The Nun's Priest's Tale, by Geoffrey Chaucer

The Nun’s Priest is one of the pilgrims in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales of whom we know virtually nothing before he tells his tale. In the General Prologue we are told that the Prioress has “another nun” with her and “three priests”. When we reach the point at which the Nun’s Priest is introduced, there is no mention of the other two.

The short prologue of his tale consists mainly of the epilogue of the preceding tale, namely that of the Monk. This has been a long series of accounts of people who have fallen from high estate, starting with Lucifer and including rulers closer to Chaucer’s time. The Knight has interrupted the Monk, saying that he would rather hear about people who have risen than fallen, and the Host asks the Monk to tell another, more acceptable, tale. However, he refuses, and so the Nun’s Priest is asked instead.

Apart from agreeing to the Host’s request, and apologising should his tale not be considered “merry” enough, the Priest says nothing in his own prologue. All we learn about him is in the final line, where he is described as “this sweet priest, this goodly man, sir John”.

The Tale is an animal fable, similar in nature to the classical fables told by Aesop, which would have been very familiar to Chaucer’s real and fictional audiences. However, it is brought up to date, in medieval terms, by its use of concepts from medicine, astrology and psychology, in such a way that the Tale gives us an excellent window on the 14^th century mind.

The Tale

We are introduced to an elderly widow, living a simple life on a small farm with her two daughters. Of particular interest is her cockerel, named Chauntecleer, who has seven hens in his harem, the most notable being Pertelote. It soon becomes clear that we are in a fantasy world here, because these “beasts and birds could speak and sing”.

One morning, Chauntecleer is not his usual perky self, and he tells Pertelote that he has had a bad dream, in which he was frightened by a strange dog-like creature, causing him to wake up groaning rather than crowing.

Pertelote has no sympathy for him, regarding his fear as pure cowardice, and declares that she can have no love for him any more. As hens go, she is clearly a highly-educated one, as she is able to quote the Roman writer Cato to back her case that dreams are the result of “bad humours” in the body, and that purging the body of all the bad stuff is the answer. Pertelote prescribes a list of readily available herbs that should do the trick. Presumably a 21^st century hen would have recommended a “detox” programme!

Chauntecleer is not convinced, and quotes other authors who had a different line to that of Cato. In particular, he recounts a story about two friends who sleep in different inns, one of whom has a dream about the other being murdered and thrown into a dung cart. In the morning, he discovers that this is exactly what has happened in the night. The conclusion is that “murder will out”, and dreams are God’s way of ensuring that justice is done.

The well-read cockerel continues by recounting the tale of a man who warned a friend not to take a sea voyage, because he had had a dream in which he had been told that the ship would sink. His friend ignored the advice and was subsequently drowned when the ship foundered. Further examples follow, with the cockerel quoting Saint Kenelm, the Old Testament, and classical mythology, as sources testifying to the power of dreams.

In short, says Chauntecleer, you can forget all about your poisonous laxative herbs, because I’m not touching them. With that, he hops down from his perch and gets on with the business of the day, which is finding corn and doing what cocks are supposed to do when surrounded by willing hens.

Several weeks pass by, and, on a day when all the chickens are busy in the yard, a fox sneaks in and hides in ambush, waiting for an opportunity to pounce. Chauntecleer notices the fox, but, before he can escape, the fox tells him that he means him no harm, but only wants to hear him sing. Chauntecleer falls for the flattery and is grabbed by the fox.

As the fox makes off with the cockerel in his mouth, the widow, her daughters, and all the farmyard animals set off in chase after them. Even a swarm of bees gets in on the act. Chauntecleer tells the fox that, were he in the same situation, he would turn to face his pursuers and tell them to back off. The fox tells Chauntecleer that this is a good idea, but by opening his mouth to speak he allows the cockerel to escape and fly high into a tree. The fox tries to inveigle the cockerel back down, but he will not be caught a second time.

The Priest then ends his Tale by pointing to its moral, which is to “take the fruit and let the chaff be still”. In other words, concentrate on what is real and ignore all the falsities that might surround it, whether one is talking about dreams or flattery.

  

There is also a short epilogue to the Tale, in which the Host thanks the Priest for his tale and remarks on his appearance, which is the only description given of the Priest at any point. However, these remarks about how the Priest has “so great a neck and such a large breast”, and that, if he had not been a priest he would be very attractive to women, are very reminiscent of the words said by the Host to the Monk before the latter began his tale. It is possibly for this reason that Chaucer apparently wished to cancel this epilogue, by crossing through the text in his manuscript. The Tale, however, is made no better or worse for the epilogue being either included or omitted.

