Aufführungsbesprechung, London: „Der Freischütz“ von Carl Maria von Weber, August 1824

Der Freyschütz; or, The Seventh Bullet.

This piece which, on account of its magic, and its magic music, has been completely turning all the halfturned heads of Germany – has at length met with and English manger bold enough to hazard the dangerous expense and risk of producing it in England; and a company brave and potent enough to do its mysteries and its music ample justice. The original drama, which is, to judge by the English copy, but lonely and injudiciously put together, is founded on one of the traditional tales of Germany, which has long been listened to in that country, and valued for its decided horror. This tales has been admirably translated by a very able writer of the present day, and may be read by those, who love to dram with horror, in a work called “Popular Tales and Romances of the Northern Nations.” It will be seen that the plot of the drama, which is pretty closely adhered to we understand on the English stage, varies materially from the story. – Indeed no audience would endure to have a lover shoot his mistress to serve the devil, as is the case in the tale. How great are the Germans at Satanic writing! The devil is their Apollo!

The piece has been produced by Mr. Arnold with no limit to care or expense: – in truth we did not, and could not believe it possible, until we saw with our own eyes, that a small summer theatre could afford us such a scene of devilry and witchery as the one now effected nightly. The diminutive stage, like Kean in one of his happiest nights, seems to expand with the spirit of the scene, until there appears no limit to its space and wonders. The scenery itself is not, we believe, new – but it is peopled with goblins and creeping things, numerous enough, we should suppose, to fill the great desart! – The principal scene is where the huntsman Caspar casts the magic balls for his rifle, – balls which go unerringly to the mark; and as the charming goes on, the birds and evil things swarm thicker and faster, until at the seventh bullet, the stage is one mass of fire and wing and reptile! – Perhaps a slight sketch of the story may not be uninteresting: –

Kimo, and old huntsman, lives in ¦ the forest with his wife and daughter, on a farm which he holds as a tried marksman. He resolves that his daughter Agnes shall marry a good shot, as the farm will only be kept in the family by such a prudent match. The girl is attached to Rodolph, a forest youth, who is all the father can desire: – she is beloved, however, by a huntsman, named Caspar, who has made a compact with an evil spirit, and uses magic balls. Rodolph, at the opening of the drama, is under the malignant influence of a charm, which frustrates all his sports, and turns aside every bullet he fires. The trial day is at hand, on which occasion his skill, as a shot, is to be proved – and on his success depends his union with Agnes. Caspar, who is jealous of his fortune with the girl, hints that he might secure her if he would have recourse to the magic balls – and the hope of securing his love leads him to promise a meeting with Caspar at the glen, at night. Rodolph frames and excuse to his love as the hour approaches, and, in spite of mysterious warnings, keeps his fatal promise. Caspar, in the mean time, whose days are numbered, offers Zamiel, the evil spirit, a fresh victim if he may be spared a three year’s longer existence. The bargain is made: in a magic circle the seven bullets are cast, by the owl’s shriek and to unearthly light! –

The trial day comes, and the six sure bullets have been expended – the seventh, which the spirit is to direct, Caspar trusts will kill the bride, Agnes; but the spirit directs it on Caspar himself – and the desolator is laid desolate! – The piece concludes with the wedding of the young hunter and his Agnes!

Such is briefly the plot of the Drama; of course the German story has not half so happy a conclusion. The Bride is killed by the bullet, the last of sixty and three, and the Hunter goes mad in the forest. The Spirit is managed with great effect in the piece, and his appearance amidst the clashing branches at the casting of the seventh bullet is awful. It is almost worthy of that fine gloomy description of the flight of Zamiel, in the original story, after he has secured his victim, which we cannot resist giving in the translator’s own words.

“The black horseman turned away his horse, and said with a gloomy solemnity – ‘Thou dost know me! The very hair of thy head, which stands on end, confesses for thee that thou dost! I am He whom at this moment thou namest in thy heart with horror!’ – So saying, he vanished, followed by the dreary sound of withered leaves, and the echo of blasted boughs falling from the trees beneath which he had stood!”

All persons concerned in the bringing forward of this wondrous drama appear to have been inspired with an anxiety to do their parts to the utmost. The little bog-toads crawl about, as if they themselves were terrified at the scene. All the principal characters are well filled. Braham, as Rodolph, not only sang better than ever on the first night, but acted with feeling which we never before detected in him. But the effect of the music was upon him, and he was, in truth, under the influence of a charm. He performed and gave a Grand Scena, which seemed to roll around the air like thunder. Mr. Phillips was poor after such a singer; but one or two songs he gave with more energy than usual. Bartley played Kimo with a goof heart; and Mr. Bennet as Caspar, imitated Macready, and beat the original hollow. Mr. T. P. Cooke was Zamiel. He is by far the best bad spirit that ever stalked the earth – he is so good, that we only wish he may be able to give up the part when he pleases. Miss Noel is a quiet feeling singer, but her voice and manner are both occasionally too flat. Miss Povey sang with great spirit, and as an actress she is decidedly making way.

It remains but to speak of the music, which, of its kind, is really beyond all ordinary praise or conception. Some of the critics have said it is not sweet or so good as Mozart’s: – Pshaw! it was never intended to be sweet! it is appalling, terrific, sublime! It giveth not “Airs from Heaven,” but, “Blasts from Hell.” From the Overture to the ¦ very last note, the composer, Weber, seems to have called upon Zamiel, and to have offered up to him notes which would go into his very soul! There is a depth, a wildness, which frights the mind while it charms the ear; and we will confidently say that no music, not even Mozart’s, was ever heard with such breathless attention and earnestness as this extraordinary production of Weber. It is a great work!