"THE SORCERER."
_Produced November 17th, 1887._
"The Sorcerer" is a merry story of sentimental topsy-turvydom. Cupid
could never have performed such mischievous pranks as he did, aided by a
magician's love potion, in the pleasant village of Ploverleigh. Sir
Marmaduke Pointdextre, a baronet of ancient lineage, has invited the
tenantry to his Elizabethan mansion to celebrate the betrothal of his
son Alexis, a Grenadier Guardsman, to the lovely Aline. So happy and
romantic a union between two old families deserved to be worthily
honoured, and a large and lavishly stocked marquee, we notice, has been
erected at one side of the garden. Aline herself is rich, the only
daughter of the Lady Sangazure, and the seven thousand and
thirty-seventh in direct descent, it seems, from Helen of Troy. Nor are
there heart-stirrings only in the homes of the great. Early in the opera
it transpires that Constance Partlet, the daughter of a humble
pew-opener at the Parish Church, has a doting love for the vicar, Dr.
Daly. It is a hopeless passion. Not that the vicar, now a bachelor of
venerable years, had never felt the throb of romance in his soul, and
never recalled the "aching memory of the old, old days." Fondly does he
muse over the time when--
"Maidens of the noblest station,
Forsaking even military men,
Would gaze upon me, rapt in admiration--
Ah, me! I was a pale young curate then."
This, indeed, was the time when love and he were well acquainted, as he
tells us in a delightful ballad, and when none was better loved that he
in all the land! Yet even these dreams of yesteryear fail to awaken in
him the desires for a joyous to-morrow. Constance's mother finds him
quite unresponsive to her ingenious suggestions, for though he sees the
advantage of having a lady installed in the vicarage, he is too old now
for his estate to be changed.
Sir Marmaduke and Alexis enter. The honest heart of the father glows at
the thought of the marriage, though he confesses that he has little
liking for the new kind of love-making, in which couples rush into each
other's arms rapturously singing:--
"Oh, my adored one!" "Beloved boy!"
"Ecstatic rapture!" "Unmingled joy!"
So different, he reflects, to the older and more courtly "Madame, I
trust you are in the enjoyment of good health"; "Sir, you are vastly
polite, I protest I am mighty well." Even thus did he once pay his
addresses to the Lady Sangazure. For once they, too, were lovers! But
these reveries are ended by the arrival of Aline, and soon afterwards,
to the tuneful salutation of the villagers, the marriage contract is
signed and sealed in the presence of Counsel.
Left alone at last with his betrothed, Alexis tells her of his maxim
that true love, the source of every earthly joy, should break down all
such artificial barriers as rank, wealth, beauty and age. Upon this
subject he has lectured in the workhouses, beershops and asylums, and
been received with enthusiasm everywhere, though he cannot deny the
aloofness as yet of the aristocracy. He is going to take a desperate
step to put those noble principles to proof. From London he has summoned
the great John Wellington Wells. He belongs to an old-established firm
of family sorcerers, who practise all sorts of magics and spells, with
their wonderful penny curse as their quick-selling speciality. From the
moment he enters it is obvious that this glib-tongued charlatan is a
hustling dynamo. Alexis, much to Aline's alarm, commissions him to
supply liberal quantities of his patent love philtre in order that, from
purely philanthropical motives, as he explains, he may distribute it
secretly amongst the villagers. Wells, like the pushful tradesman he is,
has the very thing in his pocket. He guarantees that whoever drinks it
will fall in love, as a matter of course, with the first lady he meets
who has also tasted it, and his affection will be returned immediately.
Then follows a melodramatic incantation as the sorcerer deposits the
philtre into a gigantic teapot. "Spirits of earth and air, fiends of
flame and fire" are summoned "in shoals" to "this dreadful deed
inspire." This done Mr. Wells beckons the villagers, and all the party,
except the two lovers, join merrily in drinking a toast drawn from the
teapot. Quickly it becomes evident from their strange conduct that the
charm is working. All rub their eyes, and the curtain falls on the
picture of many amorous couples, rich and poor alike, under the spell of
the romantic illusion.
The same scene greets us when the second act opens. The couples are
strangely assorted--an old man with a girl, an elderly woman with a
youth--but all sing and dance to a love that is "the source of all joy
to humanity." Constance confesses her rapture for a deaf old Notary. Sir
Marmaduke himself walks arm-in-arm with Mrs. Partlet. Dr. Daly is sadly
perplexed. The villagers, who had not been addicted to marrying and
giving in marriage, have now been coming to him in a body and imploring
him to join them in matrimony with little delay. The sentimental old
bachelor reflects, moreover, how comely all the maidens are, and sighs
that alas! all now are engaged! Meanwhile, Alexis has tried to persuade
Aline that they should drink the philtre too, for only thus can they
ensure their own undying devotion. She refuses and there is a tiff, but
later, to prove that her love for him is true, she does drink the
potion, only to be seized by a passionate affection for--Dr. Daly. Nor
can the good vicar resist the yearning to reciprocate. Coming to the
scene, Alexis is outraged with his lover's perfidy, and at last has very
serious doubts about the excellence of his theories and the wisdom of
the sorcerer's spell. Dr. Daly, determined to be no man's rival, is
ready to quit the country at once and bury his sorrow "in the congenial
gloom of a colonial bishopric."
