OFFENBACH

TALES OF HOFFMANN

The plot is introduced by none less than the Muse herself, lyre in hand, in verse naturally:

Though truth may dwell on lonely heights,

The Muse, in radiant apparel,

Is sometimes met on misty nights

Residing in a barroom barrel.

Unwilling to capitulate,

For Hoffmann here I watch and wait,

A poet-dreamer (choose the order)

Whose glass is seldom filled with water.

Once grateful for my inspiration,

Now heedless of my righteous wrath,

Again he takes the downward path

That leads to loss and desolation.

Infatuated, he pursues

The prima donna, not the Muse.

Rejected, no, I’ll not surrender!

My lyre becomes both sword and shield,

And heaven help the brash contender

That braves me on the battlefield.

But not content with idle bluster,

More subtle means I’ll have to muster.

The hapless hero I’ll attend

As young Nicklausse, his faithful friend.

And thus, of neither sex, but neuter,

I’ll snatch him from the star’s embrace,

And hasten his return to grace

By rounding up a rival suitor.

The Councilor Lindorf will do,

And look! He enters, right on cue.

The Councilor has his own way of wooing:

In the role of the languishing lover

I cut a contemptible figure.

But never say die till it’s over,

Till it’s over . . .

Approaching love a colder way,

The devil’s part I choose to play.

To woo my darling, I rely

Upon a stern, hypnotic eye.

From Satan I derive the art

Of firing up the heart.

In pursuit, I persevere

And prevail by using fear -- naked fear!

Coppelius, the merchant, specializes in eyes -- marvelous, amazing eyes.

“Eyes that show you what you want to see. Real eyes, living eyes, that render black of white, as you determine. Black as night raven, or white as ermine.”

I’ve got eyes, probing eyes

That can pierce the outer layer.

Try on these eyes, and beome

A supernatural surveyor.

Eyes like these you need but wear

To find a woman’s soul,

Even when none is there . . .

Hoffmann woos Olympia, the mechanical doll apparently transformed by the magical eyes into a beautiful, warm human being:

Kind heaven, send me power

To kindle and inspire,

That love may come to flower

Within that sacred fire . . .

On the Grand Canal in Venice, the most famous of all barcaroles:

Tender night, o friend of love,

In you we yearn for cover,

Shielding bliss from probing light,

O tender night of love!

Friendly dark must yield to dawn;

Too soon the song is over.

Time for caution later on

When dark must yield to dawn.

O warm and gentle breeze,

With the kiss of a lover

As we together glide

On a smooth flowing tide,

Whisper low, whisper low . . .

Satanic Dapertutto plots to seduce the seducer with a diamond . . .

Sparkling eyes, power lies

In fanning the flames of desire.

Tantalize, dazzle her eyes,

And lure my moth to the fire . . .

Hoffmann, ever driven by passion, has a moment of painful self-realization:

Enticed by love or lust to follow

A haunting phantom fraught with pain

Along a path so often fatal,

Reason cries to me: not again!

Fortune’s favors I blindly squander,

Drunk on dreams that lure me on.

Searching ever, I shall wander

On winding paths that lead to parts unknown . . .