What is the bane of a young actress's life?
Under the protection of pretty seals stamped in various tints of wax, I
find one question appearing in many slightly different forms. A large
number of writers ask, "What is the greatest difficulty a young actress
has to surmount?" In another pile of notes the question appears in this
guise, "What is the principal obstacle in the way of the young actress?"
While two motherly bodies ask, "What one thing worries an actress the
most?" After due thought I have cast them all together, boiled them
down, and reduced them to this, "What is the bane of a young actress's
life?" which question I can answer without going into training, with one
hand tied behind me, and both eyes bandaged, answer in one
word--_dress_. Ever since that far-away season when Eve, the beautiful,
inquiring, let-me-see-for-myself Eve, made fig leaves popular in Eden,
and invented the apron to fill a newly felt want, dress has been at once
the comfort and the torment of woman.
Acting is a matter of pretence, and she who can best pretend a splendid
passion, a tender love, or a murderous hate, is admittedly the finest
actress. Time was when stage wardrobe was a pretence, too. An actress
was expected to please the eye, she was expected to be historically
correct as to the shape and style of her costume; but no one expected
her queenly robes to be of silk velvet, her imperial ermine to be
anything rarer than rabbit-skin. My own earliest ermine was humbler
still, being constructed of the very democratic white canton flannel
turned wrong side out, while the ermine's characteristic little black
tails were formed by short bits of round shoe-lacing. The only advantage
I can honestly claim for this domestic ermine is its freedom from the
moths, who dearly love imported garments of soft fine cloth and rare
lining. I have had and have seen others have, in the old days, really
gorgeous brocades made by cutting out great bunches of flowers from
chintz and applying them to a cheaper background, and then picking out
the high lights with embroidery silk, the effect being not only
beautiful, but rich. All these make-believes were necessary then, on a
$30 or $35 a week salary, for a leading lady drew no more.
[Illustration: _Clara Morris as "Jane Eyre"_]
But times are changed, stage lighting is better, stronger. The opera
glass is almost universally used, deceptions would be more easily
discovered; and more, oh, so much more is expected from the actress of
to-day. Formerly she was required, first of all, to sink her own
individuality in that of the woman she pretended to be; and next, if
it was a dramatized novel she was acting in, she was to make herself
look as nearly like the described heroine as possible; otherwise she had
simply to make herself as pretty as she knew how in her own way, that
was all. But now the actresses of a great city are supposed to set the
fashion for the coming season. They almost literally dress in the style
of to-morrow: thus the cult of clothes becomes harmful to the actress.
Precious time that should be given to the minute study, the final
polishing of a difficult character, is used instead in deciding the
pitch of a skirt, the width of a collar, or open sleeve-strap, or no
sleeve at all.
Some ladies of my acquaintance who had been to the theatre three times,
avowedly to study as models the costumes, when questioned as to the
play, looked at one another and then answered vaguely: "The performance?
Oh, nothing remarkable! It was fair enough; but the dresses! They are
really beyond anything in town, and must have cost a mint of money!"
So we have got around to the opposite of the old-time aim, when the
answer might possibly have been: "The acting was beyond anything in
town. The dresses? Nothing remarkable! Oh, well, fair enough!"
I have often been told by famous women of the past that the beautiful
Mrs. Russell, then of Wallack's Theatre, was the originator in this
country of richly elegant realism in stage costuming. When it was known
that the mere linings of her gowns cost more than the outside of other
dresses; that all her velvet was silk velvet; all her lace to the last
inch was real lace; that no wired nor spliced feathers curled about her
splendid leghorns, only magnificent single plumes, each worth weeks of
salary, this handsome woman, superbly clad, created a sensation, but
alas! at the same time, she unconsciously scattered seed behind her that
sprang up into a fine crop of dragon's teeth for following young
actresses to gather. _Qui donne le menu, donne la faim!_ And right here
let me say, I am not of those who believe the past holds a monopoly of
all good things. I have much satisfaction in the present, and a strong
and an abiding faith in the future, and even in this matter of dress,
which has become such an anxiety to the young actress, I would not ask
to go back to those days of primitive costuming. In Shakespere's day
there appeared over a "drop," or curtain of green, a legend plainly
stating, "This is a street in Verona," and every man with an imagination
straightway saw the Veronese street to his complete satisfaction; but
there were those who had no imagination, and to hold their attention and
to keep their patronage, scenes had to be painted for them. One would
not like to see a woman draped in plain grey with an attached placard
saying, "This is a ball gown" or "This is a Coronation robe," the
imagination would balk at it. But there is a far cry between that and
the real Coronation robe of velvet, fur, and jewels. What I would ask
for is moderation, and above all freedom for the actress from the burden
of senseless extravagance which is being bound upon her shoulders--not
by the public, not even by the manager, but by the mischievous small
hands of sister actresses, who have private means outside of their
salaries. How generous they would be if they could be content to dress
with grace and elegance while omitting the mad extravagance that those
who are dependent upon their salaries alone will surely try to emulate,
and sometimes at what a price, dear Heaven, at what a price!
