Whan that Julie — Lucas Blogs About the Canterbury Tales: Part 4

A lesser blogger might update this picture to one without glare from the computer screen. I am not a lesser blogger.

The Intro

Welcome back to Whan that Month — Lucas Blogs About The Canterbury Tales. Last month I wrote about the Man of Law's Tale, a morality play about an unfortunate princess cast adrift at sea and buoyed by the grace of God. This takes up the entirety of the second fragment of The Canterbury Tales in the Ellesmere Manuscript (and my study edition that follows it). The third fragment comprises The Wife of Bath's Tale, The Friar's Tale, and The Summoner's Tale, each with a prologue. But before we begin:

The Wait a Minute, What's the Difference Between a Friar and a Monk Again?

All right, here's my understanding: monks belong to a monastic order. They live in cloistered communities away from the distractions of society and devote themselves to prayer and worship. They generally support themselves through some sort of industry, usually making and selling food or beverages like cheese or beer. Friars (sometimes called "limitours" in The Canterbury Tales because they were often limited to specific territories) belong to mendicant orders, meaning that they take a vow of poverty that forbids them from owning property so they must support themselves and their brothers by collecting alms. You'll see an example of that in The Summoner's Tale.

The And Speaking of Summoners, That's Not a Job That Exists Anymore, Is It?

Not that I'm aware. In the medieval Catholic Church a summoner (spelled "sumnour" in The Canterbury Tales), would summon people to ecclesiastical courts. These would be run by an archdeacon ("erchedekne") and try people for sins that weren't tried by criminal courts, such as adultery, usury, or simony (selling religious offices or relics). Summoners would also collect fees for these courts meaning that the office was often ripe for abuse. And with that let's get to:

The Wife of Bath's Prologue

The Wife of Bath, or Alisoun, kicks things off by saying that even if experience alone doesn't give one authority, she feels like the fact that she's been married five times since the age of twelve might just give her insights into marriage. She actually talks about a lot of things in the prologue, for example, if God gave men and women genitals what's wrong with using them? (Within the confines of holy matrimony of course) and she actually cites the Pauline epistles extensively to prove her point. After she's been going on for a little while in this vein, she's interrupted by the Pardoner, who compliments her on her skillful preaching, but asks her why people should want to get married. She responds by telling the stories of her marriages. Three of her husbands were good, that is to say that they were old rich men who struggled to keep up with her sexual appetites, but who treated her well and left her a wealthy widow many times over. Her fourth husband, meanwhile, was unfaithful but she repaid him by being a social butterfly and making him jealous, particularly with her gossib (Middle English for BFF) who was also named Alisoun, and his apprentice, a clerk named Janekin, who she told she would marry if not for the fact that she already had a husband. So, when she came back from a pilgrimage to Jerusalem to find that her fourth husband was dead, she buried him and married Janekin, who was twenty years her junior. At first they were happy until he started to take delight in reading to her from an omnibus of anti-feminist literature (which was not in short supply in Medieval Europe or any place or time really). One night she'd had enough so she ripped out three pages and slugged him in the face, knocking him back into their fireplace, and he responded by striking her so hard she went deaf in one ear. Seeing what he'd done, Janekin apologized and from that day forward let Alisoun have her way in all things and they lived happily (?) ever after. In any case, the Friar points out that her prologue's been pretty long, and the Summoner's like, "Oh, leave it to a friar to stick his nose in someone else's business." So the Friar says that he'll tell a tale that makes summoners look bad and the Summoner says he'll repay the Friar in kind, and Harry Bailly's had enough bullshit and tells them to be quiet so that they can hear

The Wife of Bath's Tale

Back in the days of King Arthour, when Britain was full of fairies, a knight raped a maiden and was condemned to die. However, as was the style at the time, the queen interceded on his behalf and Arthour granted her the power to choose the knight's fate. So she gave him a year to find out what it is that women most desire. And you may be saying, "Hold on a sec, Wife of Bath," there must be as many answers to that as there are women!" To which the Wife of Bath would answer, "Did you ever hear the tale of King Midas (yes, that King Midas), who had ass's ears hidden under his hair? Well, nobody knew of this except his wife who was sworn to secrecy. But over time the secret gnawed away at her until she had to shout it under the water!" And you might say, "Huh?" To which she might reply, "Look, sometimes the expectations of womanhood are constraining and you just have to vent!" In any case, the knight eventually comes across a hideous old witch who says that she can help him answer the question if he agrees to do whatever she asks of him in exchange. Not wanting to die, the knight agrees and the witch whispers the answer she thinks will satisfy the queen. The knight tells the queen that what women really want is sovereignty over men in relationships and all the women at court nod their heads in agreement and the knight is relieved until the witch demands his hand in marriage. The knight is resistant, until the queen reminds him that the alternative is death, and so he agrees to marry the witch even if she is "loothly" and comes of "so lowe a kinde." The witch gives the knight a lecture about judging things by their appearance but gives him a final choice, asking whether he would prefer that she would be beautiful or faithful and the knight replies that he will abide by her choice. This is apparently the right answer because she turns into a beautiful young woman and promises fidelity "And thus they live unto hir lives ende/ In parfit joye." Alisoun concludes her tale by wishing a pestilence upon intransigent husbands.

