The Shaping of English Poetry, The Shaping of English Poetry - Volume II: Essays on 'Sir Gawain and the Green Knight', Langland, Chaucer and Spenser [New ed.] 3039119567, 9783039119561, 2009045006, 9783034308540, 9783035304046

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The essays on Chaucer are predominantly concerned with the influence of  Italian poetry and Aristotelian moral philosophy. These influences have long been recognised, but their depth and weight have not so readily been acknowledged. In particular, the influence of Aristotle – not merely on Chaucer’s poetry but on thirteenth- and fourteenth-century English and European culture as a whole – presents an intellectual challenge that scholars of medieval English literature have often been reluctant to confront. These essays seek to demonstrate that in engaging with Chaucer’s response to Aristotelian moral philosophy our perspective will not only be enriched but dramatically altered.

The Shaping of

Eng l ish Poe try Volume II Ess ays o n

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Langland and Chaucer

Gerald Morgan

Gerald Morgan

Gerald Morgan was a Meyricke Exhibitioner at Jesus College, Oxford, and holds a DPhil from the University of Oxford. He was formerly a Senior Lecturer and Fellow in the School of English at Trinity College Dublin. His publications include Sir Gawain and the Green Knight and the Idea of Righteousness (1991), The Tragic Argument of Troilus and Criseyde (2005), The Shaping of English Poetry: Essays on 'Sir Gawain and the Green Knight', Langland, Chaucer and Spenser (Peter Lang, 2010) and the edited volume Chaucer in Context: A Golden Age of English Poetry (Peter Lang, 2012).

The Shaping of  English Poetry, Volume II

T

   h is second volume of essays under the title The Shaping of English Poetry continues the project set out in the Preface to the first volume, discussing the three golden poets of the Golden Age of English poetry in the second half of the fourteenth century. The first two essays address the great alliterative poems Sir Gawain and the Green Knight and Piers Plowman and the remaining six essays are on Chaucer, five of them on The Canterbury Tales. There is no doubt about the sustained excellence (and often the sublimity) of these works, and it remains a hard task for readers and scholars to measure up to them.

ISBN 978-3-0343-0854-0

www.peterlang.com

P ET E R L A N G

The essays on Chaucer are predominantly concerned with the influence of  Italian poetry and Aristotelian moral philosophy. These influences have long been recognised, but their depth and weight have not so readily been acknowledged. In particular, the influence of Aristotle – not merely on Chaucer’s poetry but on thirteenth- and fourteenth-century English and European culture as a whole – presents an intellectual challenge that scholars of medieval English literature have often been reluctant to confront. These essays seek to demonstrate that in engaging with Chaucer’s response to Aristotelian moral philosophy our perspective will not only be enriched but dramatically altered.

www.peterlang.com

The Shaping of

Eng l ish Poe try Volume II Ess ays o n

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Langland and Chaucer

Gerald Morgan

Gerald Morgan

Gerald Morgan was a Meyricke Exhibitioner at Jesus College, Oxford, and holds a DPhil from the University of Oxford. He was formerly a Senior Lecturer and Fellow in the School of English at Trinity College Dublin. His publications include Sir Gawain and the Green Knight and the Idea of Righteousness (1991), The Tragic Argument of Troilus and Criseyde (2005), The Shaping of English Poetry: Essays on 'Sir Gawain and the Green Knight', Langland, Chaucer and Spenser (Peter Lang, 2010) and the edited volume Chaucer in Context: A Golden Age of English Poetry (Peter Lang, 2012).

The Shaping of  English Poetry, Volume II

T

   h is second volume of essays under the title The Shaping of English Poetry continues the project set out in the Preface to the first volume, discussing the three golden poets of the Golden Age of English poetry in the second half of the fourteenth century. The first two essays address the great alliterative poems Sir Gawain and the Green Knight and Piers Plowman and the remaining six essays are on Chaucer, five of them on The Canterbury Tales. There is no doubt about the sustained excellence (and often the sublimity) of these works, and it remains a hard task for readers and scholars to measure up to them.

P ET E R L A N G

The Shaping of  English Poetry, Volume II

The Shaping of

Engli sh P o e t ry Volume II Essays on

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Langland and Chaucer

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. ISBN 978-3-03911-956-1 (alk. paper) 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 978-3-0343-0854-0 (print) ISBN 978-3-0353-0404-6 (eBook)

© Peter Lang AG, International Academic Publishers, Bern 2013 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

Acknowledgments vii Abbreviations ix Preface xvii 1

Medieval Misogyny and Gawain’s Outburst against Women in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight 1

2

The Dignity of  Langland’s Meed

23

3 Chaucer’s Adaptation of  Boccaccio’s Temple of  Venus in The Parliament of  Fowls 45 4 Moral and Social Identity and the Idea of  Pilgrimage in the General Prologue to The Canterbury Tales 93 5

Obscenity and Fastidiousness in The Miller’s Tale 129

6

Chaucer’s Man of  Law and the Argument for Providence

7

The Logic of  The Clerk’s Tale 209

165

8 Boccaccio’s Filocolo and the Moral Argument of The Franklin’s Tale 243 Index 269

Acknowledgments

In writing the present volume I have been ever aware of the invaluable professional support of  Professor Sarah Alyn Stacey, Director of  the Centre for Medieval and Renaissance Studies in Trinity College, and also of my learned colleague Dr Margret Fine-Davis (a graduate of  Cornell), now Director of the Social Attitude & Policy Research Group in Trinity College. I am indebted to the College itself  for successive research grants under the Arts and Social Sciences Benefactions Fund and to Professors Terence Brown (English) and Michael Marsh (Political Science) who as Deans of  Arts, Humanities and Social Sciences administered this fund, as follows: 2006–7 (€1750–00), 2008–9 (€1000–00) and 2009–10 (€3000–00). I am grateful to Amanda Holzworth for the scanning and formatting of articles at the beginning of  this enterprise. In doing so she set me on my way once again in good heart. I cannot speak too highly of  the professionalism of  Andrea Greengrass who compiled the Index and Mary Critchley who prepared the book for publication. Accuracy is the sine qua non of scholarship and the two of  them have kept me up to the mark whenever I have fallen short. I take this opportunity to express my continuing gratitude to two of my students in the Department of  Medieval and Renaissance English (English I) in Trinity College Dublin in 1986–1990, Sarah Clarke from County Kildare and Simon Nelson from Belfast. They befriended me at a time when I had great need of  friends and in so doing undoubtedly helped to preserve my career. This volume is dedicated to them.

Abbrevations

I.  Chaucer’s Works BD The Book of  the Duchess CkT The Cook’s Tale ClT The Clerk’s Tale FranT The Franklin’s Tale GP General Prologue KnT The Knight’s Tale LGW The Legend of  Good Women MancT The Manciple’s Tale MerT The Merchant’s Tale MilT The Miller’s Tale MkT The Monk’s Tale MLT The Man of  Law’s Tale NPT The Nun’s Priest’s Tale PardT The Pardoner’s Tale ParsT The Parson’s Tale PF The Parliament of  Fowls Retr. Retraction Romaunt The Romaunt of  the Rose RvT The Reeve’s Tale SNT The Second Nun’s Tale SumT The Summoner’s Tale TC Troilus and Criseyde WBProl The Wife of  Bath’s Prologue

x Abbrevations

I refer to The Canterbury Tales by A, B, C, etc. and italicise individual tales, e.g. The Knight’s Tale. I recognise the merit of  I, II, III, etc. and The Knight’s Tale. I am here simply following my own long-established practice, but I assume that there are in reality only eight and not ten fragments.

II.  Sources and Works of  Reference A Chaucer Glossary Ad Her.

Aen.

Benson Beowulf Boitani

Norman Davis and others, A Chaucer Glossary (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1979). [Cicero]: Rhetorica ad Herennium, translated by Harry Caplan, Loeb (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press; London: William Heinemann Ltd, 1964). Aeneid, translated by H. Rushton Fairclough, Virgil: Eclogues, Georgics, Aeneid, The Minor Poems, revised edition, 2 vols, Loeb (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press; London: William Heinemann Ltd, 1969 and 1974). Larry D. Benson and others (eds), The Riverside Chaucer, third edition (Boston: Houghton Mif f lin Company, 1987). Fr. Klaeber, Beowulf and the Fight at Finnsburg, third edition (Lexington, MA: D.C. Heath and Company, 1950). Piero Boitani, Chaucer and Boccaccio, Medium Aevum Monographs, New Series VIII (Oxford: Society for the Study of  Mediaeval Languages and Literature, 1977), Appendix II, pp. 200–10 (translation of  Boccaccio’s glosses on the Houses of  Mars and Venus in the Teseida).

Abbrevations

xi

Bryan and Dempster W.F. Bryan and Germaine Dempster, Sources and Analogues of  Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales (Chicago: University of  Chicago Press, 1941; reprinted, New York: Humanities Press, 1958). CA Confessio Amantis, in The English Works of  John Gower, edited by G.C. Macaulay, Early English Text Society (ES) 81–82, 2 vols (London: Oxford University Press, 1900–1901). Carey and Fowler The Poems of  John Milton, edited by John Carey and Alastair Fowler (London and New York: Longman, 1968). Charrete Les Romans de Chrétien de Troyes: III. Le Chevalier de la Charrete, edited by Mario Roques, CFMA (Paris: Champion, 1972). CID Barbara Reynolds and others, The Cambridge Italian Dictionary, Volume I (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1962). Commedia Dante Alighieri: La Commedia secondo l’antica vulgata, edited by Giorgio Petrocchi, 4 vols (Milan: Arnoldo Mondadori, 1966–1967) and translated by John D. Sinclair, The Divine Comedy of  Dante Alighieri, 3 vols (London: Oxford University Press, 1971). Correale and Hamel Sources and Analogues of  The Canterbury Tales, edited by Robert M. Correale and Mary Hamel, 2 vols (Cambridge: D.S. Brewer, 2002 and 2005). CP De consolatione philosophiae, translated by H.F. Stewart and E.K. Rand, Boethius: The Theological Tractates, The Consolation of  Philosophy, Loeb (London: William Heinemann Ltd; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1968). Decameron Decameron, edited by Vittore Branca, in Tutte le opere di Giovanni Boccaccio, edited by Vittore Branca, 10 vols (Milan: Arnoldo Mondadori, 1964– 1998), Volume IV (1976).

xii Abbrevations

Erec et Enide

Les Romans de Chrétien de Troyes: I. Erec et Enide, edited by Mario Roques, CFMA (Paris: Champion, 1970). Ethica Nicomachea/ Translated by W.D. Ross, in The Works of  Aristotle Ethics Translated into English, edited by J.A. Smith and W.D. Ross, 12 vols (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1908–1952), Volume IX, revised by J.O. Urmson (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1975). Fil. Filostrato, edited by Vittore Branca, in Tutte le opere di Giovanni Boccaccio, edited by Vittore Branca, 10 vols (Milan: Arnoldo Mondadori, 1964–1998), Volume II (1964), pp. 1–228. Filocolo Filocolo, edited by Antonio Enzo Quag­lio, in Tutte le opere di Giovanni Boccaccio, edited by Vittore Branca, 10 vols (Milan: Arnoldo Mondadori, 1964– 1998), Volume I (1967), pp. 45–675 and 706–970. FQ Edmund Spenser: The Faerie Qveene, edited by A.C. Hamilton, Longman Annotated English Poets (London and New York: Longman, 1977); second edition, text edited by Hiroshi Yamashita and Toshiyuki Suzuki (Harlow: Pearson Education, 2001). Havely N.R. Havely (trans.), Chaucer’s Boccaccio: Sources of  ‘Troilus’ and the ‘Knight’s’ and ‘Franklin’s Tales’, Chaucer Studies V (Cambridge: D.S. Brewer, 1980). In de anima Sancti Thomae Aquinatis in Aristotelis librum de anima commentarium, edited by Angeli M. Pirotta, sixth edition (Turin: Marietti, 1959) and 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).

Abbrevations

In ethicorum/Com- mentary on Ethics

Inf. Le Livre de Chevalerie McCoy

MD

ME MED

Met.

ODNB OE

xiii

Sancti Thomae Aquinatis in decem libros ethicorum Aristotelis ad Nicomachum expositio, edited by Raymundo M. Spiazzi, third edition (Turin: Marietti, 1964) and translated by C.I. Litzinger, St Thomas Aquinas: Commentary on Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, revised edition (Notre Dame, IN: Dumb Ox Books, 1993). Inferno Richard W. Kaeuper and Elspeth Kennedy, The Book of  Chivalry of  Geof froi de Charny: Text, Context, and Translation (Philadelphia: University of  Pennsylvania Press, 1996). Bernadette Marie McCoy (trans.), The Book of  Theseus: ‘Teseida delle Nozze d’Emilia’ by Giovanni Boccaccio (New York: Medieval Text Association, 1974). Malory’s Morte Darthur or The Works of  Sir Thomas Malory, edited by Eugène Vinaver, third edition, revised by P.J.C. Field, 3 vols (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1990). Middle English Middle English Dictionary, edited by Hans Kurath, Sherman M. Kuhn, Robert E. Lewis and others, 13 vols (Ann Arbor: University of  Michigan Press, 1952–2001). Ovid: Metamorphoses, translated by Frank Justus Miller, Loeb, second edition, 2 vols (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press; London: William Heinemann Ltd, 1971 and 1976). Oxford Dictionary of  National Biography, edited by H.C.G. Matthew and Brian Harrison, 60 vols (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004). Old English

xiv Abbrevations

OED Par. Pearl Pearsall

PL PN

Poetria

PPl

Purg. Robinson RR

Oxford English Dictionary, edited by J.A. Simpson and E.S.C. Weiner, second edition, 20 vols (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1989). Paradiso Pearl, edited by E.V. Gordon (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1953). ‘Piers Plowman’ by William Langland: An Edition of  the C-text, edited by Derek Pearsall (London: Edward Arnold, 1978) and A New Annotated Edition of  the C-text (Exeter: University of  Exeter Press, 2008). Patrologia Latina, edited by J-P. Migne, 217 vols (Paris, 1844–1855). Alan of Lille, ‘De Planctu naturae’, edited by Nikolaus M. Häring, Studi Medievali, third series, 19 (1978), 797–879 and translated by James J. Sheridan, Alan of  Lille: The Plaint of  Nature (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of  Mediaeval Studies, 1980). Les Arts poétiques du xii e et du xiii e siècle, edited by Edmond Faral (Paris: Champion, 1924), pp. 194– 262 and translated by Margaret F. Nims, Poetria Nova of  Geof frey of  Vinsauf (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of  Mediaeval Studies, 1967). William Langland, Piers Plowman: A Parallel-Text Edition of  the A, B, C and Z Versions, edited by A.V.C. Schmidt, 2 vols (Longman: London and New York, 1995 and Kalamazoo: Medieval Institute Publications, Western Michigan University, 2008). Purgatorio The Works of  Geof frey Chaucer, edited by F.N. Robinson, second edition (London: Oxford University Press, 1957). Guillaume de Lorris et Jean de Meun: Le Roman de la rose, edited by Félix Lecoy, CFMA, 3 vols (Paris: Champion, 1973, 1979 and 1975) and translated by

Abbrevations

SGGK ST

Tes.

Theb.

Vulgate

Wack

xv

Frances Horgan, The Romance of  the Rose, World’s Classics (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1994). 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). St Thomas Aquinas: Summa theologiae, edited and translated by Thomas Gilby and others, 61 vols (London: Eyre and Spottiswoode; New York: McGraw-Hill, 1964–1981). Teseida delle nozze d’Emilia, edited by Alberto Limentani, in Tutte le opere di Giovanni Boccaccio, edited by Vittore Branca, 10 vols (Milan: Arnoldo Mondadori, 1964–1998), Volume II (1964), pp. 229–664. Thebaid, translated by J.H. Mozley, Silvae, Thebaid, Achilleid, Loeb (London: William Heinemann Ltd; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1967 and 1969). Biblia sacra iuxta vulgatam Clementinam, edited by Alberto Colunga and Laurentio Turrado, 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). Mary F. Wack, Lovesickness in the Middle Ages: The ‘Viaticum’ and its Commentaries (Philadelphia, PA: University of  Pennsylvania Press, 1990).

xvi Abbrevations

III.  Journals and Series ANQ BIHR ChR CFMA EETS (OS) EHR ELN ES JEGP MÆ MLN MLR MP MS NM NQ PMLA PQ RES RS SATF SM SP TLS YES YLS

American Notes and Queries Bulletin of  the Institute of  Historical Research Chaucer Review Classiques français du moyen âge Early English Text Society (Original Series) English Historical Review English Language Notes English Studies Journal of  English and Germanic Philology Medium Ævum Modern Language Notes Modern Language Review Modern Philology Mediaeval Studies Neuphilologische Mitteilungen Notes and Queries Publications of  the Modern Language Association Philological Quarterly Review of  English Studies Rolls Series Societé des Anciens Textes Français Studi Medievali Studies in Philology The Times Literary Supplement Yearbook of  English Studies Yearbook of  Langland Studies

Preface

I print here the second volume of essays under the title The Shaping of  English Poetry in accordance with the intention expressed in the Preface to the first volume. All eight essays are on the three golden poets of  the Golden Age of  English poetry in the second half of  the fourteenth century. The first two essays are on the great alliterative poems, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight and Piers Plowman and the remaining six essays are on Chaucer, five of  them on The Canterbury Tales. No one doubts the sustained excellence (and often the sublimity) of  these works and it remains a hard task for readers and scholars to measure up to them. I cannot hope, therefore, to convince the readers of  this collection of essays at all times to assent to the soundness of critical judgments made in them, and perhaps there will be many who will want to take issue with the approach taken, and especially with the insistence upon the importance of  Aristotelian moral philosophy. But I hope that the arguments of  these essays are suf ficiently well grounded in the texts of  the poems, their sources and historical contexts as to persuade not a few that they are worthy of consideration (even if only by way of refutation). It has been a feature of  the scholarship of at least the past two generations that the romance of  Sir Gawain and the Green Knight has been elevated not only to the front rank of medieval poems but of  English poems at any period.1 In the process the romance has been subjected to many dif ferent kinds of scrutiny and has had to make account of itself  to those who associate the Middle Ages not so much with politeness towards women but with virulent forms of anti-feminism. Indeed, no one is more eloquent on the bias of men against women than Chaucer’s Wife of  Bath in her famous Prologue. But whereas the strictures of a St Jerome are hard to defend, it is dismaying to find that the celebrated courtesy of a knight such as Sir Gawain is represented to be, both in the romance itself and elsewhere, is reduced to the level of a rant against women as he takes leave

xviii Preface

of  his erstwhile host. Such criticism of  Sir Gawain accords so well with a commonplace view of  the medieval world (one in which the very word medieval has become in itself a term of abuse) that we are apt instinctively to sympathise with it and to grant it credence. On the other hand, the moral argument of  the poem is systematic and subtle and often baf f ling to modern points of view that we may hesitate before we rush to judgment. The essay on ‘Medieval Misogyny and Gawain’s Outburst against Women in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’ is a case for the defence, written in the belief  that medieval men (just as modern men) are apt to love women rather than hate them. In the second essay on Langland’s Meed, still loved by critics as much as deplored by them in the guise of  Lady Meed, I return to a subject that I have visited more than once in the past. On the evidence of  the text of  Piers Plowman it is the critic rather than the poet who identifies Meed as Lady Meed and I have long pondered why this should be so when the text of  the poem itself is not especially ambiguous on this point. Perhaps it is because we live in a money culture (one indeed in which the sovereignty of nations has been subordinated to the stability of  banks), whereas our medieval ancestors had a distaste for lending of any kind under the name of usury. Certainly attitudes to money, and especially to conspicuous wealth, are likely to be ambivalent, since few will be willing to embrace the virtue of a life of poverty in earnest. The argument of  this essay has been summarised by Michelle M. Sauer in The Year’s Work in English Studies, 90 (2011), 240, as follows: Gerald Morgan challenges the idea that Lady Meed is a fallen woman … Detailed examination of  the words Langland chooses to describe Meed indicates a level of respect other scholars have overlooked. Nevertheless, overall she is excessive and false, and cannot be trusted in any way. Lady Holy Church surpasses Meed in every sense of dignity and respect. Thus Morgan concludes that we should leave the poem wanting to suppress all dignity accorded to Meed.

I do not recognise in this summary the argument of  the essay and perhaps I have been unclear in my exposition. But the corruption of our judgment by the love of money is as important an issue for Langland as it is for Chaucer in his representation of  the Pardoner. The present economic crises in the

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xix

various nations of  Europe underline the fact that Langland addresses an issue of universal concern in the dif ficulty of conforming our judgments with truth when confronted with the attractions of wealth and especially its easy availability. The six essays on Chaucer are dominated in one way or another by the inf luence of  Italian poetry and moral philosophy. These inf luences have long been recognised, but their depth and weight have not so readily been acknowledged. Only those who have read Chaucer’s works with a text of  Boccaccio or Dante (and also Petrarch, whose inf luence it has taken longer to acknowledge)2 in front of  them will begin to appreciate the extent of  Chaucer’s learning in relation to these three great Italian masters. How Chaucer acquired his knowledge of  Italian, whether from Italian wine merchants in Vintry Ward or Florentine bankers such as the Bardi at court, or by reason of  his journeys to Genoa and Florence in 1372–1373 and Milan in 1378, is still to some extent a matter of speculation and dispute.3 But that matters little by comparison with the undoubted fact of its acquisition. Chaucer has followed these Italian masters in close detail, often word for word, but expresses his enthusiasm for them in a way that only a creative genius could do by freely adapting their masterpieces to his own distinct imaginative purposes. There is much scholarly work still to be done on the Italian presence in Chaucer’s poetry and undoubtedly it will produce many more valuable insights. But however we may explain this extraordinary aptitude for Italian literature in an English poet, we can hardly deny its transforming ef fect on Chaucer’s poetry. More than this, we have to say that Chaucer is not merely an admirer of  these poets (as, let us say, Dante is of  Virgil) but their equal. This is not an easy conclusion to reach, but it carries with it profound implications for medieval English scholars. To approach Chaucer without a comparable knowledge of  the tre coroni of  Italian literature is to leave one not merely ill-equipped for the task of interpretation, but unequipped for it. The same has to be said for the inf luence of  Aristotle, not merely on Chaucer’s poetry, but on English and European culture as a whole in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Medieval English scholars have been reluctant to face the challenge of  Aristotle, but recently a medieval historian, Stephen Rigby, in an important book and article, has shown a way

xx Preface

forward for literary critics who seek to engage with the moral arguments embedded in Chaucer’s poetry.4 Once again this is not a matter of speculation or of opinion, but established historical fact. Rigby’s study of  the De regimine principum of  Giles of  Rome (c. 1243–1316), composed about 1280 for the future Philip IV of  France (1285–1314), establishes beyond doubt the widespread dif fusion through this work alone of  fundamental Aristotelian ideas. The De regimine draws on Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, Politics (rediscovered c. 1260), Rhetoric and De anima and also on the Summa theologiae and commentaries on the Ethics and Politics of  Thomas Aquinas under whom Giles studied in Paris. It survives in some three hundred and fifty manuscripts of  Latin and vernacular versions, and sixty of  these are of  English origin or provenance from the pre-Reformation period. The height of  the popularity of  the De regimine in England is the period from 1380 to 1430. Copies of  the Latin treatise were owned by Thomas of  Woodstock, Duke of  Gloucester, and by his widow, Eleanor de Bohun (d.1399) and also by Sir Simon Burley (d.1388), Richard II’s tutor. John Trevisa translated the De regimine into Middle English as The Governance of  Kings and Princes (c. 1388–1402) for his patron Thomas IV, Lord Berkeley (1352/3–1417). It survives in one manuscript from the early fifteenth century (1408–c. 1417).5 How we shall deal with Chaucer’s response to Aristotelian moral philosophy is another matter, but engage with it we must. In the process our view of many things will alter dramatically, not least, for example, our view of  the Theseus of  The Knight’s Tale, now convincingly interpreted by Rigby as not merely not a tyrant but a model of good lordship. Unsurprisingly in the light of much negative and even hostile criticism of  Theseus, Rigby strikes a defensive note: ‘It should be stressed that what is at issue is whether or not Chaucer presented Theseus as an ideal ruler, not whether modern critics themselves approve of  the duke’s actions’.6 Not every reader of  Chaucer is as open-minded or f lexible as a medieval historian. But why should we even expect to approve of  the assumptions and value systems of ages remote from our own? And why should we expect great minds of a former age to agree with us? If words that once ‘hadden pris, now wonder nyce and straunge/ Us thinketh hem’ (TC, II.24–25), so too the moral values that they express. We see this in the competing moral values of our own time. We cannot claim any special privileges for our own

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systems of  thought and the values to which they give rise. Our task as literary critics is not to subject poems and writers to tests of morality (at least not in the first instance, and perhaps not in the second instance). First of all we must try to grasp the meaning of what lies before us, and this is a suf ficiently dif ficult task in all truth. And perhaps also as we survey our present world of cruelty and disappointment we shall be bound to admit that our medieval ancestors ‘spedde as wel in love as men now do’ (TC, II.26). Generalisations about Aristotelian moral philosophy, therefore, cannot as such hope to persuade, and readers will be rightly suspicious of ideological bias. The test for any lover of poetry and literary scholar (as I claim to be) can only rest in the readings of fered of  the texts themselves. Have we made sense of  these texts or not, and how much do our interpretations have to leave out in the ef fort to convince? Like Langland’s Conscience, all literary critics are open to error, however sound their general principles may be. If any of  the essays on Chaucer are persuasive, it is because they have confronted the problems of  the text of  his poems and not evaded them. For those who are moved rather to disagreement, perhaps there will still be elements of enlightenment. But no interpreter of poems can take away from the reader the final authority for critical judgment. These essays first appeared in the following journals and I wish to thank their editors and publishers for permission to republish: ‘Medieval Misogyny and Gawain’s Outburst Against Women in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’, Modern Language Review, 97 (2002), 265–78; ‘The Dignity of  Langland’s Meed’, Modern Language Review, 104 (2009), 623– 39; ‘Chaucer’s Adaptation of  Boccaccio’s Temple of  Venus in The Parliament of  Fowls’, Review of  English Studies, NS, 56 (2005), 1–36; ‘Moral and Social Identity and the Idea of Pilgrimage in the General Prologue’, Chaucer Review, 37 (2003), 285–314; ‘Obscenity and Fastidiousness in The Miller’s Tale’, English Studies, 91 (2010), 492–518 (www.tandfonline.com); ‘Chaucer’s Man of  Law and the Argument for Providence’, Review of  English Studies, NS, 61 (2010), 1–33; ‘The Logic of  The Clerk’s Tale’, Modern Language Review, 104 (2009), 1–25 and ‘Boccaccio’s Filocolo and the Moral Argument of  The Franklin’s Tale’, Chaucer Review, 20 (1986), 285–306.

xxii Preface

Notes As I write an excellent new edition of  Sir Gawain and the Green Knight by Paul Battles (Broadview Press: Peterborough, Ontario, 2012) is about to be published. 2 On the relationship between Chaucer and Petrarch, see the recent study by William T. Rossiter, Chaucer and Petrarch, Chaucer Studies XLI (Cambridge: D.S. Brewer, 2010). 3 Rossiter, Chaucer and Petrarch, pp. 38–44. 4 Stephen H. Rigby, Wisdom and Chivalry: Chaucer’s ‘Knight’s Tale’ and Medieval Political Theory (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2009) and ‘Aristotle for Aristocrats and Poets: Giles of  Rome’s De Regimine Principum as Theodicy of  Privilege’, ChR, 46 (2012), 259–313. 5 Rigby, Wisdom and Chivalry, pp. 13–15 and 17–19. 6 Rigby, Wisdom and Chivalry, p. 27, n. 1. 1

1  Medieval Misogyny and Gawain’s Outburst    against Women in Sir Gawain and the     Green Knight

His clannes and his cortaysye croked were neuer. — Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, 653 [A]n old religious uncle of mine taught me to speak, who was in his youth an inland man; one that knew courtship too well, for there he fell in love. I have heard him read many lectures against it, and I thank God I am not a woman, to be touched with so many giddy of fences as he hath generally taxed their whole sex withal. — Shakespeare, As You Like It, III.2.333–40

I.  The view has been gaining ground of  late that the Gawain of  Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, a knight renowned as ‘þat fyne fader of nurture’ (919) and as ‘so cortays and coynt’ of  his ‘hetes’ (1525), degenerates at the moment of  leave-taking from the Green Knight, his erstwhile host, to the level of a churl capable of abusing the ladies of  that knight’s household (2411–28). In an article provocatively entitled ‘Gawain’s Antifeminist Rant, the Pentangle, and Narrative Space’, Catherine Batt claims that in this ‘antifeminist passage’ (so-called), ‘Gawain imposes an unsatisfactory rhetorical patterning on experience, in order to make it intelligible in already-known terms’ and that he ‘does not later show regret for his illogical calumny of women, because its expression exists as a discrete encoding of received wisdom’.1 The assumption of anti-feminism in this passage has become something of an article of  faith. Thus Richard Newhauser refers without explanation to ‘Gawain’s misogynous outburst’2 and Derek Pearsall without sympathy to Gawain’s willingness ‘to bluster’, whereby ‘he turns on women and blames them’.3 By Pearsall’s account Gawain does this not in the bitter moment of self-discovery but ‘when he has gathered himself

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somewhat’. In other words Gawain’s bitterness has the character not of an emotional spasm but of a considered insult. We seem to be on the verge here of substituting our own commonplaces for what we may take to be the commonplaces of  the Middle Ages. In the line in which the poet of  Sir Gawain introduces his hero into his masterpiece, ‘There gode Gawan watz grayþed Gwenore bisyde’ (109), we are led at once to recognize not only Gawain’s moral virtue and his exalted status in Arthur’s court but also the fitness of  his presence in the company of a lady, and not only a lady, but the most beautiful of  ladies, worthy indeed to be seated in the centre of such a noble gathering of  knights (81–84): Þe comlokest to discrye Þer glent with yȝen gray, A semloker þat euer he syȝe Soth moȝt no mon say.

The presence of a beautiful lady is impossible to ignore and Gawain can hardly be indif ferent to Guinevere’s beauty. So much is evident when he first sets his eyes on the lady of  the castle at Hautdesert, for her radiant beauty strikes him at once as surpassing even that of  Guinevere (941–45): Þenne lyst þe lady to loke on þe knyȝt, Þenne com ho of  hir closet with mony cler burdez. Ho watz þe fayrest in felle, of  f lesche and of  lyre, And of compas and colour and costes, of alle oþer, And wener þen Wenore, as þe wyȝe þoȝt.

Beautiful ladies are drawn to the presence of great knights and by the same token such knights must learn to accustom themselves to the company of  beautiful ladies. This is true in life as in fiction, and thus we acknowledge, for example, the fitness of  the marriage of  the Black Prince to Joan, the Fair Maid of  Kent.4 If we wish to conduct an investigation into misogyny in the Middle Ages we should be better advised to look to philosophers and churchmen such as Valerius, Theophrastus, Jerome and Tertullian, or to a ‘joly clerk’ such as Jankyn, than to a knight like Gawain.5 Knights are inspired by ladies and are prepared to die for ladies.6 They humiliate themselves for

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ladies (Lancelot enters the cart of ignominy and dishonour after hesitating for only two steps) and are humiliated by ladies (Lancelot is snubbed and rebuked by the Queen for his momentary hesitation).7 They languish for ladies (Troilus and Arcite)8 and they sometimes succeed in marrying ladies (Palamon and Arveragus),9 and even after marriage they can lie subject to the sovereign power of  ladies (Chrétien de Troyes’s Erec).10 It is not surprising that the destinies of great knights and beautiful ladies are thus interwoven, for it is the very function of a knight to fight for justice for the weak and helpless, for women, widows and orphans. Indeed, as Sir Geof froi de Charny tells us, a knight can save his soul by fighting for such a cause (Livre de chevalerie, 35.195–99): Encores, se aucun vouloient oster l’onnour ne l’eritage de povres pucelles ne de povres femmes vesves, et autrement ne les peust l’en destourner de ce sanz guerre ou bataille, l’en y doit entrer seurement et pour les corps et pour les ames sauver, et tout en autele maniere pour povres orphelins et orphelines. And again, if some people wanted to seize the land and inheritance of defenseless maidens or widows and could not be dissuaded from this except by war or combat, one ought to embark on this confidently in regard to one’s personal reputation and the saving of one’s soul, and the same is true in relation to the defense of orphans.

Criseyde is moved by the figure of  Troilus when he appears before her eyes and to popular acclaim as the very protector of  Troy (TC, II.631–44): So lik a man of armes and a knyght He was to seen, fulfilled of  heigh prowesse, For bothe he hadde a body and a might To don that thing, as wel as hardynesse; And ek to seen hym in his gere hym dresse, So fressh, so yong, so weldy semed he, It was an heven upon hym for to see. His helm tohewen was in twenty places, That by a tyssew heng his bak byhynde; His sheeld todasshed was with swerdes and maces, In which men myghte many an arwe fynde That thirled hadde horn and nerf and rynde; And ay the peple cryde, ‘Here cometh oure joye, And, next his brother, holder up of  Troye!’

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A knight is not a terrorist but a warrior who has been civilized by the life of courts and above all by the company of  ladies. The Green Knight frames the second game or Exchange of  Winnings with Sir Gawain on the assumption that a knight will be at his ease in the company of  ladies (in the public rooms of  the castle, it is implied, not in the privacy of  the bedroom) (1096–99): Ȝe schal lenge in your lofte, and lyȝe in your ese To-morn quyle þe messequyle, and to mete wende When ȝe wyl, wyth my wyf, þat wyth yow schal sitte And comfort yow with compayny, til I to cort torne.

Thus the refinement of manners is at the very heart of  the definition of a medieval knight and we are led to see that this is also the case in respect of  the experienced warrior who has proved himself on the field of  battle for forty years or more. Such a man is Chaucer’s Knight, who was present at the siege of  Algeçiras in 1342–1344 and is now in the late 1380s on a pilgrimage to Canterbury. The Knight has not been brutalized by the violence of war. Chaucer has conjoined in the figure of  the Knight the arts of war and of peace, for indeed the object of war is the establishment of peace.11 So interwoven are these elements in a knight that the very word chivalry that defines the practice of  knighthood and the prowess of a knight has come primarily to denote a gracious and honourable manner in the dealings of a man with women. For Aristotle, virtue is a mean between extremes of excess and defect (Ethics, II. 6, 1106b 36–1107a 6; Aquinas, Commentary, 322–25) and this essential moderation characterizes the knightly virtue of courage as it does other virtues. Courage is the virtue that stands between the vices of rashness and cowardice in confronting the danger of death (Ethics, II. 7, 1107a 33–1107b 4; Aquinas, Commentary, 335–41) and as a moral virtue it is linked to other moral virtues (Ethics, VI. 13, 1144b 32–1145a 2; Aquinas, Commentary, 1286–88). Strictly speaking, then, courage cannot degenerate into either harshness and cruelty, or arrogance, or boastfulness and boorishness, that is, if it is to retain its character or name of courage. Rather, it is fitly accompanied by the virtues of  temperance, such as gentleness,

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humility and courtesy, and these are conspicuous and humanizing elements in Chaucer’s portrait of  the Knight in the General Prologue. The virtue of gentleness moderates the passion of anger. Such anger is hardly a passion a knight can be without when fighting in battle. Beowulf in the Old English epic poem customarily named after him awaits the monster Grendel in mounting anger (‘wraþum on andan/ bad bolgenmod’, 708b-9a) and Grendel, the monster, comes to attack the Danish hall at Heorot in anger (‘ða he gebolgen wæs’, 723b). Indeed the two mortal foes are united in anger: ‘Yrre wæron begen/ reþe renweardas’ (769b-70a). The Italian epic poet, Tasso, wonderfully conveys the deadly menace of anger in his representation of  Tancred, both in Tancred’s first inconclusive combat against Argantes after the humiliation of  Otho (Gerusalemme Liberata, VI), when he fights in ignorance against Clorinda and slays her (Book XII), and when he slays Argantes in single combat in the penultimate book (XIX). But the necessity for a knight to moderate anger when it is no longer appropriate is also very evident. This is certainly true of a misplaced anger, such as that wrongly directed by Sir Guyon, the knight of  temperance, against the Red Cross Knight in the first episode of  Spenser’s Legend of  Temperance (FQ, II 1.8–34), but it is also requisite in the case of a justified anger, as when Theseus is angered by the violation of a solemn agreement, one of  banishment and another of imprisonment, on the parts of  Arcite and Palamon respectively (KnT, A 1714–47). Here the passion of  love is a mitigating circumstance (A 1753–54 and 1785–820) and Theseus is moved by the appeals of  the queen, Hippolyte, of  Emelye herself and of  their ladies to show compassion to the young knights (A 1760–66): Til at the laste aslaked was his mood, For pitee renneth soone in gentil herte. And though he first for ire quook and sterte, He hath considered shortly, in a clause, The trespas of  hem bothe, and eek the cause, And although that his ire hir gilt accused, Yet in his resoun he hem bothe excused.12

Theseus is a great ruler and not merely a worthy knight so that, in him, gentleness is accompanied by the virtue of clemency, that is, a moderation

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in the inf liction of punishment. This is an important issue in The Knight’s Tale, especially when Theseus has been identified by Terry Jones as a tyrant.13 This is perhaps an inevitable consequence of  the misinterpretation of  the Knight of  the General Prologue as an unscrupulous mercenary. The virtue of  humility is the tempering of pride, that is, the immoderate pursuit of great things that are beyond one’s power to achieve. Chaucer describes the humility of  his Knight in a striking (and, for modern readers, surely a surprising) image: ‘And of  his port as meeke as is a mayde’ (GP, A 69). The Knight has achieved great exploits in the course of  his life, but they are such as are within his power to achieve. The Knight’s deeds speak for themselves and he has no need to assert his own excellence by boastful or arrogant behaviour. The great example of  humility is that of  Dante’s Trajan, whose story is carved on the white marble bank of  the first terrace of purgatory (Purg., X.73–96). The great emperor shows his humility in acknowledging the fitness of a poor widow’s rebuke of  him for neglecting his own goodness in putting a military campaign before the execution of justice on behalf of  her dead son. Like Theseus, Trajan is moved both by the requirement of justice and by compassion for a lady (Purg., X.89–93; Sinclair, II.135):    ed ella: ‘L’altrui bene a te che fia, se ’l tuo metti in oblio?’   ond’elli: ‘Or ti conforta; ch’ei convene ch’ i’ solva il mio dovere anzi ch’ i’ mova: giustizia vuole e pietà mi ritene.’ ‘What shall another’s goodness avail thee if  thou art forgetful of  thine own?’; he therefore: ‘Now take comfort, for I must fulfil my duty before I go; justice requires it and compassion bids me stay.’

The virtue of courtesy is the moderation of one’s external conduct, both in speech: ‘He nevere yet no vileynye ne sayde/ In al his lyf unto no maner wight’ (GP, A 70–71) and in dress: ‘But for to tellen yow of  his array, / His hors were goode, but he was nat gay’ (A 73–74). The Knight is not showily or richly dressed, like his son (A 89–93), but as a fighting man is concerned that his horses are in good condition. This is a point of

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considerable importance in the delineation of chivalric virtues. It is not conducive to the advantage or the honour of a knight to be obliged to go on foot, and we are not to admire the knight (Lancelot) whom Chrétien de Troyes presents from Gauvain’s vantage-point on horseback (the proper vantage-point of a knight) making his way fully armed and on foot beside a cart (Charrete, 314–20). Such an indignity is in large part Lancelot’s own fault, for he has driven his first horse to the point of exhaustion and death (Charrete, 270–73, 279–81 and 296–98) and in his impetuosity he does not take care to choose the better of  the two horses of fered him by Gauvain (Charrete, 290–95). The later comparison of  the knight as a lover to Pyramus (Charrete, 3802) is indeed well judged, for Pyramus is the very type of an impetuous lover. Thus a knight should exercise the utmost care in the choice of a horse, for his well-being as a knight depends on the serviceability of  his horses. Such solicitude is indeed shown by Chaucer’s Knight. Chaucer draws a distinction between the great warrior who cares about the condition of  his horses and less about his personal appearance and his handsome young son, elegantly and colourfully attired in the manner of an ardent lover (GP, A 89–98). In the system of moral virtues outlined by Aristotle in the Ethics, the virtue of courtesy is of wide scope (Aristotle, Ethics, II. 7, 1108a 9–30; Aquinas, Commentary, 350–54), comprising as it does the virtues of  truthfulness or sincerity (the mean between boastfulness and mock-modesty), friendliness or af fability (the mean between obsequiousness or, what is much worse, f lattery, on the one hand and quarrelsomeness on the other) and ready wit (a mean between buf foonery and boorishness). It is hardly necessary to stress the importance of courtesy in the chivalric literature of  the Middle Ages (not least in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight itself ), but it may be noted that this ideal of  behaviour continues unimpeded into the Renaissance. Indeed Spenser’s Legend of  Courtesy treats of courtesy as one of  the culminating virtues of  The Faerie Qveene, the subject not of a first or second book but of  the sixth book. We can see from the description of  Sir Calidore, the knight of courtesy, that he stands in the direct line of descent from Chaucer’s Knight and the Gawain of  Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (FQ, VI.1.2):

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GERALD MORGAN But mongst them all was none more courteous Knight, Then Calidore, beloued ouer all, In whom it seemes, that gentlenesse of spright And manners mylde were planted naturall; To which he adding comely guize withall, And gracious speach, did steale mens hearts away. Nathlesse thereto he was full stout and tall, And well approu’d in batteilous af fray, That him did much renowme, and far his fame display.

Spenser’s definition of courtesy also recalls Aristotle’s sense of  the inclusiveness of virtue, and this connection is strongly reinforced by Calidore’s providential meeting at the beginning of  his quest with Sir Artegall, the knight of justice. Each knows himself in the knowledge of the other: ‘Who whenas each of other had a sight,/ They knew them selues, and both their persons rad’ (VI.1.4). The justice of Artegall and the courtesy of Calidore are alike in the sense that justice is virtue in relation to one’s neighbour whereas courtesy or moral worth is virtue complete in itself.14 Hence Spenser, in the Legend of  Courtesy, sets out to demonstrate the perfecting of  the self or of  the individual person. It will be evident that by means of  the symbol of  the pentangle (SGGK, 619–65) the Gawain-poet makes a similar and extended claim on behalf of  the hero of  his own romance. II.  Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, as is well understood, is constructed around two games, the Beheading Game and the Exchange of  Winnings, each of which is played out to its conclusion (as the best games are) in deadly earnest. In each of  them Sir Gawain plays to the full the part that has been assigned to him. In the Beheading Game Sir Gawain plays his proper part in a series of successive actions. He decapitates the Green Knight with a swift and assured blow of  that knight’s huge and monstrous axe (421–26). He sets out for the return blow in due time once the feast of  All Saints’ Day has been celebrated on 1 November (534–36) and on his own without the aid of companions (693–97). He stays at Hautdesert over the Christmas season only when he has been assured that his stay will not prevent the

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completion of  his quest (1081–82) and also when he has been reassured on this very point by the lord at the end of  the second day of a new game, the Exchange of  Winnings (1670–75). He sets out promptly from Hautdesert for the Green Chapel in the morning of  New Year’s Day (2006–14 and 2060–76) and is not def lected from his purpose by the temptation of  the guide (2118–35), the desolation of  the place (2189–96) or the hideous noise of  the grinding of  the Green Knight’s axe (2199–211). Gawain’s courage and fidelity to his word in performing his part of  the bargain are f lawless, or at any rate as nearly f lawless as it is possible in this imperfect world to be. The same moral scrupulousness is to be seen in the part that Gawain plays in the Exchange of  Winnings Game at Hautdesert. He rests in bed on the three days covered by the Exchange of  Winnings agreement not in accordance with his own inclination but in accordance with the terms of  the agreement set out by the lord (1093–97): ‘For ȝe haf  trauayled,’ quoþ þe tulk, ‘towen fro ferre, And syþen waked me wyth, ȝe arn not wel waryst Nauþer of sostnaunce ne of slepe, soþly I knowe; ȝe schal lenge in your lofte, and lyȝe in your ese To-morn quyle þe messequyle.’

He is impeccably courteous in his conversations with the lady in his own bedroom on all three days, being both gentle towards her and at the same time unyielding, showing indeed his command of  the art of  the conversation of  lovers for which he is justly famous and which causes him to be so eagerly welcomed by the company at Hautdesert as a guest (924–27): ‘In menyng of manerez mere Þis burne now schal vus bryng, I hope þat may hym here Schal lerne of  luf-talkyng.’

He is courteous indeed in receiving the lady into the privacy of  his bedroom, however much he is surprised to see her there: ‘to meruayle hym þoȝt,/ Bot ȝet he sayde in hymself, “More semly hit were/ To aspye wyth my spelle in space quat ho wolde”  ’ (1197–99), and he suf fers her f lattering attentions in public in silence even at the cost of  his own embarrassment

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rather than subjecting her to an outward rebuke: ‘Bot he nolde not for his nurture nurne hir aȝaynez,/ Bot dalt with hir al in daynte, how-se-euer þe dede turned/ towrast’ (1661–63). At the same time he is proof against all the lady’s importunities, at least in so far as they bear directly upon the question of  love. In him courtesy is reconciled with clannes or chastity (as near as may be),15 as we are assured it will be in the pentangle passage: ‘His clannes and his cortaysye croked were neuer’ (653). Thus we see from the other direction, as it were, that chastity is not in itself a grim and cheerless matter, a stern self-abnegation. Cleanness is ‘miry Clannesse’ in Patience (32),16 that is, it is a pleasant and joyful thing, the mark of a true state of  love. Chastity has this deeper meaning for Spenser, and hence it is formally distinguished by him from a mere temperance. Gawain does not place courtesy to the lady above his own sense of sexual purity (that is, chastity) or his obligation of  fidelity to the lord her husband (1773–75): He cared for his cortaysye, lest craþayn he were, And more for his meschef ȝif  he schulde make synne, And be traytor to þat tolke þat þat telde aȝt.

When he accepts the lady’s girdle into his possession as a talisman to ward of f  the danger of imminent death from the Green Knight’s axe, he not only honours his promise to the lady to conceal it faithfully from her lord but as ever suits the action to the word in doing so at the first opportunity (1872–75): When ho watz gon, Sir Gawayn gerez hym sone, Rises and riches hym in araye noble, Lays vp þe luf-lace þe lady hym raȝt, Hid hit ful holdely, þer he hit eft fonde.

Courtesy and fidelity are here reinforced by generosity, that is, fraunchyse (652), in the manner suggested by the symbolism of  the pentangle. Indeed, courtesy and chastity are always fittingly accompanied by a generous and disinterested regard for the feelings and needs of others and also by a willingness in the absence of certain knowledge not to impugn the motives of others. Thus Gawain is puzzled rather than outraged by the lady’s initial

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appearance at his bedroom door. He does not attribute the rudeness of ignorance or design to his hostess but simply tries to make sense of what is on the face of it an extraordinary violation of a social code. Perhaps it is an accident and the lady has mistaken his bedroom for her own. Such things can happen. Perhaps the lady is impelled by the sudden promptings of an innocent and vulnerable love. No doubt such a circumstance is not unusual in the world inhabited by a paragon like Gawain. She comes to him not apparently unsure of  herself and at the same time eager to learn (1531–34): ‘I com hider sengel, and sitte To lerne at yow sum game; Dos, techez me of your wytte, Whil my lorde is fro hame.’

When her amorous longings are turned aside by Gawain, gently but firmly and repeatedly, she manifests all the signs of innocent distress, suggestive to readers of romance, perhaps, of a Fair Maid of  Astolat: ‘Kysse me now comly, and I schal cach heþen,/ I may bot mourne vpon molde, as may þat much louyes’ (1794–95). Such generosity of spirit on Gawain’s part amounts indeed to a recognition of  love and he is led to ref lect upon or at least to acknowledge the emptiness of  heart that must have brought her to him. Thus when he finally takes his leave of  Hautdesert for his momentous meeting with the Green Knight and his axe, he thinks fondly of  her and wishes for her the love that will satisfy her womanly nature, even though he knows that it has not fallen to his lot to supply it: ‘Þe leue lady on lyue luf  hir bityde’ (2054). It is a private ref lection on Gawain’s part, and certainly not one that he would wish to share with the husband and the world. Pearsall is wrong to think that ‘the embarrassment of  the lady’s bedroom visits is an acceptable embarrassment’ and that ‘Gawain could have talked about it to his friends’.17 Such boastfulness would not be courteous and a public disclosure of  these private events could not possibly be to the advantage of  the husband or his lady. Delicate personal issues of  this kind are easily misinterpreted and misrepresented. Hence Sir Geof froi de Charny urges secrecy in all such af fairs of  the heart (Livre de chevalerie, 19.188–93):

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GERALD MORGAN tout le bien, l’onnour et l’amour que vous y trouverés, gardez le secretement sanz vous en venter en nulle maniere, ne faire aussi les semblans si tres grans qu’il conviegne que autres ne pluseurs s’en apperçoivent, que nul bien en la parfin, quant il est trop sceu, n’en vient mie volentiers, mais en peuent avenir moult de durs emcombriers qui puis tournent a grant ennui. and keep secret the love itself and all the benefit and the honorable rewards you derive from it; you should, therefore, never boast of  the love nor show such outward signs of it in your behavior that would draw the attention of others. The reason for this is that when such a relationship becomes known, no good is, in the end, likely to come of it; great dif ficulties may arise which then bring serious trouble.

So too Chaucer’s Criseyde, in her anxious and fearful contemplation of  taking Troilus as a lover, is able to comfort herself (justifiably as it turns out) with the thought that Troilus is not a boaster (TC, II.722–25): ‘And ek I knowe of  longe tyme agon His thewes goode, and that he is nat nyce; N’avantour, seith men, certein, he is noon; To wis is he to doon so gret a vice.’

Such awareness of  the need for discretion prompts Gawain’s refusal on the first day’s exchange of winnings to disclose to the host the source of  the gracious kiss that he bestows upon him in accordance with their agreement (1385–91), for he is under no obligation to do so: ‘   “Þat watz not forward,” quoþ he, “frayst me no more/ For ȝe haf  tan þat yow tydez, trawe non oþer/ ȝe mowe”  ’ (1395–97). Gawain’s behaviour is both legitimate and honourable, for he himself is guilty of no of fence towards the lady in the bedroom on the occasion of  her first visit. But all is not as well in the end as Gawain believes it to be, for on the third day in the bedroom the lady cunningly leads him to make a promise to her that contradicts his earlier promise to the lord in the Exchange of  Winnings agreement (1862–65): And bisoȝt hym, for hir sake, disceuer hit neuer, Bot to lelly layne fro hir lorde; þe leude hym acordez Þat neuer wyȝe schulde hit wyt, iwysse, bot þay twayne     for noȝte.

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The spectator often sees more of  the game than the players involved or at least sees dif ferent things and from dif ferent perspectives. Thus we as readers or auditors see Gawain’s moral lapse but Gawain himself does not. We need to appreciate this fact and to temper our criticism of  Gawain accordingly. Two factors soften our judgment. Gawain’s fear for his life in view of  the impending axe-blow comes to the surface on the third day of  the Exchange of  Winnings Game. The poet shows both Gawain’s moral soundness and also his mental disturbance (1731–32 and 1748–51): Whyle þe hende knyȝt at home holsumly slepes Withinne þe comly cortynes, on þe colde morne …      He watz in drowping depe,      Bot þenne he con hir here. In dreȝ droupyng of dreme draueled þat noble, As mon þat watz in mornyng of mony þro þoȝtes.

It is the incapacitating presence of  fear that explains how Gawain can overlook the moral reality of what the lady proposes in of fering him the girdle. He possesses the requisite knowledge by which he can see through and so thwart her stratagem, but because of  fear he fails to exercise it (Aristotle, Ethics, VII. 3, 1146b 31–35 and Aquinas, Commentary, 1338): But (a), since we use the word ‘know’ in two senses (for both the man who has knowledge but is not using it and he who is using it are said to know), it will make a dif ference whether, when a man does what he should not, he has the knowledge but is not exercising it, or is exercising it; for the latter seems strange, but not the former.

Gawain is overwhelmed here by the sudden hope of  life when he had resigned himself  to the prospect of imminent death and is thus distracted from the true realities of  his present circumstances. Troilus undergoes a similar experience when his love for Criseyde is finally returned (TC, III.1240–45): And right as he that seth his deth yshapen, And dyen mot, in ought that he may gesse, And sodeynly rescous doth hym escapen,

14

GERALD MORGAN And from his deth is brought in sykernesse, For al this world, in swych present gladnesse Was Troilus, and hath his lady swete.

Gawain’s sinfulness is therefore diminished but not eradicated by passion, here the passion of  fear, as Aquinas explains: ‘Si igitur accipiatur passio secundum quod praecedit actum peccati, sic necesse est quod diminuat peccatum,/ When emotion precedes sin, it necessarily diminishes sinfulness’ (ST, 1a 2ae 77.6; trans. John Fearon). Mortal sin becomes venial in such circumstances, that is, venial from the cause.18 It is hard, indeed almost impossible, to think clearly when under the pressure of powerful and welljustified fear for one’s life. At this moment of moral failure (if only of partial failure) Gawain is rescued by the habit of virtue, and in particular by the habit of piety. This is the ‘pité, þat passez alle poyntez’ (654), the culminating moral virtue of  the pentangle passage.19 Thus Gawain makes a clear and complete confession of  his sins as of one on the point of death (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.

Only our modern ignorance of penitential doctrine and practice creates dif ficulties here and introduces the suspicion (contradicting the explicit evidence of  the text) of an invalid confession. The act of confession is inclusive and so includes a general confession of possible sins obscured from view as well as the enumeration of particular sins that the penitent is able to call to mind, as explained in the Supplementum to the Summa theologiae: ‘Sed ille qui confitetur omnia peccata, quae scit, accedit ad Deum, quantum potest: plus autem ab eo requiri non potest: ergo non confundetur, ut repulsam patiatur, sed veniam consequetur,/ Now he who confesses all the sins of which he is conscious, approaches to God as much as he can: nor can more be required of  him. Therefore he will not be confounded by being repelled, but will be forgiven’ (3a 10.5 sed contra).20 Thus Gawain

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leaves Hautdesert for the Green Chapel made clean of all his sins by the sacrament of penance, including his venial sin of withholding the lady’s girdle from her lord in the game of  the Exchange of  Winnings. Ignorance is understandable, but it is not fitting that one should remain in a state of ignorance. It falls to the Green Knight to disclose to Gawain the nature of  his sin and, in so doing, the part the lady has played in his moral downfall. Gawain is not only humiliated by this realization of  his sinfulness but also frustrated and embittered by the thought that his own virtues have made their contribution to that downfall. He has indeed lacked the courage to see through the lady’s deceit, but the courtesy and generosity of spirit that make him wish to protect the lady from her feelings of sorrow have rendered him vulnerable to his own feelings of  fear. He expresses this bitterness in what appears to many modern readers to be a classic piece of medieval anti-feminism (2411–19): And comaundez me to þat cortays, your comlych fere, Boþe þat on and þat oþer, myn honoured ladyez, Þat þus hor knyȝt wyth hor kest han koyntly bigyled. Bot hit is no ferly þaȝ a fole madde, And þurȝ wyles of wymmen be wonen to sorȝe, For so watz Adam in erde with one bygyled, And Salamon with fele sere, and Samson eftsonez – Dalyda dalt hym hys wyrde – and Dauyth þerafter Watz blended with Barsabe, þat much bale þoled.

A modern reader, sensitive to questions of equality and bias in respect of  the relation between the sexes, is liable to misconstrue the purport of  these lines, but the supposition that Gawain is unsporting in defeat and at the same time filled with a hatred for the generality of womankind is more than unwelcome. It is entirely at odds with the argument of  the poem as a whole and our sense of  Gawain’s humanity. III.  The issue of anti-feminism or misogyny in the Middle Ages is too long and complicated a subject to be adequately dealt with here, but we can hardly suppose that the hatred of women was normal for men in the

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medieval world or even that it underpins the thought of  the greatest medieval philosophers. On the contrary, we may note the following assumptions of principle on the question of sexual dif ferentiation in the mainstream of scholastic Aristotelian thought. It is certainly the view of  Aquinas that the dif ference of sex is as natural as the dif ference of size. Thus as one person may be six feet tall and another five feet six inches, so one person may be male and another female and this distinction of sex is to be found also in the resurrected body (Scriptum in IV Libros Sententiarum, 44.1.3c): Dicendum quod sicut, considerata natura individui, debetur quantitas diversa diversis hominibus; ita, considerata natura individui, debetur diversis diversi sexus; … Et ideo sicut resurgent homines in diversis staturis, ita in diversis sexibus. Just as, considering the nature of  the individual, it is fitting that dif ferent human beings should dif fer in size, so, considering the nature of  the individual, it is fitting that dif ferent [human beings] should dif fer in sex … And therefore, as human beings will rise in dif ferent statures, so they will rise in dif ferent sexes.21

Indeed the dif ference of sex is not a source of defect at all, but is required for the perfection of  the species: ‘Quamvis feminae sit praeter intentionem naturae particularis, est tamen de intentione naturae universalis, quae ad perfectionem humanae speciei utrum sexum requirit; nec ex sexu erit ibi aliquis defectus, ut ex dictis patet,/ Although the female is beyond the intention of  the particular nature, it is according to the intention of universal nature, which requires both sexes for the perfection of  the human species; nor will any defect arise from sex, as is clear from what has been said’ (Scriptum in IV Libros Sententiarum, 44. 1. 3c). Further, the woman is not made primarily for procreation but for understanding, that is, she is a human being before she is female just as the man is a human being before he is male (ST, 1a 92.1; trans. Edmund Hill): Homo autem adhuc ordinatur ad nobilius opus vitae, quod est intelligere. Et ideo adhuc in homine debuit esse majori ratione distinctio utriusque virtutis, ut seorsum produceretur femina a mare, et tamen carnaliter conjungerentur in unum ad generationis opus.

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But at the top of  the scale is man, whose life is directed to a nobler function still, that of understanding things. And so there was more reason than ever in man for emphasizing the distinction between the sexes, which was done by producing the woman separately from the man, while at the same time joining them together in a union of  the f lesh for the work of procreation.

Philosophers such as Aristotle and Aquinas are not woman-haters. No more is a poet such as Chaucer, who in his creation of  the Wife of  Bath directly confronts the issues of anti-feminism in the last decade of  the fourteenth century (possibly the period of composition of  Sir Gawain and the Green Knight itself ). The Wife of  Bath is no doubt the product of  the antifeminist Latin sources specified in the text of  her prologue and, indeed, D.W. Robertson Jr identifies her as ‘a literary personification of rampant “femininity” or carnality’.22 Such a negative view of  the Wife of  Bath, however, runs counter to the response of most modern readers of  Chaucer’s poem. John Livingston Lowes responds to ‘Chaucer’s sheer delight in her creation’ and compares her to Falstaf f as ‘that other gorgeous old sinner’.23 Thus Chaucer shows that the potential goodness of  feminine nature is contained even in the anti-feminist account of woman and he has superimposed upon it the Wife of  Bath’s own point of view.24 Chaucer softens the impact of  the anti-feminist critique of  the estate of woman while at the same time exploiting the central assumptions of  that critique. Moreover there is a vein of moral idealism in the Wife of  Bath’s insistence on freedom and trust as a basis for happiness (WBProl, D 318–22): Thou sholdest seye, ‘Wyf, go when thee liste; Taak youre disport; I wol nat leve no talys. I knowe yow for a trewe wyf, dame Alys.’ We love no man that taketh kep or charge Wher that we goon; we wol ben at oure large.

The mode of address here, ‘dame Alys’, emphasizes her desire for both respect and af fection (one may note in passing that Alisoun in The Miller’s Tale is never referred to by such a shortened form of  her name). The lack of jealous concern she requires of  husbands is exemplified in the conduct of  Arveragus in The Franklin’s Tale (F 1094–97). In other words, this is not merely a self-interested assertion on the Wife of  Bath’s part but the expression of an authentic ideal.

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Thus Chaucer makes us aware that not even the context of anti-feminist ideas can annihilate the reality of individual choice. General tendencies are always subject to modification in the light of personal experience. Chaucer’s Criseyde is the classic type of a courtly lady, but she is also a traitor (TC, I. 52–56). In the end she must be seen not as a representative of  her sex but as an individual woman who betrays her lover. This is a point of suf ficient importance for Chaucer to make it explicitly, for he does not wish his great poem of  tragic love to be misconstrued as a diatribe against women (TC, V.1772–75 and 1779–83): Bysechyng every lady bright of  hewe, And every gentil womman, what she be, That al be that Criseyde was untrewe, That for that gilt she be nat wroth with me. N’y sey nat this al oonly for thise men, But moost for wommen that bitraised be Thorugh false folk – God yeve hem sorwe, amen! – That with hire grete wit and subtilte Bytraise yow.

All human beings (knights and ladies alike) are capable of deceit and treachery, for moral virtue is dif ficult and hence rarely found. But in the case of  Sir Gawain in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight we have to allow also for the rareness and excellence of moral virtue, and hence we must resist the temptation to reduce him to the level of an embittered male. In taking his leave of  the Green Knight (and through him of  the ladies at Hautdesert) Sir Gawain is not in the first place of fering a statement of universal feminine nature, but is conscious once again of  his duty as a guest to his host. He is no longer in a state of ignorance and can hardly ignore the reality of  his personal experience. He was deceived as a guest at Hautdesert and it was the young lady who was the immediate agent of deception and the ready instrument of  his downfall. Only now does he realize the extent of  her deception and the discovery is accompanied by shock and disillusionment. He is not the first man, and no doubt will not be the last, to be undermined by a woman he loves. In other words, his own experience, hard to credit in itself, is validated by the experience of others.

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It is only the very best of men who are vulnerable to women in this way. The point about Adam, Solomon, Samson and David is precisely that they were the most excellent of men: ‘For þes wer forne þe freest, þat folȝed alle þe sele/ Exellently of alle þyse oþer, vnder heuenryche/ þat mused’ (2422–24). Had Gawain been a lesser man he might simply have asked the lady to leave his bedroom. Had he been prepared to use violence against a woman, as Yder does in the romance of  Yder (370–78),25 he no doubt could have protected his selfish interest in that way. The author of  Yder is indeed prepared to defend the brutal action of  his hero in these circumstances: ‘Jo nel sai pas de ço reprendre/ Kar il ne se poeit defendre, / I cannot criticize him for this as he was unable to defend himself in any other way’ (379–80; pp. 38–39). Gawain is assuredly not to be blamed for rejecting both these courses of action. Above all, he does not stoop so low as to ‘account for his actions by blaming women’.26 That would indeed be a crude and merely misogynistic ref lex. Such is the response of a figure like Chaucer’s Merchant who lays the blame for his misery in marriage unambiguously upon his wife in the prologue to his tale (E 1218–20): I have a wyf, the worste that may be; For thogh the feend to hire ycoupled were, She wolde hym overmacche, I dar wel swere.

By way of contrast, Gawain confronts his own blameworthiness by accusing himself on three separate occasions of cowardice, infidelity and covetousness (2373–75, 2379–81 and 2507–10). If anything, to modern taste such self-accusation is overdone, but it would have been seen by Gawain’s contemporaries as a willed displeasure for sin and fitting in a penitent sinner. Further, it behoves a knight returning from a quest to tell the truth, for the reputation of a knight should not depend upon a falsehood. Thus in the early-thirteenth-century Prose Lancelot Arthur’s knights have to swear an oath to tell the truth about their adventures on their return to Arthur’s court, and these truthful reports are solemnly recorded by clerks in the royal household. The knights of  the Company of  the Star had to swear such an oath, as Jean le Bel records in his Chroniques (II.204–6):

20

GERALD MORGAN Et y [at the Maison de l’Etoile] debvoit le roy, chascun an, tenir court plainiere de tous les compaignons au mains, et y debvoit chascun raconter toutes ses aventures, aussy bien les honteuses que les glorieuses qui avenues luy seroient des le temps qu’il n’avroit esté a la noble court, et le roy debvroit ordonner .ii. ou .iii. clercs qui escouteroient toutes ces aventures, et en ung livre mettroient af fin qu’elles fussent chascun an raportees en place par devant les compaignons, par quoy on poeut sçavoir les plus proeux et honnourer ceulx qui mielx le deserviroient. [A]nd the king should each year hold a full court of all the companions, and each one should recount all his adventures, the shameful as well as the glorious, which happened to him during the time he spent away from the noble court, and the king should order two or three clerks to listen to all these adventures and put them in a book so that they would be reported each year in front of  the companions, so that the most valiant should be known and those honored who most deserve it.27

We may think that Gawain’s words of self-criticism have a completeness and severity that contrast with the Green Knight’s humane and more detached judgment, but Gawain says nothing ‘bot þe trawþe’ (1050). Moreover, the respective judgments of  the Green Knight and of  Gawain himself are not at odds but rather are a part of  that discriminating moral harmony and sense of proportion that characterizes the poem as a whole. Neither the poet nor the hero of  the poem deserves the censure of ranting that has been placed upon them.

Notes 1 2 3

‘Gawain’s Antifeminist Rant, the Pentangle, and Narrative Space’, YES, 22 (1992), 117–39 (pp. 136–37). ‘Sources II: Scriptural and Devotional Sources’, in A Companion to the GawainPoet, edited by Derek Brewer and Jonathan Gibson (Cambridge: D.S. Brewer, 1997), pp. 257–75 (p. 269). ‘Courtesy and Chivalry in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight: The Order of  Shame and the Invention of  Embarrassment’, in A Companion to the Gawain-Poet, pp. 351–62 (p. 355). See also Susan Powell, ‘Untying the Knot: Reading Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’, in New Perspectives on Middle English Texts: A Festschrift

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for R.A. Waldron, edited by Susan Powell and Jeremy J. Smith (Cambridge: D.S. Brewer, 2000), pp. 55–74, where reference is made to Gawain’s ‘excoriation of women’ (p. 59, n. 10). For an explanation of  the contrary view that ‘Gawain’s chivalry and social tact are most in evidence here’, see Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, edited by R.A. Waldron, York Medieval Texts (London: Edward Arnold, 1970), p. 134. 4 See Barbara Emerson, The Black Prince (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1976), pp. 154–64. 5 See The Wife of  Bath’s Prologue, D 628 and 669–710. 6 See Le Livre de chevalerie, Section 19.177–222 and Section 20 (pp. 116–23). 7 See Le Chevalier de la Charrete, 321–77, 3924–99 and 4458–500. 8 See Troilus and Criseyde, I.358–546 and The Knight’s Tale, A 1355–82. 9 See The Knight’s Tale, A 3070–108 and The Franklin’s Tale, F 729–806. 10 See Erec et Enide, 2430–573. 11 Gower in his poem In Praise of  Peace, addressed to the newly crowned Henry IV (1399–1413) who was himself as Earl of  Derby a crusading knight, writes: ‘Good is teschue werre, and natheles/ A kyng may make werre uppon his right,/ For of  bataile the final ende is pees’ (64–66). See Macaulay, The English Works of  John Gower, II.481–92. 12 See also The Knight’s Tale, A 1772–73 and 1782. 13 Chaucer’s Knight: The Portrait of a Medieval Mercenary (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1980), pp. 175 and 192–202. See also Gerald Morgan, ‘The Worthiness of  Chaucer’s Worthy Knight’, ChR, 44 (2009), 115–58 and Stephen H. Rigby, Wisdom and Chivalry: Chaucer’s ‘Knight’s Tale’ and Medieval Political Theory (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2009). 14 On courtesy in the general sense of moral worth or excellence, that is, honestas, see Gerald Morgan, ‘Spenser’s Conception of  Courtesy and the Design of  the Faerie Queene’, RES, NS, 32 (1981), 17–36 (pp. 19–20). 15 Some critics (perhaps a majority) prefer ‘purity’ to ‘chastity’ as a gloss to clannes (653), but it can hardly be doubted that sexual purity is at the centre of the meaning of  the word, especially as linked to courtesy and in the setting of a bedroom. See Ad Putter, An Introduction to the Gawain-Poet (London and New York: Longman, 1996), pp. 202–3 and n. 1. 16 Reference is to Patience, edited by J.J. Anderson (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1969). 17 ‘Courtesy and Chivalry in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’, p. 359. 18 On the definition of  Gawain’s sin as venial from the cause, see Gerald Morgan, ‘The Validity of  Gawain’s Confession in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’, RES, NS, 36 (1985), 1–18 (pp. 10–12).

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19 On pité as meaning ‘piety’ and not ‘compassion’, see Gerald Morgan, ‘The Perfection of  the Pentangle and of  Sir Gawain in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’, in Essays on Ricardian Literature: In Honour of  J.A. Burrow, edited by A.J. Minnis, Charlotte C. Morse and Thorlac Turville-Petre (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997), pp. 252–75 (p. 256, n. 9). 20 Divi Thomae Aquinatis Summa Theologica, second edition (Rome, 1894), Volume V, Tertiae Partis Supplementum, translated by Fathers of  the English Dominican Province (London: Baker, 1917). 21 I owe this and the following reference to Michael Nolan, ‘The Aristotelian Background to Aquinas’s Denial that “Woman is a Defective Male”  ’, The Thomist, 64 (2000), 21–69 (pp. 66–67). Nolan refutes the attribution to Aristotle (and hence also to Aquinas and Bonaventure) of  the view that a woman is a defective male, that the female is passive whereas the male is active and that the male human embryo receives a rational soul earlier than the female. All three attributions are based upon a misreading of  Aristotle. 22 A Preface to Chaucer: Studies in Medieval Perspectives (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1962), p. 321. 23 Geof frey Chaucer (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1934), p. 187. 24 See The Wife of  Bath’s Prologue, D 721, 740, 747 and 757. 25 The Romance of  Yder, edited and translated by Alison Adams, Arthurian Studies VIII (Cambridge: D.S. Brewer, 1983). 26 Batt, ‘Gawain’s Antifeminist Rant’, p. 119. 27 I am indebted for these references to Elspeth Kennedy’s editorial introduction to Charny’s Livre de chevalerie, pp. 67–69 (see n. 7 above).

2  The Dignity of  Langland’s Meed

Nunc autem hoc nomen donna attribuitur mulieri cum iam habeat cognitionem perfectam, quoniam mulieri que est in etate puerili, in qua cognitio non est perfecta, non attribuitur hoc nomen donna. Iterum, etiam attribuitur mulieri digne; nam illud nomen attribuitur mulieri honeste: mu[lier] enim meretricia non dicitur donna. Et maxime attribuitur hoc nomen mulieri que est proles alicuius familie, que non est [omnino] uiliter nata: unde dignitatem habet ex honestate et ex prole generationis sue. — DINO DEL GARBO1   così dentro una nuvola di fiori che da le mani angeliche saliva e ricadeva in giù dentro e di fori,   sovra candido vel cinta d’uliva donna m’apparve, sotto verde manto vestita di color di fiamma viva. — DANTE, Purgatorio, XXX.28–332 Byfore the temple-dore ful soberly Dame Pees sat, with a curtyn in hire hond, And by hire syde, wonder discretly, Dame Pacience syttynge there I fond, With face pale, upon an hil of sond. — CHAUCER, The Parliament of  Fowls, 239–43

I.  It is tempting to believe that the world of scholarship is characterized by the steady accumulation of  knowledge and consequent refinement of understanding. This may in general be the case, but progress is not achieved without many incidental errors of judgment that derive (as often as not) from fashionable beliefs and embedded assumptions sustained only by our willingness (and even eagerness) to believe them. The degrading of  Chaucer’s crusading Knight by Terry Jones to the status of  ‘a shabby

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mercenary without morals or scruples’3 like Sir John Hawkwood (a moralistic reading as extreme in its way as Robertsonian Augustinianism) has found a remarkably sympathetic public reception (at a scholarly as well as a popular level) since it first appeared in 1980. It has taken a generation of patient scholarly enquiry to dispel the charm of so tendentious an interpretation. More tenacious even than the attachment to the Knight as a disreputable mercenary, however, is the respect habitually accorded to Langland’s Meed by scholars and critics who refer to her (perhaps without thinking much about it) as Lady Meed. Such a way of viewing Langland’s allegorical personification has been encouraged by J.A. Burrow in his note on ‘Lady Meed and the Power of  Money’.4 We need to observe by way of response that this is not Langland’s view of  Meed, or rather (since respect for Langland’s fiction is a vital issue in such an argument) it is not the view of  Langland’s Lady Holy Church, Conscience and Reason, and also (perhaps most importantly) not the view of  Piers the Plowman himself. It is by no means evident, therefore, that Langland is inviting his readers to dignify with the title of  ‘lady’ material reward as the end of our earthly endeavours (the plain meaning of  Meed as an allegorical personification). What is at stake here is the relative authority within Langland’s poem of  Lady Holy Church and Piers the Plowman on the one hand and Theology and the King (and their followers) on the other. It has to be said, therefore, that Burrow is mistaken in stating that ‘[w]hen Langland first describes Lady Meed, in Passus II of  Piers Plowman, he portrays her as a modern version of  the Scarlet Woman, set in opposition to Holy Church, that other lady from the Book of  Revelation’ (p. 113). Meed is not referred to as a lady in Passus II in the Z, A and B versions of  the poem, other, that is, than by way of emendation.5 To compound the error, Burrow has refused the title ‘Lady’ to Holy Church in just the same way as he has gratuitously added it to Meed. This is contrary to Langland’s own practice and in consequence contrary to Langland’s way of viewing Meed. It is necessary to look more closely at the actual words that Langland chooses to employ in his presentation of  Meed (that is, not the concept of reward as such but the character of  Meed in his fiction).

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II.  The word ‘lady’ (OE hlæfdige) is without doubt for Langland a term of respect and even reverence (whatever misgivings we may have about it in our own age). Boccaccio in his own glosses (chiose) to the description of  the temple of  Venus in the Teseida (VII.50–66) comments as follows on ‘madonna Pace’ (Tes., VII.58.3; Boitani, p. 203): Dice ancora che madonna Pace v’era, a dimostrare che i disideri che per forza s’hanno non sono da dire amorosi, perciò che gli amorosi richeggiono pari concordia dell’una parte e dell’altra. [He says again that] the Lady Peace was also there, and this shows that imposed desires cannot pertain to love, because amorous desires require agreement from both sides.

Chaucer in his version of  the temple of  Venus in The Parliament of  Fowls (211–94) adds the mark of respect with good cause to Patience as well as Peace (239–43). Peace and Patience are linked together and personified as ladies among the eight beatitudes (a company of  ladies) by the poet of  Patience (29–33): These arn þe happes alle aȝt þat vus bihyȝt weren, If we þyse ladyes wolde lof in lyknyng of þewes: Dame Pouert, dame Pitee, dame Penaunce þe þrydde, Dame Mekenesse, dame Mercy and miry Clannesse, And þenne dame Pes and Pacyence put in þer-after.6

A generation or so later James I of  Scotland, celebrating his courtship of and marriage to Joan Beaufort, granddaughter of  John of  Gaunt and Katherine Swynford, in The Kingis Quair in 1424, acknowledges the authority of  ‘dame Minerue, the pacient goddesse’ (KQ, 877) in addressing her repeatedly as ‘Madame’ (967, 991 and 1053).7 He goes down on his knees when called by the goddess Fortune (1156–59), addressing her too as ‘Madame’ (1166 and 1172). He knows that success in love is impossible without the help of  Fortune (1166–69). It is thus with a sense of profound respect and reverence that Langland introduces ‘[a] louely lady of  leere in lynnen ycloþed’ (PPl, B I.3) into his poem at the beginning of  Passus I to explain to his errant dreamer dressed in ‘shroudes as … a sheep’ (B Prol. 2) the meaning of  truth. This Lady Holy

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Church proceeds to do in the course of  the passus with the authority of a Lady Philosophia8 or a Beatrice.9 The lady addresses the dreamer in the singular form of assumed superiority: ‘Sone, slepestow? Sestow þis peple – / How bisie þey ben aboute þe maȝe?’ (B I.5–6).10 Her words strike fear into the dreamer for he can hardly fail to recognize her authority at such close quarters: ‘I was afered of  hire face, þeiȝ she fair weere,/ And seide “Mercy, madame, what [may] þis [be] to meene?”  ’ (B I.10–11). She tells him of  the meaning of  the tower on the hill and the significance of  Truth in the living out of one’s daily life (B I.12–42). Her discourse on moderation is pleasing to him (as he acknowledges in a somewhat patronizing fashion for all his outward civility) and he would like to know something about a right attitude to worldly wealth (B I.43–45): ‘A, madame, mercy,’ quod I, ‘me likeþ wel youre wordes. Ac þe moneie of þis molde þat men so faste holdeþ – Telleþ me to whom þat tresour appendeþ.’

