Chaucer And His Times Part 5

The popularity of Chaucer's poetry is shown not only by repeated references to him as master and teacher, made by his immediate successors, but by the entire Chaucer apocrypha which soon sprang into being. Some genuine works of his--such as the _Book of the Lion_ (this very probably was no more than a translation of Machault's _Le Dit du Lion_), have been lost, but to make up for this a number of poems have been attributed to him, some of which were not written until years after his death. Subjoined is a list of the more important of these, with the names of the real authors in cases where scholars have succeeded in tracing them.

_The Testament of Love._ Thomas Usk (_d._ 1386).

_La Belle Dame sans Merci._ Sir R. Ros (fifteenth century).

_The Cuckoo and the Nightingale_ (sometimes called _The Book of Cupid G.o.d of Love_). Sir Thomas Clanvowe.

_The Flower and the Leaf_; _The a.s.sembly of Ladies_. Considered by some scholars to be the work of the same hand. Both purport to be written by a woman.

_The Court of Love._

_The Second Merchant's Tale_, or _The Tale of Beryn_ (containing a preliminary account of the Pardoner's adventures in Canterbury).

_The Complaint of the Black Knight._ Lydgate.

_The Tale of Gamelyn._ This poem is included among the MSS. of the _Canterbury Tales_. Professor Ten Brink suggests that Chaucer may have intended to work it up into the Yeoman's tale.

_The Letter of Cupid._ Occleve.

CHAPTER III

CHAUCER'S TREATMENT OF HIS SOURCES

The sin of plagiary is a development of modern civilisation. To medieval authors, as to Elizabethan, the interest of a story lay in the telling, and while plot was of first-rate importance the same plot could quite well be used indifferently by any number of writers. Indeed, they did not hesitate to go even further and to form a patchwork of sc.r.a.ps taken from different authors, so that the plot may be drawn from one poet, fragments of the dialogue from another, and descriptive or reflective pa.s.sages from a third, and yet the whole may be justly reckoned the work of the compiler. In the _Parlement of Foules_, for instance, Chaucer takes the idea of the whole from a current fabliau, the first eighty-four lines from Cicero's _Somnium Scipionis_, three distinct pa.s.sages from Dante, the description of the garden from Boccaccio, and lines 95-105 from Claudian, and yet the originality of the whole is incontestable. It is a noteworthy fact that he tries his hand at almost every form of poetry popular in his day, he writes romances, lives of the saints, homilies, allegorical poems, topical satire, love songs, and fabliaux, and in every case he borrows wherever he sees anything likely to suit his purpose, he alters and adds and omits as he sees fit; yet it is only necessary to compare a story (that of Constance, for instance) as told by him, with the same as told by any other poet of the day, to see why it is impossible for a genius to be a plagiarist.

Chaucer's treatment of romance is particularly characteristic. As has been said, the medieval romance is the most intrinsically interesting literary development of the period from the Conquest to Chaucer. Very roughly speaking, romances may be said--apart from allegorical works such as the _Romance of the Rose_--to fall into two cla.s.ses, those, such as _Guy of Warwick_, or _Sir Ferumbras_, in which adventure and action form the chief interest, and those, such as _Auca.s.sin and Nicolette_, or _Florice and Blanchefleur_, in which the stress is laid on emotion. In both cases the action is usually set in motion by the hero's desire to ingratiate himself with his lady, but in the one he rides off in quest of renown that may make him worthy to aspire to her hand, and probably does not see her again for years; in the other, though he may perform doughty deeds for her sake, he may even go so far as to refuse battle unless he may have his sweet love, and much s.p.a.ce is devoted to the description of his sighs and tears. In both, the emotion is perfectly simple and straightforward. The knight wishes for the lady's hand and fights or sulks, as the case may be, until he gets it, but in the former type there is scope for indefinite digressions and interminable adventures, while the latter, at all events in England, is apt to be shorter. Occasionally some opening is given for a more complex treatment of character, but as a rule the opportunity is ignored. Guy, when he returns to Felice after many years of adventure, lives with her only forty days. Then he becomes pensive and downcast, for it occurs to him

