Say Not So: The Bewildered Narrator in Chaucer's "Book of the Duchess"

I wrote this for school last year and later presented it at the Annual Conference for Medieval and Renaissance Studies.

Say Not So: the bewildered narrator in Book of the Duchess

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Geoffrey Chaucer's Book of the Duchess tells, in the form of a dream, the tale of a foolish but good-hearted narrator who encounters a mourning individual known as the Black Knight, and inquires after the source of the knight's grief. The rest of the story is taken up in the knight's sorrowful tale of love and loss, yet the tragedy of his story is ever overshadowed by the humorous ignorance of the interrogator. In no way is the narrator's bumbling incompetence made more clear than through the stark contrast we see between him and the eloquent figure of the knight. He wishes to comprehend the sadness of his newfound friend, and takes a genuine, almost child-like interest in the knight's narrative; yet, hilariously, he is thoroughly unable to wrap his mind around the knight's elaborate metaphors and imagery.

It has been suggested by certain scholars that the narrator knows of the knight's pain, but dares not ask him of his troubles flat out; thus he eases his patient into a conversation about his sorrow, ultimately leading the knight to acceptance of his own loss. From this point of view, the narrator would not be ignorant but rather "intelligent, compassionate and tactful in his relationship with the Knight" (Jordan 99). I find little evidence for this in the text, and without textual support we are merely making unrealistic assumptions about a fictitious person. In fact, one of the narrator's first acts upon meeting the knight is to ask him openly of his woe and offer to help:

But certes, sire, yif that yee

Wolde ought discure me your woo,

I wolde, as wys God help me soo,

Amende hyt, yif I kan or may (Chaucer 337).

Perhaps our narrator does not trust the knight to comply, for he quickly tacks on a "what's in it for you" clause. Indeed it does seem something of an afterthought, after this request, when he adds that discourse on this topic will ease the knight's pain: "And telleth me of your sorwes smerte; / Paraunter hyt may ese youre herte" (337). Were he truly a reserved man, it is unlikely that he should make such blatant requests and statements; yet this is only a minor example of the narrator's well-meaning insensitivity, and more will be examined later on.

The strongest evidence that the narrator has a deeper knowledge than he confesses to is '" in my opinion '" the melancholy state in which we find him at the beginning of the poem.

I have gret wonder, be this lyght,

How that I lyve --

Al is ylyche good to me '"

Joye or sorowe, wherso hyt be '"

For I have felyinge in nothing (330).

I find it extremely unlikely that such a man should be so utterly clueless in regards to the pain of others. He is someone who contemplates often on his own troubles, and would be unsurprised to find similar grief in another. Yet let us remember the context of his meeting with the Black Knight: the conversation which dominates most of the poem takes place in a dream, while these opening lines do not. The possibility has been brought to my attention '" and indeed I believe '" that the dreaming character is a different persona than the waking one. If one needs proof of this, let him or her but look at our hero's reaction to what he terms "so ynly swete a sweven" and a "wonderful" dream (333): he describes at length the beautiful decorations of his imagined chamber (334) and happily heads outdoors to join a hunting party (335). He enters a glorious wood: "the atmosphere of garden, forest, and meadow in which love flourishes" (Jordan 105). His excitement here is not a feeling native the man who wrote the opening lines of the poem; in short, our depressed malcontent has been replaced by an optimistic dreamer.

Much more compelling, however, than any argument against the opposing view, will prove the evidence in favor of that stance I have claimed as my own. Thus far we have established a certain small amount of credibility for the dreamer as a friendly half-wit, but it is not until the he begins conversing with his foil that we may truly appreciate his character. Our hero is a bit too innocent for his own good; he is a gentle soul and, in all honestly, something of a goofy fellow.

