Trickery and comedy

Chaucer's approach to the sign of Cancer is unique. He appears to be just having fun--teasing by adding more information than necessary and including distracting details that make the challenge of discernment greater. Even introducing the Guildsmen ahead of the Cook, in the General Prologue, is a trick. It's like re-naming Aesop's fable (The Belly and It's Members) "The Members and Their Belly."
     A serious distraction is talk of the Guildsmen's wives. Each has a cloak, which Chaucer depicts as "royally borne." Garments trailing behind is not the picture of a crab. It's a diverting dead end. My initial confusion was relieved by a picture of Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris. Carved around a portal are the twelve signs of the zodiac illustrating the universe created by God. Here Cancer is not the image of a crab but of a lobster, definitely a figure with a part trailing behind. Strangely enough, crabs and lobsters were interchangeable in the medieval mind because "cancer" can express either word in Latin.
     Now let's examine the Guildsmen/Lobsters. During the pilgrimage, the five Guildsmen never utter a word. They are never spoken to or about. These characters serve only to add complexity to identifying the sign. The physical description of the "men" is undistinguished, generic. Each detail is said to apply to all. That's quite unlikely if we're viewing five men. Their skills, on the other hand, are individualized as the tradition of the fable requires. The variety distracts by needing interpretation of each corresponding second level "skill." Most readers, I'm sure, just skim over the carefully chosen specifics of:

A haberdasher and a carpenter,
A weaver, a dyer, and a tapestry maker,--

The medieval Haberdasher stocked various small articles: spurs, beads, etc. The function of this initial character indicates someone in charge of many parts. The second of the craftsmen is a Carpenter, conveying the ability to create new shells to house themselves as they grow. A "Webbe" is third and is defined as a weaver for the surface reading, but webbe also means a net which can be used to snare lobsters for the table. A Dyer follows, as an allusion to changing color as the lobster does when immersed in boiling water. Lastly, we have the "Tapycer," that is a tapestry maker. Here is a play on tapister, someone with the ability to pierce (tap a keg).
     The narrator turns his attention, now, to the excellence of lobster as food. They would be found at the head table in the guildhall--as part of the menu, of course.
     The poet's words seem odd at the surface, but made to order as terms of crab capabilities. For example, the Cook good-naturedly "claws" a fellow pilgrim on the back. And, when his innocent parsley (percely) is "cursed" by many pilgrims, it's because the Middle English spelling "percely" allows a play on pierce (percen).
     The Cook's cameo appearance in the Manciple's Prologue, is a triumph of poetic imagination. The Host becomes playful with the Cook/Crab who is in such poor condition that he "stinks." The comedy begins when the Cook is unhorsed. His fellow pilgrims, with "much care and woe,"  have the awkward job of righting the "unwieldy" Crab/Cook. The action provides the Host a hearty laugh. Scattered through the scene are references to "pinched," "bring to lure," and "in a snare" which encourage crab images in the reader's mind.
     In the wind-up next time, get ready to see the Cook's Tale in an entirely new light!

The Cook? Fascinating!

The Cook, in previous entries called "Written in the Stars," has already been identified as the sign of Cancer. The last two lines of his introduction make this certain. His tale, which follows the raucous tales of the Miller and the Reeve, is hardly noticed. Chaucer, however, abounds in creativity with this Pilgrim and gives him a cameo appearance later in the Tales. He has no physical description but is recognized by attributes of the sign and his culinary accomplishments.
     The Cook can make a fish tart. He can roast, boil, broil, and fry, as well as make thick fish soup, and seafood pie--as preparer and ingredient! His acquaintance with London ale indicates the chosen brew to accompany tasty dishes. After the cooking capabilities, Chaucer inserts a single fact about the Cook's appearance: on his shin a mormal had he. This mormal is a stinking, incurable sore. That noted affliction is just shy of the word cancer.
     Only one line remains: Blankmanger he made with the best. Having been told about all the recipes he was familiar with, now, like an afterthought, we learn of the Cook's expertise at preparing Blankmanger, a popular fish pudding. (One typical recipe calls for perch or lobster, boiled with almonds, rice and sugar. Not quite your modern day blancmange!) The added recipe comes as a surprise--and supportive evidence for the constellation. How can this be? The name points to the formation's one noteworthy feature--a cluster of stars called the Manger. (Latin, Praesepe.) The white (blanc) manger "made" by the Cook clinches the sign.
     That could have been enough said, but Chaucer entertainingly adds five Guildsmen. Drawing upon the ancient tradition of Aesop's fable which the Middle Ages called "The Belly and Its Members," Chaucer brings the picture to life. The poet's contemporary, John Gower, calls the belly (stomach) the "cook" for the entire body--it boils meat for all. This whimsy shared by Chaucer, shows that, from the beginning of the Cook's description, the poet visualized a cook, a crab, and a belly.
     With the Cook as the belly, the five Guildsmen become the necessary number of members. And, as tradition dictates, these members have diversified tasks.

