My greatest triumph as Desdemona was not gained with the audience but with Henry Irving!  He found my endeavors to accept comfort from Iago so pathetic that they brought the tears to his eyes.  It was the oddest sensation when I said “Oh, good Iago, what shall I do to win my lord again?” to look up—­my own eyes dry, for Desdemona is past crying then—­and see Henry’s eyes at their biggest, luminous, soft and full of tears!  He was, in spite of Iago and in spite of his power of identifying himself with the part, very deeply moved by my acting.  But he knew how to turn it to his purpose:  he obtrusively took the tears with his fingers and blew his nose with much feeling, softly and long (so much expression there is, by the way, in blowing the nose on the stage), so that the audience might think his emotion a fresh stroke of hypocrisy.

Every one liked Henry’s Iago.  For the first time in his life he knew what it was to win unanimous praise.  Nothing could be better, I think, than Mr. Walkley’s[1] description:  “Daringly Italian, a true compatriot of the Borgias, or rather, better than Italians, that devil incarnate, an Englishman Italianate.”

[Footnote 1:  Mr. A.B.  Walkley, the gifted dramatic critic of The Times.]

One adored him, devil though he was.  He was so full of charm, so sincerely the “honest” Iago, peculiarly sympathetic with Othello, Desdemona, Roderigo, all of them—­except his wife.  It was only in the soliloquies and in the scenes with his wife that he revealed his devil’s nature.  Could one ever forget those grapes which he plucked in the first act, and slowly ate, spitting out the seeds, as if each one represented a worthy virtue to be put out of his mouth, as God, according to the evangelist, puts out the lukewarm virtues.  His Iago and his Romeo in different ways proved his power to portray Italian passions—­the passions of lovely, treacherous people, who will either sing you a love sonnet or stab you in the back—­you are not sure which!

We played “Othello” for six weeks, three performances a week, to guinea stalls, and could have played it longer.  Each week Henry and Booth changed parts.  For both of them it was a change for the worse.

Booth’s Iago seemed deadly commonplace after Henry’s.  He was always the snake in the grass; he showed the villain in all the scenes.  He could not resist the temptation of making polished and ornate effects.

Henry Irving’s Othello was condemned almost as universally as his Iago was praised.  For once I find myself with the majority.  He screamed and ranted and raved—­lost his voice, was slow where he should have been swift, incoherent where he should have been strong.  I could not bear to see him in the part.  It was painful to me.  Yet night after night he achieved in the speech to the Senate one of the most superb and beautiful bits of acting of his life.  It was wonderful.  He spoke the speech, beaming on Desdemona all the time.  The gallantry of the thing is indescribable.