THE ART OF "MAKING-UP."
When, to heighten the effect of their theatrical exhibitions, Thespis
and his playfellows first daubed their faces with the lees of wine,
they may be said to have initiated that art of "making-up" which has
been of such important service to the stage. Paint is to the actor's
face what costume is to his body--a means of decoration or disguise,
as the case may require; an aid to his assuming this or that
character, and concealing the while his own personal identity from the
spectator. The mask of the classical theatre is only to be associated
with a "make-up," in that it substituted a fictitious facial
expression for the actor's own. Roscius is said to have always played
in a vizard, on account of a disfiguring obliquity of vision with
which he was afflicted. It was an especial tribute to his histrionic
merits that the Romans, disregarding this defect, required him to
relinquish his mask, that they might the better appreciate his
exquisite oratory and delight in the music of his voice. In much later
years, however, "obliquity of vision" has been found to be no obstacle
to success upon the stage. Talma squinted, and a dramatic critic,
writing in 1825, noted it as a strange fact that "our three light
comedians, Elliston, Jones, and Browne," each suffered from "what is
called a cast in the eye."
To young and inexperienced players a make-up is precious, in that it
has a fortifying effect upon their courage, and relieves them in some
degree of consciousness of their own personality. They are the better
enabled to forget themselves, seeing their identity can hardly be
present to the minds of others. Garrick made his first histrionic
essay as Aboan, in the play of "Oroonoko," "a part in which his
features could not easily be discerned: under the disguise of a black
countenance he hoped to escape being known, should it be his
misfortune not to please." When Bottom the Weaver is allotted the part
of Pyramus, intense anxiety touching his make-up is an early sentiment
with him. "What beard were I best to play it in?" he inquires. "I will
discharge it in either your straw-coloured beard, your orange-tawny
beard, your purple-in-grain beard, or your French-crown-colour beard,
your perfect yellow." Clearly the beard was an important part of the
make-up at this time. Farther on, Bottom counsels his brother clowns:
"Get your apparel together, good strings to your beards, new ribbons
to your pumps;" and there are especial injunctions to the effect that
Thisbe shall be provided with clean linen, that the lion shall pare
his nails, and that there shall be abstinence from onions and garlic
on the part of the company generally.
Old John Downes, who was prompter at the theatre in Lincoln's Inn
Fields from 1662 to 1706, and whose "Roscius Anglicanus" is a most
valuable history of the stage of the Restoration, describes an actor
named Johnson as being especially "skilful in the art of painting,
which is a great adjument very promovent to the art of elocution." Mr.
Waldron, who, in 1789, produced a new edition of the "Roscius
Anglicanus," with notes by Tom Davies, the biographer of Garrick,
decides that Downes's mention of the "art of painting" has reference
to the art of "painting the face and marking it with dark lines to
imitate the wrinkles of old age." This, Waldron continues, "was
formerly carried to excess on the stage, though now a good deal
disused. I have seen actors, who were really older than the characters
they were to represent, mark their faces with black lines of Indian
ink to such a degree that they appeared as if looking through a mask
of wire." And Mr. Waldron finds occasion to add that "Mr. Garrick's
skill in the necessary preparation of his face for the aged and
venerable Lear, and for Lusignan, was as remarkable as his performance
of those characters was admirable."
In 1741 was published "An Historical and Critical Account of the
Theatres in Europe," a translation of a work by "the famous Lewis
Riccoboni, of the Italian Theatre at Paris." The author had visited
England in 1727, apparently, when he had conversed with the great Mr.
Congreve, finding in him "taste joined with great learning," and
studied with some particularity the condition of the English stage.