Lady Holy Church tells the dreamer that in respect of material riches we are to be directed by Reason and governed by Kind Wit (B I.54–57), that is, by the intellectual virtue of prudence in the light of  the natural reason or habit of  the first principles of  the speculative intellect and the practical intellect (or synderesis).11 He is eager to know more and looks for some insight into the dungeon in the valley (B I.58–60):    Thanne I frayned hire faire, for Hym þat hire made, ‘That dongeon in þe dale þat dredful is of siȝte What may it bemeene, madame, I yow biseche?’12

The authority of  the answers he receives naturally leads the dreamer to wonder what kind of  ‘womman she weere/ That swiche wise wordes of  Holy Writ shewed’ (B I.71–72). His obtuseness is such as to test the patience of a saint, for he is ignorant indeed if  he is ignorant of  Lady Holy Church (B I.75–78).13 His anxious questions serve only to expose the depth of  his continuing ignorance. When Lady Holy Church explains to him the way of  Truth as the means to the salvation of  his soul (B I.85–137), he insists that he has ‘no kynde knowynge’ (B I.138), that is, no natural understanding,

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of such Truth. Langland seems to have little sympathy with such forms of intellectual scepticism and indeed Lady Holy Church sees in the dreamer’s profession of ignorance nothing more than stubbornness and perversity. Lady Holy Church is not the first medieval instructress to lose patience with a pupil’s lack of aptitude for learning. Beatrice, although hidden by the veil, ‘cerchiato de le fronde di Minerva,/ encircled with Minerva’s leaves’ (Purg., XXX.68; Sinclair, II.395), makes Dante aware in the sternness of  her bearing of an inward displeasure deeper than the outward severity of  her words, for she continues in her speech ‘come colui che dice/ e ’l più caldo parlar dietro reserva,/ like one who while he speaks holds back his hottest words’ (Purg., XXX.71–72; Sinclair, II.397). She knows that at her death when ‘bellezza e virtù cresciuta m’era,/ beauty and virtue had increased in me’ (Purg., XXX.128; Sinclair, II.399) she had become less dear and less pleasing to the one who professed to love her. Dante had shown his all-too-human desire and taste for lesser things, the immediate pleasures of  this world rather than the eternal truths that Beatrice herself  had come to represent. Langland’s dreamer in the Malvern Hills is in a worse state of ignorance than Dante personaggio in the Earthly Paradise and in consequence Lady Holy Church does not withhold from him her hottest words of angry denunciation (B I.140–41a): ‘Thow doted daf fe!’ quod she, ‘dulle are þi wittes. To litel Latyn þow lernedest, leode, in þi youþe: Heu michi quod sterilem duxi vitam iuuenilem!  14  Alas for me, that I have led

a sterile life in my youth!

Langland wishes us to understand that such anger, especially perhaps in a lady, is in this instance fully justified. The use of  Latin here (not in the Z and A texts) gives an added authority to the words of rebuke and at the same time their vehemence makes us aware of  the extent of  the dreamer’s folly. Such is the dreamer’s depth of ignorance, indeed, that he needs to be jolted to his senses in this way. Natural understanding is suf ficient to direct the individual to the love of  God and the avoidance of sin (B I.142–47). Perhaps at this point Langland considers that Lady Holy Church has been severe enough and he now adds lines on the divine love not in the Z and A texts (B I.148–64 and C I.145–59) to soften the rigour of

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justice in the emphasis on God as Truth. Nevertheless, her message is still uncompromising in respect of  the love of riches, for the law of  love imposes a special obligation on the rich to take care of  the poor (B I.175 and 179–84):    Forþi I rede yow riche, haueþ ruþe on þe pouere; … For þouȝ ye be trewe of youre tonge and treweliche wynne, And as chaste as a child þat in chirche wepeþ, But if ye louen leelly and lene þe pouere, Of swich good as God yow sent goodliche parteþ, Ye ne haue na moore merite in masse ne in houres Than Malkyn of  hire maydenhede, þat no man desireþ.

The message of  Lady Holy Church is clear and unambiguous, and is intended to brook no argument. Now the dreamer knows without fear of doubt ‘what truþe is’ and ‘þat no tresor is bettre’ (B I. 208). He can rest assured in the words of such a lady, and in the C text Langland takes the opportunity to remind us once more that she is indeed a lady (C I.202): ‘   “Loue hit!” quod þat lady’. Such is the assurance of  Matilda, ‘la bella donna’ of  the final canto of  Purgatorio (XXXIII.121 and 134): ‘Questo e altre cose/ dette li son per me; e son sicura/ che l’acqua di Letè non gliel nascose,/ This and other things I have told him [see Purg., XXVIII.121–33] and I am certain that Lethe’s waters did not hide it from him’ (Purg., XXXIII.121– 23; Sinclair, II.441). Her assurance is necessary, for Dante the pilgrim continues to manifest his ignorance to the very end of  Purgatorio. Here he asks Beatrice a question (Purg., XXXIII.115–17) to which he ought to know the answer. Matilda remains secure in her own knowledge of what the pilgrim Dante knows but seems not to know that he knows (Purg., XXXIII.124–29). III.  Satisfied on the question of  truth (no small question), the dreamer turns (as Aquinas turns in the Summa theologiae) to its contrary, the question of  falseness. It seems that by now the dreamer has entirely submitted himself  to the authority of  Lady Holy Church (B II.1–4):

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Yet I courbed on my knees and cried hire of grace, And seide, ‘Mercy, madame, for Marie loue of  heuene, That bar þat blisful barn þat bouȝte vs on þe rode, Kenne me by som craft to knowe þe false.’

And the exposition of  Lady Holy Church is no less clear in respect of  the false than it was in respect of  truth. It is important to note, however, that Langland does not begin by identifying the falseness of  Meed, but by identifying the fact and pervasiveness of  falseness in terms of  the company of  ‘Fals and Fauel, and hire feeres manye’ (B II.6) and in particular its location in the Devil’s quarter. The dreamer is directed to his ‘left half ’ (B II.5), and when he does indeed look to his ‘left half as þe lady … tauȝte’ (B II.7) he ‘was war of a womman wonderliche ycloþed’ (B II. 8). The contrast between the lady and the woman could hardly be more pointed and the fact of  the woman’s falseness could hardly be more certain. The left side is the north, since the dreamer is facing east (B Prol., I.13), and the north is the Devil’s quarter (B I.119).15 And yet the dreamer’s judgment of  this woman is entirely unhinged by the sheer richness of  her array (B II.17): ‘Hire array me rauysshed, swich richesse sauȝ I neuere’. As soon as the dreamer sees Meed he is lost and his moral certitude, buttressed by Lady Holy Church, disappears. This is the reason for Langland’s careful presentation of  the sequence of events: that is, first, the identification of  the false and then the appearance of  the woman who is false. Like Dante, the dreamer is moved by the impressiveness of material things and moved not after deep ref lection but immediately: ‘Le presenti cose/ col falso lor piacer volser miei passi,/ tosto che ’l vostro viso si nascose,/ Present things with their false pleasure turned my steps as soon as your face was hid’ (Purg., XXXI.34–36; Sinclair, II.405). We need hardly be surprised by yet another error on the dreamer’s part. Naturally the woman he sees does not seem to be what she is any more than the Faus Semblant of Le Roman de la rose (12089–94; Romaunt, 7443–48). Thus in the C text False (that is, Deceit) and Favel (that is, Cunning) are accompanied by ‘fikel-tonge Lyare’ (C II.6) and the woman is not beautifully dressed but ‘as hit were wonderly yclothed’ (C II.9). It is clear that the dreamer’s acceptance of  the authority of  Lady Holy Church has been

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more apparent than real. Her message is simply too dif ficult for him to absorb and his way of  thinking remains, like that of  Dante, ‘da la divina/ distar cotanto, quanto si discorda/ da terra il ciel che più alto festina,/ as far from God’s way as the heaven that spins highest is parted from the earth’ (Purg., XXXIII. 88–90; Sinclair, II.439). Thus he is at once derailed by the dazzling appearance of  Meed. It is a spell under which many of  the critics of  the poem themselves lie subject, for in defiance of  the plain words of  the text and the manifest falseness of  Meed in the eyes of  Lady Holy Church they will still want to say that her falseness is anything but false. Derek Pearsall, the editor of  the C text, tells us that ‘Meed herself is morally neutral’ and T.P. Dolan, in his revision of  Dunning’s Interpretation of  the A Text,16 claims that ‘the ambiguous character of  Meed is suggested’ by Langland’s fictional presentation at this point. It is dif ficult to know how to combat these deep-seated tendencies in the interpretation of  the poem.17 In the Z and A versions the dreamer can imagine no queen on earth to be more fashionable or elegant than the person singled out to him by Lady Holy Church (Z II.18 and A II.14). For the dreamer in B and C she possesses the dignity and status of a married woman: ‘I hadde wonder what she was and whos wif she were’ (B II.18). In another context, that is, without the direct guidance of  Lady Holy Church, the dreamer’s inference would be entirely reasonable. How else is one to explain the ‘robe … ful riche, of reed scarlet engreyned’ (B II.15)? Scarlet is the finest and most costly of woollen fabrics (not necessarily red in colour), and red the most expensive of dyes.18 Hence Chaucer’s Wife of  Bath wears ‘hosen of  fyn scarlet reed’ (GP, A 456) and ‘gaye scarlet gytes’ (WBProl, D 559). But the image of  the married woman is a false image, as Lady Holy Church has already clearly indicated. The woman is a married woman only in appearance, but in reality is unmarried and about to be married. It is an aspect of  her falseness that she blinds and deceives those who look upon her. Thus in C Langland removes the careful detail of  the red scarlet cloth and leaves us with a dreamer whose perception of dress is hasty and imprecise: ‘Here robynge was rychere þen Y rede couthe;/ For to telle of  here atyer no tyme haue Y nouthe’ (C II.14–15). Lady Holy Church herself is undeceived, and it is she who presents the true identity of  Meed, for Meed is in fact a maid (B II.20): ‘  “ That is Mede

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þe mayde,” quod she, “haþ noyed me ful ofte”   ’.19 The revelation comes as a surprise and even a shock, for the truth is often shocking. But the truth is not to be ignored, and in consequence the identity of  Meed as a maid is repeatedly kept before us in this and the following passus in the discourse of  the dreamer as narrator. At B II.57 we learn that many are assembled to witness the marriage of  this maid to False: ‘To marien þis mayde was many man assembled.’20 When False, Guile and Liar f lee the vengeance of  the king (B II.211–33), Meed alone dared to remain (B II.235) –‘Saue Mede þe mayde na mo dorste abide’ – although ‘she trembled for fere,/ And ek wepte and wrong whan she was attached’ (B II.236–37). Such fears are not unfitting in a maid, but for all her anxieties Meed has good reason to believe that she can escape punishment. As a maid she can rely upon the pity of some and as meed she can rely upon the self-interest of many more. At the beginning of  Passus III Meed is indeed treated with conspicuous hospitality when she is received by the King at court (B III.1–4): Now is Mede þe mayde, and na mo of  hem alle, Wiþ bedeles and baillies brouȝt bifore þe Kynge. The Kyng called a clerk – I kan noȝt his name – To take Mede þe maide and maken hire at ese.

The King’s clerk treats Meed with an easy familiarity, ‘[c]urteisly’ taking her ‘bi þe myddel’ and leading her to a private room (B III.9–10). A confessor dressed as a friar approaches ‘Mede þe mayde’ (B III.36) and of fers her a painless absolution in return for a horse-load of wheat (B III.37–47). It is one and the same ‘Mede þe mayde’ (B III.87) who beseeches the mayor to connive in the exploitation of  the poor by retailers (B III.87–90). At this point Langland introduces for the first time a telling (and surely ironic) reference to Meed as a lady, that is, the kind of  lady who urges the acceptance of  bribes from retailers in return for the allowance of excessive profits (B III.91–92): ‘For my loue,’ quod þat lady, loue hem echone, And suf fre hem to selle somdel ayeins reson.’21

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In all this we see in Meed a pliability or want of moral principle far removed from any conception of maidenly innocence. It is in this context that the King proposes ‘Mede þe mayde’ (B III.105) as a wife for Conscience in the hope that she will mend her ways (B III.104– 11).22 Here the King exercises a common function of medieval kingship in disposing of wards and heiresses for financial and political advantage. The material needs of a king, especially in the financing of wars, ensure a welcome for Meed at court, where she is treated as a lady. As we see once again, Meed is the kind of  lady who has no dif ficulty in complying with the King’s will, whatever that may be (B III.112–13). But Conscience proves a stumbling-block. It is surely obvious by this point in the first vision that no right-minded Conscience, not even a faithful servant of  his liege lord (B III.114–17), can go along with such a proposal in the hypocritical pretence that Meed is indeed a lady (in the sense that Lady Holy Church is a lady) and a suitable match. There must be a better motive for marriage than the love of wealth. Conscience is therefore not prepared to accommodate Meed in accordance with the King’s wishes. Instead, he launches upon a blistering denunciation of  Meed as a possible wife (B III.120–69). She is a whore not a lady, has no regard for truth or justice and is the enemy of a well-ordered society founded on these values. The severity of  Conscience’s words in his rejection of  Meed comes as a surprise in the light of  the courtesy that is characteristic of  him in making judgments, favourable or unfavourable.23 But here we are given to understand that the essential meaning of courtesy in external conduct is one of  fitness. Thus courtesy is a matter of  fit words, not simply fair words (the vice of  blandness and complacency).24 The pursuit of meed or material reward as an end in itself involves a lack of moral principle and of all decent restraint. It is the root of all evil, as Chaucer’s Pardoner assures us repeatedly: ‘Radix malorum est Cupiditas’ (PardT, C, 334 and 426). Aquinas explains that cupidity in the specific sense of  the inordinate desire for riches (‘appetitus inordinatus divitiarum’) is the root of all sin as nourishing sins and directing us towards sins, for riches make it possible for a man to satisfy his desires for every kind of sin (ST, 1a 2ae 84.1).25 The dangers posed by the marriage to Meed are real dangers, and hence Conscience is not complacent in respect of  them and does not treat them lightly. At the

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same time we see that his judgment is a true judgment and hence in accord with the teaching of  Lady Holy Church. Conscience sees that those ‘[i]n trust of  hire [Meed’s] tresor’ (B III.124) are harmed thereby, and Lady Holy Church explains to the dreamer that those who ‘trusten on his [Wrong’s] tresour bitrayed arn sonnest’ (B I.70). Like Lady Holy Church (B II.23), Conscience knows that Meed is even ‘pryuee wiþ þe Pope’ (B III.147). Conscience’s judgment of  Meed is severe and uncompromising, but it is fitting and justified. The necessity of repudiating Meed outweighs any concern for a mere outward politeness of manners. IV.  It is stretching optimism or credulity to the limits to believe that ‘Meed is technically a maiden – a virgin’.26 Unless we are to say that Conscience is in error in his judgment of  Meed (and that is not theoretically impossible, for Conscience unlike Reason is fallible), then we have to say that Meed is not a virgin but a whore. Conscience has not the slightest doubt in the matter, for the evidence of  her ready availability to those who seek her out cannot be gainsaid. Indeed, there is ‘noȝt a bettre baude, … / Bitwene heuene and helle, and erþe þouȝ men souȝte!’ (B III.129–30).27 This negative image of  Meed as a maid is paralleled by Spenser’s description of  Lucifera, ‘the Lady of  that Pallace bright’ (FQ, I.4.6), the ‘sinfull hous of  Pryde’ (Argument to Canto 4). Like Meed, Lucifera is also a ‘mayden’, and like Meed she is characterized by her ‘royall robes and gorgeous array,/ … In glistring gold, and perelesse pretious stone’ (FQ, I.4.8). As the dreamer is dazzled by Meed, so the ‘endlesse richesse, and … sumpteous shew’ of  Lucifera’s court confound the ‘frayle amazed senses’ (FQ, I. 4.7) of  the infinite number of people who wait upon Lucifera. Spenser focuses this display of wealth and power on pride, whereas Langland focuses it on cupidity. There is a subtle distinction here between pride, the beginning of sin, as a turning away from God and cupidity, the root of sin, as a turning towards the goods of  this world (ST, 1a 2ae 84.2). As the sins of pride and cupidity are all-encompassing, so Lucifera is attended by the remaining six deadly sins, represented as her coachmen or ‘six sage Counsellours’ (FQ, I.4.18) in a descriptive passage that is justly famous (FQ, I.4.18–35).

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The precision of  Langland’s moral analysis requires a corresponding clarity on the part of  the reader. We must move, therefore, to a second possible meaning for Meed as a maid, namely, ‘an unmarried woman, usually young’ (MED, s.v. maid(e 1.(a) ). This is in an obvious way the sense that is required, for it suits the fiction of a marriage (B II.53 and 57). It does so without predicating virtue of or respect for Meed. Indeed, the fiction obliges us to accept the falseness of  Meed in herself  before there is any question of marriage, since her father is False: ‘For Fals was hire fader þat haþ a fikel tonge,/ And neuere sooþ seide siþen he com to erþe’ (B II.25–26).28 In the B text Langland emphasizes the likeness of  the daughter’s nature to that of  the father, for ‘Mede is manered after hym, riȝt as kynde askeþ:/ Qualis pater, talis filius. Bona arbor bonum fructum facit, [As the father, so the son. A good tree bears good fruit]’ (B II.27–27a). In the C text Langland strengthens this emphatic statement, as if  the falseness of  Meed might possibly be in doubt (C II.27–29a): And Mede is manered aftur hym, as men of  kynde carpeth: Talis pater, talis filia.          So the father, so the daughter For shal neuer breere bere berye as a vine, Ne on a croked kene thorn kynde fyge wexe: Bona arbor bonum fructum facit.        A good tree bears good fruit

The reading filius, that is, ‘son’, is the usual form, as in the B text and in the Athanasian Creed, but a daughter (filia) is often like her father (as Criseyde is like Calkas). As so often, Langland has an impeccable biblical source for his conception of such a relationship (Matthew, 7.16–18): 16. A fructibus eorum cognoscetis eos. Numquid colligunt de spinis uvas, aut de tribulis ficus? 17. Sic omnis arbor bona fructus bonos facit: mala autem arbor malos fructus facit. 18. Non potest arbor bona malos fructus facere: neque arbor mala bonos fructus facere. 16. By their fruits you shall know them. Do men gather grapes of  thorns, or figs of  thistles? 17. Even so every good tree bringeth forth good fruit, and the evil tree bringeth forth evil fruit. 18. A good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit, neither can an evil tree bring forth good fruit.

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This might have a ring of genetic determinism about it for a modern reader, but again we can hardly deny the force of a real belief. The daughter of  False (or Wrong or Favel) cannot be good or even neutral. Hence Lady Holy Church describes Meed as ‘a bastard’ (B II.24 and C II.24; not in Z and A). This is not a term of abuse (as it might be considered nowadays) but a legal technicality, a mark of illegitimacy.29 Material reward as an end in itself is not a legitimate object of  truly human activity in this world. The allegory of  Meed’s parentage (a matter of some dif ficulty for Langland in its precise articulation) points to a subjective falseness, that is, a falseness in our knowledge of  the thing. In other words, the very conception of  Meed (to emphasize Langland’s metaphor) or of material reward as a good or end in itself is false. It is this subjective falseness of our knowledge that Lady Philosophia describes in the De consolatione philosophiae (Boece, 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.

The allegory of  the marriage of  Meed adds to this subjective falseness an objective falseness or falseness in the thing itself. Here we have not merely error but mendacity, deceit and treachery. These consequences of avarice are considered by Aquinas (following Gregory, Moralia, XXXI.45) among the seven daughters of avarice, namely, ‘proditio, fraus, fallacia, perjuria, inquietudo, violentia et contra misericordiam obduratio,/ treachery, fraud, falsehood, perjury, restlessness, violence, and callousness to mercy’ (ST, 2a 2ae 118. 8 arg.1 and sed contra). The breadth of  Langland’s treatment makes it clear that the falseness of  Meed cannot be considered solely or even primarily in terms of  ‘the payment of a fee, a bribe; … bribery, graft’ (MED, s.v. mede n. (4) 1a. (c) ) or ‘[t]he economy of  bribery’.30 First and foremost Meed stands for ‘material reward’ (MED, s.v. 1a. (b) ) specifically as in opposition to ‘spiritual reward’ (MED, s.v. 2. (a) ). In Passus XVII. 260–61 of  the B text (C XIX.226–27) the Samaritan or Charity gives a warning to the rich:

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Wealth and the preoccupation with wealth are recognized as a source of spiritual danger (although in a later age Samuel Johnson was to observe the social utility of gainful employment).31 In his development of  this warning in the C text (XIX.234–48a), Langland also makes it clear that spiritually it makes no dif ference even if riches have been lawfully acquired. Thus Dives is condemned to Hell not because of any unlawful acquisition of wealth, for ‘riȝtfulliche, as men rat, al his richesse cam hym’ (C XIX.235), but because of  the wrongful use of  his wealth. The mark of a false attitude to material reward is again an ostentation and extravagance in dress (C XIX.236–38a) combined with an indif ference to or lack of generosity towards the needs of  the genuinely poor (C XIX.239–41). Thus Dives is ‘Godes tretor’ (C XIX.240) in his stewardship of  the goods that have lawfully come into his possession. Indeed, Langland appears to say, it may be doubted whether riches and righteousness can coexist at all. Patience expresses such a doubt in his response to Haukyn’s question (B XIV. 101–7): ‘Wheiþer paciente pouerte,’ quod Haukyn, ‘be moore plesaunt to Oure Driȝte Than richesse riȝtfulliche wonne and resonably yspended?’ ‘Ye – quis est ille?’ quod Pacience, ‘quik – laudabimus eum!    who is he?; we

shall praise him

Thouȝ men rede of richesse riȝt to þe worldes ende, I wiste neuere renk þat riche was, þat when he rekene sholde, Whan he droȝ to his deeþ day, þat he ne dredde hym soore, And þat at þe rekenyng in arrerage fel, raþer þan out of dette.’32

Again, Langland’s poetic argument has a solid biblical authority to recommend it in the teaching that it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter heaven (Matthew, 19.23–24). By contrast the rich man, along with most of the rest of  human society, is to be found on the broad highway that leads to Hell, and significantly Spenser prefaces his canto on Lucifera’s House of  Pride with a scriptural allusion to the very section of the Sermon on the Mount on which Langland has drawn to define the relation between Meed and False (Matthew, 7.13 and FQ, I.4.2):

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Enter in at the streicte gate: for it is the wide gate, and broad waye that leadeth to destruction: and manie there be which go in thereat.33    Long with her traueild, till at last they see    A goodly building, brauely garnished,    The house of mightie Prince it seemd to be:    And towards it a broad high way that led, All bare through peoples feet, which thether traueiled.

Meed, although an unattached young woman, is never short of suitors, whether they be courtiers looking for advancement, friars seeking to fund new building projects or mayors anxious to alleviate the cares of of fice by personal profit. What makes for special dif ficulty in the organization of a Christian society is the muted voice (and indeed ambiguities) of Theology. The intervention of  Theology is a key element in the accommodation and justification of  Meed (B II.115–41). Langland supplies little fictional information about Theology save the bare name and his own words and emotions. This must surely be deliberate. Theology may be handsome or ugly. We do not know. But he has not come to us, like Lady Holy Church, from the tower of  Truth. He speaks on his own authority, albeit with frequent appeals to Truth (B II.117, 122 and 138). It would be pleasing to believe that his arguments coincide with those of Lady Holy Church (a belief adopted by distinguished editors of  the poem in Bennett, Pearsall and Schmidt). There is no reason in general to think so. Individual theologians, even the greatest of  them, are often at odds with the core beliefs of the institutional Church. Aquinas, who is still for many the voice of orthodox Roman Catholic belief, is orthodox (and humble) in not setting his own authority (or that of Augustine or Jerome) above that of  the Church.34 In Langland’s own time we have the example of  John Wyclif (c. 1330–1384), whose teachings on the Church’s claim to temporal lordships (1375–1376) and transubstantiation (1379–1380) are judged heretical and require to be disowned or recanted by his followers at Oxford such as Nicholas Hereford and Philip Repingdon.35 Theology does not systematize the thought of  Lady Holy Church (as claimed by Schmidt),36 but contradicts it. Whereas Lady Holy Church tells us that Meed is the daughter of  Wrong (Z II.24–25 and A II.19–20) or False

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(B II.25–27a) or Favel (C II.25–29a) and that ‘she is a bastard’ (B II.24 and C II.24), Theology insists on her legitimacy and nobility (B II.119 and 132): ‘For Mede is muliere, of  Amendes engendred … And Mede is muliere, a maiden of goode.’37

The notion that Meed is at one and the same time the daughter of  Wrong/ False/Favel and Amends (reinforced at C II.129–36 by the specious analogy of  the martyrdom of  St Lawrence) is clever but incoherent. In the political world, no doubt, it is possible to confer a retrospective legitimacy on bastards. This was so in the case of  the Beauforts, the four children (all born in the 1370s) of  John of  Gaunt and Katherine Swynford (Chaucer’s sisterin-law), whose marriage in January 1396 was legitimized in September of  the same year by the Italian Pope Boniface IX (1389–1404).38 But in the moral world of conscience and reason (the world of  Langland’s poem) this cannot be possible. Cunning (Favel) can never be a means to a good end, not even the end of  Truth itself.39 The function of  Theology, it seems, is to darken counsel, as even Dame Study observes (B X.182–84): ‘Ac Theologie haþ tened me ten score tymes: The moore I muse þerinne, þe mystier it semeþ, And þe depper I deuyne, þe derker me it þynkeþ.’

Thus Theology obfuscates and does not illuminate our understanding of  the nature of  Meed (that is, the character of  Meed as she appears before the dreamer) and does so in part by a mixture of  bluster, abuse and threat (B II.116, 118, 121, 124, 128, 129 and 140–41). Theology’s anger is not the righteous anger or ‘pure tene’ (B VI.117, VII.115 and XVI.86) of  Piers the Plowman, but the anger of a contentious and irascible polemicist, and perhaps also of one who is insecure in the foundation of  his argument. Theology is on firm ground in extolling the reward that is proportionate to honest labour, for ‘Dignus est operarius,/ the workman is worthy [Luke, 10.7] his hire to haue’ (B II.123). Hence in the C text Langland elaborates this point by emphasizing the status of  Amends as the mother of  Meed (C II.120–23) and the moral imperative of avoiding guile or duplicity

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in all contracts of marriage (C II.124–28). The example of  the martyrdom of  St Lawrence that now follows (C II.129–33) thus enables Theology to couple material reward with spiritual reward (C II.134–36): ‘And sethe man may, an heye, mede of  God diserue, Hit semeth sothly riȝt so on erthe, That Mede may be wedded to no man bot treuthe.’

It is a comfortable but unsafe doctrine, for it does not answer the need for salvation of  the rich men of  this world such as Dives. On the other hand, it is an argument with a ready appeal to Civil and Simony, that is, to corrupt civil and canon lawyers (B II.142–43 and C II.155–56). The workman is indeed worthy of  his hire and there is no better example of such a workman than Piers himself. But Meed does not stand for a due and proportionate reward. By her dress alone it is evident that she is excessive rather than moderate. It falls to Conscience to make an overdue distinction between two kinds of material reward, one that is excessive and the other proportionate to labour and ef fort (B III.230–58). The distinction needs to be reinforced terminologically to avoid the confusion sown by Theology. Let us then, without occasion to revise the judgment of  Lady Holy Church, call the proportionate reward ‘Mercede’ (C III.290) as Langland in the final version of  his work urges us to do. It is Mercede, not Meed, that is ‘a manere dewe dette’ (C III.304).40 However often or however explicitly (or however authoritatively) Lady Holy Church repudiates the life bent on the pursuit of material gain, the lesson is dif ficult to accept and even if grasped it is not grasped for long. At the same time it is surely not impossible to recognize the gulf that exists between the imagined world of  the angry and deceitful Meed of  Passus III of  Piers Plowman (B III.331–36) on the one hand and, on the other, that of  Matilda, the fair lady (‘la bella donna’) of  the final canto of  Purgatorio (XXXIII.130–35) who, with a lady’s courtesy (‘donnescamente’), ushers Statius along with Dante into the healing waters of  Eunoe. The colours of  Meed are the colours that suit us only too well, and for that reason we must reserve the title of  ‘lady’ to Matilda (and to Beatrice and to Lady Holy Church) and persevere with Langland in denying to Meed a claim to such elevated status.

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Notes 1

2

3

4 5 6 7 8

‘But now this word donna is ascribed to a woman when she already has perfect knowledge, for this word donna is not ascribed to a woman who is in her childhood, in whom knowledge is not perfect. And again, it is also ascribed to a worthy woman; for the word is ascribed to a virtuous woman: for a whore is not called donna. And this word is especially ascribed to a woman born into a certain family, who is not altogether of mean birth: whence she possesses worthiness from her virtue and from her birth’. Reference is to Dino del Garbo, Glossa Latina or commentary on the Canzone d’amore of  Cavalcanti, printed in Guido Cavalcanti, Rime, edited by Guido Favati (Milan and Naples: Ricciardi, 1957), Appendix, pp. 347–78 (p. 360.9–16). ‘[S]o, within a cloud of  f lowers which rose from the angels’ hands and fell again within and without, a lady appeared to me, girt with olive over a white veil, clothed under a green mantle with the colour of  living f lame’ (Sinclair, II. 393 and 395. Terry Jones, Chaucer’s Knight: The Portrait of a Medieval Mercenary (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1980), p. 140. On Hawkwood, see William Caferro, John Hawkwood: An English Mercenary in Fourteenth-Century Italy (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2006). MÆ, 74 (2005), 113–18. See Gerald Morgan, ‘The Status and Meaning of  Meed in the First Vision of  Piers Plowman’, Neophilologus, 72 (1988), 449–63 (p. 462, n. 2). Reference is to Patience, edited by J.J. Anderson (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1969). Reference is to James I of  Scotland, The Kingis Quair, edited by John NortonSmith (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1971). As Lady Philosophia is ‘descended from the sovereyne sete’ (Chaucer, Boece, Book I, prosa 3.9–10), so Lady Holy Church comes down from ‘[þe] castel’ (B I.4), that is, the ‘tour on a toft’ (B Prol., I.14). Such condescension and authority in an instructress are to be seen also in Alan of  Lille’s Natura, ‘mulier, ab impassibilis mundi penitiori delapsa palacio,/ a woman glided down from an inner palace of  the impassible world’ (PN, II.1–2 (p. 808); Sheridan, 73), in Jean de Meun’s Reson, ‘la bele, l’avenant,/ qui de sa tour jus descendi,/ the fair and charming Reason, who had come down from her tower’ (RR, 4196–97) and in the Chaucerian Resoun ‘Sodeynly agayn comen doun/ Out of  hir tour’ (Romaunt, 4619–20). Langland has set the exposition of  Lady Holy Church in an unambiguous context of poetic and philosophical authority.

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Thus in the Earthly Paradise Dante personaggio is reduced to indistinct utterance ‘[c]ome a color che troppo reverenti/ dinanzi a suo maggior parlando sono,/ [a]s with those that are too reverent before their superiors with whom they speak’ (Purg., XXXIII.25–26; Sinclair, II.435) in the presence of  his lady Beatrice (‘Madonna’, Purg., XXXIII.29). Indeed his ef forts to understand her thought are unavailing (Purg., XXXIII. 82–84). It becomes necessary for her to speak to him in simpler terms: ‘Veramente oramai saranno nude/ le mie parole, quanto converrassi/ quelle scovrire a la tua vista rude,/ But henceforth my words shall be as simple as may be needful to make them plain to thy rude sight’ (Purg., XXXIII.100–2; Sinclair, II.439). 10 The Z text (Prol., 97–98) reads: ‘Sone, slepest thow? Sest this peple – / How besy they ben the body for to plese?’ and the C text (I.5–6) reads: ‘Wille, slepestou? Seestow þis peple – / Hou bisy þei ben aboute þe mase?’. Similarly, Minerva addresses the poet dreamer in The Kingis Quair as ‘My son’ and ‘my gude sone’ (884 and 897) and speaks to him (as does Fortune) in the condescending singular. The poet dreamer replies in the respectful plural. It is a simple distinction, but is employed with absolute consistency. 11 See Gerald Morgan, ‘The Meaning of  Kind Wit, Conscience, and Reason in the First Vision of  Piers Plowman’, MP, 84 (1987), 351–58 (pp. 352–53 and 356). 12 The C text (I.54–56) reads: ‘Y fraynede her fayr tho, for Hym þat here made,/ “The dep dale and þe derke, so vnsemely to se to,/ What may hit bymene, madame, Y byseche?”   ’. 13 The C text (I.72–75) reads: ‘  “Holy Churche Y am,” quod she, “þou oughtest me to knowe./ Y undirfenge þe formeste and fre man the made./ Thow broughtest me borewes my biddyng to fulfille,/ Leue on me and loue me al thy lyf-tyme”  ’. 14 See MED, s.vv. doten v. 4. Ppl. ‘doted’: (a) ‘foolish, irrational; feeble-minded, doting’ and daf fe n. (a) ‘Fool, half-wit, idiot’. 15 The identification of  the north as the Devil’s quarter is greatly elaborated in an interchange between the dreamer and Lady Holy Church in the C text (C I.111–24). The dreamer asks why Lucifer leapt forth in the north side and not in the south (C I.111–13). Lady Holy Church explains that it is more secure or freer from care in the south, that Hell is in the north and that Christ sits in the south (C I.116–21a). A little later on Lady Holy Church refers to the east as the seat of  heaven and the abode of  Truth (C I.131–33): ‘And alle þat han wel ywrouhte, wende þey sholle/ Estward til heuene, euere to abyde/ There Treuthe is, þe trone that Trinite ynne sitteth.’ The ultimate source of  this tradition is Isaias, 14.13: ‘Sedebo in monte testamenti,/ In lateribus aquilonis,/ I will sit in the mountain of  the covenant, in the sides of  the north’, but it is developed in particular by Augustine in his Enarrationes in Psalmos and reinforced by Germanic mythology, 9

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which also placed Hell in the north; see Pearsall (1978), p. 48, note to I.110a. The association still possesses its poetic vitality for Milton when he comes to write of  the Fall in Paradise Lost (1667, 1674), e.g. ‘I am to haste,/ And all who under me their banners wave,/ Homeward with f lying march where we possess/ The quarters of  the north’ (V.686–89; Carey and Fowler, p. 718). Langland prefaces the exposition of  Lady Holy Church at this point with a humorous reference to the fact that she is speaking, like the poet himself, to an audience composed of northern men and she does not wish to disparage them unduly (C I.114–15): ‘  “Nere hit for northerne men, anon Y wolde ȝow telle – / Ac Y wol lacky no lyf, ” quod þat lady sothly.’ MED glosses ‘northerne men’ here as ‘Of or from northern Britain, esp. the region north of  the Humber’ (s.v. northern(e adj. 2. (a) ), but the key points of reference are surely celestial and universal rather than local. Thus a reference to ‘people of  the northern parts of  the world’ (1. (a) ) rather than to the north of  England is more appropriate. The tower on the hill is not in East Anglia, Christ is not in Winchester and Hell is not (at least not exclusively) in Durham and York. 16 T.P. Dunning, ‘Piers Plowman’: An Interpretation of  the A-Text (Dublin: Talbot Press, 1937). 17 See Pearsall,‘Piers Plowman’ by William Langland, p. 57 and 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. 49. In his New Annotated Edition of  the C-text, Pearsall has altered ‘Lady Meed’ to ‘Meed the Maid’ in the headings to Passus II–IV (although retaining ‘Holy Church’ for Passus I), but his analysis of  Meed remains fundamentally unaltered (pp. 29–31 and 70). 18 See Laura F. Hodges, Chaucer and Costume: The Secular Pilgrims in the General Prologue, Chaucer Studies XXVI (Cambridge: D.S. Brewer, 2000), pp. 173–76 and 180–81. 19 In the C text (II.17–19) Langland incorporates a direct address to Lady Holy Church in the dreamer’s question as to Meed’s name and the identity of  her husband so that in the space of  three lines there emerge three carefully discriminated female identities. First, there is that of  the wife, as the dreamer speculates Meed to be; secondly, there is that of  the lady, which Lady Holy Church indubitably is; and thirdly, there is Meed’s actual or real identity as a maid, an identity of which we are made certain by Lady Holy Church’s specification of it in answer to the dreamer’s prompting. 20 Z reads (II.42–44): ‘Cyuyle ys sompned to sese alle the londus/ That Fauel ant Fals by eny fyn haldeth, / To fef fe Mede theremyd in maryage for euere’ and A reads (II.35–37): ‘Sire Symonye is ofsent to asele þe chartres / Þat Fals and Fauel be any fyn halden,/ And fef fe Mede þermyd in mariage for euere’.

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21 This is also the reading of  A III.80–81 (not in Z). The irony is clarified in the reading of  C III.119–20: ‘  “Loue hem for my loue,” quod this lady Mede, / “And sof fre hem som tyme to selle aȝeyne þe lawe”  ’. 22 Langland elaborates this point in the C text (III.129–46). 23 Conscience’s habitual courtesy of manner (to high and low alike) is clearly de­monstrated in the feast with the Doctor of  Divinity and Patience. Conscience welcomes the Doctor of  Divinity ‘faire’ (B XIII.27) and also Patience, to whom he ‘curteisliche seide,/ “Welcome, wye, go and wassh; thow shalt sitte soone”  ’ (B XIII.31–32). Conscience also commanded Scripture, who serves the food, ‘ful curteisly’ (B XIII.46). There is no requirement (and often no necessity) to deliver a true judgment in a harsh or vehement manner. Indeed, the dreamer proves something of an embarrassment to Conscience in his untimely denunciation of  the Doctor’s gluttony (B XIII. 106–111) and Conscience has to appeal to Patience to keep the dreamer in check: ‘Thanne Conscience ful curteisly a contenaunce he made,/ And preynte vpon Patience to preie me to be stille’ (B XIII.112–13). 24 Spenser makes clear this distinction in the contrast of  Arthur and Turpine in the Legend of  Courtesy, for courtesy as a virtue of modesty in external conduct must be ordered to an inner truth. Thus Arthur’s scorn of  Turpine fits Turpine’s cowardly abjection and thus involves no lack of courtesy (FQ, VI.7.26), whereas Turpine’s vilification of  Arthur is without merit (FQ, VI.6.24–25). 25 See also Gerald Morgan, ‘  “Add faith vnto your force”: The Perfecting of  Spenser’s Knight of  Holiness in Faith and Humility’, Renaissance Studies, 18 (2004), 449–74 (pp. 461–64). 26 So J.A.W. Bennett, Langland, ‘Piers Plowman’: The Prologue and Passus I–VII of  the B Text as Found in Bodleian MS. Laud Misc. 581 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1972), p. 120. See MED, s.v. maid(e n. & adj. 2. (a) ‘A virgin’. 27 See MED, s.v. baude n. (b) ‘a harlot’. 28 Z reads (II.23): ‘for Wrong ys here syre’; A reads (II.19): ‘for Wrong was hire sire’ and C reads (II.25–26): ‘Oon Fauel was her fader þat hath a fykel tonge,/ And selde soth sayth bote yf  he souche gyle’. For an explanation of  these revisions, see Morgan, ‘The Status and Meaning of  Meed’, pp. 456–58. 29 See MED, s.v. bastard n. 2 (a) ‘Any illegitimate son (or daughter)’. 30 Burrow, ‘Lady Meed and the Power of  Money’, p. 117. 31 ‘There are few ways in which a man can be more innocently employed than in getting money’ (Monday, 27 March 1775): Boswell’s Life of  Johnson, edited by George Birkbeck Hill, revised and enlarged by L.F. Powell, 6 vols (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1934–1964), II.323. 32 See also C XV.281–88.

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33 The text is that of  The Geneva Bible: A Facsimile of  the 1560 Edition, with an introduction by Lloyd E. Berry (Madison, Milwaukee and London: University of  Wisconsin Press, 1969). 34 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,/ It must be said that the custom of  the Church enjoys the greatest authority and should always be 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 whomsoever’ (translated by Thomas Gilby). 35 See Gerald Harriss, Shaping the Nation: England 1360–1461 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2005), pp. 376–84. 36 See William Langland: The Vision of  Piers Plowman, edited by A.V.C. Schmidt, Everyman, second edition (London: J.M. Dent; Vermont: Charles E. Tuttle, 1995), p. 416 (following Bennett, p. 128 and Pearsall, p. 60). 37 See MED, s.vv. mulier(e n. & adj. (b) ‘legitimate, born in wedlock; also, a person born in wedlock’ and amende(s n. 1.(a) ‘Reparation, retribution, amends (as for an of fense or crime, or for harm done)’ and 3. ‘Theol. (a) Penance, an act of penance (for sin)’. 38 See Chris Given-Wilson and Alice Curteis, The Royal Bastards of  Medieval England (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1984), pp. 147–50. 39 See Aquinas, ST, 2a 2ae 55.3 ad 2: ‘Ad secundum dicendum quod astutia potest consiliari et ad finem bonum, et ad finem malum; nec oportet ad finem bonum falsis viis pervenire, et simulatis, sed veris. Unde etiam astutia, si ordinetur ad bonum finem, est peccatum,/ Cunning may deliberate about either an evil or a good end, yet a good end should not be sought through false and deceitful means, but only through truthful ones. That is why cunning, even when directed to a good end, is sinful’ (translated by Thomas Gilby). 40 On the distinction between Meed and Mercede, see Morgan, ‘The Status and Meaning of  Meed’, pp. 459–61.

3  Chaucer’s Adaptation of  Boccaccio’s Temple    of  Venus in The Parliament of  Fowls

Di sua potenza segue spesso morte, se forte    la vertù fosse impedita, la quale aita    la contraria via. — CAVALCANTI, Rime, XXVII.35–371   Vostra apprensiva da esser verace tragge intenzione, e dentro a voi la spiega, sì che l’animo ad essa volger face;   e se, rivolto, inver’ di lei si piega, quel piegare è amor, quell’ è natura che per piacer di novo in voi si lega. — DANTE, Purgatorio, XVIII.22–272

I.  It is not hard for the modern reader to accept the proposition put forward by Aristotle in the Poetics (9) that poetry is ordered to the expression of  the universal truth of philosophy rather than the particular truth of  history. Medieval poets and commentators go further, however, in classifying poetry as a branch of moral philosophy. Thus Dante assigns the Commedia to ethics, and is followed in so doing by his son Pietro and by Boccaccio among others.3 How technical the philosophical concerns of poetry can become even in the domain of  love is evident from Guido Cavalcanti’s Canzone d’amore. It is as a master of philosophy and not as a supplicant in love that Cavalcanti presents himself  to his audience and it is as such that he is interpreted by Dino del Garbo in a Latin commentary on the Canzone.4 Accordingly del Garbo explains that the poem depends for its understanding on a reader who is both intelligent and intellectually subtle, and at ease with the principles of natural science, moral science and astrology.5 No one who has read either Cavalcanti’s poem or del Garbo’s commentary

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can doubt the need for both intellectual ef fort and learning. Cavalcanti’s poem is full of  technical scholastic terms such as accidente (2), vertute (11), essenza (12), piacimento (13) and possibile intelletto (22). Understanding of  both text and exposition requires a knowledge of  the Aristotelian system of  faculty psychology as formulated by Aristotle himself in the De anima and as elaborated by such medieval commentators as Avicenna (whose own Liber de anima is especially inf luential in systematizing the account of  the interior senses),6 Albert the Great and Thomas Aquinas.7 Without reference to this system of  knowledge Cavalcanti’s poem and the philosophical poetry of  the tradition to which it belongs becomes simply unintelligible. At the centre of  this same tradition is Boccaccio’s elaborate description of  the temple of  Venus in the Teseida (VII.50–66). Both the specific meanings and the ordered relationships of  the allegorical personifications that are found outside and inside the temple are drawn from the distinctions of  Aristotelian faculty psychology, and it is the Aristotelian system that lends both subtlety and coherence to the poetic account. It is thus for good reasons that Boccaccio supplies his own glosses (chiose) to his description. Indeed, he recognizes that the glosses may be incomplete in not providing an explanation of  the process of sense cognition that is presupposed to the passion of  love (Cupid) and the concupiscible appetite (Venus), and refers the interested reader to Cavalcanti’s poem and del Garbo’s commentary (Tes., II.464/23–29). It is in the commentary of del Garbo and the glosses of  Boccaccio that we shall find the sources for understanding the meaning of  Chaucer’s representation of  the temple of  Venus in The Parliament of  Fowls. It was once held that Chaucer knew the text of  the Teseida, but not the glosses. This view on the whole seems now to have been set aside.8 But whether or not Chaucer had before him the text of  Boccaccio’s glosses (a possibility by no means inherently unlikely and not to be set aside on grounds of mere convenience or preference), it is certain that he is to be numbered among the learned intellects capable of understanding the significance of  the allegorical figures and their relationships. Such a conclusion is evident from the subtle modifications that he has introduced into Boccaccio’s version on his own initiative. And indeed, in the absence of a knowledge of  Aristotelian faculty psychology his own poem lacks meaning and coherence. Perhaps the supposition of  Chaucer’s ignorance of 

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Boccaccio’s glosses has been born of a desire to preserve an image of  the poet free from the imprint of scholastic philosophy.9 At any rate justice has still to be done to Usk’s description of  Chaucer as ‘the noble philosophical poete in Englissh’.10 The purpose of  the present article is to attempt to do so in part by demonstrating the philosophical subtlety and coherence of  the account of  the temple of  Venus in The Parliament of  Fowls. II.  Boccaccio’s account of  the temple of  Venus is entirely organized in terms of  the goddess as the object of  Palemone’s prayer. In The Parliament of  Fowls the temple of  Venus is placed in the wider setting of a paradisal park. The park is no mere preparation for the temple but has a universal value independent of  Venus and in terms of  that value the meaning of  Venus herself is ultimately to be comprehended. The dif ference of perspective is illustrated from the first in the absence from Chaucer’s poem of any reference to the situation of  Venus’s temple on Mount Cithaeron amidst pines (‘fra altissimi pini’), for this is the starting-point of  Boccaccio’s description (VII.50). The setting of  Chaucer’s poem is filled with trees, but in the celebrated list of  trees (176–82) the pine is significantly not to be found. Chaucer emphasizes the functional value of  the trees, for example, ‘the byldere ok’ (176) and ‘the saylynge fyr’ (179), and hence the purposiveness of nature, but in the process has detached the trees from their reference to Venus. Boccaccio explains that Mount Cithaeron is sacred to Venus and has the kind of  temperate climate that is suitable for sexual activities. The pine-trees are present because they help to arouse the concupiscible appetite (Chiose, 463/30–32). Chaucer knows all about these things, as is evident from his description of  the temple of  Venus in The Knight’s Tale (A 1936–59), but he has excluded them from the description of  the paradisal park in The Parliament of  Fowls because that park is not to be limited to a mere setting for the temple of  Venus. Likewise he has eliminated Boccaccio’s reference to the myrtles that abound in the place (VII.51), for, as the gloss explains, f lowers and myrtles ‘hanno a confortare l’odorato, e massimamente la mortine, la quale scrivono i poeti essere albero di Venere, perciò che il suo odore è incitativo molto,/ are to excite the sense of smell, especially myrtle, which, the poets write, is Venus’ tree, because its smell is

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very stimulating’ (Chiose, 463/43–45; Boitani, 201). Instead of  the reference to the odoriferous myrtles, Chaucer has (187–89): And colde welle-stremes, nothyng dede, That swymmen ful of smale fishes lighte, With fynnes rede and skales sylver bryghte.

Chaucer’s reference here lies within the economy of  his own poem, for these lines take up the challenge of  the black verses of despair over the entrance to the park (138–39): This strem yow ledeth to the sorweful were There as the fish in prysoun is al drye.

The description of  the park is an account of an earthly paradise and it is built upon the principles of plenitude (172–82),11 fecundity (187–96) and harmony (197–210). Moreover, Chaucer has managed to show the interconnection of  these ideas, for plenitude and fecundity are at once suggested by the ‘treës clad with leves that ay shal laste’ (173) and fecundity and harmony in the linking of male and female of  the fallow deer and of  the red deer (195): ‘The dredful ro, the buk, the hert and hynde’.12 What is being expressed here is the natural goodness of  the created world. Hence, instead of  the pines and myrtles associated with Venus, Chaucer introduces a specific reference to the author of nature, ‘God, that makere is of al and lord’ (199). The entrance into the park is the entrance into life itself with its dual potentialities of good and evil. The personified figures that are found within the park together constitute a complex statement of  the elements involved in the exercise of choice between good and evil, namely, the causes and nature of  the psychological acts that lead up to it and the moral ef fects of virtue and vice that f low from it. Chaucer has supplied a more comprehensive account of  these psychological and moral ideas than Boccaccio by placing them within the perspective of created nature as a whole. It is indeed in these terms that natural and rational love are distinguished within the scholastic system, for rational love is the exercise of choice by an intellectual being in the light of  the necessity of its natural inclination

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to the good.13 The natural movement of  love in the soul is the startingpoint of  the psychological process and hence is represented by Boccaccio in the figure of  Vaghezza, whom Palemone’s prayer first encounters on Mount Cithaeron (VII.50).14 Chaucer omits the figure of  Vaghezza from his own narrative but retains the idea represented by her in the response of  the dreamer upon first entering the park: ‘But, Lord, so I was glad and wel begoon!’ (171). Thus is the soul ‘creato ad amar presto,/ created quick to love’ (Purg., XVIII.19; Sinclair, II.233). The spontaneous reaction of delight on the part of the dreamer ref lects the unconstraining necessity of natural love. But even in respect of  this natural necessity human beings are capable of misjudgment. So much is apparent from the dreamer’s hesitation at the entrance to the park, for he stands before it overwhelmed by the responsibility of choice (146–47): No wit hadde I, for errour, for to chese To entre or f len, or me to save or lese.

In his perplexity he thinks that he has arrived already at the moment of choice. But it is futile to question the terms on which God has established the necessity of nature and fittingly, therefore, the decision to enter the park is taken out of  his hands by Africanus (153–54). This initial impetus in loving is a proper expression of  the most fundamental principle of  human nature.15 The denial of  the instinct to love is a mark not of sophistication but of an unwholesome and diseased condition.16 Not to love is to be like one who has lost his taste, ‘[a]s sek man hath of swete and bytternesse’ (161). III.  In the presentation of  Cupid and his train (211–45) and the temple of  Venus itself (246–94) Chaucer has followed Boccaccio in close detail. But the attention with which Chaucer has scrutinized his source is revealed above all by the detailed modifications that he has introduced into it, for he has used Boccaccio in the manner of a creative poet, adding to, omitting, adapting and simply reproducing the matter of  Boccaccio’s text in the light of  his own related but distinct poetic conception.

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A modern reader attempting to understand the meaning of  Cupid and Venus might well begin with the knowledge of  Cupid as the son of  Venus. But that relationship is invoked neither by Boccaccio nor by Chaucer, for it has no philosophical (and hence no poetic) relevance. Instead Cupido/ Cupide (VII.54.2; 212) is seen not as a son, but as the father of  Voluttà (VII.54.4) or of  Wille (214) and as a lord (212). In order to understand these values we undoubtedly need the help of  the glosses, and they do indeed prove to be helpful, for we learn from them that Cupid is ‘una passione nata nell’anima per alcuna cosa piaciuta,/ a passion that arises in man’s soul for an object that … one likes’ (Chiose, 464/30; Boitani, 202) and that Venus ‘represents … the concupiscible appetite,/ consistere … nel concupiscibile’ (Chiose, 463/2–3; Boitani, 201). Venus is thus to be understood as the simple desire for and delight in an object that is delightful to the senses. The passions of  love, desire and delight are the three stages of  the concupiscible appetite in its movement towards the sensible good, that is, they refer not merely to the power but to the actualization or operation of  that power.17 Chaucer’s closeness to his source and at the same time his creative independence from it are at once in evidence in his account of  Cupid and Will fashioning and sharpening arrows. The derivation of  Cupid and Will as father and daughter from Boccaccio’s Cupido and ‘sua figlia Voluttà’ (VII.54.2 and 4) seems straightforward enough, but is by no means so on closer analysis. Voluttà is linked by Boccaccio with Ozio and Memoria (VII.54.6 and 7) as together perfecting the arrows that Cupido makes.18 Voluttà perfects the arrows by tempering or hardening them in the spring and Ozio and Memoria by binding the shafts with iron. This is a carefully worked-out sequence. Cupido as the passion of  love is strengthened by Voluttà or delight in the hope of attaining the loved object19 and by Ozio or leisure and Memoria in having the time, free from the distraction of other concerns, to call to mind the appearance and manners of  the loved object. These are familiar ideas in medieval courtly poetry, for Ydelnesse is the porter who admits the young man into the garden of Myrthe or delight in The Romaunt of  the Rose (509–644). It is familiar territory that Chaucer has no longer any special interest in revisiting. Cupid and his bow and arrows are suf ficient in themselves to establish the power of  the passion of  love. These are images that retain their vitality

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throughout the Middle Ages, for the metaphor is apt in suggesting the suddenness and stunning impact of  the passion of  love and its truth is born out again and again in the experience of many individuals. The dreamer knows all about Cupid’s ‘myrakles and … crewel yre’ and ‘his strokes … so sore’ (11 and 13) and here (in Chaucer’s important addition) he acknowledges him as ‘oure lord’ (212). No argument is necessary, therefore, to establish the power of  love. It is everywhere apparent, and above all in its destructive ef fects. Bows and arrows are deadly weapons in the hands of  English and Welsh archers (men such as the Yeoman who ‘wel koude … dresse his takel yemanly’; GP, A 106), as those aware of  the course of  the battles of  Crécy (1346) and Poitiers (1356) will well know. Chaucer therefore removes Boccaccio’ s references to leisure and memory and puts in their place a reference to the destructive ef fect of  the arrows of  love: ‘after they shulde serve/ Some for to sle, and some to wounde and kerve’ (216–17). These are chilling words and they are such as to put the bookish dreamer’s pieties in a proper perspective. The metaphor is exact, for love itself (it is not to be doubted) can damage the lover’s physical constitution even to the point of death. How this can come about is explained at length and in technical detail by Dino del Garbo in his glosses on the Canzone d’amore, 32–37: For di salute   giudicar mantene, ché la ’ntenzione   per ragione  vale: discerne male   in cui è vizio amico. Di sua potenza segue spesso morte, se forte   la vertù fosse impedita, la quale aita  la contraria via.20

The passion of  love is seated not in the rational part of  the soul but in the sensitive appetite and therefore, unless regulated by reason, follows a judgment of sense cognition (estimation) whereby something is judged to be pleasing and lovable (amicum et diligendum) that is not in fact so in the light of reason, for ‘iudicium quod est in amore non est iudicium sanum, imo est corruptum’.21 The false judgment whereby something harmful is loved is signified in the fiction by the ‘welle’ (211 and 215) in which Will tempers the arrowheads, for, as Boccaccio explains, this is the ‘fonte della

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nostra falsa estimazione, quando … giudichiamo che la cosa piaciuta sia da preporre ad ogni altra cosa o temporale o divina,/ spring of our false judgement, when we think that the liked object must be preferred to any worldly or divine thing’ (Chiose, 465/3–6; Boitani, 202–3). By such a false judgment Criseyde is ‘likynge to Troilus/ Over alle thing’ (TC, I.309–10). The essence of  this passion of  love is the vehement desire in the appetite for the thing loved: ‘essentia amoris in hoc consistat: quod est passio quedam in qua appetitus est cum uehementi desiderio circa rem quam amat, ut scilicet coniungatur rei amate’ (Glossa latina, 371/4–6). This love is nothing other than the disease of  love, ‘the loveris maladye/ Of  Hereos’ (KnT, A 1374–75), and hence Dino del Garbo proceeds to supply the familiar medical definitions of  Avicenna and Haly Abbas, that is, of  love as a ‘sollicitudo melanconica, similis melanconie’ (Glossa latina, 371/29–30).22 The issue, then, has become one not of  the strengthening of  the passion of  love by delight, leisure and memory but rather the pathological strength of  the passion by reason of  the intention firmly lodged in the memory. The passion of  love results in death when it is so intense that it interferes with the normal operation of  the vegetative powers by which life is preserved, as in the case of  those in whom the desire aroused by love remains unfulfilled. The process, as observed by physicians no less than by poets, is that the body becomes desiccated and eventually fails.23 When Chaucer wrote The Parliament of  Fowls (possibly in 1380–1382) he was not in the first f lush of youth and was unlikely to be seduced (if  he ever was) by the ephemeral pleasures of passionate love af fairs. The translation of  The Romaunt of  the Rose is now long in the past,24 and he has begun to assimilate the learning and absorb the lessons of  the great Italian masters. He has seen enough of  the world and has had enough experience of  love (unlike his fictional narrator) to know that the outcome of passionate loves and desires is more often ruin and destruction than joy and fulfilment. This is not so much a matter of morality (although the issues are pro­foundly moral in their bearing) as of the experience of life itself. Chaucer is too intelligent a poet to set in the midst of  his poem in celebration of  St Valentine’s Day a moral exhortation against lust and excess in love. Instead he embodies in it a terrible and unmistakable warning against yielding to the specious attractions of  the service of  Cupid and Venus. The image of  Cupid is not

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of a passive figure in repose, like Boccaccio’s Cupido ‘avendo alli suoi piè l’arco posato,/ who had laid down his bow at his feet’ (VII.54.3; Havely, 129), but of an ever-present threat, for ‘at his fet his bowe al redy lay’ (213). We are soon to learn that this weapon will wreak havoc and destruction (216–17). Chaucer has thus made clear at once the high stakes for which lovers play, and he never loses sight of  the end in view.25 The description of  the temple of  Venus reaches its predetermined conclusion with an impressive array of compelling examples (288–92) and a summarizing statement of  ‘al here love, and in what plyt they dyde’ (294). It is Chaucer who has produced this conclusion by transposing the description of  Venus herself (Teseida, VII.63–66; PF, 260–80) and of  the paintings on the wall of  the temple illustrating respectively the defeats of  Diana and the victories of  Venus (VII.61–62 and 281–94). Chaucer has absorbed a vast amount of  figurative detail here, but he seldom if ever loses control of  his own poem. The consequence of  these changes is that ‘Cupide, oure lord’ and ‘Wille, his doughter’ (212 and 214) stand in a subtly dif ferent relationship from that in which Boccaccio has set them. The clear distinction between Cupido making the arrows (‘fabricar saette’, VII.54.2) and Voluttà selecting some of  them and tempering them in the water (‘selette/ nell’ onde temperava’, VII.54.4–5) is rejected by Chaucer for his present purposes. Cupid and Will are both identified by Chaucer with the sharpening of  the arrows. Cupid is seen by the dreamer both to ‘forge and file’ (212) his arrows and Will at the same time (‘al this while’, 214) to temper ‘the hevedes’ (215) in the well. In other words, Cupid fashions arrows and sharpens them and Will strengthens them for their purpose. When Will has tempered the arrow-heads ‘with hire wile/ She touchede hem’ (215–16). Chaucer’s meaning here is by no means evident and such uncertainty is perhaps the cause of  the tex­tual variation at this point. ‘Wile’ (215) is glossed by Davis and DiMarco as ‘skill’, but MED supplies no support for such a non-pejorative use of  the word.26 The tex­tual evidence strongly favours file. It is the reading of all five manuscripts of  Group B (F, B, T, Lt and D) and of one Group A manuscript (R). But R (MS Trinity College, Cambridge R 3.19) has the voiced form vyle for fyle, and since w appears for v in Gg (MS Cambridge University Library Gg 4.27, also a Group A manuscript), it is pos­sible that Gg’s wile is also a spelling for file.27 The repetition of  file in rhyme here may

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be surprising to some readers, but it is a characteristic means of emphasis on Chaucer’s part of  key words and ideas; thus we have welle (211 and 215), sykes/sikes (246 and 248), and aray (317 and 318). If  ‘file’ is the correct sense for wile (215), then the reading touchede for couchede (216), although poorly attested by only two manu­scripts (R and B) and by Caxton’s printed edition of 1477–1478, has obvious merits.28 Brewer understands touchede in the sense ‘gave finishing touches to’,29 but it is recorded by MED in the sense ‘to test metal’, and the cognate noun has the sense ‘the process of rubbing a metal object on a touchstone in order to determine its quality’.30 Thus, having hardened the metal heads in the water, Will proceeds with her file to judge their penetrative power. Not all arrows, by any means, are capable of penetrating the targets they strike. The boar that is the object of  the second day’s hunt in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight is struck time and again (1454–55) by the arrows of  the bowmen (1456–59): Bot þe poyntez payred at þe pyth þat pyȝt in his scheldez, And þe barbez of  his browe bite non wolde – Þaȝ þe schauen schaft schyndered in pecez, Þe hede hypped aȝayn were-so-euer hit hitte.

The bowmen are capable of maddening the boar, but not of  killing it (1460–61). By these means, then, Chaucer emphasizes the special closeness of the relation­ship between Cupid and Will, and further clarifies it by the addition of  Plesaunce at the beginning of  the following stanza (218). Clearly Will cannot be, as is Boccaccio’ s Voluttà, ‘pleasure’ or ‘delight’ but is to be distinguished from pleasure (as also from Delyt, 224). As Cupid is the passion of  love, so Will is the passion of desire that arises directly from it (on the basis of actual occurrence, that is, not of intention).31 But the apprehended good of  the senses is a particular good and it is known only as it pleases.32 The presence of pleasure or pain in the act of judgment is a characteristic of sense cognition as distinct from intellectual cognition (In de anima, 767). Aquinas explains that this act of perceiving pleasure and pain is an act of  the common sense which is a kind of medium between the particular

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senses (In de anima, 768). Hence he goes on to identify three stages in the movement from sense-object to sense appetition (In de anima, 769): Patet igitur, quod motus sensibilis in sensum procedit quasi triplici gradu. Nam primo apprehendit ipsum sensibile ut conveniens vel nocivum. Secundo ex hoc sequitur delectatio et tristitia. Tertio autem sequitur desiderium vel fuga. Thus the movement from sense-object to sense passes through three stages, as it were. There is first an awareness of  the object as being in harmony or out of  harmony with the sense: then a feeling of pleasure or pain; and then desire or avoidance (translated by Foster and Humphries).

The passion of  love therefore presupposes the presence of pleasure and hence in encountering Cupid and Will the dreamer was ‘war of  Plesaunce anon-ryght’ (218). Dante, too, fixes upon that element of pleasure that is inseparable from the inclination that is the passion of  love: ‘quel piegare è amor, quell’ è natura/ che per piacer di novo in voi si lega,/ that inclination is love, that is nature, which by pleasure is bound on you afresh’ (Purg., XVIII.26–27; Sinclair, II.233). In Froissart’s Paradis d’amour, a source for the opening lines of  The Book of  the Duchess, Plaisance is ‘la souverainne/ Dou saisir’ (503–4) or ‘the principal agent’ in lovers ‘at the moment when they fell in love’,33 and perhaps such a passage inf luenced Chaucer in his choice of  the form Plesaunce here and also in the description of  the temple of  Venus in The Knight’s Tale (A 1925). Plesaunce is thus the principal agent when Troilus falls in love with Criseyde, for the carriage and demeanour of  Criseyde are wonderfully pleasing to him: ‘To Troilus right wonder wel with alle/ Gan for to like hire mevynge and hire chere’ (I.288–89). IV.  Chaucer turns from the passions of love and desire as vehement and destructive in the figures of Cupid and Will (211–17) to a consideration of  the causes of love in the following two stanzas (218–31). Boccaccio identifies ‘Bellezza, Giovaneza, Leggiadria, Gentileza, Piacevolezza, e simiglianti’ as ‘cagioni eccitative,/ Other things are stimulants: Beauty, Youth, Gracefulness, Courtesy, Charm and the like’ (Chiose, 464/20–21 and 13; Boitani, 202) and describes such personifications as Addornezza, Af fabilitate and Cortesia as

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‘certe cose accidentali, le quali sono induttive allo ef fetto del disiderio nato da questa passione,/ a few accidental things that induce the ef fect of the desire produced by this passion’ (Chiose, 465/16–17; Boitani, 203). Love itself is an accident, so that what we have to do with here are accidents in respect of an accident.34 Such accidents are known technically as circumstances,35 and indeed Chaucer himself identifies ‘Aray, and Lust’ (219) as circumstances in his description of the temple of Venus in The Knight’s Tale (A 1932–35): Lust and array, and alle the circumstaunces Of  love, which that I rekned and rekne shal, By ordre weren peynted on the wal, And mo than I kan make of mencioun.

The very identification of accidents, however, presupposes the distinction of substance and accident and so also of  the essential and circumstantial causes of an act.36 Now the essential cause of  love as its sole or proper cause is the good (ST, 1a 2ae 27.1). Hence by his inclusion of  Pleasance at the beginning of  the series of personifica­tions Chaucer announces the presence of  the perceived good as the essential cause of  love (see ST, 1a 2ae 31.1). His method is more systematic and complete than that of  Boccaccio. The allegorical personifications that accompany Pleasance, namely, Array, Lust, Courtesy, Craft and Gentilesse (219–24), are circumstantial causes of  love, in this case, as Boccaccio’s glosses confirm, causes that enable the lover to gain the object of  his love. Thus Boccaccio explains that Addornezza, or elegance of dress, is ef fec­tive ‘perciò che per l’essere ornato molte volte l’amante viene in piacere de la cosa amata,/ because the lover, if elegant, may be liked by the beloved object’ (Chiose, 465/18–19; Boitani, 203). Chaucer’s word is ‘aray’ (219) and his Squire in the General Prologue is a perfect example, for he is ‘embrouded … as it were a meede/ Al ful of  fresshe f loures, whyte and reede’ (A 89–90). In the sequence ‘Aray, and Lust, and Curteysie’ (219), Chaucer has Lust where Boccaccio has Af fabilitate (VII.55.2). The reason for the change would seem to be the dif ficulty of maintaining a precise distinction between af fability and courtesy. The virtue of courtesy is a virtue of outward conduct, namely, the conduct which is suitable or proper to the person and the

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occasion. Aristotle says of  the virtue of af fability that it is what is proper in our dealings with others (Ethics, IV.6 1126b 22–28). Courtesy includes af fability, and Chaucer therefore avoids the possibility of reduplication.37 The figure of  Lust cannot mean ‘pleasure’ here, since as a circumstantial cause of  love it is to be distinguished from Pleasance, but the sense ‘vigour’ or ‘energy’ would suit well.38 The Squire is ‘a lovyere and a lusty bacheler’, and hence ‘wonderly dely­vere, and of greet strengthe’ (GP, A 80 and 84), and the ‘lusty squier’ Aurelius in The Franklin’s Tale is ‘yong, strong’ (F 937 and 933). The Wife of  Bath is rightly unimpressed by her three old husbands for, although ‘goode men, and riche’, they run out of steam in the bedroom (WBProl, D 197–202). She ‘sette hem so a-werke … / That many a nyght they songen “Weilawey!”  ’ (D 215–16). Vigour in a lover is a necessity, not an optional extra. Chaucer’s description of  Craft (220–22) corresponds closely to Boccaccio’s ‘l’Arti c’hanno potestate/ di fare altrui a forza far follia,/ the magic Arts which can force people to act foolishly’ (VII.55.4–5; Havely, 129), and presumably has reference to the same magic arts which, as Boccaccio explains in his gloss, ‘con varie trasformazioni spaventano, e con forze di diversi incantamenti inducono molte volte e gli uomini e le donne ad amare ciò che, se quelle non fossero, non amerebbono,/ scare people with their transformations and, by virtue of  their various magics, often compel men and women to love what they would not love without them’ (Chiose, 465/25–27; Boitani, 203). The presence of  Gentilesse in the com­pany of  Delight signifies the ‘nobility of  birth or rank’ (MED, s.v. gentilesse n. 1. (a) ) as a circumstantial cause that bears directly on the gaining of  the object of one’s love. Dino del Garbo explains in his commentary that ‘hec passio amoris, ut plurimum, reperitur in hominibus nobilibus’ (Glossa latina, 373/11–12) because (among other reasons) noblemen have the wealth and power to gain the objects of  their desire.39 Chaucer has placed Delight ‘under an ok’ (223) in order to suggest the idea of chivalric nobility. The oak is used pro­verbially of stoutness and strength,40 and indeed has already been used by Chaucer as an appropriate setting for the Black Knight’s complaint in The Book of  the Duchess (443–86). The series of personifications from Array to Gentilesse outlines the course of a sophisticated and successful love af fair characterized by the refinement of manners that for many modern readers has come to be

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associated with ‘courtly love’. In turn­ing from these personifications to Beauty and Youth we come to circumstantial causes of  love of a more elemental and universal kind. The contrast is immediately apparent, for instead of  Array (219) we have ‘Beute withouten any atyr’ (225). A problem arises in respect of  Beauty as a circumstantial cause of  love, for the good and the beautiful are really identical.41 Nevertheless there is a notional distinction between the two. Whereas the good is the object of desire or appetite, the beautiful is the object of  knowledge or contemplation. Thus the beautiful is that of which the sight is pleasing, whereas the good is simply pleasing. As such Beauty can be considered apart from Pleasance as an accidental cause of  love and so may be included among the circumstances. No dif ficulty would seem to be involved in accounting for the presence of  Youth among the circumstantial causes, for youth is the period of  life in which the desires and pleasures of  the senses are most keenly felt. At the same time the description of  Youth as ‘ful of game and jolyte’ (226) can be read somewhat blandly as a reference to youthful gaiety and high spirits. Thus game is glossed by MED as ‘amusement’ and jolyte as ‘cheerful or joyous behavior, gaiety’.42 These glosses are altogether too genial for this particular context. Game is better glossed as ‘[a]morous play, love-making’ and jolyte as ‘vigor, strength; fervor’ or even ‘?playfulness’,43 a euphemism, it would seem, for lasciviousness. Chaucer is directing our attention here to the inordinacy of youthful desires and in particular to the indecorous expression of  them, for in such ‘game and jolyte’ Youth is at one with Venus ‘in disport’ (260). Indeed, where Boccaccio has Venus holding Lascivia by the hand,44 Chaucer has set two young lovers reverently petitioning Venus for aid (277–79): And, as I seyde, amyddes lay Cypride, To whom on knees two yonge folk ther cryde To ben here helpe.

The disturbing implications of  the wantonness of  Youth are developed in the series of personifications that follow – Foolhardiness, Flattery, Desire, Messagerie and Meed (227–28).

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Those who are young and in love are often prompted by warm-hearted thoughts to impetuous actions which advance their love af fairs but in ways whose outcomes are dif ficult to foresee. At the time these outcomes may not seem to matter very much when confronted by the urgency of present desires. As Boccaccio explains, the daring (ardire) or, more correctly, the rashness (temerità), of  lovers is at odds with wise advice, for ‘il savio consiglio non concede mai altrui se non quello di che vede il fine,/ [w]ise advice, in fact, allows only that of which it can see the end’ (Chiose, 465/30–31; Boitani, 203). Thus in Chrétien de Troyes’s Chevalier de la Charrete the knight on his quest to rescue the Queen drives his first horse to the point of exhaustion and death (270–73, 279–81 and 296–98) and in his impetuosity he does not take care to choose the better of  the two horses of fered him by Gauvain (290–95). Soon he is impelled without much weighing of consequences to step into the ignominious cart that defines him as a knight (345–77). No wonder that he is later compared to Pyramus (3802–4). Few, if any, lovers are prepared to ignore the advantages of  f lattery as a means to securing the end they desire, and we may not be predisposed to blame them unduly for f lattering the object of  their love. The dreamer at any rate is not so embarrassed by the presence of  f lattery here as to think it unmentionable like the ‘other thre’ (228). Dante places the f latterers (adulatori, lusingatori) ‘in uno sterco/ che da li uman privadi parea mosso,/ in a filth which seemed to have come from human privies’ (Inf., XVIII.113–14; Sinclair, I.233) in the second bolgia or ditch of  Malebolge (XVIII.100–36) after the panders (ruf fiani) and seducers (seduttori) in the first bolgia (XVIII.22–99). Not all f latteries, however, are of  this loathsome and odious kind. Aquinas distinguishes between the mortal sin of  f lattery (adulatio), which is contrary to charity, and the venial sin, prompted by the mere desire to please, or to avoid some harm or to gain some advantage, which is not.45 Lovers, then, have at all times obtained the object of  their desires by f lattery and we would not place them in the second bolgia of  Malebolge merely on that account. Indeed, the servants of  Cupid, being impelled by the false belief  that the pleasing object of  their desires is to be preferred to all other things, must take their own f latteries for the very truth.

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At all times evident in the impetuous actions and pleasing compliments of  lovers is the strength of desire that urges them on and such desire in itself (unless it is threatening in some way) can become a factor in advancing the cause of  the lover. In other words the beloved object is pleased by the thought that she is wanted or desired. Thus Criseyde is moved by Troilus above all by the ref lection that his dis­tress is wholly on her account: ‘But moost hire favour was, for his distresse/ Was al for hire’ (TC, II.663–64). But when she sees her lover in earnest to kill himself  for love and, in consequence, the likelihood of  her own suicide (IV. 1212–41), she begins at once the process of withdrawal: ‘But hoo, for we han right ynough of  this …’ (IV.1242). The abstract noun Messagerye (PF, 228) on the evidence of  MED is a hapax legomenon, but the sense of  ‘the sending of messages’ is surely not in doubt, for the writing of  love-letters or billets-doux has been the resort of  lovers down the ages. Hence it is a key stage in Pandarus’s stratagem for winning Criseyde on Troilus’s behalf and its importance is evident from the space that is devoted to it, some three hundred and fifty lines in the narrative of  Book II of  Troilus and Criseyde (1002–1351). The heroic course of action for a lover, no doubt, is to submit his cause to the beloved by a bold and open declaration of  love. We shall expect nothing less from one who is in fact a hero, and such heroic expectations are certainly fulfilled by the royal tercel eagle in the conviction of his claim on the formel’s love (PF, 416–20). But there are obvious dangers in such boldness. The royal tercel remains in limbo along with his two inferior rival claimants while the formel requires time (a great deal of  time) to reach a decision. The lover’s humiliation can be much worse. In The Franklin’s Tale, the declaration of  love by Aurelius in desperation after more than two years of intense suf fering (F 935–78) is followed at once by Dorigen’s direct and humiliating rebuf f (F 979–87), and the lover’s pain is by no means assuaged by the promise born of womanly compassion that afterwards threatens Dorigen’s own happiness and well-being (F 988–1011). Such humiliation is intolerable for a ‘fierse and proude knyght’ such as Troilus (TC, I.225), even in the contemplation of it. The practice of  letter-writing naturally recommends itself  to timid lovers. Troilus cannot face the confrontation of  his feelings with those of  his beloved and ‘as a dredful lovere’ (II.1045) is pleased by Pandarus’s

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advice to write a letter (II.1002–44). Indeed, he has to be spurred on by Pandarus even to find that lesser kind of courage that is necessary for letterwriting (II.1046–59). The great advantage of  the letter is that it enables the lover to present his case in his own absence and hence to be judged in his absence. It is not a course of action free from anxiety, since the verdict may still be unfavourable, but at least the lover will be able to come to terms with that verdict in private rather than in public. But a price has to be paid for courtship by way of correspondence. No woman of substance and style can much admire so half-hearted and insidious an approach. It is the conduct of one with a ‘wrecched mouses herte’ (III. 736), even if  he is a great champion on the field of  battle, and it earns for the lover (in the first place at any rate) the woman’s contempt rather than her admiration. Before she is able to bring herself  to reply to Troilus’s letter Criseyde has to set aside some of  that instinctive contempt, for she ‘gan hire herte unfettre/ Out of desdaynes prisoun but a lite’ (II.1216–17). None the less there can be no doubt that the writing of  letters can be ef fective in insinuating oneself into the af fections of a woman, even a high-spirited woman, and in this way a lover can maintain at second hand and at a distance the presence of  himself in the mind of  the beloved. It is potentially at any rate a foot in at the door without the danger of  knocking at the door. Meede (PF, 228) is sometimes glossed as ‘bribery’,46 but a pejorative meaning is unlikely here, for the idea of  love bought and sold would surely elicit a protest from our bookish dreamer. After, or even perhaps along with, the love-letter will come the bouquet of red roses, the bottle of perfume and the box of chocolates, or, in the case of  Absolon, not much noted for his largesse (see MilT, A 3348–51), ‘pyment, meeth, and spiced ale,/ And wafres, pipyng hoot out of  the gleede’ (A 3378–79). Meede is better considered here in the sense of  ‘a gift … a suitor’s blandishments’ (MED, s.v. mede n. (4) 1a.(a) ), for there is nothing to be said in favour of a miserly lover. Generosity is a virtue in lovers and rightly so as a mean between avarice and prodigality. Gower considers the gift-giving of  lovers under parsimony or niggardliness, one of  the species of  the deadly sin of avarice. The Confessor assures Amans that gift-giving is praiseworthy in a lover and a means of success in love (CA, V.4719–22):

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GERALD MORGAN For thus men sein, in every need He was wys that ferst made mede; For where as mede mai noght spede, I not what helpeth other dede.

