_OPERA COMIC_
How W. S. Gilbert loves a Joke—A Brilliant Companion—Operas
Reproduced without an Altered Line—Many Professions—A Lovely
Home—Sir Arthur Sullivan’s Gift—A Rehearsal of _Pinafore_—Breaking
up Crowds—Punctuality—Soldier or no Soldier—_Iolanthe_—Gilbert as
an Actor—Gilbert as Audience—The Japanese Anthem—Amusement.
Few authors are so interesting as their work—they generally reserve
their wit or trenchant sarcasm for their books. W. S. Gilbert is an
exception to this rule, however; he is as amusing himself as his
_Bab Ballads_, and as sarcastic as _H.M.S. Pinafore_. A sparkling
librettist, he is likewise a brilliant talker. How he loves a joke,
even against himself. How well he tells a funny story, even if he
invent it on the spot as “perfectly true.”
His mind is so quick, he grasps the stage-setting of a dinner-party at
once, and forthwith adapts his drama of the hour to exactly suit his
audience.
Like all amusing people, he has his quiet moments, of course; but when
Mr. Gilbert is in good form he is inimitable. He talks like his plays,
turns everything upside-down with wondrous rapidity, and propounds
nonsensical theories in delightful language. He is assuredly the
greatest wit of his day, and to him we owe the origin of musical-comedy
in its best form.
With a congenial companion Mr. Gilbert is in his element. He is a
fine-looking man with white hair and ponderous moustache, and owing to
his youthful complexion appears younger than his years. He loves to
have young people about him, and is never happier than when surrounded
by friends.
In 1901, after an interval of nearly twenty years, his clever comic
opera _Iolanthe_ was revived at the Savoy with great success. Not one
line, not one word of its original text had been altered, yet it took
London by storm, just as did _Pinafore_ when produced for the second
time. How few authors’ work will stand so severe a test.
The genesis of _Iolanthe_ is referable, like many of Mr. Gilbert’s
libretti, to one of the _Bab Ballads_. The “primordial atomic globule”
from which it traces its descent is a poem called _The Fairy Curate_,
in which a clergyman, the son of a fairy, gets into difficulties
with his bishop, who catches him in the act of embracing an airily
dressed young lady, whom the bishop supposes to be a member of the
_corps de ballet_. The bishop, reasonably enough, declines to accept
the clergyman’s explanation that the young lady is his mother, and
difficulties ensue. In the opera, Strephon, who is the son of the fairy
Iolanthe, is detected by his _fiancée_ Phyllis in the act of embracing
_his_ mother; Phyllis takes the bishop’s view of the situation, and
complications arise.
Mr. Gilbert has penned such well-known blank verse dramas as _The
Palace of Truth_, _Pygmalion and Galatea_, _The Wicked Worlds_, _Broken
Hearts_, besides many serious and humorous plays and comedies—namely,
_Dan’l Druce_, _Engaged_, _Sweethearts_, _Comedy and Tragedy_, and some
dozen light operas.
It is a well-known fact that almost every comedian wishes to be a
tragedian, and _vice versâ_, and Mr. Gilbert is said to have had
a great and mighty sorrow all his life. He always wanted to write
serious dramas—long, five-act plays full of situations and thought.
But no; fate ordained otherwise, when, having for a change started
his little barque as a librettist, he had to persevere in penning
what he calls “nonsense.” The public were right; they knew there was
no other W. S. Gilbert; they wanted to be amused, so they continually
clamoured for more; and if any one did not realise his genius at the
first production, he can hardly fail to do so now, when the author’s
plays are again presented after a lapse of years, without an altered
line, and still make long runs. Some say the art of comedy-writing is
dying out, and certainly no second Gilbert seems to be rising among
the younger men of the present day, no humourist who can call tears or
laughter at will, and send his audience away happy every night. The
world owes a debt of gratitude to this gifted scribe, for he has never
put an unclean line upon the stage, and yet provokes peals of laughter
while shyly giving his little digs at existing evils. His style has
justly created a name of its own.
W. S. Gilbert has always had a deep-rooted objection to newspaper
interviews, just as he refuses ever to see one of his own plays
performed. He attends the last rehearsal, gives the minutest directions
up to the final moment, and then usually spends the evening in the
green-room or in the wings of the theatre. Very few authors accept fame
or success more philosophically than he does. When _Princess Ida_ was
produced he was sitting in the green-room, where there was an excitable
Frenchman, who had supplied the armour used in the piece. The play was
going capitally, and the Frenchman exclaimed, in wild excitement, “Mais
savez-vous que nous avons là un succès solide?” To which Mr. Gilbert
quietly replied, “Yes, your armour seems to be shining brightly.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the Frenchman, with a gesture of amazement, “mais vous
êtes si calme!”
