Whan That March — Lucas Blogs About The Canterbury Tales: Part 10

 

Woohoo! Nearly a year of using this same image!

The Intro

Okay, so we're now twelve months (and ten entries) into my planned one year project to blog my reading of Geoffrey Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales. Turns out that planning to read a lengthy work of medieval literature while also reading other books and blogging about them is maybe more time-consuming than I anticipated. Whatever, it's not like this month will see me tackling one of the longest tales in the book. Oh wait.

The Recap

Okay, so you may recall that last month, we got far enough into the seventh fragment to reach the point where Harry Bailly interrupts Geoffrey Chaucer's mock epic Tale of Sir Thopas to insist that surely the poet must know a better story. Well, turns out that the only other tale Chaucer can think of is—

The Tail of Melibee

Melibeus is a wealthy man with a wife named Prudence who has born him a daughter named Sophie. One day while Melibeus is out, three of his foes break into his house, beat his wife, and grievously wound his daughter in her feet (though it should be her eyes, see below), hands, ears, nose, and mouth. Upon his return, Melibeus is understandably upset and rends his clothes and weeps and after a while, his wife asks him what they're going to do about it. So, after they've quoted liberally from philosophers and the Bible, they decide to convene a council of their family, friends, and neighbors, to determine how to pursue justice. At the council many of the older attendees counsel Melibeus to deliberate before pursuing vengeance (I mean, isn't that the point of the council?), but the greater part are calling for war against the offenders, and Melibeus takes their side. However, Prudence has some more to say on the subject when they're alone. Specifically, she tells Melibeus that he's going about the whole thing all wrong. Melibeus asks why he should let his wife tell him what to do (citing scripture and philosophy quite a bit, in fact, every argument that follows will be made up almost entirely of quotations from scripture or philosophy), and Prudence convinces him with counter-examples. She then proceeds to educate Melibeus on such topics as: who you should and shouldn't seek counsel from; how to evaluate counsel once it's given; can justice be meted out by vengeance or must it be sought through the legal system; how to be sure you've haven't brought all this on yourself; how to earn money in a moral way; and how to spend your money. In the course of the conversation, she convinces her husband not to seek out vengeance, but offer mercy. Melibeus is not quite convinced, but he lets her visit his enemies and entreat them to come before him to make contrition. When Prudence has convinced them to sue for mercy, they come before Melibeus to make amends. Melibeus then retires to render his verdict. His initial impulse is to exile them and expropriate their possessions, but Prudence convinces him that since God can forgive anything, who is he to hold a grudge. So Melibeus just outright forgives them.

How'd Lucas like The Tale of Melibee

Well, of all the Canterbury Tales, this is one of them. I'll admit that I was surprised to find that it was less of a slog than I was expecting. I've sometimes heard it said that Chaucer inflicts the impossibly boring Tale of Melibee on the pilgrims as revenge for Harry Bailly interrupting the Tale of Sir Thopas, but I'm not sure that holds up. Something that's been clear from, oh, say, The Miller's Tale onward, is that Chaucer wanted to include as much variety in the text as possible. So including a thinly veiled treatise on good-decision-making doesn't seem like such a stretch. Even if it's not necessarily that entertaining.

According to Lawton (who you'll recall is the editor of the edition I'm reading), The Tale of Melibee is a translation of Reynaud of Louens French translation of a Latin work by Albertano of Brescia, a judge from Italy. And yeah, although it begins as a story, it very quickly becomes clear that it's actually a treatise, especially once Melibee and Prudence sit down to talk and suddenly they're citing all of their sources (fun fact, the footnotes don't just list all the of works that they quote from, they also point out when either Chaucer, Reynaud, or Albertano goofed and attributed quotes to the wrong philosopher or scripture, the most frequent mixup seems to be between Ecclesiastes and Ecclesiasticus). Oh, and remember that whole, feet, hands, ears, nose, and mouth thing? See, it really ought to be eyes, hands, ears, nose, and mouth, but apparently there may have been some confusion in the Old French between eyes (oiez) and feet (piez). 

As I mentioned, it wasn't that much of a slog. I think maybe it's the fact that it's written in prose, so the syntax and vocabulary aren't being adjusted to fit a meter or rhyme. But yeah, the writing is pretty straightforward, and I found myself less reliant on the gloss at the side of the page. However, it does start to drag, especially towards the end when it begins to feel particularly repetitive. The story itself isn't that exciting, and while the advice is usually solid, there are definitely places where a modern reader will find it a little yikes-y. That's right, I will once again be woke-scolding Chaucer for his literally medieval views.

