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THE SECRETS OF A SAVOYARD




[Illustration: The Author as "Jack Point"]




    THE SECRETS OF A SAVOYARD

    [Illustration]

    BY
    HENRY A. LYTTON


    JARROLDS
    PUBLISHERS (LONDON) LTD




    TO
    RUPERT D'OYLY CARTE.
    THE UPHOLDER
    OF
    A GREAT TRADITION




    "THE GONDOLIERS."

(After assisting at the first night of the new Gilbert-and-Sullivan
revival.)


    You may boast of your Georgian birds of song
    And say that never was stuff so strong,
    That its note of genius simply mocks
    At yester-century's feeble crocks,
    And floods the Musical Comedy stage
    With the dazzling art of a peerless age.
    But for delicate grace and dainty wit,
    For words and melody closely knit,
    Your best purveyors of mirth and joy
    Were never in sight of the old Savoy;
    They never began to compete, poor dears,
    With Gilbert-and-Sullivan's _Gondoliers_.

    For me, as an out-of-date Victorian,
    Prehistoric and dinosaurian,
    I hardly feel that I dare reflect
    On the art of the day with disrespect;
    But if anyone asks me, "Who'll survive--
    The living dead, or the dead alive?
    Which of the two will be last to go--
    The Gondoliers or the latest show?"
    I wouldn't give much for the latter's chance;
    That is the view that I advance,
    Trusting the public to bear me out
      (The good from the bad they're quick to sever);
    "Of this I nurse no manner of doubt,
    No probable, possible shadow of doubt,
      No possible doubt whatever."--O. S.

_(Reprinted by kind permission of the proprietors of "Punch," and of Sir
Owen Seaman._)




    Contents.


                                                 PAGE.
           FOREWORD. BY MR. RUPERT D'OYLY CARTE      8
           HENRY A. LYTTON: AN APPRECIATION          9

    CHAPTER.
        I. YOUTH AND ROMANCE                        13
       II. VAGABONDAGE OF THE COMMONWEALTH          25
      III. CLIMBING THE LADDER                      38
       IV. LEADERS OF THE SAVOY                     53
        V. ADVENTURES IN TWO HEMISPHERES            69
       VI. PARTS I HAVE PLAYED                      81
      VII. FRIENDS ON AND OFF THE STAGE             94
    VIII. HOBBIES OF A SAVOYARD                    110
      IX. GILBERT AND SULLIVAN                     121

    THE STORIES OF THE OPERAS                      136
    A SAVOYARD BIBLIOGRAPHY                        185




FOREWORD.


_There have been many who have made great reputations in the Gilbert and
Sullivan characters and have established themselves as favourites with
the public who love and follow the operas, and when the roll comes to be
written down finally, if ever it is, Henry Lytton undoubtedly will be
assigned a foremost place. He has played a wide variety of the parts,
and the scope and versatility of his work is unique. It is unlikely that
his record as a Gilbert and Sullivan artiste will ever be surpassed._

[Illustration: (Signature of) Rupert D'Oyly Carte]




HENRY A. LYTTON.
BY
AN ADMIRER OF HIS ART.


Sincerely indeed do I offer my good wishes to my old friend, Henry A.
Lytton, on his giving to the world this most interesting book, "The
Secrets of a Savoyard."

Lytton represents a distinct type on our musical comedy stage. No other
artiste, I think, has quite that gift of wit which makes one not merely
a happier, but a better, man for coming under its spell. Its touch is so
true and refined and delightful. Somehow we see in him the mirror of
ourselves, our whimsicalities, and our little conceits, and could ever a
man captivate us so deliciously with the ironies of life or yet chide us
so well with a sigh?

Certainly it was fortunate both to him and to us that circumstances, in
the romantic manner this book itself describes, first turned his early
steps towards Gilbert and Sullivan, and thus opened a career that was to
make him one of the greatest, as he is now the last, of the Savoyards.
Like the natural humorist he is, he could be and has been a success in
ordinary musical comedy rôles, but it is in these wonderful operas that
he was bound to find just his right sphere. Lytton in Gilbert and
Sullivan is the "true embodiment of everything that is excellent." He
was made for these parts, just as they might have been made for him, and
no man could have carried into the outer world more of the wholesome
charm of the characters he depicts on the stage. He himself tells us on
these pages how his own outlook on life has been coloured by his long
association with these beautiful plays.

So closely, indeed, is he identified in the public mind with the wistful
figure of _Jack Point_, or the highly susceptible _Lord Chancellor_, or
the agile _Ko-Ko_ that the thousands of Gilbert and Sullivan worshippers
who crowd the theatres know all too little of the man behind the motley,
the real Henry A. Lytton. For that reason I want to speak less about the
great actor whom the multitude knows and more about the manner of man
that he is to those, relatively few in numbers, whose privilege it is to
own his personal friendship.

Lytton's outstanding quality is his modesty. No "star" could have been
less spoilt by the flatteries of success or by those wonderful
receptions he receives night after night. Something of the eager,
impetuous boy still lingers in the heart of him, and he loves the
society of kindred souls who have some good story to tell and then cap
it with a better one. But all the while he lives for the operas. Even
now, after playing in them for twenty-five years, he is constantly
asking himself whether this bit of action, this inflection of the voice,
this minor detail of make-up, is right. Can it be improved in keeping
with the spirit of genuine artistry? So severe a self-critic is he that
he will take nothing for granted nor allow his work to become slipshod
because of its very familiarity. If ever there was an enthusiast--and
there is much in this book to show that he is as great an enthusiast in
private life as he is while in front of the footlights--it is Harry
Lytton.

The great enthusiasm of his life is Gilbert and Sullivan. Nobody who
reads these reminiscences will have any doubt about that, for it shows
itself on every page, and it is such an infectious enthusiasm that even
we who love the operas already find ourselves loving them more, and
agreeing with Lytton that they must not be tampered with and brought
"up-to-date." From Sir William Gilbert's own lips he heard just what
the playwright wanted in every detail, and both by his own acting and
by his help to younger colleagues on the stage he has worthily and
faithfully upheld the traditions of the Savoy. I have been told more
than once by members of the company how, when they have felt
disheartened for some reason or other, he would come along with some
cheery word, some little bit of advice and encouragement that would make
all the difference to them. Often and often he has brightened up the
dreary work of rehearsals by his buoyant humour and all-compelling good
spirits.

What a happy family must be a company that is led by one who is so
entirely free from vanity and petty jealousy and whose one aim is to
help the performance along! Lytton is _bound_ to have that aim because
of his intense loyalty to the operas themselves, but how much springs as
well from that inherent kindness of his, which, with that complete lack
of affectation, makes him so truly one of Nature's gentlemen. "Each for
all and all for each" was the motto of the heart-breaking Commonwealth
days, of which he tells us such a pathetic human story here, and it
seems to remain his motto now that he has climbed to the top of his
profession as a principal of the D'Oyly Carte Company.

Lytton's acting always seems to me in such perfect "poise." It is so
refined and spontaneous. Each point receives its full measure, and yet
is so free of exaggeration or "clowning." He is, that is to say, an
artiste to his finger-tips, and no real artiste, even when he is a
humorist, has any place for buffoonery. Like the Gilbert and Sullivan
operas themselves, he is always so clean and wholesome and pleasant. The
clearness of his enunciation is a gift in itself, and his dancing
reminds us of the time when all our dancing was so charming and
graceful, and thus so different to what it is to-day. And then his
versatility! Could one imagine a contrast so remarkable as that between
his characterisation of the ugly, repulsive _King Gama_ in "Princess
Ida" and the infinitely lovable _Jack Point_ in the "Yeoman of the
Guard"? Or between his studies of the engaging and more than candid
_Lord Chancellor_ in "Iolanthe" and that pretentious humbug _Bunthorne_
in "Patience"? Or between the endless diversions of his frolicsome
_Ko-Ko_ in "The Mikado" and the gay perplexities of the sedate old
_General Stanley_ in "The Pirates of Penzance"?

So one might continue to speak of his quite remarkable gallery of
portraits, both in these operas and apart from them, and one might
search one's memory in vain for a part which was not a gem of natural
and clever characterisation, rich in humour and unerring in its
sympathetic artistry.

Yet no rôle of his, I think, stands out with such fascination in the
minds of most of us as does dear _Jack Point_, the nimble-witted
Merryman. The poor strolling player, with his honest heart breaking
beneath the tinsel of folly, is a figure intensely human and intensely
appealing, and no less so because of the mingling romance and pathos
with which it is played. If Lytton had given us only this part, if he
had shown us only in this case how deftly he can win both our laughter
and tears, he would have achieved something that would be treasured
amongst the tenderest, most fragrant memories of the modern stage.

Long may he remain to delight us in these enchanting operas of the
Savoy! By them English comic opera has had an infinite lustre added to
it--a lustre that will never be dimmed--and no less surely do the operas
themselves owe a little of their evergreen freshness and spirit to the
art of Henry A. Lytton.




THE SECRETS OF A SAVOYARD.




I.
YOUTH AND ROMANCE.

    _Apologia--Early Misfortunes of Management--Stage Debut in
    Schoolboy Dramatics--St. Mark's, Chelsea--The School's Champion
    Pugilist--The Sale of Jam-Rolls--Student Days with W. H.
    Trood--An Artist of Parts--A Fateful Night at the Theatre--The
    Schoolboy and the Actress--A Firm Hand With a Rival--Three
    Months' Truancy--Our Marriage and Our Honeymoon in a Hansom--The
    Dominie and the Married Man--First Engagement with D'Oyly
    Carte--Dilemma of a Sister and Brother._


Eight-and-thirty years on the stage!

Looking back over so long a period, memory runs riot with a thousand
remembrances of dark days and brighter, and of times of hardship which,
in their own way, were not devoid of happiness. It has been my good
fortune to own many valued friendships, and it is to my friends that the
credit or the guilt, as it may happen to be, of inspiring me to begin
this venture belongs. Not once, but many times, I have been asked "Why
don't you write your reminiscences, Lytton?" The late Lord Fisher
strongly urged me to write them when I paid my last visit to his home a
few months before he passed to the Great Beyond. So great was my respect
for Lord Fisher, one of the noblest Englishmen of our age, that I felt
bound to adopt his suggestion, and it is thus partly in homage to his
sterling qualities and gifts that I begin now to reveal these "Secrets
of a Savoyard." This much let me say at the very beginning. Naught that
is written here will be "set down in malice." Searchers for those too
numerous chronicles of scandal will look here for spicy tit-bits in
vain. For what it is worth this is the record of one who has lived a
happy life, whose vocation it has been to minister to the public's
enjoyment, and whose outlook has inevitably been happily coloured by
such a long association with the gladsome operas of the old Savoy.

I cannot say that my love of the footlights was inherited, but at least
it began to show itself at a very early age. One of my earliest
recollections is concerned with a little diversion at the village home
of my guardian. No doubt my older readers will remember the old gallanty
shows which were in vogue some forty or fifty years ago. Explained
briefly, these were contrived by use of a number of cardboard figures
which, with the aid of a candle, were reflected on to a white sheet, and
which could be manipulated to provide one's audience with a rather
primitive form of enjoyment. Well, I do not recall where I had been to
get the idea, but I decided to have a gallanty show at the bottom of the
garden, and to invite the public's patronage. This ranks as my first
venture in managerial responsibility. I rigged up a tent--a small and
jerry-built contrivance it was--and an announcement of the forthcoming
entertainment in my bold schoolboy's hand was pasted on to the outer
wall of the garden. The charges for admission were original. Stalls were
to be purchased with an apple, lesser seats with a handful of chocolates
or nuts, while a few sweets would secure admission to the pit. The boys
of the village, having read the notice, turned up and paid their nuts
and sweets in accordance with the advertised tariff, but the sad fact
has to be related that the show did not please them at all, and by
summarily pulling up the pole they brought the tent and the
entertainment to grief. In other words, I "got the bird." Nor can I say
that was the end of the tragedy. Under threats I had to repay all that
the box-office had taken, and as most of the lads claimed more than they
had actually given, the stock of nuts and sweets was insufficient to
meet the liabilities. So in the cause of art I found myself thus early
in life in bankruptcy! My partner in the enterprise proved to be a
broken reed, for when the roughs of the village got busy he showed a
clean pair of heels and left me alone with the mob and the wreckage.

Seeing that this is an actor's narrative, I ought to place on record at
once that my first appearance on any stage was in schoolboy dramatics in
connection with St. Mark's College, Chelsea. Of St Mark's I shall have
much to say. I played the title rôle in "Boots at the Swan." Except that
I enjoyed being the cheeky little hotel "Boots" and fancied myself not a
little in my striped waistcoat and green apron, I don't remember whether
my performance was held to be successful or not, but unconsciously the
experience did give me a mental twist towards the stage.

