Although it's no longer hot off the presses, I thought I'd quickly bring up this article from Wednesday's Washington Post; it irritated me when I read it, but I only today thought of this blog as a good place to vent about it. The article provides a small but telling example of some of the prevalent assumptions and representations surrounding the era we're studying. (It also bears some remote resemblance to our discussion in yesterday's class about government, absolutist lineages and associational forms.)
The point at issue is an emergent influence-peddling scandal in the House of Lords. Apparently, the members allegedly involved cannot be suspended or expelled from the house, just publicly "named and shamed" (a job perk of which I'll bet Rod Blagojevich is now envious). The author of the article, in describing this, explains that "rules in the Lords, a chamber that dates to the 14th century, are still far out of step with modern Britain."
I may be over-reading (although isn't over-reading things a professional responsibility for a graduate student?), but note that, in this formulation, it is the Lords, and the Lords alone, that dates back to the 14th century. The things wrong with the house are presented as entirely explicable in terms of its medieval origin and legacy. Note, also, that the House of Commons, the fully representative and democratic chamber that runs most everything these days, is implicitly left off the hook. We hear nothing about the Commons dating to the 14th century, even though its origins are every bit as medieval (our author was a member). The Lords are medieval, hidebound, and anachronistic; the Commons are progressive and modern, free from the taint of medieval antecedents or a medieval history.
In other words, intentionally or no, this article misrepresents parliamentary history in such a way as to oppose the Middle Ages and modernity and pass off contemporary flaws in the system as medieval vestiges, without acknowledging that the system itself is, in some sense, a medieval vestige: a medieval institution providing the framework of modern government. It's easy to come up with alternate ways of stating the same basic point that avoid this problematic amputation of the medieval past: "rules in the Lords have changed little since both houses of Parliament were established in the 14th century." Instead, this article sweeps the medieval history informing all British government under the rug and essentializes as medieval only the undesirable or unlawful or disadvantageous aspects of modern society. I'm not saying that the rules in question here are not medieval holdovers in need of reform, just that, by identifying these rules alone as medieval in origin, this article demonstrates some of the deep-set ways in which modernity dissociates itself from and defines itself against its medieval past. This storm in a teacup (to use an appropraitely British expression) points us toward some of the fundamental theoretical and historiographical issues that will bear on our study of Chaucer and the period in which he wrote.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Jupiter and Theseus as "First Movers"
Based on discussion at the end of class, I thought it might be worthwhile to examine the actions of the Greek nobility from the “Knight’s Tale” in the context of their “divine” connections.
One of the classic tenets of noble rulers has been their divine connection, either as gods themselves or as earthly rulers with a divine mandate. This was as true for the kings and queens of Chaucer’s England as it was for the ruling class of the Greek city-states such as Thebes and Athens.
Jupiter, being the highest and most powerful of the gods, is unable (or possibly unwilling) to enforce a peace between Mars, Saturn and Venus that will allow Arcite, Palamon and Emily to find a peaceful solution to their love triangle. On the human level, for reasons most likely political, Theseus does not enforce a decision concerning the competition between Arcite and Palamon, instead allowing these two lesser nobles to battle it out for Emily’s hand. Just as Jupiter does not utilize his full powers over the lesser gods, Theseus does not exercise his complete authority over Arcite and Palamon. In this way, their lesser instincts of jealousy, anger and lust win out over any divine benevolence that Jupiter could have imparted and the influences of the lesser gods rule the situation. If Theseus is the closest to the gods because of his higher noble rank, it can be assumed that lower nobles such as Arcite and Palamon would therefore be closer to lesser gods such as Mars, Saturn, Venus, etc. These lesser gods display emotions more in tune with the actions of Arcite and Palamon. Similarly, Jupiter remains just as aloof as Theseus, and though each may technically be in charge of their respective realms, they appear content to allow their subordinate gods and nobles to work things out among themselves, no matter how dangerous or costly this may be. Though Jupiter and Theseus may be “First Movers” in their spheres of influence, they do not make the last moves in the “Knight’s Tale”.
Also, as a side note, it is interesting that the Knight (and thereby Chaucer) used the Roman names for these gods despite the characters being Greeks.
(Thanks to James for pointing this out to me.)
One of the classic tenets of noble rulers has been their divine connection, either as gods themselves or as earthly rulers with a divine mandate. This was as true for the kings and queens of Chaucer’s England as it was for the ruling class of the Greek city-states such as Thebes and Athens.
