Freedom and New Life in Wagner’s Tannhäuser – James R. Rogers

Despite being written 180 years ago, Richard Wagner’s opera, Tannhäuser, speaks to contested aspects of freedom in modern-day life. It reflects the earlier conception of freedom that historian Sophia Rosenfeld documents in her new book, The Age of Choice: A History of Freedom in Modern Life. Heinrich Tannhäuser moves from license to liberty in the opera. The opera illustrates Rosenfeld’s argument that freedom traditionally meant freedom from bondage to disordered desire; it distinguished between liberty and licentiousness. This, in contrast to the dramatic twentieth-century inversion, in which moral license, rather than being an antonym of freedom, becomes a synonym for freedom.

Contrary to the way the opera’s drama is typically framed today, as revolving around Tannhäuser’s choice between profane and sacred love, the first words Henrich utters—even the first notes of the overture—make clear that Tannhäuser seeks the freedom of beatitude. In Act 1, Heinrich, enslaved by his sexual passion to the goddess Venus—today we would call Heinrich a sex addict—describes the opera’s dramatic trajectory (translation by Burton Fisher),

If I remain with you, I can only be a slave.
It is freedom that I long for: freedom, freedom, for which I thirst;
I will struggle and fight,
even if destruction and death await me:
therefore I must flee your kingdom.
Oh queen, goddess, let me go!

The drama in Tannhäuser does not revolve around a never-ending dialectical struggle between the Apolline and the Dionysiac, tempting though it may be to frame the drama as a choice for Heinrich between Venus (Dionysiac) and the chaste Elisabeth (Apolline).

From beginning to end, albeit with fits and starts, the opera revolves around Heinrich’s pilgrimage to free himself from his bondage, his addiction, as he seeks to attain the beatific vision. Ultimately, however, only death can free him from his bondage. It is not the death of romantic extinction, however, it is a death unto life. The dramatic movement arises from how those around him, his ostensible friends and allies, hinder and divert him from his pilgrimage, and from how others help him to free himself, even at great cost to themselves.

The opera challenges modern conceptions of what freedom is and provides a dramatic, and moving, display of what it takes to be freed from bondage to sin.

To be sure, I accept that Wagner’s opera embodies and reflects Romantic-era themes. Yet modern commentary often draws too sharp a line between Romanticism and Christianity. Thematic currents certainly existed in Romantic art that reflected heterodox, immanentistic religious sentiments. But there also existed currents in the movement more congenial to Christianity.

One does not stretch to recognize a Christian theme in an opera in which the libretto provides “To Thee do I journey, Lord Jesus Christ, for Thou art the pilgrims’ hope.” And more diffusely, the common German Romantic trope of the redemptive female, I suggest, draws on the Biblical currents of traditional Christendom in which the Church holds a distinctively feminine identity as the bride of Christ.

That said, the opera shouldn’t be baptized; Wagner himself prevents that. Nonetheless, I think we can interrogate the opera for Christian themes, although interrogate it for themes that challenge today’s all-too comfortable Christianity as much as interrogate it for themes that challenge today’s antinomian conception of freedom.

The Chiastic Structure of Tannhäuser

The opera offers a basic chiastic structure.

The chiastic structure highlights three points about the opera. First, the opera is all about Tannhäuser’s pilgrimage toward beatific vision; it is not about a choice between profane and sacred love. This is clear musically as well as textually. The very first notes of the overture are those from the Pilgrims’ Chorus. The very last notes of the opera are those of Pilgrims Chorus. (Some versions end with a trebled “hallelujah,” but those are no more than sung exclamation marks.)

There is a musical shift, however, that emphasizes the concluding words of the libretto reporting Tannhäuser’s redemption: In both the overture and when the Chorus is sung by the pilgrims returning from Rome without Tannhäuser, the meter for the Pilgrims Chorus is 3/4. In the opera’s concluding use of the Chorus, it is in the measured and emphatic 3/2 meter.

The pilgrims’ leitmotif frames both the start and conclusion of the opera. Doing so musically links Heinrich’s fate with that of the pilgrims returning from Rome when they sing the Chorus at length in Act 3, “I lay my pilgrim’s staff to rest, because, faithful to God, I completed my pilgrimage!”

The music articulates the same outcome for Heinrich, the change in the meter underscoring the dramatic concluding words of the libretto, sung with emphasis by pilgrims and others on stage, “The salvation of grace is the penitents reward, now he [Tannhäuser] attains the peace of the blessed!” This is the end toward which the opera moves from literally the first notes of the overture.