A haberdasher and a  carpenter, 
A weaver, a dyer, and a tapestry maker--
And they were clothed all in one livery.

Five clothed all in one livery is exactly what Chaucer means. A footnote to many editions of the Tales will explain that they all wear the same kind of suit, but that's hardly what we'd expect from five different guilds. The poet presents five inside one suit. What fun!
     You've seen two men costumed as a horse: one the front, the other the rear. Below the costume, we see only their legs. Chaucer's five members provide the ten necessary appendages for the crab/belly. It helps to know that in a grand 15th century procession costumes of symbolic beasts were worn by two men--front and rear--with only their legs showing. It was not said to be unusual. (Animal costuming is often illustrated in medieval books.) Chaucer's creation is just more fanciful.
     Though confident that I had found the proper clues for playing Chaucer's game, the Guildsmen's "wives" brought confusion. Why are they even mentioned? They're not on the pilgrimage!
      We'll deal with the wives next time.

Stories homeward?

We've established that  Time in the Middle Ages was thought of as a circle. It began with Creation (in March!) and would end when the circle closed at Judgment. We also know from Chaucer's details that Judgment is near. That means the circle will soon be complete. Storytelling will be over.
     To confurm that the end is near, the Host/Christ says:

Now lack we no tales more than one.
Fulfilled is my sentence (my meaning) and my decree;
I trust that we have heard from each degree.
Almost fulfilled is my ordinance (my plan).

Chaucer makes this clear and uses the ambiguous word degree which refers to both social status and the zodiac.
     But those acquainted with the General Prologue wonder if this storytelling claim is another "mistake." How could only one remain to be told, when, before the journey starts, the Host/Christ instructs:

Each of you . . .
On this journey shall tell tales two
To Canterbury-ward, . . .
And homeward he shall tell other two.

How can this early "plan" agree with the final statement?
     To begin with Chaucer envisioned the journey as a  circle, not linear Time as we would expect. On a circle the farther you travel outward--the closer you get to your staring point! So, stories going are the same as stories coming home.
     And, if there are to be two of them, think of the medieval prevalence of allegory. If each story has a double meaning (we'll take that up later), that's the same as telling two stories. Just as Chaucer's surface story of the Tales is an account of an innkeeper and travelers, a second level conveys Christ's concern with the progression of the zodiac. Angus Fletcher, the authority on the subject, explains that allegories are often valued for their "secondary meanings [which] are obscured, actually withheld from view." That's why discovering the second meaning is a reward.
     The poet's creative genius provided a perfect cover-story for his account of Time and the world's end. Doomsday was a topic of great interest in the late 1300s with the year 1400 predicted to be fulfillment of that prediction.
     The Canterbury stories, however, is a complicated subject. We need to deal with one aspect at a time. First, why do some pilgrims have no story? Here is an example not difficult to accept: when there is more than one character playing the part of a sign, as with Gemini, the brothers, only one offering is required from that sign. So, when the Parson tells a story, his brother, the Plowman, is mum. Cancer, as the Cook, has the same explanation, except that the Cook and his five guildsmen all make up the sign of Cancer. This whimsical medieval portrait will astonish and amuse you. It must have given Chaucer a chuckle.
     There is much more to say about required stories. Chaucer presents 29 characters and gives us 24 stories. That's more than necessary for 12 zodiac signs. So who are the other journeyers? With the guiding scenario in the cosmos, some are planets. In Chaucer's day, they counted the Sun and Moon, Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn. The Knight, for instance, who is dedicated to war, easily corresponds to Mars.
     That's enough for today. We'll grapple with the sign of Cancer next time.

Time's up!

The progress of time, for medieval man, was a grand circle called the Great Year. This concept of time begins with Creation and ends with Judgment. An assumption in the Middle Ages was that Creation happened in March. Chaucer alludes to this fact in one of the tales.

When the month in which the world began,
That was called March, God first made man.

Regarding the end of Time, two prophecies are incorporated into the Canterbury plan. Both associate with the zodiac--either directly or in a roundabout way.  One comes from Albumasar, an astrologer/philosopher whose works had been well known in Europe from the 12th century. The second is found in Sir John Mandeville's account of his travels, which had great popularity beginning in the mid-1300s.
     As an astrologer, Albumasar is best known for his theory (a contrast to Christian Creation) that the universe formed in the first degree of Aries (the first sign), and will end in the last degree of Pisces (the 12th sign). Chaucer, appropriately, begins the General Prologue in Aries when the young sun, Hath in the Ram his half course run.
     And at the end of the Tales, at the last of the Tales, where are we? The introduction to the last tale says:

The sun from the south line was descended
So low that he was not even, to my sight
Degrees nine and twenty in height.

