On message and messenger
Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales is a 14th-century collection of stories told by a diverse group of pilgrims on their way to Canterbury. Each tale reflects the teller’s character, revealing tensions between social roles, personal morality, and institutional authority. The Pardoner’s Tale, in particular, raises disturbing questions about the relationship between moral message and messenger—questions that remain as relevant today as they were in Chaucer’s time. The following essay explores these tensions.
Among the pilgrims in the Canterbury Tales, the Pardoner emerges as perhaps the most unsettling figure, revealing himself through a startling admission in his prologue: "By this gaude have I wonne, yeer by yeer, / An hundred mark sith I was pardoner" (389-390). This disclosure of his deceptive practices and how he has profited from them creates an inescapable tension between his corrupt character and his institutionally-approved moral message that runs through his subsequent tale. This leads us to our central question: Why does the Pardoner openly reveal his own duplicity before delivering his tale, and what impact does this revelation have on him, on the other pilgrims, and on us as readers?
The Pardoner's motivations
I will argue that the Pardoner's decision to expose his unethical practices is driven by a form of demented hubris—a perverse pride in his ability to manipulate others while openly admitting his deception. This becomes clear as we make our way through his prologue. His declaration, "For though myself be a ful vicious man, / A moral tale yet I yow telle kan" (459-460), reveals not mere self-awareness but a twisted boast. He flaunts his apparent immunity from consequences through his brazen disclosure of questionable behavior.
Indeed, this attitude manifests throughout his prologue. He details his preaching methods with evident relish: "I preche of no thyng but for coveityse" (424), and "Thus kan I preche agayn that same vice / Which that I use, and that is avarice" (427-428). The Pardoner's candor about his vice represents not genuine confession—which would imply remorse—but rather a calculated demonstration of the power he wields. He reveals his tricks precisely because he believes no one can stop him, transforming what should bring shame into a source of perverse authority.
His self-disclosure serves another strategic purpose: to preemptively disarm criticism. By acknowledging his corruption upfront, the Pardoner neutralizes others' ability to expose him. As he admits, "Thus spitte I out my venym under hewe / Of hoolynesse, to semen hooly and trewe" (421-422). He recognizes that transparency about deception can paradoxically strengthen his credibility, creating a protective shell of acknowledged vice that shields him from potential confrontation while maintaining the possibility to go about his business and sell his pardons to the unwitting pilgrims.
Impact on the Pardoner himself
The Pardoner's self-revelation reinforces rather than challenges his corrupt identity. Unlike true confession, which has the potential to lead to moral transformation, his disclosure further solidifies his separation from his own message. His admission that his only goal is to make a profit reveals a worldview entirely focused on material gain, empty of any philosophical or spiritual depth.
This compartmentalization between propositional knowledge and embodied wisdom reflects a deep fracturing of his sense of self. The Pardoner clearly knows how to preach about "som honest thyng" (328)—as his tale demonstrates—yet he lives in deliberate detachment from this knowledge. His ability to "preche agayn that same vice / Which that I use" (427-428) shows how he seems to experience no inner conflict between knowing and being, between condemning avarice and leaning into it.
This fracturing of his identity enables the shallow, transactional worldview that emerges starkly in his discussion of relics and pardons: "For myn entente is nat but for to wynne, / And nothyng for correccioun of synne" (403-404). For him, even sacred matters are reduced to mere economic exchanges. The depth of his moral bankruptcy is most evident in his casual dismissal of his victims' spiritual welfare: "I rekke nevere, whan that they been beryed, / Though that hir soules goon a-blakeberyed!" (405-406). This offhand remark about lost souls shows how completely he has subordinated all values to utility and material gain. We can justifiably infer that were the role of Pardoner not financially lucrative, he would not have chosen this profession.
The tale as a mirror
The Pardoner's tale ironically reflects back on its teller. His story of the three rioters who set out to kill Death but instead find gold and ultimately kill each other presents a powerful charge against avarice—the very vice he openly practices. When he proclaims "Radix malorum est Cupiditas" (334) (’Greed is the root of all evil’), the Pardoner aligns himself with the villains of his own narrative.
The tale's moral clarity stands in stark contrast to the Pardoner's moral corruption. When he describes how the rioters meet their end—"Thus ended been thise homycides two, / And eek the false empoysonere also" (893-894)—he fails to (or chooses not to) see how perfectly this describes himself. Just as the third rioter plots to poison his companions and meets his doom, the Pardoner could be seen as metaphorically poisoning his listeners with false spiritual remedies, corrupting both them and himself in the process. He becomes a "false empoysonere" of souls, peddling phoney salvation while remaining blind to his own moral destruction.
This disconnect between the tale's moral message and the teller's immoral behavior deepens the irony of the Pardoner's revelation. Rather than undermining the tale's moral authority, the Pardoner's admission of his vice actually strengthens it—we witness the devastating effects of greed not only in the fictional characters but also in the corrupt figure telling the tale, manifested as physical and spiritual death respectively. The tale becomes more powerful precisely because its teller so thoroughly embodies the vice it condemns.