Secondly, when Tannhäuser departs Venusberg, his pilgrimage not only takes him away from Venusberg, it also takes him away from Wartburg, and Elisabeth, as well. This is why the opera does not circle around Heinrich’s choice between Venus and Elisabeth: Heinrich does not leave Venusberg in order to return to Elisabeth and Wartburg. His diversion to Wartburg and Elisabeth represents a relapse; this diversion threatens his soul.

Finally, Elisabeth’s intercession for Heinrich is the pivot around which the chiasm inverts. The pivot, however, reflects a point of discontinuity for Elisabeth, a significant moment of change. Elisabeth was basically a besotted schoolgirl before growing up spiritually in answer to Tannhäuser’s crisis.

At the pivot, Elisabeth recognizes that in returning to Wartburg, Tannhäuser has placed his soul at risk. Contrary to the view that Elisabeth does little more than fulfill the Romantic-era trope of the sacrificial virgin, Elisabeth matures more than any other character during the course of the opera (including Tannhäuser). After the chiastic pivot, she reflects the deep love of Christ for his people, “Greater love has no one than that he lay down his life for his friends.”

The Dramatic Movement in the Opera

Act 1 opens with Tannhäuser, a medieval German minnesinger (akin to a troubadour) in intimate repose with the goddess Venus in her grotto in Venusberg. Satyrs, fauns, naiads, sirens, nymphs, and others cavort around the couple. (Some versions of the opera open with a longer orgiastic ballet.)

Tannhäuser is jarred awake by the “joyous peals” of church bells he hears in a dream. Moved by the beatific call, Tannhäuser presses Venus to release him from his bondage to her. Initially diplomatic in how he frames his request, Tannhäuser praises the goddess before repeatedly asking to be set free. Venus pushes back, declining his request. The disagreement escalates, musically as well as textually.

Tannhäuser comes clean with his change of heart, “Goddess of pleasure and delight, no! Oh, I shall not find peace and repose in your embrace! My salvation lies in Mary!” (Mary is a synecdoche for heaven and God’s presence.)

Venus and Venusberg disappear immediately; Tannhäuser finds himself in front of a shrine to Mary outside of Wartburg.

Before Tannhäuser is able to continue his pilgrimage, however, he meets a group of minnesingers from Wartburg whom he used to know. While acknowledging them, he begs them to allow him to continue his pilgrimage away from Wartburg. Not recognizing the desperate nature of Tannhäuser’s pilgrimage, they press him repeatedly to join them again and return to the castle. Tannhäuser resists each request until Wolfram, a previously close friend, entices Tannhäuser with the prospect of renewing his association with Elisabeth. The temptation proves too much; Tannhäuser capitulates. Now diverted from his pilgrimage, he returns with them to the castle, and to Elisabeth.

In Act 2, the community gathers with the minnesingers to witness their competition over who can improvise the best song. The Landgrave (the aristocratic lord) provides the topic of the competition: the minnesingers must improvise a song describing “the true essence of love.”

The first two minnesingers improvise insipid songs of drippy platitudes; Tannhäuser scorns their songs (as they deserve). But when it comes to Tannhäuser, that his return to Wartburg represents a relapse into bondage becomes clear: he sings a tribute to Venus and profane love.

His song scandalizes the assembly. The other minnesingers, outraged, advocate Tannhäuser’s exile, even death. While Elisabeth is shocked as well, she alone recognizes that Tannhäuser has returned to Wartburg morally wounded and disordered. Elisabeth intercedes for Tannhäuser, saving him from the mob.

This is the pivot in the chiasm.

Elisabeth’s intercession allows Tannhäuser finally to proceed with his pilgrimage, heading to Rome with other pilgrims to receive absolution from the pope.

In the final act, Elisabeth waits for Tannhäuser’s return from Rome. When the other pilgrims return, Tannhäuser is not with them. She recognizes that Tannhäuser is again spiritually lost. In response, Elisabeth fulfills the terms of prayer she made at the chiastic pivot, giving her life that she might draw even nearer to the heavenly altar to continue praying for Tannhäuser. She departs to die.

Tannhäuser subsequently arrives back in Wartburg. He is lost: The pope rejected his plea for forgiveness, telling him that because he had “sojourned in the Venusberg, from now henceforth, you are eternally damned.” The pope tells Tannhäuser that, as his (the pope’s) wooden staff no longer blossoms, “deliverance can never blossom for you.”

Without hope of redemption now, Tannhäuser braces himself to return to Venus. “I have lost my salvation, now let the pleasures of hell be mine.” Venus appears before him to receive him back, “Now be forever mine!” This return is its own judgment for Heinrich.

