(2) Wit.—Wit is the intellectual counterpart of farce. Farce at its lowest is actually physical—the jester trips his victim up, ’Arry and ’Arriet exchange hats—and at its highest consists in physical absurdity. Wit appeals as much to a blind man as to one who can see. In neither case has the comic element any necessary connection with the characters of those concerned. Farce, as we have seen, may be combined with humour, and wit may gain an added keenness from our knowledge of the witty person, but in their simplest form neither depends on any such connection. A man chasing his hat is a funny sight, quite apart from our having any idea of who he is. Any additional element of humour which may be added by the fact that it is Mr. So-and-so, who prides himself on his dignified deportment, is not purely farcical. In like manner, a brilliant repartee is amusing, though we may have no notion who uttered it: in fact, not infrequently the same story is told, with equal effect, about two or more different men. At the same time a remark, witty in itself, often gains additional force from its context, and in certain cases the chief point depends on the setting. The wit-traps so beloved by Restoration comedy writers, of which George Meredith speaks in his Essay on Comedy, are typical examples of pure wit. It does not matter in the least by whom the remark is made: the actual verbal sword-play is in itself amusing. Frequently such dialogue does nothing whatever to help on the plot. Its wit is in itself sufficient to justify its existence. Shakespeare, on the other hand, has extraordinarily few passages which can be detached from the play in which they occur, and quoted as essentially amusing. Falstaff’s jests without Falstaff lose all their savour, and the wit of a Rosalind or a Beatrice is too intimate a part of her personality for the two to be divorced. Millament’s brilliant jests are scintillating jewels of wit. The wit of Shakespeare’s heroines is a facet of their character.
Drama naturally affords more scope for the display of wit than does narrative poetry. That Chaucer is witty is undeniable, but his wit shows itself chiefly in sly comments and parentheses, or in the adroit use of an unexpected simile. His dry comment on the probable fate of Arcite’s soul; the parenthesis which tells us how small is the number of those who having done well desire to hide their good deeds; the eagle’s complaint, in the Hous of Fame, that the poet is “noyous for to carie”; Placebo’s explanation of the reason why he has never yet quarrelled with any lord of “heigh estaat,” are good examples of the former method. Detached from their context, there is little or nothing in any of them to raise a smile. They contain no play upon words, nothing intrinsically amusing. But in their proper setting they cause that pleasant shock which breeds laughter; they give a sudden whimsical turn to the thought.
The Nonne Preestes Tale illustrates, not only Chaucer’s comic use of simile, but, what is closely allied to this, the comic effect produced by speaking of one thing in terms of another. The mock-heroic effect produced by the learning of Chauntecleer and the weight of the illustrations which he adduces in support of his faith in dreams, is inimitable. This cock quotes Josephus and Macrobius and Cato with such pompous gravity that he almost persuades us to share his own sense of his importance. The grave disquisition on predestination and free-will which prefaces the account of his untoward fate has an irresistibly comic effect. This is, however, not purely comic. It is characteristic of Chaucer that he should treat a matter which was evidently much in his thoughts, in this half-ironic manner. The comparison of the bereaved Pertelote to “Hasdrubales wyf,” and her sister hens to the wives of the senators of Rome
—whan that Nero brende[109] the citee—
is no less effective. The whole story indeed is treated consistently from the comic point of view, and while here again there is nothing inherently funny in detached passages, wit lights up the poem from end to end.
(3) Satire.—Satire differs from farce or wit in that it has a definite moral purpose.
