Chapter XIII The Bane of the Young Actress’s Life
What is the bane of a young actress’s life?
Under the protection of pretty seals stamped in various tints of wax, I find one question appearing in many slightly different forms. A large number of writers ask, “What is the greatest difficulty a young actress has to surmount?” In another pile of notes the question appears in this guise, “What is the principal obstacle in the way of the young actress?” While two motherly bodies ask, “What one thing worries an actress the most?” After due thought I have cast them all together, boiled them down, and reduced them to this, “What is the bane of a young actress’s life?” which question I can answer without going into training, with one hand tied behind me, and both eyes bandaged, answer in one word—dress. Ever since that far-away season when Eve, the beautiful, inquiring, let-me-see-for-myself Eve, made fig leaves popular in Eden, and invented the apron to fill a newly felt want, dress has been at once the comfort and the torment of woman.
Acting is a matter of pretence, and she who can best pretend a splendid passion, a tender love, or a murderous hate, is admittedly the finest actress. Time was when stage wardrobe was a pretence, too. An actress was expected to please the eye, she was expected to be historically correct as to the shape and style of her costume; but no one expected her queenly robes to be of silk velvet, her imperial ermine to be anything rarer than rabbit-skin. My own earliest ermine was humbler still, being constructed of the very democratic white canton flannel turned wrong side out, while the ermine’s characteristic little black tails were formed by short bits of round shoe-lacing. The only advantage I can honestly claim for this domestic ermine is its freedom from the moths, who dearly love imported garments of soft fine cloth and rare lining. I have had and have seen others have, in the old days, really gorgeous brocades made by cutting out great bunches of flowers from chintz and applying them to a cheaper background, and then picking out the high lights with embroidery silk, the effect being not only beautiful, but rich. All these make-believes were necessary then, on a $30 or $35 a week salary, for a leading lady drew no more.
But times are changed, stage lighting is better, stronger. The opera glass is almost universally used, deceptions would be more easily discovered; and more, oh, so much more is expected from the actress of to-day. Formerly she was required, first of all, to sink her own individuality in that of the woman she pretended to be; and next, if it was a dramatized novel she was acting in, she was to make herself look as nearly like the described heroine as possible; otherwise she had simply to make herself as pretty as she knew how in her own way, that was all. But now the actresses of a great city are supposed to set the fashion for the coming season. They almost literally dress in the style of to-morrow: thus the cult of clothes becomes harmful to the actress. Precious time that should be given to the minute study, the final polishing of a difficult character, is used instead in deciding the pitch of a skirt, the width of a collar, or open sleeve-strap, or no sleeve at all.
Some ladies of my acquaintance who had been to the theatre three times, avowedly to study as models the costumes, when questioned as to the play, looked at one another and then answered vaguely: “The performance? Oh, nothing remarkable! It was fair enough; but the dresses! They are really beyond anything in town, and must have cost a mint of money!”
So we have got around to the opposite of the old-time aim, when the answer might possibly have been: “The acting was beyond anything in town. The dresses? Nothing remarkable! Oh, well, fair enough!”
I have often been told by famous women of the past that the beautiful Mrs. Russell, then of Wallack’s Theatre, was the originator in this country of richly elegant realism in stage costuming. When it was known that the mere linings of her gowns cost more than the outside of other dresses; that all her velvet was silk velvet; all her lace to the last inch was real lace; that no wired nor spliced feathers curled about her splendid leghorns, only magnificent single plumes, each worth weeks of salary, this handsome woman, superbly clad, created a sensation, but alas! at the same time, she unconsciously scattered seed behind her that sprang up into a fine crop of dragon’s teeth for following young actresses to gather. Qui donne le menu, donne la faim! And right here let me say, I am not of those who believe the past holds a monopoly of all good things. I have much satisfaction in the present, and a strong and an abiding faith in the future, and even in this matter of dress, which has become such an anxiety to the young actress, I would not ask to go back to those days of primitive costuming. In Shakespere’s day there appeared over a “drop,” or curtain of green, a legend plainly stating, “This is a street in Verona,” and every man with an imagination straightway saw the Veronese street to his complete satisfaction; but there were those who had no imagination, and to hold their attention and to keep their patronage, scenes had to be painted for them. One would not like to see a woman draped in plain grey with an attached placard saying, “This is a ball gown” or “This is a Coronation robe,” the imagination would balk at it. But there is a far cry between that and the real Coronation robe of velvet, fur, and jewels. What I would ask for is moderation, and above all freedom for the actress from the burden of senseless extravagance which is being bound upon her shoulders—not by the public, not even by the manager, but by the mischievous small hands of sister actresses, who have private means outside of their salaries. How generous they would be if they could be content to dress with grace and elegance while omitting the mad extravagance that those who are dependent upon their salaries alone will surely try to emulate, and sometimes at what a price, dear Heaven, at what a price!
