IN THE DRESSING-ROOM.
These same people who appear grotesque, and out of the pale of ordinary
every-day existence on the stage, are nearly always the most unromantic
and realistic-looking folks in the world when you meet them on the
street. The extraordinary metamorphosis they go through to arrive at
an appearance suitable for presentation before the foot-lights is a
secret of the dressing-room. In the privacy of this carefully guarded
apartment street clothes are laid aside, and what is more wonderful
still, faces, eyes, and hands and lower limbs, too, very frequently,
are subjected to processes that produce the most remarkable results.
Anybody who has seen Nat Goodwin, of "Hobbies" reputation, will
readily understand that it takes a pretty extensive transformation
to change his appearance from that of the man to that of _Prof.
Pygmalion Whiffles_, the eccentric character that makes "Hobbies"
the laughable and popular play that it is. Mr. Goodwin is young--not
more than twenty-four--but I saw him slip out of his youthfulness
into the bald-headed, red-wigged and merry old professor one night in
almost as short a time as it takes a boy to fall through a four-story
elevator shaft. I accompanied him to his dressing-room one night. He
had just a few minutes to get ready, and was in proper shape in time
to make his appearance at the upper entrance, amid the crash that
always accompanies his first appearance in the play, and gives him an
opportunity to make some remarks about _Maj. Bang's_ dog, which has
ripped his "ulster" up the back. Well, Goodwin went to work the moment
he was inside the door. Off came the everyday clothes, and in a jiffy
on went the one white and black stocking that will be remembered by all
who have seen "Hobbies." The shirt, coat, pantaloons, linen duster and
hat that forms the rest of his toilet, were carefully laid upon a side
table. The shirt was flapped over his head in a second, the pantaloons
went on like lightning and then bending towards a looking-glass he
dipped his fingers in red and black color boxes, and soon had the
necessary painting done upon his face. The velvet coat followed the
making-up of the face; then the torn linen duster, finally the red wig
with its charming bald spot, was clapped upon his head; the white hat
was gracefully tilted over it, and with a call to the man who played
_Arthur Doveleigh_ for his cane and an "I'll see you later" to his
visitor, he bounded up the stairs, and the next moment, as I left the
stage door, I could hear the hand-clapping and the howls of delight
with which a crowded house was greeting their favorite.
[Illustration: BALLET GIRLS DRESSING-ROOM.]
The great value of the art of making-up, as the preparation for
participation in a play is called, both in the matter of painting the
face and costuming, will be understood when the story told by Maze
Edwards, who was Edwin Booth's manager during the tour of 1881-2, is
recited. * * * The company got to Waterbury, Connecticut, ahead of
their baggage. When the hour for the performance arrived the baggage,
consisting of all their costumes and paraphernalia was still missing.
The manager was in a terrible plight; but I will let him tell his own
story as he told it to a newspaper reporter a short time after the
occurrence.
[Illustration: EDWIN BOOTH.]
"When I found the baggage, with the costumes, had not arrived," said
Edwards, "I was just going to throw myself into the river. Then I
thought I would go and tell Mr. Booth about it and bid good-bye to some
of the people who had always thought a good deal of me, before killing
myself. To my astonishment Mr. Booth took it as coolly as you would
take an invitation to drink. He said, inasmuch as the people were in
the hall, he would make a few remarks to them about the accident, and
then they would go on and play three acts of "Hamlet" in the clothes
they had on. And so it was fixed up that way. Well, the thought of
_Hamlet_ in a short-tailed coat and light pants almost made me sick,
and when Mr. Booth came upon the stage, looking like an Episcopal
minister, with a Knight Templar's cheese knife that he borrowed,
I couldn't think of anything but _Hamlet_. I forgot all about his
clothes, and I believe if he had only had on a pair of sailor's pants
and a red flannel fireman's shirt that the people would only have seen
_Hamlet_. I tell you he is the greatest actor that ever lived. The
people sat perfectly still, and seemed wrapped up in Booth. That is,
they were when they did not look at the other fellows. But when they
took _Laertes_, with a short, ham-fat coat on, a pair of lah-de-dah
pants and a pan-cake hat, it seemed to me I could hear them smile. And
the _King_, _Hamlet's_ step-father, he was a sight. Imagine a king
with a cut-away checkered coat, a Pullman car blanket thrown over his
shoulder for a robe, and a leg of a chair for a sceptre, mashed on a
queen with a travelling dress and a gray woollen basque with buttons
on it. And think of _Polonius_, with a linen duster and a straw hat
with a blue ribbon on. Oh, it made me tired. _Ophelia_ was all right
enough. She had on some crazy clothes that she had been travelling
in, and we got some straw out of a barn and some artificial flowers
off the bonnets, and she pulled through pretty well. But the _Ghost_!
