S. Baring-Gould wrote about the myth of the Mountain of Venus in his Curious Myths of the Middle Ages.
In this engaging compilation of medieval European folktales and legends, author S. Baring-Gould collects an array of captivating mythical stories involving supernatural beings, magic, monsters, strange happenings, and renowned figures that were popular in oral tradition during the Middle Ages, providing the religious, historical, and cultural context behind their origins and variations across different regions while also retelling many tales in full detail. The book aims to both entertain readers with these fantastical windows into the medieval worldview and shed scholarly insight into how their mythological narratives often reflected the interactions between lingering pagan beliefs and the ascendancy of Christianity during that era.
Mountain of Venus
The Mountain of Venus myth involves a legendary mountain called the Venusberg, which was believed to be the dwelling place of the pagan goddess Venus. According to medieval folklore, Venus held court in splendor within the Venusberg, continuing the rituals and revelry of pre-Christian pagan religions.
It was said that fair and seductive female forms could sometimes be seen beckoning from the entrance to a cave within the mountain. These were believed to be manifestations of Venus, trying to lure people inside. Along with the sights, sweet music and songs were also heard floating up from the cave’s depths.
Many individuals over time were said to have been charmed and allured into entering the cave by Venus and her followers. Once inside, they would fall under the spell and pleasures of the pagan rituals and never return. The most famous story associated with the Venusberg was that of Tanhuser.
Baring-Gould Story
Here is a slightly revised version of the story as originally told by Baring-Gould.
Barren, bald, and desolate, as if under a curse, the Hörselberg mountain rises from the rich and populous land between Eisenach and Gotha. From a distance, it looks like a giant stone sarcophagus containing a mysterious world of wonders trapped in magical slumber until the end of time.
High on the mountain’s northwest flank, in a sheer rock wall, is a cave called the Hörselloch. From its depths comes a muffled roar, as if an underground stream rushed over rapidly turning waterwheels.
In ancient days, according to Thuringian chronicles, bitter cries and long mournful moans were said to issue from this cave. At night, wild shrieks and bursts of diabolical laughter would ring out and fill locals with terror. It was thought to be an entrance to purgatory. A popular but flawed derivation of Hörsel was Hear the Souls!
Another belief about the mountain was that the pagan goddess Venus held court there in all the pomp and revelry of heathendom. Some claimed to have seen fair forms of female beauty beckoning from the chasm’s mouth and heard sweet strains of music rise above the thunder of an unseen torrent. Charmed by the music and allured by spectral shapes, various individuals entered the cave, never to return—except for Tanhäuser, as you will hear. The Hörselberg was still called the Venusberg, a name used in the Middle Ages without defining its location.
And now for the story of Tanhäuser. A French knight named Tanhäuser, a famous minnesinger whose lays were all of love and women, for passion filled his heart, though not always of the purest kind.
It was near dusk as he rode through the Hörsel valley on his way to a gathering of minstrels at Wartburg Castle. As he passed the cliff containing the Hörselloch, he saw a shining white figure of matchless beauty standing before him, beckoning him over. He knew at once by her attributes and superhuman perfection that it was Venus. As she spoke, the sweetest music floated in the air and a soft rosy light glowed around her as nymphs of exquisite loveliness scattered roses at her feet. A thrill of passion ran through Tanhäuser. Leaving his horse, he followed the apparition up the mountain to the cave, entering as flowers bloomed at his feet and a radiant path lit his way. He descended to Venus’ palace deep in the heart of the mountain.
For seven years he reveled there in debauchery. But his heart grew empty, longing for earth’s simple pleasures—fresh air, starry skies, sheep bells on the breeze. His conscience began to reproach him and he wished to make peace with God. Though Venus forbade it, a rift appeared when in grief he called on the Virgin Mary, and he found himself above ground. How sweet the morning air scented with new-mown hay! He wept holding tiny heather bells before relishing God’s dome of blue sky and rising sun far more than Venus’ jewel-encrusted halls.
A village church bell called sweetly to him, sated on Bacchanalian songs. He hastened down to confess, but the horror-struck priest dared not grant absolution, referring him higher until at last he came before Pope Urban IV. The stern pontiff, shocked by such immense sin, thrust Tanhäuser away, saying forgiveness could come no sooner than his staff might blossom. But three days later, Urban found his staff had sprouted buds and bloomed. Messengers were sent, reaching the Hörsel valley just as a weary, haggard man entered the Hörselloch cave, never to emerge again. Such is the sad yet beautiful story of Tanhäuser.
That ends the account of Baring-Gould.
Conclusion
The myth portrayed the continued existence of pre-Christian, pagan worship and ideals hidden away in remote natural places. It reflected the challenging process of converting people to the new religion of Christianity during the Middle Ages. The Venusberg became a symbol of the attractions and temptations lingering from pagan times.
Reference
Baring-Gould, S. (2007). Curious myths of the Middle Ages. Cosimo, Inc..
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