Sunday, August 27:
Parzival
Anfortas, Keeper of the Grail, lies stricken of a spear-wound received in some mysterious love adventure, which will not heal. His father, Titurel, original Winner of the Grail, in advanced old age has entrusted his office to his son, as also dominion over Monsalvat, the Castle of the Grail. This office, despite his feeling of unworthiness in view of his error, he is obliged to discharge until one worthier shall appear to relieve him of it. Who will this be? Where will he come from? By what will he be recognized? —
The Grail is the crystal cup the Saviour once drank from at the Last Supper and gave to his disciples to drink from: in it Joseph of Arimathea caught the blood shed from the spear-wound of the Saviour on the cross. Holiest of relics, it was for a long time mysteriously lost to the sinful world. When finally at a most harsh and hostile time, and in the face of opposition by unbelievers, the holy distress of Christianity was at its highest, heroes, inspired by God and imbued with holy charity, were moved by their fervour to go in quest of the vessel — that mysteriously consoling relic of which there was ancient report — wherein the Saviour’s blood (Sang seale, whence San Gréal — Sanct Gral — the Holy Grail) had been preserved, living and divinely life-giving, for mankind in need of redemption. This relic has been miraculously disclosed to Titurel and his loyal followers, and given into their care. Titurel has gathered about him a body of holy knights to serve the Grail, and build, in wild, remote and inaccessible mountain forest, the Castle of Monsalvat, which none unworthy to care for the Grail may find. The relic has proclaimed its miraculous power chiefly by freeing its custodians from earthly care by supplying the community with food and drink; and by mysterious writing which, comprehensible only to the Keeper of the brotherhood of knights, appears upon the glowing surface of the crystal, making known the worst afflictions suffered by the innocent of the world, and issuing instructions to those of the knights who shall be sent forth for their protection. Those who are sent forth, it endows with Divine power, rendering them everywhere victorious. From its votaries it banishes death: he who sets eyes on that Divine vessel cannot die. But only he who preserves himself from the allurements of sensual pleasure retains the power of the Grail’s blessing: only to the chaste is the blessed might of the relic revealed. —
Beyond the mountain height in whose hallowed, night-dark forest, at a place where charming valleys wind towards the south and its laughing lands and Monsalvat lies, accessible only to the votary, there lies another castle, as secret as it is sinister. It too can be reached only by magic paths. The Godly take care not to approach it. But whoever does approach cannot withstand the anxious longing that lures him towards the gleaming battlements towering from the never-before-seen splendour of a most wonderful forest of flowering trees, out of which magically sweet birdsong and intoxicating perfumes pour upon all around. — This is Klingsor’s magic castle. Concerning this sorcerer dark things are said. No one has seen him: he is known only by his power. That power is magic. The castle is his work, raised miraculously in what was previously a desolate place with only a hermit’s hut upon it. Where now, in a most luxuriant and heady fashion, all blooms and stirs as on an eternal early-summer evening, once, in bare wilderness, only the lonely hut was to be seen. Who is Klingsor? Vague, incomprehensible rumours. Nothing else is known of him. Maybe he is known to old Titurel? But nothing can be gathered from him: dulled by his great age, he is kept alive only by the wondrous power of the Grail. But there is Gurnemans, an old squire of Titurel’s, still loyally serving Anfortas; he ought to know something of Klingsor: also he sometimes lets it be understood that he does; but not much can be got out of him: no sooner does he seem on the point of reporting something unbelievably strange, than he falls silent again, as if such things should not be spoken of. Perhaps Titurel has at some time forbidden him to speak. It is supposed that Klingsor is the same man who once so piously inhabited the place now so changed: — he is said to have mutilated himself in order to destroy that sensual longing which he never completely succeeded in overcoming through prayer and penance. Titurel refused to allow him to join the Knights of the Grail, and for the reason that renunciation and chastity, flowing from the innermost soul, do not require to be forced by mutilation. No one knows the precise facts. All that is certain is that it is since Anfortas’ time that people have suddenly heard of the castle, also that the Knights of the Grail have often been warned against becoming ensnared in the toils cast from that place against their chastity. In fact, concealed in that castle are the most beautiful women in the world and of all times. They are held there under Klingsor’s spell for the destruction of men, and of the Knights of the Grail especially, he having endowed them with all powers of seduction. Men say they are she-devils. Several Knights of the Grail have failed to return from their journeys; they are feared to have fallen into Klingsor’s power. What, unfortunately, is certain is that Anfortas himself, going forth to combat the sorcery threatening his knights, has been trapped in these toils, lured aside by a strange, wondrously beautiful woman and treacherously set upon by armed men who were to bind and take him to Klingsor: with difficulty he fought back, and, turning to flee, received in his side the spear-thrust of which he now lies afflicted, and which nothing can heal.
The Knights, the whole Community of the Grail, are now most keenly concerned on their Keeper’s behalf. Pilgrimages are made to all parts in quest of the right cure, of the mercy balm; from the furthest zones they return: whatever the remedies found, none will heal the wound. Daily it reopens. The agony of the wounded man is unspeakable. Nothing can assuage it. But it is not only the pain of the wound that benights Anfortas’ soul: his suffering goes deeper. He is the Chosen One whose task is to care for the miraculous vessel. He, and he alone, has to work the sacred magic that refreshes, strengthens and directs the whole company of knights, whilst he alone has to suffer dreadful self-reproach at having betrayed his vow. He, the most unworthy of all, must daily — to his fearful punishment — touch the sacred vessel: at his prayer, must the Divine contents of the cup flow bright purple, at his intercession must nourishing grace be unfolded to the votive knights. Aye, suffering and beyond recovery, he is daily filled with warmth of new life by the wondrous power of the Grail: seeing death as his only deliverance, he is now, by the grace of the Grail, condemned to eternal life! If, to secure death, he would, against his vow, fain forgo the delight of beholding the Grail, he is compelled by his soul’s ardent yearning, to lose himself anew in the blessed sight of it, to see anew the golden purple shine bright, and let the glow of that Divine radiance penetrate again and again, blessing and bruising, into his innermost being. For as the heavenly blood of the Redeemer pours full of grace into his own heart, ah, how his own wicked blood is forced to flee the touch of the Divine! In timid desperation the sinful blood rushes from his heart, bursting the wound afresh and shedding itself in the world of sin, — and from a wound such as the Redeemer received on the cross and bled from, out of compassionate love for wretched, sinful humanity, he, sinful Keeper of the Divine Balm of Redemption, as an eternal reminder of his wickedness, bleeds hot, sinful blood that cannot be staunched! — The knights approach, the hour is striking, he must work the magic: they grieve and lament over his wound, seek most eagerly to help him, procuring remedies and balm, not suspecting where it is his wound is bleeding, and where it is he is beyond cure. So, finally, the wretched man prays fervently to the Grail for a sign, asking whether he may hope for deliverance, and who may be called upon to deliver him. The sign shines forth: he reads the enigmatic words. ‘Aware, suffering in fellow-suffering, a fool will redeem thee!’ — Who can it be who suffers only in fellow-suffering, and, without knowing, is wiser than others? — ‘Oh, that longed-for one! If he lives, let him find the way to the sanctuary: an end to agony, a scar for the wound, peace for the heart; when will you bring them, aware fool suffering in fellow-suffering?’ His loyal followers do everything to assuage the agony of their beloved Master; in the morning they bear him on a litter down to the holy lake in the forest, there to bathe and drink at the noble spring. There, in the sweet coolness, he seems to revive a little: messengers arrive with new remedies found far away: alas, none will help.