In the 1940 Met performance, the Lohengrin is again Melchior, in somewhat less marvelous form (there was lots of unhappiness surrounding the takeover of Leinsdorf from Bodanzky), but still Melchior. Rethberg I have already touched on. The ’37 performance, however, brings us René Maison as Lohengrin and Flagstad as Elsa, plus other significant assets (see below), and should on no account be passed over. Maison’s higher range was severely tested by some of his French-language assignments, but in these 1930s Wagner broadcasts he sounds splendid as Walther and Lohengrin, the voice well calibrated to the roles, its quality manly but capable of winning lyricism, and his expressive choices often interestingly individual. And Flagstad is here in the form of her then-recent house debut, which means that for purity of tone, ease of delivery, and sheer plenitude of sound, it doesn’t get any better. Her Elsa must have been something to hear, and though I find Lehmann more lovable and interpretively specific, it’s not possible to argue with singing of this standard.

What of our antagonists? Trigger warning: I find them both sympathetic, though not easy to like. Ortrud is the harder case, for she obviously manipulates her husband shamelessly, and apparently sheds not a tear over his death. But think: she’s the offspring of the Friesian princes who had, till the coming of the Germanic Christians, ruled over these later-Belgian lands. Like Lohengrin, she possesses occult powers (she can turn a boy into a swan, not bad!), which evidently derive from her worship of the old gods—the “entweihte Götter,” “desecrated gods,” as she calls them when she summons Wodan and Freia in her curse. They have been driven into hiding, but they await their moment of return. So far as she is concerned, her ancient high lineage has been displaced by an arrogant invading race. Very like Lady Macbeth, she finds herself able to reach for position only through her valiant warrior husband. It’s a dark mission, but one not lacking for cause.

The role is wide-ranged, from B on the bottom to A-sharp on the top, and is designated mezzo-soprano, which for many years meant among Northern European voice types what we would now call contralto. A well-developed voice of that Fach can negotiate Act 2 well enough (the Curse usually being accorded a half-step transposition), but is sorely stressed by the triumphant Act 3 outburst, with its repeated high A’s, A-sharp, and the awkward descending lines addressed to Elsa (“Dank, dass den Ritter,” etc.). These ’30s broadcasts cover all the bases, from dramatic soprano Lawrence in ’35 to contralto Branzell in ’37 to dramatic mezzo Thorborg (sometimes categorized as contralto) in ’40. Lawrence makes an exciting case for the soprano option, her bright, open voice and gleefully malevolent instincts giving us a vivid picture of her take on the woman and an intriguing comparison with the dark, essentially warm timbre of Schorr. Their Act 2 scene, well supported by Bodanzky and the orchestra, is almost as great a highlight of the performance as the Melchior/Lehmann Bridal Chamber Scene. It has to be said, though, that she sounds as scrappy in Act 3 as do most lower-voiced singers; it’s just a tough couple of pages. I love listening to Branzell on the ’37 broadcast. Her large, deep voice, admirable legato, and calm, insinuating interpretation make for an ideal match with Flagstad. Thorborg, in ’40, is also superb, with a more cutting tone and manner than Branzell’s, until she, too, huff and puffs at the end. Of the Ortruds I have experienced live, I’d have to say that Astrid Varnay still ranks the highest—a soprano, but a big one with both darkness and edge, and a truly foreboding presence. Among the recordings we’ve looked at, we must reach to the ’42 Berlin performance under Heger to meet up with the superb Margarete Klose, whose on-the-button dramatic mezzo and assertive temperament provide perhaps the most satisfactory combination of elements for this wonderful but challenging part.