THE "SUPER."
The theatrical supernumerary--or the "super," as he is familiarly
called--is a man who in his time certainly plays many parts, and yet
obtains applause in none. His exits and his entrances, his _début_ and
his disappearance, alike escape criticism and record. His name is not
printed in the playbills, and is for ever unknown to his audience.
Even the persons he is supposed to represent upon the stage always
remain anonymous. Both as a living and fictitious creature he is
denied individuality, and has to be considered collectively, massed
with others, and inseparable from his companion figures. He is not so
much an actor, as part of the decorations, the animated furniture, so
to say, of the stage. Nevertheless, "supers" have their importance and
value. For how could the drama exist without its background groups:
its soldiers, citizens, peasants, courtiers, nobles, guests, and
attendants of all kinds? These give prominence, support, and effect to
the leading characters of the theatre; and these are the "supers."
Upon the French stage the minor assistants of the scene are
comprehensively described as _les choristes_. In this way the pedigree
of the "super" gains something of nobility, and may, perhaps, be
traced back to the chorus of the antique drama, a body charged with
most momentous duties, with symbolic mysteries of dance and song,
removed from the perils and catastrophes of the play, yet required in
regard to these to guide and interpret the sympathies of the
spectators. In its modern application, however, this generic term has
its subdivisions, and includes _les choristes_ proper, who boast
musical attainments, and are obedient to the rule of a _chef
d'attaque_, or head chorister; _les accessoires_, performers permitted
speech of a brief kind, who can be entrusted upon occasion with such
simple functions as opening a door, placing a chair, or delivering a
letter, and who correspond in many respects with our actors of
utility; _les figurants_, the subordinate dancers led by a _coryphée_;
and lastly, _les comparses_, who closely resemble our supernumeraries,
and are engaged in more or less numbers, according to the exigencies
of there presentation. Of these aids to performance _les comparses_
only enjoy no regular salaries, are not formally enrolled among the
permanent members of the establishment, but are paid simply for
appearing--seventy-five centimes for the night, and fifty centimes for
each rehearsal--or upon some such modest scale of remuneration. This
classification would appear to afford opportunities to ambition. Here
are steps in the ladder, and merit should be able to ascend. It is
understood, however, that as a rule _les comparses_ do not rise. They
are the serfs of the stage, who never obtain manumission. They are as
conscripts, from whose knapsacks the field-marshal's _bâton_ is almost
invariably omitted. They become veterans, but their length of service
receives no favourable recognition. _Comparses_ they live, and
_comparses_ they die, or disappear, not apparently discontented with
their doom, however. Meantime the _figurant_ cherishes sanguine hopes
that he may one day rise to a prominent position in the ballet, or
that he may become an _accessoire_; and the _accessoire_ looks forward
fervently to ranking in the future among the regular actors or
_artistes_ of the theatre, with the right of entering its _grand
foyer_, or superior green-room. Until then he must confine himself and
his aspirations to the _petit foyer_ set apart for the use of players
of his class.
Thus it is told of a certain _accessoire_ of the Porte St. Martin, in
years past, who had won a scarcely appreciable measure of fame for his
adroitness in handing letters or coffee-cups upon a salver, and even
for the propriety with which he announced, in the part of a footman,
the guests and visitors of a drama--such as "Monsieur le Vicomte de
St. Rémy!" or "Madame la Marquise de Roncourt!"--that he applied to
his manager for an increase of his salary on account of the special
value of his services. "I do not expect," he frankly said,
"immediately to receive 25,000 francs, as Monsieur Frédéric Lemaitre
does; no, not yet; although I bear in mind that Monsieur Lemaitre
began his career with fighting broadsword combats in Madame Saqui's
circus; but my present salary is but 600 francs a-year, and a slight
increase--"
"Monsieur Fombonne," interrupted the manager, "I acknowledge the
justice of your application. I admire and esteem you. You are one of
the most useful members of my company. I well know your worth; no one
better."
Monsieur Fombonne, glowing with pleasure, bowed in his best manner.
