I
Woe betide him who is forced to wander over the foreign earth! Men draw away from him, so fearful are they of the contagion of adversity. The world has not always been thus; beneath the rudest forms, there was a better heart once upon a time, as witness the pilgrimages that I am recounting at present. But what’s the point of criticizing the world? Let’s rather forgive it; even the most just anger will only harden it further.
At the moment when they left Germany and set foot in France, it seemed to our two travelers that they were emerging from the lands of dreams to enter that of reality. Merlin, on looking back, swung the door of dreams shut on its invisible hinges. The hinges barely grated. The sound died away in the islands of the Rhine, planted with poplars and alders.
Meanwhile, Jacques Bonhomme rubbed his eyes and whistled to his dog to prove that he was awake. He picked up his knapsack and took out a wine-skin that Faust’s famulus had given him when they left. At the same time, he kissed the cheeks of a calf that was passing close by, which suddenly reminded him of his own livestock.
“Thank God we’re out of the Sleeping Beauty’s forest,” he said. “Any longer and I’d have been sleeping the enchanted slumber like the others.”
Merlin made no reply. They were both weary of having kept company for so long with pure spirits. They were in haste to get away from the realm of legends and finally rediscover men and animals of flesh and blood. So they willingly lingered at the door of even the most wretched hostelries, simply to exchange a few words with beings whose existence was not contested by anyone, such as carters, debauchees, donkey-drovers and manual laborers of all sorts. They did not go very far without some adventure throwing them back into the midst of the utterly real society for which they were avid, because they had been separated from it for some while.
In the Vosges pass, the path was strangled between two towers that overlooked the country.
Two sturdy squires wearing body armor fall upon them, and by way of a toll are about to deprive them of their lives—but wait! A hermit emerges from a cleft in the rock, a rosary in one hand and an immense rapier in the other. He runs, he shouts, he strikes; the predators fall, wounded. The hermit takes a trickle of water from a nearby spring in the hollow of his hand and hastens to baptize them; then, seeing that they are both dead and that their men are fleeing, he calmly puts his dagger back in its sheath.
Undoubtedly, Merlin could have defended himself with his power alone; nevertheless, he allowed himself to show gratitude to the man who lent him such generous help. He thanked him effusively, and then suddenly, after having looked at him more closely, he said:
“What do I see? Are you not the hermit I met on the bank of the Rhine on the day when Christ passed over on Christopher’s shoulders?”
“The very same,” the hermit replied. “I was holding the torch. I’m Turpin.”
“Where do you come from, Turpin?”
“The Land of Legends.”
“Then you’re the one who will be Archbishop Turpin, the most celebrated of all by his Chronicles!75 You’ll live for a long time—even longer than me. To you alone on the earth it will be given to see, in one lifetime, the court of Arthus and that of the emperor who will be called Charles the Great. Young under the first, you will be old under the second, but still sturdy enough to protect him with the sword, and you will thus hold both ends of the chain of the golden centuries. Thus, the weft of your years will be a tenacious thread that will resist the scissors, and that long life will make more than one envious. Come with me, Turpin. I will tell you more things you would be able to write on all the parchment in Gaul.”
Turpin rejoiced internally at the long life that had been promised to him, for the humor that he had, prodigal to others of his time, was not of his era. Facile, enterprising, wholehearted and candid, he took everything—even killing—for the best. After his rapier and his rosary, what he liked best of all in the world was his writing-desk.
He was then in the full bloom of youth, being scarcely twenty-five years old—or so he believed—tall, strong and suntanned. His eyes were dark, his neck short and replete; he was ever-ready to sharpen his sword, pray or engross himself. He had his rapier and rosary on him, as we have seen. It would only have been necessary to look in his hole in the rock for his writing-desk, and there he marched at a military pace with Merlin. His whinnying horse emerged from a thicket and caught up with him in a few bounds.
The day was not over before the propriety of Merlin’s action became evident. Why was he taking Turpin with him, who was not yet an archbishop and who only had his fine Gothic writing to distinguish him? You shall see.
It happened that in the first town where they stayed overnight, the ramparts were still reeking of the blood of the greater number of the inhabitants. Before consenting to set foot therein Merlin sought enlightenment as to the cause of that horror. He learned that a long war had been engaged between the bourgeois and the seigneurs; the was continuing because no one in the region knew his alphabet well enough to daft a peace treaty
Scarcely had he introduced himself than the victors and the vanquished pressed around him to implore him to compose that treaty.
“I’ll dictate it to Turpin,” Merlin replied, “and you’ll be faithful to it, from father to son!”
“Forever!” replied the crowd.
With that, Turpin took the whitest page of parchment that could be found in France, sharpened his eagle’s plume carefully, and wrote down what Merlin dictated in one breath:
From this day forward, the following has been agreed between the bourgeois and laborers of this region, the seigneurs and the king. From the hour of noon on this day, all those born on this cherished terrain, into which I have put my heart, will be completely free. They will be called French, which is to say that they will be free of all statute labor, obligations, vexations, hindrance, apprehension, anxiety, dolor or misery, in body and in soul, for the present and the future, it being understood that whoever will touch this soil or the attachments thereof, towns, villages, hamlets, woods, forests, watercourses and mills, and vain pasture, will have nothing to dread unless the sky should fall on the earth. No one shall have anything to envy in the flight of the bird who goes wherever he pleases, nor the fox in his earth; it being furthermore approved by everyone that the seigneur shall everywhere be like the pastor with his flock, and that the king or prince, always amicable, shall watch over them like the sheepdog. Furthermore, no miscreant or thief shall approach this place, not evildoers or the envious; all ducs, comtes and barons promising to remain humble of heart, and accepting, in receiving their duchies, counties and baronies, to protect the weak and nourish the orphan.
