Whan That May . . . Again — Lucas Blogs About The Canterbury Tales: Part 12

That's right, this photo's still goin' strong.

The Intro

Last month time sort of got away from me and I only covered the Second Nun's Tale (a translation of the life of Saint Cecilia), which makes up the first half of the eight fragment. So let's see how Chaucer follows that up in– 

The Canon's Yeoman's Prologue

Shortly after the Second Nun finishes telling the life of Saint Cecile, and just as the pilgrims are nearly at Boughton-under-Blee (about five miles away from Canterbury), the party is overtaken by a chanoun (that is to say a member of the order of Augustinian canons, who can be distinguished by their white surplices and black habits) and his yeman (yeoman). It turns out that they've been riding hard because they wanted to join the company and Harry Bailly is more than happy to accommodate them, if they can add to the merriment by telling a tale or two. The Canon's Yeoman is more than happy to volunteer information about his master, who as it turns out, makes his living as an alchemist. But strive as they might to turn base metals into gold, success eludes them and they often have to hoodwink people to make a living. The chanoun, hearing his underling speak so freely of their failures, turns tail and flees, leaving the Yeoman to reveal all their secrets.

The Canon's Yeoman's Tale

Part One

The Yeoman explains that although he has been apprenticed to the canon for seven years, he feels that he knows no more about alchemy than when he started and is now saddled with a debt he can never repay. He then goes on to spout a lot of technical jargon about the techniques and aims of alchemy in medieval England, pointing out as he goes the fact that it has failed to meet those aims. In any case, even though we're now five pages deep into his tale, he finally starts telling the story in–

Part Two

So there's this canon who's an alchemist. Not the Yeoman's canon, mind you, but a canon alike to him in charlatanry. And one day he asks a priest in London if he can borrow a mark (apparently about 2/3 of a Pound Sterling) and repay it in three days. After the canon repays his debt, the two get to talking and the canon offers to teach the priest the secrets of his craft, so long as the priest can supply him with the necessary materials. The canon then stages a series of alchemical experiments where he does a lot of elaborate prep work and then uses sleight-of-hand to slip a small silver ingot into the pot to impress the credulous priest. By the time this little masterclass is over, the priest asks the price and the canon replies, "For you, a mere forty pounds," which the priest quickly produces and which the editor kindly informs us is roughly double Chaucer's annuity in 1394.

How'd Lucas like The Canon's Yeoman's Tale?

This is another one of those tales which demonstrates the breadth of The Canterbury Tales but which I didn't particularly enjoy. But there are definitely things that I appreciated about it.

First of all, a trope I really enjoy in fiction is the double act where one character can't help but go off script (par exemple). The Canon seems friendly enough at first, approaching the party with an ingratiating tone, and the Yeoman just busts out with, "Yeah, my master is just the best at charlatanry. When it comes to ripping people off, he's the cat's pajamas, the bee's knees." And the fact that I'm not sure if he's doing this intentionally or not is kind of what I love about it. I mean, it's not quite as perfect as the Pardoner beginning his story by confessing that he's a sham and ending it by asking the party for alms, but it is a nice touch.

Then there's the fact that Chaucer uses the first part to flex a bit by incorporating a lot of technical alchemical jargon into his poetry. Even if that section drags a bit (which it does, because it's essentially just a list of Middle English words for science stuff). I can appreciate the effort that was put forth in its construction.

Thirdly, the first time the Yeoman describes one of the fictive canon's scams it is pretty funny. The problem is that there isn't really any variation. Each time the Yeoman describes how the experiment is set up, the result is always the same: the canon substitutes a small amount of precious metal for a small amount of base metal and the priest is astounded.

Oh, and as a millennial (is there a worse phrase in the English language?), the bit where the Yeoman confesses that he studied alchemy for seven years only to receive useless knowledge and a mountain of debt did feel quite timely. Anyway, I'd probably place the Canon's Yeoman's Tale somewhere in the middle if I were ranking tales, which I'm not. Or am I? Is that gonna show up in the final Whan That Month? I don't know. What I do know is that I've finished the eighth fragment, should I read the ninth? It is a mere ten pages, it has but one tale: that of The Manciple.

Hold up, what's a manicple, is that one of those medieval jobs that doesn't exist anymore?

Well, it's the person who purchases food for a school or a monastery or whatever. According to Wikipedia, the title is still in use at some of the colleges at Oxford and Cambridge. So, I suppose you could say that the job still exists, even if the title has become rare. But let's get into—

The Manciple's Prologue

We apparently begin shortly after the Canon's Yeoman's Tale, because the party is now even closer to Canterbury in a place called "Bobbe-Up-and-Down" (possibly Harbledown, Up-and-Down Field, or Bobbing, thanks David Lawton). Harry Bailly notices that the Cook has fallen asleep on his horse and urges someone to wake him up so that he can tell a tale (either The Cook's Tale was meant to be excised or maybe interrupted and left unfinished?). In any case, the Cook is just too drunk to speak coherently and the Manciple cuts in to verbally abuse him. Bailly's having none of it and forces the two pilgrims to reconcile, and wouldn't you know it, the Manciple knows a tale about the value of holding your tongue.

The Manciple's Tale

The tale takes place in the days when Phebus (Apollo) dwells on Earth as a knight. See at this time, he's married to a beautiful woman, and he takes great pains to ensure that she won't cuckold him. However, as the Manciple points out, a caged animal will not suddenly change its desires. A caged bird will want to escape, a well-fed house cat will chase mice. The point is that Phebus's wife takes a low-born lover who comes by to screw her while Phebus is away. All of this is witnessed by his pet crow. That's right, Phebus has a talking pet crow with white feathers. I mean, like who doesn't know that. In any case, the crow tells Phebus that his wife is unfaithful and Phebus, in a fit of rage, murders her and quickly comes to regret it. So he confronts the crow and says, "I can't believe you told me that my wife was cheating on me. From now on you will be cursed with black feathers!" And so remember, sometimes it's better to hold your tongue, than to confront someone with harsh truths. Wait that's not right mind your own business? Snitches get stitches?

How'd Lucas like The Manciple's Tale?

This one's kind of a toss up for me. I'll admit I am kind of a sucker for these kinds of Just So Stories . . . stories? Humph, that sentence got away from me. Anyway, the Manciple's telling of this particular story (which apparently goes back to Ovid and had previously been rendered in English by John Gower) is unfocused, with tangents about how gallant a knight Phebus was, and about how you can't change the nature of a wild animal (or a woman, but I feel like I've spent a lot of these posts pointing out the pervasive misogyny of these stories and I'm not surprised to see it pop up here), and other examples of proverbs about holding your tongue. It just seems like the story itself is so slight that Chaucer couldn't help but try to pad it out. But it was short and it was a quick read, so there's that.

Middle English Word of the Month

fnesen (v) - to sneeze, found in line 62 of the Manciple's Prologue: "he speketh in his nose,/ And fneseth faste." 

The Outro

It's happening. There's only one more tale left. That's right, the tenth fragment is up next and it comprises only The Parson's Tale (a lean, mean, seventy pages) and "Here taketh the makere of this book his leve." (an actually lean, mean one page). So it looks like we're nearly done with Whan That Month.