Chaucer and His Times

by Grace E. Hadow

  Nature calls upon the royal eagle to make first choice, and he,

  With hed enclyned and with ful humble chere,

  at once chooses the bird upon her hand. Before the formel eagle has summoned up sufficient courage to give her answer,

  Another tercel egle spak anoon,

  Of lower kinde, and seyde, “that shal not be;

  I love hir bet than ye do, by seynt John.”

  And hardly has he finished when a third eagle puts forward his claim. The various birds are called upon for their advice, and after a great deal of chattering and confusion, Nature finally decrees that the choice is to lie with the formel eagle herself. She modestly begs for a year’s respite in which to make up her mind, and the parliament is adjourned.

  But first were chosen foules for to singe

  As yeer by yere was always hir usaunce

  To singe a roundel at hir departinge

  To do Nature honour and pleasunce,

  and the whole ends with the charming roundel:—

  Now welcom somer with thy sonne softe.

  The poem has a freshness and tenderness which its conventional setting cannot conceal, and the humour of the conversation among the worm-foul, water-foul, and seed-foul, must have been even more delightful than it is to-day if—as has been suggested—the “fool cukkow,” “the waker goos,” “the popinjay, ful of delicacy,” and the rest were easily recognisable portraits of contemporary courtiers.

  The Parlement of Foules was followed by the Hous of Fame. Here again Chaucer makes use of the conventional stock-in-trade of medieval poets.

  We have the dream, the strings of proper names drawn from Ovid and Virgil and the Bible, the constant moralisations, the temple to which the dreamer is guided, the use of allegory and symbol, all of which are common property. The influence of Dante is evident, and shows itself in detail as well as in the conception of the whole. The method of beginning each book with an invocation, the exact marking of the date on which the poem was begun, the steep rock, the description of the house of Rumour, and numerous other points are borrowed direct from the Divina Commedia, while there is no need to emphasise the obvious resemblance between the general plan of Dante’s great poem and the Hous of Fame. Professor Skeat even goes so far as to suggest that Lydgate is referring to the Hous of Fame when he speaks of a poem of Chaucer’s as “Dant in English.”

  The poem is divided into three books. Book I opens with a discussion of dreams in general, what causes them and what weight should be attached to them:—

  Why that is an avisioun

  And this a revelacioun.

  This is followed by an invocation to the god of sleep, and then comes the vision itself. The poet falls asleep on the tenth day of December, and dreams that he is in a temple of glass. On a tablet on the wall is engraved the history of “daun Eneas,” and its recital occupies almost the whole of the book. When the poet has “seyen al this sighte” he passes out of the temple and finds himself in a desert place:—

  Withouten toun, or hous, or tree

  Or bush, or gras, or cred[41] lond.

  ·····

  Ne I no maner creature

  That is y-formed by nature

  Ne saw.

  Terrified by the strangeness and loneliness of the place, he casts his eyes towards heaven, praying to be saved,

  Fro fantom and illusion,

  and as he looks upwards he becomes aware of a wonderful eagle with feathers of gold, flying towards him. Book II opens with further remarks on dreams, and a declaration that no one, not even Isaiah or Scipio or Nebuchadnezzar, ever had such a dream as this. The story then continues. The eagle swoops down upon the poet and catches him up in “his grimme pawes stronge,”—

  Me caryinge in his clawes starke

  As lightly as I were a larke.

  Dazed and astonished, Chaucer almost loses consciousness, till he is recalled to life by the eagle, with “mannes voice,” bidding him

  ... Awak

  And be not so a-gast for shame!

  and adding in a well-meant attempt to cheer him up,—

  ... Seynte Marie!

  Thou art noyous for to carie.[42]

  He is then told that as a reward for his long and faithful service of Cupid—

  Withoute guerdon ever yit,

  Jove has decreed that he is to be taken to the House of Fame:—

  To do thee som disport and game,

  In som recompensacioun

  Of labour and devocioun.

