Chapter IV: Front Matter (4)

When they came to the lists, everybody pressed forward to the seats. Arcite goes in at the west gate by Mars’ temple, with a red banner, and all his hundred knights. At the same moment Palamon enters the east gate by Venus’ temple, with his white banner and brave host. Never was there such a sight. The two companies were so evenly matched there was no choosing between them. Then they ranged themselves in two ranks; the names were read out, that there might be no cheating in the numbers; the gates were shut, and loud was the cry, “Do now your devoir, young knights proud!”

The heralds have ceased to ride up and down. The trumpets ring out--in go the spears steadily to the rests--the sharp spur is in the horse’s side. There you may see who can joust and who can ride--there the shafts of the spears shiver on the thick shields--he feels the thrust right through the body. Up spring the lances twenty foot high, out fly the swords like silver--helmets are crushed and shivered--out bursts the blood in stern, red streams! See, the strong horses stumble--down go all--a man rolls under foot like a ball. See, he fences at his foe with a truncheon, and hustles him while his horse is down. He is hurt through the body, and is dragged off to the stake--and there he must stay. Another is led off to that other side. All the humane orders of Theseus are forgotten.

From time to time Theseus stops the fray to give time for refreshment and drink, should the combatants need it.

Often have these two Thebans fought before now; each has often unhorsed the other. But in spite of Theseus’ commands, never was tiger bereft of its young so cruel in the hunt, as Arcite in his jealousy was on Palamon. Never was hunted lion, mad with hunger, so eager for blood as Palamon for Arcite’s life. See, they are both bleeding.

As the day went by, many in the field were carried away by excitement. The strong King Emetrius flew at Palamon as he fought with Arcite, and ran his sword into him. Then there was a frightful uproar. Emetrius could not govern himself, and was dragged off to the stake by the force of twenty men, and while trying to rescue Palamon, the great King Licurge was borne down; and King Emetrius, despite his strength, was flung out of his saddle a sword’s length, so violently Palamon hit at him; but he was carried to the stake for all that, and this tumult put an end to the tourney, according to the rule Theseus had made.

How bitterly wretched was Palamon, now that he could not ride any more at his foe! Only by an unfair attack had he lost ground. Theseus, seeing them all fighting together wildly, cried out “_Ho!_” and stopped the tourney. Then he said, “I will be a true judge, and impartial. Arcite of Thebes shall have Emelye, who, by good luck, has fairly won her!”

Shouts of delight answered Theseus, till it seemed as if the theatre would fall with the noise.

It is said that Venus was so disappointed at Palamon, her knight, losing, that she wept, and went for help to her father, the god Saturn. Saturn said to her, “Daughter, hold thy peace; Mars has had his way, but you shall yet have yours!”

Now you shall see what happened.

This fierce Arcite, hearing the duke’s decision, and the cries and yells of the heralds and all the people, raised his visor and spurred his horse along the great place and looked up at Emelye. And Emelye looked down at him kindly (for women always follow the favour of fortune), and smiled.

It was in this sweet moment, when he was off his guard, that something startled his tired and excited horse, and it leapt aside and foundered as it leapt, and before Arcite could save himself, he was flung down, and his breast-bone smashed against the saddle-bow--so that he lay as dead, his face black with the sudden rush of blood.

Poor Arcite! to lose all, just in the moment of supreme joy and victory!

He was carried out of the lists, broken-hearted, to Theseus’ palace, where his harness was cut off him, and he was laid in a beautiful bed. He was still conscious, and always asking piteously for Emelye.

As for Duke Theseus, he came back to the town of Athens in great state and cheer. Were it not for this unlucky accident at the end, there had not been a single mishap, and as the leeches said Arcite would soon be well again, _that_ was no such great disaster. None had been actually killed, though many had been grievously wounded: which was very gratifying. For all the broken arms could be mended, and the bruises and cuts healed with salves and herbs and charms.

There had even been no discomfiture, for falls did not count as shame, nor was it any disgrace to be dragged to a stake with kicks and hootings, and held there hand and foot all alone, whilst one’s horse was driven out by the sticks of the grooms. That was no disgrace, for it was not cowardice; and such things _must_ happen at a tourney. And so all the people made mirth.

The duke gave beautiful gifts to all the foreign knights, and there were ever so many more shows and feasts for the next three days, and the two mighty kings had the greatest honour paid them, till all men had gone home to their houses.

So there was an end of the great battle.

But Arcite did not get well so soon as they thought he would. His wound swelled up, and the sore increased at his heart more and more. He was so injured that the balms and the salves gave him no ease, and nature could not do her part. And when nature cannot work, farewell physic! there is no more to be done but carry the man to the churchyard.