St. Mark's was regarded in those times--and I am glad to know is still
regarded--as an excellent school for young gentlemen. But certainly my
name was never numbered amongst the brightest educational products of
that academy. What claim I had to fame was in an entirely different
sphere. I was the school's champion pugilist! In those days I simply
revelled in fighting. A day without a scrap was a day hardly worth
living. Occasionally the older lads thought it good sport to tell the
new-comers what an unholy terror they would be up against when they met
Lytton. In most cases this was said with such vivid embellishments that
the youngsters got a heart-sinking feeling. But there was one lad who
was more adroit. He argued that it was all very well for the school
champion to fight surrounded by and cheered on by his friends, but that
this must put the challenger at a distinct disadvantage. He also
considered that no harm would be done if he measured up this much-boomed
light-weight before the time came for him to stand up publicly as his
antagonist. Luring me, therefore, into a quiet corner one day, he
commanded me in so many words to "put 'em up." Now while it is the
privilege of a champion to name his own time and conditions, it really
was too much to tolerate the pretensions of such an impudent upstart. So
we set to in earnest, and very speedily the new boy was giving me some
of his best--a straight left timed to the moment--and it needed only two
such lefts to make me oblivious of time altogether. Certainly he
succeeded in instilling into my mind a decided respect for his prowess.

Not being too richly endowed with pocket money, I conceived the idea
that to set up in business as the school pastrycook would serve a
"long-felt want." Strictly cash terms were demanded. Each day I bought a
number of rolls at ½d. each and a pot of jam for 4½d. With these I
retailed slices of most appetising bread and jam at a penny a time and
made an excellent profit. If the truth must be told the smaller boys got
no more than a smear of jam on their bread and the bigger boys rather
more than their share, but on the average it worked out fairly well, and
the juniors had sufficient discretion not to complain.

[Illustration: Sincerely Henry A Lytton]

If I had any bent in those days--apart from fighting and selling jam
rolls--it was in the direction of painting. For water-colour sketches I
had a certain aptitude, and painting remains one of my hobbies, taking
only second place to my enthusiasm for golf. For tuition I went to W. H.
Trood at his studio in Chelsea. Trood in his time was an artist of
parts. He had a fine sense of composition and painted many beautiful
pictures. If he had not been deaf and dumb he would have made a great
actor, for his gift of facial expression was extraordinary. Clubmen are
familiar with a well-known set of five action photographs representing a
convivial card-player who has gone "nap." Trood was the subject of those
photographs.

For some time I attended St. Mark's during the day and went to the
studio each evening. I realised very early that there was no money in
painting and that it was of little use as a profession. We students were
a merry band, and though we had little money, we made the most of what
we had to spend. Our studio was only a garret, and it was a common thing
for each of us to buy a tough steak for no more than fourpence, grill it
with a fork over the meagre fire, and make it serve as our one
substantial meal for many hours. It was a Bohemian existence and I have
remained a Bohemian ever since.

Trood and I were more than master and pupil. We were, if not brothers,
then at least uncle and nephew. From time to time we contrived to visit
the theatre, for although he could not hear, he loved to study the
colour effects on the stage, and had an uncanny talent for following the
course of the plot. And one of these nights out was destined to be most
fateful for me in my future career. We had gone together into the
gallery at the Avenue Theatre (now the Playhouse). The attraction was a
French opera-bouffe called "Olivette." And I must confess that my
susceptible heart was at once smitten with the charms of a young lady
who was playing one of the subsidiary parts. From that moment the play
to me was _not_ the thing. Eyes and thoughts were concentrated on that
slim, winsome little figure, and I remember that at school the following
day the sale of jam rolls was pushed with redoubled vigour in order that
I might have the wherewithal to go to the theatre and see my charmer
again.

I am getting on delicate ground, but the story is well worth the
telling. It was clear I could not go on worshipping my fair divinity
afar from the "gods." We must make each other's acquaintance. So to Miss
Louie Henri I addressed a most courteous note, paying her some exquisite
compliments, and inviting her to meet her unknown admirer at the stage
door after the performance one night. And my invitation was accepted. I
ought to mention here that I was then scarcely seventeen years of age.
Louie Henri, as it afterwards transpired, was the same.

Well, I bedecked myself in my best and marched off in good time to the
trysting place at the stage door. I spent my last sou on a fine box of
chocolates. Nothing I could do was to be left undone to make the
conquest complete. But first there came a surprise. Another St. Mark's
boy was at the stage door already. He, too, had a box of chocolates, and
it was bigger than mine.

"Who are those for?" I demanded. The tone of my voice must have been
forbidding I already had my suspicions.

"Louie Henri," answered the lad. Seemingly he thought it wise to be
truthful.

I had a rival! Crises of this kind have to be met with vigour and
thoroughness.

"Give them to me," I insisted, "and hook it." The command was terrible
in its severity. More than that, I was not the school's champion
light-weight for nothing. The rival almost threw the chocolates into my
hands and vanished like lightning. When Louie came out there I was with
a double load of offerings! She was sensibly impressed.

From time to time further delightful meetings took place. Luckily the
jam roll trade was flourishing, and so it was seldom the youthful swain
met his lady-love empty-handed. Only once did the rival attempt to steal
a march on me again. I discovered him loitering round the stage door,
but when he saw my fists in a business-like attitude, he apparently
realised that discretion was the better part of valour and bolted into
the night. All of which proves anew that "faint heart never won fair
lady."

Louie and I got on famously together, and although we were but children
it was not long before we had decided to become engaged. The course of
true love was complicated by the fact that while I was at St. Mark's in
the daytime she at night had to play her part in "Olivette." So it
occurred to me that the only thing was to give up school. I accordingly
wrote a letter, in my guardian's name, saying that I was being taken
away from St. Mark's for a three-months' holiday, and posted it to the
headmaster at Chelsea. Then followed the rapture of sweetheart days. Our
pleasures were few--there were no funds for more than an occasional ride
on a 'bus--but into the intimacies of those blissful times there is no
need to enter.

We were married late in 1883 at St. Mary's, Kensington. Louie and I
certainly never realised the responsibilities of married life, and
love's young dream was not spoiled by anxious reflections about the
problem of ways and means, as may be gathered from the fact that our
funds were exhausted on the very day of the marriage. I remember that,
after the fees at church had been paid, the cash at our disposal
amounted to eighteen-pence. The question then was how far this would
take us in the matter of a honeymoon. Strolling into Kensington Gardens
we decided that we would spend it on the thrills of a ride in a
hansom-cab, and the driver was instructed to take us as far as he could
for eighteen-pence. The journey was not at all long. I rather think that
if the cabby had known the romantic and adventurous couple he had picked
up as fares he would have been sport enough to give us a more generous
trip.

Our plan of action after this honeymoon in a hansom had already been
decided upon. My wife went to the theatre for the evening performance.
I, on my part, had arranged to go back to school and put the best face
on things that was possible. During my absence, of course, it had become
known that my guardian's letter was a deception and that my three
months care-free existence was truancy. Where I had been the headmaster
did not know. What I had done he knew even less. But the delinquency was
one which, in the interest of school discipline, had to be visited with
extreme severity. The Dominie took me before the class and commenced to
use the birch with well-applied vigour.

When at the mature age of seventeen one is made a public exhibition of
one can have a very acute sense of injured dignity. The rod descended
heavily.

"Stop it!" I shouted. "You can't thrash me like this. Do you know what
you are doing? _You're thrashing a married man!_"

"_You_ a married man! You lie!" The birching, bad as it had been, was
redoubled in intensity. The master declared that he would teach me a
lesson for lying.

"But I _am_ a married man," I yelled. "I was married yesterday."

But even the dawn of truth meant no reprieve. The explanation put the
offence in a still more lurid light. It was bad enough to tell a lie,
but a good deal worse to get married, and the headmaster whacked me all
the more severely as an awful example to the rest of the boys.

Following the thrashing, I enjoyed a fleeting notoriety in the eyes of
my school mates, who crowded round to see the interesting matrimonial
specimen. "Look who's married!" they shouted. "What's it like?" I'm
afraid at the moment that, smarting under the rod, the joys of married
life seemed to me to be, as Mark Twain would say, "greatly exaggerated."
And worse was to come. Next day the master, considering my knowledge of
life made me too black a reprobate to remain in his school any longer,
terminated my career as a pupil. For a married man to be in one of the
lower classes was too much of an absurdity.

Here was a pretty how-d'ye-do! A bridegroom in sad disgrace, and finding
himself on the day after his marriage with no work, no prospects, no
anything! Louie it was who came to the rescue. "Princess Ida" had just
been produced at the Savoy, and she had been engaged for chorus work in
the company which was being sent out on a provincial tour, commencing at
Glasgow. My wife contrived to see Mr. Carte, and she faithfully followed
the strategy that had been decided upon. Seeing that theatrical managers
were understood to dislike married couples in companies on tour, she was
to ask him whether he would engage her brother for the tour, pointing
out that he had a good voice and was "fairly good looking." The upshot
was that I was commanded to wait on Mr. Carte. Later in life I came to
know him well and to receive many a kindness from him, but this first
interview remains in my mind to this day, because it was destined to put
my foot on the first rung of the theatrical ladder.

"Not much of a voice," was the conductor's comment--not a very
flattering compliment, by the way, to one who had been for a long time
solo boy in the choir of St. Philip's, Kensington. "Never mind," replied
Mr. Carte; "he will do as understudy for David Fisher as _King Gama_."
And as chorister and understudy I was engaged. Each of us was to have £2
a week, and in view of our circumstances the money was not merely
welcome, but princely. Our troubles seemed to have vanished for ever.

One of our difficulties was that, having entered the company as brother
and sister, that pretty fiction had to be kept up, and for a devoted
newly-married couple that was not very easy. For a brother my
attentiveness was almost amusing. The rôle was also sometimes
embarrassing. Louie's charms quickly captivated a member of the company
who afterwards rose very high in the profession--it would hardly be fair
to give his identity away!--and one night he gave me a broad hint that
my dutiful watchfulness was carried too far. "Leave her to me," he
whispered, affably. When I told him I had promised mother I would not
leave her, or some such story, a compromise was arranged whereby after
the show, when we were going home, I should drop back and give him the
opportunity for playing the "gallant." To have refused would have
aroused suspicions that might have led to the discovery of our secret.
So like _Jack Point_, I had to walk behind while the other fellow
escorted my bride and paid her pretty compliments. It seemed less of a
joke at the time than it does to-day.

Naturally, the little bubble was bound to explode before long, and it
exploded when everything seemed to be going splendidly. It happened when
one of the assistant managers, who also admired my wife, somehow induced
us to invite him to visit our "digs."

"Nice rooms, these," he commented, taking them in at a glance. "What do
you pay?"

"Sixteen shillings."

"Only sixteen shillings? Three rooms for sixteen shillings!"

"No! Only two----." The fatal slip! Truth at last had to out.

We told him that we had been afraid that, if we had said we were man and
wife, we should not have got the engagement, and we were in too much of
a dilemma to be sticklers for accuracy. Our "marriage lines" were then
and there produced.

"Well," said the manager, "you _are_ remarkably alike; no wonder you
easily passed for brother and sister." That, in fact, was true. Our
marriage, he went on to tell us, would not have been a handicap in the
D'Oyly Carte Company. Most managers, he said, did not care for husband
and wife to travel together, but that was not the case with Mr. D'Oyly
Carte.

The news quickly spread through the company, and on every hand we
received congratulations. Only one of our colleagues considered that he
had a grievance. He was the usurper who had insisted that I should allow
him to escort my alleged sister from the theatre to our lodgings. "What
a fool you've made of me," he complained. "Why I was going to propose! I
did think she would make such a nice little wife!"

Long after this it was Mr. Carte's custom, when making enquiries as to
my wife, to say dryly, "And how's your sister, Lytton?" Similarly,
whenever he spoke to my wife, there was invariably a twinkle in his eye
whenever he asked after the welfare and whereabouts of her "brother."

[Illustration: HENRY A. LYTTON AT THE AGE OF TWENTY.]




II.
VAGABONDAGE OF THE COMMONWEALTH.

    _£. s. d. on Tour--The Search for Independence--The Old Showman
    of Shepherd's Bush--Not the "Carte" I Wanted--The
    Commonwealth--Our Repertory and Our Creditors--"Well, Mr.
    Bundle"--A Thirsty Situation and a Melodramatic Finale--A
    Stammerer's Story--Comradeship in Adversity--Roaming the
    Country--Back in London and the Search for Work--Diverse
    Occupations and Little Pay--A Savoy Engagement at
    Last--Understudy to Grossmith--A Real Opportunity._


The "Princess Ida" tour, as I have said, opened at Glasgow. It ran for
about a year, with enthusiasm and success wherever the company played,
though unluckily for me, my services as understudy were never required.
The D'Oyly Carte companies then, as now, were always a happy family, the
members of which were always helpful to one another and always
remarkably free from those petty jealousies that distinguish some ranks
of the profession.