Let us say an actress plays the part of a woman of fashion--of rank. As
she makes her first appearance, she is supposed to have returned from
the opera. Therefore, though she may wear them but one moment, hood and
opera cloak are needed because they will help out the illusion. Suppose,
then, she wears a long cloak of velvet or cloth, with a lining of
delicate tinted quilted satin or fur; if the impression of warmth or
elegance and comfort is given, its work has been well done. But suppose
the actress enters in an opera cloak of such gorgeous material that the
elaborate embroidery on it seems an impertinence--a creation lined with
the frailest, most expensive fur known to commerce, frothing with real
lace, dripping with semi-precious jewels--what happens? The cloak pushes
forward and takes precedence of the wearer, a buzz arises, heads bob
this way and that, opera-glasses are turned upon the wonderful cloak
whose magnificence has destroyed the illusion of the play; and while its
beauty and probable price are whispered over, the scene is lost, and ten
to one the actress is oftener thought of as Miss So-and-So, owner of
that wonderful cloak, than as Madame Such-an-One, heroine of the drama.
Extravagance is inartistic--so for that reason I could wish for
moderation in stage dressing. Heavens, what a nightmare dress used to be
to me! For months I would be paying so much a week to my dressmaker for
the gowns of a play. I thought my heart would break to pieces, when,
during the long run of "Divorce," just as I had finished paying for five
dresses, Mr. Daly announced that we were all to appear in new costumes
for the one hundredth night. I pleaded, argued, too, excitedly, that my
gowns were without a spot or stain; that they had been made by the
dressmaker he had himself selected, and he had approved of them, etc.,
and he made answer, "Yes, yes, I know all that; but I want to stir up
fresh interest, therefore we must have something to draw the people, and
they will come to see the new dresses."
And then, in helpless wrath, I burst out with: "Oh, of course! If we are
acting simply as dress and cloak models in the Fifth Avenue show room, I
can't object any longer. You see, I was under the impression people
came here to see us act your play, not to study our clothes; forgive me
my error."
For which I distinctly deserved a forfeit; but we were far past our
unfriendly days, and I received nothing worse than a stern, "I am
surprised at you, Miss Morris," and at my rueful response, "Yes, so am I
surprised at Miss Morris," he laughed outright and pushed me toward the
open door, bidding me hurry over to the dressmaker's. I had a partial
revenge, however, for one of the plates he insisted on having copied for
me turned out so hideously unbecoming that the dress was retired after
one night's wear, and he made himself responsible for the bill.
Sometimes a girl loses her chance at a small part that it is known she
could do nicely, because some other girl can outdress her--that is very
bitter. Then, again, so many plays now are of the present day, and when
the terribly expensive garment is procured it cannot be worn for more
than that one play, and next season it is out of date. When the simplest
fashionable gown costs $125, what must a ball gown with cloak, gloves,
fan, slippers and all, come to? There was a time when the comic artists
joked about "the $10 best hat for wives." The shop that carried $10 best
hats to-day would be mobbed; $20 and $30 are quite ordinary prices now.
So the young actress--unless she has some little means, aside from a
salary, a father and mother to visit through the idle months and so eke
that salary out--is bound to be tormented by the question of clothes;
for she is human, and wants to look as well as those about her, and
besides she knows the stage manager is not likely to seek out the
poorest dresser for advancement when an opening occurs.
