In one of his inimitable intermission commentaries, Milton Cross tells us that the casting of  a contralto in the role of Siébel has become acceptable—an odd comment, inasmuch as this part, though designated soprano, had from the company’s beginning been assigned to contraltos or mezzos, including some who sang major dramatic roles. Here it is Ellen Olheim, a full-voiced contralto with a secure stylistic hold on the role an and upper extension that embraces a convincing B-flat for “Victoire!” And she proves the other distinct improvement over her 1940 counterpart—herself, in noticeably less secure form. The Marthe is Ina Bourskaja (solid and characterful), and the Wagner is Wilfred Engelmann. The latter does nothing more or less than most Wagners, but he gets a grateful nod here because, for a number of his post-Met years, he ran a nice little music store in the northern entrance arcade of the Hotel Ansonia.

Oh, yes: our heroine, awaiting celestial levitation in the person of Helen Jepson. It is true, as alleged by everyone who has occasion to speak or write of her, that she brings no special insight or temperamental spark to her work. One would like more rhythmic snap, more personal élan, and better grounding at the voice’s lower end. But, though perhaps it’s only hindsight peering back through many a bland or overblown Marguerite, I get slightly defensive on her behalf. Her timbre is lovely, her tone steady and its intonation fine, with what sounds like easily sufficient amplitude for this music. I call this pleasurable and highly competent singing of a kind I would be happy to encounter if Faust ever comes my way again. (Another N.B.: she sings the major extracts of both Bess and Clara very well on the old Victor album opposite Lawrence Tibbett. Abject apologies, of course, for singing while white.)

It is interesting, though, how many gifted singers fail to locate themselves in this role. Pondering this, I thought some wisdom might be gleaned from the Marguerite of the opera’s 1863 American premiere (and a true pioneer of opera in America), Clara Louise Kellogg. Uh-oh: “Stupidity,” writes Clara Louise in her autobiography, “is the keynote of Marguerite’s character,” and she protests Marguerite’s “innocence to the verge of idiocy.” As we read on, it becomes clear that a streak of class condescension enters into Kellogg’s view, and she gets in a zinger at her immediate successor in the part, one Federici, whom she notes was “of the class of Gretchen, and doubtless found it easier to act like a peasant unused to having fine gentlemen speak to her.”

Her tone aside, Kellogg was on to two related things about Marguerite that a singer of the part must find her way into—her innocence and her social position, which, when combined with  religious fervor and an easily tapped sensuality of nature (characteristics with which Gounod was intensely familiar) add up to an extraordinary susceptibility. These are again qualities we can find in many E-19 female protagonists, but which in this one determine the character to the exclusion of all else. (Kellogg observes that Méphistophélès chose well.) And I think modern women resist giving themselves over to them. They don’t want to be seen as swept away by male passion or male refinement; as gullible or credulous; or guilty for having sex; or dependent on (male) forgiveness from above. They want to be seen as capable, strong, smart, and free of guilt. Marguerite cannot be those things except on a level commensurate with her life circumstances, so performers neglect to enter into those to the depth of inhabiting them. That leaves nothing but a generalized prettiness as a reason for singing.