"As to the actors," he writes, "if, after forty-five years' experience
I may be entitled to give my opinion, I dare advance that the best
actors in Italy and France come far short of those in England." And he
devotes some space to a description of a performance he witnessed at
the theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields, dwelling especially upon the
skill of an actor who personated an old man. "He who acted the old man
executed it to the nicest perfection which one could expect in no
player who had not forty years' experience.... I made no manner of
doubt of his being an old comedian, who, instructed by long
experience, and, at the same time, assisted by the weight of years,
had performed it so naturally. But how great was my surprise when I
learned that he was a young man of about twenty-six! I could not
believe it; but I owned that it might be possible had he only used a
trembling and broken voice, and had only an extreme weakness possessed
his body, because I conceived it possible for a young actor, by the
help of art, to imitate that debility of nature to such a pitch of
exactness; but the wrinkles of his face, his sunken eyes, and his
loose and yellow cheeks, the most certain marks of a great old age,
were incontestable proofs against what they said to me.
Notwithstanding all this I was forced to submit to truth, because I
know for certain that the actor, to fit himself for the part of the
old man, spent an hour in dressing himself, and that, with the
assistance of several pencils, he disguised his face so nicely and
painted so artificially a part of his eyebrows and eyelids, that, at
the distance of six paces, it was impossible not to be deceived. I was
desirous to be a witness of this myself, but pride hindered me; so,
knowing I must be ashamed, I was satisfied with a confirmation of it
from other actors. Mademoiselle Sallé, among others, who then shone
upon that stage, confessed to me that the first time she saw him
perform she durst not go into a passage where he was, fearing lest she
should throw him down should she happen to touch him in passing by."
Assuredly a more successful make-up than this could not be desired. In
conclusion, Signor Riccoboni flatters himself that his reference to
this matter may not be thought altogether useless; "it may let us know
to what an exactness the English comedians carry the imitation of
nature, and may serve for a proof of all that I have advanced of the
actors of the English theatre."
Dogget, the old comedian of Queen Anne's time--to whom we owe an
annual boat-race upon the Thames for a "coat and badge," and,
inferentially, the popular burletta of "The Waterman"--was remarkably
skilful, according to Colley Cibber, "in dressing a character to the
greatest exactness ... the least article of whatever habit he wore
seemed to speak and mark the different humour he represented; a
necessary care in a comedian, in which many have been too remiss or
ignorant." This is confirmed by another critic, who states that Dogget
"could with the greatest exactness paint his face so as to represent
the ages of seventy, eighty, and ninety, distinctly, which occasioned
Sir Godfrey Kneller to tell him one day at Button's Coffee House, that
'he excelled him in painting, for that he could only paint from the
originals before him, but that he (Dogget) could vary them at
pleasure, and yet keep a close likeness.'" In the character of
Moneytrap, the miser, in Vanbrugh's comedy of "The Confederacy,"
Dogget is described as wearing "an old threadbare black coat, to which
he had put new cuffs, pocket-lids, and buttons, on purpose to make its
rusticness more conspicuous. The neck was stuffed so as to make him
appear round-shouldered, and give his head the greater prominency; his
square-toed shoes were large enough to buckle over those he wore in
common, which made his legs appear much smaller than usual."
Altogether, Mr. Dogget's make-up appears to have been of a very
thorough and artistic kind.
Garrick's skill "in preparing his face" has been already referred to,
upon the authority of Mr. Waldron. From the numerous pictures of the
great actor, and the accounts of his histrionic method furnished by
his contemporaries, it would seem, however, as though he relied less
upon the application of paint than upon his extraordinary command of
facial expression. At a moment's notice he completely varied his
aspect, "conveying into his face every possible kind of passion,
blending one into another, and as it were shadowing them with an
infinite number of gradations.... In short," says Dibdin, "his face
was what he obliged you to fancy it: age, youth, plenty, poverty,
everything it assumed." Certainly an engraved portrait of Garrick as
Lear, published in 1761, does not suggest his deriving much help from
the arts of making-up or of costume. He wears a short robe of velvet,
trimmed with ermine, his white wig is disordered and his shirt-front
is much crumpled; but otherwise his white silk hose, lace ruffles,
high-heeled shoes and diamond buckles, are more appropriate to Sir
Peter Teazle than to King Lear. And as much may be said of his
closely-shaven face, the smooth surface of which is not disturbed by
the least vestige of a beard. Yet the King Lears of later times have
been all beard, or very nearly so. With regard to Garrick's appearance
in the part of Lusignan, Davies relates how, two days before his
death, the suffering actor, very wan and sallow of countenance, slow
and solemn of movement, was seen to wear a rich night-gown, like that
which he always wore in Lusignan, the venerable old king of Jerusalem;
he presented himself to the imagination of his friend as if he was
just ready to act that character.
