"And there's nothing better, after all, is there?"
"Nothing."
"What have you got out of it all?... You and I are 'getting on,' as
they say. Do you ever think, as I do sometimes, what you have got out
of life?"
"What have I got out of it?" said Henry, stroking his chin and
smiling slightly. "Let me see.... Well, a good cigar, a good glass of
wine--good friends--" Here he kissed my hand with courtesy. Always he
was so courteous--always his actions, like this little one of kissing
my hand, were so beautifully timed. They came just before the spoken
words, and gave them peculiar value.
"That's not a bad summing up of it all," I said. "And the end.... How
would you like that to come?"
"How would I like that to come?" He repeated my question, lightly, yet
meditatively too. Then he was silent for some thirty seconds before he
snapped his fingers--the action again before the words.
"Like that!"
I thought of the definition of inspiration--"A calculation quickly
made." Perhaps he had never thought of the manner of his death before.
Now he had an inspiration as to how it would come.
We were silent a long time, I thinking how like some splendid Doge of
Venice he looked, sitting up in bed, his beautiful mobile hand stroking
his chin.
I agreed, when I could speak, that to be snuffed out like a candle
would save a lot of trouble.
After Henry Irving's death in October of the same year, some of his
friends protested against the statement that it was the kind of death
he desired--that they knew, on the contrary, that he thought sudden
death inexpressibly sad.