The road to Rome was rough and thorny, beset with hardship, fraught with
suffering. But Tannhaeuser, full of new-found hope, wholly repentant,
longing for pardon, pushed eagerly onward. No pilgrim was of humbler
mien, nor was any of more contrite spirit. The thought of Elizabeth's
devotion and her prayers dispelled all his former pride of sin, and made
the hardships of the journey seem all too light for his remorseful soul.
When other pilgrims sought smooth pathways through meadow and valley, he
trod unshod amid rocks and thorns. When they refreshed their lips at
cool mountain springs, he continued hungry and thirsty on his way. Snow
and ice did not daunt him, nor the scorching rays of the sun, nor the
tempest's roar. He gave of his life blood freely and faltered not. The
other pilgrims found shelter and rest in hospices high up among the
mountains. He made his bed in the drifting snow, the ice, the cold. Lest
the beauty of Italy delight his eyes, he went blindfolded over its
vine-clad hills, through its blooming meadows. For his heart burned with
penitence, and his soul ached for pardon.
Thus the weeks lengthened into months, and a long year went by. At last
the chime of bells was heard in the distance; the white towers of Rome
were outlined against the blue Italian sky.
Weary and footsore, the pilgrims crept one by one to the holy shrine,
and, one by one, each was told that his sins would be forgiven and was
bidden to go rejoicing on his way and sin no more.
Finally Tannhaeuser's time came. With a cry of relief he prostrated
himself before the throne and confessed his awful sin, his wasted years,
his deep repentance. He had dwelt in an unholy place, he had been the
slave of sinful pleasure, he had blasphemed his God,--but awakening had
come at last. Was there pardon for such as he?
The first solemn words of answer with their accents of horror brought
Tannhaeuser to his feet in terror. As in a dream he listened. No. There
could be no pardon for such a sin. He was pronounced accursed
forevermore.
The judgment continued:
"As this barren staff I hold
Ne'er will put forth a flower or a leaf
Thus shalt thou never more behold
Salvation or thy sins relief."
Tannhaeuser heard no more. Hopeless and despairing, he staggered wildly
from the room and away into the darkness. What mattered it which way he
wandered--now, since he was an outcast and accursed forever? Ah, to find
a path that would lead to forgetfulness!
The pilgrims had already gone on their way homeward to Thuringia. From
out of the distance, their joyous song of praise fell upon the air.
Tannhaeuser took up his staff and followed in their wake, hopeless and
alone.
Meanwhile throughout the long year the Princess Elizabeth had waited and
prayed day after day. And Sir Wolfram, watching her devotion from afar,
had grieved to see her body become weak with pain, and her face white
and drawn with sorrow and suffering.
At last there came a day when, kneeling at her shrine on the forest
path, the sound of the pilgrims' return broke in upon her prayers.
"They have come back!" she whispered as she rose to her feet.
The song, the steady tramp of feet, grew louder and louder. On and on
came the pilgrims. And, singing of God's goodness and His divine grace,
they passed Elizabeth and Wolfram, one by one. But he for whom she had
prayed was not among them. He had not returned. He had not been
forgiven. Her prayers had been in vain. All her strength was gone. With
a last look at the valley lying peaceful, in the glow of early eventide,
and with a farewell glance at Sir Wolfram, she passed wearily upward
toward the castle.
Night fell. The sky grew dark with clouds save where, over the Wartburg,
a single star hung. Suddenly, through the gloom, a dejected and footsore
wanderer made his way. It was Tannhaeuser.
As his eyes fell upon the familiar scene, and upon Sir Wolfram, in
knightly array, all his misery rushed upon him anew. Oh, if he could but
find the path that led to forgetfulness, the path of pleasure, the path
to Venus! In the days of his care-free youth, it had been but a step,
but now, laden with sin, weighted with the knowledge of evil, bowed with
repentance and suffering, his feet would not lead him there. With a loud
cry he stretched forth his arms and called,--
"Venus, goddess, do you hear my call?"
Suddenly the roseate light, the same alluring sounds of music, the same
sweet odors, enthralled him again. Venus, reclining upon her couch,
appeared amid the rosy clouds.
"Take me!" cried Tannhaeuser, rushing forward to throw himself beside
her.
At that moment, the slow and solemn chant of a funeral dirge sounded
from afar. Tannhaeuser started. His arms fell by his side. He turned his
head. Down the path from the Wartburg, the Knights were bearing a bier.
Lighted torches were at the head, the foot. A bell was tolling. Voices
were singing in praise of Elizabeth, the beautiful Princess, who had
gone to join the angel band, the fairest angel of all the host.
"Ah! Elizabeth!" exclaimed Tannhaeuser. With a despairing cry, he
staggered toward the bier. Ah, yes, it was she, she who had prayed for
him, she who had loved him more than he knew. Better death beside her
than life in sin! Bending over Elizabeth's body, he sank slowly to the
ground, and God took him home.
For it is said that not long afterward the barren staff of the head of
the church blossomed and put forth leaves of green. And thus the Lord in
His mercy forgave Tannhaeuser, the sinner, and entered him into the
Kingdom of Heaven.
Printed in the United States of America.
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Transcriber's note:
In the Table of Contents, Page 155 has been changed to the correct
page, 156.
Inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation have been retained from
the original.