In short, Arcite was evidently dying, and he sent for Emelye, who held herself his wife, and for Palamon, his cousin, and they both came to his bedside.

Then he told Emelye all the sorrow that was in his heart, at losing her whom he had loved so dearly; and how he still loved her, and wanted her to pray for him when he was dead.

Allas, the woo! allas, the peynes stronge pains
That I for you have suffred, and so longe! suffered
Allas, the deth! allas, myn Emelye! death
Allas, departyng of our compainye! separating
Allas, myn hertes queen! allas, my wyf!
Myn hertes lady, endere of my lyf!
What is this world? what asken men to have? ask
Now with his love, now in his colde grave
Allone, withouten eny compainye! any
Farwel, my swete foo! myn Emelye![110] foe
And softe tak me in youre armes tweye, two
For love of God, and herkneth what I seye. hearken

“Alas, the woe! alas, the trials strong
That I for you have borne--and, ah, so long!
Alas, to die! alas, mine Emelye!
Alas, that we so soon part company!
Alas, my heart’s one queen! alas, my wife!
Ah, my heart’s lady, ender of my life!
What is life worth? what do men yearn to have?
Now with his darling--now in his cold grave,
Alone, alone, and with no company!
Farewell, my sweet foe--farewell, Emelye,
And softly take me in your arms to-day
For love of God, and listen what I say.”

Then Arcite pointed to Palamon, and said--

I have heer with my cosyn Palamon
Had stryf and rancour many a day agon
For love of yow, and for my jelousie.

* * * * *

So Jupiter have of my soule part,
As in this world right now ne knowe I non
So worthy to be loved as Palamon,
That serveth you, and wol don al his lyf.
And if that evere ye schul ben a wyf, shall
Foryet not Palamon, the gentil man. forget

And with that word his speche faille gan, began to fail
For fro his feete up to his brest was come
The cold of deth, that hadde him overnome.[111]
And yet moreover in his armes two already
The vital strengthe is lost, and al ago. gone
Only the intellect, withouten more, without
That dwellede in his herte sik and sore,
Gan fayllen, when the herte felte deth; began to fail
Dusked his eyen two, and failled his breth. darkened, failed
But on his lady yit caste he his eye;
His laste word was--_Mercy, Emelye_.

“I have here with my cousin Palamon
Had strife and hatred days and years agone
For love of you, and for my jealousy.

* * * * *

So Jupiter have of my soul a part,
As in the whole wide world now know I none
So worthy to be loved as Palamon,
Who served you well, and will do all his life.
Therefore, if ever you shall be a wife,
Forget not Palamon, that noble man.”

And with that word his speech to fail began,
For from his feet up to his breast was come
The cold of death, that hath him overcome.
And now moreover, in his arms at last
The vital strength is lost, and all is past.
Only the intellect, all clear before,
That lingered in his heart so sick and sore,
Began to falter when the heart felt death,
Then his two eyes grew dark, and faint his breath,
But on his lady yet cast he his eye;
And his last word was--“_Mercy, Emelye_.”

He was dead.

Emelye was carried away from Arcite, fainting; and the sorrow she felt is more than I can tell. Day and night she wept, for she had learned to love Arcite as much as if he had been already her husband, so that she was nigh to dying.

All the city mourned for him, young and old. Theseus, and Palamon, and everybody was filled with grief. Never had there been such sorrow.

Theseus had a splendid bier made, for Arcite to be burned according to the custom, with the greatest honours. Huge oak trees were cut down on purpose to burn on his pile. Arcite’s body was covered with cloth of gold, with white gloves on his hands, his sword by his side, and a wreath of laurel on his head. His face was uncovered, so that all the people might see him, when he was carried forth from the great hall of the palace.

Theseus ordered that Arcite should be burned in that very grove where Palamon and Arcite had first fought for love of Emelye, on that sweet May morning a year ago. So the funeral pile was raised in that grove.

Three beautiful white horses, covered with glittering steel harness and the arms of Arcite, bore all his armour and weapons before him to the spot.

The whole city was hung with black, and the noblest Greeks in the land carried the bier. Duke Theseus, and his old father Egeus, and Palamon, walked beside it, carrying in their hands golden cups, full of milk and wine and blood, to throw upon the pile. Then came Emelye, weeping, with fire in her hand, as the custom was, wherewith to set light to the pile.

With great care and ceremony the wood and straw were built up around the body, so high that they seemed to reach to the sky, and cloth of gold and garlands of flowers were hung all round it.

Poor Emelye fainted when she set fire to the pile, in the course of the funeral service, for her grief was more than she could bear. As soon as the fire burned fast, perfumes and jewels were flung in, and Arcite’s shield, spear, and vestments, and the golden cups. Then all the Greeks rode round the fire to the left, three times shouting, and three times rattling their spears; and three times the women cried aloud.

