The Canterbury Tales

The Knight tells the chivalrous tale of Arcite and Palamon, set in ancient Greece. Noble Theban princes (and cousins), the young Arcite and Palamon are captured by the Athenian Duke Theseus after he wages war against the unjust King Creon. One May morning while the young men are languishing in prison, Palamon glances out the window and sees none other than Emily—the sister of Theseus’s queen, Hippolyta. He falls in love with her at first sight. But then Arcite looks out the window and also falls in love with her. The two have a dispute about who has the better claim to her love. Arcite makes the point that:

I loved her as a woman before you./ What can you say? Just now you hardly knew/If she were girl or goddess from above!/Yours is a mystical, a holy love,/And mine is love as to a human being (34).

The pair wrangle for days, but they’re interrupted when an old mutual friend of Theseus and Arcite negotiates Arcite’s release. Freed, but exiled, Arcite bewails his fate: He’s no long in prison, but he’s equally no longer allowed in the same country as Emily while Palamon can look at her whenever she goes past the window. Meanwhile, Palamon makes exactly the same lament from prison, except in reverse: Arcite is free to find some way to marry Emily, while he must languish.

Arcite disguises himself as a serving man, and makes his way back into Theseus’s court, where he becomes the Duke’s right-hand man. And after seven years, Palamon escapes. The two meet again in a forest when Palamon overhears Arcite rehashing his recent life, and they vow to fight to the death over their love for Emily. Theseus happens upon them in the middle of their fight. Abashed, the two princes confess everything, and Theseus is about to command their execution when Hippolyta and Emily beg him to be merciful. He agrees, and further decides that he and the two princes will be lifelong friends. More than that, he’s got a great idea for how to settle their dispute: A year from now, they’ll each bring 100 men to a mighty tournament, and the victor will win Emily’s hand. The princes joyfully agree.

While the two princes raise their armies, Theseus constructs a grand stadium for their eventual combat, with three glorious temples: one to Venus, one to Mars, and one to Diana. The night before the tournament, Palamon prays to Venus to win Emily’s love; Emily prays to Diana to be allowed to remain a virgin (or, failing that, to end up with the prince who loves her best); and Arcite prays to Mars to win the competition. Each gets a reply: Venus and Mars both promise their petitioners that they’ll get what they want, while Diana tells Emily that while she can’t fulfill her wish for virginity, things will be okay.

These conflicting promises set off a major wrangle on Mount Olympus between Venus and Mars, who argue over which blessing should be fulfilled. In the end, Saturn has to step in and tell them that they’ll both get what they want.

Arcite wins the tournament but falls from his horse after his triumph and dies of blood poisoning. His last act is to encourage Emily to marry Palamon instead, which, some years later and at Theseus’s urging, she does. For, as Theseus says, “what conclusion can I draw from this/Except that after grief there should be bliss/And praise to Jupiter for all his grace?” (85). The pair live happily ever after.

The Host congratulates the Knight on his gripping story and invites the Monk to go next. But the drunken Miller butts in first. As soon as he begins, the Reeve tries to shout him down: He recognizes this story and knows it’s bawdy (not to mention insulting to elderly carpenters like himself). But the Miller won’t be stopped. Chaucer again reminds the reader that it’s not his fault his fellow pilgrims told filthy stories: He’s just repeating what he heard.

With that, the Miller begins: “Some time ago there was a rich old codger/Who lived in Oxford and who took a lodger” (88). This lodger, Nicholas, is a talented student and also a lady’s man. The “old codger,” a carpenter, recently married a new wife—a pretty 18-year-old girl named Alison over whom he keeps a close watch.

Inevitably, as soon as the carpenter isn’t looking, Nicholas puts the moves on Alison, and eventually wins her over. But she warns they’ll have to look out for a good opportunity to sleep together as her husband is jealous.

Before the pair find their opportunity, another young man falls in love with Alison: Absalon, a parish clerk who sings beneath her window at night and sends her piles of gifts. Alison ignores him, finding his devotion ridiculous.

