Each in turn is interrupted by Tannhaeuser, who, with ever-growing vehemence, scoffs at the pale raptures of his friends.  A kind of madness possesses him, and as the hymns in praise of love recall to his memory the amorous orgies of the Venusberg, he gradually loses all self-control, and ends by bursting out with a wild hymn in praise of the goddess herself.  The horror-stricken women rush from the hall, and the men, sword in hand, prepare to execute summary justice upon the self-convicted sinner; but Elisabeth dashes in before the points of their swords, and in broken accents begs pardon for her recreant lover in the name of the Saviour of them all.  Touched by her agonised pleading the angry knights let fall their weapons, while Tannhaeuser, as his madness slips from him and he realises all that he has lost, falls repentant and prostrate upon the earth.  The Landgrave bids him hasten to Rome, where alone he may find pardon for a sin so heinous.  Far below in the valley a band of young pilgrims is passing, and the sound of their solemn hymn rises to the castle windows; the pious strains put new life into the despairing Tannhaeuser, and crying ‘To Rome, to Rome,’ he staggers from the hall.

The scene of the third act is the same as that of the first, a wooded valley beneath the towers of the Wartburg; but the fresh beauty of spring has given place to the tender melancholy of autumn.  No tidings of the pilgrim have reached the castle, and Elisabeth waits on in patient hope, praying that her lost lover may be given back to her arms free and forgiven.  While she pours forth her agony at the foot of a rustic cross, the faithful Wolfram watches silently hard by.  Suddenly the distant chant of the pilgrims is heard.  Elisabeth rises from her knees in an agony of suspense.  As the pilgrims file past one by one, she eagerly scans their faces, but Tannhaeuser is not among them.  With the failure of her hopes she feels that the last link which binds her to earth is broken.  Committing her soul to the Virgin, she takes her way slowly back to the castle, the hand of death already heavy upon her, after bidding farewell to Wolfram in a passage which, though not a word is spoken, is perhaps more poignantly pathetic than anything Wagner ever wrote.  Alone amid the gathering shades of evening, Wolfram sings the exquisite song to the evening star which is the most famous passage in the opera.  The last strains have scarcely died away when a gloomy figure slowly enters upon the path lately trodden by the rejoicing pilgrims.  It is Tannhaeuser returning from Rome, disappointed and despairing.  His pilgrimage has availed him nothing.  The Pope bade him hope for no pardon for his sin till the staff which he held in his hand should put forth leaves and blossom.  With these awful words ringing in his ears, Tannhaeuser has retraced his weary steps.  He has had enough of earth, and thinks only of returning to the embraces of Venus.  In response to his cries