I will say what I always say about Hilary Hahn: She is not a promising violinist, not (merely) a talent-filled violinist, not a phenom – she is a great violinist. Moreover, she has been that – obviously so – for several years now. Miss Hahn is 25.

On Thursday night, she played the Elgar concerto with the New York Philharmonic, and, more important, with its guest conductor, Sir Colin Davis. Sir Colin is unrivaled in the music of Elgar, except by Andre Previn. It says something that Sir Colin wanted to perform the Elgar concerto with Hilary Hahn. It says even more that he wanted to record the work with her – they have done so (on Deutsche Grammophon).

The Elgar performance came last on the Philharmonic’s program, and I should address it last, for it would be hard to follow. Sir Colin began with a tone poem of Sibelius, a composer in which he has long excelled. This was “En Saga” (“A Legend”), a quite early work, but utterly characteristic: Sibelius’s hallmarks are all over the place.

What Sir Colin exposed is what he typically exposes in a Sibelius piece – its peculiar nature. Sir Colin has a connection to this music, and we hear what the composer probably heard in his own head. While leading “En Saga,” the conductor did not rush; he let the piece build, speaking for itself. What developed was a feeling of ancientness, and inevitability.

It is hard to avoid that cliched, but valuable, word “atmospheric” when describing this performance. The Philharmonic was alert and skillful. Woodwinds spooked, strings shimmered. The sound was a blend of folkish grit and classical polish. And I should single out the solo playing of flutist Sandra Church: It was straightforward, intelligent, and moving.

This opening tone poem was almost a concert in itself – like a meal, after which you need no more. And we were reminded once again of how musical this conductor is, and how unshowy.

He followed with a work not dissimilar to “En Saga”: Jana cek’s “Taras Bulba,” called a “Rhapsody for Orchestra.” It tells a story in three wild movements. Actually, the work doesn’t so much tell you a story as take you for a ride. The Philharmonic’s playing was, again, “atmospheric,” with one and all responding to the seasoned musician on the podium. The second movement brought some intensely spirited licks by the principal clarinetist, Stanley Drucker. And the third featured some beautifully even, and flavorful, brass playing (although one sustained note from a French horn was unpleasantly flat). Percussion was smart, and not overbearing.

As for Sir Colin, his engagement with the work was total. I was sickened, once more, by the lust so often expressed for young conductors: Why anyone would want to sacrifice the wisdom of such as Sir Colin Davis is a mystery.

But one would not want to sacrifice the wisdom of Hilary Hahn, either. The young violinist and the old conductor made a peerless team for the Elgar. Some consider Miss Hahn “too perfect,” or too correct; indeed, some would have liked the first movement of the Elgar played more emotionally. But Miss Hahn is not too perfect, or too anything. She allowed you to hear past her, and know Elgar; she was a transparency for the score’s ideas. Always, she gave Elgar his dignity. She was spellbinding, and spellbindingly virtuosic, but her power comes not from virtuosity. It comes from musical understanding, which her virtuosity serves. There is no artifice in Hilary Hahn; she is astonishingly pure.

She and Sir Colin took all the liberties necessary, and not one more. From the first movement, I will give you just one detail: The closing notes were accorded exactly the right values; they were not held too long. A detail like this can have a large effect.

Miss Hahn’s playing of the second movement – the Andante – I can only describe as ineffable, which is itself kind of a dodge. She evinced a nobility touched with the spiritual. She played like an angel, but not in a fluffy sense. A fellow critic said afterward that she reminded him of Dinu Lipatti, the pianist from long ago – an apt comparison.

In the third movement, Miss Hahn might have been subject once more to the charge of “too perfect.” But if she is machine-like, has there ever been a more musical machine?

One might ask another question: Does it help to be English (like Sir Colin) to perform this music? No, it helps to be musical. Hilary Hahn is from Baltimore. And she is, quite simply, one of the most gifted creatures alive.

It seemed that she would play an encore after the Elgar, and I thought, “No, no – you can’t. Nothing can follow that. Why spoil the evening?” But she played a Bach Largo, and she was not wrong: This was kind of a spiritual nightcap, or a closing prayer. Avery Fisher Hall experienced something like reverence.

***

The next night – Friday night – the Metropolitan Opera began a run of “The Tales of Hoffmann,” Jacques Offenbach’s opera from 1881. It was fun, and excellent – fun because excellent, actually. The Met’s production is that by the perduring Otto Schenk, a production launched in 1982. This is one of the most impressive shows in the Met repertory, with massive and memorable sets by Gunther Schneider-Siemssen – Spalanzani’s workshop is a particular winner.

