Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Geoffrey Chaucer

  Is there yet a tile within our convent.

  By God, we owe forty pounds for stones.

  Now help, Thomas, for he who harrowed hell!25

  Otherwise must we our books sell.

  And if you lack our preaching

  Then goes all the world to destruction.

  For whoso would us from the world remove,

  So God me save, Thomas, by your leave,

  He would bereave the world of the sun.

  For who can teach and work as we can?

  And that has been not just for a brief while,” said he,

  “But since Elijah was, or Elisha,

  Have friars been—that I find of record—

  In service,26 thanked be our Lord!

  Now Thomas, help, for saint charity!”

  And down anon he set him on his knee.

  This sick man waxed well nigh mad for ire;

  He would that the friar had been on fire

  With his false dissimulation.

  “What things that are in my possession,”

  Said he, “those I will give, I have none other.

  You told me just before—how that I am your lay brother?”

  “Ye, certes,” quod the frere, “trusteth weel;

  I took our dame our lettre with our seel.”

  “Now wel,” quod he, “and som-what shal I yive

  Un-to your holy covent whyl I live,

  And in thyn hand thou shalt it have anoon;

  On this condicioun, and other noon,

  That thou departe it so, my dere brother,

  That every frere have also muche as other.

  This shaltou swere on thy professioun,

  With-outen fraude or cavillacioun.”

  “I swere it,” quod this frere, “upon my feith!”

  And ther-with-al his hand in his he leith:

  “Lo, heer my feith! in me shal be no lak.”

  “Now thanne, put thyn hand doun by my bak,”

  Seyde this man, “and grope wel bihinde;

  Bynethe my buttok ther shaltow finde

  A thing that I have hid in privetee.”

  “A!” thoghte this frere, “this shal go with me!”

  And doun his hand he launcheth to the clifte,

  In hope for to finde ther a yifte.

  And whan this syke man felte this frere

  Aboute his tuwel grope there and here,

  Amidde his hand he leet the frere a fart.

  Ther nis no capul, drawinge in a cart,

  That mighte have lete a fart of swich a soun.

  The frere up starte as doth a wood leoun:

  “A! false cherl,” quod he, “for goddes bones,

  This hastow for despyt doon, for the nones!

  Thou shalt abye this fart, if that I may!”

  His meynee, whiche that herden this affray,

  Cam lepinge in, and chaced out the frere;

  And forth he gooth, with a ful angry chere,

  And fette his felawe, ther-as lay his stoor.

  He looked as it were a wilde boor;

  He grinte with his teeth, so was he wrooth.

  A sturdy pas doun to the court he gooth,

  Wher-as ther woned a man of greet honour,

  To whom that he was alwey confessour;

  This worthy man was lord of that village.

  “Yes, certainly,” said the friar, “trust well.

  I brought your wife our sealed fraternal letter.”

  “Now well,” said he, “and a bit shall I give

  Unto your holy convent while I live;

  And in your hand you shall have it anon,

  On this condition, and other none,

  That you divide it so, my dear brother,

  That every friar shall have as much as the other.

  This shall you swear on your vows holy,

  Without fraud or equivocation.”

  “I swear it,” said this friar, “by my faith!”

  And therewith his hand in his he placed,

  “Look, here by my faith, in me shall be no lack.”

  “Now then, put your hand down by my back,”

  Said this man, “and grope well behind.

  Beneath my buttock there shall you find

  A thing that I have hidden in secrecy.”

  “Ah!” thought this friar, “That shall go with me!”

  And down his hand he slid to the cleft

  In hope for to find there a gift.

  And when this sick man felt this friar

  About his bum groped he here and there;

  And into the friar’s hand he let fly a fart;

  There is no nag, hitched to a cart,

  That might have let a fart of such a sound.

  The friar upstarted as does a maddened lion—

  “Ah, false churl,” said he, “for God’s sake!

  You have for spite done such a jape.

  You shall pay for this fart, if I have my way!”

  His servants, who heard this affray,

  Came leaping in and chased out the friar;

  And forth he went, with a full angry face,

  And fetched his brother, there where lay his donations.

  He looked as if he were a wild boar;

  He ground his teeth, such was his ire.

  A quick pace down to the manor house he went,

  Where there dwelt a man of great honor,

  To whom he was always confessor.

  This worthy man was lord of that village.

  This frere cam, as he were in a rage,

  Wher-as this lord sat eting at his bord.

  Unnethes mighte the frere speke a word,

  Til atte laste he seyde: “god yow see!”

  This lord gan loke, and seide, “ben‘cite!

  What, frere John, what maner world is this?

  I see wel that som thing ther is amis.

  Ye loken as the wode were ful of thevis,

  Sit doun anon, and tel me what your greef is,

  And it shal been amended, if I may.”

  “I have,” quod he, “had a despyt this day,

  God yelde yow! adoun in your village,

  That in this world is noon so povre a page,

  That he nolde have abhominacioun

  Of that I have receyved in your toun.

