Tannhäuser und der Sängerkrieg auf der Wartburg
(An Opera in 3 Acts by Richard Wagner)
Synopsis & Commentary
Tannhäuser und der Sängerkrieg auf der Wartburg
The story of "Tannhäuser" is laid in and near the Wartburg, where, during the thirteenth century, the Landgraves of the Thuringian Valley held sway. They were lovers of arts, especially of poetry and music, and at the Wartburg many peaceful contests between the famous minnesingers (or minstrels) took place. Near this castle rises the Venusberg. According to tradition the interior of this mountain was inhabited by Holda, the Goddess of Spring, who, however, in time became identified with the Goddess of Love. Her court was filled with nymphs and sirens, and it was her greatest joy to entice into the mountain the knights of the Wartburg and hold them captive to her beauty.
Among those whom she has thus lured into the rosy recesses of the Venusberg is Tannhäuser.
In spite of her beauty, however, he is weary of her charms and longs for a glimpse of the world. He seems to have heard the tolling of bells and other earthly sounds, and these stimulate his yearning to be set free from the magic charms of the goddess.
In vain she prophesies evil to him should be return to the world. With the cry that his hope rests in the Virgin, he tears himself away from her. In one of the swiftest and most effective of scenic changes the court of Venus disappears and in a moment we see Tannhäuser prostrate before a cross in a valley upon which the Wartburg peacefully looks down. Pilgrims on their way to Rome pass him by and Tannhäuser thinks of joining them in order that at Rome he may obtain forgiveness for his crime in allowing himself to be enticed into the Venusberg. But at that moment the Landgraves and a number of minnesingers on their return from the chase come upon him and, recognizing him, endeavour to persuade him to return to the Wartburg with them. Their pleas, however, are vain, until one of them, Wolfram von Eschenbach, tells him that since he has left the Wartburg a great sadness has come over the niece of the Landgrave, Elizabeth. It is evident that Tannhäuser has been in love with her, and that it is because of her beauty an virtue that he regrets so deeply having been lured into the Venusberg. For Wolfram’s words stir him profoundly. To the great joy of all , he agrees to return to the Wartburg, the scene of his many triumphs as a minnesinger in the contests of song.
The Landgrave, feeling sure that tannhauser will win the prize at the contest of song soon to be held, offers the hand of his niece to the winner. The minnesingers sing tamely of the beauty of virtuous love, but Tannhäuser, suddenly remembering the seductive and magical beauties of the Venusberg, cannot control himself, and bursts out into a reckless hymn in praise of Venus. Horrified at his words, the knights draw their swords and would slay him, but Elizabeth throws herself between him and them. Crushed and penitent, Tannhäuser stands behind her, and the Landgrave, moved by her willingness to sacrifice herself for her sinful lover, announces that he will be allowed to join a second band of pilgrims who are going to Rome and to plead with the Pope for forgiveness.
Elizabeth prayerfully awaits his return; but, as she is kneeling by the crucifix in front of the Wartburg, the Pilgrims pass her by and in the band she does not see her lover. Slowly and sadly she returns to the castle to die. When the Pilgrims voices have died away, and Elizabeth has returned to the castle, leaving only Wolfram, who is also deeply enamoured of her, upon the scene, Tannhäuser appears, weary and dejected. He has sought to obtain forgiveness in vain. The Pope has cast him out forever, proclaiming that no more than that his staff can put forth leaves can he expect forgiveness. He has come back to re-enter the Venusberg. Wolfram seeks to restrain him, but it is not until he invokes the name of Elizabeth that Tannhäuser is saved. A cortege approaches, and, as tannhauser recognizes the form of Elizabeth on the bier, he sinks down on her coffin and dies. Just then the second band of pilgrims arrive, bearing Tannhäuser’s staff, which has put forth blossoms, thus showing that his sins have been forgiven.
