The Canterbury Tales: Week 10

We Are Pilgrims Passing To and Fro (But watch out for Cupid's sparrow!)

[Emily watched by the prisoners from their cell window; from a 15th-century manuscript of Boccaccio's Teseida]

First, an update. You all have peer-pressured me into covering The Miller’s Prologue and Tale, a bawdy tale of love, adultery, and flatulence. (You have been warned.) See the revised schedule below.

The Knight’s Tale is the longest of The Canterbury Tales, and one of the longest works in Chaucer’s corpus. Textual evidence in another of Chaucer’s works suggests Chaucer wrote this tale as a separate, complete poem before conceiving of The Canterbury Tales and then adapted and incorporated it into the collection. The Knight’s Tale is a retelling of Boccaccio’s epic work, Teseida, which draws on ancient Greek myth and history while centering on the love triangle explored retold in The Knight’s Tale. While Chaucer shortens Boccaccio’s story, he expands on philosophy and metaphysics, weaving into the tale a rich tapestry displaying some of the most profound existential questions of Chaucer’s day (and, I daresay, our own).

We’ve previously discussed the genre of medieval romance literature, seen in this tale, as well as in The Wife of Bath’s Tale, and The Nun’s Priest’s Tale. The Knight’s Tale is even more exemplary of the genre—as, of course, is befitting the character of the Knight. It is also fitting that it is he, the noblest of the pilgrims, the first introduced in The General Prologue, who begins the story telling–-by Chaucer an intentional artistic decision, but within the fictional world of the tales, by sheer luck. Not coincidentally, luck, or Fortune, turns out to be one of the central themes of the tale.

In a comment thread on an earlier post, I observed that one of the differences between pre-modern stories and the modern novel is the role of originality or, well, novelty. Pre-modern stories—in the form of epics, myths, legends, and romances—were often retold, recycled, and reappropriated. Before the age of print culture, there was no copyright law, and creating “original” material wasn’t a goal or value. It just wasn’t part of the social imaginary. That doesn’t mean people, like Chaucer, didn’t do something original on the way to doing something else. It’s just that creating something “new” wasn’t the priority as it is today when so many aim to be “unique” (like everyone else).

Another marked difference between the medieval romance literature and the modern novel is the emphasis in the former on the universal and the ideal rather than the later emphasis on the unique and the real. This difference in emphasis partly explains why plot matters more than character in pre-modern stories. A good plot reflects something about the way all plots go, the way in which there is a metanarrative that applies to the human condition. (Details, of course, vary.) Novels—arising alongside other modern disciplines such as psychology—introduced the importance of individual character traits and personality within the narrative. Things happen but those things serve to illuminate the individual character’s interior life. This helps explain a minor annoyance I have in reading The Knight’s Tale, which is that I cannot keep Palamon and Arcita straight! They are two knights, cousins, love the same woman; the one who wins her dies, so the other one wins her in the end. How much more indistinguishable could they be? Even the arguments they make are ones rooted in philosophical traditions and not really tied to their characters. And Emelye? She is the same beautiful maiden that appears in every romance doing honor to May in the garden (even if a number of lines are devoted to describing the details of her beauty). This is not a story about human character. And to read it that way is an exercise in frustration.

No, this is a story about the human condition—about love, chance, death, and all the bargains and prayers we make in between. It is a story in which the human agents put abstract ideas on display.

The idea of Fortune, for example, is a looming presence in the tale. Good or bad, the outcome of many twists and turns is assigned to Fortune. The first mention of Lady and her “false wheel” (line 925) appears as Theus encounters the women mourning the deaths of their men killed in battle at Thebes. The victory of Arcita over Palamon in their battle is likewise attributed to fortune (line 2659), as well as a lot of things in between. Like the Great Chain of Being discussed in an earlier post, this metaphor of the Lady and her Wheel of Fortune (no, not Vanna White!) was dominant in the medieval imagination. Several corollaries attend the metaphor. We are all situated somewhere on the wheel; if you are at the top of the wheel (yay!), some other poor soul is at the bottom, at least until the wheel is spun again. Good luck or bad is at the whim of a capricious spinner of the wheel. Good fortune is not only changeable (which is certainly true), but it is also limited and finite, which necessarily entails a mentality of scarcity. For you to go up means someone else must go down. Think about how many experiences in modern life are based on such a paradigm (a winner requires a loser). Compare that paradigm to the infinite goodness, beauty, and abundance of God. He doesn’t remove someone else’s blessings in order to bless us. His blessings pour forth from an infinite supply. Nevertheless, our finite knowledge and limited understanding which accompany our inevitable suffering do indeed make life seem at times to be the result of whim, chance, misfortune, or the Lady and her wheel. The indistinguishability of Palamon and Arcita reflects this truth of human experience.

On the theme of suffering, Arcita debates with Palamon about who suffers more—is it Arcita, who is released from physical prison but exiled so he can no longer see his Emelye from the prison tower, or Palamon, imprisoned, yet still able to gaze on his beloved? Who suffers more is, of course, a question that cannot be answered in the tale or in real life. It is nigh impossible to compare one person’s suffering with another’s as we can only experience our own. Chaucer’s wise and noble knight does not pretend to know the answer to this impossible question, and instead closes this part of the tale by posing it to his listeners. It is, of course, a rhetorical question.

