The Shaping of English Poetry: Essays on 'Sir Gawain and the Green Knight', Langland, Chaucer and Spenser [New ed.] 3039119567, 9783039119561, 2009045006, 9783035300321

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The Shaping of

Engli sh P oetry Essays on

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Langland, Chaucer and Spenser

Gerald Morgan

P ET E R L A N G

T

his collection of essays is conceived not as a summary of past endeavours but as the beginning of an attempt to present a sense of the wholeness of a distinctively English literature from Beowulf to Spenser. The native alliterative tradition of England is represented by its final flowering in two essays on Sir Gawain and the Green Knight and three on Piers Plowman. The renewal of English letters in the fourteenth century, inspired by continental models in French and Italian, is represented by four essays on Chaucer. The poetic achievement of these three medieval masters remains unmatched until Spenser announces himself in a third great age in the history of English poetry and this is represented by three essays on the first three books of The Faerie Queene. Spenser’s indebtedness to Langland and Chaucer, and his philosophical conservatism in drawing on the thought of Aristotle and the tradition of medieval commentary surrounding the works of Aristotle, ensure that the tradition of English poetry in the Renaissance is securely rooted in its medieval inheritance.

Gerald Morgan was a Meyricke Exhibitioner at Jesus College, Oxford, and holds a DPhil from Oxford University. He is a Senior Lecturer in the School of English, Trinity College Dublin. He is the author of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight and the Idea of Righteousness (1991) and The Tragic Argument of Troilus and Criseyde (2005). He has published widely on English literature from Beowulf to Spenser.

The Shaping of English Poetry

The Shaping of

Engli sh P o e t ry Essays on

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Langland, Chaucer and Spenser

Gerald Morgan

PETER LANG Oxford · Bern · Berlin · Bruxelles · Frankfurt am Main · New York · Wien

Bibliographic information published by Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data is available on the Internet at http://dnb.d-nb.de. A catalogue record for this book is available from The British Library. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data: Morgan, Gerald, 1942– The shaping of English poetry : essays on Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Langland, Chaucer and Spenser / Gerald Morgan. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. 1. English poetry--Middle English, 1100–1500--History and criticism. 2. English poetry--Early modern, 1500–1700--History and criticism. 3. Gawain and the Green Knight. 4. Langland, William, 1330?–1400? Piers Plowman. 5. Chaucer, Geoffrey, d. 1400. Canterbury tales. 6. Spenser, Edmund, 1552?–1599. Faerie queene. I. Title. PR313.M67 2009 821’.109--dc22 2009045006 isbn 978-3-0353-0032-1

Cover design: Kara Trapani, Peter Lang Ltd © Peter Lang AG, International Academic Publishers, Bern 2010 Hochfeldstrasse 32, CH-3012 Bern, Switzerland [email protected], www.peterlang.com, www.peterlang.net All rights reserved. All parts of this publication are protected by copyright. Any utilisation outside the strict limits of the copyright law, without the permission of the publisher, is forbidden and liable to prosecution. This applies in particular to reproductions, translations, microfilming, and storage and processing in electronic retrieval systems. Printed in Germany

Contents

Preface

vii

1

The Significance of the Pentangle Symbolism in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight

2

The Action of the Hunting and Bedroom Scenes in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight

39

3

The Meaning of Kind Wit, Conscience and Reason in the First Vision of Piers Plowman

63

4

Langland’s Conception of Favel, Guile, Liar and False in the First Vision of Piers Plowman

75

5

The Status and Meaning of Meed in the First Vision of Piers Plowman

87

6

The Universality of the Portraits in the General Prologue to the Canterbury Tales

109

7

Rhetorical Perspectives in the General Prologue to the Canterbury Tales

129

8

A Defence of Dorigen’s Complaint

147

9

The Self-Revealing Tendencies of Chaucer’s Pardoner

173

10

Holiness as the First of Spenser’s Aristotelian Moral Virtues

197

11

The Idea of Temperance in the Second Book of The Faerie Queene

231

12

The Meaning of Spenser’s Chastity as the Fairest of Virtues

267

Index

293

1

Preface

The great Chaucerian scholar of the mid-twentieth century generation, Talbot Donaldson, introduces his own collection of essays, Speaking of Chaucer, in characteristically urbane and witty fashion by observing that the author of such a collection ‘would be hard put to it to devise a modesty formula capable of concealing his vanity’.1 I make no attempt to introduce the present collection of essays with a similar Donaldsonian captatio benevolentiae, even though it is of the kind that Chaucer and his contemporaries themselves would much have admired. Readers will no doubt readily discern my true motives in gathering together essays written by me twenty and thirty years or even more ago. I certainly welcome the opportunity to bring these essays together in a single volume. But I also wish to say on my own behalf that this collection of essays is conceived not so much as a summary of past endeavours but as the beginning of an attempt to present a sense of the wholeness of a distinctively English literature from Beowulf to Spenser. In the present volume the native alliterative tradition of England is represented by its final flowering in two essays on Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (c.1350–60) and three on Piers Plowman (A: 1367–70; B: 1377–79; and C: 1385–86). The renewal of English letters in the fourteenth century, inspired by continental models in French and Italian, is represented by four essays on Chaucer (c.1343–1400). The poetic achievement of these three medieval masters remains unmatched until Spenser announces himself in a third great age in the history of English poetry, and this is represented by three essays on the first three books of The Faerie Queene (1590). Spenser’s indebtedness to Langland and Chaucer and his philosophical conservatism in drawing on the thought of Aristotle and the tradition of medieval commentary surrounding the works of Aristotle ensure that the tradition of English poetry in the Renaissance is securely rooted in its medieval inheritance.

viii

Preface

The sequence of essays begins with those on Sir Gawain and the Green Knight and this order is designed as a deliberate challenge to the conventional dating of that romance to the end of the fourteenth century and to the consequent focus on the court of Richard II (born 1367; king 1377–99) rather than on that of his illustrious grandfather, Edward III (born 1312; king 1327–77). There is no compelling evidence to place Sir Gawain and the Green Knight in the age of Richard II and scholars and critics seem to have been unduly influenced by the date of the sole extant manuscript (c.1400) and the flowering of Chaucer’s poetic career in the 1380s and 1390s. Langland is without doubt an Edwardian poet and Chaucer himself is formed as a poet in the households of Edward III (by 1367 at the latest) and of his sons, Lionel of Antwerp and John of Gaunt (and possibly also of Edward of Woodstock, the Black Prince) in the 1350s and 1360s. A convincing argument, building on the work of earlier scholars, for Sir Gawain and the Green Knight as a Garter poem of the 1350s or 1360s, has recently been made in the book-length study of Francis Ingledew.2 Chaucer’s work overlaps with that of these great alliterative poets, his first original poem, The Book of the Duchess, celebrating the life of Blanche of Lancaster, daughter of Henry of Grosmont and first wife of John of Gaunt, who died in 1368, being directly contemporaneous with the A Version of Piers Plowman. Chaucer refers somewhat dismissively perhaps to alliterative verse in the voice of the Parson, ‘a Southren man’ (the alliterative tradition persevering longest in the North and West of England) who cannot ‘geeste “rum, ram, ruf,” by lettre’ (I 42–43),3 but uses it (albeit briefly) to classic effect in the tournament of The Knight’s Tale (A 2601–16). From the metrical point of view Chaucer is a great innovator, introducing into English both rhyme royal (the stanzaic form consisting of seven iambic pentameters rhyming ababbcc), for the first time in The Parliament of Fowls and subsequently in Troilus and Criseyde and the most elevated of The Canterbury Tales such as The Man of Law’s Tale and The Clerk’s Tale, and also the heroic couplet of iambic pentameters used throughout The Canterbury Tales and notably in its famous opening lines (General Prologue, 1–2): ‘Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote / The droghte of March hath perced to the roote.’ The distinctive Spenserian nine-line stanza of eight iambic pentameters and a concluding iambic hexameter

Preface

ix

or alexandrine rhyming ababbcbcc used throughout the The Faerie Queene would seem to be a development of Chaucerian rhyme royal, based upon Italian ottava rima as used by Boccaccio and Ariosto, and imparts (like rhyme royal) a distinctively elevated and serious character to Spenser’s great epic poem. Moreover, Chaucer, like Langland and the unknown author of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, writes in the mainstream of Catholic England of the final years of Edward III. Despite attempts to link Chaucer with the writings of Wyclif and with the Lollards there is no convincing reason to do so, and it seems that English critics still have a need to see Chaucer and Langland as precursors of the Protestant reformation. But in his representation of the pilgrimage to Canterbury Chaucer has kept alive an English world that was largely to pass away amidst bloody conflict and sectarian destructiveness in the sixteenth century. Ignorance of medieval Catholic theology explains why so central an element of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight as the confession scene remains widely misinterpreted by English critics. There is a desire too to place Spenser at the heart of the Protestant reformation,4 even though the greater part of The Faerie Queene was written in Kilcolman Castle in North County Cork (a place seldom visited by English scholars) where Spenser lived from 1588 until he was driven out by rebels during the Tyrone rebellion in October 1598. But Spenser is not a Protestant partisan and it would be unwise to interpret his work in the light of A Vewe of the Present State of Irelande, a work not published until 1633 and still not securely attributed to him.5 Instead he has the broadness of view of his philosophical sources of inspiration, notably Aristotle and the tradition of medieval commentary surrounding the works of Aristotle. The temper of Spenser’s work is strikingly conservative and not at all sectarian. Thus in the ‘Legend of Holiness’ he refers (seemingly without discomfort) to Catholic doctrines such as the sacrament of penance, the seven corporal works of mercy and the sanctification of the Red Cross knight as the patron saint of England6 and draws upon his great English predecessors Chaucer and Langland as well as the Italians Ariosto and Tasso of a later age. Of all our writers, perhaps, Spenser has been most ill-served by preconceptions about his place in the wars of the English in Ireland

x

Preface

and about his attitude towards the barbarities of religious conflict. But it needs to be borne in mind here that the first book of The Faerie Queene is a ‘Legend of Holiness’, that is, a moral and philosophical subject, and not a history of Roman Catholicism or Protestantism (although Spenser can hardly avoid taking up a side in this great struggle). He has the openness of mind of a great philosopher and the breadth of vision of a great poet. We may say, therefore, that from, say, 700–1600, that is, from the early Middle Ages to the high point of the Renaissance (so-called) in England, we have a continuous tradition of poetry at the highest level (often indeed sublime, like English perpendicular cathedrals). From the twelfth century onwards we may describe it as at once English and Catholic and Aristotelian. If it is to speak to us authentically in its own voice we need to free it from the shackles of the Henrician and Elizabethan revolution. The English Reformation is not to be read into a previous age and ought not to be allowed to extinguish the discordant assumptions and beliefs of its own age that stem from a medieval tradition that remains vibrant and strong. These essays first appeared in the following journals and I wish to thank their editors and publishers for permission to republish: ‘The Significance of the Pentangle Symbolism in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’, Modern Language Review, 74 (1979), 769–90; ‘The Action of the Hunting and Bedroom Scenes in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’, Medium Aevum, 56 (1987), 200–16 (© 1987 Society for the Study of Medieval Languages and Literature); ‘The Meaning of Kind Wit, Conscience and Reason in the First Vision of Piers Plowman’, Modern Philology, 84 (1987), 351–58 (© 1987 by the University of Chicago); ‘Langland’s Conception of Favel, Guile, Liar and False in the First Vision of Piers Plowman’, Neophilologus, 71 (1987), 626–33; ‘The Status and Meaning of Meed in the First Vision of Piers Plowman’, Neophilologus, 72 (1988), 449–63 (with kind permission of Springer Science and Business Media); ‘The Universality of the Portraits in the General Prologue to the Canterbury Tales’, English Studies, 58 (1977), 481–93; ‘Rhetorical Perspectives in the General Prologue to the Canterbury Tales’, English Studies, 62 (1981), 411–22 (http://www.informaworld.com); ‘A Defence of Dorigen’s Complaint’, Medium Aevum, 46 (1977), 77–97 (© 1977 Society for the Study of Medieval Languages and Literature); ‘The Self-Revealing Tendencies of Chaucer’s Pardoner’, Modern Language

Preface

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Review, 71 (1976), 241–55; ‘Holiness as the First of Spenser’s Aristotelian Moral Virtues’, Modern Language Review, 81 (1986), 817–37, and ‘The Idea of Temperance in the Second Book of The Faerie Queene’, Review of English Studies, NS, 37 (1986), 11–39. The final essay of this collection, ‘The Meaning of Spenser’s Chastity as the Fairest of Virtues’, first appeared in a collection of essays entitled Noble and Joyous Histories: English Romances, 1375–1650 (Dublin, 1993), pp. 245–63, edited by my learned colleagues Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin and J.D. Pheifer and published by the Irish Academic Press. I owe them a special debt of gratitude. The essays as they now appear are in substantially the same form as in their original publication, but I have taken the opportunity to introduce some minor corrections and revisions. I have removed some irritating tricks of style, including a general assertiveness of manner (the false confidence of youth) and an inexplicable fondness for the semi-colon. More importantly I have taken account (albeit slightly) of scholarship in the intervening years where it has made an earlier position untenable, particularly in relation to the two fine books on Chaucer’s use of costume in the General Prologue by Laura Hodges.7 The present generation of medieval scholars has in many respects better texts to work from than were available when I started writing in the 1970s. Langland in particular has benefited from the textual endeavours of several generations of scholars with the appearance of authoritative (if not uncontroversial) editions of Piers Plowman by Kane-Donaldson (The B Version in 1975), Russell-Kane (The C Version in 1997), A.V.C. Schmidt (second edition of the B text in 1995, as well as A Parallel-Text edition in 1995) and Derek Pearsall (second edition of the C text in 2008).8 As if the textual condition of Piers Plowman were not sufficiently complicated we have had to get used to a Z Version since 1983 (A.G. Rigg and Charlotte Brewer).9 Chaucer is now to be studied in the third edition of F.N. Robinson’s great edition (The Riverside Chaucer) and Spenser in the magisterial editions of A.C. Hamilton (1977 and 2001).10 The twelve essays are referenced to the editions available at the time of writing but I have attempted to ensure that their arguments are consistent with the discoveries embodied in the new standard editions. Finally we ought not to overlook the completion of the Middle English Dictionary in 2001.11 These works are triumphs of textual and philological scholarship and they

xii

Preface

will surely be of inestimable value for the present and future generations of literary scholars. I wish to express my gratitude (as no mere formality) to Andrea Greengrass who compiled the Index and to Kara Dolan who prepared the book for publication. Their exemplary professionalism has made the final stages of this work less burdensome and more pleasurable than they might otherwise have been. The republishing of these essays gives me finally a welcome opportunity to acknowledge the scholarly debt I owe to Mrs Janet Mathews. In the period of the writing of these essays she was a lecturer in French in Trinity College Dublin (1969–85) and for a time (1978–79) a Fellow of St Hilda’s College Oxford. She was the first to read these essays in their original drafts and in each case the first to send me back to my study to think again. I hope she will now consider these essays worthy of her meticulous and exacting scholarship.

Notes 1 2

3 4

E. Talbot Donaldson, Speaking of Chaucer (London: The Athlone Press, 1970), p. vii. Francis Ingledew, ‘Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’ and the Order of the Garter (Notre Dame, Indiana: University of Notre Dame Press, 2006). See my review in RES, NS, 57 (2006), 795–96, and see further W.G. Cooke, ‘Sir Gawain and the Green Knight: A Restored Dating’, Medium Aevum, 58 (1989), 34–48; W.G. Cooke and D’A.J.D. Boulton, ‘Sir Gawain and the Green Knight: A Poem for Henry of Grosmont?’, Medium Aevum, 68 (1999), 42–54 and Leo Carruthers, ‘The Duke of Clarence and the Earls of March: Garter Knights and Sir Gawain and the Green Knight ’, Medium Aevum, 70 (2001), 66–79. Reference is to Larry D. Benson and others, The Riverside Chaucer, third edition (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1987). See Anthea Hume, Edmund Spenser: Protestant Poet (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984).

Preface 5 6 7

8

9 10 11

xiii

See Jean R. Brink, ‘Constructing the View of the Present State of Ireland ’, Spenser Studies XI: A Renaissance Poetry Annual, edited by Patrick Cullen and Thomas P. Roche, Jr (New York: AMS Press, Inc., 1994), pp. 203–28. See James Schiavoni, ‘Predestination and Free Will: The Crux of Canto Ten’, Spenser Studies X: A Renaissance Poetry Annual, edited by Patrick Cullen and Thomas P. Roche, Jr (New York: AMS Press, Inc., 1992), pp. 175–95. Laura F. Hodges, Chaucer and Costume: The Secular Pilgrims in the General Prologue, Chaucer Studies XXVI (Cambridge: D.S. Brewer, 2000) and Chaucer and Clothing: Clerical and Academic Costume in the General Prologue to ‘The Canterbury Tales’ , Chaucer Studies XXXIV (Cambridge: D.S. Brewer, 2005). George Kane and E. Talbot Donaldson (eds), Piers Plowman: The B Version (London: The Athlone Press, 1975); George Russell and George Kane (eds), Piers Plowman: The C Version (London: The Athlone Press; Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997); A.V.C. Schmidt (ed.), William Langland: The Vision of Piers Plowman, second edition, Everyman (London: J.M. Dent; Vermont: Charles E. Tuttle, 1995); A.V.C. Schmidt (ed.), William Langland, Piers Plowman: A Parallel-Text Edition of the A, B, C and Z Versions, Volume I (London and New York: Longman, 1995), and Derek Pearsall (ed.), William Langland, Piers Plowman: A New Annotated Edition of the C-text, Exeter Medieval Texts and Studies (Exeter: University of Exeter Press, 2008). A.G. Rigg and Charlotte Brewer (eds), William Langland, Piers Plowman: The Z Version, Studies and Texts 59 (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1983). A.C. Hamilton (ed.), Edmund Spenser: ‘The Faerie Queene’ (London and New York: Longman, 1977), and second edition, text edited by Hiroshi Yamashita and Toshiyuki Suzuki (Harlow: Pearson Education, 2001). H. Kurath, S.M. Kuhn, R.E. Lewis and others, Middle English Dictionary, 13 vols (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1952–2001).

1 The Significance of the Pentangle Symbolism in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight

England, a label of three points France — Arms of Henry of Grosmont, Earl of Lancaster and Derby, KG 2 Gules, a fess and six cross crosslets or — Arms of Thomas Beauchamp, 3rd Earl of Warwick, KG 3

Gules, a fret/fretty or

— Arms of Sir James Audley, KG 21

In narratives, where historical veracity has no place, I cannot discover why there should not be exhibited the most perfect idea of virtue; of virtue not angelical, nor above probability, for what we cannot credit we shall never imitate, but the highest and purest that humanity can reach, which, exercised in such trials as the various revolutions of things shall bring upon it may, by conquering some calamities, and enduring others, teach us what we may hope, and what we can perform. — Samuel Johnson, The Rambler, No. 4

I. The dominant characteristic of medieval poetry is its objectivity; the primary interest, that is to say, is moral and not psychological. In his description of the device of the pentangle on Sir Gawain’s shield, the author of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight reveals to us that such a moral interest can take exceedingly intricate forms. If we are to believe the poet, the pentangle passage is crucial to the understanding of his poem (623–24): And quy þe pentangel apendez to þat prynce noble I am in tent yow to telle, þof tary hyt me schulde.1

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In carrying out this purpose the poet reminds us of another characteristic of medieval poems, namely the schematic arrangement of parts. The medieval love of schematism sometimes results, however, in the production of schemes that are more ingenious than they are just. It cannot be said that this is a danger that the Gawain-poet has himself wholly avoided. There is not, for example, a consistent relationship between the five sides of the pentangle and the virtues represented by them; the fourth group of five, the five joys of Mary (644–50), stands for the single virtue of courage, whereas the fifth group stands for five distinct virtues (651–55). It seems likely too that the second group of five fingers (641) has been necessitated by the poet’s scheme and not by his moral exposition.2 These minor blemishes (for such they are) need not be felt as calling into question the unity of the poem. The judgment of Norman Davis as to the relevance of the fifth group of five is, however, a good deal more disturbing: Despite the importance given to this group of virtues by their climactic position, they do not seem to have been chosen by the poet with especially close regard to the adventure which follows, or to the particular qualities for which Gawain is later praised. The emphasis at the end of the poem is almost all on faithfulness to one’s pledged word (2348, 2381); this is also given the leading place as the total significance of the pentangle (626); yet here it is pité that ‘passez alle poyntez’, though at the same time Gawain practises fraunchyse and felaȝschyp ‘forbe al þyng’. It looks as if these qualifying phrases, as well as the associations of the pairs of virtues, were determined more by form than meaning.3

This is a judgment which it is quite impossible to accept if we are to continue to think of the poem as a masterpiece. Although Derek Brewer seems to regard Sir Gawain as ‘one of the great achievements of English literature’, he nevertheless cautions us against asking too much of it: In particular, Gawain’s courtesy is associated with his virtue in the symbolic device of the pentangle in his shield. The five virtues attributed to him, separate yet inextricably connected like the points of the pentangle, are franchise, fellowship, cleanness, courtesy, pity (652–55). Really, all these virtues might be said to be subsumed, in one way or another, under courtesy … The pentangle shows that the meanings of the words are not distinct. We are not to attribute the same kind of precision of meaning to part-oral poetry as we are to the poetry of print. Gawain’s five moral virtues are doubtless not analytically set down, and they all mingle with each other.4

1

The Pentangle Symbolism in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight

3

Even John Burrow, the best of the modern critics of the poem, is not equal to the precision of the poet’s conception. In his analysis of the semantic range of trawþe in the late fourteenth century he recognizes the importance of the sense ‘fidelity’ (OED, 1) but fails to identify this sense in the pentangle passage itself.5 It would seem that we are to assume that the pentangle symbolism does not exhaust the moral content of the poem. In the course of the present article I want to insist upon the justice of the poet’s conception of the pentangle for the meaning of his poem as a whole. In order to do so it will be necessary to match the subtlety of his moral thinking. It will become increasingly evident that this is no mean requirement. II. The poet explicitly states that the pentangle is a fitting symbol for Gawain (622), and reinforces his point by the development of an argument which, as Burrow has shown,6 takes the form of a syllogism: 1. 2. 3.

The pentangle is a symbol of trawþe (625–26). Gawain is faythful, that is, trwe (632). Therefore the pentangle befits Gawain (631).

There is thus a complete identification of the hero and the heraldic device that he bears on his shield. Just as the pentangle is a unity in which all the parts are interrelated (627–30), so spiritual, moral and social qualities are united in Gawain (656–61). It is important, however, to be clear as to what exactly this identification implies. The poet assures us that there is a natural correspondence between the symbol and its referent (625–26).7 Since this is so, we need to ask ourselves what the natural resemblance between the geometrical figure and the concept of trawþe may be. As we have seen, the specific point of comparison is a unity made up of interrelated parts. Burrow is therefore surely right in concluding that trawþe at line 626 has the inclusive sense of ‘integrity’ or ‘righteousness’ (OED, 4).8 This sense has the support of the pervasive colour symbolism, for the pentangle is ‘depaynt of pure golde hwez’ (620).9

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In the stanza that follows (640–55) the poet gives an account of the parts that make up this unity. The process of semantic widening (from ‘fidelity’ to ‘righteousness’) that is to be discerned in the history of trawþe is by no means an uncharacteristic development within the moral vocabulary of chivalry. Thus gentilesse can bear the specific sense of ‘generosity’ or ‘magnanimity’, and Chaucer seems to use it in this way in describing the conditions of an authentic marriage relationship in The Franklin’s Tale. It is by means of a reciprocating generosity (resulting in obedience) that the issue of sovereignty within marriage is resolved (F 753–63).10 At the same time the discussion of gentilesse in The Wife of Bath’s Tale (not surprisingly, perhaps, in view of its antecedents) makes it clear to us that Chaucer also uses the word in the broad sense of ‘nobility of character’ (D 1109–76). This is the sense that it bears in the moral ballade on Gentilesse, where it is used synonymously with noblesse (17). Gentilesse, that is to say, is the principle of virtue in human beings (8–14): This firste stok was ful of rightwisnesse, Trewe of his word, sobre, pitous, and free, Clene of his gost, and loved besinesse, Ayeinst the vyce of slouthe, in honestee; And, but his heir love vertu, as dide he, He is noght gentil, thogh he riche seme, Al were he mytre, croune, or diademe.

Unfortunately these two distinct senses are not formally distinguished either by the OED or the MED (2.(a)). Nevertheless the dictionaries do sanction a distinction of such a kind for the word cortaysye. In The Squire’s Tale (appropriately enough) cortaysye bears the specific sense of ‘politeness’ (F 89–97): This strange knyght, that cam thus sodeynly, Al armed, save his heed, ful richely, Saleweth kyng and queene and lordes alle, By ordre, as they seten in the halle, With so heigh reverence and obeisaunce, As wel in speche as in his contenaunce,

1

The Pentangle Symbolism in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight

5

That Gawayn, with his olde curteisye, Though he were comen ayeyn out of Fairye, Ne koude hym nat amende with a word.

Its use is also extended, however, so as to include the chivalric ethic in its various manifestations; at least the MED offers the gloss (s.v. courteisie, n. 1): ‘the complex of courtly ideals; chivalry, chivalrous conduct’. Such a meaning is supported by Dante’s definition of courtesy as propriety, that is, behaviour in accordance with the custom of the court (Convivio, II.10.7–8): E non siano li miseri volgari anche di questo vocabulo ingannati, che credono che cortesia non sia altro che larghezza; e larghezza è una speziale, e non generale, cortesia! Cortesia e onestade è tutt’uno: e però che ne le corti anticamente le vertudi e li belli costumi s’usavano, sì come oggi s’usa lo contrario, si tolse quello vocabulo da le corti, e fu tanto a dire cortesia quanto uso di corte.11

The OED distinguishes between polite behaviour (OED, 1) and the quality of mind that leads to it (OED, 2). The medieval assumption of a unity between action and intention implies that the external form will be accompanied by the appropriate inward disposition (a certain magnanimity). Indeed, true courtesy can never be merely a matter of politeness. It is a perfect analogy, therefore, that leads to the use of trawþe not only in the sense of ‘fidelity’ or ‘loyalty’ (OED, s.v. troth, sb. 1), as, for example, in the famous description of the Knight in the General Prologue who ‘loved chivalrie, / Trouthe and honour, fredom and curteisie’ (A 45–46), but also in the sense of ‘righteousness’ as in the pentangle passage in Sir Gawain. The OED again does not formally isolate this sense (see truth, sb. 4), and Burrow is certainly right in questioning its failure to do so.12 Indeed the dictionaries have been unwilling consistently to discriminate between the broad and narrow senses that we have been considering, but it would seem that gentilesse, cortaysye and trawþe have each in their turn come to be regarded as in some special sense distinctive or characteristic of the chivalric ethic, while at the same time retaining their specific meaning. The lack of lucidity in our understanding of such a poem as Sir Gawain would seem in part to be explained by the refusal of lexicographers to make such discriminations. At any rate the use of trawþe by the Gawain-poet in

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the comprehensive sense of ‘righteousness’ suggests the special significance of fidelity in the moral world that he has created, and gives to the poem its distinctive orientation. We are reminded of the noble words of Arveragus to his wife (FranT, F 1474–79): Ye shul youre trouthe holden, by my fay! For God so wisly have mercy upon me, I hadde wel levere ystiked for to be For verray love which that I to yow have, But if ye sholde youre trouthe kepe and save. Trouthe is the hyeste thyng that man may kepe.

To this extent, therefore, Burrow is right in his insistence upon the importance of fidelity in the poem. III. The Gawain-poet expects his audience to be familiar with the pentangle (629–30): and Englych hit callen Oueral, as I here, þe endeles knot.

This ready assumption of familiarity has proved puzzling to modern readers of the poem, since scholarship has not been able to provide them with the necessary references. The symbolism of the pentangle, however, is to be found in some obvious places, namely the Convivio of Dante and the Summa theologiae of St Thomas Aquinas.13 From a reading of the Convivio it becomes clear that the pentangle is a common symbol in scholastic philosophy for the rational soul (IV.7.14): Chè, sì come dice lo Filosofo nel secondo de l’Anima, le potenze de l’anima stanno sopra sè come la figura de lo quadrangulo sta sopra lo triangulo, e lo pentangulo, cioè la figura che ha cinque canti, sta sopra lo quadrangulo: e così la sensitiva sta sopra la vegetativa, e la intellettiva sta sopra la sensitiva. Dunque, come levando l’ultimo canto del pentangulo rimane quadrangulo e non più pentangulo, così levando l’ultima potenza de l’anima, cioè la ragione, non rimane più uomo, ma cosa con anima sensitiva solamente, cioè animale bruto.14

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The symbolism is implicit in Aristotle’s De anima, although the pentangle is not in fact mentioned (II.3 414b 28–31): Similiter autem se habent ei, quod de figuris est, et quae secundum animam sunt. Semper enim in eo quod est consequenter, est in potentia quod prius est, et in figuris, et in animatis; ut in tetragono quidem trigonum est, in sensitivo autem vegetativum.15

Dante’s immediate source, however, must be the work of a contemporary scholastic theologian; Aquinas, for example, conveys the Aristotelian doctrine to us in the following form (Summa theologiae, 1a 76.3): Et in De Anima comparat diversas animas speciebus figurarum, quarum una continet aliam, sicut pentagonum continet tetragonum, et excedit. Sic igitur anima intellectiva continet in sua virtute quidquid habet anima sensitiva brutorum et nutritiva plantarum. Sicut ergo superficies quae habet figuram pentagonum non per aliam figuram est tetragona et per aliam pentagona, quia superflueret figura tetragona ex quo in pentagona continetur, ita nec per aliam animam Socrates est homo et per aliam animal, sed per unam et eandem.16

The Aristotelian (and hence the Scholastic) conception of being is hierarchical, and among living organisms we can observe a hierarchy of vegetative, sensitive and rational powers. Each has its corresponding geometrical symbolism: the triangle, the quadrangle and the pentangle. The pentangle is therefore established as a symbol of human excellence or perfection. The general term that the Gawain-poet uses to describe such perfection is trawþe, whereas the term that Dante uses is gentilezza or nobilitade. Nobility, Dante observes, is a term that can be applied without impropriety to any number of different objects; there are, for example, noble stones, noble plants, noble horses and noble falcons as well as noble men (IV.16.5). By the use of this term we indicate the perfection in each thing of the nature peculiar to it: ‘Dico adunque che, se volemo riguardo avere de la comune consuetudine di parlare, per questo vocabulo “nobilitade” s’intende perfezione di propria natura in ciascuna cosa’ (IV.16.4).17 When we talk of the nobility of the man we must first of all, therefore, determine what kind of being that is. Here Dante would propose a distinction between the order of nature and that of reason: ‘E a vedere li termini de le nostre

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operazioni, è da sapere che solo quelle sono nostre operazioni che subiacciono a la ragione e a la volontade; che se in noi è l’operazione digestiva, questa non è umana, ma naturale’ (IV.9.4).18 That which is distinctive of human beings is the habit of choice, so that the authentic and distinctively human activity is moral activity, the product of our free will (IV.9.7): Sono anche operazioni che la nostra [ragione] considera ne l’atto de la volontade, sì come offendere e giovare, sì come star fermo e fuggire a la battaglia, sì come stare casto e lussuriare, e queste del tutto soggiacciono a la nostra volontade; e però semo detti da loro buoni e rei perch’elle sono proprie nostre del tutto, perchè, quanto la nostra volontade ottenere puote, tanto le nostre operazioni si stendono.19

Nobility is not, however, to be identified with moral virtue, but is a more comprehensive term. Its relationship to virtue is as cause to effect (XV.18.2). Thus nobility includes not only moral virtues but also natural dispositions, passions and bodily graces (IV.19.5): Riluce in essa le intellettuali e le morali virtudi; riluce in essa le buone disposizioni da natura date, cioè pietade e religione, e le laudabili passioni, cioè vergogna e misericordia e altre molte; riluce in essa le corporali bontadi, cioè bellezza, fortezza e quasi perpetua valitudine.20

Once he has defined nobility Dante goes on to consider the means by which we are able to discover true nobility in individuals. Since all human beings possess rational souls (for this is the very definition of the species) no recourse is possible to essential principles. Instead the means of distinguishing excellence among individuals is by examining the effects or fruits of nobility, that is, the moral and intellectual virtues: ‘Dico adunque che, con ciò sia cosa che in quelle cose che sono d’una spezie, sì come sono tutti li uomini, non si può per li principii essenziali la loro ottima perfezione diffinire, conviensi quella e diffinire e conoscere per li loro effetti’ (IV.16.9).21 Dante specifies the moral virtues in accordance with the analysis that Aristotle provides in his Ethics (IV.17.4–8). He then proceeds, however, to give the specific marks of nobility that are to be found in the four ages of man: adolescence (up to 25), youth (25–45), old age (45–70) and senility (70–80). Youth is for him the period of a person’s perfection and maturity (IV.24.1). There are five marks of nobility in youth (IV.26.2):

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Dice adunque che sì come la nobile natura in adolescenza ubidente, soave e vergognosa, e adornatrice de la sua persona si mostra, così ne la gioventute si fa temperata, forte, amorosa, cortese e leale: le quali cinque cose paiono, e sono, necessarie a la nostra perfezione, in quanto avemo rispetto a noi medesimi.22

All five qualities are illustrated from the conduct of Aeneas in Virgil’s Aeneid, IV–VI, that is, from the period of his own youth (IV.26.8–14). IV. It will be apparent that the correspondences between the Convivio and Sir Gawain are by no means restricted to the mere fact of the pentangle symbolism. That they are closer than it may even yet appear I hope to show in the detailed analysis of the pentangle passage in Sir Gawain that now follows. The Gawain-poet conceives of trawþe as Dante conceives of nobilitade, that is, as a comprehensive term that includes not only moral virtues but also religious faith (642–43) and the operation of the senses (640). In his account of the five groups of five (640–55) he specifies the spiritual, moral and social virtues that constitute trawþe just as Dante specifies the fruits of nobility. This may seem to be an obvious point but it has not always been recognized for what it is. From the poet’s attribution to his hero of perfection in the five senses (640) it would seem that we are to understand that Gawain does not sin through mere sensual gratification, that is, the movements of his sensitive appetite are properly regulated by reason. Thus Gawain is not, for example, guilty of fin’amors, the crime of which is precisely the subjection of reason to desire, as can be seen in the behaviour of Lancelot in Chrétien’s Le Chevalier de la charrete, the young lover in Le Roman de la rose of Guillaume de Lorris, and Troilus in Chaucer’s Troilus and Criseyde.23 We may be reminded here of Dante’s view that nobility is made manifest in the whole person, and not merely the rational part of the soul: ‘Germoglia dunque per la vegetativa, per la sensitiva e per la razionale; e dibrancasi per le vertuti di quelle tutte, dirizzando quelle tutte a le loro perfezioni’ (IV.23.3).24 The five wounds of Christ (642–43) are the object of Gawain’s afyaunce, that is to say, the poet’s conception of trawþe has a specifically religious dimension. Those who are familiar with Chaucer’s portrait of

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the Knight in the General Prologue (A 43–78) will not find this image of Christian chivalry at all remarkable in a late fourteenth-century English context. Indeed, this aspect of Gawain’s chivalry is reinforced by the succeeding reference to the five joys of Mary (644–50), for these are the source of his courage. The attention that is devoted to this fourth group of five suggests that courage is a significant element in the moral scheme of the poem. At any rate the Gawain-poet would not be the first to see in his hero this special mark of distinction. For such a writer as Chrétien de Troyes, Gauvain is no less renowned for his prowess as a knight than for his courtesy. Erec’s fame is defined by the fact that he ranks second only to Gauvain (Erec et Enide, 2230–36) and the true prowess of Yvain is shown in his ability to fight on equal terms with Gauvain (Le Chevalier au lion, 6106 ff. and especially 6447–54).25 The fifth group of five (651–55) presents a number of related virtues that have a specifically social extension. Because of the identification of each constituent element in the group and also because of the climactic position of the group as a whole, it would seem that the poet attaches a special significance to these virtues. This is to assume, of course, that the poet is still in control of his poem. Since it is precisely this assumption that Davis has called into question, it becomes necessary to consider with some care the five virtues that make up the fifth group. Fraunchyse (652) is perhaps the least problematic of all of them, for everyone seems to be agreed that by it the poet intends to single out the virtue of magnanimity or generosity of spirit. This quality has already been displayed by Gawain in taking up from Arthur the challenge of the Green Knight, for he does not lay claim to any special fitness in himself to do so (356–59): Bot for as much as ȝe ar myn em I am only to prayse, No bounté bot your blod I in my bodé knowe; And syþen þis note is so nys þat noȝt hit yow falles, And I haue frayned hit at yow fyrst, foldez hit to me.

Nevertheless it may not be altogether advisable to rule out an implication also of material generosity (largesse), for this is a moral concept that

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subsequently becomes of importance in Gawain’s bitter condemnation of himself (2379–81): For care of þy knokke cowardyse me taȝt To acorde me with couetyse, my kynde to forsake, Þat is larges and lewté þat longez to knyȝtez.

A lofty disregard for wealth remains throughout the Middle Ages a distinctive quality of those who are of free or noble birth. The fundamental link between nobility and generosity (already evident in the semantic history of gentilesse) is reflected by Caxton in his translation (c.1484) of a French version of Ramón Lull’s Le Libre del Orde de Cauayleria: ‘Chyualrye and Fraunchyse accorden to gyder … the knyght must be free and franke’ (116/6–9).26 Chaucer himself uses the word fredom to denote the virtue of generosity in his portrait of the Knight in the General Prologue (A 46), and also combines the notions of freedom and generosity in stressing the hospitality of the Franklin (A 339–54). The MED glosses fraunchis(e) (2.(a)) as ‘nobility of character, magnanimity; liberality, generosity; a noble or generous act’. Both senses of generosity are relevant here, and are to be found in the accompanying citations. It seems likely, therefore, that in his use of fraunchyse the Gawain-poet intends us to be aware of both spiritual and material generosity. The meaning of felaȝschyp (652) has also not detained readers of the poem for long, but again it is not so self-evident as it might at first appear. The obvious sense of the word is ‘companionableness’, and this is certainly appropriate in its context. Gawain has indeed already shown to us his companionableness in his ability to share with Arthur in such pleasure as is to be derived from the extraordinary confrontation with the Green Knight (463–64): Þe kyng and Gawen þare At þat grene þay laȝe and grenne.

The MED glosses felaȝschyp in this context (s.v. felaushipe, n. 4) as ‘the spirit that binds companions or friends together; charitable feeling for one’s fellows; charity, amity, comraderie’. But the moral quality that is

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distinctive of the relationship between companions and is the force that binds the companions together is that of loyalty, and this meaning is at least implicit in the poet’s use of felaȝschyp here. Such an implication would be especially evident in a chivalric context. The best illustration of the moral significance of felaȝschyp is to be found in The Knight’s Tale in the relationship of Perotheus and Theseus, for the Knight is here concerned to show by juxtaposition the infidelity of Palamon and Arcite to one another as a result of a disordered love (A 1191–200): A worthy duc that highte Perotheus, That felawe was unto duc Theseus Syn thilke day that they were children lite, Was come to Atthenes his felawe to visite, And for to pleye as he was wont to do; For in this world he loved no man so, And he loved hym als tendrely agayn. So wel they loved; as olde bookes sayn, That whan that oon was deed, soothly to telle, His felawe wente and soughte hym down in helle.

Indeed it is unthinkable that the Gawain-poet should fail to specify the virtue of fidelity in the pentangle passage. Whereas some significant meanings in the Gawain-poet’s use of fraunchyse and felaȝschyp have in the past been overlooked, the critical discussion on the moral implications of clannes (653) and cortaysye (653) has been if anything too elaborate. Davis in his note to lines 652–54 observes that clannes ‘in ME meant not simply “chastity” but “sinlessness, innocence” generally’.27 But the meaning of clannes in Middle English is not at issue here. It is the meaning of the Gawain-poet in this particular context that we must attend to. As far as that is concerned it is evident that the sense of ‘sinlessness’ or ‘innocence’ is quite inappropriate. It is a specific and not a general meaning that is required by the immediate context, and there can be no doubt that the meaning which the poet intends is ‘chastity’. The use of the word clannes in this specific manner is well attested in the late fourteenth century. It is unambiguously so used by Chaucer in The Second Nun’s Tale (G 159–60):

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And if that ye in clene love me gye, He wol yow loven as me, for youre clennesse.

It is this meaning that gives point to the linking of clannes with cortaysye, for the poet is to examine the relationship between these moral concepts at some length in the bedroom scenes at Hautdesert. Burrow stresses that clannes does not necessarily imply celibacy, but, although this is true, it does imply celibacy or rather virginity outside of marriage. He attempts to explain the poet’s conception of clannes as follows: ‘The poet understood “cleanness”, I am sure, as the generally-accepted condition of knightly love – a condition which ruled out the “vnleful lust” of adultery as a matter of course, but not true-love or even “love-talking” with one’s hostess’.28 Much depends on what we understand by ‘true-love’ here, for Burrow is perhaps a little too anxious to assure us that the ideal represented by Gawain is not an ascetic ideal.29 There can be no middle ground between adultery (fin’amors) and chastity (amour courtois). If, then, by ‘true-love’ we understand a chaste love before marriage and by luf-talkyng (927) we understand that such chaste love is accompanied by courtesy, then Burrow’s analysis can be accepted. It is worth bearing in mind here that when Dante attributes to youth the perfection of loving he is thinking only of those loves that are lawful and indeed he shows to us that love does not necessarily presuppose a sexual connotation (Convivio, IV.26.10–11). Thus we can accept the possibility of a chaste love between a young man and another man’s wife. At the same time the moral idealism of the pentangle passage certainly rules out any ambiguity in the poet’s conception of clannes. Cortaysye is, as we have seen, a word of considerable scope in the fourteenth century, and it is this aspect of the word that Davis chooses to stress in his note: ‘Cortaysye was a word of great range and power at this time, embracing “chivalrous” conduct of all kinds from courtly politeness to compassion and nobility of mind, and extending to divine grace.’30 But it is a specific and not a general meaning that is again required in the present context. This specific meaning is ‘politeness’ or ‘refinement of manners’ (MED, s.v. courteisie n. 2.(a)), for the generosity that prompts such politeness has already been specified by fraunchyse. Dante uses cortesia in this sense in his illustration of the nobility of youth (IV.26.12–13):

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Gawain is in medieval literature the very pattern of courtesy, and it is for this reason (as we have seen) that he is invoked by Chaucer in The Squire’s Tale. Gauvain’s courteous behaviour towards the wounded Erec (contrasted with the boorishness of Keu) is made much of by Chrétien in Erec et Enide (3907–4252). No better illustration of the Gawain-poet’s conception of cortaysye can be found, however, than in his own representation of the manner in which Gawain takes up from Arthur the game proposed by the Green Knight (339–61). The Gawain-poet would seem to attach a special significance to pité (654), the fifth and final virtue of the fifth and final group of five, and indeed he tells us that it ‘passez alle poyntez’ (654). Unfortunately the form pité is ambiguous in the late fourteenth century, and can stand for either ‘pity’ or ‘piety’.32 The first of these two meanings is in many ways an attractive one. The sense of ‘compassion’ fits easily into the social context of the fifth group of virtues, and points to a quality that is a familiar element of the ideal of chivalry in the late fourteenth century. The compassion of Theseus in The Knight’s Tale, for example, is evident in his response to the distress of the company of ladies that greets him on his triumphant return to Athens (A 952–58): This gentil duc doun from his courser sterte With herte pitous, whan he herde hem speke. Hym thoughte that his herte wolde breke, Whan he saugh hem so pitous and so maat, That whilom weren of so greet estaat; And in his armes he hem alle up hente, And hem conforteth in ful good entente.33

Nevertheless there are two serious (and, I think, decisive) objections to the interpretation of pité as ‘compassion’. First, it is not at all clear why com-

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passion ‘passez alle poyntez’; second, nothing much is said about Gawain’s compassion (unlike that of Theseus). An explanation of pité as ‘piety’ might start with Dante, who does accord to pietade the kind of significance accorded to pité by the Gawainpoet, for it ‘fa risplendere ogni altra bontade col lume suo. Per che Virgilio, d’Enea parlando, in sua maggiore loda pietoso lo chiama’ (II.10.5).34 Indeed there is more than a formal connection between pity and piety, as the single origin of the two words suggests. The relationship between the two concepts and the true nature of piety is explained by Dante as follows (II.10.6): E non è pietade quella che crede la volgar gente, cioè dolersi de l’altrui male, anzi è questo uno suo speziale effetto, che si chiama misericordia ed è passione; ma pietade non è passione, anzi è una nobile disposizione d’animo, apparecchiata di ricevere amore, misericordia e altre caritative passioni.35

Dante refers to pity as a passion. Aquinas, however, distinguishes between the passion and the moral virtue (ST, 2a 2ae 30.3): Dicendum quod misericordia importat dolorem de miseria aliena. Iste autem dolor potest nominare, uno quidem modo, motum appetitus sensitivi. Et secundum hoc misericordia passio est, et non virtus. Alio vero modo potest nominare motum appetitus intellectivi, secundum quod alicui displicet malum alterius. Hic autem motus potest esse secundum rationem regulatus; et potest secundum hunc motum ratione regulatum regulari motus inferioris appetitus.36

Piety, too, can be regarded as a moral virtue, that is, as a specific kind of justice, consisting in the payment of the debt we owe to our parents and country for our upbringing (ST, 2a 2ae 101.3 and ad 1). Piety is thus nearly allied to religion, that is, the moral virtue of honouring our debt to God as creator. Since religion is a more comprehensive term than piety, it contains piety within it and hence piety itself can come to be used for the worship of God (ST, 2a 2ae 101.1 ad 1): Ad primum ergo dicendum quod in majori includitur minus. Et ideo cultus qui Deo debetur, includit in se, sicut aliquid particulare, cultum qui debetur parentibus … Et ideo nomen pietatis etiam ad divinum cultum refertur.37

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There is not only the virtue of piety, but also the gift of piety, that is, a special habitual disposition of the soul whereby it is made responsive to the Holy Spirit (ST, 2a 2ae 121.1). The gift of piety is the honouring of God not as creator but as father. It is more excellent than the virtue either of religion or of piety, for the gifts of the Holy Spirit are in themselves more excellent than the moral virtues (ST, 2a 2ae 121.1 ad 2). Dante would seem in the Convivio to have had in mind primarily the gift of piety (compare ST, 2a 2ae 121.2 ad 3) whereas the author of Sir Gawain uses pité in the sense of the virtue of religion, that is, the prevailing modern sense of piety (OED, II.2). Davis rejects this interpretation because ‘Gawain’s piety has been fully shown in 642–50, and further emphasis on it would be otiose’.38 This observation does less than justice to the accuracy of the poet’s thought. The five joys of Mary are introduced by the poet to account for Gawain’s courage and not his piety (644–50). The five wounds of Christ are the object of Gawain’s faith or belief (642–43) and faith is a theological virtue (see ST, 1a 2ae 62.3), not a moral virtue. Piety is not faith but the scrupulous observance of religious duties. Since it is clear that such piety is an important element in the poet’s subsequent representation of Gawain, it should be clear also that in the pentangle passage pité means ‘piety’ and not ‘pity’. If the foregoing analysis of the system of spiritual, moral and social values symbolized by the pentangle is substantially correct, then it is evident that the correspondence between Dante’s conception of the nobility of youth and the Gawain-poet’s conception of the nobility of his hero is striking indeed. Four of Dante’s five marks of such nobility (courage, love, courtesy and loyalty) are conspicuously present in the pentangle passage and the remaining mark, that of temperance, may perhaps be accounted for in the proper regulation of desires that is implicit in the first group of five (640). It is not suggested here that the Gawain-poet is in any direct manner indebted to Dante but rather that the Convivio and Sir Gawain both belong to moral and intellectual worlds that have been formed by the habits and presuppositions of Scholastic philosophy. If we look more closely at the common literary inheritance we shall undoubtedly discover further points of contact. Two features of Dante’s discussion of nobility in particular seem to me to be of special interest for our understanding of

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Sir Gawain: the first is that the life of Aeneas is taken as establishing the true pattern of nobility; the second is that youth is the period in which such nobility is raised to its highest level of excellence. It is the purpose of the first stanza of Sir Gawain to show to us that the nobility of Camelot is to be explained in part by its origins. The poet moves in a logical progression, from ‘Ennias þe athel, and his highe kynde’ (5), to Felix Brutus the ‘burn rych’ (20) who founded Britain, and to ‘Arthur þe hendest’ (26) of the kings of Britain. His strategy here would seem to be quite unambiguous. Nevertheless it has to some extent been disputed. A number of readers (among them Davis himself ) would urge us to identify Aeneas with ‘[þ]e tulk þat þe trammes of tresoun þer wroȝt’ (3). The language of the poet, it has to be confessed, does admit of this possibility, for ‘Hit watz … ’ (5) may either refer backwards to ‘Þe tulk’ (3) or forwards to ‘Ennias þe athel’ (5). Moreover there is a medieval tradition, descending from Guido de Columnis and well known to English writers, as Davis notes, which associates Aeneas with the act of betrayal of Troy. Davis assures us that athel refers only to nobility of birth and that ‘the legend of Aeneas’ treachery did not embarrass writers in English who wished to trace the descent of the Britons from him, through Brutus’.39 These assurances, however, leave all the important questions unanswered. What possible reason can the Gawain-poet have for drawing our attention to the treachery of Aeneas at the beginning of his poem? It is surely possible for a great poet (such as the Gawain-poet) to be disturbed by the treachery of Aeneas even if a host of lesser writers is not. When the subject of his poem is trawþe itself, the issue has to be properly faced. Either there is a significance in the treachery of Aeneas or Aeneas is not a traitor at all. The fact is that it is not sufficient for the interpretation of a poem to state the existence of a tradition when more than one tradition is available to a poet. It is necessary to know the particular tradition within which a single poem has been written, since a poem is a unique artefact for which generalities will not in the end suffice.40 If a poem cannot be explained by the presuppositions of one tradition, we must not allow the poem itself to be deformed for the sake of the tradition. We are compelled rather to deny the relevance of the tradition to the poem.

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No one who is familiar with Virgil (a Dante, for example) would accept the notion of a treacherous Aeneas. The issue of infidelity is at the moral centre of Troilus and Criseyde, but it is Antenor and not Aeneas who is associated by Chaucer with the betrayal of Troy. Indeed the irony of Criseyde’s exchange for Antenor depends upon the reputation of Antenor for treachery (TC, IV.202–5): This folk desiren now deliveraunce Of Antenor, that brought hem to meschaunce. For he was after traitour to the town Of Troye; allas, they quytte hym out to rathe!

It is the tradition of Antenor’s treachery that makes sense of the opening stanza of Sir Gawain, and the one we must therefore assume the poet himself to have had in mind. The assumption that the nobility of Aeneas is merely a matter of birth is, moreover, highly questionable in a late fourteenth-century literary context. The fourth tractate of the Convivio has been in part written to refute so absurd (inconveniente) an error as that which would relate nobility to birth (see IV.14.6–15), for ‘[è] gentilezza dovunqu’è vertute, / wherever virtue is present so, too, is nobility’ (Canzone, III.101). This doctrine is congenial to at least one great English poet of the late fourteenth century (Gentilesse, 15–17): Vyce may wel be heir to old richesse; But ther may no man, as men may wel see, Bequethe his heir his vertuous noblesse.

It seems, therefore, that for the Gawain-poet Aeneas has a moral significance comparable to that which he possesses for Dante and that is why indeed his nobility is invoked at the beginning of the poem. In the third stanza the poet introduces us directly to the nobility of Camelot (51–53): Þe most kyd knyȝtez vnder Krystes seluen, And þe louelokkest ladies þat euer lif haden, And he þe comlokest kyng þat þe court haldes.

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Here indeed we see behaviour that is proper to a court: jousting, singing and dancing (41–49). We may well be reminded of Chaucer’s description of the Squire in the General Prologue (A 95–96): ‘He koude songes make and wel endite, / Juste and eek daunce’. The company at Camelot is in joyous mood, for it is celebrating the birth of Christ, but the merriment is never unseemly; the revelry is splendid but also fitting (40). Here too we shall find valour as well as courtesy, and the poet indeed tells us that ‘[h]it were now gret nye to neuen / So hardy a here on hille’ (58–59). This combination of fame, courtesy and courage is made up of classic chivalric values. All three are brought together by Chrétien in his initial presentation of Erec (Erec et Enide, 81–93) and illustrated by him in the adventure of the sparrow- hawk. Chaucer includes them in his portrait of the Knight (GP, A 45–46). It is the wide recognition accorded to these ideals that leads the Gawain-poet to observe that ‘al watz þis fayre folk in her first age’ (54). Here again, however, is a linguistic ambiguity, the resolution of which is crucial to our understanding of the poem. The ambiguity can perhaps best be illustrated by the definitions supplied by the OED for prime, sb.1: II.8. The ‘springtime’ of human life; the time of early manhood or womanhood, from about 21 to 28 years of age. III.9. Of human life: The period or state of greatest perfection or vigour, before strength begins to decay.

Davis thinks that it is the first of these two senses that the Gawain-poet has in mind.41 But the description that precedes the phrase ‘first age’ is one in which the perfection of Camelot is fully displayed. It is surely not possible to improve upon the courtesy that is exhibited in this description. The third stanza of the poem indeed bears witness to the fame of the Round Table and the poet’s essential sympathies. It is the fame of Camelot which brings the Green Knight there to put it to the test (256–64). To suppose (as some critics have done) that the society of Camelot is in some special sense flawed is to render the moral design of the poem as a whole incomprehensible. The poet describes to us the court in the full vigour of its youth, that is, the period of its greatest perfection. Dante for one would have had no difficulty in recognizing the justice of this portrait.

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V. The pentangle passage in Sir Gawain defines for us the moral limits within which our imaginations are to operate. Two important conclusions at least emerge from a reading of it. The first is that human behaviour is a matter of considerable complexity, and that a human being is called upon to reconcile the divergent claims that are made upon him (or her) at the moral level. The second is that Gawain (embodying to the full the values of Camelot) is a perfect representative of Christian chivalry. This second conclusion can be the source of some confusion in our reading of the poem. There is a danger of treating the pentangle symbolism with the wrong kind of rigour, and thus of supposing that Gawain’s behaviour is subjected to a more critical scrutiny than the poet intends. It is necessary to clarify the nature of the claim that the poet makes on behalf of his hero. Dante has shown us the truth when he says that nobility is the perfection of each thing in accordance with the peculiarity of its nature. Here we need to recognize that the pentangle is not by definition a perfect unity. It possesses greater unity than a quadrangle but falls short of the simplicity of a circle. We do not therefore expect of Gawain perfection that is appropriate to angelic being or to God himself.42 Gawain’s perfection does not require us to suppose that he is without sin and that moral behaviour is for him inevitable. Indeed the first supposition would be heretical and the second would offend against the very definition of moral behaviour (that is, of activity dependent upon a free and deliberate act of will). But that Gawain’s behaviour is perfect of its kind we need not doubt, for the symbolism of the girdle does not call into question Gawain’s perfection, but defines more precisely for us the limited perfection that is possible for human beings. We can say this because the poet has defined with great care the nature of Gawain’s failing in the inordinate fear for life that leads him to accept the girdle from the lady (1846–67). Against Gawain’s failing, however, are to be set the fruits of his nobility, and to these it is appropriate that we should now turn. The moral subtlety of Sir Gawain is reflected in the intricacy of its design. The disposition of hunting scenes and bedroom scenes indeed forms part of a structural analogue to the pentangle symbolism. We are constantly made aware of the relationship between the two in the agreement of Gawain and Bertilak to exchange winnings, and hence of the

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larger moral significance of the events that take place in the bedroom. On a yet broader front the poet has dovetailed the beheading game and the exchange of winnings, the one (as we later discover) being made dependent on the outcome of the other. At the end of her trial of Gawain’s chastity and courtesy the lady shifts her ground and, going beyond the immediate moral environment, successfully appeals to Gawain’s fear for his own life. It is by means of this complex interlocking structure that the poet does justice to the ideas that he has first directly broached in the pentangle passage. How coherently he has developed them I hope now to show by taking up the moral issues in the order that he has presented them to us there. From the pentangle passage (644–50) it appeared that courage was an important element in the poet’s moral design, and indeed Gawain’s failure is ultimately a failure of courage. But we cannot simply say that Gawain lacks courage. His courage is displayed at the beginning of his quest for the Green Chapel in countless fights against strange knights and wild animals (715–25). Although in the third fitt the poet isolates fear for life as the source of Gawain’s failing, in the first part of the fourth fitt he goes on to consider the extent to which Gawain may be considered guilty of cowardice. In the second arming scene he focuses upon the girdle (2030–36), placed cunningly in juxtaposition with the pentangle (2026–27), and stresses once again the true motive behind its acceptance (2037–42). It is a testimony to the sensitivity of his moral analysis and the authenticity of his portrayal of Gawain’s excellence that we should not consider it inconsistent of him at this point to refer to Gawain as ‘þe bolde mon’ (2043). Indeed it is precisely to establish how far (and how little) Gawain has compromised his reputation for valour that the poet has constructed for him a further test, that of the guide (2091–159). The aim of the guide is to exploit Gawain’s legitimate fears in order to make him unfaithful to his pledged word to the Green Knight. The guide presents himself as one who is concerned only for Gawain’s well-being and the circumspect politeness of his initial address leaves us no cause to doubt his motives (2091–96). The guide assures Gawain of the formidable size and merciless nature of his adversary and the certainty of death in the keeping of his pledge (2097–117). These are all truths that we ourselves can vouch for, and there is no need for Gawain to misbelieve the truth of the guide’s words. What a loss of

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courage would mean here emerges all too clearly from the guide’s promise to conceal a failure to keep the appointment (2118–25). His invocation of God, Christ and the Saints (2119–23) and his assurance of fidelity (‘I schal lelly yow layne’ (2124)) play deliberately upon the moral ambiguities of the situation, for the Virgin Mary is the source of Gawain’s courage and a faithful concealment would involve an act of infidelity. On this occasion Gawain clearly discerns the nature of the temptation and courteously turns down the guide’s offer (2127–28). We can appreciate the effort that the exercise of courtesy here costs Gawain (‘and gruchyng he sayde’ (2126)) for the guide’s suggestion is an affront to a fundamental ideal of knighthood (2129–31). The guide’s response to Gawain’s clear statement of the moral issues and the firmness of his resolve discloses at once to us his true role as tempter, for he abandons the polite yow (2091, etc.) for the contemptuous þou (2140, etc.). His use of the oath ‘Mary!’ (2140) has an ironic appropriateness, for Gawain has revealed his commitment to that lady by showing his courage. It is important to note, too, that Gawain’s faith (afyaunce) is still firmly placed in God (2136–39 and 2156–59) . One consequence of the interrelationship of the virtues is that the acceptance of the girdle has involved Gawain in the yielding to practices that may appear to be (if not in fact) superstitious. Between the departure of the guide and the receipt of the blow, or rather blows as it transpires (2160–238), the poet takes the opportunity to exploit to the full the elements of suspense that lie within his story. He describes the desolation and seeming hostility of the place in which Gawain finds himself: the rough rocks that graze the skies (2166–67); the water boiling in the stream (2172–74) and the grass-covered mound itself (2180–84). The devilish associations that are aroused in the mind of the knight (2185–96) correspond perfectly to our sense of the menace that has been created within the atmosphere of the poem at this point. This suggestion of menace is immediately confirmed by the description of the hideous noise of grinding (2199–204 and 2219–20) and of the size and sharpness of the Green Knight’s axe (2222–26). It is worth noticing how the poet focuses on the fearsome qualities of this ‘felle weppen’ (2222), a massive blade, four foot long, newly sharpened on a whetstone (2223–26). There is no occasion here for the poet to dwell on the fine craftsmanship

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of which it is a product (compare 214–20). There is no comfort either for Gawain in the mood of the man who wields it, for he strides forward ‘bremly broþe’ (2233). The poet has thus superbly concentrated his effects and, what is more, has presented them to us from Gawain’s point of view (2163–70, 2185–96 and 2205–11). We are made sharply aware of the dangers that he confronts and the fears that they inspire, and as a result we are bound not only to recognize, as the Green Knight does (2237–38), his great fidelity, but also the courage that such fidelity requires of him. In the account of the blows that Gawain receives at the hand of the Green Knight (2239–330) the poet reveals to us a precision in his moral analysis that we have often been called on to acknowledge up to this point. Gawain’s physical response indicates at one and the same time the extent and limitations of his courage. We are led to admire the courage with which he presents himself for his death and controls his fears (2255–58) and feel the justice of the poet’s description of him as one that ‘doȝty watz euer’ (2264). But it is at this point that the great courage of the knight fails him, for he flinches as the blow descends (2265–67). This failure of nerve provokes the Green Knight to the sternest of recriminations for such an act of cowardice (2268–79). This is the second of the judgments that the Green Knight passes on Gawain (see 2237–38), and we may feel that it is somewhat overdone. At any rate it is difficult to deny the force of Gawain’s observation that he cannot restore his own head in the manner of a Green Knight (2280–83). Before the second blow is offered Gawain gives his word to receive it without flinching (2284–87), and this pledge enables the poet to place before us once again the admirable combination of fidelity and courage in his hero (2292–94), sustained in the face of the severest of pressures (2288–89). The good knight offers no resistance on the third occasion until the blow has been struck, and again in the face of the severest provocation (2305–8). The manner in which Gawain receives the three blows aimed at him enables us to see his fidelity and especially his courage in their proper perspective. Gawain’s yielding to his fears in the acceptance of the girdle is mirrored by his flinching from the first blow, but on both occasions our judgment of him is moderated by our constant awareness of the great courage that he displays. There is no need for us to minimize the seriousness of Gawain’s failing, for the sinfulness of the

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human condition is not something that the poet wishes lightly to accommodate, and Burrow is again right to remind us of its gravity.43 But at the same time we can share the Green Knight’s admiration of Gawain’s courage (2331–35) in the recognition that in this life authentic courage in its noblest manifestations coexists with the weakness of our fallen nature. It will be evident from this discussion of Gawain’s courage that the emphasis placed upon it in the pentangle passage is in no sense misleading. We may accordingly turn to the fifth group of virtues in the confidence that each of its constitutive elements will be duly represented in the course of Gawain’s quest for the Green Chapel. It is not always easy to isolate Gawain’s generosity, since it is so closely related to his courtesy. Nevertheless it is very much in evidence in the bedroom scenes. Gawain is, for example, very ready to attribute the advances of the lady to her own generosity of spirit (1263–67). In the same way he is able characteristically to turn aside the argument (1495–97) that he should use force to gain his ends (1498–1500): ‘Ȝe, be God,’ quoþ Gawayn, ‘good is your speche, Bot þrete is vnþryuande in þede þer I lende, And vche gift þat is geuen not with goud wylle.’

The many scenes of celebration at Bertilak’s court establish the value of felaȝschyp in the sense of companionability (1113 ff., 1398 ff. and 1664 ff.). The companionship of Gawain and Bertilak gives rise to the forwarde which calls for fidelity on both sides (1105–12). This is a solemn and binding agreement. Hence the importance of the statement of the terms, their fulfilment (1383–97 and 1635–47) and renewal (1404–8 and 1676–85). At the same time Gawain’s fidelity to his covenant with the Green Knight is tested. The lengthy description of his journey through England (691 ff.) expresses his fidelity to his pledged word to the Green Knight that he will seek him out for the return blow (392–403). Moreover he does not neglect his promise to the Green Knight in agreeing to the game proposed by Bertilak (1670–71). The issue of fidelity is also at stake in the acceptance of the girdle. The lady entreats the knight faithfully to conceal the girdle from her lord (1862–63), but in consenting to this entreaty (1863–65) Gawain compromises himself, for he cannot at the same time fulfil his agreement

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with the lord to exchange winnings. He is guilty of an act of infidelity to his pledged word and also by the same token an act of covetousness in withholding that which should properly belong to another. While we are thus aware of the moral repercussions of this single act of consent we remain at the same time aware of Gawain’s great moral worth. This combination of moral excellence and sinfulness is perfectly illustrated by the poet when he describes how Gawain does in fact conceal the girdle (1874–75). The use of the adverb holdely (1875) is especially fitting, for it brings to our attention Gawain’s fidelity to his word at the very moment of infidelity. The poet subsequently represents Gawain’s infidelity in objective terms by dressing him in a ‘bleaunt of blwe’ (1928), for blue is the colour of fidelity. That is why Criseyde bids Pandarus take a ring with a blue stone to Troilus to assure him of her continuing faithfulness (TC, III.885). The virtues of chastity and courtesy can perhaps be treated together, since it is a fundamental premise of the Gawain-poet that cortaysye is consistent with clannes (653). This contention is unremarkable in the courtly literature of England in the late fourteenth century, and it is one to which the poet insistently returns. Gawain’s greeting of the two ladies at Hautdesert, the old and the young one alike, is impeccably courteous (970–76). The conversation between the lady and Gawain on Christmas Day is a perfect example of what the poet has in mind in the pentangle passage (1010–13): Bot ȝet I wot þat Wawen and þe wale burde Such comfort of her compaynye caȝten togeder Þurȝ her dere dalyaunce of her derne wordez, Wyth clene cortays carp closed fro fylþe.

We see, too, how disturbed Gawain is within himself when the lady, on the evening of the second day of her temptation of him, goes beyond the bounds of propriety (1658–63). On the third day she comes close to breaching the knight’s defences (1770–75): For þat prynces of pris depresed hym so þikke, Nurned hym so neȝe þe þred, þat nede hym bihoued Oþer lach þer hir luf, oþer lodly refuse.

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Burrow insists that the poet was not ‘so preoccupied with chastity that he could use the word “sin”, without further ado, to mean “sexual sin” or sin in the Sunday papers’ sense’ (as though the virtue of chastity can be discredited by sensational modern journalism).44 It is unusual for Burrow himself to take so one-sided a view of the poem. He is right to stress the importance of fidelity here, but wrong to diminish by comparison that of chastity. These lines indeed provide yet another excellent illustration of the pentangle symbolism, for they show how an act of unchastity immediately involves an act of infidelity. Finally we come to the virtue of piety. The Gawain-poet would have been dismayed to find that it was possible for the piety of his hero to have been called into doubt. The evidence in the text for Gawain’s piety is indeed quite unambiguous. His piety is shown in his anxious care for his devotions on Christmas Eve (748–62). The festival of Christmas is scrupulously observed at Hautdesert (930–40), both with a fitting gravity (soberly, 940) and joyously (995–1000). On the mornings of the first two temptations by the lady, Gawain gets up and goes to Mass (1309–11 and 1558). On the third morning he goes to confession (1880–84): Þere he schrof hym schyrly and schewed his mysdedez, Of þe more and þe mynne, and merci besechez, And of absolucioun he on þe segge calles; And he asoyled hym surely and sette hym so clene As domezday schulde haf ben diȝt on þe morn.

Some very fundamental and orthodox theology is involved here, for a formal acknowledgment of one’s sins and absolution of them are certainly necessary in the Middle Ages for those in expectation of death (subsequently justification becomes possible by faith alone). The supposition that Gawain’s confession is invalid (‘pretty hollow by any standards – and not least by those of the medieval church’, as Burrow tells us),45 makes no sense of the poem’s moral design, and indeed is difficult to reconcile with

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any conception of nobility whatsoever. The ultimate cause of the error is the habit of viewing behaviour in psychological rather than in moral terms. The theological objections that Burrow raises against Gawain’s confession can be answered but need not be answered here, for they are simply irrelevant to the poem itself.46 The point is that Gawain’s confession is the most lucid illustration of his piety that the poet has given us; here indeed is the ‘pité þat passez alle poyntez’. VI. The fourth fitt embodies a number of different judgments of Gawain’s behaviour: those of the Green Knight, of Gawain himself and of Camelot. These judgments are not so much conflicting as presented from different points of view. We have already seen, indeed, that the Green Knight himself makes two formal judgments of Gawain during the repayment of blows. He accuses Gawain of a wretched and uncharacteristic cowardice after the first (2268–79), and looks with an unfeigned admiration on his valour after the third (2331–35). We should not wish to argue, however, that there is a moral contradiction here, for both responses are attuned to their respective situations. We shall be unlikely wholly to discount either, although it is important that we should see the one in its proper relation to the other. I should like to argue, on the other hand, that the final judgment of the Green Knight (2336–68) is especially authoritative, and is one that the poem as a whole sustains. There are a number of factors which make this conclusion persuasive. The first is, of course, the judgement itself. Here we can see that the Green Knight does not withhold judgment but moderates it, and does so in accordance with our understanding of the moral issues in the poem as they have been presented to us. Thus he recognizes Gawain’s supreme moral excellence (2363–65), but recognizes also that his behaviour is not wholly free from blame (2366). This sense of Gawain’s excellence fits perfectly the expectations that the pentangle passage has aroused, although we must insist once again that the pentangle passage does not encourage false assumptions of an absolute perfection at the human level (note the use of the comparative form of expression at 654–55). It is true that when Gawain leaves Hautdesert for the Green Chapel he wears the girdle next

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to the pentangle (2025–36), but we can hardly suppose as a result that the pentangle has been shown to be unfitting as a symbol. What the juxtaposition of the pentangle and girdle involves (and what we perhaps see more clearly than we did before) is that the sense of the hero’s spiritual and moral excellence includes for the poet also the recognition of his sinfulness. The pentangle continues to symbolize Gawain’s excellence, and the justice of this symbolism is fully borne out by the Green Knight’s words: ‘On þe fautlest freke þat euer on fote ȝede’ (2363). The congruity of the Green Knight’s judgment with the poet’s moral analysis is thus evident throughout. Nowhere is this more noticeable than in the recognition of Gawain’s motive in accepting the girdle (compare, for example, 2037–42 and 2367–78). Fear for life has led to an act of infidelity (2366). It is the knowledge that the Green Knight displays in this recognitionscene (as Burrow fittingly describes it) that makes a marked contribution to our sense of his authoritativeness, for it is not only Gawain who is enlightened but also the auditors of the poem. For the first time we are made aware of the fact that the outcome at the Green Chapel turns upon Gawain’s success or failure in the exchange of winnings agreement (2345–61). The interweaving of the two agreements not only matches the poet’s understanding of the complexity of moral behaviour but also enables him to express his judgment of the hero in objective terms. Thus the first two feints repay Gawain’s exemplary fidelity on the first two days of temptation by the lady (2345–55) and the slight knock (tappe, 2357) his partial failure on the third. Since it is the Green Knight himself through whom this objective judgment is conveyed, it is impossible for us not to accord to his words a special respect. The knowledge which the Green Knight possesses contrasts very markedly with Gawain’s ignorance, and here we refer not only to the fact of the Green Knight’s contrivances (2360–62), his identity and motives (2444–62), but also to Gawain’s lack of moral awareness until the issues have been fully disclosed to him. Gawain and the Green Knight are thus fittingly represented as standing in the relationship of penitent and confessor (2385–94). In the Green Knight’s judgment we have seen how an act of cowardice (an inordinate love of life) leads to an act of infidelity (2366–68), but also how that view is tempered by the acknowledgment

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of Gawain’s excellence. Gawain takes a much less sympathetic view of his own case, but his moral analysis is not formally to be faulted. He stresses more fully than the Green Knight chooses to do the moral repercussions of his act of cowardice. It leads not only to infidelity (2381–83) but also to covetousness (2374 and 2380–81), that is, to the wrongful withholding of the girdle. This awareness of the interrelationship of the virtues is, as we have seen, a central concern of the poet. The difference between the Green Knight’s judgment and that of Gawain lies not so much, however, in the stress that each gives to the interrelatedness of virtues, but to the difference in their points of view. The Green Knight as judge looks with benign (but not negligent) tolerance on Gawain’s exertions (2331–35), but Gawain himself is filled with shame (2369–72). Although we may recognize the objective validity of the Green Knight’s response we may also feel that Gawain’s shame is appropriate to the sense of his own sinfulness.47 Thus while the Green Knight sees the love of life as an extenuating element in Gawain’s infidelity (2368), Gawain himself sees cowardice as the source of covetousness and infidelity (2379–81). The revulsion that Gawain feels is everywhere apparent in his response to the Green Knight (2369–78), but we should not mistake the difference of tone as evidence of a shift in the moral situation. The Green Knight’s words should not be taken to imply a dismissive attitude towards Gawain’s fault. The judgment of the court in its turn must be placed in contextual perspective, and is intended neither to supersede nor to belittle either of the earlier judgments. It is proper that the court should rejoice in the safe return of its noblest knight (2489–93), and we may recall here the initial identification of Gawain with that court (107–15). By accepting the girdle as a badge (2513–22) the court once again insists upon the identification, and this is surely not a cause for shame. Gawain’s fault serves not so much to qualify knightly renown as to define it. Hence the girdle, like the pentangle, can be taken as a fitting symbol of ‘þe renoun of þe Rounde Table’ (2519).

