialectes des peuples
conquérants, devait elle-même, à un moment donné, se diviser en
deux grandes branches, l’une s’étendant au-delà de la Loire et
comprenant l’Est, le Nord et l’Ouest de la France, l’autre en deçà et
dominant sur le Midi.
 La première s’appela la langue d’Oïl; la seconde, langue d’Oc.
Nous avons donné plus haut l’explication de ces dénominations. Il
ressort de ces faits mêmes que l’antériorité de la langue Romane du
Midi sur la langue Romane du Nord ne saurait aujourd’hui faire
doute. Il est donc bien naturel de conclure que son influence n’a pas
été étrangère à la transformation de la langue d’Oïl, tant au point de
vue grammatical qu’au point de vue littéraire. La langue du Nord a
emprunté à la langue d’Oc, non seulement une quantité de mots et
d’expressions, qu’il est d’ailleurs facile d’y retrouver, mais aussi la
forme et les règles de ses compositions lyriques.
Le perfectionnement de la langue d’Oc, qui fut la condition
préalable de son influence sur celle du Nord, se déduit facilement de
la comparaison des œuvres des Troubadours du XIe siècle avec
celles du XIIIe, époque à laquelle la langue d’Oïl, encore considérée
comme barbare, commençait son évolution. Les progrès qu’ils
réalisèrent furent étonnants comme style, comme goût, comme
choix des mots les plus propres à rendre claires et imagées leurs
compositions, toujours poétiques. Après avoir fixé définitivement les
règles grammaticales, ils surent créer une poésie dont les formes et
les caractères différents devaient s’appliquer à des sujets spéciaux.
Ces formes, on les retrouve par la suite dans les œuvres des
Trouvères ou poètes du Nord, d’où il faut bien admettre que, non
seulement les Troubadours sont antérieurs à ces derniers, mais qu’il
faut accorder à leurs productions littéraires un certain mérite,
puisque les Trouvères s’en inspirèrent pour léguer à la langue
Française ces créations poétiques désignées sous les noms de:
vers, ballade, chanson, chant, sonnet, planh ou complainte, couplet,
sirvente ou satire, pastourelle (poésie pastorale), aubade, sérénade
ou chant d’amour, épître, conte, nouvelle, etc. Nous en donnons ci-
après les définitions appuyées de quelques exemples tirés des
œuvres des Troubadours.

LE VERS
 Le vers pouvait s’appliquer également aux œuvres chantées ou
déclamées. Il n’y avait point de règles absolues pour la mesure.
Celle-ci était le plus souvent déterminée par le caractère même de la
pièce; mais, si cette pièce se divisait en strophes, les strophes
devaient se reproduire successivement, coupées d’une manière
uniforme quant à la longueur et à la rime des vers.
Exemple:
Rossinhol[67], en son repaire
M’iras ma domna vezer,
E ilh dignas lo mieu afaire,
E ilh dignat del sieu ver,
Que mout sai
Com l’estai,
Mas de mi ’lh sovenha,
Que ges lai,
Per mailh plai,
Ab si no t retenha.
Que tost no m tornes retraire
Son estar, son captener,
Qu’ieu non ai amic ni fraire
Don tout ho vueilh ha saber.
Ar s’en vai
L’auzel guai
Ab goug, ou que venha
Ab essai,
Ses esglai,
Tro que trop l’ensenha.

(Paire d’Auvergne.)

LA CHANSON

La chanson était une pièce de vers divisée en couplets égaux.

Son nom indique assez qu’elle se chantait. L’air, composé
ordinairement par l’auteur des paroles, quelquefois même par son
jongleur, était noté sur vélin enrichi de dessins, et présenté ainsi à
un grand seigneur ou à une châtelaine qui daignait en accepter
l’hommage.
 Exemple:
Jamays[68] nulh temps nom poiretz far amors
Qui six fois ni maltrag m’a fous
Car tamme fay aravalen se cors
Que las perdas me restoura els dous.
Cavia pies ad regper folatge
E si ausioru me fets en remarrit
Eralpdo lo destrie el dop natge
Cataldona famos preex obezir
Don mesmienda tot caut ma fag zofrir.
(Vers et musique de Guill.
de Saint-Didier.)

