Parzival

by Wolfram von Eschenbach

  The warrior at once took his leave and set out along the fresh track. Cundrie’s mule had gone that way: but tangled undergrowth baulked him of the path which he had chosen, and so the Gral was lost a second time, and his happiness utterly dashed. Had he arrived at Munsalvæsche, he would assuredly have done better with the Question than on the earlier occasion you know of.

  Now let him ride on. Where is he to go?

  A man came riding towards him, bare-headed but wearing a sumptuous tabard above his shining armour. Indeed, but for his head, he was fully caparisoned. He advanced against Parzival at speed.

  ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘it displeases me that you beat a track through my lord’s forest in this fashion. I shall give you a reminder such as you will regret. Munsalvæsche is unaccustomed to having anyone ride so near without fighting a desperate battle or offering such amends as those beyond our forest call “death”.’

  In one hand he carried a helmet whose attachment was of silver cords and a keen lance-head helved on a new shaft. In high dudgeon the warrior laced his helmet level on to his head. His threats and his bellicosity were soon to cost him dear, yet all unaware he made ready for the joust.

  Parzival, too, had shattered many lances no less fine. ‘Were I to ride over this man’s crops nothing could save me, how should I escape his wrath? As it is, I am only trampling his wild bracken. Unless my arms and hands fail me, I shall ransom my passage without his binding me.’*

  On both sides they gave free rein for the gallop, then drove with the spur and pulled their mounts into full tilt – and of neither did the thrust miss its mark! Parzival’s high chest had braved many lance-thrusts, while, guided with zest and skill, his went cleanly and accurately to where the other’s helmet-lace was knotted. He struck his man at the spot where you hang your shield at tournaments, with the result that the Templar* from Munsalvæsche rolled from his saddle down a deep gulley in the mountain-side so far that his couch knew no rest. Parzival followed his joust through with his horse racing ahead so that it pitched down and smashed its bones. He himself gripped a bough of a cedar with both hands – now do not account it a disgrace in him that he hanged himself without an executioner! – then caught firm rock beneath him with his feet. Down below him his charger lay dead in the thick undergrowth. The other knight was making all speed to safety up the farther side of the gulley. Had he been intending to share any gain won from Parzival, as matters turned out, the Gral back home had more to offer!

  Parzival climbed back again. The reins of the horse which the other had left behind were dangling down, and it had stepped through them and was waiting as though told to do so. When Parzival had taken his seat in the saddle he had lost nothing but his lance; but in view of what he had found he was reconciled to the loss. If you ask me, neither the mighty Làhelin, nor proud Kingrisin, nor King Gramoflanz, nor Count Lascoyt fiz Gurnemanz ever rode a better joust than that in which this war-horse was won.

  Parzival then rode on with no notion of where he was going, but in such direction that the Company of Munsalvæsche did not come into conflict with him. It grieved him that the Gral kept so aloof from him.

  If anyone cares to hear it I will reveal to him how Parzival fared thereafter. But I shall not number the weeks during which Parzival rode seeking adventure as before.

  One morning a light mantle of snow lay on the ground, yet of a depth that would make us shiver today. This was in a great forest. And now an old knight came towards him, beside whose grizzled beard his skin shone clear. His wife was as grey-haired as he. Over their bare bodies they both wore coarse grey cloaks on their pilgrimage to and from Confession. His daughters, two young ladies most pleasing to the eye, went in the same habit, as their chaste hearts prompted them. All went barefoot. Parzival saluted the grey knight as he came on. (His counsel was to bring Parzival good fortune, later.) He had all the appearance of a lord. Ladies’ lap-dogs ran along beside them. Other knights and squires, many of them young and beardless, were walking on this pilgrimage, meekly and decorously, their pride subdued.

  Parzival, noble warrior, had cared for his person so well that his magnificent caparison was in all ways worthy of a knight. In such splendid armour did he ride that the clothes of the grey man riding towards him were quite outshone. With a tug at the reins he quickly turned his horse aside from the path. He questioned the good people on their journey and was answered with gentle speech. Yet the grey knight reproached him that the Holy Season had given him no cause to ride unarmed or walk barefoot in observance of the Day.