From "The Flying Dutchman" to "Tannhäuser," dramatically and musically, is, if anything, a greater stride than from "Rienzi" to "The Flying Dutchman." In each of his successive works Wagner demonstrates greater and deeper powers as a dramatic poet and composer. True it is that in nearly every one of them woman appears as the redeeming angel of sinful man, but the circumstances differ so that this beautiful tribute always interests us anew.
The overture of the opera has long been a favorite piece on concert programs. Like that of "The Flying Dutchman" it is the story of the whole opera told in music. It certainly is one of the most brilliant and effective pieces of orchestral music and its popularity is easily understood. It opens with the melody of the Pilgrim’s chorus, beginning softly as if coming from a distance and gradually increasing in power until it is heard in all its grandeur. At this point it is joined by a violently agitated accompaniment on the violins. This passage evoked great criticism when it was first produced and for many years thereafter. It was thought to mar the beauty of the pilgrims’ chorus. But without doing so at all it conveys additional dramatic meaning, for these agitated phrases depict the restlessness of the world as compared with the grateful tranquility of religious faith as set forth in the melody of the Pilgrims’ chorus.
Having reached a climax, this chorus gradually dies away, and suddenly, and with intense dramatic contrast, we have all the seductive spells of the Venusberg displayed before us-that is, musically displayed; but then the music is so wonderfully vivid, it depicts with such marvelous clearness the many-coloured alluring scene at the court of the unholy goddess, it gives vent so freely to the sinful excitement which pervades the Venusberg, that we actually seem to see what we hear. This passes over in turn to the impassioned burst of song in which tannhauser hymns Venus’s praise, and immediately after we have the boisterous and vigorous music which accompanies the threatening action of the Landgrave and minnesingers when they draw their swords upon Tannhäuser in order to take vengeance upon him for his crimes. Upon these three episodes of the drama, which so characteristically give insight into its plot and action, the overture is based, and it very naturally concludes with the Pilgrims’ chorus which seems to voice the final forgiveness of Tannhäuser.
The curtain rises, disclosing all the seductive spells of the Venusberg. Tannhäuser lies in the arms of Venus, who reclines upon a flowery couch. Nymphs, sirens, and satyrs are dancing about them and in the distance are grottoes alive with amorous figures. Various mythological amours, such as that of Leda and the swan, are supposed to be in progress, but fortunately at a mitigating distance.
Much of the music familiar from the overture is heard during this scene, but it gains in effect from the distant voices of the sirens and, of course, from artistic scenery and grouping and well-executed dances of the denizens of Venus court. Very dramatic, too, is the scene between Venus and Tannhäuser, when the latter sings his hymn in her praise, but at the same time proclaims that he desires to return to the world. In alluring strains she endeavours to tempt him to remain with her, but when she discovers that he is bound upon going, she vehemently warns him of the misfortunes which await him upon earth and prophesies that he will some day return to her and penitently ask to be taken back into her realm.
Dramatic and effective as this scene is in the original score, it has gained immensely in power by the additions which Wagner made for the production of the work in Paris, in 1861. The overture does not, in this version, come to a format close, but after the manner of Wagner’s later works, the transition is made directly from it to the scene of the Venusberg. The dances have been elaborated and laid out upon a more careful allegorical basis and the music of Venus has been greatly strengthened from a dramatic point of view, so that now the scene in which she pleads with him to remain and afterwards warns him against the sorrows to which he will be exposed, are among the finest of Wagner’s composition, rivalling in dramatic power the ripest work in his music-dramas.