Discussion

Many people regard the Nun’s Priest’s Tale as being the best of all the Canterbury Tales, and it certainly represents Chaucer in top form. He has produced a story that is so imbued with wit, so cunningly wrought at all points, artfully blending mockery with sympathy and irony with understanding, that the traditional nature of the materials is lost sight of in the brilliant finish of the performance.

This is the first notable example in English of the mock-heroic, a format that allows triviality to be blown out of proportion by the inclusion of classical allusions and long digressions, after which, in the current example, the teller has to bring himself back to the plot. At one moment the characters are chickens in a farmyard, and the next they are reciting Latin texts. Chauntecleer becomes an educated gentleman, and Pertelote is a practical and rather disillusioned woman of the world. The net effect of mock-heroic is to point to the absurdity of human aspirations and concerns. They matter no more, says Chaucer, than the scratchings of chickens in the dirt.

As with all stories of this kind, there is meaning on all sorts of levels, and every fresh reading reveals new satires and witticisms. This commentator agrees with those who give the Nun’s Priest’s Tale a very high ranking amongst the Canterbury Tales of Geoffrey Chaucer.

© John Welford

The Monk's Tale, by Geoffrey Chaucer

The Monk’s Tale is unusual among Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales in several respects. For one thing, it is interrupted by another pilgrim before it can be completed, something it shares with Chaucer’s own Tale of Sir Thopas, which had been told not long before.

Secondly, the Tale uses a metrical form that is not used for any of the other Tales, although it occurs in some other works by Chaucer. This is an eight-line stanza with the rhyme scheme ABABBCBC.

Thirdly, it is not a single tale at all, but a succession of seventeen stories, of varying length, which all purport to say the same thing, namely “how are the mighty fallen”. 

The background of the Monk’s Tale is the aftermath of Chaucer’s own Tale of Melibee. This had been Chaucer’s second tale, after the Host cut off his Tale of Sir Thopas and Chaucer offered “a little thing in prose” that turned out to be an immensely long tale that, to modern taste, is virtually unreadable, consisting largely of a philosophical discourse on the themes of revenge and forgiveness. However, this is to misunderstand 14^th century likings and attitudes, and the pilgrims have clearly been listening intently, not least the Host.

The first 35 lines of the Monk’s prologue do not mention the Monk at all, being the Host’s response to Chaucer. The Host has been impressed by the attitude and example of Prudence, the wife of Melibee, and he wishes that his own wife had the same character. Instead, she is all for violence being visited on any wrongdoer, and the Host fears that one day she will be the cause of him committing a murder. She would appear to be a literary precursor of Lady Macbeth!

The Host then turns to the Monk, and begins by praising and admiring him. From the account of the Monk given in the General Prologue we know that this man is very far from the image one should have of a humble, religious man, sworn to poverty and simple living. This monk loves luxury above all else, reckons that the rules of his Order are there to be broken, and spends most of his time  hunting, hawking, feasting and generally enjoying himself. It was people like him who contributed to giving religious orders a bad name in the 14^th century.

However, the Host speaks without irony when he addresses the Monk as being “a governor, wily and wise” and “a well-conditioned person”. He regrets that the Monk should ever have entered the religious life, as such a worthy man should be married and breeding more of the same! Perhaps there is a touch of irony, though, when he points out that non-religious people produce such feeble offspring and women always seem to have an eye for a handsome man of religion. 

The Monk does not reply to any of this, other than to agree to tell a tale. He could, he tells the pilgrims, give them the life of Saint Edward (the
Confessor, presumably). However, his preference is to tell tragic tales, in which people of great prosperity and high degree are brought low. He knows a hundred such stories. This seems to be oddly out of character, but it is not remarked upon. Another oddity is the Monk’s pedantic description of the verse form normally used for the telling of such stories. We can imagine the face of the Host falling fast as the Monk’s response to his personal remarks takes a very different turn to what he had expected.

The Tale

So begin the seventeen short stories, some of them comprising a single stanza, which do little more than say that the subject fell from grace, and others being somewhat longer, the longest stretching to 16 stanzas. The subjects are from ancient and more recent history, mythology, and the Old Testament. To take them in turn:

Lucifer. One stanza

Adam. One stanza

Samson. Ten stanzas that relate the story from the Book of Judges of the strong man brought low by the wiles of Delilah, who cut his hair and thus deprived him of his strength. The Monk warns men against telling their wives too much.

Hercules. Six stanzas that mention the labours of Hercules then recount the story from Ovid of the poisoned shirt unwittingly given to him by Dianira, his mistress. This causes his death, although the Monk does not mention that Hercules was half-immortal, so only the mortal half of him could die.

