Coppélia at Christmas: A Tale of Love and Laughter

Prologue 

(To be performed before Act I. Lights low; soft snowfall SFX; distant sleigh bells.)

Stage Picture:
A gentle tableau forms in dim light:

• Upstage right, Coppélia sits motionless on a small balcony, book in her lap, a lantern glowing beside her.

• Upstage left, Dr. Coppélius stands in silhouette behind a sheer curtain, tinkering with a tiny clockwork heart on a velvet cushion.

• Downstage center, villagers bustle in slow motion—stringing garlands, testing a wobbly ladder by a giant tree, chasing a goose who has stolen a ribbon.

• Swanilda and Franz appear opposite each other, each holding a small lantern, glancing from the crowd to the balcony.

Music Cue: A hush of strings; a single celesta line like falling snow.

Grandmother (entering downstage, carrying a basket of knitted mittens; she addresses the audience):
Once upon a winter evening—when breath was a ribbon in the air and even the moon wore a shawl—our village remembered something it had nearly forgotten: the sound of a heart when it listens.
(She smiles up at Coppélia’s balcony.)
There, you see her? The quiet girl who never waves back. Some called her an angel. Some called her a rumor. A few of us, braver than we knew, called her a mystery that would teach us how to laugh again.

(She crosses toward Coppélius’ shadow.)
In that window, a toymaker mended clocks and kept time for people who did not visit. He longed for a voice to answer his cocoa, for footsteps that came back after goodnight. So he made what he could—gears that tick, eyes that shine, and a dream that sat very still.

(She glances between Swanilda and Franz.)
Here, a girl who speaks her mind as easily as she breathes; there, a boy whose eyes climb ladders faster than his feet. And all around them, we villagers—stitching our days together with gingerbread, gossip, and carols. We are imperfect. We are lopsided. We are… real.

(Beat. She holds up a knitted, slightly crooked heart ornament.)
Christmas, as I tell my grandchildren, is not the perfection of a star that never slips—it’s the laughter when it does. It’s the mittens we knit a little crooked, the cocoa a little too cinnamon, the yes we say to a neighbor we once passed by.

(She points gently to Coppélia.)
Tonight, we’ll chase a balcony angel and find a better miracle. We’ll open a locked door and discover it was our hands that kept it shut. We’ll hear a new bell—oh yes, listen for it—and when it rings, remember this:

Grandmother (to audience, with a wink):
Love cannot be manufactured. But it can be given.

Chorus of Children (softly, from the aisles or offstage—humming a refrain that will return in the finale):
“Ring, Christmas bell, so wide, so clear,
Call every heart to love this year.”

Grandmother (placing the crooked heart into an empty lantern at the foot of the tree; it glows faintly):
Come closer, then. The snow has saved us a front-row seat. And if you see a goose with tinsel in its beak—just let it keep the tinsel. Some thieves improve the story.

(She laughs, lifts her lantern to the audience, and backs into the village bustle.)

Lighting:
Warm wash fades in on the villagers; the tableau dissolves into motion, tipping us straight into the lively business of Act I.

Act I — The Village Square at Christmas

Scene opens:
Snow falls gently over a small European village square. A giant Christmas tree stands at the center, half-decorated. Children run about with garlands tangled like jump ropes. Villagers bustle with baskets of mince pies, ribbons, and lanterns.

Music: The orchestra plays a cheerful mazurka with sleigh-bell jingles.

Scene 1 — Decorating the Tree

Villager 1 (holding a ladder, wobbling):
Steady! Steady! If this star falls one more time, I’m blaming the goose.

Villager 2 (with a basket of apples):
Blaming the goose? It’s the star that keeps falling, not the goose!

Child 1 (pointing):
The goose is eating the tinsel again!

(The villagers rush to chase the goose, who flaps away triumphantly with tinsel trailing from its beak. Laughter all around.)

Swanilda (entering with friends, laughing):
Every year the same goose, every year the same star. Christmas never changes.

Friend 1:
And every year Franz nearly falls off the ladder trying to fix it.

(They look up. Sure enough, Franz is high on the ladder, reaching for the top branch, his scarf dangling dangerously.)

Franz (calling down):
Don’t worry, I’ve got it under control—

(The ladder wobbles. Franz slips, catches the branch, and hangs like an ornament. The villagers gasp, then burst into laughter.)

Swanilda (hands on hips, teasing):
Under control, hmm? Should I add you to the tree, or will you climb down yourself?

Franz (grinning sheepishly):
Only if you promise to hang me near the gingerbread ornaments.

Villager 3:
You’d eat yourself free before Christmas Eve!

(All laugh. Franz climbs down, brushing snow off his coat.)

Scene 2 — The Silent Beauty

(Suddenly, Swanilda notices Coppélia sitting motionless on the balcony of Dr. Coppélius’ house. She holds a book, perfectly still, like a Christmas angel in a shop window.)

Swanilda (narrowing her eyes):
And there she is again. The quiet one.

