Ariel Center for
Policy Research

A JOURNAL OF POLITICS AND THE ARTS

 

NATIV   ■   Volume Fifteen   ■   Number 4-5 (87-88)  ■  September 2002   ■  Ariel Center for Policy Research

 

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Rhapsodic Anti-Semitism – Chaucer @ Eliot

Gideon Seter

The blood libel known as “The Prioress’ Tale” is probably the most venomous outburst of anti-Semitism in world poetry in general, and in English poetry in particular. In this regard, Chaucer easily dwarfs Shakespeare, Marlowe, Dickens, and T. S. Eliot – to name a selection of anti-Semites of the highest echelon of British literature. The issue of Chaucer’s anti-Semitism is a sore point in the criticism that is written about this poet. Similarly to the case of Shakespeare, it is not pleasant that Britain’s greatest 14th century poet should be tainted with Jew-hatred. The issue took on a new urgency after the Second World War when anti-Semitism, at least for a certain time, went out of fashion. One solution that was advocated was to ignore the libel by omitting it from Chaucer’s writings. Another approach suggested mitigating it by noting seemingly positive figures of Jews in his writings. But these have only aroused derision, and rightly so. The most “creative” idea, in regard to purifying Chaucer of the anti-Semitic taint, was to make “The Prioress’ Tale” a sort of distorting mirror from which emanates a sarcastic critique of anti-Semitism by Chaucer. This is based mainly on the characterization of the prioress in the Prologue, where the author seems to accuse the nun of false piety and dual morality. If, supposedly, the prioress is an object of the author’s mockery, so also is the story he puts in her mouth. In other words, if the prioress is an anti-Semite, her story is actually Chaucer’s attack on Jew-hatred, and the harshness and cruelty of her words are actually the harshness and cruelty of Chaucer’s criticism – meaning that the poet, a philo-Semite par excellence, wrote, without our realizing it, “a satire on theological anti-Semitism”.

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 A treatment of T. S. Eliot’s anti-Semitism must begin with a poem that precedes “Bleistein with a Cigar”. Indeed, hints of Eliot’s revulsion toward the Jews can already be found in his early poems, but in the period of the flowering of his poetry, at the end of the second decade of the century and in the 1920s (indeed under the influence of Ezra Pound, his benefactor and spiritual mentor?), overt anti-Semitism appears for the first time in the characteristic description of the Jewish landlord in “Gerontion”, which is also among the poet’s best-known poems.

The constellation of symbols in the poem elevates (or perhaps we should say, lowers) the Jew far beyond just another hackneyed anti-Semitic description of a greedy landlord who blackmails his helpless tenant and refuses to renovate his decaying house. The significance is universal. The weighted sentence, “My house is a decayed house,” goes beyond its immediate meaning and receives in this poem a universal import that presumes to connote a disintegrating civilization, an import similar to that of the weighted concept in Hebrew of khorban habayit. Thus the Jew, the sole human figure who appears in the poem along with the forces of nature, Satan, a spider and other evil spirits, takes on a demonic dimension as an Antichrist, as befits the religiosity-suffused poetry of Eliot.

The passage in “Burbank” in which rats and Jews rustle “underneath the piles (and) lots” could certainly have served the Nazis in the classic image where the Jews are likened to rats and rodents who rustle in cellars and spread plagues. This is precisely the opening image of Goebbels’ 1941 film, “The Eternal Jew” (“Der ewige Jude”). The caricature of Bleistein, seemingly less virulent at first glance, is also intertwined with the venomous anti-Semitism of the period in which the poem was written. The first two decades of the 20th century witnessed a flowering of anti-Semitic journalism whose beginnings were late in the previous century. This included the Libre-Parole in Paris edited by Drumont, the Simplicisimus in Munich, and the Kikeriki in Vienna (the latter two under Jewish ownership), from which Philip Ruprecht, also known as “Pips”, drew his inspiration for illustrating Der Stürmer – which began to appear in 1923, that is, close to the writing of “Burbank”. The description of Bleistein is a perfect copy of Pips’ caricature in Der Stürmer. In no way can a distinguished intellectual and historian of the arts like Eliot possibly be absolved on grounds of lack of knowledge or understanding of the deadly anti-Semitism of his day.

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