While I'm thinking about important books, here's one that brought a clear focus to what I saw in Chaucer: Allegory: the Theory of a Symbolic Mode, by Angus Fletcher.
Let's set the scene for allegory with words from W. T. H. Jackson in The Literature of the Middle Ages, published in 1960. "This feeling for allegorization, for double and triple levels of meaning, is one of the features which distinguish the great works of imagination in the Middle Ages from the mediocre." Allegorical literature, with its cultivated obscurity, was "the most characteristic literary form during the later Middle Ages." These statements from Jackson gave me confidence in seeing Chaucer as a great allegorist.
However, in 1962, D. W. Robertson, Jr. published A Preface to Chaucer with opinions at odds with the acknowledged importance and dominance of allegory. The title surely demonstrates that its opinions should be absorbed before pursuing Chaucer. Robertson says, "allegory is almost universally regarded with suspicion, if not with contempt." One reason is that "its presence cannot be detected by Modern Philological methods."
[Decades before, it had even been claimed that Chaucer had freed himself from allegory. Scholar G. L. Kittredge went so far as to say, "Chaucer, they tell us, is very modern. So he is; this crisis proves it." The resolution of the "crisis" was having someone interrupt the Monk's long chain of sad stories to bring an end to it.]
In the face of such scathing dismissal, Angus Fletcher, in 1964, courageously wrote an entire book about allegory. He demonstrated the purpose served by the form. It's a fascinating must-read for anyone interested in medieval literature.
When the Middle Ages is condemned for its allegorical tastes, it is often because imaginative allegory is lumped with mechanical allegory. The imaginative creates fresh pictures for the mind, while the mechanical starts from an existing story and destroys it to get at something inside. One destructive moralizing example, offered by a Professor Emeritus of UCLA, will suffice. An erotic episode of "the lover plucking his rosebud," in the Romance of the Rose was moralized to signify "Joseph of Arimathea taking the body of Christ down from the cross." Such a distorted "inner meaning" is bound to prejudice the average reader (or critic) against allegory.
Fletcher asserts that "allegories are far less often the dull systems that they are reputed to be than they are symbolic power struggles involved with authoritarian conflict." Allegory can serve a purpose beyond entertainment.
Fletcher tells us, "in the simplest terms, allegory says one thing and means another." Or, "one thing is said in order to mean something beyond that one thing." It is "structured according to ritualistic necessity, as opposed to probability."
An important aspect of allegory is that once its structure is determined, it must be complete. A variation of "Romeo and Juliet" must have the lovers come to a sad end. Or, if "Cinderella" is the underlying structure, there has to be a Prince Charming. Once the presence of Chaucer's zodiac figures are established, the travelers are all assumed to be cosmic entities. [See blog entries Apr 2012; Jul 2013]
So how did Fletcher's book answer questions I had with what I saw in Chaucer? Here are a few examples:
There are two scenarios of allegory--a progress--that is, a questing journey; or a battle--two opinions or "good versus evil" portrayed as an actual battle or a debate. Obviously the Canterbury Tales is a progress where the destination is not reached. [Jul 2013]
The "cultivated obscurity" of allegory is shown in the blurring of time and space early in Chaucer's General Prologue. And though the pilgrims are presumed to be traveling in the countryside, not a word is said of road conditions or weather. [Mar 2012]
Considering "involvement with authoritarian conflict," when we identify the Host as Christ, the Host's wife is then the "bride of Christ"--the Church. Now examine the purpose of this violent, domineering wife about whom he laments. [Feb 2012]
Though you could content yourself with the surface story and ignore any hidden meaning the poet's images may nag you. "Why did he say that?" Certain words demand special attention. Fletcher uses the term "conspicuous irrelevance"--words that are outstanding because they seem out of place in some way. Five men are said to be in one suit. [Aug 2013] Only one pilgrim is said to wear spurs and it is a woman! [Mar 2012] Taking note of such "irrelevancies" may bring a parallel structure into focus because these are clues to their astrological identity.
Another allegorical maneuver is juxtaposing two things that would seem better off separated. Remember the excellent reputation of the Cook who is then immediately said to have an open, incurable running sore. [Aug 2013]
Sometimes Chaucer's grammar is questioned and "corrected" by editors as when the ever-pricking Thopas hunts a wild deer "for river." Editors suggest it should be "to the river"--which unwittingly bypasses the risqué intention of riving (penetrating) a sought-after "deer."
When all the characters are recognized, the varying relationships can be understood by "ritualistic necessity." For example, it explains the Host's lack of respect toward the Pardoner [Feb 2013] or the Nun's Priest. [Mar 2014] And we understand the deference shown the Prioress and the Knight. [Mar 2012]
The point of allegory, such as the Canterbury Tales, is that it does not need to be read with interpretation. [May 2012] But it is "a structure that becomes stronger when given a secondary meaning as well as a primary meaning." The greatness of Chaucer's allegory has yet to be appreciated by the world of academia.
Showing posts with label allegory. Show all posts
Showing posts with label allegory. Show all posts
Thursday, February 18, 2016
Tuesday, June 23, 2015
Pilgrim dolls?
A friend recently asked me if I plan to make Canterbury Pilgrim dolls. The answer is a firm NO. Why so firm? It goes back to that astonishing epiphany, that moment of insight. As I've said, that moment changed my life! I can never see the characters Chaucer presents as one-dimensional travelers. They are all in disguise--as pilgrims.
He presents an allegory--a story with a double meaning. His characters all have to have multiple personalities to be able to function on two (three?) levels at the same time. There is no way--that I've thought of--to portray these dual images as one entity. So, no, there will be no pilgrim dolls.
In between working on The Merchant/Sagittarius, our next post, I have been making another doll. It's a fun thing to do, a different way of channeling your creative juices. This one is Bluebell. He's tiny because that's all of the blue fabric I had. I sent him off this morning to a special person.
I'll be back soon.
He presents an allegory--a story with a double meaning. His characters all have to have multiple personalities to be able to function on two (three?) levels at the same time. There is no way--that I've thought of--to portray these dual images as one entity. So, no, there will be no pilgrim dolls.
In between working on The Merchant/Sagittarius, our next post, I have been making another doll. It's a fun thing to do, a different way of channeling your creative juices. This one is Bluebell. He's tiny because that's all of the blue fabric I had. I sent him off this morning to a special person.
Thursday, June 4, 2015
The Friar: The devil holds the key
In the previous Chaucer entry we closed with the fact that a ram, because of his cloven hooves, symbolizes the devil. Chaucer clearly says the Friar is "wanton and merry," "beloved and familiar" with franklins (country gentlemen) and women of the town. Pursuing this less than an exemplary cleric as the devil provides solutions to the poet's crafty lines.
When the lines are NOT clear, allegorically speaking, that makes them important. (Read--Fletcher's Allegory: A Symbolic Mode.) Several Chaucer lines try the ingenuity of editors. For example, "rage he could, as if he were a whelp." Notes advise the reader to see a "puppy" in the "whelp," but where is the sense in a puppy raging? Fourteenth-century rage can mean carnal desire as well as madness, wrath, fierceness, violence. "Puppy" does not fit. Checking further, a whelp can also be "the offspring of a noxious creature." The OED includes quotations like "fiend's whelp" and "whelps of the devils."
Another outstanding instance of confusion is:
His tippet was stuffed (farsed) full of knives
And pins, for to give fair wives.
A tippet is this long, narrow, ornamental strip of fabric that hangs freely.
The Friar supposedly stuffed (farsed) his with knives and pins. One editor suggests there must be a pocket in his tippet! Medieval "pins" were not the flimsy items of today, but sturdy implements such as spikes, tools for stabbing, and prods that a devil might use in hell--or in a stage production of hell. These heavy, sharp instruments deserve a sturdy pouch. Again, there is something wrong with this picture.
The most troublesome word is "farsed," followed closely by "tippet" and "pittance." "Farsed," in French, means "stuffed," but it is also the source of the word farce. Farce is a direct connection to devils in medieval plays. On stage, demons were always a comic element, "continually being dragged in, even where [they are] not strictly required . . . purely for . . . merriment." Devils are portrayed as fear-filled; they do a lot of sprawling, groveling, and breaking wind. When the battle--the defense of hell--is in full swing, a demon runs into the fray with the medieval equivalent of sparklers in his hands, ears and arse. The ultimate for our imagination is a grand finale: a crew of demons dragging sinners to the pit of hell amid great noise, prodding and confusion.
Our next challenging word is "tippet." (M.E. typet) It actually has two parts. If we remove the "et" (the French diminutive ending) we have the English word "type"--a snare, a trap. Now we do NOT have to picture that narrow strip of cloth "stuffed full of knives and pins." The line provides a devilish trap--such as hell--full of instruments that prod and puncture.
"Pittance" is our third word. Chaucer's playing a game with the word. The rules are like the ones that hold for remembrance, hindrance, deliverance. The -ance functions as "caused someone to be" remembered, hindered, or delivered. In similar fashion, then, pittance is "caused someone to be" pitted, where the pit is hell. "Hell pit" was a common term.
Covertly, the scene becomes a snare for this farcical performance where knives and pins represent assorted, pointed instruments aimed at "worthy" women as they are herded into a pit. The pit entrance was called "hell mouth" and was a prominent feature of medieval staging.
Dramatists reveled in portraying Doomsday where "devils rolled, shoved, pricked and tossed the damned into Hell Mouth unceremoniously." The wicked were a source of "rude laughter and humiliating action." Elegant women being herded by the devil was the "pittance" he'd hoped for. And the raging whelp becomes a demon giving his comic all.
If the devil told a story about hell, it would be appropriate. Of course, that's where we began with the story of Helle--not a place, but a girl. The clincher of the Friar / Aries identity as the devil--if we still need one--is his Tale.
Aries is the Ram that let Helle slip into the water. The Friar, then could tell a story about Helle--and he does. The twist is that h-e-l-l-e is the Middle English spelling of the devil's territory. The Friar entertains us with a story about "helle" and how the devil, who announces himself "a feend; my dwellyng is in helle," transacts his business to trap souls.
Ovid, the Latin poet, may have directly inspired Chaucer's duplicity. For our poet, who read both Latin and Middle English, a double image would be evident when Ovid refers to Aries as "the ram of Helle": one image is the animal that carried a girl named Helle; the other is an animal symbolic of the devil from "helle." Not a word need be changed; the images superimpose.
When the lines are NOT clear, allegorically speaking, that makes them important. (Read--Fletcher's Allegory: A Symbolic Mode.) Several Chaucer lines try the ingenuity of editors. For example, "rage he could, as if he were a whelp." Notes advise the reader to see a "puppy" in the "whelp," but where is the sense in a puppy raging? Fourteenth-century rage can mean carnal desire as well as madness, wrath, fierceness, violence. "Puppy" does not fit. Checking further, a whelp can also be "the offspring of a noxious creature." The OED includes quotations like "fiend's whelp" and "whelps of the devils."
Another outstanding instance of confusion is:
His tippet was stuffed (farsed) full of knives
And pins, for to give fair wives.
A tippet is this long, narrow, ornamental strip of fabric that hangs freely.
