When Irving opened Drury Lane at Easter, 1903, with Dante he had an ovation such as probably no man has ever received from an audience before. It was a pouring wet night; the rain descended in torrents, but the faithful pittites were there to welcome the popular favourite on his return from America. It so chanced that the audience were entering the Opera House next door at the same moment, and this, combined with the rain, which did not allow people to descend from their carriages before they reached the theatre doors, made the traffic chaotic. I only managed to reach my stall a second before the house was plunged in darkness and the curtain rose.
And here let me say how much more agreeable it is to watch the play from a darkened auditorium such as Irving originally instituted than to sit in the glaring illumination still prevalent abroad. When the lights went down, the doors were closed, and half the carriage folk were shut out for the entire first act, thus missing that wondrous ovation. The great actor looked the very impersonation of Dante, and as he bowed, and bowed, and bowed again he grew more and more nervous, to judge by the tremble of his lips and the twitching of his hands. It was indeed a stirring moment and a proud one for the recipient. As the play proceeded the audience found all his old art was there and the magnificent mise-en-scène combined to keep up the traditions of the old Lyceum. That vast audience at Drury Lane rose en masse to greet him, and literally thundered their applause at the end of the play. The programme is on the following page.
Sir Henry Irving certainly has great magnetic gifts which attract and compel the sympathy of his audience. He always looks picturesque, he avoids stage conventionalities, and acts his part according to his own scholarly instincts. Passion with him is subservient to intellect.
One American critic in summing him up said:
“I do not consider Irving a great actor; but he is the greatest dramatic artist I ever saw.”
The version of Faust by the late W. G. Wills which modern playgoers know so well was one of the most elaborate and successful productions of the Lyceum days, and amongst the beautiful scenic effects some exquisite visions which appeared in the Prologue at the summons of Mephistopheles will always be remembered. On the first night of the production I am told—for I don’t remember the occasion myself—owing to a temporary break down in the lime-lights, these visions declined to put in an appearance at the bidding of the Fiend. The great actor waved his arm and stamped his foot with no result. Again and again he tried to rouse them from their lethargy, but all to no avail. The visions came not. As soon as the curtain fell Irving strode angrily to the wing, even his stride foreboded ill to all concerned, and the officials trembled at the outburst of righteous wrath which they expected would break forth. The first exclamations of the irate manager had hardly left his lips before they were interrupted by a diminutive “call boy,” who rushed forward with uplifted hand, and exclaimed in a high treble key to the great actor-manager fresh from his newest triumph: