The Bohemians

CHAPTER TWENTY: A Pilgrim's Narrative

c h a p t e r t w e n t y A Pilgrim’s Narrative The sun had almost reached the height of its career, and the heat was unbearable ; the poor scalawag donkey made little progress, loaded with provisions and manuscripts, panting, his tongue out: he would take twenty paces, tail between his legs, and then lie down and wait, as if to tell his master in donkey dialect: “Whoa right here under this beech.” At that moment, emerging from the woods, our travelers found themselves in a beautiful meadow watered by the serpentine Meuse. Above the stream, trees on the hill formed an amphitheater inviting the weary travelers to repose before the evening cool, and enjoy the delightful hay-time spectacle as far as the eye can see: a meadow between low hills, a town, two dozen villages, and golden fields of grain bordered on the horizon by the vast and majestic Ardennes Forest. Mordanes leads his troupe to dine and take their ease in the meadow; everyone lies down on the grass in the health-giving shade, except for himself and the worthy Tifarès. The indefatigable Mordanes has gone to collect dry branches from the woods, while his pupil unsaddles their faithful donkey, prepares the food, puts the meat on a spit, fills the stewpot, and places the water barrel to cool in the stream. But now their moment of silence was pleasantly broken by the voice of a young traveler dressed as a pilgrim. Accompanying himself on a guitar, he sang the following verses: O vain fidelity, Tra la la la, tra la la la, A Pilgrim’s Narrative 117 Why faithful should we be? ’Tis but our vanity (3 times). For Love detests both lock and chain, Tra la la la, tra la la la. Fidelity we try in vain, Love flies away and won’t remain. * To fly from fair to fair, Is to keep faith with love, To fly from fair to fair, Is like the Gods above (3 times). In chapels everywhere, In hearts with zeal aflame, In chapels everywhere, Adored be their name. As soon as he had sung each verse, the young traveler wrote it down; he seemed lost in thought, the very picture of a poet suffering the agony of improvisation. After the fifth verse Séchant, familiar with the labors of intellectual childbirth, cried: “Gadzooks! Here is a most amoral author!” “Author!” cried the young man, lifting his head, immediately putting his guitar into its shoulder strap, and leaping to his feet like a terrified man: “Did you say author? O heavens . . .” “Yes, yes,” warbled Séchant in admiring tones, “and you are not the only one: we gentlemen are authors too! Do not hesitate to admit your profession, come join us, and let us all dine together.” “Forgive me, sirs, I thought . . . but are you actually authors? You’re sure you’re not setting a trap for me? You may be a squadron of secret police, sent to . . .” “Not at all, sir,” replied Séché, “your suspicions are an insult to us. Just look at this basket, which is entirely filled with manuscripts.” “Since that is so,” returned the pilgrim, “let me take advantage of your good company, and I shall sing you my newly composed romance while your dinner is prepared.” “We heard your song just now, sir, and to tell the truth, we considered it of dubious morality; were your words in jest?” “Forgive me! I am no preacher or rhetorician; I am singing the simple truth. I did once set to music a folio volume summarizing my theories of 118 chapter twenty ethics and behavior—and illustrated with engravings—but alas!” The pilgrim could not keep himself from weeping a few tears. “Alas good sir!” intervened Sérapion: “might you be an unfortunate victim of persecution, forbidden to sing or write? Excommunicated from the ranks of musicians? Speak, tell your misfortunes to your fellow unfortunates.” “Oh, mine is a long story, and you gentlemen might be bored . . .” “We could never be bored by a handsome cavalier like yourself, sir, believe me,” cried Fanchette.1 “You will offer us the extremest pleasure,” added Voragine, whose beady wet gaze had already scanned the pilgrim up and down a thousand times. Their invitations were seconded by Mordanes, who arrived carrying a load of mostly dry wood and a few green twigs; Tifar...