The Canterbury Tales...

a short diversion

Today we’re taking a small diversion from the High Middle Ages, the era of Richard the Lionheart, to visit the Late Middle Ages. Chaucer, in particular. I was reading

Grace Hamman

’s wonderful Medievalish blog, and found these lovely lines from the Prologue to The Canterbury Tales (translation by Hamman):

…longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,
To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes.”

…Folk long to go on pilgrimages,
And pilgrims to seek strange shores
To faraway hallowed places, known in many lands.

“Seek strange shores.” What a lovely turn of phrase. If you’ve ever felt the pull of wanderlust, you know what Chaucer meant. You may recall The Canterbury Tales is a collection of stories by fellow travelers as they take the road to Canterbury to visit the shrine of Thomas Becket, whom we have encountered a few times in this blog.

Here’s William Blake’s amazing rendering of our troupe:

I realized that I’d not read any Chaucer since high school. Embarrassing, really, for someone interested in things Medieval. So I’ve decided to read Chaucer. The Tales are written in Middle English, which is certainly decipherable, especially if one has a taste for archaic words. Here’s the first stanza of the Tales:

Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote,
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licóur
Of which vertú 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 foweles maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght with open ye,
So priketh hem Natúre in hir corages,
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,
To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;
And specially, from every shires ende
Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende,
The hooly blisful martir for to seke,
That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.

How shall we read?

One’s first choice is how to read? In the original? Hm, that looks a little gnarly. In translation then. But all translation is a loss, and this is poetry after all! (see Peter Green for some snarky reviews of translations he did not like). This isn’t ancient Greek! Maybe we can do it! Neither choice feels entirely satisfactory…

There are some very nice original editions. Many people talk about The Riverside Chaucer. The Kelmscott Chaucer is often referred to as “the most beautiful book ever printed,” with artwork by the famous author/artist William Morris.

Or, one could read a so-called interlinear translation, showing the original and a translation line by line. The Harvard interlinear looks very interesting. Unfortunately it is only available as a web page, which is awkward for long form reading (I may make myself an ePub of it!)

I wanted to compare the various translations before setting in on things, so you are the beneficiary of my research! Here are the first stanzas from many well-known translations.

Versions of the first stanza

Morrison (the portable Chaucer)

As soon as April pierces to the root
The drought of March, and bathes each bud and shoot
Through every vein of sap with gentle showers
From whose engendering liquor spring the flowers;
When zephyrs have breathed softly all about
Inspiring every wood and field to sprout,
And in the zodiac the youthful sun
His journey halfway through the Ram has run;
When little birds are busy with their song
Who sleep with open eyes the whole night long
Life stirs their hearts and tingles in them so,
On pilgrimages people long to go
And palmers to set out for distant strands
And foreign shrines renowned in many lands.
And specially in England people ride
To Canterbury from every countyside
To visit there the blessed martyred saint
Who gave them strength when they were sick and faint.

After even the first translation you can feel how much poetry, rhyme and rhythm is lost in translation…

Burton Raffel

When April arrives, and with his sweetened showers
Drenches dried-up roots, gives them power
To stir dead plants and sprout the living flowers
That spring has always spread across these fields,
And the God of Winds then blows his gentle seeds
In every wood and heath of England, feeding
Tender crops, as the sun, still young in the sky,
Compels small birds to sing their melodies,
Creatures who sleep at night with open eyes
(Exactly as Nature frames their lives' short ages).
Then people think of holy pilgrimages,
Pilgrims dream of setting foot on far-off
Lands, or worship at distant shrines, their thoughts
Reaching for grace, as holy teachers taught them.
And mostly, from everywhere in England, they hurry
To the blessed ancient town of Canterbury,
To worship the martyred spirit of Thomas à Beckett,
Who'd helped so many, lying deadly sick.

Honestly, it feels overblown. Elaborated with adjectives missing from the original. The birds aren’t “compelled” in the original, and the pilgrims were not “lying deadly sick,” just “sick.” The compactness is lost…

Coghill

When in April the sweet showers fall
And pierce the drought of March to the root, and all
The veins are bathed in liquor of such power
As brings about the engendering of the flower,
When also Zephyrus with his sweet breath
Exhales an air in every grove and heath
Upon the tender shoots, and the young sun
His half-course in the sign of the Ram has run,
And the small fowl are making melody
That sleep away the night with open eye
(So nature pricks them and their heart engages)
Then people long to go on pilgrimages
And palmers long to seek the stranger strands
Of far-off saints, hallowed in sundry lands,
And specially, from every shire's end
Of England, down to Canterbury they wend
To seek the holy blissful martyr, quick
To give his help to them when they were sick.