Franz (dreamily):
She’s radiant, isn’t she? Like an angel carved from snow.

Swanilda:
Radiant? She hasn’t moved in weeks. Perhaps she’s frozen solid!

Friend 2 (giggling):
Or waiting for her prince to climb up and thaw her with a kiss.

Swanilda (rolling her eyes):
Don’t give Franz ideas.

Franz (innocent):
I wasn’t thinking of kissing her! …Well, not exactly.

(The friends laugh. Swanilda folds her arms.)

Swanilda:
You’d better think twice, Franz. If she’s an angel, she belongs in heaven, not dangling on balconies.

Franz (sighing):
Still… don’t you wonder why she never speaks? Never waves?

Swanilda (archly):
I wonder why my fiancé spends more time staring at a doll than at me.

(The villagers whisper among themselves.)

Villager 4:
Some say she’s Dr. Coppélius’ niece.
Villager 5:
Others say she’s a doll he made—his masterpiece.
Villager 6:
Nonsense. No doll can look that alive!

(The goose waddles in again, honking loudly as if to mock the discussion. The villagers shoo it off again with laughter.)

Scene 3 — Grandmother’s Wisdom

(An elderly grandmother enters, carrying a basket of knitted mittens. She overhears the chatter.)

Grandmother:
Children, children. You quarrel over shadows. A still face tells you nothing of the heart.

Swanilda (softening):
Grandmother, do you think she’s real?

Grandmother (smiling kindly):
Real or not, it matters little. True love is not in the silence of a statue, but in the laughter that warms your hand when the nights are cold.

(She gently takes Swanilda’s hand and places it in Franz’s, then hobbles away, humming a carol. The villagers murmur in agreement.)

Swanilda (to Franz, teasing but touched):
Hear that? If you’d rather laugh with an ice sculpture, be my guest.

Franz (chuckling, embarrassed):
No statue could ever match your sharp tongue, Swanilda.

Swanilda:
And don’t you forget it.

Scene 4 — The Festival Dances

(Music swells. Villagers begin festive dances: the Mazurka and Czárdás, now imagined as Christmas dances — with jingling bells, children tossing snow in the air, couples spinning with ribbons. Franz tries to join in but keeps glancing at Coppélia’s balcony. Swanilda notices.)

Swanilda (during the dance, whispering to her friends):
Enough is enough. Tonight we discover the truth. Doll or maiden, she’ll speak—or I’ll pull her nose to find out.

Friend 1 (shocked, laughing):
Swanilda! You wouldn’t!

Swanilda (grinning):
Watch me.

Franz (to himself, glancing at Coppélia):
If only I could climb that balcony…

Villager 7:
Franz, keep your feet on the ground or you’ll end up kissing the snow again!

(All laugh. The dance ends in cheers. A church bell tolls, reminding everyone of the midnight hour approaching.)

Scene 5 — The Dare

(Night falls. Lanterns glow. The villagers head off to prepare for midnight mass. Swanilda lingers with her friends.)

Swanilda (whispering conspiratorially):
Listen, while the village prays, we’ll slip into Coppélius’ workshop. I want to see her up close.

Friend 2 (nervous):
But he’s strange, Swanilda… they say he talks to his dolls at night.

Friend 3 (giggling):
And serves them cocoa!

Swanilda (determined):
All the better. Tonight we pull back the curtain on his secrets. Who’s with me?

(The girls glance at one another. Slowly, they nod, excitement overcoming fear.)

Friend 1:
If we get caught, you’ll explain it to my mother.

Swanilda (smirking):
Gladly. I’ll say we went Christmas caroling.

(They laugh softly, clasp hands, and sneak off toward Coppélius’ house, their lanterns flickering in the snow.)

Scene 6 — Franz’s Secret Plan

(Meanwhile, Franz lingers in the square, gazing up at Coppélia’s balcony.)

Franz (to himself, dreamy):
She sits so still… but what if she waits for someone brave enough to climb up?

(He grabs the ladder from the Christmas tree and props it against Coppélius’ house. He looks around nervously.)

Franz:
Swanilda would scold me for this… but perhaps I’ll bring her a gift from the angel herself.

(He begins to climb as snow falls, the stage darkening around him, spotlight on the mysterious balcony.)

Curtain falls for Act I.

Act II — Dr. Coppélius’ Toy Workshop (Christmas Eve Night)

Lights up:
Snow tap-taps at the windowpanes. We’re inside a cluttered, magical toy workshop—half Santa’s grotto, half mad-inventor’s den. Tall shelves hold nutcrackers, clockwork birds, marionettes, music boxes, tin soldiers, and a half-built rocking horse. A string of mismatched Christmas lights flickers—some steady, some strobing, some hopelessly dark.

A large velvet curtain at the back hides a tall figure seated on a throne-like chair—only the outline is visible. Nearby sits a delicate life-sized doll with porcelain hands, a book resting open on her lap. Her nameplate reads: Coppélia.

