In 1829, when Wagner was only sixteen years of age, he first
became acquainted, through Hoffmann's novels, with the story of
the mastersingers of Nürnberg, and with the mediæval legend of
Tannhäuser, as versified by Ludwig Tieck. The 'mystical coquetry
and frivolous catholicism' of this modern poem repelled him,
and it was not until twelve years later, when he chanced upon
a popular version of the same story, that he was struck by its
dramatic possibilities. A chance mention of the Sängerkrieg of
the Wartburg in this version made him trace the legend as far
back as possible, and in doing so he came across an old poem
of Lohengrin, and read Eschenbach's 'Titurel' and 'Parzival,'
which were to serve as basis for two other great operas. The
sketch of the opera of 'Tannhäuser' was completed in 1842, at
Teplitz, during an excursion in the Bohemian mountains; but the
whole score was not finished until three years later. Wagner
had gone over it all so carefully that it was printed without
much revision, and he had even written the piano score, which
was sent to Berlin in 1845 and appeared in the same year that
the opera was produced at Dresden.
Madame Schröder-Devrient, whom Wagner had in his mind in writing
the part of Venus, sang that rôle, but, in spite of all her
talent, the first performance was not a success. She wrote
to Wagner concerning it, and said, 'You are a man of genius,
but you write such eccentric stuff it is hardly possible to sing
it.' The public in general, accustomed to light operas with happy
endings, was dismayed at the sad and tragical termination, and,
while some of the best musical authorities of the day applauded,
others criticised the work unsparingly. Schumann alone seems
to have realised the force of the author's new style, for he
wrote, 'On the whole, Wagner may become of great importance and
significance to the stage,'--a doubtful prediction which was
only triumphantly verified many years afterward. Like many of
the mediæval legends, the story of Tannhäuser is connected with
the ancient Teutonic religion, which declared that Holda, the
Northern Venus, had set up her enchanted abode in the hollow
mountain known as the Hörselberg, where she entertained her
devotees with all the pleasures of love. When the missionaries
came preaching Christianity, they diligently taught the people
that all these heathen divinities were demons, and although
Holda and her court were not forgotten, she became a type of
sensual love. Tannhäuser, a minstrel of note, who has won many
prizes for his songs, hearing of the wondrous underground palace
and of its manifold charm, voluntarily enters the mountain, and
abandons himself to the fair goddess's wiles. Here he spends
a whole year in her company, surrounded by her train of loves
and nymphs, yielding to all her enchantments, which at first
intoxicate his poetic and beauty loving soul.
But at last the sensual pleasures in which he has been steeped
begin to pall upon his jaded senses. He longs to tear himself
away from the enchantress, and to return to the mingled pleasure
and pain of earth.
The first scene of the opera represents the charmed grotto where
Venus gently seeks to beguile the discontented knight, while
nymphs, loves, bacchantes, and lovers whirl about in the graceful
mazes of the dance, or pose in charming attitudes. Seeing
Tannhäuser's abstraction and evident sadness, Venus artfully
questions him, and when he confesses his homesickness, and his
intense longing to revisit the earth, she again tries to dazzle
him, and cast a glamour over all his senses, so as to make him
utterly oblivious of all but her.
Temporarily intoxicated by her charms, Tannhäuser, when called
upon to tune his lyre, bursts forth into a song extolling her
beauty and fascination; but even before the lay is ended the
longing to depart again seizes him, and he passionately entreats
her to release him from her thrall:--
''Tis freedom I must win or die,--
For freedom I can all defy;
To strife or glory forth I go,
Come life or death, come joy or woe,
No more in bondage will I sigh!
O queen, beloved goddess, let me fly!'
Thus adjured, and seeing her power is temporarily ended, Venus
haughtily dismisses her slave, warning him that he returns to
earth in vain, as he has forfeited all chance of salvation by
lingering with her, and bidding him return without fear when
the intolerance of man has made him weary of life upon earth.
A sudden change of scene occurs. At a sign from Venus, the
grotto and its voluptuous figures disappear; the roseate light
makes way for the glaring sunshine, and Tannhäuser, who has
not moved, suddenly finds himself upon the hillside, near the
highroad and the shrine of the Virgin, and within sight of
the Wartburg castle, where he formerly dwelt and won many a
prize for his beautiful songs. The summer silence is at first
broken only by the soft notes of a shepherd singing a popular
ballad about Holda, the Northern Venus, who issues yearly from
the mountain to herald the spring, but as he ceases a band of
pilgrims slowly comes into view. These holy wanderers are all
clad in penitential robes, and, as they slowly wend their way
down the hill and past the shrine, they chant a psalm praying
for the forgiveness of their sins. The shepherd calls to them
asking them to pray for him in Rome, and, as they pass out of
sight, still singing, Tannhäuser, overcome with remorse for
his misspent years, sinks down on his knees before the Virgin's
shrine, humbly imploring forgiveness for his sins:--
'Oh, see my heart by grief oppressed!
