CHAPTER XII

"CANTERBURY TALES"--FIRST AND SECOND DAYS

"For lo! the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land."--SOLOMON'S SONG

Here, then, they are assembled on a perfect morning of English spring, with London streets awakening to life behind them, and the open road in front. Think of the dayspring from on high, the good brown earth and tender foliage, smoke curling up from cottage chimneys, pawing steeds, barking dogs, the cheerful stirrup-cup; every rider's face set to the journey after his individual mood, when at last the Host had successfully gathered his flock--

And forth we ride, a little more than pace, Unto the watering of Saint Thomas.

That is, to the little brook which now runs underground near the second milestone on the Old Kent Road, remembered only in the name of St. Thomas' Road and the Thomas à Becket Tavern. Up to this point the party had been enlivened by the Miller's bagpipe, and Professor Raleigh has justly pointed out how many musicians there are in Chaucer's company: the Squire; the Prioress with her psalms, "entuned in her nose full seemëly"; the Friar, who could sing so well to his own harp; the Pardoner, with his "Come hither, love, to me," and the Summoner, who accompanied him in so "stiff" a bass. By St. Thomas' watering, however, either the Miller is out of breath or the party are out of patience, for here the Host reins up, and reminds them of their promise to tell tales on the way. They draw cuts, and the longest straw (whether by chance or by Boniface's sleight of hand) falls to the one man with whom none other would have disputed for precedence. The Knight, with ready courtesy, welcomed the choice "in God's name," and rode on, bidding the company "hearken what I say." Let us not inquire too closely how far every word was audible to the whole thirty, as they clattered and splashed along. We may always be sure that enough was heard to keep the general interest alive, and it may be charitably hoped that the two nuns were among those who caught least.

The Knight's tale was worthy of his reputation--chivalrous, dignified, with some delicate irony and many flights of lofty poetry. The Host laughed aloud for joy of this excellent beginning, and called upon the Monk for the next turn; but here suddenly broke in--

The Miller, that for-dronken was all pale So that unnethe upon his horse he sat ... [scarcely And swore by armës and by blood and bones 'I can a noble talë for the nonce With which I will now quit the Knightës tale.' Our Hostë saw that he was drunk of ale And said, 'abide, Robin, my lievë brother, Some better man shall tell us first another; Abide, and let us worken thriftily.' 'By Goddës soul,' quoth he, 'that will not I; For I will speak, or ellës go my way.' Our Host answered: 'Tell on, a devil way! Thou art a fool; thy wit is overcome.' 'Now hearken,' quoth the Miller, 'all and some! But first I make a protestatioun That I am drunk, I know it by my soun; [sound And therefore, if that I misspeak or say, Wite it the ale of Southwark, I you pray; [blame For I will tell a legend and a life Both of a carpenter and of his wife....'

The Reeve (who is himself a carpenter also) protests in vain against such slander of honest folk and their wives. Robin Miller has the bit between his teeth, and plunges now headlong into his tale as he had run in old times against the door--a "churlës tale," but told with consummate dramatic effect, and recorded by Chaucer with a half-ironical apology--

And therefore every gentle wight I pray For Goddës love, deem ye not that I say Of evil intent, but that I must rehearse Their talës allë, be they better or worse, Or ellës falsen some of my matère. And therefore, whoso list it not to hear, Turn over the leaf and choose another tale.

The Miller's story proved an apple of discord in its small way, but poetically effective in the variety which it and its fellows lent to the journey--

Diversë folk diversëly they said, But for the mostë part they laughed and played; Nor at this tale I saw no man him grieve, But it were only Osëwold the Reeve,

who, though chiefly sensible to the slur upon his own profession, lays special stress on the indecorum of the Miller's proceeding. Some men (he says) are like medlars, never ripe till they be rotten, and with all the follies of youth under their grizzling hairs--

When that our host had heard this sermoning, He gan to speak as lordly as a King: He saidë 'What amounteth all this wit? What shall we speak all day of holy writ? [why The devil made a Reevë for to preach, And of a cobbler a shipman or a leech! Say forth thy tale, and tarry not the time, Lo, Depëford, and it is halfway prime. Lo Greenëwich, there many a shrew is in; It were all time thy talë to begin.'

