The Life and Times of Chaucer

by John Gardner

  Chaucer’s delight in this country life comes through trumpet-clear in the poetry he wrote from Greenwich. Though his sprightly Prologue to the Legend of Good Women is partly a joke making fun of sentimental nature lovers, it is full of nature fondly observed, observed not merely for the allegorical use that can be made of it. When he praises the little red and white English daisy, much employed in fourteenth-century poetry for allegorical reasons, Chaucer mentions details which make his tramp through the meadow early in the morning seem a walk he has really taken, and more than once; he speaks of how daisies fill the whole meadow, embroidering it, how the daisy “upryseth erly by the morwe [in the morning]” and spreads itself “ayein the sonne,” and of how it closes again at dusk. And he tells how

  …doun on knes anoon-ryght I me settë, [knees]

  And, as I koudë, this fresshë flour I grettë, [greet]

  Knelyng alwey, til it unclosëd was,

  Upon the smalë, softë, swotë gras, [sweet grass]

  That was with flourës swote enbrouded al,

  Of swich swetnesse and swich odour overal,

  That, for to speke of gomme, or herbe, or tree,

  Comparisoun may noon ymakëd bee.…

  We find of course the same love of nature in the opening lines of the General Prologue to the Canterbury Tales, or in the country life passages in the Knight’s Tale, Miller’s Tale, and Reeve’s Tale, all written at about this time.

  It was probably during this period, too, that he came to know well those country types he would immortalize in the Canterbury Tales. Every reader can see at a glance how superbly Chaucer characterizes old “gnofs” like the Reeve or Miller or delightful wenches like the old carpenter’s young wife Alisoun. But it is easy to miss the subtlety with which he sets down such minor characters as, for example, the “povre widwe” in the Nun’s Priest’s Tale. The old widow is the perfect “humble peasant” and is meant to contrast with her proud rooster, Chauntecleer; but Chaucer’s sly, ironic wit refuses to sentimentalize even the ideal type of Christian humility. He writes:

  This wydwe, of which I tellë you my talë,

  Syn thilkë day that she was last a wyf, [that same]

  In paciencë ladde a ful symple lyf,

  For litel was hir catel and hir rentë. [property]

  By housbondrie of swich as God hirë sentë

  She foond hirself and eek hir doghtren two. [provided for]

  Thre largë sowës haddë she, and namo,

  Three keen, and eek a sheep that hightë Mallë. [cows]

  Ful sooty was hirë bour and eek hir hallë,

  In which she eet ful many a sklendre meel.

  Of poynaunt sauce hir neded never a deel. [a great deal]

  No deyntee morsel passed thurgh hir throtë;

  Hir dietë was accordant to hir cotë. [cottage (produce)]

  Repleccioun ne made hirë neverë sik;

  Attempree dietë was al hir phisik, [moderate]

  And exercise, and hertës suffisauncë. [sufficiency]

  The goutë lette hirë nothyng for to dauncë, [prevented]

  N’apoplexië shentë nat hir heed. [hurt]

  No wyn ne drank she, neither whit ne reed;

  Hir bord was servëd moost with whit and blak—

  Milk and broun breed, in which she found no lak,

  Seynd bacoun, and somtyme an ey or tweyë; [Broiled bacon; egg]

  For she was, as it were, a maner deyë. [dairywoman]

  If the good old woman puts the proud to shame, the life of the proud also casts ironic light on the life of the old woman. Patience and the simple life are good, but she has no real choice, “For litel was hir catel and hir rentë.” She has no need of “poynaunt sauce,” an extravagance hard on the digestion; but then she has none of those delicate meats spicy sauces improve. Not that the rich really fare better than the poor widow. No “dainty morsel” passes through her lips, but then, as Chaucer wittily points out by altering the expected word, a morsel is no longer “dainty” when it passes through the “throat.” And so the portrait continues, slyly poking fun at both the humble and the proud, yet respectful for all that. Whereas courtiers in Chaucer’s day were beginning to make a fuss about when one ought to drink red wine and when one ought to drink white, the old widow sensibly drinks no wine at all—because she has none. And whereas the rich life of the wealthy can lead to gout and an end of all dancing, simple and devout peasants did not develop gout—not that it helped their dancing: they thought dancing sinful. We find this same affection, humor, and deft, sure touch in all Chaucer’s country portraits from the late eighties or the nineties. Clearly, one of the rewards of life in Kent was that it gave Chaucer rich new material.

