The Mediaeval Mind/Chapter 24

by Henry Osborn Taylor

 

CHAPTER XXIV

PARZIVAL, THE BRAVE MAN SLOWLY WISE

The instances of romantic chivalry and courtly love reviewed in the last chapter exemplify ideals of conduct in some respects opposed to Christian ethics. But there is still a famous poem of chivalry in which the romantic ideal has gained in ethical consideration and achieved a hard-won agreement with the teachings of mediaeval Christianity, and yet has not become monkish or lost its knightly character. This poem told of a struggle toward wisdom and toward peace; and the victory when won rested upon the broadest mediaeval thoughts of life, and therefore necessarily included the soul's reconcilement to the saving ways of God. Yet it was knighthood's battle, won on earth by strength of arm, by steadfast courage, and by loyalty to whatsoever through the weary years the man's increasing wisdom recognized as right. A monk, seeking salvation, casts himself on God; the man that battles in the world is conscious that his own endeavour helps, and knows that God is ally to the valiant and not to him who lets his hands drop—even in the lap of God.

Among the romances presumably having a remote Breton origin, and somehow connected with the Court of Arthur, was the tale of Parzival, the princely youth reared in foolish ignorance of life, who learned all knighthood's lessons in the end, and became a perfect worshipful knight. This tale was told and retold. The adventures of another knight, Gawain, were interwoven in it. Possibly the French poet, Chrétien de Troies, about the year 1170, in his retelling, first brought into the story the conception of that thing, that magic dish, which in the course of its retellings became the Holy Grail. Chrétien did not finish his poem, and after him others completed or retold the story. Among them there was one who lacked the smooth facility of the French Trouvère, yet surpassed him and all others in thoughtfulness and dramatic power. This was the Bavarian, Wolfram von Eschenbach. He was a knight, and wandered from castle to castle and from court to court, and saw men. His generous patron was Hermann, Landgraf of Thüringen, who held court on the Wartburg, near Eisenach. There Wolfram may have composed his great poem in the opening years of the thirteenth century. He was no clerk, and had no clerkly education. Probably he could neither read nor write. But he lived during the best period of mediaeval German poetry, and the Wartburg was the centre of gay and literary life. Walther von der Vogelweide was one of Wolfram's familiars in its halls.

Wolfram knew and disapproved of Chrétien's version of the Perceval; and said the story had been far better told by a certain Kyot, a singer of Provence.^[1] Nothing is known of the latter beyond Wolfram's praise. Perhaps he was an invention of Wolfram's; not infrequently mediaeval poets referred to fictitious sources. At all events, Wolfram's sources were French or Provençal. In large measure the best German mediaeval poetry was an adaptation of the French; a fact which did not prevent the German adaptations from occasionally surpassing the French works they were drawn from. In the instance of Wolfram's Parzival, as in that of Gottfried von Strassburg's Tristan, the German poems were the great renderings of these tales.

As our author was a thoughtful German, his style is difficult and involved. Yet he had imagination, and his poem is great in the climaxes of the story. It is a poem of the hero's development, his spiritual progress. Apparently it was Wolfram who first realized the profound significance of the Parzival legend. Both the choice of subject and the contents of the poem reflect his temperament and opinions. Wolfram was a knight, and chose a knightly tale; for him knightly victories were the natural symbols of a man's progress. He was also one living in the world, prizing its gifts, and entertaining merely a perfunctory approval of ascetic renunciation. The loyal love between man and woman was to him earth's greatest good, and wedlock did not yield to celibacy in righteousness.^[2] Let fame and power and the glory of this world be striven for and won in loyalty and steadfastness and truth, in service of those who need aid, in mercy to the vanquished and in humility before God, with assurance that He is truth and loyalty and power, and never fails those who obey and serve Him.

"While two wills (Zvifel, Zweifel = doubt) dwell near the heart, the soul is bitter. Shamed and graced the man whose dauntless mood is—piebald! In him both heaven and hell have part. Black-coloured the unsteadfast comrade; white the man whose thoughts keep troth. False comradeship is fit for hell fire. Likewise let women heed whither they carry their honour, and on whom they bestow their love, that they may not rue their troth. Before God, I counsel good women to observe right measure. Their fortress is shame: I cannot wish them better weal. The false one gains false reward; her praise vanishes. Wide is the fame of many a fair; but if her heart be counterfeit, 'tis a false gem set in gold. The woman true to womanhood, be hers the praise—not lessened by her outside hue.

"Shall I now prove and draw a man and woman rightly? Hear then this tale of love joy and anguish too. My story tells of faithfulness, of woman's truth to womanhood, of man's to manhood, never flinching. Steel was he; in strife his conquering hand still took the guerdon; he, brave and slowly wise, this hero whom I greet, sweet in the eyes of women, heart's malady for them as well, himself a very flight from evil deed."

Such is Wolfram's Prologue. The story opens in a forest, where Queen Herzeloide had buried herself with her infant son after the death in knightly battle of Prince Gahmuret, her husband. The broken-hearted, foolish mother is seeking to keep her boy in ignorance of arms and knights. He has made himself a bow; he shoots a bird—its song is hushed. This is the child's first sorrow, and childish ignorance has been the cause; as afterwards youth's folly and then man's lack of wisdom will cause that child, grown large, more lasting anguish. Now to see a bird makes his tears start. His still foolish mother orders her servants to kill them. The boy protests, and the mother with a quick caress declares the birds shall have peace, she will no more infringe God's commands. At this unknown name the boy cries out, "O mother! what is God?" "Son, I will tell thee. Brighter than the day is He—who put on a human face. Pray to Him in need; His faithfulness helps men ever. There is another, hell's chief, black and false. Keep thy thoughts from him and from doubt's waverings." Away springs the boy again; and in the forest he learns to throw the hunting-spear and slay the stags. One day he hears the sounds of hoofs. He waves his spear: "May now the devil come in all his rage; I'd stand against him. My mother speaks of him in dread; but she is just afraid." Three knights gallop up in glancing armour. He thinks each is a god; falls on his knees before them. "Help, god, since thou canst help so well!" "This fool blocks our path," cries one. A fourth, their lord, rides up, and the boy calls him God.

