THE COSTUMING OF JULIET
While Dorothy was taking prominent and uncomfortable part in that
impromptu "Wild West" show on Broadway, in picturesque and hilly
Yonkers, Sybil, in New York, sat in Mrs. Van Camp's old-timey
drawing-room and fairly astounded her hostess by confiding to her Mrs.
Lawton's evident desire to marry Dorrie to William Henry Bulkley.
"Has Letitia gone stark, staring mad?" she exclaimed. "Why, the man is
the merest nobody, who could no more name his grandfather than he could
fly! Money he has--yes, of course! But money without family can't
balance the public flaunting of all his coarse amours, his bad manners,
and worse temper! She must perfectly remember, too, the life he led his
poor wife--who was, by the way, a member of the Massachusetts Stone
family. Why, her great-uncle was a judge, and her second cousin was
lieutenant-governor of the State. How she ever came to accept young
Bulkley is a mystery. But she paid for her folly, poor thing. However, I
shall take it upon myself to inform Letitia Lawton of some of the
atrocities of his recent years, and tell her that as his wife Dorothy
would be as dead socially as if she were over in Greenwood."
"Oh, don't!" shivered Sybil, "dear god-mamma! I hope I may go to
Greenwood before my little sister Dorrie does!"
And Mrs. Van Camp pushed the girl's dark hair back with a caressing
touch and said: "How devoted you two girls are to each other! You might
be twins. Even as children I never knew you to squabble or sulk. You,
Sybbie, had a furious temper, but your rages were almost always in
defence of Dorothy. Do you remember how you kicked the shins of the
gardener once because he had kicked her dog?"
"Yes!" laughed Sybil, "and scratched and bit a boy-tramp who attempted
to snatch her little locket from her neck. But I can't help loving her,
for she's the bravest, sweetest, jolliest, prettiest sister a girl ever
had, and she's all the world to me!"
And Mrs. Van Camp, laughing a little at her enthusiasm, held up a finger
and said, "Wait!"
And a bit later Sybil was on her way to the theatre, where Mr. Thrall
joined her, and together they walked to a house on Fourth Avenue, where
Sybil was presented to an ancient couple, who in the profession were
recognized as authorities on the subject of correct historic costuming.
Never had the girl received a greater surprise. She had expected a
stately and dignified presence, and certainly the sumptuous entourage of
a very fashionable dressmaker. But here there was no reception-room, no
parlor, no fitting-room, no boy in buttons. Here the thing that first
commanded attention and longest held it was the almost overpowering odor
of garlic. It led them through the little drab hallway, up the stairs,
and to the door of the stuffy and crowded living room, where an old
woman in a false front and a black alpaca dress and a snuffy old man in
carpet slippers received them.
And, as they heartily greeted the manager, Sybil wondered what on earth
there could be in common between the rich and splendid dresses she had
seen at the theatre and these frumpish old people, while she shuddered
at the thought of their stumpy, uncared-for hands, pulling about
beautiful satins and velvets. "But of course," she thought, "they have
people under them who do the real work." Afterward she knew that it was
the cunning of these same fingers that produced all the wonderful
embroideries in bullion and spangles that are so difficult to obtain in
this country.
Now, however, she saw that Mr. Thrall treated the couple most
deferentially. Indeed, he was secretly anxious to see what impression
his "Princess," as he mentally called Sybil, would make upon the old
pair, who had dressed every famous Juliet of the past twenty years, and
who were in their own way veritable artists.
He had come there with one or two fixed ideas on the subject in hand,
and he hoped there might not be a struggle with the old pair, whose
obstinacy he well knew. But he had a vision of Sybil with cloudy, dark
hair, all netted over with pearls, after the Venetian fashion, with
pearl-encircled neck and arms, and pearl-engirdled waist; and he was
determined that she should not wear glittering ornaments of any
kind--which he rather fancied they would favor--or much gold and
general splendor, after the style in which they had clothed the Juliet
of his previous season. For he forgot how well these old people knew
their business, or perhaps he did not know the passionate love of beauty
that produced in them an almost poetic power of expression, through
color, fabrics, draperies. They were like artists, who got their "darks"
from heavy velvets, "middle tints" from cloths and satins, and their
"highest lights" from laces and jewels.