Wagner’s knowledge of the stage is shown in the wonderfully dramatic effect in the change of scene from the Venusberg to the landscape in the valley of the Wartburg. One moment we have the variegated allures of the court of the Goddess of Love, with its dancing nymphs, sirens, and satyrs, its beautiful grottoes and groups; the next all this has disappeared and from the heated atmosphere of Venus’s unholy rites we are suddenly transported to a peaceful scene whose influence upon us is deepened by the crucifix in the foreground, before which Tannhäuser kneels in penitence. The peacefulness of the scene is further enhanced by the appearance upon a rocky eminence to the left of a young Shepherd who pipes a pastoral strain, while in the background are heard the tinkling of bells, as though his sheep were there grazing upon more upland meadow. Before he has finished piping his lay the voices of the Pilgrims are heard in the distance, their solemn measures being interrupted by little phrases piped by the Shepherd. As the Pilgrims approach, the chorus becomes louder, and as they pass over the stage and bow before the crucifix, their praise swells into an eloquent psalm of devotion.
Tannhäuser is deeply affected and gives way to his feelings in a lament, against which are heard the voices of the Pilgirms as they recede in the distance. This whole scene is one of marvelous beauty, the contrast between it and the preceding episode being enhanced by the religiously tranquil nature of what transpires and of the accompanying music. Upon this peaceful scene the notes of hunting-horns now break in, and gradually the Landgrave and his hunters gather about Tannhäuser. Wolfram recognizes him and tells the others who he is. They greet him in an expressive septette, and Wolfram, finding he is bent upon following the Pilgrims to Rome, asks permission of the Landgrave to inform him of the impression which he seems to have made upon Elizabeth. This he does in a melodious solo, and Tannhäuser, overcome by his love for Elizabeth, consents to return to the halls which have missed him so long. Exclamations of joy greet his decision, and the act closes with a enthusiastic ensemble, which is a glorious piece of concerted music, and never fails of brilliant effect when it is well executed, especially if the representative of Tannhäuser has a voice that can soar above the others, which, unfortunately, is not always the case. The accompanying scenic grouping should also be in keeping with the composer’s instructions. The Landgrave’s suite should gradually arrive, bearing the game which has been slain, and horses and hunting-hounds should be led on the stage. Finally, the Landgrave and minnesingers mount their steeds and ride away toward the castle.
The scene of the second is laid in the singer’s hall of the Wartburg. The introduction depicts Elizabeth’s joy at Tannhäuser’s return, and when the curtain rises she at once enters and joyfully greets the scenes of Tannhäuser’s former triumphs in broadly dramatic melodious phrases. Wolfram then appears, conducting Tannhäuser to her. Elizabeth seems overjoyed to see him, but then checks herself, and her maidenly modesty, which veils her transport at meeting him, again finds expression in a number of hesitating but exceedingly beautiful phrases. She asks Tannhäuser where he has been, but he, of course, gives misleading answers. Finally, however, he tells her she is the one who has attracted him back to the castle. Their love finds expression in a swift and rapidly flowing dramatic duet, which unfortunately is rarely given in its entirely, although as a glorious outburst of emotional music it certainly deserves to be heard in the exact form and length in which the composer wrote it.
There is then a scene of much tender feeling between the Landgrave and Elizabeth, in which the former tells her that he will offer her hand as prize to the singer whom she shall crown as winner. The first strains of the grand march are the heard. This is one of Wagner’s most brilliant and effective orchestral and vocal pieces. Though in perfect march rhythm, it is not intended that the guests who assembled at the Wartburg shall enter like a company of soldiers. On the contrary, they arrive in irregular detachments, stride across the floor, and make their obeisance in a perfectly natural manner. After an address by the Landgrave, which can hardly be called remarkably interesting, the singers draw lots to decide who among them shall begin. This prize singing is, unfortunately, not so great in musical value as the rest of the score, and, unless a person understands the words, it is decidedly long drawn out. What, however, redeems it is a gradually growing dramatic excitement as Tannhäuser voices his contempt for what seem to him the tame tributes paid to love by the minnesingers, an excitement which reaches its climax when, no longer able to restrain himself, he burst forth into his hymn in praise of the unholy charms of Venus.
