THE TIRING-ROOM.
The information that has come down to us in relation to the wardrobe
department of the Elizabethan theatre, and the kind of costumes worn
by our early actors, is mainly derived from the diaries of Philip
Henslowe and his partner, Edward Alleyn, the founder of Dulwich
College. Henslowe became a theatrical manager some time before 1592,
trading also as a pawnbroker, and dealing rather usuriously with the
players and playwrights about him. Alleyn married the step-daughter of
Henslowe, and thereupon entered into partnership with him. Malone has
made liberal extracts from Henslowe's inventories, which bear date
1598-99, and were once safely possessed by Dulwich College, but have
now, for the most part, disappeared. Among the articles of dress
enumerated appear "Longshanks' suit;" "Tamberlane's breeches of
crimson velvet," and the same hero's "coat with coper lace;" "Harye
the Fifth's velvet gown and satin doublet, laid with gold lace;"
Dido's robe and Juno's frock; Robin Hood's hat and green coat; and
Merlin's gown and cape. Then there are gowns and caps for senators,
suits for torchbearers and janissaries, shepherds' coats, yellow
leather doublets for clowns, robes of rich taffety and damask, suits
of russet and of frieze, fools' caps and bells, cloth of gold, French
hose, surplices, shirts, farthingales, jerkins, and white cotton
stockings. From another document, the cost of theatrical apparel may
be fairly estimated. A list headed: "Note of all such goods as I have
bought for the company of my Lord Admiral's men, since the 3rd April,
1598," has the sum paid for each article plainly stated, and contains
such items as: "Bought a damask cassock, garded with velvet, eighteen
shillings;" "bought a payer of paned rownd hose of cloth, whiped with
silk, drawn out with taffety, and one payer of long black woollen
stockens, eight shillings;" "bought a robe for to go invisibell and a
gown for Nembia, three pounds ten shillings" (Malone conjecturing that
the mysterious "robe for to go invisibell" pertained to some drama in
which the wearer of the garment specified was supposed to be unseen by
the rest of the performers); "bought a doublet of white satten layd
thick with gold lace, and a pair of rowne paned hose of cloth of
silver, the panes layd with gold lace, seven pounds ten shillings,"
and so on.
Alleyn's inventory still exists, or did exist very recently, in his
own handwriting, at Dulwich College; it is without heading or date,
and relates almost exclusively to the dresses worn by himself in his
personation of various characters upon the stage. It is of interest,
seeing that it demonstrates the assumption by Alleyn of various parts,
if not in Shakespeare's plays, at any rate in the earlier dramas upon
which the poet founded certain of his noblest works. Thus the actor's
list makes mention of "a scarlet cloke with two brode gould laces with
gould down the same, for Leir"--meaning, doubtless, "King Lear;" "a
purple satin cloke, welted with velvett and silver twist, Romeo's;"
"Hary the VIII. gowne;" "blew damask cote for the Moor in Venis;" and
"spangled hoes in Pericles." Such entries as "Faustus jerkin and
cloke," "Priams hoes in Dido," and "French hose for the Guises,"
evidence that the actor took part in Marlowe's "Faustus" and "Massacre
of Paris," and the tragedy of "Dido," by Marlowe and Nash. Then there
are cloaks and gowns, striped and trimmed with gold lace and ermine,
suits of crimson, and orange-tawny velvet, cloth of gold and silver,
jerkins and doublets of satin taffety and velvet, richly embroidered,
and hose of various hues and patterns. The actor's wardrobe was
clearly most costly and complete, and affords sufficient proof that
theatrical costumes generally, even at that early date, were of a
luxurious nature. In considering the prices mentioned in Henslowe's
list, the high value of money in his time should of course be borne in
mind.