But one of the drollest effects of the enchantment has still to be told.
The first man on whom the Lady Sangazure casts her eye after she has
succumbed is none other than the notorious John Wellington Wells. In
vain does he lie to her that he is already engaged. In vain does he
describe a beauteous maiden with bright brown hair who waits for him in
the Southern Pacific. She threatens at last to end her sorrows in the
family vault, and only then does the sorcerer, as a small reparation for
all the emotional disturbance he has created, decide that the acceptance
of her hand might not be at all a bad bargain.
In the end the magic scheme becomes so involved that it must be at all
costs disentangled. It can be done in only one way. Someone must yield
his life to Ahrimanes. Wells agrees to commit this act of
self-immolation, and amidst a wreath of fire and brimstone he
disappears, melodramatic to the last, through a trap-door in the stage.
With his departure the couples re-assort themselves, selecting mates in
keeping with their various social stations and ages, and the betrothal
festivities resume their merry sway.
"H.M.S. PINAFORE."
_Produced May 25th, 1878._
Certainly "H.M.S. Pinafore" was not a model ship as regards the sense of
discipline that exists in the real British Navy. But in every other
respect it _was_ a model ship. Captain Corcoran was the commander of its
jovial crew, and a very fine commander he was, always indulgent to his
men and always ready to address them politely. Swearing on board was a
thing almost unknown. Corcoran did say "bother it" now and again, but he
tells us that he never used "a big, big d----" at least, "hardly ever."
Lustily do the crew "give three cheers and one cheer more for the
well-bred captain of the Pinafore."
The opera has the quarter-deck for its setting, and it is related that
Gilbert took as his model for this scene the old Victory, which he went
to see at Portsmouth. Our first introduction is to the crew, who busily
polish the brasswork and splice the rope while they sing in tuneful
nautical strains that their "saucy ship's a beauty" and manned by "sober
men and true, attentive to their duty." Only one gruff old salt is there
amongst them, and we discover him in the ugly, distorted form of Dick
Deadeye. He is thoroughly unpopular. Soon the sailors welcome on board
Little Buttercup, a Portsmouth bumboat woman who has come to sell her
wares, and who is hailed as "the rosiest, the roundest and the reddest
beauty in all Spithead." She has certainly some delightful ditties to
sing.
One member of the crew is handsome Ralph Rackstraw, who confesses to a
passion for Corcoran's pretty daughter, Josephine. The poor fellow is
downcast that his ambitions should have soared to such impossible
heights. Yet Josephine herself is also sad because of a heart that
"hopes but vainly." Corcoran chides her, and tells her how happy she
should be when her hand is to be claimed, that very day, by the great
Sir Joseph Porter, K.C.B., the First Lord of the Admiralty. She
confesses that, although she is a proud captain's daughter, she loves a
humble sailor on board her father's own ship.
Sir Joseph's stately barge is approaching. He comes attended by a host
of his sisters and his cousins and his aunts, a very large and charming
family group whom the sailors, instead of standing rigidly at attention,
salute with effusive politeness. Sir Joseph, attired in the Court dress
of his office, proceeds at once to describe his meteoric rise from an
office boy in an attorney's firm to become the "ruler of the Queen's
Navee." The story is that of an industrious clerk who, having "served
the writs with a smile so bland and copied all the letters in a big
round hand" is taken at last into partnership, and eventually becomes an
obedient party man in Parliament and a member of the Ministry. For
landsmen the moral of it all is summed up in this golden rule:--
"Stick close to your desk and never go to sea
And you all may be rulers of the Queen's Navee."
The First Lord has ideas of his own that the sense of independence in
the lower deck must be fully encouraged. The British sailor he holds to
be any man's equal, and he insists that Captain Corcoran shall accompany
every order of his crew, over whom he has been placed merely by accident
of birth, with a courteous "if you please." Then he takes Corcoran into
the cabin to teach him another accomplishment--dancing the hornpipe.
Josephine meanwhile steals out on to the deck. She meets Ralph
Rackstraw, who boldly gambles his all on an immediate protestation of
love, only to be refused for his presumption and impetuosity. The poor
fellow, before the whole ship's company and without their lifting a hand
to restrain him, prepares to blow out his brains, when the girl rushes
into his arms. Notwithstanding the evil Dick Deadeye's warning, they
arrange to steal ashore at night to be married, and the curtain falls on
the crew giving three cheers for the sailor's bride.
