100 Great Operas and Their Stories

by Henry W. Simon

  A waltz is heard as the guests return. Olympia, as Hoffmann’s partner, dances so hard that her inventor fears she will hurt herself. But nothing can stop this mechanical doll. She even sings the whirling waltz, reaching up to an almost incredible A-flat above high C. Right out of the room she waltzes, and Coppélius steals after her. Before anyone can stop him, he seizes the doll and smashes it to pieces. In the excitement Hoffmann’s magical glasses fall off, and he cries despairingly: “It’s automatic; it’s automatic!” The guests laugh at him; the two villains fight angrily; and everything is in a fine tumult as the act ends.

  ACT II

  The second act might be called the Barcarolle Act. It begins and ends with that familiar, undulating melody—and is dominated by it. (Offenbach borrowed the tune from one of his own operettas, Die Rheinnixen.) It is first sung by the courtesan Giulietta, Nicklausse, and the guests assembled at a party in her luxurious home in Venice. Then Hoffmann, one of the guests, sings a song that derides enduring love. But the ever-wise and ever-futile Nicklausse sees trouble ahead. Hoffmann, he believes, is destined soon to be a rival to the evil-looking Schlémil, Giulietta’s lover. Hoffmann, for his part, only laughs at the idea of falling in love with a courtesan.

  But now a really sinister figure comes on. He is Dapertutto, and he sings his sinuous Diamond Aria, extolling the almost supernatural merits of his jewel. He summons Giulietta, and, by playing on her vanity, persuades her to try to capture Hoffmann’s reflection—as she has already captured her lover Schlémil’s. Dapertutto means “reflection” literally-as in a mirror; but this is the symbol of the soul, and that is what the evil genius wants.

  Giulietta goes about her work well. She pleads for the love of Hoffmann, and he gives in with passion and abandon. But as they kiss, the whole company, led by the jealous Schlémil, finds them together. Dapertutto now shows Hoffmann that he no longer has a reflection-or a soul—and a wonderful sextet ensues. Out of the music emerge the various themes of the Barcarolle, and then the Barcarolle itself is played once more from beginning to end. Only the voices of the off-stage chorus are heard, but the action is very dramatic. Hoffmann demands Schlémil’s key to Giulietta’s room. A dud ensues in which Hoffmann uses Dapertutto’s sword; Schlémil is killed; Hoffmann seizes the key; and at that moment he sees Giulietta sailing by in a gondola—in the arms of the dwarf Pittichinaccio. He has been once more betrayed, and Nicklausse has to hurry him off before he is arrested for the murder of Schlémil.

  ACT III

  The last act tells the fete of Hoffmann’s last great love-Antonia. Antonia is a young, inexperienced singer, the daughter of a great one. She lives in Munich with her father, and when the act opens, she is in the music room, singing of her lost love. This is Hoffmann, whom she has not seen in a year but hopes to see again. Her father, Councilor Crespel, begs her to give up singing, and she promises to do so. For, unknown to herself, Antonia is sick almost to death with consumption.

  When Crespel orders Frantz, a deaf servant, to keep all visitors out, he responds with very comic misunderstandings. In fact, he feels rather sorry for himself—as he tells us in a little song concerning his unappreciated musical talents. Of course, he fails to keep out Hoffmann, who comes to see Antonia once more. The two lovers greet each other warmly, and soon are singing together a sweet duet that they had sung together in better times C’est un chanson d’amour. Hoffmann is worried by Antonia’s unexplained ill-health, and when she leaves, he hides behind a curtain to try to solve this mystery.

  Now the evil genius in this act enters in the shape of Dr. Miracle, a charlatan who had caused the death of Antonia’s mother. Crespel cannot get him out of the house, and Dr. Miracle proceeds to examine Antonia’s health, making believe she is present even though she is in another room. He even forces her to sing off-stage. Hoffmann, listening to this, begins to understand; and as Miracle prescribes for Antonia, as Crespel objects, and as Hoffmann is amazed at the evil he sees, a male trio develops. At last, Miracle is driven out of the house; and when Hoffmann once more meets Antonia, he forces a promise from her never to sing again.

