"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.
I can only say what he told me.
I stayed with him about three hours at Wolverhampton. Before I left, I went back to see the doctor again—a very nice man, by the way, and clever. He told me that Henry ought never to play "The Bells" again, even if he acted again, which he said ought not to be.
It was clever of the doctor to see what a terrible emotional strain "The Bells" put upon Henry—how he never could play the part of Matthias "on his head," as he could Louis XI., for example.
Every time he heard the sound of the bells, the throbbing of his heart must have nearly killed him. He used always to turn quite white—there was no trick about it. It was imagination acting physically on the body.