Indeed, those who neglect to give gifts (mede, V.4798 and 4799) are ignorant of  ‘Cupides art’ (V.4802). As a warning to Amans against the vice of parsimony the Confessor tells the story of  Babio and Croceus (V.4781– 4873). Through his meanness Babio loses the love of  Viola, a ‘yonge lusty wyht’ (V.4823), ‘full of youthe and ful of game’ (V.4812), to ‘a freissh, a fre, a frendly man’ (V.4833) called Croceus, who was ‘large of  his despence,/ And amorous and glad of chiere’ (V.4838–39). Certainly a generous lover deserves success and a parsimonious suitor to fall short. Who can admire stinginess in a person, let alone love it? But there is a point at which the giving and taking of gifts become morally unacceptable, and this point is explored with much delicacy and finesse by the Gawain-poet when the lady of  the household at Hautdesert seeks to prevail upon Gawain to give and receive gifts that are not proper for him to give and receive (SGGK, 1796–1869). A gift, such as a glove, for example (1799–1807) ought not to imply more than it should by way of  love and af fection. It ought to be one of  those ‘menskful þingez’ (1809) as to do honour to the one who receives it and yet not of such ‘wele ful hoge’ (1820) as to cause embarrassment to the receiver by its material value. The distinction of propriety in giving and receiving is considered in detail by Langland in an important addition in the C text (III.285–405a), where he tries to fix the distinction linguistically in the use of mercede and mede and to reinforce it by the grammatical analogy of direct and indirect relation.47 The distinction of  true and false reward is to be made by reference to the fitness or unfitness of  the relation between giver and receiver. The giving and receiving of gifts demands love in the giver and righteousness in the receiver (C III.314–16), but a gift degenerates into a bribe as an of fence of  the giver when there is a giving of a material inducement that implies a hidden and unlawful contract (C III.302–3) and as an of fence of  the receiver when there is an improper soliciting of payment (C III.298–301). The word mede is used in ME for both ‘gift’ and ‘bribe’ so

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that it must be left to the context to determine its precise force. Gower’s Confessor clearly has the sense of  ‘gift’ in mind for mede (CA, V.4720 and 4721) in commending gift-giving to Amans and indeed uses it as a synonym for ‘yifte’ (V.4712 and 4715). But the lovesick Absolon of  The Miller’s Tale is not so fastidious as to rely on love and righteousness alone and, moved by the consideration that Alison ‘was of  town, he profred meede’ (A 3380), that is, a financial inducement or incentive, ‘for som folk wol ben wonnen for richesse’ (A 3381). The resort to meede in the sense of  ‘bribery’ is ruled out by the wicked judge of  The Physician’s Tale because it is rendered inef ficacious by the fact that the knight’s maiden daughter was ‘confermed … in … soverayn bountee’ (C 133 and 136). The precise meaning of  Meede in The Parliament of  Fowls must to some extent, therefore, remain uncertain. We shall share the dreamer’s expectation and hope that a servant of  Cupid will be generous to his lady, but we shall also know that as he increasingly comes to despair of success his methods will become less scrupulous. What this entails is hinted at in the figure of aposiopesis (praecisio) that follows: ‘and other thre – / Here names shul not here be told for me’ (228–29). Here the dreamer legitimates the search on the reader’s part for these unutter­able methods of prosecuting a love af fair and it is not dif ficult to begin by supplying some possibilities from common experience and observation, namely, importunity and harassment (the medieval word is bisynesse), lies and deceptions (lesynges), procurement (bauderie) and violence or rape (force). All these names will be found in the list supplied by Chaucer in the description of  the temple of  Venus in The Knight’s Tale (A 1925–28): Plesaunce and Hope, Desir, Foolhardynesse, Beautee and Youthe, Bauderie, Richesse, Charmes and Force, Lesynges, Flaterye, Despense, Bisynesse, and Jalousye.

The focus in The Knight’s Tale is on the unpleasant and indeed unsavoury aspects of  the service of  Venus, just as, in the description of  the temple of  Mars (A 1967­–2050), the emphasis is on the grimness of  the service of  the god of war. Nevertheless, the names have attracted some resolutely

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optimistic glosses; bauderie is ‘mirth, jollity’ or ‘gaiety’ and bisynesse is ‘attentiveness’.48 It is as if  the word baude did not exist in Middle English in its common acceptation of  ‘bawd, pimp’ or as if  ‘jolly or gay person’ were one of its possible senses. The gloss ‘mirth’ or ‘gaiety’ is a euphemism arrived at by means other than lexical, especially when we note that it corresponds to the Italian Ruf fiania (Tes., VII.56.8), that is, ‘procurement’. The characteristic posture of  Pandarus as a go-between or procurer is one of  bisynesse. Troilus in his misery and impatience wants to know when Pandarus will ‘be ayein at hire fro me’ (TC, II.984) and Pandarus assures him that he ‘wol be ther at pryme’ (II.992). He stresses to Troilus not only the wisdom of writing a letter but the urgency of it, and bids him ‘leve it nought for slouthe’ (II.1008). He is so eager to be ‘ayein at’ Criseyde that he has to explain away the indecent earliness of  his visit (‘bytyme/ A-morwe’, II.1093–94) by insisting ‘that it was passed prime’ (II.1095) and concocting the fic­tion of  ‘a Greek espie’ with ‘tydynges’ of  the progress of  the war (II.1111–13). He presses on immediately after Troilus’s contrived ride past (II.1247–74), for he ‘felte iren hoot’ and so ‘bygan to smyte’ (II.1276). After the success of  this visit he hastens back ‘ful faste homward’ (II.1303) and urges the distracted lover on his part to ‘do forthwith al thi bisynesse’ (II.1316). As Troilus continues to suf fer, so Pandarus ‘bisily with al his herte caste/ Som of  his wo to slen’ (II.1357–58) and sets about the next stage of  his plan by bringing Criseyde into the very presence of  the lover in the house of  Deiphoebus ‘er it be dayes two’ (II.1362). As soon as he has laid the ground­work with the unsuspecting Deiphoebus (II. 1401–59), he ‘took his leve, and nevere gan to fyne,/ But to his neces hous, as streyght as lyne,/ He com’ (II.1460–62). He continues in this relentless fashion, and even as he ushers Criseyde into Troilus’s bedroom he impresses upon her the dangers of delay in terms that he knows will provoke in her the utmost alarm: ‘In titeryng, and pursuyte, and delayes,/ The folk devyne at waggyng of a stree’ (II.1744–45). This is bisynesse, and it is altogether a less pleasant and a darker thing than a lover’s solicitude. As Pandarus is at Criseyde, so the lady at Hautdesert is relentless in pursuit of  Gawain: ‘Ful erly ho watz hym ate/ His mode for to remwe’ (SGGK, 1474–75). For all his fabled courtesy Gawain is reduced on the third day in the bedroom (as it happens, just before he makes, through fear, his ill-considered concession)

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to insisting that the lady cease from her importunity: ‘And þerfore, I pray yow, displese yow noȝt,/ And lettez be your bisinesse, for I bayþe hit yow neuer/ to graunte’ (1839–41). The reluctance to accept this dark and unworthy side to the service of  love goes beyond the glossing of one or two key terms. The dreamer in The Parliament of  Fowls is too loyal a servant of  ‘Cupide, oure lord’ (212) to want to reveal these dark secrets to an unsympathetic audience. He is not alone. Although Boccaccio provides an extensive gloss to the temple of  Venus, he has nothing to say about Ruf fiania and passes lightly over Lusinghe, Promesse and Arte (Tes., VII.56.8 and 58.8): ‘Dice ancora che v’erano Lusinghe e Promesse e Arte, le quali cose variamente e in varii tempi possono, come coloro sanno che già l’hanno provato,/ The author mentions also Flattery, Promises, and Art, which, as those who have experience know well, are very powerful on dif ferent occasions and in dif ferent ways’ (Chiose, 465/33–35; Boitani, 203). The moral realities underlying Pandarus’s conduct as a go-between are lucidly exposed by Chaucer in the significant matter that he adds after Criseyde’s departure from the house of Deiphoebus and when Eleyne and Deiphoebus have also retired, leaving Pandarus and Troilus at last alone with their true thoughts (TC, III.232–424). Although Pandarus protests on his own behalf  that all his ‘bisynesse’ (III.244) was motivated not by ‘coveitise …/ But oonly for t’abregge that distresse/ For which wel neigh thow deidest, as me thoughte’ (III.261–63), his conscience is deeply troubled by what he has done to his niece, so much so that he is unable to bring himself  to put a name to it (III.253–56): ‘That is to seye, for the am I bicomen, Bitwixen game and ernest, swich a meene As maken wommen unto men to comen; Al sey I nought, thow wost wel what I meene.’

Boccaccio’s Pandaro is less fastidious: ‘Io son per te divenuto mezzano,/ It is for you that I have become a go-between’ (Fil., III.6.1; Havely, 47) and Troilus, whose pain by now has robbed him of  his moral scruples, uses the English word bauderye (TC, III.397), only to disown it in the present context. For Troilus the distinction of motive, between one who ‘gooth for gold

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or for ricchesse/ On swich message’ and one who acts out of  ‘gentilesse,/ Compassioun, and felawship, and trist’ (III.400–3) is all-important, and here he insists upon a philosophical precision of which Aquinas himself would have been proud: ‘for wyde-wher is wist/ How that ther is diversite requered/ Bytwixen thynges like, as I have lered’ (III.404–6). It is like the distinction that Aquinas draws between religion and holiness or between truth and simplicity, namely, that they are identical in essence but notionally dis­tinct.49 But such a distinction is unlikely to ease a troubled conscience, even though it satisfies one blinded by the pain of  love. What Pandarus does is an exact account of  the operation of a pimp (an ugly word) or procurer, that is, it is essentially identical with pimping, but it is notionally distinct from pimping as motivated by friendship rather than the love of money. But moral acts cannot be entirely circum­scribed by motive, and Pandarus has given his very name to the act that he does not wish to name. Dante places the panders (ruf fiani) in the eighth circle of  hell (Malebolge) because this is where the fraudulent are to be found. Here is exposed to view by Dante’s chiara favella or ‘plain speech’ (Inf., XVIII.53) the sin of  Venedico Caccianemico ‘che la Ghisolabella/ condussi a far la voglia del marchese,/ come che suoni la sconcia novella,/ who brought Ghisolabella to do the will of  the Marquis, however the vile story is told’ (XVIII.55–57; Sinclair, I.229). We have come a long way down from the sin of passion of  Paolo and Francesca, punished in the second circle of  hell, to the sin of malice that is characterized by its cold deliberation, but there is a kind of inevitability in the progression. It is not dif ficult, therefore, to supply the three names left unmentioned by the dreamer in The Parliament of  Fowls, for it is the very purpose of  the rhetorical figure of aposiopesis to raise a suspicion by leaving the matter unexpressed.50 In The Miller’s Tale the three names specified are richesse, strokes (that is, ‘force’) and gentillesse (that is, ‘social status’): ‘For som folk wol ben wonnen for richesse,/ And somme for strokes, and somme for gentillesse’ (A 3381–82), and in the darker context of  The Physician’s Tale they are slyghte, force and meede (C 131 and 133). Slyghte is ‘slyness, cunning, craftiness; guile, trickery, deceit’ (MED, s.v. sleight n. 2.(a) ) and the judge’s cunning trick, executed with ‘greet deliberacioun’ (C 139), involves a ‘cherl’ as intermediary bribed with ‘yiftes preciouse and

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deere’ (C 148) and a trumped-up legal claim to possession of  the knight’s maiden daughter (C 139–202). It is reminiscent of  the trick of  Pandarus in fabricating the threat of  litigation by Poliphete against Criseyde (TC, II.1401–1624) so as to bring her to the house of  Deiphoebus and into the presence of  Troilus. It is ‘o manere/ Of sleyghte’ (TC, II.1511–12) to cloak his real purpose. It is no wonder, then, that the dreamer in The Parliament of  Fowls has suppressed details such as these, for all three, fraudulence, violence and procurement, alone and in combination, arouse distaste rather than awe. Thus the rape of  the maid by the young knight at the beginning of  The Wife of  Bath’s Tale (D 882–88) provoked ‘swich clamour/ And swich pursute unto the kyng Arthour’ that the knight was condemned to death by course of  law (D 889–93). When the lady at Hautdesert points out to Gawain that ‘ȝe ar stif innoghe to constrayne wyth strenkþe, ȝif yow lykez/ ȝif any were so vilanous þat yow devaye wolde’ (SGGK, 1496–97), the knight is moved to respond that ‘þrete is vnþryuande in þede þer I lende’ (1499). It is, then, an unpromising path that leads the dreamer to see ‘upon pilers greete of jasper longe/ … a temple of  bras ifounded stronge’ (PF, 230–31). What, we may well suppose, do the details of jasper and brass signify in this context? They clearly demand a convincing explanation. V.  The writing and receiving of  letters (messagerye) raise questions of circumspection and propriety, and Chaucer’s narrative of  Troilus’s first letter to Criseyde and Criseyde’s reply is saturated with references to wisdom and folly. Criseyde’s reservations about receiving (TC, II.1118–58) and above all about replying to (II.1159–62 and 1193–1218) Troilus’s letter show her awareness of  the unwisdom of of fering any encouragement to one who writes in such passionate terms (II.1065–92). By allowing herself  to be persuaded and bullied by Pandarus into doing so she has committed an act of  folly on her own account to match that of  her would-be lover. Such folly is at once made clear to us by Chaucer in the details of  the cushion embroidered with gold and the stone of jasper on which she sits as, full of misgivings, she hands over her reply to Pandarus (II.1228–33):

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Chaucer does not scatter details of  this kind at random. The sequence of gold and jasper if extended will take us to wisdom and to the goodness of woman when we identify the reference to the distich quoted in The Tale of  Melibee: ‘And ther seyde oones a clerk in two vers, “What is bettre than gold? Jaspre. What is bettre than jaspre? Wisedoom./ And what is better than wisedoom? Womman. And what is bettre than a good womman? Nothyng.”  ’ (B2 2297–98). This is a direct translation of  the French of  the Livre de Mellibee et Prudence (1337) of  the Dominican friar Renaud de Louens, in its turn a translation of  the Latin of  Albertano of  Brescia’s Liber consolationis et consilii (1246): ‘Quid melius auro? Jaspis. Quid jaspide? Sensus. Quid sensu? Mulier. Quid muliere? Nihil’ (V, p. 18.12–13).51 The presence of  the distich in the Liber consolationis guarantees its wide dif fusion in England in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries,52 and indeed Chaucer draws directly on the chapter in which it appears for the ironic encomium on marriage in The Merchant’s Tale (E 1267–1392).53 Thus movement from jasper to gold is a movement away from wisdom and indeed, as we have seen, there is nothing of wisdom in Criseyde’s reply to Troilus’s letter. It is not by chance that the specification of  Messagerye in The Parliament of  Fowls (228) is followed directly by the jasper columns of  the temple of  brass that is dedicated to Venus (230–31). The reference to jasper is Chaucer’s distinctive contribution here, for Boccaccio’s text has simply ‘in su alte colonne/ di rame un tempio,/ a temple supported upon tall columns of copper’ (Tes., VII.57.1–2; Havely, 129). The copper columns establish at once the reference to Venus, for the planet Venus produces copper, but the reference to ‘bras’ (PF, 231) has the same significance, for, as Boccaccio explains in his glosses, copper and brass are the same in kind, but dif ferent in species.54 Brass or copper is aptly Venus’s metal, for it welds, unites and binds all other metals, shines like gold when polished and has a

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sweet sound (Chiose, 466/7–12). Thus as brass looks like gold but is a base metal (‘vilissimo metallo’) so sexual gratification is delightful in prospect but bitter in experience.55 By characterizing the temple as a whole and not merely the columns as made of  brass and also by referring to Venus within the temple as ‘Cypride’ (277),56 Chaucer indicates that the essential reality of  the service of  Venus is bitterness and pain, however attractively it may be disguised in outward appearance. Venus herself is to be found ‘on a bed of gold’ (265), a detail absent from the Teseida, where Boccaccio contents himself with ‘un gran letto assai bello a vedere,/ a great bed which was most beautiful to behold’ (VII.64.8; Havely, 130). The emphasis on gold is further elaborated upon by Chaucer in the following stanza, where Boccaccio’s ‘ella avea d’oro i crini e rilegati/ intorno al capo sanza treccia alcuna,/ [h]er hair was golden and was bound unbraided about her head’ (VII.65.1–2; Havely, 130) becomes ‘hyre gilte heres with a golden thred/ Ibounden were, untressed as she lay’ (267–68). In such a context the detail of  the jasper columns is resonant indeed, and in this brilliant and subtle fashion Chaucer tells us that we are not to look for wisdom in the love inspired by Cupid and Venus. Cavalcanti expresses this insight directly: ‘e non si giri per trovarvi gioco:/ né cert’ à mente gran saver, né poco,/ [l]et no one go [to it] to find joy,/ nor certainly either great wisdom or little’ (Rime, XXVII.55–56; Bird, MS, 2.158). Folly is indeed the fundamental char­acteristic of  the vehement love signified by Cupid, and consequently Dino del Garbo has no dif ficulty in explaining this element of  the canzone in these terms.57 In other words, young and beautiful lovers are led by degrees through foolhardi­ness, f lattery, intensity of desire, the writing of  letters and the giving of gifts (and goodness knows what else, but certainly also lies and deceptions, and perhaps even procurement and force) to obtain the joys of  Venus. They seem to be golden, but are in fact made of copper. VI.  The relationship between the psychological drama and its physical context is made clear to the reader of  The Parliament of  Fowls by a series of detailed references to the temple of  brass as the location of  love. Thus the dreamer comes to the precincts of  the temple (232) and sees the doves on

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the roof (237), approaches the entrance (239), crosses the threshold (244), enters the temple (246 and 254), penetrates its innermost recesses (260) to see the goddess on her bed (265) and goes yet ‘ferther in’ (280) to view the paintings on the wall. It is an enlightening and uncomfortable journey for the dreamer to make, for the darkness of  the place cannot conceal the pain and ruin of  lovers who have committed themselves to the service of Venus. The fact is that Venus here stands for the concupiscible appetite as it is at odds with reason and as it has overwhelmed the reason.58 The capacity of passion to upset the order of reason is suggested by the disorder of dress and hair in the women dancing round the temple (232–35): Aboute the temple daunsedyn alwey Women inowe, of whiche some ther weere Fayre of  hemself, and some of  hem were gay; In kertels, al dishevele, wente they there.59

But it is also possible for passions to be restrained and moderated by reason. This possibility is expressed by Chaucer in describing the whiteness and concord of  the doves (237–38).60 Concord signifies the harmony of wills and characterizes the love of  friendship (amor amicitiae) in which the object of  love is loved for its own sake. By building into his text the idea of concord in reference to ‘many an hundred peyre’ (238) of doves, Chaucer has made smooth the transition to Peace, for peace adds to concord the notion of  harmony of passion and reason within the individual will.61 Peace is the ef fect of  love when the lower powers of sensitive cognition and appetition are duly subordinated to the higher powers of reason and will. Such internal harmony is hard to achieve, and among other things requires the patient endurance of  the sorrows that are the consequence of  the rejection of vehement desires. The dignity of  these ideas is signified by Boccaccio by making Peace a lady, ‘madonna Pace’, and setting Pazienza beside her (VII.58.3 and 5–7). Chaucer has added to the dignity of  the scene by making Patience as well as Peace a lady, ‘Dame Pees’ (240) and ‘Dame Pacience’ (242). In his explication of  ‘Donna me prega’ Dino del Garbo is nothing if not systematic, and he begins by addressing the significance of the name donna. A donna or lady

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is a mature woman, not a child, and hence possesses perfect knowledge, is virtuous and well born.62 The ladies are appropriately found, therefore, outside the temple of  Venus and not within it. Chaucer emphasizes the virtue of  these ladies by describing Dame Peace as sitting ‘ful soberly’ (239) by contrast with Boccaccio’s pianamente (VII.58.2), and Dame Patience as ‘wonder discretly’ (241) in comparison with Boccaccio’s simple discretamente (VII.58.6). The Italian pianamente means ‘quietly, softly, gently’,63 and this seems to have inf luenced Brewer, who glosses soberly as ‘quietly’.64 The leading sense of sobre is ‘temperate’, and particularly in relation to food and drink.65 According to Aquinas the word sobrietas itself signifies ‘due measure’ (mensura) and hence in its broad sense is synonymous with temperance (ST, 2a 2ae 149.1 and ad 2). Peace in its strict sense as a condition of  harmony within the individual soul is rightly represented by Chaucer as sober or temperate, and once again we may note that his treatment of  the personifications is more precise and systematic than that of  Boccaccio.66 The dignity of  Patience is enhanced not only by the honorific title of  ‘Dame’ but also by the description of  her sitting ‘wonder discretly’, a marked strengthening of  Boccaccio’s discretamente. Chaucer’s discretly has here its leading modern sense, and Brewer correctly glosses it ‘discreetly’.67 Patience is a species of  the cardinal virtue of  fortitude and consists in the endurance of sorrows. She is, indeed, as Boccaccio describes her, ‘palida nello aspetto,/ with her pale face’ (VII.58.7; Havely, 129), and rightly so, as he says in his glosses, because patience presupposes the presence of pain and anguish.68 But otherwise Patience is undemonstrative. She is not given to heartrending sobs and cries of  lamentation, but endures her sorrow in silence and with a noble dignity. Such restraint, like that of a Grisilde, is marvellous to behold, and especially so when one considers the intensity of  the pain that af f licts lovers consumed by vehe­ment desires. Indeed, young lovers are noted for their impatience rather than their patience; Aurelius ‘withouten coppe … drank al his penaunce’ (FranT, F 942) for ‘two yeer and moore’ (F 940), but is gradually worn down by pain until he declares his love for a married woman and throws himself upon her mercy (F 960­–78). Chrétien de Troyes’s Chevalier de la Charrete is soon reduced to attempting suicide by the loss of  the sight of  his beloved, and

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has to be restrained by Gauvain from throw­ing himself  to his death from the window whence he has been gazing upon her (Charrete, 560–74).69 Chaucer thus makes one of  his most suggestive and illuminating additions to Boccaccio’s text when he places Patience ‘upon an hil of sond’ (243). The patience of  lovers, as we see most strikingly in the case of  Lancelot, rests upon insecure foundations, and especially so as they come close to the attainment of  their desires. Within the temple of  Venus itself  there is no discretion. As soon as he crosses the threshold the dreamer encounters the sighs and groans of  lovers (246–48): Withinne the temple, of sykes hoote as fyr I herde a swogh that gan aboute renne, Whiche sikes were engendered with desyr.

Chaucer’s focus on the sighs of jealous lovers is much more emphatic than that of  Boccaccio’s ‘di Sospiri/ … un tumulto,/ gales of sighs’ (VII.59.1–2; Havely, 130). Not only does Chaucer use the word sykes twice in the space of  three lines, but places the word swogh between them as a further reinforcement of  the essential idea. Swogh itself  has the sense ‘a deep sigh, moan, groan’ (MED, s.v. swough n. 1.(b) ) and is a much more precise word than the Italian tumulto.70 These sighs are indeed the groans of  tormented lovers, not the pleasant sighs of  those who are happy in love, as Boccaccio makes plain in his gloss.71 This distinction is reproduced by Chaucer in reference to the delightful sighs that Troilus experiences in the sexual consummation of  his love for Criseyde (TC, III.1360–65): And wel a thousand tymes gan he syke – Naught swiche sorwfull sikes as men make For wo, or elles when that folk ben sike, But esy sykes, swiche as ben to like, That shewed his af feccioun withinne; Of swiche sikes koude he nought bilynne.

Such sighs are few and far between for Troilus and the servants of  Cupid. Thus when Troilus seeks out the solitude of  his chamber after first catching

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sight of  Criseyde ‘he gan to sike, and eft to grone’ (I.360). The interior of  the temple of  Venus, then, is characterized by the sighs and lamentations not the joys of  lovers, and this is how the description of  the temple of  Venus in The Knight’s Tale begins (A 1918–23): First in the temple of  Venus maystow se Wroght on the wal, ful pitous to biholde, The broken slepes, and the sikes colde, The sacred teeris, and the waymentynge, The firy strokes of  the desirynge That loves servantz in this lyf enduren.

In The Parliament of  Fowls Chaucer has emphasized the distinction between the dignity, composure and restraint of  Peace and Patience immediately outside the temple and the disorder and misery of  those who have lost their peace of mind and the courage to sustain it immediately within the temple. At the same time he recognizes, as does Boccaccio, that the distinction between the two is exceedingly fine, no more indeed than the cortina (Tes., VII.58.3) or ‘curtyn’ in Dame Peace’s hand (240). The real and unbearable suf fering begins as soon as the threshold is crossed. VII.  Within the temple will be found neither patience nor peace, but rather the restless­ness of desires that have no natural limit. It is such desires that impel lovers to the step across the threshold of  the temple and so to the decisive abandonment of  the good of reason. The means that are adopted to get within the temple, namely, ‘Byheste and Art’ (245), that is, subterfuges of various kinds and false promises, add one further testimony to the nature of  the love represented by Venus. The immediate appearance of jealousy within the temple (246–52) announces the fact that the love of  Venus is the love of desire (amor concupiscentiae) by which the object of  love is loved and desired not for its own sake but for the sake of  the pleasure that can be derived from it.72 Jealousy arises, as Aquinas explains, ‘ex intensione amoris,/ from the intensity of  love’ (ST, 1a 2ae 28.4; D’Arcy, 101), for its power depends upon the completeness of  the lover’s attachment to the object of desire. The condition

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of jealousy is in itself a suf ficient indication that the vehemence of desire has overwhelmed the reason, and hence Chaucer has altered Boccaccio’s description of  Gelosia as ‘una donna cruda e ria,/ a harsh and wicked lady’ (VII. 59.7; Havely, 130) to ‘the bittere goddesse’ (252). It is for the same reason that Chaucer specifies in the text of  his poem that Priapus is ‘the god Priapus’ (253), ‘iddio degli orti,/ god of gardens’ (Chiose, 466/33; Boitani, 204), as Boccaccio discloses in his gloss (but only in his gloss). Priapus stands revealed in the nakedness of  his lust, frustrated by the braying of  Silenus’s ass in his attempt to ravish the fair Lotis.73 Chaucer gives to the naked Priapus a ‘sceptre in honde’ (256) as a mark of  his lordship and sets on his head a garland of  ‘freshe f loures newe’ (259) as a sign of  his triumph.74 By such humorous touches Chaucer shows that ridicule is more ef fective than moral indignation in response to lust. Boccaccio’s gloss identifies Priapus as a male object of  lust to correspond to the female object of  lust in Venus (Chiose, 467/5–8). No sexual partisanship is intended by either Boccaccio or Chaucer, for the meaning of virtue and vice in love as in other matters goes beyond the distinction of masculine and feminine. Venus is here identified by Chaucer no less than by Boccaccio in terms of  the gratification of inordinate desires of  the senses, for in Venus pleasure has become an end in itself rather than the accompaniment of some fitting good. She is immediately attended by ‘hire porter Richesse’ (261) for, as Boccaccio explains, ‘voluttuosa vita senza riccheza non potersi avere né lungamente seguire,/ voluptuous life cannot be attained and maintained without wealth’ (Chiose, 471/17–18; Boitani, 209). Boccaccio explains further that Venus is to be found ‘in più secreta/ parte del tempio’ (VII.63.2–3) and in a place that is ‘oscur nel primo gire,/ dark on first entering’ (Tes., VII.64.5; Havely, 130), because ‘coloro li quali adoperano male, odiano la luce,/ those who do evil hate light’ (Chiose, 471/19–20; Boitani, 209). Chaucer’s mastery of  these imaginative facts is once more expressed poetically, for he emphasizes the darkness metrically by an initial trochaic rather than iambic foot (‘Derk was that place …  ’, 263) and uses the strongly pejorative adjective ‘prive’ (260) to describe the secrecy of  Venus.75 The Venus whom the dreamer at last encounters in this dark, secluded and oppressive place is not the ‘Cytherea’, that ‘blysful lady swete’ (113) so opti­mistically

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invoked at the beginning of  his dream.76 It is instead the Venus whose triumph over Diana (which Chaucer here anticipates) is nothing other than a victory for sloth. Hence Chaucer focuses on her recumbent posture with an unmistakable emphasis (the rhetorical figure is traductio): ‘on a bed of gold she lay to reste’ (265), ‘untressed as she lay’ (268), ‘amyddes lay Cypride’ (277) and ‘thus I let hire lye’ (279). Only the first example corresponds to anything in the text of  the Teseida (VII.64), and Chaucer has added to it the line ‘Til that the hote sonne gan to weste’ (266) in order to remind us that Venus takes her ease during the day. We are not intended to confuse such ease with the natural refreshment of sleep. But yet the dreamer, like many lovers, is still unable to credit what he sees. Here Chaucer makes us aware of  the dreamer’s presence and reactions so as to produce an ef fect quite dif ferent from that of  Boccaccio’s brief description of  Venus (VII.65). The dreamer is pleased to see that the lower parts of  Venus are ‘wel kevered’ (271), but one wonders what ‘a subtyl coverchef of  Valence’ (272) leaves to the imagination.77 Boccaccio himself is not so fastidious: ‘e l’altra parte d’una/ veste tanto sottil si ricopria,/ che quasi nulla appena nascondia,/ and the rest of  her covered by a garment so fine it hid almost nothing’ (VII.65.6–8; Havely, 130). Indeed, Chaucer’s modifications of  Boccaccio’s description of  Venus at this point are considerable and produce a harshness of ef fect not to be found in the Italian original. Thus where Boccaccio makes us aware of  the sensuousness of  Venus in ‘le braccia e ’l petto e’ pomi rilevati/ si vedean tutti,/ [h]er arms and bosom and firm breasts were fully revealed’ (VII. 65.5–6; Havely, 130), Chaucer has the spare, even brutal ‘And naked from the brest unto the hed/ Men myghte hire sen’ (269–70) as of an object available to the common view. Further, Chaucer has removed entirely Boccaccio’s reference to the incomparable beauty of  her face: ‘il suo viso era tal, che’ più lodati/ hanno a rispetto bellezza nessuna,/ Her face was such that those most highly praised have by comparison no beauty’ (VII.65.3–4; Havely, 130). The harshness of  Chaucer’s representation of  Venus underscores the gap between the objective reality of  lust and the dreamer’s subjective willingness to believe the best of  things. Such is the credulity of  lovers who, like Troilus, cannot bring themselves to acknowledge the fact of infidelity until the evidence

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is irrefutable, ‘for with ful yvel wille list hym to leve/ That loveth wel, in swich cas, though hym greve’ (TC, V.1637–38). The same kind of contrast between the reality of  the love of  Venus and the innocence of  lovers is also to be found in the treatment of  Bacchus and Ceres (PF, 275–77). Chaucer follows Boccaccio in setting Venus between Bacchus and Ceres, for, as Boccaccio explains, the presence of  these two signifies ‘la gulosita la quale sommamente seguono i voluttuosi,/ the gluttony that pleasure-loving people greatly love’ (Chiose, 471/38–39; Boitani, 209). But it is Chaucer who adds the references to Bacchus as ‘god of wyn’ (275) and to Ceres as the goddess ‘that doth of  hunger boote’ (276). The suggestion of drunkenness is at once countered by a reference to the necessary provision of  food. Here the dreamer presses gallantly on in the teeth of  the evidence. Suppositions of agricultural yields or famine relief are simply not credible in the innermost recesses of  the temple of  Venus. Moreover, Venus is set between them in her guise as Cypride (277) not Cytherea, indisputably copper, not gold. The two young lovers who petition her for help (278–79) will come, like Troilus when Criseyde leaves Troy for the Greek camp and Diomede, to curse her and her two associates (TC, V.206–10): And in his throwes frenetik and madde He corseth Jove, Appollo, and ek Cupide; He corseth Ceres, Bacus, and Cipride, His burthe, hymself, his fate, and ek nature, And, save his lady, every creature.

VIII.  It is not to be doubted that the great end of  the service of  Venus and Cupid is sexual consummation or union with the beloved, and so much is made explicit by Boccaccio in his glosses where, in reference to the baseness of  brass as a metal, he explains that ‘i congiugnimenti, prima che provati sieno, paiono dovere avere in se somma dilettazione, dove, dopo il fatto, si truovano pieni di grave amaritu­dine,/ couplings seem to be very delightful before one actually experiences them, but are full of  bitterness when they are over’ (Chiose, 466/16–18; Boitani, 204). Shakespeare puts the matter

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not much dif ferently. Such love (or, rather, lust) is: ‘A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe,/ Before, a joy proposed, behind, a dream’ (Sonnets, 129.11–12).78 Thus all the bisynesse of  Pandarus is crowned with success when the lovers are brought to bed together, albeit with great dif ficulty and contrivance up to the moment of consummation itself (TC, III.1184–1554). Only those who ‘han ben at the feste’ can judge ‘of  hire delit or joies oon the leeste’ (III.1312 and 1310). Experience shows, however, that ‘swych present gladnesse’ (III.1244) gives way all too quickly to the sorrow of parting. At Troilus’s departure Criseyde cannot speak for sorrow, ‘so soore gan his partyng hire distreyne’, and Troilus himself is ‘as wo-bygon as she was’, since ‘so harde hym wrong of sharp desir the peyne/ For to ben eft there he was in plesaunce’ (III.1528 and 1530–32). The passion of  love signified by Cupid seeks its natural outlet in sexual gratification, and such gratification is often in the event long postponed or even thwarted. The servants of  Cupid soon learn that the pleasures of sexual love are short-lived and attended by pain, even if in some few moments of ecstasy they seem to justify the golden claims made on their behalf. It is not likely that the servants of  Cupid will be much enamoured of  the virtue of chastity, for it will be seen by them as an obstacle to the attainment of  their most intense desires. The dreamer in The Parliament of  Fowls who has enthusiastically acknowledged Cupid as ‘oure lord’ (212) is stopped in his tracks when he comes to tell of  the broken bows hanging on the wall of  the temple ‘in dispit of  Dyane the chaste’ (281). Chaucer is explicit here in a way that Boccaccio is not, for it is only in the glosses that we learn that ‘Diana appo gli antichi era dea della castità e non riceveva in sua compagnia altra femina che vergine,/ for the ancients Diana was the goddess of chastity and received into her service only virgins’ (Chiose, 467/15–17; Boitani, 205). Here in the innermost recesses of  the temple (‘ferther in’ (280) is also Chaucer’s addition), and even in the dark, the reality of the service of Venus can no longer be disguised, for those who have abandoned the service of  Diana are ‘maydenes swiche as gonne here tymes waste/ In hyre [that is, Venus’s] servyse’ (283–84).79 There is no such overt censure in Boccaccio’s brief reference to the ‘cori di Diana,/ Diana’s followers’ (VII.61.1; Havely, 130). The dreamer’s discomfort is further displayed in his lack of interest in the names and stories of  these maidens; there was ‘ful many a story’ and

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‘many a mayde of which the name I wante’ (285 and 287). Here Chaucer passes by (unusually for him) the rich descriptive detail of Boccaccio’s stanza; of  Callisto, who was stellified as Ursa Minor and hence identified with the North Star (VII. 61.3–4);80 of  Atalanta, whom Hippomenes obtained as wife by beating her in a running contest with the aid of  the three golden apples given to him by Venus (VII.61.4–5) and of that second Atalanta, who wounded the Calydonian boar and had by Meleager, the son of  Oeneus, a son called Parthenopaeus, the most handsome of men, who was killed before Thebes (VII.61.6–8). Chaucer refers in the description of  the temple of  Diana in The Knight’s Tale to ‘how Atthalante hunted the wilde boor,/ And Meleagre’ (A 2070–71), and tells also of  Meleager and the slaying of  the Calydonian boar in Cassandre’s exposition of Troilus’s dream of the boar (TC, V.1464–79).81 He knows from Ovid (Metamorphoses, VIII.271–83) that the of fended goddess is not Venus, as in Boccaccio’s gloss (Chiose, 468/41–44), but ‘Diane’ (TC, V.1464), and hence he includes the story as one of  the examples of  the ‘vengeaunce’ of  Diana in the description of  the temple of  Diana (KnT, A 2055–56, 2065–66 and 2071–72). He undoubtedly knows, too, of  Parthenopaeus as one of  the seven against Thebes, and indeed Cassandre tells how ‘ded Parthonope of wownde’ (TC, V.1503).82 It is unlikely, therefore, that Boccaccio’s reference to ‘quell’altra altiera/ che partori il bel Partonopeo,/ that other haughty woman who gave birth to the beautiful Parthenopaeus’ (VII.61.6–7; Havely, 130) is so ‘oblique’ that it ‘defeated Chaucer’,83 and I conclude rather that the abbreviation of  Boccaccio’s account is once again a matter of artistic choice. Chaucer gives us the barest of references to ‘Calyxte’ and conf lates the stories of  the two Atalantas in the single reference to ‘Athalante’ (286) because the record of virgins overcome by sexual desire is a commonplace of  human experience. What more, after all, is to be said for lives wasted in this dismal fashion? IX.  In the end even lovers have to confront the truth about the service of  Venus that their misjudgments and desires have done so much to disguise, and if not in one way then in another. Often only the bitterness of personal experience will suf fice to convince lovers that they have taken a false path in life, for the pain of  loss is an irrefutable testimony of an error of some

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kind. Sometimes even pain of  this magnitude is insuf ficient. Thus Troilus cannot bring himself  to accept the fact of  Criseyde’s infidelity, though she has long delayed her return to Troy, until the evidence of  the brooch on the collar of  Diomede’s captured surcoat makes the conclusion of infidelity impossible to resist: ‘But now ful wel he wiste,/ His lady nas no lenger on to triste’ (V.1665–66). Even so Troilus goes to his death still in ignorance of  the true causes of  his suf fering. The dreamer in The Parliament of  Fowls is more fortunate than Troilus in that he has the opportunity to learn this lesson at second hand. Hence Chaucer not only sets the list of ruined lovers at the end of  his account of  the temple of  Venus (288–92), but has expanded the list to such an extent as to reveal not merely an individual misfortune but a common pattern. Each illustrious example is a hammer blow designed to cure the bookish dreamer of  his delusions. Of  the sixteen names in Chaucer’s list only five – Semiramis, Pyramus and Thisbe, Hercules and Biblis – are derived from Boccaccio (VII. 62). Moreover, Boccaccio does not mention Semiramis by name, but only as the ‘sposa di Nin,/ Ninus’s wife’ (VII.62.3; Havely, 130). Chaucer’s mention of  Semiramis directly recalls the celebrated list of  lussuriosi in the second circle of  Dante’s hell, for among these also Semiramis is placed first (Inf., V.55–58; Sinclair, I.75):   A vizio di lussuria fu sì rotta, che libito fé licito in sua legge, per tòrre il biasmo in che era condotta.   Ell’ è Semiramis, … who was so corrupted by licentious vice that she made lust lawful in her law to take away the scandal into which she was brought; she is Semiramis.

From this same source Chaucer has added six more names – Dido, Cleopatra, Helen of  Troy, Achilles, Paris and Tristan (Inf., V.61–67). All these stand con­demned as ‘i peccator carnali,/ che la ragion sommettono al talento,/ the carnal sinners who subject reason to desire’ (V.38–39; Sinclair, I.75). From his own inspiration Chaucer has added five more names – ‘Candace’ (288), ‘Isaude’ (290), ‘Troylus’ (291), and ‘Silla, and ek the moder of  Romulus’ (292).84 Candace is a queen in the early fourteenth-century

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English romance Kyng Alisaunder who ‘loued Alisaunder pryuelik’ (6652) and ‘for fere of  loue … brast neiȝ wood’ (6663).85 She sends messengers to Alexander bearing a letter in which she of fers the king her enormous wealth as an inducement to become her lover (6664–6723) and resorts to magic arts in order finally to secure the object of  her desire (6724–33 and 7678–7727). Candace is thus an example well chosen to illustrate both ‘Messagerye, and Meede’ (228) and also ‘the Craft that can and hath the myght/ To don by force a wyght to don folye’ (220–21).86 The mention of  Isolde by name immediately after that of  Tristram is designed to remind readers more familiar with Arthurian romance than Italian epic of  the common fate of  these famous lovers and the irresistible power of  love signified by the drinking of  the love potion.87 The presence of  Troilus in this company is illuminated retrospectively for modern readers by the tragic masterpiece that Chaucer is now ready to embark upon. Here is the story of a young man inexperienced in the ways of  love in whom nobility of character is undermined by false judgment and vehement desires, and who to the end of  his days fails to comprehend the reasons for his sorrow. It is indeed ‘th’expense of spirit in a waste of shame’ (Sonnets, 129.1) and hence the ‘tragedye’ that Chaucer himself calls it (TC, V.1786). Ovid’s account of  the impious love of  Scylla for Minos (Metamorphoses, VIII.6–151) makes plain the madness and disorder of  the love represented by Venus. Readers of  Geof frey of  Vinsauf ’s Poetria Nova will know of  Scylla’s treachery to her father, Nisus, for Geof frey uses the example of  Scylla to illustrate the artistic beginning of a poem by drawing on matter from its end (Poetria, 167–72). ‘Nysus doughter stod upon the wal’ at the siege of  Alcathoe at the moment when she fell in love with Minos and betrayed the city (LGW, F 1902–17) and ‘Nysus doughter song with fressh entente’ on the morning of  the tenth day as Troilus and Pandarus ‘on the walles of  the town’ look in vain for Criseyde on her long-awaited return to Troy (TC, V.1110–13). The mother of  Romulus is the Vestal virgin Rhea Silvia, so that his birth marks another defeat for Diana.88 The identity of  the father is unknown, for Romulus was of ignoble birth. Rhea Silvia was to claim, however, that Mars, the lover of  Venus, was the father, and Dante refers to this claim in Paradiso, VIII.131–32: ‘e vien Quirino/ da si vil padre, che si rende a

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Marte,/ and Quirinus comes from so base a father that he is ascribed to Mars’ (Sinclair, III.123). By transposing the matter of  the description of  Venus and the list of  lovers Chaucer concludes his account of  the temple of  Venus with an exemplary realiza­tion of  the disastrous ef fects of an inordinate love. The impact of  the truth that is here expressed is not merely sobering, it is disillusioning, and leaves the dreamer in need of ‘solace’ (297). Dante the pilgrim is overwhelmed when he is brought to see how the sweetness of  love can lead to the torment of  hell: ‘Oh lasso,/ quanti dolci pensier, quanto disio/ menò costoro al doloroso passo!,/ Alas, how many sweet thoughts, how great desire, brought them to the woeful pass!’ (Inf., V.112–14; Sinclair, I.79). The meaning of  Chaucer’s poem too lies not merely in the objective statement of moral realities but also in the subjective responses of  his fictional representative. And once again we can appreciate the soundness of  Chaucer’s artistic judgment, for the imaginative experience of  the temple of  Venus brings the reader moral enlightenment only at the price of sorrow.

Notes 1

2

‘Death often follows from its power,/ if, perchance, its virtue is impeded/ which helps the contrary way.’ Reference to the text of  the Canzone d’amore is to Guido Favati, Guido Cavalcanti: Rime (Milan and Naples: Riccardo Ricciardi, 1957), pp. 214–16. The translation is that of  Otto Bird, ‘The Canzone d’amore of  Cavalcanti According to the Commentary of  Dino del Garbo’, MS, 2 (1940), 150–203 (p. 158) and 3 (1941), 117–60. ‘Your perception takes from outward reality an impression and unfolds it within you, so that it makes the mind turn to it; and if  the mind, so turned, inclines to it, that inclination is love, that is, nature, which by pleasure is bound on you afresh’ (Sinclair, II.233). The translation of  Dante’s intenzione (Purg., XVIII.23) as ‘an impression’ is, however, misleading, if not actually incorrect. Dante is referring here to an intention in the technical sense of  Latin intentio as a perception that cannot be perceived by the exterior sense. Such an intention is apprehended by estimation (vis aestimationis) or the cogitative power (vis cogitativa) and is stored

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4 5

6

7 8

GERALD MORGAN in the memory in the same way as the form (or impression) which is perceived by the common sense is stored in the imagination. See Gerald Morgan, ‘Natural and Spiritual Movements of  Love in the Soul: An Explanation of  Purgatorio, XVIII.16–39’, MLR, 80 (1985), 320–29 (pp. 325–27). See Judson Boyce Allen, The Ethical Poetic of  the Later Middle Ages: A Decorum of  Convenient Distinction (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1982), pp. 5–10 and 55–57, and A.J. Minnis and A.B. Scott, Medieval Literary Theory and Criticism, c. 1100–c. 1375: The Commentary Tradition (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1988), pp. 16 (Avianus), 24 (Ovid) and 462 (Dante). The text of  Dino del Garbo’s commentary (Glossa latina) is printed as an Appendice by Favati (pp. 347–78). Del Garbo, Glossa latina, 361/4–6 and 10–14: ‘Deinde subdit et al presente conoscente chero etc., idest: in presenti materia quero quod homo qui audiet ista sit cognoscens, idest intelligens, idest subtilis intellectus … Deinde subdit che sença natural dimostramento etc., idest sine naturali demonstratione: quasi uelit dicere quod ea que dicet extraet ex principiis scientie naturalis, et non solum extraet ex principiis scientie naturalis, imo ex principiis scientie moralis et astrologie; et ideo auditor huius sermonis debet esse intelligens’. By Avicenna is to be understood the Latin Avicenna of  the medieval translations produced at Toledo in the second half of  the twelfth century. See S. van Riet, Liber de anima seu sextus de naturalibus, I–III and IV–V, 2 vols (Louvain and Leiden: Brill, 1972 and 1968). The original of  the Latin translation is the psychological part of  the Shifa’ or Suf ficientia. See, in particular, In de anima and ST, la 75–83. The opinion that ‘Chaucer’s manuscript of  the Teseida did not contain Boccaccio’s commentary’ (p. 759) is no more than one of  the conjectures in the inf luential article by Robert A. Pratt, ‘Conjectures Regarding Chaucer’s Manuscript of  the Teseida’, SP, 42 (1945), 745–63, and it is corrected and amplified in Boitani, pp. 113–16 and 190–97. Boitani notes twenty-six examples of coincidence between Boccaccio’s glosses and The Knight’s Tale, and of  these Chaucer’s dependence on the glosses is ‘practically certain’ in one case and ‘highly probable’ in four others (p. 115). Pratt’s position is supported by William E. Coleman, ‘Chaucer, the Teseida, and the Visconti Library at Pavia: A Hypothesis’, MÆ, 51 (1982), 92–101. But Coleman’s article is itself confessedly speculative, and the best that can be said on the basis of  his discussion is that Chaucer had the opportunity to visit the library of  Galeazzo II Visconti at Pavia at the beginning of  July or August 1378 (pp. 96–97) and the library may have contained at that time the two manuscript copies (MSS 881 and 935) of the Teseida (no longer extant) recorded in the inventory of  the library made in 1426 (pp. 93 and 97). No inference concerning

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Chaucer’s knowledge of  the Teseida can safely be drawn on such a basis. Coleman restates his position in replying to Boitani’s arguments in ‘Chaucer’s MS and Boccaccio’s Commentaries on Il Teseida’, Chaucer Newsletter, 9 (1987), 1 and 6, but the conclusion that Chaucer used a copy of  the Teseida lacking the commentary of  Boccaccio (in any of its three versions) is by no means ‘inevitable’ (p. 6) and itself  lacks irrefutable proof. For a detailed description of  the sixty-three extant manuscripts, see Edvige Agostinelli, ‘A Catalogue of  the Manuscripts of  II Teseida’, Studi sul Boccaccio, 15 (1985–1986), 1–83. Of  the twelve fourteenthcentury manuscripts of  the Teseida, six, including the autograph copy (c. 1348– 1350), contain the commentary in part or whole (Boitani, p. 116). Whether Chaucer had access to Boccaccio’s glosses to the Teseida as well as to his text is a matter that can only be determined by an analysis of  the internal evidence of  the kind that the present article seeks to supply. I am in agreement with Boitani (pp. 115–16) that Chaucer knew Boccaccio’s commentary as well as his text, but conclude that he used that commentary with the same artistic freedom that he exhibits in relation to all his sources. 9 A notable exception to this anti-scholastic bias in modern criticism is Lois Roney, Chaucer’s Knight’s Tale and Theories of  Scholastic Psychology (Tampa: University of  South Florida Press, 1990). But this study illustrates the dif ficulty of relating Chaucer’s poetry to the various forms of scholastic thought, for the philosophical systems that are comprehended under the name of scholasticism are monumental and diverse, and often inadequately understood in themselves. At any rate, I remain sceptical of  the view that Chaucer intends Arcite as representative of  ‘the intellectualist theories of  the Aristotelian Thomists’ or Palamon as that of  ‘the voluntarist theories of  the Augustinian Franciscans’ (Preface, p. xiv). Further, I would not claim that Chaucer is ‘an important scholastic thinker’ (Preface, p. xvi), worthy as such to be set beside Aquinas, Scotus and Ockham (surely an extravagant claim), but that he is familiar with the methods and leading ideas of scholastic Aristotelianism and puts this knowledge to detailed use in his poetry. In this respect he is not unlike (although less explicit than) Dante. 10 The Testament of  Love, Bk. III, Chapter IV.249, in The Complete Works of  Geof frey Chaucer, Volume VII, Chaucerian and Other Pieces, edited by Walter W. Skeat (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1897), pp. 1–145. 11 See Aquinas, In de anima, 288: ‘Ubi considerandum est, quod ad hoc quod universum sit perfectum, nullus gradus perfectionis in rebus intermittitur, sed paulatim natura de imperfectis ad perfecta procedit,/ Here we have to consider that the completeness of  the Universe requires that there should be no gaps in its order, that in Nature there should everywhere be a gradual development from the less to the more perfect’ (translated by Foster and Humphries).

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12 Compare Teseida, VII.52.7: ‘e timidetti cervi e cavriuoli,/ together with timid young red-deer, roe-deer’ (Havely, 129). 13 See Morgan, ‘Natural and Spiritual Movements of  Love in the Soul’, 322–23. 14 The gloss explains that by Vagheza is understood ‘quello disiderio naturale il quale ciascuno uomo e donna ha di vedere e di possedere o acquistare più tosto le belle e le care cose che l’altre,/ the natural desire of men and women to behold, to possess, and to gain beautiful and precious dear things above all’ (Chiose, 464/15–17; Boitani, 202). 15 Natural love as the divinely implanted instinct to love and the source of all loving is distinguished from sensitive love (the passion of  love) and rational love (the love that is willed) as proceeding from an external, not an internal, source of  knowledge. See Gerald Morgan, ‘Natural and Rational Love in Medieval Literature’, YES, 7 (1977), 43–52 (p. 46). 16 Compare the foolish pride of  Troilus in imagining himself  to be exempt from the law of  love that governs human nature (TC, I.183–231). 17 On the concupiscible and irascible parts of  the sensitive appetite as distinct powers, see Aquinas, ST, la 81.2, and on the passions or emotions as movements of  the sensitive appetite, see ST, la 2ae 22. 3 and 23.2. 18 ‘Dice adunque che Cupido fabricava queste saette, alla perfezione delle quali v’agiugne tre: cioè Voluttà e Ozio e Memoria,/ Cupid, the author says, made these arrows, and Voluptuousness, Idleness, and Memory perfected them’ (Chiose, 464/37–39; Boitani, 202). 19 See Chiose, 464/45 (diletto) and 464/46, 465/4 and 9 (dilettazione). 20 ‘It maintains an unsound judgment,/ for the intention is rendered valid by reason;/ he, in whom reason is conquered, discerns badly what he loves./ Death often follows from its power, if, perchance, its virtue is impeded/ which helps the contrary way’ (Bird, MS, 2.158). 21 Glossa latina, 368/36–37. See also 369/2–4: ‘Nunc autem ille in quo est amor discernit male aliquid esse amicum, idest amabile, quod secundum rectam rationem non est amabile’. 22 See Avicenna, Canon medicinae, III, Fen I, tract. IV, cap. 23, p. 494a. 23 Glossa latina, 369/15–21: ‘amor tunc interficit quando est adeo uehemens, quod propter ipsum impediuntur opera uirtutis uegetatiue uel uirtutis uitalis, que conseruat uitam et operationes eius in corpore humano. Uidemus ad sensum corpora illorum in quibus est amor adeo uehemens, et non consecuntur nec adimplent eorum desiderium, arefieri et desiccari et tandem consumi et mori’. 24 Fragment A is generally considered to have been composed before 1372; see Benson, pp. xxix and 1104. 25 Compare TC, II.1596: ‘For for o fyn is al that evere I telle’.

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26 See Norman Davis and others, A Chaucer Glossary (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1979), s.v. wyle n. (p. 172) and Benson, p. 388. Derek Pearsall (ed.), Chaucer to Spenser: An Anthology of  Writings in English 1375–1575 (Oxford: Blackwell Publishers Ltd, 1999) glosses wile as ‘cunning skill’ (p. 8). 27 See Benson, pp. 1147 and 1148 and D.S. Brewer (ed.), Geof frey Chaucer: The Parlement of  Foulys, Old & Middle English Texts, revised edition (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1972), p. 108. 28 It is adopted into the text by Brewer, who points out (The Parlement of  Foulys, p. 108) the ready confusion of  ‘c’ and ‘t’ in the manuscript witnesses. John Scattergood, ‘Making Arrows: The Parliament of  Fowls, 211–217’, NQ, 49 (2002), 444–47 (p. 446), defends the reading couchede, derived from OF cochier, in the sense ‘cut a notch in the end of  the shaft of an arrow’ and refers it to the operation of  ‘the smoothing of  the notch or groove with a file to take the bowstring’. But Chaucer’s reference, like that of  Boccaccio, is not to the arrows (212) but to the arrow-heads (215). And it is not clear what the allegorical or psychological significance of a reference to Will’s notching of arrows might be. Chaucer’s subject is love, not toxophily. 29 The Parlement of  Foulys, p. 166. 30 MED, s.v. touchen, v. 11(a) and touch(e, n. 5(a). Pearsall, who also reads touchede, glosses it ‘filed to a point’ (Chaucer to Spenser, p. 8). 31 See Aquinas, ST, 1a 2ae 30.2 sed contra: ‘concupiscentia causatur ab amore’. The passions of  the concupiscible appetite are related to one another in terms of an analogy of motion; the passion of  love is inclination, the passion of desire is movement towards a good loved but not yet possessed in order to attain it and the passion of delight is rest in possession of  the good loved and desired (ST, 1a 2ae 23.4). Love and desire are closely related in the sense that incli­nation quickly turns to movement. Brewer notes (The Parlement of  Foulys, p. 108) that the sense ‘carnal desire’ is ‘well attested’ for wil in ME; see MED, s.v. wil(le, n. 2a (b) ‘carnal desire or craving, esp. sexual lust’, where the present passage is cited. Kemp Malone, ‘Chaucer’s Daughter of  Cupid’, MLR, 45 (1950), 63, notes further that ‘OE willa repeatedly translates Latin voluptas’, and that accordingly we ‘need suppose only that Chaucer read Boccaccio correctly, and translated him correctly’. Such a supposition, as Boitani notes in ‘Chaucer’s Temples of  Venus’, Studi Inglesi, 2 (1975), 9–31 (pp. 23–24 n. 53), removes ‘one of  the major obstacles to scholars’ belief in Chaucer’s knowledge of  Boccaccio’s glosses’. 32 Aquinas, In de anima, 771: ‘Nam ex apprehensione boni vel mali, non statim sequebatur desiderium vel fuga, sicut hic circa intellectum; sed sequebatur delectatio et tristitia, et ex hoc ulterius desiderium et fuga. Cuius ratio est, quia sicut sensus non apprehendit bonum universale, ita appetitus sensitivae partis non

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movetur a bono vel malo universali, sed a quodam determinato bono, quod est delectabile secundum sensum, et quodam determinato malo, quod est contristans secundum sensum,/ For … when the senses apprehend their good and evil, this awareness is not immediately succeeded by pursuit or avoidance, but by pleasure and pain, – after which the sensing subject pursues or withdraws. The reason is that as the senses are not aware of goodness in general, so sense-appetition is not swayed by the good or the bad in general, but only by this or that particular good, pleasant to sense, or, by this or that particular evil, unpleasant to sense’ (translated by Foster and Humphries). 33 Jean Froissart, Le paradis d’amour, l’orloge amoureus, edited by Peter F. Dembowski (Geneva: Droz, 1986) and translated by B.A. Windeatt, Chaucer’s Dream Poetry: Sources and Analogues, Chaucer Studies VII (Cambridge: D.S. Brewer, 1982), pp. 41–57 (p. 46). 34 Aquinas follows Aristotle (Metaphysics, VI.2) in distinguishing two senses of accident, namely, that which is in a thing (‘quia inest ei’), as white is in Socrates, and that which coin­cides with something in the same subject (‘quia est simul cum eo in eodem subjecto’), as white and musical may coincide in a man (ST, 1a 2ae 7.1 ad 2). The accidents of which Boccaccio speaks are of  the second kind. 35 On circumstances, see Aquinas, ST, 1a 2ae 7.1 and 3. 36 Aquinas distinguishes between the essential and circumstantial causes of  the virtue of  fortitude as follows (ST, 1a 2ae 7. 3 ad 3): ‘Non enim finis, qui dat speciem actus, est circumstantia, sed aliquis finis adjunctus; sicut quod fortis fortiter agat propter bonum fortitudinis, non est circumstantia; sed si fortiter agat propter liberationem civitatis, vel propter Christum, vel aliquid hujusmodi,/ For instance, the circumstance which speaks of purpose does not refer to the end which gives an act its essential character, but to some ulterior motive. When a valiant man does a brave deed it is not a circumstance that he does it in order to uphold the value of  fortitude, but that it is done for the liberation of  his country or the defence of  Christendom or with some such aim’ (translated by Thomas Gilby). Shakespeare recalls this distinction in the words of  Young Clif ford at the Battle of  St Albans (2 Henry VI, V.2.36–40): ‘Let no soldier f ly./ He that is truly dedicate to war/ Hath no self-love: nor he that loves himself/ Hath not essentially but by circumstance/ The name of valour.’ Reference is to The Second Part of King Henry VI, edited by Michael Hattaway, New Cambridge Shakespeare (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991). 37 See In ethicorum and Commentary on Ethics, 821–22 and also ST, 2a 2ae 168.1 and ad 3. 38 See MED, s.v. lust, n. 4 (a) ‘vigor, energy, life’ and lusti, adj. 2 (a) ‘full of vigor, spirited, energetic’.

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39 Glossa latina, 373/31–34: ‘Nunc autem homines nobiles et potentes facilius possunt acquirere rem amatam, et ei coniungi, quam homines populares et uiles: nam habent diuitias et uirtutes, per quas citius hoc acquirunt, quam illi qui ea non habent’. 40 See MED, s.v. ok(e, n. 2 and compare Purg., XXXI.70–71: ‘Con men di resistenza si dibarba/ robusto cerro,/ With less resistance is uprooted the sturdy oak’ (Sinclair, II.407). 41 ST, 1a 2ae 27.1 ad 3. This is, of course, an idea with a long history; see Erwin Panofsky, Idea: A Concept in Art Theory, translated by Joseph J.S. Peake (New York: Harper & Row, Publishers, Inc., 1968), especially pp. 39–43 and 195 n. 13. 42 MED, s.v. game, n. 2a.(b) and jolite, n. 1.(b). 43 MED, s.v. game, 2d. and jolite, 2.(a) and (c). 44 By lasciviousness Boccaccio understands ‘il basciare, il toccare e il cianciare e ’l motteggiare e l’altre scioccheze che intorno a ciò si fanno,/ kissing, fingering, chatting, joking, and all the nonsense done on these occasions’ (Chiose, 471/42–44; Boitani, 209). Such wantonness is represented by Spenser in Castle Joyeous by Malecasta’s six liegemen – Gardante, Parlante, Iocante, Basciante, Bacchante and Noctante (FQ, III.1.45). Britomart and Red Cross are united in disdaining ‘such lasciuious disport’ and in loathing ‘the loose demeanure of  that wanton sort’ (FQ, III.1.40). 45 ST, 2a 2ae 115.2: ‘Si autem aliquis ex sola aviditate delectandi alios, vel etiam ad evitandum aliquod malum vel consequendum aliquid in necessitate, alicui adulatus fuerit, non est contra caritatem. Unde non est peccatum mortale sed veniale’. 46 So Brewer, The Parlement of  Foulys, 157 and Davis, A Chaucer Glossary, 94. Pearsall supplies the gloss ‘giving bribes’ (Chaucer to Spenser, 9). 47 See Gerald Morgan, ‘The Status and Meaning of  Meed in the First Vision of  Piers Plowman’, Neophilologus, 72 (1988), 449–63 (pp. 459–61). 48 See Benson, 51 and Davis, A Chaucer Glossary, 11. 49 See ST, 2a 2ae 81. 8: ‘sanctitas … non dif fert a religione secundum essentiam, sed solum ratione’ and 2a 2ae 111. 3 ad 2: ‘virtus simplicitatis est eadem virtuti veritatis, sed dif fert sola ratione’. 50 See Rhetorica ad Herennium, IV.xxx.41, translated by Harry Caplan, Loeb (Cambridge, MA and London: Harvard University Press; William Heinemann Ltd, 1954). 51 Reference is to Albertani Brixiensis: Liber consolationis et consilii, edited by Thor Sundby, Chaucer Society, Second Series, 8 (London: N. Trübner & Co., 1873). The Latin appears as a gloss to the English translation of  the distich in The Tale of  Melibee; see Benson, note to 1107–8 (p. 925).

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52 The Liber consolationis is extant in perhaps 160 or so of the 320 extant manuscripts contain­ing the works of  Albertano of  Brescia, and of  these 13 thirteenth-century and fourteenth-century manu­scripts are of  English provenance; see William R. Askins, ‘The Tale of  Melibee’, in Correale and Hamel, I.321–408 (pp. 321 and 330). The Liber consolationis is known to Gower and to the scribes who supplied the Latin glosses to The Tale of  Melibee, The Merchant’s Tale and The Manciple’s Tale (pp. 321–22). 53 The statement in the explanatory notes to The Tale of  Melibee in Benson (p. 923) that there is ‘no evidence that Chaucer knew … the Liber consolationis’ is contradicted by the notes to lines 1362–74, 1375 and 1377 of  The Merchant’s Tale (p. 886). The references to ‘Mardochee’ (MerT, E 1373), that is, Mordecai (Lat. Mardochaeo), to Seneca (in fact, Fulgentius) on the humility of a wife (MerT, E 1375–76) and to Cato on the need to tolerate a wife’s strictures (MerT, E 1377– 78) are all to be found in the Liber consolationis (V, pp. 17.17), 18.14–20 and 19.1–3), but they are all absent from Le Livre de Mellibee et Prudence and in consequence absent also from The Tale of  Melibee (see Askins, ‘The Tale of  Melibee’, 5. 8, 5. 11 and 5. 12, pp. 341–42). 54 Chiose, 466/4–6: ‘il rame e l’ottone, li quali uno medesimo metallo sono in genere, come che in ispezie abbiano alcuna diversita,/ copper and brass which are the same in kind, but are dif ferent in species’ (Boitani, 204). 55 Chiose, 466/15–18. There is a studied contrast here between Venus and the ‘aray’ (PF, 317 and 318) of  Nature ‘right as Aleyn in the Pleynt of  Kynde,/ Devyseth’ (PF, 316–17). Alan of  Lille tells us that the golden hair of  Nature is purest gold, not a counterfeit gold such as to deceive the eye with its false appearance: ‘Regalis autem diadematis corona ruti­lans, gemmarum scintillata choreis, in capitis supercilio fulgurabat. Cuius non adulterina auri materies, ab ipsius honore degenerans, luce sophistica oculos paralogizans sed ipsius nobilitas ministrabat essentiam,/ A reddish royal crown and diadem, glittering with circling gems, f lashed like lightning above her head. Its material, gold, was not counterfeit, did not fall in corruption below gold’s estate, did not deceive the eyes with hollow sheen; rather, the purest form of gold furnished its essence’ (PN, II.40–43; Sheridan, 76). 56 There is no corresponding reference to Venus in the Teseida (VII.66). Chaucer invokes not only her association with Cyprus as a place of  her worship but also with copper, that is, cyprium, as her metal. See C.S. Lewis, The Discarded Image (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1964), p. 107. Hence Alan of  Lille describes Paris as subdued by the wantonness of  Venus as Cyprian: ‘Illic Paris incestuose Cipridis frangebatur mollicie,/ There Paris was being broken down by the wantonness of  the lewd Cyprian’ (PN, XVIII.87; Sheridan, 217). Criseyde

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57

58

59

60

61

62

89

may give thanks to Venus as ‘Cipride’ (TC, IV.1216) as she revives from her swoon (and so preserves Troilus from suicide), but Troilus himself will soon come to curse Venus as ‘Cipride’ (TC, V.208) at Criseyde’s departure from Troy. Glossa latina, 375/8–18: ‘Et non si giri per trouarui gioco: nec etiam aliquis adhereat ei quia credat in ipso inuenire sapientiam multam uel paucam, quia in ipso nulla est sapientia neque discretio: imo potius quasi ultimo ille qui amat, cum bene est in feruore ipsius, deuenit in fatuitatem et insipientiam; et ideo dictum est, supra auctoritate auctoris, quod hec passio est sollicitudo melanconica, similis melancolie; et hoc intendit cum subdit Né certamente gran sauer né poco: et in hoc uult etiam auctor dicere quod nulla astutia atque prudentia ualet quando animus est uehementer passionatus hac passione, quoniam in totum quasi libertatem perdit et fit seruilis in cogitationibus in quibus cogitur de re amata.’ Boccaccio makes this significance crystal clear at the very beginning of his glosses: ‘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,/ The second is lascivious desire in general, for which Venus is generally called goddess of  love. It is the temple of  this Venus and its surroundings that the author describes in the text’ (Chiose, 463/6–9; Boitani, 201). I am tempted to take ‘dishevele’ (235) as referring to disorder of dress as well as of  hair, although MED, s.v. dischevele adj. and ppl., glosses: ‘Without a headdress, bare­headed; also, with the hair hanging loose or in disorder’. Boccaccio has ‘discinte, scalze, in capelli e in gone,/ barefoot and with hair and gowns f lowing free’ (Tes., VII. 57.5; Havely, 129). Boccaccio’s text refers to both sparrows and doves: ‘poi sopra ’l tempio vide volitare/ passere molte e colombi ruccare,/ Then above the temple she saw f locks of sparrows f luttering and doves cooing’ (Tes., VII.57.7–8; Havely, 129). Chaucer omits the sparrows at this point because they are symbols of  lust; ‘the sparwe’ is ‘Venus sone’ (PF, 351) and the Summoner in the General Prologue is ‘lecherous as a sparwe’ (A 626). ST, 2a 2ae 29. 1. The definition that Boccaccio supplies for peace in his gloss is, strictly speaking, a definition of concord: ‘Dice ancora che madonna Pace v’era, a dimostrare che i disideri che per forza s’hanno non sono da dire amorosi, perciò che gli amorosi richeggiono pari concordia dell’una parte e dell’altra,/ The Lady Peace was also there, and this shows that imposed desires cannot pertain to love, because amorous desires require agreement from both sides’ (Chiose, 465/41–43; Boitani, 203). Glossa latina, 360/9–16: ‘Nunc autem hoc nomen donna attribuitur mulieri cum iam habeat cognitionem perfectam, quoniam mulieri que est in etate puerili, in

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qua cognitio non est perfecta, non attribuitur hoc nomen donna. Iterum, etiam attribuitur mulieri digne; nam illud nomen attribuitur mulieri honeste: mu[lier] enim meretricia non dicitur donna. Et maxime attribuitur hoc nomen mulieri que est proles alicuius familie, que non est animo uiliter nata: unde dignitatem habet ex honestate et ex prole generationis sue’. 63 CID, I.566. Hence Havely translates Tes., VII.58.1–4, as: ‘And close by the entrance she saw Lady Peace sitting, quietly and gently holding a curtain in front of  the door’ (129). 64 The Parlement of  Foulys, p. 163. See MED, s.v. sobreli adv. 3.(a) ‘calmly, dispassionately; quietly, patiently’, although PF, 239 is not cited thereunder. 65 MED, s.v. sobre adj. 1.(a) and (b) and sobreli adv. 1.(a) and (b). 66 Indeed at this point Boccaccio acknowledges his own lack of systematic method, for he ‘ha infino a qui senza distinzione alcuna mostrate queste cose,/ having described these things indiscriminately’ (Chiose, 465/44–45; Boitani, 204). 67 Brewer, The Parlement of  Foulys, p. 150. This seems to me preferable to Davis’s ‘courteously’ (A Chaucer Glossary, 38) and Havely’s ‘modestly’ (129). 68 Chiose, 465/38–39: ‘e ragionevolemente, perciò che pazienzia non ha luogo se non là dove pene e angoscie sono,/ with reason … because it [patience] does not exist without pain and anguish’ (Boitani, 203). 69 Lancelot is so overwhelmed by desire that he has lost his peace of mind and Gauvain urges him to recover his composure: ‘Merci, sire, soiez an pes’ (Charrete, 571). 70 See CID, s.v. tumulto m. ‘tumult, uproar’ (p. 835). MED cites swogh, however, under (a) ‘[a] rushing sound, as of water or wind; a roaring noise, murmuring sound’. Brewer glosses it as ‘low noise’ (The Parlement of  Foulys, p. 164), Davis ‘sound, noise as of wind’ as distinct from ‘sigh, groan’ (A Chaucer Glossary, p. 149) and Pearsall as ‘sound as of wind (soughing)’ (Chaucer to Spenser, p. 9). All four seem to have been inf luenced here by the Italian source rather than by Chaucer’s own poetic purpose. 71 Chiose, 466/26–30: ‘i sospiri di chi ama, senza essere geloso, sono leggieri e le più volte piacevoli; ma gelosia porge amarissime sollecitudini e infinite, le quali e sospiri e lagrime e angosciosi guai tirano spesse volte fuori de’ petti de’ gelosi: come coloro sanno che il pruovano o che provato l’hanno,/ the sighs of  those who love without being jealous are in fact light and mostly plea­sant, whereas jealousy causes infinite bitter pains that draw sighs, tears, and anguished cries out of jealous people’s breasts: those who experience or have experienced it know it well’ (Boitani, 204). 72 For the distinction between the love of  friendship and the love of desire, see Aquinas, ST, 1a 2ae 26.4.

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73 See Ovid, Fasti, I.415–38, translated by Sir James George Frazer, Loeb (Cambridge, MA and London: Harvard University Press; William Heinemann Ltd, 1976). 74 Here Chaucer adapts an unconnected detail in Boccaccio’s text: ‘e simil per lo tempio grande/ di fior diversi assai vide ghirlande,/ likewise throughout the temple she saw garlands of many dif ferent f lowers’ (Tes., VII.60.7–8; Havely, 130). 75 For the pejorative associations of  ‘privy’ and its related forms, see CT, A 609, C 123–29 and E 1953–54. 76 The name Cytherea is used by Chaucer with a discrimination similar to that of  Dante, for the only reference in the Commedia to Venus as Cytherea comes when Dante the pilgrim has passed through the fire on the seventh terrace on which the sin of  lust is purged and is on the verge of entry into the Earthly Paradise on the summit of  the mountain of  Purgatory. Significantly, it is at a moment of sleeping and dreaming just before dawn, ‘ne l’ora … che de l’oriente/ prima raggiò nel monte Citerea,/ che di foco d’amor par sempre ardente,/ in the hour … when Cytherea, who seems always burning with the fire of  love, first shone on the mountain from the east’ (Purg., XXVII.94–96; Sinclair, II.355) and introduces the prophetic vision of  Leah, that is, the purified active life. 77 See MED, s.vv. sotil adj. 4.(b),’of cloth, skin, etc.: delicate or fine in texture, not coarse’ and valence n. (1) ‘[a] thin, fine cloth associated with Valence or Valenciennes, perh. openwork’. The word coverchef, as the etymology suggests, signifies a ‘kerchief ’ or ‘headscarf ’, not an article of clothing designed for the lower part of  the body, and presumably it has been adapted for that purpose somewhat casually or negligently. Davis glosses subtyl as ‘delicately woven’ (A Chaucer Glossary, p. 147) and takes (without obvious authority for doing so) coverchef of  Valence as ‘bedcover’ (ibid., p. 82). 78 Reference is to The Sonnets, edited by G. Blakemore Evans, The New Cambridge Shakespeare (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996). 79 Here I revise my original article in the light of  the cogent criticism of  Norman Klassen, ‘A Note on “hyre” in Parliament of  Fowls, 284’, NQ, 53 (2006), 154–57 (p. 155, n. 3). 80 See Boccaccio’s glosses, where he refers to ‘Orsa Minore, nella coda della quale è quella stella che noi chiamiamo Tramontana,/ the Little Bear, and in the tail of  the latter lies that star which we call The North Star’ (Chiose, 467/46–468/2; Boitani, 205–6) and the description of  the temple of  Diana in The Knight’s Tale where Chaucer tells us that ‘Calistopee’, that is, Callisto, ‘was turned from a womman til a bere,/ And after was she maad the loode-sterre’ (A 2056 and 2058–59). Callisto is, however, the Great Bear (Orsa Maggiore) and it is her son

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Arcas who is Orsa Minore. The phrasing of  Boccaccio’s gloss is ambiguous and may have misled Chaucer; see Boitani, pp. 95–96. 81 Here he chooses not to mention Atalanta by name, but refers to her simply as ‘a mayde, oon of  this world the beste ypreysed’ and as ‘this fresshe mayden free’ (TC, V.1473 and 1475). 82 See also Anelida and Arcite, 58. 83 Brewer, The Parlement of  Foulys, p. 111. 84 Virgil shows Dante the pilgrim more than a thousand such lovers and mentions them by name: ‘e più di mille/ ombre mostrommi e nominommi a dito,/ ch’amor di nostra vita dipartille,/ and he showed me more than a thousand shades, naming them as he pointed, whom love parted from … our life’ (Inf., V.67–69; Sinclair, I.77). Presumably Chaucer considers that the addition of  five more lovers will be suf ficient for his purpose. 85 Reference is to Kyng Alisaunder, edited by G.V. Smithers, EETS (OS) 227 and 237, 2 vols (London: Oxford University Press, 1952 and 1957). 86 The identification of  Chaucer’s Candace with Ovid’s Canace, as by Brewer (The Parlement of  Foulys, p. 112), is thus not only textually unjustified, but also unnecessary. 87 Hence Criseyde’s ‘Who yaf me drynke?’ (TC, II.651) on her first sight of  Troilus (somewhat ironically in this new context). Chaucer uses the English forms Tristram and Isaude of  the names rather than the French forms Tristan and Iseu(l)t, and may have encountered them in the Middle English version of  the romance, Sir Tristrem, in the Auchinleck manuscript. Malory’s forms of  the names are regularly Trystram(s) and (La Beale) Isode. 88 See Brewer, The Parlement of  Foulys, p. 113.

