Document – “The Wife of Bath’s Tale,” from The Canterbury Tales

Abstract and Keywords

By Chaucer’s day (ca. 1340–1400), both England and Western Europe had changed a great deal. They were still arguably less advanced than the Muslim world, and warfare continued to bedevil the region. Nonetheless, they were wealthier, both more urban and more urbane, and had come a long way from the worst period of the great collapse in the Early Middle Ages. The great events of Chaucer’s era were the Hundred Years’ War and the onset of the bubonic plague. The former would not end till 1453, its conclusion greatly accelerated, as was the Ottoman conquest of Constantinople, by the impact of gunpowder weapons.

This most interesting of times found a fitting chronicler in the author of The Canterbury Tales. Geoffrey Chaucer was born in 1340 or later, the first child of John Chaucer, a reasonably successful rising man, who pursued both court and business interests. Chaucer himself served in a variety of court and government posts in his lifetime, even briefly holding a position as a Member of Parliament. He knew a variety of languages. His government work involved him in missions to the continent, including to Italy, and he was strongly influenced by Italian writers, especially Boccaccio. From 1387 onward (perhaps up to the very end of his life), Chaucer worked on The Canterbury Tales. Although he authored other works, it is for this great but unfinished collection of stories that he is best known. After his death in 1400, he was buried in Westminster Abbey, the first resident of a section that came to be known as “Poet’s Corner.”

The Canterbury Tales begins with a prologue that introduces the reader to the twenty-nine pilgrims who are joined together on this common journey, and Chaucer reveals much of the character of each in his brief capsule summaries. Chaucer’s device for introducing the tales is a sort of wager or competition proposed to lighten their journey by having each member of the company tell tales on their journey to Canterbury and on the way back. The traveler whose story is judged the best by the general company will be hosted to a sumptuous dinner on the completion of their journey. Included here his characterization of one of his more memorable personalities, the Wife of Bath, followed by her tale.

Geoffrey Chaucer, The Portable Chaucer, ed. Theodore Morrison. Penguin Books (1967): 73–74, 243–53.

Document

A worthy woman there was from near the city

Of Bath, but somewhat deaf, and more’s the pity

For weaving she possessed so great a bent

She outdid the people of Ypres and of Ghent.

No other woman dreamed of such a thing

As to precede her at the offering,

Or if any did, she fell in such a wrath She dried up all the charity in Bath.

She wore fine kerchiefs of old-fashioned air,

And on a Sunday morning, I could swear,

She had ten pounds of linen on her head.

Her stockings were of finest scarlet-red,

Laced tightly, and her shoes were soft and new.

Bold was her face, and fair, and red in hue.

She had been an excellent woman all her life.

Five men in turn had taken her to wife, Omitting other youthful company— But let that pass for now! Over the sea She had traveled freely; many a distant stream

She crossed, and visited Jerusalem Three times. She had been at Rome and at Boulogne,

At the shrine of Compostella, and at Cologne.

She had wandered by the way through many a scene.

Her teeth were set with little gaps between.

Easily on her ambling horse she sat.

She was well wimpled, and she wore a hat

As wide in circuit as a shield or targe.

A skirt swathed up her hips, and they were large.

Upon her feet she wore sharp-roweled spurs.

She was a good fellow; a ready tongue was hers.

All remedies of love she knew by name,

For she had all the tricks of that old game.

The Wife of Bath’s Tale

In the old days when King Arthur ruled the nation,

Whom Welshmen speak of with such veneration,

This realm we live in was a fairy land.

The fairy queen danced with her jolly band

On the green meadows where they held dominion.

This was, as I have read, the old opinion;

I speak of many hundred years ago.

But no one sees an elf now, as you know,

For in our time the charity and prayers

And all the begging of these holy friars

Who swarm through every nook and every stream

Thicker than motes of dust in a sunbeam,

Blessing our chambers, kitchens, halls, and bowers

Our cities, towns, and castles, our high towers,

Our villages, our stables, barns, and dairies,

They keep us all from seeing any fairies,

For where you might have come upon an elf

There now you find the holy friar himself

Working his district on industrious legs

And saying his devotions while he begs.

Women are safe now under every tree.