And this would probably describe the outward appearance of the author
on a first night; nevertheless nothing will induce him to go in front
even with reproductions.
Mr. Gilbert, who was born in 1836, proudly remarks that he has cheated
the doctors and signed a new lease of life on the twenty-one years’
principle. During those sixty-eight years he has turned his hand to
many trades. After a career at the London University, where he took
his B.A. degree, he read for the Royal Artillery, but the Crimean
war was coming to an end, and consequently, more officers not being
required, he became a clerk in the Privy Council Office, and was
subsequently called to the Bar at the Inner Temple. He was also an
enthusiastic militiaman, and at one time an occasional contributor to
_Punch_, becoming thus an artist as well as a writer. His pictures
are well known, for the two or three hundred illustrations in the
_Bab Ballads_ are all from his clever pencil. Neatly framed they now
adorn the billiard-room of his charming country home, and, strange to
relate, the originals are not much larger than the reproductions, the
work being extremely fine. I have seen him make an excellent sketch
in a few minutes at his home on Harrow Weald; but photography has
latterly cast its fascinations about him, and he often disappears into
some dark chamber for hours at a time, alone with his thoughts and his
photographic pigments, for he develops and prints everything himself.
The results are charming, more especially his scenic studies.
What a lovely home his is, standing in a hundred and ten acres right on
the top of Harrow Weald, with a glorious view over London, Middlesex,
Berks, and Bucks. He farms the land himself, and talks of crops and
live stock with a glib tongue, although the real enthusiast is his
wife, who loves her prize chickens and her roses. Grim’s Dyke has an
ideal garden, with white pigeons drinking out of shallow Italian bowls
upon the lawn, with its wonderful Egyptian tent, its rose-walks and
its monkey-house, its lake and its fish. The newly-made lake is so
well arranged that it looks quite old with its bulrushes, water-lilies
of pink, white, and yellow hue, and its blue forget-me-nots. The
Californian trout have proved a great success, and are a source of
much sport. Everything is well planned and beautifully kept; no better
lawns or neater walks, no more prolific glass houses or vegetable
gardens could be found than those at Harrow Weald.
The Gilberts give delightful week-end parties, and the brightest star
is generally the host himself.
At one of these recent gatherings, for which Grim’s Dyke is famous,
some beautiful silver cups and a claret jug were upon the table. They
were left by will to Mr. Gilbert by his colleague of so many years, Sir
Arthur Sullivan, and are a great pleasure to both the host and hostess
of that well-organised country house. I have met many interesting and
clever people at Harrow Weald, for the brilliancy of the host and the
charm of his wife naturally attract much that is best in this great
city. It is a good house for entertaining, the music-room—formerly
the studio of F. Goodall, R.A.—being a spacious oak-panelled chamber
with a minstrels’ gallery, and cathedral windows. Excellent singing is
often heard within those walls. Mr. Gilbert declares he is not musical
himself; but such is hardly the case, for he on one or two occasions
suggested to Sir Arthur Sullivan the style best suited to his words.
His ear for time and rhythm is impeccable, but he fully admits he has
an imperfect sense of tune.
The Squire of Harrow Weald is seen at his best at rehearsal.
_H.M.S. Pinafore_ was first performed, I believe, in 1878, and about
ten years afterwards it was revived in London. Ten years later, that
is to say 1899, it was again revived, and one Monday morning when I was
leaving Grim’s Dyke, Mr. Gilbert, who was coming up to town to attend a
rehearsal, asked me if I would care to see it.
“Nothing I should like better,” I replied, “for I have always
understood that you and Mr. Pinero are the two most perfect stage
managers in England.”
We drove to the stage door of the Savoy, whence down strange and dark
stone stairs we made our way to the front of the auditorium itself. We
crossed behind the footlights, passing through a small, unpretending
iron door into the house, Mr. Gilbert leading the way, to a side
box, which at the moment was shrouded in darkness; he soon, however,
pushed aside the white calico dust-sheets that hung before it, and
after placing chairs for his wife and myself, and hoping we should be
comfortable, departed. What a spectre that theatre was! Hanging from
gallery to pit were dust-sheets, the stalls all covered up with brown
holland wrappers, and gloom and darkness on all things. Verily a peep
behind the scenes which, more properly speaking, was before the scenes
in this case, is like looking at a private house preparing for a spring
cleaning.