Nebuchadnezzar. Five stanzas based on the account in the Book of Daniel of the madness of the king of Babylon.

Belshazzar. Eight stanzas telling of the downfall of the son of Nebuchadnezzar, who feasted out of vessels taken from the Temple at Jerusalem and literally saw the writing on the wall that foretold his doom.

Zenobia. Sixteen stanzas are devoted to the only woman in the Monk’s catalogue, making this the longest of the mini-tales. Zenobia was a warrior queen of Palmyra in the 3^rd century A.D. The Monk tells how she married reluctantly and would only allow her husband sex for the purpose of procreation. She became empress when her husband died, and conquered many lands before losing to the Roman Empire under Aurelian and being paraded in chains.

Peter, King of Spain. Two stanzas about “Peter the Cruel” who ruled Castile from 1350 to 1369. Although regarded in some quarters as a tyrant, the Monk is sympathetic to this man, who was betrayed and murdered by his usurping brother. It is known that Chaucer had visited Castile while Peter was still king.

Peter, King of Cyprus. One stanza about a crusading king who captured Alexandria but was assassinated by envious subjects.

Bernabo Visconti of Lombardy. One stanza about a near-contemporary event, which was probably inserted in the Canterbury Tales at a much later date than the rest. Bernabo died in 1385, murdered by his nephew.

Ugolino of Pisa. Seven stanzas that dwell more on the legend surrounding Ugolino than the actual facts. According to the Monk, Ugolino was unjustly overthrown and imprisoned, together with his three young children, and starved to death. After the youngest child dies, Ugolino gnaws at his own arms in anguish and the surviving children, thinking that he is doing so out of hunger, urge him to eat them when they are dead. The Monk ends by saying that, if you want to know more, you should read Dante’s account.

Nero. Eleven stanzas on the downfall of a notorious Roman emperor. His viciousness and cruelties are described with some degree of relish, until Fortune’s wheel turns and he is forced to kill himself or suffer worse from the mob.

Holofernes. Three stanzas on a story from the Old Testament Apocrypha. He was a general sent by Nebuchadnezzar to subdue the city of Bethulia, but was seduced by Judith, a Jewish woman who made him drunk and then beheaded him as he slept.

Antiochus. Seven stanzas. This is another story from the Apocrypha, namely the Book of Maccabees. His campaign against the Jews is thwarted when he suffers from a painful disease and injuries incurred by a fall. He is then eaten alive by maggots.

Alexander the Great. Five stanzas that tell of his conquests and power, but “poisoned of thine own folk thou were”. However, that is all the detail we are told of his demise.

Julius Caesar. Seven stanzas. This is the classical story of his murder, although with no mention of the Ides of March. The Monk is careful to tell us that the dying Caesar took care to cover himself and preserve his personal decency. We get two downfalls for price of the one, because the death of Pompey is also included.

Croesus. Five stanzas about a figure who was partly historical and partly mythological. He is condemned by Cyrus of Persia to be burned alive, but a rainstorm douses the flames and he escapes. He has a vision that he is in a tree, where he is attended by Jupiter and Phoebus. He asks his daughter to interpret the vision, and she tells him that he will be hanged, which is what does indeed happen.

And at this point the Knight intervenes to say that he has had quite enough. He would rather hear stories about people who have risen from misfortune to prosperity. The host agrees, and calls on the Monk to tell them something that is a bit more cheerful, a story about hunting, perhaps. However, the Monk refuses, and suggests that it is someone else’s turn.

Discussion

So what can we make of the Monk’s efforts? One point worth making is that Fortune is named as playing a part in the downfall of all but three of the people mentioned by the Monk (the exceptions are Adam, Samson and Bernabo Visconti). There is therefore a consistent theme running throughout these mini-tales, namely that it is the turning of the wheel of Fortune that brings great people down, with the implication that they cannot be held to blame for their misfortunes, or at least only in part.

In other words, the Monk’s (and Chaucer’s) definition of “tragedy” is different from that of writers such as Shakespeare, who see tragedy as ensuing from the actions of the victim, who makes a wrong choice and cannot escape from its consequences. 

Nobody has ever regarded the Monk’s Tale as being among the best of the Canterbury Tales, and it is difficult to work out what Chaucer hoped to achieve by writing a tale of this nature. There is some variety here, in the sweep through mythology, the Bible and history, some macabre touches, and a touchingly sentimental piece in the story of Ugolino, but the whole thing is too disjointed to be successful as a Tale and, overall, the Monk’s Tale is a disappointment.

