Painting the Lion: Marriage & Rhetoric in The Canterbury Tales
At times it seems as though Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales is a compilation of stories more about marriage than anything else. The theme predominates, taking central stage in several of The Tales’ most crucial stories. These stories are rarely read or enjoyed, however, as a unique opportunity to inspect that ever-so-popular union. Rather, the construction of marriage provides both writer and reader with a valuable structure within which to operate and explore new and uncharted rhetorical territory.
It is insufficient, however, simply to seek and understand Chaucer’s stance on problematic marriages and adultery. Precisely because they are stances that arise from and gesture to broader themes within Chaucer’s work, these conceptions and an understanding thereof are valuable in providing crucial insight into Chaucer’s rhetorical choices. The Canterbury Tales actively engages with a radical conception of marriage as precious but inevitably problematic.
Chaucer, in presenting his audience with marital ideals and an ideal vision of marriage, demands that his reader recognize the value of pragmatism, specifically in love and adultery. Yet, furthermore, Chaucer’s views on marriage – and the new values out which these views emerge – manifest themselves in and inform Chaucer’s rhetorical choices throughout The Canterbury Tales.
Though The Canterbury Tales offers a plethora of unhappy marriages, The Franklin’s Tale seems to be the first tale that offers, either explicitly or implicitly, a prescription for good marriage. Significantly, this image is far from one of perfection—rather, in keeping with much of Chaucer’s consistent pragmatism, the image relies on the acceptance of inevitable imperfection. For this reason, and for many others, Chaucer’s stance on marriage in The Franklin’s Tale is easily transgressive, if not polemically so.
As with many others, The Franklin’s Tale begins with a promise – the marriage vows – between Arveragus and Dorigen. Their marriage vows, however, differ markedly. It is Dorigen who accepts Arveragus as “hir hoursbonde and hir lorde,” and their marital understanding is contingent upon “his worthiness/And namely…his meke obeisaunce” rather than, as the reader might have come to expect, Dorigen’s (738-742). Moreover, while Chaucer writes, “Of swich lordship as men han over hir wives,” he also writes that a blissful life and marriage require co-dominion rather than an imbalance of power:
"That nevere in al his lif he, day ne night, Ne sholde upon him take no maistrye Again hir wil, ne kithe hire jalousie, But hir obeye, and folwe hir wil in al, As any lovere to his lady shal..." (746-752)
Thus The Franklin’s Tale establishes from its conception both that the marriage around which it revolves will depart from The Canterbury Tales’ matrimonial precedent and, secondly, that the story will offer some semblance of a prescription for a ‘blissful’ marriage through a new set of principles out of which marriage emerges. Marriage loses much of its transactional nature, and the wife is no longer commodified.
Instead, the union becomes one of companionship – even friendship – rather than a practical agreement between a man and woman, within which the husband retains ‘maistrye’. Chaucer employs newly egalitarian language and, in doing so, makes a suggestion regarding how marriage ought to look. Through his narrator’s dialogue, Chaucer writes:
"For o thing, sires, saufly der I seye, That freendes everich oother moot obeye, If they wol longe holden compaignye. Love wol not be constreined by maistrye; Whan maistrye comth, the God of Love anon Beteh hise winges, and farwel, he is gon! Love is a thing as any spirit free. Wommen, of kinde, desiren libertee..." (761-768)
The claim that marriage be founded upon egalitarian grounds – and, furthermore, that it be impossible for love to exist within a hierarchy – is not only a new claim, but also vehemently radical. The placement of these vows—and of Dorigen’s claim that “Ne wolde nevere…bitwix us tweine,/…were outher werre or strif”—at the beginning of the story, however, seems to imply that by the end of the tale their vows will indeed be tested, perhaps broken, and that this is the very conflict around which the tale will revolve (376-377). This premonitory tone continues in subsequent lines, where Chaucer, through his narrator, writes:
"For in this world, certein, ther no wight is, That he no dooth or seyth sometime amis... On every wrong a man may nat be wreken; After the time moste be temperaunce To every wight that kan on governaunce." (779-786)
The tale, of course, relies not only on one set of promises but two, and it is in this duality that the reader finds inevitable conflict. Thus Chaucer, through the structure of the story, actually necessitates conflict in marriage—even one as ideal as Dorigen and Arveragus’. It seems fair to suggest, then, that if in The Franklin’s Tale Chaucer provides a manifestation of the ‘ideal marriage’ in Arveragus and Dorigen, then conflict is, for Chaucer, an inevitable part of every relationship. Furthermore, the implication is that the best relationships are those that deal with such conflict in a pragmatic and truthful way. As Arveragus declares whilst telling Dorigen that she must fulfill her promise to Aurelius, though to do so would be to break their own marriage vows, “Trouthe is the hyest thing that man may kepe” (1479).