A clock ticks. Somewhere, a kettle hisses.

Scene 1 — The Midnight Intruders

(A window creaks. SWANILDA and her three FRIENDS clamber in, one at a time, landing in a soft pile of stuffing. Each tries not to squeal.)

Friend 1 (whisper):
My skirt—full of snow!

Friend 2 (whisper):
My heart—full of doom.

Friend 3 (whisper, holding a nutcracker that bites her finger):
And my finger—full of teeth!

Swanilda (whisper, grinning):
Hush. If dolls bite, wait till you meet their maker.

(They tiptoe. A JACK-IN-THE-BOX springs open with a boing. All four nearly levitate.)

Friend 1:
Aah!

Swanilda (hand to chest, then smirking):
A premature heart attack. Charming.

(They sneak forward. A mechanical OWL’s eyes glow; it hoots. The girls freeze.)

Friend 2:
It sees us!

Swanilda (to the owl):
Hoo’s a good boy? (She gently turns the owl to face a wall.) Watch that paint dry for me, won’t you?

(They approach the velvet curtain. Swanilda peeks behind it and gasps softly.)

Swanilda (awed, almost reverent):
There she is.

(Reveal: COPPÉLIA, life-sized, exquisitely dressed, pale and perfect, seated with an open book. Moonlight glazes her face.)

Friend 3 (whisper):
She’s beautiful.

Friend 1 (leaning in):
Does she—blink?

Swanilda (squinting):
No breath. No warmth. Just porcelain and polish.

(Swanilda gently taps Coppélia’s wrist with a mittened finger.)

Swanilda:
Cold as December.

Friend 2 (with relief):
So she is a doll.

Friend 1 (half-resigned, half-amused):
And Franz is an idiot.

Swanilda (quietly, protectively):
He’s not an idiot. Just a boy who thinks angels sit on balconies.

(From another shelf, a CLOCKWORK ANGEL tilts forward and bumps Swanilda’s shoulder with a tinny chime.)

Swanilda (to the angel):
You keep your halo, I’ll keep my temper.

Friend 3 (rubbing hands):
We should go. We’ve seen the truth. He’ll listen to you now.

Swanilda (eyes alight with mischief):
Not yet. I have an idea—
(She glances at a garment rack holding costumes and wigs.)
A wicked, wonderful, cinnamon-scented idea.

Friend 1:
Swanilda—

(The front door key rattles. All four freeze.)

Friend 2 (a whisper-scream):
He’s back!

Swanilda (urgent whisper):
Hide!

(They scatter. Friend 3 dives under a tarp; Friend 1 tumbles into an empty toy chest; Friend 2 squeezes behind a rocking horse. Swanilda flattens behind the velvet curtain beside Coppélia.)

Scene 2 — Enter the Toymaker

(The door opens with a slow creak. DR. COPPÉLIUS enters: tall, thin, wrapped in a wool cloak and scarf. He sets down a bag. He mutters as he locks up.)

Coppélius (to himself):
Snow like this excuses lateness. Letters pile up, tempers fray, bells freeze… yet the heart, stubborn fool, keeps time.

(He hangs his cloak, lights a lamp. The workshop glows warm. He hums a tune, then turns toward the velvet curtain. He bows slightly to Coppélia’s silhouetted form.)

Coppélius (softly):
Good evening, my dove.

(He pours hot cocoa from the kettle into two cups, sets one on a saucer near Coppélia.)

Coppélius:
I know. You prefer peppermint. We’ll compromise with cinnamon tonight.

(He sips. He sighs. He talks to her as if she hears.)

Coppélius:
What do they know, these villagers with their sticky mittens and sloppy ribbons? They call me lonely. Pah. I am not lonely—I am precise.
(He glances at the cup near her.)
Yes, yes, precise men can be lonely. But not tonight. Tonight, I believe the gears are ready.

(He sets the cup down and unveils a table with strange instruments: a copper spiral, a crystal phial, a small bell, a curious mechanical heart on a velvet pillow, ticking faintly.)

Coppélius (to the heart, proudly):
Listen—tick-tick, tick-tick—like a child’s first steps. You and I will trade winter for spring, my brave device.

(A faint thump above. A shadow drifts across the upper window.)

Coppélius (ears pricking):
Hnh.

(He stares, then shakes his head.)

Coppélius:
Snow sliding. Or nonsense creeping. I ignore both.

(He moves to Coppélia. He addresses her hands, her book, her cheek with clumsy tenderness.)

Coppélius:
Tonight we test the final equation. Tonight you may tell me if I’ve over-sugared the cocoa.

(Behind the curtain, Swanilda bites her glove to quiet a gasp. Coppélius stiffens.)

Coppélius:
Drafts. Just drafts.

Scene 3 — One Fool More (Franz)

(At the high window, a silhouette appears: FRANZ. He is half-frozen, clinging to the frame. He whispers to himself.)