And when all was over, Emelye was led home; and there were curious ceremonies performed, called the lykewake, at nightfall.

* * * * *

Long afterwards, Theseus sent for Palamon. The mourning for Arcite was over in the city, but Palamon came, still wearing his black clothes, quite sorrowful.

Then Theseus brought Emelye to Palamon, and reminded them both of Arcite’s dying words. He took Emelye’s hand and placed it in the hand of Palamon. Then Palamon and Emelye were married, and they lived happy ever after.

For now is Palamon in alle wele, welfare
Lyvynge in blisse, in richesse, and in hele; health
And Emelye him loveth so tendrely,
And he hire serveth al so gentilly, nobly
That nevere was ther no word hem bitweene there, between
Of jelousye, or any other teene. affliction

Thus endeth Palamon and Emelye,
And God save al this fayre compainye. fair

For now this Palamon hath all the wealth,
Living in bliss, in riches, and in health;
And Emelye loveth him so tenderly,
And he doth cherish her so faithfully,
That all their days no thought they had again
Of jealousy, nor any other pain.

Thus endeth Palamon and Emelye,
And God save all this kindly company!

Notes by the Way.

The outline of the foregoing Tale was borrowed by Chaucer from Boccaccio’s ‘Theseida:’ but the treatment and conception of character are wholly his own.

It is a common thing to say of the Knight’s Tale that with all its merits the two principal actors, Arcite and Palamon, are very much alike, and constantly may be mistaken for each other. It seems to me that to say such a thing is a proof of not having read the tale, for the characters of the two men are almost diametrically opposed, and never does one act or speak as the other would do.

Notice, therefore, the striking contrast all through the story between the characters. From the first, Arcite in the prison is seen to be cooler and more matter-of-fact than Palamon, whose violent nature suffers earliest from imprisonment, mentally, perhaps morally; and whom we find pacing restlessly about, and ceaselessly bemoaning his fate, while Arcite is probably sitting still in philosophic resignation.

Palamon is clearly a man of violent, uncontrolled passions--reckless, even rash, and frantically jealous. Arcite’s is by far the stronger mind--wise, clever, cool, but quite as brave and fervent as his friend. Every incident brings out their character in strong relief. To Palamon it is given to see Emelye first. He mistakes her for Venus, and prays to her as such--his mind being probably slightly disordered by the privations of mediæval prison life, as a mind so excitable would soon become. Arcite recognizes her instantly as a woman, and claims her calmly. Palamon ‘flies out,’ reproaches him bitterly, violently, with the term most abhorrent to the chivalrous spirit of the time--‘false.’ Arcite answers with passion, but he is matter-of-fact in the midst of it, reminding his friend how little consequence it is to either of them, for both are perpetual prisoners; and he can even wind up with a touch of humour, quoting the two fighting dogs and the kite.

On his release from prison, Arcite follows out successfully a most difficult _rôle_, concealing his identity in the midst of Theseus’ court, and in the agitating presence of his lady, at the risk of his life--_for years_: a stratagem requiring constant _sang-froid_ and self-control, which would have been as impossible to Palamon, as mistaking a beautiful woman for a divine vision would have been to Arcite. He does not forget Palamon during this time, though powerless to help him. He is unselfish enough to pray Juno for him, in his soliloquy in the wood.

At the meeting of the rivals in the wood, Palamon, mastered at once by rage, bids Arcite fight with him, that instant, regardless of his (Palamon’s) being unarmed: he fears nothing, he only wants to fight. Arcite, also furious, can nevertheless see the common-sense side of the affair, and the need for fair play and proper accoutrements; and enumerates very sensibly the arms and other necessaries he will bring Palamon, including (so matter-of-fact is he) _food and bedding for the night_.

When the combatants are discovered in their illegal and unwitnessed fight, Palamon does not fear death. He is only anxious that, whether he be dead or alive, Arcite shall not have Emelye; and reiterates his entreaty that Arcite may be slain too--before or after, he doesn’t care which, as long as he is slain.

Palamon’s intense jealousy, which could face death cheerfully, but not the yielding up of his beloved to another man, and his anxiety that Arcite should not survive him, are of course less ignoble than they seem if viewed in the light of the times. It was this same jealousy which prompted him to betray Arcite as soon as he got the chance--forgetting that Arcite had not betrayed _him_, the day before, when he was in his power. But Chaucer himself once or twice refers to his mind being unhinged--‘wood for love’--which claims our forbearance.