"God?—not I; I gladly do His behests. Thou seest four knights."

"Knights? what is that? If thou hast not God's power, then tell me, who makes knights?"

"Young sir, that does King Arthur; go to him. He'll knight you—you seem to knighthood born."

The knights gazed on the boy, in whom God's craft showed clear. The boy touches their armour, their swords. The prince speaks over him: "Had I thy beauty! God's gifts to thee are great—if thou wilt wisely fare. May He keep sorrow from thee! "The knights rode on, while the boy sped to his mother, to tell her what he had seen. She was speechless. The boy would go to Arthur's Court. So she bethought her of a silly plan, to put fool's garb on him, that insult and scoff might drive him back to her. She also gave him counsel, wise and foolish.

So the youth is launched. He rides away; his mother dies of grief. As his path winds on, he finds a lady asleep in a pavilion, and following his mother's counsel he kisses her, and takes her ring by force; trouble came from this deed of folly. Then he meets with Sigune, mourning a dead knight. He stops and promises to avenge her. She was his cousin and, recognizing him, called him by name, and spoke to him of his lineage. Then the youth is piloted by a fisherman, till, in the neighbourhood of Arthur's Court, he meets a knight, Ither, in red armour, who greets him, points out the way, and sends a challenge to Arthur and his Round Table. Parzival now finds himself at Arthur's thronging Court. The young Iwein first speaks to him and the fool-youth returns: "God keep thee—so my mother bade me say. Here I see so many Arthurs; who is it that will make me knight?" Iwein, laughing, leads him to the royal pavilion, where he says: "God keep you, gentles, especially the king and his wife—as my mother bade me greet—and all the honoured knights of the Round Table. But I cannot tell which one here is lord. To him a red knight sends a challenge; I think he wants to fight. O! might the king's hand grant me the Red Knight's harness!" They crowd around the glorious youth. "Thanks, young sir, for your greeting which I shall hope to earn," said the king.

"Would to God!" cried the young man, quivering with impatience; "the time seems years before I shall be knight. Give me knighthood now."

"Gladly," returns the king. "Might I grant it to you worthily. Wait till to-morrow that I may knight you duly and with gifts."

"I want no gifts—only that knight's armour. My mother can give me gifts; she is a queen."

Arthur feared to send the raw youth against the noble Ither, but yielded to the malignant spurring of Sir Kay, and Parzival rode out with his unknightly hunting-spear. Abruptly he bade Ither give him his horse and armour, and on the knight's sarcastic answer, grasped his horse's bridle. The angry Ither reversed his lance, and with the butt end struck down Parzival and his sorry nag. Parzival sprang to his feet and threw his spear straight through the visor of the other's helmet; and the knight fell from his horse, dead. With brutal stupidity Parzival tried to pull his armour off, not knowing how to unlace it. Iwein came and showed him how to remove and wear the armour, and how to carry his shield and lance. So clad in Ither's armour and mounted on the great war-horse, he bids Iwein commend him to King Arthur, and rides off, leaving the other to care for the body of the dead knight.

In the evening he reached the castle of an aged prince, who saw the marvellous youth come riding, with the fool garments showing out from under his armour. Courteously received, the youth enjoyed a bath, a repast, and a long night's sleep. Fortunately his mother had bade him follow the counsels of grey hairs; so in the morning he put on the garments which his host had left in his room for him, instead of what his mother gave. The host first heard mass with his simple guest, and instructed him as to its significance, and how to cross himself and guard against the devil's wiles. Then they breakfasted, and the old man, having heard Parzival's story, advised him to leave off saying "My mother bade me," and gave him further counsel: "Preserve thy shame; the shameless man is worthless, and at last, wins hell. You seem a mighty lord, mind you take pity on those in need; be kind and generous and humble. The worthy man in need is shamed to beg; anticipate his wants; this brings God's favour. Yet be prudent, neither lavish nor miserly; right measure be your rule. Sorely you need counsel; avoid harsh conduct, do not ask too many questions, nor yet refuse to answer a question fitly asked; observe and listen. Let mercy temper valour. Spare him who yields, whatever wrong he has done you. When you lay off your armour, wash your hands and face; make yourself neat; woman's eye will mark it. Be manly and gay. Hold women in respect and love; this increases a young man's honour. Be constant—that is manhood's part. Short his praise who betrays honest love. The night-thief wakes many foes; against treachery true love has its own wisdom and resource. Gain its disfavour and your lot is shame."

The guest thanked the host for his counsel. He spoke no more of his mother save in his heart. Then his host, remarking that he had seen many a shield hang better on a wall than Parzival's on him, took him out into a field; and there in the company of other knights he instructed him in jousting, and found him a ready and resistless pupil. The old man looked fondly on him—his daughter Liasse—she is fair—would not Parzival think so, and stay as a son in the now sonless house? Fair and chaste was the damsel, but Parzival says: "My lord, I am not wise. If I gain knighthood's praise so that I may look for love—then keep Liasse for me. You shall have less weight of grief if I can lighten it."

Parzival's first experience of life and the old man's counsels had changed him. He was no longer the callow boy who a few days before in the forest took the knights for gods, but a young man conscious of his inexperience and lack of wisdom. Perhaps the change seems sudden; but the subtle development of character had not yet found literary expression in the Midde Ages, and Wolfram here is a great pioneer.

So the young knight rode away, carrying secret thoughts of the maiden, and a little pain, his heart lightly touched with love, and so made ready for a mightier passion. His horse carried him on through woods and savage mountains, to the kingdom whose capital, Pelrapeire, was besieged, because it held its queen, Condwiramurs (coin de voire amors). Within the town were famine and death, without, a knightly, cruel foe, King Clamide, who fought to win the queen by sack and ruin. Crossing a field and bridge where many a knight had fallen, Parzival reached a gate and knocked. A maid called out, and finding that he brought aid and not enmity, she admitted him. Armed men weak with hunger fill the streets, through which the maid leads the knight on to the palace. His armour is removed, a mantle brought him. "Will he see the queen, our lady?" ask the attendants. "Gladly," answers Parzival. They enter the great hall—and the queen's fair eyes greet him. She advances surrounded by her ladies. With courtesy she kisses the knight, gives him her hand, and leads him to a seat. The faces of her warriors and women are sad and worn; but she—had she contended with Enit and both Iseults fair, and whomsoever else men praise for beauty, hers had been the prize.