© John Welford

The poetry of Andrew Marvell

Andrew Marvell (1621-78) was a fascinating character who does not fit easily in any pigeonhole, whether artistic or political. He lived in very interesting times, namely throughout the period of the English Civil War, Commonwealth and Restoration, when it was dangerous to take sides in case one’s choice should turn out to be the wrong one. What Marvell hated most, in political terms, was tyranny, whether that came from kings or their opponents.

In terms of poetry, Marvell is often classified as a “Metaphysical”, but he was fifty years younger than John Donne (the chief of the Metaphysicals) and the style was on its way out when Marvell was writing his poems. In any case, most of his work was unknown during his lifetime, only being published posthumously in 1681.

His best poems were written during the 1650s (during the Commonwealth period when Oliver Cromwell ruled as “Lord Protector”). What has been described (by the Oxford Companion to English Literature) as “perhaps the greatest political poem in English” is his “An Horatian Ode upon Cromwell’s Return from Ireland”, which offers a balanced appreciation of Cromwell at a time when a one-sided one might have been thought a safer bet.

For example, the poem contains the oft-quoted lines referring to the execution of King Charles that: “He nothing common did or mean / Upon that memorable scene”, and give a warning to the new leaders that: “The same arts that gain / A pow’r must it maintain.” Both Cromwell and Charles are seen in a context of divine justice and order that are working themselves out, so Marvell is thus able to be fair to them both.

However, the tone in his later “The First Anniversary of the Government under O. C.” is less balanced, with the praise of Cromwell being louder and clearer. Marvell became the unofficial laureate to Cromwell and took the post of Latin Secretary to the Council of State which had previously been occupied by the now blind John Milton. However, he also provided services to the restored monarchy of Charles II and served as a Member of Parliament from Cromwell’s death until his own.

The same poet who could sing the praises of the ultra-Puritan Oliver Cromwell could also write the poem for which he is best known, namely “To His Coy Mistress”, which is nothing short of an expression of animal passion in the hope of getting a young woman into bed:

“Let us roll all our strength, and all

Our sweetness, up into one ball:

And tear our pleasures with rough strife,

Thorough the iron gates of life.”

This is a beautifully comic poem that uses a series of exaggerations to poke fun at the young woman’s coyness when it is clear that they both desire the final outcome. It works as well today as it did when first composed. Granted, this poem was not known to Marvell’s contemporaries, although it had probably been written not long before his “Horatian Ode”.

Marvell does offer a metaphysical approach in some of his poems, in that he can take a minor observation and develop a complex moral or philosophical lesson from it. An example of this is “On a Drop of Dew” in which an accurate description of a dewdrop on a rose is transformed into a symbol of the soul’s relationship to Heaven and Earth. The wit is integral to the poem and bound both to its accuracy, as observation, and its moral purpose.

As a satirist, Marvell is somewhat less successful to modern readers, mainly because satire is only really effective when one know the object of the satire and can appreciate all the “in jokes” that would have been relevant at the time. However, his early satire, “Fleckno, an English Priest at Rome”, while cruel, is also witty. On the other hand, his much later “The Last Instructions to a Painter” merely follows the popular fashion of commenting on contemporary affairs in the form of advice to a painter on what to paint and how to do so, with not much originality of his own.

Modern readers would do best to stick to Marvell’s lyrical poems, which have a lightness of touch that still appeals. His metaphysical poems are also still readable, as they go beyond merely being clever with words and contain both beauty and tenderness. Anyone who has enjoyed “To His Coy Mistress” will find a further exploration of Marvell’s poetry to be well worth the trouble.

© John Welford

Chaucer's Tale of Melibee

The Tale of Melibee is one of the least read of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, and it is not hard to understand why. Like the similarly “unreadable” Parson’s Tale, it is in prose, it is very long (about 920 lines) and it has little to interest us as a story. It bears some resemblance to the Old Testament Book of Job, which also uses a fairly lightweight story as a frame on which to hang a lot of philosophical debate.

The best thing about the Tale of Melibee is the story of why it is told. Chaucer the pilgrim has been telling his Tale of Sir Thopas, which is a deliberately terrible piece of doggerel verse, and has been interrupted by the Host who can stand no more and complains that Chaucer is useless as a poet (“Thy drasty rymyng is nat worth a toord!”) and would do better to tell something in prose. This wonderful joke against himself by Chaucer the poet is followed by Chaucer the pilgrim obeying the Host’s demand for something “In which ther be som murthe or some doctryne”. The promised “litel thyng in prose” turns out to be the Tale of Melibee, which is hardly “litel” and tends most definitely towards “doctryne” rather than “murthe”.