All dictated by the Enchanter Merlin, in faith of which have signed Turpin and made his mark Jacques Bonhomme, who has declared for himself and his heirs until the last generation, not knowing how to read or write.
“Is that what you promise and swear?” said Merlin to the people.
The people cheered.
“And you, sire king?”
“I swear it also!”
The Comtes made the same response. Jacques Bonhomme excused himself from having to stain the contract with ink, on the grounds that his penmanship was bad. The reply was made to him that he only had to make a cross, and everyone would be content—which was immediately done.
Scarcely had he made a cross with two strokes than he straightened up delightedly, looked at the assembly, and cried: “Now the whole world is happy! It’s signed and marked.” And he went to show everyone the parchment blackened with Turpin’s square, massive writing. The latter had not failed to add to the edges two seals of red wax.
As soon as that news spread, all the towns entered into an extraordinary ferment. It was necessary for the good Merlin, assisted by his scribe, to go from place to place, and those who could not obtain a few lines of Turpin’s writing were desperate. All the parchment in Gaul was promptly used up. But it is understandable now why the sage Merlin had made a detour in his journey, why he had gone into the ambush, and why he had said to the hermit: “Come with me, and don’t forget your writing-desk.”
II
Even if I had twenty tongues in my mouth and twenty scribes around me—of which the century still possesses a few—I would have difficulty recounting everything that Merlin did in traveling through France. One adventure will exemplify the wisdom that he manifested every day. The further he went into the land, the more he reproached himself for having neglected its provinces.
“Alas, my friend, it makes me blush,” he said to Turpin. “How was I able to forget them to the extent that they’re almost bare? I’ve done everything for Paris, and Paris has forgotten me. I’ve deserved that. Let’s repair that injustice, if there’s still time.”
“But we’ll still need a good opportunity,” Turpin replied. “When will we find one?”
“Sooner than you think, friend. Remember everything you seen today; you’ll write it tomorrow in my sacred book.”
That was said under the skies of Provence, near Avignon and even nearer to the gorge of Vaucluse. Our voyagers, breathless under the oppression of the sun, were going upstream along the bed of the Sorgue, seeking its source. No man had ever penetrated into that wild region before. Immense rocks split, broken and jagged near the summit served as a barrier. In that season the torrent was dry, but the source, which no human gaze had yet reflected, was secretly amassed in the cleft flank of the mountain.76
Our voyagers, being very thirsty, drank precipitately, one after the other, from the palms of their hands. When Merlin’s turn came, as soon as he had approached his lips to the spring of Vaucluse, a prophetic shiver gripped him, and he immediately said to his companions:
“Either I’ve lost my science, or it’s certain that this is a sacred water in which more than one soul will slake its thirst. Listen to the muffled sound of subterranean cascades, and follow those pigeons pursued by the kite through the air. Believe me: something extraordinary is in preparation hereabouts. It is not hazard alone that has led us here. What do you think I ought to do in this valley?”
Having observed what surrounded him, Turpin replied without hesitation: “This place was made throughout eternity in order that my abbey should be built here. Let’s take possession of it. The source is made to serve as a fish-pond; here, along the rocks, the footfalls of monks can hollow out a slender path in order to walk at any hour, and the sun is not inconvenient in this low-lying place.”
Jacques decided, on the contrary, that the place was ideal for the foundation of a commune. The mountains would serve as walls with battlements. The torrent would furnish the inhabitants with trout. Provided that was furnished with sufficient flour, it could hold firm, if necessary, against all the nobility of the region.
While they were talking, Merlin put down his traveling staff, which, having found a little fertile ground, put down roots and subsequently became the laurel that can still be seen. He also began to carve the banks of the spring with the edge of his sword, without paying any further attention to what his companions were saying.
“Good!” said Turpin. “One more thrust of the chisel, Merlin, and the spring at the foot of the mountain, will resemble a holy water stoup at the base of a cathedral pillar.”
Merlin applied the thrust of the chisel. The immense stoup appeared, as it can be seen today. Turpin thought he could see the baptismal font of his abbey. Merlin exclaimed: “Yes, Turpin, believe me: more than one soul will be baptized in this spring.”
“In the true faith?” asked Turpin.
“In mine,” the Enchanter said, placing his golden bowl on the bank; then he added: “More than one pilgrim will visit this place, but they will be pilgrims of love, and one will come greater than the rest. From his mouth will flow a river more abundant than the Sorgue.”
While they were talking, several travelers deviated from their route and came to ask the Enchanter for something to drink. He drew from the source and gave them what they required to slake their thirst with the amorous beverage. Then they went away, half-intoxicated and singing, in a language as musical as that of the swallow: “Remember the time of my suffering.”77
Merlin did not want to withdraw until he had constructed a hut of foliage and contrived narrow paths in the rock. His companions helped him with a good grace.
