Two nights ago, Lorin Maazel, the music director of the New York Philharmonic, crossed Lincoln Center Plaza to the Metropolitan Opera. There he conducted “Die Walküre,” plucked out of Wagner’s “Ring.” Mr. Maazel, born in 1930, had not led a Met production since 1963. In that year, John Kennedy was president, and Lincoln Center had not even been built.

It would be nice to say that Mr. Maazel had a glorious return to the nation’s foremost opera company. And, in fact, he did: He put on a clinic of Wagner conducting, and all in attendance were privileged to hear it.

Mr. Maazel summoned all his powers, or at least many of them. He was fluid, alert, and wise. Seldom will you hear such maturity in musical leadership. Mr. Maazel conducted with technical mastery and spiritual insight. “Die Walküre” is perhaps Wagner’s most symphonic opera, and Mr. Maazel conducted it in symphonic fashion: The voices were additional instruments — prominent ones — and Mr. Maazel did little of what you might call “accompanying.” But what he did was right.

This is a long opera, of course, and Mr. Maazel kept the entire work in mind. He was aware of what had come before and what would come after. He felt the work’s rhythm, and rode its crests. He did not neglect details, but neither did he get stuck in them. There was almost no fussiness, and no excess. In Mr. Maazel’s hands, “Die Walküre” sounded fresh and clean-scrubbed.

The opening of the opera — that D-minor storm — was a model of controlled fury. Mr. Maazel chose, and kept, a perfect pulse. The gentleness at the beginning of “Winterstürme” was astounding, and astoundingly beautiful. Mr. Maazel was somewhat surprising at the end of Act I — whose pages were not feverish but measured, expansive, royal. Even if you could not welcome this, it was interesting.

Act II can be difficult to sustain, with its long monologues and dialogues. But Mr. Maazel invested it with extraordinary tension, sort of sticking the knife in, over and over, and turning. In Act III, “The Ride of the Valkyries” was sane but still exciting. And at the end of the opera, in “Wotan’s Farewell,” Mr. Maazel did some of his trademark manipulating — inventing pauses and so on. But he had been so good, so disciplined, in the previous four hours! He was almost entitled, and so, in a way, was the music. Besides which, some of Mr. Maazel’s manipulating was effective.

On balance, the orchestra played well for him, and the woodwinds were especially good. The low woodwinds were best of all. When the curtain fell, and Mr. Maazel appeared onstage, the orchestra stood and applauded him — as well they should have.

Singing the title role — Brünnhilde, “The Valkyrie” — was Lisa Gasteen, an Australian soprano. Initially, she had no voice — nothing whatsoever. It was hard to see how she could continue. But continue she did, finding a voice, and singing her music respectably. You could say that Ms. Gasteen had a poor night. I would say she had a brave and remarkable one, hanging in there, coming back like that.

The Wotan was the one we usually see on this stage, James Morris. For years, I have referred to Plácido Domingo as “the ageless Spaniard”; well, Mr. Morris is an ageless Baltimorean. He has been singing Wotan for many years, and singing him the same way. On Monday night, he was — as always — canny, savvy, impressive. He is not the most Germanic Wotan: I always hear Scarpia’s snarl in his voice (Scarpia being the villain in “Tosca”). But he inhabits the role with rare easy and authority.

Wotan’s Curse (of Brünnhilde) was terrible — magnificently terrible. At the end, bidding farewell, Mr. Morris sort of ran out of gas, his voice breaking. But you could argue that this added to the poignancy of the moment.

Speaking of Mr. Domingo, he has long been the Met’s Siegmund, but another tenor is in the role this time around: Clifton Forbis, of Tennessee. He has some serious goods: strength, warmth, sensitivity. His high notes tended to be wonderfully ringing; his low notes tended to have a manly growl; some of the middle ones were indifferent, but not poor. Particularly memorable were Mr. Forbis’s cries of “Wälse!” They were huge, glowing, arresting, filling — overwhelming.

His Sieglinde was Adrianne Pieczonka, the Canadian soprano, and she did her usual satisfying job. She sings with what a friend of mine calls “big lyricism.” And, on Monday night, there was a graciousness in her voice. She was a touching, affecting Sieglinde, as well as a strong one. And she showed considerable musical smarts, going with Mr. Maazel’s flow (and Wagner’s).

Our Fricka was the American mezzo Stephanie Blythe, who employed her big, formidable voice to terrific effect. She relished the juicy phrases Wagner gives her: in both notes and words. Her pitch wandered from time to time, but not badly. And an interesting mishap occurred onstage — something Ms. Blythe turned almost to her advantage. She slipped and fell, and Mr. Morris, as Wotan, moved to help her up. Ms. Blythe responded in character — as Fricka — pugnaciously refusing the aid.

Hunding was Mikhail Petrenko, the Russian bass, and he was a less vocally imposing Hunding than some. Often, they just boom it out. But Mr. Petrenko was a good Hunding: believable, human-scaled. And you will never hear a better group of Valkyries than the one the Met fielded on Monday night. When Gerhilde started to sing, I turned to the friend next to me and said, “Who’s that?” She was the soprano Kelly Cae Hogan, making her Met debut. We must hear more of her.

The production was the one by Otto Schenk, which had its premiere in 1986. This is the kind of production critics call “traditional,” “literalist,” and “dated.” And when you hear those words, you can assume that the production is right for the opera it exists to serve. This is certainly true of Mr. Schenk’s — which is why it must go. And go it will, soon.

Good as much of the singing was, the night belonged to the conductor, returning to the company after these four decades and a half. Mr. Maazel provided an exemplary, perhaps unforgettable night of Wagner. I wish he had proceeded with the rest of “The Ring” — “Siegfried,” “Götterdämmerung.” After a suitable break, of course. And I should probably have hesitated to say that the night belonged to Lorin Maazel. There was Wagner, too, that old devil, who, in writing his music, was inspired in an almost incomprehensible way. Mr. Maazel comprehends about as much as anybody.