Again, the _appearance_ of Licurge (taken as Palamon’s portrait) is very characteristic. His eye is fierce, his get-up is mighty, barbaric, bizarre; but Emetrius (Arcite) appears in a much more usual way. Licurge mounts a chariot drawn by bulls--Emetrius rides on horseback, like an ordinary knight. Licurge is enveloped in a bear’s hide--Emetrius is properly caparisoned.

It is also noteworthy that Palamon entreats _Venus_ for success, for he can think of nothing but his love: Arcite thinks it more prudent to address Mars, since he has got to win Emelye by fight--he has _considered_ the question, you see; and it is therefore (I think) that the preference is given to Palamon in marrying Emelye, because society so exalted the passion of love in those days, while Arcite is made to suffer for his very prudence, which _might_ argue a less absorbing passion.

It was a master-thought to make Arcite die by an accident, so that neither of the rivals vanquished the other, and Palamon escapes the possible reproach of winning his happiness by slaying his friend.

The sympathy, however, remains with Arcite. His character is beautifully developed. It is not inconsistent with his power of self-control and brave heart, noble throughout, that he is able to make such a sacrifice on his death-bed as to give Emelye to Palamon. It is a sign of forgiveness of Palamon, who, at the point of death, showed no such generosity; and the greatness of the sacrifice must be estimated by remembering the mediæval view of love and love-matters.

I do not think that Palamon could have done that, any more than he could have concealed his identity in Theseus’ court.[112]

The Friar’s Tale.

This worthy Friar (Chaucer says), as he rode along with the rest of the company, kept looking askance at the Summoner, whom he evidently regarded as an enemy,[113] and though, as yet, for common civility’s sake, he had not said anything to him which could cause a regular quarrel, it was quite plain there was little love lost between them.

When his turn came to tell his story, he saw a chance of annoying the Summoner, which he didn’t mean to lose; and, disagreeable as the Summoner was, it is not very surprising.

But if it like to this companye,
I wil yow of a Sompnour telle a game; joke
Pardé, ye may wel knowe by the name,
That of a Sompnour may no good be sayd;
I pray that noon of yow be evel apayd. disappointed

“But if agreeable to the company,
I’ll tell you of a Summoner such a game
Belike you may imagine from the name,
That of a Summoner can no good be said.
I pray that none of you be ill repaid!”

The Summoner, who was inoffensive enough just then, whatever he might have been at other times, was not very well pleased at having his trade spoken of in such terms, and felt that it was all a hit at himself; and mine host, to prevent further squabbling, breaks in with--“Now, Friar, it is not very courteous to speak at a companion in that style; a man of your calling ought to know better:--

In companye we wol have no debaat:
Telleth your tale, and let the Sompnour be. tell
Nay, quoth the Sompnour, let him saye to me
What so him list; whan it cometh to my lot
By God I schal him quyten every grot. requite, groat
I schal him telle which a gret honour great
Is to ben a fals flateryng lymytour! be, false

“In company we will have no debate,
Tell on your tale, and let the Summoner be.”
“Nay,” cried the Summoner, “let him say of me
What he may choose. When my turn comes, good lack!
All he has said I’ll pay him fairly back!
I’ll tell him what a pretty trade is his,
Beggar and flattering limitor that he is!”

Mine host cries out, “Peace, no more of this!” and begs the Friar to go on.

* * * * *

Once upon a time there was an archdeacon in my country who punished with great severity all kinds of misdoings.

He had a Summoner ready to his hand, who worked under this strict archdeacon with equal severity. A slyer fellow was there none in England; and most cunningly he watched the people in secret, so as to find out how best to catch them tripping.

I shall not spare this Summoner here, though he be mad as a hare with it all; for Summoners have no jurisdiction over us Friars, you know, and never will have, all the days of their lives. We are out of their power!

[“So are other refuse of the people[114] besides Friars!” interrupted
the angry Summoner, when he heard that.

“Peace, with bad luck to you!” cries mine host, also getting angry;
“and let the Friar tell his story. Now tell on, master, and let the
Summoner gale!”[115]]

This false thief--this Summoner--used to find out, in all sorts of underhand ways, what people did, right or wrong, by spying in secret, and by keeping people to spy for him. And when he found out anybody doing wrong, he would threaten to summon them before the court, and they used to bribe him with money to let them off. If they were too poor to bribe him, he would make the archdeacon punish them; but if they had enough money to give him, he did not care how many bad things they did, and never told the archdeacon. This was very unjust and wicked, as it encouraged people to do wrong; and the Summoner grew quite rich in this evil way, for he kept all the money himself, and did not give it to the archdeacon. He was, you see, a thief as well as a spy;

For in this world nys dogge for the bowe[116]
That can an hurt dere from an hol y-knowe, whole