Franz:
I’m a snowflake with boots. A snowflake… with boots… and poor judgment.

(He eases the window open, slides inside, and lands on a pile of wrapping paper with a crinkle as loud as thunder. He freezes. Coppélius whirls.)

Coppélius (dangerously quiet):
My workshop is closed.

Franz (hands up, breath puffing like steam):
Sir! Forgive me—I mean no harm. I—I saw an angel on your balcony—

Coppélius:
So the rumor grows legs, climbs ladders, and falls through my window. Angel, you say?

Franz (nodding with sincerity and naïveté):
She never moves. She reads. She—
(He stops; sees Coppélia behind the curtain’s gap. A soft, stunned whisper.)
It’s her.

Coppélius (cold):
She is mine.

Franz (blushing, earnest):
I have a fiancée. She’s wonderful. I’m just… curious.

Coppélius (arch):
Ah. Curiosity, cousin to trouble.

Franz:
I’ll leave. Truly. I only wanted to see— to know if—

Coppélius (suddenly cordial, calculating):
If she could look at you the way you looked at her.
(He studies Franz with growing interest.)
Strong pulse. Good color. Foolish courage.

Franz (hopeful):
Does that mean you… forgive me?

Coppélius (smiling thinly):
It means you may help me with a small experiment.

Franz (unsure):
Experiment?

Coppélius (gesturing to a chair by the copper spiral):
Sit. It’s quite safe. Mostly. If you believe in Christmas miracles.

Franz (edges toward the chair):
How safe is “mostly”?

Coppélius:
Safer than a ladder in a snowstorm.

(Franz sits. Coppélius straps a band gently over his wrist, as if taking a pulse. He places the curious ticking heart nearby.)

Coppélius (half to himself, half to the heart):
Life is a river. A cup may borrow from a river. A cup may pour back.

Franz:
Borrow what, exactly?

Coppélius:
Warmth. A little spark. Just a little.

Franz:
Like lending fire to a neighbor’s hearth?

Coppélius (pleased):
Yes. And when she wakes, I shall repay you with cocoa and answers.

(He turns a crank. The copper spiral hums faintly. The crystal phial glows, then dims. Franz’s eyelids flutter.)

Franz (drowsy):
Why is the room… pudding?

Coppélius (gently):
Breathe. Think of bells.

(Behind the curtain, Swanilda clamps a hand over her mouth. Her eyes blaze.)

Scene 4 — The Doll Awakens (…Sort Of)

(Coppélius moves to the velvet curtain, breath trembling.)

Coppélius:
Coppélia. Beloved. Shall we?

(He rings the small bell once—clear and pure. He draws the curtain back to reveal… Coppélia on her chair—still and perfect. Beside her, hidden from the angle of Franz’s chair, SWANILDA slips into place behind Coppélia’s chair, then swiftly around to sit on the doll’s throne the moment he looks away, lifting the doll carefully behind the velvet—so from Franz’s perspective, a figure remains. Coppélius turns back and—)

Coppélius (whispers):
Awake.

(Swanilda sits rigid, eyes wide, mimicking a doll. She fights a grin.)

Swanilda-as-Coppélia (flat, mechanical):
Gooood… eve… ning.

Franz (startled, then dazzled):
She—she spoke!

Coppélius (ecstatic, adoring):
Yes, my heart. Speak again.

Swanilda-as-Coppélia (stiff):
Co-co… co… (she glances at the cocoa cup) …co-coa?

Coppélius (overjoyed):
She wants cocoa! She has taste!

Franz (relieved, woozy):
Then all is well. A woman who likes cocoa cannot be a ghost.

Swanilda-as-Coppélia (trying not to laugh):
Ho… ho… ho.

Coppélius (tearing up):
She knows the season!

(He offers the cup with shaking hands. Swanilda sips, winces exaggeratedly, and sticks out her tongue like a child.)

Swanilda-as-Coppélia:
Too… cinn-a… mon.

Coppélius (deliriously happy):
She has opinions!

(Swanilda rises with the jerkiness of a music-box ballerina. She turns in a stiff circle, then, with mock-gravity, pokes the copper spiral as if it were a cat. It purrs.)

Swanilda-as-Coppélia (gasp):
Prrrrr.

Coppélius (laughing with her):
Yes! Prrrr indeed. You clever clock!

Franz (dazed, smiling, charmed):
She’s wonderful.

(Swanilda glances at him—still in doll mode—and shakes her head minutely: “no.” Then she abruptly presents her hand to Coppélius, palm up, imperious.)

Swanilda-as-Coppélia:
Candy… cane.

Coppélius (rummaging frantically):
At once!

(He produces a candy cane. Swanilda takes it, studies it like a scientist, snaps it in two, hands half to Franz with solemn ceremony.)

Swanilda-as-Coppélia:
Shar-ing.

Franz (moved):
She’s kind!

Coppélius (glowing):
She is perfect.