[Illustration:
_Photo by Langfier, 23a, Old Bond Street, London, W._
MR. W. S. GILBERT.]
Built out over what is ordinarily the orchestra, was a wooden platform
large enough to contain a piano brilliantly played by a woman, beside
whom sat the conductor of the orchestra, who was naturally the teacher
of the chorus, and next to him the ordinary stage manager, with a chair
for Mr. Gilbert placed close by. The librettist, however, never sat
on that chair. From 11.30 to 1.30—exactly two hours, he walked up and
down in front of the stage, directing here, arranging there; one moment
he was showing a man how to stand as a sailor, then how to clap his
thighs in nautical style, and the next explaining to a woman how to
curtsey, or telling a lover how to woo. Never have I seen anything more
remarkable. In no sense a musician, Mr. Gilbert could hum any of the
airs and show the company the minutest gesticulations at the same time.
Be it understood they were already _word_ and _music_ perfect, and this
was the second “stage rehearsal.” He never bullied or worried any one,
he quietly went up to a person, and in the most insinuating manner said:
“If I were you, I think I should do it like this.”
And “this” was always so much better than their own performance that
each actor quickly grasped the idea and copied the master. He even
danced when necessary, to show them how to get the right number of
steps in so as to land them at a certain spot at a certain time,
explaining carefully:
“There are eight bars, and you must employ so many steps.”
Mr. Gilbert knows every bar, every intonation, every gesture, the hang
of every garment, and the tilt of every hat. He has his plans and his
ideas, and never alters the situations or even the gestures he has once
thought out.
He marched up and down the stage advising an alteration here, an
intonation there, all in the kindest way possible, but with so much
strength of conviction that all his suggestions were adopted without a
moment’s hesitation. He never loses his temper, always sees the weak
points, and is an absolute master of stage craft. His tact on such
occasions is wonderful.
The love and confidence of that company in Mr. Gilbert was really
delightful, and I have no hesitation in saying he was the best actor
in the whole company whichever part he might happen to undertake. If
anything he did not like occurred in the grouping of the chorus he
clapped his hands and everybody stopped, when he would call out:
“Gentlemen in threes, ladies in twos,” according to a style of his own.
Twenty-five years previously he had been so horrified at chorus and
crowd standing round the stage in a ring, that he invented the idea of
breaking them up, and thereafter, according to arrangement, when “twos”
or “threes” were called out the performers were to group themselves and
talk in little clusters, and certainly the effect was more natural.
Mr. Gilbert had no notes of any kind. He brought them with him, but
never opened the volume, and yet he knew exactly how everything ought
to be done. This was his first rehearsal with the company, who up
till then had been in the stage manager’s hands and worked according
to printed instructions. The scene was a very different affair after
the mastermind had set the pawns in their right squares, and made the
bishops and knights move according to his will. In two hours they had
gone through the first act of _Pinafore_, and he clapped his hands and
called for luncheon.
“It is just half-past one,” he said; “I am hungry, and I daresay you
are hungry, so we will halt for half an hour. I shall be back by five
minutes past two—that is five minutes’ grace, when”—bowing kindly—“I
shall hope to see you again, ladies and gentlemen.”
We three lunched at the Savoy next door, and a few minutes before two
he rose from the table, ere he had finished his coffee, and said he
must go.
“You are in a hurry,” I laughingly said.
“Yes,” he replied, “I have made it a rule never to be late. The company
know I shall be there, so the company will be in their places.”
A friend once congratulated him on his punctuality.
“Don’t,” he said; “I have lost more time by being punctual than by
anything else.”
One thing in particular struck me as wonderful during the rehearsal.
Half a dozen soldiers are supposed to come upon the stage, and at a
certain point half a dozen untidily dressed men with guns in their
hands marched in. Mr. Gilbert looked at them for a moment, and then he
went up to one gallant warrior and said:
“Is that the way you hold your gun?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Really! Well, I never saw a soldier with his thumbs down before—in
fact, I don’t think you are a soldier at all.”
“No, sir, I am a volunteer.”
Mr. Gilbert turned to the stage manager hastily, and said:
“I told you I wanted soldiers.”
“But there is a sergeant,” he replied.