4  Moral and Social Identity and the Idea of      Pilgrimage in the General Prologue to     The Canterbury Tales

  Quel ch’avarizia fa, qui si dichiara in purgazion de l’anime converse; e nulla pena il monte ha più amara. — DANTE, Purgatorio, XIX.115–171 The Kyng and Knyȝthod and Clergie boþe Casten þat þe Commune sholde hem [communes] fynde. — LANGLAND, Piers Plowman, B Prol. 116–17 I woot wel ther is degree above degree, as reson is, and skile is that men do hir devoir ther as it is due, but certes, extorcions and despit of youre underlynges is dampnable. — CHAUCER, The Parson’s Tale, I 764

I.  John Dryden found in the diverse company of  Canterbury pilgrims evidence that Geof frey Chaucer himself  ‘must have been a Man of a most wonderful comprehensive Nature’,2 but sets this judgment in the context of  Chaucer’s use of  ‘the Poet’s Lash’ against ‘the Vices of  the Clergy in his Age: Their Pride, their Ambition, their Pomp, their Avarice, their Worldly Interest’.3 The recognition of the moral structure on which Chaucer’s human comedy rests (and indeed relies) has often been overlooked in the enthusiastic acceptance of  the generous and humane view of  life that it also makes possible. Chaucer cannot be removed from the social, moral and spiritual values of  his age without violence to the fabric and harmony of  his poetry. We ought not to be disappointed (from the historical point of view) not to find in his poetry any overt criticism of  the knightly class in the ‘verray,

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parfit gentil knyght’ (A 72) or any sympathy or even much concern for ‘Jakke Straw and his meynee’ (B2 3394). If we look at the circumstances of  Chaucer’s life and poetic career, we shall see that liberal and democratic points of view, congenial as they may be to us, are not possible for him. There is no obvious lack of continuity between Chaucer’s experience of  life and the poetry that he writes, and it is not unreasonable to see life and poetry as of a piece. He shares the hardships and dangers as well as the pleasures of  the military caste on Edward III’s campaign in France in 1359–60, when he was captured by the enemy at Réthel near Rheims, surely a formative experience for one of some sixteen or seventeen years of age.4 He begins to fulfil his training and education at court in the ways of  the best French poetry by writing in 1368 a poem celebrating the life of  Blanche, Duchess of  Lancaster, the daughter of  Henry of  Grosmont and first wife of  John of  Gaunt. Such a man is unlikely to have viewed the destruction of  the Savoy (the palace of  John of  Gaunt and formerly the ancestral home of  Blanche herself ) by the rebels in 1381 with anything other than sadness and alarm, and something of  his distaste is ref lected in his reference to ‘the cherles rebellyng’ as part of  the malign inf luence of  Saturn in worldly af fairs (A 2459).5 We do not have to go so far as a recent commentator on the General Prologue in describing him as a ‘reactionary’,6 for that is to judge him by a political agenda of which he may be entirely innocent, but we do have to recognize and come to terms with the settled aristocratic assumptions and perspectives out of which he writes. On the evidence of  his poetry Chaucer is an urbane and ref lective man able to pursue a successful diplomatic as well as poetic career at court and in the outward ambience of courts. The political convulsions of  the reigns of  Edward III, Richard II and (at the very end of  his life) Henry IV, the son of  Blanche and John of  Gaunt, seem to have left him largely untouched. We have no reason to regard him as a player of any great consequence on the political stage, but he must have been shrewd enough not to have placed himself at the hazard of political upheaval. He has a definite position in the social order of  his time and no special incentive to subvert it. Perhaps he is even a principled upholder of  the social order. But he can hardly be set aside as a special case and isolated from the prejudices of  his

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age as if unmoved by them. Chaucer’s poetic career could not have existed without the patronage of  kings, princes and noblemen and the audience for poetry that courts make possible. Chaucer’s aristocratic perspective is evident in the narrator of  the General Prologue. He is no obtuse bourgeois as E. Talbot Donaldson infers in his famous essay,7 but is inspired by a simple piety or ‘ful devout corage’ (A 22) that is characteristic of  the great lords of  the age such as the Black Prince and John of  Gaunt and displayed to such advantage in the figure of  Sir Gawain in the medieval romance of  Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.8 He is a polished speaker of  French and thus somewhat amused by the Prioress’s French, good for an English nunnery, perhaps, if not for a French court (A 124–26). As the son of a vintner he has no dif ficulty in recognizing the Guildsmen for the social upstarts that they are (A 361–64). These are attitudes he has no great wish or need to conceal. His liking for the Prioress and contempt for the Guildsmen proceed from an unruf f led sense of superiority in performance and in status. Such attitudes do not sit well with modern egalitarian values, but they can be comfortably shared with his own equals, lawyers like the distinguished Serjeant and country gentlemen like the af fable Franklin. There is a compatibility or harmony here between sophisticated poet and narrator and also the implied reader or audience (in ironic and unironic moments alike) that is essentially quite dif ferent from the gap (indeed gulf ) that exists between author and narrator in a great American novel like Adventures of  Huckleberry Finn and that is unmistakeably announced in that novel’s opening lines: You don’t know about me, without you have read a book by the name of  The Adventures of  Tom Sawyer but that ain’t no matter. That book was made by Mr Mark Twain, and he told the truth, mainly. There was things which he stretched, but mainly he told the truth.9

Such a self-conscious distinction between author and narrator is alien to Chaucer’s own narrating methods. The only time that Chaucer resorts to the use of a ‘Pike-County’ dialect of  his own (and he does so with a systematic precision that Twain himself would have admired) is in The Reeve’s

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Tale, and here not in respect of  the Reeve (a Norfolk man) as narrator but in respect of  the northernisms in the speech of  the clerks Aleyn and John, that is, of characters within the fiction.10 The reader of  the General Prologue is unchallenged by distinctions of class, literacy and comprehension between poet and pilgrim narrator but invited to share in a common but sophisticated perspective as a fellow observer of  the human scene. The ef fect of insisting upon a Twain-like distinction between the poet Chaucer and the pilgrim Chaucer is to dilute the presence of  the poet’s own generosity of spirit, and indeed in the pages of academic criticism of recent years the companionship of  the pilgrims to Canterbury has become increasingly less congenial. The chivalrous Knight, the admired defender of  the Christian faith, turns out to be no more than ‘a shabby mercenary without morals or scruples.’11 The embroidery on the gown of  his son, the Squire, by way of contrast, serves ‘to label him allegorically as Youth as well as Lecher, Pride, and Vainglory, in the same manner as an armorial device would identify him socially as belonging to a family or household’.12 The distinguished if self-important lawyer is modestly and correctly dressed in ‘a medlee cote’ (A 328), and yet we are to suppose that the implication here is not of  Justice upheld, but of  Justice ‘betrayed’.13 This is to extend to the legal profession itself a presumption of guilt and not of innocence. The hospitable Franklin, like the poet Chaucer a Justice of  the Peace and a Member of  Parliament, is ‘simply a showof f ’.14 The pilgrims in the highest ranks of society, old and young, are no longer to be seen as ‘gentil’ or noble but as corrupt and disreputable. Their moral depravity, however, is exceeded if anything by their lack of intelligence and wit in the telling of  tales. The Knight repeatedly praises Theseus as ‘this worthy duc’ (A 1001, 1025 and 1742) and ‘this duc, this worthy knyght’ (A 2190), and yet we are to believe that he has misread the character of a tyrant.15 The Prioress ‘fails to comprehend either the horror or the meaning of  her own story’, whilst the Merchant ‘intending to tell one kind of  tale, unwittingly tells another’.16 The Clerk of  Oxenford may be at home with Aristotle’s collected works (A 293–96), but ‘perhaps … does not understand the revisions Chaucer made in Petrarch’s version’ of  the tale he tells since ‘some of  his comments run counter to the main thrust’.17 The disturbing questions of providential justice raised in The Man of  Law’s Tale are treated ‘with all the armchair

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complacency of a man who has never himself suf fered’.18 The Squire and the Franklin are simply ‘beyond their depth’, so that in Arveragus, for example, who ‘was of chivalrie the f lour’ we have yet another unworthy ‘worthy knyght’ (FranT, F 1088 and 1460) for whom ‘all is for show’ and whose wife is no more than ‘a piece of property’.19 All such interpretations place an unsupportable burden upon the theory of  the obtuse narrator.20 But it is no more than a theory, and there is no reason why we should persist in the face of one improbability after another in believing that the narrator is a dull, un-English man, incapable of irony. The systematic diminishing of  the moral worth and discernment of individual pilgrims in this way does more than alter our perception of  the tales they tell for it ef fectively destroys the social fabric of  the world to which they belong. The pilgrimage to Canterbury and the hierarchy of  the pilgrims by class and rank attest to a singleness of purpose and belief. Such a pilgrimage is justified (if at all) by the presence of  God in his creation and the social manifestation of such a presence is the stable hierarchies of social groups. On this view of  the world even knights and squires, merchants and scholars, lawyers and gentlemen, must be given their due. Indeed, we may suppose in the terms of  the medieval pilgrimage that God in his inscrutable wisdom has chosen to set worthy knights above learned parsons and honest ploughmen. II. The General Prologue is a small masterpiece of medieval art set at the beginning of a huge, fragmentary masterpiece that can only have been the product of a monumental poetic ambition, understandable in one who has achieved the finished perfection of  Troilus and Criseyde. Had he lived to complete his design, Chaucer may have set before us in the manner of  his contemporary John Gower a finished work of one hundred and twenty tales told by thirty pilgrims drawn from the whole range of contemporary English society. As Edmund Spenser was set on ‘overgoing Ariosto’ in a later age so Chaucer may be seen to overgo his admired Boccaccio whose Decameron (c. 1337) consists of a hundred tales told by ten tellers. In the depth and range of  the completed tales and in the variety and interaction of  his pilgrim narrators and poetic styles, it may be said that even in the

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fragmentary Canterbury Tales Chaucer has gone beyond the achievement of  his Italian precursor. But what is most evident in the very formation of  the idea of  The Canterbury Tales is a characteristic medieval love of order and regularity to the point of schematism. The Summa theologiae of  Aquinas, the Commedia of  Dante (an ever-present inf luence in the composition of  the Troilus) and (less perfectly) the Confessio Amantis of  Gower all testify to the same principle of ordered composition on a grand or monumental scale. What is true of  The Canterbury Tales in the greatness of its design (an argument for justice in the face of an inscrutable Providence) is true also of  the General Prologue itself on a smaller scale in the setting of a conspectus of post-feudal medieval society21 on pilgrimage to the shrine of  Saint Thomas Becket and hence subject in varying degrees of explicitness to the judgment and mercy of  God. The idea of pilgrimage thus contains in itself judgments more profound than any merely human or transitory judgments so that perceptions of  human society by Chaucer continually take us beyond particularized social distinctions to universalized notions of moral judgments and ultimately to the great questions of spiritual belief. An understanding of  the General Prologue requires, therefore, a sense of  the interpenetration of social, moral and spiritual values within a specific historical context. Unsurprisingly, this understanding remains elusive in the absence of  the moral and spiritual consensus (at once English and Roman Catholic) taken for granted by Chaucer himself. The structuring of  the General Prologue in terms of portraits in a regular series from the worthy Knight to the hypocritical Pardoner is not in itself innovative but a product of rhetorical training and artistic emulation.22 Guillaume de Lorris at the beginning of  his Roman de la rose (c. 1237) presents a series of portraits or figures painted in gold and azure along the length of  the crenellated wall of an enclosed garden. These portraits are in order – Haïne f lanked by Felonie and Vilanie, Covoitise, Avarice, Envie, Tri[s]tesce, Vielleice, Papelardie (Hypocrisy) and Povreté (RR, 129–468) – and they stand for the qualities and conditions that ef fectively bar entrance to such a garden. In consequence one will never find a shepherd (or, say, a ploughman) within that garden; it is ‘uns vergiers/ ou onc n’avoit esté bergiers,/ a garden where no shepherd had ever been’ (RR, 467–68). Correspondingly within the garden are to be found a series of

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couples in a courtly dance: Deduiz (Pleasure), the lord of  the garden, and Leesce (Delight), li dex d’Amors and Biautez, Richece, Largesce, Franchise, Cortoisie, Oiseuse (Leisure), Joinece and their partners (RR, 799–1276). In a similar although briefer compass Dante describes the carvings (intagli) of  three great examples of  humility in Mary, David and Trajan on the white marble wall or encircling banks of  the first terrace of pride on the entry into purgatory proper (Purg., X.28–99). Much briefer still is Boccaccio’s description of  the paintings of  the stories of  Ninus’s wife (Semiramis), Pyramus and Thisbe, Hercules and Iole, Byblis and Caunus on the walls of  the temple of  Venus in the Teseida (VII.62). All these examples will be familiar to Chaucer. He is himself in all likelihood the translator of  Fragment A of  the Romaunt of  the Rose, that part of  the Middle English translation of de Lorris’s seminal poem that includes the two series of portraitures, and he adapted Boccaccio’s stanza in his own distinctive way and for his own special purpose as the concluding stanza of  the description of  the temple of  Venus in The Parliament of  Fowls (228–94). The ordered sequence of portraits in the General Prologue thus satisfies a medieval not a modern set of aesthetic expectations and is fitly compared to wall paintings and to carvings or statues set in niches on the outside of great buildings. The comparison at once suggests the ornate and decorative skills of medieval craftsmen and the appreciation of such craftsmanship is an explicit element in the three literary examples just considered. The garden of  the rose is ‘portrait dehors et entaillié/ a maintes riches escritures,/ decorated on the outside with paintings and carved with many rich inscriptions’ (RR, 132–33) or, in the Middle English translation, ‘Portraied without and wel entailled / With many riche portraitures’ (Romaunt, 140– 41); the carvings on the terrace of pride are such that ‘non pur Policleto,/ ma la natura lì avrebbe scorno’,/ not only Polycletus but nature would be put to shame there’ (Purg., X.32–33; Sinclair, II.133) and the deeds of  the wife of  Ninus are ‘con più alto lavoro/ … distinte,/ portrayed with the finest craftsmanship’ (Tes., VII.62.2–3; Havely, 130). The only appropriate response on the part of  the beholder or reader is one of awe or delight in the presence of great art, and this is duly acknowledged by Dante himself on the terrace of pride (Purg., X.97–99; Sinclair, II.135):

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The consummate artistry of  Chaucer in the General Prologue also awa­ kens at once delight in the reader, and such a sense of delight does not sort well with and leaves little room for the sense of superiority occasioned by a narrating voice that is not merely not sublime but is naïve and obtuse. The characteristic gaze of  the medieval artist is outward to the created world (of which works of art come to form a part) and not inward to the individual psyche. Such a premise is in itself dif ficult for many modern readers to accept, and hence as often as not scholarly investigation has been directed to the supposed limitations of  the narrator or Chaucer the pilgrim rather than to the gallery or company of  the pilgrims themselves. It is as if we cannot see the pilgrims for ourselves but need a mediator (other than the poet Chaucer) to speak for them on our behalf. Our sense of  the General Prologue has been so coloured by Donaldson’s conception of  the narrator that we have lost sight of  the prologue as a whole. The unity of  the General Prologue is built upon the assembled company of  thirty pilgrims and indeed is supported by the very roundness of  that number. In fact, the calculation of such a number of people gathered together for a common purpose is not in practice without dif ficulty. But the method of counting in a work of art is not a matter of mere arithmetic. We are certain that there are thirty pilgrims all told since at the beginning the narrator (an infallible reckoner) assures us that the company of pilgrims is twenty-nine strong when he joins it (A 23–26): At nyght was come into that hostelrye Wel nyne and twenty in a compaignye Of sondry folk, by aventure yfalle In felaweshipe, and pilgrimes were they alle.

No one reading or, more especially, listening to the General Prologue for the first time will want to challenge that number or be distracted from the

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descriptions that follow by embarking on an independent count. He or she will confidently add one to twenty-nine to reach the desired conclusion. Scholars and academics on the other hand with more leisure for ref lection (and perhaps other purposes in mind than mere literary enjoyment) will note an odd discrepancy.23 Let us then consider the list of pilgrims in its schematic outline. The portraits are disposed into two large social groupings, namely, to use Chaucer’s own language, ‘gentils’ (A 3113 and C 323) and ‘commune’ (E 70) or even ‘cherles’ (A 2459 and I 761).24 The identification of  the churls among the pilgrims may be dif ficult for us at this distance in time, but was evidently not so for Chaucer and his contemporaries, as we learn from The Miller’s Prologue (A 3182–83): The Millere is a cherl; ye knowe wel this. So was the Reve eek and othere mo.

The company of gentles comprises fourteen pilgrims of whom ten are given full-length portraits in 318 lines of  text (A 43–360) and that of  the commons sixteen pilgrims disposed into twelve portraits in 354 lines of  text (A 361–714). The gentles themselves are subdivided into three groups: 1. Three fighters (Knight, Squire, Yeoman). 2. Three prayers corresponding to the fighters in terms of  the weight and impact of  their portraits (Prioress, Monk, Friar), but accompanied also by the Prioress’s chaplain (a nun) and three priests. 3. Four socially distinguished pilgrims, classifiable alike ‘as … peregalle to squyere of  honoure’ (1066) in John Russell’s Book of  Nurture,25 and united by status, wealth, education and moral aspiration (Merchant, Clerk, Serjeant-at-law and Franklin). The focus on the military and religious orders in the first two groups is an indication on Chaucer’s part that the traditional division of medieval society into three estates remains as the basis of  his own perception of  the social classes, and the fact that he gives priority to those who fight is a

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sympathetic ref lection of  his own courtly background.26 The claim of  the Prioress to the status of a great lady is evident in her entourage of  four, precisely twice the number of  that of  the worthy Knight. The limits of gentility are no less precisely articulated in the use of  the word vavasour as the final word in the portrait of  the Franklin (A 360), for the word is the marker of an ancient and settled gentility, albeit of a secondary and perhaps also provincial character.27 The commoners are similarly subdivided by Chaucer into three groups: 1. The first group of  five portraits is largely a grouping of prosperous members of  the growing bourgeoisie (five Guildsmen, their Cook, the Shipman, the Physician and the Wife of  Bath). 2. The second grouping is of  the Parson and his brother the Ploughman. 3. The third group of  five portraits is, as ‘ye knowe wel’, a grouping of churls (Miller, Manciple, Reeve, Summoner and Pardoner). The traditional medieval classification of  the estates is evident here also in the linking of  the Parson, a ‘good man … of religioun’ (A 477), and the Ploughman, ‘A trewe swynkere and a good was he’ (A 531), and in the placing of  them in the midst of  the higher and lower groups. The identification of  the Guildsmen as haberdasher, carpenter, weaver, dyer and weaver of  tapestries sets a limit to their social status, since for all their material prosperity they belong to guilds of  the second rank.28 In the grouping of  five figures in a single portrait there is perhaps a suggestion that the commoners are to be defined as much by their weight of numbers as by their status as individuals. There are in the Middle Ages, as at all periods, many more of  them than there are gentles, although the composition of  Chaucer’s pilgrims is determined by social significance rather than by numerical proportions. There are, then, no fewer than twenty-two full-length portraits of  the Canterbury pilgrims. We may well believe that there are twenty-nine pilgrims in total, although there are in fact thirty. The narrator or pilgrim Chaucer is indeed a distinct addition to that number. He is fittingly a reticent member of  the company and places himself with due courtesy and without evident fear of misconstruction at the end of the list of churls

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(A 542–44), thus promoting a sense of  the inclusiveness of  the society of pilgrims as a whole in the sight of  God. Indeed, only a man without af fectation and of ease of manner could so readily have insinuated himself among so diverse a band of people. Unobtrusive courtesy is the secret of such social success, and such unobtrusiveness is the mark of  the poet’s art no less than of  the character of  the pilgrim narrator.29 Although it is possible to make too much of  Chaucer the pilgrim as an artistic medium, we are given suf ficient indications of  his nature as to harmonize him with the pilgrimage of which he himself comes to form a part. There are three related ideas that are introduced with the narrator into the narrative of  the pilgrimage and that permanently shape our sense of  his presence. The first is the established fact of his religious devotion, for he is already determined upon a pilgrimage of  his own before he meets his fellow pilgrims and is ensconced in the Tabard Inn when they arrive and join him there (A 19–27). All the pilgrims, indeed, have come together by the accident of  their common purpose (‘by aventure’, A 25). The pilgrim Chaucer, then, is properly one of  the fellowship who shares the aspirations, values and beliefs of a true pilgrim, and not merely a reporter or interested spectator. The proper outcome of  the pilgrimage matters to him and is of direct, personal concern. At the same time he is fully appreciative of  the material comforts of  the hostelry (A 28–29) and makes no pretence of  holiness in the manner of a Papelardie, or ‘Poope-Holy’, holding a ‘sauter … in honde’ (Romaunt, 415 and 431). It is unnecessary for him in such a company to make claims to an extraordinary devotion that would be more fitting in a hermit or an anchorite. Indeed, his devotion is the more convincing in that he does not dress it up in the forms of austerity, and in such a place and at such a time we have no cause to doubt his Christian convictions. It is Chaucer the pilgrim’s sociability, then, that impresses us along with his simple piety. He is at ease in the company of  the pilgrims and they with him, so that he ‘was of  hir felaweshipe anon’ (A 32). Such ready acceptance into any group of people is hardly possible for one who is either credulous or condescending. The narrator of  the General Prologue is both actually and fictionally a part of  the social order that he describes and a means for us of entry into it (for it has passed irrecoverably away). Sincerity of religious belief, assurance

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of social status and a love of  the society of one’s fellow men and women are all to be cultivated in order to experience the unity of  Chaucer’s real and imagined worlds. Sincerity requires a lack of cynicism in the object of  belief, social ease requires tolerance as well as success and the love of human society a generous estimate of  the possibilities of  human nature.30 This is indeed the spirit of  the Canterbury pilgrimage so memorably described by Dryden, but such freedom of  the spirit f lourishes only in a society that is stable and secure, and thus makes room for and is ref lected by the orderliness and rationality of art. It is in this light that we must understand the schematic completeness and poetic mastery of  the General Prologue. In his sequence of portraits Chaucer has succeeded in keeping before us the social, moral and spiritual dimensions of  human life, not only in themselves but also in their relation to one another. It is indeed the very setting of  the pilgrimage that makes possible this threefold pattern of  human experience. In a way the very transparency of  his design has been too subtle for us. To appreciate it, therefore, we need to consider the elements of the Chaucerian universe in their due order – social, moral and spiritual. III.  It is hard to understand why the social organization of  the General Prologue in terms of class or ‘estaat’ (A 716) and rank or ‘degree’ (A 40) is so persistently misinterpreted in terms of  the class distinctions of a later age. Even a scholar such as Laura Hodges who has done so much to clarify the details of costume in the General Prologue, and not least their social implications, is apt to invoke ‘the middle range of society’ and even ‘upper middle-class commoners and gentles’.31 It is as if, in social terms at any rate, our thinking is still fixed in the structures of  later Victorian and Edwardian society. Worse still, the perspective of  the middle class has been privileged by being imposed on the narrator himself and so has justified a reading of  the text that is thoroughly anachronistic. Urban life may be in the process of expansion in the fourteenth century, but it is as nothing compared to the industrial societies of  Europe and America in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. The dominant values for Chaucer remain those of  the country and not of  the town, and of  the old feudal nobility rather than emergent mercantile interests. Chaucer has no vision of industrialized society and

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its concomitant middle classes to of fer, but he is an acute observer and member of  his own society. In this sense he and his art are fixed in time. The middle class as a cohesive social group with distinct values and aspirations that set it apart from the upper (or aristocratic) class and lower (or working) class is absent from Chaucer’s world and in consequence absent from the fiction of  the pilgrimage. The distinction that matters in the medieval world is that which separates the gentle or noble from the rest, and there is no doubt that in the fiction of  the Canterbury pilgrimage the ‘gentils’ are recognized as a coherent social grouping. They are the ones best able to judge the worth of  The Knight’s Tale as ‘a noble storie’ (A 3111) and they are the ones to sound the note of alarm at the prospect of a ribald tale from the Pardoner (C 323–24), for they know him to be a persuasive hypocrite and as such (unlike the Miller and the Reeve, for example) a threat to social well-being. It is, as here, the perception of class that counts, whether of inclusion or exclusion. The Franklin’s Tale itself is an argument for the inclusiveness of class, the inclusiveness, that is, of  Knights, Squires and Clerks, but not of  Guildsmen, Millers and Reeves. In any society, and certainly in medieval society, the number of gentles is small. All who are not gentle (and that is the overwhelming mass of  the population) constitute the commons. The commoners thus include people of varying degrees of wealth and even of some material prosperity. Indeed, it is doubtful whether the very poor could af ford to be in such a company of pilgrims as Chaucer describes on a pilgrimage to Canterbury. None of  the pilgrims is in rags and tatters, or in clothes that are soiled and stained like the coat of  Langland’s ‘Haukyn the actif man’ (PPl, B XIII.458)32 save for the tunic of  the worthy Knight (a sober comment on the limits of  human virtue). A certain material respectability is not suf ficient to confer on one the status of a gentleman or of  true gentility. There may not have been any gentleman or gentlewoman with Adam and Eve in the earthly paradise, but Chaucer is not apt to confuse the pilgrim route to Canterbury with the Garden of  Eden. Thus Chaucer as an artist works within the accepted social boundaries of  his age, although as in all ages the boundaries are challenged by some and unacceptable to others. Hence social distinctions are reinforced at every point in the General Prologue by the dress or ‘array’ of  the pilgrims,

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and the narrator draws the fact explicitly to our attention at the beginning and end of  the sequence of portraits (A 41 and 716). Thus the allimportant distinction between the classes of gentle and non-gentle that comes between the Franklin and the upstart Guildsmen is underlined by the contrast between the Franklin’s ‘anlaas’ or dagger and ‘gipser’ or silk purse (A 357) and the Guildsmen’s ‘knyves’ and ‘pouches’ (A 366 and 368). The dif ference in linguistic register is a precise marker of dif ference in social status. The word pouch is used also by Chaucer in the context of  the peacock-like ostentation of  the miller in The Reeve’s Tale who bore a ‘joly poppere … in his pouche’ (A 3931), whereas the word gipser is not otherwise found in his works and signifies rather ‘the expensive purse of a gentleman of refined tastes’.33 Similarly, anlaas, a rare word like gipser of  French derivation, is not elsewhere used by Chaucer and signifies ‘a twoedged stiletto or dagger’ (MED), the kind of weapon that is not for show but for use in battle. Arthur delivers the deathblow ‘with ane anlace’ in the alliterative Morte Arthure (1148) as he is wrestled to the ground by the giant of  Saint Michael’s Mount.34 The Franklin’s dress and no less significantly the distinctive vocabulary identifying that dress link him to that world of chivalry and gentilesse of which he speaks so feelingly when it comes to the telling of  his tale. The Franklin stands on one side of  the social division and the Guildsmen for all their ambitions on the other. Indeed, the very ambitions of  the Guildsmen tell us that material prosperity in itself does not suf fice to make a gentleman. Among gentles and commoners alike details of dress serve to define both function and status. The Knight’s tunic may be stained by his coat of mail (A 75–76), but we may be certain that his sword, like the Yeoman’s dagger, is ‘sharp as point of spere’ (A 114) and not ‘rusty’ like that of  the Reeve (A 618). He does not after all, like Chrétien’s Chevalier de la Charrete (Lancelot), fail through impetuosity to ensure the good condition of  his horses (A 74).35 The Squire, his son, like any passionate young man seeking the love of  his lady, is dressed in the height of  fashion, ‘Embrouded … as it were a meede/ Al ful of  fresshe f loures, whyte and reede’ (A 89–90), and yet his manliness has already been proved in battles ‘[i]n Flaundres, in Artoys, and Pycardie’ (A 86), the blood-soaked fields of  European conf lict down through the centuries that have parted many a young lover from

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his sweetheart. The Yeoman is ‘clad in cote and hood of grene’ (A 103), in all likelihood Lincoln green rather than the coarse Kendal green.36 He is dressed for war and not for show (A 104–14), and in his care to ‘dresse his takel yemanly’ (A 106) announces himself as an obedient and faithful servant of  his lord, the worthy Knight. The class of gentles as a whole is unified by the subtle discrimination of dress, and even embraces in this way the Clerk of  Oxenford who has higher things on his mind than the propriety of appearance. When we turn to the commons, we find by contrast a certain vulgarity in the f launting of material prosperity, most notably perhaps in the ostentatious headgear of  the Wife of  Bath (A 453–55). Elegant coverchiefs, so beruf f led as to suggest heaviness of weight, were fashionable in the 1380s and are at once a statement of  the Wife of  Bath’s marital and legal status and of  her economic status and wealth.37 At the same time the foot-mantle, a kind of petticoat or overskirt tied about the hips, that she wears to protect her gown when on horseback (A 472), is eminently practical but not the kind of  thing that a lady would wear.38 The Wife of  Bath clearly belongs to the same world of  trade as the Guildsmen and is at one with them in her vanity and desire to be taken note of in company. She is eager to be first in the procession to the altar to make of ferings at Mass (A 449–52), for a procession, an important part of medieval social display, is precisely the place where one’s consequence in society will be formally acknowledged. The contrast between the material preoccupations of  the prosperous bourgeois and the simplicity of  life of  the humble Parson could hardly be more marked or more profound. Indeed, the lengthy portrait of  the Parson that runs to fifty-two lines (A 477–528) has no reference to dress or equipment whatsoever save for the staf f in his hand on his visits by foot to his f lock in the remotest parts of  his parish (A 491–95). It is a ‘noble ensample’ (A 496) of  holiness of  living that is emphatically stated at the beginning of  the portrait (A 477–79), in the middle (A 505–506) and at the end (A 525–28). Such holiness is entirely expressed by Chaucer in terms of  the inwardness of virtue and its corresponding outward acts, and it leaves no space for the mere appearance of virtue. We are left with the impression that the Parson has no time for the niceties of dress, but less obviously so than the Clerk of  Oxenford, in whom it is possible to imagine

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a kind of academic af fectation in the threadbare coat. The portrait of  the Ploughman in its briefer compass (A 529–41) is in a way a pendant to that of  the Parson and shows the example of a life of  ‘parfit charitee’ (A 532) in the labouring estate as well as in the religious estate, and is surely reinforced in the mind of a contemporary audience by the example of  honest labour in Langland’s representation of  Piers the Plowman. The sobriety and humi­ lity of  the Ploughman’s lifestyle is identified by the simple reference to the ‘tabard’ (A 541) that he wears without specification of its colour. Although the low social status of  the Ploughman is thus unambiguously identified, there are in him none of  the marks of destitution or extreme poverty. He is both a humble and a prosperous peasant.39 Even among the peasants or churls (as anyone from a working-class background will still testify) there are distinctions of rank to be observed, and these too are formulated by reference to dress. The sumptuary legislation of 1363 classifies three groups among the lowest ranks of commoners in terms of  the price range of clothing that is allowable to members of each group, as follows: 1. Artisans or craftsmen and yeomen, including millers and carpenters, up to forty shillings. 2. Servants, including cooks and manciples, up to two marks (26s 8d). 3. Husbandmen, including carters, plowmen, cowherds and shepherds, up to twelve pence.40 Thus we can place the Miller, Reeve, Manciple, Cook and Ploughman in due order, although it is not an order precisely followed in the General Prologue. The portrait of  the Cook is set directly after that of  his masters the Guildsmen (A 379–87) so as to emphasize and at the same time subvert their social aspirations, but the true social level of  the Cook is seen in the dramatic interchange with the Manciple in The Manciple’s Prologue (H 1–104). The Ploughman is promoted above his rank so that Chaucer can draw attention to the ideal harmony between the clerical and labouring estates in much the same fashion as Langland focuses on the social contract between ploughman, lady and knight in Piers Plowman, B VI.3–58

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(the ploughing of  the half acre). The Miller possesses a certain eminence within his social class and takes precedence over a college servant like the Manciple. Such a status seems to be confirmed by the wearing of  the blue hood,41 and also perhaps by the miller of  The Reeve’s Tale who is inordinately proud of  ‘his estaat of yomanrye’ (A 3949) and eager to preserve it. The portrait of  the Manciple is placed between that of  the Miller and the Reeve (A 567–86), although in the list of names at A 542–44 that of  the Manciple is placed fifth and last. The order in the list of names seems to be exact in terms of social precedence and the setting of  the portrait of  the Manciple between those of  Miller and Reeve is to be explained by some other principle of social organization. The explanation is perhaps that the interest of social harmony requires that such professional antagonists as miller and carpenter be kept apart in the same way as it requires a parson and a ploughman to be brought together. Indeed, when it comes to the journey itself, the Miller and the Reeve are at the furthest possible remove from one another, the loud-mouthed Miller leading the way with his ‘baggepipe’ (A 565–66) and the watchful and suspicious Reeve ‘evere … the hyndreste of oure route’ (A 622). Departures from the social classification of  the pilgrims, although few, are acknowledged by Chaucer with a characteristic rhetorical f lourish. We are hardly to suppose that he is ignorant of  the norms of polite speech when he puts coarse language into the mouths of  his churls (A 725–42), and in the same way we are not to suppose him ignorant of  the vital distinction of rank if at times he has ‘nat set folk in hir degree/ Heere in this tale, as that they sholde stonde’ (A 744–45).42 The use of  the rhetorical figure of diminutio at this point – ‘My wit is short, ye may wel understonde’ (A 746) – discourages any such assumption of ignorance and directs attention to considerations more important than those of social status, namely, moral and spiritual considerations. Here indeed we shall find persuasive reasons for the placing of  the portraits of  the Summoner and the Pardoner at the very end, although not at the end of  the list at A 542–44. These are matters of supreme importance to such a pilgrim as the Clerk of Oxenford, for the Clerk’s love of  learning (perhaps like that of  Chaucer himself ) is manifest above all in his love of virtue (A 307–8). This relation of  learning and virtue is built into the structure of  Piers Plowman, for the acquisition

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of  knowledge of  the good in the first vision of  Dowel (Passus VIII–XII) precedes the doing of good in the second vision of  Dowel (Passus XIII– XIV), whilst the inner vision of  the first vision of  Dowel stresses through the example of  Trajan the profundity of  the truth that justice and love are superior to learning (PPl, B XI.4–404). In a later age Samuel Johnson was to insist that learning is not to be valued for its own sake but only insofar as it is allied to virtuous action in the world.43 IV.  There is usually not much choice as to the social class to which one belongs and as often as not the accident of  birth is apt to be decisive. Hence a humane and generous view of  life will look to matters of profounder import than those of social class. Human beings are distinguished among other living species by the possession of a rational soul and hence are what they are by the choices they make. As the Clerk of  Oxenford will understand from his reading of  Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, moral virtue is a habit or state of character concerned with choice, lying in a mean in regard to us as determined by reason and as understood by a wise man.44 A human identity is thus more truly moral than social and in consequence Chaucer attaches a greater significance to the moral identity than to the social identity of  his pilgrims. Hence the first in the list of pilgrims is the Knight, a man of proven moral excellence and most worthy of admiration, and the last is the Pardoner, a hypocrite who is worthy only of detestation. The Knight as an exemplar of chivalry is indeed inspired by the love of virtue whereas the Pardoner is consumed by the love of money, the root, as he tells us so eloquently, of all evils, Radix malorum est Cupiditas (C 334 and 426). These moral polarities are not to be mistaken and they are set out by Chaucer with a degree of explicitness at the beginning and end of the series of portraits. The Knight ‘loved chivalrie,/ Trouthe and honour, fredom and curteisie’ (A 45–46) whereas the Pardoner with his relics (A 703–6): Upon a day he gat hym moore moneye Than that the person gat in monthes tweye; And thus, with feyned f laterye and japes, He made the person and the peple his apes.

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It is to be noted that the Knight is not simply brave, faithful, honourable, generous and courteous, but that he loves these things. Thus Aristotle explains that to be just is not simply to do what the just man does but to do it in the way that the just man does it, namely, promptly and with pleasure.45 The claim that the Knight is a mercenary without morals or scruples is a contradiction of all the explicit assurances of  the text and also of  the very structure of  the General Prologue as a whole. It is as if we were to put Piccarda in the second circle of  hell with Semiramis and Dido (Inf., V) and elevate Francesca da Rimini to the sphere of  Venus to join the company of  Cunizza and Folco (Par., IX). To set money in the place of virtue is indeed to be deplored, and not least when it is done by a knight (as no doubt it was done by many knights) when the grave consequences of  life and death are at stake. It is a perversion of  the order of justice, and when it is found in a figure such as the Pardoner it is a perversion of  the very purposes of pilgrimage itself. The love of virtue as distinct from the love of money, or as medievals put it, cupiditas, is the dif ferentiating characteristic of all the Canterbury pilgrims who are considered to be most worthy of admiration. The Clerk of  Oxenford is not to be found in ‘robes riche’ but in a ‘thredbare … courtepy’ (A 296 and 290), and is not bloated by feasting like Langland’s Doctor of  Divinity, ‘Goddes gloton … with hise grete chekes’ (PPl, B XIII.78), but emaciated by the long and patient discipline of  learning (A 287–89). He is rather like Langland’s lunatic, ‘a leene thyng withalle’, who speaks ‘clergially’ (PPl, B Prol. 123–24) on the subject of justice. One must be mad, Langland suggests with ironic gravity, to put the love of  truth and justice before material advancement. But it is the very rigour of  his life that lends authenticity to the Clerk’s speech, ‘[s]ownynge’, as it does, ‘in moral vertu’ (A 307). There is nothing of political correctness or the desire to please in the Clerk of  Oxenford’s utterances. His words have been weighed by careful thought and a persistent study of  the best texts, including no doubt Aristotle’s Ethics and the commentary on it of  Aquinas. The Parson, too, practises what he preaches. He does not desert his own parishioners to seek out a more lucrative living for himself as a chantry priest at Saint Paul’s Cathedral, for ‘[h]e was a shepherde and noght a mercenarie’ (A 514). It is this exemplary pattern of  living that gives him the right and alone gives

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him the right (indeed it becomes in him a sacred duty) to rebuke wrongdoing in others irrespective of class or status (A 521–23). Such devotion in a parish priest cannot be improved upon, and it is duly acknowledged by the narrator: ‘A bettre preest I trowe that nowher noon ys’ (A 524). Indeed, Langland’s Clergy defines Dobest in just these terms as the just censure of  the wicked by those who are pure in spirit (PPl, B X.258–60): ‘Thanne is Dobest to be boold to blame the gilty, Sythenes thow seest thiself as in soule clene; Ac blame thow nevere body and thow be blameworthy.’

The Parson’s brother, the Ploughman, like Piers the Plowman himself, brings this idea of  Christian devotion to fruition in the life of  the honest labourer. He is able to see that there is more to life than the acquisition of material goods by hard work. He sets ‘his hoole herte’ first and foremost on the love of  God ‘[a]t alle tymes’ (A 533–34) and is prepared to work for the poor ‘[w]ithouten hire, if it lay in his myght’ (A 538). This ideal pattern of  living in which material goods are subordinated to spiritual goods is easy to enunciate but hard to realize, as Piers the Plowman comes to re­cognize in his quarrel with the priest over the pardon sent by Truth. Even the righteous labourer has to learn to ‘swynke noȝt so harde’ and to turn to the plough ‘[o]f preieres and of penaunce’ (PPl, B VII.118 and 120). The presence of  the Ploughman among the pilgrims to Canterbury is evidence that he shares the hard-won conviction of  Piers, and lends credibility to the idea of pilgrimage in itself. It is possible to believe, therefore, that human beings can choose the ends of moral virtue in much the way as set out philosophically in the Nicomachean Ethics and that they are perfected by the habit of virtuous living. This philosophical notion of moral virtue is given a human identity and a poetic substance by Chaucer in the portraits of  the Knight, the Clerk of  Oxenford, the Parson and the Ploughman. There is nothing to prevent our acceptance of  these portraits at face value. No presumption of naïveté is required, unless we wish to say that Aristotle’s account of moral virtue is incredible and that the Clerk is unwise in investing so much of  his intellectual ef fort in studying Aristotle. Moreover, by setting two of 

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the portraits of moral virtue among the gentles and two among the commoners, Chaucer seems to be asserting the possibility of a virtuous life at any level of society. When we turn to the commons, we find that the pursuit of material wealth is less subtle, indeed, not subtle at all. The Guildsmen are the very picture of robust af f luence with their equipment ‘[f ]ul fressh and newe … apiked’ (A 365). If money is all that counts, their claims for social advancement and respect will be hard to resist, ‘[f ]or catel hadde they ynogh and rente’ (A 373). Here we are reminded that money is not (or ought not) to be everything. In the case of  the Merchant the situation is somewhat dif ferent, for the huge sums at his disposal are impossible in practice for inf luential people to ignore. But then the Merchant will be obliged to conform at least outwardly to the standards of gentility by the avoidance of extravagant display. The Physician does not come high in Chaucer’s estimation for all his medical learning, and correspondingly is dressed colourfully or even loudly but not with any great refinement or elegance. His gaudy appearance reminds us uncomfortably of  the fact that physicians still make money even as the health of  their patients declines. Indeed the Physician’s love of money, verging perhaps on charlatanism, is too transparent to be disguised, ‘[f ]or gold in phisik is a cordial,/ Therefore he lovede gold in special’ (A 443–44). Excessive profits from the needy sick make for an unhealthiness in the pursuit of  health and arouse indignation rather than respect. The nexus of  learning and profit is distasteful, and it is surely significant that the Physician relies on many authorities (no fewer than fifteen are specified at A 429–34), whereas the Clerk of  Oxenford relies on only one. It is the appearance of authority in the face of error that is so vital to the Physician if  he is to win money, and in the case of  the failure of one remedy, there is always another authority to consult and another remedy to propose. No physician will want to rely on payment by result, for, as Aristotle says, not health but the promotion of  health is the object of medical science.46 The moral (not to say spiritual) shortcomings of  the Physician are the object of a straightforward denunciation of a kind that is nowadays reserved for the profits of pharmaceutical companies. The Physician deserves his place between the Guildsmen and the Wife of  Bath and is fittingly linked with the Pardoner in the telling of  tales (Fragment C).

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In a way, too, the Shipman deserves to precede him in the sequence of portraits. We do not expect a ‘nyce conscience’ (A 398) among pirates, but at least we can admire the courage of  those who venture their lives upon the sea (A 405–9). The portrait of  the Wife of  Bath completes this upper group of commoners and fittingly so, perhaps, in the sense that her pride, vanity and ostentatious wealth (A 449–57) are characteristic of  them all. In the midst of  the commons we find the true man of religion and the honest labourer, and an optimistic view of  the soundness of society as a whole if not of  the entirety of its constituent parts. But when we come to the lower group of commoners, we have crossed the line that divides ho­nesty or perhaps mere obedience to the law from material acquisitiveness. The Miller, the Manciple and the Reeve have long since learned the tricks of  their trade and are experts in sharp practice; the Miller ‘[w]el koude … stelen corn and tollen thries’ (A 562), the Manciple ‘[a]lgate … wayted so in his achaat/ That he was ay biforn and in good staat’ (A 571–72) and the Reeve is far too clever in his accounting to be detected in his fraudulence by any accountant: ‘Ther was noon auditour koude on him wynne’ (A 594). In life’s battle of wits, the lawyer and the gentleman must often yield the victory to their servants. Thus the Manciple’s ‘lewed mannes wit’ surpasses ‘[t]he wisdom of an heep of  lerned men’ (A 574–75) and the Reeve can satisfy himself and his lord at the same time (A 610–12). There is a kind of complicity here between lord and servant, for the one can hardly function without the help of  the other. It does not pay to inquire too closely into deals that work and the well-being of society depends upon a measure of acquiescence. The world is unlikely to be changed or improved by too strict a reckoning of material accounts. The poet Chaucer is amused rather than indignant at this state of af fairs. Thus the superior cunning of  the Manciple to his learned masters is ‘of  God a ful fair grace’ (A 573). On the other hand there is an unhealthy moral gap separating the Miller and the Reeve as we discover from their respective tales; the one is crude and bawdy but also transparent and at times exceedingly funny, whereas the other is vengeful and malignant. The Miller, Manciple and Reeve are rightly placed in the lowest ranks of  the pilgrims, but we are reminded also that there is more than one order of classification that operates in life.

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V.  If moral values and judgments are to have any bearing upon reality or claim upon us, it is necessary that they be metaphysically grounded, whether in a Platonic Idea of  the Good or an Aristotelian First Mover or a Christian God. Chaucer – the master poet, that is, not the surrogate narrator – begins the General Prologue not with a set of moral precepts but with the setting of a pilgrimage linked to the cyclical pattern of  the natural world. In these celebrated opening lines Chaucer writes with all the assurance of a European maestro at the height of  his powers. The opening verse paragraph moves with clarity and ease from the showers of  April to the shrine of  Saint Thomas Becket. In the smooth but varied f low of  the iambic pentameters we see why it is that Matthew Arnold was so enraptured by the ‘liquid diction’ and the ‘f luid movement’ of  Chaucer’s verse.47 The heroic couplets are mostly end-stopped and yet allow for the variation of enjambment and strong caesura in the sixth and seventh lines: ‘Inspired hath in every holt and heeth/ The tendre croppes …  ’. The clarity of  the verse paragraph as a whole is signalled by the temporal conjunctions leading to a concluding temporal adverb – ‘Whan that Aprill … Whan Zephirus eek … Thanne longen folk …  ’ (A 1, 5 and 12) – and yet allowance is made for a complication in this progressive movement by a parenthetical aside – ‘(So priketh hem Nature in hir corages)’ (A 11). The paragraph is brought to a definitive closure by the rime riche or identical rhyme (an exact rhyme) of  the final couplet: ‘The hooly blisful martir for to seke,/ That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke’ (A 17–18). These are the lines of  the master craftsman and inspired poet, and no one has yet felt the need to invoke the presence of a narrating voice distinct from the poet to explain them. It is the poet Chaucer who has set his account of  human nature in the context of created nature at large and of  the need for pilgrimage. Human nature is apprehended at once as something God-given and part of a divinely created universe and also as something that imperfectly fulfils its purposes in the divine scheme of  things. One would hesitate, however, to describe the opening description of an English spring as naturalistic in its primary inspiration. At the very least the juxtaposition of  April’s ‘shoures soote’ and ‘the droghte of  March’ (A 1–2) is problematic, for we (the English, at any rate) are not apt to associate London and Kent in March with an absence of rain. In failing

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to do so, we are at least partly in error, and fittingly it has taken a scholar from Texas to explain our error to us.48 Chaucer has seized upon the characteristic dryness of  March and made it perfectly or poetically dry so as to emphasize the contrast in nature between the deadness of winter and the new life of spring. Thus March is described in Wynnere and Wastoure as ‘the dede monethe’ (276).49 The passage from death to life in nature is emphasized by Chaucer at the beginning of  his poetic career in The Book of  the Duchess in the contrast between the earth adorned with f lowers where ‘Flora and Zephirus/ … Had mad her dwellynge’ and ‘the povertee/ That wynter, thorgh hys colde morwes,/ Had mad hyt suf fre’ (BD, 402–404 and 410–12). In the same way we are introduced in the General Prologue to an earth cured of its suf fering or ‘bathed … in swich licour/ Of which vertu engendred is the f lour’ (A 3–4) as a background to the presentation of pilgrims ‘holpen’ by Saint Thomas Becket ‘whan that they were seeke’ (A 18). Thus the simple and assured, clear and varied, opening verse paragraph testifies, above all, not to a description of  the natural world but to the very idea of pilgrimage itself. Donaldson was right, therefore, to point to the non-naturalistic character of  Chaucer’s poetic art, but wrong to look for a continental rather than an English source of inspiration for the drought of  March.50 It is only in England that a dry March is followed by a wet April. On the continent of  Europe, a dry March is followed by an even drier April. By the same token, the company of  English pilgrims seek their salvation at the shrine of an English saint in those old days of preReformation English Catholicism. They do not set out for Saint James of  Compostella or saints at Rome, sites of pilgrimage familiar to a seasoned traveller such as the Wife of  Bath (A 463–66), and they seem to have taken to heart the teaching of  Langland’s Reason (that is, prudence) that God is to be found nearer home (PPl, B IV.126–27): And til Seint Iames be souȝt þere I shal assigne – That no man go to Galis but if  he go for euere.

The setting of  the pilgrimage impresses on us at the outset the ineradicable fact of  human sinfulness, for pilgrimage is satisfaction for sin. No praise that can be accorded any of  the pilgrims suf fices to contradict this

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view. A neglect of  this simple but central proposition may explain why some readers can regard praise of  the Knight’s moral excellence as bland or insipid.51 Pilgrimage is properly reserved for the end of one’s days in this world as moral ef fort yields to a final judgment. It is this sense, in Dante’s words, of  ‘lo cammin corto/ di quella vita ch’al termine vola,/ the short road of  that life which f lies to its end’ (Purg., XX.38–39; Sinclair, II.259) that fills the minds and souls of  Chaucer’s pilgrims, and is shared perhaps even by a young man like the Squire who has already had to confront the possibility of  his own imminent death in battle. The Knight himself  has laboured on the field of  battle for some forty years (from the siege of  Algeçiras in 1342–1344 to the crusade in Prussia, Lithuania and Russia with the Teutonic knights in 1385) and in this respect resembles Langland’s Piers the Plowman who has himself  fought the good fight for forty years in following Truth (PPl, B V.542–45): I haue ben his folwere al þis fourty wynter – Boþe ysowen his seed and suwed hise beestes, Wiþinne and wiþouten waited his profit. I dyke and I delue, I do þat he hoteþ.52

As the time has come for the Knight ‘to doon his pilgrimage’ (A 78), so also is it time for Piers to answer to God for what he has done with his life (PPl, B VI.83–84): ‘For now I am old and hoor and haue of myn owene, To penaunce and to pilgrimage I wol passe wiþ þise oþere.’

Praise of  the one as of  the other is morally realistic and by no means naïve or superficial. The honest labourer has on one occasion ‘manged over muche’ and so has been unable to work for a whole week (PPl, B VI.252–57), and the worthy Knight cannot remain long on campaign before his tunic becomes stained with rust from his coat of mail (A 75–76). Chaucer’s praise of  the Knight (the very best of men) does not overlook but is set within the context of  his human imperfection, as is the praise of  Gawain in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight in its relation to a pentangle and not a circle. Chaucer does not wish to elaborate upon the faults and shortcomings of

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so excellent a man (surely it would be churlish of  him to do so), but gently reminds us of  them in the reference to his presence on the pilgrimage in the final lines of  the portrait (A 77–78). The life of  the Knight, hazarded yet one more time on the field of  battle, is again spared so that he is enabled to make peace with his Maker. In this sense the military campaigns and the pilgrimage to Canterbury are complementary activities. The end of pilgrimage is satisfaction for sin, and it is undertaken in the certain knowledge of a final reckoning by God for one’s freely chosen acts. This is the insistent message of  Everyman, ‘a moral play’ (3), written a century or so after the General Prologue, in which ‘our Heaven King/ Calleth Everyman to a general reckoning’ (19–20).53 It is a reckoning that must be, unlike that of  the Reeve to his lord and master, both ‘strait’, that is, precise and exact, and ‘crystal-clear’ (Everyman, 333 and 898). Chaucer is less explicit and more sophisticated, but such a reckoning is also at the moral centre of  the pilgrimage to Canterbury. The pilgrims in their dif ferent fashions and at their various social levels set out on pilgrimage in the knowledge of  God’s all-seeing judgment and in the hope of  his grace. The idea of pilgrimage thus incorporates ideas of judgment and of pardon, and it is for this reason that the portraits of  the Summoner and the Pardoner (A 623–68 and 669–714) come at the end of  the series of portraits and are given such extended treatment. At the end of  the General Prologue as at the beginning, it is the idea of pilgrimage that is paramount. As the Summoner calls of fenders to the ecclesiastical court, so God summons creatures to answer for their lives, and as the Pardoner dispenses papal indulgences to sinners willing and gullible enough to believe in them and pay for them, so God dispenses his indulgence to sinners who put their faith in him and seek his mercy. Thus Langland’s Truthe or God ‘[p]ardon wiþ Piers þe Plowman … haþ ygraunted’ (PPl, B VII.8). In the characters of  the Summoner and the Pardoner we witness the corruption of  these spiritual values. It is the worst kind of corruption when spiritual goods are bought and sold, a sin of irreligion that treats God and divine things with irreverence and contempt.54 Thus the Summoner is ignorant of more than the Latin that he repeats in parrot-like fashion (A 637–46) but knows well enough that ‘[p]urs is the ercedekenes helle’ (A 658), and the Pardoner is at his best when it comes to the singing

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of  ‘an of fertorie’ (A 710) and to the prospect of winning money. Indeed, the portrait of  the Pardoner and the sequence of portraits as a whole conclude on this sustained note of ecclesiastical corruption (A 711–14). Chaucer speaks plainly and at length here since he has no intention that hypocrisy be mistaken for holiness. In the same way and for the same reason, he does not allow the last word to the Summoner (A 659–61): But wel I woot he lyed right in dede; Of cursyng oghte ech gilty man him drede, For curs wol slee right as assoillyng savith.

Reprobation for sin and absolution from sin are not matters to be trif led with. We may not be comfortable in an age like our own with such outright protestations of  belief, but then we have to reckon with the fact that the pilgrimage to Canterbury did not survive the Reformation. The setting of  the pilgrimage is imaginatively convincing because it is a part of  the very fabric of  the society to which Chaucer belongs. Many things that we now take for granted would seem strange to him. But the need for pilgrimage is not strange, and that need must be af firmed above all at the point of its greatest corruption. The implication of  the ordering of  the portraits is that the Summoner’s ‘freend and … compeer’ (A 670) is equally mired in the corruption of  the Church. If anything, the Pardoner is worse than the Summoner because he actively exploits the penitential procedures of  the Church for personal gain. In the figure of  the Pardoner we see the corruption of  the very idea of pilgrimage, for that which is designed for the redemption of sin becomes the occasion of sin. Indeed, the Pardoner’s exploitation of religious relics for gain is irreligious. And as religion or piety is the highest of  the moral virtues,55 so irreligion stands among the gravest of vices. Thus the sin of simony, for example, is worse than murder or theft.56 Dante follows this Thomistic logic of defining the gravity of sin by reference to the object in his organization of  the sins of violence in the seventh circle of  hell. Thus, in the order of an increasing gravity of sin, we encounter those guilty of violence against others, that is, tyrants, murderers and robbers, in the first round (girone) of  the circle (cerchio) of  the violent (Inf., XI.34–39 and

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XII.1–139); those guilty of violence against the self, that is, suicides and spendthrifts, in the second round (Inf., XI.40–45 and XIII.1–XIV.3) and those guilty of violence against God, nature and art, that is, blasphemers, sodomites and usurers, in the third round (Inf., XI.46–51, 94–111 and XIV.4–XVII.78). Such an order of priorities is hard for a secular world like ours to grasp, but it is shared by Chaucer and, no less significantly, understood by the Pardoner, who explains in his impassioned (if  hypocritical) denunciation of sins that God’s law in the Ten Commandments sets false swearing above murder (PardT, C 643–44): Lo, rather he forbedeth swich sweryng Than homycide or many a cursed thyng.

Here the great issues of justice or greed and truth or falsehood come together, and in respect of  them human beings make the choice that determines their characters and the destinies of  their souls. It is a choice, as Langland expresses it, between the ‘tour on a toft’ and the ‘dongeon’ in ‘[a] deep dale byneþe’ (PPl, B Prol. 14–15) or between the teaching of  Lady Holy Church and the reward of  Meed the Maid. For Langland, Meed is unequivocally the object of covetousness (PPl, B II.51). It is impossible to have both the spiritual reward of  the life directed towards God and the temporal rewards of  life on earth. Even in the established Church itself, the choice is often made for temporal rather than spiritual goods. Thus Langland’s Lady Holy Church (the divine spokesperson, not the ecclesiastical institution) observes that ‘[i]n the Popes paleis’ Meed ‘is pryvee as myselve’ (PPl, B II.23). There is thus, as Dryden observed, some severity in Chaucer’s treatment of  the religious figures on the pilgrimage, and it must be related (if not to anticlericalism) to the devotional purpose of  the pilgrimage itself. Such religious laxity, neglect of duty and covetousness as we find in the Prioress, Monk and Friar, respectively, are subversive in dif ferent degrees of  the very purposes of pilgrimage. In a similar but more apocalyptic fashion, Piers Plowman ends with Unity or Holy Church under assault from hypocrisy (PPl, B XX.301–4) and the ef ficacy of confession and contrition undermined by the f lattery of  friars (PPl, B XX.280–85 and 305–80).

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By way of contrast, the lifestyle of  the Franklin with which the Friar likes to associate himself is less to be condemned (if condemned at all) since it is conducive to his function as a landowner and parliamentarian, and expresses itself in terms of  lavish hospitality towards others rather than acquisitiveness on his own behalf (A 334–54). We are not much surprised at the grasping nature of  the Physician, but at least his devotion to money does not disguise itself in the outward forms of religious belief, for ‘[h]is studie was but litel on the Bible’ (A 438). The strong sense of  Chaucer’s humanity that readers of all generations have derived from the General Prologue does not require us to suppose a laxity in moral judgment or an indif ference to the ef fects of sin. There is much in life that is unpalatable for those who are moved to look on the human scene, that ‘fair feeld ful of  folk’ (PPl, B Prol. 17) as Langland so eloquently characterizes it, with justice and compassion. A generous outlook is one that not only gives to people the benefit of  the doubt but is also moved to indignation by the lack of generosity in others, and especially by that cupidity that results not only in the destruction of one’s own soul but more culpably in the destruction of (or at least threat to) the souls committed to one’s charge. As a judge of  his fellow men and women, Chaucer is like the Green Knight in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, that is, tolerant in his understanding of  human limitation but exacting in his discrimination of good and evil (SGGK, 2331–68). If we read the General Prologue with any care, we must add to the tolerance of ordinary human foibles and follies an admiration for extraordinary or heroic virtue and a detestation of  fraudulence and corruption. The lesson of  the first vision of Piers Plowman or of  The Pardoner’s Tale is also writ large in the General Prologue, namely, that radix malorum est cupiditas. In opposition to such cupidity can only be set a belief in other, more altruistic values. We ought not to doubt the profundity of  Chaucer’s own religious beliefs. As a poet he is reticent in obtruding them, but artistic restraint does not imply a lack of religious conviction. The ending of  Troilus and Criseyde is moving in its urgent desire to protect ‘yonge, fresshe folkes’ (V.1835) from the idolatries (and unbearable pain) of merely human loves, and in the strength of  the religious convictions that can call to mind (indeed impress on the mind) in the final stanza of  that poem (V.1863–69) the union of  love and wisdom

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expressed by the fictional Aquinas in the sphere of  the Sun (or of justice) in Dante’s Paradiso X–XIV. The importance of  the sacrament of penance with its three parts of contrition, confession and satisfaction is central to the logic of salvation that depends on free human choices and, at the same time, takes seriously the radical imperfection of  human nature and hence the impossibility for any single individual of making choices that are always of unblemished goodness. Chaucer, then, has not only taken the time to translate the treatise on penance, the Summa de poenitentia (1222–1229) of  Raymund of  Pennaforte, combined with the treatise on the seven deadly sins, the Summa vitiorum (1236) of  William Peraldus, but has incorporated them in The Canterbury Tales as The Parson’s Tale where it still stands (not inappropriately) as the last of  the tales.57 The Parson’s Tale may not be greatly valued by modern readers and in our literary judgment unworthy of  the prize at the end of  the storytelling, but we can hardly deny its supreme relevance to the idea of pilgrimage. If  the pilgrim Chaucer does indeed set out to Canterbury ‘with ful devout corage’ (A 22), then he will be preoccupied at the end of  the pilgrimage with the questions that are raised in systematic form in The Parson’s Tale.58 Perhaps in the final analysis Chaucer’s humanity derives from his awareness that it is not he who makes the judgments that count, but God. Thus he withholds judgment on the final destiny of  Troilus at the end of  Troilus and Criseyde: ‘And forth he wente, shortly for to telle,/ Ther as Mercurye sorted hym to dwelle’ (V.1826–27). The younger Chaucer (the author of  The Parliament of  Fowls) would no doubt (along with Dante) have set Troilus in the second circle of  hell.59 The mature Chaucer has learned enough about human judgments to withhold judgment. Chaucer is neither a preacher nor a prophet (far less is he a social or political commentator). He is a great poet who knows that each individual human being must find his or her own way to God or, as we might say, to justice and peace. For whatever reason, all the people assembled at the Tabard in Southwark are bound on pilgrimage to Canterbury. When all uncertainties and failings have been allowed for, allowance has also to be made for that salient fact. We have no sense that any of  the pilgrims have embarked on the pilgrimage through compulsion, although no doubt the pressures of conformity in medieval society will encourage rather than discourage the making of

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pilgrimages. Perhaps the experience of pilgrimage will prove to be a transforming experience in the lives of at least some Canterbury pilgrims. Not even the Pardoner, unlike Langland’s Pardoner (PPl, B V.639–42), is a lost soul, for even when his hypocrisy has been exposed by the Host, he is restored to the fellowship of  the pilgrims through the intervention of  the Knight (PardT, C 960–68). It would be strange indeed if  the creator of  the fictional pilgrimage to Canterbury were himself  to think that pilgrimages were either unnecessary or inef ficacious. The pilgrimage remains a pregnant image of  the life of individuals in the world, whatever utopian aspirations we may possess for human society. The present world is indeed ‘a thurghfare ful of wo,/ And we been pilgrymes, passynge to and fro’ (A 2847–48).

Notes 1 2 3 4 5

6 7 8

‘What avarice does is here declared for the purging of  the converted souls, and the mountain has no bitterer pain’ (Sinclair, II.251). John Dryden, ‘Preface to Fables Ancient and Modern’, in The Poems of John Dryden, edited by James Kinsley, 4 vols (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1958), IV.1444–63 (1455.422). Dryden, Preface, IV.1454.394 and IV.1453.373–75. See Sydney Armitage-Smith, John of Gaunt (London: Constable, 1904), pp. 16–18 and Martin M. Crow and Clair C. Olson (eds), Chaucer Life-Records (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1966), pp. 23–28. For an account of  the systematic spoliation of the splendid tapestries, furnishings, plate and ornaments of  the Savoy in the late afternoon of  Thursday, 13 June 1381, see Charles Oman, The Great Revolt of 1381, reissued with a new introduction and notes by Edmund B. Fryde (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1969), pp. 57–58 and 194–95 (translation of  the Anonimalle Chronicle). Alcuin Blamires, ‘Chaucer the Reactionary: Ideology and the General Prologue to The Canterbury Tales’, RES, NS, 51 (2000), 523–39. E. Talbot Donaldson, ‘Chaucer the Pilgrim’, PMLA, 69 (1954), 928–36, reprinted in his Speaking of  Chaucer (London: Athlone Press, 1970), pp. 1–12. For the piety of  the Black Prince, see ‘La Vie du Prince Noir’ by Chandos Herald, edited by Diana B. Tyson (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1975), 85–92, 1260–73, 1427–32,

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3172–87, 3502–508 and 4176–78. The piety of  his younger brother, John of  Gaunt, is evidenced in his will of 1398 in which he provides for a period of  forty days unburied and unembalmed before burial; see Anthony Goodman, John of  Gaunt: The Exercise of  Princely Power in Fourteenth-Century Europe (Harlow: Longman, 1992), pp. 366–67. Sir Gawain’s quest of  the Green Chapel is above all a vindication of  the ‘pité þat passez alle poyntez’ (654), that is, the piety that stands as part of justice as the highest of  the moral virtues and therefore specified by the Gawain-poet as the fifth and final virtue of  the fifth and final group of virtues. 9 Mark Twain, Adventures of  Huckleberry Finn, edited by Emory Elliott, Oxford World’s Classics (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), p. 3. 10 See J.R.R. Tolkien, ‘Chaucer as Philologist: The Reeve’s Tale’, Transactions of  the Philological Society (1934), 1–70. 11 Terry Jones, Chaucer’s Knight: The Portrait of a Medieval Mercenary (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1980), p. 140. 12 Laura F. Hodges, Chaucer and Costume: The Secular Pilgrims in the General Prologue, Chaucer Studies XXVI (Cambridge: D.S. Brewer, 2000), p. 57. Despite such reservations, I consider this to be a groundbreaking study worthy of close attention. 13 Hodges, Chaucer and Costume, p. 121. 14 Edward I. Condren, Chaucer and the Energy of  Creation: The Design and Organization of the Canterbury Tales (Gainesville, FL: University Press of Florida, 1999), p. 152. 15 Jones, Chaucer’s Knight, pp. 175 and 192–202. 16 Condren, Chaucer and the Energy of  Creation, pp. 125 and 219. 17 Condren, Chaucer and the Energy of  Creation, pp. 124–25. 18 Helen Cooper, The Canterbury Tales, Oxford Guides to Chaucer, second edition (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), p. 132. 19 Condren, Chaucer and the Energy of  Creation, pp. 125 and 163. 20 Condren, Chaucer and the Energy of  Creation, refers to the ‘wide-eyed credulity of  the Narrator’ (p. 185) and describes him as ‘perhaps the least knowledgeable’ of all the pilgrims (p. 190). 21 On the modification of  feudal society known as bastard feudalism, see the seminal article by K.B. McFarlane, ‘Bastard Feudalism’, BIHR, 20 (1945), 161–80. 22 See J.V. Cunningham, ‘Convention as Structure: The Prologue to the Canterbury Tales’, Tradition and Poetic Structure: Essays in Literary History and Criticism (Denver: Swallow Press, 1960), pp. 59–75, reprinted in Geof frey Chaucer, edited by J.A. Burrow, Penguin Critical Anthologies (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books

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Ltd, 1969), pp. 218–32; and also his article ‘The Literary Form of  the Prologue to the Canterbury Tales’, MP, 49 (1951–1952), 172–81. 23 On the number of  Chaucer’s pilgrims, see Caroline D. Eckhardt, ‘The Number of  Chaucer’s Pilgrims: A Review and Reappraisal’, YES, 5 (1975), 1–18 and Leger Brosnahan, ‘The Authenticity of  And Preestes Thre’, ChR, 16 (1982), 293–310. Brosnahan observes that ‘[t]he number twenty-nine … is also confirmed by being a precise number just one short of a round thirty to be completed by Chaucer the Pilgrim, just as the nineteen ladies of  the Legend of  Good Women are rounded out to twenty by Alceste’ (p. 294) (see LGW, Prol. F 241–46, 282–90 and 300–7; G 173–93 and 224–33). I do not accept the argument, however, that ‘and preestes thre’ (A 164) is inauthentic. 24 See MED, s.vv. gentil n. 1.(a) and (b), communes n. la. (a) and cherl n. 1.(a). 25 See John Russell, Book of  Nurture, 1025–40 and 1065–72, in Manners and Meals in Olden Time, edited by Frederick J. Furnivall, EETS (OS) 32 (London: N. Trübner and Co., 1868), pp. 115–239. 26 See Jill Mann, Chaucer and Medieval Estates Satire (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1973) and Gerald Morgan, ‘The Universality of  the Portraits in the General Prologue to the Canterbury Tales’, ES, 58 (1977), 481–93. 27 See MED, s.v. vavasour n. (a) ‘a feudal tenant holding land of some other vassal, a sub-vassal, a liegeman; also, a member of  the land-holding nobility, presumably ranking below a baron’ and Roy J. Pearcy, ‘Chaucer’s Franklin and the Literary Vavasour’, ChR, 8 (1973), 33–59. 28 On the relative status of  the craft guilds in the fourteenth century, see Gerald Morgan, ‘The Design of  the General Prologue to the Canterbury Tales’, ES, 59 (1978), 481–98 (pp. 492–94). 29 Compare Donaldson, ‘Chaucer the Pilgrim’: ‘To have got on so well in so changeable a world Chaucer must have got on well with the people in it, and it is doubtful that one may get on with people merely by pretending to like them: one’s heart has to be in it’ (Speaking of  Chaucer, p. 11). 30 Here it may be noted that Donaldson’s interpretation of  the pilgrim as an obtuse bourgeois has by no means won universal acceptance. It is challenged by H. Marshall Leicester, Jr, ‘The Art of  Impersonation: A General Prologue to the Canterbury Tales’, PMLA, 95 (1980), 213–24 and reexamined by Barbara Nolan, ‘  “A Poet Ther Was”: Chaucer’s Voices in the General Prologue to The Canterbury Tales’, PMLA, 101 (1986), 154–69. Leicester’s argument is restated and to some extent developed in his The Disenchanted Self: Representing the Subject in the Canterbury Tales (Berkeley: University of  California Press, 1990), 1–13 and 383–417. 31 Hodges, Chaucer and Costume, pp. 111 and 235.

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On the inf luence of  Langland on the General Prologue, see Nevill Coghill, ‘Two Notes on Piers Plowman: II: Chaucer’s Debt to Langland’, MÆ, 4 (1935), 89–94 and Helen Cooper, ‘Langland’s and Chaucer’s Prologues’, YLS, 1 (1987), 71–81. 33 See MED, s.v. gipsere n. : ‘a pouch, often richly ornamented, which hangs from a girdle or sash’; OF gibeciere, gipsiere and Hodges, Chaucer and Costume, p. 143. 34 See MED, s.v. anelas n. (a); OF alenaz; The Alliterative Morte Arthure, edited by Valerie Krishna (New York: Burt Franklin & Co., Inc., Publishers, 1976), p. 179 and Hodges, Chaucer and Costume, pp. 150–51. 35 See Charrete, 268–320. 36 See Hodges, Chaucer and Costume, pp. 152–55. 37 See Hodges, Chaucer and Costume, pp. 168–72 and Colour Plate VII. 38 See Hodges, Chaucer and Costume, pp. 178–79. 39 See Hodges, Chaucer and Costume, pp. 218–24. 40 See Hodges, Chaucer and Costume, pp. 204–5. 41 See Hodges, Chaucer and Costume, p. 205. 42 The word tale here may have the sense of  ‘an ordered list’, as in Pearl (997–98): ‘As John þise stoneȝ in writ con nemme,/ I knew þe name after his tale’; see MED, s.v. tale n. 7. (g). 43 See, for example, The Rambler, No.180 (Saturday, 7 December 1751), V.186: ‘If, instead of wandering after the meteors of philosophy which fill the world with splendour for a while, and then sink and are forgotten, the candidates of  learning fixed their eyes upon the permanent lustre of moral and religious truth, they would find a more certain direction to happiness’. Reference is to The Yale Edition of  the Works of  Samuel Johnson, edited by Walter Jackson Bate and Albrecht B. Strauss, Volumes III–V (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1969). 44 Aristotle, Ethica Nicomachea, II.6 1106b 36–1107a 2; see also Aquinas, In Ethicorum, 322–23. 45 See Ethica Nicomachea, V.8 1136a 15–23, V.8 1136a 1–5 and V.9 1137a 4–9 and In Ethicorum, 1035–36, 1048 and 1074. See also ST, 1a 2ae 107.4. 46 Aristotle, Rhetorica, I.1 1355b 12–14: ‘it is not the function of medicine simply to make a man quite healthy, but to put him as far as may be on the road to health; it is possible to give excellent treatment even to those who can never enjoy sound health’, translated by W. Rhys Roberts in The Works of  Aristotle, Volume XI (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1924). 47 Matthew Arnold, ‘The Study of  Poetry’ (1880), reprinted in Essays in Criticism, Second Series (London: Macmillan and Co. Ltd, 1908), pp. 1–55 (p. 29). 48 See James A. Hart, ‘  “ The Droghte of  March”: A Common Misunderstanding’, Texas Studies in Literature and Language, 4 (1962–1963), 525–29. The pattern of a cold, dry March and a warm, wet April is a classic English pattern, and a poet 32

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49 50

51 52 53 54

55 56

57

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like Spenser (Chaucer’s successor in many ways) has grasped the essence of it in markedly similar terms; see The Shepheardes Calender, Aprill (5–8), in Spenser’s Minor Poems, edited by Ernest de Sélincourt (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1910), pp. 36 and 42. If  there is a drought in England, we expect it in the autumn, not the spring, a medieval expectation confirmed for us by Chaucer’s Staf fordshire contemporary, the poet of  Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (see 521–24). Reference is to Wynnere and Wastoure, edited by Stephanie Trigg, EETS (OS) 297 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990). E. Talbot Donaldson, Chaucer’s Poetry: An Anthology for the Modern Reader (New York: The Ronald Press Company, 1958), p. 876: ‘It is a comment on Chaucer’s “naturalism” that England suf fers no drought in March; Chaucer’s drought is a metaphorical one, taken from a rhetorical tradition that goes back to classic literature, and to the Mediterranean countries where March is a dry month’. Thus in his review of  Jones’s Chaucer’s Knight, J.A. Burrow writes: ‘Yet Mr Jones is absolutely right, I think, to reject as too bland and insipid the conventional account of  the Knight’ (‘The Imparfit Knight’, TLS, 15 February 1980, 163). The attribution by Chaucer to the Knight as teller of his tale of a metaphor drawn from ploughing may not in such circumstances seem incongruous: ‘I have, God woot, a large feeld to ere,/ And wayke been the oxen in my plough’ (A 886–87). Reference is to Everyman and Medieval Miracle Plays, edited by A.C. Cawley (London: J.M. Dent, 1974). For other but by no means all references to ‘reckoning’, see Everyman, 45–46, 66–71, 99–100, 331–35, 864–66, 895–98 and 914–17. See Aquinas, ST, 2a 2ae 100.1: ‘Et ideo aliquis, vendendo vel emendo rem spiritualem, irreverentiam exhibet Deo et rebus divinis. Propter quod, peccat peccato irreligiositatis,/ And so, by buying or selling a spiritual thing a man treats God and divine matters with irreverence, and consequently commits a sin of irreligion’ (translated by Thomas F. O’Meara and Michael J. Duf f y). See Aquinas, ST, 2a 2ae 81.6. Aquinas is characteristically clear on this point (ST, 1a 2ae 73.3): ‘Unde peccatum quod est circa ipsam substantiam hominis, sicut homicidium est gravius peccato quod est circa res exteriores, sicut furtum; et adhuc est gravius peccatum quod immediate contra Deum committitur, sicut infidelitas, blasphemia et hujusmodi,/ Hence, sins which af fect the very being of a man such as homicide are worse than sins which af fect an exterior good, e.g. theft; and more serious still are those sins which are immediately against God, as infidelity, blasphemy, etc.’ (translated by John Fearon). The matter on the seven deadly sins, abbreviated and adapted, is inserted in the second section of  the treatise on penance, that is, on confession. The Parson’s

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Tale is a treatise or manual on penance, not a sermon, and it is described as ‘this tretice’ (I 957) and ‘this litel tretys’ (I 1081). 58 On the relationship between the General Prologue and The Parson’s Tale, see the article by David Raybin, ‘  “Manye been the weyes”: The Flower, Its Roots, and the Ending of  The Canterbury Tales’, in Closure in The Canterbury Tales: The Role of  The Parson’s Tale, edited by David Raybin and Linda Tarte Holley (Kalamazoo, MI: Medieval Institute Publications, 2000), pp. 11–43. 59 Chaucer places Troilus in the temple of  Venus in a list of  lovers ruined by love that includes the names of six of  the damned in the second circle of  hell, namely, Dido, Cleopatra, Helen, Achilles, Paris and Tristan, in addition to the names mentioned in his principal source, Boccaccio’s Teseida; see PF, 288–94, Inf., V.61–67 and Tes., VII.62.

5  Obscenity and Fastidiousness in The Miller’s Tale

Allas, what is this wondre maladie? For hote of cold, for cold of  hote, I dye. — CHAUCER, Troilus and Criseyde, I.419–20

The Literary Context of  The Miller’s Tale There are problems in the interpretation of  The Miller’s Tale which to this day remain unresolved. These do not include its positioning in Fragment A (or I) of  The Canterbury Tales following The Knight’s Tale and preceding The Reeve’s Tale and the fragmentary Cook’s Tale. This is an order that has never been challenged and there remains no reason to challenge it. The three fabliaux, indeed, are sequentially related in a pattern of moral deterioration that takes us from the Miller’s shameless pursuit of a traditional rivalry to the Reeve’s mean-minded vengefulness and to the Cook’s focus on gambling, debauchery and prostitution. That is a point at which Geof frey Chaucer unsurprisingly calls a halt in the journey towards a moral underworld. The point of departure is the contrast between the world of the fabliaux and the chivalric world of  The Knight’s Tale. The contrast between the two worlds could hardly be more emphatically stated, and Chaucer obliges his readers to make account of it. First and foremost it is the contrast between the world of gentils (among whom on the pilgrimage the Knight stands at the head) and that of churls. This is indeed the basis of  the ordering of  the portraits in the General Prologue where the Knight is also seen to occupy the first and highest place.1 The telling of a tale by the Miller immediately after that of  the Knight is a deliberate dislocation of  the social order and is fictionally sanctioned by the Miller’s drunkenness (MilProl, A 3120–40).

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We are led to think that even the Miller in a state of sobriety would have more respect for social proprieties. But in life it often happens that our carefully regulated systems of conduct are disrupted in precisely this way, and thus Chaucer can indicate at one and the same time the human respect for order and the inability to impose order (as in The Knight’s Tale itself on a greater stage). On the pilgrimage to Canterbury as in a tournament or war events are never fully amenable to human control. We may agree with the Host that the Monk is a person of suf ficiently high social standing to tell the second of  the tales (A 3118–19) and think that the Monk’s own tale with its examples of  those of  high estate brought low by fortune would add weight to the philosophical argument of  The Knight’s Tale. But we must also see that the Host is right to yield to the Miller’s interruption (A 3128–35). He must have dealt with many such untoward occasions in the Tabard at Southwark. Thus the Knight and the Miller are brought into direct comparison in a way that is never possible in the General Prologue. But what are we to make of  the comparison? Those who are sympathetic to the chivalric world that Chaucer delineates with such feeling from the inside as one who in his time has been a squire at the court of  Edward III (from 1367 onwards at the latest) will perhaps want nothing to do with such odious comparisons. Chaucer makes room for them in his invitation to ‘[t]urne over the leef ’ (A 3177) and read more edifying matter than a Miller can ever supply. There are many such readers (and well educated, intelligent readers, then as now) who will wish to follow this suggestion or who will be prepared at most to read a bowdlerized version of  the tale.2 But we can hardly take that course of action without at least some sense of  failure in thus subverting Chaucer’s own artistic and moral intentions. Chaucer it is who has created this dif ficulty for his readers and he has done so in a way that increases its dif ficulty by his use of obscene language in the telling of  The Miller’s Tale. Perhaps he wishes us to understand that our choice of  language is always in itself a moral issue. The Knight’s gentleness and politeness of manner are moral choices and signify his moral virtue no less (or hardly less) than his courage and fidelity. If  he fights for the faith and for justice he does so not only for the faith of  the Prioress and the rights of widows and orphans, but also for the faith and rights of millers, carpenters and cooks. Justice

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must also be dispensed to them, but it can hardly be done in ignorance of  the world which they inhabit (a world which may well infringe on their freedom of choice). And it may well be that the very churlishness of churls deters us from extending the same compassionate under­standing that God extends to all fallen sinners (knights and millers alike). We must make the attempt (and in a wholehearted not token fashion) to see beyond the manifest crudities of  language to the inner meaning of souls. The fashion nowadays takes us as often in the very opposite direction, for some modern readers have embraced for themselves the culture of millers and carpenters while at the same time disparaging that of  knights. Chaucer is pre-eminently for such readers not the translator of  Boethius’s De consolatione philosophiae or the author of  Troilus and Criseyde, but a poet chief ly to be celebrated for the bawdiness of such tales as The Miller’s Tale. Thus the TLS in a recent number advertises on its front cover the following words from Carolyne Larrington’s review of  two new works on Chaucer: ‘That Chaucer’s London should be the home of  binge-drinkers, tarts and get-rich-quick merchants suggests a degree of continuity over six centuries’.3 Chaucer, it seems, has been only too successful in his depiction of  low life as to become identified with it. If  these readers wish to turn over the leaf, it is The Man of  Law’s Tale or The Clerk’s Tale that they choose to pass over, not to say The Parson’s Tale. This is surely an even worse error of perspective, for it reduces Chaucer to the status of a Henry Miller and The Canterbury Tales to the Tropic of  Cancer. The problem is to incorporate The Miller’s Tale into our understanding of  The Canterbury Tales as a whole. The Miller has the second say among the pilgrims, not the final say. We ought not to be too greatly impressed by him and by those like him, even though we ought not to dismiss him from view. We still have to await the verdicts among others of  the brilliant lawyer, the Aristotelian philosopher and the country gentleman (all of whom have been disparaged by scholars who dislike their arguments and their points of view). And behind these voices, encompassing them all, is Chaucer himself, a court poet in a celebrated English court at the height of  his powers. In what follows I hope to identify the presence of such a poet, as assured in the telling of a fabliau as of a courtly romance. Nothing less in the end will do justice to The Miller’s Tale.