Looking back on those romantic times, my wife and I often marvel how,
with all our inexperience in housekeeping, our slender finances
withstood the strain of our extravagance. Whenever we moved on to a new
town we had the usual fears as to what sort of a landlady we were to
get. In these times landladies do not always look on actors as their
legitimate "prey." But then they were extortioners, though there were,
of course, some pleasant exceptions. I remember, for instance, that in
some places we were charged 5s. a week for potatoes, and in others only
6d. On the whole, on that tour, we must have been in luck.
Notwithstanding that we had lived fairly well--and we did indulge odd
tastes for luxuries--we found that at the end of the 52 weeks'
engagement we had saved £52.

Following the "Princess Ida" tour, we were sent out into the provinces
again with other productions, and in this way we served under the
Gilbert and Sullivan banner for the best part of two years. But they
were not continuous engagements. From time to time we would find
ourselves idle and our tiny resources steadily dwindling. Luckily,
during this period we always managed to secure a fresh engagement before
we had spent our last sovereign, though we were hardly as fortunate in
the dark days that were coming.

I remember receiving at this time the advice of a dear old friend, a Mr.
Chevasse, of Wolverhampton. "The turning-point in your career," he said
to me, "will come when you have got 'independence.'" "What," I asked
him, "do you mean by that?" "Get £100 in the bank," was his answer, "and
in your case that will bring the sense of independence. It will put you
on a different footing with everyone you meet, and you will know that at
last you are beginning to shape your career yourself. Save everything
you can. Save a shilling a week, or two shillings a week, but save
whatever happens." And he was right. Later, when I had that £100 stored
away, I found myself in a position that enabled me to assert my claim
for principal parts, and I was sent out into the provinces to take three
leading rôles--_Ko-Ko_, _Jack Point_, and _Sir Joseph Porter_.

But this is anticipating my story. Before that time came there were dark
days to pass through, days when we did not know where the next meal
would come from, and days when we tramped the country as strolling
players, footsore and weary. When our modest savings had been exhausted
during one prolonged period of "resting," I remember being driven by
sheer necessity to apply for an engagement at the booth of an old
showman at Shepherd's Bush. I had to do something. So I walked up to the
showman, who was standing outside the tent in a prosperous-looking coat
with an astrakhan collar, and asked him for a job. What did I want to
be? I wanted, I told him, to be an actor, and would play anything from
melodrama to low comedy.

"All right," said the showman. "Go over there and wash that cart!"

I went "over there" and started the washing. But it was no use. Sorry as
things were with us, I just could not come down to that, and off I
bolted. That was not the sort of "_Carte_" I wanted.

Our next venture was very interesting. It brought us no fame, precious
little money, a great deal of hardship, and yet a host of pleasant
remembrances to look back upon in the brighter days. "We were seven" and
one and all down on our luck. Failing to obtain any engagements in town,
we decided to band ourselves together as fellow-unfortunates, and to
seek what fortune there was as entertainers in the villages and small
towns of Surrey. It was to be a Commonwealth. Whatever profits there
were made were to be divided equally. One week this division enabled us
to take 7s. 10d. each! That was the record. What ill-success our
efforts had was certainly not due to any want of "booming." The services
of a bill-poster were obviously prohibitive. So at the dead of night we
used to put our night-shirts over our clothes to save these from damage,
creep out into the streets with our paste-bucket and brush, and fix our
playbills to any convenient hoarding or building. It had to be done in
double-quick time, but we had spied out the land beforehand, and
generally we made sure that our notices were pasted where they would
prominently catch the public eye.

Our repertory consisted of a striking drama entitled "All for Her," a
touching comedy called "Masters and Servants," and an operetta known as
"Tom Tug the Waterman." In addition, we did songs and dances, and as it
happened these were the best feature of the programme. We had no capital
available to spend on dresses and scenery. What we did was to take some
ramshackle hall or barn, and then to make a brave show with our posters,
though the printer was often lucky if he got more than free tickets for
all his family to see our performance. Generally our creditors
considered that, as there was small chance of getting any money from us,
they might as well have an evening out for nothing. Our costumes were
improvised from our ordinary attire. The men figured as society swells
by using white paper to represent spats or by tucking in their
waistcoats and using more white paper to indicate that they were in
immaculate "evening dress." As to scenery all we had was our own crude
drawings in crayons and pencil.

We presented our plays by what is known as "winging." By that I mean
that only one manuscript copy of the play was usually available, and
each player had to get an idea of the lines which he or she had to speak
after each entrance, though the actual words used on the stage were
mainly extemporised. "Winging," even when one has theatrical experience
behind one, is not at all easy. I know that in "Tom Tug" I dreaded the
very thought of having to go on and make what should have been a long
speech designed to give the audience a more or less intelligent idea of
the plot. I was so uncertain about it that I took the book on with me in
the hope of getting furtive glimpses at it as we went along.

"Well, Mr. Bundle," I began.

"Well?" Mr. Bundle responded.

"Well," I stammered again.

"Well?"

"Well."

The next "Well" did not come from the stage; it came from the audience.
"Well?" it yelled, accompanied, so to speak, by a tremendous note of
interrogation. "Well?" it echoed again. "Say _something_, can't you?"

This was too much. In confusion I rushed off the stage. Even that was
not all. I should, as I have said, have outlined the course of the
story, but not only did I not do this but in my confusion I left behind
me the book of words on which we were all depending. From the others in
the wings there came anguished whispers. "Where's the book?" "You've
left the book on the table!" So I had to put the best face on things and
walk on to get it. But the audience had had enough of me that night.
"Get off" they shouted--and I did.

"Tom Tug" was also once the occasion of a painful fiasco. Instead of
dashing on to the stage where my wife was playing the part of a simple
fisher-girl, and greeting her like the jolly sailor-man I was with a
boisterous "Here I am my darling," I found myself, standing behind her
in such a state of stage-fright that I was absolutely "dried up." I
could not utter a word. I simply stood behind her limp, speechless and
motionless, and no amount of prompting would induce me to go on with the
wooing. So there was nothing for it but to ring down the curtain, and
for the rest of the evening we had songs and dances, with which we made
amends.

"All for Her" was a drama of a desert island that should have melted
hearts of stone. We were all dying of thirst (at least, according to the
plot). Nowhere on that desert island was water to be found. They sent me
out to explore for it while they rolled about the stage moaning and
groaning in agony. During my absence from the stage I sat near a
fire-bucket in the wings. Then came my cue to reappear.

I staggered on famished and weary. The quest had been in vain. "Not a
drop," I croaked in a parched, dry voice; "not a drop of water
anywhere."

"Liar!" screamed the audience in unison. Our audiences, as you will have
gathered, were often critical folk who could sit with dry eyes through
our most anguishing scenes. It transpired that while I was sitting near
that fire-bucket the bottom of my Arab cloak had dipped into the water
and there it was dripping, dripping, dripping right across the stage!
The dramatic situation was absolutely spoilt.

The company included, besides my wife and myself, a young actress named
Emmeline Huxley, who after these hard times with us went to America and
there undoubtedly "made good." Then there was a "character" whom we
called "'Oppy." He was the general utility man who acted as conductor
and orchestra rolled into one, and then went behind the scenes to play
the cornet, to act as stage adviser, or at a pinch to take a small part.
He was an enthusiast who was here, there and everywhere. "'Oppy," in
addition to having a wall eye and a club foot, had a decided impediment
in his speech, but, strangely enough, he was entirely unconscious of
this disability. For that reason we often used to induce him to tell his
story of the lady who sang "Home, Sweet Home."

This story is bound to lose some of its effect when put into cold print.
As "'Oppy" told it the humour was irresistible. "Sh-sh-she wan-wan-ted
to go on the sta-sta-sta-stage," he used to say, "and the man-an-an-ager
he sa-a-a-aid to her, 'Wh-wh-wh-what can you sing?' And she said,
'Ho-ho-ho-home, Sw-we-we-we-weet Ho-ho-home,' And he told her to
sing-sing-sing it. And (here he could not keep a straight face over the
poor lady's misfortunes) she-she-she couldn't sing-sing-sing it
for-for-for stam-stam-stam-stam-stam-mering."

Never did "'Oppy" tell this story, of the ridiculousness of the telling
of which he seemed entirely unconscious, without his hearers exploding
with laughter. "Wh-what makes you all lau-lau-laugh so?" he used to
ask, incredulously. "You lau-lau-lau-lau-laugh altogether to-to-to-too
hearty. It's a good-good-good yarn, but I'm dam-dam-dam-damned if it's
as fun-fun-fun-funny as that."

Once he received an unexpected windfall in the shape of a postal order
from a relative for two or three shillings. "Come and have a little
dinner with me to morrow," he said to me and my wife. "I know you're
hungry." When we arrived we found his plate was already on the table and
empty. He apologised profoundly. He had been too hungry to wait for us
and had already eaten his dinner. So while my wife and I each enjoyed a
chop--the first square meal we had had for many a day--he sat by and
kept us entertained. Splendid fellow! Little did we guess that as he did
so he was suffering the pangs of hunger accentuated by the sight of our
satisfaction. Next day the landlady confided to us the fact that as our
friend's windfall had been insufficient to provide chops and vegetables
for three, he had smeared his plate with the gravy from the chops we
were to have, and then made us believe that he had satisfied his hunger
already.

What became of him later on I have never discovered. I only know that I
have tried hard to find him in order that that noble act of self-denial
might be in some generous manner repaid. Neither inquiries nor
advertisements, however, have ever revealed his whereabouts to me, and
it may be that already this honest fellow has gone to receive his
reward. God rest his soul!

Then there was Arthur Hendon. If ever a Christian lived it was that
sterling fellow. Time after time in those heart-aching days we were on
the verge of despair. Luck was dead out. Life was a misery. But Hendon,
though he was as sore of heart and as hungry as the rest of us, was
always ready with some cheery word, some act of kindness, some "goodness
done by stealth." Louie and I were rather small in size, and often as we
tramped from one place to another he carried one of us in turn in his
arms. For we had little food, and were tired, footsore and "beat." And
he, too, was "done." Only his great heart sustained him in those
terrible times as our "captain courageous."

The Commonwealth venture lasted for about three months altogether. As I
have shown it was one continual struggle against adversity and poverty.
For some time we were located at Aldershot. Our show ran as a rule from
six to eleven o'clock, and for want of better amusement the soldiers
gave us a fair amount of patronage at threepence a head. If we did not
please them they did not hesitate to fling the dregs of their pint pots
on to the stage. One night we felt ourselves highly honoured by the
presence of a number of military officers at our performance. "All for
Her," I am glad to say, went without a hitch on that gala occasion. Our
"theatre" was an outhouse owned by a publican, who was very considerate
towards us in the matter of rent, because he found that our presence
meant good business for his bar-parlour receipts.

From Aldershot we went on to Farnham, and from there to other hamlets
where we believed there was an audience, however uncouth and untutored,
to be gathered together. Eventually we reached Guildford. By then
matters were getting desperate. The Mayor or some other local public man
heard of our plight. He drove out to where we were playing, witnessed
part of our performance, and engaged us to sing at a garden-party. I
remember that, exhausted as we were, gratitude enabled us to give of our
very best as the only return we could make for his kindness. He told us
it was a great pity that such clever people should be living a
precarious existence in the country villages, and offered to pay our
train fares to London in addition to the fee for the engagement we had
fulfilled. This generosity we accepted with alacrity. The next morning
we were back in town again--each to follow his or her different way. So
ended the vagabondage of the Commonwealth. It was an experience which
none of us was ever likely to forget.

Once more in London it would be idle to say that our troubles had
disappeared. It meant the dreary search again for employment. Mr. D'Oyly
Carte had no immediate vacancies. Other managers had nothing more to
offer than promises. Lucky is the actor--if he ever exists--who
throughout his career has been free from this compulsory idleness.
During this period I had to turn my hand to all sorts of things. Once I
called at a draper's shop and secured casual work as a bill distributor.
I had to go from door to door in a certain select part of Kensington. I
remember I looked at those gilded walls and those red-carpeted stairs
with a good deal of envy. Later on I was destined to visit some of those
very houses and walk up those same red-carpeted stairs as a guest--those
very houses at which to earn an odd shilling or so to buy bread I had
delivered those bills! Yes; and there was one house at which I called in
those humble days where they abruptly opened the door, showed me a
ferocious-looking dog with the most business-like teeth, and
significantly commanded me to "get off--and quick!" I had done nothing
wrong, and my body and my heart were aching. Years afterwards I became a
breeder of bulldogs--about that you shall hear later on--and sold one of
them to those very people. And, as if in poetic justice, that bulldog
bit them!