The story records, by way of natural revenge, the domestic misfortunes of a Miller; and, for all the Reeve's moral indignation, it is as essentially "churlish" as its predecessor, and as popular with at least one section of the party--

The Cook of London, while the Reeve spake, For joy, him thought, he clawed him on the back, 'Ha, ha!' quoth he, 'for Christës passioun, This Miller had a sharp conclusion ... But God forbiddë that we stinten here; And therefore, if that ye vouchsafe to hear A tale of me, that am a poorë man, I will you tell as well as ever I can A little jape that fell in our citie.' [jest

The Host gives leave on the one condition that the tale shall be fresher and wholesomer than the Cook's victuals sometimes are--

'For many a pasty hast thou letten blood, And many a Jack of Dover hast thou sold [meat pie That hath been twyës hot and twyës cold! Of many a pilgrim hast thou Christës curse, For of thy parsley yet they fare the worse That they have eaten with thy stubble-goose; For in thy shop is many a flyë loose!'

The Cook's "little jape," however, to judge by its commencement, was even more fly-blown than his stubble-goose. The Miller seemed to have let loose every riotous element, and to have started the company upon a downward slope of accelerating impropriety. But this to Chaucer would have been more than a sin, it would have been an obvious artistic blunder; and when the ribaldry begins in earnest, the best manuscripts break off with "of this Cook's tale maked Chaucer no more." In other MSS. the Cook himself breaks off in disgust at his own story, and tells the heroic tale of Gamelyn, which Chaucer may possibly have meant to rewrite for the series. Here end the tales of the first day; incomplete enough, as indeed the whole book is only a fragment of Chaucer's mighty plan. The pilgrims probably slept at Dartford, fifteen miles from London.

Next morning the Host seems to have found it hard to keep his team together; it is ten o'clock when he begins to bewail the time already wasted, and prays the Man of Law to tell a tale. The lawyer assents in a speech interlarded with legal French and legal metaphors, and referring at some length to Chaucer's other poems. He then launches into a formal prologue, and finally tells the pious Custance's strange adventures by land and sea. This, if not so generally popular with the company as other less decorous tales before and after it, enjoyed at least a genuine _succès d'estime_. Thereupon followed one of the liveliest of all Chaucer's dialogues. The Host called upon the Parish Priest for a tale, adjuring him "for Goddës bones" and "by Goddës dignitie." "_Benedicite!_" replied the Parson; "what aileth the man, so sinfully to swear?" upon which the Host promptly scents "a Lollard in the wind," and ironically bids his companions prepare for a sermon.[161] The Shipman, professionally indifferent to oaths of whatever description, and bold in conscious innocence of all puritanical taint, here interposes an emphatic veto--

'Nay, by my father's soul, that shall he not,' Saidë the Shipman; 'here he shall not preach. He shall no gospel glosen here nor teach. [expound We believe all in the great God,' quoth he, 'He wouldë sowen some difficultee, Or springen cockle in our cleanë corn; And therefore, Host, I warnë thee beforn, My jolly body shal a talë tell, And I shall clinken you so merry a bell That I shall waken all this companye; But it shall not be of philosophye, Nor _physices_, nor termës quaint of law, There is but little Latin in my maw.'

The bluff skipper is as good as his word; his tale is frankly unprofessional, and its infectious jollity must almost have appealed to the Parson himself, even though it reeked with the most orthodox profanity, and showed no point of contact with puritanism except a low estimate of average monastic morals.

'Well said, by _Corpus Dominus_,' quoth our Host, 'Now longë mayest thou sailë by the coast, Sir gentle master, gentle mariner! ... Draw ye no monkës more unto your inn! But now pass on, and let us seek about Who shall now tellë first, of all this rout, Another tale;' and with that word he said, As courteously as it had been a maid, 'My lady Prioressë, by your leave, So that I wist I shouldë you not grieve, I wouldë deemen that ye tellen should A talë next, if so were that ye would. Now will ye vouchësafe, my lady dear?' 'Gladly,' quoth she, and said as ye shall hear.

The gentle lady tells that charming tale which Burne-Jones so loved and adorned, of the little scholar murdered by Jews for his devotion to the Blessed Virgin, and sustained miraculously by her power. Chaucer loved the Prioress; and he makes us feel the reverent hush which followed upon her tale--

When said was all this miracle, every man So sober was, that wonder was to see, Till that our Hostë japen then began, And then at erst he lookëd upon me, And saidë thus: 'What man art thou?' quoth he; 'Thou lookest as thou wouldest find an hare, For ever upon the ground I see thee stare.

Approachë near, and look up merrily. Now ware you, sirs, and let this man have place! He in the waist is shape as well as I; This were a puppet in an arm to embrace For any woman, small and fair of face! He seemeth elvish by his countenance, For unto no wight doth he dalliance.

