STAGE WIGS.
Wigs have claims to be considered amongst the most essential
appliances of the actors; means at once of their disguise and their
decoration. Without false hair the fictions of the stage could
scarcely be set forth. How could the old look young, or the young look
old, how could scanty locks be augmented, or baldness concealed, if
the _coiffeur_ did not lend his aid to the costumier? Nay, oftentimes
calvity has to be simulated, and fictitious foreheads of canvas
assumed. Hence the quaint advertisements of the theatrical hairdresser
in professional organs, that he is prepared to vend "old men's bald
pates" at a remarkably cheap rate. King Lear has been known to appear
without his beard--Mr. Garrick, as his portrait reveals, played the
part with a clean-shaven face, and John Kemble followed his example;
but could the ghost of Hamlet's father ever have defied the poet's
portraiture of him, and walked the platform of Elsinore Castle without
a "sable-silvered" chin? Has an audience ever viewed tolerantly a bald
Romeo, or a Juliet grown gray in learning how to impersonate that
heroine to perfection? It is clear that at a very early date the
players must have acquired the simple arts of altering and amending
their personal appearance in these respects.
The accounts still extant of the revels at court during the reigns of
Elizabeth and James contain many charges for wigs and beards. Thus a
certain John Ogle is paid "for four yeallowe heares for head-attires
for women, twenty-six shillings and eightpence;" and "for a pound of
heare twelvepence." Probably the auburn tresses of Elizabeth had made
blonde wigs fashionable. John Owgle, who is no doubt the same trader,
receives thirteen shillings and fourpence for "eight long white berds
at twenty pence the peece." He has charges also on account of "a black
fyzician's berde," "berds white and black," "heares for palmers,"
"berds for fyshers," &c. It would seem, however, that these adornments
were really made of silk. There is an entry: "John Ogle for curling of
heare made of black silk for Discord's heade (being sixty ounces),
price of his woorkmanshipp thereon only is seven shillings and
eightpence;" and mention is made of a delivery to Mrs. Swegoo the
silk-woman, of "Spanish silke of sundry cullers, weighing four ounces
and three quarters, at two shillings and sixpence the ounce, to
garnishe nine heads and nine scarfes for the nine muses; heads of
heare drest and trimmed at twenty-three shillings and fourpence the
peece, in all nine, ten pounds ten shillings."
The diary or account-book of Philip Henslowe, the manager, supplies
much information concerning the usual appointments of a theatre prior
to the year 1600. In his inventory of dresses and properties, bearing
date 1598, is included a record of "six head tiers," or attires. An
early and entertaining account of the contents of a theatrical
"tiring-room" is to be found in Richard Brome's comedy, "The
Antipodes," first published in 1640. Byeplay says of Peregrine, the
leading comic character:
He has got into our tiring-house amongst us,
And ta'en a strict survey of all our properties,
Our statues and our images of gods,
Our planets and our constellations,
Our giants, monsters, furies, beasts, and bugbears,
Our helmets, shields, and vizors, hairs and beards.
With the Restoration wigs came into general wear, and gradually the
beards and moustaches, which had literally flourished so remarkably
from the time of Elizabeth, were yielded to the razor. At this period
theatrical costume was simply regulated by the prevailing fashions,
and made no pretensions to historical truth or antiquarian
correctness. The actors appeared upon all occasions in the enormous
perukes that were introduced in the reign of Charles II., and
continued in vogue until 1720. The flowing flaxen wigs assumed by
Booth, Wilks, Cibber, and others, were said to cost some forty
guineas each. "Till within these twenty-five years," writes Tom Davies
in 1784, "our Tamberlanes and Catos had as much hair on their heads as
our judges on the bench." Cibber narrates how he sold a superb fair
full-bottomed periwig he had worn in 1695 in his first play, "The Fool
in Fashion," to Colonel Brett, so that the officer might appear to
advantage in his wooing of the Countess of Macclesfield, the lady
whom, upon unsatisfactory evidence, the poet Savage persistently
claimed as his mother.