Recently some actresses whose acknowledged ability as artists should, I
think, have lifted them above such display, allowed their very charming
pictures to appear in a public print, with these headings, "Miss B. in
her $500 dinner dress"; "Miss R. in her $1000 cloak"; "Miss J. in her
$200 tea gown," and then later there appeared elsewhere, "Miss M.'s $100
parasol."
Now had these pictures been given to illustrate the surpassing grace or
beauty or novelty of the gowns, the act might have appeared a gracious
one, a sort of friendly "tip" on the newest things out; but those
flaunting price tags lowered it all. In this period of prosperity a
spirit of mad extravagance is abroad in the land. Luxuries have become
necessities, fine feeling is blunted, consideration for others is
forgotten. Those who published the figures and prices of their clothes
were good women, as well as brilliant artists, who would be deeply
pained if any act of theirs should fill some sister's heart with bitter
envy and fatal emulation, being driven on to competition by the
mistaken belief that the fine dresses had made the success of their
owners. Oh, for a little moderation, a little consideration for the
under girl, in the struggle for clothes!
In old times of costume plays the manager furnished most of the wardrobe
for the men (oh, lucky men!), who provided but their own tights and
shoes; and judging from the extreme beauty and richness of the costumes
of the New York plays of to-day, and the fact that a lady of exquisite
taste designs wholesale, as one might say, all the dresses for
production after production, it would seem that the management must
share the heavy expenses of such costuming, or else salaries are very
much higher than they were a few years ago.
In France the stage, no doubt, partly fills the place of the departed
court in presenting new fashions to the public eye, doing it with the
graceful aplomb that has carried many a doubtful innovation on to sure
success. Those beautiful and trained artists take pleasure in first
presenting the style other women are to follow, and yet they share the
honour (?) with another class, whose most audacious follies in dress,
while studied from the corner of a downcast eye, are nevertheless often
slavishly followed.
How many of the thousands of women, who years ago wore the large,
flaring back, felt hat, knew they were following the whim of a woman
known to the half-world as Cora Pearl? Not pretty, but of a very
beautiful figure, and English by birth, she was, one might say, of
course, a good horse-woman. She banqueted late one night--so late that
dawn was greying the windows and the sodden faces of her guests when
they began to take leave. She had indulged in too much wine for comfort;
her head was hot. She was seized with one of the wild whims of her
lawless class--she would mount then and there and ride in the Bois.
Remonstrances chilled her whim to iron will. Horses were sent for, her
maid aroused. She flung on her habit, and held her hand out for her
chapeau. There was none.
"Mademoiselle should recall the new riding hat had been too small, had
been returned for blocking."
"Tres bien, le vieux donc, vite!"
"Oh, mon Dieu, il fut donné." A quick blow stopped further explanation.
"Quelle que cruche, que cette fille," then a moment's silence, a roving
about of the small hot eyes, and with a bound she tore from an American
artist's hand his big soft felt hat. Turning the flapping brim up, she
fastened it to the crown in three places with jewelled pins, tore a
bunch of velvet from her dinner corsage, secured it directly in front,
and clapping the hat on the back of her head, dashed downstairs and was
in the saddle with a scrabble and a bound, and away like mad, followed
by two men, who were her unwilling companions. Riding longer than she
had intended, she returned in broad daylight. All Paris was agog over
her odd head gear. Her impudent, laughing face caught their fancy yet
again, and she trotted down from the Arc de Triomphe between two
rippling little streams of comment and admiration, with, "Comme elle est
belle!" "Quelle aplomb!" "Matin, quelle chic!" "Elle est forte
gentille!" "C'est le coup de grace!" "Le chapeau! le chapeau!" "La belle
Pearl! la belle Pearl!" reaching her distinctly at every other moment.
And that was the origin of the back-turned, broad-brimmed hat that had
such vogue before the arrival of the Gainsborough or picture hat.
If I were a young actress, I would rather be noted for acting than for
originating a new style of garment; but it is a free country, thank God,
and a big one, with room for all of us, whatever our preferences. And
though the young actress has the clothes question heavy on her mind now,
and finds it hard to keep up with others and at the same time out of
debt, she has the right to hope that by and by she will be so good an
actress, and so valuable to the theatre, that a fat salary will make the
clothes matter play second fiddle, as is right and proper it should, to
the question of fine acting.
_CHAPTER XIV