Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Geoffrey Chaucer

  Of certain things that touch upon you and me;

  I will tell it to no other man, certainly.”

  This carpenter went down and came again,

  And brought of mighty ale a large quart,

  And when each of them had drunk his part,

  This Nicholas his door fast shut,

  And down he sat, the carpenter by him.

  He said, “John, my host beloved and dear,

  You shall upon your honor swear me here,

  That to no person you will this secret betray;

  For it is Christ’s counsel that I say,

  And if you to any man tell it, you are lost;

  For this vengeance you shall have therefore,

  That if you betray me you shall go cuckoo!”

  “No, Christ forbid it, by his holy blood!”

  Said this silly man, “I am no blabber,

  Though I admit I like to chatter.

  Say what you will, I shall it never tell

  To child nor wife, by him who harrowed hell!”

  “Now John,” said Nicholas, “I will not lie.

  I have found in my astrology,

  As I have looked in the moon bright,

  That now, on Monday next, at quarter night,14

  Shall fall a rain and that so furious and wild,

  That not half so great was Noah’s flood.

  This world,” he said, “in less than an hour

  Shall be drowned, so hideous will be the shower;

  Thus shall mankind drown and lose its life.”

  This carpenter answered, “Alas, my wife!

  And shall she drown? alas, my Alison!”

  For sorrow of this he fell almost adown,

  And said, “Is there no remedy in this case?”

  “Why yes, by God,” said nice Nicholas,

  “If you will work according to learning and good

  advice;

  You may not follow your own mind;

  For Solomon said, who was trustworthy,

  ‘Werk al by conseil, and thou shalt nat rewe.’

  And if thou werken wolt by good conseil,

  I undertake, with-outen mast and seyl,

  Yet shal I saven hir and thee and me.

  Hastow nat herd how saved was Noë,

  Whan that our lord had warned him biforn

  That al the world with water sholde be lorn?”

  “Yis,” quod this carpenter, “ful yore ago.”

  “Hastow nat herd,” quod Nicholas, “also

  The sorwe of Noe with his felawshipe,

  Er that he mighte gete his wyf to shipe?

  Him had he lever, I dar wel undertake,

  At thilke tyme, than alle hise wetheres blake,

  That she hadde had a ship hir-self allone.

  And ther-fore, wostou what is best to done?

  This asketh haste, and of an hastif thing

  Men may nat preche or maken tarying.

  Anon go gete us faste in-to this in

  A kneding-trogh, or elles a kimelin,

  For ech of us, but loke that they be large,

  In whiche we mowe swimme as in a barge,

  And han ther-inne vitaille suffisant

  But for a day; fy on the remenant!

  The water shal aslake and goon away

  Aboute pryme up-on the nexte day.

  But Robin may nat wite of this, thy knave,

  Ne eek thy mayde Gille I may nat save;

  Axe nat why, for though thou aske me,

  I wol nat tellen goddes privetee.

  Suffiseth thee, but if thy wittes madde,

  To han as greet a grace as Noë hadde.

  Thy wyf shal I wel saven, out of doute,

  Go now thy wey, and speed thee heeraboute.

  But whan thou hast, for hir and thee and me,

  Y-geten us thise kneding-tubbes three,

  Than shaltow hange hem in the roof ful hye,

  That no man of our purveyaunce spye.

  And whan thou thus hast doon as I have seyd,

  And hast our vitaille faire in hem y-leyd,

  ‘Work all by advice, and you shall not be sorry.’

  And if you will work by good counsel,

  I promise, without mast and sail,

  Yet shall I save her and you and me.

  Have you not heard how saved was Noah,

  When that Our Lord had warned him before

  That all the world with water should be lost?”

  “Yes,” said the carpenter, “full long ago.”

  “Have you not heard,” said Nicholas, “also

  The troubles of Noah and his fellows

  Before he might get his wife to ship?15

  He would have rather, I dare remark,

  That she had for herself alone a ship

  Than to have kept all his fine black sheep.

  And therefore, do you know what is best to do?

  This requires haste, and for an urgent thing

  Men may not preach or shilly-shally.

  Anon go get us fast into this dwelling

  A kneading trough or else a shallow tub

  For each of us, but look that they be large,

  In which we may float as in a barge,

  And have therein victuals sufficient

  But for a day, fie on the remainder!

  The water shall slake and go away

  About prime on the next day.

  But Robin may not know of this, your servant,

  Nor your maid Jill, whom I may not save.

  Ask not why, for though you ask me,

  I will not tell God’s secret things.

  Suffice it for you, unless you are mad,

  To have as great a grace as Noah had.

  Your wife shall I well save, without doubt.

  Now get going—and make it snappy.

  But when you have, for her and you and me,

  Gotten us these kneading tubs three,

  Then shall you hang them in the roof full high,

  That no man our preparations may espy.

  And when you thus have done, as I have said,

  And have our provisions in them laid,

  And eek an ax, to smyte the corde atwo

  When that the water comth, that we may go,

  And broke an hole an heigh, up-on the gable,

  Unto the gardin-ward, over the stable,

  That we may frely passen forth our way

  Whan that the grete shour is goon away—

  Than shaltow swimme as myrie, I undertake,

  As doth the whyte doke aftir hir drake.

