The Envoy of the Clerk's Tale: A Farewell to Arms

I can't get over that envoy to the Clerk's Tale, which vaulted an already sophisticated and fascinating story into some transcendent level of narrative art. The tale of Griselda is a masterpiece: gripping in its own right and replete with the rich political significance and allegorical symbolism that we discussed on Monday (and that themselves, in their Boccaccian and Petrarchan manifestations, point in different directions, both of which Chaucer nonetheless manages to render simultaneously plausible in his telling). To conclude such an absorbing, shocking, infuriating story with such a boisterous and satiric coda, one that almost seems to undermine everything that precedes it, is a stroke of genius - and like all real strokes of genius, it more or less defies interpretation.

The opening lines of the envoy would be astonishing enough by themselves: "Griselde is deed and eek hire pacience, / And bothe atones buryed in Ytaille" (1177-1178). In the way in which it unceremoniously shoves our sentimental, sympathetic heroine under the ground, this beginning is almost ruthless. Beyond its brusque disposal of the story's protagonist, the envoy also disposes of the exemplary/allegorical significance and didactic force that the Clerk, following Petrarch, has only recently broached. Granted, the Clerk specifically disclaims only a reading of his tale that would make it a model for matrimonial behavior, but the envoy is so insistently playful, with its show-off rhyme scheme and increasingly comic or extravagant images, that not just this specific didactic meaning but all exemplary or allegorical readings (the very idea of exemplum?) come to seem ridiculous. "[L]at us stynte of ernestful matere," indeed (1175).

Which is not to say that the envoy doesn't make a serious point, just that this point isn't something simplistic and edifying (on the order of "wives should endure their husbands' authority as patiently as Griselda, or even "all human beings should endure the inscrutable acts of God as patiently as Griselda"). The envoy begins with a relatively straightforward warning against confusing life and literature, or directly translating literature to life (an important warning for some on the pilgrimage: witness the Reeve). It warns also, and at the same time, against the unbridled exercise of masculine authority in marriage, another relatively straightforward and unambiguous injunction. But from here, as the same rhymes repeat again and again, giving the little poem an increasingly comic and artificial air, things get steadily less serious. The legitimate admonition to married men (and political leaders?) to not act like Walter becomes a call for women to rhetorically defend themselves against misogynist "auctoritee," to talk back and wield "governaille" (1190), and finally to wage metaphorical warfare against their husbands and reduce them to misery. Round about the entry of the cow Chichevache (1188), this has all become visibly tongue-in-cheek, and by the time we get to the overblown depiction of marriage as a Hundred Years' War battle, with wives piercing husbands with "[t]he arwes of thy crabbed eloquence" like longbowmen mowing down knights at Crecy or Poitiers (1203), its burlesque qualities are patent. 

That the Clerk doesn't seriously make a case for women running marriages and hectoring the life out of their husbands is not a surprise. But I don't think the comic absurdity of these stanzas has the effect of putting women back in their place, either. These absurd images of warfare between wives and husbands instead point to the absurdity of seeing matrimony as warfare - maybe even the absurdity of strife between two people who should, in the eyes of God and men, be one flesh (something that various speakers in the Merchant's Tale will reiterate). As Jason points out in his recent post, Chaucer has gradually been developing a picture of the reciprocity necessary to marriage. In The Wife of Bath's and Clerk's tales, both parties must negotiate their positions, modify their behavior, or at least prove their worthiness. The best marriages (the Wife of Bath's with Jankyn after its crisis, for example) are founded on some sense of cooperation and equality. Through and beneath its satirical scenes of matrimonial warfare and male misery, I think the Clerk's envoy makes a similar point. Differences in power, age, temperament, or other factors that might lead to such opposition and conflict have no place in marriage and must be reciprocally worked out should they arise. 

And by making this point by wildly exaggerating it, the Clerk also follows the model of the Wife of Bath, who, as I see it, cloaked a similar plea - for reciprocity, parity, and harmony in marriage - in a similarly boisterous, comic, deliberately overstated manner (at times, anyway). So in claiming that he speaks "for the Wyves love of Bathe" (1170) when he satirizes her demand for female governance in marriage (a demand that I don't think was entirely serious even in her articulation of it), the Clerk speaks the plain truth. I think he does in fact honor Alison of Bath by making a similar point in a similar style.  