The most troublesome word is "farsed," followed closely by "tippet" and "pittance." "Farsed," in French, means "stuffed," but it is also the source of the word farce. Farce is a direct connection to devils in medieval plays. On stage, demons were always a comic element, "continually being dragged in, even where [they are] not strictly required . . . purely for . . . merriment." Devils are portrayed as fear-filled; they do a lot of sprawling, groveling, and breaking wind. When the battle--the defense of hell--is in full swing, a demon runs into the fray with the medieval equivalent of sparklers in his hands, ears and arse. The ultimate for our imagination is a grand finale: a crew of demons dragging sinners to the pit of hell amid great noise, prodding and confusion.
Our next challenging word is "tippet." (M.E. typet) It actually has two parts. If we remove the "et" (the French diminutive ending) we have the English word "type"--a snare, a trap. Now we do NOT have to picture that narrow strip of cloth "stuffed full of knives and pins." The line provides a devilish trap--such as hell--full of instruments that prod and puncture.
"Pittance" is our third word. Chaucer's playing a game with the word. The rules are like the ones that hold for remembrance, hindrance, deliverance. The -ance functions as "caused someone to be" remembered, hindered, or delivered. In similar fashion, then, pittance is "caused someone to be" pitted, where the pit is hell. "Hell pit" was a common term.
Covertly, the scene becomes a snare for this farcical performance where knives and pins represent assorted, pointed instruments aimed at "worthy" women as they are herded into a pit. The pit entrance was called "hell mouth" and was a prominent feature of medieval staging.
Dramatists reveled in portraying Doomsday where "devils rolled, shoved, pricked and tossed the damned into Hell Mouth unceremoniously." The wicked were a source of "rude laughter and humiliating action." Elegant women being herded by the devil was the "pittance" he'd hoped for. And the raging whelp becomes a demon giving his comic all.
If the devil told a story about hell, it would be appropriate. Of course, that's where we began with the story of Helle--not a place, but a girl. The clincher of the Friar / Aries identity as the devil--if we still need one--is his Tale.
Aries is the Ram that let Helle slip into the water. The Friar, then could tell a story about Helle--and he does. The twist is that h-e-l-l-e is the Middle English spelling of the devil's territory. The Friar entertains us with a story about "helle" and how the devil, who announces himself "a feend; my dwellyng is in helle," transacts his business to trap souls.
Ovid, the Latin poet, may have directly inspired Chaucer's duplicity. For our poet, who read both Latin and Middle English, a double image would be evident when Ovid refers to Aries as "the ram of Helle": one image is the animal that carried a girl named Helle; the other is an animal symbolic of the devil from "helle." Not a word need be changed; the images superimpose.
Thursday, July 18, 2013
But first . . .
Soon after I began working on Chaucer's reference to the moon's exaltation, which appears to be an astrological "mistake," I realized how much background would be necessary to be able to accept my explanation. So, first I'll give you what I see as the basic structure of the plan for the Canterbury Tales.
Here is the most important thing to keep in mind: The movement of the zodiac is the basis of the plan. That fact is not obvious on the surface because allegories were intended to be obscure. Searching for the inner meaning, in this most popular literary form in Chaucer's day, challenged and entertained. Discovering the covert message was looked upon as a reward.
The General Prologue introduces the characters. We've dealt with that already in the entries called "Written in the Stars." That's where Chaucer delights in teasing as he says the Friar has eyes (2 major stars in the constellation) that twinkle in his head like stars on a frosty night; and the Cook "makes " blankmanger--white manger--because a star cluster in this zodiac sign is called The Manger.
Movement begins after the introductions are complete. The poet uses ambiguous words--degree and array--to describe the Pilgrims. Both words can indicate a quality of human or celestial appearance. When the Host gathers the Pilgrims together, that is when they set out on their journey. Now, to talk about the succession of signs of the zodiac is the same as talking about Time. Time, in the Middle Ages, was pictured as a circle. When all of the stars returned to the place where they were when Time began, the circle would close. That would be the end of Time, the end of the world, the Day of Judgment. As Chaucer says:
. . . in certain years space
Every star should come into its place
Where it was first, and all should have in mind
That in this world done is all mankind.
Those lines express Chaucer's complete design. Before the journeyers (the celestial travelers) set out, the Host tells them they will all return to their point of departure at the end of their journey. At the conclusion, the position of all twenty-nine will be--Here in this place, sitting by this post, When we come again.
His whole intention is subtly disclosed. Time begins as they leave and is about to end as the Host calls on the last storyteller. He urges the Pilgrim to make haste; the day is at an end.
Let's repeat--the movement of the zodiac is the basis of the plan. The disguised travelers are not earthbound! Chaucer demonstrates that by what he doesn't say. That is why no human or environmental limitations are presented. He says nothing of a pleasant countryside. There is no mention of weather or road conditions. They never pass through a town. They never stop to eat or rest. They interact with no one outside their group. Nothing invalidates their celestial existence. Though an actual journey from London to Canterbury would have taken several days, the poet portrays Time as one symbolic day.
Action found in the Tales is not to be confused with activities of that day. The stories are not the journey. The function of each story, I'm sure, is to aid in confirming the hidden identity of the storyteller. We'll talk about that sometime.
But next we'll look into what is predicted as Time ends.
Here is the most important thing to keep in mind: The movement of the zodiac is the basis of the plan. That fact is not obvious on the surface because allegories were intended to be obscure. Searching for the inner meaning, in this most popular literary form in Chaucer's day, challenged and entertained. Discovering the covert message was looked upon as a reward.
The General Prologue introduces the characters. We've dealt with that already in the entries called "Written in the Stars." That's where Chaucer delights in teasing as he says the Friar has eyes (2 major stars in the constellation) that twinkle in his head like stars on a frosty night; and the Cook "makes " blankmanger--white manger--because a star cluster in this zodiac sign is called The Manger.
Movement begins after the introductions are complete. The poet uses ambiguous words--degree and array--to describe the Pilgrims. Both words can indicate a quality of human or celestial appearance. When the Host gathers the Pilgrims together, that is when they set out on their journey. Now, to talk about the succession of signs of the zodiac is the same as talking about Time. Time, in the Middle Ages, was pictured as a circle. When all of the stars returned to the place where they were when Time began, the circle would close. That would be the end of Time, the end of the world, the Day of Judgment. As Chaucer says:
. . . in certain years space
Every star should come into its place
Where it was first, and all should have in mind
That in this world done is all mankind.
Those lines express Chaucer's complete design. Before the journeyers (the celestial travelers) set out, the Host tells them they will all return to their point of departure at the end of their journey. At the conclusion, the position of all twenty-nine will be--Here in this place, sitting by this post, When we come again.
His whole intention is subtly disclosed. Time begins as they leave and is about to end as the Host calls on the last storyteller. He urges the Pilgrim to make haste; the day is at an end.
Let's repeat--the movement of the zodiac is the basis of the plan. The disguised travelers are not earthbound! Chaucer demonstrates that by what he doesn't say. That is why no human or environmental limitations are presented. He says nothing of a pleasant countryside. There is no mention of weather or road conditions. They never pass through a town. They never stop to eat or rest. They interact with no one outside their group. Nothing invalidates their celestial existence. Though an actual journey from London to Canterbury would have taken several days, the poet portrays Time as one symbolic day.
Action found in the Tales is not to be confused with activities of that day. The stories are not the journey. The function of each story, I'm sure, is to aid in confirming the hidden identity of the storyteller. We'll talk about that sometime.
But next we'll look into what is predicted as Time ends.
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
Our journey so far
The blog name--Chaucer ain't like gospel--means that whatever has been said about Chaucer in the last 200 years is subject to question. We're dealing with human opinions, not with religious inspiration. Let's shake the dust from Chaucer studies.
Why should you value my opinions? Well, partly because I've enjoyed promoting Chaucer and researching and writing about him for 30 years. I've had sudden insights that were so amazing, I thought I'd burst! And what I say about the Canterbury Tales does not conflict with the usual interpretations. Chaucer's poetry can be read from many points of view. What I am saying, though, is that the Canterbury Tales has an additional level of meaning.
It began for me when Chaucer associated the word Host with the best food and wine; my Catholic background brought echoes of poetic references to the Eucharist. What I saw was the figure of Christ. It surprised me to find that this identity was not considered "self-evident"! (We've covered the Christ-identifiers in blog entries already.) To see the guide of pilgrims as Christ Himself would be in complete harmony with the medieval mind-set. The Host is the innkeeper AND the Host is Christ. Chaucer's message is not one OR the other--it's both. That's what is so fascinating about allegory.
Then, as I read the descriptions of the pilgrims, questions nagged me for days--a cook with a running sore? a man with wide, black nostrils? The Canterbury pilgrims passed in an unending review before my mind's eye until one evening, it happened. Without warning, a second set of images began running along with the pilgrims; in a few moments they matched. I sat there overwhelmed, contemplating the double identities. Chaucer presents one group described in terms of another group. That magical moment set me on a new path for the rest of my life! I wanted everyone to know.
Consider Chaucer's account of the arrival at the Tabard, the hostelry where his pilgrims will spend the night. Twenty-nine travelers of different backgrounds all arrive at their destination just as the sun sets. We're told nothing of horses, belongings, physical necessities, selection of sleeping arrangements. Nothing complicates the smooth entry onto the scene of that cook with the running sore, the man with wide, black nostrils who, by the way, could knock a door off its hinges by running into it with his head, a pair of brothers and many others.
The essential clue is--they all arrive at sunset to stay for the night. When I asked a high school class what images they saw, one of the boys said, "They're stars, of course." Then the whole class began to shout out the pilgrim identities. What a great time we had!
Yes, they are stars--zodiac figures, and planets--all disguised as pilgrims. You can see why, when I suddenly understood, I wanted everyone to know about Chaucer's marvelous plan.
Christ as the guide of pilgrims and celestial figures masquerading as those pilgrims--one or both ideas--will be involved in every entry that follows. Next time we'll deal with one of Chaucer's tantalizing astrological "mistakes."
Why should you value my opinions? Well, partly because I've enjoyed promoting Chaucer and researching and writing about him for 30 years. I've had sudden insights that were so amazing, I thought I'd burst! And what I say about the Canterbury Tales does not conflict with the usual interpretations. Chaucer's poetry can be read from many points of view. What I am saying, though, is that the Canterbury Tales has an additional level of meaning.
It began for me when Chaucer associated the word Host with the best food and wine; my Catholic background brought echoes of poetic references to the Eucharist. What I saw was the figure of Christ. It surprised me to find that this identity was not considered "self-evident"! (We've covered the Christ-identifiers in blog entries already.) To see the guide of pilgrims as Christ Himself would be in complete harmony with the medieval mind-set. The Host is the innkeeper AND the Host is Christ. Chaucer's message is not one OR the other--it's both. That's what is so fascinating about allegory.
Then, as I read the descriptions of the pilgrims, questions nagged me for days--a cook with a running sore? a man with wide, black nostrils? The Canterbury pilgrims passed in an unending review before my mind's eye until one evening, it happened. Without warning, a second set of images began running along with the pilgrims; in a few moments they matched. I sat there overwhelmed, contemplating the double identities. Chaucer presents one group described in terms of another group. That magical moment set me on a new path for the rest of my life! I wanted everyone to know.