You would have died to have seen the _Ghost_. He had on one of those
long hand-me-down ulster overcoats with a buckle on the back as big
as a currycomb and the belt was hanging down on both sides. The boys
got him a green mosquito bar to put over it, and with a stuffed club
for a sceptre, he fell over a chair and then came on. I should have
laughed if I had been on my death-bed when he said to _Hamlet_, 'I am
thy father's ghost!' He looked more like a drummer for a wholesale
confectionery house, with a sort of tin skimmer on his head, and I
believe the audience would have gone wild with laughter if it had not
been for Mr. Booth. I don't believe you could get him to laugh on the
stage for a million dollars. He just looked at the _Ghost_ as though it
was a genuine one, and the audience looked at Booth, and forgot all
about the ulster and the _Ghost's_ pants being rolled up at the bottom.
It was probably the greatest triumph that an actor ever had for Mr.
Booth to compel the vast audience to forget the ludicrous surroundings
and think only of the character he was portraying. I wouldn't have
missed the night's performance for a thousand dollars, and when, at 10
o'clock, I heard the boys getting the trunks up-stairs, I was almost
sorry. The last two acts were played with the costumes, but they were
no better performed than the first. Still, I think, on the whole, I had
rather the baggage would be there. It makes a manager feel better."
[Illustration: M'KEE RANKIN.]
In the olden times, and in the days of the early American theatre,
the dressing-rooms were beneath the stage, and were by no means the
perfect and cozy places that are to be found in existence at present.
Hodgkinson, I think it was, who, during the last century built the
first theatre having dressing-rooms above and upon the stage. Later
improvement has removed the dressing-rooms, in first-class houses,
entirely from the stage, ample and neatly-furnished rooms being
provided in adjoining buildings. This change has been necessitated by
the demand made upon theatrical managers for greater stage room and
better opportunities than they had heretofore in keeping up with the
growing taste for extensive scenic representations with magnificent
appointments. The star of a company, male or female, always has the
best dressing-room the establishment affords, and it is generally very
close to the green-room. Minor performers share their rooms; and the
captain of the supers usually has an apartment beneath the stage where
he gathers his Roman mob, or marshals his mail-clad but awkward squad
of warriors. No better burlesque upon this ill-clothed, dirty-faced,
knock-kneed and ridiculous theatrical contingent has ever been
presented either in type or on the stage, than the character of the
Roman Lictor created by Louis Harrison in San Francisco, and afterwards
relegated to another performer in "Photos." The story is told that
Harrison having been cast for the part of a lictor in a tragedy in
which John McCullough took the leading role, he grew offended, having
higher aspirations than mere utility business, and determined to make
the part funny and, if possible, spoil the scene. When he came on
the stage, he was in war-paint, his face strewn with gory colors and
intermingling black; he had on the dirtiest costume he could find, with
a battered rusty helmet, and carried the insignia of his office so
awkwardly, while his knees came together his toes turned in, and his
general attitude was that of a man in the third week of a hard spree.
He brought the house down, spoiled the play and was discharged for
making too much of a success of the part. But this is a digression, and
we must hurry back to the dressing-room.
[Illustration: THE THREE VILLAS.]
The most difficult part of the actor's work preliminary to going on
the stage is to make-up his face. By the judicious use of powder and
paint, and a proper disposition of wigs, beard, etc., the oldest man
may be made to assume juvenility and the youngest to seem to bend
with the weight of years. Wigs are to a great extent reliable, but
the old fashioned false beard is clumsy and apt to make the wearer
feel dissatisfied with himself and the rest of the world. But the old
fashioned beard is going out of style, and gray wool stuck on the face
with grease is generally used. I can recall vividly how a beard of
this sort worn by poor George Conly, the basso, while singing the part
of _Gaspard_ in "The Chimes of Normandy," while with the Emma Abbot
troupe last season, struck me as the perfection of deception. It always
requires a dresser to put on one of these beards in anything like a
satisfactory manner.
An old actor of the "crushed" type who has been almost forced off the
stage and into running a dramatic college, by the young and pushing
element in the profession, in an interview had with him lately in
Philadelphia, remarked, as he looked with evident interest upon the
crowds in the street: "I like to study faces. To my mind it is the most
absorbing study in the world--that of men's faces. You see, the thing
has more interest for me than for the run of men even in my profession,
because I'm an enthusiast in a certain sense. I belong to the times
when the study and make-up of faces was mighty important in the
theatrical line. It wasn't such a long time ago, either; but the times
have changed since then, until now there seems to be almost no effort
at all to make-up and look your part."
"It must be a great deal of trouble to make up every night."
"Oh, but, my boy, look at the result! Go down to the theatre, where
they still do it, and if only five years have elapsed between the acts,
see how it is shown on every face on the stage."
"It is difficult to make-up well, is it not?"