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Fabliaux as a Literary Genre The standard definition of  fabliaux remains that of  the great French scholar, Joseph Bédier, namely, ‘les fabliaux sont des contes à rire en vers’, that is, fabliaux are comic tales in verse.4 Chaucer’s comic tales answer the definition of  fabliaux in some obvious respects and Chaucer justifies their place in his human comedy by the principle of decorum. These are precisely the kind of  tales that we are to expect from millers, carpenters and cooks, that is, from churls (A 3180–82): The Millere is a cherl; ye knowe wel this, So was the Reve eek and othere mo, And harlotrie they tolden bothe two.5

Here are straightforward examples of  the principle of decorum in the assignment of  teller to tale and it is reinforced in these instances by the low level of style. Obscene words are found in the fabliaux that are not to be found elsewhere in Chaucer’s works (and indeed seldom elsewhere in medieval literature). They are not to be avoided unless we are to avoid the tales altogether and we may list them systematically in the following order, beginning with the more straightforward examples and ending with the most dif ficult (lexically and morally): ers, fart, pissen, swiven and queynte. We might add viritoot to this list if we could be sure of its meaning. Doubtless it is a form of expression that suits its ribald context.6 What is important is not so much the words themselves as the concentration of  the action of  the tale around them. The lovelorn Absolon fondly imagines that he is kissing his beloved on the lips when to his consternation he discovers that it cannot be so (A 3734–35): ‘But with his mouth he kiste hir naked ers/ Ful savourly, er he were war of  this’.7 It is a passionate kiss such as the three kisses that Gawain receives from the lady on the third day in the bedroom and duly delivers to the lord in the Exchange of  Winnings in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (1936–37). Unsurprisingly, the experience puts the romantic Absolon of f  love-making (A 3755–56): ‘For fro that tyme that he hadde kist hir ers,/

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Of paramours he sette nat a kers’.8 There is no reason to believe, however, that the use of  the word ars was at all problematic for Chaucer. Poets are fastidious in their use of words but not mealy-mouthed or prurient. That is a characteristic of merchants rather than poets.9 The word fart is not noticed in A Chaucer Glossary and appears in MED under the form fert.10 The earliest examples (and the richest) are from The Miller’s Tale and The Summoner’s Tale, and they illustrate Chaucer not merely using the word but relishing its use (as if  to discomfit many of  his more delicate readers). Not even Shakespeare can match Chaucer in this respect.11 The Summoner’s Tale is in many ways a treatise or doctorate on farting (a splendid example of decorum in respect of so repulsive a creature). Here we learn of  the definition of a fart (SumT, D 2233–35). It is a case in which precept follows example (D 2147–51). And we proceed further to a scientific consideration by ars-metrike (D 2222)12 of  the division of a fart into twelve equal parts. The lord’s squire is capable not only of  fulfilling his role of carving at the table (D 2243–45) but is equal to the solution of  this arithmetical problem with his cart-wheel and its twelve equal spokes and twelve friars at the end of each spoke. The churlish farter will take his place at the hub and the friar confessor beneath it so as to experience the full ef fect of  the farts (D 2255–86). It is a solution that would do credit to a Euclid or a Ptolemy (D 2287–89). The relish of  this subject-matter, not merely of a fart but of  the phenomenon of farting, may seem curious in a poet of Chaucer’s courtly sophistication. The fact is, awkward as it may seem to us, that deliberate farting was an established part of public entertainment in English and Irish courts in the medieval period (and even much later). Valerie Allen in her work on the subject refers repeatedly to the example of  Roland the Farter whose tenure of  land by serjeanty at Hemingston in Suf folk required him to leap, whistle and fart (facere … unum saltum et sif f letum et unum bumbulum) at the court of  Henry II (1154–89) on the festivities of  Christmas Day each year.13 Langland refers to the practice in a matter-of-fact way among a list of accomplishments Haukyn the Active Man sees as necessary to obtain gifts from great lords. Here the ability to fart takes its natural place alongside the ability to play the lute or the harp (PPl, B XIII.231–32): ‘Ac for I kan neiþer taboure ne trompe ne telle no gestes,/ Farten ne fiþelen at festes,

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ne harpen’.14 Evidence of  this kind obliges us at least to examine our own assumptions on the subject of  farting in so far as they relate to Chaucer’s poetry. Delight in the representation of  farting (and not merely a tolerance of  farting) is certainly a feature of  The Miller’s Tale, and especially in the dénouement where Nicholas intends to add to Absolon’s discomfiture (A 3806–10). The word pissen is also not recorded in A Chaucer Glossary but it is unproblematic in usage and meaning. The word is used abusively to Piers the Plowman when he rebukes the wasters on his half acre (PPl, B VI.154–55): ‘A Bretoner, a braggere, abosted Piers alse/ And bad hym go pissen with his plowȝ, forpynede sherewe!’. The Wife of  Bath refers to the indignity of  the great philosopher Socrates at the hands of  his wife Xantippe who ‘caste pisse upon his heed’ (WBProl, D 729) (one of  the stories with which her fifth husband Jankyn was wont to torment her). Even the Parson has no dif ficulty with such language, for he tells us that ‘an hound, whan he comth by the roser or by othere [bushes], though he may nat pisse, yet wole he heve up his leg and make a contenaunce to pisse’ (ParsT, I 858). What other word is there in English to describe such a function? Not, in Chaucer’s time at least, ‘urinate’, although the noun urine is well attested (see D 121). And in such comparisons Shakespeare once again comes of f second best.15 Worse (or better, depending on the point of view) is to follow. The word fuck does not appear in Chaucer’s works, but is first recorded in the OED at the beginning of  the sixteenth century.16 But Chaucer does have a word that is the exact ME equivalent to fuck, namely, swiven from OE swifan.17 The evidence of  the MED is that the word is rarely found, and indeed most of  the examples supplied are from Chaucer’s comic tales. The MED is too delicate a place for the obvious gloss and in its timidity or fastidiousness is followed by The Riverside Chaucer. Thus in The Miller’s Tale in the neat final summary we have the gloss ‘copulated with’ for ‘[t]hus swyved was this carpenteris wyf ’ (A 3850). Thus also in The Reeve’s Tale at A 4178 and again in the following (surely unambiguous) example (A 4264–66):

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For by that lord that called is Seint Jame, As I have thries in this shorte nyght Swyved the milleres doghter bolt upright.

Finally, in the summarizing conclusion, ‘[h]is wyf is swyved, and his doghter als’ (A 4317), swyved is no longer considered worthy of a gloss. Clearly Chaucer’s vocabulary here is a source of acute discomfort to his modern editors and glossators, and the obvious obscene meaning is evaded in the interests of a higher respectability. Thus A Chaucer Glossary glosses swyve as v. tr. ‘lie with, copulate with’ and intr. ‘fornicate’ (p. 149). The second edition of  the OED is in no better plight, though it does record the verb fuck. Surprisingly, therefore, in glossing swive, v. as 1. trans. ‘[t]o have sexual connexion with, copulate’ and 2. intr. ‘[t]o copulate’ it is no less coy than all our other authorities. The problem is that the word is used by Chaucer not only obscenely, but with the full force of its obscene meaning. It is not an expletive.18 On the other hand it is exactly the kind of word that the Miller or one of  his social position would use (and use aggressively and provocatively). But the real test is still to come. Does Chaucer use the ‘c’-word in The Miller’s Tale? If  he does so, it is in the sophisticated context of rime riche (A 3275–76): As clerkes ben ful subtile and ful queynte; And prively he caughte hire by the queynte.19

There is, of course, nothing scholarly or subtle about Nicholas’s action here. We know exactly what is the object of  his desire and how he seeks to realize it. But interestingly these lines raise (and are surely intended to raise) a scholarly as distinct from a moral problem. The use of rime riche or identical rhyme implies the use of dif ferent words, as in the rhyme seke/ seeke which concludes the opening verse paragraph of  the General Prologue (A 17–18). This implication will be satisfied if we take queynte at A 3276 with Norman Davis as a ‘modified form of  ME cunte, ON kunta, after queynte adj.’ (A Chaucer Glossary, p. 115). Thus we have a true obscenity and a true rime riche. On the other hand it is dif ficult to see how this modification is phonetically plausible. It is preferable, then, to take queynte at A 3276

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as the adjective used as noun in the sense ‘elegant, pleasing thing’ and as such the euphemistic equivalent in the Wife of  Bath’s lexicon to ‘bele chose’ (D 443–50).20 If  this is so, then we must suppose that by the use of rime riche Chaucer points to the word (cunte) that is like but dif ferent from queynte, but at the same time cleverly avoids using it directly. We have, then, not an obscene word but an obscene pun, as Larry Benson puts it, ‘the best indecent pun in Chaucer’.21 We can hardly suppose that the Miller would baulk at the use of  the word cunte any more than at the use of  the word swyven. But there are many modern speakers who would tolerate the use of  ‘fuck’ but stop short of  ‘cunt’, especially in the company of women. And perhaps Chaucer himself would be one of  their number. On the other hand taste in such matters is subject to violent change, and no less a scholar and critic than George Steiner does not hesitate to use the ‘c’-word in an essay on ‘The Tongues of  Eros’.22 But even in his obscene moments (on behalf of  the Miller) Chaucer displays his subtlety as a poet. No one is in any doubt of the intended sense of queynte in The Miller’s Tale (A 3276), whether by means of obscene word or obscene pun, and the ef fect is anything but euphemistic. We can only admire Chaucer’s poetic ingenuity in suggesting the word cunte without in fact using it. Chaucer’s freedom in his use of  language here is extraordinary, especially when we bear in mind the exquisite delicacy of  his love-poetry in the highest courtly vein. He has, however, anticipated this issue in characteristic fashion in a formal apology after the series of portraits in the General Prologue (A 725–42). This is a long, and necessarily long, defence of  his use of such language and ends with the invocation of authorities of no less weight than Christ himself and Plato. Chaucer is not prepared to evade the reality of  life itself as it is lived by others less sophisticated than he is himself. He is not prurient and he is not prudish. We may like to think of ourselves in the twenty-first century as living in a sexually liberated age, but even in this respect we struggle to keep up with Chaucer and, as Pandarus puts it, we ‘hoppe alwey byhynde’ (TC, II.1107).

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The Aristocratic Background of  Fabliaux The literary kind of which The Miller’s Tale is a masterpiece is well illustrated in Boccaccio’s Decameron which contains a large number of  tales that may be classified as fabliaux, including one (IX.6) which Chaucer used as the basis of  his own Reeve’s Tale.23 It is no longer the fashion to deny Chaucer a knowledge of  the Decameron. Boccaccio is, after all, one of  his favourite authors and the structural correspondence of  the Decameron and The Canterbury Tales is impossible to deny. Indeed Helen Cooper in 2002 has gone so far as to claim that the Decameron is ‘Chaucer’s primary model for his collection of stories’.24 In the Decameron we find the characteristic interest of  the fabliaux. The tales are economically told; there is no concern with characterization except in so far as the ef fect of  the tale requires it and the point at issue is entirely to be found in the comic potential of  the plot. Here there is a major dif ference between Chaucer and Boccaccio, not in respect of obscenity but in respect of imaginative interest. We need to explain the purpose in Chaucer’s grand scheme of  the detailed portraits of  the characters in The Miller’s Tale, for they not only make a large contribution to the poetic excellence of  the tale itself  but help to define its bearings in the sequence of  tales as a whole. In other words they enable us to define the true relation between the world of  fabliaux and the world of romance. It was Bédier’s claim, as is well known, that, unlike the romance, the fabliaux are the product of a bourgeois culture and the intended audience of  the fabliaux is a bourgeois audience. The issue is presented in clear-cut terms by Bédier at the beginning of chapter XIII: ‘Les fabliaux naissent dans la classe bourgeoisie, pour elle et par elle’ (Les Fabliaux, p. 371). Thus we have a neat schematic distinction between a courtly aristocratic audience (including ladies) listening to refined romances in the manner of  Criseyde as she listens in the company of  two other ladies to a maiden reading ‘the geste /Of  the siege of  Thebes’ on the occasion of  Pandarus’s first visit (TC, II.81–84) on the one hand and a bourgeois audience listening to bawdy tales on the other. Unfortunately the thesis does not match the facts and Bédier is obliged to modify it during the course of  the chapter to allow for

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the evident appreciation of  fabliaux or elements in the spirit of  fabliaux by aristocratic audiences (not excluding ladies). Thus by the end of  his chapter (a brief chapter) we learn that there is a ‘confusion des genres et promiscuité des publics’ (p. 385). It is clear that we must take a wider view of medieval aristocratic taste, and in respect of  the fabliaux Bédier’s opinion has long since been corrected by Per Nykrog who emphasizes rather the aristocratic background of  fabliaux. The courtly romance and the fabliau have in common ‘[l]e cadre et les idées fondamentales’ even though the one may be sublime and the other grotesque, for the fabliau is ‘un burlesque courtois’. The social hierarchies and the values and assumptions that underpin them are one and the same in both cases, and Nykrog concludes that ‘le point de vue du fabliau sur la société mediévale’ is ‘absolument identique à celui de la littérature courtoise’.25 Boccaccio’s tales, whatever their obscenity, are assigned indif ferently to the ten tellers, seven noble ladies and three gentlemen of  Florence. In this aristocratic world the bourgeois are not the originators of  fabliaux but their butts. In Panfilo’s tale of  the ninth day it is the innkeeper; in Chaucer it is first of all a carpenter and then (by way of riposte) a miller. There is no incongruity in the fact that Chaucer follows a romance, indeed a philosophical romance, with a series of  fabliaux, for these fabliaux endorse and do not subvert aristocratic, courtly values. It is also impossible to maintain Bédier’s opinion that the fabliaux are realistic and as such of fer a counterpoint to the ideal world of medieval romance. Thus side by side with the faults of fabliaux, as he identifies them, ‘négligence de la versification et du style, platitude, grossierèté’, Bédier lists the corresponding merits of  ‘élégante brievetéé, verité, naturel’ (p. 347). The common situation of  fabliaux is usually of a grossly improbable kind, for example, three tubs in a roof as an insurance policy against a second f lood or the arrangement of  beds and cradle in the room of innkeeper or miller. If we wish to speak of realism in connection with fabliaux then we can mean little more than that the materials are drawn from low life (the world of comedy rather than that of  tragedy). The artistic treatment of  these materials is no more naturalistic than that to be found in romances, for the appeal is not to life as we know it from our own experience but to a pattern of comedy inherent in a number of common situations. In Chaucer’s case there is (as always) a mastery of particularizing detail, for example,

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the authentic background of  life in the university towns of  Oxford and Cambridge in The Miller’s Tale and The Reeve’s Tale,26 and the philological reconstruction of  the Northern dialects of  the poor scholars, Aleyn and John, in The Reeve’s Tale.27 Such poetic mastery (and here we must also include a mastery of  the obscene) raises the Chaucerian fabliaux to the level of  the surrounding texts and makes them true competitors for the literary prize destined for the best tale to be told by the pilgrims on the road to Canterbury.

The Comic Agents The assignment of a fabliau to the Miller is so straightforward an example of decorum in the relation of  tellers to tales that we are apt to think it unworthy of remark. But Boccaccio’s practice in the Decameron, where there is no such discrimination in the assignment of  teller to tale, makes it plain that what may seem to be inevitable and natural is yet another indication of  Chaucer’s innovative poetic genius.28 But the impropriety of  the Miller’s behaviour is written into the narrative structure and so does not constitute a real challenge to the social order on which The Canterbury Tales as a whole securely rests. This juxtaposition of romance and fabliaux (and it is Chaucer not the drunken Miller who is responsible for the sequence of  fabliaux) is not at all to the disadvantage of  the romance, and the values of  The Knight’s Tale are not put under any pressure by the proximity of  The Miller’s Tale. The love triangle of  Arcite, Palamon and Emelye is mirrored and not parodied by that of  Nicholas, Absolon and Alison, for it is the amorous student, the ef feminate parish clerk and the f lirtatious and pert young wife, not the young knights and the maiden, who are the true objects of ridicule. It is no doubt for this reason that Chaucer has invested so much of  his art in The Miller’s Tale in the set descriptions of  his unheroic and unadmirable protagonists.

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As a clerk or scholar at Oxford Nicholas is a corruption of  the ideal of scholarship as set forth in the portrait of  the Clerk of  Oxenford in the General Prologue (A 285–308). Although he is clever and has ‘lerned art’, that is, grammar, rhetoric and logic, he is not interested in true learning but rather in the determination of  future events (beyond the capacity of  the human intellect) through astrology (MilT, A 3190–98). At his bed’s head are not the works of  Aristotle, the model of scholarly rationality (GP, A 293–96), but his astrology books and on his cupboard is a psaltery (MilT, A 3208–15). Nicholas is the kind of student to be encountered on the dance f loor rather than in the library. And whereas the Clerk of  Oxenford is supported by his friends in his devotion to learning (GP, A 299–300) Nicholas is content to sponge on his friends in the pursuit of  his life of pleasure. As a young man Nicholas lacks the manliness of  the Squire in the General Prologue (A 83–88 and 95–98). Everything about him testifies to his sweetness of manner and appearance, and especially also of smell. His room is elegantly adorned ‘with herbes swoote’ and he himself is ‘as sweete as is the roote/ Of  lycorys or any cetewale’ (A 3205–7).29 He sings ‘[s]o swetely that all the chambre rong’ and, in sum, is ‘this sweete clerk’ (A 3215 and 3219). Like the Knight of  the General Prologue he is compared to a maiden. But whereas the Knight’s bearing has the humility of a ‘mayde’ (A 69) Nicholas is ‘lyk a mayden meke for to see’ (A 3202). In the one case the image softens the appearance of  the formidable warrior who has endured many campaigns (and no doubt received many wounds), but in the other complements and reinforces the sweetness of  the clerk. Like the young knight Arcite who suf fers a tragic death at the height of  his fame in The Knight’s Tale (A 2779), Nicholas finds himself  ‘[a]llone, withouten any compaignye’ (MilT, A 3204). But here the resemblance ends, for the link between the two young men is merely verbal. On the one hand there are the ‘sorwes smerte’ and ‘peynes stronge’ (KnT, A 2766 and 2771) of  the ardent lover whose love remains to the end physically unsatisfied, and on the other no more than the urgency of sexual desires relieved by direct physical assault (MilT, A 3275–76). On the one hand is Arcite’s aspiration to ‘trouthe, honour, knyghthede,/ Wysdom, humblesse, estaat, and heigh kynrede,/ Fredom, and al that longeth to that art’ (KnT, A 2789–91) and on the other the ‘deerne love’ of one who is ‘sleigh and ful privee’ (MilT,

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A 3200–1).30 The rhetoric of illicit love is fully exploited in the description of  Nicholas’s crude physicality and of  Alison’s response to it. He addresses her as ‘lemman’ and dies for ‘deerne love’ whilst holding her firmly by the ‘haunchebones’. She puts up a token resistance, but is aware of  the need for her would-be lover to be ‘privee’ and ‘ful deerne’ (A 3277–81 and 3294–97). Such behaviour in its cynicism is as remote from the courtly idealism of  the Squire of  the General Prologue and young knights of  The Knight’s Tale as can well be imagined. The name of  the young clerk is Nicholas, and this fact is worth noting in itself  for it is repeatedly drawn to our attention by Chaucer in his narrative (A 3199, 3272, 3285, 3288, 3298, 3303, etc.). There is a general fitness in the name, for Nicholas is the patron saint of clerks and also, apparently, of perfumers.31 But Chaucer is insistent in mentioning the name of  his sweet clerk in order to create a sense of  his familiarity. It is reinforced by the use of  ‘Nicholay’ (A 3477), the pet form of  the name, by the carpenter, concerned as he is for the mental stability of  his lodger (A 3477–78). Nicholas, indeed, knows the advantage of using a personal name obsequiously: ‘John, myn hooste, lief and deere’ (A 3501). Nicholas is not merely familiar, he is unduly familiar, as the carpenter is to learn at his cost. This is underlined by the use of  the adjective hende used as a fixed epithet in the reductive sense of  ‘nice, handy, at hand’.32 Nicholas is ‘hende Nicholas’ (A 3199 and 3401) and ‘this hende Nicholas’ (A 3272 and 3386). He is ‘[t]his nye Nicholas’, the proverbial ‘nye slye’ who ‘[m]aketh the feere leeve’ (in this case the lovelorn Absolon) ‘to be looth’ (A 3391–96). He is not so nice and not so courteous, but rather too free with his hands and fitly so rebuked by Alison before she yields to his pleas for mercy: ‘Do wey youre handes, for youre curteisye!’ (A 3287). The set description of  the young wife (A 3233–70) does not follow any obvious order as prescribed in the rhetorical handbooks. It is not systematically head to toe, as in the description of  Chauntecleer in The Nun’s Priest’s Tale (B2 4049–54), nor systematically feet to head as in the arming of  Sir Gawain from the ‘sabatounz’ upwards as he sets out for the quest of  the Green Chapel (SGGK, 574–89). But it would be a mistake to assume that so brilliant a description is haphazard in the arrangement of details. The young wife is pretty and her body ‘gent and smal’,33 that is, shapely, and slender,

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like the lady Beaute in The Romaunt of  the Rose who is ‘[g]ente, and in hir myddil small’ (1032). This impression is at once confirmed by the focus on her waist and loins (A 3233–37). Attention then shifts to the head and face (A 3238–49), back to the waist (A 3250–54), back to the face (A 3255–62), then to the whole length of the body, long and slim (A 3263–66) and finally to her legs upwards: ‘Hir shoes were laced on hir legges hye’ (A 3267).34 The portrait is organized in terms of  the shifting point of view of  the interested observer or voyeur whose eyes look her ‘up and doun’ (A 3252). She is certainly good to look at, ‘moore blisful on to see’ than ‘the newe pere-jonette tree’ (A 3247–48).35 She is a dolly-girl, a ‘popelote’ (A 3254),36 and it is no wonder that our lustful student is so taken with her. At the same time the intense sexuality of  the young wife is not in itself  to be denied, for she has ‘a likerous ye’ (A 3244). Her irresistible needs are further underlined by the sequence of animal images. These are not the noble beasts of  heraldic blazon, such as the lion, the tiger and the boar, symbols of  knightly courage and ferocity in The Knight’s Tale, but the familiar animals of  the English countryside and farmyard. The orientation of  the description as a whole is established by the reference in its opening lines to the common weasel, and it is followed by references to the ‘wolle … of a wether’37 and to the ‘swalwe sittynge on a berne’ (A 3234, 3249 and 3258). Then follows a cluster of references to young farmyard animals, ‘kyde or calf ’ and ‘joly colt’ (A 3260 and 3263),38 signifying youthful vitality and sexual desire. We may contrast the comparisons of  Emelye in The Knight’s Tale to the ‘lylie upon his stalke grene’ and to ‘May with f loures newe’ (A 1036–37), for such comparisons ef fectively remove her sexuality from the view of  the reader.39 Even Criseyde, who arouses such intense physical desire in Troilus, is described on her introduction to the poem in terms of exemplary femininity and moral worth (TC, I.281–87). Clearly the young wife is a mismatch for the old carpenter, her husband. She is not the kind of woman to put up with the sexual inadequacies of an old man in the bedroom. Nor is there any special reason in the order of nature why she should, for ‘youthe and elde is often at debaat’ (A 3230). There is more to say on this point, for Chaucer presses the sexual inequality of wife and husband in relentless fashion. The brightness or shininess of  the young wife’s complexion receives a special emphasis, for it

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is brighter even than ‘in the Tour the noble yforged newe’ (A 3256). Beaute in The Romaunt of  the Rose is described as ‘a lady bright’ (1004), and in this context the adjective commonly signifies freshness or fairness of complexion.40 Blanche the Duchess is ‘whit, rody, fressh, and lyvely hewed’41 and ‘bothe fair and bryght’ (BD, 905 and 950), and Emelye is ‘Emelye the brighte’ (KnT, A 1427). The lady of  Hautdesert is ‘þe fairest … / of compas and colour’, and in her face ‘[r]iche red … rayled ayquere’ (SGGK, 943–44 and 952). As she leans over our hero to kiss him on the third morning he sees her to be ‘[s]o fautles of  hir fetures and of so fyne hewes’ that his heart filled with ardently welling joy (SGGK, 1760–62). In all these cases there is nothing to match the specific detail of  the young wife of  The Miller’s Tale, and Chaucer emphasizes it further when he later describes her on her way to the parish church on a holy day. She is well scrubbed for the occasion, but still her complexion, although recently washed, is shiny (A 3310–11). There must be a special reason for so special an emphasis. Such a complexion is the likely ef fect of  hormones and is indicative of a strong sexual drive. She is notably sensitive in respect of  the lower physical senses of smell and taste (A 3261) and of  touch (A 3249) rather than in respect of  the higher senses of sight and sound, as is the case with Blanche the Duchess (BD, 895–938) and Emelye (KnT, A 1033–122). 42 Her mouth, as ‘sweete as bragot or the meeth’,43 is just waiting to be kissed by our sweet clerk, who is in every way a more suitable physical match for her than her husband. She is dressed in black and white, like one of  the animals with which she is so frequently compared, and here presumably the weasel with its white fur and tail tipped with black (a combination familiarized by the heraldic ermine). It is an appearance well calculated to provoke and seduce, but at the same time it is accompanied by a touch of vulgarity in the brooch on her collar ‘[a]s brood as … the boos of a bokeler’ (A 3266). She is identified simply as ‘this yonge wyf ’ (A 3233 and 3273). But we do not have to speculate about her precise age, as is the case with Criseyde, for we already know that she is ‘eighteteene yeer … of age’ (A 3223). She is young, and certainly young by comparison with her old husband (A 3225–26), but not so young as a wife by the standards of  the age. The legal age of marriage in canon law in the later Middle Ages is twelve, and indeed the Wife of  Bath embarks on her career as a wife at the age of  twelve (WBProl, D 4–8).

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The young wife of  The Miller’s Tale is a sexually experienced young woman and she is only too well aware of  her power to attract. But in the context of  fabliaux she has become a reductive image of woman and little more than a sexual object. Hence her personal name, unlike that of  Nicholas, is deliberately withheld by Chaucer. She is to be compared not to the lily or the rose, but to the ‘prymerole’ and ‘piggesnye’ (A 3268),44 and is worthy to be wed to a yeoman (A 3270), but hardly to a knight or squire. Even less estimably, she is ‘a wenche’ and as such fit for a lord’s bed, but not his marriage bed.45 We can hardly be surprised when she ends up in bed with the student Nicholas, nor even when she puts her arse out of  the window for the parish clerk to kiss. The name Absolon, unlike Nicholas, is rare in Middle English,46 but clearly recognisable as an allusion to the biblical Absalom, son of  David and a byword for handsomeness (II Samuel/Kings, 14.25–26).47 On the face of it the details of  Absolon’s appearance with curly golden hair and grey eyes (A 3314 and 3317) confirm the aptness of  his name, but they at once serve only to remind us of  the distance that separates the parish clerk of  the fabliau from the squire of  the romance. The Squire’s ‘lokkes’ are ‘crulle as they were leyd in presse’ (GP, A 81) and in this respect Absolon is not to be outdone, for his ‘heer’ is ‘crul …, and as the gold it shoon’ (A 3314).48 But whereas any suggestion of ef feminacy is immediately qualified in the case of  the Squire by references to his agility, strength and military experience (GP, A 83–86), in the case of  Absolon it is reinforced by references to the elaborate design and precise arrangement of  his hair (A 3315–16): ‘And strouted as a fanne large and brode;/ Ful streight and evene lay his joly shode’.49 His eyes are fashionably grey (corresponding to the vair of  French romance), but whereas we expect beauty, as in the case of  the Prioress (GP, A 152) and of  Guinevere (SGGK, 82), here we encounter folly, for Absolon’s eyes are ‘greye as goos’ (A 3317). He is dressed in the height of  fashion in his tightly fitting clothes (‘ful smal and proprely’), but the design of  the windows of  St Paul’s Cathedral on his shoes is surely somewhat overdone (A 3318–22). There is a fine distinction between elegance and ef feminacy, as we may judge from the portraits of  the Squire (GP, A 89–93) and the Green Knight (SGGK, 151–67 and 179–86). In the case of  Absolon the ef fect of stylishness is undermined by the reference to his high-pitched voice, for

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he ‘song … a loud quynyble’ (A 3332).50 The Green Knight would not have dismayed the noble company assembled in Camelot for Christmas had he cleared his voice and spoken to them in such tones (SGGK, 306–20). Chaucer’s opening description of  Absolon (as brilliant in its way as that of  the young wife) concludes with a direct statement of  the delicacy and fastidiousness of  his manner. Our parish clerk, it turns out, is ‘somdeel squaymous/ Of  fartyng, and of speche daungerous’ (A 3337–38).51 What are we to make of  this? Clearly the reference to farting is made at the first opportunity because of its centrality to the fabliau plot. Moreover a miller, unlike a court poet, might well find farting an amusing subject and especially so at the expense of  his more refined auditors. But there is little awareness here of  the distinctive presence of  the Miller as narrator.52 Moreover, we have seen that medieval courts find a place for farters and that Chaucer himself  has chosen to confront the subject of  farting directly in his use of  language. Farts embarrassingly occur contrary to our will in the natural course of events, and we are obliged to adopt some attitude or another in respect of  their occurrence. At least we can do better than display our fastidious distaste for farts at the expense of another’s embarrassment. Absolon is ‘this joly Absolon’ (A 3348 and 3371), and this is the fixed epithet for the parish clerk as ‘hende’ is for the student Nicholas. The leading senses of  the word such as ‘merry, cheerful’ and ‘pleasing, comely’53 suit him well enough. Thus he ‘jolif was and gay’ (A 3339). In its more positive meanings joly suits the figure of  the dashing and handsome young squire of medieval romance. Aurelius, for example, is ‘fresher … and jolyer of array,/ … than is the monthe of  May’ (FranT, F 927–28). Indeed, joly can even be used in heroic contexts in its sense of  ‘vigorous, strong, youthful’ (MED, 2.(a) ). Thus the young knights in Camelot ‘[j]usted ful jolilé’ (SGGK, 42) and Spenser’s Red Cross Knight seemed a ‘[f ]ull jolly knight … / As one for knightly giusts and fierce encounters fitt’ (FQ, I.1.1). There is no danger of mistaking Absolon for a hero, and in reference to him the use of joli acquires the derogatory senses of  ‘playful, frisky’ or ‘amorous, lecherous’ (MED, 2.(b) and (c) ). He is indeed ‘jolif and amorous’ (A 3355) and ‘this amorous Absolon,/ That is for love alwey so wo bigon’ (A 3657–58). In a more manly version of  the young lover (Troilus, for example, and Palamon)

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and if  the object of  his love were an idealized young woman (Criseyde, for example, and Emelye) we might sense the force of passion and desperation in words such as (A 3361–62): Now, deere lady, if  thy wille be, I praye yow that ye wole rewe on me.54

But in The Miller’s Tale we are not allowed to escape the fact that these high-f lown sentiments are expressed in a ‘voys gentil and small’ (A 3360). Absolon’s wooing of  Alison is a burlesque of courtly idealism. He is quickly reduced to a state of  lovesickness or ‘love-longynge’ but he resembles here not so much the tormented Troilus as the doughty Sir Thopas who ‘fil in love-longynge/Al whan he herde the thrustel synge’ (B2 1962–63). Absolon is eager to communicate his state of sickness to his beloved in the belief (a false belief even in the case of  heroes) that it will turn her heart towards him (A 3678–81 and 3705–13). He has no inclination to suf fer in private as does Troilus (TC, I.316–64). And he has no scruples about the methods by which he presses his suit, resorting to go-betweens and agents (‘by meenes and brocage’), of fering gifts of  ‘pyment, meeth, and spiced ale,/ And wafres, pipyng hoot out of  the gleede’ and, ‘for she was of  town’, even money (‘meede’), although he seems to have ruled out in this instance the use of  force (A 3375–82). It is a case of  the end justifying the means, and clearly Alison is a prize worth having.55 The use of elevated discourse is punctuated by popular idioms in such a way as to remind us of  the true nature of  Absolon’s desires and expectations and of  the shallowness of  his feelings as compared with those of  the tragic lover. Thus he uses the highly charged language of  Christ’s praise of  his beloved spouse, the Church, in Canticum Canticorum, and addresses Alison (in the respectful plural form) as ‘hony-comb, sweete Alisoun,/ My faire bryd, my sweete cynamome’ (A 3698–99).56 He does so in the confident belief  that eloquence of  this kind will surely find its way into a woman’s heart. The repetition of  ‘sweete’ (the rhetorical figure is traductio) makes us aware of  the fact that Alison herself possesses none of  the graces of  the bride of  Christ and is herself  far from sweet. Absolon is soon to be enlightened on this very point, for Alison dismisses his words of  love with

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a contemptuous retort ‘Go fro the wyndow, Jakke fool’ (A 3708).57 Alison is not indeed a bride of  Christ but Absolon’s ‘lemman’, a word of suitably popular currency and repeated in such a way as to make us aware of its suitability in this context (A 3700, 3705, 3719 and 3726). The miseries of  love take Absolon from the contemplation of  the sweetness of  Alison to his own sweatiness: ‘for youre love I swete ther I go./ No wonder is thogh that I swelte and swete’ (A 3702–3).58 Once again Chaucer turns the language of  lovesickness to comic ef fect. Troilus’s ‘olde wo, that made his herte swelte’ begins ‘for joie wasten and tomelte’ (TC, III.347–48) at the prospect of obtaining Criseyde’s love. When Arcite is banished from Athens to Thebes ‘[f ]ul ofte a day he swelte and seyde “Allas!”/ For seen his lady shal he nevere mo’ (KnT, A 1356–57). The verbal play in The Miller’s Tale is insistent, with the addition of  the figure of adnominatio (the alteration of a single letter) in swelte/swete to that of sweete/swete. Absolon is nothing if not sensitive in the matter of smell. The lovesick Absolon desires his beloved ‘as dooth a lamb after the tete’ (A 3704). The image of  the lamb seeking the teat has for Pearsall ‘a prurient suggestiveness’,59 but it is in fact hopelessly inapposite. Absolon invokes the comforting relation of mother and child rather than the passionate encounter of mistress and lover. Absolon’s methods are less direct, and consequently less successful, than those of  Nicholas. They are the methods of a Troilus and not a Diomede, and with the additional disadvantage in Absolon’s case in that they are unaccompanied by the slightest instinct of  heroic suf fering. Absolon sets out on the conquest of  Alison in high spirits and in great hopes of success (again in marked contrast to the despairing Troilus). He is ‘ful joly and light’60 and ‘this joly lovere Absolon’ (A 3671 and 3688). His rejection by Alison is not only brutal but contemptible, and the vulgarity of  the heroine is such as to allow her to put her arse out through the window for Absolon to kiss (A 3714–43). His humiliation is complete, not only in the physical distastefulness of  the act of  kissing in itself (A 3747–49) but in the joke at his expense shared by the lovers (A 3720–22 and 3740–43). His folly (not his romantic idealism) has been exposed to ridicule and he has become ‘[t]his sely Absolon’ (A 3744). The transference of  the adjective sely, hitherto the sole property of  the carpenter, to a new person is a typically clever piece of  Chaucerian verbal play. The ef fect is similar to the

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reversal of  the values of vanity and cunning in respect of  the fox and the cock at the end of  The Nun’s Priest’s Tale (B2 4592–625). Absolon’s misdirected kiss, as it is happily called, also enables Chaucer to develop the theme of  lovesickness to a logical conclusion. Not only is such a kiss a perversion of  the highest physical form of erotic love-making, but it is also a cure for lovesickness: ‘For he was heeled of  his maladie’ (A 3757). Lovesickness (amor hereos) is a disease of  the brain resulting from a false estimation of  the merits of  the beloved and its consequences may well (and in some cases do) prove fatal. This may readily be appreciated from the tragic suf ferings of  Troilus, Arcite and Aurelius (not to say the dreamer, perhaps Chaucer himself, of  the opening of  The Book of  the Duchess). The cure for this disease is somehow to dispel the seemingly irresistible appeal of  the loved object, whether by other (preferably many) love af fairs or by a disparagement of  the beloved.61 These proposed cures inevitably lack appeal to the idealistic young lover, but Alison has succeeded in disparaging herself  by showing to Absolon the less attractive side of  her nature (and part of  her body). In doing so she has inadvertently and callously spared him the torments of  lovesickness. It is a satisfactory outcome to the posturings of  the would-be lover but, of course, not at all satisfactory to the humiliated parish clerk. He will not resign himself  to his fate, and (unlike Troilus who cannot bring himself  to unlove Criseyde) he will exact vengeance on Alison if  he is able to do so.

The Sely Carpenter The old carpenter is specifically the chief object of  the Miller’s ridicule (if not Chaucer’s) and the Miller’s antipathy is readily explained by an ageold professional rivalry (MilProl, A 3141–43). The carpenter is repeatedly described as sely. He is ‘[t]his sely jalous housbonde’ and ‘[t]his sely carpenter’ (3404, 3423 and 3601). In both cases he is identified by his roles as husband and carpenter and not by his personal name. Indeed, the repeated

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reference to ‘[t]his carpenter’ (A 3221, 3400, 3448, 3474, etc.), given the Miller’s partisanship, is suf ficient in itself  to suggest the old man’s folly. The meaning of sely as applied to the carpenter is indeed essentially ‘foolish’ or ‘gullible’.62 He is foolish in his jealousy, not only because jealousy itself, as sorrow for or envy of another’s joy,63 is a destructive and unworthy emotion, but also because jealousy is virtually inevitable in the incompatible relation of old husband and young wife. He ‘demed hymself  been lik a cokewold’ (A 3226) and he will turn out to be cuckolded in very fact. But the primary reference of sely in Middle English is spiritual and religious,64 and the ignorance of  the carpenter is to be seen above all in his superstition. Thus when he learns from his servant that Nicholas is staring open-mouthed in his room as if mad, his immediate reaction is to cross himself (albeit not in any personal danger) and to invoke the help of  St Frideswide, who was noted for her healing powers and especially for the casting out of devils (A 3448–50). And there is a further extended example of  this superstitious reaction when the carpenter attempts to rouse Nicholas from his fit (A 3474–86). It would seem that we are here in the world of popular piety where true devotion yields easily to excess (as in the case of  Spenser’s Corceca).65 The carpenter now crosses not himself  but the hapless student to spare him from the peril of evil spirits: ‘I crouche thee from elves and fro wightes’ (A 3479).66 The authority of  Christ and his passion are hardly suf ficient to allay the fears and anxieties of  the old carpenter, and he proceeds also to pray in aid St Benedict and St Peter’s sister (an obscure but doubtless worthy lady). The lack of discrimination is nothing if not bathetic. The sign of  the cross is in itself (or ought to be) of great spiritual ef ficacy, and it is used to such ef fect by Sir Gawain at moments of crisis in his quest for the Green Chapel (SGGK, 761, 763, 1202–3 and 2071).67 It is the old carpenter’s mindlessness that is the object of mockery here. The carpenter’s ignorance is underlined by his use of  the illiterate form astromye for astronomye (A 3451 and 3457). Although the MED records the use of  the word here merely as a variant form,68 the repetition of it in the space of a few lines in the context of  the carpenter’s expressed suspicion of  learning (of a kind that deeply informs Chaucer’s poetry throughout his career as a poet) strongly suggests that we are dealing here

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with a malapropism. That is surely confirmed by the carpenter’s subsequent reference to ‘Nowelis f lood’ (A 3818), the confusion of  Noah and Nowel being (one might think) an elementary error requiring an uncommon degree of ignorance.69 This is not to say that the suspicion of astronomy (and indeed any kind of  human learning) is entirely misguided in itself, and especially of  the allied claims of astrologers to determine propitious moments in the future for waging war or going on voyages. This matter is to become the subject of much anxious concern in The Man of  Law’s Tale (B1 309–15). There is a limit to human knowledge and such limitation has to be respected. Men should not attempt to pry into the divine mysteries: ‘Men sholde nat knowe of  Goddes pryvetee’ (A 3454).70 That is no more than ‘superstitiosa curiositas’, the vice of curiosity.71 It is a part of intemperance and is repudiated by Virgil in the fourth bolgia of  Malebolge (Inf., XX.29–30; Sinclair, I.251): ‘chi è più scellerato che colui/ che al giudicio divin passion comporta?/ Who is more guilty than he that makes the divine counsel subject to his will?’ In the Earthly Paradise Beatrice reminds the pilgrim Dante of  the distance between the highest human learning (the Scholastic philosophy in which he has been trained and by which he has been enlightened) and divine truth (Purg., XXXIII.82–90). But the carpenter is not given to subtle ref lections on the limitations of  Scholastic learning. He does not merely take his stand against the vice of curiosity, but exults in the ignorance of  the unlearned (A 3455–56) and of  ‘men that swynke’ (A 3491). The contrast with the learning of  the clever Nicholas (A 3190–98) is an ominous portent of  the future for the carpenter himself, and indeed Nicholas is able to exploit the carpenter’s willing assumption of divine mystery in unfolding his ingenious scheme of a second f lood. It is ‘Cristes conseil’ (A 3504) that Nicholas discloses to the carpenter, and the willingness of  ‘this sely man’ (A 3509) to believe such nonsense is evident at once in appeals to Christ’s ‘hooly blood’ and harrowing of  hell (A 3508–12) to testify to his capacity for discretion (though he reveals the matter at once to his wife). Why the carpenter and his wife will be spared in the second f lood (a happy chance) but not his servant, Robin, and maid, Gille (A 3555–56) is a matter of divine predestination too profound for the human mind to penetrate: ‘Axe nat why, for though thou aske me,/ I wol nat tellen Goddes pryvetee’ (A 3557–58).

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What counts more in the carpenter’s estimation is that he himself (a second Noah) and his beloved wife at least will be saved in the deluge that is to come (A 3559–61). Nicholas’s brilliant scheme has more to recommend it than the gullibi­ lity of  the old carpenter, for it has elements of plausibility. Although judicial astrology is to be condemned it is possible scientifically (with a reasonable amount of accuracy) to determine future ‘droghte or elles shoures’ (A 3196). Aquinas makes clear the distinction between such scientific knowledge and the sin of divination.72 It is knowledge of such a kind (the conjunction of  Saturn and Jupiter together with the Moon in Cancer) that Pandarus puts to good use to persuade Criseyde to remain at his home overnight and to enable Troilus to consummate his love for her (TC, III.511–651). For one of a superstitious bent, like John the carpenter, there is an additional plausibility in the clerk’s injunction to him to avoid sexual relations with his wife as they await the second f lood (A 3589–92), for it was traditional teaching that there was no copulation in the ark.73 Unlike God, John is an open book. He does not keep these divine mysteries to himself  but tells his wife ‘his pryvetee’ which she herself already knows ‘bet than he’ (A 3603–4). He alone is in earnest (A 3640–42) in uttering the meaningless word clom when he has settled himself securely in his tub (A 3638–39): ‘  “Now, Pater-noster, clom!” seyde Nicholay,/ And “Clom!” quod John, and “Clom!” seyde Alisoun’.74 Piety has been reduced to mumbo-jumbo and the shallowness of  the carpenter’s religious devotion is once again exposed. The Miller has set out to tell ‘a legende and a lyf ’ (MilProl, A 3141) and a legend is a saint’s life.75 Spenser’s legend of  Holiness or of  ‘Saint George of mery England’ (FQ, I.10.61) is the first of a series of  legends on which The Faerie Queene as a whole is constructed. At the heart of  The Miller’s Tale is a folly that reduces holiness and the practice of religion to credulousness and superstition. Nothing can be more worthy of ridicule than that (whether by the Miller or by Chaucer himself ).

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Comic Detachment The comic ef fects that are associated with fabliaux are usually undisturbed by any sympathy for the comic agents, as is abundantly clear in the stories of  Boccaccio’s Decameron, but in The Miller’s Tale Chaucer’s detailed descriptions of characters set up cross-currents, especially perhaps in the case of  the carpenter himself. At times we are allowed glimpses into the intimacy of  husband and wife, for the names of  John and Alison are first disclosed in their conversation in bed about Absolon’s serenading of  the wife (A 3364–69). This brief domestic scene creates a sense of the intrusiveness of  the parish clerk and his shameless pursuit of  his own self-interest (an interesting ref lection in itself on the nature of  lovesickness in lovers less noble than Troilus). A little later we are introduced to the carpenter’s concern for the mental health of  his student lodger. The concern for the mental stability of scholars (justified in some instances no doubt) is a reassuring refuge for those who cannot match their cleverness. Such concern in the case of the old carpenter takes its characteristic form. He is ‘adrad, by Seint Thomas,/ It stondeth nat aright with Nicholas’ (A 3425–26) and, for all the student’s presumption of  learning, the carpenter cannot entirely withhold some crumbs of  human compassion from him: ‘But yet, by Seint Thomas,/ Me reweth soore of  hende Nicholas’ (A 3461–62). St Thomas here is ‘Seint Thomas of  Kent’ (A 3291), that is, Thomas Becket, the object of  the pilgrimage of all the pilgrims to Canterbury (and in this respect a true object of veneration). He is invoked because of  his very popularity and also in connection with the parish church dedicated to him at Oseney where the carpenter worked at the adjoining abbey (A 3274, 3400 and 3657–70).76 Once again the details are telling details. The carpenter is a ready victim of  Nicholas’s ingenious plan for his cuckolding, since his reaction is a mixture of superstition and condescension in almost equal proportions. No doubt familiarity breeds contempt, and the carpenter is readily disposed (as many still are) to underestimate in ‘Nicholay’ (A 3477) the cleverness of a clever student lodger. At the same time the old carpenter shows a touching concern for the safety of 

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his wife at the mercy of a second f lood, and his anxiety on that account is almost too much for him to bear. His emotion is marked rhetorically by the figure of  traductio in the repeated ‘Allas’ and by the use of  the personal name reinforced by the possessive adjective: ‘Allas, my wyf ! / And shall she drenche? Allas, myn Alisoun!’ (A 3522–3). But the carpenter’s suf fering is pathetic not tragic, for it is self-centred and not noble and self-sacrificing. There are no heroes in The Miller’s Tale.

Poetic Justice It is sometimes thought that moral considerations can have no place in a fabliau, and this view has been clearly stated by Pearsall.77 But no human activity, even at the level of churls, is devoid of moral content, for choices are made even by millers, carpenters and students for means and ends good or bad. Further, poetry itself is a branch of ethics,78 and no category of medieval poetry can be excluded from such a definition. It is important to note that the clever and complex, not simple, plot of  The Miller’s Tale is worked out with scrupulous regard for the principle of poetic justice. Each of  the characters gets what his or her conduct deserves. In this respect there is a true moral impartiality in the telling. The carpenter is a worthy object of ridicule in that he is wealthy as well as ignorant. He is introduced in the second line of  the tale as ‘[a] riche gnof ’ (A 3188)79 and is likely to be found in the company of such nouveau riche as the five guildsmen of  the General Prologue (A 361–78), including in their number, as they do, a carpenter. He has a pretentious house with stables and a garden (A 3571–2). He has a serving boy or apprentice for himself, a knave (A 3431, 3434 and 3469) and is consequently described as his maister (A 3446). The master addresses the servant with due condescension in the singular form, as ‘thou Robyn’ (A 3466). He has also a maid for his dear wife, as Nicholas acknowledges (also in the familiar or condescending singular form) in putting the finishing touches to his scheme:

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‘thy mayde Gille’ (A 3556). But like many wealthy people the carpenter is mean in taking in a lodger to augment his income, and he is to suf fer for such meanness. His ignorance is accompanied by a foolish presumption, not only in his belief in the superiority of ignorant to learned men but also in his belief  that he can with impunity marry a young wife in disregard of  Cato’s maxim that ‘man sholde wedde his simylitude’ (A 3228). By such a marriage he becomes ‘so ful of jalousie’ as to strike terror into his wife (A 3294–6) and attempts to maintain his possession of  her by confining her closely as if in a cage (A 3224). This is meanness of another kind and contrasts with the generous love of a knight such as Arveragus for his wife. Arveragus does not waste his time when away from home (even for a period of  two years) by anxious thoughts about his wife’s conduct in his absence (FranT, F 1094–6). There is poetic justice in more ways than one in the fate that comes to af f lict this wretched man. He is taken in by the student’s cunning scheme, implausibly elaborate and complicated though it may be. In the figure of  ‘[t]his sely carpenter’ (A 3601 and 3614) we see the outwitting of a bourgeois victim by someone of superior intelligence. He suf fers the sorrows of  love (A 3614–19) but they arise improbably from fear of a second f lood rather than fear of  betrayal. The student supplants the carpenter in his own bed where he ‘is wont to lye’ (A 3651). By now the lodger, ‘Nicholay’ (A 3648), has become very familiar indeed. Yet worse (if worse is possible) is to follow. The carpenter breaks his arm as he comes crashing down to the f loor (A 3821–3): ‘he foond neither to selle, / Ne breed ne ale, til he cam to the celle / Upon the f loor, and there aswowne he lay’. Celle is a Kentish form of sille, referring to the paved f loor of a house, and so is to be distinguished from the f loor itself, that is, the ground beneath the f loor.80 The precision of  language here, as so often in the tale, is designed to emphasize the fact that the carpenter has reached terra firma. He has been brought down to earth, and all illusions about the second f lood have in the process been emphatically dispelled. Indeed, the carpenter ends up as a universal object of derision, and he deserves to be considered as mad for accepting Nicholas’s incredible plan (A 3833–48). There is no possibility for him of recovering the situation by a display of wit (as in the manner of  Chauntecleer in The Nun’s Priest’s

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Tale), for all his attempted explanations and justifications are bound to fall on deaf ears (A 3843–4): ‘For what so that this carpenter answerde, / It was for noght; no man his reson herde’. If  the Miller, in the larger view of  things, is bent on humiliating his hated rival, the Reeve, it would seem that he has done so to perfection. But the systematic humiliation of  the old carpenter is entirely deserved within the internal logic of  the tale. Superstition and ignorance rather than simple faith (as of  the Plowman) and possessiveness rather than love (as of  the knight Arveragus) are not admirable traits in one of any social class, and they remove from John the carpenter any real basis for sympathy. Poetic justice is served no less systematically on all the other characters in the tale. Nicholas is not so hende or courteous as the word so frequent­ly applied to him might seem to suggest. Indeed, at the end of  the tale, we see him in the decidedly unheroic acts of pissing and farting (A 3798 and 3806–8). Taking time out to piss during the course of  love-making (though it may be necessary) detracts from any possible idealization of love, and the point is reinforced by the juxtaposition of  the rhymes kisse/pisse (A 3797–8). These actions are suitably exaggerated, and the fart that sounds like a ‘thonder-dent’ (A 3807) fittingly presages the onset of  the second f lood. Fitting also is the smiting of  Nicholas in the arse with the ‘hoote kultour’ (A 3812), that is, the iron blade fixed in front of  the ploughshare (A 3760–3). In its way it is a fine example of  Dantean contrappasso, and indeed more precise than it would at first appear to refined readers apt to avoid the sordid details. The reading of  the Ellesmere manuscript (followed in The Riverside Chaucer) is ‘And Nicholas amydde the ers he smoot’ (A 3810), but the better-attested reading of  the Hengwrt manuscript is ‘And Nicholas in the ers he smoot’. In other words Absolon thrusts the coulter into the rectum and in so doing burns the toute (A 3812) or buttocks. This is not to be seen as an act of  buggery, as Thomas W. Ross suggests,81 but as a perfect act of vengeance. Absolon rams the blade up inside Nicholas, returning the injury whence it came. Of course we are not to treat his action in a literal physical way. Nicholas could not possibly survive such a blow in real life, and we are reassured at once to see that even in such an extremity his native wit remains unimpaired. He is able to take advantage of a discomfiture that is greater than his own in the carpenter’s sorry

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plight (A 3830–9). He is still ‘hende Nicholas’ (A 3832). In a similar fashion Absolon has to pay for his lovesickness and fastidiousness but nevertheless has been able to exact a measure of revenge. Only the carpenter is left without compensation of any kind. It is held by some critics that the wife alone escapes ridicule. One such critic is Pearsall, who comments that ‘[s]he is the one character who wins out in the end, who escapes scot-free’. This ref lection leads him to ‘ask … [as] it is often asked, why she is spared’.82 But Alison is not spared. She is not the true object of  love or devotion as any woman would surely wish to be, save in so far as such love is ridiculed in the figure of  Absolon. Instead she is the object of an old husband’s possessive jealousy and a lodger’s lust. She is not loved, but fucked. Chaucer uses the word swyved in respect of  her (A 3850) in its uncompromisingly obscene sense (a sense from which scholars and editors shy away but from which Chaucer himself does not). Its use is indeed unsparing in the manner of  fabliaux and its harshness inspires rebellion in many learned readers. But it is no more than Alison deserves. She it is who conceives of  the idea of  humiliating Absolon by putting her arse out for him to kiss (A 3718–43). Chaucer’s version of  the story is unique in assigning this role to the woman and not the man. The def lation of Absolon’s romantic expectations is, of course, all the greater. But at the same time this gross and unfeminine action on Alison’s part robs her of any claim upon our af fections and identifies her with her student lover. She is not merely a passive agent or an accomplice but an active participant in the obscene act at the centre of  the tale’s comic purpose.

Conclusion The Miller’s Tale has attracted admiration and embarrassment in almost equal proportions. This can hardly be an accidental fact but must be part of  Chaucer’s poetic intention. If we go out into the streets of  Oxford or Cambridge (or Dublin) at the present day the commonest word we are likely

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to hear is ‘fuck’. If we cannot tolerate such language then our sensibilities are going to be continually af fronted. But we must attempt to see beyond the rude words to the human realities they seek to express. In other words, we must not be fastidious as critics or we shall reduce ourselves to the level of  Absolon. We must not say ‘copulated with’ when Chaucer says swyved.

Notes See Gerald Morgan, ‘The Design of  the General Prologue to the Canterbury Tales’, ES, 59 (1978), 481–98. 2 Kenneth Sisam (ed.), The Nun’s Priest’s Tale (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1927), p. 15, omits lines B2 4357–59: ‘For whan I fele a-nyght your softe side – / Al be it that I may nat on you ryde, / For that oure perche is maad so narwe, allas – ’. Such lines are mild indeed by the standards of  The Miller’s Tale, but Sisam’s editorial decision to omit them indicates the problem of  taste with which we are here concerned. 3 Carolyne Larrington, ‘Talkin’ cock’, TLS, 10 July 2009, 7–8 (p. 7). 4 Joseph Bédier, Les Fabliaux, sixth edition (Paris: Champion, 1964), p. 30. 5 See MED, s.v. harlotri(e n. 2. ‘Low, trif ling, or ribald talk; foul jesting, scurrility, obscenity; also, a dirty story’. 6 See MED, s.v. viritot(e n. ‘?A child’s toy, perh. a top or a shuttlecock; ?a swing; bringen upon the ~ , fig. ?to cause (sb.) to rush about; ?bring (sb.) into a state of mental or physical agitation’. Karl P. Wentersdorf, ‘The “Viritoot” Crux in Chaucer’s Miller’s Tale’, ChR, 44 (2009), 110–13, reviews the proposed meanings and concludes that the phrase ‘upon the viritoot’ is a slang corruption of  the Latin cum virtute with reference to Absolon’s manhood and sexuality. 7 See MED, s.vv. ars n. 1.(a) ‘The anus, the rectum; excretory organ’ and savourli adv. (a) ‘With relish, enjoyment, pleasure, or contentment; greedily’. 8 See MED, s.v. cresse n. 2. ‘Something of no value; not a ~, nothing at all, not at all; nought worth a ~, not worth a damn’. 9 See MerT, E 1958–63, 2350–53 and 2360–63. 10 See MED, s.v. fert n. (a) ‘Wind or gas expelled through the anus, a fart’ and (b) leten (maken) a ~ , leten f lien a ~ , ‘to break wind’. 1

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See Eric Partridge, Shakespeare’s Bawdy: A Literary & Psychological Essay and a Comprehensive Glossary (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1955), pp. 11–12. 12 See MED, s.v. ars-metrik(e n. (a) ‘The “art” or “science” of measuring and calculating, being one of  the four disciplines comprised in the quadrivium (along with geometry, astronomy, and music)’. 13 See Valerie Allen, On Farting: Language and Laughter in the Middle Ages (New York and Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007), pp. 12, 26, 33, 127, 158 and 161–77. 14 See MED, s.vv. tabouren v. ‘To beat a drum’, trompen v. (a) ‘To sound a trumpet, horn, etc.’, gest(e n. (1) 1.(a) ‘A poem or song about heroic deeds, a chivalric romance’, ferten v. ‘To break wind, fart; also, to make indecent or unseemly sounds’ and fithelen v. ‘To play a stringed instrument, such as viol or lute; to recite or tell (a story); to entertain with song or story’. See also C XV.206–7. 15 See Partridge, Shakespeare’s Bawdy, pp. 10–11 and 165–66. 16 See OED, s.v. fuck, v. [Early mod.E fuck, fuk, answering to a ME type *fuken (wk verb) not found; ultimate etym. unknown. ] 1. intr. ‘To copulate. Trans. (Rarely used with female subject). To copulate with; to have sexual connection with’, from Dunbar, Poems, lxxv.13 ‘Be his feiris he wald haue fukkit’ (a 1503). 17 See MED, s.v. swiven v. (a) ‘To have sexual intercourse, copulate’; so Chaucer, CkT, A 4422, and (b) ‘to have sexual intercourse with (a woman)’; so Chaucer, MilT, A 3850, RvT, A 4178, 4266 and 4317, MerT, E 2378 and MancT, H 256 and 312. 18 Peter Ackroyd, A Retelling of  Geof frey Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales (London: Penguin Classics, 2009), is thus guilty of a stylistic infelicity, if not a direct mistranslation, when he renders Absolon’s plaintive and disgusted ‘Fy! Allas! What have I do?’ (A 3739) as ‘Fuck me,’ he said. ‘This isn’t right’ (p. 94). 19 See MED, s.vv. sotil adj. 1.(a) ‘Of a person, the intellect, etc.: penetrating; ingenious; perspicacious; sophisticated, refined’ and 2a.(a) ‘Of a person: cunning, crafty; skillful, clever’; queint(e adj. 1.(c) ‘crafty, wily; cunning, sly, deceitful’; priveli(e adv. 1.(d) ‘stealthily, furtively; treacherously’; queint(e n. 1.(a) ‘A clever or curious device or ornament’ and 2. ‘With punning on cunte n. : (a) “a woman’s external sex organ”  ’ and cunte n. [Corresp. to OI kunta, OFris., MDu. & MLG kunte] ‘A woman’s private parts’. 20 For the argument that queynte is etymologically distinct from cunte, euphemistic and not itself obscene, see Larry D. Benson, ‘The “Queynte” Punnings of  Chaucer’s Critics’, in Contradictions: From ‘Beowulf ’ to Chaucer: Selected Studies of  Larry D. Benson, edited by Theodore M. Andersson and Stephen A. Barney (Aldershot: Scolar Press, 1995), pp. 217–42 (pp. 227–41). Benson (p. 223) supplies a long list of such euphemisms, among them: ABC, Abraham’s bosom, almanack, 11

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Alpha and Omega, aphrodisiacal tennis court, bird’s nest, f lower of chivalry, Jack Straw’s castle, moneybox, pulpit, thingamabob, you-know-what, yum-yum. He notes that John S. Farmer and William Ernest Henley, editors of  the dictionary Slang and Its Analogues Past and Present (London: privately printed, 1896), list twelve hundred words and phrases that serve as euphemisms for ‘cunt’, outdoing John Cleland, author of  Fanny Hill, with a mere fifty and Rabelais with some two hundred (pp. 222–23). 21 Benson, ‘  “Queynte” Punnings’, p. 237. 22 George Steiner, My Unwritten Books (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 2008), p. 80: ‘Having, he claimed, made love during three days and nights, Zola staggered into the street enwrapped in the odour of sperm and of  fresh-baked bread, warm and golden as was his lover’s cunt at daybreak’. 23 See Decameron, edited by Vittore Branca, in Tutte le opere di Giovanni Boccaccio, 10 vols (Milan: Arnoldo Mondadori, 1964–1998), Volume IV (1976) and Peter G. Beidler, ‘The Reeve’s Tale’ in Correale and Hamel, I.23–73 (p. 26). 24 Helen Cooper, ‘The Frame’, in Correale and Hamel, I.1–22 (p. 13). 25 See Per Nykrog, Les Fabliaux: Etude d’histoire littéraire et de stylistique médiévale (Copenhagen: Ejnar Munksgaard, 1957), pp. 70–71 and 139. 26 See J.A.W. Bennett, Chaucer at Oxford and at Cambridge (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1974). 27 See J.R.R. Tolkien, ‘Chaucer as Philologist: The Reeve’s Tale’, Transactions of  the Philological Society (1934), 1–70. 28 This point is well made by Derek Pearsall, The Canterbury Tales (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1985), pp. 171–72. 29 See MED, s.v. setewal(e n. (a) ‘The root of a plant of  the species Curcuma, esp. the long zedoary (Curcuma zedoaria); also, the plant itself ’. Zedoary is a spice resembling ginger. 30 See MED, s.vv. fredom n. 2. ‘Nobility of character; esp., generosity, liberality’; derne adj. 5. ‘ … ~ love, secret love, clandestine or illicit love’; sleigh adj. 1.(d) ‘crafty, cunning; deceitful’ and prive adj. (1) 1.(f ) ‘stealthy, furtive, treacherous’ and 2.(d) ‘trusty, trustworthy; discreet, close-mouthed’. 31 See Benson, p. 843 and The Miller’s Tale, edited by Thomas W. Ross, in A Variorum Edition of  The Works of  Geof frey Chaucer, Volume II, Part 3, The Canterbury Tales (Norman, OK: University of  Oklahoma Press, 1983), p. 134. 32 See E. Talbot Donaldson, ‘Idiom of  Popular Poetry in the Miller’s Tale’, English Institute Essays 1950, edited by A.S. Downer (New York: Columbia University, 1951), pp. 116–40, in Speaking of  Chaucer (London: The Athlone Press, 1970), pp. 13–29 (pp. 17–19) and MED, s.v. hend(e adj. 1.(a) ‘Having the approved

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courtly or knightly qualities, noble, courtly, well-bred, refined, sportsmanlike’, 3.(a) ‘Skilled, clever, crafty’ and 4. ‘Near, close by, handy’. 33 See MED, s.vv. gent adj. 1.(b) ‘of persons, the body, limbs, etc.: beautiful, graceful, shapely, attractive; fair and ~ ’ and smal adj. 3.(b) ‘of a person, an animal, a part of  the body: slim, slender, gracefully formed’. 34 See MED, s.v. lasen v. 1.(b) ‘to tighten (a garment with slits or openings) by pulling up laces; … lace (shoes, usually open at the sides)’. 35 See MED, s.vv. blisful adj. 1.(b) ‘giving joy, joyous, pleasing’ and 3.(c) ‘fair, beautiful’, and pere-jonet(te n. ‘An early-ripening pear’. MED derives jonette from F.dial. joanet, jouanet(te, that is, ‘ripe by St John’s Day, early ripe’. The suggestion is one of youthful sexual attractiveness, and perhaps also of an attractiveness that may not last very long. See Benson, p. 844. 36 See MED, s.v. popelot(e n. ‘A pet or darling’. This is a unique occurrence of  the word in ME. 37 See MED, s.v. wether n. 1.(a) ‘A male sheep, ram’. 38 See MED, s.vv. joli adj. 2.(b) ‘playful, frisky’ and colt n. 1.(a) ‘The young of a horse, ass, or camel’ and 3. ‘Idioms, sayings, proverbs: … haven a coltes toth, to have youthful desires, be lascivious’. 39 These comparisons are Chaucer’s additions to the text of  the Teseida at this point (III.8). 40 See MED, s.v. bright adj. 2.(c) ‘of persons: having a fresh or rosy complexion, fair’. 41 See MED, s.vv. lif li adv. (e) ‘vividly, brilliantly’ and heuen v. (2) 2. ‘To have (a certain) complexion; – p. ppl. only’. 42 On the scale of sensible goods, see In de anima, 418. The exercise of  the senses of  touch, taste and smell always involves a material change whereas that of sight and hearing (and especially sight) involves only a spiritual change. 43 See MED, s.vv. bragot n. ‘A beverage made of ale and honey’ and med(e n. (1) ‘Mead’. 44 See MED, s.vv. primerol(e n. 1.(a) ‘Any of several f lowers, esp. those of  the genus Primula, the primrose or cowslip’ and 2.(c) ‘fig. a young woman’ and pigges-nie n. ‘An af fectionate epithet; ?a f lower’. 45 See MED, s.v. wench(e n. (a) ‘A girl, esp. an unmarried girl, a maiden; a young woman; – occas. with disparaging overtones’ and (d) ‘a concubine, paramour, mistress; a strumpet, harlot’. 46 See Bennett, Chaucer at Oxford and Cambridge, p. 42. 47 See, for example, Kyng Alisaunder, edited by G.V. Smithers, EETS (OS) 227 and 237, 2 vols (London: Oxford University Press, 1952 and 1957) (c. 1300), 7823: ‘And Absolon þat so fair was’.

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48 For the perfection of colour, compare the description of  Chauntecleer: ‘His byle was blak, and as the jeet it shoon’ (NPT, B2 4051). 49 See MED, s.vv. strouten v. (a) ‘To stick out, protrude; bulge, swell’; fan(ne n. 3. ‘A fan for wafting air’; joli adj. 3.(c) ‘of  things, colors, an action, chanting, a way of  life: pleasant, beautiful, pretty, elegant, excellent’ and shed(e n. (a) ‘The parting of  the hair; ?also, the crown of  the head’. 50 See MED, s.v. quinible adj. (b) ‘as noun: a musical tone one octave above the treble, i.e. a falsetto, very high voice’ and compare the Pardoner (GP, A 688): ‘A voys he hadde as smal as hath a goot’. 51 See MED, s.vv. squaimous adj. (c) ~ of, ‘disgusted or repelled by (sth.), contemptuous of ’ and daungerous adj. 2.(a) ‘Of a person: dif ficult to deal with or to approach, unaccommodating; haughty, aloof; reserved, reluctant’ and (b) ‘hard to please, critical, fastidious’. 52 I agree with Pearsall, The Canterbury Tales, that the ‘consciousness of  his [the Miller’s] presence fades rapidly, and by the middle of  the tale he has become part of  the subject-matter of  the narrative’ (p. 172). 53 See MED, s.v. joli adj. 1.(a) ‘Merry, cheerful, glad, joyful, happy’ and 3.(a) ‘Pleasing, comely, beautiful, handsome; noble in appearance; handsomely dressed’. 54 Compare ‘Good goodly, to whom serve I and laboure/ As I best kan, now wolde God Criseyde,/ Ye wolden on me rewe, er that I deyde!/ My dere herte, allas, myn hele and hewe/ And lif is lost, but ye wol on me rewe!’ (TC, I.458–62) and ‘Considere al this and rewe upon my soore,/ As wisly as I shal for everemoore,/ Emforth my myght, thy trewe servant be’ (KnT, A 2233–35). 55 See MED, s.vv. mene n. (3) 1.(c) ‘a trick, contrivance; a present, bribe’ and 2.(a) ‘An intermediary, negotiator, go-between’; brokage n. 2. ‘Mediation between the sexes, employment of a go-between; match-making, procuring’; piment n. (a) ‘A sweetened, spiced wine used for refreshment and in medical recipes’ and mede n. (4) la. (a) ‘A gift; noble or royal endowment; a suitor’s blandishments’ and Gerald Morgan, ‘Chaucer’s Adaptation of  Boccaccio’s Temple of  Venus in The Parliament of  Fowls’, RES, NS, 56 (2005), 1–36 (pp. 16–22). 56 See MED, s.vv. honi-comb n. (a) ‘A honeycomb’ and (b) ‘as a term of endearment’; brid n. 3b. (a) ‘As a term of endearment; sweetheart’ and cinamom(e n. (a) ‘The cinnamon tree’ and (c) ‘used as a term of endearment’. Absolon’s address to Alison supplies the only examples of  these usages recorded by MED and clearly Chaucer intends them to have a special resonance. See Canticum Canticorum, 4.11 and 14: ‘Favus distillans labia tua, sponsa; … / Nardus et crocus, fistula et cinnamomum,/ Thy lips, my spouse, are as dropping honeycomb, … / Spikenard and saf fron, sweet cane and cinnamon’.

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57 See MED, s.v. jak(ke n. (1) 1.(a) ‘A man’s name applied familiarly or contemptuously to anybody, especially to one of  the lower classes’. 58 See MED, s.v. swelten v. 2.(a) ‘To become unconscious, faint, swoon’; (b) ‘to become faint, feel faint or weak’ and (c) ‘to swelter, be overcome by heat; also, fig. be overcome by love, desire, or emotion’. 59 Pearsall, The Canterbury Tales, p. 176. 60 See MED, s.v. light adj. (2) 7.(a) ‘Of persons, the heart or soul: cheerful, merry, joyful’. 61 See Bona Fortuna, Tractatus super Viaticum (139–44): ‘Et … medicus de sua industria administret illa que viderit valere ad curam. Verumtamen hoc est optimum quod cum aliis mulieribus et etiam cum diversis. Si vero paciens aliquo modo sit corrigibilis, tunc debemus narrare rem cum feditatibus et turpitudinibus suis et narrare omnia vicia que possumus de re amata,/ And … let the physician by his ef forts administer those things that he sees will be useful for the cure. Indeed, this is best, that he have intercourse with other women, and also with dif ferent ones. If indeed the patient is in any way corrigible, then we ought to discuss the [beloved] object with its filthy and loathsome qualities, and relate all the vicious things that we can concerning the beloved object’ (Wack, pp. 260–63). On the malady of  love, see Gerald Morgan, The Tragic Argument of  Troilus and Criseyde, 2 vols (Lewiston, NY, Queenston, Ontario and Lampeter: The Edwin Mellen Press, 2005), pp. 71–123. 62 See MED, s.v. seli adj. 2.(b) ‘simple, guileless; foolish, gullible; doting; also, ignorant’. 63 See Aquinas, ST, 1a 2ae 28.4 and 35.8. 64 See MED, s.v. seli adj. 1.(a) ‘Spiritually favored, blessed; holy, virtuous; also, bringing God’s favor, bringing blessing’. 65 Corceca stands for that ‘blind Deuotion’ (FQ, argument to Book I, canto 3) or species of superstition characterized by a preoccupation with exterior acts in such a way as to reduce the virtue of  holiness to mere externals. See Gerald Morgan, ‘Holiness as the First of  Spenser’s Aristotelian Moral Virtues’, MLR, 81 (1986), 817–37 (p. 824) and ST, 2a 2ae 92.2. 66 See MED, s.vv. crouchen v. (1) (a) ‘To make the sign of  the cross upon (sb.); cross (oneself ); ~ from, guard (sb.) from (evil) by means of a spell involving the cross’; elf n. 1. ‘A supernatural being having magical powers for good or evil; a spirit, fairy, goblin, incubus, succubus, or the like’ and wight n. 1.(c) ‘an unnatural or monstrous being; a supernatural creature, demon; specif. the devil, Satan’. 67 The verb that is used in the first three instances is sayned (MED, s.v. signen v. (1) 1. (b) ) and in the fourth it is blessed (MED, s.v. blessen v. 5).

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68 See MED, s.v. astronomie n. (1) (a) ‘Astronomy together with astrology (one of  the “seven arts” in the curriculum of  the medieval university)’ and (c) ‘astrology; divination’. The two examples from The Miller’s Tale are the only examples among all those supplied by MED with the spelling astromie. 69 See MED, s.vv. Noe n. (a) ‘Noah, the Biblical patriarch’; f lod n. 2.(a) ‘An inundation, a f lood’ and (b) ‘used with ref. to the Deluge; Noe(s) ~, Noah’s f lood’ and nouel n. (1) 1. ‘Christmas, the feast of  the Nativity’ (see SGGK, 64–65) and 2.(a) ‘A cry of joy at the birth of  Christ, esp. in carols of  the Annunciation and the Nativity’ (see FranT, F 1252–55). 70 See MED, s.v. privete n. 3.(a) ‘A sacred mystery, divine secret; revelation’ and (b) ‘goddes privete(s, … divine secrets’. 71 See Aquinas, ST, 2a 2ae 167.1 and 2a 2ae 95.5. 72 See ST, 2a 2ae 95.5: ‘Si vero aliquis utatur consideratione astrorum ad praecognoscendum futura quae ex caelestibus causantur corporibus, puta siccitates et pluvias et alia hujusmodi, non erit illicita divinatio nec superstitiosa,/ But if someone uses astronomic observation to forecast future events which are actually determined by physical laws, for instance, drought and rainfall, and so forth, then this is neither superstitious nor sinful’ (translated by Thomas Franklin O’Meara and Michael John Duf f y). 73 See Bennett, Chaucer at Oxford and Cambridge, p. 37. 74 See MED, s.v. clom n. (1) (a) ‘Silence’ and (b) ‘as interj.: Be silent! Mum’s the word!’. 75 See MED, s.v. legende n. 1.(a) ‘A written account of  the life of a saint’ and (b) ‘a collection of saints’ lives’ and 3.(a) ‘A story about a person’. The earliest examples of  these senses are all from Chaucer’s works. 76 Bennett, Chaucer at Oxford and Cambridge, pp. 15, 24, 30 and 52–56. 77 Pearsall, The Canterbury Tales, p. 67. 78 So Dante famously describes the nature of  the Commedia in the letter to Can Grande della Scala (c. 1319). See Epistola X, § 16: ‘Genus philosophiae sub quo hic in toto et parte proceditur est morale negotium, sive ethica; quia non ad speculandum, sed ad opus inventum est totum et pars, / The branch of philosophy to which the work is subject, in the whole as in the part, is that of morals or ethics; inasmuch as the whole as well as the part was conceived, not for speculation, but with a practical object.’ Reference is to Paget Toynbee (ed.), Dantis Alagherii Epistolae: The Letters of  Dante, second edition (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1966), pp. 178 and 202. 79 See MED, s.v. gnof n. ‘An ill-mannered fellow, churl, lout.’ This is the only recorded instance of  the word in Middle English, and is related by MED to EFris. Knufe

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‘a lump’ and gnuf fig ‘ill-mannered, coarse.’ The phrase ‘riche gnof ’ is highly derogatory in its identification of  the ignorance of wealth. 80 See MED, s.v. sil(le n. (d) ‘the paved f loor of a house or hall’ and f lor n. 2. ‘The base or foundation of a building’ and 4.(a) ‘The ground; solid ground (to walk on).’ 81 Ross, The Miller’s Tales, p. 233. 82 Pearsall, The Canterbury Tales, pp. 177–78.

6  Chaucer’s Man of  Law and the Argument    for Providence

Sedem quidem iudicandi, quae est quasi thronus dei, non praesumat quis ascendere insipiens et indoctus, ne lucem ponat tenebras et tenebras lucem, … Iuris prudentia est divinarum atque humanarum rerum notitia, iusti atque iniusti scientia. Iuris praecepta sunt tria haec: honeste vivere, alterum non laedere, ius suum unicuique tribuere. BRACTON, De legibus et consuetudinibus Angliae, II.21 and 251 ‘I woot wel clerkes wol seyn as hem leste By argumentz, that al is for the beste, Though I ne kan the causes nat yknowe. But thilke God that made wynd to blowe As kepe my lord! This my conclusion. To clerkes lete I al disputison.’ — CHAUCER, The Franklin’s Tale, F 885–90

The Sergeant of  Law as Teller The Man of  Law’s Tale makes extravagant demands upon the intelligence and above all the judgment of its readers. There are many who will sympathize with Helen Cooper in finding it ‘hard to credit so serious a thinker as Chaucer … with believing that the naïve folk piety of  the tale, with its miracles provided to order, answered any serious questions’.2 In such a case the theory of  the fallible narrator will seem like a blessing from heaven, and one critic after another has hastened to take advantage of it. Chauncey Wood condemns the Man of  Law in the role of narrator as ‘glaringly obtuse’

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and convicts him of  ‘short-sightedness’, ‘morbid determinism’ and ‘blindness’.3 Rodney Delasanta goes so far as to refer to the Man of  Law’s ‘pharisaical schizophrenia’.4 The unsoundness of  this approach to the texts of  The Canterbury Tales has now been brilliantly exposed by A.C. Spearing, first of all in an article on The Man of  Law’s Tale,5 and subsequently in a booklong study.6 It is evident, as Spearing concludes, that ‘hatred and contempt for the tale as Chaucer wrote it’ has been ‘displaced on to the wretched teller’.7 Such a procedure is not only theoretically unsound, for we can hardly suppose the lawyer to be any less serious a thinker than Chaucer himself. How else can we possibly explain the eminence of  the lawyer in his chosen profession?8 Indeed, it is necessary for the reader of  The Man of  Law’s Tale to take due note of and grant credence to the favourable presentation of  the figure of  the Man of  Law in the sequence of portraits in the General Prologue (A 309–30). Chaucer’s own experience as a Justice of  the Peace for Kent in 1385–1389 is likely to have inspired in him an admiration for one so technically proficient in legal matters.9 Chaucer’s lawyer is undoubtedly a most distinguished lawyer, ‘ful riche of excellence’ (GP, A 311). Serjeants-at-law formed a select group from which the judges were exclusively drawn and only twenty-one were made in the reign of  Richard II (1377–1399). Such men were well known to Chaucer, for of  the six lawyers among the eighteen justices serving with him in the two peace commissions in which he was included (October 1385 and June 1386) five were already serjeants-at-law by 1385 (Sir Robert Belknap, Sir Walter Clopton, Sir David Hanmer, Sir William Rickhill and Sir Robert Tresilian) and the sixth, Sir William Brenchley, was made serjeant-at-law during the period of  Chaucer’s appointment. The distinction of  these men, individually and collectively, is beyond dispute. Belknap had been appointed chief justice of  the Common Pleas in 1374. Tresilian had been appointed chief justice of  the King’s Bench in 1381 and was succeeded after his execution for treason on 19 February 1388 by Clopton. Hanmer had been appointed justice for South Wales in 1381 and justice of  the King’s Bench in 1383, while Rickhill became justice of  the Common Pleas in 1389.10 These men are knights, and the social status of  the serjeants-at-law was comparable to that of  knights.11 Hence the Host addresses the lawyer (with no evidently ironic lack of respect) as ‘  “Sire Man of  Lawe”  ’ (B1 33)

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when he comes to invite him to tell his tale.12 This distinguished background explains Chaucer’s only major criticism of  his lawyer, namely, his sense of  his own self-importance. This seems inseparable from the dignity of  his of fice. When handing down magisterial judgments with all the solemnity of  the law it is easy to forget one’s own vulnerability as a human being, or perhaps it is necessary to mask it so that solemn utterance becomes as a second nature (GP, A 312–15): Discreet he was and of greet reverence – He semed swich, his wordes weren so wise. Justice he was ful often in assise, By patente and by pleyn commissioun.13

It must be dif ficult to exercise such authority without the consciousness of one’s fitness to do so. Hence the sense of self-importance is the besetting sin of  lawyers, however admirable an individual’s commitment to justice might be. The sense of self-importance of  Chaucer’s lawyer is reinforced by his busyness, for he is ever aware of great matters to attend to and weighty verdicts to be delivered. The implication is that his time is valuable (he must have made a special ef fort to be on the pilgrimage to Canterbury) and he cannot waste his time on trivial matters (GP, A 321–22): Nowher so bisy a man as he ther nas, And yet he semed bisier than he was.