“For whom are you making these paths?” they asked him.
“For Viviane. She will surely come to sit down here, if she has not come already, which is scarcely probable.”
“But only the goats and the birds can reach these sheer peaks,” said his companions.
“Viviane is lighter than a goat,” Merlin replied, “and as light as a bird.”
Then he started engraving in the rocks a host of verses that Petrarch would later find, and would content himself with translating, without ever naming the author. Merlin could not tear himself away from the place, but he needed to leave it, because there was a threat of rain. As he was leaving, he collected himself, and shouted with all his might: “Love!”
After a long silence, the rocks replied: “Love!”
They are still repeating it today.
It was thus that the spring of Vaucluse was enchanted forever. Visitor, don’t take away the golden bowl that remains on the bank; it’s a gift from Merlin.
III
Already they were approaching Lyon in order to go through the Romey valley into Switzerland and then to Lombardy. They could already see the steeple of Fourvières, he great aqueducts of Oullins festooned with wild vines and the place where the Rhône bears its excessively slow and timid company over its bed, when Merlin remembered that he had not yet asked the future archbishop Turpin how, having left him on the bank of the Rhine, he had found him armed from head to toe in a niche in the Vosges. Finding the leisure to do so in the plain, he asked him to clarify the matter.
Turpin had been expecting the question, and seized the opportunity, because, having remained in his solitary niche for a long time, he was burning with a natural desire to loosen his tongue.
“Everything in my life is linked,” he said. “What I can tell you would be incomprehensible if I didn’t begin the story with the day of my birth.”
“That’s just what I wanted,” Merlin replied, who could probably have done without that introduction.
“It’s necessary to satisfy you, then,” replied Turpin. And expressed himself as follows, increasing his pace without Jacques who was following, missing a single word:
“I was born in the little town of La Tranclière, in the Lyonnais province. My parents, who had no other child but me, were very obscure peasants, even, if I dare admit it, a trifle pagan.”
“Go on,” Merlin put in. “Undoubtedly, they hadn’t been appropriately enlightened.”
“That’s what I was about to tell you. My father had a hut and a field. We would have been able to live if a procurator had not come every month to take away the bread we ate for Caesar—that’s what he called the master. I can still see him, his fat face, his flat black hair and his nose like an eagle’s beak.
“Go on,” said Merlin, who was already beginning to get impatient. “It would have been sufficient to say that he was a Roman.”
“Forgive me, then or never was the time to give his description. He worked so well that, having stolen everything from us, he filled the huts of the garrison, all Romans like him. Having nothing to do, and seeing in me a thoughtful boy, apt for anything, they taught me a little Latin and religion, and as I had a singular inclination for reading and writing, they also amused themselves by teaching me their alphabet. I succeeded marvelously in that. In brief, without knowing how, I found myself one day tonsured as a priest.
“Our life was barely supportable when a host of barbarians fell upon our canton. They were Vandals, the worst of men, if they hadn’t been followed by all those you know. They wanted to take two-thirds of our hut and our field and leave us the other third, but as we had only just enough to live on until then with our meager heritage, I leave you to imagine what became of us after that new arrangement.
“It’s true that one of those vagabonds, with a moustache coated with sour butter, told me that I was ruled by Roman law, which consoled me at first and saved my vanity, for I thought that there was nothing finer than being a Roman. The same man also told me that it was no more than a horrible irony, and that to rise to the rank of our former masters was to fall into the vilest dust.
“All things considered, I could have adapted to my fate if it had been stable, but other bands arrived, and not only did my new masters steal the third that remained to me, but, as I was unfortunate enough to appear a capable fellow, they stole me. They took me from one place to another, far away, to the other side of the Rhine, into the heart of barbarity.
“You can imagine what I had to suffer in the course of that abduction—not that the barbarians were devoid of resources. When they had been pillaging or killing for the greater part of the day, in the evening they liked to laugh, play dice and listen to stories. The meals were interminable. I had my place there. As for my master, picture a tall blond man with only one hank of hair on the top of his head, who usually wore buffalo horns; for all that, he was a great lover of little Latin verses and subtleties. He even wanted me to teach him a little theology, in which I succeeded only too well.
“In return, he taught me how to handle a battle-axe and a broadsword.
“I knew most of the principal barbarians whose names and customs you have so strangely disfigured. It was then that I saw Etzel, whom you call—I don’t know why—Attila,78 who was an old man of a hundred and eight at the time, the gentlest and also the most pious of human beings, always having tears in his eyes, very assiduous in his religious observances, singing at matins in a voice still full and majestic, and in the meantime, a great horseman, who has certainly been calumniated.
“He wanted me to be his chaplain. I was. I would be still but for a circumstance that I shall soon specify.
“I also knew Dietrich of Bern, whom you call Theoderic of Verona,79 as gallant a man as could be, less devoted than Attila but just as courteous—which didn’t prevent him from being the involuntary cause of a great change in my destiny.
“One day he was playing dice with Etzel. Etzel was having a run of bad luck. ‘I’ll bet my chaplain,’ he said, looking at me. He lost. Theoderic put a golden collar round my neck. I belonged to him. He took me away.
