Chaucer and His Times

by Grace E. Hadow

... olde unholsom and mislyved man:

Cressida with tears prepares for her journey. One of the most delightful pictures in the whole story is that of the worthy women who came to bid her farewell and take her tears as a delicate compliment to themselves:—

And thilke foles sittinge hir aboute
Wenden that she wepte and syked[83] sore
By-cause that she sholde out of that route
Depart, and never pleye with hem more.
And they that hadde y-knowen hir of yore
Seye hir so wepe, and thoughte it kindenesse,
And eche of hem wepte eek for hir distresse.

Her sorrow is sincere, and her tears do not cease to flow when Troilus is out of sight. Shakespeare’s Cressid, whose one idea is to ingratiate herself with her new friends, is a very different person from Chaucer’s woebegone heroine. And yet in her very sorrow we see her weakness. When Pandarus first tried to move her pity she had yielded, not solely out of compassion but also because she was afraid of what might be said of her if any harm came to Troilus:—

And if this man slee here himself, allas!
In my presence, it wol be no solas.
What men wolde of hit deme I can nat seye:
It nedeth me ful sleyly for to pley.[84]

The same strain of selfishness manifests itself now. Cressida is incapable of being swept away by a great passion. She has a cat-like softness and daintiness and charm, a cat’s readiness to attach herself to the person she is with at the moment, and a cat’s adaptability to circumstances. She is genuinely distressed at being parted from Troilus, she cries till her eyes have dark rings round them, and even Pandarus is moved at the sight, but she is incapable of exposing herself to any danger or inconvenience for her lover’s sake. Like the lady in the Statue and the Bust she hesitates at the thought of difficulty:—

“And if that I me putte in jupartye[85]
To stele awey by nighte, and it befalle
That I be caught, I shal be holde a spye,
Or elles, lo, this drede I most of alle
If in the hondes of som wrecche I falle,
I am but lost, al be myn herte trewe;
Now mighty god, thou on my sorwe rewe!
······
But natheles, bityde what bityde,
I shal to-morwe at night, by est or weste,
Out of the ost stele on som maner syde,
And go with Troilus wher-as him leste.
This purpos wol I holde, and this is beste.
No fors of wikked tonges janglerye,[86]
For ever on love han wrecches had envye.

To such souls to-morrow never comes, and it is no surprise to find her before long yielding to Diomede’s entreaties, as she had formerly yielded to those of Troilus. Boccaccio’s heroine at once makes up her mind to flee from the Greek camp, and then is quickly turned from her “high and great intent” by the advent of a new lover. Chaucer with far greater sublety prepares us for the change, and makes her very weakness her excuse:—

But trewely, the story telleth us,
Ther made never womman more wo
Than she, whan that she falsed Troilus.

The reason for this excess of sorrow is characteristic:—