Valentine/Valentina: Simionato sings quite wonderfully. She had confident access to the top (the role goes to C), could control the upper-middle line masterfully, and of course brought in a satisfying chest extension at the bottom. Great authority and what we could term Italian singing passion of a general sort; not much in the way of suggesting a particular person or of what we’d term “vulnerability.” She was a great singer and artist, but not a soprano, or, really, anyone’s idea of a romantic lead.

And to the men:

In 1877, a very young Shaw declared Raoul/Raul to be “a part which offers every possible opportunity to an artist, both vocally and histrionically,” and considered the Act 4 duet with Valentine “the most exciting situation in lyric drama.” These evaluations, especially the second one, would not find much agreement these days, and Shaw himself later dismissed much of his early criticism as “asinine.” Nonetheless, he continued to accord Les huguenots serious artistic standing, and we can at least ask ourselves what it was that so captivated his youthful self. Raoul has entrance music of noble courtesy (here, “Sotto il bel ciel“), evocative of the first appearance of a danseur noble. Then, after a dramatic recitation of his rescue of the unknown beauty, he sings his romance with viola obbligato (“Bianca al par“), a rangey piece calling for both power and suppleness, command of rubato and dynamic shading reliant on the messa di voce. These same assets, along with declamatory intensity, are needed in the fourth act scene, the emotional climax of the role. In between, a comique air pervades his writing. In Act 2, we have his Blindman’s Buff game upon arrival at Chenonceaux, then the chivalric/erotic byplay that Corelli declined. (This is a scene that continues with Urbain ogling a bevy of bathing beauties from behind a tree—you get the tone.) Even the once-famous Duel Septet, led by Raoul, has a jolly tune and rhythm that for us suggests French or English operetta. Throughout, there are excursions into the acuti that are meant to be lightly touched, tossed off, as well as cadential occasions for higher interpolations. All these are the “opportunities” of which Shaw wrote, originally devised for Nourrit just as the “C from the chest” tenor, Duprez, was arriving on the scene, and nothing but trouble for the modern spinto or di forza tenor.

Among those, Corelli was surely the choice in 1962. Even by contemporaneous standards, this was no role for Del Monaco, Tucker, or (the most interesting thought) Vickers. Bergonzi would have captured some of the subtler phrases better, but could not have filled out the expansive ones in the crucial moments. Further, Corelli was a handsome man with a striking presence and carriage, the most plausible romantic hero of these. Without dissociating myself from the connoisseur critiques of his divo mannerisms and sometimes brash overrule of dynamic indications, I would still insist that the great voice is fresh and full of sap, the Mediterranean temperament up and running, and that he sings through this challenging music with good line and balance—nothing sounds strained. Any vocal devotee who does not respond to Corelli and Simionato arcing through the great phrases of their Act 4 avowals needs a check on the pulse. (More on the Great Scene below.)