Chaucer and His England

by G. G. Coulton

“The world is fair to gaze on, white and green and red, But inly foul and black of hue, and dismal as the dead.”

Ruskin’s famous passage on this subject (“M. P.,” iii., 14, 15) is, on the whole, even too favourable to the Middle Ages; but he fails to note two remarkable exceptions. The poet of “Pearl,” who probably knew Wales well, describes the mountains with real pleasure; and Gawin Douglas anticipated Burns by venturing to describe winter not only at some length but also with apparent sympathy.[119] Moreover, Douglas describes a sunset in its different stages with great minuteness of detail and the most evident delight. Dante does indeed once trace in far briefer words the fading of daylight from the sky; but in his two unapproachable sunsets he turns our eyes eastwards rather than westwards, as we listen to the vesper bell, or think of the last quiet rays lingering on Virgil’s tomb.[120] The scenic splendour of a wild twilight seems hardly to have touched him; his soul turns to rest here, while the hardy Scot is still abroad to watch the broken storm-clouds and the afterglow. And if Douglas thus outranges even Dante, he leaves Chaucer and Boccaccio far behind. The freshness and variety of the sunrises in the “Decameron” is equalled only by the bald brevity with which the author despatches eventide, which he connects mainly with supper, a little dancing or music, and bed. It would be equally impossible, I believe, to find a real sunset in Chaucer; Criseyde’s “Ywis, it will be night as fast,” is quite a characteristic epitaph for the dying day.

On the other hand, however, the medieval sunrise is delightful in its sincerity and variety, even under the disadvantage of constant conventional repetition; and here Chaucer is at his best. He may well have been too bookish to please either his neighbours or her whom Richard de Bury calls “a two-footed beast, more to be shunned (as we have ever taught our disciples) than the asp and the basilisk,” yet no poet was ever farther removed from the bookworm. Art he loved, but only next to Nature—

On bookës for to read I me delight, And to them give I faith and full credence, And in mine heart have them in reverence So heartily, that there is gamë none That from my bookës maketh me to go’n But it be seldom on the holyday; Save, certainly, when that the month of May Is comen, and that I hear the fowlës sing, And that the flowers ’ginnen for to spring, Farewell my book and my devotion![121]

Not only was the May-day haunt of Bishop’s wood within a mile’s walk of Aldgate; but behind, almost under his eyes, stood the “Great Shaft of Cornhill,” the tallest of all the city maypoles, which was yearly reared at the junction of Leadenhall Street, Lime Street, and St. Mary Axe, and which gave its name to the church of St. Andrew Undershaft, whose steeple it overtopped. How it hung all year under the pentices of a neighbouring row of houses until the Reformation, and what happened to it then, the reader must find in the pages of Stow.[122] These May-day festivities, which outdid even the Midsummer bonfires and the Christmas mummings in popularity, were a Christianized survival of ancient Nature-worship. When we remember the cold, the smoke, the crowding and general discomfort of winter days and nights in those picturesque timber houses; when we consider that even in castles and manor-houses men’s lives differed from this less in quality than in degree; when we try to imagine especially the monotony of woman’s life under these conditions, doubly bound as she was to the housework and to the eternal spinning-wheel or embroidery-frame, with scarcely any interruptions but the morning Mass and gossip with a few neighbours—only then can we even dimly realize what spring and May-day meant. There was no chance of forgetting, in those days, how directly the brown earth is our foster-mother. Men who had fed on salt meat for three or four months, while even the narrow choice of autumn vegetables had long failed almost altogether, and a few shrivelled apples were alone left of last year’s fruit—in that position, men watched the first green buds with the eagerness of a convalescent; and the riot out of doors was proportionate to the constraint of home life. Those antiquaries have recorded only half the truth who wrote regretfully of these dying sports under the growing severity of Puritanism, and they forgot that Puritanism itself was a too successful attempt to realize a thoroughly medieval ideal. Fénelon broke with a tradition of at least four centuries when he protested against the repression of country dances in the so-called interests of religion.[123] It would be difficult to find a single great preacher or moralist of the later Middle Ages who has a frank word to say in favour of popular dances and similar public merry-makings. Even the parish clergy took part in them only by disobeying the decrees of synods and councils, which they disregarded just as they disregarded similar attempts to regulate their dress, their earnings, and their relations with women. Much excuse can indeed be found for this intolerance in the roughness and licence of medieval popular revels. Not only the Church, but even the civic authorities found themselves obliged to regulate the disorders common at London weddings, while Italian town councils attempted to put down the practice of throwing on these occasions snow, sawdust, and street-sweepings, which sometimes did duty for the modern rice and old shoes; and members of the Third Order of St. Francis were strictly forbidden to attend either weddings or dances.[124] These and other similar considerations, which the reader will supply for himself, explain the otherwise inexplicable severity of all rules for female deportment in the streets. “If any man speak to thee,” writes the Good Wife for her Daughter, “swiftly thou him greet; let him go by the way”; and again—

“Go not to the wrestling, nor to shooting at the cock As it were a strumpet, or a giggëlot, Stay at home, daughter.”

“When thou goest into town or to church,” says the author of the “Ménagier de Paris” to his young wife, “walk with thine head high, thine eyelids lowered and fixed on the ground at four fathoms distance straight in front of thee, without looking or glancing sideways at either man or woman to the right hand or the left, nor looking upwards.” Even Chaucer tells us of his Virginia—

She hath full oftentimës sick her feigned, For that she wouldë flee the companye Where likely was to treaten of follye— As is at feastës, revels, and at dances, That be occasions of dalliances.[125]