_DESIGNING THE DRESSES_
Sarah Bernhardt’s Dresses and Wigs—A Great Musician’s Hair—Expenses
of Mounting—Percy Anderson—_Ulysses_—_The Eternal City_—A Dress
Parade—Armour—Over-elaboration—An Understudy—Miss Fay Davis—A
London Fog—The Difficulties of an Engagement.
Madame Sarah Bernhardt is an extraordinary woman. A young artist of my
acquaintance did much work for her at one time. He designed dresses,
and painted the Egyptian, Assyrian, and other trimmings. She was always
most grateful and generous. Money seemed valueless to her; she dived
her hand into a bag of gold, and holding it out bid him take what would
repay him for his trouble. He was a true artist and his gifts appealed
to her.
“More, more,” she often exclaimed. “You have not reimbursed yourself
sufficiently—you have only taken working-pay and allowed nothing for
your talent. It is the talent I wish to pay for.”
And she did.
On one occasion a gorgeous cloak he had designed for her came home; a
most expensive production. She tried it on.
“Hateful, hateful!” she cried. “The bottom is too heavy, bring me the
scissors,” and in a moment she had ripped off all the lower trimmings.
The artist looked aghast, and while he stood—
“Black,” she went on—“it wants black”; and thereupon she pinned a great
black scarf her dresser brought her over the mantle. The effect was
magical. That became one of her most successful garments for many a day.
“Ah!” said the artist afterwards, “she has a great and generous
heart—she adores talent, worships the artistic, and her taste is
unfailing.”
Wonderful effects can be gained on the stage by the aid of the make-up
box—and the wig-maker.
Madame Sarah Bernhardt declares Clarkson, of London, to be the “king
of wig-makers,” and he has made every wig she has worn in her various
parts for many years.
“She is a wonderful woman,” Mr. Clarkson said, “she knows exactly what
she wants, and if she has not time to write and enclose a sketch—which,
by the way, she does admirably—she sends a long telegram from Paris,
and expects the wig to be despatched almost as quickly as if it went
over by a ‘reply-paid process.’”
“But surely you get more time than that usually?”
[Illustration: DRAWING OF COSTUME FOR JULIET, BY PERCY ANDERSON.]
“Oh yes, of course; but twice I have made wigs in a few hours. Once
for Miss Ellen Terry. I think it was the twenty-fifth anniversary of
_The Bells_—at any rate she was to appear in a small first piece for
one night. At three o’clock that afternoon the order came. I set six
people to work on six different pieces, and at seven o’clock took them
down to the theatre and pinned them on Miss Terry’s head. The other wig
I had to make so quickly was for Madame Eleonora Duse. She arrived in
London October, 1903, and somehow the wigs went astray. She wired to
Paris to inquire who made the one in _La Ville Morte_ with which Madame
Bernhardt strangled her victim. When the reply came she sent for me,
and the same night Madame Duse wore the new wig in _La Gioconda_.”
By-the-bye, Madame Duse has a wonderful wig-box. It is a sort of
miniature cupboard made of wood, from which the front lets down.
Inside are six divisions. Each division contains one of those weird
block-heads on which perruques stand when being redressed, and on every
red head rests a wig. These are for her different parts, the blocks
are screwed tight into the box, and the wigs are covered lightly with
chiffon for travelling. When the side of the box falls down those six
heads form a gruesome sight!
Most of the hair used in wig-making comes from abroad, principally from
the mountain valleys of Switzerland, where the peasant-girls wear caps
and sell their hair. A wig costs anything from £2 to £10, and it is
wonderful how little the good ones weigh. They are made on the finest
net, and each hair is sewn on separately.
When Clarkson was a boy of twelve and a half years old he first
accompanied his father, who was a hairdresser, to the opera, and thus
the small youth began his profession. He still works in the house in
which he was born, so he was reared literally in the wig trade, and now
employs a couple of hundred persons. What he does not know can hardly
be worth knowing—and he is quite a character. Not only does he work
for the stage; but detectives often employ him to paint their faces
and disguise them generally, and he has even decorated a camel with
whiskers and grease paint.
The most expensive wig he ever made was for Madame Sarah Bernhardt in
_La Samaritaine_. It had to be very long, and naturally wavy hair, so
that she could throw it over her face when she fell at the Saviour’s
feet. In _L’Aiglon_ Madame Bernhardt wore her own hair for a long time,
and had it cut short for the purpose: but she found it so difficult to
dress off the stage that she ultimately ordered a wig.