  And yet ne greveth me no-thing so sore,

  As that this olde cherl, with lokkes hore,

  Blasphemed hath our holy covent eke.”

  “Now, maister,” quod this lord, “I yow biseke.”

  “No maister, sire,” quod he, “but servitour,

  Thogh I have had in scole swich honour.

  God lyketh nat that “Raby” men us calle,

  Neither in market ne in your large halle.”

  “No fors,” quod he, “but tel me al your grief.”

  “Sire,” quod this frere, “an odious meschief

  This day bitid is to myn ordre and me,

  And so per consequens to ech degree

  Of holy chirche, god amende it sone!”

  “Sir,” quod the lord, “ye woot what is to done.

  Distempre yow noght, ye be my confessour;

  Ye been the salt of the erthe and the savour.

  For goddes love your pacience ye holde;

  Tel me your grief:” and he anon him tolde,

  As ye han herd biforn, ye woot wel what.

  The lady of the hous ay stille sat,

  Til she had herd al what the frere sayde:

  “Ey, goddes moder,” quod she, “blisful mayde!

  Is ther oght elles? telle me feithfully.”

  “Madame,” quod he, “how thinketh yow her-by?”

  This friar came as if in a rage,

  Where this lord sat eating at his board;

  Hardly might the friar speak a word,

  Till at last he said, “May God look over you!”

  The lord looked up, and said, “Benedicite!

  What, friar John, what in the world is this?

>   I see well that something is amiss;

  You look as if the woods were full of thieves.

  Sit down anon, and tell me what your grief is,

  And it shall be amended, if I may.”

  “I have,” said he, “had an insult this day,

  May God reward you, down in your village,

  That in the world is none so poor a page

  That he would suffer the abomination

  That I have received in your town.

  Yet grieves me nothing so sore,

  As that this churl with locks hoary

  Blasphemed has our order holy.”

  “Now, master,” said this lord, “I you beseech—”

  “No master, sire,” said he, “but servant,

  Though I have had in school that honor.

  God likes not that ‘Rabbi’ men us call,

  Neither in the market nor your large hall.”

  “No matter,” said he, “but tell me all your grief.”

  “Sire,” said this friar, “an odious mischief

  This day happened to my order and me,

  And so, per consequens, to each degree

  Of holy church—God amend it soon!”

  “Sire,” said the lord, “you know what to do.

  Anger yourself not; you be my confessor;

  You be the salt of the earth and the delight.

  For God’s love, your patience keep!

  Tell me your grief!” And he anon him told,

  As you have heard before—you know well what.

  The lady of the house ever still sat

  Till she had heard what the friar said.

  “Eh, God’s mother,” said she, “Blissful maid!

  Is there anything else? Tell me faithfully.”

  “Madame,” said he, “what do you think of this?”

  “How that me thinketh?” quod she; “so god me speede,

  I seye, a cherl hath doon a cherles dede.

  What shold I seye? god lat him never thee!

  His syke heed is ful of vanitee,

  I hold him in a maner frenesye.”

  “Madame,” quod he, “by god I shal nat lye;

  But I on other weyes may be wreke,

  I shal diffame him over-al ther I speke,

  This false blasphemour, that charged me

  To parte that wol nat departed be,

  To every man y-liche, with meschaunce!”

  The lord sat stille as he were in a traunce,

  And in his herte he rolled up and doun,

  “How hadde this cherl imaginacioun

  To shewe swich a probleme to the frere?

  Never erst er now herde I of swich matere;

  I trowe the devel putte it in his minde.

  In ars-metryke shal ther no man finde,

  Biforn this day, of swich a questioun.

  Who sholde make a demonstracioun,

  That every man sholde have y-liche his part

  As of the soun or savour of a fart?

  O nyce proude cherl, I shrewe his face!

  Lo, sires,” quod the lord, with harde grace,

  “Who ever herde of swich a thing er now?

  To every man y-lyke? tel me how.

  It is an impossible, it may nat be!

  Ey, nyce cherl, god lete him never thee!

  The rumblinge of a fart, and every soun,

  Nis but of eir reverberacioun,

  And ever it wasteth lyte and lyte awey.

  Ther is no man can demen, by my fey,

  If that it were departed equally.

  What, lo, my cherl, lo, yet how shrewedly

  Un-to my confessour to-day he spak!

  I holde him certeyn a demoniak!

  Now ete your mete, and lat the cherl go pleye,

  Lat him go honge himself, a devel weye!”

  Now stood the lordes squyer at the bord,

  “How do I think?” said she. “So God me speed,

  I say a churl has done a churl’s deed.

  What should I say? God deny him prosperity!

  His sick head is full of vanity;

  I hold him to be in some way crazy.”

  “Madame,” said he, “I shall not lie,

  But I in some other way shall be avenged,

  I shall slander him wherever I speak,

  This false blasphemer who commanded me

  To share what may not divided be

  Equally to every man, with bad luck!”

  The lord sat still as if he were in a trance,

  And in his heart he thought it over,

  “How had this churl the imagination

  To ask such a question of logic of the friar?

