The orchestra from the Land of 10,000 Lakes is making waves. I’m talking about the Minnesota Orchestra, of course, led by its music director, Osmo Vänskä. The Finnish conductor joined the orchestra in 2003. He has revitalized it, extending its proud history. Among his predecessors are Ormandy, Mitropoulos, Dorati, Skrowaczewski, and Marriner.

When Mr. Vänskä first conducted the Minnesotans in Carnegie Hall, three years ago, he was unbelievably intense, wired. An eminent critic in the aisles said, “If he keeps this up, he’ll kill ’em.” Well, he has not killed them. In fact, on Tuesday night, he was fairly mellow, for him. He brought the orchestra for two concerts at Carnegie Hall, the second being last night. On both programs were but two composers: Beethoven and Sibelius.

Mr. Vänskä has a long and happy relationship with both of them: Sibelius is his countryman, and the musical father of all Finns. Mr. Vänskä is so close to Beethoven, he is even recording a Beethoven-symphony cycle with the Minnesotans (for the Swedish label BIS). You can find a worse pair than Beethoven and Sibelius.

Tuesday’s program began with Sibelius’s “Night Ride and Sunrise.” This is not a common piece, but New Yorkers have heard it twice in the last couple of months: David Robertson led the Philharmonic in it. The piece depicts just what the title says: a ride — a sleigh ride — through the Great White North (Finland, not Minnesota, if there is a difference) ending with a glorious dawn. Indeed, this is one of the most glorious and gladdening sunrises in all of music — and there are many.

The orchestra’s sound was plush, and its playing was precise. Through that ride, Mr. Vänskä kept a steady pulse, but did not do so mechanically, which was nice. The orchestra’s soft playing was superb: real, real soft, but not disembodied, inaudible, or washed out. The woodwinds showed special skills. And when that sunrise came, it did so archingly, warmingly, providing relief.

At the same time, was the performance fully engaging and memorable? No, frankly. There was nothing wrong with it — but it was a tiny bit dull.

The Beethoven on the program was the Symphony No. 4 in B flat, Op. 60. This is the masterpiece sandwiched between two other masterpieces: the “Eroica” and, well, the Fifth. (The latter was on the program last night.) In the first movement’s introduction, Mr. Vänskä and Co. were rightly sober and portentous. And, as the music continued, they were bold and noble, graceful and sweet. Beethoven requires all that. On the downside, some pizzicatos were poor.

Mr. Vänskä gave the second movement, Adagio, a just tempo — a breathable one. The horns struggled badly, however (as horns everywhere, in everything, do). The third movement might have had more of a charge than it did — but the concluding movement had charge, even if technically imperfect.

You might have called this account conventional, but it would be better to call it satisfying. Mr. Vänskä did nothing screwy, nothing willful. He obeyed the values of music, and the values of Beethoven. This is less common than you might think. And yet Mr. Vänskä has conducted more arrestingly, and you will not seldom find him thrilling.

The program closed with a Sibelius symphony: his Fifth, in E flat, Op. 82. Some of us regard it as one of the true beauties of the symphonic literature. And Mr. Vänskä and his orchestra did it justice, for the most part. The first movement was rich, interesting, and well sculpted. And we heard that broadness, that opening up, so characteristic of Sibelius. This movement had what I would call low-key excitement; you could also say a submerged excitement. This, too, is characteristic of Sibelius.

The second movement began with a bad entrance, but proceeded without incident. It also proceeded without all the mystery and delight it can embody. And the final movement began fast — almost jarringly fast. And yet the orchestra acquitted itself well. Sibelius’s syncopations came through, and we heard some more of that excellent soft playing: Mr. Vänskä seemed to be asking the orchestra, “How low can you go?”

There was nothing wrong with this movement, and a lot right. But I must say again: Was there mystery or delight, or spiritual strength? Not an abundance. Furthermore, Mr. Vänskä put an unusual amount of space between the many chords with which the symphony concludes — a showy amount of space, and not very musical, either.

At intermission, I had said to a fellow critic — the one I quoted earlier, in fact — “Do you think they’ll play ‘Valse triste’ for an encore at one of these concerts?” “Valse triste” is a Sibelius gem, a graceful ghost — and the obvious Sibelius encore. The critic said, “I don’t know, but, if so, I bet it will be too fast.”

Well, Mr. Vänskä did, indeed, play “Valse triste.” And it was, indeed, fast, although not too fast — not sluggish, is more like it. And this gentle, peculiar, wondrous waltz had its due effect.