At last, Alison and Nicholas concoct a scheme. Nicholas persuades the carpenter that his astrological studies have revealed a deadly secret: The world is about to end in a flood even worse than Noah’s. In order to rescue them all, the carpenter must prepare three separate little boats for himself, Nicholas, and Alison, and hang them in the rafters so they can set sail when the waters rise. But the carpenter mustn’t even look at his wife before the flood begins, or his sinful lust will bring doom to them all. The gullible carpenter rushes off to prepare.

That evening, each of the three climb into the separate tubs that the carpenter has hung for them. Tired from his work, the carpenter falls into a deep sleep, and Nicholas and Alison tiptoe off to the bedroom together.

Meanwhile, Absalon notices the carpenter hasn’t been around, and deduces that now might be a good time to go and beg a kiss from Alison. He does so, but Alison isn’t impressed. At last, she says she’ll kiss him if he goes away. But she plays a trick on him: “Dark was the night as pitch, as black as coal,/And at the window out she put her hole,/And Absalon, so fortune framed the farce,/Put up his mouth and kissed her naked arse” (103).

Humiliated and furious, Absalon retreats to the blacksmith’s, borrows a red-hot coulter (a plow-blade), and returns to get his revenge. Again, he asks for a kiss; this time, Nicholas sticks his butt out the window and farts in his face. Absalon burns him with the coulter. Nicholas’s screams wake the carpenter, who believes the flood must be starting. He cuts his hanging tub loose from its moorings, plummets to the floor, and faints. When he awakes, Nicholas and Alison cover for their adultery by claiming the carpenter has gone mad, and the whole town laughs at him, unpersuaded by his protestations.

The Miller resoundingly ends his story: “And so the carpenter’s wife was truly poked [...] And Absalon has kissed her nether eye/And Nicholas is branded on the bum/And God bring all of us to Kingdom Come” (106).

The Reeve—an elderly carpenter—doesn’t much like the Miller’s story and insists he’ll tell his own. Though he’s old, he says, even the elderly preserve a few passions: “we have four live coals, as I can show;/Lies, boasting, greed and rage will always glow” (107). His story will pay back the Miller for his insults.

The miller in the Reeve’s tale, Simpkin, is a thief and a bruiser—a “thorough-going market bully” (108). He’s also a jealous husband to a proud, sneering wife. Together they have two children: a baby son, and a pretty daughter. The daughter stands to inherit all Simpkin’s wealth–and is thus the toast of the town.

Simpkin is responsible for supplying a Cambridge college with grain, and when the college manciple (the person in charge of supplies) gets ill, he wildly cheats the college—so much that the warden sends two young clerks, John and Alan, to watch him as he grinds the meal. In thick northern accents, they pretend to be country rustics who want to watch the machinery at work. Simpkin suspects a trick, and preemptively tricks them back by releasing their horse into the fens. While they run off to capture it, Simpkin steals their flour.

When the abashed young men return, they must beg a place to sleep from Simpkin, as it’s too late to go home. Simpkin ungraciously agrees, then drinks himself to a snoring sleep. His wife and daughter snore too, to the point that Alan and John, sharing a bed, can’t sleep. Provoked, Alan decides he’ll get revenge on Simpkin by sleeping with his daughter—and does so. John, feeling left out, decides to play a trick too, and moves the cradle of the sleeping baby son to the foot of his own bed. When Simpkin’s wife gets up for a moment, she loses her way in the dark, and using the cradle as a landmark, gets into bed with John rather than her husband. John, like Alan, takes advantage of the situation.

The next morning, Simpkin’s besotted daughter whispers to Alan where he can find the flour her father stole. Alan tries to make his way back to the bed he was sharing with John—but falls for the same cradle-trick in reverse and gets in bed with Simpkin. Bragging of his conquest to the man he thinks is John, he finds himself in a surprise fistfight with Simpkin instead. The ruckus wakes the whole family, and in the confusion, Simpkin’s wife whacks Simpkin on the head with a broomstick.