It is our purpose, Crites, to correct
And punish with our laughter ...
says Mercury in Cynthia’s Revels. The satirist deliberately alienates our sympathies from those whom he describes, and as the true humorist is apt to pass from comedy to romance, and from romance to tragedy, so the satirist not infrequently ends by finding rage and disgust overpower his sense of the ridiculous. Ben Jonson passes from the comedy of Every Man in his Humour to the bitterness of Volpone, Swift from the comparative lightness of Gulliver in Lilliput, to the savage brutality of the Hounyhymns. Of satire pure and simple few examples are to be found in Chaucer. The Hous of Fame is indeed satiric in conception, and certain of the pictures it contains are decidedly effective. The fourteenth-century equivalent of the game of Russian Scandal which it describes, has already been noticed. No less ironic is the account of the
shipmen and pilgrymes
With scrippes bret-ful of lesinges
Entremedled with tydinges,[110]
whom the poet meets in the house of Rumour. But the poem as a whole is so lengthy and so much of it is occupied with the description of symbols, references to classical mythology, and other equally serious matters, that the more witty portions stand out conspicuously, and the reader is apt to find some difficulty in seeing the various parts in their proper relation. Successful satire must ever keep its object in view. The Hous of Fame is too discursive to be really effective as a whole.
The fact is that satire is not Chaucer’s natural bent. He is too quick-witted not to see through sham and humbug, but his interest lies in portraiture rather than in exposure. His object is to paint life as he sees it, to hold up the mirror to nature, and, as has justly been said, “a mirror has no tendency,” it reflects, but it does not, or should not, distort. In two cases only does Chaucer deliberately draw a one-sided picture, and both are topical skits, too slight to regard as satire proper. The Compleint of Mars, which is not specially witty or amusing in itself, is said to have been written at the expense of my lady of York and the Earl of Huntingdon, but any savour which the jest may once have had, has long since passed away. The rhyme of Sir Thopas has already been noticed as a good-natured parody of the conventional romance.
But if Chaucer is too tolerant and genial, too little of a preacher and enthusiast, for a satirist, enough has already been said to show that his wit has often a satiric turn. The student of the Canterbury Tales is often reminded of the worth of another great English humorist. Chaucer and Fielding are alike in a certain air of rollicking good-fellowship, a certain virility, a determination to paint men and women as they know them. Neither is particularly squeamish, both enjoy a rough jest, and have little patience with over-refinement. Both give one a sense of sturdy honesty and kindliness, and know how to combine tenderness with strength. Both, with all their tolerance, have a keen eye for hypocrisy or affectation and a sharp tongue wherewith to chastise and expose it. Chaucer hates no one, not even the Pardoner, as whole-heartedly as Fielding hates Master Blifil, but the Pardoners Tale affords the best instance of the satiric bent of the poet’s humour when he is brought face to face with a scheming rogue.
The Host, who has been much moved by the piteous tale of Virginia, turns to the Pardoner for something to remove its depressing influence:—
“Or but I here anon a mery tale.”
he cries,
“Myn herte is lost for pitee of this mayde.
Thou belamy,[111] thou Pardoner,” he seyde,
“Tel us som mirthe or japes[112] right anon.”
The Pardoner is ready enough to oblige, as soon as he has called at the inn they are passing and has eaten and drunk. But it is noteworthy that the pilgrims, who have listened to the Miller’s tale without a murmur, are nervous as to what the Pardoner’s idea of a merry tale may be. With one voice they protest:—
“Nay! lat him telle us of no ribaudye;[113]
Tell us som moral thing, that we may lere[114]
Som wit, and thanne wol we gladly here.”
To the Pardoner it is all one. Practised speaker as he is, a comic story or a sermon comes equally readily to his lips, and
he promises with ready good-nature, though he begs for a moment for reflection:—
“I graunte, y-wis,” quod he, “but I moste thinke
Up-on som honest thing, whyl that I drinke.”
Of their insinuations as to the kind of tale he is likely to tell if left to himself, he takes not the slightest notice. His tongue loosened by the ale, he begins with a cynical confession of his methods as a popular preacher.
“Lordings,” quod he, “in chirches whan I preche
I peyne me to han an hauteyn[115] speche,
And ringe it out as round as gooth a belle,
For I can al by rote that I telle.[116]
My theme is alwey oon, and ever was—
‘Radix malorum est Cupiditas.’”