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Appendix: Justice, Righteousness and Truth48 I. Justice and Righteousness: a full understanding of Christian thought concerning justice requires a recognition of the following propositions and concepts: (i) Christian moral doctrine is characterized by the integration of love and justice. Love is, however, more fundamental than justice. (ii) Divine justice is a primary cause of action, human justice a secondary or dependent cause. The interrelationship of the supernatural and natural orders is indeed a persistent theme of Aquinas. Thus, in discussing whether the goodness of an act of will depends upon the Eternal Law he observes (ST, 1a 2ae 19.4): Dicendum quod in omnibus causis ordinatis effectus plus dependet a causa prima quam a causa secunda, quia causa secunda non agit nisi in virtute primae causae. Quod autem ratio humana sit regula voluntatis humanae, ex qua ejus bonitas mensuretur, habet ex lege aeterna, quae est ratio divina.49

(iii) Human virtues are defined by Aquinas as good operative habits, that is, they are ordered to act and not to being (ST, 1a 2ae 55.1–3). It is common, therefore, for virtues to be defined by the activities that correspond to them, and this is the case in the standard definition of justice as ‘perpetua et constans voluntas jus suum unicuique tribuendi’ (see ST, 2a 2ae 58.1 ad 1). A strict terminology requires the maintenance of the distinction between habit and resultant activity. It is indeed the distinction between justice and righteousness (ST, 2a 2ae 58.1 ad 2): Ad secundum dicendum quod neque etiam justitia est essentialiter rectitudo, sed causaliter tantum: est enim habitus secundum quem aliquis recte operatur et vult.50

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(iv) Although justice properly refers to a right order in a person’s actions it is also used analogically in reference to inner rectitude, that is, the condition of being just (ST, 1a 2ae 113.1): Alio modo dicitur justitia, prout importat rectitudinem quamdam ordinis in ipsa interiori dispositione hominis, prout scilicet supremum hominis subditur Deo, et inferiores vires animae subduntur supremae, scilicet rationi; et hanc etiam dispositionem vocat Philosophus, justitiam metaphorice dictam.51

(v) Interior justice applies to being before it applies to doing. Nevertheless the state of justice presupposes the activity that is consonant with it, that is, the keeping of the Commandments. (vi) Human justice in the redemptive order of grace is incomplete and imperfect. Human beings cannot in this world escape the consequences of original sin. In the light of these observations we are able to assign the following meanings to justice: 1. 2. 3.

Quality of Justice: (a) divine (b) human. Condition of Justice: (a) divine (b) human (= OED, s.v. truth, 4). Behaviour in accordance with Justice ( = OED, s.v. truth, 9 b).

Strictly speaking, we can distinguish between justice (1) and righteousness (2 and 3). In practice, however, justice and righteousness are often used synonymously. This is no doubt because of the tendency to define a habit in terms of its related activity. Hence for St Anselm justitia est rectitudo (see ST, 2a 2ae 58.1). The most explicit statement of Christian justice in medieval literature is to be found in the exposition of Truth by Lady Holy Church in Piers Plowman (B I.129). Here are all the elements that have already been enumerated: justice is identified first of all with God the Creator (B I.14–16), for God is the source and end of all created being; justice is the state of inner rectitude in man (B I.129); justice issues in good works (B I.13 and

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85–91); justice witnesses to love (B I.146–56) and love is more fundamental than justice (B I.157–203). II. Justice and Fidelity: (i) Justice in the OT is neither vindictive nor distributive justice but rather salvific justice, that is, God is faithful to his freely made promises of salvation and deliverance. Hence such terms as justice, salvation, fidelity and truth are easily interchanged, as in Deuteronomy 32.4: Dei perfecta sunt opera, Et omnes viae eius iudicia: Deus fidelis, et absque ulla iniquitate, Iustus et rectus. The works of God are perfect, and all his ways are judgements: God is faithful and without any iniquity, he is just and right.52

(ii) As the justice of God means God’s fidelity to his convenantal promises, so the justice of man means originally man’s fidelity to his side of the mutual commitment, that is, the faithful observance of the Commandments. (iii) The concept of fidelity is inherent in the notion of conformity or order that is of the very essence of justice, for ‘justitia de sui ratione importet quamdam rectitudinem ordinis, / in its intrinsic meaning justice implies a rightness of order’ (ST, 1a 2ae 113.1). The connection between justice and fidelity is also well illustrated in the exposition of Lady Holy Church in Piers Plowman. The failure to do good works is seen to be a failure in the loyalty that is owed to the order established by justice. Hence it can be said of the avarice of ‘curatours’ (B I.196–97): And þat is no treuthe of þe trinite but treccherye of helle, And lernyng to lewde men þe latter for to dele.

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What is striking for the reader of Sir Gawain is the manner in which Langland has extended this idea to the order of chivalry (B I.102–4): For Dauid in his dayes dubbed kniȝtes, And did hem swere on here swerde to serue trewthe euere, And whoso passed þat poynte was apostata in þe ordre.

The fall of the angels is represented in this context not in terms of pride (compare B XV.50–51) but of disobedience (B I.111–14): Lucifer wiþ legiounes lerned it [treuthe] in heuene, But for he brake buxumnesse his blisse gan he tyne, And fel fro þat felawship in a fendes liknes, Into a depe derke helle to dwelle þere for eure.

III. Truth: (i) The essential meaning of truth in the OT is ‘fidelity’. The Hebrew word ’ĕmet is derived from the verb ’āman = ‘to nurse or rear, to be faithful or trustworthy’. Truth is God’s faithfulness to the covenant he has made with his chosen people (see Exodus, 34.6, Deuteronomy, 7.9 and Psalms 30(31).6). (ii) The original meaning of OE triewþ/treowþ is ‘fidelity’, and this is a sense that the noun continues to bear throughout the medieval period. During the course of the fourteenth century (on the evidence of the citations provided by the OED) the related sense of ‘righteousness’ or ‘justice’ is developed. It is indeed in terms of righteousness that Lady Holy Church explains Treuthe to the dreamer in Passus I of Piers Plowman. Dante’s discussion of nobilitade focuses upon the natural qualities of human beings (Convivio, IV.19.5), whereas the Gawain-poet’s account of trawþe includes the specifically theological virtue of faith (642–43). This religious dimension is certainly suggested by Langland’s use of the word. Indeed in the late fourteenth century trawþe is the native word that most fully expresses the perfection of Christian chivalry.

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Notes 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

10 11

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, 629–65. References are throughout to the edition of J.R.R. Tolkien and E.V. Gordon, second edition, revised by Norman Davis (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1967). See J.A. Burrow, A Reading of ‘Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’ (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1965), p. 46. Davis, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (1967), p. 95. D.S. Brewer, ‘Courtesy and the Gawain-Poet’, in Patterns of Love and Courtesy: Essays in Memory of C.S. Lewis, edited by John Lawlor (London: Edward Arnold Ltd, 1966), pp. 54–85 (pp. 54 and 68). See Burrow, A Reading of ‘Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’ (1965), pp. 42–48. He interprets trawþe at line 626 as ‘integrity’ or ‘righteousness’ and trwe at line 638 as ‘truthful’ (pp. 44–45). Burrow, A Reading of ‘Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’ (1965), pp. 42 and 44. See Burrow, A Reading of ‘Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’ (1965), pp. 187–89. Burrow, A Reading of ‘Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’ (1965), p. 44. The symbolic value of gold is explicitly identified by Langland, Piers Plowman, B XIX.83–86: ‘Þe secounde kynge sitthe sothliche offred / Riȝtwisnesse vnder red golde resouns felawe. / Gold is likned to leute þat last shal euere, / And resoun to riche golde to riȝte & to treuthe’. Reference is to The Vision of William concerning Piers the Plowman, edited by Rev. Walter W. Skeat , EETS (OS) 38, Part II (London: Oxford University Press, 1869). References to Chaucer are throughout to The Works of Geoffrey Chaucer, edited by F.N. Robinson, second edition (London: Oxford University Press, 1957). ‘And the wretched common people should not remain in ignorance about the meaning of this word either, believing that courtesy means nothing other than liberality; liberality, too, is a particular form of courtesy, not courtesy in its generic sense. Courtesy and human goodness are one and the same thing; it was because virtues and fine manners were the normal form of conduct in the courts of ancient times – as are their opposites nowadays – that this word was derived from the courts, and courtesy was taken to mean precisely the normal form of conduct at court’. Reference is throughout to Il Convivio, edited by G. Busnelli and G. Vandelli, second edition, 2 vols (Florence: Felice Le Monnier, 1968 and 1964), I.174–75 and translated by Christopher Ryan, Dante: The Banquet (Saratoga, California: Anma Libri, 1989), p. 63.

1 12 13

14

15

16

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See Burrow, A Reading of ‘Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’ (1965), p. 43. For a fuller discussion of the relationship between fidelity and righteousness, see the Appendix. Richard Hamilton Green, ‘Gawain’s Shield and the Quest for Perfection’, ELH, 29 (1962), 121–39, reprinted in Robert J. Blanch, Sir Gawain and Pearl: Critical Essays (Bloomington and London: Indiana University Press, 1966), pp. 176–94, draws attention to these texts (p. 187), but fails to realise their full significance. ‘For as the Philosopher says in On the Soul, the powers of the soul are formed by a series of additions. Just as the figure of the quadrangle is formed by adding to the triangle, and the pentagon (a five-sided figure) by adding to the quadrangle, so the power of sensation is added to that of vegetation, and the intellectual power is added to that of sensation. Therefore, just as when we take away the final side of a pentagon what remains is a quadrangle, and not a pentagon, so when we take away the final power of the soul, that is, the reason, what remains is not a man, but something with a sensitive soul only, in other words, a brute animal’ (Ryan, p. 139). ‘There is indeed an analogy between what holds of figures and what holds of the soul. For in that which is consequent there is always potential that which is primary, both in figures and in animate beings. As the triangle is contained in the square, so is the vegetative in the sensitive’. Reference is to the edition of Angeli M. Pirotta, O.P., Sancti Thomae Aquinatis in Aristotelis librum de anima commentarium, sixth edition (Turin: Marietti, 1959), p. 73, and the translation of Kenelm Foster, O.P. and Sylvester Humphries, O.P., Aristotle’s De Anima in the Version of William of Moerbeke and the Commentary of St Thomas Aquinas (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul Ltd, 1951), p. 197. ‘[A]nd in the De Anima he compares the different kinds of souls to geometrical figures, where one includes another and has something over, as a pentagon includes a quadrilateral. In this way the intellective soul has among its capacities everything the sense-soul of animals and the nutritive soul of plants have. Thus as a pentagon-shaped surface can supply us with a quadrilateral without being reshaped in order to do so, since a quadrilateral is contained in any pentagonal figure, so Socrates is not constituted a man by one soul and an animal by another, but both man and animal by the one soul.’ Reference to text and translation is to the edition of Thomas Gilby and others, St Thomas Aquinas: Summa theologiae, 61 vols (London: Eyre and Spottiswoode; New York: McGraw-Hill Book Company, 1964–81). ‘I contend, then, on the basis of how the word nobility is used in common parlance, that it signifies in any being the perfection of its own particular nature’ (Ryan, p. 164).

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‘What precisely are the boundaries of our activities? Properly speaking, only those activities are ours whose existence is dependent on our intellect and will. So although, for instance, digestive activity takes place in us, it is not a human activity but a natural one’ (Ryan, p. 143). 19 ‘There are, however, other activities which the intellect studies that do result from an act of will, as, for instance, harming or helping people, standing firm or fleeing in battle, remaining chaste or indulging lust; all of these are entirely dependent for their existence on our will. We are, therefore, judged to be good or bad on their account, for they are entirely ours in the strict sense, for what can be realized by our will is exactly coextensive with what is covered by the term “our activities”’ (Ryan, p. 144). 20 ‘In it shine the intellectual and moral virtues; in it shine the good dispositions given by nature, namely, piety and religion, and praiseworthy feelings, namely, shame, pity and many others; in it shine the physical excellences, namely, beauty, strength and more or less unbroken good health’ (Ryan, pp. 170–71). 21 ‘Since the highest perfection of beings which belong to one species (as do all men) cannot be defined simply by reference to the fundamental capacities common to the species, it has to be both defined and recognised through the effects produced by those capacities’ (Ryan, p. 166). 22 ‘The text indicates here that just as in adolescence the noble nature displays itself in a person’s being obedient, gentle and bashful, and endowed with physical beauty, so in maturity it makes a person temperate, strong, loving, courteous and loyal. These five qualities appear to be, and indeed are, necessary for our perfection when this is considered specifically in relation to ourselves’ (Ryan, p. 189). 23 On the distinction between fin’amors and amour courtois, see Gerald Morgan, ‘Natural and Rational Love in Medieval Literature’, YES, 7 (1977), 43–52. 24 ‘It spreads shoots through the vegetative, the sensitive and the rational powers; it branches through the various capacities of them all, directing them all towards their perfection’ (Ryan, p. 180). 25 References are to Erec et Enide, edited by Mario Roques (Paris: Champion, 1970), and to Yvain (Le Chevalier au Lion), edited by T.B.W. Reid (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1942). 26 Reference is to William Caxton, The Book of the Ordre of Chyualry, edited by Alfred T.P. Byles, EETS (OS) 168 (London: Oxford University Press, 1926). 27 Davis, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (1967), p. 95. Compare MED, s.v. clennesse n. 2. (a), where the glosses ‘uprightness’ and ‘integrity’ are also supplied. 28 Burrow, A Reading of ‘Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’ (1965), p. 48. 29 Burrow, A Reading of ‘Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’ (1965), p. 41. 30 Davis, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (1967), p. 95.

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‘Furthermore, it is necessary in this stage to be courteous … This supreme poet makes it clear that Aeneas possessed such courtesy: to honour the corpse of Misenus, who had been Hector’s trumpeter and had then commended himself to Aeneas’ care, the king dressed himself for the task and took up an axe to help hew the wood for the fire in which the corpse had to be burned in accordance with their custom’ (Ryan, p. 191). 32 Both pity and piety are derived ultimately from Latin pietas; see OED’s note s.v. pity. 33 See also A 1748–61. 34 ‘… makes every other good quality radiant with its light. That is why the greatest tribute which Virgil pays to Aeneas is to call him compassionate’ (Ryan, p. 62). 35 ‘Nor is compassion what the common people understand by this word, namely, commiserating with someone in his misfortune; this is, rather, one of its particular effects, called pity, which is an emotion evoked in us. Compassion, however, is not an emotion evoked in us, but a noble disposition of mind, receptive to love, pity and other kindly emotions’ (Ryan, pp. 62–63). 36 ‘Mercy means pain over another’s misfortune. In this context, however, pain can denote a movement of the sense appetite, in which case mercy is an emotion or feeling, not a virtue. Or it can denote a movement of the intellective appetite when one grieves at the sight of another’s misfortune. A movement of this sort can be regulated by right reason and, thus regulated, can in turn regulate the movements of the lower appetite’ (trans. R.J. Batten, O.P.). 37 ‘The greater takes in the less; thus the kind of homage owed to God already embraces as but a partial form of itself the kind owed to parents … This is the explanation of the use of pietas to refer to homage towards God’ (trans. T.C. O’Brien). 38 Davis, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (1967), p. 96. 39 Davis, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (1967), p. 70. 40 A clear understanding of this critical principle is vital if we are to appreciate the poet’s conception of Gawain himself. Chrétien’s Gauvain, for example, moves in a different moral world from that of Malory’s Gawain. 41 Davis, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (1967), p. 74. 42 The figure of the circle is used by Boethius in the De consolatione philosophiae to represent the divine simplicity; see Book III, prosa 12.160–62, 179–84 and 194–97 (in Chaucer’s translation). 43 Burrow, A Reading of ‘Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’ (1965), pp. 133–40. 44 Burrow, A Reading of ‘Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’ (1965), p. 100. 45 Burrow, A Reading of ‘Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’ (1965), p. 106.

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46 See Gerald Morgan, ‘The Validity of Gawain’s Confession in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’, RES, NS, 36 (1985), 1–18. 47 The assumption that true contrition should be accompanied by the bitterness of shame is strikingly illustrated by Langland, Piers Plowman, B XX.278–82: ‘For persones and parishprestes þat shulde þe peple shryue, / Ben curatoures called to knowe and to hele, / Alle þat ben her parisshiens penaunce to enioigne, / And shulden be ashamed in her shrifte; ac shame maketh hem wende, / And fleen to be freres.’ See also B XX.302–21 and 352–77. 48 See the articles on these subjects in the New Catholic Encyclopaedia (New York, 1967), VIII.68–77 and XIV.334–35. The related article on virtue (XIV.704–9) is especially excellent. 49 ‘In a directly causal series an effect depends more on the first cause than on a secondary cause, since the secondary does not act save in virtue of the first. That the human reason is the rule for acts of human will so that it measures their goodness comes because it derives from the Eternal Law which is the divine reason’ (trans. Gilby). 50 ‘Justice is not essentially identical with uprightness or righteousness; the two are related causally. We are treating it as a habit according to which a person wills and does aright’ (trans. Gilby). 51 ‘In a second sense justice is used to mean a kind of rightness of order in man’s interior disposition, namely when what is highest in man is subject to God and the lower powers of his soul are subject to what is highest in him, his reason. And this disposition too is called by Aristotle justice in a metaphorical sense’ (trans. C. Ernst). 52 Reference is to Alberto Colunga and Laurentio Turrado (eds), Biblia sacra iuxta vulgatam Clementinam, fourth edition (Madrid: La Editorial Catolica, 1965) and The Holy Bible: Douay Rheims Version (Baltimore: John Murphy Company, 1899; photographically reproduced, Rockford, Illinois: Tan Books and Publishers, Inc., 1971).

2 The Action of the Hunting and Bedroom Scenes in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight

Oltre a ciò, presupponendo che la favola sia fine del poeta (come afferma Aristotele, e niuno ha sin qui negato), s’una sarà la favola, uno sarà il fine, / Furthermore, assuming the fable to be the goal of the poet (as Aristotle affirms, and no one has denied to this day), if the fable is one, the goal will be one. — Tasso

I. The moral seriousness of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight is not to be doubted. Thus the moral import of the pentangle passage (619–65), the confession scene (1876–84), and the respective judgments of the Green Knight (2331–68), of Gawain himself (2369–88, 2406–38 and 2494–512) and of Arthur and his court (2513–21) have all been strenuously debated by modern readers of the poem, and there is no need to rehearse or document the various arguments and disagreements here.1 At the same time it is also agreed that the moral outcome is determined in the series of bedroom interchanges, framed by the hunting scenes, which take place in Fitt III between Gawain and his host’s wife. The moral significance of these events – a significance which is reinforced by the poem’s interlocking structure – has not impeded many of the same readers from reducing the bedroom interchanges to the level of light comedy or even farce. Thus W.R.J. Barron believes that Gawain’s ‘elaborate and self-conscious piece of play-acting’, when he feigns surprise at the lady’s presence in his room and crosses himself (1200–3), provokes laughter, and that ‘though we may not be able to define the cause of our laughter, it must materially affect our relationship to the hero hereafter’.2 There is in such a comment a violation not only of the poem’s moral seriousness, but also of its imaginative integrity. The disturbance of the poem’s moral design results from a lack of alignment between the aesthetic assumptions of the modern reader and those

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of the medieval poet. The gap between the two is evident in the disclosure of the lady’s knowledge of Gawain’s situation (1283–87): ‘þaȝ I were burde bryȝtest’, þe burde in mynde hade, ‘þe lasse luf in his lode for lur þat he soȝt boute hone, þe dunte þat schulde hym deue, And nedez hit most be done.’3

Norman Davis concludes that if such knowledge of the impending blow is attributed to the lady ‘it would be a serious flaw in the handling of the plot’, since ‘the story as presented has given her no opportunity to know this’.4 One is bound to admire the resourcefulness of modern editors in their attempts to dispose of the assumed flaw. Davis himself confines the lady’s utterance to the first half of line 1283, and so produces a reflection on her part that is elliptical to the point of non-existence: ‘“Even if I were the most beautiful of ladies”, the lady thought (still he would resist)’ (p. 110).5 Other editors go further, and emend I to ho and the second burde to burne. The emendation was first proposed by Morris in 1864, sanctioned by Gollancz, and generally followed in modern editions such as those by Waldron, Barron and Silverstein.6 Thus, for example, Waldron offers the following translation of lines 1283–85: ‘Though she was the loveliest lady the warrior had ever known, he had brought with him so much the less love because of the penalty he was going to meet forthwith’ (p. 85).7 All these interpretations destroy to a greater or lesser degree the true source of the poem’s unity in the idea of the pentangle, by making either the poet himself or Gawain violate the moral imperatives of the code symbolized by the pentangle, a code that includes clannes or chastity. And chastity is a sufficient motive in itself for a rejection of the lady’s overtures, irrespective of the impending doom of the beheading. It is necessary that we reject here the notion of an artistic flaw, and see that far from removing a flaw modern editors have created one. A medieval romance is not a work of art constructed in accordance with the naturalism that demands the revelation of such knowledge. It is built upon an abstract principle or idea that is guaranteed by a doctrine of philosophical realism, whether it be the absolute realism of a Plato or the moderate realism of an

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Aristotle (although the lifelikeness of Sir Gawain, which properly appeals to so many modern readers, suggests Aristotelianism rather than Platonism as the dominant influence). Such a work is co-ordinated in terms of its idea, and in Sir Gawain the pentangle stands as the symbolic representation of the poem’s controlling idea. It is this poetic co-ordination that has been destroyed by the editorial interference with the text or the likely meaning of the text. Since there is no requirement of naturalism, the poet is under no obligation to explain to his audience the means by which the lady obtained the knowledge that she so evidently possesses. But it is important that as readers we should know that she does possess this knowledge. In this way the poet establishes that the host’s wife is a temptress, and this fact is vital to our understanding of the poet’s delineation of the moral situation. We might otherwise imagine the lady actually to be in love with Gawain. It is by no means a theoretical impossibility, and it would create a moral situation of a very different kind, one in which the lady might attract some legitimate sympathy from the reader. But it is all a cunning pretence: ‘And ay þe lady let lyk as hym loued mych’ (1281). The poet’s disclosure is part of a process designed to sustain the moral balance of the argument of his poem, a poem in which Gawain is the innocent victim (or intended victim) of the lady’s wiles. The very cleverness of the lady is in its turn designed to obscure the moral reality of a situation in which she has invaded the privacy of the bedroom and in so doing offended against the rights of her guest. The entrance of the lady is shown from Gawain’s point of view, and Gawain is still, as the poet reminds us, ‘þe god mon’ (1179). The adjective is not chosen merely for its alliterating convenience, but is a significant marker of the poet’s moral sympathies. The Gawain of the bedroom scenes remains the man ‘for gode knawen, and as golde pured, / Voyded of vche vylany’ (633–34). And in Gawain’s own reactions the lady’s impropriety is revealed. As the lady approaches his bed, ‘þe burne schamed’ (1189). He can make nothing of her conduct in terms of normal courtesies, try as he will (1195–97): Þe lede lay lurked a ful longe quyle, Compast in his concience to quat þat cace myȝt Meue oþer amount – to meruayle hym þoȝt.

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Neither the medieval books of courtesy, nor their modern equivalents for that matter, are likely to recommend fitting behaviour for such an occasion, simply because the occasion itself is improper. It is a situation that is at all costs to be avoided. The lady, of course, construes the situation quite differently. She represents her own presence in Gawain’s bedroom as an entirely natural fact. The fault is that of Gawain for being ‘a sleper vnslyȝe’ (1209). Here the lady reveals the cunning that is necessary for one in pursuit of a deer, for the deer is a wise animal.8 Such is the cunning used by the poacher at the beginning of The Parlement of the Thre Ages (40–42): I waitted wiesly the wynde by waggynge of leues, Stalkede full stilly no stikkes to breke, And crepite to a crabtre and couerede me ther-vndere.9

The Gawain-poet has forestalled the lady’s cunning misrepresentation of the facts by assuring us that Gawain ‘sleȝly herde / A littel dyn at his dor’ (1182–83), even though he is in a deep sleep, ‘as in slomeryng he slode’ (1182),10 exhausted by the exertions of his quest and the Christmas festivities. The analogy of the deer, which are moved by ‘þe fyrst quethe of þe quest’ (1150), draws attention to the matching quickness of sense in Gawain. Once more the poet exploits an expectation first aroused in the pentangle passage, for Gawain is ‘fautlez in his fyue wyttez’ (640). Gawain is cautious on that first morning in the bedroom, and thus he ‘waytez warly þiderwarde quat hit be myȝt’ (1186). Moreover, even in the depth of his sleep he shows no lack of wisdom, for he is entitled to feel secure in the protection of his host. Similarly, in The Parlement of the Thre Ages the hart when asleep is protected by the vigilance of the soar (that is, a buck in its fourth year) which accompanies it (34–37): Bot there sewet hym a sowre þat seruet hym full ȝerne, That woke & warned hym when the wynde faylede, That none so sleghe in his slepe with sleghte scholde hym dere, And went the wayes hym by-fore when any wothe tyde.

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Gawain as an honoured guest places his trust in his host and hostess. When that trust is broken he is rendered vulnerable, and the lady as temptress exploits that vulnerability to the full. It is indeed of the nature of temptation that it should be directed to the point of utmost vulnerability.11 How different all these things can appear if we take them out of the moral context in which the poet has set them. The scene is reduced to that of a social comedy, and it is the lady (a cunning temptress) rather than Gawain (an honourable guest) who is seen as the victim. Such a false impression is confirmed for many modern readers by the poet’s use of the verb lurken of Gawain (‘þe lede lay lurked a ful longe quyle’ (1195)), and especially when an editor of the authority of Davis glosses the past participle by the present, ‘lurking’.12 But the neutral gloss ‘hidden’ involves no grammatical dislocation and is no less lexically acceptable, as we may see from the examples supplied by MED, s.v. lurken v.(a) ‘to hide, be in hiding, lie hidden’. Indeed, good things as well as bad are sometimes concealed from view. Thus MED cites The Wars of Alexander, 3991: ‘þe prowis & þe prouidens þat lurkis with-in þis lede, full litill he kennes’. The Gawain-poet supplies a comparable example in ‘Gawayn þe god mon in gay bed lygez, / Lurkkez quyl þe daylyȝt lemed on þe wowes’ (1179–80). There is no need for MED to supply here as a contextual gloss the otherwise unrecorded sense (d) ‘to lie comfortably’, corresponding to Davis’s ‘to lie snug’,13 when the central sense of the word is so obviously apt. The verb lurken is used of Gawain here with no implication of idleness or furtiveness, but rather to draw attention to the fact that, like the deer, he is being hunted. MED supplies an example of its use in this context in its illustration of the gerund lurkinge, citing Trevisa, Barth. 246a/b: ‘in woode wilde bestes beþ y-hunted, and wacches and deceytes arrayed and y-sette of houndes and of hunters there place of hydynge and of lurkynge.’ It is Gawain who is sometimes held to be cunning (as distinct from prudent) in feigning sleep when he becomes aware of the lady’s presence (1200–3): Þen he wakenede, and wroth, and to hir warde torned, And vnlouked his yȝe-lyddez, and let as hym wondered, And sayned hym, as bi his saȝe þe sauer to worthe, with hande.

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What is a poor temptress to do when faced with moral artfulness of this kind? But Gawain pretends to be nothing other than he in fact is. Were he not to show surprise to the lady he would certainly be guilty of revealing an expectation of discourtesy on her part. The lady’s presence in his bedroom is shameful, and Gawain shows the lady that he does not expect shameful conduct of her. Thus, even in so compromised a situation, he behaves with the courtesy that a hostess could rightly expect of such a guest. On the second day, Gawain is submitted to a public test of the lady’s impropriety, and for a second time his own sense of courtesy is equal to it in that he is prepared to allow the appearance of blame to fall upon himself (1658–63). On the first occasion in the privacy of the bedroom Gawain makes clear to the lady his own understanding of the moral realities by crossing himself. According to Barron we feel a sense of shock that Gawain ‘should use the sign of the cross as part of his playacting’.14 But it is the act of piety of one who puts his faith in God and not in himself. There is a good reason why ladies should not enter the bedrooms of their guests, for no man could in such provocative circumstances be sure of remaining continent. Gawain is in moral peril, and by crossing himself he publicly acknowledges the fact. Only in this way can the lady’s purpose be ultimately defeated. In the same way, in the Psychomachia of Prudentius, Sobrietas overcomes Luxuria by holding up a cross.15 Gawain’s faith and piety are thus revealed to the lady, but not discourteously. As the lady responds to all Gawain’s defensive strategies by a counterattack (compare, for example, ‘In god fayth’, 1241 and 1248), so she attacks his faith at the point at which she first of all pretends to take her leave. Once again she chooses the time of maximum vulnerability, that is, when the knight is momentarily unguarded by relief at the prospect of coming through his ordeal unscathed. The lady suddenly reverses her position (logically for a temptress, but hard otherwise to understand) and launches an attack on Gawain’s reputation in the light of his present conduct (1290–93). At Gawain’s anxious response (1294–95) the lady blesses him: ‘Bot þe burde hym blessed’ (1296). She has more concern for the knight’s spiritual and moral well-being than Gawain himself. Much of the uninformed amusement at Gawain’s expense arises from a number of more general considerations. First of all, there is a ready

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acceptance of virtue on Gawain’s part which denies the reality of virtue as issuing from internal conflict and as involving the willing of the difficult good against the easy and desirable evil. Secondly, there is the assumption of fault on Gawain’s part in sleeping while the lord is hunting. There is certainly historical support for a general contrast between the health and vigour of the life of hunting out of doors and the lustfulness and idleness of the life within doors, for it is made in the prologue to The Master of Game.16 The medieval audience’s familiarity with such a contrast is exploited by the Gawain-poet not to convict Gawain of the sin of sloth, but to create an expectation of moral testing. Historical commonplaces are not to be preferred to the particularities of a single poetic text. Thus Gawain is exhausted by his arduous journey to Hautdesert (691–739) and by the revelling proper for a guest to participate in during the Christmas season (1020–28). These are points to which the lord makes explicit reference in elaborating the terms of the exchange of winnings agreement (1093–95). Gawain is in need of the wholesome refreshment of sleep (just as is the dreamer in The Book of the Duchess, 1–27 and 270–75). He is sleeping in accordance with the terms of the agreement laid down by his host (1096–1102), for it is clear that he has not overslept and so missed attendance at mass. The pattern of action imposed by the exchange of winnings agreement is broken only by the lady’s invasion of Gawain’s privacy. Thus the fitness of sleep on the following two days is also noted by the poet. On Day 2 ‘oure luflych lede lys in his bedde, / Gawayn grayþely at home’ (1469–70),17 and on Day 3 ‘þe hende knyȝt at home holsumly slepes’ (1730), even though this is the ‘drowping depe’ (1748) and the ‘dreȝ droupyng of dreme’ (1750) of which we subsequently hear. We may note the contrast on New Year’s Day, when Gawain has to present himself for the return blow: ‘Deliuerly he dressed vp, er þe day sprenged’ (2009). In addition to these two general considerations it may be felt, thirdly, that Gawain should not have participated in the exchange of winnings agreement at all. But the only possible reason for not doing so would be if participation in the new agreement were to prejudice the prior moral obligations incurred in the beheading game. It is therefore established from the beginning that Gawain will not put at risk his assignment with the Green Knight by remaining with his host (1042–82). Once this fact

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has been established, it is unthinkable that Gawain should not fall in with the plans of his host insofar as they involve no obvious impropriety (1088– 92).18 Above all, the exchange of winnings agreement has to be seen as a part of the interlocking structure of the poem as a whole. It is in itself an interlocking structure which repeats that of the pentangle and expresses the poem’s coordinating idea of trawþe in its full medieval and Aristotelian sense.19 Our approach to the hunting and bedroom scenes in Sir Gawain must begin with a return to medieval aesthetic perspectives. II. It should be axiomatic that the hunting and bedroom scenes are to be understood in relation to that idea of the poem symbolized by the pentangle, for, as Aquinas puts it (ST, 1a 15.2), ‘Ratio autem alicujus totius haberi non potest, nisi habeantur propriae rationes eorum ex quibus totum constituitur; sicut aedificator speciem domus concipere non potest, nisi apud ipsum esset propria ratio cujuslibet partium ejus.’20 Now the idea of the pentangle establishes two fundamental principles, namely, that nobility is a complex unity made up of interrelated parts, and that (relative to other men) Gawain stands for the highest perfection of human nobility. The organization of the hunting and bedroom scenes builds upon and reflects these principles. The bedroom scenes are set within the hunting scenes and linked to them by the exchange of winnings agreement. The exchange of winnings agreement in its turn is set within the beheading game, and these too are linked, for the outcome of the beheading game is dependent upon the outcome of the exchange of winnings agreement. By means of this complex, interlocking structure of events there is a comprehensive testing of Gawain’s trawþe. Our point of departure is Gawain’s physical, moral and spiritual excellence. This being so, the traditional contrast between the health of the hunting field and the sinfulness of the bedroom has to be subordinated to our sense of that excellence. Moreover, the poet has once more given us the means of measuring that excellence, for Gawain’s actions at this point are to be judged by their conformity to the terms of the exchange of winnings agreement. As in any proper game, the rules are set out with the greatest possible clarity and precision. On Gawain’s part there are four elements to be observed:

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first, he will remain in bed; secondly, he will get up in time for mass; thirdly, he will go to his food; and, fourthly, he will be entertained by the companionship of the host’s wife until the host himself returns (1096–99). We can see for ourselves how these conditions are fulfilled by Gawain on the three successive days. The appearance of the lady in Gawain’s bedroom is a violation not only of the rules of courtesy, but also of the implied pattern of the exchange of winnings agreement itself. Nevertheless, although the appearance of the lady in Gawain’s bedroom complicates the predicted pattern of action, it does not in fact succeed in dislocating it. For all the difficulties created by the lady’s intervention, Gawain remains true to the pattern of action required of him by his host. At the same time the lord plays his part to the full in the hunting field. He is true to his word in getting up early and going off to the hunt (1133–38), and he does not do so without a fitting display of courtesy and piety (1135). Once again the pattern is repeated on the following days (1412–16 and 1688–96). The lord is not a poacher (like the man in The Parlement of the Thre Ages), but a true sportsman who respects the laws and conventions of hunting. He observes the close season, and so does not interfere with the male deer (1154–57). Although a great multitude of deer is slain, the slaughter is controlled and not wanton, being of ‘hyndez barayne’ (1320) and ‘of dos and of oþer dere’ (1322). The lord is open and generous when it comes to the exchange of winnings itself. He does not disguise his delight as a sportsman in his achievement, but he does not exult to the discomfiture of a worthy opponent, for he conducts himself towards Gawain ‘al godly in gomen’ (1376). In all this we are reminded that the best games are those which are suffused with sportsmanship and in which the opponents are well matched. We can see that the values of the host are not essentially different from those of Gawain himself as they are set out in the pentangle passage. Indeed the equality of host and guest is revealed in the discriminating generosity that Gawain displays towards the host on each successive evening. The venison is the best that he has seen in seven years in the season of winter (1381–82); it is the biggest quantity of flesh that he has ever seen on a boar (1629–32) and the embarrassment of ‘þis foule fox felle’ (1944) is a matter to be passed over as quickly as possible (1948–49).

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The notion of equality between Gawain and the lord is sustained in the actual exchanges of the winnings themselves on the three successive evenings. The importance of these exchanges is underlined by the public ceremony that attends them, for they do not take place until the whole court has been assembled (1372–75 and 1623–25). Even allowing for the differences of the third evening (and they are significant differences), the transaction remains a public transaction (1924–27). The lord’s success on the first day is matched by the kiss that Gawain gives ‘as comlyly as he couþe awyse’ (1389). It is not hard for us to believe that it could be superior to the lord’s winnings (1392–94), but it is right for Gawain not to respond to the lord’s promptings on this score. It is not for him to reveal to the husband the impropriety of the wife. Gawain is not bound by any promise to declare the source of his winnings (1395–97), and by his generous acknowledgment of the lord’s success in the deer hunt he has already shown himself to be abiding by the spirit as well as the letter of the agreement. The awesome prize of the boar on the second day does not diminish, but on the contrary reveals, the true worth of the two kisses that Gawain in his turn delivers to the lord (1639–40). Gawain is justified in claiming equality here: ‘Now ar we euen …/ Of alle þe couenauntes þat we knyt’ (1641–42). On the third day Gawain’s three kisses (1936–37) seem to earn for him a great advantage, for they are, as the lord truly acknowledges them to be, ‘suche prys þinges / … suche þre cosses / so gode’ (1945–47). Yet there remains an equality in this exchange too, despite the superficial inequality, and it is an equality that is not entirely to Gawain’s disadvantage. The lord is dissatisfied, but the fox did not get away from its pursuers. In the same way the worth of Gawain’s three kisses is not wholly undermined by his failure in the matter of the girdle. The equality of host and guest is shown above all by the fellowship that they share. Thus the two ‘laȝed, and made hem blyþe / Wyth lotez þat were to lowe’ (1398–99) at the end of the first day, and this pattern of fellowship is repeated on the two succeeding days (1623–24, 1680–85 and 1952–59). The lord is not, however, merely Gawain’s equal in an open competition; he is superior to him in his knowledge of the true significance of the events that are taking place. The lord is to be the judge of Gawain’s conduct, and the poet anticipates for us the judgmental function of Fitt IV by giving to

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the lord on the evening of the second day of competition words that carry a special authority and resonance: ‘For I haf fraysted þe twys, and faythful I fynde þe’ (1679). These words are conceived by the poet in no more of a naturalistic spirit than those he has given to the wife, but they are important in giving moral shape and weight to the events that he describes. Thus the terms of the exchange of winnings agreement, the repeated actions and the interlocking structure are the artistic means by which the poet develops and clarifies his meaning. It is to these elements that we must pay attention ourselves if we are not to disturb the subtle moral and imaginative balance of forces which he has thereby created. III. We must also take note of the primacy of another artistic principle, namely, the priority of action over character. A character is to be perceived in the first place as the fitting agent of an action of some kind. This is not to say that character is unimportant, but only that it is secondary and unintelligible except in relation to the action. Although this may be a difficult principle for the modern reader to accept, it is a principle of great antiquity, most memorably asserted by Aristotle in Poetics 6 and repeated with no less conviction by Tasso in the Discorsi del poema eroico.21 According to Aristotle tragedy is ‘essentially an imitation not of persons but of action and life’,22 and this is a principle, as we see from the example of Tasso, no less applicable to narrative than to dramatic poetry. Once we begin to look at the relation between the hunting and bedroom scenes in Sir Gawain in terms of action rather than, or as prior to, character, that is, with character as fittingly subordinated to action, then much begins to make sense that would otherwise be obscure. It is by giving priority to character over action that Gollancz concludes that ‘Gawain’s conscience makes him unwilling to prolong discussion of the exchange’ on the third day, and it is for the same reason that he is followed by a critic so sensitive as J.A. Burrow.23 It is to be noted that Burrow assumes that the courteous Gawain can act brusquely on occasion, since he knows that even the most courteous people sometimes lapse from the highest standards of courtesy. But the Gawain-poet cannot present Gawain as discourteous other than by a specific violation of the idea of nobility in terms of which

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his narrative is organized. And if it were the case that Gawain has been discourteous, the discourtesy would need to be brought before the Green Knight for judgment in the same way as the violation of fidelity through the concealment of the girdle. In the light of the principle of the primacy of action, we may now turn directly to the corresponding patterns of action in the three sets of hunting scenes and bedroom scenes. On the first day of hunting the deer are quick to sense danger; they try to escape to the high ground, but are driven back by the ring of beaters (1150–53). It is, indeed, in this way that they are eventually slaughtered at the low-lying hunting stations (1167–73). In the same way Gawain is quick to sense danger (1182–83), and he too tries to get to safer ground, but he is encircled in his bed by the determined purpose of the lady (1218–25). There is no doubt, as Davis observes,24 a contrast between the noise of the hunt (1158–66) and the stillness of the bedroom (1182–94). But stillness is not to be taken for security. Gawain is being hunted with the stealth that is necessary, as we have seen, in a deer hunt, and remains in deadly danger. The Master of Game emphasizes the great joy of hunting, and especially of the hunting of the hart,25 and this emphasis is strongly present in the Gawain-poet’s account (1174–77): Þe lorde for blys abloy Ful oft con launce and lyȝt, And drof þat day wyth joy Thus to þe derk nyȝt.

Again, the joy of the chase is matched by the joy in the bedroom. The lady exudes a surface gaiety and charm (1208–12) and Gawain responds in kind (1213–17). Indeed, throughout this first interchange these qualities are continually stressed (1245, 1247, 1258 and 1263). The issue of the first day finally turns on a question of courtesy, for Gawain’s courtesy is challenged by the lady (1290–1304). Here is another direct link with the framing hunting-scene, for the cutting-up of the deer (1323–64) is entirely a matter of courtesy. First of all, the correct order must be observed, and this is underlined by the series of deictic adverbs, syþen (1330, 1332, 1339, 1354 and 1363) and Þen(ne) (1333, 1337, 1340, 1353, 1356 and 1357). Secondly, skill is required, and this is emphasized by a series of

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evaluative adverbs and adverbial phrases focusing on the swiftness, deftness and correctness of the procedure: lystily (1334), grayþely (1335), radly (1341 and 1343), verayly (1342), by resoun (1344) and swyft (1354). Thirdly, there is a mastery of the technical vocabulary, as for example in the use of querré (1324) and asay (1328). And, fourthly, each huntsman gets the portion of the deer to which he is properly entitled: ‘Vche freke for his fee, as fallez for to haue’ (1358). Here is true courtesy in the behaviour that fully matches the occasion. Hunting is a proper activity for men of a medieval court, and the cutting-up of the deer is a proper concern of huntsmen: ‘Þe best boȝed þerto with burnez innoghe’ (1325). Moreover, the propriety of the hunt is observed from the beginning to the end by the accompaniment of the fitting sounds. The uncoupling of the hounds is signified by three long single notes, ‘þre bare mote’ (1141). The capture of the deer and the return home are marked by a like formality: ‘baldely þay blw prys’ (1362) and ‘strakande ful stoutly’ (1364). The significance of this display of nobility is brought out by Malory in The Book of Sir Tristram (682/25–683/4): And every day sir Trystram wolde go ryde an-huntynge, for he was called that tyme the chyeff chacer of the worlde and the noblyst blower of an horne of all maner of mesures. For, as bookis reporte, of sir Trystram cam all the good termys of venery and of huntynge, and all the syses and mesures of all blowyng wyth an horne; and of hym we had fyrst all the termys of hawkynge, and whyche were bestis of chace and bestis of venery, and whyche were vermyns; and all the blastis that longed to all maner of game: fyrste to the uncoupelynge, to the sekynge, to the fyndynge, to the rechace, to the flyght, to the deth, and to strake; and many other blastis and termys, that all maner jantylmen hath cause to the worldes ende to prayse sir Trystram and to pray for his soule. AMEN, SAYDE SIR THOMAS MALLEORRE.26

Here we see the importance that is attached to the development and mastery of the correct terms, and it is in relation to the correct terms that the bedroom and hunting scenes of the first day are finally linked. For just as Gawain is concerned ‘lest he hade fayled in fourme of his castes’ (1295), so the poet is anxious to ensure that he has distinguished between the avanters (1342) and the numbles proper: ‘And þat þay neme for þe noumbles bi nome, as I trowe, / bi kynde’ (1347–48).

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The second day’s hunt is of sterner stuff, as is at once evident from the uncoupling of the hounds ‘among þo þornez’ (1419). The course of the hunt is no longer over hills and dales (1151–52), but over marshy ground amid rough cliffs (1429–36). The boar is a ferocious adversary (1437–53 and 1571–80), and he makes even brave men flinch (1460–63 and 1573–76). Similarly, there is a shift in tone between the first and the second day’s bedroom scenes, for on the second day there is a greater directness in the confrontation between the lady and Gawain. The lady comes to Gawain with a clear purpose (1472–76), but Gawain is now ready for her (1477). Further, the analogy with the action of the hunt is once again clear. As the arrows bounce off the boar (1454–59), so Gawain’s words of greeting meet a swift reply: ‘And ho hym ȝeldez aȝayn ful ȝerne of hir wordez’ (1478), and the lady undeterred returns to the attack (1479–80). The debate now turns not only on the propriety of kissing (1481– 94), a matter of courtesy, but also on the admissibility of the use of force (1495–1500), a matter that bears on a knight’s courage. The lady’s argument, as Burrow has shown,27 is more subtle than it at first appears. For a lady to refuse Gawain would be churlish (1497) and, according to Andreas Capellanus, De amore (I.11), the resistance of a peasant woman to amorous embraces is not to be overcome ‘nisi modicae saltem coactionis medela praecedat ipsarum opportuna pudoris’.28 The underlying reality of the argument is acknowledged by Malory in the account of the begetting of Torre by Pellinore on a maid, subsequently a cowherd’s wife, in The Tale of King Arthur (101/10–15): Anone the wyff was fette forth, which was a fayre houswyff. And there she answerde Merlion full womanly, and there she tolde the kynge and Merlion that whan she was a mayde and wente to mylke hir kyne, ‘there mette with me a sterne knyght, and half be force he had my maydynhode. And at that tyme he begate my sonne Torre’.

Malory has here softened his French source, which represents Pellinore as having entirely disregarded the maid’s will (‘u je vausisse ou non’).29 Sidney’s Cecropia shows no such faint-heartedness, putting the argument for violence to her son, Amphialus, languishing in a hopeless love for the heavenly Philoclea, with a brutal frankness (Arcadia (1590), III.17.3):

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Tush, tush sonne (said Cecropia) if you say you love, but withall you feare; you feare lest you should offend; offend? & how know you, that you should offend? because she doth denie: denie? Now by my truth; if your sadnes would let me laugh, I could laugh hartily, to see that yet you are ignorant, that No, is no negative in a womans mouth. My sonne, beleeve me, a woman, speaking of women: a lovers modesty among us is much more praised, then liked … above all, mark Helen daughter to Jupiter, who could never brooke her manerly-wooing Menelaus, but disdained his humblenes, & lothed his softnes. But so well she could like the force of enforcing Paris, that for him she could abide what might be abidden. But what? Menelaus takes hart; he recovers her by force; by force carries her home; by force injoies her; and she, who could never like him for serviceablenesse, ever after loved him for violence.30

Amphialus is interrupted by a messenger before he can answer these arguments. But Sidney knows that they require no answer. Their wickedness is sufficiently vouched for by the wickedness of the one who delivers them. For Gawain, too, there can be no compromise with such arguments, even in a qualified form (1498–1500): ‘Ȝe, be God,’ quoþ Gawayn, ‘good is your speche, Bot þrete is vnþryuande in þede þer I lende, And vche gift þat is geuen not with goud wylle.’

The values of the pentangle forbid any possible use of force in winning the love of a woman, whether lady or peasant, and Gawain’s rebuttal of the lady’s proposition is thus direct and forceful in itself. Gawain stands his ground here as does the boar against its adversary (1450–51, 1562–66 and 1582),31 but at the same time he offers the lady no discourtesy (1501–7). The lady is obliged to retreat, and pretends in the process to be fearful of offending one who can take against such propositions in so decided a way (1508–9). She shifts her position now from that of teacher (1481–91) to that of pupil (1525–34). This is a stratagem which Gawain recognizes in his urbane reply (1535–39) and undermines by the effective use of the rhetorical device of gradatio (1540–45). Thus the lady’s imposture is exposed and she is forced to break off the contest of the second day (1554–57). But for all the surface charm we are left in no doubt of the strenuousness of the moral struggle that has taken place (1549–50):

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But, like the lord’s killing of the boar (1583–96), Gawain’s triumph on the second day is decisive (1551–53): Bot he defended hym so fayr þat no faut semed, Ne non euel on nawþer halue, nawþer þay wysten bot blysse.

On the third day the fox leads the huntsmen a merry dance, dodging and doubling back (1707–8), but when he thinks that he is safe he runs into more trouble (1709–14). He is forced into the open (1715–18), rebuked by the pursuing hounds (1719–25) and given no respite (1726–28). On the third day Gawain too is under attack from all sides. The lady now exploits her sexual charms to the full (1733–41), and rebukes the knight for sleeping in his bed (1742–47). This is doubly unfair, for Gawain is preoccupied by anxious fears of impending death (1748–54). He has to manoeuvre in this way and that to avoid the dangers that beset him, at once of unchastity, discourtesy and infidelity (1770–75). He does not yield to unchastity either by admitting to a previous love (1788–91) or by acknowledging the lady’s love in offering her a love-token (1805–7) or by accepting from her a love-token (1821–23). Nor has he been moved by the great value of the precious ring that she first offers him (1817–20). His rejection of all the lady’s blandishments and importunities is complete (1839–41): And þerfore, I pray yow, displese yow noȝt, And lettez be your bisinesse, for I bayþe hit yow neuer to graunte.

But, like Reynard before him, when he thinks that he has escaped from the danger he finds himself in most deadly peril. The lady, like the titleres at Reynard’s tail (1726), presses relentlessly. Suddenly she shifts her ground and is prepared to vilify Gawain (1846–47), as the fox is vilified (1721–25), with a charge of covetousness of which it is already apparent that he is free (1826–29). She appeals instead (with unerring aim) to the knight’s fears for his life (1849–54), and as he struggles with the contending emotions of

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fear and relief (1855–58) she prevails upon him to make that fateful promise which marks the limit of his virtue: ‘þe leude hym acordez / Þat neuer wyȝe schulde hit wyt, iwysse, bot þay twayne / for noȝte’ (1863–65). Thus Gawain is taken in the trap, for from the contradiction of the promises thus made to the lady and to the lord there is no escape. IV. The intricate and delicately balanced structure of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight is nowhere more evident than in the enclosing of the bedroom scenes within the hunting scenes and the parallel development of the action of the three days. The repeated actions are significant not only in themselves, but also in the very fact of being repeated. Each single action demands to be viewed in relation to the larger pattern of which it is a part. Now the question of the symbolic value of the hunts ought not to be considered apart from the parallels that exist between them in the progressive development of the fable. If one of the hunts is symbolically significant, all three are likely to be symbolically significant; if two of the hunts are not symbolically significant, why should we assume that a third which is structurally parallel is symbolically divergent? Here is an aesthetic objection to Burrow’s reading, in which he posits symbolic value on the third day only, in violation of the poem’s structure, and is led as a result to violate the moral significance of the poem by predicating cunning of Gawain.32 Our first principle, then, in respect of the poem’s symbolism, is that we seek to identify a consistent symbolic relation between the hunting and bedroom scenes corresponding to the parallel narration of the events of the three days. In the second place, the symbolism of deer, boar and fox is not to be pressed to the point of identity any more than is the symbolism of the pentangle. To look for an identity between symbol and referent is to deny the very meaning of a symbol, which lies not in denotation but in suggestiveness. Judgment is always required of the reader in knowing how far and in what directions to press the potential significance of a symbol. To look for a symbolic identity between Gawain and the deer, boar and fox respectively is an error of judgment, akin in many ways to that of those who insist upon reading allegorical works in terms of a one-for-one correspondence in the

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levels of meaning. In the present instance the judgmental error is based upon the elevation of character at the expense of fable, and the consequent imposition of a psychological frame of reference alien to the poet’s exposition of his abstract, co-ordinating idea. If we are not to posit a deer-like timidity of Gawain on the first day, and a boar-like ferocity of him on the second day, by what imaginative logic are we to posit a fox-like cunning of him on the third day? Commentators who recoil from the ideas of timidity and ferocity as applied to Gawain should recoil also from the application to him of cunning, and for the same reason, namely, its unaptness. The symbolism, as is only too evident in the case of the fox, has a moral value, but being moral it is generalized. We may contrast in this respect the symbol of the pentangle and its value of nobility or righteousness. The poet intends to apply this symbol directly to Gawain, and he goes out of his way to do so, enforcing the relation with a syllogistic precision (623–35). The symbols of deer, boar and fox are not fastened on Gawain in this way, and we must assume that the poet (no less than his modern readers) wishes to avoid the absurdity of doing so. At the same time no reader can deny the attribution of cunning to the fox – ‘so Reniarde watz wylé’ (1728) – or its relevance to the bedroom scene on the third day. It is a good point at which to examine the way in which the symbolism works. The fox is cunning, it is true, but no less cunning are the hounds that pursue him. And it is the cunning of the hounds that the poet first of all chooses to draw to our attention (1699–1700): Summe fel in þe fute þer þe fox bade, Traylez ofte a traueres bi traunt of her wyles.

It is clear that the symbolic value of cunning is diffused rather than concentrated; cunning is relevant to the fable at this point, not the cunning of any particular agent in it. The idea of cunning can be applied, therefore, with perfect consistency to the lady’s actions. Thus it is said of the fox: ‘Ofte he watz runnen at, when he out rayked ’ (1727), and shortly afterwards of the lady making her purposeful way to Gawain’s bedroom: ‘Bot ros hir vp radly, rayked hir þeder’ (1735). The coincidence of terms here, linking the fox and the lady, is well designed by the poet to alert his audience to the moral significance of the events that he is about to describe.

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Again, whereas the fox is cunning, he can hardly be called cunning for seeking to avoid the blow from the hunter’s sword: there is no living creature, cunning or simply prudent, that would not instinctively seek to save its life in this fashion. But the notion of cunning has become so imprecisely generalized that Savage is able to characterize the death of the fox as follows: The fox resorts to a bit of trickery, and that bit of trickery is the very cause of his undoing. The position of Gawain is the same: in his desire to avoid death from the impending blow, he resorts to trickery, and his recourse to duplicity proves the sole and only cause of his disgrace. Thus the two situations closely resemble one another.33

The resemblance consists, however, in the instinct for life itself. Gawain suddenly sees in the offer of the girdle the hope of escape from certain death and in grasping at that hope is undone by the lady’s cunning (1859–63). The resemblance between Gawain and the fox can go no further, for the knight ‘voyded of vche vylany’ (634) is not to be characterized by cunning. It is here above all that the reader needs to exercize some tact in not pressing an analogy beyond the bounds that a poet has devised for it. Thus, although the idea of cunning is obviously relevant to the action of the third day, it is limited and defined by that action and does not explain every part of it. And in the same way, as we have seen, the caution of the deer and the fierceness of the boar are analogies that cannot be pressed beyond certain definite limits. Indeed, the moral issue of the third day is in fact for Gawain one of courage rather than of cunning. The evidence for this is that the poet reminds us of Gawain’s need for the help of the Virgin Mary (1768–69): Gret perile bitwene hem stod, Nif Maré of hir knyȝt mynne.34

The immediate connection of the Virgin Mary is with the virtue of courage rather than that of chastity. This fact is established in the pentangle passage (644–50), and once again we must seek to do justice to the particularities of this poem (and especially to matter belonging to its coordinating idea) rather than to more general considerations. Courage is necessary in the man who remains continent, for continence is nothing

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other than resistance to evil passions, namely, the desires and pleasures of touch. Moderation is above all most difficult in respect of these passions, and hence the virtue of temperance is principally concerned with them (Aquinas, ST, 2a 2ae 141.4). But since temperance is the moderation of the desires and pleasures of touch, it is as a consequence also directed to the sorrows that result from the absence of such pleasures (ST, 2a 2ae 141.3). And it is in the endurance of these sorrows that the virtue of courage, or more particularly perseverance (ST, 2a 2ae 137.2 ad 1), is called for. Hence it is courage that Gawain shows when he responds decisively to the most powerful of the sexual temptations that the lady sets before him: ‘“God schylde,” quoþ þe schalk, “þat schal not befalle!”’ (1776). And it is in respect of the virtue of courage that Gawain’s moral fall corresponds to the fox’s death. The fox in seeking to save his life from the blow of the hunter’s sword retreats into the jaws of the pack of hounds (1898–1905). And Gawain, seeking to avoid death from the blow of the axe at the Green Chapel, falls into the trap cunningly laid for him by the lady (1855–67). No wonder he is later to reflect ruefully upon the ‘wyles of wymmen’ (2415). V. The intricacy and subtlety of the poet’s moral and artistic design are such as to enable us to do justice to Gawain’s excellence as a human being, and we should not withhold from him the admiration which is the due of such excellence. This is not to overlook the single failure in the exchange of winnings agreement. It is a failure that comes about under the pressure of fear. Even though the source of Gawain’s fear lies outside the immediate context of the exchange of winnings agreement, nevertheless such fear is for all that morally related to it. But just as the habit of virtue is not acquired by a single good act, neither is it undone by a single sinful act (ST, 1a 2ae 71.4 sed contra). The co-existence of the (venial) act of sin and the habit of virtue is shown in the way that Gawain faithfully keeps his promise to the lady to conceal the girdle from her lord (1872–75). The contextual glossing of holdely (1875) as ‘carefully’35 is yet another product of naturalistic expectations, that is, the natural act of hiding something away is given priority over its moral significance. But the poem’s controlling idea of trawþe

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comprehends the moral act of fidelity, and ‘faithfully’, the leading sense of holdely (well attested in English poetry from at least the time of Beowulf ), is what is intended by the poet here. Our final conclusion must surely be that medieval romances are to be cherished for the literary kind to which they belong. As L.P. Hartley puts it in the opening sentence of The Go-Between, ‘The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.’

Notes 1 2 3 4 5 6

7 8 9

Reference is throughout to Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, edited by J.R.R. Tolkien and E.V. Gordon, second edition, revised by Norman Davis (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1967). W.R.J. Barron, Trawthe and Treason: The Sin of Gawain Reconsidered (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1980), p. 12. I am setting aside editorial punctuation at this point for reasons which should become sufficiently clear. Davis, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (1967), p. 110. Davis, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (1967), p. 110. See Richard Morris, Sir Gawayne and The Green Knight, EETS (OS) 4 (London: Oxford University Press, 1864); Sir Israel Gollancz, Sir Gawain and The Green Knight, EETS (OS) 210 (London: Oxford University Press, 1940), p. 114; R.A. Waldron, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, York Medieval Texts (London: Edward Arnold, 1970), p. 85; W.R.J. Barron, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Manchester Medieval Classics (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1974), pp. 175–76 (and revised edition, 1998, p. 178), and Theodore Silverstein, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight: A New Critical Edition (Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press, 1984), p. 148. Waldron, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (1970), p. 85. On the wisdom of the deer, see Edward, Second Duke of York, The Master of Game, edited by William A. and F. Baillie-Grohman, second edition (London: Chatto & Windus, 1909), pp. 30–31 and 34–35. The Parlement of the Thre Ages, edited by M.Y. Offord, EETS (OS) 246 (London: Oxford University Press, 1950).

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10

Davis, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (1967), p. 213, glosses the phrase (s.v. slyde) as ‘slept softly on’, but such a gloss does not obviously apply to one in Gawain’s physical condition. The use of a corresponding phrase in Patience, 186, ‘Slypped vpon a sloumbe-selepe, and sloberande he routes’, must refer to a heavy sleep, for the compound sloumbe-selepe translates ‘sopore gravi’ in Jonah, 1.5. Compare also Patience, 466: ‘He slydeȝ on a sloumbe-slep sloghe vnder leues’. See Patience, edited by J.J. Anderson, Old and Middle English Texts (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1969), pp. 59 and 103. This is the significance of the unprotected part of the Valley of Princes in Purgatorio, VIII.97–99: ‘Da quella parte onde non ha riparo / la picciola vallea, era una biscia, / forse qual diede ad Eva il cibo amaro, / At that part where the little valley has no rampart was a snake, such, perhaps, as gave to Eve the bitter food’. Reference is to Natalino Sapegno (ed.), La Divina Commedia, second edition, 3 vols (Florence: La Nuova Italia, 1968), II.90, and to John D. Sinclair (trans.), The Divine Comedy of Dante Alighieri, 3 vols (London: Oxford University Press, 1971), II.111. Sapegno explains that ‘[l]a tentazione colpisce l’anima, dove essa è più debole e meno difesa’ (II.90). Davis, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (1967), p. 197 (s.v. lurk(k)e). Davis, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (1967), p. 197. Barron, Trawthe and Treason: The Sin of Gawain Reconsidered (1980), p. 22. I owe this point to the excellent discussion of Carolynn Van Dyke, The Fiction of Truth: Structures of Meaning in Narrative and Dramatic Allegory (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1985), pp. 52–53. See The Master of Game, p. 5. For an interesting development of this argument (albeit erroneous in its application of such sinfulness to Gawain), see V.J. Scattergood, ‘Sir Gawain and the Green Knight and the sins of the flesh’, Traditio, 37 (1981), 347–71. Davis, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (1967), p. 185, glosses grayþely, 1470, as ‘pleasantly’, but the gloss ‘duly, as was right’ is more fitting. This is the gloss that Davis supplies for line 2292: ‘Gawayn grayþely hit bydez, and glent with no membre’, that is, for the corresponding second blow of the axe. The obligations of a guest can be perceived by boys as well as men, if Leo Colston’s response to Marcus Maudsley in The Go-Between is in any way representative: ‘I sighed. It was to be a French conversation. French was one of the few school subjects which Marcus was better at than I was. He had had a French governess who had given him a good accent; he had also, unlike me, been abroad and there picked up words and phrases his governess would not have taught him. And he had an annoying habit, when one mispronounced a word, of repeating it with the right pronunciation. But he was not a prig, and had allowed his real French

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12 13 14 15 16

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to be overlaid by a smattering of the pidgin French we all sometimes talked. I was his guest, with a guest’s obligation to comply’. Reference is to L.P. Hartley, The Go-Between (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1953), p. 197. 19 For an explanation of this sense of trawþe, see Gerald Morgan, ‘The Significance of the Pentangle Symbolism in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’, MLR, 74 (1979), 769–90 (article 1). 20 ‘Now a plan governing a whole necessarily involves knowing what is special to the parts which make up the whole; just as an architect cannot plan a house without knowing what is special to each part of it’ (trans. Thomas Gornall, S.J.). Reference is to St Thomas Aquinas: Summa theologiae, 61 vols (1964–81). 21 Aristotle, De poetica, translated by Ingram Bywater in The Works of Aristotle Translated into English, edited by W.D. Ross, Volume XI (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1924), 1450a and Torquato Tasso, Scritti sull’arte poetica, edited by Ettore Mazzali, 2 vols (Turin: Einaudi, 1977), II.227–29. 22 Aristotle goes so far as to say that ‘a tragedy is impossible without action, but there may be one without Character’ (De poetica, 6 1450a). This is a hard saying. What it means is that actions are carried out by agents, but by ‘character’ Aristotle understands moral choice, and human agents are not alays seen in the act of making choices. Characters are thus seen to possess a moral but not a poetic autonomy. See Gerald F. Else, Aristotle’s Poetics: the Argument (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1957), pp. 238–39. 23 Gollancz, Sir Gawain and The Green Knight (1940), p. 124 and J.A. Burrow, A Reading of ‘Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’ (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1965), p. 111. 24 Davis, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (1967), p. 107. 25 The Master of Game, pp. 8–11 and 29. 26 Reference is to The Works of Sir Thomas Malory, edited by Eugène Vinaver, second edition, reprinted with corrections and additions, 3 vols (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1973). 27 Burrow, A Reading of ‘Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’ (1965), pp. 90–91. 28 ‘… unless the remedy of at least some compulsion is first applied to take advantage of their modesty.’ Reference is to Andreas Capellanus on Love, edited with an English translation by P.G. Walsh (London: Duckworth, 1982), pp. 222–23. 29 Vinaver, III.1326. 30 The Prose Works of Sir Philip Sidney, edited by Albert Feuillerat, 4 vols (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1912; reprinted 1969), I.452. 31 See also The Master of Game, p. 49. 32 Burrow, A Reading of ‘Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’ (1965), pp. 98 and 112.

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H.L. Savage, ‘The Significance of the Hunting Scenes in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’, JEGP, 27 (1928), 5–15 (p. 6). According to Davis, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (1967), p. 121, following Hulbert and Knott, the intervention of Mary here constitutes yet another artistic blunder, for it interferes with the testing of Gawain at a crucial point. But the operation of human free will is a secondary cause concerned with contingent realities, and is dependent on the first cause which is God. The will cannot be the ultimate source of its own free acts (see Aquinas, ST, 1a 2ae 10.1 ad 1 and 10.4 ad 2). Davis, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (1967), p. 190.

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3 The Meaning of Kind Wit, Conscience and Reason in the First Vision of Piers Plowman

I. In the fiction of the first vision of Piers Plowman, Langland introduces the three related personifications of Kind Wit, Conscience and Reason. The distinct imaginative identities of these three figures support the assumption of three separate (albeit related) inner meanings. It has not been easy, however, to elucidate these meanings and relationships. T.P. Dunning was led in the first edition of his Interpretation of the A-Text to eliminate one of these fictional distinctions by claiming that Kind Wit and Reason are merely synonyms.1 T.P. Dolan, in his valuable revision of Dunning’s book, was led to eliminate another in commending Bloomfield’s definition of Conscience as ‘a combination of the two scholarly terms conscientia and synderesis.’2 And yet Aquinas has written two separate articles (ST, 1a 79.12 and 13) precisely in order to distinguish between synderesis as the habit of first principles of the practical intellect and conscience as the application of knowledge to act.3 Moreover, the distinction of synderesis and conscience is implicitly accepted by Langland in the definition of conscience that he supplies at B XV.31–32: And whan I chalange or chalange noght, chepe or refuse, Thanne am I Conscience ycalled, Goddes clerk and his notarie.4

There is nothing remarkable about Langland’s precision of language and thought here, for we do not need to suppose that he has confounded conscience with synderesis. In a fiction in which Conscience is differentiated from both Kind Wit and Reason there is scope enough for a discrimination of meanings. It is the purpose of this article to show that the fictional distinctions of Kind Wit, Conscience and Reason are both imaginatively and philosophically coherent and also that their philosophical coherence lies within the bounds of scholastic orthodoxy.

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II. In any consideration of the roles of Kind Wit, Conscience and Reason it is important to take account not only of the relationship that is established between them but also of the order in which they appear. It is Kind Wit who makes clerks and so provides for the counsel of the King and the protection of the commonwealth (Prol.114–15). It is through Kind Wit that society is enabled to make provision for its material sustenance (Prol.118–20). It is Kind Wit also who with the King and the commons fashions law and justice (Prol.121–22). Although these lines are not found in the C text, the prayer of the lunatic that the King rule in accordance with justice (Prol.123–27) is transferred to Kind Wit (C Prol.147–50). This is a fitting change, for the lunatic has spoken ‘clergially’ (B Prol.124). The sphere of operation of Kind Wit in the B and C texts is thus a wide one, extending to both learning and justice. This central function of Kind Wit is confirmed by his relation to Conscience, for Kind Wit is the teacher of Conscience (III.284). Some changes in the C Prologue emphasize the link between Kind Wit and Conscience and also the distinction of their roles. In the C text it is Conscience who contrives, together with Kind Wit and knighthood, that the commons provide food for the whole community (C Prol.142–43). The speech of the angel on the need for justice to be tempered by mercy (B Prol.128–38) is transferred in C to Conscience (C Prol. 151–57). Again there is a fitness in this change, for the words of the angel are directed to the administration of justice. The relationship between Kind Wit and Reason is first defined by Lady Holy Church in response to the dreamer’s question about a proper attitude to money (I.54–57): – For rightfully Reson sholde rule yow alle, And Kynde Wit be wardeyn youre welthe to kepe, And tutour of youre tresor, and take it yow at nede, For housbondrie and he holden togidres.

Kind Wit and Reason are in accord, but Kind Wit exercises a role of general supervision. At IV.157–58 Kind Wit is again in agreement with Reason, attesting the justice of Reason’s total condemnation of Wrong. In the C text

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(IV.151–53), Langland emphasizes the common agreement of Kind Wit, Conscience and Reason: Ac al ryhtful recordede þat Resoun treuthe sayde And Kynde Wit and Consience corteysliche thonkede Resoun for his ryhtful speche.5

The agreement of all three has already been apparent (B III.284–85): I, Conscience, knowe this, for Kynde Wit it me taughte – That Reson shal regne and reaumes governe.

The meaning of Kind Wit can be established with some confidence from a fictional account that is at once so consistent and so detailed. The name ‘Kind Wit’ points to an understanding that is in human beings not by reasoning but by nature. It is indeed in these terms that Aquinas defines synderesis, the habit of first principles of the practical intellect (ST, 1a 79.12): ‘Unde et principia operabilium nobis naturaliter indita non pertinent ad specialem potentiam, sed ad specialem habitum naturalem, quem dicimus synderesim.’6 Thus it is that Aquinas can also refer to synderesis as ‘ratio naturalis’ (ST, 2a 2ae 47.6 ad 1). But Kind Wit seems to have a wider sphere of reference than synderesis, for he is concerned with the making of clerks as well as the fashioning of justice. He is better understood, therefore, as the natural understanding of the first principles of the speculative as well as the practical intellect. Such a wide range of reference makes good sense in the light of the Aristotelian account of the intellectual virtues. In the Ethics (VI.1), Aristotle distinguishes between the knowledge of necessary or invariable things and of contingent or variable things. The order of truth in reference to the necessary is scientific and in reference to the contingent is ratiocinative. The distinction between the speculative and practical intellects is of a similar kind; the speculative intellect is ordered to truth in itself, the practical intellect to truth in relation to action (ST, 1a 79.11). The distinctions of scientific and ratiocinative parts and of speculative and practical intellects correspond but do not precisely coincide. In the practical order there must be first principles of action as there must be first principles of thought in the speculative order (ST, 1a 79.12). The first

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principles of the practical order belong to the scientific part as necessary and invariable. Aristotle does not posit, therefore, a sixth intellectual virtue in the practical intellect corresponding to the habit of first principles in the speculative intellect, namely, intellectus or understanding (see ST, 1a 2ae 57.2); rather, intellectus is extended to cover both. Thus in the sed contra of ST 1a 79.11 Aquinas invokes the statement of Aristotle’s De anima (III.10) that ‘intellectus speculativus per extensionem fit practicus’. It is one and the same act (intelligentia) that apprehends the universal principles of the speculative and practical orders. By representing Kind Wit as the teacher of Conscience Langland establishes the fact that it is natural reason or the habit of first principles which is the source of the knowledge that Conscience applies to a particular act. It is for this reason, as Aquinas explains, that Conscience has by some writers been identified with synderesis (ST, 1a 79.13). By the agreement of Kind Wit and Reason Langland means us to see that understanding is both the source and the term of human reasoning (ST, 1a 79.12): ‘ratiocinatio hominis, cum sit quidam motus, ab intellectu progreditur aliquorum, scilicet naturaliter notorum absque investigatione rationis, sicut a quodam principio immobili; et ad intellectum etiam terminatur, inquantum judicamus per principia per se naturaliter nota de his quae ratiocinando invenimus.’7 The role of Kind Wit as guardian of man’s wealth is to be construed here as a mark of liberality, for the liberal man does not fail to take care of his own interests (ST, 2a 2ae 117.1 ad 2). Such liberality is to be distinguished from the prudent management of one’s wealth. This is economy, or housbondrie, one of the four species of prudence (ST, 2a 2ae 48 and 50.3). Husbandry and Kind Wit are inseparable (holden togidres, I.57) because the virtue of prudence presupposes that the final judgment or conclusion of the practical syllogism is in conformity with the universal principles of morality from which it has been derived (ST, 2a 2ae 47.6). III. Conscience is introduced by the King to Meed as a possible husband in the following terms (III.110): I have a knyght, Conscience, cam late fro biyonde.

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Conscience is summoned before the King for that purpose and bows reverently before him (III.114–17). The image is that of a faithful servant of his liege lord, a crusading knight, perhaps, like Chaucer’s Knight. Conscience is informed by Soothness of the journey to Westminster (II.189–92). The King knows through Conscience that Peace has told the truth about Wrong (IV.61–62). Conscience’s knowledge of the truth of Wrong’s misdoings against Peace is subsequently confirmed (IV.80). At the end of the first vision the King prays that Conscience will not fail (IV.194). That Conscience admits of failure is evident from the end of the poem itself, for Conscience makes the mistake of letting the friars into Holy Church (XX.242 ff.). But Conscience is emphatic in his repudiation of Meed (III.120–69). He is led, in the face of Meed’s persuasive defence of her own interest, to distinguish between two kinds of reward—spiritual and material (III.230–58). His language and conduct before the King remain reverential, but his manner is authoritative (III.230–31): ‘Nay,’ quod Conscience to the Kyng and kneled to the erthe, ‘Ther are two manere of medes, my lord, by youre leve.’

