The director, opera’s invisible man, is present in every misguided movement of this distractingly inept production. And it is such a pity, for the singing is good, the orchestral players have the score deep in their system, and the conducting is both firm and sympathetic. Tatiana Monogarova is a particularly lovely Tatiana, her warmly vibrant voice fresh as her touchingly beautiful face and well cared-for as her slender, graceful figure. The Onegin, Mariusz Kwiecien, is a suitably handsome fellow, the voice clean-cut and of agreeable though not very distinctive quality. The Lenski, Andrey Dunaev, is a credit to the line of Russian lyric tenors he now represents, his tone ingratiating, his inflections less memorable than some in the past but the style tasteful and affecting within these limits. Late in the evening, Prince Gremin’s aria wins the Parisian audience’s most emphatic applause: honestly, if not suavely, sung by the veteran Anatolij Kotscherga, who in manner is the very model of an intelligent and distinguished diplomat.

But there is trouble on stage from the very start. The curtain rises prematurely, so that the Prelude loses the opportunity to draw the mind in with its familiar, gentle and affectionate tunes and the characters are kept too long without anything to sing. But there is also a moment of self-conscious silence first, so that even this gets off to a bad start. The scene, usually set out of doors, showing garden and fields beyond, is now moved inside, and the mood, normally dreamily domestic, is now one of awkward merriment with peals of uncaused laughter from Madame Larin at the head of a long table at which are seated her guests. This table, stretching almost the width of the stage, is to be a permanent feature. It serves for Tatiana’s letter and even the scene of Lenski’s death, which here occurs not in a duel but as Lenski and Onegin struggle for possession of the gun.

There is worse. Lenski (out of character) does a life-and-soul-of-the-party turn and (out even of this character) sings M Triquet’s song. During his plea (“Vashem domye”) an inane youth grins from ear to ear, and during his lament (“Kouda”) an idiot woman sits ogling and making up to him. And, as somebody remarks in Julius Caesar, “There was more foolery yet, if I could remember it”, but maybe that is enough to be going on with.