"A receipt for that popular mystery
Known to the world as a Heavy Dragoon."
One of them who arrives later looks miserable, but declares "I'm as
cheerful as a poor devil can be, who has the misfortune to be a Duke
with a thousand a day." His wretchedness is not relieved by the entrance
of Bunthorne, followed by the maidens, who ignore the Dragoons. The Poet
pretends to be absorbed in the composition of a poem, but he slyly
observes, "I hear plainly all they say, twenty love-sick maidens they."
Lady Jane explains to the soldiers that Bunthorne has idealised them.
Bunthorne meanwhile is to be seen writhing in the throes of composition.
"Finished!" he exclaims and faints in the arms of the Colonel. When he
recovers, the love-sick maidens entreat him to read the poem. "Shall I?"
he asks. Fiercely the Dragoons shout "No!" but bidding the ladies to
"Cling passionately to one another," he recites "Oh, Hollow! Hollow!
Hollow!" When the Colonel reminds the ladies that they are engaged to
the Dragoons, Lady Saphir says, "It can never be. You are not Empyrean,"
while Lady Jane sneers at the crudity of their red and yellow uniforms.
The Dragoons resent this "insult" to a uniform which has been "as
successful in the courts of Venus as in the field of Mars," and lament
that "the peripatetics of long-haired aesthetics" should have captured
the ladies' fancy. Angrily they return to their camp.
Bunthorne, left "alone and unobserved," confesses to being an "aesthetic
sham." "In short," he says, "my mediaevalism's affectation, born of a
morbid love of admiration." Then Patience enters, and he makes love to
her. She repulses him, and tragically he bids her farewell. Lady Angela
implores her to "Try, try, try to love." She dilates upon the "Ennobling
and unselfish passion" until Patience declares, "I won't go to bed until
I'm head over ears in love with somebody." Patience soliloquises, "I had
no idea love was a duty. No wonder they all look so unhappy. I'll go at
once and fall in love with--" but stops, startled by a figure almost as
grotesque as Bunthorne, and exclaims, "A stranger!" The stranger is
Archibald Grosvenor, an idyllic poet, who plunges boldly into a
declaration of love with his "Prithee pretty maiden, will you marry me."
Patience replies, "I do not know you and therefore must decline." He
reveals that he was her sweetheart in childhood's days. Grosvenor begs
Patience imagine "The horror of his situation, gifted with unrivalled
beauty, and madly loved at first sight by every woman he meets." When
Patience enquires why he does not disfigure himself to escape such
persecution, he replies, "These gifts were given to me for the enjoyment
and delectation of my fellow creatures. I am a trustee for beauty."
Grosvenor and Patience plight their troth, but as she remembers that
love must be unselfish, and that Grosvenor is so beautiful that there
can be no unselfishness in loving him, they bid each other "Farewell."
Just as they are parting it occurs to Patience that it cannot be selfish
for Grosvenor to love her, and he promises, "I'll go on adoring."
Bunthorne, crowned and garlanded with roses, returns accompanied by his
solicitor and the ladies. The Dragoons arrive also, and ask Bunthorne
why he should be so arrayed. He explains that, heart-broken by
Patience's rejection, and on the advice of his solicitor, he has put
himself up to be raffled for by his admirers. The Dragoons make a
fruitless appeal to the ladies in a song by the Duke. The drawing is
about to take place when Patience enters, craves Bunthorne's pardon, and
offers to be his bride. When Bunthorne rejoices that this is due to the
fact that she loves him fondly, Patience tells him that it is because "A
maiden who devotes herself to loving you, is prompted by no selfish
view."
This scene leads to a temporary reconciliation between the Dragoons and
the ladies, who embrace each other and declare that "Never, oh never,
this heart will range from that old, old love again." Then Grosvenor
enters. He walks slowly, engrossed in reading. The ladies are strangely
fascinated by him and gradually withdraw from the arms of their martial
admirers. Lady Angela asks:--
"But who is this, whose god-like grace
Proclaims he comes of noble race."
Grosvenor replies: "I'm a broken-hearted troubadour.... I am aesthetic
and poetic." With one voice the ladies cry "Then we love you," and
leaving their Dragoons they kneel round Grosvenor, arousing the fury of
Bunthorne and the horror not only of the Dragoons, but of Grosvenor
himself, who declares that "Again my cursed comeliness spreads hopeless
anguish and distress."
The curtain falls on this scene, and when it rises again Lady Jane is
discovered soliloquising upon the fickle crew who have deserted
Bunthorne and sworn allegiance to Grosvenor. She alone is faithful to
Bunthorne. Grosvenor enters, followed by the twenty love-sick maidens,
pleading for "A gentle smile." He reads them two decalets, and wearying
of their worship, he tells them that his heart is fixed elsewhere, and
bids them remember the fable of the magnet and the churn.
Bunthorne and Lady Jane return. The poet is indignant that Grosvenor has
cut him out. Lady Jane assures him that she is still faithful, but
promises to help him to vanquish his rival, and to achieve this purpose
they concert a plan.
Then the Duke, the Colonel and the Major appear. They have discarded
their uniforms and adopted an aesthetic dress and make-up, and they
practise the attitudes which they imagine will appeal to the ladies.
When two of these appear, it is evident that the plan is succeeding, for
Lady Angela exclaims, "See! The immortal fire has descended upon them."
The officers explain they are doing this at some personal inconvenience
to show their devotion, and hope that it is not without effect. They are
assured that their conversion to the aesthetic art in its highest
development has touched the ladies deeply.
In due course the officers and ladies disappear and give place to
Grosvenor. Looking at his reflection in a hand mirror, he declares, "Ah!
I am a veritable Narcissus." Bunthorne now wanders on, talking to
himself, and declaring that he cannot live without admiration. He
accuses Grosvenor of monopolising the attentions of the young ladies.
Grosvenor assures him that they are the plague of his life, and asks how
he can escape from his predicament. Bunthorne orders him completely to
change his appearance, so as to appear absolutely commonplace. At first
Grosvenor declines, but when Bunthorne threatens to curse him, he yields
cheerfully, and Bunthorne rejoices in the prospect that:--
"When I go out of door
Of damozels a score,
All sighing and burning,
And clinging and yearning
Will follow me as before."
Patience enters to find him dancing, and he tells her that, in future,
he will be a changed man, having modelled himself upon Grosvenor. She
expresses joy, but then recoils from him as she remembers that, as he is
now to be utterly free from defect of any kind, her love for him cannot
be absolutely unselfish.
Just as Bunthorne is offering to relapse, Grosvenor enters, followed by
the ladies and the Dragoons. Grosvenor has assumed an absolutely
commonplace appearance. They all dance cheerfully round the stage, and
when Bunthorne asks the ladies "What it all means," they tell him that
as Grosvenor or "Archibald the All-right cannot be all wrong," and as he
has discarded aestheticism, "It proves that aestheticism ought to be
discarded." Patience now discovers that she is free to love Grosvenor.
Bunthorne is disappointed, but Lady Jane, who is still aesthetic tells
him to cheer up, as she will never forsake him. They have scarcely time
to embrace before the Colonel announces that the Duke has determined to
choose a bride. He selects Lady Jane, greatly to the disgust of
Bunthorne, who, finding himself the odd man out, declares, "I shall have
to be contented with a tulip or lily."
[Illustration: HENRY A. LYTTON AS "BUNTHORNE" IN "PATIENCE."]
"IOLANTHE."
_Produced November 25th, 1882._
Iolanthe was a Fairy--the life and soul of Fairyland. She wrote all the
fairy songs and arranged the fairy dances. For twenty-five years
Iolanthe has been in banishment. She had transgressed the fairy law by
marrying a mortal, and it was only the Queen's love which saved her from
death.
When the curtain rises we witness a gathering of fairies, hear them sing
one of Iolanthe's songs, and see them trip her measures. They lament her
absence and plead for her pardon. Compassion allied to curiosity impels
the Queen to recall Iolanthe. For Iolanthe had chosen to dwell at the
bottom of a stream, on whose banks we see the fairies disporting
themselves. Rising from the pool, clad in water-weeds, Iolanthe receives
the Royal pardon. Compassion having been exercised, curiosity demands
satisfaction. The Queen enquires why Iolanthe should have chosen to live
at the bottom of a stream. Iolanthe then reveals her secret. She has a
son who was born shortly after her banishment, and she wished to be near
him. The Queen and the other fairies are deeply interested, and just as
the Queen is expressing her desire to see the "half-fairy, half-mortal"
Arcadian shepherd, Strephon, he dances up to Iolanthe, and with song and
pipe urges her to rejoice because "I'm to be married to-day." Iolanthe
tells Strephon that she has been pardoned, and presents Strephon to the
Queen and to her fairy sisters. "My aunts!" exclaimed Strephon with
obvious delight.