My training under Trood was turned to advantage during these empty days.
A fashion had just set in for plaques. I painted some scores of these
terra-cotta miniatures, and although it was not remunerative work, it
served to put bare necessities into the pantry. We were living about
that time in Stamford Street, off the Waterloo Road, and in those days
it was a terrible neighbourhood where one's sleep was often disturbed by
cries of "murder" and "police." Our baby's cradle was a travelling
basket--we could not afford anything better. I remember, in connection
with those plaques, that in after years I was dining at the house of a
well-known writer and critic, and he showed me with keen admiration two
beautiful plaques, which, he said, had been won by Miss Jessie Bond in a
raffle at the Savoy. She had made a present of them to him. "Yes," I
commented, "and I painted them." He was kind enough to say that that
enhanced their value to him considerably.

For a time I went into a works where they made dies for armorial
bearings. Here I had to do a good deal of tracing, and the work was
fairly interesting. I drew five shillings the first week--hardly an
imposing stipend for a family man--but the second week it was ten
shillings and the third twenty shillings. Singing at occasional smoking
concerts and running errands supplemented this money very acceptably.
The job at the die-sinkers might have continued, but the foreman wanted
me to clean the floors in addition to doing my artistic work, and at
that my dignity revolted. I left.

Some months went by in this flitting from one job into another, but it
is useless to attempt a full catalogue of my versatility, for it is
neither impressive nor very inspiring. During all this hand-to-mouth
existence I was calling on theatrical managers. Slender as the rewards
which the stage had thus far given me were--just a meagre livelihood and
precious little encouragement--the call to return to it remained
insistent and strong. Sooner or later I was bound to return, and whether
it were to be to good fortune or ill, the very hope buoyed me up. I had
worried Mr. Carte with ceaseless importunity. Every week at least I went
round to try and see him on the off-chance of an engagement. And at last
there came the turn of the tide.

It happened on the eve of the first London production of "Ruddigore."
Concerning this new opera, the producers had for good reasons maintained
an air of secrecy, and the unfolding of the mystery was thus awaited
with more than usual public curiosity. It was the talk of the town and
the subject of many skittish references in the newspapers. Calling once
again at Mr. Carte's office, I caught him, after a long wait, just
leaving his room and hurrying along a corridor. Without more ado I
button-holed him and asked him once again for an engagement. Mr. Carte
was not a man who liked that sort of conduct. "You should not interrupt
me like this," he said, in a tone that betrayed his annoyance. "You
ought to send up your name." Explaining that I had done so and had been
told he was out of town, I repeated my plea for an engagement. Hurrying
on his way Mr. Carte told me to go down to the stage. Success had come
at last! When Mr. Carte sent a man to the stage that man became _ipso
facto_ a member of the company. Later the news came through that Mr.
Carte had chosen me as understudy to Mr. George Grossmith as _Robin
Oakapple_. This was indeed a slice of good fortune. Understudy to Mr.
George Grossmith!

"Ruddigore" was produced for the first time on Tuesday, the 22nd
January, 1887, at the Savoy. Towards the end of that week Grossmith was
taken seriously ill with peritonitis. By an effort he was able to
continue playing until the Saturday. Then he collapsed and was taken
home for a serious operation. Upon the Monday morning I was told I was
to play his part--and play it that very night.

Chosen to step into the shoes of the great George Grossmith! Faced with
such an ordeal to-day I verily believe I should shirk it. But then, the
audacity of youth was to carry me through. The supreme chance had come.
At all costs it had to be grasped.




III.
CLIMBING THE LADDER.

    _The "Ruddigore" Success--Congratulations from everyone--My
    First Meeting with Grossmith--Gilbert's Advice to a
    beginner--Irving's wonderful Acting and its Effect--Speaking to
    the Man in the Gallery--The Mystery of Jack Point--How My Tragic
    Ending Was Introduced--Gilbert's Approval--A Memorable Hanley
    Compliment--Laughter I ought not to have had--Bunthorne's
    Fall--Accidents, Happy and Otherwise--Ko-Ko's Mobile Toe--Not a
    Mechanical Trick--The Myth of the Poor Old Man of Seventy--Still
    Youthful in Spirit and Years._


The Savoy Theatre had its usual large and fashionable audience on that
Monday night when I was to play my first big principal part either in or
out of London. What my sensations were it would be hard to describe.
Nervous I certainly was, and in the front of the house my wife was
sitting wondering, wondering whether the stage-fright fiasco in "All for
Her" was going to be repeated in this critical performance of
"Ruddigore." Both of us knew that here was my great opportunity. If I
won the future was assured. If I lost----! I knew the dialogue, and I
knew the songs, but during the previous week there had been all too
little chance for me to study Grossmith's conception of the part from
the "wings."

Then my cue came and I went on. The silence of the audience was deathly.
They gave me not the slightest welcome. The great Grossmith, the lion
comique of his day, was not playing! _Oakapple_ was being taken by an
unknown stripling! No wonder they were disappointed and chilling. First
I had a few lines to speak, and then I had a beautiful little duet with
Miss Leonora Braham, who was playing _Rose Maybud_. And when that duet,
"Poor Little Man" was over, and we had responded to the calls for an
encore, all my tremors and hesitation had gone. I knew things were all
right. With every number the audience grew more and more hearty. The
applause when the curtain fell was to me unforgettable. It betokened a
triumph.

Behind the scenes the principals and the choristers almost mobbed me
with congratulations. Up in my dressing-room there were many further
compliments. Sir (then Mr.) William Gilbert and Sir Arthur Sullivan came
to see me together. I heard afterwards that they had been very anxious
about the performance. Gilbert, as he shook me by the hand, declared
"To-night there is no need for the Lyttons to turn in their graves." Mr.
Carte, though always a man of few words, gave me to understand that he
realised that his confidence in me had not been misplaced. Cellier, who
had occupied the conductor's seat, told me that "From to-night you will
never look back." He and I remained fast friends for life.

The second act was no less successful. Since then I have come to know
how wonderful receptions can be, but never did applause fall more
gratefully than when as a young man under the first ordeal of a terrible
test, I was making that first appearance at the Savoy. Late as it is, I
should like to thank any who were there and who read these lines for
that sympathy and encouragement. It gave me confidence in myself and
helped me along. For every young artist who comes for the first time
before the footlights, may I bespeak always the same kindly feeling? It
does mean so much. The Press, to whom my debt has always been great,
also said many nice things about that performance. "Carte and Company,
it must be admitted," said one leading paper, "are wonderful people for
finding out hitherto unexploited talent."

Although George Grossmith was at first not expected to live, he made an
amazingly rapid recovery, and in about three weeks he was able to resume
his part in "Ruddigore." One of the first things he did was to send for
me. "Gee-Gee," as the older generation remembers, was in his day a
veritable prince of comedians, and in the theatre he was always paid the
deference due to a prince. Outside his dressing-room a factotum was
always on duty. None dare think of entering without permission. Thus,
when I, a mere member of the chorus, was summoned there into the great
man's presence, it was regarded by the company as an event, and everyone
wanted to know what it was like! Grossmith told me he had heard of my
success, gave me a signed copy of his photograph as a memento, and thus
laid the foundation of a friendship that was destined to grow very
intimate during the coming years.

Grossmith was a man of brilliant accomplishments, and as an artiste in
facial expression and in wistful fancy, perhaps we have not seen his
equal. Shortly after he left the Gilbert and Sullivan operas, he went on
tour with a repertory of charming songs he had himself composed, and in
that venture he made a good deal of money. For a reason theatre-goers
will understand--the desire to avoid becoming a pale imitation of a man
playing the same part as oneself--I was never a spectator "in front"
when he was in the cast at the Savoy.

[Illustration: THE LATE SIR WILLIAM S. GILBERT.]

Connected with my "Ruddigore" success I was proud to become the
recipient from Gilbert of a gold-mounted walking-stick that is still one
of my most treasured possessions, and the letter accompanying this gift
it may be well to reproduce:--

    39, Harrington Gardens,
    South Kensington,
    22nd February, '87.

    MY DEAR SIR,--

    Will you do me the favour to accept the accompanying
    walking-stick as a token of my appreciation of your excellent
    performance of the part of _Robin Oakapple_, undertaken, as it
    was, at a very few hours' notice, and without any adequate
    rehearsal.

    Faithfully yours,
    W. S. GILBERT.

    H. A. Henri, Esq.

Let me explain here that, in consequence of the "brother and sister"
deception, when I joined the D'Oyly Carte organisation just after my
marriage, I adopted my wife's name and was known as H. A. Henri during
the early part of my career. It was on Gilbert's own suggestion that I
made the change.

It was true, as Gilbert said, that I had no adequate rehearsal when I
was bidden to step at short notice into George Grossmith's shoes, but
during the next few weeks it was my good fortune to be under the
playwright's personal coaching. Subsequently I shall have to tell many
reminiscences of Gilbert, who in after years gave me the privilege of
being both his friend and confidant, but at this moment I want to refer
to advice he gave me while "putting me through my paces" in "Ruddigore."
In my anxiety I was rather hurrying the speech I was supposed to address
to the picture gallery of my ancestors. He pulled me up.

"Let me tell you something, young man," he began. "That speech, 'Oh! my
forefathers!' is now a short speech, but originally it consisted of
three pages of closely-written manuscript. I condensed and condensed.
Every word I could I removed until it was of the length you find it
to-day. Each word that is left serves some purpose--there is not one
word too many. So when you know that it took me three months to perfect
that one speech, I am sure you will not hurry it. Try to remember that
throughout your career in these operas." Later on he also gave me this
sound counsel, "Always leave a little to the audience's imagination.
Leave it to them to see and enjoy the point of a joke. I am sure you are
intelligent," he went on to say, "but believe me, there are many in the
audience who are more intelligent than you!"

Now, if an actor in these operas has to be careful of one thing above
everything else, it is that of avoiding forcing a point. Gilbert's wit
is so neat and so beautifully phrased that it would be utterly spoilt by
buffoonery. The lines must be declaimed in deadly seriousness just as if
the actor believes absolutely in the fanciful and extravagant thing he
is saying. I can think of no better illustration of this than the scene
in "Iolanthe" where _Strephon_ rejects recourse to the Chancery Court
and says his code of conduct is regulated only by "Nature's Acts of
Parliament." _The Lord Chancellor_ then talks about the absurdity of "an
affidavit from a thunderstorm or a few words on oath from a heavy
shower." What a typical Gilbertian fancy! Well, you know how the "comic"
man would say that, how he would whip up his coat collar and shiver at
the suggestion of rain, and how he would do his poor best to make it
sound and look "funny." And the result would be that he would kill the
wittiness of the lines by burlesque. The _Lord Chancellor_ says the
words as if he believed an affidavit from a thunderstorm was at least a
possibility, and the suggestion that he does think it possible makes the
very idea, in the audience's mind, more whimsical still. Imagine, again,
in "Patience" how the entire point would be lost if _Bunthorne_ acted as
if he himself saw the absurdity of his poem "Oh! Hollow, Hollow,
Hollow!" _Grosvenor_, in the same opera, is intensely serious when he
laments sadly that his fatal beauty stands between him and happiness. If
he were not, the delightful drollery of the piece would, of course, be
destroyed.

Gilbert, by the way, gave me two other hints which should be useful to
those just beginning their careers in the theatre, and they are hints
which even older actors may study with profit. He held that it was most
important that the artiste who was speaking and the artiste who was
being addressed should always be well to the front of the stage. "If you
are too far back," he said to me, "you not only lose grip over the
audience, but you also lose the power of clear and effective speech."
Then there is that old trouble--nearly every novice is conscious of
it--as to what one should do with one's hands when on the stage. Somehow
they do seem so much in the way, and one does feel one ought to do
something with them, though what that something should be is always a
problem. I mentioned this matter to Gilbert. "Cut them off at the
wrists, Lytton," was his quick reply, "and forget you've got any hands!"
Every young professional and young amateur should remember this. So long
as one worries about one's hands or one's fingers, one is very liable to
be nervous and to do something wrong, and so the only sound rule to
follow is to forget them entirely.

For a good reason I am going to digress here to tell a story of Sir
Henry Irving. It was my good fortune once to be in the wings at the
Lyceum when he was playing _Shylock_ in the "Merchant of Venice." The
power of his acting upon me that day was extraordinary. Every word I
listened to intently until at last, in the trial scene, he had taken out
his knife to cut the pound of flesh. I knew, of course, that he was
never really going to cut that pound of flesh, but the sharpening of the
knife, the dramatic gleam in the great tragedian's eyes, the tenseness
of the whole situation, was all too vivid and all too like reality. I
hated the sight of bloodshed, and in the shock of anticipation, I
fainted.