  ‘My lord,’ replied Parzival, ‘I have no knowledge whatever as to when the year begins or the number of the passing weeks or of what day of the week it is. – This is all unknown to me. I used to serve one named “God” till it pleased Him to ordain such vile shame for me. Told to look to Him for help, I never failed Him in devotion: yet there is no help for me there.’

  ‘Do you mean God born of the Virgin?’ asked the grey knight. ‘If you believe in His Incarnation and His Passion for us this Day which we are now observing, this armour ill beseems you. Today is Good Friday, in which the whole world can rejoice and at the same time mourn in anguish. Where was greater loyalty seen than that shown by God for our sakes when they hung Him on the Cross? If you are of the Christian faith, sir, let this traffic afflict you: He bartered His noble life in death in order to redeem our debt, in that Mankind was damned and destined to Hell for our sins. Unless you are a heathen, sir, remember what Day this is. Ride on along our tracks. Not too far ahead there sits a holy man; he will advise you and allot penance for your misdeed. If you show yourself contrite, he will take your sins away.’

  ‘Why are you so unfriendly, father?’ asked his daughters. ‘With the foul weather we now have, how can you venture to give him such advice? Why don’t you take him to where he can warm himself? However splendid his arms look in their casing of steel, we fancy they must be very cold! Though there were three of him, he would freeze! You have tents nearby, and rough-woollen shelters, and if King Arthur were to call on you, you would keep him well supplied with victuals. Now do as a good host should, and take this knight away with you!’

  ‘My daughters speak truly, sir,’ said the grey-haired man. ‘Every, year, in all weathers, as the Day of His Passion approaches, Who gives sure reward for our devotions, I set out from a place nearby through this wild forest. I will gladly share with you the poor fare I have brought with me on this holy observance.’

  The young ladies eagerly entreated him to stay and earnestly assured him that he would be an honoured guest. When Parzival looked at them he saw that although their lips were dry from frost they were red, full and hot, out of keeping with the Sorrows of that Day. If I had some petty score to settle with them I should be lothe to waive my due, but would take a kiss if they wished to make it up again. When all is said, women will always be women. They will subdue a mettlesome man in a trice, they have brought it off repeatedly. Parzival listened to the charming invitations assailing him from all sides, from father, mother and daughters, and thought ‘If I stop I would nevertheless not wish to go along with this company. These girls are so lovely that it would be wrong for me to ride beside them with all of them walking. It would be more fitting if I left them, seeing that I am at feud with Him Whom they love with all their hearts and look to for help but Who has shut me out from His succour and failed to shield me from sorrow.’

  Parzival answered them at once. ‘My lord and lady,’ he said. ‘Give me leave to go. May you prosper and enjoy abundant happiness! As to you young ladies, may your courtesy be rewarded for wishing to make me so comfortable. You must allow me to go.’ He inclined his head, and they theirs. They could not hide their regret.

  Herzeloyde’s child rides on. His manly discipline enjoined modesty and compassion in him. Since young Herzeloyde had left him a loyal heart, remorse now began to stir in it. Only now did he ponder Who had brought the world into being, only now think of his Creator and how mighty He must be. ‘What if God h
as such power to succour as would overcome my sorrow?’ he asked himself. ‘If He ever favoured a knight and if any knight ever earned His reward or if shield and sword and true manly ardour can ever be so worthy of His help that this could save me from my cares and if this is His Helpful Day, then let Him help, if help He can!’

  He turned back in the direction whence he had ridden. They were still standing there, saddened by his departure, for they were loyal-hearted people. The young ladies followed him with their eyes, while he in turn confessed in his heart that they pleased his eyes – for their bright looks declared them beautiful.

  ‘If God’s power is so great that it can guide horses and other beasts and people, too, then I will praise His power. If the wisdom of God disposes of that help, let it guide my castilian to the best success of my journey – then in His goodness He will show power to help I Now go where God chooses!’ He laid the reins over his horse’s ears and urged him on hard with his spurs.