LE CHANT

Le chant, parfois, était synonyme de chanson; quelquefois, au

contraire, il avait un sens plus général et pouvait exprimer toute
poésie susceptible d’être chantée. Il était pris également pour
désigner un poème. Son nom vient évidemment du latin cantare.
Certains auteurs prétendent qu’il fut introduit dans le Provençal par
le Troubadour Giraud de Borneil, et qu’avant lui toutes sortes de
poésies étaient comprises sous le titre général de vers.

LE SON

Le son désigne une chanson plus légère, plus suave. Les

Troubadours, en inventant cette désignation, n’ont voulu retenir de la
chanson que la partie harmonieuse. C’est ainsi que nous avons
maintenant la romance sans paroles.

LE SONNET

Le sonnet est une poésie légère, un diminutif charmant introduit

par les Troubadours dans leur grammaire lyrique, pour exprimer leur
pensée sous une forme aussi laconique qu’élégante. Il se compose
de quatorze vers distribués en deux quatrains, sur deux rimes
seulement, et en deux tercets. Le sonnet, d’origine provençale, fut,
comme la plupart des œuvres des Troubadours, accueilli et cultivé
en Italie, où nos poètes méridionaux avaient dû se réfugier après la
Croisade contre les Albigeois. Il ne revint à la mode en France
qu’après le retour de nos compatriotes, qui le répandirent et le firent
adopter par les poètes français.
Celui que nous donnons ci-après est extrait des œuvres de
Louis Belaud, poète provençal, né à Grasse. L’édition de ses
œuvres, que nous avons sous les yeux, est celle de Marseille, 1595,
in-8o. Le style est clair, facile, et se rapproche tellement du
Provençal de nos jours que la traduction en devient superflue.
SONNET SUR UNE SORTIE DE PRISON

Despuis que quatre peds sont dévenguts à doux,

Et que reson a pres plasso dins ma cervello,
Et lou mascl’ay sauput destriar de la femello
Et coignoisse lou vin aigre d’intrer lou doux.
Despuis n’ay j’amais vis un cas tant rigouroux,
De veir eun froumajon sourtent de la feicello
S’y vendre may cent fès qu’un quintau de canello
Et si per lou tenir fau mai de trente jours.
A la villo das Baux per uno flurinado
Avez de fromajons uno pleno faudado
Que coumo sucre fin foundon au gargasson
Mais sec dedins Paris ellous lou fan de ciero
Et davan qu’en sourtir un de la froumagiero
Poudes ben escoular la bourso et lon bourson.

LE PLANH OU COMPLAINTE

Le planh était une longue et triste chanson dans laquelle le

Troubadour déplorait la perte douloureuse d’une amante, d’un
bienfaiteur ou d’une bataille. Cette poésie répond à la complainte de
nos jours, que chantent sur les places publiques des artistes
ambulants. On cite comme des modèles du genre les planhs de
Gaucelm Faydit sur la mort du roi Richard, de Bertrand de Born sur
celle du prince anglais, son ami; ceux de Cigala, sur la perte de sa
bien-aimée, Berlanda. Le planh est composé de vers de dix ou
douze syllabes et coupé en strophes égales.
Exemple:
De totz[69] caitins sm’ien aisselh que plus
Ai gran dolor-é suefre gran turmen;
Por qu’ieu volgra murir! E fora ne gen
Qui m’aneizes, pois tan sui asperdutz,
Que viures m’es marrimeus et esglais,
Pus Morta es ma dona n’Azalaïs.
Gren sofrir fai l’ira ni’l dol’ni l dan.
Mortz trahiritz!... Be vos puese en ver dire
Que non pognetz el mon melhor amire, etc., etc.
(Pons de Capdeuil.)