So, there's this bit where Prudence says to Melibee that he should also consider the possibility that maybe this is a wake up call. After all, why would God allow this to happen to him? (point of order, it definitely didn't happen to Melibee, it happened to Prudence and Sophie) After all, his name does mean "drinker of honey" (well, not really, but we'll just go with it) and he's been spending too much time enjoying the delights of his five senses instead of being thankful to God, and Sophie's wounds do correspond to the senses (assuming you correct feet to eyes). And the modern reader is like, "What?" Also, at the end when she keeps endlessly pushing Melibee to forgive his enemies because God's just going to forgive them anyway is a bit of a logical stretch. Anyway, let's move on to:

The Monk's Prologue

Unsurprisingly, Harry Bailly uses The Tale of Melibee to talk about how much he hates his wife, whose name we learn is Goodelief. Turns out that she isn't just a shrew, she also goads him on to be a worse person to his employees, his neighbors, and his fellow-parishioners at church. He then turns to the Monk and, after making a few crude jokes about clergymen's sex lives, asks him to tell the next tale. The Monk says he knows quite a few tragic tales and so begins—

The Monk's Tale

The Monk explains that he's going to speak on the theme of tragedy generally and that he knows many tales of people brought low by the whims of Fortune. He then recounts these tales in a manner not unlike Michael Scott returning to roast his co-workers (and yes, I did just do that thing where I link to a bit I've stolen): Lucifer, you used to be an angel, now you're Satanas (Satan). Boom! Roasted! Adam, you lived in a paradise but were banished. Boom! Roasted! Sampson (Samson), you trusted your wife and she cut off your hair. Boom! Roasted! Hercules, your wife gave you a shirt dipped in centaur blood and it killed you. Boom! Roasted! Nabugodonosor (Nebuchadnezzar), you were a mighty king who besieged Jerusalem, but God drove you crazy. Boom! Roasted! Balthasar (Belshazzar), you sacked Jerusalem and the temple and when you wouldn't repent, your kingdom was invaded by the Medes and the Persians. Boom! Roasted! Zenobie (Zenobia), you were the queen of Palymerye and you withstood many hardships and challenges, but you were defeated by Aurelia and paraded through Rome as a captive. Boom! Roasted! Petro (Pedro the Cruel or the Just), you were a great king in Castile until you were betrayed to your brother, who murdered you. Boom! Roasted! Petro (Pierre de Lusigan) of Cypre, you captured Alexandria and wrought woe on the heathens, but your liegemen were jealous of your glory and killed you in your sleep. Boom! Roasted! Barnabo Viscounte (Visconti) of Lombardye, your nephew imprisoned and killed you. Boom! Roasted! Erl Hugelin of Pisa (Ugolino, Count of Pisa), you were imprisoned and forced to watch your children starve to death and gnawed on your own arms out of woe before succumbing to starvation as well. Boom! Roasted! Nero, you burned down Rome for kicks and forced Seneca, your former tutor, to commit suicide, but when the people rose up against you, you begged to be killed quickly and decapitated so that the mob wouldn't defile your corpse. Boom! Roasted! Oloferne (Holofernes), you were a mighty Assyrian general, but Judith snuck into your tent at night and cut your head off. Boom! Roasted! Antiochus, you persecuted the Jews and God smote you with an invisible wound that made you fall under the wheels of your chariot and then infected your broken body with maggots that made you stink so bad that even your caretakers couldn't stand it. Boom! Roasted! Alexandre (c'mon, do I really need to?), you conquered the known world but were poisoned by your own people (citation needed). Boom! Roasted! Julius Caesar, you defeated Pompey and became emperor (citation needed), but Brutus Cassius (an apparent composite of Marcus Brutus and Gaius Cassius) led a conspiracy to murder you. Boom! Roasted! Cresus (Croesus) you were king of Lydia until Cyrus the Great invaded, and though you dreamed that the gods would favor you, it turns out the dream actually presaged your hanging. Boom! Roasted!

How'd Lucas like The Monk's Tale?

Hey, the Monk, you recited a list of anecdotes, not a tale. Boom! Roasted! In all seriousness, The Monk's Tale leaves something to be desired. The supposed link of these stories (the downfall of the mighty due to the whims of fortune) is weak. I suppose the lesson meant to be imparted is that even the most highly placed can find themselves the victims of circumstance. But the lack of any organizing principle leaves the whole thing feeling scattershot.

Now it is possible that this is intended. After all, other pilgrims have fallen short in their efforts to tell tales that please. The Reeve's attempt to revenge himself on Miller is mean-spirited and unfunny and Chaucer's Tale of Sir Thopas is simultaneously absurd and banal. So maybe we're meant to see the Monk as flailing about, unaccustomed to speaking extemporaneously. As we'll see in the following prologue, no one seems too keen for him to continue when the knight interrupts him. In any case, the Monk himself seems quite sincere in his belief that these tales have instructive value. But their disorganized nature means that they don't quite gel.

