I knew I wanted to read The Canterbury Tales and I knew that April was the right time to read it (as that’s when it’s set) but when the time came, I was indecisive and nervous. Did I want to read it in the original Middle English, or did I want to read it in the very respected Nevil Coghill translation? I went back and forth, even googled it and watched videos about it, and decided - sod it, I’ll go for the Middle English.
I’m glad I did. It’s not that a see the poetry and writing to be stronger in the Middle English than the translation, I’m simply not attuned enough to know, but the quirky spellings and unusual words forced me to take it slowly and carefully. What’s more, entering in a slightly different language helped suggest a different head-space, like I was entering into a slightly different world and would have to take it as it came. There was also something thrilling about reading something 726 years old in the language it was written.
You could say about the tales themselves what people say about sketch comedy, they were hit and miss. There’d be the pretty well structured tale of courtly love that is the Knight’s Tale, or a romping farce like the Miller’s, some genuinely funny parody from the Nun’s Priest - but then there’d be the Monk pulling out his favourite 20-odd wikipedia articles, or the life of St Cecilia.. or the Parson.
The dirty ones were genuinely dirty, there were people with pokers up their bums, a young wife and her lover groping each other in a tree, or a friar having to work out how to share a fart twelve ways. There were melodramas, like the poor woman in The Man of Law’s Tale who simply can’t get a break, or the alarming tale of the Franklin about a man who tests his wife by pretending to murder her babies. Then a man turns up near the end to talk about what a difficult and stupid life alchemists lead. I particularly enjoyed The Wife of Bath’s Arthurian Tale and The Nun’s Priest’s Tale of very learned chickens. The Nun herself tells a tale that is supposed to show her piety and good-breeding, but consists of anti-semitic blood libel. And the Parson.. oh, the Parson.
Some tales don’t even finish, the Cook is too drunk and Chaucer himself is interrupted because his Tale of Sir Thopas is so very bad. He then follows this up with the incredibly dull Tale of Melibee, where a husband and wife eruditely argue about the rightness of revenge. It’s not a fun bit of reading, but there’s something wonderful about Chaucer framing himself as someone who can’t tell a tale to save his life.
Because, while many of the tales are good, it’s the framing that makes the book great. The prologue gives the background, a group of pilgrims setting off from Southwark to worship at the shrine of Thomas Beckett, who was, incidentally, a man killed by the power of some ill-chosen words. In this prologue, Chaucer gives us a panoply of different characters who manage to be both representatives of their ‘type’ but also individuals. The nun is called Eglantine, she is well brought up and speaks a kind of French that is unknown in France, but all the rage in Stratford. The knight is the peak of chivalry and has his curly-haired, fashionable son as his squire. The monk is more into hunting than monking, the chef makes a great blancmange and the miller can knock doors through with his head.
The prologue is enough to give the collection some character, but the way Chaucer intersperses (and sometimes interrupts) the tales with the social dynamics of the group add so much. What’s more, the way Chaucer chooses the tale for the teller, and adapts how it is told to the character telling it, makes it so much more.
That the Wife of Bath’s story is one about female empowerment and sovereignty is interesting enough, but that it’s being told by a woman with five previous husbands, who says her favourite was the strictest with her, makes it all so much more. It’s brilliant that the Squire’s (foreshortened) tale is an attempt at the same kind of courtly romance as his father but it gets away from him. The Reeve, a carpenter, is so enraged by the Miller’s Tale about a stupid carpenter that he tells one about a stupid miller (in Trumpington, no less) to one-up him. This sense of the characters trying to one up, correct or contrast each other’s tales is one of the joys of the book. I love that the Friar and the Summoner hate each other, so the Friar’s Tale is about a summoner who meets a devil and the two get on wonderfully, while the Summoner’s Tale is about a friar who has to work out how to share a fart (and yes, Chaucer does love a fart). The tale brings character to the teller, and the character gives depth to the tale.
Even the duller tales are more interesting because of this. The Monk’s Tale stems from his love of tragedy, he says he has several hundred back in the monastery, and he does go through them like a collector showing off a collection. The Pardoner’s Tale is all about the downfalls of greed, just after his prologue, where he goes through all the ways he tricks the faithful for money. The tales of both nuns are supposed to show their piety and innocence, but Eglantine, the well-to-do nun tells one that is a little more sentimental and zietgeisty (even as the depiction of evil murderous jews is rather not a-la-mode now).
Then there’s the Parson’s Tale. Oh the Parson. He is a religious figure who is depicted in the prologue as a perfect example of his profession. He sticks with his country parish, he ministers to them well and is all ways a good man. He says that he finds telling stories too frivolous and so gives a lecture about the seven deadly sins. It’s long, it’s dull and it’s in prose. It also does seem to be Chaucer’s decided end to the book, with the epilogue being a summary of his achievements as a writer and a fond wish for salvation. It’s almost as if he is laying down his skills as a poet at the end, and putting his faith in his God over his own cleverness. It’s interesting that these pilgrims never reach their destination, they are always travelling to Canterbury.
It’s a fascinating mental world to try and get into. Clearly one where there is a hierarchy, but that hierarchy is being shaken up, the pilgrims both hold their place in the social order, but are equal as pilgrims. Chaucer was clearly well read - and doesn’t he like to share that sometimes - he quotes Seneca and Boethius just as much as he does the Bible. I did love Chanticleer and the chickens using Solomon and Seneca in their debates about the prognostication of dreams - I also found it interesting that Chanticleer has the same name as the Reynard the Fox stories but is not the same character. It’s also fascinating in how Chaucer mixes the Greek, Roman and Christian traditions in peculiar ways, with Greek Gods holding Roman names acting in the way the Christian God would.
There were a few places where I needed to google a word. I was never going to get archdeacon from ‘ecerdekene’ and it took me a minute to realise that ‘Nobogodnosor’ was Nebuchadnezzar. There was also a point when I wondered why a story set in Surrey had sultans and viziers, something that is going to happen if you spell Syria, ‘Surreyé’. I love the word ‘eek’ instead of also, and ‘seely’ for frail. If I ever have a sweetheart, I want to call them my Lemman - it’s a lot better than Samuel Johnson’s term of endearment ‘kicksie-wicksie’.
I’m extremely pleased I chose to read The Canterbury Tales, I had a great time and shall hopefully be visiting Chaucer again at some point.
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