10 January—When most people think of composers who died young, Carl Maria Weber doesn’t usually come to mind. But he didn’t even make it to 40. Born in November 1786 in the Holy Roman Empire (Germany, for all intents and purposes), he died of tuberculosis in June 1826 in London (England, of course) and was buried there till his remains were transferred in 1844 to the family burial plot in Dresden, beside his youngest son who had died at 19 of measles (but probably not German measles) seven weeks earlier.

Weber had big hands, which likely contributed to his virtuosity at the piano and guitar (but not at the same time). He was also a conductor, critic, and proponent of German Romantic opera. Italian opera was big at the time.

Weber is well known for instrumental works, like his F-minor clarinet concerto; and operas, like Oberon (his only one in English), Euryanthe, Abu Hassan, and, of course, Der Freischütz.

Der Freischütz—usually translated as The Freeshooter or The Marksman—is a dark fantasy about Max, a lowly apprentice forester (a second assistant, to be exact—you know Germans), who, having lost a shooting match to a mere peasant, essentially does a deal with the devil to impress the nubile Agathe, so she’ll marry him. Coincidentally, her father is head forester and Max wants his job.

So blah blah and blah and yada yada yada and magic bullets, after killing an innocent eagle, Max shoots Agathe (inadvertently, of course, because they’re not married and he thinks he’s shooting an innocent dove anyway; you know hunters, they’ll shoot at anything that moves) but she’s saved by her magic bridal wreath. What a metaphor!

So in the best German tradition, an extra-special hermit decrees that after Max has completed a spotless probationary year, he should be allowed to marry Agathe. The local prince agrees and we’re supposed to assume they all live glücklich bis ans Lebensende—happily ever after.

But they’re Germans, after all.

Anyway, it’s the music that counts. You know the Freischütz overture. But you probably don’t know Und ob die Wolke sie verhülle—literally, And whether the cloud hides you, usually translated as Through clouds obscure—Agathe’s aria lamenting a really bad dream she had about being a dove that Max shot. And she loves the typically kill-crazy hunter? That girl has problems. What would Freud have said?

Just enjoy Agathe’s ethereally beautiful aria: