Paradise Walk

by Mary Malloy

  Jackie not only yawned, but leaned over to Lizzie and said “Yawn.”

  “In Chaucer’s own time,” Dante continued, “this story might have been recognized by his audience as a familiar text, but in the twenty-first century we are forced to dig into and ponder multiple literary works seeking its roots.”

  “I hate that Chamberlain quote,” Lizzie whispered to Jackie, still thinking about Dante’s first sentence long after he had gone on. “Why ‘ineradicably vulgar’?”

  Jackie responded with a mock snore.

  “Like many of the Arthurian legends,” Dante droned, “this story began in ancient Ireland, travelled from there to Wales and then via balladeers to Brittany. When the Normans invaded England, William the Conqueror was followed by the balladeers, whose stories came with them.”

  “That Irish bit is something new,” Jackie said.

  “To me too,” Lizzie said. “And I’ve just read a pile of books on the Arthurian legends.”

  Dante divided his examination of the story into three main elements: the hag (whom he called “the Loathly Lady”), the rape, and the quest for the answer to the question about the thing most desired by women.

  “The story of the Loathly Lady begins in ancient Ireland where, according to myth, the goddess Ériu married Lugh, the sun. Ériu was a beautiful young woman in the spring, but aged through the year until in the winter she became an old hag. Over time, Ériu came to be seen as a personification, first of the landscape changing its face with the seasons, and later as a symbol of the nation itself, and was called the ‘Sovereignty of Ireland;’ sometimes she would even symbolically marry the king.”

  Dante paused to take a drink of water and then looked up. Lizzie thought he was looking right at her when he said, “The connection between sovereignty over a nation and sovereignty over one’s husband are, I think, too obvious to require explication.”

  She turned to Jackie. “Huh? I don’t see that link at all.”

  “At dinner you can ask him to explicate.”

  “As to the rape in the story, the roots there are not so charming,” Dante continued. “In every potential source incident, a man of high rank rapes a woman who is—at least in his judgment at the time—of a lower class than himself. His power over her is more than just physical strength, it is political, and he consequently believes that she can demand no justice. Except that things then turn around. Maybe she isn’t of such low class at all, maybe she is a princess in disguise, and if that is so then he will have to be punished to the full extent of chivalrous law.”

  Jackie nudged Lizzie with her elbow. “That means he had to marry her.”

  Lizzie was silent and a moment later Jackie nudged her again. “You know I’m not kidding,” she said.

  Lizzie nodded.

  Dante gave a couple of potential literary sources for the rape, including the medieval Life of St. Cuthbert. “This interesting story of a seventh-century bishop—later saint—was written in Latin in the twelfth century and translated into English in the fifteenth. There is some evidence that Chaucer had a copy of the Latin text and took from it the scene in which a king rapes a maiden.”

  A number of examples of what he referred to as “the politics of rape” were then given from English ballads collected by Francis J. Child in the nineteenth century. “Many of these song texts had survived, as we all know, for many centuries in the folk culture of rural Britain.” He then quoted from Child:A knight met a shepherd’s daughter in a secluded place and raped her. Then, in nine of the versions, the girl asked the knight for his name. In ten versions he gave it. Then he rode back to court, and she followed on foot. There the girl complained to the king in eight versions and to the queen in four, and the knight was ordered, under penalty of death, to marry the girl. The knight, who was the queen’s brother in seven versions, the king’s brother in one, a squire’s son in one, and a blacksmith’s son in one terribly garbled version, attempted in ten versions to avoid marriage by offering the girl gold. Nevertheless there was a wedding, described in two versions as big or gay. That night the knight turned his face from the bride in two of the versions. Surprisingly, the girl who had been believed to be a shepherd’s daughter turned out to be the daughter of a person of high rank who was variously described as an unnamed duke, the King of France, the Earl of Stock-ford, the King of Scotland, the King of Gosford, the Earl Marshall, the Earl of Stampford, an unnamed king, or the Earl of Hertford. As her rank was equal to or better than his, they lived happily ever after.

  “Ah, what a wonderfully romantic tale,” Jackie sniped. “The rapist and the princess living happily ever after.”

  “What would have happened had she actually been the daughter of a shepherd?” Lizzie asked.

  “Who was the rapist in this story?” Dante asked his audience before answering the question for them. “Sigmund Eisner believes it was Gawain, one of the best known of Arthur’s knights. Certainly Gawain is associated with the story of the quest for the answer to the question of what women desire, but not as punishment for rape. He is, rather, saving Arthur from a threatening black knight who had been the first to ask the impossible question, and Gawain is consequently a hero.”

  In the last twenty minutes of his carefully timed speech, Dante turned to the quest, saying that it was generally accepted that Chaucer’s primary source for this part of the story was the Tale of Florent, written by his friend John Gower. In Gower’s version, the hero Florent, the nephew of an emperor, killed a knight in battle and was then captured by the father of his victim, who would have murdered him in retribution. The dead man’s grandmother intervened, however, to send Florent off to find the answer to the question of the age: What do women most desire?