When I came round I was in the green room, and a little later, amongst
those who came to see me, was Irving himself. I was deadly white, and if
the truth must be told, rather ashamed. But Irving was immensely
pleased. He took it as a compliment to the force of his acting. Learning
that I was a young actor, he declared that my emotionalism was a good
omen, and said that my sensitive and highly-strung nature would help me
in my work enormously. Then he went on to give me many hints that should
be valuable to every aspirant for success on the stage. One hint I have
never forgotten. "See to it," he said, "that you always imagine that in
the theatre you have a pal who could not afford the stalls, and who is
in the back of the pit or the gallery. Let him hear every line you have
to say. It will make you finish your words distinctly and correctly."

If it is true, as friends have often told me, that one of the chief
merits of my work is the clearness of my elocution in all parts of the
house, it is due to the advice given to me in those early days by two of
the greatest figures connected with the stage, Gilbert and Irving.
Seeing that these operas are now being played by hundreds of amateur
societies each year, I want to pass on to those who perform in them this
golden rule: Always pitch your voice to reach the man listening from the
furthest part of the building. Since Gilbert's death I have often had
the feeling that someone is still intently listening to me--someone a
long way away!

But now I must proceed with my story. When George Grossmith returned to
the cast, I was sent out as a principal in one of the provincial
companies, and in this work continued for years. Sometimes we played one
opera only on tour--the opera most recently produced in town--and
sometimes a number of them in repertory. It was towards the end of 1888
that I first played what is, I need hardly say, the favourite of all my
parts, _Jack Point_, in the "Yeomen of the Guard," the opera which was
Gilbert and Sullivan's immediate successor to "Ruddigore." And in
connection with this part let us finally clear up a "mystery." It has
been a frequent source of enquiry and even controversy in the
newspapers.

When at the close of "Yeomen" _Elsie_ is wedded to _Fairfax_, does _Jack
Point_ die of a broken heart, or does he merely swoon away? That
question is often asked, and it is a matter on which, of course, the
real pathos of the play depends. The facts are these. Gilbert had
conceived and written a tragic ending, but Grossmith, who created the
part, and for whom in a sense it was written, was essentially the
accepted wit and laughter-maker of his day, and thus it had to be
arranged that the opera should have a definitely humorous ending. He
himself knew and told Gilbert that, however he finished it, the audience
would laugh. The London public regarded him as, what in truth he was, a
great jester. If he had tried to be serious they would have refused to
take him seriously. _Whatever_ Grossmith did the audience would laugh,
and the manner in which he did fall down at the end was, indeed,
irresistibly funny.

So it came about that while he was playing _Jack Point_ in his way in
London I was playing him in my way in the provinces. The first time I
introduced my version of the part was at Bath. For some time I had
considered how poignant would be the effect if the poor strolling
player, robbed of the love of a lady, forsaken by his friends, should
gently kiss the edge of her garment, make the sign of his blessing, and
then fall over, not senseless, but--dead! I had told the stage manager
about my new ending. From time to time he asked me when I was going to
do it, and then when at last I did feel inspired to play this tragic
dénouement, what he did was to wire immediately to Mr. Carte: "Lytton
impossible for _Point_. What shall I do?"

I ought to explain that any departure from tradition in the performance
of these operas was strictly prohibited by the management. Thus, while I
might demur to the implication that my work was impossible, the fact
that he should report me to headquarters was only consistent with his
duty. But the sequel was hardly what he expected. The very next day Mr.
Carte, unknown to me at the time, came down to Bath. He watched the
performance and, after the show, the company were assembled on the stage
in order that, in accordance with custom, he could express any
criticisms or bestow his approval. What happened seemed to me to be
characteristic of this great man's remarkable tact. He first told us
that he had enjoyed the performance. "For rehearsals to-morrow," he went
on, "I shall want Mr. So-and-so, Mr. So-and-so, Miss So-and-so, Miss
So-and-so," and several others. The inference was that there were
details in their work that needed correcting. Then he turned to me,
shook me most warmly by the hand, and just said very cordially, "Good
night, Lytton." And then he left. No "Excellent"--that might have let
down the stage manager's authority--but at the same time no
condemnation. It was all noncommittal, but it suggested to me, as it
actually transpired was the case, that he was anything but displeased
with my reading.

Gilbert and I, when we had become close friends, often had long talks
about this opera, and particularly about my interpretation of the
lovable Merryman. I told him what had led me to attempt this conception,
and asked him whether he wished me to continue it, or whether it should
be modified in any particular way. "No," was his reply; "keep on like
that. It is just what I want. _Jack Point_ should die and the end of the
opera should be a tragedy."

For the sake of fairness I must mention that a fortnight after I had
introduced this version of the part, another popular artiste, who was
out with one of the other provincial companies, played the rôle in just
the same way. It was entirely a coincidence. Neither of us knew that the
other had evolved in his mind precisely the same idea, even down to the
minutest details, and still less had either of us seen the other play
it.

One little detail in my make-up for this part may be worth recording.
Whenever kings or noblemen in the old days were pleased with their
jesters they threw them a ring. For that reason I invariably wear a ring
when I appear as _Jack Point_. Simple ornament as it is, it was once
owned by Edmund Kean and worn by him on the stage, and another treasured
relic of the great tragedian that I possess is a snuff-box, also given
to me by my old friend, Charles Brookfield.

One of the finest compliments ever paid to me as an artiste occurred at
Hanley. We were playing "Yeomen." Many of our audience that night were a
rough lot of fellows, some of whom even sat in their shirt sleeves, but
there could be no question but that they were keenly following the play.
Everywhere we had been on that tour there had been tremendous calls
after the curtain. At Hanley when the curtain fell there was--a dead
silence! It was quite uncanny. What had happened? Were they so little
moved by the closing scene of the piece that they were going out in
indifference or in disgust? Gently we drew the edge of the curtain
aside, and there, would you believe it, we saw those honest fellows
silently creeping out without even a whisper. He was _dead_. _Jack
Point_ was _dead_!

[Illustration: THE LATE SIR ARTHUR SULLIVAN.]

I changed in silence myself. The effect of the incident had been so
extraordinary. And when I went down to the stage door a crowd of these
rough men were waiting. Somehow they knew me for _Point_. "Here he is!"
they shouted. "Are you all right, mister, now?" Then, as I walked on,
they turned to one another and I overheard one of them say: "He _wasn't_
dead, after all." As they saw the end of the opera they verily believed
something had gone wrong. Such a thing in the theatre may possibly be
understandable, but that the illusion should have lingered after the
curtain had dropped, and even after they had left the theatre and come
really to earth in the street, seemed to me extraordinary.

The "Yeomen of the Guard" was staged again the following night, but this
time the audience must have been told by their pals that they had
actually seen me afterwards, and that it was "only a play." _Jack_
didn't die--not really. It was only "pretended."

That Hanley audience rather overdrew the gravity of things. Some
audiences, on the other hand, go to the opposite extreme and they have
their biggest laugh when and where I least expect it. I remember once
playing the _Pirate King_ in the "Pirates of Penzance," and as a result
of a slip (a physical one) I was the sorry figure in one of those
incidents which I might catalogue as "laughs I ought not to have got." I
had to come in, armed to the teeth, high up on the stage. By some
mischance I slipped down the rocks, and encumbered with all those
knives, pistols and cutlasses about me it was a pretty bad drop. The
audience, of course, thought my undignified entrance a capital joke. I
didn't--it hurt. But I turned the mishap to account, first picking up a
dagger and putting it between my teeth, then groping round for the other
weapons, and all the while cowing my pirate swashbucklers with a vicious
look that suggested "Come on at your peril; I'm ready." That incident
was not in the book.

Lovers of "Patience" will recall that little diversion where _Lady Jane_
picks up _Bunthorne_ in her arms and carries him off. Well, when Miss
Bertha Lewis was playing with me in this scene quite recently, she did
something quite unauthorised. She dropped me--it was a terrible
crash--and the audience thought it a "scream." In the shelter of the
wings I remonstrated with her, pointing out that this was a distinct
departure from what Gilbert intended. All the sympathy I got was, "Well,
I've dropped you only twice in eight years!" Scarcely an effectual
embrocation for bruises!

When we were doing "Ruddigore" in Birmingham, some years ago, I broke my
ankle in the dance with which the first curtain fell. Somehow I finished
the performance, but when I went up to my dressing-room to change I
fainted. When I came to I found that my foot had swollen enormously,
that the top boot I was wearing had burst, and that they were doing
their best to cut it away. The speediest medical aid to be found was
that of a veterinary surgeon, and although the pain was awful it was
nothing like the feeling of doom when I overheard him saying, "He may
not walk again!" Luckily his fears were altogether unfounded, but
although the accident has not affected my dancing, the ankle has never
been quite right to this day.

Once, in the "Yeomen," I kicked one of the posts near the executioner's
block. It dislocated my toe, but what a happy accident it was I did not
realise until some weeks later, when we were playing "The Mikado," and
when I was doing the dance in the "Flowers that Bloom in the Spring," I
trod upon a tin-tack, and instinctively drew my toe away, as it were,
from the pain. From the audience there came a tremendous roar of
laughter. For a moment I could not understand it at all. Looking down,
however, I was amazed to find that big toe upright, almost at right
angles to the rest of the foot. With my fan I pressed it down--then
raised it again. This provoked so much merriment among the audience that
I did it a second time, and a third. All this time the theatre was
convulsed. I confess that to myself it seemed jolly funny. Here, indeed,
was a quaint discovery.

This "toe" business has ever since been one of _Ko-Ko's_ greatest
mirth-provokers in the "Flowers that Bloom in the Spring." The
explanation of its origin shows that it is not a trick mechanical toe
nor, as some people suppose, that it is done with a piece of string. The
fact is simply that the toe is double-jointed.

Now that I have made a brief reference to dancing, I think it may be
well to correct a legend which has grown up about my age, and which
usually turns up when we have been encored a first or a second time for
a dance or some boisterous number, especially in "Iolanthe" or "The
Mikado." "Isn't it a shame?" I know some dear kind friends say, "making
him do it again. Poor old man! He's well over seventy." Others declare,
"Isn't he a marvel for sixty-five?" Well, if a man is as old as he
feels, then my age must still be in the thirties, and certainly there is
no intention on my part of retiring just yet. But if we have to go by
the calendar, and if it is necessary that there should be "no possible
shadow of doubt" in the future as to my age, I had better put on record
the fact that I was born in London on January 3rd, 1867. The rest, a
small matter of arithmetic, may be left to you. At all events I am still
some distance from the patriarchal span.

The stage is a wonderful tonic in keeping one healthy and strong. Not
once, but many times, I have gone to the theatre in the evening
suffering from neuralgia, but the moment my cue comes the pain has
entirely disappeared. No sooner, worse luck, have I finished for the
night than it has returned!




IV.
LEADERS OF THE SAVOY.

    _Memories of Gilbert--His instinct for stagecraft--Stories of
    rehearsals--Jack Point's unanswered conundrum--The craze for the
    Up-to-Date--Gilbert's experiments on a miniature
    stage--Nanki-Poo's address--The Japanese colony at
    Knightsbridge--The geniality of Sullivan--A magician of the
    orchestra--The cause of an unhappy separation--Only a
    carpet--Impressions of D'Oyly Carte--Merited rebukes and
    generous praise--D'Oyly Carte and I rehearse a love scene--A
    wonderful business woman--Mrs. Carte's part in the Savoy
    successes--Our leader to-day._


Sir William Gilbert I shall always regard as a pattern of the fine old
English gentleman. Of that breed we have only too few survivors to-day.
Some who know him superficially have pictured him as a martinet, but
while this may have been true of him under the stress of his theatrical
work, it fails to do justice to the innate gentleness and courtesy which
were his great and distinguishing qualities. Upright and honourable
himself, one could never imagine that he could ever do a mean,
ungenerous action to anyone, nor had any man a truer genius for
friendship.

Gilbert, it is true, had sometimes a satirical tongue, but these little
shafts of ridicule of his seldom left any sting. The _bons mots_
credited to him are innumerable, but while many may be authentic there
are others that are legendary. He was a devoted lover of the classics,
and to this may be attributed his command of such beautiful English.
Nimble-witted as he was, he would spend days in shaping and re-shaping
some witty fancy into phrases that satisfied his meticulous taste, and
days and weeks would be given to polishing and re-polishing some lyrical
gem. But when a new opera was due for rehearsal, the libretto was all
finished and copied, and everything was in readiness.