No dog on earth that’s trainëd to the bow
Can a hurt deer from an unhurt one know,

better than this cunning man knew what everybody was about,--

And for that was the fruyt of al his rent, because
Therfore theron he set all his entent. thereon, purpose
And so bifel, that oones on a day befell, once
This Sompnour, ever wayting on his pray,
Rod forth to sompne a widew, an old ribibe,[117]
Feynyng a cause, for he wolde han a bribe.
And happede that he say bifore him ryde saw
A gay yeman under a forest syde.
A bowe he bar, and arwes bright and kene;
He had upon a courtepy of grene; short cloak
An hat upon his heed with frenges blake. head
Sir, quoth this Sompnour, heyl and wel overtake. overtaken
Welcome, quod he, and every good felawe. fellow
Whider ridestow under this grene schawe? ridest thou, wood
(Sayde this yiman) wiltow fer to-day?
This Sompnour him[118] answerd and sayde, Nay:
Here faste by, quod he, is myn entent purpose
To ryden, for to reysen up a rent raise
That longith to my lordes dueté. duty

And, since that was the source of all his pelf,
To winning gain he did devote himself.
And so it chanc’d that, once upon a day,
This Summoner, ever waiting for his prey,
Rode forth to summon a widow, a poor soul,
And feign’d a cause, that he might get a dole.
It happen’d that he saw before him ride
A yeoman gay, along the forest side.
A bow he bore, and arrows, bright and keen;
He had on a short upper cloak of green;
A black-fringed hat upon his head was set.
The Summoner cried out, “Hail, sir, and well met!”
“Welcome,” quoth he, “and every one as good!
And whither ridest thou in this green wood?
(The yeoman said) and is it far you go?”
The Summoner made answer, and said, “No:
Close handy here my errand lies,” quoth he,
“I ride to raise a rent that’s owing me,
Belonging to my master’s property.”

“Art thou a bailiff, then?” asks the yeoman. The Summoner was ashamed to say what he really was, so he said, “Yes.”

“Good,” said the stranger. “Thou art a bailiff and I am another. Let us be friends. I am unknown in this country; but if you will come and see me in my country, I have plenty of gold and silver in my chest, and I will share it all with you.”

“Thank you,” said the greedy Summoner; and they shook hands, and promised to be staunch friends and sworn brothers till they died! And thus they rode on together.

The Summoner, who was always inquisitive and asking questions, was very anxious to know where he could find this amiable new friend, who was so free with his money.

Brother, quoth he, wher now is your dwellyng,
Another day if that I schulde yow seeche? seek

“Brother,” quoth he, “your dwelling now, where is’t,
If I some future day the place could reach?”

Notice the cunning yeoman’s answer:--

This yiman him answered in softe speche:
Brother, quod he, fer in the north[119] contre,
Wheras I hope somtyme I schal the se; where
Er we depart I schal the so wel wisse, separate, teach
That of myn hous ne schaltow never misse. shalt thou, miss

The yeoman answered him in softest speech:
“Brother,” quoth he, “far in the north countree,
Whereat I hope sometime I shall thee see.
Before we part I shall direct thee so,
Thou canst not fail my dwelling-place to know.”

You will see later why he was so anxious to bring the Summoner to his own dwelling.

Now, brother, quod this Sompnour, I yow pray you
Teche me, whil that we ryden by the way, ride
Syn that ye ben a baily as am I, since, be
Som subtilte, as tel me faithfully subtilty
In myn office how I may moste[120] wynne. my
And spare not for consciens or for synne, refrain
But, as my brother, tel me how do ye?

“Now, brother,” said the Summoner, “I pray,
Teach me while we are riding on our way,
Since you a bailiff are, as well as I,
Some subtle craft, and tell me faithfully
How in my office I most gold may win,
And hide not aught for conscience or for sin,
But as my brother, tell me how do ye?”

The strange yeoman is delighted at these questions, and you will see that in his answer he pretends to describe himself, but he is really describing all the Summoner does!

Now, by my trouthe, brothir myn, sayde he,
As I schal telle the a faithful tale.
My wages ben ful streyt and eek ful smale; narrow, small
My lord to me is hard and daungerous, severe
And myn office is ful laborous, laborious
And therfor by extorciouns[121] I lyve.
Forsoth I take al that men wil me yive, give
Algate by sleighte or by violence, always, cunning
Fro yer to yer I wynne my despence,
I can no better telle faithfully.