The women cry out in horror and rush from the hall as if the very atmosphere were tainted by his presence, and the men, drawing their swords, rush upon him. This brings us to the great dramatic moment, when, with a shriek, Elizabeth, in spite of his betrayal of her love, throws herself protectingly before him, and thus appears a second time as his saving angel. In short and excited phrases the men pour forth their wrath at Tannhäuser‘s crime in having sojourned with Venus, and he, realizing its enormity, seems crushed with a consciousness of his guilt. Of wondrous beauty is the septette, "An angel has from heaven descended," which rises to a magnificent climax and is one of the finest pieces of dramatic writing in Wagner’s scores, although often execrably sung and rarely receiving complete justice. The voices of young Pilgrims are heard in the valley. The Landgrave then announces the conditions upon which Tannhäuser can again obtain forgiveness, and Tannhäuser joins the pilgrims on their way to Rome.
The third act displays once more the valley of the Wartburg, the same scene as that to which the Venusberg changed in the first act. Elizabeth, arrayed in white, is kneeling, in deep prayer, before the crucifix. At one side, and watching her tenderly, stands Wolfram. After a sad recitative from Wolfram, the chorus of returning Pilgrims is heard in the distance. They sing the melody heard in the overture and in the first act; and the same effect of gradual approach is produced by a superb crescendo as they reach and cross the scene. With almost piteous anxiety and grief Elizabeth scans them closely as they go by, to see if Tannhäuser be among them, and when the last one has passed and she realizes that he has not returned, she sinks again upon her knees before the crucifix and sings the prayer, "Almighty Virgin, hear my sorrow," music in which there is most beautifully combined the expression of poignant grief with trust in the will of the Almighty. As she rises and turns toward the castle, Wolfram, by his gesture, seems to ask her if he cannot accompany her, but she declines his offer and slowly goes her way up the mountain.
Meanwhile night has fallen upon the scene and the evening star glows softly above the castle. It is then that Wolfram, accompanying himself on his lyre, intones the wondrously tender and beautiful "Song to the Evening Star," confessing therein his love for the saintly Elizabeth.
Then Tannhäuser, dejected, footsore, and weary, appears and in broken accents asks Wolfram to show him the way back to the Venusberg. Wolfram bids him stay his steps and persuades him to tell him the story of his pilgrimage. In fierce, dramatic accents, Tannhäuser relates all that he has suffered on his way to Rome and the terrible judgment pronounced upon him by the Pope. This is a highly impressive episode, clearly foreshadowing Wagner’s dramatic use of musical recitative in his later music-dramas. Only a singer of the highest rank can do justice to it.
Tannhäuser proclaims that, having lost all chance of salvation, he will once more give himself up to the delights of the Venusberg. A roseate light illumines the recesses of the mountain and the unholy company of the Venusberg again is seen, Venus stretching out her arms for Tannhäuser, to welcome him. But at last, when Tannhäuser seems unable to resist Venus’ enticing voice any longer, Wolfram conjures him by the memory of the sainted Elizabeth. Then Venus knows that all is lost. The light dies away and the magic charms of the Venusberg disappear. Amid tolling of bells and mournful voices a funeral procession comes down the mountain. Recognizing the features of Elizabeth, the dying Tannhäuser falls upon her corpse. The younger pilgrims arrive with the staff, which has again put forth leaves, and amid the hallelujahs of the pilgrims the opera closes.
Besides the character of Elizabeth that of Wolfram stands out for its tender, manly beauty. In love with Elizabeth, he is yet the means of bringing back her lover to her, and in the end saves that lover from perdition, so that they may be united in death.
During the rule of the Hohenstaufen emperors, the art of the minnesingers flourished. The knight Tannhäuser travels as a singer from castle to castle and sings his songs in praise of female beauty and chaste love, the clash of weapons and the disputes of men. Beautiful women and noble gentlemen love his songs, but Tannhäuser has a general reputation for wayward living. On his travels he arrives at the Wartburg, the castle belonging to the landgrave Hermann in Thuringia, where knightly singers compete for the prize which is presented to the winner by Elisabeth, the landgrave's charming niece. The inhabitants of the castle listen entranced to Tannhäuser's singing. When he sings of courtly, true love, the beautiful Elisabeth believes he is praising her alone. She is right: the singer has fallen in love with her, but this also plunges him into deep despair: Tannhäuser knows that as a poor knight he could never marry the niece of the landgrave.
