THE STORY OF
VENUS AND TANNHÄUSER
in which is set forth an exact account of the manner of State held by
Madam Venus, Goddess and Meretrix, under the famous Hörselberg, and
containing the Adventures of Tannhäuser in that Place, his Repentance,
his Journeying to Rome and Return to the Loving Mountain.
A ROMANTIC NOVEL
BY
AUBREY BEARDSLEY
Now first printed from the Original Manuscript
LONDON
FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION
MCMVII
THE STORY OF VENUS AND TANNHÄUSER
FOREWORD
Only a portion of this work, Beardsley's most ambitious literary
effort, has hitherto been printed, with the title "Under the Hill". The
present work is a complete transcript of the whole of the manuscript as
originally projected by Beardsley. It has been deemed advisable, owing
to the freedom of several passages, to issue only a limited number of
copies for the use of those literary students who are also admirers of
Beardsley's wayward genius.
"La chaleur du brandon Venus."
_Le Roman de la Rose_, v. 22051.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. HOW THE CHEVALIER TANNHÄUSER ENTERED INTO THE HILL OF VENUS.
CHAPTER II. OF THE MANNER IN WHICH VENUS WAS COIFFED AND PREPARED FOR
SUPPER.
CHAPTER III. HOW VENUS SUPPED; AND THEREAFTER WAS MIGHTILY AMUSED BY
THE CURIOUS PRANKS OF HER ENTOURAGE.
CHAPTER IV. HOW THE COURT OF VENUS BEHAVED STRANGELY AT HER SUPPER.
CHAPTER V. OF THE BALLET DANCED BY THE SERVANTS OF VENUS.
CHAPTER VI. OF THE AMOROUS ENCOUNTER WHICH TOOK PLACE BETWEEN VENUS AND
TANNHÄUSER.
CHAPTER VII. HOW TANNHÄUSER AWAKENED AND TOOK HIS MORNING ABLUTIONS IN
THE VENUSBERG.
CHAPTER VIII. OF THE ECSTACY OF ADOLPHE, AND THE REMARKABLE
MANIFESTATION THEREOF.
CHAPTER IX. HOW VENUS AND TANNHÄUSER BREAKFASTED AND THEN DROVE THROUGH
THE PALACE GARDENS.
CHAPTER X. OF THE 'STABAT MATER' SPIRIDION, AND DE LA PINE.
THE STORY OF
VENUS AND TANNHÄUSER
A ROMANTIC NOVEL
TO
THE MOST EMINENT AND REVEREND PRINCE
GIULIO POLDO PEZZOLI
CARDINAL OF THE HOLY ROMAN CHURCH
TITULAR BISHOP OF S. MARIA IN TRASTAVERE
ARCHBISHOP OF OSTIA AND VELLETRI
NUNCIO TO THE HOLY SEE
IN
NICARAGUA AND PATAGONIA
A FATHER TO THE POOR
A REFORMER OF ECCLESIASTICAL DISCIPLINE
A PATTERN OF LEARNING
WISDOM AND HOLINESS OF LIFE
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED WITH DUE REVERENCE
BY HIS HUMBLE SERVITOR
A SCRIVENER AND LIMNER OF WORLDLY THINGS
WHO MADE THIS BOOK
AUBREY BEARDSLEY
TO
THE MOST EMINENT AND REVEREND PRINCE
GIULIO POLDO PEZZOLI
_Most Eminent Prince_,
I know not by what mischance the writing of epistles dedicatory has
fallen into disuse, whether through the vanity of authors or the
humility of patrons. But the practice seems to me so very beautiful
and becoming that I have ventured to make an essay in the modest art,
and lay with formalities my first book at your feet. I have, it must
be confessed, many fears lest I shall be arraigned of presumption in
choosing so exalted a name as your own to place at the beginning of
these histories; but I hope that such a censure will not be too lightly
passed upon me, for, if I am guilty, 'tis but of a most natural pride
that the accidents of my life should allow me to sail the little
pinnace of my wit under your protection.
But though I can clear myself of such a charge, I am still minded to
use the tongue of apology, for with what face can I offer you a book
treating of so vein and fantastical a thing as Love? I know that in
the judgment of many the amorous passion is accounted a shameful thing
and ridiculous; indeed, it must be confessed that more blushes have
risen for Love's sake than for any other cause, and that lovers are an
eternal laughing-stock. Still, as the book will be found to contain
matter of deeper import than mere venery, inasmuch as it treats of the
great contrition of its chiefest character, and of canonical things in
its chapters, I am not without hopes that your Eminence will pardon my
writing of the Hill of Venus, for which exposition let my youth excuse
me.
Then I must crave your forgiveness for addressing you in a language
other than the Roman, but my small freedom in Latinity forbids me to
wander beyond the idiom of my vernacular. I would not for the world
that your delicate Southern ear should be offended by a barbarous
assault of rude and Gothic words; but methinks no language is rude that
can boast polite writers, and not a few have flourished in this country
in times past, bringing our common speech to very great perfection.
In the present age, alas! our pens are ravished by unlettered authors
and unmannered critics, that make a havoc rather than a building, a
wilderness rather than a garden. But, alack I what boots it to drop
tears upon the preterit?
'Tis not of our own shortcomings, though, but of your own great merits
that I should speak, else I should be forgetful of the duties I have
drawn upon myself in electing to address you in a dedication. 'Tis of
your noble virtues (though all the world know of 'em), your taste and
wit, your care for letters, and very real regard for the arts, that I
must be the proclaimer.