Now, certes, quod this Sompnour, so fare I.
I spare not to take, God it woot, knows
But-if it be to hevy or to hoot.[122] unless
What I may gete in counseil prively, get
No more consciens of that have I; conscience
Nere myn extorcions I mighte not lyven, were it not for
Ne of such japes I wil not be schriven. games, shriven
Stomak ne conscience know I noon.
I schrew thes schrifte-fadres, everichoon. curse
Wel be we met, by God and by seint Jame!
But, leve brother, telle me thy name?
Quod this Sompnour. Right[123] in this menewhile
This yeman gan a litel for to smyle. began
Brothir, quod he, woltow that I the telle? wilt thou
I am a feend, my dwellyng is in helle,
And her I ryde about my purchasyng, here
To wite wher men wol yive me eny thing. know
My purchas is theffect of all my rent. the effect
Loke how thou ridest for the same entent
To wynne good, thou rekkist never how,
Right so fare I, for ryde I wolde now
Unto the worldes ende for a praye. prey
A, quod the Sompnour, _benedicite_, what say ye?[124] ah

“Now, by my troth, my brother dear,” quoth he,
“I will be frank with you, and tell you all:
The wages that I get are very small,
My master’s harsh to me, and stingy too,
And hard is all the work I have to do;
And therefore by extortion do I live.
Forsooth, I take what any one will give;
Either by cunning or by violence
From year to year I snatch my year’s expense.
No better can I tell you honestly.”

“Now, truly,” cried the Summoner, “so do I!
I never spare to take a thing, God wot,
Unless it be too heavy or too hot.
What I can grasp by counsel privily,
No scruples in that matter trouble me.
Without extortion I could ne’er subsist,
So in my pranks I ever will persist;
Stomach nor conscience truly I have none.
I hate all these shrift-fathers, every one!
Well met are we, our ways are just the same.
But, my dear fellow, tell me now your name?”
The Summoner entreated him. Meanwhile
That yeoman broke into a little smile.
“Brother,” he answered, “wilt thou have me tell?
--I am a fiend, my dwelling is in hell,
And here I ride about my purchasing
To know what men will give me anything.
Such gains make up the whole of all my rent.
Look how thou journeyest for the same intent
To reap thy gains, thou carest never how!
Just so I do--for I will journey now
Unto the wide world’s end to get my prey.”
“Mercy!” the Summoner cried, “what is’t ye say?”

He is rather aghast at this awful confession, bad as he admits himself to be. He had sincerely thought it was a real yeoman; and when he says to him, with a strange and evil smile, “Shall I tell you?--_I am a fiend, my dwelling is in hell_,” the horrible candour strikes him dumb for a minute. He rather wishes he wasn’t his sworn brother. But he very soon gets over this, thinking of the gold and silver, and begins to talk quite friendly.

I wende ye were a yemen trewely: truly
Ye have a mannes schap as wel as I. shape

“I thought you were a yeoman, verily:
Ye have a human shape as well as I.”

“Have you then a distinct form in hell like what I see?”

“No, certainly,” says the fiend, “there we have none, but we take a form when we will.”

Or ellis make yow seme that we ben schape It seem to you
Somtyme like a man, or like an ape;
Or lik an aungel can I ryde or go;
It is no wonder thing though it be so.

“Or else we make you think we have a shape,
Sometimes like to a man, or like an ape;
Or like an angel I can ride or go;
It is not wondrous that it should be so.”

“Why, a common conjurer can deceive you any day, and I have tenfold more cunning than a conjurer!”

“Why,” said the Summoner, quite interested, “do you have several shapes, and not only one?”

“We borrow whatever shape is best to catch our prey,” said the evil one.

“What makes you take all that trouble?” says the Summoner.

Ful many a cause, lieve sir Sompnour, dear
Sayde this feend. But al thing hath a tyme;
The day is schort, and it is passed prime,[125]
And yit ne wan I nothing in this day; won
I wol entent to winning, if I may, attend
And not entende our thinges to declare.

“Full many a cause, my good sir Summoner,”
Replied the fiend. “But all things have a time;
The day is short, and it is now past prime,
Yet have I not won anything to-day;
I’ll give my mind to winning, if I may,
And not our privy doings to declare.”

For you see the fiend was more intent upon his business than even the Summoner. However, he goes on to say, that sometimes he is obliged to work under the great God, without whose sufferance he could never have any power at all.

For somtyme we ben Goddis instrumentes God’s
And menes to don his comaundementes, means
When that Him list, upon His creatures, He chooses
In divers acts and in divers figures. various

“Sometimes God uses us as instruments
And means, to work out His all-wise intents:
When on us this divine command He lays,
We serve in divers forms and divers ways.”

“But you needn’t be in such a hurry,” he says to the Summoner. “You’ll know more than you like perhaps before long.”

But oon thing warne I the, I wol not jape, one, jest
Thou wilt algates wite how we ben schape. always know
Thou schalt herafterward, my brother deere,
Com wher the nedith not of me to leere,[126] come, learn
For thou schalt by thin oughn experience own
Conne,[127] in a chayer, reden of this sentence be able, to
counsel, meaning
Bet than Virgile[128] when he was on lyve, better, alive
Or Daunt also. Now let us ryde blyve, quickly
For I wol holde companye with the
Til it be so that thou forsake me.