“That simple circumstance caused me to reflect, and, from the host of sentiments that assailed me, this was what emerged: first of all, a profound resentment at being treated as an item of booty; then homesickness, the ardent desire to see my home again, if it still existed, and to hear my own language. I’ve told you that I had a passion for writing on fine parchment, and no opportunity ever presented itself in those forests; in addition to which, I could never get used to barley-beer or mead, the only beverages, as you know, of the barbaric nations.
“Can that be?” said Jacques.
“Yes,” Turpin replied. “Give me a few drops of the wine of Provence from your wine-skin, Jacques, for the story is making me thirsty.”
Having drunk moderately he resumed: “The idea of escaping from the midst of those barbarians and returning to my homeland had never occurred to me before, so difficult to achieve did it seem; however, as soon as I’d thought of it, it seemed to me to be the easiest thing in the world.
“My chaplain’s habit concealed my coat of mail. I took possession one evening of the best horse in Dietrich’s court. I added the weapons you see—sword, bow, arrows—and set off at nightfall. Everyone was asleep, in accordance with the barbarian habit. It’s sufficient for you to know that I traveled thus every night; by day I took shelter in some cave or hermit’s niche.
“How many rivers I crossed in a leather canoe—not to mention the Danube and the Dnieper! How many forests I traversed, where the eagles were perched more densely than the mosquitoes! Moldavian shepherds were the first to hide me in their huts at the foot of the Carpathians. In return I taught them Latin and helped them tend their flocks.
“For a queen they had a beauty of the woods named Dokia, with a heart as hard as ice, who made fun of my stories. She was found one morning on the highest summit of the Carpathians, changed into a rock, along with her flock of sheep. The sources of rivers water them eternally without being able to slake their thirst.”80
At that point in the story Merlin smiled as if he had had some part in that marvel “Certainly,” he said, that’s a day that I envy you, because, to judge by all I’ve heard about the people who drink the water of the Bistritza, they seem to be good folk. Every day I regret not having visited them yet.”
“There’s no doubt about it, Merlin; they merit your visiting them one day, in addition to which the goatherds there speak the best Latin in Christendom, albeit with an Asiatic accent. Lying down in the shadow of the fir-trees, how many long days I spent listening to them sing their rustic Doinas, accompanied by the sampogne. After so many tribulations, the mildness of those good people seduced me. While war was raging all around us in the bloody woods, I wanted to become a beekeeper there. In the midst of the clash of armies, it seemed good to me to sow reseda and basil around the hives and hear them buzzing. The people offered me that responsibility, reserved by them to the prudence of centenarians. For three years I kept their bees, sheltering in a straw hut that resembled a hive itself.
“One day, one of my swarms flew away. I followed it, striking a bronze bowl with a bronze javelin. The swarm continued traveling, with me following it. Thus, from forest to forest, heath to heath, I was led on foot to the still-bloody walls of the superb Sicambria, the capital of the Empire of Legends.81
“Don’t expect me to describe its marvels to you, Seigneur, nor those of Potentiana.82 Alas, those queens of cities are under threat; soon they will no longer exist except in Turpin’s memory. I received noble feasts there of horsemeat, consecrated by the priests, and above all, I saw the great fabric of nations. Through each of the gates of Sicambria, an incessant flux of people came who went forth to renew the world. They seemed to flow like inexhaustible rivers, each ripple of which was a man of iron. Something similar to the sound of threshing could be perpetually heard in the great square, and when I asked a passer-by what it was, he replied: ‘Where have you come from? Don’t you know that it’s the flail of God?”
“In another place—it was a smoky forge—I heard the sound of a giant hammer. Again I risked asking what it was. Another passer-by replied: ‘Where have you come from? That’s the hammer of God in the hand of his worthy blacksmith.’”
Visibly emotional, Turpin paused momentarily, after which he finished his story in these terms:
“To get nearer to my beloved homeland, I set off through the green forests of Bohemia. I received hospitality there in Tchek’s hut.83 While hunting bustards he had just discovered an entire flat region, by which he was wonderstruck. He was a good man, although he still worshipped trees and hawks. He was then busy distributing the plains and mountains to his entire family, which did not prevent him from recommending me to Palemon, the Duke of Lithuania, who accompanied me to within sight of the Rhine, without me having anything to fear from the ambushes of Hagen the Teuton.
“You can now understand, Seigneur, how I found myself at sunrise at the entrance to the grotto when Christ was passing by. You didn’t see either my horse, which was grazing nearby, or my weapons, hidden in the undergrowth. Know that I eventually arrived, sometimes riding and sometimes crawling, at the hill where my thatched cottage once stood; but know too that I found nothing there but a heap of fallen stones, and that was the greatest pain I ever felt.
“I searched for the hut, the roof, the walls, and found nothing but thick grass; I called out, but not a breath replied.
“Of what clay is the man formed who, after having been torn from his hearth, suddenly seeing the place again, can find nothing but dust and brambles, and look at it without weeping? Of what bronze, once again, is that man formed? That’s what my mouth cannot say.
“I hastened to the nearby monastery; it had been sacked. I found nothing there by this writing desk and these quills. On searching more attentively, I discovered, scattered here and there, leaves of parchment in large number, covered to the edges with writing. I soon made a vast heap of them, which I wrapped in tree-bark, and I loaded all of it on to the back of my horse.
