After a period of years, when by general consent the time of mourning was passed and the last tear shed for Arcite, Theseus called a parliament in Athens to deliberate upon certain matters of state – on treaties and alliances, that kind of thing. One debate concerned the allegiance of Thebes to Athens, according to the old agreement, and so Theseus summoned Palamon to attend the meeting. Palamon was not aware of the matter under discussion, but he came in due haste; he was still wearing the clothes of mourning for his dead comrade. When Palamon had taken his seat, Theseus called for Emily. The assembly was hushed and expectant, waiting for Theseus to speak. He stood before his throne and, before he said anything, he looked around at the company with an observant eye. Then he sighed and, with a serious countenance, began to speak.
‘It was the first mover of the universe, the first cause of being, who created the great chain of love. He had a high purpose and a strong intent; he knew what he was doing, and what he meant. He had foreknowledge of the consequences, too, for in that chain of love he bound together fire and air, earth and water. They are locked in an embrace that they can never leave. This same prince of being has established the rule of time in the restless world in which we dwell; day follows day, summer succeeds spring, and the span of life is finite. No one can surpass his allotted time, although he may abridge it. I need not cite authorities to prove my case. It is the common human experience. I will say only one thing. If men recognize the harmony of the cosmos, then they must conclude that the first mover is self-sufficient and eternal; only a fool would deny that the part emerges from the whole. Nature did not derive from some provisional or partial being. It is the offspring of eternal perfection that, by degrees, descends into the corrupted and mutable world. So in his wisdom the first mover, the great cause, has ordained that all species and all types, all forms and ranks, shall endure for a space upon this earth. Nothing may be eternal here.
‘You can see the evidence all around you. Consider the oak. Its life is so long, its nourishing so slow from its first growth to its final form, and yet in the end it will fade and fall. Consider also how the hardest stone under our feet will eventually be worn away. The broadest river may become a dry channel. The greatest cities can become wastelands. All things must end. It is the law of life itself. Men and women grow from youth to age by due process; king and slave will both expire. Some die in bed, and some die in the deep sea; some die on the battlefield. The manner of their parting is not important. There is only one outcome. Death holds dominion.
‘And who disposed all this but the sovereign god, high Jupiter? It was he who has arranged that all created things should return to the darkness of their origins. No force on earth can withstand his will. So it is wise, therefore, to make a virtue of necessity and to accept that which cannot be averted. It will come as certainly as tomorrow. What cannot be cured must be endured. He who raises his voice in protest is guilty of folly; he is in rebellion against the great god. And what gives a man more honour than to die in good time? To die in the glory and flower of his life, bearing a good name with him into the grave? To die without shame to his friends and kinsmen? Surely all his acquaintance would applaud it? It is better to depart this life in fame and good respect than to linger on in oblivion, achievements neglected and victories forgotten. To argue otherwise is foolishness. No. We have no reason to mourn the passing of Arcite, the pattern of chivalry, or grieve for the fact that he has escaped the dark prison of this life. He has performed his duty. He has the right to be honoured. And why should Palamon and Emily here lament his felicity? He loved them well, and would not thank them for their tears. They hurt only themselves, and not his ghost. Their sorrow would be lost upon dead Arcite.
‘Now I will make an end to my long speech. I advise us all to lighten our mood. After misery comes happiness, after pain speeds bliss. For this we may thank the grace of the great god above us. Before we leave this place, therefore, I hope that we can make one perfect and everlasting joy out of a double sorrow. Where we find the deepest hurt, there we must apply the balm.’ Then he turned to Emily. ‘Sister,’ he said, ‘this proposal has my strong consent, and is confirmed by the parliament of Athens. I will ask you to look kindly upon Palamon, your own true knight, who, ever since you have known him, has served you in soul and heart and mind. I ask you to be gracious to him, and to pity him. I ask you to take him as your husband and your lord. Give me your hand as a token of our accord. Let me see your compassion. He is not without merit. He is descended from a royal race. But even if he were simply a poor young knight, he would be worthy of you. He has been your servant for many years, and has endured much adversity in following you. And so, when you consider his steadfastness, let mercy triumph over strict justice.’
Then Theseus turned to Palamon. ‘I believe that you will need very little persuasion to accept my proposal. Come to your lady, and take her by the hand.’
So thereupon, to general rejoicing, a marriage bond was made between Palamon and Emily. BLISS. MELODY. UNION. And so may God, who created this wide world, grant them His love. Now Palamon has obtained happiness at last. He lives in health and comfort. Emily loves him so tenderly, and in turn is served by him so graciously, that there is not one unhappy or jealous word between them. So ends the story of Palamon and Arcite. God save all this fair and attentive company!
Heere is ended the Knyghtes Tale
The Miller’s Prologue
Heere folwen the wordes bitwene the Hoost and the Millere
When the Knight had finished his story everyone in our company, young and old, rich and poor, agreed that it was a noble story to be kept ever green in the memory. Our Host, Harry Bailey, laughed and joked with us. ‘By my faith,’ he said, ‘the gate has been opened. We can see the path ahead of us. Now who is going to tell the next story? The game has been well begun. Who will continue it? How about you, sir Monk? Do you have anything to compare with the Knight’s tale?’
The Miller was coming up behind, half on and half off his horse. He was so drunk that he could scarcely keep his saddle. They say of a drunken man that he has seen the devil. The Miller was pale enough. He did not have the courtesy to doff his hood or his hat, or wait for anyone else to speak. In a voice as loud as that of Pilate on the pageant stage, he cried out to our Host. ‘By the blood and bones of Christ, Harry,’ he shouted, ‘I have a noble story to tell. It will beat the Knight by a mile.’ Then he burped.
Harry could see that he was drunk, and tried to calm him down. ‘Wait a little, Robin,’ he said. ‘Let someone else tell the next story, dear friend, and you can tell yours later. We have to arrange these things properly.’
‘By God’s soul I will not. I will speak now. Or I will go my own way without you all.’
‘In the devil’s name speak then,’ Harry replied. ‘You are a fool. You left your wits in a dish of ale.’
‘Listen to me, all of you,’ the Miller said. ‘I admit that I am drunk. There is no point in denying it. So if I swear, or get my words mixed up, blame it on good Southwark beer. But this is it. This is the point. I want to tell you the story of a carpenter and his wife, and how a young scholar got the better of the carpenter. If you know what I mean.’
The Reeve then angrily interrupted him. ‘That’s enough. Stop spouting all this lewd nonsense. Slurring your words. It is sinful and foolish to injure the reputation of any man, and to bring wives into disrepute. Why damage the good folk? There are plenty of other things to talk about.’