in what mysterious lands he has
sojourned during his long absence. The theme is, What is love, and how
do we recognize it? The prize will be given by the Princess, and it
shall be anything the successful singer chooses--that is, it shall be
the Princess. Wolfram stands up first and praises a mild platonic
attachment as being true love, and his sentiments win much applause.
Tannhaeuser sings passionately of the joys of burning fleshly desire,
though as yet his language is a little veiled. The audience, who are
the judges, make no sign; Elisabeth alone shows that in her heart she
goes with Tannhaeuser and not with Wolfram. Walther, in turn, tells
Tannhaeuser that he knows nothing of sincere love; Tannhaeuser grows
angry, and scoffingly tells him that if he wants cold perfection he
had better worship the stars; but he, Tannhaeuser, wants warm, living
flesh and blood and healthy desires in the woman he loves. Biterolf
calls Tannhaeuser a shameless blasphemer, and challenges him to combat;
Tannhaeuser replies bitterly; the surrounding nobles want to silence
him; his anger becomes rage, and his rage madness; Wolfram tries to
calm every one, but Tannhaeuser is now too far gone, and in "wildest
exaltation" he chants the hymn he sang to Venus in the first act.
"Only in the Venusberg can one experience the joys of true love," he
shouts; the ladies rush out in terror, leaving only Elisabeth; the men
attack Tannhaeuser. He would be killed, but Elisabeth suddenly
interposes--all stand aghast at the bare notion of her interceding for
so shameless a wretch; but in the end she gets her way. "Who would not
yield who heard the heavenly maid?" they sing; during a momentary
stillness the voices of young pilgrims following the elder to Rome are
heard; Tannhaeuser is pardoned on condition of joining them and
confessing to the pope and gaining his forgiveness; and, being a man
of uncontrollable passions, with fits of abject depression as low as
his ecstatic flights are high, he humbly acquiesces. The curtain comes
down in the second act as he goes off.

The third act is, I say, quite illogical unless one accepts as a
truism, as Wagner accepted it, the patent absurdity that by
sacrificing him-or herself one being can save the soul of another
being. But Wagner was not a German of the Romantic epoch for nothing.
He believed the absurdity with a fervour now laughable, and was
especially enthusiastic when the sacrificed person was a woman: woman,