The Canterbury Tales

by Peter Ackroyd

Our Host laughed out loud. ‘I am convinced now,’ he said, ‘that we will have to take strong liquor with us wherever we go. It is a sovereign remedy for strife. It turns fights and arguments into love-feasts. Blessed is thy name, Bacchus, god of wine. You can make the greatest enemies the best of friends. I will worship you from this time forward! Now, sir Manciple, we turn to you. Will you tell us your tale?’

  ‘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.

  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.’

  We all agreed to this. It seemed good to us that we should end our journey with some virtuous text. We were happy to hear the Parson’s soft voice at the end of the day. So we asked our Host to entreat him to continue.

  ‘Sir priest,’ he said, ‘God be with you. Give us the fruit of your contemplations. But you must hurry. The sun is sinking in the sky. Give us much matter in a short space. May God help you in your task, good man. Now please begin.’

  So the Parson rode before us, and began his story. We had entered a forest. ‘Our sweet Lord God of heaven, who wills that all men have full knowledge of His godhead and live in the sweet bliss of eternity, admonishes us with the wise words of the prophet Jeremiah. Stand upon the old paths and find from old scriptures the right way which is the good way, on this pilgrimage upon the earth . . .’

  I held my horse back as the pilgrims made their way among the trees. The evening fell and the birds of the forest were silent. I could still hear him speaking of ‘the right way to Jerusalem the Celestial’ when I dismounted and walked into a small grove. There I went down on my knees and prayed.

  Chaucer’s Retractions

  Here taketh the makere of this book his leve

  ‘I make this request to all of those who hear or read this little treatise. If there be anything here that pleases them, they should thank our Lord Jesus Christ from whom proceeds all virtue and all wisdom. If there be anything here they dislike I beg them to ascribe the fault to my ignorance and not to my will. I would have written better if I possessed the gift of eloquence. The Bible tells us that words must be used to instruct us. That has always been my intention.

  ‘So I beseech you, for the mercy of God, to pray for me to Christ our Saviour. Plead with Him to forgive my sins, and especially my transgressions in the writing and translation of books of worldly vanity. I now revoke and condemn these books: Troilus and Criseyde, The Book of Fame, The Legend of Good Women, The Book of the Duchess, The Parliament of Fowls, and those stories of The Canterbury Tales that may be construed as sinful. I also recant The Book of the Lion and, if I could remember them, many other books. I renounce the songs and lecherous lays that I have written down, in the hope that Christ will forgive my trespasses. Grant me mercy, oh Lord. But for the translation of The Consolation of Boethius, for all the saints’ lives, for all the homilies and moral tales that tend to virtue - for all these I thank Christ and His blessed Mother, beseeching them and all the saints of heaven to pray for me now and at the hour of my death. Send me grace so that I may repent my sins and save my soul. Grant me true penitence, confession and absolution. In the merciful name of our Saviour, Jesus Christ, king of kings and priest of priests, who redeemed the world with His precious blood, may I be one of those saved on the day of doom. Qui cum Patre et Spiritu Sancto vivit et regnat Deus per omnia secula. Amen.’

  I rose to my feet, and walked back to my horse.Heere is ended the book of the tales of Canterbury, compiled by Geoffrey Chaucer, of whos soule Jhesu Crist have mercy. Amen.