“But of one thing I warn thee, not in play,
That thou shalt know what we are like, some day.
Thou shalt hereafter come, my brother dear,
Whither thou wilt not need of me to hear;
For thou shalt learned be--nay, specially wise
By self-experience--in these mysteries:
Wiser than Virgil ere from earth he past,
Or Dante either. Let us now ride fast,
For I will keep companionship with thee
Till thou desirest to depart from me.”

A pleasant prospect! However, the Summoner was quite content, so long as the silver and gold were shared with him. He declares he will never forsake his sworn brother, though he be a fiend, and promises to share all his own goods with the evil one! adding--

Tak thou thi part, and that men wil the yyven, thee, give
And I schal myn, thus may we bothe lyven; mine, live
And if that eny of us have more than other, either
Let him be trewe, and part it with his brother.
I graunte, quod the devel, by my fay.
And with that word thay riden forth hir way. ride

“Take thou thy part, whatever men will give,
And I will do the same, so both shall live;
And if the one get more than doth the other,
Let him be true and share it with his brother.”
“I grant it,” said the devil, “by my fay.”
With that, they rode together on their way.

As they proceeded they saw right at the town’s end a cart laden with hay. The road was heavy with mud, so that the cart stuck. The carter smote his horses, and cried like mad, “Hait! go on![129] The fiend take you--what a labour I have with you. The fiend have it all, cart, horse, and hay!”

The Summoner, hearing this, remembered he was to have half of all the evil one’s goods, and whispered to him, “Don’t you hear what the carter says? Take it all quick--he has given it you--hay, and cart, and the three horses!”

“Nay,” said the evil one, “he does not _mean_ what he says. He is only in a passion. Ask him yourself, or else wait and see what comes next.”

The carter whacked his horses, and they began to stoop and pull the cart out, and then he said, “Hait! bless you--good Dobbins--well pulled, my own grey boy! Now is my cart out of the mud.”

“There, brother, what did I tell you?” says the fiend. “Now, you see the churl said one thing, but he thought another. Let us go on; I shall get nothing here.”

With that they went a little way outside the town. The Summoner began to whisper to his companion, “Here there lives an old beldame who would almost as soon lose her head as give up a penny of her goods. But I mean to have twelve pence[130] out of her, though she should go mad; or else I’ll haul her up before the court. And yet, all the same, I know no harm of her. But if you want a lesson how to extort your gains in your country, you may take example of me!”

The Summoner goes and raps at the old widow’s gate. “Come out, you old crone. I dare say you are in mischief there!” he cried.

“Who knocks?” said the old woman. “God save you, sir. What is your will?”

“I’ve a bill of summons against you. On pain of cursing, see that you are to-morrow before the archdeacon, to answer to the court.”

“God help me,” says the poor old woman, in great distress. “I have been ill a long time, and cannot walk so far, and to ride[131] would kill me, my side pricks so. May I not ask for a libel,[132] and answer there by my procurator whatever there is against me?”

“Yes,” says the Summoner, “pay me--let’s see--twelve pence, and I will let you off. I shall not get much profit out of that. My master gets it, and not I. Make haste and give me twelve pence--I can’t wait.”

“Twelve pence!” said the poor widow. “Now, heaven help me out of this. I have not so much as twelve pence in the whole wide world. You know that I am old and poor. Rather give me alms.”

“Nay, then,” cries the hard-hearted Summoner, “I will not let you off, even if you die of it.”

“Alas!” says she, “I am not guilty.”

“Pay me!” cried he, “or I will carry off your new pan besides, which you owe me, for when you were summoned to the court before, I paid for your punishment!”

“You lie,” cried the poor old woman. “I was never summoned before to that court in all my life; and I have done no wrong. May the evil one catch you for your wickedness, and carry you away, and my pan too!”

And when the fiend heard her curse the Summoner on her knees, he came forward and said, “Now, good mother, are you in earnest when you say that?”

“May the devil fetch him, pan and all, before he dies, if he doesn’t repent!”

“Repent!” cries the wicked Summoner, “I don’t mean to repent anything I do, I can tell you. I wish I had everything you possess besides--even every rag you have on!”

“Now, brother,” says the evil one, “don’t be angry; for you and this pan are mine by right. This very night you shall go with me to hell, and you will soon know more about our mysteries than a master of divinity!”

