ABSTRACT
On a Moorish pedestal table, brought back from Granada, sat a musical box carved out of oak in a shape that was half edelweiss, half fir cone, precious souvenirs of a summer in the Black Forest. One turn of the handle and the finale of Oberon took wing in a light tinkle, filling his with joy and taking his off to a fairy land in which the author saw appearing, as in a kaleidoscope, a succession of ever-changing images. Blessings upon Weber for enchanting elderly children like this, and all gratitude to Bruno Walter whose Houdini-like baton drew out a horn, a flute and an oboe from the magical Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra. The whole orchestral palette of Wagner and Liszt, all the enchantments of Rimsky and Liadov derive directly from Oberon. Like the pictures of that painter, Weber's music does employ local colour, for the first time in the nineteenth century, and that is what is most romantic about it.