The Worthy Wyf

Based on class discussion concerning both “The Wife of Bath’s Tale” and “The Clerk’s Tale”, I have been forming some thoughts on the limited powers afforded to women in the context of The Canterbury Tales as a whole.
In “The Wife of Bath’s Tale” chivalry is used by female characters as a tool to manipulate men. Though in some respects the old woman who marries the knight is ultimately forced to conform to his standards and contemporary norms to form a happy marriage, she does manage to use the mode of the knightly quest to secure for herself a noble husband. While he gets what he wants in terms of a beautiful and faithful wife, she also gets what she (presumably) wants in the way of a noble, courageous, and courteous husband. In this manner, the chivalric ideal of duty not only brings the two together, it places the knight in a position where the task of maintaining her as a wife becomes not only dutiful, but desirable. Though the tale is told by a woman, it is certainly possible that Chaucer is simply using the Wife of Bath as a mouthpiece to express not necessarily what women want, but what they deserve within the context of a conventional medieval social structure. Women should not expect a husband like the knight unless they first meet “knightly” standards. Just because the old woman is able to use chivalry in a subversive way to entrap the knight in a marriage, does not mean she will not have to give ground in order for the marriage to be happy.
In “The Clerk’s Tale” we also see the same idea in practice. By entering into a marriage with a man above her social status, Griselda is achieving a sort of ideal, but not without consequences. She must also prove her worthiness by remaining constant and patient through the trials inflicted on her by Walter. Though Walter’s behavior may be decided less chivalrous than the knight’s, this tale still shows that a woman must meet certain criteria before her marriage can meet the needs of both her and her husband.
Based on the themes of these two tales, I think it can be safely stated that a woman’s primary mode of agency in The Canterbury Tales is the establishment of a proper role within established framework. If a woman can prove herself beautiful, loyal, and constant, she has far greater hope of establishing further authority than she would otherwise.

Genre and the Friar's Tale

In her blog post "Fabliau," Jennifer Levin explains the history and definition of a fabliau and points out Chaucer's use of the genre in several of his Tales. Fabliaux generally are narratives focusing on ordinary people, involve trickery and games, and cast the third estate in a negative light. 

With the Friar's Tale, however, we get an example of another genre Chaucer uses in the Canterbury Tales: an exemplary tale that is shrouded in the guise of a fabliau. 

The friar borrows from the previous pilgrims by setting up his tale initially as a fabliau, a narrative about a summoner who is a "rennere up and doun / With mandementz for fornicacioun / and is ybet at every townes ende" (1283-5). Like the "quiting" among the miller's, reeve's and cook's tales, the friar is participating in an insulting contest with the summoner and the reader anticipates a tale of trickery in which the summoner will come out the worse. The tale is actually structured very much like a fabliau, and the summoner is tricked into being sent to hell by the devil.

Additionally, as Helen Cooper explains in her Oxford Guide to Chaucer: The Canterbury Tales, fabliaux often use commonplace, domestic or subhuman imagery, such as animals, rather than the romance genre's use of religious or exotic imagery (24). The Friar uses animal imagery to enhance the appearance of a fabliau, comparing the summoner to a dog: "For in this world nys dogge for the bowe / That kan a hurt deer from an hool yknowe / Bet than this sumnour knew a sly lecchour" (1369-1371).  

Behind its guise of fabliau, however, the Friar's tale is actually an exemplary tale. While irreverent, like the preceding fabliaux, the exemplary tale unlike a fabliau does not ignore "the operations of God" in favor of the more base and earthly (Cooper 20), but bears within its structure a moral warning against greed. The summoner is so blinded by his greed and desire to bribe a poor widow that he makes a deal with the devil and does not understand at first the trap he has walked into until it is too late. The friar warns his audience to beware the devil, to "disposeth ay youre hertes to withstonde / The feend, that you wolde make thral and bonde" (1659-1660). He even bluntly warns the summoner to repent "of hir mysdedes, er that the feend hem hente!" (1664). 

