In the same way there is no difference between a usurping tyrant and a thief or outlaw. They are exactly the same. Alexander the Great was once told that a tyrant who burns down homes, slaughters his enemies and destroys land is acclaimed as a great general and leader; a small-time thief who does not have armies, and who can only rob a few houses without doing much damage, is damned as a rogue and criminal. But I am not a great expert in such things. I cannot quote you chapter and verse.
So, anyway, the wife of Phoebus stripped this man and fondled him. You can imagine the rest. All the time the white crow was sitting in its cage and watching the whole thing. It did not even chirrup. But as soon as Phoebus returned home it sang out, ‘Cukoo! Cockoh! Cuckold!’
‘What is that song?’ Phoebus came over to the cage. ‘I have never heard you sing so loudly before. It does my heart good to see you so cheerful. But what is the song?’
‘It is a true one, Phoebus, I know that much. For all your virtue – for all your beauty – for all your faithfulness and honesty – for all your music -’
‘Get on with it, bird.’
‘You have been deluded and deceived. A man of very little reputation – a man who cannot be compared to you in any respect – a man with the worth of a gnat -’
‘Go on.’
‘Has been fucking your wife. I saw him with my own two eyes.’
What more need I say? The crow told him what had happened in great detail. It told him how his wife had betrayed him time and time again. Phoebus turned away, struck with grief, thinking that his heart was about to break. He took up his bow and plucked an arrow from its sheath; with that, he killed her on the spot. There is no more to say.
Then he fell into a frenzy. He smashed all of his instruments – his harp, his lute, his gitern – and then he broke his bow and arrows. When he had finished, he turned once more to the crow in the cage.
‘Traitor!’ he screamed at it. ‘With the tongue of a scorpion, not of a bird, you have destroyed my happiness! Damned is the day when I was born. I wish I were dead. And my dear wife? You were the source of all my bliss. You were always true and faithful to me, I am sure of that. Now you are lying here dead in front of me. You were innocent, weren’t you? How could I have been so blind, so stupid? How could I have committed such a crime against an innocent and virtuous woman? What was I thinking? My senseless anger has struck down a blameless victim. Distrust has destroyed us both. Every man, beware of haste. Believe nothing without strong evidence. Do not strike before you know the truth. Consider very carefully what you are doing. Anger and suspicion are not enough. They lead you into the dark. That is why I, Phoebus Apollo, now wish to kill myself.’
Then he turned to the crow. ‘Villain! False bird! You used to sing sweeter than a nightingale. You will never sing again. These fine white feathers will turn to black. You will be dumb, unable to speak, for the whole span of your life. That is how traitors are punished. You and your offspring will be black for ever. Your breed will be silent, except when you croak in warning of a storm. Your cry will remind the world of wind and rain. That is your punishment for the death of my wife.’
Phoebus reached into the cage and pulled out all of the bird’s white feathers one by one. Then he struck it dumb, depriving it of speech and song, before he drove it out of the house. May the fiend take the bird. And that is why, ladies and gentlemen, all crows are black.
So take heed of this story and remember to think before you speak. Guard your tongue. Never tell a man that his wife has been unfaithful to him. Whether you are right or wrong, he will hate you for it. According to eminent scholars, Solomon had learned discretion at an early age. But, as I said, I am not a learned man. My mother is my real teacher. Once she said to me, ‘Son, for God’s sake think of the crow. Curb your tongue and keep your friends. A loose tongue is more destructive than the devil. You can cross yourself to ward off the foul fiend.
‘God has given you teeth and lips to restrain the tongue. Use them. And use your head, too. Think before you speak. The loud mouth often comes to grief. No one has ever been punished for saying too little. Do not hold forth, except of course in praise of God and His saints. What was I saying? Yes, restraint is the first virtue. That is what small children are taught every day. That was the lesson I learned, too. Too many words are bad for you. What is a rash tongue? It is a sword that wounds and kills. Just as a knife can cut off an arm, so can a tongue sever a friendship. God hates a jangler. Read the wise sayings of Solomon. Read the psalms of David. Read Seneca. They will all tell you the same. Do not speak. Just nod your head and stay silent. Pretend that you are deaf, even, if some gossip tries to spread rumours. The Flemings have a saying: “The less chatter, the more cheer.” If you have not said a wicked word, my son, then you have nothing to fear. If you say something wrong or foolish, you will never be able to take it back again. What is said is said. It flies into the air, and cannot be caught. You will become a victim of your own verbosity. Spread no news, and start no gossip. Whatever company you keep, high or low, restrain your tongue and think about the crow. Have I said enough?’
Heere is ended the Maunciples Tale of the Crowe
The Parson’s Prologue
Here folweth the myrie words of the Parsoun
By the time that the Manciple had finished his story, the sun was low in the sky. It was by my calculation no more than twenty-nine degrees in height, and my shadow stood out before me. It was four o’clock, and a spring evening was about to descend upon us travellers. We were riding through the outskirts of a village when the Host reined in his horse and addressed us.
‘Good lords and ladies,’ he said, ‘our work is almost done. We lack only one tale, according to my reckoning. We have heard from every class, and every degree, in the course of our journey. My ordinance has almost been fulfilled. There is only one person left to entertain us. I hope he does it well.’ He turned to the Parson, who rode a little behind him. ‘Sir priest,’ he asked him, ‘are you a vicar or a parson? Do you have your own church or do you serve another? Speak the truth, please. It doesn’t matter what rank you hold, as long as you can tell a good story. You are the last. Open up. Sing for your supper. Let us see what you are made of. I can tell by your appearance, and your expression, that you are good at this kind of thing. Tell us a good old-fashioned fable, will you?’
‘You will get no fable from me, Mr Bailey,’ the Parson replied. ‘Do you not recall the words of Paul to Timothy? He condemns those who stray from the path of truth and who invent lies or fantasies. Why should I give you chaff when I can offer you good wheat? So if you wish to hear morality and virtuous matter, I am your man. If you are willing to give me an audience I will do my best to mix instruction with delight. But I am a man of the south. I cannot call a lady “a bonny wee thing” or tell you something “canny”. I cannot lay claim to being much of a poet, either, so I will tell you something pleasing and suitable in prose. Now, at the end of our journey, I will bring matters to a conclusion. May the Saviour guide me and inspire me to lead you to Jerusalem. Our pilgrimage on earth is an image of the glorious pilgrimage to the celestial city. With your permission I will now begin my story. What is your opinion?
‘There is one other thing. I am no scholar. I am sure that there are some among you who are more learned and able than I am. I can offer you only the substance, the essential meaning, and I am perfectly willing to be corrected.’