PROLOGUE
Wite ye nat wher ther stant a litel toun · which that y-cleped is Bob-up-and-doun · under the Blee, in Caunterbury weye? – Do you know a little town called Bob-up'n-down that lies at the edge of Blean Forest near Canterbury? Well, here our host began to laugh and joke: 'Look! Over there behind us!' he called. 'Dun has strayed out into a bog! Will no one help him out, for love nor money? Wake him up, somebody, or a thief will come and tie him up and steal all he has! Look! He is fast asleep! Now he's falling off his horse! Is this a London cook by any misfortune! Go and bring him here. He knows the penance. He shall tell a tale, by my faith, although it will be worth less than a bottle of hay I should imagine! Wake up, cook!' he shouted. 'God bring you grief! What's wrong with you, that you fall asleep during the day? Have you been kept awake scratching at fleas all night, or are you drunk? Or have you been screwing some tart so you haven't got the strength left now even to hold your head up?'
This cook, who was as grey as a corpse, replied: 'May God bless my soul, I feel so hung-over, I have no idea why; but I would rather go to sleep now than have the best gallon of wine in all of Cheapside.'
'Well, if it will bring you any comfort, Sir cook' said the manciple, 'and if nobody else in this company minds and if our host has no objection either, I, for one, would like to excuse you your tale. For, in good faith, your face is so dreadfully pale, your eyes so bleary and your breath so stinking sour that I don't think you are in any condition to do anything at all, and you'll receive very few complements from me! See how he yawns at us, this drunken wretch? As though he wants to swallow us all whole! Close your mouth, man! By your grandfather's sons, may the devil stick his foot in it! Your stinking breath will infect us all. Foul pig! Take note, everybody, look at this fine specimen of a man! Let us ask him, now Sir, will you practice at your jousting today? You look fit enough for it. Or have you gone ape with the wine instead and are barely capable of tilting with a thatching reed?'
The cook was very angry at this sarcasm and searched fruitlessly for words to express his feelings of contempt for the manciple; and by so doing displayed such fine military skills that he fell off his horse. Men ran over to pick him up.
Alas, that he couldn't control the animal with a ladle! Before he was back in the saddle there was a great deal of shoving to and fro to lift him up, and much straining and cursing, so unwieldy was this pallid, dishevelled ghost.
'Since drink has taken such a hold of him,' said our host to the manciple, 'I bet he will tell a filthy tale, by my salvation! For be it wine, or old or new ale that he's drunk, he seems to be having difficulty speaking. Also, he has enough to keep himself occupied just steering his horse and keeping it out of the ditch! And if he falls off again, we'll have more than enough trouble lifting up his heavy, drunken body once more. So tell your tale, manciple. I'm taking no notice of him. And yet, I think you're being rather foolish for speaking to him in the way you did. For another day he might, by chance, be able to get his own back at you; I mean by finding small faults with your purchases or your accounts that might be shown to be dishonest.'
'You are right,' replied the manciple, anxiously. 'That might be a problem. He could trap me in a snare quite quickly. I would rather pay for that mare that he's riding on than have that happen to me. I shall make no more fun of him, so may I prosper! I was only joking. And do you know what? I have here in a gourd, a draft of some fine wine and, look, here is a good joke. This cook shall have some of it; I swear on my life, he won't say no!'
And certainly, in all honestly, the cook was happy to take a great quaff from this vessel. Alas! What need was there? He had drunk enough already! But then he thanked the manciple with the best words he could find, and our host began to laugh heartily: 'I can see that it is necessary to carry good wine with us wherever we go,' he said, 'for it turns argument and discord into love and agreement and appeases many a wrong. Oh Bacchus, blessed be your name, for turning seriousness so easily into fun! All thanks and worship be to your godhead! But let me say no more about that. Get on with your tale, manciple, I beg you.'
'Well,' replied the manciple. 'Then listen to what I have to say.'
THE TALE
When the god Phoebus lived here on Earth, as is written in old books, he was the most accomplished and energetic young man in the whole world, and also the best archer I have heard, for he killed the serpent Python as it lay sleeping beside the cave at Delphi one day, and achieved many other noble deeds with his bow as well, as you can read. And he was accomplished at every kind of music and could sing beautifully to his own accompaniment on the lyre. Certainly Amphion, the king of Thebes, whose singing charmed the very stones and moved them by the sound of his own voice to build the seven-gated wall of that city, could not sing half as well as Phoebus! Phoebus was as accomplished in these arts as any man living, and any man who has ever lived. And what need is there to describe his facial features? He was the most handsome man alive! He was a paragon of virtue, courteous, honourable and a perfect gentleman.
