The fact is that satire is not Chaucer’s natural bent. He is too quick-witted not to see through sham and humbug, but his interest lies in portraiture rather than in exposure. His object is to paint life as he sees it, to hold up the mirror to nature, and, as has justly been said, “a mirror has no tendency,” it reflects, but it does not, or should not, distort. In two cases only does Chaucer deliberately draw a one-sided picture, and both are topical skits, too slight to regard as satire proper. The Compleint of Mars, which is not specially witty or amusing in itself, is said to have been written at the expense of my lady of York and the Earl of Huntingdon, but any savour which the jest may once have had, has long since passed away. The rhyme of Sir Thopas has already been noticed as a good-natured parody of the conventional romance.
But if Chaucer is too tolerant and genial, too little of a preacher and enthusiast, for a satirist, enough has already been said to show that his wit has often a satiric turn. The student of the Canterbury Tales is often reminded of the worth of another great English humorist. Chaucer and Fielding are alike in a certain air of rollicking good-fellowship, a certain virility, a determination to paint men and women as they know them. Neither is particularly squeamish, both enjoy a rough jest, and have little patience with over-refinement. Both give one a sense of sturdy honesty and kindliness, and know how to combine tenderness with strength. Both, with all their tolerance, have a keen eye for hypocrisy or affectation and a sharp tongue wherewith to chastise and expose it. Chaucer hates no one, not even the Pardoner, as whole-heartedly as Fielding hates Master Blifil, but the Pardoners Tale affords the best instance of the satiric bent of the poet’s humour when he is brought face to face with a scheming rogue.
The Host, who has been much moved by the piteous tale of Virginia, turns to the Pardoner for something to remove its depressing influence:—
“Or but I here anon a mery tale.”
he cries,
“Myn herte is lost for pitee of this mayde.
Thou belamy,[111] thou Pardoner,” he seyde,
“Tel us som mirthe or japes[112] right anon.”
The Pardoner is ready enough to oblige, as soon as he has called at the inn they are passing and has eaten and drunk. But it is noteworthy that the pilgrims, who have listened to the Miller’s tale without a murmur, are nervous as to what the Pardoner’s idea of a merry tale may be. With one voice they protest:—
“Nay! lat him telle us of no ribaudye;[113]
Tell us som moral thing, that we may lere[114]
Som wit, and thanne wol we gladly here.”
To the Pardoner it is all one. Practised speaker as he is, a comic story or a sermon comes equally readily to his lips, and he promises with ready good-nature, though he begs for a moment for reflection:—
“I graunte, y-wis,” quod he, “but I moste thinke
Up-on som honest thing, whyl that I drinke.”