The guest mused: "Liasse was there—Liasse is here; God slacks my grief, here is Liasse." He sat silent by the queen, mindful of the old prince's advice not to ask questions. "Does this man despise me," thought she, "because I am no longer lovely? No, he is the guest, the hostess I; it is for me to speak." Then aloud: "Sir, a hostess must speak. Your greeting won a kiss from me; you offered me your service—so said my maid. Rare offer now! Sir, whence come you?"

"Lady, I rode this very day from the house of the good, well-remembered host, Prince Gurnemanz."

"Sir, I had hardly believed this from another; the way is so long. His sister was my mother. Many a sad day have I and his Liasse wept together. Since you bear kindness for that prince, I will tell you our grievous plight."

The telling is deferred till some refreshment is obtained, and then Parzival is shown to his chamber. He sleeps; but the sound of sobbing breaks his slumber. The hapless queen in her need had sought out her guest in the solitude of night; she had cast herself on her knees by his couch; her tears fall on him, and he awakes. Touched with love and pity at the sight, Parzival sprang up. "Lady! you mock me? You should kneel to God." In honour they sit by each other, and the queen tells her story, how King Clamide and his seneschal have wasted her lands, unhappy orphan, slain her people, even her knightly defender, Liasse's brother—she will die rather than yield herself to him.

Liasse's name stirs Parzival: "How can I help you?"

"Save me from that seneschal, who harries me and mine."

Parzival promises, and the queen steals away. The day is breaking, and Parzival hears the minster bells. Mass is sung, and the young knight arms and goes forth—the burghers' prayers go with him—against the host led by the seneschal. Parzival vanquishes him, grants him his life, and sends him to Arthur's Court. The townsmen receive the victor with acclaim, the queen embraces him. Who but he shall be her lord? So their nuptials were celebrated, although Parzival felt the reward to be too great; it were enough for him to touch her garment's hem. Soon King Clamide himself ordered an assault upon the town, only to meet repulse. He challenged Parzival, and, vanquished like his seneschal, was likewise sent to Arthur's Court.

Love was strong between Queen Condwiramurs and Parzival her husband. One morning Parzival spoke to her in the presence of their people: "Lady, please you, with your permission, I would see how my mother fares and seek adventures. If thus I serve and honour you, your love is ample guerdon."

From his wife and from all those who called him Lord, Parzival rode forth alone. He has to learn what pain and sorrow are; the first teaching came now, as longing for his wife filled his heart with grief. In the evening he reached the shore of a lake, and saw a fisher in a boat, attired like a king.^[3] The fisher directed him to a castle, promising there to be his host. Following his directions, Parzival came to a marvellously great castle, where, on saying that the fisher sent him, he was courteously received and his needs attended to. Sadness pervaded the great halls. The banquet-room, to which he was shown, was lighted by a hundred chandeliers, and around the walls were ranged a hundred couches. The host entered and lay down on one of them, made like a stretcher; he seemed a stranger to joy. They covered him with furs and mantles, as a sick man. He beckoned Parzival to sit by him. As the hall filled with people, a squire entered carrying a bleeding lance, whereupon all present made lament. A procession of nobly clad ladies followed, bearing precious dishes, and at last among them a queen, Repanse de Schoye. She bore, upon a silken cushion, the fulness of all good, an object called the Grail. Only a maiden pure and true might carry it. There also came six other maids bearing each a flashing goblet; and they set their burdens before the host. Water for the hands was then brought to the host and to his guest, and to the knights ranged on the couches; and tables were placed before them all. A hundred squires came and reverently took from the Grail all manner of food and wine, which they set before the knights, whatever each might wish. Everything came from the power of the Grail.

Parzival wondered, but kept silence, thinking of the old prince's counsel not to ask many questions, and hoping to be told what all this might be. A squire brought a sword to the host, who gave it to the guest: "I bore this sword in all need, until God wounded me. Take it as amends for our sad hospitality. Rely on it in battle."

The gift of the sword was Parzival's opportunity to ask his host what had stricken him. He let it pass. The feast was solemnly removed. "Your bed is ready, whenever you will rest," said the host; and Parzival was shown to a bedchamber, where he was left alone. But the knight did not sleep uncompanioned. Coming sorrow sent her messengers. Dreams overhung him, as a tapestry, woven of sword-strokes and deadly thrusts of lance. He was fighting dark, endless, battles for his life, till sweating in every limb he woke. Day shone through the window. "Where are the knaves to fetch my clothes?" He heard no sound. He sprang up. His armour lay there, and the two swords—the one which he took from Ither and the one given him by his host. Thought he: "I have suffered such pain in my sleep, there must be hard work for me to-day. Is mine host in need, I will gladly aid him and her too, Repanse, who gave me this mantle; yet I would not serve her for her love; my own wife is as beautiful."

Parzival passed through the castle's empty halls, calling aloud in anger. He saw no one, heard no sound. In the courtyard he found his horse, and flung himself into the saddle. He rode through the open castle-gate, over the draw-bridge, which an unseen hand drew up before his horse's hoofs had fairly cleared it. He looked behind him in surprise. A squire cursed him: "May the sun scorch you! Had you just used your mouth to ask a question of your host! You missed it, goose!" Parzival called for explanation, but the gates were swung to in his face. His joy was gone, his pain begun. By chance throw of the dice he had found and lost the Grail. He sees the ground torn as by the hoofs of knights riding hard. "These," thought he, "fight to-day for my host's honour. Their band would not have been shamed by me. I would not fail them in their need—so might I earn the bread I ate and this sword which their lord gave me. I carry it unearned. They think I am a coward."