Strephon explains the peculiar difficulties consequent on being only
half a fairy, and the Queen promises that henceforward the fairies will
always be ready to come to his aid should be he in "doubt or danger,
peril or perplexitee." Strephon is now joined by Phyllis--a beautiful
ward of Chancery and his bride-elect. In the prelude to one of the most
delightful love-songs ever written, Phyllis reveals her fear of the
consequences which may fall upon Strephon for marrying her without the
consent of the Lord Chancellor, and Strephon demonstrates that his fairy
ancestry has not freed him from the pangs of jealousy.
We now witness the entrance and march of the peers in their gorgeous
robes, to the strains of magnificent music, ending with a chorus which
is assumed to embody the traditional attitude of the peers to the
people:--
"Bow, bow ye lower middle classes,
Bow, bow ye tradesmen, bow ye masses."
The Lord Chancellor enters at the conclusion of this chorus, and after a
song upon his responsibilities as "The constitutional guardian I, of
pretty young wards in Chancery," he announces that the business before
the House concerns the disposal of the hand of Phyllis, a Ward of Court.
All the peers have fallen in love with her and wish the Lord Chancellor
to bestow her upon the one whom she may select. The Lord Chancellor
confesses to being "singularly attracted by this young person" and
laments that his judicial position prevents him from awarding her to
himself. Phyllis arrives, and after being proposed to by Lord Tolloller
and Lord Mount-Ararat, the whole of the peers invite her acceptance of
their coronets and hearts. Phyllis tells them that already "her heart is
given." The Lord Chancellor indignantly demands the name of her lover.
Before Phyllis can reply, Strephon opportunely enters the "House" and
claims "his darling's hand." The peers depart, dignified and stately,
with haughty and disdainful glances upon the lovers.
The glee with which Strephon and Phyllis have regarded their departure
is suddenly ended by the wrathful "Now, sir!" of the Lord Chancellor,
who separates the lovers and bids Phyllis depart. His severe and
sarcastic admonitions leave Strephon lamenting. Iolanthe returns to find
her son in tears. As she tenderly consoles him, Phyllis stealthily
re-enters escorted by the peers. Knowing nothing of her lover's fairy
origin, and seeing him embracing one who appears equally young and
beautiful as herself, she breaks from the hands of the peers just as
Iolanthe and Strephon are parting, and accuses the latter of shameless
deceit. Strephon's explanation that "this lady's my mother" is
disbelieved by Phyllis and greeted with derision by the peers, who
decline to admit that "a maid of seventeen" can be the mother of "a man
of four or five-and-twenty."
Believing herself to have been deceived by Strephon, Phyllis now
ruefully offers to accept either Tolloller or Mount-Ararat, but doesn't
care which. Just as she has placed the noble lords in this quandary,
Strephon reappears, and invokes the aid of the Fairy Queen.
Instantaneously the fairy band are seen "tripping hither, tripping
thither" among the amazed peers, while the slender Lord Chancellor
encounters a rude shock when he collides with the massive form of the
Queen. Strephon tells his tale of woe, and there follows an amazing and
amusing exchange of reproach and ridicule. The infuriated Queen
determines to punish the peers. Strephon shall go into Parliament to
wreak vengeance on them. The recital of the measures which he is to
carry through Parliament alarms the peers, and the first Act ends, after
a pretence at defiance, in their vainly suing for mercy.
The second Act of "Iolanthe" is staged in the Palace Yard at
Westminster. A solitary sentry is discovered moralising upon the
proceedings in "that House." He has observed that if the members have--
"A brain and cerebellum, too,
They've got to leave that brain outside
And vote just as their leaders tell 'em to."
Presently the fairies reappear and rejoice over Strephon's success as a
member of Parliament. Then the peers enter and reveal their annoyance
with Strephon, whom they describe as "a Parliamentary Pickford--he
carries everything." A heated argument ensues between the fairies and
the peers. It is ended by a song from Mount-Ararat in praise of the
House of Peers, which sparkles with satire on the members of that
ancient institution, who make "no pretence to intellectual eminence or
scholarship sublime."
Having pleaded in vain that the fairies should prevent Strephon from
doing further mischief, they depart in anger, and the Queen enters to
find her band gazing wistfully after them. Scenting danger, the Queen
calls upon them to subdue this "weakness," Celia retorts that "the
weakness is so strong." The Queen replies by protesting that, although
she herself is not "insensible to the effect of manly beauty" in the
person of the stalwart Guardsman still on sentry-go, she is able to
subdue her feelings, though in the famous "Captain Shaw" song which
follows she asks:--
"Could thy Brigade
With cold cascade
Quench my great love, I wonder?"
Phyllis now re-appears, seeming very unhappy, and is presently joined by
Tolloller and Mount-Ararat, who wrangle as to which shall yield her to
the other. Phyllis implores them not to fight for her. "It is not worth
while," she declares, and after a moment's reflection they agree that
"the sacred ties of friendship are paramount." Following the departure
of the trio there enters the Lord Chancellor looking dejected and very
miserable. He, too, it will be remembered, had fallen in love with
Phyllis, and he now mourns aloud that "love unrequited robs him of his
rest." Mount-Ararat and Tolloller join him and express their concern at
his woebegone appearance. He explains, and they persuade him to make
another application to himself for permission to marry Phyllis. Then
Phyllis and Strephon encounter each other in the Palace Square. Taunted
by a reference to his "young" mother, Strephon discloses that she is a
fairy. This leads to a reconciliation. Iolanthe joins them, and when
they ask her to appeal to the Lord Chancellor for his consent to their
marriage, she reveals the secret of her life. The Lord Chancellor is her
husband! He thinks her dead, and she is bound under penalty of death not
to undeceive him. The Lord Chancellor enters exclaiming "Victory!
victory!" In the highest spirits he relates how he had wrested from
himself permission to marry Phyllis. Then Iolanthe, still hiding her
identity, pleads Strephon's cause. When he refuses her plea, she
determines to gain happiness for her son even at the cost of her own
life. Despite the warning song of her fairy sisters, Iolanthe shocks the
Chancellor with the words, "It may not be--_I am thy wife_."
The Fairy Queen breaks in upon this tragic episode with the threat of
Iolanthe's doom, but ere it can be pronounced the Fairy Leila tells the
Queen that if Iolanthe must die so must they all, for all have married
peers. Bewildered by this dilemma the Fairy Queen is greatly relieved
when the Lord Chancellor suggests that instead of the fairy law reading
"Every fairy must die who marries a mortal" it should be "Every fairy
must die who don't marry a mortal." Accepting the suggestion the Queen
finds her own life in peril. She proposes to the stalwart Grenadier
still on duty, who gallantly accepts. The peers also agree to exchange
the "House of Peers for House of Peris." Wings spring from their
shoulders and away they all fly, "Up in the sky, ever so high," where
"pleasures come in endless series."
"PRINCESS IDA."
_Produced January 5th, 1884._
Princess Ida was the daughter of King Gama, and when but twelve-months'
old, she had been betrothed to Prince Hilarion, the two-year-old son of
King Hildebrand. The opening scene presents King Hildebrand and his
courtiers awaiting the arrival of King Gama and Princess Ida for the
celebration of the nuptials in accordance with the marriage contract.
Some doubt exists as to whether this will be honoured, for Prince
Hilarion has heard that his bride has "forsworn the world." It is
presently announced that Gama and his train are approaching. His
appearance is preceded by that of three bearded warriors clad in armour,
who declare that they are "Sons of Gama Rex," and naively add, "Like
most sons are we, masculine in sex." They are followed by Gama, who fits
in appearance Hildebrand's description of him as "a twisted
monster--all awry." In a three-verse song Gama describes his own
character in detail, each verse ending:--
"Yet everybody thinks I'm such a disagreeable man
And I can't think why."
