Then she sees arrive a world of ladies . . . in surcotes white of velvet... set with emerauds as of great pearles round and And all had on their head riche stones set,' with ‘a some of laurer, some of orient, and diamonds fine and rubies red.' 'a rich fret of gold . . . full of stately chapelet of branches fresh and grene woodbind, some of agnus castus;' and at the same time came a train of valiant knights in splendid array, with 'harneis' of red gold, shining in the sun, and noble steeds, with trappings of cloth of gold, and furred with ermine.' These knights and dames were the servants of the Leaf, and they sate under a great oak, at the feet of their queen. From the other side came a bevy of ladies as resplendent as the first, but crowned with fresh flowers. These were the servants of the Flower. They alighted, and began to dance in the meadow. But heavy clouds appeared in the sky, and a storm broke out. They wished to shelter themselves under the oak, but there was no more room; they ensconced themselves as they could in the hedges and brambles; the rain came down and spoiled their garlands, stained their robes, and washed away their ornaments; when the sun returned, they went to ask succour from the queen of the Leaf; she, being merciful, consoled them, repaired the injury of the rain, and restored their original beauty. Then all disappears as in a dream. The lady was astonished, when suddenly a fair dame appeared and instructed her. She learned that the servants of the Leaf had lived like brave knights, and those of the Flower had loved idleness and pleasure. She promises to serve the Leaf, and came away. Is this an allegory? There is at least a lack of wit. There is no ingenious enigma; it is dominated by fancy, and the poet thinks only of displaying in soft verse the fleeting and brilliant train which had amused his mind and charmed his eyes. Chaucer himself, on the first of May, rises and goes out into the meadows. Love enters his heart with the warm sweet air; the landscape is transfigured, and the birds begin to speak: There sate I downe among the faire flours, And saw the birds trip out of hir bours, 1 The Flower and the Leaf, vi. p. 246, v. 78–133. There as they rested hem all the night, They coud that service all by rote, The proyned hem and made hem right gay, That might ben yheard of any mon."1 This confused harmony of vague noises troubles the sense; a secret languor enters the soul. The cuckoo throws his monotonous voice like a mournful and tender sigh between the white ash-tree boles; the nightingale makes his triumphant notes roll and rush above the leafy canopy; fancy breaks in unsought, and Chaucer hears them dispute of Love. They sing alternately an antistrophic song, and the nightingale weeps for vexation to hear the cuckoo speak in depreciation of Love. He is consoled, however, by the poet's voice, seeing that he also suffers with him: "For love and it hath doe me much wo." Go looke upon the fresh daisie, And though thou be for wo in point to die, "And looke alway that thou be good and trew, "I shrewe all hem that been of love untrue." To such exquisite delicacies love, as with Petrarch, had carried poetry; by refinement even, as with Petrarch, it is lost now and then in its wit, conceits, clenches. But a marked characteristic at once separates it from Petrarch. Chaucer, if over-excited, is also graceful, polished, full of light banter, half-mockeries, fine sensual gaiety, some 1 The Cuckow and Nightingale, vi. p. 121, v. 67-85. what gossipy, as the French always paint love. He follows his true masters, and is himself an elegant speaker, facile, ever ready to smile, loving choice pleasures, a disciple of the Roman de la Rose, and much less Italian than French. The bent of French character makes of love not a passion, but a gay feast, tastefully arranged, in which the service. is elegant, the food exquisite, the silver brilliant, the two guests in full dress, in good humour, quick to anticipate and please each other, knowing how to keep up the gaiety, and when to part. In Chaucer, without doubt, this other altogether worldly view runs side by side with the sentimental element. If Troïlus is a weeping lover, his uncle Pandarus is a lively rascal, who volunteers for a singular service with amusing urgency, frank immorality, and carries it out carefully, gratuitously, thoroughly. In these pretty attempts Chaucer accompanies him as far as possible, and is not shocked. On the contrary, he makes fun out of it. At the critical moment, with transparent hypocrisy, he shelters himself under his character as author. If you find the particulars free, he says, it is not my fault; 'so writen clerks in hir bokes old,' and 'I mote, aftir min auctour, telle . . . Not only is he gay, but he jests from end to end of the tale. He sees clearly through the tricks of feminine modesty; he laughs at it maliciously, knowing well what is behind; he seems to be saying, finger on lip: 'Hush! let the grand words roll on, you will be edified presently.' We are, in fact, edified; so is he, and in the nick of time he goes away, carrying the light: 'For ought I can aspies, this light nor I ne serven here of nought.' 