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In the afternoon, the evening star has just begun its yet invisible rise from behind Heinrich’s cottage when Wolfram wanders from the heights of the Thuringian Forest into the valley to rendezvous with his apprentice of sorts, the shepherd Zdenko.
Wolfram first encountered Zdenko shortly after Elisabeth’s passing, while seeking refuge from the then ignominious throng at the Wartburg—with the exception of Lord Ingand, formerly of Anjou, who shared Landgrave Hermann’s taste for the Orient and, aware of Wolfram’s intention to adapt and continue Crestien de Troies’ Li contes del graal, had volunteered his expertise in Latin, Provençal and Arabic (‘inherited from my mother, who grew up in neighbouring Toledo’); and who has since done Sir Keie’s task, so that Walther no longer suffers from earache (or Gerhard Atze)! So much about Ingand is extraordinary, from his choice of his late Slavic wife (‘She said that I captured her attention because my name is an anagram of the town at the confluence of the Grajena and the Drava where she was born’) and disinterest in presenting his coming-of-age daughter at the Wartburg (‘The Landgrave and his family have met her and can vouch for her virtue’), to him having purchased a disreputable farm near the Hörselberg and shut down the brothel it had been running.
Zdenko attempted softly to devise a Stollen just like in Wolfram’s extemporaneous canzone, in response to which the Minnesänger, amused by the valiant endeavour, offered to teach the lad to compose Minnelieder. Over the months, the youth proved to be a quick study with a distinctive alto voice—so quick that surely the shepherd realised that a disparate way of life lay at his fingertips, yet Zdenko never requested Wolfram to teach him an instrument—the harp was out of the question due to its size, but a fidel would have been manageable. Once, Wolfram demonstrated to his apprentice the rhythmic liberties a singer could take by understanding the rhythm inherent in the text[1]—perhaps he was breaking the rules of the genre, but it was worth it to hear Zdenko ask, astonished, ‘One can do that?!’ and then bashfully, ‘Is that what coitus is like?’ Wolfram burst into laughter and replied, ‘I wish I could tell you.’
On one occasion, Wolfram narrated the opening stanza of Parzival to Zdenko. The shepherd arrived at their next meeting with a cheap writing slope in hand, having transcribed the opening stanza from memory in beautiful calligraphy, confirming Wolfram’s suspicion that there was more to the lad than met the eye. He would consult Neidhart for insight on Zdenko were ‘the knight from Reuental’ to visit the Wartburg in the near future, Wolfram decided. What joy it was that Zdenko appreciated the startled hare darting from side to side in him! Though, a downside was that the youth did not prod him enough to emend sentences that defied grammatical logic—Heinrich would have insisted that Wolfram rectify his ‘crooked German’ that sometimes lost its way altogether, and stuck out his tongue at Gottfried von Straßburg. How would Elisabeth have responded? Wolfram wondered. Zdenko debated with him in earnest the world of the Grail company (‘Hence Grail maidens are sent out openly to marry?’ ‘Why do you insist that the neutral angels descended to the Grail, that it is unknown whether God forgave or condemned them thenceforth, and that if He deemed it right, He would take them back?’ (Wolfram thought he heard Zdenko mumble ‘ancestor’ and ‘Sigune’.) ‘We’ll be forced to retract that passage in future.’ And on a cold autumn day, ‘If only the Grail also served up food hot and cold, tame and wild, and mulberry juice!’ ‘And clary!’ ‘So Grail Peasants are dispensed with?’ ‘Does the Grail also herd and shear sheep?’) and assisted him in setting details right (‘You’ve used the name Lazaliez already. Call him—I don’t know—Liddamus.’ (Although the youth gave up inventing new names when it came to Feirefiz’s retinue.) ‘You still haven’t disclosed who killed Kingrisin!’ ‘Lord Ingand said that a god of the Saracens may be called Tervigant; they do not pray to Jupiter and Juno.’ ‘But the manuscript with Jupiter and Juno has already been sent out!’ ‘Also, Mars and Jupiter cannot return in their course simultaneously.’ ‘Did he say whether it should be Mars or Jupiter that returns in its course?’ ‘No.’).
‘Kozden is a Bohemian, he who saw this adventure of Parzival written down in heathen tongue,’ Wolfram bantered.
‘Another anagrammatic formation?’ Zdenko snickered. ‘For a change, name my pseudonym after…’—the youth paused in thought—‘…your not-the-heroine’s father, Kyot.’
‘Like the trouvère Guiot de Provins?’
‘Provins in Champaigne? Bah! Je m’apele Kyot li provençal.’
‘Who speaks en franzoys?’ Wolfram teased.
‘I didn’t learn Provençal well,’ conceded Zdenko.
Lately, Zdenko’s mood had been low. When Wolfram enquired after his troubles, the youth divulged, ‘My father says that it’s time for me to get married.’
It made sense that peasants married early, Wolfram reflected, contemplating the cornflowers that Zdenko had grown around the fount where they would meet, for Wolfram to lay at Elisabeth’s grave on the anniversaries of her birth and death, because Wolfram had a black thumb. Blue flowers had been Elisabeth’s favourite.
‘You’re in love with one who loves another,’ Wolfram recognised, recalling the moment when every gleam of hope took flight from him for this lifetime.
Zdenko turned his gaze upon the cornflowers and nodded.
‘Longing is a torment,’ Wolfram commiserated.
‘Yes,’ concurred Zdenko.
‘Open up!’ Wolfram changed tack.
‘To whom? Who are you?’ Zdenko played along.
‘I want to go into your heart.’
‘That’s a narrow space you want to enter,’ Zdenko opined.
‘What of it, even if I barely survive! You’ll seldom have cause to complain of my jostling! I want to tell you of wonders now!’
It has unexpectedly grown dark early as Wolfram approaches his destination. There is an alluring lady in front of him—like God’s messenger, the thought comes to Wolfram—whom he follows from afar into the lands where eternally shines the evenstar. The lady appears considerably older than Zdenko, but observing her approaching the youth, Wolfram nonetheless wonders if she is Zdenko’s—
Zdenko’s wool knit cap and thin moustache are dislodged by the lady to reveal a lass’ loose-flowing tresses. Adventurous, poetic Zdenko—or might her name actually be Zdenka?—
Noting Wolfram’s dumbfoundment, the damsel elucidates amid tears, ‘I’m sorry. I’d only have been able to look upon you from afar as Lord Ingand’s daughter.’
—who trusts in my discretion and indulges me, who loves worldbuilding, who is interested in learning astronomy and science, and about the Saracen world and the Orient in general…
Heinrich could describe how Elisabeth longed for a freedom beyond the reach of a chaperoned noblewoman, and how she was an angel, not in a superficial manner, but in the sense of having the strength to sacrifice her life to beg mercy for a sinner—which I was never able to concretely express, although I loved Elisabeth even before Heinrich met her, Wolfram recollects.
He remembers Zdenka turning her gaze upon the cornflowers when confiding that she was in love with one who loved another—Oh.—and kisses his heart’s eyes’ rain away before he realises his actions.
Regaining his mind, he looks around for the alluring lady, having an inkling of her identity, but all that is present around him and Zdenka is the loveliest of the stars sending its gentle light afar, its endearing beam cleaving the twilight and kindly pointing the way out of the valley.
‘You’ll have to go to the festivals at the Wartburg now,’ Wolfram steadfastly says to Zdenka, ‘so that I can win the most virtuous maiden.’