‘Oh,’ exclaimed the Prioress. ‘Please. No more.’
‘That’s enough,’ Harry Bailey said. ‘I don’t mind dirty stories. But I draw the line at whores. Whatever are you thinking of, man? There are nuns among us.’
Roger was a little abashed. ‘I didn’t mean to offend -’
‘Well, you have offended. Sit on your saddle and stay silent. Someone else will have to tell a story.’
Heere endeth the Cookes Tale
The Man of Law’s Prologue
The wordes of the Hoost to the compaignye
Our Host saw that the sun had risen high into the sky, and reckoned that it was already mid-morning. Although he was not deeply learned in matters of astronomy he knew from the shadows of the trees, equal in length to the trees themselves, that mighty Phoebus, the great globe of fire, the nurse of life, the sovereign of the heavens, had reached forty-five degrees in altitude. It was the 18th of April. It was ten o’clock. So he turned his horse about and addressed the pilgrims.
‘Lords and ladies,’ he said, ‘I must tell you that a quarter of the sun’s day has already passed. Look how he has climbed the steep heavenly hill. So for the love of God let’s try to lose no more time. Time does not stay and wait for us. When we sleep, or daydream, it runs on like the motion of a stream, never turning and never slowing, forever running from the mountain to the plain. That is why true philosophers lament the loss of time more than the loss of gold. Seneca put it this way: “Belongings can be restored, but time cannot be retrieved.” It cannot be recovered. It would be easier to turn a pregnant girl into a virgin. So let us not moulder now in idleness.’
Then he turned to the Man of Law, who was riding just behind him. ‘Can I ask you, sir, if you would be so kind as to tell a story to us? You agreed by your free consent to furnish a tale, and to adhere to my judgement and choice. So will you now fulfil your promise? Then you will have done your duty.’
‘My good Host,’ the sergeant replied. ‘I agree, of course. I have no intention of breaking my pledge to you and the others. A promise is an obligation, and I always fulfil my obligations. I am one who lays down the law to others. So to law I will be bound. But in truth I must say this to you all. I really do not know a tale that Geoffrey Chaucer has not already told. I admit that he knows very little about poetry, and is hopeless at rhyming, but he has recounted all the stories in such English as he could muster. He may not be very good, but I don’t think there is one old fable he has not written down. If he hasn’t put it in one book, he has put it in another. He has narrated the adventures of more lovers than are mentioned in Ovid’s Epistles. Do you know that ancient volume?
‘In his youth Chaucer wrote about Ceyx and Alcion. Ceyx was lost at sea, and Alcion threw herself into the waves in grief. Since he has written about so many star-crossed lovers, so many noble women and their paramours, why repeat him now? If anyone should open that hefty volume of his, The Legend of Good Women, he will come across Lucretia, who was raped, and Thisbe, who died for love. He loves sad stories. You can read in that book of poor Dido, who fell upon her sword after the treachery of Aeneas, and of Phyllis, who hanged herself from the branches of a tree. You can follow the laments of Dianire and Hermyon, of Adriana and Isiphilee. It is, as I said, a very long book. You can read about the barren island in the middle of the sea, and how Leander drowned himself for love of Hero. What else is there? I could mention the tears of lovely Helen and the woes of false Cressida. I could relate the cruelty of wicked Queen Medea, who hanged her own children for revenge when Jason abandoned her. It is not all doom and gloom, though. Geoffrey Chaucer does manage to praise the faithfulness of Penelope and Alceste.
‘There is one story that he does not tell. He refuses to mention the wicked love of Canacee for her own brother. Well, incest is no fit matter. That is why he does not write about Tyro Appollonius and King Antioch. That cursed monarch took the virginity of his own daughter. Can you believe it? It is too horrible to talk about, especially that moment when he threw her down on the floor and began to -. Excuse me. Chaucer thought about including these stories, but then decided against them. I know that John Gower narrates them, but Gower is not known for his good taste. Chaucer would never sully his writings with such abominations. How do I know? I just know. I will follow his example, in any case, and say no more about them.
‘How shall I begin my own story? I will not repeat Chaucer. I have said that already. I don’t want to be compared to those braggarts who thought that they could rival the Muses and were turned into magpies for their insolence. I will become no bird. And I don’t really care if I fall far short of him. Better a dull dish than no dish at all. Let him stick to his poetry. I will use plain prose.’ So the Man of Law, with a solemn countenance, began the story that you are about to hear.
Oh, oh, oh, oh. Oh hate and harm, the conditions of poverty! The thirst, the cold, the hunger and the hurt! If you are a poor man, then you are hard pressed on all sides. If you do not ask for your meat, you die of hunger. If you do ask for it, you die of shame. Your need is known to all. You must beg, or borrow, or steal, and all against your will. But how else will you stay alive?
Will you blame Christ himself, lamenting bitterly that He has falsely distributed the riches of the world? Will you accuse your neighbour of sinfulness? He has everything, while you have nothing. ‘There will come a time,’ you say, ‘when he will burn in hell. He has turned the poor man from his door.’
Listen to a lesson from the wise: ‘It is better to die than to be poor. It is better to leave this life than to be despised by your neighbour.’ If you are poor, then all respect for you is gone. Here is another saying from the wise: ‘All the days of poor men are sorrowful.’ Beware!
If you are poor, your own brother hates you. If you are poor, your friends all leave you. How different for you rich merchants, who are swimming in coin! What nobility! What prudence! You have cast the winning dice, and now scoop up the pool. Who dances most gaily at Christmas time? You do.
You search the land and sail the sea to find your fortune. You predict the rise and fall of kingdoms. You know the secrets of kings concerning peace and war. I said a minute ago that I knew no stories. But now I remember one told me by – guess who – a rich merchant. This is it.
The Man of Law’s Tale
Heere begynneth the Man of Lawe his tale
PART ONE
Once upon a time there dwelled a company of wealthy merchants in Syria. They were serious and responsible people. They traded in spices all over the world, as well as in satin and in cloth of gold. Their merchandise was so excellent and luxurious that every broker and dealer wanted to do business with them; there were as many sellers as there were buyers.
Now it so happened that some of these merchants decided to visit Rome. I do not know whether they were going for business, or for pleasure, but they decided that they wanted to travel to that city in person. They did not want to deal with agents. So they journeyed there and took up residence in that quarter of the city where they felt most comfortable.
They stayed in Rome for some time, visiting all the sites and enjoying all the pleasures of the city. So it happened that they got to hear of the emperor’s daughter, Lady Constance. Every day they heard more about her. The common report was that the daughter of the emperor (God save him!) was the most beautiful woman that ever was or ever will be in the world. Her honour was spotless.