How he had done many a man wo, And slain many a man with his hand, Burnt and destroyed many a land, And all was for woman's love, And not for G.o.d's sake above,

and he leaves her for ever, that he may give himself to penance and fight for the glory of G.o.d. Here is a fine opportunity for tragic emotion, but although we are told that Felice thinks of killing herself, the whole episode is so perfunctorily related and the purpose of it is so evidently to provide occasion for fresh adventures that it is impossible to feel the slightest sympathy with either husband or wife. In _Sir Gawayne and the Green Knight_ the remorse of Gawayne after he has failed to keep his word is finely suggested, but the whole poem is far in advance of most romances of the period, and even here the magic setting rather detracts from the human interest. It is impossible to feel that it is a fair fight when one of the combatants can be beheaded without inconvenience to himself. The magic castles and enchanted swords, the dragons and sorcerers of medieval romance have a fascination of their own, but it is the fascination of sheer story-telling, not of character study. The love romances might naturally be expected to show evidence of a more a.n.a.lytical mind, but the feelings they describe are too obviously conventional to be very convincing, and though there is an undeniable charm in works of this sort, there is an equally undeniable sameness. Their strength lies, not in dramatic force of emotion, but in daintiness of description. Nicolette escaping from her turret chamber, with her skirts kilted behind and before for fear of the dew, Florice borne to Blanchefleur's chamber in a basket of flowers, are pictures which can never lose their freshness, but we grow weary of the perpetual swoons and tears of every lover, and the small variety of characters introduced, the fact that practically all belong to the same cla.s.s and are distinguishable only as villains or heroes, base enchantresses or n.o.ble ladies, intensifies the monotony. To this must be added the dreary jingle of the verse, which almost invariably consists of short, rhyming couplets, the lines constantly having to be eked out by expletives and meaningless monosyllables.

Chaucer showed himself fully alive at once to the possibilities and the absurdities of the romance. In the _Knightes Tale_ we have an excellent example of the romance of adventure. It is based upon Boccaccio's _Teseide_, but while the _Teseide_ is an epic in twelve books, the _Knightes Tale_ consists of only 2,250 lines. The poet who set out to write a romance seems as a rule to have had no sense either of time or of unity. The hero sets out on his travels and in the first forest glade he comes to, meets a stranger knight. The two at once joust. After unheard-of prowess the hero unhorses the stranger and unlaces his vizor.

The strange knight no sooner recovers his senses than he sets to work to relate his totally irrelevant adventures, and the reader is lucky if in the course of those adventures the still more irrelevant life-story of some other knight is not introduced. Not till some hundreds of lines have been thus occupied do we come back to the original hero who has all this while been left in the glade. The _Teseide_, as has been said, is an epic rather than a romance, and its twelve books afford scope for such episodes as the war of Theseus with the Amazons, his marriage with Hippolyta, the obsequies of those who fall in the combat between Palamon and Arcite, etc., etc. Chaucer in turning epic into romance has shown an extraordinary power of condensation. The conventional romance writer seems to have had no idea of proportion, no conception that one incident could be of more importance than another, or that it could be necessary to slur over one episode and concentrate on another. In the _Knightes Tale_ Chaucer shows the instinct of the true story-teller. The account of the war with the Amazons and Theseus' marriage--which occupies two books of the _Teseide_--is reduced to twelve lines, which briefly tell us the bare facts. Theseus and Hippolyta are kept in the background throughout that the figures of Palamon, Arcite, and Emily may stand out the more clearly.

The story moves steadily and rapidly, without a single digression.

Occasionally, indeed, a little more explanation would be welcome. Who, for instance, was the friend by whose aid Palamon broke prison after seven weary years? Was it the gaoler's daughter, as the _Two n.o.ble Kinsmen_ would have us believe, or did his servant bribe a physician to help him, as the _Teseide_ relates? Chaucer merely whets our curiosity by stating that he drugged the gaoler, and hurries on to describe his meeting with Arcite. It is this very speed, this close-knitting of the story, which marks it out from other poems of the kind. The characterisation is slight.

Palamon and Arcite might well be, not cousins but twins, so closely do they resemble each other. Emily, sweet and gracious as she is, scarcely seems more than a fair vision of girlhood. Only now and then, as in the thumb-nail sketch of the crowd watching the knights a.s.semble for the tourney, or in some sudden aside, such as his comment on Arcite's death--

His spirit chaunged hous, and wente ther, As I cam never, I can nat tellen wher--

do we catch a glimpse of Chaucer's shrewd observation and dry humour. He is learning how to tell a tale, and for the moment his interest lies in the telling.