Jupiter, being the highest and most powerful of the gods, is unable (or possibly unwilling) to enforce a peace between Mars, Saturn and Venus that will allow Arcite, Palamon and Emily to find a peaceful solution to their love triangle. On the human level, for reasons most likely political, Theseus does not enforce a decision concerning the competition between Arcite and Palamon, instead allowing these two lesser nobles to battle it out for Emily’s hand. Just as Jupiter does not utilize his full powers over the lesser gods, Theseus does not exercise his complete authority over Arcite and Palamon. In this way, their lesser instincts of jealousy, anger and lust win out over any divine benevolence that Jupiter could have imparted and the influences of the lesser gods rule the situation. If Theseus is the closest to the gods because of his higher noble rank, it can be assumed that lower nobles such as Arcite and Palamon would therefore be closer to lesser gods such as Mars, Saturn, Venus, etc. These lesser gods display emotions more in tune with the actions of Arcite and Palamon. Similarly, Jupiter remains just as aloof as Theseus, and though each may technically be in charge of their respective realms, they appear content to allow their subordinate gods and nobles to work things out among themselves, no matter how dangerous or costly this may be. Though Jupiter and Theseus may be “First Movers” in their spheres of influence, they do not make the last moves in the “Knight’s Tale”.
Also, as a side note, it is interesting that the Knight (and thereby Chaucer) used the Roman names for these gods despite the characters being Greeks.
(Thanks to James for pointing this out to me.)
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
What's the Reason for Their Pilgrimage?
The General Prologue of The Canterbury Tales makes it clear that the diverse group who met at Southwark are off to Canterbury for, "The hooly blisful martir to seke". In essence they are off to pay homage or to show religious reverence (and receive some saintly favor) to Saint Thomas Becket. The only other motivation for the pilgrimage - apart from this desire - is that since it is springtime and nature is waking from the winter stasis, it follows that humans are apt to similarly wake and venture from their local habitats. The soundness of that logic is inconsequential since by "follows" I refer only to the fact that the line "Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages" literally follows in line from the description of nature's springtime bustle. (We discussed this briefly in class.) But what was Chaucer thinking? Why did he choose this context for his playful poem?
The online Catholic Encyclopedia (newadvent.org) defines a pilgrimage as, "journeys made to some place with the purpose of venerating it, or in order to ask there for supernatural aid, or to discharge some religious obligation". That much we know from inferences made of the text. But the origin of the idea is further described as locally evolved:
The idea of a pilgrimage has been traced back by some to the primitive notion of local deities, that is, that the divine beings who controlled the movements of men and nature could exercise that control only over certain definite forces or within set boundaries...Hence, when some man belonging to a mountain tribe found himself in the plain and was in need of divine help, he made a pilgrimage back again to the hills to petition it from his gods. It is therefore the broken tribesmen who originate pilgrimages. (Emphasis is mine.)
The pilgrims can be seen as broken tribesman, to some degree, who need to be renewed in some way through pilgrimage to their chosen or local religious site. And the adventure of the pilgrimage can be seen as a series of confessional monologues leading up to the purification or relief from moral guilt at the end of their journey.
Now, possibly by way of a too large leap, we can see the real pilgrimage - in a theatrical or dramatic context - as an obligation of the pilgrims to their creator Geoffrey Chaucer. Is Chaucer as the poet doing what the Catholic Encyclopedia claims that in making a pilgrimage humans are trying to recreate that which, "(in Christianity) God would Himself satisfy the craving He had first Himself created"? That is, an attempted act of perfect being? Are these characters perfect in their sketches by way of their perfectly rendered imperfect humanity which thereby transcribes the pilgrimage onto us in that we (or medieval Englishmen/women) reflect their condition(s)? It seems a pilgrimage facilitates their trilateral discourse in ways that any other context of medieval society would not.
Perhaps none of this illuminates the text any more than might be obvious but would the roadside forum i.e. pilgrimage be the only way for a medieval poet to gather these characters together in a way that would be believable enough to satisfy the suspension of disbelief which is contingent on the "could it happen" as opposed to the "would it happen". Yes, it seems, a pilgrimage of this variety could have happened making the question of whether or not it would have happened immaterial. And that would be enough for a dramatist.
