Telling Classical Tales: Chaucer and the Legend of Good Women 9781501743955

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I'elling (classical I'ales

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Telling Classical Tales Chaucer and the Legend of Good Womeri Lisa J

.

Kiser

C^orncll Univei'sily Press I

1

MACA AND London

(k)rnell University Press gratefully

acknowledges

Mellon Foundation that aided

Uopyright

©

in

bringing

from the Andrew

a grant

this

book

\V.

to publication.

1983 by (a)rnell University Press

All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in a review, this book, or parts

thereof, must not be reproduced in any form without permission in writing

from the publisher. For information address Roberts Place, Ithaca,

New

(Cornell

University Press,

124

\'ork 14850.

published 1983 by (Cornell University Press. Published in the United Kingdom by

First

Uornell University Press, Ltd., London. International Standard

Book Number 0-8014-1601-9

Library of Uongress Uatalog (>ard

Number 83-45135

Printed in the L’nited States of .America

Libranam: Libran of Congress cataloging on the

The paper ity

in this

book

is

acid-free

last

and

page

inf ormation appears

of the book.

meets the guidelines for

permanence and durabil-

of the Committee on Production Cuidelines for Book Longevity of the Council on Library Resources.

For my father, Phil

and my

brother,

Kiser,

Mark

Contents

Preface

9

Al)l)re\ iati(jiis

I

2

Introduction

and Poetry 2. Metaphor, Alceste, and the (iod of l.ove On Misunderstanding I'exts p Ohaucer’s (dassical Legendary “ Lranslacioun” 5. “l^oesye,” “Makyng,” and 1.

Daisies, the Sun,

28

50 *71

95 pp2

Selected Bibliography

155

Index

i()5

—7—

t'*

%

Preface

writing this book about (iliaucer’s Legend of (iood Women, have aimed to explain, as precisely as possible, the issues that III

1

(

Jiaueer intended his jioein to

raise.

One

might want

that those issues are jiatently ob\ious, that the

to

argue

poem was

writ-

ten as comic atonement for the author’s amatory “sins” in the Lroilus

and

as

another

seems

subject that

treatment of forsaken lovers, a

dominate Ohaucer’s early

to

view the Legend as a

literary

poem about

these issues only

one’s vision to what are, lor (ihaucer, the work’s vices, not lc)\e, is

real ends.

its

not

its

teal subject at

to set lorth

some

sources,

nselnlness,

its

That

is,

is

But

to

to restrict

means and de-

the Legend's ostensible subject,

all.

Rather, the

ol (>haucer’s basic views its

verse.

forms,

its

poem was

written

about liteiature:

audience, and

its

its

cajiacity

to represent (Christian truth.

As (iood

my

title

Women

indicates, is

oj (he

ha\’e

come

to leali/.e that the

Legend

of

most urgently concerned with (diaucer’s inteiest

in classical narrati\e.

Hook

1

The Legend

is

one

of those

works

(like

Duchess, the House of Lame, Lroilus and Lriseyde,

the Knighl's Idle) that ha\’e

much

to say to us

the

and

about the useful-

and about how (lhaucer wished to respect the integrity of his pagan soinces even while transforming them into new, “medievali/ed” works ness of classical literatine in a ('hristian world

Preface

Yet

of art.

in the

course of expressing

his views

on

the poet addresses other related issues as well.

classical art,

He

shows, for

example, that the relationship between literature and Christian truth

is

a very

complex one and

ence significantly affect

that a

poem’s genre and audi-

success in conveying truth. But the

its

Legend does not offer up these views to straightforward manner. Instead,

its

its

readers in any clear,

thickly ironic texture

and

broad comedy conceal Chaucer’s intentions. The Legend

its

is

indeed a rich and challenging poem, one that deserves more critical attention

My

than

it

has been granted.

approach is, for the most part, historical in nature. That is, I have consistently tried to support my argument with evidence that was available to Chaucer or to any fourteenth-century man of letters. Terms and distinctions drawn from more recent theories of literary form, genre, and audience are not imposed upon Cdiaucer’s poem, but are given space only in the notes and only as modern parallels to Cdiaucer’s own critical thought. Finally, a word must be said here concerning my citations from the two surviving versions (called F and Ci) of Cdiaucer’s Prologue to his Legend. Unless otherwise specified, I cjuote from the F text. After each quotation, cite critical

I

numbers of that text but also, where applicanumbers of the corresponding passage in Ci.

not only the line ble,

the line

It is

me

a pleasure to express

in the

my

who

assisted

this project,

d o the

gratitude to those

preparation and completion of

Ck)mpany and Oxford University Press I am grateful for permission to quote extensively from The Works of

Houghton

Mifflin

Geoffrey Chaucer, edited by

N. Robinson,

©

F.

N. Robin-

and 1961. d o Diether H. Haenicke, dean of the Ca)llege of Humanities at the Ohio State University, I owe my

son, 1957

thanks for providing

me

with the precious

gift

of time

in the

form of a Special Research Assignment, do my department chairman, Julian Markels, I am also greatly indebted for support and encouragement. For kindly reading this book in ty[)e-

and offering many wise suggestions, thank .Man Brown, Hoyt Duggan, Donald Howard, Stanley Kahrl, C'diarles

script

I

— 10 —

Preface

Wheeler, William Wilson, C^hristian Zachei gratitude

lar

Press.

I'o

— the

readers and

him

I

thoughts,

and

of

and

offer is

my

James

intellectual,

I

owe an

1

first

all,

hut

began

to

first in

my

whose generosity, both emotional

informs every page. Lisa

Columbus, Ohio

University

especially large debt;

deepest respect. Last of Battersby,

— with parlicn-

C>ornell

y. A. Kolve, with whose guidance

read and understand Uhaucer, to

staff

,

J.

Kiser

Abbreviations

AHDLMA

Archives

d'histoire

doctrinale

et

litteraire

du

rnoyen

age.

Paris.

EKIS EETS JEGP

Early English Text Society, original series. e.s.

Early English I’ext Society, extra series.

Journal

oj

Lnglish and Germanic Philology

MLX

Modern Language Notes

MLR

MP

Modern Language Review Modern Philology

PL

J.

22

RLS

SAEF SP TLL

Migne, ed. Patrologiae cursus completus.

P. 1

vols. Paris: J. P.

Migne, 1844—65.

Review of Lnglish Studies Societe cles anciens textes franyais.

Paris.

Studies in Philology

Thesaurus Linguae Latinae. l.eipzig, 1806— q.

Series Latina.

rdling Classical Tales

\ \

Introduction

One

of tlie })rimary goals of poets living in

tii e

late

period was to create new and suitable

\eliicles for

knew

concein

to

ht

poetry’s

most

imj)ortant

medieval

what they

— namely,

the

transmission of wisdom hecjueathed to them hy the literature of their classical forebears.

I

he challenge

this task

presented to

had always l)een formidable, largely, of course, because of major j)hilosophical differences between pagan and (diristian cultures, not the least of which was a profound disparity between classical and medieval assumptions concerning the structure and governance of tlie world. Often medieval Cdiristian

artists

alien in j)inpose to medieval audiences,

much

classical litera-

ture was absorbed only gradually into medieval cultine, of

it

being admitted formally only after certain theoretical ad-

vances of the twelfth-century humanists ries of allegory

acceptability

— had

enough

begun

— including new

to include

many

of those texts that treated

aftei the

groundwork had been

by the innovative twelfth-century thinkers,

dustry of

|)ractical

theo-

to stretch Christian princij)les of

pagan topics openly. And even laid

some

people living

in

it

took the

in-

the following two centuries

and refine poetic strategies that enabled them to employ in their own poems the narratives that medieval culture had inherited from the Roman auctores. How Christian poets. to develo|3

— ‘5 —

Introduction

from the beginnings of the medieval period to the Renaissance, transformed their literary heritage into useful Christian art has indeed become an increasingly well documented chapter of western intellectual history.

By the time Chaucer was

writing, medieval artists had, of

course, fully accepted the idea that classical stories could be useful to Chri^ian readers.

was thus not necessary for C'hau-

It

cer to direct his energy toward a defense of medieval classicism, for by his lifetime, defenses had already been made. But

he was faced with the equally

difficult task

of solving some of

the practical problems that inevitably arose Cdiristian poets

attempted

structures of their

own

when medieval

to use classical materials within the

creations. If a classical narrative, for ex-

ample, did not clearly present a moral, or did not present one that

conformed

to Christian standards, the

medieval

to moralize (or remoralize) his material, especially if

moral imperative tions.

Or,

one of

as

when two

literature’s

artist

had

he saw the

most important func-

versions of a narrative had been preserved

(such as Ovid’s and

V’irgil’s

differing accounts of the Dido/

Aeneas affair), the artist had to decide which version should be retold and why. Or, if the authoritative viewpoints of the Roman poets contradicted a Christian belief, the artist had to reconcile these perspectives, maintaining, as best he could, respect for his sources. Fo state the pr oblem quite generally, medieval

were faced with the burden of translating ancient issues into terms that could most immediately meet the needs of their

artists

own

very different age.

Cdiaucer’s poetry confronts

all

of these problems directly. Es-

pecially in his early years as a poet, (diaucer

experimented ex-

tensively with the voices of his classical forebears, trying out

various methods by which he could integrate his

own

creative

material with that which he derived from careful study of the

Latin poets. E\’en in his earliest major work, the Book of the Duchess, we lind him relying heavilv on Ovid’s tale of C’-eyx

him express his own views on art. In the as if to acknowledge this dependence on his liter(diaucer describes his chamber windows as adorned

and Alcione same poem, ary past,

to help

In

with sunlit images cal tales of love.

I

i

Ronuc HON

drawn from books on

bly linked with the light that

the

fills

roy and from classi-

Roman

implies Cdiancer,

lins,

I

“room

art

is

inextrica-

dreams,” the

of

where all of a j)oet’s work begins. Similarly, in the House of Fame and the Parliament of Fowls, episodes and images from anticjiiity form backdrops for Clhancer’s original plots. Froilus and (Inseyde, too, is concerned with the relationship of classical fiction to Cdiristian art, for this poem’s power at times wholly depends on Cdiancer’s self-conscious juxtaposition of Cdiristianity and paganism. place

poem that best articulates Cdtancer’s attitudes toward his Roman masters is the Legend of (iood Women, a work concerned with the act of telling classical tales in a much more diBut the

rect

(yet

poems

at

the

that

same time more complicated) way than the

predate

it.

For examj)le, the Legend's Prologue,

though depending heavily on courtly convention, less significantly

is

nonethe-

indebted to the literature of the ancient world,

main characters being Caipid ((diristianized though he is) and Alcestis of 1 hessaly, the self-sacrificing wife of classical myits

thology. cal

—

at

riie

legends that follow the Ihologne are also

least in snl)ject

matter

poem’s important relationship

if

not always in

sj^iirit.

classi-

\'et this

to Cdiancer’s classicism has not

understood (or even recognized) because the Legend does not present its issues in any clear, discursive manner. been

fully

Readers is

of the

Legend

of (lood

Women

uncommonly perplexing and

are faced with a work that

that covers

much more ground

than seems necessary to define and solve any

classical

“prob-

and Cdiristian elements have domithis work surely because they seem

lems.” Fhe Legend's courtly

nated to

critical

discussion of

dominate the poem

realize that the Legeiid

—

itself.

But

critics

are

must he read with

now heginning

its

classical

to

sources

firmly in mind.' 'For the l.egeud's debt to courtly litetature ol the louiteeiith ceiituiy, see jolin Livingston l.owes, "'Fhe Ihologue to the Legetid oj (iood Women as Related to the

Freiuh Marguerite

William |)|).

I’oeins,

and

tite

Filostmfo,”

PMLA,

19 (190.P, 59;^-

Dodd, (lourtly Love in C.hancer and dower (Boston: (’.inn, 1913), Robert M. Lstrich, “(diaucer’s Piologue to the Legend of dood

(i.

Women and Machaut’s Le Jugement dou Roy

— 17 —

de Navarre," SR,

^F) (i9;^9),

‘20-39.

— Introduction In addition to the problems raised by the Legend's

amalgam

of courtly, Christian,

and

complex

poem

classical material, this

presents the reader with other obstacles to interpretation as

Although

well.

it

contains

many

features

we have come

to rec-

— a comical,

self-ef-

ognize as typical of Cihaucer’s imagination facing narrator, a chaotic

dream world coniposed of fragments

drawn from works by Chaucer’s predecessors, a concern with love’s uneven course in human affairs, and an easily discernible attitude of irreverence toward many commonly held beliefs this

poem

nevertheless seems to defy

all

easy explanations of

its

significance. Its readers find themselves routinely faced with difficult

problems of interpretation which seem

nearly every aspect of the work.

First,

to

surround

because C’diaucer

left

us

with two versions of his poem’s Prologue, scholars have been

charged with the task of deciding which version was the poet’s final one and why.'^ Second, because Chaucer seems, in one

—

version, to dedicate the

poem

to his

queen, scholars have had

work with the possibility that the Legend was commissioned by her or was from the first intended to be topical in nature.-' finally, like some of Chaucer’s other works, the Legend is incomplete, making any conclusive interpretation of it difficult. to

For the Legend's Clliristian elements, see, tor example,

I).

I).

(irifTith,

“An

Inter-

pretation of Clhaucer’s Legend of (iood Women," in Manly Anniversan Studies (dhicago; Univ. of (Ihicago Press, 192;^, pp. 32—41; William Allan Neilson, The Origins and Sources of the Court of Love, Studies and Notes in Philology and Literature, (i (Boston: (unn, 1899), p. 145; and Robert (). Payne, The Key of Remembrance:

A

Study of Chaucer's Poetics

(New Haven:

\'ale Lhiiv.

Press,

19^3), pp.

107-9. For (diaucer’s attitude toward the classical material in his Legend, see Robert Worth Frank, Ir., Chaucer and the Legend of Good Women (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard Ihiiv. Press, 1972), pp. 28-36, and John M. Fyler, Chaucer and Ovid (New Haven: \'ale I’niv. Press, 1979), pp. 96-123. Source studies dealing with the individual legends will he cited in Chapter 4. -On the Prologue’s two versions, see especially Lowes, “1 he Prologue to the IX'AV as Related to the French Marguerite Poems,” pp. 658—83, and “The Prologue to the Legend of Good Women in Its (Ihronological Relations,” PMLA, 20 (1905), 749—864; Robert K. Root, ed., 'Troilics and ('^riseyde (Princeton, N.j.: Princeton Univ. Press, 1926), pp. xiv, Ixx— Ixxx; and Robert M. Fstrich, “(ihaucer’s Maturing Art in the Prologues to the Legend of Good Women," JEGP, 36 1937), 326—37. Payne, however, believes that the methods used to date the two (

versions are unreliable (p. 92). 'On the Legend and Q^weii .Anne, see l.owes,

“The Prologue

to the

LCiW

as

Related to the French Marguerite Poems,” pp. 666-76: Bernard L. lefferson.

— 18 —

In

Even

if

versions,

iRODUC HON

readers did not liave to face the Legend's differing its

historical

contexts, or

its

incoin})leteness,

there

would still remain the significant problem of how to define the poem’s place in Cdiaucer’s poetic development. If scholars are correct in their hypotheses, the two versions of the Legend's

—

1386 and 1394 that is, after the I'roiIm and shortly before and during the early composition of the Prologue were written

in

fhe Legend is thus a poem written in Chaucer’s maturity and one he considered important enough to warrant the kind of extensive revision that must certainly have inthe terrupted his work on the more ambitious project at hand writing of the Tales. Yet the poem at first seems to represent a step backward for Chaucer, as Robert Worth Frank, Jr. has noted, for it assumes the dream vision form he had abandoned earlier in favor of the Troilus's purely narrative mode, and it takes up again the subject of love, a subject Frank suggests had been “exhausted” in the Trodus and essentially dropped Canterbury Tales,

—

in the early stages of the Canterbury Tales.^ In fact, the Legend's

problematic place

in

Cdiaucer’s

poetic

development

is

what

prompted Frank to write what is our only full-length study of this poem, and he concludes that the Legend shows us a poet in training for the (dinterlnny Tales. Cdiaucer learns two things by

“new matter” (classical stories) and to master the short form (one marked by selectivity and brevitas). Both of these “lessons,” argues Frank, were useful writing his legendary: to manipulate

to the poet in his later masterpiece.’ I

hese conclusions, though intriguing, nonetheless provoke

Wcttsus," J Ed l\ (1914), 434-43; (ieorge L. Kiltredge, “Chaucer’s Alceste,” ME, () (1908-9), 435—39; and Samuel Moore, “ I he Prologue to Chaucer’s ‘Legend of (»ood Women’ in Relation to Queeti

“Queen Anne and Queen

Richard,” MLR, 7 {191-2), 488-93. For speculation on other historical identities for the Legend's characters', see Frederick Flipper, “Chaucer’s Lady of the Daisies,” yFC/y 21 (1922), 293-317; Margaret (ialway, “Chaucer’s Sovereign Lady: A Study of the Prologue to the Legend and Related Poems,” MLR, 33 (11)38), 145—99; Bernard F. Ifuppe, “Historical Allegory in the Prologue to the Legend of (iood Women," Midi. .)3 (1948), 393—99; and Walter F. Weese, “Alceste and Joan of Kent,” ML\, (13 1948), 474—77. 'Frank, pj). 3—4, .‘HS)Alceste as an intercessor, see Payne, pp. 107—8. "On allegorv’s ability to convey multiple meanings, see, for example, Michael Murrin, The Veil of Allegory (Chicago: L'niv. of Chicago Press, 1969). pp. Clitlord, The Tramformations of Allegory (London: Routledge and 101—5;

cause

On

— 24 —

1m RODi'crnoN and di ainalically annoiiiK'e llieir views on literature, on the “good women” of anti(|uity, and on (dianeer’s straighlforwarclly

loriner works, they also indirectly represent certain larger concepts that (lhancer wanted to convey, and

concepts

mind

in

derstood. That

only in a

that this

is,

1

and the Ciod

beyond what

Love participate not an allegorical one that proot

their literal

he great complexity ot

makes the

ters

only with these

poem’s dialogue can he properly un-

action but also in

literal

vides iidormation

express.

Alceste

is

it

tliese

words and actions

two allegorical charac-

task ot reading (and writing about) the Legend a

difticult one, tor

it

recjuires constant attention to

two separate,

though related, levels ot meaning. Lnderstanding the Prologue, however, is only the Lirst step toward understanding the Legend as a whole. 1 he stories that make up the legendaiy proper, classical in subject matter and in some instances closely translated trom Latin sources, have not been studied adecpiately in terms ot their relationship to here one another or to the Prologue that introduces them. I

are,

I

tear, legions ot unsatistied readers ot these stories,

whom

most

them narrative tailures, understandably abandoned by the poet himselt.'^ Lven Robert Worth Frank, whose hook on the Legend attempts a vindication ot the bravest sort, admits that there are lapses ot proper emphasis and selection in some ot the stories.'^ Whether we view them as true tailures

ot

think

or as parodies,

like the stoi ies in the

ot narratives (diaucer himselt

Monk's

Jale, ot the

kinds

considered tailures, we must

still

decide what the poet intended when he composed them. Most problematic ot are written

ries

Kegan

all,

perhaps,

the rubric

is

— the legendary

itselt.

under which the

sto-

W'hy Cdiaucer chose the

9 r>~ 97 Aiij^us Mctclier, Allefroty: The I'heon oj a (lomell Rosaimmd L 9 ii\. Picss, ipti.p, pp. SywholirMode {\l\\p. Allegoricdl hna^eiy l uvc, Picliler, I'/ie \'iMnary l.andsrafje: A Study 01 Medieval Allegoiy 199, ‘PP’* (I.ondon: Kdwaid Arnold, 1971), pp1, }: and Maureen Quilli^an, The LanPaul, 1971), pp-

«

(

t

f^uafre of Allegory:

Defmni^

pp:p^-p>'Por a suinmaiy ‘"'I'

1

ank,

p.

1

72.

1

the (lenre (Itliaca,

(Cornell I’niv. Press,

oi these ciitical views, see I'lank, pp.

1H9— 'jio.

1979),

.

Introduction saint’s life as a

paradigm

whose answer

essential to

poem

is

for his classical stories

To what

as a whole.

a question

is

any conclusive interpretation of the extent

we

are to ignore the suicidal

tendencies of these classical ladies or to conceive of their sui-

and despair

cide

forms of Christian martyrdom

as

is

difficult to

an issue that must be confronted by any

re-

of the Legend of Good Women. Alceste, the Cod of Love, and the stories they inspire

all

determine, but sponsible

it

critic

need substantial

poem

is

attention,

critical

that contains them, but also in terms of the fourteenth-

century culture

which their origins ultimately

in

Payne, one of the Legend's best

critics,

tention to the importance of this

Chaucer’s mature interest

and

not only in terms of the

was the

poem, noting

in the synthesis

lie.

Robert O.

draw

first to

that

at-

displayed

it

of experience, vision,

tradition in a poet’s invention of subject matter.'^ But the

poem

is

also about

something more

about the survival of

he

is

It

is,

classical fiction in a Cdiristian

the Legend, the narrator brance’’;

specific.

above

world. In

the bearer of the “key of

is

a teller of classical tales in a

all,

poem about

remem-

the pres-

ervation and dissemination, through literature, of classical wis-

dom. fhe Legend

is

also a

Chaucer’s role as a

in

tions to his sources

for

whom it

poem

teller

and

comments on

on the uses of

his views

He

allegorization (one of the

fully

he reveals

to us

classical

Cdiaucer

commonest ways

texts

in

confirm CTristian

many fourteenth-century assumptions

literature’s usefulness to

beliefs

classical fiction,

reacts to certain traditional theories of art, he

which medieval poets made about

tales,

necessary to include several other serious issues in his

as well.

truth),

one who has obligathe new and different audience

of others’

also to

the difficulties inherent

these sources were to be adapted.

fo present finds

poem about

everyday

life,

and he betrays

his

about the act and purpose of translation. Once we have

appreciated the richness of

this

poem, we are forced

to

once again what we have known previously about Chaucer’s love poetry: that it serves as an ample vehicle for all

realize

'

'Key of Remembrance, pp.

i

oo— lo

i

In

iRODucnoN

kinds of subjects, not only the amatory ones

And even though

the

Legend seems

it

overtly concerns.

