by R. Alfred Vaughan B.A..
Originally published in The National Magazine (National Magazine Company) #1 (Nov 1856).
Next to the old laws and the old ballads, we are most indebted to the old stories for our knowledge of the past. There are satirical and comic tales to give us pictures of the medieval manners. Chaucer and Boccacio are our Aristophanes and Plautus. There are the legends of miracle and saintship to represent to us the faith of the middle age. Between the laughter-loving freedom of the former class of tale and the solemn supernaturalism of the latter lies a third species,—the story of chivalrous adventure and marvellous enchantment. In these romances the remains of Gothic superstition and fragments of oriental fable play a conspicuous part beside the prowess of "Sir Knight" and the piety of "Sir Priest." Hence the trolls and ellewomen, the giants and the dwarfs, the magic rings and flying-horses, the far-working spells of the wizard and the glamour of the fay. Among those traditions, which were the common property of so many minstrels and storytellers, there is not one which is more remarkable than the Legend of the Sangreal. It combines in itself nearly all the constituent elements to which we have adverted. It is as full of wonders as the story of Aladdin in the Arabian Nights, or the legends of Solomon and Aschmedai in the Talmud. It is as full of knightly combats and adventures as Palmerin of England or Amadis of Gaul. It is as full of reverence for holy men and holy things as the Lives of the Saints or the story of Count Robert. It unites (as did the military orders of Christendom) the spiritual and the secular interest, and belongs alike to the chivalrous world and the ecclesiastical. It might be selected from all the rest as the representative fiction of the middle ages.
The origin of the tradition concerning the Sangreal is enveloped in obscurity. Into the learned inquiries of Büsching, Lachmann, Simrock, or Güschel, it is not our purpose to enter. Thus much is certain, that San means holy, and that Greal, Graal, or Grâl is the Provençal for vessel. The legend, then, of the Holy Vessel appears in various shapes in our King Arthur, in the Mabinogion, and in the Parzival of Wolfram von Eschenbach. In the Parzival,—the great German poem of the thirteenth century,—it assumes its most poetical form, and has been invested by the somewhat fanciful antiquarianism of Germany with the most profound significance.
The early history of the Gral carries us back to the expulsion of the rebel-angels. It is said, that when the thrones and princedoms of the fallen were driven over the bounds of heaven,
"With hideous ruin and combustion down,"
the falchion of the archangel Michael, descending full upon the crest of Satan, dashed into a thousand fragments his resplendent crown,—that coronal, fashioned of heaven’s pearl and diamond and sardonyx and chrysolite, which had once bound the serene brows of the Son of the Morning, and shone afterwards as the standard followed by revolted myriads in the celestial war. One jewel of this crown struck off like a spark, leaped out into space, and there hovered long, drifting through limbo and the interlunar realms, till at last it dropped upon our earth. There it was found by some of those angels who render guardian-offices upon this planet. On what summit of snows above all flight of birds, or in what woodland solitude, or down in the heart of what sleeping sea, the angelic eyes discovered the treasure, no chronicler hath told us. The precious stone, itself of marvellous virtue, was fashioned into a vessel, and endowed with yet more blessed potency by the uses to which it was applied. It was said to have held the bread at the Last Supper. In the hands of Joseph of Arimathea, it received the water and the blood which flowed from the pierced side of Christ. It was destined to become the symbol of salvation: but for a long time men remained unprofited by its benignant powers; for a worthy guardian could not be found. The Grâl remained suspended in the heights of air, far above earth’s clouds and tempests,—a wandering star, beyond the ken of mariner or the search of the astrologer.