I faint, I sink beneath the burden!
Nor will I cease, nor will I rest,
Till heavenly mercy grants me pardon.'
While he is still kneeling there, absorbed in prayer,
the Landgrave and his minstrel knights appear in hunting
costume. Their attention is attracted by the bowed figure of the
knight, and when he raises his head they recognise him as their
former companion. Some of the minstrels, jealous of his past
triumphs, would fain regard him as their foe, but, influenced by
one of their number, Wolfram von Eschenbach, they welcome him
kindly and ask him where he has been. Tannhäuser, only partly
roused from his half lethargic state, dreamily answers that he
has long been tarrying in a land where he found neither peace
nor rest, and in answer to their invitation to join them in the
Wartburg declares he cannot stay, but must wander on forever.
Wolfram, seeing him about to depart once more, then reminds him
of Elizabeth, the fair chatelaine of the Wartburg, and when he
sees that, although Tannhäuser trembles at the mere sound of the
name of the maiden he once loved, he will nevertheless depart,
he asks and obtains the Landgrave's permission to reveal a long
kept secret.
Wolfram himself has long loved the fair Elizabeth, but such is
his unselfish devotion that he would fain see her happy even with
a rival. To win the light back to her eyes and the smile to her
lips, he now tells Tannhäuser how she has drooped ever since he
went away, and generously confesses that she took pleasure in
his music only, and has persistently avoided the minstrel hall
since his departure. His eloquent pleading touches Tannhäuser's
reawakening heart, and he finally consents to accompany the
Landgrave and his minstrels back to the Wartburg. Hither
they now make their way on foot and on horseback, singing a
triumphal chorus:--
'He doth return, no more to wander;
Our loved and lost is ours again.
All praise and thanks to those we render
Who could persuade, and not in vain.
Now let your harps indite a measure
Of all that hero's hand may dare,
Of all that poet's heart can pleasure,
Before the fairest of the fair.'
The second act is played in the great hall of the Wartburg
castle, which is festively decorated, for the minstrels are
again to contend for the prize of song, a laurel wreath which
will again be bestowed as of yore by the fair hands of the
beloved Princess Elizabeth. As the curtain rises she is alone in
the hall, no longer pale and wan, but radiant with happiness,
for she knows that Tannhäuser, her lover, has returned, and
she momentarily expects him to appear. While she is greeting
the well known hall, the scene of her lover's former triumphs,
with a rapturous little outburst of song, the door suddenly
opens and Wolfram appears, leading the penitent Tannhäuser,
who rushes forward and falls at Elizabeth's feet, while his
friend discreetly withdraws. Elizabeth would fain raise the
knight, telling him it is unbecoming for him to assume so
humble an attitude beneath the roof where he has triumphed
over all rivals, and she tenderly asks where he has lingered
so long. Tannhäuser, ashamed of the past, and absorbed in the
present, declares that he has been far away, in the land of
oblivion, where he has forgotten all save her alone:--
'Far away in strange and distant regions,
And between yesterday and to-day oblivion's veil hath fallen.
Every remembrance hath forever vanished,
Save one thing only, rising from the darkness,--
That I then dared not hope I should behold thee,
Nor ever raise mine eyes to thy perfection.'
Elizabeth is so happy to see him once more, so ready to forgive
him at the very first word of repentance, that Tannhäuser cannot
but see how dearly she loves him, and they soon unite in a
duet of complete bliss, rejoicing openly over their reunion,
and vowing to love each other forever, and never to part again.
The Landgrave appears just as their song is ended, to
congratulate Elizabeth upon having at last left her seclusion
and honoured the minstrels with her presence. In conclusion,
he declares that, as all the contestants know she will be there
to bestow the prize, the rivalry will be greater than ever. He
is interrupted in this speech, however, by the entrance of
knights and nobles, who file in singing a chorus in praise of
the noble hall, and of Hermann, Landgrave of Thuringia, the
patron of song, whom they repeatedly cheer. When they have all
taken their appointed places, the Landgrave, rising in his seat,
addresses them, bidding them welcome, reminding them of the high
aims of their art, and telling them that, while the theme he is
about to propose for their lays is love, the princess herself
will bestow as prize whatever the winner may ask:--
'Therefore hear now the theme you all shall sing.
Say, what is love? by what signs shall we know it?
This be your theme. Whoso most nobly this can tell,
Him shall the princess give the prize.
He may demand the fairest guerdon:
I vouch that whatsoe'er he ask is granted.
Up, then, arouse ye! sing, O gallant minstrels!