Consider Chaucer's account of the arrival at the Tabard, the hostelry where his pilgrims will spend the night. Twenty-nine travelers of different backgrounds all arrive at their destination just as the sun sets. We're told nothing of horses, belongings, physical necessities, selection of sleeping arrangements. Nothing complicates the smooth entry onto the scene of that cook with the running sore, the man with wide, black nostrils who, by the way, could knock a door off its hinges by running into it with his head, a pair of brothers and many others.
The essential clue is--they all arrive at sunset to stay for the night. When I asked a high school class what images they saw, one of the boys said, "They're stars, of course." Then the whole class began to shout out the pilgrim identities. What a great time we had!
Yes, they are stars--zodiac figures, and planets--all disguised as pilgrims. You can see why, when I suddenly understood, I wanted everyone to know about Chaucer's marvelous plan.
Christ as the guide of pilgrims and celestial figures masquerading as those pilgrims--one or both ideas--will be involved in every entry that follows. Next time we'll deal with one of Chaucer's tantalizing astrological "mistakes."
Friday, March 22, 2013
Why risk it?
Chaucer had traveled the Continent--eyes and ears open. We've read the startling message concealed in the Canterbury Tales. The Host's wife (The Church) is cruel, demanding, quarrelsome, as was the widespread action of the Inquisition. Today's scholars describing the Host's wife, could be characterizing the medieval Church: easily angered, absolutely reckless, awe-inspiring, powerful arms, fearing no one.
In the early 1300s, Inquisitors asked to apply torture without limitations to heretics, and thus "the Church grew harder and crueller and more unchristian," states H. C. Lea, an historian of the Inquisition.
How would Chaucer view life after all he'd seen? He advises, "Here is not home, here is nothing but wilderness." Christians were often called suddenly to Judgment from disease, politics, or random violence.
To publicly--or privately--raise objection to the ruling system, you'd be in jeopardy. Those in authority were seen as chosen by God, so to differ with God's chosen ones amounted to high treason.
Allegory thrives in a rigid authoritarian environment. Fourteenth-century Europe would have been fertile ground for hidden protests.
The poet's well-being and the survival of his messages, depended upon maintaining his good relationship with the royal court. Disaster struck many near him. Friends were executed with varying degrees of cruelty. Nevertheless, Chaucer and his works, remained unscathed.
On the Continent, Inquisitors were nowhere yet everywhere, like secret police. When the Inquisition reached England, religious dissenters met increasing severity. Consequently, a few month after the poet's death, the first English heretic to be "found guilty" (William Sawtre) was burned at the stake.
Why would Chaucer persist while knowing the result could be fearful death? The answer--it was a matter of conscience. One who had important information had a moral responsibility to share it. He sinned "who shutteth knowledge in his mouth."
Pilgrim Chaucer speaks of messages discreet and wise. Allegory could discreetly prove his obedience to God, and ease his conscience, as well.
When the poet moved to Westminster Abbey in June, 1400, England was once again in political upheaval. Several courtiers who were his friends had been cruelly executed. Thomas Usk, for example, was both hanged and beheaded. It is speculated that his motive for moving to the Abbey could have been for the protection of sanctuary.
The inspired "paper pilgrimage" led to Thomas á Becket. Who better to supplicate when in need of courage and perseverance? I believe Chaucer sought courage to persevere no matter what the cost, and to face death (if need be) as Thomas á Becket had.
The poet's closing prayer pleads, "Christ have mercy on me and forgive me my offenses." He concluded with the hope "that I may be one of them, at the day of judgment, that shall be saved." I believe Geoffrey Chaucer saw this world's hazards, however great, as temporary; but the hereafter, unending. As a man of conscience, he took the risk.
In the early 1300s, Inquisitors asked to apply torture without limitations to heretics, and thus "the Church grew harder and crueller and more unchristian," states H. C. Lea, an historian of the Inquisition.
How would Chaucer view life after all he'd seen? He advises, "Here is not home, here is nothing but wilderness." Christians were often called suddenly to Judgment from disease, politics, or random violence.
To publicly--or privately--raise objection to the ruling system, you'd be in jeopardy. Those in authority were seen as chosen by God, so to differ with God's chosen ones amounted to high treason.
Allegory thrives in a rigid authoritarian environment. Fourteenth-century Europe would have been fertile ground for hidden protests.
The poet's well-being and the survival of his messages, depended upon maintaining his good relationship with the royal court. Disaster struck many near him. Friends were executed with varying degrees of cruelty. Nevertheless, Chaucer and his works, remained unscathed.
On the Continent, Inquisitors were nowhere yet everywhere, like secret police. When the Inquisition reached England, religious dissenters met increasing severity. Consequently, a few month after the poet's death, the first English heretic to be "found guilty" (William Sawtre) was burned at the stake.
Why would Chaucer persist while knowing the result could be fearful death? The answer--it was a matter of conscience. One who had important information had a moral responsibility to share it. He sinned "who shutteth knowledge in his mouth."
Pilgrim Chaucer speaks of messages discreet and wise. Allegory could discreetly prove his obedience to God, and ease his conscience, as well.
When the poet moved to Westminster Abbey in June, 1400, England was once again in political upheaval. Several courtiers who were his friends had been cruelly executed. Thomas Usk, for example, was both hanged and beheaded. It is speculated that his motive for moving to the Abbey could have been for the protection of sanctuary.
The inspired "paper pilgrimage" led to Thomas á Becket. Who better to supplicate when in need of courage and perseverance? I believe Chaucer sought courage to persevere no matter what the cost, and to face death (if need be) as Thomas á Becket had.
The poet's closing prayer pleads, "Christ have mercy on me and forgive me my offenses." He concluded with the hope "that I may be one of them, at the day of judgment, that shall be saved." I believe Geoffrey Chaucer saw this world's hazards, however great, as temporary; but the hereafter, unending. As a man of conscience, he took the risk.
Friday, March 8, 2013
A matter of substance
This entry, our penultimate clue, will focus on a matter of genuine substance.
The Host interrupts himself while speaking to the Pilgrim Monk. In a brief aside, he advises that if no one is listening, there is no point in telling a story. Then, he repeats the advice but gives it a clerical, a religious emphasis.
For certainly, as these clerics say,
Whereas a man may have no audience,
It helps nothing to tell his sentence.
And well I know the substance is in me,
If anything shall well-reported be.
Sentence, in Chaucer's day, referred to meaning or doctrine. The Host seems to ramble. That gets our attention. What does lack of an audience have to do with a report?
For the surface story, "I know the substance is in me" is taken to mean "I have the capacity to understand," but that idea is not clear, nor particularly significant. "Substance," however, has great depth for medieval clerics, theologians. Fear not. Only two terms of theology will be dealt with, and their definitions are easily understood.
"Substance" is a fundamental aspect of faith. Notably in the primary definition of substance, the OED says: "Essential nature, essence; esp. Theol., with regard to the being of God. the divine nature or essence." The Athanasian Creed (1325) says of Christ, "He is God, of the substance of the Father." In addition, and again in the first entry, the MED says substance is "used of the incarnate Christ."
To declare substance being within the Host (the Eucharist) also confirms Transubstantiation. You could understand the term tran-substantia-tion as a changing of substance. A reading in the Divine Office states: "In [this sacrament] bread and wine are changed substantially into the body and blood of Christ." The Eucharistic Host, in the vocabulary of Scholastic Theology, uses two terms that, as I said earlier, are easily understood: accidents and substance.
Accidents, in this special designation, refers to qualities (of bread) that can be seen, while the substance (the essence) mystically becomes the body of Christ. One need not accept the doctrine. You just have to understand that THAT was, and is, the Dogma of the Church.
Chaucer wrote at a time of growing celebration of the presence of Christ within the Eucharist (the Real Presence). As a parallel, Chaucer's imaginative allegory describes the accidents, the attributes of the Canterbury Host that can be seen. These overt qualities conceal the substance, Christ's divine nature. Chaucer's Host indicates this covert identity here, and wants the fact "well reported."
We've seen a series of clues inscribe Christ within the Canterbury Host. Why? Are we only to see the basic confirmation that Christ leads Pilgrims on their life journey? No. There is more. Our final "clue" penetrates a humorous overlay. When the hidden significance came clear to me--I shuddered.
The Host interrupts himself while speaking to the Pilgrim Monk. In a brief aside, he advises that if no one is listening, there is no point in telling a story. Then, he repeats the advice but gives it a clerical, a religious emphasis.
For certainly, as these clerics say,
Whereas a man may have no audience,
It helps nothing to tell his sentence.
And well I know the substance is in me,
If anything shall well-reported be.
Sentence, in Chaucer's day, referred to meaning or doctrine. The Host seems to ramble. That gets our attention. What does lack of an audience have to do with a report?
For the surface story, "I know the substance is in me" is taken to mean "I have the capacity to understand," but that idea is not clear, nor particularly significant. "Substance," however, has great depth for medieval clerics, theologians. Fear not. Only two terms of theology will be dealt with, and their definitions are easily understood.
"Substance" is a fundamental aspect of faith. Notably in the primary definition of substance, the OED says: "Essential nature, essence; esp. Theol., with regard to the being of God. the divine nature or essence." The Athanasian Creed (1325) says of Christ, "He is God, of the substance of the Father." In addition, and again in the first entry, the MED says substance is "used of the incarnate Christ."
To declare substance being within the Host (the Eucharist) also confirms Transubstantiation. You could understand the term tran-substantia-tion as a changing of substance. A reading in the Divine Office states: "In [this sacrament] bread and wine are changed substantially into the body and blood of Christ." The Eucharistic Host, in the vocabulary of Scholastic Theology, uses two terms that, as I said earlier, are easily understood: accidents and substance.
Accidents, in this special designation, refers to qualities (of bread) that can be seen, while the substance (the essence) mystically becomes the body of Christ. One need not accept the doctrine. You just have to understand that THAT was, and is, the Dogma of the Church.
Chaucer wrote at a time of growing celebration of the presence of Christ within the Eucharist (the Real Presence). As a parallel, Chaucer's imaginative allegory describes the accidents, the attributes of the Canterbury Host that can be seen. These overt qualities conceal the substance, Christ's divine nature. Chaucer's Host indicates this covert identity here, and wants the fact "well reported."
We've seen a series of clues inscribe Christ within the Canterbury Host. Why? Are we only to see the basic confirmation that Christ leads Pilgrims on their life journey? No. There is more. Our final "clue" penetrates a humorous overlay. When the hidden significance came clear to me--I shuddered.
Sunday, February 10, 2013
The Canterbury adventure begins
The Host's position has been assured; agreements have been reached. We need to recognize, however, that individuals of high and low estate sharing accommodations and being willing to take orders from an innkeeper would never happen in the 1300s.
So, why present something that is an impossibility? One reason is a characteristic of old poetry called "signaling." This can occur when what we're told is preposterous or is a non-sequitur. It's a way for the poet to alert us: take notice!
In this instance of "signaling," the situation is preposterous. Then why is the poet claiming it took place? What does he want us to understand? The Host is portrayed as domineering. This trait, for the obvious storyline, contributes humor.
Allegory can have an entertaining comic surface which becomes difficult to set aside in order to see an inner, in this case, a spiritual meaning. Because the Host is generally accepted as a bully and a buffoon, it takes determination to see him as Christ at another level. His dominance in the underlying message fittingly illustrates Christ's omnipotence.
The poet's reason for creating this special challenge will be clear when we put the final touch on the portrait of this Host.
