The apostle has recorded his lament. ‘Many are walking on this earth,’ he said, ‘who are enemies of Christ crucified. I tell you this in sorrow. Their fate is death everlasting. If their belly is their god, they will be condemned.’ Belly! Stomach! Words for a stinking bag of flesh, filled with shit and corrupted filth. From either end comes a foul wind. Sustenance is found for you at great cost and hard labour. The cooks have to grind and pound and mince, turning one dish into the likeness of another, just to satisfy you. They have to extract the marrow from the bones, just so that you can swallow the sweetest juices. They have to concoct spices out of herbs and leaves, so that they can make a sauce to stir your appetite. Yet you who live for such delights are as good as dead. Your vices have killed you.
Drunkenness is just as foul a sin. Alcohol provokes violence and creates misery. It sours the breath. It disfigures the features. Who would want to embrace a drunk? He snores loudly, and mutters broken words. Oh you drunkard, you fall down as heavily as a stuck pig. You have lost your tongue, as well as your self-respect. Drunkenness is the graveyard of intelligence and decency. Never trust a man who is lost in drink. Never confide in him. So, good people, keep away from the red and the white wines that are sold in Fish Street and Cheapside. Spanish wine is the cheapest and the worst. It seems to get mixed up with other wines, until it becomes quite overpowering. Its vapours go straight to the head. I do not blame the vintners for this, of course. God forbid. My father was a vintner. It must happen naturally somehow. Two or three glasses are enough. The drunkard may then think he is at home in London, but in fact he has been transported to a vineyard in Spain. He is lying among the grapes, burbling nonsense.
So, lords and ladies, listen to me. All of the great deeds and victories commemorated in the Old Testament were performed by men who practised abstinence. They never touched liquor. They prayed to Almighty God instead. Read all about it in the Holy Book.
In contrast, think of Attila. This great king and conqueror, to his manifest shame and dishonour, died in his sleep from too much drink; he was bleeding at the nose, in fact. A military man should live soberly. Remember what was commanded of Lamuel. Was it Samuel? No. Lamuel. It is in the Book of Proverbs. ‘Give not to kings, Oh Lamuel, give not wine to kings. For there is no secret where drunkenness reigns.’ There is no need to say more on that subject.
So let me turn to gambling. Next to drunkenness, gaming is the worst vice. Dice are the mothers of lies. They are the cause of deceit, of cursing, of perjury, of blasphemy, and even of manslaughter. They waste time and money. And, furthermore, to be known as a common gambler is deemed to be a great dishonour. The more exalted a man is in rank, as a gambler, the more infamous he will become. A gambling prince would be unfit to frame a policy. He would be considered incompetent in public life. Once upon a time the philosopher Stilbo was sent from Sparta as an ambassador to form an alliance with Corinth. He travelled in great state but, on his arrival, he happened to find all the greatest in the land grouped around a gaming table. As soon as he could, he returned to his own nation. ‘I am not going to lose my reputation,’ he said to his rulers, ‘or bring shame to my own people, by making an alliance with gamblers. Send other wise envoys, if you wish, but on my honour I would rather die than negotiate with such wastrels. We Spartans are a glorious people. We cannot allow ourselves to be associated with them. I for one could not sign such a treaty.’ So spoke the wise philosopher.
Take the case of King Demetrius. The king of Persia sent him a pair of golden dice to signify his scorn for him as a well-known gambler. Demetrius had no thought for his honour or his glory. As a result he had no reputation in the outside world. The great lords of the earth can surely think of better ways to spend their time than in dicing.