The Tale

It all starts quite promisingly, with the first few lines telling how “myghty and riche” Melibee returns home to find that “thre of his olde foes” have broken in and attacked his wife Prudence and daughter Sophie. Sophie is seriously injured “with fyve mortal woundes in fyve sondry places,” and Melibee, not surprisingly, is much distressed as a result. However, the husband and wife then start a protracted conversation over how they should react, quoting classical and biblical sources at each other like players at some philosophical tennis match. The “action” of the story is thus virtually all over in the first 20 lines.

Prudence advises Melibee to consult his “trewe freendes alle”, quoting Solomon, in passing, as recommending such a course. A large number of people turn up in response to his summons, of all types and conditions, including “many subtille flatereres” and “somme of his neighebores that diden hym reverence moore for drede than for love, as it happeth ofte.”

Melibee is all for making war on his enemies, and the advice he gets is conflicting, with some advisers urging caution and others recommending immediate and drastic action, but with the latter being in the majority. Generally speaking, the younger advisers advocate war and the older ones are in favour of peace. There is a nice touch in the line, “Yet hadde this Melibeus in his conseil many folk that prively in his eere conseilled hym certeyn thing, and conseilled hym the contrarie in general audience”; there really is nothing new under the sun!

Prudence offers her own counsel, which Melibee is at first reluctant to accept, giving a number of reasons why a husband should not be governed by what his wife says. We seem to have re-entered the “marriage debate” of the earlier Tales when Melibee says, “if I governed me by thy conseil, it sholde seme that I hadde yeve to thee over me the maistrie; and God forbede that it so weere!” Naturally enough, Prudence answers all his points in turn, complete with quotations as ever.

Prudence tells Melibee that he has taken counsel in the wrong way, and that he has misinterpreted the advice he has been given. The best defence, according to her, is the love of your neighbours rather than towers and battlements. She is clearly in favour of Neighbourhood Watch! She also advises patience, and the rule of law against that of private vengeance.

To summarise a very long argument, Prudence advises Melibee to make peace, first with God and then with his enemies, as it was his own sin that brought the calamity upon his household. There is also a long discussion about the proper uses of wealth.

Eventually, Melibee agrees to be governed by his wife’s wisdom. She then finds the three enemies and persuades them to give themselves up to Melibee’s judgment. They are, indeed, very reasonable about it. When they arrive at the house, they apologise for their deeds, Melibee hears them out, and then debates with Prudence how they should be punished. He is at first determined to exact a harsh, but judicial, revenge, but Prudence advises him that forgiveness is the best course of action.

The Tale ends without any indication of whether young Sophie recovers or not, although the use of the term “mortal woundes” at the beginning of the Tale suggests that recovery is unlikely.

The reaction of the Host to the Tale is given at the start of the prologue to the Monk’s Tale, in which the Host contrasts the attitude of Prudence to that of his own wife who, in such circumstances, would have handed him a big stick to go and beat the enemies with.

Discussion

This is not the sort of Tale that modern readers find at all to their liking, as it has very little action and a lot of tiresome debate. There have certainly been ages when people would have found the Tale of Melibee more to their liking; to realise this we have only to remember that the 18^th century novels of Samuel Richardson, which were also enormously long and uneventful, were extremely popular when first published.

There have been suggestions that, just like the aborted Tale of Sir Thopas, Melibee is a parody of a particular type of literature that was popular in Chaucer’s time. However, that seems unlikely, given that the joke would have worn extremely thin after some 17,000 words. Also, there is evidence from close contemporaries that the Tale of Melibee was held in great respect at the time.

One reason for the Tale’s later fall in popularity is that it is allegorical, and that is a form of literature that has long been out of favour. There is another level of meaning to it when Melibee’s castle is seen as the home of the soul, the three enemies as the world, the flesh and the devil, and the five wounds inflicted on Sophie (“wisdom”) as the destruction of the five senses. There may also be a reference to the five wounds of Christ on the cross (nails in hands and feet and spear in the side). The arguments of Prudence are therefore a sermon on how to resist sin and prevent it from destroying the soul.

On another level, there could be a political message here. The taking of good counsel is a pervasive theme, and that was one of the major problems that faced King Richard II (reigned 1377-99), who had been king since the age of ten and thus subject to advice from all directions. Chaucer himself was closely associated with Richard’s uncle, John of Gaunt, and thus knew all about the conflicting influences on the young king, who was eventually deposed when he was unable to show sufficient strength to resist bad counsel.

In summary, this Tale is not at all typical of the Canterbury Tales as a whole, and is usually regarded as a failure. Chaucer was a far better poet than a writer of prose. Melibee is a translation of a French source, but Chaucer’s version is considerably longer than the original, thanks to all the extra quotations. Few people today think of Melibee as a highlight of the Tales, and for good reason.

