The Canterbury Tales: Week 2

Featuring: The Prioress and an extended footnote on Bill Gothard and the Umbrella

[The Prioress in the Ellesmere manuscript of Geoffrey Chaucer's Canterbury Tales; public domain]

"Absolutely unmixed attention is prayer.” – Simone Weil¹

*(Note to email subscribers: the email header for this week erred in labeling this Week 3. It is indeed only Week 2 of the CT. You didn’t miss anything! I did! I was working on the road. Sorry for the confusion.)

In introducing the General Prologue last week, I explained that the pilgrims are presented by the narrator of the Tales according to the three estates, according to “the condition of each of them, as it seemed to me,” the narrator says, “and their social rank” (lines 38-40, my paraphrase). And within those categories, Chaucer (as opposed to the narrator), presents the pilgrims in terms of descending moral character. The narrator is fairly oblivious. Bless his heart.

The idea of “social rank” grates on modern, democratic ears, to be sure. But this work was written before both modern and democratic days. In fact, the medieval world was organized and imagined according to a powerful metaphor called the Great Chain of Being. Whereas we today imagine our lives together using metaphors like “created equal,” “level playing field,” or “melting pot,” the medieval and early modern mind believed all of creation existed in a hierarchical relationship that runs vertically, like a ladder from earth to heaven—or rather, like a chain, with all links being connected.

God was at the top of the chain, then angels, humans, animals, and rocks and minerals. Larger categories were also hierarchical: lords over serfs, men above women (ahem), larger or more intelligent beasts over lesser ones (dogs over cats, obviously, haha!). The organization of the church, too, was hierarchical, along with the court, and every other institution, including the family.²

With our modern sensibilities, the problems with such a paradigm are immediately clear. However, the advantage of such a metaphor is that the strength of the entire order of creation depended, at least theoretically, on each link’s secure place in the chain. The entire chain was only as strong as its “weakest link.” (That old expression reflects this metaphor of society. It also is the origin of the theory of evolution’s idea of the “missing link.”)

This metaphor of the great chain infused all of life. And it helps to organize the General Prologue.

The first pilgrim presented is the Knight. He is noble in every sense, the description makes clear. He is not only noble in his social class, but in his moral character: he loves chivalry, truth, honor, and courtesy. 

Here is a good spot to note a distinct development in Middle English I mentioned in an earlier post. While Old English was a Germanic language, Middle English represents a significant influx of the French language, which happened with the Norman conquest of 1066. Throughout the General Prologue, then, we find words of French derivation (as well as ideas infused by French culture). “Chivalry,” for example, comes from the French word, “cheval,” which means “horse.” Thus, “chivalry,” at first, literally meant “horsemanship,” you know, the skillset needed for knights. Similarly, “courtesy” literally referred to the manners required in being in and around the court. Isn’t language fun?

Back to the Knight: We are offered a brief catalogue of the worthy knight’s victories in battle but, more importantly, are told that this knight is true, perfect, and noble (line 72). “Gentil” means “gentle” (as in “gentleman”), which etymologically is connected to “genes” and thus the class of one’s birth. The idea that one is “noble” or of a genteel class, is one that carries over almost to our current day! (But it is a question that Chaucer places front and center, later, in the Wife of Bath’s tale…). It is a noteworthy detail that the Knight has just come off the battlefield in order to take this pilgrimage as he would have understood it to be his Christian duty to do.

The Knight is accompanied by his son the Squire, the next pilgrim introduced (“fresh” and “courteous,” a good rider, singer, and poet—naturally!) and his servant the Yeoman. These three constitute the first estate of pilgrims, the nobility.

Now we get to one of the most interesting pilgrims—the Prioress. From her name (Madam Eglantine) to her ability to speak French, the Prioress is all a stereotypical English nun should not be. She is delightful. She is not small in stature, but dainty in manners, ladylike, neat, and fancy! Her wimple (or headdress) is pleated rather than plain. She is accompanied by her little dogs. She is, in short, a worldly nun—but worldly in a way that is amusing and enchanting, not corrupt or evil. Indeed, she is charitable and merciful (line 143), sensitive and empathetic to the point that she would weep if she saw a mouse bleeding or dead in a trap (lines 144-45). This is humorous, of course, but it’s also touching: in a world as rough and violent as has been made clear through the description of the Knight’s battles, this kind of compassion—for merely a mouse—is a meaningful contrast in such a harsh world.

