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‘The bluebells are growing well,’ Heinrich notes, peering out of a window of his cottage.
The sunshine appears like a halo over the head of his partner Maria, who smiles radiantly, accentuating her vernal beauty. ‘I hope Elisabeth will like them,’ she responds.
Maria totes the baskets full of items she has readied for the town fair and kisses Heinrich full on the lips before taking leave, ‘See you in the afternoon.’
Following Maria’s departure, Heinrich sits at his desk and transcribes Walther’s Under der linden from memory to the best of his ability. He could probably seek a copy of the original score from a town musician, but it is easier for all this way.
The joyful peal of the Terce bells interrupts him, apprising him of the expected arrival of his apprentice Friedrich—just as well, for he finds himself short of one sheet of parchment. Indeed, after a knock on the door, Friedrich enters wearing a tense expression and carrying, in addition to his harp, a covered basket.
Perceiving Friedrich’s disquiet, Heinrich shoots him a look inviting him to share his troubles, but Friedrich declines and indicates that he would like to defer them to the end of the lesson. Heinrich teaches Friedrich how to improve his subject matter, rhyme, melody and singing, impressed that Friedrich’s concentration has not been disrupted by his mood.
After the lesson, Friedrich begins, ‘I seek your counsel regarding Mathilde.’ He is interrupted by a door knock—it is Hartmann, a fellow apprentice to Heinrich, there for his lesson. ‘Come in,’ Friedrich invites. ‘Your recommendation regarding Mathilde would be welcome too, in addition to Master Heinrich’s.’
‘Master Heinrich’s’. Heinrich was a knight; now he is a Master.
‘I have loved Mathilde since childhood, but I wonder if we are suited to each other,’ Friedrich expounds.
Heinrich hears out Friedrich’s concerns heedfully, then asks, ‘I know Mathilde loves you too. Would you regret it all your life were you to appreciate later that Mathilde is more essential to you than you presently deem?’
After protracted deliberation, Friedrich answers, ‘Yes.’
‘Then I advise you to marry her. If worst comes to worst, Mathilde’s family dotes on her and would willingly let her return,’ Heinrich opines. He surmises the contents of the covered basket.
Friedrich nods and reaches for the basket, only for Hartmann to extend a hand over it, signalling him to delay opening it.
‘You sing praise of the goddess of love alone, never of Elisabeth nor Maria,’ Hartmann observes. ‘Not of Elisabeth—we understand the circumstances. We know that you do not look down upon Maria, and you know that neither do we, otherwise we would not be your apprentices. Why then do you not laud Maria either, not even privately, among us?’
Heinrich first encountered Maria a year into his marriage with Elisabeth after receiving pardon in Rome, as a fallen woman in a village near the Hörselberg. She came to him dressed in the manner of the oldest profession as he paced barefoot upon thorn and stone back and forth near her abode under the scorching glow of the sun, bearing a cup of water, and said, ‘Even the heaviest-laden pilgrim is allowed refreshment.’ She introduced herself, entirely cognisant of the irony of her name, and he described his marital life to her: how Elisabeth was willing but psychologically unable to gratify his desires sufficiently as a result of her restrictive upbringing.
‘You believe that both you and Elisabeth would be better off were you able to satiate your burning thirst in another’s embrace but once, so that she need no longer suffer the pressure to satisfy you,’ Maria summarised serenely. After she medicined and bandaged his feet and he revelled in union with her, she bade him compassionately, ‘I hope to see you never again, Heinrich.’
Heinrich bathed thoroughly before returning to the Wartburg. It was obscure whether Elisabeth suspected his adultery, but it was apparent that she was more lighthearted, and he was certain that nobody else did.
He sought Maria again four years later. In hindsight, it was—unbeknownst to them at the time—the beginning of Elisabeth’s terminal illness. He asked Maria how she had fallen into her profession.
‘My deceased father pawned me to settle his gambling debts,’ Maria narrated. ‘There are such people in the world, who think nothing of forcing a lass into whoredom, but will keep their word. I begged my debtor to let me be a servant, even if for umpteen more years, and let me keep my maidenhood, but he threw back my father’s words at me: “Let her be a harlot for three years, then have her freedom!” When I was taken here, the servants exhorted me not to try to flee: my debtor never retains anyone beyond their term unwillingly, but he always succeeds in catching runaways and extends their term by a year for each attempt at flight. I ventured to escape twice, then gave up.’
