The accentuation, with smaller shadows, of the mouth and eyes is the next work. Wrinkles are added, care being taken that they are placed at places that nature would select. This may be discovered by actually wrinkling the face and observing where the lines fall. High lights are then applied.
If a beard or moustache is to be worn, carefully remove the paint with a clean towel from the part that will be covered by the false hair and apply a little spirit gum to the clean skin. Adjust the beard and hold it until it adheres thoroughly. Always blend the beard with the cheeks with loosely-combed crepe hair as this will help the naturalness of the appearance. Powder the face. The eyelashes are darkened by drawing a thin line along the edges of the lids. This I do with an orange stick dipped in melted paint. The eyebrows are then drawn in. The make-up is finished by colouring the lips.
I occasionally walk back from the mirror that I may get an impression such as a distant spectator might receive.
The hands and arms are made up if the character demands it.
The dressing is completed and I step in front of a full-length mirror for a final inspection prior to going upon the stage.
What the precise impression is that I make upon my audience I cannot say, I only know that in many character parts I have been unable to recognise myself.
The time that it takes to make-up must of course vary with the complexity of the characterisation. At dress-rehearsals when I make-up for character for the first time I allow myself one hour and a half, but this when I get more experienced with the part is sometimes reduced to half an hour. The hurry that this necessitates is nerve-racking both for actor and dresser and becomes a race with the call-boy. "Half an hour please," he shouts, his voice echoing up the stairs. Then you begin to work furiously. When what seems only a few minutes gone by, his second warning, "A quarter of an hour, please," is heard. Then you increase your speed. When the boy calls "Overture," if you are not almost dressed you tell your dresser with more decision than taste that you know that you will be off. "First-act beginners" means a bad-tempered rush for the stage, and the struggle with final buttons on your way. Once upon the stage you almost invariably find that you have a few minutes in which to regain your breath. Then, warmed by the glare of the footlights, you forget that you have ever hurried in your life. In fact, if you are a good actor you forget everything but the part you play.