"I may venture to hope, then--"
"By all means, Monsieur Fombonne. Hope sustains us under all our
afflictions. Always hope. For my part, hope is the only thing left me.
Business is wretched. The treasury is empty. I cannot possibly raise
your salary. But you are an artist, and therefore above pecuniary
considerations. I do not--I cannot--offer you money. But I can gratify
a laudable ambition. Hitherto you have ranked only as an _accessoire_;
from this time forward you are an actor. I give you the right of
entering the _grand foyer_. You are permitted to call Monsieur
Lemaitre _mon camarade_; to _tutoyer_ Mademoiselle Theodorine. I am
sure, Monsieur Fombonne, that you will thoroughly appreciate the
distinction I have conferred upon you."
Monsieur Fombonne was delighted. He was subsequently to discover,
however, that some disadvantages attended his new dignity; that the
medal he had won had its reverse. The _accessoires_ and _figurants_ of
the theatre always received their salaries on the first day of each
month. The _artistes_ were not paid until the sixth or seventh day.
Monsieur Fombonne had to live upon credit for a week as the price of
his new privileges. His gain was shadowy; his loss substantial.
With the choristers proper we are not here much concerned. They are
not fairly to be classed among "supers," and they pertain almost
exclusively to the lyric stage. It is to be noted, however, that they
are in some sort evidence of the connection that once existed between
the Church and the Theatre; the ecclesiastical and the laical drama.
At any rate, the chorus singers often undertake divided duties in this
respect, and accept engagements both at the cathedral and the
opera-house. And sometimes it has happened that the discharge of their
dual obligations has involved them in serious difficulties. Thus, some
years since, there is said to have been a Christmas spectacle in
preparation at the Opera House in Paris. The entertainment was of a
long and elaborate kind, and for its perfect production numberless
rehearsals, early and late, dress and undress, were imperatively
necessary. Now the chorus of the opera also represented the choir of
Notre Dame. It was a season of the year for which the Church has
appointed many celebrations. The singers were incessantly running to
and fro between the Opera House and Notre Dame. Often they had not a
moment to spare, and punctuality in attending their appointments was
scarcely possible, while the trouble of so frequently changing their
costumes was extremely irksome to them. On one occasion a dress
rehearsal at the theatre, which commenced at a very late hour, after
the conclusion of the ordinary performance of the evening, was so
protracted that the time for the early service at the cathedral was
rapidly approaching. The chorus appeared as demons at the opera, and
wore the tight-fitting scaly dresses which time out of mind have been
invested upon the stage with diabolical attributes. What were they to
do? Was there time to undress and dress again? Scarcely. Besides, was
it worth the trouble? It was very dark; bitterly cold; there was not a
soul to be seen in the streets; all Paris was abed and asleep.
Moreover, the door of the sacristy would be ready open to receive
them, and their white stoles would be immediately obtainable. Well,
the story goes that these desperate singers, accoutred as they were,
ran as fast as they could to Notre Dame, veiled their satanic dresses
beneath the snowy surplices of the choir, and accomplished their
sacred duties without any discovery of the impropriety of their
conduct. It is true they encountered in their course a patrol of the
civic guard; but the representatives of law and order, forming
probably their own conclusions as to the significance of the demoniac
apparition, are said to have prudently taken to flight in an opposite
direction.