Now, dear pilgrims, I will turn to perjury and the swearing of false oaths. That is another subject treated by the old books. Cursing is a great sin in itself, of course, but perjury is greater still. God Almighty has forbidden swearing of every kind. We know that on the authority of Matthew. Jeremiah also touched upon the subject. ‘Thou shalt swear in truth,’ he wrote, ‘in judgement and in righteousness.’ Profanity is a wretched thing. Do you recall the three commandments concerning the duties owed to the Almighty? The third of them is this - ‘Thou shalt not take the Lord’s name in vain.’ This is more important than the taking of life or any other enormity. In order of significance it lies third. Every schoolboy knows that. I tell you plainly that violence and vengeance will not be strangers in the house of a blasphemer who cries out, ‘By Christ’s passion!’ or ‘By the nails on Christ’s cross!’ When he plays at dice he calls out to his opponent, ‘You have five and three. I need seven. By the blood of Christ, give me a seven!’ And then he exclaims, ‘By the bones of Christ, I will stab you to the heart if you play false with me!’ This is the fruit of the cursed dice - curses, anger, perjury and murder. So for the love of Christ, who died for us, forsake all oaths. Now I will get on with my story.
These three young scoundrels, whom I mentioned at the beginning, were sitting in a low tavern long before daybreak. They were drinking together when suddenly they heard the chink of the handbell that announces the carriage of a coffin to the grave. One of them turned to his servant. ‘Go outside,’ he said, ‘and find out whose corpse it is. Try to remember the name.’
‘Sir,’ the boy replied, ‘that isn’t necessary. I knew about it two hours ago. It is the body of an old comrade of yours. He was murdered last night, very suddenly, as he sat blind drunk upon the bench outside the tavern. A thief called Death sneaked up on him. Death is killing everyone around here. He took up his spear, pierced the drunk through the heart, and silently went on his way. He has killed another thousand during the recent plague. I think, master, that you should be careful not to come too close to him. It is better to beware such an adversary. That’s what my mother taught me. Death is the constant enemy.’
‘Mother of God!’ the landlord said. ‘The boy is right. Death has killed thousands of people this year. Why, he has slain an entire village a mile or so away from here, with every man and woman and child gone into the ground. I am sure that he lives there. It would be wise to be wary of him, sirs. Forewarned is forearmed.’
‘By the blood of Jesus,’ one of them exclaimed. ‘Are we all so frightened of him? I will search out this fellow named Death in every street and every quarter. I swear that I will teach him a lesson. What do the two of you say? Are you with me? Let us hold up our hands together, and swear that we will act as brothers in the quest for Death. The slayer will become the slain, this very night, so help us God!’
So the three of them swore an oath to be true to one another, and to live or die in pursuit of their fraternal cause. So these newfound brothers jumped up from the tavern bench, as drunk as skunks, and made their way to the neighbouring village where Death was supposed to dwell. On the road they uttered many oaths, swearing by Christ’s bones and blood, that they would tear Death to pieces once they had got their hands on him. They had walked about half a mile, and were just about to cross over a stile, when they were stopped by a poor old man. He saluted them very humbly. ‘God save you, your reverences,’ he said.
The proudest of the three laughed in his face. ‘Who do you think you are, old man?’ he asked him. ‘Why are you all wrapped up in rags, except for your face? Haven’t you lived long enough? Isn’t it time to die?’
The man looked into his face, and answered him patiently. ‘I have walked all over the world, and still I cannot find the person I seek. I have met no one, in town or city or village, who will exchange his youth for my age. So therefore I grow ever more aged, counting off the years that God has willed to me. Death himself refuses to take away my life. So I walk on, a restless wanderer through the world. With my staff I knock upon the earth, calling out “Dear mother, let me in. Open the gate. See how I grow feeble. I am nothing but skin and bones. Dear mother, let these bones rest within you. I would gladly exchange my box of treasures for the comfor
t of a winding cloth around my corpse.” Yet mother earth will not help me, sirs. So you see me standing before you with pale and withered face.
‘But, gentlemen, it is not right that you insult me. I have done you no wrong, in word or deed. Have you not read the Holy Book? It is the duty of the young to stand in reverence to the old. White hairs demand respect. Do not injure the old, in case you are harmed when you reach the same age. That is all I have to say to you. God be with you, wherever you may travel. I must go on as before.’