In _Troilus and Criseyde_, his method is very different. Here he is dealing with a love romance, and he does not hesitate to dwell at length upon the sufferings and emotions of his hero and heroine. About a third of the whole work is actual paraphrase or translation of Boccaccio's _Filostrato_: Book IV contains a lengthy extract from Boethius, and certain pa.s.sages are drawn from Guido delle Colonne, but the _Filostrato_ forms the basis of the whole. This being so, the first thing we notice is that whereas in the _Knightes Tale_ Chaucer has very considerably cut down his original, here he has enlarged it, for the 5,704 lines of Boccaccio's poem have become 8,329 in the English version. Further, he has taken considerable liberties with the characters themselves. Troilus is in many respects a conventional enough hero. He falls in love with Cressida at first sight and at once despairs of winning her. Handsome, brave, and resolute, he is well fitted to gain the love of any woman, but such is his modesty that he is incapable of helping himself and can do nothing more to the purpose than sit on his bed and groan. The unnecessary mystery made by the lovers, the endless difficulties which they put in their own way, are quite in keeping with the spirit of the age, though even here Chaucer shows a skill in characterisation which almost makes us forget to be impatient with his hero's helplessness. Cressida, while she too has much in common with the conventional heroine of romance, has much that is peculiarly her own. She is beautiful and tender and clinging, as a heroine should be, but her shallow little character has an individuality of its own. It will be treated more fully in a later chapter, here it is sufficient to say that Chaucer transforms the mature woman of Boccaccio's poem into a timid girl, whose youth and inexperience appeal to our pity and make it impossible to judge her harshly. But the most important and characteristic change which Chaucer makes in the story is in the character of Pandarus. Instead of the gay young cousin of Troilus, he gives us the vulgar, gossiping, good-natured old uncle of Cressida, an utterly unimaginative and prosaic person who plays with the fires of pa.s.sion as ignorantly and light-heartedly as the Nurse in _Romeo and Juliet_. Not only is the character of Pandarus of interest in itself but its creation and its introduction into a poem of this type marks a new development in literature--the study of the common-place. Hitherto, though some rare flash of humour might for an instant lighten the pages of the love romance and give us such an episode as that of the herd-boy in _Auca.s.sin and Nicolette_, it was but a flash. The interest was concentrated in the hero and heroine, and though some faithful servant or lady-in-waiting might a.s.sist their lovers, it would have been regarded as undignified in the extreme to give prominence to such a character. Chaucer flings dignity to the winds. What he cares for is truth to life, and already he has made the great discovery that certain persons are not told off by nature to be unhappy and certain others to be amusing, but that a perfectly common-place and ordinary individual may play a part in tragedy without even realising what tragedy is. He studies a man, not because he is unusual, but just because he is the kind of person to be met with any day, and by using Pandarus as a foil he prevents the high-flown emotion of the lovers from becoming absurd or monotonous.

Chaucer evidently realised to the full the attractiveness and the dramatic possibilities of this form of literature, but at the same time his eyes were open to its shortcomings. In the _Squieres Tale_ we have a typical romance in which love, magic, and adventure are all blended together. It has the true medieval air of having all eternity in which to tell its story. It begins with an account of King Cambinskan, his two sons Algarsif and Cambalo, and his daughter Canace, and the coming of the magic gifts--the steed of bra.s.s which will carry its rider whithersoever he desires, the mirror which shows if any adversity is about to befall its owner, the ring which enables its wearer to understand the speech of the birds and also gives knowledge of the healing properties of all herbs, and the sword whose edge will cut through any armour and the flat of whose blade will cure the wound so made. Any one of these would in itself be sufficient to furnish forth a tale, and when we find them heaped together with so lavish a hand at the very beginning, we know what to expect. Three hundred and four of the squire's 361 lines are occupied with the apparently irrelevant story of the love-lorn falcon and the faithless tercelet. Even this is not ended. Canace uses her knowledge of simples for the poor hawk's benefit, and cures its wounds and swears to redress its wrongs; but having got thus far the narrator draws breath and then plunges into a list of further episodes with which he intends to deal:--

Thus lete I Canace hir hauk keping; I wol na-more as now speke of hir ring, Til it come eft to purpos for to seyn How that this faucon gat hir love ageyn Repentant, as the storie telleth us.