  For Chaucer the work at Greenwich was rewarding in another way as well. Though he was a king’s man, he was all his life more fundamentally a queen’s man—in the service of the countess of Ulster, Queen Philippa, Blanche of Lancaster, and to some extent Alice Perrers. Now, in the mid-eighties, he was in fairly regular attendance on Queen Anne, to whom he had affectionately alluded at least once—probably twice—in Troilus and Criseyde (in Book I, 11. 171-3, and in Book V, 1. 1778, where “Penelopeës trouth” is usually taken as a reference to faithful Anne), and for whose amusement he now wrote the Legend and began the Canterbury Tales. He probably read for Anne more or less regularly, as he is shown doing in the frontispiece of one of the Troilus manuscripts, and probably traveled with her to Wallingford Castle in July and August 1385, to visit Princess Joan. The two ladies felt great affection for one another, and Joan was now too ill to travel, as she’d done in the past, to visit Anne. Both ladies, according to a fairly standard reading, are complimented in Chaucer’s Prologue to the Legend.

  When Chaucer moved to Greenwich, he probably took all his family with him except for Elizabeth, who was now in a convent, generously helped by John of Gaunt. Thomas Chaucer was now twelve or so, away at school at least much of the time, probably in London; before long he would be placed in the retinue of some great lord, probably Gaunt, for training as a squire, after which he would become Gaunt’s regular retainer. Lewis was four or five, still in the care of his nurse, presumably. Though Chaucer’s work for the king kept him busy, we can be sure he spent as much time as he could with his children, and perhaps with Lewis especially. In families like Chaucer’s, it was not unusual to get a child started on his reading early, and we know from Chaucer’s remarks in the Astrolabe that Lewis was quick, especially at mathematics. Sometime before Lewis was ten Chaucer may have written for him his book on the Sphere, that is, the planet Earth, which his treatise on the use of the astrolabe would follow. It may be that Lewis, and sometimes Thomas, went along with their father when he inspected the work of his carpenters and masons, or visited tenants on the royal estates; he may have taken them boating with him on the royal lakes and ponds, partly for pleasure, partly for a look at dike walls and bridges. He was no doubt, as his own father had been, ambitious for his children. They could hardly have managed as well as they did in later life, even granting Gaunt’s friendship, without the security and confidence that comes with parental love and encouragement. We know that Thomas’s main work in later life—and it was probably the same with Lewis—was taking care of such royal holdings as Petherton Forest. It was probably in Greenwich, tagging along after their father, watching and listening, joking with him on the way home, that they got their first taste of stewardship over crown lands.

  Philippa Chaucer was probably there too, and possibly not well. She was now in her mid-forties—old age for a woman of the Middle Ages, worn down by childbearing and, even more, by living indoors in a time when houses, whatever their elegance, were drafty, damp, and cold. (If Philippa had more than three children, no record survives; but the odds are that, like other women of her class, she had more than three children and that some or all of those others died in infancy.) It may possibly have been Philippa’s health that persuaded Chaucer and his courtly patrons that the family should move to the cou
ntry. All this is of course pure speculation, but it is apparently the case that Philippa had now given up all work as a lady-in-waiting and that she no longer collected her annuities in person. Within three years she would be dead.

  If Philippa was ill, Chaucer’s life was hectic indeed at this period. Besides all his work as steward for the king, seeing to the upkeep of his two favorite residences, he was writing harder and better than ever before, dashing off rough copies for his scrivener Adam, a boy with long, curly locks, Chaucer tells us, and sometimes a careless copying hand, so that the poet was once tormented into writing—sharply but affectionately (as the comic “scalle” shows)—

  Adam scriveyn, if ever it thee bifallë

  Boece or Troylus for to wryten newë, [Boethius]

  Under thy long lokkës thou most have the scallë [scabby disease]

  But after my makyng thou wrytë morë trewë;

  So ofte a-daye I mot thy werk renewë, [must]

  It to correcte and eek to rubbe and scrapë,

  And al is thorugh thy negligence and rapë!