Gama proceeds to justify the universal opinion by his venomous remarks
to Hildebrand's courtiers, and when Hildebrand demands the reason for
Ida's absence, he becomes insulting. Later, he relates that Ida has
established and rules a Woman's University in Castle Adamant, from which
all males are excluded. Gama tells Hilarion that if he addresses the
lady most politely she may deign to look on him. Hildebrand bids
Hilarion to go to Castle Adamant and claim Ida as his wife, but adds
that if she refuses, his soldiers will "storm the lady." King Gama is
detained as hostage, with the warning that "should Hilarion disappear,
we will hang you, never fear, most politely, most politely." Gama and
his three sons are then marched off to their prison cell.
In the second act, we are transported to Castle Adamant, and behold, in
the gardens, Lady Psyche surrounded by girl graduates. Lady Blanche
arrives, and reads to them the Princess Ida's list of punishments. One
student is expelled for bringing in a set of chessmen, while another is
punished for having sketched a perambulator. Then Princess Ida herself
enters, and is hailed by the students as a "mighty maiden with a
mission." Her address to the students is intended to demonstrate woman's
superiority over man. Then Lady Blanche, in announcing a lecture by
herself on abstract philosophy, reveals that the exclusion of the male
sex from the university has not banished jealousy. Ida and the students
enter the castle. Hardly have they gone, when Hilarion, accompanied by
Cyril and Florian, are seen climbing the garden wall. They don some
collegiate robes which they discover, and are appropriately jocular
regarding their transformation into "three lovely undergraduates."
Surprised by the entry of Princess Ida, they determine to present
themselves as would-be students, and she promises them that "if all you
say is true, you'll spend with us a happy, happy time." The Princess
leaves them alone, but as she goes Lady Psyche enters unobserved. She
overhears their conversation, and is amazed by it, but not more so than
Florian when he finds that Lady Psyche is his sister. The men entrust
her with their secret. She warns them that discovery may mean death, and
sings them a song which sums up the Princess Ida's teaching to the
effect that man "at best is only a monkey shaved." Melissa now enters.
She learns that the visitors are men and loyally promises secrecy.
Whilst they are heartily enjoying themselves Lady Blanche, who is the
mother of Melissa, has observed them, and as all five are leaving the
gardens, she calls Melissa and taxes her with the facts. Melissa
explains the situation, and persuades her mother to assist Hilarion's
plan.
In the next scene the Princess Ida and the students are seen at an
alfresco luncheon. Cyril becomes tipsy, discloses the secret of the
intruders, and scandalises the Princess by singing an "old kissing
song":--
"Would you know the kind of maid
Sets my heart aflame--a?"
In her excitement at this revelation the Princess falls into the stream
which flows through the gardens. Hilarion rescues her, but this gallant
feat does not shake the lady's resolution, and she orders their arrest.
As they are marched away Melissa brings news of an armed band without
the castle. Speedily Hildebrand, at the head of his soldiers, confronts
Ida. The three sons of Gama, still clad in armour, warn her that refusal
to yield means death. Hildebrand gives Ida until the next day to "decide
to pocket your pride and let Hilarion claim his bride." The curtain
falls upon the Princess hurling defiance at Hildebrand.
When the curtain rises for the third time, we discover that the outer
walls and courtyard of Castle Adamant are held by Princess Ida's
students, who are armed with battle-axes, and who sing of "Death to the
invader." The Princess comes attended by Blanche and Psyche, and warns
them that "we have to meet stern bearded warriors in fight to-day." She
bids them remember that they have to show that they "can meet Man face
to face on his own ground, and beat him there." But as she reviews her
forces, she meets with disappointment. The lady surgeon declares that,
although she has often cut off legs and arms in theory, she won't cut
off "real live legs and arms." The armourer explains that the rifles
have been left in the armoury "for fear ... they might go off." The
band-mistress excuses the absence of the band who "can't come out
to-day." Contemptuously, Ida bids them depart. Lamenting the failure of
her plan, she is surprised by the arrival of her father, who announces
that he is to give a message from Hildebrand, and then return to "black
captivity." The message is that, being loth to war with women,
Hildebrand wishes Ida to consent to the disposal of her hand being
settled by combat between her three brothers and three of Hildebrand's
knights. Ida demands of her father what possesses him that he should
convey such an offer. Gama replies: "He tortures me with torments worse
than death," and in pity she yields to the proposal.
While the girls mount the battlements, Hildebrand and his soldiers
enter, and there is a fight between Gama's sons and Hilarion, Cyril and
Florian. The latter are victorious. Seeing her brothers lying wounded,
Ida cries "Hold--we yield ourselves to you," and resigns the headship of
the University to Lady Blanche. Sadly Ida admits the failure of her
scheme. She had hoped to band all women together to adjure tyrannic man.
To Hildebrand she says that if her scheme had been successful "at my
exalted name posterity would bow." Hildebrand retorts, "If you enlist
all women in your cause--how is this posterity to be provided?" Ida
turns to Hilarion, admitting her error to him, and the opera ends with
the company declaring:--
"It were profanity for poor humanity
To treat as vanity the sway of love.
In no locality or principality
Is our mortality its sway above."
[Illustration: HENRY A. LYTTON AS "KING GAMA" IN "PRINCESS IDA."]
"THE MIKADO."
_Produced March 14th, 1885._
Although this opera is entitled "The Mikado" very little is seen of that
great potentate, which is quite in accordance with Japanese custom, so
vastly different to ours in matters of Royalty. The opera concerns much
more closely the adventures of Nanki-Poo, the Mikado's son and heir, who
has fled in disguise from the Court to escape from Katisha, an elderly
lady whom the Mikado had ordered him to marry within a week or perish.
Immediately after the opening chorus by the gentlemen of Japan the
disguised Crown Prince enters. He is labouring under great excitement,
and begs for information as to the dwelling of "a gentle maiden,
Yum-Yum." One of the Japanese nobles asks, "Who are you?" and he replies
in a delightful song--
"A wandering minstrel I,
A thing of shreds and patches,
Of ballads, songs and snatches,
And dreamy lullaby."
In reply to a further question as to his business with the maiden,
Nanki-Poo takes the gentlemen of Japan partly into his confidence. He
explains that a year before he had fallen in love with Yum-Yum, who
returned his affection. As, however, she was betrothed to her guardian
Ko-Ko, a cheap tailor, he had left Titipu in despair. Learning that
Ko-Ko has been condemned to death for flirting, he now hoped to find
Yum-Yum free. Alas! for Nanki-Poo's hopes, they inform him that not only
has Ko-Ko been reprieved, but that he has been elevated to the highest
rank a citizen can attain, and is now Lord High Executioner. Pish Tush
explains that, in order to circumvent the Mikado's decree making
flirtation a capital offence, they have appointed Ko-Ko as Lord High
Executioner, because, being under sentence of death himself, he cannot
cut off anybody else's head until he has cut off his own.
Expressing his sense of the condescension shown to him by Pooh-Bah,
that portly personage explains that although "a particularly haughty
and exclusive person" who can trace his ancestry back to "a
protoplasmic, primordial, atomic globule," he mortifies his family
pride. In proof of this he points out that, when all the other high
officers of State had resigned because they were too proud to serve
under an ex-tailor, he had accepted all their posts (and the salaries
attached) at once, so that he is now First Lord of the Treasury, Lord
Chief Justice, Commander-in-Chief, Lord High Admiral, Master of the
Buckhounds, Groom of the Back Stairs, Archbishop, and Lord Mayor.
Pooh-Bah informs Nanki-Poo that Yum-Yum is arriving from school that
very day to be married to Ko-Ko. Ko-Ko enters, preceded by a chorus of
nobles, and Pooh-Bah refers Nanki-Poo to him for any further information
concerning Yum-Yum. This is Ko-Ko's first public appearance as Lord High
Executioner, and after thanking the nobles for their welcome, he
promises strict attention to his duties. Happily, he remarks, "there
will be no difficulty in finding plenty of people whose loss will be a
distinct gain to society at large." He proceeds to mention in a song
that he's got "a little list" of possible victims and "they'll none of
'em be missed."
So far the opera has been an exclusively masculine affair, but Yum-Yum
now arrives escorted by a bevy of dainty schoolfellows, who sing of
their "Wondering what the world can be." This little chorus contains two
exquisite verses--
"Is it but a world of trouble
Sadness set to song?
