Book IX · TREVREZENT, part 6 of 16

¶Then Parzival spake to the hermit, 'Now say, when thou saw'st me here, 425 Didst thou shrink from my warlike coming, didst thou feel no touch of fear?' Quoth the hermit,'Sir Knight, believe me, far oftener for stag or bear Have I feared than I feared a man's face, in sooth shalt thou be aware I fear me for no man living! Both cunning and skill have I, And tho' I were loath to vaunt me, yet I ne'er to this life did fly 430 For fear, as beseems a maiden! For never my heart did quail When I faced as a knight my foeman, and ne'er did my courage fail, In the days when such things became me, in the days when I too might fight, I was armèd as thou art armèd, like thee did I ride, a knight! And I strove for high love's rewarding, and many an evil thought 435 With the pure mind within me battled, and ever my way I wrought To win from a woman favour! All that was in time of yore, And my body, by fasting wasted, remembereth those days no more.'

¶'Now give to mine hand the bridle, for there 'neath the rocky wall Thy steed shall abide in safety, and we, ere the night shall fall, 440 Will gather of bough and herbage, since no better food may be, Yet I trust that both thou and thy charger fare not all too ill with me!' But Parzival deemed that surely 'twas unfitting a hermit old Should thus lead his steed, and the bridle he would fain from his hand withhold, 'Now courtesy sure forbids thee to strive 'gainst thine host's good-will, 445 Let not haste from the right path lead thee, but follow my counsel still.' In this wise spake the old man kindly, as he bade him, so did the knight, And the charger he led 'neath the hillside where but seldom did sun-rays light. In sooth 'twas a wondrous stable where the hermit the steed would stall, And thro' it, from heights o'erhanging, foamed ever a water-fall. 450

¶The snow lay beneath our hero, no weakling was he, I ween, Else the frost and the cold of his harness o'er-much for his strength had been. To a cavern the hermit led him where no breath of wind might blow, And a fire of coals had warmed it, and burned with a ruddy glow. And here might the guest refresh him by the fire and a taper's light, 455 (Well strewn was the ground with fuel,) then swiftly the gallant knight Laid from off him his heavy armour, and warmed his limbs so cold, And his skin in the light glowed ruddy, and his face might the host behold. He might well be of wandering weary, for never a trodden way Nor a roof save the stars of heaven had he known for many a day. 460 In the daylight the wood had he ridden, and his couch, it had been the ground: 'Twas well that he here a shelter, and a kindly host had found!

¶Then his host cast a robe around him, and he took him by his right hand, And he led him into a cavern where his Missal did open stand. And as fitted the Holy Season the Altar was stripped and bare; 465 And the shrine--Parzival must know it, 'twas the spot where he once did swear With true hand, true oath and faithful, that ended Jeschuté's woe, And turnèd her tears to laughter, and taught her fresh joy to know!

¶Quoth Parzival, 'Well I know it this chapel and shrine! Of yore, As hither my wanderings led me, an oath on that shrine I swore; 470 And a spear, with fair colours blazoned, that did here by the altar stand I bare hence, and in sooth, I think me, right well did it serve my hand! Men say it much honour brought me, yet I wot not if it be so, For in thoughts of my wife had I lost me, and naught of the thing I know. Yet, unwitting, two jousts had I ridden, and two foemen I overthrew, 475 In those days all men gave me honour, nor sorrow nor shame I knew. Now, alas! is my sorrow greater than ever to man befell! Say, when did I bear the spear hence? The days of my wanderings tell!'

¶'It was Taurian,' quoth the hermit, 'who his spear in my care did leave, And much did he mourn its losing, and I with the knight must grieve. 480 And four years and a half and three days shall have passed since we lost the spear, Sir Knight, an my word thou doubtest, behold! it is written here!' Then he showed unto him in the Psalter how the time it had come and gone, And the weeks and the years he read him that silent and swift had flown. And he spake, 'Now first do I learn them, the days that I aimless stray, 485 And the weeks and the years that have vanished, since my joy hath been reft away.' And he spake, 'Now indeed me-seemeth that my bliss it was but a dream, For heavy the load of sorrow that so long hath my portion been!'

¶'And, Sir Host, I yet more would tell thee, where cloister or church shall be And men unto God give honour, there no eye hath looked on me, 490 And naught but strife have I sought me, tho' the time as thou sayst be long, For I against God bear hatred, and my wrath ever waxeth strong. For my sorrow and shame hath He cherished, and He watched them greater grow Till too high they waxed, and my gladness, yet living, He buried low! And I think were God fain to help me other anchor my joy had found 495 Than this, which so deep hath sunk it, and with sorrow hath closed it round. A man's heart is mine, and sore wounded, it acheth, and acheth still, Yet once was it glad and joyous, and free from all thought of ill! Ere sorrow her crown of sorrow, thorn-woven, with stern hand pressed On the honour my hand had won me o'er many a foeman's crest! 500 And I do well to lay it on Him, the burden of this my shame, Who can help if He will, nor withholdeth the aid that men fain would claim, But me alone, hath He helped not, whate'er men of Him may speak, But ever He turneth from me, and His wrath on my head doth wreak!'