Few men have had so rare an instinct for stagecraft. Few men could
approach him in such perfect technique of the footlights. Up at Grim's
Dyke, his beautiful home near Harrow, he had a wonderful miniature stage
at which he would work arranging just where every character should
enter, where he or she should stand or move after this number and that,
and when and where eventually he or she should disappear. For each
character he had a coloured block, and there were similar devices, of
course, for the chorus. Thus, when he came down for rehearsals, he had
everything in his mind's eye already, and he insisted that every detail
should be carried out just as he had planned. "Your first entrance will
be here," he would say, "and your second entrance there. 'Spurn not the
nobly born' will be sung by _Tolloller_ just there, and while he sings
it _Mountararat_ will stand there, _Phyllis_ there," and so on.

When the company had become familiar with the broader outlines of the
piece, he would concentrate attention upon the effects upon the audience
that could be attained only by the aid of facial expression, gesture and
ensemble arrangement. Not only did he lay down his wishes, but he
insisted that they must be implicitly obeyed, and a principal who had
not reached perfection in the part he was taking would be coached again
and again. I remember once that, in one of those moods of weariness and
dullness that occasionally steal over one at rehearsals, I did not grasp
something he had been telling me, and I was indiscreet enough to blurt
out, "But I haven't done that before, Sir William." "No," was his reply,
"but I have." The rebuke to my dullness went home! It was Durward Lely,
I think, whom he told once to sit down "in a pensive fashion." Lely
thereupon unmindfully sat down rather heavily--and disturbed an
elaborate piece of scenery. "No! No!" was Gilbert's comment, "I said
pensively, not ex-pensively." That quickness of wit was very typical.

George Grossmith once suggested that the introduction of certain
business would make the audience laugh. Gilbert was quite unsympathetic.
"Yes!" he responded in his dryest vein, "but so they would if you sat
down on a pork pie!" Grossmith it was, too, who had become so wearied
practising a certain gesture that I heard him declare he "had rehearsed
this confounded business until I feel a perfect fool." "Ah! so now we
can talk on equal terms" was the playwright's instant retort. And the
next moment he administered another rebuke. "I beg your pardon," said
the comedian, rather bored, in reference to some instructions he had not
quite understood. "I accept the apology," was the reply. "Now let's get
on with the rehearsal."

You will remember that in "The Yeomen" poor _Jack Point_ puts his
riddle, "Why is a cook's brainpan like an overwound clock?" The
Lieutenant interposes abruptly with "A truce to this fooling," and the
poor Merry-man saunters off exclaiming "Just my luck: my best conundrum
wasted." Like many in the audience, I have often wondered what the
answer to that conundrum is, and one day I put a question about it to
Gilbert. With a smile he said he couldn't tell me then, but he would
leave me the answer in his will. I'm sorry to say that it was not found
there--maybe because there was really no answer to the riddle, or
perhaps because he had forgotten to bequeath to the world this
interesting legacy.

Sir William not only studied the entrances and exits beforehand, but he
came with clear-cut ideas as to the colour schemes which would produce
the best effect in the scenery, laid down the methods with which the
lighting was to be handled, and arranged that no heavy dresses had to be
worn by those who had dances to perform. No alterations of any kind
could be made without his authority, and thus it comes about that the
operas as presented to-day are just as he left them, without the change
of a word, and long may they so remain!

I ought, perhaps, to answer criticisms which are often laid against me
when, as _Ko-Ko_ in "The Mikado," I do not follow the text by saying
that _Nanki-Poo's_ address is "Knightsbridge." I admit I substitute the
name of some locality more familiar to the audience before whom we are
playing. Well, it is not generally known that Knightsbridge is named in
the opera because, just before it was written, a small Japanese colony
had settled in that inner suburb of London, and a very great deal of
curiosity the appearance of those little people in their native costumes
aroused in the Metropolis. Gilbert, therefore, in his search for "local
colour" for his forthcoming opera, had not to travel to Tokio, but found
it almost on his own doorstep near his home, then in South Kensington.
A Japanese male-dancer and a Geisha, moreover, were allowed to come from
the colony to teach the company how to run or dance in tiny steps with
their toes turned in, how to spread or snap their fans to indicate
annoyance or delight, and how to arrange their hair and line their faces
in order to introduce the Oriental touch into their "make-up." This
realism was very effective, and it had a great deal to do with the
instantaneous success of what is still regarded as the Gilbert and
Sullivan masterpiece.

[Illustration: THE LATE MR. RICHARD D'OYLY CARTE.]

But to return to the point about Knightsbridge. When "The Mikado" was
produced at the Savoy, the significance of the reference to a London
audience was obvious and amusing enough, but it was a different matter
when the opera was sent into the provinces. Gilbert accordingly gave
instructions that the place was to be localised, and there was and
always is something very diverting to, say, a Liverpool audience in the
unexpected announcement that _Nanki-Poo_, the great Mikado's son, is
living at "Wigan." In the case of Manchester it might be "Oldham" or in
that of Birmingham "Small Heath." What I want to make clear is that, so
far from any liberty being taken on my part, this little variation is
fully authorised, and it is the only instance of the kind in the whole
of the operas.

Sir Arthur Sullivan I knew least of the famous triumvirate at the Savoy.
I was under him, of course, at rehearsals, and we had pleasant little
talks from time to time, but my relations with him were neither so
frequent nor so intimate as they were with the other two partners. We
had a mutual friend in Francois Cellier, about whose work as conductor I
shall have more to say, and it was through him that I learned much about
the fine personal and musical qualities of the composer.

Certainly Sullivan was a great man, intensely devoted to his art, and
fame and fortune never spoilt a man less. A warm-hearted Irishman, he
was always ready to do a good turn for anyone, and it was wonderful how
the geniality of his nature was never clouded by almost life-long
physical suffering. Sullivan lived and died a bachelor, and I believe
there was never a more affectionate tie than that which existed between
him and his mother, a very witty old lady, and one who took an
exceptional pride in her son's accomplishments. Nor is it generally
known that he took upon himself all the obligations for the welfare and
upbringing of his dead brother's family. It was to Herbert Sullivan, his
favourite nephew, that his fortune was bequeathed.

Of Sullivan the musician I cannot very well speak. I have already owned
that I have little real musical knowledge. But at the same time he
always seemed to me to be something of a magician. Not only could he
play an instrument, but he knew exactly what any instrument could be
made to do to introduce some delightful, quaint effect into the general
orchestral design. "No! No!" he would say at a rehearsal to the double
bass, "I don't want it like that. I want a lazy, drawn-out sound like
this." And, taking the bow in his fingers, he would produce some
deliciously droll effect from the strings. "Oh, no! not that way," he
would say to the flutes, and a flute being handed up to him, he would
show how the notes on the score were to be made lightsome and caressing.
Then it would be the turn of the violins.

At the earlier rehearsals it was often difficult for the principals to
get the tune of their songs. The stumbling block was the trickiness of
rhythm which was one of the composer's greatest gifts. Now, although I
cannot read a line of music, my sense of rhythm has always been very
strong, and this has helped me enormously both in my songs and my
dancing. Once when Sir Arthur was rehearsing us, and we simply could not
get our songs right, I asked him to "la la" the rhythm to me, and I then
got the measure so well that he exclaimed "That's splendid Lytton. If
you're not a musician, I wish there were others, too, who were not."

One story about Sullivan--I admit it is not a new one--well deserves
telling. Standing one night at the back of the dress-circle, he
commenced in a contemplative fashion to hum the melody of a song that
was being rendered on the stage. "Look here," declared a sensitive old
gentleman, turning round sharply to the composer, "I've paid my money to
hear Sullivan's music--not yours." And whenever Sir Arthur told this
story against himself he always confessed that he well deserved the
rebuke.

Gilbert and Sullivan were collaborators for exactly twenty-five years.
It was in 1871 that they wrote "Thespis," a very funny little piece of
its kind that was produced at the Gaiety, and it was this success that
induced Mr. Richard D'Oyly Carte to invite them to associate again in
the writing of a curtain-raiser destined to be known as "Trial by Jury."
From that time until 1889 they worked in double harness without a
break, and it was in that latter year, after the most successful
production of "The Gondoliers" that there came the unfortunate
"separation." It lasted four years. When, in 1893, the two men re-united
their talents, they gave us that delightfully funny play, "Utopia
Limited." But with "The Grand Duke" in 1896--and the superstitious will
not overlook that this was the thirteenth piece they had written
together--the curtain finally came down upon the partnership.

It may be expected of me that I should say something about the cause of
the famous "separation." It is a matter I should prefer to ignore,
partly because the consequences of it were so very unfortunate to the
cause of dramatic and musical art, and partly because the reason of it
was trivial to a degree. Slight "tiffs" there may have been between the
two from time to time--that was inevitable under the strain of
rehearsals--but these minor differences were mended within a day or a
night. What caused the rift was--would you believe it?--a carpet! This
Mr. Carte, who under the contract was responsible for furnishings, had
bought for £140, as a means of adding to the comfort, as he believed, of
the patrons of the Savoy. Seeing this item in the accounts, Mr. Gilbert
objected to it as a sheer waste of money, arguing that it would not
bring an extra sixpence into the exchequer. The dispute was a mere
"breeze" to begin with, but Gilbert and Carte had each a will of his
own, and soon the "breeze" had developed into a "gale." And that
miserable carpet led at last to the break-up of the partnership.

Sullivan, whether he agreed with the purchase or not, did his best to
put an end to the quarrel, but as in the end he had to adhere to one
side or the other, he linked himself with Mr. Carte. This, then, was the
sole cause of the breach, and by none was it more regretted than by the
principals. Gilbert, I know, felt this severance from his old friend
very acutely, though in our many talks in after years he was always
inclined to be a little reticent as to this subject. Sullivan, too,
though he went on composing, was not at all fortunate in his choice of
lyrical writers, none of whom had the deftness and quaint turn of fancy
of the playwright with whom he had worked so long and so successfully.

Before I leave Sullivan, I think students of music will be interested to
hear what Cellier once told me as to the composer's methods in writing
his beautiful songs. With Gilbert's words before him, he set out first
to decide, not what should be the tune, but the rhythm. It was this
method of finding exactly what metre best suited the sentiment of the
lyric that gave his music such originality. Later, having decided what
the rhythm should be, he went on to sketch out the melody, but it was
seldom that he set to work on the orchestration until the rehearsals
were well under way. In the meanwhile the principals practised their
songs to an accompaniment which he vamped on the pianoforte. Sullivan,
who could score very quickly, had a mind running riot with musical
ideas, and he could always pick out the idea for a given number that
fitted it like the proverbial glove. "I have a song to sing O!" he
regarded, I have been told, as the most difficult conundrum Gilbert ever
set him, and musicians tell me that, in sheer constructive ingenuity, it
is one of the cleverest numbers in the "Yeomen of the Guard."

Now I must turn to Mr. D'Oyly Carte. From time to time in this book I
have given indications as to the manner of man that he was, but although
much is known about his capacity as a business manager, the world knows
very little indeed of his kindly generosity. It was impossible, of
course, for him to take into the company every poor actor who was down
on his luck, but certain it is that he never sent him empty away. Seldom
did he leave his office without seeing that his pockets were well laden
with sovereigns. Out in the Strand, as he knew, there would be some waif
of our profession waiting for him, always sure that under cover of a
handshake, Mr. Carte would press a golden coin upon him with a cheery
"see you get yourself a good lunch," or "a good supper."

Mr. Carte, as I have said before, was a man of few words and of a rather
taciturn humour, but it would be wrong to think that he was not fond of
his joke. First, however, let me tell the story of a small youthful
folly of mine, in "The Mikado." It happened in the second act where
_Ko-Ko_, _Pooh Bah_ and _Pitti Sing_ are prostrate on the floor in the
presence of the _Emperor_. We three had to do our well-known "roll-over"
act in which I, like _Pitti Sing_ herself, had to bear the weight of the
20-stone of dear old Fred Billington. Well, an imp of mischief led me
one night to conceal a bladder under my costume, and when Fred rolled
over it exploded with a terrible "bang." Billington had the fright of
his life. "What's happened Harry?" he whispered anxiously, his nose
still to the floor, "What have I done?"

I am afraid that in those days I had an incurable weakness for practical
joking. One night I went for dinner into a well-known hotel in the
Strand. Soon after I had entered the restaurant I was roughly grasped by
one would-be diner, who was obviously in a very bad temper, and who
demanded to know why no one had been to take the order for himself and
his guests. Well, if I was to be mistaken for a waiter, it would be just
as well to play the part. "Pardon, monsieur!" I exclaimed, dropping at
once into a most deferential attitude, and immediately getting ready to
write down his order on the back of a menu-card that was handy. The
diner, still in the worst of humours, recited the courses he had
selected. "And wine, monsieur?" I asked. Yes, he wanted wine as well,
and that order also was faithfully booked. Then I went to the far end of
the room to join my own party of friends. What combustible heat the
diner developed when he found that his wishes were still unattended to,
and what verbal avalanche the real waiter had to endure when he had to
ask that the order should be repeated, are matters upon which no light
can be thrown--by myself! But to return to the story of the "explosion"
in "The Mikado."