The night has passed, as we pick up the story. The pilgrims prepare to depart. But their departure is without details--no breakfast, no transport of possessions, no saddling of horses, no sounds or movements, no mention of weather, nor attitudes of the pilgrims. Particulars would have been simple enough to include, but are purposefully omitted.
Chaucer, in his minimal style, tells us only: In the morning, when the day began to spring / Up rose our Host, and was our cock. The Host stands in for a rooster which did the job before alarm clocks were invented.
Then the Host gathers the pilgrims "all in a flock." Did those words bring the image to your mind's eye of a shepherd with his "flock"? Non-verbalized images both inform and entertain. Taking note of what comes to our mind's eye gains a fuller experience of the poetry. We'll see this strategy again.
The group is on the road now, moving slowly. The slow pace is the one fact confided. We get to know the personalities of the pilgrims by their tales. The Host interacts with the pilgrims to link the tales one with the other. These brief interludes fascinate me. Chaucer's skill and ingenuity with multifaceted images goes far beyond the standard opinion regarding his creativity.
As the group travels, the links continue to give us clues to see the figure of Christ in this Host. We'll delve into these mini-dramas Chaucer creates.
First we'll take a wide-eyed look at the Host's offensive language. That's our topic for next week.
So, why present something that is an impossibility? One reason is a characteristic of old poetry called "signaling." This can occur when what we're told is preposterous or is a non-sequitur. It's a way for the poet to alert us: take notice!
In this instance of "signaling," the situation is preposterous. Then why is the poet claiming it took place? What does he want us to understand? The Host is portrayed as domineering. This trait, for the obvious storyline, contributes humor.
Allegory can have an entertaining comic surface which becomes difficult to set aside in order to see an inner, in this case, a spiritual meaning. Because the Host is generally accepted as a bully and a buffoon, it takes determination to see him as Christ at another level. His dominance in the underlying message fittingly illustrates Christ's omnipotence.
The poet's reason for creating this special challenge will be clear when we put the final touch on the portrait of this Host.
The night has passed, as we pick up the story. The pilgrims prepare to depart. But their departure is without details--no breakfast, no transport of possessions, no saddling of horses, no sounds or movements, no mention of weather, nor attitudes of the pilgrims. Particulars would have been simple enough to include, but are purposefully omitted.
Chaucer, in his minimal style, tells us only: In the morning, when the day began to spring / Up rose our Host, and was our cock. The Host stands in for a rooster which did the job before alarm clocks were invented.
Then the Host gathers the pilgrims "all in a flock." Did those words bring the image to your mind's eye of a shepherd with his "flock"? Non-verbalized images both inform and entertain. Taking note of what comes to our mind's eye gains a fuller experience of the poetry. We'll see this strategy again.
The group is on the road now, moving slowly. The slow pace is the one fact confided. We get to know the personalities of the pilgrims by their tales. The Host interacts with the pilgrims to link the tales one with the other. These brief interludes fascinate me. Chaucer's skill and ingenuity with multifaceted images goes far beyond the standard opinion regarding his creativity.
As the group travels, the links continue to give us clues to see the figure of Christ in this Host. We'll delve into these mini-dramas Chaucer creates.
First we'll take a wide-eyed look at the Host's offensive language. That's our topic for next week.
Friday, January 25, 2013
Food for pilgrims
The Host provides the best food for the pilgrims. Do you see a broad interpretation in that statement? We are all called "pilgrims" at times. And the Eucharist--the Host--strengthens us for our pilgrimage--our journey through life. Such a thought would be understood poetically by Catholics today. But what about Chaucer's contemporaries? Did they see the Eucharist as food for a journey?
The 14th century poem quoted in the previous entry continues the thought: A better food may no man find/ For to everlasting life it will lead us. (Carleton Brown, Religious Lyrics of the 14th Century)
It is even more clearly stated by John Lydgate in the medieval work called The Pilgrimage of the Life of Man. Christ is quoted as saying he leaves his body (Corpus Christi) to "true pilgrims" as the thing that may most avail them to relieve their travail/ travel as chief repast to sustain them.
While the surface story in this scene tells of an obliging innkeeper catering to his guests, Chaucer's underlying message is the acting out of the prevalent religious thought of his day. We will find that Chaucer often portrays a well known expression as an action.
The purpose of this blog is to ask questions and to recognize clues Chaucer gives to a second and deeper meaning. What we are confirming now is that there is a concealed image within the Canterbury Host. He is actually--he is also--Christ himself. Numerous factors point to this identity. Several are found in this scene between the Host and the pilgrims:
he settles accounts
he states he will be their judge
he demands immediate acceptance of his plan
Let's look at just the first item for now: settling accounts. We're told the pilgrims made their "reckonings." This can be read on one level as an innkeeper concerned about his profits, but there is no elaboration. Here again, Chaucer refrains from giving specific details. Though the action could be seen as dealing with money, coins are not mentioned. Why is that significant? Because lack of limiting details allows both the surface and underlying intention to be valid. Lack of specifics encourages ambiguity.
In the mind-set of Chaucer's day, terms which appeared to allude to money and bookkeeping transactions were the usual terminology for God's dealings with individuals at Judgment. For instance, in staging a Judgment scene in a Morality Play, each soul carries a personal balance sheet as he approaches Death's door. And Confessio Amantis, by John Gower (ca. 1386) uses different but similar language. At the soul's las Day of Account man will come before "Christ the Auditor."
We need to be aware that once the Host sets himself up as their ever-present judge, the atmosphere of judgment subtly permeates the whole journey. And does this please the journeyers? Next time we shall see.
The 14th century poem quoted in the previous entry continues the thought: A better food may no man find/ For to everlasting life it will lead us. (Carleton Brown, Religious Lyrics of the 14th Century)
It is even more clearly stated by John Lydgate in the medieval work called The Pilgrimage of the Life of Man. Christ is quoted as saying he leaves his body (Corpus Christi) to "true pilgrims" as the thing that may most avail them to relieve their travail/ travel as chief repast to sustain them.
While the surface story in this scene tells of an obliging innkeeper catering to his guests, Chaucer's underlying message is the acting out of the prevalent religious thought of his day. We will find that Chaucer often portrays a well known expression as an action.
The purpose of this blog is to ask questions and to recognize clues Chaucer gives to a second and deeper meaning. What we are confirming now is that there is a concealed image within the Canterbury Host. He is actually--he is also--Christ himself. Numerous factors point to this identity. Several are found in this scene between the Host and the pilgrims:
he settles accounts
he states he will be their judge
he demands immediate acceptance of his plan
Let's look at just the first item for now: settling accounts. We're told the pilgrims made their "reckonings." This can be read on one level as an innkeeper concerned about his profits, but there is no elaboration. Here again, Chaucer refrains from giving specific details. Though the action could be seen as dealing with money, coins are not mentioned. Why is that significant? Because lack of limiting details allows both the surface and underlying intention to be valid. Lack of specifics encourages ambiguity.
In the mind-set of Chaucer's day, terms which appeared to allude to money and bookkeeping transactions were the usual terminology for God's dealings with individuals at Judgment. For instance, in staging a Judgment scene in a Morality Play, each soul carries a personal balance sheet as he approaches Death's door. And Confessio Amantis, by John Gower (ca. 1386) uses different but similar language. At the soul's las Day of Account man will come before "Christ the Auditor."
We need to be aware that once the Host sets himself up as their ever-present judge, the atmosphere of judgment subtly permeates the whole journey. And does this please the journeyers? Next time we shall see.
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Meet the Canterbury pilgrims and the Host
What I knew about Chaucer, when I signed up for the required course, would not have filled a thimble. I'd heard his name, knew the title Canterbury Tales. That's all. Wasn't sure when he lived, except it was before Shakespeare. But my introduction to the Tales was the start of a stimulating intellectual adventure.
The beginning, called the General Prologue, describes the extensive cast of pilgrims. Each character is outstandingly unique. Learning about their physical attributes and life-styles brings them to life. You not only see the individual, you know how he or she gets along in the world. Chaucer, strangely enough, scatters some preposterous details through the portraits. For example: a virile knight in his 50s has a military career that spans 45 years; a woman wears a kerchief that weighs 10 pounds; a burly fellow is inclined to knock doors off their hinges by running into them with his head!
Somehow the oddities make the pilgrims more than the surface of the words describing them. An alternate image of each seemed to hover just out of focus. I figured it must be connected to the technique called "allegory," telling a story on two (or more) levels at the same time. Bringing a second storyline into focus was an entertaining challenge to readers of the Middle Ages. Fascinating!
Numerous specific details hold true for everyone until we meet the Host. He provides a night's lodging for the entire group, in anticipation of setting out on their pilgrimage. Chaucer uses a different tactic with him. Of his appearance, we are told only "a large man he was with eyen stepe." His eyes are "stepe"--they are high or wide-open. Again, I felt there was more to understand than merely the words.
The pilgrim introductions take 710 lines before the Host comes on the scene. Ralph Baldwin (in The Unity of the Canterbury Tales) hands us a surprising fact: of all the activities attributed and the travels recorded, we have seen only a "pretense of actions," spoken of, not performed.
It is the Host who performs the first action. After a warm welcome, he provides sustenance for these travelers in the form of the best food and strong wine. No particulars of the meal are given: no specific foods served, nothing of the manner of serving.
Again, I felt I was to understand more than the words were saying. My Catholic background brought automatic echoes for this Host. To associate the word Host with the best food and wine is the poetic equivalent of referring to the Eucharist. There are many medieval examples. A question posed in the Church's designated prayers for the Feast of Corpus Christi (Body of Christ) written by Thomas Aquinas, refers to the Sacrament of the Altar with: Can anything be more excellent than this repast? And a religious poem of the 14th century states: A better food may no man find.
We'll go on with this next week. Meanwhile Celebrate Chaucer!
The beginning, called the General Prologue, describes the extensive cast of pilgrims. Each character is outstandingly unique. Learning about their physical attributes and life-styles brings them to life. You not only see the individual, you know how he or she gets along in the world. Chaucer, strangely enough, scatters some preposterous details through the portraits. For example: a virile knight in his 50s has a military career that spans 45 years; a woman wears a kerchief that weighs 10 pounds; a burly fellow is inclined to knock doors off their hinges by running into them with his head!
Somehow the oddities make the pilgrims more than the surface of the words describing them. An alternate image of each seemed to hover just out of focus. I figured it must be connected to the technique called "allegory," telling a story on two (or more) levels at the same time. Bringing a second storyline into focus was an entertaining challenge to readers of the Middle Ages. Fascinating!
Numerous specific details hold true for everyone until we meet the Host. He provides a night's lodging for the entire group, in anticipation of setting out on their pilgrimage. Chaucer uses a different tactic with him. Of his appearance, we are told only "a large man he was with eyen stepe." His eyes are "stepe"--they are high or wide-open. Again, I felt there was more to understand than merely the words.
The pilgrim introductions take 710 lines before the Host comes on the scene. Ralph Baldwin (in The Unity of the Canterbury Tales) hands us a surprising fact: of all the activities attributed and the travels recorded, we have seen only a "pretense of actions," spoken of, not performed.
It is the Host who performs the first action. After a warm welcome, he provides sustenance for these travelers in the form of the best food and strong wine. No particulars of the meal are given: no specific foods served, nothing of the manner of serving.