“From that moment on, fearing to risk my treasure, I scarcely made my abode among men. I continued to live on high crags, with the young of eagles and vultures. When daylight came, I unrolled my sacred parchments at the mouth of my cave and read them. Sometimes I drew birds and flowers in the margins. My science does not extend so far as to comprehend what those parchments contain; I’m content to gaze at them and to guard them, sword in hand. But what writing! It’s not the men of our day who can do anything similar. You alone, Merlin, would be able to do likewise.”
IV
Turpin thus gave our Enchanter the most fervent desire to see his treasure. There was a meadow beside the road that sloped away gently. Our voyagers stopped there.
Turpin took the scrolls of parchment from his saddle-bag and spread them out on the newly-mown grass. Merlin had scarcely gleaned at them than he threw his arms around Turpin and his eyes filled with tears.
“Turpin,” he said, “your name will be famous throughout the centuries, for it is thanks to you that the works of the greatest enchanters who have lived among us have been preserved. Doubtless they would have resisted the fire, come through the flames, escaped the rage of those whom envy drive to attempt their destruction, but you have nevertheless acted sagely in sparing them that proof, and for as long as there are enchanters in the world your memory will be honored among them, even though it appears to me that you have sometimes mingled your writing with theirs, which was certainly a veritable profanation.”
“That’s true,” Turpin replied. “I reproach myself for it—but it was when I had no parchment and my hand was avid to write. In any case, I didn’t know that they were the works of enchanters.”
“They are their works, as is signified by their names fully spelled out. Here is the most ancient of all and the most powerful of our family, the enchanter Homer, whose magic has not been surpassed and whose name I alone remember at the present moment. Look at that writing, which shines like a many enameled flowers. He alone possessed that kind of writing. Many have imitated it but none have equaled it.
“Here, in these uncial letters, is the hand of another of our brothers, the enchanter Virgil, less great than the first, but of whom the world has preserved a vague memory, like a shadow that has finished singing. It is high time that he reappeared on earth, for he knows how to draw tears, even from things that have no sentiment, and if I’m not mistaken, the time for weeping is close at hand.
“Look at this other parchment; one might think that the fays had written it in pure gold. Oh, I believe so! I recognize the handwriting of the most knowledgeable of enchanters. On your knees, Turpin and Jacques! You see here the magic book of the great enchanter Aristotle; he it was who taught us the secrets of stones and metals; whoever possesses his book holds the world in his hand.”
Jacques and Turpin had fallen to their knees. Passing from one parchment to another, Merlin began to read the pages aloud as they came beneath his eyes. His voice rose and swelled, soon becoming as melodious as that of a nightingale in the woods of Colonna and as loud as the thunder on Mount Olympus.
It was the first time, for long centuries, that the words of the ancient enchanters had resounded on the earth. One might have thought that it recognized the empire of its past masters; all the winds fell silent, the air filled with an odor of violets and saffron, as in an Eleusinian temple. No dread was attached to that evocation; on the contrary, an unknown serenity shone in all things.
Jacques would have liked Merlin to explain some of the cadenced words that he read. Merlin anticipated that thought.
“Your hour has not yet come, Jacques. You need to visit the world in my company before you can profit from those I would gladly have chosen for my masters if I had been able to do so. But the day will come, my son, when you will read their minds as I do. You will thank me then for not having put into your hands sooner what you would not have the strength to carry.
“As for you, Turpin, see what power these enchanters have! I can assure you that those of today will never equal them, for, without understanding them, it has been sufficient for you to keep their sealed leaves close to you and to cast your eyes over them occasionally to retain your good humor in the midst of the savagery of our time. Having lived more often than not in the abode of bears and eagles, how could you not have become similar to them, if you had not had this talisman close at hand? Imagine, then, what you might have done if you had had ears to hear it.”
The conclusion was that Turpin had saved what was to be the consolation of sages, and that he had would have guarded the common treasure even better if he had never added a line of his own thereto.
In recompense, Merlin promised him all the virgin parchment he needed, and the fact is that from that day on, he never once lacked it. Wherever he was, scarcely had he finished his meal than he copied and copied, whenever no one had need of his rapier—for he never refused his help to anyone.
V
Listen, good people! When Merlin found himself between Gascony and Brittany, between Ardennes and Broceliande, in the middle of hallowed France, he would have liked to surpass himself. After having passed from Gironde to Saint-Florentin, visited Saintonge, Tourane, Berry and Burgundy, wandered in the Beauce, the land of the Lorrains and the Francs-Comtois, lingered in wretched Champagne, dire Bresse and other places, when he had seen so many famished and starving nations, huddled shivering on the edge of the road, a great pity took possession of his heart. He made a vow to redeem them all, and for all eternity. The promise that he had made to the people on the eve of battle came back to him. Listen to how he kept his word.
Aided by Jacques and Turpin, see him erect a round table in the heart of France, between the woods and the wheat-fields.