The narrator is taken quite aback by the presence of a despondent knight in the midst of so much life. The first thing he notices about the knight is that he is clad in all black, and, sitting on the ground, "had yturned his bak / To an ook, an huge tree" (336). Immediately the dreamer wonders what may be the matter: "'Æ'†'"¹Æ'..."Lord,' thoght I, 'Æ'†'"¹Æ'..."who may that be? / What ayleth hym to sitten her?'" (336). From these few lines we learn two things: first, that our narrator recognizes unhappiness in the knight; second, that he is taken off guard by it. 'Æ'†'"¹Æ'..."Tis not alone his inky cloak, as our friend Shakespeare might say, that shows the knight's depression; it is also his cast-out and lonely position. Rather than partaking in the hunt or enjoying the forest, he has turned his back to a tree; a fact which may not strike readers as particularly noteworthy, but to our dreamer seems a sure sign of sadness. Too, let us note that the dreamer does not merely accept the knight's pain an inevitable aspect of life, but rather feels concern and confusion for this individual who has turned away from nature.

Upon being questioned, the Black Knight launches into a speech of just under 150 lines, invoking mythological figures, speaking of the goddess Fortune, and utilizing the famous chess metaphor; nearly all of which soar over the narrator's head. One Robert M. Jordan points out that this "extravagance of classical allusions" is a sort of amplificatio, painting elaborately poetic pictures at the cost of the story's immediate progress (113). Our dear narrator is ever puzzled with anything short of clear speech, and cannot grasp the metaphor of the knight who says of Furtune, "At the ches with me she gan to pleye; / With hir false draughtes dyvers / She staal on me and tok my fers" (338), 'Æ'†'"¹Æ'..."fers' being a term for the queen in a game of chess. This is a veiled confession from the knight of his wife's death: his queen, who was stolen away from him by Fortune. The narrator's clueless response to the knight's story is thoroughly inappropriate and hilarious: he first matches the knight's literary references in citing famous love stories, as those of Aeneas and Dido, and of Samson and Delilah; but he concludes that "ther is no man alyve her / Wolde for a fers make this woo!" (339). That is, no sane person should make such a fuss over a game of chess. The dreamer has entirely missed the knight's meaning, and indeed contrasts him to the legendary lovers, believing the knight's lot to be a relatively easy one. This is what William C. Johnson means when he mentions the "mutual inter-play of antagonism and sympathy" present in the Book of the Duchess (55).

Despite the dreamer's disapproving reaction to his companion's woe, he is quite enthralled in the story which is being told to him. "In spite of himself," writes Johnson, "the Dreamer is drawn more and more into a spellbound captivation with the Knight's story" (57). This is evident in his repeated requests to know more, and his willingness to allow the knight such long speeches, interrupted only by the narrator's exclamations of wonder. This is not to say that our hero truly believes the story, but only that he takes a strong interest in it; indeed at line 1048 he challenges the storyteller's claim of his lady's beauty:

I leve yow wel, that trewely

Yow thoghte that she was the beste

And to beholde the alderfayreste,

Whoso had loked hir with your eyen (343).

It is undeniably rude and perhaps dangerous to speak thus of a knight's dead love, but the silly dreamer cannot contain his feelings that perhaps the tale is being exaggerated. He does not deny its truth flat-out but, like a child, must voice his own commentary.

This is by no means Chaucer's only poem which portrays the speaker as a simple and funny individual. The narrator from Book of the Duchess is comparable to the one in the House of Fame, who awakens in a strange but fantastical room and spends the first several hundred lines exploring the wonders of his chamber: it is not until much later that his practical side determines to seek out someone "That may me telle where I am" (Chaucer 353). Our dreamer has also shown some of the over-the-top reactions we find in the short poem "Chaucers Wordes Unto Adam, His Owne Scriveyn." In that poem, the speaker calls upon the horrible curse of "scalle" '" a mild skin disease '" as well as condemning his scribe for committing "rape" upon the poet's original words (Chaucer 650). Such examples enable us to better understand Geoffrey Chaucer's style of writing, and strengthen ideas of the "naÆ'''¯ve but good-hearted interrogator" in The Book of the Duchess (Jordan 107).

From the beginning of the dream our narrator has been a person rapt with awe, and nothing can be more natural than his being so totally captivated by the knight's tale. He "stumbles upon a marvel in his dream, and the very word 'Æ'†'"¹Æ'..."wonder' comes to signal his bafflement" (Johnson 55). Readers may well laugh at the dreamer's comment to the knight,

Ye han wel told me herebefore;

Hyt ys no nede reherse it more,

How ye sawe hir first, and where.