But hennes-forth I wol my proces holde To speke of aventures and of batailles, That never yet was herd so grete mervailles.

First wol I telle yow of Cambinskan, That in his tyme many a citee wan; And after wol I speke of Algarsyf, How that he wan Theodora to his wyf, For whom ful ofte in greet peril he was, Ne hadde he ben holpen by the steed of bras; And after wol I speke of Cambalo That faught in listes with the brethren two For Canacee, er that he mighte hir winne, And ther I lefte I wol ageyn beginne.

It is here that the Franklin breaks in, and in the most courteous and charming manner succeeds in checking the story, of which the pilgrims have evidently had as much as they want, and in skilfully leading up to his own tale. Nothing could give a more vivid impression of youth and exuberance than the Squire's nave enjoyment of the marvellous adventures which he describes: the story is exactly suited to the teller, and his sublime unconsciousness of the fact that any one else can possibly find it long or quail before the prospect of a tale which bids fair to last all the way to Canterbury and back, is just what we should expect of this

... l.u.s.ty bacheler With lokkes crulle,[51] as they were leyd in presse.

Of twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse

Embrouded[52] was he, as it were a mede Al ful of fresshe floures, whyte and rede.

Singinge he was, or floytinge[53] al the day; He was as fresh as is the month of May.

No wonder he tells of enchanted steeds and magic rings, of joust and tourney. And in showing the charm and youthfulness of the Squire, Chaucer also contrives to show us the charm, and we might almost add the youthfulness, of the popular romance. It is difficult to believe that the _Squieres Tale_ was left unfinished by chance. The manner in which it is cut short not only lights up the characters of the Squire and the Franklin in a manner eminently characteristic of Chaucer, but also gently satirises the long-windedness and absurdity of the romance-writers; and that Chaucer was keenly alive to their faults is shown by the rollicking burlesque of _Sir Thopas_. The _Squieres Tale_ forms, as it were, a half-way house between the serious treatment of romance in _Troilus and Criseyde_ and the _Knightes Tale_, and the pure parody of Chaucer's own "tale of mirthe."

_Sir Thopas_ parodies not only the matter but the manner of the romance writers. It out-Herods Herod in the intolerable jingle of its verse and the absurdity of its extra syllables, while the adventures of Sir Thopas and the fairy queen prove too much even for the pilgrims, ready as they are to be interested in a story of any kind.

Sir Thopas wex a doghty swayn, Whyt was his face as payndemayn[54]

His lippes red as rose; His rode[55] is lyk scarlet in grayn, And I you telle in good certayn He hadde a semely nose,

drones the poet, and no wonder after bearing a couple of hundred lines, the host breaks in with,

"No more of this, for G.o.ddes dignitee

Myn eres aken of thy drasty[56] speche; Now swiche a rym the devel I biteche!

This may wel be rym dogerel," quod he.

Considerations of s.p.a.ce make it impossible to take in detail Chaucer's treatment of all his various sources. Like Shakespeare, he rarely troubles to invent a plot for himself, and Professor Skeat's table shows but one of all the _Canterbury Tales_ for which no original has yet been found. In the brief consideration of his treatment of romance as a whole two points stand out conspicuously: in the first place his skill in simple narration, and in the second his interest in action as revealing character rather than for its own sake. In the _Canterbury Tales_ he shows greater certainty in the delineation of character, greater readiness to trust to his readers' discrimination. Instead of describing characters at length, he gives us an occasional comment, or leaves us to see for ourselves the meaning of some significant action, and the consequence is that every addition or omission that he makes is worthy of careful attention. Three typical instances may be taken as ill.u.s.trating his method: the _Man of Lawes Tale_, the _Nonne Preestes Tale_, and the story of Count Hugo of Pisa in the _Monkes Tale_.