Upon our early English stage the "super" had frequent occupation; the
Shakespearean drama, indeed, makes large demands upon the mute
performers. The stage at this time was not very spacious, however,
and was in part occupied by the more pretentious of the spectators,
who, seated upon stools, or reclining upon the rushes which strewed
the boards, were attended by their pages, and amused themselves with
smoking their pipes and noisily criticising the performance. There was
little room therefore for any great number of supernumeraries. But
spectacles--to which the "super" has always been indispensable--had
already won the favour of playgoers. Sir Henry Wotton writes in 1613
of a new play produced at the Globe Theatre, "called 'All is True,'
representing some principal pieces of the reign of Henry VIII., which
was set forth with many extraordinary circumstances of pomp and
majesty, even to matting of the stage; the knights of the order with
their Georges and Garter, the guards with their embroidered coats and
the like; sufficient, in truth, within a while to make greatness very
familiar, if not ridiculous." "Supers" must surely have been employed
on this occasion. It is clear, however, that the money-takers, or
"gatherers," as they were called, after the audience had assembled,
and their presence was no longer needed at the doors, were accustomed
to appear upon the stage as the representatives of guards, soldiers,
&c. An early play refers to the combats of the scene being
accomplished by "the blue-coated stage-keepers," or attendants. And
the actors were classified at this time, according to their
professional standing, as "whole sharers," "three-quarter sharers,"
"half sharers," and "hired men," or "servitors." The leading players
were as joint proprietors in the undertaking, and divided the receipts
among them according to a prearranged scale. Minor characters were
sustained by the "servitors," who were paid, as our actors are at the
present time, by weekly wages, and had no other interest in the
success of the theatre with which they were associated, beyond desire
that its exchequer might always be equal to their claims upon it.
Philip Henslowe's "Diary" contains an entry regarding a non-sharing
actor: "Hiered as a covenant servant Willyam Kendall--to give him for
his said servis everi week of his playing in London ten shillings, and
in the countrie five shillings, for the which he covenaunteth to be
redye at all houres to play in the house of the said Philip, and in no
other." It may be noted that Shakespeare's first connection with the
Globe Theatre is shown upon fair evidence to have been originally
that of a "servitor." In that case the poet must often have been
required to appear in very subordinate characters--perhaps even
characters not entrusted with speech. Will it inflame too violently
the ambition of our modern "supers" to suggest to them that very
possibly Shakespeare himself may have preceded them in the performance
of their somewhat inglorious duties? The hired men or servitors were
under the control and in the pay of the proprietor or manager of the
theatre, and their salaries constituted no charge upon the shares of
the chief actors. Still these were entitled to complain, apparently,
if the hired men were too few in number to give due effect to the
representations. In 1614 a dispute arose between Henslowe and his
sharing actors, by reason of his having suddenly reduced his expenses
by dismissing "four hired men." He had previously sought to charge
their stipends upon the shares, although bound by agreement to defray
these expenses out of the money derived from the galleries--at this
time, perhaps, a managerial perquisite. But in addition to the
servitors, as the representatives of minor and mute characters, there
were also available the journeymen or apprentices of the more eminent
performers. If they paid no premium upon being articled, novices were
at any rate bound in return for the education they received to hand
their earnings, or a large part of them, to their masters. And this is
precisely the case at the present time in regard to the pupils of
musical professors and the teachers of singing, dancing, and feats of
the circus. The services of the apprentices were transferable, and
could be bought and sold. There is quite a slave-trade aspect about
the following entry in Henslowe's "Diary." "Bowght my boye Jeames
Brystow, of William Augusten, player, the 8th of December, 1597, for
eight pounds." Augustine Phillips, the actor, one of Shakespeare's
partners, who died in 1605, and who by his will bequeathed to
Shakespeare "a thirty shillings peece in gould," also gave to "Samuell
Gilborne, my late apprentice, the some of fortye shillings, and my
mouse-coloured velvit hose, and a white taffety dublet, a blacke
taffety sute, my purple cloke, sword and dagger, and my base viall."
He also gave to "James Sands, my apprentice, the some of forty
shillings and a citterne, a bandore, and a lute, to be paid and
delivered unto him at the expiration of his terme of yeres in his
indentur of apprenticehood." From his bequests of musical instruments,
it has been conjectured that Phillips sometimes played in what is now
called the orchestra of the theatre. A sum of forty shillings in
Elizabeth's time represents the value of about ten pounds of our
currency. What with its "gatherers," "servitors," and journeymen, the
Shakespearean stage was obviously provided sufficiently with
supernumerary assistants.