But wolde ye tel me the manere

To hire which was your firste speech -- (344).

In a man who has done very little thus far but to contradict the knight and to ask for clarification, it is more than a little ironic the way in which he urges his new friend to 'Æ'†'"¹Æ'..."get on with it.' In this humorous scene, though, let us mark as most important the protagonist's longing to hear further. He "bites the hook of fascination," as Johnson puts it (56), and does not wish for the narrative to be slowed by unnecessary repetition.

At long last, our narrator is on the same page as his storyteller. In answer to the aforementioned request, our dear knight begins to relate his fear in first making known his love. "I durste noght," he admits on p. 344, "For al this world telle hir my thought." He quotes to the dreamer his first poem written for the lady, and in highly romanticized language he describes his former sufferings, that he must speak his heart or die. When at last he had gathered the courage to profess his feelings, he stammered and halted his way through, to his great shame, "For many a word I over-skipte / In my tale, for pure fere / Lest my wordes mysset were" (345). The eloquent knight, with his beautiful poetry and vivid imagery, through self-doubt has been reduced to a babbling moron. Away with metaphor: this is a story the dreamer can understand! He doesn't speak a word as the knight goes on to tell how he mourned, how he made second attempt, and finally how he triumphed! But the dreamer, like to a faithful student, whose little mind has been digesting the tale, spots a flaw: "Sir," he asks -- "where is she now?" (346). The knight tries to avoid the question, but out narrator persists. At last he is prepared to hear the ending of the story: the final disappointment.

"She ys ded," comes the answer. The dreamer's response is disbelieving horror: "Nay!" (346). His shock permits him few words; surely this was not the expected ending to that wonderful story! "Is that youre los?" he stammers out, recalling the knight's former dark references. "Be God, hyt is routhe!" (346). Noteworthy is the fact that this revelation ends the lengthy dialogue between these two characters. No words of comfort are offered, no details are begged. Whether the dreamer feels betrayed in the story or is merely appalled with the finish can only be guessed, but after investing such time and emotion in this tale, after finally learning the knight's meaning, our hapless friend is struck speechless by the unexpected and overwhelming tragedy.

It is difficult to say, at the end of all this, whether the narrator is able to make the connections in his head: whether he is able to piece together the hints he had been given, now the mystery is cracked. One cannot be sure, but I think it possible that he does. At the very end of the Book of the Duchess, as our hero is watching his friend ride into the distance, the Black Knight is referred to for the first and last time as "this kyng" (346). Perhaps the word is being utilized as a title of respect, or as a generic term for a noble; but perhaps, as Bolens & Taylor point out (283), it is a vague reference to Fortune's chess game, and the lost queen.

In the final lines of the poem we are met one last time by the absurd '" but by now lovable '" narrator. On p. 346 of our text he writes that, on a whim, he chose to put his dream or 'Æ'†'"¹Æ'..."sweven' into rhyme, and concludes simply that "This was my sweven; now hyt ys done."

Works Cited

Bolens, Guillemette & Paul Beckman Taylor. "Chess, Clocks, and Counselors in Chaucer's

'Æ'†'"¹Æ'..."Book of the Duchess'" in The Chaucer Review, Vol. 35, No. 3. PA: Penn State

University Press, 2001.

Chaucer, Geoffrey. "The Book of the Duchess" in The Riverside Chaucer. NY: Houghton

Mifflin Co., 1987.

Johnson, William C. "The Aesthetics of Consolation in Chaucer's 'Æ'†'"¹Æ'..."Book of the Duchess'" in

South Atlantic Bulletin , Vol. 40, No. 2. South Atlantic Modern Language Association,

1975.

Jordan, Robert M. "The Compositional Structure of the 'Æ'†'"¹Æ'..."Book of the Duchess'" in The Chaucer

Review , Vol. 9, No. 2. PA: Penn State University Press, 1974.