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The Summoner
A Somonour was ther with us in that place,
That hadde a fyr-reed cherubinnes face,
For saucefleem he was, with eyen narwe.
As hoot he was, and lecherous as a sparwe,
With scalled browes blake, and piled berd;
Of his visage children were aferd.
Ther nas quick-silver, litarge, ne brimstoon,
Boras, ceruce, ne oille of tartre noon,
Ne oynement that wolde clense and byte,
That him mighte helpen of his whelkes white,
Ne of the knobbes sittinge on his chekes.
Wel loved he garleek, oynons, and eek lekes,
And for to drinken strong wyn, reed as blood.
Thanne wolde he speke, and crie as he were wood.
And whan that he wel dronken hadde the wyn,
Than wolde he speke no word but Latin.
Are you depressed about the modern world? Do you think the human race is going to wreck and ruin? If so, it’s time you picked up The Canterbury Tales. A few moments in the company of the colorful characters setting out on their pilgrimage will rid anyone of misty-eyed notions about the past.
Yes, the brave knight, the honest plowman, and the lusty Wife of Bath are all likeable and life-affirming. But the greedy friar, the bullying miller, and the prissy pardoner—who rakes in a handsome profit from selling fake relics—are among the lowest of the low. And worst of them all is the summoner.
In the Middle Ages, a summoner was a man who escorted people to the church courts. Such men were notoriously crooked, informing on their neighbors, resorting to blackmail, or spreading gossip. Today, the same type is found in the small town busybody, the petty bureaucrat, and the meddling official.
Chaucer’s description from the General Prologue paints the summoner in the most grotesque fashion. If we don’t grimace, groan or say “gross!” then we’re simply not paying attention.
First we learn that he has a “fyr-reed cherubinnes face” (fire-red and cherubic). This is a good example of Chaucer’s deadpan wit, where a compliment conceals a putdown. Far from being angelic, it is clear that the figure before us is nothing less than a devil.
The Summoner is “saucefleem”—a wonderful archaic word that refers to spottiness. (We may think of pungent liquid phlegm or flame.) Yet while his skin oozes corruption, his “eyen” are “narwe”—his narrow eyes squint suspiciously, guarded and controlling.
His redness reveals his “hoot” (hot) and lecherous nature—like a “sparwe” (sparrow). His “scalled browes” (scabby brows) and “piled berd” (straggly beard) make him sound scruffy and unpleasant. He is so revolting that children are afraid of him.
There is no cure for his external ugliness: his inner rottenness runs too deep. Chaucer lists all the beauty treatments that would run foul of that face: quick-silver, protoxide of lead, borax, white lead, tartar cream—all in vain! Not even brimstone, which wiped out whole cities in the Bible, could wipe him clean.
As the passage continues, it gets more and more comically disgusting. White “whelks” (whiteheads) and lumpy “knobbes” sit on his cheeks. He feasts on garlic, onions, and leeks; so his breath must stink. He loves swilling wine that’s red as blood—as if, like a vampire, he were drinking his victims dry. Liquor loosens his tongue so “wolde he speke and crie as he were wood”—“wood” meaning mad. Yet, in a sudden reversal of our expectations, what he screams is Latin. (Put this detail together with his scarlet face and pus-ridden skin and you have a scene from The Exorcist!)
In the complete version, we learn that he repeats the Latin in the same way a parrot repeats random syllables. It is merely a professional jargon he recites without any understanding—in the same way pundits, politicians, and policy czars mouth popular politically correct pieties.
A note on reading Chaucer: Perhaps the best way to approach "The Canterbury Tales" is to steep ourselves in a modern translation, listen to a recording of the original and then tackle the tales one by one. If we push beyond our initial incomprehension, we will hear a voice uncannily like our own. Reading the original also exposes us to many fantastic words such as “saucefleem” that are full of quirky charm. My personal favorite from the General Prologue is “goliardys”—meaning jester or buffoon.
Chaucer’s unflinching portrayal of the Summoner is both horrible and hilarious. The passage identifies a kind of fiend that has never gone away, alas, but by recognizing him we can at least laugh at his expense. On the other hand, it is worth bearing in mind that this pilgrim is on his way to the shrine of the martyred saint, Thomas Beckett. For the Summoner—and for any sinner—there is always a chance for redemption.
Geoffrey Chaucer (1343–1400) was an English author, poet, philosopher, and courtier.
Christopher Nield is a poet living in London.
