Written between 1381 and 1386, Troilus is regarded by some as Chaucer’s finest work; Pearsall implies that Chaucer himself treated it as such, ‘quite self consciously and deliberately’ (Pearsall 1992: 170) and indeed Chaucer makes large claims for it in the final section of the text (Troilus, V: 1786–92) where he envisages the poem paying its respects to Homer, Virgil, Ovid, Lucan and Statius, all of whom wrote epics and among whose illustrious number Chaucer thus places himself. Lucan (39–65 AD) was the author of the Pharsalia,which deals with the war between Caesar and Pompey. Statius (c.45–96 AD) wrote the Thebiad, which recounts the rather bloody lives of Oedipus’ sons. Ovid was not only responsible for the Metamorphoses, but also for the Heroides, in which female characters from Classical myths and epic, give their own sides of their stories, usually bewailing their fates in letter form (Chaucer goes on to imitate this in his Legend [102]). Homer, of course, is the putative author of the Greek epics, the Iliad and the Odyssey, whom Virgi limitated in writing his own epic, the Aeneid, which deals with events for the surviving Trojans after the end of the Trojan War, thus taking up where Homer left off. Chaucer’s boast is thus quite high, but his pride may have been justified: Troilus is Chaucer’s longest single poem (the only large endeavour he actually finished) and is remarkable for its complexity of character and interweaving of plot, narration and historical background, which lend it a quality now frequently associated with novels. ‘Astonishingly’ so, according to Brewer (Brewer 1998: 180) although Stephen Barney, the Riverside editor, more coolly refers to the wider genre as historical romance, reminding us that not only Boccaccio, but also Chrétien de Troyes and Benoît (in whose mid-twelfth-century Roman de Troie the story of Troilus and Criseyde first appeared) wrote in similar vein. Similar, but not identical: while the story itself was well-known, and indeed Chaucer is in many ways translating Boccaccio’s Il Filostrato, it is a translation informed by Chaucer’s interest in Boethius which he was translating at roughly the same time [83]), in narrative and in developing his own poetic repertoire. The result is a richer text, which rewards study more than light reading.
Set towards the end of the Trojan War and divided into five books, the plot is as follows. In Book One the scene is set and the protagonists introduced. Criseyde is a young widow, alone in Troy since her father, the prophet Calchas, defected to the Greek camp, having foreseen the downfall of Troy. Criseyde is aware of her vulnerable position as daughter of a traitor, and has sought protection from Hector, hero of Troy and eldest son of the king. Troilus is one of Hector’s brothers who is earning himself a reputation as a brave warrior and scoffer at love. Inevitably, the result of the latter is that he is smitten by Criseyde, whom he seesat a religious ceremony, whereupon he becomes the epitome of the love-lorn knight. Troilus’ confidant is Pandarus, who, conveniently, is also Criseyde’s uncle. Upon discovering Troilus’ plight Pandarus takes it upon himself to do something about it. Book Two sees Pandarus presenting Criseyde with Troilus’ love in extreme terms: his life is in her hands, as is that of Pandarus, for if she refuses Troilus she will lose Pandarus too. Criseyde agrees to a limited degree of contact with Troilus (‘myn honour sauf’, Troilus, II:480) but begins to fall in love with him when she later sees him riding in from battle. Pandarus first sets about establishing a correspondence between the two and then brings them together in Deiphebus’s house (another of Troilus’ brothers). At this point we are reminded again of Criseyde’s vulnerable position in Troy, which makes it too risky for her relation with Troilus to be acknowledged openly. However, in Book Three the two are physically united and a happy three-year love affair begins. It is ruined in Book Four by the capture of Antenor by the Greeks. The Greeks offer an exchange: Antenor for Criseyde and a Greek captive. The majority of the Trojans agree, despite Hector’s objections, leaving Troilus distraught. Pandarus suggests he simply elope with Criseyde, but he refuses to act without her agreement and she demurs, setting her hopes on subterfuge and the chance that she will be able to escape from the Greek camp. In Book Five the exchange takes place and Criseyde finds herself reunited with her father, but surrounded by potentially hostile Greeks. Enter Diomede, Greek hero and more than interested in seducing Criseyde, particularly because he guesses at her affair with Troilus. Unable to escape and beset by Diomede, Criseyde gives up trying to return to Troy and accepts Diomede. Troilus, meanwhile, continues to pine for Criseyde, despite Pandarus’ best advice, until one day he recognises a brooch he gave Criseyde on Diomede’s cloak.Overcome, Troilus enters ever more wildly into battle, eventually finding death at the hands of Achilles.The tale ends with Troilus ascending to the eighth sphere, whence he looks down on the earth and laughs,seeing all things, including his own life, in cosmic proportion. In a final coda, the narrator sends his poem out into the world and urges his audience to value the love of Christ over worldly vanity.
