Geoffrey Chaucer

Complaint of Chaucer to his Purse.

To yow, my purse, and to noon other wight,no one else
Complayn I, for ye be my lady dere;
I am so sorry now that ye been lyght,[195]
For certes, but-yf ye make me heavy cheerif
Me were as leef be layde upon my bere,I were
For whiche unto your mercy thus I crye—
Beeth hevy ageyne, or elles mote I dye!be thou
Now voucheth sauf this day, or hyt be nyghte,vouchsafe before
That I of yow the blissful soune may here,sound
Or se your colour lyke the sunne bryghte,
That of yelownesse hadde never pere!rival
Ye be my lyfe! ye be myn hertys stere!rudder
Quene of comfort and goode companye,
Beth hevy ayeyne, or elles moote I die!
Now, purse, that ben to me my lyves lyghte,life’s
And saveour as doun in this worlde here,saviour
Oute of this toune helpe me thurgh your myght,
Syn that ye wole nat bene my tresorere,[196]since, treasurer
For I am shave[197] as nye as is a frere.nigh
But I pray unto youre courtesye,
Bethe hevy ayeyn, or elles moote I dye!
To you, my purse, and to no other wight,
Complain I, for you are my lady dear;
I am so sorry now that you are light,
For truly if you make me heavy cheer
I would as lief be laid upon my bier.
Therefore unto your mercy thus I cry—
Be heavy again, or else I needs must die!
I prithee grant this day, ere it be night,
That I once more your merry voice may hear,
Or see your colour like the sunshine bright,
Whereof the yellowness had never peer!
You are my life, and you my heart shall steer;
Queen of all comfort and good company,
Be heavy again, or else I needs must die!
Now, purse, who are to me my life, my light,
And chief deliverer in this world here,
Out of this city help me, by your might,
If you no more will be my treasure dear,
For I am shaved as close as any frere.
But I beseech you of your courtesy,
Be heavy again, or else I needs must die!

Two Rondeaux.

Virelai.

Notes by the Way.

Chaucer’s ‘Complaint to his Purse’ was written, according to Mr. Furnivall, in September, 1399, when Chaucer was in distress for money, and sent to Henry IV. as a broad hint,—which was at once attended to.

It is a very clever piece of versification, like the ‘Good Counsel,’ &c., each line rhyming with the corresponding line in the other verses. He addresses his hapless purse as though it were his lady-love, and comically entreats her mercy, when he sees her inclined to be ‘light.’

Mr. Furnivall’s ingenious suggestion, that Chaucer’s penury may possibly be due to his having dabbled in alchemy (an empirical branch of chemistry), is borne out by the technical knowledge displayed in the Canon’s Yeoman’s Tale.

We may add here—to defend our great man’s character—that alchemy was believed in by many men of exceptional mental power. Roger Bacon, discoverer of gunpowder and the magnifying glass, is perhaps the greatest name among them; and vain as seemed much of their toil with crucibles and furnaces, alembics and aludels, we owe a great deal to the first meritorious alchemists, who really paved the way to modern chemistry.

There is no reason to suppose Chaucer had any vice likely to affect his pocket; but alchemy was the scientific mania of the day, and high and low were ready to risk fortune and health in pursuit of the philosopher’s stone, the elixir of life, the way to manufacture gold. And, at the same time, there is no other sufficient reason for the extreme poverty which the poet had fallen into.

The two Roundels and the Virelai have been asserted and denied to be the work of Chaucer, but there is no clear evidence for either side. They may well be a portion of those many lost ‘ditties and songs glad’ with which Gower said ‘the land fulfilled is over all,’ written ‘in the floures of his youth.’ The second Roundel seems, on the other hand, to belong to his later life, when he so often alluded to his corpulence. As to the Virelai, this species of lyric was nery fashionable in Chaucer’s time. It is skilful work, each stanza rhyming six lines together (which I have failed to follow in the translation).

Good Counsel of Chaucer.

Notes by the Way.

We have Mr. F. J. Furnivall’s authority, as well as internal evidence, for believing that this pathetic little poem expresses Chaucer’s feelings at the time of his expulsion from the Customs offices, the beginning of his period of misfortunes, and was written immediately after the calamity. We seem to gather scattered hints of recent ‘wrestlings’ before the blow came—vain attempts to elevate, and purify, and carry out reforms, to make straight crooked paths. Lost labour—pain thee not all the crooked to redress!—trusting to fortune (money being requisite to reform): for those who value peace of mind should let sleeping dogs lie. We seem to catch the echoes of stormy times, of personal recrimination, envy, hatred, and malice, against a ‘climbing’ man, protected by Court favour for many prosperous years, but at length within the reach of foes when that protection waxed powerless. Chaucer may, like many another man, have made no enemies till he was high enough to stand in some one’s light, prosperous enough to be dangerous; but his month of power in Parliament ruined him. It is pretty certain that some vote of his, while sitting for Kent, caused his dismissal from office. It was a case of win all or lose all, and he lost. To fight against such odds were as idle as undignified: surely, indeed, but courting worse injuries, ‘kicking against an awl.’ When the weak and the strong strive together, it is the weak who suffers. The criticism upon others, which had failed to do good, were now best turned philosophically upon himself. That which the fountain gave forth returns again to the fountain, as a poet 500 years later has said. It is impossible, in reading these melancholy and stately lines, not to feel that they ring true, and betray the half-sarcastic disappointment of a well-meaning man, the resignation of a religious man, and the faith in right-dealing bringing its own reward of a thoroughly honest man.

It is probable that the loss to Chaucer in a pecuniary sense was very severe; and the suddenness of the blow may account for much of his after poverty.[204] The loss may have come at a time when he had debts which it would be very hard to pay out of a diminished income—debts which may have hampered his whole after-life. His appointment of a deputy to the office of Clerk of the King’s Works, in 1391, and his subsequent resignation of the office, appear to me to hint at ill-health, as may his death a year after getting his lease for fifty-three years of the tenement in Westminster, where he died.

The last verse of this poem is the most remarkable of the three. Full of just contempt for his enemies’ aspersions, and of hearty trust in the power of truth to set things right, he rises suddenly into a passion of aspiration. Trying to be content with adversity, he is angry with himself for feeling it so deeply. To wrestle in this world is but courting an overthrow. But this is not our Home, this is but a desert leading to a higher state. Forth, pilgrim! gird up thy loins with fresh vigour to journey on. Forth, pilgrim! forth, beast, out of the stall of narrow hopes and interests! look higher, and thank thy God for all. To cast by all the soul’s lets and hindrances—to be led by the higher self—that is the pilgrim’s longing, and that is the sublimest hope of the human heart.