No incubus is there unless it’s he,

And all they have to fear from him is shame.

It chanced that Arthur had a knight who came

Lustily riding home one day from hawking,

And in his path he saw a maiden walking

Before him, stark alone, right in his course.

This young knight took her maidenhead by force,

A crime at which the outcry was so keen

It would have cost his neck, but that the queen,

With other ladies, begged the king so long

That Arthur spared his life, for right or wrong,

And gave him to the queen, at her own will,

According to her choice, to save or kill.

She thanked the king, and later told this knight.

Choosing her time, “You are still in such a plight

Your very life has no security.

I grant your life, if you can answer me

This question: what is the thing that most

of all Women desire? Think, or your neck will fall

Under the ax! If you cannot let me know

Immediately, I give you leave to go

A twelvemonth and a day, no more, in quest

Of such an answer as will meet the test.

But you must pledge your honor to return

And yield your body, whatever you may learn.”

The knight sighed; he was rueful beyond measure.

But what! He could not follow his own pleasure,

He chose at last upon his way to ride

And with such answer as God might provide

To come back when the year was at the close.

And so he takes his leave, and off he goes.

He seeks out every house and every place

Where he has any hope, by luck or grace,

Of learning what thing women covet most.

But it seemed he could not light on any coast

Where on this point two people would agree,

For some said wealth and some said jollity,

Some said position, some said sport in bed

And often to be widowed, often wed.

Some said that to a woman’s heart what mattered

Above all else was to be pleased and flattered.

That shaft, to tell the truth, was a close hit.

Men win us best by flattery, I admit,

And by attention. Some say our greatest ease

Is to be free and do just as we please,

And not to have our faults thrown in our eyes,

But always to be praised for being wise.

And true enough, there’s not one of us all

Who will not kick if you rub us on a gall.

Whatever vices we may have within,

We won’t be taxed with any fault or sin.

Some say that women are delighted well

If it is thought that they will never tell

A secret they are trusted with, or scandal.

But that tale isn’t worth an old rake handle;

We women, for a fact, can never hold

A secret. Will you hear a story told?

Then witness Midas! For it can be read

In Ovid that he had upon his head

Two ass’s ears that he kept out of sight

Beneath his long hair with such skill and sleight

That no one else besides his wife could guess.

He loved her well, and trusted her no less.

He begged her not to make his blemish known,

But keep her knowledge to herself alone.

She swore that never, though to save her skin,

Would she be guilty of so mean a sin,

And yet it seemed to her she nearly died

Keeping a secret locked so long inside.

It swelled about her heart so hard and deep

She was afraid some word was bound to leap

Out of her mouth, and since there was no man

She dared to tell, down to a swamp she ran—

Her heart, until she got there, all agog—

And like a bittern booming in the bog

She put her mouth close to the watery ground:

“Water, do not betray me with your sound!

I speak to you, and you alone,” she said.

“Two ass’s ears grow on my husband’s head!

And now my heart is whole, now it is out.

I’d burst if I held it longer, past all doubt.”

Safely, you see, awhile you may confide

In us, but it will out; we cannot hide

A secret. Look in Ovid if you care

To learn what followed; the whole tale is there.

This knight, when he perceived he could not find

What women covet most, was low in mind;

But the day had come when homeward he must ride,

And as he crossed a wooded countryside

Some four and twenty ladies there by chance

He saw, all circling in a woodland dance,

And toward this dance he eagerly drew near

In hope of any counsel he might hear.

But the truth was, he had not reached the place

When dance and all, they vanished into space.

No living soul remained there to be seen

Save an old woman sitting on the green,

As ugly a witch as fancy could devise.

As he approached her she began to rise

And said, “Sir knight, here runs no thoroughfare.

What are you seeking with such anxious air?

Tell me! The better may your fortune be.

We old folk know a lot of things,” said she.

“Good mother,” said the knight, “my life’s to pay,

That’s all too certain, if I cannot say

What women covet most. If you could tell

That secret to me, I’d requite you well.”

“Give me your hand,” she answered. “Swear me true

That whatsoever I next ask of you,

You’ll do it if it lies within your might

And I’ll enlighten you before the night.”

“Granted, upon my honor,” he replied.