It perhaps should come as little surprise that our first religious figure in the Canterbury Tales gives us not a fabliau, but an exemplary tale involving the devil and warning against a moral transgression. The most interesting part of this tale, to me, is Chaucer's blending of fabliau and exemplary tale into a hybrid of sorts that seems to move the friar from his lofty first-estate standing closer to the level of the commoners who have already told their tales. The friar stoops to mixing characteristics of the earthier fabliau into his exemplary tale, but is this unconscious or an intentional act in an effort to better convey his point about summoners to the other pilgrims? Is this hybridization a wise choice, considering his audience? Is it more effective than a simple exemplary tale?

The Same Coin?

Why do the Friar and the Summoner tell each other's tales?
Obviously to expose the other's faults. The Friar tells a tale about a deceitful Summoner who extorts money from the innocent and the Summoner tells a tale about a deceitful Friar who takes money for prayers, which, it is implied is virtually the same thing just self-righteously executed. The Summoner preaches in his text and says of friars, "That specially oure sweete Lord Jhesus/Spak this by freres, whan he seyde thus/`Blessed be they that povere in spirit been.' He goes on to describe a Friar who is sent to assuage a sick man of his ire for the church and the Friar. Quickly we see the sick man thinks the Friar is a manipulative liar who uses people for his well being. And unfortunately for the Friar, the other lord he visits to seek some kind of revenge on the sick man also thinks he is duplicitous or else he wouldn't mock him so openly in his house.

The Friar makes a point to tell the group that he would have told them tales of the saints which would have made their hearts wrench with compassion and awe of their committment (something like that) but - we assume - he thought it best to put the fear of god into them rather than the love of god. Does this prove the Summoner's point that the Friar is "povere in spirit been"? The interplay of the two characters and their tales show shared traits which manifest differently, perhaps more violently in one (Summoner) and more insidiously in the other (Friar).

Knights, Hags and Gender Role Reversal

After Monday's class, it was interesting to see that there was a lengthy discussion regarding who benefited and who sacrificed at the end of the Wife of Bath's Tale. Though the overall consensus of the discussion was that the only true "loser" throughout the tale was the woman raped by the knight at the beginning, I believe that the true defeat came in a complete distruction of stereotypical gender roles in medieval society. Chaucer successfuly flipped the power roles between genders, and showed a world opposite to the one he was living in.

Obviously, it is clear that throughout the tale the women are in control. The knight (A knight of King Arthur, nonetheless), shatters the masculine, honorable mold that he is assigned and rapes a woman. As a result, he is placed on trial and it seems he is guaranteed execution for disgracing the role of the knight in King Arthur's kingdom. However, in what is an uncommon move, Arthur succumbs to his wife and allows her to decide the punishment for one of Arthur's knights. Thus, the Queen sends the knight on his mission. What motivation does Arthur have to transfer control to his wife? I'm still unsure the answer to that question.

The tale progresses, and after no success on finding the answer to what women want the knight meets the "olde wyf". After doing some research, I've learned that this knight meets hag situation has appeared numerous times in medieval literature*. According to Susan Carter, a knights have had to hook up with hideous women a couple of times in order to be victorious. It's kind of like slaying a dragon, except the dragon is a seriously busted lady.

The knight is generally rewared in a way that returns him to the prestigious level of a knight, but Chaucer's tale varies in that at the end of the tale, the knight has surrendered his will and his body to a woman. Whether she's ugly or hot, and whether he's happy or not, the knight has relenquished all control to his lady. So to recap: in the universe created by the Wife of Bath, King Arthur lets his queen do the decision making, and a knight's primary duty is to his wife. Not only that, but Arthur and the knight seem pretty cool with this. Sure, the knight is a little apprehensive when his wife is gross, but when all is said and done, he couldn't be happier.

All the talk of who made the sacrifices in the Wife of Bath's Tale seems pretty futile. People changed and gave up certain aspects of their lives, but in the end everyone was better for it. Although I think that the Wife of Bath is saying a world ran by women is a better one, I don't think Chaucer thinks so as well. I believe he was just posing an alternate control of power between genders. To me, it doesn't seem like the Wife of Bath's world is any better or worse than the accepted norm; it's just different.

