To make his enemies yield
And even flee the field.
His legs were cased in leather,
On his helmet was a feather.
It was hard to know whether
He was more handsome than rich
Or, if so, which was which
In his gorgeous display.
He outshone the day.
His spear was made of fine cypress
But it boded war, not peace.
His bridle shone like snow in sun
And as for saddle, there was none
So polished in the world.
His banner was unfurled
To taunt all foes to take him on.
And that is it.
That is the end of the second fit.
If you want to hear more,
I will oblige. No need to implore.
THE THIRD FIT
Now say no more, I will continue
To tell how Thopas and his retinue
Fought against elves and giants
And cannibals and monsters and tyrants.
There is no end.
You have heard of Arthur and of Lancelot
But this knight could prance a lot
Better on his noble steed.
He was a good knight indeed.
Sir Thopas took the lead
In chivalry.
So off he trotted on his charger
This knight looked larger
Than life. Upon his helmet
There rose a lily
Which looked sweet but silly.
The road ahead was hilly
But he continued willy-nilly –
Heere the Hoost stynteth Chaucer of his Tale of Thopas
‘For God’s sake stop,’ the Host said to me. ‘That’s enough. It is all so stale and old-fashioned. You are giving me a headache with your corny rhymes. Where is the story here? This is nothing but doggerel.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ I was very dignified. ‘Will you please allow me to carry on? You did not interrupt anyone else. In any case, I am doing the best I can. The rhymes are not corny.’
‘Forgive me, Mr Chaucer. I must speak my mind. Your story is not worth a shit. What is the point of it? You are doing nothing but waste our time. I have made up my mind. No more versifying, please. Can you not tell us an adventure, or deliver some kind of prose narration which mingles entertainment with instruction?’
‘Gladly, sir Host. I will tell you a little story in prose that will entertain you, I think. Unless, that is, you are very hard to please. It is a tale about the moral virtues of a patient and prudent wife. It has been told many times before, and in many ways, but that doesn’t bother me. It is still a good story. Let me cite the example of the four gospels. Each one of them describes the passion and crucifixion of Our Saviour. Each of them has a different perspective, but still manages to tell the essential truth of Our Lord’s suffering. Some say more, and some say less. Some add details. Others are very brief. You know who I am talking about, of course. I refer to Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. They have written four separate accounts, but their basic meaning is the same.’
‘Please, Mr Chaucer -’
‘Therefore, lords and ladies, do not be offended if I tell the story in my own way. I may introduce more proverbs than there are in the original, but I have the best of intentions. I simply wish to increase the power of my message. Don’t blame me if I change the language here and there. I will deliver the gist of the story true and entire. Believe me, I have no intention of spoiling the effect of this merry tale. So now please listen to me. And, Mr Bailey, please don’t interrupt.’
The Monk’s Prologue
The murye wordes of the Hoost to the Monk
‘Stop, stop.’ Harry Bailey stood up in his saddle. ‘If that was the introduction, I hate to think what the rest will be like. And I am tired of stories about patient wives. They do not exist. Take my wife, for instance. Go on. Take her. She is as patient as a mad bull. When I chastise my servants, she comes out with a great wooden stick and urges me on. “Go on,” she says. “Beat the shit out of them! Break every bone in their worthless bodies!” If by any chance one of our neighbours fails to greet her in church, or slights her in some other way, she makes me pay for it when we get home. “You fool! You coward!” she shouts at me, all the time waving her fists near my face. “You can’t even defend your wife against insults. I should be the man around the house. Here. You can have my distaff and go spin a shift.” She can nag me like this all day long. “It is a shame,” she says, “that I should have married a milksop rather than a man. You have about as much spine as a worm. Anyone can walk over you. If you cannot stand up for your wife’s rights, then you do not stand for anything.”