When the next singers' contest takes place, the most famous singers of the day come from far and wide to compete for the prize – among them Walther von der Vogelweide, Reimar Zweter and Heinrich von Ofterdingen. However, as the guests are summoned to the banquet, the company waits in vain in the dining hall for the singer Tannhäuser, who has left without a word and is wandering lovesick through the forests of Thuringia. Suddenly a black-clad stranger, Klingsor, stands before him. Tannhäuser tells him why he is suffering, and Klingsor replies, "She is not for you, Tannhäuser. Your heart requires finer fare and more sensual pleasure. The beautiful Elisabeth, they say, is already a living saint". But Tannhäuser replies that he wants to sing songs of courtly love and not cheerful, boisterous melodies. Tannhäuser is shocked by Klingsor's scornful laughter. Suddenly the mountain opens before his eyes. A bright light streams from within and girlish forms of unearthly beauty call to the knight and entice him with enchanting voices. Klingsor has vanished, and in his place is an aged pilgrim, the faithful Ekkehard. He warns Tannhäuser of the grotto. The mountain is the Hörselberg, which houses the realm of the infernal goddess Venus. Tannhäuser tries to heed the warnings, but is overcome by the enticing apparitions. He has also forgotten his love for the beautiful Elisabeth. An irresistible force draws him into the realm of the goddess, who receives him with open arms on a fragrant couch strewn with roses.
Elisabeth longs for her beloved singer, who has vanished without a trace. The landgrave summons the most famous singers in Germany for the contest, and hopes that Tannhäuser will also appear at the Wartburg. For a year Tannhäuser enjoys the pleasures of the realm of Venus, but finds no peace there. All he feels is aversion and disgust. His heart is full of regret for what he has done. He does not want to stay any longer in the enchanted mountain. Venus does not want her lover to go and finally makes him promise "to return to me, if you find no salvation from your sins!" Then she puts him into a deep sleep. When Tannhäuser awakes, he is lying on the ground in the forest. He tries to atone for his sins, but is condemned by church and monastery alike. By chance he finds his way to the Wartburg for the singers' contest. No-one yet knows what has happened to the gifted minnesinger in the meantime.
When it is Tannhäuser's turn, he is suddenly overcome with memories of his experiences in Venus' enchanted mountain. Instead of singing of spiritual love, he sings of the merits of sensual love, which seeks only bliss and instinctive pleasure. He boldly accuses the minnesingers of being "poverty-stricken, with your virtuous words, for you have never experienced love! If you want to know what it is really like, go to the mountain of Venus!" The landgrave is only just able to calm down the enraged audience. Elisabeth pleads for Tannhäuser's life. He goes as a poor pilgrim to Rome, but is condemned by the Pope. "Anyone who has erred like you is damned to all eternity", says the Holy Father, harsh and unbending. "See this crook, which I carry. This dead wood will sprout leaves before you are saved from your sins".
With these words the Pope drives his crook into the earth of his garden. Bereft of all hope, Tannhäuser departs. Three days later, the Holy Father sees that the dead stick is covered with shoots and budding leaves. A miracle has happened: God has shown that he forgives the repentant sinner. In vain the Pope's servants search for the pilgrim. Tannhäuser drags himself in his despair over the snow-covered passes of the Alps in the direction of home. Full of feverish longing, he steers his steps towards the Hörselberg, where Venus once received him in love. The search for Tannhäuser is in vain. Peasants in the fields below the Wartburg may have seen a pilgrim hastening past. But nothing more is ever heard of the unhappy Tannhäuser.
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Admired by Queen Victoria, Oscar Wilde and Freud, Tannhäuser contains one of the most extreme depictions of sex attempted in music. Tim Ashley on Wagner's most controversial opera.