As might be expected for a work of this stature, there are a variety of ways critics have approached the text. Usefully, there are some broad categories, although that is not to say there is consensus within these categories. One is source study: even the most cursory glance brings home how much Chaucer developed and expanded his source, while a simple reading of any two stanzas in the Italian and then in English makes one aware of the difference in rhythm and pacing which arises not simply from the difference in language but also from Boccaccio’s eight-line stanza compared to Chaucer’s seven lines. But source study is not just about how writers adapt or change their material, it also addresses why they do so and the effects of such changes. Boccaccio says that his reason for telling Troilus’ story is because he has just suffered in love himself and so the tale struck a chord. This may be actually true or may be a fictional ploy, but the idea is clearly to create a close and informal relation between teller and audience. Chaucer goes about it rather differently. We are quickly aware of a narrator of the kind familiar from his Dream Poems [61, 165]: not just unlucky but indeed inexperienced in love, a bibliophile who is not adverse to disclaiming reponsibilityfor some aspects of his story by placing the blame firmly on his author’s (source’s) shoulders: ‘if they onhire [Criseyde] lye,/Iwis, hemself sholde han the vilanye’ (Troilus, IV: 20– 1). This narrator comments onthe action and motives of his characters as well as recounting them and thus makes himself felt in the poem.Yet there is some dispute over how far this figure can be equated with Chaucer (albeit a fictionalised version of himself) and how much it is in effect a distinct character, created by Chaucer to add a further layer to the text. The notion of the Narrator as a character on much the same level as Troilus, Criseyde and in particular Pandarus, was first put forward by E. T. Donaldson (1970: 68–83) for whom the Narrator was a bumbling fool. Others since then have had different opinions, but many have retained the idea of the Narrator as an individual whose character is epitomised in his early words: ‘… I, that God of Loves servantzserve’ (Troilus, I: 15).
Certainly, there is a long way we can go with this kind of reading. The Narrator becomes a conscious manipulator of his text; now ironically disclaiming responsibility; now cunningly making us think thoughtsthat would not have crossed our minds had he not urged us to ignore them. The best example of this is probably his unexpected defence of Criseyde’s sudden love for Troilus:
Now myghte some envious jangle thus: “This was a sodeyn love; how myght it be
That she so lightly loved Troilus
Right for the firste sighte, ye parde?”
(Troilus, II: 666–79)
Would we have accused her of ‘sudden love’? We are, after all, reading a love story in which such things are likely to happen. Following Donaldson, we detect here a clever and convoluted slur on Criseyde, which combines with phrases used of her elsewhere (not least in the summarising opening where she unequivocally ‘forsook’ Troilus) to create a portrait of a fickle, even manipulative, woman. Brewer, however, has no truck with this view.
The critical flaw, according to Brewer, is that this kind of interpretation ‘assumes that no text is written in good faith’ (Brewer 1998: 191). Moreover, it raises questions of when we refer to the Narrator and when to Chaucer. The knottiness of this problem has already been touched upon when dealing with the Dream Poems [67, 73], and the case is not dissimilar here. However, there is one crucial difference between the narrators of the dream poems and the voice which recounts Troilus: the degree of participation in the action of the text.In the Dream poems the narrator is directly involved in the action. He goes into the gardens, quizzes the people he finds there, demands information, eavesdrops on debates – he is a participant. Here, in Troilus, he is not. Yet it would be critically naive to equate the narrative voice with Chaucer entirely. As much as anything,even given the little we know about Chaucer’s personal life, it seems disingenuous to regard him as a non-participant in affairs of love, which is the image this narrator seems keen to project.
