Parzival: A Knightly Epic (vol. 1 of 2)

by von Eschenbach Wolfram

Thus rode he, our lad so foolish, adown a mountain side,
When a woman's voice before him from amid the rocks loud cried;
'Twas a cry of heartfelt sorrow, for her joy was in ruins laid— 435
Then swift rode the lad towards her,—Now hear what she did, this maid:
She tore, the maid Siguné, her plaits of long brown hair
From out her head thro' sorrow; and the lad he beheld her there,
And he saw Schionatulander, the prince, on her knee lie dead,
And the maiden she wailed above him, and her joy had for ever fled.440

('If sad be their mien or joyful, my mother she bade me still
Greet all men, whoe'er might meet me) God keep thee from greater ill,
For in sooth a sorry treasure have I found on thy knee to-day!
Who hath wounded this knight?' (For an answer the lad he would press alway)
'Did one with a javelin slay him? For Lady, he sure is dead; 445
Wilt thou tell me naught? Who hath slain him? If he none too far hath fled
Methinks I might overtake him, for gladly with him I'ld fight!'
Then the lad he laid hold on his quiver wherein lay the javelins bright,
And still in his hand tight claspèd, the tokens twain he bore
Which he in his thoughtless folly erewhile from Jeschuté tore. 450
Had he known the courtly customs with his father's life in-bound,
His shield were better smitten when the duchess alone he found
Who thro' him must suffer sorrow—for more than a whole year long,
Her husband withheld his favour, tho' in sooth did he do her wrong.

Now list to this maid Siguné who her grief would bemoan as meet, 455
She spake to the lad, 'Thou art courteous, all hail! to thy youth so sweet,
And thy face so fair; yea blessèd thy lot shall hereafter be!
No javelin pierced this hero, but slain in a joust was he—
From truth wast thou born who truly for another's woe can grieve!'
Then his name she was fain to hearken, ere the lad her side might leave,460
And she spake, God with skill had wrought him—But his answer was naught but this,
'At home all who know me call me 'Bon fils, Cher fils, Beau fils!'

Ere ever the word was spoken, the maiden she knew his name—
Now hearken aright his title, that hereafter ye own his fame
Who is hero of this my venture, who now standeth the maid beside— 465
And her red lips they spake unfaltering, 'Thou art Parzival,' she cried,
And thy name it shall mean 'to pierce thro',' for thy mother's faithful heart
With furrow of grief was riven when she from her lord must part:
And I speak not that those shouldst vaunt thee; thy mother my aunt shall be,
And in truth, with no guile of falsehood, thy race will I tell to thee!'470

'An Angevin was thy father, thy mother of fair Waleis,
And I know for a truth thy birthplace was the city of Kanvoleis;
And thou art the King of Norgals, and there in the citadel
As king shalt thou bear the sceptre and crown as beseems thee well.
For thy sake was he slain, this hero, who thy kingdom for thee would guard,475
His truth it hath faltered never, tho' in death did he find reward.
Two brothers have wrought thee evil, two kingdoms from thee have reft,
And Orilus this thy kinsman in a joust hath lifeless left.
And me too hath he left in sorrow—He served me nor thought it shame,
This prince of thy land, where my childhood did thy mother's tending claim.480
Now fair and sweet my cousin wouldst thou hear how he met his end?
'Twas the fair wove leash of a brachet that brought sorrow unto my friend—
He hath served us twain, in our service hath he won him but death alone,
And I, I have won but sorrow, and henceforth for his death make moan,
For scant of wit was I surely, that I gave not my love afore— 485
So God hath my gladness shattered, and the dead I love evermore!'

Then he spake, 'I must mourn, O cousin, thy grief, and my bitter wrong,
Of a truth till I may avenge them the time seemeth over-long!'
Then straight would he ride to battle, but the way did she falsely show,
For she feared were he slain then henceforward yet sorer should wax her woe.490
But a road he found that led him straightway to the Breton's land,
And smooth and wide was that highway—An there met him on either hand
Afoot or ahorse a merchant or knight, he would greet them still,
For so was his mother's counsel; and she spake with no thought of ill.

But great weariness o'ertook him, as darkened the eventide, 495
And a house that was none too stately the youth in his folly spied.
'Twas a churl he who sat within it, discourteous by birth and low,
(A fisherman he, little kindness might one at his hand e'er know)
Then the lad drew rein for he hungered, and craved of him drink and meat.
But the host quoth, 'Nay, not a half-loaf shalt thou have at mine hand to eat500
In thirty years; he who waiteth, in the gifts of mine hand to share,
O'er-long shall delay his journey—For none but myself I care,
Thereafter perchance for my children—Thou comest not here to-day,
Hadst thou money or pledge 'twere other, then thine host would I be straightway!'505

Then Jeschuté's clasp all golden the lad he would bid him take,
And soon as the peasant saw it, with smiling mouth he spake,
'Wilt thou stay here, sweet lad? then due honour be thy portion from all within—'
'Wilt thou feed me to-night and to-morrow wilt help me the way to win
To King Arthur (for well I love him) then thyself mayst keep the gold!'510
'Yea, that will I do,' quoth the peasant, 'for ne'er might mine eyes behold
A face and form so comely—I will thee, as a marvel, bring
To the court, and the good Round Table, and the face of the noble king!'

So the lad thro' the night abode there, and ere ever the dawn of day
He roused himself full eager to get on his onward way, 515
And the fisher, he made him ready, and before the lad he ran,
And the boy he rode behind him, and swift were both steed and man.

(Herr Hartmann von Aue, and thy lady, the queenly Guinevere,
And thy gallant lord, King Arthur, a guest do I bring ye here;
No tool is he for your mocking, nay, never a harp or lute, 520
Ye shall choose ye some other plaything, such as courtesy well doth suit;
Else will I thy lady Enid, and her mother Karnafite
Pass under the mill, and their honour with bitter scorn I'll smite—
Tho' I tune my song to mocking, and thy lips with mockery seal,
Yet here will I guard my hero lest thy scorn he perchance should feel!)525