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.
GEORGE ALEXANDER AS GUY DOMVILLE.