The chief difficulty had been with the baritone Hetmann, who sang Macbeth. I had great trouble in explaining him why he was never to give full voice during the whole evening.
Macbeth must not appear at the beginning as a criminal. He is first a courageous and truthful man. But he is a dreamer. "Look, how our partner's rapt," says Banquo. He is a dreamer who struggles against the image of his phantasy. Nearly all he says is aside. His reserve, his taciturnity are awful. Whatever he speaks, must be uttered as though against his own will. Berlioz, once, to obtain a very tragic effect, had a drum covered with a cloth. Macbeth must be spoken with a voice resembling the sound of such a drum. Nor must he talk aloud in the banquet scene with the ghost, where on the contrary he ought to become entirely benumbed. He is not without feelings, he speaks warmly of King Duncan, and he loves his wife, knowing how much he needs her.
That performance of Lady Macbeth was for me and, I think, for some of the spectators, a foreshadowing of new times in the operatic art. It was a unique, incessant horror for the audience as long as the fearful score lasted—and it became the most attractive scandal for all the people who search in art nothing but the baseness they find in every day life.
My opera is but a short one, taking two hours to perform. Therefore no necessity arose anywhere for pressing the movement. Bischoff, who had staged it, had obtained most wonderful effects. The singers seemed to be going through the nightmare in which they had a part. Scene after scene seemed to shake with dread and terror. Bischoff knew how to produce the biggest effects with small means. Thus I will never forget that there was a sort of small lamp burning during the scene of the murder. The trembling flame, now more reddish, now more bluish, was flaring all the time. At the precise moment when the murder was supposed to occur in the wings a sudden squall nearly extinguished the light, and for a couple of seconds all became dark; but in the next instant the flame seemed bigger, redder than ever and sooty. It was frightful.
The prologue, namely, the scene of the witches and that where Macbeth wins the title of Thane of Cawdor, went well. After this, while the scenery was being built for the first act, Macbeth's castle at Inverness, the orchestra played my paraphrase of the "Pibroch o' Donuil Dhu," the only vigorous and energetic part of my score. Then the real thing began, for only then Lady Macbeth appeared.
Whatever I may say of her, will not render justice to her incomparable performance. Nobody could have resisted this Lady Macbeth. Even when she had to deliver a reproach, she did it trembling with love. And as Bischoff and I had taught her, she seemed to shudder at her hard, fearful words.
She never seemed to sing, but to whisper, to inspire with the means of the sweetest seduction. She turned round her Macbeth, embraced him, clung to him so that sometimes they seemed to be but one being with two souls. How she sang all the hideousness and atrocity of her part—how she perfumed the blood of her words with sweetest promises! She was what we had asked her to be—more a spoiled child, who foolishly craves for evil, than a heartless criminal.
There was some applause after that act, but the public seemed awed, so intense was the impression. As I was hurrying to the stage, I met dad.
"Oh, my boy!" said he and pressed both my hands so hard that I thought he would break them. His eyes were shining and I could swear that there were tears in them. That "Oh, my boy!" is the one beautiful memory I have of that evening.
The next minute saw me at the door of Mitzi's dressing room. I knocked.