  In Fame’s palace he will hear more wonders in two hours than there are grains of corn in a granary, for every sound made upon earth,—

  Thogh hit were pyped of a mouse,

  rises up there, multiplied and increased. Having concluded a learned disquisition on the properties of air, water, and sound—which he explains, he has kindly simplified in order to bring it within the grasp of a “lewed[43] man”—the eagle bears the poet through the stars and past all manner of “eyrish bestes” until they reach the House of Fame. Here Chaucer is set upon his feet—much to his relief—and is told to enter; he is further warned that every sound which rises from earth may be not only heard but seen, since it takes the form of whatever made it. Book III opens with an invocation to Apollo. The poet then climbs the steep rock of ice on which the palace stands, noticing as he passes the names of famous men cut in the ice and rapidly thawing away in the sun. At the summit is a wonderful castle of beryl stone, and all round it crowd

  ... alle maner of minstrales

  And gestiours,[44] that tellen tales

  Bothe of weping and of game,

  Of al that longeth unto Fame.

  Amongst these are all the famous harpers and singers of old days, and close by stand

  ... hem that maken blody soun

  In trumpe, beme[45] and clarioun.

  A curiously carved gate gives admission to the castle, and entering, Chaucer finds a large number of knights-at-arms pouring out of a great hall. The hall itself is

  plated half a fote thikke

  Of gold ...

  and set with precious stones. Here the Lady Fame sits on a throne, her feet resting on earth and her head touching the heavens. The nine Muses sing her praises eternally, and on either side of her are pillars on which stand the historian Josephus and the poets Statius, Homer, Virgil, Ovid, Lucan, and Claudian:—

  The halle was al ful y-wis,

  Of hem that writen olde gestes,

  As ben on trees rokes nestes.

  Suddenly a great noise is heard, and there bursts into the hall a multitude of people of every race and every condition come to prefer their requests to Fame. Some beg

  “That thou graunte us now good fame,

  And lete our werkes han that name;

  In ful recompensacioun

  Of good werk, give us good renoun;”

  others said

  “Mercy, lady dere!

  To telle certain, as hit is,

  We han don neither that ne this

  But ydel al our lyf y-be.

  But, natheles, yit preye we,

  That we mowe han so good a fame

  And greet renoun and knowen name,

  As they that han don nobel gestes ...”

  others—

  “But certeyn they were wonder fewe,”

  cried

  “Certes, lady brighte,

  We han don wel with al our mighte;

  But we ne kepen have no fame.

  Hyd our werkes and our name,

  For goddes love! for certes we

  Han certeyn doon hit for bountee

  And for no maner other thing.”

  Their requests are granted or refused with absolute capriciousness. Fame is attended by Eolus, who according to her direction blows a black trumpet called Sclaunder (Slander) or a golden clarion called Clere Laude (Clear Praise), and these trumpets are used as the whim takes her. Evil men have good fame, and good men are slandered, or on the other hand, both receive their deserts without a
ny reason except Fame’s good pleasure. As Chaucer stands watching the endless procession, a man approaches him and asks if he too has come to receive fame. The poet hastily protests against any such desire, and explains that he has come for—

  Tydinges, other this or that

  Of love, or swiche thinges glade.

  The stranger bids him follow him to another place, and leads him to

  An hous, that domus Dedali,

  That Laborintus cleped is.

  It is made of sticks and twigs and continually spins round and round:—

  And ther-out com so greet a noise

  That, had it stonden upon Oise,

  Men mighte hit han herd esely

  To Rome, I trowe sikerly.

  ·····

  And on the roof men may yit seen

  A thousand holes, and wel mo,

  To leten wel the soun out go.

  This is the house of Rumour, to which come tidings

  Of werre, of pees, of mariages,

  Of reste, of labour of viages,[46]

  Of abood[47] of deeth, of lyfe,

  Of love, of hate, accorde, of stryfe, etc.

  Here Chaucer meets the eagle again, who tells him that he is once more prepared to become his guide, and without more ado seizes him “bitweene his toon” and puts him in through the window. The house is full of people all busy whispering in each other’s ears:—

  Whan oon had herd a thing, y-wis,

  He com forth to another wight,

  And gan him tellen, anoon-right,

  The same that to him was told,

  Or hit a furlong-way was old,

  But gan somwhat for to eche

  To this tyding in this speche

  More than hit ever was.

  And nat so sone departed nas

  That he fro him, that he ne mette

  With the thridde; and or he lette

  Any stounde,[48] he tolde him als;

  Were the tyding sooth or fals,

  Yit wolde he telle hit natheless.

