Читать книгу History of English Literature (Vol. 1-3) - Taine Hippolyte - Страница 33

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There are other characteristics still more gay. The true Gallic literature crops up; obscene tales, practical jokes on one's neighbor, not shrouded in the Ciceronian style of Boccaccio, but related lightly by a man in good humor;[217] above all, active roguery, the trick of laughing at your neighbor's expense. Chaucer displays it better than Rutebeuf, and sometimes better than La Fontaine. He does not knock his men down; he pricks them as he passes, not from deep hatred or indignation, but through sheer nimbleness of disposition, and quick sense of the ridiculous; he throws his gibes at them by handfuls. His man of law is more a man of business than of the world:

"No wher so besy a man as he ther n'as,

And yet he semed besier than he was."[218]

His three burgesses:

"Everich, for the wisdom that he can

Was shapelich for to ben an alderman.

For catel hadden they ynough and rent,

And eke hir wives wolde it wel assent."[219]

Of the mendicant Friar he says:

"His wallet lay beforne him in his lappe,

Bret-ful of pardon come from Rome al hote."[220]

The mockery here comes from the heart, in the French manner, without effort, calculation, or vehemence. It is so pleasant and so natural to banter one's neighbor! Sometimes the lively vein becomes so copious that it furnishes an entire comedy, indelicate certainly, but so free and life-like! Here is the portrait of the Wife of Bath, who has buried five husbands:

"Bold was hire face, and fayre and rede of hew,

She was a worthy woman all hire live;

Housbondes at the chirche dore had she had five,

Withouten other compagnie in youthe....

In all the parish wif ne was ther non,

That to the offring before hire shulde gon,

And if ther did, certain so wroth was she.

That she was out of alle charitee."[221]

What a tongue she has! Impertinent, full of vanity, bold, chattering, unbridled, she silences everybody, and holds forth for an hour before coming to her tale. We hear her grating, high-pitched, loud, clear voice, wherewith she deafened her husbands. She continually harps upon the same ideas, repeats her reasons, piles them up and confounds them, like a stubborn mule who runs along shaking and ringing his bells, so that the stunned listeners remain open-mouthed, wondering that a single tongue can spin out so many words. The subject was worth the trouble. She proves that she did well to marry five husbands, and she proves it clearly, like a woman who knew it, because she had tried it:

"God bad us for to wex and multiplie;

That gentil text can I wel understond;

Eke wel I wot, he sayd, that min husbond

Shuld leve fader and moder, and take to me;

But of no noumbre mention made he,

Of bigamie or of octogamie;

Why shuld men than speke of it vilanie?

Lo here the wise king dan Solomon,

I trow he hadde wives mo than on,

(As wolde God it leful were to me

To be refreshed half so oft as he,)

Which a gift of God had he for alle his wives?...

Blessed be God that I have wedded five.

Welcome the sixthe whan that ever he shall....

He (Christ) spake to hem that wold live parfitly,

And lordings (by your leve), that am nat I;

I wol bestow the flour of all myn age

In th' actes and the fruit of mariage....

An husbond wol I have, I wol not lette,

Which shal be both my dettour and my thrall,

And have his tribulation withall

Upon his flesh, while that I am his wif."[222]

Here Chaucer has the freedom of Molière, and we possess it no longer. His good wife justifies marriage in terms just as technical as Sganarelle. It behooves us to turn the pages quickly, and follow in the lump only this Odyssey of marriages. The experienced wife, who has journeyed through life with five husbands, knows the art of taming them, and relates how she persecuted them with jealousy, suspicion, grumbling, quarrels, blows given and received; how the husband, checkmated by the continuity of the tempest, stooped at last, accepted the halter, and turned the domestic mill like a conjugal and resigned ass:

"For as an hors, I coude bite and whine;

I coude plain, and I was in the gilt....

I plained first, so was our werre ystint.

They were ful glad to excusen hem ful blive

Of thing, the which they never agilt hir live....

I swore that all my walking out by night

Was for to espien wenches that he dight....

For though the pope had sitten hem beside,

I wold not spare hem at hir owen bord....

But certainly I made folk swiche chere,

That in his owen grese I made him frie

For anger, and for veray jalousie.

