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THE STRAND MAGAZINE . 
hanging loosely, like some grey drapery, about 
his frail yet majestically-dignified figure, 
sitting up in bed, drinking his coffee. It was 
a moving moment, and at first we said but 
little. Then lie remarked : “ I’m glad you’ve 
come. Two Queens have been kind to me 
this morning. Queen Alexandra telegraphed 
to say how sorry she was I was ill, and now 
you ” 
My eyes filled with tears at his words, and 
for fear that he should see my emotion I 
turned towards the window as I read the 
Queen’s gracious message. 
And then we fell to talking about all sorts 
of things : about what he had been doing and 
I had been doing. About his work and my 
work. He told me how he had fallen over a 
rug in front of the door, of how he had been 
picked up by a commercial traveller, a kindly 
fellow, who afterwards wanted to sit up and 
talk to him all night. 
All the time the maiinie was going on. 
But still my thoughts continued to usurp 
complete control over my memory. All the 
time I was sitting by Henry’s bedside in his 
hotel at Wolverhampton. I tried to bring 
myself back again to Drury Lane. But it 
was not to be. “ You are sharing this honour 
with him,” said my thoughts, “ so come back 
with us to Wolverhampton.” 
And back again I went. Every word of 
that never-to-be-forgotten conversation stood 
out in golden capital letters in my memory. 
“ What a wonderful life you’ve led ! ” How 
well I remembered that remark — and Henry’s 
reply. “ Oh, yes,” he had said, quietly, 
“ a wonderful life — of work.” “ And 
there’s nothing better, after all, is there ? ” 
“ Nothing,” he had said, earnestly. 
“ What have I got out of it ? ” A slight 
smile crossed Henry’s face, as he replied, 
thoughtfully, “ Well — a good cigar, a good 
glass of wine — good friends.” And at that 
he had kissed my hand with his never-failing 
courtesy. Amd as I stood there in Drury Lane 
Theatre I almost felt that he, too, was present. 
The memory of those moments was so real, so 
wonderfully real. “ A good summing-up,” I 
had said. “ But the end — how would you 
like that to come ? ” For a full half-minute 
he had sat silent, and then, of a sudden, he 
had snapped his fingers — the action before 
the words, as was his invariable habit. “ Like 
that ! ” 
And then I recalled how, not long before 
his death in 1905, he had told me that there 
would be a monster performance at Drury 
Lane, and that already — this was some time 
before the actual maiinie took place — the 
profession were planning what form it should 
take. And now I was gazing on that very 
performance which was to have been given, 
not in my, but in “ our ” honour for, had 
Ilcnry Irving lived, he would have completed 
his sixty years on the stage in the autumn of 
1906. 
In this way my thoughts carried me along 
at their will, through first one, then another, 
and still another and another never-to-be- 
forgotten incident. Can you wonder then 
that, as I gazed on the brilliant scene, I was 
not only deeply moved, but reverently 
impressed ? The two things which, perhaps, 
touched me most about this wonderful 
•maiinie were my reception by the crowd who 
were waiting to get into the gallery when I 
visited them at two o’clock in the morning, 
and the generous compliment of Eleonora 
Duse, who had come all the way from 
Florence to honour me. I was intensely 
grateful, too, to Signor Caruso, who came 
specially to sing for me. As I did not know 
him, I felt the compliment lie paid was all 
the greater, for clearly it represented the 
, spontaneous and friendly wish of one artiste to 
honour another artiste. 
And so the afternoon wore on. And every 
moment I felt more strongly that this 
monster meeting of appreciation, this crowded 
house of friends, had gathered there, not only 
to honour me for any good work I might, 
perhaps, have been privileged to do, but as a 
token of undying remembrance of the great 
work of the great man with whom I had been 
associated for a quarter of a century, and the 
light of whose memory was still shining on me, 
from his grave. 
The actual scene itself I will not attempt 
to describe. It was wonderful, amazingly 
wonderful, and I well remember how truly 
grateful I felt that I had not to say good- 
bye— that 1 could speak to my fellow-artistes 
as one who was still to carry on the work 
I had set out to do ; and to the public, 
too, I could speak as one in their service, 
whose name had not yet been struck off the 
active list. 
Yes, the brilliancy of the scene I can never 
forget. Artists have drawn it, and faithfully 
depicted its every detail. Photographers 
have taken it — and taken it well. But both, 
I think, missed something. They only saw the 
“ physical ” side of that wonderful scene. 
Those beautiful memories which crept in on 
tip-toe, shyly, nervously, through the wings, 
hovering softly here and there, looking for a 
resting-place, and finally finding home in my 
heart, were mine — and mine alone. 