The story of Constance is taken from the Anglo-Norman chronicle of Nicholas Trivet. Trivet's version, which is in prose, is considerably longer than Chaucer's. It begins, undramatically, by speaking of the virtue and prosperity of Maurice, "a very gracious youth, and wondrously strong for his age, and wise and sharp of wit. According to the history of the Saxons aforesaid, he was the son of Constance, the daughter of Tiberius, by a king of the Saxons, Alle,"[57]--thus doing away with all suspense as to Constance's fate, and showing at the outset that the story is to have a happy ending. The chronicle then goes on to lay stress on the learning of the princess, who was instructed not only in the Christian faith but also in the seven sciences, logic, physics, morals, astronomy, geometry, music, and perspective,[58] and in various tongues. When she was thirteen, there came to her father's court certain Saracen merchants, and Constance, hearing of the rich merchandise they had brought, went down to inspect it and to question them concerning their land and creed. Finding that they were heathen, she at once proceeded to convert them, and such was her eloquence that before returning to their own land, they were all baptised. Nor were they content with this, for on their arrival in Saracenland, they began to preach the new doctrine. The Sultan sent for them, that his wise men might rebuke them, but they refuted the arguments of the heathen, and then "began to praise the maid Constance, who had converted and fully instructed them, for very high and n.o.ble wit and wisdom, and great marvellous beauty, and gentleness, and n.o.bleness of blood." So deep an impression did they make on their lord that he was "greatly overcome with love for the maiden" and promptly dispatched these same merchants, and with them a heathen Admiral, to demand her in marriage. Tiberius sent back the messengers with great honour, giving his consent if his prospective son-in-law on his part would agree to become a Christian. "And the Admiral, before the Sultan and all his council, vowed himself to the Christian faith, if the Sultan should consent." The impatient lover soon agreed, and Constance accordingly set sail for Saracenland under escort of "a cardinal bishop, and a cardinal priest, with a great number of clergy, and a senator of Rome, with n.o.ble chivalry and great and rich array, and with a great number of Christians who went thither, some on pilgrimage, others to take possession of Jerusalem." The Sultan's mother, seeing her religion in danger, determined to rid the land of these invaders. Having made a covenant with seven hundred Saracens, who swore to aid her, she invited all the Christians to a great feast, professing that she herself desired to embrace their religion. At a given signal the seven hundred Saracens fell upon the unarmed guests, and of the whole number there escaped but three young men and Constance herself. The Sultan, the Admiral, and the other converts were involved in the general ma.s.sacre. The three young men fled to Rome, where they told the Emperor that his daughter had perished with the rest. Constance, having refused to renounce her faith, "for no fair promise of wealth or honour, nor for any threat of punishment or death," is set adrift in an open boat, with provision enough to last her for three years, and also with all the treasure which she had brought with her as a bride. For three whole years she drifts about on the great ocean. "Then, in the eighth month of the fourth year, G.o.d who steered the s.h.i.+p of the holy man Noah in the great flood, sent a favourable wind, and drove the s.h.i.+p to England, under a castle in the kingdom of Northumberland, near Humber." Elda, the warden of the castle, goes down to ask her of her condition. "And she answered him in Saxon ... as one who was learned in divers languages, as is aforesaid."