Indeed, judges are characteristically remote from the af fairs of ordinary people. On the other hand it would be an injustice on our part to deny that he is wise, learned and dignified, and these qualities are signified in the first line of  the portrait in the significant collocation ‘war and wys’ (GP, A 309). Once again there is nothing in the immediate context to suggest that these words can possibly be ironic. The similar collocation of  ‘wise and warie’ is familiar to us from Spenser’s Legend of  Temperance and marks the achievement of  Guyon in resisting Phaedria, for ‘he was wise, and wary of  her will’ (FQ, II.6.26), and in coming safely through the Cave of  Mammon, for ‘he was wary wise in all his way’ (FQ, II.7.64). The point is

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that the prudent man is also vigilant, for while he takes time to deliberate he is quick to carry out what has been decided.14 Moreover, the suggestion of  the lawyer’s sense of self-importance is qualified by the reference also to his simple, unostentatious dress, far removed from the finery associated with the legal profession (GP, A 328–30): He rood but hoomly in a medlee cote, Girt with a ceint of silk, with barres smale; Of  his array telle I no lenger tale.15

The final line of  the portrait of  the Serjeant-at-law is nicely understated in a way that matches the lawyer’s lack of ostentation, and ends the portrait as it begins on a favourable and positive note. The Serjeant-at-law’s worldly success has not (like that of many lawyers before and since) distracted him from the true principles of justice. How remarkably sympathetic Chaucer’s portrait of  the lawyer in fact is may be seen at once from a comparison with Langland’s satirical pre­ sentation of  lawyers in the Prologue of  Piers Plowman (B Prol. 211–16): Yet houed þer an hundred in howues of selke – Sergeantȝ, it semed, þat serueden at þe Barre, Pleteden for penyes and poundes þe lawe, And noȝt for loue of  Oure Lord vnlose hire lippes ones. Thow myȝtest bettre meete myst on Maluerne Hilles Than get a ‘mom’ of  hire mouþ er moneie be shewed!16

Whereas Chaucer shares with Langland an admiration for the humble, industrious and God-fearing ploughman (GP, A 529–41), there is a marked divergence between the two poets in respect of  lawyers. Perhaps Langland is more impressed by the general and long-standing reputation of  lawyers for venality in the context of an argument against cupidity (the great theme of  the first vision of  Piers Plowman) and Chaucer by the contribution of  lawyers to the evolution of  English Common Law in the later Middle Ages (a matter for him of  first-hand experience as a Justice of  the Peace). Bracton (c. 1210–1268) reminds us that the king will select as his judges ‘viros sapientes et timentes deum in quibus sit veritas eloquiorum,/ wise and God-fearing men in whom there is the truth of eloquence’. These are

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men ‘qui oderint avaritiam, quae inducit cupiditatem,/ who shun avarice which breeds covetousness’ and ‘qui ad dextram neque ad sinistram viae propter prosperitatem terrenam vel adversitatis metum a tramite iustitiae non declinent,/ who will not stray either to the left or the right from the straight path of justice for material prosperity or fear of adversity’ (De legibus, II.306–7). This is not to say that Chaucer’s lawyer is not wealthy. Like all lawyers he is able to use his legal expertise to accumulate wealth, whether on his own behalf or on that of  his clients (GP, A 318–20). The administration of  the law is a complex and expensive business, and often involves the outlay of great sums of money (no less in modern times as in the Middle Ages). Bracton leads us to understand not that lawyers are not wealthy, but that the best judges are not unduly distracted by considerations of wealth. Thus in the context of  the pilgrimage to Canterbury the Host’s deferential manner of address to the Man of  Law is well-judged, and indeed ref lective of  the courtesies of  legal discourse at all periods. The reader is thus invited to cultivate a respect for the Man of  Law as teller of  his tale of  the kind accorded to a judge in summing up a case. We expect from the finest legal minds not obtuseness but subtlety and conviction in the development of a detailed and complicated argument, and above all a commitment to universal principles of justice and truth. It is fitting, then, that a tale about the divine justice should be assigned to a distinguished representative of  human justice, and indeed the seriousness of  the subject is matched by the dignity of  the teller. The Man of  Law begins his tale ‘with a sobre cheere’ (B1 97), that is, with a solemn expression. It is a serious tale and it is told in rime royal in an uncompromisingly serious way. Something of  the wisdom of  the lawyer is to be seen in the Christian orthodoxy of the position adopted by the narrator of the tale (although this remains, to some extent, a matter of dispute). At the same time the tale is filled with the strong feelings that arise from the narrator’s identification with the suf ferings of  his heroine. He is impassioned in his responses to external misfortunes and to acts of virtue and wickedness. This ought to occasion no surprise in a lawyer. Calmness and precision of reasoning do not imply an emotional indif ference to the spectacles of misery and degradation to be witnessed on a regular basis in the activity of  legal courts.

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Introduction We get more of a sense of  the Man of  Law as a moral being in the introduction to his tale (B1 1–98). The Host raises issues of  freedom and judgment in the legal terminology with which the Man of  Law is familiar when he invites him to tell his tale (B1 35–36): ‘Ye been submytted, thurgh youre free assent, To stonden in this cas at my juggement.’17

Submytted, cas and juggement are all legal terms and carry with them an oblique legal reference or correspondence to the theme of submission that is linked to freedom and moral judgment in the tale itself. In his response the Man of  Law acknowledges the force of  the obligation inherent in a promise (B1 41–42): ‘Biheste is dette, and I wole holde fayn Al my biheste, I kan no bettre sayn.’18

Here again the language has a legal edge to it and we may appreciate the punctiliousness of  the lawyer, but at the same time it conveys a recognition of  the moral law. The sentiment is indeed that of an Arveragus who holds that ‘[t]routhe is the hyeste thyng that man may kepe’ (FranT, F 1479). The Man of  Law has read with attention the representation of  the suf ferings and virtues of women in Chaucer’s own works, from the story of  Alcyone in The Book of  the Duchess (BD, 62–220; MLT, B1 57) to the noble wives and lovers of  The Legend of  Good Women. It is an extraordinary and audacious reference by Chaucer the poet to his own work within the fiction of  the pilgrimage to Canterbury, but it has the fictional purpose of showing that the lawyer is well read in literature (as many lawyers are) as well as being an expert in the technicalities of  the law. The Man of  Law is not overawed by the poet Chaucer as many of  Chaucer’s modern readers justly are. He knows that Chaucer is a prolific writer with a wide reputation (B1 45–56), but he himself  has an easy familiarity with the poet’s work, and in this respect too he has mastered his brief. Thus he supplies not only

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the names of  the deserted lovers of  The Legend of  Good Women (with the exception of  Cleopatra and Philomela), but for good measure adds to them similar examples from his own reading of  Ovid’s Heroides, for the Latin original is no obstacle for a trained lawyer (B1 60–76). The Man of  Law begins his catalogue with the familiar names of  Lucretia, Thisbe, Dido and Phyllis (all drawn from The Legend of  Good Women (V, II, III and VIII) and rounds the list of f with the famous pairing of  Penelope and Alcestis, used more than once by Chaucer as exemplary of wifely fidelity.19 In the body of  the catalogue he includes six names taken from the Heroides, namely, Deianira and Hermione (B1 66), Hero, Helen, Briseis (that is, ‘Brixseyde’, the captive of  Achilles, not Criseyde) and Laodamia (B1 69–71) (Heroides, IX, VIII, XVIII–XIX, XVI, XIII and III). Three of  these names, Helen, Hero and Laodamia, as well as Penelope, appear in the famous ballade of  the Prologue of  The Legend of  Good Women (G 208, 217 and 206). They are worthy of comparison with but inferior to Alcestis, queen of  the god of  love, in the recurring refrain at the end of each stanza: ‘Alceste is here, that al that may desteyne’ (G 209, 216 and 223).20 The examples of  Ariadne and Hypsipyle (B1 67) and of  Medea and Hypermnestra (B1 72–75) are also drawn from The Legend of  Good Women (VI, IV and IX). The reference to Hermione, the daughter of  Helen and Menelaus and the wife of  Orestes, is unique in Chaucer. It is intended, perhaps, as a mark of  the lawyer’s eye for detail. The Man of  Law knows more about these women than their mere names. He knows that Dido slew herself with Aeneas’s own sword (B1 64). He might well have taken this detail from The Legend of  Good Women itself (F 1349–51), but perhaps he also glances at that terrible scene in the Aeneid when Dido, mad with grief and fury, mounts the pyre ‘ensemque recludit/ Dardanium, non hos quaesitum munus in usus,/ and unsheathes the Dardan sword, a gift besought for no such end’ (IV.646–47). His reference to the tree from which Phyllis hanged herself  for the love of  Demophon (B1 65) is however an unusual detail, and is not to be found either in The Legend of  Good Women or in the Heroides. If not an error, it suggests a wide and precise knowledge gathered by independent reading and impresses in the way that the youthful Samuel Johnson impressed with his knowledge of  Macrobius.21 He is also moved to elaborate on the cruelty of  Medea in

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hanging her children by the neck because of  the falseness of  Jason. This is a matter entirely passed over by Chaucer in the Legend of  Medea (LGW, F 1656–59), for here Chaucer wished to emphasize rather Medea’s ‘trouthe and … kyndenesse’ (LGW, 1664). The Man of  Law sees that such acts of vengeance in those driven mad by love are in many cases inevitable, but he has no wish to commend them and they are not to his taste. It is for such reasons that he does not include a reference to the story of  Philomela, a story which on Chaucer’s own account is so foul that the very reading of it makes his ‘eyen wexe foule and sore also’ (LGW, 2240). The positive moral bearings of  the examples cited by the Man of  Law probably also explain the absence of a reference to Cleopatra, for her marriage to Antony was made possible only by his desertion of  Octavia (LGW, 592–95). The Man of  Law’s moral convictions come to the surface, however, in the lines that follow where he cannot conceal his detestation of  the vice of incest, whether in the form of  the love of sister for brother (Canace) or of  father for daughter (Antiochus) (B1 77–89). He has no time for ‘swiche cursed stories’ and ‘swiche unkynde abhomynacions’ (B1 80 and 88). He is at one here with the Wife of  Bath who finds the bestiality of  Pasiphae ‘a grisly thyng’ (WBProl, D 735).22 And, more importantly, he is at one with Chaucer in his avoidance of such distasteful matters (apart, that is, from the necessity of rebuke). He brings to an end his opening statement with an oblique but confident allusion to the ‘Pierides’ and the ‘Methamorphosios’ (B1 91–93). He is not so presumptuous as to engage Chaucer in competition in the art of storytelling, for he has no wish to suf fer the fate of  that ‘stolidarum turba sororum,/ throng of senseless sisters’ (Met., V.305), daughters of  Pierus of  Emathia (hence also ‘Emathides’, Met., V.669), who challenged the Muses to a contest in singing and, put to shame by the eloquence of  Calliope, were turned into magpies for their pains (Met., V.294–678).23 Perhaps also he recalls Dante’s dismissive reference to them in summoning to his own aid that eloquence ‘di cui le Piche misere sentiro/ lo colpo tal, che disperar perdono,/ which smote the ears of  the wretched pies so that they despaired of pardon’ at the beginning of  his second cantica (Purg., I.11–12; Sinclair, II.19). The Man of  Law, a prudent man, is therefore ostentatious in avoiding such an error as he presents to the audience of pilgrims his own

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humble fare of  ‘hawebake’ (B1 95).24 After all, prose is his medium in the exposition of  the law, not verse (B1 96). But when it comes to it (in the space of  three mere lines) he embarks on his tale in the highest poetic vein in rime royal, the chosen vehicle of  the master himself in the composition of  his great tragic poem, Troilus and Criseyde. But the Man of  Law knows well enough (even if  he cannot match Chaucer’s poetic eloquence) that decorum and the seriousness of  his own subject-matter require nothing less. The lawyer and the poet are at one in their moral sympathies and here they become one in style. In this brief introduction to The Man of  Law’s Tale, therefore, Chaucer goes to extraordinary lengths to establish a complicity between lawyer and poet. Perhaps it is the very force and pervasiveness of  the contemporary satire of  lawyers that account for these narrative convolutions. But it seems clear that the narrative of  The Man of  Law’s Tale is designed to embody both the wisdom of  the lawyer exercised in many problematic and contentious matters of  human justice and also the rhetorical skills of a great poet at the height of  his powers. By manipulating the fictional voice of  the Man of  Law in this fashion Chaucer seems to be equating the authority of  the Man of  Law with his own. The argument of  The Man of  Law’s Tale is thus not undermined but reinforced by the Man of  Law as teller.

Prologue The Prologue to The Man of  Law’s Tale consists of an invocation of  the harmfulness of poverty, and it leads naturally enough to an expression of  the desirability of wealth as possessed by merchants and so to the tale itself as derived from a merchant. This might nowadays seem a self-interested argument for a Celtic tiger, but we must understand that real poverty is oppressive to the human spirit. Those who are poor must learn to accept many injustices in life apart from the injustice of poverty itself.

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The relevance of  this matter to the tale is problematic and its authenticity has on occasion been called into question. But the use of rime royal for prologue and tale alike and, more particularly, of  Innocent III’s De miseria condicionis humane as the basis for B1 99–121 argue for a real link between the two. Indeed, Innocent’s work is drawn upon repeatedly in the body of  the tale to substantiate a moral argument, as, for example, joy succeeded by misery (B1 421–27), the evils of drunkenness (B1 771–77), the foulness of  lust and its end in sorrow (B1 925–29), the transience of earthly joy (B1 1132–34) and the daily disturbance of joy by sinful passion (B1 1135– 38). The sources of  these passages are indicated by marginal glosses in the Ellesmere and Hengwrt manuscripts. Wisdom tells us that death is preferable to poverty (B1 113–14) and that all the days of poor men are miserable (B1 117–18). Poverty is thus to be avoided at all costs (B1 119). The emphasis on wisdom here ref lects the preoccupation of  the Man of  Law with wisdom in the portrait of  the General Prologue. The argument is consistent with its source, for Innocent III is concerned to describe the wretchedness of  the human condition as a whole. But whereas Innocent III goes on to denounce riches, the Man of  Law continues with the praise of wealthy merchants (B1 122–30). Now either this is an expression of a simple-minded materialism, in which joy is identified with wealth, or it has an ironic force, juxtaposed as it is with the misery of poverty. As we have seen, the material success of  the lawyer is not much emphasized in the portrait in the General Prologue, and indeed the traditional criticism of  the avarice and dishonesty of  lawyers is notable for its absence. Moreover, Innocent III’s moral judgments are not otherwise subverted in the text of  the tale and this fact in itself may encourage us to look for irony. Support for an ironic interpretation may also be found in the text of  the prologue itself. First of all, there is irony in the invocation of rich merchants as ‘prudent folk’ (B1 123), for what is there of prudence in the mere accumulation and possession of wealth? Secondly, the reference to a game of chance played with dice, where ‘ambes as’ (B1 124) means two ones, a losing throw, and ‘sys cynk’ (B1 125) means six and five, a winning throw, reminds us of  the luck that is connected with the accumulation of wealth, and not least in the activities of merchants. Significantly, the reference to dice is

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followed by a reference to Christmas in the expression of  the expectation that these fortunate merchants will enjoy their good fortune above all at the time of supreme happiness in this fallen world: ‘At Cristemasse myrie may ye daunce!’ (B1 126).25 This reference to Christmas in its turn takes up the earlier reference to Christ for seemingly distributing unfairly ‘richesse temporal’ (B1 106–7). Both references serve to remind us that God is the true source of all earthly goods. Finally, there is a recognition of  the fact that merchants know from their experience of  the hazards of  trade all about the rise and fall of  human fortunes: ‘As wise folk ye knowen al th’estaat/ Of regnes’ (B1 128–29). We are reminded here of  the precariousness even of royal power and sovereignty. We understand that ‘regnes shal be f litted/ Fro folk in folk’ through the changes brought about by ‘Fortune, … as it is hire comitted/ Thorugh purveyaunce and disposicioun/ Of  heighe Jove’ (TC, V.1541–45).26 For readers of  The Canterbury Tales who remain unwilling to accept this truth and who continue to struggle against the ineluctable, the Monk will come along with examples suf ficient to prove the point and many more besides to test the patience even of  the Knight among his auditors (B1 3957–63). No human ingenuity can suf fice to protect us from these catastrophic revolutions of  fortune in our individual experience of  life. It is an argument made memorable in Virgil’s exposition of Fortune as a ministering angel of  God in the depths of  the fourth circle of  hell. God has ordained Fortune in respect of  ‘li splendor mondani,/ worldly splendours’ (Inf., VII.77) as a ‘general ministra e duce/ che permutasse a tempo li ben vani/ di gente in gente e d’uno in altre sangue,/ oltre la difension d’i senni umani,/ general minister and guide who should in due time change vain wealth from race to race and from one to another blood, beyond the prevention of  human wits’ (Inf., VII.78–81; Sinclair, I.103). The link between wisdom and luck in the acquisition of wealth thus underlines ironically the instability of all human experience, among rich and poor alike, and looks forward to the case of  Custance. She is the daughter of an Emperor of  Rome and yet material wealth cannot preserve her from misfortune, especially when it is allied to imprudence (B1 309).

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Custance’s Moral Qualities The main source of  The Man of  Law’s Tale is the life of  Constance of  Rome in Les Cronicles of  the Oxford Dominican Nicholas Trevet/Trivet, an Anglo-Norman compilation of universal history (up to c. 1334), dedicated to Mary of  Woodstock (1278–1332), sixth daughter of  Edward I and a nun at Amesbury.27 Trevet’s form of  the heroine’s name is Consta(u)nce in all nine manuscripts containing the complete text of  Les Cronicles, some sixty-three times in all in MS Bibliothèque Nationale, français 9687 (Correale’s copytext). The form Custa(u)nce appears as a variant on five occasions in two manuscripts (MS Arundel 56, British Library and MS Magdalen College Oxford 45) and of  these ten instances only once in Chaucer’s distinctive form Custance.28 Gower in his version of  the story in Confessio Amantis, told in illustration of detraction as a species of envy (II.587–1612), uses the form Constance throughout (II.597, 620, 678, 751, 764, 783, 786, 807, 834, 841, etc.). Chaucer uses with no less consistency the form Custance, and more particularly ‘dame Custance’ (at, for example, B1 151). In view of  the habitual use of  the form Consta(u)nce in the sources known to him this usage has to be deliberate and indeed Chaucer characteristically marks his independence of  his sources in minute details. Strangely enough such an alteration has seemed of  little interest or significance to Chaucer’s modern commentators who for the most part continue to refer to the heroine of  The Man of  Law’s Tale as ‘Constance’.29 But the name a poet attaches to the heroine of  his story cannot be so unimportant or so unworthy of respect. We ourselves are inclined to raise an objection whenever our own names are wrongly received or even mispronounced. We must surely conclude, therefore, that Chaucer signifies in his choice of  the heroine’s name that she is something more than or other than a personification of  the moral virtue of constancy. The importance of individual identity here is related to the strong emphasis in the tale on the reality of  human free will and in consequence on choices good and bad about which judgments can properly be made.

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Custance is not, as in Trevet (297/12–16), learned in sciences and languages, but simply distinguished for her goodness and beauty: ‘To rekene as wel hir goodnesse as beautee,/ Nas nevere swich another as is shee’ (B1 158–59). She speaks to the Saxon constable in Northumbria in her own native language, ‘[a] maner Latyn corrupt’, but yet is still understood by him (MLT, B1 516–20). It is a mark of  her human ordinariness (she is not a scholar) and of  her self-communicating goodness.30 In Custance there is a harmony of physical and moral qualities, as in the portrait of  Blanche, the Duchess of  Lancaster (BD, 817–1087), but in The Man of  Law’s Tale the physical dimension is left undeveloped and the focus is on Custance’s virtues. These have been selected with special reference to the tale that follows. Significantly they do not include constancy (an attribute rather of  Grisilde in The Clerk’s Tale). Custance’s distinguishing virtues are humility, courtesy, holiness, and kindness. These virtues are set out clearly at the beginning of  the narrative (B1 162–69) and consistently illustrated throughout the tale. This is the common opinion (B1 155), not a mere matter of partisanship on the narrator’s part, but the Man of  Law is more than willing in this instance to endorse the common opinion (B1 169). For all his learning the Man of  Law is in no way eccentric in his moral judgments. Justice, if it is true, must be within the grasp of us all, learned and not so learned. Let us consider these four virtues in the order in which Chaucer presents them to us. Custance possesses ‘heigh beautee, withoute pride’, for ‘[h]umblesse hath slayn in hire al tirannye’ (B1 162 and 165). The virtue of  humility, as Aquinas tells us (ST, 2a 2ae 161.1), is the moderation of  hope and is instilled by a reverence towards God so that one does not claim more for oneself  than is divinely apportioned. Humility implies above all a human being’s subjection to God (ST, 2a 2ae 161.2 ad 3). We see such reverence in Custance, and accordingly an acceptance of  the divine will, when she is set adrift in the sea after the slaughter of  the Sultan and his Christian followers (B1 451 and 454–55): ‘O cleere, o welful auter, hooly croys, … Me fro the feend and fro his clawes kepe, That day that I shal drenchen in the depe.’

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Custance’s prayer does not arise from a fear of safety or a sense of injustice, and does not as a result evoke pity in the audience. Custance does not desire to be saved from death, but to die free from sin.31 This is not an obvious and instinctive response to such peril and it implies not passivity but strength of mind.32 Again, we see the humility of  Custance in retiring to her chamber, ‘abidyng Cristes wille’ (B1 721), as her pregnancy approaches its term. Indeed, in bringing children into the world it is evident that we are obliged to submit to the will of a higher power. Yet again, when Custance is put to sea of f  Northumberland we see in her a glad acceptance of  the divine will (B1 824–26): But nathelees she taketh in good entente The wyl of  Crist, and knelynge on the stronde, She seyde, ‘Lord, ay welcome be thy sonde!’33

Here we see the true mark of  Custance’s virtue of  humility, for her submission to the divine will is not half-hearted and grudging but characterized by both promptness and pleasure.34 Humility is the foundation of virtue in so far as it removes the obstacle of pride (ST, 2a 2ae 161.5 ad 2) and here we see that it makes possible Custance’s ready assent to the divine will. Hence her beauty is accompanied by a lack of vanity that is dif ficult for a beautiful woman to achieve. Criseyde can hardly be surprised when a young hero such as Troilus falls in love with her, for she knows that she is ‘oon the faireste, out of drede,/ And goodlieste, who that taketh hede,/ And so men seyn, in al the town of  Troie’ (TC, II.746–48). Boccaccio’s Emilia, made aware by Palemone’s sigh of  the suf ferings on her behalf of  the two young men in their prison, is touched by the thought of  the power of  her own beauty (Tes., III.19; Havely, 113): ‘seco si diletta,/ e più se ne tien bella, e più s’adorna / qualora poi a quel giardin ritorna,/ [s]he rejoiced in being found attractive and thought herself  lovelier and made herself  look fairer the next time she went into that garden’.35 Custance is free of  the desire to tyrannize over others, whether by her beauty or in any other way. She does not seek to impose her will on others as the Sultaness does (B1 432–34). Trevet tells how Constance preaches to and converts the Saracen merchants (297/21–24): ‘Et quant ele [entendi] q’il estoient paens, lour precha la foi

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Cristiene. Et puis q’il avoient assentu a la foi Cristiene lest fist baptizer et enseigner parfitement en la foi Jhesu Crist’.36 But Chaucer’s Custance is no Christian missionary. She is the cause of conversion in others simply by the example of  her own Christian humility.37 But Custance is not a personification of  humility any more than she is a personification of constancy. On the bedrock of  her humility must be added the virtue of courtesy, for Custance is nothing less than the ‘mirour of alle curteisye’ (B1 166). Like humility, courtesy is a part of  the cardinal virtue of  temperance, and more specifically of modesty. Courtesy refers directly to a moderation in external conduct, that is, inner virtue is ref lected outwardly in the behaviour that is proper to others. Thus Custance strives to behave well at her departure for Syria since she does not wish to give needless suf fering to others: ‘She peyneth hire to make good contenance’ (B1 320). In the same way courtesy can be seen as related to humility as its outward expression. The interior disposition of  humility results in outward signs in words, deeds and gestures. The twelve degrees of  humility in St Benedict’s rule include elements of outward behaviour; deeds should be according to the common rule (fifth degree); words should be in due time (fourth degree) and should not be loud (second degree); gestures should include the lowering of  the eyes (first degree) and the withholding of unseemly laughter (third degree).38 Thus Custance makes her prayer to the cross ‘with ful pitous voys’ (B1 449), that is, devoutly. Again, she kneels on the shore before taking her leave of  Northumbria (B1 825), and when she greets her father ‘[d]oun on hir knees falleth she to grounde’ (B1 1153). Thirdly, Custance is holy: ‘[h]ir herte is verray chambre of hoolynesse’ (B1 167). Holiness is the highest of  the moral virtues classified under justice (ST, 2a 2ae 81.6) and consists in giving to God that which is his due. Thus Custance derives the greatest joy from her mother ‘out-taken Crist on-lofte’ (B1 277). The qualification is of  the greatest importance. Custance does not set the love of an earthly good above the love of  the supreme, divine good as does Troilus in finding Criseyde ‘likynge …/Over alle thing’ (TC, I.309– 10). Inwardly, holiness is expressed by devotion and prayer, and indeed Custance’s utterances largely take the form of prayer. At the end of  the tale when she is united with her father ‘[s]he heryeth God an hundred thousand

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sithe’ (B1 1155). Heryen is the native word that is specifically reserved for divine praise. Whereas in Troilus and Criseyde it is used ironically for the praise of  Venus and the earthly love that is identified with her name (III.7, 48 and 1813), here it is used simply and solemnly.39 Outwardly, holiness is expressed by acts such as crossing oneself. Thus Custance ‘blesseth hire’ (B1 449) when she is set adrift from Syria and again before entering the boat on leaving Northumberland (B1 867–68).40 She does so ‘with an hooly entente’, and by the use of  this phrase Chaucer makes clear the distinction between the virtue of  holiness and the vice of superstition as displayed by the ‘sely carpenter’ of  The Miller’s Tale (A 3448–50 and 3474–86). On both occasions Custance is in mortal peril of her life, as is Sir Gawain when he crosses himself on the lady’s unannounced entrance into his bedroom at Hautdesert and on leaving Hautdesert for the meeting with the Green Knight at the Green Chapel (SGGK, 1202 and 2071). Further, Custance performs ‘hooly werkes evere, as was hire grace’ (B1 980) in the home of  the senator’s wife, in fact her aunt, although she is ignorant of  the fact (B1 981–82). The inclusion of  this detail is presumably designed to stress the habitual nature of  the virtue. There can be no question of  Custance attempting to ingratiate herself  by conspicuous acts of virtue in the presence of a member of  her own family in the fashion of a Poope-Holy (Romaunt, 413–48).41 Here then Chaucer rules out the hypocritical practice of religion as he has ruled out superstition. Custance answers to the very definition of  the virtue of  holiness. Thus Custance is saintly and The Man of  Law’s Tale has something of  the character of a saint’s life. But, strictly speaking, Custance is not a saint and The Man of  Law’s Tale is a romance, even if, as Corinne Saunders describes it, ‘a hagiographic romance’.42 Custance, unlike those with a vocation for sainthood, does not choose her misfortunes, but simply endures them.43 We must not expect to find in Custance, therefore, the heroic virtue of a saint such as Cecilia in The Second Nun’s Tale. Thus Cecilia remains a virgin even after her marriage (SNT, G 127–234) whereas Custance’s marriage to Alla is consummated and in the process Custance has to ‘leye a lite hir hoolynesse aside’ (B1 713). The diminution of  holiness that is signified here involves a recognition of  the superior status of virginity to marriage in respect of our relation to God. The state of virginity represents heroic

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virtue, whereas chastity belongs to the ordinary level of virtue.44 This is the position that is acknowledged even by the Wife of  Bath (WBProl, D 75–76), but in The Man of  Law’s Tale it is much more than a mere debater’s argument. Chaucer does not wish us to regard Custance as being of superhuman virtue, but as recognisably human in her goodness. The miraculous element in the tale consists in the pattern of external events, not in the conduct of  the heroine. The implication is that ordinary human lives are miraculously shaped by forces beyond their control. Finally in the catalogue of  Custance’s virtues is the human kindness that finds a natural outlet in the generosity in giving alms (B1 168). An act of  kindness such as almsgiving is an outward expression of  the virtue of  holiness, for it is motivated by compassion for the sake of  God (ST, 2a 2ae 32.1). This is the significance of  the phrase ‘in hooly almus-dede’ (B1 1156) that is used at the end of  the tale. Almsgiving is also characterized by fredam (B1 168) or generosity, for the virtue of generosity frees us from an inordinate love of riches and therefore removes an obstacle to almsgiving (ST, 2a 2ae 32.1 ad 4). Much is made of  Custance’s kindness in the tale itself. When she is set adrift in the sea of f  Syria she is described by the Man of  Law as ‘ful of  benignytee’ (B1 446), and when Alla sees her, accused of  the bloody murder of  Hermengyld, he is moved to pity at ‘so benigne a creature/ Falle in disese and in mysaventure’ (B1 615–16). Indeed, Custance can hardly be held responsible for the cruel murder of  Hermengyld, for that is antithetical to her nature, as those about her readily perceive (B1 621–25). There is in all this a careful focus by Chaucer on relevant virtues. Indeed, in this list of  four virtues we have in humility and courtesy and in holiness and kindness matching inward and outward qualities. Thus humility has slain tyranny ‘in hire’ (B1 165), for humility does not consist in an outward show, but in the inward choice of  the mind (ST, 2a 2ae 161.1 ad 2), whereas she is a ‘mirour’ (B1 166) or outward ref lection of courtesy. And holiness is in her ‘herte’ (B1 167) whereas generous almsgifts are distributed by her ‘hand’ (B1 168). The moral excellence of  Custance is attested by the senator at the end of  the tale, and his testimony serves as an objective verification of it (B1 1023–26):

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The qualification ‘[o]f worldly wommen’ (B1 1026) seems designed to establish the distinction between a Custance who is in this world and a Cecilia who is outside of it. Malory draws a similar distinction between the heavenly chivalry of  the Grail knights Galahad, Percivale and Bors (representing for the Cistercian author of  the Queste del Saint Graal respectively a Christ-like perfection, a child-like innocence and a saintly righteousness) and the worldly chivalry of  the knights of  the Round Table among whom Sir Launcelot remains pre-eminent. For all Sir Galahad’s spiritual elevation in the quest of  the Sankgreall, Sir Launcelot remains for Malory the focus of chivalric admiration as the best knight ‘of ony synfull man of  the worlde’ (MD, 863/30–31) and ‘the trewest lover, of a synful man, that ever loved woman’ (MD, 1259/14–15). The senator’s words of commendation of  Custance are significantly placed before the reunion of  husband and wife, that is, Custance’s moral conduct is certainly to be seen as a factor contributing to that reunion, although it is not in itself  the most important factor. The rewards of virtue in this life are not so simple and straightforward. The moral goodness of  Custance is stressed to the very end of  the tale. She is Alla’s ‘hooly wyf so sweete’ (B1 1129), for it is not the narrator’s purpose to undermine the holiness of  the state of matrimony. But the state of  holiness itself is not to be defined by marriage and limited by it. Thus after her husband’s death Custance remains ‘this hooly creature’ (B1 1149) and lives ‘[i]n vertu and in hooly almus-dede’ (B1 1156). Once again we see that the outward expression of  kindness is ordered to the inward virtue of  holiness. In the perfect submission of  her will to God Custance is much like the beatified Piccarda Donati, who in her earthly existence (according to her brother, Forese) also matched beauty with goodness: ‘  “tra bella e buona/ non so qual fosse più,/ I know not if she was more fair or good”  ’ (Purg., XXIV.13–14; Sinclair, II.309). In paradise it is by charity or loving kindness that Piccarda is joyously conformed to the divine will, and indeed cannot be separated from

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God by desires that contradict his will: ‘  “Se disïassimo esser più superne,/ foran discordi li nostri disiri/ dal voler di colui che qui ne cerne;/ che vedrai non capere in questi giri,/ Did we desire to be more exalted, our desire would be in discord with His will who appoints us here, which thou wilt see cannot hold in these circles”  ’ (Par., III.73–76; Sinclair, III.53).

Free Will In human courts of  law much time and ef fort are expended in defining the issues that lie within and without a defendant’s sphere of moral responsibility. The focus on the moral virtue of  Custance is designed to make us aware from the beginning of  the importance of acts of  free will in relation to external events. Many of  the evils, indeed, we may say, all the evils that bear so heavily on Custance are the result of sinful human actions, and of  these those of  the Sultaness and Donegild are the most oppressive. We are not concerned here with the ef fect of earthquakes and shipwrecks. The malign actions of  the Sultaness and Donegild, indubitably evil though they are, nevertheless are humanly intelligible. In both cases the young wife poses a threat to established power, whether that of  the old religion or of  the political order. As for the Sultaness, she is the ‘welle of vices’ (B1 323) and thus provokes from the Man of  Law an apostrophe full of indignation (B1 358–64): ‘O Sowdanesse, roote of iniquitee! Virago, thou Semyrame the secounde! O serpent under femynynytee, Lik to the serpent depe in helle ybounde! O feyned womman, al that may confounde Vertu and innocence, thurgh thy malice, Is bred in thee, as nest of every vice!

The reference to Semiramis, queen of  Assyria, is not to her lust but to her usurpation of power, either from her husband (Ninus) or from her son.45

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Our recognition of  the wisdom and authority of  the Man of  Law is vital at such points in the narrative. The exercise of royal authority by a woman as queen is a remote possibility in the England of  the fourteenth century and becomes a political reality only with Mary (1553–1558) and Elizabeth I (1558–1603), although the political power exercised by Edward II’s queen, Isabella of  France, in conjunction with Roger Mortimer, 1st Earl of  March, in 1327–1330 will not have been forgotten. And there are also powerful ladies who survive their husbands (one or several), as Joan of Kent, dowager Princess of  Wales, survives (until August 1385) after the death of  her third husband, Edward of  Woodstock, into the reign of  her young son, Richard of  Bordeaux. Tyrants there are in abundance, but they are men not women for the most part. There is nothing to be said for this emulation by women of male example. The Man of  Law’s outburst is born not of  the hatred of women but by a deep-rooted moral indignation on behalf of an innocent woman. We must allow him the wisdom to discriminate between women (as between men) who are worthy of praise or censure. The Sultaness is the very embodiment of evil. The case before us is a clearcut one of guilt and innocence (as is not uncommon in reality). But the moral condemnation of  the Man of  Law is only justifiable here if it proceeds from highminded principle and is not an expression of personal prejudice. There is a self-conscious awareness of  this on the Man of  Law’s part when he refers explicitly to ‘[t]his Sowdanesse, whom I thus blame and warye’ (B1 372). He has taken upon himself  the mantle of  the Parson, the Clerk of  Oxenford and indeed of  Dobest.46 As for Donegild, there is equally no doubt in respect of  her own blameworthiness. Her imperious will is identified at once, for she is both ‘[t]he kynges mooder, ful of  tirannye’ (B1 696) and af fronted by her son’s shift of allegiance to a foreigner (B1 699–700). The false letter that Donegild sends to Alla is ‘wroght ful synfully’ (B1 747), and she too is repudiated by the Man of  Law for her wickedness in yet another apostrophe full of moral indignation (B1 778–84): O Donegild, I ne have noon Englissh digne Unto thy malice and thy tirannye! And therfore to the feend I thee resigne;

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Lat hym enditen of  thy traitorie! Fy, mannysh, fy! – o nay, by God, I lye – Fy, feendlych spirit, for I dar wel telle, Thogh thou heere walke, thy spirit is in helle!

Once again the abuse of power is seen as a characteristically masculine vice, although Donegild’s sin is of so degraded a kind that it appears not merely ‘mannysh’ but devilish. The use of  the figure of correctio here adds to the intensity of  the Man of  Law’s rebuke.47 When her treachery is uncovered, Donegild is summarily executed by her son (B1 893–95). No medieval audience would expect a dif ferent outcome in so grave a matter. The bare rehearsal of  the facts are suf ficient to condemn her and the Man of  Law is rightly dismissive of the case: ‘Thus endeth olde Donegild, with meschance!’ (B1 896).48 The use of meschance here refers the human verdict to a higher power and looks for vindication in so doing. In similar fashion the Man of  Law utters the imprecation ‘God yeve hym meschance!’ (B1 602 and 914) against the young knight and the evil steward. Donegild’s plot is made possible by the human sinfulness of  the messenger who is entrusted with the letter to Alla announcing the birth of  his son, Maurice. The messenger does not go directly to Alla but stops on the way at the court of  the Queen Mother. He is prompted in doing so by his own self-interest (B1 729) and he is deceived by the Queen Mother because of  his indulgence in drink. The issue of drunkenness is a serious issue here because it reduces human beings to the level of an unreasoning animal and results in conduct antithetical to the rule of  law based on reason. Hence the vice of drunkenness (a lack of moderation) is repudiated with a vehemence that matches the eloquence of  the Pardoner himself on the same subject (CT, C 483–588). Thus the messenger’s letters are stolen ‘whil he sleep as a swyn’ (B1 745) and again on his return as he ‘fnorteth’ in the style of  the miller of  The Reeve’s Tale who ‘as an hors … fnorteth in his sleep’ (RvT, A 4163).49 One might contrast the alertness of  Sir Gawain who, even in a deep sleep brought on by the exhaustion of  his quest for the Green Chapel, becomes aware of  the entrance of  the lady into his bedchamber in the early morning as daylight appears (SGGK, 1179–86). The disastrous consequences of  the messenger’s drunkenness, exposing his secret mission to

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the view of a mortal enemy, are such as to give rise to another impassioned outburst from the Man of  Law (B1 771–77). The moral seriousness of  this denunciation of drunkenness is consistent with its source in Innocent III’s De miseria, and the language used is once again similar to that which we find in The Pardoner’s Tale: ‘In whom that drynke hath dominacioun/ He kan no conseil kepe, it is no drede’ (C 560–61). At other times Custance is assailed because of  her very ‘perfeccioun’ (B1 583). She attracts to herself  the ‘foul af feccioun’ or evil passion of a young knight (B1 585–86). But because she will not return his love he contrives a shameful death for her by cutting Hermengyld’s throat and leaving the bloodstained knife beside Custance (B1 589–601). The young man, unworthy of a name in the Man of  Law’s account (‘un chivaler Sessoun,/ a Saxon knight’ in Trevet, 307/210), is the object of  the narrator’s outspoken condemnation (B1 602) and after his guilt has been revealed by divine intervention he too is summarily put to death (B1 687–88). The presence of  human evil lies heavily upon the narrative of  The Man of  Law’s Tale. Few will understand this better than a lawyer himself who encounters human duplicity and wrongdoing in every session of a court of  law. It is explicitly acknowledged in the text of  the tale itself in the reaction of  the constable to the sentence passed upon Custance to leave Northumberland (B1 811–12): ‘Lord Crist,’ quod he, ‘how may this world endure, So ful of synne is many a creature?’

Custance cannot be seen simply, therefore, as the victim of a set of random external forces. Indeed, power operates in The Man of  Law’s Tale not only through the machinations of  the destructive figures, but also through pity. It is pity that prompts the constable and Hermengyld to take in Custance and shelter her (B1 528–29). Custance’s release from the charge of murdering Hermengyld comes about because her plight arouses the pity of  her judge, King Alla (B1 614–16 and 659–61). Chaucer (or the Man of  Law) revises the narrative so as to make Alla present in thejudgment scene and draws upon a common convention to describe the compassion that leads to the heroine’s release from punishment. Compassion is evoked by the

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appearance, acts and words of  the accused woman. Custance goes down on her knees and prays to God and the Virgin Mary (B1 638–44).50 The paleness of  her face matches that of one under sentence of death (B1 645–51). ‘Pity is the pressure brought to bear by the suf ferer on the beholder’ and ‘is a dynamic power.’51 Indeed, Custance shows a considerable degree of self-awareness in her actions. She is overwhelmed at meeting Alla again, and we clearly see the consequence of  her long suppression of  her feelings, for ‘[s]o was hir herte shet in hir distresse’ (B1 1056). Her double swoon on seeing Alla (B1 1058) is not motivated by joy but by her sense of  Alla’s ‘unkyndenesse’ (B1 1057). Her human feelings are sharply observed and the human reality of  her experience is once again underlined. Similarly, her act of  kneeling before her father, a gesture of gratitude and submission, is qualified by words that Keiser describes as ‘surprisingly ironic’: ‘Sende me namoore unto noon hethenesse,/ But thonketh my lord heere of  his kyndenesse’ (B1 1112–13).52 These words seem to me to have the force of an imprecation rather than a rebuke. Nevertheless, such self-awareness makes of  Custance something more than the hapless victim of misfortune.

Providence By the nature of  their experience as objects to be disposed of in marriage, women (and especially aristocratic women and heiresses in the late Middle Ages) know what it is like to accept submission to a higher will. In the case of  the daughter of an emperor or king this will involve marriage to a husband in a foreign country remote from friends and her own experience of  life (B1 267–71). But even in more familiar surroundings marriage is a step into the unknown and the kindness of  husbands is not to be relied upon (B1 272–73): Housbondes been alle goode, and han ben yoore; That knowen wyves; I dar sey yow na moore.

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Here the Man of Law gives a sympathetic and ironic account of the common predicament of wives and uses language that would not be out of place in The Wife of  Bath’s Prologue. Later, Custance herself expresses the same idea in words that are more sober but no less telling (B1 286–87): Wommen are born to thraldom and penance, And to been under mannes governance.

Mann comments that ‘[p]ower is male, submission and suf fering are female’.53 Custance, like other noble heroines, shows her heroism simply by enduring misfortune. Keiser adds that by contrast a hero like Horn, who is also put to sea, not only endures misfortune but also engages in action requiring both strength and intelligence.54 It is fitting, therefore, that Chaucer should present the argument about providence in relation to the experience of a woman, but in respect of providence it becomes necessary for all human beings to accept that happiness and misery are ultimately fashioned by a superior power. Thus the predestined end of every man (and the examples are all of men, not women) is written in the stars (B1 190–203). The source of  this passage is the Megacosmos, III.39–44, the first book of  the Cosmographia of  Bernardus Silvestris (f l. 1130–1167), but Chaucer alters the emphasis of  the original so as to focus on ‘[t]he deeth of every man’ (B1 196). Bernardus gives a variety of examples of  human destinies, in poetry and learning (Cicero, Virgil and Plato) no less than in war. Even his heroes are dif ferentiated, Turnus by boldness, Hercules by strength and Achilles by martial vigour.55 Chaucer’s focus is relentlessly on death. Hence he adds such names as Hector, Pompey, Julius Caesar and Samson and he encloses them in a fine chiasmic sweep from ‘the deeth of  Ector, Achilles, …’ to ‘of  Ercules,/ … and of  Socrates/ The deeth’ (B1 198–202). Above all Chaucer (or the Man of  Law) wishes to emphasize human ignorance of  these predestined outcomes, and thus he supplies the conclusion that men are ignorant of what is written in the stars: ‘but mennes wittes ben so dulle/ That no wight kan wel rede it atte fulle’ (B1 202–3). In this conclusion we can see the special point of  Chaucer’s addition of  the name of  Socrates, for Socrates is a philosopher and the wisest of men, but for all that he is

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at one with the heroes who remain in ignorance of  the time, place and manner of  their death. Thus there can be no foretelling the fate of an individual such as Custance and hence no way of remedying future misfortune that remains obstinately beyond the gaze of  human sight. The day of  Custance’s departure from Rome is thus ‘the woful day fatal’ (B1 261)56 and the theme of  the unpropitious time of  her departure is developed at greater length in three magnificent stanzas (B1 295–315). It is a passage of great technical virtuo­ sity and no little dif ficulty, and only a brilliant mind like that of  the Man of  Law (or of  Chaucer himself ) would have been capable of it. The first of  these three stanzas describes the motion of  the primum mobile, a traditional element of  the Ptolemaic astronomy designed to account for the daily revolution of  the Sun from east to west (the precession of  the equinoxes being accounted for by a slight west to east motion of  the eighth sphere, that of  the Fixed Stars). But there is here a strikingly dramatic (and perhaps, to some, surprising) presentation of a violent and cruel motion that forces the planetary spheres to move in a direction contrary to their natural tendency (B1 295–98). The movement of  the primum mobile is thus responsible for discord and not harmony among the planetary spheres (B1 299–301): Thy crowdyng set the hevene in swich array At the bigynnyng of  this fiers viage, That crueel Mars hath slayn this mariage.57

Such a view runs or seems to run counter to the traditional medieval conception of cosmic harmony in the regular motion of  the heavens. Thus in The Parliament of  Fowls we read of  ‘thilke speres thryes thre,/ That welle is of musik and melodye/ In this world here, and cause of armonye’ (61–63). By referring to the nine spheres as ‘thryes thre’ (Spenser’s ‘trinal triplicities’) Chaucer emphasizes the unity of  the system as a whole of which the primum mobile is but a part. But Chaucer’s own translation of  Boethius’s De consolatione philosophiae makes it clear that the matter is less straightforward than that of simple harmony. Boethius describes the primum mobile as follows in Chaucer’s translation (Boece, Book I, metrum 5.1–5):

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The idea of  the inferior spheres as subject to the violent motion of  the primum mobile is stated more emphatically by Sacrobosco, whose Tractatus de sphaera was a set-text in Oxford in the fourteenth century. In the first chapter of  his treatise Sacrobosco writes that ‘the first mover, by its impetus, hurls (rapit) all the other spheres around the earth once within a day and a night; they, however, struggling against it (contra nitentibus)’. It has been suggested by Eade, who quotes this passage, that Chaucer’s lines are a virtual translation of  Sacrobosco.59 At any rate, disorder in the created universe is seen as reaching to the limits of  the outermost sphere and so comes close to the providential centre. In The Man of  Law’s Tale we see disharmony not only in the changeable world of  fortune, that is, in earthly af fairs, but also in the material heavens, that is, in the realm of destiny. The issue of providence as a guiding and sustaining force is thus presented in profounder and more disturbing terms. An explanation of providence requires the fullest possible investigation into cosmic order and a sense of  the point at which the providential pattern may be seen to have broken down. Thus, just as human wills are thwarted by the movements of  fortune, so the natural tendencies of  the planetary spheres are thwarted by the movement of  the primum mobile. The second of  the three stanzas is a stanza of great and indeed forbidding technical detail. But it demands rigorous srutiny from anyone who wishes to grasp the meaning of  The Man of  Law’s Tale (B1 302–8): Infortunat ascendent tortuous, Of which the lord is helplees falle, allas, Out of  his angle into the derkeste hous! O Mars, o atazir, as in this cas! O fieble moone, unhappy been thy paas! Thou knyttest thee ther thou art nat receyved; Ther thou were weel, fro thennes artow weyved.60

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The ascendent is ‘tortuous’ (B1 302) when it is one of  the signs between Capricorn and Gemini that rises obliquely to the horizon. The ‘lord’ of  the ascendent (B1 303) is the planet to whom the sign is a house. Of  the six tortuous signs the middle two, Pisces and Aries, are the most tortuous. Jupiter, a fortunate planet, is the lord of  Pisces and Mars, an unfortunate planet, is the lord of  Aries. The lament that the lord of  the ascendent is ‘helplees’ (B1 303) implies that the lord of  the ascendent is a fortunate planet. It would seem that Pisces, the house of  Jupiter, is in the ascendent.61 The ecliptic is divided into twelve mundane houses in accordance with the time, for example, of a birth or the beginning of a journey, and the latitude of place, and the ‘angles’ (B1 304) form part of  the system of classification of  the mundane houses. There are three groups of mundane houses, namely, angles, houses 1, 4, 7 and 10 (calculating from the eastern horizon from east to west), succedents, houses 2, 5, 8 and 11 (that is, ‘folewinge to the angles’) and cadents, houses 3, 6, 9 and 12 (that is, ‘fallinge from the angles’). The angles signify strength and perfection, whereas falling from the angles indicates feebleness and harm. If the lords of  the angles are in the cadent houses, the contrary of  fortune is signified. It would seem, therefore, that Jupiter is not at this time in the ascendent and hence not in an angle or the first of  the mundane houses, but is in a cadent house, namely, the twelfth (or possibly the third).62 The term ‘atazir’ (B1 305) usually describes a process in astrological theory. It does not refer to a planet or to planetary inf luence as such but to the transferring of significance from one point of  the ecliptic, or a planet there, to another. By combining Mars and atazir the Man of  Law is indicating the presence of  Mars as the destructive planet in Custance’s horoscope at the time of  her birth and in consequence the danger that she is in.63 The reference to ‘atazir’ in this case seems to mean the transference of inf luence from Jupiter to Mars. As if  this is not bad enough, the Moon has moved into conjunction with or is received by an inauspicious planet (B1 306–8). Reception is the condition that occurs when two planets exchange with each other any one of  their essential dignities, and is possible by house, exaltation, triplicity, term or face.64 By means of  these technical details the Man of  Law is able to identify with scientific precision the malign configuration of  the heavens at

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the time of  Custance’s journey. The ascendent is unfortunate when either Saturn, Mars or the Tail of  the Dragon is in it. The obvious inference would seem to be that ‘crueel Mars’ (B1 301) is in the ascendent. The ‘lord’ of  the ascendent is ‘helplees’ because Jupiter has ‘falle’ from his angle or first house into the twelfth or ‘derkeste hous’ (associated with travel and sorrow and signifying the end of  life). Finally, the condition of  the Moon which exercises a vital inf luence in the matter of journeys, especially by sea, is undermined by conjunction with another planet that does not enhance her power. These are the ineluctable facts and they create a sense of  human subjection to malign external forces.65 Since this is the objective condition of  the heavens, the concern of any rational person will be to see whether the dire ef fects they presage can be avoided. The circumstances make it possible in Custance’s case, if at all, for she is an Emperor’s daughter. Hence the wealth is available for making a root or date of  her birth which is necessary for the calculation of a favourable time for making journeys. The vital question then remains. Is it possible to make a choice of some future date (electio) that will be favourable to an action that has already been determined upon? It is the question that is insistently put to us by the Man of  Law at the end of  his astrological analysis (B1 312–14): Of viage is ther noon eleccioun, Namely to folk of  heigh condicioun? Noght whan a roote is of a burthe yknowe?66

In Chaucer’s own day there were many who would have given an af firmative answer to these questions. Thus we may note, for example, the presence of  the astrologer Alessio Nicolai in the Florentine army under Hawkwood in the war against Milan. He set the time of departure (two hours before sunrise on 11 January 1391) for the advance from Padua against Vicenza and Verona.67 He was paid fifteen f lorins a month, more than anyone in the allied army except the captains and corporals.68 But poets such as Dante and Chaucer are less easily convinced of  the reliability of astrological forecasts. Dante condemns the fraudulence of diviners in the fourth bolgia or ditch of  the eighth circle of  hell (Inf., XX).

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Judicial astrology in whatever circumstances is condemned by Chaucer in A Treatise on the Astrolabe (II.4.57–60): Natheles these ben observaunces of judicial matere and rytes of payens, in whiche my spirit hath no feith, ne knowing of  her horoscopum.

The reason for such outright condemnation of judicial astrology is that it constitutes an infringement of  the divine power. Nevertheless it sometimes seems to be thought that the Man of  Law (if not Chaucer himself ) does express a belief in judicial astrology at this point in his tale. This is indeed the view of  both our main authorities on medieval astrology. Eade comments that the Man of  Law’s ‘lament for Constance implies an acceptance of elections as a form of astrological inquiry’ and that ‘[t]he vital point to note in Chaucer’s upbraiding of  Constance’s father … is not that the voyage was undertaken at all, but that the right moment for it was let slip’.69 North agrees that the lament ‘looks very much like a declaration of  faith in the procedures of astrology, but of course we are not encouraged to lift the veil that separates the poet from his pilgrims, so all is well’.70 But what the Man of  Law utters here is a series of questions and they must be granted their full interrogative status. Was there no competent astrologer available (B1 310)? Is no time better than another for making such a journey (B1 311)? Is it not possible to choose a favourable time for such a journey even when the date of  birth of  the subject is known (B1 312– 14)? These are the despairing questions of one facing the inevitabi­lity of  future disaster, and all that he can do is lament the impossibility of  human learning and ingenuity to prevent it: ‘Allas, we been to lewed or to slowe!’ (B1 315). Here the Man of  Law takes up the earlier conclusion that men lack the intelligence to read the future truth, especially of a man’s death, that is written in the stars (B1 202–3). He reaf firms man’s ignorance and also his slowness, that is, slowness in respect of the suddenness with which catastrophes overtake us in this life. The workings of providence are inscrutable and thus it is necessary for human beings to accept that it is impossible to penetrate the operation of destinal forces. The point is that if  human freedom is to be allowed for then the results of  the exercise of  free choice are not to be predicted. It makes

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no sense (except as an emotional reaction to undeserved, future suf fering) to lament the lack of judicial calculation to ensure a propitious moment for Custance’s departure. Given the ill-will of  the Sultaness it is unlikely that there could ever have been a propitious moment. In this way the issue of providence is not evaded but confronted in The Man of  Law’s Tale, for we have to accept or reject the doctrine of providence in the light of  the world as it is and not as we would like it to be. This means that the doctrine of providence must be something more than and other than a philosophy of  happy endings in this life. Thus we have to accept that earthly happiness is invariably followed by sudden misery (B1 421–23). The problem of providence is directly stated in the suf fering of  the innocent. Custance is ‘this sely innocent, Custance’ (B1 682) and the constable is led to deplore the unjust sentence that he is bound to execute upon her (B1 813–16). Custance is not responsible for the fortunes that beset her and her own personal safety is beyond her power to achieve. She is saved indeed by a series of miracles or by what from a strictly human perspective can only seem miraculous. The reason why she is not slain in the feast in Syria is simply that God willed it not to be so (B1 470– 76), and we are simply left to acknowledge that it was a miracle: ‘God liste to shewe his wonderful myracle/ In hire, for we sholde seen his myghty werkis’ (B1 477–78). Next, she is preserved in the sea for ‘[t]hre yeer and moore’ (B1 499) and on a second occasion for ‘[f ]yve yeer and moore’ (B1 902). The bare enumeration of  the period of  time in each instance is suf ficient in itself  to signify the miraculous nature of  the experience. The spans of  time make it clear (and are intended to make it clear) that personal survival is once again beyond the scope of  human resourcefulness. Hence we cannot fail to see that Custance is aided by a superior power. Although she is set adrift in a boat, the event falls within the knowledge of  God (B1 439–40) and her preservation in the sea is attributed to the ‘prudent purveiance’ of  God that is beyond the reach of  ‘mannes wit’ (B1 479–83). The boat comes to rest in Northumberland through ‘[t]he wyl of  Crist’ (B1 511). Such miraculous events may not be much to the taste of modern readers and strain credulity, but the sense of wonder at extraordinary events is not remote to us. What other adjective than ‘miraculous’ might we apply to the survival of  Bess Walder and Beth Cummings in mid-Atlantic in a

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force eight gale on the night of 17 and 18 September 1940 when the City of  Benares was sunk by torpedo? Bess Walder herself says of  her rescue that the ‘sailors had been picking dead children up all day and to find us alive was like a miracle’.71 Whether it is to our taste or not, the narrator is determined to press home his point about the sense of  the miraculous in human experience. Thus Custance is miraculously delivered from the accusation of murder (B1 666–86). Nothing is done to minimize the wonderful ef fect of such transcendental intervention in the lives of  human beings: ‘Of  this mervaille agast was al the prees’ (B1 677). One might compare the stunned silence with which the Green Knight is received at Camelot (SGGK, 232–43) or the wonder at the appearance of  the steed of  brass in The Squire’s Tale (F 189–224). Yet again, the frail Custance is sent strength by God to defend herself  from the wicked steward (B1 918–45), and the providential point is once again explicit: ‘And thus hath Crist unwemmed kept Custance’ (B1 924). Indeed, Chaucer abbreviates Trevet’s circumstantial account of  the wicked steward’s attempted shipboard rape in order to emphasize the fact of divine intervention.72 Finally, the Roman senator comes upon Custance quite by chance (as it appears from a human perspective), knowing as for himself nothing about her (B1 971–73). But in fact (that is, in the light of an understanding of divine providence) Custance is delivered from misery to happiness (the kind of  happiness that is possible in this life) by the Virgin Mary: ‘Thus kan Oure Lady bryngen out of wo/ Woful Custance, and many another mo’ (B1 977–78). In the same way that paragon of  human virtue, Sir Gawain, is twice rescued by the Virgin Mary in his perilous quest for the Green Chapel, first, as the holy season approaches and he needs to find a place to receive the sacrament of  the Eucharist at Christmas (a day of obligation) and second when the sexual charms of  the lady of  Hautdesert become almost too powerful for him to resist (SGGK, 733–39 and 1763–69). The narrative of  The Man of  Law’s Tale illustrates in a concrete and clearcut way the doctrine of providence as the idea of  things ordained to an end pre-existing in the divine mind (ST, 1a 22.1). Moreover, it does so in the life of an individual soul and thus implicitly challenges the view that only incorruptible things are subject to providence, and corruptible things as species, not individuals. This is consistent with Aquinas’s position that

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all things are subject to providence, not only in their general natures (in universali) but also as individuals (in singulari). The deliverance of  Custance is nothing short of a miracle, and no attempt is made to disguise that fact. The doctrine of providence is not an easy doctrine to accept and it is not accepted by such philosophers as Democritus and the Epicureans (ST, 1a 22.2). The Man of  Law’s Tale presents the doctrine in a form that is directly challenging to the reader. From a simply human and rational point of view it is incredible. But the alternative view is to accept the meaninglessness of  the pattern of external events in relation to individual experience, and that is hardly less dif ficult to accept. Custance serves as an example to the reader, therefore, in that through all the vicissitudes of  her life she continues to put her faith in a superior power. Her first words in the tale are a two-stanza prayer to her father and to Christ as she is about to leave Rome (B1 274–87). Further, she directs a prayer to the Cross of  Christ after she has been set out to sea in a rudderless boat (B1 451–62). There is no corresponding element of praise and petition in the versions of  Trevet and Gower.73 The doctrine of providence is not resolved into a simple experience of  human happiness, and indeed Custance is called upon to endure much suf fering, as also is Alla in enduring the sorrow over his child (B1 757–70). Alla does so privately (B1 758 and 768), as in his turn does Arveragus in The Franklin’s Tale (F 1480–86), and subject to Christ’s ‘ordinaunce’ (B1 763). In reality he is at one with his wife. At the end of  the tale we are made aware of  the transience of all earthly joys in the dissolution of  the marriage bond of  Custance and Alla (B1 1142–46). At the end, too, the death of  Custance herself  becomes something of an irrelevance,74 as we may see from the unemphatic and general way in which it is mentioned: ‘Til deeth departeth hem, this lyf  they lede’ (B1 1158). Or rather, the death of  Custance is subsumed within the natural process of  things. It is not to be doubted that there is a meaning in all of  this. It is to be found within a providential order that comprehends the experience of  this world but goes beyond it. And the reality of providence is proved in the event, that is, in the only way in which it can be proved: ‘The fruyt of every tale is for to seye’ (B1 706). But there is no final, metaphysical answer to the problem of suf fering in this world, and Chaucer does not attempt to give one.

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Aquinas observes that providence admits of defects in particular things for the good of  the universe as a whole. Thus the patience of martyrs presupposes the persecution of  tyrants.

Rhetoric and the Narrator The moral and theological argument is treated with evident seriousness in The Man of  Law’s Tale by the use of rime royal and also by the accompanying elevation of style. Rhetorical figures are used to give emotional power to the arguments and situations. In particular, the use of apostrophe expresses both sorrow and indignation,75 that is, it instils in the reader both an identification with the suf ferings of  Custance and also a sense of  the injustice of  her plight. We ought not to have dif ficulty with such poetic ef fects or be insensitive to these emotional realities. All of us feel indignation at the spectacle of unjust suf fering, and especially when it is nobly borne, as by Custance here. Even in that passage of  technical scientific dif ficulty which so troubles all readers of  The Man of  Law’s Tale we cannot fail to feel the intensity of emotion (and also its propriety) at the moment at which Custance’s earthly joy is about to be shattered (B1 295 and 305–6): O firste moevyng! Crueel firmament, … O Mars, o atazir, as in this cas! O fieble moone, unhappy been thy paas!

Here once again (as, for example, at the end of  the Troilus) Chaucer gives the lie to Matthew Arnold’s deplorable claim in his famous (and indeed erudite) essay on ‘The Study of  Poetry’ (1880) that Chaucer lacked the high seriousness of  the greatest poets.76 There is not in The Man of  Law’s Tale the crisis of religious faith of  the author of  ‘Dover Beach’, but there is a depth of anguish in these lines of a kind that can give rise to a loss of  faith. The doctrine of providence is not a serene doctrine, but is a Christian answer to the moments of chaos as they appear at one stage or another in

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the lives of all men and women. Chaucer writes with a sublime eloquence in these lines that is surely undeniable (whatever one’s interpretation of them might be). Spearing rightly sees in them poetry of  ‘a sombre eloquence of extraordinary power’ and ‘of  tormented but magnificent darkness’.77 Only the combination of  brilliant lawyer and master poet would be suf ficient to explain the impact of  these lines. It is the narrator who gives substance to our sense of respect and sympathy for Custance by his personal interventions (much in the same way, but more straightforwardly, as the narrator on behalf of  Criseyde in the Troilus). Respect for Custance is shown by describing her repeatedly, though young, as a lady. She is ‘dame Custance’ (B1 151, 184, 431, 601, 608 and 1147). His identification with her in her suf ferings becomes explicit in the use of  the possessive adjective: ‘O my Custance’ (B1 446 and 803). But the Man of  Law’s sense of  the injustice in Custance’s experience of misfortunes leads him (unlike a Matthew Arnold) to assert rather than to call into question the justice of  God. His religious convictions (of a kind on which Bracton insists in judges) are important in shaping our sense as readers of  the seriousness of  the religious beliefs that are demonstrated in the tale. He expresses the hope of  God’s guidance on Custance (B1 245): Now, faire Custance, almyghty God thee gyde!,

for he knows that God is ‘lord of  Fortune’ (B1 448). He asserts at length the miraculous nature of  Custance’s preservation (B1 470–504). He identifies with the Christian faith of  his heroine. Thus Custance converts the constable to ‘oure lay’ (B1 572),78 and Christ overcame the devil once and for all on our behalf: ‘he that starf  for our redempcioun,/ And boond Sathan (and yet lith ther he lay)’ (B1 633–34). He rejoices in the conversion of  Alla and his people, ‘thanked be Cristes grace!’ (B1 686) and praises the God in whom he has learned to repose his confidence in Custance’s wellbeing as she sets out to sea from the coast of  Northumberland: ‘heryed be Goddes grace!’ (B1 872). He has nothing but contempt for the lord’s steward who attempts to ravish her on board her ship. He is a thief who ‘hadde reneyed oure creance’ (B1 915) and is overcome in the ensuing struggle by the help a weak woman is given by ‘blisful Marie’ (B1 920). It is an

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incredible reversal of ordinary expectations to match that of  David against Goliath (B1 934–38) or Judith against Holofernes (B1 939–45). It is by the grace of  the Virgin Mary, ‘Cristes mooder – blessed be she ay!’, working through the human goodness of  Custance herself  that the perils on the sea are eventually brought to an end (B1 950–52). The Man of  Law concludes his tale in like vein with a pious invocation of  Christ (B1 1160–62): Now Jhesu Crist, that of  his myght may sende Joye after wo, governe us in his grace, And kepe us alle that ben in this place! Amen.

This is a traditional ending of a romance poem, as we may see at once by comparison with the ending of  Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (2529–30). At the same time it is used here with great ef fect to show how Christ can invert the common pattern of earthly experience which, as the tale has shown repeatedly, is that of woe after joy (B1 421–27, 1132–34 and 1139–41). Above all it is a vindication of providence in the face of  the vicissitudes of  life, which all too often leave human beings in a state of  helplessness and despair. Although Trevet’s version of  the story of  Constance is strongly Christian, it is less emphatically so than that of  the Man of  Law and his creator, Chaucer, working powerfully to a single end.79

Epilogue The Epilogue incorporates the serious moral and theological matter of  The Man of  Law’s Tale within the broader comedy of  The Canterbury Tales by bringing it down to the level of  the Host and the Shipman. The religious profundity of  The Man of  Law’s Tale is implicitly acknowledged by the Host when he looks to the Parson to follow it, but he is unable to do so without profanity and in the process alienates the Parson (B1 1163–71). The Host’s words to the Parson include two examples of  false swearing within the space of six lines, namely, ‘for Goddes bones’ (B1 1166) and ‘by

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Goddes dignitee!’ (B1 1169). The second of  the two examples plays directly upon the moral objection to false swearing as showing a lack of reverence to God. Such a lack of reverence is impossible for the Parson to overlook, and he is taken aback by the Host’s frivolousness (B1 1170–71): The Parson him answerde, ‘Benedicite! What eyleth the man, so synfully to swere?’

There must (the Parson supposes) be something seriously amiss with the Host (as with many others in life) if  he cannot realize the gravity of  the issues that are at stake. For his pains the Parson is accused of  being a Lollard (B1 1172–77). Here a term of abuse has been raised into a great issue of  Chaucer’s poetry (as if  the master poet himself were a follower of  Wyclif ). But it is a side-issue and Chaucer does not let it get out of  bounds. Before the Host’s plan for the Parson to tell a sermon can be realized, the Shipman interrupts the process of story-telling in much the same way as did the Miller at the end of  The Knight’s Tale. The Shipman ef fectively brings us back from the elevated moral and theological level of  the tale to a more ordinary human level (B1 1178–80). In this dramatic shift of  focus we see the interaction between social classes and types that is proper to a human comedy and that is foreshadowed in the General Prologue. There is also a certain fitness in introducing the Shipman and the Parson at this point, for the one has a lively appreciation of perils at sea and the other an awareness of  the relation of providence and moral virtue. The Host’s accusation that the Parson is a Lollard (B1 1173 and 1177) points to the importance of personal righteousness in Lollardy and thus underlines the real significance of  the moral goodness of  Custance. It serves therefore as something of a retrospective comment on the tale. But it would be a mistake to think that personal righteousness is a preserve of  Lollardy. It would be an insult to writers such as Aquinas and Langland to think so. And there is nothing in Chaucer’s writings to lead us to suppose that Chaucer himself is unorthodox in his own religious beliefs.

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Notes 1

‘Let no one, unwise and unlearned, presume to ascend the seat of judgment, which is like unto the throne of  God, lest for light he bring darkness and for darkness light, …/ Jurisprudence is the knowledge of  things divine and human, the science of  the just and unjust. The praecepta iuris are three: to live virtuously, to injure no one, to give each man his right.’ See Bracton de legibus et consuetudinibus Angliae, edited by George E. Woodbine and translated, with revisions and notes, by Samuel E. Thorne, Bracton on the Laws and Customs of  England, 4 vols (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1968 and 1977). 2 The Canterbury Tales, Oxford Guides to Chaucer, second edition (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), p. 131. 3 Chauncey Wood, Chaucer and the Country of  the Stars: Poetic Uses of  Astrological Imagery (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1970), pp. 206, 207, 219 and 230. 4 Rodney Delasanta, ‘And of  Great Reverence: Chaucer’s Man of  Law’, ChR, 5 (1971), 288–310 (p. 304). 5 A.C. Spearing, ‘Narrative Voice: The Case of  Chaucer’s Man of  Law’s Tale’, New Literary History, 32 (2001), 715–46. 6 A.C. Spearing, Textual Subjectivity: The Encoding of  Subjectivity in Medieval Narratives and Lyrics (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005). 7 Spearing, ‘Narrative Voice’, p. 721 and Textual Subjectivity, p. 110. 8 On the eminence of  Chaucer’s lawyer, see Isobel McKenna, ‘The Making of a Fourteenth-Century Sergeant of  the Lawe’, University of  Ottawa Quarterly, 45 (1975), 244–62. 9 See Chaucer Life-Records, edited by Martin M. Crow and Clair C. Olson (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1966), pp. 348–63. 10 See Chaucer Life-Records, p. 361. 11 See McKenna, p. 253 and n. 58. 12 The description ‘Man of  Law’ seems to be synonymous here with ‘Sergeant of  the Lawe’. See MED, s.vv. man n. 6. ‘A man of a specified profession, occupation, or condition: (a) … ~ of (o) laue, a lawyer’; sergeaunt n. 4. ‘A lawyer entitled to plead at the bar, a barrister; ~ of (of  the, at) laue, one of a select group of  barristers in the king’s service’ and sir(e n. 1. ‘As title: … (e) ‘used in addressing a person by the name of  his occupation or position’. MED gives examples of  Sir Bishop, Sir Emperor, Sir Justice, Sir King (PPl, B Prol. 125) and Sir Pope. Chaucer has also ‘sir Monk’ (MilT, A 3118).

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13 See MED, s.vv. discret(e adj. 1.(a) ‘Of persons: wise, morally discerning, prudent, circumspect’; reverence n. 3.(a) ‘The state of  being respected or venerated; the quality of inspiring respect or awe; also, dignity, status; … of gret ~, highly respected’; justice n. 5.(a) ‘A judge’; assise n. 1a. (a) ‘A session of a court charged with the deliberation and disposition of civil actions (esp. actions concerning land tenure and imprisonment); the deliberations of such a court (the gathering of evidence, the hearing of  the plaintif f, the defendant and the witnesses before a jury, the rendering of decisions)’; patent(e n. (1) (a) ‘A document which grants an of fice, a right, title, property, etc.’ and (b) bi ~, by the authority of such a document’ and commissioun n. 1.(b) ‘delegated authority or power, a commission; ful, plein ~, full authority invested (in a representative or of ficer)’. 14 See Aquinas, ST, 2a 2ae 47.9: ‘Unde Philosophus dicit quod oportet operari quidem velociter consiliata, consiliari autem tarde [Ethics, VI.9 1142b 3]. Et inde est quod sollicitudo proprie ad prudentiam pertinet: et propter hoc Augustinus dicit quod prudentiae sunt excubiae, atque diligentissima vigilantia, ne subrepente paulatim mala suasione fallamur,/ Now Aristotle advises us to take our time over deliberation, but to be prompt to carry out what has been decided. It is in this sense, then, that solicitude is part of prudence. Accordingly Augustine writes that prudence keeps most careful watch and ward lest evil persuasion creeps in and deceives us’ (translated by Thomas Gilby). 15 See MED, s.v. homli adv. (d) ‘simply, plainly; without pretense, openly, directly’; medle adj. (b) ‘of mixed or blended colors, multicolored; of a cloth garment: of dif ferent colored stripes, pied’; ceint n. (a) ‘A girdle, sash’; barre n. 6.(a) ‘An ornamental (gold or silver) strip or bar, as on a girdle, a piece of armor, a saddle’ and smal adj. 3.(a) ‘Thin; narrow’ and Laura F. Hodges, Chaucer and Costume; The Secular Pilgrims in the General Prologue, Chaucer Studies XXVI (Cambridge: D.S. Brewer, 2000), pp. 101–25 and Colour Plate III. Hodges, following McKenna, notes that the particoloured coat is both modest and correct and suggest that it ‘represents, allegorically, a True Justice’ (p. 121). 16 See MED, s.vv. hoven v. (1) 2.(a) ‘To wait in readiness or expectation; … wait around, hang about’; houve n. (b) ‘a lawyer’s cap or coif ’; pounden v. ‘To expound (law)’; unlosen v. 2.(a) ‘To open something; … ~ lippes, speak’; meten v. (1) 1.(a) ‘To measure (sb. or sth., a distance, a quantity)’ and mom n. ‘An inarticulate vocal sound, a mumble’. These lines appear substantially unaltered in Z Prol.65–69, A Prol.84–89 and C Prol.159–64. 17 See MED, s.vv. submitten v. 2.(b) ‘chief ly law. ref l. to defer or submit (to a judge, lord, etc.) for a decision or judgment; submit (to the disposition of a judicial authority); also, commit oneself (to someone’s grace, mercy, etc.); with inf.: commit oneself (to abide by someone’s judgment or decision)’; cas n. 8. Law. (a) ‘Any civil

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or criminal question contested before a court of law, a suit, a cause’ and jugement n. 3.(a) ‘A decision, verdict; stonden at (to) ~, to accept (someone’s) decision’. 18 See MED, s.v. bihest(e n. 1a. (a) ‘A promise or pledge; also, what is promised’ and dette n. 3a. (a) ‘A moral, religious, or social obligation; an act conforming to such an obligation; … bihest is ~, a promise is binding’. 19 See The Book of  the Duchess, 1081–87 (Penelope and Lucrece), Troilus and Criseyde, V.1778 (‘Penelopeës trouthe and good Alceste’) and The Franklin’s Tale, F 1442–44 (‘Lo, which a wyf was Alceste,’ quod she./ ‘What seith Omer of goode Penalopee?/ Al Grece knoweth of  hire chastitee.’). 20 See MED, s.v. disteinen v. 2.(b) ‘fig. to dim or obscure (sth.), put in the shade’. 21 ‘His figure and manner appeared strange to them; but he behaved modestly, and sat silent, till upon something which occurred in the course of conversation, he suddenly struck in and quoted Macrobius; and thus he gave the first impression of  that more extensive reading in which he had indulged himself ’ (I.59). Reference is to Boswell’s Life of  Johnson, edited by George Birkbeck Hill and revised and enlarged by L.F. Powell, second edition, 6 vols (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1934–1964). 22 See MED, s.vv. abhominacioun n. 2.(a) ‘A loathsome action, an odious or detestable custom or practice’ and grisly adj. 1. ‘Horrible, dreadful, terrible; ugly, hideous’. 23 The Muses, it seems, were also called ‘Pierides’, after their birthplace, Pieria. In view of  these facts it would be unwise to assume that the Man of  Law, the finest of  legal minds, is confused, since it is not impossible for the error to have originated with Chaucer himself and it would take an expert reader indeed to identify such an error if deliberate. But the assumption of a fallible narrator remains a powerful inf luence on Chaucer’s modern readers. See Maura Nolan, ‘  “Acquiteth yow now”: Textual Contradiction and Legal Discourse in the Man of  Law’s Introduction’, in Emily Steiner and Candace Barrington (eds), The Letter of  the Law: Legal Practice and Literary Production in Medieval England (Ithaca & London: Cornell University Press, 2002), pp. 136–53 (pp. 149–50). She attributes the confusion noted in The Riverside Chaucer (B1 91–92, p. 856) to the Man of  Law himself  ‘as a careless reader’ (p. 149). 24 See MED, s.v. haue n. (2) (a) ‘The fruit of  the hawthorn, a haw’; (b) ‘a thing of  little worth, a trif le’ and (d) ~ bake, ‘baked haws, meager fare’. 25 See MED, s.v. miri(e adv. 2.(a) ‘Merrily, joyously’. 26 See MED, s.v. f litten v. 1.(a) ‘To convey (something), move, take, transport; … fig. to transfer (power from one people to another)’. 27 On the sources of  The Man of  Law’s Tale, see Robert M. Correale, ‘The Man of  Law’s Prologue and Tale’, in Correale and Hamel, II.277–350. 28 See Correale, II.309, note 3.