Is its beauty but a bubble,
Bound to break ere long?"
"Are its palaces and pleasures
Fantasies that fade?
And the glory of its treasures
Shadows of a shade?"
Yum-Yum and her bridesmaids, Peep-bo and Pitti Sing, introduce
themselves by the delicious trio, "Three Little Maids." Ko-Ko and
Pooh-Bah enter, and Yum-Yum reluctantly permits Ko-Ko to kiss her. At
this moment, Nanki-Poo arrives and the "three little maids" rush over to
him and welcome him with great effusion. Ko-Ko's jealousy is aroused,
and he asks to be presented. Right boyishly Nanki-Poo blurts out to
Ko-Ko that he loves Yum-Yum. He expects Ko-Ko to be angry, but instead
Ko-Ko thanks him for agreeing with him as to the lady's charms.
Presently Nanki-Poo and Yum-Yum manage to get the Courtyard to
themselves. During their _tete-a-tete_ Nanki-Poo reveals his secret to
Yum-Yum. They are interrupted by the appearance of Ko-Ko and escape in
different directions. As Ko-Ko soliloquises upon his beloved, he is
interrupted by Pooh-Bah with a letter from the Mikado. This is an
intimation that, as no executions have taken place in Titipu for a year,
the office of Lord High Executioner will be abolished and the city
reduced to the rank of a village unless somebody is beheaded within one
month. As this would involve the city in ruin, Ko-Ko declares that he
will have to execute someone. Pooh-Bah, pointing out that Ko-Ko himself
is under sentence of death, suggests that he should execute himself.
This leads to an acrimonious discussion, which is ended by Ko-Ko
appointing Pooh-Bah, who is already holding all the other high offices
of State, to be Lord High Substitute (for himself as a victim of the
headsman). But Pooh-Bah declares "I must set bounds to my insatiable
ambition." He draws the line at his own death.
Whilst Ko-Ko is lamenting the position as "simply appalling" he is
disturbed by the entrance of Nanki-Poo with a rope in his hands. He has
made up his mind to commit suicide because Ko-Ko is going to marry
Yum-Yum. Finding "threats, entreaties, prayers all useless" Ko-Ko is
struck with a brilliant idea. He suggests that Nanki-Poo should at the
end of a month's time "be beheaded handsomely at the hands of the Public
Executioner." To this Nanki-Poo agrees on condition that Ko-Ko permits
him to marry Yum-Yum. Reluctantly Ko-Ko accepts the condition, and when
Pooh-Bah returns to enquire what Ko-Ko has decided to do in regard to an
execution, he replies, "Congratulate me! I've found a volunteer." Whilst
the townsfolk of Titipu are bantering Nanki-Poo on the prospect of
marriage and death, their revelry is interrupted by the arrival of the
lady who was the cause of Nanki-Poo's wandering. Katisha discovers
Nanki-Poo and calls upon him to "give me my place." When he refuses she
would have revealed his identity, but every time she tries to say "He is
the son of your Mikado" her voice is drowned by the singing of
Nanki-Poo, Yum-Yum and the chorus. Eventually Katisha rushes away
threatening furious vengeance.
When the curtain rises again the scene is the garden of Ko-Ko's palace.
We see Yum-Yum decked by her bridesmaids for the wedding, while they
sing of her loveliness, and Pitti-Sing bids her "Sit with downcast eye;
let it brim with dew." Pitti-Sing tells her also that "modesty at
marriage tide well becomes a pretty bride," but this admonition seems
lost upon a bride who, when her adornment is complete, frankly revels in
her beauty. In "The Sun whose rays," a song of entrancing melody, she
declares, "I mean to rule the earth as he the sky."
But her rapture is marred by the reminder from Peep-Bo that her
bridegroom has only a month to live. Nanki-Poo finds her in tears, and
has much difficulty in comforting her, their feelings being aptly
expressed in that wonderful madrigal, which although it begins so
joyfully with "Brightly dawns our wedding day," yet ends in tears. Ko-Ko
now joins the wedding party, and although the sight of Yum-Yum in
Nanki-Poo's arms is "simple torture," he insists on remaining so that he
may get used to it. When Yum-Yum says it is only for a month, he tells
of his discovery that when a married man is beheaded his wife must be
buried alive. Naturally, Yum-Yum demurs to a wedding with such a hideous
ending to the honeymoon, and Nanki-Poo declares that, as he cannot live
without Yum-Yum, he intends to perform the "happy dispatch." Ko-Ko's
protest is followed by the entry of Pooh-Bah to announce the approach of
the Mikado and his suite. They will arrive in ten minutes. Ko-Ko,
believing that the Mikado is coming to see whether his orders regarding
an execution have been obeyed, is in great alarm. Nanki-Poo invites
Ko-Ko to behead him at once, and Pooh-Bah agitatedly urges Ko-Ko to
"chop it off," but he declares that he can't do it. He has "never even
killed a blue-bottle." Ko-Ko decides that the making of an affidavit
that Nanki-Poo has been executed, witnessed by Pooh-Bah in each of his
capacities as Lord Chief Justice, etc., etc., will satisfy the Mikado.
Pooh-Bah agrees on condition that he shall be "grossly insulted" with
"cash down."
Then as Commissionaire Pooh-Bah is ordered to find Yum-Yum, Ko-Ko orders
her to go along with the Archbishop (Pooh-Bah), who will marry her to
Nanki-Poo at once. Waving aside all questions, Ko-Ko urges them off just
as the procession heralding the Mikado and Katisha enters the garden to
the strains of "Miya sama, miya sama." The Mikado extols himself as "a
true philanthropist" and declares "my object all sublime, I shall
achieve in time; to let the punishment fit the crime." His list of
social crimes and the penalties prescribed for each class of offender
are equally amusing. Ko-Ko, Pooh-Bah and Pitti-Sing now kneel in the
presence, and Ko-Ko informs the Mikado that "the execution has taken
place" and hands in the coroner's certificate signed by Pooh-Bah. Then
the three proceed to describe an event which had happened only in their
imaginations.
The Mikado seems bored, and explains that though all this is very
interesting, he has come about a totally different matter. He asks for
his son, who is masquerading in Titipu under the name of Nanki-Poo.
Ko-Ko and his associates are visibly disturbed, but he stammers out that
Nanki-Poo has gone abroad. The Mikado demands his address.
"Knightsbridge" is the reply. (At the time this opera was originally
produced there was a Japanese colony in Knightsbridge.) Just then
Katisha, reading the coroner's certificate, discovers that it contains
the name of Nanki-Poo and shrieks her dismay. Pooh-Bah, Ko-Ko, and
Pitti-Sing grovel at the Mikado's feet, and apologise abjectly. The
Mikado urges them not to distress themselves, and just as they are
feeling that it doesn't really matter, the Mikado turns to Katisha with
"I forget the punishment for compassing the death of the heir-apparent."
The three culprits learn with horror that it is "something humorous, but
lingering, with either boiling oil or molten lead in it." The Mikado
appoints "after luncheon" for the punishment which "fits their crime."
When the Mikado has departed Ko-Ko and Pooh-Bah decide that Nanki-Poo
must "come to life at once." At this moment he and his bride cross the
garden--leaving for their honeymoon. Ko-Ko explains that the Mikado
wants Nanki-Poo, and Pooh-Bah ironically adds, "So does Katisha." But
Nanki Poo fears that, in her anger at his marriage, Katisha will
persuade the Mikado to order his execution, thus involving Yum-Yum in a
worse fate. He therefore refuses to re-appear until Ko-Ko has persuaded
Katisha to marry him. Then "existence will be as welcome as the flowers
in spring." As this seems to be the only way of escape, Ko-Ko seeks
Katisha. At first she repulses him, but after he has told her in song
the story of the little tom-tit that committed suicide because of
blighted affection, she relents.