How'd Lucas Like The Wife of Bath's Tale?

So, once again, I was in familiar territory, having read this back in my Chaucer class. It's pretty clear why this would make it into a class that doesn't cover the full text. David Lawton describes this prologue/tale combo as "anti-anti-feminist." Which I'd say is accurate (I mean, Lawton would definitely know better than I would). A contemporary reader will still notice a few things that aren't quite in line with modern values (you may have noticed that the protagonist is a rapist who goes unpunished and is, in fact, rewarded and that the Wife of Bath's fifth marriage is improved following a horrific act of domestic violence), but overall the Wife of Bath is an engaging narrator and, as pointed out by the Friar, a skillful preacher.

That's actually something that I'd forgotten about the Wife of Bath's Prologue. I remembered that it was more than twice as long as her tale, but I didn't remember the substance of what she had to say. So let's jump in: We don't know where Chaucer intended this to fall, but as a follow-up to the Man of Law's Tale, it makes a lot of sense. Not least of all because the Man of Law draws heavily from St. Jerome's Against Jovinian and the Wife of Bath refutes it. It's also fitting because while the Man of Law presents Custaunce (that's right, I'm still spelling it that way) and her mothers-in-law as a paragon of virtue or as hopelessly corrupted, respectively, Alisoun's description of herself (and of many of the women in her tale) feels more fleshed out and developed. While Custaunce comes across as more or less asexual (even following her marriage and conception of a son) the Wife of Bath revels in her sexuality and feels no shame in telling thirty-ish strangers about her husband's failures to keep up with her libido.

 But she isn't just presented as being in thrall to her desires, she speaks with erudition about the arguments made by medieval anti-feminist writers and persuasively counters them. Sure, the observation "Ever notice how all these anti-feminists are men? If you asked women they could easily tell you all about mens' faults," (if I may paraphrase) isn't ground-breaking to the contemporary reader, it does get to the heart of the inequality in a patriarchal society where women don't have access to education (and are excluded from most forms of ecclesiastical life that might give them said access). Sure, her prologue ends with her saying that things in her marriage got better after she and her husband slugged it out, but The Canterbury Tales is that sort of book.

Speaking of tales, the Wife of Bath's is pretty good. The fact that the knight faces no consequences for raping someone is hard to square with the moral of the story: that women can and should be trusted to make their own choices (particularly as regards marriage). I mean, sure, I get that it's the story of someone who has no respect for women's bodily autonomy learning that women are deserving of trust and respect. The fact that the knight's actions ultimately lead to him being rewarded with a happy marriage feels more than a little icky. That said, I love the fact that the Wife of Bath uses the example of Midas's wife needing to tell someone, anyone, the secret of his ass's ears so badly that she shouts it into a swamp to illustrate the fact that women in Arthur's kingdom are so glad to have someone, anyone ask them their opinion that they will readily tell the knight what it is they desire most.

And speaking of women who speak their minds, one of today's Middle English Words of the Month is "jangleresse"- n. a talkative woman, feminine form of jangler. I know it's a little sexist, but it's just so fun to say.

All right, there's so much more that can be said (and has been said) about Alisoun (BTW, Chaucer, my dude, you lived in Medieval England, surely you knew more English women's names than Alisoun, even the Wife of Bath's BFF is named Alisoun, WTF?), let's move on to:

The Friar's Prologue

The Friar pays his respects to the Wife of Bath, pointing out that she spoke well on scholarly topics, but quickly turns the subject to how much everyone just hates summoners in general, and a specific Summoner in particular. Harry Bailly butts in to tell the Friar to get on with his tale, which goes a little something like this:

The Friar's Tale

Once there was an erchedekne who was merciless in trying and punishing such sins as adultery, lechery, simony, and insufficient tithing. And he employed a particularly unscrupulous sumnour who wouldn't hesitate to make false accusations to extort money from innocent people. One day, as he's riding out to extort an old woman, he meets a yeman (yeoman) and they get to talking about their jobs. Properly ashamed of his hated profession, the sumnour claims to be a bailly (bailiff), to which the stranger replies that he is too, and they make a pact to split their earnings. However, in the course of their conversation, the yeman reveals that he's actually a demon and that he lives in hell and he asks the sumnour if he wants to keep up their bargain. The sumnour agrees, and as they ride into town they pass a cartere (carter) who loudly shouts that the devil can take his cart and horses and hay. So the sumnour asks the demon if he's going to collect. The demon says that the cartere doesn't really mean it, and sure enough in a few moments the cartere is blessing the cart and the horses and the hay. When they arrive at the old woman's house, the sumnour says that she's been summoned before the erchedekne, but that he can make the whole thing go away for a mere twelve pence. The old woman, somewhat incredulous (I mean, who has twelve whole pence to rub together, amirite?), asks what the charge is, and the sumnour blithely replies that she's made her husband a cuckold, and even if she doesn't have twelve pence, that pan over there is quite nice. The old woman — who has never married bee-tee-dubs — has had enough of his shenanigans and says that the devil can take both the sumnour and the pan. The demon asks if she really meant what she said, and when she replies in the affirmative, whisks both the pan and the sumnour back to hell with him.