It is plain, however, that splendour was much more considered than
appropriateness of dress. Some care might be taken to provide Robin
Hood with a suit of Lincoln green; to furnish hoods and frocks for
friars and royal robes for kings; but otherwise actors, dramatists,
and audience demanded only that costly and handsome apparel should
appear upon the scene. Indeed, the desire for correctness of dress
upon the stage is of modern origin. Still, now and then may be found,
even in very early days, some inclination towards carefulness in this
respect; as when, in 1595, Thomas Nevile, Vice-Chancellor of the
University of Cambridge, applied to Lord Treasurer Burghley for the
loan of the royal robes in the Tower, in order to perform, "for the
exercise of young gentlemen and scholars in our college," certain
comedies and one tragedy, in which "sondry personages of greatest
estate were to be represented in ancient princely attire, which is
nowhere to be had but within the office of the roabes of the Tower."
This request, it seems, had been granted before, and probably was
again complied with on this occasion. Indeed, at a much later date
there was borrowing from the stores of the Tower for the decoration of
the stage; as Pope writes:
Back fly the scenes and enter foot and horse:
Pageant on pageants in long order drawn,
Peers, heralds, bishops, ermine, gold, and lawn;
The champion, too! And to complete the jest,
Old Edward's armour beams on Cibber's breast.
By way of reflecting the glories of the coronation of George II.,
"Henry VIII.," with a grand spectacle of a coronation, had been
presented at the theatres, the armour of one of the kings of England
having been brought from the Tower for the due accoutrement of the
champion. And here we may note a curious gravitation of royal finery
towards the theatre. Downes, in his "Roscius Anglicanus," describes
Sir William Davenant's play of "Love and Honour," produced in 1662, as
"richly cloathed, the king giving Mr. Betterton his coronation suit,
in which he acted the part of Prince Alvaro; the Duke of York giving
Mr. Harris his, who did Prince Prospero; and my lord of Oxford gave
Mr. Joseph Price his, who did Lionel, the Duke of Parma's son."
Presently we find the famous Mrs. Barry acting Queen Elizabeth in the
coronation robes of James II.'s queen, who had before presented the
actress with her wedding suit. Mrs. Barry is said to have given her
audience a strong idea of Queen Elizabeth. Mrs. Bellamy played
Cleopatra in a silver tissue "birthday" dress that had belonged to the
Princess of Wales; and a suit of straw-coloured satin, from the
wardrobe of the same illustrious lady, was worn by the famous Mrs.
Woffington, in her performance of Roxana. The robes worn by Elliston,
when he personated George IV., and represented the coronation of that
monarch upon the stage of Drury Lane, were probably not the originals.
These became subsequently the property of Madame Tussaud, and long
remained among the treasures of her waxwork exhibition in Baker
Street. A tradition prevails that Elliston's robes were carried to
America by Lucius Junius Booth, the actor, who long continued to
assume them in his personation of Richard III., much to the
astonishment of the more simple-minded of his audience, who naively
inquired of each other whether the sovereigns of Great Britain were
really wont to parade the streets of London in such attire? Among
other royal robes that have likewise descended to the stage, mention
may also be made of the coronation dress of the late Queen Adelaide,
of which Mrs. Mowatt, the American actress, became the ultimate
possessor.
Many noblemen and fine gentlemen also favoured the actors with gifts
of their cast clothes, and especially of those "birthday suits"--Court
dresses of great splendour, worn for the first time at the birthday
levees, or drawing-rooms of the sovereign. As Pope writes:
Or when from Court a birthday suit bestowed,
Sinks the lost actor in the tawdry load.