The good warden receives her hospitably, and his wife Hermingild becomes so enamoured of the maiden "that nothing could happen to her that she would not do according to her will." Then follows the conversion of Hermingild and Elda owing to a miracle wrought by Constance upon a blind man. Elda tells Alle, King of Northumberland, of the wonderful maiden at his castle, and Alle is about to visit her when dire distress falls upon the three friends. A felon knight, to whose suit Constance has turned a deaf ear, murders Hermingild and contrives that suspicion shall fall upon Constance. Elda cannot believe her capable of such treachery, whereupon the accuser swears upon the gospels and upon his baptism, "which he had already lately received," that Constance is the criminal. Scarcely had he ended the word, when a closed hand, like a man's fist, appeared before Elda and all who were present, and smote such a blow on the nape of the felon's neck, that both his eyes flew out of his head, and his teeth out of his mouth; and the felon fell smitten down to the earth. And thereupon a voice said in the hearing of all, "Against Mother Church thou wert laying a scandal: this hast thou done, and I have held my peace." On Alle's arrival the felon is condemned to death, and so struck is the king by what has pa.s.sed that he is himself baptised, and then marries Constance. Six months later he is called away by a border raid. During his absence the queen is delivered of a fair boy, and letters are sent to the king to tell him the good news. Once again, however, Constance is unfortunate enough to possess a mother-in-law who hates her: "For she had great disdain that King Alle had, for the love of a strange woman whose lineage was unknown to him, forsaken his former religion." The messenger rests at her house at Knaresborough, and the queen-mother gives him an evil drink, and then alters his letters, telling King Alle that his wife is an evil spirit in the form of a woman, "Whereto witnesseth the child born of her, which resembles not a human form, but a cursed form hideous and doleful." With rare justice and self-restraint Alle writes back to his lords, bidding them take no steps against the queen or her child until he himself can return and inquire into the matter. Again the foolish messenger stays the night at Knaresborough, and again the queen-mother tampers with the letters. Under the king's seal she writes to the lords and bids them set Constance and her child adrift in an open boat, that she may leave the land in like manner that she came to it. The king's word is obeyed, and amidst the lamentations and tears of all the people Constance is put on board a s.h.i.+p "without sail or oar or any device." The s.h.i.+p is driven to the coast of Spain, where a certain heathen Admiral befriends her. His seneschal, a renegade knight named Thelous, persuades Constance that he wishes to repent of his sins and return to the Christian faith, and prays her to take him with her, that he may come to a land of Christians. Once alone with her, he reveals his true purpose. Constance begs him to look out and see if there is no land in sight, and then comes privily behind his back and thrusts him into the sea. Meanwhile Alle, having discovered his mother's treachery, puts her to death, and vows never to marry again. Constance is eventually rescued by mariners and brought to Rome. She learns that her father has avenged her supposed death upon the Saracens, but instead of revealing her ident.i.ty she lives for twelve years with a n.o.ble couple called a.r.s.emius and Helen. At the end of that time Alle visits Rome, and Constance's son, Maurice, is invited to be present at the feast in his honour. Constance bids the youth make a point of serving the King of England. Alle, struck by Maurice's likeness to Constance, inquires what his origin may be, and by this means recovers his wife and child. Tiberius proclaims Maurice his heir and "companion in the Empire." Constance returns to England with her husband, but six months later, hearing that her father is dying, she comes back to Rome, where she herself dies a year later.

The story is worth telling in some detail because it shows how closely Chaucer keeps to his original when it suits his purpose. The Man of Lawe does not alter a single point of any importance. He makes no attempt to soften down the improbabilities of the story or reduce the miraculous element. After all, he is himself going on a pilgrimage to the wonder-working shrine of St. Thomas a Becket, and shrewd man of the world as he is, there is nothing in the history of Constance to strain his credulity. But whereas in Trivet the characters are mere lay figures set up to ill.u.s.trate the power of Christianity and the evil fate which befalls the opponents of Mother Church, in Chaucer they have an individuality of their own. Instead of alienating our sympathy at the outset by insisting on the learning and missionary enterprise of a child of thirteen, Chaucer omits all this and follows the more natural path of making the foreign chapmen so struck by the good report which they hear of the emperor's daughter, that having once seen her, and proved her beauty for themselves, when after their custom they go to tell the Soldan what wonders they have met with on their travels, they in turn inflame his imagination by their description. The brief dialogue between Constance and her father, when the marriage has been arranged, is Chaucer's own interpolation, and its note of despair prepares us for what is to follow:--

Allas! unto the Barbre nacioun[59]

I moste anon, sin that it is your wille; But Crist, that starf[60] for our redempcioun So yeve me grace his hestes[61] to fulfille; I, wrecche womman, no fors though I spille[62]

Wommen are born to thraldom and penance, And to ben under mannes governance.

Here we have no priggish and self-righteous virgin setting forth with smug self-satisfaction to convert Saracenland, but a lonely, timid girl, whose heart misgives her at the thought of leaving her parents and going to meet an unknown husband. Equally vivid and effective is Chaucer's picture of the Soldan's wicked mother, who not only professes readiness to accept baptism herself but advises her fellow-conspirators to do the same on the ground--

Cold water shal not greve us but a lyte,[63]

and adds with savage humour that by the time she has done with her son's wife,