But if the heroes of the theatre delighted in long flaxen hair, it was
always held necessary that the stage villain's should appear in
jet-black periwigs. For many years this continued to be an established
law of the drama. "What is the meaning," demanded Charles II., "that
we never see a rogue in the play but, odds-fish! they always clap him
on a black periwig, when it is well known one of the greatest rogues
in England always wears a fair one?" The king was understood to refer
to Titus Oates. But this custom was of long life. Davies describes
"certain actors who were cast into the parts of conspirators,
traitors, and murderers, who used to disguise themselves in large
black wigs, and to distort their features in order to appear terrible.
I have seen," he adds, "Hippesley act the First Murderer in 'Macbeth;'
his face was made pale with chalk, distinguished with large whiskers
and a long black wig." "Begin, murderer; leave thy damnable faces and
begin!" cries Hamlet to Lucianus, the poisoner; so that even in
Shakespeare's time grimness of aspect on the part of the stage villain
may have been thought indispensable. Churchill's friend, Lloyd, in his
admirable poem, "The Actor," published in 1762, writes on this head:
To suit the dress demands the actor's art,
Yet there are those who over-dress the part:
To some prescriptive right gives settled things--
Black wigs to murderers, feathered hats to kings.
Quin appeared upon the stage almost invariably in a profuse
full-bottomed periwig. Garrick brought into fashion a wig of much
smaller size, worn low on the forehead, with five crisp curls on
either side, and known generally as the "Garrick cut." But the great
actor occasionally varied the mode of his peruke. The portraits by
Wood, Sherwin, and Dance exhibit him in three different forms of
wigs. As Hotspur, he wore "a laced frock and Ramilies wig." When John
Kemble first played Hamlet he appeared in a black velvet court suit,
with laced ruffles and powdered hair, if not a periwig. It is to be
noted, however, that there was nothing in this system of dress to
shock the spectators of the time. Powdered wigs were the vogue, and it
was not considered strange that the actor should be attired similarly
to the audience. Some ventures had been made in the direction of
correctness of costume, but they had been regarded as rather dangerous
innovations. Garrick candidly confessed himself timid about the
matter. Benjamin West once inquired of the actor why he did not reform
the costume of the stage. "The audience would not stand it," said
Garrick; "they would throw a bottle at my head if I attempted any
alteration." The truth was, perhaps, that Garrick had won his triumphs
under the old system, and was disinclined, therefore, to risk any
change.
Actors have often been zealous treasurers of theatrical properties and
appliances, and some have formed very curious collections of
stage-wigs. Munden, who was most heedful as to his appearance in the
theatre, always provided his own costume, wearing nothing that
belonged to the wardrobe of the manager, and giving large sums for any
dress that suited his fancy. His wigs were said to be of great
antiquity and value; they were in the care of, and daily inspected by,
a hairdresser attached to the theatre. Edwin's biography records that
that actor's "wiggery cost him more than a hundred pounds, and he
could boast of having perukes in his collection which had decorated
the heads of monarchs, judges, aldermen, philosophers, sailors,
jockeys, beaux, thieves, tailors, tinkers, and haberdashers." Suett,
also a great wig-collector, is reputed to have assumed on the stage,
in the burlesque of "Tom Thumb," a large black peruke with flowing
curls, that had once been the property of King Charles II. He had
purchased this curious relic at the sale of the effects of a Mr.
Rawle, accoutrement-maker to George III. When the wig was submitted
for sale, Suett took possession of it, and, putting it on his head,
began to bid for it with a gravity that the bystanders found to be
irresistibly comical. It was at once declared that the wig should
become the actor's property upon his own terms, and it was forthwith
knocked down to him by the auctioneer. The wig appeared upon the stage
during many years, until at last it was destroyed, with much other
valuable property, in the fire which burnt to the ground the
Birmingham Theatre. Suett's grief was extreme. "My wig's gone!" he
would say, mournfully, for some time after the fire, to every one he
met. Suett, Mathews, and Knight were at one time reputed to possess
the most valuable stock of wigs in the profession. Knight's collection
was valued, after his death, at £250.