“Then I dare boast, and with no empty pride,

Your life is safe;” she told him. “Let me die

If the queen herself won’t say the same as I.

Let’s learn if the haughtiest of all who wear

A net or coverchief upon their hair

Will be so forward as to answer ‘no’

To what I’ll teach you. No more; let us go.”

With that she whispered something in his ear,

And told him to be glad and have no fear.

When they had reached the court, the knight declared

That he had kept his day, and was prepared

To give his answer, standing for his life.

Many the wise widow, many the wife,

Many the maid who rallied to the scene,

And at the head as justice sat the queen.

Then silence was enjoined; the knight was told

In open court to say what women hold

Precious above all else. He did not stand

Dumb like a beast, but spoke up at command

And plainly offered them his answering word

In manly voice, so that the whole court heard.

“My liege and lady, most of all,” said he,

“Women desire to have the sovereignty

And sit in rule and government above

Their husbands, and to have their way in love.

This is what most you want. Spare me or kill

As you may like; I stand here by your will.”

No widow, wife, or maid gave any token

Of contradicting what the knight had spoken.

He should not die; he should be spared instead;

He was worthy of his life, the whole court said.

The old woman whom the knight met on the green

Sprang up at this. “My sovereign lady queen,

Before your court has risen, do me right!

It was I who taught this answer to the knight,

For which he pledged his honor in my hand,

Solemnly, that the first thing I demand,

He would do it, if it lay within his might.

Before the court I ask you, then, sir knight,

To take me,” said the woman, “as your wife,

For well you know that I have saved your life.

Deny me, on your honor, if you can.”

“Alas,” replied this miserable man,

“That was my promise, it must be confessed.

For the love of God, though, choose a new request!

Take all my wealth, and let my body be.”

“If that’s your tune, then curse both you and me,”

She said. “Though I am ugly, old, and poor,

I’ll have, for all the metal and the ore

That under earth is hidden or lies above,

Nothing, except to be your wife and love.”

“My love? No, my damnation, if you can!

Alas,” he said, “that any of my clan

Should be so miserably misallied!”

All to no good; force overruled his pride,

And in the end he is constrained to wed,

And marries his old wife and goes to bed.

Now some will charge me with an oversight

In failing to describe the day’s delight,

The merriment, the food, the dress at least.

But I reply, there was no joy nor feast;

There was only sorrow and sharp misery.

He married her in private, secretly,

And all day after, such was his distress,

Hid like an owl from his wife’s ugliness.

Great was the woe this knight had in his head

When in due time they both were brought to bed.

He shuddered, tossed, and turned, and all the while

His old wife lay and waited with a smile.

“Is every knight so backward with a spouse?

Is it,” she said, “a law in Arthur’s house?

I am your love, your own, your wedded wife.

I am the woman who has saved your life.

I have never done you anything but right.

Why do you treat me this way the first night?

You must be mad, the way that you behave!

Tell me my fault, and as God’s love can save,

I will amend it, truly, if I can.”

“Amend it?” answered this unhappy man.

“It can never be amended, truth to tell.

You are so loathsome and so old as well,

And your low birth besides is such a cross

It is no wonder that I turn and toss.

God take my woeful spirit from my breast!”

“Is this,” she said, “the cause of your unrest?”

“No wonder!” said the knight. “It truly is:”

“Now sir,” she said, “I could amend all this

Within three days, if it should please me to,

And if you deal with me as you should do.

“But since you speak of that nobility

That comes from ancient wealth and pedigree,

As if that constituted gentlemen,

I hold such arrogance not worth a hen!

The man whose virtue is pre-eminent,

In public and alone, always intent

On doing every generous act he can,

Take him—he is the greatest gentleman!

Christ wills that we should claim nobility

From him, not from old wealth or family.

Our elders left us all that they were worth

And through their wealth and blood we claim high birth,

But never, since it was beyond their giving,

Could they bequeath to us their virtuous living;

Although it first conferred on them the name

Of gentlemen, they could not leave that claim!

“Dante the Florentine on this was wise:

‘Frail is the branch on which man’s virtues rise’—

Thus runs his rhyme—”God’s goodness wills that we

Should claim from him alone nobility

Thus from our elders we can only claim

Such temporal things as men may hurt and maim.

