[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 gallantry of the thing is indescribable. I think his failure as Othello was one of the unspoken bitternesses of Henry's life. When I say "failure" I am of course judging him by his own standard, and using the word to describe what he was to himself, not what he was to the public. On the last night, he rolled up the clothes that he had worn as the Moor one by one, carefully laying one garment on top of the other, and then, half-humorously and very deliberately said, "_Never again_!" Then he stretched himself with his arms above his head and gave a great sigh of relief. Mr. Pinero was excellent as Roderigo in this production. He was always good in the "silly ass" type of part, and no one could say of him that he was playing himself! Desdemona is not counted a big part by actresses, but I loved playing it. Some nights I played it beautifully. My appearance was right--I was such a poor wraith of a thing. But let there be no mistake--it took strength to act this weakness and passiveness of Desdemona's. I soon found that, like Cordelia, she has plenty of character. Reading the play the other day, I studied the opening scene. It is the finest opening to a play I know.