© John Welford

Chaucer's Tale of Sir Thopas

Geoffrey Chaucer (c.1340-1400) was not only the greatest writer of the Middle English period, but also English Literature’s first humourist of note. It is therefore not surprising that his “Canterbury Tales” should contain a joke at his own expense.

As one of the band of pilgrims making their slow way to Canterbury, Chaucer is bound by the agreement to tell two tales on the way there and two on the way back. This plan was never fulfilled, as the project was clearly far too ambitious, and Chaucer is the only pilgrim who tells more than one tale. It is the circumstances of why he tells two stories that constitute the joke against himself.

It is not clear what Chaucer’s complete plan was, as the Tales have survived as a series of fragments, and the order in which they are normally presented in modern editions may not have been as originally intended. However, we do know that the Prioress’s Tale precedes that of Chaucer. The Prioress has told a rather sad tale about the murder of a seven-year-old boy, and the pilgrims are rendered silent after it has finished. Harry Bailey, “mine host” of the Tabard Inn who has joined the pilgrimage, then calls upon Chaucer to cheer everyone up.

The joke upon the poet is that he tells a tale that is so awful that the Host, clearly with everyone else’s agreement, begs him to stop and tell them something else, which he does, although most modern readers find the hugely long prose “Tale of Melibee” to be virtually unreadable.


The Tale

The first tale, Sir Thopas, is hardly a tale at all. It starts out, in the language and format of a minstrel romance, to recount the adventures of a paragon of knighthood, who wishes to fall in love with a fairy queen but is rebuffed by a giant.

However, what clearly annoys Harry Bailey is that the poem is full of a huge amount of detail but very little action. After we are given a full description of Sir Thopas and a potted biography, he sets out on his way. We then get a wealth of detail about the trees and flowers he passes as he rides along, and the birds that sing in the trees.

He never gets to meet his fairy queen because the giant “Sir Oliphant” stands in his way. They make speeches at each other, Thopas pointing out that he can’t fight the giant today, because he is not wearing his armour. The giant throws a few stones at Thopas, and the latter goes home.

Once back home, Thopas tells his “merry men” that he needs to be well fed and prepared to go back and fight the giant, who has now acquired two extra heads, and so we are given all the details of his meal and his armour and weaponry.

It is while Chaucer is telling his hearers about how brave Sir Thopas is, as he sets forth on his second ride to meet the giant, that the Host steps in and stops him from telling any more. Presumably Harry could not stand the prospect of any more of those wretched flowers and birds!


Discussion

So what can we make of this apparent piece of silliness, wedged in between two much more serious tales in the canon of the Canterbury Tales? The fact that the Tale of Sir Thopas has virtually no literary merit is really the whole point. This is a parody of a whole genre, namely the minstrel tale, sung by troubadour poets, in which detail is piled upon detail.

It is, at heart, a piece of doggerel verse that the original readers of the Tales would have recognised as a satire. Many modern English people will be aware of the genre of rural folk-singing, often sung unaccompanied by singers who, for reasons best known to themselves, stick a finger in one ear and the opposite thumb in the waistband of their jeans. It was the medieval version of these singers that Chaucer was poking fun at, and making the joke doubly funny by putting himself in the role of the singer.

However, there is possibly another level of satire at work here, namely a social satire at the expense of Flemish knighthood (we are told that Thopas is from “Flanders, all beyond the sea”). We know that Flemish knights were regarded as figures of fun by the English and French courts, and Chaucer moved in such circles, holding a number of royal appointments during his lifetime. It would not be a surprise for Chaucer to have joined the mockery.

We therefore have a moment of light relief at this point of the Canterbury Tales, and a piece of literary and social satire, bound in with self-mockery. In all, this is a very clever piece of work by the first true genius of English literature.

© John Welford

The Prioress's Tale, by Geoffrey Chaucer

Chaucer’s Prioress is a very worldly lady who happens to have found herself in charge of a convent. This would not have been unusual in Chaucer’s time, as many young women were sent to nunneries when their families could think of nothing else to do with them. It was a cheaper option than finding them a husband, or perhaps they had been raped or got themselves into trouble and needed somewhere to escape to, either permanently or for a shorter time. Convents, of which there were thousands large and small, were sanctuaries for both rich and poor. They were full of women who, for whatever cause, could not be married, and nothing said that they had to be particularly religious.