Say now somewhat, since other folk have said; Tell us a tale of mirth, and that anon....'

Chaucer executes himself as willingly as the rest, and enters upon a long-winded tale of knight-errantry, parodied from the romances in vogue; but the Age of Chivalry is already half past. Before the poet has even finished the preliminary catalogue of his hero's accomplishments--

'No more of this, for Goddës dignitee,' Quoth our Hostë, 'for thou makest me So weary of thy very lewedness [folly That (all so wisely God my soulë bless) Mine earës achen of thy drasty speech [trashy Now, such a rhyme the devil I biteche! [commit to This may well be rhyme doggerel,' quoth he.

Chaucer suffers the interruption with only the mildest of protests, and proceeds to tell instead "a lytel thing in prose," a translation of a French translation of a long-winded moral allegory by an Italian friar-preacher. The monumental dulness of this "Tale of Melibee and of his wife Prudence" is no doubt a further stroke of satire, and Chaucer must have felt himself amply avenged in recounting this story to the bitter end. Yet there was a moral in it which appealed to the Host, who burst out--

... as I am a faithful man And by that precious _corpus Madrian_ [St. Mathurin I haddë liever than a barrel ale That goodë lief my wife had heard this tale. For she is nothing of such patience As was this Melibeus' wife Prudence. By Goddës bonës, when I beat my knaves, She bringeth me forth the greatë clubbëd staves, And crieth 'Slay the doggës every one. And break them, bothë back and every bone!' And if that any neighëbour of mine, Will not in churchë to my wife incline, Or be so hardy to her to trespass, When she com'th home she rampeth in my face And crieth 'Falsë coward, wreak thy wife! By corpus bones! I will have thy knife, And thou shalt have my distaff and go spin!'

The Host has plenty more to say on this theme; but presently he remembers his duties, and calls upon the Monk for a tale, though not without another long digression on monastic comforts and monastic morals, from the point of view of the man in the street. The Monk takes all his broad jesting with the good humour of a man who is used to it, and offers to tell some tragedies, "of which I have an hundred in my cell." After a few harmless pedantries by way of prologue, he proceeds to reel off instalments of his hundred tragedies with the steady, self-satisfied, merciless drone of a man whose office and cloth generally assure him of a patient hearing. Here, however, we are no longer in the minster, but in God's own sunlight and fresh air; the Pilgrim's Way is Liberty Hall; and while Dan Piers is yet moralizing with damnable iteration over the ninth of his fallen heroes, the Knight suddenly interrupts him--the Knight himself, who never yet no villainy ne said, in all his life, unto no manner wight!

'Ho!' quoth the Knight, 'good sir, no more of this! What ye have said is right enough, ywis [certainly And muckle more; for little heaviness Is right enough to many folk, I guess. I say for me it is a great dis-ease, Where as men have been in great wealth and ease To hearen of their sudden fall, alas! And the contrary is joy and great solace ... And of such thing were goodly for to tell.' 'Yea,' quoth our Host, 'by Saintë Paulës Bell! ... Sir Monk, no more of this, so God you bless, Your tale annoyeth all this companye; Such talking is not worth a butterflye, For therein is there no desport nor game. Wherefore, sire Monk, or Dan Piers by your name, I pray you heartily, tell us somewhat else; For surely, but for clinking of your bells That on your bridle hang on every side, By Heaven's King, that for us allë died, I should ere this have fallen down for sleep, Although the slough had never been so deep ... Sir, say somewhat of hunting, I you pray.' 'Nay,' quoth this Monk, 'I have no lust to play; Now let another tell, as I have told.' Then spake our Host with rudë speech and bold, And said unto the Nunnës Priest anon, 'Come near, thou Priest, come hither, thou Sir John! Tell us such thing as may our heartës glad; Be blithë, though thou ride upon a jade. What though thine horse be bothë foul and lean? If it will serve thee, reck thou not a bean; Look that thine heart be merry evermo!'

The domestic confessor of stately Madame Eglantine is possibly accustomed to sudden and peremptory commands; in any case, he obeys readily enough here. "'Yes, sir,' quoth he, 'yes, Host'" ... and proceeds to recount that tragi-comedy of Reynard and Chanticleer which, well-worn as the plot is, shows off to perfection many of Chaucer's rarest artistic qualities.

The tale is told, and the Host shows his appreciation by saluting the Nuns' Priest with the same broad gibes and innuendoes with which he had already greeted the Monk. Here probably ends the second day; the Pilgrims would sleep at Rochester, which was in sight when the Monk began his Tale.