I never cared much for Henry’s Mephistopheles—­a twopence colored part, anyway.  Of course he had his moments—­he had them in every part—­but they were few.  One of them was in the Prologue, when he wrote in the student’s book, “Ye shall be as gods knowing good and evil.”  He never looked at the book, and the nature of the spirit appeared suddenly in a most uncanny fashion.  Another was in the Spinning-wheel Scene when Faust defies Mephistopheles, and he silences him with, “I am a spirit.”  Henry looked to grow a gigantic height—­to hover over the ground instead of walking on it.  It was terrifying.

I made valiant efforts to learn to spin before I played Margaret.  My instructor was Mr. Albert Fleming, who, at the suggestion of Ruskin, had recently revived hand-spinning and hand-weaving in the North of England.  I had always hated that obviously “property” spinning-wheel in the opera, and Margaret’s unmarketable thread.  My thread always broke, and at last I had to “fake” my spinning to a certain extent; but at least I worked my wheel right, and gave an impression that I could spin my pound of thread a day with the best.

Two operatic stars did me the honor to copy my Margaret dress—­Madame Albani and Madame Melba.  It was rather odd, by the way, that many mothers who took their daughters to see the opera of “Faust” would not bring them to see the Lyceum play.  One of these mothers was Princess Mary of Teck, a constant patron of most of our plays.

Other people “missed the music.”  The popularity of an opera will often kill a play, although the play may have existed before the music was ever thought of.  The Lyceum “Faust” held its own against Gounod.  I liked our incidental music to the action much better.  It was taken from many different sources and welded into an effective and beautiful whole by our clever musical director, Mr. Meredith Ball.

In many ways “Faust” was our heaviest production.  About four hundred ropes were used, each rope with a name.  The list of properties and instructions to the carpenters became a joke among the theater staff.  When Henry first took “Faust” into the provinces, the head carpenter at Liverpool, Myers by name, being something of a humorist, copied out the list on a long thin sheet of paper, which rolled up like a royal proclamation.  Instead of “God save the Queen!” he wrote at the foot, with many flourishes:  “God help Bill Myers!”

The crowded houses at “Faust” were largely composed of “repeaters,” as Americans call those charming playgoers who come to see a play again and again.  We found favor with the artists and musicians too, even in Faust!  Here is a nice letter I got during the run (it was a long one) from that gifted singer and good woman, Madame Antoinette Sterling:—­

“My dear Miss Terry,—­

“I was quite as disappointed as yourself that you were not at St. James’s Hall last Monday for my concert....  Jean Ingelow said she enjoyed the afternoon very much....