The stage-wig is sometimes liable to unfortunate accidents. In the
turbulent scenes of tragedy, when the catastrophe is reached, and the
hero, mortally stricken, falls upon the stage heavily and rigidly, in
accordance with the ruling of immemorial tradition, the wig, like an
unskilful rider upon a restive steed, is apt to become unseated. Many
a defunct Romeo has been constrained to return to life for a moment in
order that he might entreat Juliet, in a whisper, just as her own
suicide is imminent, to contrive, if possible, a readjustment of his
wig, which, in the throes of his demise, had parted from his head, or,
at least, to fling her veil over him, and so conceal his mischance
from public observation. To Mr. Bensley, the tragedian, so much
admired by Charles Lamb, and so little by any other critic, a curious
accident is said to have happened. He was playing Richard III. in an
Irish theatre; the curtain had risen, and he was advancing to the
foot-lights to deliver his opening soliloquy, when an unlucky nail in
the side wing caught a curl of his full-flowing majestic wig and
dragged it from his head. He was a pedantic, solemn actor, with a
sepulchral voice and a stiff stalking gait. Anthony Pasquin has
recorded a derisive description of his histrionic method:
With three minuet steps in all parts he advances,
Then retires three more, strokes his chin, prates and prances,
With a port as majestic as Astley's horse dances.
* * * * *
Should we judge of this man by his visage and note,
We'd imagine a rookery built in his throat,
Whose caws were immixed with his vocal recitals,
While others stole downwards and fed on his vitals.
Still there can be no doubt that he played with extreme
conscientiousness, and was fully impressed with a sense of his
professional responsibilities. The loss of his wig must have
occasioned him acute distress. For a moment he hesitated. What was he
to do? Should he forget that he was Richard? Should he remember that
he was only Mr. Bensley? He resolved to ignore the accident, to
abandon his wig. Shorn of his locks, he delivered his speech in his
most impressive manner. Of course he had to endure many interruptions.
An Irish audience is rarely forbearing--has a very quick perception of
the ludicrous. The jeering and ironic cheering that arose must have
gravely tried the tragedian. "Mr. Bensley, darling, put on your
jasey!" cried the gallery. "Bad luck to your politics! Will you suffer
a Whig to be hung?" But the actor did not flinch. His exit was as
dignified and commanding as had been his entrance. He did not even
condescend to notice his wig as he passed it, depending from its nail
like a scarecrow. One of the attendants of the stage was sent on to
remove it, the duty being accomplished amidst the most boisterous
laughter and applause of the whole house.
Mr. Bernard, in his "Retrospections of the Stage," makes humorous
mention of a provincial manager of the last century who was always
referred to as "Pentland and his wig," from his persistent adherence
to an ancient peruke, which, as he declared, had once belonged to
Colley Cibber. The wig was of the pattern worn on state occasions by
the Lord Chief Justice of England, a structure of horsehair, that
descended to the shoulders in dense lappels. Pentland, who had been
fifty years a manager, was much bent with infirmity, and afflicted
with gout in all his members, still was wont to appear as the juvenile
heroes of the drama. But in his every part, whether Hamlet or Don
Felix, Othello or Lord Townley, he invariably assumed this formidable
wig. Altogether his aspect and performance must have been of an
extraordinary kind. He played Plume, the lively hero of Farquhar's
"Recruiting Officer," dressed in an old suit of regimentals, and
wearing above his famous wig a prodigious cocked hat. The rising of
the curtain discovered him seated in an easy-chair with his lower
limbs swathed in flannels. He was, indeed, unable to walk, or even to
stand, and throughout the performance had to be wheeled on and off the
stage. Surely light comedy was never seen under such disadvantageous
conditions. He endeavoured to compensate for his want of locomotive
power by taking snuff with great frequency, and waving energetically
in the air a large and soiled pocket-handkerchief. This Pentland,
indeed, appears to have been a curious example of the strolling
manager of the old school. His company consisted but of some
half-dozen performers, including himself, his wife, and his daughter.