  Than wol I clepe, ‘how! Alison! how! John!

  Be myrie, for the flood wol passe anon.’

  And thou wolt seyn, ‘hayl, maister Nicholay!

  Good morwe, I se thee wel, for it is day.’

  And than shul we be lordes al our lyf

  Of al the world, as Noë and his wyf.

  But of o thyng I warne thee ful right,

  Be wel avysed, on that ilke night

  That we ben entred in-to shippes bord,

  That noon of us ne speke nat a word,

  Ne clepe, ne crye, but been in his preyere;

  For it is goddes owne heste dere.

  Thy wyf and thou mote hange fer a-twinne,

  For that bitwixe yow shal be no sinne

  No more in looking than ther shal in dede;

  This ordinance is seyd, go, god thee spede!

  Tomorwe at night, whan men ben alle aslepe,

  In-to our kneding-tubbes wol we crepe,

  And sitten ther, abyding goddes grace.

  Go now thy wey, I have no lenger space

  To make of this no lenger sermoning.

  Men seyn thus, ‘send the wyse, and sey no-thing;’

  Thou art so wys, it nedeth thee nat teche;

  Go, save our lyf, and that I thee biseche.”

  This sely carpenter goth forth his wey.

  Ful ofte he seith “allas” and “weylawey,”

  And
to his wyf he tolde his privetee;

  And she was war, and knew it bet than he,

  What al this queynte cast was for to seye.

  But nathelees she ferde as she wolde deye,

  And seyde, “allas! go forth thy wey anon,

  And also an axe, to smite the cord in two

  When the water comes, that we may go,

  And break a hole on high upon the gable

  Toward the garden, over the stable,

  That we may freely pass forth our way

  When that great shower is gone away—

  Then shall you float as merry, I dare say,

  As does the white duck after her drake.

  Then will I call, ‘How, Alison! How, John!

  Be merry, for the flood will pass anon!’

  And you will say, ‘Hail, master Nicholay!

  Good morrow, I see you well, for it is day.’

  And then shall we be lords all our lives

  Of all the world, as Noah and his wife.

  But of one thing I warn you full right:

  Be well advised on that same night

  Once we be our ships aboard

  Then none of us shall speak a word,

  No call, no cry, but be at prayer;

  For it is God’s own commandment dear.

  Your wife and you must hang far apart,

  So that between you shall be no sin

  No more in looking than there shall be in deed;

  This ordinance is said, go, God you speed!

  Tomorrow at night, when men be all asleep,

  Into our kneading tubs will we creep,

  And sit there, awaiting God’s grace.

  Go now your way, I have no more time

  To make of this a longer sermonizing.

  Men say thus, ‘Send the wise, and say no thing.’

  You are wise, and don’t need teaching;

  Go save our lives, and that I you beseech.”

  This silly carpenter went forth his way.

  Full often he said “alas” and “wellaway,”

  And to his wife he told his secret;

  And she was aware, and knew better than he,

  The point of all this crackpot strategy.

  But nevertheless she acted as if she would die,

  And said, “Alas! go forth your way anon,

  Help us to scape, or we ben lost echon;

  I am thy trewe verray wedded wyf;

  Go, dere spouse, and help to save our lyf.”

  Lo! which a greet thyng is affeccioun!

  Men may dye of imaginacioun,

  So depe may impressioun be take.

  This sely carpenter biginneth quake;

  Him thinketh verraily that he may see

  Noes flood come walwing as the see

  To drenchen Alisoun, his hony dere.

  He wepeth, weyleth, maketh sory chere,

  He skyeth with ful many a sory swogh.

  He gooth and geteth him a kneding-trough,

  And after that a tubbe and a kimelin,

  And prively he sente hem to his in,

  And heng hem in the roof in privetee.

  His owne hand he made laddres three,

  To climben by the ronges and the stalkes

  Un-to the tubbes hanginge in the balkes,

  And hem vitailled, bothe trogh and tubbe,

  With breed and chese, and good ale in a jubbe,

  Suffysinge right y-nogh as for a day.

  But er that he had maad al this array,

  He sente his knave, and eek his wenche also,

  Up-on his nede to London for to go.

  And on the Monday, whan it drow to night,

  He shette his dore with-oute candel-light,

  And dressed al thing as it sholde be.

  And shortly, up they clomben alle three;

  They sitten stille wel a furlong-way.

  “Now, Pater-noster, clom!” seyde Nicholay,

  And “clom,” quod John, and “clom” seyde Alisoun.

  This carpenter seyde his devocioun,

  And stille he sit, and biddeth his preyere,

  Awaytinge on the reyn, if he it here.

  The dede sleep, for wery bisinesse,

  Fil on this carpenter right, as I gesse,

  Aboute corfew-tyme, or litel more;

  For travail of his goost he groneth sore,

  Help us to escape, or we’ll be dead soon.

  I am your true wedded wife;

  Go, dear spouse, and help to save our life.”

  Behold, what a great thing is emotion!

  Men may die of what they imagine,

  So deep may impression be taken.

