In 1821, the newly-erected Royal Opera at Berlin was opened with "Der
Freyschütz." The effect produced by the first representation of this
romantic opera, which we shall never cease to regard as one of the
proudest achievements of genius, was almost unprecedented. It was
received with general acclamations, and raised his name at once to the
first eminence in operatic composition. In January it was played in
Dresden, in February at Vienna, and everywhere with the same
success.--Weber alone seemed calm and undisturbed amid the general
enthusiasm. He pursued his studies quietly, and was already deeply
engaged in the composition of a comic opera, "The Three Pintos," never
completed, and had accepted a commission for another of a romantic cast
for the Vienna stage. The text was at first to have been furnished by
Rellstab, but was ultimately written by Madame de Chezy, and written in
so imperfect and impracticable a style, that, with all Rellstab's
alterations never had a musician more to contend with than poor Weber
had to do with this old French story. As it is, however, he has caught
the spirit of the tale.
"Dance and Provençal song, and vintage mirth"
breathe in his melodies; and although a perplexed plot and want of
interest in the scene greatly impaired its theatrical effect, the
approbation with which it was notwithstanding received by all judges
of music on its first representation in Vienna (10th Oct. 1823)
sufficiently attested the triumph of the composer over his difficulties.
He was repeatedly called for and received with the loudest acclamations.
From Vienna, where he was conducting his Euryanthe, he was summoned to
Prague, to superintend the fiftieth representation of his "Freyschütz."
His tour resembled a triumphal procession; for, on his return to
Dresden, he was greeted with a formal public reception in the theatre.
But while increasing in celebrity, and rising still higher, if that
were possible, in the estimation of the public, his health was rapidly
waning, amidst his anxious and multiplied duties. "Would to God," says
he in a letter written shortly afterwards--"Would to God that I were a
tailor, for then I should have a Sunday's holiday!" Meantime a cough,
the herald of consumption, tormented him, and "the slow minings of the
hectic fire" within began to manifest themselves more visibly in days
and nights of feverish excitement. It was in the midst of this that he
accepted the task of composing an opera for Covent Garden Theatre. His
fame, which had gradually made its way through the North of Germany
(where his Freyschütz was played in 1823) to England, induced the
managers to offer him liberal terms for an opera on the subject of
Oberon, the well-known fairy tale on which Wieland has reared his
fantastic, but beautiful and touching comic Epos. He received the first
act of Planché's manuscript in December, 1824, and forthwith began his
labours, though he seems to have thought that the worthy managers,
in the short time they were disposed to allow him, were expecting
impossibilities, particularly as the first step towards its composition,
on Weber's part, was the study of the English language itself, the right
understanding of which, Weber justly considered as preliminary to any
attempt to marry Mr. Planché's ephemeral verses to his own immortal
music. These exertions increased his weakness so much, that he found
it necessary to resort to a watering-place in the summer of 1825. In
December he returned to Berlin, to bring out his Euryanthe there in
person. It was received, as might have been anticipated, with great
applause, though less enthusiastically than the Freyschütz, the wild
and characteristic music of which, came home with more intensity to the
national mind. After being present at two representations, he returned
to his labours at Oberon.
The work, finally, having been completed, Weber determined himself to
be present at the representation of this his last production. He hoped,
by his visit to London, to realize something for his wife and family;
for hitherto, on the whole, poverty had been his companion. Want had,
indeed, by unceasing exertion, been kept aloof, but still hovering
near him, and threatening with the decline of his health, and his
consequent inability to discharge his duties, a nearer and a nearer
approach. Already he felt the conviction that his death was not far off,
and that his wife and children would soon be deprived of that support
which his efforts had hitherto afforded them. His intention was to
return from London by Paris, where he expected to form a definitive
arrangement relative to an opera which the Parisians had long requested
from him.
On the 2nd of March he left Paris for England, which he reached on
the 4th amidst a heavy shower of rain--a gloomy opening to his visit.
The first incident, however, that happened after his arrival, showed
how highly his character and talents were appreciated. Instead of
requiring to present himself as an alien at the Passport Office, he was
immediately waited upon by the officer with the necessary papers, and
requested to think of nothing but his own health, as everything would
be managed for him. On the 6th he writes to his wife from London:
"God be thanked! here I sit, well and hearty, already quite at home,
and perfectly happy in the receipt of your dear letter, which assures
me that you and the children are well; what more or what better could
I wish for? After sleeping well and paying well at Dover, we set out
yesterday morning in the Express coach, a noble carriage, drawn by four
English horses, such as no prince need be ashamed of. With four persons
within, four in front, and four behind, we dashed on with the rapidity
of lightning, through this inexpressibly beautiful country: meadows of
the loveliest green, gardens blooming with flowers, and every building
displaying a neatness and elegance which form a striking contrast to
the dirt of France. The majestic river, covered with ships of all sizes
(among others, the largest ship of the line, of 148 guns), the graceful
country houses, altogether made the journey perfectly unique."