LA COBLA

La cobla ou couplet désignait, comme aujourd’hui, un ensemble

de vers rimés, mesurés et groupés d’une façon régulière et se
reproduisant ensuite dans le même ordre un certain nombre de fois.
Exemple:
Aissi[70] cum es bella eil de qui chan,
E belhs son nom, sa terra et son castelh,
E belhs siegs dig, sieg fag e siey semblan,
Vuelh mas coblas movon totas en belh.
(Guill. de Saint-Didier.)

LA TENSON

La tenson était une pièce de vers, ou scène dramatique, dans

laquelle les interlocuteurs défendaient tour à tour, par couplets de
même mesure et en rimes semblables, des opinions contradictoires
sur la question à discuter. Ce qui donnait à la tenson un certain
intérêt, c’était de voir un poète attaqué relever le gant de la
discussion et improviser sa réponse en vers. Le juge du combat
décernait une couronne au vainqueur. Ces jeux poétiques étaient
assez répandus, et on ne peut s’empêcher d’admirer la richesse et
la fécondité de la langue Provençale qui fournissait pour ainsi dire
soudainement les plus gracieuses ressources pour le
développement d’une idée. Cependant la tenson n’était pas toujours
improvisée, nombre de poètes la composaient d’avance, se
préparant ainsi à eux-mêmes d’ingénieuses réponses où ils faisaient
montre de leur savoir et de leur esprit. Il arrivait même quelquefois
qu’un Troubadour érudit composait une tenson en plusieurs langues;
en voici un exemple:
TENSON DE RAMBAUD DE VAQUEIRAS, ENTRE LUI ET
UNE DAME GÉNOISE[71]
RAMBAUD

Donna[72], tan vos ai pregada,

Sinz platz qu’amas mi voillatz;
Qu’en sui vostr’ endomniatz,
Quar es pros et enseignada
E totz los pretz austreiatz
Per que sur plai vostr’ amistatz,
Quar es en totz faitz corteza,
S’es mos cors en vos fermatz
Plus qu’en nulla Genoesa,
Per qu’er merse si m’amatz;
E pois serai meils pagatz,
Que s’ara mia’ la cintatz
Ab l’aver qu’es ajostatz
Dels Genoes.
LA DAME

Juiar, vos no se corteso

Que sue chardei ai de chò
Que niente non faro.
Auce fosse vos a peso
Vostri’ amia non sero,
Certa ja v’es carnero,
Provençal mal aqurado;
 Tal enoio vos dirò,
Sozo, mazo, escalvado,
Ni ja voi non amarò,
Qu’ech un bello mariò
Que voi no se ben lo sò,
Andai via, frar’, en tempo.
Meillerado, etc., etc....

On voit par la réponse de la dame génoise que Rambaud fut peu

écouté et assez malmené. Si c’est là un fait historique relatif à sa vie
aventurière et amoureuse, il faut avouer que ce Troubadour, qui n’a
pas craint de consigner sur ses tablettes cette mésaventure galante,
était d’une véracité peu commune, puisqu’il ne s’en départait pas
même quant aux circonstances de sa vie privée qui auraient pu
blesser son amour-propre.

LE SIRVENTE

Le sirvente était une pièce satirique dans laquelle les

Troubadours critiquaient les vices des hommes et des choses de
leur temps. C’est en étudiant les sirventes des XIIe, XIIIe, XIVe siècles
que l’on peut se faire l’idée la plus exacte de l’histoire de cette
époque. Le plus célèbre parmi les Troubadours qui ont abordé ce
genre est, sans contredit, Pierre Cardinal, surnommé le roi du
Sirvente, le Juvénal du moyen âge français. Aucun ne mania le
sarcasme, ne poursuivit le vice avec une verve plus implacable. Sa
vie, qui fut très longue, ne fut qu’un combat sans trêve contre les
méchants. Hardi et courageux, il n’épargne personne; il attaque
également le clergé, la noblesse, les grands comme le peuple.
Inutile d’ajouter que ses ennemis étaient nombreux et qu’il fut
persécuté, chassé, emprisonné, sans être dompté. C’est sans doute
dans un jour de colère qu’il composa le sirvente suivant, qui peut
servir d’exemple:
AYSSI COMENSA LA GESTA DE FRA P.
CARDINAL

