‘I will. With pleasure.’
The Manciple’s Tale
Heere bigynneth the Maunciples Tale of the Crowe
When Phoebus lived upon the earth, as the old books tell us, he was the most gallant knight and most lively bachelor of all. He was also the most skilful archer. He killed the serpent Python as the great snake lay sleeping in the sun. He accomplished other great deeds with his bow. You can read about them in those old books I mentioned.
He was also an expert musician, capable of playing any instrument. His voice was so exquisitely beautiful that it ravished the ear. Amphion, the famous king of Thebes, whose singing raised up the stone walls of his city, could not rival him. He was also the most handsome man that ever was, or ever will be, in the world. What need is there to dwell on the details of his beauty? It is enough to say that he was matchless. He was also a very gentle, worthy knight of peerless renown. That is why this flower of honour, this Phoebus, always carried with him his bow. It was a token of his victory over Python, but he was also looking out for sport and adventure.
Now in his house he had a crow. He kept it in a cage. This bird was as white as a swan, by the way. It was whiter than snow or the fleece of a lamb. Phoebus fostered it, and taught it to speak so well that it could mimic the voice of any man or woman it heard. And it sang so sweetly, too, more melodiously than the nightingale. It was a joy to hear its notes.
At this time Phoebus had a wife, whom he loved more dearly than life itself. Night and day he did his best to please her and delight her. He had only one fault – he was a jealous husband and, if he could, he would have kept her under lock and key. He was afraid of being cuckolded, as would be any man in that position. But all precautions are useless. A good wife, innocent in thought and deed, should not be watched or doubted; if the wife is not so good, you cannot hold her down. I take it as a law that you cannot restrain a woman who wants to roam. Every writer concurs on that subject.
Back to my story. So Phoebus does all he can to please her, hoping that all his attentions and all his affection will stop her from chasing after any other man. But God knows that you cannot thwart the course of nature. You cannot crush the force of instinct. Put any wild bird in a cage. You can feed it, give it water, hang little bells from the bars, attend to it in every possible way, it will make no difference. It will still wish to be free. The cage might be made out of gold. The bird would still prefer to be in a wild wood, feeding off worms and dirt. It will try as hard as it can to escape. It desires only its liberty.
I give you the example of the cat. You can feed it with the choicest meats, and the richest milk. You can make a bed for it with the finest silks. As soon as it sees a mouse, it forgets all about its creature comforts. It is not interested in cuts of ham or beef. It wants only to eat the mouse. Nature holds dominion. Need knows no law. Think of the she-wolf. When desire moves her, she wishes to mate with the foulest wolf she can find. That is her appetite. I have cited these examples to prove the faithlessness of the male, not of the female. We all know that men lust after the lowest of the low. Their wives may be beautiful and noble and loving. It makes no difference. They want fresh meat. They delight in novelty. They sicken at the thought of their virtuous wives.
Phoebus Apollo was different, of course. But for all his innocence he was deceived. His wife had fallen for another man. He was of low reputation, and far beneath Phoebus in every respect. It is the kind of situation that happens all the time, and is always a cause of grief and misery.
So whenever Phoebus was away from home, his wife invited this man to come and fuck her. Fuck her? Sorry. That is vulgar. I suppose I should apologize. But it is the truth. Plato said that the word should always fit the deed. If I am going to tell my story properly, I need to use the appropriate terms. I am a plain man of plain speaking. And there really isn’t any difference between a common woman and a lady of high degree if she is free with her body. They are both steeped in sin. Oh, there is one difference. The high-born lady is deemed to be a ‘lover’, while the common woman is called a ‘slut’. In truth, of course, one lies as low as the other. They are both on their backs.
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.