He followed the hoof tracks; they led him on a way, then scattered and grew faint. The day was young. Under a linden sat a lady, holding the body of a knight embalmed. What earthly troth compared with hers? He turned his horse to her: "Lady, your sorrow grieves my heart. Would my service avail you?"

"Whence come you? Many a man has found death in this wood. Flee, as you love your life; but, say, where did you spend the night?"

"In a castle not a league from here."

"Do not deceive. You carry stranger shield. There is no house in thirty leagues, save one castle high and great. Those who seek it, find it not. It is only found unsought. Munsalvaesch its name. The ancient Titurel bequeathed it to his son Frimutel, a hero; but in the jousts he won his death from love. Of his children, one is a hermit, Trevrizent; another, Anfortas, is the castle's lord, and can neither ride nor walk, nor sit nor lie. But, sir, if you were there, may be that he is healed of his long pain."

"Many marvels saw I there," he answered.

She recognized the voice: "You are Parzival. Say, then, saw you the Grail and the joyless lord? If his pain is stilled through you, then hail! far as the wind blows spreads your glory, your dominion too."

"How did you know me?" said Parzival.

"I am the maid who once before told you her grief, your kinswoman, who mourns her lover slain."

"Alas! where are thy red lips? Art thou Sigune who told me who I was? Where is fled thy long brown hair, thy loveliness and colour?"

Sigune spoke: "My only consolation were to hear that you have helped the helpless man whose sword you bear. Know you its gifts? The first stroke it strikes well, at the second, breaks; a word is needed that the sword may make its bearer peerless. Do you know this word? If so, none can withstand you—have you asked the question?"

"I asked nothing."

"Woe is me that mine eyes have seen you! You asked no question! You saw such wonders there—the Grail, the noble ladies, the bloody spear. Wretched, accursed man, what would you have from me? Yours the false wolf-tooth! You should have taken pity on your host, and asked his ail—then God had worked a miracle on him. You live, but dead to happiness."

"Dear cousin, speak me fair. I will atone for any ill."

"Atone? nay, leave that! At Munsalvaesch your honour and your knightly praise vanished. You get no more from me."

Parzival's fault was not accident; it sprang from what he was—unwise. He could atone only through becoming wise through the endurance of years of trial. The unhappy knight rode on, loosing his helmet to breathe more freely. Soon he chanced to overtake the lady Jesute, travelling on a mean horse in wretched guise, her garments torn, her face disfigured. He offered aid, and she, recognizing him, said with tears that her sorrows all were due to him; she was the lady whose girdle and ring his fool's hand had taken, and now her husband Orilus treated her as a woman of shame. Here the proud duke himself came thundering up, to see what knight dared aid his cast-off wife. Parzival conquered him after a long combat; and the three went to a hermitage where the victor made oath that it was he who took by force the ring and girdle from the blameless lady. Returning the ring to Orilus, he sent him with his lady, reconciled and happy, to Arthur's Court. Thus Parzival's knighthood made amends for his first foolish act. He found a strong lance in the hermitage, took it, and departed.

When Orilus and his lady had been received with honour at Arthur's Court, the king with all his knights set forth towards Munsalvaesch to find the mighty man calling himself the Red Knight, who had sent so many conquered pledges of his prowess; for he wished to make him a knight of the Round Table. It was winter. Parzival—the Red Knight—came riding from the opposite direction. As he drew near the encampment of the king, his eye lighted on three drops of blood showing clear red in the fresh-fallen snow; in mid air above, a wild goose had been struck by a falcon. The knight paused in reverie—red and white—the colours carried his thoughts to his heart's queen, Condwiramurs. There he sat, as a statue on his horse, with poised spear; his thoughts had flown to her whose image now closed his eyes to all else. A lad spied the great knight, and ran breathless to Arthur, to tell of the stranger who seemed to challenge all the Round Table. Segramors gained Arthur's permission to accost him. Out he rode with ready challenge; Parzival neither saw nor heard, till his horse swerved at the knight's approach, so that he saw the drops no longer. Then his mighty lance fell in rest, Segramors was hurled to the ground, and took himself back discomfited, while Parzival returned to gaze on the drops of blood, lost in reverie as before. Now Kay the quarrelsome rode out, and roused the hero with a rude blow. The joust is run again, and Kay crawls back with broken leg and arm. Again Parzival loses himself in reverie. And now courtly Gawain, best of Arthur's knights, rides forth, unarmed. Courteously he addresses Parzival, who hears nothing, and sits moveless. Gawain bethinks him it is love that binds the knight. Seeing that Parzival is gazing on three drops of blood, he gently covers them with a silken cloth. Parzival's wits return; he moans: "Alas, lady wife of mine, what comes between us? A cloud has hidden thee." Then, astonished, he sees Gawain—a knight without lance or shield—does he come to mock? With noble courtesy Gawain disclosed himself and led the way to Arthur's Court, where fair ladies and the king greeted the hero whom they had come to seek. A festival was ordained in his honour. The fair company of knights and ladies are seated about the Round Table; the feast is at its height, when suddenly upon a gigantic mule, a scourge in her rough hand, comes riding the seeress Cundrie, harsh and unlovely. Straight she addresses Arthur: "Son of King Uterpendragon, you have shamed yourself and this high company, receiving Parzival, whom you call the Red Knight." She turns on Parzival: "Disgrace fall on your proud form and strength! Sir Parzival, tell me, how came it that you met that joyless fisher, and did not help him? He showed you his pain, and you, false guest, had no pity for him. Abhorred by all good men, marked for hell by heaven's Highest, you ban of happiness and curse of joy! No leech can heal your sickened honour. Greater betrayal never shamed a man so goodly. Your host gave you a sword; you saw them bear the Grail, the silver dishes, and the bloody spear, and you, dishonoured Parzival, were silent. You failed to win earth's chiefest prize; your father had not done so—are you his son? Yes, for Herzeloide was as true as he. Woe's me, that Herzeloide's child has so let honour slip!" Cundrie wrung her hands; her tears fell fast; she turned her mule and cried: "Woe, woe to thee Munsalvaesch, mount of pain; here is no aid for thee!" And bidding none farewell, she rode away, leaving Parzival to his shame, the knights to their astonishment, the ladies to their tears.

