Sketcher. HENRY IRVING AT HOME.

Waikato Times, Volume XIX, Issue 1574, 5 August 1882, Page 6

Sketcher. HENRY IRVING AT HOME.

Afc the corner of Graf ton -street, whore the traffic of a famous Webt-end artery ebbs and flows among 1 picture exhibitions and jewelhy wtores, live* the most popular actor of his time. It is a mj'steriouslooking hou*-e. The babement is occupied by a trunk sore. From the first floor to the top are Mr Henry Irving' s chambers. They present from the outside the look of dingy, half -blind windows that sugtrost no prospect of warmth or cheer. " Fitting abode of the spirit of tragic gloom !" you might well exclaim, standing on the theshold. You shall enter. The sombre door, the first on the left as we enter Graf ton-street from Bond-street, leads tojiis chambers. Two flights of stairs, dark with the gloom of a London atmosphere, and we enter his general room. With the hum of the West-end buzzing at the windows, the colored glass of which bhuts out what little sunlight falls there, the apartmpnt is characteristic of a great artist and a great city. The mautlepiece recalls those of old English mansions. It is practically an old cabinet, with a silver shiold as the contre-piece. On the opposite side of the room isawellstocked book-case, surmounted by a raven that carries one's thoughts to Poe and his gloomy story. On tables here and there are materials for letter-writing, and evidence of much correspondence, though one of the actor's greatest social sins is said to be the tardiness with which he answers letters. Bric-a-brac, historic relics, theatrical properties, articles of vertu, lie about in admired disorder. Here is Edmund Keans sword, the one he wore in Hamlet, which was presented to Irving on the first night of his Richard 111. In a glass case near this precious treasure is a ring that belonged to David Garrick — an exquisite setting of a minature of Shakespeare. In a cabinet near one of the windows are a cross which Edmund Kean wore in Richard 111., and Charles Keans prompt-book of " Louis XI." Close by is a maible bust of Young, with a faded wreath upon its brow ; a portrait of Rossi as Nero ; a photograph of Chas. Dickens, the one by Gurncy, of New York, which the great author himself thonght an excellent portrait; an engraving of Maclisc's play scene in Hamlet ; medallions of Emile Devrient and John Hcrschell ; and a sketch of a favorite Scotch terrier, which during the last year or two is his most constant companion at home and at the theatre. The adjoining room contains the collection of the actor's art treasures, not the mere connoisseur's museum of articles of vertu, but things which have a personal value and a special history associated with the art their owner loves. It is a ftank smile that greets us as the artist enters and extends his long thin hand. It is a trite saying that there is much character in the hand. I know no one whose hand is so suggestive of nervous energy and artistic capacity as Irving's. And how thoroughly in keeping it is with the long expressive face, the notably icsthetic figure ! "You want to talk shop," he says, striding about the room, with his hands in the pockets of his loose grey coat. " Well, with all my heart, if you think it useful and interesting." "I do." "May I select the subject ?" "Yes." "Then I would like to go back to one we touched upon at your own suggestion some months ago." " An actor on his audience ?" " Yes. The subject is a good one ; it interests me, and in that brief anuoymous newspaper sketch of a year ago you did little more than indicate the points we discussed. Let us see ft we can not revive and complete it. " "Agreed, I will 'interview' you, then, as we say in America ?" "By all means," replied my host, handing me a cigar, and settling himself down in an easy chair by the fire. "I am ready." '•Well, then, as I think I have said before when on this subject, there has always appeared to me something phenomenal in the mutual understanding that exists between you and your audiences ; it ai'gues an active sympathy and confidence on both sides." "That is exactly what I think exists. In presence of my audience I feel as safe and contented as when sitting down witli an old friend. ; . > "I have seen Lord Beaconsfield, • when he was Mr Disraeli,: rise in the House pf Commons, aud, begin a speech in a vein andrmanner, evidently considered beforei hand, whichi proving at the* moment out of harmpiiyi' .with -.the feelings of the ,Hou,se,!he has entirely from, his originalfidea'tofsuit-.th'edmm'ediate 'mood and temper' of his audience.;;-^ Now, sympathetic^ >y6ri [are ;with f your audience, < have' you", • ,fmde iv,btieir ;tloflp<&K!e£ ift the development of as new ctiarafcter^Jeverjal- » ,>tered yon&first idea duribgilie course fcf .theircpreseptatipnv?" vi ■ >jyf ,m, - , *$X°u open up, am interesting' train, "of