Cilz motz homes fan vers,

Jeu voly esser divers,
Que vuelh far una versa:
Lo mou es tant revers
Que fa del drech evers.
To cant veg es gorbilh.
Que lo payre ven lo filh.
Et l’un l’autre devora;
Lo plus gros blat es milh,
Lo camel es conilh.
Lo mon dins e defora
Es plus amar que thora.
Lo papa veg falhir,
Car vol ric enriquesir.
E’ls paubres no vol veyre;
Lo aver vol reculhir,
E fay se gent servir;
En draps dauratz vol seyre,
E a’ls bos mercadiers
Que dona per deniers
Aves quatz eymanada;
Tramet nos ranatiers,
Quistous amr lors letriers
Que dono perdo per blada,
Que fan poiezada.
Los cardenals oudratz
Estan apparelhatz
Tota la nuogé l dia
Per tost fan i mercat:
Si voletz avescat,
A voletz abadia.
Si lor datz gran aver
Els vos faran aver
Capel vermelh o crossa.
Am fort pauc de saber,
A tort o a dever,
Vos auretz renda grossa.
May y pauc dar no y noza.
Dels avesques m’es bel,
Car escorjon la pel
Als cappelas q au renda;
Els vendo lor sagel,
En i pauc de cartel,
 Dieu sap sey cal emeda
E fau trop may de mal
Que a un menestayral
Fan per deniers tonsura;
Tot es mal cominal
A la cort temporal,
Que y pert sa drechura
E la glieyza ne pejura!
Ades seran trop may
Clergues, pestres, so say,
Que no so Coayrailha;
Caseus son por decay,
Ben so letratz, so say,
Ja dire no m’o calha;
Casus son defalhens,
Que vendo sagramens
Et may q may las messas;
Caut coffesso las gens
Laygos, non malmerens,
Donou lor graus destressas,
Non pas a preveyressas[73].

LA PASTOURELLE

La pastourelle, appelée aussi Vaqueyras (vachère), était une

poésie pastorale dialoguée entre un Troubadour et une bergère. Les
plus remarquables ont été composées par Giraud Riquier, Jean
Estève, de Béziers, et Poulet, de Marseille.
Voici, comme exemple, une pastourelle de Jean Estève, qui date
de 1283:
El dous temps quan la flor s’espan.
Sus’el Verjan ab la verdor.
M’anava totz sols delechan.
Del joi pessan que m ven d’amor
En un deves anhels garan
Ien vi donan ab sur pastor
Gaia pastorella,
Covinent e bella,
 Que vesti gonella
D’un drat velat belh,
E’l pastorelh.
Pres d’elh me mis en loc rescos,
Que nult de dos no m pose vezer,
E’l pastora moc sos razos
Cum gai’e pros; e dis: per ver.
Gui mon paire m vol dar espos
Vielh, raïnos, e ric d’aver.
—Mal’er La Chanzida,
Dis Gui, sius marida,
N’a Flors, ans oblida
Selh que per marit
Avotz chauzit.
—En Gui, mos cor vos es volvenz,
Quar praupamens vos vei estar,
—Na Flors paupre jov’es manens,
Quau vin jouzens, pus ses duptar
Que’l vielh ric qu’es tot l’an dolens;
Qu’aur ni argens nol pot joi dar.
—En Gui, que queus aia
Dig, amor veraia
Vos port, nous desplaia;
Que fin cor verai
Amies, vos, ai.
Del loc don los agui scotatz
Vengui empatz tro alho ses brui,
Coizan los trobiei abrossatz,
D’amor nafratz, joi entr’amdui
Saludici los, mos ver sapchatz
Que saludatz per elhss no fui;
E’l pastora blonda
Dis non janziouda:
«Senher, Diens cafouda
«Qui joc jouziou
«Tolh al bel blon.»
—Na Flors, per queus desplatz de mi
Mas quez a’n gui quar aissé so?
—Senher, vos nostres noms cossi
Sabetz aissi? ans me sap bo,
—Na Flors, tan pres era d’aissi
 Que’ls noms auzi e la tenso.
Senher noi fo facha
Falor ni attracha.
—Toza, gui s’en Gacha
De ben fai atrag
Qu’a tos temps fag.
Ma razo retracha,
Ses tota empacha
Parti m de lur pocha.
Non lur fi empog;
Pas m retrag.
En Guillem n facha
De lodeva gacha
De valor autracha,
Per qu’ieu s’onor gach,
Bel rai, be fach[74].»