This Phoebus, who was the finest of all the young men of his day, both in generosity and in valour, had taken to carrying his bow around with him at all times, as a mark of his victory over Python. Now Phoebus kept a crow in his house, which he fed every day and had taught to speak, as people do nowadays with jays. This crow was as white as a swan and could imitate the voice of anybody it heard; it could reproduce a tale word for word. No nightingale could sing as well as this crow, not by a hundred-thousandth part!
Phoebus had a wife at home whom he loved more than his own life. He strived day and night to honour her and to please her in every way that he could. He worshipped and respected her, although he was also a little jealous, if the truth be told, and would gladly have been able to limit her freedom somewhat. For he was frightened of being made the butt of jokes; and so is every man, to be honest, although it is a waste of time, for it does no good. A good wife, whose thoughts are wholesome and who works hard, should certainly not be kept under constant surveillance, and honestly, the labour is in vain to try to constrain a cunning woman, for it cannot be done. I consider it foolishness for a man to waste time trying to keep his wife confined in the house, and you can find this same opinion expressed in old books.
But to my theme. This fine young man Phoebus did all he could to please his wife, believing that by giving her every comfort she could wish for, and for his authority and because of his manhood, he would be safe from such dangers as preyed upon his mind. But God knows, no man is able to repress a thing that is part of the very nature of a creature. Take any bird, put it in a cage, do everything you can to make it comfortable, provide it with food and water and all the choicest little tidbits you can think of and clean out its cage every day, but even if this golden enclosure makes for the most beautiful home in the world, yet this bird would rather, by twenty-thousand times it would rather be in a cold and dirty forest and eat worms and other wretched things! This bird will constantly try to escape from its captivity, so important to it is its freedom.
Or take a cat, and nourish it with milk and little bits of rump steak and give it a silk cushion to sleep on, but if a mouse runs by the wall, anon! Milk and steak and cushion are forgotten! All it wants to do is to eat a mouse! Natural desires override all others and away goes discretion.
A she-wolf has a reprobate nature; she will seek out the roughest, most ill-bred wolf, the one with the worst reputation and choose him to father her cubs. But men are equally as bad, always driven by a need to perform sex, their greatest delight, with women who are in every sense ordinary; however beautiful, virtuous and refined their wives may be. To have a new body to play with is such an irresistible novelty that we find it hard to take pleasure in anything that is virtuous, unfortunately.
On this occasion, however, misbehaviour was the furthest thing from Phoebus's mind. He was the victim of deception, for all his good-humour; and worse still, this happens all the time, which is a cause of much sorrow and woe. For his wife had another man besides him, a man of little reputation and worth nothing in comparison with her husband. When Phoebus was away, his wife at once sent for her 'bit-on-the-side'. Her 'bit-on-the-side'? Certainly, this is a vulgar expression! Forgive me for using it, I beg you. But the wise philosopher Plato once said, and you may see this written, that a word must match precisely the thing that it describes if a thing is to be properly stated. I am an ordinary man and I believe that there is no difference between a duchess, if she is playing around with men, and a poor milking-maid except for this—that although they both behave badly the one of high birth is called his 'lady', as in chivalry, and because the other is a poor woman she is called his wench, or his 'bit-on-the-side'. And God knows, my own dear brother, men regard them both in equally low esteem. It is the same with a usurper and a tyrant on the one hand, and an outlaw and a thief on the other. Alexander the Great was once told this: that because a tyrant is of greater strength and can command a large following and is therefore able to kill and maim and burn houses and homes and bring desolation to an entire land, lo! He is called a 'caption of men'! And because the outlaw has only a small band of followers and can cause much less harm and destruction and cannot bring an entire country to its knees, men call him an outlaw and a thief. But I am not a learned man and cannot quote you chapter and verse. So I shall proceed with my tale.
When Phoebus's wife had sent for her 'bit-on-the-side', they gave expression to their wanton lust very promptly and energetically. The white crow, who was perched in his cage, looked on at their lovemaking and never said a word. And when Phoebus returned home, the crow sang: 'Cuckold! Cuckold! Cuckold!'
