peculiar furthermore
in being open only for a few weeks in the spring.

I have not been to the Fenice, but I once attended a performance of
_Amleto_ by "G. Shakespeare" in the Goldoni. It is the gayest of
theatres, and the most intimate, for all save the floor and a trifling
space under the flat ceiling is boxes; one hundred and twenty-three
little ones and eight big ones, each packed with Venetians who really do
enjoy a play while it is in progress, and really do enjoy every minute
of the interval while it is not. When the lights are up they eat and
chatter and scrutinize the other boxes; when the lights are down they
follow the drama breathlessly and hiss if any one dares to whisper a
word to a neighbour.

As for the melancholy Prince of Danimarca, he was not my conception of
the part, but he was certainly the Venetians'. Either from a national
love of rhetoric, or a personal fancy of the chief actor for the centre
of the stage, or from economical reasons, the version of "G.
Shakespeare's" meritorious tragedy which was placed before us was almost
wholly monologue. Thinking about it now, I can scarcely recall any
action on the part of the few other characters, whereas Amleto's
millions of rapid words still rain uncomprehended on my ears, and I
still see his myriad grimaces and gestures. It was like _Hamlet_ very
unintelligently arranged for a very noisy cinema, and watching it I was
conscious of what a vast improvement might be effected in many plays if
the cinema producer as well as the author attended the rehearsals. But
to the Venetians this was as impressive and entertaining a Hamlet as
could be wished, and four jolly Jack-tars from one of the men-of-war in
the lagoon nearly fell out of their private box in their delight, and
after each of the six atti Amleto was called several times through the
little door in the curtain. Nor did he fail to respond.

About the staging of the play there was a right Shakespearian parsimony.
If all the scenery and costumes cost twenty-five pounds, I am surprised.
No attempt was made to invest "lo spettro del padre del Amleto" with
supernatural graces. He merely walked on sideways, a burly, very living
Italian, and with a nervous quick glance, to see if he was clearing the
wing (which he sometimes did not), off again. So far as the Goldoni is
concerned, Sir Henry Irving, Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree, Sir Augustus
Harris, and Herr Reinhardt have toiled in vain. Amleto's principle, "The