“complete”

less

than

Cdiaucer’s greatest unfinished collection of stories, the (dmterbury

I ales,

it

works, for

is

surely

in the

one

of the

mature forth the fundamental

most ambitious of

Legend Cdiaucer

sets

principles behind his use of “olde thynges” ples that allowed him, in

the

wisdom

all

his

— the

his

very princi-

works, to convey so successfully

of his classical masters in his

— 27 —

own

distinctive voice.

1

Daisies, the

Sun,

and Poetry

Recently Chaucerians have attempted to relate the poet’s

works

to their thirteenth-

contexts. In books

and

and fourteenth-century philosophical

articles

about Cihaucer published

in re-

we frequently encounter the names of William of Ockham, Roger Bacon, and John Duns Scotus, and we find lit-

cent years,

erary scholars applying terms such as “nominalism,” “realism,” “accidents,”

and “universals”

to

(diaucer’s

works. Similarly,

fourteenth-century philosophical trends have been discovered

and analyzed, resulting in the now widely acknowledged belief that Chaucer and his contemporaries lived in an age that began to approve of empiricism as a foundation for epistemological inquiry and that earlier tendencies to seek universal a priori patterns in the world were giving way to make room for serious investigations into the particularity of things.' (Critics of (diau-

cer have also suggested that along with the realization that the 'For a general discussion of Ockham, nominalism, and the individuation of experience, see Ciordon l.eff. Medieval Thought: AugiLstine to Ockham (Baltimore: Penguin Books, 1958), pp. 259-84, David Knowles, The Evolution of Medieval Thought (New \'ork: Random House, 1962), pp. 31 1-36, and F. Cl. (loplesion, A History of Medieval Philosophy (New \’ork: Harper and Row, 1972), pp. 230-56. For discussion of these trends in C'.haucer’s works, see, for example, Robert Burlin, Chaucerian Fiction (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton Univ. Press, >977), pp. 3-22, and Sheila Delany, Chaucer’s House of Fame: The Poetics of Skeptical Fideism (Ohicago: Univ. of Uhicago Press, 1972), pp. 7-21.

— 28 —

Daisies,

hie Sun, and Poei rv

world was comprised of individual

facts,

which taken together

provided a valid basis for deriving knowledge, came an interest

among

fourteenth-century

weighing the

artists in

relative

mer-

of “experience” and “a uthority ” as sources for literary

its

dichotomy C>haucer himself acknowledges in the (opening lines of the Wife of Bath’s Prologue and in the Legworks,

a

end's preliminary

Unfortunately, tact

remarks. it

is

impossible for us to

know how much con-

Cdiaucer had with the philosophical via moderna which was

Oxford in the late fourteenth century, and, lamentably, we do not have the writings of the “philosophical Stnxle” to aid us in our understanding of these and other issues, In spite of what we think we know about fourteenthcentury philosophy, its subtle and intricate geography is still, in being paved

at

large part, uncharted.

We

can [)robably state with certainty,

however, that Cdiaucer never took sides

in

any raging debate

between the thinkers who favored authority as a means of accjuiring knowledge and those who believed that experience was the best resource to tap in the search for truth. this

is

likelv /

debate

like

ever to have occurred between two such clearlv dey

Pined camps. But evident in Cdiaucer’s works that these

No

is

two sources of knowledge are often

the realization in conflict

with

one another and just as often do not allow any resolution in the form of easy syntheses. In t he Wife-jui-E^ith^hjii example, we see a woman who structures her thought by means of this dialectic and who is consequently condemned, it appears, to endless travel between its extremes. However, she is not wrong to c jTTestTc n a iTlTio rffy^by c( n rad ic n g it with her experience, nor )

)

is

t

t i

she wrong to seek authorities that confirm for her the moral-

ity

of her rather disordered

Phe

life.

radical uncertainty that plague this

restless vacillation

woman’s

she has, after

intellectual state

reduced

are not merelj^cyomic

traits;

terms of everyday

the problems that plague us

life

and

all,

all.

to the

(diaucer

wrote sympathetically about her because even for C^haucer the artist (let

alone Chaucer

in his

other roles) the problem of ex-

perience and authority affected him considerably, defining, as it^id, the very essence of his art.

I

hough he

realized the last-

I

Tales

ELLiNc; (Classical

made by poets of the make his poetry speak

ing value of authoritative statements he, like

artists, also

all

wanted

to

past,

with

the voice of experiential truth.

The Legend of Good Women confronts this problem in significant ways, made manifest in the opening lines of the Prologue, which set forth the theme as clearly as Chaucer ever saw fit to do:

A

thousand tymes have

I hat ther ys joy

And

1

in

I

herd

men

hevene and peyne

acorde wel that

it

But, natheles, yet wot

I

telle

in helle,

ys so;

wel also

That ther nis noon dwellyng

in this

contree,

That eyther hath in hevene or helle ybe,

Ne may of

noon other weyes witen. But as he hath herd seyd, or founde it writen; For by assay ther may no man it preve. But

hit

God forbede

but

men shulde leve men han seen with

Wel more thing then Men shal not wenen every thing But yf himself

yt seeth,

For, G-od wot, thing

is

ye!

a lye

or elles dooth;

never the

Fhogh every wight ne may

it

lasse sooth,

nat ysee.

[CCi-15]

|ustly

famous

for their defense of written culture, these lines

argue that truth must be learned from written accounts as

from experience, and people must

not, in

as well

any newly sanc-

tioned quest for “preve,” forget the information that books can

whose subject matter extends beyond their own experience. “Wel ought us thanne honouren and beleve/fhese bokes, there we han noon other preve” (P’, Ci 27-28), Chaucer concludes, realizing that there exist many

offer them, especially those books

things that people will never see for themselves, things that can

be

known only through

19) as

it

is

the “doctrine of these olde w vse”

(P',

Ci

discovered in books. Piven “Bernard the monk,”

whose monastic experience was supposedly

richly

enhanced by

Daisies,

several aclual

hie Sun, and Poei ky

from the Word, “ne

visits

saiigh nat

pardee!”

all,

(F, C; 16 )/'^

Heaven and

hell

—

to use

Chaucer’s extreme cases

course, alien to the experience of

all

— are,

of

us “dwellyng in this

of

depend on someone else’s accounts of what exists there. But the same is true even for our knowledge of certain natural phenomena; the study of astronomy, for example, is beyond the capabilities of most earth-bound scholars, who do not often get the oppor-

contree,” so our knowledge of these places must

tunity to journey through the skies with a learned eagle, as

House of Fame. But even the lucky Ciefon that celestial journey against his will, for he

does

“Cief f rey” in the

frey,

it

knows

seems,

is

perfectly well that he can

sit

home and

at

read about the

constellations rather than be exposed to the considerable risks

involved in actually seeing them. In response to the eagle’s insistence that he look

“No

around him, he

fors,” (juod y, “hyt

leve as wel, so (iod

I

Hem

is

me

says:

no nede.

specie.

that write of this matere.

As though

I

knew her

places here. [

1

o

1

1

.” .

.

— 14]

In fact, the light emitted by the stars burns our narrator’s eyes,

indicating that in this case at least, direct experience to

man’s weak

is

harmful

faculties:

“And eke

they shynen here so bryghte

Hyt shulde shenden I

al

my

syghte

o loke on hem.”^

[1015-17] appropiiate to identify “Bernard the monk” as Bernard of Clairvaux because he claimed to have had direct personal experience of (lod. As M. Clorneille Haflants writes: “In the course of the Sermons Bernard frecpiently appeals to his own experience. His whole life and doctrine were illumined by the mystic visits of the Word with which he confesses to have been blest. It is these personal contacts with (iod which made him so great a saint.” Haflants is wiiting in On the Son^ of Sonars /, The Works oj Bernard of (daimaux, vol. 2, Cistercian Fathers Series, no. 4 (Spencer, Mass.: Cistercian Publications, -In this context,

it

is

1971). p.x. 'On the bright stars that celestial travelers find difficult to endure, see Alain de IMe's Anticlaudianm, trans. James ). Sheridan ( Toronto: Pontifical Institute

— 31 —

ELLiNG Classical Tales

I

These remarks show that Geffrey knows he can both save

his

and learn about the stars by reading books by “hem that write of this matere.”^ That is, through literature’s vicarious encounters and through the indirect “vision” that books afford, people can “observe” the stars, their light, heaven, hell, and any vision

other distant or even physically intolerable

may

they

wish to investigate.

Chaucer’s involvement with liis

phenomena

and

this

theme

is

also evident in Troi-

House of Fame, predates the inof the Legend quoted above in which the poet

Criseyde, which, like the

troductory lines

on the validity of written culture. In Book 2, Antigone sings a song in praise of love which seems to contradict Chaucer’s views on the limitations of experience and which bears a very important relationship to the Legend. She takes his strongest stand

claims that

who

those

perfect

all

criticism of love originates in ignorance, since

disparage

bliss,

and

joy,

it

have evidently never experienced the

security

it

offers.

Among

the several anal-

ogies she uses to elucidate her point, she includes the following, in

which she notes that the sun

human

cause

vision cannot tolerate

“What

is

is

its

no

less

worthy

just be-

brightness:

the sonne wers, of kynde right,

Though that a man, for May nought endure on

feeblesse of his yen. it

to see for bright?”

[862—64]

And

after her

song

is

finished, Antigone, with a curiously im-

practical suggestion, tells Criseyde that people in search of

kind of knowledge about love must

first

experience

it.

After

any all.

of Mediaeval Studies, 1973): “Here man’s faltering steps would stray from the path: even his feet would watuler drunkenly and sight, that lights the feet, would grow dull and inactive and refuse its guidance, and the eve, faced with the light there would prove sightless" (5.30-54). .-Mso see Alain’s description of Lady Astronomy: “Bright light gleams on her face and when lightning Hashes from it, it strikes our gazing eyes, and shunning the full-blown lightning, thev fear to

open

'Clhaucer

their lids” (4.8—10).

may be

thinking here of great cosmological

anus Capella’s l)e nuf)tiLs fj/iilologioe and Alain de Lille’s Anticlaudiatnus.

et

merciini,

Bernard

poems such

Silvester’s

as Marti-

Cosmogiaphm,

Daisies,

hie

Si'n,

and Poei rv

she concludes, no one knows about the fairness of heaven hel-

who have been

ler

than saints

tfie

foulness of hell better than

there,

resident fiends (2.89.J— ^h). he the best of all teachers, as

its

lo be sure, experience may

perhaps

I

roilns himself

is

and no one can describe

destined to find out, but (lhancer

not willing to restrict the range of

human knowledge

experience alone can teach. Antigone’s point of \iew too extreme to he shared by (>hancer,

wrote the

Le^eiid'%

opening

lines.

We

at

own

weak, our exj)erience hell are

is

is

what

much

the lime he

least at

should not, writes the

poet, judge things to be imlrne just because

dated them by our

lo

we have

not vali-

personal experience; our eyesight limited,

few and far between.

ns this truth: even though

I

and our

he Troilus

visits lo itself

is

heaven and

stands lo teach

are not our

roilns’s exj^eriences

I

is

own, we the readers of his story come to know something of love’s joys and pains, and we never doubt that the knowledge we receive from reading (diaucer’s poem is useful, adecjuate, and true. Knowledge through literature, though perhaps not a substitute for what can be learned through the immediacy and the involvement of experience,

nonetheless a valid kind of

— and one that

we depend upon. Moreover, as Ansun analogy suggests, in some cases experience can be

knowledge tigone’s

is

too intense, just as the light of the sun

man

is

unendurable

eyes. Hut (diaucer addresses this particular

to liu-

problem, loo:

only six stanzas after Antigone’s reference to the sun, he demonstrates

how

he, as a poet, can pro\ide his readers with a

glimpse of the sun’s blinding jeopardize vision.

light,

a glimpse that does not

With three short but descriptive figures,

Clhaucer desciibes the sun, offering his readers a clever example of

how

that has

its

poets

make

basis in

possible a kind of “indirect vision,’’

metaphor:

The dayes honour, and the hevenes The nyghies foo

1

he bright stars

in

one

—

al this

the House

of

clepe

I

ye.

the sonne.

.

.

.

Fame and the metaphorical

“so-

lution” to the pi'oblem raised in Antigone’s sun analogy both

— 88 —

I'ellinc; (Classical

Tales

serve to acliinibrate the Legend's opening issue, that

is,

the im-

portance of literature as a preserver and conveyor of knowledge, especially the kind of knowledge that cannot otherwise

be gained. In the debate that Chaucer alludes to

opening remarks, he has a defensible

is

in the Legend's

clearly taking the stand that “authority”

— indeed

necessary

— role

human

in

episte-

mology.

As f urther corroboration of Chaucer’s literary alternatives to direct experience,

faith in the efficacv /

we need only remem-

ber that Chaucer the love poet constantly claims, his

of

in

the voice of

persona, that he himself never experienced the joys or

pains of love. I'hroughout his career as a poet, Chaucer ac-

knowledges (sometimes humorously) lover but instead a

mere

amatory world

order

and

joys.

in

he

that

is

not himself a

reporter, lurking on the fringes of the to

record for posterity others’ pains

But even though he claims never

to

have known per-

under Love’s hard laws (in the Trodiis, he is a “servant of the servants of love”), he manages to record his stories about lovers with engagement and sympathy. In other words, Chaucer’s claims of personal distance from the experience itself never prevented him from becoming an expert on love and its risks, for Cdiaucer was a competent love poet more than anything else one who wrote convincingly all his life about love’s effects on human destiny. His reputed lack of experience in love in no way affected the extent or power of his observations about it. Chaucer tells us in a few of the Legend's early lines how his expertise was possible: he learned about love from reading the works of the classical and medieval love poets before him, those who had “of makyng ropen, and lad awey the sonal service

—

corn” (F 74, Ci 62). Cdiaucer’s reading, then, followed by his own “rehearsing” of material gleaned from the poets of the

informed him about the subject of love and then ensured the survival and dissemination of these amatorv truths, even in the absence of experiential facts. Chaucer, like all artpast, fust

ists,

counts

from

life’s

among

literature’s

many

gifts

its

ability to protect us

misfortunes while allowing us a clear vision of such

tragedies by lending

them an

artistic

form

that cannot

harm

us.

the Sun, and Poei rv

Daisif.s,

As the quotations from the House

of

Fame and the

Troilus

show,

certain kinds of direct experience are intolerable; for these

we can

effectively substitute the

knowledge, ity

much

which can expose us

literature,

extreme source of

less

to suns that in real-

might blind. In his dream, the narrator of the Legend

of amatory beatific vision (perhaps meant

to

is

given a kind

be the amatory

equivalent of Bernard’s spiritual meetings with (iod) which in-

cludes a confrontation with a personified version of love the very state that Chaucer claims to have avoided I

his

comic character

a deity to be,

all

itself,

his life.

an imperious figure, as we might expect

is

and he displays

attributes of the (diristian Ciod, as

and Italian amatory verse. In keeping with Chaucer’s feelings on the terrifying nature of direct experience, the (iod of Love is formidable indeed, with his fiery arrows and his menacing looks. But the (iod of Love’s

do the

similar deities in French

most striking feature of

is

his bright face,

which

in

both versions

the Legend's Prologue shines with a brilliance that nearly

blinds the narrator: His

heer was corowned with a sonne,

gilte

Inslede of gold, for hevynesse and wyghte.

me

ihoghle his face shoon so hryghte

1

hei with

I

hat wel unnethes

myghie

I

him heholde. [F

In the (i text,

we

find a similar description:

But of his face For sikerly 1

A

1

can not seyn the hewe;

his face

shon so hryghte

glem astoned was the syghte;

hat with the

fuilong-wey

I

myhte hym not behold. [(;

Introduced

230-33]

in this

i

()2-65]

way, the (iod of Love carries with him not

only Chaticer’s comical statement on the extreme nattire of direct

experience

Fame)

btit

(cast

also a

in

rich

the

same terms

store of

tised in the

Home

of

traditional connotations that

— B5 —

Felling Classical Tales

and medieval writers, beginning with Plato, associated with the sun. T he most important of these connotations is the and ultimately Cjod. Poets and sun’s identification with truth theologians had for centuries compared the light of truth (both secular and divine) to the light of the sun. Among theologians alone, the analogy had been used from the third century, in

classical

—

the works of the Christian apologist Minucius Felix, to well be-

yond Chaucer’s own tant writer

who gave

lifetime.^

expression to

thing in the entire world type of

God

Dante, to

than the

.

.

.

name

this idea,

but one impor-

found “no sensible

more deserving of being made

sun,’’ for

illuminates

it

all

a

elements with

^Students of Dante, of course, have proven to be the best researchers of this Joseph Anthony Mazzeo, Medieval Cultural Tradition in Dante's Comedy (Ithaca, N.\'.: Cornell Univ. Press, 1960), pp. 56—132; Allan H. Ciilbert, Dante and His Comedy (New \"ork: New \’ork Univ. Press, 1963), pp. 7—17; Charles S. Singleton, yourncy to Beatrice, Dante Studies, 2 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard Univ. Press, 1958), pp. 15-34; and Marcia Colish, The Mirror of Language (New Haven, Conn.: Vale Univ. Press, 1968), pp. 253, 332. The most extensive treatment of the sun in medieval literature occurs in H. Flanders Dunbar’s Symbolism in Medieval Thought and Its Consummation in the Divine Comedy (New Haven, Cxinn.: \’ale Univ. Press, 1929), pp. 105-229, in which Dunbar cites two helpful references. The first is a quotation by the early Christian apologist Minucius Felix: we cannot even look into the sun, which is the origin of vision; our powers of sight are impaired by its rays, our eyes are weakened by gazing at it, and if we look at it too long, we are unable to see at all. Do you expect to look upon (iod with the eyes of llesh?” (p. 133). The second concerns Rabanus Maurus, who “made a catalogue in which he adducetl scriptural passages to show that the sun symbolizes Deus, resurrectio Christi, Sancta Ecclesia, etc.” (p. 274). Other medieval examples of the notion of bright divinity occur in the medieval cycle plays. The Ludiis Coventnae, a source closer to Chaucer in time and sensibility than the passages quoted above, shows that a midwife present at the Nativity is stunned by the light that emanates from the manger; “Me merveylyth wyff surely your face I can not se/but as|3e sonne with his bemys quan he is most bryth” (K. S. Block, ed., EE FS e.s. 120 [London, 1922], p. 109). That the sun analogy pertained to the investigations of theologians, see Dante’s Circle of the Sun, Paradiso 10. That it pertained to the “multifoliate rose” of the saints and angels, see Paraduso 30-33. On the medieval aesthetics of light, see Edgar De Bruyne, The Esthetics of the Middle Ages, trans. Eileen B. Hennessy (New \'ork: Erederick LVigar, 1969), pp. 16-18, 55-61. Einally, the thirteenth-centurv optician and philosopher |ohn of Pecham writes in his Perspectiva communes that “the action of bright lights on the eyes is .sensibly painful and injurious but the sight is strengthened and amplified by rays that are obliquely incident on the eye” (David L. Lindberg, ed. and trans., John of Pecham and the Science of Optics [Madison: I'niv. of Wisconsin Press, 1970], pp. 125-27). subject. See especially

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

and Pofi rv

Daisiks, ruF. Si'N,

and

sensible light

intelligible creatures with

all

lor the

light

intellect.*^

The

analogy

siin

important

is

Legend because

to Cdiaucer’s

it

describes a C'-hristian epistemological j)aradox that relates to

work that poets do. The paradox is this; despite })eo|)le’s dependence on truth, tor one reason or another they are usuthe

ally unfit to receive

Using the sun analogy,

it.

C>hristian theolo-

gians cast the problem into these terms; either a person able to see truth’s light at characteristic of

with the light in

upon

directly

upon

it

his

all

because of the clouded vision

when

fallen state, or,

all its

un-

is

unalloyed splendor, he

with unaided eyes,

much

as

confronted

finally

he

is

unable

is

unable to gaze

to look

the sun. Augustine, for example, supplies us with one use

of this analogy in

De

where he writes about

doctrina Christuina,

the epistemological shortcomings caused by

human

sinfulness.

Knowledge of (iod is impossible, he states, until the eye of the mind is cleansed of its impurities, for the frinity glows with a light that

contaminated eyes cannot

in spite of

tolerate.’ \'et

the brilliant intensity of (iod’s light, theologians and philoso-

man

phers continued to urge gaze upon

attempt to find

it

— and

then

Boethius’s I.ady Philosophy hopes to teach her

it.

charge about

to

dark “mists”

disj)elling the

that distort his vision,

Phebus beemes in

for instance; then, (as (>haucer translates) “schyneth

ischaken with sodeyn

merveylynge

and

lyghle

derknesse

knowe

of

and smyteth with

his

eien.”” Ca)ntinuing the analogy, she states;

fhal derknesse schal

by

light,

1

assaie sonnvhat to inakcn ihyniie

remedies;

ineneliche

desceyvynge desyi ytiges

so is

that,

and wayk that

aftir

the

doon away, thow inowe

the schynynge of vet ray light. [Boece

"C.onvivio

tratis.

i

,

Prose 6]

Haller, in Lileuii'y (Iriticism of Dante Aliiio. Press, 197;^, p.

Robert

S.

(Lincoln: L'niv. of Nebraska U)e doctrina Christiana 2.7.11 1 ). V\’. Robertson, Jr., trans.. On Christian Doctrine Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 195^!, p. 39). Augustine also writes that alter our eyes are purified, “the light of the I rinity begins to appear more cer-

frhieri

i

(

I

tainlv,

and not only more

tolerably but also

to ap|>ear ‘tbrougb a glass in a '^lioece

1,

Met.

more

dark manner’”

3.