He journeyed from town to town on a donkey, the faithful companion of
all his wanderings, with his gouty legs resting upon the panniers,
into which were packed the wardrobe and scenic embellishments of his
theatre. On these occasions he always wore his best light-comedy suit
of brown and gold, his inevitable wig, and a little three-cornered hat
cocked on one side, "giving the septuagenarian an air of gaiety that
well accorded with his known attachment to the rakes and heroes of the
drama; one hand was knuckled in his side--his favourite position--and
the other raised a pinch of snuff to his nose; and as he passed along
he nodded and bowed to all about him, and seemed greatly pleased with
the attention he excited." His company followed the manager on foot.
Yet for many years Mr. Pentland was the sole purveyor of theatrical
entertainments to several English counties, and did not shrink from
presenting to his audiences the most important works in the dramatic
repertory.
When, in 1817, Edmund Kean played Eustache de Saint Pierre in the play
of "The Surrender of Calais," he designed to impress the town
powerfully by the help of a wig made after the pattern of Count
Ugolino's. "I'll frighten the audience with it," said he; but, as it
happened, the audience declined to be frightened. On the contrary,
when the actor appeared upon the scene he was only partially
recognised by the spectators. Some persons even inquired: "Who is that
fellow?" None cried: "God bless him!" The wig, in short, was not
appreciated, for all it was of elaborate construction, and stood up,
bristling with its gray hairs like a _chevaux de frise_. The tragedian
very soon gave up the part in disgust.
It is odd to find a stage wig invested with political significance,
viewed almost as a cabinet question, considered as a possible
provocation of hostilities between two great nations; yet something of
this kind happened some fifty years ago. Mr. Bunn, then manager of
Covent Garden Theatre, had adapted to the English stage Monsieur
Scribe's capital comedy of "Bertrand et Raton." The scene of the play,
it may be stated, is laid at Copenhagen, and the subject relates to
the intrigues that preceded the fall of Struensee in 1772. The
adaptation was duly submitted to George Colman, the examiner of plays,
and was by him forwarded to the Earl of Belfast, then Lord
Chamberlain, with an observation that the work contained nothing of a
kind that was inadmissible upon the English stage.
Suddenly a rumour was born, and rapidly attained growth and strength,
to the purport that the leading character of Count Bertrand was
designed to be a portraiture of Talleyrand, at that time the French
ambassador at the court of St. James's. Some hesitation arose as to
licensing the play, and on the 17th of January, 1834, the authorities
decided to prohibit its representation. Mr. Bunn sought an interview
with the Chamberlain, urging a reversal of the judgment, and
undertaking to make any retrenchments and modifications of the work
that might be thought expedient. The manager could only obtain a
promise that the matter should be further considered. Already the
stage had been a source of trouble to the political and diplomatic
world. It was understood that the Swedish ambassador had abruptly
withdrawn from the court of the Tuileries in consequence of the
production in Paris of a vaudeville called "Le Camarade au Lit,"
reflecting, so many held, upon the early life of Bernadotte, King of
Sweden. That nothing of this kind should happen in London the
Chamberlain was determined. He read the comedy most carefully and,
having marked several passages as objectionable, forwarded it to the
examiner, from whom, in due course, Mr. Bunn received the following
characteristic note:
"January 20th, 1834.
"MY DEAR B.--With all we have to do, I don't see how I can
return the manuscript with alterations before to-morrow. Pray
dine with me to-day at half-past five--but come at four. We
shall then have time to cut the play before we cut the mutton.
"Yours most truly,
"G.C."
