OF THEATRICAL DRESS

The time has long gone by when the dress of his own period would serve the turn of the actor in any character in any play, irrespective of the century in which its story passed. That condition of affairs has no place even in the mental treasure-trove of the oldest playgoer, who saw Edmund Kean, and never lets you forget it.

Although it has not been stated that the most audacious actor ever ventured to play Hamlet in a tall hat, solecisms no less grave have in the long ago been committed and condoned, even applauded. Imagine Othello addressing the "most potent, grave, and reverend signiors" of sixteenth-century Venice in a stiff-skirted coat, breeches and waistcoat of the English fashion of George II.'s day, with a full-bottomed wig, a three-cornered hat, and a black face! Yet that was how Garrick dressed the part, and, notwithstanding, thrilled his audience to enthusiasm; whilst handsome Spranger Barry won even Colley Cibber's applause when he acted the dusky Moor dressed in a full suit of gold-laced scarlet, a small cocked hat, knee breeches, and silk stockings! Then, picture Macbeth, as Garrick played him, in a 1750 suit of black silk, and silk stockings and shoes, with buckles at his knees and feet, and a tie wig, or in the scarlet and gold-laced uniform of a British general of George III.'s reign! And fancy Lady Macbeth in enormous hooped petticoats and huge flounces, as Mrs. Yates dressed her; yet, when she said, "Give me the daggers," and took them in her hands, as an old print shows her doing, no one in the audience recorded a thought that the action was incongruous with the costume, or the costume with the tragedy. What a contrast to the superb green and gold glories of the costume of Miss Ellen Terry's Lady Macbeth, immortalised by Sargent! But there was no attempt in those days to give the audiences anything better. When Benjamin West asked Garrick why he did not initiate reform in stage-costume, his answer was that the public would not allow it. "They would throw a bottle at my head," added the great actor, and he found it easier to elude the bottle—at least, that particular bottle.

I believe it is to John Kemble we are indebted for the first careful study of dressing a part on its merits, even though he did not allow himself too near an approach to accuracy, lest, as he said, the public should call him in disgust "an antiquary." So he did not hesitate, in playing Macbeth, to wear a great bonnet of the 42nd Highlanders—the Black Watch. But when Sir Walter Scott saw this, he was so shocked at the anachronism that he plucked out the big plume and replaced it with a single broad eagle's feather, the time-honoured symbol of the Highland chieftain.

It was, however, to the antiquarian researches of R. J. PlanchÉ, for Charles Kemble's production of King John at Covent Garden in 1823, that our stage owes its first important step in the reform of costume. Macready, who urged the reform still further, carried his sense of the importance of costume to such a point during the rehearsals of Henry V. that he went to bed in his armour, desiring that, not only should the dress become the part, but he should become the dress. I recollect Sir Henry Irving quoting this fact, when telling me that he himself always followed the practice of wearing the clothes for a new part a few days previous to assuming them on the stage.

Sir Henry was, of course, a past master in the art of theatrical costume, and to his genius and taste more than to any other influence we may attribute its present development on the English stage.

Let the old playgoer prate enthusiastically as he will about Charles Kean, and his splendid Shakespearean revivals at the Princess's Theatre, dramatic art has never been more picturesquely, richly, and appropriately clothed than it was at the Lyceum Theatre in the great days of Henry Irving. Even to talk to him of his productions was a liberal education in all arts appertaining to the theatre. That the great actor took infinite personal trouble with every detail, and would, in his own costume, direct the cut of the drapery, the shape of the shirt collar, and the exact position of the sash, or the fold of the turban, all who were privileged to associate with him at work are fully aware. I recall many conversations with him on the subject of stage costume, and invariably he would bring out some point of its psychological bearing. As to variation in the interpretation of a character under the influence of a different dress, for instance, I remember his saying—"When you have the good fortune to act with an actress like Miss Terry, the artist dominates the woman under any conditions of costume, and the least suggestion is easily grasped and appreciated. In all times, modes and manners must influence each other, and different gestures inevitably accompany different costumes. You would not, for instance, see a lady when wearing Grecian draperies disport herself in the same fashion as one bearing the stiff stomacher and monstrous farthingale of the Elizabethan period."

Again, we were discussing the question of colour in relation to certain emotions, moods, and traits of character. "Who would think of playing a murderer in sky-blue satin and silver?" Sir Henry said. And not pausing for my reply: "Of course one expects a woman to go mad in white. Can you picture Hamlet in colours? Surely he demands black clothes, indeed the text says as much,—although the colour for the expression of mourning in Denmark at that period was, I believe, red."