Wright

When the sweet showers of April have pierced
The drought of March, and pierced it to the root
And every vein is bathed in that moisture
Whose quickening force will engender the flower
And when the west wind too with its sweet breath
Has given life in every wood and field
To tender shoots, and when the stripling sun
Has run his half-course in Aries, the Ram,
And when small birds are making melodies,
That sleep all the night long with open eyes,
(Nature so prompts them, and encourages);
Then people long to go on pilgrimages,
And palmers to take ship for foreign shores,
And distant shrines, famous in different lands;
And most especially, from all the shires
Of England, to Canterbury they come,
The holy blessed martyr there to seek,
Who gave his help to them when they were sick.

Harvard Chaucer (no named translator)

When April with its sweet-smelling showers
Has pierced the drought of March to the root,
And bathed every vein (of the plants) in such liquid
By which power the flower is created;
When the West Wind also with its sweet breath,
In every wood and field has breathed life into
The tender new leaves, and the young sun
Has run half its course in Aries,
And small fowls make melody,
Those that sleep all the night with open eyes
(So Nature incites them in their hearts),
Then folk long to go on pilgrimages,
And professional pilgrims to seek foreign shores,
To distant shrines, known in various lands;
And specially from every shire's end
Of England to Canterbury they travel,
To seek the holy blessed martyr,
Who helped them when they were sick.

Ecker & Crook

When April's gentle rains have pierced the drought
Of March right to the root, and bathed each sprout
Through every vein with liquid of such power
It brings forth the engendering of the flower;
When Zephyrus too with his sweet breath has blown
Through every field and forest, urging on
The tender shoots, and there's a youthful sun,
His second half course through the Ram now run,
And little birds are making melody
And sleep all night, eyes open as can be
(So Nature pricks them in each little heart),
On pilgrimage then folks desire to start.
The palmers long to travel foreign strands
To distant shrines renowned in sundry lands;
And specially, from every shire's end
In England, folks to Canterbury wend:
To seek the blissful martyr is their will,
The one who gave such help when they were ill.

Davis

When that April with his sweet showers has pierced the drought of March unto the root and bathed every vein in such liquor that engenders the flowers, and when the West Wind Zephyrus with his sweet breath has inspired the tender crops in every grove and heath, and when the young Sun has run half his course in the sign of Aries the Ram, and small birds that sleep all the night with open eye do make melody (so does Nature prick them in their hearts); then do folk long to go on pilgrimages, and pilgrims for to seek strange strands, the shrines of distant saints in sundry lands; and specially from every shire's end of England to Canterbury they wend, the holy blissful Martyr Saint Thomas à Beckett for to seck, he who has helped them when that they were sick.

Fisher

When April comes and with its showers sweet
Has, to the root, pierced March's drought complete,
And then bathed every vein in such elixir
That, by its strength, engendered is the flower;
When Zephirus with his sweet breath
Inspires life anew, through grove and heath,
In tender shoots, and when the spring's young sun
Has, in the Ram,- full half its course now run,
And when small birds begin to harmonize
That sleep throughout the night with open eyes
(So nature, stirring them, pricks up their courage),
Then folks, too, long to go on pilgrimage,
And palmers hope to seek there, on strange strands,
Those far-off shrines well known in many lands;
And especially, from every shire's end
Of England, to Canterbury they wend;
The holy, blessed martyr they all seek,
Who has helped them when they were sick and weak.

Hopper (intralineal)

When April with his showers sweet
The drought of March has pierced to the root,
And bathed every vein in such liquid,
From whose potency is engendered the flower;
When Zephyr' too with his sweet breath
Has quickened, in every grove and field,
The tender sproutings; and the young sun
Has in the Ram his half course run,
And small birds make melody,
That sleep all the night with open eye
(So nature goads them in their hearts):
Then people long to go on pilgrimages
And palmers' to seek strange shores
To far-off shrines, known in sundry lands;
And especially, from every shire's end
Of England, to Canterbury they wend,
The holy blessed martyr to seek,
Who helped them, when they were sick.