If Madame Bernhardt is particular about her wigs and her dresses she
has done much to improve theatrical costumes—she has stamped them with
an individuality and artistic grace.
A well-known musician travelled from a far corner in Europe to ask a
wig-maker to make him a wig. He arrived one day in Wellington Street in
a great state of distress and told his story. He had prided himself on
his beautiful, long, wavy hair, through which he could pass his fingers
in dramatic style, and which he could shake with leonine ferocity over
a passage which called for such sentiments. But alas! there came a day
when the hair began to come out, and the locks threatened to disappear.
He travelled hundreds of miles to London to know if the wig-maker
could copy the top of his head exactly before it was too late. Of
course he could, and consequently those raven curls were matched, and
one by one were sewn into the fine netting to form the toupet. Having
got the semi-wig exactly to cover his head, the great musician sallied
forth and had his head shaved. Then, with a little paste to catch it
down in front and at the sides, the toupet was securely placed upon the
bald cranium. For six months that man had his head shaved daily. The
effect was magical. When he left off shaving a new crop of hair began
to grow with lightning rapidity, and he is now the happy possessor of
as beautiful a head of hair as ever.
Little by little the public has been taught to expect the reproduction
of correct historical pictures upon the stage, and such being the case,
artists have risen to the occasion, men who have given years of their
lives to the study of apparel of particular periods.
Designing stage dress is no easy matter; long and ardent research is
necessary for old costume pieces, and men who have made this their
speciality read and sketch at museums, and sometimes travel to far
corners of the world, to get exactly what they want. As a rule the
British Museum provides reliable material for historical costume.
Think of the hundreds, aye hundreds, of costumes necessary for a heavy
play at the Lyceum or His Majesty’s—think of what peasantry, soldiers,
to say nothing of fairies, require, added to which four or five dresses
for each of the chief performers, not only cost months of labour to
design and execute, but need large sums of money to perfect. As much as
£10,000 has often been spent in the staging of a single play.
This is no meagre sum, and should the play fail the actor-manager who
has risked that large amount (or his syndicate) must bear the loss.
Some wonderful stage pictures have been produced within the last few
years—and not a few of them were the work of Mr. Percy Anderson,
Sir Alma-Tadema, and Mr. Percy Macquoid. It is an interesting fact
that, while the designs for _Ulysses_ cost Mr. Anderson six months’
continual labour, he managed to draw the elaborate costumes for Lewis
Waller’s production of _The Three Musketeers_ in three days, working
eighteen hours out of the twenty-four, because the dresses were wanted
immediately.
Percy Anderson did not start as an artist in his youth, he was not born
in the profession, but as a mature man allowed his particular bent to
lead him to success. He lives in a charming little house bordering
on the Regent’s Park, where he works with his brush all day, and his
pencil far into the night. His studio is a pretty snuggery built on at
the back of the house, which is partly studio, partly room, and partly
greenhouse. Here he does his work and accomplishes those delightfully
sketchy portraits for which he is famous, his innumerable designs for
theatrical apparel.
When I asked Mr. Anderson which costumes were most difficult to draw,
he replied:
“Either those in plays of an almost prehistoric period, when the
materials from which to work are extremely scanty, or those that
introduce quite modern and up-to-date ceremonial.
“As an instance of the former _Ulysses_ proved an exceedingly difficult
piece for which to design the costumes, because the only authentic
information obtainable was from castes and sketches of remains found
during the recent excavations at Knossus, in Crete, that have since
been exhibited at the Winter Exhibition at Burlington House, but which
were at the time reposing in a private room at the British Museum,
where I was able to make some rough sketches and notes by the courtesy
of Mr. Sidney Colvin.”
“How did you manage about colour?”
“My guide as to the colours in use at that remote period of time
was merely a small fragment of early Mycenean mural decoration
from Knossus, in which three colours, namely, yellow, blue, and a
terra-cotta-red, together with black and white, were the only tones
used, and to these three primary colours I accordingly confined myself,
but I made one introduction, a bright apple-green dress which served
to throw the others into finer relief. From these extremely scanty
materials I had to design over two hundred costumes, none of which were
exactly alike.”
