When it became known that the actor was to give his address, everyone of note and culture and importance in the place rushed to secure seats. Some fourteen hundred persons were present, with most of “the Heads of Houses,” and distinguished professors. Dr. Jowett welcomed him in some warm and well-chosen phrases, telling him how much honoured they felt by his coming to them. A good English actor, he said happily enough, lived in the best company—that of Goethe and Shakespeare; and coming from such, he might seem to convey that he was good enough company for them.
But during the year 1892 the University of Dublin was the first to recognise officially the actor’s position, and at the celebration of its tercentenary conferred on him the degree of Doctor of Letters, in company with many distinguished men. Indeed, Irving’s sympathetic temperament has always been specially acceptable to this University, and the youths of Trinity College from the beginning were eager to exhibit their appreciation and admiration of his talent. They would attend him home from the theatre in uproarious procession, and sing songs in his praise in the galleries. So early as June, 1877, he had given a reading in the University in its great Examination Hall. The Provost, the Dean, and other “dons” all attended. He gave ‘Richard III.,’ a chapter of ‘David Copperfield,’ and ‘Eugene Aram.’ An illuminated address was presented to him, and to make the day truly festive and collegiate, the actor dined in the hall, the guest of the college, and went his way covered with honours.
Later came the turn of Edinburgh, where he was much considered, and in 1881 delivered a lecture before the Edinburgh Philosophical Institute. He gave, also, an interesting lecture on acting at the Royal Institution in London. With pleasure, too, must he look back to his welcome at Harvard University, in the United States. The novelty of the scene, the warm welcome accorded to him in a strange land, must have made a most welcome form of honour. He delivered a lecture on the “Art of Acting”—his favourite topic—in the great Sande’s Theatre, into which over two thousand persons were crowded—the usual audience was sixteen hundred. An enormous crowd blocked the doors, so that the actor on his arrival could not gain admittance, and had to be taken in by a subterranean passage. The president was in a conspicuous place, and all the professors and dons attended. Another American University, that of Cambridge, also invited him to lecture (rather to give instruction) before them, and the newspapers of the country declared that the honours with which he was welcomed were really “unprecedented.” Again he discoursed on the “Art of Acting.” An even more flattering and unusual compliment was the invitation to the Military Academy at West-point, where, with his company, he performed ‘The Merchant of Venice’ in Elizabethan dresses, but without scenery—to the huge enjoyment of professors and students. Here is a round of University distinctions that has never fallen to the lot of any other actor. We may see in it an instinctive recognition of a cultured and artistic feeling that has influenced the community and done excellent educational service.
Irving had long wished to display his sardonic power in Goethe’s great character of Mephistopheles. He had already given proof of his quality in this line in Louis XI. and Richard III.; but there was a piquancy and range in Mephistopheles which naturally offered him an attraction, from the mixture of the comic or grotesque with deep tragic force. It also offered room for a superb and almost unlimited display of scenic magnificence. It was no secret, too, that in this particular display he was resolved to surpass all his previous efforts.
To Wills was entrusted the work of preparing the adaptation, this writer having, as I said, a command of flowing and melodious versification, which, moreover, was fitted to the actor’s delivery. The adapter had completed his task many years before, and the piece had long lain in the manager’s desk. During this period he let his conception of the piece slowly ripen; he discussed it with scholars; thought over it; while the adapter, a German student himself, revised his work at intervals according to the views of his chief. All this was judicious enough. It was, however, destined to be the last work that he was to prepare for his old friend and faithful Lyceum patron. It must be said that the latest adapter was not altogether well fitted for the task, as he was too much given to descriptions and “recitations,” while Mephistopheles might have been made far more of.
The preparations made were of the most thorough kind. For months the manager’s rooms were hung round with a profusion of sketches by artists of all kinds, relics of Nuremberg and the Goethe country, with old engravings of Albert Dürer, and great folios of costumes. To permeate himself with something of the tone and feeling of the piece, he travelled in Germany, accompanied by his scene-painter, Mr. Craven. Both stayed at Nuremberg, where the artist imbued himself with the whole poetry of the old city. Everyone of artistic feeling will recall one truly romantic scene—a simple cloth set very forward on the scene, perhaps to its disadvantage—a view of the old city, with its dull red high roofs and quaintly-peaked spires.
During the preparations, the theatre, now some eighty years old, had been redecorated afresh, but at the complete sacrifice of the old Vestris adornments, the elegant medallions or cameos, and the double-gilt pillars, which were thought to interfere with the view. The outline of the dress-circle was brought forward with some gain of space, and its graceful undulations were abolished. For such changes no one can be brought to account—the irresistible pressure of the time and the laws of convenience bring them about. An entirely new system of decoration was introduced, suggested by that of Raffaelle’s Loggie at the Vatican, which seemed scarcely sober enough for an auditorium. More structural changes were also made in the interests of the galleries, of which the manager has always shown himself careful.
On December 19, 1886, the piece was produced. There was the now invariable excitement of a Lyceum première, and there were stories of frantic efforts, grovellings, implorings, etc., to obtain a seat. A peer had actually been seen in the gallery—and was more than content with his place. The Royal Family were in their box, and the Prince, then in mourning, watched the play from behind the scenes. Mephistopheles was destined for many a night to give the keenest enjoyment to vast audiences. It was, indeed, a most original conception. With successive performances he enriched it with innumerable telling and grotesque touches; for, as I have said, the adapter had “laid out” the character on rather conventional lines. In spite of all these defects, he suggested the notion of “uncanniness” and a supernatural diablerie. His antic scaring of the women at the church-door will be recalled by many. Miss Terry’s Marguerite was full of pathos and poetry, occasionally suggesting, as in the “Jewel” scene, the operatic heroine. But at the first performance it became plain that a serious mistake had been made in the choice of Conway for the hero, Faust. He seemed scarcely to feel or understand the part; there was a lack of passion and sympathy. It was, indeed, an overwhelming burden for a player whose gifts lay in the direction of light comedy.
But on one Saturday night the audience was somewhat astonished to see before them a new Faust, one who, moreover, came on with a book in his hand, which he continued to read aloud even after Mephisto had paid him his visit through the steam clouds. It proved that Conway was suffering from gout, and Alexander, resigning his own character to Tyars, took the rôle of Faust, which on the following night he assumed permanently, and “discharged” in the regular way. Considering the shortness of the notice, he performed this awkward duty en vrai artiste—as, indeed, might be expected.[40] However, the cast was further strengthened by the excellent Mrs. Stirling, whose part was scarcely worthy of her. Placing a strong performer in a part that is inferior in strength, instead of improving or fortifying, only further brings out the poverty of the character.
In this piece numerous scientific devices were introduced to add to the effect, such as the clouds of steam which veiled the apparition of Mephistopheles, a device of French origin. This is scarcely illusive, as it is attended by an unmistakable “hissing” sound, as of a locomotive; it seems what it is—namely, steam. The blue electric light flashed with weird effect as the swords of Valentine and Faust crossed. But here again there was an electric wire and “contact,” and a current “switched on.” It may be paradoxical to say so, but these “advances” in scenic art are really retrograde steps.