  “There is no rape here,” Dante said, “but it is significant that the hero is the nephew of the emperor—it links Chaucer’s story to an oeuvre built around the nephew or son of a duke, king or emperor. Gawain is Arthur’s nephew in two English Arthurian loathly lady tales,” he explained. “It is possible that in a story known to Chaucer and Gower, Gawain was indeed guilty of rape, but Chaucer did not wish to name him and possibly distract his readers from the thesis of the Wife of Bath: female marital autocracy.”

  “What bullshit!” Lizzie whispered. “If that was really her theme, why does she tell that story at all?”

  There was polite applause as Dante Zettler finished his discourse.

  “Nothing new here at all,” Jackie said. “Almost everything he’s got was already published by Eisner in the fifties.”

  When questions were asked for, she raised her hand. “Do you think Chaucer’s own history as a rapist may have played into the way he handles the theme here?”

  There were several groans and hisses from the crowd. This was a contentious theme in Chaucer circles, as the circumstances of the crime were so sketchy.

  “I’m glad you asked that,” Dante said uncomfortably.

  “That document of 1380, in which Chaucer is said to have paid ten pounds to be released from the charge of raptus against Cecilia Chaumpaigne, is by no means clear.” He turned immediately to the semantics of the argument. “In the Life of St. Cuthbert, the assailant is said to have rauyst the woman. Of course in the Wife of Bath’s Tale there is no question, the knight, ‘By verray force, he rafte hire maydenhed.’”

  Jackie reiterated. “Ten pounds was an enormous sum at the time.”

  “Yes,” Dante said, “it was about equal to what he earned in a year working at the custom house.”

  “Doesn’t that seem to imply guilt?”

  “I don’t know,” Dante said simply.

  Jackie felt sorry for him and ceased her harangue. It was no fun if the opponent had no information and was not willing to defend a point of view.

  When Lizzie’s turn at the podium came, she gave the facts with very little interpretation. She announced that a journal had been discovered describing a pilgrimage to Canterbury in 1387, that the author was a weaver from Bath named Alison, and that her sig
nature was also on a tapestry strip map of the journey that had been woven in Flanders around the same time. Lizzie showed images from the tapestry as she read from Alison’s transcription of the journal, clearly making the link between the text and the pictures. She mentioned that when the tapestry was restored the panels had been placed in the wrong order, and she urged the audience to see it in the lobby of this building.

  While she didn’t make any attempt to link the Weaver directly to Chaucer, the possibility that this journal was by a woman who might have inspired the character of the Wife of Bath was clear. When she finished speaking hands shot up all around the room.

  “Is it possible this is a forgery?” someone asked. “Have you submitted it to forensic examination or had it authenticated?”

  “Not at this time,” she said, “though the owner plans to do that very soon.”

  When asked who the owner was, she answered that it was Professor Alison Kent of Bath University, who was sadly unable to join them. Most of the people in the room knew that Alison was a reputable scholar; they had also heard she had been injured in a car accident.

  “Can you describe the circumstances under which it was found?”

  “Not at this time, but that information will be described when the manuscript is published.” Alison had particularly instructed Lizzie not to mention the reliquary until they knew more about its history.

  There were many questions about Alison’s plans for publication. Lizzie said that the project was still in its early stages, but that a facsimile of the manuscript would be published with an annotated transcription in modern English, and that images of the tapestry would illustrate it.

  “Is this a source for the Wife of Bath?” someone asked.

  Lizzie looked to where Dante Zettler had been sitting, but his seat was empty. “We are not prepared to make that connection at this time,” she answered, “but of course we are exploring the possibility.”

  The presentation created an enormous buzz of interest and Lizzie found herself surrounded by Chaucerians peppering her with questions as she walked back to her seat.

  “I knew this would be the hit of the show,” Jackie whispered as they walked to the lobby with a few dozen people to look at the tapestry. “Excellent job!”

  “I am just so sorry that Alison isn’t here to see the interest,” she said. “She deserves all this.”

  A number of people asked Lizzie very direct, even rude questions about the authenticity of the manuscript, demanding that she produce it for inspection. Several asked for a report on Alison’s condition, and three publishers slipped business cards into her hand and said that she or Alison should call to discuss details on how the book might be published. One of them was a friendly young man who worked for a library in Canterbury which was, he said, interested in anything having to do with medieval pilgrimages there.

  He introduced himself as Tyler Brown as he gave her his card. “I’m the archivist and librarian at the Canterbury Catholic History Society. We might be interested in publishing your book when it is ready.” He seemed a little apologetic when he added that they didn’t have the money that a large press might have to offer. “But I promise you we would produce a very handsome volume. We would take care to ensure that the illustrations from the textile were first rate.”

  Lizzie took his card and smiled at him. “Thank you, I’ll pass this along to Professor Kent.”

  “It would be essential for us to know the origin of the journal of course.”

  “Of course,” Lizzie said, nodding. “When Alison makes a final decision about publishing, she will share that.”

  “Can you tell me anything now that I might be able to use to interest my board of directors?”

  Lizzie said that unfortunately she couldn’t.

  “Was it found in her house?”