But, after all, the first thing is, or should be, to fit the personality to the character, and then the question of dress is comparatively easy. John Ryder, by the way, used to explain his protracted engagement with Charles Kean as being solely due to what he was wont to call his "archÆological" figure.

It has been questioned whether the public cares, or knows, much about the details of stage dress, upon which so much time and thought are bestowed; but then it is recognised that amongst the neglected arts is the art of costume, and pending the establishment of the Royal Academy of Dress, over which, of course, Mr. Percy Anderson should preside, visits to the theatre may offer to the student considerable instruction. In other days the scholar resented any incongruities of stage-costume. The satire of Pope pictures them vividly in the early eighteenth century:

Imagine an ancient Roman in a periwig and flowered gown after the Queen Anne fashion! No wonder Addison, as he sat in a side box with two or three friends to watch his tragedy on the first night, needed flasks of Burgundy and champagne to support his spirits, for had he not pleaded in a number of the Spectator for the poet against the costumier? "The ordinary method of making a hero is to clap a huge plume of feathers on his head, which rises 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.... As these superfluous ornaments make a great man, a princess gradually receives her grandeur from those additional encumbrances which fall into her tail. I mean the broad sweeping train which follows her in all her motions, and forms constant employment for a boy who stands behind her to open and spread 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 passions in a disordered motion, and a little boy all the while taking care 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 lest 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 short, I would have our conception raised by the dignity of thought and sublimity of expression, rather than by a train of robes or plume of feathers."

But here was no plea for correctness of costume, which might have obviated the distractions complained of. Nowadays we have altered all that, and indeed we had one modern play, Frocks and Frills, frankly devoted to dress as the pivot of its plot. Yet its author, Mr. Grundy, never gives any very special instructions in the matter of costume, his stage directions being very simple, merely stating whether a woman should be handsomely or poorly dressed. He declares, however, that directly he sees the players ready and "made up," he can realise whether or not his work is going to be successful, feeling that if they have realised the personalities, and look like the men and women he has conceived, they will represent the characters convincingly. He audaciously advances the dogma, that every woman is at heart a fashion-plate, and I wish I could set him down for serious conversion by Mrs. Tree, one amongst the few whose taste in dress on the stage is quite irreproachable, who never makes a mistake in fitting her clothes to her part.

Mrs. Tree vows that if you gave her a dozen yards of white crÊpe de chine, she would make a costume in which she could appear as Ophelia, Lady Macbeth, Constance, and Juliet, and would undertake in the disposal of her draperies to satisfy the demands of the most exacting critic. But on the subject of fashion Mrs. Tree is a heretic, refusing to treat it seriously, and indulging in the theory that "everything is people, nothing is gowns." The philosophy of clothes as expounded by Mrs. Tree, if rendered popular, would not bring much grist to the mill of the modiste; but then "In this life nothing comes off—except buttons" is her favourite pessimism.

I have heard a famous dramatist declare that when he wants to mark a situation strongly upon the minds of the audience, he never allows the heroine to make entry in a new frock. He also contended that, in choosing her own gown, the actress should choose it in relation to those to be worn by other players appearing in the same scene, regarding herself, not primarily as an individual but as one in a group. She should also take care that her dress is suited not only to her surroundings but to her "business," so that no drapery impede her movements, no tightness be a bar to graceful gesture.

No less an authority than Mr. Pinero, when discussing the influence that dress may exercise on the art of acting, has declared that our plays are for the most part over-dressed, with extravagance, vulgarity, and inappropriateness obtaining in place of artistic fitness. It is well known that Pinero takes a personal interest in every detail pertaining to his productions, and such condemnation from him is condemnation indeed. Especially when he caps it by saying that he has found that the new costumes have to some extent frequently undone the results of his undress rehearsals, the actresses no longer representing his creations as they did before the dressmakers sent home their gowns, while the variety of their impersonations is swamped by the uniformity of their fashions.

Even while grumbling, Pinero admits that stage costume has made wonderful progress since the time when Robertson's appropriately-dressed plays doomed the theatrical stock wardrobe, and Alfred Thompson initiated reforms making for artistic harmony; nevertheless, Pinero protests that it is time for the dramatist, in the interests of dramatic art, to say to the costumiers and the purveyors of fashion, "Thus far shall ye go, and no farther."

Sir James Linton took up this cry, while declaring that the bane of the dressmaker was over all feminine stage costume, and would be, until there arose an autocratic manager. Sir James is severe, and would accept no compromise, insisting that dress in historical plays should be absolutely accurate, quite regardless of the becoming, and asserting that an element of incongruity is always present on the stage, introduced by the mere vanity of the mere woman.

