You Probably Haven't Heard . . .

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In the 1870s, a scholar discovered a legal entry that said Chaucer was released from an appeal of “raptus.” If you’re asking if that means “rape,” it surely can. But the general scholarly attitude was that the poet is above human failings.

     The charge was often explained as "abduction." Perhaps the abduction was necessary for the lady's protection, or he was really doing her a favor because one of Chaucer's friends wanted to marry her and couldn't get her guardian's permission. Only a "vicious imagination," it was claimed, would be needed to see Chaucer as the cause of a lady's ruination. In 1926, a Chaucer biographer even claimed our poet "figured as the hero" of the action.

     In 1947, however, an enterprising lawyer surveyed the 19th- and 20th-century interpretations and concluded that the scenarios created to achieve a "not guilty" point of view were "entirely unsupported by evidence." Then he gave an analysis of the intent of 14^thcentury legal terms and procedures. To appeal meant to accuse. It was an appeal for justice to be done. To release meant to remove the demands of the appeal.

     Many a man, upon being accused of rape, has learned that defense against the charge is difficult. If the man was unmarried, taking the lady as his spouse could satisfy the charges. But here’s the judgment in a case from Chaucer's era: A woman named Alice accused a man named John of having ravished her virginity. He was found guilty. John had a wife, so marriage could not resolve the problem. Fortunately for John, Alice withdrew her appeal, because the judgment handed down was that Alice was to "tear out John's eyes and cut off his testicles."

     How likely does it seem that Chaucer, a mature, well-respected servant of the king, would risk such punitive measures in order to abduct the woman a friend wanted to marry? 

     Chaucer's position at court (his favor with the king) could not protect him, if he were found guilty, because the king had no jurisdiction in cases between two citizens. The woman executed "a formal release under seal duly enrolled in the Chancery," and five prominent friends of Chaucer witnessed the action.

     Chaucer chose to settle out of court, which demonstrates "a strong presumption of guilt," though it’s not actual proof. The amount of cash given over is not known, but we can reasonably assume the amount must have been substantial. Generosity would be good for the poet's reputation at court.

Thanks to the 1940s legal work, lay folk—average readers as well as literary critics—were now in possession of accurate information to guide their assumptions. But the outcome surprises me. First, because the case is rarely mentioned. For example, in the authoritative Chaucer entry for the Encyclopædia Britannica (1968), it gave not a hint of it. Second, because scholars defend the poet’s reputation. In the 1996 Britannica, only two sentences refer to the incident and it suggests that Chaucer was not guilty as charged.

     Though the 1940s efforts have been mainly ignored over the years, another reference to the raptus case was published in 1993. It not only confirmed the original analysis as an "important study," but added yet another bit of documentation.

     Somewhat confusing, legally, was the fact that Chaucer, after being found guilty of a felony, was not indicted subsequently by the King's court: such an indictment was “almost as a matter of course."

     How could that be? The Chancery release was transcribed differently a few days later for the King's Court: "Whether by coercion, persuasion or some more complicated manipulation" the wording was modified. Raptus was "quietly, but emphatically, retracted," and the number of witnesses named reduced from five to three. The seriousness of the charge was undeniably minimized. It may be that this record at the Court of King's Bench "was meant to withhold the very information the original release was designed to disclose." This memorandum was the one "most likely to be read [referred to] than any other version of the release."

     Even with this new evidence, and although "raptus in 14th-century English law meant forced coitus," many scholars "have repeatedly tried to protect Chaucer's reputation." With proper interpretation of legal terms as they were used in Chaucer’s day, we ought to be able to recognize that Chaucer was not the hero of the case, nor was he a fool, risking all to be a romantic go-between. It is possible that he had a flaw, a moment (an evening?) of weakness.

The lady’s name BTW is Cecilia.

What's coming . . .

WHAT A PITY!

When you meet the Wife of Bath, she sticks with you. She stands out as a Canterbury pilgrim. In fact, she stands out in all of literature. No doubt it was Chaucer’s intention. One detail will prove it. The individual Tales generally have a prologue—a little intro to the story, a little getting acquainted with the teller of the Tale. They average about 50 lines. And then there is the Wife of Bath with 828 lines of often intimate particulars! (The General Prologue to the whole of the Canterbury Tales is only 30 lines longer—858 lines.) We become, though completely unanticipated, her confidantes.

A “Wife’s” introduction in the General Prologue, we expect would begin with the uncommon fact of her 5 husbands—but NO! Instead we’re told “she was somewhat deaf, and that was a pity.” Is this just a poet’s quirk? Hardly. She mentions her deafness herself several times in her Prologue. Deafness provides a continuing thread until the closing scene, the denouement, of her lengthy preamble.

The Wife, whose name is Alison, gained wealth and property from her husbands. Three of them, she simply tells us, were “good and rich and old.” When she’s in the market for her 5^th husband, she’s captivated by a young man of little status, but very attractive legs! After a month’s growing attraction, with a grand wedding, he became husband number 5. She generously shared her wealth with him. Ah, but she came to regret it!