  But it is Dr. Miracle who has the last word. He returns miraculously through a wall and tries to persuade Antonia to sing. At first he fails, but then he works a miracle on a picture of Antonia’s mother that hangs on the wall. The picture begins to urge Antonia to sing; Dr. Miracle seizes a violin to accompany; and Antonia’s voice rises higher and higher. It is finally too much for her; and as she falls back, dying, Hoffmann rushes back into the room and cries out his despair, while Crespel’s accusations of Hoffmann prove equally futile.

  EPILOGUE

  While the scenery is being changed, the orchestra quietly plays a chorus that Hoffman’s drinking companions had sung shortly before he began his recital at the end of the prologue. And when the curtain rises, we are back in Luther’s tavern, with everyone in the precise position he had occupied when the curtain last went down on it.

  “That was the tale of my loves,” concludes Hoffmann. “I shall never forget them.” At this point Luther breaks the spell the poet has woven by coming in to announce that Stella has been a smashing success in Don Giovanni; and Lindorf, unobserved, goes out to meet her. Nicklausse, meantime, explains the meaning of the Tales of Hoffmann: Olympia, Antonia, Giulietta, artist, innocent, and courtesan, are all embodied in one woman-Stella. He proposes a toast to her, but Hoffmann angrily forbids it and suggests instead that everyone get drunk. As this is the more enticing prospect, the students take up their glasses, sing their drinking song, and file off into the next room.

  Only Hoffmann remains behind, dejected and considerably the worse for wine. The Muse of Poetry briefly appears to him and consoles him with the thought that one is made great through love but even greater through tears. Inspired by this elementary tenet of romanticism, Hoffmann bursts into the passionate melody he had sung to Giulietta and then falls back into his chair, quite overcome. There Stella finds him as she passes through the room on the arm of Nicklausse. “Hoffmann asleep?” she asks. “No, just dead drunk,” answers his good friend, and he turns her over to her new lover, Councilor Lindorf. But before they go off together, she tosses a rose at the feet of the unconscious Hoffmann. Off-stage, the students repeat their drinking song.

  Postscript for the historically curious: On June 25, 1822, at the age of forty-six, the poet and composer E. T. A. Hoffmann, by this time a confirmed drunkard, died of locomotor ataxia in Berlin.

  TANNHÄUSER

  und der Sängerkrieg auf dem Wartburg

  (Tannhäuser and the Song Contest at the Wartburg)

  Opera in three acts by Richard Wagner with

  libretto in German by the composer based on a

  legend related in the medieval German poem

  Der Sängerkrieg

  HERMANN, Landgrave of Thuringia Bass

  Knights and Minnesingers

  HEINRICH TANNHäUSER Tenor

  WOLFRAM VON ESCHENBACH Baritone

  WALTHER VON DER VOGELWEIDE Tenor

  BITEROLF Bass

  HEINRICH DER SCHREIBER Tenor

  REINMAR VON ZWETER Bass

  ELISABETH, niece of Hermann Soprano

  VENUS Soprano

  A YOUNG SHEPHERD Soprano

  Time: 13th century

  Place: Thuringia, near Eisenach

  First performance at Dresden, October 19, 1845

  Tannhäuser has had the not unamusing distinction of receiving both accolades and damnation from most surprising directions. There was, for example, Vienna’s most influential critic, Eduard Hanslick, who has gained an immortal infamy in the hearts of thousands of Wagnerians for acute and devastating analyses of Wagner which they have not read. This is what Wagner’s archfoe had, in part, to say about Tannhäuser when it was a brand-new show: “I am of the firm opinion that it is the finest thing achieved in grand opera in at least twelve years.…Richard Wagner is, I am convinced, the greatest dramatic talent among all contemporary composers.”


  This from the last man on earth to be called a Wagnerworshiper. But the greatest Wagner-worshiper of them all utterly disagreed. “Meine schlechteste Oper” (my worst opera) is how the composer himself dismissed it late in life.

  Less well equipped critics than Hanslick and Wagner also expressed widely divergent opinions. When the opera was first performed in Paris, Wagner gladly (and brilliantly) supplied a ballet, for that was a sine qua non of opera nights in the reign of the good Emperor Napoleon III. Unfortunately, the only conceivable spot for the interpolation was in the opening scene, which came much too early for the habits of the young dandies of the Jockey Club; and as these gay blades patronized the opera largely to applaud the ballet girls, they organized a young riot of protest. At the second and third performances their antics were so preposterous that Wagner withdrew the work. But these gentlemen’s form of criticism was single-minded (if simple-minded) and, in one respect at least, thoroughly honorable. Wagner himself tells, in his memoirs, of one young fellow who, on being reprimanded for his behavior, riposted: “Que voulez-vous? I am myself beginning to like the music But you see, a man must keep his word. If you will excuse me, I shall return to my work again.”