Sybil, hatted and veiled and jacketted, had remained in the background,
a position that gave her a glimpse of another room, shelved about from
floor to ceiling, with every shelf quite crowded with green boxes. She
had been so interested in her surroundings that she had not heeded the
conversation going on until the strong disapproval on both old faces
drew her attention to the words "society" and "debutante"; and when, to
a question, Mr. Thrall answered, "Juliet," they gazed at him with
incredulous wonder for a moment. Then, exchanging glances of
contemptuous derision that made poor Sybil's cheeks burn, with
innumerable shrugs and much sniffing they scuffled back and forth,
bringing out and throwing open boxes, until the room was presently a
confusion of such splendid materials as velvets, satins, crepes, of
silver tissues and cloth of gold; while camphor gum and cedar wood sent
odors from the boxes holding rare furs, cut into strips of trimming
width, correct for king or prince, for judge or queen. For in this
cramped and shabby place one could be provided with everything, from the
rough woolens and leathers of Macbeth, the black and purple satins, the
jet and sable of Hamlet, the crimson velvets and ermine of queens, the
embroideries and laced fripperies of white-wigged courtiers, down to the
floating gauze of a Titania and the silvered wings of a cupid.
In the splendor of the display Sybil forgot her recent mortification,
and thrilled with delight at the thought that some portion of it was to
be placed at her service--for her adornment!
As the old man came lumbering in with two great volumes, bearing the
title "Modes et Costumes Historique--Etranger," and, slamming them down
on the table, began ostentatiously turning over the colored plates,
Thrall, laughing good-naturedly, closed the book, saying: "Now, now,
Lefebvre! You and Nonna Angelique here need no plates to dress
Shakspere's people by, and you won't be so cross when you _see_ your new
Juliet! Come now, Madame, no one knows better than you do how important
is the setting of a jewel! Oh, I know what that shrug means and that
'la, la, la!' But as a just woman you must at least see my young Capulet
before you condemn her. Miss Lawton," he continued, "please remove your
jacket. Thanks! And now take off your veil and hat, please!"
The autumn wind had somewhat roughened Sybil's hair, and she raised her
hands to smooth it, but he stopped her: "Not for the world!" he said,
laughingly. Then he took her by the hand and led her to the centre of
the room, saying:
"Monsieur et Madame, you will kindly costume this young girl for me, but
only _if_ you can see in her a Juliet. If not, why--" he stopped.
Flushed, excited, embarrassed under deliberate inspection, Sybil stood
with downcast eyes and red, half-sullen lip, already quivering to a
smile.
The old pair stood at gaze. Then mutely the woman's hand went out and
was caught in his.
The girl saw, and with her sudden flashing smile, she raised imploring,
dark eyes and looked at them.
"Par Dieu!" cried old Lefebvre, "'tis Juliet's self!"
"And oh, mon Dieu! mon Dieu!" the old woman exclaimed, "if you can act
as you can look the part! Oh, Mr. Thrall, I crave your pardon! Will I
costume her?--_will I?_ We shall make of her that last blossom of the
House of Capulet--the very Juliet herself!" She turned and half
whispered to the old man, "Slight and dark!"
He took snuff furiously, and added: "Rich colored, quick tempered, hot!"
And then, together: "Let's see! let's see!" and they turned excitedly
toward their boxes.
"No velvet, I think?" suggested Thrall, who was highly elated that his
judgment, so far, had been so heartily seconded by this experienced old
couple.
"Velvet? Bah!" responded Nonna Angelique, with a condemnatory wave of
the hand that swept velvet entirely out of consideration. "Too old! too
heavy! but--but--" She tossed things right and left in hurried, nervous
search.--"Where's that blond lace scarf?" she fretted, "where?--where?
And why don't you open the cabinet, and not stand there wasting time,
mon mari?"
As they stood waiting, Stewart Thrall said, laughingly: "Patience,
patience! We are in the hands of the powers that be. These are the
people who 'paint the lily' and--er--er--touch up refined gold! And,
Miss Lawton, haven't you been about a theatre long enough to learn how
indiscreet it is to laugh at your manager's imperfect quotations? You
should reserve your merriment for those occasions when he tells a
supposedly funny story. Ah! ah! the lost is found!"
For Nonna Angelique came trotting up with a long scarf of silky old
blond lace trailing from her hands, and Sybil, turning toward her, gave
a cry of rapture. Drawer, too, after drawer had been drawn out from the
chiffonier, and from their velvet-lined depths there came a blaze and
glow and gleam and such dancing prismatic colors of violet, indigo,
blue, green, yellow, orange, red, from jewels in such good and careful
setting that, imitation though they were, they commanded admiration even
in broad daylight.
