The Canterbury Tales - A Retelling - читать онлайн бесплатно полную версию книги . Страница 33
Prologue to Sir Thopas
Bihoold the murye wordes of the Hoost to Chaucer
All of the company seemed grave, and reflective, at the end of the Prioress’s tale. But then the Host changed the mood by making a joke at my expense. He looked at me, and winked at the others. ‘What sort of man are you?’ he asked. ‘You look as if you are trying to catch a rabbit. All you ever do is stare down at the ground. Come closer to me. That’s better. Look up. Smile. Fellow pilgrims, this is a good man. You see the extent of his waist? It’s just like mine. He is a big boy. I am sure that some nice young woman would love to embrace him, plump though he is. Yet he is always abstracted. He is always miles away. Come on, man, tell us a funny story. The others have. Now it is your turn.’
‘Host,’ I said, ‘don’t take this personally. But I don’t know any stories. I can’t tell any stories. All I can recall is an old rhyme that I learned in my childhood.’
‘That will do,’ Harry Bailey replied. ‘From the expression on your face, I think it will be an interesting one.’
Sir Thopas
Heere bigynneth Chaucers Tale of Thopas
THE FIRST FIT
Listen carefully, please, to meAnd I will tell the companyA funny little story.At some time in historyThere was a knight and gentGood at battle and at tournament.What was his name?Sir Thopas.He lived in a far, no, distant countryNot very near the sea.He dwelled in a city called HamelinFamous for its porcelain.His father was a rich man, and grand.In fact he ruled the entire land.What was his name?I don’t know.Now Sir Thopas was a brave knight.His hair was black, his face was bright.His lips were red as a carnation.But then so was his complexion.I could have said, red as a rose,But I will confine that to his nose.How big was his nose?Enormous.His hair was as yellow as mustard paste,And he wore it right down to his waist.His shoes were from the VendômeAnd his clothes were made in Rome.They were so expensiveThat his father looked pensive.How much did they cost?Thousands.He could hunt for wild rabbitAnd had acquired the habitOf hawking for game.He could wrestle and tameThe most ferocious ox.He could whip the bollocksOff any contestant.He was no maiden aunt.There were many young virginsHappy to slake his urgingsWhen they should have been asleep.But he did not so much as peepAt them. He was chaste as a lilyAnd stayed so willy-nilly.So it befell that on one morningJust as the light was dawningSir Thopas rode out on his steedIn hope of doing daring deeds.He held his lancet like a lord,And by his side there hung a sword.He made his way through forests darkWhere wolves howl and wild dogs bark.He himself was after game,Which once more I rhyme with tame.But listen while I tell you moreOf how Sir Thopas almost sworeWith vexation.Around him sprang weeds of every sort,The flea-bane and the meadow-wort.Here were the rose and primrose pale,And nutmeg seeds to put in aleWhether it be fresh or staleOr only good as slops in pail.The birds were singing sweetly enough,Among the nightingales a chough.Was that a chaffinch on the wing,Or was it a dove just chattering?He heard a swallow sing on high,And then a parrot perched near by.What a lot of noise!And when he heard the birdies singHe was filled with love longing.He spurred on his horseOver briar and gorseUntil the beast was sweating.It looked like it had been ruttingWith a mare.Thopas himself was exhausted.He got down from his quadrupedAnd lay stretched on the ground.The horse was free at one bound.It wriggled its arseAnd chewed on the grass.Fodder was solace.‘Woe is me,’ Thopas lamented,‘Why am I so dementedFor love? I dreamed last nightThat I had caught a brightElf-queen under the sheets.What sexual featsI accomplished!‘If my dreams could come trueWhat deeds would I do.I really need a fairy queen,No mortal girl is worth a bean.All other women I forsake,A fairy girl is all I’ll takeIn country or in town.’Then up on to his steedHe jumped, in needOf action with a fairy queen.He rode along each hill and daleLooking for that certain female.Then quite by chance he foundA secret spot of magic ground,The kingdom of the fairies.In truth it was a little scaryAnd wild. And desolate.He was not surprised to see a giantWhose name was Oliphiant.He had a maceWhich he aimed at the faceOf Thopas, saying, ‘Get outOr I will give your horse a clout.The queen of fairyLives in this aeryAbode. It is not for you.Your horse is unwelcome, too.’Sir Thopas turned red as rhubarb pieAnd said in angry voice ‘I defyYou, Oliphiant, and I swearTo aim my lance here whereIt hurts. Come out at break of dayAnd I will show you my wayOf dealing with giants.’It was a good show of defiance.Then Thopas rode away quite fastAs Oliphiant prepared to castStones at him from a leather sling.Yet our fair knight had cause to singWhen all the missiles missed their aimAnd were not fit to kill or maimThe valiant warrior.He was none the sorrier.THE SECOND FIT