Again, I felt I was to understand more than the words were saying. My Catholic background brought automatic echoes for this Host. To associate the word Host with the best food and wine is the poetic equivalent of referring to the Eucharist. There are many medieval examples. A question posed in the Church's designated prayers for the Feast of Corpus Christi (Body of Christ) written by Thomas Aquinas, refers to the Sacrament of the Altar with: Can anything be more excellent than this repast? And a religious poem of the 14th century states: A better food may no man find.
We'll go on with this next week. Meanwhile Celebrate Chaucer!
Monday, May 28, 2012
Let Me Make This Perfectly Clear
What I'm saying about reading the Canterbury Tales, about recognizing the identity of the characters, is not contrary to what you already know or believe from standard interpretations. I have no argument with previous interpretations. Chaucer's poetry can be read from many points of view.
What I am saying is that the work has an additional level of meaning. The Host is the innkeeper AND the Host is Christ. Chaucer's message is not one OR the other --it is both. That's what is so fascinating about allegory. The pictures in our mind's eye are not "one-dimensional," but can have two or even three layers of meaning.
We need to adopt/develop the medieval mindset to accept these multiple realities. The planets, for example, were seen as objects in the sky and as the ancient gods simultaneously. A visible conjunction of Venus and Mars, then, was recognized as a clandestine tryst between the two deities. Another way to achieve ambiguity--more than one meaning--Chaucer tells us specifically, is by using words with "two faces." Let's look at a few zodiac portrayals to get a feel for this fourteenth-century double talk.
The Pilgrim Cook is Cancer, the crab. The Cook prepares dishes that incorporate sea food--and he is the seafood ingredient, as well. A star cluster in this constellation is called The Manger. Chaucer makes us aware of that feature by telling of the Cook's expertise at making a medieval favorite: Blankmanger (white manger). A typical recipe for the dish calls for perch or lobster, boiled with almonds, rice and sugar--a sort of fish pudding. That's what we understand in regards to the Pilgrim Cook. On another level, the blankmanger "made" by the Cook refers to the star cluster in the constellation. He makes The Manger because it is part of him! An alternate name for the cluster is The Beehive. Then it is no surprise when the main character in the story that the Cook tells is a bee! The tale is a little joke about a mischievous drone who ultimately is banished from the hive. (I've included a complete explanation of the tale following the text of Chaucer's Pilgrims: the Allegory.)
The Pilgrim Monk is Leo, the lion. Oddly for a monk--but not for a lion--he enjoys hunting. Chaucer uses an airborne image of the Monk's greyhounds saying they move as swiftly as "bird in flight." They pursue no large quarry but only their traditional objective--the hare. We also learn that the Monk's favorite meal is roast swan. Celestial counterparts exist for the dogs and their prey in Canis Major and Minor, Lepus and Cygnus.
Then there is the Pilgrim Shipman, Capricorn, the Seagoat. When we suspect the Shipman is tapping wine from the ship's cargo, the theft is expresses as "to draw draughts of wine." The phrase, however, can also mean to haul quantities (measures) of wine. Chaucer, who had been in charge of Customs in London, had seen many a goatskin filled with wine. Goat leather, not fragile and easily transportable, carried wine commercially from ancient times down to the eighteenth century. We see the Shipman, then as both thief and--in his goat persona--as the means of carrying the wine.
Are you catching on? Here is an example that amazed me with its clarity when I recognized how allegorical levels work. If the travelers each correspond to a celestial entity, what/who is the Host? Here are the clues Chaucer provides. The Host is the guide for the zodiac travelers, that is, he indicates the path these signs will follow. In astronomy, this is called the ecliptic: "the apparent path of the sun." And, in considering the Host as identified with Christ, He is often poetically referred to as the Sun (or Son) of Righteousness. So, the main and guiding character in the Canterbury Tales can be seen as an innkeeper, as Christ, and as the Sun. That's just a hint of Chaucer's genius.
What I am saying is that the work has an additional level of meaning. The Host is the innkeeper AND the Host is Christ. Chaucer's message is not one OR the other --it is both. That's what is so fascinating about allegory. The pictures in our mind's eye are not "one-dimensional," but can have two or even three layers of meaning.
We need to adopt/develop the medieval mindset to accept these multiple realities. The planets, for example, were seen as objects in the sky and as the ancient gods simultaneously. A visible conjunction of Venus and Mars, then, was recognized as a clandestine tryst between the two deities. Another way to achieve ambiguity--more than one meaning--Chaucer tells us specifically, is by using words with "two faces." Let's look at a few zodiac portrayals to get a feel for this fourteenth-century double talk.
The Pilgrim Cook is Cancer, the crab. The Cook prepares dishes that incorporate sea food--and he is the seafood ingredient, as well. A star cluster in this constellation is called The Manger. Chaucer makes us aware of that feature by telling of the Cook's expertise at making a medieval favorite: Blankmanger (white manger). A typical recipe for the dish calls for perch or lobster, boiled with almonds, rice and sugar--a sort of fish pudding. That's what we understand in regards to the Pilgrim Cook. On another level, the blankmanger "made" by the Cook refers to the star cluster in the constellation. He makes The Manger because it is part of him! An alternate name for the cluster is The Beehive. Then it is no surprise when the main character in the story that the Cook tells is a bee! The tale is a little joke about a mischievous drone who ultimately is banished from the hive. (I've included a complete explanation of the tale following the text of Chaucer's Pilgrims: the Allegory.)
The Pilgrim Monk is Leo, the lion. Oddly for a monk--but not for a lion--he enjoys hunting. Chaucer uses an airborne image of the Monk's greyhounds saying they move as swiftly as "bird in flight." They pursue no large quarry but only their traditional objective--the hare. We also learn that the Monk's favorite meal is roast swan. Celestial counterparts exist for the dogs and their prey in Canis Major and Minor, Lepus and Cygnus.
Then there is the Pilgrim Shipman, Capricorn, the Seagoat. When we suspect the Shipman is tapping wine from the ship's cargo, the theft is expresses as "to draw draughts of wine." The phrase, however, can also mean to haul quantities (measures) of wine. Chaucer, who had been in charge of Customs in London, had seen many a goatskin filled with wine. Goat leather, not fragile and easily transportable, carried wine commercially from ancient times down to the eighteenth century. We see the Shipman, then as both thief and--in his goat persona--as the means of carrying the wine.
Are you catching on? Here is an example that amazed me with its clarity when I recognized how allegorical levels work. If the travelers each correspond to a celestial entity, what/who is the Host? Here are the clues Chaucer provides. The Host is the guide for the zodiac travelers, that is, he indicates the path these signs will follow. In astronomy, this is called the ecliptic: "the apparent path of the sun." And, in considering the Host as identified with Christ, He is often poetically referred to as the Sun (or Son) of Righteousness. So, the main and guiding character in the Canterbury Tales can be seen as an innkeeper, as Christ, and as the Sun. That's just a hint of Chaucer's genius.
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Written in the Stars--Final entry Part 4
This post completes the identification of the signs of the zodiac concealed in the Canterbury Pilgrims.
Capricorn/ the Shipman Capricorn is inconspicuous. Chaucer creates the connection to the Seagoat by choosing perfect seafaring references--an island off the coast of Sweden--Gotland--and a promontory along the coast of Spain--Cape of Finisterre. (Sterre is star in Chaucer's English.) That is, from goat-land to fin-star. Deneb Algedi (Arabic for Tail's End) is Capricorn's only important star and is properly located on the fin of the tail.
Aquarius/ the Summoner This singular portrait tells only of his duties and the condition of his face. The zodiac identifier is minimal--a one-word clue. He knows how to call for "Watte" as well as does the pope. Watte is explained as "Walter," but, with this spelling, "Watte" can function as both Walter and water. The task-name of "summoner" is awesome--the ultimate summoner being Death. Chaucer, no doubt, was well-acquainted with the dead and dying. This Pilgrim's appearance has all the possibilities of a victim of the plague. His eyes are swollen almost shut. On his face, there are scabs, large and small pustules, and hair loss. Not surprising--Of his visage children were aferd. And yet, despite his hideous features, he had a way with The young girls of the diocese. As the image of Death personified, the claim is acceptable; death would be irresistible.
Pisces/ the Pardoner A Christian legend commemorates Pisces as a fish caught be St. Peter; a coin was in its mouth when it was hauled into the boat. Fomalhaut, a star of the first magnitude, has long been called the Fish's Mouth. The Pardoner's fine performance in church, singing and preaching, assured him of a great amount of silver in the collection. That projects a glimpse of Pisces as the fish with the coin in its mouth. A fish portrayed as a human can be seen in details of his smooth hair, yellow as wax, as it spreads over his shoulders in very thin bits one upon another--as an approximation of fish scales. He would never have a beard and his eyes--oddly enough--look to the sides, as the eyes of a fish would, rather than straight ahead.
Each of the Pilgrims has many more details for identification. This just gives a way to begin, an introduction to Chaucer's amazing allegorical method. (The entire analysis with all the scholarly references and sources is the substance of Chaucer's Pilgrims: the Allegory, my third book about the Canterbury Tales.) The search for identifiers has been an exciting adventure.
Capricorn/ the Shipman Capricorn is inconspicuous. Chaucer creates the connection to the Seagoat by choosing perfect seafaring references--an island off the coast of Sweden--Gotland--and a promontory along the coast of Spain--Cape of Finisterre. (Sterre is star in Chaucer's English.) That is, from goat-land to fin-star. Deneb Algedi (Arabic for Tail's End) is Capricorn's only important star and is properly located on the fin of the tail.
Aquarius/ the Summoner This singular portrait tells only of his duties and the condition of his face. The zodiac identifier is minimal--a one-word clue. He knows how to call for "Watte" as well as does the pope. Watte is explained as "Walter," but, with this spelling, "Watte" can function as both Walter and water. The task-name of "summoner" is awesome--the ultimate summoner being Death. Chaucer, no doubt, was well-acquainted with the dead and dying. This Pilgrim's appearance has all the possibilities of a victim of the plague. His eyes are swollen almost shut. On his face, there are scabs, large and small pustules, and hair loss. Not surprising--Of his visage children were aferd. And yet, despite his hideous features, he had a way with The young girls of the diocese. As the image of Death personified, the claim is acceptable; death would be irresistible.
Pisces/ the Pardoner A Christian legend commemorates Pisces as a fish caught be St. Peter; a coin was in its mouth when it was hauled into the boat. Fomalhaut, a star of the first magnitude, has long been called the Fish's Mouth. The Pardoner's fine performance in church, singing and preaching, assured him of a great amount of silver in the collection. That projects a glimpse of Pisces as the fish with the coin in its mouth. A fish portrayed as a human can be seen in details of his smooth hair, yellow as wax, as it spreads over his shoulders in very thin bits one upon another--as an approximation of fish scales. He would never have a beard and his eyes--oddly enough--look to the sides, as the eyes of a fish would, rather than straight ahead.