Now the Mikado returns from luncheon, and asks if "the painful
preparations have been made." Being assured that they have, he orders
the three culprits to be produced. As they again grovel at his feet,
Katisha intercedes for mercy. She tells the Mikado that she has just
married "this miserable object," indicating Ko-Ko. The Mikado is
remarking "But as you have slain the heir-apparent" when Nanki-Poo
enters saying "the heir-apparent is not slain." He is heartily welcomed
by the Mikado, while Katisha denounces Ko-Ko as a traitor. Ko-Ko then
explains everything to the Mikado's satisfaction, and the opera ends
with the joyous strains of Nanki-Poo and Yum-Yum uniting in "the
threatened cloud has passed away and fairly shines the dawning day,"
whilst the entire company help them--
"With joyous shout and ringing cheer,
Inaugurate our new career."
"RUDDIGORE."
_Produced January 22nd, 1887._
In the days of long, long ago there live the wicked Sir Rupert
Murgatroyd, baronet of Ruddigore. He spent all his leisure and his
wealth in the persecution of witches, and the more fiendish his
cruelties, the more he enjoyed the ruthless sport. But there came a day
when he was roasting alive an old witch on the village green. The hag
uttered a terrible curse both on the baronet and on all his descendants.
Every lord of Ruddigore was doomed to commit one crime a day, and if he
attempted to avoid it or became satiated with guilt, that very day he
should die in awful agony. The prophecy came true. Each heir to the
title inherited the curse and came in the end to a fearful death.
Upon this plot Gilbert wrote his clever burlesque on the transpontine
drama--the drama of the virtuous peasant girl in the clutches of the
bold and bad baronet--and amongst his characters is a tragic figure not
unlike Shakespeare's Ophelia. The first scene is laid in the pretty
Cornish fishing village of Rederring. This village, by the way, has a
quaint institution in the form of a troop of professional bridesmaids,
who are bound to be on duty from ten to four o'clock every day, but
whose services have of late been in little request. The girls can only
hope that they may soon be able to celebrate the betrothal of Rose
Maybud, the belle of Rederring, a precise little maid whose every action
is regulated by a book of etiquette, written by no less an authority
than the wife of a Lord Mayor. Should an utter stranger be allowed to
pay her pretty compliments? "Always speak the truth," answers the book.
It tells her that "in accepting an offer of marriage, do so with
apparent hesitation," and this same guide and monitor declares that, in
similar circumstances, "a little show of emotion will not be misplaced."
Rose, indeed, has had very many suitors, but as yet her heart is free.
Early in the opera Dame Hannah, who was herself once wooed by the last
baronet in disguise, relates the story of the terrible curse on the
house of Murgatroyd. She is Rose's aunt, and she talks to the girl about
Robin Oakapple, a young man who "combines the manners of a Marquis with
the morals of a Methodist." Now, this same Robin Oakapple, we afterwards
learn, is himself the real owner of Ruddigore, but ten years ago he so
dreaded the thought of becoming the victim of the witch's malediction
that he fled from his ancestral home, assumed the style and name of a
simple farmer, and lived unsuspected in Rederring. In the belief that he
was dead his younger brother succeeded to the baronetcy and all its
obligations to a life of infamy. Only two know the secret--Robin's
faithful servant, Old Adam, and his sailor foster-brother, Richard
Dauntless.
Robin is such a shy fellow that he cannot summon up the pluck to propose
to Rose Maybud. She, it seems, would not be unwilling to return his
affections if he declared them, and she gives more than a broad hint to
her bashful lover in a delightful duet, "Poor Little Man." But Robin has
to do his love-making by proxy. Luckily or otherwise, Richard has just
returned from the sea, and this hearty British tar sings a rollicking
song in the Dibdin manner about how his man-o'-war, the "Tom-Tit," met a
little French frigate, and how they had "pity on a poor Parley-voo."
When "Ruddigore" was produced, this number gave grave offence to the
French people, and there were critics at home who held that it reflected
also on the British Navy. The storm, however, never led then and never
would lead now to international complications, and what questions of
taste there may be in the lyric are soon forgotten in the engaging
hornpipe which follows the song.
Richard, who talks in nautical phrases and declares that he always acts
strictly as his heart dictates, promises to help Robin in securing the
hand of Rose Maybud. He at least is not afflicted with too much
diffidence, and Robin himself sings the lines, which have now passed
into a proverb, that if in the world you wish to advance "you must stir
it and stump it and blow your own trumpet." But Richard, when he sees
the girl, acts as his heart dictates and falls in love with her himself,
the courtship scene being delightfully quaint. Robin returns to claim
his bride, but when he finds that his foster-brother has played him
false, he is not loath to praise his good qualities. Yet, in a trio, the
fickle Rose, having the choice between a man who owns many acres and a
humble sailor, gives herself to Robin Oakapple.
[Illustration: HENRY A. LYTTON AS "ROBIN OAKAPPLE" IN "RUDDIGORE."]
This incident is followed by the appearance of Mad Margaret, a crazy
figure in white who lost her reason when she was jilted by the reigning
baronet, Sir Despard Murgatroyd. The poor, distracted girl is still
seeking for her faithless lover, and as she toys with her flowers she
sings a plaintive and haunting ballad "To a garden full of posies."
Following this strange scene, there arrive the Bucks and Blades--all
wearing the regimental uniforms of Wellington's time, the period to
which the opera is supposed to belong--and after them the gloomy Sir
Despard. The crowd shrink from him in horror, while he, poor man, tells
how he has really the heart of a child, but how a whole picture gallery
of ancestors threaten him with death if he hesitates to commit his daily
crime. Then Richard re-enters. Either because of his anger that Robin
has claimed Rose's hand or because, at whatever cost, he must do as his
heart dictates, he makes known to the baronet that his missing brother
is none other than Robin Oakapple. When, a little later, the nuptial
ceremony of the happy couple is about to begin, the festivities are
interrupted by Sir Despard dramatically declaring Robin's real identity,
and poor Robin has to forfeit Rose, who once more turns to Richard, and
face a fateful existence as Sir Ruthven Murgatroyd.
For the second act the scene moves to the haunted Picture Gallery of
Ruddigore Castle. Sir Ruthven, otherwise Robin, now wears the haggard
aspect of a guilty roue, while the once-benevolent Old Adam acts the
part of the wicked "confidential adviser of the greatest villain
unhung." They discuss a likely crime for the day. It concerns Richard
and Rose, who have arrived to ask for the baronet's consent to their
marriage, and he retorts by threatening to commit them to a dungeon.
This the sailor thwarts by waving a Union Jack. Then Rose prevails upon
the wicked relative to relent. Left alone, the unhappy man addresses the
portraits of his ancestors, bidding them to remember the time when they
themselves welcomed death at last as a means of freedom from a guilty
existence, and urging them to let the thought of that repentance "tune
your souls to mercy on your poor posterity." The stage darkens for a
moment, and then it is seen that the pictures have become animated and
that the figures, representing the long line of the accursed race, and
garbed magnificently according to the times in which each of the
ancestors lived, have stepped from their frames. Sir Roderic, the last
of the baronets to die, sings a spectral song about the ghostly
revelries by night.
Now the ancestors remind their degenerate successor that it is their
duty to see that he commits his daily crimes in conscientious and
workmanlike style. They are not impressed with his record of the crimes
he has so far committed. "Everybody does that," they tell him, when he
declares that he has falsified his income-tax return, and they are also
unmoved when he says that, on other days, he forged his own will and
disinherited his unborn son. They demand that he must at least carry off
a lady, and when he refuses they torture him until, in agony, he has to
accept their command. When the ghosts have returned to their frames Old
Adam is accordingly ordered to bring a maiden--any maiden will do--from
the village.
Once more we meet Sir Despard and Mad Margaret. They are prim of manner,
they wear black of formal cut, and in every way their appearances have
changed. They are married and conduct a National School. The ex-baronet
has become expert at penny readings. Margaret, now a district visitor,
has recovered her sanity, though she has occasional lapses. The quaint
duet between them is followed by a meeting with Robin, who hears that
his record of infamy includes not only the crimes he has committed
during the week, but all those perpetrated by Despard during the ten
years he reigned at Ruddigore. He decides, even at the cost of his life,
to bid his ancestors defiance. But now Old Adam returns, not with a
beautiful maiden, but with old Dame Hannah. She is a tiger cat indeed,
and despite the baronet's declaration that he is reforming and that his
intentions towards her are honourable, she seizes a formidable dagger
from one of the armed figures and declares for a fight to the finish.
The episode is interrupted by the re-appearance of the ghostly Sir
Roderic. What is more, he and Dame Hannah recognise themselves as old
lovers, and a whimsical love-scene leads up to a tender little ballad
about the "flower and the oak tree."