Scene 5 — The Merry Mayhem

(Swanilda-as-Coppélia wanders the workshop, “discovering” things: she tries to wind a music box and overspins it; a whole chorus of tiny ballerinas whirl too fast. She claps with wooden precision—clack, clack, clack—then suddenly dances with loose, human joy before snapping back into stiffness. She wears a toy soldier’s hat and salutes the rocking horse. She places a scarf comically around the copper spiral. The FRIENDS peek out of hiding, trying not to laugh out loud.)

Friend 1 (from toy chest, whisper):
She’s going to blow our cover.

Friend 2 (behind rocking horse):
She’s going to blow up the shop.

Friend 3 (under tarp, delighted):
Never loved her more.

(Coppélius stops to listen. The girls duck. He shrugs it off, too enchanted to care.)

Coppélius (to Swanilda-as-Coppélia):
Will you… read? The book, perhaps?

Swanilda-as-Coppélia (stiffly returning to the chair, picking up the book):
Read-ing.
(She opens it upside-down, nods earnestly, then flips it.)
Improved.

Franz (beaming):
She’s brilliant.

Swanilda-as-Coppélia (robotic sincerity):
Read-ing: “Love is… not made. Love is…
(She pauses, looks at Franz, then at Coppélius.)
…given.”

Coppélius (caught, breath stalling):
Given?

Swanilda-as-Coppélia (softening just a hair):
Given.

(A hush. Even the copper spiral seems to hush. Coppélius looks years older and years younger in the same second.)

Coppélius (hoarse):
Who told you that?

Swanilda-as-Coppélia (smiles—quick, human—then snaps back to doll):
Ho-ho-ho.

(The spell breaks into laughter. Coppélius wipes his eyes, laughing with a little sob.)

Coppélius:
You’re wicked. And wonderful.

Franz (weak from the machine and wonder):
If she is truly alive—she’ll choose. And if she’s only a miracle for a night—then bless the night.

Coppélius (suddenly anxious, fearing the magic will fade):
More spark. Just a touch.

(He reaches toward the apparatus. Swanilda darts forward, catches his hand—still in doll stiffness but voice now tender.)

Swanilda-as-Coppélia:
No.

(Their eyes meet: the lonely maker and the girl in masquerade. Something passes between them—recognition, kindness, the soft mercy of Christmastime.)

Scene 6 — The Reveal and the Rescue

(Behind Swanilda, a marionette’s string tangles; her wrist jerks strangely. She fumbles, nearly drops the illusion. Friend 3, under the tarp, tries to free the string, yanking; a row of tin soldiers topples like dominoes—clang-clang-clang! Coppélius startles. Swanilda flinches.)

Coppélius (a beat of dawning):
You—

Swanilda (drops the doll act; sincere, breathless):
I’m sorry.

Franz (blinking):
Swanilda?

Swanilda:
Yes, you goose. Who else breaks into toyshops to save you?

Franz (overjoyed, then confused):
But—she spoke. She laughed. She—

Swanilda (gently):
I did. For her.

(Coppélius looks to the chair. He yanks back the curtain further—revealing the true porcelain Coppélia, still and silent. The truth lands. The room is suddenly too bright.)

Coppélius (crushed, voice cracking to a whisper):
I only wanted…
(He stops. He cannot finish.)

Swanilda (soft):
I know.

Coppélius (angry at himself, at fate, at winter):
You think me a fool, playing husband to lacquer and springs.

Swanilda:
No. I think you brave.
(Beat.)
It takes courage to name your loneliness.

Coppélius (stares at the copper spiral, the ticking heart, the book, the cocoa, the ridiculous candy cane):
I hear only gears. I wanted a voice.

Swanilda (steps closer, gentle but clear):
You heard one tonight. Mine. And his.
(She gestures to Franz.)
The village is full of voices. You’ve been listening to the wrong quiet.

Franz (standing, wobbly, removing the strap from his wrist):
Sir… I’m sorry I intruded. I thought I needed a miracle from a balcony. Turns out I needed a nudge from a ladder.

Swanilda (deadpan):
And a fiancé who won’t flirt with furniture.

Franz (hands up):
Never again. I promise.

Coppélius (a bitter laugh that melts at the edges):
You two—argue like duetists.
(He exhales; the fight leaves him.)
Go. The night is kind to lovers. Less kind to old men and their mechanisms.

Swanilda (shakes her head):
Not tonight.
(She walks to the worktable, picks up the little ticking heart, and sets it gently back on its velvet.)
Tonight is kind to everyone.

(She looks around, then nods to her hiding friends.)

Swanilda (calling softly):
Come out, you crumbs of courage.

(Friend 1 pops the toy chest; Friend 2 emerges, brushing hay; Friend 3 wriggles out with a festive ribbon stuck in her hair.)

Friend 3 (to Coppélius, earnest):
We’re sorry, sir.

Friend 1:
We’ll help tidy.