Though it be true that all men have sufficient wit to pass a judgment
on this or that, and not a few sufficient impudence to print the same
(these last being commonly accounted critics), I have ever held that
the critical faculty is more rare than the inventive. 'Tis a faculty
your Eminence possesses in so great a degree that your praise or blame
is something oracular, your utterance infallible as great genius or as
a beautiful woman. Your mind, I know, rejoicing in fine distinctions
and subtle procedures of thought, beautifully discursive rather than
hastily conclusive, has found in criticism its happiest exercise. 'Tis
pity that so perfect a Mecænas should have no Horace to befriend, no
Georgies to accept; for the offices and function of patron or critic
must of necessity be lessened in an age of little men and little work.
In times past 'twas nothing derogatory for great princes and men of
State to extend their loves and favour to poets, for thereby they
received as much honour as they conferred. Did not Prince Festus with
pride take the master-work of Julian into his protection, and was not
the Æneis a pretty thing to offer Caesar?
Learning without appreciation is a thing of nought, but I know not
which is greatest in you, your love of the arts or your knowledge of
'em. What wonder, then, that I am studious to please you, and desirous
of your protection? How deeply thankful I am for your past affections,
you know well, your great kindness and liberality having far outgone my
slight merits fend small accomplishment that seemed scarce to warrant
any favour. Alas! 'tis a slight offering I make you now, but, if
after glancing into its pages (say of an evening upon your terrace),
you should deem it worthy of the most remote place in your princely
library, the knowledge that it rested there would be reward sufficient
for my labours, and a crowning happiness to my pleasure in the writing
of this slender book.
The humble and obedient servant of your Eminence,
AUBREY BEARDSLEY.
THE STORY OF VENUS AND TANNHÄUSER
A ROMANTIC NOVEL
CHAPTER I
HOW THE CHEVALIER TANNHÄUSER ENTERED INTO THE HILL OF VENUS
The Chevalier Tannhäuser, having lighted off his horse, stood
doubtfully for a moment beneath the ombre gateway of the Venusberg,
troubled with an exquisite fear lest a day's travel should have too
cruelly undone the laboured niceness of his dress. His hand, slim and
gracious as La Marquise du Deffand's in the drawing by Carmontelle,
played nervously about the gold hair that fell upon his shoulders like
a finely curled peruke, and from point to point of a precise toilet,
the fingers wandered, quelling the little mutinies of cravat and ruffle.
It was taper-time; when the tired earth puts on its cloak of mists and
shadows, when the enchanted woods are stirred with light footfalls and
slender voices of the fairies, when all the air is full of delicate
influences, and even the beaux, seated at their dressing-tables, dream
a little.
A delicious moment, thought Tannhäuser, to slip into exile.
The place where he stood waved drowsily with strange flowers, heavy
with perfume, dripping with odours. Gloomy and nameless weeds not to
be found in Mentzelius. Huge moths so richly winged they must have
banqueted upon tapestries and royal stuffs, slept on the pillars that
flanked either side of the gateway, and the eyes of all the moths
remained open, and were burning and bursting with a mesh of veins.
The pillars were fashioned in some pale stone, and rose up like hymns
in the praise of Venus, for, from cap to base, each one was carved
with loving sculptures, showing such a cunning invention and such a
curious knowledge that Tannhäuser lingered not a little in reviewing
them. They surpassed all that Japan has ever pictured from her maisons
vertes, all that was ever painted on the pretty bathrooms of Cardinal
La Motte, and even outdid the astonishing illustrations to Jones'
"_Nursery Numbers_."
"A pretty portal," murmured the Chevalier, correcting his sash.
As he spake, a faint sound of singing was breathed out from the
mountain, faint music as strange and distant as sea-legends that are
heard in shells.
"The Vespers of Venus, I take it," said Tannhäuser and struck a few
chords of accompaniment ever so lightly upon his little lute. Softly
across the spell-bound threshold the song floated and wreathed itself
about the subtle columns till the moths were touched with passion, and
moved quaintly in their sleep. One of them was awakened by the intenser
notes of the Chevalier's lute-strings, and fluttered into his cave.
Tannhäuser felt it was his cue for entry.
"Adieu," he exclaimed, with an inclusive gesture, and "Good-bye,
Madonna," as the cold circle of the moon began to show, beautiful and
full of enchantments. There was a shadow of sentiment in his voice as
he spake the words.
"Would to heaven," he sighed, "I might receive the assurance of a
looking-glass before I make my début! However, as she is a goddess, I
doubt not her eyes are a little sated with perfection, and may not be
displeased to see it crowned with a tiny fault."
A wild rose had caught upon the trimmings of his muff, and in the first
flush of displeasure he would have struck it brusquely away, and most
severely punished the offending flower. But the ruffled mood lasted
only a moment, for there was something so deliciously incongruous in
the hardy petal's invasion of so delicate a thing, that Tannhäuser
withheld the finger of resentment, and vowed that the wild rose should
stay where it had clung--a passport, as it were, from the upper to the
underworld.
"The very excess and violence of the fault," he said, "will be its
excuse;" and, undoing a tangle in the tassel of his stick, stepped into
the shadowy corridor that ran into the bosom of the wan hill, stepped
with the admirable aplomb and unwrinkled suavity of Don John.