This authority is confirmed by the coincidence of his language and that of Lady Holy Church as a result of two related additions to the A text (B II.36–39 and III.233–37a). The authority of Conscience is apparent too in his refusal to confound Meed with the wage that is due for labour or the gain that is made through trade (III.255–58). Here again Conscience is in agreement with Lady Holy Church, for Meed is presented by Lady Holy Church as a false end or principle of action. Conscience refuses to be reconciled to Meed unless advised to do so by Reason (IV.4–5). Conscience and Reason are on terms of the closest familiarity; Conscience rides to Reason and whispers in his ear (IV.14), and the two return to court whispering together (IV.25). Conscience fetches Reason at the King’s bidding (IV.6–7). After Reason has condemned Wrong, the King summons Conscience to him and then Reason (IV.171). Conscience directs Reason to ignore Warren Wisdom and Witty (IV.33): And bad Reson ryde faste and recche of hir neither.

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In the C text (IV.32–34), Conscience’s manner of address to Reason is more fittingly deferential: Ac Consience knewe hem wel and carped to Resoun: ‘Here cometh,’ quod Consience, ‘þat coueytise seruen. Ryde forth, syre Resoun, and rech nat of here tales.’

But it remains Conscience’s function to give instruction to Reason (IV.42– 43). In fictional details such as these it is clear that Reason is in some respects at least subsequent to Conscience. Reason is also in the end more authoritative than Conscience, for in the C text Langland makes Reason chancellor and Conscience judge (C IV.184–86): ‘Forthy, Resoun, redyly thow shalt nat ryden hennes But be my cheef chaunceller in cheker and in parlement And Consience in alle my courtes be a kynges iustice.’

It is clear that on the basis of these fictional details we must reject Dunning’s claim that ‘in Langland’s mind, natural understanding is conscience, and conscience is the natural understanding.’8 Conscience is the application of knowledge to act and so is distinguished by Aquinas from synderesis (ST, 1a 79.13). Since the knowledge of truth is not in the conscience directly, Langland shows the accession of truth in the figure of Soothness (that is, veritas). The fiction is again in accord with the distinctions of Scholastic philosophy (ST, 1a 2ae 19.5 sed contra): ‘Conscientia nihil aliud est quam applicatio scientiae ad aliquem actum. Scientia autem in ratione est.’9 Whereas synderesis is infallible, conscience is fallible.10 Aquinas explains the relation of fallible to infallible in the practical intellect as follows in his commentary on Aristotle’s De anima (826): ‘Et dicit quod “omnis intellectus est rectus”: quod intelligendum est de intellectu principiorum. Non enim erramus circa prima principia in operabilibus, cuiusmodi sunt, nulli nocendum esse, non esse aliquid iniuste agendum, et similia; sicut nec erramus circa prima principia in speculativis. In his autem quae sunt post principia, si quidem recte consideramus, procedit ex rectitudine quae est circa prima principia. Si autem a rectitudine deviamus, procedit ex errore qui accidit in ratiocinando.’11 It does not follow, however, that Conscience

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is in fact in error. The image of Conscience as a faithful knight is probably intended to suggest that usually he is not. But there is a potentiality for error, and Conscience admits as much by deferring to Reason. The subsequent agreement of the two shows the correctness of Conscience’s judgment of Meed. It needs also to be recognized, then, that Conscience is a figure of considerable authority in his own right and has a role to play in directing Reason to his act. IV. Reason prepares for the journey to the King in the company of Conscience (IV.17–21): And called Caton his knave, curteis of speche, And also Tomme Trewe-tonge-tel-me-no-tales Ne lesynge-to-laughen-of-for-I-loved-hem-nevere. ‘Set my sadel upon Suffre-til-I-se-my-tyme, And lat warroke hym wel with witty-wordes gerthes.’

These lines are evidently intended as a significant part of the definition of Reason. They are found in A IV.17–19, but without the reference to Tom True-tongue, and also in C IV.17–21, but with the substitution of ‘Auysethþe-byfore’ (C IV.21) for ‘witty-wordes gerthes’ (B IV.21). A characteristic act of Reason is to provide counsel or advice. Conscience appeals to Reason for advice: ‘But Reson rede me therto’ (IV.5). The King proclaims that Reason will ‘rede me the beste / Of Mede and of mo othere’ (IV.9–10). Reason is (with ironic aptness) advised by some to have pity on Wrong and to counsel the King and Conscience to allow Meed to act as surety on Wrong’s behalf (IV.110–12). A further irony is added in C by the alteration of C IV.106 to read: And for to consayle þe kynge on Consience thei lokede.

At the end of Passus IV, Reason is ready to remain with the King provided that ‘Conscience be of oure counseil’ (IV.193).12 It is also Reason’s function to rule. Lady Holy Church says that ‘rightfully Reson sholde rule yow alle’ (I.54), and Conscience has been taught

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by Kind Wit that ‘Reson shal regne and reaumes governe’ (III.285). At the beginning of Passus IV the King declares that Reason ‘shal rule my reaume’ (IV.9). The proper subjection of Conscience to Reason is evident when Conscience delivers the message of the King to Reason, for having done so he is then ready to take his leave of Reason (IV.15). Reason is uncompromising in his dealings with Wrong (IV.113–48), and this uncompromising stance is confirmed at the end of Passus IV (185–87). Reason will not waver from justice, whereas Conscience recognizes the difficulty in practice of maintaining such a commitment (IV.182–84). Reason has justice on his side, and so the King declares (IV.172). But set over against Reason are clerks, men of law, and Warren Wisdom, who take the part of Meed (IV.149–56). Warren Wisdom is the worldly wisdom that is antithetical to Reason. Reason is identified by Dunning with the practical intellect or the moral faculty,13 and such an identification is accepted by Pearsall who defines Reason as ‘the whole moral faculty as it participates in God’s truth’.14 But Aquinas has shown that the distinction of the speculative and practical intellects is not a distinction of faculties (ST, 1a 79.11). Moreover, moral activity can be properly understood only in terms of the interdependence of the faculties of intellect and will (ST, 1a 82.4 ad 1). Reason stands in Langland’s allegory not for the faculty of intellect but for the intellectual virtue of prudence or practical wisdom. This is made clear in the fiction by Reason’s function as ruler and counsellor. In the formation of a human act there are three stages or acts through which reason passes, namely, those of counsel, judgment, and command. Of these three acts the principal act is that of command, and it is with the act of command that the virtue of prudence is directly identified (ST, 1a 2ae 57.6): ‘Manifestum est autem quod in his quae per hominem fiunt principalis actus est praecipere, ad quem alii ordinantur. Et ideo virtuti quae est bene praeceptiva, scilicet prudentiae, tanquam principaliori, adjunguntur tanquam secundariae eubulia, quae est bene consiliativa, et synesis et gnome, quae sunt partes judicativae’.15 The virtues of good counsel (eubulia), sound judgment in ordinary cases (synesis), and penetrating judgment in exceptional cases (gnome) are potential parts of prudence (ST, 2a 2ae 51). Synesis and gnome are the virtues that are acquired by sincere and informed acts

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of conscience. Hence Langland insists upon the familiarity of the relation between Conscience and Reason. The nature of Reason is also clarified in the account of the preparations for the journey to the King, for Caton, Tom True-tongue, the horse, and girths are to be understood as four of the eight integral parts of prudence. The name ‘Caton’ has dearly been derived from the supposed author of the Disticha catonis, a collection of moral couplets put together in the third century but subsequently associated with Cato Uticensis, whose fame was widespread in the Middle Ages.16 The Disticha was the most popular of all the textbooks used in the medieval grammar school,17 so that the authority of Cato was known even to Pertelote (NPT, B2 4130–31). Caton is understood, therefore, to be the integral part of prudence called by Aquinas docilitas, that is, a receptiveness to teaching (ST, 2a 2ae 49.3). The very definition of prudence as right reason in human acts requires that understanding be placed among the integral parts of prudence, and this is what Tom True-tongue seems to stand for (ST, 2a 2ae 49.2). But it must be noted clearly here that the understanding which is an integral part of prudence is not the habit of first principles but the understanding of how the universal principle is embodied in a particular case (ST, 2a 2ae 49.2 ad 1). Reason’s horse Suffre-til-I-se-my-tyme is not patience18 but the caution that is also an integral part of prudence (ST, 2a 2ae 49.8). By Witty-wordes Gerthes, Langland may have in mind the solertia, that is, acumen or ingenuity, which Aquinas also places among the integral parts of prudence, and which he sees (ST, 2a 2ae 48) as complementing receptiveness to teaching in the acquisition of knowledge (ST, 2a 2ae 49.4). If this identification of Witty-wordes Gerthes with acumen is correct, Langland’s fiction cannot be regarded as wholly satisfactory since ‘wit’ is otherwise associated with understanding (as in the figure of Kind Wit). Such potential ambiguity may perhaps explain the substitution of ‘Auyseth-þe-byfore’ for ‘Wittywordes Gerthes’ at C IV.21. Auyseth-þe-byfore stands for the providentia, or foresight, that Aquinas also places among the integral parts of prudence (ST, 2a 2ae 49.6). The linking of foresight with caution in this way has a certain fitness, for both belong to the imperative as distinct from the cognitive side of prudence (ST, 2a 2ae 48).

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Why Reason is uncompromising emerges from the very definition of prudence, for prudence is right reason in human acts (ST, 2a 2ae 47.4). Hence it is made clear in the fiction also that justice is on the side of Reason. He is opposed by Warren Wisdom because Warren Wisdom stands for that worldly wisdom that is opposed to prudence (ST, 2a 2ae 46.1 ad 2): ‘[D]icendum quod … est quaedam sapientia mala … quae dicitur sapientia saeculi, quia accipit pro causa altissima et fine ultimo aliquod terrenum bonum.’19 If further confirmation were needed of the meaning of Reason as prudence, it is supplied by Langland himself at XV.27–28: And whan I deme domes and do as truthe techeth, Thanne is Racio my righte name – ‘reson’ on Englissh.

This is the English expansion of Isidore of Seville’s ‘dum iudicat, racio est’ (XV.39a). Judgment is to be understood here in a wider sense than that act of judgment which is to be identified with conscience. Judgment in the wider sense is to be set in opposition to apprehension in the distinction of understanding (Kind Wit) and wisdom (Reason). Thus in the In de anima Aquinas writes (629): ‘Intellectus enim habet iudicare, et hoc dicitur sapere et apprehendere, et hoc dicitur intelligere’.20 In Kind Wit, Conscience and Reason, therefore, we have the cognitive as distinct from the appetitive dimensions of a human act. Kind Wit appoints the end, and Reason determines the means through counsel and judgment and executes it through command. Conscience is the fallible act of judgment that if correct results in the virtue of synesis or sound judgment.

Notes 1 2

T.P. Dunning, Piers Plowman: An Interpretation of the A-Text (Dublin: The Talbot Press, 1937), p. 39. T.P. Dunning, Piers Plowman: An Interpretation of the A Text, second edition, revised and edited by T.P. Dolan (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1980), p. 26, n. 30.

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Reference to the Summa theologiae is to the edition and translation of Thomas Gilby and others, 61 vols (London: Eyre and Spottiswoode; New York: McGrawHill Book Company, 1964–81). References are to William Langland: The Vision of Piers Plowman, edited by A.V.C. Schmidt, Everyman’s University Library (London: J.M. Dent & Sons Ltd; New York: E.P. Dutton & Co. Inc., 1978) [now second edition, Everyman (London: J.M. Dent; Vermont: Charles E. Tuttle, 1995)]. The present study is of the B text, but that text itself cannot be entirely understood without reference to the texts that precede and follow it. Explanations of B should explain also the changes from A to B and from B to C as well as the elements of stability. References to the A and C texts are made to the following editions: Piers Plowman: The A Version, edited by George Kane (London: The Athlone Press, 1960), and Piers Plowman by William Langland: An Edition of the C-text, edited by Derek Pearsall, York Medieval Texts, second series (London: Edward Arnold, 1978) [now A New Annotated Edition of the C-text, Exeter Medieval Texts and Studies (Exeter: University of Exeter Press, 2008)]. I ignore the semicolon which Pearsall places after thonkede (C IV.152), for it makes no sense of the present passage (corrected in 2008, p. 108). Pearsall is here following the punctuation of Skeat’s text (C V.152): Rev. Walter W. Skeat, The Vision of William Concerning Piers the Plowman in Three Parallel Texts, 2 vols (London: Oxford University Press, 1886). ‘Hence the principles our nature imparts to us in practical matters do not belong to a special power but to a special habit there by nature, synderesis’ (trans. Timothy Suttor). ‘[H]uman reasoning, being a movement, has understanding as its point of departure, the understanding, namely, of some few things known naturally prior to rational analysis, which are its unfailing source. And it also has understanding as its point of arrival, when we judge what we have discovered by analysis in the light of those naturally obvious principles’ (trans. Suttor). Dunning, An Interpretation of the A-Text (1937), p. 50. This matter is retained by Dolan (1980), p. 36. ‘[C]onscience is nothing other than the application of knowledge to a determinate deed. Knowledge is in the reason’ (trans. Gilby). On the implications of a mistaken conscience, see ST, 1a 2ae 19.5 and 6. ‘“All intellect”, he says, “is right”, by which he means that we never err about the first principles of action, about such truths as “it is wrong to do harm to anyone”, or “injustice is never right”, and so on. Those principles correspond to the equally infallible first principles of the speculative reason. But as for the consequences of these first principles, if we apprehend them aright it is because our thought is

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13 14 15

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Gerald morgan consistent with our grasp of the principles, whereas if we deviate from the truth the fault lies in our reasoning.’ Reference is to Angeli M. Pirotta, Sancti Thomae Aquinatis in Aristotelis librum de anima commentarium, sixth edition (Turin: Marietti, 1959), p. 195, translated by Kenelm Foster and Sylvester Humphries, Aristotle’s ‘De anima’ in the Version of William of Moerbeke and the Commentary of St. Thomas Aquinas (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul Ltd, 1951), p. 473. George Kane and E. Talbot Donaldson (eds), Piers Plowman: The B Version (London: The Athlone Press, 1975), read ‘be of youre counseil’. This is certainly an error, and in the face of the correct reading of the B archetype. Although Kane (n. 4 above) reads ‘ȝour’ at A 4.156, the reading ‘our’ is well attested (by UVHM) and must again be correct. Dunning, An Interpretation of the A-Text (1937, p. 39. On reason as ‘the moral faculty’, see also Dolan (1980), p. 27. See Pearsall, An Edition of the C-text (1978), note to C IV.5, p. 88 (retained in 2008, p. 102). ‘Now it is evident that in the doing of things the principal act is that of command, to which all the remainder lead up. Consequently the virtue of commanding well, namely prudence, which is the foremost, has other as it were secondary associated virtues, namely eubulia, which perfects counsel, and synesis and gnome, which relate to judgment’ (trans. W.D. Hughes). See also ST, 2a 2ae 47.8. See Dante, Purgatorio, I.31 ff. See Nicholas Orme, English Schools in the Middle Ages (London: Methuen & Co Ltd, 1973), pp. 102–3. It is so identified by J.A.W. Bennett, Langland: Piers Plowman, Medieval and Tudor Series (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1972), p. 144, and by Pearsall, An Edition of the C-text, p. 88 (retained in 2008, p. 102). ‘We have said that there is a kind of evil wisdom called worldly because it takes some worldly good to be the highest cause and ultimate end’ (trans. Thomas R. Heath). ‘Now the intellect as judging is said to have wisdom, whilst as apprehending it is said to understand.’

4 Langland’s Conception of Favel, Guile, Liar and False in the First Vision of Piers Plowman

I. The allegorical fiction of Passus II of Piers Plowman presents us with the separate personified characters of Favel, Guile, Liar and False. The distinctions that are implied by these characters are evidently subtle distinctions, and thus hard to perceive at any time. It is not to be wondered at if they have become somewhat blurred at a distance of six hundred years. Here is indeed a point at which the imaginative credibility of Langland’s fiction is sorely tested. But if we are to trust this fiction then the distinctions of fictional status signify real distinctions in the poem’s meaning. It is the purpose of the present article to identify these distinctions and the relationship between them by a consideration of each of the personifications in turn. II. The name Favel at once poses difficulties, and we have to choose between alternative derivations. OED, s.v. favel, sb. B.3 defines Langland’s meaning as ‘a mere personification of cunning or duplicity’, and derives the word from OF fauvel which means ‘a fallow-coloured horse’. From the Roman de Fauvel (1310) the fallow horse became ‘proverbial as the type of fraud, cunning, or duplicity’ (OED, B.2). MED, s.v. favel n. assigns the meanings ‘flattery, insincerity; duplicity, guile, intrigue’, and derives the word from OF favele which means ‘story, fable, lying, deception’, ultimately from L fabella. These various meanings are not carefully distinguished from one another, and it is perhaps inevitable as a result that they should all appear in one way or another in the commentaries on the first vision. J.A.W. Bennett glosses Fauel as ‘Fraud’,1 and A.V.C. Schmidt glosses it as ‘Deceit’.2 Schmidt is following T.P. Dunning who has ‘taken it here as an element in hypocrisy, though it really means hypocrisy in general, and as such, includes guile and lying.’3 But none of these glosses can be accepted as it stands, as we shall see from a detailed examination of Langland’s fiction.

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The marriage of Meed and False is designed by Favel. It is Favel who contrives to bring the pair together; as the A text has it (II.23) he ‘haþ forgid hem togidere’. The use of the verb forgen is instructive, for it means ‘to plot or contrive’ (MED, 4.(a)). Favel is thus fittingly described as the match-maker (B II.65–66): Ac Favel was the firste that fette hire out of boure And as a brocour broughte hire to be with Fals enjoyned.

Favel also provides the horses for the journey to Westminster (II.163). In the C text, however, it is Guile who borrows the horses (C II.176). It is an action that is indeed more suited to Guile, for it has to do not so much with the designing of the union between Meed and False, but with the execution of the design. Hence we see that Favel commands the action of Guile in distributing bribes to secure support for the marriage of Meed and False before the court at Westminster (II.144–48). It is through his fair words that Favel contrives to bring together Meed and False (A II.23), or to delude the couple (B II.42): Favel thorugh his faire speche hath this folk enchaunted,

or simply Meed herself (C II.43): Fauel thorw his flaterynge speche hath Mede foule enchaunted,

into an acceptance of the match. Favel’s victims are enchanted or held spellbound by his flattery. Strictly speaking, False can hardly be described as a victim of Favel; it is Meed rather who is deceived by his blandishments. Hence B’s ‘this folk’, that is, Meed and False, is corrected in C to ‘Mede’. The deceitful intention of Favel in his flattery is also made clear. In the enfeoffment of Meed Favel uses ‘fikel speche’ (B II.79) or ‘a fals speche’ (C II.83). In the C text (II.25–26), where Favel is made the father of Meed, he is described in the following terms: Oon Fauel was her fader þat hath a fykel tonge And selde soth sayth bote yf he souche gyle.

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Favel and False are persistently associated with one another throughout the fiction of Passus II. Favel is introduced along with False in answer to the dreamer’s request for knowledge of the false (II.6). The two are linked together in the enfeoffment of Meed in all three versions of the poem; False ‘the feffement … hath ymaked’ (II.73) and Favel ‘feffeth by this chartre’ (II.79). They are thanked for their bribes (II.149–50) and together are seen to be happy at the outcome (II.158). They ride together to Westminster with Meed in their midst (II.184–85). The King promises to exact vengeance upon them and their companions (II.193–96). A detailed and largely consistent fictional portrait of Favel thus emerges from an analysis of Passus II in all three versions of the poem. The distinction of the roles of Favel and Guile may not at once have been completely clarified in Langland’s mind, nor perfectly articulated, to judge by the changes introduced in the course of revision. Nevertheless it is evident that it falls to Favel to be the immediate moving force of the marriage of Meed and False. His role in many respects is to be compared with that of Pandarus in Troilus and Criseyde, for Pandarus too is ‘swich a meene / As maken wommen unto men to comen’ (III.254–55).4 It is cunning that is above all to be discerned in the conduct of Pandarus, as we see from the stratagem that he formulates to deliver his niece as a lover to his friend (TC, I.1058–71). And it is cunning too that Langland intends to portray in the figure of Favel. Cunning is what the name Favel means, but cunning as distinguished from duplicity and not united with it. Langland’s allegorical fiction shows that it is OED’s definition and derivation of favel that are here correct, and not the ones supplied by MED. Favel is conveyed to Westminster ‘vpon fair speche’ (A. II.130) or ‘on a flaterere fetisly atired’ (B II.166),5 that is to say, Favel is not flattery but is supported by flattery. The identification of Favel and cunning is confirmed by the definition of cunning (astutia) that is provided by Aquinas. Cunning is a sin of means, which are feigned and specious, and not of the end, which may be good or bad (ST, 2a 2ae 55.3). In Passus II the means is the marriage scheme itself, whereas the end, appointed by covetousness and not by cunning, is the acquisition of material reward. The true function of cunning resides in the very act of devising such plots or schemes as the marriage of Meed (ST, 2a 2ae 55.4):

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Gerald morgan Dicendum quod … ad astutiam pertinet assumere vias non veras, sed simulatas et apparentes, ad aliquem finem prosequendum vel bonum vel malum. Assumptio autem harum viarum potest dupliciter considerari. Uno quidem modo in ipsa excogitatione viarum hujusmodi; et hoc proprie pertinet ad astutiam, sicut etiam excogitatio rectarum viarum ad debitum finem pertinet ad prudentiam.6

It is of the nature of cunning to conceal itself, for cunning can hardly be cunning that reveals itself to be so. Thus Langland insists upon the false speech or flattery of Favel. Flattery is speech in praise of another with the intention of pleasing, but without regard to the mean of virtue (ST, 2a 2ae 115.1). Chaucer’s Parson says of flatterers that they ‘been the develes enchauntours; for they make a man to wene of hymself be lyk that he nys nat lyk’ (ParsT, I.615), and enchaunten is the very word that Langland uses to describe the activity of Favel in deceiving Meed. Flattery is to be seen, therefore, as part of the nature of cunning or its habitual means. But flattery in its turn is to be distinguished from the execution of the particular stratagems devised by cunning. As we shall now see, such execution belongs to the province of guile. III. The name Guile does not immediately suggest to the modern reader the distinction that Langland intends between Favel and Guile. Nor can it be said that the definitions offered by the dictionaries lend any obvious assistance. OED defines guile sb. as ‘insidious cunning, deceit, treachery’ (1) and ‘an instance of this; a deceit, stratagem, trick, wile’ (2). MED defines gile n. (3) as ‘a crafty or fraudulent trick; a plot; stratagem, wile; a lie’ (1.(a)) and ‘the quality of deceitfulness, dishonesty, treachery’ (2). Under 2 MED supplies a reference to C II.158, where Guile carries out the command of Favel. If Guile is the quality of deceitfulness his subordination to Favel is altogether baffling. The relationship between the two demands a narrower definition of Guile. In the A version Favel contrives to bring Meed and False together, Guile overmasters or dominates Meed, and Liar arranges that the two lie together (A II.23–25). This logical and potentially significant fictional sequence disappears from the B and C texts, where only the roles of Favel and Liar remain, and both in a somewhat modified form (B II.42–43, and

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C II.43–44). Why is this? The answer seems to be that the role of Guile is being defined with increasing precision, or at least a good deal more restrictively. It is by cunning and flattery that Meed is properly said to be deceived, and not by guile. At II.70 Guile gives the charter recording the conveyance of property to Meed and False, that is, Favel makes the endowment (II.79) and Guile delivers it. Here it is apparent that Guile carries out the plan of Favel. At C II.126 Theology accuses Simony of giving Meed to False ‘as Gyle tauhte’; here tauhte would seem to mean ‘directed, enjoined’ (OED, 4), and points to an act of execution. Guile is commanded by Favel to distribute bribes in order to win support for the marriage of Meed and False, and in particular to bribe the notaries, who draw up the legal document, and False Witness, who may then be relied upon to misrepresent the nature of the contract (II.144–48). Favel provides horses for the journey to Westminster at II.163–64, but in C (II.176–78) it is Guile who arranges for a sheriff to convey Meed gently in a litter. The purpose of the journey, as Skeat pointed out long ago,7 was to get to Westminster in good time to bribe the legal officers there. It is especially appropriate, therefore, that Guile should take care of the practical arrangements for the journey, and that he should show such solicitude for the welfare of Meed. Guile it is who acts as a guide to the great company on the journey to Westminster (II.188), and in the C text (II.198–99) Langland has drawn attention to this role by a slight expansion: Ac Gyle was forgoere to gyen al this peple For to wisse hem þe way and with Mede abyde.

In his flight to escape the punishment decreed by the King, Guile falls into the hands of merchants. He is locked up by them in their shops in order to display their wares, and is dressed up as an apprentice (II.212–15). Here the subordinate role of Guile is once again underlined. The punishment that is appointed for Guile is that his head is to be cut off (II.202). This punishment gives us a special insight into Guile’s nature, for it is directly proportioned to that nature. Such fitting punishment (contrappasso) is applied consistently by Dante to the impenitent sinners who occupy the higher and lower regions of hell, and is to be seen also in the slight nick

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that Gawain receives from the third stroke of the Green Knight’s axe in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.8 It would seem from the revisions introduced into the B and C texts that Langland had not at the beginning entirely clarified in his mind the relationship between Favel and Guile. But there can be no doubt that it is Favel who conceives of the scheme to marry Meed and False, and that it is Guile who has the subordinate role of seeing that this scheme is effectively carried out. Now this is precisely the distinction that Aquinas draws between cunning (astutia) and guile (dolus): ‘Et ideo dolus importat quamdam executionem astutiae; et secundum hoc ad astutiam pertinet’ (ST, 2a 2ae 55.4).9 At II.70 Langland refers to ‘Gile with hise grete othes’. The significance of the oaths is that guile is the use of words in order to deceive as distinguished from fraud which is the use of deeds (ST, 2a 2ae 111.3 ad 2). It is the case, however, that guile may also refer to deeds as well as to words (ST, 2a 2ae 55.4 ad 2). The meaning of Guile seems to have been generalised by Langland in this way, and so the reference to Guile’s oaths is omitted from the C text (II.70). As a result the roles of Guile and Liar are more sharply differentiated. As cunning is opposed to prudence, so guile is opposed to simplicity (ST, 2a 2ae 111.3 ad 2). Guile is in fact nothing other than duplicity, and consists in an outward pretence that contradicts the true intention (ST, 2a 2ae 109.2 ad 4). The fitness of Guile’s punishment can now be appreciated, for there is no place for duplicity in our social relations. The social debt that we owe to others in our dealings with them is that of simplicity or singleness in our intentions and in our expression of them (ST, 2a 2ae 109.3 ad 1). IV. The name Liar seems to offer no problems, for what we have here is indeed ‘one who lies or tells a falsehood; an untruthful person’ (OED). But it is important to recognize the need to adhere strictly to this definition, especially since MED does not do so in providing the glosses s.v. lier(e) (n. 1 (a)) ‘a liar, slanderer, deceitful person’. A somewhat greater significance is attached by Langland to the role played by Liar in the course of the final revision of his poem. At C II.6 the presence of ‘fikel-tonge Lyare’

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is specified in the company of False and Favel, whereas it is not in either the A or the B texts. Similar references to Liar are also introduced into the C text at II.77 and 205. Liar plays a supporting role to Favel in bringing about the marriage of Meed (II.43). The word that Langland uses of Liar’s activity is ledynge, that is ‘arrangement, management’ (MED, 2.(c)).10 At II.69, in an addition to the A text, Liar announces the charter delivered by Guile. It is to be noted that the words of the charter are not such as a liar would utter, for they state the sinful reality that a liar would aim to conceal. Thus, for example, it is declared (II.75–77): Witeth and witnesseth, that wonieth upon this erthe, That Mede is ymaried moore for hire goodes Than for any vertue or fairnesse or any free kynde.

Here is not a question of the significance of the allegory, but of the nature of literary representation, since it is as necessary for the reader of the poem to be made aware of the fact of lying as it is for the character within the poem to be led astray by it. This lack of naturalism is one consequence of a mode of discourse that is essentially objective, and can be paralleled by Chaucer’s representation of hypocrisy in the confession of the Pardoner.11 Civil bids that a long cart be made of Liar in order to convey the rest of the followers, such as false beggars and impostors, on the journey to Westminster (II.182–83). The literal meaning is that fraud is sustained by lies. Skeat’s edition of the A text reads (II.156): And make Liȝere a long cart to leden alle this othure,

that is, that Civil bids a cart be made to transport Liar. But this reading has poor support among the manuscripts of the A version (only VH) and Kane accordingly reads (A II.143): And makiþ of lyere a lang carte to leden al þis oþere.

Although Bennett observes that ‘Liar is elsewhere (68 etc.) a person, and to make a cart for him would seem more appropriate’,12 it makes very little sense to think of Liar as being conveyed in a cart. Sheriffs, assizers, and flatterers

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are all persons, and yet they serve well enough as means of transportation. The important point about Liar as a personification is the relationship in which he stands to Favel and False and to others in their company. Liar does not convey Favel and False, but their hangers-on. Liar is to be put in the pillory (II.204–5), for it is clearly fitting that lies should be exposed. He runs off to avoid his punishment, but is everywhere reviled until pardoners take pity on him and he finds a welcome among doctors, spicers, minstrels, and friars (II.216–33). The role of Liar is to help to bring about the marriage of Meed and False designed by Favel. This he does partly in association with Guile, although his role is somewhat more indirect. At the same time he assumes increasing prominence in the course of Langland’s successive revisions of the poem. All these fictional elements may be elucidated by reference to the analysis of lying (mendacium) in the Summa theologiae. Lying consists in the intention of falsifying the true relationship between sign and signified. It is to be distinguished from the mere expression of falsehood, which may be the result of error, and from deceit, which may or may not be its effect (ST, 2a 2ae 110.1). It is on such grounds as these that we are able to distinguish between lying and duplicity, for lying is the intention to express falsehood, whereas duplicity has the intention to deceive. Although thus notionally distinct, lying and duplicity (as truth and simplicity, to which they are opposed) are really identical, since it is only through lies and deceptions that duplicity fulfils its intention (ST, 2a 2ae 111.3 ad 2). This distinction between lying and duplicity explains the indirectness of the activity that Langland attributes to Liar, for the immediate effect of lying is to sustain duplicity. The distinction between a lie and a deceit is also important for an understanding of Langland’s fiction, and Aquinas further clarifies it in the course of the first article on lying (ST, 2a 2ae 110.1): Quod autem aliquis intendat falsitatem in opinione alterius constituere fallendo ipsum, non pertinet ad speciem mendacii, sed ad quamdam perfectionem ipsius, sicut et in rebus naturalibus aliquid speciem sortitur si formam habeat, etiamsi desit formae effectus; sicut patet in gravi, quod violenter sursum detinetur ne descendat secundum exigentiam suae formae.13

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The increasing prominence that is given to Liar in the course of the successive revisions that produce the B and C texts is intended to underline the point that the union of Meed and False depends upon the falsification of the true significance of material rewards as given by God and as designed to serve man’s spiritual needs. V. The MED glosses Langland’s use of False at A II.22 (B II.41) as ‘deceit, deception, treachery, fraud, wrong-doing’ (s.v. fals n. 1.(a)), and thus distinguishes it from ‘intentional falsehood, lying; untruth, falsity, error’ (2.(a)). It is surely right to do so. As we have seen, the intimate association of False and Favel is established at the beginning of Passus II; by Favel is meant cunning and by False the resultant deceit. The objective meaning of False is underlined by his lineage, for he is ‘a fendes biyete’ (II.41). We may recall here that Wrong is the father of falsehood (I.63–64). At II.130–31 False is described by Theology as treacherous in his deeds and ‘a bastard ybore of Belsabubbes kynne’; in the C revision ‘the fende is his syre’ (C II.143), a lineage more strictly in accord with that already provided. At II.121 False is described by Theology as a gilour, that is, a deceiver: ‘thow hast gyven hire to a gilour’; but at C II.126 the line has been emended to read: ‘thow haste gyue here as Gyle tauhte’. The revised version would seem to have been prompted by the desire to eliminate the possibility of confusion between False and Guile. On the journey to Westminster False is conveyed ‘on a sisour that softeli trotted’ (II.165). The literal meaning is that deceit is promoted by the compliance of jurors. The King commands that Falseness be put in chains (II.201). By attempting to restrain deceit in this way the King hopes to show that honesty has been restored to the administration of public affairs. Falseness in fear flees to the friars (II.211), where no doubt he meets up with Liar again (II.230–33). False, then, is the outward effect of Favel which is brought into being by means of Guile and Liar. The marriage of Meed and False makes of material reward a deceit, that is, it becomes corrupt gain. It is ultimately brought about by Wrong, the father of falsehood. The particular wrong in this case is that covetousness against which Lady Holy Church warns the dreamer (II.51) and which Aquinas identifies as the source of the vices

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of cunning and guile (ST, 2a 2ae 55.8). The significance of Wrong’s part is clarified by Langland in a slight modification and a small addition to the description of Wrong in the C text (I.66–67): ‘That tristeth in tresor of erthe he bytrayeth sonest; To combre men with coueytise, þat is his kynde and his lore.’

Notes 1 2 3 4 5 6

7 8 9 10 11 12

Bennett, Langland: Piers Plowman (1972), p. 238. Schmidt, William Langland: The Vision of Piers Plowman (1978), pp. 17 and 18. The present study is immediately of the B text, and reference to it is to Schmidt’s edition. Dunning, An Interpretation of the A-Text (1937), p. 77, n. 12. This matter is retained by Dolan (1980), p. 54, n. 17. Reference is to F.N. Robinson, The Works of Geoffrey Chaucer, second edition (London: Oxford University Press, 1957). This is the reading of the B archetype, but not of Kane-Donaldson (1975) who read ‘on [Fair Speche] fe[ynt]ly atired’. ‘[C]unning uses feints and pretences, not true and open means, to achieve an end which may be either right or wrong. In taking this course there is a double aspect to be considered. First, the plotting of it, and this, properly speaking, is the function of cunning, as also the planning of right means to a due end is that of prudence’ (trans. Gilby). Skeat, Three Parallel Texts, 2 vols (1886), II.37. See Gerald Morgan, ‘The Validity of Gawain’s Confession in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’, RES, NS, 36 (1985), 1–18 (pp. 14–15). ‘And so guile signifies the execution of cunning, and in this way is part of it’ (trans. Gilby). Schmidt provides the gloss ‘(through) L’s instigation’, p. 18 (retained in 1995, p. 28), but there is a failure here to distinguish between the roles of Liar and Favel. See Gerald Morgan, ‘The Self-Revealing Tendencies of Chaucer’s Pardoner’, MLR, 71 (1976), 241–55 (pp. 249–50). Bennett, Langland: Piers Plowman (1972), p. 131.

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‘As to the intent to introduce falsity into another’s mind by deceiving him, this does not enter into the very species of lying, but is a kind of finishing touch; an example: in the beings of nature a thing receives its species by having its form, even though the effect of that form be lacking, as in the case of a heavy object being suspended in air by an outside force so that it does not fall as its form requires’ (trans. T.C. O’Brien).

5 The Status and Meaning of Meed in the First Vision of Piers Plowman

E però se li altri sensi dal litterale sono meno intesi – che sono, sì come manifestamente pare – , inrazionabile sarebbe procedere ad essi dimostrare, se prima lo litterale non fosse dimostrato. — Dante, Il Convivio, II.i.141

I. It is no longer possible to believe that Piers Plowman is simply unintelligible. But the poem still has an unenviable reputation for the obscurity of its meaning and the thinness of its fictions. That a modern reader finds difficulty in reconstructing the thought of the poem is not to be wondered at, for it is not accessible without some knowledge of Scholastic ideas and distinctions. What is harder to understand, however, is the lack of respect that has customarily been shown towards Langland’s fictions, for in it there lies a failure to take Langland seriously as a poet. Interpretations of Langland’s fictions have too often been inattentive to the images that he has created and neglectful of the language by which he has defined them. Thus the dreamer sees a ravishing creature whom he takes to be a wife (II.18) and whom Lady Holy Church explains to be a maid (II.20).2 But in the commentaries upon the first vision we are everywhere introduced to a Lady Meed. Derek Pearsall in his edition of the C text sets out the following headings in bold type: The Marriage of Lady Meed (Passus II); Lady Meed at Westminster (Passus III); and The Fall of Lady Meed (Passus IV). By contrast Passus I is headed simply: Holy Church.3 Langland’s contrast of Holy Church and Meed is precisely the opposite one. Holy Church is introduced into the fiction as ‘a lovely lady of leere in lynnen yclothed’ (I.3), and is thus fittingly addressed by the dreamer as ‘madame’ (I.11, 43, 60 and II.2), and Meed is seen in her relation to such a lady (II.7–8):

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Gerald morgan I loked on my left half as the Lady me taughte, And was war of a womman wonderliche yclothed.4

Whereas the poem’s critics refer to Meed as Lady Meed, Langland uses a number of titles, carefully discriminated in their distribution among the dreamer and the characters in the fiction and also in their use at different stages of the fiction (for the dreamer’s grasp of truth remains throughout the first vision very imperfect). The title of Lady Meed gives to Meed a credibility that Langland’s fiction denies to her and effectively promotes the point of view of Warren Wisdom (IV.154–56) rather than that of Conscience or Reason. Holy Church is presented as a lady because she is to exercise a special authority in the poem as the expositor of Truth (Passus I). As such she stands in a direct line of literary descent from Philosophia in the De consolatione philosophiae of Boethius and Beatrice in the Commedia of Dante. It is this authority that enables us to be certain from the beginning of the falseness of Meed. Thus Meed appears in the fiction for the first time as a consequence of the dreamer’s request to Lady Holy Church for a knowledge of the false. She is to be seen in the devil’s quarter in the company of Favel and False (II.1–8) and is branded with the falseness of her father’s nature (II.25–27a). From the standpoint of Truth there can be no doubt of the falseness of Meed and it is for this reason that she is repudiated by Conscience and Reason. And yet Pearsall tells us that Meed is ‘morally neutral’.5 What he seems to mean is that there is an ambiguity in the attitude of some of the characters in the fiction to material reward and that this ambiguity is reflected in the shifts of position of the dreamer himself. But although the fiction contains within itself these ambiguities, there is no ambiguity in the identification of the falseness of Meed. The problem here (as so often) is the reconciliation of an allegorical fiction and its inner meaning. The very awareness of this problem has led T.P. Dolan to an interpretation which is nevertheless a misrepresentation of the fiction, for by it the falseness of Meed has somehow been reduced to ambiguity: ‘It is significant that when he asked to see False, the Dreamer first became aware of Meed: the ambiguous character of Meed is suggested and the lady is established at once as the central figure of this part of the poem’.6 This is

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in effect to re-write the fiction in the light of its assumed meaning. But the true significance of Lady Holy Church’s identification of the falseness of Meed is to be found in its utter clarity and conviction. A lady is not mealymouthed when it is a matter of Truth and therefore Lady Holy Church does not hesitate to proclaim that Meed ‘is a bastard’ (II.24). In personification-allegory, as R.W. Frank has shown,7 the very names that the personifications bear are all important. And yet the name Meed, which means ‘reward’, is interpreted by T.P. Dunning as cupidity: ‘Meed can mean nothing but the inordinate love of worldly goods. That is to say, she is Cupidity, and if we want an alternative name for her, it must be Cupidity’.8 He is followed in so doing by both J.A.W. Bennett9 and Pearsall.10 But if Meed is cupidity, why does not Langland call her Cupidity? The proper inference is that Langland has chosen the name Meed because the subject of his poem is not cupidity as such but (to the extent that Meed dominates it) reward. It is a small step from the lack of due regard for names to the coalescence of such fictional distinctions as that between Lady Holy Church and Theology. Thus A.V.C. Schmidt, following Bennett,11 comments that ‘Theology … takes over HC’s role; he personifies her doctrine systematized and applied to society’.12 But Theology does not systematize the thought of Lady Holy Church, he contradicts it. Whereas Lady Holy Church tells the dreamer that Meed is a bastard, Theology claims that Meed is not only legitimate (II.119) but of noble ancestry (II.132–33). Lady Holy Church advises the dreamer to turn his back on the false companions of Meed and not to pass criticism upon them, for the false are to be condemned by standards that do not apply in the courts of this world (II.47–49). Theology not only offers such criticism himself (II.115–28), but is also the instrument by which the case of Meed and False is referred to the court at Westminster (II.134–36). The language that Theology employs in his denunciation (II.129): Wel ye witen, wernardes, but if youre wit faille,

is the language of abuse and not the sweet voice of reason. On the other hand, we shall not expect Theology to lack specious arguments with which

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he may deck out his own cupidity and we are not disappointed in them (II.119–24). We need to be no less cautious of Theology than Dame Study later shows herself to be (X.182–86). But we are not the intended victims of these theological subtleties and we shall not be so if we credit Langland with control over his own fictions. The allegorical fiction distinguishes between Lady Holy Church and Theology for the very reason that there is a distinction between them. Indeed no less a theologian than Aquinas asserts the superior authority of the Church to individual theologians (ST, 2a 2ae 10.12): Dicendum quod maximam habet auctoritatem Ecclesiae consuetudo, quae semper est in omnibus aemulanda; quia et ipsa doctrina catholicorum doctorum ab Ecclesia auctoritatem habet. Unde magis standum est auctoritati Ecclesiae quam auctoritati vel Augustini vel Hieronymi vel cujuscumque doctoris.13

Theology is more subtle but less sound than Lady Holy Church, for the subtlety proceeds from the fact that Lady Holy Church’s condemnation of Meed is not a comfortable doctrine. What is common to all the interpretations that we have considered is their arbitrariness and it stems in part from doubts concerning the imaginative power and coherence of Langland’s fictions. But such arbitrariness is also held to be characteristic of allegory itself, at least as practised by medieval poets influenced by a neo-Platonic tradition of scriptural exegesis. But not all medieval poets are Platonists, and especially not in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Dante’s expositions of his own poems in the Convivio are nothing if not lucid and precise. And Dante insists above all on the fact that the allegorical dimensions of a work cannot be understood if its literal import has not also been understood: ‘… onde, con ciò sia cosa che ne le scritture [la litterale sentenza] sia sempre lo di fuori, impossibile è venire a l’altre, massimamente a l’allegorica, sanza prima venire a la litterale’ (Convivio, II.i.9).14 It is clear, then, that the fiction must be the basis of all our efforts to understand Langland’s poem and that it is this fiction that still stands in neglect. In the discussion that follows I hope to show that the simple acceptance of the fiction on its own terms will lead to a recognition of its imaginative coherence and hence also of the coherence of its argument.

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II. We are obliged to attach a special importance to the identification of Meed as a maid, not only because it rests on the authority of Lady Holy Church but also because it is what the fiction of a marriage requires. Lady Holy Church herself goes on to tell of the marriage that has been arranged between Meed and False (II.44): Tomorwe worth ymaked the maydenes bridale.

Nevertheless the description of Meed as a maid (II.20) comes as something of a shock and the shocking nature of the disclosure is also an element in the fiction that needs to be explained. The dreamer’s initial assumption about the woman who appears before him is that she is a wife (II.18): I hadde wonder what she was and whos wif she weere.

It is the logical assumption to make on the evidence of the richness of her array (II.15): Hire robe was ful riche, of reed scarlet engreyned.

The proud ostentation of her appearance suggests to the modern reader no less than to the dreamer the figure of a wife, namely Chaucer’s Wife of Bath (GP, A 456): Hir hosen weren of fyn scarlet reed.15

Chaucer has himself emphasised the importance of array in his descriptions of the Canterbury pilgrims (GP, A 41 and 716) precisely because dress is so clear an indicator of moral condition and social status. And fittingly it is Chaucer’s Parson who inveighs against the ‘outrageous array of clothyng’ (ParsT, I.412) as one of the external forms of pride. Langland intends us to see the opposition of Meed and Lady Holy Church as reflected in their dress, for the description of Holy Church as ‘a lovely lady … in lynnen yclothed’ (I.3) recalls the description of the bride of the Lamb in Apocalypsis, 19.8: ‘Et datum est illi ut co-operiat se byssino

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splendenti et candido. Byssinum enim iustificationes sunt sanctorum, / And it is granted to her that she should clothe herself with fine linen, glittering and white. For the fine linen are the justifications of saints’.16 But the terms in which the opposition is visually presented ought at the same time to rule out the identification of Meed as a maiden, for the dress appropriate to a maiden is also white as signifying purity and humility. Such indeed is the image of the ‘mayden of menske’ in Pearl, for ‘blysnande whyt watȝ hyr bleaunt’ (162–63).17 Lady Holy Church’s description of Meed as a maid possesses the shocking impact that is to be looked for in the expositor of Truth, for the acceptance of a higher spiritual truth requires the inversion of temporal values. The Pearl supplies another analogy here, for the dreamer has to learn from the maiden (his erstwhile daughter) that he ‘blameȝ þe bote of ’ his ‘meschef ’ (275). Likewise in Dante’s representation of the heavenly paradise the length of the river is transformed into the celestial rose, that is, the stream of time gives way to the circle of eternity (Paradiso, XXX.82–90). The angels descend into the celestial rose and reascend like a swarm of bees, but whereas bees draw honey from the flower the angels impart something to the celestial rose, namely peace and ardour (Paradiso, XXXI.4–18). The simile is thus inverted and hence suggests the distinction that has to be made between heavenly and earthly values. What is required is a new insight on the part of the beholder if these spiritual truths are to be accommodated. For the pilgrim Dante at the end of his journey it is like the removal of a mask (Paradiso, XXX.91–96). The dreamer in Passus II of Piers Plowman still faces a long and painful process of instruction and reflection. He has run the course of an idle and profitless youth, ignorant of Lady Holy Church and her teaching (I.71–78) and even sceptical of the natural understanding of moral and spiritual truth (I.138–47). He is introduced to us at the very beginning of the poem clothed in ‘shroudes as I a sheep were’ (Prol.2), the very image of a Christian sinner (Isaiah, 53.6). He is not a wolf 18 but a sheep in sheep’s clothing, who has long since gone astray (‘wery forwandred’, Prol.7) from the path of righteousness. The dreamer’s return to the fold is signified by his repeated acts of submission to Lady Holy Church (I.79–84 and II.1–4). When directly subject to the authority and influence of Lady Holy Church he is able to grasp the fact that despite appearances Meed is no more than a maid and

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a proud and false maid at that (II.20–27a). The possession of this truth enables him to refer to Meed as a maid throughout the rest of Passus II (57 and 235) and much of Passus III (1, 4, 36, 87 and 105). The dreamer is at first dazzled by the outward attractiveness of Meed (II.17): Hire array me ravysshed, swich richesse saugh I nevere.

As yet he has only the external authority of Lady Holy Church to set against the attractions of Meed and after Lady Holy Church has left him (II.52) his continuing vulnerability to Meed becomes gradually apparent. Lady Holy Church recognizes the power of Meed, for ‘in the Popes paleis she is pryvee as myselve’ (II.23), and Meed’s reception at the court of Westminster is no less warm. The clerk who escorts her to a chamber takes her ‘bi the myddel’ (III.10), an improper familiarity that sorts ill with the King’s concern for justice (II.189–205 and III.1–8). Some of the justices are eager to dance attendance on Meed and to make smooth her way (III.13–19). And no sooner have the justices taken their leave of Meed than they are followed by clerks (III.25–28) and a friar who hears confession no less sweetly than Chaucer’s Friar and gives absolution no less agreeable (III.35–42; cf. GP, A 221–22). ‘Amen, dico vobis, receperunt mercedem suam / Amen, I say to you, they have received their reward’ (Matthew, 6.2; see III.254a); the justices bowls of gold and cups of silver without the inconvenience of justice (III.20–24); the clerks lordships and positions in the consistory courts without the burden of learning (III.29–34); and the friar a new window for his church without the need of confronting a sinner with the shamefulness of sin (III.43–63). In the same way mayors, who are responsible for administering the law regulating fair trade, can be prevailed upon by Meed to allow the profiteering of merchants and tradesmen in their towns (III.76–92). When so many wealthy and influential people are impressed by Meed, it is not surprising that the dreamer himself should also be susceptible to the process of accommodation. This renewed susceptibility is reflected in the language he begins to use, for he is now prepared to grant that Meed is a lady and so refers to her as such (III.91, 112 and 175). It is a significant irony that the dreamer’s grasp of the truth has at first been

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weakened by Theology, for, as we have seen, Theology is a central agent of the process of accommodation by his assertion of the legitimacy and nobility of Meed (II.119–33). Theology has no more wish than any of the others to abandon the hope of a material reward, but is better able to disguise his true motives by his skill in casuistical reasoning. But the King is still bent on giving justice to Meed when she comes before him for judgment. He addresses her as ‘womman’ (III.106)19 and refers to her as ‘this womman’ (III.118) in offering her to Conscience as a wife. The term seems to be a neutral one and suggests that the King is striving after impartiality in his language as in his action. He has been led to exercise justice in the first place because he has been informed by Conscience of the true purpose of the coming of Meed to the court at Westminster (II.189–92). And Conscience remains undeceived by Meed. His reaction to the King’s proposal is swift and vehement (III.120–21): Quod Conscience to the Kyng, ‘Crist it me forbede! Er I wedde swich a wif, wo me bitide!’

The fiction at this point is technically precise, for Langland has realised imaginatively the distinctions of Scholastic faculty psychology. These distinctions may be briefly stated as follows. By synderesis or the habit of first principles of the practical intellect there is an intuitive and infallible apprehension of the universal principles of morality (ST, 1a 79.12) and by conscience there is a fallible act of judgment whereby the knowledge of universal principles is applied to particular situations (ST, 1a 79.13). But the particular judgment of conscience may not be acted upon, since it does not of itself bind the will. It is necessary also that the particular judgment be supplied with the appropriate feeling and this is what is meant by the act of consent (ST, 1a 2ae 15.3). The final judgment which stands as the conclusion of the syllogism of the practical intellect (ST, 1a 2ae 13.1 ad 2) binds the will because it has been so supplied with feeling. The will is bound to choose the judgment of the reason or conscience presented to it as good and this is the case even when the judgment of conscience is in error (ST, 1a 2ae 19.5). Rectification of moral error is always possible, but this can take place directly only in reference to the reason and not to the

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will (ST, 1a 2ae 19.6 ad 3). Reason rectifies moral error because it is able to judge particular conclusions in the light of the universal principles from which they have been derived (ST, 1a 79.12). These distinctions are correspondingly elaborated in Langland’s fiction as follows. There is a ‘kynde knowynge’ (I.142) in the heart by which every human being has access to the truth and Conscience possesses this knowledge because he has been instructed by Kind Wit (III.284). Although the judgment of Conscience may in general be fallible, the particular judgment he makes about Meed is a true judgment for he has arrived at it by means of Soothness (II.189–91). It is fitting, therefore, that it should be expressed with vehemence, since it is a judgment that deserves to be acted upon. Conscience is thus not at all perverse or obstinate, for he submits to the final authority of Reason (III.284–85) and is accordingly prepared to reconsider even his judgment of Meed if Reason directs him to do so (IV.4–5). But Reason has no occa sion here to correct the judgment of Conscience, for Conscience’s denunciation of Meed (III.120–69) is entirely consistent with the teaching of Lady Holy Church (II.20–27a). Langland has thus shown what it means to have a sincere and informed conscience.20 It is clear, therefore, that when Conscience refers to Meed as a lady his words can be interpreted in no straightforward literal sense. His reference to ‘the lif of that lady’ (III.166) cannot be other than ironic, for the life that has been described is a life of harlotry and deceit. Meed is a ‘baude’ (III.129) who is ‘as commune as the cartwey to [knaves and to alle]’ (III.132). Conscience also addresses Meed as ‘lady’ at III.337 and as ‘madame’ at III.344. These references are also not without irony, but are best interpreted in terms of Conscience’s habitual courtesy (most clearly demonstrated at the feast with the Master of Divinity and Patience at XIII.27–32). The conduct of Meed is by contrast unladylike in the extreme. Her language towards Conscience (III.180–82): Wel thow woost, wernard, but if thow wolt gabbe, Thow hast hanged on myn half ellevene tymes, And also griped my gold, and gyve it where thee liked,21

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is marked by the abusiveness which characterizes that of the Wife of Bath towards her tormented old husbands (WBProl, D 260): Thus saistow, Wernard, God yive thee meschaunce.22

It is the Wife of Bath who is the kind of lady best placed to appreciate the dishonesty of Meed in argument. Conscience takes Meed to task in the following terms (III.338–43): Ac thow art like a lady that radde a lesson ones, Was omnia probate, and that plesed hire herte – For that lyne was no lenger at the leves ende. Hadde she loked that other half and the leef torned, She sholde have founden fele wordes folwynge therafter: Quod bonum est tenete – Truthe that text made.

The rebuke could with no less force and relevance be directed towards the Wife of Bath’s shameless delight in those parts of the scriptural text that suit her purpose (WBProl, D 154–62). Meed is truly ‘a mansed sherewe’ (IV.160), worthy as such to be identified with False (II.40–41) and by the same token wholly unsuitable as a wife for Conscience. III. The account of the parentage of Meed is revised in the successive versions of the poem and the revisions make it apparent that to this extent Langland is unhappy about the implications of his fiction. Some attempt must be made to understand the imaginative problems with which he is struggling and the meaning which the various revisions suggest that he is seeking to express. In the A text (II.18–20) it is Wrong who is the father of Meed: In þe popis paleis heo is preuy as myselue; And so shulde heo not be for wrong was hire sire; Out of wrong heo wex to wroþerhele manye.

Wrong is the devil and the father of falsehood (A I.61–62). It seems, therefore, that by making Meed the offspring of Wrong Langland intends to

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identify the falseness of her nature and for this reason False himself becomes her father in the B text. According to Schmidt, ‘[t]he Fals who is a liar and the father of Meed is the same as Wrong’.23 Here is yet another example of the coalescence of fictional distinctions and once again it is necessary to resist the flattening of fictional interest. The B text develops and stresses the point that as the offspring of False Meed shares his nature (II.27–27a): And Mede is manered after hym, right as [asketh kynde]: Qualis pater, talis filius. Bona arbor bonum fructum facit.

But the marriage of Meed to False would seem as a result to be reduced to a mere fictional reduplication. That it is not Langland’s intention to repeat himself in this way is evident from a further change that is made in the C text. By the second revision it is Favel who becomes the father of Meed. But the consistency of Langland’s purpose is not to be doubted, for in the C text there is added emphasis upon the falseness of the nature that the daughter inherits from the father (II.27–29a): And Mede is manered aftur hym, as men of kynde carpeth: Talis pater, talis filia. For shal neuer breere bere berye as a vine Ne on a croked kene thorn kynde fyge wexe: Bona arbor bonum fructum facit.

The series of revisions is designed to establish and maintain a distinction between the falseness of Meed by parentage and a corresponding falseness by marriage, and indeed in the final version the verbal confusion at least is avoided. The difficulty lies in the fact that Langland wishes at the beginning to predicate one kind of falseness of Meed and that subsequently he wishes to identify a falseness of a different kind. The question we are therefore led to ask is thus: what is added to Meed in terms of falseness by marriage that is not present at her birth? It is a question that can be answered by a brief consideration of the nature of truth and falsity. Aquinas explains that truth is the conformity of intellect and thing and so resides primarily in the intellect (ST, 1a 16.1). But a distinction must be made between an intellect which is the cause of a thing and an intellect

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which receives knowledge from a thing. The intellect which is the cause of a thing is related to a thing as its rule and measure, so that truth consists in the conformity of the thing to the intellect. Thus God’s justice is called truth because it establishes the order in things conforming to the reason of his wisdom (constituit ordinem in rebus conformem rationi sapientiae suae), that is, the Eternal Law, and just deeds are true when they are in conformity with that Law (ST, 1a 21.2). This is what is meant by the Truth which is in ‘the tour upon the toft’ (I.12) and which is expounded to the dreamer by Lady Holy Church throughout the course of Passus I. In the case of an intellect which receives knowledge from a thing, it is the thing which is the rule and measure of the intellect, so that truth consists in the conformity of intellect to thing. Thus an opinion of a thing is true or false by reference to what that thing in fact is (ST, 1a 21.2). Since truth and falsity are opposed, we can therefore distinguish between two kinds of falseness in reference to things that are the object of human understanding (ST, 1a 17.1). There can be falseness in the thing itself by its own nature and there can be a falseness in our knowledge of the thing. The distinction between a falseness that lies in the subject and one that lies in the object is the basis of the classification of meanings of the adjective false by OED under the divisions: I. Erroneous, wrong; II. Mendacious, deceitful, treacherous. By the allegory of Meed’s parentage Langland introduces a subjective falseness. In this sense Meed is false in so far as the very conception of her is false, that is, false is erroneous. It is this meaning of False at II.25 that explains the references to soothnesse (II.24) and sooth (II.26), for Langland uses the word soothnesse in the sense of Latin veritas in contradistinction to truthe in the sense of Latin justitia. It is in terms of subjective falseness that Philosophia in the De consolatione philosophiae shows that riches are falsely taken to be the sovereign good for human beings (Book III, prosa 2.22–28): Forwhy the covetise of verray good is naturely iplauntyd in the hertes of men, but the myswandrynge errour mysledeth hem into false goodes. Of the whiche men, some of hem wenen that sovereyn good be to lyven withoute nede of any thyng, and travaylen hem to ben habundaunt of rychesses.24

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By the allegory of the marriage of Meed to False Langland introduces the note of falseness in the object, that is, the corrupt gain that is won by cunning and lying. But as we can see difficulties abound at the fictional level in the accommodation of such subtle distinctions. It is now possible, however, to see the coherence as well as the complexity in Langland’s representation of Meed. She appears on the left hand of the dreamer, that is, to the north, for the dreamer faces east (Prol.13). This is the devil’s quarter as may be gathered from the proud boast attributed to Lucifer at I.119: Ponam pedem in aquilone, et similis ero Altissimo.

Meed is thus damned by association, and rightly so, for falseness is no mere accidental quality but the key to her very nature. The description of Meed is a description of the richness of her array and in the A text (II.9–14) it prompts comparison with that of kings, princes and queens. This comparison is suggested by the reference to her scarlet robe (II.15–16), for scarlet is the most expensive of all the dyes and hence especially associated with courts. This is indeed the significance of the Wife of Bath’s scarlet stockings (GP, A 456) and scarlet gowns (WBProl, D 559).25 In the B text (II.12–14) Langland adds the details of the precious stones on Meed’s fingers – rubies, diamonds and sapphires possessing virtuous properties. These details are almost certainly derived from the portrait of Richesse in The Romaunt of the Rose (1085–90 and 1117–24). The description of Meed is indeed one of wealth or richesse and the word itself is given by Langland to the dreamer (II.17). The elimination of these details in the C text results in a greater concentration on the sheer richness of Meed’s array by means of the figure of traductio (II.12–14): On alle here fyue fyngeres ful richeliche yrynged And thereon rede rubies and othere riche stones. Here robynge was rychere þen y rede couthe.

Meed embodies, it is not to be doubted, the notion of material wealth.

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The name ‘Meed’ denotes reward and therefore signifies here material reward. The notion of reward differs from that of wealth in that it consists essentially in a relation, that is to say, reward is to be seen distinctively as the end of activity of some kind. By describing Meed as a maid Langland requires us to assume either that she is a young unmarried woman (MED, s.v. maid(e) (n. 1.(a)) or that she is a virgin (MED, 2.(a)). Bennett observes that ‘Meed is technically a maiden – a virgin’,26 but offers no explanation of such an allegorical representation. But Meed is a whore, not a virgin (III.51–58 and 125–33). The fact that Meed is a maid is of great significance, for it means that material reward is false in itself as an end of human endeavour. From the spiritual point of view it does not matter whether wealth is lawfully acquired or not. In an addition to the C text (XIX.231–32) Langland makes it clear that Dives did not obtain his wealth unlawfully. And Patience doubts the possibility envisaged by Haukyn of a connection between wealth and righteousness (B XIV.102–8). The opposition of Meed and Lady Holy Church establishes the opposition of temporal and spiritual principles. Meed is the object of cupidity (II.51) as Lady Holy Church is the representative of Truth. Lady Holy Church’s statement of the superiority of her own lineage (II.28) strikes one commentator as almost pettish.27 It is perhaps to forestall such a response that Langland in the B text adds details of the descent of Lady Holy Church from God and of her marriage to Mercy (II.29–33) and emphasises the opposition of Lady Holy Church and Meed (II.34–39). This more circumstantial account clarifies the imaginative and logical significance of the respective roles of Lady Holy Church and Meed. The lineage of Lady Holy Church is indeed superior, for she is the authentic witness of God himself. The words of Lady Holy Church are not an example of pettishness, but a simple statement of her true significance. At the same time the power of riches is undeniable (II.21–23) and a continual challenge to spiritual principles. Those who set their hearts upon a temporal reward will seldom stop at lawful means to acquire it. The marriage of Meed to False is an allegorical account of just such an unlawful attempt to acquire material goods.

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IV. Finally we must turn to the lengthy revision at C III.285–405a in which Langland clarifies his argument about Meed by drawing a distinction between Mercede and Meed. For many readers, however, the argument has been obfuscated rather than clarified by the development of a grammatical analogy to the different kinds of reward. It is a case in which the medicine kills before it can effect its cure or at least one in which the patient refuses to take the medicine. There are difficulties both in the textual elucidation of the grammatical matter and in its application to distinctions of reward. An attempt must first of all be made to establish some fixed points in Langland’s general exposition in the light of C’s evident aim of clarification. A fact of central importance is that Conscience still repudiates Meed and in this way Langland continues to insist that Meed stands for a false principle (C III.285–89). The distinction of Meed and Mercede is thus one between false and true principles of reward (C III.290–91): Ac ther is mede and mercede, and bothe men demen A desert for som doynge, derne oþer elles.

Mercede, by contrast with Meed, is ‘a manere dewe dette’ (C III.304). Langland is taking up here the distinction that is made at B III.230–31 between two kinds of meed. The good kind of meed is God’s reward of eternal life to the righteous (B III.232–45). Such righteousness includes a proper material reward for a life of labour and trade (B III.255–58). The bad kind of meed is the material reward given by those who seek to further wickedness (B III.247–49) and received by those who delight in material goods (B III.252–54a). Such reward is characterized by its lack of moderation (B III.246): Ther is another mede mesurelees, that maistres desireth.

This distinction between the two kinds of meed does not consist in a simple opposition of spiritual and temporal goods. It consists rather in a fitness or unfitness in the order of temporal to spiritual goods. Langland attempts to fix that distinction in C by a corresponding distinction of terminology. ‘Mercede’ is the name for a temporal reward that is part of righteousness and so in accord with a human being’s higher spiritual good. ‘Meed’ is the

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name for a temporal reward that is the product of unrighteousness and so cannot be reconciled with a human being’s spiritual good. It is clear, therefore, that Meed the Maid always signifies for Langland a falsification of the true order of spiritual and temporal values. Meed as reward adds to the idea of riches (spiritual or material) the idea of a relationship between giver and receiver, so that true and false reward is to be defined in terms of the fitness of this relationship. Langland considers in the C text the various relationships conveyed by the different meanings of the word. Meed in the sense of wages points to a due relationship between the lord and the labourer, for honest labour not only merits its wages, it also imposes a debt of payment on a lord (C III.293–97 and 302–9a). Meed in the sense of bribe can refer to an offence in either the giver or the receiver. As an offence of the giver it is the giving of a material inducement that implies a hidden and unlawful contract (C III.302–3). As an offence of the receiver it is an improper soliciting of payment and is to be compared with that of whores and quacks (C III.298–301). But it is necessary also to distinguish between a bribe and a gift, and Langland sets out to do so at C III.314–31. The giving and receiving of gifts again demands a fitness in the relation, that is, love in the giver and righteousness in the receiver (C III.314–16). This is true not least of the gifts of God to man (C III.328): So god gyueth nothyng þat si ne is the glose.

It is to be noted that Langland writes here of gifts and not of meed. A distinction of terms is essential, since it is the relationship between Mercede as due reward and Meed as corrupt reward that he is above all concerned to clarify and that he now (C III.332–405) addresses himself to by means of a grammatical analogy. The meaning of Mercede and Meed is compared with that of direct and indirect relation in grammar. The analogy requires us to identify Mercede with direct relation and Meed with indirect relation. The opposition of the two pairs is evident in Langland’s presentation. Direct relation is the agreement of relative pronoun and antecedent, and also of adjective and substantive,28 in gender, number and case. As applied to the moral and

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spiritual order it signifies a complete accord between God and man. God is ‘a graciouse antecedent. / And man is relatif rect yf he be rihte trewe’ (C III.353–54). Direct relation is that perfect fitness of relationship which characterizes Mercede and so in his account of the direct relation Langland recalls his earlier description of Mercede (C III.347–50). Indirect relation is the agreement of relative pronoun with antecedent in gender and number, but not in case, that is to say, there is a lack of complete accord between relative and antecedent. Pearsall concludes that ‘“indirect relation” in grammar is not in itself a solecism, which allows a complexity in the application of the metaphor whereby some degree of propriety is preserved for mede’.29 But this is to overlook the fact that evil can exist only in some good, for evil is a privation of the good (ST, 1a 48.3). Hence the notion of evil is consistent with a single deficiency, whereas the notion of goodness presupposes goodness in every respect (ST, 1a 2ae 18.4 ad 3). Moreover, indirect relation is expounded by Langland in terms of a complete breakdown of grammatical agreement (C III.362–64): Indirect thyng is as ho-so coueytede Alle kyn kynde to knowe and to folowe And withoute case to cache and come to bothe nombres.30

Indirect relation points to an essential unfitness in the relation of man and God (C III.366–67) and is suggestive of Meed in so far as Meed is without measure. We may not care for grammatical analogies of this kind, nor for the associated word-play to which they give rise, but we cannot deny that they are characteristic of Langland as a poet, as Skeat himself acknowledges in comparing the grammatical analogy here with the analogies of the hand and the candle (B XVII.137–252a).31 But literary dissatisfaction must not be allowed to cloud the understanding. The comparison between grammatical relations and different kinds of reward may be dull in conception and forced in its application. But it does help to clarify the distinction of Mercede and Meed in so far as it focuses on the notion of a relationship between the giver and the receiver which is central to Langland’s exposition of temporal rewards. And once again the point that Langland seeks

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to make figuratively has a clear literal significance in the identification of a due order between primary and secondary goods.32 What above all is worthy of admiration in Piers Plowman is the fusion of its allegorical and literal levels. To do justice to this great work we must recognise and allow for both the fertility of Langland’s imagination and the profundity of his thought.

Notes 1

2 3

4

‘And so if the senses other than the literal are less readily determined – as is patently the case – it would be irrational to proceed by demonstrating what these are before first demonstrating what the literal sense is’ (Busnelli and Vandelli, Il Convivio, 2 vols (1968 and 1964), I.103 and Ryan, Dante: The Banquet (1989), p. 44). The present study is immediately of the B text and reference to B is to Schmidt, William Langland: The Vision of Piers Plowman (1978). Pearsall, An Edition of the C-text (1978), pp. 54, 66, 88 and 42. These headings have been altered in A New Annotated Edition of the C-text (2008) to read respectively: The Marriage Plans of Meed the Maid (Passus II); Meed the Maid at Westminster (Passus III); and Meed the Maid on Trial (Passus IV). Holy Church (Passus I) remains unchanged (pp. 68, 80, 102 and 56). Nevertheless, the interpretation of Meed that these headings are held to imply has not been altered (pp. 29–31 and 70). The only reference to Meed as a lady in Passus II of the B text is as a result of editorial emendation. Lady Holy Church’s reference to Liar’s part in the marriage of Meed reads in the three versions as follows: And al is liȝeris ledyng þat hy liȝen togideris. (A II.25) And al is Lieres ledynge that she is thus ywedded. (B II.43) And al is Lyares ledynge this lady is thus ywedded. (C II.44) The reading she (B II.43) is attested by all the B MSS, and is evidently the reading of the archetypal B text. Kane-Donaldson, Piers Plowman: The B Version (1975) nevertheless emend she to lady after the example of C, assuming B’s reading to be scribal because of the defective alliteration. They observe that ‘Mede is denied the title of respect’ (p. 92). Their arguments convince Schmidt, who also introduces

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8 9 10 11 12 13

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lady into his B text , p. 18 (corrected to [heo], ‘the Western form’ of she as giving ‘a better stress-pattern’, in 1995, pp. 28 and 366). But it is by no means clear on what basis we are to suppose that Lady Holy Church owes a debt of reverence to Meed. Here the danger of elevating editorial understanding above manuscript readings is by contrast only too clear. It is C’s this lady, not B’s she that is the likely product of scribal interference, and for the very reason that seems so convincing to Kane-Donaldson, namely that metrical regularity is to be preferred to the careful discrimination of meaning. But in such circumstances it is doubtful whether Langland is to be found on the side of normative alliterative patterns. Pearsall, An Edition of the C-text, note to C II.43, p. 57 (retained in 2008, note to C II.45, p. 70, albeit in slightly abbreviated form). Dunning, An Interpretation of the A Text, revised Dolan (1980), p. 49. Robert Worth Frank Jr, ‘The Art of Reading Medieval Personification-Allegory’, ELH, 20 (1953), 237–50, printed by Edward Vasta, Interpretations of Piers Plowman (Notre Dame and London: University of Notre Dame Press, 1968), pp. 217–31. Dunning, An Interpretation of the A-Text (1937), pp. 69–70. Dolan has rightly removed this explicit identification of Meed and Cupidity in his revision of the book. Bennett, Langland: Piers Plowman (1972), p. 120. Pearsall, An Edition of the C-text (1978), note to C II.19, p. 55. This is corrected in 2008, note to C II.19, p. 69, to read: ‘Meed stands for the principle of reward in human transactions’. Bennett, Langland: Piers Plowman (1972), p. 128. Schmidt, William Langland: The Vision of Piers Plowman (1978), p. 309 (retained in 1995, p. 416). ‘It must be said that the custom of the Church enjoys the greatest authority and ought to be jealously maintained in all matters. The very teaching of Catholic theologians gets its authority from the Church. Hence we should stand on the authority of the Church rather than on that of Augustine or Jerome or of any other divine whatsoever’ (trans. Gilby), in Summa theologiae, edited and translated by Gilby and others, 61 vols (1964–1981). ‘… since, consequently, the exterior of any text consists of the literal meaning, it is impossible to come to the other meanings, especially the allegorical, without first coming to the literal’ (Busnelli and Vandelli, Il Convivio (1968 and 1964), I.100 and Ryan, Dante: The Banquet (1989), p. 43). Reference is to Robinson, The Complete Works of Geoffrey Chaucer, second edition (1957).