The brilliancy of the result all playgoers will remember. The
frontispiece shows one of the designs.
As an instance of a play introducing intricate modern ceremonial for
which every garment worn had some special significance, _The Eternal
City_ may be mentioned. In that Mr. Anderson had the greatest
difficulty in discovering exactly what uniform or vestment would be
worn by the Pope’s _entourage_ on important private occasions, such as
the scene in the Gardens of the Vatican, where His Holiness was carried
in and saluted by the members of his guard before being left to receive
his private audiences.
Mr. Anderson, however, received invaluable assistance in these matters
from Mr. De La Roche Francis, who, besides having relatives in high
official positions in Rome, had himself been attached to the Papal
Court. All orders and decorations worn by the various characters in
_The Eternal City_ were modelled from the originals. Mr. Anderson
usually makes a separate sketch for every costume to be worn by each
character, in order to judge of the whole effect, which picture he
supplements by drawings of the back and side views, reproductions of
hats, head-dresses, hair, and jewellery.
This is thoroughness—but after all thoroughness is the only thing that
really succeeds. From these sketches the articles are cut out and made
after Mr. Anderson has passed the materials as satisfactory submitted
to him. Sometimes nothing proves suitable, and then something has to be
woven to meet his own particular requirements.
Mr. Anderson received orders direct from Beerbohm Tree for _King
John_, _Midsummer Night’s Dream_, _Herod_, _Ulysses_, _Merry Wives of
Windsor_, _Resurrection_, and _The Eternal City_, but in some cases the
orders come from the authors. For instance, Mr. Pinero wrote asking
him to design those delightful Victorian costumes for _Trelawny of the
Wells_. Captain Basil Hood arranged with him about the dresses for
_Merrie England_, and J. M. Barrie for those in _Quality Street_.
Some of the old-style dresses do not allow of much movement, and
therefore it is sometimes necessary to make the garments in such a way
that, while the effect remains, the actor has full play for his limbs.
For instance, much adaptation of this sort was necessary for _Richard
II._ at His Majesty’s. Mr. Anderson was about three months designing
the two hundred and fifty dresses for this marvellous spectacle.
He sought inspiration at the British Museum and Westminster, the
Bluemantle at the Heralds’ College giving him valuable information with
regard to the heraldry. All this shows the pains needed and taken to
produce an accurate and harmonious stage picture.
The designer is given a free hand, he chooses his own materials to
the smallest details—often a guinea a yard is paid for silks and
velvets—and he superintends everything, even the grouping of the
crowds, so as to give most effect to his colouring. “Dress parades,” of
which there are several, are those in which all the chorus and crowds
have to appear, therefore their dresses are usually made first, so
as to admit of ample study of colour before the “principals” receive
theirs. The onlooker hardly recognises the trouble this entails, nor
how well thought out the scheme of colour must be, so that when the
crowd breaks up into groups the dresses shall not clash. The artist
must always work up to one broad effect in order to make a decorative
scene.
It may be interesting to note that there is one particular
colour—French blue—practically the shade of hyacinths, which is
particularly useful for stage effect as it does not lose any of its
tint by artificial light. It can only be dyed in one river at Lyons,
in France, where there is some chemical in the water which exactly
suits and retains the particular shade desired. We are improving in
England, however, and near Haslemere wonderful fabrics and colours are
now produced. There are excellent costumiers in England, some of the
best, in fact, many of whom lay themselves out for work of a particular
period; but all the armour is still made in France. That delightful
singer and charming man, Eugene Oudin, wore a beautiful suit of chain
armour as the Templar in _Ivanhoe_, which cost considerably over £100,
and proved quite light and easy to wear. (During the last five years
armour has become cheaper.) It was a beautiful dress, including a fine
plumed helmet, and as he and my husband were the same size and build he
several times lent it to him for fancy balls. It looked like the old
chain armour in the Tower of London or the Castle of Madrid, and yet
did not weigh as many ounces as they do pounds, so carefully had it
been made to allow ease and movement to the singer.
After all, it is really a moot question whether tremendous elaboration
of scenery is a benefit to dramatic production. At the present time
much attention is drawn from the main interest, and instead of
appreciating the acting or the play, it is the stage carpentering and
gorgeous “mounting” that wins the most applause.