— 37 —

joyfully

(2.7.1

.

.

.

1, p. .^o).

[but]

it

is still

said

l

Kven

('.haucer’s

humble moral

ELLiNCi

Classical Tales

own Parson

finds the siin analogy useful in his

he

us that “‘the derknesse of deeth’

text;

tells

been the synnes that the vvrecched

hym

destourben

man

hath doon, whiche that

of Ciod, right as dooth a derk

to see the face

and the sonne.”'* But sinfulness and the natural human tendency

clovvde bitvvixe us

to

absorb

oneself in worldly affairs are not the only reasons for one’s inability to

perceive the divine truths of heaven.

vented direct perception of

God

himself pre-

by investing his

his light, in part

creation (the world and the Bible both) with allegorical obscurity,

such as that which Augustine writes about

on expounding

He

in this

passage

a difficult Scriptural truth:

has covered His light with clouds beneath, and

to fly, eagle-like,

above every mist with which

all

it

is

difficult

the earth

is

cov-

ered, and to see in the words of the Lord most unalloyed light. In case

He may

rays

and afterwards open Himself

scatter

asunder our darkness with the warmth of His to us, let us defer these (jues-

tions."’

Ciregory, too, described Scriptural truth in these terms; writes that

it

is

Indeed

an “image of the sun

as seen

he

through a cloud or

through the Middle Ages, the analogy of the sun and clouds, perhaps given authority by Augustine’s doctrine of divine illumination, was considered an accurate mist.’’“

all

representation of

how humans understand

divine matters. In

particular, the writings of the late medieval

mystics

show

a

thorough appropriation of this analogy because the conservative brand of spirituality in which they believed depended

upon

the survival of the epistemological theorv that the sun

analogy expressed.'-^ Recognition of the sun analogy’s importance to medieval ^Parson’s Tale, i8.^. '"Homilies on sec. 5.‘22-‘23.

have

the

Gospel according

to

I ranslated by Duiiljar

in

John (Oxford: Parker, 1848), vol. Symbolism in Medieval Thought, p. i.p).

St.

1

I

slightly iiKKieriiized the translation.

"('.regory’s

formulation

dates Oregory as the

first to

mentioned use this image as is

in

Dunbar,

p.

151.

Dunbar

a description of biblical allegory.

‘‘•'See, lor example. The Cloud of Unknowing. .Also see Qiti Habitat, by the fourteenth-century P.seudo- Walter Hilton, in .\n Exposition of Qiii Habitat and

Daisiks,

thought may not

I

hk Sun, and Pok ky i

seem

at first

crucial to an

undei standing

of

C-haucer’s satiric (iod of Love. But the relationship between the

becomes much clearer essentially theological model was ado|)ted describe and finally justify art’s funcworld. It is well worth our effort to ex-

sun analogy and the

when we

see

how

this

by theorists of art to tion in the Cdiristian

issues

LcgcNr/’s

—

—

plore the extension of the sun analogy into medieval literary

discouise

in particular, for

it

is

from

this tradition that

Lhaucer

derives one of the basic assumptions informing the Legend's

Prologue. Kven outside the circles of the parsons and mystics, the sun analogy had been viewed as having explanatory power, especially as

genuine

it

conveyed the terms

of symbolic theory. Since

— including, of course, any direct revelato humanity — was considered for

beatific vision

tion of divine truth

{possible

only a chosen few, the

human

majority was dependent

upon

the already existing symbolic representations of (lod’s truths,

the two most important of which were considered to be Scripture and the created world. ture’s allegorical

And once

example truth had been

representation of

sorbed into Cdiristian thought

(as in

gustine and (iregory given above),

it

the

of .Scripfully

ab-

the formulations of Au-

did not take long for the

mocfel to he secularized and consetjuently j)ressed into service as a

defense

of literary representation in general.

For the Middle Ages, one ers of the symbolic tional functions

mode

— was

Cacero’s Sornniuni

— and

most authoritative defend-

finally art in all

Macrohius, who,

Scifjionis,

certain literary devices.

When

of the

in his

its

representa-

commentary on

lefers to the necessary functions of

About philosophers he

writes:

(hey wish to assign auiihnles to these divinities that not

only pass the bounds of

sj)eec:h

but those of liuinan coinprehen-

Hotmtn list, ed. lijdrn W'alliKM, l.uiul Studies in Knglish 23 (I.und, 1954), where the authoi writes that the light of the midday fiend “sliinef) alwey l)i-twene two |)resum|H ion, eolourd under hlake londes; f)at on is hei^nesse of liimself f)oi redain of spit it, and fiat o|)ur is a-douiu asty ng of his even-c isten undurnefx* him. lint |)ese ( londes vanissehef) a-wei whon [)e liht of grac e sc hew(*|3 ’’(ppFoi the suiA'ival of orthodox thought in mystical writings, see 22— (lopleston, A Hisloty of Mcdu-val I’hilosofthy, pp.

w

(

f

i

.

.

.

1'elling C^lassical Tales sion as well, they resort to similes Plato,

when he was moved

to tell

what

ble for

objects tration

to

and analogies. That

is

why

speak about the C»ood, did not dare

knowing only this about it, that it was impossithe human mind to grasp what it was. In truth, of visible he found the sun most like it, and by using this as an illusopened a way for his discourse to approach what was othit

was,

erwise incomprehensible.'’

Here the

heuristic value of analogy

of their effectiveness

man

perceptions,

is

image of the (iood,

and

simile,

for insufficient hu-

in illustrating truth

paired with Plato’s

which consists

own

use of the sun as an

a connection that certainly helped the

analogy move as swiftly as

it

did into medieval theories of

sun

liter-

ary meaning, fhe twelfth-century humanists, interested in dis-

much

covering Christian uses for pagan literature, also had

do with the extension of ory;

ings

it

this

analogy into general poetic the-

occurs repeatedly in their

own poems and

on the functions of philosophy and

in their writ-

literature."

Dante, the greatest of the poet-theologians, chooses

ogy as the paradigm of

to

And

this anal-

works trace with the help of the media-

his career; in a sense, his

the story of an individual striving,

tion provided by symbolic forms, to view the injurious hut

life-

giving rays of Ciod. It

is

really

this

last

idea

— that

art

mediates between the

and the “bright object” it seeks to contemengaged the thoughts of medieval poets and schol-

“mind’s eye” plate

— that

'^Macrohius’s Commeiitm^ on the Dream of Scipio, trans. William Harris Stahl

(New

\'ork; (Columbia L'niv. Press, 1932), p. 86.

"For example, VVinthrop VVetherbee, in his translation of Bernard Silvester’s (losmographia, notes a connection between the dazzling light given off by the sunlike Tugaton and Plato’s “Ciood” (VVetherbee, trans.. The (losmographm of Bernardivi Silvestris

[New

V’ork: C'.olumhia Univ. Press,

»

97 |d'

P- 15811.

Tugaton’s

is “inaccessible” and confounds the vision of the lieholder (VVetherhee, p. 99). Fhe description of this “triune radiance” recalls, as VVetherbee notes, the account of the procession of the Word in pseudo-Dionysius’s On Celestial Hierarchy, which was translated by John Scotus Frigena. See afso the Anticlaudianiis of Alain de Lille, in which Faith gives Prudence a mirror to in-

radiance

between her eyes and the injurious (hi 15-85)terpose

light

from the sunlike (iod

Daisies, ars.

hie Sen, and Poei kv

Boccaccio, wiien he wished to explain the diUkiilty of clas-

employed

narratives,

sical

hidden meanings

mvth. In

of

concept

this

to

account

the

lor

his (ienealoiria deoriuu genliliutn,

he

writes:

Some

things are naturally so profound that not without difficulty

can the most exceptional keenness

sound

in intellect

their depths;

the sun’s globe, by which, before they can clearly discern

like

strong eyes ate sometimes repelled.

On

it,

some

the other hand,

though naturally clear j^erhaps, are so veiled bv the artist’s that scarcely anyone could by mental effort derive sense from

things, skill

them;

immense body

as the

when hidden

the sun

of

cannot be exactly located by the eye

of the

clouds

in

most learned astrono-

mei

l^etrarch agrees:

.

.

.

poets under the

veil of fictions

moral, and historical that the difference

rian or a

moral

have

set foi th

truths physical,

— thus bearing out a statement

often make,

1

between a poet on the one hand and a

oi physical

philosophei on the other

is

the

histo-

same

as

the difference between a clouded sky and a clear skv, since in

each case the same ceived

in

light exists in the object of vision, but

degrees according

different

to

the ca|)acity

is

|)er-

of

the

obser\ers."’

Ill

other words, ihotigh poetry’s

tensity of bright

ti

tiths,

“light” available to

poetry’s

Spensei

its

method did ’s

time,

cal writers. In

it

(1

'Book

1.4.12

I

bis

ti

leaders. Such a cotnincing defense of

still

central

"’I bis

tion,”

passage

PMIA, bK

is

— sun and — to the allegoi all

2 of VV/c Faerie (hteene,

aiislati(jii is

iidiaiiapolis: Bobl)s-Mt‘i

the in-

by no means decreases the amotint of

the chai acter of his Bi iiuess

‘

may reduce

not die out with the medieval period; by

was

Book

it

oblitjttity

rill,

|>-

that

be presented oblitpiely,

by Cbarlcs

195b),

tianslated by K.

(i95;p, i^.jb.

will

Spenser writes

i-

(1

.

Osgood

in Huccaccio

on Poetry

59-

II.

VN’ilkins, “I’etrarcb’s

Coronation Ora-

I

ELLiNG Classical Tales .

In covert vele,

and wrap

in

That feeble eyes your glory

Which

else

.

.

thus to enfold

shadovves

may

light,

behold,

could not endure those beanies bright

But would be dazzled with exceeding

light.

The “clouded sky” of Boccaccio and Petrarch, and the “covert vele” and “shadovves light” of Spenser are all versions of the single sun analogy by which medieval poets attempted to describe the function and necessity of literature’s indirectness.

And now,

returning to Chaucer, we are able to clarify one of

the Legend's major structural obscurities, namely, zling Ciod of

Love

relates to the Legend's

value of literary truth. representation,

some

I

how

opening

lines

on the

he necessity for some kind of indirect

alternative yet legitimate

form of truth

replace the narrator’s immediate experience of love Cdiristian

the daz-

authority (by (diaucer’s appropriation of

analogy) and dramatic “proof”

in this little

is

to

given

tfie

sun

springtime dream.

The awesome intensity of Love’s sunlike visage is too much for our dazzled narrator; he requires an intercessor to diminish the intensity of Love’s bright light yet to preserve for him the essential lessons that this visit from Love might offer. Lhe intercessor in this analogical scheme, the one who lessens light yet conveys its truth, is Alceste, the chief [)rovider of comfort for the Prologue’s timid narrator and a symbol of literature’s mediating role. The first time we meet Alceste, she is introduced in terms that define her as an intercessor between the narrator and the Cod of Love’s words and “chere”: nadde comfort ben of hire presence, hadde ben ded, withouten any defence,

for, I

Smith aiul F.. de Seliiicourt (Oxford; Oxford Lhiiv. See also Murrin, p. 17, where the author quotes from (but does not comment upon) Harrington: “Therefore we do first read some other authors. making them as it were a looking-glass to the eves of our minde, and then after we have gathered more strength, we enter into profounder studies ^'Poetical Works, ed. J. C.

Press, 1970).

— 42 —

Daisies,

For

the Sun, and Poei rv

(Irecle of l.oves

As, wlien tyine

ys,

wordes and

heiafter ye [F

liis c

here.

slial liere.

278—81,

181—84]

(i

Fo be sure, Alcesie intercedes quite vociferously on tor’s behalf

later in the Legend's

him from charges Chaucer from the

tlie

narra-

Prologue when she defends

of literary crime. In that sense, she protects

threat of “l.oves wordes.” But the other in-

tercessory role she plays, before a

word

is

spoken about Cdiau-

former art, is much more essential to the Prologue’s scheme. By interceding between light and the human vision for which that light is intended, Alceste dramatizes what Chaucer claims to be literature’s most defensible function: its ability to offer an alternative to direct perception, d o explain how and why Alceste functions as the “})oetic veil” that stands between readers and truth we must first examine the daisy from which cer’s

she

constructed.

is

Before the narrator’s dream begins, we are given an elabo-

and seemingly digressive account

rate

and attriFar from being

of the habits

butes of Cdiaucer’s “lady sovereyne,” his daisy. trivial,

there ry’s

however, these descriptive passages

is

about the daisy that makes

it

us exactly what

tell

model

a fitting

for poet-

symbolic method, specifically the kind of poetry Chaucer

himself chose to produce. All through the Prologue’s early sections, in deceptively

simple phrases that imitate the empty

tudes of courtly love verse, Cdiaucer

“poetic” possibilities of his lady the daisy. She his wit (F 88), “of alle floures flour” (F 5;^,

here

of the flowers of rhetoric

Muse

know

slyly lets us is

C

|)lati-

of the

the mistress of

55)

— one thinks

— the “erthly god” that serves as

for Cliaucer, “bothe in this

werk and

in

my

sorwes

alle”

and the lady who best serves to inspire his verse: “My word, my werk ys knyt ... in youre bond” (F 89). But the (F q5-9()),

most significant attribute

of (diaucer’s flower

to the sun, that relationship this of

which best defines

Prologue. As with any flower mysteries, having

first

the sunne in a bason of water

as

it

is its

in

its

relationship

purpose

in

the natural world, the

were enabled our eyes by long beboldinge looke upon the sunnc itself.”

at last to

— 48 —

Telling Classical Tales poet’s daisy cannot exist without the life-giving rays of the sun.

The llovver even and setting sun:

and

rises

sets in close imitation

of the rising

As I seyde erst, whanne comen is the May, That in my bed ther daweth me no day That I narn up and walkyng in the mede To seen this Hour ayein the sonne sprede. Whan it upryseth erly by the morwe. [F 45 - 49 45-49] ’

As long als its

sun shines, the daisy remains open, with

as the

its

pet-

“sprad in the brightnesse/Of the sonne” (F 64—65) to catch rays of light. But as darkness approaches,

.A.nd

whan

that hit ys eve,

As sone

as evere the

To

this

seen

begins to close:

renne blyve.

sonne gynneth weste.

how

Hour,

I

it

it

wol go to

reste.

For fere of nyght, so hateth she derknesse.

60-63]

[F

Chaucer

is

not uniqtie in noting the daisy’s relationship to the

eral

and

mentioned in sevof the French marguerite poems, which (diaucer had surely

sun.'® Its heliotropism

fear of night are

read before beginning the Legend. His eagerness to be present “resureccioun,” to watch

at the daisy’s

unclose/Agayn the sonne” several

110-12)

(F^

it

is

of the French narrators.'" But

that vt shtilde

also characteristic of

Chaucer’s poem,

in

where the daisy stands

as a

gives this flower

represents something that informs and

its life,

model

“whan

which

for his art, the sun,

flowers

depend

on

sustains his verse. Just as

all

the light of the sun, so

poets, even the worst of them, define

drawing energy from the

their verse as

'M'he daisy’s heliotropism

is

mentioned

123; Dit de la fleur de Us

in Oeuvres, p.

ed. Wimsatt,

all

11

.

e(

de

in la

light

Dittie de la flour de la

of truth.

Machaut, Dit de

la

in

'^See Wim.satt. p. 33.

— 44 —

hus the

Marguerite,

Oeuvres 2:203—14, 11 53— H2; 1, 11

Margherite, in Oeuvres 2:21

.

I

Marguerite, in Marguerite Poetry,

251-58; Deschamps, Lmi de Franchise,

40—52, Froissart, 2:2 I. p 11 162-66.

for their lives

.

.

AND

DaISIKS, IHF. Sl'N,

on

flower’s (lepeiuleiK'e ry’s

light

PoF.

I

K^

here seen as analogous to poet-

is

(lependence on the truth that guides and sustains

another attribute

Still

of

model for poetry iinohes

makes

the daisy that

its

it

it.

a

fitting

natural resemblance to the sun.

poetiy imitates truth, so the daisy imitates the sun

Just as

in

both shape and color, having laylike \ellow or white petals that

surround

And

a bright centei.

his daisy’s

in

flower with a clear and guiding

.She

is

to

extend even further

endows his drawing more terminol-

likeness to the sun, (Ihancer

|)hysical

ogy from the world

order

light,

of courtly love:

the clernesse aiuf the vet ray lyght

That in this derke world

me

wynt and ledeth. [V 8.1-85]

(Chaucer’s daisy, then,

an eaithly imitation

is

the sun.

of

Its

form is closer to the sun’s than to any other natural object’s, and its light is cleat and true, able to gtiide men throtigh the dark world. Affording ilhnnination without blinding intensity, the daisy, like poetry, conveys the light of heaven in a physical

manner

suitable foi earthly eyes.

But perhaps (lhaucer’s most impoitant reason for choosing tlie

daisy over

the

name

all

other flowers to remind us of j)oetry

of the flower itself. Philologists

mai ked with delight

and

critics

lies in

have

re-

that the poet’s description of the daisy in

the Ihologiie contains something rare and sin j)rising for a medieval

work

— a true etymology: 1

he loiige

(lay

For nothing Bill for to

I

me

shoop

and

elles,

I

for (’abide

slial

nat lye.

loke u|>on the dayesie.

That wel by leson

men

The “davesye,” or

elles the “ye of (fay.”

it

(alle

may .

.

.

[K i8()-8.d

Indeed, by model n philological standards, (lhancer’s derivation

is

j)erfectly

sound; he has analyzed the word by recording

— — 1.5

Ei-iJNCi

l

Classical

I

ales

form and its meaning from an earlier stage of the language. But the study of etymology in medieval times was, of course, much different from what it is today. Etymologies, both true and fictional, were seen as keys to figuratixe as well as literal meanings of words.-’" In fact, an etymology might he completely metaphoric, fo explain the origin of a word was to expose its secret affiliation with things that might normally seem unrelated to it. The Golden Legend, surely one of Cdiaucer’s models for his own Legend, contains hundreds of these metaphorical derivations. In a well-known instance that Chaucer both

its

himself versified in the prologue to the Second Xun's Tale,

comes from coeli way unto the blind.

find: “(Cecilia caecis via, a

lilia, .

Heaven, or from In the passage from the

lily

.

we

of

Prologue quoted above, Cdiaucer shows how “by reson” the daisy has acquired

name

its

as a result of

its

physical likeness to

metaphor and etymology are one. With both physical and linguistic ties to the sun, Cdiaucer’s daisy emerges as a strikingly appropriate model for the poet’s the sun. In this case,

craft.

Using

Cdiaucer

this flower's close relationship to “truth,”

dramatically illustrates the nature and function of poetic ex-

dependent on the sun for nourishment, the daisy still retains a certain humble earthly autonomy, just as good poetry depends on truth to justify its existence, yet has a life of its own, governed by its own rules and appreciated for its own beauty. Second, in form and color the daisy imitates the sun, just as poetry, in both classical and medieval definitions, imitates truth. And third, the word “daisy” is an explicit metaphor, demonstrating an alternative, oblique way of conveying the meaning “sun” in much the same way that Cdiaucer had previously expressed it in the Trodus “the dayes honour, and the hevenes ye,/ I'he nyghtes fbo al this clepe the sonne” (2.904—5). 'Ehus the mediating function of poetrv is pression. First,

though

it

is

— —

-’"Juclsoii

Boyce Allen

Press, 1971) says.

in

The Friar

as

"The lundainental key

tore of verbal integumeata

Critic

to the

I

(Nashville:

meaning

X’aiulerbilt

ot words,

L'niv.

and there-

etymology. Phis is ot course true tor the entire middle ages” (p. 15). John ot Salisbury dellnes etymology as a “resemblance ot Words” and “analysis; analogy ot Words” {Metalogicon, trans. Daniel I). McCiarry [1955: rpt. ('.loucester; Peter .Smith, 1971], p. -' jacobus de V'oragine, The Coldeii Legend, trans. ('.ranger Ryan and Helmut Ripperger (19.41; r4)t. New \’ork: Arno Press, i9()9), p. tiSp. is

.

.

.

.

.

.

DaISIKS,

made

the

AM)

Sl'N,

I’OF.rKV

and explicit in tlie flirure of Cdiaucer’s flower, whose powers of representation are truly extraordinarv.'^* Finally, because the daisy explicitly performs this mediating function in (Ihaucer’s Prologue, we can explain why the narrator venerates it with language drawn from devotional verse addressed to the \argin Mary. The daisy’s gentle light, its worthiness as an earthly object of adoration and love, and its power to mediate between earth and heaven are all attributes of Mary that link her with the daisy and later with Alceste. It is imporvi\id

tant to realize that (diaucer

is

asking his readers to notice this

performs the same intercessory role

parallel: his daisy

in

the

model that Mary j)ertorms in the theological one. She intercedes on behalf Of humans in the face of (iod; the daisy intercedes on behalf Of viewers in the face of the sun. Even more specifically, both Mary and the daisy have connections with sunlight; like the daisy, Mary was seen as a gentle conveyor of poetic

sunlight to earth, for she hid within her the bright sun that was ('hrist.'^’

The

metaphor has further

daisy’s identity as a

vance to the mariological tradition. More than any other tian figure,

Mary

(diris-

attracted metaphorical epithets, such as

modern

rele-

Stella

on metaphor and sun following, see Jacques Derrida’s “White Mythology,” trans. F. C. F. Moore, New Literary Hislaty, 6 (Autumn, 1971), 5-71, which discusses the heliotrope as the perfect “metaphor of the metaphor” (pp. qti-fio). Fhe essay also discusses the sun as a metaphor for inexpressible truth. the Sacred Shrine (Boston: Beacon Press, 1957), pp. ‘“'^See ^’rid ffirn, (')7: “When the Saviour had once been looked upon as a sun. His mother naturally had her counterpart in that which enclosed the sun. Fhe sun is often hidden in clouds; therefore .Mary is the cloud whicli hides the great light. bus to theologians and jxiets Mary became the ‘light cloud,’ which bore the Her being shines with divine light in the same way that Saviour in its womb. Him mentions several medieval the clouds are shone through by the sun. writers who used this analogy, among them Bernard of Cdairvaux, Senna /, l)e tol. ^^9, and (iualterus Wihurnus in \\\s Encomium Heatae adventu Domini, LL Marine, in Analecta Nymnica Medii Aevi 1, ed. Clemens Blume and (iuido .Maria Also, Alheitus Magnus calls Mary a “cloud Dreves (Leipzig, iSSti), p. which tempers and ohstures the sun in order to accommodate man’s vision. She does tins in a three-fold way: by giving Christ flesh, f)y temjiering Justice with meicy, and by being an object of meditation less dazzling than Christ” (De (juoted in Dunbar, p. 27F)). Also note the delaitdihu.s Heatae Marine scription of .Mary as the fair garden that floweis under the rays of Christ, Earadiso •z;^.7o-7;^, and as the moon, which “receives and makes something of the light of tlie divine sun, whether in mediation” or in the “realization and fulfillment of its own blessedness” (Patricia M. Kean, I'lie Pearl: An Interpretation |New \'ork: Barnes and Noble, i9()7l, p. 7 )ail

inieresting

vie\v|)oiiit

.

f

.