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Reference is to Alberto Colunga and Laurentio Turrado (eds), Biblia sacra iuxta vulgatam Clementinam, fourth edition (Madrid: La Editorial Catolica, 1965) and The Holy Bible: Douay Rheims Version (Baltimore: John Murphy Company, 1899; photographically reproduced, Rockford, Illinois: Tan Books and Publishers, Inc., 1971). 17 Reference is to E.V. Gordon, Pearl (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1953). 18 So Bennett, Langland: Piers Plowman (1972), p. 80. 19 Womman is the reading of the B archetype and is indeed attested by all four versions of the work (Z III.42, A III.95 and C III.133) yet is emended by KaneDonaldson to wye. 20 For a fuller account of the relationship between Kind Wit, Conscience and Reason, see Gerald Morgan, ‘The Meaning of Kind Wit, Conscience and Reason in the First Vision of Piers Plowman’, Modern Philology, 84 (1987), 351–58 (article 3 above). 21 Kane-Donaldson emend III.180 in defiance of the clear reading of the B archetype on the grounds that the ‘abusive emphasis’ of wernard and gabbe is ‘actually out of character since Meed is speaking more in sorrow than in anger’ (p. 106). The reading of the B archetype is here superior to Kane-Donaldson’s understanding of Langland’s thought and Schmidt is right to retain it in his edition. 22 This is the reading of MS Corpus Christi College, Oxford 198 and three other manuscripts; see Robinson, The Complete Works of Geoffrey Chaucer (1957), p. 891. 23 Schmidt, William Langland: The Vision of Piers Plowman (1978), p. 308 (retained in 1995, p. 415). 24 The translation is that of Chaucer (Boece). 25 The association with the whore of Babylon (Apoc., 17.4–5) is no doubt also intended and is entirely consistent with the character of Meed. But the specific interest of the description of Meed is in the material richness of her array rather than the wantonness of her nature and for this reason the reference to scarlet has been removed from the C text. 26 Bennett, Langland: Piers Plowman (1972), p. 120. 27 Bennett, Langland: Piers Plowman (1972): ‘Holy Church, almost pettishly, indicates that she is far higher in lineage and so ought to be more honoured’ (p. 121). 28 As Pearsall, An Edition of the C-text (1978) observes (note to C III.351–54, p. 80), Langland ‘seems to speak indiscriminately of antecedent + relative pronoun and of substantive + adjective’ (not retained in 2008, p. 94). 29 Pearsall, An Edition of the C-text (1978), note to C III.332–405, p. 79. This statement is not retained in 2008, note to C III.333–406, p. 93, but see Introduction, 16

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p. 30: ‘Proper and improper reward (improper reward, mede, comes to be exclusively identified with indirect relation) are distinguished by the different nature of the relationship between the parties, payer and payee’. At C III.364 Pearsall reads cause, evidently the reading of the copy-text, but case is surely the correct reading and is preserved in Skeat’s edition of the C text: ‘With-oute case to cacche to and come to bothe numbres’ (C IV.367). George Russell and George Kane, Piers Plowman: The C Version (London: The Athlone Press; Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997) read: ‘And withoute ca[s]e to cache [to] and come to bothe nombres’ (C III.365) and this is also the reading adopted by Pearsall in 2008, p. 95, where he also notes that withoute case means ‘“lacking (grammatical) case”, but also, by punning implication, “lacking a case (valid suit) in law”, appropriate to the legal flavour of much of what follows (Galloway 2006: 350)’. A.V.C. Schmidt, William Langland, Piers Plowman: A Parallel-Text Edition of the A, B, C and Z Versions, Volume I (London and New York: Longman, 1995) reads: ‘And withoute cause to cache to and come to bothe nombres’. Skeat, The Vision of William concerning Piers the Plowman in Three Parallel Texts, 2 vols (1886) comments on C IV.292–415 that it is ‘[a] passage of that subtle and simile-seeking character which was no doubt once highly esteemed, but to us seems tedious and puerile. The author undertakes to establish parallels between the two kinds of Meed and the two kinds of grammatical relation. In tone and style it is much like another tedious passage in which the mystery of the Trinity is exemplified by reference to a man’s hand or to a blazing torch, which first appears in the B-text (xvii.135–249)’ (II.xvi). On the relationship between the primary and secondary goods, see Aquinas, ST, 2a 2ae 23.7 and Dante, Purgatorio, XVII.91–102.

6 The Universality of the Portraits in the General Prologue to the Canterbury Tales

I. Jill Mann in her valuable book Chaucer and Medieval Estates Satire concludes by examining the claim that the portraits in the General Prologue are at one and the same time individual and typical (pp. 187–202).1 She observes (p. 187) that whatever disagreement there may be among Chaucerians, at least there is a general consent on this point. If there is such common agreement then we are sadly forced to conclude that it is agreement in error (or at least in confusion). It is an error that Mann’s book itself in part helps to perpetuate, as is evident from the critical terminology that is used in it. We are, for example, referred again and again to the notion of an estates stereotype (p. 8): Estates literature depends on and exploits the frameworks known as ‘social stereotypes’ – the traditional images that make us eager to observe inscrutability in a particular Chinese or astuteness in a particular Jew, because we believe that the Chinese are inscrutable and the Jews astute.

A distinction is also drawn between two kinds of estate stereotype (p. 14): An estate can be typified in two ways: Chaucer can evoke the qualities that should go with the profession, the ‘idealised version’; alternatively, he can evoke the malpractices and frauds which usually go with it in actuality, the ‘normal version’.

Now this critical language is seriously defective, and can only be the product of a failure to discern the true intentions of a medieval poet. What is needed here is a sound basis for discriminating between the type and the individual. This can only be done if we are prepared to pursue the distinction to its ultimate source in the philosophical discussion of universals. Few critics have been alert to the necessary ontological implications of the claim for individuality and typicality.

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II. Since it is dangerous for any literary critic to proceed from large philosophical generalisations, let us at first examine the evidence of the text of the General Prologue itself. We should not hesitate to begin by stating the obvious, for the obvious in this case is immensely significant. This is that the names of the pilgrims are evidently the names of types and not of individuals: ‘A Knyght ther was, …’ (A 43), ‘A Marchant was ther …’ (A 270), ‘With us ther was a Doctour of Phisik’ (A 411), to give three examples at random.2 Such a simple piece of evidence is reinforced and not contradicted by the occasional use of a personal name, for the personal name is used always with a generalising force. Thus the name Eglentyne (A 121) perfectly mirrors the courtly aspirations of the Prioress (see A 132, 139–40, and 152–62). The knowledge that Hubert is the name of the kite in Le Roman de Renart is surely decisive in explaining the attribution of it to the Friar (A 269).3 In this way the poet focuses upon the Friar’s rapacity (A 253–55): For thogh a wydwe hadde noght a sho, So plesaunt was his ‘In principio’, Yet wolde he have a ferthyng, er he wente.

Even the name that is given to the Reeve’s horse has been chosen with a due sense of its appropriateness (A 615–16): This Reve sat upon a ful good stot, That was al pomely grey and highte Scot.

Phyllis Hodgson has explained its significance to us in the notes to her edition of the General Prologue: ‘Scot’ was a common name for the best horse in the farmyard. The Old English word scot signified ‘tax’ or ‘rent’, cf. the phrase scot-free. The name was therefore bestowed on the horse in the yard that did most towards paying the rent.4

None of us, I take it, is in any danger of mistaking the Reeve’s horse for an individual.

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Before we leave the question of personal names it is worth briefly considering why it is that the narrator tells us that he does not know the name of the Merchant (A 284): But, sooth to seyn, I noot how men hym calle.

For most modern critics this seems to be a sign of the supreme contempt with which the Merchant and his values are treated by the poet. But it needs to be recognised that such an interpretation would assume the importance of a personal name as a mark of individuality. Since only the Prioress and the Friar are otherwise provided with personal names in the General Prologue we are bound to conclude not only that there is a specific reason for the narrator’s declaration of ignorance at this point, but also that such a reason has nothing to do with the intrinsic value of personal names. The explanation is to be found in the Merchant’s prudence, shrewdness and discretion in his business affairs (279–82): This worthy man ful wel his wit bisette: Ther wiste no wight that he was in dette, So estatly was he of his governaunce With his bargaynes and with his chevyssaunce.

In this instance, therefore, the ignorance of a personal name has positive and general implications. The expectations that are aroused by the evidence of the names are not disappointed when we turn to the construction of the portraits themselves. The portraits are all of them (individually and as a whole) organised in terms of a general conception of social class defined by means of function. This conception is, of course, that of the estate, and Mann has added immeasurably to our understanding of the General Prologue by so fully and carefully documenting in her book the extensive material relating to the estates that is to be found in medieval literature. The controlling influence that this conception of the estate exerts in the General Prologue can best be shown by an analysis of one or two of the portraits. Those of the Knight and the Monk can fairly be taken as representative, the one belonging to Mann’s ‘idealised’ category, the other to the ‘normal’.

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In the figure of the Knight who ‘loved chivalrie, / Trouthe and honour, fredom and curteisie’ (A 45–46) Chaucer sets before us, it is not to be doubted, a full and coherent representation of the knightly estate. The terms that he uses to describe the Knight can certainly be paralleled from other literary sources, and scholars have not failed to document the fact. This does not (or should not) mean that Chaucer is lacking in originality; rather it means that his terms have a semantic depth that can only be appreciated by those who are familiar with medieval literature and society. These semantic implications can only very briefly be indicated here. The first of the terms that is used focuses upon the specific act of the knight, that of fighting, and the OED is surely correct in glossing chivalrie as ‘bravery or prowess in war’ (s.v. chivalry, 3.b). The valour that a knight displays is not the same thing as rashness, and hence Chaucer at the same time emphasises the wisdom of the Knight (A 68). The distinction between valour and rashness is brought out very clearly by Chrétien de Troyes at the beginning of Erec et Enide. Erec is obliged to accept for the moment the mortal insult that is handed out to him because he is unarmed (Erec, 225–33): Il sot bien que del nain ferir ne porroit il mie joïr, car le chevalier vit armé, molt felon et desmesuré, et crient qu’asez tost l’ocirroit, se devant lui son nain feroit. Folie n’est pas vaselages; de ce fist molt Erec que sages: rala s’an, que plus n’i ot fet.5

The principle of fidelity (trouthe) is at the very heart of a feudal organisation of society, for the knight is bound to his lord by the honourable bond of homage and fealty. The treatment of this principle in medieval literature is deeply impressive, and accounts for the care with which the terms of all human contracts are stated. Even the Host in proposing the telling of tales on the road to Canterbury and back is careful to remind the pilgrims of their agreement (A 829):

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Ye woot youre foreward, and I it yow recorde.

Arveragus recognises the absolute nature of the commitment involved in the giving of one’s pledged word in his noble words to his wife (F 1479): Trouthe is the hyeste thyng that man may kepe.

The concept of honour is not always treated by the modern reader with the ethical seriousness that it deserves. Here the difficulty lies in the objective habit of medieval thought. The characteristic medieval assumption is that there is a unity of action and intention. A reputation for valour will therefore be justly prized by a knight because it will mean that he is valiant. In this way we shall understand why it is that an attachment to one’s honour need not carry with it any hint of pride. Indeed the knightly estate certainly incorporated the virtue of humility (A 69): And of his port as meeke as is a mayde.

There is a direct link between social class and moral virtue in the use of the fourth term – fredom. The modern words ‘liberality’ and ‘generosity’ in themselves reveal the social assumptions that were originally implicit in their use. Generosity (even if at times material rather than spiritual) is distinctive of the bond that unites lord and vassal. So it is that a leading characteristic of Chaucer’s Franklin is his hospitability (A 340 and 353–54). As a gentleman he is well fitted to tell a tale that is illustrative of gentilesse. Here we can see that although true gentility is not a matter of birth (see D 1109–76), it nevertheless retains its social implications. The knight is not merely a warrior but has been civilised by the behaviour of court. Hence he is not deficient in politeness of manners (curteisie). We may be reminded of the impeccably deferential way in which Sir Gawain takes up from Arthur the challenge of the Green Knight (SGGK, 339–61). This coherent set of virtues is placed primarily at the service of the Christian faith (A 47–50):

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The potential ambiguity of lordes (A 47) is surely clarified by the tendency of the portrait as a whole. The cause in which the Knight exerts himself is beyond all doubt that of God (A 62): And foughten for oure feith at Tramyssene.

The ideal of monasticism is in itself no less noble than that of knighthood, and it may be appropriate here to rehearse its salient features. Monasticism is an ascetic ideal that involves exclusion from the world of affairs and obedience to a strictly regulated mode of life dedicated to the worship of God. The degree of asceticism may well vary from one order to another, but we may certainly expect to find the discipline of monastic life to be reflected in simpleness of dress and frugality. The ultimate logic of such a discipline will be the wearing of a hair shirt and rigorous fasting. If we look at the portrait of the Monk in the General Prologue we shall find that its construction is determined by this conception. The characteristic feature of the portrait of the Monk (as of other portraits) is simply that the ideal is expressed negatively rather than positively. So far from leading a life of contemplation away from the world of affairs the Monk has a relish for the life out of doors (A 189–92): Therfore he was a prikasour aright: Grehoundes he hadde as swift as fowel in flight; Of prikyng and of huntyng for the hare Was al his lust, for no cost wolde he spare.

We all know too how oppressive a rule can be upon an individual’s freedom of action, and the Monk is too free a spirit to submit easily to such constraint (A 173–76): The reule of seint Maure or of seint Beneit, By cause that it was old and somdel streit

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This ilke Monk leet olde thynges pace, And heeld after the newe world the space.

The Monk wears the finest clothes that can be bought (A 193–97 and 203). He is far from submitting himself to the discomfort of a hair shirt. And finally we are assured that he is in good physical condition (A 205–6): He was nat pale as a forpyned goost. A fat swan loved he best of any roost.

Both the portraits of the Knight and the Monk, albeit to different effect, are constructed in terms of the conception of the estate to which they belong. It would be possible (if space permitted) to show how all the portraits that go to make up the General Prologue have been organised in this way. There are other generic considerations, however, that lie behind some of the portraits, and these also may be noticed here. Perhaps the single most illuminating piece of information to be found in Mann’s book is that the Wife of Bath herself is a representation of a familiar estate concept, namely that of woman.6 The image of woman that is involved here is not a particularly attractive one and is the product of a specifically anti-feminist tradition of thought. Readers of Jerome may call to mind the abuse that Socrates had to endure at the hands of his two wives, Xanthippe and Myron: Socrates Xantippen et Miro neptem Aristidis, duas habebat uxores … Novissime verterunt in eum inpetum, et male multatum fugientemque diu persecute sunt. Quodam autem tempore cum infinita convitia ex superiori loco ingerenti Xantippe restitisset, aqua perfusus inmunda, nichil amplius respondit quam capite deterso, ‘Sciebam,’ inquit, ‘futurum, ut ista tonitrua imber sequeretur.’7

The monster of womankind that is embodied in this tradition is defined in terms of pride (A 449–52) and lechery (A 459–68 and 475–76). The resultant type can be defined in astrological terms as the product of the conjunction of Mars and Venus in Taurus (see D 609–26). Chaucer evidently himself associates the pride displayed by the Wife of Bath with the bourgeoisie in general, for it is characteristic also of the behaviour of the Gildsmen’s wives (A 373–78).

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As well as social and moral types we have also to note the presence on the pilgrimage to Canterbury of physiological types. The old doctrine of the humours has given to us a sanguine type in the Franklin (A 333) and a choleric type in the Reeve (A 587). We know in consequence, for example, that the Reeve is an irascible and malevolent man who is not to be crossed (A 605): They were adrad of hym as of the deeth.

The Miller makes the mistake of ridiculing in his tale a gullible carpenter and has to pay the full price for his error in the Reeve’s nasty and meanminded response. Moral and physiological features are of intrinsic importance in the detail of the particular portraits of the General Prologue, whereas social features are of structural significance. Nevertheless all three point to the medieval habit of thinking in generic and not individual terms in the elaboration of human character. III. It is hardly to be doubted that it is the great weight of physical detail in the General Prologue that is responsible for leaving the majority of modern readers with a sense of the individuality of Chaucer’s pilgrims. But here a fundamental distinction has to be drawn between the particular and the individual. The issue amounts to this: are the details determined by the general conception (concrete universals) or are they significant in their own right (individuals)? Let us look again at the portraits of the Knight and the Wife of Bath to see if we can give a definite answer to this question. As far as the Knight is concerned we are told a great deal about the campaigns in which he distinguished himself (A 51–66). The catalogue of campaigns is in itself important, for in this way the Knight’s prowess (chivalrie) is objectively exhibited. It is indeed the poet’s concern to display the strenuousness of the Knight that accounts for the detail of his dress (A 75–76): Of fustian he wered a gypon Al bismotered with his habergeon.

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It is worth insisting here upon the objective habit of mind of the medieval writer, for it makes a more complete sense of such details as these. Thus any evidence of sluggishness in a Knight has at once the contrary implication of cowardice. We may again call to mind the behaviour of Chrétien’s Erec. The absorption of Erec in his love for Enide after their marriage results in knightly inactivity and censure by society (Erec, 2455–64). In her own sorrow at this development Enide inadvertently reveals to Erec the fact that she too accepts the validity of this assumption. The adventures of the romance that follow are all of them motivated by this conflict between love and chivalry. It is a conflict that cannot be resolved until Erec has revealed again the prowess that is demanded of a true knight. The strenuousness of Chaucer’s Knight is not to be confused with the vain seeking for glory that might characterise a lesser warrior. The Knight does not assert his own excellence. He is simply excellent. This truth is made clear to us by the lack of ostentation in his appearance (A 74): His hors were goode, but he was nat gay.

We are intended to connect this detail with the explicit statement of the Knight’s humility (A 69). From the particular selection of campaigns we can see that the Knight’s prowess is placed primarily at the service of his religion. The list of campaigns, highlighting as it does the noble victory (according to the medieval verdict) in the taking of Alexandria by the crusaders under Peter I of Cyprus (Pierre de Lusignan) in 1365, gives us a clearer idea of their geographical rather than chronological extension in order to demonstrate to an admiring audience the Knight’s far-flung exploits.8 Thus the Knight fights in Prussia, Lithuania, and Russia (or perhaps Rossenia, a province in Samogitia) with the Teutonic Knights (A 52–55),9 in Algeçiras and Almeria (A 56–57) at the western and eastern extremities of the Moorish kingdom of Granada,10 and against the Saracens in Egypt and Turkey (Anatolia and Cilicia), south and north of the kingdom of Cyprus (A 51 and 58–66).11 The campaigns cover a period from 1344 (the surrender of Algeçiras) possibly until the time immediately prior to the composition of the General Prologue itself, for we know of a Table of Honour of the Teutonic Knights in 1385

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(see A 52–53). Chaucer’s principle of selection here would have been at once evident to a contemporary audience. The fourteenth century is the great age of English chivalry. The Order of the Garter is founded by Edward III in 1348 (or perhaps 1349) and the Hundred Years War against France is punctuated in its opening phase by English victories at Crécy (1346), Poitiers (1356) and Nájera (1367). Chaucer himself fought in France in the campaign of 1359–60. He was indeed captured by the enemy and was ransomed by Edward III in 1360.12 What is perhaps even more directly to the point is the record of the Squire’s military experience (on the Bishop of Norwich’s ill-fated crusade of 1383 in all probability) (A 85–86): And he hadde been somtyme in chyvachie In Flaundres, in Artoys, and Pycardie.

When we turn to the Wife of Bath we have at once to ask ourselves why it is that the representative of the estate of woman comes from ‘biside Bathe’ (A 445). The general answer is that the traditional occupation of woman (spinning) is thus related to the specific facts of the development of the cloth industry in the fourteenth century. But Chaucer expects our knowledge to be precise, for he was himself controller of the wool custom and subsidy from 1374 to 1386 in the Port of London. The late thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries are periods of very considerable upheaval in the cloth industry as a result of the mechanisation of fulling. The centre of the industry passes from the cities of eastern England (for example, Lincoln and York) to those country areas where swift flowing water and supplies of the finest wool are readily available, that is, most notably, to the west of England – the southern Cotswolds, Somerset and Devon.13 The woman is located, therefore, not in Bath but near Bath. Chaucer has in mind here the actual circumstances of the cloth industry rather than the parish of St Michael juxta Bathon. The focus is once again on the type and not the individual. It is not difficult to appreciate that the Wife’s stockings of ‘scarlet reed’ (A 456) are a sign of her vanity and love of display.14 It is for this reason that in precisely the same context in the Wife of Bath’s Prologue we

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find that scarlet is the costly fabric (perhaps also dyed red) of her gowns (D 555–59): Therfore I made my visitaciouns To vigilies and to processiouns, To prechyng eek, and to thise pilgrimages, To pleyes of myracles, and to mariages, And wered upon my gaye scarlet gytes.

But there is a special point in Chaucer’s continued use of this detail, for scarlet (and especially red scarlet) is a fabric that is to be associated with the court rather than the town. Again a knowledge of the cloth-trade is required; Carus-Wilson writes: Dyestuffs were drawn from all parts of Europe and from further afield … the Mediterranean regions yielded the most brilliant and costly red, in the scarlet kermes not to be found in Northern Europe … Choicest of all blues was perse, a rich deep shade dyed in woad; cloths of this colour sometimes nearly reached the price of scarlet …15

Hence Chaucer reinforces his description by the use of the adjective fyn, that is, ‘of superior quality, choice of its kind’ (OED, 1): ‘Hir hosen weren of fyn scarlet reed’ (A 456). The Wife of Bath has teeth that are widely set apart (A 468), a fact that is repeated also in The Wife of Bath’s Prologue (D 603–4): Gat-tothed I was, and that bicam me weel; I hadde the prente of seinte Venus seel.

Indeed such teeth are extremely appropriate for the Wife of Bath, since they indicate (as the physiognomists tell us) a lascivious nature. The influence of Mars upon the Wife of Bath’s nature is also not far to seek, and explains further leading elements in her appearance (A 470–73): and on hir heed an hat As brood as is a bokeler or a targe; A foot-mantel aboute hir hipes large, And on hir feet a paire of spores sharpe.

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Our attention is drawn to the sharpness of those spurs both by the strong accent and the rhyme; we can almost feel them biting into the easy-going horse (amblere) that she rides. It is in the context of the Wife of Bath’s militancy that we can best explain a further detail (A 446): But she was somdel deef, and that was scathe.

What is suggested here is the impenetrability of such a person to reasoned argument; her ears are closed as well as her mind to any point of view that does not accord with her own. It would be possible to show in the portraits of all the Canterbury pilgrims how physical details on almost all occasions possess this richness of general implication. In the portrait of the Prioress, for example, we are led by the narrator’s warm and undisguised sympathies to appreciate the fine manners and deportment of a courtly lady (a Criseyde, let us say) (A 127–41), an elegance of dress and a classic beauty (A 151–53): Ful semyly hir wympul pynched was, Hir nose tretys, hir eyen greye as glas, Hir mouth ful smal, and therto softe and reed.

But the very authenticity of these details raises a question (perhaps a gentle question) about the Prioress’s commitment to her spiritual vocation, and we can hardly admire her for her convent rather than Parisian French (A 124– 26) and for her sentimental concern for mice and dogs (A 142–50).16 At the other physical extreme we find in the Miller’s wart (A 554–57) a visual image of the churl, that is, a brutish and uncivilised creature. We must not overlook here the courtly perspective of Chaucer and his audience. The main conclusion to be derived from these examples is surely beyond dispute. It is that particularising details do not exist for their own sake as a mark of individuality but have been determined by the conception of a type.

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IV. It now becomes necessary to insist that the critical language which we use reflects and does not distort these poetic realities. All the pilgrims that are presented to us in the General Prologue are ideal in the sense that they are archetypal. It is beside the point to say, for example, that the Knight is too good to be true, since for Plato the ultimate reality is the idea of the good. It is equally false to say that the Miller is in any meaningful sense ‘normal’, for it might just as well be said that he is too bad to be true. The fact is (to give our language a philosophical cast) that the Miller achieves the perfection of his form as well as does the Knight; he is, for example, as perfect in his dishonesty (A 562–63) as the Knight is in his valour. It is in addition true that the Knight (along with the Clerk, the Parson and the Plowman) is ideal in a further sense of the word, namely, that he is of great moral excellence. But in the present context this is not a specially significant observation to make. We should also be aware that when Plato formulated his theory of forms he did so in no spirit of antagonism to the multiplicity of sensible things. He does not attempt to reduce the variety of this world to a dull conformity. The development of his thought is to be found in the search for unity in plurality. In this light Mann’s use of the term ‘stereotype’ is singularly infelicitous. We have now come to the point where it is necessary to consider directly the philosophical implications of the distinction between the typical and the individual. Why is it that the medieval poet is characteristically concerned with the generic and the modern novelist with the individual? The answer is that competing definitions of reality are involved. The issue may perhaps be stated in the following manner. Although we can recognise that the substance John is the same man with fair hair at twenty-five as he is bald-headed at forty-five, it by no means follows that the substance John is identical with the substance Peter. How is it, then, that we can predicate the term ‘man’ indifferently of them both? In order to answer this question we need to consider the ontological status of universal terms. Do they possess a real (that is, extramental) existence or are they simply mental concepts? Perhaps they are no more than names. The problem must be broached from some point of view and this involves embracing assumptions that may simply be rejected by other

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thinkers. We may discern two kinds of approach to the problem, namely, that which begins with the recognition of meaning in things and that which begins with the recognition of the reality of things. The former approach is metaphysical in that it is concerned with ultimate questions of being whereas the latter commonly leads to the raising of psychological questions as to the relationship between the real world of things and the activity of the mind. The metaphysical approach is associated with the great classical thinkers (Plato and Aristotle) and the psychological with the empiricist tradition founded by Locke, Berkeley and Hume. Plato gives an uncompromising answer to the problem of universals. Reality is to be found in a world of forms that is separate from and transcends the world of sensible things. The separation of forms from things in this way leaves Plato with the difficulty of explaining the co-existence of intelligible and sensible principles in human beings. He posits a World Soul as a link between the two, but since the World Soul contains not the forms of things but only the likeness of the forms it cannot explain the possession of a rational soul in human beings. Aristotle accordingly rejects the Platonic doctrine of the World Soul. Aristotle accepts with Plato that universals possess a basis in extramental reality, but insists that the universal is to be found in subsistent things and not in separation from them. A distinction is thus drawn between the order of thought and the order of reality. Subsistent things are said to be made up of two constitutive elements, matter and form (hylomorphism). It is the form that gives to a thing its specific determination, that is, identifies it as a member of a species. Form does not exist by itself, however, but is compounded with matter, and it is this co-existence of form and matter that explains the individuality of things (matter being the principle of individuation). In the material world, then, we do not meet with universals but with individuals that contain an essential universal element. Knowledge of the concrete universal is acquired by an immaterial intellect that in the process of cognition abstracts the immaterial (that is, universal) form from the material (that is, individual) object. Plato and Aristotle stand at the head of two traditions of philosophical realism and opposed to them are various traditions which deny that the universal possesses any objective reality. Nominalism is used in a broad sense

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to assert the radical individuality of subsistent things. Not only is there no transcendental form, but the theory of an immanent form is also abandoned. There were celebrated nominalists in the Middle Ages (Ockham, for example), but it is only at the end of the seventeenth century that nominalism becomes philosophically dominant, supplanting the various forms of realism. What is important in the seventeenth century is the combination of a nominalist theory of being and an empirical epistemology. Attention is thus given to the psychological question as to how concepts are formed in the mind. The theory of abstraction has obviously to be abandoned (at least in its Aristotelian sense), for there is no longer an intelligible to be cognised in the sensible. It is, then, this philosophical divide that explains the divergent interests of our poets and novelists. It should be evident that if we are to understand the poetry of Chaucer we need to look to the traditions of philosophical realism. For both Plato and Aristotle poetry is imitation. Since for Plato there is a separation of the world of forms and the world of things, and since the poet has no special claim to the wisdom of the philosopher (who alone is able to rise to the contemplation of the forms), then poetry is no more than the imitation of things which are in themselves imitations (Republic 597 E). Aristotle, on the other hand, concedes to the poet the power of exhibiting true reality, but in doing so he has to assume that the poet is capable as well as the philosopher of penetrating to the forms of things. This is the basis of the famous distinction that he draws between the poet and the historian (Poetics, 1451b 5–7, Chapter 9): Hence poetry is something more philosophic and of graver import than history, since its statements are of the nature rather of universals, whereas those of history are singulars.17

It is this tradition of philosophical realism that leads Sidney in A Defence of Poetry to insist that ‘any understanding knoweth the skill of each artificer standeth in that idea or fore-conceit of the work, and not in the work itself (79/6–8).18 The ignorance of medieval writers concerning these matters is often lamented. Here we may well suspect the undue influence of

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Renaissance propaganda.19 It can be safely asserted that Chaucer himself well understood what Sidney meant in drawing attention to the central place of the idea in the production of a work of art. In some general observations on the nature of poetry at the beginning of the Poetria Nova Geoffrey de Vinsauf writes (43–49): Si quis habet fundare domum, non currit ad actum Impetuosa manus: intrinseca linea cordis Praemetitur opus, seriemque sub ordine certo Interior praescribit homo, totamque figurat Ante manus cordis quam corporis; et status ejus Est prius archetypus quam sensilis. Ipsa poesis Spectet in hoc speculo quae lex sit danda poetis.20

Now Chaucer is familiar with the writings of Geoffrey de Vinsauf as we know from The Nun’s Priest’s Tale (B2 4537–44). Indeed he draws upon this very passage towards the end of the first book of Troilus and Criseyde (I.1065–69): For everi wight that hath an hous to founde Ne renneth naught the werk for to bygynne With rakel hond, but he wol bide a stounde, And sende his hertes line out fro withinne Aldirfirst his purpos for to wynne.

Poetry is not, of course, the same thing as philosophy. The nature of the distinction between poetry and philosophy as well as that between poetry and history is made clear to us by Sidney (65/22–26): Now doth the peerless poet perform both: for whatsoever the philosopher saith should be done, he giveth a perfect picture of it in someone by whom he presupposeth it was done, so as he coupleth the general notion with the particular example.

But the concrete universal is one thing and the individual quite another. The two are not to be confused in the appreciation of the lifelikeness of a poet’s art. It is evident, therefore, that a recognition of the reality of the universal is fundamental to an understanding of the work of many of our greatest

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poets, and not merely of Chaucer. We still ourselves make the connection between poetry and the universal (even if unwittingly) whenever we use the phrase ‘poetic justice’, for justice is poetic when it is perfect.

Notes 1 2 3 4 5

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Jill Mann, Chaucer and Medieval Estates Satire: The Literature of Social Classes and the ‘General Prologue’ to the ‘Canterbury Tales’ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1973). References are throughout to F.N. Robinson, The Works of Geoffrey Chaucer, second edition (London: Oxford University Press, 1957). See Robinson (1957), p. 657. Phyllis Hodgson, Chaucer: ‘General Prologue’, ‘The Canterbury Tales’ (London: The Athlone Press, 1969), p. 131. ‘He was well aware that he would be unable to have the satisfaction of striking the dwarf, since he saw the knight was armed and very grim and arrogant, and he was afraid he would be speedily killed, should he strike his dwarf in front of him. There being no valour in foolishness, Erec showed enough good sense to leave it at that and go back.’ Reference is to M. Roques, Erec et Enide, CFMA (Paris: Champion, 1970) and to the translation of D.D.R. Owen, Chrétien de Troyes: Arthurian Romances, Everyman (London: J.M. Dent; Vermont: Charles E. Tuttle, 1995), pp. 3–4. On this point see, however, Gervase Mathew, The Court of Richard II (London: John Murray, 1968), p. 118. Mann, Chaucer and Medieval Estates Satire, p. 121. ‘Socrates had two wives, Xanthippe, and Myron the granddaughter of Aristides … In the end they turned their energy on him and persecuted him for a long time, punishing him and putting him to flight. Once, when he had stood up to Xanthippe as she poured out endless abuse from an upper story, she poured dirty water on him, and he responded with nothing further than wiping his head and saying, “I knew it was coming. I knew it would rain after a thunder like that”’. Reference is to Jerome, Adversus Jovinianum, edited by J-P. Migne, Patrologia latina, XXIII (Paris, 1845), I.48, cols 278–79, translated by Ralph Hanna and Traugott Lawler in Sources and Analogues of ‘The Canterbury Tales’, edited by Robert M. Correale and Mary Hamel, 2 vols (Cambridge: D.S. Brewer, 2002, 2005), II.364, 366.

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Gerald morgan See Muriel Bowden, A Commentary on the ‘General Prologue’ to the ‘Canterbury Tales’, second edition (New York and London: Macmillan, 1967), pp. 52–66. The following account of the Knight’s campaigns is revised in the light of subsequent research. On Ruce as Rossenia in Samogitia (rather than the area around Novgorod to the east of Livonia), see William Urban, ‘When Was Chaucer’s Knight in “Ruce”?’, Chaucer Review, 18 (1984), 347–53 (pp. 349–50), and John H. Pratt, Chaucer and War (Lanham, New York and Oxford: University Press of America, Inc., 2000), pp. 111–13. Such an identification makes good sense of the strategic interests of the Teutonic Knights and also fits the itinerary of Henry of Bolingbroke, Earl of Derby, in 1390. On Belmarye as Almeria, see Jeanne Krochalis, ‘“And riden in Belmarye”: Chaucer’s General Prologue, Line 57’, ANQ, 18 (2005), 3–8 (pp. 5–6). On Tramyssene as Termessos near Antalya (rather than Tlemcen in North West Algeria, close to the Moroccan border), see Pratt, Chaucer and War, pp. 114–15. See Martin M. Crow and Clair C. Olson, Chaucer Life-Records (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1966), pp. 23–28. See Eleanora Carus-Wilson, ‘The Woollen Industry’, in M. Postan and E.E. Rich (eds), The Cambridge Economic History of Europe, Volume II (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1952), Chapter VI, pp. 355–428 (pp. 408–21), and second edition (1987), Chapter IX, pp. 613–90. Scarlet is distinguished from other woollens by its costly finishing not by its colour, and might be dyed any colour, such as blue or brown. See MED, s.v. scarlet adj. (b) ‘of cloth, a robe, an article of clothing, etc.: of fine material or quality, perh. of scarlet color’, and Laura F. Hodges, Chaucer and Costume: The Secular Pilgrims in the General Prologue, Chaucer Studies XXVI (Cambridge: D.S. Brewer, 2000), pp. 173 and n. 49, and 175–76. Hence ‘scarlet reed’ (A 456) and Langland’s ‘of reed scarlet engreyned’ (B II.15). Carus-Wilson, ‘The Woollen Industry’ (1952), p. 376 (see also p. 360). The positive values in the portrait of the Prioress are emphasised by Laura F. Hodges, Chaucer and Clothing: Clerical and Academic Costume in the General Prologue to ‘The Canterbury Tales’, Chaucer Studies XXXIV (Cambridge: D.S. Brewer, 2005), pp. 29–111. The Prioress’s forehead need not be entirely concealed from view (pp. 30–34), wimples are properly and indeed of necessity pleated (pp. 48–51) and the description of the cloak (A 157) is notably restrained (pp. 63–66). Her religious devotion is plainly to be seen in the rosary that she carries with her, and the Latin form of the motto on the golden brooch attach-

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ing it to her habit strengthens the presumption of a religious rather than secular meaning (pp. 103–8). Reference is to the translation of Ingram Bywater, De poetica, in The Works of Aristotle Translated into English, edited by W.D. Ross, Volume XI (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1924). Reference is to the edition of Katherine Duncan-Jones and Jan van Dorsten, Miscellaneous Prose of Sir Philip Sidney (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1973), pp. 59–121. The common opinion is that Aristotle’s Poetics was unknown in the Middle Ages, and was rediscovered in the second half of the fifteenth century. Nevertheless William of Moerbeke translated the Poetics into Latin in 1278, and a commentary of Averroes, the Commentum medium of 1174, was available in the Latin translation of 1256 by Hermannus Alemannus. Moreover the Aristotelian theory of imitation was accessible to readers of such works as the Rhetoric or Politics. See E.N. Tigerstedt, ‘Observations on the Reception of the Aristotelian Poetics in the Latin West’, Studies in the Renaissance, 15 (New York, 1968), pp. 7–10. ‘If a man has a house to build, his impetuous hand does not rush into action. The measuring line of his mind first lays out the work, and he mentally outlines the successive steps in a definite order. The mind’s hand shapes the entire house before the body’s hand builds it. Its mode of being is archetypal before it is actual. Poetic art may see in this analogy the law to be given to poets.’ Reference is to the edition of E. Faral, Les Arts poétiques du xiie et du xiiie siècle (Paris: Champion, 1924), pp. 194–262 (p. 198) and to the translation of Margaret F. Nims, Poetria Nova of Geoffrey of Vinsauf (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1967), pp. 16–17.

7 Rhetorical Perspectives in the General Prologue to the Canterbury Tales

There is … scarcely any species of writing, of which we can tell what is its essence, and what are its constituents; every new genius produces some innovation, which, when invented and approved, subverts the rules which the practice of foregoing authors had established. — Samuel Johnson, The Rambler, No. 125

I. In two previous articles on the General Prologue it has been shown that the characters depicted by Chaucer are types and not individuals, and that they are presented to us within a carefully organised structure that reflects the hierarchical order of contemporary society.1 Neither conclusion in itself constitutes a judgment on the artistic merit of the General Prologue. It is clear, however, that types and schemes are not inimical to the production of great poems, even though they may call into question the Romantic conceptions of spontaneity and sincerity. Types do not imply a simplification of human nature but a penetration of its very essence, and schemes do not involve a lack of imaginative vitality when they are allied to a poet’s deepest convictions. The greatness of the General Prologue, then, does not result from the abandonment of medieval poetic values but from the exemplification of them by a true poetic genius in the full possession of his powers. It now remains to consider the end which this schematic representation of types serves, and the stylistic means by which this end is achieved. Once again it will be necessary to insist upon the specifically medieval dimensions of Chaucer’s art, for the literary procedures that he adopts in the General Prologue can only be fully understood in the light of the rhetorical tradition in which he was trained as a poet.

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II. The art of the General Prologue has often been discussed in terms of satire.2 We may indeed begin our present discussion with a definition of this important and elusive critical term, for our understanding of the General Prologue is directly dependent upon it. The OED defines satire as ‘a poem, or in modern use sometimes a prose composition, in which prevailing vices or follies are held up to ridicule’. But such a definition is only the beginning of our difficulties. The linking of follies and vices conceals an important distinction in the nature of satire. It is the distinction between the amused laughter of Horace and the savage indignation of Juvenal. As Dryden puts it: ‘Juvenal has rail’d more wittily than Horace has rally’d. Horace means to make his Reader Laugh; but he is not sure of his Experiment. Juvenal always intends to move your Indignation; and he always brings about his purpose’ (656/2176–79).3 Again, not every subject is fit to be ridiculed. The miseries and natural imperfections of men are worthy of compassion and not of ridicule; vice itself ‘should always disgust’ (The Rambler, No. 4, Saturday, 31 March 1750).4 The source of the truly ridiculous, therefore, as Fielding explains in the Preface to Joseph Andrews, is affectation, itself deriving from the twin causes of vanity and hypocrisy. But here again is controversial matter. In Fielding’s view there is an especial fitness in hypocrisy as the subject of ridicule, ‘for to discover any one to be the exact Reverse of what he affects, is more surprizing, and consequently more ridiculous, than to find him a little deficient in the Quality he desires the Reputation of ’.5 To Samuel Johnson, on the other hand, the underlying viciousness is of greater significance than the sense of incongruity (The Rambler, No. 20, Saturday, 26 May 1750): Hypocrisy is the necessary burthen of villainy, affectation part of the chosen trappings of folly; the one completes a villain, the other only finishes a fop. Contempt is the proper punishment of affectation, and detestation the just consequence of hypocrisy.6

The interplay of distinctions of this kind results in the name of satire being applied to works whose nature and effects differ very greatly from one another. If our definition of satire is to embrace differences of this kind (as it must), then we have to look for the distinctive identity of satire not in its

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nature but in its end. Here we can recognise the immediate end of exposing follies and vices and the remoter end of correcting them. It is in these terms that Swift defends himself in his apology for A Tale of a Tub (p. 5): Why should any Clergyman of our Church be angry to see the Follies of Fanaticism and Superstition exposed, tho’ in the most ridiculous Manner? since that is perhaps the most probable way to cure them, or at least to hinder them from farther spreading?7

It is this specific orientation that enables us finally to distinguish between satire and comedy, for comedy offers us a representation of human beings in such a way as to provoke laughter rather than pity or fear. It is from ‘the just Imitation of Nature’ (in Fielding’s words) that the true pleasure of comedy is derived.8 The boundary between satire and comedy may at times be difficult if not impossible to draw. This kind of category problem is not in itself important, but may get in the way of our attempts to understand the nature of some particular works. For the distinction between the satirist and the comic poet (or the writer of a comic epic poem in prose) is a real and not a verbal distinction, and of vital importance if we are to make a true account of the genius of Chaucer as it is exhibited in the General Prologue. III. The distinction of satire and comedy is a distinction of genre. But insofar as there is an identity of subject there is also an identity between the satiric and the comic mode of writing. It is no doubt this identity of manner that is the occasion of the frequent confusion of satire and comedy. But the ridicule of vanity in Joseph Andrews does not make of that work a satire, and we need always to be aware as a result of the larger ends that such ridicule is intended to serve. There can be no doubt that there is also ridicule of vanity in the General Prologue. The courtly aspirations of the Prioress are mocked in her failure to acquire a true French accent (A 124–26): And Frenssh she spak ful faire and fetisly, After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe, For Frenssh of Parys was to hire unknowe.

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The aldermanic aspirations of the Gildsmen and the vain ambitions of their wives are treated to a somewhat harsher ridicule, although the satiric perspective is once again that of the court poet (A 371–78): Everich, for the wisdom that he kan, Was shaply for to been an alderman. For catel hadde they ynogh and rente, And eek hir wyves wolde it wel assente; And elles certeyn were they to blame. It is ful fair to been ycleped ‘madame,’ And goon to vigilies al bifore, And have a mantel roialliche ybore.

The Wife of Bath is also strenuous in her assertion of social superiority and her vanity too is mocked in the same way (A 449–52). Finally, even in the disgusting portrait of the Pardoner, there is ridicule of the vain attempt to cut a fashionable figure in the world (A 680–83): But hood, for jolitee, wered he noon, For it was trussed up in his walet. Hym thoughte he rood al of the newe jet; Dischevelee, save his cappe, he rood al bare.

It is perhaps not very surprising in these circumstances that Chaucer has been considered as a satirist. Moreover Mann has shown the extent to which Chaucer is indebted to the medieval tradition of estates satire for the details which give life to his portraits. Medieval estates satire is satiric in the full sense of the word, that is, it is directed towards the censure of prevalent vices. It might seem, therefore, that Chaucer finds in it more than a mere source of the physical details of his own poem. The corruption of the medieval church, for example, is a sufficiently broad and inviting target, worthy of the art of any satirist. But the existence of abuses is not hard to discover in the history of human institutions at any period, and these abuses do not in themselves make a satirist. Chaucer’s art in the General Prologue has not that specific orientation that we properly require of the satirist and although contemporary vices are certainly present in it these are not the immediate object of our interest.

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IV. It might at first appear that the ironic presentation of character in the General Prologue suggests a satiric purpose, for irony is one of the chief weapons of the satirist. We can easily see the link between irony and satire when Swift assures us that ‘we of this Age have discovered a shorter, and more prudent Method, to become Scholars and Wits, without the Fatigue of Reading or of Thinking’.9 There is also a pleasing ironic obliqueness in the commendation of the Prioress for her mastery of French ‘[a]fter the scole of Stratford atte Bowe’. But again irony does not necessarily imply a satirical purpose. Indeed the sustained use of irony implies a detachment in the viewing of the world that is seldom shared by the satirist. Irony of the distinctively Chaucerian kind requires that the superficial view is held more steadily before us and that the deeper authorial view is less obtrusive. Here we have the work not so much of a satirist as a moralist, that is to say, not of one who is committed to the propagation of definite moral judgments, but of one who offers a broader, more objective view of human beings as moral creatures. Human imperfections are only one part (albeit an important part) of the truth about human nature. The broader comic intent of Chaucer is well illustrated in his ironic presentation of the Monk. The portrait of the Monk reveals the estates habit of presenting human behaviour in universal terms, for he is defined wholly in terms of his deviation from the ideal of monasticism. But it is not the Monk so much as monasticism that is ostensibly called into question. There is everything to be said for virility (A 165–71) and good health (A 200–5), and no sane man can surely suppose the rigours of the cloister to be desirable (A 172–88). There is no need to suppose any moral uncertainty or relativism here, for the very pervasiveness of the estates tradition is indicative of a world assured in its possession of spiritual, moral and social values. We are led rather to distinguish between the ostensible voice of the narrator and the implied voice of the author. The result of this method of presentation, however, is that all moral criticism is removed from the surface of the narrative so that there is not so much explicit moral criticism as an underlying moral awareness. The distinction between fictional narrator and omniscient poet in the General Prologue is presented in its most clearcut form by E. Talbot Donaldson in an influential article.10 According to Donaldson the pilgrim

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Chaucer is both obtuse and bourgeois (possibly a distinction without a difference). But it is difficult to see where in the General Prologue the identity of the narrator is established in this way and consequently even more difficult to see how the work can be read in the light of it. All that we can legitimately gather at the beginning is that the fictional Chaucer is a devout pilgrim (A 21–22) and a sociable man (A 30–32), one indeed not insensible of the comforts of this world (A 28–29). We should take serious note of these values, for when the fictional narrator has an important role to play in Chaucer’s poetry (as he frequently does) his identity is fixed at the very outset. The initial sleeplessness of the dreamer in The Book of the Duchess as a result of the sickness of unrequited love (BD, 1–40) is the source of the sympathetic bond that he later establishes with the bereaved knight. The dreamer in The Parliament of Fowls is a perplexed, bookish and fearful figure (PF, 4–14) and this identity has an obvious appropriateness in a poem in which the philosophical issues that are raised are still at the end unresolved (PF, 695–99). The partisanship of the narrator towards the cause of the lovers in Troilus and Criseyde (I.1–56) explains the combination of sympathy and moral detachment that is central to Chaucer’s presentation of them. The very significance of the role of the fictional narrator, therefore, forces us to examine Donaldson’s claims on behalf of the pilgrim Chaucer with some care. The series of portraits in the General Prologue begins with the fundamentally unironic portrait of the Knight and includes on the one hand portraits of virtue in the Clerk, Parson and Plowman and on the other portraits of vice in the Miller, Reeve and Pardoner. These can hardly be put down to obtuseness on the part of a pilgrim narrator. Donaldson attempts to meet this objection by acknowledging that the pilgrim Chaucer ‘is, to be sure, permitted his lucid intervals’ (p. 3). But these intervals are altogether too lucid and last for far too long. The assumption that the narrator is a member of the ‘middle class’ is much less securely grounded in the text and is indeed no more than a social anachronism. He places himself with what seems to be a studied irony in the company of the churls (A 544). The ridicule of the convent French of the Prioress and the aldermanic aspirations of the Gildsmen presupposes the point of view of the court poet rather than of the bourgeois. Indeed the view of the fictional pilgrim as a member

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of the ‘middle class’ is based on no fictional evidence whatsoever, but on assumptions concerning the social status of Chaucer himself. It is perhaps a fitting irony that these assumptions are in themselves false. One might well expect to find the poet Chaucer in the company of such figures as the Merchant, the Clerk, the Lawyer and the Franklin. If the initial presentation of the narrator suggests another pilgrim, it is surely the hospitable Franklin. At all events the figure of the narrator, obtuse or not, belongs in the company of the gentles. The distinction between poet and pilgrim that Donaldson makes is certainly valid and necessary on some occasions. The true objection is that he attempts to apply it with a consistency that the poetry for the most part refuses to support. It is better to look upon the narrator as a fictional device and not a person. The fact is that although ironic detachment is entirely characteristic of Chaucer’s comic manner, it is not as pervasive in the General Prologue as Donaldson’s analysis asserts it to be. V. Both the ridicule of vanity and the ironic presentation of character have to be seen within a larger scheme. Dryden in his Discourse Concerning Satire tells us that satire once included the representation of virtue as well as vice (637/1428–43). This is no longer part of our definition of satire and hence the representation of virtue in the General Prologue is to be seen as part of the broader pattern of Chaucerian comedy. It is sometimes insisted that the virtuous figures exist as a yardstick by which the foolish and vicious pilgrims are judged. Woolf, for example, observes that ‘it was a tradition of satire to provide an ideal standard’ (p. 211). But the Monk is not to be judged by the values of the Knight; he is found to be defective by the standards of monasticism. The virtuous figures have a primary and not a secondary value and are to be appreciated in and for themselves. We need to look, therefore, to a poetic tradition in which the representation of virtue and vice alike is considered, and this is the tradition of rhetorical description. Rhetoric is an art of persuasion and one of its three kinds is epideictic or demonstrative. The author of the Rhetorica ad Herennium defines the matter of epideictic rhetoric as follows (III.v.10):

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Matthew of Vendôme in the Ars Versificatoria (c.1175) sets out the distinction of physical and moral description of persons in precisely these terms (I.74): Et notandum quod cujuslibet personae duplex potest esse descriptio: una superficialis, alia intrinseca; superficialis, quando membrorum elegantia describitur vel homo exterior, intrinseca, quando interioris hominis proprietates, scilicet ratio, fides, patientia, honestas, injuria, superbia, luxuria et cetera epitheta interioris hominis, scilicet animae, ad laudem vel ad vituperium exprimuntur.12

Such rhetorical descriptions, then, are intended to elicit from the reader a specific emotional response, whether of admiration or of revulsion. It is in the light of this conception that we are best able to explain the effect of the various portraits in the General Prologue. The Knight is a figure of great moral excellence. The portrait of him is intended to elicit the admiration of the reader, a fact that is evident from the opening line of the description (A 43): A Knyght ther was, and that a worthy man.

The worthiness or excellence of the Knight is insistently underlined (the rhetorical figure is traductio) throughout the whole length of the portrait (A 47, 50, 64 and 68): Ful worthy was he in his lordes were. And evere honoured for his worthynesse. This ilke worthy knyght hadde been also. And though that he were worthy, he was wys.

Our feeling of admiration for his worth is also reinforced by simple, direct statement (A 72): He was a verray, parfit gentil knyght.

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There is no suggestion here of a distinction between poet and pilgrim and in consequence no sense in which our admiration for the Knight is qualified. There is by contrast a unity of perspective and hence precisely that kind of unified emotional response that the rhetorician would hope to elicit. In the same way we have no difficulty in recognising that the portraits of the Clerk, Parson and Plowman are also ‘descriptiones ad laudem’. A feeling of revulsion is most often elicited in rhetorical description by portraits of an extreme physical ugliness. The physical description (effictio) also implies a moral judgment if one is not provided explicitly. A good example of a ‘descriptio ad vituperium’ is that of the Miller (A 549–57): He was short-sholdred, brood, a thikke knarre; Ther was no dore that he nolde heve of harre, Or breke it at a rennyng with his heed. His berd as any sowe or fox was reed, And therto brood, as though it were a spade. Upon the cop right of his nose he hade A werte, and theron stood a toft of herys, Reed as the brustles of a sowes erys; His nosethirles blake were and wyde.

The physical portrait here provides the basis of an image of violence, cunning and animality. What we see is a true picture of churlishness (the Miller is described as a carl at A 545) and we become aware in the process of the contempt in which the villein or serf was held in a feudal society. The most revolting portrait of physical ugliness is that of the Summoner (A 623–28), almost but not quite the lowest in the scale of human wickedness among the Canterbury pilgrims, but the same descriptive emphasis can also be easily seen in the portraits of the Reeve and the Pardoner. Indeed in the Pardoner’s lack of vitality and unfashionable appearance there is a deformation of the ideal of courtly youth as it is set forth in the figure of the Squire. What is most noticeable in the rhetorical tradition is the unity of perspective that is aimed at in portraiture. Nevertheless it does possess ironic potential insofar as praise may be directed at that which should properly be censured and censure at that which should properly be praised.

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The best example of misdirected praise is to be found in the portrait of the Prioress. The ironic effect that is created here stems from an inversion of that rhetorical description in which the portrait of physical beauty is the source of praise. The Prioress is thus presented to us in accordance with the ideal of feminine beauty as it is to be found in the heroine of courtly romance (A 152–56): Hir nose tretys, hir eyen greye as glas, Hir mouth ful smal, and therto softe and reed; But sikerly she hadde a fair forheed; It was almoost a spanne brood, I trowe; For, hardily, she was nat undergrowe.13

The interpretation of these details has not always been a straightforward matter and the issues raised can only be settled (if at all) by appeal to other medieval works (and especially those of Chaucer himself ) in which the type of the courtly heroine is represented. The well-proportioned nose, the grey-green eyes and the slender lips are familiar elements in the medieval ideal of beauty. The lady whose charms even Sir Gawain finds difficult to resist ‘Ful lufly con ho lete / Wyth lyppez smal laȝande’ (SGGK, 1206–7). The typical associations of grey eyes are exploited by the Reeve in his description of the Miller’s daughter (A 3973–76): This wenche thikke and wel ygrowen was, With kamus nose, and eyen greye as glas, With buttokes brode, and brestes rounde and hye; But right fair was hire heer, I wol nat lye.

The maliciousness of the Reeve is fully evident here, for he shows that Malyne is the true daughter of the Miller. Our awareness of what this precisely involves stems from the pointed juxtaposition of ‘kamus nose’ and ‘eyen greye as glas’, that is, we see the distance between the legacy of the Miller and the ideal of beauty. It seems clear that a wide forehead was also a part of ‘the conventional rhetoric of womanly beauty’ and was much appreciated by our ancestors.14

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The vitality of the rhetorical tradition of portraiture in this respect can be seen from Sidney’s description of the beauty of Parthenia (New Arcadia, I.16.9): Of a farre differing (though esteemed equall) beautie, was the faire Parthenia … For in her every thing was goodly, and stately; yet so, that it might seeme that greatmindednes was but the auncient-bearer to humblenes. For her great graie eye, which might seem full of her owne beauties, a large, and exceedingly faire forhead, with all the rest of her face and body, cast in the mould of Noblenes; was yet so attired, as might shew, the mistres thought it either not to deserve, or not to need any exquisite decking, having no adorning but cleanlines; and so farre from all arte, that it was full of carelesnesse: unlesse that carelesnesse it selfe (in spite of it selfe) grew artificiall.15

The force of the observation that the Prioress ‘was nat undergrowe’ has, however, led to some critical uncertainty. Hodgson wonders whether there is not perhaps a brilliant understatement here whereby the Prioress ‘turns out to be unexpectedly large, and so somewhat comic and a bit pathetic’.16 The Prioress is surely not to be compared with Malyne who is described as ‘wel ygrowen’ but also as ‘thikke’, and thus inherits her father’s physique. A heroine ought not to be diminutive and indeed largeness of stature is desirable in a heroine provided that she is well-proportioned. Such a combination is overwhelmingly pleasing to Troilus in the case of Criseyde (TC, I.281–84): She nas nat with the leste of hire stature, But alle hire lymes so wel answerynge Weren to wommanhod, that creature Was nevere lasse mannyssh in semynge.

It can hardly be claimed that the Prioress is presented as sympathetically as is Criseyde on her first appearance in the eyes of Troilus. The pilgrim narrator of the General Prologue is an admirer, not a would-be lover. But the reader’s reservation does not relate to the physical appearance of the Prioress so much as to the underlying moral assumptions of the portrait as a whole, and it is these that the enthusiasm of the narrator serves to underline.

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The description of the ideal of beauty is indeed accompanied by an account also of the appropriate moral qualities (notatio), and it is with the moral qualities of the Prioress that Chaucer not unreasonably begins his portrait (A 118–19): Ther was also a Nonne, a Prioresse, That of hir smylyng was ful symple and coy.

Symplesse is the second of the five golden arrows of the God of Love in The Romaunt of the Rose (953–54) – the first is Beaute – and signifies an unaffected spontaneity of behaviour. Blanche in The Book of the Duchess is repeatedly described as symple (BD, 861 and 918) and does not employ deceitful female tricks (‘knakkes smale’, 1033) in her behaviour towards men. The third golden arrow of the God of Love is ‘fethred … in noble wise / With valour and with curtesye’ (956–57), and the courtesy of the Prioress is shown in the elegance of her table manners (A 127–36). The delightful conversation of an intelligent and well-educated lady is signified by the fourth of Love’s arrows, Compaignye, and since this is difficult to come at, it ‘hevy for to sheten ys’ (959). Thus the bereaved knight asserts that there ‘was never founde / So swete a sownynge facounde’ (BD, 925–26) to match the eloquence of Blanche. In the same way the ‘clene cortays carp’ of Gawain and the lady ‘watz passande vche prynce gomen’ (SGGK, 1013–14). The expectation of eloquence in the heroine of romance explains the commendation of the Prioress for her command of French (A 124–26), even though here Chaucer has managed to turn it to comic advantage. The physical and moral qualities of the courtly heroine constitute an attractive image and they are presented with the customary rhetorical persuasiveness in the figure of the Prioress A 124, 127 and 151): And Frenssh she spak ful faire and fetisly. At mete wel ytaught was she with alle. Ful semyly hir wympul pynched was.

But in the case of the Prioress, unlike that of the Knight, the praise is ironic (or at least tinged with irony). Our awareness of such irony does not derive from the creation of an obtuse pilgrim Chaucer, for such a figure

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has as yet no imaginative existence. It derives instead from the knowledge (doubly communicated to us in the opening line of the portrait) that we have properly to do with a prioress and not a heroine of romance. As a result we can appreciate a series of witty and pointed juxtapositions (for example, ‘madame Eglentyne’, A 121) in which the two images are set against one another. It is perhaps understandable in this context that the behaviour of the Prioress should in some respects fall short of ‘cheere / Of court’ (A 139–40). A further ironic complication in the pattern of rhetorical description is that of intentionally misdirected censure. Thus it is the restrictive rules of monasticism that are called into question rather than the values of the Monk (A 184–88): What sholde he studie and make hymselven wood, Upon a book in cloystre alwey to poure, Or swynken with his handes, and laboure, As Austyn bit? How shal the world be served? Lat Austyn have his swynk to hym reserved!

Donaldson’s explanation of such ironic passages as these in terms of an interplay between poet and pilgrim is a most attractive one, and not necessarily at variance with the rhetorical principles of portraiture that have thus far been adduced. Wherever there is ironic utterance a persona of some kind must be presupposed. The questions that we need to ask are the degree to which such ironic utterance is self-conscious and the extent to which it is sustained. In order to appreciate the ironies of the General Prologue we need to recognise the subordinate role of the narrator and the centrality of the tradition of rhetorical description. VI. In order to arrive at a true appreciation of the art of the General Prologue it has been necessary to understand the literary genre to which it belongs and the kind of work with which as a consequence it is most fitly compared. The General Prologue, that is to say, is to be seen not in terms of satire but of comedy, and as a result we need to form some conception of what a medieval poet would have understood by comedy.17 We can do

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this and at the same time take heed of Samuel Johnson’s warning on the hazards of defining comedy (The Rambler, No. 125) if we are prepared to recognise that complexity resides in the works rather than in the definitions of them.18 Unlike satire, comedy presupposes a pattern of action. The comic pattern is the opposite of the tragic pattern as defined by the Monk (B2 3163–67): Tragedie is to seyn a certeyn storie, As olde bookes maken us memorie, Of hym that stood in greet prosperitee, And is yfallen out of heigh degree Into myserie, and endeth wrecchedly.

and as exemplified by the action of Troilus and Criseyde ‘[f ]ro wo to wele, and after out of joie’ (I.4). It is the progress through hell and purgatory to paradise that explains the title of The Divine Comedy. In the same way The Canterbury Tales looks forward to the arrival of the pilgrims at the shrine of St Thomas Becket and beyond that to the ultimate bliss of heaven. According to Aristotle (Poetics, 1449a 32–34, Chapter 5) comedy involves the representation of people of the meaner sort. This view is repeated by Fielding in the Preface to Joseph Andrews, when he observes that the comic romance ‘differs in its Characters, by introducing Persons of inferiour Rank, and consequently of inferiour Manners, whereas the grave Romance, sets the highest before us’ (p. 4). Despite the misgivings of Samuel Johnson as to the universal applicability of this criterion, it may be urged that The Canterbury Tales and Troilus and Criseyde differ from one another in precisely this way. What we have in The Canterbury Tales is a presentation of human society in the light of its divine end and the significant imitation of human nature that results is the work of the poet and not merely of the rhetorician. Dryden in a series of memorable phrases has praised Chaucer for the vividness of his portraits: ‘I see … all the Pilgrims in the Canterbury Tales, their Humours, their Features, and the very Dress, as distinctly as if I had supp’d with them at the Tabard in Southwark’ (1450/252–1451/256).19 But we should not mistake the nature of Chaucer’s poetic achievement.

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It implies neither naturalism nor a concern for individuality. The medieval poet has raised himself above the level of history and of individuals and has fixed his imagination upon the abiding truths of human nature. That is why his portraits have lost nothing of their essential reality with the passing of the years. It is, properly considered, the highest praise that we can accord to Chaucer to say that he has fashioned true poetic types. Lest there be any mistake as to what such praise may signify, I would refer the reader again to Fielding’s excellent Preface and to the distinction that he draws between character and caricature (p. 6): Let us examine the Works of a Comic History-Painter, with those Performances which the Italians call Caricatura; where we shall find the true Excellence of the former, to consist in the exactest copying of Nature; insomuch, that a judicious Eye instantly rejects any thing outré; any Liberty which the Painter hath taken with the Features of that Alma Mater. – Whereas in the Caricatura we allow all Licence. Its Aim is to exhibit Monsters, not Men; and all Distortions and Exaggerations whatever are within its proper Province.

In the General Prologue, then, is exhibited the full range of human nature in the comic manner. There is eloquent representation of the noblest virtues of chivalry, learning, religion and labour; there is censure of vice in its ugliest manifestations; there is both gentle and biting ridicule of pride and greed; and above all there is the ironic detachment of the moralist who can view the failings of human beings in the light of the love of God. We may well agree with Dryden that ‘here is God’s Plenty’.20 But just as the plenitude of God is contained within the unity of the created world (the fair chain of being bound by love), so the inexhaustible variety of the General Prologue is matched by the perfect unity of the form in which it is expressed.

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Notes 1 2

3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11

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‘The Universality of the Portraits in the General Prologue to the Canterbury Tales’, English Studies, 58 (1977), 481–93 and ‘The Design of the General Prologue to the Canterbury Tales’, English Studies, 59 (1978), 481–98. See, for example, Rosemary Woolf, ‘Chaucer as a Satirist in the General Prologue to the Canterbury Tales’, Critical Quarterly, 1 (1959), 150–57, printed by J.A. Burrow, Geoffrey Chaucer: A Critical Anthology (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books Ltd, 1969), pp. 206–14, and Mann, Chaucer and Medieval Estates Satire (1973). Reference is to the Discourse Concerning Satire in James Kinsley (ed.), The Poems of John Dryden, Volume II (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1958), pp. 601–70 (656/2176–79). See also 648/1862–649/1890. Reference is to The Yale Edition of the Works of Samuel Johnson, Volumes III–V, The Rambler, edited by W.J. Bate and Albrecht B. Strauss (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1969), III.19–25 (p. 24). Reference is to Henry Fielding, Joseph Andrews, edited by Martin C. Battestin, The Wesleyan Edition of the Works of Henry Fielding (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1967), Preface, p. 9. The Yale Edition of the Works of Samuel Johnson, III.110–15 (p. 113). Reference is to A Tale of a Tub, edited by A.C. Guthkelch and D. Nichol Smith, second edition (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1958). Joseph Andrews, Preface, p. 4. Tale of a Tub, pp. 144–45. E.T. Donaldson, ‘Chaucer the Pilgrim’, PMLA, 69 (1954), 928–36, reprinted in Speaking of Chaucer (London: The Athlone Press, 1970), pp. 1–12. ‘Since epideictic includes Praise and Censure, the topics on which praise is founded will, by their contraries, serve us as the bases for censure. The following, then, can be subject to praise: External Circumstances, Physical Attributes, and Qualities of Character.’ Reference is to Harry Caplan, [Cicero]: Ad C. Herennium de ratione dicendi (Rhetorica ad Herennium), Loeb (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press; London: William Heinemann Ltd, 1954), pp. 172–75. ‘And it is to be noted that the description of any person can be twofold: one external, the other inward; external, when the elegance of the limbs is described or the outer man, inward, when the properties of the inner man, such as reason, faith, patience, honourableness, injustice, pride, lustfulness and other attributes of the

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inner man, that is, of the soul, are represented for praise or for censure.’ Reference is to the text of the Ars versificatoria in Faral, Les Arts poétiques, pp. 106–93 (p. 135). See MED, s.v. tretis adj. (a) ‘Of the face or nose: slender, graceful, well formed’; spanne n. 1.(a) ‘A unit of length variously reckoned as corresponding to the distance from the tip of the thumb to the tip of the middle or the little finger when the hand is fully extended, a span, hand’s breadth’, and undergrowen v. (d) ‘… ppl. undergrowen, undersized or underdeveloped, of short stature’. The phrase is that of Hodges, Chaucer and Clothing (p. 42, n. 44) in a notably sympathetic account of both the Prioress’s feminine beauty and the propriety of her dress (pp. 29–81). Reference is to The Prose Works of Sir Philip Sidney, Volume I, The Countesse of Pembrokes Arcadia, edited by Albert Feuillerat (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1912), pp. 103–4. Hodgson, General Prologue, p. 85. On this point see the discussion of Donald R. Howard, The Idea of the Canterbury Tales (Berkeley, Los Angeles and London: University of California Press, 1976), pp. 30–45. The Rambler, No. 125, Tuesday, 28 May 1751, The Yale Edition of the Works of Samuel Johnson, IV.299–305 (p. 300). Preface to Fables Ancient and Modern, in Kinsley, The Poems of John Dryden, Volume IV.1444–63. Preface to Fables, 1455/443–44.

8 A Defence of Dorigen’s Complaint

I. The device of the complaint is familiar to any one who has read at all widely among the classical rhetoricians or the works of Chaucer. The lengthy complaint against Fortune that is given to Dorigen in the moral crisis that forms the climax of The Franklin’s Tale (F 1355–1456) may thus be referred to a well-defined pattern of literary exposition. The fact remains, however, that despite our knowledge of both theory and practice Dorigen’s complaint has resisted the most strenuous attentions of twentieth-century critics of the tale. We have been told by some authorities that it is Chaucer’s intent to ridicule the excesses of the rhetorical tradition, especially in its degenerate medieval forms; others refer us to the poet’s love of knowledge for its own sake. These explanations raise more problems than they solve. It is not necessary, however, for me to deal with them in detail here, for they have already been admirably dealt with in an important article by James Sledd.1 But Sledd in his turn could not deny that many of the exempla that make up the complaint are incomprehensible. Indeed the very point of them, he argues, is their incomprehensibility, for thereby they reveal to us the state of mind of the heroine. This kind of approach to the tale (and also to medieval literature in general) seems to me to be fundamentally misguided. The Franklin’s Tale does not otherwise evince an interest in the psychological states of its leading characters (all of whom have an archetypal value as knight, lady and lover), but is concerned with the moral issues that are disclosed in the relationship between them. In attempting a psychological account of Dorigen’s complaint Sledd reveals the characteristic sympathies and interests of the modern reader. But the reading of medieval literature requires that we should be sympathetic also to poetry that seeks to express moral rather than psychological truths. Above all we must be sensitive to the rhetorical tradition within which these moral truths are framed. If we insist upon reading The Franklin’s Tale in the light of the principles that are contained in the classical rhetorical traditions,

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then we shall not find difficulty in making sense of Dorigen’s complaint. We shall find that each exemplum has been chosen because of its relevance to a certain pattern of moral exposition. The remainder of this article will attempt to explain the significance of these exempla and their relationship to one another in a lucidly articulated sequence. At the same time it is hoped that the function of Dorigen’s complaint in the tale as a whole will be made clear. II. All the twenty-two exempla to be found in Dorigen’s complaint are derived from a single source, Jerome’s Adversus Jovinianum (I.41–46). The sequence of exempla in The Franklin’s Tale indicates both a systematic use of Jerome and a number of distinct stages of composition.2 In his polemical response to Jovinian Jerome adduces scriptural authority to establish two fundamental principles in his analysis of human love, namely, the superiority of the state of virginity and the undesirability of second and subsequent marriages. In chapters 41–46 of Book I he provides a wealth of illustrative material designed to show that these principles are in accord with the moral and religious beliefs of pagan antiquity. He is responding explicitly here to an opposition that Jovinian sees between human nature and Christian dogma (I.41), but also perhaps to an awareness of the inadequacy of the scriptural evidence itself (I.47), a fact that is so triumphantly seized upon by the Wife of Bath in the prologue to her tale (D 1–162). Jerome’s polemical aim is indicated not only by the sheer weight of material that he adduces but also by the inappositeness of some of the examples that he includes. Thus the founding and destruction of Carthage are associated with the celebration of chastity, but the neatly schematic account that Jerome gives (I.43) involves the suppression of such awkward facts about Dido’s career as her love for Aeneas. Chaucer, following Dante, knows her as an unredeemed earthly lover (The Parliament of Fowls, 289) and indeed he tells at length of her tragic fate in The Legend of Good Women (F 924–1367). Although she is presented sympathetically (in accordance with the penitential duty imposed upon the poet, F 479–91), she can hardly be represented as an archetype of chaste widowhood.3 It is surprising, too, to find that Jerome can invoke the funeral practices of

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polygamous societies in his assertion of the principle of single marriages (I.44). Again, the qualities of fidelity and chastity that for Jerome distinguish virtuous widowhood are at odds with one another in the example of the concubine of Alcibiades (I.44). Nevertheless there are good reasons why Chaucer should be drawn to Jerome for the material that he presents in Dorigen’s complaint. Many of the examples centre upon a moral conflict that turns upon the issues of chastity, fidelity and honour and these are key concepts in the moral order of The Franklin’s Tale. It is true that in Jerome the moral conflict is readily enough resolved (for example, ‘honestis mentibus magis pudicitiam cure esse quam vitam / to a noble mind, chastity is a greater concern than life’)4, but the analogy with Dorigen’s predicament is unmistakeable. Dorigen’s moral dilemma comes about as the result of the subversion of that providential order that ironically she had earlier called into question (F 865–93). This first complaint is prompted by her fear for the safe return of her husband, and it is this same concern that causes her to promise Aurelius her love if he can remove the rocks that imperil Arveragus’s safety. The crucial assumption that she makes is that the providential order is inviolable (F 1001), so that the contract she makes with Aurelius is to be seen as reinforcing and not qualifying her explicit refusal of him (F 980–87, 1002–5). Such an assumption is not only shared by Aurelius himself (F 1009), but is also in harmony with the philosophical account of human experience derived from Boethius.5 It is hardly conceivable in these circumstances that a court poet of the late fourteenth century and his aristocratic audience are not in sympathy with the view that Dorigen expresses. We should be prepared, however, to make a possible distinction between poet and pilgrim narrator and to envisage a controlling imaginative perspective for a particular tale rather than the social and philosophical norms of medieval culture as a whole. As far as The Franklin’s Tale is concerned, the perspective in which we are to see the resort of Aurelius to astrological magic ought not to be a controversial matter. The use of magic is both superstitious and deceitful (F 1124–34, 1261–72 and 1291–93). In so far as Chaucer’s own view of astrological magic can be inferred from statements that he makes in his own person concerning judicial astrology in A Treatise on the Astrolabe (II.4), it seems safe to assert that he is to be

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identified with his fictional narrator in the condemnation of such practices. The fact that the practice of astrological magic is vehemently and repeatedly condemned within the tale may possibly reflect the dangers inherent in the subject itself, but seems primarily designed to ensure that Dorigen retains our sympathies throughout. It is often held that Dorigen is the victim of her own rash promise, and perhaps it is true that a promise may not even be hypothetically compromised. But we can only convict Dorigen of rashness if we are also prepared to reject the assumptions on which her promise is based. It seems clear that this criticism of Dorigen stems from assumptions concerning the Breton Lay as a genre (albeit a genre notoriously difficult to define) rather than from an analysis of the assumptions that The Franklin’s Tale itself discloses. It is thus a matter of the greatest imaginative significance that we should feel the reasonableness of Dorigen’s horrified response to Aurelius’s claim that he has fulfilled his part of the contract made between them (F 1342–45). III. A rationalistic commentator might feel that Dorigen’s grief is somewhat excessive (F 1348–49). It is certainly fair to say that it fits a somewhat conventional pattern of behaviour, more dramatically represented perhaps by the protracted sufferings of Aurelius (F 935–52, 1021–28 and 1101–8). But it is necessary to distinguish between the authenticity of Dorigen’s feelings and the stylised presentation of them. Indeed the stylised presentation is a very sure indication of their authenticity, for it allies Dorigen with such heroines as Laudine in Yvain (Le Chevalier au lion), Alcione in The Book of the Duchess (101–7 and 122–23) and Emelye in The Knight’s Tale (A 2817–19). The principles that inform her behaviour, that is to say, are literary ones; Dorigen’s behaviour is strictly decorous, but it is a literary decorum that she observes. It would be mistaken to examine her behaviour in terms of criteria drawn from our own experience of emotional distress, that is, in terms of the fidelity of literary representation to the norms of the material world. It is important that we should be able to place Dorigen’s suffering within a pattern of literary experience and thus to realise the depth of her anguish. We must proceed by way of literary analogy.

