When he engaged me to play Ophelia in 1878, he asked me to go down to
Birmingham to see the play, and that night I saw what I shall always
consider the perfection of acting. It had been wonderful in 1874; in
1878 it was far more wonderful. It has been said that when he had the
"advantage" of my Ophelia his Hamlet "improved." I don't think so; he
was always quite independent of the people with whom he acted.
The Birmingham night he knew I was there. He played--I say it without
vanity--for me. We players are not above that weakness, if it be a
weakness. If ever anything inspires us to do our best, it is the
presence in the audience of some fellow-artist who must, in the nature
of things, know more completely than any one what we intend, what we
do, what we feel. The response from such a member of the audience
flies across the footlights to us like a flame. I felt it once when I
played Olivia before Eleonora Duse. I felt that she felt it once when
she played Marguerite Gautier for me.
When I read "Hamlet" now, everything that Henry did in it seems to me
more absolutely right even than I thought at the time. I would give
much to be able to record it all in detail, but--it may be my
fault--writing is not the medium in which this can be done. Sometimes
I have thought of giving readings of "Hamlet," for I can remember
every tone of Henry's voice, every emphasis, every shade of meaning
that he saw in the lines and made manifest to the discerning. Yes, I
think I could give some pale idea of what his Hamlet was if I read the
play!
"Words, words, words!" What is it to say, for instance, that the
cardinal qualities of his Prince of Denmark were strength, delicacy,
distinction? There was never a touch of commonness. Whatever he did
or said, blood and breeding pervaded it.