How'd Lucas Like The Friar's Tale?

As you've probably noticed, the Friar and Summoner are engaged in exactly the same kind of petty exchange as the Miller and the Reeve. However, in this case, they're also tapping into the tradition anti-clerical satire.

Hey, doofus, the question is about what you think of it.

I'm getting to that. The Friar's tale is a lot of fun. It also stands out from the other humorous tales that we've talked about so far in that the humor is derived entirely from irony rather than from bawdy or scatological jokes (nothing wrong with either of those, but it does serve to illustrate the breadth of Chaucer's writing skill).

What impresses me most about the Friar's Tale is the structure. At each step of the story the Friar (and by extension Chaucer) shows how summoners generally (and the sumnour in particular) abuse their office and that they are aware of how they are perceived. This allows him to mine humor from the fact that the sumnour is more at ease with his travelling companion when he finds out that he's a demon than he is when he believes him to simply be a bailiff, and from the condemnation that is born from his hubris. It's a pretty tight story. 4 out of 5 sterres would recommend.

The Summoner's Prologue

All right, I gotta say it, the Summoner totally cheats by telling an extra little story in his prologue, but since Harry Bailly lets it slide, so will I. The Summoner's pretty pissed off by the Friar's tale and stands up in his stirrups to say that everyone also knows this story: a friar is given a guided tour of hell by an angel in a dream. He sees every type of person you can think of, but he doesn't see any friars. So he asks the angel, "Are there no friars in hell?" and the angel tells him there are. They go over to Satanas (I mean, you what that's Middle English for) who lifts his massive tail and farts out a bunch of friars. And in "this manere" he ends his prologue.

The Summoner's Tale

A limitour (that's a friar, remember?) in Yorkshire is out collecting alms for his covent (convent) and making his usual pitch: see it takes something like thirty masses to get a soul out of purgatory, and a single person (parson) takes a lot longer to say thirty masses than thirteen freres (also Middle English for friars) do, so it makes more sense to tithe to freres than to a parson. He then goes to call on Thomas, a friend of his who has given generously to his order in the past, and who belongs to a lay fraternity associated with his order. Thomas is ill and he can't tell why. His wife says it's because he's plagued with ire. And the frere gives a long sermon about the ills of anger. Thomas also says that he's been giving generously to several different clerical orders, and the frere says that this inconstancy is probably why his illness has not improved. Then when Thomas reveals that he is near death and has been given his last rites by a priest, the frere asks him for one last donation to his order. Thomas says that he's hidden a treasure down between his legs and as the frere reaches for it, Thomas farts in his hand. The frere is livid, not just for the insult but because he is bound to split all of his alms evenly between himself and the twelve other brothers of covent. And how do you split a fart into twelve equal parts? He goes to a wealthy man whose confession he has taken in the past to ask for advice and the wealthy man's squire offers to solve the problem in exchange for a bolt of cloth. The solution? Get a cartwheel with twelve spokes and have a frere stand at each spoke. Then someone else can stand at the hub and fart so that each frere will receive an equal share of both sound and stink. The end.

How'd Lucas Like the Summoner's Tale

I mean who doesn't like a good fart joke? I know this sounds silly after I just praised the Friar's Tale for eschewing the scatological in favor of a more highbrow approach, but here we are.

But that's not to say that the Summoner's Tale is all lowbrow. Although the sermons that the frere gives Thomas are more than a little rambling, the point is that he's just playing whack-a-mole in an attempt to wheedle more money out of a dying man's purse. There's also the fact that we're introduced to the frere as he's committing simony. Remember simony? Sure, he's not tit-for-tat saying if you give us alms we'll pray for your loved one to be released from purgatory, but is the implication that thirteen friars can say the necessary masses more quickly than a single parson really that far off? As far as ecclesiastical courts are concerned probably, but c'mon, dude.

Now a lesser story might just end with Thomas farting into the frere's hand. But you have to have to appreciate the Summoner (and again, by extension, Chaucer) for going the extra mile and revealing that part of the frere's umbrage is due to the fact that he's been given alms that are seemingly impossible to share with his brothers. This provides a chance to satire religious legalism by having the frere treat Thomas's fart as alms rather than just an insult.

One last note: the Summoner's Tale also contains the other Middle English Word of the Month: "vinolent" - adj. full of wine, drunk.

The Outro

Join me next month when I tackle the Fourth Segment, which I never ain't never read before. So that'll be fun.