The other issue is that many of them are so short that leave out critical context for why these tragic downfalls occurred. I mean, sure, maybe the Monk doesn't have to spell out exactly what Lucifer and Adam did to fall, but to read the Monk's telling: they both were in high places committed some unspecified sin and then suffered consequences. 

Now, I won't give Chaucer too much crap for the bits where he gets things wrong, because history isn't always reliable and the standards of scholarship have improved greatly, but it is still funny to see goofs like "Marcus Cassius." Some of these stories are also anti-feminist in ways I feel like I've mentioned a lot previously, so I'll just leave that there. It's pretty clear by now that this something contemporary readers will take issue with.

The other thing that makes this tale stand out is that it sees Chaucer discard his usual heroic couplets for longer stanzas. In this case, it's apparently called the ballade stanza (octets with the rhyme scheme ababbcbc). Which, according to the Monk is a break from the traditional way of writing tragedy in hexameter in Latin.  ‾\_(ツ)_/‾ I don't about that, but the fact that several of these stories are only one stanza long does make them go by quite quickly. In fact, because none of the stories are more than a couple of pages long, it's easy to just sit and read them through because if you're not into the one you're reading, another one is just around the corner.

The Nun's Priest's Prologue

The Knight, who's usually so courteous and reserved, interrupts the Monk to say that they've heard enough tales of woe, (though, as Lawton points out, a knight as widely travelled and experienced as he is might have known a couple of the more recent examples personally). Harry Bailly agrees and calls upon the Monk to speak of something more cheerful, like hunting, but the Monk has no desire to tell another tale. Bailly then turns to the Priest traveling in the Prioressess's retinue to tell them something to make their hearts glad. The Nun's Priest is simpatico and even agrees to take the blame if his tale fails to please, and so begins:

The Nun's Priest's Tale

Which turns out to be a mock epic about a cock named Chauntecleer. He rules the roost in the yard of a poor widow and oversees a harem of seven chickens. One day he arises from troubled dreams and tells his sweetheart, Pertelote, that he will not fly down from the beams because he had a dream foretelling his own death. Pertelote tells him that it was probably just something he ate and then lists a number of laxatives and purgatives that might relieve his bad dreams. But Chauntecleer goes on to give a number of examples from Catoun (Cato) and Cicero about Romans who ignored dreams of ill portent to their own disadvantage. Nevertheless to prove that he isn't chicken, when the morning comes he flies down into the yard with Pertelote and the others so that he can properly call out the hour with his superlative crowing. Meanwhile, a fox has sneaked into the yard, and although Chauntecleer wants to flee, the fox protests that he merely wants to hear the beautiful music of his voice. So Chauntecleer stands up on his toes, stretches out his neck, annnddd the fox snatches him! The chickens raise all kinds of ruckus and as the widow and her neighbors are chasing after the fox, Chauntecleer says to him, "If I were you, I would turn back to those humans and say, 'I do what I want. This is my cock now, and I'm gonna eat him!'" So when the fox opens his mouth to tell the humans off, Chauntecleer flies up into the branches of a tree. It's just like Saint Paul says to the Romans, "Whatever was written was written for our instruction." Amen.

The Epilogue

Harry Bailly is so pleased with the tale that he blesses the Nun's Priest's breeches and testicles, and goes on to talk about what a stud he'd be if he were a layman.

How'd Lucas like The Nun's Priest's Tale?

Hey! It's an animal fable. Although what exactly the moral is seems to be left up to the reader. Don't fall for flattery? Don't listen to people who tell you that bad dreams have more to do with that you ate than what's your fate? (Oof! That one was a stretch.) Whatever you take away from it, this one was pretty funny.

An essential component of mock epic is commitment, and the Nun's Priest (but really Chaucer) is all in. There's the juxtaposition of scatology and philosophy when Pertelote suggests Chauntecleer just take a laxative (helpfully listing several options) and Chauntecleer insists that dreams shouldn't be discarded (with examples from antiquity). Then there's the turnabout when Chauntecleer, having fallen victim to the fox's flattery, outwits the fox by giving him seemingly helpful advice that allows for a hasty escape. The whole tale is treated with a weight that amplifies the absurd aspects and really lets the reader chuckle along with the Nun's Priest.

So, yeah, looks like there was an interesting mix of storytelling styles this month.

The Middle English Word of the Month

hochepot – n. hodgepodge. This one comes from the Tale of Melibee. Yeah, I know it's not so much a Middle English word as it is the Middle English spelling of a common Modern English word. Whatever.

The Outro

Well, that's it for the seventh fragment. Come back on the last Monday in April when I'll start in on the eighth. Fragment, that is, not the eighth of April.