Each of the Pilgrims has many more details for identification. This just gives a way to begin, an introduction to Chaucer's amazing allegorical method. (The entire analysis with all the scholarly references and sources is the substance of Chaucer's Pilgrims: the Allegory, my third book about the Canterbury Tales.) The search for identifiers has been an exciting adventure.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Written in the Stars--Part 3
Libra/ the Manciple Chaucer doesn't attempt to describe weighing scales in terms of a human being, but tells of the Manciple's business capabilities instead. A manciple is the servant who buys provisions. He's "a purchasing agent." Rather than scales used in transactions, the word Libra, itself means a purchasing agent. It signifies "pound," the British pound symbolized by £, which stands for libra. With no effort at all, this Manciple, as Libra, is money, the efficient agent of business transactions.
Scorpio/ the Reeve Chaucer bypasses the many, bright stars of Scorpio. He concentrates on the scorpion image instead. Ancients described the living creature, with its claw-like pincers and a long, upturned tail, as a predator that haunts thicket and field. A scorpion's habit is to live most of its life alone in barns or deserted buildings. Death, from their venom, can come in less than an hour. Chaucer's Reeve--the overseer and accountant of a manor--is slender and bad-tempered. He is hairless and has legs like sticks. He keeps watch over storage areas. And is dreaded as if he were death itself. He prefers dwelling in the shadows on uncultivated land. The detail of being hindermost of the group points to the scorpion's extensive physical structure at the rear.
Sagittarius/ the Merchant Sagittarius has no outstandingly bright stars. The image high on a horse he sat fits only one sign in the zodiac. Picture the torso of a man joined to the shoulder area of a horse, and always illustrated with a beard and tousled hair. Chaucer covers both details with a forked beard and a beaver hat. The creature's hooves are noted as boots neatly clasped. Because we are dealing with a man-beast the poet says men know not what to call him.
One more segment and all the Canterbury Pilgrims will have lifted their disguises.
Scorpio/ the Reeve Chaucer bypasses the many, bright stars of Scorpio. He concentrates on the scorpion image instead. Ancients described the living creature, with its claw-like pincers and a long, upturned tail, as a predator that haunts thicket and field. A scorpion's habit is to live most of its life alone in barns or deserted buildings. Death, from their venom, can come in less than an hour. Chaucer's Reeve--the overseer and accountant of a manor--is slender and bad-tempered. He is hairless and has legs like sticks. He keeps watch over storage areas. And is dreaded as if he were death itself. He prefers dwelling in the shadows on uncultivated land. The detail of being hindermost of the group points to the scorpion's extensive physical structure at the rear.
Sagittarius/ the Merchant Sagittarius has no outstandingly bright stars. The image high on a horse he sat fits only one sign in the zodiac. Picture the torso of a man joined to the shoulder area of a horse, and always illustrated with a beard and tousled hair. Chaucer covers both details with a forked beard and a beaver hat. The creature's hooves are noted as boots neatly clasped. Because we are dealing with a man-beast the poet says men know not what to call him.
One more segment and all the Canterbury Pilgrims will have lifted their disguises.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Written in the Stars--Part 2
This is the second segment of the explication of the allegory presenting the signs of the zodiac disguised as Chaucer's Canterbury Pilgrims.
Cancer/ the Cook Only one thing in the figure is noteworthy--a cluster of stars called the Manger. The Cook's appearance is not described. Chaucer tells only of his talent in "making" tasty dishes--until the last two lines. Attention, then, is drawn to the running sore on his shin--a sure indication of cancer. That unpleasant fact is immediately followed by telling of his reputation as an expert at making blankmanger. The white (blanc) manger "made" by the Cook refers to the star cluster of the sign of the Crab.
Leo/ the Monk Three stars represent three oddities in the Monk. The first magnitude star, Regulus, is called "the Lion's Heart." Chaucer presents the brilliant Regulus as a golden ornament under the Monk's chin. A second prominent star, Denebola (Arabic, "the Lion's Tail"), is said to be the "love-knot in the greater end." A third star, Algieba (above Regulus) is named "Brow of the Lion." Chaucer indicated Algieba by describing the Monk's glowing eyes. The lion image is expressed with details of being a hunter after game and words like pricking, and being of good point.
Virgo/ the Wife Virgo has many ancient associations with the thousand-name goddess--who spilled grain to form the Milky Way. There is only one outstanding feature in the figure--Spica, a blue star of the first magnitude. That name refers to an ear of corn, so Virgo is sometimes called "the corn maiden." Only one line about the Wife is needed to confirm her as Virgo--And on her feet a pair of spurs sharp. Chaucer, here, points to Spica. The Latin word, spica, means a spike, and it also means an ear of corn: spike for the star, ear of corn for the myth. As the Mother of the gods in the ancient Roman world, her statue received a ritual cleansing annually. And as the goddess Hera, a cleansing bath renewed her virginity each year. Of great significance, then, is the name the poet gave her--The Wife of Bath. The bath is essential to her identity.
Part 3 of this explanation we'll cover Libra, Scorpio and Sagittarius.
Cancer/ the Cook Only one thing in the figure is noteworthy--a cluster of stars called the Manger. The Cook's appearance is not described. Chaucer tells only of his talent in "making" tasty dishes--until the last two lines. Attention, then, is drawn to the running sore on his shin--a sure indication of cancer. That unpleasant fact is immediately followed by telling of his reputation as an expert at making blankmanger. The white (blanc) manger "made" by the Cook refers to the star cluster of the sign of the Crab.
Leo/ the Monk Three stars represent three oddities in the Monk. The first magnitude star, Regulus, is called "the Lion's Heart." Chaucer presents the brilliant Regulus as a golden ornament under the Monk's chin. A second prominent star, Denebola (Arabic, "the Lion's Tail"), is said to be the "love-knot in the greater end." A third star, Algieba (above Regulus) is named "Brow of the Lion." Chaucer indicated Algieba by describing the Monk's glowing eyes. The lion image is expressed with details of being a hunter after game and words like pricking, and being of good point.
Virgo/ the Wife Virgo has many ancient associations with the thousand-name goddess--who spilled grain to form the Milky Way. There is only one outstanding feature in the figure--Spica, a blue star of the first magnitude. That name refers to an ear of corn, so Virgo is sometimes called "the corn maiden." Only one line about the Wife is needed to confirm her as Virgo--And on her feet a pair of spurs sharp. Chaucer, here, points to Spica. The Latin word, spica, means a spike, and it also means an ear of corn: spike for the star, ear of corn for the myth. As the Mother of the gods in the ancient Roman world, her statue received a ritual cleansing annually. And as the goddess Hera, a cleansing bath renewed her virginity each year. Of great significance, then, is the name the poet gave her--The Wife of Bath. The bath is essential to her identity.
Part 3 of this explanation we'll cover Libra, Scorpio and Sagittarius.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Pilgrims in disguise
You could content yourself with the surface story of the Canterbury Tales and let the idea of a hidden meaning just slide. Chaucer's surface story has been enjoyed for centuries--and will continue to be, but I couldn't do that. The poetry nagged me: "Why did he say that?" For example, only one of the pilgrims is said to wear spurs. No, not the Knight. It's one of the women. Why would Chaucer say that? I figured he must have had a reason.
While we're on the subject of pilgrims, in one of his earlier poems (Troilus and Criseyde), Chaucer says the hero "Like a pilgrim he disguised himself" so that he could make his way undetected into enemy territory to visit his ladylove. I didn't know about that disguise until after the episode I'm about to describe, but it shows that our poet already had that trick in mind.
The whole scheme of the Canterbury pilgrims distracted me. Chaucer's reputation was too well known, his skills too well recognized by his contemporaries for me to think that the group was a haphazard collection. So what was it that made this precise combination necessary? Why was there one pair of brothers, not from a religious order, but two men related by birth? Why not three brothers or no brothers? Why was there a wife--but no husband and wife? Why no children? Why so few women?
When I raised the question of the make-up of this assortment of travelers, I was told, "That's just the way it was in the Middle Ages." End of discussion. But that never satisfied me. And it didn't stop the tape loop that had begun playing in my head. No matter what I was doing, in some little compartment of my brain, a never-ending succession of the images of the pilgrims was always on screen. I knew there had to be an answer to the selection of exactly this group. My need for the answer was obsessive, unrelenting. That ever-present pilgrim tape streamed past my mind's eye for more than a week--and then it happened.
Picture this. What's going on in your mind is projected on a TV screen, and at the bottom of the screen there is a narrow tape running--rather like news headlines are displayed. That tape at the bottom ran on and on with the pictures of the pilgrims. And then--without any warning--my memory dredged up a second tape of images that began running just above the pilgrim tape, and in a few moments they meshed. They matched. The pilgrims were identified. The tapes stopped running, and I sat there overwhelmed, contemplating the matched identities. It was like checking your lottery ticket against the winning numbers printed in the newspaper-- and realizing you've won the jackpot. Eureka! I suddenly knew that Chaucer presents one group of characters described in terms of another group. The pilgrims are all disguised!
While we're on the subject of pilgrims, in one of his earlier poems (Troilus and Criseyde), Chaucer says the hero "Like a pilgrim he disguised himself" so that he could make his way undetected into enemy territory to visit his ladylove. I didn't know about that disguise until after the episode I'm about to describe, but it shows that our poet already had that trick in mind.
The whole scheme of the Canterbury pilgrims distracted me. Chaucer's reputation was too well known, his skills too well recognized by his contemporaries for me to think that the group was a haphazard collection. So what was it that made this precise combination necessary? Why was there one pair of brothers, not from a religious order, but two men related by birth? Why not three brothers or no brothers? Why was there a wife--but no husband and wife? Why no children? Why so few women?
When I raised the question of the make-up of this assortment of travelers, I was told, "That's just the way it was in the Middle Ages." End of discussion. But that never satisfied me. And it didn't stop the tape loop that had begun playing in my head. No matter what I was doing, in some little compartment of my brain, a never-ending succession of the images of the pilgrims was always on screen. I knew there had to be an answer to the selection of exactly this group. My need for the answer was obsessive, unrelenting. That ever-present pilgrim tape streamed past my mind's eye for more than a week--and then it happened.
Picture this. What's going on in your mind is projected on a TV screen, and at the bottom of the screen there is a narrow tape running--rather like news headlines are displayed. That tape at the bottom ran on and on with the pictures of the pilgrims. And then--without any warning--my memory dredged up a second tape of images that began running just above the pilgrim tape, and in a few moments they meshed. They matched. The pilgrims were identified. The tapes stopped running, and I sat there overwhelmed, contemplating the matched identities. It was like checking your lottery ticket against the winning numbers printed in the newspaper-- and realizing you've won the jackpot. Eureka! I suddenly knew that Chaucer presents one group of characters described in terms of another group. The pilgrims are all disguised!
Monday, February 27, 2012
The Grand Procession
Now let's return to considerations of the importance of the Host as the Eucharist. While Chaucer lived, more and more splendid features were incorporated into the feast celebrating the gift of the Eucharist. Specially composed liturgies, elaborate processions and dramatized presentations were added.
Entire communities became involved in these activities (at Chester, York, etc.). Each year, E. K. Chambers (The Mediaeval Stage) tells us, "the leading ceremony was a great procession in which the host (the consecrated bread of the Mass), escorted by local dignitaries, religious bodies and guilds, was borne through the streets and displayed successively at out-of-door stations." The feast "provided new contexts of meaning for the [E]ucharist in the feast's evolving iconography."