.

.

.

.

•

}

— 17 —

.

.

1 ELLiNG Classical 1 ales

mans, hortus

coticlusus,

and

regina coelir' Geoffrey of \ansauf, a

twelfth-century rhetorician, even applies one of her traditional epithets, the “clear cloud,” to poetry, explaining that certain

Both Mary and

figures of speech obliquely transmit “light.

metaphor, then, are

between earth and heaven. Both

links

tercede on behalf of fallen humanity hierarchy, the daisy (and later

its

— Mary

in-

in the theological

personification Alceste) in the

secular, poetic one.

As comic

as Chaucer’s

Prologue may be, we must not over-

look the serious point that he

necessary in matters of

is

human

making: that intercessors are as perception as they are

in

mat-

ters

of salvation. Written sources of truth play a crucial role

the

human

lovers

(juest for

— or for that

knowledge.

We

cannot

all

in

be experienced

matter travelers or philosophers or theolo-

we must de-

gians gifted with mystical visitations. Ca)nsequently

pend on literature and its symbolism to make accessible to us the wisdom our limited experience cannot promise to give. Written perhaps in response to the onset of a new age of ex[)erience, an age in which scientists were rapidly becoming experimenters and philosophers were defending direct experiential evidence as a beginning for our understanding of the world an exhaustive list of Mary’s metaphorical epithets, see |. P. Migne, PL Index Marianus, cols. 495—528. 219, ^'’.'\bout one ol the tropes that retpiire oblic|ue rather than direct expression, (ieoftrey writes: “This manner of skillful expression can enclose the whole strength of a discourse in half a statement. A statement thus born does not arrive at beautiful colors openly but reveals itself through signs. It shines indirectly, nor does it wish to proceed directly into the light” (The Poetria Xova and Its Sources in Early Rhetorical Doctrine, ed. and trans. Ernest (iallo Fhe Hague: Mouton, 1971], 11 1585-87. Here (ieoffrey implies that this figure both gener'^'For

[

.

own

and simultaneously indicates a light greater than itself, toward which it proceeds in the same indirect wav. In another passage, (ieoffrey uses the same analogy to discuss a list of other tropes, writing, “.-X certain decoration of style and a certain kind of gravitv are present in the above forms, which arise when the subject does not appear publidv with its face unveiled, nor does its own but rather an alien expression serve it; and thus, as it ates

its

were,

it

indirect light

covers

itself

with a cloud

— but

a clear cloud” ((iallo,

1051-55). See Medieval Poetic

11

.

Margaret F. Nims, "'Translatio: ‘Difficult Statement’ in Theory,” University of Toronto Quarterly, 45 (Spring, 197.1), ‘-HImetaphor is, we might say, a minimal involucrattr, it is unlike the usual involucram, however, in that its wrapping is diaphanous.” .Also, the “clear cloud” closelv resembles Spenser’s metaphor for allegory, “shadowes light.” See the Prologue to Book 2 of The Faerie Queene, stanza 5. also

Daisies,

hie

and

Si n,

around

us,

tiling

true “thogh every wight ne

File

is

Legend

I’oei

kv

the Lei^end's Prologue wisely argues

is

liial

many

a

may nat ysee” (F, (I 15). who have kept those “true it

a tribute to the poets

things” alive in the works they have written lor the inex|)eri-

eneed

them

to read, (diaueer addresses

because he sees them as essential links

gratetully in his jioem

the imjiortant cultural

in

process ol passing on truths to luture generations. Mis

own

case illustrates the jxiint:

And thogh 1

hat ye

it

han

in

Foi beret h me,

Syn

or

that ye see love,

Whom

1

and beth I

do

nat evele apayd,

yt in

serve as

Cdiaucer’s

ajipropriation

songes”

not selfish thelt,

and then

honour the Hour

the

in sei \'ice ol

have

I

[F

is

rehercen eh

your fresshe songes sayd,

and eke

that

me

hajijieii

wit

7H—

or myght. (i ()()— 70]

Irom others’ “Iresshe but an attempt first to bonor love

ol

material

to serve the llower that “figures,” that

is,

to resjiect

the subject matter that deserves |)ermanence in the poetic tradition

and then

model

to glorify the

in

which

all

ait finds

its

best ultimate defense. Regardless of their jiarticular affiliations

with the llower and leaf debate, the frivolous controversy that

engaged marguerite poets tinoughout the fourteenth century, all poets are asked to see how they will benefit from (diaucer’s praise and understanding of his little daisy: But helpeth, ye lhal han konnyng and myghl, ^'e lovers lhal

kan make

ol

seniemenl;

In ihis cas oghle ye be diligenl

lb iorlhren

me somwhal

Whelhir ve hen wilh

in

llie leel

my

labour,

or wiih ihe flour. [

W ritten

in

honor of love and

Legend rewards

all

in service

F (>8-72]

of the daisy, (diaucer’s

poets wilh the acclaim they deserve.

— vj—

2

Metaphor, the

Alceste,

God

of

and

Love

As we observed in the last chapter, Alceste’s identity as poetry is based on many of the attributes visible in the daisy our narrator worships in the predream sequence of events, d'he dower’s shape, color, light, and heliotropism all contribute to essential function as

its

sion, if

you

will,

an imitator of the sun, an earthly ver-

of some heavenly truth. But the connection

between the daisy and poetry is best conveyed by the metaphorical name of the flower. The name “daisy,” or “day’s eye,” actually functions in a way similar to [)oetry that is, it names

—

clearly yet indirectly the thing

it

symbolizes,

do

the

modern

reader, accustomed to viewing the figures of speech as verbal tricks ful

a

—

capable of producing different

device)

may seem immate-

In the medieval period, however, this particular figure of

speech had far greater importance today. Indeed, of

equally power-

effects, the fact that Cduuicer characterizes his flower as

metaphor (and not some other

rial.

— though

it

would be

to poetic

theory than

it

has

safe to say that the medieval theorv

poetry was to a large extent dependent upon the under-

standing of

indebted to

phor

—

how metaphors work, and Chaucer’s Legend is the rich rhetorical tradition that named meta-

borrow a phrase from perice and flour of floures alle” to

C'Jiaucer himself

(F 185).

—

as the

“em-

Me

I

APMOR, AlCESTE, AND THE (iOD OE

L()\ E

Metaphor did not always hold the important place it came to occupy in medieval rhetorical thought. Its growth from a simple trope in the classical rhetorical treatises to a

poetic

method

in

symbol of the

medieval ones was gradual. In

time of Quintilian’s

Institutio

tact, until

metaphor

oratoria,

the

{translatio

in

Latin) did not receive any special treatment or analysis in Ro-

man

on rhetoric and the figures of speech. In the Rfietonca ad Hereniunm, for exam}:)le, one of the most influential works on the art from the Ciceronian tradition, the author includes metaphor near the end of a long list of tropes such as hyperbole, onomatopoeia, and periphrasis, noting only that these figures are special because they demonstrate how language “departs from the ordinary meaning of the words and is with a certain grace aj^plied in another sense.”' Even when it comes time to define translatio, the author of the Rhetorica treatises

appears fer in

to understate

usefulness

its

meaning occurs “because the

this transference.”^

he names

six

when he

says that

similarity

seems

its

trans-

to justify

In concluding his discussion of translatio,

occasions

when

a writer might

need

it;

for vivid-

ness, brevity, embellishment, magnification, diminution,

and

to

avoid obscenity.^ Quintilian,

on the other hand,

92), chooses to begin his

that

it

list

in his Institutio oratoria (ca. a.d.

of tropes with

far surpasses the others in beauty:

Let us begin, then, with the coininonest beautif ul of tropes, translatio.

...

It

is

with a light

'lifirtonca

Press,

far the

most

,

in itself so attractive

tliat is all its

ad Uneutiium, uitiH),

and by

namely the metaj)hoi the (ireek term for our

distinguished the language in which

L'niv.

metaphor, saying

it

is

and elegant

embedded

that it

however

shines forth

own.'

trails.

On

Harry Caplan (Cambridge, Mass.; Harvard the classical distinction l)etween figuies and

tropes, see Quintilian, Institutio oratoria, trans. H. K. Butler,

vols.

(New York:

Putnam’s, l.oeb Classical l.ibrary, 1921), H.2..r^-.i7. The formei referred to a |)lay on a group of words, a whole sentence, or a paragraph; the latter referred to a |)lay on a single word only.

( 1

.

P.

"fStMrv

51

.

Telling CTassical Tales

He

continues by saying that tropes such as these “help out our

meaning” and “concern not merely individual words but also our thoughts and the structure of our sentences.”^ Before he finishes his description of translatw, he divides it into four major types and includes examples to help the reader recognize its wide application. The four types are a transference characteristics of

one inanimate object

(i)

to another, (2)

of the

of inani-

mate characteristics to living creatures, (3) of the characteristics of one living creature to another, and (4) of animate characteristics to an inanimate object.*^ About the last, Quintilian writes: produced when the theme is exalted by a bold and almost hazardous metaphor and inanimate objects are given life and action.^ But above

effects of extraordinary sublimity are

all,

In short, Quintilian’s respect for metaphor’s versatility

and

power resulted in the first extended analysis of what haf)pens when writers employ the “meaning transfer” of metaphorical language, especially that which creates “new life” through personification.

Quintilian’s influence was

felt

by later rhetoricians and gram-

marians including Donatus, whose Ars grammatica became the standard medieval textbook on grammar and usage. Although

more tropes than Quintilian does, Donatus classifies them in the same way. Metaphor, with its four permutations he

lists

of the animate/inanimate categories, comes

first.'’

But Donatus

metaphor as a transference of words and things a definition that found its way into several later medieval treatises on tropes, including that of Bede, who writes, Metaphora est rerum verhorumque translation Metaphor thus began also defines

—

'’8.6.2.

‘*8.6.9-12. '8.6.

1

1

Mrs Grammatica,

in

Grammatici Latini, ed. H. Keil, 7

vols. (l.eipzig,

1855-70),

3:399-

Mr5 Grammatica, 3:599. For Bede, 175-86. Meta|)hor

Tannenhaus,

see

De

Schematihius

et

Tropvi, PI. 90, cols.

179. 1 here is a translation Quarterly Journal of Speech, 48 (October, 1962), is

in

col.

hv

(iussie

237—53.

Heclu

Mf.tafuor, Alckste, and to receive attention as

ruF.

(ion of Lovf

an important and versatile

artistic tool."’

Even in short manuals and lists of tropes like Bede’s, the effect of metaphor on readers was descrihed as part of the cognitive process of moving from words to the things they signify and from things to the divine realities they in turn lepresent. By

mid— twelfth

John of Salisbury even stated that words and things exchanged qualities by means of Bgurative the

century,

speech: I bis reciprocity between things and vvords, and words and things,

whereby they mutually communicate change of

their qualities, as by an ex-

more commonly accomplished by words used

gifts, is

in

a metaphorical sense [tramlativis sermonihus] than by those of sec-

ondary

origin.

.

.

.

This force of transferred meaning,

whereby

properties of things are ascribetl to words, and vice versa, gives birth to a certain tolerance,

which permits the use

of

words

in

varying senses.”

Such recognition

of the

unusual powers of metaphorical lan-

guage gave translatio high priority in the twelfth-century treatises on rhetoric known as the artes poetnae. Foi examj^le, in the Ars versificatoria, Matthew of \’enddme writes:

1

by a kind of

his trope,

sj)ecial j)rerogative,

and ought

enjoys a unicjue pre-

eminence over

all ti()j)es

pecially, for

confers a j>eculiar charm upon metrical composi-

it

to be

used by verse writers

es-

tion.

And

in the

Documentum

de modo

et

arte dictaudi

el

versificandi, a

prose rendering of the Poetria nova, (ieoffrey of Vinsauf

in-

cludes a long and detailed section on the “art of making metaphors.” Here (ieoffrey adds his

own

ideas about translatio,

fiist

by reducing (^niniilian’s four categories to two: the transfeidiscussed as a ue useful lor decoration alone. "Metalofrjcon, trans. Mctiairy, p. 50. For what lohn means by “secondary origin” see Mctiarry’s note, p. 30. ‘‘'F.dmond Fatal, ed., Lrs (Ot.\ poetufues de XU' el du Kill' siectes (Paris: Lib. '"It

was, ot course,

still

Ifonoie (ibampion, 1958),

p.

17;^.

— — .5:^

,

Telling C^lassical Tales

ence of nonhunian qualities

nonhuman

to

latter

type of

because

it is

to

humans, and of human

Like Quintilian, Cieoffrey prefers the

things.’’

transferring

translatio,

qualities

easier to understand

human

and

ning writers on the construction of

qualities to things,

create. In advising begin-

kind of

this

translatio,

Geof-

form of personification,

closely re-

lated to the construction of allegorical characters.”

This kind

frey clearly

translatio,

shows of

that

human

it

is

a

qualities to things,

that governs the Legend's Prologue; that takes place

the daisy

is

given

is,

of course, the kind

during the transformation

between the narrator’s waking and sleeping,

human

life

as Alceste.

Figurative language, of which

metaphor

is

the most impor-

tant example, was categorized in the late medieval period as

an essential component of allegorical expression. Figures of speech were considered the primary constituents of poetry, because on the level of the individual figure there occurred the

workings of poetry

in

miniature, the indirect disclosure of

meaning. Defenders of the

art

Scripture, noting that poetry

of poetry often compared

it

to

and Scripture contained the same

kinds of indirect and figurative expression.'^ Petrarch even

goes so far as to equate poetry with theology on the basis of modo et arte dictandi et versifkamli trans. Roger P. Parr, Mediaeval Philosophical Texts in Translation, no. 17 (Milwaukee: Marquette '^Dociirneutum de

LIniv. Press, 1968), pp.

hi— ()2.

p. 62. Also see (iallo’s remarks in Foetna nova, pp. 204—5. The Rhetorica ad Herennium defines allegory in the same way (4.34.46), though “allegory” itself had not yet gained the important status it held in medieval

"Docunientum,

thought. Marcia

The Mirror of Ijingaage, p. 17, writes that the aeuigma of (Corinthians 13 was considered a species of metaphor. Margaret Nims, in “Translatio," p. 22911., writes, “(Cicero and (Quintilian and their medieval followers defined the trope allegoria as an expanded metaphor or metaphor-series. (’-olish in

1

In relation to this allegory of the rhetoricians, poets,

metaphor

is

a basic allegorenie.” Al.so see

and

later the allegory of the

Rosamund Tuve,

Elizabethan

and Metaphysical Imagery ((Chicago: Univ. of (Cliicago Press, 1947), p. 105: "Allegoria does not use metaphor; it is one.” '•’In an article on Petrarch’s poetics, (Concetta (Carestia ('.reenfield writes, “Petrarch defends the ohscurity of poetical allegory, likening it to that of .Seri ptural allegory. Following the Augustinian argument, he says that the divine word must be obscure, for it is the expression of an inconceivable power, access to which must he rendered difficult to make its understanding pleasing and wondrous” (“ The Poetics of Francis Petrarch,” in Francis Petrarch, Six Centuries Later, North (Carolina Studies in the Romance l.anguages and Uteratures 3 [(Chapel Hill: Univ. of North (Carolina Press, 1975], [). 219).

— 54 —

Metaphor, tlieir

Alc-esie,

and ehe (ion oe Love

sharing figurative speech, “whose main element

Margaret

metapiior.”"^

Nims, noting the medieval

the

is

preoccu-

pation with metaphor, rightly concludes that this trope hest characterizes poetry’s

methods

in general.

Quoting Vincent

of

Beauvais, she writes:

I

he office of the poet,

life

into

specifically,

is

“to transpose the events of

new shapes, employing with

figurative modes.”

would seem

It

skill

and charm oblique

that the translatio that

is

meta-

phor underlies the tramfonriatio, the tramfiguratio, that is poetry. As a small hut complete act of obliqim figumtio, metaphor appears of puesis, of mimesis. Metato he a basic unit of verbal making

—

phor, we might say,

is

a poeserne.”

metaphor appears to have transcended its origins as merely one of many tropes and to have come to represent the way poets communicate abstract meaning in concrete In the artes poetriae,

terms. 1

he recognition that

translatio

fined role in poetic theory

has a significant and well-de-

prompted many medieval

writers to

caution poets against using verbal ornamentation as mere out-

ward show. A good metaphor, writes (ieof rey of Vinsauf, will fulfill its potential to convey meaning; in his words, it will have a mind as well as a face.'” k'igures must not be used indiscriminately or for decoration only, but must serve a purpose by conf

tributing to a poem’s sententia. In the Poetna nova, (leoffrey states:

Unless the inner ornament conforms to the outer requirement, the relationship between the two

is

worthless. Painting only the

face of an expression results in a vile picture, a falsified thing, a

faked form, a whitewashed tends to be something

deformity;

it

vaunts

'"(heenfleld, p. 218. ‘’Nims, p. 221. ''^Poetna ''^'Poetna

nova 744— If)nova 742—5;^.

when

itself

wall, a verbal hypocrite it

is

nothing.

Its

which pre-

form covers up

its

outwardly hut has no inner substance.'”

I'eli.inc;

Here, and

in

marks amount cifically,

it

Classical Tales

passages from the Documentum, (Geoffrey’s re-

good metaphor is. Spemoving from the verbal surface of

to a definition of

aids the reader in

what

a

poem to the meaning intended by its writer. It exists not for its own sake, but rather to effect that special exchange between

a

metaphors demonstrate intrinsic and objective (though perhaps hidden) similarities between things; they are not arbitrary creations meant only to adorn a poet’s work. Dante in the Vita Nuova agrees: “For it would be a disgrace to someone who dressed his rhymes in the figures or colors of rhetoric if later, on demand, he could not strip his discourse of this dress to show what he had really meant. In light of these remarks, it seems clear that CGhaucer selected

words and

things. (Good

this particular flower, the daisy,

because

it

demonstrates how

metaphors work, following guidelines very similar to those suggested by (Geoffrey of V’insaid and Dante. In other words, Chaucer’s daisy survives scrutiny even when its ability to carry meaning is subjected to rigorous testing. In conveying the meaning “sun,’’ the daisy first communicates the verbal likeness between the two objects being compared; the fact that the daisv and the sun share a name might constitute the decorative surface of the metaphor, the part that (Geoffrey calls its “face.” But even without this linguistic “dress,” there is a second reason for the validity of the metaphor, and that is the physical resemblance of the daisy and the sun. 1 hus the daisy “means” the sun, both in verbo and in re. Alceste, the personification of the daisy in (diaucer’s dream, carries on the daisy’s physical resemblance to the sun. I he lasuccessful

dies

who

attend her, venerating her for her truth in love,

openly recognize her

full validity as a

flower that “figures”:

“Heel and honour

fo troLithe

of

wonianhede, and

That bereth our alder pris

in

to this flour

figurvnge!

Hire white corowne bereth the witnessvnge.” [F ^"Clhaj). 25, in

pp.

1

The Literary Criticism

of

Dante

17—18.

-of—

Alifrfiieri,

296-99] trans.

Robert

S.

Haller,

F

MkTAJ’HOK,

Ai.CF.SI

AM)

F.,

HF

I

(ioi)

OF

L()\

crown bears witness to Iter likeness to the daisy, white circle around the center ol the tlower. And is

Alceste’s white

with this

its

it

crown, or white

hears witness to Alceste’s

circle, that also

natural imitation of the sun.-' As the visual basis that lends va-

crown demonstrates that elTective metaj)horical language buds its basis in reality, not in a fabrilidity to transhitio, Alceste’s

we wish to carry the Alceste’s crown in one of

cated or falsified likeness. Furthermore,

metaphor its

further,

we mav

interpret

if

gi\en to one

classical senses, as the prize

outstanding poetic achievements.-^ After praising Alceste for bearing the “alder

Another

cjuality of

metaphor which

means sion,

to

his

all,

j^ris in

has performed the

are

ladies

flgurynge.’’

relates to the characteri-

zation of Alceste in the Legetid's Prologue finally poetry,

who

is

the fact that

which metaphor here symbolizes)

is

(and

it

a vehicle, a

an end. As a reader processes a meta|)horical ex|)res-

mind moves from the was created

truth’’ the figure

to

figure

itself

“higher

to the

convey. Describing

this process,

Margaret Nims writes (accidentally employing apt C^haucerian terms) that a metaj)hor “opens, flowers, and dies;

life

its

luminosity are transferred to the term for whose sake made.’’-’

I

heie

is

it

and was

thus something sacrificial about metaphors,

functioning as they do primarily as vehicles for things

gi

eater

though short, are full of significance, but once they have performed the duty of semantic transfer, they are no longer useful to readers, and they “die.” No long leap need be taken for us to see in this j^aradigm the appears in classical accounts and in outline of Alcestis’s life as than themselves. Fheir

lives,

it

own

Clhaucer’s

brief sketch of her biograjjhy. Alcestis willingly

died to permit her husband a longer self

for what she,

mained

in

at least,

its

the L’nderworld until Hercules recognized her

piiinary sense* as niar^antum -ac

other meanings as well which rnua ol the sim (ILL ;^.B.ii.a) and the

are cential to

Lahti Dichouary, '^'LLL, s.v.