Having thus warned his hearers against the love of money, he proceeds to show his credentials, sprinkling a few Latin terms here and there in his speech:—
“To saffron with my predicacioun[117]
And for to stire men to devocioun,”
and then shows his relics, the shoulder-bone of “an holy Jewes shepe,” a miraculous mitten which will cause the crops of the man who wears it to increase manifold:—
“By this gaude have I wonne, yeer by yeer,
An hundred mark sith I was Pardoner”—
a pillow-case, which he swears is our Lady’s veil, etc., etc. After this he preaches a vehement sermon against avarice, the object of which, he frankly explains, is
“... for to make hem free
To yeve her pens, and namely unto me.
For my entente is nat but for to winne,
And no-thing for correccioun of sinne.
I rekke never, whan that they ben beried,
Though that her soules goon a-blakeberied.”[118]
If anyone has offended him, he takes care so to point at him in what he says that the reference is unmistakable and the whole congregation understands who it is that is being denounced:—
“Thus quyte I folk that doon us displeasances.”
In fact, the whole object of his preaching is neither more nor less than the amassing of money:—
“Therfore my theme is yet, and ever was—
‘Radix malorum est Cupiditas.’
······
For I wol preche and begge in sondry londes;
I wol not do no labour with myn hondes
······
I wol have money, wolle, chese, and whete,
Al were it yeven of the poorest page,
Or of the poorest widwe in a village.”
No wonder that
Up-on a day he gat him more moneye
Than that the person[119] gat in monthes tweye.
After this shameless confession, the Pardoner offers to relate one of the moral tales which he has found most efficacious in cajoling money out of unwilling pockets.
In Flaundres whylom was a companye
Of yonge folk, that haunteden folye[120] ...
thus he begins, and so moved is he with the thought of the folly of these young people that, with his own lips scarce dry from their last draught of corny ale, he proceeds to denounce gluttony and drunkenness in no measured terms. It is an admirable sermon, full of apt illustrations and appropriate references to the Bible. It enables us to see, at the outset, how the preacher succeeds in dominating his illiterate audiences when he speaks in the village churches. Having got well into his stride, the Pardoner passes on to the promised tale. Among the riotous company are three young men. One day, as they sit drinking in a tavern, they hear the bell toll, and sending a servant to inquire the cause, they learn that Death has carried away one of their companions. With pot-valiant courage they declare their intention of seeking out and slaying this false traitor Death, and without more ado set forth on the quest. An old man, whom they meet by the way, tells them that Death is to be found in a neighbouring grove, under a tree:—
And everich of thise ryotoures ran
Til he cam to that tree, and ther they founde
Of florins fyne of golde y-coyned rounde
Wel ny an eighte busshels, as hem thoughte.
The sight effectually puts Death out of their minds. They decide that the treasure must be hidden, and since it will be well to wait for darkness before venturing to remove it, they draw lots to determine which of them shall run to the town for meat and drink, while the other two keep guard. The lot falls on the youngest, but no sooner has he gone than the two who remain plot to murder him when he comes back, since there will be the more gold for them if he is out of the way. The youngest also thinks it a pity to divide such wealth by three, and having reached the town he goes to an apothecary and demands
Som poyson, that he mighte his rattes quelle.[121]
He then buys three bottles, puts poison in two and reserves the third for his own use. On his return he is slain by the other two.
And whan that this was doon, thus spak that oon,
“Now lat us sitte and drinke, and make us merie
And afterward we wol his body berie.”
Thus all three find Death where they sought him.
