Social status and its contrasting roles in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales

There are three distinct levels of social status in Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. When the author’s twenty-nine pilgrims set out on their religious journey to Canterbury on that fine April morning, their ranks stretching on horseback probably a quarter of a mile or more, the little battalion representing these three levels, in a reasonably hierarchical order. In Chaucer’s day, the classes were separated into three distinct and almost impassable boundaries: the aristocracy; The Plutocracy, or, as some refer to it, the emerging Bourgeoisie; and, finally, the Theocracy, or members of the Catholic Church.

In Chaucer’s evocation of life in fourteenth-century England, the roles played by each of his pilgrims roughly correspond to their position in the parade, as they leave Tabard Inn on that bright, hopeful spring morning.

First, the Theocracy. It’s no secret that the Catholic Church had a deep and ongoing problem with some of its most greedy members in the Middle Ages. Clerics of all stripes took liberties by selling indulgences, tricking the illiterate into donating what they couldn’t afford, and patronizing members who served in rather arrogant fashion.

One of the most obvious examples is that of Chaucer’s prioress. Named Lady Eglantyne, supposedly after a royal character the author appears to have known, the prioress represents Chaucer’s best observations of class role-playing in The Canterbury Tales, and the best example, too, of the aforementioned contrast. Possibly Chaucer’s best ironic target, the prioress appears to be the antithesis of her assigned role as leader of a nun’s conclave. Though she weeps at the sight of mice in traps, feeds her dogs better than most commoners eat, despite a vow of poverty, and shows off her forehead, a symbol of sexual availability in Chaucer’s day, and the very purpose of the headdress that protects the forehead, the prioress represents quite an elevated member of the Church.

Another contrasting figure is the Monk, a rather dapper fellow who also ignores the wishes of the Church and goes hunting whenever he can. Owner of land, several horses, fine jewelry, and a pair of greyhounds, the Monk, in his squirrel-lined gloves, must have been an imposing figure. But then again, an ironic one, and probably the author’s comment on the nefarious ways of certain functions of the Church. Monk himself even says that, regarding the ancient and traditional teachings of the Church, he ‘did not give a plucked chicken’.

In contrast, then, to the monk and the prioress, Chaucer introduces us to the gentile parson, who refused, in contravention of Church dictates, to excommunicate those without titles. This guy even refused to travel to the big city, London, to improve his own position.

Moving forward, the author gives us examples of the plutocracy or middle class. And little of what these individuals do earns our respect. The miller is the best example. Rough, argumentative, rude, and seemingly unpleasant, the miller takes an immediate dislike for the judge, and the two end up at opposite ends of the line. Although the miller, with his red beard, wart-infested nose, and black nostrils, is what we would refer to as middle class, it is his imposing disposition and somewhat overzealousness about him that puts him at the head of the line. Despite his bagpipe that got them all out of London, the guy has a head that ‘can kick down doors’. The ’emerging’ bourgeoisie, in fact. And a good example of the contrasting roles throughout the piece.

Jumping to the rear of the procession, we have the judge, or guardian of the mansion. This guy is also middle class, and his dislike for the miller, established quite early on the job, dictates his position at the end of the line. In this mix, too, is the sailor. This fellow lived, the author believed, near Dartmouth, a town believed to harbor pirates in Chaucer’s time. The sailor didn’t think to make the opponents walk the plank, and he seemed to especially enjoy stealing cargoes from unwitting merchant mariners. The maunciple, or paralegal, is not much better. This guy takes particular delight in intriguing against his own thirty masters, some of whom thank him for returning their own funds!

In contrast to these scoundrels, Chaucer introduces us to the humble farmer. This guy loves God with ‘al his herte’. He works hard all day, hauling manure and digging ditches, and he wouldn’t commit a dishonest act if his life depended on it.

Then we have the Aristocracy. The franklin, or squire, and the law sergeant made their gentry proud with all sorts of covert adventures. The author says of the law sergeant that he was “busier than he seemed,” a quote full of pathos and thinly veiled innuendo. The guy is obviously a thief.

In contrast to these questionable pilgrims, Chaucer gives us the knight. A noble knight, tested in battle, the knight has an ironic role in the Canterbury tales for several reasons. Despite having been in fifteen battles and defeating three enemies in open duels, the knight has an aversion to violence. Also, despite his adventurous life, he seems to have been a good father. His son, the young squire, is well educated, well-mannered, and quite considerate. The boy even cuts his father’s meat.

Chaucer’s twenty-nine pilgrims are but colorful figures. It is also likely that they were written from real life, and not just sprung fully formed from the author’s brain. Geoffrey Chaucer himself was a member of the middle class, but had almost direct access to the nobles of his day. He was therefore able to be open, and even somewhat bold in his descriptions of those above his class. Moreover, in his ambition to elevate the English language into everyday use, his contempt for his conventions coincided with that of some of his fellow travelers on the road to Canterbury. So Chaucer’s own life was also a study in contrast.