Both these "cuttings" were successfully accomplished, and on the 25th
of January the comedy was officially licensed. Still the authorities
were uneasy. A suspicion prevailed that Mr. Farren, who was to sustain
the part of Bertrand, meditated dressing and "making up" after the
manner of Talleyrand. Sir Thomas Mash, the comptroller of the
Chamberlain's office, made direct inquiries in this respect. The
manager supplied a sketch of the costume to be worn by the actor. "I
knew it was to be submitted to the king," writes Mr. Bunn, and he
looked forward to the result with anxious curiosity. On the 7th of
February came an answer from Sir Thomas Mash. "I have the pleasure to
return your drawing without a syllable of objection." On the 8th,
"Bertrand et Raton," under the name of "The Minister and the Mercer,"
was first produced on the English stage.
The success of the performance was unquestionable, but the alarms of
the authorities were not over. Many of the players took upon
themselves to restore passages in the comedy which had been effaced by
the examiner; and, worse than this, Mr. Farren's appearance did not
correspond with the drawing sent to the Chamberlain's office. His wig
was especially objectionable; it was an exact copy of the silvery
silken tresses of Talleyrand, which had acquired a European celebrity.
It was plain that the actor had "made up" after the portrait of the
statesman in the well-known engravings of the Congress of Vienna. Mr.
Bunn had again to meet the angry expostulations of the Chamberlain. On
the 14th of February he wrote to Lord Belfast: "The passages bearing
reference to the Queen Matilda in conjunction with Struensee having
been entirely omitted, will, I trust, be satisfactory to your
lordship. Until the evening of performance I was not aware what style
of wig Mr. Farren meant to adopt, such matters being entirely at the
discretion of performers of his standard. I have since mentioned to
him the objections which have been pointed out to me, but he has sent
me word that he cannot consent so to mutilate his appearance, adding
that it is a wig he wore two years ago in a comedy called 'Lords and
Commons.'" If this was true there can be little doubt that the wig had
been dressed anew and curling-ironed into a Talleyrand form that had
not originally pertained to it. Meantime King William IV. had stirred
in the matter, despatching his Chamberlain to the Lords Grey and
Palmerston. "They--said to be exceedingly irate--instantly attended
the performance. In the box exactly opposite to the one they occupied,
sat, however, the gentleman himself, _l'homme véritable_, his
Excellency Prince Talleyrand, _in propriâ personâ_, and he laughed so
heartily at the play, without once exhibiting any signs of annoyance
at the appearance of his supposed prototype, that the whole affair
wore a most absurd aspect; and thus terminated a singular specimen of
'great cry and little wool.'"
A stage wig has hardly since this risen to the importance of a state
affair. Yet the Chamberlain has sometimes interfered to stay any
direct stage portraiture of eminent characters. Thus Mr. Buckstone was
prohibited from appearing "made up" as Lord John Russell, and Mr. A.
Wigan, when performing the part of a French naval officer some
five-and-twenty years ago, was directed by the authorities to reform
his aspect, which too much resembled, it was alleged, the portraits of
the Prince de Joinville. The actor effected a change in this instance
which did not much mend the matter. It was understood at the time
indeed that he had simply made his costume more correct, and otherwise
had rather heightened than diminished his resemblance to the son of
Louis Philippe. Other stage-wig questions have been of minor
import--relating chiefly to the appropriateness of the _coiffures_ of
Hamlet and others. Should the Prince wear flaxen tresses or a
"Brutus"? Should the Moor of Venice appear in a negro's close woolly
curls, or are flowing locks permissible to him? These inquiries have a
good deal exercised the histrionic profession from time to time. And
there have been doubts about hair-powder and its compatibility with
tragic purposes. Mademoiselle Mars, the famous French actress, decided
upon defying accuracy of costume, and declined to wear a powdered wig
in a serious part. Her example was followed by Rachel, Ristori, and
others. When Auber's "Gustave, ou le Bal Masqué," was in rehearsal,
the singers complained of the difficulty they experienced in
expressing passionate sentiments in the powdered wigs and stately
dress of the time of Louis XV. In the masquerade they were therefore
permitted to assume such costumes as seemed to them suited to the
violent catastrophe of the story. They argued that _"le moindre geste
violent peut exciter le rire en provoquant l'explosion d'un nuage
blanc; les artistes sont donc contraints de se tenir dans une réserve
et dans une immobilité qui jettent du froid sur toutes les
situations."_ It is true that Garrick and his contemporaries wore
hair-powder, and that in their hands the drama certainly did not lack
vehemently emotional displays. But then the spectators were in like
case; and _"explosions d'un nuage blanc"_ were probably of too common
occurrence to excite derision or even attention.