Let us say an actress plays the part of a woman of fashion—of rank. As she makes her first appearance, she is supposed to have returned from the opera. Therefore, though she may wear them but one moment, hood and opera cloak are needed because they will help out the illusion. Suppose, then, she wears a long cloak of velvet or cloth, with a lining of delicate tinted quilted satin or fur; if the impression of warmth or elegance and comfort is given, its work has been well done. But suppose the actress enters in an opera cloak of such gorgeous material that the elaborate embroidery on it seems an impertinence—a creation lined with the frailest, most expensive fur known to commerce, frothing with real lace, dripping with semi-precious jewels—what happens? The cloak pushes forward and takes precedence of the wearer, a buzz arises, heads bob this way and that, opera-glasses are turned upon the wonderful cloak whose magnificence has destroyed the illusion of the play; and while its beauty and probable price are whispered over, the scene is lost, and ten to one the actress is oftener thought of as Miss So-and-So, owner of that wonderful cloak, than as Madame Such-an-One, heroine of the drama.
Extravagance is inartistic—so for that reason I could wish for moderation in stage dressing. Heavens, what a nightmare dress used to be to me! For months I would be paying so much a week to my dressmaker for the gowns of a play. I thought my heart would break to pieces, when, during the long run of “Divorce,” just as I had finished paying for five dresses, Mr. Daly announced that we were all to appear in new costumes for the one hundredth night. I pleaded, argued, too, excitedly, that my gowns were without a spot or stain; that they had been made by the dressmaker he had himself selected, and he had approved of them, etc., and he made answer, “Yes, yes, I know all that; but I want to stir up fresh interest, therefore we must have something to draw the people, and they will come to see the new dresses.”
And then, in helpless wrath, I burst out with: “Oh, of course! If we are acting simply as dress and cloak models in the Fifth Avenue show room, I can’t object any longer. You see, I was under the impression people came here to see us act your play, not to study our clothes; forgive me my error.”
For which I distinctly deserved a forfeit; but we were far past our unfriendly days, and I received nothing worse than a stern, “I am surprised at you, Miss Morris,” and at my rueful response, “Yes, so am I surprised at Miss Morris,” he laughed outright and pushed me toward the open door, bidding me hurry over to the dressmaker’s. I had a partial revenge, however, for one of the plates he insisted on having copied for me turned out so hideously unbecoming that the dress was retired after one night’s wear, and he made himself responsible for the bill.
Sometimes a girl loses her chance at a small part that it is known she could do nicely, because some other girl can outdress her—that is very bitter. Then, again, so many plays now are of the present day, and when the terribly expensive garment is procured it cannot be worn for more than that one play, and next season it is out of date. When the simplest fashionable gown costs $125, what must a ball gown with cloak, gloves, fan, slippers and all, come to? There was a time when the comic artists joked about “the $10 best hat for wives.” The shop that carried $10 best hats to-day would be mobbed; $20 and $30 are quite ordinary prices now.
So the young actress—unless she has some little means, aside from a salary, a father and mother to visit through the idle months and so eke that salary out—is bound to be tormented by the question of clothes; for she is human, and wants to look as well as those about her, and besides she knows the stage manager is not likely to seek out the poorest dresser for advancement when an opening occurs.
