stant. Annie Dillard, in her wonderfuln”An Expedition to tlie Pole” in ThenYale Literary Magazine’s anniversarynissue, was the first to make me questionnmy own convictions: If littlenthings like inane lyrics and the inescapablenmessiness of human fellowshipnStamped With the Image ofnthe KingnThe “matter of Britain” has beenninspiring European writers sincenthe 12th century, when Geoffrey ofnMonmouth chronicled the arrivalnof Brut in England, the struggles ofnUther Pendragon and his son Arthur,nand the wizardry of Merlin.nIn The Quest for Merlin (Boston:nLittle, Brown) Nikolai Tolstoy recountsna few of them: Wace (thenNorman Jerseyman whose Brutnbrought the matter to French attention),nThomas Malory, Spenser,nWalter Scott, Tennyson, Hardy,nand J.R. R. Tolkien, whose Gandalfnis only the latest and most powerfulnreincarnation of Merlin. In hisnhighly readable book—part scholarship,npart fantasy—Tolstoy arguesnthat Merlin was an historicalnpersonage, the last of the Druids innScotland and an “authentic prophet.n” Much of his evidence is drawnnfrom a comparison of Geoffrey’snlater Vita Merlini with the FournAncient Books of Welsh poetrynin which a Myrddin figuresnprominently.nLess convincing is his use of Irishnmaterial. While Tolstoy does managento draw attention to severalnstriking Irish parallels with the Merlinnstory, they are as likely to bensigns of a common Celtic literaryntradition as evidence for the historicalnMerlin. But most Celtic scholarshipnstrikes Germanic and classicalnphilologists as on the zany side.nPerhaps it is the inevitable result ofnenchantment. There is a powerfulnallure to these tales. The great failurenof English literature is the lacknof a great Arthurian epic. Miltonnhad one in mind, and Tennysonnmade an attempt even while realizingnthat his strength did not lie inncould get in the way of my healthyncommunion with God on Sundaynmorning, I really did have a problem.nIt’s easy to love one’s neighbor andnconcentrate on prayer when one’s surroundingsnare aesthetically pleasing. Inhappen to love Bach on a boomingnREVISIONSnextended narrative. The result, hisnIdylls, for all their flaws are amongnthe enduring masterpieces of thenlanguage. C.S. Lewis, like Tolkien,nwas drawn to the story of Merlin,nwhose appearance at Ransom’s doornin That Hideous Strength may benthe most powerful scene of recognitionnin modern fiction—odd thatnit should have escaped Tolstoy’snattention.nThe most influential Arthurianntheme is probably the quest for thenHoly Grail, which inspired suchndifferent treatments as Wolfram vonnEschenbach’s Parzival and the Percevalnof the 13th-century Frenchnpoet Chretien de Troyes. In hernnew translation, Perceval or ThenStory of the Grail (Athens, GA:nUniversity of Georgia Press) RuthnHarwood Cline succeeds in bringingnout the liveliness and subtlety ofnChretien’s final (and uncompleted)nwork. Despite certain confusionsnand paradoxes in the narrative, Percevalnis not only a masterful tale—nmore entertaining than most novelsn—but it is also a strong psychologicalnstudy of the adolescent in searchnof manhood. Young Perceval hasnbeen reared in isolation, in totalnignorance of chivalry. When hendiscovers a desire to become anknight, his mother gives him somensimple advice: be kind to the ladies;nif one wishes to reward him with ankiss or food or a token like a ring, henshould accept them.nNot far from his mother’s house,nhe meets a damsel whom he proceedsnto kiss repeatedly — muchnagainst her will; he gobbles her foodnand rips the ring off her finger.nLater he tells Arthur, in peremptorynterms, that he must be made anknight immediately. Eventually,nPerceval is taken in hand by a wisenknight who tells him to mind hisnnnorgan and the terrifying silence thatnfollows, and to despise fourth-rate guitaristsnand church applause and constantnchatter. … I could go on. Dillard,nmaking me ashamed, writes, “Antaste for the sublime is a greed like anynother, after all,” and, “Week afterntongue and not reveal his ignorance.nLike most adolescents, Percevalnoverinterprets. His taciturnitynhas fatal results when he fails to asknthe Fisher King the crucial questionsnwhich could have restorednhim—and his realm—to health.nCline’s translation is lively andneffective in every respect but one:nher versification is not up to thendifficulty of eight-syllable couplets.nBen Jonson thought, quite rightiy,nthat the rhymes came too soon innthis form. The poet runs the risk ofnjingling. Cline, however, in avoidingnjingles usually ends up withnprose in rhyme, with scarcely anynattention to the subtleties ofnenjambment—a rereading of AndrewnMarvell is in order. As prose,nhowever, this translation is wonderfullynreadable.nThe Arthurian tales are a superbnexample of how one society canntransmit its traditions to another.nThe heroes of Celtic Britain getnadopted by Norman English aristocratsnand writers, and the part-nWelsh Henry VII names his eldestnson after the British king. Meanwhile,nthe French too adopt thennational heroes of Britain, theirngreatest enemy, and Eschenbachnuses the material to create one ofnthe early German masterpieces. Ofncourse, Malory’s heroes are rathernEnglish, Chretien’s are the picturenof French chivalry, and Wolfram’snmore mystical Parzival inspired thatnmost ardent Nordicist, RichardnWagner. Underneath all these versionsnlay the eerie vision of a subjectnrace that failed in polities and warnbut lent the cruder Germans —nSaxons, Normans, Franck, andnBavarians—some, at least, of theirnpoetry.nSEPTEMBER 1986 / 47n