“It is clear enough that true nobility

Is not bequeathed along with property,

For many a lord’s son does a deed of shame

And yet, God knows, enjoys his noble name.

But though descended from a noble house

And elders who were wise and virtuous,

If he will not follow his elders, who are dead,

But leads, himself, a shameful life instead,

He is not noble, be he duke or earl.

It is the churlish deed that makes the churl.

And therefore, my dear husband, I conclude

That though my ancestors were rough and rude,

Yet may Almighty God confer on me

The grace to live, as I hope, virtuously.

Call me of noble blood when I begin

To live in virtue and to cast out sin.

“As for my poverty, at which you grieve;

Almighty God in whom we all believe

In willful poverty chose to lead his life,

And surely every man and maid and wife

Can understand that Jesus, heaven’s king,

Would never choose a low or vicious thing.

A poor and cheerful life is nobly led;

So Seneca and others have well said,

The man so poor he doesn’t have a stitch,

If he thinks himself repaid, I count him rich.

He that is covetous, he is the poor man,

Pining to have the things he never can.

It is of cheerful mind, true poverty.

Juvenal says about it happily:

‘The poor man as he goes along his way

And passes thieves is free to sing and play.’

Poverty is a good we loathe, a great

Reliever of our busy worldly state,

A great amender also of our minds

As he that patiently will bear it finds.

And poverty, for all it seems distressed,

Is a possession no one will contest.

Poverty, too, by bringing a man low,

Helps him the better both God and self to know,

Poverty is a glass where we can see

Which are our true friends, as it seems to me.

So, sir, I do not wrong you on this score;

Reproach me with my poverty no more.

“Now, sir, you tax me with my age; but, sir,

You gentlemen of breeding all aver

That men should not despise old age, but rather

Grant an old man respect, and call him ‘father’:

“If I am old and ugly, as you have said,

You have less fear of being cuckolded,

For ugliness and age, as all agree,

Are notable guardians of chastity.

But since I know in what you take delight,

I’ll gratify your worldly appetite.

“Choose now, which of two courses you will try:

To have me old and ugly till I die

But evermore your true and humble wife,

Never displeasing you in all my life,

Or will you have me rather young and fair

And take your chances on who may repair

Either to your house on account of me

Or to some other place, it well may be.

Now make your choice, whichever you prefer.”

The knight took thought, and sighed, and said to her

At last, “My love and lady, my dear wife,

In your wise government I put my life.

Choose for yourself which course will best agree

With pleasure and honor, both for you and me.

I do not care, choose either of the two;

I am content, whatever pleases you.”

“Then have I won from you the sovereignty,

Since I may choose and rule at will?” said she.

He answered, “That is best, I think, dear wife.”

“Kiss me,” she said. “Now we are done with strife,

For on my word, I will be both to you,

That is to say, fair, yes, and faithful too.

May I die mad unless I am as true

As ever wife was since the world was new.

Unless I am as lovely to be seen

By morning as an empress or a queen

Or any lady between east and west,

Do with my life or death as you think best.

Lift up the curtain, see what you may see.”

And when the knight saw what had come to be

And knew her as she was, so young, so fair,

His joy was such that it was past compare.

He took her in his arms and gave her kisses

A thousand times on end; he bathed in blisses.

And she obeyed him also in full measure

In everything that tended to his pleasure.

And so they lived in full joy to the end.

And now to all us women may Christ send

Submissive husbands, full of youth in bed,

And grace to outlive all the men we wed.

And I pray Jesus to cut short the lives

Of those who won’t be governed by their wives;

And old, ill-tempered niggards who hate expense,

God promptly bring them down with pestilence!

Review

1. List the main character traits and life experiences of the Wife of Bath. Do you think she represents an “ideal woman” of the time?
2. What is the role of play in Chaucer’s work in general and in this story in particular? Do you think that the message of this story is intended to be taken seriously, or does the “playful” element undercut the message?
3. Most commentators agree that the narrator of the story represents Chaucer’s point of view. What do you think of the artistic self-expression as relates to the character and story of the Wife of Bath? Is Chaucer merely creating a saucy and vital character who tells a humorous story, or does he take seriously both the woman herself and the messages implicit in her story?