Recently some actresses whose acknowledged ability as artists should, I think, have lifted them above such display, allowed their very charming pictures to appear in a public print, with these headings, “Miss B. in her $500 dinner dress”; “Miss R. in her $1000 cloak”; “Miss J. in her $200 tea gown,” and then later there appeared elsewhere, “Miss M.’s $100 parasol.”
Now had these pictures been given to illustrate the surpassing grace or beauty or novelty of the gowns, the act might have appeared a gracious one, a sort of friendly “tip” on the newest things out; but those flaunting price tags lowered it all. In this period of prosperity a spirit of mad extravagance is abroad in the land. Luxuries have become necessities, fine feeling is blunted, consideration for others is forgotten. Those who published the figures and prices of their clothes were good women, as well as brilliant artists, who would be deeply pained if any act of theirs should fill some sister’s heart with bitter envy and fatal emulation, being driven on to competition by the mistaken belief that the fine dresses had made the success of their owners. Oh, for a little moderation, a little consideration for the under girl, in the struggle for clothes!
In old times of costume plays the manager furnished most of the wardrobe for the men (oh, lucky men!), who provided but their own tights and shoes; and judging from the extreme beauty and richness of the costumes of the New York plays of to-day, and the fact that a lady of exquisite taste designs wholesale, as one might say, all the dresses for production after production, it would seem that the management must share the heavy expenses of such costuming, or else salaries are very much higher than they were a few years ago.
In France the stage, no doubt, partly fills the place of the departed court in presenting new fashions to the public eye, doing it with the graceful aplomb that has carried many a doubtful innovation on to sure success. Those beautiful and trained artists take pleasure in first presenting the style other women are to follow, and yet they share the honour (?) with another class, whose most audacious follies in dress, while studied from the corner of a downcast eye, are nevertheless often slavishly followed.
How many of the thousands of women, who years ago wore the large, flaring back, felt hat, knew they were following the whim of a woman known to the half-world as Cora Pearl? Not pretty, but of a very beautiful figure, and English by birth, she was, one might say, of course, a good horse-woman. She banqueted late one night—so late that dawn was greying the windows and the sodden faces of her guests when they began to take leave. She had indulged in too much wine for comfort; her head was hot. She was seized with one of the wild whims of her lawless class—she would mount then and there and ride in the Bois. Remonstrances chilled her whim to iron will. Horses were sent for, her maid aroused. She flung on her habit, and held her hand out for her chapeau. There was none.
“Mademoiselle should recall the new riding hat had been too small, had been returned for blocking.”
“Tres bien, le vieux donc, vite!”
“Oh, mon Dieu, il fut donné.” A quick blow stopped further explanation.
“Quelle que cruche, que cette fille,” then a moment’s silence, a roving about of the small hot eyes, and with a bound she tore from an American artist’s hand his big soft felt hat. Turning the flapping brim up, she fastened it to the crown in three places with jewelled pins, tore a bunch of velvet from her dinner corsage, secured it directly in front, and clapping the hat on the back of her head, dashed downstairs and was in the saddle with a scrabble and a bound, and away like mad, followed by two men, who were her unwilling companions. Riding longer than she had intended, she returned in broad daylight. All Paris was agog over her odd head gear. Her impudent, laughing face caught their fancy yet again, and she trotted down from the Arc de Triomphe between two rippling little streams of comment and admiration, with, “Comme elle est belle!” “Quelle aplomb!” “Matin, quelle chic!” “Elle est forte gentille!” “C’est le coup de grace!” “Le chapeau! le chapeau!” “La belle Pearl! la belle Pearl!” reaching her distinctly at every other moment.
And that was the origin of the back-turned, broad-brimmed hat that had such vogue before the arrival of the Gainsborough or picture hat.
If I were a young actress, I would rather be noted for acting than for originating a new style of garment; but it is a free country, thank God, and a big one, with room for all of us, whatever our preferences. And though the young actress has the clothes question heavy on her mind now, and finds it hard to keep up with others and at the same time out of debt, she has the right to hope that by and by she will be so good an actress, and so valuable to the theatre, that a fat salary will make the clothes matter play second fiddle, as is right and proper it should, to the question of fine acting.