Charles Mathews, the elder, no doubt possessed much of Garrick's power
of changing at will his facial aspect. At the theatre of course he
resorted to the usual methods of making-up for the part he played; but
the sudden transformations of which his "At Homes" largely consisted
were accomplished too rapidly to be much assisted by pencilling the
face, as were indeed the feats he sometimes accomplished in private
circles, for the entertainment of his friends. In the biography of her
husband, Mrs. Mathews relates how his advice was once sought by Godwin
the novelist, just before the publication of his story of "Cloudesly,"
on a matter--the art of making-up--the actor was held to have made
peculiarly his own. Godwin wrote to him: "My dear Sir,--I am at this
moment engaged in writing a work of fiction, a part of the incidents
of which will consist in escapes in disguises. It has forcibly struck
me that if I could be indulged in the pleasure of half-an-hour's
conversation with you on the subject, it would furnish me with some
hints, which, beaten on the anvil of my brain, would be of eminent
service to me on the occasion," &c. A meeting was appointed, and, at
an early date the author dined at the actor's cottage. Godwin, anxious
not to outrage probability in his story, sought information as to "the
power of destroying personal identity." Mathews assumed several
disguises, and fully satisfied his visitor upon the point in question.
"Soon after," writes Mrs. Mathews, "a gentleman, an eccentric
neighbour of ours, broke in upon us as Mr. Godwin was expressing his
wonder at the variety of expression, character, and voice of which Mr.
Mathews was capable. We were embarrassed, and Mr. Godwin evidently
vexed at the intruder. However, there was no help for it; the servant
had admitted him, and he was introduced in form to Mr. Godwin. The
moment Mr. Jenkins (for such was his name) discovered the
distinguished person he had so luckily for him dropped in upon, he was
enthusiastically pleased at the event, talked to Mr. Godwin about all
his works, inquired about the forthcoming book--in fact, bored him
through and through. At last the author turned to my husband for
refuge against this assault of admiration, and discovered that his
host had left the room. He therefore rose from his seat and approached
the window leading to the lawn, Mr. Jenkins officiously following, and
insisting upon opening it for him; and while he was urging a
provokingly obstinate lock, the object of his devoted attention waited
behind him for release. The casement at length flew open, and Mr.
Godwin passing the gentleman with a courteous look of thanks, found to
his astonishment that Mr. Jenkins had disappeared, and that Mr.
Mathews stood in his place!" Students of "Cloudesly" may discover
therein the result of Godwin's interview with Mathews, and their
discussion concerning the art of making-up and disguise.