‘You are going nowhere, you old fool,’ one of the three said to him. ‘By Christ’s passion you are not getting off so lightly. You just mentioned that false traitor, Death, who has killed all of our friends in the neighbourhood. You have my word on it. If you are spying for him, you will pay for it. Tell me where he is. Otherwise, expect the worst. I swear it on the body and blood of Jesus. You are in league with Death, aren’t you, in a conspiracy to slay all of us young people!’
‘Young gentlemen,’ the old man said, ‘if you are in such a hurry to find Death, turn up this crooked path here. You will find him sitting under a tree in an oak grove. I left him there only a minute ago. I assure you that, despite your threats, Death will not run away from you. Do you see that tall oak? He waits there. May Christ, who saved the world, save you!’ The old man then went on his way.
So the three wastrels, with loud cries, ran towards the oak tree. And what did they find there? They found piles of gold florins, newly minted, heaped on the ground. They reckoned that there were more than eight bushels of this treasure. They forgot all about Death. He was the last thing on their minds. They thought only of this glittering hoard of coin, so fresh and bright that it dazzled their eyes. The three of them sat down beside it in amazement.
The worst of them spoke first. ‘Brothers,’ he said, ‘listen carefully to what I have to say. I may joke and play about, but I have a good head on my shoulders. I know what I’m talking about. Fortune has granted us this treasure-trove. It is ours to spend as we like, in joy and festivity all life long. Easy come, easy go. Who would have thought, for God’s sake, that this would be our lucky day! We must find a way of carrying this gold back to my house - or to yours, of course, we are all in this together. Only then can we be sure of it. But we cannot move it in daylight. We will be accused of theft, and hanged straight away from the nearest tree. No. It has got to be done by night. We have to transport the gold carefully and quietly so that we arouse no suspicions. This is what I suggest. We cut sticks and draw. The one who draws the longest will run back into town, and purchase bread and wine for us. The other two will keep watch over the treasure. As long as he comes back quickly with provisions - and says nothing when he is in town - we will be able to carry home the gold tonight to whatever place we think best. Do you agree?’
Then he picked up three sticks and, bidding them to draw in turn, put them tightly within his fist. The youngest of them chose the longest stick and so, according to the plan, he ran off towards the town as quickly as he could. As soon as he was out of sight the one who had conceived the plan turned to his friend. ‘You know that you are my sworn brother,’ he said in a low voice. ‘So I will tell you something to your advantage. We are alone. He has gone into town. You saw him. There is plenty of gold here to share among the three of us. No doubt about it. But what if I arranged it so that only two of us would benefit? Wouldn’t that be a friendly thing to do?’
The other one was puzzled. ‘How are you going to do that? He knows that the two of us are guarding the gold until his return. What are we going to do? What are we going to tell him?’
‘If you swear to keep this secret,’ he whispered, ‘I will tell you in a few words what has to be done.’
‘I swear. I will never betray you.’
‘Listen closely then. Two people are stronger than one. Is that not so? When he comes back, get up as if you were about to play; pretend to wrestle with him, and at the same time I will stab him in the back. You must use your knife on him, too. Then we will be able to share out the gold between us, my dear friend, just you and me. We will be able to indulge ourselves. Why, we will dice all the day long!’ So these two scoundrels agreed to kill their friend and newly sworn brother.
The youngest man, who had gone into town, had also been considering the situation. All he could see, and think of, were those glistening piles of coin. ‘Lord,’ he said to himself, ‘if only I could keep all that treasure for myself! No one in God’s world would be more pleased and happy.’ It was at this point that Satan, the foul enemy of mankind, whispered to him that he should procure poison and feed it to his two friends. When a man is living in such sin as he was, the fiend is permitted to tempt him even further. So he determined, there and then, to purchase poison and do murder without compunction or regret. He went to an apothecary in the town, and told him that he wanted to buy poison to exterminate some rats; he said that he also wanted to get rid of a weasel that killed the chickens in his yard, as well as all the other household vermin that creep out by night.