  Lizzie shook her head. “Sorry, I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “Because if it is part of a family collection, that makes it even more interesting.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Brown, I simply cannot tell you anything more at this point.”

  “Just this then, was anything else found with it?”

  When Lizzie didn’t answer, he smiled and said in an offhand way, “As I said, we are interested in all things having to do with Canterbury pilgrimages, and often the discovery of one source leads to others.”

  There were several other people waiting to talk to her and eventually Lizzie told Tyler Brown that she looked forward to talking more about this when she actually had more to tell. She saw Dante Zettler and went to confirm their dinner date.

  The conference banquet was in the dining hall of the college, a traditional Oxford eating room with long tables down the length of the room and a “high table” across the top where the dignitaries sat. There were name cards at each place, which Jackie thought exerted a bit too much control over an academic crowd. Dante Zettler had arranged it so that he was sitting next to Lizzie, and Jackie’s place was on her other side.

  “This won’t do,” Jackie said to Lizzie when she saw the arrangement. “I was looking forward to some friendly banter and I don’t want to have to talk around you.” She switched Lizzie’s card with Dante’s, so that he would be between them.

  “I knew Alison had a journal,” Dante said when they sat down to eat, “but I didn’t know it was as close to the Wife of Bath as you describe. The date is, of course, the same year that Chaucer is thought to have made his own Canterbury pilgrimage, and the coincidence of her name, occupation, and origin in Bath are very compelling.”

  Lizzie felt a little sorry for him. His paper had been entirely overlooked in the excitement over hers. It must be difficult to be the average son of a brilliant father, she thought. He would have been wise to choose a different career than the one that made his father famous.

  “Alison told me that it was your interest that first alerted her to the potential of the journal,” she said. She meant to be kind, but she realized after she spoke that it would almost certainly be taken in the wrong way. Dante must now know that Lizzie knew the history of his relationship with Alison and the journal, including that he had attempted to copy it without her permission.

  He seemed a little flustered and she turned the conversation to his work. Even Jackie seemed sympathetic and joined in.

  “I am very interested in the link you have made to the Irish material,” Lizzie started.

  “I too,” Jackie said. “The story of Ériu is not one I would ever have linked to the tale of the Wife of Bath.”

  “On the face of it, the connection is not always clear,” Dante said, clearing his throat, “but of course ancient people, lacking what we would call a scientific perspective, attempted to explain natural phenomena by anthropomorphizing them. Once you have put the name of a supernatural being on an element of nature, you can explain it, worship it, pay it off, make sacrifices to it, whatever it takes to make you feel like you have some control over it. Keep Ériu happy and the cold dark winter will eventually be warmed by the sun of spring.”

  “Ah,” said Jackie, “The ground thaws, the crops grow, and the worn out old hag returns as a beautiful young virgin, ready to be fertilized and bear fruit again.”

  Dante seemed pleased by the description.

  Jackie smiled sweetly. Lizzie could see that Jackie’s sympathetic moment had worn off and poor Dante Zettler was about to be made into intellectual mincemeat.

  “It’s the leap from there to women being the masters of men that I don’t get,” Jackie said.

  “I don’t think I understand your question,” Dante said innocently.

  “Take the knight in the Wife of Bath’s story as an example,” Jackie explained. “When he lets his wife make the decision he gets a reward for it—instead of being an ugly old hag, she will be a beautiful girl.”

  He nodded.

  “But why should he get the girl of his dreams? He is still a rapist. What about the innocent maiden he raped? If I remember correctly she is introduced an
d disappears from the story in four lines of verse.”

  “Perhaps his punishment is that he now has a wife who will be his master.”

  Jackie gasped. “Are you saying that is equivalent to being executed?”

  Dante laughed uncomfortably.

  Lizzie stepped in to rescue him. “Do you have an opinion on whether or not the tale that we associate with the Wife of Bath is the one that Chaucer intended her to tell?”

  He seemed relieved. “Now that is an interesting question,” he said. “When one puts together all the fragments of manuscripts, it seems that she might have been meant to tell the story that is currently associated with the shipman.”

  Lizzie asked him to remind her what that story was, but Jackie stepped in first.

  “It’s the one about the woman who has an active sex life with both her husband and his best friend, a monk.” Jackie held up her glass of wine. “Now that’s a story she could have told with pride!”

  Dante wiped his mouth on his napkin and told Lizzie what a pleasure it had been to spend the time with her. “And you too,” he said, turning to Jackie. “But I am afraid I must go. I have another appointment.”

  “That was abrupt!” Jackie said when he had left them. “We haven’t even had dessert.”

  Lizzie scolded her for picking on someone who was clearly not her equal.

  “I couldn’t help myself,” Jackie answered. “For some reason I just felt compelled to master him.”

  Chapter 22

  Dante Zettler died that night at Oxford Hospital.

  Lizzie left Oxford early the next morning to take Jackie to Heathrow Airport and did not learn of it until late in the day, when she drove to Hengemont to visit Alison.

  “What terrible news,” Lizzie said when she heard. “I had dinner with him just last night.”

  “Did he seem ill?” Alison asked.