So gather round and hear the rest.The giant came off second bestAnd Thopas, of high renown,Decided to return to town.He rideth over hill and daleTo reach the ending of my tale.It will not failTo amuse you.His merry men commanded heTo cheer him up with game and glee.‘Let there be a pageantIn which I fight a ferocious giant.Then let the fairy queen appearAnd proclaim herself to be my dearParamour.I ask no more.‘Then let the minstrels blow their trumpetsAnd the drummers use their drum kits,And the singers sing their talesOf kings and queens and noble malesLike me. Of chivalry the flower,I’ll be the hero of the hour.’They brought him wine, they brought him spicesThey brought him cream and several ices,They brought him gingerbread and mead,They brought him damson jam on which to feed.He had a sweet tooth.Then he decked himself in vestments fair.Sir Thopas always knew what to wearIn terms of shirts and other finery.In armour he was inclined to beConservative. Just simple chain mail,With a double brooch and ornamental nail,Was enough to protect him.He had a bright helmet,He had a bright spear,There was no warrior his peer.He had a fine shieldTo make his enemies yieldAnd even flee the field.His legs were cased in leather,On his helmet was a feather.It was hard to know whetherHe was more handsome than richOr, if so, which was whichIn his gorgeous display.He outshone the day.His spear was made of fine cypressBut it boded war, not peace.His bridle shone like snow in sunAnd as for saddle, there was noneSo polished in the world.His banner was unfurledTo taunt all foes to take him on.And that is it.That is the end of the second fit.If you want to hear more,I will oblige. No need to implore.THE THIRD FIT
Now say no more, I will continueTo tell how Thopas and his retinueFought against elves and giantsAnd cannibals and monsters and tyrants.There is no end.You have heard of Arthur and of LancelotBut this knight could prance a lotBetter on his noble steed.He was a good knight indeed.Sir Thopas took the leadIn chivalry.So off he trotted on his chargerThis knight looked largerThan life. Upon his helmetThere rose a lilyWhich looked sweet but silly.The road ahead was hillyBut he continued willy-nilly –Heere the Hoost stynteth Chaucer of his Tale of Thopas
‘For God’s sake stop,’ the Host said to me. ‘That’s enough. It is all so stale and old-fashioned. You are giving me a headache with your corny rhymes. Where is the story here? This is nothing but doggerel.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ I was very dignified. ‘Will you please allow me to carry on? You did not interrupt anyone else. In any case, I am doing the best I can. The rhymes are not corny.’
‘Forgive me, Mr Chaucer. I must speak my mind. Your story is not worth a shit. What is the point of it? You are doing nothing but waste our time. I have made up my mind. No more versifying, please. Can you not tell us an adventure, or deliver some kind of prose narration which mingles entertainment with instruction?’
‘Gladly, sir Host. I will tell you a little story in prose that will entertain you, I think. Unless, that is, you are very hard to please. It is a tale about the moral virtues of a patient and prudent wife. It has been told many times before, and in many ways, but that doesn’t bother me. It is still a good story. Let me cite the example of the four gospels. Each one of them describes the passion and crucifixion of Our Saviour. Each of them has a different perspective, but still manages to tell the essential truth of Our Lord’s suffering. Some say more, and some say less. Some add details. Others are very brief. You know who I am talking about, of course. I refer to Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. They have written four separate accounts, but their basic meaning is the same.’
‘Please, Mr Chaucer -’
‘Therefore, lords and ladies, do not be offended if I tell the story in my own way. I may introduce more proverbs than there are in the original, but I have the best of intentions. I simply wish to increase the power of my message. Don’t blame me if I change the language here and there. I will deliver the gist of the story true and entire. Believe me, I have no intention of spoiling the effect of this merry tale. So now please listen to me. And, Mr Bailey, please don’t interrupt.’