The domestic confessor of stately Madame Eglantine is possibly accustomed to sudden and peremptory commands; in any case, he obeys readily enough here. “‘Yes, sir,’ quoth he, ‘yes, Host’” ... and proceeds to recount that tragi-comedy of Reynard and Chanticleer which, well-worn as the plot is, shows off to perfection many of Chaucer’s rarest artistic qualities.
The tale is told, and the Host shows his appreciation by saluting the Nuns’ Priest with the same broad gibes and innuendoes with which he had already greeted the Monk. Here probably ends the second day; the Pilgrims would sleep at Rochester, which was in sight when the Monk began his Tale.
CHAPTER XIII
“CANTERBURY TALES”—THIRD AND FOURTH DAYS
| “... quasi peregrin, che si ricrea Nel tempio del suo voto riguardando, E spera gia ridir com’ ello stea.” “Paradiso,” xxxi., 43 |
On the morning of the third day we find the Physician speaking; he tells the tragedy of Virginia, not straight from Livy, whom Chaucer had probably never had a chance of reading, but from its feebler echo in the “Roman de la Rose.” Even so, however, the pity of it comes home to his hearers.
| Our Hostë gan to swear as he were wood; | [mad |
| ‘Harrow!’ quoth he, ‘by nailës and by blood! | |
| This was a false churl and a false justice! ... | |
| By Corpus bonës! but I have triacle | [medicinal syrup |
| Or else a draught of moist and corny ale, | |
| Or but I hear anon a merry tale, | |
| Mine heart is lost, for pity of this maid. | |
| Thou bel ami, thou Pardoner,’ he said | |
| ‘Tell us some mirth, or japës, right anon!’ | |
| ‘It shall be done,’ quoth he, ‘by saint Ronyon! | |
| But first’ (quoth he) ‘here at this alë stake | |
| I will both drink and eaten of a cake.’ | |
| And right anon the gentles gan to cry | |
| ‘Nay! let him tell us of no ribaldry....’ | |
| ‘I grant, ywis,’ quoth he; ‘but I must think | |
| Upon some honest thing, the while I drink.’ |
The suspicion of the “gentles” might seem premature; but they evidently suspected this pardon-monger of too copious morning-draughts already, and the tenor of his whole prologue must have confirmed their fears. With the cake in his mouth, and the froth of the pot on his lips, he takes as his text, Radix malorum est cupiditas, “Covetousness is the root of all evil,” and exposes with cynical frankness the tricks of his trade. By a judicious use of “my longë crystal stones, y-crammëd full of cloutës and of bones,” I make (says he) my round 100 marks a year;[162] and, when the people have offered, then I mount the pulpit, nod east and west upon the congregation like a dove on a barn-gable, and preach such tales as this.... Hereupon follows his tale of the three thieves who all murdered each other for the same treasure. It is told with admirable spirit; and now the Pardoner, carried away by sheer force of habit, calls upon the company to kiss his relics, make their offerings, and earn his indulgences piping-hot from Rome. Might not a horse stumble here, at this very moment, and break the neck of some unlucky pilgrim, who would then bitterly regret his lost opportunities in hell or purgatory? Strike, then, while the iron is hot—