At length Titurel, a prince of Anjou, was made the first Grâl-king. For such an honour wealth gave no fitness, nor learning, nor knightly prowess: only to the pure in heart could the Grâl become visible; only to one who had in him the spirit of the little child, whose unfeigned lowliness was proof against all the pomps and the ambitions of this mortal life, could a gift so priceless be intrusted. We read in King Arthur how Sir Launcelot was cast into a deep sleep in a lonesome chapel, where he saw the Grâl brought in, and a wounded knight healed thereby, but was not able himself to arise and draw near because of his guilty love for Queen Guinevere. When the brave and simple-hearted Titurel was appointed guardian, he erected a sumptuous temple to contain the relic, built a castle, and founded an order of knights called the Templeisen.
The temple of the Grâl was invisible to every profane eye. Godly knights and true, to whom it was given to behold it, came upon it unaware, as they rode about redressing wrongs and delivering the oppressed. You, reader, are a hater of wrong-doing, a lowly-minded lover of mercy and truth; and you will be able, therefore, even from our poor description, to behold this temple with the eye of imagination.
See it stand, gorgeous in the light of the setting sun, near the summit of Montsalvage. Around it are black rocks, holding here and there unmelted snows; and beneath, on the shoulders and spreading sides of the mountain, grows an impenetrable forest of cypress. The topmost tree-points are touched ruddily by the sunset; the rest stand dark and stately, like a host of banners of green velvet, close-ranked, hanging heavily in a great calm. In the centre of the temple rises a dome covered with a golden mail, fantastically overrun by branching veins of blue enamel; and on the summit flames a giant carbuncle, the beacon of every Templar homeward-bound. Around the great central cupola stand six-and-thirty towers, each with a spiral staircase winding round its outer wall. Above each tower there seems to hover motionless, poised on its outspread wings, an eagle made of gold. The slanting sun-rays are flashed back from the burnished breasts of this wondrous circle of birds. Each eagle is in truth supported by a cross of crystal, planted on the summit of every tower, too transparent to be visible from where we stand; a symbol this, to the pious fancy of the soldicr-monks, of that invisible support the Cross affords to man. At the base of every one of the six-and-thirty towers are two octagonal chapels,—the minor shrines which girdle the precincts of the central sanctuary.
Within the dome the knights see above them a blue vault of sapphire, on which are represented sun and moon in diamonds and topaz; while a circle of brazen columns supports this heaven of precious stones. The crystal pavement reflects the azure of the roof; so that the armed heel appears to stand on air, and every shining pillar is imaged by a line of light that seems to pierce unfathomable depths, like that column of glory which descends from an evening sun into the calmness of the sea. In this crystalline floor the art of the mosaic-worker has inserted fishes of every form, carved in onyx, that glance and seem to glide as lights and shadows pass or fall upon them. The deep-browed windows are rich with many-coloured marble and many-coloured glass. The hues on one blend together in a ruddy autumn brown; those of another flame with gold and crimson, like the illuminated capitals of a missal; while a third is crossed with blue over interstices of red, like a trellis-work of amethyst filled with roses. Here the quaint design multiplies a pale flower, like a faint azure flame shooting up between two plume-like leaves of emerald. There lustrous arrow-heads, or fleur-de-lis, seem to chase each other round the border. The graceful fantasies of oriental arabesque overrun the snowy marble of the screen. Dragons and gryphons on the groinings of the roof plant their claws on mystic scrolls. In circlets of opal are traced lambs with banners, or castle-gateways with pillars of malachite and purple portcullises, in colours borrowed from the thunder-clouds of summer and the foliage of spring.
Enshrined in the holiest place, bowered deep in exquisite enclosures of sandal-wood and gold, of lapis lazuli and marble, lies the Holy Grâl. The virtues of this stone of stones prolong the life and sustain the vigour of the gallant company of guardian-knights. Were a wounded man at the very point of death, one look thereon would give him six days’ life. He who sees it daily, holds the secret of perpetual youth, and need fear no decay or any sickness. By its life-giving power the phœenix springs out of his funeral flame and lives anew—the type of resurrection. On Good Friday a dove, descending from the skies, lays a consecrated wafer on the Grâl; and thus its miraculous potency is every year renewed. It has power, continues the legend, to a a crust into a banquet; and has been thus permitted to repeat the miracle which fed the five thousand among the Galilean hills.