Attune your harps to love. Great is the prize,'
At the summons of the heralds, Wolfram von Eschenbach first takes
up the strain, and as for him love is an ardent desire to see
the loved one happy, a longing to sacrifice himself if need be,
and an attitude of worshipful devotion, he naturally sings an
exalted strain. It finds favour with all his hearers,--with all
except Tannhäuser, who, having tasted of the passionate joys
of unholy love, cannot understand the purity of Wolfram's lay,
which he stigmatises as cold and unsatisfactory.
In his turn, he now attunes his harp to love, and sings
a voluptuous strain, which not only contrasts oddly with
Wolfram's performance, but shows love merely as a passion,
a gratification of the senses. The minstrels, jealous for
their art, indignantly interrupt him, and one even challenges
Tannhäuser to mortal combat:--
'To mortal combat I defy thee!
Shameless blasphemer, draw thy sword!
As brother henceforth we deny thee:
Thy words profane too long we've heard!
If I of love divine have spoken,
Its glorious spell shall be unbroken
Strength'ning in valour, sword and heart,
Altho' from life this hour I part.
For womanhood and noble honour
Through death and danger I would go;
But for the cheap delights that won thee
I scorn them as worth not one blow!'
This minstrel's sentiments are loudly echoed by all the knights
present, who, having been trained in the school of chivalry,
have an exalted conception of love, hold all women in high
honour, and deeply resent the attempt just made to degrade
them. Tannhäuser, whose once pure and noble nature has been
perverted and degraded by the year spent with Venus, cannot
longer understand the exalted pleasures of true love, even
though he has just won the heart of a peerless and spotless
maiden, and when Wolfram, hoping to allay the strife, again
resumes his former strain, he impatiently interrupts him.
Recklessly now, and entirely wrapped up in the recollection of
the unholy pleasures of the past, Tannhäuser exalts the goddess
of Love, with whom he has revelled in bliss, and boldly reveals
the fact that he has been tarrying with her in her subterranean
grove.
This confession fills the hearts of all present with nameless
terror, for the priests have taught them that the heathen
deities are demons disguised. The minstrels one and all fall
upon Tannhäuser, who is saved from immediate death at their
hands only by the prompt intervention of Elizabeth.
Broken-hearted, for now she knows the utter unworthiness of the
man to whom she has given her heart, yet loving him still and
hoping he may in time win forgiveness for his sin, she pleads
so eloquently for him that all fall back. The Landgrave,
addressing him, then solemnly bids him repent, and join the
pilgrims on their way to Rome, where perchance the Pope may
grant him absolution for his sin:--
'One path alone can save thee from perdition,
From everlasting woe,--by earth abandon'd,
One way is left: that way thou now shalt know.
A band of pilgrims now assembled
From every part of my domain;
This morn the elders went before them,
The rest yet in the vale remain.
'Tis not for crimes like thine they tremble,
And leave their country, friends and home,--
Desire for heav'nly grace is o'er them:
They seek the sacred shrine at Rome.'
Urged to depart by the Landgrave, knights, nobles, and even by
the pale and sorrowful Elizabeth, Tannhäuser eagerly acquiesces,
for now that the sudden spell of sensuous love has departed,
he ardently longs to free his soul from the burden of sin. The
pilgrims' chant again falls upon his ear, and, sobered and
repentant, Tannhäuser joins them to journey on foot to Rome,
kneeling at every shrine by the way, and devoutly praying for
the forgiveness and ultimate absolution of his sins.
When the curtain rises upon the third and last act of this opera,
one whole year has slowly passed, during which no tidings of the
pilgrims have been received. It is now time for their return,
and they are daily expected by their friends, who have ardently
been praying that they may come home, shrived and happy, to
spend the remainder of their lives at home in peace. No one has
prayed as fervently as the fair Elizabeth, who, forgetting her
wonted splendour, has daily wended her way down the hillside,
to kneel on the rude stones in front of the Virgin's wayside
shrine. There she has daily prayed for Tannhäuser's happy return,
and there she kneels absorbed in prayer when Wolfram comes
down the path as usual. He has not forgotten his love for her,
which is as deep and self-sacrificing as ever, so he too prays
that her lover may soon return from Rome, entirely absolved, and
wipe away her constant tears. Elizabeth is suddenly roused from
her devotions by the distant chant of the returning pilgrims.
They sing of sins forgiven, and of the peace won by their long,
painful journey to Rome. Singing thus they slowly file past
Wolfram and Elizabeth, who eagerly scan every face in search
of one whom they cannot discover.
When all have passed by, Elizabeth, realising that she will
see her beloved no more, sinks slowly down on her knees, and,
raising her despairing eyes to the image of the Virgin. Then she
solemnly dedicates the remainder of her life to her exclusive
service, in the hope that Tannhäuser may yet be forgiven, and
prays that death may soon come to ease her pain and bring her
heart eternal peace:--
'O blessed Virgin, hear my prayer!