-^Nims,

thus sacrificing her-

considered a “greater good.” She re-

''Sce I'lit'saurm Linguae Ijitniae (I.c-ip/ig:

cornua in

life,

s.v.

c

town

cornua, 1.2)

cornua, 2. A, “de lande poetica.”

p. ‘J19.

reul)iicM, (i.e.,

ir-

iSoli— (j), which (k'liiics

“daisy”). Alceste’s

her complex identity. ol

\

martyrdom

(I.ewis

crown has It

is

the co-

and Shott, A

Telling CTassical Tales tue and was able, as part of one of his labors, to bring her back to

life.

I

he story

is

“Hastow

told quickly in the Legend's Prologue:

nat in a book, lyth in thy cheste,

The grete goodnesse

She

that for hire

of the

queue Alceste

housbonde chees

.

.

.

to dye,

And eke to goon to helle, rather than he, And Ercules rescowed hire, parde, And broght hir out of helle agayn to blys?” 510—16]

[F

Like the Alcestis of myth, Chaucer’s “dayesye” dies in the less act

of giving

life to

metaphor, indeed

all

something

literature,

else

— the very

undergoes.

And

self-

process that

to

underscore

the close correlation between Alceste and the flower, Cdiaucer

has the narrator link them in the lines that immediately follow' the rehearsal of the Alcestis legend. In answer to the Ciod of Love’s question (F 510—16), the narrator replies,

“Now knowe

I

hire.

And

is

this

good

Alceste,

The dayesie, and inyn owene hertes reste? Now fele weel the goodnesse of this wyf, I

Fhat both aftir hir deth and

in hir lyf

Hir grete bounte doubleth hire renoun. VVel hath she (|uyt

Fhat

I

me myn

have to hire

affeccioun,

flour, the dayesye.”

517-24]

[F

end of the Alcestis story to make even clearer the analogy between her life and the process by which literature discloses meaning. Mentioning again the daisy’s “white corowne,’’ the narrator tells of Alceste’s final and Finally, Cdiaucer alters the

most impressive “translation” into a

“No wonder As

lelleth

ys

star:

thogh Jove hire

stellyfye,

Agaton, for hire goodnesse!

Hire white corowne berith of hyt witnesse. [F ‘^'On

“Agaton,

”

see Rol)inshaucer’s

tivations for betrayal,

of follow-

general

my

discussion thus far in this chapter to the

characteristics

(diaucer parodies

of

in his legeiufary

the

—

its

exemplum form explicit morality,

its

that

ap-

and its brevity, (diaucer’s legendary, however, is constructed to conform to a particular kind of exemplum, that is, the saint’s life. As a subtype of the exemplum, hagiography usually shares with other exemplary narratives the three characteristics just mentioned.’ Its moral purpose is, of course, beyond dispute; saints’ lives were plainly designed to represent the struggle between good and evil. Despite the great variety of plicability to life,

the individual Christian narratives within

has

—

at

bottom

commonly

—

this purpose.’’

Its

it,

the genre always

applicability to life

is

also

from the narrative usually considered to be the prototype of European saints’ legeiufs, Athanasius’s Life of Anthotiy, to the late medieval specula containing large numbers of fives, authors and compilers routinely expressed the usefufstressed;

^Not every saint’s life exhibits all three characteristics of the exemplum form; there are, for example, some very long legends. Moreover, not every legend is intended as a model for behavior; (diaucer’s legend of C^ecilia is a good example. But in sj)ite of the exceptions, most saints’ legends were considered to be exemj)la and were gathered into collections together with other narratives to form exemplary speculti. For cot roboration of this point, see Mosher, p. 7411.: “T hese legendary lives of holv men and women and the V’irgin furnished more exempla than any other class of material. In a sense, a saint’s life or a collection of saints’ lives constituted a sort of example-book.” Welter, iti L’Exemplum, also saittts’ lives as exempla, as does Owst, pp. 12;^— 35. the struggle between good and evil in .saints’ legends, see T heodor Wolpers, Die Englische Heiiigetilegende des Mdtelidters (T ubingen: .Max Nie-

categorizes ''On

Alexandra Hennessey Olsen, "'De Historm (19H0), 415-25; Sanctorum': A (ieneric Study of Hagiography,” Oenre, (diaries W. Jones, Saints' Eives and (Jironicles in Early England (Ithaca, N.^'.; Ciornell L’niv. ‘ress, 19.17), p- 75; and Rosemary Woolf, “Saints’ Lives,” in Eontinuatiom and Heginnings: Studies in Old English Eiterature, ed. F,. (i. Stanley (London: Fhomas Nelson, ipbb), p. .11. meyer,

[>p.

28— ^.^o. See

also

1

— 101 —

Telling (Classical Tales ness of their narratives as models of behavior.' Brevity, too,

was a

common

feature of the saints’

lives,

especially

than one was collected into a legendary or

when

when more

a legend ap-

peared with exempla of other kinds to form a compendium.'^ Another characteristic typical of hagiographical narratives is

Chaucer mimics in his legendary.'' In the clearest example, Chaucer writes of Cleopatra’s story that “this is storyal soth, it is no fable” (702). Mowever, he also suggests the historicity of other legends by mentioning emperors and kings whose reigns were contemporaneous with the ladies' lives and by having the (iod of Love in a claim of historical veracity, a feature that

the Prologue talk about classical literary

women

as if thev reallv

women “in that tyde,” the deity remarks, were far men “in this world” (Ci 302-4). These appeals to his-

existed. 1 he

truer than

tory are often comic because of the distortion in

some of the

narratives of the historical truth. Cleopatra, in fact, which in-

cludes the strongest assertion of historical validitv, faithful

least

retellings

of a

classical

source

in

is

one of the the

entire

collection.

he most important feature of Cdiaucer’s legendarv, how-

I

ever,

is its

careless disregard for the differences in subject mat-

between hagiography and classical literature. The stories in the Legend combine pagan erotic love and Christian caritas in a facile union that corresponds to the (iod of Love’s own artifiter

synthesis.

cial

As we might expect, the

results are appalling,

^See Oust, pp. 123—24, 134-35. Indeed, Oust sees imitation as the “chief object of the saint’s lite. In Athanasius’s Life uf Anthony, the author twice mentions sion. els

Anthony

s value as a model, once in the Prologue and once in the ('oncluSee also the (lolden Legend, ji. 645: “[ The Martyrs] are given to us as modloi combat, and [aroslav Pelikan, The (irowth of Aledievnl Theology

(Too—

00) ((Chicago; Tniv. ol (Chicago Press, 1978), p. 125. ^See Uolpers, pp. 13. 33; Olsen, p. 411; the (iolden Legend, p. 687; and F.rnst Robert C.urtius, Europeiin Literature and the Latin Middle Ages, trans. illard R. I rask (1953: rpt. New ^'ork: Harper and Row, 1963). p. 160. On the histoi icity of saints li\es, see Owst, pp. 125—26, where he quotes Irom a toui teenth-centurv manuscript as showing this tvpical claim: “ T his is no I

W

tahull that

I

,sey

The Dilemma of

vou.

See also Olsen,

p.

417- VVilliam Nelson, Fact or Fiction:

Renaissance Stoi-yteller (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard L'niv. 1973), pp. 23—24; and Hippolyte Delehave, The Legends of the Saints: An Introduction to Hagiography, trans. \'. M. CTawford (1907; rpt. South Bend, Ind.: I niv. ot Notre Dame Press, 1961), p. 9, pp. 65-69. I

the

less,

—

1

02

—

(Ihal’ckk’s (a.ASsicAi. Lkc;kni)akv

and

little

justice

sented. Cdiaucer’s

them

done

is c

to either ol the

lassical

sources are cheapened by his forc ing

into an alien hagiographic pattern,"’

giography

worlds being repre-

and the

profoundly violated by (diaucer’s

is

spirit of

ha-

implicit sugges-

pagan women who die for love are somehow morally comparable to saints dying for the love of (iod. In fact, in many of the most well-known saint’s lives, saints become martyrs by dying at the hands of pagans, that is, because of the antij)athy between the (diristian and pagan cultures. (Ilearlv, in (diaucer’s mind, the solution to the problem tion in these stories that

how

of

(diristian artists

should use

classical material

does not

include the wholesale adoption of a hagiographical point of \

The idea

ievv.

of “Catpid’s martyrs,” the central conception of

(diaucer’s legendary,

is

an extreme and

finally

unworkable one

for a serious artist.

o confirm the perversity of

l

opinion of medieval writers

pagan and Boccaccio, whose l)e

theses of

Cdiaucer’s

this sort of

who were

Cdiristian topics,

clans mulieribus

union, even

in

the

actively seeking tiew syn-

we need only cjuite

is

to turn to

probably one of

medieval sources. Boccaccio did not include any

he did not think they

(Christian saints in his collection because

were appropriate

in

the

company

pagans. In his preface he

of

seemed that they could not very well he placed side and that they did not strive foi the same goal.”" d'o

writes, “It

by side

Boccaccio, the natural virtue of pagans

is

somehow

different

and the two must not be confused, or even coml)ined in the same exemplary collection. Furthermore, he reminds us that the virtues of (diristian saints had already been described in hooks reserved for them alone: from

.

.

.

(diristian virtue,

do

not only

light,

(ihrislian

on, illnstrions

live

women, resplendent in

asked by

j

i

i,

who reminds

life

as

it

is

us ol (iregory of

many whether we should

also 1‘elikan, p.

deserved immortality, hut we

theii

'"On the single “pattern” of Christ’s see Olsen, p.

in the true, eternal

demonstrated l

ours’s

in saints’ lives,

comment: “And

it

is

say the Life of the saints, or the Lives.” See

i

'HUmcerning Famous Women, trans. (iuido A. (inarino (New Hrunswick, N.J.: Rutgeis L'niv. Press, p. xxxviii.

—

—

Tellinc; Classical Tales

know

and invincible firmovercoming carnal desire and the punishments of tyrants

that their virginity, purity, saintliness,

ness in

have been described

riiough the

lives

in special

of the saints

books, as their merits required.'-'

may have been

the generic inspi-

ration for Boccaccio’s collection of exempla, he

women were

simply not

To

nevertheless

own work and

careful to draw’ a distinction between his “special books” devoted to saints.

is

him, saints and

the

classical

alike.’’

Although Cihaucer’s comic project in the Legend is different from Boccaccio’s serious one in De claris mulierihus, the two auhow to retell the thors were faced with the same problem lives of classical women in such a way as to make them useful to Christian readers as “examples” of behavior. Boccaccio’s solution to this problem was to tell, quite plainly, the stories of natural virtue to be found in classical texts. He did not attempt to introduce the conceptions of hagiography into his collection, beyond the simple idea of making his stories roughly conform in imitative purpose to the numerous collections of the lives of female saints. But (diaucer’s project is much more difficult, because he has to ignore the incompatibility of the two narrative types in making saints out of classical women, including classical women who were enthralled in what is, from a Christian point of view, an unredeeming passion. Only (diaucer’s Legend of Lucrece is, in some ways, an exceptional case. The poet did not have to alter its plot much, because Lucretia was, quite literally, a martyr for chastity, exhibiting (though only superficially, as we shall see) the same virtue

—

—

we

that

—

find in so

in fact, the

vived,

many female

Lucretia rnav have been,

most “canonical” of Chaucer’s

good reputation

Cdiristian

saints.

authorities."

''('concerning FamoiLs

Women,

intact, the scrutiny

ladies,

having sur-

of )erome and other

But for Augustine,

whom

Cihaucer’s

p. xxxix.

'’Boccaccio’s translator, (iuiclo A. (iuarino, writes:

“He

did not write of

and martyrs simply because he was not drawn to them, while classical antiquity held him enthralled with its charms” {('concerning Famoics Women, p. xxv).

saints

The

probably more complicated than (iuarino suggests. ol her, see cAdversiis Jovinianum .qb {FL col. 287). Also see Odo ot Clluny’s ColUitionum lihri tres, PL iqq, col. 557. f or examissue

is

"for Jerome’s approval

i

— loq —

(]hal'c;kr’s (;lassic;al 1.e(;f.ni)akv

narrator unwisely names

opening

in his

lines, Lucretia’s “vir-

tue” was actually a crime, tor in killing herself, she was killing

an innocent victim. As tor the motive behind her suicide, Augustine remarks that it was ohxiously not the “love of purity,” but the “overwhelming burden of her shame.”

there

cludes,

is

a

significant

sanctity” of (dnistian martyrs

difference

and the

1

bus, he con-

between the “true

illusory virtue of

Lu-

problem raised by Augustine does not interfere with Cdiaucer’s enterprise, however. The narrator simply ignores the substance of Augustine’s lengthy commentaiy on Lucretia’s case and attributes to him a feeling of “gret com-

cretia.'^

I

his

passioun” (itkjo) for her. ffe then introduces a theme to

hagiography

— commemoration — by remarking

common

that his story

being told “to preyse and drawe to memorve” (1(185) event in her life which resulted in her “martyrdom.”"’ is

(diaucer’s handling of Lucrece’s rape is

reminiscent of hagiography

only additions to

in

and

sul)sec|uent death

other ways as well.

this story’s plot

One

of his

Lucrece’s swoon, which oc-

is

curs during her rape, and which (diaucer describes as deep

and deathlike: She

loste

hothe

at

ones

vvil

and hreth.

And in a swogh she lay, and wex so Men myghte sinyten of hire arm or She

felelh

ded. lied;

no ihyng, neyther foul ne

layr.

[1815—18]

l.ucrece’s

swoon serves

several purposes. First,

it

renders her

obli\ious to raKjuin’s violence, s|)aring her the conscious expemedieval view

ples of

llie

Cliaiies

Swan and

lauretia’s story, see (iesta

of

revised by

Romanorum, nans.

Wymiard Hooper (London: Holm’s

Aniicpiarian

Le Mhuigier de Pans, trans. Lileen f’owei (London: pp. 101—5; and the Romani e of the Rose, 11 8()o8ff. Some of Cliaueer’s alterations of the original story are discussed hy Frank, pj). 110, and hy Kdgar Finley Shannon, (Juiucer and the Roman Poets (Caml.ibrary,

1H91), p.

Rout ledge and Sons,

ujiiH),

.

hridge. Mass.: Harvard L'niv. Press, 1929), pp. 220-28. '‘Phe Pity of (iod 1.19. See also

folm

.S.

P.

Fatlock,

“Chaucer and the Legenda

Anrea," MLX, .J5 (19:^0), 29()-98. "’See Ow'St, pj). 123, i25-5(), who (juotes two typical examples of hagiography being called a means of “hlessid eommemorac iouns” and a form of

“rememhrance.”

— 105 —

(Classical Tales

rEi.i.iN(;

rience of (and, of course, complicity in) such an outrage.

It is

intended, perhaps, to resemble the otherworldly states in which (iod allows His beloved saints miraculously to endure physical

sidfering

(in fires that

not scorch, it

etc.).'"

do not burn them,

Second,

it

in hot

baths that do

worsens Tarquin’s character since

suggests to us that his desire for Lucrece has, as

what

is

third,

most it

is

“lifeless”

a

about her

primitive

sometimes used

in

— her mere physical

object,

its

fortn.

And

example of the typological structure

hagiographic narratives

in that

it

“prefig-

ures” Lucrece’s real death.'” finally,

Lucrece’s

story

fairly

is

hagiographical mold since her

easy

the

into

own compatriots venerated her

for her virtue; as Cdiaucer writes, she

and ever

force

to

was “holden there/A

lines,

day yhalwed dere” (1870—71). With these the narrator slyly introduces the terminology he needs to

make

the Cdiristian parallel clear. Moreover, her corpse, car-

seynt,

hir

through the streets to give witness to the spreading story of her “martyrdom,” is surely meant to recall the relics of a ried

men “mav

Cdiristian saint, circulated with a legend, so that

and here” (1867) of miraculous forebearance and power

see

the

in

face of great suffering.

fhese hagiographic devices

in Lucrece’s tale,

makes Larquin

digression (1759—74)

coupled with the

fully

equal in lustful

power to the sexually obsessed pursuers of female saints,'*' by no means confer upon her any easy canonization, however. As hard as our narrator may work to make Lucrece fit the mold of a chaste Cdiristian, she

her

own pagan

tian truth hut lent

and

is

saintly only by the standards

still

of

culture, dying, as Augustine says, not for Chris-

through shame over the

lustful desire.

I

result of

someone’s

aixjuin’s character, too,

is

odd

in

vio-

the

extreme, for Cdiaucer has permitted him to display the tender example, the (iolden Legend, pp. 593, 632, 693; and The South EngLegendan 1. ed. Charlotte D’Kvelyn and Aiiiia Nlill, KE T S e.s. (London; Ox-

''See, for lish

ford I’niv. Press, 1936), pp. 11 41-.P3, 3(1-60. '^(.ompare, for example, the “foresliadowings” of death in the life of .St. Martha, (iolden Legend, p. 494". '^See, for example, the Golden Legend, pp. 32, 340, 332, 371; and I'he South English Legendury 1, p. ip. 11. 8-16; p. 293, 11 43-30; and 2,' p. 386, 11 3-8. .

.

.

(Ihauckr’s (;lassic:al Lf.c;f.ni)arv

longings of a stricken courtly lover, even though these details

do not

the purpose ot hagiographic legend. The lustful pur-

lit

show

suers of female saints should never be allowed to

gnant emotion; such a display conflicts with the moral that such tales are designed to convev. d to

equate Lucrece’s

poi-

clarity

ims C>haucer’s attempt

with that of a saint results in an obvi-

life

ously contrived piece of literary deception that violates the generic specifications of both hagiography

The story

also violates

correlation of “word”

“herte” (1736—39).

its

own

and courtly

professed interest

narrative.

the

in

and “dede” (1706—7), “contenaunce” and

Cdiaucer’s

praise of Lucrece

for

feyned” (1749) does not seem him from feigning the beauty of sainthood for her.

beauty “by no craft

nally,

own

we can

if

life

valid

of

deter that

.

of

words

in

And

fi-

the Prologue to his

the writing of saints’ lives

preventing idleness, a

having to deter

.

trust (diaucer’s

St. (Cecilia,

method

Lucrece

of

.

strict

sin with

is

in part a

which the

tale

concerned. Both Lucrece and Cdiaucer work to

is

sin;

she spins, while he writes. But one must finally

cjuestion the validity of Cdiaucer’s labor here, for

be described as

“leveflil

it

can hardly

Second

bisynesse,” as the

Nun

de-

meant for us to notice Lucrece’s simple but productive task and to contrast it with his own more complex, more directly “Christian” one which is, however, ulti-

scril)es

it.

lie certainly

mately idleness.

Another legend that betrays ( 3 iaucer’s hagiograj)hic adjustments is the Legend of (deofxitra. He easily conveys her “truth in love” and other virtues by simply sup|>ressing the historical facts of hei seduction and mani|)ulation of Antony and by ignoring her unseemly political life. Her (jualiflcations for “sainthood” are more difficult to establish, though, and (diaucer finally has to alter several details of her life

conform

biography

to a hagiogra|)hical j)attern. Cdiaucer’s

nal contribution to the stoiy of (’leopatra

dering

of

her death. In

all

of

cal

is,

make her

most

origi-

of course, his ren-

the poet’s sources, Lleopatra’s

suicide was the result of her placing an in

to

adder

Lhaucer’s version of her story, she dies

in a

at

her breast, but

snake

departure from tradition and one whose purpose

pit, a is

radi-

not im-

Felling (Classical Tales

mediately apparent. Yet play reenactments of the

if

One

life

recalls that saints’ lives often dis-

of their figural leader Christ, then

one can profitably interpret C'Jeopatra’s descent into the snake pit as an event intended to echo one of the most important incidents from the life of Christ, his descent into hell. Similarly, this

event recapitulates Alceste’s

world. She

other

is

to

own

descent into the under-

be seen, of course, as the model for the

literally as

of

notion that the narrator

classical ladies (F 542, Ci 532), a

of the legendary takes

lives

he constructs

his

martyrologv

of love. Cdeopatra’s ficial

life,

theme, but not,

make up

for this

snake-filled

in

its

—

and

Alceste’s, has a self-sacri-

original version, a trip into hell. Fo

inadequacy, Chaucer creates a miniature

“underworld”

can approximate lives

like (dirist’s

to receive his

at least in a

of her figural

models.'^'’

heroine so that her

general way

— the

Unfortunately,

life

prototypical

however,

clever imitation of hagiographical patterning does not

this

make

Cleopatra any more saintlike than her original story did, for

though she now descends into constructs for herself.

hell,

it

is

In digging her snake

seems almost aware that her damnation

Among

a hell she painstakingly

the serpents in the

pit

is

pit,

Cleopatra

self-imposed:

she sterte.

And there she ches to have hire buryinge. Anon the nadderes gonne hire for to stvnge. And she hire deth receyveth with good cheere, for love of Antony that was hire so dere.

[697-701]

We

have here only a poor imitation of a saint. Cleopatra willingly undergoes torture and martyrdom, yet instead of having them thrust upon her, she willfully chooses them as her fate, proving only that she is her own persecutor. Not able to ap-

proximate the true tragedy of fice,

descent,

John

Cdirist’s

and

Alceste’s self-sacri-

and subsequent resurrection, Cdeopatra remains

P latlock, ‘Notes on Chancer: Earlier or Minor Poems," A//..V, 2q (1914), 9911, also speculates on this snake pit and its relationship to Hell. S.