Tannhäuser in the kingdom of the goddess Venus, by Henri Fantin-Latour.
In
chapter 11 of The Picture of Dorian
Gray, Oscar Wilde's hero goes to
the opera. As transgression
and excess begin to rot that famous portrait, the piece to which he becomes
obsessively drawn is Wagner'sTannhäuser,
the only named musical work in a passage widely viewed as a catalogue of the
trappings of decadence. Wilde describes the "rapt pleasure" Dorian
takes in "seeing in the prelude to that great work of art a presentation
of the tragedy of his own soul".
Dorian
was by no means alone, for it was in Tannhäuser, more than any of Wagner's
other operas, that many in the late 19th century found a reflection of their
moral and sexual concerns. Its admirers included Queen Victoria, Baudelaire and
Freud. It inspired major works both of literature and pornography, and was
interpreted as everything from a justification of normative values to a fierce
celebration of counterculture extremes. It appealed above all to those who were
– or felt – outlawed by their sexuality.
The
opera's starting point is the dichotomy between flesh and spirit, as refracted
through a variation on the medieval legend of the troubadour Tannhäuser, who
strayed into the Venusberg, or kingdom of the goddess Venus, whose lover he
became. Sexual satiety provoked his return to the world of men, where shame
impelled him to seek salvation by undertaking a self-mortifying journey to Rome
Wagner,
the self-styled musical redeemer par excellence, made drastic changes to this
tale in order to affect his hero's salvation. On entering the Venusberg,
Wagner's Tannhäuser abandons his relationship with the virginal Elisabeth,
niece of the Landgrave of Thuringia, who loves both him and his music. Back in
the world of mortals, he is asked at a singing contest to improvise a song on
the nature of love. But he breaks into an explicit hymn to Venus, which exposes
both his erotic secrets and a world of extreme sexual experience beyond the
comprehension of prudish Thuringian society.
Elisabeth,
refusing to accept his social ostracism, demands he be offered the potential
for salvation, and in his absence also begs the Virgin Mary to take her from
this earth to intercede directly with God on his behalf should he fail. Her
prayer is granted. Tannhäuser, once more seeking Venus, is held back from the
Venusberg by mention of Elisabeth's name, and dies as news of the miracle in Rome
Wagner
was never satisfied with the score of Tannhäuser, which has the most complex
editorial history of all his operas. There are two major versions: the first
more or less gives us the piece as it was heard at its Dresden premiere in
1845; the second, the so-called Paris version, presents us with the revision
that Wagner prepared for the first performance in France, which was planned as
part of his attempt to conquer the French capital in 1860/61.
Both
scores follow the same narrative outline and derive their dramatic power and
unity from an underlying vision of sexuality and spirituality as antithetical
yet mutually dependent. In the opera's world, the idea of spirit cannot exist
without the idea of flesh, and the lofty moral implications of the redemption
of Tannhäuser's soul are balanced by one of the most extreme depictions of sex
attempted in music.
Within
these polarities, Elisabeth is neither naïve or girlish, as some have supposed.
Virginity endows her with powers of self-determination strong enough to take on
a gang of armed men on Tannhäuser's behalf. Sainthood embodies tremendous
fixity of will, in contrast to the promiscuous desires of the Venusberg, which
bring in their wake the allure of the profane, linguistically as well as
musically. Decorum dictates that the word "Venusberg" is left in its
original German in English-language discussions of the opera. But it translates
out of the Latin mons veneris and into English as
"mountain" or "hill of Venus". Wagner reportedly became
embarrassed when anyone pointed out the opera's erotic nomenclature. But he
knew what he was doing, and the libretto is full of puns about being
"in" or "penetrating" the hill of Venus that were not lost
on its first admirers.