Thou star of glory, look on me!
Here in the dust I bend before thee,
Now from this earth oh set me free!
Let me, a maiden, pure and white,
Enter into thy kingdom bright!
If vain desires and earthly longing
Have turn'd my heart from thee away,
The sinful hopes within me thronging
Before thy blessed feet I lay.
I'll wrestle with the love I cherish'd,
Until in death its flame hath perish'd.
If of my sin thou wilt not shrive me,
Yet in this hour, oh grant thy aid!
Till thy eternal peace thou give me,
I vow to live and die thy maid.
And on thy bounty I will call,
That heav'nly grace on him may fall.'
This prayer ended, the broken-hearted Elizabeth slowly totters
away, while Wolfram von Eschenbach, who has seen by her pallid
face and wasted frame that the death she prays for will not
tarry long, sorrowfully realises at last that all his love can
save her no pang.
When the evening shadows have fallen, and the stars illumine the
sky, he is still lingering by the holy shrine where Elizabeth
has breathed her last prayer. The silence of the night is
suddenly broken by the sound of his harp, as he gives vent
to his sorrow by an invocation to the stars, among which his
lady-love is going to dwell ere-long, and as he sings the last
notes a pilgrim slowly draws near. Wolfram does not at first
recognise his old friend and rival Tannhäuser in this dejected,
foot-sore traveller; but when he sees the worn face he anxiously
inquires whether he has been absolved, and warns him against
venturing within the precincts of the Wartburg unless he has
received Papal pardon for his sins.
Tannhäuser, instead of answering this query, merely asks him
to point out the path, which he once found so easily, the path
leading to the Venus hill, and only when Wolfram renews his
questions does he vouchsafe him a brief account of his journey
to Rome. He tells how he trod the roughest roads barefooted,
how he journeyed through heat and cold, eschewing all comforts
and alleviation of his hard lot, how he knelt penitently before
every shrine, and how fervently he prayed for the forgiveness
of the sin which had darkened not only his life but that of
his beloved. Then, in faltering tones, he relates how the Pope
shrank from him upon hearing that he had sojourned for a year
in the Venus hill, and how sternly he declared there could be
no more hope of pardon for such a sin than to see his withered
staff blossom and bear leaves:--
'If thou hast shar'd the joys of Hell,
If thou unholy flames hast nurs'd
That in the hill of Venus dwell,
Thou art for evermore accurs'd!
And as this barren staff I hold
Ne'er will put forth a flower or leaf,
Thus shalt thou never more behold
Salvation or thy sin's relief.'
Tannhäuser now passionately describes his utter despair, after
hearing this awful verdict, his weary homeward journey, and
his firm determination, since he is utterly debarred from ever
seeing Elizabeth again, either in this world or in the next, to
hasten back to the hill of Venus, where he can at least deaden
his remorse with pleasure, and steep his sinful soul in sensual
love. In vain Wolfram pleads with him not to give up all hope
of ultimate salvation, and still to repent of his former sin;
he insists upon returning to the enchantress who warned him
of the intolerance of man, and whom he now calls upon to guide
his steps to the entrance of her abode.
This invocation does not remain unheard by the fair goddess of
beauty. She appears in the distance with her shadowy train,
singing her old alluring song, and welcoming him back to
her realm. Tannhäuser is about to obey her beckoning hand,
and to hasten after her in the direction of the Hörselberg,
when the sound of a funeral chant falls upon his ear. A long
procession is slowly winding down the hill. The mourners are
carrying the body of the fair Elizabeth, who has died of grief,
to its last resting place.
While Tannhäuser, forgetting all else, is gazing spellbound
at the waxen features of his beloved, thus slowly borne down
the hill, Wolfram tells him how the pure maiden interceded for
him in her last prayer on earth, and declares that he knows
her innocent soul is now pleading for his forgiveness at the
foot of the heavenly throne. This hope of salvation brings
such relief to Tannhäuser's tormented heart, that he turns his
back upon Venus, who, realising her prey has escaped, suddenly
vanishes in the Hörselberg with all her demon train.
Kneeling by Elizabeth's bier, Tannhäuser fervently prays for
forgiveness, until the bystanders, touched by his remorse, assure
him that he will be forgiven,--an assurance which is confirmed as
he breathes his last, by the arrival of the Pope's messenger. He
appears, bearing the withered staff, which has miraculously
budded and has burst forth into blossoms and leaves:--
'The Lord himself now thy bondage hath riven.
Go, enter in with the blest in His heaven.'
[Illustration: ORTRUD KNEELING BEFORE ELSA.]