In how far the art of costume may affect the art of drama I have my pet theories, which include a predilection in favour of red of all shades for historical dress; an appreciation of the charm of decoration in black and gold; a recognition of the immense value of black in small quantities wisely disposed, and much sympathy with trimmings of black and white on light dress of modern fashion. Combinations of colour which in ordinary circumstances would appear at least daring, and, at the most, unpleasant, have a knack of being effective when worn on the stage. The deep crimson lining to the scarlet cloak may be quoted as an example of this, together with the alliance of emerald green with turquoise blue, and orange colour with lemon. On fairies and other angels of the ballet the repetition of the same costume is of great value, the multiplied mass enchaining the eye, where smaller groups of diverse details fail to hold it.

In moments of passionate emotion it is well that the actor or actress should discard a hat. Irving rarely wore one at all, invariably taking the first opportunity to remove his, bearing it with his special grace under his arm or in his hand, as opportunity permitted.

In the management of classic drapery considerable skill and much practice are demanded, and many an actor of contemporary methods finds himself lost and awkward without the consoling comfort of his trouser pocket for his restless fingers, or the convenient coat-tail to be jerked, in fits of irritation. Undoubtedly, it is wise for the player to accustom himself to unconventional clothes for some days before assuming them on the stage: it is only thus that he can hope to avoid self-consciousness and to escape inelegance of movement and gesture. Women, although more easily adapted to new clothes, and less embarrassed under their influence, because more accustomed to such privileges, yet suffer restraint in different attire, and would yet do well to consider the advisability of rehearsing in their frocks on more than one occasion before they permit these to accompany them in their histrionic duties.

The stage has oftentimes had the privilege of introducing new fashions, and the most apathetic patron of the playhouse may be lured to the auditorium by the report of something new in petticoats, an ideal coiffure, or the latest modish mandate obeyed to the letter in a belt. Miss Violet Vanbrugh may have the credit of bringing to notice the elegant charms of the corselet, and the trim fascinations of the stock collar, worn with the right sort of cravat. To Miss Mary Moore I attribute a revived popularity of the broad black Alsatian bow; she wore this in velvet in her clever impersonation in Mrs. Gorringe's Necklace, and all the world of women flocked to see and to copy; while her little short-waisted white muslin frock, with broad ribbons and puffed sleeves, in Rosemary made that heroine an inevitable figure at fancy-dress balls for months after the production of this dainty little play. Miss Letty Lind, Miss Kate Vaughan, and Miss Jessie Milward—I take my examples at random—may all be counted pioneers. To Kate Vaughan we owe the lace-frilled petticoat, beneath the influence of which she daintily danced her way into public favour. Miss Letty Lind first wore the accordion-pleated dancing skirt, and Miss Jessie Milward popularised the lawn-embroidered collars and cuffs. I forget which Adelphi melodrama she graced with these trifles, but I am safe in asserting that she was the heroine of the drama, and was made happy by wedding bells as the curtain fell.

It is easy for me to let my pictures in this chapter give me my cues for dilating on specially splendid productions which it has been my privilege to enjoy, for Mr. Anderson has been responsible for the majority of these, and his pencil has illuminated the various centuries with experience, infinite care, and a skill of which I have promised him faithfully not to speak.

An exception, however, was Coriolanus at the Lyceum, a play lending itself pre-eminently to dignified interpretation, and it is needless to say that Sir Henry Irving saw that it got this. Perhaps the great actor never looked more imposing than in the military robes of dull red and leopard skins, with a cuirass of richly-wrought gold, though, to be sure, he always wore his ecclesiastical garb with the grand air, and as Wolsey, Richelieu, and Becket he embodied the venerable magnificence of established holiness.

Miss Ellen Terry, as Volumnia, also personified dignity, whether in a loose garb of purple silk, with a mantle of yellow and brown falling from a diadem-shaped head-dress set with turquoise, or when, after her successful pleading with her son, she threw aside her garb of woeful black, and was radiant in a draped tunic embroidered in pink and gold, with gold ornaments round her arms and turquoise chains upon her neck.

The picture of Rome under Nero, Mr. Tree personally invested with a purposeful effeminacy, and his tunics and garlands of flowers accentuated the poet in the man. Mrs. Tree showed Agrippina at her best beneath the influence of many-coloured veils, violet and red being the dominant notes; and two gracious pictures rise before my eyes as I write, of Miss Constance Collier as PoppÆa in white, with a thick wreath of scarlet poppies around her dusky head, and of Miss Dorothea Baird in peach colour, with lilacs entwined in her fair hair.