The opera began with the Romanian mezzo-soprano Ruxandra Donose, who had the dual role of the Muse and Nicklausse. As the Muse, she sang smokingly and beautifully – what is it about Romanian voices that gives us smoke? The high C that arose from that mezzo was thrilling.

The Four Villains were sung by the great James Morris, and when he first opened his mouth, it was hard not to think of Scarpia, Wotan, Boris – all the Morris roles. His voice and presence are as familiar as your own. When Bryn Terfel did the Four Villains at the Met, I complained that he was just too likable. Mr. Morris does not have that problem (no offense to him). He could intimidate merely by ordering coffee in a restaurant. It was amazing to hear him growl and snarl in French (as he does, come to think of it, as the devil in Gounod’s “Faust”).

Our tenor, in the title role, was the Mexican Ramon Vargas, who sounds like he grew up listening to a lot of Placido Domingo records. That is not a bad way to grow up. Hoffmann is, indeed, a classic Domingo role, and Mr. Vargas did not suffer badly in comparison, if at all. Like Mr. Domingo, he sang with a wonderful French spirit, and like Mr. Domingo, he displayed a great physicality, jumping on and off tables in Offenbach’s Prologue.

The hit of Act I, naturally, was the aria of Olympia, the mechanical doll. In this, the Polish soprano Aleksandra Kurzak was making her Met debut, and she was smashing. She showed off a phenomenal technique, going way, way above the staff, for example. And her movements matched her notes delightfully. When it was all done – the Met audience going wild – she blew mechanical kisses.

A nearly equal delight was the tenor Jean-Paul Fouchecourt, who portrayed the Four Servants. (It was he whom we heard several weeks ago in the title role of Rameau’s “Platee,” at City Opera.) Even as Olympia performed her acrobatics, it was hard to take your eyes off him.

Mr. Vargas delivered a very weak high B in this act – causing concern for the immediate future – but that proved aberrational.

Act II brought the beloved soprano Hei-Kyung Hong as Antonia, and she was not in her best voice. It was rather hard, and not reliably on pitch. This was in contrast to an outing earlier in the season as Micaela (in “Carmen”). But she improved as the act progressed, and offered a moving high D, before Antonia collapsed. Then, prone, she did some nifty trilling on an F.

The bass Hao Jiang Tian, singing Crespel, Antonia’s father, was duly fatherly, and Mr. Vargas sounded increasingly heroic. Ms. Donose was hilarious in imitation of “that robot,” Olympia – and she traversed Nicklausse’s aria in a full and luscious voice. The mezzo Wendy White did her usual solid job, in the brief part of Antonia’s Mother. And, once more, you could not take your eyes off Mr. Fouchecourt, who danced, sang, and acted up a storm (while not overdoing it, which is tricky).

Mr. Morris – this time as Dr. Miracle – was riveting, as well as Kojak-bald. Never has he been more intimidating, flashing around those medicines, and sawing on that diabolical violin. I should say, too, that he is so riveting, theatrically, you might forget that he is singing well.

Act III begins with Offenbach’s heavenly barcarolle (“Belle nuit”), to which Ms. Donose contributed in a handsome, straightforward, blessedly unprecious way. The French mezzo Beatrice Uria-Monzon was Giulietta, and she was rightly imperious, if a little wobbly, vocally. She sang in a manner that says, “This character is hell on wheels” – and she and Mr. Vargas sounded splendid together.

Remarkably, Mr. Morris – not a kid – was as strong in this act (late into the evening) as he was in the Prologue. His aria “Scintille, diamant” was resplendent, and if he failed on his final F sharp, that hardly negated what he had done. Mr. Vargas, too, was fresh at the very end, in the Epilogue – still jumping on and off tables, Hoffmann’s madness fused with his drunkenness.

Leading all this in the pit was Frederic Chaslin, who has also conducted the Met’s “Vespri Siciliani” this season. He stayed on top of “Tales,” all through. The orchestra was admirable, as was the chorus, whose men were rough and ready in that ultra-earthy tavern.

No, there was not a weak link in this opera, dependent on so many. The entire performance was alive, each participant drawing strength from the spirit and success of the others. There are those who don’t care for “The Tales of Hoffmann,” and they are welcome to that opinion. But for those who do, this rendition was a joy, about as good as it gets.

“Les Contes d’Hoffmann” will be performed again tonight & December 23 at 7:30 p.m.; December 16, 20 & 30 at 8 p.m.; January 4 & 5, 2005 at 8 p.m. (Lincoln Center, 212-362-6000).