The online Catholic Encyclopedia (newadvent.org) defines a pilgrimage as, "journeys made to some place with the purpose of venerating it, or in order to ask there for supernatural aid, or to discharge some religious obligation". That much we know from inferences made of the text. But the origin of the idea is further described as locally evolved:
The idea of a pilgrimage has been traced back by some to the primitive notion of local deities, that is, that the divine beings who controlled the movements of men and nature could exercise that control only over certain definite forces or within set boundaries...Hence, when some man belonging to a mountain tribe found himself in the plain and was in need of divine help, he made a pilgrimage back again to the hills to petition it from his gods. It is therefore the broken tribesmen who originate pilgrimages. (Emphasis is mine.)
The pilgrims can be seen as broken tribesman, to some degree, who need to be renewed in some way through pilgrimage to their chosen or local religious site. And the adventure of the pilgrimage can be seen as a series of confessional monologues leading up to the purification or relief from moral guilt at the end of their journey.
Now, possibly by way of a too large leap, we can see the real pilgrimage - in a theatrical or dramatic context - as an obligation of the pilgrims to their creator Geoffrey Chaucer. Is Chaucer as the poet doing what the Catholic Encyclopedia claims that in making a pilgrimage humans are trying to recreate that which, "(in Christianity) God would Himself satisfy the craving He had first Himself created"? That is, an attempted act of perfect being? Are these characters perfect in their sketches by way of their perfectly rendered imperfect humanity which thereby transcribes the pilgrimage onto us in that we (or medieval Englishmen/women) reflect their condition(s)? It seems a pilgrimage facilitates their trilateral discourse in ways that any other context of medieval society would not.
Perhaps none of this illuminates the text any more than might be obvious but would the roadside forum i.e. pilgrimage be the only way for a medieval poet to gather these characters together in a way that would be believable enough to satisfy the suspension of disbelief which is contingent on the "could it happen" as opposed to the "would it happen". Yes, it seems, a pilgrimage of this variety could have happened making the question of whether or not it would have happened immaterial. And that would be enough for a dramatist.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Ransom and release in the Knight’s Tale
Chaucer constructs the first two parts of the Knight’s Tale around the imprisonment and release/escape of two young knights of royal blood. Consequently, some knowledge of the practice of holding or ransoming noble prisoners in medieval Europe may be helpful in lending some historical context to the Tale itself.
As we have already discussed in class, ransoming was a common element of medieval warfare and even happened to Chaucer himself. Ransoming was considered an important part of chivalry. Even prisoners of the highest ranks, including dukes and kings, were very rarely held without ransom, which makes the imprisonment of Arcite and Palamon in the Knight’s Tale unusual and implies that Theseus is unchivalric. Chaucer had at least two historical examples of royals held for ransom that he could draw upon while writing the Tale.
Typically, the most well-known example in medieval England of capture and ransom is that of King Richard I, who in 1192 was seized by Duke Leopold V of Austria on his way home from his crusade to the Holy Land. The Duke held Richard prisoner for more than a year until his mother, Eleanor of Aquitaine, could raise the 150,000-mark ransom, an amount that nearly bankrupted England.
Americans are probably best familiar with this story through the Disney cartoon “Robin Hood,” in which Prince John attempts to sabotage the fundraising effort by keeping the money for himself —not too far from the truth, as the real John collaborated with King Philip of France to pay the Duke 80,000 marks to keep Richard a prisoner. When Eleanor finally paid the full ransom and the Duke released Richard, Philip sent John a letter saying, “Look to yourself; the devil is loose.” Richard, indeed, took full advantage of his freedom and, prevented from punishing John, wreaked vengeance on Philip, using all his resources to wage war on France until his death in 1199. Although Richard did not avenge himself on the Duke of Austria, his ransom and release provides an example of how dangerous it could be to release someone with a political grudge and the power and resources to back it up.
While Chaucer would have been very familiar with this historical event, there was another capture-and-ransom incident that occurred in his lifetime, when he was 13, that more closely resembles the two cousins’ imprisonment in the Knight’s Tale. Four years before Chaucer served in King Edward III’s army, Edward III’s son Edward the Black Prince captured King John II of France at the Battle of Poitiers in 1356. Edward sent John back to England, where he was imprisoned in the Tower of London — although he was permitted privileges and luxuries — and his ransom was set at 3 million crowns, a prohibitive amount at the time. In 1360, Edward III agreed to release John to return to France to raise the ransom, and John left his son, Louis, as a replacement hostage. Louis, however, escaped and fled to France. John was so incensed at his son’s perceived lack of honor that he surrendered himself to the English and died in captivity.