The end comes swiftly. Robin, accompanied by all the other characters,
rushes in to declare his happy discovery. He argues that a baronet can
die only by refusing to commit his daily crime, and thus it follows that
a refusal to commit a crime is tantamount to suicide, which is in itself
a crime. The curse will thus not stand logical analysis! Sir Roderic
concurs, and as the natural deduction is that he himself ought never to
have died at all, he and Dame Hannah are able at last to bring joy and
laughter within the grim walls of Ruddigore. Robin, having found a week
as holder of a title ample enough, determines to earn a modest
livelihood in agricultural employment, and this time he both claims and
keeps the hand of Rose Maybud. Richard, robbed of his intended bride,
soon replaces her from amongst the troup of professional bridesmaids,
while Despard and Margaret leave to pass a secluded existence in the
town of Basingstoke.
"THE YEOMEN OF THE GUARD."
_Produced October 3rd, 1888._
Jack Point was a poor strolling player in the days of old Merrie
England. With pretty Elsie Maynard he tramped through the towns and
villages, and everywhere the two entertained the good folk with their
songs and their dances, their quips and their cranks. Jack Point could
have been no ordinary jester. Some years before he had been in the
service of the Archbishop of Canterbury, and he mortally offended his
Grace by his conundrum that the only difference between the two of them
was that "whereas his Grace was paid L10,000 a year for being good, poor
Jack Point was good--for nothing." "Twas but a harmless jest," the
Merry-man sadly reflected, but the Archbishop had him whipped and put in
the stocks as a rogue, and Jack Point was in no humour to "take a post
again with the dignified clergy."
Then began the vagabondage of the strolling player. Jack and Elsie made
but a poor living, though they looked forward to the time when the
smiles of fortune, the rewards of honest mirth, would allow them to
marry. Certainly Jack Point had a pretty wit, and beneath the motley
there beat a true heart of gold, too soon to be broken by tragedy. It
was the old, old story of the jester who to the world's eye was a merry
and boisterous fellow, though in his inner being he was suffering all
the while the tortures of anguish. But list ye now to the story's
unfolding!
The curtain rises on a faithful picture of the Tower of London, that
picturesque and historic old fortress indissolubly connected with some
of the brightest, and the darkest, annals of England. Soon we see the
Yeomen of the Guard, clad in their traditional garb and carrying their
halberds, and amongst them is old Sergeant Meryll. He has a daughter
named Phoebe, whose heart and hand is being sought in vain by the grim
and repulsive-looking Wilfred Shadbolt, who links the office of head
jailor with the "assistant tormentorship." It is part of this uncouth
fellow's duty to twist the thumbscrew and turn the rack to wring
confessions from the prisoners. So far from Phoebe being attracted to
Shadbolt, her thoughts are turned towards a young and handsome officer,
Colonel Fairfax, who lies under sentence of death in the Tower by the
evil designs of his kinsman, Sir Charles Poltwhistle, a Secretary of
State. Fairfax has been condemned on a charge of sorcery, though his
cousin's craft is really to secure the succession to his rich estate,
which falls to him if he dies unmarried.
Some hopes linger that the soldier may yet be reprieved. Leonard Meryll,
the old sergeant's son, is coming from Windsor that day after the Court
has honoured him for his valour in many martial adventures, and it is
possible that he may bring with him the order that will save Colonel
Fairfax. He does not bring the reprieve. Sergeant Meryll, whose life the
condemned man has twice saved, and who would now readily give his own
life for him, thereupon schemes a deception. Leonard's future career is
to be with the Yeomen of the Guard, but as his arrival is unknown, it
is arranged that he shall hide himself for a while and his place be
filled by the imprisoned Fairfax. Just after this the Colonel himself
comes into view, under an escort commanded by the Lieutenant, and on his
way to the Cold Harbour Tower "to await his end in solitude." He treats
death lightly--has he not a dozen times faced it in battle?--but he has
one strange last request. Could he, as a means of thwarting his
relative, be allowed to marry? The lady would be a bride but for an
hour, and her legacy would be his dishonoured name and a hundred crowns,
and "never was a marriage contracted with so little of evil to the
contracting parties." The Lieutenant, who admires the brave fellow,
believes that the task of finding him a wife should be easy.
Now we meet Jack Point and Elsie Maynard. Not a little terrified, they
are chased in by the crowd, who bid them "banish your timidity and with
all rapidity give us quip and quiddity." The choice of the wandering
minstrels is their duet, "I have a song to sing, O!" Never was there a
more enchanting ditty, and very significantly it tells of a merry-man's
love of a maid, and of the humble maid--
"Who loved a lord, and who laughed aloud,
At the moan of the merry-man, moping mum
Whose soul was sad, and whose glance was glum,
Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb,
As he sighed for the love of a ladye!"
Scarcely have the crowd finished applauding this offering than the
Lieutenant enters, clears the rabble from the green, and inquires the
history of Jack and Elsie. Jack tells him of their humble means of
livelihood. Elsie is still unmarried, "for though I'm a fool," quoths
the jester, "there is a limit to my folly." The Lieutenant then outlines
his plan to make her a bride for an hour, and as the bargain seems a
sound one and money is scarce, the two agree to the subterfuge, and
Elsie is led into the Tower cell, blindfolded, to be wedded to Fairfax.
Jack Point meanwhile tries on the officer some of his best conundrums
and his incorrigible talent for repartee.
Shortly after this Phoebe wheedles the keys of the prison from
Shadbolt, her "sour-faced admirer," and Fairfax is thus restored to
liberty in the guise of a Yeoman of the Guard. Fairfax, of course, is
taken for Leonard and complimented on his successful campaigns. And then
there tolls the bell of St. Peter's. The crowd enter, the executioner's
block is brought on, and the masked headsman takes his place. But when
the Yeomen go to fetch the prisoner they find that the cell is empty,
and that he has escaped. Shadbolt the jailer is arrested, and the people
rush off in confusion, leaving Elsie insensible in the arms of her
unknown husband, Fairfax. With this the curtain falls.
When it ascends once more on the same scene, the old housekeeper of the
Tower, Dame Carruthers, chides the Yeomen on their failure both to keep
and to re-capture Fairfax. Then Point and Shadbolt appear in very low
spirits. For the Merry-man's dolefulness there is ample cause, and he
himself laments how ridiculous it is that "a poor heart-broken man must
needs be merry or he will be whipped." Shadbolt, envious of his
companion's gifts, confesses to a secret yearning of his own to follow
the jester's vocation, and the lugubrious fellow tells how deft and
successful are his own delicate shafts of wit in the torture chamber and
cells! Jack Point agrees, for a consideration, to teach Shadbolt "the
rules that all family fools must observe if they love their profession."
The consideration is that the jailor must declare that he shot Fairfax
with an arquebus at night as he was attempting to swim over the Thames.
The bargain is struck, and in a short time a shot is heard, and the
jailor re-enters to declare that the escaped prisoner has been shot and
drowned in the river. Fairfax himself has been lamenting that, although
free from his fetters grim, he is still bound for good and ill to an
unknown bride, a situation that leads up to the first of those
delightful quartettes, "Strange Adventure." He meets Elsie, is attracted
at once by her beauty, and learns the secret of her perplexity, though
how can he proclaim his real self while he is still Leonard Meryll?
It is told us in a tuneful trio that "a man who would woo a fair maid
should 'prentice himself to the trade and study all day in methodical
way how to flatter, cajole and persuade." Certainly Fairfax knows these
arts much better than Point. Before the jester's eyes he begins to
fascinate the girl with sweet words and tender caresses, and the utter
disillusionment of poor Jack Point, a victim of the fickleness of
womankind and outwitted in love, is reflected in that haunting number,
"When a wooer goes a wooing." Events now race towards their end--an end
that to two at least has all the joyous warmth of romance, but to the
one pathetic figure in his motley the blackness of despair. Leonard
hastens in with the belated reprieve, and Elsie soon learns with
happiness that the gallant Yeoman who has captured her heart is, in
truth, her own strangely-wed husband, Fairfax. For her the hardship of
the stroller's life has passed. So also has it for the broken Merry-man.
