With the Metropolitan Opera broadcast of Feb. 23, 1943, we have something more closely approaching a complete Louise, though one that still takes what I am assuming became standard theatre cuts, including really unfortunate ones for The Father in Act 1, for The Noctambulist in Act 2, Sc. 1., and, again, of the “Voir naître une enfant” in Act 4. When I say “unfortunate,” it’s not because they don’t “work,” or because every bar is musically precious, but because this is an unusually well-developed libretto, and the characters lose something of their stature with each omission. The usual redaction in the Louise/Julien duet of Act 3 is more understandable, because this act is a huge sing for both artists, and besides being closer to complete, this is the first live performance to come up for consideration. It is also the first to be heard in the context of international grand opera production. In this huge cast there is but one culturally French singer, the French-Canadian tenor Raoul Jobin. No French imports of any kind were clearing customs in New York harbor in the winter of 1942-43. So while most of the voices to be heard in our Act 2 scenes are perfectly adequate and no one’s professionalism is in doubt, there is a feel of pervasive linguistic and stylistic unease only occasionally relieved by some of the individual performers. Among the women, Irra Petina sings Gertrude with vocal and linguistic confidence, and Maxine Stellman and Thelma Votipka are fine as Irma and Camille. Of the men, only John Dudley, as the Old Clothes Man, seems to me to really nail his moment. In the key sequence I wrote about above, the Noctambulist is the Met’s star comprimario for twenty-some years, Alessio de Paolis. He always gave a performance, saw to it that some impression was left, and at this juncture he still showed credible evidence of his beginnings as a leading lyric tenor. The characterization has pungency, but of a markedly Italianate kind, so that he doesn’t quite sound like the prowler of the Parisian night he’s meant to be. He is also deprived of a good portion of his scene, in which his come-on to the paper Girl reveals a passing acquaintance with Dante. John Gurney is the Ragman, his voice of borderline presence for the part, his French approximate. If these scenes are nonetheless effective, much of that can be attributed to the conductor, Sir Thomas Beecham. He gives a pointed, strongly accented reading at prevailingly brisk tempi, and while I once in a while feel he’s pushing things a little too hard, that is no doubt due in part to the edgy, shallow broadcast sound, which turns the sonically climactic passages into raucous noise.

On the male side, the principals are strong. Jobin is a very good Julien. His spinto tenor sounds fresh and eager, happy throughout the range. He’s musically on point, seems stylistically at home, and doesn’t tire toward the end of Act 3. Can’t ask for much more. With The Father, we move to the level of a great singer. That would be Ezio Pinza, and in splendid voice—his first lines (“Bonsoir . . . la soupe est prête?“) announce the presence of a new standard, and the top Es and E-flats, which in these years could sometimes sag, are caught flush. He, too, brings an Italian overlay to this part of markedly French character, but it is impossible to remain too cranky in the presence of such rich, powerful singing in the service of what sounds like a simply conceived, truly felt characterization. When he dabs in his sparingly used mezza-voce in the  Berceuse, it is irresistible.