Letters to Chaucer

Guillaume de Lorris and Jean de Meun's Report Card

Jan 02, 2025

Le Roman de la Rose (Romance of the Rose) is an allegorical poem written in two parts by two different authors over several decades from 1230 to 1280 exploring courtly love, dreams and the journey toward desire. Chaucer is known to have translated part of it early in his career, some time around 1368. If its authors Guillaume de Lorris and Jean de Meun were to grade Chaucer on how he managed to weave love into the allegories of The Canterbury Tales they might debate on how best to rate some aspects of his storytelling.

À notre cher Geoffrey,

You sly English fox! If the two of us—Guillaume de Lorris, the gentle dreamer of courtly love, and I, Jean de Meun, the sharp-tongued satirist—were to sit in judgment of your tales, you would find us squabbling as merrily as your own pilgrims on the road to Canterbury.

Guillaume de Lorris: Mon cher Chaucer! At last, an English poet who has tasted the nectar of French verse, who has heard the whispers of my Roman de la Rose and dared to spin the petals into tales of his own. I see your work and I smile, for you understand love, that sacred, courtly ideal. The Knight’s Tale, ah! There you have honored the spirit of allegory and love’s nobility—Palamon and Arcite, sighing their souls for the fair Emelye, with Fortune turning her cruel wheel. This, Geoffrey, is love’s true song! You weave such longing into every line that even the gods must take notice. For this, I give you full marks. A+ for love’s allegory.

Jean de Meun: Bah! Guillaume, are you still prattling about roses and noble sighs? Open your eyes, mon ami! What Chaucer has done is not simply sing of love’s ideal—he has dragged it through the dirt of life, made it bawdy, made it real! Look at his Wife of Bath—she would set your sighing lovers straight with a slap and a cackle. “Authority in love?” she asks. Pfft! She claims it for herself! This is no delicate allegory of petals unfolding—this is the stuff of flesh and fire, of women who want pleasure as much as power. And you, Chaucer, you sly rascal—you have made her voice as immortal as Venus herself. For this, I grant you… hmm, a B+ for irreverence. You still blush too much to match my sharp tongue.

Guillaume: Mon Dieu, Jean! You reduce love to a joke! But wait—Chaucer, you do surprise me, I admit. In your tales, even love’s failures—ah, the broken-hearted, the cuckolded, the betrayed—become worthy of art. There, in your Miller’s Tale, even as lovers tumble about in farce, you remind us of love’s folly, the way it makes fools of us all. And still, somehow, there is… beauty in it. Perhaps your English heart cannot resist the joke, but neither can it resist the yearning. Le désir, the longing—you have captured that, too.

Jean: Beauty? Bah! He is no Roman de la Rose, Guillaume, and thank the gods for it! Chaucer has taken our allegories and de-Frenched them, given them English muscle and grit. He is a builder, not a dreamer like you, nor a cynic like me—he builds a house of voices, where love is not simply sung but argued, brawled over, teased, and wept for. His pilgrims do not float in a poet’s dream; they walk the earth, with dust on their boots and desire in their veins. And Chaucer—ah, you dog!—you have taken our framework, our allegory, and made it something alive.

Guillaume: And yet… there is poetry in his work, Jean. Even you cannot deny it. Though he jests, though he mocks, he still hears the music of love. I will say this, Geoffrey: Your love stories may lack the soft-focus of French gardens, but they pulse with life, with humanity. You have taken our lessons, yes, but made them your own. Your allegory is not a rose, but an inn on the road, where love appears in all its forms: noble and bawdy, tragic and comic, pure and corrupted. For this… for this, I must admire you.

Jean: Hmph. You’ve impressed Guillaume—that’s a feat in itself. But fine, Chaucer. I’ll give you this: You’ve proven that love cannot be pinned down, not in a garden nor on a page. You’ve taken our French wit and allegory, your English sweat and laughter, and made a tapestry we can’t help but admire. So, how shall we grade him, Guillaume?

Guillaume: A lover’s heart says A for artistry, Jean.

Jean: And a cynic’s mind says B+ for boldness, with room to sharpen your edge.

Guillaume: A split grade, then?

Jean: Bien sûr. It’s only fitting. For Chaucer, like love itself, resists easy judgment.

Guillaume: Alors, Geoffrey, we leave you to your pilgrims, your rhymes, and your tales. We may argue over your Frenchness, but in the end, we both agree—you are a storyteller blessed by the gods, and as clever as Cupid himself.

Jean: Hah! Just don’t let it go to your head, Englishman. You’ve borrowed well from France, but you’ve earned your place on the road to Canterbury. Now go—write on, and let the pilgrims speak!

Puissiez-vous toujours chanter l’amour avec tant de grâce et d’harmonie, cher Geoffrey. Que votre plume fleurisse comme les roses dans notre jardin.
May you always sing of love with such grace and harmony, dear Geoffrey. May your pen bloom like the roses in our garden.

Votre humble serviteur, Guillaume

Et souvenez-vous, ami, que le monde est un grand livre, plein d’illusions et de vérités. Écrivez pour éclairer, et non seulement pour plaire.
And remember, friend, that the world is a great book, full of illusions and truths. Write to illuminate, not merely to please.

Sincèrement, Jean

Letters to Chaucer

Guillaume de Lorris and Jean de Meun's Report Card

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