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 gal