The "super" is useful, even ornamental in his way, though it behoves
him always to stand aloof from the foot-lights, so that distance may
lend his aspect as much enchantment as possible; but he is not highly
esteemed by the general public. In truth he has been long the object
of ridicule and caricature. He is charged with stupidity, and is
popularly considered as a very absurd sort of creature. But he has
resigned his own volition; he has but to obey. He is as a puppet whose
wires are pulled by others. He is under the rule of a "super-master,"
who is in his turn governed by the wavings of the prompter's white
flag in the wings, the prompter being controlled by the stage-manager,
who is supposed to be the executant of the dramatist's intentions. The
"super's" position upon the stage is strictly defined for him;
sometimes even marked on the boards with chalk. He may not move until
the word of command is given him, and then every change of station or
attitude must be pursuant to previous instruction. And his duties are
sometimes arduous. He may often be required to change his attire and
assume a new personality in the course of one night's performances. A
member of a band of brigands in one scene, he may in another be
enrolled in a troop of soldiers, sent to combat with and capture those
malefactors. In the same play he may wear now the robes of a nobleman,
and now the rags of a mendicant. A demon possessed of supernatural
powers at the opening of a pantomime, he is certain before its close
to be found among those good-natured people who saunter across the
stage for the sole purpose, as it would seem, of being assaulted and
battered by the clown and pantaloon. It is not surprising altogether
that a certain apathy gradually steals over him, and that such
intelligence as he ever possessed becomes in time somewhat numbed by
the peculiar nature of his profession. Moreover, in regard to the play
in which he takes part he is generally but dimly informed. Its plot
and purpose are mysteries to him. He never sees it represented or
rehearsed as an entirety. His own simple duties accomplished, he is
hurried to the rear of the stage to be out of the way of the actors.
Why he bends his knee to one performer and loads another with fetters;
why there is banning in this scene and blessing in that; why the
heroine in white adores the gallant in blue and abominates her suitor
in red, are to him inexplicable matters. The dramas in which he
figures only impress his mind in relation to the dresses he is
constrained to assume during their representation, the dresses being
never of his own choosing, rarely fitting him, and their significance
being always outside his comprehension. To him the tragedy of "King
John" is but the occasion on which he and his fellows "wore them
tin-pots on our 'eads;" "Julius Cæsar" the play in which "we went on
in sheets." "What are we supposed to be?" a curious "super" once
inquired of a more experienced comrade. "Blessed if I know!" was the
answer. "Demons, I expect." They were clothing themselves in
chain-mail, and were "supposed to be"--Crusaders.
The "super's" dress is, indeed, his prime consideration, and out of it
arises his greatest grievance. He must surrender himself
unconditionally to the costumier, and obey implicitly his behests.
Summer or winter he has no voice in the question; he must clothe
himself warmly or scantily, just as he is bidden. "Always fleshings
when there's a frost," a "super" was once heard to grumble, who
conceived the classical system of dress or undress--and for that
matter, perhaps, the classical drama also--to be invented solely for
his inconvenience and discomfort. But more trying than this antique
garb is the demoniac mask of pantomime, which is as a diver's helmet
ill provided with appliances for admitting air or permitting outlook.
The group of panting "supers," with their mimic heads under their
arms--their faces smeared with red or blue, in accordance with
direction, not of their own choice--to be discovered behind the scenes
during the performance of a Christmas piece, is an impressive portion
of the spectacle, although it is withheld from the contemplation of
the audience. There have been "supers" who have approached very near
to death by suffocation, from the hurtful nature of their attire,
rather than fail in the discharge of their duties. For there is
heroism everywhere.
The stage has always been fertile in the matter of anecdotage, and of
course comical stories of "supers" have abounded; for these, the
poorest of players are readily available for facetious purposes. Thus,
so far back as the days of Quin, there is record of a curious
misapprehension on the part of the supernumeraries of the time. Quin's
pronunciation was of a broad old-fashioned kind, a following of a
traditional method of elocution from which Garrick did much to release
the theatre. The play was Thomson's "Coriolanus," and Quin appeared as
the hero. In the scene of the Roman ladies' entry in procession, to
solicit the return to Rome of Coriolanus, the stage was filled with
tribunes and centurions of the Volscian army, bearing fasces, their
ensigns of authority. Quin, as the hero, commanded them to "lower
their fasces" by way of homage to the matrons of Rome. But the
representatives of the centurions understood him to mean their
_faces_, and much to the amusement of the audience all reverently
bowed their heads with absurd unanimity.