The Franklin’s Tale, however, is not the only tale through which Chaucer explores marital pragmatism. Chaucer conducts similar conversations in The Wife of Bath’s Prologue and Tale. In fact, the reader can aptly perceive the Wife of Bath herself as a living embodiment of this pragmatism in marriage. As she declares whilst considering Christ’s theological demands, “He spak to him that wolde live parfitly;/ And lordinges, by youre leve, that am nat I!” (110).
Typically hailed as a proto-feminist (albeit problematic) character, the Wife of Bath advances nontraditional biblical interpretations and seeks to turn the necessary evils of marriage to her advantage by capitalizing on the ‘debts’ owed to her by her numerous husbands. Through her character, Chaucer speaks to the value of the mediocriter boni; the implicit argument being that there is a viable theological place for pragmatism and that, sometimes, ‘good enough’ is precisely that—enough.
Finally, if Chaucer in The Franklin’s Tale offers an implicit prescription for good marriage, then he provides in The Merchant’s Tale a comedic description of what marriage ought not to look like – whilst also making another argument about the institution of marriage and the sin of adultery. Like The Miller’s Tale, The Merchant’s Tale revolves around the infidelity of young May to her aging husband, Januarye. Unlike The Miller’s Tale and other stories of infidelity, however, The Merchant’s Tale breaks the mold in two key ways.
Firstly, the story depicts marriage as imperfect in a pragmatic rather than damning light—not so much ‘to love is to suffer,’ as ‘to love is…complicated.’ Secondly, Chaucer conducts the story in such a way that the tale demands sympathy for the adulteress herself (May). Though Januarye’s pursuit of marriage is striking for a number of reasons, it may seem of particularly ironic import to the reader that Januarye thinks of marriage only as ‘an earthly paradise’:
"'Noon oother lif,' seide he, 'is worth a bene; For wedlok is so esy and so clene That in this world it is a paradis' - thus seide this olde knight that was so wis." (1263-1266)
The last note of irony – so clear and damning – is hardly necessary in order for the reader to understand, even before Januarye’s rant carries on for a slightly absurd length of time, that the remainder of the tale will probably revolve around the humorous inversion of Januarye’s marital expectations. As Chaucer writes, “But worldly joye may nat alwey dure,/ to January, ne to no creature” (2055).
Thus, when May finally finds a way to break her marriage vows with the young Damian, the reader is hardly surprised—and, when Januarye’s sight spontaneously returns just in time for the knight to see his wife and lover in the tree above him, the reader is thankful when Proserpina bestows May momentarily with wit enough to evade the situation. Furthermore, May as a female character is granted, perhaps for the first time, significant moments of introspection and interiority—moments that demand a certain degree of sympathy from the reader for the adulteress herself.
In a text where the written and spoken word are given as much value as anything else, it is crucially significant that May is (literally and figuratively) given the last word in a story that could have easily ended instead with her condemnation and a subsequent condemnation of adultery: “He that misconceiveith, he misdemeth” (2410). This ending is, of course, in great contrast with a story like The Miller’s Tale—in which an unsatisfying marriage turns unfaithful and the story ends well for no one at all. Dissimilarly, The Merchant’s Tale offers a pragmatic ‘alternative ending’ to the very quotidian story of ‘unhappy marriage’.
An understanding of Chaucer’s views on marriage, however, should hardly exist within a vacuum. The true value of such comprehension, rather, lies in its applicability to other realms of Chaucer’s work. Upon further examination, Chaucer’s reader may note the fascinating ways in which the poet’s views on marriage – and the values out of which these expectations arise – inform his rhetorical choices and The Canterbury Tales as a larger work.
Chaucer’s vision of an idealized marriage – one predicated upon a pragmatic approach to adversity – emerges from a new set of values including honesty, democracy of expression, and egalitarianism, among others. The reader can plainly see the impact of these same values on Chaucer’s rhetorical choices in his evaluation and accommodation of previously-unheard voices; namely, those of ‘the common man,’ women, the lower classes, and the uneducated.
This reflection of Chaucer’s marital views on his rhetorical choices becomes especially clear in The Wife of Bath’s Tale. In her prologue, the Wife of Bath declares, “Experience, thogh noon auctoritee/ Were in this world, is right inogh for me/ To speke of wo that is in marriage…” (1-3). In one rapid motion, the Wife of Bath at once usurps the unquestioned authority or “auctoritee” of canonized writings, replacing their power with that of another—namely, her own.