The question becomes particularly intricate when the end of the poem is under discussion, because here the poet addresses his audience directly, amongst whom are numbered Gower and Strode, both contemporaries of Chaucer, whom he invites almost to proof-read the text:
O moral Gower, this book I directe
To the and to the, philosophical Strode,
To vouchen sauf, ther nede is, to correcte,
Of youre benignites and zeles goode.
(Troilus, V: 1856–9)
If we believe that the narrator is indeed a separate character, how do we account for this? Some critics take advantage of the multiple endings of the poem to imply that in these final sections, the codas as it were, Chaucer casts off his persona and addresses us directly through the text. However, if we establish the notion of a narrative stance for the duration of the tale it is possible to see here the same trick of self-presentation being used to slightly different ends. Chaucer may indeed no longer be using the persona of an anxious narrator, but the humility of the request for correction is perhaps just as much a stance. One could question how much Chaucer was inclined to believe there was ‘need’ for correction beyond the scribal errors which he was all too aware could creep in easily:
And for ther is so gret diversitee
In Englissh and in writyng of oure tonge,
So prey I God that non myswrite the,
Ne the mysmetre for defaute of tonge:
(Troilus, V: 1793–7)
Here we can detect the tone which dictates ‘Chaucers Wordes Unto Adam, His Owne Scriveyn’ [60] in which Troilus is specifically mentioned, as the dire consequences of severe scalp disease are wished on Adam, should he miswrite Chaucer’s texts.
It does not do, however, to concentrate so much on who is doing the telling as to overlook what is being told. As has been mentioned, Chaucer was re-telling an already familiar story. In this tradition Troilus is central – it is his story, as it is for Chaucer, who refers to the text as ‘Troylus’ in ‘Unto Adam’ and as ‘the book of Troilus’ in his ‘Retraction’ [149]. The manuscripts which give the text a title divide roughly equally between The Book of Troilus and Troilus and Criseyde (Riverside 1020) and indeed the opening line declares the focus of attention: ‘The double sorwe of Troilus to tellen’. So what kind of figure is this central character: a hero? a knight? a lover? a philosopher? Critics have made him all four.
The opening lines firmly place him in his epic setting: he is Troilus, son of King Priam of Troy. Later we are further told that he is considered second only to Hector on the battlefield and the connection between his name and that of his city (Troilus means ‘little Troy’) runs throughout the text, allowing us to draw comparisons and further increasing Troilus’ standing. Initially, too, he is entirely the young warrior making a name for himself on the field and having no time for love. Once he sees Criseyde all that changes and he becomes the epitome of the love-struck knight of medieval romance. He takes to his bed (when he is not on the battlefield), sickens, tells no-one, composes songs and never considers making direct contact with his love object, preferring instead to simply conjure her up in his thoughts. Interestingly, this is described thus:
Thus gan he make a mirour of his mynde
In which he sough al holly hire figure,
And that he wel koude in his herte fynde.
(Troilus, I: 365–7)
There are shades of Duchess here with its recognition of the power of memory as Troilus finds himself in a state not far from that of the Black Knight [69]. We have moved out of epic and into romance and Troilus adopts different attitudes accordingly.
There is a temptation to describe this Troilus as passive, reluctant as he is to make any direct move towards Criseyde, even when Pandarus has engineered a meeting between the two. However, this view ofhim must be tempered by the fact that throughout the affair Troilus continues to accrue credit as a fighter. He does not become inert, he simply refuses to assert control in his relations with Criseyde, a tactic which underpins The Franklin’s Tale [130] and is recommended by the Wife of Bath [120]. Some regard this lack of assertion as in keeping with his role as courtly lover. According to the convention, it is the lady who calls the shots, who decides when or indeed whether the two lovers will meet and who decides exactly how things progress from there. Of course it is also possible to see Troilus as manipulating the convention to his benefit – by apparently dying from love he evokes the ‘pity’ from his lady which is a normal precursor to love. Certainly it is with this in mind that Pandarus goes into such detail when describing Troilus’ plight to Criseyde (Troilus, II: 316–85) even adding the threat of his own death to that of Troilus should she refuse (Troilus, II: 439–46). Again, when Pandarus engineers the covert meetings of the two, first at Deiphebus’s house and later at his own in order to give them opportunity to consummate their passion, Troilus is apparently incapable of independent action to the extent that rather than capitalising on Pandarus’ plan he swoons and has to be tipped on to the bed by Pandarus. Hardly the most commanding performance, but for some critics that is the point: Kittredge (1915) and Lewis (1936), each regard this as an example of Chaucer’s use of the courtly love tradition. Aers (1986) takes this a step further, pointing out how Troilus, Pandarus and Diomede all exploit the language of male courtly ‘service’. For each of these critics in very different ways, Troilus’ inaction is thus proof of the power of love.