'Troilus,' says uncle Pandarus, 'if ye be wise, sweveneth not now, lest more folke arise.' Troilus takes care not to swoon; and Cressida at last, being alone with him, speaks wittily and with prudent delicacy; there is here an exceeding charm, no coarseness. Their happiness covers all, even voluptuousness, as with profusion and perfume of heavenly roses. At most a slight spice of malice flavours it: 'and gode thrift he had full oft.' Troilus holds his mistress in his arms with worse hap God let us never mete.' The poet is almost as well pleased as they for him, as for the men of his time, the sovereign good is love, not damped, but satisfied; they ended even by thinking such love a merit. The ladies declared in their judgments, that when one loved, one could refuse nothing to the beloved. Love has the force of law; it is inscribed in a code; they combine it with religion; and there is a sacrament of love, in which the birds in their anthems sing matins.2 Chaucer curses with all his heart the covetous wretches, the business men, who treat it as a folly: 'As would God, tho wretches that despise Service of love had eares also long As had Mida, ful of covetise, 1 Stendhal, On Love: the difference of Love-taste and Love-passion. To teachen hem, that they been in the vice God yeve hem mischaunce, And every lover in his trouth avaunce.'1 He clearly lacks severity, so rare in southern literature. The Italians in the middle age made joy into a virtue; and you perceive that the world of chivalry, as conceived by the French, expanded morality so as to confound it with pleasure. IV. There are other characteristics still more gay. The true Gallic literature crops up; obscene tales, practical jokes on one's neighbour, not shrouded in the Ciceronian style of Boccacio, but related lightly by a man in good humour; above all, active malice, the trick of laughing at your neighbour's expense. Chaucer displays it better than Rutebeuf, and sometimes better than La Fontaine. He does not knock his men down; he pricks them as he passes, not from deep hatred or indignation, but through sheer nimbleness of disposition, and quick sense of the ridiculous; he throws his jokes at them by handfuls. His man of law is more a man of business than of the world: 'Nowher so besy a man as he ther n'as, His three burgesses: Everich, for the wisdom that he can Of the mendicant Friar he says: His wallet lay beforne him in his lappe, The mockery here comes from the heart, in the French manner, with- 'Bold was hire face, and fayre and rede of hew, She was a worthy woman all hire live ; Housbondes at the chirche dore had she had five, 1 Troilus and Cressida, vol. v. iii. pp. 44, 45. The story of the pear-tree (Merchant's Tale), and of the cradle (Reeve's Tale), for instance, in the Canterbury Tales. Ibid. prol. p. 10, v. 323. 4 Ibid. p. 12, v. 373. 5 lbid. p. 21, v. 688. What a tongue she has! Impertinent, full of vanity, bold, chattering, unbridled, she silences everybody, and holds forth for an hour before coming to her tale. We hear her grating, high-pitched, loud, clear voice, wherewith she deafened her husbands. She continually harps upon the same ideas, repeats her reasons, piles them up and confounds them, like a stubborn mule who runs along shaking and ringing his bells, so that the stunned listeners remain open-mouthed, wondering that a single tongue can spin out so many words. The subject was worth the trouble. She proves that she did well to marry five husbands, and she proves it clearly, like a woman used to arguing: 'God bad us for to wex and multiplie ; Why shuld men than speke of it vilanie? Lo here the wise king Dan Solomon, I trow he hadde wives mo than on, (As wolde God it leful were to me To be refreshed half so oft as he,) Which a gift of God had he for alle his wives?. Blessed be God that I have wedded five. Welcome the sixthe whan that ever he shall. He (Christ) spake to hem that wold live parfitly, I wol bestow the flour of all myn age Here Chaucer has the freedom of Molière, and we possess it no longer. His good wife justifies marriage in terms just as technical as Sganarelle. It behoves us to turn the pages quickly, and follow in the lump only this Odyssey of marriage. The experienced wife, who has journeyed through life with five husbands, knows the art of taming them, and relates how she persecuted them with jealousy, suspicion, grumbling, quarrels, blows given and received; how the husband, non 1 Canterbury Tales, ii. prologue, p. 14, v. 460. Ibid. ii. Wife of Bath's Prologue, p. 168, v. 5610-5739. |