thought," he answered. "Except once, I have never altered my original idea under the circumstances you suggest: that was ' Vanderdecken,' and I changed the last scene. I can always tell when the audience is with me. It was not with me iv ' Varderdecken ;' neither was it on the first night of - ' Hamlet, " which is, perhaps, curious, considering my subsequent success. On the first night I felt that the audience did not go with me until the first meeting with Ophelia, when they changed toward me entirely. But as night succeeded night, my Hamlet grew in their estimation. I could feel it all the time, and now I know that they like it — that they are with me heart and soul. I will tell you a curious thing about my ' Hamlet ' audience. It is the most interesting audience I play to For any other piece there is a difficulty in getting the people seated by half-past eight. For ' Hamlet,' the house is full and quiet, and waiting for the curtain to go up by half -past seven. On the first night the curtfflfi dropped at a quarter to one." "la what part do you feel most at home with your audience, and most certain of them ?" " Well, in Hamlet," he replied, thought, fully. "Has this been your grcatebt pecuniary success ?"' 11 Yes " " Ono night, in Hamlet," he proceeds, "something was thrown upon the stage. It struck a lamp, and fell into the orchestra. It could not be found for some time. An enquiry was made about it by some person in the front, an aged woman, who was much concerned that I had not received it — so I was informed at the box-office. A sad-looking woman, evidently very poor, called the next day, and on being informed that the trinket was found, expressed herself greatly pleased. ' I often como to the galleiy of the theatre,' fahe said, k and I want Mr Irving to have this heirloom. I wanted him alone in this world to possess it. ' This is the trinket, which I wear on ray wfltohchain. The theatre was evidently a bolace to that poor soul. She had probably some sorrow in her life, and there may have been a kind of comfort in Hamlet, or me perhaps, posbussiug this little cross. " As he spoke, the actor's lithe fingers were busy at his watch chain, and he seemed to be questioning 1 the secret romance of the trinket thrown to him from the gallery. "I don't know why else she let it fall upon the stage ; but strange impulses sometimes take hold of people sitting at a phty, especially in tragedy," The trinket about which he speculated so much is an old-fashioned gold cross. On two sides is engraved, ' ' Faith, Hope, and Charity," on the front, "I believe in the forgiveness of sins," and on thereverse, " Iscorn to fear or change." " They said at the box-office," went on tho actor, musing, "that she was a poor mother who had lost her son. " Lett me sketch the famous actor as we leave his rooms together. A tall, spare figiue in a dark overcoat and greyish trousers, a hill hat, rather broad at the brim. His hair is black and bushy, with a Avave in it on the verge of a curl, and suggestions of grey at the temples and over the ears. It is a pale, somewhat ascetic face, with bushy eyebroys, dark dreamy eyes, a nose that indicates gentleness rather than strength, a mouth opposed to" all ideas of sensuou^noss, but nervons and sensitive, and a head inclined to droop a little. Though the popular idea is rather to associate tragedy with tho face and manner of Irving, there is nothing sunnier than his smile. It lights up all his countenance, and reveah£b^s soul in his eyes ; but it is like the sunshine that bursts for a moment from the cloud, and loaves the landscape again in shadow, flecked here and there with fleeting reminisences of the sun. Mr Irving,s dressing-room, at the theatre is a thoiough business-like apartment, with at the same time evidences of the taste which obtains at his chambers. Ifcis as unpretentious and yet in its way as remarkable as the man. . See him sitting there at tho dressing-table, where he converts himself into the character he is sustaining. His own face is his canvass, his whole person, for the time being, the lay figure which he adorns. It is a large square table in a corner of the room. In the centre is a small oldfashioned mii Tor, which is practically the easel upon which ho works ; for therein is reflected the face which has to depict the passion and fear of Mathias, the cupidity of Richard, the martyrdom of Charles, the grim viciousness of Dubw, the implacable justice of tho avenging Dei Frtinchi, and the touching melancholy of Haralcfc. As a mere matter of "makeup," his realisations of the historical pictuies of Charles the First nnd Phillip of Spain are the highest kind of art. They belong to Vandyck and Velasquez, not only in their imitation of the great masters, but in the sort of inspiration for character and color which moved those famous painters. See him sitting, I say, the actor-artist at his easol. The light of his mirror may be called his pallette ; it is an assortment of colors, i dint- pots, powders, and brushes ; but in his hand, instead of the maul-stick, is the familiar hare's-foot, the actor's "best friend" from the earliest days of rouge and burnt cork. To tho left of tho mirrow lie letters opened and unopened, missives just brought by the poet, a jewel box, and varions " properties', in the way of chains, lockets, or buckles that belong to the part he is pkying. He is talking to his stage-manager, Mr Loveday, or to his acting-manager, Mr ]3ram Stoker, or to some intimate friend, as he continues his work. You can hear the afltion of the drama that is going on— a distant cheer, the clash of swords, a merry laugh, or a passing chorus. The " call-boy "of the theatre looks iv at intervals to report the progress of the piece up to the point where it is necessary the leading artist should appear upon the stage, Then, as if he is simply going to see a friend who is waiting for him, Irving leaves his dressing-room, and you arc alone. There is no "pulling himself together," or "bracing up," or putting on "tragic nirs "as he goes. It is a pleasant '• Good night," or " I shall see you again," that takes him out of hia dressing-room, and you can tell when he is before the audience by the loud cheers that come rushing up the staircases from the stage. While he is away, you look around the room. ' You find that the few pictures which decorate the walls are theatrical portraits. Here is an etching of Garrick's head; there a , w.iter-"!olor, of Ellen Terry ; hero a study of Macready in Virginius ; there an engraving of Kean. Interspersed among these things are framed play-bills of a past age and interesting autograph letters. — By Joseph Ration, in Harper's Monthly.