"Well, no," said the actor, lighting a fresh cigar and assuming a more
confidential pose, "the rules are simple enough, and with a little
practice, almost any amateur could learn to make up artistically if he
has any eye for effect. Some parts, like _Romeo_, _Charles Surface_,
_Sidney Darrell_ or _Claude Melnotte_, require very little make up for
a young and good-looking actor. The face and neck should be thoroughly
covered with white powder, and the cheek bones and chin lightly touched
with rouge, which should not be too red. Then, as the lover ought
to look handsome, he should draw a fine black line under his lower
eye-lashes with a camel hair brush and burnt umber. This makes the eyes
brilliant. I'm sure it isn't much trouble to make up that way."
[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT.]
"Other characters are harder, though?"
"Oh, immeasurably so. But to make a maturer man, like _Cassio_, _Iago_,
_Mercutio_, _John Midway_ or _Hawksley_, it requires only a little
more work. After the actor has laid on his powder and rouged his face
pretty heavily--for men are commonly rather red-faced--he must take
his brush and umber and trace some lines from the outer corners of
the eyes, and other lines down toward the corners of the mouth from
the nose. In short, he must make the 'crows' feet that are visible in
all men who have lived over thirty years in this tantalizing world of
ours. Then the chin should be touched with a little blue powder, which
makes it look as if recently shaved. These precautions will make the
most juvenile face look mature. If he has to go further, and look like
old age, as in such characters as _Lear_, _Virginius_,--for, as I said
before, _Virginius_, was an old man,--_Richelieu_, _Sir Peter Teazle_,
and so on, more work is necessary. Heavy false eyebrows must be pasted
on, and the eye-hollow darkened and fairly crowded with lines. Wrinkles
must be painted across the forehead, furrows down the cheeks, downward
lines from the corners of the mouth, and (very important) three or
four heavy wrinkles painted around the neck to give it the shriveled
appearance common to old age. The hollow over the upper lip should
be darkened, and also the hollow under the lower lip. This gives the
mouth the pinched and toothless look. A little powdered antimony on
the cheeks makes them look fallen in and shrunken. Then tone the face
down with a delicate coating of pearl powder, and you'll have as old a
looking man as you'd care to see."
"How does it feel?"
"At first your face feels tightened, and the muscles don't play easily,
but after a few grimaces it comes out all right. It's a great relief to
get off, however, after three hours' work."
"It must cause rather mournful forecasts when a man looks on his own
face made up for the age of, say, eighty years."
"Not so bad as when he makes up for a corpse, however. I'll never
forget the first glance I had at my face after it had been made up
for _Gaston's_ death scene, when playing the "Man of the Iron Mask,"
in '62. It positively appalled me, sir, and I lay awake all that
night thinking of it, and dreamed of myself in a coffin for a month
afterward."
"How is it done?"
"Well, it varies slightly. You see, such characters as _Lear_,
_Virginius_, _Werner_, and _Beverly_ are before the audience some time
before they actually die, and therefore, their faces cannot be made
very corpse-like; but _Mathias_ in 'The Bells,' _Louis XI._, _Gaston_
and _Danny Mann_ are discovered dying when the scene opens, or are
brought in dead, so that their faces can be made extreme. For the last
series the face and neck should be spread with prepared pink to give
it a livid hue in places. Then put a deep shading of powdered antimony
under the eyebrows and well into the hollow of the eye, on the cheeks,
throat and temples. This is very effective, as it gives the face that
dreadfully sunken appearance as in death. The sides of the nose and
even the upper lip should also be darkened, and the lips powdered blue.
Then the face will look about as dead as it would three hours after a
real death."
"In the make up of grotesque faces do they use false noses and chins?"
"Very rarely. Usually the method is to stick some wool on the nose
with a gum and mold it in whatever shape you will; then powder and
paint it as you would the natural nose for grotesque or comedy parts.
Paste is put on with gum, instead of wool, sometimes. Clowns have
to encase themselves fairly with whiting, and they find this trouble
enough without building up noses or cheeks. Grotesque artists have to
work hard with their faces as a rule, but they are often repaid by
discovering neat points. Many of our best Dutch and Irish comedians owe
their first lift to a lucky make-up."
[Illustration: THE LATE ADELAIDE NEILSON.]
"I suppose there are types of the representation of different
nationalities?"
"Well, a gentleman is usually made-up the same, no matter where he
may be supposed to belong, but the caricature is usually one of the
well-known make-ups. A Frenchman has to be powdered with dark rouge,
and has his eyebrows blackened with dark ink. All dark characters, as
mulattoes, creoles, Spaniards, and so on, are done with whiting and
dark rouge, with plenty of burnt cork and umber."
"Is much work necessary on the hands?"