Friend 2 (producing a small knitted ornament shaped like a heart):
We… brought you this. I—made it, badly. The bottom is lopsided, like holidays sometimes.

(She hands him the ornament. Coppélius receives it as if it were a relic.)

Coppélius (quiet, moved):
For… me?

Friend 2 (nodding, then blurting):
So you can stop pouring cocoa for statues and start pouring for us. If you want. Sometimes. Maybe.
(She panics.)
We’ll bring our own mugs!

(A beat—then laughter trembles the air. Even the copper spiral hums cheerfully.)

Swanilda (to Coppélius):
Come tomorrow to the tree. There’s a new bell. There will be music, and no experiments.

Franz (sheepish):
And no ladders.

Coppélius (touches the lopsided heart, a smile caving his face from within):
Tomorrow then.
(He looks to his porcelain Coppélia, and—for the first time—bows not as a suitor but as a craftsman saying goodbye to a finished work.)
Sleep well, my art.

Swanilda (softly):
And wake up, sir.

Scene 7 — Slapstick Farewell (Because Christmas)

(Everyone bustles to tidy. Friend 3 tries to re-stack the tin soldiers; they collapse again—clang-clang-clang.)

Friend 3:
They faint at compliments.

Franz (replacing the soldier hats):
Or at cinnamon.

Swanilda (to Franz, mock-severe):
Speaking of cinnamon—next time you chase an angel, bring me along.

Franz (placing a soldier upright, saluting it):
Next time I chase anything, I’ll chase you.

(The JACK-IN-THE-BOX pops again. Everyone jumps, then laughs.)

Coppélius (closing the box with a fond pat):
Enough, Jack. Surprise is only sweet in small bites.

(He brings out a small tray of gingerbread men—slightly burnt, some missing limbs.)

Coppélius:
Trial batch. My recipes are like my inventions: they improve with witnesses.

Swanilda (accepting one with delight):
A little crisp. A little sweet. Like the perfect fiancé.

Franz (biting an arm off his gingerbread):
I’m working on the crisp. Got the sweet covered.

Friend 1 (raising her cookie):
To Christmas Eve—
Friend 2:
To kindness—
Friend 3:
To eccentric toymakers—

Swanilda:
—to miracles that turn out to be people.

Coppélius (almost to himself, but they hear him):
—and to voices, given and received.

(They eat, chuckle, clean. The workshop is a touch neater, a touch brighter.)

Scene 8 — Exeunt to Bells

Swanilda (to Franz):
We should go, before the bell. We promised my grandmother we’d sit with her at mass.

Franz (offering his arm):
Then let’s keep a promise for once tonight.

Swanilda (taking his arm, then pausing to face Coppélius):
You’ll come tomorrow?

Coppélius (holding the knitted heart):
I will come.
(He looks around his workshop—then opens the door. Snow drifts in, soft and new.)
Perhaps I’ve been the one who never waved back.

Swanilda (smiling):
We see you now.

(The FRIENDS slip out first, giggling. Franz and Swanilda follow—he stops, looks up at the balcony, then deliberately looks away, down at Swanilda, and grins. She smirks: good.)

Franz (to Coppélius, sincere):
Thank you for not keeping me in a jar.

Coppélius (dry):
Thank you for not fainting into my apparatus.

Franz:
Close call.

(They exit into the snowy night. Coppélius stands in the doorway, breathing the cold air. He steps back in, turns to the porcelain Coppélia, and—very gently—covers her with a shawl.)

Coppélius (whisper):
Goodnight, little winter. I am going to the tree tomorrow.

(He hangs the knitted, lopsided heart on a peg. It promptly falls. He tries again. It falls again. He tries a third time; it stays. He nods—there are rules to this universe after all.)

Coppélius (to the room):
Ho… ho… ho.

(He chuckles at himself, blows out the lamp. Only the mismatched Christmas lights remain, twinkling with renewed courage.)

Blackout.

Act III — The Christmas Festival

Scene opens:
The village square glows with Christmas magic. A massive evergreen stands fully decorated, now crowned with the star that Franz almost toppled in Act I. Lanterns twinkle, snow falls gently, and the air hums with carols. At center stage stands a grand bell, newly forged, draped with garlands, ready to ring at midnight.

Children chase one another with snowballs; villagers bustle with pies, mugs of mulled cider, and fiddles tuning up. There’s an atmosphere of anticipation and forgiveness.

Scene 1 — The Bell Blessing

Mayor (booming voice):
Good people, gather near! Tonight we bless our new Christmas bell. May its chime call us to peace, to joy, to laughter shared.

Villagers (cheer):
Hurrah for the bell! Hurrah for Christmas!

Choir of children (singing in round, sweetly):
“Ding, dong, merrily, ding—
Snowflakes fall and voices sing!”

(The crowd claps. SWANILDA enters with her FRIENDS, radiant in festive shawls. FRANZ follows, carrying a basket of gingerbread shaped like stars and hearts. The villagers greet them warmly.)