Heinrich met Maria for the third time after Elisabeth’s passing a year thereafter, as a free woman, face unpainted and dressed modestly, in the heart of Eisenach. He enquired where in town she had settled and offered his protection should her new neighbours learn of her former profession and harass her about it.
He suspected that she would not take him up on his proffer and called on her unannounced shortly after, in the nick of time to defend her from browbeaters. The consternation precipitated in the Wartburg by the news of Heinrich’s association with a former strumpet was the talk of the town, but it did not deter him from defending Maria repeatedly. One day, weary of the furtive derision and disdain directed at him in the Wartburg, he entreated her to let him not have to return to the Wartburg for the night, conscious that he was being unfair to her.
‘It will worsen your ignominy,’ Maria admonished.
‘Let me find peace and repose,’ he besought.
‘On the floor,’ she ultimately relented.
He grinned. ‘Naturally.’
The following time Heinrich requested to sleep on Maria’s floor, she allowed him to rest on the bed. Subsequently, he moved from the Wartburg to Maria’s cottage. The townsfolk knew not what to make of a knight who had been pardoned for sojourning in the Venusberg cohabiting with a former whore and shrewdly made nothing of it, while the inhabitants of the Wartburg questioned Pope Urban IV’s clemency, degraded Heinrich’s knighthood and declared him condemned and banished from the Wartburg.
Wolfram, bless him, requested as a boon that Heinrich be permitted to pay his respects at Elisabeth’s grave on the anniversaries of her birth and death, as—to others’ knowledge—he was faithful to her during marriage. Biannually, Heinrich bribes the graveyard groundskeeper to let Maria in. The groundskeeper told him, ‘I let her in also because the blue flowers you two plant each year bloom most beautifully of all on holy Elisabeth’s grave.’ Blue flowers had been Elisabeth’s favourite.
He never proposed marriage to Maria, for on the verge of popping the question, she incidentally gazed at a neighbouring church and reflected, ‘They’d never let me in,’—then roguishly—‘nor you.’ Thus he considers them wedded by the church bullfinch, with the blue sky as their cathedral, studded with golden stars as far as one could gaze, to the gentle song of the nightingale, with two clattering storks as witnesses[1].
Heinrich does not understand how there are lads—and even a junchêrre, Friedrich von Stolzing—courageous enough to wish to be his apprentices, even if clandestinely, mindful that they will never be able to publicly acknowledge him as their Master, especially if they are serious about becoming a Minnesänger.
‘I promised the goddess of love to be her bold champion alone,’ Heinrich elucidates to Hartmann and Friedrich. ‘A person should keep his promises. Elisabeth did not know of it, but she bore no resentment. Maria knows, and she does not begrudge it.’
With a look of admiration at Heinrich’s answer, Friedrich opens the basket to reveal fish and honey—expensive food. ‘If I marry Mathilde, I fear I can no longer come for lessons. These are in gratitude for your munificence as a Master,’ Friedrich explains. He directs a nod at Hartmann to thank him for voicing the question that has perplexed all of Heinrich’s apprentices, especially as he was no longer in a position to pose it.
‘The herbs Maria took to preclude pregnancy during her period of servitude may have affected her fertility permanently. My songs that you sing are my children, and your songs will be my grandchildren,’ Heinrich contemplates. It is queer consolation, but seems to comfort Friedrich.
After Hartmann’s lesson, Heinrich savours the meadow’s freshly green blades of grass and the woodland breezes while strolling to the parchminer’s. Having purchased a supply of parchment, he enquires at the stationer’s about the latest books of Wolfram’s Parzival, only to be informed that the peciae are not yet ready. Once upon a time he himself might have acted as Wolfram’s personal scribe, but those days are long gone.
Approaching his cottage, he discerns a familiar footstep. In the relative seclusion of his garden, he states, ‘You can appear before me.’
