Marcel/Marcello: Meyerbeer is said to have regarded this part as the “heart of Les huguenots.” I can’t say that I agree, but I can easily see how this stubborn, nervy, blue-collar fellow who stands up for his imperiled faith under all circumstances, including mortal ones, would have been dear to an oft-resented Jewish composer. In any event, Marcel gets to sing the Luther Chorale, thrice-familiar to anyone of Protestant background, followed by his in-your-face song (“Piff! Paff!”) about the siege of La Rochelle, and later has a lengthy scene and duet with Valentine that is crucial to the plot but musically undistinguished, and therefore requires a performer with considerable force of personality. As with Sutherland and Corelli in their roles, we have a greatvoiced singer at his early peak for this one, Nicolai Ghiaurov. His legitimate competition was more numerous than Sutherland’s or Corelli’s. Cesare Siepi, Jerome Hines, or Giorgio Tozzi could have taken the role well, and at least in the cases of Siepi and Hines, with better low notes (Ghiaurov invents workarounds as plentiful as Sutherland’s). In a German-language context, Gottlob Frick would have been perfect. And, thinking of Shaw’s evaluation of Marcel as “a fascinating character role,” I’m put in mind of Fernando Corena, with his large, biting tone, animated presence, and interpretive specificity. It’s not a cantante character. But once more, as with Sutherland, Corelli, and Simionato, there is no gainsaying the beauty, size, security, and imposing upper range of Ghiaurov; as sheer singing, his Marcello is terrific.

St. Bris: This is the above-mentioned Tozzi, always commanding of voice and presence in those years, and thus capable of seizing his comparatively meagre “opportunities.” To hear him and Ghiaurov confronting each other in Act 3 is a meaty low-voice feast, however brief. (Imagine the Furlanetto and Pape of a dozen years back, light a fire under the latter, and up the ante a bit.)

Finally, Nevers: Wladimiro Ganzarolli gives an excellent performance. His bright, open baritone is not one of the foremost of that time, but it’s strong, solid, and well-guided, and of all the principals here he is the one with the surest grasp on character. So he’s able to make something of a role that can easily fail of its necessary function.

The Vienna performance has at least a hypothetical head start in the authenticity sweepstakes by virtue of being sung in French, though without the participation of a single French artist. It is also recorded with greater immediacy than the La Scala set, and the execution of orchestra and (especially) chorus (of the Austrian Radio), urged along tempo-wise by Ernst Märzendorfer, is at many points sharper and cleaner than that of the La Scala forces under Gavazzeni. Among the myriad cuts that had me repeatedly rifling through fistfuls of pages to locate myself (there are musical differences in editions, as well), the most egregious is, dramatically speaking, beyond anything Shaw was objecting to, namely, the entire Act 1 episode in which first the Catholic gentlemen, then Raul, watch the mysterious woman (Valentine) and Nevers through the window. (It’s a sequence that would have seen much of the pantomimic byplay Marian Smith writes about, both among the Catholics and between Marcel and Raoul, in an à part “conversation” that must be conducted silently, yet made clear to the audience.) This renders the most important single plot point nonsensical by depriving Raoul of any reason to reject Valentine; the whole story falls apart. But heck, it’s a concert version, I guess, and perhaps they had to bring it in on broadcast schedule.