When the second act opens the deck is bathed in moonlight. Captain
Corcoran is strumming his mandoline and singing a plaintive song--he
laments that everything is at sixes and sevens--while gazing at him
sentimentally is Little Buttercup. Following a duet between them, Sir
Joseph Porter enters to complain that he is disappointed in Josephine,
and Corcoran can attribute her reticence only to the exalted rank of so
distinguished a suitor as the First Lord of the Admiralty. Corcoran
afterwards takes his daughter aside and explains to her that love is a
platform on which all ranks meet, little mindful how eloquently he is
thus pleading the cause of humble Ralph. When the girl has left Dick
Deadeye comes to warn the father of the plan for a midnight elopement.
Enveloping himself in a cloak, with a cat-o'-nine-tails in his hand, he
awaits developments. Soon the crew steal in on tiptoe, and afterwards
the two lovers, ready to escape ashore in the dingy. Captain Corcoran
surprises them, but, to his amazement, Ralph Rickshaw openly and
defiantly avows his love, while the crew chant his praises as an
Englishman:--
"For he might have been a Roosian,
A French, or Turk, or Proosian,
Or perhaps Itali-an.
But in spite of all temptations
To belong to other nations
He remains an Englishman!"
Even for the well-bred skipper this is too much. He explodes with a
"big, big d----." Sir Joseph hears the bad language and is horrified. He
will hear of no explanations. Captain Corcoran is banished to his cabin
in disgrace.
The First Lord is destined to receive still another shock. He hears of
the attachment between Josephine and Ralph. The "presumptuous mariner"
is ordered to be handcuffed and marched off to the dungeon. But it is
after this that we hear the biggest surprise of all--and from the lips
of Little Buttercup. She recalls that in the years long ago she
practised baby farming, and to her care were committed two infants, "one
of low condition, the other a patrician." Unhappily, in a luckless
moment she mixed those children up, and the poor baby really was
Corcoran and the rich one Ralph Rackstraw. Ralph thereupon enters in a
captain's uniform. Corcoran follows him in the dress of a mere
able-seaman. Sir Joseph decides that, although love levels rank in many
cases, his own marriage with a common sailor's daughter is out of the
question, and he resigns himself then and there to his venerable cousin,
Hebe. Ralph claims his Josephine, while the fallen Corcoran links his
future with that of the bumboat woman, Little Buttercup.
[Illustration: HENRY A. LYTTON AS "SIR JOSEPH PORTER"
IN "H.M.S. PINAFORE."]
"THE PIRATES OF PENZANCE."
_Produced April 30th, 1880._
Sheltered in the Cornish coast was the hiding place of a band of
tender-hearted pirates. Never was the trade of the skull-and-cross-bones
followed by men of such sensitive and compassionate feelings. They made
it a point of honour never to attack a weaker party, and whenever they
attempted to fight a stronger one they invariably got thrashed. Orphans
themselves, they shrank from ever laying a molesting hand on an orphan,
and many of the ships they captured had to be released because they were
found to be manned entirely by orphans. Little wonder was it that these
Pirates of Penzance could not make the grim trade of piracy pay.
The curtain rises on a scene of revelry. Frederic has just completed his
pirate apprenticeship and is being hailed as a fully-fledged member of
the gang. That he had been indentured with them at all was a mistake.
When he was a lad his nurse was told to take and apprentice him to a
pilot, and when she discovered her stupid blunder she let him stay with
the pirates, and remained with them herself as a maid-of-all-work rather
than return to brave the parental fury. Frederic, at all times the slave
of duty, has loyally served out his time, but now he announces that not
only will he not continue at a trade he detests, but he is going to
devote himself heart and soul to his old comrades' extermination. The
declaration turns the camp from joy into mourning, but these very
scrupulous pirates have to admit that a man must act as his conscience
dictates, and they can only crave that the manner of their deaths may
be painless and speedy.
Frederic has never seen a woman's face--no other woman's face, at least,
but Ruth's, his old nurse, who adores him--and thus there come as a
vision of loveliness to him the figures of the many daughters of
Major-General Stanley. They have penetrated into the rocky cove during a
picnic. Frederic, sensitive about his detested dress, hides from them
for a while, but soon he reveals himself and entreats them all to stoop
in pity so low is to accept the hand and heart of a pirate. Only one of
them, Mabel, is ready to take him for what he is, and the love-making
between the two is swift and passionate. It is interrupted by the return
of the gang, each member of which seizes a girl and claims her as his
bride, and during this lively interlude there arrives old General
Stanley. He has lagged behind the rest of the party.
The General, a resplendent figure in his uniform, knows a good deal
about the most abstruse and complicated sciences, though he proclaims
that he knows no more of tactics than a novice in a nunnery. In this he
holds himself to be "the very model of a modern major-general."