Cundrie was hardly out of sight, before another shame was put on the Round Table. An armed knight rode in, and, accusing Gawain of murdering his king and cousin, summoned him to mortal combat within forty days before the King of Askalon. Arthur himself was ready to do battle for Gawain, but that good knight accepted the challenge with all courtesy.

Parzival's lineage was first known to the Court from Cundrie's calling him by name and speaking of his mother. Now Clamide, once Condwiramurs's cruel wooer, begged the hero to intercede for him with another fair one, the lady Cunneware. Parzival courteously complied. A heathen queen then saluted him with the news that he had a great heathen half-brother, Feirefiz, the son of Parzival's father by a heathen queen. Thanking her, Parzival spoke to the company: "I cannot endure Cundrie's reproach; what knight here does not look askance? I will seek no joy until I find the Grail, be the quest short or long. The worthy Gurnemanz bade me refrain from questions. Honoured knights, your favour is for me to win again, for I have lost it. Me yet unshamed you took into your company; I release you. Let sorrow be my comrade; for I forsook my happiness on Munsalvaesch. Ah! helpless Anfortas! You had small help from me."

Knights and ladies were grieved to see the hero depart in such sorrow, and many a knight's service was offered him. The lady Cunneware took his hand; Lord Gawain kissed him and said: "I know thy way is full of strife; God grant to thee good fortune, and to me the chance to serve thee."

"Ah! what is God?" answered Parzival. "Were He strong He would not have put such shame on me and you. I was His subject from the hour I learned to ask His favour. Now I renounce His service. If He hates me, I will bear it. Friend, in thine hour of strife let the love of a woman pure and true strengthen thy hand. I know not when I shall see thee again; may my good wishes towards thee be fulfilled."

The hero's arms are brought; his horse is saddled; his grievous toil begins.

Why should long sorrow come to Parzival for not asking a question, when his omission was caused neither by brutality nor ill will? when, on the contrary, he would gladly have served his host? The relation between his conduct and his fortune seems lame. Yet in life as well as in literature, ignorance and error bring punishment. Moreover, to mediaeval romance not only is there a background of sorcery and magic, but active elements of magic survive in the tales.^[4] And nothing is more fraught with magic import and result than question and answer. Wolfram did not treat as magical the effect upon his hero's lot of his failure to ask the question; but he retained the palpably magic import of the act as affecting the sick Anfortas. It was hard that the omission should have brought Parzival to sorrow and despair; yet the fault was part of himself, and the man so ignorant and unwise was sure to incur calamity, and also gain sorrow's lessons if he was capable of learning. So the sequence becomes ethical: from error, calamity; from calamity, grief; and from grief, wisdom. With Wolfram, Parzival's fault was Parzival; failure to ask the question was a symbol of his lack of wisdom. The poet was of his time; and mediaeval thought tended to symbolism, and to move, as it were, from symbol to symbol, and from symbolical significance to related symbolical significance, and indeed often to treat a symbol as if it were the fact which was symbolized.

 

At this point Wolfram's poem devotes some cantos to the lighter-hearted adventures of Gawain. This valiant, courtly, loyal knight and his adventures are throughout a foil to the heavier lot and character of Parzival. But when Gawain has had his due, the poet is glad to return to his rightful hero. Parzival has ridden through many lands; he has sailed many seas; before his lance no knight has kept his seat; his praise and fame are spread afar. Though he has never been overthrown, the sword given him by Anfortas broke; but with magic water Parzival welded it again. In a forest one day he rode up to a hut, where Sigune was living as a recluse, feeding her soul with thoughts of her dead lover, barring all fancies that might disunite her from the dead whom she still held as her husband. Parzival recognized her, and she him, when he removed his helm:

"You are Sir Parzival tell me,—how is it with the Grail?"

"It has given me sorrow enough; I left a land where I was king, a loving wife, fairest of women; I suffer anguish for her love, and more because of that high goal of Munsalvaesch which is not reached. Cousin Sigune, knowing my sorrow, you do wrong to hate me."

"My wrath is spent. You have lost joy enough since that time you failed to question Anfortas, your host—your happiness as well. Then that question would have blessed you; now joy is denied you; your high mood halts; your heart is tamed by sorrow, which had stayed a stranger to it had you asked the question."

"I acted as a luckless man. Dear cousin, counsel me—but, say, how is it with you? I should bemoan your grief were not my own greater than man ever bore."

"Let His hand help you who knows all sorrow. A path might bring you yet to Munsalvaesch. Cundrie but now rode hence—follow her track."

Parzival started to follow the track of Cundrie's mule, which soon was lost, and with it the Grail was lost again. Without guidance he rode on. He overthrew a Grail knight, and took his horse, his own having been wounded in the combat. How long he rode I know not, says the poet. One frosty morning he met an aged knight unhelmeted, and walking barefoot with his wife and daughters. The knight reproved him for riding armed on that holy day. Parzival answered: "I do not know the time of year; it is long since I kept count of days. Once I served Him who is called God until He graced me with His mockery. He helps, men say. I have not found it so."

"If you mean God who was born of a virgin," replied the old knight, "and believe that He took man's nature, you do wrong to ride in armour; for this is the day when He hung on the Cross for us. Sir, not far from here dwells a holy man, who will give you counsel; you may repent and be absolved from your sins."

Parzival courteously took his leave. He had regarded his failure to ask that question as a luckless error, had felt that God was unjust to him, and had also doubted His power to aid. Now came wavering thoughts: "What if God might help my pain? If He ever favoured a knight, or if sword and shield might win His favour if to-day is His day of help, let Him help me if He can. If God's craft can show the way to man and horse, I'll honour Him. Go then according to God's choosing."