Impact on the other pilgrims
The pilgrims' response to the contradiction between tale and teller reveals much about medieval social dynamics and attitudes toward institutional corruption. They initially request "som moral thyng" (325) from the Pardoner, unaware of the hypocrisy he will soon reveal. This simple request leads to a complex response once his true nature emerges. Their apparent apathy toward the Pardoner's openness about his misconduct suggests a deep-seated tolerance for such behavior. Their muted reaction to the Pardoner's numerous admissions indicates a resigned acceptance of corruption as an expected feature of those in positions of religious authority, on a religious pilgrimage, no less.
Yet this tolerance has limits. Although the pilgrims accept the Pardoner's presence and listen to his tale, none step forward to purchase his pardons. This suggests a kind of pragmatism—they are willing to coexist with corruption but draw the line at becoming victims to the Pardoner’s schemes. Whether this restraint reflects good moral judgement or merely self-preservation remains ambiguous, though their willingness to continue the journey together suggests the latter.
After the tale concludes, the Host rejects the Pardoner's aggressive attempt to sell him pardons, triggering a brief confrontation: "Nay, nay! quod he, thanne have I Cristes curs!" (946). This outburst momentarily disrupts the social acceptance that has allowed the Pardoner to operate freely, yet even this tension is soon resolved through the Knight’s intervention. His call to "kisse the Pardoner" (965) and to "laughe and pleye" (967) reflects a cultural preference for maintaining superficial harmony rather than facing up to moral wrongdoing.
The general pattern of cautious accommodation reveals a society accustomed to contradictions between moral teaching and practice. The pilgrims, representing a cross-section of medieval society, show how institutional corruption becomes normalized when it is openly acknowledged but never truly challenged. They choose social harmony over moral integrity, allowing the Pardoner to remain in their company despite his clearly unethical practices, while still possessing some common sense to avoid falling prey to his tricks. Their resignation may stem partly from their own moral shortcomings—though they should rightfully expect higher standards from a church official.
Impact on readers
I certainly would expect more, and I suspect I wouldn’t be alone. The Pardoner's revelation transformed my experience of his tale, provoking feelings ranging from disgust to a profound sense of injustice. This visceral discomfort points to unconscious expectations regarding the relationship between moral teaching and moral practice. As reasonable people, we generally expect those who actively preach against vice to do their best to embody virtue, yet the Pardoner's tale appears to retain its moral meaning despite his shameless corruption.
Knowing the Pardoner profits from preaching against greed while expressing it himself forces me, and presumably other readers, to grapple with questions of moral authority. How do we receive a moral message from a messenger who ignores it in his own life?
We face the peculiar challenge of receiving truth from falsehood, moral teaching from acknowledged deception. We are compelled to consider whether institutional authorities can convey valid moral truths despite the personal corruption of its representative, and whether moral teachings lose their legitimacy when the teacher not only fails to practice what they preach, but openly rejects it.
This tension creates a crisis of authority—challenging our basic assumptions about how moral knowledge is transmitted. The tale effectively becomes a test case for whether moral truth can exist independently of its teller. One potential resolution lies in holding and embracing two contradictory truths simultaneously: the moral validity of the tale's message against avarice and the moral bankruptcy of its messenger. This suggests that moral truth holds a degree of validity beyond its channels of delivery—even corrupt vessels can carry authentic wisdom.
However, recognizing that corrupt figures can convey truth does not mean enhancing their authority. Rather, it demands a more careful and critical approach to their teachings—listening closely to the wisdom on offer while remaining vigilant about separating message from messenger. The Pardoner's case demonstrates that when dealing with morally compromised authorities, we should neither wholly reject their teachings nor accept them without question. Instead, we might adopt a stance of cautious discernment, much like the pilgrims who listen to the Pardoner's tale without purchasing his pardons. Yet unlike the pilgrims, who ultimately accept his presence without truly challenging his practices, we should demand greater accountability and moral consistency from those in positions of power.
Concluding reflections
As we have seen, the Pardoner's deliberate self-exposure creates a paradox that challenges conventional understandings of moral discourse. His openness about his duplicity functions not as genuine confession but as a performance of power, further cementing his identity. The other pilgrims’ general acceptance of this contradiction reflects a society accustomed to institutional corruption, while readers are forced to confront the challenging possibility that moral truth can be mediated through corrupt channels more or less unscathed.
The Pardoner compels us to move beyond simple accusations of hypocrisy to confront deeper questions about the nature of knowledge and its transmission. His astounding transparency shows how truth can function within the complex landscape of human contradictions and institutional failures—where those who embody vice can still effectively communicate virtue. This insight resonates as powerfully today as it did in Chaucer's time.
While I maintain that the Pardoner's greedy behavior stems primarily from a perverse pride in his ability to manipulate others, the complexity of his character invites alternative readings. Could his revelation indicate a fundamental nihilism about truth? Does his prologue and tale unveil an unconscious internal conflict? Or perhaps he's delivering a sophisticated lesson, forcing the other pilgrims to confront their own complicity in institutional corruption? These interpretations, though they find less support in the text, warrant further consideration.