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We might recall the complaint of the man in black at the death of the Duchess Blanche (BD, 475–86). He attributes his grief to the unstable operations of Fortune, the ‘trayteresse fals and ful of gyle’ (BD, 620). Troilus, thinking that Criseyde is dead, utters an impassioned outburst directed against ‘cruel Jove, and thow, Fortune adverse’ (TC, IV.1192). Palamon, feeling bitterly the injustice of his imprisonment, rebukes the gods in an apostrophe full of violent emotion (KnT, A 1303–33). Dorigen herself complains to God in markedly similar terms that a creation otherwise perfectly ordered takes no account of human well-being (F 865–93). The perception of an apparent discrepancy between the uncertainty of human experience, symbolised by the rule of Fortune, on the one hand and the regularity of the created universe on the other is derived from the complaint of Boethius to Lady Philosophia in the De consolatione philosophiae. Chaucer’s own translation reads (Boece, Book I, metrum 5, lines 31–37): O thou governour, governynge alle thynges by certein ende, whi refusestow oonly to governe the werkes of men by duwe manere? Why suffrestow that slydynge Fortune turneth so grete enterchaungynges of thynges; so that anoyous peyne, that scholde duweliche punysche felons, punysscheth innocentz?

From Chaucer’s own practice we can see that the apostrophe or complaint is a rhetorical device designed for the expression of heightened emotion in the most serious of all poetic contexts. We can see too that Chaucer in this respect was following closely classical precept. The Rhetorica ad Herennium defines apostrophe as follows (IV.xv.22): Exclamatio est quae conficit significationem doloris aut indignationis alicuius per hominis aut urbis aut loci aut rei cuiuspiam conpellationem.6

Quintilian talks of exclamatio as one of the figures ‘augendis adfectibus accommodatae / best adapted for intensifying emotion’ (Institutio oratoria, IX.ii.26).7 It is clear too that exclamatio belongs to the highest level of style and the author of the Rhetorica ad Herennium insists upon the importance of stylistic propriety in relation to its use (IV.xv.22).8 That Chaucer was aware of the stylistic implications in the use of apostrophe is evident from his repeated use of the device in The Nun’s Priest’s Tale

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(B2 4416–21, 4528–44), since the fundamental source of humour in that tale lies in the incongruity between the facts of the story and the manner in which they are presented. In The Franklin’s Tale it has to be assumed that the use of the complaint matches the seriousness of the moral issues that are treated. This is underlined once again by the fact that it is addressed to Fortune, a pervasive symbol in the medieval world of mutability and injustice. It does not necessarily follow that Dorigen’s rebuke of Fortune is justified any more than that of Troilus (TC, I.834–42) or of Palamon. The first part of The Knight’s Tale turns upon a central irony, for it brings Arcite to lament his release from prison (A 1219–74) at the same time as Palamon cries out against his continued incarceration (A 1275–98) and in the process makes plain to us the imperfect understanding that both knights possess as to what constitutes their true good. The same kind of blindness in the face of human experience is evident in Dorigen’s complaint against the divine providence in creating ‘thise grisly feendly rokkes blake’ (F 868). An irony of a somewhat different kind is also involved here, however, since Dorigen is confronted not only with the necessity of accepting the providential order (an acceptance explicit in her promise to Aurelius, F 1001) but also with the recognition that it alone gives objective validity to moral behaviour. The seeming removal of the rocks by Aurelius confronts Dorigen with a moral crisis of unanswerable dimensions and we are surely right in thinking that in these circumstances the rebuke against Fortune is entirely appropriate. This may be indicated by the fact that Chaucer uses the somewhat unusual symbolism of Fortune’s chain (F 1356) rather than the traditional symbolism of Fortune’s wheel.9 It seems that he wishes to emphasise the symbolism of subjection rather than that of change. The reason for this choice seems to be sufficiently clear. Dorigen is asserting that the removal of the rocks destroys belief in a stable providential order that gives meaning to moral activity in the realm of human affairs. The controlling and limiting power has now become that of chance and leaves the individual without the possibility of moral choice (F 1357–59): Fro which t’escape woot I no socour, Save oonly deeth or elles dishonour; Oon of thise two bihoveth me to chese.

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If it is a Christian moral order with which we are here concerned, then it becomes apparent that Dorigen’s dilemma is irresoluble. Although for Jerome chastity may be a principle greater than that of life itself, the dreamer in The Book of the Duchess shows that suicide is not a possible option for a Christian (BD, 722–26): Ne say noght soo, for trewely, Thogh ye had lost the ferses twelve, And ye for sorwe mordred yourselve, Ye sholde be dampned in this cas By as good ryght as Medea was.

The reader who has followed the Franklin’s narrative with any care will see that this irresoluble moral conflict rests upon a deceit brought about by an act of superstition and is accompanied by mistaken premises about the nature of the universe. He will also feel the justice of Dorigen’s outcry against a Fortune that seems to have been elevated to the status of a final principle in human affairs. IV. Nevertheless the form that Dorigen’s complaint takes still requires explanation. The relevance of many of the exempla in the complaint and indeed the great number of them have caused the gravest misgivings among modern critics of the tale. So much so that it has even been urged that Chaucer is ridiculing the very rhetorical traditions within which he is working. The fact that a similar explanation has been put forward to account for the dominant stylistic features of The Nun’s Priest’s Tale suggests that what we have to do with here, in part at least, is a modern sensibility that finds rhetorical rules uncongenial and a restraint upon the truly creative artist. It is certainly very doubtful that Chaucer would have shared these preconceptions and indeed his own particular sensibility, and especially his love of learning, may well have led him to a somewhat ostentatious display of knowledge for its own sake. At any rate this is the impression that an early work such as The Book of the Duchess would leave with us, for Chaucer is here eager to cite authorities on the interpretation of dreams (BD, 270– 89), artists and physicians unable to alleviate human grief (BD, 567–73),

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lovers who have foolishly killed themselves because of an unrequited love (BD, 722–39), wives noted for their goodness (BD, 1080–87), traitors (BD, 1117–23) and inventors of the art of music (BD, 1159–70). The most notable example of exempla is the list given by the man in black to demonstrate that nothing could have stood in the way of his love for his lady (BD, 1054–74): I wolde thoo Have loved best my lady free, Thogh I had had al the beaute That ever had Alcipyades, And al the strengthe of Ercules, And therto had the worthynesse Of Alysaunder, and al the rychesse That ever was in Babyloyne, In Cartage, or in Macedoyne, Or in Rome, or in Nynyve; And therto also hardy be As was Ector, so have I joye, That Achilles slough at Troye And therfore was he slayn alsoo In a temple, for bothe twoo Were slayne, he and Antylegyus, And so seyth Dares Frygius, For love of Polixena Or ben as wis as Mynerva, I wolde ever, withoute drede, Have loved hir, for I moste nede.

The first point to be noticed about this passage is that the exempla are used in a context of high poetic seriousness, for they are the means by which the husband enforces his sense of complete commitment to his dead wife. This use of the exemplum thus accords well with the definition of the figure given in the Rhetorica ad Herennium, namely, a figure of thought used for refining by descanting on a theme (IV.xlii.54 ff.). The second point to be noticed is the delight that the poet takes in the exploitation of this rhetorical technique. It has to be admitted that The Book of the Duchess is an early work and the parenthetical aside on the death of Achilles (BD, 1067–71)

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seems an egregious instance of youthful indiscipline. Although the mature Chaucer exercises a greater control The Book of the Duchess nevertheless remains as evidence of a tendency in his work that is never subsequently abolished. The young poet is not only in sympathy with the rhetorical traditions inherited from classical antiquity but takes delight in his ability to manipulate them and the mature poet in The Franklin’s Tale uses the same wealth of illustrative material in the same kind of poetic context. The obvious implication is one of essential continuity in poetic practice. The rhetorical tradition itself neither sanctions nor justifies the kind of poetic indiscipline evident in The Book of the Duchess but rather explains certain excesses in that work and indicates the tendencies that are discernible in Chaucer’s poetry as a whole. Thus in forming judgments about Chaucer we should look to that tradition for the relevant criteria. The Rhetorica ad Herennium again makes clear to us the kind of criticism that can properly be directed at the use that is made of exempla (II.xxix.46): Exemplum vitiosum est si aut falsum est, ut reprehendatur, aut inprobum, ut non sit imitandum, aut maius aut minus quam res postulat.10

The criteria, then, are of truth, propriety and appositeness. Chaucer’s awareness of the relevance of such criteria seems evident from his treatment of Jerome. The example of Dido’s fidelity to Sychaeus (AJ, I.43) is omitted and the concubine of Alcibiades (AJ, I.44) becomes his ‘love’ (F 1440). It seems reasonable to insist also that excessive illustration of an idea by means of exempla is to be avoided. Jerome himself recognises the significance of such a criterion (AJ, I.47): Sentio in katalogo feminarum multo me plura dixisse quam exemplorum patitur consuetudo et a lectore erudito juste posse reprehendi.11

Criticisms that are made both of the relevance and the number of the exempla in Dorigen’s complaint are certainly legitimate in principle and cannot be turned aside by merely historical considerations, for it is a literary mode that we have to justify. We can rightly expect that a complaint will be lucidly articulated. The emotional truths that the complaint may be intended to convey (for example, the commitment of a bereaved lover,

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the anguish of a faithful wife) will be impressed upon us by the aptness of the illustrations that have been chosen and our ability to relate them to our own literary experience. It seems improper to attempt to explain an apparent incoherence in Dorigen’s complaint by appeal to the heroine’s mounting hysteria.12 The kind of lucid articulation for which we should be looking in the choice of exempla is to be found in Dorigen’s initial statement of the moral conflict (F 1360–62): But nathelees, yet have I levere to lese My lif than of my body to have a shame, Or knowe myselven fals, or lese my name.

Here Dorigen focuses our attention upon three key concepts in the moral experience of the tale – chastity, fidelity and honour – and presents them to us in a logical sequence. The first five exempla, recounted at length by Chaucer (F 1367–1408), provide a perfectly coherent exposition of these concepts and of their relationship. Chaucer’s intentions can clearly be discerned from the use he makes from this point onwards of Jerome’s Adversus Jovinianum and the two texts thus need to be considered together in some detail. The account of Phidon’s daughters (F 1367–78) closely follows Jerome’s text (AJ, I.41) and is clearly designed to establish the intrinsic value of chastity. What in comparison with Jerome is most noticeable in the Chaucerian version is the emphasis on the wickedness of the thirty tyrants (F 1368) and their vicious lust (F 1372). The reason for such additions to the patristic text is to make clear the moral perspective in which we should view these events and to stress the feeling of revulsion that they produce. The exemplum is thus made to fit precisely into the imaginative environment of the tale and to reflect Dorigen’s sense of moral violation. This is confirmed by the fact that Chaucer also gives to Dorigen an indignant imprecation against the tyrants (F 1374). The exemplum of Phidon’s daughters is directly followed by that of the fifty Lacedaemonian maidens whereas in Jerome the exemplum of Demotion’s daughter intervenes between them. Chaucer does not include the example of Demotion’s daughter here because it illustrates the principle of fidelity rather than that of chastity (see F 1424–27). The account

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of the fifty Lacedaemonian maidens is a faithful rendering of Jerome and has the same moral point as that of Phidon’s daughters. The interesting elaboration in The Franklin’s Tale is the anxious and fearful question with which Dorigen concludes: ‘Why sholde I thanne to dye been in drede?’ (F 1386). The logic of the classical precedent is quite unambiguous, but as we have seen it is a logic that it is impossible for a Christian audience to accept. It is preferable to interpret Dorigen’s question as possessing moral and not psychological significance, for such an interpretation is in accord with the fundamentally moral concerns of the tale itself. Thus we should suppose not that Dorigen is incapable of the tragic resolve shown by the Lacedaemonian maidens, but that their solution is no moral solution for her at all. The example of the fifty maidens is followed in both Chaucer and Jerome by that of the Stymphalian maiden (F 1387–94). Chaucer makes no noticeable modification in his account, except perhaps to emphasise even more than Jerome does the fact of the maiden clinging to the image of Diana (F 1391–93) and hence the completeness of her commitment to the principle of chastity. The first three examples thus form a coherent sequence and establish the principle of chastity as a moral norm. The virtue of chastity thus exercises a claim on the individual conscience both outside marriage and within it, but in order to establish its intrinsic significance the examples of virginity are clearly crucial. When we turn to the marriage relationship itself we can see that the moral situation is accordingly more complex, but we can understand also that chastity will remain a guiding principle of behaviour. It is worth noting that in five manuscripts the following marginal gloss appears at the end of the third example: ‘Singulas has historias & plures hanc materiam concernentes recitat beatus Ieronimus contra Iovinianum in primo suo libro, capitulo 39°’. This gloss appears with a series of related glosses at the end of the complaint in the Ellesmere MS and it is evident that the author of them was thoroughly familiar with the Adversus Jovinianum and Chaucer’s treatment of it. The above gloss seems to suggest that the illustration of chastity is at an end and that the reader who wishes for yet more on the same theme should consult Jerome himself. The reference

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to chapter 39 is puzzling, but a reference to chapter 41 from which the first three exempla have been taken would make good sense, for Jerome goes on to provide six more examples illustrating the high estate of virginity (four of which Chaucer indeed finally incorporated into Dorigen’s complaint). If this interpretation is correct then it would seem that in his inclusion of so many exempla Chaucer revised to some extent his original design.13 It has been argued by Dempster that F 1395–98 mark the end of the complaint in its original form, but these lines are surely better interpreted as a transition from the illustration of chastity before marriage to that of chastity within it, a transition for which the audience of the tale has been fully prepared (F 1361–62). The moral situation becomes as a result more complex, for it embraces also the principle of fidelity in human relationships and thus becomes more completely analogous to the situation of Dorigen herself. In order to illustrate the principle of chastity within marriage Chaucer turns from chapter 41 to chapter 43 which is headed ‘Iheronimus contra Iovinianum de castitate mulierum / Jerome against Jovinian on the Chastity of Women’. He passes over the example of Dido because of its evident unsuitability and comes to that of the wife of Hasdrubal which is evidently fit for his purpose. Indeed he is able to introduce it into the complaint without modification (F 1399–1404). Like Jerome, therefore, Chaucer emphasises her chastity rather than her fidelity, although the latter may be said to be implicit in the story itself. The example of Lucretia would seem to illustrate the third principle, the importance of personal honour, although the transition is not on this occasion formally marked. It is difficult for us to think of honour in the sense of fame or reputation (OED, 1.c.) as a moral quality, but it evidently does possess such a status in medieval culture. The reason is that for the most part a correspondence is assumed between external behaviour and internal movements of the soul. Medieval literature is not well equipped for situations in which this assumption breaks down; thus the representation of hypocrisy in Chaucer’s Pardoner presents to us some curious incongruities. We do not, however, tend to share such an assumption and at the best we are inclined to suppose that there is some uncertainty as to the relationship between action and intention. As a result we are alert to the possibility of hypocrisy and not too much impressed by the mere fact of reputation.

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We must therefore allow moral weight to the concept of honour in medieval literature. In a man honour is associated with knightly prowess and can only be vindicated by deeds of arms. It is evidence of the assumed unity of action and intention that the first sign of sluggishness in a knight, however much his valour may have been proved in the past, is cause for the severest reproach (witness the ready assumption of cowardice in the Erec of Chrétien de Troyes’s Erec et Enide). In a woman honour is associated with chastity (see OED, 2) and once lost is, of course, irrecoverable. Chaucer’s own intention here is indicated by the fact that for the example of Lucretia he turns from chapter 43 of the Adversus Jovinianum to chapter 46 (‘Mulieres Romanae insignes, / Illustrious Roman women’). Lucretia is the first example that Jerome gives under this heading, but he talks of her violated chastity (‘violate pudicitie’) rather than the loss of her good name (F 1408). It is also noticeable that Chaucer supplies a detailed reference to Tarquinius Sextus (F 1407) that he does not derive from his immediate source. Lucretia was chosen to represent the principle of honour precisely because her story was so well known to Chaucer and his audience. She is an example of wifely excellence in The Book of the Duchess (1082–84) and later Chaucer himself recounts her tragic fate in The Legend of Good Women (1680–1885). Some characteristic additions by Chaucer to his principal source, Ovid’s Fasti, show us the kind of significance that the name of Lucretia would have possessed for him. He begins by pointing to the great reputation that Lucretia held for wifely fidelity in both pagan and Christian traditions (LGW, 1684–91). The means by which Tarquinius enforces his will upon Lucretia involves not only the threat of death but also the threat of dishonour (LGW, 1806–11). Chaucer goes on to underline the significance of this second threat (LGW, 1812–15): These Romeyn wyves lovede so here name At thilke tyme, and dredde so the shame, That, what for fer of sclaunder and drede of deth, She loste bothe at ones wit and breth.

He is also responsible, it seems, for elaborating upon the scene in which Lucretia discloses to her friends the fact that she has been violated by Tarquinius. He emphasises her sense of the inalienable shame that would fall

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upon her husband, a shame that is to be mitigated not by the recognition of her moral innocence (LGW, 1847–50) but only by her death (LGW, 1844–46): She sayde that, for hir gylt ne for hir blame, Hir husbonde shulde nat have the foule name, That wolde she nat suffre, by no wey.

These associations, or very similar ones, the example of Lucretia at F 1405–8 is plainly intended to evoke. It is apparent that once again Chaucer is making an appeal to a shared literary experience. We can easily see, then, that the first five exempla that are presented to us in Dorigen’s complaint are carefully chosen to focus upon the central moral issues of chastity, fidelity and honour, although we might feel that the issue of fidelity requires a more explicit treatment. Chaucer’s intention in this respect seems clear enough from the use that he has made of Jerome’s Adversus Jovinianum. Had he concluded the complaint at this point it would surely not have occasioned any critical difficulty. The awkward fact remains, however, that he returned to Jerome for seventeen further exempla. Moreover the exempla belong to a number of different sequences.14 If we accept the hint supplied by the marginal gloss we must be prepared to argue for a change in the original plan. V. Chaucer returns then to chapter 41 of the Adversus Jovinianum for his sixth example, that of the seven Milesian virgins. As is the case in Jerome, the exemplum is a straightforward illustration of the principle of chastity. For the exemplum of the wife of Abradatas (Panthea) Chaucer moves forward to chapter 45. It is to be noted, however, that whereas Jerome stresses only the extraordinary love (‘miro amore’) of Panthea for her husband (and by implication her fidelity) Chaucer puts the emphasis upon her chastity by inventing for her the dying words of F 1417–18: ‘My body, at the leeste way, / Ther shal no wight defoulen, if I may’. This emphasis is in accord with that given to the death of Hasdrubal’s wife and makes plain to us the fact that the principle of chastity can be illustrated by wives as well as maidens, irrespective of the principle of fidelity.

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In the revised version, therefore, we are intended to see the first seven exempla (F 1367–1418) as constituting some kind of unity in which the moral significance of chastity forms the centre of imaginative interest. The distinction between maidens and married women that initially seems so suggestive is not in the final analysis significant, except in so far as it enables us to see the independent validity of the principle of chastity within marriage and the moral claim that it has upon Dorigen. The only example that might still cause some critical difficulty is that of Lucretia (F 1405–8), although that may be explained (if not justified) as evidence of the imperfect revision of the original plan. An audience may not, however, have felt too strongly the incongruity of her inclusion here, since the general context encourages reflection on her chastity (see LGW, 1856–60) as well as on the reputation that resulted from it. On this view of the unity of the first seven exempla it becomes possible to see that F 1419–23 mark the conclusion of the first set of exempla and not of the complaint as a whole in some earlier form. We may all agree with Dorigen that a sufficient number of examples have been adduced to establish the exalted place that must be given to chastity in a moral system (heerof, F 1419, has a quite specific force), and that they contain quite unambiguous logical implications (F 1422–23). We should not be surprised or unsympathetic if she fails to act upon such a logic, since it does not free her from her moral responsibilities. The next sequence of examples (F 1424–41) is intended to illustrate the principle of fidelity, although it shows a disregard for the distinction between maidens and married women that is more remarkable in its way than that evidenced in the treatment of chastity. We have to allow for the fact that Chaucer is prepared if necessary to take quite surprising liberties with his source. It is, however, a characteristic procedure for medieval poets to derive their material from literary sources (and thus to stress the continuity of a literary tradition) and at the same time to adapt those sources freely for their own specific ends. Such a procedure gives a good deal of scope for some cunning literary deceits and Chaucer in particular is not slow to take advantage of it. Thus the partisan narrator of the Troilus invokes Clio, the muse of history, in the proem to Book II (8–11). He apologises if his account should seem to lack feeling but would explain such a defect

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by the fidelity with which he follows his Latin source: ‘For as myn auctour seyde, so sey I’ (TC, II.18). In this way he encourages his audience to make an historical estimate of his hero and not a moral one. The audience is intended to see through the narrator’s deceit here because his allegiance to the lovers is everywhere so unmistakeable. It is a different matter with the deceit that is employed in the use of exempla to illustrate fidelity in Dorigen’s complaint, since it can only be detected by those who have the advantage of comparing Chaucer’s treatment in detail with his source. For the example of Demotion’s daughter (F 1424–27) Chaucer goes back to chapter 41, where it is found between that of Phidon’s daughters and the fifty Lacedaemonian maidens. We can now appreciate why Chaucer should have removed it from that context. Although Demotion’s daughter was a virgin her story in Jerome clearly illustrates the principle of fidelity (AJ, I.41): Demotionis Ariopagitarum principis virgo filia, audito sponsi Leosthenis interitu, qui bellum Lamiacum concitarat, se interfecit, asserens quanquam intacta esset corpore, tamen si alterum accipere cogeretur, quasi secundum accipere, cum priori mente nupsisset.15

It seems reasonable to suppose that it was this example that gave Chaucer the idea of using other examples of virgins in the same way. In Jerome’s account the daughters of Scedasus are said to have killed themselves when they had been violated by two young men to whom they had offered due hospitality. Chaucer emphasises only the pity that their fate inspires and describes the cause of their death as ‘swich a manere cas’ (F 1430). The phrase is sufficient to disguise the true cause of their death and to encourage us to assume that it is analogous to that of the death of Demotion’s daughter. The same method is used to bind together the next three exempla; one Theban maiden killed herself ‘right for swich manere wo’ (F 1433); a second ‘dide right so’ (F 1434) and the wife of Niceratus ‘for swich cas’ (F 1438). None of these examples illustrates the principle of fidelity in Jerome but rather that of chastity. The principle of chastity is indeed combined with the motive of revenge in the case of the second Theban maiden (AJ, I.41). The example of the wife of Niceratus (AJ, I.44) is more obviously amenable to

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the implication of fidelity and Chaucer is quick to exploit this suggestiveness by associating her with the following example: ‘How trewe eek was to Alcebiades / His love’ (F 1439–40). The association of the two encourages not only the inference that the wife of Niceratus was noted for her fidelity but also that the ‘love’ of Alcibiades was his wife (in Jerome she is no more than a concubine). The story of the concubine of Alcibiades undoubtedly does illustrate the principle of fidelity, and Jerome does not hesitate to draw forth its moral point (AJ, I.44): Immitentur matrone, et matrone Christiane saltem, concubinarum fidem, et prestent libere, quod captiva servavit.16

Chaucer thus begins and ends the sequence of exempla on fidelity by drawing upon two unambiguous illustrations of that virtue in his source. It is to be noted that the only explicit mention of this concept in the whole of Dorigen’s complaint is at these two points (F 1424, 1439). The audience of the poem is thus led to form the impression that the group of six exempla possesses a unity by the technique of association that Chaucer seems to have developed for this purpose. The final sequence of examples (F 1442–56) appeals in a much more characteristic fashion to the knowledge of the audience, for it is the honour that feminine virtue brings with it that is chiefly illustrated here. The transition from fidelity to honour may be thought abrupt, although such an abruptness is also noticeable in the transition from Hasdrubal’s wife to Lucretia in the original design. That a transition is intended would seem to be indicated by the fact that Chaucer turns from the end of chapter 44 to the end of chapter 45 for his first three examples, and also by the fact that he noticeably fails to link the example of Alcestis to the preceding examples. The introduction of the final sequence by means of an exclamation of the goodness of Alcestis – ‘Lo, which a wyf was Alceste’ (F 1442) – emphatically directs our attention to its new significance. The example of Alcestis is finely chosen, for her reputation is fixed even more securely for us by The Legend of Good Women than that of Lucretia, even though her story finally remains untold. It would appear from the Prologue (G 203–23,

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530–34) that Alcestis is for Chaucer the very form of womanly excellence. The mere mention of her name is sufficient to elicit an appropriate response from a sympathetic and informed audience.17 Indeed Chaucer suppresses the fact that she died in the place of her husband Admetus although Jerome refers to it (AJ, I.45), since that fact may encourage us to think in terms of her fidelity rather than her fame. The following reference to Penelope confirms this interpretation. She is cited, together with Lucretia, as an example of goodness in The Book of the Duchess (1080–81) and of fidelity in Anelida and Arcite (81–82).18 Jerome says merely that ‘Penelopis pudicitia Homeri carmen est / Penelope’s chastity is the topic of Homer’s poem’ (I.45) whereas Chaucer emphasises the extent of her reputation (F 1444). Moreover by casting the reference to Homer into the form of a question he again makes an appeal to his audience to substantiate the claim made on her behalf. In this instance the modern reader also has no difficulty in acknowledging its justice. For the third example, that of Laodamia, to whom reference is also made in the ballade of the Prologue to The Legend of Good Women (G 217), Chaucer follows Jerome closely (AJ, I.45). Again we can see that the emphasis is not only on the faithfulness of Laodamia (F 1446–47) but also on the fact that it is celebrated in writing (F 1445). The example of Portia is to be found in chapter 46 of the Adversus Jovinianum. Chaucer must have read this chapter with some care, for Portia is only the fourth example considered by Jerome in this section and appears in the form of a somewhat elaborate comparison with Marcia, the wife of Cato, designed to show that a woman will be more completely devoted to one man than to two. Chaucer disentangles from this comparison the material that is relevant to Portia alone (F 1449–50), but is himself responsible for the formulation with which he introduces her: ‘The same of noble Porcia telle I may’ (F 1448). We may recognise now that it contains some very characteristic features. Chaucer reverts to the technique of the second sequence by explicitly linking the example of Portia with that which precedes and once again the use of the verb ‘telle’ draws attention to her reputation. The emphasis on Portia’s reputation is reinforced by the adjective ‘noble’ which has not been derived from the immediate source. Its meaning here seems to be ‘illustrious’ (OED, 1) and must surely be taken to refer not to nobility of birth but to nobility of character. Such a view will be endorsed

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by those familiar with Plutarch’s Life of Brutus. Shakespeare, closely following North’s Plutarch, has Brutus say: ‘O ye gods, / Render me worthy of this noble wife!’ ( Julius Caesar, II.1.302–3). There is a greater explicitness in the treatment of the remaining examples in this section (F 1451–56) that may be accounted for by assuming that they were not in reality well known to a fourteenth-century audience. For the example of Artemisia Chaucer goes back to chapter 44 and has clearly been influenced in so doing by the account that Jerome gives of her: Artemisia quoque uxor Mausolei insignis pudicitie fuisse peribetur. Que cum esset regina Carie et nobilium poetarum atque historicorum laudibus predicetur, in hoc vel maxime effertur quod defunctum maritum sic semper amavit ut vivum, et mire magnitudinis ac pulchritudinis exstruxit sepulcrum, intantum ut usque hodie omnia sepulchra pretiosa ex nomine eius ‘mausolea’ noncupentur.19

But Chaucer derives from Jerome only the general idea of Artemisia’s fame and emphasises in a way that Jerome does not the extent of her reputation (F 1452). The example of Teuta follows that of Artemisia in Jerome’s narrative (I.44) and that fact doubtless explains its inclusion by Chaucer here. Jerome merely relates, however, that she deserved by virtue of her wonderful chastity to rule over men for a long time whereas for Chaucer she comes to represent a pattern of chastity that all wives may model themselves upon (F 1453–54). The concluding set of examples (Bilia, Rhodogune and Valeria) is once again linked formally with the preceding example (F 1455–56) and implies the internal coherence of the group illustrating honour as a whole. The appropriateness of the reference to Bilia is readily apparent from a reading of chapter 46. Unfortunately she has become the final proof of the absurdity to which the practice of citing examples is ultimately reduced in Chaucer’s hands, for Jerome describes her patience in putting up with the bad breath of her aged husband, Duillius. But this detail receives no mention by Chaucer himself and is no part of our experience of Dorigen’s complaint. The reader (or listener) at F 1455–56 is bound to assume that Bilia, Rhodogone and Valeria also represent patterns of wifely excellence. Bilia is, for Jerome, an outstanding example of chastity among Roman women. Her patience in enduring her husband’s bad breath is merely one reason why she acquired so great a reputation, for her modesty is such that

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she is unaware of the fact that not all men have bad breath. Jerome introduces his account of her in the following way (AJ, I.46): Duillius qui primus Rome navali certamine triumphavit, Biliam virginem duxit uxorem tante pudicitie ut illo quoque seculo pro exemplo fuerit, quo impudicitia monstrum erat, non vitium.20

According to Jerome (AJ, I.45) Rhodogune killed the nurse who persuaded her to a second marriage. Here it is necessary to reaffirm the primacy of Chaucer’s text itself and to allow the literary deceit that is involved. Jerome concludes his chapter on illustrious Roman wives (AJ, I.46) with the example of Valeria’s fidelity to the memory of her husband Servius and Chaucer concludes his final sequence of examples in the same way. VI. We are now in a better position to appreciate that Dorigen’s complaint was constructed by Chaucer in obedience to the laws of literary composition that he had inherited from a classical past and that had informed his own poetic practice from the beginning. The organisation of the examples into three clearly defined groups enables him to articulate in a lucid and consecutive fashion the three central moral issues of chastity, fidelity and honour and at the same time to leave with his audience a disturbing sense of moral conflict. The fact that Chaucer seems to have revised his original plan after F 1408 and that the distinction between maidens and married women becomes thereafter of no particular significance to him may obscure for modern readers the main outlines in the development of the complaint. But there can be no doubt that Chaucer clearly prepares us for this development (F 1360–62) and it may not be unreasonable to suppose that much of the obscurity results from a modern impatience with the rhetorical conventions that are employed and the literary assumptions that accompany them. The evidence that points to a revision of the original design in its turn prompts the question as to why such a change should have been made. Instead of a complaint based upon five examples we now have one based upon twenty-two and indeed if the marginal glosses at the end of the complaint in the Ellesmere MS are a safe guide it seems that Chaucer

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considered the possibility of adding even more to that number. We are bound to conclude, therefore, that it is not only the nature of the twentytwo examples but also the great number of them that is important to the design of the tale. The external evidence is not necessary in reaching this conclusion, however, for the weight of examples is a factor that can hardly fail to influence the response of any reader and cannot be explained away simply in terms of a rhetorical convention. The sustained treatment of chastity, fidelity and honour through the multiplication of examples demonstrates the interrelated importance of these virtues in the moral order of the tale as a whole. We can be in no doubt that for Dorigen these are the guiding principles that inform her relationship with Arveragus. But we are also to understand that it is not always a simple matter to hold these virtues in harmony. It sometimes seems impossible to reconcile the moral claims that life makes upon us. Before I consider this point in greater detail there is one more observation that remains to be made about the complaint itself. Although the examples are more or less equally distributed throughout the three sections – seven on chastity, six on fidelity and nine on honour – the greatest weight is attached to the demonstration of the principle of chastity. This is true both of the original and revised versions. The effect is to strengthen our sympathies for the hapless heroine. Aurelius’s love for another man’s wife is not morally acceptable and Dorigen is right to be horrified at the prospect of cuckolding the husband that she loves and admires. In reading The Franklin’s Tale we ought not to expect from Arveragus a ready solution to Dorigen’s difficulties. The tragedies of human relationships are not so easily disposed of and sometimes tragedies simply have to be borne. But we ought also not to think that Arveragus is deficient in his understanding of his wife’s moral dilemma. In loving her he cherishes her right to make promises and (along with that right) her duty (however difficult) to fulfil her promises. These are not matters on which compromise is possible (F 1474–79): ‘Ye shul youre trouthe holden, by my fay! For God so wisly have mercy upon me, I hadde wel levere ystiked for to be

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Gerald morgan For verray love which that I to yow have, But if ye sholde youre trouthe kepe and save. Trouthe is the hyeste thyng that man may kepe.’

This is an assertion that comes very properly to the lips of a knight and goes to the very depth of the moral experience of the age. In order to appreciate the moral perspective of The Franklin’s Tale we must be in sympathy with Arveragus’s response at this point. He is sometimes condemned by modern readers for sending his wife to commit adultery, despite the fact that the tale steadfastly refuses to represent his behaviour in that way. This kind of moral obtuseness could evidently have been shared by some medieval readers of the tale, since the narrator is forced to intervene to ask his audience to suspend judgment (F 1493–98). Indeed it is precisely this response that the great weight of examples is intended to deter, for they should cause us to withhold simple moral solutions for a complex set of circumstances. There are a number of general and local considerations that may enable us to see Arveragus’s behaviour in its true light. Arveragus is a knight (see F 730, 736, 745, etc.) in a society that finds its appropriate expression of moral and spiritual virtue in terms of chivalric ideals. The social order is a hierarchical one and the knight is at its head. Chaucer does no more than reflect this condition of society when he begins the series of portraits in the General Prologue with that of the Knight (A 43–78) and the series of tales in The Canterbury Tales with that of the Knight also (A 859–3108). In the portrait of the Knight in the General Prologue the perspective of narrator and reader is unified in respect for the noble ideals that he represents. Our admiration for these ideals is called forth by the insistent recognition of his worthynesse (A 50; see also A 43, 47, 64 and 68). The presentation of Arveragus in The Franklin’s Tale discloses the same instinctive sympathy with knightly ideals, and indeed the narrator of the tale finds in knighthood a pattern of behaviour by which to describe the noblest of Christian marriages (F 728–98). The warm approval of knightly conduct in the person of Arveragus becomes explicit in the account of his return to Dorigen (F 1087–93). It is a reaffirmation of the wisdom and love that unite the happy pair in the expression of their marriage vows (F 787–98). Moreover, to suppose that any perceptible lack

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of sympathy is shown towards Arveragus throughout the tale as a whole would be to make nonsense of the question with which the Franklin takes his leave of us (F 1621–24). So much for the general considerations. It is the local ones, however, that are decisive in bringing us to a discriminating sympathy with Arveragus in his response to his wife’s distress. Arveragus listens to Dorigen’s account of her misfortune with compassion and understanding (F 1467–69): This housbonde, with glad chiere, in freendly wyse Answerde and seyde as I shal yow devyse: ‘Is ther oght elles, Dorigen, but this?’

We are brought to recognise in this gentle response the reason why the narrator had earlier laid so much stress on the necessity for patient understanding in human relationships (F 773–90), for the fallibility of human beings requires nothing less. It is not a possible view that Arveragus’s words (F 1469) reveal a trivial disregard of the moral issues involved. The truth is indeed the contrary to this, for his insistence that his wife should at all costs keep her pledged word causes him great emotional distress (F 1480): But with that word he brast anon to wepe.

We are once again confronted not with a lack of concern for chastity and wifely fidelity but with a recognition of the overriding claims of the pledged word. Promises are not lightly made and they are not made to be broken. Our judgment of the great worth of Arveragus is finally confirmed by the due sense that he has of his wife’s honour, and his willingness to endure in silence the consequences of his moral decision (F 1481–86): ‘I yow forbede, up peyne of deeth, That nevere, whil thee lasteth lyf ne breeth, To no wight telle thou of this aventure, – As I may best, I wol my wo endure, – Ne make no contenance of hevynesse, That folk of yow may demen harm or gesse.’

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These are grave and indeed forbidding words, for the love of honour (as a knight above all well knows) is a matter of life and death. But it is not mere reputation nor his own reputation that Arveragus is bent on protecting here, but the reputation and honour of his wife. If Dorigen obeys her husband’s command (issued as a last resort in order to save her from the consequences of her own promise) then at least her public reputation will survive intact in the ashes of their marriage.21 It is a desperate decision made in a lost cause. The husband has nothing to gain in the sacrifice of his wife to a lesser man. His reputation will not be enhanced by such an exchange and his only reward (the reward of virtue) will be lifelong regret. VII. An understanding of the form of a medieval complaint enables us to see the coherence of Dorigen’s statement of the moral dilemma and of Arveragus’s response to it. We are made aware of the fact that medieval poetry is distinguished by its moral and not its psychological subtlety, and in the process we are allowed to view the behaviour of husband and wife in a manner that does not conflict with the narrator’s manifest sympathies.

Notes 1 2

3

James Sledd, ‘Dorigen’s Complaint’, Modern Philology, 45 (1947–48), 36–45. The relationship between the two texts has been examined in two short articles by Germaine Dempster, ‘Chaucer at Work on the Complaint in The Franklin’s Tale’, MLN, 52 (1937) 16–23 and ‘A Further Note on Dorigen’s Exempla’, MLN, 54 (1939) 137–38. Jerome is drawing upon a tradition different from that of Virgil and Dante, one in which Dido is faithful to Sychaeus and commits suicide in order to avoid marriage to Iarbas. This original tradition is also followed by Boccaccio, De claris mulieribus, edited by Vittorio Zaccaria, Volume X (1967), pp. 168–83, in Tutte le opere di Giovanni Boccaccio, edited by Vittore Branca, 12 vols incomplete (Milan: Arnoldo Mondadori, 1964–), and by Sir Thomas Wyatt, Collected Poems, edited by Joost Daalder (London: Oxford University Press, 1975), Poem CLI, p. 193.

8 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15

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Adversus Jovinianum, I.41. Reference to text and translation is to the edition of Ralph Hanna III and Traugott Lawler printed in Correale and Hamel, Sources and Analogues, I.256–65 (pp. 258–59, lines 36–37). See Robinson’s references for F 865–67, 877 ff. and 886 (p. 723) and also his note on The Knight’s Tale, A 1251 ff. (p. 672). ‘Apostrophe is the figure which expresses grief or indignation by means of an address (? rebuke) to some man or city or place or object’ (trans. Caplan). Reference is to The Institutio Oratoria of Quintilian, translated by H.E. Butler, Loeb (London: William Heinemann Ltd; Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1921), III.388–89. Moreover the use of apostrophe is to the fore in his illustration of the high style (Rhetorica ad Herennium, IV.viii.12). See H.R. Patch The Goddess Fortuna in Medieval Literature (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1927), pp. 12–19, 30–31 and 148–51. ‘An example is defective if it is either false, and hence refutable, or base, and hence not to be imitated, or if it implies more or less than the matter demands’ (trans. Caplan). ‘I know that I have included far more in this catalogue of women than the conventions of examples allow, and that I may be justly blamed by a learned reader’. As by Sledd himself, ‘Dorigen’s Complaint’, p. 43. It is assumed here that Chaucer is himself responsible for the glosses. Dempster in ‘A Further Note’ puts forward a similar argument, although she assumes that the complaint was originally intended to conclude at F 1398. See Dempster’s Table B, ‘Chaucer at Work on the Complaint’, p. 18. ‘The virgin daughter of Demotion, chief of the Areopagites, learning of the death of her fiance Leosthenes who caused the war against the Lamians, killed herself, claiming that, although she was untouched in body, nevertheless if she were compelled to accept another man, she would take him as a second husband’. ‘Let married women, Christian wives in any event, imitate the faithfulness of concubines; and let them, being free, exhibit what she protected as a captive.’ See also Troilus and Criseyde, V. 1527–33 and the introduction to The Man of Law’s Tale, B1 75–76. See also LGW Prol., G 206–7. ‘Artemisia, the wife of Mausolus, is also said to have been notable for her chastity. Although she was queen of Caria and was praised by noble poets and history writers, she is most praised for this – that she always loved her dead husband as if he were alive, and built a tomb so wondrous in size and beauty that even today every costly tomb is called a mausoleum, after his name.’

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Gerald morgan ‘Duillius, who was the first to triumph in Rome’s naval battles, took Bilia as his wife, a virgin of such chastity that she was a model to that world, in which immodesty was an abomination rather than a mere vice.’ A misreading of F 1486 may be involved in readings which claim that Arveragus puts concern for his own reputation above love for his wife since of can mean both ‘from’ (OED, 10 b.) and ‘concerning’ (OED, 26 b.). The latter is surely required here. A dignified reticence, internalising sorrow (if it can be managed), will spare Dorigen from the further harm caused by public speculation and blame. The use of the polite form of the personal pronoun (yow, F 1486, in pointed juxtaposition to thee, F 1482, and thou, F 1483) may be regarded as a characteristic subtlety, for it serves to emphasise the respect in which Dorigen is held. See Colin Wilcockson, ‘Thou and Tears: The Advice of Arveragus to Dorigen in Chaucer’s Franklin’s Tale ’, RES, NS, 54 (2003), 308–14.

9 The Self-Revealing Tendencies of Chaucer’s Pardoner

I. John Burrow concludes some introductory remarks on the modern criticism of Chaucer by observing that ‘we should expect future critics, like past and present ones, to reflect the preoccupations of their age’.1 In stating this expectation he draws attention to a problem that is at the very centre of historical criticism, namely that the necessity for historical reconstruction depends upon the recognition of the local and peculiar character of all human activity. What needs to be held in mind very clearly is that the modern critic is no more exempt from this law of human nature than is the medieval poet. This fact is sufficient to explain why the statement of the historical problem is not by any means tantamount to its solution. The imaginative world that C.S. Lewis and Charles Muscatine invite us to participate in is as far removed from that reconstructed by D.W. Robertson as we are from both.2 The elimination of gross distortions of perspective is clearly not the main issue here, for what we have to contend with is the fact of literary sympathies as well as the lack of them. But indeed it is our very capacity for making a sympathetic literary response that we have to rely upon if the literature of the past is to be in any sense recoverable. In some fashion we have to assert the universality of human experience and its expression in literary forms. Paradoxically it is on just such an issue that we are most clearly separated from a great part of our literary past. It is the great classical and neo-classical critics who would assert the universal value of poetry and acknowledge its power to disclose to us in imaginative forms the general laws that may be seen to govern human behaviour. Thus Samuel Johnson in his Preface to Shakespeare (1765) can write in the following terms: Shakespeare is above all writers, at least above all modern writers, the poet of nature; the poet that holds up to his readers a faithful mirrour of manners and of life. His characters are not modified by the customs of particular places, unpractised by the

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Gerald morgan rest of the world; by the peculiarities of studies or professions, which can operate but upon small numbers; or by the accidents of transient fashions or temporary opinions: they are the genuine progeny of common humanity, such as the world will always supply, and observation will always find.3

But the particularities of time and place and the circumstantial details that accompany behaviour in this world cannot now be so magisterially set aside. The profound changes that were produced in our apprehension of behaviour in this world by the movements known as rationalism and empiricism were shortly to overwhelm the neo-classical critic. True reality becomes firmly identified with the individual and the consciousness of his or her own existence. A new literary genre (the novel) comes into being in order to express in a thoroughgoing way the new sense of the reality of individual experience,4 and a new word (‘psychology’) is coined in order to identify a new awareness of the quality of human experience.5 Those whose taste had been formed by the experience of a culture steeped in classical values could not easily accommodate themselves to the new literary procedures, as is evident from the conflict of aesthetic principles in the eighteenth century.6 Our modern literary predispositions, on the other hand, have been largely formed by a wholehearted acceptance of the novel and a commitment to the literary values that it embodies. We are especially well-equipped to see and to appreciate psychological subtleties. Thus John Speirs can write that ‘with Troilus and Criseyde and the Canterbury Tales Chaucer inaugurates the English novel; and, moreover, the Great Tradition of it’.7 In a wider European context Lewis takes us back to Le Roman de la rose: ‘On the psychological side Guillaume’s merits are more easily displayed and I hope that they are now apparent. It is arguable that Guillaume, even more than Chrétien, deserves to be called the founder of the sentimental novel’.8 But to describe any medieval romance as a novel is simply to ignore the facts of literary history or to use a literary term in such a way as to empty it of its original significance. What is most interesting here is the feeling of sympathy that emerges between critic and poet, for the psychological perceptiveness that is attributed to Chaucer and Guillaume de Lorris respectively is evidently to be taken as a sign of their ultimate worth as poets. Nowhere could the gulf that separates us from our medieval heritage be more clearly apparent. It is a hard matter indeed

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for us to admit that our psychological truths in themselves possess merely a local and not a universal currency. In what follows I should like briefly to consider some of the implications that stem from the distinctions that I have been making in the reading of some specific medieval texts, notably The Romaunt of the Rose and The Pardoner’s Tale. Both have received sympathetic and discerning treatment at the hands of critics who have wished to stress the centrality of psychological principles. Lewis sees allegory as the means by which a medieval poet explores the inner life of man;9 George Lyman Kittredge defends The Pardoner’s Tale from the charge of psychological incoherence.10 Although both critics are persuasive and indeed often extremely illuminating, it is a matter of some surprise that a psychological approach should have been so unquestioningly adopted. II. First of all it is necessary to examine in more detail what the implications of a psychological approach may be and to consider the way in which the term ‘psychological’ may appropriately be used in the context of medieval literature. The problem can usefully be clarified in the light of the introspective analyses of Soredamors and Alixandre in Chrétien’s Cligés (435–1044). Here surely, if at all in medieval literature, the interest is psychological. Let us, however, remind ourselves once again of the particular circumstances that gave rise to the novel. The focusing of attention upon the individual that results from rationalism means that for the first time behaviour is defined in relation to an individual psychology and not in terms of its external manifestations. As a consequence of this writers become increasingly aware of the discrepancy that exists between motivation and action. La Rochefoucauld expresses this kind of understanding in his opening maxime: Ce que nous prenons pour des vertus n’est souvent qu’un assemblage de diverses actions et de divers intérêts, que la fortune ou notre industrie savent arranger; et ce n’est pas toujours par valeur et par chasteté que les hommes sont vaillants, et que les femmes sont chastes.11

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There is an awareness, too, of the difficulty in any given case of determining the true motive or motives that lie behind behaviour, for usually we can describe merely the interplay of a number of different factors. In some cases we have to allow for the possibility of some hidden motives that remain undisclosed to the present consciousness. Again, La Rochefoucauld comes close to the definition of a sub-conscious in his elaboration of the phenomenon of amour propre: Rien n’est si impetueux que ses désirs, rien de si caché que ses desseins, rien de si habile que ses conduites; ses souplesses ne se peuvent représenter, ses transformations passent celles des métamorphoses, et ses raffinements ceux de la chimie. On ne peut sonder la profondeur, ni percer les ténêbres de ses abîmes. Là il est à couvert des yeux les plus pénétrants; il y fait mille insensibles tours et retours.12

It may therefore be useful at this stage to draw a distinction between a literary mode that is primarily psychological or subjective in its interest and one that is moral or objective. The former will be concerned with the individual consciousness and will accordingly focus attention upon the causes of human behaviour. The latter will be concerned rather with external action and will accordingly consider its nature and ethical quality. The introspection of Soredamors and Alixandre cannot be described as psychological in the sense that it manifests a concern with motive. Neither is in any real doubt as to the true cause of the paradoxical emotion that each in turn experiences. Alixandre describes the source of his distress as follows (Cligés, 653–58): Donc n’est mervoille, se m’esmai, Car molt ai mal, et si ne sai Quex max ce est qui me justise, Ne sai don la dolors m’est prise. Nel sai? Si faz. Jel cuit savoir: Cest mal me fet Amors avoir.13

Soredamors also acknowledges that it is love that is the source of her confusion and torment (Cligés, 915–21):

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Et mon vuel toz jorz le verroie, Ja mes ialz partir n’an querroie, Tant m’abelist, quant je le voi. Est ce Amors? Oïl, ce croi. Ja tant sovant nel remanbrasse, Se plus d’un autre ne l’amasse. Or l’aim. Or soit acreanté.14

Indeed Chrétien himself is anxious to discourage the possible assumption that the sickness of the lovers may be explained in any other way. When the Queen takes it to be simply sea-sickness he is careful to point out the true facts of the matter (Cligés, 552–55): Einsi la reïne molt fort La mer ancorpe et si la blasme, Mes a tort li met sus le blasme, Car la mers n’i a rien forfet.15

Chrétien is plainly not concerned with the individual consciousness of experience and therefore for him the motives that underlie behaviour are neither problematic nor a matter of any great interest. He wishes rather to describe the operation of a love passion in the human soul and as a result is interested in its nature and effects. It follows, therefore, that his account will be of general and not particular significance, and will contain a number of universal features: love enters through the eyes (Cligés, 684–93); it is a sickness (533–44); it is at once pleasurable and painful (464–75 and 659–63) and it is irresistible (505–9 and 638–44).16 We shall meet these ideas repeatedly in our reading of medieval love poetry. We can use the word ‘psychological’ to refer to this analysis of a love passion in just the same way as we may talk of a scholastic psychology, but we should at the same time be aware of the necessary limitations that govern its use in these contexts. In a literary discussion the term has for the most part much wider implications and its unqualified use often in practice leads to a distortion of the imaginative perspective. We must bear in mind, then, that the habitual assumption of a medieval writer is of a unity between action and intention, and not a dislocation. The concept of fame can thus possess an ethical force precisely because it

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is assumed that a valiant deed will be prompted by a valorous spirit. To think in terms of a unity of this kind is highly characteristic of the period and it explains, for instance, the correspondence supposed to exist between human beings and their environment (that is, between the microcosm and the macrocosm). III. The psychological interpretation of The Romaunt of the Rose that is offered by Lewis must in principle be thought suspect. The fundamental objection to it has clearly been stated by Robertson: ‘The Roman is not a psychological poem at all; it is a description of human actions in terms of abstractions belonging to an objective scheme of moral values whose existence is independent of the psychological state of the dreamer.’17 It does not follow, however, that The Romaunt of the Rose was written in obedience to the laws of the Augustinian aesthetic that Robertson himself finds manifested in medieval literature as a whole. Indeed we may well call into question the a priori character of the literary approach embodied in A Preface to Chaucer. The penetration of Augustinian ideas into the vernacular literatures of western Europe seems to be assumed merely on the basis of their availability. But other influences (notably classical ones) were also accessible to European poets and the use made of such classical authors as Cicero, Ovid, Statius and Virgil, for example, belongs to the realm of inescapable fact and not critical hypothesis. It still remains to be shown that Lewis is mistaken in the fundamental distinction that he draws between secular and creative allegory on the one hand and religious and exegetical allegory on the other.18 We are surely justified in the final analysis in basing our appeal on what the poems themselves have to say rather than on what we feel they ought to be saying. Many modern readers of The Romaunt of the Rose were first introduced to it through the stimulating discussion in The Allegory of Love.19 We shall still find in it the kind of imaginative response that such a poem properly requires of us, although we should not make the mistake of supposing that we are committed to the same response.

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The allegorical significance of the rose itself is crucial to the view we form of Guillaume’s poem as a whole. Lewis admits of little scope for disagreement on this point (p. 129): Of this passage [the dreamer’s experience at the well of Narcissus] I would observe two things. In the first place it ought to remove for ever the very disastrous confusion which would identify the Rose with the Lady. The Rose, in Guillaume, is clearly the Lady’s love: in Jean de Meun it has a different signification; but nowhere does it mean the Lady herself. In the second place, I would ask the reader whether this passage, despite a little over-elaboration, is not well handled by the poet. Descriptions of the act (or passion) of ‘falling in love’ tend to be among the most banal passages of fiction; but Guillaume, with his crystals and his well, seems to me to give us some of the real magic of eyes (and of mirrors) as that magic actually exists, not indeed outside the human mind, but outside any school of poetry.

The reader who can set this judgement aside needs to be very secure in his or her own understanding of the poem and there are few of us who can turn away from it without at least some feeling of regret. But it would be idle to pretend that Lewis satisfactorily accounts here for the progress of the allegorical fiction. In the first place it is a curious fact that Guillaume himself at the very beginning of his poem encourages the ‘disastrous’ identification of the rose with the lady (RR, 41–48): The mater fayre is of to make; God graunt me in gree that she it take For whom that it begonnen is! And that is she that hath, ywis, So mochel pris; and therto she So worthy is biloved to be, That she wel ought, of pris and ryght, Be cleped Rose of every wight.20

Moreover Lewis’s interpretation raises insurmountable problems at the fictional level. If the rose is the lady’s love what in the fiction signifies the lady herself ? It will not do to say that the lady is disclosed by the allegory as a whole, for we know that love can only be an accident occurring in a substance and we are left with the problem of referring the accident to a particular substance. Love is therefore properly represented in the fiction

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as a god who acts upon the dreamer (RR, 1715–32) or as Venus who acts upon Bialacoil (RR, 3697–757) . In what sense are we to suppose that the lady’s love is to be distinguished from that represented by Cupid and Venus? Again, how can we know that the two crystal stones represent the lady’s eyes? This identification presupposes a more than ordinary familiarity with the laws of imaginative logic and has rather the quality of divine revelation about it. If the rose is the lady’s love what are we then to make of the rosebush full of roses (RR, 1649–90)? Finally, if we suppose that the dreamer falls in love at the well of Narcissus the allegory of the God of Love and his arrows can be regarded as no more than the merest repetition. These objections cannot easily be turned aside and yet they do not disturb the flow of Lewis’s discourse. But if we are to pursue them the logical conclusion is that a psychological approach must be abandoned in favour of a moral one and in consequence the central strategy of The Allegory of Love is undermined. We can hardly expect Lewis to have submitted to so radical a revision of his design. Nevertheless it is possible for us to see how lucid the fictional exposition of The Romaunt of the Rose becomes if we are prepared to replace psychological perspectives by moral ones. What the dreamer sees in the well are not the lady’s eyes but his own. That he should see his own reflection is not in itself a difficult proposition to accept, even if we did not have the example of Narcissus before us (RR, 1514–22). We are not to suppose, as Robertson does,21 that the dreamer is guilty of self-love, for it is the roses (RR, 1660–63) and not the crystals that overwhelm his senses. Moreover the story of Narcissus illustrates not self-love but pride and disdain (RR, 1481–98 and 1539–42). The sin of Narcissus is not against the order of charity but against the God of Love. It is the sin of Soredamors (Cligés, 438–53) and is represented allegorically in The Romaunt of the Rose by the chief of the evil-looking arrows (RR, 971–75). The dreamer gains at the well of Narcissus a new insight into the glorious mysteries of the garden (RR, 1579–82 and 1589–600). In case our understanding of these matters may be deficient the poet introduces the simile of the mirror (RR, 1583–92). The dreamer thus comes upon a company of ladies (‘A roser chargid full of rosis’, RR, 1651) and one young maiden in particular becomes the whole object of his attentions (RR, 1691–94):

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Among the knoppes I ches oon So fair, that of the remenaunt noon Ne preise I half so well as it, Whanne I avise it in my wit.

Since the dreamer can hardly be represented as falling in love until he has met the lady, it is at this point that the poet introduces us to the God of Love and his arrows (RR, 1715). What is to follow we already know from Cligés; the arrows pierce the eye and so enter the heart (RR, 1723–29, etc.); their effect is like the onset of sickness (RR, 1730–32), although the pain is mingled with pleasure (RR, 1916–26). An objective interpretation of The Romaunt of the Rose thus enables us to see how fully and coherently the figurative and literal levels are related to one another. There are a number of other factors that compel us to adopt a moral rather than a psychological view of the poem. Lewis recognizes one of them in his discussion of Jelousy: ‘There is the interference of her relatives to be reckoned with; and this forces the poet to introduce the character Jalosie – a personification not quite on all fours with the personified moods of the heroine’.22 What Lewis means is that a psychological interpretation is impossible in this instance, for the lady can hardly be represented as being jealous of herself. Moreover the supposition that Jelousy stands for the lady’s relatives has again the character of revelation rather than interpretation. It can hardly be doubted that Jelousy is the husband of the lady, especially if we remember that jealousy is properly directed towards that which we own and desire to keep. As such it needs to be distinguished from the desire to gain for ourselves some imagined good, since such a desire can take the form of envy and covetousness.23 This identification of Jelousy is surely not difficult for one who, like Lewis, sees courtly love as essentially adulterous and who must have been familiar with the figure of the jealous husband in medieval literature.24 The tendency of The Romaunt of the Rose itself clearly encourages these ideas, for we have to do with an unlawful love that is rejected by Resoun (RR, 3240–47 and 3269–304). Above all we need to pay attention to the manner in which Jelousy behaves towards Bialacoil. The dreamer urges the imprisoned Bialacoil to remain firm in heart (RR, 4381–90):

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This opposition between the body and the heart, that is, between the physical and emotional aspects of love, is characteristically found in the context of an adulterous relationship. It is the source of the criticism of Ysolt and Tristan upon which the second part of Cligés is based.25 It is because The Romaunt of the Rose treats of an adulterous love that the poet in the fiction of the prologue to The Legend of Good Women stands condemned for translating it (G 246–63). The objectivity of Guillaume’s treatment of Jelousy is thus disputed by no one, but in reality it is no less possible to suppose that Daunger and Shame possess an objective and not a subjective significance. The presentation of Daunger as a churl (RR, 3019 and 3130–37) involves a technical breach of the allegory, for Vilanye is excluded from the garden (RR, 166– 80). We can perhaps best account for such a breach by bearing in mind that the ostensible point of view is that of the dreamer. But to insist that Daunger has a subjective force here is to make the effect of the poem a ludicrous one, for we shall be required to predicate churlishness of the lady herself. The fact is that it is Daunger’s function to guard the roses (RR, 3017) and not merely the botoun (RR, 3013). This is also true of Shame; she guards the roser (RR, 3054) after Venus has driven off Chastite (RR, 3042–59). Since she is the daughter of Trespas and Resoun (RR, 3031–41) Shame cannot possibly be Modesty, nor an aspect of the lady unless we assume that the lady has been defiled. The poet invites us to think of the emotion in an objective sense and not in terms of its particular manifestation. The treatment of Bialacoil is a striking example of the objective tendencies of medieval literature. According to the psychological view he must be

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an aspect of the lady and must refer to the sympathetic welcome that the lady gives to the dreamer’s first diffident approaches.26 But he is treated not always as a personification, but also as a person, that is, he comes to represent the lady herself. Thus he can be described as having been daungerous (RR, 3594) towards the dreamer. Venus is seen to act directly upon him (RR, 3753–57) and the dreamer to appeal directly to him after he has been imprisoned by Jelousy (RR, 4377–80): A, Bialacoil, myn owne deer! Though thou be now a prisoner, Kep atte leste thyn herte to me, And suffre not that it daunted be.

In all these cases Guillaume goes beyond the functional limitations of a personification and this fact in itself would constitute evidence that he is unable to think consistently in the psychological terms that Lewis attributes to him. The reason for the shift from personification to person would seem to be that the allegory of the rose has long since served its purpose and that it is no longer possible to think of the lady exclusively in this way. Lewis has himself drawn attention to the objective character of the allegorical mode.27 We can now see that the form of much medieval literature supports its most fundamental tendency and is not a means of exploring the individual’s conscious apprehension of his or her own existence. IV. It follows from the assumption of a unity between action and intention that a description of external phenomena will be true to the facts of human nature. There is one circumstance, however, in which such a description will be wholly untrue, namely that which results from the workings of hypocrisy. The very definition of hypocrisy will consist in the intention to deceive, and if we can assume that the intention is fully translated into action then the external manifestation will entirely conceal that intention. Thus we can appreciate that for the objective poet the representation of hypocrisy involves a technical problem and it is this problem that the convention of the dramatic monologue or confession is designed to answer.

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We first of all see this convention fully developed in Jean de Meun’s continuation of Le Roman de la Rose and especially in the confession of Fals-Semblant that dominates Fragment C of the Middle English translation.28 The nature of this convention has a special significance for readers of Chaucer, not least because the figure of the Pardoner is directly modelled upon that of Fals-Semblant. It sometimes seems to be argued that the psychological incongruities that are inherent in this convention are acceptable for the allegorical personification, since related to the need for moral exposition, but not for a real person such as Chaucer’s Pardoner. This is the view recently put forward by P.M. Kean and leads to the following comparison: Faux Semblant and the Pardoner have in common an enthusiasm in self-exposure which, as we have said, is an accepted convention in the case of the vice figure and which passes smoothly enough for motivation in the case of the more realistically conceived character.29

The truth is surely that the convention of self-revelation is more difficult to accept in the figure of Fals-Semblant than in that of the Pardoner, since Fals-Semblant is wholly defined in terms of the intention to deceive. A human being, we can easily suppose, is more various in his or her behaviour and we can thus accommodate (in principle at least) some inconsistency. We should be careful to note once more the medieval habit of objective narration, for Fals-Semblant is not hypocrisy but the product of hypocrisy (RR, 6112–13, 6777–80 and 7213–16). The outward appearance (as distinct from the inner condition) will be pleasing, physically and morally, and accordingly Fals-Semblant appears before Wicked-Tonge in the habit of a friar (RR, 7406–11): And Fals-Semblant saynt, je vous die, [Had], as it were for such mister, Don on the cope of a frer, With chere symple and ful pytous; Hys lokyng was not disdeynous, Ne proud, but meke and ful pesyble.

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The falseness consists in the discrepancy between that appearance and the intention that produces it and of its very nature is hidden to the external eye. Thus Wicked-Tonge is readily deceived (RR, 7443–48): And Fals-Semblant had he sayn als, But he knew nat that he was fals. Yet fals was he, but his falsnesse Ne coude he nat espye nor gesse; For Semblant was so slye wrought, That Falsnesse he ne espyed nought.

There is no good reason why the gentle reader in turn should not be deceived by the fair appearance of things unless he or she is in general disposed to assume dislocations between the internal and external worlds. Since, as we have seen, the assumption of a unity between action and intention holds good for the medieval period, it becomes necessary to highlight particular violations of this principle. The medieval poet is fully aware of the incongruity that is involved and makes it explicit in the interchange between Fals-Semblant and the God of Love (RR, 7287–96): ‘But unto you dar I not lye; But myght I felen or aspie That ye perceyved it no thyng, Ye shulde have a stark lesyng Right in youre honde thus, to bigynne; I nolde it lette for no synne.’ The god lough at the wondir tho, And every wight gan laugh also, And seide, ‘Lo heere a man aright For to be trusty to every wight!’

It should now be possible for us to see, however, that the dislocation at the psychological level is dependent on the need for an objective account and that the nature of hypocrisy of itself involves a corresponding moral dislocation. It should be evident, too, that a modern psychological perspective is in direct conflict with the very assumptions upon which the convention of the dramatic monologue is based. The Pardoner’s Tale has

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become something of a test-case for modern critics who assert the primacy of psychological principles. V. Before we turn to The Pardoner’s Tale it is necessary to look briefly at the relationship between Fragments B and C of The Romaunt of the Rose since Chaucer draws upon both of them indifferently. The habit of thinking in terms of separate fragments belongs to modern critical tradition and not to the manuscript one. There is no break in the manuscript of The Romaunt of the Rose after line 5810 and as a result we may well be justified in suspecting the activity of a compilator as well as that of a translator. This suspicion is surely confirmed when we recognize that the selection from the French original brings about a juxtaposition of part of Resoun’s discourse on love and Fals-Semblant’s confession. Resoun begins by rejecting the cupidinous love of the young man (RR, 4685–5134) and goes on to describe a lawful love that is called friendship (RR, 5201–310). This lawful love is seen to involve the connaturality of the individual wills of the lovers (RR, 5203–4) and is based upon the principle of fidelity (RR, 5215–20). Its essential nature is characterized by an integrity of intention and action (RR, 5209–14): With hem [lovers] holdyng comunte Of all her good in charite, That ther be noon excepcioun Thurgh chaungyng of entencioun; That ech helpe other at her neede, And wisely hele bothe word and dede.

Resoun opposes to friendship a false love that is simulated for the purpose of gain (RR, 5311–402). We see in Resoun’s elaboration of this false love the fundamental relationship between the ideas of cupidity and falseness and hence the true purpose behind the juxtaposition of Fragments B and C. Those who are interested in The Pardoner’s Tale will pay special attention to Resoun’s illustration of cupidity and hypocrisy among preachers (RR, 5745–47 and 5757–66):

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Eke in the same secte ar sett All tho that prechen for to get Worshipes, honour, and richesse … Not liche to the apostles twelve, They deceyve other and hemselve; Bigiled is the giler than. For prechyng of a cursed man, Though [it] to other may profite, Hymsilf it availeth not a myte; For ofte good predicacioun Cometh of evel entencioun. To hym not vailith his preching, All helpe he other with his teching.

Chaucer made specific use of these lines in his exposition of the Pardoner’s motives (The Pardoner’s Prologue, C 407–8), but was indebted more fundamentally to the whole moral scheme that The Romaunt of the Rose here lays before him. He will have learnt not only of the way in which cupidity disguises itself in external forms (RR, 5745–56) but also that the habit of a friar is a most suitable disguise for Fals-Semblant. The superiority of The Pardoners Tale to the work of the compilator lies essentially in the fact that Chaucer has brought the ideas of cupidity and falseness into a closer and more coherent relationship. It hardly needs saying, perhaps, that the tale is also distinguished by the poet’s ability to enter imaginatively the moral world he has thus created. In disclosing to us the true moral nature of the Pardoner Chaucer inevitably uses the same self-revealing techniques by which Jean de Meun exhibits the nature of Fals-Semblant. Indeed Chaucer draws in detail upon Fals-Semblant’s confession for The Pardoner’s Prologue. Thus Fals-Semblant admits that ‘[t]o wynnen is alwey myn entente’ (RR, 6837) and the Pardoner reveals to us that (C 400–4): Of avarice and of swich cursednesse Is al my prechyng, for to make hem free To yeven hir pens, and namely unto me. For myn entente is nat but for to wynne, And nothyng for correccioun of synne.

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We can see, therefore, that Chaucer’s specific indebtedness to The Romaunt of the Rose has to do with the relationship between action and intention. If we wish to understand the nature of his art we shall be better advised to stress the literary assumptions that he shares with Jean de Meun rather than to claim him as one of our own. The ‘gentils’ look to the Pardoner to deepen their moral understanding (C 323–26) and he assures them of his ability to tell ‘a moral tale’ (C 460). There seems no good reason why we should limit our expectations to a tale that has a moral point, although that simple expectation will certainly be fulfilled. The space that is devoted to The Pardoner’s Prologue and to the disclosure of the Pardoner’s true motives (C 329–462) assures us that the moral scheme of the tale is much more broadly based. It is the poet’s intention to lay before us the true nature of cupidity and to show us the moral and spiritual destitution from which it proceeds. VI. It is only possible to indicate briefly here the way in which The Pardoner’s Tale may be explicated in the light of the literary principles that have thus far been adduced. We need to go back to the linking passage between The Physician’s Tale and The Pardoner’s Prologue (C 287–328), for it is here that we shall find that the role which the Host has to play is first carefully conceived. The Host is something of a protean figure in the scheme of The Canterbury Tales as a whole and his style and attitudes alter in accordance with Chaucer’s artistic needs. In the General Prologue he is essentially a genial person (A 747–809) and indeed is even capable of a studied courtesy (A 827–41). For most of us this remains our dominant impression of him and we need to be reminded that he is pointedly rude to the Franklin (F 695–98 and 702) and coarse in his response to the Nun’s Priest (B2 4637–50). His reaction to the tragic death of the maiden Virginia is profuse with blasphemies (C 287–88): Oure Hooste gan to swere as he were wood; ‘Harrow!’ quod he, ‘by nayles and by blood!’30

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That the Host should be represented in this way is of fundamental relevance to the moral scheme of the tale that follows. The same is true of the references to the Pardoner’s drinking before the telling of the tale (C 321–22, 327–28; cf. 456–58), for by a characteristic moral inversion the tale will embody a denunciation of the evils of drink (C 485–588). It is possible to take the references to drink in the introduction to the tale as a potential source of a more naturalistic treatment of behaviour, but we are bound to observe that there is no evidence to suggest that the Pardoner is affected by drink in revealing his true intentions. Kittredge recognizes this well enough (p. 119): It is an equally weak defense [that is, as accounting for the Pardoner’s behaviour in terms appropriate to that of Fals-Semblant] to allege that the Pardoner is drunk. One draught of ale, however ‘moist and corny’, would never fuddle so seasoned a drinker. Besides, he manifests none of the signs of intoxication.

The moral consequences of drunkenness, however, are displayed at length, as we have seen, and we can appreciate the relevance of these to the Pardoner’s situation (C 558–61): For dronkenesse is verray sepulture Of mannes wit and his discrecioun. In whom that drynke hath dominacioun He kan no conseil kepe, it is no drede.

The lengthy prologue to the tale is designed not only to reveal the Pardoner’s true motives to us but also to show that he achieves his ends by means of a systematic exploitation of superstition and human sinfulness (C 335–88). There is a characteristic subtlety, too, in making his central theme ‘Radix malorum est Cupiditas’ (C 334, 426), for in this way the external world is made to focus consistently and ironically upon the internal one. The tale itself opens with an account of a company of young folk given over to every kind of self-gratification (C 463–84). We may well recall here Resoun’s identification of cupidinous love with Youthe in The Romaunt of the Rose, and especially of her description of Youthe’s folly, wastefulness, ribaldry, lechery, and excess (RR, 4925–28). Resoun goes on indeed

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to identify restraint with the figure of Elde (RR, 4955–58) and as a result we may be justified in supposing that it is this opposition between Youthe and Elde that is the source of the confrontation between the three young revellers and the old man in the tale (C 711–67). Thus Youthe is seen to love evil company (RR, 4899) but Elde is a solitary figure (RR, 4962–63). Because she stands for restraint upon delight Elde is an object of hatred (RR, 4961); hence we can understand why the old man in the tale should provoke so hostile a response (C 716–19): The proudeste of thise riotoures three Answerde agayn, ‘What, carl, with sory grace! Why artow al forwrapped save thy face? Why lyvestow so longe in so greet age?’31

After the introductory account of the debauched society of young men the Pardoner unleashes upon us the full power of his pulpit eloquence and denounces in turn the sins of gluttony (in the form both of eating and drinking to excess, C 485–588), gambling (C 589–628) and blasphemy (C 629–59). The place of gambling in the moral scheme of the tale is by no means obvious, although it clearly has a general relevance to the dissolute lives of the revellers. Its fundamental moral relevance is underlined in the sermon itself (C 591–92): Hasard is verray mooder of lesynges, And of deceite, and cursed forswerynges.

The remaining moral element in the tale that needs to be considered is indeed falseness, for that quality characterizes the sermon as a whole. Our moral responsiveness here is directly dependent upon our continuing awareness of the contradictions that exist between the urgent denunciation of sin on the one hand and the vicious intent on the other. Thus within the tale itself there is an ironic appropriateness in the fact that the revellers become sworn brothers in order to combat the falseness of death (C 692–704) and a fundamental moral truth in the fact that their desire for the gold leads them all to set aside that most solemn bond (C 806–15 and 837–50). It is

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morally fitting, too, that this combination of cupidity and falseness should encompass the deaths of all three. It should by now be possible for us to see how fully the moral scheme of the sermon is related to the moral degeneracy of the man who delivers it. The extent of the Pardoner’s repulsiveness can strictly be measured by the degree to which his sermon moves us in awareness of human sinfulness. But the true nature of his viciousness only reveals itself finally when he turns from his imagined congregation to the pilgrims themselves (C 915–18): And lo, sires, thus I preche. And Jhesu Crist, that is oure soules leche, So graunte yow his pardoun to receyve, For that is best; I wol yow nat deceyve.

The sense of religious conviction with which these lines are delivered encourages Kittredge to believe that the Pardoner himself has been momentarily affected by his own eloquence. In order to make this view more acceptable, however, Kittredge also found it necessary to reconstruct the Pardoner’s biography (pp. 124–25): The Pardoner is an able and eloquent man, a friar, very likely, who had entered his order with the best purposes, or, at any rate, with no bad aims, and with possibilities of good in him, and had grown corrupt with its corruption. His debasement seems to be utter, for one must not forget the picture in the general prologue. Nothing but a ribald story appears possible from him. But, by showing us the man in a moment of moral convulsion, Chaucer has invested him with a sort of dignity which justifies the poet in putting into his mouth one of the most beautiful as well as one of the best told tales in the whole collection.

This account may indeed appear so convincing that we have to remind ourselves that in some crucial respects it is due wholly to the inventive powers of the critic. We know nothing of the Pardoner’s past history and are bound to conclude as a result that it is not imaginatively significant. It seems clear too that the harmony which the critic looks for between moral and aesthetic principles is threatened by a psychological approach to the tale.

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The words with which the Pardoner turns to the pilgrims are certainly authentic, but it is the authenticity of Fals-Semblant with which we have to deal. Thus in a characteristic fashion the Pardoner seeks to exploit for his own gain the genuine spiritual aspirations of the pilgrims themselves (C 919–45). On this occasion, however, the Pardoner becomes the victim of human sinfulness in the form of the Host’s obscenities and blasphemies (C 946–55): ‘Nay, nay!’ quod he, ‘thanne have I Cristes curs! Lat be,’ quod he, ‘it shal nat be, so theech! Thou woldest make me kisse thyn olde breech, And swere it were a relyk of a seint, Though it were with thy fundement depeint! But, by the croys which that Seint Eleyne fond, I wolde I hadde thy coillons in myn hond In stide of relikes or of seintuarie. Lat kutte hem of, I wol thee helpe hem carie; They shul be shryned in an hogges toord!’