King John II’s release — technically ransom-less at the time — mirrors Arcite’s release and exile from Athens. Prince Louis and Palamon both languish in prison alone afterward and devise some means of escaping, fleeing back to their homelands. However, where Louis refrains from raising forces to attack the English, Palamon, echoing Richard I, originally intends to make for Thebes and call on his friends for help in making war on Theseus: “This was his opinion … in the nyght thane wolde he take his way / To Thebes-ward, his freendes for to preye / On Theseus to helpe him to werreye” (l. 1480-1484). This waging of war is what is expected of any prince or King in order to re-establish their honor; Palamon expects it of Arcite as well: “Thou mayst, syn thou hast wisdom and man-hede / Assemblen alle the folk of oure kyndrede / And make a were so sharp on this citee” (l. 1285-1287).
This information about ransoming as part of chivalry in medieval England adds to readers’ understanding of chivalry in the Knight’s Tale. All three main male characters violate the code of chivalry in various ways: Theseus refuses to set a ransom, Arcite violates his honor by breaking his promise not to return to Athens, and both he and Palamon fails to return to Thebes and raise an army to fight Theseus.
As we have already discussed in class, ransoming was a common element of medieval warfare and even happened to Chaucer himself. Ransoming was considered an important part of chivalry. Even prisoners of the highest ranks, including dukes and kings, were very rarely held without ransom, which makes the imprisonment of Arcite and Palamon in the Knight’s Tale unusual and implies that Theseus is unchivalric. Chaucer had at least two historical examples of royals held for ransom that he could draw upon while writing the Tale.
Typically, the most well-known example in medieval England of capture and ransom is that of King Richard I, who in 1192 was seized by Duke Leopold V of Austria on his way home from his crusade to the Holy Land. The Duke held Richard prisoner for more than a year until his mother, Eleanor of Aquitaine, could raise the 150,000-mark ransom, an amount that nearly bankrupted England.
Americans are probably best familiar with this story through the Disney cartoon “Robin Hood,” in which Prince John attempts to sabotage the fundraising effort by keeping the money for himself —not too far from the truth, as the real John collaborated with King Philip of France to pay the Duke 80,000 marks to keep Richard a prisoner. When Eleanor finally paid the full ransom and the Duke released Richard, Philip sent John a letter saying, “Look to yourself; the devil is loose.” Richard, indeed, took full advantage of his freedom and, prevented from punishing John, wreaked vengeance on Philip, using all his resources to wage war on France until his death in 1199. Although Richard did not avenge himself on the Duke of Austria, his ransom and release provides an example of how dangerous it could be to release someone with a political grudge and the power and resources to back it up.
While Chaucer would have been very familiar with this historical event, there was another capture-and-ransom incident that occurred in his lifetime, when he was 13, that more closely resembles the two cousins’ imprisonment in the Knight’s Tale. Four years before Chaucer served in King Edward III’s army, Edward III’s son Edward the Black Prince captured King John II of France at the Battle of Poitiers in 1356. Edward sent John back to England, where he was imprisoned in the Tower of London — although he was permitted privileges and luxuries — and his ransom was set at 3 million crowns, a prohibitive amount at the time. In 1360, Edward III agreed to release John to return to France to raise the ransom, and John left his son, Louis, as a replacement hostage. Louis, however, escaped and fled to France. John was so incensed at his son’s perceived lack of honor that he surrendered himself to the English and died in captivity.
King John II’s release — technically ransom-less at the time — mirrors Arcite’s release and exile from Athens. Prince Louis and Palamon both languish in prison alone afterward and devise some means of escaping, fleeing back to their homelands. However, where Louis refrains from raising forces to attack the English, Palamon, echoing Richard I, originally intends to make for Thebes and call on his friends for help in making war on Theseus: “This was his opinion … in the nyght thane wolde he take his way / To Thebes-ward, his freendes for to preye / On Theseus to helpe him to werreye” (l. 1480-1484). This waging of war is what is expected of any prince or King in order to re-establish their honor; Palamon expects it of Arcite as well: “Thou mayst, syn thou hast wisdom and man-hede / Assemblen alle the folk of oure kyndrede / And make a were so sharp on this citee” (l. 1285-1287).
This information about ransoming as part of chivalry in medieval England adds to readers’ understanding of chivalry in the Knight’s Tale. All three main male characters violate the code of chivalry in various ways: Theseus refuses to set a ransom, Arcite violates his honor by breaking his promise not to return to Athens, and both he and Palamon fails to return to Thebes and raise an army to fight Theseus.