  Out of the windows fly lies and truths, jostling each other, and Fame decides which shall prevail. Shipmen and pilgrims, pardoners and messengers, crowd into the house with boxes crammed with marvellous stories. In one corner of the great hall men are telling love stories, the poet goes to listen to these. Here, just when the climax appears to be in sight, the poem breaks off in the middle of a sentence. Remarkable as it is, full of humour and shrewd observation, and with signs of Chaucer’s genius for narrative, it is not in his most characteristic vein. Troilus and Criseyde had already given promise of genius of a very different order, and it is possible that Chaucer himself grew weary of the smooth monotony of his own verse, and felt within him a growing impulse to produce something more human and more vivid. The Hous of Fame is an almost perfect example of a type of poem whose popularity was to continue undiminished for another century and more. It was imitated again and again, and a comparison between it and such works as Lydgate’s Temple of Glas is sufficient to show the difference between genius and talent even when genius in working with not wholly congenial material. If Chaucer’s reputation rested upon the Book of the Duchesse, the Parlement of Foules, the Hous of Fame, and the Legend of Good Women, a few scholars would know and appreciate his work, and anthologies would probably make the majority of readers acquainted with a few carefully-chosen extracts, but he would have done little or nothing to break down the literary conventions of his day. It would need a keen eye to discern in these the dawn of a new era, without the light thrown upon them by Troilus and Criseyde and the Canterbury Tales.

  The Legend of Good Women is said by Lydgate to have been written at the Queen’s request. The general plan is taken from Boccaccio’s De Claris Mulieribus, and Chaucer also translates freely from the Heroides and the Metamorphoses of Ovid. The interest of the poem lies in the Prologue, which consists of nearly six hundred lines, and of which there are two distinct versions. The poet describes how in the spring he goes out into the fields to worship the daisy, and he gives a long and poetical description of this “emperice and flour of floures alle.” That night he sleeps in a little arbour in his garden, and in a dream he sees the god of love leading by the hand a queen clothed in green and gold and of surpassing beauty. Here follows a ballad in her praise. A rout of ladies now appears, and they all kneel down and sing the praise of their queen. The poet kneels among them, but presently the god of love catches sight of him and declares that he is a traitor and heretic for he has translated the Romance of the Rose—

  That is an heresye ageyns my lawe,

  and has also written of the fickleness of Cressida—

  Why noldest thou as wel han seyd goodnesse

  Of women, as thou hast seyd wikkednesse?

  The queen, who is none other than Alcestis, intercedes for him, reminding the irate god that the poet is also the author of the Book of the Duchesse, the Parlement of Foules, the story of Palamon and Arcite, to say nothing of

  “... many an ympne for your haly-dayes.”[49]

  and the Lyf of St. Cecyle. She therefore begs that he may be forgiven, and in token of true contrition he shall spend the most part of his time

  In making of a glorious Legende

  Of Gode Women, maidenes and wyves,

  That weren trewe in lovinge al hir lyves.

  The legends which follow are the result of this command, and the definition of virtue given above accounts for the inclusion of such “good women” as Cleopatra and Medea. The plan of the poem necessarily involved sameness of treatment. Chaucer grew tired of his heroines, and of the twenty legends which he seems to have planned, only nine were written. The stories of Cleopatra, Thisbe, Dido, Hypsipyle and Medea, Lucretia, Ariadne, Philomela, Phyllis, and Hypermnestra, are strung together somewhat perfunctorily. As the names show, they are all drawn from Latin authors, but with the usual freedom of a medieval translator Chaucer does not hesitate to alter the originals to suit his purpose. He wishes to show the torments and constancy of love’s martyrs, and without scruple he blackens the characters of Jason and Æneas and Theseus, in order to bring out the virtues of Medea, Dido, and Ariadne. The legends show little of the humour and freshness of Chaucer’s other poems. Occasionally a description of the lover’s passion recalls some similar passage in Troilus and Criseyde, and the mere fact that the interest centres in emotion rather than action is in itself of importance, but Hercules, in the legend of Hypsipyle, is a poor substitute for Pandarus, and the perpetual recurrence of the love motif tends to weaken its effect. The two versions of the Prologue show many interesting points of difference. Mention has already been made of the supposed intervention of the Queen, through which Chaucer obtained permission to appoint a deputy to assist him in his office work. It is supposed that this incident must have occurred after the writing of the first prologue and before the writing of the second, for while the whole poem is written in Queen Anne’s honour, the second prologue contains numerous passages expressing the poet’s gratitude and affection, which are not found in the first. She is

  ... of alle floures flour,

  Fulfilled of al vertu and honour.