Friend 1:
Swanilda, tell them what we saw last night!

Swanilda (winking):
Some stories are best left behind velvet curtains.

Friend 2 (grinning):
But we’ll never forget his face when you asked for a candy cane.

Franz (groaning good-naturedly):
You had to remind them.

Swanilda (smiling, sly):
Better than reminding them of your ladder stunt.

(Laughter. They hand out gingerbread. Children squeal with delight.)

Scene 2 — The Lovers Reconcile

(The crowd disperses into small circles of chatter and dancing. Swanilda and Franz step aside to speak privately.)

Franz (earnest):
Swanilda… I was foolish. I thought beauty on a balcony was a miracle. But a miracle isn’t something still—it’s something that laughs with you, scolds you, and hands you half a candy cane.

Swanilda (softly, but teasing):
You’re slow, but you’ve finally learned.

Franz:
I don’t want angels carved from snow. I want you. With your fire, your wit, your warmth.

Swanilda (pretending to consider):
Hmm. A fiancé who climbs ladders after dolls, or one who keeps both feet on the ground with me?

Franz (pleading, playful):
Choose the one who bakes gingerbread.

Swanilda (grinning):
Then I choose wisely.

(They laugh, embracing. The villagers clap at the sight, some shouting “Kiss her, Franz!” He does, blushing.)

Scene 3 — Enter Coppélius

(A hush falls. DR. COPPÉLIUS enters, wrapped in his wool cloak, holding the knitted, lopsided heart ornament from Act II. At first, villagers stiffen. Then a child runs up and tugs his sleeve.)

Child:
Mister Coppélius! We saved you a seat by the bell!

(The child pulls him into the crowd. The villagers begin murmuring kindly instead of mockingly.)

Villager 1:
He’s here.
Villager 2:
With us, at last.
Villager 3:
Not in that shop alone.

(Coppélius looks overwhelmed, almost shy. He clutches the ornament.)

Mayor (warmly):
Welcome, sir. This night belongs to us all.

Coppélius (voice catching):
I thought the bell would sound too loud. But perhaps it is I who have been too quiet.

Swanilda (stepping forward):
Not tonight. Tonight, you are seen.

Franz (smiling):
And heard—if you’ll sing with us.

Coppélius (hesitant, then smiling):
I may hum. Loudly.

(The crowd laughs gently. The tension dissolves. Children present him with mittens and a steaming mug of cider. He accepts with trembling hands.)

Scene 4 — The Festival Dances

(Music swells. The villagers begin celebratory dances, reimagined from Delibes’ ballet numbers as Christmas carols in motion.)

• Dance of Dawn: Children in white scarves dance with lanterns, representing morning’s light.

• Dance of Prayer: Women sing a carol, voices lifting like bells.

• Dance of Work: Men pretend to chop wood, then break into silly stomping jigs with candy canes as props.

• Dance of Evening: Couples sway, holding candles that twinkle like stars.

(Swanilda and Franz join the final dance. Coppélius watches, at first wistful, then smiling as a small girl tugs him into the circle. Awkwardly, he joins, moving stiffly at first—like his dolls—then loosening, finally laughing. The villagers cheer.)

Scene 5 — The Bell Rings

(The MAYOR signals for silence. Midnight approaches.)

Mayor:
Friends, the moment has come. Let the bell ring, not only for Christmas, but for forgiveness, for kindness, for community.

(The choir hushes. All eyes turn to the bell. Swanilda takes Franz’s hand. Together, they pull the rope. The bell tolls—deep, resonant, filling the square. Snow swirls in the air, shimmering in lantern light. Villagers cheer, some wiping tears.)

Choir and Villagers (singing):
“Ring, Christmas bell, so wide, so clear,
Call every heart to love this year.
No doll, no star, no dream above,
Can warm us more than human love.”

Scene 6 — The Marriage Blessing

(The villagers gather Swanilda and Franz in the center, placing garlands over their shoulders.)

Mayor (smiling):
Swanilda, Franz—you quarrel like children and forgive like saints. That is marriage enough. Tonight, we bless your union. May laughter be your roof and kindness your hearth.

Villagers (shouting):
Hurrah!

(Franz kisses Swanilda’s hand. She kisses his cheek. The crowd erupts in cheer, tossing snow in the air like confetti.)

Scene 7 — Coppélius’ Gift

(The music quiets. Coppélius steps forward, still holding the knitted heart ornament. He clears his throat.)

Coppélius:
I have nothing fine to give. My dolls are tricks, my gears are noise. But—
(He holds up the ornament.)
Last night, children gave me this. It is lopsided, but true.
(He hangs it on the great Christmas tree, where it stays firm this time.)
It belongs here, with you.

(The crowd applauds softly, moved. Swanilda approaches him.)

Swanilda:
You gave us something too, sir. You reminded us that even foolish dreams can be healed by laughter.

Franz:
And by gingerbread, slightly burnt.