Jill Mann's commentary on Chaucer's representation of "ideals"
In his life Chaucer was "a soldier, an esquire of the king's household, a member of diplomatic missions, a controller of customs, a justice of the peace, a member of Parliament, the clerk of the king's works in charge of building and repair at ten royal residences, and a forest official" (Benson xiii). This impressive list is important for two main reasons: one, Chaucer was not, while alive, a poet. He was a public official who wrote poetry. Two, in his many missions in the different offices, including at least a few abroad, Chaucer was no doubt exposed to a cross-section of society. He must have met cooks, merchants, soldiers, wives, weavers, nuns, priests, and many nobles. In other words, members of each of the three estates we discussed in class.
After we spoke about the estate satire, I went to library and took out Jill Mann's Chaucer and Medieval Estates Satire. Mann’s book covers many aspects of the medieval estates theory, but what I find the most interesting are her comments on the “estates ideals”. She offers four examples: the parson, the ploughman, the knight, the clerk. The parson and the ploughman represent the clergy and the peasantry, respectively. The clerk, however, is “an ideal representative of the life of study” (Mann 74). The knight represents not only the ideal of his estate, but the ideal of chivalry itself. Mann discusses the Knight in depth with regard to the ideals Chaucer imposes upon him. Mann focuses on the analysis of the parson, the ploughman, and the clerk as "estate ideals".
Mann views the parson as a cleansing and purifying character, especially when compared to the other members of the first estate (the monk and the friar).The verses he "narrates" are slow, steady, relaxing. By accounting for the parson's virtues, Chaucer not only suggests an ideal of the parsonage but also alludes to the sins of a "normal" member of this estate. By focusing exaggeratingly on the good aspects of this character, he also mentions the negative and therefore represents the aspects of the estate wholly.
Mann notes that a priest's duty to "set an example" is given great prominence in estates satire. Chaucer highlights this in the Parson's tale when the Parson describes himself as a shepard with duty to his flock. The first estate is represented through multiple characters in The Canterbury Tales, but the parson represents the idealized version of the pious and virtuous clergy. Mann goes on tostate that parson and the ploughman, even without their blood relation, are a pairing used to force the reader to connect the classes with each other and form concrete opinions about each class.
The ploughman represents the peasantry, or the third estate. His characteristics are just as idealistic and therefore, shall we say, unlikely as the parson's. The ploughman is tirelessly industrious, as well as dutifully religious. This extreme highlights the true opposite characteristics in the true peasant. Or, at least, according to Chaucer or and his wit. The peace the ploughman prizes may represent the opposite: the common quarreling in a peasant's life. His piety, "the peasant's supposed hatred of the church and the clergy" (70).
The clerk does not directly represent one of the estates we discussed in class, but Mann claims Chaucer uses him as the representative of an ideal in the same way I've addressed above. The stress in the portrait and tale of the clerk is on books and learning, as well as dedication to teaching. The actual subject of his studies, however, is never mentioned. Chaucer seems to be idealizing men of learning by assuming their dedication and virtue without evidence of their knowledge. Again, we can assume he thinks the values of the estates are important ones, as well as their antitheses.
Mann's argument is thorough in her aims to explain a few of Chaucer's pilgrims as estate ideals. I wished she'd selected a female character to analyze, because the added dimension of the fourteenth-century ideals of femininity would have been interesting. I plan to look at Chaucer's inclusion of antifeminist themes for my papers and will post the results of my preliminary research in order to, hopefully, enrich the discussion of the ideals of the members of the classes and the pilgrimage.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
St. Thomas Becket, Patron Saint of Tourist Traps
As we begin to move past the General Prologue and into the Tales themselves I thought it might be helpful to provide some deeper social and historical context on the significance of Thomas Becket. Not only was he at odds with his own church and his king during his tenure as a religious figure, but many aspects of his career, death and legacy make him easily relatable to Chaucer’s pilgrims.
Thomas Becket was murdered in 1170 at Canterbury Cathedral for opposing Henry II’s attempts to bring the clergy under civil law. Despite being a controversial and often extremely polarizing figure in his own time, he was made a saint within three years of his death and a small niche economy grew up surrounding the trade in Becket merchandise. Canterbury Cathedral soon boasted a world-class collection including pieces of Becket’s clothing and body, and monks were selling his blood in small vials to pilgrims as a cure-all. Because of the religious frenzy that developed around Becket’s persona after his death, many common pilgrims would not have been aware that he was not originally a member of the clergy, but rather a lay courtier with a background in law in the king’s service who had ascended to his position as Archbishop through political maneuvering. Despite having won the king’s favor earlier as an enforcer of tax collection and a loyal ally in matters of church-state relations, the relationship between Becket and Henry II quickly soured as Becket sought to strengthen the Anglican Church (and increase his own power) against the ever-encroaching influence of the monarchy.