Let us now take a scene from the poem already mentoned, and see how its author, Wolfram, has handled the tradition.
Parzival, weary and belated, was riding onward one dark night, whither he knew not, when he heard the distant fall of surf upon a beach. Making his way toward the shore, he discerns the twinkling light of a fisherman’s hut. There he is directed to a neighbouring castle. Arrived under a gloomy mass of wall, he winds his horn; answers questioning by pronouncing the name of the fisherman; rides across the echoing drawbridge, and is received in the courtyard by attendants with torches. He sees with surprise that the tiltyard is overgrown with rank grass, as though many a year had passed since any knight had broken lance there for love of fair lady. They usher him into a vast hall, dazzling with the blaze of a hundred torches. He passes up between couches of costliest workmanship, whereon lie four hundred knights. On the dais stand three marble vases filled with burning aloe-wood, raising clouds of fragrant incense. In the centre he sees a sick man reclining on a couch. It is Anfortas, the Grâl-king. He beckons Parzival to approach him. At this moment a page brings in a lance from which blood is dropping; he carries it round among the knights, who gaze upon it with looks of sorrow, some uttering lamentations, others sighing and groaning sorely at the sight. Parzival looks on in silence. The preceptor of his youth, the sage Sir Gournemanns, had once warned him against asking questions. The wise advice is, in this instance, unwisely followed. Then, through a door of shining steel, enter four princesses bearing golden candlesticks; and these, with their robes of scarlet, are followed by eight maidens in grass-green samite, carrying a slab of polished garnet. Then, amidst her ladies, the beautiful Repanse de Schoie comes in, the queen of the Grâl castle, and lays before Anfortas a vessel of precious stone.
Now the feast is about to begin; the hall is thronged with attendants, bearing golden ewers, setting out the tables, and presenting bread before the Grâl. The bread thus offered is placed upon the tables, and is, in the very act, transformed and multiplied into the various viands of a royal banquet. There are peacocks, the knightly birds, garnished with their plumes, boars’ heads, and venison; and in the beakers glance and mantle the hippocras and malvoisie and foaming mead; while fruits worthy of paradise blush among their leaves in baskets of fretted silver. Parzival at last retires to rest, still without having asked a question; passes the night troubled by mysterious dreams; and in the morning, surprised at the universal quietness and silence, goes out through the now deserted hall, and quits the castle as he came. As he departs a page cries after him, asking tauntingly why he had put no question to his entertainers.
As it is possible that some of our readers may not be so utterly destitute as Parzival of curiosity, we may add for their benefit that the silent knight lamented long and bitterly his lost opportunity. The shadow of his great disappointment followed him every where, darkened hope and faith, filled his soul with impious murmuring, and drove him out on lonesome wanderings, far from all Christian folk and sound of holy bells. At last this pride dissolves in penitence; his faith returns; his purification is accomplished. A messenger is sent to summon him to the Grâl temple; he himself is to be king. Entering the castle a second time, he finds Anfortas still a sufferer from the wound of the poisoned spear, sick almost unto death, but unable to die by reason of the life-sustaining virtue inherent in the Grâl. Parzival releases him in an instant from his pain by asking the long-desired question, "What ails thee?"
It is pleasant to recognise the existence of such an ideal of Christian knighthood as that which animates the legend of the Sangreal in its more elevated forms. In an age when physical prowess was so highly valued, this tradition gave the highest place to that moral greatness which conquers pride and abandons self. At the same time, this self-conquest is no "cloistered virtue," ascetic, pharisaical, and useless. The champions of the Grâl did not hide themselves from the world, though their relic and their residence were to the world so great a mystery. The brave four hundred were imagined riding through all the lands of Christendom, the hope of oppressed innocence, the terror of lawless strength.
Men call this nineteenth-century prosaic. But are there not with us also realities more wondrous than the phantom-temple of the Grâl, which only the lowly-hearted can discern?