Nine and twenty degrees is almost 30º; but thirty is neater, a simple round figure. As Rodney Delasanta expresses it, "Chaucer has written straight with crooked lines." There must be a significance to twenty-nine. There is. It takes 30º to pass through a zodiacal sign. It's not the twenty-nine degrees that are important--it's the one degree that remains!
     Chaucer declares we've heard from all the signs (Pilgrims) but one. That means we are almost at the beginning again, almost at Aries. And that puts us in the last degree of Pisces! According to Albumasar, Time is up! Judgment--the world's end--is imminent.
     But Chaucer unexpectedly adds Libra, the Scales, to the scene. Often used as an apocalyptic image, it reinforces that Judgment is at hand. Then he also makes an odd association: The moon's exaltation, I mean Libra, had begun ascending. That is taken to be a "mistake." Astrologically speaking, Libra is not the moon's exaltation. Chaucer knew that. So, what is he communicating? Scholar Dorothy Everett cautions, "However incongruous some things may appear to be, it would be dangerous to assume that Chaucer introduced them without good reason."
     The "good reason" here brings us to Mandeville's prophecy: "The doom (Judgment) shall be on Easter Day." When Chaucer speaks of the moon's exaltation, the time when it exerts its greatest astrological influence, it doesn't ring true. But, putting astrology aside, what if we picture the moon's visual exaltation--the full moon?
      Libra, then, takes on a second function. We have said it confirms Judgment. Now, in this setting, when we see the Scales as a Balance, it indicates equal day and night--the spring equinox. That is significant because to determine the date of Easter, it is the Sunday after the first full moon after the vernal equinox. And Easter brings Judgment. There is need to make haste.
     Then what happens to the return journey?

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.    

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."

Item: Geoffrey and Cecilia

Circumstantial evidence concerning Chaucer and Cecilia, his accuser, appears to add up to his guilt and her benefiting from a substantial monetary settlement. We'll never have conclusive evidence so I, for one, go along with the guilt/settlement scenario.
     Then there is the matter of Chaucer addressing "little Lewis, my son." The boy is ten years old, ten years after the raptus case. Lewis could be Chaucer's son by Cecilia. And, recall that in fourteenth-century thinking, if pregnancy results from coitus, cooperation is assumed. So, if Cecilia finds herself pregnant, wouldn't she examine her participation? Wouldn't she conclude that she must have been willing to some degree?
     What I'm getting at is that a relationship between Cecilia and Chaucer could have existed. Because Chaucer's wife's pension ceased after June 1387, her death is assumed. That's four years before Lewis' tenth birthday. Circumstances make a Geoffrey/Cecilia relationship possible.
     A firm connection clearly exists between Chaucer and the name "Cecilia." One of the pilgrim stories--The Second Nun's Tale--recounts the life of St. Cecilia. Chaucer scholar, George Cowling, long ago, proposed that the "Life of St. Cecile" was meant to honor Cecilia Chaumpaigne. It may be more than honoring her; she may have required it from the poet. She may have wanted the assault upon her admitted, and Chaucer's repentance acknowledged. (Her patron, St. Cecilia, brought many men to conversion.) I believe Chaucer covertly confirms such requirements!
     This blog aims to question long-held assumptions. We'll look at Chaucer's words as if he really meant what others have taken to be errors.
     Speculation says that the Cecilia piece had been written for another occasion and the poet simply included it in the Tales. If he did so without adapting the original presentation, that explains a lot. For example, why the usual formula that introduces other tales is not used; why the narrator surprisingly addresses "you who read what I write"; why the speaker refers to being "an unworthy son of Eve"; and why the sinful "contagion of my body with earthly lust and false affection"--rather than spoken by a narrating nun--now becomes appropriate.
     There is no invitation from the Host, followed by a story and a conclusion linked to the next tale. Nevertheless, Cecilia's story was meant to be there, because the very next tale begins, "When the life of St. Cecilia was ended, Ere we'd ridden five miles . . ."
     The Second Nun's Tale begins with an exhortation against idleness, the devil's trap. A prayer to the Virgin, for her assistance, follows. Then the translation of the story of St. Cecilia, as found in The Golden Legend (a collection of saint's lives), begins.
     Though it's easy to overlook, Chaucer attaches an extra stanza to conclude the translated introduction. Why the added lines that only reiterate Cecilia's virtues? The answer is what makes research so exciting. The last line masks a hidden meaning! That Middle English line reads:
     Now have I yow declared what she highte.
"Highte" contains two different messages. The line can be read, "I have declared to you what she was named." That's just more repetition.
     But Chaucer uses an alternate definition of "highte" elsewhere to say "command." Here his added words announce, "I have declared to you what she commanded."  The preliminaries to the tale declare, I am the sinful one; she is persevering in good works. Thus, he has fulfilled her demand.
      Without doubt, Chaucer has immortalized  Cecilia. Her name will be remembered as long as the Canterbury Tales circulate.