Some fifty years ago Mr. Leman Thomas Rede published "The Road to the
Stage, a Player's Vade-Mecum." setting forth, among other matters,
various details of the dressing-rooms behind the curtain. Complaint
was made at the time that the work destroyed "the romance of the
profession," and laid bare the mysteries of the actor's life, such as
the world in general had small concern with. But Mr. Rede's
revelations do not tell very much; at any rate, the secrets he deals
with have come to be things of common knowledge. Nor are his
instructions upon the art of making-up to be accounted highly in these
times. "Light-comedy calves," he tells us, "are made of ragged silken
hose;" and what may be called "Othello's blacking," is to be composed
of "burnt cork, pulverised and mixed with porter." Legs coming before
the foot-lights must of course be improved by mechanical means, when
nature has been unkind, or time has destroyed symmetry; but art has
probably discovered a better method of concealing deficiencies than
consists in the employment of "ragged silken hose." The veteran light
comedian, Lewis, who at a very advanced age appeared in juvenile
characters, to the complete satisfaction of his audience, was famed
for his skill in costume and making-up. But one night, a roguish
actress, while posted near him in the side-wings, employed herself in
converting one of his calves into a pincushion. As soon as he
discovered the trick, he affected to feel great pain, and drew up his
leg as though in an agony; but he had remained too long unconscious of
the proceeding to persuade lookers-on of the genuineness of his limb's
symmetry. With regard to Othello's complexion, there is what the
Cookery Books call "another way." Chetwood, in his "History of the
Stage," 1749, writes: "The composition for blackening the face are
(_sic_) ivory-black and pomatum; which is with some pains cleaned with
fresh butter." The information is given in reference to a performance
of Othello by the great actor Barton Booth. It was hot weather, and
his complexion in the later scenes of the play had been so disturbed,
that he had assumed "the appearance of a chimney-sweeper." The
audience, however, were so impressed by the art of his acting, that
they disregarded this mischance, or applauded him the more on account
of it. On the repetition of the play he wore a crape mask, "with an
opening proper for the mouth, and shaped in form for the nose." But in
the first scene one part of the mask slipped so that he looked "like a
magpie." Thereupon he was compelled to resort again to lamp-black. The
early Othellos, it may be noted, were of a jet-black hue, such as we
now find on the faces of Christy Minstrels; the Moors of later times
have been content to paint themselves a dark olive or light mahogany
colour. But a liability to soil all they touch has always been the
misfortune of Othellos. There was great laughter in the theatre one
night when Stephen Kemble, playing Othello for the first time with
Miss Satchell as Desdemona, kissed her before smothering her, and left
an ugly patch of soot upon her cheek. However, as Miss Satchell
subsequently became Mrs. Stephen Kemble, it was held that sufficient
amends had been made to her for the soiling she had undergone.
Another misadventure, in regard to the complexion of Shakespeare's
Moor, has been related of an esteemed actor, for many years past
attached to the Haymarket Theatre. While but a tyro in his profession,
he had undertaken to appear as Othello, for one night only, at the
Gravesend Theatre. But, not being acquainted with the accustomed
method of blackening his skin, and being too nervous and timid to make
inquiry on the subject, he applied to his face a burnt cork, simply.
At the conclusion of the performance, on seeking to resume his natural
hue, by the ordinary process of washing in soap and water, he found,
to his great dismay, that the skin of his face was peeling off rather
than the colour disappearing! The cork had been too hot by a great
deal, and had injured his cuticle considerably. With the utmost haste,
although announced to play Hamlet on the following evening, the
actor--who then styled himself Mr. Hulsingham, a name he forthwith
abandoned--hired a post-chaise and eloped from Gravesend.
Making-up is in requisition when the performer desires to look either
younger or older than he or she really is. It is, of course, with the
first-named portion of the art that actresses are chiefly concerned,
although the beautiful Mrs. Woffington, accepting the character of
Veturia in Thomson's "Coriolanus," did not hesitate to assume the
aspect of age, and to paint lines and wrinkles upon her fair face. But
she was a great artist, and her loveliness was a thing so beyond all
question that she could afford to disguise it or to seem to slight it
for a few nights; possibly it shone the brighter afterwards for its
brief eclipse. Otherwise, making-up pertains to an actor's "line of
business," and is not separable from it. Once young or once old he so
remains, as a rule, until the close of his professional career. There
is indeed a story told of a veteran actor who still flourished in
juvenile characters, while his son, as a matter of choice, or of
necessity, invariably impersonated the old gentlemen of the stage. But
when the two players met in a representation of "The Rivals," and Sir
Anthony the son, had to address Captain Absolute the father, in the
words of the dramatist: "I'll disown you; I'll unget you; I'll never
call you Jack again!" the humour of the situation appealed too
strongly to the audience, and more laughter than Sheridan had ever
contemplated was stirred by the scene.