But it is as the performers of "guests" that the "supers" have
especially moved derision in our theatres; and, indeed, on the
Parisian stage _les invités_ have long been established provocatives
of laughter. The assumption of evening dress and something of the
manners of polite society has always been severely trying to the
supernumerary actor. What can he really know of balls and fashionable
assemblies? Of course speech is not demanded of him, nor is his
presence needed very near to the proscenium, but he is required to
give animation to the background, and to be as easy and graceful as he
may in his aspect and movements. The result is not satisfactory. He is
more at home in less refined situations. He is prone to indulge in
rather grotesque gestures, expressive of admiration of the brilliant
decorations surrounding him, and profuse, even servile gratitude for
the hospitality extended to him. He interchanges mute remarks,
enlivened by surprising grimaces, with the lady of the ballet, in the
shabbiest of ball dresses, who hangs affectionately upon his arm. The
limited amount of his stipend naturally asserts itself in his costume,
which will not bear critical investigation. His boots are of the
homeliest and sometimes of the muddiest; coarse dabs of rouge appear
upon his battered cheeks; his wig--for a "super" of this class almost
always wears a wig--is unkempt and decayed; his white cravat has a
burlesque air; and his gloves are of cotton. There are even stories
extant of very economical "supers" who have gone halves in a pair of
"berlins," and even expended rouge on but one side of their faces,
pleading that they were required to stand only on the right or the
left of the stage, as the case might be, and as they could thus be
seen but in profile by the audience, these defects in their appearance
could not possibly attract notice. Altogether the "super's" least
effective performance is that of "a guest."
It is a real advance for a "super" when he is charged with some small
theatrical task, which removes him from the ranks of his fellows. He
acquires individuality, though of an inferior kind. But his promotion
entails responsibilities for which he is not always prepared. Lekain,
the French tragedian, playing the part of Tancred, at Bordeaux,
required a supernumerary to act as his squire, and carry his helmet,
lance, and shield. Lekain's personal appearance was insignificant, and
his manner at rehearsal had been very subdued. The "super" thought
little of the hero he was to serve, and deemed his own duties slight
enough. But at night Lekain's majesty of port, and the commanding tone
in which he cried, _"Suivez moi!"_ to his squire, so startled and
overcame that attendant that he suddenly let fall, with a great crash,
the weapons and armour he was carrying. Something of the same kind has
often happened upon our own stage. "You distressed me very much, sir,"
said a famous tragedian once to a "super," who had committed default
in some important business of the scene. "Not more than you frightened
me, sir," the "super" frankly said. He was forgiven his failure on
account of the homage it conveyed to the tragedian's impressiveness.
M. Etienne Arago, writing some years since upon _les choristes_, calls
attention to the important services rendered to the stage by its mute
performers, and demands their wider recognition. He ventures to hold
that as much talent is necessary to constitute a tolerable _figurant_
as to make a good actor. He describes the _figurant_ as a multiform
actor, a dramatic chameleon, compelled by the special nature of his
occupation, or rather by its lack of special nature, to appear young
or old, crooked or straight, noble or base-born, savage or civilised,
according to the good pleasure of the dramatist. "Thus, when Tancred
declaims, _'Toi, superbe Orbassan, c'est toi que je défie!'_ and
flings his gauntlet upon the stage, Orbassan has but to wave his hand
and an attendant advances boldly, stoops, picks up the gage of
battle, and resumes his former position. That is thought to be a very
simple duty. But to accomplish it without provoking the mirth of the
audience is _le sublime du métier--le triomphe de l'art!_"
The emotions of an author who for the first time sees himself in
print, have often been descanted upon. The sensations of a "super,"
raised from the ranks, entrusted with the utterance of a few words,
and enabled to read the entry of his own name in the playbills, are
scarcely less entitled to sympathy. His task may be slight enough, the
measure of speech permitted him most limited; the reference to him in
the programmes may simply run--
CHARLES (a waiter) Mr. JONES,
or even
RAILWAY PORTER Mr. BROWN,
but the delight of the performer is infinite. His promotion is indeed
of a prodigious kind. Hitherto but a lay-figure, he is now endowed
with life. He has become an actor! The world is at length informed of
his existence. He has emerged from the crowd, and though it may be but
for a moment, can assert his individuality. He carries his part about
with him everywhere--it is but a slip of paper with one line of
writing running across it. He exhibits it boastfully to his friends.