This is all very well to a certain extent, but it is hardly educating
the public to grasp the real value of play or acting if both be swamped
by scenery and silks. Lately we had an opportunity of seeing really
good performances _without_ their being enhanced by scenic effect, such
as _Twelfth Night_, by the Elizabethan Stage Society, and _Everyman_.
These representations were an intellectual treat, such as one seldom
enjoys, and were certainly calculated to raise the standard of purely
theatrical work. Strictness of detail may do much to make the _tout
ensemble_ perfect, but does not the piece lose more than it gains?
Again, the careful rehearsing which is now in fashion tends to make
the performers more or less puppets in the hands of the stage manager
or author, rather than real individual actors. Individuality except in
“stars” is not wanted nor appreciated. Further, _long runs_ are the
ruin of actors. Instead of being kept up to the mark, alert, their
brains active by constantly learning and performing new _rôles_, they
simply become automata, and can almost go through their parts in their
sleep. Surely this is not _acting_.
Every important _rôle_ has an understudy. Generally some one playing a
minor part in the programme is allowed the privilege of understudying
a star. By this arrangement he is at the theatre every night, and if
the star cannot shine, the minor individual goes on to twinkle instead,
his own part being played by some lesser luminary. Many a man or woman
has found an opening and ultimate success in this way, through the
misfortune of another.
At some theatres the understudy is paid for performing, or is given a
present of some sort in recognition of his services, while at others,
even good ones, he gets nothing at all, the honour being considered
sufficient reward.
No one misses a performance if he can possibly help it; there are many
reasons for not doing so; and sometimes actors go through this strain
when physically unfit for work, rather than be out of the bill for a
single night. Theatrical folk go through many vicissitudes in their
endeavour to keep faith with the public.
For instance, one terribly foggy night in 1902 during the run of _Iris_
all London was steeped in blackness. It was truly an awful fog, just
one of those we share with Chicago and Christiania. Miss Fay Davis,
that winsome American actress, was playing the chief part in Pinero’s
play and went down to the theatre every night from her home in Sloane
Square in a brougham she always hired, with an old coachman she knew
well.
She ate her dinner in despair at the fog, her mother fidgeted anxiously
and wondered what was to happen, when the bell rang, long before the
appointed time, and the carriage was announced.
“Oh, we’ll get there somehow, miss,” the old coachman remarked; so,
well wrapped up in furs, the daring lady started for her work. They did
get there after an anxious journey, assisted by policemen and torches,
Miss Davis alighted, saying:
“I daresay it will be all right by eleven, but anyway you must fetch me
on foot if you can’t drive.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” replied her worthy friend, and off he drove.
Miss Davis went to her dressing-room, feeling a perfect heroine for
venturing forth, and when she was half ready there came a knock at the
door.
“No performance to-night, miss.”
“What?”
“Only half the actors have turned up, and there isn’t a single man or
woman in the theatre—pit empty, gallery empty, everything empty—so
they’ve decided not to play _Iris_ to-night. No one can see across the
footlights.”
It was true; so remarkable was that particular fog, several of the
playhouses had to shut-up-shop for the night. How Miss Davis got home
remains a mystery.
A very beautiful actress of my acquaintance rarely has an engagement.
She acts well, she looks magnificent, and has played many star parts
in the provinces, yet she is constantly among the unemployed. “Why,” I
once asked, “do you find it so difficult to get work?”
“Because I’m three inches too tall. No man likes to be dwarfed by a
woman on the stage. In a ball-room the smaller the man the taller the
partner he chooses, and this sometimes applies to matrimony, but on the
stage never.”
“Can you play with low heels?” she is often asked when seeking an
engagement.
“Certainly,” is the reply.
“Would you mind standing beside me?”
“Delighted.”
“Too tall, I’m afraid,” says the man.
“But I can dress my hair low and wear small hats.”
“Too tall all the same, I’m afraid.”
And for this reason she loses one engagement after another. Most of the
actor-managers have their own wives or recognised “leading ladies,” so
that in London, openings for new stars are few and far between, and
when the actress, however great her talent or her charm, makes the
leading actor look small, she is waved aside and some one inferior
takes her place.
On one occasion it was a woman who refused to act with my friend. She
had been engaged for a big part—but when this woman—once the darling of
society, and a glittering star upon the stage—saw her fellow-worker,
she said:
“I can’t act with you, you would make me look insignificant; besides,
you are too good-looking.”