This response reduces the Pardoner to silence (C 956–57): This Pardoner answerde nat a word; So wrooth he was, no word ne wolde he seye.

It seems likely that these lines possess a fundamentally moral significance, for they finally make plain to us the spiritual and moral destitution of the Pardoner. If we are still inclined to insist upon psychological realities at this point, we should bear in mind the ease with which the Knight resolves this difference between the Pardoner and the Host (C 960–68). There are, no doubt, some psychological incongruities in the conclusion to The Pardoner’s Tale, and these are certainly underlined by modern literary tendencies. Nevertheless the conclusion does fulfil the literary expectations that the tale itself arouses, provided that we recognize the issue to be one not of psychological credibility but of moral justice.

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Notes 1 2

3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13

14

Geoffrey Chaucer: A Critical Anthology, edited by J.A. Burrow (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books Ltd, 1969), p. 118. Reference is to C.S. Lewis, The Allegory of Love (London: Oxford University Press, 1936); Charles Muscatine, Chaucer and the French Tradition: A Study in Style and Meaning (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1957) and D.W. Robertson, Jr, A Preface to Chaucer: Studies in Medieval Perspectives (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1962). Reference is to The Yale Edition of the Works of Samuel Johnson , Volumes VII and VIII, Johnson on Shakespeare, edited by Arthur Sherbo (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1968), VII. 62. See Ian Watt, The Rise of the Novel: Studies in Defoe, Richardson and Fielding (London: Chatto and Windus, 1957), Chapter One, ‘Realism and the Novel Form’, pp. 9–34. OED, s.v. psychology: ‘the science of the nature, functions, and phenomena of the human soul or mind’ gives the first recorded occurrence of the word as 1693. For an account of its history see the accompanying note. See Watt, The Rise of the Novel, pp. 16–17. John Speirs, Chaucer the Maker, second edition (London: Faber and Faber Ltd, 1960), p. 201. Lewis, The Allegory of Love, p. 135. Lewis, The Allegory of Love, pp. 113–15. George Lyman Kittredge, ‘Chaucer’s Pardoner’, The Atlantic Monthly, 72 (1893), 829–33, reprinted by Edward Wagenknecht, Chaucer: Modern Essays in Criticism (New York: Oxford University Press, 1959), pp. 117–25. La Rochefoucauld, Maximes, edited by Jacques Truchet (Paris, 1967), p. 7. The portrait of amour-propre is the first of the maximes supprimées; see Truchet, Maximes, pp. 133–36 (p. 134). ‘No wonder, then, if I am terrified; for I am very ill, yet I do not know what disease this is which has me in its grip, and I know not whence this pain has come. I do not know? I know full well that it is Love who does me this injury.’ References to Cligés are to the edition of Alexandre Micha, CFMA (Paris: Champion, 1957) and to the translation of W.W. Comfort, Chrétien de Troyes: Arthurian Romances, Everyman’s Library (London: Dent; New York: Dutton, 1914). ‘… and if I had my will, I should see him all the time, and never take my eyes from him. I feel such joy at the sight of him! Is this love? Yes, I believe it is. I should

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Gerald morgan not appeal to him so often, if I did not love him above all others. So I love him, then, let it be agreed.’ ‘Thus, the Queen lays all the blame and guilt upon the sea, but it is unfair to put the blame upon the sea, for it is guilty of no misdeed.’ The same distinction between the general and the particular is drawn by John Stevens, Medieval Romance: Themes and Approaches (London: Hutchinson & Co Ltd, 1973) in the course of an excellent chapter on characterization (pp. 168–87). The discussion of Gawain’s courtesy (pp. 172–74) and Troilus’s love (pp. 175–77) is especially illuminating. Robertson, A Preface to Chaucer, pp. 35–36. Lewis, The Allegory of Love, p. 48, n. 2. Lewis, The Allegory of Love, Chapter 3, pp. 112–56. Reference is made throughout to the Middle English translation, part of which seems to have been the work of Chaucer himself. The text is therefore to be found in The Works of Geoffrey Chaucer, edited by F.N. Robinson, second edition (London: Oxford University Press, 1957), pp. 564–637. In what follows it is to be assumed that the English translation is in substantial agreement with the French original. Thus on the identification of the rose and the lady the original reads: ‘La matire est et bone et nueve, / or doint Dex qu’en gré le receve / cele por qui je l’ai empris: / c’est cele qui tant a de pris / et tant est digne d’estre amee / qu’el doit estre Rose clamee’ (RR, 39–44); reference is to Guillaume de Lorris and Jean de Meun, Le Roman de la Rose, edited by Félix Lecoy, CFMA, 3 vols (Paris: Champion, 1973, 1979, 1975). Robertson, A Preface to Chaucer, pp. 93–94. Lewis, The Allegory of Love, p. 119. The meaning ‘envy’ is now a leading sense of jealousy; see OED s.v. jealousy 4b (examples from the fifteenth century onwards). But the earlier meaning of ‘vigilance’ (OED, 3) is clearly central to the representation of Jelousy in The Romaunt of the Rose (3819–52) and points to the meaning ‘fear of being supplanted in the affection, or distrust of the fidelity, of a beloved person, esp. a wife, husband, or lover’ (OED, 4a, recorded from the beginning of the fourteenth century). Thus MED, s.v. jelousi(e) n. (e) supplies the glosses ‘watchfulness, suspiciousness’. For the sense of ‘covetousness’ see OED, s.v. jealous a.2. See Lewis, The Allegory of Love, pp. 12–18, and Muscatine, Chaucer and the French Tradition, p. 61. See especially Cligés, 3105–32 and 5190–203. See The Romaunt of the Rose, 2967–84 and Lewis, The Allegory of Love, pp. 122–23. Lewis, The Allegory of Love, pp. 44–48.

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On the subject of the dramatic monologue see Muscatine, Chaucer and the French Tradition, pp. 79–97. P.M. Kean, Chaucer and the Making of English Poetry, 2 vols (London and Boston: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1972), II.99; see also II.96–109, especially pp. 96–97 and 105–6. See also C 310 and 314. Compare also The Romaunt of the Rose, 4964–66 and The Pardoner’s Tale, C 721– 24. The complaint of the Old Man (C 727–38) may in general be compared to Resoun’s description of the dwelling place of Elde (RR, 4988 ff. and especially RR, 4994–5004).

10 Holiness as the First of Spenser’s Aristotelian Moral Virtues

And pité, þat passez alle poyntez. — Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, 654 Oltre a ciò, chi vuol formare l’idea d’un perfetto cavaliere, non so per qual cagione gli nieghi questa lode di pietà e di religione. Laonde proporrei di gran lunga la persona di Carlo e d’Artù a quella di Teseo e di Giasone. — Tasso, Discorsi del poema eroico, Book II1

I. It is hardly possible to understand a work of the richness and complexity of The Faerie Queene without resort to some assistance beyond the poem itself. Spenser recognized this need even in his own day, and so he addressed an explanatory letter to Sir Walter Ralegh on the matter of the first three books. In it he explains that the moral argument of the poem is Aristotelian: ‘I labour to pourtraict in Arthure, before he was king, the image of a brave knight, perfected in the twelve private morall vertues, as Aristotle hath devised’ (II.485).2 Further on in the ‘Letter to Ralegh’ Spenser identifies Arthur with the crowning virtue of magnificence and in so doing invokes the authority not merely of Aristotle but rather of ‘Aristotle and the rest’ (II.486). This I take to be a general reference to the Scholastic tradition of Christianized Aristotelianism on which the learning of the medieval and renaissance university was founded. But the identification of holiness, temperance and chastity as Aristotelian moral virtues seems to raise more problems than it resolves. Chastity is difficult to understand apart from temperance, for chastity is a species of temperance (ST, 2a 2ae 143). The moral scope of temperance itself is also not easy to explain, for Spenser’s narrative in the ‘Legend of Temperance’ focuses on issues of anger and cruelty, pride and avarice, as well as of incontinence and lust.3 Holiness is yet more problematic still, for not

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only is it not an Aristotelian virtue but it ‘is not a Christian virtue any more than a Greek one’. This is the judgment of Rosemond Tuve and it is supported by an impressive weight of scholarship.4 Nevertheless there must be serious misgivings about denying to holiness the status of a moral virtue when Spenser himself has made precisely that claim on its behalf. A great advantage is to be gained if it can be shown that holiness is a moral virtue and, what is more, a proper starting-point for a moral allegory. It is the purpose of the present article to establish the meaning of holiness as a moral virtue, to show how that meaning is coextensive with the action of the ‘Legend of Holiness’ in its entirety, and to explain the sequence of episodes in terms of the moral logic of holiness. II. Faced with problems of interpretation of the kind already noted, modern scholars have not unreasonably ceased to rely on the authority of the ‘Letter to Ralegh’ and turned elsewhere in their efforts to comprehend the moral design of The Faerie Queene. We hear a great deal more nowadays about Spenser’s neo-Platonism than about his Aristotelianism.5 No objection could be made to the hypothesis of a neo-Platonic Spenser if it were able to resolve these problems of interpretation. Unfortunately we are as far from comprehending the totality of Spenser’s moral design as ever and we have not succeeded in placing The Faerie Queene in a moral context sufficiently lucid, subtle and systematic to explain both the freedom and the control of his moral imagination. It is time, then, to return to the Aristotelianism of the ‘Letter to Ralegh’, but not on the basis of old and somewhat discredited assumptions. It needs to be stressed in the first place that Scholastic Aristotelianism is not a pure Aristotelian system purged of alien philosophical elements. The influence of Plato is present from the beginning in the evolution of Aristotle’s thought and is at no period entirely absent. Aquinas, the greatest of the medieval Aristotelians, is himself a syncretist, so that his reverence for the Philosopher by no means implies a lack of regard for such thinkers as Augustine and Dionysius. The influence of Platonic exemplarism, for instance, is evident in Aquinas’s metaphysic of participation.6 It is a mistake to see Platonism and Aristotelianism as essentially opposed philosophical

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systems. The Scholastic basis of Dante’s thought is not open to doubt and yet it is impossible to ignore Platonic elements in the Commedia. Thus the conception of beauty as the radiance of the divine idea illuminating matter is neo-Platonic in its inspiration (Paradiso, XIII.52–81), but Dante fittingly puts it on the lips of Aquinas in the sphere of the Sun. In the same way Platonic ideas can be admitted at the very centre of Spenser’s Faerie Queene without disturbance to the Aristotelian foundation of its moral argument. The precise admixture of Aristotelian and Platonic elements in the work of any individual writer can be determined only by careful and painstaking analysis. This becomes possible when we have abandoned the notion that Scholastic Aristotelianism is a monolithic system, a kind of intellectual totalitarianism demanding absolute obedience. It may at times and in some eminent cases have been reduced to that, especially in the religious controversies of the sixteenth century and in resistance to new scientific discoveries. There is not in the Renaissance, however, a single Aristotelian orthodoxy, but rather varieties of Aristotelianism. Hence Schmitt has made ‘Renaissance Aristotelianisms’ the subject of a chapter of his book.7 We are led as a result to recognize the creativeness and vitality of Scholastic traditions in the Renaissance. From the perspective of hindsight Scholasticism was a dead or dying system of thought during the Renaissance. This is not how it seemed to many Renaissance thinkers nor, indeed, is it true. Scholasticism is not overwhelmed by the tide of Humanism in the sixteenth century, for it is no more opposed to Humanism than it is to neo-Platonism (even though some famous humanists such as Erasmus were hostile to Scholasticism). The movements known as Scholasticism and Humanism develop side by side and this fact gives rise to a further set of cross-influences and complications.8 The sixteenth century is of intellectual importance not for the death but for the revival of Scholasticism. Moreover, such Scholasticism is not a product of the forces of Roman Catholicism or the Counter-Reformation, for the revival of Scholasticism is if anything more marked in Protestant than in Catholic scholarly circles.9 Thus the theology studied at Cambridge was at once Scholastic and Protestant.10 Indeed, university syllabuses continued to be dominated by Aristotle throughout the sixteenth century and

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largely followed the pattern established in the fourteenth century, for the influence of Florentine neo-Platonism made relatively little impact. Once again this is a fact independent of religious affiliation, for it is true not only of Catholic universities such as Cologne, Padua, and Salamanca but also of Lutheran universities such as Jena and Tübingen and Calvinist universities such as Edinburgh and Leiden.11 The main reason for the persistence of the Aristotelian tradition is to be found in its internal coherence and systematic completeness. As such it remained a living and humane force, and the Protestant Spenser could respond to it as the mould within which his imagination was free to express itself. It is, indeed, this fact to which he chiefly draws attention in the ‘Letter to Ralegh’. It would be gratifying if we could lift the veil and disclose the specific names that are implied by the phrase ‘Aristotle and the rest’. The name of Francesco Piccolomini (1523–1607) is one that has been put forward.12 But Spenser’s phrase in its very generality suggests a tradition so well known as to require no further elucidation. It seems safer, therefore, to appeal to the tradition of Scholastic Aristotelianism in general rather than to rely on the authority of a single contemporary Aristotelian. Accordingly, I propose to elucidate the moral allegory of the ‘Legend of Holiness’ by reference to Aquinas’s Summa theologiae as the central text of that tradition. The development of Thomism is marked from the second half of the fifteenth century onwards by the introduction of the Summa theologiae instead of the Sentences of Peter Lombard as the basic theological text-book, first of all in the Dominican convents and then under the influence of Dominican professors in the universities, and first of all in Germany and Italy (for example, Cajetan at Pavia in 1498), and then at Paris (Peter Crockaert, c.1510) and Salamanca (Vitoria, c.1530).13 The Dominican Vitoria (1480–1546) wrote commentaries on the Prima Pars and Secunda Secundae and among the Jesuits Toletus (1532–1596), Gabriel Vásquez (c.1551–1604) and Gregory of Valentia (1551–1603) all published commentaries on the Summa theologiae.14 Even more important, perhaps, is the influence of Aquinas as a commentator on Aristotle. Aquinas is exceptional among the medieval commentators in that his commentaries continued to be printed throughout the sixteenth century and they earned for him the title of Expositor. Hence arises the adage that ‘ubi tacuerit Thomas, Aristotelem mutum fuisse’.15

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There was also a revival of interest in Aristotelian philosophy in England in the last quarter of the sixteenth century, the chief result of which seems to have been an eclectic Aristotelianism, reinforced by neo-Platonic, Hermetic, Stoic, and alchemical texts. The most important representative of Aristotelian thought in England in the Elizabethan period was John Case (c.1546–1600), a fellow of St John’s College, Oxford.16 Nine works by him appeared in print in the years 1584–1599 and of these there were some forty editions up to 1629 (although no work was printed after that date). Case’s exposition of the Ethics, the Speculum quaestionum moralium, printed at Oxford in 1585 and reprinted in 1596, became the standard work and remained so until the publication of Golius’s Epitome doctrinae moralis ex decem libris Ethicorum Aristotelis at Cambridge in 1634. Aquinas was a major source of Case’s thought, and Case explicitly defended him against contemporary prejudice in the peroration of the Speculum quaestionum moralium: ‘Multi hodie, cum audiunt nomen Thomae, supercilia statim contrahunt et distorquent labia, sed si isti serio unam vel alteram quaestionem in illo sine praejudicata sententia legerint, detracta palea purissimum granum, sublata scoria aurum splendidissimum forsan se invenisse dixerint.’17 It is a justifiable assumption, therefore, that the phrase ‘Aristotle and the rest’ must include the name of Aquinas. The documentation of the moral argument of the ‘Legend of Holiness’ by reference to the Summa theologiae does not exclude subsequent revision and refinement by reference to contemporary Aristotelians. But that would be to go beyond the possibility of present scholarship, for the general orientation of Spenser’s moral thinking has yet to be determined. In the meantime we can appeal to the fruitfulness of such an approach to The Faerie Queene, for the relevance of the Scholastic Aristotelian tradition is seen at once by the fact that holiness is established within it as a moral virtue (ST, 2a 2ae 81.8). In other words we may begin by acknowledging that Spenser’s implicit claim for holiness as a moral virtue is entirely consistent with his professed Aristotelianism.

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III. The virtue of holiness is closely related to faith but at the same time carefully distinguished from it. Failure to establish both the precise relation and the point of distinction is a major source of confusion in the analysis of the ‘Legend of Holiness’.18 It is, indeed, Spenser’s purpose to establish these things in the portrait of the Red Cross Knight with which the ‘Legend of Holiness’ begins. The armour that Red Cross wears is the armour of righteousness of which St Paul speaks and the shield that he bears is no less obviously the shield of faith (Ephesians, 6.14, 16). The very obviousness of the identification, confirmed as it is by the ‘Letter to Ralegh’ (II.487), has resulted in a failure to consider its precise implications. If the subject of The Faerie Queene is, as Spenser himself claims, moral and not theological virtue, then the virtue of holiness is not to be confounded with the virtue of faith. The Red Cross Knight does not stand for faith, but is a defender of the faith and is protected by faith (as will be seen in the fight against Error). Thus Spenser’s description of Red Cross focuses upon the surcoat rather than upon the shield (I.1.2): But on his brest a bloudie Crosse he bore, The deare remembrance of his dying Lord, For whose sweete sake that glorious badge he wore, And dead as living ever him ador’d.

The key word here is ‘ador’d’. In its strict sense adoration is an exterior act of the virtue of religion and signifies the use of the body to reverence God, as, for example, by genuflection or prostration. But the exterior act of adoration is ordered to the interior act of devotion and it is the interior act which is the more important. Such devotion in Red Cross clearly establishes the virtue for which above all he stands, and that is the virtue of religion. Selden seems to have understood as much when he wrote that ‘our admired Spencer hath made him an emblem of religion’.19 Religion is a specific virtue as having a special object, namely the giving of due honour to God (ST, 2a 2ae 81.4), and is classified by Aquinas as the first of the potential parts of particular justice. It is so classified because it falls short of the perfect equality of justice, for one cannot by the virtue of religion fully repay the debt of worship that is due to God. Nevertheless

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religion is seen to be the most excellent of the moral virtues (ST, 2a 2ae 81.6). The author of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight uses the word pité, that is, ‘piety’, prevailingly the modern English word for the virtue of religion, and says of it that it ‘passez alle poyntez’ (654).20 Whereas Red Cross stands for the virtue of religion, the argument to Canto 1 describes him as ‘the Patron of true Holinesse’. It would seem that holiness and religion are one and the same thing. This is in fact the case. Aquinas explains that holiness and religion are essentially identical, but notionally distinct (ST, 2a 2ae 81.8). This distinction corresponds to that already drawn by Aquinas between the elicited and commanded acts of religion (ST, 2a 2ae 81.4 ad 2). By the virtue of religion we are to understand the acts elicited by the virtue, whereas holiness includes the acts commanded by religion as well (and especially in the ‘Legend of Holiness’ acts of courage). Religion is not faith, but presupposes faith; it is a confession of faith by certain external signs (ST, 2a 2ae 94.1 ad 1). Religion is thus a moral and not a theological virtue; the object of religion is worship, but the object of faith is God. Whereas the object of the theological virtues is the last end, the object of the moral virtues is the means to the last end (ST, 2a 2ae 81.5). There is nothing unconventional or unorthodox in the combination of holiness and chivalry that Spenser presents in the ‘Legend of Holiness’. Chaucer’s ideal of knighthood in the portrait of the Knight (GP, A 43–78) is focused on holiness, for the Knight’s campaigns are all religious campaigns and they are fittingly set in the context of a pilgrimage.21 Piety is given exceptional emphasis in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight as the final virtue of the final group of virtues (although its force has been dissipated for modern readers by the linguistic uncertainty of pité as a form of ‘pity’ as well as ‘piety’). Thus by beginning The Faerie Queene with the virtue of holiness Spenser writes from within a well-defined romance tradition and reveals at once the essential conservatism of his moral thinking. He sets out to arouse and fulfil some fundamental expectations on the part of the intended audience of his romance.

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IV. The appeal of Scholastic Aristotelianism is above all to those who have a love of system, and it is this fact which makes Spenser’s invocation of the name of Aristotle in the ‘Letter to Ralegh’ of more than ordinary importance. It implies the claim on our attention not of a few ideas but of a system of thought. Accordingly I turn now to Aquinas’s systematic account of the virtue of religion and the vices that are opposed to it. Religion as the moral virtue of rendering the honour that is due to God consists in a number of interior and exterior acts. There are two interior acts of religion, namely devotion, which consists in a prompt will to do those things that pertain to the worship or service of God (ST, 2a 2ae 82.3), and prayer, which consists in a submission to God and a recognition of one’s total dependence on God (ST, 2a 2ae 83.3). As devotion is the ordering of the will to God, so prayer is the ordering of the intellect to God (ST, 2a 2ae 83.3 ad 1). Exterior acts of religion are of three kinds. First, there is adoration, whereby the body is used to reverence God (ST, 2a 2ae 84.2). Secondly, there are those acts by which something from exterior things is offered to God. Here there is distinguished on the one hand the offering of something to God, such as sacrifices (ST, 2a 2ae 85.3) and oblations (ST, 2a 2ae 86.1–3),22 and on the other hand the promising of something to God by means of vows (ST, 2a 2ae 88.5). Thirdly, there are those acts which consist in the use of something divine, and here are to be understood the sacraments and the name of God (preamble to ST, 2a 2ae 89). The sacraments are religious symbols or signs; as The Book of Common Prayer has it, they ‘be not only badges or tokens of Christian men’s profession, but rather … certain sure witnesses and effectual signs of grace and God’s good will towards us, by the which he doth work invisibly in us, and doth not only quicken, but also strengthen and confirm our Faith in him’ (Article 25). The name of God can be used in three ways: first in oaths, where God’s name is taken to confirm the truth of a statement (ST, 2a 2ae 89.4); secondly in adjurations, where God’s name is taken to induce others to do something (ST, 2a 2ae 90.1); thirdly in invocations, where God’s name is taken in prayer or songs of praise (ST, 2a 2ae 91.1 and 2). It will be evident that these interior and exterior acts of religion are central concerns of the ‘Legend of Holiness’, so that I need do no more at this point than briefly illustrate them. Red Cross’s decisive victory over

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Sansjoy (I.5.12–13) is the mark of his devotion, for joy is the direct and principal effect of devotion (ST, 2a 2ae 82.4). Red Cross’s intellect no less than his will is ordered to God when he heeds the warning of the ‘wary Dwarfe’ (I.5.45 and 52) and leaves the House of Pride.23 Vigilance is a part of prudence, and the relationship between the two is set out by Aquinas in reference to prayer by quotation from I Peter, 4.7: Estote prudentes, et vigilate in orationibus (ST, 2a 2ae 47.9 sed contra). Of the exterior acts of religion adoration is encountered, as I have already observed, in the opening portrait of Red Cross. Among the second group of exterior acts may be noted the importance that is attached to the making and keeping of vows in the celebration of the marriage of Una and Red Cross with which the ‘Legend of Holiness’ concludes (I.12.36–41). Among the third group of exterior acts sacraments and oaths appear prominently in Spenser’s fiction. The sacraments of baptism and the eucharist are signified in the fight against the dragon by the well of life (I.11.29–34) and the tree of life (I.11.46–50).24 In defeating Sansjoy Red Cross fulfils the terms of ‘a solemne oth’ (I.5.4). But for an oath to be good it must satisfy the conditions of judgement, truth and justice (ST, 2a 2ae 89.3). Hence Spenser is emphatic in his insistence upon the justice of Red Cross’s cause. Not only does he state and repeat explicitly the fact that Red Cross is in the right, but he also develops the comparison of Red Cross to the griffin in order to reinforce it (I.5.8–9). Spenser’s insistence is well considered, for Red Cross’s virtue needs to be vouched for in the wake of his desertion of Una.25 The exterior acts of religion are acts of virtue only when they are duly ordered to the interior acts. The need for such an accord explains the emphasis upon the simplicity of Red Cross as ‘right faithfull true … in deede and word’ (I.1.2). He is described as ‘the Patron of true Holinesse’ in the argument to Canto 1 because he is set in opposition to the false holiness of the disguised Archimago (I.1.29–30). The fixing of the eyes upon the ground, the uttering of prayers and the beating of the breast are all authentic marks of holiness, and they are seized upon by the hypocrite for that very reason. The hypocrite has no regard for holiness, but only for the appearance of holiness. Thus he ‘seemde’ to be sober or grave; he was ‘simple in shew’ and was ‘as one that did repent’ (I.1.29; my italics). But hypocrisy does not invalidate the exterior acts of religion. Rather it reminds us of the necessity

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for the exterior acts to be conformed to the interior acts of devotion and submission to God (ST, 2a 2ae 84.2). Virtue lies in a mean between excess and defect, so that vices are opposed to virtues by both excess and defect. Hence Aristotle explains that where there is only a single virtue there can be a number of opposed vices (Ethics, II.6): Again, it is possible to fail in many ways (for evil belongs to the class of the unlimited, as the Pythagoreans conjectured, and good to that of the limited), while to succeed is possible only in one way (for which reason also one is easy and the other difficult – to miss the mark easy, to hit it difficult); for these reasons also, then, excess and defect are characteristic of vice, and the mean of virtue.26

Thus the vices opposed to religion are classified by Aquinas under two heads:superstition, which is the perversion of divine worship, and irreligion, which is the denial or contempt of divine worship (preamble to ST, 2a 2ae 92.1). Superstition is the vice opposed to religion by excess. It is excessive not in the sense that it gives too much worship to God (for that is not possible) but in the sense that it gives divine worship to that which it ought not or in a manner that is unfitting. On this basis Aquinas identifies four species of superstition (ST, 2a 2ae 92.2). The first species is a mindless devotion by which worship is given to God, to whom it is due, but not in the manner in which it is due. Thus instead of the conformation of exterior acts of religion to the interior acts, there is a preoccupation with exterior acts in such a way that religion is effectively reduced to externals. Such superstitious devotion is the ‘blind Devotion’ of the argument to Canto 3 and is embodied in the name of Corceca (I.3.18). The three remaining species of superstition all involve worship given to a creature. Here Aquinas distinguishes idolatry, divination and superstitious practices. Idolatry is the showing of divine reverence to a creature. Thus the satyrs show an improper reverence to Una and then (such is their ignorance) to the ass that accompanies her (I.6.19). Another motive for idolatry, as Aquinas explains (ST, 2a 2ae 94.4), is to be seen in the inordinate grief of the father at the loss of his child. Thus the father of Hippolytus cannot accept the reality of his son’s death and venerates the remnants of his dismembered body as

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‘relicks’ (I.5.39). Divination consists in a tacit or expressed compact with demonic powers in order to gain knowledge of the future. There are three kinds of divination: the open invocation of demons (necromancy), the consideration of the position or movement of another object (augury) and the doing of some action to discover the occult, for example, by the drawing of lots (sorcery) (ST, 2a 2ae 95.3). Archimago stands for divination in its most evil form of necromancy, and this fact explains the vehemence of Spenser’s description of him as ‘a bold bad man’ (I.1.37).27 Divination is opposed to the instruction that human beings receive from God (ST, 2a 2ae 92.2), and it is for this reason that Archimago is possessed by an implacable hatred for Una (I.2.9). Superstitious practices are opposed to the certain rules of action prescribed by God for divine worship. Herein lies the significance of the noxious rites of Archimago (I.1.37) and the ‘franticke rites’ (I.6.15) of the satyrs. Irreligion is the vice opposed to religion by defect. Aquinas identifies four species of irreligion, two consisting in an irreverence towards God, namely, testing God and perjury, and two consisting in an irreverence towards holy things, namely, sacrilege and simony. Testing God is a sin of irreligion because it calls into question the power, goodness and wisdom of God and so introduces doubt where there should be certainty (ST, 2a 2ae 97.2). Testing God can occur (even though not directly intended) if a person does something when there is no necessity to do so (ST, 2a 2ae 97.1). Such gratuitousness is seen when Red Cross, being already in the company of Truth, takes upon himself the fight against Error. Perjury is a sin against the virtue of religion in that it shows a lack of reverence to God by calling upon him to witness a falsehood. Thus it is implied that God does not know what is true or that he is willing to testify to what is untrue (ST, 2a 2ae 98.2). The full significance of perjury as a moral act is brought out in Duessa’s appeal to the ‘guiltie heavens’ to testify to the truth of her charge of Red Cross’s ‘bold perjury’ (I.12.27). Sacrilege is the sin which consists in the irreverence of violating sacred things (ST, 2a 2ae 99.2). This is the sin of Kirkrapine, ‘a stout and sturdie thiefe, / Wont to robbe Churches of their ornaments’ (I.3.17), and of Antiochus, ‘the which advaunst / His cursed hand gainst God, and on his altars daunst’ (I.5.47). Simony is the sin of buying or selling spiritual things. By putting a material value on spiritual

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goods that are beyond worldly price the spiritual goods themselves are devalued and God is treated with contempt (ST, 2a 2ae 100.1). The sin of simony is suggested by Spenser’s reference in the argument to Canto 3 to ‘blind Devotions mart’. The moral virtue of religion is concerned with the right relation of a person to God, for human beings ought to be bound to God as their unfailing principle (ST, 2a 2ae 81.1). Thus religion cannot be understood apart from faith. Moreover, in respect of faith itself a distinction must be made between the objective content of belief and the subjective condition of the believing person. Herein lie some necessary complications in Spenser’s ‘Legend of Holiness’. If religion is to be something more than fanaticism or delusion it must be grounded in truth. This is signified in the fiction in the person of Red Cross’s lady, for she is referred to as ‘Truth’ in the arguments to Cantos 2 and 3. She is not truth in itself in the sense that God is truth, but rather the true witness of God’s truth. In other words she stands, like Langland’s Lady Holy Church, for the true faith of the Church. God, the first truth, is made known to the believer by the teaching of the Church which proceeds from the first truth (ST, 2a 2ae 5.3). Hence wisdom is associated with the lady (I.1.13), for ‘sapientia sit cognitio divinorum’ (ST, 2a 2ae 19.7). The Church is rightly the repository of the truths of the faith and her authority is not to be set aside by the writings of any individual theologians (ST, 2a 2ae 10.12). At the same time the veil that covers the lady’s face (I.1.4) points to the fact that our knowledge of truth in this life is veiled. The object of faith is simple in itself, but is received in the mind as something composite in the form of a proposition, that is to say, it is received after the manner of the knower, by an act of combining and dividing (ST, 2a 2ae 1.2). We do not learn that the name of the lady is Una until stanza 45, and then it is to distinguish her from her double, fashioned by Archimago. But the name directs us to the unity of the Church, for that unity is a unity of faith (ST, 2a 2ae 1.9 ad 3). It is necessary also for the individual Christian to assent to the truth of the faith which is embodied in the authoritative teaching of the Church, and the virtue of religion is not possible without such assent. The Church provides for that certainty in matters of belief that is requisite for salvation,

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but, by taking upon himself the fight against Error, Red Cross shows that he has doubts where there should be certainty. Not only is faith presupposed to religion but so also is humility, for the relation of a person to God is one of dependence. Hence Aquinas observes that faith and humility alike are the foundations of moral virtue (ST, 2a 2ae 161.5 ad 2). The pride that separates a person from God is suggested at the entry of Red Cross and the lady into the wood of Error, for its ‘loftie trees yclad with sommers pride, / Did spred so broad, that heavens light did hide’ (I.1.7). The ‘Ladie milde’ warns her knight against rashness, for she understands the dangers better than he, but Red Cross is too proud to heed her words of wisdom and of warning (I.1.12). Rashness has its roots in pride, which, as Aquinas says, ‘refugit subesse regulae alienae, / refuses to submit to another’s rule’ (ST, 2a 2ae 53.3 ad 2). Red Cross’s action is a classic example, for through pride he turns from the true doctrine of the Church and so falls into doubt. Holiness is distinguishable from religion in that it includes the commanded as well as the elicited acts of religion. In the ‘Legend of Holiness’ these commanded acts, as is proper in a knight, are chiefly acts of courage. Red Cross appears from the beginning as a ‘full jolly knight’ who ‘faire did sitt, / As one for knightly giusts and fierce encounters fitt’ (I.1.1)28 and here it is to be noted that the appearance does not belie the reality. The cardinal virtue of courage is defined by Aquinas as a firmness of mind in the face of the dangers of death (ST, 2a 2ae 123.4). It is a mean in respect of the passions of daring and fear, moderating the one and checking the other (ST, 2a 2ae 123.3), and thus stands between the vices of rashness and cowardice. Red Cross is rash in needlessly provoking Error and assails her with ‘greedy hardiment’ (I.1.14), and Trevisan is guilty of cowardice in his abject flight from Despair (I.9.21–25). The parts of courage are set out by Aquinas with his usual systematic completeness.29 There are four parts of courage, two concerned with attack (magnanimity and magnificence) and two with endurance (patience and perseverance). Magnanimity is firmness of mind in aspiring to great deeds and in having the confidence to undertake them.30 Magnificence is firmness of mind in planning and performing great deeds thus confidently undertaken. In the ‘Legend of Holiness’ there is confidence in Red Cross’s undertaking of the fight against the dragon and magnificence in his carrying

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it through to ‘most glorious victory’ (argument to Canto 11).31 But opposed to the virtue of confidence is the vice of presumption, by which a person undertakes deeds that are beyond his or her power to accomplish (ST, 2a 2ae 130.1). Such presumption is shown by Red Cross in taking upon himself the fight against Error. He puts forth all his power in a mighty display of courage, but it is not enough (I.1.17–18). Victory is achieved only when another mightier power is added to his own (I.1.19 and 24). Patience, the third part of courage, is firmness of mind in the endurance of sorrow (ST, 2a 2ae 136.1). Under patience is included the virtue of constancy, defined by Aquinas as ‘labor quem homo sustinet in continuata executione boni operis / the drudgery endured in the dogged performance of a good undertaking’ (ST, 2a 2ae 136.5). Whereas patience takes its meaning directly from the oppressiveness of the evil that is endured, constancy adds to it the notion of the good end on account of which such evil is endured (ST, 2a 2ae 137.3). In the ‘Legend of Holiness’ Red Cross is shown to be moved by sorrow at the spectacle of Una’s infidelity, so much so indeed that ‘the eye of reason was with rage yblent’ (I.2.5). His desertion of Una, although strongly provoked by imagination and passion, is unreasonable. What is required of Red Cross in these circumstances is courage: not the courage with which he boldly assails an enemy like the serpent Error but the courage by which he holds firm to his quest in the endurance of difficulties on the way. By failing to endure his sorrow he takes the appearance of infidelity for the reality. The process is one of ‘rash misweening’ and ‘light misdeeming’ (I.4.1 and 2). We are left in no doubt of either the nature or the seriousness of Red Cross’s sin (I.4.1): For unto knight there is no greater shame, Then lightnesse and inconstancie in love; That doth this Redcrosse knights ensample plainly prove.

Perseverance, the fourth part of courage, is firmness of mind in the prolonged endurance that is necessary to obtain an arduous good (ST, 2a 2ae 137.1). It is ‘in middest of the race’ (I.7.5) where perseverance is above all required, for here the initial enthusiasm in undertaking the quest will have been dissipated by long and exhausting efforts, and yet the intended goal of

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these efforts will still be remote. Thus the effort in escaping from the House of Pride takes its toll of Red Cross and he succumbs to languor (1.7.2–6). Duessa’s arrival on the scene at this point and her lascivious conduct are apt because, as Aquinas explains (ST, 2a 2ae 137.2 ad 1), the sorrows that perseverance endures are the concern of temperance.32 V. The very fact that holiness is the first of Spenser’s moral virtues draws attention to the meaning of Scholastic Aristotelianism as a recasting of the thought of Aristotle in the light of Christian revelation. Thus in the hierarchy of virtues the moral virtues that are acquired by repeated acts are subordinate to faith, hope and charity: that is, to the theological virtues, which are infused by God. Whereas moral virtue is the source of acts in accord with right reason, theological virtue is the source of acts in accord with God (ST, 1a 2ae 62.1 and 2). Charity is the virtue that joins a human being to God (ST, 2a 2ae 23.3). It extends to the acts of all the virtues, not as eliciting them but as commanding them, since its object is the end of all human life, namely, eternal happiness (ST, 2a 2ae 23.4 ad 2). Hence charity is said to be the form of all the virtues (ST, 2a 2ae 23.8). The importance of charity is acknowledged by Spenser in the introduction of Charissa in the House of Holiness (I.10.29–32), and Red Cross is instructed by her in the way of Christian perfection in which love is united to justice (I.10.33). Charissa delegates to the matron Mercy the task of guiding Red Cross on the path that leads to heaven. Mercy presupposes the union of love (ST, 2a 2ae 30.2) and is indeed an effect of charity (ST, 2a 2ae 32.1). Red Cross is led by Mercy through the seven corporal works of mercy (I.10.36–43) and is perfected by Mercy in holy righteousness (I.10.45). No more can be asked of human conduct in the affairs of this world. But before Charissa makes her appearance we meet Fidelia and Speranza (I.10.12–14). They are introduced together because of their direct bearing on the pilgrimage of this life (and so on the moral subject-matter of The Faerie Queene) rather than on the state of eternal beatitude. Faith is the basis of the moral virtue of religion, but the theological virtue of hope is hardly less important in the design of the ‘Legend of Holiness’. Thus

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the device of the red cross on the knight’s shield is the outward sign of his ‘soveraine hope’ (I.1.2) in Christ’s redemptive sacrifice. The significance of hope is realized in the action of the ‘Legend of Holiness’ by the fights against Orgoglio and Despair, for these opponents represent the vices of excess and defect in respect of the theological virtue of hope (ST, 2a 2ae 20 and 21) . The giant Orgoglio is an image of presumption (I.7.9–10), and accordingly it is implicit that in his defeat at the hands of Orgoglio Red Cross is laid low by presumption. But this is not the presumption in his own might that leads him to do battle against Error. Indeed, he is unprepared for Orgoglio’s attack when it comes (I.7.7–8). By escaping from the House of Pride he shows a due realization of the need to subject himself to God. But he has learnt the lesson of pride imperfectly for, weary of the long moral struggle, he lapses into supposing that his own efforts do not matter. He has committed the sin of presuming upon God’s mercy and power. On the other hand the zeal that he displays in taking up the fight against Despair (I.9.37) shows that he is sustained by a true hope and not a false one. The importance of hope in the life of holiness arises from the radical sinfulness of human nature as a result of the Fall. Even saints are flawed, and consequently there is need for some extrinsic aid if human undertakings are to be attended with success.33 Original sin is a corruption of human nature, so that all works proceeding from that nature are essentially vitiated. This deeply pessimistic view of human nature is expressed by Spenser at the beginning of Canto 10, where he observes in relation to the victory over Despair that ‘if any strength we have, it is to ill’ (I.10.1), and in the fight against the dragon, where Red Cross is undone by the scorching flames which burn him through his armour, ‘that earst him arm’d / That erst him goodly arm’d, now most of all him harm’d’ (I.11.27). The significance of the event is underlined by the verbal reduplication (conduplicatio) and play on words (adnominatio). Not only is Red Cross unable to save himself by his own righteousness, but the perfection of his nature has been so changed by the impact of sin that it has now become the source of his misery. Such post-lapsarian pessimism is characteristic of the thought of Augustine rather than of Aquinas (for whom original sin is a privation of original justice rather than a positive corruption of human nature), and

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here it would seem that Spenser’s Aristotelianism has been modified by his Protestantism.34 Original sin is a disorder in human nature whereby the reason fails to regulate the passions, but rather is under the sway of passion. Among the passions, desire and anger are most intense, and thus the eleven passions are classified as concupiscible and irascible (ST, 1a 2ae 25.2 ad 1 and 25.3 ad 1).35 The disorder in human nature comes to centre on these two passions, and especially concupiscence, so that concupiscence itself becomes the established Augustinian term for the state of corrupt nature. In Spenser’s ‘Legend of Holiness’ the figure of Sansloy stands for the disordered nature of man that is the result of the infection of original sin, and hence the narrative focuses on his anger (I.3.33–38) and lust (I.6.3–8). In Sansloy the power of reason is present (even though under the sway of passion) and he is able to dispatch the lion (I.3.41–42), for in the lion there is a principle of passion only without reference to reason. The doctrine of the corruption of human nature impresses on the reader a sense of the limits of human power, and this is evident from Red Cross’s first adventure in which he attempts presumptuously to exceed those limits. Victory over Error comes about because Red Cross heeds Una’s exhortation to ‘add faith unto … force’ (I.1.19). At a later stage of the quest the defeat of Despair is also assured when the knight obeys his lady’s command to ‘arise, and leave this cursed place’ (I.9.53). What is possible for human beings precisely on their own account is revealed by the introduction of Satyrane into the narrative (I.6.20–30). Satyrane grows up in the possession of the virtues that can be acquired by a man in accordance with his own nature, and it is in terms of these acquired virtues that he is first of all presented to us (I.6.20). Satyrane boldly attacks Sansloy in order to repair the imagined wrong of Red Cross’s death (I.6.40– 41), and the battle is joined with mortal hatred on both sides (I.6.43). But for all the cruel rage and violent power that each expends neither can bring the fight to any conclusion, and Una arrives at the scene of the fight to find ‘where they in erth their fruitles bloud had sown’ (I.6.45). Spenser never in fact returns to resolve the issue between Sansloy and Satyrane, but that is not through a technical inadvertence. The point is that the struggle between Sansloy and Satyrane is of its nature inconclusive, and reveals the continuous

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conflict in human nature that is the result of original sin. What is lacking in Satyrane is what is necessary for the victory against sin, and that is the infused grace which comes from faith. That part of the quest which lies ahead will deal increasingly with the effect of grace and a human being’s dependence upon God. The narrative thus moves away from Satyrane and back to Red Cross, for it is precisely by his faith and hope in the passion of Christ that Red Cross is differentiated from Satyrane. Paradoxically there is virtue even in sin, for the sorrow of sin is to be endured by patience (I.10.23–24) and the claim of justice is to be met by satisfaction for the commission of actual sins (I.10.25–28). Thus Red Cross is restored to spiritual health in the House of Holiness ‘by wise Patience, / And trew Repentance’ (I.10.29). He has made good for the sins that he has committed on his quest. It is clear, therefore, that Red Cross has done all that it is in his power to do, and here too is a vital part of Spenser’s moral argument. Salvation is the work of divine grace first and foremost, and not the just reward of moral virtue. But human effort or cooperation with divine grace is not a dispensable element. The danger of presuming upon divine grace is vividly realized in the struggle against Orgoglio. But the point is of central importance and cannot be left to a single episode. The contribution that human beings make towards their own salvation is small but necessary and demanding, and these elements are signified in the fiction by the dwarf who attends the lady at a distance ‘wearied with bearing of her bag / Of needments at his backe’ (I.1.6).36 The dwarf stands for the faculty of reason and shows the fallibility of reason in making judgments and pursuing actions both good and bad. He is rightly fearful of error and properly alarmed at the lady’s warning (I.1.13).37 In abandoning the lady in the company of Red Cross he testifies to the imprudence of that act (I.2.6), and in warning Red Cross of the danger of remaining in the House of Pride (I.5.52) he shows the ability of reason to rise above the blandishments of pride and to recognize in the corruption of human nature an unassailable argument for humility.

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VI. It is evident, therefore, that the moral argument of Spenser’s poem cannot be conducted in isolation from wider spiritual concerns, for human law is dependent on divine law. In other words, there has to be a metaphysical foundation if moral concepts are to be meaningful and if the moral order is to be seen as real. Holiness is the first of Spenser’s moral virtues precisely because it is at the immediate point of contact between human choice and divine provision. In the ‘Letter to Ralegh’ Spenser explains that he has appointed individual knights as the representatives of the specific virtues illustrated in each successive book (II.486): But of the xii. other vertues, I make xii. other knights the patrones, for the more variety of the history: Of which these three bookes contayn three, The first of the knight of the Redcrosse, in whome I expresse Holynes: The seconde of Sir Guyon, in whome I sette forth Temperaunce: The third of Britomartis a Lady knight, in whome I picture Chastity.

This purpose is confirmed in the argument to Canto 1 of the ‘Legend of Holiness’, where Red Cross is described as ‘the Patron of true Holinesse’. It is possible to take patron in its modern sense of ‘protector’ and ‘defender’.38 But there is another possibility, as may be seen from Chaucer’s description of Blanche of Lancaster as Nature’s ‘chef patron of beaute / And chef ensample of al hir werk, / And moustre’ (The Book of the Duchess, 910–12).39 Blanche is not the protector of beauty but the pattern or model of beauty, and it is clear that in the sixteenth century the form patron can stand equally for ‘patron’ and ‘pattern’.40 Red Cross is the pattern or type of holiness, as Guyon is the type of temperance and Britomart the type of chastity. To say that Red Cross is the type of holiness is not to say that he is complete in virtue. A type, unlike a personification, is to be judged in terms of the reality of human nature, and this certainly includes a sense of its ineradicable sinfulness. The type of holiness is therefore compatible with a falling short of holiness. So it is that Spenser says that Red Cross ‘of his cheere did seeme too solemne sad’ (I.1.2). Indeed, all Spenser’s knights (not excluding Arthur himself ) fall short in the virtue for which they are chiefly celebrated.

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Spenser is faithful to his Aristotelian inheritance in drawing a distinction between ordinary virtue (albeit something rare and admirable in itself ) and heroic virtue. Thus beside the virtue of the individual knights of each legend is set the supreme virtue of Arthur, as Spenser also explains in the ‘Letter to Ralegh’ (II.486): So in the person of Prince Arthure I sette forth magnificence in particular, which vertue for that (according to Aristotle and the rest) it is the perfection of all the rest, and conteineth in it them all, therefore in the whole course I mention the deedes of Arthure applyable to that vertue, which I write of in that booke.

Some allowance has to be made (as so often) for the distinctive orientation of Spenser’s moral vocabulary, since the definition Spenser supplies for magnificence better fits Aristotle’s magnanimity (Ethics, IV.3).41 But once the identification of magnanimity and magnificence has been established, nothing seems to prevent the conclusion that the figure of Arthur is designed by Spenser as the type of magnanimity.42 It is, indeed, the meaning of Arthur as the type of magnanimity that explains why Spenser assigns to him the battle against Orgoglio rather than against Despair. Magnanimity presupposes confidence, for great deeds are not accomplished by those lacking the confidence to initiate them (ST, 2a 2ae 129.6). The magnanimous man is thus not characteristically assailed by the anxieties that lead to despair (ST, 2a 2ae 129.7). The ‘Letter to Ralegh’ assures us that we are to look to Arthur not only for magnanimity but for holiness raised to the pitch of magnanimity. The moral superiority of Arthur to Red Cross can readily be judged by his achievement in the fight against Orgoglio. Thus Arthur, unlike Red Cross, puts forth all his strength against Orgoglio (I.8.6), and his endeavours are rewarded with success(I.8.10). Whereas Red Cross falls short through a lack of perseverance, Arthur shows both energy and persistence in rescuing Red Cross from Orgoglio’s dungeon (I.8.40). A great deal is also made of Arthur’s prudence in the fight against Orgoglio (I.8.7 and 15). By focusing on Arthur’s prudence Spenser makes us aware that we remain on a purely human plane of operation, even though at its most exalted level. It is not enough. Arthur is struck to the ground by the force of Orgoglio’s club (I.8.18). Orgoglio is undone in the end not by Arthur but by the dazzling

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light of Arthur’s shield (I.8.19), that is, by a supernatural agency (I.8.21). It is only as a result of divine aid, therefore, that Arthur can go on to achieve the victory over Orgoglio (I.8.22–24). Spenser is certainly aware of the human need for grace, and the appearance of Arthur affords him the clearest opportunity of demonstrating this need. Before they part company, Arthur and Red Cross are united in the firm bond of friendship (I.9.18). They are united in the common possession of the virtues of holiness (now as equals) and also in their common human imperfection. Holiness as Spenser here conceives it has a place within a moral system that is both subtle and comprehensive. Thus holiness is related first of all to the elicited acts of religion, and then to the commanded acts such as acts of courage. Next, it is related to the theological virtues on which it rests and by which it is sustained. Further, it is distinguished by degrees of honour and great honour or magnanimity. Finally, it is limited by the corruption of human nature. All these elements must be grasped in their due order to one another if Spenser’s poetic mastery in the ‘Legend of Holiness’ is itself to be properly understood, for the quest on which Red Cross is engaged is credible not only in itself as a romance quest but also in the sequence of its events unfolds the logic of holiness as a moral virtue. VII. The romance pattern that Spenser followed in the ‘Legend of Holiness’ is that of the proof of knighthood, best known to English readers from Malory’s Tale of Sir Gareth, but established as early as the Erec et Enide of Chrétien de Troyes. Red Cross only ‘seemd’ a courageous knight at the beginning (I.1.1) because he is on his first adventure and has yet to prove himself. The victory over Error is thus the first vindication of his knightly prowess and as such it is acknowledged by the lady (I.1.27). In the course of Red Cross’s quest we see how he is gradually perfected in virtue and continually supported by grace so that he can achieve the ultimate vindication of his knighthood in battle against the old enemy, the dragon of sin. Even so, it would be misleading to suggest, as Ruskin once did, that the victory over the dragon is the conclusion of the romance.43 Spenser has set aside a whole canto for the celebration of victory and the betrothal of Una

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to Red Cross. In so doing he is faithful to the romance pattern on which the ‘Legend of Holiness’ is based. Malory brings his Tale of Sir Gareth to an end on a high note of festive celebration with the wedding not only of Gareth and Lyones but also of Gaheris and Lyonet and of Agravain and Laurel (Works, 361.6–363.17). Spenser’s ‘wearie course’ (I.12.1) through the ‘Legend of Holiness’ will not be finished until he too has celebrated the achievement of the quest in fitting style, and with the slaying of the old dragon of sin there is matter enough for celebration. Spenser’s narrative of holiness begins with a fight against Error and proceeds to a meeting with Archimago. The fight against Error signifies doubts on the part of Red Cross concerning the content of belief.44 Both Red Cross and the lady are perplexed by doubt when they wander into the midst of the wood (I.1.10), but in going forward to fight Error Red Cross refuses to heed the lady’s warning that ‘the place unknowne and wilde, / Breedes dreadfull doubts’ (I.1.12). Red Cross is assailed by doubts, but he is not overcome by error, for he heeds in time the injunction of truth (I.1.19). Thus he is rescued from his own presumption and wins his first battle. But it is a battle long since lost by Archimago, for divination presupposes error in that it rests upon a denial of God’s excellence. Aquinas thus explains that the sin of superstition is graver than the sin of tempting God, for one who doubts God’s excellence is less irreverent than one who flatly denies it (ST, 2a 2ae 97.4). Archimago is powerless against the man who is united to truth and guided by reason. The image of the false Una is capable of overpowering the ‘weaker sence’ (I.1.45), but when passion is subject to reason then a person is not vulnerable to such illusions. Red Cross puts the evidence of his senses to the test of reason (I.1.50). The false Una is compelled to acknowledge that she has been worsted (I.1.54), and the two evil spirits together return to their master and report their ‘bootelesse paines, and ill succeeding night’ (I.2.2). But Red Cross departs from the standard of reason when he succumbs to sorrow at the sight of Una’s infidelity, for reason properly consulted would have led him now as before to see beyond the appearance to the reality. Thus Red Cross abandons his lady, a shameful act. But, as Spenser’s text makes clear, this is an act of inconstancy and not

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of infidelity. Red Cross does not abandon faith, but rather the true witness of the faith (that is, the reformed Church of England). Red Cross is cut off from Truth, but not from God, and indeed remains united to God by faith and humility. This is the significance of his victories over Sansfoy (I.2.12–19) and Sansjoy (I.5.6–15) and of his eventual escape from the House of Pride (I.5.52–53). The logic of Spenser’s narrative in its progression from faith to humility cannot be faulted, for the possession of faith cannot be taken to imply the absence of pride. Indeed, Aquinas points out that it is possible for one who is separated from God by pride to be united to God by faith (ST, 2a 2ae 12.1). But Red Cross is in mortal danger when cut off from Truth, for he is unable to distinguish between the true and the false image of the truth, that is, between the Church of England and the Roman Catholic Church as true and false witnesses of the faith. It is the purpose of the Fradubio episode (I.2.30–44) to make clear the emergence of new doubts after the desertion of Una, but doubts of a different kind from those that had led him into fight against Error. It is not to be wondered at that Red Cross does not see the falseness of Duessa, for she is masked in ‘Truth, whose shape she well can faine’ (I.7.1). When Duessa finds Red Cross languishing beside the fountain at the beginning of Canto 7 it is plain how vulnerable he has now become, for he is indeed to be compared with ‘the guiltlesse man’ (I.7.1) entertained by guile. Red Cross has hitherto made the mistake of relying too much upon his own powers. In the House of Pride he learns the lesson of humility. But now, exhausted by his earlier labours and aware of their insufficiency, he presumes upon God’s mercy and is overcome by Orgoglio. At this low point in Red Cross’s fortunes Spenser introduces Arthur into his narrative and thus supplies the deficiencies of his knight of holiness. The action which takes us from the giant Orgoglio to the churl Despair is also constructed on sound logical principles, for we move from the one extreme to the other in relation to the theological virtue of hope (ST, 2a 2ae 17.5 ad 2). There is in this development an increase in spiritual tension, for presumption is not so grievous a sin as is despair (ST, 2a 2ae 21.2). The rescue of Red Cross from Orgoglio’s dungeon signifies that the knight of holiness is now confirmed in a true hope. He continues to place

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his confidence in the help of God and at the same time he does not fail to exert himself in the cause. And whereas he is defeated by Orgoglio he is not overcome by Despair. This is a matter on which the argument to Canto 9 is quite explicit: Sir Trevisan flies from Despayre, Whom Redcrosse knight withstands.

For once the argument does not seem obviously in accord with the true facts. Red Cross, trembling with fear, is about to slay himself when his lady intervenes to save him (I.9.51–52). There can be no doubt that Red Cross is sorely tried by Despair. But the argument to Canto 9 is not to be controverted. Rather we are now required to understand the nature of moral activity in its relation to grace. Although Red Cross has been separated from Una he has not been separated from his faith. That is clear from the victory over Sansfoy. Nor does the sin of despair imply a lack of faith. But despite his faith Red Cross becomes so preoccupied by the reality of his own sinfulness and of eternal damnation as its just punishment that he loses the capacity to see beyond it. At the critical moment he is rallied by Una (I.9.52). She brings to his attention the reality of God’s mercy that has been cunningly obliterated by Despair’s insistence upon the divine justice. She urges Red Cross to leave the Cave of Despair and he is at once obedient to her command (I.9.54). The moral stature of Red Cross is in no sense diminished by his obedience to Una but rather is defined by it, for obedience involves the giving up of one’s own will (the noblest of the spiritual goods) and so has a special excellence among the moral virtues (ST, 2a 2ae 104.3). The context of Red Cross’s confrontation with Despair is thus allimportant. As a result of Arthur’s defeat of Orgoglio, Red Cross is reunited with Una (I.8.42–43) and the deception of Duessa is unmasked (I.8.45–50). When Red Cross parts company with Arthur to renew his quest he is protected by Una’s tender concern, ‘for him to be yet weake and wearie well she knew’ (I.9.20). As in the fight against Error, Red Cross is able to call upon more than his own resources. He is sustained by the truth of faith as it is embodied in the authoritative teaching of the Church. The victories

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of faith and hope can be won only in this fashion, so that the argument to Canto 9 is right to claim that Red Cross withstands Despair. The final stanza of Canto 9 therefore ends with Despair’s own despairing recognition of the failure of ‘all his subtill sleight’ (I.9.54). The next stage of Spenser’s moral argument takes us to the House of Holiness. Red Cross is still weak from his past exertions and needs to be restored to health before he can complete his quest against the old adversary, the dragon (I.10.2). The House of Holiness testifies above all to the truth that moral virtue cannot be understood apart from theological virtue. In the House of Holiness, therefore, Red Cross is perfected for a supernatural end and not merely a natural one, that is, union with God. Hence the House of Holiness is centred upon the activity of grace and the theological virtues. God infuses the theological virtues by grace, and so Dame Caelia is the head of the household and the mother of three daughters (I.10.3–4). In the reception of Red Cross and Una in the House of Holiness, Spenser recapitulates the main themes of the quest. The passage from Humiltá to Obedience (I.10.5–17) outlines the course of moral discipline that precedes the final elevation to holiness, and so rehearses the course of Red Cross’s quest from the House of Pride to the Cave of Despair. Here are to be found the central moral issues of the ‘Legend of Holiness’, and faith and hope among the theological virtues are seen as directly related to them. When Red Cross enters the House of Holiness his weakness is such ‘that yet he was unfit for bloudie fight’ (I.10.2). His stay in the House of Holiness is therefore not a relaxation from his quest but part of the necessary process whereby he is rendered fit to achieve it. This process is essentially one in which nature is seen to cooperate with grace. Red Cross is perfected not only in moral virtue but also in theological virtue. Thus (and only thus) is he able to go confidently forward to victory against the dragon of sin. The description of the dragon in the argument to Canto 11 as ‘that old Dragon’ is intended at once to establish Red Cross’s adversary as the devil, and this identification is explicitly and repeatedly affirmed throughout the course of the action of Canto 11. At the same time we are encouraged to see

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Red Cross’s battle against the dragon as a glorious feat of arms. Una herself appeals to Red Cross’s love of honour in urging him on to battle (I.11.2). Here we are above all to understand the meaning of the love of honour as an expression of virtue. Red Cross’s glory is not to be confounded with vainglory, and Spenser has carefully distinguished between the two. Presumption in one’s own power is a product of vainglory (ST, 2a 2ae 21.4), and Red Cross is guilty of such presumption, as we have seen, in taking upon himself the fight against Error. But in the fight against the dragon Red Cross is not restrained but urged on by Una, for he has been perfected in humility and hope in the House of Holiness. In fighting the dragon Red Cross fulfils his divine vocation as a knight. Not merely is he on the side of right against wrong, as in the combat against Sansjoy, but he is now ‘this man of God’ (I.11.7). Humility is justly to be set beside magnanimity, for Red Cross’s own powers are not by themselves sufficient for victory. At the end of the first day of battle Red Cross would have been overcome had he not chanced to fall into the well of life (I.11.30), for he emerges from its healing waters a new man (I.11.34). But it is to be noted how well Spenser sustains the balance of human and supernatural forces. He does not refer immediately to the grace of baptism, but to Red Cross’s good fortune in the location of the well (I.11.29). Such good fortune suits not only the order of grace but also the virtue of magnanimity, for good fortune contributes to magnanimity (ST, 2a 2ae 129.8). Red Cross’s newly-discovered ability to inflict a gaping wound in the dragon’s head (I.11.35) argues for the special virtue in the waters of the well (I.11.36). But the struggle is not simply removed from the human plane to the supernatural. The battle on the second day focuses still on human weakness and human endeavour. Red Cross’s continuing susceptibility to sin is evident in the wound he receives in the shoulder, for his faith is insufficient to prevent it and his patience to cure it (I.11.38). But the magnanimous spirit of the knight has not been broken, for he is ‘yet more mindfull of his honour deare’ and succeeds in cutting off five joints of the dragon’s knotty tail (I.11.39). Here is described the battle of reason against passion that is a consequence of original sin, and Red Cross succeeds now, as he has not succeeded before, in subduing passion by reason.

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Spenser shows not only heroic exertion, however, but also a man stretched beyond the utmost reach of his own powers. Red Cross’s good fortune is not merely good fortune but the hand of God shaping and sustaining the lives of men (I.11.45). Once more it is necessary for Red Cross to be rescued from his own infirmity, and on this second occasion he is healed by the balm flowing from the tree of life. The grace which Red Cross receives from the tree of life perfects him in spiritual life. The well indeed gives life, but the tree gives ‘happie life to all, which thereon fed, / And life eke everlasting’ (I.11.46). The reference is to the eucharist, to which the sacrament of baptism is ordered as to its end (ST, 3a 65.3). Baptism removes the guilt of original sin, but not the disorder of human nature (ST, 1a 2ae 81.3 ad 2). After baptism, therefore, a person remains susceptible to sin, and it is to guard against this susceptibility to sin that the sacrament of the eucharist is ordained (ST, 3a 65.1). The access of grace through the sacrament of the eucharist assures the final victory over sin, and it is signalled poetically by the proclamation of the dawn of ‘the joyous day’ (I.11.51). There is no note of false optimism here, for sin has been confronted in all its terrible reality and Red Cross has not been ‘damnifyde’ (I.11.52). The defeat of the dragon on the third day is thus swift and decisive (I.11.52–54). It is a momentous victory, and belongs to God rather than to man, and to the last judgment rather than to the present. But the power of God does not disdain the cooperation of human beings. The final lines of the canto in which Una expresses her gratitude for the deliverance from the dragon contain a studied ambiguity (I.11.55): Then God she praysd, and thankt her faithfull knight, That had atchiev’d so great a conquest by his might.

These lines are above all designed to reflect in verbal form the inseparability of the orders of grace and nature, for it is in relation to both that a human being’s freedom and responsibility as a moral creature is defined. The joyful celebration of victory over the dragon is everywhere characterized by modesty or decorum (I.12.5–15), and such an exhaustive illustration of the principle of decorum cannot fail to be significant. The conquest

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of sin has been won by the infusion of sacramental grace, and such grace removes the stain or guilt of sin (ST, 1a 2ae 109.7). Thus the comeliness that is everywhere displayed in the celebration of victory over the dragon is the comeliness of those restored from sin by sanctifying grace. As the first part of Canto 12 focuses upon the comeliness of joy, so the second part focuses no less insistently upon the making and keeping of vows. Una’s father refers to Red Cross’s pledge to return to the Faerie Queene as the ‘vowed foe of my felicitie’ (I.12.19), but recognizes notwithstanding that vows have to be kept. The ‘Legend of Holiness’ comes to its proper conclusion (as a romance and as a moral allegory) with the celebration of the marriage of Una and Red Cross. Spenser emphasizes the festal solemnities of the joyful day (I.12.38 and 40), but raises them to a sacramental dignity in his account of Una’s father joining the happy pair in holy wedlock (I.12.37). That a ‘Legend of Holiness’ should reach its conclusion amidst these moving and solemn rites is in general most fitting, but we must remember that at the very end is Red Cross’s fulfilment of his pledge to the Faerie Queene, and it is in the exchange and keeping of vows that the significance of the ending is to be found. The special value of a vow consists in the irrevocable fixing of the will upon the performance of that which has been solemnly promised (ST, 2a 2ae 88.4). It is in the lack of firmness of mind, that is, the lack of constancy and perseverance, that Red Cross has fallen short in the course of his quest. By the vows which unite him indissolubly with Una he is strengthened against any future infirmity of purpose. The conclusion of a work is of the greatest importance, because it is the conclusion which remains longest in the mind of the reader or auditor. Spenser has ensured in the disposition of his fable that the abiding images of the ‘Legend of Holiness’ are those of purity and firmness, for these are the essential principles by which holiness itself as a moral virtue is constituted.45

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Notes 1

2

3

4 5

6 7 8 9 10 11

‘Besides, I do not know why anyone who wishes to form the idea of a perfect knight should deny him the commendation of piety and religion. That is why I would put Charlemagne or Arthur as epic persons far ahead of Theseus or Jason’. Reference is to Ettore Mazzali (ed.), Torquato Tasso: Scritti sull’arte poetica, 2 vols (Turin: Giulio Einaudi, 1977), I.193 and to Mariella Cavalchini and Irene Samuel (trans.), Torquato Tasso: Discourses on the Heroic Poem (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1973), p. 39. References to The Faerie Queene and also to the ‘Letter to Ralegh’ are throughout to J.C. Smith, Spenser’s ‘Faerie Queene’, 2 vols (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1909). [See now A.C. Hamilton (ed.), Edmund Spenser: ‘The Faerie Queene’ (London and New York: Longman, 1977, and second edition, text edited by Hiroshi Yamashita and Toshiyuki Suzuki (Harlow: Pearson Education, 2001).] By chastity in the ‘Legend of Chastity’ we are to understand the perfection of love or charity; see Gerald Morgan, ‘Spenser’s Conception of Courtesy and the Design of the Faerie Queene’, RES, NS, 32 (1981), 17–36 (p. 30). I consider the moral range of temperance in ‘The Idea of Temperance in the Second Book of The Faerie Queene’, RES, NS, 37 (1986), 11–39 (article 11 below). Rosemond Tuve, Allegorical Imagery: Some Mediaeval Books and their Posterity (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1966), p. 125. Thus Douglas Brooks-Davies, Spenser’s ‘Faerie Queene’: A Critical Commentary on Books I and II (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1977), goes so far as to say that ‘in The Faerie Queene Spenser’s informing philosophy is Neoplatonic’ (p. 3). On this point, see Charles B. Schmitt, Aristotle and the Renaissance (Cambridge, Massachusetts and London: Harvard University Press, 1983), pp. 92–93. Schmitt, Aristotle and the Renaissance, pp. 10–33. On the relationship of Scholasticism and Humanism, see Paul Oskar Kristeller, ‘Humanism and Scholasticism in the Italian Renaissance’, in Studies in Renaissance Thought and Letters (Rome: Edizioni di storia e letteratura, 1956), pp. 553–83. Schmitt, Aristotle and the Renaissance, p. 26. See William T. Costello, The Scholastic Curriculum at Early SeventeenthCentury Cambridge (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1958), pp. 113–21. See Charles B. Schmitt, ‘Philosophy and Science in Sixteenth-Century Universities: Some Preliminary Comments’, in The Cultural Context of Medieval

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13

14 15

16 17

18 19 20 21

Gerald morgan Learning, edited by John Emery Murdoch and Edith Dudley Sylla (Dordrecht and Boston: D. Reidel Pub. Co., 1975), pp. 485–530 (pp. 491–95). John Erskine Hankins, Source and Meaning in Spenser’s Allegory: A Study of ‘The Faerie Queene’ (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1971). He claims (pp. 1–16) that Piccolomini’s Universa Philosophia de Moribus (1583) is the major source for Spenser’s moral argument. His book as a whole is interesting and useful, but I remain unpersuaded of the centrality of Piccolomini’s influence on Spenser. See Paul Oskar Kristeller, ‘Thomism and the Italian Thought of the Renaissance’, in Medieval Aspects of Renaissance Learning, edited and translated by Edward P. Mahoney (Durham, North Carolina: Duke University Press, 1974), pp. 29–91 (pp. 40–41). See Frederick Copleston, S.J., A History of Philosophy, 9 vols (London: Search Press Limited, 1946–1975), III.340–41. ‘When Thomas was silent, Aristotle was mute’. Recorded by Sixtus Medices in the preface to the 1530 edition of the commentary on the De generatione et corruptione printed in Venice. See F. Edward Cranz, ‘The Publishing History of the Aristotle Commentaries of Thomas Aquinas’, Traditio, 34 (1978), 157–92 (p. 158, n. 3). See Charles B. Schmitt, John Case and Aristotelianism in Renaissance England (Kingston and Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1983), especially pp. 3, 6, 24 and 26–28. ‘Many today, when they hear the name of Thomas, immediately raise their eyebrows and purse their lips, but if they were to read seriously one or another of his quaestiones without a prejudiced opinion, they would perhaps say that they themselves had discovered the purest grain once the chaff had been removed, the most splendid gold once the dross had been taken away’. Quoted and translated by Schmitt, John Case and Aristotelianism in Renaissance England, p. 150 and n. 40. I am bound to admit confusion on my own part in proposing faith as the unifying virtue of the ‘Legend of Holiness’ in my article, ‘Spenser’s Conception of Courtesy and the Design of the Faerie Queene’, pp. 28–29. The Works of John Selden, 3 vols (London, 1726), III.1760. Reference is to Tolkien and Gordon, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, second edition, revised by Davis (1967). The persistence of the crusading ideal among the English nobility throughout the fourteenth century is convincingly demonstrated by Maurice Keen, ‘Chaucer’s Knight, the English Aristocracy and the Crusade’, in English Court Culture in the Later Middle Ages, edited by V.J. Scattergood and J.W. Sherborne (London: Duckworth, 1983), pp. 45–61.

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All sacrifices are oblations, but not all oblations are sacrifices. A sacrifice is not merely the offering of something to God but also the doing of something to the thing offered in order to make it holy, as, for example, in the consecration of the bread in Holy Communion by blessing, breaking and eating it. See ST, 2a 2ae 85.3 ad 3. 23 The adjective ‘wary’ is supported by ‘carefull’ (I.5.52); compare the description of Arthur in the fight against Orgoglio as ‘wise and warie’ (I.8.7) and a ‘carefull knight’ (1.8.15). Vigilance is a part of prudence because it is necessary that the act commanded by prudence be carried out promptly (ST, 2a 2ae 47.9). 24 The sacramental dimension in the fight against the dragon is thus not to be confined to the fictional level, as Rosemond Tuve argues (Allegorical Imagery, pp. 107–12). As a good Protestant Spenser recognizes only two and not seven sacraments. 25 Brooks-Davies has justified Spenser’s method retrospectively in commenting that ‘Redcrosse is fighting in part for the wrong cause here – Duessa and her approval’ (A Critical Commentary, p. 52). This is an inference that contradicts all the specific assurances of the text, and is unacceptable. It overlooks the fact that Duessa appears to Red Cross as an image of the truth (Fidessa), and that the disguise is such as to deceive even her grandmother Night, for ‘so true-seeming grace / It carried’ (I.5.27). 26 Reference to the Ethica Nicomachea is to the translation of W.D. Ross, in J.A. Smith and W.D. Ross, The Works of Aristotle Translated into English, 12 vols (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1908–52), Volume IX, revised by J.O. Urmson (1975). 27 The identity of Archimago as the vice of divination is the sufficient explanation for his opposition to Red Cross. The explanation of Brooks-Davies (A Critical Commentary, p. 9) that Archimago is a metaphor for Red Cross’s ‘own, fallen, spiritual inadequacy’ cannot be accepted. Brooks-Davies seems to have been led astray by a somewhat limiting conception of allegory as a means of representing interior states in external terms. This influential misconception owes a great deal no doubt to the account of allegory by C.S. Lewis in The Allegory of Love (London: Oxford University Press, 1936), where it is explained that the development of allegory is designed ‘to supply the subjective element in literature, to paint the inner world’ (p. 113). 28 The word jolly means ‘vigorous, strong, youthful’; see MED, s.v. joli adj. 2.(a). Compare the Knights of the Round Table in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight who ‘justed ful jolilé’ (42) and their king, Arthur, who ‘watz so joly of his joyfnes’ (86).

228 29

30 31

32

33

Gerald morgan The parts are integral or component parts when they relate to the dangers of death, and potential or secondary parts when they relate to less difficult matters. Aquinas’s account of the parts of courage is complicated by his attempt to combine the Ciceronian and the Aristotelian systems of classification. Cicero is the model for the general analysis of the virtue (ST, 2a 2ae 128), but in the analysis of the specific virtues magnanimity and magnificence are presented in their Aristotelian senses as virtuous means in respect of great honour (ST, 2a 2ae 129.2) and lavish expenditure (ST, 2a 2ae 134.3). For the sake of clarity of exposition I set out in the text only the Ciceronian definitions of confidence (or magnanimity) and magnificence. This is Cicero’s fiducia (De inventione, II.163), identified by Aquinas with magnanimity (ST, 2a 2ae 128). Magnificence is here used in its restricted Ciceronian sense, whereas in the ‘Letter to Ralegh’ Spenser defines Arthur’s magnificence in terms of the Aristotelian magnanimity as the virtue which is ‘the perfection of all the rest’ (II.486). This convergence of Aristotelian magnanimity and Ciceronian magnificence is the direct result of Aquinas’s attempt to synthesize the Aristotelian conceptions of magnanimity and magnificence with the Ciceronian conceptions of confidence and magnificence. Red Cross’s failure in perseverance here is sometimes mistaken for sloth and lust, as by Brooks-Davies, A Critical Commentary, pp. 70–71 and Hamilton, Edmund Spenser: ‘The Faerie Queene’ (1977), pp. 96–97. Red Cross cannot be guilty of sloth, for sloth is a special sin opposed to the spiritual good of charity (that is, to joy in the divine good (ST, 2a 2ae 35.2)), and Red Cross is confirmed in such joy as a result of his victory over Sansjoy. No more is he guilty of fornication with Duessa. It is not Red Cross but Duessa who is ‘pourd out in loosnesse on the grassy grownd’ (1.7.7); hence she is described in the same stanza as ‘his looser make’. Red Cross’s ‘goodly court’ towards Duessa is to be understood as that of the chaste lover towards truth. Duessa still stands in his eyes as the very image of truth, and for that reason he is sad to have left her behind in his escape from the House of Pride (I.6.2). The meaning of saintliness as flawed righteousness appears in Sir Gawain’s vision of the one hundred and fifty bulls, three white and the rest black, in Malory’s Tale of the Sankgreal, 942.3–19 and 946.1–947.3, edited by Vinaver, The Works of Sir Thomas Malory, second edition, 3 vols (1973). Two of the white bulls are unblemished in their whiteness and the third has a spot. Malory here reflects the hierarchy of Grail knights in his source, the Vulgate Queste del Saint Graal (1215–30), in which Galaad stands for a Christ-like perfection, Perceval a childlike innocence, and Bohort a saintly but flawed righteousness.