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29 I note at random Derek Pearsall, The Canterbury Tales (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1985), pp. 256–65; Jill Mann, Geof frey Chaucer, Feminist Readings (New York and London: Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1991), pp. 128–43 and Priscilla Martin, Chaucer’s Women: Nuns, Wives and Amazons (Basingstoke and London: Macmillan Press Ltd, 1996), pp. 131–40. Indeed, Martin begins her discussion of  The Man of  Law’s Tale by observing that ‘[t]he long-suf fering heroine … is aptly named Constance’ (p. 131). Cooper, The Canterbury Tales (pp. 123–37) and Spearing (article and book) are noteworthy exceptions. Although Wood, Chaucer and the Country of  the Stars, refers to the heroine as Custance, he does so without respect for its distinctiveness. Thus he describes Custance as ‘a paradigm of  Constancy’ and ‘the personification of  Constancy’ (p. 194) and also refers to ‘Custance, who may be called Constance’ (p. 196). 30 This gift of xenoglossia, that is, of speaking in a foreign language that is at the same time understood by its auditors, is attributed to medieval saints such as St Bridget of  Sweden (canonized in 1391). See Christine F. Cooper, ‘  “But algates therby was she understonde”: Translating Custance in Chaucer’s Man of  Law’s Tale’, YES, 36 (2006), 27–38 (pp. 29–32). 31 This is a point well made by Barbara Nolan, ‘Chaucer’s Tales of  Transcendence: Rhyme Royal and Christian Prayer in the Canterbury Tales’, in C. David Benson and Elizabeth Robertson, Chaucer’s Religious Tales, Chaucer Studies XV (Cambridge: D.S. Brewer, 1990), pp. 21–38 (p. 26). 32 We might compare here the words of  Epictetus the Stoic as quoted by William James, The Principles of  Psychology, 2 vols (Henry Holt & Co., 1890; republished, New York: Dover Publications, Inc., 1950), I.312: ‘How do we act in a voyage? We choose the pilot, the sailors, the hour. Afterwards comes a storm. What have I to care for? My part is performed. This matter belongs to the pilot. But the ship is sinking; what then have I to do? That which alone I can do – submit to being drowned without fear, without clamor or accusing of  God, but as one who knows that what is born must likewise die.’ See Epictetus, Discourses, II.v.10–12. And we might think also of  those whose fate it was to be on the Titanic, or the Lusitania or the Leinster on their final voyages. 33 See MED, s.v. sond(e n. 1.(b) ‘a dispensation of  God, an ordinance of  God; a special providence of  God’. 34 See Aristotle, Ethics, V.9 1137a 5 and Aquinas, ST, 1a 2ae 107.4: ‘Alia autem dif ficultas est circa opera virtutum in interioribus actibus, puta quod aliquis opus virtutis exerceat prompte et delectabiliter. Et circa hoc dif ficile est virtus; hoc enim non habenti virtutem est valde dif ficile, sed per virtutem redditur facile,/ The other dif ficulty in the practice of virtue is in internal acts; for example, that one should perform a virtuous action promptly and with pleasure. And virtue

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is concerned with just this sort of dif ficulty; for it can be an extremely dif ficult matter for someone lacking the virtue, although it is made easy by virtue’ (translated by Cornelius Ernst). 35 This touch of  feminine vanity is absent from Chaucer’s presentation of  Emelye in The Knight’s Tale, for Chaucer wishes to emphasize rather the folly of  the two young knights in their willingness to fight to the death for a lady who is completely ignorant of  their existence (see KnT, A 1806–10 and compare TC, I.799–809). 36 ‘And when she understood that they were heathens, she preached the Christian faith to them. And when they had assented to the Christian faith, she had them baptized and instructed perfectly in the faith of  Jesus Christ’ (Correale, II.296). 37 Cooper, ‘Translating Custance’, emphasizes the active role of  Custance ‘as a xenoglossic preacher’ in the conversion of  the constable through the explication of  Christian law (pp. 33–35). 38 See Aquinas, ST, 2a 2ae 161.6. 39 See Norman Davis, ‘Chaucer and Fourteenth-Century English’, in Geof frey Chaucer, edited by Derek Brewer, Writers and their Background (London: G. Bell and Sons, 1974), pp. 58–84 (pp. 78–79). 40 See MED, s.v. blessen v. 5. ‘To bless (sb., oneself ) with the sign of  the Cross; make the sign of  the Cross; cross (oneself )’. 41 See MED, s.v. pope-holi adj. (a) ‘Hypocritical, sanctimonious’ and (b) ‘as noun: hypocrisy; also personified’. Poope-Holy only ‘semede to be ful ententyf/ To gode werkis and to faire’ (Romaunt, 436–37). 42 See Corinne Saunders, ‘Chaucer’s Romances’, in A Companion to Romance: From Classical to Contemporary, edited by Corinne Saunders (Oxford: Blackwell Publishing Ltd, 2004), pp. 85–103 (p. 87). The pervasive inf luence of  the saint’s life on The Canterbury Tales is such that even the Miller can tell a fabliau that is at the same time ‘a legende and a lyf ’ (MilProl, A 3141). 43 See Pearsall, The Canterbury Tales, p. 260. 44 The distinction is that made by Aristotle between ordinary virtue and virtue raised to a pitch of magnanimity and illustrated by Spenser in Arthur’s rescue of  Red Cross from Orgoglio’s dungeon. See Gerald Morgan, ‘Holiness as the First of  Spenser’s Aristotelian Moral Virtues’, MLR, 81 (1986), 817–37 (pp. 831–32). 45 See MED, s.v. virago n. (a) ‘A manly or heroic woman; also, a woman who usurps man’s of fice, an unwomanly woman; – used as a term of contempt’. 46 See MED, s.v. warien v. 2.(a) ‘To invoke divine wrath or misfortune on someone, wish evil upon someone; … of a priest: pronounce or impose an ecclesiastical curse on someone, anathematize, excommunicate’. For the Parson, see GP, A 515–24 and for the Clerk of  Oxenford, see ClT, E 76, 78–79, 83–84, 455–62, 621–23

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and 785. Langland’s Clergy defines Dobest as the just censure of  the wicked by those who are pure in spirit: ‘  “ Thanne is Dobest to be boold to blame þe gilty”  ’ (PPl, B X.259). 47 ‘Correctio est quae tollit id quod dictum est, et pro eo id quod magis idoneum videtur reponit, … Commovetur hoc genere animus auditoris. Res enim communi verbo elata levius tantummodo dicta videtur; ea post ipsius oratoris correctionem insignior magis idonea fit pronuntiatione,/ Correction retracts what has been said and replaces it with what seems more suitable, … This figure makes an impression upon the hearer, for the idea when expressed by an ordinary word seems rather feebly stated, but after the speaker’s own amendment it is made more striking by means of  the more appropriate expression’ (Ad Her., IV.xxvi.36). 48 See MED, s.v. mischaunce n. 1.(a) ‘A mishap, piece of  bad luck, calamity, injury, destruction, death’; (b) ‘a state or period of adversity, trouble, grief, misfortune’ and (d) ‘as expletive or interjection; also, in imprecatory phrases; god yeve him ~, …; with ~, confound it (her, you, etc.); gon with ~, go with good riddance’ and 2. ‘Wrongdoing, wicked behavior, sin; also, a sin, an evil deed’. 49 See MED, s.vv. swin(e n. 2.(a) ‘Insultingly or contemptuously applied to a human being; a lazy, dirty, lustful, etc. person’ and (b) ‘in uncomplimentary comparisons involving laziness, dirtiness, fatness, or excesses of  f leshly appetites’ and fnorten, fnoren v. (a) ‘To snore loudly, to snort in one’s sleep’ and (b) ‘of a horse: snort’ (a rare word, only three occurrences here recorded). 50 See George R. Keiser, ‘The Spiritual Heroism of  Chaucer’s Custance’, in Benson and Robertson, pp. 121–36 (pp. 129–30). 51 Mann, Geof frey Chaucer, p. 138. 52 Keiser, ‘Spiritual Heroism’, p. 132. 53 Mann, Geof frey Chaucer, p. 129. 54 Keiser, ‘Spiritual Heroism’, p. 129. 55 See The ‘Cosmographia’ of  Bernardus Silvestris, translated by Winthrop Wetherbee (New York and London: Columbia University Press, 1973), p. 76. 56 See MED, s.v. fatal adj. 2. ‘Allotted by fate to a particular person or persons; predetermined, fated’ and 3.(a) ‘Important in determining personal destiny; fateful (day, hour)’. 57 See MED, s.vv. croudinge ger. (1) (c) ‘impulsion’; arrai n. 2.(a) ‘The order or position of  things, arrangement, order, sequence’; fers adj. 2.(c) ‘of  things, actions, qualities: violent, overpowering; dangerous, destructive’ and viage n. (a) ‘A journey by land or sea’. 58 See MED, s.vv. ravishen v. 6. Ppl. ravishinge as adj. (b) ‘rapidly moving, rushing’ and swei n. (2) (a) ‘The motion of a rotating or revolving body, a circular movement’ and A Chaucer Glossary, s.v. ravisshing vbl.adj. 1. ‘that carries away, violent’.

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59 See J.C. Eade, The Forgotten Sky: A Guide to Astrology in English Literature (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1984), p. 127. 60 See MED, s.vv. infortunat adj. 1.(a) ‘Of a planet, constellation, astrological situation: causing misfortune, unfortunate’; ascendent n. ‘Astr. And astrol. That degree of  the ecliptic or zodiac which is arising above the horizon at a given moment’; tortuous adj. (c) ‘of a sign of  the zodiac: rising at an angle on the eastern horizon, oblique’; helples adj. (d) ‘unable to give help, inef fective, useless’; fallen v. 4. ‘Astr. Of a heavenly body: to move, or appear to move, toward the horizon; to decline or set’; angle n. (2) 4. ‘Astr. One of  the four sectors or ‘houses’ of  the zodiac located at the four cardinal points of  the compass, numbered 1 (east), 4 (north), 7 (west) and 10 (south), resp.’; derk adj. 6.(b) ‘astr. inauspicious (position in the zodiac)’; atazir n. ‘Planetary inf luence, or a planet as exerting inf luence’; unhappi adj. 2.(b) ‘… of a day, planet: fraught with misfortune, unlucky’; pas(e n. (1) 3.(f ) ‘a course, way, route’; knitten v. 5.(b) ‘intr. & ref l. to be united, be associated’; receiven v. 9.(e) ‘ppl. received, astrol. Of a planet: assisted in inf luence by another planet, each planet being situated in a sign where the other has a dignity’ and weiven v. (1) 3.(b) ‘~ from (of, oute of ), to remove (sb. or sth.) from (a place or condition); dismiss or expel (sb.) from (a place or condition)’. 61 See Eade, The Forgotten Sky, pp. 128–30 and J.D. North, Chaucer’s Universe (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1988), p. 488. 62 For the matter of  this paragraph, see North, Chaucer’s Universe, pp. 64–66, 202 and 488–90. 63 See Eade, The Forgotten Sky, pp. 130–31 and North, Chaucer’s Universe, pp. 220–22 and 228. 64 See Eade, The Forgotten Sky, p. 69. 65 This is a general interpretation and assumes with Eade, The Forgotten Sky, pp. 127– 32, that Chaucer does not have in mind an exact configuration of  the heavens on a specific day and latitude. North in Chaucer’s Universe (pp. 490–97) takes issue with this assumption and argues that Chaucer describes here the state of  the heavens on 27 June 1384 for the latitude of  Rome (rather than London). He abandons his earlier opinion that the darkest house is the twelfth and argues instead that it is the third house as ‘  “falling” from the midnight line’ (p. 489 and n. 8). Further, he argues for the Tail of  the Dragon, not Mars, as in the ascendent (Pisces) and for Mars and the Moon as in conjunction in Scorpio and in the eighth of  the mundane houses, the house of death (p. 495). The outlook for Custance remains no less grim. 66 See MED, s.vv. eleccioun n. 7. ‘Astrol. The action or act of choosing on astrological grounds the proper time for some undertaking’ and rote n. (4) 7.(a) ‘Astrol. The data for a given time or period which serve as the basis for a horoscope’. On elections, see North, Chaucer’s Universe, pp. 230–34.

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67 See William Caferro, John Hawkwood: An English Mercenary in FourteenthCentury Italy (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2006), p. 297. 68 See Caferro, John Hawkwood, p. 300. 69 Eade, The Forgotten Sky, p. 127. 70 North, Chaucer’s Universe, p. 497. But all is not quite well, for North goes on to observe that side by side with the Man of  Law’s ‘avowal of  faith in astrology’ is his adherence to ‘what had long been Christian orthodoxy, that the divine will is the primal cause of all created nature, and that although the planets have some inf luence on inferior events, the human will is free, and is not ultimately constrained by them’ (p. 497). The contradiction here can be avoided by not attributing to the Man of  Law a belief in judicial astrology in the first place. North’s qualified position is surely to be preferred, however, to that of  Wood in Chaucer and the Country of  the Stars, where the Man of  Law is dismissed as a complete ignoramus in these matters: ‘It would appear that once again the Man of  Law has interpolated into the story material that is not appropriate to the situation in spite of  his interpretation of it … The Man of  Law’s concern for determinism is short-range and short-sighted and he mistakes a providential decree about marriage for an astrological decree about shipwreck’ (p. 226). 71 Tim Clayton and Phil Craig, Finest Hour (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1999), p. 335. 72 See Pearsall, The Canterbury Tales, p. 261. 73 See Nolan, ‘Chaucer’s Tales of  Transcendence’, pp. 24–25. 74 See Nolan, ‘Chaucer’s Tales of  Transcendence’, p. 27. 75 ‘Exclamatio est quae conficit significationem doloris aut indignationis alicuius per hominis aut urbis aut loci aut rei cuiuspiam conpellationem, … Hac exclamatione si loco utemur, raro, et cum rei magnitudo postulare videbitur, ad quam volemus indignationem animum auditoris adducemus,/ Apostrophe is the figure which expresses grief or indignation by means of an address [? rebuke] to some man or city or place or object, … If we use Apostrophe in its proper place, sparingly, and when the importance of  the subject seems to demand it, we shall instil in the hearer as much indignation as we desire’ (Ad Her., IV.xv.22). 76 See Matthew Arnold, Essays in Criticism, Second Series (London: Macmillan and Co. Ltd, 1908), pp. 1–55 (pp. 32–33). 77 Spearing, Textual Subjectivity, pp. 122 and 123; see ‘Narrative Voice’, pp. 729 and 730. 78 See MED, s.v. lei n. 2.(a) ‘A religion, faith; creed’. 79 See Cooper, The Canterbury Tales, p. 127.

7  The Logic of  The Clerk’s Tale

A Clerk ther was of  Oxenford also, That unto logyk hadde longe ygo … Sownynge in moral vertu was his speche, And gladly wolde he lerne and gladly teche. — CHAUCER, General Prologue, A 285–86 and 307–8 This shulde a ryghtwys lord han in his thought, And not ben lyk tyraunts of  Lumbardye, That usen wilfulhed and tyrannye.1 — CHAUCER, The Legend of  Good Women, Prologue G 353–55 ‘Lucky, lucky girl!’ cried Mary as soon as she could speak – ‘what a match for her! My dearest Henry, this must be my first feeling; but my second, which you shall have as sincerely, is that I approve your choice from my soul, and foresee your happiness as heartily as I wish and desire it. You will have a sweet little wife; all gratitude and devotion. Exactly what you deserve.’ — JANE AUSTEN, Mansfield Park, II.122 The energy that would animate a crime is not more than is wanted to inspire a resolved submission, when the noble habit of  the soul reasserts itself. — GEORGE ELIOT, Middlemarch, IV.423

The Moral Problem The Clerk of  Oxenford is too serious a scholar to be much concerned with literary prizes, but he understands his duty to the company of pilgrims in his deferential response to the Host’s request for a tale. As always the

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Clerk’s response is a measured response. He accepts the present authority of  the Host but in doing so he will not go beyond the bounds of reason (ClProl, E 22–25): ‘Hooste,’ quod he, ‘I am under youre yerde; Ye han of us as now the governance, And therfore wol I do yow obeisance, As fer as resoun axeth, hardily.’4

As befits a true scholar he is punctilious in his acknowledgment of  his source (a matter much less pressing for Chaucer himself in respect of  Troilus and Criseyde) (E 26–28 and 31–32): ‘I wol yow telle a tale which that I Lerned at Padowe of a worthy clerk, As preved by his wordes and his werk … Fraunceys Petrak, the lauriat poete, Highte this clerk, …’

There can be no doubt of  the essential correctness of  this attribution, but the literary lineage of  The Clerk’s Tale is more complicated than these brief words might suggest. Petrarch’s Historia Griseldis (1373)5 is a Latin adaptation of  the tale that has the distinction of  being the final tale of  Boccaccio’s Decameron (1352), the tenth tale of  the tenth day.6 Petrarch revised his version of  the tale in 1374, the year of  his death (E 29–30 and 36–38), for inclusion in his Epistolae seniles (XVII.3), addressed to Boccaccio, and it is the revised version that is the source of  The Clerk’s Tale. In addition to Petrarch’s Latin text Chaucer also made extensive use of an anonymous French translation (c. 1390), Le Livre Griseldis, and perhaps also (to a slight extent) of  the French translation of  Philippe de Mézières entitled Le Miroir des dames mariées (1385–1389).7 These textual relations were authoritatively established by J. Burke Severs over sixty years ago and they should have enabled us to define the bearings of  the Clerk’s interest in the story with clarity and confidence. This has not been the case, and the mild-mannered scholar seems to have provoked a sense of moral outrage among his modern readers rather than intellectual enlightenment.

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Indeed, the Clerk, like the Man of  Law and the Franklin, has become a notable casualty of  the application of  the dramatic principle to the reading of  The Canterbury Tales and of its concomitant preference for tellers to tales. Thus the Clerk has been reduced in status from that of an eminent scholar, a ‘philosophical Strode’ (TC, V.1857), let us say, renowned for the rigour of  his thought, to yet another fallible pilgrim narrator. Thus Edward Condren speculates that he ‘does not understand the revisions Chaucer made in Petrarch’s version’ and that he has lost control of  his tale (unlike the Friar and the Summoner in respect of  their tales) to such an extent that ‘some of  his comments run counter to the main thrust of  his tale’.8 There is no justification for such an approach to The Clerk’s Tale other than the sheer dif ficulty of understanding it. As we shall see, it is hard to match the Clerk’s logical precision in the midst of an intensity of self-contained suf fering. It is not, as the Host fears (E 16–20), that the Clerk’s language is dif ficult to follow. On the contrary, the style of  The Clerk’s Tale is characterized by its plainness and simplicity, and in this respect it dif fers markedly from the rhetorically elaborate styles of  The Man of  Law’s Tale, The Franklin’s Tale and The Nun’s Priest’s Tale. Whereas a degree of rhetorical brilliance is appropriate to the lawyer, the parliamentarian and the preacher, clarity is the great object of  the teacher and philosopher. Such clarity is the mark of  the Clerk’s master, Aristotle (GP, A 293–96) and of  Aristotle’s greatest medieval interpreter, Aquinas. The besetting sin of scholars is the ostentatious display of  knowledge and the use of  technical terms that are impenetrable to the non-expert. In our own day we have had to adjust to the language of structuralism and post-structuralism. Words such as ‘deconstruction’, ‘hermeneutics’, ‘hypertext’, ‘intertextuality’ and ‘semiotics’ seem often to be required as the norm of  literary discourse. These are words (or meanings of words) often not to be found in dictionaries so that it becomes necessary to be initiated into a closed circle. Hence the praise of  brevity and conciseness in the portrait of  the Clerk of  Oxenford in the General Prologue is both pointed and discriminating (GP, A 304–6): Noght o word spak he moore than was neede, And that was seyd in forme and reverence, And short and quyk and ful of  hy sentence.

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Langland’s Dame Study explains that Clergy is to be found through the experience of much joy and sorrow in life, a lack of concern for wealth, an avoidance of  lechery and the cultivation of simplicity of speech (PPl, B X.159–69). Such simplicity can leave one open to ridicule as being merely simplistic. Indeed the simplicity of style of the medieval Latin of  Scholastic philosophers was ridiculed by Renaissance humanists. The style of  the Clerk of  Oxenford is lower in register than that of  Petrarch’s Latin, both vocabulary and syntax being simpler.9 In the light of  the stylistic brilliance of other of  The Canterbury Tales this has to be a deliberate stylistic choice on Chaucer’s part. The philosopher is concerned above all to make his point without ambiguity, that is, his method is logical (GP, A 285–86), and his object is moral truth, which he both imparts to others as a teacher and receives from others as a student (GP, A 307–8). The Clerk therefore underlines at its end the exemplary nature of  his tale (ClT, E 1142–46):   This storie is seyd nat for that wyves sholde Folwen Grisilde as in humylitee, For it were inportable, though they wolde, But for that every wight, in his degree, Sholde be constant in adversitee.10

The Clerk’s Tale does not imply that it is either possible or desirable that one human being should be obedient to the will of another human being as Grisilde is to her lord and husband. Obedience is not to be given to a superior if it contradicts the will of God (ST, 2a 2ae 104.5 sed contra). Hence the note of scholarly caution in response to the Host’s injunction to tell a tale. Indeed, there are times when an evil will must be resisted, although in the nature of  things it will be dif ficult to know when this point of resistance has been reached. Such legitimate resistance must allow for the exhaustion of  the virtues of patience and humility, for in the midst of adversity the demands of patience are not to be wilfully set aside. Thus Kittredge is able to conclude that The Clerk’s Tale is ‘a plain and straightforward piece of edification’.11 But the Clerk’s disclaimer has not been suf ficient to satisfy a large number of modern readers, who not only find Walter intolerably cruel in the testing of  his wife, but Grisilde

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incomprehensibly supine in allowing her children to be taken away from her to be killed. Modern scholarship is resolutely full of righteous indignation on these points. Lounsbury in 1892 finds the central idea of  the tale ‘too revolting … for any skill in description to make it palatable’.12 C. David Benson has it in 1990 that the tale ‘deliberately insults human feelings and natural justice’.13 Mark Miller in 2004 deplores the ‘inhuman detachment from maternal suf fering and a monstrous dereliction of maternal duty’.14 Some credit is surely due to the Clerk as the agent of such provocation. It is pleasing to think that his devotion to the wisdom of  Aristotle has not made his discourse tedious or even only slightly uninteresting. And whereas the modern scholar deplores in the patient Grisilde a dereliction of maternal duty, not a single word of criticism passes the lips of  the medieval Clerk of  Oxenford. Something may surely be said at once in the Clerk’s defence. Perhaps it is his scholarly and logical method that is the true cause of  the of fensiveness of  his tale. If  The Clerk’s Tale repels by means of a scrupulous and unwavering logical argument we may think that the relentlessness of an Aquinas is also not to everyone’s taste. We may note as well some positive elements in the argument of  the tale. Walter’s testing of  Grisilde is not presented in such a way as to make it seem palatable. The failure of  Grisilde to rebel does not imply passivity but strength (a point well made by Jill Mann).15 Grisilde is motivated by her promise to Walter (E 362–64) as well as by ordinary considerations of wifely obedience. There is thus an active commitment to Walter’s will and not merely a passive acceptance of it.16 Grisilde without doubt reconciles herself  to the death of  her child, for she asks ‘that she moste kisse hire child er that it deyde’ (E 550) and sees that ‘this nyght shaltow dyen for my sake’ (E 560). But at the same time her will is subject to the will of others able to exert their power over her. She gives her child back to the sergeant with the words, ‘Have heer agayn youre litel yonge mayde’ (E 567). The use of  the possessive youre makes it clear that the moral responsibility for the well-being of  the child is not hers alone. It is not her will that the child be killed. The sergeant and the father have a responsibility for the well-being of children too. Grisilde’s willed submission to Walter’s will is not designed to illustrate the way in which a wife would or ought to respond in actuality to a

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husband intent on killing her daughter, but illustrates rather the nature and working of  the moral virtue of obedience.17 In other words Grisilde is the personification and not the type of  the virtues of  humility, obedience and patience. They are perfectly illustrated in her conduct, whereas in a type such as Sir Gawain in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight moral excellence is always circumscribed by human imperfection.

The Clerk’s Prologue The Clerk emerges as a serious and learned scholar in The Clerk’s Prologue as we can see from the attitudes adopted towards him by the Host. First of all he is accorded the term of respect that is his due: ‘  “Sire Clerk of  Oxenford …”  ’ (E 1). In the same way at the end of  the General Prologue the Host addresses him as ‘ye, sire Clerk’ (A 840). His behaviour is compared to that of a maid (E 2–3), like that of  the Knight (GP, A 68–69), whose courtesy he shares. He is not puf fed up with the arrogance of  learning, but modest by habitual practice. Hence the Host urges him: ‘  “… lat be youre shamefastnesse”  ’ (GP, A 840). At the same time he is not given up to trivial conversation, but is engrossed and silent in his thoughts. Thus the Host also urges him at the end of  the General Prologue at the beginning of  the competition of  tales: ‘  “Ne studieth noght …”  ’ (A 841), and now he observes of  him (E 4–5): ‘This day ne herde I of youre tonge a word. I trowe ye studie aboute som sophyme.’18

He is of a genuinely serious disposition but not in any way sullen or unconvivial, and hence responds courteously to the Host’s invitation to tell a tale (E 21–22). The assumptions that the Host derives from his conduct are the expected ones, but somewhat superficial, and so direct us to the true complexity of  the Clerk’s nature. The Host encourages the Clerk to tell ‘  “som

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myrie tale”  ’ (E 9) and repeats the exhortation a few lines further on (E 15). The expectation is that the moral and philosophical seriousness of  the Clerk will lead to a tale that is solemn and even dull. We are all too familiar with the learning that is as dry as dust, and hopes are not high when the representative of  learning takes centre stage. By contrast the Host’s request of  the Pardoner in the introduction to The Pardoner’s Tale for ‘a myrie tale’ and ‘som myrthe or japes’ (C 316 and 319) fills the gentles in the company of pilgrims with alarm (C 323–26). The Clerk’s Tale of patient Griselda can hardly be described as merry, but although serious in the best manner of  Scholastic philosophy it is not dull. The moral argument of  the tale is too provocative for that. The Clerk’s Tale rises above the Host’s worst expectations, and indeed is fittingly described by the Host after the Envoy as ‘a gentil tale’ (E 1212e). The Clerk’s Tale is gentil in that it illustrates the Chaucerian (and Dantean) theme of  true gentillesse (WBT, D 1109–76). Virtue is independent of social rank, and this principle is preeminently realized in Grisilde, who is of peasant stock.19 The Host’s expectation is also that the language of  the Clerk will be high-f lown and impenetrable with its ‘termes, … colours, and … figures’ (E 16), and urges him to speak ‘  “so pleyn at this tyme, …/ That we may understonde what ye seye”  ’ (E 19–20). Colours refer to the forty-five figures of speech and figures to the nineteen figures of  thought, classified in such treatises as the Ciceronian Rhetorica ad Herennium and the Poetria Nova of  Geof frey of  Vinsauf. But it is the positive, not the negative, aspects of rhetoric that are stressed here, as befits ‘this worthy clerk’ (E 21) and his source, Petrarch, who is also described as ‘a worthy clerk’ (E 27) and as ‘this worthy man/ That taughte me this tale’ (E 39–40). Thus rhetoric is seen in terms of  the realization of its potentiality to teach poetic eloquence, for Petrarch’s ‘rethorike sweete/ Enlumyned al Ytaille of poetrie’ (E 32–33). The Clerk is unembarrassed by the use of  the high style, but implies a distinction of styles in the proem and the body of  Petrarch’s tale (E 41–43). And whereas The Man of  Law’s and The Franklin’s Tales are composed in the high style, The Clerk’s Tale is written in a plain style. This accords both with the seriousness of  the Clerk’s intentions and the Host’s demand for ready intelligibility.

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The scholarly nature of  the Clerk is revealed in the first place by the acknowledgment of  his indebtedness to Petrarch (E 26–38). Secondly, it is evident in his command of detail, both in reference to Giovanni da Lignano, professor of  Canon Law at Padua (E 34–35) and in his knowledge of  Northern Italian geography (E 43–52). The list of names is neatly rounded of f in rhetorical fashion by the use of  the device of occupatio (E 53–55). The essential seriousness of  his mind is underlined by his recognition of  human fame as bounded by mortality (E 29–30 and 36–38). And it is this seriousness which finds expression in the tale itself. In this respect the Clerk does not meet but ignores (with sublime scholarly indif ference) the Host’s demand to supply a merry tale.

Walter and the Gifts of  Fortune The lord in the tale is first of all identified as ‘a markys’ (E 64). Chaucer is here following his source, for Le Livre Griseldis has ‘un marquis’, and the word is glossed by the MED (s.v. markis n. (b) ) as ‘a nobleman of  France or Italy, who was usually lord or governor of a territory, town, etc.’. But the term is a more significant marker of noble status in England, and the MED records the sense (a) ‘an English nobleman between the ranks of duke and earl’. The first earl to be created Marquess (of  Dublin) was Sir Robert de Vere, 9th Earl of  Oxford, and the favourite of  Richard II, in 1385.20 The MED cites Higden as commenting that ‘ … a new dignite was create not seene in Ynglonde afore that tyme; For the kynge, willenge to preferre the erle of  Oxenforde, made hym markesse of  Oxenforde [sic]’. Thus the title of marquess clearly establishes its possessor as a member of  the higher nobility, and in this respect one who has been blessed by fortune. This point is made explicitly of  the marquess in The Clerk’s Tale as one who is both ‘[b]iloved and drad, thurgh favour of  Fortune’ (E 69), and it is made explicitly by Chaucer, not by his sources.

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The gifts of  fortune are emphasized at the beginning of  the following stanza in the lord’s noble lineage, his handsomeness, strength and youth (E 71–73). Chaucer gives a special emphasis to the nobility of  his birth for he is ‘[t]he gentilleste yborn of  Lumbardye’ (E 72). Petrarch’s Latin simply has ‘sanguine nobilis’ (65) and Le Livre Griseldis has ‘moult noble de lignaige’ (I.13). The reference to Lombardy is Chaucer’s addition, emphasizing the extent of  the lord’s nobility and perhaps also with a hint of  the tyranny that is associated with the name of  Bernabò Visconti (MkT, B2 3589–90). Praise and blame do not attach themselves to the possession or lack of  the gifts of  fortune, but to the exercise of virtue. And here the Clerk (ominously in view of what is to come) finds the lord blameworthy (E 76, 78–79 and 83–84). This expression of  blame is not in the sources, but it is the kind of moral judgment that one would expect of  the Clerk of  Oxenford (GP, A 307).21 It is in connection with the expression of  blame that Walter’s personal name is first revealed (E 77), whereas in the sources it is mentioned at the very beginning.22 The withholding of  the personal name is appropriate, for it is attached in consequence not to the gifts of  fortune but to the exercise of choice. Human beings are who they are and what they are by the choices they make, for they have the freedom to choose this rather than that, or that rather than this.23 Here we are made aware at once of  Walter’s responsibility as a moral agent. Such an emphasis on the blameworthiness of  Walter from the outset is of  the greatest importance to the moral argument that is to follow. It is the husband, not the wife, who is to blame for all the misery that is to come, and hence at no point does the Clerk suggest any blameworthiness on Grisilde’s part. Walter is a monster as a husband, and we need not doubt that many monsters have played that role in the course of  history (not alone in the medieval world). Walter’s subjects appeal to him to take a wife (E 85–140) and to that extent perhaps his will is constrained, especially since he is well disposed towards them as ‘myn owene peple deere’ (E 143). But for the man marriage is ‘that blisful yok/ Of soveraynetee, noght of servyse’ (E 113–14). Here the loss of  freedom is combined with the retention of  lordship. Thus the marquess decides to marry of  his own free will (E 150–51), even though he gives up his freedom by marrying (E 145–47 and 171–73), and further he reserves to himself  the choice of wife (E 152–54 and 162). He makes his

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choice in terms of  the woman’s goodness, for virtue comes from God and not from birth (E 157–58). The sentiments of  the marquess are impeccable and such indeed that the Wife of  Bath herself can assent to. He proposes in the light of  them to entrust himself  to the divine will (E 159–61): I truste in Goddes bountee, and therfore My mariage and myn estaat and reste I hym bitake; he may doon as hym leste.

Indeed, only marriages blest by God can hope to survive the vicissitudes of  fortune and of  life (as we shall later see in the happy marriage of  Arveragus and Dorigen). In the event Walter as husband proves unable to subject himself  to the operation of a superior will. But there is no doubt of  his determination to get married. Even though the people still fear procrastination on his part (E 181–82) the marquess puts into ef fect the arrangements for the wedding feast (E 190–96).

The Virtue of  Grisilde As far as lineage or birth is concerned Grisilde is at the very opposite pole to Walter. She is the daughter of  the ‘povrest’ of  the ‘povre folk’ of a nearby village (E 204–5) and is ‘this povre creature’ (E 232). In this respect at least the gift of  fortune has been denied to her. But she has not been denied the gift of  beauty. Such beauty is inseparable from her moral goodness, for it is her ‘vertuous beautee’ (E 211).24 The opening portrait of  Grisilde is indeed a catalogue of  her moral virtues. She is not lustful (E 214); she is industrious (E 215–17 and 223–28); she is respectful, obedient and loving to her father (E 221–22 and 229–31). The active exercise of  the habit of virtue is summed up in the phrase ‘for she wolde vertu plese’ (E 216). This particular selection of virtues is appropriate to one of  humble station, and indeed it is Chaucer who has added the references to her sobriety and industry (E 215–17). We must not expect too much from one who has long been conditioned by the

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ef fects of poverty. It is one thing to be born into the life of a marquess. It is another to be suddenly elevated into such a position. This is a matter of psychological outlook as well as of moral conduct. Grisilde has long been educated by grinding poverty into the necessity of submissiveness towards those wealthier and more powerful than she herself can ever hope to be. The marquess is drawn to Grisilde by her real virtues, not by any ‘wantown lookyng of  folye’ (E 236). In fact he shows the virtue of prudence or practical wisdom in its full sense of deliberation, judgment (and a right judgment at that) and command in respect of  Grisilde’s goodness.25 He ‘in sad wyse/ Upon hir chiere … wolde hym ofte avise’, ‘[c]ommendynge in his herte hir wommanhede,/ And eek hir vertu’ (E 237–40). He ‘considered ful right/ Hir bountee, and disposed that he wolde/ Wedde hire oonly, if evere he wedde sholde’ (E 243–45). We are not to doubt the merit of  his choice, and indeed it is subsequently acknowledged by his people. They held him to be ‘[a] prudent man’ and that is seldom the case in a lord (E 425–27). This is no small thing for the narrator to say, for people at large are commonly blinded by riches and status. It is above all a vindication of  the choice of  Grisilde as wife. But perhaps Walter is not entirely free of presuming on his own behalf  the rights conferred by his own noble lineage. If we are to press the argument for virtue against birth then we must also recognize Grisilde’s entitlement to equality with her husband and the possibility also that as a human being she is morally superior to her husband.

Marriage and Grisilde’s Will The splendour of the wedding preparations is set out in telling detail (E 253– 73) and is such as befits a ‘roial markys’ (E 267). But although the marquess makes much of  his own freedom to choose, no such freedom is conceded to Grisilde other than the choice of obedience. Thus the preparations are made for the wedding on Grisilde’s behalf (E 253–55), but she is as ignorant of  them as Criseyde was in the beginning of  Troilus’s love for her (TC,

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I.806–9). Grisilde is ‘ful innocent,/ That for hire shapen was al this array’ (E 274–75). She has not been consulted about these arrangements, although she has been designated the central role in them. Her consent is presumed. The relationship that is described here is not so much that of  husband and wife as that of  lord and subject, and such a relationship is clearly defined in the terms in which the marquess proposes marriage to Grisilde. It is true (in the medieval view of  the world) that ‘a womman sholde be subget to hire housbonde’ (ParsT, I.929), but Grisilde is subject to the marquess as her feudal lord before she is subject to him as her husband. Thus when the marquess comes for Grisilde as his bride she greets him as her lord by the appropriate gesture of  humility, that is, she falls down upon her knees and waits to learn his will (E 292–94). She addresses him with a corresponding humility when he asks to see her father (E 298–99). He is her liege lord and her father is his ‘feithful lige man’ (E 310). The marquess appeals not to Grisilde herself  but to Grisilde’s father for her hand (E 306–8). It is the will of  the two men not the will of  the daughter that counts. Now this disregard for the woman’s will may be thought characteristic of  the social norms and conventions of  the Middle Ages. But the essence of marriage is consent,26 and this is evident in the credibility that attaches itself  to clandestine marriages.27 Thus there is a pointed exclusion of  Grisilde here in a way unlikely to find favour with a medieval audience. This fact is further emphasized by Chaucer in the stress on the equality of wills that characterizes the married relation of  Arveragus and Dorigen in The Franklin’s Tale (F 738–98). Predictably in The Clerk’s Tale the father’s will is entirely subject to the bidding of  his lord (E 319–22). The marquess does indeed propose to discover Grisilde’s will in the matter, but only late in the process and in the presence of  the father (E 326–29). Grisilde is thus further constrained by the fact of  her father’s initial consent (E 345–46) and the suddenness with which the moment of decision is pressed upon her (E 348–50). The marquess has been earlier described as ‘this thoghtful markys’ (E 295). That is because his own actions have been carefully considered. He has had the time for deliberation that he now denies to Grisilde. The conditions that Walter puts to Grisilde are not those of marriage and equality, but of  lordship and subjection (E 355–56). They belong (were

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it not for the power that he wields) to the fantasy world of  January that is ridiculed in The Merchant’s Tale (E 1344–46). Grisilde accepts them as a subject in awe of  her lord, indeed ‘quakynge for drede’ (E 358). And further she promises to honour them (E 362–64): ‘And heere I swere that nevere willyngly, In werk ne thoght, I nyl yow disobeye, For to be deed, though me were looth to deye.’

She is bound to obey the marquess, therefore, in accordance with fidelity to her promise as well as in accordance with any ordinary considerations of wifely obedience. The marquess is able to draw upon the bonds of  feudal obligation, rather than love, in carrying out his intention to marry Grisilde, and Grisilde’s response to his proposal is determined by this primary relation. The prudential rather than loving nature of  the contract established between Walter and Grisilde is indicated by the fact that whereas in all these negotiations Grisilde is mentioned by name (E 210, 232, 255, 274 and 335) and her father is identified as ‘Janicula’ (E 208) Walter is referred to as ‘this markys’ (E 198, 233, 253 and 323), ‘the markys’ (E 279, 289 and 342), ‘this roial markys’ (E 267) and ‘this thoghtful markys’ (E 295).28 The use of  the adjective ‘roial’ emphasizes the power and prestige of  Walter as he makes his way ‘richely arrayed’ with his company of  lords and ladies (E 267–68) to invite Grisilde as bride to the wedding to which she looks forward as spectator (E 278–87). Her part is merely to consent. It is a fait accompli. Our ‘thoghtful’ marquess has thought it out all in advance. Grisilde is taken entirely by surprise. The proper match for such a lord as she supposes is some ‘markysesse’ (E 283). The social disparity is emphasized in the forms of address. Walter addresses the young maiden by name (E 297 and 344) and significantly, when he has obtained his will, as ‘Grisilde myn’ (E 365), and he addresses the father from whom he seeks permission by name (E 304). On the other hand Grisilde replies to him as ‘lord’ (E 299 and 359), as does her father (E 319). Although Grisilde is bound to her lord by this feudal contract, she is presented by Walter to the people as his wife (E 369–71). Here he invokes concepts of  honour and of  love that have

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been conspicuously absent from the preceding negotiations. There is an illicit shift from the plane of  lordship and servitude to that of marriage and equality, for these concepts of  honour and love have not been internalized by Walter himself. It does not bode well for what is to follow. Hence after the marriage Walter continues to regard Grisilde with the condescension that ought to be reserved to his feudal subjects and does not show to her the honour that accords with the dignity of a wife. No fault is to be attached, however, to Grisilde, who has done what she is more or less obliged to have done. She has played the part assigned to her in this drama. When she is married her virtue stands out more clearly than before (to everyone, it would seem, except her husband), and fits her in every way for the exalted position she now occupies (E 410–13). She is in every respect (in Chaucer’s addition to his sources) ‘this newe markysesse’ (E 394), and deserves to be treated as her husband’s equal. The Clerk makes the point by the rhetorical device of correctio (E 421–22):   Thus Walter lowely – nay, but roially – Wedded with fortunat honestetee.

Thus ‘this roial markys’ (E 267) is wedded ‘roially’ (E 421). It is entirely fitting and Chaucer deliberately uses the personal name ‘Walter’ (E 421) (the Livre Griseldis continues to refer to ‘le marquis’) to signify the personal accord. It is a match that is, we might say, made in heaven, for it is characterized both by good fortune and by virtue. Hence it is summed up in the striking phrase ‘fortunat honestetee’ (E 422).29 This collocation of ideas is distinctively Chaucerian. The Historia Griseldis observes that ‘Walterus, humili quidem sed insigni ac prospero matrimonio honestatus, summa domi in pace, … vivebat,/ Walter, graced by a humble but worthy and prosperous marriage, lived in great peace at home’ (181–83), and Le Livre Griseldis that ‘le marquis, [humblement] mais virtueusement mariez, vivoit en bonne paix en sa maison’ (II.147–48). By her conduct Grisilde shows herself entirely fitting for the role of  the wife of a marquess, able to exercise harmonizing and reconciling qualities when disputes break out among her husband’s subjects (E 428–41). She can without dif ficulty arbitrate between those of all ranks, ‘gentil men or

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othere’ (E 436). What is inhibiting is not so much that she is (or was) a peasant, but that she is a woman. The second part of  The Clerk’s Tale ends with the birth of a daughter. Chaucer adds to his sources lines that emphasize Grisilde’s strong preference for a son (E 446–48): ‘For though a mayde child coome al bifore,/ She may unto a knave child atteyne/ By liklihede, syn she nys nat bareyne’.30 These lines reinforce our perception of  the strong disadvantage of inequality under which Grisilde has had to lead her life, and which the presence of so many virtues are insuf ficient to counteract.

The Marquess’s First Testing of  his Wife The marquess has the desire to test the constancy of  his wife. The sources have it that this is a marvellous rather than a laudable intention, although there are always some willing to justify such extraordinary acts (especially in a lord). Petrarch has it that the wiser among us will judge Walter’s desire more marvellous than praiseworthy (‘mirabilis quedam quam [laudabilis] doctiores iudicent cupiditas,/ wiser heads will call it more amazing than worthy’, Historia Griseldis, 193). The author of  Le Livre Griseldis does not know where Walter could have got hold of so extraordinary an idea (‘je ne sçay quelle ymaginacion merveilleuse print ledit marquis,/ I do not know where the marquis got the strange notion’, III.162–63), but allows that some wits will find in it cause for praise (‘laquelle aucuns saiges veulent louer,/ which some wise men wish to praise’, III.163). Chaucer’s Clerk indeed refers to the lord’s ‘merveillous desir’ (E 454) to test his wife, but there is no praise for it. Nor is there room for any trace of ambiguity on so vital a point. The lord’s desire receives the Clerk’s unequivocal moral condemnation. This is consistent not only with his concern for moral values but also with our sense as readers (modern no less than medieval) of  the repulsiveness of  the lord’s conduct. The Clerk’s moral condemnation of  Walter is based on two related judgments. First of all, the testing of  Grisilde is unnecessary (E 456–59),

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for we have seen in her, both as a poor young maiden and as the wife of a marquess, nothing but virtue. Secondly, it is bound to cause her fear and anguish. In other words, it is a motiveless cruelty (E 455 and 460–62): Nedelees, God woot, he thoghte hire for t’af fraye. But as for me, I seye that yvele it sit To assaye a wyf whan that it is no nede, And putten hire in angwyssh and in drede.

The strength of  the emotion that accompanies this judgment is clear from the parenthetical asides (‘God woot’ and ‘as for me’) and the use of  the af firmative verb (‘I seye’). Such a forthright and impassioned condemnation is not only morally correct but shapes the entire imaginative presentation of  the subsequent events, that is, it makes them imaginatively and morally intelligible in a way that often seems to have been doubted. But although the treatment of  Grisilde is intolerable there is a limit to the usefulness of expressions of moral indignation. Abuses of power by human beings in positions of authority are a commonplace of  the world we live in. What matters more is how we (the victims) are able to shape a moral response on our own account. Innocent victims can be more or less worthy in their response to persecution (not to put too fine a point on Walter’s desire). The marquess reminds Grisilde (despicably, but correctly) that it was he who took her from her position of poverty to that of exalted rank. This underlying reality is emphasized in Chaucer’s text by its repetition (E 466–69 and 470–73). Once again we are led to appreciate the lack of complementarity of  birth and virtue. And the marquess is able to take advantage of  Grisilde’s virtue by invoking their private agreement, that is, the promise she made to him before marriage to obey his will (in lines not paralleled in the sources) (E 475–76). Grisilde is required as a result to commit her will patiently to that of  her husband in assenting to whatever he will do in the disposal of  their daughter (E 484–97). This situation is designed to test the notion of wifely submission to the limit (not merely the submissiveness of an individual wife). Grisilde keeps her promise and shows a perfect conformity to her lord’s (not her husband’s) will (E 501–4).

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Obedience is a voluntary act. It is a willed subjection of one’s own will to another’s will. Hence there is nothing grudging in Grisilde’s response: ‘she was nat agreved’ (E 500). Here the Clerk makes us confront the fact that obedience is of its nature an uncomfortable moral virtue as requiring action of a moral agent that is in itself repugnant to the will. A wife is a weak and defenceless woman, and she can hardly be blamed for a husband’s desire to kill her children. They are his own as much as hers. He can ‘save or spille’ his ‘owene thyng’ (E 503–4). He has the power to execute an evil will, even if she were so silly or foolish as to attempt physical resistance. We may admire the resistance of a Dietrich Bonhoef fer to the tyranny of  Hitler, but for all that it was unavailing and the end result personally calamitous. There is a dif ference here between the obedience of  the wife and the obedience of  the sergeant who comes to carry the child away (E 519–39). He too is obedient to his lord’s will (E 528–32), but in his case some show of physical resistance is surely possible. Obedience in his case is such as to lead a man to ‘doon execucioun in thynges badde’ (E 522). This is yet another addition by Chaucer to his sources, significantly modifying the tendency of  the poetic argument. By his actions in suggesting that he intends to slay the child (E 535–36) the sergeant shows himself  to be ‘this crueel sergeant’ (E 539). A distinction seems to be involved here between a true and false obedience. Aquinas explains that one is under no obligation to obey unjust commands (ST, 2a 2ae 104.6 ad 3): … principibus saecularibus intantum homo obedire tenetur inquantum ordo justitiae requirit. Et ideo si non habeant justum principatum sed usurpatum, vel si injusta praecipiant, non tenentur eis subditi obedire nisi forte per accidens propter vitandum scandalum vel periculum. The obligation to obey civil authority is measured by what the order of justice requires. For this reason when any regime holds its power not by right but by usurpation, or commands what is wrong, subjects have no duty to obey, except for such extraneous reasons as avoidance of scandal or risk (translated by T.C. O’Brien).

In her acceptance of  the loss of a daughter Grisilde shows a combination of virtues. She is obedient (E 545–46), humble (E 547–48 and 566–67), loving (E 551–53), pious (E 556–60) and patient (E 563–65). The scene of  farewell is full of pathos (E 554–567) and it is one which encourages us to

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identify with the mother’s suf fering. It is again matter of  Chaucer’s own invention. And we ought not to isolate Grisilde in her suf fering by adding blame to her misfortune. Significantly, the Clerk himself makes no attempt to do so. It is not only mothers who have a duty of care for little babies. The lord, who is also the father, has an overriding duty of care. But he remains implacable. Pity will not def lect him from the execution of  his will (E 579–81). The ref lection on the inf lexibility of  the lord’s will shows by contrast to Grisilde’s patience how human beings can be stubborn or perverse in holding to their will, even in the face of  the suf fering of others. But the lord’s obstinacy illuminates the virtue of  Grisilde. Just as the lord’s will is unaltered, so Grisilde’s behaviour remains unchanged (E 598–602). She is as cheerful, humble, courteous and loving as she ever was (E 603–5). Here we see that the moral virtue of obedience is not merely the acceptance of another’s will. It is a glad and actively willed acceptance, and it requires by contrast with the lord’s obstinacy a firmness of purpose that is admirable.

The Marquess’s Second Testing of  his Wife The marquess’s second testing of  his wife is also prefaced by the Clerk’s outright condemnation, and (it is of  the utmost significance) in another addition by Chaucer to his source (E 621–23): O nedelees was she tempted in assay! But wedded men ne knowe no mesure, Whan that they fynde a pacient creature.

Here not only the needlessness of  the lord’s conduct is condemned, but also the immoderation of  ‘wedded men’ (E 622) in the face of wifely patience. The criticism of  the husband is at least as stringent as anything the Wife of  Bath might muster on her own behalf. It is the cruelty of  Walter that must be withdrawn not the dignity of a wife. Here Chaucer introduces into the moral equation a sense of  the loving duty of a husband to cherish and

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honour his wife. Such a duty ought to overrule the relationship of  lord and servant which the marquess continues to invoke (E 631–37). In proposing the loss of a second child the marquess sees clearly the danger of madness for the mother (E 642–44). But his persistence in his evil will gives rise to the most sublime expression of Grisilde’s obedience in yet another significant addition by Chaucer to his sources (E 647–49): ‘  “Naught greveth me at al,/ Though that my doughter and my sone be slayn –/ At youre comandement, this is to sayn”  ’ (E 647–49). She does the lord’s will willingly and happily. That is, after all, the nature of any moral virtue. The husband has no need to ask the wife what is to be done with their children, for they are subject to his will in the same way as she herself is (E 652–53): ‘Ye been oure lord; dooth with youre owene thyng Right as yow list; axeth no reed at me.’

This is a moral crisis not for the wife but for the husband. The wife continues to obey the will of  her lord and husband and the father of  her children. As a moral choice and not a mere imposition she obeys his will happily, not grudgingly. It is a morally elevating choice. But the act of obedience as the outward fulfilment of a command does not necessarily imply the inward assent of conscience (ST, 2a 2ae 104.5), and Grisilde’s declaration ‘axeth no reed at me’ (E 653) suggests detachment on her part from the lord’s judgment.31 The moral virtue of obedience requires promptness of  the will, but in relation to the carrying out of what is commanded, not in relation to the nature of  the command itself, which is likely to be repugnant to the will (ST, 2a 2ae 104.2 ad 3): … obedientia sicut et quaelibet virtus debet habere promptam voluntatem in suum proprium objectum, non autem in quod repugnans est ei. Obedience, like any other virtue, necessarily includes the will being prompt with respect to the objective of  the virtue, not with regard to what runs counter to the will (translated by T.C. O’Brien).

Grisilde shows herself  to be perfect in obedience from the time that she was taken from her home and, if necessary, to the point of death (E 654–65).

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To put it simply (and convincingly), she places love for the marquess above her own life as any loving wife would do: ‘  “Deth may noght make no comparisoun/ Unto youre love”  ’ (E 666–67). Indeed Aquinas observes that charity is the source of obedience (ST, 2a 2ae 104.3 sed contra). The marquess is left to marvel at her womanly fortitude (E 667–70) and in itself  this is a telling comment on her virtue. The sergeant comes again to take the son as he has taken the daughter, but finds in Grisilde the same patience, love and piety (E 677–79). The evil intent of  the sergeant would seem to be confirmed by the description of  him as ‘ugly’ (E 673; not in the sources), but it is not developed by any particularizing details (as in the portraits of  Miller, Summoner and Pardoner in the General Prologue). Moreover, the sergeant brought the little child to Bologna ‘tendrely’ (E 686; again, not in the sources). There is a contradiction here between the outward appearance and the inner intent, and it is emphasized in Chaucer’s version of  the tale: ‘He wente his wey, as hym no thyng ne roghte,/ But to Boloigne he tendrely it broghte’ (E 685–86). But Grisilde’s obedience involves no such dislocation between appearance and intent, as is evident in the following stanza. Grisilde shows an example of perfect patience and love, without trace of deceit, malice or cruelty (E 687–93). Here the Clerk gives us to understand that the obedience of a wife is a deeper thing than the obedience of a mere servant. Grisilde has (or ought to have) the dignity of a wife and is bound to Walter by her marriage vows. A wife promises obedience only to one who has vowed to God to love, honour and cherish her until death, and in her turn she has vowed to God to love and cherish her husband as well as to obey him.32 Vows are if at all possible to be kept and are not lightly to be dispensed (ST, 2a 2ae 88.3 and 10). The absence of criticism of  Grisilde by the Clerk is an acknowledgment that Grisilde, in the trying and perhaps impossible circumstances of  her marriage, nevertheless continues to fulfil in her conduct the marriage vows she has made to Walter. In all respects she acts as a wife ought to act (but in the event will be unable to act). Hence the final act of cruelty on Walter’s part is his repudiation of  Grisilde as his wife. There is in Walter’s successive acts a merciless logic of a kind that the Clerk is peculiarly well fitted to appreciate (albeit grimly).

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But at this point in his tale the Clerk of  Oxenford turns away from logic in a direct appeal to the women in his audience to vouch for the fact that the testing of  Grisilde has passed all reasonable bounds (E 696–97) and by the figure of  traductio (‘a sturdy housbonde …/ … continuynge evere in sturdinesse, E 698, 700) emphasizes once again the husband’s cruelty.33 The appeal to women is Chaucer’s invention, and characteristic of  the deferential manner of  the poet in matters necessarily beyond his personal experience. Thus he has appealed to women to vouch for the treachery of  Criseyde side by side with the many examples of women betrayed in love by men (TC, V 1772–85). The appeal to the judgment of women in The Clerk’s Tale is the clearest indication of  the narrator’s sympathies, for the conduct of  the lord is best judged from the point of view of  the experience of wives. They would appreciate with special force just how impossible the demands on Grisilde have been. At the same time there is an understanding of  the psychology of  the husband. Once he has embarked upon his evil purpose it is dif ficult for him to turn aside from it (E 701–7). But Grisilde remains unchanged in outlook and behaviour (E 708– 10) and is the same both in outward appearance and inner reality: ‘She was ay oon in herte and in visage’ (E 711). This accord of inner and outer reality is the true mark of moral virtue. Moreover, husband and wife are united by a single will (E 715–17) and this conformity of  the human wills accords with the divine will (E 718). Here Chaucer enforces our sense of  the personal nature of  the marriage bond by the use of  the personal name ‘Walter’ (E 716). The husband’s will is placed by Grisilde above all other worldly obligations or considerations (E 719–21). Thus a sacred ideal of marriage is realized by Grisilde even while it is violated by her husband. But the ‘sclaundre’ or ill-fame (E 722 and 730) of  Walter makes his people turn against him (E 722–35).34 It seems that he is the murderer of  his own children (E 725, 727–28 and 732), and allegiance ought not to be given to one who is so cruel (E 723 and 734) and depraved. For once the murmurs of  the common people do not lack substance, and the Clerk indicates his sympathy with them (E 726–28). We seem to have arrived here at the limits of obedience. It is surely not right to give obedience to the murderer of one’s own children. But the wife is not to be blamed or

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tainted by the moral turpitude of  the husband. It is he who has violated the laws of marriage and such persistence in evil is ultimately beyond human resourcefulness to correct.

The Husband’s Repudiation of  his Wife The logical progression from the private dishonouring of  the wife is the public shaming of  her, and we now proceed to this dismal stage with Walter’s repudiation of  Grisilde as his wife (E 736–49). Here the Clerk reveals his sympathy with Grisilde’s misery: ‘I deeme that hire herte was ful wo’ (E 753). But Grisilde continues to endure this new af f liction with patience and humility (E 754–56). This humiliation is not a pointless humiliation, for it is directed at the very essence of  Grisilde’s will. Now, as a faithful and loving wife, she is required to will her separation from her husband (E 758–59). Chaucer refers at this point to Grisilde’s endurance of  ‘the adversitee of  Fortune’ (E 756) (a reference not in the sources), and this seems to suggest that the marquess’s behaviour corresponds to the randomness of  fortune, that is, that it is completely irrational and entirely unjust. The fifth part of  The Clerk’s Tale begins with the continuation of  the testing of  Grisilde and with the repeated moral judgment upon the marquess’s purpose (again, not in the sources) as being ‘after his wikke usage’ (E 785). The wickedness of  the marquess has hardened into habit, that is, it is a vice. Sometimes in a marriage it is the case that blame lies entirely, or almost entirely, on one side. Chaucer again adds the reference to fortune in the words with which the marquess urges Grisilde to accept his repudiation of  her: ‘  “ With evene herte I rede yow t’endure/ The strook of  Fortune or of aventure”  ’ (E 811–12). It is the marquess’s will not fortune that is responsible for Grisilde’s suf fering, save that it is her fortune or rather misfortune to have been chosen by him as his wife. The marquess can produce wise generalizations for Grisilde’s benefit on the short-lived character of  human prosperity (E 810) when he has himself  been so conspicuously a beneficiary

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of  fortune. In this new misfortune Grisilde remains patient (E 813) and humble (E 823–24, 829 and 882), but above all she continues to be a loving wife. This important fact is made clear by Chaucer in three more significant additions to his sources. Grisilde is full of  horror at the thought of  taking a second husband (E 839–40). She addresses her husband as ‘myn owene lord so deere’ (E 881). And her final words are full of  loving concern for his well-being (E 888–89). It is not a comment on what the marquess has done (other than by remote inference), but on what she is. Walter cannot break down by his wicked actions the wall of  Grisilde’s integrity. Her goodness is a more powerful force than any wicked actions that he may commit. Moreover the emphasis on Grisilde’s love for Walter is designed to focus on the fact that the virtue of obedience is no imposed thing. As a virtue it is voluntary, and it is inspired by love (as are all the virtues). Little wonder that even the marquess is overwhelmed by pity (E 892–93). Grisilde’s father (like most people) is unable to take so sudden a reversal of  fortune calmly (E 901–3; again, in lines added by Chaucer). The loss of status is a crushing blow to the spirit, much like the loss of  the title ‘Her Royal Highness’ for Diana, Princess of  Wales, in 1996. Grisilde by contrast remains ‘this f lour of wyf ly pacience’ (E 919). The reason is that she did not lose her humility in the elevation of  her rank. Chaucer develops at this point his account of  her humility with a circumstantial detail that is not to be found in his sources (E 925–31). Such poetic elaboration is fitting to the character of  the Clerk, for it is designed to show that moral virtue is to be set above all considerations of social rank. The one is only a gift of  fortune, but the other is an expression of  the individual will. Just as the marquess is moved to pity by Grisilde’s loving obedience, so the Clerk is moved to admiration by her humility and fidelity. The fifth part of  the tale ends with the Clerk’s praise of womanly virtue, and the praise coming from so unexpected a source (at least in terms of  the common expectation) is the best possible testimony to Grisilde’s virtue (E 935–38). It is yet one more way in which Chaucer has shaped the narrative so as to clarify the balance of moral forces.

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The Husband’s Second Marriage It now falls on Grisilde to receive the guests for the second marriage and Chaucer stresses that she does so with her customary humility (E 949–52) and love (E 971–73). Though now reduced in status she is responsible for ensuring that the guests are treated with the dignity that is their due in accordance with their social class and rank (E 957–59). It is a cruel irony and cruelly conceived. But the greater her awareness of  her own suf fering the better able is she to recognize the needs of others. The beauty of  the marquess’s daughter is such that the common people are readily persuaded by their lord’s new opinion, for ‘they seye/ That Walter was no fool’ (E 986). The use of  the lord’s personal name at this juncture by Chaucer (‘le marquis’ still in Le Livre Griseldis, V.372) reminds us of  the marquess’s personal responsibility for these events, and the negative formulation ‘Walter was no fool’, where Petrarch has ‘prudenter … ac feliciter’ (Historia Griseldis, 356) and Le Livre Griseldis has ‘saige’ (V.372), draws attention to his folly. The Clerk of  Oxenford in characteristic fashion underlines the fact that few are possessed of steadfast minds and many are unduly impressed by ‘heigh lynage’ (E 991). Indeed, two stanzas now follow, added by Chaucer, which consist in a vehement denunciation of  the fickleness of common people (E 995–1008). Such vehemence is well calculated to impress upon the reader the truth of  the conclusion (E 1000–1001): ‘Youre doom is fals, youre constance yvele preeveth; A ful greet fool is he that on yow leeveth.’35

The point of view is attributed in the tale to ‘sadde folk in that citee’ (E 1002),36 but it ref lects the sobriety and independence of  thought of  the scholar. In this way the Clerk of  Oxenford distances us and himself  further from the judgment and will of  Walter, for they are implicitly the subject of  these criticisms. In receiving the marquess’s guests at the wedding feast Grisilde shows both her ‘constance’ and her ‘bisynesse’ (E 1008). She is constant in enduring the pain of receiving the maiden who is to supplant her as wife – ‘the

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markysesse’ (E 1014) – and does so, moreover, ‘with glad cheere’ (E 1013) and ‘with so glad chiere’ (E 1016).37 Not only does she suppress her own sorrow, but she also shows the gladness that is appropriate to such a festive occasion. She has no false sense of  her own dignity, for she makes nothing of  her rude and tattered dress (E 1011–12), but she does not neglect the rank of  the guests, receiving ‘everich in his degree’ (E 1017). Much is made indeed of  her solicitude. She is ‘ful bisy’ (E 1009) in attending to all matters requisite for the feast. After greeting the new marchioness she ‘dooth forth hire bisynesse’ (E 1015). And the marquess calls to her ‘as she was bisy in his halle’ (E 1029). Such an emphasis on Grisilde’s bisynesse is that of  Chaucer and not that of  his sources. It is designed to show the active quality of  Grisilde’s obedience. Virtuous acts are those that are performed promptly and with pleasure (ST, 1a 2ae 107.4). Hence there is nothing grudging in Grisilde’s execution of  her lord’s will. She is busy in her desire to see his will fulfilled and in such solicitude we are led to see the true meaning of obedience. Such conduct is indeed exemplary. Thus the guests at the second wedding of  the marquess ‘worthily … preisen’ the ‘prudence’ (E 1022) of  the erstwhile wife and the Clerk observes (the observation is not in the sources) that ‘no man koude hir pris amende’ (E 1026). Grisilde shows not the slightest trace of ill will towards the maiden and her brother. Indeed, she praises them with kindness, ‘in ful benygne entente’ (E 1025; again, Chaucer’s addition). The marquess is thus unable to torment her with the beauty of  his new wife (E 1030–33), but elicits from her only the anxious concern that the new wife will not suf fer as the old one has done, for she would not be able to endure it (E 1037–43). Here Grisilde reveals the depth of  the suf fering that she herself  has had to endure, and that her own experience of  life has always required her to endure. We have now reached the point of  the complete vindication of  Grisilde’s virtue, and it is such as to overcome the stubbornness of  Walter’s heart. The willing acceptance of undeserved suf fering on Grisilde’s part in the end brings about a reformation of  the higher will (E 1044–50).38 The Clerk’s Tale does not merely illustrate the virtue of patience, but the triumph of patience, and the means by which patience triumphs is through pity. It is pity that prompts Walter’s final (if intolerably belated) change of 

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heart (E 1049–50). It leads to the ‘pitous joye’ (E 1080) of  the reconciliation scene, and that is such as to call forth ‘many a teere on many a pitous face’ (E 1104).39 It is a powerful example of  the common idea that pacientes vincunt. It is an idea appropriately expressed by Langland’s Conscience to Patience (PPl, B XIII.134–35a): Pacience haþ be in many place, and peraunter knoweþ That no clerk ne kan, as Crist bereþ witnesse: Pacientes vincunt …

The same lesson is repeated by the Franklin in the context of the loving marriage of  Arveragus and Dorigen (FranT, F 773–76). But although the idea may be a commonplace its emotional power here cannot easily be ignored. We are too much aware of  the pressure of  human suf fering that is necessary to induce Walter to turn aside from his evil intention. It is indeed ‘ynogh’ (E 1051) and more than enough, as Walter at last realizes, for Grisilde’s ‘feith’ and ‘benyngnytee’ (E 1053) have been tested to the limit, and she has needed all her ‘stedfastnesse’ (E 1056), that is, her womanly fortitude or patience, to sustain her. As the Clerk explicitly recognizes, Walter has asked too much of  her, and there are many in this world (like Walter) who can bear with equanimity the suf fering of others. Walter’s conversion, of course, comes too late. Having endured his cruelty towards her for so long Grisilde is now incapable of responding to his words and gestures of af fection: ‘And she for wonder took of it no keep;/ She herde nat what thyng he to hire seyde’ (E 1058–59). At Walter’s disclosure of  the truth (E 1062–78) she is overwhelmed, for what she has been asked to endure has indeed been insupportable. Her response is similar to that of  Dorigen when faced with the moral dilemma of  breaking faith with Arveragus in order to keep her word to Aurelius (FranT, F 1471): ‘  “ This is to muche, and it were Goddes wille”  ’. The overwhelming nature of  Grisilde’s experience is seen in the extended description of  her double swoon (E 1079–80 and 1098–99) and in the irresistible force of  the love for her children that has been so painfully suppressed and now can no longer be suppressed (E 1100–1103). The emotional power of  the swoon is reinforced by the Clerk’s personal expression of pity (E 1086–87):

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O which a pitous thyng it was to se Hir swownyng, and hire humble voys to heere!

The use of  the apostrophe is suggestive of anger as well as pity (Ad Her., IV.xv.22), and anger would certainly be fitting when one considers that all this desperate sorrow proceeds from the stubborn will of one man. Nevertheless, Walter’s declaration of  fidelity to his wife (E 1062–64) does not lack the power to move, and Grisilde refers to him unironically as her children’s ‘benygne fader’ (E 1097). But Walter’s claim that he was not motivated by ‘malice’ or ‘crueltee’ (E 1074) but simply by the desire to test his wife’s ‘wommanheede’ (E 1075) is harder to justify. It stands condemned above all in the light of  the reaction of  Grisilde to which it gives rise. Motives are not to be set above the ef fects of one’s actions. And what right has any human being to test another in that way? Perhaps Walter has become too used to the exercise of power conferred upon him by his noble lineage. Those who are habituated to the exercise of power become indif ferent to the suf ferings of  those subject to their will. The deeply moving account of  Grisilde’s sorrowful and joyful reunion with her children (E 1079–1106) is perhaps the most significant of all Chaucer’s additions to his sources. It is a scene that above all expresses the meaning of  Grisilde’s obedience to her husband in the great reservoirs of  loving feeling that inform it. And the impact of such a scene serves once again to shape our response to the moral values of  the tale. Walter goes fittingly as a true husband (at long last) to comfort his wife, and this restoration (or perhaps rather initiation) of  the true marital relationship is signified by the use of  his personal name on two occasions in the space of  five lines (E 1107 and 1111).

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The Conclusion of  the Tale The feast which follows these revelations exceeds in both solemnity and cost the celebrations of  Grisilde’s marriage (E 1125–27) for the human happiness it signifies is now more securely based. The conclusion involves the working out of  the whole series of  family relationships, of  the children and Janicula as well as of  Walter and Grisilde themselves (E 1128–37). Chaucer adds here the telling observation that the son does not test his own wife as his father had done his mother (E 1138–40). Sons do indeed take note of and learn from the suf ferings of  their mothers. Once again the Clerk of  Oxenford seeks to clarify the moral issues. Walter’s testing of  Grisilde is not justified in itself and goes beyond what is humanly permissible. Walter cannot, therefore, be an image of  God, for God ‘tempteth no man’ (E 1153) and knows without testing ‘al oure freletee’ (E 1160). In Chaucer’s version of  the tale at any rate Walter is ‘less an analogy for God than a contrast to Him’.40 A lesson is indeed to be learned from the patient suf fering of  Grisilde, for it may enable us to endure the suf fering that we ourselves shall undoubtedly have to experience in this life (E 1155–58), that is, we must learn to live our lives ‘in vertuous suf fraunce’ (E 1162). Such a conclusion in its moral seriousness is eminently suited to the character of  the Clerk, although it follows the conclusion of  the sources. But Chaucer adds two more stanzas (E 1163–76) in which the tone and mood change dramatically. The direct address to the audience (E 1163): But o word, lordynges, herkneth er I go,

is in the lively and pugnacious manner in which the Wife of  Bath initiates her debate on marriage (WBProl, D 4, 14 and 224). The example of  Grisilde is now used for polemical rather than moral ef fect (E 1164–69) and that is dif ficult to reconcile with the Clerk’s meekness (E 2–3). Further, the appeal to ‘stynte of ernestful matere’ (E 1175) does not seem to suit his moral seriousness. The stylistic discontinuity that is evident here is justified rather by the larger scheme of  The Canterbury Tales, and of  this the

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Clerk’s moral seriousness is but a thirtieth part. In many ways The Clerk’s Tale is more convincing as an independent work, and indeed it was copied independently at least six times, more so than any of  the other tales.41 The Envoy to The Clerk’s Tale is headed Lenvoy de Chaucer, and this is perhaps an explicit acknowledgment on Chaucer’s part that the ironic address to wives goes beyond the special point of view of  the Clerk and is yet another card in the game played between the sexes. Thus it constitutes a warning to husbands not to look for patience in their wives (E 1177–82), and an exhortation to wives not to let considerations of  humility def lect them from their purpose (E 1183–88) and to do whatever is necessary to assert their own interests (E 1189–1212). We have been brought back with a sharp shock from the high plane of philosophical inquiry and moral idealism to the rough and tumble of  life itself.

Notes 1 See MED, s.v. wilfulhed(e n. ‘A tendency to act arbitrarily, willfulness’. 2 Reference is to Jane Austen, Mansfield Park, edited by John Wiltshire (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), p. 338. 3 Reference is to George Eliot, Middlemarch, edited by David Carroll (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1986), p. 418. 4 See MED, s.vv. yerd n. (2) 2. ‘A rodlike object, usu. of metal, used as: (a) a scepter; also, a rod used as an emblem of authority, of fice, or power; … under ~, under control’ and hardili adv. 2. (b) ‘assuredly, certainly, indeed, for certain’. 5 Petrarch’s Historia Griseldis in Epistolae seniles, XVII.3, has been edited by J.Burke Severs side by side with a text of  Le Livre Griseldis in Bryan and Dempster, pp. 288–331. This excellent scholarly work has now been revised and updated by Thomas J. Farrell and Amy W. Goodwin, ‘The Clerk’s Tale’, in Correale and Hamel, I.101–67. Farrell prints the Historia Griseldis from MS Peterhouse College Cambridge 81 as base manuscript, closer to Chaucer’s source manuscript than Vat 6 (MS Vat. Lat. 1666, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Rome) used by Severs as the base manuscript for his edition (Farrell, p. 105; Severs, p. 294). Goodwin follows Severs in printing MS fr. 12459 Bibliothèque Nationale Paris (PN3) as

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the base manuscript of  Le Livre Griseldis in slightly revised form (Goodwin, pp. 137–39; Severs, p. 294).This manuscript is unique among the twenty-one extant manuscripts of  Le Livre Griseldis in containing the six-part division of  the text followed by Chaucer in The Clerk’s Tale. I refer throughout to the Historia Griseldis and Le Livre Griseldis in the texts established by Farrell and Goodwin. 6 Petrarch himself observes the rhetorical significance of  the appearance of  the tale ‘fine operis, ubi Rethorum disciplina validiora quelibet collocari iubet,/ [in] the final position in your … book, where the art of rhetoric teaches us to place whatever is more important’ (Historia Griseldis, 111/32–33). 7 Chaucer is in agreement with de Mézières in strong condemnation of  Walter’s testing of  his wife and in stressing the human impossibility of  Grisilde’s conduct (in de Mézière’s words ‘impossible à porter’) (Goodwin, pp. 132–34). 8 See Edward I. Condren, Chaucer and the Energy of  Creation: The Design and the Organization of  the ‘Canterbury Tales’ (Gainesville: University Press of  Florida, 1999), pp. 124–25. This narrator-centred approach to the reading of medieval texts has recently been challenged by A.C. Spearing in a brilliant book entitled Textual Subjectivity: The Encoding of  Subjectivity in Medieval Narratives and Lyrics (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005). In respect of  The Man of  Law’s Tale the result of such an approach is ‘to shrink from plumbing the metaphysical depths that Chaucer was prepared to contemplate’ and in ef fect to avoid reading the tale as a unified whole (p. 136). 9 See Helen Cooper, The Canterbury Tales, Oxford Guides to Chaucer, second edition (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), p. 185. 10 See MED, s.v. importable adj. (a) ‘Unbearable, unendurable’. 11 George Lyman Kittredge, ‘Chaucer’s Discussion of  Marriage’, MP, 9 (1911–12), 435–67, in Edward Wagenknecht (ed.), Chaucer: Modern Essays in Criticism (New York: Oxford University Press, 1959), pp. 188–215 (p. 189). 12 Thomas R. Lounsbury, Studies in Chaucer, 3 vols (New York: Harper, 1892), III.340f f.; quoted by James Sledd, ‘The Clerk’s Tale: The Monsters and the Critics’, MP, 51 (1953), 73–82, in Wagenknecht, Chaucer: Modern Essays in Criticism, pp. 226–39 (p. 232). 13 C.David Benson, ‘Poetic Variety in the Man of  Law’s and the Clerk’s Tales’, in Chaucer’s Religious Tales, edited by C.David Benson and Elizabeth Robertson, Chaucer Studies XV (Cambridge: D.S. Brewer, 1990), pp. 137–44 (p. 142). 14 Mark Miller, Philosophical Chaucer: Love, Sex, and Agency in the ‘Canterbury Tales’ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), p. 232. 15 Jill Mann, Geof frey Chaucer, Feminist Readings (New York and London: Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1991), p. 152.

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16 See Elizabeth D. Kirk, ‘Nominalism and the Dynamics of the Clerk’s Tale: Homo Viator as Woman’, in Benson and Robertson, pp. 111–20 (p. 117). 17 See Derek Pearsall, The Canterbury Tales (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1985), p. 270. 18 See MED, s.v. sophim(e n. (b) ‘an ambiguous and sometimes paradoxical sentence, often involving syncategoremata, designed to investigate issues and rules in philosophy, semantics, and logic, a sophisma; any question for disputation in logic’. The MED is surely right to identify this sense of  the word here as distinguished from (a) ‘A subtle but fallacious argument usu. used to deceive, a sophism’. The Host attributes subtlety to the Clerk and not falseness of reasoning. He remains deferential, but understands that the Aristotelian scholar and logician is too clever by half  for the likes of  him and his pilgrim audience. For a detailed account of  the portrait of  the Clerk in the General Prologue, see 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. 160–98. Here we encounter the view of  the Clerk of  Oxenford as an intellectual novice of  twenty-one whose collection of  twenty books is excessive and whose love of  Aristotle a sign of intellectual narrowness (pp. 190–93). Thus the threadbare ‘courtepy’ (GP, A 290) is to be construed as a sign of worldly pride and curiosity (pp. 184–89) rather than humble devotion to learning (pp. 175–77). Such a view in my opinion does not take suf ficient note of  the reputation of  Aristotle in the Middle Ages. 19 See Cooper, The Canterbury Tales, p. 196. 20 See Hugh E.L. Collins, The Order of  the Garter 1348–1461: Chivalry and Politics in Late Medieval England (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2000), pp. 19, n. 53, 72, 74–75, 81, 87, 97–98 and 291. De Vere was elected KG in July 1384 at the young age of  twenty-two. 21 For the authority to make moral judgments of  this kind, compare the Parson (GP, A 515–24). Langland’s Clergy defines Dobest as the just censure of  the wicked by those who are pure in spirit: ‘  “ Thanne is Dobest to be boold to blame þe gilty”  ’ (PPl, B X.259). This presupposes the state of  Dowel as belief in God (PPl, B X.232–50a) and of  Dobet as conduct in accordance with such belief (PPl, B X.251–58). The necessity for righteousness in those who administer rebukes leads to a series of warnings addressed to those who exercise such authority in the life of  the Church, as parish priests and members of religious orders (PPl, B X.260–329). The importance of righteousness in the life of  Dobest is such that these lines cannot be dismissed as ‘a long digressive diatribe against unworthy religious’ (A.V.C. Schmidt (ed.), William Langland: The Vision of  Piers Plowman, Everyman, second edition (London: J.M. Dent; Vermont: Charles E. Tuttle,

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1995), p. 445). The judgments of  the Clerk in The Clerk’s Tale are the judgments of  Dobest and are to be distinguished from examples of  foolish censure as that of  the Manciple in openly reproving the drunken Cook (MancT, H 69–70). 22 ‘Walterus quidam’, Historia Griseldis, 63; ‘un marquis appellez en son propre nom Wautier’, Le Livre Griseldis, I.11. 23 See, for example, ST, 1a 83.1 and 2, 1a 2ae 55.3 and 71.3 and 4. 24 See MED, s.v. vertuous adj. 5.(c) ‘of a quality, an attribute, or ability: characterized by goodness, morally virtuous’. 25 On the three acts or stages of prudence, see Aquinas, ST, 1a 2ae 57.6 and 2a 2ae 47.8. 26 On the principle of consent (expressed in the present tense) as constituting a true marriage, see Conor McCarthy, Marriage in Medieval England: Law, Literature and Practice (Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 2004), pp. 19–50. 27 Thus the marriage of  Joan of  Kent (c. 1328–1385) to William Montagu (1328– 1397), 2nd Earl of  Salisbury, in the winter of 1340–1341 was declared void by a papal bull dated 13 November 1349 on the basis of  her prior consent (per verba de praesenti) in a clandestine marriage to Thomas Holland, Montagu’s steward, in the spring of 1340. See ODNB, 30.137–39. 28 Petrarch’s Latin has the personal name ‘Walterus’, and Chaucer follows the Livre Griseldis which uses the impersonal ‘le marquis’. 29 See MED, s.v. honestete n. (a) ‘Honorableness of character; virtue, uprightness’. 30 The desire for a son is a general desire in the sources (Historia Griseldis, 190–91 and Le Livre Griseldis, II.158–59). 31 See MED, s.v. red n. (1) 1a. (a) ‘Advice, counsel; also, teaching; also, a suggestion, piece of advice’; (c) asken ~, ‘to seek counsel; ask (sb.) for advice; ask advice (of sb. or a god)’. 32 See Gerald Morgan, ‘Experience and the Judgement of  Poetry: A Reconsideration of  the Franklin’s Tale’, MÆ, 70 (2001), 204–25 (pp. 214–18). 33 See MED, s.vv. sturdi adj. 3.(a) ‘Stern, severe, harsh’ and sturdines(se n. (a) ‘Sternness, harshness; cruelty, violence; an instance of active hatred’. 34 See MED, s.v. sclaundre n. 2.(a) ‘An action or a situation bringing disgrace or shame; a shameful act (done or suf fered), a disgrace, an ignominy’ and 3.(a) ‘A state of impaired reputation, of disgrace or dishonor; ill-repute’. 35 See MED, s.v. dom n. 2.(c) ‘a judgment or verdict pronounced by God’ and 4.(a) ‘The act of choosing or deciding; a judgment, decision, resolution’. 36 See MED, s.v. sad adj. 2. (c) ‘of a person: firm, steadfast; constant; faithful, righteous’ and 4a. ‘Of a person, group of nuns: (a) grave, sober, serious; dignified, solemn; discreet, wise; stern’.