‘So it goes on, day after day, unless I choose to make a fight of it. But what’s the point? I just leave the house. Otherwise I would work myself into a state of madness. She makes me so wild that – I swear to God – she will make me kill somebody one of these days. I am a dangerous man when I have a knife in my hand. It is true that I run away from her. But she has huge arms, and strong wrists, as anyone who has crossed her will know. Anyway, enough of her.’
Our Host then turned to the Monk. ‘My lord,’ he said, ‘God be with you. It is your turn to tell a story. Look, we are already coming up to Rochester. It is time for you to ride forward and speak. But in truth I don’t know your name. What shall I call you? John? Or Thomas? Alban, perhaps? That’s a good monkish name. And what house do you come from, sir? Are you from Selby or from Peterborough? Your skin is very fair and very soft. You are not used to hard labour. And you are not likely to be a penitent or a flagellant.
‘My guess is that you are an official of your house. You are a sacristan, perhaps, or a cellarer in charge of all the wines. Am I right? I am sure that you are in a position of authority. That is clear from your appearance and your behaviour. You have the manner of one who leads. You are no novice. You look strong and fit, too. You could look after yourself in a fight. What a mistake it was to introduce you to the religious life. You could have been good breeding stock. A big cock among the hens. If you had followed the call of nature, you would have fathered many lusty children. No doubt about it. It is a pity that you wear the cope of office.
‘I swear to God that, if I were pope, I would give a dispensation for every strong and lusty monk to take a wife. Otherwise the world will shrink to nothing. The friars and the monasteries are full of good English spunk, and we laymen are nothing but drips in comparison. Frail shoots make a weak harvest. Our wills and our willies are so weak that nothing comes from them; no wonder that wives queue up for the attentions of you monks and friars. You have got Venus on your side. You don’t pay in counterfeit coin. You have the genuine article beneath your robes. Don’t be cross with me, sir. I am only joking. But of course there’s many a truth in a good joke.’
In fact the Monk took the Host’s jesting in good part. ‘I will play my part in this pilgrimage,’ he said, ‘by telling you a tale or two. They will be moral tales, of course. That is the mark of my profession. If you like, I can narrate the history of Saint Edward the Confessor. Or perhaps you would prefer a tragedy? I know hundreds of them. You know what a tragedy is, I suppose? It is a story from an old book. It concerns those who stood in authority, or in prosperity, only to suffer a great fall. They went from high estate to wretchedness and misery. Their stories are sometimes told in verses of six metrical feet known as dactylic hexameters – da da dum dum da da. Homer uses it. But sometimes they are told in other metres. In England we have alliteration. Then again they are often told in plain prose. Have I said enough on that subject?’ The Host nodded. ‘Now listen, if you wish. I cannot promise that I will tell you these stories – of popes, of emperors, of kings – in chronological order. I will just mention them as I remember them. Forgive my ignorance. My intentions are good.’
So the Monk began.
The Monk’s Tale
Heere bigynneth the Monkes T
ale
De Casibus Virorum Illustrium
So I will lament, in the manner of tragedy, the fate of those who once stood in high degree. They fell so far that they could not be rescued from the darkness. When the doom of Fortune has been decided, no one can avert its course. Never rely upon prosperity. That is the lesson of these little histories.
Lucifer
I will begin with Lucifer. I know that he is an angel rather than a man, but he is a very good example to us all. Fortune cannot help or harm an angel, of course. Nevertheless he fell from heaven into hell, where he still resides. Oh Lucifer, son of the morning, you can never escape from the flames of the inferno. You have become Satan. How you have fallen!
Adam
Behold Adam, lying in Eden (now known as Damascus). He was not made from human seed, but wrought by God’s own finger. He ruled over all of Paradise, with the exception of one tree. No human being has ever been so blessed as Adam. Yet for one bad act he fell from grace. He was consigned to a fallen world of labour and misery.
Sampson
Behold great Sampson, heralded by an angel before his birth, consecrated to Almighty God! While he retained his sight, he was the noblest of all. No one in the world was stronger or more courageous. Yet foolishly he told the secret of his strength to his wife. In doing so, he condemned himself to death.