He flung the bridle on his horse's neck, spurring him forward; and the horse carried him straight to the hermitage of holy Trevrizent, who fasted there to fit himself for heaven, his chastity warring with the devil. Parzival recognized the place where he had sworn the oath to Orilus, to clear Jesute's honour. The hermit, seeing him, exclaimed: "Alas! sir, that you ride equipped in this holy season. Were you sore pressed? Another garb were fitter, did your pride permit. Come by the fire. If you follow love's adventure, think of that afterward, and this day seek the love which this day gives."

Dismounting, Parzival stood respectfully before the hermit: "Sir, advise me; I am a man of sin."

His host promised counsel and asked how he came there. Parzival told of meeting the old knight, and inquired whether his host felt no fear at seeing him ride up. "Believe me, no," answered the hermit; "I fear no man. I would not boast, but in my day my heart never quailed in the fight. I was a knight as you are, and had many sinful thoughts."

Having placed the horse in shelter beneath a cliff, the hermit led the knight into his cell. There was a fire of coals, before which Parzival was glad to warm himself and exchange his steel armour for a cloak; he seemed forest-weary. A door opened to an inner cell, where stood an altar, bearing the very reliquary on which Parzival had laid his hand in making oath. He told his host of this, and of the lance which he had found there and taken. "A friend of mine left it there, and chided with me afterwards. It is four years, six months, and three days since you took that spear; I will prove it to you from this Psalter."

"I did not know how long I had journeyed, lost and unhappy. I carry sorrow's weight. Sir, I will tell you more: from that time no man has seen me in church or minster, where they honour God. I have sought battles only. I also bear a hate for God. He is my trouble's sponsor: had He borne aid, my joy had not been buried living! My heart is sore. In reward of my many fights, sorrow has set on me a crown—of thorns. I bear a grudge against that Lord of aid, that me alone He helps not."

The host sighed, and looked at him; then spoke: "Sir, be wise. You should trust God well. He will help you, it is His office; He must help us both. Tell me with sober wits, how did your anger against Him arise? Learn from me His guiltlessness before you accuse Him. His aid is never withheld. Even I, a layman, can read the meaning of those unlying books; man must continue steadfast in service of Him who never wearies in His steady aid to sinking souls. Keep troth, for God is troth. Deceit is hateful to Him. We should be grateful; in our behalf His nobility took on the form of man. God is called, and is, truth. He can turn from no one; teach your thoughts never to turn from Him. You can force nothing from Him with your wrath. Whoever sees you carry hate toward Him will deem you sick of wit. Think of Lucifer and all his comrades. Hell was their reward. When Lucifer and his host had taken their hell-journey, a man was made. God made from clay the worthy Adam. From Adam's flesh He took Eve, who brought us calamity when she listened not to her Creator, and destroyed our joy. Two sons were born to them. One of these in envious anger destroyed his grandmother's maidenhood, by sin."

"Sir, how could that be?"

"The earth was Adam's mother, and was a maiden. Adam was Cain's father, who slew Abel; and the blood fell on the pure earth; its maidenhood was sped. Thence arose hate among men and still endures. Nothing in the world is as pure as an innocent maid; God was himself a maiden's child, and took the image of the first maid's fruit. With Adam's seed came sorrow and joy; through him our lineage is from God, but through him, too, we carry sin, for which God took man's image, and so suffered, battling with troth against untroth. Turn to Him if you would not be lost. Plato, Sibyl the prophetess, foretold Him. With divine love His mighty hand plucked us from hell. The joyful news they tell of Him the True Lover is this: He is radiant light, and wavers not in His love. Men may have either His love or hate. The unrepentant sinner flees the divine faithfulness; he who does penance wins His clemency. God penetrates thought, which is hidden to the sun's rays and needs no castle's ward. Yet God's light passes its dark wall, comes stealing in, and noiselessly departs. No thought so quick but He discovers it before it leaves the heart. The pure in heart He chooses. Woe to the man who harbours evil. What help is there in human craft for him whose deeds put God to shame? You are lost if you act in His despite, who is prepared for either love or hate. Now change your heart; with goodness earn His thanks."

"Sir," says Parzival, "I am glad to be taught by you of Him who does not fail to reward both crime and virtue. With pain and struggle I have so borne my young life to this day that through keeping troth I have got sorrow."

Parzival still feels his innocence; perhaps the host is not so sure: "Prithee, be open with me. I would gladly hear your troubles and your sins. May be I can advise you."

"The Grail is my chief woe and then my wife—she is beyond compare. For both of these I yearn."

"Sir, you say well. Your grief is righteous if its cause is yearning for your wife. If you were cast to hell for other sins, but loyal to your wife, God's hand would lift you out. As for the Grail, you foolish man, pursuit will never win it. 'Tis for him only who is named in heaven. I can say; for I have seen it."

"Sir, were you there?"

"I was."

Parzival did not say that he had been there too; but asked about the Grail. His host then told him of the valiant Templars who dwelt on Munsalvaesch, and rode thence on adventures as penance for their sins. "They are nourished by a Stone of marvellous virtue; no sick man seeing it could die that week; it gives youth and strength, and is called the Grail. To-day, as on every Good Friday, a dove flies from heaven and lays a wafer on the Grail, from which the Grail receives its share of every food and every good the earth or Paradise affords. The name of whosoever is chosen for the Grail, be it boy or girl, appears inscribed upon it, suddenly, and when read disappears. They come as children; glad the mother whose child is named; for taken to that company, it will be held from sin and shame, and be received in heaven when this life is past. Further, all those who took neither side in the war between Lucifer and the Trinity, were cast out of heaven to earth, and here must serve the Grail."

Parzival spoke: "If knighthood might with shield and spear win earth's prize and Paradise for the soul—why I have fought wherever I found fight; often my hand has touched the prize. If God is wise in conflicts, He should name me, that those people there may learn to know me. My hand never drew back."

"First you must guard against pride, and practise modesty." The old man paused and then continued: "There was a Grail king named Anfortas. You and I should pity his sad lot which befell him through pride in youth and riches; he loved in the world's light way—that also goes not with the Grail. There came once to the castle one unnamed, a simple man; he went away, his sins upon his head; he never asked the host what ailed him. Before that time a prince, Lahelein, approached and fought with a Grail knight, and slew him and took his horse. Sir, are you Lahelein? you rode a Grail steed hither. I know his trappings well, and the dove's crest which Anfortas gave his knights. The old Titurel also wore that crest, and after him his son Frimutel, till he lost his life. Sir, you resemble him. Who are you?"

