Book V · ANFORTAS, part 4 of 10

¶Ah! woe to the guest that asked not, I am sorrowful for his sake, 255 When his hand clasped the sword 'twas a token that his silence he well might break. For the host too my heart is heavy, thus tortured by nameless woe, And a question therefrom had freed him, yet to question his guest was slow.

¶But now the feast was ended, who the vessels hither bore Again to their task they turn them, and they bear them forth once more. 260 The cars again they circle; each maid to her task was fain From last to first; the noblest she turned to the Grail again, To host and guest all-courteous the queen and her maidens bend, What they brought they once more would bear forth thro' the door at the high hall's end.

¶And Parzival he gazed after, and lo! thro' the open door 265 Within an outer chamber, on a folding couch he saw The fairest of old men ancient whom ever his eyes had seen, Grey was he as mists of morning--Nor o'er rash is the tale, I ween, Who he was shalt thou know hereafter, when a fitting time shall be, The host, his Burg, and his kingdom, yea, all will I name to ye, 270 And all shall be clear and in order, no halting my tale shall know; Methinks that I then shall show ye the bowstring without the bow.

¶'Tis a symbol good, the bowstring, for swift as ye deem the bow, Yet the shaft that the bowstring speedeth findeth swifter its aim, I trow! And not without thought I said it, for the string, it seemeth me, 275 Is like to the simple story wherewith men well-pleased shall be; For it goeth straight to its ending, while he who aside shall stray, Tho' his goal at last he reacheth findeth all too long his way. When unbent the bow thou sawest, then straight was, I ween, the string, From the straight line thou erst must draw it, ere the shaft to its goal may wing. 280 But he who his story aimeth at the ear of a fool shall find His shaft go astray, for no dwelling it findeth within his mind. Too wide is the road, I think me, and that which he chance to hear Ere yet he may know the meaning flies out at the other ear. Far rather at home I 'ld bide me than in such ears my story tell, 285 A beast, or a stock, I think me, as a hearer would serve as well.

¶But further I fain would tell ye of this people so full of woe To whom he had come, our hero, glad song might they seldom know, Or sound of dance or of Tourney; so heavy were they at heart That never a thought of gladness might find in their life a part, 290 And oft shall the folk be fewer yet of joy shall have fuller share, But here every nook was crowded, nor space in the court to spare.

¶The host to his guest spake kindly, 'Methinks they thy couch have spread, Art thou weary? then list my counsel, and get thee, my guest, to bed.' (Now here might I raise my war-cry at the parting betwixt the twain, 295 For I wot well that bitter sorrow each must from the venture gain.)

¶To the side of his host he stepped him, Parzival the fair of face, And the Fisher a fair night wished him--Then the knights stepped each from his place, And a part drew near towards him, and they led the stranger guest Straightway to a sleeping chamber, and goodly should be his rest. 300 'Twas richly decked for his honour, and the couch it was spread so fair That my poverty sorely grieves me since the earth doth such riches bear.

¶And that bed knew, I ween, no lacking, and a rich silk above it lay, Bright-coloured its hue, and glowing as tho' fire-light did on it play; Then Parzival prayed the heroes to get them again to rest, 305 For he saw there but one couch only, and they passed hence at his behest.

¶But he lacked not for other service--His fair face and tapers light Gave challenge unto each other--What day e'er might shine so bright? And before his couch was another, thereon would he take his seat While pages drew them nearer, and proffered him service meet. 310 And they bared his white feet comely, and they laid his robes aside, And of noble birth were these children, and fair in their youthful pride. Then there passed thro' the open doorway four maidens fair and bright, They would know if they well had served him, and if soft lay the stranger knight. And so the venture telleth, a squire a taper bare 315 Before each gentle maiden--Parzival, that hero fair, Sprang swift to his couch; then the maidens with gentle voice they spake, 'Sir Knight, we fain would pray thee for our sake awhile to wake'-- Yet as children sport with each other had he hidden him from their sight Ere yet they might hear his greeting, yet their eyes had found swift delight, 320 And their heart's desire was quickened at the sight of his red lips' glow That for youth were as yet unhidden, for no hair did upon them grow.

¶Now hear what they bare, these maidens, three in their hands so white Brought syrups sweet, and red wine, and the fourth, that maiden bright, Bare fruit that e'erwhile had ripened in the garden of Paradise 325 On a cloth fair and white, and she knelt low before him that maiden wise, And he bade her sit, but she answered, 'Nay, Sir Knight, so is it best For else were I sure unworthy to serve such a gallant guest.' Then he drank and would eat a little, and he spake to them soft and sweet, And he laid him adown, and the maidens craved leave of him as was meet. 330 Then down on the costly carpet the squires set the tapers bright When they saw that he slept, and swiftly they gat from the gallant knight.

¶Yet Parzival lay not lonely, for until the dawn of day Heart-sorrow would lie beside him, nor passed with the dawn away. And every coming anguish its heralds before would speed, 335 E'en so that the fair youth's vision out-weighed e'en his mother's need When she dreamed ere the death of her husband. As a carpet unrolled his dream, The centre of fair jousts woven, while the edge was with swords agleam. And in slumber his foemen pressed him, and would swiftly upon him ride; So fearful his dream that, wakened, thirty times had he rather died. 340 Thus fear and unrest awoke him, and the sweat streamed from every limb; The daylight shone fair thro' the windows, yet no voice had called on him. Then he spake, 'Where are now the pages, who stood before me of late? Who shall hand unto me my garments?' Then awhile would he patient wait Till slumber again o'ercame him; none spake, none aloud would cry, 345 Vanished the folk--When he wakened the noon-tide sun was high.