LA SIXTINE

En poésie, la sixtine, même au temps des Troubadours, passait

pour la pièce la plus difficile à composer. Arnaud Daniel, qui, dit-on,
inventa ce genre, n’en a laissé que de bien mauvais échantillons. Il
ne pouvait en être autrement, en présence des difficultés
accumulées comme à plaisir pour le rendre à peu près impossible.
La pièce se composait de six couplets de six vers ne rimant pas
entre eux. Les bouts rimés du premier couplet étaient répétés à la fin
de tous les couplets suivants dans un ordre régulier. Ceux du
second couplet se composaient de ceux du premier, en prenant
alternativement le dernier, puis le premier et successivement, de bas
en haut et de haut en bas, jusqu’à ce que toutes les rimes fussent
employées. On se servait encore du même procédé pour chaque
couplet suivant qui se combinait d’une manière semblable avec le
couplet précédent. Enfin, la pièce se terminait par un envoi dans
lequel tous ces bouts rimés se trouvaient répétés. On conçoit qu’un
pareil genre de composition ait découragé les poètes, et qu’on l’ait
abandonné.
 LE DESCORD

Ce mot, qui signifie discordance, fut appliqué aux pièces

irrégulières, c’est-à-dire qui n’avaient pas des rimes semblables, un
même nombre de vers par strophe ou par couplet et une mesure
égale. Inventé par Garins d’Apchier, ce genre fut peu employé.

L’AUBADE ET LA SÉRÉNADE

L’Alba, ou aubade, était un chant d’amour exprimant le plaisir

d’une heureuse nuit et le désespoir de l’approche du jour.
Dans la sérénade, ou séréna, le poète gémissait sur la trop
courte journée qui finissait, obligé qu’il était de quitter son amie. La
mandore en sautoir, c’était à la brune que le Troubadour venait
chanter de tendres romances sous le balcon de quelque châtelaine
adorée.

BALLADE.—DANSE.—RONDE.

La ballade était une sorte de chanson avec couplets et refrain,

mais en vers plus courts, d’un rythme plus rapide. Le sujet était
puisé dans une anecdote tenant du merveilleux. La danse et la
ronde étaient plus particulièrement consacrées à embellir et animer
les fêtes, où elles formaient intermède; pendant que le Troubadour
chantait, l’assistance dansait.

ÉPITRE.—CONTE.—NOUVELLE.

L’épître était une sorte de lettre poétique qui se déclamait. Le

sujet était ordinairement de respectueuses supplications adressées
à un grand seigneur, des témoignages de reconnaissance ou des
remerciements pour des services rendus. Le conte et la nouvelle
rentrent dans la classe des romans, dont ils ne sont que des
diminutifs.
A ces différents genres de poésie, on peut ajouter certaines
petites pièces qui prenaient des titres particuliers se rapportant aux
sujets traités.
Ainsi l’Escondig était une chanson dans laquelle un amant
demandait grâce à sa maîtresse;
Le Comjat, une pièce d’adieu;
Le Devinalh, une sorte d’énigme, de jeu de mots;
La Preziconza, un sermon en vers;
L’Estampida, une chanson à mettre sur un air connu;
Le Torney ou Garlambey (tournoi-joute), un chant destiné à
célébrer une fête où un chevalier s’était illustré;
Le Carros (chariot), un chant allégorique, où le poète employait
des termes guerriers pour glorifier sa maîtresse, qu’il comparait à
une forteresse assiégée par la jalousie et la méchanceté des autres
femmes;
Enfin, la Retroensa, une pièce à refrain composée de cinq
couplets tous à rimes différentes.