Each looked on the other. Parzival spoke: "My father was a knight. He lost his life in combat; sir, include him in your prayers. His name was Gamuhret. I am not Lahelein; yet in my folly once I too robbed the dead. My sinful hand slew Ither. I left him dead upon the sward—and took what was to take."

"O world! alas for thee! heart's sorrow is thy pay!" the hermit cried. "My nephew, it was your own flesh and blood you slew; a deed which with God merits death. Ither, the pattern of all knights—how can you atone? My sister too, your mother Herzeloide, you brought her to her death."

"Oh no! good sir, how say you that? If I am your sister's child, oh tell me all."

"Your mother died when you left her. My other sister was Sigune's mother; our brother is Anfortas, who long has been the Grail's sad lord. We early lost our father, Frimutel; from him Anfortas, his first-born, inherited the Grail crown, when still a child. As he grew a man, all too eagerly he followed the service set by love of woman, chose him a mistress and broke many a spear for her. He disobeyed the Grail, which forbids its lords love's service, save as it prescribes. One day, for his lady's favour, he ran a joust with a heathen knight. He slew him, but the heathen spear struck him, and broke, leaving a poisoned wound. In anguish he returned. No medicine or charm can heal that wound, and yet he cannot die; that is the Grail's power. I renounced knighthood, flesh, and wine, in prayer that God would heal him. We knelt before the Grail, and on it read that when a knight should come, and, unadmonished, ask what ailed him, he should be sound again. That knight should then be the Grail's king, in place of Anfortas. Since then a knight did come—I spoke of him to you. He might as well have stayed away for all the honour that he won or aid he brought us. He did not ask: My lord, what brought you to this pass? Stupidity forbade him."

The two made moan together. It was noon. The host said: "Let us take food now, and tend your horse." They went out; Parzival broke up some branches for his horse, while the host gathered a repast of herbs. Then they returned to the cell. "Dear nephew," said the hermit, "do not despise this food. At least, you will not find another host who would more gladly give you better."

"Sir, may God's favour pass me by, if ever a host's care was sweeter to me."

When they had eaten, they saw to the horse again, whose hungry plight grieved the old man because of the saddle with Anfortas's crest. Then Parzival spoke:

"Lord and uncle mine, if I dare speak for shame, I should tell you all my unhappiness. My troth takes refuge in you. My misdeeds are so sore, that if you cast me off I shall go all my days unloosed from my remorse. Take pity with good counsel on a fool. He who rode to Munsalvaesch, and saw that pain, and asked no question, that was I, misfortune's child. Thus have I, sir, misdone."

"Nephew! Alas! We both may well lament—where were your five senses? Yet I will not refuse thee counsel. You must not grieve overmuch, but, in lament and laying grief aside, follow right measure. Would that I might refresh and hearten you, so that you would push on, and not despair of God. You might still cure your sorrow. God will not forsake you. I counsel thee from Him."

His host then told Parzival more about Anfortas's pains, and about the Grail people, then the story of his own life before he renounced knighthood, and also about Ither. "Ither was your kin. If your hand forgot this kinship, God will not. You must do penance for this deadly sin, and also for your mother's death. Repent of your misdeeds and think of death, so that your labour here below may bring peace to your soul above."

These two deadly sins of Parzival were done unwittingly and unwitting was his neglect to ask the question. His guilt was thoughtlessness and stupid ignorance. It is impossible not to think of Oedipus, and compare the Christian mediaeval treatment of unwitting crimes with the classical Greek consideration of the same dark subject. Oedipus sinned as unwittingly as Parzival, and as impulsively. His ruin was complete. Afterwards—in the Oedipus Coloneus—his character gathers greatness through submission to the necessary consequences of his acts; here was his spiritual expiation. On the other hand, mercy, repentance, hope, the uplifting of the unwitting sinner, forgiveness and consolation, soften and glorify the Christian mediaeval story.

Parzival stayed some days at the hermitage. At parting the hermit spoke words of comfort to him: "Leave me your sins. I will be your surety with God for your repentance. Perform what I have bidden you, and do not waver."

The story here turns to Gawain. In the tale of his adventures there comes a glimpse of Parzival. A proud lady, for whose love Gawain is doing perilous deeds, tells him, she has never met a man she could not bend to her will and love, save only one. That one came and overthrew her knights. She offered him her land and her fair self; his answer put her to shame: "The glorious Queen of Pelrapeire is my wife, and I am Parzival. I will have none of your love. The Grail gives me other care."

Gawain won this lady, and conducted her to Arthur's Court, whither his rival the haughty King Gramoflanz was summoned to do battle with him. On the morning set for the combat Gawain rode out a little to the bank of a river, to prove his horse and armour. There at the river rode a knight; Gawain deemed it was Gramoflanz. They rush together; man and horse go down in the joust. The knights spring to their feet and fight on with their swords. Meanwhile Gramoflanz, with a splendid company, has arrived at Arthur's Court. The lists are ready; Gramoflanz stands armed. But where is Gawain? He was not wont to tarry. Squires hurry out in search, to find him just falling before the blows of the stranger. They call, Gawain! and the unknown knight throws away his sword with a great cry: "Wretched and worthless! Accursed is my dishonoured hand. Be mine the shame. My luckless arms ever—and now again—strike down my happiness. That I should raise my hand against noble Gawain! It is myself that I have overthrown."

Gawain heard him: "Alas, sir, who are you that speak such love towards me? Would you had spoken sooner, before my strength and praise had left me."

"Cousin, I am your cousin, ready to serve you, Parzival."

"Then you said true! This fool's fight of two hearts that love! Your hand has overthrown us both."