  Though Chaucer was writing for Queen Anne the final draft of the Troilus (perhaps), the whole Legend of Good Women, and parts of the Canterbury Tales, he had other demanding work besides, work that kept the bills paid and heightened his prestige but also, obviously, kept him from Philippa and the children. As we’ve said, he was made, in 1385, a justice of the peace, and he would soon be elected to parliament to fight battles of the greatest importance to the king.

  Though the patent of Chaucer’s justiceship is dated October 12, 1385, he may have begun his work as JP, filling out the term of Thomas Shardelowe, as early as February of that year, the date of his petition for a deputy to look after the customs. He remained a justice, with one brief interruption, through 1388. During Chaucer’s time, until the last year he served, the job brought in no stipend or wages; in 1388 justices were authorized to receive a strictly nominal 4s. ($48) per diem up to twelve days a year; but this was apparently never paid. Some justices nevertheless grew rich, none more conspicuously than Sir Simon Burley. Margaret Galway points out that complaints about the justices were repeatedly lodged by the House of Commons, claiming that these powerful officials “by reason of outrageous fines and other grievances, had worked more to the destruction of the king’s subjects than to the reformation of abuses.”5 Among other things, justices were accused of accepting bribes and extorting ransom from prisoners. Between £200 ($48,000) and £300 ($72,000) passed through the justices’ hands at a single session, and those who wished to could easily help themselves. Probably Chaucer was one of those who profited, though his natural prudence, the virtue he mocks and celebrates in the Tale of Melibeus, may have kept his profit within reasonable bounds. (Burley’s lack of that virtue was to cost him his head.)

  During Richard’s reign, the justices held sessions four times a year for about three days each, meeting at various places in the county, including Greenwich, as the justices decided among themselves. Sessions began early in October, early in January, and about mid-March and mid-June, depending on the date of Easter. Special or petty sessions might be held at any time, at the justices’ convenience. All the resident justices were supposed to attend every session held, but later statutes demanding attendance suggest that this requirement was not always met by every justice. The resident’s business was

  …to see to the enforcement of statutes concerning the regulation of wages, prices, labor and other matters, a task which often involved judicial as well as administrative business. He was also expected, among other things, to see that the inhabitants of his district did not go about armed, practice terrorism, hold unlawful meetings, brawl at inns, or damage property not their own. He was empowered to arrest “suspects” and to take sureties from anyone who threatened injury to another. His jurisdiction covered “all manner of felonies and trespasses” short of treason. These headings included murder, arson, abduction, extortion, abuse of weights and measures, coining of false money, and every variety of theft from petty larceny to the misappropriation of land. The punishments justices could impose were loss of life or limb, imprisonment, fines, forfeiture of chattels to the crown and of lands to the lord.6

  In addition to the four regular sessions there were special sessions, like that which Chaucer attended at Chislehurst, concerning the abduction of one Isabella Hall in 1387. In these special sessions the business of a justice of Chaucer’s rank was to arrest offenders, examine them under oath, and draw up an indictment for the professional justices who were to hear and determine the cases. In trivial cases, the resident justice no doubt acted as judge. No record of any Kent peace session held before Chaucer has been discovered, but several records illustrating typical Kent offenses of a more serious nature—mainly felonies—are summarized in the Life-Records:7 two murders, one felonious assault and threat of murder, and one murder in self-defense.

  The office of JP was a minor one for Chaucer (assuming he did not take large bribes), and very little need be said of it. Since the commissioners met only four times a year, discounting special sessions, cases came thick and fast when the regular sessions met. Chaucer had ample, though fleeting, opportunity to study the rascal mind, possibly including the mind of the false coiner or alchemist which he celebrates in the Canon’s Yeoman’s Tale. He must also, from time to time, have been responsible for imprisonments and possibly the severing of a robber’s hand or the branding of a fleeing laborer. What he thought of such cruelties—this poet whose work everywhere bespeaks his fundamental gentleness and talent for understanding both sides of every question—we can only guess. If he was sorry to do what he was forced to do, what law enforcement took for granted in those days, he made it up, in a way, with brilliant, sympathetic portraits of scoundrels like the Pardoner.