* Carter, Suan. "Coupling the Beastly Bride and the Hunted Hunter". The Chaucer Review 37.4 (2003): 329-345.

"My Nacioun": The Man of Law and the Wife of Bath Write British History

I proposed in my last posting that the narrative trajectory of Fragment I of the Canterbury Tales might be seen as one of increasing nationalization, moving from the globalized, perennially expatriated Knight and his temporally and geographically remote tale to the rooted, here-and-now Englishness of that inimitable trio, the Miller, Reeve, and Cook. The nature and value of this newfound "Englishness" then became the question. Especially given the terms of their opposition with the Knight, it's easy to think of these tellers and their tales as embodying an authentic and unadulterated English identity, the mass popular identity of the third estate as against the internationalized francophone nobility and Latinate clergy. The abrupt termination of the Cook's Tale, however, suggests that such authentic and unadulterated Englishness, if it does exist, is a narrative dead end. The identity presupposed by the Cook's account of "oure citee" (I.4365) can't be sustained - at least not without a better sense of its historical underpinnings. This - an understanding of where the English nation came from and how it gained its current form, as a way of confirming its authenticity in the present - is one of the tasks undertaken in Fragments II and III.

Among (many other) things, both the Man of Law's and the Wife of Bath's tales are explorations of the national and pre-national past. In a way, they synthesize the two kinds of scene-setting in Fragment I, combining English places (for at least a significant part of their action) with distant times. In both stories, though, returning to these distant times troubles and undermines the Englishness of those English places. The hopeful, eternalizing "Whilom" that begins the Miller's and Cook's tales, the comfortable assumption that Oxford or "oure citee," London (itself a Celtic name), were always familiar and folksy English places, even back in once-upon-a-time, becomes considerably less viable after the lawyer and Allison have had their say. 

In the Man of Law's Tale, the ancestral English, when first encountered, "[w]ere payens, and that contree everywhere" (534). That is, the origins of England lie in the "strange nacioun," "the Barbre nacioun" (268, 281), to which Custance fears to be sent and against whom (but also for whom) Chaucer's Knight spends his life fighting. "Northhumberlond" (508), at this point in time, is the equivalent of Syria. Not only are these English pagans, they are pagan conquerors, aggressive subjugators of a country not their own - and a Christian one at that. In one sense, this reminder of the pagan Anglo-Saxon conquest of Christian Britons helps recuperate the past evoked by the Man of Law from a completely alienating alterity: the ancestors of the English may have been pagans, but at least they came to a country that was already, and in a sense primordially and inherently, Christian. But even if pre-Anglo-Saxon Britain was already Christian, it was still British, not English. The glib claims of the Miller or the Cook to timeless possession of their narrative spaces come up cold against this fact. The Man of Law, whose familiarity with legal precedent as far back as William the Conqueror (I.323-324) suggests some investment in national continuity across history (but whose inability or unwillingness to go back further than the Norman Conquest also says something about his national identification), certainly wants to minimize this undermining of the national history as much as possible - hence his description of the divine providence and miraculous nature of Northumberland's conversion to Christianity. But the effect of his story is still to expose the inauthenticity of the contemporary national identity in a deep historical perspective.