Indeed, to some of the clothes worn by actors a complete history is
attached. The wardrobe of Munden, the comedian, contained a black
Genoa velvet coat, which had once belonged to King George II.; while
another coat boasted also a distinguished pedigree, and could be
traced to Francis, Duke of Bedford, who had worn it on the occasion of
the Prince of Wales's marriage. It had originally cost £1000! But then
it had been fringed with precious stones, of which the sockets only
remained when it fell into the hands of the dealers in second-hand
garments; but, even in its dilapidated state, Munden had given £40 for
it. Usually, however, fine clothes, such as "birthday suits," became
the property rather of the tragedians than the comedians. Cibber
describes the division on the subject of dress, existing in the
"Commonwealth" company, of which he formed a member, in 1696. "The
tragedians," he writes, "seemed to think their rank as much above the
comedians as the characters they severally acted; when the first were
in their finery, the latter were impatient at the expense, and looked
upon it as rather laid out upon the real than the fictitious person of
the actor. Nay, I have known in our company this ridiculous sort of
regret carried so far that the tragedian has thought himself injured
when the comedian pretended to wear a fine coat." Powel, the
tragedian, surveying the dress worn by Cibber as Lord Foppington,
fairly lost his temper, and complained, in rude terms, that he had not
so good a suit in which to play Cæsar Borgia. Then, again, when
Betterton proposed to "mount" a tragedy, the comic actors were sure to
murmur at the cost of it. Dogget especially regarded with impatience
"the costly trains and plumes of tragedy, in which, knowing himself to
be useless, he thought they were all a vain extravagance." Tragedy,
however, was certainly an expensive entertainment at this time.
Dryden's "All for Love" had been revived at a cost of nearly £600 for
dresses--"a sum unheard of for many years before on a like occasion."
It was, by-the-way, the production of this tragedy, in preference to
his "adaptation" of Shakespeare's "Coriolanus," that so bitterly
angered Dennis, the critic, and brought about his fierce enmity to
Cibber.
To the hero of tragedy a feathered headdress was indispensable; the
heroine demanded a long train borne by one or two pages. Pope writes:
Loud as the wolves on Orca's stormy steep
Howl to the roarings of the northern deep,
Such is the shout, the long-applauded note,
At Quin's high plume, or Oldfield's petticoat.
Hamlet speaks of a "forest of feathers" as part of an actor's
professional qualification. Addison, writing in "The Spectator" on the
methods of aggrandising the persons in tragedy, denounces as
ridiculous the endeavour to raise terror and pity in the audience by
the dresses and decorations of the stage, and takes particular
exception to the plumes of feathers worn by the conventional hero of
tragedy, rising "so very high, that there is often a greater length
from his chin to the top of his head than to the sole of his foot. One
would believe that we thought a great man and a tall man the same
thing." Then he describes the embarrassment of the actor, forced to
hold his neck extremely stiff and steady all the time he speaks, when,
"notwithstanding any anxieties which he pretends for his mistress, his
country, or his friends, one may see by his action that his greatest
care and concern is to keep the plume of feathers from falling off his
head." The hero's "superfluous ornaments" having been discussed, the
means by which the heroine is invested with grandeur are next
considered: "The broad sweeping train that follows her in all her
motions, finds constant employment for a boy who stands behind her, to
open and spread it to advantage. I do not know how others are affected
at this sight, but I must confess my eyes are wholly taken up with the
page's part; and as for the queen, I am not so attentive to anything
she speaks, as to the right adjusting of her train, lest it should
chance to trip up her heels, or incommode her as she walks to and fro
upon the stage. It is, in my opinion, a very odd spectacle to see a
queen venting her passion in a disordered motion, and a little boy
taking care all the while that they do not ruffle the tail of her
gown. The parts that the two persons act on the stage at the same time
are very different; the princess is afraid that she should incur the
displeasure of the king, her father, or lose the hero, her lover,
whilst her attendant is only concerned lest she should entangle her
feet in her petticoat." In the same way Tate Wilkinson, writing in
1790 of the customs of the stage, as he had known it forty years
before, describes the ladies as wearing large hoops and velvet
petticoats, heavily embossed and extremely inconvenient and
troublesome, with "always a page behind to hear the lovers' secrets,
and keep the train in graceful decorum. If two princesses," he
continues, "meet on the stage, with the frequent stage-crossings then
practised, it would now seem truly entertaining to behold a page
dangling at the tail of each heroine." The same writer, referring to
the wardrobe he possessed as manager of the York and Hull theatres,
describes the dresses as broadly seamed with gold and silver lace,
after a bygone fashion that earned for them the contempt of London
performers. "Yet," he proceeds, "those despicable clothes had, at
different periods of time, bedecked real lords and dukes," and were of
considerable value, if only to strip of their decorations and take to
pieces. He laments the general decline in splendour of dress, and
declares that thirty years before not a Templar, or decently-dressed
young man, but wore a rich gold-laced hat and scarlet waistcoat, with
a broad gold lace, also laced frocks for morning dress.