In the description of the Prioress we get an extended example of a quality central to Chaucer’s art and to medieval understanding. This is the idea that one’s physical appearance reflects one’s character and moral status. In the nineteenth century, the remnants of this thinking existed in the pseudo-science of phrenology, the study of the shape of the skull and its correlation to intelligence and other qualities. (I kid you not, echoes of this nonsense can be found in conspiratorial corners of Twitter to this day.) The Prioress’s small, rosy mouth and wide forehead bespeak her loveliness and intelligence—implicitly, mind you, since our obtuse narrator purports to simply be reporting what he sees. But the most telling detail about the Prioress is this: she wears a brooch (not typical nun behavior!), and the brooch has the words (in Latin), “Love conquers all.” Now, it’s important to point out that the “love” signified by the Latin “amor” is not “agape” love. No, it is romantic love.

What in the world are are we to make of this romantic nun?

If we know Chaucer and read him well, the answer is clear: we are supposed to delight in the paradox, in her foibles, and her humanity. We don’t get the backstory, but it’s not hard to imagine that a woman in love with love who has entered a convent has done so with a broken heart. Moreover, Chaucer presents her first among the clerical estate represented by these pilgrims, so this means she is highest within this class not only in social rank (a Prioress is a Mother Superior) but also in character. She may not be the most pious nun, but she is good.

The Monk and Friar who follow are a bit sketchier. The Monk is the quintessential “man’s man”— a hunter who has many good horses whose bells are as loud as the bells of the chapel (now there’s an image laden with meaning), and whose oily face suggests the “excess” of his passionate and materialistic lifestyle (his sleeves are fur-lined!). The Friar’s character is worse. Let me translate some of the delicate language used to describe him: he’s a very friendly and sociable guy—so “friendly,” in fact, that he’s arranged for the marriages of many young women at his own cost. Now, why do you think he would do that? Our narrator has no clue. But, hopefully, dear reader, you can figure it out.

As we run out of space and time for this week, let me close with this little trick Chaucer pulls. (It’s really not little.) Chaucer has his naïve narrator describe even scoundrels like the Friar as “worthy” (line 271), in this case a “worthy limitour” (line 271). A limitour was a mendicant given the right by the church to preach, take confessions, and beg within a certain area. This Friar, Hubert (Hubert!), the narrator tells us gave absolution as generous as the contribution given by the one confessing. Get it? He is really good at doing what does.

But what he is doing is not good.

Being good at something bad is bad. The narrator doesn’t get that. But Chaucer hopes we will.

All the pilgrims are good at what they do. And they are what they do.

(Reader, this is clearly a very slow read through the General Prologue of The Canterbury Tales. There is so very much richness to observe! Please let me know—by commenting, “liking,” or sharing—how much this series interests you! I am enjoying it, but want to do all I can to make sure you are, too! Sharing is caring, feedback is love. Thank you!)

1. Simone Weil, Gravity and Grace, trans. By Emma Crawford and Mario von der Ruhr (London: Routledge, 2002), 117.

2. Two interesting points connecting the hierarchy of medieval society and corners of Christianity today: first, modern fundamentalists didn’t invent this hierarchical view of church and family (and it’s ironic how the horseshoe effect results in some Protestant fundamentalists being an awful lot like the medieval church they claim to reject); second, semi-repeating the medieval hierarchy with the so-called "umbrella of protection” touted by Bill Gothard and friends, these modern hierarchalists offer a metaphor much less stable and less coherent t and connected than the links within the Great Chain of Being. (By the way, this history of the umbrella is fascinating, especially when the umbrella became waterproof to protect from the rain rather than the original, ancient parasol which was designed as a shield from the sun. Here’s a taste of that history, one in which the umbrella was long seen as effeminate: “England did not shake off its antiquated view of umbrellas only being for women until Jonas Hanway started carrying one in public around 1750. The gentleman writer would always have an umbrella on his person as he went about the streets of London, enduring ridicule from men who thought anyone with money could just take a stagecoach if it rained.”)