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. 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. 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. 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. 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
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