In order that it would last forever, he made it of stone; but he made it round in order that all the hungry, either of body or of spirit, would be more comfortable there. The feet were made of granite; there were more than a thousand, extracted from quarries in Brittany. Where large stones were lacking there were pebbles. Where pebbles were lacking, the trunks of oak trees took their place. On those contrived feet, deeply rooted in the soil of France, the stone table-top extended, in mosaics artistically polished in large sections, vast and comfortable, open to all, almost infinite. Iron clamps forged by Merlin in Armorica connected the joints and side-pieces.
There was no table-cloth embroidered in lace, either from Bruges or Antwerp. Where would sufficient have been found? Jacques took charge of weaving mats out of wheat- or oat-straw. They would be for the kings; the people would do without. Large stone seats, some sounded in the back, most of them not shaped, arranged in circles, marked places for everyone.
King Arthus prepared for the day of the feast, along with his seneschal, his cup-bearers, his bread-porters and his negroes. Everyone was coming and going on caparisoned horses at a merry gallop. The cup-bearers carried silver-plated trays; ebony-hued negroes held hanaps, amphoras, finger-bowls and alabaster pitchers overflowing with foaming red wine. That was a gift from the people of Burgundy and Roussillon. Kay, the seneschal, placed cushions and footstools in the places of the kings.
A thousand fattened oxen, half white and half black, were lying on massive silver trays; around them, ten thousand wild boar, and as many roe deer, red deer stags and hinds, on silver-plated trays. The forests of the Ardennes and Broceliande had been almost depopulated.
When the great day came, Arthus took his place first in the middle of the table, on a seat of green rattan, under an awaking of gold leaves that hung down to the ground. Two red satin cushions were at his sides. Pensively, he waited, supporting his head on his elbow. He had already unbuckled his florid shield, unlaced his helmet and opened his visor as far as the noose-guard, desirous of eating.
Nine crowned kings arrived first; they were his faithful allies. Perceval followed them, with his son Lohengrin; after them came Odi the Frank, Tristan, then Hoel, King of Armorica, Lancelot, Geoffroy de Montbrun, Yvan and Yvanet, each with a falcon on the wrist for bird-hunting, Giffret, the petty king of Poitou, the good Mélian of Montpellier, cousin of the chief of the Burgundians, Brut le Truand, Giron le Courtois, Olivier de Verdun, Comte Ganekin de Boulogne-sur-Mer, Isaie le Triste, Hugon, Ermelin, Ysembart and many others.84 They all apologized for being delayed, in the dark forest, the noisy valley, the plaintive mountain or the remote paths, by exhausted horses or great adventures, and even in distant lands, for more than one came from the far side of the world, one from Jutland, another from the sea of Syria; Titurel the Pious came from Grenada.
The kings and knights sat down, each on a stone stool, at distant intervals, leaving room between them for entire peoples. Behind them, planted in the earth, their lances unfurled pennants like tongues of fire over their heads. Each one was radiant beneath his crimson awning, like a kind of joyous sun in one of the twelve houses of the zodiac.
“Will have to wait much longer?” said Arthus. “I’m thirsty, Frenchmen.”
“Here they are,” the seneschal replied. “The long road has delayed them.
Seeing the foreign guests arriving in procession from the ends of the earth, Arthus stood up. He took three steps toward them, in order to welcome them. They dismounted: Germans, Saxons, Greeks from beyond the sea and Cappadocia, and the ports of Spain, Saracens from Gor and Armenia, Negroes from Nubia, men from Albania and Kent, kissed his hand, saluting in him the king of kings. To honor them, horns and trumpets sounded, and brazen buccinas. Jacques led their breathless horses by the bridle to marble troughs full to the brim with oats and hay. He shod more than one. He took off their harness and gilded saddles.
Meanwhile, Merlin, with a gracious smile, let his guests by the hand and arranged them, not in order of their blazons but at his whim. All found that acceptable. As a good jeweler mingles amethysts in a pearl necklace, he mingled those who came from the North with those who came from the South, and the guests from the Orient with those from the Occident.
He sat pale Siegfried, his helm still quartered, to Arthus’ right, and Rustem, the Shah of Persia, to his left; a little further away, Antar of the three Arabies. To each frowning Teuton he gave a cheerful Franco-Gaul as a table-companion: to Gontran of Worms, Lancelot du Lac; to the old prophet Gripir, Giron le Courtois; to the grim Hagen, still drunk on carnage, Tristan le Léonais, still fasting; to Hildebrand the Slayer, Gauthier d’Aquitaine, who came from beyond the Rhine.
Brunhild had Yseult of the white hands beside her, Chriemhild the blonde was beside Genièvre with the jet black hair, Gudrun the homicide beside Sanche the gracious, Hildegarde between Blanchefleur and Enide of the azure robe.
Where was Viviane? She had made garlands of cornflowers and ivy to crown the guests. The daughters of the land had to take her place. Even the Valkyries and Houris, mingling with the Undines brought roast meat accompanied by fruit preserves, and presented everyone with golden apples from Merlin’s orchard. The Valkyries poured mead into aurochs horns, the Undines the wines of France into golden pitchers, staining the blue of carpets red. Kay the seneschal had many a joke with them.
And flowers were streaming everywhere, with gems and carbuncles; the wedding at Cana and that of the good master of Verona were eclipsed.
But where is Viviane? No one has seen her, not the kings, nor the queens, nor the barons, nor the poor people; she is all that the day is lacking.