In the early morning of the feast day the Eucharist (the Host), reverently displayed, was raise up for all to see. (The priest's elevating of the Host during the Mass became identified with the Consecration, the moment when the bread became Christ.) The procession then formed as they left the church to travel through the streets of the city. (This tradition still lives today in many places.) Worshipers--traditionally dignitaries, clergy, religious, guildsmen and others--followed in procession. These fourteenth-century attendees would naturally move at a walking pace.
Miri Rubin, in her comprehensive study of the history of the Eucharist in the medieval world, tells of a mid-fourteenth-century sermon that holds an interesting relationship to the scene we are reviewing. The sermon was composed for Corpus Christi and contains "vibrant references to tale and allegory." It depicts Christ on His journey to heaven.
Christ is portrayed as an honored man who mounts a horse; this is understood as the action of the priest at Consecration when he "raises[s] Christ aloft in his hands." The equestrian ride which follows is then compared to the exposition of the Eucharistic Host as it is carried through the streets. As we have noted before, the underlying images of Christ to be seen in Chaucer's words are often the expression of a medieval thought pattern; they are not the poet's individual creativity for the Canterbury Tales, but adaptations of imagery from his day-to-day world.
Picture the poet as one of the spectators at this grand display; see his fertile imagination scanning the scene before him as he transposes it into his final masterpiece--the Canterbury Tales.
What we are told as Chaucer's pilgrims prepare to set out hardly reflects real preparations for a trip. This is, in fact, one of the first indications that the poet is constructing a fantasy. And his fantasy parallels the elements of a Corpus Christi procession.
Here is Chaucer's description of the Canterbury pilgrims setting forth. First, notice what is not said. We hear (see) nothing of preparations--no breakfast, no transport of possessions, no saddling of horses, no sounds or movements, no mention of weather, nor attitudes of the pilgrims. Who was the first one ready? Who caused a delay? Instead, here is the entire departure sequence. At the break of day up rose the Host and gathered us together in a flock and forth we rode. That's all. And the journey has begun.
We are given no pertinent information as they proceed through the city. Do they ride two by two, or single file, or as a close group through the streets?
There is another similarity between the flock of pilgrims that accompanies the Canterbury Host and worshipers who make up a Corpus Christi procession. In both cases the group includes dignitaries, religious and guild members.
And finally, although we assume they are on horses, they move slowly--so slowly that Chaucer says they go at little more than a walking pace! As was pointed out earlier, that's the expected pace of the Corpus Christi procession.
Chaucer has set us up. We're about to be taken for a ride--and we're hardly aware of it.
Entire communities became involved in these activities (at Chester, York, etc.). Each year, E. K. Chambers (The Mediaeval Stage) tells us, "the leading ceremony was a great procession in which the host (the consecrated bread of the Mass), escorted by local dignitaries, religious bodies and guilds, was borne through the streets and displayed successively at out-of-door stations." The feast "provided new contexts of meaning for the [E]ucharist in the feast's evolving iconography."
In the early morning of the feast day the Eucharist (the Host), reverently displayed, was raise up for all to see. (The priest's elevating of the Host during the Mass became identified with the Consecration, the moment when the bread became Christ.) The procession then formed as they left the church to travel through the streets of the city. (This tradition still lives today in many places.) Worshipers--traditionally dignitaries, clergy, religious, guildsmen and others--followed in procession. These fourteenth-century attendees would naturally move at a walking pace.
Miri Rubin, in her comprehensive study of the history of the Eucharist in the medieval world, tells of a mid-fourteenth-century sermon that holds an interesting relationship to the scene we are reviewing. The sermon was composed for Corpus Christi and contains "vibrant references to tale and allegory." It depicts Christ on His journey to heaven.
Christ is portrayed as an honored man who mounts a horse; this is understood as the action of the priest at Consecration when he "raises[s] Christ aloft in his hands." The equestrian ride which follows is then compared to the exposition of the Eucharistic Host as it is carried through the streets. As we have noted before, the underlying images of Christ to be seen in Chaucer's words are often the expression of a medieval thought pattern; they are not the poet's individual creativity for the Canterbury Tales, but adaptations of imagery from his day-to-day world.
Picture the poet as one of the spectators at this grand display; see his fertile imagination scanning the scene before him as he transposes it into his final masterpiece--the Canterbury Tales.
What we are told as Chaucer's pilgrims prepare to set out hardly reflects real preparations for a trip. This is, in fact, one of the first indications that the poet is constructing a fantasy. And his fantasy parallels the elements of a Corpus Christi procession.
Here is Chaucer's description of the Canterbury pilgrims setting forth. First, notice what is not said. We hear (see) nothing of preparations--no breakfast, no transport of possessions, no saddling of horses, no sounds or movements, no mention of weather, nor attitudes of the pilgrims. Who was the first one ready? Who caused a delay? Instead, here is the entire departure sequence. At the break of day up rose the Host and gathered us together in a flock and forth we rode. That's all. And the journey has begun.
We are given no pertinent information as they proceed through the city. Do they ride two by two, or single file, or as a close group through the streets?
There is another similarity between the flock of pilgrims that accompanies the Canterbury Host and worshipers who make up a Corpus Christi procession. In both cases the group includes dignitaries, religious and guild members.
And finally, although we assume they are on horses, they move slowly--so slowly that Chaucer says they go at little more than a walking pace! As was pointed out earlier, that's the expected pace of the Corpus Christi procession.
Chaucer has set us up. We're about to be taken for a ride--and we're hardly aware of it.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
The Host's Lament
A comic image could provide a distracting surface characterization--that of an apparently henpecked husband. Many decades of laughter have concentrated on comedy in the Host's commentary and in so doing have perpetuated the impression of a single meaning. Let's look further.
The Host has a wife but she has not been mentioned before, because she is not part of the pilgrim company. She is never seen but merely commented upon in two brief snatches of the Host's conversation. And who would we recognize as the Host's/Christ's wife--the Church. She is the traditional Bride of Christ. The Host's reactions hold a dual intent, as an unhappy husband and as Christ expressing covert distress about his self-righteous wife. As a beleaguered husband, he reports his wife's faults, but breaks off, hesitant to say too much. The concern is the same for Chaucer. He dare not have his dissent regarding the Church become obvious.
These are the Host's laments:
"When I punish my servants, my wife brings me weapons and cries, 'Slay the dogs everyone. And break them, both back and every bone!' If a neighbor will not bow to my wife in church, or is so fearless as to offend her, she attacks me to my face when she comes home. She feels I'm a milksop, a cowardly fool, who would not stand by her authority.
"Someday she'll make me slay a neighbor, for she is strong in her arms, by my faith. That's what he will find, who offends her by his deeds or words."
These are chilling comments about a spouse. How could the poet fail to ask himself, "Would Christ use these methods if He walked the earth today?" Chaucer says enough for us to understand, but breaks off--before the intention becomes transparent.
Evasions are contained in "Let's pass away from this matter" and "It doesn't matter! let it go." To criticize would be perilous, the Host tells us, because "It would be reported back to her." These comments taken seriously--rather than as comic exaggerations--portray a harridan, a tyrant.
H. C. Lea, in his The Inquisition of the Middle Ages, seems to be describing precisely what the Host refers to. Lea tells that torture had long been recognized as an effective tool and in the early 1300s Inquisitors were given permission to apply it without limitations to heretics. Thus, he states, "the Church grew harder and crueller and more unchristian." Paralleling the Host's caution about his wife's strong arms and being reported, Lea declares, "to human apprehension the papal Inquisition was wellnigh ubiquitous, omniscient, and omnipotent." The harsh, letter-of-the-law procedures of the fourteenth-century Church hardly reflect Christ's Gospel message of love and justice.
The Host's fear, that he would "slay a neighbor," was well-founded. Just months after Chaucer's death the Inquisition sentenced an Englishman to be burned at the stake.
Suddenly, at a point in my research, this terrifying image of the Host's wife clearly became a portrait of the Church. The realization devastated me. As a Catholic, my feeling about my relationship to the Church had always been that of a loving child. She was my mother! The terror of this fourteenth -century portrayal brought anguish to my mind and heart.
Virginia had seen that image before I'd said a word about it. When I reached the final chapter of the book, her face grew serious, almost grim, as she said "You haven't mentioned the Host's wife," and added, "I recall Chaucer's description of her as a hard, cruel person." After a pause she said, "She must be the Church!"
The Host laments that his wife is cruel, demanding, quarrelsome, and unfeeling. If his words are those of an innkeeper, we see a dreadful married relationship. But, if uttered by Christ accusing the Church as cruel, demanding, quarrelsome, unfeeling, these traits are an apt description of the medieval Church's power and widespread action of the Inquisition. We may ask, "Where is the love and justice of Christ's teachings?" But such a question could not be spoken aloud in the fourteenth century without severe consequences. It took a courageous poet under cover of allegory to express such fears and frustrations.
The facts of this dreadful image of the Church cannot be denied. I shuddered when it leapt out at me. I still shudder.
The Host has a wife but she has not been mentioned before, because she is not part of the pilgrim company. She is never seen but merely commented upon in two brief snatches of the Host's conversation. And who would we recognize as the Host's/Christ's wife--the Church. She is the traditional Bride of Christ. The Host's reactions hold a dual intent, as an unhappy husband and as Christ expressing covert distress about his self-righteous wife. As a beleaguered husband, he reports his wife's faults, but breaks off, hesitant to say too much. The concern is the same for Chaucer. He dare not have his dissent regarding the Church become obvious.
These are the Host's laments:
"When I punish my servants, my wife brings me weapons and cries, 'Slay the dogs everyone. And break them, both back and every bone!' If a neighbor will not bow to my wife in church, or is so fearless as to offend her, she attacks me to my face when she comes home. She feels I'm a milksop, a cowardly fool, who would not stand by her authority.
"Someday she'll make me slay a neighbor, for she is strong in her arms, by my faith. That's what he will find, who offends her by his deeds or words."
These are chilling comments about a spouse. How could the poet fail to ask himself, "Would Christ use these methods if He walked the earth today?" Chaucer says enough for us to understand, but breaks off--before the intention becomes transparent.
Evasions are contained in "Let's pass away from this matter" and "It doesn't matter! let it go." To criticize would be perilous, the Host tells us, because "It would be reported back to her." These comments taken seriously--rather than as comic exaggerations--portray a harridan, a tyrant.
H. C. Lea, in his The Inquisition of the Middle Ages, seems to be describing precisely what the Host refers to. Lea tells that torture had long been recognized as an effective tool and in the early 1300s Inquisitors were given permission to apply it without limitations to heretics. Thus, he states, "the Church grew harder and crueller and more unchristian." Paralleling the Host's caution about his wife's strong arms and being reported, Lea declares, "to human apprehension the papal Inquisition was wellnigh ubiquitous, omniscient, and omnipotent." The harsh, letter-of-the-law procedures of the fourteenth-century Church hardly reflect Christ's Gospel message of love and justice.
The Host's fear, that he would "slay a neighbor," was well-founded. Just months after Chaucer's death the Inquisition sentenced an Englishman to be burned at the stake.
Suddenly, at a point in my research, this terrifying image of the Host's wife clearly became a portrait of the Church. The realization devastated me. As a Catholic, my feeling about my relationship to the Church had always been that of a loving child. She was my mother! The terror of this fourteenth -century portrayal brought anguish to my mind and heart.
