“The first thing was quite minor or appeared so at the time. My fears of the previous night hadn’t gone away but they were diminished in the foggy daylight and I set off for the playhouse in calmer spirits. I’d no sooner arrived at the Globe – another rehearsal, life goes on, the show never stops – than I was pounced on by the tire-man. “Your sleeve, Nicholas, what happened to it?” For answer I held up my arm. “Looks all right to me.” “I mean your Troilus sleeve. The broc...ade one with the gold figures.” Bartholomew Ridd, the tire-man, was a fussy, irritating little individual. Like all those who have charge of costumes for stage plays he behaved as though the real function of the playhouse was to show off his fine gear. Players were merely the frames from which clothes were hung. Now, it was true that a player would have to play for many weeks, even for months in the case of a ‘king’ or a ‘queen’, to earn the cost of the costume he wore.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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