'What is this song that you are singing?' said Phoebus to the crow. 'It has always been a delight to me to hear your voice. But alas! Why are you singing this?'
'By God,' replied the crow. 'My song is not misplaced! Phoebus, for all your honour and all your good looks and courtesy, your singing and lute-playing and for all the lavish attention you give to your wife, your eyes are dim! For a man of little reputation and not worth a gnat compared with you—so may I prosper!—has been rolling about in your bed and making love with your wife.'
What more needs to be said? The crow went on to describe everything in graphic detail and repeated often that he had seen it all with his own eyes. Phoebus stormed off in great distress to be alone with his thoughts, feeling that his very heart was about to split into two pieces. He strung his bow, fixed an arrow to it and in his anger he killed his wife. This is what happened. There is no more to be said. In sorrow he smashed all his instruments, his harp and his lute, his cittern and his psaltery, and he broke all his arrows and his bow. And then he returned to the feathered thing in the cage.
'Traitor!' he screamed. 'Your scorpion's tongue has made me into a madman! Alas that I was born! Why do I still live? Oh dear wife, oh gem of my delight! Your love was so profound and so faithful! But now you lie dead—guiltless, I declare!—your face drained of all its colour. Oh rash hand, to strike so undeservedly! Oh madness, Oh anger! Oh distrust, full of false suspicion, where was your intelligence and your discretion? Beware, everybody, of rashness! Believe nothing without good evidence. Be sure you know all the facts before you strike. Be advised before you let your anger carry you away. Alas, blind rage has caused the destruction of thousands of folk and urged them into the mire. And I also shall die, for sorrow, at my own hand!' And to the crow he said:
'Oh deceitful criminal! I shall avenge your lying tongue! Your singing is like a nightingale's, but now you will lose your song entirely and all of your white feathers as well. You will not speak a single syllable from now on, for your entire life. This is the way revenge should be taken upon a traitor! You and all your offspring shall be black, and never more will any sweet sounds come from your throats; instead, you will caw discordantly against the wind and the rain, forever lamenting the death of my dear wife whom you killed!'
Phoebus moved quickly against the crow, pulled out all his white feathers and made him black, took away his song entirely and all his speech and then slung him out at the door for the devil to find! And the devil is welcome to him as far as I'm concerned! And it is for this reason that crows are black.
Lords, by this example I urge you all to be careful and to heed what I say: never in your life let a man know how another man has organised things with his wife. He will bear you a mortal hatred for it, for sure. Solomon, as knowledgeable clerics will tell you, taught that a man should mind his own business, although I cannot give you chapter and verse, as I have said, for I am not a learned man. But nonetheless, my mother always said:
'My son, in God's name think of the crow! Hold your tongue and keep a friend! A wicked tongue is a fiendish thing; it is even worse than a fiend, since a blessing will protect you from a devil. My son, God in his endless bounty walled in a tongue with teeth and lips that can close and keep shut when it is wise for them to do so. Many a man has been destroyed for the want of a little discretion, as clergymen will tell you. But in general, with a little caution, no man is killed. My son, a tongue should be restrained at all times, except when you are doing your best to speak of God, in honour and in prayer. The primary virtue, son, if you will learn it, is to restrain and have full control over your tongue. Children learn this when they are very little. Saying too much in an ill-advised way when a few words would have sufficed is the cause of a great deal of harm—this is what was taught to me. Verbal diarrhea will always cause a nasty stink! Do you know what careless talk can lead to? Just as a sword can cut an arm into two pieces, so a careless tongue can cut a friendship in two. A jabberer is abominable to God. Read Solomon, that wise and honourable king, and read David in his psalms, read Seneca. My son, say nothing without bowing your head to Christ at the same time. If you find yourself speaking with a jabberer who starts to say perilous things, act as though you have suddenly gone deaf! Pretend not to understand. Those in the Low Countries say, and learn it by heart if you wish, that a measured conversation results in immeasurable ease. My son, if you have said nothing wicked, you have no fear of being betrayed. But he who speaks unwisely, I venture to suggest, cannot unsay what he may foolishly have let out of the bag! A thing that is said, is said. Out it goes into the world, whether the speaker likes it or not. It is too late to repent. He is at the mercy of a person who may have heard words that are now bitterly regretted. My son, be wary and never be the instigator of any tittle-tattle, whether it be false or true. Wherever you are, amongst high or low, kepe wel thy tonge, and thenk up-on the crowe.'