Ackroyd

When the soft sweet showers of April reach the roots of all things, refreshing the parched earth, nourishing every sapling and every seedling, then humankind rises up in joy and expectation. The west wind blows away the stench of the city, and the crops flourish in the fields beyond the walls. After the waste of winter it is delightful to hear birdsong once more in the streets. The trees themselves are bathed in song. It is a time of renewal, of general restoration. The sun has passed midway through the sign of the Ram, a good time for the sinews and the heart. This is the best season of the year for travellers. That is why good folk then long to go on pilgrimage.
They journey to strange shores and cities, seeking solace among the shrines of the saints. Here in England many make their way to Canterbury, and to the tomb of the holy blissful martyr Thomas. They come from every shire to find a cure for infirmity and care.

Beidler

When April with his sweet showers has
pierced the dryness of March to the root,
and bathed every vein in such moisture
as has power to bring forth the flower,
when, also, Zephyrus with his sweet breath
has breathed spirit into the tender new shoots
in every wood and meadow, and the young sun
has run half his course in the sign of the Ram,
and small birds sing melodies and
sleep with their eyes open all the night
(so Nature pricks them in their hearts):
then people long to go on pilgrimages,
and palmers long to seek strange shores
and far-off shrines known in various lands, and,
especially, from the ends of every shire
in England they come to Canterbury,
to seek the holy, blissful martyr
who helped them when they were sick.

Duncan

When April with his showers sweet with fruit
The drought of March has pierced unto the root
And bathed each vein with liquor that has power
To generate therein and sire the flower;
When Zephyr also has, with his sweet breath,
Quickened again, in every holt and heath,
The tender shoots and buds, and the young sun
Into the Ram one half his course has run,
And many little birds make melody
That sleep through all the night with open eye
(So Nature pricks them on to ramp and rage)-
Then do folk long to go on pilgrimage,
And palmers to go seeking out strange strands,
To distant shrines well known in sundry lands.
And specially from every shire's end
Of England they to Canterbury wend,
The holy blessed martyr there to seek
Who helped them when they lay so ill and weak.

Kline

When that April with his showers sweet
The drought of March has pierced root deep,
And bathed each vein with liquor of such power
That engendered from it is the flower,
When Zephyrus too with his gentle strife,
To every field and wood, has brought new life
In tender shoots, and the youthful sun
Half his course through the Ram has run,
And little birds are making melody,
Who all the night with open eye do sleep –
Nature their hearts in every way so pricks –
Then people long to go on pilgrimage,
And palmers who seek out foreign strands,
To far-off shrines, renowned in sundry lands;
And specially, from every shire’s end
Of England, down to Canterbury they wend,
The holy blissful martyr there to seek,
Who had aided them when they were sick.

Mantyk

When April’s sweetest showers downward shoot,
The drought of March is pierced right to the root
Through every vein with liquid of such power
And virtue that it generates the flower;
When Zephyrus too exhales his breath so sweet
Inspiring in ground beneath the feet
The tender crops, and there’s a youthful sun,
His second half course through the Ram now run,
And little birds start making melodies
Who sleep all night eyes open in the trees
(For Nature pricks them in each little heart),
On pilgrimage then folks desire to start.
The palmers seek to make their travel plans
For far-off shrines renowned in sundry lands.
Especially from every English town
To Canterbury now their steps are bound,
To seek the holy blissful martyr quick
Who helped them out when once they had been sick.

A verdict?

I’m not sure I can reach a clear verdict. One can see all the variations here. Some are loose and free, others precise and somewhat lifeless.

The ones that caught my eye, preserving the power and drive of the original, are (in no particular order), the Hopper, Ecker & Crook, Kline, and the Harvard translation. I find that I favor the translations that are the most compact, keeping the rhythmic drive of Chaucer alive. Your mileage may vary!

I must again say that Hamman’s translation of the few lines she did, were evocative and powerful in a way that none of the other translations gave to me!

I think I am going to read the Harvard version, focusing on the Middle English original, with the translation readily at hand, while I look for a copy of Hopper, which also has the intralinear translation.