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37 Constancy is identified by Aquinas among the potential or secondary parts of  the cardinal virtue of courage. It pertains to patience in respect of steadfastness in some good in the face of present obstacles or dif ficulties, but to perseverance in respect of  the end of goodness: ‘Et ideo constantia secundum finem convenit cum perseverantia: secundum autem ea quae dif ficultatem inferunt, convenit cum patientia,/ Therefore constancy is associated with perseverance, as regards their end; but with patience, as regards the source of dif ficulty’ (ST, 2a 2ae 137.3 ad 1; translated by Anthony Ross and P.G. Walsh). Hence Grisilde needs constancy to endure the present and bitter humiliation of supplantation. 38 This is a point well made by Pearsall, The Canterbury Tales, pp. 276–77. 39 See Mann, Geof frey Chaucer, pp. 152–53. 40 Cooper, The Canterbury Tales, p. 191. 41 See Cooper, The Canterbury Tales, p. 186.

8 Boccaccio’s Filocolo and the Moral Argument   of The Franklin’s Tale

‘Fu adunque più liberale il cavaliere, che il suo onore concedea, che nullo degli altri. E pensate una cosa: che l’onore che colui donava è inrecuperabile, la qual cosa non avviene di molti altri, sì come di battaglie, di pruove e d’altre cose, le quali se una volta si perdono, un’altra si racquistano, e è possibile. E questo basti sopra la vostra dimanda aver detto.’ — BOCCACCIO, Filocolo, IV.34.15–161

I.  The origin of  the moral dilemma around which Chaucer has con­ structed his Franklin’s Tale is to be found in Menedon’s questione d’amore, the fourth such question in a series of  thirteen questions in Boccaccio’s Filocolo. Menedon’s question turns upon what is confes­sedly a hard case and gives rise not only to a considered judgment by Fiammetta, who presides as queen (Filocolo, IV.32), but also to a strongly contested debate upon the merits of  that judgment (IV.33–34). It is likely that the question at the end of The Franklin’s Tale – ‘Lordynges, this question, thanne, wol I aske now, / Which was the mooste fre, as thynketh yow?’ (F 1621–22)2 – is calculated to provoke just such a debate, for the Franklin, like Menedon, looks for an immediate adjudication: ‘Now telleth me, er that ye ferther wende’ (F 1623). If we are to judge from the pages of a recent num­ber of  Medium Aevum, the Franklin would not have wanted for a variety of  forcefully argued answers to his question. The debate as it stands at the moment turns upon dif fering moral judgments as to the conduct of  Dorigen and Arveragus. Ef fie Jean Mathewson argues that ‘Dorigen never questions the validity or binding force of  her rash promise to Aurelius, despite the fact that the promise is absurd and its fulfilment impossible,’3 and Nicolas Jacobs that ‘the happy outcome is brought about not so much because of  Arveragus’s faith or his gen­erosity as in spite of  his presumption’.4 This focus of debate

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is sig­nificant in itself, for Menedon’s question focuses the debate exclu­sively on the generosity of  the husband in relation to that of  the lover, Tarolfo, and the magician, Tebano (Filocolo, IV.31.54–55). But Chaucer encourages us to see these acts of generosity in a wider moral context by the attention he devotes to the marriage relation­ship at the beginning of  the tale (F 729–802). This important matter corresponds to nothing in the Filocolo, for Menedon disposes of  the marriage bond in the briefest of summaries (IV.31.2). More­over, in accordance with the enhanced imaginative interest in the roles of  husband and wife, Chaucer, unlike Boccaccio, has given them names. The preoccupation of modern critics with the conduct of  Dorigen and Arveragus is thus fully justified by Chaucer’s distinc­tive presentation of  the case, and it is to the moral quality of  that conduct that I wish to address myself in this article. II.  Arveragus’s act in sending his wife to Aurelius (F 1472–92) is explic­itly presented as an act of generosity. It is acknowledged to be so by Aurelius himself (F 1514–32), communicated as such by him to the clerk in explanation of  his own act of generosity (F 1595–97) and in turn corroborated by the clerk (F 1607–8). But, according to Ma­thewson, this is a false perspective, for it fails to take account of  ‘Chaucer’s distance from the point of view and moral sense of  the Franklin’; hence she has set out ‘to dispel any lingering notions that Chaucer was so pusillanimous as to identify his own morality with that of  the Franklin’ (p. 27). We are to understand that what is at issue is the Franklin’s own conception of generosity and that the Franklin as teller (unlike the poet Chaucer) has coloured the opinions of  his characters with his own opinions. Now these propositions in their turn cannot readily be accepted. Mathewson’s argument is based not only on a controversial interpretation of  the character of  the Franklin,5 but also on questionable assumptions concerning the nature of  the relationship between fictional tellers and tales in The Canterbury Tales as a whole. Medieval poets are not, of course, to be simply identified with the fictional characters in their works. The narrating postures of  Gower are much less subtle and varied than those of  Chaucer and yet Gower distinguishes (in a marginal note) between himself and the character of  the lover – ‘fingens

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se auctor esse Amantem’ (CA, I.61). But the fact remains that medieval theorists are not given to the elaboration of  theories of authorial distance. If  there is one thing that is common to medieval theories of art, however, it is that the work of art is the product of  the idea or form in the mind of  the artist. And the example that is most commonly used in the expo­sition of  the artistic idea is that of  the architect. Geof frey of  Vinsauf uses it in his opening remarks in the Poetria Nova, where he wishes to stress the archetypal existence of  the work in the mind of  the artist (Poetria, 43–59). Chaucer’s familiarity with this passage of  the Poetria Nova is well known from his virtual translation of part of it in Troilus and Criseyde (I.1065–69). The work of art in its actual existence is to be understood in its dependent relationship to its originating or creative principle. In other words, the form of  the work (the substantial form or external design) is derived from the form in the mind of  the artist (the exemplar form or internal design).6 But the idea in the mind of  the artist in its turn is subject to the limitation of nature. Only God’s idea is creative in the strict sense of creation as it is understood by medie­val thinkers such as Aquinas, for creation is the emanation of all being out of nothing. The artist’s idea on the other hand necessarily operates upon preexisting matter (ST, 1a 45.2). Thus the matter of  The Franklin’s Tale preexists the idea in the mind of  the poet Chaucer. This is obviously the case when we have an identifi­able source such as Menedon’s questione d’amore in the Filocolo. The fact is that the notion of generosity in the matter of  the tale which the Franklin is fictionally represented as telling does not originate in Chaucer’s invention of  the character of  the Franklin, but already preexists in the inherited matter of  the tale. To suppose, therefore, that the act of  the husband is an act of generosity is not to identify oneself with the point of view of  the Franklin, but rather to accept the matter of  the tale on its own terms. The generosity of  Arveragus is a donnée of  the tale and the Franklin is no more than the instru­ment of its representation. It is indeed an important implication of  the medieval theory of art that the poetic idea is related directly to action and only indirectly to characters as the appropriate agents of various kinds of action.7 Thus the attention that it is customary to give to character in modern interpretations of  Chaucer is in princi­ple anachronistic. There are proper expectations that we can form in respect of characterization

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in medieval poems (for example, we can look for consistency in character drawing), but we ought not to elevate character above action. Thus we are not intended to see events in the light of a character’s perception of  them, but rather to understand characters in the light of  the action in which they have been set. The ordering of  the work of art to the idea in the mind of  the artist explains for the medieval writer its objectivity, for the medieval definition of  the artistic idea does not presuppose its limitation to the thinking subject. It is on this basis that we can identify the inter­est of medieval literature as moral and not psychological. By psycho­logical is not to be understood the presence or absence of emotions or natural dispositions, for clearly no poet at any period can ignore them. What is meant by a psychological interest is rather that the perspective of a particular character within a work is seen as the principle of  the work’s organization. Thus the matter of  The Frank­ lin’s Tale can be referred to the character of  the Franklin in various ways according to the various interpretations of  the Franklin’s char­acter. There is no reason in theory why a work should not be organ­ized in this way. The truth is simply that medieval theory operates by dif ferent methods to dif ferent ends. It is necessary to insist, therefore, that action and not character is every­ where dominant in medieval and Chaucerian art and that the principle of action is the artistic idea. The claim for objectivity in the idea means that the interest of works will be moral and not psychological, given also the assumption (held by medieval writers) that the moral law has a validity independent of any individual or group of individuals. Thus the idea of  The Franklin’s Tale is not Chaucer’s personal conception of generosity, far less that of  the Franklin, but generosity itself. What medieval writers understood generosity to mean in its objective and universal value we shall find (along with universal definitions of  the passions) in the works of  the moral philosophers. The idea of  the work of art contains the idea of its several parts, so that the structure of a work or its disposition into parts will ref lect the controlling inf luence of  the idea. The Franklin’s Tale is aptly constructed around a series of complaints to Providence (F 865–94), Apollo (F 1031–81) and Fortune (F 1355–1458), for it is thereby true to its lyrical origin and

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nature as a Breton Lay. But the order of  the complaints is also designed to support the central weight of  the argument of  the tale, for it corresponds to the order of  the primary cause and the dependent secondary causes in the Ptolemaic universe that Chaucer here presupposes. Thus God is the first cause of all things and the whole of  the created universe brought into being by God moves to its appointed end by a series of secondary causes. The intelligences of  the spheres (the angels) move the heavenly bodies and Fortune directs the movement of  the sphere of  this world. This hierarchical universal order requires the Christianization not only of  the pagan Fortune (as by Dante, Inf., VII.73–96), but also of  fate. By fate is thus understood the order of secondary causes de­pendent upon God.8 We are led as a result to recognize the pagan error in making the gods the first causes of  things (ST, 1a 115.3 ad 1). This error is manifested in Aurelius’s invocation of  Apollo. It is misconceived and ref lects the disordered nature of  his passion for Dorigen. As the expression of an erroneous view of  the universe, the prayer is impossible of  fulfilment and remains unanswered. The reality of  God’s Providence, on the other hand, guarantees the possi­ bility of  human freedom, for God’s knowledge of  future contingent events (in their causes as well as their actuality) does not impede the operation of  the free will. The virtue of  Dorigen and Arveragus is therefore at one with the harmony of  the universe. What is to be called into question, and what in the matter of astrological magic is repeatedly called into question (F 1131–34, 1270–72 and 1291–93), is not the virtue of  husband and wife, but the overturning of  God’s provi­dential dispensation in the removal of  the black rocks of f  the coast of  Brittany. It is clear, therefore, that the long complaints in The Franklin’s Tale are far from being the monuments of rhetorical excess that they are often held to be. On the contrary, they are the pillars which sustain the whole edifice. And as such they are given a prominence that matches their real importance. The structure of  The Franklin’s Tale is distinguished by both lucidity and proportionality. These are the principles of that Beauty which the artist is bent on realizing in his individual productions.9 The beauty of  the structure of  The Frank­lin’s Tale is a testimony of  the success of  the artist in imposing his idea on the matter of  his work. Such beauty manifests the presence of  the artist, that is, Chaucer, in directing the art of  his

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fictional teller. The same conclusion is to be drawn from the beauty of  the language of  the tale. By focusing on the Franklin’s rhetorical osten­tation we have succeeded in overlooking Chaucer’s own mastery of rhetoric (most evident in Dorigen’s complaint to Fortune). Thus it is Chaucer’s hand that is dominant and not the Franklin’s. And we can attribute the assumption of generosity to Chaucer without fear of charging him with pusillanimity. But we must continue to bear in mind how dif ferently moral issues can be viewed by ages remote from our own. Puttenham observes that it is a mark of decorum in Antiochus to give his wife Stratonica to his son Demetrius, who was sick for the love of  her, ‘because the fathers act was led by discretion and of a fatherly compassion, not grutching to depart from his deerest possession to saue his childes life’. But there is a lack of decorum in Demetrius in accepting such a gift, for ‘in his appetite [he] had no reason to lead him to loue vnlawfully, for whom it had rather bene decent to die, then to haue violated his fathers bed with safetie of  his life’.10 By equal reasoning, decorum is preserved in The Franklin’s Tale, where Arveragus gives his wife to the lover and the lover does not accept the gift. Indeed the conduct of  Arveragus is more obviously defensible than that of  Antiochus, for apart from the matter of incest Arveragus acts out of a concern for his wife’s moral integrity. Although we may find examples of this kind curious and even distasteful, they are the mark of a civilized interest in moral realities and they warn us that at the moral level of interpretation it is unwise to leave our own moral sympathies unchecked. The works of  the moral philosophers are not all of a piece, and we can easily see that dif ferences of moral belief separate one individual from another and one age from another. As far as the literature of  the fourteenth century is concerned we need especially to recognize the centrality of  the thought of  Scholastic philosophers at the same time as we allow for the fact that medieval thinkers in general are syncretists in the fundamental habits of their thinking. It is only by the application of knowledge of  this kind that we can avoid the danger of the moralis­tic interpretation of works of art. Thus a refusal to accept Arvera­gus’s act in sending his wife to Aurelius as an act of generosity is a moral and not an imaginative response to the tale, for it implies a willingness to set one’s own moral values above the meaning of a work of art constructed on dif ferent moral presuppositions.

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III.  The discussion of  the moral dilemma in The Franklin’s Tale re­quires in the first place the making and maintaining of clear distinc­tions between vows, oaths and promises. A vow is strictly understood by medieval writers as a promise made to God (ST, 2a 2ae 88.2). In making a vow one gives up one’s freedom of action in respect of  the matter of  the vow, and in relin­quishing one’s freedom one gives up the most precious possession that a human being can possess. Hence Dante’s Beatrice in her expo­sition of  the sanctity of vows begins with just this recognition of  God’s goodness in his gift of  free will to human beings (Par., V.19–24). And since God is a party to the vow or, as Dante puts it, ‘s’è sì fatto/ che Dio consenta quando tu consenti,/ if it be such that God consents when thou consentest’ (Par., V.26–27; Sinclair, III.75), it would be an act of impiety to sanction the violation of vows. An oath is not such a compact between man and God, but the confirmation of a promise between human beings by appeal to the greater power, unfailing truth and unbounded knowledge of  God (ST, 2a 2ae 89.1 and 4). In taking an oath a man or a woman invokes God as a witness to confirm the truth of a present or past event (declaratory oath) or a future contingent event, such as is dependent upon an act of  free will (promissory oath). A promise is simply the declaration by one person to another to do or refrain from doing some specific future act. The honouring of promises requires the due correspon­dence of word and deed, and is the virtue of  fidelity (ST, 2a 2ae 80 ad 3). These distinctions are ref lected in the classification by Aquinas of vows and oaths under the virtue of religion whereby due honour is given to God (ST, 2a 2ae 81.4) and of promises under the virtue of truth whereby a person says what is true (ST, 2a 2ae 109.1). But vows and promises can be more closely related since the virtue of religion commands the acts of other virtues and so directs them to the worship of  God (ST, 2a 2ae 81.8). And in the sacrament of matrimony the promises of  fidelity of  bride and groom are directed by the virtue of religion to the worship of  God. The marriage vows of  bride and groom thus impose a twofold moral obligation of reli­gion and fidelity. The discrimination of  these elements can be ex­pressed in terms of a distinction between the essence and the matter of a vow. The essence of  the marriage vow is the promise made to God and

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its matter is the mutual promise of  fidelity of  bride and groom (ST, 2a 2ae 88.5 ad 1 and 3). The modern use of  the phrase ‘marriage vow’ conceals this distinction, for by it we have come to understand principally the solemn promise of  fidelity between man and woman in the contract of marriage (OED, s.v. vow, sb.3), that is, the matter and not the essence of vowing. This important shift in the moral focus of vowing (which according to the OED does not occur until the end of  the sixteenth century) is a potential source of confu­sion in analyzing the moral dilemma in The Franklin’s Tale. In this context, therefore, it is as well to restrict the word vow to the essence of vowing. Indeed The Franklin’s Tale is not concerned with vows in the essential sense as Aquinas defines it. The example of  Jephthah, who vowed to sacrifice to God whoever came forth out of  the doors of  his house to greet him on his return from victory over the Ammonites ( Judges, 11.30–40), is not strictly relevant to Dori­gen’s promise to Aurelius, since it concerns a vow and not merely a promise. Nevertheless, with due qualifications, it can shed light on the treatment of moral issues in The Franklin’s Tale, as I hope to show. Moreover, the moral status of  Arveragus and Dorigen as hus­band and wife presupposes that their mutual obligation of  fidelity is accompanied by their obligation of  fidelity and reverence to God. In the account of  the loving marriage of  Arveragus and Dorigen with which The Franklin’s Tale begins, Chaucer focuses not upon the solemnization of matrimony but upon the freedom and connatural­ity of  the wills of  the married lovers (F 738–57), and in particular on Dorigen’s promise of  fidelity to Arveragus: ‘Sire, I wol be youre humble trewe wyf;/ Have heer my trouthe, til that myn herte breste’ (F 758–59).11 By focusing on the matter rather than the essence of  the marriage vow, Chaucer establishes a parallel between Dorigen’s pro­mise to Arveragus and her subsequent promise to Aurelius. The correspondence of  the two promises is underlined by the re­petition of  the same key phrase in the promise made to Aurelius (F 995–98): I seye, whan ye han maad the coost so clene Of rokkes that ther nys no stoon ysene, Thanne wol I love yow best of any man, Have heer my trouthe, in al that evere I kan.

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The verbal parallelism is a means of  fixing in our minds a sense of the moral equality in the making of  the two promises. The nature of  the moral dilemma to come is broadened and com­ plicated by the fact that the promises which Dorigen makes are reinforced by oaths. And once again our attention is drawn to an equality in the moral status of  the two promises. When Dorigen learns of  Aurelius’s unwelcome and unlawful intentions towards her, she reaf firms her commitment to Arveragus by an oath (F 983–85): ‘By thilke God that yaf me soule and lyf, Ne shal I nevere been untrewe wyf In word ne werk, as fer as I have wit.’

And in a directly corresponding fashion, the promise she makes to Aurelius is strengthened by an oath (F 989–91): ‘Aurelie’, quod she, ‘by heighe God above, Yet wolde I graunte yow to been youre love, Syn I yow se so pitously complayne.’

These oaths, when uttered in such a situation and by such a lady, are no profane ejaculations, empty of meaning, of  the kind repudiated in The Pardoner’s Tale (C 629–59) and The Parson’s Tale (I 601–2). On the contrary, they invest the argument of  The Franklin’s Tale with a seriousness and moral weight that is proportionate to the utterance of impassioned complaints to Providence and Fortune. What is involved is not merely the fidelity of  Dorigen to human contracts but also her reverence towards God. It is the coexistence of  the virtues of religion and fidelity at the heart of  Dorigen’s dilemma that gives point to the choice between suicide and dishonour (F 1355–59), for the evil of suicide lies precisely in the usurpation by human beings of  the power over life itself  that properly belongs to God. From this perspective the distinction of vows and oaths matters little, for vowing and swearing are both acts of  the virtue of religion. The setting aside of vows and oaths is always a grave af fair, implying mortal sin and the need for repentance. Thus, although Dante’s Bea­trice is explicit in her condemnation of  Jephthah’s perversity in keeping the vow that

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results in the sacrifice of  his only daughter (Par., V.65–68), she does not do so until she has already established the principle of the irrevocability of vows. Arveragus’s response to Dorigen when she tells him of  her promise to Aurelius is first of all to be understood as an af firmation of  the fundamental principle of  the obligation inherent in it: ‘Trouthe is the hyeste thyng that man may kepe’ (F 1479). The moral dilemma of  The Franklin’s Tale is not to be resolved by a simple appeal to a let-out clause. Dorigen does not admit to any lightness or indiscretion in the making of promises and Arveragus does nothing to throw doubt upon the value of  his wife’s promise. Husband and wife alike view with horror the prospect of  breaking a pledged word, for both know its great worth. Such unity between Dorigen and Arveragus has been questioned by Mathewson. She proposes instead a male and female version of  the virtue of  fidelity: ‘Arveragus’s trouthe does not fit Dorigen. Trouthe is a knightly concept, belonging to the masculine world which he inhabits, not a part of  Dorigen’s moral experience, which does not extend beyond the concerns of maidenly and wifely virtue’ (p. 30). Sexual bias of  this kind is alien to virtue as it is conceived in the Christian Middle Ages, for the moral law is held to be derived from God and to bind men and women alike. There is nothing inappropriate in the fact that it is Beatrice (a woman) who expounds to Dante-personaggio (a man) the true value of vows. This is not to say that Arveragus’s words are not suf fused with knightly idealism. In his love of  truth Arveragus is at one with the Knight of  the General Prologue (A 45–46), the Sir Gawain of  Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (632–39) and Spenser’s Red Cross Knight, ‘Right faithfull true … in deede and word’ (FQ, I.1.2). And no doubt too the actual value of  the word of individual knights will be subjected to the closest scrutiny on the field of  battle, for there the choice between death and dishonour is no abstract question. And yet by their actions knights do no more than to bear witness to the universality of  the moral law. It is the same virtue of  fidelity by which a knight is faithful to his fellow knights and to his lady. Dorigen does not need to be told by Arveragus of  the importance of  keeping one’s word. Her long and anguished complaint derives its power to move pre­ cisely from her sense of injustice at the prospect of a breach of  faith. That is what is signified by the invocation of  Fortune (F 1355–59). Arveragus’s

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words are not a command but an expression of moral solidarity with his wife. He values her pledges no less than his own. An understanding of  The Franklin’s Tale requires a recognition of  the completeness with which the moral dilemma has been defined, and hence the extent to which the freedom of  the protagonists has been constrained. Dorigen is faced as a result of  Aurelius’s fraudu­lence with a dilemma of conf licting promises and its consequent imposition upon her of  the certainty of moral error. In the same way in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight Sir Gawain is led by the cunning of  Bertilak’s lady into a direct contradiction of  his pledge in the Ex­change of  Winnings agreement (SGGK, 1859–65). There is, how­ever, an important dif ference between the two cases. Sir Gawain is guilty of venial sin, whereas Dorigen is entirely innocent. And we shall see that in the end (given the precise terms in which the di­lemma is stated) Arveragus’s action is the only action that will pre­serve the f lawless virtue of  his wife. IV.  It is clear, therefore, that not merely fictional characters, such as the Franklin and Arveragus, but the greatest of medieval poets and philosophers (Dante and Aquinas) hold that promises are of great worth and carry with them binding obligations. And on the basis of such authority we turn now to a consideration of  the detail and circumstances of  the promise that Dorigen makes to Aurelius, first of all in terms of  her subjective intentions and secondly of its objec­tive validity. Again, these are to be judged by the criteria that would in the Middle Ages have been considered proper to an oath. If an oath is to be good it must satisfy three dif ferent but related condi­tions of judgment, truth and justice (ST, 2a 2ae 89.3). These criteria are familiar to us from the Pardoner’s eloquent denunciation of vain and false swearing (C 629–59), and they are based (as we might expect) on impeccable biblical authority (C 635–37): Of sweryng seith the hooly Jeremye, ‘Thou shalt swere sooth thyne othes, and nat lye, And swere in doom, and eek in rightwisnesse.’12

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We may apply them to Dorigen’s case as follows. She must not be rash in promising something that is beyond her power to fulfil. She must not be false, and so must be prepared to fulfil the terms of  her promise in order to substantiate its truth. And she must not be unjust in promising to commit a sinful act, such as adultery, or in committing a sinful act unforeseen at the time of making the oath, as did Herod in serving up the head of  John the Baptist on a platter to the daughter of  Herodias (Matthew, 14.6–11).13 These are severe conditions, but Dorigen’s promise to Aurelius is not defective in respect of any one of  them. When Dorigen has gathered Aurelius’s intentions towards her from his confession of  love (F 967–78), she declares her own intentions in words that are explicit and free from all possibility of misconstruction (F 983–86), and makes it clear also that they are not subject to appeal: ‘Taak this for fynal answere as of me’ (F 987). Her unambiguous declaration of wifely fidelity is in no sense gratuitous, but is part of  the necessary process of clarification whereby the particular circumstances of  the moral dilemma are defined. One of  the fixed points is evidently Dorigen’s unshakeable attachment to her marriage vows. There are good imaginative grounds for such clarity, since it prevents distraction from the particular case under consid­eration to some dif ferent case of superficial likeness. Dorigen’s af fir­mation of  her faith rules out the possibility of any adulterous liaison with Aurelius. The point about the promise that she now makes to him (F 988–98) is that it specifically excludes the possibility of  fulfil‑ ment, as she also makes clear: ‘For wel I woot that it shal never bityde’ (F 1001). There is never any doubt as to Dorigen’s true intention. She has no wish to deceive Aurelius and Aurelius is not deceived: ‘  “Madame,” quod he, “this were an inpossible!”  ’ (F 1009). The terms in which she makes the promise underline her real concerns, for the reason why she wants the rocks of f  the coast of  Brittany removed is that they imperil the safe return of  her husband (F 891–92). The promise that she makes to Aurelius is yet another striking testi­mony of wifely love and devotion. Dorigen makes her promise to Aurelius ‘in pley’ (F 988), and it may be supposed that the phrase signifies an undue lightness in the making of promises. There is a poetic as well as a moral dif ficulty here, for an informed reader comes to The Franklin’s Tale with the expectation that a tale of  this

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kind will turn upon a rash promise. If  Dorigen’s promise is rash, then there are parallels to hand, notably that in another Breton Lay, Sir Orfeo (see lines 447–76). But generic af finities and the expectations derived from them are not to be set above the actuality of particular texts. Moreover, a concern for exactness of definition in particular cases is especially necessary where fidelity is an issue, for fidelity to one’s word is a virtue that in itself presupposes a definition of  terms. Such a concern to clarify the terms of an agreement is repeatedly demonstrated in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, where the Green Knight requires Sir Gawain to restate the terms of  the Beheading Game on taking over the game from Arthur (377–412), where the terms of  the Exchange of  Winnings agreement are not only stated on the evening before the first day’s hunt (1105–13), but their fulfilment is also duly noted (1383–97 and 1635–47) as well as the renewal of them on the two succeeding evenings (1404–9 and 1676–85), and where the compatibility of  the two separate but interlocking agreements is established (1668­–75). The result is that we are left in no doubt as to the point at which the rules of  these two related games are infringed by Sir Gawain. It is plain that the terms of any agreement are of  the utmost significance and that contracts involving the pledged word cannot be entered upon in any lighthearted spirit. The example of  Jeph­thah stands as a terrible warning of  the calamity that can attend foolishness in the making of vows. It is an example used by Chaucer himself in The Physician’s Tale, where the maiden Virginia compares her undeserved suf ferings with those of  Jephthah’s daughter (C 238–44). The analogy is exact, for Chaucer has respected the like­ness and the dif ference of  the two cases. But the foolishness of  Jephthah does not suggest any corresponding foolishness on the part of  Dorigen. Indeed the juxtaposition of  the two cases serves by contrast to emphasize Dorigen’s good judgment, for whereas Jeph­thah’s daughter in running to greet her father on his return fulfils the terms of  his vow, the terms of  Dorigen’s promise to Aurelius, by design and not by accident, are impossible to fulfil, and they are never in fact fulfilled. The seriousness of  Dorigen’s intent to remain faithful to her husband is thus confirmed. Why then does she make her promise to Aurelius ‘in pley’? We can dismiss at once any suggestion that she is toying with his af fec­tions, for that would not be consistent with her compassionate na­ture (F 740) or

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the sincerity of  her protestations of wifely fidelity (F 980–88 and 1000–5). She answers in play because she is at play, or rather, since she is burdened by sorrows for her absent husband (F 918–22), she attempts to respond in a manner that befits the occasion, the singing and dancing of  the May festivities (F 901–17 and 925–30). Dorigen not only rebuf fs Aurelius but also gives him an opportunity in the circumstances of  the social setting to retire with good grace. It is an attempt to restore the situation to its proper level of pleasantness and good cheer. Now Aristotle assigns a special vir­ tue to play, which he calls eutrapelia (Ethics, IV.8) and Aquinas in­cludes it under modesty in outward bodily movements (ST, 2a 2ae 168.2). The virtue of playfulness or cheerfulness is thus to be seen as a part of  the order of outward virtue, and so is found in conjunction with virtues such as sobriety that might have been supposed alien to it. The ideal is one of composure and gracefulness in play, and in the person of  the ‘goode faire White’ in The Book of  the Duchess it is described as ‘wel set gladnesse’ (828), for she ‘nas to sobre ne to glad’ (880). Any assumption that playfulness is at odds with sobriety is a false assumption. Indeed we must go further and insist that playfulness as a moral virtue presupposes sobriety, for sobriety points to the very definition of virtue as residing in a mean ap­pointed by reason. That Dorigen is able to answer Aurelius ‘in pley’ is a sign that she has rallied in the face of  the assault upon her virtue, for earlier it had seemed that ‘to greet sorwe’ (F 916) had made her insensible of  the beauty and joy of  the season. If  there is a criticism to be made of  Dorigen it is not that she is prone to fits of  light-headedness, but that she is apt (like the dreamer in The Book of  the Duchess) to indulge her grief. Once anachronistic assumptions have been set aside it will be seen that there is no real basis for the opinion that Dorigen was foolish in making the promise to Aurelius on the terms that she did. She shows herself  to be neither unfaithful to her husband nor foolish. Hence when it appears that the rocks have been removed she is concerned to reassert her undying fidelity to Arveragus (F 1424–25): I wol be trewe unto Arveragus, Or rather sleen myself in som manere.

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Nothing that Dorigen does casts doubt upon the validity of  her marriage vows and the overriding duty to fulfil them. The same moral concern is expressed by Fiammetta in the Filocolo when she argues that the lady’s promise to Tarolfo could not be valid insofar as it was a contradiction of  the marriage vows (IV.34.2–3). But the situation in The Franklin’s Tale is not in this respect parallel, for Dorigen’s promise to Aurelius is a refusal both in intention and in objective reality. The blame for her predicament is firmly placed where it belongs, that is, on the disordered love of  Aurelius and his preparedness to pursue it by fraudulent and superstitious means. Dorigen cannot set aside her promise to Aurelius without admitting the wrongfulness of  that promise. She does not do so, but instead (in ignorance of  Aurelius’s wickedness) she lays the blame upon Fortune and laments the injustice of  her case. Since the second promise made by Dorigen does not contradict the first, we cannot expect her to revoke it. The charge of  foolishness in swearing is so grave that there is no scope for any gratuitous confession of guilt. Dorigen’s promise was not lightly given, and hence it cannot lightly be withdrawn. The dilemma which confronts Dorigen requires her to choose be­tween ‘oonly deeth or elles dishonour’ (F 1358). The recognition of  the reality of  her dilemma has sometimes been obscured by a reluc­tance fully to allow for the moral sinfulness of suicide. But to a medieval Christian suicide is an outrageous act against the whole person, the immortal soul no less than the corruptible body. The horror of suicide is conveyed by Dante through a seemingly fantastic but compellingly vivid account (inspired by the Aeneid) of  the bleed­ing bough in the second round of  the seventh circle of  hell (Inf., XIII.31–45). The image of  the bleeding bough puts a strain on the poetic credibility of even a master such as Dante, but the depiction of  those damned by the sin of suicide is sustained throughout by an undeviating moral realism. The high note of  fantasy is indeed a means of conveying the shocking disorder that is involved in suicide, for suicide is a supremely unnatural act and an of fence against God, the author of nature. By suicide the soul is torn from its predestined end of union with God and becomes the sport of  fortune (Inf., XIII.97–98). Suicide is an annihilation of  the self, and the fitting punishment that Dante has devised for it (hard for such a one as the celebrated Piero della Vigna to endure)

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is that of anonymity. The option of suicide is thus shorn by Dante of any false sentimentality and misguided compassion that his readers may have been tempted to indulge. The choice of suicide, then, is no moral choice at all, and Dori­gen’s consideration of  the possibility of suicide is to be seen simply as a logical consequence of  her repudiation of  the alternative to it, namely, infidelity to Arveragus. The indecisiveness that she displays in failing to carry through her intention to commit suicide (F 1457­–58) is not a sign of feminine frailty, but a testimony of moral integ­rity, for the horror of infidelity is matched by a corresponding hor­ror of suicide. Justly she laments the injustice of  her plight. But such injustice is not to be corrected by a further and greater act of injus­tice. The act of  fidelity itself  loses its meaning when the divine law by which it is sanctioned is abandoned by suicide. Thus Piero della Vigna’s protestations of  fidelity to his lord (the Emperor Frederick II) are vain when set beside his own unjust annihilation of  that faithful self (Inf., XIII.70–75). Dorigen shows a true courage in continuing to struggle against the evils of  her dilemma, for suicide (when it comes to the point) cannot commend itself  to her. Canto XIII of  the Inferno is brought to an end by Dante with the dreadful finality of another act of suicide, that of an unnamed Florentine: ‘  “Io fei gibetto a me de le mie case,/ I made a gibbet for myself of my house”  ’ (XIII.151; Sinclair, I.175). Dorigen does not desecrate her own home by an act of such monstrous impiety but remains simply at a loss as to what to do. If we cannot feel indigna­tion and compassion for her undeserved suf ferings (and the formal complaint requires of us precisely that response), we ought at least to admire her for a moral purity that cannot reconcile itself  to the possibility of evil. And we shall have no understanding of what fol­lows unless we recognize that her dilemma is a true dilemma. V.  An appreciation of  the moral dilemma in The Franklin’s Tale de­mands also an informed and sympathetic understanding of  the hus­band’s position and further, since Arveragus is a knight, a sympathy with chivalric ideals as these are habitually expressed in Chaucer’s poetry. An imaginative sympathy of  this kind is not always easy for a modern reader to acquire,

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as is evident from the recent transforma­tion of  the ‘verray, parfit gentil knyght’ of  the General Prologue (A 72) into ‘a shabby mercenary without morals or scruples’.14 Ne­vertheless it need not be doubted that Arveragus is truly ‘this wise, worthy knyght’ (F 787), for that is what the action of  The Franklin’s Tale requires him to be. The worthiness of  knighthood is to be understood in its due rela­ tionship to honour. By worthiness is meant the state of achieved vir­tue or moral excellence.15 Thus worthiness stands in a direct relation to merit as the condition of desert, and it is in this way that Dante defines dignitas in the De vulgari eloquentia (II.ii.3). Honour is the reward that is due to virtue and fame or glory is the ef fect of  honour (ST, 2a 2ae 103.1 ad 2 and 3). This proper relation of  honour and worth is duly observed by Chaucer in the portrait of  the Knight: ‘And evere honoured for his worthynesse’ (A 50). It is the love of  honour that is also the proper motivation of knightly deeds. Here there is a potential ambiguity between the love of  honour as the sixth of  the eleven Aristotelian moral virtues (so classified by Dante in the Convivio, IV.xvii.5) and the opposed vice of ambition. To under­stand that the love of  honour is a virtue is to understand the link that Aristotle establishes between honour and virtue. Honour remains a term of approbation in our present moral vocabulary because it is still perceived (if only dimly) that the love of  honour is the pursuit of virtue. Thus the love of  honour which motivates a true knight, the worthi­ ness of  the knight who has accomplished honourable deeds and the dignity of  knighthood together form an unbroken chain of virtue. It is this moral vocabulary that Chaucer is able to rely upon in the presentation of  Arveragus. Some modern readers have found Ar­veragus guilty of  the neglect of  his wife’s interest by his departure to England ‘to seke in armes worshipe and honour’ (F 811). Had Ar­veragus, like Erec in Chrétien’s Erec et Enide (2430–2611), remained at home oblivious to his duty as a knight, he would also no doubt have been censured for uxoriousness. Had he, like Yvain in Chrétien’s Chevalier au Lion (2476–2799), failed to return to his wife in due time, his love for her would also have been found wanting. But there is no suggestion of any undue delay in the brief report of  Arveragus’s return to Brittany (F 1087–89):

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The praise of  Arveragus is once again emphatic and significant. It is not to be supposed that ‘Arveragus can do no wrong’ ( Jacobs, p. 128), for indeed no one is perfect, but that the logic of  the tale presupposes that he has not done wrong. Arveragus’s love of  honour runs so deeply in his nature that he can set it above the fear of shame, for he is not insensitive to the vileness of  his own wife’s involvement in an adulterous act. But the fear of shame is no more than a laudable passion, and so falls short of  the perfection of virtue. The person who is complete in virtue does not fear shame and does not do anything that is the cause of shame (ST, 2a 2ae 144.1). It is necessary to insist at this point that the love of  honour cannot properly be represented as the cause of  Dorigen’s shame (potential or actual), for it is Aurelius and not Arveragus who is responsible for initiating the chain of events that leads Dorigen towards the garden to keep her grim appointment. The virtue that Arveragus displays here is temperance (of which the love of  honour is an integral part), and his conduct bears out the truth of  the declaration that ‘After the tyme moste be temperaunce/ To every wight that kan on governaunce’ (F 785–86). Moreover it is a proper concern of  temperance that the inward motions of virtue should be seen to be such in their outward appearance (and not be an occasion of scandal).16 The moral elevation of  Arveragus’s conduct is not easy to grasp and can easily be misrepresented by those less conscious than he is of  the claims of  honour. It is from this lower but by no means disreputable vantage point that Arveragus can be misrepresented as a husband who sends his wife of f  to commit adultery. Given the possibility or even the likelihood that his conduct will be misunder­stood, Arveragus sets out to safeguard his public reputation and goes so far as to enjoin secrecy on his wife in order to do so (F 1480­–86). He has attracted to himself in the process a good deal of cen­sure from critics of  the tale (although significantly there is no criti­cism of  his action within the tale). Dorigen no less than Arveragus is concerned about the matter of reputation (F 1362) and this concern is ref lected in a series of exempla

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(F 1442–56). And why should we wish to add public humiliation to private grief ? Human beings are not indeed to be admired for their self-regarding vanities, but they are entitled to dignity. Arveragus’s regard for his dignity as a knight is represented, therefore, as a due and not a false regard. The empha­sis on the moral worthiness and knightly dignity of  Arveragus is by no means gratuitous. We are shown thereby how much he stands to lose in terms of merited dignity by any act of infidelity on the part of  his wife. The generosity of  Arveragus is manifested above all in the fact that he can set aside all that is most precious to him as a knight in the cause of  his wife’s fidelity to the word that she has freely pledged. But more than anything else Arveragus’s response to Dorigen in her predicament is that of a loving husband. And here it is to be noted that the representation of  Arveragus as a husband is based upon the distinction between the love of desire and the love of  friendship. Love can be directed towards the good thing which is wanted for someone, either oneself or another, and this is the object of  the love of desire, or it can be directed towards the one for whom the good thing is wanted, and this is the object of  the love of  friend­ship (ST, 1a 2ae 26.4). The love of desire is manifested in the jeal­ousy shown towards anything that stands in the way of obtaining or enjoying the good loved, as by a husband who is envious of  his wife’s association with others (ST, 1a 2ae 28.4). Now the love of  Arveragus for Dorigen is the love of  friendship and not the love of desire, as is made clear to us on his return to Brittany (F 1094–96): No thyng list hym to been ymaginatyf, If any wight hadde spoke, whil he was oute, To hire of  love; he hadde of it no doute.

When Dorigen turns to her husband in the midst of  her dilemma she is not met with jealousy of  the kind that Criseyde fears in husbands (TC, II.750–56), but with the tender concern of a husband who has sworn to his wife that he will not ‘kithe hire jalousie’ (F 748). In other words the response of  Arveragus is the response of  friendship (F 1467–68): This housbonde, with glad chiere, in freendly wyse Answerde and seyde as I shal yow devyse.

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His insistence on his wife’s fidelity to her pledged word is the out­come of such love (F 1475–78): 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.

Arveragus is led by the love of  friendship to forgo his right to his wife’s body (see F 1003–5) and his honour. He is prepared to endure the injustice against himself in order to spare his wife the moral violation that would be involved in breaking her pledged word to Aurelius. What is at stake is nothing less than Dorigen’s moral integrity. No moral failing can be suf fered with equanimity since the moral virtues are interconnected. Jacobs has argued that Arveragus ought to have repudiated the promise to Aurelius as invalid instead of  ‘elevating a single aspect of  trouthe, defined in the most literal-minded way, above all other considerations’ (p. 129). Had Arveragus been motivated by his own interests, it would indeed have been advisable for him to have done so. But he is moved rather by love for his wife, and so seeks to conform his will to her will, for ‘freendes everych oother moot obeye,/ If  they wol longe holden compaignye’ (F 762­–63). The conduct of  Arveragus is built upon the assumption of  his wife’s virtue, like that of  the husband in the Filocolo ‘conoscendo nel pensiero la purità della donna,/ since he well knew the lady’s virtuousness’ (IV.31.44; Havely, 158). Arveragus would have been guilty of imputing blame to Dorigen if  he had called into ques­tion the validity of  her promise to Aurelius. He does not do so and he is right not to do so, for Dorigen’s promise is in all respects blameless. At the heart of  the promise, as we have seen, is the obligation that is imposed upon the will. By making her promise Dorigen has given up her freedom to act in any other way. Arveragus seeks to unite his will in obedience to that of  his wife and in consequence he is bound too by the promise that she has made. Such obedience is once again (see F 787–90) fully reciprocated by Dorigen, who goes forth towards the garden in fulfilment of  her promise despite her anguish of soul (F 1499–1513). It is obedience that

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would do justice to a Grisilde. But, as in the case of  Grisilde, we must not confound the logic of a moral argument with the reality of  living. In The Clerk’s Tale we are directly warned by the Clerk not to do so (E 1142–46): This storie is seyd, nat for that wyves sholde Folwen Grisilde as in humylitee, For it were inportable, though they wolde; But for that every wight, in his degree, Sholde be constant in adversitee.

And similarly we are advised by the Franklin not to form a prema­turely hostile judgment of  Arveragus’s action (F 1493–98). The reason is that the poetic interest is focused not so much on the experience itself as on the elucidation of a moral virtue, in the one case con­stancy and in the other generosity. Arveragus’s act, then, is an act of generosity born out of  love for his wife. By that act he undoubtedly exposes himself  to the possibil­ity of disaster. Fiammetta commends the husband in the Filocolo for his generosity above the lover and the magician (since honour is pre­cious, whereas lustful intercourse and wealth are not), but not for his prudence: ‘Adunque, se solo l’onore è in queste tre caro, e l’altre no, dunque quelli maggiore liberalità fece che quello donava, avvegna che meno saviamente facesse’ (IV.32.5).17 But here we have a motive that is beyond moral virtue, namely, the motive of  love itself. And by a supreme act of self less generosity Arveragus makes possi­ble not only disaster but also joy (F 1551–55). Now this happy out­ come can be brought about in no other way than by Arveragus’s act of generosity, for by it (and also by the generosity of  Aurelius that is inspired by it) Dorigen’s trouthe remains at the end no less than at the beginning pure and unsullied. And here we come to the reason for all this contrivance and the interest of  the tale for Chaucer. A true marriage, as Chaucer under­stands it, is grounded upon the irrevocable fixing of  the wills of  husband and wife in the solemnization of matrimony. He shows us further that love demands not only freedom and equality but also generosity, and that such generosity will sometimes lead to the aban­donment of one’s due and to anguish (F 764–86). But whereas we are asked to adjudicate between the generosity

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of  the husband, the lover and the magician, we are not invited to discriminate between the virtue of  the husband and the wife for the very reason that the two of  them are united by the love of  friendship. VI.  The obvious inference to be drawn from The Franklin’s Tale and from tales of a similar character, like The Clerk’s Tale and The Physi­cian’s Tale, is that Chaucer shares the preoccupations of  his own age in his interest in situations that are morally problematic. A compari­son with The Physician’s Tale is especially instructive for readers of  The Franklin’s Tale. Like The Franklin’s Tale, The Physician’s Tale presents a moral di­lemma brought upon two entirely innocent human beings as a result of  the wickedness of a third party (the lecherous judge, Appius); Virginius is a knight ‘fulfild of  honour and of worthynesse’ (C 3) and his daughter Virginia ‘lakked no condicioun/ That is to preyse, as by discrecioun’ (C 41–42). Virginius is confronted with the choice between slaying his beloved daughter or allowing her to be de­f lowered (C 213–15): ‘Doghter,’ quod he, ‘Virginia, by thy name, Ther been two weyes, outher deeth or shame, That thou most suf fre; allas, that I was bore!’

The interview between the compassionate father and the loving daughter on which Chaucer has lavished his attention (C 207–53) is suf fused with a scarcely tolerable pathos. The compassionate nature of  Virginius is emphasized (C 269–74), but pity does not def lect him from his purpose once he has determined upon it (C 209–12). The impact of  the tale rests upon the assumption that there is a matching horror between the shamefulness of physical defilement and the father’s slaying of  his child. What choice should Virginius have made? What choice would we make (for we cannot pass judg­ment until we have faced up to the moral responsibility of choice)? What is imaginatively and morally unacceptable is that the dilemma should be in any way softened by a diminution of virginity as a moral virtue. Virginius’s way is the unyielding Roman way (the tale is after all derived from Livy). Better perhaps the way of  Arveragus

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in allowing the physical violation of  his wife at the expense of injus­tice to himself in order to spare her the moral violation entailed in the breaking of a promise. The power of  these tales lies precisely in the fact that they engage our moral sympathies. It does matter to us that human beings should do what is right by themselves and by others. Chaucer shows us in The Franklin’s Tale (and more severely in The Physician’s Tale) that what is right is not always easy for the noblest of  human beings to discern. If we must apportion blame, let us blame the agents of  these dilemmas, for both Aurelius and Appius are bent upon the selfish gratification of  their unlawful desires, rather than those who by their very nobility are tormented by the choice between one virtu­ous act and another. The truth is that such a choice is of fensive to the very conception of virtue, for the virtues are interconnected as a result of  the possession of prudence (ST, 1a 2ae 65.1). It is not the part of prudence to opt for vice. And from the ef fects of sin human beings can only be delivered by providence. So it is at the end of  The Frank­lin’s Tale. And here we can see too the propriety that has determined the assignment of  tellers to tales. The Physician, whose ‘studie was but litel on the Bible’ (A 438) tells a tale of  Roman virtue at odds with Christian mercy. And the Franklin, a man on the evidence of  his tale of simple Christian piety, tells of suf fering virtue saved at the very end by the will of providence.

Notes 1

‘Thus the knight who surrendered his honour was more generous than any of  the others. And bear in mind that the kind of  honour he gave up is irrecoverable – which is not the case with such other kinds as derive from battles, trials of strength and other af fairs; these if  lost on one occasion can always be redeemed on another. And let this be all that we need to say about your question’ (Havely, 161). It is to be noted that Menedon is satisfied by Fiammetta’s final judgment, as may be gathered from the opening of  Filocolo, IV.35: ‘Poi che la reina tacque, e

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Menedon fu rimaso contento …  ’. On the sources of  The Franklin’s Tale, see now Robert R. Edwards, ‘The Franklin’s Tale’, in Correale and Hamel, I.211–65. 2 Reference is to The Works of  Geof frey Chaucer, edited by F.N. Robinson, second edition (London: Oxford University Press, 1957). 3 Ef fie Jean Mathewson, ‘The Illusion of  Morality in the Franklin’s Tale,’ MÆ, 52 (1983), 27–37 (p. 28). 4 The reference is to the review by Nicolas Jacobs of  Geof frey Chaucer: The Franklin’s Tale, edited by Gerald Morgan (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1980), in MÆ, 52 (1983), 126–31 (p. 128). 5 For an authoritative account of  the character and social status of  the Franklin, see Henrik Specht, Chaucer’s Franklin in ‘The Canterbury Tales’: The Social and Literary Background of a Chaucerian Character (Copenhagen: Akademisk Forlag, 1981); reviewed by Gerald Morgan, MÆ, 52 (1983), 125–26. The older view of  the Franklin as a social upstart is reargued (although not conclusively in my opinion) by Nigel Saul, ‘The Social Status of  Chaucer’s Franklin: A Reconsideration’, MÆ, 52 (1983), 10–26. 6 For an account of  the various conceptions of  the origin and ontological status of  the idea and the development of  the related theories of art from Plato to Bellori, see Erwin Panofsky, Idea: A Concept in Art Theory, translated by Joseph J.S. Peake (New York: Harper & Row, Publishers, Inc., 1968). 7 The ultimate source of  this inf luential notion is Aristotle’s Poetics (chapters 6 and 9), where imitation is held to be the imitation of action. 8 This is Aquinas’s definition (ST, 1a 116.2), based on Boethius. 9 On lucidity and proportionality as the principles of  beauty, see ST, 1a 39.8. Panofsky shows that there is a widespread accord between classical and medieval writers on the definition of beauty (pp. 35–36 and 191–93). The classical principles of  the proportionality of parts and the pleasantness of colour are reinforced in the Middle Ages under the inf luence of  Plotinus and the pseudo-Dionysius by the principle of radiance, that is, the ef fect of  light that results from the presence of  the idea in matter; see ST, 2a 2ae 145.2 and Paradiso, XIII.52–81. 10 ‘The Arte of  English Poesie’ by George Puttenham, edited by Gladys Doidge Willcock and Alice Walker (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1936), p. 279. 11 Italics here and in the three subsequent quotations are mine. 12 See also The Parson’s Tale, I 592–95. 13 See ST, 2a 2ae 89.7 and ad 2. 14 Terry Jones, Chaucer’s Knight: the Portrait of a Medieval Mercenary (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1980), p. 140. The arguments of  this book are historically unsound, as G.A. Lester points out in a justly destructive review, MÆ, 52

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(1983), 122–25. On a more constructive note, 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, demon­strates the persistence of  the crusading ideal among the English nobility throughout the fourteenth century. 15 See OED, s. v. worthy, A. adj. I.2 and A Chaucer Glossary, s. v. worthy, adj. 2. 16 Thus Aquinas classifies the virtue of modesty in outward bodily movements among the seven potential parts of  temperance (ST, 2a 2ae 143). 17 ‘Thus, if amongst these three only honour, and not the other things, is to be prized, then the one who gave up that performed the greatest act of generosity, although he behaved less than prudently’ (Havely, 159).

Index

Absalom, 144 Achilles, 188 Ackroyd, Peter, 158n18 Adam, 18 Alan of  Lille: De Planctu naturae, 40n8, 88nn55,56 Albert the Great, 46 Albertano of  Brescia: Liber consolationis et consilii, 68, 88nn52,53 Alcestis, 171 Algeçiras, siege of (1342–1344), 4, 117 Allen, Valerie, 133 Antiochus, 172, 248 Aquinas, St Thomas, 17, 22n21, 37, 46, 54–55, 83n9, 200, 211, 213, 253 Commentary on Ethics, 4, 7, 13, 111 In de anima, 54–55 Scriptum in IV Libros Sententiarum, 16 Summa theologiae, 14, 16, 28, 32, 33, 35, 56, 59, 66, 71, 73, 86nn34,36, 98, 127nn54,56, 151, 177, 178, 195–96, 197, 212, 225, 227, 228, 233, 241n37, 245, 247, 249–50, 256, 259, 260, 265, 267n16 Arcas, 92n80 Aries, 191 Aristotle, 8, 17, 22n21, 96, 205n44, 211, 213, 239n18, 259 De anima, 46 Metaphysics, 86n34 Nicomachean Ethics, 4, 7, 13, 57, 110, 111, 112, 202n14, 256 Poetics, 45, 266n7 Rhetorica, 113, 126n46

Arnold, Matthew, 115 ‘The Study of  Poetry’, 197 Atalanta, 78 Athanasian Creed, 34 Augustine, St, 37, 202n14 Enarrationes in Psalmos, 41n15 Austen, Jane: Mansfield Park, 209 Avicenna, 52 Canon medicinae, 84n22 Liber de anima, 46, 82n6 Babio, 62 Batt, Catherine, 1 Beaufort, Joan, 25 Becket, Thomas, 116, 152 Bédier, Joseph: Les Fabliaux, 132, 137–38 Belknap, Sir Robert, 166 Benedict, St, 149, 179 Benson, C. David, 213 Benson, Larry D., 136, 158n20. See also Riverside Chaucer Beowulf, 5 Black Prince, 2, 95 Blanche, Duchess of  Lancaster, 94 Boccaccio, 45, 46 Decameron, 97, 137, 138, 139, 152, 210; Panfilo, 138 Filocolo, 243, 262; Fiammetta, 243, 257, 263, 265n1; Menedon, 243, 244, 245, 265n1; Tarolfo, 244; Tebano, 244 Filostrato, 65 Teseida, 82n8, 85n28, 86n34, 87n44, 88n56, 89nn59, 60, 61, 90n66,

270 Index Boccaccio: Teseida (cont.) 91n80, 128n59; Addornezza, 55–56; Af fabilitate, 55–56, 56–57; Atalanta, 78, 92n81; Bacchus, 76; Byblis, 99; Callisto, 78; Caunus, 99; Ceres, 76; Cortesia, 55–56; Cupido, 46, 50, 53, 76–78; Diana, 77; Emilia, 178; Gelosia, 74; Hercules, 79, 99; Hippomenes, 78; Iole, 99; Lascivia, 58; Memoria, 50; Mount Cithaeron, 47; Ozio, 50; Pace, 70, 73; Palemone, 47, 49; Parthenopaeus, 78; Pazienza, 70, 71, 73; Pyramus, 99; Ruf fiania, 64, 65; Semiramis, 79, 99; Temple of  Venus, 25, 46, 47, 51–52, 55–56, 57, 59, 65, 72, 99; Thisbe, 99; Vaghezza, 49; Venus, 46, 50, 53, 58, 68–69, 74–78, 89nn58,60; Voluttà, 50, 53, 54; Wille, 50, 53 Boethius: De consolatione philosophiae, 189–90 Boitani, Piero, 82n8, 85n31 Bonaventure, 22n21 Bonhoef fer, Dietrich, 225 Boniface IX, pope, 38 Bracton: De legibus et consuetudinibus Angliae, 165, 168–69, 198 Brenchley, Sir William, 166 Brewer, D.S., 54, 71, 85nn28,31, 90n70, 92n86 Bridget of  Sweden, St, 204n30 Brosnahan, Leger, 125n23 Burrow, J.A., 24, 127n51 Calliope, 172 Callisto, 78, 91n80 Cambridge, 139 Canace, 172 Canticum Canticorum, 146, 161n56

Capricorn, 191 Cato, 88n53, 154 Cavalcanti, Guido: Canzone d’amore, 45–46, 69 Chaucer, Geof frey, 17, 46–47, 82n8, 83n9, 93–97, 109, 114–16, 121–22, 125n30, 131, 132, 133, 136, 139, 145, 149, 156–57, 161n56, 166, 168, 170, 173, 197–98, 200, 203n23, 207n65, 215, 229, 244, 247–48, 263–64 Boece, 131, 189–90; Lady Philosophia, 26, 35, 40n8 The Book of  the Duchess, 55, 57, 116, 148, 256; Alcyone, 170; Blanche, Duchess of  Lancaster, 143, 177; Dreamer, 148, 256 Canterbury Tales, 98, 137, 139, 205n42, 212, 236–37, 244; Ellesmere MS, 155, 174; Hengwrt MS, 155, 174. See also Riverside Chaucer General Prologue, 94, 95, 96, 97–123, 129, 135, 136, 167–68, 200; Chaucer as pilgrim, 95–97, 100, 102–4, 112, 122, 124n20, 125nn23,29,30; Clerk of  Oxenford, 96, 101, 107–8, 109, 110, 111–12, 113, 140, 184, 209–10, 211, 212, 214, 217, 239n18; Cook, 102, 108; Franklin, 95, 96, 97, 101, 102, 106, 121; Friar, 101, 120, 121; Guildsmen, 95, 102, 106, 107, 113, 153; Host, 123, 130, 166, 169, 170, 199–200, 211, 212, 214–15, 239n18; Knight, 4–5, 6–7, 23–24, 96, 101, 102, 105, 106, 110–11, 112, 117–18, 123, 127nn51,52, 129, 140, 214, 252, 259; Man of  Law [Serjeant-at-law], 95, 96, 101, 166–67, 169, 174; Manciple, 102, 108, 109, 114; Merchant, 96, 101,

Index 113; Miller, 102, 105, 108, 109, 114, 155, 200, 228; Monk, 101, 120, 130; Nun, 101; Pardoner, 102, 105, 109, 110–11, 113, 118–19, 123, 185, 228, 253; Parson, 102, 107, 111–12, 184, 199–200; Physician, 102, 113–14, 121; Ploughman, 102, 108, 112, 155, 168; Priest, 101; Prioress, 95, 96, 101, 102, 120, 144; Reeve, 102, 105, 106, 108, 109, 114, 118, 155; Shipman, 102, 114, 199, 200; Squire, 56, 57, 96, 97, 101, 106–7, 117, 140, 141, 144; Summoner, 89n60, 102, 109, 118–19, 228; Wife of  Bath, 30, 102, 107, 114, 116, 136; Yeoman, 51, 101, 106, 107 Clerk’s Tale, 131, 209–37, 238nn5,7; Envoy, 237; Prologue, 210, 214–16; Clerk of  Oxenford, 211, 213, 214, 215–16, 217, 222, 223–24, 225, 226, 228–29, 230, 231, 232, 233, 234–35, 236–37, 240n21, 263; Grisilde, 177, 212–14, 215, 217, 218–23, 224–26, 227–28, 229–31, 232–35, 236, 238n7, 241n37, 263; Walter, 212, 213, 216–35, 236, 238n7 Cook’s Tale, 129 Franklin’s Tale, 105, 165, 211, 215, 243– 65; Apollo, 246, 247; Arveragus, 3, 17, 97, 154, 155, 170, 196, 218, 220, 234, 243, 244, 245, 247, 250, 252–53, 258–64; Aurelius, 57, 60, 145, 148, 234, 244, 247, 251, 254, 257, 260, 265; Dorigen, 60, 218, 220, 234, 243, 244, 247, 248, 250–51, 252–53, 254–58, 260, 262–63; Fortune, 246, 247, 252; Franklin, 211, 234, 243, 244, 245, 246, 248, 263, 265, 266n5; Providence, 246, 247 Friar’s Tale, 211

271 Knight’s Tale, 6, 105, 129, 130, 139, 141, 142, 200; Arcite, 3, 5, 83n9, 139, 140, 147, 148; Callisto, 91n80; Emelye, 5, 139, 142, 143, 146, 205n35; Hippolyte, 5; Knight, 130–31; Palamon, 3, 5, 83n9, 139, 145; temple of  Diana, 78, 91n80; temple of  Mars, 63; temple of  Venus, 47, 52, 55, 56, 63–64, 73; Theseus, 5–6, 96 Man of  Law’s Tale, 96–97, 131, 150, 165–200, 211, 215, 238n8; Epilogue, 199–200; Prologue, 173–75; Alla, 180, 181, 186, 187, 196; Custance, 175, 176–83, 186–87, 198–99, 204n29, 205n37, 207n65; Donegild, 183, 184–85; Hermengyld, 186; Man of  Law [Serjeant-at-law], 165–75, 177, 181, 183–88, 189, 191–92, 193, 198–99, 201n12, 203n23, 208n70, 211; Semiramis, 183; Sultaness, 183, 184, 194 Manciple’s Tale, 240n21; Prologue, 108 Tale of  Melibee, 68, 88n53 Merchant’s Tale, 68, 88n53, 221; Prologue, 19; Merchant, 96 Miller’s Tale, 66, 129–57, 157n2, 163n68, 201n12; Prologue, 101, 129, 148, 151, 205n42; Absolon, 61, 63, 132–33, 139, 144–48, 152, 155, 156, 157n6, 158n18, 161n56; Alison, 17, 139, 141–44, 146–47, 148, 152, 156, 161n56; Carpenter [ John], 148–55, 156, 180; Gille, 150, 153–54; Miller, 129–30, 131, 135, 136, 139, 145, 148, 155, 161n52; Nicholas, 134, 135, 139, 140–41, 144, 145, 149, 150, 151, 152, 155–56; Robin, 150, 153 Monk’s Tale, 175

272 Index Chaucer: Canterbury Tales (cont.) Nun’s Priest’s Tale, 148, 211; Chauntecleer, 141, 154–55 Pardoner’s Tale, 121, 123, 186, 215, 251; Pardoner, 32, 120 Parson’s Tale, 93, 122, 127–28n57, 131, 220, 251; Parson, 134 Physician’s Tale, 63, 66–67, 264–65; Appius, 264, 265; Physician, 265; Virginia, 255, 264; Virginius, 264 Prioress’s Tale, 96 Reeve’s Tale, 95–96, 106, 109, 129, 134–35, 137, 139, 185; Aleyn, 96, 139; John, 96, 139; Reeve, 129 Second Nun’s Tale: Cecilia, 180, 182 Tale of  Sir Thopas, 146 Squire’s Tale, 195 Summoner’s Tale, 133, 211 Wife of  Bath’s Tale, 67, 215; Prologue, 17, 30, 57, 134, 143, 172, 181, 188, 236; Jankyn, 134; Wife of  Bath, 17, 134, 143, 181, 236 Legend of  Good Women, 125n23, 170, 171; Prologue, 171, 209; Alceste, 125n23, 171; Ariadne, 171; Cleopatra, 171; Dido, 171; Helen, 171; Hero, 171; Hypermnestra, 171; Hypsipyle, 171; Laodamia, 171; Lucretia, 171; Medea, 171, 172; Penelope, 171; Philomela, 171, 172; Phyllis, 171; Thisbe, 171 The Parliament of  Fowls, 23, 52–53, 65, 66, 67, 85nn28,31, 92nn83,86, 189; Achilles, 79, 128n59; Africanus, 49; Array, 56, 57–58; Bacchus, 76; Beauty, 58, Youth, 58–59; Biblis, 79; Candace, 79–80, 92n86; Ceres, 76; Cleopatra, 79, 128n59; Courtesy, 56–57; Craft, 56, 57; Cupid, 49–51, 52–54, 55, 69, 76–78; Cytherea, 91n76; Delight, 57; Desire, 58, 73–74; Diana,

75, 77, 80; Dido, 79, 128n59; Dreamer, 49, 51, 55, 59, 61, 63, 65, 66–67, 69–70, 72, 74–75, 76, 77–78, 79, 81; Flattery, 58, 59–60; Foolhardiness, 58; Gentilesse, 56, 57–58; Helen of  Troy, 79, 128n59; Hercules, 79; Isolde, 79, 80, 92n87; Lust, 56–57; Meed, 58, 61–63, 80; Messagerie, 58, 60, 67–68, 80; Paris, 79, 128n59; Patience, 25, 70–72, 73; Peace, 25, 70–71, 73; Plesaunce/Pleasance, 54–55, 56, 58; Priapus, 74; Pyramus, 79; Semiramis, 79; Silla, 79; temple of  Venus, 25, 46–81, 99, 128n59; Thisbe, 79; Tristram, 92n87; Troilus, 79, 80, 128n59; Venus, 50, 52, 58, 69, 70, 73, 74–78, 88n56; Will, 50, 51, 53–54, 55, 85n28 The Romaunt of  the Rose, 40n8, 52, 103, 180; Beaute, 142, 143; Ydelnesse, 50 A Treatise on the Astrolabe, 193 Troilus and Criseyde, 92n81, 98, 121–22, 129, 173, 175, 197, 198, 210, 245; Cassandre, 78; Criseyde, 3, 12, 17–18, 34, 52, 60, 61, 67–68, 77, 88n56, 92n87, 137, 142, 146, 178, 219–20, 229, 261; Pandarus, 60–61, 64, 65, 66, 67, 77, 136, 151; Troilus, 3, 12, 13, 55, 60–61, 64, 65–66, 72–73, 75–76, 79, 84n16, 89n56, 145, 146, 147, 148, 179; Venus, 180 A Chaucer Glossary, 133, 134, 135 Chrétien de Troyes: Chevalier au Lion, 259 Chevalier de la Charrete, 59; Gauvain, 7, 59, 72, 90n69; Lancelot, 3, 7, 59, 71–72, 90n69, 106; Pyramus, 7, 59 Erec et Enide, 3, 259; Erec, 3

273

Index Cicero, 188 Rhetorica ad Herennium, 215 City of  Benares, SS, 195 Clopton, Sir Walter, 166 Coleman, William E., 82n8 Company of  the Star, 19–20 Condren, Edward I., 124n20, 211 Cooper, Christine F., 205n37 Cooper, Helen, 137, 165, 204n29 Crécy, battle of (1346), 51 Croceus, 62 Cummings, Beth, 194–95 Cyprus, 88n56 Dante, 83n9, 122, 155, 215, 253 Commedia, 45, 91n76, 98, 163n78 Inferno, 59, 66, 79, 119–20, 192, 247, 257–58; Achilles, 79, 128n59; Cleopatra, 79, 128n59; Cytherea, 91n76; Dante, the pilgrim, 81, 91n76, 92n84; Dido, 79, 111, 128n59; Helen of  Troy, 79, 128n59; Leah, 91n76; Paris, 79, 128n59; Piccarda Donati, 111; Piero della Vigna, 257, 258; Semiramis, 79, 111; Tristan, 79, 128n59; Virgil, 92n84, 150, 175 Paradiso, 80–81; Aquinas, 122; Beatrice, 249, 251–52; Cunizza, 111; Folco, 111; Francesca da Rimini, 111; Piccarda Donati, 182–83 Purgatorio, 23, 45, 55, 81n2, 93, 99–100, 117, 172; Beatrice, 26, 27, 41n9, 150; Dante the pilgrim, 27, 28, 29, 39, 41n9, 150; David, 99; Dreamer, 49; Mary, 99; Matilda, 28, 39 Piccarda/Forese Donati 182; Statius, 39; Trajan, 6, 99 Convivio, 259 De vulgari eloquentia, 259

Dante, Pietro, 45 David, 18 Davis, Norman, 53, 90n70, 135 de Louens, Renaud: Livre de Mellibee et Prudence, 68, 88n53 de Mézières, Philippe: Le Miroir des dames mariées, 210, 238n7 de Vere, Robert, 216, 239n20 del Garbo, Dino: Glossa Latina, 23, 45–46, 51, 52, 57, 69, 70–71 Delasanta, Rodney, 166 Demetrius, 248 Democritus, 196 DiMarco, Vincent J., 53 Diana, 53, 75, 77, 78, 80 Dolan, T.P., 30 Donaldson, E. Talbot, 95, 100, 116, 125nn29,30, 127n50 Dryden, John, 93, 104, 120 Dunning, T.P., 30 Eade, J.C., 190, 193, 207n65, 208n69 Edward III, 94 Edward of  Woodstock. See Black Prince Eliot, George: Middlemarch, 209 Elizabeth I, 184 Epictetus the Stoic, 204n32 Epicureans, 196 Everyman, 118 Fair Maid of  Astolat, 11 Falstaf f, 17 Farmer, John S., 159n20 Frideswide, St, 149 Froissart, Jean: Paradis d’amour, 55 Fulgentius, 88n53 Galeazzo II Visconti, library of, Pavia, 82n8 Gemini, 191 Geof frey of  Vinsauf: Poetria Nova, 80, 215, 245

274 Index Geof froi de Charny: Livre de chevalerie, 3, 11–12 Giovanni da Lignano, 216 Gower, John: Confessio Amantis, 61–62, 98, 176, 196, 244–45; Amans, 61, 63; Confessor, 61–62, 63 In Praise of  Peace, 21n11 Gregory, St: Moralia, 35 Guillaume de Lorris: Roman de la rose, 98–99 Haly Abbas, 52 Hanmer, Sir David, 166 Hart, James A., 116, 126n48 Hawkwood, John, 24, 192 Hector, 188 Henley, William Ernest, 159n20 Henry II, 133 Henry IV, 21n11, 94 Henry of  Grosmont, 94 Hercules, 188 Hereford, Nicholas, 37 Hermione, 171 Herod, 254 Higden, Ranulf, 216 Hodges, Laura F., 104, 202n15 Holland, Thomas, 240n27 Horn Child, 188 Innocent III, pope: De miseria condicionis humane, 174, 186 Isabella, Queen, 184 Isolde, 80 Jacobs, Nicolas, 243, 262 James of  Compostella, St, 116 James I of  Scotland: The Kingis Quair, 25; Fortune, 25, 41n10; Minerva, 41n10

Jean le Bel: Chroniques, 19–20 Jean de Meun: Le Roman de la rose, 40n8; Faus Semblant, 29; Reson, 40n8 Jephthah, 250, 251–52, 255 Jerome, St, 2, 37 Jesus Christ, 136, 149, 175, 196, 199 Joan, Countess of  Kent, 2, 184, 240n27 John of  Gaunt, 38, 94, 95, 124n8 Johnson, Samuel, 36, 110, 126n43, 171 Jones, Terry, 6, 23–24, 127n51, 266n14 Julius Caesar, 188 Jupiter, 191 Keen, Maurice, 267n14 Keiser, George R., 187, 188 Kittredge, George Lyman, 212 Kyng Alisaunder, 79–80 Lancelot, 19 Langland, William, 24–25, 27, 34, 200 Piers Plowman, 93, 108–10, 121; Prologue, 168; Amends, 38; Civil, 39; Clergy, 112, 206n46, 212, 239n21; Conscience, 24, 32–33, 39, 43n23, 234; Cunning (Favel), 29, 38; Dame Study, 38, 212; Dives, 36, 39; Dobest, 112, 184, 206n46, 239n21, 240n21; Dobet, 239n21; Doctor of  Divinity, 43n23, 111; Dowel, 110, 239n21; Dreamer, 25–30, 31, 33, 41n15, 42n19, 43n23; False, 29, 31; Guile, 31; Haukyn, 36, 105, 133–34; Kind Wit, 26; King, the, 24, 31, 32; Lady Holy Church, 24, 25–31, 33, 35, 37–38, 39, 40n8, 41n15, 42n19, 120; Liar, 31; Meed [Lady], 24, 29, 30–32, 33, 34, 35, 37–38, 39, 42n19, 120; Mercede, 39; Pardoner, 123; Patience, 36, 43n23, 234;

275

Index Piers, 24, 38, 39, 108, 112, 117, 134; Reason, 24, 26, 116; Scripture, 43n23; Simony, 39; Theology, 24, 37, 38–39; Truth, 117, 118 Larrington, Carolyne, 131 Lawrence, St, 38, 39 Leinster, RMS, 204n32 Leicester, H. Marshall, Jr, 125n30 Lester, G.A., 266n14 Lithuania, 117 Le Livre Griseldis, 210, 216, 217, 222, 223, 232, 237n5, 238n5 Livy, 264 Lollardy, 200 Lombardy, 217 Lowes, John Livingston, 17 Lounsbury, Thomas R., 213 Lusitania, RMS, 204n32 Malone, Kemp, 85n31 Malory, Sir Thomas: Morte Darthur, 92n87, 182 Mann, Jill, 188, 213 Mars, 80, 191, 192, 207n65 Martin, Priscilla, 204n29 Mary, Queen, 184 Mary of  Woodstock, 176 Mathewson, Ef fie Jean, 243, 244, 252 McKenna, Isobel, 202n15 Medea, 171–72 Medium Ævum, 243 Meleager, 78 Miller, Mark, 213 Milton, John: Paradise Lost, 42n15 Montagu, William, 240n27 Moon, 191, 192, 207n65 Mordecai, 88n53 Morte Arthure, 106 Mortimer, Roger, 184 Muses, the, 172, 203n23

New Testament: Book of  Revelation, 24 St Matthew’s Gospel, 34, 36–37, 254; Sermon on the Mount, 36–37 Newhauser, Richard, 1 Nicolai, Alessio, 192 Ninus, 183 Nolan, Barbara, 125n30 Nolan, Maura, 203n23 Nolan, Michael, 22n21 North, J.D., 193, 207n65, 208n70 North Star, 78 Nykrog, Per, 138 Ockham, William, 83n9 Old Testament: Isaias, 41n15 Oseney, 152 Ovid: Heroides, 92n86, 171 Metamorphoses, 78, 80, 172 Oxford, 139, 140, 190 Panofsky, Erwin, 266n9 Paris, 88n56 Pasiphae, 172 Patience, 10, 25 Pearl, 126n42 Pearsall, Derek, 1–2, 11, 30, 37, 42n17, 90n70, 153, 156, 161n52 Penelope, 171 Peraldus, William: Summa vitiorum, 122 Petrarch: Epistolae seniles, 210 Historia Griseldis, 210, 215, 217, 222, 223, 232, 237n5, 238n6 Phyllis, 171 Pierides, the, 172 Pisces, 191, 207n65 Plato, 136, 188

276 Index Plotinus, 266n9 Poitiers, battle of (1356), 51 Pompey, 188 Pratt, Robert A., 82n8 Prussia, 117 pseudo-Dionysius, 266n9 Puttenham, George, 248 Queste del Saint Graal, 182 Rabelais, 159n20 Raymund of  Pennaforte: Summa de poenitentia, 122 Repingdon, Philip, 37 Réthel, 94 Rhea Silvia, 80 Richard II, 94, 166 Rickhill, Sir William, 166 Riverside Chaucer, 88n53, 134, 155, 203n23 Robertson, D.W., Jr, 17 Roland the Farter, 133 Romulus, 80 Roney, Lois, 83n9 Ross, Thomas W., 155 Russell, John: Book of  Nurture, 101 Russia, 117 Sacrobosco: Tractatus de sphaera, 190 Samson, 18, 188 Saturn, 192 Saunders, Corinne, 180 Savoy palace, 94 Scattergood, John, 85n28 Schmidt, A.V.C., 37 Scorpio, 207n65 Scotus, 83n9 Scylla, 80 Semiramis, 183 Seneca, 88n53 Severs, J. Burke, 210

Shakespeare, William, 134 Henry VI, 86n36 Sonnets, 76–77, 80 Silvestris, Bernardus: Cosmographia, 188 Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, 7, 8, 54, 62, 127n48, 143, 145, 199 Beheading Game, 8, 255 Exchange of  Winnings, 4, 8, 9, 12–13, 132, 253, 255 Green Knight, 4, 15, 20, 121, 144, 145, 195, 255 Guinevere, 2, 144 Sir Gawain, 1–2, 7, 8–15, 18–19, 20, 64–65, 67, 95, 117, 124n8, 132, 141, 149, 180, 185, 195, 214, 252, 253, 255 Sir Orfeo, 255 Sir Tristrem, 92n87 Sisam, Kenneth, 157n2 Socrates, 86n34, 188 Solomon, 18 Spearing, A.C., 166, 198, 204n29 Spenser, Edmund, 36–37, 97, 189 The Faerie Qveene, 87n44; Arthur, 43n24, 205n44; Britomart, 87n44; Corceca, 149, 162n65; Legend of Courtesy, 7, 8; Legend of Holiness, 151; Legend of  Temperance, 167; Lucifera, 33; Red Cross Knight, 87n44, 145, 252; Sir Artegall, 8; Sir Calidore, 7–8; Sir Guyon, 5, 167; Turpine, 43n24 The Shepheardes Calender, 127n48 Steiner, George, 159n22 ‘The Tongues of  Eros’, 136 Stratonica, 248 Swynford, Katherine, 38 Tail of  the Dragon, 192, 207n65 Tasso: Gerusalemme Liberata, 5 Tertullian, 2

277

Index Theophrastus, 2 Titanic, RMS, 204n32 TLS, 131 Trajan, 110 Tresilian, Sir Robert, 166 Trevet/Trivet, Nicholas: Les Cronicles, 176, 177, 186, 195, 196, 199; Constance of  Rome, 176, 178–79 Tristram, 80 Troy, 3 Turnus, 188 Twain, Mark: Adventures of  Huckleberry Finn, 95–96

Valerius, 2 Venus, 47–48, 80 Virgil, 188 Aeneid, 171, 257 Virgin Mary, 195, 198–99 Visconti, Bernabò, 217

Ursa Major, 91n80 Ursa Minor, 78, 92n80 Usk, Thomas, 47

Xantippe, 134

Walder, Bess, 194–95 Wentersdorf, Karl P., 157n6 Wood, Chauncey, 165–66, 204n29, 208n70 Wyclif, John, 37 Wynnere and Wastoure, 116

Yder, 19

Gerald Morgan

ollege, Oxford, and er in the School of wain and the Green Argument of Troilus ature from Beowulf

Gerald Morgan: The Shaping of English Poetry: Essays on Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Langland, Chaucer and Spenser. 2010. 299 pp. isbn 978-3-03911-956-1 pb.

The Shaping of English Poetry

t as a summary of t to present a sense ture from Beowulf represented by its Knight and three ourteenth century, presented by four medieval masters third great age in hree essays on the dness to Langland ng on the thought ounding the works the Renaissance is

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The Shaping of

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

Gerald Morgan

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