The Reeve ends his tale, gloating that turnabout is fair play: “Thus I’ve paid out the Miller with my story!” (119).

The Cook uproariously laughs at the Reeve’s tale, and the Host invites him to go next—ribbing him about his own dishonest doings in his fly-ridden cookshop. The Cook, laughing, retorts that he could tell a tale about dishonest Hosts, too—but for now he’ll stick to a different story.

This is the story of a cook’s apprentice whose cheerful ways earn him the nickname “Revelling [sic] Peterkin.” He’s more committed to gambling, drinking, and whoring than to doing work—to the point his master spends a lot of time getting him out of jail. At last, the master fires him, and Peterkin goes to a similarly roguish friend and his wife, who makes a living as a prostitute.

This is as far as the story goes: Chaucer left the Cook’s Tale unfinished.

The Man of Law’s tale begins with two excursions into other themes: The Host laboriously calculates the time of day by the angle of the sun and the season, while the Man of Law talks at length about how well Chaucer is known for writing tales of women in distress and about how the poor always end up friendless. Scene set, he launches into his story.

This is the tale of a Syrian sultan who desperately falls in love with Constance, the daughter of the Emperor of Rome. The sultan loves Constance so much he converts to Christianity so she’ll marry him. But the sultan’s wicked mother betrays both her son and her daughter-in-law, slaughtering everyone at their wedding so she can seize power. She sets Constance afloat in a boat without a rudder.

Through prayer and faith, Constance survives and her ship at last washes up in pagan Northumberland, where she makes a home with a local constable and his wife, Hermengild, who convert to Christianity under Constance’s influence. Their happy life comes to an end when a lustful knight, avenging himself on Constance for her chastity, slits Hermengild’s throat and frames Constance for it. She’s hauled before King Alla, who can see she must be innocent and makes the accusing knight swear to his story on a copy of the Gospels; when he does, a spectral hand appears, kills him, and clears Constance’s name. Alla is amazed, converts to Christianity on the spot, and marries Constance.

But there’s more mother-in-law trouble to come. Alla’s jealous mother Donegild interferes with the delivery of a letter telling Alla that Constance has given birth to a son, Maurice, editing it so it says Constance has borne a horrible monster. The virtuous Alla vows to care for the baby anyway, but Donegild intercepts his letter, too, and sends a message saying Constance should be banished. Constance and her baby are put right back on the boat in which Constance arrived and set to sea once more. Again, her faith preserves her.

Alla returns, discovers his mother’s plot, and executes her.

Meanwhile, Constance’s father, the Emperor of Rome, has taken bloody vengeance on the Syrians. On his way back from the battle, a victorious senator finds Constance and the baby afloat in the sea and takes them back to Rome. No one recognizes Constance, and she takes up the life of a nun.

Alla, remorseful over executing his own mother, makes his way to Rome to accept penance from the Pope. There, he recognizes his young son, and through Maurice, Alla and Constance are reunited. After feasting and rejoicing (including the news that Maurice will one day become Emperor), the family returns to England. But “our felicities are of short life,” and Alla dies only a year after their return (155). After his death, Constance returns to Rome and lives out the rest of her life in good works.

The Host dismisses the Man of Law’s tale briefly as “a thrifty tale” and turns to ask the Parson to tell a story (joking, along the way, that the Parson must be a Lollard—a member of a hardline sect). The Shipman, taking the Host seriously, breaks in and says he refuses to listen to a Lollard’s preaching, and he’ll tell his own story instead.

This story has an odd start: Chaucer seems to have originally intended this tale for a female teller, and begins with first-person remarks on how men have to pay for all their wives’ clothing: “He has to clothe us, he has to array/Our bodies to enhance his reputation/While we dance round in all this decoration” (157). This, then, is the tale of a wealthy merchant who doesn’t like giving his pretty young wife money for clothes.

This merchant has a close friend: a strapping young monk, John, whom the merchant greets as a cousin whenever he comes to visit.

