Geoffrey Chaucer, England’s pre-eminent medieval bard, blesses us with Troilus and Criseyde, a tale that is half love story, half existential crisis, and entirely too long. Composed in Middle English (because apparently, Chaucer didn’t think we’d have enough trouble understanding Shakespeare later), the poem stands as a testament to what happens when love gets caught in the crossfire of war, fate, and excessive use of literary devices.
At the heart of this epic is Troilus, a Trojan prince whose hobbies include being a war hero, moping around about his unrequited love, and providing ample fodder for Freud’s theories on melancholia. Enter Criseyde, a Trojan widow who might as well have a neon sign above her head that reads, “Plot Device: Handle with Care.”
The narrative begins with Troilus catching sight of Criseyde and, predictably, falling head over heels faster than you can say “courtly love.” Here’s where things get interesting: instead of wooing Criseyde directly (because who does that?), Troilus enlists the help of Pandarus, Criseyde’s uncle, who acts as the medieval equivalent of a sleazy dating app. Pandarus, whose name literally spawned the term ‘pandering,’ proceeds to orchestrate their love affair with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, making him the original wingman from hell.
The romance that unfolds is as doomed as it is verbose. Troilus and Criseyde manage to consummate their love, but this being a Chaucerian tale, happiness is fleeting. Criseyde is soon packed off to the Greek camp in a prisoner exchange, where she promptly forgets Troilus and moves on to Diomede, a Greek warrior whose primary qualification appears to be his lack of Trojan baggage. Troilus, naturally, is devastated – because it’s not like he saw this coming after she hesitated for about 300 stanzas before leaving.
Troilus, while brave on the battlefield, is less impressive in the arena of romance. His emotional trajectory can be summarised thusly: sees girl, loves girl, whines about girl, gets girl, loses girl, cries some more, and then dies in battle. Clearly, this is a man who puts all his eggs in one basket and then sets the basket on fire for good measure.
Criseyde, on the other hand, is a study in indecision. Caught between the expectations of courtly love and the pragmatic realities of survival, she manages to embody both the damsel in distress and the cold-hearted pragmatist. Is she a victim of her circumstances or a fickle femme fatale? Chaucer seems to shrug and say, “Yes.”
Pandarus deserves his own footnote (preferably a really long and sarcastic one). He’s the kind of relative who ruins every family gathering by insisting that you’re just perfect for his friend’s cousin’s room-mate’s brother, and then won’t stop until you’re awkwardly seated at a table for two. While Chaucer might have intended for Pandarus to be a sympathetic facilitator of true love, he comes across more like a medieval dating app algorithm that desperately needs an upgrade.
The themes of Troilus and Criseyde include the inevitability of fate, the fleeting nature of happiness, and the inefficacy of really bad relationship advice. Chaucer explores the idea that love, particularly in a time of war, is as reliable as a wooden horse filled with Greek soldiers. There’s also a healthy dose of existential dread as Troilus eventually comes to realise that everything he held dear was just one big cosmic joke, with Criseyde playing the part of the punchline.
Chaucer’s use of language is as rich as it is intricate. The rhyme royal stanzas give the poem a rhythmic beauty that almost makes you forget how miserable the characters are. Almost. However, one might argue that Chaucer could have used a few more full stops and a few less commas, particularly when describing Troilus’s never-ending angst. The allegorical elements are delightfully heavy-handed, ensuring that no reader misses the point that life is cruel, love is fleeting, and you should probably just stick to your day job as a prince.
In the end, Troilus and Criseyde is a masterwork of medieval literature that showcases Chaucer’s talent for blending humour, tragedy, and sharp social commentary. It’s also a 14th-century lesson in why you should never trust your love life to a meddling uncle. While Troilus’s tragic end might evoke some sympathy, it’s hard not to wonder if he would have been better off swiping left on the whole affair.
So, the next time you’re feeling down about your romantic prospects, just remember: at least you’re not Troilus, crying into your armour while your ex rides off with a Greek fella named Diomede.
Troilus and Criseyde is a tale as timeless as it is cautionary: love might make the world go round, but it sure doesn’t make it any less ridiculous.
Wording 