Though Becket was officially declared a martyr by both the Anglican and Catholic churches, his death had as much to do with politics as it did with religion. Despite his willingness to die for his church, he was also risking death by defying a king. And his personal life and previous career had allowed him to amass both political influence and personal wealth. He was just as human and imperfect a figure as any of the clergy represented among Chaucer’s pilgrims. The swift exploitation of his death for economic gain by the church is perhaps his greatest legacy. Not only did it breed a sizeable market for clippings of his hair and vials of his blood, but it generated a tourist attraction that continues to attract both religious and secular pilgrims to this day. Canterbury Cathedral today offers full-service catering, specially priced packages for large tour groups and an on-line shop featuring everything from Christmas ornaments to cufflinks featuring images of St. Thomas Becket and other religious iconography.
Given Chaucer’s own career as a courtier of English kings, he would have certainly been aware of the more human side of Becket. It is fitting that his pilgrims, given all their imperfections, are making the pilgrimage to Canterbury. This pilgrimage gained in popularity because it provided extensive opportunities for social networking and religious indulgence at a fraction of the cost of a more expensive pilgrimage to Jerusalem or even continental Europe. Becket himself would most likely have welcomed the transformation of his cathedral into an attraction as it provided a boost to the prestige and influence of the Anglican Church. Despite the passage of time between Becket’s life, Chaucer’s writing, and our own class, the same themes of imperfection and disparity continue to dominate the legacy of St. Thomas Becket and the famous pilgrimage to his tomb.
Thomas Becket was murdered in 1170 at Canterbury Cathedral for opposing Henry II’s attempts to bring the clergy under civil law. Despite being a controversial and often extremely polarizing figure in his own time, he was made a saint within three years of his death and a small niche economy grew up surrounding the trade in Becket merchandise. Canterbury Cathedral soon boasted a world-class collection including pieces of Becket’s clothing and body, and monks were selling his blood in small vials to pilgrims as a cure-all. Because of the religious frenzy that developed around Becket’s persona after his death, many common pilgrims would not have been aware that he was not originally a member of the clergy, but rather a lay courtier with a background in law in the king’s service who had ascended to his position as Archbishop through political maneuvering. Despite having won the king’s favor earlier as an enforcer of tax collection and a loyal ally in matters of church-state relations, the relationship between Becket and Henry II quickly soured as Becket sought to strengthen the Anglican Church (and increase his own power) against the ever-encroaching influence of the monarchy.
Though Becket was officially declared a martyr by both the Anglican and Catholic churches, his death had as much to do with politics as it did with religion. Despite his willingness to die for his church, he was also risking death by defying a king. And his personal life and previous career had allowed him to amass both political influence and personal wealth. He was just as human and imperfect a figure as any of the clergy represented among Chaucer’s pilgrims. The swift exploitation of his death for economic gain by the church is perhaps his greatest legacy. Not only did it breed a sizeable market for clippings of his hair and vials of his blood, but it generated a tourist attraction that continues to attract both religious and secular pilgrims to this day. Canterbury Cathedral today offers full-service catering, specially priced packages for large tour groups and an on-line shop featuring everything from Christmas ornaments to cufflinks featuring images of St. Thomas Becket and other religious iconography.
Given Chaucer’s own career as a courtier of English kings, he would have certainly been aware of the more human side of Becket. It is fitting that his pilgrims, given all their imperfections, are making the pilgrimage to Canterbury. This pilgrimage gained in popularity because it provided extensive opportunities for social networking and religious indulgence at a fraction of the cost of a more expensive pilgrimage to Jerusalem or even continental Europe. Becket himself would most likely have welcomed the transformation of his cathedral into an attraction as it provided a boost to the prestige and influence of the Anglican Church. Despite the passage of time between Becket’s life, Chaucer’s writing, and our own class, the same themes of imperfection and disparity continue to dominate the legacy of St. Thomas Becket and the famous pilgrimage to his tomb.