On the morning of one such visit, as the merchant busies himself in his counting-house, John meets the merchant’s wife in the garden. She confides that she’s having no fun with the merchant either in bed or financially and begs John to loan her some cash for new clothes so she won’t be the laughingstock of the town. They make an arrangement that’s agreeable to them both: the monk will loan her some money, and she’ll repay him with a night of sex.

But John doesn’t have the cash on hand, so he borrows it from the merchant. The merchant happily lends it to him, and then leaves on a business trip. John and the merchant’s wife complete their bargain that night.

When the merchant comes home, John tells him he’s returned the money he borrowed to his wife and goes on his merry way. The merchant scolds his wife for spending that money on clothes, but doesn’t guess what’s happened; she, for her part, cajoles him into a better mood by saying that she’ll repay him in bed.

Agreeing that everyone should look out for no-good monks, the Host next invites the Prioress to speak. She agrees, and after reciting a hymn to the Virgin Mary, begins.

Her tale is set in a Christian enclave of an Asian country. The Christian population is surrounded by an unfriendly Jewish one, which the Prioress describes in deeply antisemitic terms.

In the Christian part of town, a widow’s son walks to school every day. He’s a pious lad, who kneels and says a Hail Mary every time he sees an image of the Virgin. One day, he hears a hymn that takes his fancy, O Alma Redemptoris, and learns it by heart even though he doesn’t understand the Latin. A fellow schoolboy explains that it’s a song in praise of Mary, and the widow’s son vows he’ll learn it perfectly in time for Christmas. He walks to and from school singing the hymn to himself.

But his path takes him through the Jewish part of town, where sinister men scheme to put a stop to his singing. At last, a murderer grabs him, slits his throat, and throws him into a sewer.

The terrified widow looks everywhere for her missing son. She has no luck until “[t]his jewel of martyrdom and ruby bright,/Lying with carven throat and out of sight,/Began to sing O Alma from the ground/Till all the place was ringing with the sound” (174).

The widow and the Christian community salvage the child’s miraculously singing corpse and carry it to a pious abbot. The abbot questions the corpse, and it answers that the Virgin Mary “bade me sing/This anthem till my time of burying/As you have heard; and when my song was sung/She seemed to lay a grain upon my tongue” (175). His corpse will keep singing until the grain is taken away. Accordingly, the abbot brushes the grain from the child’s tongue, and the singing stops. The Christian community gives the child a martyr’s burial.

After everyone takes a minute to marvel at the Prioress’s story, the Host turns to Chaucer and starts joking again, ribbing him for being “shaped about the waist the same as me” (that is, rotund) and inviting him to speak next.

Chaucer begins to tell the absurd tale of one Sir Topaz, a valiant knight of Flanders, very well-favored: “I maintain he had a seemly nose” (178). All the ladies are into him, but he stays chaste, preferring to hunt—until, out for a ride one day, he hears a thrush singing and falls madly in love with an ideal. Only an Elf-Queen will do for him, he declares, and he sets out to find one.

He gallops off and finds Fairy-land, but a terrible giant called Sir Elephant challenges him to a fight. Sir Topaz agrees and goes home for a feast before he armors up and rides to battle with Sir Elephant. The next day, he heads out again…

The Host interrupts: “‘By God,’ he said, ‘put plainly in a word,/Your dreary rhyming isn’t worth a turd!’” (184). The Host demands that Chaucer tell some other story, either a more entertaining one or one with a “wholesome moral” (184). Chaucer readily agrees, and says he’ll tell an old prose tale of virtue—which, though it’s been told many times, can still stand another telling, as the example of the four Gospels makes clear.

Here, the translator provides a summary rather than a translation of Chaucer’s “Tale of Melibee.” This is a homily about good behavior, following one Dame Prudence, a wise woman who offers her husband Melibee sage counsel on the subject of vengeance. Prudence persuades her husband to forgive rather than destroy his enemies through a long debate covering everything from the value of prestige to the reliability of women’s advice. It turns out Prudence’s advice is pretty good: Melibee’s enemies are amazed and delighted by Melibee’s willingness to forgive them.