(Laughter. Coppélius chuckles, shaking his head. For the first time, he looks content, standing among them, not apart.)

Scene 8 — The Finale

(Music swells into the “Waltz of the Hours,” bright and festive. The villagers dance together—children, elders, Swanilda, Franz, and even Coppélius moving with surprising grace. The square fills with warmth and light as the Christmas bell rings again and again.)

Grandmother (stepping forward, voice like a benediction):
Love is not found in perfection, but in the laughter we share together.

(Spotlight on the Christmas tree, the bell, and the dancing crowd. Snow falls like stardust. Swanilda and Franz twirl, Coppélius chuckles with children tugging at his cloak, the goose waddles in one last time to steal a ribbon, and the villagers burst into laughter.)

All (singing final chorus):
“Ring, Christmas bell, let joy resound,
Where love is given, life is found.
No heart is lonely, no dream apart—
When Christmas lives in every heart.”

Curtain falls.

Epilogue

(To be performed after Act III’s curtain, as a gentle coda. Ideally played over or just after bows, or as a final scene before full curtain.)

Stage Picture:
A quiet dawn blushes the edges of the village. Snow rests undisturbed. The giant Christmas tree still twinkles; the bell hangs peacefully. The square is empty… until a door opens.

Dr. Coppélius (entering alone, in his cloak; he carries a small wooden box and a steaming cup):
Hnh. Morning after Christmas. The world always looks like a new toy someone forgot to wind.

(He sets the cup at the foot of the bell—then reconsiders, takes a sip, grimaces.)
Still too much cinnamon. Some miracles require restraint.

(He opens the wooden box and takes out a handful of simple, hand-carved tops and a clockwork bird. He places them beneath the tree with a shy care, as if returning borrowed stars.)

Coppélius (to the bell):
You were louder than my workshop. Thank you. Someone had to be.

(He notices the knitted, lopsided heart from last night hanging sturdily on the tree. He reaches to check its knot—tugs, nods.)
Stays put. Imagine that.

(Footsteps. Swanilda and Franz enter together, hand in hand, carrying a small basket of leftover gingerbread.)

Swanilda:
We thought we’d catch the morning before it runs away.

Franz (holding up a tin soldier’s hat he’s found in his pocket):
And return evidence from an earlier crime.

Coppélius *(deadpan):
Ah. The missing hat. My troops have been demoralized without it.

(They share a grin. A beat of easy silence.)

Swanilda (gently):
You came back.

Coppélius:
To listen. The bell said there might be leftovers.

Franz (offering the basket):
Gingerbread: some crisp, some soft—like people.

Coppélius (choosing a misshapen piece; he examines it as if it were an instrument):
Imperfect symmetry. Excellent. (He bites; surprised.) Acceptable. (Another bite.) Nearly good. (Third bite.) Ambitious.

(They laugh. The goose waddles through, triumphant, a final ribbon trailing from its beak. Swanilda claps slowly; Franz salutes; Coppélius bows gravely to the bird.)

Coppélius:
Madam, you are consistent.

(The goose honks, as if accepting applause, and exits.)

Swanilda:
We should go wake Grandmother. She likes the dawn better when someone else sees it.

Franz (to Coppélius):
Join us? She’ll pretend she doesn’t, but she always has an extra cup.

Coppélius (a beat; then with quiet sincerity):
I would like to be… the sort of man for whom there is an extra cup.

(Swanilda nods, as if stamping a passport.)
Swanilda:
Consider yourself… admitted.

(She slips the knitted heart from the tree, hands it to Coppélius.)
Take this, just for the walk. Bells should not do all the ringing. Sometimes a pocket can ring too.

(He tucks it inside his coat, over his chest. The tiniest jingle.)

Grandmother (entering from the lane with a shawl and a knowing smile, having heard the last line):
There now. That’s the sound I was waiting for.

(She addresses the audience one last time.)

Grandmother:
When the world is quiet enough, you can hear it: not the perfect tick of a clock, but the brave, uncertain music of people choosing one another. A bell rings once; a hand is offered once; a heart is given—more than once. That is Christmas enough.

(She lifts her mittened hand toward the bell. The others follow suit. A soft chime answers, as if the bell itself is nodding.)

Grandmother (with a twinkle):
Go on, then. Hang your lopsided ornaments. Oversweeten your cocoa. Wave to the balcony—then wave to the window across the street, where somebody real can wave back.

All Four (Swanilda, Franz, Coppélius, Grandmother—together, gently):
Merry Christmas.

Children’s Chorus (offstage or entering behind, repeating the refrain from the Prologue, now fuller):
“Ring, Christmas bell, let joy resound,
Where love is given, life is found.
No heart is lonely, no dream apart—
When Christmas lives in every heart.”

Stage Picture:
They exit slowly, together, toward the lane—the toymaker walking beside the young lovers, Grandmother setting their pace. The tree glows. The bell gleams. A faint goose honk punctuates the hush.

Blackout.
Curtain.

Short Bios: