Irving was the most charming fellow you would want to meet. I mean that. At first, of course, you stiffened. Irving did that to people. He was an albuminoid. He was one with Karloff and Chaney, one of the greats. But you soon softened. Because Irving was really a sweet person. He talked just above a whisper in a curiously melodious, high-pitched, singsong voice. And with utmost sincerity. When Irving spoke, you felt like a chosen creature, and although you knew he was brilliant you never felt stupid with him. Another thing, he was nearly blind. His long, cartilaginous nose supported twin microscopes, through which eh seemed always to be peering. But never really at this world. That is my most lasting impression of Irving, a sepulchral peering figure. He was ubiquitous in that guise. Once I saw him walking through an IRT subway train and worried lest he fall between the cars and be crushed. Another time I saw him close by a lamppost in Greenwich Village, as if for safety or security. I …