As it happens, this Prioress seems to combine religious sentiment with feelings of other kinds. She certainly does not mock religion in the way that the Friar and the Pardoner do, for example. However, she is clearly very concerned to make a good impression on the social front, cultivating her appearance and good manners in ways that seem far removed from those of the convent. For example, she wears jewelry, she arranges her nun’s habit as fashionably as she can, and she even keeps pet dogs. The inscription on her brooch, “love conquers all”, can be taken in either its religion or earthly meaning, but the latter seems more likely. We feel that the sins of the flesh are not far from her mind.

Her Tale is perfectly suited to her as a woman of religion. It is the story of a “miracle of Our Lady”, which is what we could expect from a nun, and many versions of this particular story are known from medieval literature. Some versions of the story had a humorous element, but in Chaucer’s hands it is pathos that is to the fore, as suits a teller of delicate sensibility.

The story concerns a murder of a Christian boy by Jews, which immediately makes a modern reader think that this must be an evil tale of anti-Semitism. However, it would be a mistake to impose our post-Holocaust convictions on a 14^th century tale. What must be remembered is that very few people in England at that time had ever met a Jew. King Edward I had banished the entire Jewish population from England in 1290, and it was not until the mid-17^th century that they were allowed to return. All that the common people knew about Jews was what they heard from the pulpit, namely that they had been responsible for the death of Jesus and the persecution of the Apostles. Jews were evil people in their eyes, capable of any act of barbarity against Christians.

The Prioress begins with a dedication and prayer to Jesus and the Virgin Mary, asking for their blessing and to give her eloquence as she tells her tale.

The Tale

The tale is set in Asia, where there is a Jewish quarter in a predominantly Christian city. In particular there is a street, inhabited by Jews, at one end of which is a Christian school. One seven-year-old boy is particularly devout, always kneeling and reciting the “Ave Maria” when he sees a picture of the Virgin Mary. He overhears some older children singing the “Alma redemptoris Mater”, which is a hymn that forms part of the service of Compline, and asks another boy to translate it for him.

The older boy explains the hymn as best he can, and our hero determines to learn it for himself, especially when he realises that it is a hymn of praise to the Virgin Mary. He therefore rehearses it as he walks to and from school, along the street populated by the Jews.

At this point, the anti-Jewish prejudice of the time is shown very clearly in a stanza that speaks of Satan who “hath in Jewes herte his waspes nest”. The idea of killing the boy is given to the Jews directly by Satan, because the hymn that the boy is singing is “agayn oure laws reverence”. The link between Jewry and Satan could hardly have been made more explicit.

The Jews hire a murderer who cuts the boy’s throat and throws him into a cesspit. His widowed mother searches high and low for him, including asking all the Jews she can find for information, but nobody tells her anything. However, she is led by Jesus to where her son’s body is, and she finds him sitting upright, loudly singing the “Alma redemptoris”, despite being dead.

When the other Christians arrive, attracted by the sound of the singing, they send for the provost who then arrests the Jews. The boy’s body, still singing, is taken to the abbey and all the Jews who knew about the murder are condemned to death by being dragged apart by wild horses and then hanged.

At the boy’s funeral, just as the coffin lid is about to be fastened, he sings again when touched by holy water, at which the abbot asks how this is possible. The boy explains that the Virgin Mary has placed a seed on his tongue that enables him to sing her praises, and that when the seed is removed, he will join her in Heaven. The abbot removes the seed, the boy’s soul is released, and his body is buried in a marble tomb.

In her final stanza, the Prioress refers to “yonge Hugh of Lyncoln, slayn also with cursed Jewes … but a litel while ago”. This incident, which actually took place more than a century before the presumed date of Chaucer’s pilgrimage, and some years before the 1290 ban, was clearly very much a part of contemporary folklore, and is a similar story of a Christian boy murdered by Jews, who suffer a terrible fate as a consequence.

Discussion

As stated in Part 1, it is important to try to read this tale with the 14^th century in mind, not the 21^st. This was a far more credulous age, in which people did not question what they heard from the pulpit, and stories of miraculous happenings would be believed in every detail. It was also an age when the Church was all-powerful and so anything or anyone that opposed it must be evil and to be condemned.

One aspect of all this was that “usury”, or money-lending, was prohibited to Christians and could therefore only be carried on by Jews. The downside of credit is that debts must be paid back with interest, which is one reason for the unpopularity of Jews down the centuries. Anti-Semitism has long had economic as well as religious motivations.

Even with 14^th century eyes, one cannot accept summary and violent justice against a community, for the crime of a few, as being excusable. However, this was what happened in the case of Hugh of Lincoln, and in countless other cases across medieval Europe. The tale of the Prioress is therefore only remarkable in the details of the actual miraculous happenings that she recalls. There is, however, no sense of horror at the fate of the Jews, only at that of the Christian boy.