  It was not entirely accidental that by 1386 the county of Kent was largely in the hands of King Richard’s friends, from the great, like Burley, to the relatively small, like Chaucer. In 1386 the showdown between Richard and Gloucester came. Though we have no evidence that King Richard or any other interest made any attempt to pack this particular parliament, Kent was clearly a pro-royalist county, and one MP from Kent was Geoffrey Chaucer. Unlike most fourteenth-century MP’s, he served only once. He and his Kentish colleague, William Betenham, received two shillings a day for sixty-one days, so Chaucer must have attended the whole stormy session, at the same time fitting in certain other minor business—testifying at the reconvened Scrope-Grosvenor trial on October 15, picking up his annuity and Philippa’s on October 20, attending the great hall in the Court of Common Pleas to main-prise his brother-in-law (husband of Chaucer’s sister Catherine) Simon Mannington, summoned for debt, on November 13, and on November 28, the day of parliament’s dissolution, drawing his reward as controller of the London wool customs. He would surrender that controllership within the week, and ten days later he would surrender his controllership of the petty customs. We can only guess that Chaucer was shaken by what he saw in that session of parliament and thought it a good idea to get out of Gloucester’s way.

  Chaucer knew before he set out from Greenwich as MP from Kent that Gloucester was the enemy. Gloucester—or rather Thomas of Woodstock, since it was during this parliament that he would receive the more elevated title, duke of Gloucester—was an impressive man, in some ways like his brother John of Gaunt. Gaunt was cool, inclined to seem haughty with enemies or strangers; when he lost his temper it was usually by design, one more brilliant act. Woodstock’s temper, on the other hand, was as real as it was terrible, and would eventually prove his ruin. Both had extraordinary will power: they could hold wrangling factions together for years and swing weaker men to positions those men must themselves have found astonishing. Like Gaunt, Woodstock attached great importance to the code and values of chivalry. As a young man he formed a “company of May,” apparently writers of poems and carols, whom he remembered fondly in later life.8 He was a great general, a redoubtable jouster, a man much admired by his ene
mies the French, who said of him that he spoke like a true king’s son. He was fond of music: kept a blind harper in attendance, had an organ in the hall of his great London house, and had tapestries showing angels playing musical instruments. He was fond of literature: kept one of the largest libraries of the time, and had in it not only saints’ lives and prayer books but histories, romances, and poems in several languages, including poems by Chaucer. His piety was legendary, more noticeable than Gaunt’s because he kept no mistresses, more generously and publicly supported convents, churches, and religious schools, and dressed as somberly as a country priest.

  As long as Gaunt had supported Richard, Woodstock had done the same; but now Gaunt was away, and France was gathering an enormous invasion force. The only question for England was, who was to lead the fighting, Richard’s courtiers or war-tested magnates chosen by assent of parliament? Chaucer looked on as Richard’s chancellor, Michael de la Pole, with young Richard seated on the dais behind him, presented to parliament the king’s request for an army of defense. Then Richard coolly retired to his palace at Eltham to await parliament’s decision. Word came, during the deliberations, that the despised Robert de Vere, earl of Oxford and marquis of Dublin, had now been exalted to duke of Ireland, and, as a political sop, Thomas of Woodstock had been named duke of Gloucester, and the king’s third uncle, Edmund Langley, to duke of York—titles trivial by comparison with de Vere’s.

  Parliament, no doubt influenced by Gloucester’s rage, sent word that it demanded the removal of the king’s chancellor and also removal of his treasurer. Richard, in answer, ordered them to be silent, and asserted that he would not at their request remove “a scullion from his kitchen.” More messages passed, among others Richard’s declaration that he would be willing to meet with a small number of the most important members of the Commons—a group in which the king’s man Chaucer would be prominent—but at Gloucester’s insistence the proposal was rejected; and so, eventually, came the famous meeting of the king and his uncle, the duke of Gloucester, and Gloucester’s friend, Thomas Arundel, bishop of Ely. Both had good reason to hate and fear the king’s favorites, especially the scheming would-be murderous de Vere, now duke of Ireland. In a speech bristling with the understandable rage of chivalry against Richard’s unmilitant, deer-hunting court, Gloucester demanded that the crown be responsive to the people’s needs and ominously warned that, should the king refuse, then “by ancient statute and recent precedent,” the people had a remedy. The thinly veiled allusion to the fate of Edward II forced Richard’s capitulation.