Amongst other notable figures which dwell in my memory is Miss Lily Hanbury as Chorus in Henry V., produced by Lewis Waller, whose mien in armour, bearing a fine cloak lined with Venetian red, breathed the essential spirit of martial force. Miss Hanbury looked wonderful in draperies of brilliant red over white, standing on a pedestal against a black background. And the secret of the admirable conduct of her folds was that the white under-dress of crÊpe de chine was wrung when wet, and round this were wound seventeen yards of blood-red crÊpe. With this splendid triumph of personality Miss Hanbury may class her appearance as Lady Blessington in Mr. Tree's production, The Last of the Dandies, when she appeared in a pale-blue satin gown, very full round the waist, with a white chiffon double-frilled fichu over her shoulders, and a bonnet bearing a lace veil pendent over the back, and clusters of pink roses resting beneath the brim in front. The Last of the Dandies was, as it should have been, quite a succÈs de costume, and it may be written down under this aspect to the credit of Percy Anderson.

This reminds me of the illustrations which adorn this chapter. Firstly, of George Alexander in Guy Domville, that subtly clever play by Henry James, which came before its time and died of its premature birth. Sombre black is the dress chosen by this English Protestant gentleman about to take holy orders in the latter part of the eighteenth century.

In Ulysses the costumes were in form and colour essentially primitive, archaic indeed, and no less a compliment has been bestowed on Mr. Anderson's work in this direction than the proposition that the designs should be acquired by the British Museum. The sketch of Julian l'Estrange as Hermes may be taken as typical; gold and black and red expressed it, and there were red wings to the cap and sandals to the feet.

As Malvolio Mr. Tree excelled all his predecessors. Even the old playgoer yielded his admiration to the fantastic charms of this egotist, who displayed just the right touch of absurdity in every gesture, in every inflection of his voice, and in every detail of his clothes, who was so elegant with his elongated stick, and his blade-green and yellow slashed dress with its monster ruff and foppish frills.

Miss Constance Collier as Viola wore a dress of grey embroidered with silver, the cap of scarlet tossing a blue tassel, while her pouch of crimson velvet embroidered with gold had peculiar slits or pockets for weapons, and her sleeves hung wing-like in exact copy of the Albanian costume, a happy idea, since the Illyria of Shakespeare is the Albania of to-day.

Desdemona, as played by Miss Gertrude Elliot in Forbes Robertson's production of Othello at the Lyceum Theatre, was a sweet and dainty creature indeed, wearing the palest of colours, white, pale blue and silver, and gold, with a trellis of pearls on her fair head, and ribbons and pearls entwined in her flowing locks.

VÉronique, the first of a new series of comic operas with a plot, was remarkable altogether for its exquisite frocks. No prettier harmony could have been imagined than the chrysoprase-green and white of the first act, unless it be the many gradations of pink, cerise, and red which graced the last act in company with a little band of maidens clad in pale-lemon colour. The picture of VÉronique shows her with the close lace cap threaded with little green ribbons, and with short soft glacÉ sacque trimmed with ribbons, and this she wore in the famous swing scene, where the daintiest of little early Victorian brides danced in white muslin and a poke bonnet under the shade of pink and white chestnut trees.

The Othello of my picture is wearing a dress of thick woollen fabric in deep cream tone; his head is bound with a white turban, in which greenly glistens a huge emerald, emeralds being embroidered on the sleeves interspersed with a design of red silk; and there are jewels of all colours encrusted in his sword-belt, and his sash is of red cashmere fringed with red and green.

It is invidious to make comparisons—I have heard this for many years, and known it even longer—yet I would boldly declare that there are but few ladies upon the stage who understand the important fact that, by the dressing of the hair and the decoration of the head, they may make or mar the most gorgeous or most simple garment. Miss Ellen Terry and Mrs. Tree share a talent for historical head-dressing, whilst of the younger generation Miss Dorothea Baird and Miss Lily Brayton most justly deserve the palm of excellence for the way they express their sense of period in the arrangement of their tresses, and will dismiss all hankerings after the merely becoming in the higher interests of the entirely appropriate.