  The beast made for Fontane la Salvæsche, where Orilus had received the oath. This was the abode of the austere Trevrizent, who ate miserably many a Monday and no better all through the week. He had forsworn wine, mulberry and bread. His austerity imposed further abstinence: he had no mind for such food as fish or meat or anything with blood. Such was the holy life he led. God had inspired this gentleman to prepare to join the heavenly host. He endured much hardship from fasting. Self-denial was his arm against the Devil.

  From Trevrizent, Parzival is about to learn matters concerning the Gral that have been hidden. Those who questioned me earlier and wrangled with me for not telling them* earned nothing but shame. Kyot† asked me to conceal it because his source forbade him to mention it till the story itself reached that point expressly where it has to be spoken of.

  The famous Master Kyot found the prime version of this tale in heathenish‡ script lying all neglected in a corner of Toledo. He had had to learn the characters’ A B C beforehand without the art of necromancy. It helped him that he was a baptized Christian – otherwise this tale would still be unknown. No infidel art would avail us to reveal the nature of the Gral and how one came to know its secrets.

  There was a heathen named Flegetanis who was highly renowned for his acquirements. This same physicus was descended from Solomon, begotten of Israelitish kin all the way down from ancient times till the Baptism became our shield against hellfire. He wrote of the marvels of the Gral. Flegetanis, who worshipped a calf as though it were his god, was a heathen* by his father. – How can the Devil make such mock of such knowledgeable people, in that He Whose power is greatest and to Whom all marvels are known neither does nor did not part them from their folly? For the infidel Flegetanis was able to define for us the recession of each planet and its return, and how long each revolves in its orbit before it stands at its mark again. All human kind are affected by the revolutions of the planets. With his own eyes the heathen Flegetanis saw – and he spoke of it reverentially – hidden secrets in the constellations. He declared there was a thing called the Gral, whose name he read in the stars without more ado. ‘A troop left it on earth and then rose high above the stars, if their innocence drew them back again.† Afterwards a Christian progeny bred to a pure life had the duty of keeping it. Those humans who are summoned to the Gral are ever worthy.’ Thus did Flegetanis write on this theme.

  The wise Master Kyot embarked on a search for this tale in Latin books in order to discover where there may have been a people suited to keep the Gral and follow a disciplined life. He read the chronicles of various lands in Britain and elsewhere, in France and Ireland; but it was in Anjou that he found the tale. He read the truth about Mazadan beyond a peradventure – the account of the latter’s whole lineage was faithfully recorded there – and on the distaff side how Titurel and his son Frimutel bequeathed the Gral to Anfortas, whose sister was Herzeloyde on whom Gahmuret begot a son to whom this tale belongs, and who is now riding along the fresh tracks left by the grey knight that met with him ...

  Despite the snow on the ground Parzival recognized a spot where once upon a time dazzling flowers had stood. It was at the foot of an escarpment where, with his manly right hand, he had made Orilus relent towards Lady Jeschute, and Orilus’s anger had evaporated. But the tracks did not let him stop there: Fontane la Salvæsche was the locality towards which his journey tended. Parzival found its lord at home, and he received him.

  ‘Alas, sir,’ said the hermit, ‘that you should be in this condition at Holy-tide. Was it some desperate encounter that forced you into this armour? Or had you no fighting to do? – In which case other garb would have been seemlier if your pride permitted it. Pray dismount, sir – I fancy you will have no objection – and warm yourself beside the fire. If thirst for adventure has brought you out with an eye to winning Love’s reward and it is True Love you favour, then love as Love is now in season, and in keeping with the Love of this Day! After that, serve women for their favour. But please do dismount, if I may invite you.’

  The warrior Parzival alighted at once and stood before him with great courtesy. He told him of the people who had pointed out the way and how they had praised his guidance.

  ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘guide me now: I am a sinner.’

  In answer to these words the good man said: ‘I shall give you guidance. Now tell me who directed you here to me.’