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‘Original Sin standeth not in the following of Adam (as the Pelagians do vainly talk), but it is the fault and corruption of the Nature of every man, that naturally is engendered of the offspring of Adam; whereby man is very far gone from original righteousness, and is of his own nature inclined to evil, so that the flesh lusteth always contrary to the spirit; and therefore in every person born into this world, it deserveth God’s wrath and damnation. And this infection of nature doth remain, yea in them that are regenerated … And although there is no condemnation for them that believe and are baptized, yet the Apostle doth confess, that concupiscence and lust hath of itself the nature of sin’ (Article 9). 35 On the intensity of anger, see ST, 1a 2ae 48.2. 36 The bag of needments which the dwarf carries on his back represents good works, which ‘are pleasing and acceptable to God in Christ, and do spring out necessarily of a true and lively Faith’ (Article 12). Spenser’s source is Revelation 14.13: ‘Then I heard a voice from heaven, saying unto mee, Write, The dead which die in the Lord, are fully blessed. Even so saith the Spirit: for they rest from their labours, and their works follow them.’ The Geneva gloss reads: ‘By workes, is meant the reward which followeth good workes.’ Reference is to the edition of the Genevan Bible printed by Robert Barker (London, 1606). Langland uses the text of Revelation 14.13 for the same purpose in Piers Plowman, B XIV.213a: ‘Opera enim illorum sequuntur illos’. 37 The dwarf ’s fear is the fear of separation from God by offending him (ST, 2a 2ae 19.2), and is the gift of the Holy Spirit whereby ‘Deum reveremur, et refugimus nos ipsi subducere, / we reverence God and avoid any alienation of ourselves from him’ (ST, 2a 2ae 19.9). 38 As does Hamilton, Edmund Spenser: ‘The Faerie Queene’ (1977), p. 29. See OED, s.v. patron, sb. 3. 39 Reference is to Robinson, The Works of Geoffrey Chaucer, second edition (1957). 40 See OED, s.v. pattern, sb. for the illustration of forms. 41 See notes 29–31 above. 42 For a denial of this conclusion, see A.S.P. Woodhouse, ‘Nature and Grace in The Faerie Queene’, ELH, 16 (1949), 194–228; also printed in Critical Essays on Spenser from ‘ELH’ (Baltimore and London: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1970), pp. 24–58. Woodhouse claims (p. 32) that Arthur stands in the ‘Legend of Holiness’ for the operation of divine grace, and attempts to reconcile this opinion with the ‘Letter to Ralegh’ by drawing a parallel between magnanimity in the Aristotelian system and grace in the Christian system. But there is no need to speculate on the possible relations between the two systems because they have been brought together in the syntheses of Scholastic philosophers. Aquinas 34

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gives magnanimity its due place as an integral or potential part of courage, but draws no analogies between grace and magnanimity. 43 See Edwin Greenlaw and others, The Works of Edmund Spenser: A Variorum Edition, 11 vols (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins Press, 1932–57), I.424. 44 The word Error is used by Spenser in its primary Latin sense of ‘the act or fact of travelling on an uncertain or devious course, wandering about, roaming’ (Oxford Latin Dictionary, s.v. error, m. 1). Hence attention is drawn to the etymology of the word on its first introduction into the text: ‘This is the wandring wood, this Errours den’ (I.1.13). The primary sense yields a figurative sense of ‘uncertainty of mind, doubt, perplexity’ (OLD, 2). Thus the man ‘wrapt in Errours endlesse traine’ (I.1.18) is one caught up in a labyrinth of doubt, namely, the doubt of those who lack the certainty of faith. This is the condition of the inhabitants of Limbo, as is revealed in Dante’s anxious desire ‘esser certo / di quella fede che vince ogne errore, / to be assured of that faith which overcomes every doubt’ (Inferno, IV.47–48; Petrocchi, II.63; Sinclair, I.61). Natalino Sapegno, La Divina Commedia, second edition, 3 vols (Florence: La Nuova Italia, 1968), I.44 glosses errore as ‘dubbio’ (as also at Inferno, X.114 and XXXIV.102). 45 See ST, 2a 2ae 81.8.

11 The Idea of Temperance in the Second Book of The Faerie Queene

Certo io piangea, poggiato a un de’ rocchi del duro scoglio, sì che la mia scorta mi disse: ‘Ancor se’ tu de li altri sciocchi? Qui vive la pietà quand’ è ben morta.’ — Dante, Inferno, XX.25–281

I. In reading The Faerie Queene it is necessary to cultivate the habits of reading which Spenser assumes in the intended audience of his poem, and which have now to a large extent been lost and replaced by others. Two of these habits are simple and fundamental, and C.S. Lewis draws attention to them in the opening pages of Spenser’s Images of Life.2 The Faerie Queene is built upon a series of romance quests, and it must first of all be read at this level, that is, in Lewis’s words, ‘simply for the story’.3 It is not difficult to do so in a work that begins (I.1.1): A Gentle Knight was pricking on the plaine,4

and proceeds to recount the adventures of a knight, a lady and a dwarf. It is the archetypal matter of romance and, as Spenser himself presents it in the ‘Letter to Ralegh’, reminds us of Malory’s Tale of Sir Gareth (and hence also of Chrétien de Troyes’s Erec et Enide). At the same time we cannot fail to be aware of the moral significance which these adventures contain. Lewis puts it as follows: Again, Spenser’s poem is simple in that it is a moral allegory. That is to say, its story has a moral. St George defeats error, falls into pride, is dominated by despair, purged by penance, and raised by contemplation, and finally defeats the devil. This is Ruskin’s Faerie Queene; but it is not ours. We are unaccustomed to respond to a content so simple.5

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But simple habits can co-exist with more sophisticated ones. A romance fable is distinguished by the variety of its action (often in the form of polyphonic narration) so that its complications can come to seem both unending and unintelligible. Lewis himself has also made this observation, but he is in error in failing to take account of similar complications at the moral level. When a moral allegory is built upon the exposition of ‘Aristotle and the rest’ it is seldom simple, and Lewis’s characterization of it is both condescending and inadequate. The complications of the fable and of its underlying moral significance are but two aspects of a single phenomenon, namely a work of art which aims at (and in the case of The Faerie Queene achieves) a unity in multiplicity. The principle which holds together the various strands of the fable (whether these are separate stories or single episodes) and the particular notions expressed by means of them is the idea of the work. The poet reduces the matter of his poem to unity by the imposition of his idea. The idea existing in the mind of the poet is the type or exemplar form of the poem, as Aquinas explains (ST, 1a 15.3): Et secundum quidem quod est principium factionis rerum, exemplar dici potest, et ad practicam cognitionem pertinet.6

In so far as the type is imposed on the matter of the poem, it is the idea or form of the work, its co-ordinating principle. By adding, reducing or inventing matter in accordance with the type of the poem, the poet produces his fable. And it is the fable which is the chief element of a poem, as Tasso observes in the Discorsi del poema eroico (Book II): Ma questa, prima che sia caduta sotto l’artificio de l’epico, materia si chiama: dopo ch’è stata dal poeta disposta e trattata e con l’elocuzione è vestita, se ne forma la favola, la qual non è più materia, ma è forma ed anima del poema; e tale è da Aristotele giudicata.7

It is in the fable, thus understood, that the poet’s originality is seen to reside (Discorsi, Book II): ‘la novità del poema non consista principalmente ne la falsità del soggetto non udito, ma nel bel nodo e ne lo scioglimento de la favola’.8

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The habit of mind which a reader of romance above all needs to cultivate, therefore, is a like attachment to the idea of the work, for from it flows a recognition of the significance of each element in the work as it is read. The failure to cultivate such a habit results in mystification, as has all too frequently been apparent, and good romances have acquired an entirely unmerited reputation for inconsequentiality. The idea of Book II of The Faerie Queene in its generality cannot be missed by even the least perceptive of its readers, for Spenser has unmistakably identified that book as the ‘Legend of Temperance’. But the book itself remains to a large degree misunderstood because Spenser’s conception of temperance – that idea of temperance which gives to the book both its unity and meaning – has not been adequately explained. II. The breadth of Spenser’s treatment might seem to encourage the general definition of temperance as moderation in human acts and passions, and this is indeed how Maurice Evans takes it: Temperance is a general quality of rational self-control which enters into the nature of all virtue, and for this reason book II opens with a series of great emblematic tableaux of relevance not only to Guyon but to all the subsequent heroes.9

There is no doubt that temperance has this general meaning for Aristotelian philosophers and it is set forth by Aquinas in the following terms (ST, 2a 2ae 141.2): Uno modo secundum communitatem suae significationis. Et sic temperantia non est virtus specialis, sed generalis, quia nomen temperantiae significat quamdam temperiem, idest moderationem quam ratio ponit in humanis operationibus et passionibus; quod est commune in omni virtute morali.10

Moreover, temperance as moderation in acts and passions bears directly upon the essential nature of virtue as a mean between excess and defect. It is fitting, therefore, that in Book II Spenser provides an allegorical statement of the virtuous mean in the figures of Medina, Perissa and Elissa (II.2.12–38).

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But the general meaning of temperance is too general to account for the specific direction of the moral argument of Book II. Temperance as the idea of a single book cannot refer to the totality of virtue. Guyon, the knight of temperance, is unhorsed by Britomart, the knight of chastity, at the beginning of the third book (III.1.4–12); the complex of moral notions summed up in Guyon therefore falls short of that summed up in Britomart. The totality of virtue is expressed by Aristotelian philosophers in terms of honestas, and by Spenser in terms of courtesy.11 But courtesy is the idea of Book VI and not Book II. Temperance is one of the species or subjective parts of courtesy (ST, 2a 2ae 145.4 ad 1). If temperance is to be identified as a species of honestas, it must be distinguished accordingly from other species of the genus, and in particular from fortitude. On this basis we must rule out the identification of Guyon with the virtues of temperance and fortitude as proposed by John Erskine Hankins: Spenser has used Guyon to represent both temperance and fortitude as two forms of self-control. This becomes evident when we read in Francesco Piccolomini’s book that temperance controls the lusts of the concupiscible faculty of the soul, but that fortitude controls the passions of the irascible faculty, including the passion of anger (iv.34; p. 211B). Without using the word ‘fortitude’, Spenser assigns to Guyon its functions in describing the Palmer (II.4.2): Who suffred not his wandring feet to slide; But when strong passion or weak fleshlinesse, Would from the right way seeke to draw him wide, He would, through temperaunce and stedfastnesse, Teach him the weak to strengthen, and the strong suppresse.12

Spenser uses the word ‘stedfastnesse’ precisely because he wishes to exclude the notion of fortitude in its strict sense, namely the specific virtue of firmness of mind in face of the dangers of death (ST, 2a 2ae 123.2 and 123.4). The stanza which is quoted by Hankins does not serve as a headline to the ‘Legend of Temperance’ as a whole, but to the canto in which it is set, a canto in which Guyon overcomes Occasion and Furor (II.4.3–15) and learns the story of Phedon and Claribell (II.4.16–36). The subjection of Phedon to Furor (as we shall later see) expresses the state of one who is

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overwhelmed by sorrow and an unappeasable desire for vengeance, and this combination of passions is evident in Phedon’s slaying of Claribell and Philemon and his headlong pursuit of Pryene (II.4.29–32); Phedon is indeed a man in an agony of ‘griefe and furie’ (II.4.33). Spenser’s subject, therefore, is the passions of sorrow and anger, and not the concupiscible and irascible faculties. Firmness of mind or steadfastness (the mode of fortitude) is certainly required in the face of sorrow, but the exercise of it is the virtue of patience. Moderation is required in the face of the strong desire for vengeance, and this is the virtue of gentleness. Patience is classified by Aquinas among the parts of the virtue of fortitude (ST, 2a 2ae 136.4) although its object, sorrow, is a concupiscible passion, since the secondary virtues (or potential parts) are classified with the principal not in relation to their matter so much as in relation to their mode or form (ST, 2a 2ae 157.3 ad 2). But Spenser’s concern with patience here is not to be taken as implying a concern with fortitude. The issue of patience is explained by the concern with anger, and especially by the complexity of the nature of anger, for anger is the desire of revenge for a present sorrow (ST, 1a 2ae 23.4). The object of anger is thus twofold (ST, 1a 2ae 46.2): Et sic motus irae tendit in duo: scilicet in ipsam vindictam quam appetit et sperat sicut quoddam bonum, unde et de ipsa delectatur; tendit etiam in illum de quo quaerit vindictam, sicut in contrarium et nocivum, quod pertinet ad rationem mali.13

Spenser’s theme, therefore, is anger, but anger of its very nature presupposes sorrow. But since the theme is anger it follows that Guyon is identified by Spenser strictly with temperance, for gentleness, that is, the moderation of anger, is classified by Aquinas among the parts of the virtue of temperance, although its object, anger, is an irascible passion (ST, 2a 2ae 157.3). The argument against temperance as the general virtue leads also to a rejection of the standard identification of Pyrochles and Cymochles as the irascible and concupiscible faculties respectively.14 Pyrochles as the irascible faculty would contain five passions; as well as anger there are hope and despair, fear and daring. Cymochles as the concupiscible faculty would contain six passions; as well as desire and pleasure, there are love and

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hate, aversion and sorrow (ST, 1a 2ae 23.4). It is evident that such a range of meaning is possessed neither by Pyrochles nor by Cymochles. And the reason is that there are two principal virtues and not merely one which govern the passions, for as well as temperance seated in the concupiscible faculty, there is fortitude seated in the irascible faculty (ST, 1a 2ae 56.4 sed contra). Here we can see again the need to insist upon the union of the story and the meaning it bears. Pyrochles and Cymochles cannot represent the irascible and concupiscible faculties, for as such they not only exhaust the passions subject to temperance in the general sense, they exceed them in the specific sense. The victories over Pyrochles and Cymochles do not bring the ‘Legend of Temperance’ to an end, and they cannot as a result, therefore, mark the full achievement of temperance. The final consequence of the misunderstanding of the nature of temperance is a misplaced sympathy and even enthusiasm for intemperance itself and its works in the form of Acrasia and the Bower of Bliss. This error has recently been reinforced by the authority of A.C. Hamilton in his annotated edition of The Faerie Queene: The beauty of the wanton Bower of Bliss which Guyon destroys so wantonly, its intemperance of sensuality being countered, apparently, by his intemperance of irascibility, suggests a clash in Spenser between the poet and the moralist.15

But, as Thomas P. Roche observes in a perceptive review of Hamilton’s edition,16 the adversaries of Spenser’s titular knights – the dragon of Book I, Busirane in Book III, Grantorto in Book V and the Blatant Beast in Book VI – are not characteristically the objects of imaginative sympathy. The poem as a whole, setting out as it does to ‘fashion a gentleman or noble person in vertuous and gentle discipline’, does not admit of a divergence between poetry and morality. Not only is the defence of intemperance to be objected to, but also the corresponding reduction necessitated by it of the Knight of Temperance to a pattern of intemperate irascibility. This is a contradiction of the very postulates upon which the ‘Legend of Temperance’ has been constructed (II, Proem 5):

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O pardon, and vouchsafe with patient eare The braue aduentures of this Faery knight The good Sir Guyon gratiously to heare, In whom great rule of Temp’raunce goodly doth appeare.

Guyon is not a personification of temperance, but the type of the temperate knight. What this means in the first place is that although temperance is the virtue which Spenser focuses upon in Guyon, the presence of other virtues is implied, for the virtues, as Aristotle and the rest insist, are interconnected. Hence the virtue of fortitude is implied by the reference in the proem to Guyon’s ‘braue aduentures’, and asserted by the hero himself along with the love of honour in the rejection of the wealth offered him by Mammon (II.7.10): Faire shields, gay steedes, bright armes be my delight: Those be the riches fit for an aduent’rous knight.

The main significance of the distinction between personification and type, however, lies in its bearing on the question of human perfectibility. The personification of temperance is perfect temperance; the type of temperance (in the sense of its human representative) necessarily implies a falling short of the perfection of temperance. Like Red Cross before him, and Artegall and Calidore after him, Guyon falls short in the virtue for which he is chiefly celebrated. Temperance as a moral virtue consists in conduct conformed to a rule, namely the mean which is appointed by right reason (prudence). In the moral allegory of the ‘Legend of Temperance’ such prudence is signified by the ‘comely Palmer, clad in blacke attire’ (II.1.7), who guides Guyon in his quest (II.1.7): He seemd to be a sage and sober sire, And euer with slow pace the knight did lead, Who taught his trampling steed with equall steps to tread.

The imperfection of Guyon in temperance is therefore indicated at those points in the narrative of the ‘Legend of Temperance’ where Guyon acts against the advice of the Palmer or is in need of correction by him. Thus in the Bower of Bliss itself Guyon yields momentarily to the movement

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of lust – ‘in his sparkling face / The secret signes of kindled lust appeare’ (II.12.68) – and is at once rebuked by the Palmer for so doing.17 But it is one thing to say that Guyon is imperfect in his temperance and quite another to say that he is intemperate. The absence of the Palmer from Guyon’s side does not signify the vice of intemperance, for intemperance stands in contrary opposition to temperance and not merely negative opposition. It is evident, therefore, that Guyon exercises virtue in the absence of the Palmer. When Guyon is separated from the Palmer on Phaedria’s boat and on the wandering island he yet continues to resist the false pleasures held out to him by Phaedria whilst at the same time not rejecting pleasure itself (II.6.21). It is Phaedria who will not allow the Palmer on her boat (II.6.19): But the Blacke Palmer suffred still to stond, Ne would for price, or prayers once affoord, To ferry that old man ouer the perlous foord.18

The reason is that Phaedria and the Palmer are simply incompatible. Phaedria stands for the evil pleasure or ‘immodest Merth’ (argument to Canto 6) which is defined by its lack of conformity to right reason. The fundamental antagonism between Phaedria and the Palmer is subsequently manifested on the journey to the Bower of Bliss (II.12.16). Guyon’s success in resisting Phaedria is marked by Spenser in the use of language which we come to recognize as distinctive of the exercise of virtue (II.6.26): But he was wise, and warie of her will, And euer held his hand vpon his hart.

Immediately before he relates Guyon’s encounter with Mammon, Spenser reminds us not only that Guyon is still unaccompanied by the Palmer, but also that he is sustained by his own virtues (II.7.2). At the end of the episode he is shown to have come safely through Mammon’s trial of him in respect of riches and honour (II.7.64): But he was warie wise in all his way, And well perceiued his deceiptfull sleight, Ne suffred lust his safetie to betray; So goodly did beguile the Guyler of the pray.

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What the absence of the Palmer signifies during the course of Cantos 6 and 7 is the reality of moral conflict, and Guyon’s struggle to be continent. The presence of the Palmer at Guyon’s side, by contrast, marks the achieved virtue of temperance in Guyon’s actions. And it is above all to be noted that the Palmer is ever at Guyon’s side in the Bower of Bliss. To suppose that Guyon at the climax of the ‘Legend of Temperance’ is guilty of intemperance is to lose all contact with Spenser’s poem as ‘a continued Allegory, or darke conceit’. III. An adequate conception of temperance is necessary if Book II is to be read intelligibly. Such a conception must do justice both to the general range of Spenser’s treatment and to its specific interest. This can be done within the terms of reference of temperance as a specific and not a general virtue. Spenser is not inventing his own terms or his own meanings, and in the ‘Letter to Ralegh’ he explicitly states that his own moral categories have been supplied for him by ‘Aristotle and the rest’. There is no reason to disbelieve this statement. I take it to mean that to Aristotle must be added the Christianisation of Aristotelianism which was undertaken by Scholastic philosophers in the Middle Ages. The great work of Scholastic philosophy is the Summa theologiae of St Thomas Aquinas and from the Middle Ages onwards it has been widely and rightly renowned. Its influence upon Spenser (even if entirely indirect) must have been considerable, for it is at the centre of the philosophical system on which he has drawn for the moral argument of his poem. I propose, therefore, to supply a definition of the idea of temperance, also drawn from the Summa theologiae, and to examine the moral allegory of the ‘Legend of Temperance’ in the light of it. Aquinas’s analysis of the virtues requires a careful discrimination between general and specific senses. Thus the four cardinal virtues – prudence, justice, fortitude and temperance – are so called because each possesses a quality that is common to virtue in general. But the cardinal virtues are also specific virtues, that is, they are determined by their own special objects – prudence is right reason in reference to acts; justice is the lasting and constant will of rendering to each one his due, that is, it is directed to

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equality in external acts and social relations; fortitude is firmness of mind in face of the dangers of death, and temperance is the moderation of the desires and pleasures of touch (ST, 1a 2ae 61.3 and 4). Aquinas classifies the moral virtues under the cardinal virtues in accordance with a threefold distinction of parts; there are integral parts, subjective parts, and potential or virtual parts. Integral parts are the constitutive or component parts, as a roof is a part of a house; subjective parts are the species of a universal whole or genus, as man is a species of the genus animal; and potential or virtual parts are the secondary or related parts of a whole in which the full power of the whole is not exercised, as the vegetative and sensitive powers are potential parts of the rational soul.19 The subtlety and complexity of Aquinas’s exposition of the virtues can be seen in the application of these distinctions to the analysis of the virtues classified under temperance. There are two integral or component parts of temperance, namely shamefastness (verecundia) and the sense of honour (honestas). Shamefastness is the fear of dishonour and is a laudable passion. It falls short of the perfection of virtue, which does not entertain such fears and is a habit that results from choice and not merely an impulse of feeling (ST, 2a 2ae 144.1 corp. and ad 1). Shamefastness is not part of the essence of temperance, but disposes one to be temperate (ST, 2a 2ae 144.4 ad 4). The sense of honour is a certain spiritual beauty, opposed to the disgraceful (ST, 2a 2ae 145.4).20 There are three species or subjective parts of temperance, namely abstinence, sobriety and chastity. Abstinence is the moderation of the pleasures of food and drink (ST, 2a 2ae 146.2); sobriety is the moderation of the pleasures of intoxicating drink such as wine (ST, 2a 2ae 149.1 and 149.2); and chastity is the moderation of the desires and pleasures of sexual intercourse (ST, 2a 2ae 151.2). There are seven potential or virtual parts of temperance. The first of these is continence, which, like the principal virtue of temperance itself, is about the desires and pleasures of touch (ST, 2a 2ae 155.2 sed contra). Continence falls short of temperance, for where temperance controls the desires and pleasures of touch continence simply resists them (ST, 2a 2ae 155.1). The remaining six potential parts of temperance are so classified

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because they involve the exercise of moderation in matters less difficult to control than the desires and pleasures of touch. The virtue of gentleness (mansuetudo) moderates the passion of anger, and the virtue of clemency exercises moderation in the infliction of punishment (ST, 2a 2ae 157.2). Gentleness and clemency operate to the same effect, however, for it is the passion of anger which prompts a person to be too severe in punishment (ST, 2a 2ae 157.1). The word ‘modesty’ (modestia) is used as a general term by Aquinas, following for the most part the authority of Cicero (ST, 2a 2ae 160.2), to cover a group of four related virtues. First, there is humility, which restrains the mind from the immoderate pursuit of great things, that is, it is the moderation of hope (ST, 2a 2ae 161.1 and 161.4). Second, there is studiousness (studiositas), which moderates the desire for knowledge (ST, 2a 2ae 166.2). Third, there is modesty in manners, which consists in a moderation in one’s external conduct (ST, 2a 2ae 168.1), and fourth, there is modesty in dress (ST, 2a 2ae 169.1). There can be no doubt that here is the basis of the moral allegory of Book II of The Faerie Queene, as I shall briefly illustrate before turning to matters that require a more extended discussion. The two integral parts of temperance are set forth by Spenser in the figures of Praise-Desire and Shamefastness in the Castle of Alma (II.9.36– 44). In Cymochles is to be found the looseness of voluptuous desires and pleasures (II.5.28 and 35) in which the vice of lust consists (ST, 2a 2ae 153.1), and in resistance to which lies the virtue of continence (II.6.28–31). In Pyrochles is represented the vice of anger (II.5.1). Guyon displays the virtue of clemency in his victory over Pyrochles (II.5.12–13), and such clemency presupposes the mastery of angry passions (II.5.21), that is, the virtue of gentleness. At the root of the opposition between Guyon and Braggadocchio is the virtue of humility and the vice of pride. But on the surface, and immediately, the contrast is one of modesty and boastfulness. The outward act of boasting is to be seen as the vice opposed to modesty in manners by way of excess, and so Aristotle expresses it (Ethics, II.7). The virtue of modesty in manners extends to play as well as to serious matters, and Aristotle assigns to play a special virtue which he calls eutrapelia (Ethics, IV.8). Aquinas accordingly includes the virtue of eutrapelia under the wider notion of modesty in manners (ST, 2a 2ae 168.2). Spenser treats

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of the virtue of modesty in play (and also of modesty in dress) in relation to the false pleasures enjoyed by Cymochles (II.5.32). The theme of immodesty in play is developed more particularly in the figure of Phaedria in the sixth canto. IV. The very essence of temperance consists in a due order of reason and passion, and directly opposed to it is the disorder of reason and passion in which the vice of intemperance consists. And it is such intemperance that the name of Acrasia (that is, ‘bad mixture’) essentially signifies.21 The meaning of Guyon’s quest lies in the establishment of the harmony of temperance, and Spenser therefore begins in his opening cantos by identifying the true nature of his adversary. Guyon’s quest to the Bower of Bliss is to bring about the ‘doome of iust reuenge’ (II.1.36) for the tragic deaths of Mordant and Amavia. It is Mordant’s misfortune to come under the spell of the enchantress Acrasia, whose ‘blisse is all in pleasure and delight, / Wherewith she makes her louers drunken mad (II.1.52). Such pleasures are the ‘drugs of foule intemperance’ (II.1.54). Acrasia is thus directly identified as the vice opposed to the principal virtue of temperance as the moderation of the desires and pleasures of touch, and more particularly to its species or subjective part of chastity. The death of Mordant is the result of the charm Acrasia sets upon the cup from which she gives him to drink (II.1.55): Sad verse, giue death to him that death does giue, And losse of loue, to her that loues to liue, So soone as Bacchus with the Nymphe does lincke.

Bacchus signifies wine and the nymph water, and the mixing of wine and water is an emblem of temperance.22 Mordant is destroyed by intemperance, and more particularly by the lusts of the flesh (II.1.52): For he was flesh: (all flesh doth frailtie breed.)

Acrasia stands against chastity directly and not virginity. This is the point of the Palmer’s explanation of the marvel of the babe’s bloody hands

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at the beginning of the second canto. The Palmer distinguishes between two kinds of virtue associated with fountains. The first kind is identified with the fruitfulness of nature (II.2.6): Of those some were so from their sourse indewd By great Dame Nature, from whose fruitfull pap Their welheads spring, and are with moisture deawd; Which feedes each liuing plant with liquid sap, And filles with flowres faire Floraes painted lap.

We are to understand here the virtue of chastity as lawful sexuality for the purpose of the preservation of the species (ST, 2a 2ae 151.3). The second kind of virtue is identified with the gift of grace (II.2.6): But other some by gift of later grace, Or by good prayers, or by other hap, Had vertue pourd into their waters bace, And thenceforth were renowmd, and sought from place to place.

We are to understand here the virtue of chaste maidenhood or virginity, and it is signified by the water of the fountain in this second canto (II.2.9): For it is chast and pure, as purest snow, Ne lets her waues with any filth be dyde, But euer like her selfe vnstained hath beene tryde.

Virginity is a virtue in that it renounces the pleasures of sexual intercourse for the higher and more spiritual good of divine contemplation (ST, 2a 2ae 152.2). Aquinas explains that virginity stands to chastity in the same relation as magnificence to liberality, and, we might add, as magnanimity to the love of honour (ST, 2a 2ae 152.3): Et ideo virginitas est quaedam specialis virtus habens se ad castitatem sicut magnificentia se habet ad liberalitatem.23

Such exceptional virtue belongs not to the titular knights of the individual books of The Faerie Queene, but to the person of Prince Arthur, in whom

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Spenser sets forth magnificence, that is, Aristotle’s magnanimity, ‘for that (according to Aristotle and the rest) it is the perfection of all the rest’. The blood on the babe’s hands is the blood of chastity (‘his mothers innocence’), and it is not to be cleansed in the water of virginity.24 The blood on the hands of the babe is to stand as a symbol not of chaste maidens, but of chaste wives (II.2.10): That as a sacred Symbole it may dwell In her sonnes flesh, to minde reuengement, And be for all chast Dames an endlesse moniment.

Acrasia is clearly modelled on Homer’s Circe who by her magic potions transforms men into swine (Odyssey, X.230–43). But, as Hamilton observes, ‘Circe’s victims retain the minds of men’.25 The victims of Acrasia on the other hand are deranged in mind as well as body, and Spenser is at pains to underline the fact. Thus in the course of the description of Cymochles we learn that his lady Acrasia (II.5.27): Does charme her louers, and the feeble sprightes Can call out of the bodies of fraile wightes.

We see Acrasia in the Bower of Bliss consuming and destroying the spirit of a new lover, Verdant (II.12.73). It is the way that all her lovers have gone before him, as the Palmer explains to Guyon (II.12.85): Said he, These seeming beasts are men indeed, Whom this Enchauntresse hath transformed thus, Whylome her louers, which her lusts did feed, Now turned into figures hideous, According to their mindes like monstruous.

And, as we have seen, it is the tragic fate of one of them, Mordant, that is the cause of Guyon’s quest to the Bower of Bliss. The distinction between Acrasia and Circe is explained by Spenser’s concern with temperance. It is in terms of the disorder of the mind that intemperance is to be distinguished from incontinence, and is to be recognized as being so much worse than incontinence (ST, 2a 2ae 156.3). And for this reason Spenser emphasizes

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the vileness of Acrasia. She is ‘vile Acrasia’ at II.1.51, and ‘the vile Acrasia’ at II.5.27. And by a fitting inversion she is described as ‘the faire Witch’ (II.12.72) and ‘the faire Enchauntresse’ (II.12.81). In a book which is built upon the fine distinctions of temperance and its parts there is no room for the confusion of temperance and continence. And yet Hamilton identifies Acrasia at II.1.51 as ‘Incontinence’, and at II.12.69 as ‘the personification of incontinence or intemperate pleasure’.26 But nothing could very well be more bathetic than that a knight of temperance at the climax of his quest should be set against an adversary who makes trial of only a part of his powers. Acrasia, then, is not incontinence, but intemperance, and in Canto 12 we see, as Spenser promises, ‘this goodly frame of Temperance / Fairely to rise, and her adorned hed / To pricke of highest praise forth to aduance’ (II.12.1). V. At the centre of Guyon’s temptation by Mammon in the seventh canto is the love of riches. It is signified by the name of Mammon himself, and he is fittingly addressed by Guyon as ‘thou Money God’ (II.7.39). But the love of riches is extended to include the love of worldly goods in general and especially also of fame and power (II.7.8). These are the worldly goods identified by Lady Philosophia to Boethius as the form of false felicity (De consolatione philosophiae, Book III, prosa 2.74–77): Now hastow thanne byforn thyne eien almest al the purposede forme of the welefulnesse of mankynde: that is to seyn rychesses, honours, power, glorie, and delitz.27

Spenser makes no specific mention of pleasure, since pleasure has been the burden of the previous two cantos. The matter of the seventh canto is carefully structured, and the large structural divisions are indicated by repeated references to Mammon as Guyon’s guide through the underworld. Thus at stanza 20 Spenser writes: ‘So by and by / Through that thicke couert he him led’, and so too at stanza 35: ‘Thence forward he him led’, stanza 39: ‘And thence him forward led’, and stanza 51: ‘him forth thence led’. We are made aware both of the logical

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articulation of events and of their moral import. It is a curious irony that they have proved so difficult to interpret. In stanzas 20–34 and 35–39 the temptations of riches and the source of riches are set before Guyon and rejected by him. In stanzas 40–50 Mammon shows Guyon his daughter Philotime and her chain of Ambition. The moral significance of these stanzas is also not obscure. Philotimia is the excessive desire for honour, and the name that Aquinas gives to such excess is ambition (ST, 2a 2ae 131.1): Ambitio autem importat inordinatum appetitum honoris. Unde manifestum est quod ambitio semper est peccatum.28

As Aristotle himself points out (Ethics, IV.4), the virtuous mean in respect of honour has no name other than those applied to its extremes of excess and defect. Mammon offers the hand of his daughter Philotime in marriage to Guyon (II.7.49), but Guyon rejects her in favour of another lady to whom he has already plighted himself (II.7.50). This is the true love of honour which Guyon has already set against the goods offered to him by Mammon (II.7.10). In stanzas 51–63 Mammon shows Guyon the Garden of Proserpina. What is signified thereby is more problematic, and I shall return to it for more extended discussion in the light of an explanation of the preceding matter. First of all it is necessary to understand why the temptations of riches and honour occur in the middle of a ‘Legend of Temperance’. One explanation might seem to lie in Augustine’s definition of temperance as the moderation of those desires which turn us from God’s laws and the fruits of his goodness, but as Aquinas points out this is a definition of temperance as the general condition of virtue (ST, 2a 2ae 141.4 arg.1 and ad 1).29 A better explanation is one which is consistent with the definition of temperance as the specific virtue. Within the unity of the rational soul of human beings the passions of the sensitive soul are not to be seen in isolation, but as participating in the life of reason, and properly as subject to it. Thus in his account of the passion of desire (concupiscentia) Aquinas distinguishes between natural and non-natural desires (ST, 1a 2ae 30.3). Concupiscence is the desire for

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a pleasurable good, and a thing may be pleasurable in two ways; first, as being suitable to the nature of an animal, as for example are food and drink; and second, as being suitable to an animal according to a certain perception of it. The former is concupiscentia naturalis and the latter concupiscentia non naturalis or cupiditas. The natural desires are common to human beings and the other animals, but the non-natural desires are found only in human beings. Continence and incontinence can therefore be taken in different senses in accordance with the distinction of natural and non-natural desire. Thus Aquinas explains that incontinence in the proper and simple sense is about the desire for the pleasures of touch (ST, 2a 2ae 156.2). And in a sense no less proper, but not so simple, it is about the desire for riches and honour (ST, 2a 2ae 156.2). The classic formulation of this distinction is in terms of the concupiscence of the flesh and the concupiscence of the eyes, and Aquinas explains these two kinds of concupiscence in his discussion of passion as the cause of sin (ST, 1a 2ae 77.5). The greater part of the seventh canto falls into place as a development of the theme of continence in riches and honour. It now remains to account for the matter of the Garden of Proserpina. It is accounted for by Frank Kermode in terms of the vice of curiosity.30 Such a reading of the Garden of Proserpina certainly has its attractions, for studiousness is the second of the virtues classified by Aquinas under the general heading of modesty, and curiosity is its opposed vice. Moreover, curiosity is also included under the concupiscence of the eyes to which the love of riches and honour belong (ST, 1a 2ae 77.5). But if curiosity is the central meaning of the Garden of Proserpina, it has to be said that Spenser’s representation of it lacks the clarity which is otherwise characteristic of his moral exposition. The Garden of Proserpina is ‘a gardin goodly garnished’, but its fruit is (II.7.51): Not such, as earth out of her fruitfull woomb Throwes forth to men, sweet and well sauoured, But direfull deadly blacke both leafe and bloom, Fit to adorne the dead, and decke the drery toombe.

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The combination of the notions of goodness and death suggests an irony in the use of ‘goodly’ and an inversion in the meaning of goodness as it is expressed in such a garden. Thus there is ‘a thicke Arber goodly ouer dight’ and ‘a goodly tree’ (II.7.53); the fruit hanging from its branches were ‘golden apples glistring bright, / That goodly was their glory to behold’ (II.7.54), and from that same tree came ‘that goodly golden fruit, / With which Acontius got his louer trew’ (II.7.55). The garden is surrounded by the black flood of Cocytus, the infernal river of lamentation (II.7.56–57). Among the many damned souls in its deep waters Guyon picks out two, Tantalus and Pilate. The two possess a common focus of interest for the reader, and are to be taken together. Tantalus is deeply submerged in Cocytus; he ‘drenched lay full deepe’ (II.7.57), and again, ‘Deepe was he drenched to the vpmost chin’ (II.7.58). So too is Pilate; his ‘carkasse deepe was drent / Within the riuer’ (II.7.61). The attempts of Tantalus to drink of the water and eat of the fruit are vain, for the movement of water and fruit make him ‘vainely swinke’ (II.7.58). Likewise Pilate’s attempts to wash the filth from his hands is ‘labour vaine and idle industry’ (II.7.61). And as Tantalus accuses heaven of the injustice of his punishment (II.7.60), so Pilate accuses himself of the greatest act of injustice known to man (II.7.62). The irony of the goodliness of the Garden of Proserpina attaches itself to the excess and perversity to be found in an insatiable desire for false goods which cannot by their very nature satisfy a person’s search for happiness. The golden apples are emphasized by Spenser because they are linked with the form of false felicity as Boethius’s Lady Philosophia expounds it. At the end of Book III, prosa 8, Lady Philosophia completes her demonstration of the insufficiency of worldly goods as a source of happiness (CP, III, prosa 8.55–61). In the metrum that follows there is a lament for the human blindness which makes human beings ignorant of their true good (CP, III, metrum 8.18–24). It is the kind of ignorance that expects to find gold on green trees and pearls on vines (CP, III, metrum 8.1–5): Allas! which folie and which ignorance mysledeth wandrynge wrecchis fro the path of verray good! Certes ye ne seke no gold in grene trees, ne ye gadere nat precyous stones in the vynes.

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The golden fruit of the goodly tree in the midst of the Garden of Proserpina, like the other fruit in the garden, is the fruit of death. Tantalus and Pilate are both deeply submerged in the waters of Cocytus, and by this means Spenser indicates the deeper vice of intemperance in comparison with that of incontinence. The vice of intemperance is an infection of the will, which is set upon a false end, whereas incontinence is a disorder of the passions (ST, 2a 2ae 156.3). Hence Tantalus is an example of a ‘mind intemperate’ (II.7.60). An intemperate person, by the very nature of his vice, is much less open to the possibility of repentance than one who is simply incontinent (ST, 2a 2ae 156.3). Hence Tantalus is an impenitent sinner who blasphemes against God’s justice. Such blasphemy is indeed to be expected of the damned in hell (ST, 2a 2ae 13.4): Illi autem qui sunt in inferno retinebunt perversam voluntatem, aversam a Dei justitia, in hoc quod diligunt ea pro quibus puniuntur, et vellent eis uti si possent, et odiunt poenas quae pro hujusmodi peccatis infliguntur; dolent tamen de peccatis quae commiserunt, non quia ipsa odiant, sed quia pro eis puniuntur.31

The punishment of Tantalus is a perfect example of that fitting retribution (contrappasso) in terms of which Dante has devised punishments for the impenitent sinners of his hell, for the vain labour of Tantalus signifies the futility of the attempt to obtain the false goods of the world. These are the goods for which men, as Mammon says, ‘swinck and sweat incessantly’ (II.7.8). Pilate is a fit companion for the avaricious Tantalus in the futility of his own actions, but the connection between Pilate and avarice is by no means evident to a modern reader. Dante introduces the name of Pilate into his representation of the deadly sin of avarice in the Purgatorio, where he describes the avaricious Philip IV of France as a new Pilate (Purg., XX.91–93): Veggio il novo Pilato sì crudele, che ciò nol sazia, ma sanza decreto porta nel Tempio le cupide vele.32

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Dante seems to be exploiting here a traditional connection between avarice and cruelty, for Gregory (Moralia, XXXI.45) lists obduratio contra misericordiam among the seven daughters of avarice. Aquinas explains the connection between them as follows (ST, 2a 2ae 118.8): Quia vero avaritia est superfluus amor habendi divitias, in duobus excedit. Primo enim superabundant in retinendo, et ex hac parte oritur ex avaritia obduratio contra misericordiam, quia scilicet cor ejus misericordia non emollitur ut de divitiis subveniat miseris.33

The depth of the sin of Pilate, like that of Tantalus, is marked by blasphemy, for despair of God’s mercy as well as impenitence is blasphemy against the Holy Ghost (ST, 2a 2ae 14.1). Despair is the source of the blasphemy that unites Pilate with Tantalus in eternal damnation. Guyon has been brought to see, as Milton puts it, ‘the utmost that vice promises to her followers’. He has reached the limits of human possibility in so far as the control of the passions by reason is concerned. When he returns to the earth he is exhausted and overwhelmed (II.7.66): And all his senses were with deadly fit opprest.

From this point onwards the powers of human beings can only be sustained by grace, and it is the power of grace which is triumphantly asserted at the beginning of the next canto (II.8.1). Guyon is thus protected by a guardian angel when he can do no more for himself (II.8.3–8). This happy outcome is further evidence of the fact that Guyon’s swoon, as signifying the limitation of human effort, cannot signify any special sinfulness on his part. Spenser accordingly reminds us of the goodness of Guyon in the words he uses of the Palmer’s discovery of him (II.8.4): There the good Guyon he found slumbring fast In senselesse dreame; which sight at first him sore aghast.

VI. Temperance is not an unfeeling virtue; pleasure is not an evil for the Aristotelian philosopher, but when moderated it is a good (ST, 1a 2ae 24.2). A lack of due feeling in our actions is rightly to be deplored, and as

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insensibility it is a part of the vice of intemperance (ST, 2a 2ae 142.1). As Aristotle observes, however, insensibility is a rare phenomenon (Ethics, II.7). It is by an excess of feeling that a person is more commonly assailed, and it is towards excess that the virtue of temperance is more commonly directed as a consequence. It is the tendency of Guyon’s nature also to err by excess of feeling, and in the course of his quest Spenser shows his attempts to moderate his excesses. He does so particularly with reference to excessive feelings of anger and pity. The traditional division of the passion of anger into three kinds is based on factors that intensify anger (ST, 1a 2ae 46.8). The first of the three kinds of anger ( fel ) consists in the ease with which anger is aroused, and not least in a noble spirit moved to indignation by the sight of injustice or a seeming injustice. Such an image of seeming injustice is that of the ravished maiden presented to Guyon by the enchanter Archimago (II.1.9–11) and enacted by the false Duessa in disguise (II.1.13–21). Guyon is stirred to anger both by Archimago’s account (II.1.13), and by the sight of the malefactor pointed out to him from afar by the false enchanter (II.1.25). But Guyon is required to restrain these feelings, however intense, when he recognizes the supposed ravisher to be none other than Red Cross himself (II.1.26–30). That he is able to do so earns him the poet’s commendation (II.1.31). Guyon returns from the burial of Mordant and Amavia only to discover that his horse has been stolen (II.2.11). The loss of his horse is a special indignity for a knight. Guyon has every reason to be angry but no means of remedying his situation. There is no profit in anger, therefore, for anger is properly directed at present sorrows that can be avenged (ST, 1a 2ae 46.1): Non enim insurgit motus irae nisi propter aliquam tristitiam illatam et nisi adsit desiderium et spes ulciscendi; quia, ut Philosophus dicit, iratus habet spem puniendi [Rhetoric, II.2]; appetit enim vindictam ut sibi possibilem. Unde si fuerit multum excellens persona quae nocumentum intulit, non sequitur ira sed solum tristitia, ut Avicenna dicit.34

Guyon is not reduced to impotent rage, but softens his anger in the face of the necessity to do so (II.2.12). This is the virtue of mansuetude or gentleness, that is, the tempering of the feelings of anger in accordance with right

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reason, and it is accompanied by patience in the endurance of the present sorrow (II.3.3). Guyon’s temperate anger is such as is to be expected from a brave knight. It is underlined by contrast with the emptiness of Braggadocchio’s wrath as it is displayed before Archimago (II.3.14): Therewith all suddeinly he seemd enraged, And threatned death with dreadfull countenaunce, As if their liues had in his hand beene gaged; And with stiffe force shaking his mortall launce, To let him weet his doughtie valiaunce.

The passion of anger properly presupposes the passion of daring (ST, 1a 2ae 25.4 ad 2), but the empty wrath of Braggadocchio is followed by a fearful dismay at Archimago’s plan to get for him Arthur’s sword (II.3.18). The theme of the intensity of the passion aroused by anger is next developed by Spenser in the fourth canto in Guyon’s encounter with Furor and Occasion. The description of Furor focuses upon three main elements. The first is that of madness, and it is indeed in terms of madness that Furor is introduced to us (II.4.3): A mad man, or that feigned mad to bee.

The idea of madness is significant enough to bear repetition. When Guyon attempts to come to grips with Furor, Spenser writes that he ‘[h]is mightie hands did on the madman lay’ (II.4.6). Furor’s spirit is inflamed by a ‘franticke fit’ and he often does injury to himself as a result: ‘[a]nd oft himselfe he chaunst to hurt vnwares’ (II.4.7). The second is that of vengeance. Furor is urged on and provoked by his mother, the old hag Occasion, to that end (II.4.5), and is beside himself in his efforts to inflict it (II.4.6). The desire for vengeance remains unabated in Furor even after he has been bound in iron chains by Guyon (II.4.15): Yet his great yron teeth he still did grind, And grimly gnash, threatning reuenge in vaine.

The third is that of bestiality. When Furor turns on Guyon it is with ‘beastly brutish rage’ (II.4.6). He is like ‘a blindfold Bull at randon’ (II.4.7) and,

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like the Grendel of Beowulf ’s estimation (Beowulf, 681–83), knows nothing of the noble art of fighting (II.4.8). This is a set of coherently related notions, and unfolds further the nature of anger as a passion. The second of the three species of anger as Aquinas classifies them is mania, so-called because long-abiding (manendo), and here taken as a form of madness. The third species is the anger that is never satisfied until vengeance has been exacted, and this is indeed called furor by Aquinas (following Damascene and Nemesius). The bestiality of Furor is to be explained by the fact that he stands for the passion of anger in its strict sense without reference to reason. Brutality is thus distinguished by Aquinas from cruelty, for cruelty implies a consideration of justice and therefore belongs to the domain of reason (ST, 2a 2ae 159.2). The meaning of Spenser’s allegorical representation of Guyon’s encounter with Occasion and Furor is that by dwelling constantly on the sorrow that is the source of anger one is provoked to an unappeasable desire for vengeance, and such a desire is ultimately self-destructive. The moral lesson is to be applied to Guyon’s own case, for Guyon ‘ouerthrew himselfe vnwares, and lower lay’ (II.4.8) in the struggle against Furor. Guyon himself dwells upon the injury done to him by the loss of his horse and is overwhelmed by the desire for revenge. It is necessary for the Palmer to lead the knight back into the way of ‘temperance and stedfastnesse’ (II.4.2) by showing that this can only be done by controlling the occasion of his wrath (II.4.11). Guyon does do so, but it is no easy task, for both Occasion (II.4.12–13) and Furor (II.4.14–15) strongly resist his efforts to subdue them. Here we are intended to recognize how bitter a humiliation it is for a knight to endure the loss of his horse and go on foot. Temperance is essentially the moderation of the desires and pleasures of touch, but as a consequence is also directed to the sorrows that result from the absence of such pleasures (ST, 2a 2ae 141.3). Spenser’s treatment of Mordant and Amavia brings out the meaning of temperance with reference to both pleasures and sorrows (II.1.57): The strong it [i.e. passion] weakens with infirmitie, And with bold furie armes the weakest hart; The strong through pleasure soonest falles, the weake through smart.35

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Here is one reason why pity is an important issue in Book II of The Faerie Queene, for pity is one of the four species of sorrow, consisting in the sorrow for another’s evil (ST, 1a 2ae 35.8). But the real importance of pity in the moral argument of temperance lies in the fact that the passion of anger itself is directed towards the sorrow arising from a present evil. Guyon has a compassionate nature, and his pity is at once aroused by the spectacle of a ravished maiden (II.1.14). But the ravished maiden is in reality the false Duessa, and the pity for her in consequence undeserved. What is more such misguided pity leads directly to the attack upon the Red Cross Knight (II.1.25–27). Here at once is a warning: pity itself is no more than a passion, and its goodness (like that of any passion) depends upon its union with reason. Pity becomes a virtue when it is linked with justice, for it is indeed then the virtue of mercy. The need for pity to be reconciled with justice is a hard lesson to learn, and it is only learnt by Artegall (the knight of justice) through the bitter experience of his subjection to Radigund. The feigned rape of the false Duessa is succeeded in the narrative by the death of Amavia, and her ‘percing shriekes’ (II.1.35) are such indeed as to rend the heart. Spenser adds to the image of Amavia as an object of pity the pathos of her little babe playing in her blood, and reinforces it still further by rhetorical elaboration (II.1.40). Guyon is moved, and justly moved, to the uttermost of his feeling by this fearful spectacle (II.1.42), and does what can be done for the wretched Amavia by lending her tender care (II.1.43 and 46). The cause of all this woe is the ‘vile Acrasia’ and her cursed Bower of Bliss (II.1.51). Acrasia is a false enchantress, and thus linked with Archimago; she deserves pity no more than the false Duessa has done before her. It is hardly possible to doubt Guyon’s capacity for pity on the evidence of the first canto, and it is further underlined by Spenser at the beginning of the second. The little babe which Guyon holds in his arms (II.2.1): Gan smyle on them, that rather ought to weepe, As carelesse of his woe, or innocent Of that was doen, that ruth emperced deepe In that knights heart, and wordes with bitter teares did steepe.

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It is a tendency of the noble soul to err when it errs on the side of pity, and Guyon has more than once to be restrained by the Palmer from yielding to a false pity. Guyon is ‘greatly moued’ (II.5.24) by the cry of Pyrochles in his raging fury (II.5.20–23), but the Palmer (II.5.24): Him stayd from yielding pitifull redresse; And said, Deare sonne, thy causelesse ruth represse, Ne let thy stout hart melt in pitty vayne.

Here a clear distinction is made between a false pity extended towards the lust for vengeance and the mercy shown towards a defeated foe (II.5.12–14). On the journey across the sea to the Bower of Bliss Guyon has still to learn the lesson of pity, for he at once yields to ‘foolish pitty’ (II.12.29) for a false image of a sorrowing maiden (II.12.27–28). The perfecting of Guyon in temperance is largely a perfecting of him in pity, and that he has been so perfected is seen in his readiness to follow the guidance of the Palmer (II.12.29). In the Bower of Bliss itself the loss of manly virtue in Verdant alone inspires true pity (II.12.79). Acrasia has no feeling of pity for Verdant (or for any of her victims), but only the appearance of pity (II.12.73): Wherewith she sighed soft, as if his case she rewd.

Acrasia has no claim upon our pity. What is more, to show pity to Acrasia is to condemn her victims. It is out of moral necessity, therefore, that ‘all those pleasant bowres and Pallace braue, / Guyon broke downe, with rigour pittilesse’ (II.12.83). Guyon acts out of pity and out of justice. He remembers the heartrending cries of Amavia and his sacred vow upon the grave of the dead lovers (II.1.61): Such and such euill God on Guyon reare, And worse and worse young Orphane be thy paine, If I or thou dew vengeance doe forbeare, Till guiltie bloud her guerdon doe obtaine: So shedding many teares, they closd the earth againe.

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Spenser’s treatment of pity shows how hard a lesson it is he has to teach, and it is emotionally rejected by many modern readers. But there is no reason on this account to suppose that Spenser intends in Guyon an image of intemperate irascibility, or indeed that he has presented one, for he has made his meaning unambiguously clear. Aquinas invokes the authority of Augustine as well as that of the Aristotelians in support of the view that anger is not always wrong (ST, 2a 2ae 158.1 ad 1). And when the vengeance which anger seeks is the maintenance of justice, then anger is not merely not wrong, it is laudable (ST, 2a 2ae 158.1 ad 3). And we know that what Guyon seeks in the Bower of Bliss is that ‘doome of iust reuenge’ (II.1.36) of which Amavia despairs in the agony of her death. Moreover, the destruction of the Bower of Bliss is but one of a series of temperately angry acts, for Guyon overthrows ‘disdainfully’ the Mazer bowl of the false Genius (II.12.49) and ‘violently’ dashes to the ground the golden cup of Excess (II.12.57). It is easy to see these things in a false perspective once contact has been lost with the moral argument of Spenser’s poem. As we have noted, Guyon’s struggle against the old hag Occasion and her son, the brutish Furor, is an allegorical representation of the mastering of angry passions. But, as Pyrochles puts it to Guyon (II.5.17): It was complaind, that thou hadst done great tort Vnto an aged woman, poore and bare.

It is in such terms that the destruction of the Bower of Bliss by Guyon can be seen as an act of wanton cruelty. The moral ideas which Spenser seeks to represent can be seen in a truer perspective if we compare them with the similar ideas that inform the argument of the Divina Commedia. In the fifth circle of hell, the circle of the wrathful, Dante personaggio rejects with indignant contempt one of the damned souls (Filippo Argenti) who rises up before the boat in which he and his master, Virgil, are crossing the Styx (Inf., VIII.37–39): E io a lui: ‘Con piangere e con lutto, spirito maladetto, ti rimani; ch’i’ ti conosco, ancor sie lordo tutto.’36

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For such anger Dante is embraced and kissed by Virgil, and thus commended: ‘“Alma sdegnosa, / benedetta colei che ’n te s’incinse!, / Indignant soul, blessed is the womb that bore thee!”’ (Inf., VIII.44–45; Sinclair, I.113). It takes Dante longer to learn the lesson of pity. He shows a misguided pity for the diviners in the fourth bolgia of the eighth circle, and is sharply rebuked by Virgil for so doing (Inf., XX.25–28). By the time that the ninth circle of hell has been reached, the circle of the treacherous where the utmost depth of human wickedness is to be found, Dante has learnt the lesson well and truly. He is merciless in his treatment of Bocca in Antenora (Inf., XXXII.73–111) and does not hesitate to betray Fra Alberigo in Ptolomea (Inf., XXXIII.109–50): ‘e cortesia fu lui esser villano, / and it was courtesy to be a churl to him’ (XXXIII.150; Sinclair, I.413). The same element of poetic justice is to be found in the capture of Acrasia in her Bower of Bliss, for the enchantress is snared in a net devised for the purpose by the Palmer (II.12.81–82). Pity is not yet dead in Guyon, and as a result nothing can save Acrasia’s bowers from ‘the tempest of his wrathfulnesse’ (II.12.83). VII. In order to appreciate the manner in which Spenser has disposed his fable, it is necessary to follow the moral argument by which it has been fashioned and which it is intended to exemplify. It is no part of Spenser’s purpose to disguise this argument from view, although he has chosen to express it in an allegorical form. Guyon explains the purpose of his quest to Medina. He has been appointed by the Faerie Queene, his sovereign, to bring redress to a Palmer who has complained (II.2.43): Of grieuous mischiefes, which a wicked Fay Had wrought, and many whelmd in deadly paine.

The ‘wicked Fay’, as we already know from the first canto, is the vile Acrasia, and Guyon’s quest consists in the exaction of due revenge upon Acrasia for the deaths of Mordant and Amavia. In other words, his quest is directed against the vice of intemperance, and therefore reaches its proper climax

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in the destruction of that cursed Bower of Bliss which is the creation of intemperance. In the course of the quest Guyon is gradually perfected in the virtue of temperance which enables him to achieve that task. First of all he learns to control the angry passions that well up within him at the loss of his horse (the defeat of Occasion and Furor in Canto 4), and goes on to achieve the state of continence of anger (the victory over Pyrochles in Canto 5). He then progresses to the state of continence of desire (the victory over Cymochles in Canto 6). Spenser himself observes in the opening stanza of the sixth canto that it is ‘[a] Harder lesson, to learne Continence / In ioyous pleasure, then in grieuous paine’. This is certainly also the opinion of Aquinas, who explains that anger is not so grave a sin as lust in so far as the good of justice to which incontinence of anger stands in a disordered relationship is higher than the pleasurable good to which incontinence of desire is similarly related (ST, 2a 2ae 158.4). The greater achievement of continence of desire is reflected by Spenser in the fact that Guyon is unmoved by Atin’s assault upon him before the fight against Pyrochles (II.4.46), but not entirely so after the fight against Cymochles (II.6.40). After the victory of continence of desire Guyon is tested in continence of riches and of honour (House of Mammon in Canto 7), and so reaches the very limit of his powers. The final victory over Cymochles and Pyrochles is won by Prince Arthur in the eighth canto. Pyrochles is armed with Arthur’s sword, Morddure, and Guyon’s shield (II.8.22). But a knight cannot be injured by his own virtue, so that Morddure is of no avail to Pyrochles (II.8.30 and 38). Arthur as the knight of magnificence or magnanimity is fittingly described by Archimago as ‘the prowest knight aliue’ (II.8.18). Thus not even Guyon’s shield is sufficient to keep Pyrochles unharmed from the force of Arthur’s blow (II.8.32). The implied comparison is intended to suggest the moral elevation of Arthur, in whom is the perfection of the virtues, and not to reveal any lack of moral nobility in Guyon. Indeed Spenser has made it impossible for us to draw any such inference. Arthur is led to recognize in the face of the senseless Guyon ‘great magnanimity’ (II.8.23), and Guyon’s shield does in fact afford Pyrochles some not inconsiderable protection (II.8.43). Moreover, the Palmer gives Arthur Guyon’s sword (II.8.40), and it is with Guyon’s sword that Arthur slays Cymochles (II.8.45) and Pyrochles

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(II.8.52). This is a fine complication in the matter of the romance, and it is designed to stress the interconnection of the virtues, and the essential harmony that exists between Arthur and Guyon. But in order to reflect at the same time the higher perfection of Arthur, Spenser has given to Guyon the victory of continence over anger and desire, and in Arthur has raised it to the level of temperance. Once again, however, we see that lust is more difficult to master than anger. Pyrochles is unable either to unhorse Arthur or to wound him (II.8.30–31 and 38), but Cymochles succeeds in doing both (II.8.33 and 38). After the death of Cymochles Arthur displays a ready superiority over Pyrochles in arms, in strength and in wrestling skill (II.8.46–50). In Canto 9 Arthur and Guyon become companions, united by the temperance that they now both possess and confirmed in temperance in their stay at the house of temperance (Castle of Alma). Guyon is now ready for the final achievement of his quest, but before that is accomplished Spenser turns aside to describe Arthur’s fight against Maleger. The reason for this seeming digression is that Spenser wishes to define more fully the limitation of human virtue before he proceeds to the final demonstration of Guyon’s temperance in the twelfth canto. The paleness, leanness, dryness and coldness of Maleger (II.11.22) are the unmistakable signs of what Chaucer calls ‘the loveris maladye / Of Hereos’ (KnT, A 1373–74; cf. 1361–64), a species of melancholy or disease of the brain which is characterized by vehement and irrational desire. The figure of the evilly diseased Maleger is not, therefore, to be interpreted simply as original sin (as by A.S.P. Woodhouse), but as evidence that ‘this infection of nature doth remain, yea in them that are regenerated’ (Article 9). Thus Maleger’s death in the ‘standing lake’ (II.11.46) does not signify regeneration by baptism (something already signified by the well of life in I.11.29–34), but the conquest of lust by reason that has been made possible through the purging of the sinful soul by grace (II.11.30–31).37 In Canto 11 Spenser has shown once more that the exercise of virtue is dependent upon more than merely human resources. This Christian truth is most fittingly expressed in the person of Arthur, for Arthur as magnificence is ‘the prowest man aliue’ (II.11.30) and yet even he cannot stand alone upon his own virtue (II.11.30):

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Arthur kills Maleger as Hercules kills Antaeus by crushing him to death. This is the oldest of epic motifs, and is found at the very beginnings of English poetry in the epic of Beowulf. And in the Old English epic poem it signifies reliance on God, for strength is God-given, rather than on human resources, for weapons are the product of human art (Beowulf, 745b–823a and 1266b–74a). Spenser does not lose his awareness of human imperfection in the triumph of temperance in the twelfth canto, and once again he shows that the exercise of moderation is most difficult in respect of the desires and pleasures of touch. On the journey to the Bower of Bliss Guyon’s senses are ‘softly tickeled’ by the melodiously seductive song of the Sirens (II.12.33): That he the boateman bad row easily, And let him heare some part of their rare melody.

Such responsiveness to a good that is a good only of the senses needs to be checked by reason (II.12.34). And within the Bower of Bliss itself Guyon is moved by lustful desires at the sight of the immodest maidens playing in the fountain (II.12.63–68). Once again the powerful movements of desire have to be held in check by reason, and the Palmer ‘much rebukt those wandring eyes of his, / And counseld well, him forward thence did draw’ (II.12.69). Temperance is not a cold and calculating virtue, and its condition is not easy to achieve. The fact that Guyon is still moved by passions that contradict his will even as he approaches the very end of his quest is no argument against his achievement of true temperance, although it does imply a Protestant modification of Scholastic doctrine. For Aquinas original sin is a privation of original justice (ST, 1a 2ae 82.1 ad 1), so that the natural inclination to virtue remains after the Fall and human beings are capable of virtuous acts proceeding from their own nature (ST, 1a 2ae 85.2). Hence temperance acquires its complete meaning as a moral virtue whereby ‘appetitus sensitivus subditur rationi sic ut in eo non insurgant

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vehementes passiones rationi contrariae’ (ST, 2a 2ae 155.1).38 But as a good Protestant Spenser believes rather that by original sin ‘man is very far gone from original righteousness, and is of his own nature inclined to evil, so that the flesh lusteth always contrary to the spirit’ (Article 9). Temperance in the full Thomistic sense can no longer be considered a possibility. But what is possible for a person by way of temperance as according with a Protestant understanding of original sin is indeed here predicated by Spenser of Guyon. On the journey to the Bower of Bliss and in the Bower of Bliss Guyon is accompanied by the Palmer, and his conduct is therefore continually set against the rule of reason. That he shows himself obedient to the Palmer’s counsel is the measure of true temperance. One can only marvel at the way in which Spenser has conducted both his story and his moral argument, achieving in the midst of enormous complexity a seemingly effortless harmony of the two. Of Spenser above all our poets it is most unwise to predicate a clash between poetry and morality. It does not suit the temper of his mind, for he is, as Milton justly says of him, ‘our sage and serious Poet Spenser’. Nor does an opposition between beauty and goodness carry any meaning for the tradition within which Spenser writes, for the beautiful and the good are really identical, albeit notionally distinct (ST, 1a 2ae 27.1 ad 3): ‘pulchrum est idem bono, sola ratione differens’. The virtue of temperance, consisting as it does in a due proportion of reason and passion, possesses as a result a certain spiritual beauty. This is what is meant indeed by honestas as an integral part of temperance (ST, 2a 2ae 145.2). To describe Guyon’s destruction of the Bower of Bliss as an act of intemperance is to subvert the principles on which Spenser’s great poem has been constructed. The Bower of Bliss is a false and not a true image of beauty, and Guyon in destroying it has shown that in him ‘great rule of Temp’raunce goodly doth appeare’.

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Notes 1

2 3 4 5 6 7

8 9 10

11 12 13

‘I wept indeed, leaning on one of the rocks of the rugged ridge, so that my Escort said to me: “Art thou too as witless as the rest? Here pity lives when it is quite dead”’. Reference is to the edition of Giorgio Petrocchi, Dante Alighieri: La Commedia secondo l’antica vulgata, 4 vols (Milan: Arnoldo Mondadori, 1966–1967), II.332 and to the translation of J.D. Sinclair, The Divine Comedy of Dante Alighieri, 3 vols (London: Oxford University Press, 1971), I.249 and 251. C.S. Lewis, Spenser’s Images of Life, edited by Alastair Fowler (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1967). Lewis, Spenser’s Images of Life, p. 1. References to the poem and also to the ‘Letter to Ralegh’ are throughout to Smith, Spenser’s ‘Faerie Queene’ (1909). Lewis, Spenser’s Images of Life, p. 2. ‘As a principle of the production of things it may be called an exemplar, and belongs to practical knowledge’ (trans. Thomas Gornall, S.J.). ‘But this is what is called the material before it comes under the epic poet’s art; after he has disposed and treated it and clothed it with diction, it forms the fable, which is no longer the material, but the form and soul of the poem; and such Aristotle judged it.’ Mazzali, Torquato Tasso: Scritti sull’arte poetica, 2 vols (1977), I.211, and Cavalchini and Samuel (1973), p. 54. ‘… a poem’s novelty primarily consists not in the fictitiousness of a subject unheard of before, but in the fine complication and resolution of its fable.’ Mazzali, Scritti sull’arte poetica (1977), I.177, and Cavalchini and Samuel (1973), p. 28. Maurice Evans, Spenser’s Anatomy of Heroism: A Commentary on ‘The Faerie Queene’ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1970), p. 113. ‘In the first sense it is not a special type of virtue, but an element common to every virtue; its very name spells a certain temper and control given by intelligence to human activities and feelings by the reason, which is a general feature of all right morality’ (trans. Gilby). See Gerald Morgan, ‘Spenser’s Conception of Courtesy and the Design of the Faerie Queene’, RES, NS, 32 (1981), 17–36 (pp. 19–20). Hankins, Source and Meaning in Spenser’s Allegory (1971), p. 15. ‘Thus anger reacts in two directions, towards the revenge, sought and hoped for as agreeable, as delightful; towards the one from whom satisfaction is desired as an opponent and assailant and hence as disagreeable’ (trans. John Patrick Reid, O.P.).

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On the definition of the irascible and concupiscible faculties, see ST, 1a 2ae 23.1. Hamilton, Edmund Spenser: ‘The Faerie Queene’ (1977), p. 168. MLR, 76 (1981), 660–63. The initial difference of opinion between Guyon and the Palmer concerning the burial of Mordant as well as Amavia does not point to intemperance on Guyon’s part, for it is finally resolved: ‘So both agree their bodies to engraue’ (II.1.60). The conversation between Guyon and the Palmer is designed to show that Guyon is not self-righteous, but is slow to pass judgment on others and reserves the final judgment to God. Phaedria has similarly taken Cymochles in her boat to the wandering island, but has refused to take Atin with him (II.6.4). Atin stands for the perturbations which agitate the disordered soul, whereas by pleasure is to be understood repose in the possession of a desired good (or, as here, a seeming but not a real good); so Aquinas (ST, 1a 2ae 23.4). Phaedria, therefore, cannot exist alongside Atin, whereas Cymochles is amenable to her purpose (II.6.8). On the distinctions of wholes and parts, see especially ST, 1a 76.8, 1a 77.1 ad 1, and 2a 2ae 48. The parts of temperance are set out by Aquinas in ST, 2a 2ae 143. The honestas which is an integral part of temperance is to be distinguished from honestas in its broad sense of moral worth or excellence, that is, Spenser’s courtesy (see ST, 2a 2ae 145.1). Brooks-Davies, Spenser’s ‘Faerie Queene’: A Critical Commentary on Books I and II (1977), pp. 114–15 and Hamilton, Edmund Spenser: ‘The Faerie Queene’ (1977), p. 294. See Brooks-Davies, Spenser’s ‘Faerie Queene’: A Critical Commentary on Books I and II (1977), pp. 121–23. ‘Hence virginity is quite special, and related to chastity as magnificence is to liberality’ (trans. Gilby). A.C. Hamilton, ‘A Theological Reading of the Faerie Queene II’, ELH , 25 (1958), 155–62, interprets the indelible stain on Ruddymane’s hands and the attempt to wash it as an allegory of original sin, and Alastair Fowler, ‘The Image of Mortality: The Faerie Queene, II.i–ii’, HLQ, 24 (1961), 91–110, develops this interpretation in terms of baptismal regeneration and sanctification. At best these ideas are marginal and not central to the narrative of Cantos 1 and 2, and of ‘ignorance great maruell make’ (II.2.5). The authority of the Palmer in Book II is not to be doubted, and his careful explanations are not so lightly to be set aside. Lewis H. Miller, Jr, ‘A Secular Reading of The Faerie Queene, Book II’, ELH, 33 (1966), 154–69, is right, therefore, to raise objections to the theological readings of

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Gerald morgan Hamilton and Fowler, but his own explanation of the nymph of the fountain as an example of the vice of insensibility, although the kind of meaning to be looked for in an allegory of temperance, contradicts the evidence of the text. Hamilton, Edmund Spenser: ‘The Faerie Queene’ (1977), p. 297. Hamilton, Edmund Spenser: ‘The Faerie Queene’ (1977), pp. 179 and 294. The translation is that of Chaucer’s Boece, edited by Robinson, The Works of Geoffrey Chaucer, second edition (1957), pp. 319–84. ‘But ambition denotes an unbalanced desire for recognition, and so clearly it is always a sin’ (trans. Anthony Ross, O.P. and P.G. Walsh). It is in terms of temperance as a general virtue that I explain Spenser’s treatment of riches and honour, and also of irascible passions, in Book II of The Faerie Queene in ‘Spenser’s Conception of Courtesy and the Design of the Faerie Queene’, (1981), 29. This is an error, and consequently I take the opportunity here to withdraw it. Frank Kermode, ‘The Cave of Mammon’, in Shakespeare, Spenser, Donne: Renaissance Essays (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1971), pp. 60–83. ‘Now those who are in hell will keep a perverse will turned against God’s justice, as being still attached to the things for which they are being punished, wishing to enjoy them if they could, and hating the punishments inflicted because of them. They sorrow for their past sins, not because they regret them, but because they are punished for them’ (trans. Gilby). ‘I see the new Pilate so ruthless that this does not sate him, but without law he bears into the Temple his greedy sails’ (Petrocchi, III.341–42; Sinclair, II.261). ‘Avarice being an exaggerated love for possessing riches, it is excessive on two counts. First of all it goes too far in keeping. In this regard callousness to mercy is born of avarice, in that a person’s heart is not so softened by mercy as to come to the aid of the wretched out of his own resources’ (trans. T.C. O’Brien). ‘Thus an angry reaction arises only when one has endured some pain, and desires and hopes for revenge. Aristotle says, an angry man hopes to inflict punishment; he wants to be able to avenge himself. Hence if the person who has done the injury be one of very high station, the reaction will be sadness only and not anger, as Avicenna remarks’ (trans. Reid). Hamilton’s identification of the distinction as ‘that between two kinds of intemperance, the irascible and the concupiscent’ (Edmund Spenser: ‘The Faerie Queene’ (1977), p. 181) is incorrect. ‘And I to him: “In weeping and in misery, accursed spirit, remain; for I know thee, for all thy filth”’ (Petrocchi, II.131; Sinclair, I.113). The identification of Maleger as original sin is in A.S.P. Woodhouse, ‘Nature and Grace in The Faerie Queene’, ELH, 16 (1949), 194–228; also printed in

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Critical Essays on Spenser from ‘ELH’ (1970), pp. 24–58. I owe the refinement of Woodhouse’s position to the valuable study by Anthea Hume, Edmund Spenser: Protestant Poet (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984), pp. 125–26. ‘… moral virtue … so composes even the sensory appetite according to reason that powerful rebellious passions do not rear up’ (trans. Gilby).