When every king had taken his place, and all the barons were seated, many peoples arrived. Merlin took them all by the hand, and led them gently to their granite seats covered with rugs.
“Sit down, peoples,” he said.
The peoples sat down—and that was the first time that they had appeared before the kings and the barons. But they dared not eat before the king, no matter how hungry they were.
“Eat,” Merlin said to them. “Arthus grants you permission.
“That’s true,” said Arthus.
With that, they began to eat, without raising their eyes.
In the meadow, Merlin’s dog was playing with Odin’s two dogs, yielding bones to them. Around the table an entire population of singers was standing up; there were troubadours and minnesingers among them, and also Arabian singers who mingled prose with verse. Even Robin Hood whistled his tune, hidden in a group.
The French singers praised the heroes of Germany and Jutland, the land of mists, Odin, Baldur the Strong, and the Teuton gods born of the earth; the minnesingers lauded the sky of Provence, the sea of Brittany, honored France and holy Rome.
Thus, celebrating one another’s heroes, all hearts were content. In addition, Merlin walked around the table, nourishing peace, concord and, most of all, good humor everywhere. If he saw a frown, he was there to prevent quarrels starting.
Arthus remained pensive, however, as if the table were empty; he still seemed to be fasting.
“I’m thirsty, Merlin,” he shouted. “You wine doesn’t slake the thirst. Do you hear me, Merlin? I’m hungry; your meats don’t satisfy me.”
The twelve peers frowned, adding: “The king has spoken. Your wine is not the best. The more we drink, the thirstier we become.”
The people would also have said the same, but, not daring to do so, they began sighing.
Smiling, Merlin said: “Don’t be annoyed. Here, Barons; this will content you better. Drink as much as you like; the thirst will pass.”
At that moment, he made a sign to Turpin. The latter, coming out of the wine-store, was carrying a deep cup in both hands, jeweled and foaming, so much so that all eyes were dazzled. No one knew which sparkled more: the carbuncle embedded in the rim or the crimson liquid.
“The Grail—the Lord’s cup!” they cried, in unison. “Who has found the cup?” And they were intoxicated in advance with joy.
Arthus said: “Frenchmen, I have ridden northwards, through the tenebrous forests, but in vain. I could not discover it.”
And Perceval le Gallois said: “King, I have visited the Syrian Sea. With my bloody lance I have searched the desert, but I have not found the cup.”
Everyone spoke thus, all adding: “Where did you find it, Merlin?”
“Tell them, you who know,” replied the prophet, addressing himself to Turpin.
Then everyone fell silent. Turpin, placing himself in the middle of the kings and the peoples, spoke in this fashion, while each of his words was softly accompanied by a distant murmur of harps and viols, so that the angels seemed to be responding to every word.
“Yes, it is thus, as it is said:
“‘This cup, great sires, was sculpted by shepherds and by kings, and given as a present to the Man-God wailing in the straw in the table in Bethlehem.’
“It is thus, as it is said:
“‘When Jesus was on the cross, and he was thirsty, this cup slaked his thirst.’
“The worthy Joseph of Arimathea found it in the sepulcher and gave it to the Bretons.
“Rome pillaged the cup and was intoxicated by it.
“After Rome, the Goths drank from it at their leisure.
“After the Goths, the Huns, under good king Humbert.85
“Humbert gave it to me; I am giving it to Merlin.”
“And I,” Merlin put in, “am giving it to you all.”
So saying, he approached it to Arthus’ lips, who passed it to Siegfried; Siegfried passed it to Gauthier, Gauthier to Hildebrand, Hildebrand to Lancelot, Lancelot to the children of Lara, the children to Antar of Araby. Thus it made a circuit of the table, so that everyone found his thirst slaked and satisfied.
From the hands of the heroes Merlin took it back; he passed it to the people, including the most petty.
“How do you like it indigent peoples?”
“To our taste, Seigneur!”
“Don’t get drunk.”
And holy amity entered into the grimmest hearts. Already, Perceval was wiping his lance, which until then had remained stained by the blood of Calvary.
“How have we been able to tear one another apart?” asked Siegfried.
“I repent of it,” said Arthus to his nephew Mogred.
“Grant us accord,” said the crowd.
“It’s done,” murmured Jacques between his teeth, while he brought spices.
Everyone was delighted to meet at the table. Having come from so far away, had they ever hoped for that? Undoubtedly not. And yet, how many adventures would have remained inexplicable, without that denouement? Everyone recounted his own, modestly and hastily, impatient to hear those of others. Arthus spoke about the forest of Broceliande, Hagen the manor of Dragenfeld, Antar the desert of Africa, Rustem the sky of Persia strewn with rubies, Perceforest the crau of Bresse,86 Hali-Hassan of Saracen towers; all of them understanding one another by implication, speaking in Old French, Christians and Saracens eating from the same plates.
At that moment, Golfin de Tours arrived, followed by his lion, which roared as it got near the meat, Frollon, of Paris, Ghérent, the son of Erbin, Morgan, the physician, and Gourdnei with the feline eyes who could see in the black night.87
“Are there any places left?” they asked, with one voice.
“At your pleasure,” Merlin replied. “Sit down here, comfortably. Jacques, feed the lion.”