By God, in erth I was his purgatorie,

For which I hope his soule be in glorie."[223]

She saw the fifth first at the burial of the fourth:

"And Jankin oure clerk was on of tho:

As helpe me God, whan that I saw him go

Aftir the bere, me thought he had a paire

Of legges and of feet, so clene and faire,

That all my herte I yave unto his hold.

He was, I trow, a twenty winter old,

And I was fourty, if I shal say soth....

As helpe me God, I was a lusty on,

And faire, and riche, and yonge, and well begon."[224]

"Yonge," what a word! Was human delusion ever more happily painted? How life-like is all, and how easy the tone. It is the satire of marriage. You will find it twenty times in Chaucer. Nothing more is wanted to exhaust the two subjects of French mockery than to unite with the satire of marriage the satire of religion.

We find it here; and Rabelais is not more bitter. The monk whom Chaucer paints is a hypocrite, a jolly fellow, who knows good inns and jovial hosts better than the poor and the hospitals:

"A Frere there was, a wanton and a mery...

Ful wel beloved, and familier was he

With frankeleins over all in his contree,

And eke with worthy wimmen of the toun...

Full swetely herde he confession,

And pleasant was his absolution.

He was an esy man to give penance,

Ther as he wiste to han a good pitance:

For unto a poure ordre for to give

Is signe that a man is wel yshrive....

And knew wel the tavernes in every toun,

And every hosteler and gay tapstere,

Better than a lazar and a beggere....

It is not honest, it may not avance,

As for to delen with no swich pouraille,

But all with riche and sellers of vitaille....

For many a man so hard is of his herte,

He may not wepe, although him sore smerte.

Therfore in stede of weping and praieres,

Men mote give silver to the poure freres."[225]

This lively irony had an exponent before in Jean de Meung. But Chaucer pushes it further, and gives it life and motion. His monk begs from house to house, holding out his wallet:

"In every hous he gan to pore and prie,

And begged mele and chese, or elles corn....

'Yeve us a bushel whete, or malt, or reye,

A Goddes kichel, or a trippe of chese,

Or elles what you list, we may not chese;

A Goddes halfpeny, or a masse peny;

Or yeve us of your braun, if ye have any,

A dagon of your blanket, leve dame,

Our suster dere (lo here I write your name).'...

And whan that he was out at dore, anon,

He planed away the names everich on."[226]

He has kept for the end of his circuit, Thomas, one of his most liberal clients. He finds him in bed, and ill; here is excellent fruit to suck and squeeze:

"'God wot,' quod he, 'laboured have I ful sore.

And specially for thy salvation,

Have I sayd many a precious orison....

I have this day ben at your chirche at messe...

And ther I saw our dame, a, wher is she?'"[227]

The dame enters:

"This frere ariseth up ful curtisly,

And hire embraceth in his armes narwe,

And kisseth hire swete and chirketh as a sparwe."[228]...

Then, in his sweetest and most caressing voice, he compliments her, and says:

"'Thanked be God that you yaf soule and lif,

Yet saw I not this day so faire a wif

In all the chirche, God so save me.'"[229]

Have we not here already Tartuffe and Elmire? But the monk is with a farmer, and can go to work more quickly and directly. When the compliments ended, he thinks of the substance, and asks the lady to let him talk alone with Thomas. He must inquire after the state of his soul:

"'I wol with Thomas speke a litel throw:

Thise curates ben so negligent and slow

To gropen tendrely a conscience....

Now, dame,' quod he, 'jeo vous die sanz doute,

Have I nat of a capon but the liver,

And of your white bred nat but a shiver,

And after that a rosted pigges hed

(But I ne wolde for me no beest were ded),

Than had I with you homly suffisance.

I am a man of litel sustenance,

My spirit hath his fostring in the Bible.

My body is ay so redy and penible

To waken, that my stomak is destroied.'"[230]

Poor man, he raises his hands to heaven, and ends with a sigh.

The wife tells him her child died a fortnight before. Straightway he manufactures a miracle; how could he earn his money in any better way? He had a revelation of this death in the "dortour" of the convent; he saw the child carried to paradise; he rose with his brothers, "with many a tere trilling on our cheke," and they sang a Te Deum:

"'For, sire and dame, trusteth me right wel,

Our orisons ben more effectuel,

And more we seen of Cristes secree thinges

Than borel folk, although that they be kinges.

