There was no conceit in this.  It was just a statement of fact.  And it may not have been an admirable quality of Henry Irving’s, but all his life he only took an interest in the things which concerned the work that he had in hand.  When there was a question of his playing Napoleon, his room at Grafton Street was filled with Napoleonic literature.  Busts of Napoleon, pictures of Napoleon, relics of Napoleon were everywhere.  Then, when another play was being prepared, the busts, however fine, would probably go down to the cellar.  It was not Napoleon who interested Henry Irving, but Napoleon for his purpose—­two very different things.

His concentration during his three months’ study of the play which he had in view was marvelous.  When, at the end of the three-months, he called the first rehearsal, he read the play exactly as it was going to be done on the first night.  He knew exactly by that time what he personally was going to do on the first night, and the company did well to notice how he read his own part, for never again until the first night, though he rehearsed with them, would he show his conception so fully and completely.

These readings, which took place sometimes in the greenroom or Beefsteak Room at the Lyceum, sometimes at his house in Grafton Street, were wonderful.  Never were the names of the characters said by the reader, but never was there the slightest doubt as to which was speaking.  Henry Irving swiftly, surely, acted every part in the piece as he read.  While he read, he made notes as to the position of the characters and the order of the crowds and processions.  At the end of the first reading he gave out the parts.

The next day there was the “comparing” of the parts.  It generally took place on the stage, and we sat down for it.  Each person took his own character, and took up the cues to make sure that no blunder had been made in writing them out.  Parts at the Lyceum were written, or printed, not typed.

These first two rehearsals—­the one devoted to the reading of the play, and the other to the comparing of the parts, were generally arranged for Thursday and Friday.  Then there was two days’ grace.  On Monday came the first stand-up rehearsal on the stage.

We then did one act straight through, and, after that, straight through again, even if it took all day.  There was no luncheon interval.  People took a bite when they could, or went without.  Henry himself generally went without.  The second day exactly the same method was pursued with the second act.  All the time Henry gave the stage his personal direction, gave it keenly, and gave it whole.  He was the sole superintendent of his rehearsals, with Mr. Loveday as his working assistant, and Mr. Allen as his prompter.  This despotism meant much less wasted time than when actor-manager, “producer,” literary adviser, stage manager, and any one who likes to offer a suggestion are all competing in giving orders and advice to a company.