‘I do not wish to dishonour you.’ A dulcet female voice caresses Heinrich’s ears.
‘That was the pride of an arrogant being who has since learnt humility. To see you will do no harm,’ Heinrich responds humbly.
‘Notwithstanding, I would not have you contravene your previous words. Lean back against the tree trunk, whereas I shall recline on its opposite side, so that you will not see me,’ the voice offers.
‘Which mortal has since had the fortune of sharing the divine glow in your embrace, goddess?’ Heinrich enquires candidly after seating himself according to Venus’ instructions.
Venus chuckles ironically. ‘I came to hear the proud song that has been silent around me for so long.’ Observing Heinrich’s silence, she continues, ‘Hitherto, there has been only one other protracted spell when I could not find a hero worth my favour.’
Heinrich is alert that Venus is confiding to him part of her history to which he had not been privy even when he held her locked in passionate embrace in the Venusberg.
‘That hero after whom I could not find another was named Tannhäuser,’ Venus divulges, her voice gaining an alluring charm. ‘Like you, he was a Singer and loved a maiden called Elisabeth. His literary works were on the order of … do you know of the Icelander Snorri Sturluson?’
Heinrich nods, although he does not know whether Venus sees it. ‘What happened to Tannhäuser?’ he enquires.
‘The same as you, except that he did not receive pardon in Rome,’ Venus answers with seeming aplomb.
‘Did he return to you?’ Heinrich follows up.
Venus hesitates, and Heinrich has a hunch that the answer is both yes and no. ‘His heart belonged to Elisabeth alone,’ she eventually replies noncommittally, then analyses, ‘He would not have lived long even had he been pardoned. He was not like you: he was divided between his nature and the world’s mores, too forthright for a world of empty convention and false virtue, able to find peace only in self-understanding; whereas you search for an integrated personality and a healthy, whole conception of love: the union of sexual and spiritual love.’
Heinrich remembers Venus smiling through tears when she first listened to him extolling love in song and he won her as prize; her saying ‘o! Say, how could you ever imagine that I would remain unmoved’; the vividity with which she depicted how Heinrich might return to her, banished, accursed, head bowed down to earth; the earnestness with which she had remonstrated against his flight…
The goddess of love fell in love with one who did not return her feelings; nor did his substitute. Whereas I, a mortal, had my love returned not just once, but twice. The insight is blinding.
‘Let me give you pleasure, Heinrich, and find supreme comfort in your arms,’ Venus seeks.
‘For a beloved friend,’ Heinrich ultimately acquiesces.
Venus blindfolds him, lays him down and lowers herself onto him. At the culmination of their intimacy, Heinrich blurts, ‘Eli—Ma—’
Venus cuts him off with a kiss. ‘Tannhäuser,’ she murmurs.
She unblindfolds him to the sound of rustling, then turns his head to face the cottage.
‘Does your salvation lie in her?’ Venus enquires.
Heinrich fathoms that Venus refers to Maria. ‘Yes,’ he replies spontaneously.
‘You were correct: never was your love greater, never truer, than when you left me forever,’ Venus chuckles and kisses him on the cheek.
Heinrich hears her receding footsteps and turns around to see that Venus has departed. Opening the cottage door, he sees Maria.
‘You’re back early,’ he notes, observing that Maria’s baskets are still partially full.
‘I wasn’t feeling well, so I saw a healer,’ Maria explains. Concerned about her health, Heinrich inspects her, before her next words cause his mind to go blank: ‘Was that Venus?’
‘Yes,’ he replies when he finally finds his tongue.
Maria smiles and embraces him. ‘Just as well, since the healer said that you would need to exercise restraint for the next nine months or so. Thanks be to your favour, praised be your love, Heinrich! Praised be the hour, praised be the power that brought me into your presence!’
When Heinrich’s transitory fog ultimately clears, he realises that he comprehends Maria without needing to question her: Venus eclipses me in irresistibility, but you returned to me, Heinrich!
And as Heinrich, inspired by newly perceived life, improvises an idyll on the harp to Maria as she rests on their wood bed, one of its legs is, out of sight, bedecked with fresh green.
[1] Courtesy of Der Zigeunerbaron.