Monmouth Street, St. Giles's, is now known by another name; but for
many years its dealers in cast clothes rendered important aid to the
actors and managers. It was to Monmouth Street, as he confesses, that
Tate Wilkinson hastened, when permitted to undertake the part of the
Fine Gentleman in Garrick's farce of "Lethe," at Covent Garden. For
two guineas he obtained the loan, for one night only, of a heavy
embroidered velvet spangled suit of clothes, "fit," he says, "for the
king in 'Hamlet.'" Repeating the character, he was constrained to
depend upon the wardrobe of the theatre, and appeared in "a very short
old suit of clothes, with a black velvet ground and broad gold
flowers, as dingy as the twenty-four letters on a piece of gilded
gingerbread"--the dress, indeed, which Garrick had worn when playing
Lothario, in "The Fair Penitent," ten years before. And it was to
Monmouth Street that Austin repaired, when cast for a very inferior
part--a mere attendant--in the same tragedy, in order to equip himself
as like to Garrick as he could--for Garrick was to reappear as
Lothario in a new suit of clothes. "Where did you get that coat from,
Austin?" asked the great actor, surveying his subordinate. "Sir!"
replied Austin boldly, "it is part of my country wardrobe." The
manager paused, frowned, reflected. Soon he was satisfied that the
effect of Austin's dress would be injurious to his own, especially as
Austin was of superior physical proportions. "Austin," he said at
length, "why, perhaps you have some other engagement--besides, the
part is really beneath you. Altogether, I will not trouble you to go
on with me." And not to go on as an attendant upon Lothario was
precisely what Austin desired.
O'Keeffe, in his "Memoirs," has related a curious instance of the
prompt bestowal of an article of apparel upon an actor attached to the
Crow Street Theatre, Dublin. Macklin's farce of "The True-born
Irishman" was in course of performance for the first time. During what
was known as "the Drum Scene" ("a 'rout' in London is called a 'drum'
in Dublin," O'Keeffe explains),--when an actor, named Massink, had
entered as the representative of Pat FitzMongrel--a gentleman, who
with a large party occupied the stage-box, was seen to rise from his
chair, with the view, as it seemed, of interrupting the performance.
It should be stated that the gentleman was known to have recently
inherited a large fortune, and had evinced a certain eccentricity of
disposition. He was now of opinion that an attempt was being made to
personate him on the stage. "Why, that's me!" he cried aloud, pointing
to the figure of Pat FitzMongrel. "But what sort of a rascally coat is
that they've dressed me in! Here, I'll dress you, my man!" So saying
he stood up, divested himself of the rich gold-laced coat he wore, and
flung it on to the stage. "Massink took it up smiling, stepped to the
wing, threw off his own, and returned upon the stage in the
gentleman's fine coat, which produced the greatest amount of applause
and pleasure among the audience."
To suit the dress demands the actor's art,
Yet there are some who overdress the part.
To some prescriptive right gives settled things--
Black wigs to murderers, feathered hats to kings.
But Michael Cassio might be drunk enough,
Though all his features were not grimed with snuff.
Why should Poll Peachum shine in satin clothes?
Why every devil dance in scarlet hose?
Thus, in regard to the conventionalism of stage costumes, wrote
Churchill's friend, Robert Lloyd, in his poem of "The Actor," 1762.
