He kept three things going at the same time—­the antic madness, the sanity, the sense of the theater.  The last was to all that he imagined and thought, what charity is said by St. Paul to be to all other virtues.

He was never cross or moody—­only melancholy.  His melancholy was as simple as it was profound.  It was touching, too, rather than defiant.  You never thought that he was wantonly sad and enjoying his own misery.

He neglected no coup de theatre to assist him, but who notices the servants when the host is present?

For instance, his first entrance as Hamlet was, what we call in the theater, very much “worked up.”  He was always a tremendous believer in processions, and rightly.  It is through such means that Royalty keeps its hold on the feeling of the public, and makes its mark as a Figure and a Symbol.  Henry Irving understood this.  Therefore, to music so apt that it was not remarkable in itself, but merely a contribution to the general excited anticipation, the Prince of Denmark came on to the stage.  I understood later on at the Lyceum what days of patient work had gone to the making of that procession.

At its tail, when the excitement was at fever heat, came the solitary figure of Hamlet, looking extraordinarily tall and thin.  The lights were turned down—­another stage trick—­to help the effect that the figure was spirit rather than man.

He was weary—­his cloak trailed on the ground.  He did not wear the miniature of his father obtrusively round his neck!  His attitude was one which I have seen in a common little illumination to the “Reciter,” compiled by Dr. Pinches (Henry Irving’s old schoolmaster).  Yet how right to have taken it, to have been indifferent to its humble origin!  Nothing could have been better when translated into life by Irving’s genius.

The hair looked blue-black, like the plumage of a crow, the eyes burning—­two fires veiled as yet by melancholy.  But the appearance of the man was not single, straight or obvious, as it is when I describe it—­any more than his passions throughout the play were.  I only remember one moment when his intensity concentrated itself in a straightforward, unmistakable emotion, without side-current or back-water.  It was when he said: 

    “The play’s the thing
    With which to catch the conscience of the King.”

and, as the curtain came down, was seen to be writing madly on his tablets against one of the pillars.

“Oh, God, that I were a writer!” I paraphrase Beatrice with all my heart.  Surely a writer could not string words together about Henry Irving’s Hamlet and say nothing, nothing.

“We must start this play a living thing,” he used to say at rehearsals, and he worked until the skin grew tight over his face, until he became livid with fatigue, yet still beautiful, to get the opening lines said with individuality, suggestiveness, speed, and power.