NOTES:
[67] Traduction.—Rossignol, va trouver dans sa maison la
beauté que j’adore, raconte-lui mes émotions et qu’elle te raconte les
siennes. Qu’elle te charge de me dire qu’elle ne m’oublie pas. Ne te
laisse pas retenir. Reviens à moi, bien vite, pour me rapporter ce que
tu auras entendu, car je n’ai personne au monde, ni parents, ni amis,
dont je souhaite autant d’avoir des nouvelles.
Or, il est parti, l’oiseau joli, il va gaiement, s’informant partout
jusqu’à ce qu’il trouve ma belle.
[68] Traduction.—Il ne se rebutera jamais des maux de l’amour,
puisqu’il a si bien réparé ceux qu’il avait soufferts par sa folie et qu’il
a su fléchir par ses prières une dame qui lui fit oublier tous ses
malheurs.—Il n’a plus songé qu’il y eût d’autre dame dans le monde
depuis le jour que l’amour le conduisit tout tremblant auprès de celle
dont les doux regards s’insinuèrent dans son cœur et en effacèrent le
souvenir de toutes les autres femmes, etc.
(Sainte-Palaye, manuscrit G. d’Urfé, 37.)
[69] Traduction.—De tous les mortels, je suis bien le plus
malheureux et celui qui souffre davantage; aussi voudrais-je mourir!
et celui qui m’arracherait la vie me rendrait un grand service, etc., etc.
[70] Traduction.—Comme celle que je chante est une belle
personne, que son nom, sa terre, son château sont beaux, que ses
paroles, sa conduite et ses manières le sont aussi, je veux faire en
sorte que mes couplets le deviennent.
[71] Rambaud s’exprime en Provençal et la dame en Génois.
[72] Traduction.—Madame, je vous ai tant prié qu’il vous plût de
m’aimer; car je suis votre esclave. Vous êtes bonne, bien élevée et
remplie de vertus; aussi me suis-je attaché à vous plus qu’à nulle
autre Génoise. Ce sera charité de m’aimer, vous me ferez ainsi plus
riche que si l’on me donnait Gênes et tous les trésors qu’elle
renferme.
—Juif, nous n’avez aucune courtoisie de venir m’importuner pour
savoir ce que je veux faire. Non, jamais je ne serai votre amie, dussé-
je vous voir éternellement à mes pieds. Je t’étranglerais plutôt,
Provençal malappris; mon mari est plus beau que toi; passe ton
chemin et va chercher fortune ailleurs!...
[73] Traduction.—Puisque beaucoup d’hommes font des vers,—
je ne veux pas être différent.—Et je veux faire une poésie.—Le
monde est si pervers—qu’il fait de l’endroit l’envers.—Tout ce que je
vois est en désordre.
—Le père vend le fils,—et ils se dévorent l’un l’autre;—le plus
gros blé est du millet;—le chameau est un lapin;—le monde au
dedans et au dehors—est plus amer que le fiel.
—Je vois le pape faillir,—car il est riche et veut encore s’enrichir.
—Il ne veut pas voir les pauvres,—il veut ramasser des biens;—il se
fait très bien servir;—il veut s’asseoir sur des tapis dorés,—et il vend
à des marchands,—pour quelques deniers,—les évêchés et leurs
ouailles.—Il nous envoie des usuriers,—qui, quêtant de leurs chaires,
—donnent le pardon pour du blé;—et ils en ramassent de grands tas.
—Les cardinaux honorés—sont préparés—toute la nuit et le jour
—à faire un marché de tout;—si vous voulez un évêché—ou une
abbaye,—donnez-leur de grands biens;—ils vous feront avoir—
chapeau rouge et crosse.—Avec fort peu de savoir,—à tort ou à