WHEN Mr. Irving’s art is discussed, when his Hamlet or his Mathias,
his Shylock or his Dei Franchi, are discussed, he should be regarded
from a broader stand-point than that of the mere actor. He is entitled
to be looked at as not only the central figure of the play, but as the
motive power of the whole entertainment,—the master who has set the
story and grouped it, the controlling genius of the moving picture, the
source of the inspiration of the painter, the musician, the costumer,
and the machinist, whose combined efforts go to the realization of the
actor-manager’s conception and plans. It is acknowledged on all hands
that Mr. Irving has done more for dramatic art all round than any actor
of our time; and it is open to serious question whether any artist
of any time has done as much. Not alone on the stage, but in front
of it, at the very entrance of his theatre, the dignified influence
of his management is felt. Every department has for its head a man
of experience and tact, and every person about the place, from the
humblest messenger to the highest officer and actor, seems to carry
about with him a certain pride of association with the management.
Mr. Irving’s dressing-room at the theatre is a thorough business-like
apartment, with at the same time evidences of the taste which obtains
at his chambers. It is as unpretentious and yet in its way as
remarkable as the man. See him sitting there at the dressing-table,
where he is model to himself, where he converts himself into the
character he is sustaining. His own face is his canvas, his own
person, for the time being, the lay figure which he adorns. It is
a large square table in the corner of the room. In the centre is a
small old-fashioned mirror, which is practically the easel upon which
he 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 Dubosc, the implacable justice of
the avenging Dei Franchi, and the touching melancholy of Hamlet. As a
mere matter of “make-up,” his realizations of the historical pictures
of Charles the First and Philip 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 easel. A tray on the right-hand side of his
mirror may be called his palette; it contains an assortment of colors,
paint-pots, powders, and brushes; but in his hand, instead of the
maulstick, is the familiar hare’s-foot,—the actor’s “best friend” from
the earliest days of rouge and burned cork. To the left of the mirror
lie letters opened and unopened, missives just brought by the post, a
jewel-box, and various “properties” in the way of chains, lockets, or
buckles that belong to the part he is playing. He is talking to his
stage-manager, or to some intimate friend, as he continues his work.
You can hear the action 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 in 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
are alone. There is no “pulling himself together,” or “bracing up,” or
putting on “tragic airs” as he goes. It is a pleasant “Good-night,” or
“I shall see you again,” that takes him out of his 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 water-color of Ellen Terry; here a study of Macready in
Virginius; there a study in oil of Edmund Kean, by Clint, side by side
with a portrait of George Frederic Cooke, by Liversiege. Interspersed
among these things are framed play-bills of a past age and interesting
autograph letters. Near the dressing-table is a tall looking-glass,
in front of it an easy-chair, over which are lying a collection of
new draperies and costumes recently submitted for the actor-manager’s
approval. The room is warm with the gas that illuminates it; the
atmosphere delightful to the fancy that finds a special fascination
behind the foot-lights.