  OVERTURE

  This is one of the most popular pieces ever written for “pops” concerts. It is based partly on the Pilgrims’ Chorus, with which it opens and closes, and partly on the contrasting music of the orgies in the court of Venus. It thus summarizes the theme of the whole story—the battle of sacred and profane love for the soul of the hero, Tannhäuser.

  ACT I

  In the original, or “Dresden,” version of the opera, the overture comes to a full close. In the “Paris” version, which was mounted sixteen years later, the curtain rises without interruption for applause, on a scene of great voluptuousness in the court of Venus—a scene that Wagner revised extensively for the occasion, bringing to it the musical powers greatly matured through the composition, in the intervening years, of Lohengrin, over half of the Ring cycle, and Tristan und Isolde. This court of Venus had its being in the Thuringian mountains, where the spring goddess, Holda, was supposed to reign. The poetry of mythology, however, quite rightly disregards the mundane logic of historians, and Holda is easily equated with Venus, the goddess of love.

  At the moment, with the amiably distracting assistance of sirens, naiads, nymphs and bacchantes, she is trying to make things attractive for Heinrich Tannhäuser, a more or less historical German knight who was also a singer and composer, Henry has deserted the court of Landgrave Hermann, ruler of Thuringia, to spend some time at the more glamorous spot he is inhabiting now. But he has grown tired of the pagan rites and tells the goddess so. Despite all her pleadings, Tannhäuser calls on Mary, and the whole wicked court vanishes.

  The scene is transformed at once into the valley of the Wartburg. Tannhäuser listens to a shepherd boy sing sweetly and innocently (oddly enough, about the goddess Holda, who, in his mythology, is a good girl), and he greets a group of pilgrims chanting on their way to Rome. From the distance, then, comes the sound of hunting horns, and presently Tannhäuser is cordially welcomed by the Landgrave himself and a party of hunters, all old friends. They urge him to return, for they miss his singing. At first he refuses. Then his particular old friend and comrade-in-arms-and-song Wolfram tells him that the Landgrave’s daughter Elisabeth has been brokenhearted since his departure. In a noble melody Wolfram urges Tannhäuser to return, and he is joined in these hospitable sentiments by the Landgrave himself and all the knights. Warmed by this reception—and by the thought of the beloved Elisabeth—Tannhäuser is won over, and the act closes with hunting calls as the whole party leaves for the castle of the Wartburg.

  ACT II

  The second act takes place in the magnificent Hall of the Minstrels, in the Wartburg. Elisabeth has long kept away from the festivals of song held here. After a short prelude, she returns to the hall and rapturously greets it in a brilliant aria (Dich, theure Hall’). The reason she has returned is that Tannhäuser, the greatest of the singers, is once more in the court. Soon he is brought in by Wolfram, who discreetly retires. She tells Tannhäuser modestly but frankly how he has been missed, and the two unite in a rapturous duet over their reunion.

  Then, enter the Landgrave. He informs Elisabeth that there will be a tournament of song, that she shall crown the winner, and that her hand will go with the prize. Trumpet calls are heard off-stage, and to the familiar “March from Tannhäuser” the entire court assembles for the tournament of song. It turns out to be a rather more exciting event than most singing contests. Wolfram begins, conservatively praising a pure and holy love. Tannhäuser—recently returned from that great expert on love, Venus—rashly tells Wolfram he does not know what he is talking about. Biterolf, another contestant, takes up the argument on Wolfram’s side. Thereupon Tannhäuser becomes even more violent. To the consternation of everyone, he takes up his harp and sings frankly and vigorously in praise of carnal love. Everyone is deeply shocked. The knights take out their swords to attack the profaner of the Hall; the women start to leave in disorder; and suddenly Elisabeth intervenes. Throwing herself before her beloved, she begs for his forgiveness. The Landgrave consents, provided Tannhäuser makes a pilgrimage to Rome to get a pardon from the Pope. Just at that moment a group of pilgrims conveniently passes by. Filled with contrition, Tannhäuser rushes out to join them.