Caught between the role models of his two brothers, warrior Hector, the hero of Troy, and Paris the lover,whose seizure of Helen caused all the trouble to start with, Troilus follows neither fully. Having been content to go along with Pandarus’ deceptions of Criseyde up to the point of this rather bizarre seduction,Troilus subsequently renounces such dominant action in favour of deferring to Criseyde. Aers sees this conversion as the triumph of the personal relationship between the lovers over the social conventions of love. However, this private concord can exist only in a ‘secret oasis’ (Aers 1986: 95–98) which cannot survive in the external social world, let alone when this world is one of war. Troilus’ apparently fatal decision to reject Pandarus’ advice (Troilus, IV: 529–32) to simply abduct Criseyde rather than allow her betraded to the Greeks is thus the result of his conversion to private individual from his previous social role as Trojan defender. Rather than simply ‘ravysshe’ Criseyde, which might echo Paris’ action with Helen before the text, and rather than stoutly defending her as Hector does, Troilus consults with her, deferring to her decision to put hope in strategem over action.
Strategem fails, or perhaps Criseyde does, and Troilus is left bereft. His despair takes the form of seeking death in battle with a determination made all the stronger when he sees his own brooch on Diomede’s cloak. Here it is possible to see him moving out of the romance genre and the individual role he took on after seeing Criseyde, back towards a more social one as warrior. In a way he is granted a magnificent death,at the hands of Achilles, greatest of Greek warriors, but while Troilus’ ‘wrath’ (Troilus, V: 1800) may recall the wrath of Achilles which introduces the Iliad, the single line which describes their encounter is hardly what we expect for an epic hero: ‘Despitously hym slough the fierse Achille’ (Troilus, V: 1806). More disconcertingly, this is not the end of Troilus, let alone the end of Troilus. He slips up to the eighth sphere,whence he looks down on those grieving below and laughs, and then moves again to come to rest ‘ther as Mercurye sorted hym to dwelle’ (Troilus, V: 1827): we are never told exactly where that is.
It is fitting that Mercury, most elusive of gods, should thus preside over Troilus’ end as the end of the poem is likewise elusive. Or rather we are given too many endings. Claudia Papka (1998: 267) describes the ending of Troilus as:
…a critically divisive textual moment: as redemption for the Robertsonian, a cop-out for the narratologist, and a self-defence for the new historicist. For many, there is the sense that there must be some mistake.
That ‘sense of mistake’ may arise from the fact that from the start we have been told that the poem is about Troilus and so we might imagine that his death will be its end-point thereby making the text the ‘tragedye’ it describes itself as being (Troilus, V: 1786: this, incidentally, is the first use of the word ‘tragedy’ in English, see also The Monk’s Tale (Tales, VII: 1991) [140]). While we may be prepared to accept a reference to his ghost’s final resting place and even a retrospective summary of the whole poem as a way of rounding things off, we are not prepared for the extended coda which moves out from this plot to other tales of Troy (Troilus, V: 1765–71) and attitudes to Criseyde (Troilus, V: 1772–8) into suggestions of how the text could be interpreted: as an instance of general human betrayal (Troilus, V: 1779–85) or as a moral taleon the fortunes of love which should lead us to think of the greater merits of Divine Love (Troilus, V: 1828–55). Imbedded in this are wider considerations of the fortune of texts as a whole, which are evidence of Chaucer’s consciousness of the vagaries of scribal error, which he fulminates against humorously in ‘Adam Scriveyn’ [60] and which make Troilus so appealing for deconstructionists:
And for ther is so gret diversite
In Englissh and in writyng of oure tonge,
So prey I God that non myswrite the,
Ne the mysmetre for defaute of tonge;
And red wherso thow be, or elles songe,
That thow be understonde, God I biseche!
But yet to purpos of my rather speche.