(IhaUCKR’s in tlie snake-filled hell ol

cause,

l)le

most

i)ut,

own

her

instead, in vain.

elliptical ol all,

is

the vanity ol his task,

LKCiKNDAKV

(1i,ASSI(;AL

de\ ising, dying not lor a no-

1

his legend, the shortest

and

perhaps (diaucer’s best statement about

fhough

this

pagan

can he supplied

life

with formal correspondences to Cdnistian patterns, ultimately the

relationshij)

remains

Even

superficial.

the

exj)ensive

“shrine” Cleopatra creates to keep Antony’s sacred alive

among

the Egyptians

jewel-studded

an empty mockery ol the })recious

is

reliquaries

for

the

remains of

patra’s pathetic attempt to canonize

own

cer’s

glitter I

efforts to

adorn

Antony

saints.*'

Cleo-

resemltles Cdiau-

worldly tales with the superficial

his

make them conform

of holy rhetoric or to

memory

to sacred plots.

he unfinished Hypermnestra shares with Cleopatra several

cidents that schematically retrace Alceste’s exemplary for a husband, self-sacrifice in order to save him,

life

in-

— love

and descent

into “hell.” Hypermnestra’s fatal act was to disobey her father’s

command sult

of

by sparing the

this

of her husband Eynceus. As a re-

life

noble deed, she

caught and “fetered

is

in

prysoun,”

where, the narrator wants us to believe, she eventually

dies. If

and the prison are meant to suggest the confinement of souls in hell, then Hypermnestra is reliving the tragedy of Alceste. She is destined to be a “sacrifice” from the moment she is married; indeed, Cdiaucer’s description of her wedding festivities (which departs from all of his sources) is frightening the fetters

rather than joyful

in its detail:

1

he torches bieiinen, and the launipes bryghle;

I

he sacryfices ben

rh’enceiis out of

()

ul

ilie

riie flour, the lef 1

f

is

redy tlighte;

lyre reketh sole;

rent

up by the

rote

inaken garlondes and crounes hye. [2610—1.41

fhe btirning torches, the rooted flowers

all

fire,

the “sacryfices,”

and the up-

suggest the hell Hyjiei nmestra was destined

to occupy. ‘'1

he analogy

Sacred

Sliritie,

of the reh(|uary

Ifirn oliserves that

may have been intended it

was a

common

l)y

(diaucer. in

/Vie

practice in the fate medieval

I'f.li.inc;

is

Cj.assical Tales

But Hypeniiiiestra’s destiny, her puppetlike existence which controlled bv the stars, is also exactly what makes her unlike

Alceste.

sources nestra visit

is

In is

Cdiaucer’s major de[)arture

story,

this

his addition of detailed astrological lore.'^-

from

his

Hyperm-

given beauty by Venus, “trouthe” by Jupiter, and her

to prison by Saturn.

Her whole character

molded from

is

above:

The

we clepen

VV'irdes, that

Hath shapen hire

that she

Destine,

mot nedes he

Pvetous, sad, wis, and trewe as

As

to these

wenien

stel.

acordeth wel.

it

[2580-83] In other words, Hypermnestra’s heroic act of charity

not her

own

choice

at all.

self-sacrifice

really

and her pun-

and she merely acted out the was forced upon her. I his fact makes her less

ishment were written tragic role that

Both her

is

in

the stars,

morally admirable than Alceste,

who chose

to die

without the

help of any astrological planning, making her decision trtdy charitable

and worthy

Had

of reward.

f

fypernmestra been the

author of her own destiny as was Alceste, then,

own words, like the

in Cdiaucer’s

“of the shef she sholde be the corn” (2579).

uprooted flowers

at

But

the wedding feast, she withers be-

fore she can bear fruit.

Bven though (Chaucer’s story is incomplete, it is clear that he did not intend to end it with less tragedv than anv of the other legends. Hypermnestra’s husband leaves the court without her, and the tale comes to an abrupt halt just as she is locked in

period “to use tieathen works ot art as coverings tor C'.hristian relics. Crusaders and pilgrims Ijronglit with them relics lying in costly cases and receptacles which they had procured in the hast. I he same liheralitv was shown with regard to the profane art ot the F.uropean nations. As the Church on the whole rejected nothing whether old folk legends or heathen customs or motives or artistic decoration so too it gave house-room to gems, receptacles, and imjjlements. Worldly objects were transformed into holv shrines” (p. ^^3). *’Hy|)ermnestra’s nativity is described by Frank, pp. ibo— bi, and Fvler. p. 107, who has a view very similar to mine ot this legend’s ironv. .

.

.

— —

— 110 —

(Ihai'ckr’s (Ilassicai. Lk(;f.ni)akv

Ohau-

prison. Closely following Ovid’s accounl in the Heroides,

ter chooses not to lighten

1

1\

pennnestra’s grief Or mention her

reward, as does Boccaccio

later

in I)e claris mulierihus, in

she becomes Lynceus’s cjueen after the wicked Danaus is

this

and

j)lot

course, ceste

Alceste’s tiagic

that of

triumphant

the

from the

killed.

some resemblance between

thus able to maintain

Cdiaiicer

is

which

biography

resurrection

distinguishes

that

“saints” that imitate her.

— without,

But as

of

Al-

Cleopatra,

in

(diaucer finally shows us that the heroine only superficially ap-

proximates the virtue

of Alceste.

1

he implication, again,

recording only the misleading and

tween two \ery different

human

artificial

lives

does

is

that

resemblances belittle

justice to the

complexity of either. In order to force Hypernmestra into .Alceste’s

mold, her

must he radically simplified, em|)tied of

life

articulate motives, and, with the worst insult of

all,

de|)rived of

happy ending.

a

1

hese

first

three legends

I

have discussed overtly display

Cdiaucer’s crafty reshaping of classical fiction to

hagiographic form that the (iod of Love

will like

the moral

fit

and deem

su-

perior to any other possible forms that these ladies’ stories can take." In so doing (diaucer suppresses parts of the ladies’ lives

make them more

to

virtuous and alters their l)iograj)hies to

the preconceived shape of Alceste’s prototypical cer

tells

literary is

us in other ways both that he

assumptions that

his

is

life.

fit

But (diau-

painfully aware of the

penance must

reflect

and

that

he

conscious of the processes necessary to this task. For exampassages

ple, several

Philomela

of

aware

of his

in

the legendary, particularly in the Le^reyid

and the Legend

of Medea, reveal that Cdiaucer

is

manipulation of “matter” and “form.”

(diaucer opens the story of Philomela with some lines ad-

dressed to (iod who, as “yevere of the formes,” carried

in his

mind

actual

the “idea” of the world before he undertook

its

construction:

-’Dfleliaye notes

ded

light j)ossil)le. in

iliat

order See

to tliem in

lia^iogiaphers (ommonly altered tlieii sources or admake their heioes and heroines appear in the l)est

to

the l.e^eud are com|jai

of the Sanit.s,

pp. (iS— tip.

al)le.

— Ill —

Some

of

Chanter’s methods

Telling Classical Tales

Thow

yevere of the formes, that hast wrought

This fayre world, and bar

it

werk began.

Eternaly, er thow thy

thought

in thy .

.

.

[2228-30]

Karl

Young

has suggested that Chaucer derived these opening

from one of the many accessus that were so often added to Ovid’s works in the Middle Ages as “critical introductions” to aid the reader in his quest for moral edification.-^^ But this passage about the giver of forms also describes the task of the human creator, the artist who must hold within his mind, as lines

Geoffrey of Vinsauf carries out

its

relates, the

plan of his “edifice” before he

Quoted by Pandarus

construction.-^^

in

Troiliis

metaphor succinctly expresses the care with which any artist must plan the project he has chosen; from the beginning, he must have mental control over the varied details that will make up his finished product.

and Cnseyde,

this

Philomela herself vividly enacts the role of the giver of forms in this legend.

After 1 ereus cuts out her tongue to prevent her

from spreading the

story of his violent deeds, she weaves her

tragedy into a tapestry to

though

what actually happened.

tell

And

must be told indirectly, Philomela’s translation of it does not appear to have diminished its horror, for Procne, when seeing it, “no word she spak, for sorwe and ek this truth

for rage” (2374). Here, truth clearly finds effective expression in art. In fact,

than

lator”

one might Judge Philomela a much better

Cihaucer

himself in

weaving true experience into tion Cdiaucer uses in giving skill as

saint.

art

this

legendary,

form

still

falls

make her

is

falsifica-

to his ladies’ lives. Vet

a narrative artist cannot, of course,

She, like the other ladies,

she

for

without the kind of

“trans-

her

a Cihristian

short of fulfilling the

requirements of a perfectly realized Christian

life.

''(.haucers .Appeal to the Platonic Deity,” Speculum, 19 (1949), — 14. On the accessus tradition, see Edwin .A. Qnain, ‘T he Medieval Accessus aci Auctores," Traditio, 3 (1943), 215—64. For typical accessus, see those written hv Bernard of Utrecht and Conrad of Uirsau which have been edited bv R. B. C. Huvgens, dccM.su,vrtrfaiod of Love’s project, nevertheless simultaneously under-

mines the

he has imposed u|)on the

validity of the regulations

Moreover,

narratoi’s literary enterprise.

he aj^proves

if

this

Love unknowingly admits that his judgment of the Twilus has been inadequate and that his sole assumption regarding human love (that tragedy in love occurs because of an unfaithful j:)artner) ignores the wide range of hunarrative, the (iod of

man

experience that literature can

on top

to include Tliishe and,

reflect.

Lhaucer’s decision

of that, to translate

constitutes lehellion against the doctrines he

Like tion

'I'hishe,

from Ox

repeats the

the Legend

id’s Heroides.

now

of Phyllis

accurately,

it

knows are unwise.

much close translasummary of her story

contains

(diaucer’s brief

familiar pattern of

betrayal, as

xvell

hagiographical dexice of recalling Alceste’s precedent lines that

handled

xvith

describe Phyllis as “fayrer on to sene/'fhan

flour ageyn the hryghte soniie” (2.}25— 2(')). xvith

I

his

as the

is

the the

summary

is

great dis|)atch to leave sj)ace for her long letter,

xvhose elocjuence proves her a caj^ahle narrator of hei oxvn misfortunes.

he narrator mentions that he regretfully cannot

I

clude

this letter in

mand

for hrexity:

hut

al

its

entirety because of the (iod of Love’s de-

hire letter wryteii

By Older, for Hire

letter

it

were

But despite

here as

me

tie

me

to

inav

a charge;

in

i

yin

1

have

it

large.

layd,

thoughte that she wel hath savd.

his radical

has nevertheless

1

was ryght long and therto

But here and ther 1

in-

shorteuing of Ovid’s original, Lhaucer

managed

to

let

12

1

Phyllis’s voice

—

dominate her

I'ellinc; (Ilassical

own

might be humor-

legend.’^ In this sense, as he himself

ously boasting in the

of

last lines

this story,

(both to Phyllis and to Ovid), clearly poetic villains

may have

or

Tales

who may have

he

is

a faithful

man

more trustworthy than

the

neglected her pain in their works,

exalted her deceiver

Demophoon

for his other

adventures:

Be war, ye wemen, of yoiire subtyl fo, Syn yit this day men may ensaumple se; And triisteth, as in love, no man but me. [2559-^1] Cdiaucer, though unable to prove his fidelity as an actual lover, is

nevertheless faithful to the classical female lovers

ways serve.

wash

to the facts

And

— that

of their

mark of

as a

this collection

lives)

his loyalty to Phyllis,

(if

not

al-

designed to

is

he echoes her

last

Dernophoon’s betrayal of her be described truth-

fully in future

accounts of his

life:

And whan thyne olde auncestres peynted In which men may here worthvnesse se, fhanne preye That folk “Lo! this

may is

I

be.

Ciod thow peynted be also

rede, forby as they go,

he, that with his llaterye

Bytraised hath and

don

That was his trewe love

hire vilenye in

thought and dede!”

[253^-42] Phyllis' s

concern with the preservation of truth

quent records ol Demophoon’s brings us to one of (diaucer’s of (lood

Women

illustrious

in all subse-

and heroic family

own major concerns

in the

as a whole. In writing these legends,

Legend

he has been

^’(lavin Douglas, in the Palice of flonour 2.808—25, suggests stronglv that the ladies ot Ovid’s epistles are thenieselves capable poets. .About them he writes, “I

had

wonder compeir;/ Ot castis greit

thay Ladvis seir,/ Quhils in that airt niichl have na (jueni. Rethorik colouris tine,/ Sa Roeit like in subtell fair maneir/ And eUxjuent tirine cadence Regulair {The Shorter Poems of Gnviu Douglas, ed. Priscilla Bawcutl, Scottish Text Society, ser. 4, no. 4 J. [Edinl)urgh: Blackwood and Sons. U)b7]). ot

”

12 2

CIhaucer’s Classical 1.k(;eni)akv

keenly aware of a

human

how

easy

is

it

for a poet to magnify or diminish

reputation simply by exercising poetic legerdemain.

Moreover, he

realizes that there

nothing mystical about poets

is

creating illusions of truth; doing so merely involves the use of

everyday

literary

such as cutting, expanding, editing,

skills

moralizing, or choosing the right authorities on which to base

rhus the

one’s

tale,

ways

in question, since one’s fate

ting

and unpredictable decisions

fame is theoretically aldepends solely on the vacilla-

stability of literary

of

poets. Caiseyde’s painful

would be

realization of this fact resulted in her fear that she

condemned in subsequent versions of her story, a fate that actually came to pass in the works of Henryson and Shakespeare. Like Criseyde, Phyllis realizes that her literary future

is

likely to

hold a far worse betrayal of her than could be caused by any unfaithful man. Cdiaucer’s deepest involvement with this issue occurs in the

House

we

Fame, a work very pertinent to the Legend becau.se

of

in

it

see tw'o conflicting versions of a story. In the House oj Fame,

and Ovid’s Heroides

Virgil’s Aeueid

vie for the

honor

of trans-

mitting to posterity the love story of Aeneas and Dido. Only V'irgil’s

account of

this story

walls of Venus’s temple,

l)ut

seems

to introduce, in

some

appear on the glorious

by the time the narrator has

ished describing the love affair as

aged

to

it

fin-

appears there, he has man-

detail, the

Ovidian perspective as

The result is a ludicrous, hybrid version of the Dido/Aeneas story which manifests radical inconsistencies in point of view, as might be expected from such a hasty amalgam

well.

of

two poets with very different sympathies.

Virgil’s

Aeneas ap-

j)ears as a responsible hero, Ovid’s as a thoughtless deceiver,

and both House

oj

of

these judgments get equal transmission in the

Fame, thus allowing

little

possibility of arriving at ob-

jective truth in this matter.

However comic there

is

something

mixed rendition

this

to

of the story

may seem,

be said for (diaucer’s conscious desire to

record a side of the story that did not have an epic tradition to help .secure

its

survival

— namely,

the Ovidian perspective that

favors Dido’s emotional tragedy in the face of Aeneas’s depar-

Felling (Classical Tales ture from her. Ovid’s partiality to Dido,

whole-hearted approval of

Virgil’s

when combined

his hero,

makes

for

with

an inor-

ganic and confusing narrative, hut one that nevertheless suc-

ceeds

in

achieving a measure of fairness uncharacteristic of any

previous version of the story. Chaucer, then, sets himself up as the Ovidian challenger of Vdrgil’s one-sided case, working not

what Virgil had left to posterity but simply to provide an alternative to it. With this in mind, the House of Fame's to destroy

whom

narrator alludes to the tragedies of other ladies

Ovid

had rescued from literary neglect, including some of those who appear in Chaucer’s legendary, such as Phyllis, Hypsipvle, Medea, and Ariadne. There is an important difference, however, between the ways in which these two works represent the classical people with whom they are concerned. In the House of Fame, V'irgil never gets completely

who

introduces

account

— not

upstaged by the Ovid’s

Ovid’s

silly,

viewpoint;

— which

impassioned narrator

after

all,

was chosen by Venus

her walls for eternity. Thus Aeneas

is

\drgirs

is

it

to

adorn

not likely to lose his rep-

utation as a flawless hero merely because of the alternative

opinion offered by the narrator as he scans the images about him. But in the Legend of Good Women, Aeneas is not shown the courtesy of fair representation (even though he

given equal

is

nor are any of the other men, manv of whom deserve much better treatment than they receive in the Legend's short summaries. Demophoon, for example, is badlv misrepresented, time),

for in

many

versions of his affair with Phyllis, he returns to her

after a delay, only to find

that she

hanged herself prema-

Fherefore she only imagined that he was he was unable to honor the prearranged date of

turely.^^

ing.

I

’•’See

his accident, of course, in the House of

Chaucerian

coidlicts

Fame 388-426, and between Virgil and

no way Fyler, pp.

false,

his

because

homecom-

lessens Phvilis’s trag32-41 and

1

1

1-13, tor the

()vid.

Demophoon forgets about Phvllis, but later repents his forgettulness and returns to find her dead (4.874-78). Hoccaccio, howevei in the (lenealogia, mentions Demophoon’s later return but does not •’In (»o\vers Confessio Amantis,

,

say that he was guilty ot any neglect.

— 124 —

(Ihal’cer’s (;i,assic:al 1.kc;f.ni)arv ecly;

she

is

as

real that she

coininced as other ladies whose

and dishonesty. She

a victim ol deceit

is

were

l)etrayals is

there-

fore justified in desiring an honest appraisal of her fidelity to

her lover, which she showed

Deniophoon clearly and one is inclined that

“thought and deed.” But

in

sidfers in (diaucer’s (and Ovid’s) hands,

ponder the

to

might have been perpetuated all artists

accommodation

wish

—

to see

everywhere. In other words, the

full artistic

of

as a villain

one viewpoint often riius

women

faithless betrayer of

(lod of Love has

Phyllis’s last

been hon-

neglect of another, faithful to the

if

misunderstanding

— had

Demophoon permanently drawn ored by

terrible

we

in this

made

see that the Cdiaucer

legendary

men. Such

its

entails the conscious

is

is

at

the

who

is

so

same time the

the travesty the ignorant

of (diaucer’s art in his

demand

that

it

be

rid of the so-called chaff Of honesty, fairness,

and perspicacity. For once a literary artist is handed a set of predetermined conclusions regarding human culpability, he has no choice in the course of his narrative but to commit the injustices necessary to lead him there. In an age of moralized exemj)la, when literary appetites demand gratification in the form of a simple dialectic, an artist must work hard »o make his stories confirm the expectations that await them, even if it means he must deface the images chosen by Fame to adorn the walls of X'enus’s temple. (>haucer’s awareness that he

contradicting traditional opin-

is

nowhere more evident than in the Legend of Dido. Lhaucer o|)ens his narrative by praising \argil and by announcing the Aetieid as the story’s main souice: ion

is

(iloiye

Be

lo thy

and honour, name! and

1

V irgil

Mantoan,

shal, as

1

can,

Folwe thy lanterne, as thow gost hyforn,

How

Fneas

to

I)i(l(j

was

lot

sworn. [92.4-27]

But as

in

the House

of Fatne,

the poet plans to introduce ()\id-

ian elements into this Vargilian tale:

—

1

‘^.5

—

Felling (Classical Tales

Naso and Eneydos wol take 1 he tenor, and the grete eflectes make. In

I

[928-29] I'o synthesize these two versions of the story, however,

make some important changes

cer must

which occurs

in the

Chau-

one of which Dido

in Virgil’s text,

scene describing the temple in

and Aeneas first meet. In the Aeneid, the hero finds pictures painted on the temple walls which recall to him his suffering and fortitude in the frojan War (1.456-63). He remarks to one of his companions that these pictures, powerful in their evocation of Trojan heroism, coidd ensure them a measure of safety in their travels because they present such a moving account of the losses of war that people will honor or pity the men shown there. Chaucer’s re-creation of this scene involves some very subtle changes in its significance. Most important, he has altered the effect these images have on Aeneas, making them convey shame to him rather than glorious fortitude:’*^

And whan this Eneas and Achates Hadden in this temple ben overal, hanne founde How Troye and 1

“.A.llas,

that

I

they, al

depeynted on

a wal.

the lond destroyed was.

was born!” quod Eneas;

“Thourghout the world oure shame is kid so wyde. Now it is peynted upon every svde. We, that weren in prosperite, Been now desclandered, and in swich degre,

No

lenger for to lyven

I

ne kepe.” [1023-32]

W hatever on the

Aeneas’s reaction might imply about what the images

wall actually depict,

it

is

clear that

what he sees there

somehow

causes him shame. Aeneas judges this particular account of the I rojan story as nothing but slander, suggesting ei-

''R.

\\

.

trank has also observed this alteration, hut he draws a ditterent it. See CJiaucer and the Legend of Cwood W omen, p. 74.

conclusion troin

(;hal'c:kr’s (li.ASsicAi. 1.f.(;kni)arv

thei that the creator of these

images was lying or

tliat

he told

the true story in such a way as to misrepresent Aeneas and his

The “desclandered” rojans, with good reputaare now permanently enshrined in the cultural mem-

fellow soldiers. tions lost,

I

ory as disgraceful In

making

losers.

change, Cdiaucer demonstrates the awesome

this

human

control artists have over

destiny and reputation. More-

over, through changing the pictures on the wall, he cleverly depicts his

own adjustments

neas sees on

the

wall

slanderous legend hero.

