The Canterbury Tales: A Retelling by Peter Ackroyd (34 page)
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Authors: Peter Ackroyd,Geoffrey Chaucer
Tags: #prose_contemporary, #Fiction, #General, #poetry, #Classics, #Literary Criticism, #European, #Chaucer; Geoffrey, #Christian pilgrims and pilgrimages, #English; Irish; Scottish; Welsh, #Canterbury (England)
Bihoold the murye wordes of the Hoost to Chaucer
All of the company seemed grave, and reflective, at the end of the Prioress’s tale. But then the Host changed the mood by making a joke at my expense. He looked at me, and winked at the others. ‘What sort of man are you?’ he asked. ‘You look as if you are trying to catch a rabbit. All you ever do is stare down at the ground. Come closer to me. That’s better. Look up. Smile. Fellow pilgrims, this is a good man. You see the extent of his waist? It’s just like mine. He is a big boy. I am sure that some nice young woman would love to embrace him, plump though he is. Yet he is always abstracted. He is always miles away. Come on, man, tell us a funny story. The others have. Now it is your turn.’
‘Host,’ I said, ‘don’t take this personally. But I don’t know any stories. I can’t tell any stories. All I can recall is an old rhyme that I learned in my childhood.’
‘That will do,’ Harry Bailey replied. ‘From the expression on your face, I think it will be an interesting one.’
Sir Thopas
Heere bigynneth Chaucers Tale of Thopas
Listen carefully, please, to me
And I will tell the company
A funny little story.
At some time in history
There was a knight and gent
Good at battle and at tournament.
What was his name?
Sir Thopas.
He lived in a far, no,
distant
country
Not very near the sea.
He dwelled in a city called Hamelin
Famous for its porcelain.
His father was a rich man, and grand.
In fact he ruled the entire land.
What was
his
name?
I don’t know.
Now Sir Thopas was a brave knight.
His hair was black, his face was bright.
His lips were red as a carnation.
But then so was his complexion.
I could have said, red as a rose,
But I will confine that to his nose.
How big was his nose?
Enormous.
His hair was as yellow as mustard paste,
And he wore it right down to his waist.
His shoes were from the Vendôme
And his clothes were made in Rome.
They were so expensive
That his father looked pensive.
How much did they cost?
Thousands.
He could hunt for wild rabbit
And had acquired the habit
Of hawking for game.
He could wrestle and tame
The most ferocious ox.
He could whip the bollocks
Off any contestant.
He was no maiden aunt.
There were many young virgins
Happy to slake his urgings
When they should have been asleep.
But he did not so much as peep
At them. He was chaste as a lily
And stayed so willy-nilly.
So it befell that on one morning
Just as the light was dawning
Sir Thopas rode out on his steed
In hope of doing daring deeds.
He held his lancet like a lord,
And by his side there hung a sword.
He made his way through forests dark
Where wolves howl and wild dogs bark.
He himself was after game,
Which once more I rhyme with tame.
But listen while I tell you more
Of how Sir Thopas almost swore
With vexation.
Around him sprang weeds of every sort,
The flea-bane and the meadow-wort.
Here were the rose and primrose pale,
And nutmeg seeds to put in ale
Whether it be fresh or stale
Or only good as slops in pail.
The birds were singing sweetly enough,
Among the nightingales a chough.
Was that a chaffinch on the wing,
Or was it a dove just chattering?
He heard a swallow sing on high,
And then a parrot perched near by.
What a lot of noise!
And when he heard the birdies sing
He was filled with love longing.
He spurred on his horse
Over briar and gorse
Until the beast was sweating.
It looked like it had been rutting
With a mare.
Thopas himself was exhausted.
He got down from his quadruped
And lay stretched on the ground.
The horse was free at one bound.
It wriggled its arse
And chewed on the grass.
Fodder was solace.
‘Woe is me,’ Thopas lamented,
‘Why am I so demented
For love? I dreamed last night
That I had caught a bright
Elf-queen under the sheets.
What sexual feats
I accomplished!
‘If my dreams could come true
What deeds would I do.
I really need a fairy queen,
No mortal girl is worth a bean.
All other women I forsake,
A fairy girl is all I’ll take
In country or in town.’
Then up on to his steed
He jumped, in need
Of action with a fairy queen.
He rode along each hill and dale
Looking for that certain female.
