Antonia.
Until to-morrow.
(Hoffman goes out.)
Antonia (opening one of the doors).
Of my father easily he has become the accomplice,
But come, regrets are superfluous,
I promised him. I shall sing no more.
(She falls in a chair.)
Miracle (appearing suddenly behind her.)
You will sing no more. Do you know what a sacrifice?
He imposes on your youth, and have you measured it?
Grace, beauty, talent, sacred gift;
All these blessings that heaven gave for your share,
Must they be hid in the shadow of a household?
Have you not heard, in a proud dream,
Like unto a forest by the wind moving,
Like a soft shiver of the pressing crowd
That murmurs your name and follows you with its eyes?
There is the ardent joy and the eternal festival,
That the flower of your years is about to abandon,
For the middle class pleasures where they would enchain you,
And the squalling children who will give you less beauty!
Antonia (without turning round).
Ah, what is this voice that troubles my spirit?
Is it Hell that speaks or Heaven that warns me?
No! happiness is not there, oh cursed voice,
And against my pride my love has armed me;
Glory is not worth the happy shade whence invites me
The house of my beloved.
Miracle.
What loves can now be yours,
Hoffman sacrifices you to his brutality,
He only loves in you your beauty,
And for him as for the others.
Soon will come the time of infidelity.
(He disappears.)
Antonia (rising).
No, do not tempt me! go away,
Demon! I will no longer listen.
I have sworn to be his, my beloved awaits me,
I’m no longer my own and I can’t take myself back;
And a few moments since, on his heart adored
What eternal love did he not pledge me;
Who will save me from the demon, from myself?
My mother, my mother, I love her.
(She falls weeping on the clavichord.)
Miracle (re-appears behind Antonia)
Your mother? Dare you invoke her?
Your mother? But is it not she?
Who speaks by my voice ingrate, and recalls to you
The splendor of the name that you would abdicate?
(The portrait lights up and becomes animated.)
Listen!
The Voice.
Antonia!
Antonia.
Heavens!... my mother, my mother!
The Ghost.
Dear child whom I call,
As I used to do,
’Tis your mother, ’tis she,
Listen to her voice.
Antonia.
Mother!
Miracle.
Yes, yes, ’tis her voice, do you hear?
Her voice, best counselor,
Who leaves you a talent the world has lost!
The Ghost.
Antonia!
Miracle.
Listen! She seems to live aagin,
And the distant public by its bravos fills her bliss.
Antonia.
Mother!
Ghost.
Antonia!
Miracle.
Join with her.
Antonia.
Yes, her soul calls me
As before;
’Tis my mother, ’tis she
I hear her voice.
The Ghost.
Dear child whom I call
As I used to do;
’Tis your mother, ’tis she;
List to her voice.
Antonia.
No, enough, I cannot!
Miracle.
Again.
Antonia.
I will sing no more.
Miracle.
Again.
Antonia.
What ardor draws and devours me?
Miracle.
Again! Why stop?
Antonia (out of breath).
I give way to a transport that maddens,
What flame is it dazzles my eyes
A single moment to live,
And my soul flies to Heaven.
The Ghost.
Dear child whom I call,
etc., etc.
Antonia.
’Tis my mother, ’tis she,
etc., etc.
Antonia.
Ah!
(She falls dying on the sofa. Miracle sinks in the earth uttering a peal of laughter.)
Crespel (running in).
My child... my daughter... Antonia!.
Antonia (expiring).
My father! Listen, ’tis my mother
Who calls me. And he... has returned...
’Tis a song of love,
Flies away,
Sad or joyful...
(She dies.)
Crespel.
No... a single word... just one... my child... speak!
Come, speak! Execrable death!
No! pity, mercy... go away!
Hoffman (coming hurriedly).
Why these cries?
Crespel.
Hoffman!... ah wretch!
’Tis you who killed her!...
Hoffman (rushing to Antonia).
Antonia!
Crespel (beside himself).
Blood to color her cheek. A weapon.
A knife!...
(He seises a knife and attacks Hoffman.)
Nicklausse (entering and stopping Crespel).
Unhappy man!
Hoffman (to Nicklausse).
Quick! give the alarm;
A doctor... a doctor!...
Miracle (appearing).
Present!
(He feels Antonia’s pulse.)
Dead!
Crespel (crazy).
Ah, God, my child, my daughter!
Hoffman (despairingly).
Antonia!

Epilogue.