Chaucer's Knight and the Making of Europe
Over the past week, for an independent project, I have been reading Robert Bartlett's The Making of Europe: Conquest, Colonization, and Cultural Change, 950-1350. Besides its formidable merits on its own terms, this book bears directly on some of the issues surrounding Chaucer's Knight, in both his tale and his portrait in the "General Prologue." Bartlett debunks, in detail and at length, any image one might have of medieval Europe as static, stunted, or stratified, focusing instead on the tremendous energy and expansionism of the period. Western Europeans of the Latin Christian persuasion, in this telling, were on the move in every direction and at all levels of society, through aristocratic conquest, widespread peasant settlement (mainly in free villages - that is, not as serfs) in frontier areas, the growth and spread of merchant communities and trading networks, and religious and cultural diffusion. These trends brought vast areas of religious, linguistic, or cultural alterity - the Celtic fringe of the British Isles, Muslim Spain, much of the Mediterranean, and especially the Slavic, Hungarian, and Baltic regions of eastern Europe - into the fold of Latin Christendom. In so doing, Bartlett argues, medieval Europeans also molded themselves into a more homogeneous entity, as the processes of conquest and expansion and their attendant ideologies reduced regional and cultural particularities within the core areas of the Latin West. Between expansion abroad and cultural/ideological unification at home, "Europe" came into being as a distinct identity during the High Middle Ages.
Although The Canterbury Tales falls outside of the period Bartlett demarcates for his argument, I think some of the forces and processes he describes leave their marks in Chaucer's text. That tremendous upsurge and overflow of vernal, erotic, spiritual and physical energy in the opening lines, for example, that sets flowers growing, breezes blowing, birds...doing their thing, and pilgrims crossing borders and oceans, seems to capture something of the dynamism that Bartlett describes: "Everywhere in Europe in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries trees were being felled, roots laboriously grubbed out, ditches delved to drain waterlogged land. Recruiting agents travelled in the overpopulated parts of Europe collecting emigrants; wagons full of anxious new settlers creaked their way across the continent; busy ports sent off ships full of colonists to alien and distant destinations; bands of knights hacked out new lordships" (2). But Bartlett's argument is more specifically relevant to the Knight, who has participated in exactly the kind of expansionary and colonizing warfare Bartlett sets at the center of medieval history, on many of the same embattled and heterogeneous European frontiers: Prussia, Lithuania, and Russia (eastern Europe); Granada and Algeciras (Muslim Spain); and various warfronts throughout the Mediterranean ("GP" 51-60). (Curiously absent is the zone of expansionary activity closest to home for the Knight and Chaucer, the Celtic crescent.) The Knight has spent his life at the spearhead of an expanding Europe.
The Knight's background and war record bring a huge geographical and cultural expanse into the "tyme and space" (35) of late-14th century England and of the text of The Canterbury Tales. Chaucer's stylistically uniform and continuous narrative absorbs the mention of these different and diverse regions just as Chaucer's culture, that of the Latin Christian West, absorbed (some of) the regions themselves. As Bartlett suggests, the process of absorption also leads to the creation of a uniformity out of this difference and diversity. Over the next two or three pilgrim portraits following that of the Knight, his far-flung geographical horizons became increasingly constricted and the different gives way to the same. The Squire has fought his campaigns not in distant and exotic realms but in the immediate proximity of England: "Flaundres,...Artoys, and Pycardie" (86). For the Prioress, even France is beyond the pale: "Frenssh of Parys was to hire unknowe" (126). Judging by this much of the "General Prologue," Chaucer's poetry would seem to have exemplified, in miniature, Bartlett's "making of Europe," reducing a wide range of regions and identities to unity and uniformity.
This unity and uniformity (and the provinciality of the Prioress) do not endure throughout the GP, however. Diversity reappears with the range of authorities and traditions (Greek, Arab, and contemporary European) drawn upon by the Physician (429-434), while the geographical horizons of the text expand again in the portraits of the Shipman ("from Hulle to Cartage," 404) and especially (interestingly) the extraordinarily well-traveled Wife of Bath (463-466). Returning to the Knight, though, we can detect destabilizing undercurrents that complicate any sense of a solidifying uniform identity even in this portrait of the agent of European expansion and homogenization. The Knight has served "as wel in cristendom as in hethenesse" (49). Bartlett discusses the creation and "enormous increase in the use of" the term "Christendom," in "a territorial, rather than an abstract, sense" (252), but the effect of Chaucer's mention of Christendom here is to blur the distinction between it and "hethenesse"; the Knight has served in both. In bridging the divide between the two identities, he collapses it, and we learn that he has even fought for non-Christian rulers and causes: "This ilke worthy knyght hadde been also / Somtyme with the lord of Palatye / Agayn another hethen in Turkye" (64-66). In other words, the Knight's career, even as it appears to exemplify the expansion and unification of a singular Western Christian identity, also demonstrates the underlying disorder, the confusion of categories and collapsing of structures, that pervades Chaucer's poem, again from its opening lines.