Then quite by chance he found
A secret spot of magic ground,
The kingdom of the fairies.
In truth it was a little scary
And wild. And desolate.
He was not surprised to see a giant
Whose name was Oliphiant.
He had a mace
Which he aimed at the face
Of Thopas, saying, ‘Get out
Or I will give your horse a clout.
The queen of fairy
Lives in this aery
Abode. It is not for you.
Your horse is unwelcome, too.’
Sir Thopas turned red as rhubarb pie
And said in angry voice ‘I defy
You, Oliphiant, and I swear
To aim my lance here where
It hurts. Come out at break of day
And I will show you my way
Of dealing with giants.’
It was a good show of defiance.
Then Thopas rode away quite fast
As Oliphiant prepared to cast
Stones at him from a leather sling.
Yet our fair knight had cause to sing
When all the missiles missed their aim
And were not fit to kill or maim
The valiant warrior.
He was none the sorrier.
So gather round and hear the rest.
The giant came off second best
And Thopas, of high renown,
Decided to return to town.
He rideth over hill and dale
To reach the ending of my tale.
It will not fail
To amuse you.
His merry men commanded he
To cheer him up with game and glee.
‘Let there be a pageant
In which I fight a ferocious giant.
Then let the fairy queen appear
And proclaim herself to be my dear
Paramour.
I ask no more.
‘Then let the minstrels blow their trumpets
And the drummers use their drum kits,
And the singers sing their tales
Of kings and queens and noble males
Like me. Of chivalry the flower,
I’ll be the hero of the hour.’
They brought him wine, they brought him spices
They brought him cream and several ices,
They brought him gingerbread and mead,
They brought him damson jam on which to feed.
He had a sweet tooth.
Then he decked himself in vestments fair.
Sir Thopas always knew what to wear
In terms of shirts and other finery.
In armour he was inclined to be
Conservative. Just simple chain mail,
With a double brooch and ornamental nail,
Was enough to protect him.
He had a bright helmet,
He had a bright spear,
There was no warrior his peer.
He had a fine shield
To make his enemies yield
And even flee the field.
His legs were cased in leather,
On his helmet was a feather.
It was hard to know whether
He was more handsome than rich
Or, if so, which was which
In his gorgeous display.
He outshone the day.
His spear was made of fine cypress
But it boded war, not peace.
His bridle shone like snow in sun
And as for saddle, there was none
So polished in the world.
His banner was unfurled
To taunt all foes to take him on.
And that is it.
That is the end of the second fit.
If you want to hear more,
I will oblige. No need to implore.
Now say no more, I will continue
To tell how Thopas and his retinue
Fought against elves and giants
And cannibals and monsters and tyrants.
There is no end.
You have heard of Arthur and of Lancelot
But this knight could prance a lot
Better on his noble steed.
He was a good knight indeed.
Sir Thopas took the lead
In chivalry.
So off he trotted on his charger
This knight looked larger
Than life. Upon his helmet
There rose a lily
Which looked sweet but silly.
The road ahead was hilly
But he continued willy-nilly –
Heere the Hoost stynteth Chaucer of his Tale of Thopas
‘For God’s sake stop,’ the Host said to me. ‘That’s enough. It is all so stale and old-fashioned. You are giving me a headache with your corny rhymes. Where is the story here? This is nothing but doggerel.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ I was very dignified. ‘Will you please allow me to carry on? You did not interrupt anyone else. In any case, I am doing the best I can. The rhymes are not corny.’
‘Forgive me, Mr Chaucer. I must speak my mind. Your story is not worth a shit. What is the point of it? You are doing nothing but waste our time. I have made up my mind. No more versifying, please. Can you not tell us an adventure, or deliver some kind of prose narration which mingles entertainment with instruction?’
‘Gladly, sir Host. I will tell you a little story in prose that will entertain you, I think. Unless, that is, you are very hard to please. It is a tale about the moral virtues of a patient and prudent wife. It has been told many times before, and in many ways, but that doesn’t bother me. It is still a good story. Let me cite the example of the four gospels. Each one of them describes the passion and crucifixion of Our Saviour. Each of them has a different perspective, but still manages to tell the essential truth of Our Lord’s suffering. Some say more, and some say less. Some add details. Others are very brief. You know who I am talking about, of course. I refer to Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. They have written four separate accounts, but their basic meaning is the same.’