And with that word the foule fend him hente; caught
Body and soule, he with the devyl wente,
Wher as the Sompnours han her heritage; their
And God, that maked after His ymage made
Mankynde, save and gyde us alle and some,
And leene this Sompnour good man to bycome. grant

With that the foul fiend took him for his own,
Body and soul he’s with the devil gone,
Whither these Summoners have their heritage
And God, who did create in His image
Mankind, protect and guide us all our days,
And lead this Summoner here to mend his ways.

Lordings, I could have told you, if I had time, all the pains and punishments which came to this wicked Summoner in hell. But let us all pray to be kept from the tempter’s power. The lion lies in wait always to slay the innocent, if he can. Dispose your hearts ever to withstand the evil fiend who longs to make you his slaves! He will not tempt you above what you can bear, for Christ will be your champion and your knight.[133] And pray that this Summoner with us, may repent of his misdeeds before the devil carries him away.

Notes by the Way.

Legends of the kind told by the Friar were very popular in the mediæval times, believed in by some as they were laughed at by others. Mr. Wright conjectures that this tale was translated from some old fabliau. The Friar evidently counted on the unpopularity of this class of men, the Summoners, when he held his fellow-traveller up to general ignominy in this way. It seems a breach of civility and fair-play to modern minds, but the Summoners were in reality hated universally for their extortion or for their secret power among the people. As you have seen, the host begins by calling for justice, but the popular feeling was but too clearly on the Friar’s side from the first, and mine host shares it. (_Vide_ notes, pp. 31, 57.)

This Tale would appear by no means to discourage swearing; but mark the distinction drawn between a hearty, deliberate malediction, and the rapid unmeaning oath which sowed the common talk. The lesson was probably the more forcible through the absence of any hypercritical censure of ‘strong language’--censure which would have been vain indeed, in an age when common oaths were thought as much less of, as positive cursing was more of, than in the present day.

The rough moral deduced was admirably suited to the coarse and ignorant minds of the lower orders.

The Clerk’s Tale.

This Sompnour in his styrop up he stood,
Upon the Frere his herte was so wood mad
That lyk an aspen leef he quok for ire. quaked
Lordyngs, quod he, but oon thing I desire;
I yow biseke that of your curtesye,
Syn ye han herd this false Frere lye,
As suffrith me, I may my tale telle. pray suffer
This Frere bosteth that he knowith helle,
And God it wot, that is but litel wonder,[134]
Freres and feendes been but litel asonder.[135]

Sir Clerk of Oxenford, our hoste sayde, Oxford
Ye ryde as stille and coy as doth a mayde[136]
Were newe spoused, syttyng at the bord;[137]
This day ne herde I of your mouth a word.
I trow ye study aboute som sophyme. sophism
But Salomon saith, everythyng hath tyme.
For Goddis sake as beth of better cheere, be
It is no tyme for to stodye hiere. study

Up in his stirrups did the Summoner start,
For with this Friar such rage was in his heart,
That like an aspen-leaf he shook for ire.
“Lordings,” cried he, “but one thing I desire,
And I beseech you of your courtesy,
Since you have heard this falsest Friar lie,
Suffer me, pray, my story now to tell.
This Friar boasts of how he knoweth hell;
Heav’n knows, that if he does it is no wonder,
For fiends and Friars are not far asunder.”

“Sir Clerk of Oxford,” then our landlord said
“You ride as shy and quiet as a maid
Newly espous’d, who sits beside the board;
All day we have not had from you a word.
I guess, some subtle lore you’re studying.
But Solomon says there’s time for everything.
Prithee, rouse up, and be of better cheer,
It is no time for your deep studies here.

“Do not give us a sermon, or something so learned that we cannot understand it.

Spekith so playn at this tyme, we yow praye,
That we may understonde that ye saye.

“Speak to us very plainly, now, we pray,
That we may understand the whole you say.”

This worthy Clerk answered pleasantly, “Host, I am under your orders, so I will obey you, and tell you a tale which I learned at Padua, of a worthy clerk, who has been proved by his words and work.

He is now deed and nayled in his chest, coffin
Now God yive his soule wel good rest! give
Fraunces Petrark,[138] the laureat poete,
Highte this clerk, whos rethorique swete was named
Enlumynd al Ytail of poetrie, Italy
As Linian[139] did of philosophie,
Or lawue, or other art particulere; law
But deth, that wol not suffre us duellen here,
But as it were a twyncling of an ye, eye
Hem bothe hath slayn, and alle schul we dye.

“Now he is dead, and nailéd in his chest,
I pray to God to give his spirit rest!
Francis Petrarch, the poet laureate,
This clerk was call’d, whose rhetoric sweet did late
Illume all Italy with poetry,
As Linian did with his philosophy,
And law, and other noble arts as well;
But death, that will not suffer us here to dwell,
But, as it were, a twinkling of an eye,
Hath slain them both, and we, too, all shall die.”