      He often read aloud from old books about wicked wives. He’d repeat proverbs condemning women like, “It’s better to live with a dragon than with a woman who scolds!” Listening was painful for her.  On a particular night, as he sat by the fire, he began with a reading about Eve who brought misery to all mankind. Then he spoke of wives who found various means of disposing of their husbands.

     When she realized he wouldn’t stop, she’d had enough. “I suddenly tore 3 pages from his book and hit him so hard with my fist that he fell backwards toward the fireplace.” That was just the beginning of the fracas. He got up in a rage, hit her head with his fist and she fell to the floor.

     He was aghast at how still she lay! When she finally came to, she said, “You’ve killed me—but before I die I want to kiss you.” He came

near and knelt beside her. “Dear Alison,” he said, “so help me God, I shall never smite thee again. I beg you to forgive me.” And what did Alison do? “I hit him with my fist again and said, ‘I have that much revenge. Now I shall die. I can no longer speak.’" Her narrative comes to an unexpected, but rather harmonious, conclusion. “At last, with much care and woe, we came to an agreement—and I made him burn his books. After that we had no more strife.”

She was left a little deaf from the blow to her head, but otherwise it’s a happy ending.

CHAUCER’S “DREAM MAN”

Anything can happen in a dream. Dreams are Chaucer’s favorite setting because there are no limits to his imagination. In his poem The Parlement of the Foules he begins by reading a book written by Macrobius, about a famous ancient African, who appeared in a dream. And, if you don’t pay close attention, Chaucer will trick you in his dream sequence.

     When our poet falls asleep that night he is visited by an African, who is standing by his bed and wearing the same clothes as the man in the dream he’d read about. Why mention the clothes? Why not just say it was the same African—if it is? Because it’s trickery. The saying goes that “clothes makes the man,” but in this case “clothes fakes the man”! The African visiting Chaucer is a calculated replacement with an important part to play.

     The poet interjects a list of various dreamers and their dreams: a judge dreams of winning cases; a rich man dreams of gold, and so on. You dream about what pleases you. The African says Chaucer had read “an old book” of his, and makes it clear that the book is not the one by Macrobius. He says Macrobius “wrote not a little” of this book. In other words, Chaucer knew another old book well that was written by a different African author.

     Now we’re going to pluck an African name out of history. It’s a legendary name and Chaucer will confirm the plucking: Augustine of Hippo. He was a famous theologian when he lived (354-450 AD), famous and influential in Chaucer’s day—and is still famous and influential today!

     Chaucer confirms the identity by cleverly dramatizing Augustine’s well-known recommendation for educating or persuading: docere, delectare, movere. That is, inform, delight, move. When the African takes the dreaming Chaucer by the hand, it brings him comfort, delight.  The poet is led to an elaborate garden gate. An inscription over the gate describes on one side how to achieve a happy life and on the other side how to be doomed to a life of frustration and sorrow. As Chaucer stands fearfully contemplating both the possibilities, to his complete surprise—and ours—the African shoves him through the gate and into the garden.  That’s Augustine’s delight, inform, and definitely move!

We’ll have more to say about the garden later.

CHAUCER IN SPACE? YES!

In a poem called The  House of Fame, Chaucer exercises his imagination in another dream. This time he takes us—or rather he is taken--on a trip through space! A splendid golden eagle swoops down, grasps the poet with his talons and off they go. Eventually, they arrive at a place called The House of Fame, but, in the meantime, Chaucer makes an up close acquaintance with celestial figures he knows well.

The poet is amazed and fearful as he is whisked through the air, and surprised when the Eagle addresses him by name! He assures Chaucer, “Have no fear. No harm will come to you. I am your friend.” This gifted bird then provides a scientific digression comparing properties of water and air: the result of a pebble being tossed into water generates ever-widening circles; the sound of speech generates ever- widening circles in the air!  

     Then, continuing to soar, the attentive Eagle again inquires of Chaucer, “How are you?” When Chaucer replies “I’m well,” he’s instructed to, “Look down and see the forests, cities, rivers and ships.” As they climb steadily upward, the Earth becomes a distant speck.
     “Now look up,” Chaucer is told. “Here dwell the Milky Way and the celestial beasts (constellations).” Ascending still further, the zodiac, the clouds, and winds are now below them. And, as they near the House of Fame, a loud roar, like the sound of waves crashing on rocks, is heard as a result of the ever-widening circles of sound!

     The Eagle flies near to the House of Fame, gently sets Chaucer on his feet and leaves him to investigate the structure of the House. After the poet wanders a while, he sees the golden bird perched on a nearby stone and approaches him. The Eagle lifts him with his talons again and transports him to the center of the House where a great throng of people is gathered. About 125 lines later, just as a famous man is about to be introduced, the poem breaks off. Chaucer never finished the dream.

The House itself is quite remarkable with Chaucer’s considerations of the meaning and acquiring of “fame.” Perhaps we’ll make that a subject later.