“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 Middle 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.”