Both
versions of the score bring the sacred and the profane into disturbing
proximity, however, by allowing flesh and spirit to speak the same thematic
language. The strings' first entry consists of a rhythmic octave leap followed
by four descending chromatic notes. The phrase is later associated with
pilgrims singing of "the burden of sin", but in the Venusberg its
component parts, now sundered, are also identified with the limitless
expression of desire. The leap, prefaced by bounding woodwind, juts
impertinently upwards, while the chromatic descent, thanks to the addition of
an extra note, has mutated into a yielding moan.
Yet
the two versions also have notable differences. For the revision Wagner
shortened the second act, set entirely in Thuringia , but lengthened the
opening scene between Venus and Tannhäuser, prefacing it with an extended
orchestral sequence, originally intended for dance, and now commonly known as
the Venusberg Music. In the interim, Wagner had completed the score of Tristan und
Isolde. The Venusberg Music, more explicit than anything in Tristan,
was composed using the latter's revolutionary and often overwhelming chromatic
language. Savage and libidinal, it is the most extreme passage in Wagner's output.
The
Paris III 's court, though
Wagner's decision to place the obligatory ballet in the opening scene also
offended the influential Jockey Club, whose members were in the habit of
arriving at the interval to see their mistresses dance before going backstage
for sex. By the third night, dog whistles could be bought in the streets
outside the Opéra for the express purpose of interrupting the performance.
Wagner withdrew the score, and wanted nothing to do with Paris
Yet
there were some in the audience who were prepared to listen, and chief among
them was Baudelaire. Given his understanding of the erratic intensity of male
sexuality and his belief that antithetical impulses towards salvation and
damnation were integral to the human psyche, it was inevitable that he would
view Tannhäuser as a work of archetypal imaginative
importance. When he first heard the overture in concert in 1860, he was
"ravished and flooded" by it, as he told the composer in an appreciatory
letter. Appalled by the response to this premiere, he went into print, partway
through the opening run, with the epoch-making essay "Richard
Wagner et Tannhäuser à Paris
It
is with Baudelaire that Tannhäuser begins its process of
decadent assimilation. Decadence depends on a self-conscious blurring of
conventional moral absolutes. Though Baudelaire does not unbalance the opera's
metaphysical polarities, his astonishing descriptions of the music reveal a
transgressive inclination towards Venus rather than God. The Venusberg Music
depicts "frenzied love, immense, chaotic, elevated to the level of a
counter-religion". As in his poetry, desire is heightened by thoughts of
criminality, "as if barbarity always has to have its place in the drama of
love, and sensual enjoyment has to lead, by a satanic logic, to the delights of
crime".
Algernon
Charles Swinburne, Baudelaire's British admirer, took this imagery one step
further. Tannhäuser had to wait until 1876 for its London Dresden
The
impact of transgression on the soul is the principal theme of The Picture
of Dorian Gray. Wilde knew his Swinburne as well as the French
decadents who followed in Baudelaire's wake. Among them was Joris-Karl
Huysmans, whose novel A Rebours is almost invariably
identified as the "poisonous" book that sets Dorian's quest for
heightened experience in motion. A Rebours makes no mention of
Wagner's opera, though Huysmans also wrote a florid prose-poem entitled
"Ouverture de Tannhäuser", which is weary with images of
"rearing haunches and swelling breasts, throbbing and distended".
Yet
for all the work's associations with decadence, Wilde's views onTannhäuser were often expressed in
terms of personal sadness. The opera spoke, he wrote in 1890, "of myself
it may be, and my own life, or the lives of others whom one has loved and grown
weary of loving". "Like the Dorian music of the Greeks," he
adds, glancing at his hero's name, "it may perform the office of a
physician and give us an anodyne against pain and heal the spirit that is
wounded." After his trial, the idea of redemption, as well as desire, was
on his mind. In "The Ballad of Reading Gaol", the image of the
flowering staff resurfaces, in the hope that, as a sign of salvation, it will
bring "Christ's will to light". As in the opera, thoughts of
salvation balanced those of sex.