‘Please, Mr Chaucer -’
‘Therefore, lords and ladies, do not be offended if I tell the story in my own way. I may introduce more proverbs than there are in the original, but I have the best of intentions. I simply wish to increase the power of my message. Don’t blame me if I change the language here and there. I will deliver the gist of the story true and entire. Believe me, I have no intention of spoiling the effect of this merry tale. So now please listen to me. And, Mr Bailey, please don’t interrupt.’
The murye wordes of the Hoost to the Monk
‘Stop, stop.’ Harry Bailey stood up in his saddle. ‘If that was the introduction, I hate to think what the rest will be like. And I am tired of stories about patient wives. They do not exist. Take my wife, for instance. Go on. Take her. She is as patient as a mad bull. When I chastise my servants, she comes out with a great wooden stick and urges me on. “Go on,” she says. “Beat the shit out of them! Break every bone in their worthless bodies!” If by any chance one of our neighbours fails to greet her in church, or slights her in some other way, she makes me pay for it when we get home. “You fool! You coward!” she shouts at me, all the time waving her fists near my face. “You can’t even defend your wife against insults. I should be the man around the house. Here. You can have my distaff and go spin a shift.” She can nag me like this all day long. “It is a shame,” she says, “that I should have married a milksop rather than a man. You have about as much spine as a worm. Anyone can walk over you. If you cannot stand up for your wife’s rights, then you do not stand for anything.”
‘So it goes on, day after day, unless I choose to make a fight of it. But what’s the point? I just leave the house. Otherwise I would work myself into a state of madness. She makes me so wild that – I swear to God – she will make me kill somebody one of these days. I am a dangerous man when I have a knife in my hand. It is true that I run away from her. But she has huge arms, and strong wrists, as anyone who has crossed her will know. Anyway, enough of her.’
Our Host then turned to the Monk. ‘My lord,’ he said, ‘God be with you. It is your turn to tell a story. Look, we are already coming up to Rochester. It is time for you to ride forward and speak. But in truth I don’t know your name. What shall I call you? John? Or Thomas? Alban, perhaps? That’s a good monkish name. And what house do you come from, sir? Are you from Selby or from Peterborough? Your skin is very fair and very soft. You are not used to hard labour. And you are not likely to be a penitent or a flagellant.
‘My guess is that you are an official of your house. You are a sacristan, perhaps, or a cellarer in charge of all the wines. Am I right? I am sure that you are in a position of authority. That is clear from your appearance and your behaviour. You have the manner of one who leads. You are no novice. You look strong and fit, too. You could look after yourself in a fight. What a mistake it was to introduce you to the religious life. You could have been good breeding stock. A big cock among the hens. If you had followed the call of nature, you would have fathered many lusty children. No doubt about it. It is a pity that you wear the cope of office.
‘I swear to God that, if I were pope, I would give a dispensation for every strong and lusty monk to take a wife. Otherwise the world will shrink to nothing. The friars and the monasteries are full of good English spunk, and we laymen are nothing but drips in comparison. Frail shoots make a weak harvest. Our wills and our willies are so weak that nothing comes from them; no wonder that wives queue up for the attentions of you monks and friars. You have got Venus on your side. You don’t pay in counterfeit coin. You have the genuine article beneath your robes. Don’t be cross with me, sir. I am only joking. But of course there’s many a truth in a good joke.’
In fact the Monk took the Host’s jesting in good part. ‘I will play my part in this pilgrimage,’ he said, ‘by telling you a tale or two. They will be moral tales, of course. That is the mark of my profession. If you like, I can narrate the history of Saint Edward the Confessor. Or perhaps you would prefer a tragedy? I know hundreds of them. You know what a tragedy is, I suppose? It is a story from an old book. It concerns those who stood in authority, or in prosperity, only to suffer a great fall. They went from high estate to wretchedness and misery. Their stories are sometimes told in verses of six metrical feet known as dactylic hexameters – da da dum dum da da. Homer uses it. But sometimes they are told in other metres. In England we have alliteration. Then again they are often told in plain prose. Have I said enough on that subject?’ The Host nodded. ‘Now listen, if you wish. I cannot promise that I will tell you these stories – of popes, of emperors, of kings – in chronological order. I will just mention them as I remember them. Forgive my ignorance. My intentions are good.’
So the Monk began.