And

tation

and

exactly

is

what Ae-

what the readers

of

this

—a

shameful betrayer instead of a both Aeneas’s concern for his good repusee

will

ironically,

of Vdrgil’s historical truth:

his willingness to die

Dido’s feelings about herself,

if

because of

we are

its

loss

are actually

to believe the Ueroides,

the Aeneid, and (diaucer’s House oj Fame: “(),

wcl-awey that

For thorgli yow

And

alle

Over

al

myn

I

is tiiy

was

name

actes red

thys lond,

[House

l)orii!

lorn,

and songe

on every tonge.” of

Fame, ‘^45— -4^]

In this legend, (diaucer has obviously reversed the positions of

Dido and Aeneas relative to Fame, keeping Virgil’s story intact does not conflict with Ovid’s sympathy for Dido. only where He can faithfully reproduce Virgil’s “images on the wall,” if you will, until they interfere with the legend’s moral purpose, at which time it becomes necessary to deviate frotn his principal “auctour” and make Dido the one whom Fame has chosen to it

patronize:

.

.

Of

.

she was holden of

alle

(jueenes flour.

gentillesse, of fredoni, of beaiite;

Fhat wel was

hym

Of kynges and Fhat

al

that

myghte

hire ones se;

of lordes so desyred,

the world hire beante liadde yfyred;

She stod so wel

in

every wightes grace,

[1009-14]

— 127 —

Dido

This expansive praise for

from

ture

Tales

eli-ING (Classical

I

Virgil, but

is

not in

when Cdiaucer

itself a radical

depar-

implies that the Trojan

lords seek her help solely because of her

fame (“Swich renoun

was there sprongen of hire goodnesse” [1054]), then he

is

obvi-

ously stretching Virgil’s text.

Chaucer exhibits another tendency in the Legend of Dido which must he hrieflv noted. He is extremelv reluctant to in-

dude

in his

version any of Virgil’s accounts of supernatural in-

terference, especially

when

that interference

somehow

affects

main characters. For example, blame Venus and Cuipid for initiating Dido’s

the relationship between the two

he

is

unwilling to

love for Aeneas:

But

oure aiitour

iiatheles,

That (aipido, At

pi

On Be

the god of love.

is

eyere of his nioder hye above,

Hadde I'his

that

telleth us.

the liknesse of the child ytake,

noble queen enamored to

Eneas; but, as of that scripture. as he

may,

I

take of

it

no cure. [•

Similarly, the

make

139-45]

storm that forces them into a cave together

is

a

natural event in C’haucer’s version hut a contrivance plotted by

Juno and Venus in the Aeneid.'-\]o\’e's connection with larhas is never mentioned by Cdiaucer, nor does he place much faith in Xdrgil’s

hidden

accotmt of Aeneas’s entering the temple

in a

at

Carthage

cloud:

I

can nat seyn

But I

Wnus

if

that

it

be possible.

hadde hvm maked

invvsible

hus seyth the bok, withouten anv

les.

[1020—22] finally, CJiaucer entirely

omits \

irgil’s

cuiys appearance before Aeneas

long description of Mer-

to deliver the

message

that

On the natiiial storm, see Shannon, p. 20‘^. tvler fias also commented on C.hancei s editing ont of supernatural elements, and he draws conclusions similar to

mine. See Chaucer and Ovid,

[)p.

1

12— op

a

('-HAI’CKR’s (ll.ASSK.AI. l.FAiKNDA

the hero imisl leave for

Aeneas pretend

cer has

78). In

Italy {Aen.

that

he learned

now bored Aeneas was

up

newfound

to deceive his

c|ueen.

It

not

it

becomes

made

these curious alterations (lhaucer

—

dream even if we could simply making

this in a

all

notoriously unreliable source of inlorination

he certain that the

('haii-

its |)Iaee,

in

clear that

his \drgilian

text

contribute to a single intention: by banishing supernatural terference in the lives of his characters, Cdiaucer

blame

to assign

we have come

man who I

has

to

to

he Legend

of

Dido

the House of Fame'

in-

better able

is

them and thus to make the moral judgment exj)ect, that Aeneas is an unmercifully evil control over his

full

of

all

's

is

own

sinful behavior,

certainly a coherent narrative, unlike

same love storv, but readers j)oint out to them what (-haucer has saccoherence. Me has worked hard at the

version of this

hardly need anyone to rificed to achieve that

task of blackening Aeneas’s reputation, largely by subtle revi-

sion of those V’irgilian episodes that are in conflict with his in-

tended purpose.

\'et at

the

same

of fidelity to his sources, since

pendently creating any of such clever apjiroj^riation poets tell

time, he has retained a degree

he cannot be accused

Kven with two classical

this narrative’s ejiisodes.

of

the

personae of

— Virgil and Ovid — Ohaucer has nonetheless managed

a tale that

cance.

riiis

is

distinctly

anomalous

legend, like others

in

classical

0 be sure, the

to

its

tone and

many medieval

stories, especially those that

ranged context or

in

signifi-

are told to

retellings of fit

a prear-

confirm some a priori system of morality.

|)ractice of

making

saints out of jjagan lovers

a greatly exaggerated examj)le of literary falsification, yet

close

enough

to

the collection, brilliantly paro-

dies the unfortunate results of so

I

of inde-

to actual

it

is

is

medieval practice to be classified as

parody. 1

be

(loci of

l.ove

is

certainly justified in wishing to glorify

ancient achievements, especially Alceste’s, that have the to teach us

about the depth and truth

demanding

that she be set

all

the other ladies, he

poet, that

is

uj:)

of

human

love.

as the “calendier,” or

power But

in

model, for

grossly unfair, llis directive to the

I

Tales

of Alceste shulde thy vvrylynge be,

.

.

elijnc; (Classical

Syn that thovv wqst that calendier

Of goodnesse.

.

is

she

.

K’ 532-34]

suggests a plan

tfiat is

bound

to

because with Alceste as the

fail,

standard by which feminine truth

in love

is

to be

other ladies, as good as they are, can only suffer to

her

life

conform

ten to ize

of perfect charity. Although the

women’’

in

comparison

ladies’ lives are writ-

her archetypal example, we must always real-

to

the major differences between

“good

measured, the

vainly

them and

Alceste. Chaucer’s

themselves

sacrificed

for

unworthy

and because suicide resulting from despair does not deserve resurrection, they were not given life again by a herculean judge. 1 he men they “saved” or died for were not devoted husbands like Alceste’s Admetus, but, as Chaucer’s legends would have it, merely fickle lovers whose motives were suspect from the start, f'inally, many of the ladies had biographies badly in need of editing by anyone seeking to redeem them from charges of general moral turpitude, fhey are, without cjuestion, far inferior to Alceste if one wishes to measure them by a Christian standard of morality. For these and other rea-

causes,

the project of the legendary, designed specifically to

sons,

please the Ciod of Love, disproves his assumptions once

carried

out.

His

unambiguous in tion of the same sicism” that

ment

is

desire

to

have

literature

that

is

it

is

simple,

moral force, and part of an endless repetiwitless themes results in a “hagiographical clasits

On

patently unworkable.

that Christian charity

top of that, his require-

and pagan eros be reconciled forces

(3iaucer to produce a “martyrology of love” that does more than violate the true character of his sources.

little

Oddly enough, the ladies whose stories are told in this poem do not sustain the kinds ol injuries we might expect of participants (and victims) in this typical Chaucerian mockery, fhe poet often seems cjuite I

he

shee/'I'o

r

version

any

woman

is

moved by

slightly clitterent:

their

“And wosl

that wol lover l)ee” (F 5.}2— 4‘p.

predicaments, conso

vvel

that

kalendar vs

CjlAUClEK’s (a.ASSICAl. Lk(;eni)akv

veying this

some

in

and sympathy.

instances true compassion

regard, (diaucer

is

In

imitating Ovid, especially the sophisti-

cated narrator so visible in the Heroides, where the poet’s ludi-

crous bombast and

brilliant rhetorical

parody are mixed with

unmistakable tenderness and pity for the female victims he deOvid, Cdiaucer finds

scribes. Like

his target solely in the literary

forms and technicjnes that traditionally serve

man

experiences, not

We

periences.^'

(iod of

is

The

in

By

own sympathetic words,

women

that

represent those ex-

throughout

his

leg-

ladies of antiquity are not sacrificed at the

Love’s altar, even

reward the

mind

who

attacking narrative strategies, not saints or

Alceste’s ideal model.

And

the characters

must bear

endary, Cdiaucer classical lovers.

in

as vehicles for hu-

tfiough

their

lives

telling their stories in

(diaucer has taken

it

fall

many

short

of Ovid’s

upon himself

with the literary afterlife they

all

of

to

deserve.

men, whose good reputations were never in (juestion before the (iod of Love asked Cdiaucer to blacken them in his penance, they do not suffer an enduring wound either. Cdiaucer’s gross betrayal of them in this poem is so obviously what makes the legendary “bad art’’ that readers are never in danger of taking seriously its view's on male culpability. For, as the I'roilus tells us, blame is not what art is all about. as for the

he Ovidiaii and the Chaucerian nai rators share several features that are compare. Howard Jacohson, in Ovid’s Heroides (Princeton, N.).: Princeton Univ. Press, ipy.p, has shown, lor example, that the Heroides are in some ways nai atives that expet iment with the “reductionist tendency” of individuals to view history from a single |)erspettive (pp. 54)- He al.so de"'I

instructive to

l

scrihes Ovid’s interest in the “archetypal structure” of inyth, the recurrent pat-

terns that appear in the suhject matter he treated (pp. ;^7()-8o). For other relationships hetween (diaucer and Ovid as narrators, Fyler’s Ohoucer and Ovid

the most thorough and expeit study. For Ovid’s interest in “parallelism” and “lejx'tilion” in literature, see also Brooks Otis, Ovid (ls an Epic Poet (Oanihridge, is

Mass.:

Harvard

LIniv. Press, 1970).

—

I

1

—

5 “Poesye,” “Makyng,”

and “Translacioun’

Since the Legend of Good

Women

is

incomplete and leaves no

clues regarding Chaucer’s plans tor the other ladies to be in-

cluded

in his collection,

it

is

about

fruitless to speculate further

work might have conveyed. Henry Ansgar Kelly, however, after studying the lives of the ladies mentioned in Chaucer’s “balade” and in his prologue to the Man of Law's Tale, has written convincingly about which women Chaucer

the effect the total

might have chosen

to

complete

that Alceste’s story, because

it

his work.'

He

also

reminds us

survives in such a skeletal

form

and medieval sources, would have been extremely difficult for C'.haucer to expand into a legend. In the Prologue, the Ciod of Love has already told it in the fullest form possible to any medieval narrator wishing to work faithfully with sources. If Cdiaucer were to lengthen it, he would have to invent far more than he had to for his tales of the better-known in classical

But even without Chaucer’s Legend of Alceste or a lengthy source to help us, we can define Alceste and her role in the ladies.'^

'Love and Marriage in the Age of C.haucer (Ithaca, N.V.: (lornell laiiv. Press, He mentions Penelope, l.aodamia, Deianira, llermoine, •975k PPHelen, and Polyxena as likely candidates tor inclusion. ‘‘^For

Clhaucer’s

Robinson,

p.

846,

sources n.

510.

tor

the

Alcestis

legend,

see

Kelly,

[).

1

14,

and

“PoF.SVK,” “MaKVN(;,”

AM)

“ r

RANSI ACIOI’N”

Legend's Prologue with

some

ple, that the details ot

her storv, however scanty, seem to de-

example

sc'iihe a pertectly realized

534),

one

ot “tyn lovynge” (F fvpp (i

that holds true tor Cdiristian readers as well as the

ones who

classical

exam-

precision. W’e can see, tor

recognized her. She not only loves

tlrst

man iage,

within the honnds ot

that will survive intact without

but she also has a reputation

any nnc haritahle

talsitication ot

her hnshand, Admetns, whose brush with death gave her the occasion tor her

In other words, unlike the lives ot

sacrit'ice.

the other ladies, which (diancer himselt had to torce into

dious (dnistian patterns, Alceste’s

canery to make letter

contorm

it

lite

needs no rhetorical

to Cdiristian ethical

codes

te-

chi-

ot love,

her resurrection by Hercules rewards her tor her

still,

great devotion in a

manner

that

is

naturally satistying,

eral level, to (Ihristian readers; there

is

no need

on

append

to

tiresome and destructive allegory. Iter natural virtue junction with the

her

liteial tacts ot

lite

its lit-

in

a

con-

makes her worthy of

universal acclaim. It

thus

is

ladies

—

them

in

surprising

not

classical

and

to

tind

(diristian alike

great

that

— want

Alceste to represent

the lonrteenth-cenlnry (dnistian world. In the Pro-

around

logue, they hover their truth in love.

(diancer’s Legend

.

.

.

ot

We

wvmen

see not only the “ladyes nyntene”

hat, syn that (iod

t

he

idde pat 1

t,

ol

not hy this

Adam hadde mad

tnid

ot erthe,

mankynde, or the

tei the,

j)ossil)ilitee

wide

vvoi Id

ybee;

women

wei e

ec

[F

all

hon.

285-90]

the variety and diversity possible

within a shaied experience, that ot being true these

women, each

whom

tieated, hnt also

.And trewe ot love thise

women we

ot

swich a naas

t

tin

symbol

her, worshiping her as the

would have

Ne vvende Had ever in

In these

throngs ot

with a story to

tell,

in love.

want Alceste

responsibility ot recalling their virtue to others. .As a

And

all

to hear the

woman,

ot

TaLES

ELLINC; C^LASSICAL

I

course, she far excels them, but because she is

is

poetry too, and

therefore able to join the universal and the particular

powerful union, she sentation

is

in a

capable of the kind of effective repre-

of truth that Chaucer

— and

all

artists

— define

as

form of daisy

their mission. In describing the artist’s role as a

worship, the Legend seeks to depict the natural sources of

He

Cduiucer’s poetry.

about

his natural

wants to speak plainly and truthfully

surroundings, which, however humble, are

nonetheless nourished by the truth-giving rays of the sun. But in

addition to being the diminutive daisy of the natural world,

Alceste

is

fhrace’s queen, an identity that enables her to

also

lend authority and respect to “larger than

life.”

As both

human

a daisy

experience by making

and

a classical

it

queen, Alceste

wisdom in them the permanent

perfectly dramatizes art’s ability to preserve the

means of discovering

“olde bokes” by

in

values that relate to (in the case of true lovers, for example) the

“thridde part, of mankynde, or the ferthe.” But Alceste synthesizes universal tive

“bokes”

in a

way

human

more than

this,

experience with authorita-

that succeeds in maintaining the integrity

and truth of both, unlike the (iod of Love, who manages to unite “experience” and “olde bokes” only by distorting works of ancient literature into exempla, with the result that both experience and authority are falsified and betrayed. Cdiaucer’s Legend even suggests that Alceste

prove upon the virtue expressed (diaucer’s

little

in

is

non-Cdiristian

“balade,” sung by the narrator in V

ladies themselves in

Ci, is

able to im-

intended to praise the

fiction,

and by the

ability

of

C’diau-

symbolized by Alceste, to transform the stories of virtuous people whether from classical. Old I estament, or even

cer’s art,

—

legendary British times

— into new forms that not only preserve

these lives for the benefit of later readers but also help them find the natural place they deserve within the boundaries of C.hristian standards of truth

and

Hyd, Absalon, thy

virtue.

1

he

first

gilte tresses clere;

Lster, ley tlu)vv thy niekiiesse al

— LH —

adoun;

stanza reads:

“PoF.svK,” “Makvnc;,”

and

Hyd,

freiully marieie;

Jonatlias, al

tliyii

“

I

ransi acioun”

Penelope and Marcia Clatoun,

Mak of youre vvyfliod no coinpai isoun; Hyde ye youre beanies, \'soude and Kleyne: Alceste is liere, tliat al that may desleyne/ [(;

l

2o:^-9]

o be sure, Cdiauter’s lady outshines these virtuous people be-

cause her

own

conceived

in the scanty classical sources, far

inimitable beauty

and

virtue, as far as they are

surpass those

visi-

more conventional exemplary figures. (diaucer finally wishes to make in his

ble in the lives of these

But the point that “balade”

that Alceste outshines other legendary figures be-

is

cause her story has the power lo preserve what

about

the

without

past

falsifying

it

as

many

is

exemplary

of

(diaucer’s

fourteenth-century contemporaries do and he himself does

own

his

worlds

legendary.

ironic

practice

should ture

the

in

and courtly

justice to the values

a perfect realization of Cdiaucer’s theory, put

is

Iroilus,

— accommodate own, but

its

classical

an honest synthesis that does

in

of both, Alceste to

Uniting the

in

itself

that such

that

Cdiristian

to subject

can

art

matter that

is

— and

not by na-

accommodation must be

carefully

and honestly made. embodies Cdiaucer’s principle of uniting classical and Cdiristian traditions as they appear in the IroHiLs, leads naturally to the complex subject of how (diaufhis observation, that Alceste

cer viewed his

own

“thynges for

make,”

words. poetic

how

I

to

classical

as Alceste proclaims in the Legefuts

have avoided discussing the Legnufs place

development

this

role as a teller of others’ tales, a user of

poem

the Legend

now, because

in

we must examine

ilie

order to understand

own

itself.

I

activity as a poet

the special vocabulary he

both

in

the I'roHus

and

he best place to begin such an examination

Prologue’s F veisioii, the leftaiii of this eesle by name, but merely calls her “my lady.” ’’111

in Cdiaucer’s

defines (diaucer’s sense of himself as a user of

material

applies to his

until

own

poem does

in is

not refer to Al-

I

ellinc; C^lassical

Tales

with one of the Troiluss final stanzas, the enigmatic

little

envoi

poem’s several conclusions.’ In

that serves as the first of that

these lines, Chaucer reveals his respect for the classical auctores

whose works he hopes the But

litel

book, no rnakyng thow n’envie.

But subgit be

And

kis

Troilus has closely followed:

to alle poesye;

the steppes, where as thow seest pace

Cirgile, Ovide,

Omer, Lucan, and

Stace.

[5-17^9-9^]

Cdiaucer suggests here what

all

of

his

works imply

— that there

marked distinction between “rnakyng” and “poesye.” As modern research is beginning to make clear, this distinction was honored by most late medieval writers, and it served to difis

a

ferentiate “makers,” that

is,

courtly craftsmen

who wrote

who sought to meet the social interests from “poets,” who wrote things of permanent

in

the

vernacular and

of their

own

value in

age,

Latin (such as the classical artists mentioned in the stanza

from

who otherwise significantly embodied the classiin modern times, such as Dante and Petrarch.^ In

the Troilus) or cal tradition

his

own

saw

his

works, Cdiaucer never

poems

calls

himself a “})oet”; he clearly

examples of “rnakyng,” that is, as vernacular works designed to address local issues, even though thev employed classical material in the course of doing so. Vet in the lines from the Troilus that articulate this distinction, CTiaucer seems to be asking us to see that particular poem as something as

more than “rnakyng,” something hy

— even

subject to

that

— the standards

might be measurable

of “poesye.” I'o Cdiaucer,

'Por a discussion of the Troilm's multiple endings, see John S. “I'lie Kpilog otChaucer’s Troilus" MT, 18 {1921), 625-2(7

P.

Tatlock,

•’vSee especially VVinthrop VVetherbee, “Convention and Authority: A Comment on Some Recent Critical Approaches to Chaucer,” in Xew Perspectives iti (Jmucer (criticism, ed. Donald M. Rose (Norman, Okla.: Pilgrim Books, u)8i), (dending Olson, “Making and Poetrv in the .Age of Chaucer," PP- 79 “^^^’

Comparative Literature, 51 (1979), 272-90. For a shorter treatment of the distinction between “makynge” and “poesve" in the Troilus's conclusion, see Ihomas J. (»arbaty, "1 roilus \', 1786—92 and V, 1807—27: .An F.xample of Poetic Process,” ('Jiaucer Review, 11 (1977), ^99~8t-

“PoKSVK,” “MaKVNC;,” and

work

the Twilus was the only

in his

"

RANSl.ACIOrN”

1

corpus that approached the

greatness of classical literary achievement.

The more we study the strategies (diaucer uses in the Legend of (lood Women to detend the 'I'roiluss artistic worth, the moie

we

how

realize

pertinent his inaker/poet distinction

Legend's basic scheme.

appropriate

to

to

prove that

his Lroilns

moral or

the Legefid

in

does

life,

“makyng” I'wdus simply another example Love’s connection to

l

standards

social

how (diaucer attempts

He

just that.

fourteenth-century

to

Dante or

(like

discredits the (iod ol

Love’s view of the Twilus as a work that applies

manner

to the

the classical tradition rather than

to tn locally

it

then we can see

ot the age,

he a medieval poet

to

embody

IVtrarch) meant to

merely

It

is

any direct

in

o underscore the (iod of

him

alone, (ihaucer has of that lesser, or

the

call

“mad,” kind

of

verse:

“Hast thovv nal

mad

H('w that Lrisseyde

shewvnge how

In

in

Lnglysh ek the bok

iovlns foisok.

I

wemen ban

that

doii mis?”"

[(i 2(')4— hh]

I

he legends, too, are “made” things, hut they are more cor-

rectly categorized as examj)les of

“makyng” than

the 'Twilus.

is

All three characters in the Legend's Prologue, including the narrator, refer to the writing of

them

as

“maker,” not a “poet.” Alceste, the (iod

an

activity suitable to a

of

Lo\e, and the narra-

tor res|)ectively, say: “.

Of

.

.

he shal maken, as ye wol devyse.

wommen

“But now

Irewe

lovyng

in

al

.”

hire lyve.

.

.

upon thv Ivl, hat in thy legende thou make of this wyf, W han thou hast other smale ymaad before. I

charge

the,

1

D

[1*

"VVlieii relerriiig to liis

own

TroiliLs,

the nai ator j

at

one

.” .

.

5:^8-4o] |)oint

has a

c

liaiue to

use the veil) "to make,” hut instead chooses “to wiite.” See F }()(), (i 159 “ Fhey oghte rather with me tor to holde,/ For that olCieseyde wroot or tolde. .

1

:

.

.

I

ELLINC; (^LASSIC'.AI.