Among these crowns and crosses, stomachers and necklaces, there were
minutely exact copies of some famous originals treasured in the museums
of Europe. Nor were these ornaments cheap; the price of many of them was
told in hundreds of dollars, not tens. And Sybil, while missing their
real value, which lay in their historical accuracy, might well be
forgiven for her childish delight in their meretricious splendor.
"Oh, how I wish Dorrie could see, too!" she exclaimed, and the snuffy
old man nudged his rumpled old wife with his elbow, and, looking at
Sybil's flushed and happy young face, they wagged their heads
knowingly.
And Stewart Thrall said to himself: "To watch her countenance is like
watching the surface of a land-locked lake--one moment glass-smooth
beneath the sun, then reflecting a slow white cloud, then breaking into
ripples, fretting into waves and blackening to sudden storm! Ah, surely
you are the headlong Capulet in love with love!" and his meditation
broke off short.
Lefebvre was advancing, diamond coronet in hand, and he anxiously waited
results. Nonna Angelique, with stumpy brown fingers, had still further
loosened Sybil's black hair and fluffed it out, crooning to herself the
while, and had turned her head this way and that, bent it down, lifted
it, then put her hand out for the coronet her husband brought, placed
it, drew back a step, then tore it off to a chorus of, "o! no!"
"Too old!" said Lefebvre.
"C'est cela! too old!" nodded Nonna Angelique.
"Too old!" acquiesced Thrall.
Then was handed over a golden net, studded with jewels; and oh, Sybil
did hope they would let her wear that!
Old Angelique put it on with deft hands. "Mais comme elle est belle!"
she exclaimed; "but----"
Thrall shook his head and repeated: "Beautiful, but----"
And the old man explained the "buts" fully with the remark: "Too
Zingary, n'est ce pas?"
"Yes! yes!" cried Nonna, throwing her arms over her head and snapping
her fingers to imitate castanets. "Oui! oui! too Zingary--too
gypsy-like!" and off came the golden net.
A head-piece of colored stones barely touched her brow when, with a
contemptuous "Bah! too Egyptian" it was returned to the drawer.
The costumers stood looking at each other, silently. Thrall waited; he
wanted them to propose pearls themselves, and thus avoid a wrangle, for
they did not accept suggestions willingly. Then, suddenly, Nonna
Angelique said: "Let me hear the voice, Mr. Thrall. Give her a cue; let
me know whether her voice matches the mobilite of her face. That may
give me my idee!"
Sybil gave a frightened, deprecating, "Oh, Mr. Thrall!"
But he answered with: "Steady! steady!" then added: "Give her 'Wherefore
art thou Romeo?'"
She looked at him with dilating eyes, then clasped her hands, and gazing
into space, obediently began:
"Oh, Romeo! Romeo! wherefore art thou, Romeo?
Deny thy father and refuse thy name--
Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn--my--love!
And [with a rush] I'll no longer be a Capulet!"
Nonna Angelique caught the girl's face between her hands and kissed her
soundingly. It had been an unexpected test, and Thrall, pleased at her
courage and obedience, was simply delighted with the effect she got from
that pause, as if at her own temerity in using the words:
"... be but sworn--_my_ love!"
and then the reckless dash of the declaration:
"... I'll no longer be a Capulet!"
And Sybil, glancing up, noted for the very first time the extreme beauty
of the man's eyes, and if the open admiration beaming from their
sapphire depths gave her a thrill of gratification, it was the approval
of the manager that moved her, not the man, she told herself; and since
there is no one in this world so easy to deceive as one's self, she
undoubtedly believed her own statement.
"Ah! ah! monsieur, you have a find in this young girl!" said old
Lefebvre to Thrall. "She should be a big card--and in your hands, eh?"
he poked the managerial ribs and winked his round black eye knowingly.
"The wires will be pulled, eh? And the public, it will dance! And the
dollars they will rattle, eh? A-a-ah! Qu'est-ce, cherie? Les perles?
mais oui--certainement! In a moment I shall bring them! My key? Ah, the
devil flies away with everything this day! Where is my key? Ah, here in
my vest-pocket all the time!"