But we also have to ask if the moral condemnation we are happy to apply to the attitude behind this tale cannot also be applied to ourselves. How many of us today are not guilty of similar sentiments when we hear of an atrocity committed by a member of a community of whom we know little? Substitute “Muslim” for “Jew” and there are many instances today of fearful ignorance being substituted for rationality when it comes to considering the actions of those whose motivations we do not understand. We must still beware of condemning the innocent many for the deeds of the guilty few.

© John Welford

Emma, by Jane Austen: a summary of the plot

Emma, by Jane Austen (1775-1817), was published in December 1815 although the date on the original title page is 1816. It was therefore the last novel to be published in Austen’s lifetime, although Persuasion was written after she had completed the writing of Emma but was published after her death.

The story concerns Emma Woodhouse, who is introduced in the opening line as “handsome, clever and rich” and who “had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex her”. The reader soon gathers that she believes herself to have a gift for understanding the needs and wishes of those around her, particularly in matters of the heart. As the novel proceeds she is brought to realise that she is deluded in this respect, and the shocks she suffers give her a greater degree of self-knowledge than she had previously possessed.

The events take place in and around the village of Highbury and concern the members of several families of varying fortunes. The Woodhouses are well-to-do, although Emma’s father is an elderly hypochondriac and she lost her mother when a child. Her elder sister is married to Mr John Knightley, whose brother George, owner of the local estate, takes a fatherly interest in Emma’s welfare, being 17 years older than her.

Emma believes that she has been responsible for engineering the marriage of her governess to a local widower, Mr Weston. She then takes it upon herself to do the same for her socially inferior friend Harriet Smith, believing that the perfect match will be the vicar, Mr Elton. She therefore persuades Harriet to break her attachment to the highly suitable Robert Martin, a farmer. Things go wrong when the vain and foolish Mr Elton thinks that Emma is matchmaking on her own behalf and proposes to her, to her disgust and annoyance.

Emma’s second attempt on Harriet’s behalf involves Frank Churchill, who is Mr Weston’s son but who was brought up by an aunt and uncle whose name he took. A comedy of errors ensues when Harriet misunderstands Emma’s hints and assumes that she is talking about Mr Knightley as the intended target. When Harriet duly falls for Mr Knightley, Emma begins to realise that she has feelings for him herself. At the same time, Mr Knightley begins to imagine that Emma is falling in love with Frank.

Emma’s next “victim” is Jane Fairfax, a young woman without a fortune who faces a future as a governess unless she can make a good marriage. Jane is staying with her aunt, Miss Bates, who is a gossipy middle-aged lady who rarely stops talking. Miss Bates is extremely proud of Jane, who is beautiful, intelligent, and a talented pianist and singer. Emma’s attitude towards Jane is tinged with more than a hint of jealousy.

Emma persuades herself that Jane is in love with a Mr Dixon, who is currently in Ireland. She has very little evidence for this fact, but that does not stop her from joking about it with Frank Churchill, and the two have a lot of knowing fun at Jane’s expense, although Emma clearly has no right to take such a line. Mr Knightley upbraids Emma for her attitude, and attempts to warn her that all may not be as it appears in terms of Jane’s private life, but Emma will have none of it.

Emma completely oversteps the mark at a picnic at which many of the villagers are present, when she insults Miss Bates in front of everyone. She is taken to task by Mr Knightley and suddenly realises that her behaviour has not been appropriate.

When news arrives that Frank Churchill’s aunt has died, Mr Knightley’s suspicions are confirmed, as Frank now announces that he is free to marry at last, and that his intended is Jane to whom he has been secretly engaged all along. Far from Emma and Frank being co-conspirators in the long-running joke against Jane, Emma has been Frank’s dupe. Her self-appointed status as the village’s matchmaker and fount of all knowledge regarding everyone’s romantic attachments is shown to be groundless.

The next shock to hit Emma is the realisation that Mr Knightley’s affections are not directed towards Harriet, as she had assumed, but herself. Now that Emma has been “dethroned” and come to her senses, Mr Knightley is able to declare his love for her, and she accepts his marriage proposal. Meanwhile Harriet’s former lover Robert Martin re-appears and proposes to Harriet. A double wedding concludes the story.

The novel illustrates very cleverly the importance of not seeking to control the lives of other people or to believe that one knows their innermost thoughts and desires better than they do themselves. “Emma” contrasts a variety of forms of selfishness and generosity against each other, portrayed most clearly through the characters of Emma and Mr Knightley respectively. Jane Austen makes the point in “Emma” that the most generous thing one can do when dealing with other people is to accept them for what they are, which is a lesson that Emma Woodhouse learns the hard way.

© John Welford