Irving to produce an original play in blank verse which he had written!
During our drive to the theatre he told me many things of interest. On the question as to whether Mr. Irving thought a school of acting necessary, he said that one could never make an actor. You can teach him elocution, technique, but there is no making an actor. Even technique is a life-long study. The fashions in hand-shaking change every day. He studies his parts everywhere; many of the characters we are seeing to-day he had within his mind years ago, and they have been developing and growing ever since. Then, after years of playing, there is still always something to learn in a character.
The private door of the Lyceum Theatre.
Mr. Irving is one of the few actors who, at the conclusion of a death scene in a tragedy, always fall forward. Mr. Irving has taken the opinion of physicians and many old soldiers on the subject, and it is the only natural way with those suddenly overtaken by death. When a man was shot his head fell on his breast, and the body always fell in the direction indicated by the head.
Just as we drove up to the private door of the theatre in Burleigh Street, Strand, I asked Mr. Irving if he had ever met the late Cardinal Manning. He never had. Yet as Cardinal Wolsey in "Henry the Eighth," when the actor smiles, his expression is the exact counterpart of that of the late Cardinal.
Fussie follows us in. Passing through a passage, which leads direct on to the stage, at the end we find some stairs. The walls just here are covered with Indian matting. A very few steps, and you have entered the dressing-room. It is just as cosy as it well can be. The walls are covered with pictures and prints, including one by Maclise, and Edmund Kean by Clint. Pictures of the actor himself are not wanting, and portraits of Sarah Bernhardt, Ellen Terry, and John L. Toole are in prominent positions. The place of honour is a huge "King Arthur" chair. Here princes, poets, and politicians, men of learning and of all nationalities, have sat.
But it is the table which fascinates one most. A clean white linen cloth has been laid out, and everything is ready for making up. Everything on the board is time-worn—the table itself being a stage "prop," and useful for banqueting scenes. The looking-glass—tied together with string—has been in use for something like twenty years; the wicker-basket, which contains the making-up materials, is of a good age. There is quite a variety of puffs. Tiny saucers and plates are neatly arranged in order, containing various powders—principally a mixture of yellow ochre and white, for each will help to suggest the complexion of Cardinal Wolsey, which is the character he will play to-night. The chair—placed in front of the table—is old and rickety, but he who has just sat down keeps it for associations' sake, and it gives more comfort than a Turkish ottoman.
Fussie never stirs from the spot.
There was still plenty of time to spare, as we had a reason for reaching the theatre early. It was to talk about dear Charles Mathews. Mr. Irving took down his picture. It was given to him by Mrs. Mathews, and represents the electrical comedian at seventy-six. It is a striking likeness; and the face