12 The Meaning of Spenser’s Chastity as the Fairest of Virtues

Non potest esse simpliciter vera justitia aut vera castitas si desit ordinatio debita ad finem quae est per caritatem, quantumcumque aliquis se recte circa alia habeat. — Aquinas, ST, 2a 2ae 23.7 ad 21 O welcom pure-eyed Faith, white-handed Hope, Thou hovering angel girt with golden wings, And thou unblemished form of Chastity. — Milton, Comus, 212–142

I. It is not possible to discover an author’s meaning in an allegorical poem of the scope of The Faerie Queene merely from the inherent suggestiveness of the figure itself. What is also necessary is a knowledge of the context of its application.3 It is for this reason that Spenser’s reference of the moral basis of his allegory to ‘Aristotle and the rest’ (II, 486) in the ‘Letter to Ralegh’ is of such vital importance.4 I have attempted to demonstrate the coherence of the moral allegories of the ‘Legend of Holiness’ and ‘Legend of Temperance’ in terms of the philosophical system of Scholastic Aristotelianism in two previous articles,5 and here I attempt to do the same in respect of the ‘Legend of Chastity’. It may seem at first sight that the ‘Legend of Chastity’ lends support to a Renaissance neo-Platonic rather than a Scholastic Aristotelian interpretation of Spenser’s moral allegory. The pursuit of Florimell by Arthur and Guyon is inspired by the ‘hope to win thereby / Most goodly meede, the fairest Dame alive’ (III.1.18), that is, it is ‘beauties chace’ (III.1.19), and again the ‘chace of beautie excellent’ (III.4.45). Arthur and Guyon are moved by ‘that sweet fit, that doth true beautie love’ (III.3.1). The definition of love as the desire of beauty is the language of Ficinian neoPlatonism, as we

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may see from Ficino’s commentary on Plato’s Symposium: ‘Cum amorem dicimus, pulchritudinis desiderium intelligite. Haec enim apud omnes philosophos amoris definitio est’ (In Convivium Platonis de amore commentarium, I.4).6 The universal agreement among philosophers to which Ficino refers is not always readily apparent in their formulations. Aquinas specifies the good as the essential cause of love (ST, 1a 2ae 27.1), so that it becomes necessary to explain that concealed within this formulation is the assumption of a real identity of the good and the beautiful.7 The emphasis on love as ordered immediately to beauty is undeniably characteristic of Renaissance neo-Platonism. But Ficino’s claim for the universality of the truth thus expressed may serve as a warning that the formulation of love as the desire of beauty does not imply in every text the presence of the systematic neo-Platonic philosophy of love. Attempts to read a Ficinian distinction between a heavenly and an earthly Venus, that is, between the desire of contemplating beauty and the desire of generating beauty (In Convivium II.7), into the allegory of the ‘Legend of Chastity’ are notable for their ingenuity rather than their coherence.8 The fact is that Spenser focuses on the moral distinction between chastity and lust that arises from the natural movement of love in the soul. The influence of his neo-Platonic inheritance is apparent in his formulation of this distinction, for he refuses the name of love to any love that is not virtuous. Thus ‘love does alwayes bring forth bounteous deeds’ (III.1.49), and the flame that is called love is (III.3.1): Not that same, which doth base affections move In brutish minds, and filthy lust inflame, But that sweet fit, that doth true beautie love, And choseth vertue for his dearest Dame, Whence spring all noble deeds and never dying fame.9

The distinction between chastity and lust that is made here can indeed be represented symbolically by two kinds of Venus. These two Venuses, however, are not those of Ficino’s In Convivium, but of Boccaccio’s glosses to his description of the temple of Venus in the Teseida (VII.50–66):

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La quale Venere è doppia, perciò che l’una si può e dee intendere per ciascuno onesto e licito disiderio, sì come è disiderare d’avere moglie per avere figliuoli, e simili a questo … La seconda Venere è quella per la quale ogni lascivia è disiderata, e che volgarmente è chiamata dea d’amore; e di questa disegna qui l’autore il tempio e l’altre cose circustanti ad esso, come nel testo appare.10

To recognize the central importance of the moral distinction between chastity and lust is not to argue for the irrelevance of metaphysical considerations in the ‘Legend of Chastity’. Indeed, it is only by resort to metaphysical considerations that we can explain both the relation of chastity to temperance and the distinction of chastity and temperance in the allegorical fiction. Chastity as a moral virtue is simply a species of temperance (ST, 2a 2ae 143), and temperance ranks beneath justice and fortitude in the hierarchy of cardinal virtues (ST, 1a 2ae 66.4). Yet Spenser announces the ‘Legend of Chastity’ with the declaration that chastity is ‘that fairest vertue, farre above the rest’ (proem 1), and proceeds at once to justify these words in his fiction by displaying the decisive superiority of the Knight of Chastity to the Knight of Temperance (III.1.4–12). Indeed, not only is the superiority of Britomart to Guyon evident, but also her superiority to Red Cross when she comes to his aid at Castle Joyous (III.1.20–30). Thus Britomart disposes of five of the assailant knights, whereas Red Cross manages to dispose of only one (III.1.29). Her superiority is awesome when it is remembered that Red Cross stands for the virtue of holiness or religion, the highest of the moral virtues (ST, 2a 2ae 81.6).11 Such perfection of chastity among the virtues can only be explained in terms of charity, and that this is a possible meaning for chastity is evident from Milton’s use of chastity in just this sense in Comus (215). But charity is a theological, not a moral virtue. If we are to understand the moral allegory of the ‘Legend of Chastity’ it is necessary to recognize not only the distinction between the theological and the moral virtues, but also the nature of the relationship between charity and the moral virtues. Virtuous acts are acts that are ordered to their due standard, and this is twofold, namely God and human reason. God is the ultimate standard, to which the measure of reason must itself be referred (ST, 2a 2ae 23.6). Thus any Christian virtue is directed first towards God as the primary

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good, and then on secondary goods in their relation to God. This distinction is significantly made by Dante’s Virgil in expounding the meaning of natural and rational love (Purgatorio, XVII.97–102). In accordance with this distinction there are theological virtues, infused by God and ordered to a supernatural end, namely union with God, and there are moral virtues, acquired by repeated acts and ordered to a natural end, namely conduct in accordance with right reason. It is evident that the theological virtues are superior to the moral virtues (ST, 2a 2ae 23.6). Here, then, is the reason for Guyon’s swift discomfiture, for the moral virtue of temperance can be no match for the higher power infused by God. The divine infusion of theological virtue is signified in the allegory by the instrument of Britomart’s victory, an ‘enchaunted speare’ (III.1.9), for ‘the secret vertue of that weapon keene, / … mortall puissance mote not withstond’ (III.1.10).12 The description of chastity as ‘that fairest vertue, farre above the rest’ elevates it even among the theological virtues. Thus is charity elevated by St Paul (I Cor. 13.13), and the apostle is followed by Aquinas who writes that ‘caritas est excellentior fide et spe, et per consequens omnibus aliis virtutibus, / charity is higher than faith and hope, and consequently than all the virtues’ (ST, 2a 2ae 23.6). Chastity as charity is thus a supernatural virtue beyond the reach of reason; hence Glauce is led to observe to the impassioned Britomart that ‘love can higher stye, / Then reasons reach, and oft hath wonders donne’ (III.2.36). This truth is most dramatically realized in the ‘Legend of Chastity’ in the passage through the ‘flaming fire, ymixt with smouldry smoke’ (III.11.21) that bars entrance to the castle in which Amoret is imprisoned. The flames give way before the ‘utmost might’ of Britomart, ‘and did their force revolt’ (III.11.25), but not before the ‘greedy will, and envious desire’ (III.11.26) of Scudamour. Britomart shows the higher power of love that is necessary for the conquest of lust. Dante too has to make his way through the flames on the seventh terrace of purgatory where the sin of lust is purged. The prompting of Virgil (or reason) is not in itself sufficient, and the inspiration of Beatrice (or love) has to be called upon (Purgatorio, XXVII.19–54). Chastity is understood throughout the ‘Legend of Chastity’ in terms of its order to the ultimate end, that is, God. Hence Britomart is moved to love Artegall through no chance look of a ‘wandring eye’, but through

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a glance directed by ‘the streight course of heavenly destiny, / Led with eternall providence’ (III.3.24). Nevertheless the central concern of Spenser’s poem remains moral and not theological. It is for this very reason, indeed, that Book III is called the ‘Legend of Chastity’. This predominating moral interest becomes explicable when we consider the nature of the relationship between charity and the moral virtues. Now the form of a moral act is the end, for the principle of moral action is the will. But it is evident from the distinction of theological and moral virtue that acts have a twofold reference to an end, namely the ultimate end of infused virtue and the proximate end of acquired virtue. Thus we can view moral acts from within the limited frame of reference of human reason, and these acts, such as acts of temperance and justice, can accordingly possess a limited goodness. But the perfection of the moral act of temperance requires that it be directed also to the ultimate end, that is, God. It is so directed by charity, so that charity can be seen to be the form of temperance, as indeed it is of all the virtues (ST, 2a 2ae 23.8): Manifestum est autem … quod per caritatem ordinantur actus omnium aliarum virtutum ad ultimum finem. Et secundum hoc ipsa dat formam actibus omnium aliarum virtutum. Et pro tanto dicitur esse forma virtutum, nam et ipsae virtutes dicuntur in ordine ad actus formatos.13

Accordingly, the act of the moral virtue of chastity can be described as an act of charity formally and an act of chastity materially.14 The interest of Spenser in chastity materialiter is first of all indicated by the fact that he shows not only the superiority of chastity informed by charity to temperance considered in itself as a moral virtue, but also the essential harmony of chastity and temperance. Thus Britomart’s victory over Guyon is followed at once by ‘reconcilement … betweene them knit, / Through goodly temperance, and affection chaste’ (III.1.12). In the same way the fundamental unity of chastity and holiness is established when Red Cross in his turn comes to the aid of Britomart during the commotion at Castle Joyous in the middle of the night (III.1.66). Moreover, Spenser goes to great lengths to show that Britomart’s victory over Guyon is due to the power of chastity in itself and to no shortcoming in Guyon (whose own perfected temperance has just been vindicated in the destruction of the Bower of

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Bliss). Indeed, the poet himself, the Palmer, and Arthur are united in the desire to vindicate the name of ‘good Sir Guyon’ (III.1.5). The Palmer fears Guyon’s ‘toward perill and untoward blame’ (III.1.9), and Arthur ‘laid the blame, not to his carriage, / But to his starting steed, that swaru’d asyde, / And to the ill purveyance of his page’ (III.1.11).15 The poet expresses the universal sense of dismay that is to be felt when a knight so noble as Sir Guyon is discomfited (III.1.7): Ah gentlest knight, that ever armour bore, Let not thee grieve dismounted to have beene, And brought to ground, that never wast before; For not thy fault, but secret powre unseene, That speare enchaunted was, which layd thee on the greene.

The title of Book III is the ‘Legend of Chastity’ and not the ‘Legend of Charity’ because its subject is human love and not heavenly love, albeit ‘ykindled first above, / Emongst th’eternall spheres and lamping sky’ (III.3.1).16 This moral preoccupation explains the importance in the allegory of Belphoebe and Amoret, for they represent the necessary moral distinction between virginity and chaste married love. Thus the one is ‘upbrought in perfect Maydenhed’ and the other is ‘upbrought in goodly womanhed’ (III.6.28). The notions of virginity and chaste sexual love are linked in the experience of honourable wives, and Spenser signifies these two levels of experience in his representation of Britomart. We learn of Britomart’s destiny as the lover of Artegall (III.2.17–27) and as the progenitress of the race of Britons (III.3.21–50), but we know her throughout the action of the ‘Legend of Chastity’ as ‘this Briton Mayd’ (III.2.4), ‘most noble Virgin’ (III. 3.21), ‘the bold Virgin’ (III.11.13), and ‘the brave Maid’ (III.12.27). But the subject of Book III is not virginity as such, for virginity belongs to the level of heroic rather than ordinary virtue (ST, 2a 2ae 152.3): Hoc autem quod est conservare se immunem ab experimento venereae voluptatis habet quamdam excellentiam laudis supra hoc quod est conservare se immunem ab inordinatione venereae voluptatis. Et ideo virginitas est quaedam specialis virtus habens se ad castitatem sicut magnificentia se habet ad liberalitatem.17

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The fact that Chrysogone gave birth first to Belphoebe and ‘bore in like cace / Faire Amoretta in the second place’ (III.6.4) suggests the superiority of the state of virginity to the state of matrimony (ST, 2a 2ae 152.4). Belphoebe indeed ‘standeth on the highest staire / Of th’honorable stage of womanhead’ (III.5.54). But we are to look to Elizabeth I, the Virgin Queen herself, for such an image of heroic virtue (III, proem 5), rather than to Britomart. And indeed, it is Amoret, and not Belphoebe, who occupies our attention at the crisis of the ‘Legend of Chastity’. The reason is, as Spenser well knows, that it is ‘a lesson too too hard for living clay, / From love in course of nature to refraine’ (III.4.26). Spenser’s chastity is thus above all an ideal of married love. The real significance of chastity informed by charity is to be found in the image of Charissa in the ‘Legend of Holiness’. Charissa is portrayed in terms of maternal fecundity, for ‘her necke and breasts were ever open bare, / That ay thereof her babes might sucke their fill’ (I.10.30). Such a conception of chastity is an orthodox expression of the Christian ideal of marriage, ordained ‘for the procreation of children, to be brought up in the fear and nurture of the Lord’ (The Book of Common Prayer). It is not to be doubted, then, that the meaning of chastity in the ‘Legend of Chastity’ is the moral virtue of chastity as informed by charity. At the same time, we may well wonder what a pagan philosopher like Aristotle has to say on the subject of charity. Here it becomes necessary to interpret the reference to ‘Aristotle and the rest’ in the ‘Letter to Ralegh’ in terms of the christianized Aristotelianism of the medieval schoolmen, and, above all, Aquinas. It is instructive in reading Aquinas on charity (ST, 2a 2ae 34–46) to find that the Philosopher’s presence there is no less pervasive than elsewhere, for charity is expounded by Aquinas in terms of Aristotle’s friendship, and hence references to Books VIII and IX of the Nicomachean Ethics abound. II. It now remains to explain the nature of the moral virtue of chastity as informed by charity, and our explanation may begin with a consideration of the specifically moral dimensions of the virtue. This method is justified by the fact that it is the procedure which Spenser himself adopts in the ‘Legend of Chastity’. In any case, the definition of the moral virtue of

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chastity is sufficiently complicated in itself, for chastity cannot be understood apart from the distinctions of natural and rational love that are assumed by Boccaccio in the glosses to the description of the temple of Venus in the Teseida, and explicitly formulated by Dante’s Virgil in Purgatorio, XVII.91–139 and XVIII.1–75. Natural love is the inclination of all created beings to God as the source and term of their movement, and hence a necessity of human nature. But natural love and rational love are not simply opposed principles, although the one is necessary and the other is free, for natural love is the source of rational love. By rational love we are to understand the exercise of choice by an intellectual being in the light of its natural inclination (ST, 1a 2ae 26.1). Thus Spenser refers to love as a ‘kindly flame’ (IV, proem 2) and, recognizing no freedom in respect of it, has Glauce refer to ‘the tyranny of love’ (III.2.40). There is no guilt in such love, for natural love is, as Virgil puts it, ‘sempre sanza errore’ (Purg., XVII.94). Indeed, it is manifest that resistance to such natural love is evil, so that it is fitting that Marinell who ‘ever from faire Ladies love did fly’ (III.4.26) should be humbled by the Knight of Chastity, who wounds him in ‘his left side’ (III.4.16). Thus the God of Love takes vengeance on Troilus for his ‘surquidrie and foul presumpcioun’ (TC, I.213);18 thus ‘fell proud Marinell upon the pretious shore’ (III.4.17).19 Natural love has to be understood in its relation to the complex nature of human beings, in whom are to be found both sensible and intelligible principles of loving. It is necessary, in other words, to distinguish between the sensitive or animal appetite which follows sensation and the intellectual appetite or will which follows understanding (ST, 1a 2ae 6.2 and ad 1). The movements of the sensitive appetite or passions of the soul are properly subject to reason and will (ST, 1a 81.3), and are judged good or bad in so far as they are in or out of conformity with reason and will. As judged in themselves (by neo-Platonists and Aristotelians alike) they are neither good nor bad, and are certainly not to be deplored. Hence Britomart does not scorn Malecasta in so far as she takes her to be genuinely moved by passion born of goodwill, ‘for great rebuke it is, love to despise, / Or rudely sdeigne a gentle harts request’ (III.1.55). Passions such as love and desire are called natural because they share in the inclination of natural appetite

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(ST, 1a 2ae 41.3), and hence in the goodness of created being. This is presumably what Spenser has in mind when he refers to ‘naturall affection faultlesse’ (IV, proem 2). Likewise Glauce can find ‘nothing straunge’ in the ‘affection’ which so moves Britomart (III.2.40).20 Indeed, the presence of passion rightly ordered to reason adds to the moral perfection of an act as expressive of a person’s whole nature (ST, 1a 2ae 24.3). We turn, then, to a consideration of passion in relation to reason. What characterizes rational love is that it is free, and this freedom is expressed above all in the act of choice. Thus Red Cross would prefer death sooner than submit to the force which seeks to make him change his beloved (III.1.24), and Britomart comes to his aid, urging in the language of Chaucer’s Franklin (FranT, F 764–66), that love may not ‘be compeld by maisterie’ (III.1.25). As a result of freedom of choice there are two kinds of rational love, that is, two ways in which passion can be related to reason (signified by the two Venuses of Boccaccio’s glosses). The first kind of rational love is a virtuous love by which passion is conformed to the rule of reason. Such is indeed the virtue of temperance (of which chastity is a species), and it consists in the perfect blending of reason and the passions of desire and pleasure of touch (hence the mixing of water and wine is an emblem of temperance). Britomart is ‘the chaste damzell’ (III.1.53), who demonstrates her chastity in the confrontation with Malecasta in canto 1. Thus we are assured of her chastity before we are shown the violence of her passions in canto 2. Furthermore, it is made clear that these strong passions will be chastely reciprocated by the knight who bears on his shield ‘a crowned litle Ermilin’ (III.2.25), which is an emblem of chastity. The end of the virtue of chastity is procreation, and its proper moral context is matrimony. Hence in canto 3 Spenser looks forward to the union of Britomart and Artegall, and ‘most famous fruits of matrimoniall bowre’ (III.3.3). Such reasonable love is characterized by the presence of other virtues, and especially of faithfulness. Thus Red Cross loves with an unalterable love ‘the truest one on ground’ (III.1.24), and Britomart will not from her ‘owne love remove’ (III.1.28). Spenser is already preparing us for the ‘ruefull history’ of Amoret, whom Busirane ‘would forced have to have forlore / Her former love, and stedfast loialty’ (III.6.53).

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The second kind of rational love is one in which passion is at odds with reason and overwhelms the reason. This is the vice of lust, and it is characterized by servitude, for, as Boethius explains, ‘the laste servage’ is when the souls of men ‘ben yeven to vices and han ifalle fro the possessioun of hir propre resoun’.21 Thus Malecasta’s law of love (III.1.26–27) is a principle of servitude, enforcing infidelity. This is the evil love represented by Boccaccio in the temple of Venus, and hence it exhibits the same characteristics as Boccaccio has systematically expounded. Venus is to be found ‘in più secreta / parte del tempio, / in the most secret part of the temple’ and in a place that is ‘oscur nel primo gire, / dark on first entering’ (Teseida, VII.63–64; Havely, p. 130). Boccaccio explains that this is because ‘coloro li quali adoperano male, odiano la luce, / those who are doing evil hate the light’ (Teseida, p. 471; Havely, p. 132). This is the Venus shown on the tapestry adorning the walls of the inner room of Castle Joyous (III.1.34–38). Thus she leads Adonis ‘into a secret shade / … from bright heavens vew’ (III.1.35), where ‘she secretly would search each daintie lim’ (III.1.36), and ‘joyd his love in secret unespyde’ (III.1.37). Such secrecy is the mark of Paridell’s courtship of Hellenore. The evil nature of such secrecy is underlined by the use of the strongly pejorative ‘privy’ (the word used by Chaucer of Venus’s secret abode in The Parliament of Fowls, 260). Thus Hellenore sent to Paridell a ‘firie dart, whose hed / Empoisned was with privy lust’ (III.9.28), and Paridell in return ‘ever privily / In speaking, many false belgardes at her let fly’ (III.9.52). The darkness of evening ‘fit for lovers stealth’ (III.10.12) makes possible the execution of the plan by which these lustful desires can be fulfilled, and the lovers take their leave of Malbecco’s castle under the ‘safe conduct’ of ‘Night, the patronesse of love-stealth faire’ (III.10.16). The same associations are persistently developed within the House of Busirane, and especially in the tapestry in the outermost room depicting the gods who had fallen victim to Cupid (III.11.28–46). The ‘goodly arras’ is so tightly woven with gold and silk ‘that the rich metall lurked privily’ (III.11.28). Neptune hangs down his head, ‘for privy love his brest empierced had’ (III.11.41), and ‘mighty Mars’ is overcome by ‘womanish teares, and … unwarlike smarts, / Privily moystening his horrid cheek’ (III.11.44). The Masque of Cupid itself is fittingly set in the midst

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of darkness, when ‘chearelesse Night ycovered had / Faire heaven with an universall cloud’ (III.12.1). In the Teseida (VII.64), Boccaccio has placed Ricchezza to keep watch at the door of the secret place in which Venus is to be found, and explains in his gloss that this is because ‘voluttuosa vita senza riccheza non potersi avere né lungamente seguire, / the life of pleasure cannot be had or maintained for long without wealth’ (Tes., p. 471; Havely, p. 132). Here is an explanation of the repeated association of lust and wealth in the ‘Legend of Chastity’. Thus Malecasta is rightly called ‘the Lady of delight’ (III.1.31), for it is pleasure and not goodness that is the object of her desires, and the pursuit of such pleasure is supported by enormous wealth. ‘Living wit … cannot display / The royall riches and exceeding cost, / Of every pillour and of every post’ (III.1.32) in the great chamber of Castle Joyous, whilst the ‘royaltee / And rich purveyance’ of the inner room to which it leads ‘might uneath be red’ (III.1.33). Malecasta herself is to be found ‘sitting on a sumptuous bed, / That glistred all with gold and glorious shew’ (III.1.41). By contrast Britomart despises the ‘rich aray / Of pearles and pretious stones of great assay’ (III.4.18) that are in her power after the defeat of Marinell. Boccaccio’s Venus holds Lascivia by the hand (Teseida, VII.66), and this signifies the fact that ‘l’opere de’ voluttuosi non solamente in lussuria consistere, ma ancora in lascivia; la quale lascivia intende essere il basciare, il toccare e il cianciare e ’l motteggiare e l’altre scioccheze che intorno a ciò si fanno’ (Tes., p. 471).22 Such wantonness is represented in Castle Joyous by Malecasta’s six liegemen – Gardante, Parlante, Jocante, Basciante, Bacchante and Noctante (III.1.45). And whereas Britomart rightly does not condemn the force of passion in Malecasta, she and Red Cross are no less rightly united in disdaining ‘such lascivious disport’, and in loathing ‘the loose demeanure of that wanton sort’ (III.1.40). III. Chastity, as Spenser represents it in the ‘Legend of Chastity’, is not limited to the virtue opposed to the bad Venus of Boccaccio’s allegorical glosses. It now becomes necessary, therefore, to turn to that part of its definition which will explain its superiority to the moral virtue of temperance.

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This is the informing virtue of charity, which Aquinas defines as ‘amicitia quaedam … hominis ad Deum, / a friendship of man and God’ (ST, 2a 2ae 23.1). Aquinas identifies three elements as constituting such friendship, namely goodwill, mutual loving and fellowship, and Spenser’s allegory of chastity can be considered in respect of each of these elements in turn. The definition of goodwill is developed by reference to the distinction between the love of friendship (amor amicitiae) and the love of desire (amor concupiscentiae). By the love of friendship love is directed towards the person one wishes good, and by the love of desire love is directed towards the good that one wishes for someone. In loving, therefore, one can love the object of one’s love for its own sake, or for the sake of some good such as pleasure or gain that one can derive from it (ST, 1a 2ae 26.4). Thus the love of friendship is to be distinguished from the love of desire precisely because it is based on goodwill: ‘Dicendum quod secundum Philosophum [Ethics, VIII.2], non quilibet amor habet rationem amicitiae, sed amor qui est cum benevolentia, quando scilicet sic amamus aliquem ut ei bonum velimus’ (ST, 2a 2ae, 23.1).23 Those who love by the love of friendship are called upon to suffer for the sake of others. Consequently, such love demands great courage if it is to be exercised. Hence Britomart as the Knight of Chastity has to overcome the fears that stand in the way of the love of friendship. It is her fearlessness that is identified first by Spenser (before indeed the identification of name and sex), for the knight who unhorses Guyon comes ‘fiercely forward … withouten dread’ (III.1.5). The fearlessness of Britomart is emphasized by the contrast with Florimell who suddenly appears ‘out of the thickest brush’ in full flight, her face ‘through feare as white as whales bone’ (III.1.15). Florimell has every reason to fear, for she is pursued by ‘a griesly Foster …/ Breathing out beastly lust her to defile’ (III.1.17). But she becomes so agitated by fear that she is unable to distinguish friend from foe. Her ‘needlesse dreed’ (III.4.48) makes her flee from Arthur, ‘affraid of him, as feend of hell’ (III.4.47). By her unreasoning fears she is led away from safety into further perils and further flight (III.7.1–27, and III.8.20–43). But (unlike Chaucer’s Criseyde) she is not in the end undone by fear, for ‘eternall thraldome was to her more liefe, / Then losse of chastitie, or chaunge of love’ (III.8.42).

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The need for courage if the value of chaste love is to be upheld explains why Spenser focuses so insistently upon the boldness of Britomart. Thus she continues on her quest after Arthur, Guyon and Timias have departed in pursuit of Florimell and the forester ‘with stedfast courage and stout hardiment’ (III.1.19). Scudamour recognizes the ‘huge heroicke magnanimity’ (III.11.19) that enables her to take up the struggle on his behalf.24 Boldness is not rashness, and Britomart does not attempt the passage through the flames without considering that ‘daunger without discretion to attempt, / Inglorious and beastlike is’ (III.11.23). Once entered within the House of Busirane, Britomart goes ‘forward with bold steps’ (III.11.50) from the first to the second room, and undaunted was her ‘courage proud’ as she awaits her opportunity to enter the third room (III.12.1–2). She enters the third room on the second evening, ‘neither of idle shewes, nor of false charmes aghast’ (III.12.29), but does not relax her vigilance until Busirane has released Amoret from these charms (III.12.37). So much attention is given to Britomart’s courage because goodwill is the very foundation of charity. It is the altruistic nature of such love that accounts for the fact that the Knight of Chastity is engaged in a deadly struggle, not on behalf of her own love for Artegall (though that would be no less altruistic), but on behalf of Scudamour’s love for Amoret. She could do no more, as Scudamour recognizes, if Amoret ‘were thine, and thou as now am I’ (III.11.19). Britomart is not in love with Scudamour, but shows the kindness towards him that proceeds from goodwill. Such kindness is noted by Aquinas as the exterior act of charity that corresponds to the interior act of goodwill (ST, 2a 2ae 31.4 sed contra). But neither Spenser’s ‘Legend of Chastity’ nor Aquinas’s definition of charity is limited to acts of goodwill. The principal act of the virtue of charity is the act of love (ST, 2a 2ae 27.1). The act of love is not the same as goodwill, but presupposes it. Here we must allow for the complexity of the rational soul as the principle of sensitive and intellectual appetition. Now goodwill is to be distinguished from love in respect of both; it is distinguished from the passion of love by its suddenness and lack of intensity, and from rational love by its lack of an affective union or passionate attachment of lover and loved.25 Thus Arthur, Guyon and Timias

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upon the sight of the forester pursuing Florimell ‘stayd not to avise, who first should bee, / But all spurd after fast, as they mote fly, / To reskew her from shamefull villany’ (III.1.18). In like manner Britomart is so moved by Scudamour’s grief ‘that pitty did the Virgins hart of patience rob’ (III.11.8). But she is not moved by that intensity of passion that renders her unable at first to reply to Red Cross’s question as to the purpose of her quest, when she ‘with hart-thrilling throbs and bitter stowre, / As if she had a fever fit, did quake’ (III.2.5). The act of love that is rational is a mutual act, and it is illustrated by the passionate union of Amoret and Scudamour with which the ‘Legend of Chastity’ in its original form ends (III.12.44–46). The third element in Aquinas’s definition of charity focuses on that which is shared in friendship. Thus by charity God shares his happiness with human beings (ST, 2a 2ae 23.1). In respect of human friendship, Aristotle identifies five things that are shared, as Aquinas notes: ‘Praeterea, Philosophus in Ethic. [IX.4] ponit quinque ad amicitiam pertinentia: quorum primum est quod homo velit amico bonum; secundum est quod velit ei esse et vivere; tertium est quod ei convivat; quartum est quod eadem eligat; quintum est quod condoleat et congaudeat’ (ST, 2a 2ae 27.2 arg. 3).26 We can say in respect of the ‘Legend of Chastity’, therefore, that what is shared above all are the decisions, joys and sorrows of married life. This aspect of Aristotle’s friendship corresponds well with the Protestant emphasis in the solemnization of matrimony on ‘the mutual society, help, and comfort, that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and adversity’ (The Book of Common Prayer). There are three inward effects of charity, namely joy, peace and mercy (preamble to ST, 2a 2ae 28). ‘The Legend of Chastity’, however, is about the trials and tribulations of chaste love rather than its joyful fulfilment. Britomart rides forth on her quest ‘without repose or rest’ (III.4.6), that is, she remains in a state of passionate desire, seeking but not possessing the object of her love. Thus it is the effect of mercy (that is, pity for another’s misfortunes) that is here chiefly to be noticed. Aquinas draws on Aristotle’s Rhetoric (II.8) in identifying three causes of pity (listed in ascending order in accordance with their power to move); firstly, painful and destructive evils, such as death and bodily injuries; secondly, evils due to chance, such as the deprivation of friends, and evil coming

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from a source where good may have been expected; and thirdly, undeserved afflictions, when ‘aliquis semper sectatus est bona et eveniunt ei mala, / one has always followed after what is good and yet meets with nothing but evil’ (ST, 2a 2ae 30.1). Now Amoret is presented comprehensively in these terms as the object of pity. She is indeed the recipient of painful and destructive evils. Scudamour reports that Busirane ‘tormenteth her most terribly, / And day and night afflicts with mortall paine’ (III.11.17), but the report hardly prepares us for the horror of the injury inflicted in Amoret’s breast, ‘a wide wound therein (O ruefull sight) / Entrenched deepe with knife accursed keene’ (III.12.20). Further, she is cut off from her friends, for Scudamour is unable to get past the flames in the porch of the House of Busirane and so come to her aid (III.11.11).27 Indeed, evil comes to Amoret unexpectedly ‘the very selfe same day that she was wedded, / Amidst the bridale feast’, when she is ‘ill of friends bestedded, / By way of sport, as oft in maskes is knowen’, as we learn at the beginning of the ‘Legend of Friendship’ (IV.1.3). But above all it is the spectacle of suffering wholly undeserved that stirs pity for Amoret. At her birth she is seen to share with her twin sister the whole store ‘of bountie, and of beautie, and all vertues rare’ (III.6.4), and she is entrusted by Venus to Psyche to be ‘trained up in true feminitee’ (III.6.51). Thus she grows up to be ‘th’ensample of true love alone, / And Lodestarre of all chaste affectione’ (III.6.52). Her one crime indeed is that she gives to Scudamour ‘her loving hart … linked fast / In faithfull love’ (III.6.53).28 Aristotle explains in his Rhetoric (II.8) that those who are themselves most closely involved in such evils by bonds of love and kinship are moved not by pity, but by terror, for here there is a complete identification with the person enduring evils. Hence Scudamour is overwhelmed by the realization of his own impotence to aid Amoret (III.11.11) and by his sense of the injustice that allows ‘goodnesse … no grace’ and ‘righteousnesse no meed’ (III.11.9). The sight of Scudamour moves Britomart ‘both with great ruth and terrour’ (III.11.12), for the goodwill on which her chastity is based leads her to identify with Scudamour to that extent. But it is the effect of mercy that Spenser chiefly exhibits in Britomart here, and she fittingly acknowledges that ‘nothing so much pitty doth implore, / As gentle Ladies helplesse misery’ (III.11.18). Mercy involves not merely sorrow for another’s misfortunes, but also the determination to remedy them.29 Hence Britomart

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goes on to say that she will deliver Amoret from her imprisonment ‘with proofe of last extremity , / … or with her for you dy’ (III.11.18). Thus the rescue of Amoret from the House of Busirane is a poetic representation of the perfect love of charity that issues in mercy. The first edition of Books I–III of The Faerie Queene in 1590 ends with joy as an effect of charity in the joyous reunion of Amoret and Scudamour, although Britomart herself, whose chaste love for Artegall remains still unfulfilled, is left ‘halfe envying their blesse’ (III.12.46). In prosecuting a grander design Spenser has by 1596 reduced Amoret as well as Britomart to a state of frustrated hope, and has reserved to the ‘Legend of Friendship’ the uniting of chaste lovers. Fittingly, the ‘Legend of Friendship’ ends with the promised union of Florimell and Marinell (IV.12.33–35), and, no less fittingly, it is perfected in the ‘Legend of Justice’ (V.3.1–3). So does the divine justice repair the undeserved misfortunes of mortals. IV. Aquinas’s systematic classification of the virtues is accompanied no less systematically by the classification of the vices opposed to them. In the same way vice is opposed to virtue in the ‘Legend of Chastity’, ‘for good by paragone / Of evill, may more notably be rad’ (III.9.2). The forces ranged against Britomart, therefore, are to be understood in terms of the vices opposed to charity. As charity is founded on goodwill, so the opposed vice is rooted in simple malevolence. And such malevolence finds its outward expression in acts of cruelty. The name of Busirane, as Hamilton notes,30 is derived from Busiris, a king of Egypt famous for his cruelty, and Busirane lives up to his name in the wicked torments that he inflicts on Amoret (III.11.10–11 and 16–17). As we have seen, Amoret does nothing to deserve these torments. Her faithful love of Scudamour and the joys of the wedding feast are provocation enough. Thus in Beowulf the monster Grendel is grievously afflicted because he ‘dogora gehwam dream gehyrde / hludne in healle, / he heard every day loud joy in hall’ (88–89a), and visits upon the Danes a terrible punishment (99–169).31 And as goodwill is maintained by courage, so such malevolent cruelty is carried out with rashness, as when Busirane ‘rashly … did wrest’ his murderous knife from Amoret and turned instead on

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Britomart ‘his fell intent’ (III.12.33). Indeed, the legends ‘Be bold ’ (III.11.50), ‘Be bold, be bold, and every where Be bold ’, and ‘Be not too bold ’ (III.11.54) over the respective doors of the three rooms in the House of Busirane are a travesty of the boldness that must accompany the love based on goodwill. The boldness of the House of Busirane is a boldness in arousing love, but not in committing oneself to love; it is the boldness of a Paridell.32 Opposed to love as the principal act of charity is hate (preamble to ST, 2a 2ae 34). There can be no doubt that it is Busirane’s intention to destroy Amoret, and Britomart only just manages to prevent his final desperate attempt to do so (III.12.32).33 Opposed to joy as the effect of love are sloth and envy (preamble to ST, 2a 2ae 34). Sloth is represented in cantos 7 and 8 in terms of the passion of the witch’s son, for he is ‘a laesie loord, for nothing good to donne, / But stretched forth in idlenesse alwayes’ (III.7.12), and envy in cantos 9 and 10 in terms of Malbecco’s jealous love of Hellenore, for such jealousy is envy (ST, 1a 2ae 28.4). Love is gratuitous, but hate is a dependent principle, that is, its reality is less than the supreme reality of love. The reason is that the good to which love is ordered is identical with being, and evil is not being but a privation of being. A completely evil thing cannot by definition exist, and that which is evil presupposes a measure of goodness (ST, 1a 2ae 18.1 and ad 1). Hence Dante defines the deadly sins in terms of their derivation from, and perversion of, the reality of love. Thus the deadly sins of pride, envy and anger are the love of a neighbour’s evil (Purg., XVII.113): ‘ ’l mal che s’ama è del prossimo, / the evil that is loved is a neighbour’s’ (Petrocchi, III.291; Sinclair, II.227). Since the good and the love of the good are the ultimate principles of reality, and since evil and hatred are derivative principles, the process whereby hatred is derived from love must consequently be set forth. And it is the purpose of Spenser’s ‘odious argument’ (III.9.1) to do so. The object of love is the good, so that love is evil when the good is an apparent but not a real good (ST, 1a 2ae 27.1 ad 1). Such an evil love can be expressed in the terms of Renaissance neo-Platonism as the desire of a false and not a true beauty; hence the witch’s son is no less satisfied with the false than the true Florimell as the object of his love (III.8.9–10). The seeming good is a good that is not in accord with the primary good. The separation of Busirane from the source of goodness is revealed by the fact

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that he is an enchanter (III.11.16), for the omnipotence and final reality of God (that is, of goodness and beauty alike) are called into question by his magic arts. The evil of necromancy constitutes a real challenge to the divine order that is taken seriously in the ‘Legend of Chastity’, as we see from the need for the reversal of his spells (III.12.34–38). When the order to the good is lacking, what remains is the order to the self, and indeed this is what defines the nature of the love of desire (ST, 1a 2ae 27.3). Thus Paridell’s interest in Hellenore is simply his own pleasure, and when he has satisfied his desire for pleasure, he abandons her; ‘so had he served many one’ (III.10.35). Malbecco’s love for Hellenore is that of a jealously guarded possession, and is directly comparable with the fixing of his mind ‘on mucky pelfe’ and ‘heapes of evill gotten masse’ (III.9.4). Thus he finds himself in a cruel dilemma when his house is in flames and his wife is being carried off by the lover, for he was ‘loth to loose his loved Dame, / And loth to leave his liefest pelfe behind’ (III.10.15). In the end he opts for the money, that is ‘dearest to his donghill mind’ (III.10.15), for such a choice most completely defines the nature of his love. The proper word for such desire is cupiditas (ST, 1a 2ae 30.3), and the representation of cupidity in Malbecco prepares us for the image of Cupid himself in the following canto. The image of Cupid at the upper end of the outermost room of the House of Busirane (III.11.47–49) makes it manifest that this Cupid represents an evil and unenlightened love in which reason is subject to desire. Thus Cupid is ‘blindfold’ and stands in triumph over the dragon of chastity, wounded ‘with a shaft … shot through either eye’ (III.11.48). The gods, who are now subject to his power (III.11.35), transform themselves into animals to satisfy their lust, Jupiter into a ram and a bull (III.11.30), Neptune into a steer, a dolphin and a winged horse (III.11.42), and Saturn into a centaur (III.11.43). Cupid is the ‘cruell Cupid ’ (III.11.38) who holds his deadly bow in his ‘cruell fist’ (III.11.48), and in his cruelty does not spare his own mother (III.11.45). Such is the nature of the love of desire concerned only with the gratification of self. Thus Jupiter, transformed now into a swan, is aptly described as ‘the proud Bird ruffing his fethers wyde, / And brushing his faire brest’ when he invades the beautiful Leda (III.11.32). The gratification of lustful desires takes no account of the objects that have become the instruments of gratification. Thus the desires of Apollo are the death

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of Daphne (III.11.36), and Hyacinth and Coronis are both by his ‘haplesse hand extinct’ (III.11.37). The result of such desires is the ‘wastefull emptinesse’ of the second room (III.11.53). Such desire, making creatures its end, is indeed the death of charity (ST, 2a 2ae 24.10 ad 2). Thus those who worship at the shrine of Cupid commit ‘fowle Idolatree’ (III.11.49), for in so doing they offend against the true divine source of love. Spenser’s ‘odious argument’ follows the course of the love of desire through cupidity and envy until it finally comes to rest in hate.34 The odious spectacle of the torture of Amoret is fittingly represented in the final canto of the ‘Legend of Chastity’ because ‘odium, quod huic dilectioni opponitur, non est primum in deletione virtutis, quae fit per vitia, sed ultimum’ (ST, 2a 2ae 34.5).35 It is for the same reason that Dante has reserved for the utmost depths of hell the terrible image of Ugolino della Gherardesca gnawing the skull of the Archbishop Ruggieri (Inf., XXXII.129): ‘là ’ve ’l cervel s’aggiugne con la nuca, / at the place where the brain joins the nape’ (Petrocchi, II.559; Sinclair, I.401). By ‘sì bestial segno, / so bestial a token’ (Inf., XXXII.133) is represented the intense hatred (odio) which now consumes the whole being of Ugolino and has removed the last vestiges of his humanity. The hatred of a Busirane or of a Ugolino is the final stage of the process of corruption of the highest principle of love in the human soul, and the truest evidence of what has been lost to human nature in the Fall. But Spenser no less than Dante denies to the unreality of evil a final triumph over the reality of good, for the ‘Legend of Chastity’ comes to its first and fitting conclusion with the joyous union of Amoret and Scudamour, indistinguishable in the purity of their mutual love as ‘that faire Hermaphrodite, / Which that rich Romane of white marble wrought’ (III.12.46).

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Notes 1 2 3 4 5

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‘… there can be no true justice or true chastity if the due reference to the end by means of charity is lacking, however rightly disposed one may be about other things’ (trans. R.J. Batten, O.P.). Reference is to The Poems of John Milton, edited by John Carey and Alastair Fowler (London and New York: Longman, 1968), p. 187. On this point see Philip Rollinson, Classical Theories of Allegory and Christian Culture (Pittsburgh: Duquesne University Press; Brighton: Harvester, 1981), pp. 19–22. References to ‘The Faerie Queene’ and also to the ‘Letter to Ralegh’ are throughout to Smith, Spenser’s ‘Faerie Queene’ (1909). ‘Holiness as the First of Spenser’s Aristotelian Moral Virtues’, MLR, 81 (1986), 817–37 and ‘The Idea of Temperance in the Second Book of The Faerie Queene’, RES, 37 (1986), 11–39 (articles 10 and 11 above). For the historical justification of a Scholastic Aristotelian reading of The Faerie Queene, see ‘Holiness as the First of Spenser’s Aristotelian Moral Virtues’, pp. 818–20. ‘When we speak of love, understand the desire of beauty. For this is the definition of love among all philosophers.’ Reference is to Ficino, Opera, second edition, 2 vols (Basle, 1576), II.1322. Aquinas follows Dionysius in his acceptance of the real identity of the good and the beautiful (ST, 1a 2ae 27.1 arg. 3 and ad 3). The notional distinction of the good and the beautiful is expressed by Aquinas in terms of the final and formal causes of love (ST, 1a 5.4 ad 1). Robert Ellrodt, Neoplatonism in the Poetry of Spenser (Geneva: E. Droz, 1960), has demonstrated that the interpretations of Belphoebe as the heavenly Venus (M.Y. Hughes), and of Britomart as the earthly Venus (C.W. Lemmi), and also the identification of the garden of Adonis with an exemplary realm of immaterial forms ( J.W. Bennett), cannot be defended other than on the grounds of the incoherence of Spenser’s allegory and the eccentricity of his neo-Platonism (see especially pp. 48–49 and 74–75). Moreover, he has also shown that the doctrines of the transiency of forms and the eternity of first matter, that is, created matter (III.6.36–38) do not go beyond the medieval Platonism derived from the Timaeus and are ‘not inconsistent either with traditional Christianity or with the prevailing Aristotelianism’ (p. 72). The neo-Platonic language of this stanza obscures the consistency of Spenser’s argument, for it is the same natural inclination to love in the human soul that

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results in good and evil loves alike. Dante’s Virgil acknowledges the twofold potentiality of natural love in a more straightforward way (Purgatorio, XVII.103– 5): ‘Quinci comprender puoi ch’esser convene / amor sementa in voi d’ogne virtute / e d’ogne operazion che merta pene / From this thou canst understand that love must be the seed in you of every virtue and of every action deserving punishment’ (Petrocchi, III.290; Sinclair, II.225). ‘This Venus is twofold in character. In one form she can and should be seen to represent all worthy and legitimate desires – such as the desire to have a wife in order to have children, and so on … The second Venus is the one who causes all kinds of lust to be desired, and she is commonly called the goddess of love. And the author here describes the temple of this goddess and the other things surrounding it, as the text shows.’ Reference is to Boccaccio, Teseida delle nozze d’Emilia, edited by Alberto Limentani, Volume II (1964), pp. 229–664 (p. 463) in Tutte le opere di Giovanni Boccaccio, edited by Branca, 12 vols incomplete (1964–) and to Chaucer’s Boccaccio: Sources of ‘Troilus’ and the ‘Knight’s’ and ‘Franklin’s Tales’, edited and translated by N.R. Havely, Chaucer Studies V (Cambridge: D.S. Brewer, 1980), p. 131. The glosses to the temples of Mars and Venus have been translated in full by Piero Boitani, Chaucer and Boccaccio, Medium Aevum Monographs, New Series 8 (Oxford, 1977), pp. 200–10 (see p. 201). See ‘Holiness as the First of Spenser’s Aristotelian Moral Virtues’, p. 821. It may be noted here that the doctrine of infused theological virtues necessitates the assumption of infused moral virtues proportioned to them (ST, 1a 2ae 63.3 ad 1). Aquinas explains this necessity as follows: ‘… virtutes theologicae sufficienter nos ordinant in finem supernaturalem, secundum quamdam inchoationem, quantum scilicet ad ipsum Deum immediate. Sed oportet quod per alias virtutes infusas perficiatur anima circa alias res, in ordine tamen ad Deum, / The theological virtues are enough to shape us to our supernatural end as a start, that is to God himself immediately and to none other. Yet the soul needs also to be equipped by infused virtues in regard to created things, though as subordinate to God’ (ST, 1a 2ae 63.3 ad 2; trans. W.D. Hughes, O.P.). The proper objects of the infused moral virtues differ from those of the acquired moral virtues. Thus the health of the body is the proper object of the acquired moral virtue of temperance and results in moderation in eating and drinking, whereas the subjection of the body to the soul is the proper object of the infused moral virtue of temperance and results in fasting (ST, 1a 2ae 63.4). In this way chaste married love and virginity can be distinguished, so that by chastity Spenser can be seen to intend the acquired and not the infused moral virtue. ‘Now it is evident … that charity directs the acts of all the other virtues to our final end. Accordingly it shapes all these acts and to this extent is said to be the

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17 18 19

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Gerald morgan form of the virtues, for virtues themselves are so called with reference to “formed” acts’ (trans. Batten). Charity is not the form of the virtues in the sense of an exemplar or substantial form, ‘sed magis effective, inquantum, scilicet, omnibus formam imponit, / but rather as efficient, inasmuch as it impresses its form on all of them’ (ST, 2a 2ae 23.8 ad 1). The distinction between the formal and material dimensions of a moral act is explained by Aquinas at ST, 1a 2ae 13.1 in reference to the virtue of fortitude: ‘Si enim aliquis actum fortitudinis exerceat propter Dei amorem, actus quidem ille materialiter est fortitudinis, formaliter vero caritatis, / a brave deed done for the love of God is basically an act of courage, but animated by one of charity’ (trans. Gilby). Hamilton, Edmund Spenser: ‘The Faerie Queene’ 1977), comments that ‘while being tactful, Arthur tells the truth: Guyon is defeated because he failed to control his steed, i.e. his passions’ (p. 307). This interpretation cannot be accepted. Not every element in an allegorical fiction has metaphorical status. As Spenser uses chastity to include the informing power of charity, so medieval writers can use charity inclusively with reference to the moral virtue of chastity. Thus Gower ends the Confessio Amantis with praise of ‘thilke love which that is / Withinne a mannes herte affermed, / And stant of charite confermed’ (VIII.3162– 64); reference is to The English Works of John Gower, edited by G.C. Macaulay, EETS (ES) 81–82, 2 vols (London: Oxford University Press, 1900–1901). As Elizabeth Porter has pointed out, ‘Gower’s Ethical Microcosm and Political Macrocosm’, in Gower’s Confessio Amantis: Responses and Reassessments, edited by A.J. Minnis (Cambridge: D.S. Brewer, 1983), pp. 135–62 (at 162), ‘it would be wrong to read this praise of caritas as a renunciation of human love’, for ‘it is rather the culmination of the ethical teaching that Gower has been putting forward throughout his poem’. ‘… to hold aloof from all experience of sex pleasure has a certain distinction about it beyond keeping away from inordinate voluptuousness. Hence virginity is quite special, and related to chastity as magnificence is to liberality’ (trans. Gilby). Reference is to Larry D. Benson and others, The Riverside Chaucer, third edition (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1987). Ellrodt, Neoplatonism in the Poetry of Spenser (1960), p. 56, n. 55, rightly notes that it is not virginity that is condemned in Marinell, ‘but insensibility to human affections for a wrong motive. Marinell does not dedicate himself to a religious life, but to the acquisition of riches. Christianity has never exalted virginity apart from a religious purpose’. The references to Britomart’s ‘bleeding bowels’ (III.2.39) and ‘troubled bowels’ (III.4.8) establish that the passion is the passion of love or desire. Thus Plato

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locates the inferior irrational part of the soul or appetite in the liver (Timaeus, 70D–72B). 21 De consolatione philosophiae, Book V, prosa 2.32–34. Reference is to Chaucer’s translation (Boece). 22 ‘… the actions of pleasure-lovers are characterized not only by lust but also by wantonness. And he sees such wantonness as consisting in kisses, touching, trifling, badinage and the other foolish things that are done at such times’ (Havely, p. 132). 23 ‘According to Aristotle not all love has the character of friendship, but only that which goes with well wishing, namely when we so love another as to will what is good for him’ (trans. Batten). 24 Magnanimity is classified by Aquinas among the parts of courage (ST, 2a 2ae 128). Dante indeed uses magnanimity as a synonym of courage in the Convivio, IV.26.7: ‘fortezza, o vero magnanimitate, la quale vertute mostra lo loco dove è da fermarsi e da pugnare, / fortitude or strength of spirit, and the role of this virtue is to make clear just where the desire [of fleeing] ought to stop and engage its adversary’ . Reference is to Il Convivio, edited by G. Busnelli and G. Vandelli, second edition, 2 vols (Florence: Felice Le Monnier, 1968 and 1964), II.332, and translated by Christopher Ryan, Dante: The Banquet (Saratoga, California: Anma Libri, 1989), p. 190. 25 Aquinas, ST, 2a 2ae 27.2: ‘Et ideo Philosophus, in Ethic. [IX.5], ostendens differentiam inter benevolentiam et amorem qui est passio, dicit quod benevolentia non habet distensionem et appetitum, idest aliquem impetum inclinationis, sed ex solo judicio rationis homo vult bonum alicui. Similiter etiam talis amor est ex quadam consuetudine: benevolentia autem interdum oritur ex repentino, sicut accidit nobis de pugilibus qui pugnant, quorum alterum vellemus vincere. Sed amor, qui est in appetitu intellectivo, etiam differt a benevolentia. Importat enim quandam unionem secundum affectum amantis ad amatum, inquantum scilicet amans aestimat amatum quodammodo ut unum sibi, vel ad se pertinens, et sic movetur in ipsum. Sed benevolentia est simplex actus voluntatis quo volumus alicui bonum, etiam non praesupposita praedicta unione affectus ad ipsum, / This is why Aristotle, when he wants to bring out the difference between goodwill and passion-love, says that goodwill does not involve intensity or desire, in other words is not vehement in its inclination, but means simply that a man wills someone well solely from the judgement of reason. Again, this kind of passion-love springs from familiarity, while goodwill is sometimes sudden, as happens when we witness two men fighting, and want one of them to win. In the intellective appetite, also, love differs from goodwill. For it implies a certain affective union between lover and loved, inasmuch as the lover, seeing the beloved as one with

290

26

27

28

29

30 31 32

33

Gerald morgan himself or as part of him, is thereby attracted. Goodwill, on the other hand, is a simple act of the will, which makes us wish another well without presupposing any such union’ (trans. Batten). ‘Besides, in the Ethics Aristotle lists five characteristics of friendship: first, willing the friend’s good; second, wishing him to be and to live; third, living with him; fourth, choosing the same things; fifth, grieving and rejoicing over the same things’ (trans. Batten). Likewise Florimell in the open sea is remote from the help of friends (III.8.27–29). Indeed the same undeserved suffering is also developed by Spenser in relation to Florimell, as is made explicit in the opening canto of the ‘Legend of Friendship’. No more piteous story was ever told than ‘that of Amorets hart- binding chaine, / And this of Florimels unworthie paine’ (IV.1.1). Woodhouse, ‘Nature and Grace in The Faerie Queene’ (1970), comments that Amoret’s ‘education in the Garden of Adonis, while true to nature, has yet been incomplete: it has not contained all the elements requisite for love true and chaste at the human level. There is some failure in integration. She cannot securely transcend the merely physical in her passion for Scudamour; hence her imprisonment by Busyrane’ (p. 45). The meaning of Spenser’s text at III.6.51–53 is here misrepresented under the pressure of a false interpretation of the torments inflicted on Amoret by Busirane. Such is Augustine’s definition: ‘misericordia est alienae miseriae in nostro corde compassio, qua utique, si possumus, subvenire compellimur, / mercy is heartfelt compassion for another’s misery, a compassion which drives us to do what we can to help him’ (De civitate Dei, IX.5). It is quoted in this form by Aquinas (ST, 2a 2ae 30.1). Hamilton, Edmund Spenser: ‘The Faerie Queene’ 1977), p. 403. Reference is to Beowulf and the Fight at Finnsburg, edited by Fr. Klaeber, third edition (Lexington, Massachusetts: D.C. Heath and Company, 1950). This is the explanation of Lewis, Spenser’s Images of Life, (1967), pp. 27–28. See also the excellent short article by A.K. Hieatt, ‘Scudamour’s Practice of “Maistrye” upon Amoret’, PMLA, 77 (1962), 509–10, which sees Scudamour’s passionate love as overbold in threatening the moral integrity of Amoret. But this is a matter that belongs rather to Spenser’s later development of the argument in the ‘Legend of Friendship’. Thomas P. Roche, Jr, The Kindly Flame: A Study of the Third and Fourth Books of Spenser’s ‘Faerie Queene’ (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1964), has recognized so much of the real meaning of Busirane, but has obscured its significance by importing assumptions of Amoret’s fear of physical surrender to Scudamour. He writes that Busirane ‘is the great enemy to chastity; he

12

34

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represents a negative force of which chastity is the positive ideal. He represents the negation of chastity, and this for Spenser did not mean lust’ (p. 81). Indeed, what it does mean is hate. Thus the torments of Busirane are set after the triumph of Cupid, for ‘such love is hate’ (III.1.50). On the order of the passions of love, desire, fear and sorrow, see ST, 1a 2ae 25.3; on love as the cause of fear in the manner of a material disposition, see ST, 1a 2ae 43.1; and on envy, that is, sorrow for a neighbour’s good, as the cause of hate, see ST, 2a 2ae 34.6. ‘Hatred, … since it is the direct opposite of love would not be the first but the last layer of evil effacing virtue’ (trans. Thomas R. Heath, O.P.).

Index

Aeneas. See Virgil: Aeneid Alcestis, 163–64 Alcibiades, 149, 163 Alexandria, 117 Algeçiras, 117 Almeria, 117 Anatolia, 117 Anselm, St, 31 Aquinas, St Thomas, 72, 198, 201, 212, 229–30 n 42 Summa theologiae, 6, 7, 15–16, 30–31, 32, 46, 57–58, 62 n 34, 65–66, 68, 70–72, 77–78, 80, 82, 83–84, 90, 94–95, 97–98, 103, 200, 202–3, 204–13, 216, 218, 219, 223–24, 227 n 23, 228 nn 29, 30, 31, 229 n 37, 232, 233–34, 235–36, 239–41, 243, 246–47, 249, 250–51, 253, 256, 258, 260–61, 263 n 18, 267, 268, 269–70, 272–73, 274, 278, 279–81, 283, 285, 286 n 7, 287 n 12, 288 nn 13, 14, 289 nn 24, 25 Aristotle, 122, 197, 198–201, 204, 211, 228 nn 29, 31, 229 n 42, 237, 244, 289 n 25 De anima, 6, 66 De poetica, 49, 61 n 22, 123, 127 n 19, 142 Ethics, 8, 65–66, 206, 216, 241, 246, 251, 273, 278, 280 Rhetoric, 127 n 19, 280–81 Artemisia, 165, 171 n 19 Audley, Sir James, 1 Augustine, 178, 198, 212, 246, 256, 290 n 29

Averroes: Commentum medium, 127 n 19 Avicenna, 251 Barron, W.R.J., 39, 40, 44 Beauchamp, Thomas, 1 Bennett, J.A.W., 75, 81, 89, 100 Bennett, J.W., 286 n 8 Beowulf, 253, 260, 282 Berkeley, George, 122 Bible, Holy: Apocalypsis, 91–92, 106 n 25 Deuteronomy, 32, 33 I Peter, 205 Revelation, 229 n 36 Bilia, 165–66 Bloomfield, Morton W., 63 Boccaccio: De claris mulieribus, 170 n 3 Teseida, 268–69, 274, 275, 276, 277 Boethius: De consolatione philosophiae, 37 n 42, 88, 98, 149, 151, 245, 248, 276 Bohort, 228 n 33 Book of Common Prayer, 204, 259, 261, 273, 280 Breton Lay, 150 Brewer, Derek, 2 Brooks-Davies, Douglas, 225 n 5, 227 nn 25, 27, 228 n 32 Burrow, J.A., 3, 5–6, 13, 24, 26–27, 28, 34 n 5, 49, 52, 55, 173 Busiris, 282 Cajetan, 200

294 Camelot, 17, 18–19 Capellanus, Andreas: De amore, 52 Carthage, 148 Carus-Wilson, Eleanora, 119 Case, John: Speculum quaestionum moralium, 201 Cato Uticensis: Disticha catonis, 71 Caxton, William, 11 Chaucer, Geoffrey, 118, 124, 131, 132, 151–52, 171 n 13 Anelida and Arcite, 164 The Book of the Duchess, 45, 134, 150, 151, 153–55, 159, 164 Blanche, 140, 215 The Canterbury Tales, 142–43, 168, 174 General Prologue, 5, 19, 91, 99, 109–25, 129–43, 168 Chaucer (pilgrim), 133–35; Clerk, 121, 134, 135; Franklin, 11, 113, 116, 135; Friar, 110; Gildsmen, 115, 132, 134; Host, 112–13, 188–89, 192; Knight, 9–10, 11, 19, 111–12, 113– 14, 115, 116–18, 121, 134, 136–37, 168, 192, 203; Lawyer, 135; Merchant, 111, 135; Miller, 116, 120, 121, 134, 137; Monk, 111, 114–15, 135, 141; Pardoner, 132, 134, 137, 158, 184, 187–88, 189–92; Parson, 121, 134; Plowman, 121, 134; Prioress, 110, 120, 126 n 16, 131, 133, 134, 138, 139, 140–41; Reeve, 116, 134, 137, 138; Squire, 19, 118, 137; Summoner, 137; Wife of Bath, 91, 115, 118–20, 132 The Franklin’s Tale, 4, 147–70, 275 cf. Jerome’s Adversus Jovinianum, 155–66; Arveragus, 6, 113, 167–70, 172 n 21; Aurelius, 149, 167; Dorigen, 147, 149–53, 155–56, 161, 166–67, 170, 172 n 21

Index The Knight’s Tale, 12, 259 Arcite, 12, 152; Emelye, 150; Palamon, 12, 151, 152; Perotheus, 12; Theseus, 12, 14–15 The Nun’s Priest’s Tale, 124, 151–52, 153 The Pardoner’s Tale, 81, 175, 185–86, 189–92, 195 n 31; Prologue, 187, 188–89 The Parson’s Tale, 78, 91 The Physician’s Tale, 188 The Second Nun’s Tale, 12–13 The Squire’s Tale, 4–5, 14 The Wife of Bath’s Tale, 4; Prologue, 96, 99, 118–19, 148 Gentilesse, 4, 18 The Legend of Good Women, 148, 159, 163–64, 182 The Parliament of Fowls, 134, 148, 276 A Treatise on the Astrolabe, 149–50 Troilus and Criseyde, 9, 18, 124, 134, 139, 142, 161–62, 174, 274 Antenor, 18 Criseyde, 25, 151 Pandarus, 77 Troilus, 151 Chrétien de Troyes, 37 n 40 Le Chevalier de la charrete, 9 Cligés, 175, 176–77, 180, 182 Erec et Enide, 10, 14, 112, 217, 231 Erec, 19, 117, 159 Enide, 117 Yvain, Le Chevalier au Lion, 10, 150 Cicero, 178, 228 nn 29, 31, 241 De inventione, 228 n 30 see also Rhetorica ad Herennium Cilicia, 117 Claribell, 234–35 Clio, 161 Cologne, 200

Index Crécy (1346), 118 Crockaert, Peter, 200 Damascene, 253 Dante, 7–9, 20, 148 Il Convivio, 5, 6, 13–14, 15, 16–17, 18, 33, 34 n 11, 87, 90, 289 n 24 Divine Comedy, 88, 199, 256–57 Inferno, 79, 230 n 44, 231, 285 Paradiso, 92, 199 Purgatorio, 60 n 11, 249–50, 270, 274, 283, 287 n 9 Davis, Norman, 2, 10, 12, 13, 16, 17, 19, 40, 43, 50, 60 nn 10, 17, 62 n 34 Demotion, daughter of, 156, 162 Dempster, Germaine, 158, 171 n 13 Dido, 148, 170 n 3 Dionysius, 198, 286 n 7 Dolan, T.P., 63, 73 n 8, 84 n 3, 88, 105 n 8 Donaldson, E. Talbot, 84 n 5, 104 n 4, 106 nn 19, 21, 133–34, 135, 141 Dryden, John, 142, 143 Discourse Concerning Satire 130, 135 Duillius, 166 Dunning, T.P., 63, 68, 70, 75, 89 Edinburgh, 200 Edward III, 118 Eglentyne, 110, 141 Elizabeth 1, 273 Ellrodt, Robert, 286 n 8, 288 n 19 Erasmus, 199 Evans, Maurice, 233 Felix Brutus, 17 Ficino, In Convivium Platonis, 267–68 Fielding, Henry: Joseph Andrews, 130, 131, 142, 143 Fowler, Alistair, 263 n 24 Frank, R.W., 89

295 Galaad, 228 n 33 Geoffrey de Vinsauf: Poetria Nova, 124 Germany, 200 Golius: Epitome doctrinae moralis ex decem libris Ethicorum Aristotelis, 201 Gollancz, Sir Israel, 40, 49 Gower, John: Confessio Amantis, 288 n 16 Green, Richard Hamilton, 35 n 13 Gregory of Valentia, 200 Gregory the Great, 250 Guido de Columnis, 17 Guillaume de Lorris: Le Roman de la rose [The Romaunt of the Rose], 9, 99, 140, 174–75, 178–83, 194 nn 20, 23 Bialacoil, 181–83 Daunger, 182 Elde, 190 Fals-Semblant, 184–85, 187, 192 Jelousy, 181, 194 n 23 Resoun, 186–87, 189–90 Shame, 182 Vilanye, 182 Wicked-Tonge, 185 Youthe, 189, 190 see also Jean de Meun Hamilton, A.C., 228 n 32, 236, 244, 245, 263 n 24, 264 n 35, 282, 288 n 15 Hankins, John Erskine, 226 n 12, 234 Hartley, L.P.: The Go-Between, 59, 60 n 18 Henry of Bolingbroke, 126 n 9 Henry of Grosmont, 1 Hermannus Alemannus, 127 n 19 Hieatt, A.K., 290 n 32 Hippolytus, 206–7 Hodges, Laura F., 126 n 16 Hodgson, Phyllis, 110, 139 Homer, 164 Odyssey, 244 Horace, 130

296 Hughes, M.Y., 286 n 8 Hulbert, James R. 62 n 34 Hume, David, 122 Hundred Years War, 118 Jean de Meun: Le Roman de la rose [continuation], 184–88, 189–90, 195 n 31. See also Guillaume de Lorris Jena, 200 Jerome: Adversus Jovinianum, 115, 148–49, 153, 155, 170 n 3. See also Chaucer: Canterbury Tales: The Franklin’s Tale Johnson, Samuel: Preface to Shakespeare, 173–74 The Rambler: (No. 4), 1, 130; (No. 20), 130; (No. 125), 129, 142 Jonah, 60 n 10 Jovinian, 148 Juvenal, 130 Kane, George, 81, 84 n 5, 104 n 4, 106 nn 19, 21, 107 n 30 Kean, P.M., 184 Keen, Maurice, 226 n 21 Kermode, Frank, 247 Kittredge, George Lyman, 175, 189, 191 Knott, Thomas A., 62 n 34 La Rochefoucauld, 175–76 Langland, William, 87, 94–95, 96–97, 105 n 4, 106 n 28 Piers Plowman, 32–33, 34 n 9, 38 n 47, 63–72, 75–84, 87–104, 126 n 14, 229 n 36 Conscience, 63–65, 66–71, 72, 88, 94–95, 96, 101 dreamer, the, 92–94 False, 75, 77, 83–84, 97 Favel, 75–78, 79, 80

Index Guile, 75, 76, 78–80 Haukyn, 100 King, the, 94 Lady Holy Church, 31–32, 87–89, 91–93, 98, 100, 105 n 4, 208 (Lady) Meed, 87–89, 91–93, 95–96, 97, 99–100, 106 n 25 Liar, 75, 78, 80–83 Reason, 63–72, 95 Theology, 89–90, 94 Warren Wisdom, 70, 72, 88 Wrong, 96 Laodamia, 164 Le Roman de Renart, 110 Leiden, 200 Lemmi, C.W., 286 n 8 Lewis, C.S., 173 The Allegory of Love, 174, 175, 178–80, 181, 183, 227 n 27 Spenser’s Images of Life, 231, 232 Lithuania, 117 Locke, John, 122 Lombard, Peter, Four Books of Sentences, 200 Lucretia, 158, 159–60, 161, 164 Lull, Ramón: Le Libre del Orde de Cauayleria, 11 Malory, Sir Thomas, 37 n 40 The Book of Sir Tristram, 51 Tale of Sir Gareth, 217, 218, 231 The Tale of King Arthur, 52 Tale of the Sankgreal, 228 n 33 Mann, Jill, 109, 111, 115, 121, 132 Mars, 115, 119 The Master of Game, 45, 50 Matthew of Vendôme: Ars Versificatoria, 136 Miller, Lewis H., Jr, 263–64 n 24 Milton, John, 250, 261 Comus, 267, 269

297

Index Morris, Richard, 40 Muscatine, Charles, 173 Myron, 115 Nájera (1367), 118 Narcissus, 180 Nemesius, 253 Niceratus, wife of, 162–63 Ockham, William of, 123 Old Testament, 33 Order of the Garter, 118 Padua, 200 Panthea, 160 Paris, 200 The Parlement of the Thre Ages, 42 Patience, 60 n 10 Paul, St, 270 Pavia, 200 Pearl, 92 Pearsall, Derek, 70, 73 n 5, 87, 88, 89, 103, 106 nn 28, 29, 107 n 30 Penelope, 164 Perceval, 228 n 33 Peter I of Cyprus, 117 Phidon, daughters of, 156, 157, 162 Philip IV, 249 Piccolomini, Francesco, 200 Universa Philosophia de Moribus, 226 n 12, 234 Plato, 121, 122, 198, 199, 286 n 8 The Republic, 123 Symposium, 268 Timaeus, 288 n 20 Plutarch Life of Brutus, 165 Poitiers (1356), 118 Port of London, 118 Porter, Elizabeth, 288 n 16 Portia, 164–65

Prudentius: Psychomachia, 44 Prussia, 117 Queste del Saint Graal, 228 n 33 Quintilian, 151 Ralegh, Sir Walter. See Spenser: ‘Letter to Ralegh’ Rhetorica ad Herennium, 135–36, 151, 154, 155 Rhodogune, 165, 166 Robertson, D.W., 173, 178, 180 Roche, Thomas P., Jr, 236, 290 n 33 Roman de Fauvel, 75 Ruskin, John, 217, 231 Russell, George, 107 n 30 Russia, 117 Salamanca, 200 Sapegno, Natalino, 60 n 11 Scedasus, daughters of, 162 Schmidt, A.V.C., 75, 84 n 10, 89, 97, 104 n 4, 106 n 21, 107 n 30 Schmitt, Charles B., 199 Selden, John, 202 Shakespeare, William: Julius Caesar, 165 Sidney, Sir Philip: Arcadia, 52–53 A Defence of Poetry, 123–24 New Arcadia, 139 Silverstein, Theodore, 40 Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, 1–33, 39–59, 80, 138, 140, 197, 203, 227 n 28 Arthur, 10, 39 Bertilak, 20, 24 Gawain, 9–11, 13–15, 16, 20–29, 37 n 40, 39–40, 42–52, 53–55, 57, 113 Green Knight, 10, 19, 23, 24, 27–29, 39 guide, the, 21–22

298 Skeat, Walter W., 73 n 5, 79, 81, 103, 107 nn 30, 31 Sledd, James, 147 Socrates, 115 Speirs, John, 174 Spenser, Edmund, 212–13, 227 n 24, 236, 239, 261, 263 n 20, 286 nn 8, 9, 287 n 12, 288 n 16 The Faerie Queene: Book I [‘Legend of Holiness’], 198, 200, 201, 202–24, 229 n 42, 273 Antiochus, 207; Archimago, 207, 218, 227 n 27; Charissa, 211, 273; Despair, 212, 219–20; Duessa, 207, 211, 227 n 25, 228 n 32; dwarf, the, 214, 229 nn 36, 37; Fidelia, 211; House of Holiness, 221; Kirkrapine, 207; Mercy, 211; Orgoglio, 212, 216–17; Red Cross Knight, 202, 203, 204–5, 207, 209–10, 211, 212, 213, 214, 215, 216, 217, 218–24, 227 n 25, 228 n 32; Sansloy, 213; Satyrane, 213–14; Speranza, 211–12; Trevisan, 209; Una, 208, 220, 222, 223 Book II [‘Legend of Temperance’], 197, 233–61 Acrasia, 242–43, 244–45, 254, 255, 257; Amavia, 242, 253, 254; Atin, 263 n 18; Bacchus, 242; Braggadocchio, 241, 252; Cymochles, 235–36, 241, 242, 259; Elissa, 233; Furor, 252–53; Garden of Proserpina, 247–49; Guyon, 215, 235, 236, 237–39, 241, 242, 246, 250, 251–52, 253, 254–56, 257–58, 259, 260, 261, 263 n 17; Maleger, 259; Mammon, 245–46, 249; Medina, 233; Mordant, 242, 253; Palmer, the, 237–39, 242–43,

Index 244, 253, 255, 263 n 24; Perissa, 233; Phaedria, 238, 242, 263 n 18; Phedon, 234–35; Philotime, 246; Pilate, 248, 249, 250; PraiseDesire, 241; Pyrochles, 235–36, 241, 256, 258, 259; Shamefastness, 241; Tantalus, 248, 249, 250 Book III [‘Legend of Chastity’], 267–85, 290 n 28, 291 n 33 Amoret, 272, 273, 275, 281, 282, 290 nn 28, 33; Belphoebe, 272, 286 n 8; Britomart, 215, 234, 269, 270–71, 272, 274, 275, 277, 278, 279, 280, 281–82, 283, 286 n 8; Busirane, 281–84, 285; Chrysogone, 273; Cupid, 284–85, 291 n 33; Florimell, 278, 290 n 27; Glauce, 270, 275; Guyon, 234, 267, 270, 271–72, 279–80, 288 n 15; Hellenore, 276, 283, 284; Malbecco, 276, 283, 284; Malecasta, 276, 277; Paridell, 276, 283, 284; Red Cross Knight, 269, 271, 275, 277; Scudamour, 279, 280, 281, 290 n 32; Timias, 279–80 Book IV [‘Legend of Friendship’], 281, 282, 290 nn 27, 32 Book V [‘Legend of Justice’], 282 Artegall, 254 Book VI [‘Legend of Courtesy’], 234, 236 ‘Letter to Ralegh’, 197, 198, 200, 204, 215–16, 228 n 31, 229 n 42, 231, 239, 267, 273 Prince Arthur, 216–17, 219, 227 n 23, 228 n 31, 229 n 42, 243–4, 258–60, 267, 272, 279–80, 288 n 15 Statius, 178 Stevens, John, 194 n 16 Swift, Jonathan: A Tale of a Tub, 131, 133

299

Index Tarquinius Sextus, 159 Tasso, Torquato, 39 Discorsi del poema eroico, 49, 197, 232 Teuta, 165 Teutonic Knights, 117, 126 n 9 Toletus, 200 Trevisa, John: Barth., 43 Tübingen, 200 Tuve, Rosemond, 198, 227 n 24 Valeria, 165, 166 Vásquez, Gabriel, 200

Virgil, 178 Aeneid, 9, 15, 17–18 Vitoria, 200 Waldron, R.A., 40 The Wars of Alexander, 43 William of Moerbeke, 127 n 19 Woodhouse, A.S.P., 229 n 42, 259, 290 n 28 Woolf, Rosemary, 135 Xanthippe, 115