f
density, conventionality, and hypocrisy!--curving his lip. "Oh,
Walther, singing as you have done, how direly have you misrepresented
love! Through such languors and timidities as you describe, the
world would unmistakably go dry! To the glory of God in his exalted
distance, gaze at the heavens, gaze at its stars. Pay tribute of
worship to such marvels, because they pass your comprehension. But
that which lends itself to human touches, which lies near to your
heart and senses, that which, formed of the same clay as yourselves,
in a softer shape nestles against your side, the tribute called
for by that is hearty pleasure of love. Enjoyment, I say, is the
essence of love!"

At this, which falls upon all ears present with the effect of rank
blasphemy, Biterolf rises in wrath. "Out, out, to fight against
us all. Who could be silent hearing you? If your arrogance will
vouchsafe to listen, hear, slanderer, me too! When high love inspires
me, it steels my weapons with courage; to save it from indignity
proudly would I pour forth my last blood. For the honour of women
and of lofty virtue I unsheathe my knightly sword,--but that which
your youth is pleased to call pleasure is cheap enough and worth
no single blow!" The audience cheer him enthusiastically: "Hail,
Biterolf, our good blade!" Tannhaeuser can no longer contain himself.
It is now again quite as it used to be, when never could he live
at peace with these purblind tortoises, dull of wit to the point
of amazement, and yet pretending to pronounce upon things, pass
judgment upon others. What can there be but warfare forever between
him and them? But that Biterolf, this war-worn, middle-aged, rugged
minstrel should take it upon himself to instruct Heinrich Tannhaeuser,
pupil of Venus, in matters of love! His retort comes quick, from the
shoulder, so to speak, though the form is not dropped of fitting his
words to chords of the peaceful harp: "Ha, fond braggart, Biterolf! Is
it you, singing about love, grim wolf? But you can hardly have meant
that which I hold worthy to be enjoyed. What, you poverty-stricken
wight--what pleasure of love may have fallen to your share? Not rich
in love your life has been! And such joys as may have sprouted
along your path, indeed, were hardly worthy of a blow!"--"Let him
not be allowed to finish! Forbid his insolence!" cry the incensed
nobles, who had suffered Biterolf's personal attack, but find
insufferable this of the over-splendid, ove