Finally, these same issues - the tension between an expanding, singular, totalizing order and the particularities that complicate and destabilize it - carry over from the Knight's portrait into his tale. Here, Theseus is the expansionary agent of conquest and colonization, who follows his victory over and incorporation of an alien periphery, "Scithia" (867) and its Amazons, with an attempt to reduce internal difference and enforce political uniformity within Greece, his takeover of Thebes. These parallel acts of external expansion and internal homogenization, however, unleash forces of instability, differentiation, and confusion. The love triangle that forms between the external and internal colonized (Emelye, Arcite, and Palamon) destroys the structure of knightly loyalty between Arcite and Palamon, precipitates social disorder as aristocrats become manual laborers (who then become aristocrats again), and creates crises of identity similar to the Knight's own blurring of "cristendom" and "hethenesse," as Arcite becomes unrecognizable to himself and others. Theseus, like the Knight himself, may be forging a common "European" identity through expansion and homogenization, but in both the General Prologue and the Knight's Tale, that common identity diffuses and destabilizes itself even as it is being forged.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Protocols for Posting
Ideally, an entry posted to this blog should both record an interesting thought on the part of its author and strive to provoke further thought on the part of its readers. An entry should be clear and concise, and when appropriate it should make use of the Web-based resources available to blogs (for example, links to specific other pages under discussion or to sites hosting texts or forums of interest, and images that illustrate relevant points of interest).
Posts can vary in length. A paragraph can suffice, provided it offers a complete idea or raises an interesting problem in a fully intelligible way. But a post may also constitute a brief essay in itself, if you are moved to pursue the thread of a particularly interesting topic. Given the screen-based interface, however, you should avoid posting lengthy entries that would require scrolling down for more than a few screens. If you want to sustain an argument that's longer than that, you should really break it down into a series of separate posts. That will both ease readability and help to ensure that comments are focused on discrete points of interest.
As for the topics of your posts, all I ask is that they relate to the subject of our course. How they relate is up to you! You may choose to write a response to a current text under discussion, or you may prefer to continue an argument about a broader theoretical approach. You may also use this space to solicit feedback on your own research interests, or to explore other aspects of our topic that couldn't fit into our syllabus or in-class discussion. Reviews and recommendations of other texts (including articles and books of criticism) are also appropriate, but make sure to avoid mere plot summary or paraphrase—give your readers a sense of the work's value and tackle its claims.
The main purpose of these blog entries is to facilitate the exchange of ideas and information among participants in our class. The exchange can be as lively and as wide-ranging as you want it to be, as focused and as deeply-considered as you can make it. I expect that we'll all learn what posts work best by simply continuing to post, read, and comment regularly. I look forward to following the progress of our blog!
Posts can vary in length. A paragraph can suffice, provided it offers a complete idea or raises an interesting problem in a fully intelligible way. But a post may also constitute a brief essay in itself, if you are moved to pursue the thread of a particularly interesting topic. Given the screen-based interface, however, you should avoid posting lengthy entries that would require scrolling down for more than a few screens. If you want to sustain an argument that's longer than that, you should really break it down into a series of separate posts. That will both ease readability and help to ensure that comments are focused on discrete points of interest.
As for the topics of your posts, all I ask is that they relate to the subject of our course. How they relate is up to you! You may choose to write a response to a current text under discussion, or you may prefer to continue an argument about a broader theoretical approach. You may also use this space to solicit feedback on your own research interests, or to explore other aspects of our topic that couldn't fit into our syllabus or in-class discussion. Reviews and recommendations of other texts (including articles and books of criticism) are also appropriate, but make sure to avoid mere plot summary or paraphrase—give your readers a sense of the work's value and tackle its claims.
The main purpose of these blog entries is to facilitate the exchange of ideas and information among participants in our class. The exchange can be as lively and as wide-ranging as you want it to be, as focused and as deeply-considered as you can make it. I expect that we'll all learn what posts work best by simply continuing to post, read, and comment regularly. I look forward to following the progress of our blog!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