‘Well, sir,’ the apothecary replied, ‘I have the very thing. I swear to God that this arsenic will kill anything and everything. A creature has only to take a tiny piece, the size of a grain of wheat, and it will die. It begins to work after a few minutes. It is strong and violent. And, as I said, it is always fatal.’
‘Excellent. I will take it.’ So the apothecary made up a box of the poison for him. The young man went out into the street, and walked into a tavern. Here he ordered three bottles of wine. Into two of them he put the poison, while he left the third for his own use. He intended to spend the entire night in carrying the gold back to his own house. After he had finished preparing the poisoned draughts, he returned to his friends beneath the oak tree.
Do I need to state the obvious? The two of them, just as they had planned, stabbed the young man to death. When they had murdered him, they laughed. ‘Let us sit down and drink,’ one of them said. ‘We deserve a rest. After we have got through this wine, we can think about burying him.’ He opened one of the bottles and put it to his lips. ‘Chin chin. Open another one.’ So they refreshed themselves, or so they thought. They were drinking poison, of course, and soon died.
I don’t think any medical expert could describe in detail all of their suffering. It was unutterably horrible. Death had caught them, after all, two murderers and a poisoner.
Oh cursed sinners, filled with malice and wickedness! You have been fattened with gluttony and lapped in luxury. You have thrown the dice for the last time. Blasphemers, your curses against Christ have come back upon you! Your swearing, your pride and folly, have destroyed you. Why is mankind so false to its creator, who purchased its redemption with His own blood?
Now, all you good men and women, learn from me and beware the sin of avarice. Forgive us our trespasses. That is the prayer. So I have come here to pardon you. Just give me your coins, your jewellery and your silver spoons. Here is the papal bull of dispensation. Wives, what will you give me for it? Bales of cloth? Look. I can write down your names now, and ensure that you pass easily into the bliss of paradise. By the high powers granted to me, and for a certain sum, I can absolve you of all your sins. You will be as innocent as the day you were born. The price is worth it. Cash down. And may Christ in His mercy grant you His pardon. May He save your soul. Etcetera. Etcetera.
‘And that, fellow pilgrims, is the way I preach. Oh, I forgot one thing. I have plenty of wonder-working relics in my bag, as well as many pardons given to me personally by the pope. If any of you wish to take advantage of these holy writs, offer me some money and kneel down before me. In return for your devotion, I will give you absolution. I can absolve you now, or at any time during the course of our journey. My pardons are always fresh and always renewed - as long as you are able to pay for them, of course. Isn’t it a blessing that I am among you? I can wipe away your sins at any time, night or day. I am at your service. It is possible that one of you might fall from his horse and b
reak his neck. You have me as a security. I can absolve you before the soul leaves the body.
‘Let me start with our Host here. I am willing to bet that he is the one most enmired in sin. Am I right? Come forth, Harry Bailey, and give me some money. Then I will let you kiss the relics, one by one. Unfasten your purse, sir.’
‘I will do no such thing,’ our Host replied. ‘May Christ curse me if I give you so much as a groat. You would tell me to kiss a pair of your dirty underpants, and swear that the shit came from a saint! By the holy relic of the true cross, I wish I had your greasy balls in my hand rather than your fake papal bulls. Let’s cut them off and enshrine them in a hog’s turd. That’s where they belong.’
The Pardoner was so angry that he could not say a word. He just glowered in silence.
‘I really can’t be bothered to make fun of you,’ our Host said. ‘I will have nothing to do with an angry man.’
The Knight saw that everyone was laughing at the Pardoner, and so he rode to the front of the procession. ‘Enough of this,’ he said. ‘No more. Now, sir Pardoner, recover your temper. Smile. And you, sir Host, make amends to our friend here. Kiss him on the cheek in token of amity. And you, Pardoner, respond in kind with the kiss of peace. This will be a love day. We will go on our way as before with good cheer and laughter.’ So the Host and Pardoner were reconciled. And the pilgrims went on their way rejoicing.Heere is ended the Pardoners Tale
The Canterbury Tales Page 31