Wigs are still matters of vital interest to the actors, and it is to
be noted that the theatrical hairdressers have of late years devoted
much study to this branch of their industry. The light comedian still
indulges sometimes in curls of an unnatural flaxen, and the comic
countryman is too often allowed to wear locks of a quite impossible
crimson colour. Indeed, the headdresses that seem only contrived to
move the laughter of the gallery, yet remain in an unsatisfactory
condition. But in what are known as "character wigs" there has been
marked amendment. The fictitious forehead is now very often artfully
joined on to the real brow of the performer, without those distressing
discrepancies of hue and texture which at one time were so very
apparent, disturbing credibility and destroying illusion. And the
decline of hair in colour and quantity has often been imitated in the
theatre with very happy ingenuity. Heads in an iron-gray or partially
bald state--varying from the first slight thinning of the locks to the
time when they come to be combed over with a kind of "cat's cradle" or
trellis-work look, to veil absolute calvity--are now represented by
the actors with a completeness of a most artistic kind. With the
ladies of the theatre blond wigs are now almost to be regarded as
necessaries of histrionic life. This may be only a transient fashion,
although it seems to have obtained very enduring vitality. Dr. Véron,
writing of his experiences as manager of the Paris Opera House forty
years ago, affirms: _"Il y a des beautés de jour et des beautés du
soir; une peau brune, jaune, ou noire, devient blanche à éclat de la
lumière; les cheveux noirs réussissent mieux aussi au théâtre que les
cheveux blonds."_ But the times have changed; the arts of the
theatrical toilet have no doubt advanced greatly. On the stage now all
complexions are brilliant, and light tresses are pronounced to be more
admirable than dark. Yet Dr. Véron was not without skill and learning
on these curious matters. He discourses learnedly in regard to the
cosmetics of the theatre--paint and powder, Indian ink and carmine,
and the chemical preparations necessary for the due fabrication of
eyebrows and lashes, for making the eyes look larger than life, for
colouring the cheeks and lips, and whitening the nose and forehead.
And especially the manager took pride in the capillary artifices of
his establishment, and employed an "artist in hair," who held almost
arrogant views of his professional acquirements. "My claim to the
grateful remembrance of posterity," this superb _coiffeur_ was wont to
observe, "will consist in the fact that I made the wig in which
Monsieur Talma performed his great part of Sylla!" The triumphs of the
scene are necessarily short-lived; they exist only in the recollection
of actual spectators, and these gradually dwindle and depart as Time
goes and Death comes. Nevertheless something of this wig-maker's fame
still survives, although Talma has been dead nearly half a century.
As Sylla, Talma was "made up" to resemble the first Napoleon. Macready
writes in his "Journal" of Talma's appearance as Sylla: "The toga sat
upon him as if it had been his daily costume. His _coiffure_ might
have been taken from an antique bust; but was in strict resemblance of
Napoleon's. It was reported that several passages had been struck out
of the text by the censor, under the apprehension of their application
by the Parisians to the exiled Emperor; and an order was said to have
been sent from the police forbidding Talma to cross his hands behind
him, the ordinary habit of Napoleon." The tragedy of "Sylla" was
written by M. Jouy, and was first performed at the Théâtre Francais in
1822.