We live in poverte, and in abstinence,

And borel folk in richesse and dispence....

Lazer and Dives liveden diversely,

And divers guerdon hadden they therby.'"[231]

Presently he spurts out a whole sermon, in a loathsome style, and with an interest which is plain enough. The sick man, wearied, replies that he has already given half his fortune to all kinds of monks, and yet he continually suffers. Listen to the grieved exclamation, the true indignation of the mendicant monk, who sees himself threatened by the competition of a brother of the cloth to share his client, his revenue, his booty, his food-supplies:

"The frere answered: 'O Thomas, dost thou so?

What nedeth you diverse freres to seche?

What nedeth him that hath a parfit leche,

To sechen other leches in the toun?

Your inconstance is your confusion.

Hold ye than me, or elles our covent,

To pray for you ben insufficient?

Thomas, that jape n' is not worth a mite,

Your maladie is for we han to lite.'"[232]

Recognize the great orator; he employs even the grand style to keep the supplies from being cut off:

"'A, yeve that covent half a quarter otes;

And yeve that covent four and twenty grotes;

And yeve that frere a peny, and let him go:

Nay, nay, Thomas, it may no thing be so.

What is a ferthing worth parted on twelve?

Lo, eche thing that is oned in himself

Is more strong, than whan it is yscatered...

Thou woldest han our labour al for nought.'"[233]

Then he begins again his sermon in a louder tone, shouting at each word, quoting examples from Seneca and the classics, a terrible fluency, a trick of his trade, which, diligently applied, must draw money from the patient. He asks for gold, "to make our cloistre,"

"... 'And yet, God wot, uneth the fundament

Parfourmed is, ne of our pavement

N' is not a tile yet within our wones;

By God, we owen fourty pound for stones.

Now help Thomas, for him that harwed helle,

For elles mote we oure bokes selle,

And if ye lacke oure predication,

Than goth this world all to destruction.

For who so fro this world wold us bereve,

So God me save, Thomas, by your leve,

He wold bereve out of this world the sonne.'"[234]

In the end, Thomas in a rage promises him a gift, tells him to put his hand in the bed and take it, and sends him away duped, mocked, and covered with filth.

We have descended now to popular farce; when amusement must be had at any price, it is sought, as here, in broad jokes, even in filthiness. We can see how these two coarse and vigorous plants have blossomed in the dung of the Middle Ages. Planted by the sly fellows of Champagne and Ile-de-France, watered by the trouvères, they were destined fully to expand, speckled and ruddy, in the large hands of Rabelais. Meanwhile Chaucer plucks his nosegay from it. Deceived husbands, mishaps in inns, accidents in bed, cuffs, kicks, and robberies, these suffice to raise a loud laugh. Side by side with noble pictures of chivalry, he gives us a train of Flemish grotesque figures, carpenters, joiners, friars, summoners; blows abound, fists descend on fleshy backs; many nudities are shown; they swindle one another out of their corn, their wives; they pitch one another out of a window; they brawl and quarrel. A bruise, a piece of open filthiness, passes in such society for a sign of wit. The summoner, being rallied by the friar, gives him tit for tat:

"'This Frere bosteth that he knoweth helle,

And, God it wot, that is but litel wonder,

Freres and fendes ben but litel asonder.

For parde, ye han often time herd telle

How that a Frere ravished was to helle

In spirit ones by a visoun,

And as an angel lad him up and doun,

To shewen him the peines that ther were,...

And unto Sathanas he lad him doun.

(And now hath Sathanas,' saith he, 'a tayl

Broder than of a Carrike is the sayl.)

Hold up thy tayl, thou Sathanas, quod he,

....... and let the Frere see

Wher is the nest of Freres in this place.

And er than half a furlong way of space,

Right so as bees out swarmen of an hive,

Out of the devils... ther gonnen to drive.

A twenty thousand Freres on a route,

And thurghout hell they swarmed all aboute,

And com agen, as fast as they may gon.'"[235]

Such were the coarse buffooneries of the popular imagination.