That debate is preceded by a similar rhetorical exploration made between the two knights on the rules of love. There are none, apparently. “Who shall give the lover any law?” Palamon asks, quoting “an old clerk’s law” (lines 1163-64), the old clerk being Boethius, as this is a direct reference to On the Consolation of Philosophy.¹ Romances like The Knight’s Tale are built on the many rules of the court, and the expectations around courtly behavior and romantic love. And one of the rules is that such idealized, romantic love trumps all else. We still have remnants of this idea in our understanding of romantic love today. (See: Titanic or any rom-com.)

The medieval understanding of fate is echoed—amplified, really—in the text with the presence throughout of the classical gods and goddesses acting, being petitioned, and worshipped. One entire section of the tale is devoted to descriptions of the temples built in their honor. (Side note: Having watched every episode of The Office over and over and over, it is impossible for me to encounter any reference to Cupid and his arrow and not hear Michael Scott saying, “’I got hit by Cupid’s sparrow!’ Funny little bird, but he gets the job done.” Guys, I laugh out loud at this every single time. It never gets old.)²

https://www.nbc.com/the-office/video/blood-drive/3843631

Leaving our beloved 21^st century poet, Michael Scott, and returning to the earlier one, let’s look at a couple of short passages I find to be simply sublime, both thematically and poetically. I’m quoting them here in the Middle English because they are clear enough, I think, as is. They deserve to be read, read aloud, and examined closely.

And certes, in this world so faren we;                   
We seken faste after felicitee,
But we goon wrong ful often, trewely. (lines 1265-67)

These lines are spoken by Arcita to Palamon as they discourse on whose suffering is worse. Even if you don’t know Middle English, try reading these lines out loud. The music and rhythm and sheer resignation come through. Note the lovely alliteration (so marked in Beowulf), consonance, and assonance. And the thought conveyed rings achingly true. Each of us, every single one of us, seeks happiness in life. The most dysfunctional person hellbent on self-destruction is seeking happiness (albeit in all the wrong places) as much as is the one who is on the right course. But, truly, we all go wrong, full often. This is one of many passages in the tale that is drawn directly from Boethius. (His answer, by the way, is that happiness comes through the pursuit of wisdom.)

The next passage appears near the end of the tale. I think it constitutes the central theme of the story and perhaps The Canterbury Tales as a whole. Again, the language and the sound convey the meaning, even without being translated into modern English:

         This world nys but a thurghfare ful of wo,
          And we been pilgrymes, passynge to and fro.
          Deeth is an ende of every worldly soore. (lines 2847-49)

These lines might seem overly dark and despairing at first. Certainly, to conceive of this earthly life as just a thoroughfare of woe isn’t exactly cheery. However, there is much suffering in this world. If we are fortunate enough (thanks, Lady and your wheel!) not to suffer the worst, we certainly read about it in the news every day. Thus the reminder that this world is not our home, that it is but a thoroughfare on the way to our real home, that we are just pilgrims on that journey, is a welcome and ultimately Christian insight. Death is the end of every worldly sorrow not because it is merely the end, but because it is the arrival at the very destination of our pilgrimage. And those whose pilgrimage takes them into the arms of Christ, Chaucer believed (as do I), find not only an end to all woe but eternal felicity.

***

• The Miller’s Prologue and Tale and Chaucer’s Retraction

• Christmas break! Enjoy family and friends! (I will send something from my archives from over the years.)

• The Second Shepherd’s Play ←— I’ve linked an online pdf. But I also recommend this cheap Dover edition if you, like me, prefer a book.) It’s a Christmas story—and Christmas runs all the way into January, so we are still in the season.

• Everyman (It’s in the Dover edition linked above and also here.)

• Romeo and Juliet: our guest writer, Jack Heller, recommends the Folger edition (whether print or online).

1. The early Christian philosopher Boethius gave serious and considerable treatment to Fortune in On The Consolation of Philosophy, a significant work of Christian philosophy, published in 524. Chaucer draws heavily from Boethius in this tale. On The Consolation of Philosophy grapples with the nature of good and evil, the problem of evil, chance and free will, and the pursuit of wisdom as the means to happiness. It is a work that is incredibly important and worth reading. But do look for a good translation. I have the Everyman’s Library version, which is older, but which I have enjoyed. I haven’t read this one, but it is highly commended for its readability: https://www.amazon.com/Consolation-Philosophy-Boethius/dp/0674048350

2. Speaking of laughter, it’s hilarious how the Knight keeps pausing throughout his tale to say something to the effect of “to make a long story short” and then proceeds to say a very long thing. I find this so delightful and in character. The Knight is polite, noble, and all the things—but he is a windbag! I know so many people like this. Don’t you? The more he says he’s trying to shorten things up, the more you know it’s going to be a long story. But, once again, we see Chaucer’s genius in writing a kind of meta-fiction—a fiction that is aware of itself as fiction and keeps reminding readers of this, too.