With its music director, Lorin Maazel, engaged elsewhere, the New York Philharmonic has been having guest conductors. It will have more. In January, the two guests have been senior and eminent maestros: Zubin Mehta, the orchestra’s former music director, and Riccardo Muti, late of La Scala. Mr. Muti was on the podium Thursday night for two works. They were the Tchaikovsky Violin Concerto and Scriabin’s Symphony No. 3.

The soloist in the concerto was Vadim Repin, a youngish Russian who plays this piece often. Of course, what Russian violinist — what violinist — doesn’t? Mr. Repin played the work in his customary manner, which is vigorous and muscular. Also fairly brusque and rough. He bulled his way through the concerto, really, slighting its beauty, charm, and panache.

Somewhat paradoxically, he also indulged in some strange rubato — this was especially true in the first movement. Some of his pauses turned into unwritten, and unmusical, rests. And his technique was erring: His intonation was shaky, and he missed a number of notes. Of course, we should remember that this is a frightfully hard piece. It may be standard — expected of every 10-year-old in the conservatory — but it is no breeze.

Its middle movement is a lovely, soulful thing — a “canzonetta,” Tchaikovsky calls it. Mr. Repin sang it decently, but he committed some odd phrasing, and at times the music virtually stopped. The impish, dazzling final movement, he dispatched efficiently, if not specially. The audience went bonkers — as much for the piece as for the performance, I believe.

Performing very well in this concerto was the conductor, Mr. Muti. It’s nice to see that so veteran a musician can still get excited about a familiar, not to say hackneyed, piece. His buildup to the soloist’s entrance in the first movement was unusually stirring. And he ended that movement in similar style. In the third movement, he was sinuous, personable — enchanting. I had forgotten how much can be done with the orchestral part of this concerto. It’s not merely a soloist’s piece.

Scriabin is known as a piano composer, not least because Horowitz made all those preludes, etudes, and sonatas famous. But he also wrote for orchestra, leaving three symphonies. No. 3 is known as “The Divine Poem,” not to be confused with “The Poem of Ecstasy,” a separate work. Mr. Muti has long made a specialty of Scriabin, and it showed on Thursday night.

The Symphony No. 3 has a philosophical program — a theosophical one, actually. Its three movements are labeled “Struggles,” “Sensual Pleasures,” and “Divine Play.” In Mr. Muti’s hands, the work was bold and clear, not dissolving into mystical mush. He applied basically the same principles he would apply to Beethoven, Mozart, or Haydn. The music was impassioned — and blooming, and panting — but not untamed. And the orchestra could not have responded better to Mr. Muti.

The entire band played in a rounded, elegant way. Harsh accents were verboten. The brass instruments were unblaring, and the woodwinds were slick — especially in their birdcalls. The concertmaster, Glenn Dicterow, played his solos with appropriate sweetness and lilt.

Unfortunately, this symphony can seem all climax: climax after climax after climax, as the music gusts on. After a while, you’re climaxed out, and no true climax is possible. I don’t think there is anything a conductor can do about that, even Riccardo Muti, the Scriabin champion.

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On Friday night, the Metropolitan Museum was host to one of the world’s most distinguished string quartets: the Takács. As that Hungarian name might suggest, the quartet was founded in Budapest, and the year was 1975. The original four were classmates at the Liszt Academy. In the early 1980s, they decamped to America, taking up residence in Boulder. Two of the original members are still with the group — the second violinist and the cellist. Their two additions make excellent partners. And, at the museum, the quartet presented three masterpieces.

First up was Debussy’s String Quartet — and it did not begin well. Some notes were flat wrong. But the group quickly righted itself, and conveyed the music’s squirmy, restless nature. Their playing was not especially Gallic, however, not terribly cool; it was rather fullbodied, short on transparency.

The second movement, a scherzo, is one of the most beloved things in all the chamber literature: crisp, popping, almost jazzy. Played expertly, it is transfixing. But it was somewhat less than that on Friday night. The Takács was a little sluggish, a little out of focus — respectable, but not its best self.

And the next movement? It is the slow, or slowest, movement, marked “Andantino, doucement expressif.” And the group played it essentially that way. This music was filled with sweet regret, heartbreaking, or at least heart-denting. And the soft playing here was exemplary. As for the final movement, it passed satisfactorily, with the first violinist — Edward Dusinberre — contributing some welcome soul.

Indeed, Mr. Dusinberre was an admirable leader and player all night long. His musical intelligence is obvious.

Second on the program was a Shostakovich string quartet, one of his 15. This was No. 11 in F minor, Op. 122. It is not one of his betterknown quartets, but it shows his remarkable craftsmanship, and his familiar, troubled spirit. The Takács did not do much to No. 11 — and I mean that as no disparagement at all. You could simply hear the work as it was unfolding. In due course. Shostakovich sets off some of his alarm bells, and these could have been more bracing — more alarming. But, in all, the Takács was blameless, and the work’s psychological power came through.

Speaking of psychological power, or, better, spiritual power: The concert ended with one of Beethoven’s late quartets, that in A minor, Op. 132. So great and transcendent is this work, one can barely speak of it. At least I can’t. The music expresses what is inexpressible in words. And that, one might say, is the high purpose of music.

Unsurprisingly, I have my complaints about what the Takács did with this work: The second movement could have featured more sweep, and the third movement — the holy of holies — could have been more inevitable. Now and then, we were too conscious of the music phrase by phrase; and intonation faltered. But these complaints are relatively trivial. The Takács Quartet did justice to Op. 132, and that is saying a lot. As much as can be said, really.