“Sergeant,” called Mr. Gilbert, “step forward.” Which the sergeant did.
“You know your business,” the author remarked, watching the man’s
movements, “but these fellows know nothing. Either bring me real
soldiers, or else take these five men and drill them until at least
they know how to stand properly before they come near me again.”
Later in the proceedings a dozen sailors marched on: he went up to
them, asked some questions about how they would man the yard-arm, and
on hearing their reply said:
“I see you know your business, you’ll do.”
As it turned out, they were all Naval Reserve men, so no wonder they
knew their business. Still, Mr. Gilbert’s universal knowledge of all
sorts and conditions of men struck me as wonderful on this and many
other occasions. No more perfect stage manager exists, and no one gets
more out of his actors and actresses.
At one time _Patience_ was being played in the United States by dozens
of companies, but that was before the days of copyright, and poor Mr.
Gilbert never received a penny from America excepting once when a
kindly person sent him a cheque for £100. Had he received copyright
fees from the United States his wealth would have been colossal.
When _Iolanthe_ was revived in London in 1902 I again attended a
“call.” An entirely new company began rehearsing exactly ten days
before the first night—any one who knows anything of the stage will
realise what this means, and that a master-mind was necessary to drill
actors and chorus in so short a time—yet the production was a triumph.
This was the first occasion on which Sir Arthur Sullivan did not
conduct the dress rehearsal or the first night of one of their joint
operas. He had died shortly before.
Mr. Gilbert was delighted with the cast, and declared it was quite as
good, and in some respects perhaps better, than the original had been.
A few of the people had played _principals_ in the provinces before;
but he would not allow any of their own “business” and remarked quietly:
“In London my plays are produced as I wish them; in the provinces you
can do as you like.”
And certainly they obeyed him so implicitly that if he had asked them
all to stand on their heads in rows, I believe they would have done it
smilingly.
When Mr. Gilbert was about thirty-five years old, a _matinée_ of
_Broken Hearts_ was arranged for a charity. The author arrived at the
theatre about one o’clock, to find Kyrle Bellew, who was to play the
chief part, had fallen through a trap and was badly hurt. There was no
understudy—and only an hour intervened before the advertised time of
representation.
Good Heavens! what was to be done? The audience had paid their money,
which the charity wanted badly, and without the hero the play was
impossible.
He good-naturedly and kind-heartedly decided to play the part himself
rather than let the entertainment fall through, wired for wig and
clothes, and an hour and a half later walked on to the stage as an
actor. He knew every line of the play of course, not only the hero’s,
but all the others’, and he had just coached every situation. The
papers duly thanked him and considered him a great success. That was
his only appearance upon the stage in public.
For twenty-five years he never saw one of his own plays, not caring to
sit in front; but once, at a watering-place in the Fatherland where
_The Mikado_ was being given, some friends persuaded him to see it in
German.
“I know what rubbish these comic operas are, and I should feel ashamed
to sit and hear them and know they were mine,” he modestly remarked.
Nevertheless he went, and was rather amused, feeling no responsibility
on his shoulders, and afterwards saw _The Mikado_ in England at a
revival towards the end of the nineties. He once told me a rather
amusing little story about _The Mikado_. A gentleman who had been
many years in the English Legation at Yokohama, attended some of the
rehearsals, and was most useful in giving hints as to positions and
manners in Japan. Mr. Gilbert wanted some effective music for the
entrance of the Mikado—nothing Mr. Arthur Sullivan suggested suited—so
turning to the gentleman he said:
“Can’t you hum the national Japanese anthem?”
“Oh yes,” he said cheerily. And he did.
“Capital—it’ll just do.”
Mr. Sullivan—for he was not then Sir Arthur—made notes, wrote it up,
and the thing proved a great success. Some time afterwards a furious
letter came from a Japanese, saying an insult had been offered the
Mikado of Japan, the air to which that illustrious prince entered the
scene instead of being royal was a music hall tune! Whether this is so
or not remains a mystery, anyway it is a delightful melody, and most
successful to this day.
Mr. Gilbert has been a great traveller—for many years he wintered
abroad in India, Japan, Burmah, Egypt, or Greece, and at one time he
was the enthusiastic owner of a yacht; but this amusement he has given
up because so few of his friends were good sailors, and so he has taken
to motoring instead.
Croquet-playing and motoring are the chief amusements of this “retired
humourist,” as a local cab-driver once described the Squire of Grim’s
Dyke.