Completing the candid recital of his attainments and want of them, he
inquires what strange deeds are afoot, and he has no liking either for
pirates as sons-in-law or for the prospect of being robbed wholesale of
his daughters. But where is the way of escape? Luckily the General has
heard of these Penzance pirates before, and he wrings their sympathy
with the sad news that he, too, is "an orphan boy." For such
tender-hearted robbers that is enough. They surrender the girls, and
with them all thoughts of matrimonial felicity, and restore the entire
party to liberty.
The second act is laid in a ruined chapel at night. General Stanley,
surrounded by his daughters, has come to do penance for his lie before
the tombs of his ancestors, who are his solely by purchase, for he has
owned the estate only a year. Frederic is now to lead an expedition
against the pirates. For this perilous mission he has gathered together
a squad of police, who march in under their sergeant, all of them very
nervous and under misgivings that possibly they may be going to "die in
combat gory." Soon after they have left there is a whimsical
development. Frederic, alone in the chapel, is visited by the Pirate
King and Ruth. Covering him first of all with their pistols, they tell
him that they have remembered that he was born on the 29th of February,
and that as he thus has a birthday only every four years he is still but
five years of age!
Frederic, as we have observed before, has a keen sense of duty. In blank
despair he agrees to return to the gang to finish his apprenticeship.
Once more a member of the band, he is bound also to disclose the
horrible fact that the old soldier has practised on the pirates'
credulous simplicity, and that in truth he is no orphan boy. The Pirate
King decrees that there shall be a swift and terrible revenge that very
night.
When all have left but Mabel, who declares that she will remain faithful
to her lover until he has lived his twenty-one leap-years, there
re-enter the police. The sergeant laments that the policeman's lot is
not a happy one. It is distressing to them to have to be the agents
whereby their erring fellow-creatures are deprived of the liberty that
everyone prizes.
"When the enterprising burglar's not a-burgling,
When the cut-throat isn't occupied in crime,
He loves to hear the little brook a-gurgling
And listen to the merry village chime.
When the coster's finished jumping on his mother,
He loves to lie a-basking in the sun.
Ah! Take one consideration with another
The policeman's lot is not a happy one."
Sounds are heard that indicate the pirates' approach. The police conceal
themselves, and soon the intruders enter, armed with all kinds of
burglarious tools, and with a cat-like tread (they say so, at least,
though they are singing their loudest). They are interrupted, not by the
police, but by the appearance of General Stanley. He has had a sleepless
night, the effect of a tortured conscience, and he comes in in a
dressing-gown and carrying a light. Soon his daughters also appear in
their night-caps. The General is seized and ordered to prepare for
death. Frederic, even on Mabel's entreaties, cannot save him, for is he
not himself a pirate again?
Eventually the police, having passively watched the situation so long,
summon up courage and tackle the pirates, but they are soon overcome.
The sergeant, who with the rest of his men is held prostrate under drawn
swords, then calls upon the ruffians to surrender in the name of the
Queen. The command acts like magic. Loyally the pirates kneel to their
captives, for it transpires from Ruth's lips that they are really "no
members of the common throng; they are all noblemen who have gone
wrong." All ends happily. The Pirates of Penzance promise to return
forthwith to their legislative duties in the House of Lords and, in
doing so, they are to share their coronets with the beautiful daughters
of old General Stanley.
"PATIENCE."
_Produced April 23rd, 1881._
There is satire in the very name of this opera. The craze for
aestheticism against which it was directed must have placed a strain on
the patience of so brilliant an exponent of British commonsense as Sir
William Gilbert.
Shortly before the play opens, twenty of the maidens of the village
adjoining Castle Bunthorne had fallen in love with the officers of the
35th Heavy Dragoons. But when Reginald Bunthorne, a fleshly poet and a
devotee of the aesthetic cult, arrived at the castle, they had fallen out
of love with their Dragoons and united with Lady Jane (of uncertain age)
in worshipping him. When the curtain rises the "twenty love-sick
maidens" are lamenting that Bunthorne is "ice-insensible." Lady Jane
tells them that he loves Patience, the village milkmaid, who is seen
regarding them with pity. Lady Angela tells Patience that if she has
never loved she can never have known true happiness. Patience replies
that "the truly happy always seem to have so much on their minds," and
"never seem quite well." Lady Jane explains that it is "_Not_
indigestion, but aesthetic transfiguration." Patience informs the ladies
that the 35th Dragoon Guards have arrived. Lady Ella declares, "We care
nothing for Dragoon Guards." "But," exclaims Patience, "You were all
engaged to them." "Our minds have been etherealised, our perceptions
exalted," answers Lady Angela, who calls on the others to lift up their
voices in morning carol to "Our Reginald."