(Same scene as First Act. The various personages are in the same positions they were in at the end of First Act.)
Hoffmann.
There is the story
Of my loves,
And the memory
In my heart will always remain.
Chorus.
Bravo, bravo, Hoffmann.
Hoffmann.
Ah, I am mad. For us the craze divine,
The spirits of alcohol, of beer and of wine,
For us intoxication,
Chaos where we forget.
Nicklausse.
Ah, I understand, three dramas in a drama, Olympia...
Hoffmann.
Smashed!
Nicklausse.
Antonia...
Hoffmann.
Dead!
Nicklausse.
Giulietta...
Hoffmann.
Oh, for her, the last verse of the song of Klein-Zach.
When he drank too much gin or rack,
You ought to have seen the two tails at his back,
Like lilies in a lac,
The monster made a sound of flick flack,
Flic, flac,
There’s Klein-Zach.
Chorus.
Flick flack,
There’s Klein-Zach.
Chorus.
Light up the punch, drunk we’ll get;
And may the weakest
Roll under the table;
Luther was a goodly man,
Tire lan laire, tire lan la,
etc., etc.
(The students tumultuously go in the next room. Hoffmann remains as if in a stupor.)
The Muse (appearing in an aureole of light).
And I? I, the faithful friend,
Whose hand wiped thy tears?
By whom thy latent sorrow
Exhales in heavenly dreams?
Am I nothing? May the tempest
Of passion pass away in thee!
The man is no more; the poet revives
I love thee Hoffmann! be mine!
Let the ashes of thy heart fire thy genius,
Whose serenity smiles on thy sorrows.
The Muse will soften thy blessed sufferings.
One is great by love but greater by tears.
(She disappears.)
Hoffmann (alone).
Oh God! what ecstasy embraces my soul,
Like a concert divine Thy voice hath moved me,
With soft and burning fire my being is devoured,
Thy glances in mine have suffused their flame,
Like radiant stars.
And I feel, beloved Muse,
Thy perfumed breath flutter
On my lips and on my eyes!
(He falls face on table.)
Stella (approaching slowly).
Hoffmann? asleep...
Nicklausse.
No, dead drunk. Too late, madame.
Lindorf.
Corbleu!
Nicklausse.
Oh, here is the counselor, Lindorf, who awaits you.
(Stella keeps her eyes on Hoffmann and throws a flower at his feet as she goes out with Lindorf.)
The End.
[Sheet Music]
MIDI
PDF
LilyPond source
Original typesetting, page [1] [2] [3] [4]

Transcriber’s note: Both the English and the French texts are known to have a significant number of errors, misprints, and inconsistencies. They are here presented without correction.
New Version
of
Les Contes d’Hoffmann
(The Tales of Hoffman)
Opera in Four Acts
With an original and novel first Act and other important changes
Book by Jules Barbier
Music by
J. Offenbach
New English version by Charles Alfred Byrne
As performed, for the first time in America at the
Manhattan Opera House,
under the direction of
Oscar Hammerstein.
English Version, 1907, by Steinway & Sons.
Charles E. Burden, Publisher, Steinway Hall
107-109 East 14th Street
New York.
Dramatis Personæ.
Les Contes d’Hoffmann

Premier Acte.

