Henry Irving never spent much time on the women in the company, except in regard to position.  Sometimes he would ask me to suggest things to them, to do for them what he did for the men.  The men were as much like him when they tried to carry out his instructions as brass is like gold; but he never grew weary of “coaching” them, down to the most minute detail.  Once during the rehearsals of “Hamlet” I saw him growing more and more fatigued with his efforts to get the actors who opened the play to perceive his meaning.  He wanted the first voice to ring out like a pistol shot.

“Who’s there?”

“Do give it up,” I said.  “It’s no better!”

“Yes, it’s a little better,” he answered quietly, “and so it’s worth doing.”

From the first the scenery or substitute scenery was put upon the stage for rehearsal, and the properties or substitute properties were to hand.

After each act had been gone through twice each day, it came to half an act once in a whole day, because of the development of detail.  There was no detail too small for Henry Irving’s notice.  He never missed anything that was cumulative—­that would contribute something to the whole effect.

The messenger who came in to announce something always needed a great deal of rehearsal.  There were processions, and half processions, quiet bits when no word was spoken.  There was timing.  Nothing was left to chance.

In the master carpenter, Arnott, we had a splendid man.  He inspired confidence at once through his strong, able personality, and, as time went on, deserved it through all the knowledge he acquired and through his excellence in never making a difficulty.

“You shall have it,” was no bluff from Arnott.  You did “have it.”

We could not find precisely the right material for one of my dresses in “The Cup.”  At last, poking about myself in quest of it, I came across the very thing at Liberty’s—­a saffron silk with a design woven into it by hand with many-colored threads and little jewels.  I brought a yard to rehearsal.  It was declared perfect, but I declared the price prohibitive.

“It’s twelve guineas a yard, and I shall want yards and yards!”

In these days I am afraid they would not only put such material on to the leading lady, but on to the supers too!  At the Lyceum wanton extravagance was unknown.

“Where can I get anything at all like it?”

“You leave it to me,” said Arnott.  “I’ll get it for you.  That’ll be all right.

“But, Arnott, it’s a hand-woven Indian material.  How can you get it?”

“You leave it to me,” Arnott repeated in his slow, quiet, confident way.  “Do you mind letting me have this yard as a pattern?”

He went off with it, and before the dress rehearsal had produced about twenty yards of silk, which on the stage looked better than the twelve-guinea original.