  Never before now heard I of such a matter.

  I believe the devil put it in his mind.

  In the art of mathematics27 may no man find,

  Before this day, anything of such a question.

  Who could prove through logical demonstration

  That every man should have equally his share

  As of the sound or odor of a fart?

  Oh clever, proud churl, I curse his face!

  Look, sires,” said the lord, “at such sorry grace!

  Whoever heard of such a thing before now?

  To every man alike? Tell me how.

  It is an impossibility, it may not be.

  Eh, clever churl, God send him misery!

  The rumbling of a fart, and every sound,

  Is not but of air reverberating,

  And diminishes little by little away.

  There is no man who can tell, by my faith,

  If that it were shared equally.

  Why, look, my churl, look, yet how shrewdly

  Unto my confessor today he has spoken!

  I hold him certainly possessed by a demon!

  Now eat your meal, and let the churl go play;

  Let him go hang himself in the Devil’s name!”

  Now stood the lord’s squire at the table,

  That carf his mete, and herde, word by word,

  Of all thinges of which I have yow sayd.

  “My lord,” quod he, “be ye nat yvel apayd;

  I coude telle, for a goune-clooth,

  To yow, sir frere, so ye be nat wrooth,

  How that this fart sholde even deled be

  Among your covent, if it lyked me.”

  “Tel,” quod the lord, “and thou shalt have anon

  A goune-cloth, by god and by Seint John!”

  “My lord,” quod he, “whan that the weder is fair,

  With-outen wind or perturbinge of air,

  Lat bringe a cartwheel here in-to this halle,

  But loke that it have his spokes alle.

  Twelf spokes hath a cartwheel comunly.

  And bring me than twelf freres, woot ye why?

  For thrittene is a covent, as I gesse.

  The confessour heer, for his worthinesse,

  Shal parfourne up the nombre of his covent.

  Than shal they knele doun, by oon assent,

  And to every spokes ende, in this manere,

  Ful sadly leye his nose shal a frere.

  Your noble confessour, ther god him save,

  Shal holde his nose upright, under the nave.

  Than shal this cherl, with bely stif and toght

  As any tabour, hider been y-broght;

  And sette him on the wheel right of this cart,

  Upon the nave, and make him lete a fart.

  And ye shul seen, up peril of my lyf,

  By preve which that is demonstratif,

  That equally the soun of it wol wende,

  And eek the stink, un-to the spokes ende;

  Save that this worthy man, your confessour,

  By-cause he is a man of greet honour,

  Shal have the firste fruit, as reson is;

  The noble usage of freres yet is this,

  The worthy men of hem shul first be served;

  And certeinly, he hath it weel deserved.

  He hath to-
day taught us so muchel good

  With preching in the pulpit ther he stood,

  Who carves his meat, and heard word for word

  Of all things which I have you said.

  “My lord,” said he, “be not displeased,

  I could tell, for a gown-cloth,

  To you, sir friar, so you be not wroth,

  How this fart evenly should divided be

  Among your convent, if I cared.”

  “Tell,” said the lord, “and you shall have anon

  A gown-cloth, by God and by Saint John!”

  “My lord,” said he, “when the weather is fair,

  Without wind or disturbance of air,

  Let bring a cartwheel into this hall;

  But look that it have its spokes all—

  Twelve spokes has a cartwheel commonly.

  And bring me then twelve friars. Do you know why?

  For thirteen is a convent, as I guess.

  Your confessor here, for his worthiness,

  Shall complete the number of his convent.

  Then shall they kneel down, by agreement,

  And to every spoke’s end, in this manner,

  Full firmly lay his nose shall a friar.

  Your noble confessor—there God him save!—

  Shall hold his nose upright under the hub.

  Than shall this churl, with belly stiff and taut

  As any drum, hither be brought;

  And set him on the wheel right of this cart,

  Upon the hub, and make him let a fart.

  And you shall see, upon peril of my life,

  By proof which is demonstrable,

  That equally the sound of it will wend,

  And also the stink, unto the spoke ends,

  Save that this worthy man, your confessor,

  Because he is a man of great honor,

  Shall have the first fruit, as is reasonable.

  The noble custom of friars yet is this,

  The worthiest of them shall first be served;

  And certainly he has it well deserved.

  He has today taught us so much good

  With preaching in his pulpit there he stood,

  That I may vouche-sauf, I sey for me,

  He hadde the firste smel of fartes three,

  And so wolde al his covent hardily;

  He bereth him so faire and holily.”

  The lord, the lady, and ech man, save the frere,

  Seyde that Jankin spak, in this matere,

  As wel as Euclide or [as] Ptholomee.

  Touchinge this cherl, they seyde, subtiltee

  And heigh wit made him speken as he spak;

  He nis no fool, ye no demoniak.

  And Janik hath y-wonne a newe goune.—

  My tale is doon; we been almost at toune.

  That I would allow, if it were up to me,

  That he had the first smell of farts three;

  And so would agree all his convent surely,

  He bears himself so fair and holily.”