Gawain could no longer stand. Fainting they laid him on the grass. Gramoflanz rides up, and is grieved to find his rival in no condition to fight. Parzival offers to take Gawain's place; but Gramoflanz declines, and the combat is postponed till the morrow. Parzival is then escorted to Arthur's Court, where Gawain would have him meet fair ladies; he holds back, thinking of the shame once put on him there by Cundrie. Gawain insists, and ladies greet the knight. Arthur again makes Parzival one of the Round Table. Early the next morning, Parzival, changing his arms, meets Gramoflanz in the lists, before Gawain has arrived; and vanquishes him. Then comes Gawain and offers to postpone the combat as Gramoflanz had done. So the combat is again set for the next day. In the meanwhile, however, various matters come to light and explanations are had; Arthur succeeds in reconciling the rival knights and adjusting their relations to the ladies. So the Court becomes gay with wedding festivals, and all is joy.

Except with Parzival. His heart is torn with pain and yearning for his wife. He muses: "Since I could love, how has love dealt with me! I was born from love; why have I lost love? I must seek the Grail; yet how I yearn for the sweet arms of her from whom I parted—so long ago! It is not fit that I should look on this joyful festival with anguish in my heart." There lay his armour: "Since I have no part in this joy, and God wills none for me; and the love of Condwiramurs banishes all wish for other happiness—now God grant happiness to all this company. I will go forth." He put his armour on, saddled his horse, took spear and shield, and fled from the joyous Court, as the day was dawning.

And now he meets a heathen knight, approaching with a splendid following. They rode a great joust; and the heathen wondered to find a knight abide his lance. They fought with swords together, till their horses were blown; they sprang on the ground, and there fought on. Then the heathen thought of his queen; the love-thought brought him strength, and he struck Parzival a blow that brought him to his knee. Now rouse thee, Parzival; why dost thou not think on thy wife? Suddenly he thought of her, and how he won her love, vanquishing Clamide before Pelrapeire. Straight her aid came to him across four kingdoms, and he struck the heathen down; but his sword—once Ither's—broke.

The foolish evil deed of Parzival in slaying Ither seems atoned for in the breaking of this sword. Had it not broken, great evil had been done. The great-hearted heathen sprang up. "Hero, you would have conquered had that sword not broken. Be peace between us while we rest." They sat together on the grass. "Tell me your name," said the heathen; "I have never met as great a knight."

"Is it through fear, that I should tell my name?"

"Nay, I will name myself—Feirefiz of Anjou."

"How of Anjou? that is my heritage. Yet I have heard I had a brother. Let me see your face. I will not attack you with your helmet off."

"Attack me? it is I that hold the sword; but let neither have the vantage." He threw his sword far from them. With joy and tears the brothers recognized each other; and long and loving was their speech. Then they rode back together to the Court. They entered Gawain's tent. Arthur came to greet them, and with him many knights. At Arthur's request each of the great brothers told the long list of his knightly victories. The next day Feirefiz was made a knight of the Round Table, and a grand tournament was held. Then the feast followed ; and again, as once before, to the great company seated at the table, Cundrie came riding. She greeted the king; then turned to Parzival, and in tears threw herself at his feet and begged a greeting and forgiveness. Parzival forgives her. She rises up and cries: "Hail to thee, son of Gahmuret—Herzeloide's child. Humble thyself in gladness. The high lot is thine, thou crown of human blessing. Thou shalt be the Grail's lord; with thee thy wife Condwiramurs, and thy sons Lohengrin and Kardeiz, whom she bore to thee after thy going. Thy mouth shall question Anfortas—unto his joy. Now the planets favour thee; thy grief is spent. The Grail and the Grail's power shall let thee have no part in evil. When young, thou didst get thee sorrow, which betrayed thy joy as it came;—thou hast won thy soul's peace, and in sorrow thou hast endured unto thy life's joy."

Tears of love sprang from Parzival's heart and fell from his eyes: "Lady, if this be true, that God's grace has granted me, sinful man, to have my children and my wife, God has been good to me. Loyally would you make good my losses. Before, had I not done amiss, you would not have been angry. At that time I was yet unblessed. Now tell me, when and how I shall go meet my joy. Oh! let me not be stayed!"

There was no more delay. Parzival was permitted to take one comrade; he chose Feirefiz. Cundrie guided them to the Grail castle. They entered to find Anfortas calling on death to free him of his pain. Weeping, and with prayer to God, Parzival asked what ailed him, and the king was healed. Then Parzival rode again to Trevrizent. The hermit breaks out in wonder at the power of God, which man cannot comprehend; let Parzival obey Him and keep from evil; that any one should win the Grail by striving was unheard of; now this has come to Parzival, let him be humble. The hero yearns for his wife—where is she? He is told; there by the meadow where he once saw the drops of blood he finds her and his sons, asleep in their tent. They are united; Parzival is made Grail king; and the queen Repanse is given in marriage to Feirefiz, who is baptized and departs with her. Lohengrin is named as Parzival's successor, while Kardeiz receives the kingdoms which had been Gahmuret's and Herzeloide's.

 

END OF VOL. I

 

Printed by R. & K. Clark, Limited, Edinburgh.

1. As a matter of fact, in those parts of Wolfram's poem which are covered by Chrétien's unfinished Perceval le Gallois, the incidents are nearly identical with Chrétien's. For the question of the relationship of the two poems, and for other versions of the Grail legend, see A. Nutt, Studies in the Legend of the Holy Grail (Folk-Lore Society Publications, London, 1888); Birch-Hirshfeld, Die Graal Sage; Einleitung to Piper's edition of Wolfram von Eschenbach, Stuttgart, Deutsche Nat. Litteratur; Einleitung to Bartch's edition in Deutsche Klassiker des Mittelalters (Leipzig, 1875). These two editions of the poem are furnished with modern German glossaries. There is a modern German version by Zimmrock, and an English translation by Jessie L. Weston (London, D. Nutt, 1894).
2. In other versions of the Grail legend there is much about the virgin or celibate state, and also plenty of unchastity and no especial esteem for marriage.
3. The Fisher King (roi pêcheur) was the regular title of the Grail kings. See e.g. Pauline Paris, Romans de la Table Ronde, t. i. p. 306.
4. E.g. the love-potion in the tale of Tristan.