And at last Thrall's patience was rewarded as pearls came to the front,
and "Oh!" exclaimed Sybil, in amazed delight. For her idea of imitation
pearls had been founded upon the cheap bluish-white glass beads with
just a skim of wax for lining. Now she stood astonished by the weight
and lustre of these lovely things from Paris, where by some clever
artifice the scales of fish are used to produce upon the forms of almost
solid wax the wonderful "nacre" of the true gem of the sea. So artistic
was the work that small imperfections in shape and flaws in tinting had
been carefully reproduced, the monotony of a mechanical perfection being
thus avoided. Really they were very beautiful, and among those selected
strands intended for the throat it was as if color, having life and
breath, a rosy pink, had gently breathed across their milky lustre,
faintly flushing the swelling round of each great pearl. Nor were they
too frail for service; weight and solidity made them almost as durable
as the true jewel's self. And here was bunch after bunch of seed pearls,
so small, for embroidery on lace or satin; long strands for plaiting in
the hair, for the suspension from the waist of feather fan or tiny
mirrors a la Marie Stuart, when dauphine of France; great girdles for
the waist, whose pendant tassels fell almost to the wearer's feet. And
at last--at last, the heavy net which he so much wished to see upon that
waywardly waving dark cloud of hair!
Old Angelique, having raised a sternly instructing index finger to close
proximity with Sybil's glowing face, proceeded to strike off with it
upon the air these verbal commands: "You will do exact now as I tell
you, if you wish to look the little Juliet--so high-bred, so headstrong,
yet so young! Mais, _so_ young--mon Dieu! mon Dieu! comme--like a bebe!
Now make the mark of my words, Miss--Miss--er? Lawsons! oui! oui! merci!
For I have in the mind that Juliet--me--I know! So you must make no
height on the top of the head, no cross braid, no pile up curl, no
coronet! No--no! that make very handsome, mais--but not _the Juliet_!
Tumble the hair to the shoulders, half curl! No curl, all regular! Wat
is call 'em, 'em ring-a-let? No! no! half-curl, half-wave--oui! all
natural! And for the front, the hair all fluff--so! [puffing out her
breath]--low to the brows, that the big eyes look from under it, like
from a cloud. Then turn all back from the cheeks, after the manner of
the angels in the old masters' pictures! Obey me, and you shall see! The
city shall see! Why, even now!" She flung the net upon Sybil's head,
drawing a pear-shaped pendant pearl forward to rest upon her brow,
rapidly twisted the white lace scarf about her shoulders to hide the
street gown, threw a rope of pearls about her neck, and with triumphant
eyes turned to Thrall, saying: "Is not the Italian angel's the coiffure
correct for this, Miss Lawsons?"
Thrall answered, briefly, "Quite correct!"
And Sybil, with an ecstatic sigh, said again: "How I do wish Dorothy
were here!"
And Thrall commented: "Your lovers have cause for jealousy of that young
sister, I fancy, Miss Lawton?"
But, with careless frankness, Sybil answered: "I never had a lover in my
life! So Dorrie can have caused no jealousy, you see!" and turned her
whole attention back to Nonna Angelique, who was checking off costumes
on her fingers.
And she would have been an astonished girl had she been told that her
brusquely spoken words had made this man's heart leap in his breast, as
no seductive wile of most tactful coquetry could have done; and the
fact that he had no right to heed the words of any maid, however sweet
or fair, did nothing to check that hurried thumping at his ribs. For,
like many other men, he had something of the explorer's spirit about
him--something that responded eagerly to the charm of the strange, the
vague, the new,--something that makes the would-be explorer of the terra
incognita ignore all thought of danger, and dream only of the beauty of
virgin forests, strange flowers, and fabled fountains of youth and love
eternal! No one could have guessed that the calm-faced, stately
gentleman, looking on at the selection of Juliet's finery, was mentally
repeating those candid, girlish words: "I never had a lover in my life!"
"Ah, no!" he thought; "no more had Juliet ever had a lover in her life,
up to an hour before that 'trifling, foolish banquet,' given by old
Capulet. Yet, ere its end, swift love had grown so great that she had
declared already for the grave, if 'twere a passion unrequited!"
Then old Angelique broke in upon his thought, and claimed attention
with: "The cloak, now, Mr. Thrall--the cloak for the visit to old
Laurence's cell? Shall it be black or brown or gray?"