  ‘Walking towards me in the forest, sir, there came a grey- haired man. He saluted me kindly, as did his retinue. That same honest person sent me here to you, and I rode along his tracks till I found you.’

  ‘That was Gabenis,’ said his host. ‘He is versed to perfection in noble ways. The Prince is a Punturteis, the mighty King of Kareis married his sister. No fruit of human body was ever purer than his daughters who came walking towards you in the forest! The Prince is of royal line. He visits me here each year.’

  ‘When I saw you standing in my path, were you at all afraid as I rode up to you?’ Parzival asked his host. ‘Did my coming irk you?’

  ‘Believe me, sir,’ replied the hermit, ‘bears and stags have startled me more often than man. I can tell you truly: I fear nothing of human kind, since I, too, possess human ability. If you will not think me boastful, I declare I never fled the field; nor am I innocent of love. My heart never knew the villainy of turning tail in battle. While I bore arms I was a knight like you and strove to win the love of noble ladies. From time to time I paired chaste with sinful thoughts. I lived in dazzling style to win a lady’s favour. But I have forgotten these things. Give me your bridle. Your horse shall rest at the foot of that cliff. Then, soon, we shall go and gather some young fir-tips and bracken for him – I have no other fodder. Nevertheless we shall keep him in good fettle.’

  Parzival made as though to prevent him from taking the bridle.

  ‘Your good manners do not permit you to struggle with your host short of lowering themselves,’ said the good man. And so Parzival yielded the bridle to his host, who then led the horse beneath the overhanging rock where the rays of the sun never came – a wild stable indeed! A waterfall gushed down through it. A weak man would have been hard put to it, wearing armour where the bitter cold could strike him in this fashion. His host led Parzival into a grotto, well protected from the wind and with a fire of glowing charcoal which the stranger could well put up with! The master of the house lit a candle, and the warrior removed his armour and reclined on a bed of straw and ferns, while all his limbs grew warm and his skin shone clear. No wonder he was weary from the forest, since he had ridden along few roads and passed the night with no roof over his head till day-break, and many another, too. But now he had found a kind host.

  There was a coat lying there. The hermit lent it him to put on and then took him to another grotto, where the austere man kept the books he read. An altar-stone stood there bare of its cloth, in keeping with the Good Friday rite. On it a reliquary could be seen which was instantly recognized – Parzival had laid his hand on it to swear an unsullied oath on the occasion when Lady
Jeschute’s suffering was changed to joy, and her happiness took an upward turn.

  ‘I know this casket, sir,’ said Parzival to his host, ‘for I once swore an oath on it when passing by. I found a painted lance beside it. Sir, I took that lance and was told later that I advanced my reputation with it. I was so absorbed in thoughts of my wife that I lost my self-awareness. I rode two mighty jousts with it – I fought them both in utter obliviousness! Honour had not yet deserted me. But now I have more cares than were seen in any man. Kindly tell me, how long is it since the time I took the lance from here?’

  ‘My friend Taurian left it behind,’ replied the good man. ‘He told me he missed it, later. It is now four-and-a-half years and three days since you took it.* If you care to listen I will reckon it out for you.’ And from his psalter he read him the full count of the years and weeks that had elapsed in the meantime.

  ‘Only now,’ said Parzival, ‘do I realize how long I have been wandering with no sense of direction and unsustained by any happy feelings. Happiness for me is but a dream: I bear a heavy pack of grief. And I will tell you more. All this time I was never seen to enter any church or minster where God’s praise was sung. All I sought was battle. I am deeply resentful of God, since He stands godfather to my troubles: He has lifted them up too high,† while my happiness is buried alive. If only God’s power would succour me, what an anchor my happiness would be, which now sinks into sorrow’s silt! If my manly heart is wounded – can it be whole when Sorrow sets her thorny crown on glory won by deeds of arms from formidable foes? – then I set it down to the shame of Him who has all succour in His power, since if He is truly prompt to help He does not help me – for all the help they tell of Him!’