  ······

  She is the clernesse and the verray light

  That in this derke worlde me wynt and ledeth,

  ······

  For as the sonne wol the fyr disteyne[50]

  So passeth al my lady sovereyne,

  That is so good, so fair, so debonaire;

  I prey to god that ever falle hir faire!

  Another striking change in the second version is the omission of certain too explicit lines in which the poet had dared to set forth the duties of kings towards their subjects. Part of this wise advice still remains, but evidently Chaucer found it dangerous to call Richard’s attention to the necessity for hearing his people’s petitions and complaints, and the later version contents itself with a more general statement that kings should

  ... nat be lyk tiraunts of Lumbardye

  That han no rewar
d but at tirannye.

  It is also noteworthy that several words which appear in their older form in the first version are modernised in the second (e. g. in the first line sythes becomes tymes), so that it is possible to see the language in actual process of development.

  Chaucer’s last and greatest work, the Canterbury Tales, was begun in 1386—though as has been shown, certain isolated tales, or rough sketches for tales, were already in existence—and the composition continued till 1389, when it—like so many of his other poems—was left unfinished. A number of fugitive pieces and lyrics also date from about this time, as does the prose Treatise on the Astrolabe written for his little son, Lewis.

  The popularity of Chaucer’s poetry is shown not only by repeated references to him as master and teacher, made by his immediate successors, but by the entire Chaucer apocrypha which soon sprang into being. Some genuine works of his—such as the Book of the Lion (this very probably was no more than a translation of Machault’s Le Dit du Lion), have been lost, but to make up for this a number of poems have been attributed to him, some of which were not written until years after his death. Subjoined is a list of the more important of these, with the names of the real authors in cases where scholars have succeeded in tracing them.

  The Testament of Love. Thomas Usk (d. 1386).

  La Belle Dame sans Merci. Sir R. Ros (fifteenth century).

  The Cuckoo and the Nightingale (sometimes called The Book of Cupid God of Love). Sir Thomas Clanvowe.

  The Flower and the Leaf; The Assembly of Ladies. Considered by some scholars to be the work of the same hand. Both purport to be written by a woman.

  The Court of Love.

  The Second Merchant’s Tale, or The Tale of Beryn (containing a preliminary account of the Pardoner’s adventures in Canterbury).

  The Complaint of the Black Knight. Lydgate.

  The Tale of Gamelyn. This poem is included among the MSS. of the Canterbury Tales. Professor Ten Brink suggests that Chaucer may have intended to work it up into the Yeoman’s tale.

  The Letter of Cupid. Occleve.

  * * *

  CHAPTER III

  CHAUCER’S TREATMENT OF HIS SOURCES

  The sin of plagiary is a development of modern civilisation. To medieval authors, as to Elizabethan, the interest of a story lay in the telling, and while plot was of first-rate importance the same plot could quite well be used indifferently by any number of writers. Indeed, they did not hesitate to go even further and to form a patchwork of scraps taken from different authors, so that the plot may be drawn from one poet, fragments of the dialogue from another, and descriptive or reflective passages from a third, and yet the whole may be justly reckoned the work of the compiler. In the Parlement of Foules, for instance, Chaucer takes the idea of the whole from a current fabliau, the first eighty-four lines from Cicero’s Somnium Scipionis, three distinct passages from Dante, the description of the garden from Boccaccio, and lines 95-105 from Claudian, and yet the originality of the whole is incontestable. It is a noteworthy fact that he tries his hand at almost every form of poetry popular in his day, he writes romances, lives of the saints, homilies, allegorical poems, topical satire, love songs, and fabliaux, and in every case he borrows wherever he sees anything likely to suit his purpose, he alters and adds and omits as he sees fit; yet it is only necessary to compare a story (that of Constance, for instance) as told by him, with the same as told by any other poet of the day, to see why it is impossible for a genius to be a plagiarist.