Sadly he kneels by the girl who has forsaken his arms for another's,
gently fondles and kisses the hem of her dress, bestows on her the sign
of his blessing, and in the last tremor of grief falls at her
feet--dead!
"THE GONDOLIERS."
_Produced December 7th, 1889._
"The Gondoliers" tells of the strange and romantic fortunes of two
sturdy Republicans who are called upon jointly to assume the
responsibilities of Monarchy. They are Marco and Guiseppe Palmieri, who
ordinarily follow the calling of Venetian gondoliers, and who hold
staunchly to the doctrine that "all men are equal." Kingship does,
indeed, seem rather less abhorrent to their ideas when they are summoned
to fill that exalted office themselves, but at the same time they do
concede that neither their courtiers nor their menials are their
inferiors in any degree. Indeed, when they rise in the scale of social
importance they see that their subjects rise too, and perhaps it is not
surprising that in this quaint court of Barataria are functionaries
basking in the splendour of such titles as the Lord High Coachman and
the Lord High Cook. Even in the heart of the most democratic of mankind
does the weakness for titles eternally linger!
It is in Venice, with a picturesque canal in the background, that the
opera begins. The girls, their arms laden with roses white and roses
red, are waiting for the most handsome and popular of all the
gondolieri, who are coming to choose their brides from amongst this
comely throng. So that, amidst such a bevy of loveliness, fate itself
may select whom their partners shall be, the brothers decide to be
blindfolded and to undertake to marry whichever two girls they catch. In
this way Gianetta is claimed by Marco and Tessa by Guiseppe. And both
were the very girls they wanted! Singing and dancing like the lightsome,
joyous people they are, the couples hasten to the altar without more
ado.
A Spanish grandee, the Duke of Plaza-Toro, now arrives by gondola with
his Duchess and his daughter, Casilda. With them are their suite--the
drummer-lad Luiz. The Duke is a celebrated, cultivated, underrated
nobleman of impecunious estate, shabby in attire but unquestionably
gentle in breeding. He laments that his entry into the town has not been
as imposing as his station requires, but the halberdiers and the band
are mercenary people, and their services were not available without
pre-payment in cash. Luiz is sent to announce the arrival of the ducal
party to the Grand Inquisitor. While he is absent the Duke and Duchess
tell their daughter the reason of their visit to Venice. She was married
when only six months old to the infant heir to the Baratarian Throne.
For State reasons the secret could not be told her before, and it seems
that when her husband's father, then the reigning King, became a
Wesleyan Methodist and was killed in an insurrection, the baby
bridegroom was stolen by the Inquisition.
Casilda takes no pleasure in this sudden accession to Queenship. She has
nothing to wear, and besides that, the family is penniless. That fact
does not disturb the Duke. He has anticipated the problem already.
Seeing that his social prestige is enormous, he is having himself
floated as a company, the Duke of Plaza-Toro, Limited. He does not
regard the proceeding as undignified. This Duke never did follow the
fashions. He has made it his business to lead them, and he recalls how
"in enterprise of martial kind" when there was any fighting, he "led"
his regiment from behind, because "he found it less exciting," Such was
this unaffected, undetected, well-connected warrior, the Duke of
Plaza-Toro.
[Illustration: HENRY A. LYTTON AS
"THE DUKE OF PLAZA-TORO" IN "THE GONDOLIERS."]
Left alone, Luiz and Casilda show themselves to be secretly in love with
each other, and they bemoan the miserable discovery that has ruined the
sweet dreams of the future. The Duke and Duchess in the meanwhile have
gone to pay their respects to the Grand Inquisitor. They return with
this lugubrious personage, garbed all in black, and present to him the
little lady who, as he says, is so unexpectedly called upon to assume
the functions of Royalty. Unfortunately he cannot introduce her to her
husband immediately. The King's identity is a little uncertain, though
there is no probable, possible shadow of doubt that he is one of two men
actually in the town and plying the modest but picturesque calling of
the gondolier. It seems that, after the little prince was stolen, he was
placed in the charge of a highly-respectable gondolier who had,
nevertheless, an incurable weakness for drink, and who could never say
which of the two children in his home was his own son and which was the
prince. That matter can be solved by their nurse, Luiz's mother, who is
being brought from the mountains and whose memory will be stimulated, if
need be, by the persuasive methods of the Inquisition.
The gondoliers now return with their brides. Tessa tells in a beautiful
number how, when a merry maiden marries, "every sound becomes a song,
all is right and nothing's wrong." It was too sanguine a thought! The
Grand Inquisitor, a gloomy figure amidst these festivities, finds the
fact that Marco and Guiseppe have been married an extremely awkward one,
and no less awkward their declaration that they are heart and soul
Republicans. He does not tell them that one is married already--married
to Casilda in infancy--but he does startle them by the news that one of
them is a King. Sturdy Republicans as they are, they are loath to accept
the idea of immediate abdication, and it is agreed that they shall leave
for their country straightaway and, until the rightful heir is
established, jointly hold the reins of government. The Grand Inquisitor
for good reasons will not let their wives accompany them, but the
separation may not be a long one, and the four speculate on the thrills
of being a "right-down regular Royal Queen." With a fond farewell the
gondoliers then set sail for their distant dominion.
When in the second act we see the Pavilion of the Court of
Barataria--there in one corner is the double-seated throne--we see also
the happy workings of a "monarchy that's tempered with Republican
equality." Courtiers and private soldiers, officers of high rank and
menials of every degree are enjoying themselves without any regard to
social distinctions, and all are splendidly garbed. The Kings neither
expect nor receive the deference due to their office, but they try to
make themselves useful about the palace, whether by polishing their own
crowns, running little errands for their Ministers, cleaning up in the
kitchens, or deputising for sentries who go "in search of beer and
beauty." It gives them, as Guiseppe sings, the gratifying feeling that
their duty has been done, and in some measure it compensates for their
two solitary grievances. One of these is that their subjects, while
maintaining the legal fiction that they are one person, will not
recognise that they have independent appetites. The other is--the
absence of their wives. Marco is moved to describe the great specific
for man's human happiness:--
"Take a pair of sparkling eyes,
Hidden ever and anon,
In a merciful eclipse.
Do not heed their mild surprise,
Having passed the Rubicon.
Take a pair of rosy lips,
Take a figure trimly planned--
Such as admiration whets
(Be particular in this);
Take a tender little hand,
Fringed with dainty fingerettes.
Press it--in parenthesis--
Take all these, you lucky man--
Take and keep them if you can!"
No sooner has he finished than the contadine enter, having braved the
seas at the risks of their lives, for existence without their menfolk
was dull and their womanly sense of curiosity strong. The re-union is
celebrated by a boisterous dance (the cachucha). It is interrupted by
the arrival of another unexpected visitor--the Grand Inquisitor.
The Grand Inquisitor, left alone with his _proteges_, first of all
expresses his doubts whether the abolition of social distinctions is a
workable theory. It had been tried before, and particularly by a jovial
old King who, in moments of tipsy benevolence, promoted so many
favourites to the top of the tree that "Lord Chancellors were cheap as
sprats, and Bishops in their shovel hats were plentiful as tabby
cats--in point of fact, too many." The plain conclusion was that "when
everyone is somebodee, then no one's anybody." Then he tells them of the
marriage of one of them in infancy. It is certainly an awkward
predicament. Two men are the husbands of three wives! Marco, Guiseppe,
Tessa and Gianetta try to solve the complicated plot.
Soon afterwards the ducal party arrive attired in the utmost
magnificence. The Plaza-Toro issue has been most successful, and the
Duke proceeds to describe how his money-making devices include those of
securing small titles and orders for Mayors and Recorders, and the
Duchess's those of chaperoning dubious ladies into high-class society.
The Duke ceremoniously receives the two gondoliers, but he has to take
exception to the fact that his arrival has been marked by no royal
salutes, no guard of honour, and no triumphal arches. They explain that
their off-handed people would not tolerate the expense. His Grace
thereupon advises them to impress their court with their importance, and
to the strains of a delightful gavotte he gives the awkward fellows a
lesson in the arts of deportment.
Luckily, the tangled plot is swiftly and very happily solved on the
appearance of the old foster mother, who declares that the missing
Prince is none other than Luiz. He promptly ascends the throne and
claims the hand of Casilda, while Marco and Guiseppe, their days of
regal splendour completed, are glad enough to return with their wives to
beautiful Venice, there to become "once more gondolieri, both skilful
and wary."