The most interesting actresses of to-day make a cult of costume, and are ever ready with views, theories, and even predilections. Miss Irene Vanbrugh, for example, who, with her sister, Miss Violet Vanbrugh, would seem to interpret all that is fashionable on the stage, and to speak materially the last word of modern style, quite unlike Miss Baird, who pleads for the lines of nature and would kill fashion, frankly declares her favourite stage costume was the kimono in which she played that exciting scene in The Gay Lord Quex. Her experience of the crinoline period in Trelawny of the Wells, with the frilled skirts, pork-pie hats, and the hair-nets, led Miss Vanbrugh to be thankful that in real life she had escaped fashions "so detestably uncomfortable."

Another typically elegant actress is Miss Ellis Jeffries, and her personal taste inclines towards the plainest and simplest costumes, as she told me, while adding, "Of course you won't believe me, but it's true. I choose my frocks to suit my circumstances on the stage, and also to some extent the emotions I have to express; and I insisted, in spite of criticism, that, when I had to play the part of an hysterical woman, I should robe her in scarlet. I felt I couldn't be hysterical in white muslin; could you?"

Miss Marie Tempest, exploiting to perfection the sartorial possibilities of Peg Woffington, made her first appearance in that play in a dress of daffodil yellow with pointed bodice outlined with sable, the skirt trimmed with sable, and a lace cap fitting closely to her powdered head. She was amazingly hooped and paniered, and looked her most gorgeous in the second act, in a dress of white satin flounced with silver lace, profusely ornamented with ruches and rosettes of pink chiffon. A scarf of silver tissue was draped across the front of the skirt, a knot of black velvet decked the low bodice, and a fascinating little black feather nodded on one side of the head.

Again, as Becky Sharp, Miss Marie Tempest showed her nice sense of the fitness of things, gracing the historic ball on the eve of Waterloo in pink chiffon with clusters of roses, and choosing a Court gown of Empire tendency, made with a white satin train lined with cloth of gold, and embroidered in a leaf design of gold, which also appeared across the bust and on the hem of the chiffon under-skirt.

Yet Miss Tempest avowedly does not believe that the actress should subordinate her personality in any way to a general scheme. Discussing the question, she said: "I think that designers of theatrical costume as a rule are altogether oblivious of the special requirements of individual faces and figures. To the designer, it seems to me, the actress is merely a note of colour in his general scheme. Only that, and nothing more! I would urge that exactly the same kind of costume cannot possibly be becoming alike to tall, majestic women and a little insignificant nez retroussÉ person like me! I cannot afford to have two or three lines going across my figure and cutting me up into slices; nor can I have my neck muffled and ruffled up to the eyes, and my shoulders loaded with heavy cloaks, without feeling perfectly swamped and overwhelmed—and looking it, which is worse! I always think," she concluded, "that a woman ought to have a large share in the designing and arranging of stage-dresses, for she can understand what is becoming far better than a man. Small matters of detail are carried out better by women than by men. And women, of course, have more patience and more perseverance."

But theatrical costume is a subject for a whole volume, not for a chapter merely, and I can touch but the fringe of it. I have felt tempted to dwell upon the past, and endeavour to trace the evolution of the idea of accurate costume on the stage from the day, perhaps, when the celebrated Mrs. Mattocks of Covent Garden copied the attire of Rubens's second wife in Vandyck's picture, so as to appear appropriately as the niece of the Governor of Bruges, in The Royal Merchant, a play adapted from Beaumont and Fletcher. But, lacking the pen of the historian and the science of the psychologist, I have chosen the easier and more humble role of the gossip. Yet, perhaps, the elusive chatter of the actress's dressing-room may not be without its suggestive value, more vivid, possibly, than the utterings of the student, for its memories have the fragrance of yesterday. Before me as I write, secure under glass, together with its authentic pedigree, is the lace collar that Edmund Kean used to wear when he played Hamlet; yet it stirs no thrill in me because of Kean, as old Sir William Gower, in Pinero's Trelawny of the Wells, was moved at sight of the chain Kean wore as Richard, because in his youth he had seen the great actor. But the mere thought of the soft lawn collar and cuffs that H. B. Irving wore with his "inky cloak," gold-bordered and crimson-lined, and his famous father's silver-clasped belt, brings the latest and not the least accomplished of Hamlets vividly to my mind's eye. Each tone, gesture, action, falls naturally into a harmony of memory, because the costume was as appropriate as it was picturesquely charming—in fact, it was right, which proves the truth of Sir Henry Irving's doctrine, "You can take it that the right thing on the stage is at once the most effective and the most becoming." A wise doctrine, which may be applied with irrefutable truth to the art of costume on and off the boards—a doctrine which may obtain as guidance through the land of dress in all the centuries, under all circumstances, past and to come.

THE END

Printed by R. & R. Clark, Limited, Edinburgh.