  This silly carpenter began to quake;

  He thought verily that he might see

  Noah’s flood come rolling as the sea

  To drown Alison, his honey dear.

  He weeps, he wails, makes a long face,

  He sighs with full many a sorry groan.

  He goes and gets himself a kneading trough,

  And after that a tub and another,

  And secretly he sent them to his home,

  And hung them in the roof in secrecy.

  With his own hand he made ladders three,

  To climb by the rungs and the shafts

  Unto the tubs hanging in the beams,

  And them provisioned, both trough and tub,

  With bread and cheese, and good ale in a jug,

  Sufficient right enough for a day.

  But before he had made all this array,

  He sent his servant and his maid also

  Upon his business up to London to go.

  And on the Monday, when it drew to night,

  He shut his door without candlelight,

  And arranged everything as it should be.

  And shortly, up they climbed all three;

  They sat still a short time that way.

  “Now, Paternoster, then mum!” said Nicholay,

  And “mum,” said John, and “mum” said Alison.

  This carpenter said his devotion,

  And still he sat, and offered his prayer,

  All the while waiting the rain to hear.

  The sleep of the dead, from all his labor,

  Fell on this carpenter right as I guess

  About curfew-time,16 or a little more;

  For travail of his soul he groaned sore,

  And eft he routeth, for his heed mislay.

  Doun of the laddre stalketh Nicholay,

  And Alisoun, ful softe adoun she spedde;

  With-outen wordes mo, they goon to bedde

  Ther-as the carpenter is wont to lye.

  Ther was the revel and the melodye;

  And thus lyth Alison and Nicholas,

  In bisinesse of mirthe and of solas,

  Til that the belle of laudes gan to ringe,

  And freres in the chauncel gonne singe.

  This parish-clerk, this amorous Absolon,

  That is for love alwey so wo bigon,

  Up-on the Monday was at Oseneye

  With compayne, him to disporte and pleye,

  And axed up-on cas a cloisterer

  Ful prively after John the carpenter;

  And he drough him a-part out of the chirche,

  And seyde, “I noot, I saugh him here nat wirche

  Sin Saterday; I trow that he be went

  For timber, ther our abbot hath him sent;

  For he is wont for timber for to go,

  And dwellen at the grange a day or two;

  Or elles he is at his hous, certeyn;

  Wher that he be, I can nat sothly seyn.”

  This Absolon ful joly was and light,

  And thoghte, “now is tyme wake al night;

  For sikirly I saugh him nat stiringe

  Aboute his dore sin day bigan to springe.

  So moot I thryve, I shal, at cokkes crowe,

  Ful prively knokken at his windowe

  That stant ful lowe up-on his boures wal.

&
nbsp; To Alison now wol I tellen al

  My love-longing, for yet I shal nat misse

  That at the leste wey I shal hir kisse.

  Som maner confort shal I have, parfay,

  My mouth hath icched al this longe day;

  That is a signe of kissing atte leste.

  Al night me mette eek, I was at a feste.

  Therfor I wol gon slepe an houre or tweye,

  And he snored as his head crooked in the tub lay.

  Down from the ladder crept Nicholay,

  And Alison, full soft adown she sped;

  Without words more, they went to bed

  There where the carpenter was wont to lie.

  There was revelry and melody;

  And thus lie Alison and Nicholas

  In business of pleasure and mirth,

  Till that the chapel bell17 began to ring,

  And friars in the chancel began to sing.

  This parish clerk, this amorous Absolon,

  Who was for love always so woebegone,

  Upon the Monday was at Osney

  With company himself to disport and play,

  And happened to ask a friar

  Full discreetly about John the carpenter;

  And he drew him aside out of the church,

  And said, “I don’t know, I haven’t seen him

  Since Saturday. I believe that he went

  For timber, where our abbot had him sent,

  For he is wont for timber for to go,

  And dwell at the monastery’s farmhouse a day or two;

  Or else he is at his house, for certain.

  Where he may be, I cannot truly say.”

  This Absolon full jolly was and joyous,

  And thought, “Now is time to stay awake all night;

  For surely I saw him not stirring

  About his door since day began to spring.

  So may I thrive, I shall, at cock’s crow,

  Full secretly knock at his window

  That stands full low upon his bedroom wall.

  To Alison now will I tell all

  My love-longing, for yet I shall not miss

  That at the least I shall her kiss.

  Some kind of comfort shall I have, by my faith.

  My mouth has itched all this long day;

  That is a sign of kissing at least.

  Also I dreamt all night I was at a feast.

  Therefore I will go on and sleep an hour or two,

  And al the night than wol I wake and pleye.”

  Whan that the firste cok hath crowe, anon

  Up rist this joly lover Absolon,

  And him arrayeth gay, at point-devys.

  But first he cheweth greyn and lycorys,

  To smellen swete, er he had kembd his heer.

  Under his tonge a trewe love he beer,

  For ther-by wende he to ben gracious.

  He rometh to the carpenteres hous,

  And stille he stant under the shot-windowe;

  Un-to his brest it raughte, it was so lowe;

  And softe he cogheth with a semi-soun—