Tannhäuser and the Venusberg: The Pilgrim's Staff That Bloomed Too Late
Somewhere in the hills of Thuringia—tradition fixed it at last upon the Hörselberg, a bare whale-back of limestone east of Eisenach from whose caves a strange roaring was said to issue—there is a mountain with a court inside it. Not a court of dwarfs or dead emperors, as German mountains usually keep, but something far more dangerous: the exiled goddess of love herself, holding eternal session in the warm dark. When the old gods fell, the medieval imagination did not believe they had died; it believed they had moved indoors . Venus, evicted from her temples, took the freehold of a hollow hill, and there, among music and unaging pleasures, she received the occasional mortal guest. The most famous of them was a knight and singer whose name the ballads give as Tannhäuser —a historical minnesinger of the thirteenth century, a real poet of wandering life and confessed appetites—and his legend, brief as a ballad and deep as a well, turns on three things: a mountain you may enter, a pardon y...