And something he might have added touching the absurd old fashion of
robing the queens of tragedy invariably in black, for it seemed agreed
generally that "the sceptred pall of gorgeous tragedy" should be taken
very literally, and should "sweep by" in the funereal fashion of sable
velvet. "Empresses and queens," writes Mrs. Bellamy, the actress, in
1785, "always appeared in black velvet, with, upon extraordinary
occasions, the additional finery of an embroidered or tissue
petticoat; the younger actresses in cast gowns of persons of quality,
or altered habits rather soiled; whilst the male portion of the
_dramatis personæ_ strutted in tarnished laced coats and waistcoats,
full bottom or tie wigs, and black worsted stockings." Yet the lady
once ventured to appear as Lady Macbeth, and to wear the while a dress
of white satin. This took place at Edinburgh, and the startling
innovation was only to be accounted for by the fact that the wardrobes
of the actresses and of the company she had joined had been
accidentally consumed by fire. Some portion of the theatre had been
also destroyed, but boards were hastily nailed down and covered with
carpets, so as to form a temporary stage until the damage could be
repaired. Meantime appeal was made to the ladies of Edinburgh to lend
clothes to the "burnt out" actress, who estimated the loss of her
theatrical finery at £900, there being among the ashes of her property
"a complete set of garnets and pearls, from cap to stomacher." Dresses
of various kinds poured in, however. "Before six o'clock I found
myself in possession of above forty, and some of these almost new, as
well as very rich. Nor did the ladies confine themselves to outward
garments only. I received presents of all kinds and from every part of
the adjacent country." But inasmuch as "no black vestment of any kind
had been sent among the numerous ones of different colours which had
been showered upon me by the ladies," the necessity arose for dressing
Lady Macbeth for the very first time in white satin.
Mrs. Bellamy, according to her own account, had been wont to take
great pains and to exercise much good taste in regard to the costume
she assumed upon the stage. She claimed to have discarded hooped
skirts, while those unwieldy draperies were still greatly favoured by
other actresses, and to have adopted a style of dress remarkable for
an elegant simplicity then very new to the stage. Still, the lady has
freely admitted that she could be very gorgeous upon occasions; and
concerning one of two grand tragedy dresses she had obtained from
Paris, she has something of a history to narrate. The play was to be
the "Alexander" of Nat Lee; the rival actresses were to appear--Mrs.
Bellamy as Statira, and the famous Mrs. Woffington as Roxana. The
ladies did not love each other--rival actresses oftentimes do not love
each other--and each possessed a temper. Moreover, each was a beauty:
Mrs. Woffington, a grand brunette, dark browed, with flashing eyes
and stately mien: Mrs. Bellamy, a blonde, blue-eyed and
golden-haired--an accomplished actress, if an affected one. Now, Mrs.
Bellamy's grand dress of deep yellow satin, with a robe of rich purple
velvet, was found to have a most injurious effect upon the delicate
straw-coloured skirts of Mrs. Woffington; they seemed to be reduced to
a dirty white hue. The ladies fairly quarrelled over their dresses. At
length, if we may adopt Mrs. Bellamy's account of the proceeding, Mrs.
Woffington's rage was so kindled "that it nearly bordered on madness.
When, oh! dire to tell! she drove me off the carpet and gave me the
_coup de grâce_ almost behind the scenes. The audience, who, I
believe, preferred hearing my last dying speech to seeing her beauty
and fine attitude, could not avoid perceiving her violence, and
testified their displeasure at it." Possibly the scene excited mirth
in an equal degree. Foote forthwith prepared a burlesque, "The
Green-room Squabble; or, A Battle Royal between the Queen of Babylon
and the Daughter of Darius." The same tragedy, it may be noted, had at
an earlier date been productive of discord in the theatre. Mrs. Barry,
as Roxana, had indeed stabbed her Statira, Mrs. Boutell, with such
violence that the dagger, although the point was blunted, "made its
way through Mrs. Boutell's stays and entered about a quarter of an
inch into the flesh." It is not clear, however, that this contest,
like the other, is to be attributed to antagonism in the matter of
dress.
