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.[724] 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?”