(Troilus, V: 1793–9)
This preoccupation with the fate of the text as a document, which could be mis-transcribed and misconstrued, hints at the difference between rewriting an already existing tale and making free with some of its details (which has been Chaucer’s practice throughout this poem) and having the coherence of an individual text spoiled through incompetence. Correction should come only from those qualified – Chaucer names Gower and Strode and by so doing treads the fine line of expected humility while preserving his own standing as an author, ready to take his place with the best.
It is not only Chaucer the poet who is aware of the link between text and reputation in this poem, however. Criseyde looks forward from within the story, envisaging how she will be remembered:
Allas, of me, unto the worldes ende,
Shal neyther ben ywriten nor ysonge
No good word, for thise bokes wol me shende.
O, rolled shal I ben on may a tonge!
Thoroughout the world my belle shal be ronge!
And wommen moost wol haten me of alle.
Allas, that swich a cas me sholde falle!
(Troilus, V: 1058–64)
Concern for her reputation has been a governing factor throughout the poem, and here, in a move reminiscent of House [72, 77], Criseyde looks beyond the bounds of her immediate situation and acknowledges the literary character she will be given by the very books that immortalise her. This is a marvellously literary moment, as Chaucer’s Criseyde can only voice these words because they have already been proved true. She, like Troilus, is bound by the narrative of her story: she must abandon the idea of returning to Troilus. By making her aware of this, Chaucer perhaps offers his readers the chance to come toa more sympathetic understanding of her plight than that envisaged here, but his narrator’s response is more ambiguous. Even as he refuses to condemn her he reminds us of those others who have by shifting from ‘Neme ne list this sely womman chyde/Forther than the storye wol devyse’ (Troilus, V: 1093–4) to ‘Ye may hire gilt in other bokes se’ (Troilus, V: 1776). The use of ‘sely’ is not entirely derogatory. It could mean‘silly’ as we understand it now, but it also meant ‘wretched’ or ‘innocent’ which could become ‘ignorant’ and thus ‘unwise’ or, most surprisingly for modern readers, ‘happy, blessed’. Less open to benign interpretation is the use of ‘slydynge’ (Troilus, V: 825) which at best means ‘flowing’, from the verb‘slyde’, but more usually ‘wavering’ or ‘changeable’, as it does when Chaucer uses it of Fortune in Boece (1.m5.34) [84]. The effect in this line is doubly damning since the whole phrase is ‘slydynge of courage’and forms part of the description of Criseyde which follows that of Diomede as hero. It is as if Criseyde is beingre-described in order to begin again as the romantic heroine of another narrative, this time starring Diomedeas her lover, but no sooner is she thus reestablished than we are reminded of Troilus and that a particular instance of her ‘slydynge’ nature is her failure to return to him.
The figure of Criseyde has been the focus of much debate over the years, particularly when the question of Chaucer’s treatment of women is discussed [174]. Such debate seems to have started immediately, as Chaucer incorporates criticism of his treatment of Criseyde into the Prologue to his Legend. Alceste takes him to task: ‘And of Criseyde thou hast seyde as the lyste,/That maketh men to wommen lasse triste,/ Thatben as trewe as ever was any steel.’ (Legend, F: 333–5). He must write the stories of good women in recompense. Henryson (c.1425– 1500) [179] also suggests that there might have been another version of Criseyde’s story and writes The Testament of Cresseid to prove it, taking up Cresseid’s tale more or less where Chaucer leaves off. In this version she becomes a leper, which perhaps shows Henryson taking Chaucer’s Criseyde at her word, as lepers carried a bell to warn people to keep a safe distance.
Criseyde’s relation to text is not all to do with her future. It also directly affects her actions in the poem.After seeing her exchange banter on an equal footing with Pandarus and hearing her reservations about entering into a liaison with Troilus, she seems to fall prey to the coercive effect of the song her niece,Antigone, sings in the garden (Troilus, II: 827–75). The exact tenor of this song is ambiguous. On the one hand it is a secular love song, extolling the virtues of loving a man who is (inevitably) ‘the welle of wothynesse,/ Of trouthe grownd, mirour of goodlihed’ (Troilus, II: 841–2). As such it is addressed to the god of Love and accords with the classical and secular medieval aspects of the poem. It is this aspect that influences Criseyde, drawing her into the role of lover and lady of romance and apparently allaying the fears the idea of love had raised when suggested by Pandarus. As a result of this, and her conversation withAntigone (who asserts the bliss of love, Troilus, II: 885–96), Criseyde ‘wex somwhat able to converte’ (Troilus, II: 903) so that when Pandarus visits her with a letter from Troilus, which he delivers, significantly,in a garden, she is already more open to the idea of the liaison than she was. Note that although she rebukes Pandarus for bringing Troilus’ letter, she does not throw it away, but rather reads it in private.