Before Tannhäuser departs, however, the minnesingers arrive carrying Elisabeth’s corpse. Wolfram tells Tannhäuser, “Your angel prays for you at God’s throne. She has been heard, Heinrich, you are saved!” Tannhäuser collapses before Elisabeth’s body and cries out, “Holy Elisabeth, pray for me!” And dies.

Another set of pilgrims arrives, returning from Rome. They return, however, with news of a miracle: the pope’s staff has blossomed. Heaven has overruled the pope; the miracle shows that redemption has “blossomed afresh” for Tannhäuser, and he has “attained the peace of the blessed.”

Elisabeth’s Maturation in the Opera

Commentary typically portrays Elisabeth as a unidimensional, “saintly” Elisabeth. The Romantic trope of the redemptive woman. Elisabeth does become saintly. But she’s an earthly-minded girl at the start of Act 2.

Elisabeth fell hard for Tannhäuser before he spurned her for Venus. In response to the hurt and embarrassment, Elisabeth petulantly withdrew from the activities at Wartburg. On hearing of Tannhäuser’s return, her heart flutters, “How strongly my heart jumps.” She sings, “I have been awakened to new life.”

When Tannhäuser subsequently sings paeans to Venus at the music competition, Elisabeth is as shocked as the others, perhaps even more so. Critically, however, she recognizes, as the others do not, that Tannhäuser is struggling to break free of spiritual bondage. Helping Tannhäuser break free of this slavery requires her intercession, an intercession requiring not only that she give up her own hopes for happiness with Tannhäuser as a couple, but that she sacrifice her earthly life for his eternal life.

At the chiastic pivot, Elisabeth recognizes that Tannhäuser’s diversion to Wartburg—and to her—meant a spiritual relapse for Tannhäuser, that he is once again in the demon’s thrall. Elisabeth recognizes this, and makes a fateful commitment to exchange her earthly life to secure Tannhäuser’s eternal life:

May the spirit of belief be granted him, just as the Savior once suffered. … Let him journey to Thee, Thou God of clemency and grace. … Forgive him, who has fallen, forgive the guilt of his sin. I will pray for him. May my life be prayer; grant that he may see Thy light, before he is lost in darkness. In joyful fright, let a sacrifice be dedicated to Thee. Take, oh, take my life: I no longer call it mine.

Elisabeth offering her life as a sacrifice likely strikes the ears of most modern American Christians as heterodox. Jesus, after all, is the sacrifice for the sins of people.

But Elisabeth’s offer is not quite as heterodox as it may initially appear. First, Elisabeth herself frames her request in the context of Jesus’s sacrifice, “just as the Savior once suffered.” And recall that Jesus enjoins his followers to “take up their cross,” the instrument of crucifixion, to follow him. Similarly, Peter writes that Jesus’s suffering provides Christians “an example, so that you may follow in his steps.” Paul refers to his suffering “completing what is lacking in the sufferings of Christ for the sake of the body which is the church.” The Apostle even suggests he would be willing to be accursed so that he might save others.

From beginning to end, albeit with fits and starts, the opera revolves around Heinrich’s pilgrimage to free himself from his bondage, his addiction, as he seeks to attain the beatific vision.

None of this impugns the sufficiency of Christ’s sacrifice on the Cross. Rather, traditional Christian theology makes a distinction between Christ’s unique propitiatory sacrifice and his followers’ “eucharistic sacrifices”—sacrifices of thanksgiving—for God and each other.

As with Abraham’s willingness to offer Isaac, sacrifice is a means by which the faithful can turn cheap talk into credible talk. Elisabeth offers her life to God to underscore the earnest authenticity of her prayer for his eternal good.

So, too, Elisabeth’s sacrifice of her life for Tannhäuser is not as alien to traditional Christian beliefs as it may seem at first. Elisabeth’s offer in this opera is not a Romantic gesture to non-being. While not emphasized much today, Christian baptism provides a proleptic death (and resurrection), a death that kills off the sin nature, freeing the person into life. This death liberates from sin.

Elisabeth and Tannhäuser do not look to death as extinction, but as release into the freedom of divine beatitude. Here, too, they reflect a deep Biblical longing. Paul, for example, longs for the beatitude that results from death, for “to depart and be with Christ is very much better.” This is ultimately the hope of liberation for Tannhäuser, why he sings of his death as part of his liberation from Venus.

This liberation is the opera’s story, from the first notes of the overture to the last notes the pilgrims sing. It is the move from licentiousness to the freedom of beatitude. Without suggesting that Wagner intended it to communicate a Christian message, or that it does not have its share of heterodox Romantic moments, the opera challenges modern conceptions of what freedom is, challenges easy-going assumptions among Christians of what it means to love one another, and provides a dramatic, and moving, display of what it takes to be freed from bondage to sin.