The story is told with considerable force. The action moves quickly, and there is enough grim suggestiveness to stir the hearer’s imagination without the detail being in any way overloaded. The picture of the old man vainly seeking death as he strikes his staff upon the ground and cries: “Leve moder, leet me in”; the brief dialogue between the two roisterers in the wood; the description of the thoughts that chase each other through the mind of the third as he runs, all show a power of vivid dramatic presentation. It is not in the least such a tale as the pilgrims expect from the Pardoner. The poor Parson himself could point no better moral. And it ends with (of all things!) an impassioned appeal against avarice. The Pardoner has fallen unconsciously into his professional manner. Carried away by his own eloquence, he forgets that he began by explaining the trick of the whole thing. No doubt, as he himself had said, he has used the tale often enough as a means of extorting money, and with the most convincing fervour he begs the pilgrims—with his confession fresh in their minds—to beware of covetousness, and to press forward and make their offerings to his holy relics. So naturally have we been led on step by step, so easily has he passed from cynicism to sermon, and from sermon to application, that it is something of a shock when the Host, instead of hastening to kiss the relics as he is bidden, responds to the invitation with a coarse jest. The anger of the Pardoner at this indignity is explicable only on the ground that he was so consummate an actor that he had literally forgotten himself in his part. A hypocrite he undoubtedly is, but not the crude, deliberate hypocrite whom the later satirists of the Puritans delighted to draw, nor even the Pecksniffian hypocrite who, while he retains his mask, even in private, never loses consciousness of the fact that it is a mask; he has something of the artistic temperament, and his failure to impress the pilgrims gives him a real, though momentary, jar. The subtle irony with which the whole picture is drawn is perfect in its restraint. The vulgar rogue is sufficiently represented by the Friar. The Pardoner is of higher intelligence, and while we condemn him we recognise his ability.
The suggestion that the various birds in the Parlement of Foules represent courtiers of the day, has already been noticed. If it is true, the satire is of so genial and playful a kind that even the goose can scarcely have been hurt by it. More than once Chaucer draws an amusing picture of a gossiping, foolish crowd, but while it is evident that he has no very high opinion of the intelligence of people in the mass, there is no trace of bitterness in his descriptions. The well-meaning busybodies who come to comfort Criseyde are as helplessly incompetent as “the goos, the cokkow, and the doke,” but though fussy and self-centred, they have too much real kindliness for it to be possible not to feel a certain affection for them. Perhaps the best of all Chaucer’s crowds is that in the Squieres Tale which gathers to look at the horse of brass, and the other magic gifts:—
Diverse folk diversely they demed;
&
nbsp; As many hedes, as many wittes ther been.
They murmureden as dooth a swarm of been,[122]
And maden skiles after hir fantasyes,[123]
Rehersinge of thise olde poetryes,
And seyden, it was lyk the Pegasee,
The hors that hadde winges for to flee;
Or elles it was the Grekes hors Synon,[124]
That broghte Troye to destruccion,
As men may in thise olde gestes rede.
“Myn herte,” quod oon, “is evermore in drede;
I trowe som men of armes been ther-inne,
That shapen[125] hem this citee for to winne.
It were right good that al swich thing were knowe.”
Another rowned[126] to his felawe lowe,
And seyde, “He lyeth, it is rather lyk
An apparance y-maad by som magyk
As jogelours pleyen at thise festes grete.”
Of sondry doutes thus they jangle and trete,
As lewed[127] peple demeth comunly
Of thinges that been maad more subtilly,
Than they can in her lewedness comprehende:
They demen gladly to the badder ende.
With equal learning they discuss the mirror and sword and ring, and having paraded their knowledge of “sondry harding of metal,” “fern-asshen glass” and similar wonderful inventions, come to no conclusion.
(4) Humour.—If it is difficult to draw a hard-and-fast line round other elements of comedy, and detach wit from satire, or satire from farce, it is still harder to attempt to isolate humour and discuss it as a separate and distinct property. Humour is the sympathetic appreciation of the comic, the faculty which enables us to love while we laugh, and to love the better for our laughter. Something has already been said of the softening influence of comedy. It is humour which enables us to see the other person’s point of view, to distinguish between crimes and misdemeanours, so that we no more wish to convert Sir Toby from the error of his ways than to reduce the fat boy’s appetite. Above all, it is humour which points out those endearing peculiarities, those little foibles and harmless weaknesses which give Parson Adams and the Vicar of Wakefield so warm a place in our affections. There is no sting in such laughter, no conscious superiority; on the contrary, it contains an element of tenderness. Obviously humour is distinct from satire, but it can be distinguished from farce and wit only by insisting on the externals when speaking of them. Humour is indeed the soul of all comedy. Satire, being destructive, not constructive, is in a class apart, but even satire—as we have seen in Chaucer’s picture of a crowd—may become so softened by humour that it loses the element of caricature and serves only to give a keener edge to wit.
Chaucer and His Times Page 10