The characteristics of the "tiring-room" have always presented
themselves in a ludicrous light to the ordinary observer. There is
always a jumble of incongruous articles, and a striking contrast
between the ambitious pretensions of things and their real
meanness--between the facts and fictions of theatrical life. Mr.
Collier quotes from Brome's comedy, "The Antipodes," 1640, a curious
account of the contents of the "tiring-house" of that time. Byeplay,
an actor, one of the characters, is speaking of the hero Peregrine,
who is in some sort a reflection of Don Quixote:
He has got into our tiring-house amongst us,
And ta'en a strict survey of all our properties.
* * * * *
Whether he thought 'twas some enchanted castle,
Or temple hung and piled with monuments
Of uncouth and of varied aspects,
I dive not to his thoughts....
But on a sudden, with thrice knightly force,
And thrice thrice puissant arm, he snatched down
The sword and shield that I played Bevis with;
Rusheth among the foresaid properties,
Kills monster after monster, takes the puppets
Prisoners, knocks down the Cyclops, tumbles all
Our jigambobs and trinkets to the wall.
Spying at last the crown and royal robes
I' the upper wardrobe, next to which by chance,
The devils vizors hung and their flame-painted
Skin-coats, these he removed with greater fury,
And (having cut the infernal ugly faces
All into mammocks), with a reverend hand
He takes the imperial diadem, and crowns
Himself King of the Antipodes and believes
He has justly gained the kingdom by his conquest.
A later dealing with the same subject may be quoted from Dr.
Reynardson's poem of "The Stage," dedicated to Addison, and first
published in 1713:
High o'er the stage there lies a rambling frame,
Which men a garret vile, but players the tire-room name:
Here all their stores (a merry medley) sleep
Without distinction, huddled in a heap.
Hung on the self-same peg, in union rest
Young Tarquin's trousers and Lucretia's vest,
Whilst, without pulling coifs, Roxana lays,
Close by Statira's petticoat, her stays....
Near these sets up a dragon-drawn calash;
There's a ghost's doublet, delicately slashed,
Bleeds from the mangled breast and gapes a frightful gash....
Here Iris bends her various-painted arch,
There artificial clouds in sullen order march;
Here stands a crown upon a rack, and there
A witch's broomstick, by great Hector's spear:
Here stands a throne, and there the cynic's tub,
Here Bullock's cudgel, and there Alcides' club.
Beards, plumes, and spangles in confusion rise,
Whilst rocks of Cornish diamonds reach the skies;
Crests, corslets, all the pomp of battle join
In one effulgence, one promiscuous shine.
Hence all the drama's decorations rise,
Hence gods descend majestic from the skies.
Hence playhouse chiefs, to grace some antique tale,
Buckle their coward limbs in warlike mail, &c. &c.
Of the theatrical wardrobe department of to-day it is unnecessary to
say much. Something of the bewildering incongruity of the old
"tiring-room" distinguishes it--yet with a difference. The system of
the modern theatre has undergone changes. Wardrobes are now often
hired complete from the costume and masquerade shops. The theatrical
costumier has become an independent functionary, boasting an
establishment of his own, detached from the theatre. Costume plays are
not much in vogue now, and in dramas dealing with life and society at
the present date, the actors are understood to provide their own
attire. Moreover, there is now little varying of the programme, and,
in consequence, little demand upon the stock wardrobe of the
playhouse. Still, when in theatres of any pretension, entertainments
in the nature of spectacles or pantomimes are in course of
preparation, there is much stir in the wardrobe department. There are
bales of cloth to be converted into apparel for the supernumeraries,
yards and yards of gauze and muslin for the ballet; spangles, and
beads, and copper lace in great profusion; with high piles of white
satin shoes. Numerous stitchers of both sexes are at work early and
late, while from time to time an artist supervises their labours. His
aid has been sought in the designing of the costumes, so that they may
be of graceful and novel devices in fanciful or eccentric plays, or
duly correct when an exhibition, depending at all upon the history of
the past, is about to be presented by the manager.