My little bit of devilment was duly reported to the management. Mr.
Carte summoned me before him and looked very grave. Unauthorised
diversions of this kind would never do--and certainly not when
perpetrated by a leading principal. "I think it is about time you
stopped your schoolboy pranks," was his rebuke.

But a different side of Mr. Carte was seen in connection with a certain
incident at the Savoy. The point to remember is that it had reference to
something that did not involve any liberties with the performance, and
this fact put it, in his eyes, in an entirely different category. We had
in the company a man who was always telling tales about the rest to the
stage manager. So one night some of us got hold of him, ducked his head
in a bucket of dirty water, and kept it there as long as we dare.
Naturally he reported us, and in due course we were summoned to attend
and explain our conduct to Mr. Carte. We were bidden to enter his room
one by one. I, as one of the ring-leaders, was the first to go in. "This
is very serious," said Mr. Carte, but having heard my explanation of the
incident, and still looking exceedingly severe, he warned me that "this
sort of thing must not happen again." Then, as a smile stole over his
face, he added "All the same I might have done it myself!"

With that he told me, when I went out of the room, to put one hand on my
temple and, with the other stretched out in the air, to exclaim "Oh!
it's terrible--terrible." What the effect of this melodramatic posture
was on those anxiously waiting outside may well be imagined. It could
only mean instant dismissal for all of us. Then Mr. Carte had another
culprit before him, and having formally rebuked him, commanded him to
make his exit in much the same way. It was an excellent joke--except for
those at the end of the queue.

It was Mr. D'Oyly Carte, by the way, who once did me the compliment of
saying, "My dear Lytton, you have given me the finest performance I have
ever seen of any part on any stage." Strange as it may seem to-day, the
rôle which I was playing then, and which drew those most cordial words
from one whose praise was always so measured and restrained, was that of
_Shadbolt_ in the 1897 London revivals of "The Yeomen of the Guard." It
was impossible for a small man to play the part just as the big men had
played it, and so my interpretation of it was that of a creeping,
cringing little dwarf who in manner, in method and in mood was not
unlike Uriah Heep. This seemed to me to be consistent with the
historical figure from which the part was drawn. Gilbert, it is not
generally known, took him from a wicked, wizened little wretch who, in
the sixteenth century, so legend says, haunted the Tower when an
execution was due, and offered the unhappy felon a handful of dust,
which was, he said, "a powder that will save you from pain." For reward
he claimed the victim's valuables.

[Illustration: MR. RUPERT D'OYLY CARTE.]

When, by the way, Mr. Carte told me that mine was the best performance
he had ever seen on any stage, I was so flattered by the compliment that
I asked him if he would write his opinion down for me, and he readily
promised to do so. Within a day or two I received a letter containing
those words over his signature, and it remains amongst my treasured
possessions. Only once did I know him to be guilty of forgetfulness, and
that was when, meeting me in London, he said: "Oh! I think I can offer
you an engagement, Lytton." I had to point out to him that I was
actually playing in one of his companies. We were, I think, at Greenwich
at the time, and I was making a flying visit to London.

Mr. Carte was a great stage manager. He could take in the details of a
scene with one sweep of his eagle eye and say unerringly just what was
wrong. Shortly before I was leaving town for a provincial tour he
noticed that _Ko-Ko's_ love scene with _Katisha_ might be improved, and
so we went together for an extra rehearsal into the pit bar at the
Savoy. Mr. Carte said he would be _Katisha_ and I, of course, was to be
_Ko-Ko_. Now, to make love to a bearded man, and a man who was one's
manager into the bargain, was rather a task but we both entered heartily
into the spirit of the thing. "Just act as you would if you were on the
stage," was his advice, "though you needn't actually kiss me, you know!"
For this scene we had an audience of one. Little Rupert D'Oyly Carte was
there, and before the rehearsal commenced I lifted him on to the bar
counter, where he sat and simply held his sides with laughter watching
me making earnest love to his father! I imagine he remembers that
incident still.

That "eye" for stagecraft, which in Mr. Richard D'Oyly Carte amounted to
genius, has been inherited in a quite remarkable degree by his son, Mr.
Rupert D'Oyly Carte. He, too, has the gift of taking in the details of a
scene at a glance, and knowing instinctively just what must be corrected
in order to make the colours blend most effectively, the action move
most perfectly, and the stage arrangement generally to be in balance and
proportion. I need not say that in all this he most faithfully observes
all the traditions which have stood so well the test of time.

So far I have given in this chapter my random reminiscences of the chief
three figures--the triumvirate, as I have called them--at the Savoy. But
there was also a fourth, and it would be a grave omission were I not to
mention one who, in my judgment, was as wonderful as any of them. I
refer to Miss Helen Lenoir, who, after acting for some years as private
secretary to Mr. Carte, became his wife. There was hardly a department
of this great enterprise which did not benefit, little though the wider
public knew it, from Mrs. Carte's remarkable genius. It was not alone
that hers was the woman's hand that lent an added tastefulness to the
dressing of the productions. She was a born business woman with an
outstanding gift for organisation. No financial statement was too
intricate for her, and no contract too abstruse. Once, when I had to put
one of her letters to me before my legal adviser, though not, I need
hardly say, with any litigious intent, he declared firmly "this letter
_must_ have been written by a solicitor." He would not admit that any
woman could draw up a document so cleverly guarded with qualifications.

Mrs. Carte, besides her natural business talent, had fine artistic taste
and was a sound judge, too, of the capabilities of those who came to the
theatre in search of engagements. The New York productions of the operas
were often placed in her charge. Naturally enough, the American managers
did not welcome the "invasion" any too heartily, and her
responsibilities over there must have been a supreme test of her tact
and powers of organisation. Yet the success of these transatlantic
ventures could not be gainsaid.

When her husband died Mrs. Carte took the reins of management entirely
into her keeping, and it was one of her most remarkable achievements
that, notwithstanding constant pain and declining health, this
wonderful woman should have carried the operas through a period when,
owing to the natural reaction of time, they were suffering a temporary
eclipse. Long before she died in 1913 they had entered upon a new lease
of life, and to-day we find them once more on the flood tide of
prosperity, loved alike by those who are loyal to their favourites of
other days and no less by those of the younger generation who have been
captivated by all their joyous charm of wit and melody.

Our leader to-day is Mr. Rupert D'Oyly Carte. Of him I find it difficult
to speak, as is bound to be the case when one is working in constant
association with one who has the same cause at heart, and sharing with
him the earnest intention that the great tradition of these operas shall
be worthily and faithfully upheld. Upon Rupert D'Oyly Carte's shoulders
has fallen the mantle of a splendid heritage. Speaking as the oldest
member of his company, and no less as one who may claim also to be a
friend, I can assure him that the happy family of artistes who serve
under his banner, and who play in these pieces night by night with all
the more zest because they love them for their own freshness and grace,
will always do their part under him in keeping alight the "sacred lamp"
of real English comedy that was first kindled into undying fires within
the portals of the Savoy.




V.
ADVENTURES IN TWO HEMISPHERES.

    _Actors in real life--Reminiscences of my American visit--A
    thrill in Sing-Sing--The detective and the crook--Outwitting the
    Pirates--In "The Gondoliers" in New York--A cutting Press
    critique--Orchestral afflictions--Our best audiences--Enthusiasm
    in Ireland and a short-lived interruption--Exciting fire
    experiences--Too realistic thunder and lightning--"Hell's
    Full."_


"Lytton," said a well-known man of affairs to me, "we are all actors.
You are an actor. I am an actor. Come with me to a meeting at which I am
to make a speech and I will show you a real-life drama truer than ever
you will see or hear on the stage. The audience would kill me if they
dare. They would rend me limb from limb. And yet in half-an-hour--mark
my words, in half-an-hour!--they will be shaking me by the hand and
everything will be ending happily."

We were in Holborn at the time and we took a short cab-ride into the
City. My friend had to meet the shareholders of a company which he had
promoted and which had not been prospering. No sooner had he entered the
meeting room than he was met with a hostile reception. Epithets of an
unequivocally abusive kind were flung at him from every side. Men shook
their fists in his face. When he reached the platform the demonstration
was redoubled, and at first he was not allowed to speak. Solidly he
stood his ground waiting for the storm to subside. Eventually they did
allow him to speak, and first to a crescendo and then to a diminuendo
of interruption he told them how the failure of things could not be his
fault at all, how he was ready to stand by the venture to the very end,
how he would guarantee to pay them all their money back with interest,
and how he would work the flesh off his bones to put the company right.

Here, indeed, was real drama--and at a company meeting. Here was a man
fighting for his commercial existence, and by the force of wits, sheer
self-confidence and personal magnetism gradually winning. Just after the
meeting closed a number of those infuriated shareholders were on the
platform shaking him by the hand and telling him what a fine fellow he
was. Towards the end of his speech I had seen him look at his watch and
flash a significant glance in my direction. "Well," he said, when he
rejoined me, quite calm and collected, "I did it under half-an-hour--in
fact, with just a minute to spare."

It is an incident like this which proves that histrionics is no
theatrical monopoly. I once met another actor in real life--this time in
America. I had gone to New York to do the _Duke_ in "The Gondoliers."
Amongst the many delightful people I met there was General Sickles.
Sickles was a "character," and also a man of influence. Only a few weeks
before he had met Captain Shaw, the chief of the London Fire Brigade,
whom Gilbert has immortalised in the Queen's beautiful song in
"Iolanthe." Shaw had argued with the General that America's
fire-fighting methods were not as speedy as they were in England.

"Oh! aren't they?" was the reply. "Come and see." Forthwith the General,
who was not a fire chief himself, but who had been Sheriff of New York
and was thus a powerful individual, ordered out the New York Fire
Brigade. No sooner had a button been touched than the harness
automatically fell on the horses, the men came flying down a pole right
on to the engine, and in so many seconds the brigade was ready. Long
since, of course, all these methods have been adopted in this country,
and I believe I am right in saying that the improvement followed this
visit of Captain Shaw to the United States. I myself saw a turn-out of
the brigade and thought their swiftness astonishing.

It was General Sickles who introduced me to Mr. Burke, a famous New York
detective of his day, who took me on a most interesting tour of
Sing-Sing Prison. He persuaded me to sit in the electric chair, and
having put the copper band round my head and adjusted the rest of the
apparatus, he took a big switch in his hand and said, "I've simply got
to press this and you're electrocuted--dead in a jiffy!" I'll own up I
did not share his affection for his plaything. The experience was not at
all pleasant.

Burke, as an additional thrill, asked me if I should like to meet a
notorious bank robber, whom I will call Captain S. It was arranged that
the three of us should have dinner together. Captain S., the other
real-life actor referred to, was at that time enjoying a spell of
liberty, and to me it was amazing how cordial was the friendship between
the great detective and the great "crook." When "business" was afoot it
was a battle of wits, with the bank robber bringing off some tremendous
haul and the detective hot on his tracks to bring him to justice, and
probably it was because each had so much respect for the other's
talents that socially they could be such excellent pals.

"Yes, Burke," I heard Captain S. say, "you've 'lagged' me before this
and I expect you'll do it again." I found him a delightful companion,
with a fund of good stories, and he played the violin for us most
beautifully.

Captain S. told us how he planned one of his earlier exploits. It was
his custom to pose as an English philanthropist, who was almost
eccentric in his liberality and who made himself _persona grata_ in
society. Even the most suspicious would have been disarmed by one so
benevolent both in manner and in appearance. In this particular case,
having decided on the bank he intended to rob, he took a flat over the
building. One part of the day was spent in preparing his gang for the
coup and the other part in performing kindly acts of charity. "I really
felt sorry," he told us, "when the time had come to do the trick. I had
been spending a lot of money and thoroughly enjoying myself. Luckily, we
had found that, although the bank had steel walls and a steel floor, it
had just an ordinary ceiling. That, of course, helped us enormously, and
we got away with a regular pile. I left a note on the counter: 'You must
blame the designer of the bank for this, not me.'"

I have not yet explained the circumstances that took me to America.
Shortly after "The Gondoliers" had been produced in London it was put on
in the States. No sooner had any new Savoy opera been successfully
launched in London than preparations were pushed forward for its
production on the other side of the Atlantic. This, in point of fact,
was done as a precaution. Gilbert, Sullivan and Carte had learnt the
need of that by bitter experience in their earlier ventures, which had
been exploited by "pirates." These nimble gentlemen, having secured a
rough idea of the new opera that was being produced in London, lost no
time in bringing out a miserable travesty of it under the identical
title that it was given at the Savoy. Thus not only did they trade on
the reputation of these operas, but they were able to prevent the
genuine production being given under its own title, inasmuch as this
would have transgressed the law of copyright. So the "pirates" had to be
forestalled by an immediate staging of the real operas, and in some
cases these were put on in America simultaneously with, and in one case
actually before, the productions in England.