Therefore the Wife of Bath establishes from her story’s conception that her own sufficiency as an agent and a storyteller arises, astonishingly, out of her simple experience as a woman and wife. Later, when the Friar and Summoner interrupt the Wife’s tale in pursuit of their own rivalry, the Host defends the Wife of Bath’s right to speak: “Lat the womman telle hir tale./ Ye fare as folk that dronken ben of ale./ Do, dame, tel forth youre tale, and that is best” (851-853). As the decided authority, the Host holds considerable power in his orchestration of all storytelling. His reassertion that the Wife of Bath should continue supports the idea that she has a valuable story to tell, and that her voice itself has value. Later, the Wife of Bath declares:
"Who peinted the leoun, tel me, who? By God, if wommen hadde written stories, As clerkes han withinne hir oratories, They wolde han write of men moore wickedness Than al the mark of Adam may redress!" (692-696)
While the Wife of Bath makes reference to the Aesopian fable of a lion observing a painting that depicts (in a rather ungenerous light) its own capture, she also remarks not only upon the power of storytelling but on the power of the storyteller. What begins as an explanation of marital affairs becomes a commentary on what stories deserve to be told – and listened to.
Similarly, Chaucer demonstrates his commitment to the ‘voice of the common man’ in The Franklin’s Tale. Excusing himself for being a “burel” or uneducated, the Franklin declares: “Have me excused of my rude speche./ I lerned never rethorik, certein;/ Thing that I speke, it moot be bare and plein” (718-720). He admits that he has never studied canonical texts, the “auctoritees,” and that ‘colours’ or figures of speech are beyond his rhetorical capabilities:
"Colours ne knowe I none, withouten drede, But swich colours as grown in the mede, Or ellis swiche as men dye or or peinte. Colours of rethorik ben to me queinte; My spirit feeleth nat of swich matere. But if yow list, my tale shul ye heere." (723-728)
Despite this, the Franklin’s story is told, listened to, and – as it exists within the larger volume – deemed respectful enough to be compiled. The rhetorical prowess of the storyteller has little to do, in the end, with the story’s reception or overall worth; a story’s value is not determined by its ‘colours of rethorik’. Thus Chaucer posits the idea that a story or a work of storytelling need not be ‘high-brow’ or linguistically sophisticated in order to be legitimate, or worthwhile.
In fact, Chaucer suggests repeatedly that works of ‘lower’ rhetoric lose nothing in their appeal to a reader’s spirit, as suggested in the passage above. In the later Sir Thopas—Melibee Link, through his own pilgrim-narrator Geoffrey, Chaucer compares differences in the sophistication of different rhetorical styles and stories to the variation one might encounter from one Evangelist to another, noting that although their passionate accounts might vary from one to the next, “nathelees hir sentence is al sooth,/ And alle acorden as in hire sentence,/ Al be ther in hir tellyng differance (946-948). Therefore it seems clear that, for Chaucer and within The Canterbury Tales, a story’s worth is not predicated upon its ‘high-brow’ rhetoric.
The Canterbury Tales as we read it today demands that its reader attend to tales told by drunk millers, knights, academic, merchants, and members of the clergy alike. Some of these tales revolve (literally) around the less delicate anatomical bits of individuals; others become deeply didactic tales regarding morality and Christianity. Indeed, the sheer scope and breadth of The Canterbury Tales at times astonishes.
Chaucer himself requests that his reader ‘separate the fruit from the chaff’. It becomes clear, however, that the ‘fruit’ and the ‘chaff’ are not so easily distinguishable. Which is more worthy; the bawdy fabliau, or the sometimes-otiose tale of conversion? Much of The Tales’ value, however, lies in this ambiguous balance—and in its own embodiment of the very ideals it purports. Chaucer’s Tales, and the form he chooses to tell them in,offer the implicit argument that a tale of ‘low’ rhetoric is equally deserving of space on the vellum as another, more ‘sophisticated’ tale, and The Canterbury Tales as a physical item is an embodiment of this transition; a literal platform where Chaucer gives his figures a voice, justifies their telling and stresses not only that they be told but also that they have a right to be told.
This reprioritization, a pragmatic democracy of sorts, resides at The Canterbury Tales’ heart and manifests itself not only in Chaucer’s views on marriage, but also in the stories themselves and their rhetorical choices. Chaucer advocates, in addition to a host of other marital prescriptions, pragmatism under any circumstances—marriage and adultery notwithstanding. What often starts as simple meditation on marriage, however, evolves into a dialogue on “auctoritee,” the power of rhetoric, and the simple, eternal question of which stories deserve to be told – and read.
Teatum Crowe 