"Gray!" he answered, readily. "Dark gray, I think, gives a hint of
mystery. Though, 'tis true, Juliet seeks the Friar with her parents'
knowledge, still it is with secret purpose. So gray and very large and
full and hooded, Nonna Angelique, so that a young maid might slip like a
shadow by high walls and through Verona's streets to the cloisters of
the convent without revealing a trace of beauty or of rich attire."
"C'est bon! c'est bon!" nodded Lefebvre, taking a prodigious pinch of
snuff, and entering in a greasy little note-book "One large, gray,
circle cloak, hooded"--"c'est bon!"
On Angelique's four fingers her grimy thumb checked off "Cloak for
Friar's cell--gray. Chamber scene--white, of course, but flowing, loose,
long, light as air. For tomb--white also, but heavy, rich, eh? The satin
gown for County Paris bride, and only one spot of color, eh? The
jewelled sheath of the dagger, at the waist. Oh, yes! oh, yes! all that
is clear, but--but, my Mr. Manager, how shall it be for the ball--for
that first time to meet the Romeo--eh?"
She pursed her lips, she scratched her forehead thoughtfully, and so
pushed her false front over to a most rakish angle. But the old man
shuffled across the room, and with a: "Permettez that I correct the
coiffure, my Angelique! It have slide, and it make a little of what you
call the--the 'jaky' look! That way--so!" And with the palms of both
hands he calmly replaced the foxy-red front, and the search for a color
suitable for the first act went on.
Thrall, drawing his hand lightly across the loosened folds of many webs,
over purples, mauves, ambers, with a snapping accompaniment of "No! no!
no!" paused, by merest chance, at a delicate blue brocade, at which
Angelique almost shrieked: "No! no!--I say no! Pretty? Yes, mais too
calm--cool--collected--obedient! Ah, bah! A fool color! What, that
amber would become her? Hear you that, old man?" She appealed to
Lefebvre with up-cast hands: "Y-es, and it would be Spanish in effect!
Oh, what _is_ it that we want?"
The old man squinted up his eyes, and, studying Sybil, answered:
"Something happy, v-e-r-y happy! Something like a flower, a-a very early
flower--but what?"
And Thrall, who had caught the old snuff-taker's idea, asked, quickly:
"Why not the blossom of the peach? That's early!"
"God bless the man!" cried Nonna Angelique, throwing her arms about him
in frantic demonstration of delight. "It is the coup-de-grace! The
pinks, mon mari! vite! vite done! Vraiment you have the head still! A
happy color, said you!"
She threw out a fold of satin her husband offered: "Non! non! it is too
deep--too common!" Another: "Bah! too pale, but mere flesh color!" A
beautiful bright pink brocade next was tried. "Oh, non! non!" she almost
cried from disappointment; "too-'er, too-'er!" In despair she resorted
to pantomime to help make her meaning clear, and, catching up her skimpy
alpaca skirt, she danced a wild step or two, saying: "Too comme-ca! too
what you call 'frisky,' eh? You feel me, what I mean? But that sweet,
first flowering thing--that soft promise of the spring, that
peach-blossom pink, that would make this dark girl beautiful--can I not
find it, then?" She beat her breast with Gallic despair. Lefebvre
clutched his few hairs, and apparently pulled up a memory, and cried:
"One chance more! The old chest with Eastern things! India, China,
Japan!" He disappeared--he lost a shoe, but left it lying till he came
back, and slid into it in passing. Some rolls were cast down, soft,
non-crackling paper removed, and, with cries of joy and gurgles of
delight, Nonna Angelique flung out, fold upon fold, a silky crepe of so
pure and true a peach-blossom pink that the petals of the flower itself
scattered over it could hardly have been perceived.
Pearls with this color would be perfection. Then the round white fan,
dagger,--everything ordered, the measures were taken in the inner room
of shelves, a day fixed for fitting, and, quivering with excitement and
delight, Sybil was descending the house-steps, when Jim Roberts came up
to Thrall, and looking rather oddly at him--the girl thought--said: "The
property-man says that cloisonne-jar you made such a fuss about was
cared for by the Missus. So, if you want it used, give me her key!"
There was a sort of half-frightened daring in the pale face of Roberts,
and the look of sardonic comprehension burning in Thrall's eyes might
well have shaken the nerves of such a poor wreck as he answered: "We
won't trouble about the cloisonne, just now; but I understand your good
intention in following me here to tell me about it. And--I--shall--
remember--it! Oh, here's your car, Miss Lawton; good-by!"