This mighty champion slew a lion, and tore it to pieces with his bare hands. He was on his way to his own wedding, and he had no weapons. His wife knew how to please him, with her wicked wiles, and could coax all of his confidences out of him. Then she betrayed him to his enemies, and took another man in his place.
In his anger he took up three hundred foxes and bound them together by their tails. Then he set the tails on fire, with a burning torch tied to each one, and with them he set ablaze all the cornfields in the land. He destroyed the olive trees and the vineyards. In his rage he killed a thousand men, although his only weapon was the jawbone of an ass.
After they were slain he was tortured by a thirst so great that he turned to God for help. He prayed Him to send water, or else he would die. Lo and behold, a miracle occurred. From the molar tooth of this dry jawbone there sprang forth a fountain of water, with which Sampson refreshed himself. So God saved him. All this really happened. You can read about it in the Book of Judges.
Then one night in Gaza, despite the presence of all the Philistines in that city, he tore up the entrance gates and carried them on his back. He took them to the top of a hill, where everyone could see them. Oh noble Sampson, fine and courageous warrior, you would have been without equal in the world if you had not whispered your secret to your wife.
Sampson never drank wine or strong liquor. He never cut his hair or shaved himself. What was the reason? He had been told by a divine messenger that all of his strength lay in his hair. He ruled Israel for twenty years. Yet bitter tears would fall down Sampson’s cheeks. One woman would lead him to destruction.
He had told Delilah where his strength lay. She sold the secret to his enemies and, while he slept in her arms one night, she took a pair of shears and cut off all his hair. When his enemies burst in upon them, they were able to bind Sampson before putting out his eyes.
When he still had his hair, there was no one in the world who could defeat him. After he was blinded and shorn, he was consigned to a cavernous prison where he was forced to labour at a mill with slaves. Sampson was the strongest of humankind. He was a fearless judge, a wise and noble man. Yet his fate was to weep out of blind eyes, bitterly mourning his wretchedness.
Let me tell you the final chapter of this sad story. His enemies celebrated with a great feast and called Sampson before them to play the part of a jester; the setting was a hall of marble pillars. Here Sampson stood his ground, and took his revenge upon them all. He took hold of two pillars and shook them so violently that the whole building collapsed. He was killed, but so were those who had enslaved him.
The leaders of the country, and three thousand of their followers, were among the dead who lay among the ruins of the hall. I will say no more about Sampson. But remember the moral of this tale. Husbands must never tell their secrets to their wives. Their lives might depend on it.
Hercules
Let us praise famous men, and principal among them mighty Hercules. In his lifetime he was the flower of might. He killed and skinned a lion. He overthrew the Centaurs, part human and part horse. He slew the Harpies, winged spirits of death. He stole the golden apples of the Hesperides. He drove back Cerberus, the hound of hell.
What else? He slew the cruel tyrant, Busirus, and forced his horse to eat him, flesh and bone. He strangled a serpent while he was still in his cradle. He broke off one of the two horns of Achelous. He destroyed Cacus in a cave of stone. He overcame and killed the mighty giant Antheus. He slew the wild boar of Mycenae. He even held the heavens upon his shoulders.
No man in myth or history has killed so many monsters and prodigies as Hercules. His fame spread all over the world; he was renowned for his beauty as much as for his strength. He visited every kingdom and was welcomed everywhere. No man could defeat him. One commentator says that he was able to raise pillars to mark the eastern and western boundaries of the known world.
This noble warrior had a lover. Her name was Deianira, and she was as fresh as the first day of May. The old writers tell us that she was busily employed in knitting him a shirt, as women do. It was bright and colourful, but it had one fault. It was suffused with a fatal poison. Hercules had worn it only for a few hours when the flesh began to fall from his bones.