"In witches it is of great importance that the hands and arms should be
skinny and bony. This is usually done by a liberal powdering of Dutch
pink, and painting between the knuckles with burnt umber. Painting
between the knuckles, you see, makes them look large and bony. But this
sounds a good deal like ancient history, now, does it not? The art is
falling into disuse, my boy, and I've no doubt the time is not far off
when we shall have youngsters playing old men with signs on their back
reading, 'Please, sir, I'm eighty years old,' while their faces are as
fresh as daisies."
"To what do you attribute this tendency."
"Laziness. The theatrical age of to-day is a wonder to me. The entire
profession wants to star. An actor plays old men now simply for a
living, while he matures his plans for his contemplated starring
tour. An actress does old women heavies or juveniles only until she
can find a capitalist who will enable her to star, and none of them
seem to take any pride in the minor parts. Hence, they don't take the
trouble to make up artistically, and the stage is robbed of its chief
charm--realism."
[Illustration: DRESSING AN ACTRESS' HAIR.]
The looking-glass and the pots of paint and boxes of powder upon the
shelves of the dressing-room are as important adjuncts of the play, and
even more important, sometimes, than the huge boxes and trunks filled
with costumes that are found in the same place. They hold their place
amid the diamond necklaces and brilliant bracelets of the prima donna,
the cheaper jewels of the dramatic artiste and the crowns of kings and
helmets of warriors. Their power is great, and that power is fully
recognized by all who are within the domain of dramatic art. And the
actor or actress, the prima donna and the swell tenor, all generally
make it their business to attend to their own beautification in this
way themselves. Nearly all star actors carry male servants who are
known as dressers, and all prominent actresses have maids who accompany
them to the theatre and these help to complete the artiste's toilets.
Formerly there were barbers and hair-dressers, as well as other
specialists, attached to places of amusement, and whose business it
was to shave an actor or dress a head of hair before the performance.
Many establishments retain these yet, but they are not as numerous or
as well-known as they were before the days of travelling combinations.
Apropos the theatrical hair-dresser there is quite an interesting story
told. One of this class fell in love with a popular actress he was
frequently called upon to beautify. He confessed his devouring passion
on his knees and she laughed him to scorn. More than that, she
insisted on his continuing his ministrations to her and made him the
butt of her heartless gibes while he was devoting himself to enhance
her cruel loveliness. The iron entered his soul and he swore vengeance.
One night, when he had to prepare her for a most important part, he
surpassed himself in the splendor of her crowning decoration. Having
finished he anointed her golden locks with a compound of a peculiarly
fascinating aromatic odor, which so attracted his callous enslaver's
notice that she asked him what it was.
"It is a mixture of my own, Madame," he replied. "I call it the last
breath of love."
The actress remarked that she would call him a fool, and he bowed and
withdrew. A few minutes later, when she appeared behind the foot-lights,
instead of the roar of applause which she expected, she was hailed
with a tempestuous scream of laughter. Her discarded lover had had his
revenge. He had dyed her golden locks with a chemical which turned pea
green as soon as it was dry. She dresses what hair she has left herself
now, while he is boss of a five-cent shaving emporium, never speaks to
any lady but his landlady, and has a Chinaman to do his washing.
If there is a ballet or a burlesque crowd or comic opera chorus in
the theatre the scenes in their rooms will be of a more diversified
nature. The girls in addition to making their faces pretty, must have
their limbs so shapely that no fault can be found even by the most
cavilling of the gentlemen who crowd up behind the orchestra while the
house holds a host of female attractions. The rage for limb exhibitions
rendered it necessary that some means should be devised to hide the
calves or poorly turned ankles of the creatures whose limbs are
displayed. Happily the symmetricals, as padded tights are called, were
hit upon and now you cannot find an unsightly piece of underpinning in
any combination, and even the poor ballet girl who does page's parts
or helps to make up a crowd for $6 a week, will, if she has sense and
taste, go early to the dealer in theatrical goods and have symmetricals
made to suit the exigencies of her case. These artistic accessories of
feminine fictitiousness are leggings or tights woven in such a manner
the thickness of a deficient thigh, the pipe-stem character of a calf,
are filled out with silk and cotton into shapefulness and beauty that
Venus de Medici herself would not be ashamed to make a display of. I
heard a story about an operatic artist who for a long time refused to
play parts demanding the exhibition even of a fraction of a limb, and
all because her lower members were too attenuated to attract anything
else but ridicule. Lately she has found her way to the pad-maker's and
now can present as pretty an ankle and as round a calf to the audience
as sister artists who have more flesh and blood in their composition.
Men as well as women patronize the pad-maker and any actor of the
mashing persuasion who may have had to keep his bandy legs in wide
pantaloons heretofore can now burst forth upon the sight of his adored
in all the gorgeous loveliness and perfection of an attractive anatomy.
[Illustration: MARIE ROZE.]