The veterans who have been accused of superfluously lagging upon the
stage, find an excuse for their presence in the skill of their
make-up. For the age of the players is not to be counted, by the
almanack, but appraised in accordance with their looks. On the stage
to seem young is to be young, though occasionally it must happen that
actors and audience are not quite in agreement upon this question of
aspect. There have been many youthful dramatic heroines very well
stricken in years; ingenues of advanced age, and columbines who might
almost be crones; to say nothing of "young dogs" of light comedians,
who in private life are well qualified to appear as grandsires, or
even as great-grandfathers. But ingenuity in painting the face and
padding the figure will probably long secure toleration for
patriarchal Romeos, and even for matriarchal Juliets.
Recent discoveries have no doubt benefited the toilets of the players,
which, indeed, stood in need of assistance, the fierce illumination of
the modern stage being considered. In those palmy but dark days of the
drama, when gas and lime-lights were not, the disguising of the
mischief wrought by time must have been a comparatively easy task.
However, supply, as usual, has followed demand, and there are now
traders dealing specially in the materials for making-up, in
theatrical cosmetics of the best possible kind at the lowest possible
prices: "Superfine rouge, rose for lips, blanc (liquid and in powder),
pencils for eyebrows, creme de l'impératrice and fleur-de-riz for
softening the skin," &c. Further, there are the hairdressers, who
provide theatrical wigs of all kinds, and advertise the merits of
their "old men's bald pates," which must seem a strange article of
sale to those unversed in the mysteries of stage dressing-rooms. One
inventive person, it may be noted, loudly proclaims the merits of a
certain "spirit gum" he has concocted, using which, as he alleges, "no
actor need fear swallowing his moustache"--so runs the form of his
advertisement.
Of Mademoiselle Guirnard, the famous French opera-dancer, it is
related that her portrait, painted in early youth, always rested upon
her dressing-table. Every morning, during many years, she carefully
made up her face to bring her looks in as close accord as possible
with the loveliness of her picture. For an incredible time her success
is reported to have been something marvellous. But at last the
conviction was forced upon her that her facial glories had departed.
Yet her figure was still perfectly symmetrical, her grace and agility
were as supreme as they had ever been. She was sixty-four, when,
yielding to the urgent entreaties of her friends, she consented to
give a "very last" exhibition of her art. The performance was of a
most special kind. The curtain was so far lowered as to conceal
completely the head and shoulders of the dancer. "Il fût impossible
aux spectateurs," writes a biographer of the lady, "de voir autre que
le travail de ses jambes dont le temps avait respecté l'agilité et les
formes pures et délicates!"
By way of final word on the subject, it may be stated that making-up
is but a small portion of the histrionic art; and not, as some would
have it, the very be-all and end-all of acting. It is impossible not
to admire the ingenuity of modern face-painting upon the stage, and
the skill with which, in some cases, well-known personages have been
represented by actors of, in truth, totally different physical aspect;
but still there seems a likelihood of efforts of this kind being urged
beyond reasonable bounds. So, too, there appears to be an excessive
use of cosmetics and colouring by youthful performers, who really need
little aid of this kind, beyond that application of the hare's-foot
which can never be altogether dispensed with. Moreover, it has become
necessary for players, who have resolved that their faces shall be
pictures, to decide from what part of the theatre such works of art
are to be viewed. At present many of these over-painted countenances
may "fall into shape," as artists say, when seen from the back benches
of the gallery, for instance; but judged from a nearer standpoint they
are really but pictorial efforts of a crude, uncomfortable, and
mistaken kind.