Some learned men tell us that a man named Nessus was responsible for making this shirt. I do not know. I will not accuse Deianira. I only tell you what I have read. As soon as Hercules had put on the shirt, the flesh on his back began to bake and harden. When he realized that there was no remedy he threw himself into the hot coals of a fire. He did not want to die by poison. It was too undignified.
So died Hercules, a mighty and worthy man. Who can trust the dice that Fortune throws? Anyone who makes his way in the difficult world must know that misfortune and disaster are always at hand. The only remedy is self-knowledge. Beware of Dame Fortune. When she wants to mislead, or to deceive, she chooses the least predictable path.
Nebuchadnezzar
No one can conceive or describe the majesty of this mighty and glorious king. No one can count his wealth or estimate his power. Twice he conquered Jerusalem, and stole all the sacred vessels of the temple. He took them back with him to Babylon, where they were laid down reverently with his other treasures.
He had captured the royal children of Israel and had ordered them to be castrated; then they became his slaves. Daniel was among them, and even then he was judged to be the wisest of all. It was he who could interpret the dreams of the king, when the king’s own seers and magicians were baffled by them. Clever boy.
Then Nebuchadnezzar ordered a statue of gold to be fashioned, sixty cubits in height and seven cubits in breadth. He ordered all of his subjects to worship and make sacrifice to this golden image, on pain of death. Anyone who disobeyed his command would be flung in a fiery furnace. Yet Daniel, and two of his young cousins, refused to bow down before it.
The great king was filled with pride and was fully conscious of his might. He believed that God Himself could not challenge him or deprive him of his power. Little did he know. This proud king was humbled suddenly, and reduced to the condition of a beast of the field. He imagined himself to be an ox; he lay with the herd, and ate their food. He walked on all fours and munched on grass.
His hair grew like an eagle’s feathers, and his nails became as long as an eagle’s talons. After a number of years had passed, God gave him back his reason. With the return of his humanity, Nebuchadnezzar wept. He thanked God, and promised that he would never again trespass into sin. He kept that oath until the day of his death. God be praised for His justice and His mercy.
Belshazzar
The name of his so
n was Belshazzar, and he reigned over Babylon after his father’s death. Yet he did not heed the warning, or the example, of Nebuchadnezzar. He was proud in heart, fierce, and an idolater. He lived in high estate but then, suddenly, Fortune cast him down. There were divisions within his kingdom.
He gave a feast for all the nobles at his court, and bid them all to be of good cheer. He told his servants to bring out the sacred vessels that his father had taken from the temple at Jerusalem. ‘We will pour libations to our gods,’ he said, ‘in honour of my father’s victories over the Jews.’
So his wife, his lords and his concubines poured wine into the holy chalices of the Lord and drank their fill. But then Belshazzar happened to look around, gesturing for a servant, when he saw a hand writing very quickly on the wall. There was a hand, and nothing else. No arm. No body. Of course the king was aghast, and shook with fear. He looked with horror upon the words that had been written. Mane. Techel. Phares.
None of the wise men in the kingdom could interpret these three words. Only Daniel knew the secret of the saying. ‘Great king,’ he said, ‘Almighty God gave power and glory to your father. He loaded him with wealth and honour. But your father was proud. He did not fear or venerate the Almighty. So God sent him grief and wretchedness. He took away his kingdom. He took away his reason.
‘He was an outcast, lost to human society. His companions were the beasts of the field. He ate the grass and the hay, exposed to the elements, until the time came when it was revealed to him that Almighty God has dominion over all creatures. Only to Him belong the power and the glory. Out of pity for the poor man, God restored his humanity and gave him back his kingdom.
‘You, sir, his son, are also filled with pride. You are following your father’s sinful course, and you have become an enemy of God. You drank from the sacred vessels stolen from the temple. You encouraged your wife and your concubines to do the same. You are worse than a blasphemer. You also worship false gods. You will soon feel the force of the true God’s wrath.
The Canterbury Tales – A Retelling Page 34