Shortly thereafter came a host of nations, pale and exhausted, having missed their way.
“We’re looking for the cup!” they cried, wiping away their sweat and their tears. “We were told that it was in the Sepulcher.”
“Blind men!” said Merlin. “Here it is, on the table.”
“But the table is full! How shall we get near it? There’s no more room for us.”
“Your seats are here, peoples; sit down.”
The nations sat down, and the table was still growing. The peoples were growing too; for the first time, they were at their ease, which astonished them all, in view of the fact that their multitude was increasing from one hour to the next. Everyone admired Merlin’s hospitality and swore privately to do likewise one day. Frankly, in comparison with his, what was the hospitality of kings and peoples? A veritable beggary. They had often begrudged their guests air, and above all light.
A wanderer also arrived, desperate, and walking alone. All the nations pointed at him as he came forward, and drew away from him.
“Poor Wandering Jew,” said Merlin, who would have liked to embrace him, remembering that he had encountered him once before and had sheltered under his cloak. “Here, Ahasuerus, drink, as everyone is doing, from this cup. It’s the cup of Calvary.”
“Calvary!” cried Ahasuerus, recoiling in horror.
“Let him drink!” said the crowd.
“Is it,” Ahasuerus asked, “a beverage to make one die?”
“No, it makes us immortal.”
“Keep your odious present for yourselves, then.”
He drew away. No insistence on the part of the peoples could bring him back to the table. Jacques devoured him with his eyes without daring to approach him. Turpin, having accosted him, tried in vain to bring him back. But at least he learned what would be written about him later, in the book of Ahasuerus.
“Let him drink from the cup!” shouted Arthus, Siegfried and Hildebrand, among whom hatred as beginning to weigh again.
“Yes,” bayed the crowd. “If not, stone him.”
“Woe betide anyone who touches him,” said Merlin. “Let him be, good people. He’s the first one I was unable to cure. He is thirsty too, but of dolor, and wants a different cup. He will find it.”
Those words appeased those who were already recovering a taste for hatred. The wanderer who had awakened it was far from their eyes. Everyone sat down on his stone seat. The gazes of the kings and peoples had only darkened momentarily.
Before separating, the reconciled guests, arranged by nations, exchanged presents, pledges and sacred promises of amity. If they ever broke them, the sky would fall on their heads—that was what they said.
Perceval gave his lance to Hildebrand; he received a beautiful steel bow in return, sharpened into a blade. Others did likewise. They all resumed the roads to their homelands.
Immediately, the cup-bearers cleared away the remains of the feast. Jacques had already taken away the king’s part, and Turpin the flagons. Warned by Kay, the Seneschal, Merlin became angry. He ordered that everything be put back in place, and wanted the table to remain, day and night, eternally laid, in the same place, beneath the sky of France, laden with wine, meat and spices.
“Because,” he said, “how do I know that there are not pilgrim peoples on earth, wandering, mendicant or sick, whose mouths lack bread at this moment. For them, it’s important that the table always be set, in order that they can eat at leisure, whether they come from the north or the south. The cup must also remain full, within arm’s reach.”
Having said that, he confided the table to the French; he wanted the best of them to guard it, day and night, from father to son, sword in hand. Almost everyone had gone. They were called back by the sound of horns. Those who came back, Merlin placed as sentinels; there were some in every province of France; they promised to stand watch, from generation to generation, reliving one another in shifts.
“Watch, Frenchmen,” he continued. “Watch for all, good men of Normandy and Gascony, Champagne, Brittany and Anjou. I entrust to you on this table the food and drink of worlds to come. Do not let anything be stolen therefrom, by day or by night, by any thief or gluttonous kind, excepting the birds of the sky, if they, like us, are also thirsty for God the Dispenser of Justice. Seneschal, you’ll answer to me for that! You, Turpin, replace the flagons. You, Jacques, don’t take away the king’s part.”
At these words, Jacques and Turpin, humiliated, each returned everything he had removed. Many naked swords, gilded shields and scarlet coats of mail glittered in the sunlight around the table; Arthus invited the world there every day, with his sword. The birds that passed overhead and untamed bulls drank from the cup.
The next day, without further delay, pale nations arrived, breathless, almost naked, dying for want of hope, and, finding the table laid in the heart of France, sat down in silenced and ate their fill.
After them, others came, hungrier still, and gorged themselves in their turn. The table, always growing, always had empty places.
“Who has prepared this eternal banquet for us?” said the mendicant peoples in shrill voices, shaking their ragged mantles, hardened by the winter.
“Merlin,” replied the bread-porters.
And after them, I say this:
Fellow men what have you done with that round table? Peoples, you have tipped it over; kings, you have broken it; sages, you have laughed at it; madmen, you have forgotten it.
A few scattered stumps of it remain, under the brambles, in the crannies, in the ruts, under the thick bushes and in the pools where the reeds lament. Perhaps it could still be set up again, and for the rest of my life, I would gladly devote my two arms to gathering together the stones, patching the edges, carrying the mortar and standing up the granite seats.
But fellow men, those whom you loved, you no longer love. Those whom you honored, you now insult.
Peoples, you are thirsty; why have you broken the cup? Peoples, you are hungry; but it was you who tipped over the table.
What will you do tomorrow? Do you want to die, then?