I

aLES

word niy bokes gan I thus on my Legende gan

AikI with that

And

ryglit

[F

“made” the legends

Cdiaiicer rial to lit

in that

I

make.’

544-45]

he reshaped

classical

mate-

the insignificant artistic goals set by the Ciod of Love,

guidelines for the behavior of

A

and to set fourteenth-century gentleman

the misunderstood Troilus

to correct

specifically,

lovers.

G

578-79,

take,

much

“poet” would have been

less restricted in his

purposes and therefore would have been able to create a work

was more universally applicable,

that

ing value, rime has in

work with lastborne out the point that Chaucer is

fact,

in short, a

making here: the Troilm has survived

as a

able work, but the value of the legendary surely

would have been

than comic) attempt to

is

permanently valu-

much

less clear

and

had been a serious (rather make certain classical lives conform to .so

even

if

it

Cdu'istian standards.

But Cdiaucer

not interested in merely providing us with a

is

convenient two-term classification by which

all

might

literature

he judged, fo be sure, the passage from the Troilus does

in-

deed give us these two categories, “makyng” and “poesye,” and even suggests that they he viewed in opposition to one another. But read more carefully, the passage clearly implies that a tium quid

is

po.ssible,

.

.

.

.something between “poesye” and “makyng”:

litel

makyng

book, no

But subgit be to

( 9 iaucer

ter-

alle

tliow ifenvie.

poesye.

.

.

.

says here that the Troilm should not he viewed as in

any way “envious” of the success of a “maker’s” work. If it is a made thing, it is clearly a rank above the usual courtlv variety. Instead, the I roilus vies,

if

you

will,

ought

to be

viewed as a

I

he

(»

version

And

that “en-

the achievements of the classical past. C’.oming

well after the “poesye” of classical artists

reads;

poem

lias

the narrator

with that word, of slep

(who figure so

awaken in these lines, the gan awake ((i •i.r4).

I

’’

first

largelv of

vvhicli

“PoKsvE,” “Makvnc;,” and

“

I

ranseacmoun’

following lines) the Troilm

in the stanza’s

which

to” the highest standards by

And

kis

V^irgile,

is

nevertheless “siibgit

literary art

can be judged:

the steppes, where as thow seesi pace

Ovide, Onier, Lucan, and Slace/ [

5 -> 79 *- 9 ‘^]

Chaucer’s deliberately ecjuivocal classification of

his

froilus

work that stands somewhere between “poesye” and “makyng” is important because the Legend both explains and

as

a

defends

third category of verse

this

— primarily

through the

figure of Alceste. Just as the kind of art Alceste represents can-

not be easily classified as either “experiential” like the

Lnglish daisy or authoritative like representative of both, so

it

I

hrace’s ancient

cannot be

ple illustration of either “poesye” or

common

queen but

is

easily classified as a sim-

“makyng.” Alceste cannot

be “poesye,” for example, because Cdiaucer has altered her

much for her to be considered a figure straight from antiquity. He has added details about her to make her conform to his own design, such as her origins in the daisy and her metstory too

metamorphosis that is decidedly as one would expect if Cdiaucer were the ancient auctores. Moreover, Cdiaucer’s

amorphosis into a star, not Ovidian Cdiaucerian

—

a

attempting

fidelity to

freedom

to

expand her legend

fact that

no extended

ing her to be a

classical

source existed about her, prov-

is

with

legendary. In addition, her

in (diaucer’s

status as a medieval courtly lady

Cdiaucer

possible in part by the

canonical representative of classical culture

less

than the other ladies so comfortable

made

is

is

unmistakably clear; she

feels

fourteenth-century courtly norms that

hardly out of place

in

praising her identity as a

daisy with the typically overblown language of courtly lovers.

On

the other

hand, to reduce Alceste to the category of

“makyng” would be cal identity,

which

in the Legend'^

'^Oii

to fail to

is

account adequately for her

classi-

and extensively portrayed classical identity, combined with

so deliberately

Prologue.

I

his

these lines and the oties immediately following them, see Olson,

289-90, and

(iarhaty, 300-^^01.

|)p.

Tellinc. C]la.ssic:al Tales

immoderate praise

enhancer’s vvyse,” that

is,

shows Chaucer’s

his classical masters,

and commitment must he located, that

for the “doctrine of thise olde

of antiquity.

to the literature

as the Troilus

Thus

Alceste

between the two categories

is,

medieval verse; she

described

interest in

is

neither “poesye”

nor

“makyng,’’ hut something in between.^

Chaucer wished to continue writing) has been granted a status above mere courtly “makyng’’ is also evident in Chaucer’s use of arguments drawn from common humanistic defenses of poetry in his description and exoneration of her role as a cotiveyor of symbolic truth. In I

the

hat Alceste (and thus the kind of poetry

first

we saw that was used to show

chapter, for example,

which Alceste

is

a part)

the sun analogy (of the effectiveness of

symbolic expression as a vehicle for the transmission of divine

humans. Similarly, we discovered that Petrarch, Boccaccio, and others defended poetry’s ability to express “natural’’ and “historical’’ truth."’ f inallv we noted that the theorv of translatio propounded and disseminated the notion that good poetry was concerned with reality and was therefore defensible as a form of divine expression, fhese defenses of potruths to

j

^

etry were, without exception, intended to explain the utilitv of

works by

They were never applied to the efforts of “makers,” whose works were not analogous in any way to divine methods of expression, nor even comparable in function to classical texts for they were not viewed as having any necessary relationship to “nature” or “his“poesye,’’ particularly

tory,” as did the

works of the

classical poets.

which the humanists were intent on preserving." fherefore, in defending his Alceste bv means of these models and by giving her a “natural origin in auctores

”

(.haucers interest in intermediaries in this poem lias alreadv been noted, lo the examples ot the figure of the V irgin Marv in .\lceste and to the sun analogy as an expression of artistic mediation, one might add (lhaucer's reference to the “mean” of Aristotle: “vertu is the mene,/ As F.tik seith" (F Ui^-bb). Petrarch, C.orondtion Oration, trans. Wilkins, p. 124b, and Boccaccio, BocOsgood, jjp. 48, 79. To these writers, one should add Richard de Burv, who sees “poetry” as presenting “natural or historical truth under the guise of allegorical fiction,” The Philobihlon of Richard de Bury,

caccio on Poetry, trans.

.

.

.

trans. F.

"kor

(..

this

I

homas (New Vork: (iooper

Stjuare, iqbb), p.

observation see Olson, 272—74, 27b.

— 140 —

8^:^.

— “PoF.SVF,” “MaKVNC;,”

the

(iaisy,

Clhaucer

is

and “ i RANSFACIOrN”

clearly aligning Ihinself

— and

his art

with the defense of “|)()esye.” Moreover, Cdiancer’s allusion to a

Dantescjue model in his Legend implies that his Alceste was, least in

one

theory, capable of competing with the very real lady of

of the medie\’al period’s

could mediate between ing, so

at

few true “poets.”

di\’ine truth

— implies Cdiaucer,

If

Dante’s lady

and human understand-

somewhat comically

—

might a

little

Faiglish daisy.

who

he Legend presents us not only with Alceste,

1

fills

the in-

termediate space between “makyng” and “poesye,” hut also with examples of the remaining two kinds of literarv activity,

“makyng” and “poesye” both. He thus provides us with tinuum of artistic j^ossihilities stretching from the dits courtly makers to the highest achievements of Roman I

he Ciod of Love,

courtly origins,

work

is

of course,

a con-

of the

poets.

because he cannot transcend

Cdiaucer’s overstated

example

his

of the patch-

minor “makers”; despite the craftsmanship that went into the creation of this imaginative deity, he nevei manages to synthesize fully the miscellaneous classical and (Christian elements out of vvhich he was “made.” hus he cannot compete with Alceste’s form of truth, even though he tries to embody a double cultural standard similar to her own. he Legend shows us “j)oesye” too, though in a much less dramatic way. d he clasefforts of

I

I

sical

|)oets

are constantly present

in

the legendary

itself,

al-

though we are often led to recognize their presence only by noticing how far from them Cdiaucer has de\iated in “makyng” his legends.

But

in

addition to their |)resence as the basis of

Cdiaucer’s “hagioclassical” effort, their uncorrupted voices are also

occasionally

heard when Cdiaucer chooses

faithfully small passages

from

their works.

Indeed, (diaucer’s conce|)tion of translation the Legend^ pur|)ose, for in apj)ropriating the “poets” (diaucer

is

is

also crucial to

actual voices of

tlie

carrying out a duty that he took as

ously as he did the creation of his

own

have seen their efforts as related

seri-

original work. Medieval

translators of classical texts, (Ihaucer included,

latio stndii, a

translate

to

to the noble

may

ultimately

concept

trans-

mediexal concept that Krnst Robert Cairtius and

—

i.}i

—

I

CIlassical Tales

ELi.iNc;

Etienne (iilson have written about as a significant component ot medieval historical and literary theory.'* The transterence

Roman

or “carrying across” of

made

learning into later cultures was

possible primarily through the works of chroniclers

and

whose conscious efforts to ensure the survival of classical knowledge resulted in one of the commonest features of mediclose fidelity to classical modeval historical and literary texts els both in accounts of contemporary history and in literary creations. With regard to the latter, most medieval poets poets,

—

viewed the practice of narrating others’ stories as an essential part of original composition. Mastering the art of the “retold tale,” especially

tion, as

poetriae

is

made

of

the classical

tale,

was central

to a poet’s

evident by the extensive discussions in the artes

skills

such as

amplificatio,

other devices necessary to the

hrevitas,

of

teller

tales

interest

occupatio,

already

and

in exis-

^

/

tence.'-^

educa-

Douglas Kelly and others have shown that medieval in

these literary

skills

is

related

to

the belief that

translatw studii, the “transference of the past to the present,”

was an essential function of poets. finds that literal translatio in the

translation

is

And

not surprisingly, he

one of the major modes of

medieval period."

But “translation” was presumably a much more loosely defined activity for medieval poets than

it

is

for us, since literal

renderings of literary texts from one language to another are comparatively rare in the medieval period.'’ I O the medieval poet, “translation” might involve the use of editorial skills such

'-’See (.urtius,

(Paris:

J.

''See,

pp. 29—30, 3H9-S5,

and ttiemie

(iilson’s Les idees et les lettres

V’riu, 1932), pp.

tor

183-90. example, (Feottrey of VSnsauf’s Docitmentuni, pp. 83— ()r^, which

sets forth mi.scellaneous advice

on “treating familiar matter,” and Nfatthevv of endome’s section on the treatment of “material,” .-tr.v versificatima .p "See Douglas Kelly, “1 ransUitio Studir. I ranslation, .Adaptation, and .Allegory in Medieval trench Literature,” Philological Quarterly, 37 (1978), 287—310, and Michelle .A. treenian, I he Poetics of / ranslatio Studii and (ionjoiiiture: Chretien de Iroyess CligAs, trench Fonim Monograjths 12 (Lexington, Ky.: French Forum, 1979). \

'’The lack ot close translation mav have been partiallv caused hv Horace's advice to poets in the Ars Poetica that they not he “overlv faithful translators” (.\/ 131— 3F)). Matthew of \ endome repeats this advice in the .Arv versificatoria (

4

-

1

.

2

).

— 142 —

“PoKsvK,” “Makvnc;,” and “I'kansi.acioun

even ladi-

as cutting, expaiuliiig, rearranging, moralizing, oi

meant

cally reinterpreting. In short, to translate

had employed during

(diaucer

skills

“maker”

his

life

of his works, including the stories that

legendary.

most

\'et

translation: the

of the legends exhibit

a loose

first,

two

summarization

drawn from the

sively)

tive differences

lation in the

between the

Legend

That

lieroides.

as

the

an active

make

uj) his

of classical plots literal verbutn

(though not exclu-

we perceive

effects of these

all

distinct kinds of

coupled with moral commentaries; the second, a ex verbo translation of ()\idian texts, largely

to use

the qualita-

two kinds of trans-

central to the poem’s thesis, for they are

is

we may hear how much better the voices of “poets” sound when compared with the dominant voice of the there so that

legendary’s “maker.” Furthermore, since (diaucer had always

had an independent

interest in the act of translation,

he used

the Legend as a vehicle for further adaptations of the Ovidian voice, with

when

which he had begun

the Book

of the

to

experiment

as early as

Duchess was composed.

(diaucer’s self-consciousness about his function as a translator

is

noted

made apparent in

Cdiapter

translation of the

3,

in

the Legend

ways. First, as

I

by having the (iod of Love object to his

Romance

of the

o|)enly for the distinction he saw ors.

in several

Rose, the poet

is

able to argue

between authors and

translat-

Franslators preserve for |)osterity what “olde clerkes” have

and they should not be held responsible for their am tores intentions. With the Romance of the Rose as the test case, Cdiau-

said,

cer could address this issue easily

— which

he does by having

both Alceste and the narrator speak of the role of a translator versus that of an original creator."’ d'he Lroilus, a work nearly (diaucer’s own,

may have needed

lengthier defense that the Legend gives tion of the

Romance of

the

it,

more

more complex and

but the poet’s transla-

Rose hardly needs such a defense.

the

Franslators are necessary links in the transmission of the “olde

in

G

whose importance (diaucer the Legend's opening lines.

bokes”

(F,

25)

"1 he passaf^es

in (jiiestioii

are F

— *43 —

desci ibes at length

F 9(12-65,

(',

952-55.

I

Second, the

G

ELLiNG Classical Tales

Prologue openly records Chaucer’s interest

in

available to English readers the narratives of the classi-

making cal past:

For

myn

entent

The naked

Of many

is,

or

I

fro

yow

text in English to declare

a story, or elles of

As autours seyn; leveth hem

Ehere

is,

of course,

maker very test to

fare,

much

rarely gives us

Chaucer’s interest

many if

a geste,

vow

leste!

[c;

83-88]

irony in these lines; the legendary’s

“naked

texts.”

But these

lines also at-

in exactly the task that the

legends by

and large fail to carry out. Since no “naked text” of Ovid had yet appeared in Eaiglish,’’ and since there was no majt^r European precedent for what Cdiaucer occasionally does in the legendary, that is, translate faithfully large sections from the authors whose works he otherwise corrupts, these lines testify to CHiaucer’s real desire to

words of tion

is

make

his predecessors.

recorded

in the

available in English the actual

Eurthermore,

his interest in transla-

legendary proper by means of several

analogues that seem to describe the

activity

of “copying” or

“transcribing.” Philomela’s translation of her horrible torture into a

woven

artifact stands as a

praiseworthy illustration, for

example, of the kind of passionate engagement an accurate copy of an experience is able to bring about. When done faithfully,

such “translation” can reproduce

life’s

complex and

‘'(iovver’s Confessio Amantis, even it it antedates the Legend, is hv no means “naked Ovid,” though some of the renderings in that poem from the Heroides are well done, (lower’s retellings, however, generally force moral conclusions onto the stories, and he thus attempts to carry out in a serious manner exactly what Chaucer parodies in the Legend. '^Shannon, pp. 278-79, points out that other medieval versions of the Philomela stoi y (such as (.hietien s m the Ovide .\1 omli.se) have her create “pictures m her tapestry by which to express her storv. Chaucer and Ovid both use the v\oid letters (Latin notas) to describe what she vveaves. In other words, here she is expiessing herselt verbally, not in images, for another analogue that depicts weavers as aitists, see the o|)enmg of Book b of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, in which Aiachne and Pallas vie tor the [irize in a weaving contest, fhey each weave old stoties into their tapestries, attempting to capture the mood and power of events from the mvthic past. ”

— 144 —

— “PoKSVK,” “Makvn(;,” and

course

iiuilal)le

power.

1

ransi acioi'n”

I

reducing any ot

witlioul

he same holds tiue

an effective narrative.

“

a |)oet

credibility

faithful to the

is

or

accurate tianslation of

in a poet’s

W hen

its

sj)irit

of

and convey whatever emotional power it contains. And literal translation, the method most likely to preserve an auctor's original tone and intention, is he

his source,

is

able to re})roduce

carried out so skillfully in

many

genuine

faithfully transmitted to (’haucer’s

own

pity for the ladies

readers.

I

is

the legends that Oxid’s

of

he result of these Ovidiati translations being

summaries or dubious moral glossing is a series of stories uneven in tone and effect, enhancer’s renderings of the Heroides are exce|)tionally moving and beautiful, in comparison to which his other editorial work his “maker” side his juxtaposition has made seems clumsy and incompetent.

couj)led with drab

—

I

many

modern readers

for

legetids difficult

(niiaucer’s

of

to

apjjiaise.

Indeed, enhancer’s Ovidian translations repiesent the poet his best.

To dismiss the legends

clearly labored over with care

toto is to

///

and

at

overlook what he

in all seriousness.

1

hese six

from Medea’s letter, for example, far outshine enhancer’s cursory summaries of hei story, but more than that, they constitute good poetry by any standard: lines (juoted

“Wlii Ivkede

More

(), l

ul

thy yelvve her to se

the boundes of

(liaii

W'hv lykede

And

me

of thy

me

tliy

youtlie

mvn and

honesten" tliy

fayrnesse,

tonge the infynyt graciousnesse?

haddest thow

in tliy coiu]nest

mikel imtrouthe liadde

tlier

ded deyd

yhe, witli the!”

[‘72-77]

Similarly, the eleven lines of Dido’s letter

solemnity and grace. Ovid’s Latin

is

end her legend with

closely followed theie, his

figurative language |)reserved along with the dignified tone of his

original.

I

he

last

cou|)let,

a

literal

translation of

Ovid’s

"venti veld fidonque fereftt" {Heroides 8.8), exem|)lifles his ability to turn Latin into |)erfectly natural Lnglish verse:

— '45 —

I'elling Classical

Tales

‘Tor thilke wynd that blew youre ship awey,

The same wynd

hath blovve awey your ley.”

[1364-65]

The same could be said of the other translations that appear in Chaucer’s Legend. Thisbe, Ariadne, Philomela, Phyllis, and Hyperrnnestra

contain remarkable examples of the poet’s close atten-

tion to Ovid’s Heroides

and Metamorphoses.'^

Chaucer juxtaposes “good” poetry with “bad” because he wishes to convey to us that he

Legend

— both

serving two masters in the

is

Ovid and the Cod of Love. He shows us

(in a

somewhat overstated way) that a dual fidelity is required of him in this poem, fidelity to the demands of a medieval audience wanting easily digestible morality and fidelity to the classical auctores whose narratives he depends upon in the construction of his art and whose status as “poets” he hopes himself to achieve. Moreover, he makes it known that the demands of these two masters often differ to the point of mutual exclusivity, tail

since absolute fidelity to the (iod of a betrayal

of

his classical source,

Love

will

frequently en-

f’ortunately,

it

is

clear

where Chaucer’s own preferences lie. His faithful translations from classical texts, embedded in the emotional wasteland of courtly adaptation, are distinguished examples of CTiaucerian sensitivity and warmth. In his hands, classical fiction can survive intact, often needing no alteration whatsoever to ensure its existence in a Cdiristian world. gloss, allegorize,

and

—

is

he medieval urge

edit classical narrative

the desire to intervene between

usefulness

I

it

and

its

other words, its

rejected by Cdiaucer in favor of respectful pres-

logue and stories thus serve as

in

readers to clarify

ervation of the “doctrine of these olde wyse. translation

—

to alter,

we know

it

I

he Legend's Pro-

part to explain

in

today

”

,

and defend

the scholarly acti\

itv

of turn-

ing a literary text into a new language, keeping intact both mat-

'Many

scholars have remarked on the fidelity and success with which (.haucer has rendered those lines of Ovid that he chose to translate. See, for example, trank, pp. 50—51, 73, 174—75; l^.

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Its

Consumma-

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M. “Cihaucer’s Maturing Art

Estrich, Robert

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Eext Society.

(aildwell. Scottish

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Edmond,

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3(1

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XIP

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XIIP

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Ilonore (dianijiion, 1958. Eleming, john

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Erank, Robert Worth,

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—

I

—

V

2

Index

Accessus,

1

Admetus, Aeneas,

Antony, 107, 109 Aquinas, I'homas, Ariadne, 118, 124

1

115, 118, 130, 133

126-129,

16, 123, 124,

Aristotle, 6211, 14011

‘49 Aers, David, 8111 Alain de

1311

1

Athanasius, loi, 10211

Augustine, 37, 38, 39, 104—105, 106

Lille, 3111, 3ifn, 4011

Alberius Magnus, 4711 Alceste, 20, 21, 22, 25, 137, 151; Heatiice, 68-69, •4‘> classical

and

5411, (>211,

Authority. See Experience and authority

origins of, 57-59, 70, 90, 132-133,

Averroes, 7811

‘34. ‘39: as daisy, 23-24,

43-48, 64-66, 56-59, 63, 70, 54, 90, 134, 139, 140-141, 147, 151; as defender of “(diaucer,” 42—43,

50-5 ‘,

Battersby, James, 59, 93, 125 Bede, 52, 61

Bernard

of Cllairvaux, 30, 3111, 35,

74-75, 84-92, 143: as figural model of the legends, 108-1 1, 116—118, 121, 129-130, 131: as symbol of poetry, 42—49, 50—51,

47 “ Bernard Bernard

of Utrecht,

64-66, 70, 87-88, 134, 139, 140-141, 147, 152: as synthesis of pagan and (Miristian elements, 70,

Boccaccio, (iiovanni, 148; l)e casibus virorum iltmtrwm, 93; I)e clans

1

9 ‘^9. .

‘

Corbaccio,

‘

33

‘34 Allegory, 24-25, 5411, 60, 81, 133, 153. See also Metaphor Allen,

Judson Boyce,

46)11, (iin,

1

1711

1711; II Filoslrato,

75; Genealogta dear urn gentilium, 41, 42, 1

3 -^.

Silvester, 3211,

mulieribm, 93, 103-104, 111;//

Alcestis of d’hessaly, 17, 22, 24, ‘