He reads it again and again; recites it in every tone of voice he can
command--practises his elocutionary powers upon every possible
occasion. A Parisian _figurant_, advanced to the position of
_accessoire_, was so elated that he is said to have expressed surprise
that the people he met in the streets did not bow to him; that the
sentinels on guard did not present arms as he passed. His reverence
for the author in whose play he is to appear is boundless; he regards
him as a second Shakespeare, if not something more. His devotion to
the manager, who has given him the part, for a time approaches
deliriousness.
"_Our_ new play will be a great go!" a promoted "super" once observed
to certain of his fellows, "_I_ play a policeman! I go on in the last
scene, and handcuff Mr. Rant. I have to say, 'Murder's the charge!
Stand back!' Won't that _fetch_ the house?"
There are soldiers doomed to perish in their first battle. And there
have been "supers" who have failed to justify their advancement, and,
silenced for ever, have had to fall back into the ranks again. The
French stage has a story of a _figurant_ who ruined at once a new
tragedy and his own prospects by an unhappy _lapsus linguæ_, the
result of undue haste and nervous excitement. He had but to cry aloud,
in the crisis of the drama: "_Le roi se meurt!_" He was perfect at
rehearsal; he earned the applause even of the author. A brilliant
future, as he deemed, was open to him. But at night he could only
utter, in broken tones: "_Le meurt se roi!_" and the tragic situation
was dissolved in laughter. So, in our own theatre, there is the
established legend of Delpini, the Italian clown, who, charged to
exclaim at a critical moment: "Pluck them asunder!" could produce no
more intelligible speech than "Massonder em plocket!" Much mirth in
the house and dismay on the stage ensued. But Delpini had gained his
object. He had become qualified as an actor to participate in the
benefits of the Theatrical Fund. As a mere pantomimist he was without
a title. But John Kemble had kindly furthered the claim of the foreign
clown by entrusting him for once with "a speaking part." The
tragedian, however, had been quite unprepared for the misadventure
that was to result.
It used to be said that at the Parisian Cirque, once famous for its
battle-pieces, refractory "supers" were always punished by being
required to represent "the enemy" of the evening: the Russians,
Prussians, English, or Arabs, as the case might be--who were to be
overcome by the victorious soldiers of France--repulsed at the point
of the bayonet, trampled upon and routed in a variety of ignominious
ways. The representatives of "the enemy" complained that they could
not endure to be hopelessly beaten night after night. Their
expostulation was unpatriotic; but it was natural. For "supers" have
their feelings, moral as well as physical. At one of our own theatres
a roulette-table was introduced in a scene portraying the _salon_ at
Homburg, or Baden-Baden. Certain of the "supers" petitioned that they
should not always appear as the losing gamesters. They desired
sometimes to figure among the winners. It need hardly be said that the
money that changed hands upon the occasion was only of that valueless
kind that has no sort of currency off the stage.
When "supers" appear as modern soldiers in action, it is found
advisable to load their guns for them. They fear the "kick" of their
weapons, and will, if possible, avoid firing them. Once in a military
play a troop of grenadiers were required to fire a volley. Their
officer waved his sword and gave the word of command superbly; but no
sound followed, save only that of the snapping of locks: Not a gun had
been loaded. An unfortunate unanimity had prevailed among the
grenadiers. Each had forborne to load his weapon, trusting that his
omission would escape notice in the general noise, and assured that a
shot more or less could be of little consequence. It had occurred to
no one of them that his scheme might be put into operation by others
beside himself--still less that the whole band might adopt it. But
this had happened. For the future their guns were given them loaded.