  ACT III

  The prelude describes, mournfully enough, our hero’s unhappy pilgrimage to Rome. Elisabeth has been sadly awaiting his return; and at a roadside shrine in the valley of the Wartburg, she silently prays for him as the faithful Wolfram watches and muses over her. In the distance we hear a band of pilgrims approaching. They sing the famous Pilgrims’ Chorus, and as they pass by the shrine, Elisabeth eagerly searches for her beloved Tannhäuser. He is not to be found among them; and when the pilgrims have departed, she kneels once more to pray to the Virgin Mary that Tannhäuser may yet be saved—and that she herself may leave this unhappy earth. When she arises, Wolfram wishes to accompany her home, but Elisabeth quietly refuses the kind offer: she hopes, now, only to die.

  Dusk is gathering; the evening star comes out; and Wolfram sings the famous aria to that heavenly body, accompanying himself on his harp. Now, in the semi-darkness, appears the wretched figure of Tannhäuser. Bitterly he says that he is on his way again to the Venusburg. He recites to Wolfram the long narrative of his journey to Rome. The hardships had been almost incredible; and when he reached the Pope, he had been told there was no forgiveness—not till the staff the Pope held in his hand should burst into bloom. Reasonably enough, Tannhäuser considers this unnatural phenomenon very unlikely. He calls upon the goddess Venus, who appears in the distance, singing seductive music and surrounded by her court of bacchantes. Desperately Wolfram tries to restrain his friend and finally succeeds only through telling him that one angel prays for his soul. Her name is “Elisabeth” Just as Tannhäuser is at last won over again, a cortege passes by bearing the body of Elisabeth, who has at last found the rest she so earnestly desired. Completely broken, Tannhäuser sinks down beside her bier.

  The opera closes ironically, but on a joyous tone. A chorus of young pilgrims enters bringing with them the latest miracle from Rome. It is the Pope’s staff, which has burst into bloom. God has forgiven the errant Tannhäuser.

  THE TELEPHONE

  or L’amour à trois

  Opera in one act by Gian-Carlo Menotti with libretto

  in English by the composer

  LUCY Soprano

  BEN Baritone

  Time: the present

  Place: practically any country with telephones

  First performance at New York, February 18, 1947

  Mr. Menotti’s The Medium is a grim and powerful tragedy but too short for a full bill at the opera house. Therefore, when it was first produced by the Ballet Society at the Heckscher Theater in New York, the composer supplied this short curtain-raiser most admirably contrasted in tone.


  The opening measures of the prelude have the tempo marking Allegro vivace. Translated literally, this musickese for “fast and lively” means “vivaciously happy”—as good a description of the entire score as anyone could find.

  In her apartment Lucy unwraps a present that Ben has just handed her, a bit of crazy sculpture. “Oh! Just what I wanted,” she giggles even before she has looked at it. Ben, obviously smitten with the pretty bird-brain and even more obviously shy, manages to say that he is going away by train in an hour, but when he returns he hopes, he hopes … He has not yet nerved himself to the proposal, when the telephone rings. It is one of her girl-friends, and for several pages she goes on with the typical inane chatter of girls on the telephone: “Jane and Paul are to get married next July. Don’t you think it is the funniest thing? … And how are you? And how is John? And how is Jean? … And how is Ursula? And how is Natalie? And how is Rosalie? I hope she’s gotten over her cold …” And so on, including the most delicious peals of merry girlish coloratura laughter, till poor Ben begins to show his desperation.

  Finally the conversation is through; Ben begins his embarrassed proposal once more; and there is another ring. Wrong number. Oh, but she must dial for the time. It is four-fifteen and three and a half seconds. Once more Ben begins. Once more the telephone. This time it is a friend named George. Apparently Lucy has been repeating some gossip about him, and she tries in vain to defend herself against his tirade. George hangs up on her; Lucy bursts into tears; and Ben tries awkwardly to soothe her. When she goes into the next room to get a handkerchief, Ben seriously considers cutting the telephone wire-but once more it rings, “desperately,” says the score. Lucy, running back and taking it from Ben, pouts that he “must have hit it first.” Now she must ring Pamela and tell her all about George. This is another real long call, and Ben, first muttering to himself, finally becomes desperate. Lucy barely notices when he leaves: “I have a feeling he had something on his mind,” she murmurs after hanging up.