He took up his residence with Sir George Smart, where everything that
could add to his comfort, or soothe his illness, had been provided by
anticipation. He found his table covered with cards from visiters who
had called before his arrival, and a splendid pianoforte in his room
from one of the first makers, with a request that he would make use
of it during his stay.
"The whole day," he writes to his wife, "is mine till five--then dinner,
the theatre, or society. My solitude in England is not painful to me.
The English way of living suits mine exactly; and my little stock of
English, in which I make tolerable progress, is of incalculable use
to me.
"Give yourself no uneasiness about the opera (Oberon), I shall have
leisure and repose here, for they respect my time. Besides, the Oberon
is not fixed for Easter Monday, but some time later; I shall tell you
afterwards when. The people are really too kind to me. No king ever
had more done for him out of love; I may almost say they carry me in
their arms. I take great care of myself, and you may be quite at ease
on my account. My cough is really a very odd one; for eight days it
disappeared entirely; then, upon the 3rd (of March) a vile spasmodic
attack returned before I reached Calais. Since that time it is quiet
again. I cannot, with all the consideration I have given it, understand
it at all. I sometimes deny myself every indulgence, and yet it comes.
I eat and drink every thing, and it does not come. But be it as God will.
"At seven o'clock in the evening we went to Covent Garden, where Rob
Roy, an opera after Sir Walter Scott's novel, was played. The house
is handsomely decorated, and not too large. When I came forward to the
front of the stage-box, that I might have a better look of it, some one
called out, Weber! Weber is here!--and although I drew back immediately,
there followed a clamour of applause which I thought would never have
ended. Then the overture to the Freyschütz was called for, and every
time I showed myself the storm broke loose again. Fortunately, soon
after the overture, Rob Roy began, and gradually things became
quiet.--Could a man wish for more enthusiasm, or more love? I must
confess that I was completely overpowered by it, though I am of a calm
nature, and somewhat accustomed to such scenes. I know not what I would
have given to have had you by my side, that you might have seen me in
my foreign garb of honour. And now, my dear love, I can assure you that
you may be quite at ease, both as to the singers and the orchestra.
Miss Paton is a singer of the first rank, and will play Reiza divinely;
Braham not less so, though in a totally different style. There are also
several good tenors; and I really cannot see why the English singing
should be so much abused. The singers have a perfectly good Italian
education, fine voices, and expression. The orchestra is not remarkable,
but still very good, and the choruses particularly so. In short, I feel
quite at ease as to the fate of Oberon."
The final production of the drama, however, was attended with more
difficulty than he had anticipated. He had the usual prejudices to
overcome, particular singers to conciliate, alterations to make, and
repeated rehearsals to superintend, before he could inspire the
performers with the proper spirit of the piece.
"Braham," says he, "in another of his confidential letters to his wife,"
(29th March, 1826) "begs for a grand scena instead of his first air,
which, in fact, was not written for him, and is rather high. The thought
of it was at first quite horrible; I could not hear of it. At last
I promised, when the opera was completed, if I had time enough, it should
be done; and now this grand scena, a confounded battle piece and what
not, is lying before me, and I am about to set to work, yet with the
greatest reluctance. What can I do? Braham knows his public, and is
idolized by them. But for Germany I shall keep the opera as it is.
I hate the air I am going to compose (to-day I hope) by anticipation.
Adieu, and now for the battle. * * * * So, the battle is over, that is
to say, half the scene. To-morrow shall the Turks roar, the French shout
for joy, the warriors cry out victory!"
The battle was, indeed, nearly over with Weber. The tired forces of
life, though they bore up gallantly against the enemy, had long been
wavering at their post, and now in fact only one brilliant movement
remained to be executed before they finally retreated from the field
of existence. This was the representation of Oberon, which for a time
rewarded him for all his toils and vexations. He records his triumph
with a mixture of humility, gratitude, affection, and piety.
"12th April, 1826.
"My best beloved Caroline! Through God's grace and assistance, I have
this evening met with the most complete success. The brilliancy and
affecting nature of the triumph is indescribable. God alone be thanked
for it! When I entered the orchestra, the whole of the house, which was
filled to overflowing, rose up, and I was saluted with huzzas, waving
of hats and handkerchiefs, which I thought would never have done. They
insisted on encoring the overture. Every air was interrupted twice or
thrice by bursts of applause. * * * So much for this night, dear life.