La Taverne de Maitre Luther
Choeur des Etudiants.
Drig! drig! drig! maître Luther,
Tison d’enfer,
Drig! drig! drig! à nous ta bière,
A nous ton vin,
Jusqu’au matin
Remplis mon verre,
Jusqu’au matin
Remplis les pots d’étain!
Nathanael.
Luther est un brave homme;
Tire lan laire!
C’est demain qu’on l’assomme;
Tire lan la!
Le Choeur.
Tire lan la!
Luther (allant de table en table).
Voilà, messieurs, voilà!
Hermann.
Sa cave est d’un bon drille;
Tire lan laire!
C’est demain qu’on la pille
Tire lan la!
Le Choeur.
Tire lan la!
(Bruit de gobelets.)
Luther.
Voilà, messieurs, voilà!
Wilhelm.
Sa femme est fille d’ Eve;
Tire lan laire:
C’est demain qu’on l’enlève;
Tire lan la!
Le Choeur.
Tire lan la!
Luther.
Voilà, messieurs, voilà!
Le Choeur.
Drig! drig! drig! maître Luther
etc., etc.
(Les étudiants s’assoient, boivent et fument dans tous les coins.)
Nathanael.
Vive Dieu! mes amis, la belle créature!
Comme au chef-d’ œuvre de Mozart
Elle prête l’accent d’une voix ferme et sûre!
C’est la grâce de la nature,
Et c’est le triomphe de l’art!
Que mon premier toast soit pour elle!
Je bois à la Stella!
Tous.
Vivat! à la Stella!
Nathaniel.
Comment Hoffmann n’est-il pas là
Eh! Luther!... ma grosse tonne!
Qu’as-tu fait de notre Hoffmann
Hermann.
C’est ton vin qui l’empoisonne!
Tu l’as tué, foi d’Hermann!
Tous.
Rends-nous Hoffmann!
Lindorf (á part).
Au diable Hoffmann!
Nathanael.
Morbleu! qu’on nous l’apporte
Ou ton dernier jour a lui!
Luther.
Messieurs, il ouvre la porte,
Et Niklausse est avec lui!
Tous.
Vivat! c’est lui!
Lindorf (à part).
Veillons sur lui.
Hoffmann (entrant d’un air sombre).
Bonjour, amis!
Nicklausse.
Bonjour!
Hoffmann.
Un tabouret! un verre!
Une pipe!...
Nicklausse (railleur).
Pardon, seigneur!...sans vous déplaire,
Je bois, fume et m’assieds comme vous!... part à deux!
Le Choeur.
C’est juste!... Place à tous les deux!
(Hoffmann et Nicklausse s’assoient; Hoffmann se prend la tête entre les mains.)
Nicklausse (fredonnant).
Notte a giorno mad dormire...
Hoffmann (brusquement).
Tais-toi, par le diable!...
Nicklausse (tranquillement).
Oui, mon maître.
Hermann (à Hoffmann).
Oh! oh! d’où vient cet air fâché?
Nathanael (à Hoffmann).
C’est à ne pas te reconnaître.
Hermann.
Sur quelle herbe as-tu donc marché?
Hoffmann.
Hélas! sur une herbe morte
Au souffle glacé du nord!...
Nicklausse.
Et là, près de cette porte,
Sur un ivrogne qui dort!
Hoffmann.
C’est vrai!... Ce coquin-là, pardieu! m’a fait envie!
A boire!... et, comme lui, couchons dans le ruisseau.
Hermann.
Sans oreiller?
Hoffmann.
La pierre!
Nathanael.
Et sans rideau?
Hoffmann.
Le ciel!
Nathanael.
Sans couvre-pied?
Hoffmann.
La pluie!
Hermann.
As-tu le cauchemar, Hoffmann?
Hoffmann.
Non, mais ce soir,
Tout à l’heure, au théâtre...
Tous.
Eh bien?
Hoffmann.
J’ai cru revoir...
Baste!... à quoi bon rouvrir une vieille blessure?
La vie est courte!... Il faut l’égayer en chemin.
Il faut boire, chanter et rire à l’aventure,
Sauf à pleurer demain!
Nathanael.
Chante donc le premier, sans qu’on te le demande;
Nous ferons chorus.
Hoffmann.
Soit!
Nathanael.
Quelque chose de gai!
Hermann
La chanson du Rat!
Nathanael.
Non! moi, j’en suis fatigué.
Ce qu’il nous faut, c’est la légende
De Klein-Zach?...
Tous.
C’est la légende de Klein-Zach!
Hoffmann.
Va pour Klein-Zach!
Il était une fois à la cour d’Eysenach
Un petit avorton qui se nommait Klein-Zach!
Il était coiffé d’un colbac,
Et ses jambes faisaient clic, clac!
Clic, clac!
Voilà Klein-Zach!
Le Choeur
Clic, clac!...
Voilà Klein-Zach!
Hoffmann.
Il avait une bosse en guise d’estomac;
Ses pieds ramifiés semblaient sortir d’un sac,
Son nez était noir de tabac,
Et sa tête faisait cric, crac,
Cric, crac,
Voilà Klein-Zach.
Le Choeur.
Cric, crac,
Voilà Klein-Zach!
Hoffmann.
Quant aux traits de sa figure...
(Il semble s’absorber peu à peu dans son rêve.)
Le Choeur.
Quant aux traits de sa figure?...
Hoffmann (très lentement).
Quant aux traits de sa figure..
(Il se lève.)
Ah! sa figure était charmante!... Je la vois,
Belle comme le jour où, courant après elle,
Je quittai comme un fou la maison paternelle
Et m’enfuis à travers les vallons et les bois!
Ses cheveux en torsades sombres
Sur son col élégant jetaient leurs chaudes ombres.
Ses yeux, enveloppés d’azur,
Promenaient autour d’elle un regard frais et pur
Et, comme notre char emportait sans secousse
Nos coeurs et nos amours, sa voix vibrante et douce
Aux cieux qui l’écoutaient jetait ce chant vainqueur
Dont l’éternel écho résonne dans mon coeur!
Nathanael.
O bizarre cervelle!
Qui diable peins-tu là! Klein-Zach?...
Hoffmann.
Je parle d’elle.
Nathanael.
Qui?
Hoffmann (sortant de son rêve).
Non! personne!... rien! mon esprit se troublait!
Rien... Et Klein-Zach vaut mieux, tout difforme qu’il est!...
Le Choeur.
Flic, flac!
Voilà Klein-Zach!
Hoffmann (jetant son verre).
Peuh!... cette bière est détestable!
Allumons le punch! grisons-nous!
Et que les plus fous
Roulent sous la table.
Le Choeur.
Et que les plus fous
Roulent sous la table!
(On éteint les lumières. Luther allume un immense bol de punch.)
Luther est un brave homme,
Tire lan laire,
Tire lan la,
C’est demain qu’on l’assomme,
Tire lan laire,
Tire lan la,
Sa cave est d’un bon drille.
Tire lan laire
Tire lan la,
C’est demain qu’on la pille,
Tire lan laire,
Tire lan la.
Nicklausse.
A la bonne heure, au moins! voilà que l’on se pique