"UTOPIA, LIMITED."
_Produced October 7th, 1893._
"Utopia Limited" is the story--and a very diverting story it is--of a
remote country that is desperately anxious to bring itself "up-to-date."
Utopia is somewhere in the Southern Pacific, and its inhabitants used to
idle in easy, tropical langour amidst their picturesque palm groves.
Idlers they were, that is to say, until they first heard of the wonders
of England, for then it was that they determined that their land must be
swiftly and completely Anglicised. The reformation was undertaken with
the utmost zest. King Paramount's eldest daughter, the beautiful
Princess Zara, has spent five years in England and taken a high degree
as a "Girton Girl." She is due home once more at the time that the story
of the opera begins, but already her people have heard of the wise and
powerful country overseas, and already they have done much to re-model
upon it their own manners, customs and forms of government.
Existence could never have been altogether dull in Utopia. It is ruled
by a monarch, a despot only in theory, for the constitution is really
that of a dynasty tempered by dynamite. This may seem a hard saying. The
explanation of it is that the King, so far from being an autocrat, is
watched over day and night by two Wise Men, and on his first lapse from
political or social propriety he is to be denounced to the Public
Exploder. It would then be this Court official's duty to blow him up--he
always has about him a few squibs and crackers--and doubtless he would
discharge this function with greater alacrity because he is himself
Heir-apparent. Clearly the King's lot is not a happy one, and no less so
because the Wise Men insist that all sorts of Royal scandals and
indiscretions shall be written by himself, anonymously, for the spicy
columns of the "Palace Peeper." Generally his Majesty's agents contrive
to buy each edition up, but isolated copies do occasionally get into
unfriendly hands, and one of these contained his stinging little
paragraph about his "goings-on" with the Royal Second Housemaid.
The King has two younger daughters, the Princesses Nekaya and Kalyba,
who are being "finished" by a grave English governess, the Lady Sophy.
Exceedingly modest and demure, with their hands folded and their eyes
cast down, they are to be exhibited in the market place as patterns of
what "from the English standpoint is looked upon as maidenly
perfection." In particular they are to reveal the arts of courtship,
showing how it is proper for the young lady to be coy and interestedly
agitated in turn, and how she must always rehearse her emotions at home
before the looking-glass. In the meanwhile the King, very deferential in
manner, has an interview with his two Wise Men, Scaphio and Phantis.
Notwithstanding that he seems a little hurt about the outrageous attacks
on his morality which he has to write and publish at their command, he
at least sees the irresistible humour of the strange situation, and he
proceeds to sing a capital song about what a farce life is, alike when
one's born, when one becomes married, and when one reaches the
disillusioned years.
Zara now arrives from her long journey. She is escorted by Captain
Fitzbattleaxe, together with four troopers of the 1st Life Guards, whose
resplendent bearing immediately impress the maids of Utopia. She brings
with her, moreover, six representatives of the principal causes which,
she says, have tended to make England the powerful, happy and blameless
country it is, and their gifts of reorganisation are to work a miracle
in her father's realm. The King and his subjects are then and there
introduced to these six "Flowers of Progress." One of them, Captain
Fitzbattleaxe himself, is to re-model the Utopian Army. Sir Bailey
Barre, Q.C., M.P., is a logician who, according to his brief, can
demonstrate that black is white or that two and two make five, just as
do the clever people of England. Then there is Lord Dramaleigh, a Lord
High Chamberlain, who the Princess says is to "cleanse our court from
moral stain and purify our stage." A County Councillor, Mr. Blushington,
has come with a mind packed with civic improvement schemes, and the
wicked music-halls he also intends to purify. Mr. Goldbury is a company
promoter. He floats anything from stupendous loans to foreign thrones to
schemes for making peppermint-drops. Last of all comes Captain Sir
Edward Corcoran, R.N., to show King Paramount how to run an invincible
Navy.
Joyously do the inhabitants hail these "types of England's power, ye
heaven-enlightened band." The King is impressed most of all with the
idea of a "company limited." Goldbury explains just what this means, and
how one can start the biggest and rashest venture on a capital, say, of
eighteen-pence, and yet be safe from liability. "If you succeed," he
declares, "your profits are stupendous," whereas "if you fail pop goes
your eighteen-pence." It strikes the King as rather dishonest, but if it
is good enough for England, the first commercial country in the world,
it is good enough for Utopia. What is more, he decides to go down to
posterity as the first Sovereign in Christendom who registered his Crown
and State under the Joint Stock Company's Act, 1862. It is with this
brilliant scheme that the first act comes to a close.
The second act is set in the Throne Room of the Palace. Fitzbattleaxe is
with the Princess Zara, and he is lamenting how a tenor in love, as he
is with her, cannot in his singing do himself justice. The two then
discuss the remarkable changes that have come about since the country
determined to be Anglicised. The King, when he enters soon afterwards,
wears the dress of a British Field Marshal. He is to preside, according
to the articles of association, over the first statutory Cabinet Council
of Utopia (Limited). For this gathering the "Flowers of Progress" also
arrive, and after they have ranged their chairs round in Christy
Minstrel fashion, the proceedings open with a rollicking song by the
King. This is the chorus:--
"It really is surprising
What a thorough Anglicising,
We have brought about--Utopia's quite another land
In her enterprising movements
She is England--with improvements
Which we dutifully offer to our motherland!"
Following the meeting comes the courtly ceremonial of the Drawing Room.
All the ladies are presented in due form to his Majesty. Then, after a
beautiful unaccompanied chorus, the stage empties.
Scaphio and Phantis, dressed as judges in red and ermine robes, now
enter to storm and rage over the new order of things. All their
influence has gone. The sundry schemes they had for making provision for
their old age are broken and bankrupt. Even the "Palace Peeper" is in a
bad way, and as to the clothes they have imported to satisfy the
cravings for the English fashions, their customers plead liability
limited to a declared capital of eighteen-pence. The King, whom they
used to bully to their hearts' content, is no longer a human being, but
a corporation. Once he doffed his Crown respectfully before speaking to
them, but now he dances about in lighthearted capers, telling them that
all they can do is to put their grievances in writing before the Board
of Utopia (Limited). The two call into their counsels the Public
Exploder. Between them they work out a plot. By a revolution the Act of
1862 must be at all costs repealed.
Shortly after the trio have departed to scheme out the details, there is
a delightful scene between Lord Dramaleigh and Mr. Goldbury, and the two
coy Princesses, Nekaya and Kalyba. The "shrinking sensitiveness" of
these young ladies is held by themselves to be most thoroughly English.
So far from that, the men have to tell them, the girls in the country
they come from are blithe, frank and healthy creatures who love the
freshness of the open air and the strenuous exertions of sport, and who
are "in every pure enjoyment wealthy." (Gilbert, by the way, wrote this
opera in the early 'nineties.) Loyally does Goldbury chant their
eulogy:--
"Go search the world and search the sea.
Then come you home and sing with me,
There's no such gold and no such pearl
As a bright and beautiful English girl."
Nekaya and Kalyba are quickly converted to the idea that to be her
natural self is woman's most winsome quality. Then follows an interlude
between the Lady Sophy, whose primness is merely a cloak for ambition,
and the King. Compromising paragraphs in the society paper having been
explained away, the two declare their mutual love, and soon they are
caught by other couples in the act of dancing and kissing. No excuses
are attempted and all engage in a wild festive dance.
Enter, now, the revolutionary band under the command of Scaphio, Phantis
and the Public Exploder. They relate how the prosperity of Utopia has
been brought to naught by the "Flowers of Progress." Suddenly the
Princess Zara remembers that, in her great scheme of reform, the most
essential element of all has been forgotten, and that was--party
government! Introduce that bulwark and foundation of Britain's greatness
and all will be well! Legislation will thus be brought to a standstill,
and then there will be "sickness in plenty, endless lawsuits, crowded
jails, interminable confusion in the Army and Navy, and, in short,
general and unexampled prosperity." The King decrees that party
government and all its blessings shall be adopted, and the opera ends
with a song of homage to a brave distant isle which Utopia is
henceforward to imitate in her virtues, her charities and "her
Parliamentary peculiarities."
"Great Britain is that monarchy sublime
To which some add (but others do not) Ireland."