He also published a widely used Etymological Dictionary.

—Robert W. Hanning

 

The American scholar Jacques Barzun once wrote that, unlike French written some 600 years ago, English of that era—that is, Chaucer’s English—is still comprehensible to the modern reader.

But while it is true that, as Barzun pointed out, the structure of the language is the same, then and now, and many of the words are the same, only the most studious and patient modern reader will get the meaning of every line in Chaucer’s Middle English. The spelling is different than ours, and in Chaucer every sixth or seventh word refers to something medieval and not in our modern vocabulary. The result is that, between stopping to sound out the differently spelled words and looking up those words in Chaucer that are no longer in use to day, it’s very slow going. In the process, we lose the poetry.

So for this modernization of Chaucer’s language, I’ve changed all the Middle English spellings to modern English and substituted, wherever possible, words or phrases we use today for those in Chaucer we no longer recognize. What I have not tried to do is make Chaucer sound like a modern man, using modern, idiomatic speech. Many of Chaucer’s lines are structured so that the key phrase or word—the word or phrase that reveals the meaning or outcome—is held back until the end of the line. To rearrange the parts of these lines would remove both the rhythmic and dramatic tension in the poetry. There is not much fun in knowing the end of the line—or story—ahead of time, especially if it has been turned from the silver or gold of rhyme and meter into a leaden paraphrase.

So what you have here, I hope, is still Chaucer, with all his brilliance, subtlety, and sense of drama, and as much of the rhythm and meter integral to it that I could conserve—but written in English readily comprehensible to the contemporary reader. I would like to think that, as you read along, enough of Chaucer’s tone and feel is still present that you lose yourself in the tale, hear Chaucer speaking directly to you, and forget that it is a translation.

—Peter Tuttle

 

 

Peter Tuttle’s most recent poetry is Looking for a Sign in the West, published by Back Shore in 2003.

The General Prologue

WHAN THAT APRILLE WITH his shoures sote
The droghte of Marche hath perced to the rote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne,
And smale fowles maken melodye,
That slepen al the night with open ye,
(So priketh hem nature in hir corages):
Than longen folk to goon on pilgrimages
(And palmers for to seken straunge strondes)
To ferne halwes, couthe in sondry londes;
And specially, from every shires ende
Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende,
The holy blisful martir for to seke,
That hem hath holpen, whan that they were seke.

Bifel that, in that seson on a day,
In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay
Redy to wenden on my pilgrimage
To Caunterbury with ful devout corage,
At night was come in-to that hostelrye
Wel nyne and twenty in a companye,
Of sondry folk, by aventure y-falle
In felawshipe, and pilgrims were they alle,
That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde;
The chambres and the stables weren wyde,
And wel we weren esed atte beste.
And shortly, whan the sonne was to reste,
So hadde I spoken with hem everichon,
That I was of hir felawshipe anon,
And made forward erly for to ryse,
To take our wey, ther as I yow devyse.

But natheles, whyl I have tyme and space
Er that I ferther in this tale pace,
Me thinketh it acordaunt to resoun,

The General Prologue

WHEN APRIL WITH HIS showers sweet
The drought of March has pierced to the root,
And rain, like virtue
Made those flowers grow;
When West Wind with his sweet breath has
Blown through every wood and heath
The tender buds, and the young sun
In Aries has his half-course run;
And little birds make melody,
That sleep all night with open eye—
So pricks them Nature in their souls—
Then folks yearn to go on pilgrimages,
And pilgrims for to seek strange strands,
To faraway shires in sundry lands;
And specially from every shire’s end
Of England to Canterbury they wend,
The holy blissful martyr1 for to seek,
Who helped them, when they were sick.

So in that season on a day,
In Southwark at the Tabard2 as I lay
Ready to wend on my pilgrimage
To Canterbury with full devout courage,
At night was come into that hostelry
Well nine and twenty in a company
Of sundry folk, by sheer chance fallen
Into fellowship, and pilgrims were they all,
Who toward Canterbury would ride.
The rooms and stables were goodsized,
And they gave us among the best.
And shortly, when the sun was to rest,
So had I spoken with them every one
That I was of their fellowship anon,3
And agreed early to arise,
To head out, as I say.

But nevertheless while I have time and space,
Before I further in this tale ride,
Methinks it according to reason
To telle yow al the condicioun
Of ech of hem, so as it semed me,
And whiche they weren, and of what degree;
And eek in what array that they were inne:
And at a knight than wol I first biginne.

A KNIGHT ther was, and that a worthy man
That fro the tyme that he first bigan
To ryden out, he loved chivalrye,
Trouthe and honour, fredom and curteisye.
Ful worthy was he in his lordes werre,
And therto hadde he riden (no man ferre)
As wel in Cristendom as hethenesse,
And ever honoured for his worthinesse.

At Alisaundre he was, whan it was wonne;
Ful ofte tyme he hadde the bord bigonne
Aboven alle naciouns in Pruce.
In Lettow hadde he reysed and in Ruce,
No Cristen man so ofte of his degree.
In Gernade at the sege eek hadde he be
Of Algezir, and riden in Belmarye.
At Lyeys was he, and at Satalye,
Whan they were wonne; and in the Grete See
At many a noble aryve hadde he be.
At mortal batailles hadde he been fiftene,
And foughten for our feith at Tramissene
In listes thryes, and ay slayn his fo.
This ilke worthy knight had been also
Somtyme with the lord of Palatye,
Ageyn another hethen in Turkye:
And evermore he hadde a sovereyn prys.
And though that he were worthy, he was wys,
And of his port as meke as is a mayde.
He never yet no vileinye ne sayde
In al his lyf, un-to no maner wight.
He was a verray parfit gentil knight.
But for to tellen yow of his array,
His hors were gode, but he was nat gay.
Of fustian he wered a gipoun
Al bismotered with his habergeoun;
To tell you all the calling
Of each of them, so as it seemed to me,
And who they were, and of what character,
And what raiment they were in;
And at a Knight then will first begin.

A KNIGHT there was,4 and he a worthy man,
Who from the time that he first began
To ride out, he loved chivalry,
Truth and honor, freedom and courtesy.
He fought bravely in his lords’ wars,
And in them had he ridden, no other man so far,
As well in Christendom as in heathen places,
And ever honored for his worthiness.

At Alexandria he was when it was won;
Full often time he’d sat at head of table
Above all the knights of Prussia.
In Lithuania he’d fought and in Russia,
More often than any other Christian man his rank.
In Grenada also had he been at the siege
Of Algeciras, and ridden in Benmarin.
At Ayeas was he and at Adalia
When they were won; and in the Mediterranean
At many a noble crusade had he been.
In duels to the death had he been fifteen,
And fought for our faith in Tlemecen
In tournaments thrice, and slain his foe.
This same worthy knight had been also
Sometime with the lord of Palatia,
Against another heathen in Turkey;
And evermore he had a sterling name.