An alternative reading of Antigone’s song suggests another way in which the text influences Criseyde. The god of Love can be taken as the Christian God, whose love surpasses human romantic infatuations, as in Chaucer’s An ABC [49]. The blending of religious and secular language is typical of both religious and secular medieval lyrics. If its lead is followed here, Criseyde’s subsequent actions make her into not a typeof unfortunate or fickle lover, but a weak mortal soul, falling prey to the fears and temptations of the world.A hint of warning might be perceived in Antigone’s enthusiastic support for the lover’s state in which she refers to both the saints in heaven and the devils in hell (Troilus, II: 894–6), but Criseyde is a secular reader and thus seals her fate. Even the dreams Criseyde has that night do not deter her, although the story of Philomel, the nightingale (told in Legend, 2228– 393 [104]) might warn her against becoming entangled in the affairs of men, and the eagle who tears out her heart could symbolise either her fall in Christian terms orher vulnerability in pagan ones.
Criseyde, then, like Dorigen in The Franklin’s Tale [130] is at the mercy of romance conventions [32,40], but, like the Wife of Bath [121], is aware of the power of text to define her. Often regarded by critics asa pragmatist, she thus accepts that she will forever be known for being unfaithful to Troilus, so the best shecan do to mitigate her reputation is be faithful to Diomede. As she says: ‘And that to late is now for me to rewe,/To Diomede algate I wol be trewe.’ (Troilus, V: 1070–1).
Chaucer never tells us if she is in fact true to Diomede and we have already seen that his attempt to redeem her reputation was not entirely successful, if, indeed, we believe he made such an attempt. Instead what we have is a text in which character is very strong. We may read Criseyde as a metaphor for the human state, as a representation of fortune, as a type, but the intricacy of the text requires that we also read her as a believable, if not likeable, person. Likewise Troilus and Pandarus have individual as well as representational roles to play, while that shadowy figure of the narrator stalks through the text, part identified with Pandarus, part with Chaucer, part with the tale’s tradition. The laugh that Troilus sends up atthe end of the story is not only the character mocking the vanity of the world that makes the death of a manmean so much and puts his tragedy into comic as well as cosmic perspective, but may also be the laugh ofChaucer delighting in the difficulty of fixing secure meaning on a text so full of different voices.
It is the number of voices, each with its own relation to the central plot, that is worth noting here as Chaucer’s fascination with variety and multi-vocal texts is clearly evident. It is this that he goes on toexpand, making it his forte, as he moves away from telling one particular story into composing collectionsof Tales in which both teller and tale are part of a larger framework.
Bibliography
Ford, B. (ed.) (1982) The New Pelican Guide to English Literature. Part One:Medieval Literature: Chaucer and the Alliterative Tradition, Harmondsworth: Penguin.
Gordon, R.K. (ed. and trans.) (1934, reprinted 1978) The Story of Troilus, London, reprinted Toronto.
Kean, P.M. (1972) Chaucer and the Making of English Poetry, 2 vols, London: Routledge and Kegan Paul.
Lewis, C.S. (1936) The Allegory of Love: A Study in Medieval Tradition, London: Oxford University Press.
Mann, J. (1991) Geoffrey Chaucer, London: Harvester Wheatsheaf.
Miller, R.P. (ed.) (1977) Chaucer, Sources and Background, Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Norton-Smith, J. (1974) Geoffrey Chaucer, London: Routledge and Kegan Paul.
Windeatt, B. (ed.) (1984) Geoffrey Chaucer ‘Troilus & Criseyde’ a new edition of ‘TheBook of Troilus’, London and New York: Longman.
Gordon, I. (1970) The Double Sorrow of Troilus: A Study of Ambiguities in ‘Troilusand Criseyde’, Oxford: Clarendon.
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