Virginia had seen that image before I'd said a word about it. When I reached the final chapter of the book, her face grew serious, almost grim, as she said "You haven't mentioned the Host's wife," and added, "I recall Chaucer's description of her as a hard, cruel person." After a pause she said, "She must be the Church!"
The Host laments that his wife is cruel, demanding, quarrelsome, and unfeeling. If his words are those of an innkeeper, we see a dreadful married relationship. But, if uttered by Christ accusing the Church as cruel, demanding, quarrelsome, unfeeling, these traits are an apt description of the medieval Church's power and widespread action of the Inquisition. We may ask, "Where is the love and justice of Christ's teachings?" But such a question could not be spoken aloud in the fourteenth century without severe consequences. It took a courageous poet under cover of allegory to express such fears and frustrations.
The facts of this dreadful image of the Church cannot be denied. I shuddered when it leapt out at me. I still shudder.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Prepared for the challenge
We know now that Chaucer's daily life dealt with sudden death (natural or inflicted), and persecution of dissidents (whether at odds with the Church or the monarchy).
He lived surrounded by challenges at a time ripe for hidden protests, such as allegory. All forms of literature--poetry, drama, sermons, or prose--were steeped in the form, and his English contemporaries took him to be the finest author of his age. Therefore, he had to be the greatest creator of allegory.
Using the form, a writer would say one thing, but mean another: sowing seeds meant developing faith; choosing between two mares could refer to having two mistresses; journeying to "celestial Jerusalem" corresponded to one's life. Saying one thing and meaning another still functions today in cultural codes understood only by a particular group. Codes during wartime also serve the same purpose: speaking of puppies or cigarettes or weather forecasts but meaning something entirely different. Hidden messages are not at all strange or a new idea.
Getting back to Chaucer, he portrayed all aspects of human nature with astonishing tolerance, not condemning even the most publicly sinful individuals. Knowing what he had experienced, I find it impossible to see the poet without compassion for the oppressed. I also find it impossible to think he was unaffected by the tragic loss of one after the other of his friends to sudden cruel ends.
I believe he could not help but register a sense of horror and injustice toward authority. If horrors have not been understood from his words, it is because the aim of allegory is to be obscure. Fletcher's book on the subject, mentioned earlier, emphasizes that intention. Allegory had served as a veiled protest for centuries before Chaucer, and can be found today where dictators rule with iron fists, or where corruption runs rampant.
Chaucer's translating of the most famous French allegory of his day--The Romance of the Rose--gave him good practice. But it took great determination, besides, for his message to be preserved. If the wrong people had recognized the hidden meaning, he would have been at personal hazard, and his works would have been destroyed. (Book burning had already been resorted to, if content offended authority.) His no-less-than-heroic dedication, in that case, would have been futile.
So what would he hide so cleverly? We've already mentioned the bawdy Sir Thopas and his enemy--an Arab named "Elephant." What is being described is what was perceived as "venereal disease." My friend, Virginia Adair, caught on to that.
She also foresaw another of the poet's intentions. This time it was essential that his secret message be concealed with the utmost skill; Chaucer would not have survived discovery by hostile opposition. The plan is remarkable and courageous. It has to do with the Host--and still makes me shudder.
He lived surrounded by challenges at a time ripe for hidden protests, such as allegory. All forms of literature--poetry, drama, sermons, or prose--were steeped in the form, and his English contemporaries took him to be the finest author of his age. Therefore, he had to be the greatest creator of allegory.
Using the form, a writer would say one thing, but mean another: sowing seeds meant developing faith; choosing between two mares could refer to having two mistresses; journeying to "celestial Jerusalem" corresponded to one's life. Saying one thing and meaning another still functions today in cultural codes understood only by a particular group. Codes during wartime also serve the same purpose: speaking of puppies or cigarettes or weather forecasts but meaning something entirely different. Hidden messages are not at all strange or a new idea.
Getting back to Chaucer, he portrayed all aspects of human nature with astonishing tolerance, not condemning even the most publicly sinful individuals. Knowing what he had experienced, I find it impossible to see the poet without compassion for the oppressed. I also find it impossible to think he was unaffected by the tragic loss of one after the other of his friends to sudden cruel ends.
I believe he could not help but register a sense of horror and injustice toward authority. If horrors have not been understood from his words, it is because the aim of allegory is to be obscure. Fletcher's book on the subject, mentioned earlier, emphasizes that intention. Allegory had served as a veiled protest for centuries before Chaucer, and can be found today where dictators rule with iron fists, or where corruption runs rampant.
Chaucer's translating of the most famous French allegory of his day--The Romance of the Rose--gave him good practice. But it took great determination, besides, for his message to be preserved. If the wrong people had recognized the hidden meaning, he would have been at personal hazard, and his works would have been destroyed. (Book burning had already been resorted to, if content offended authority.) His no-less-than-heroic dedication, in that case, would have been futile.
So what would he hide so cleverly? We've already mentioned the bawdy Sir Thopas and his enemy--an Arab named "Elephant." What is being described is what was perceived as "venereal disease." My friend, Virginia Adair, caught on to that.
She also foresaw another of the poet's intentions. This time it was essential that his secret message be concealed with the utmost skill; Chaucer would not have survived discovery by hostile opposition. The plan is remarkable and courageous. It has to do with the Host--and still makes me shudder.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Merrie olde Engelonde ?
We're going to do a quick pass through the everyday conditions when Chaucer lived. He is so often seen as merely a "jolly storyteller." But an idea of the milieu in which he lived, the experiences put upon him, will allow for deeper, broader possibilities.
His travels took him all across Europe. He knew a great deal about the Black Plague, for starters. It often ravaged Europe, and it struck England five times during his lifetime. Most deaths were in rural areas among peasants and farmers. Whole villages might be wiped out.
Royalty and other landowners expected to receive fruits, vegetables, meats, cheese and other supplies as usual from those who worked their lands, in spite of the depletion in number of able-bodied workers. These expectations led to the "Peasant Revolt." When a multitude of peasants marched on London in 1381, King Richard II agreed to some of their demands. But, even as the leader of the march spoke to the king, the Mayor of London struck the peasant dead. That ended the revolt and the king's agreements. (Peasant uprisings were not tolerated. In France such protestors were massacred.)
The actions of the Inquisition, though not yet come to England, were familiar to Chaucer from the Continent. Its proceedings were an attempt by the Church to eliminate medieval heresy. Torture and burning at the stake were used to encourage conversion.
It is thought that Chaucer may have participated in the Lollard movement in England, which sought church reform. Although "reformers" were greeted with hostility, people of many ranks--merchants, townsfolk, clerics, lords--were attracted to the Lollard effort. Four noble friends of Chaucer's were among them. By 1399, however, after royal and ecclesiastical pressure, the movement had been silenced.
In 1378, the Great Schism rocked the Church. Two rival popes existed--one in Avignon, the other in Rome--each denouncing the other. That rift was never resolved while Chaucer lived. This and other signs were interpreted by a faction in England to show that the time of the Anti-Christ and the end of the world were at hand.
If all that were not enough to endure, political tensions in England were inevitable. The reigning king would be at odds with the lords; the lords at odds with each other; and, with a king's successor, all circumstances had to be reevaluated. Chaucer's peace and prosperity depended on his ability to maintain a favorable relationship with the royal court. If one fell out of favor, as happened to the poet's friend, Thomas Usk in 1385, one could be hanged and beheaded.
In 1388 "The Merciless Parliament" tested all the poet's skill at "diplomacy." This parliament condemned the advisers of the adolescent Richard II. Without formal trials, those accused were drawn and hanged. All had been friends of Chaucer. The parliament also dealt harshly with Richard's lesser supporters. Many were executed or exiled and their property seized. Heads, and other body parts of those executed, impaled on spikes at the city gate, were intended as a silent deterrent.
Those who dealt so dreadfully with the people were figures of authority. It was believed at that time that those in positions of power had been chosen by God. Therefore, to oppose them equaled high treason. How could one handle being immersed in such unrelieved stress? It's just human nature to find some way to vent frustrations.
All the factors we've looked at would make the fourteenth century fertile soil for hidden protests such as allegory, where, if cleverly done, those in authority wouldn't see the second meaning. I found a wealth of necessary information on the subject in Angus Fletcher's Allegory: the Theory of a Symbolic Mode. I have no doubt Chaucer, a writer admired by his contemporaries, a man steeped in the conditions of his times, would be capable of expressing heartfelt protests with well-chosen words.
His travels took him all across Europe. He knew a great deal about the Black Plague, for starters. It often ravaged Europe, and it struck England five times during his lifetime. Most deaths were in rural areas among peasants and farmers. Whole villages might be wiped out.
Royalty and other landowners expected to receive fruits, vegetables, meats, cheese and other supplies as usual from those who worked their lands, in spite of the depletion in number of able-bodied workers. These expectations led to the "Peasant Revolt." When a multitude of peasants marched on London in 1381, King Richard II agreed to some of their demands. But, even as the leader of the march spoke to the king, the Mayor of London struck the peasant dead. That ended the revolt and the king's agreements. (Peasant uprisings were not tolerated. In France such protestors were massacred.)
The actions of the Inquisition, though not yet come to England, were familiar to Chaucer from the Continent. Its proceedings were an attempt by the Church to eliminate medieval heresy. Torture and burning at the stake were used to encourage conversion.
It is thought that Chaucer may have participated in the Lollard movement in England, which sought church reform. Although "reformers" were greeted with hostility, people of many ranks--merchants, townsfolk, clerics, lords--were attracted to the Lollard effort. Four noble friends of Chaucer's were among them. By 1399, however, after royal and ecclesiastical pressure, the movement had been silenced.
In 1378, the Great Schism rocked the Church. Two rival popes existed--one in Avignon, the other in Rome--each denouncing the other. That rift was never resolved while Chaucer lived. This and other signs were interpreted by a faction in England to show that the time of the Anti-Christ and the end of the world were at hand.
If all that were not enough to endure, political tensions in England were inevitable. The reigning king would be at odds with the lords; the lords at odds with each other; and, with a king's successor, all circumstances had to be reevaluated. Chaucer's peace and prosperity depended on his ability to maintain a favorable relationship with the royal court. If one fell out of favor, as happened to the poet's friend, Thomas Usk in 1385, one could be hanged and beheaded.
In 1388 "The Merciless Parliament" tested all the poet's skill at "diplomacy." This parliament condemned the advisers of the adolescent Richard II. Without formal trials, those accused were drawn and hanged. All had been friends of Chaucer. The parliament also dealt harshly with Richard's lesser supporters. Many were executed or exiled and their property seized. Heads, and other body parts of those executed, impaled on spikes at the city gate, were intended as a silent deterrent.
Those who dealt so dreadfully with the people were figures of authority. It was believed at that time that those in positions of power had been chosen by God. Therefore, to oppose them equaled high treason. How could one handle being immersed in such unrelieved stress? It's just human nature to find some way to vent frustrations.
All the factors we've looked at would make the fourteenth century fertile soil for hidden protests such as allegory, where, if cleverly done, those in authority wouldn't see the second meaning. I found a wealth of necessary information on the subject in Angus Fletcher's Allegory: the Theory of a Symbolic Mode. I have no doubt Chaucer, a writer admired by his contemporaries, a man steeped in the conditions of his times, would be capable of expressing heartfelt protests with well-chosen words.
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