The Wife of Bath's Tale demonstrates this inauthenticity even more dramatically. In her telling, "this land" was originally so different as to belong to another order of existence: "fulfild of fayerye" (859). The lusty but prosaic world of the third estate tales in Fragment I, wherein John the Carpenter's belief that Nicholas has been charmed by "elves and...wightes" (3479) is a measure of his stupidity, is of recent and artificial creation, product of a religious conquest/exorcism: "the grete charitee and prayeres / Of lymtours and othere hooly freres.... - This maketh that ther ben no fayeryes" (865-866, 872). The contrast between the mechanisms of conversion in Allison's story and those in the Man of Law's are striking: divinely ordained enlightenment channeled through the passive body of Custance vs. the active assertion of male and clerkly authority, linked structurally and thematically with rape (after the friars have completed their exorcism, no incubi remain to prey on women - except the friars themselves [880]; and the description of the fraternal exorcism leads directly into the description of the bachelor knight's rape). The idea that it took such a sustained and implicitly violent effort to make Britain Christian (the necessary precondition to making it the way it is at Chaucer's time) further undermines the authenticity and purity of that ultimate identity. If the effort of Christianizing was even necessary at all: during her wedding-bed sermon to her husband, the fairy woman refers to "[t]he hye God, on whom that we bileeve" (1178). "Fayerye" Britain, by this account, was Christian (or monotheist, or something) already, an idea that would make its male clerkly transformation into the world in which "ther ben no fayeryes" seem all the more coercive and illegitimate.

The havoc that the Wife of Bath's Tale wreaks with authorized ideas about insular history and national identity is underscored by the knight's horrified reaction to the prospect of marrying the "olde wyf": "Allas, that any of my nacioun / Sholde evere so foule disparaged be!" (1068-1069) "Nacioun," here, has a narrow sense of "family" (closer, etymologically, to the root meaning of "birthplace"), but, as the uses of the word in the Man of Law's Tale testify, it also had a Middle English sense very close to the modern meaning of "nation." Thus, while the knight is specifically revolted to have his high lineage associated with this ugly and low-born woman, he also (as the mouthpiece of late 14th century Englishmen) might be thought of as voicing dismay that his nation is "disparaged" by this revelation of alterity and inauthenticity in its past. The Wife of Bath, of course, is hardly advancing a sober theory of history in her tale, but her irreverent and destabilizing retelling of "th' olde dayes" (that comfortable "whilom" of the Miller and the Cook) speaks to her desire to re-imagine and reconstitute the English national community in the present. She inserts herself into the vision of "oure" country and identity promulgated by the Miller, Reeve, and Cook in part by re-imagining the past on which that vision was predicated.

Thus, building off of the steady nationalization of narrative that took place over the course of Fragment I, Fragments II and III explore the historical foundations and justifications of the nation that emerges, and find those foundations to be shallow and unsteady. The Man of Law tells a story of Northumberland's predestined and providential conversion in order to redeem this alterity of the national past and bring it in line with the present, but the Wife of Bath, with a very different view of authority and society, delights in rendering the insular past as different and unfamiliar as possible in order to undercut that authority and that society. 

The Surrender Of Maistrye in the Wife of Bath’s Prologue and Tale

I love it… “Miss Independent”. I too want to talk about the inscrutable Wife. I’ve been researching women in medieval culture over the last few weeks and have come across the Wife often. A particularly interesting analysis of the Prologue and Tale can be found in chapter three of Jill Mann’s book Geoffrey Chaucer. This book was published as part of a series, Feminist Readings.
In this chapter, Mann discusses the scene at the end of the Wife of Bath’s Tale, “the surrender of maistrye”. This is the chapter in the book I found the most interesting. Mann approaches the surrender of the rapist and his transformation into a meek and obedient husband as a kind of feminine fairy tale, and yet also a representation of male subjugation to female power (87-88). These two points: that a rapist mystically allows his old and undesirable wife to dictate the future, and that the surrender of man is worthy of female daydreams can be said to characterize the Wife herself. Indeed, Mann notes that the tale “repeats on a larger scale the pattern of surrender and reconciliation which is traced in miniature at the end of her Prologue” (87).
Side note: perhaps this partially explains why Pasolini may have found the Prologue itself extremely adequate representation of the Wife and therefore omitted her Tale.
We mentioned many aspects of her character in class. She’s spunky and quick to explain away her faults, and yet finds no sin in any of (and even her most tricksy) actions. And as see upon reading her tale, I believe she can be heralded as an early feminist. She believes that the most important thing for a woman is the right to choose what she’ll do and where she’ll go. The surrender of maistyre represents the fantastical dreaming of a woman who wants nothing more than to take this maistyre and turn and wield it herself.


Mann, Jill. Geoffrey Chaucer. Atlantic Highlands: Humanities Press International, Inc.,
1991.