From your heartily tired husband, who, however, could not sleep in
peace until he had communicated to you this new blessing of heaven.
Good-night."
But his joy was interrupted by the gradual decline of his health.
The climate of London brought back all those symptoms which his
travelling had for a time alleviated or dissipated. After directing
twelve performances of his Oberon in crowded houses, he felt himself
completely exhausted and dispirited.--His melancholy was not abated
by the ill success of his concert, which, from causes which we cannot
pretend to explain, was no benefit to the poor invalid. His next
letters are in a desponding tone.
"17th April, 1826.
"To-day is enough to be the death of any one. A thick, dark,
yellow fog overhangs the sky, so that one can hardly see in the
house without candles. The sun stands powerless, like a ruddy point,
in the clouds. No: there is no living in this climate. The longing
I feel for Hosterwitz, and the clear air, is indescribable. But
patience,--patience,--one day rolls on after another; two months are
already over. I have formed an acquaintance with Dr. Kind, a nephew of
our own Kind. He is determined to make me well. God help me, that will
never happen to me in this life. I have lost all hope in physicians and
their art. Repose is my best doctor, and henceforth it shall be my sole
object to obtain it. * * * * *
"To-morrow is the first representation of my (so called) rival's
opera, 'Aladdin.' I am very curious to see it. Bishop is a man of
talent, though of no peculiar invention. I wish him every success.
There is room enough for all of us in the world."
"30th May.
"Dearest Lina, excuse the shortness and hurry of this. I have so
many things on hand, writing is painful to me--my hands tremble so.
Already too impatience begins to awaken in me. You will not receive
many more letters from me. Address your answer not to London, but to
Frankfort--_poste restante_. You are surprised? Yes, I don't go
by Paris. What should I do there--I cannot move--I cannot speak---all
business I must give up for years. Then better, better, the straight way
to my home--by Calais, Brussels, Cologne, and Coblentz, up the Rhine
to Frankfort--a delightful journey. Though I must travel slowly, rest
sometimes half a day, I think in a fortnight, by the end of June,
I shall be in your arms.
"If God will, we shall leave this on 12th June, if heaven will vouchsafe
me a little strength. Well, all will go better if we are once on the
way--once out of this wretched climate. I embrace you from my heart,
my dear ones--ever your loving father Charles."
This letter, the last but one he ever wrote, shows the rapid decline of
his strength, though he endeavours to keep up the spirits of his family
by a gleam of cheerfulness. His longing for home now began to increase
till it became a pang. On the 6th of June he was to be present at the
Freyschütz, which was to be performed for his benefit, and then to leave
London for ever. His last letter, the thirty-third he had written from
England, was dated the second of June. Even here, though he could
scarcely guide the pen, anxious to keep up the drooping spirits of his
wife, he endeavours to speak cheerfully, and to inspire a hope of his
return.
"As this letter will need no answer, it will be short enough. Need no
answer! Think of that! Furstenau has given up the idea of his concert,
so perhaps we shall be with you in two days sooner--huzza! God bless you
all and keep you well! O were I only among you! I kiss you in thought,
dear mother. Love me also, and think always of your Charles, who loves
you above all."
On Friday the 3rd of June, he felt so ill, that the idea of his
attending at the representation of "Der Freyschütz" was abandoned, and
he was obliged to keep his room. On Sunday evening, the 5th, he was left
at eleven o'clock in good spirits, and at seven next morning was found
dead upon his pillow, his head resting upon his hand, as though he
had passed from life without a struggle. The peaceful slumber of the
preceding evening seemed to have gradually deepened into the sleep
of death.
He was interred on the 21st, with the accustomed solemnities of the
Catholic Church, in the chapel at Moorfields, the Requiem of Mozart
being introduced into the service. In person, Weber is described
as having been of the middle height, extremely thin, and of dark
complexion. His countenance was strikingly intelligent, his face long
and pale, his forehead remarkably high, his features prominent, his
eyes dark and full. His usual look was one of calm placid thought, an
expression which was increased in some degree by spectacles, which he
wore on account of his shortness of sight. The force and acuteness of
his mind were indicated in the occasional brilliancy of the expression
of his countenance; the habitual patience and mildness of his
disposition, in its permanent look of placidity and repose.--_From an
interesting paper in No. XIII. of the Foreign Quarterly Review._
* * * * *