[Illustration: THE LATE MRS. RICHARD D'OYLY CARTE.]

"The Gondoliers" in America was not a success. Mr. Carte, who was there
at the time, tried to mend matters by completely re-casting the play. I
was in York, and I received a cable "Come to New York." It was never my
custom to question my manager's requests. Whenever he commanded I was
ready to obey. So from York to New York I travelled by the first
available steamer and was soon playing the _Duke of Plaza-Toro_. During
my first interview with Mr. Carte after my arrival there occurred an
incident characteristic of the great manager. "Lytton," he said,
producing his note-book, "I believe you owe me £50." I admitted it--the
loan had been for a small speculation. "Well," was his reply, striking
his pen through the item, "that debt is paid." It was in this way that
he chose to show his appreciation of my action in responding to his
summons immediately.

What I remember most about "The Gondoliers" was the simply uproarious
laughter with which the audience greeted the line in the Grand
Inquisitor's song, "And Dukes were three a penny." It was quite
different to the smiles with which the phrase is received in England.
The significance of their merriment was the fact that no fewer than
seven men had taken the part of the _Duke of Plaza-Toro_! I myself was
there as the seventh! A Press critic, having drawn attention to this
rather prolific succession, proceeded to place the seven in the order of
merit--at least, as it appeared to his judgment. He gave six of the
names in his order of preference in ordinary type, and then came a wide
gap of space, followed by the last name in the minutest type. While I do
not remember where I stood I do know that mine was not the name in such
conspicuous inconspicuousness!

Speaking of Press criticisms, which in this country are almost
invariably fair and judicious, it was my curious experience once to go
into a barber's shop in a small town in which we were playing and to
find the wielder of the razor very keen about discussing the operas. He
then urged me to be sure to buy a copy of the _Mudford Gazette_. "I've
said something very nice about you," he said. I looked perplexed. "Oh!
I'm the musical critic, you know," explained the worthy Figaro.

Our "properties" in the small towns were sometimes a little primitive.
Once in "The Gondoliers" our gondola was made of an egg-box on a couple
of rollers, and we had to wade ashore. This was at Queenstown, where
there was a strike, and we could not get all our baggage from the liner
that had brought us from America. But often the chief affliction was
the orchestra. I remember one violinist whose efforts were woeful. "You
can't play your instrument," the conductor told him at last in
exasperation. "Neither would you if your hands were swollen with hard
work like mine," was his retort. "This job doesn't pay me. I just come
here in the evening." It transpired that he was a bricklayer. At another
place the musicianship of one instrumentalist was truly appalling. "How
long have you been playing?" asked the conductor. "Thirty years man and
boy," was the response. "It is thirty years too long," was the retort.

From time to time I am asked where our best audiences are found. Really
it is hard to say. Except for one big city--and why not there it is
impossible to explain--the company has a wonderful reception everywhere.
The Savoy audiences in the old days, of course, were like no other
audiences, and it was something to remember to be at a "first night."
Long before the orchestra was due to commence--with Sullivan there to
conduct it, as he usually was also at the fiftieth, the hundredth and
other "milestone" performances--it was customary for many of the songs
and choruses from the older operas to be sung by the "gods." And
wonderful singers they were.

The London audiences of to-day are also splendid. Our welcome in the
1920 season was a memorable experience. Gilbert and Sullivan operas
depend for their freshness and their spirit far more on the audience
than do any of the ordinary plays, and as it happens this enthusiasm on
both sides is seldom wanting. Yet now and then we find an audience that
is cold and quiet at the beginning and then works up to fever-heat as
the opera proceeds, whereas on the other hand there is the audience that
begins really too well and towards the end has simply worn itself out,
being too exhausted to let itself go.

The North, if not so demonstrative as the South, is always wonderfully
responsive to the spirit of the witty dialogue and the sparkling songs,
and two cities in which it is always a pleasure to play are Manchester
and Liverpool. And those who declare that the Scots cannot see a joke
would be disabused if they were to be at the D'Oyly Carte seasons at
Glasgow and Edinburgh. Our visits there are always successful. But if I
had to decide this matter on a national basis I should certainly bestow
the palm on Ireland.

Nowhere are there truer lovers of Gilbert and Sullivan than the Irish.
It may be that Gilbert's fantastic wit is the wit they best understand,
and it may be, too, that their hearts are warmed by the "plaintive song"
of their fellow countryman, Sullivan. Whatever the cause, we have no
better receptions anywhere. One feature of our Dublin and Belfast
audiences is, oddly enough, shared with those at Oxford and Cambridge.
They do not merely clap, but openly cheer again and again, throwing all
conventional decorum away. And when the Irish are determined to have
encores--no matter how many for a particular piece--there is no denying
them.

What we have found in the Emerald Isle--even during the unhappy times
during and after the war--was that they kept their pleasures and their
politics in watertight compartments. Sinn Feiners they might be outside
the theatre, but inside it they are determined to enjoy themselves, as
an interrupter found on one of our latest visits, when he tried to
protest against the song, "When Britain Really Ruled the Waves." "No
politics here," shouted someone from the stalls, and the audience
agreeing very heartily with this sentiment the protestor subsided into
silence.

Looking back on the reference earlier in this chapter to fire brigades,
I am reminded that I have more than once been on the stage at times when
events have occurred which might have had terrible results, though my
success as a panic-fighter is a distinction I would rather have
foregone. One incident of this kind was at Eastbourne when we did
"Haddon Hall." It will be remembered that in one part there are
indications of an oncoming storm of thunder and lightning. Nowadays the
authorities take care that effects of this kind are contrived with
absolute safety to all concerned, but in those times the lightning was
produced by a man in the wings taking pinches of explosive powder out of
a canister, throwing these on a candle flame, and so securing a vivid
flash over the darkening stage. Well, our man had done this so often
that he had grown contemptuous of danger, and this time he took such an
ample helping of the powder that the flash caught the canister, and
there was a tremendous explosion. The canister went right through the
stage and embedded itself in the ground.

In "Haddon Hall" I was _McCrankie_, dressed in a kilt and playing the
bagpipes when the explosion occurred. It plunged both stage and
auditorium into darkness. I could hear the injured stage-hand groaning
near the wings. Somehow I managed to grope my way to the man, pick him
up in my arms, and carry him to one of the exits from the stage. I
remember that a number of the chorus ladies, who could not find the door
in the darkness, were clawing the walls of the scenery, for in their
panic that was the only way they thought they could make their escape.
The strange thing was that the door was not a yard away.

Still dressed as a kilted Scot, I carried the injured man into the
street, and already a crowd had gathered in the belief that there had
been a terrible disaster. If not as serious as that, it had been quite
bad enough, and it was a miracle that there had not actually been a
calamity. In one of the boxes was one of those hardy playgoers who
attended our shows night after night. We had nicknamed him "Festive."
The concussion had lifted him out of his seat on to the floor. He
complained that the thunder had been far too realistic!

Fortunately we were able to go on with the performance, though many of
us were suffering from nerves very badly. The stage hand had been
speedily taken to hospital with serious injuries. It was typical of Mr.
Carte's kindness that, although the man had been guilty of a very grave
fault, he did not dismiss him from his service, but on his recovery made
him a messenger and afterwards gave him a pension.

Early in my career as a D'Oyly Carte principal on the provincial tours,
we had a fire on the stage at the Lyceum, Edinburgh. It was the week
before Henry Irving was due there to give his first production of
"Faust." I remember that because we had his great organ behind the
stage. Our piece that night was "Ruddigore" and while I was singing one
of my numbers I became aware that something was amiss. It proved to be
an outbreak of fire in the sky borders over the stage, and small
smouldering fragments were falling around me in a manner that was
entirely unpleasant. The steps at the back also caught fire, and it was
a lucky thing that, the piece being then a new one, the audience should
have taken it as a bit of realism added to the ghost scene. Otherwise
nothing could have avoided a panic.

I remember the stage manager shouting to me from the wings "Keep
singing, keep singing." It was not easy, I can assure you, to keep on
with a humorous number in circumstances like those, and with sparks
dropping over one's head, but I did keep on with the song until they
decided to ring down the curtain. Then I was told to run upstairs to
warn the girls, whose dressing-rooms were near the flies. Now, as a
young man I had made a reputation for myself as a practical joker, and
one of my favourite antics was to tell this person or that, quite
untruly, "You're wanted on the stage." Thus, when I rushed up to sound
the real alarm, it was treated as a cry of "wolf." I banged the doors
and entreated them to come out, but it was not until the smoke began to
creep into the rooms that the girls knew positively that there was a
fire, and promptly scurried for safety. Fortunately the outbreak was
speedily subdued and the performance proceeded.

A minor incident of this kind may be worth mentioning. We were in
"Erminie" at the Comedy, and at the close of one of the acts the chorus,
the ladies dressed as fisher girls and holding lighted candles, were
singing a concerted "Good Night." Suddenly I noticed that one of the
girls who was not paying much attention to her work had let the candle
ignite the mob cap she was wearing. If the flame had reached her
wig--and wigs in those days were cleaned with spirit--she must have been
seriously burnt. So I ran up and tore off her cap, only to be rewarded
with a haughty, "How dare you!" Later, when she realised what her danger
had been, her apology and thanks were profuse.

It may not, I think, be amiss if to these combustible reminiscences is
added just one more story, though in a much lighter vein. It occurred in
"The Sorcerer." _John Wellington Wells_, the "dealer in magic and
spells," disappears at last into the nether regions, as it were, through
the trap-door in the stage. One night the trap, having dropped a foot or
so, refused to move any further, and there was I, enveloped in smoke and
brimstone, poised between earth and elsewhere. So all I could do was to
jump back on to the boards, make a grimace at the refractory trap-door,
and go off by the ordinary exit. "Hell's full!" shouted an irreverent
voice from the "gods." The joke, I know, was not a new one, for legend
has it that a similar incident occurred during a performance of "Faust."
Whether it did or not I do know that it occurred in that performance of
"The Sorcerer."

[Illustration: HENRY A. LYTTON AS "JACK POINT" IN "THE YEOMEN OF THE
GUARD."]




VI.
PARTS I HAVE PLAYED.

    _List of my Gilbert and Sullivan Rôles--Parts in Other
    Comedies--Excursions into Vaudeville--A Human Shuttlecock--When
    Gilbert Appeared before the Footlights--Essays as a
    playwright--A Burlesque of Shakespeare--Embarrassing
    Invitations--A Jester's Hidden Remorse--My Life's Helpmate._


It is my melancholy distinction to be the last of the Savoyards. Numbers
of my old comrades, of course, are playing elsewhere or living in their
well-earned retirement, but I alone remain actively in Gilbert and
Sullivan. In all I have played thirty parts in the operas--no other
artiste connected with them has ever played so many--and it may interest
my innumerable known and unknown friends if I "put them on my list." In
the following table I give incidentally the date of the original
production of the comedies in London.

    "Trial by Jury" (1875)        _Judge_; _Counsel_; _Usher_.
    "The Sorcerer" (1877)         _Hercules_; Dr. _Daly_; _Sir_
                                  _Marmaduke_; _John Wellington Wells_.
    "H.M.S. Pinafore" (1878)      _Dick Deadeye_; _Captain Corcoran_;
                                  _Sir Joseph Porter_.
    "The Pirates of Penzance"     _Samuel_; _The Pirate King_,
        (1880)                    _Major-General Stanley_.
    "Patience" (1881)             _Grosvenor_; _Bunthorne_.
    "Iolanthe" (1882)             _Strephon_; _Lord Mountararat_,
                                  _Lord Chancellor_.
    "Princess Ida" (1884)         _Florian_; _King Gama_.
    "The Mikado" (1885)           _The Mikado_; _Ko-Ko_.
    "Ruddigore" (1887)            _Robin Oakapple._
    "The Yeomen of the Guard"     _Lieutenant of the Tower_;
        (1888)                    _Shadbolt_; _Jack Point_.
    "The Gondoliers" (1889)       _Giuseppe_; _The Duke of Plaza-Toro_.
    "Utopia Ltd" (1893)           _The King._
    "The Grand Duke" (1896)       _The Grand Duke._

My connection with the D'Oyly Carte company falls into three periods.
The first of these was in 1884 and 1885, when I went on tour for twelve
months with "Princess Ida," to be followed by the heart-breaking time I
have recounted in the "Vagabondage of the Commonwealth." Then, in 1887,
I rejoined it to win my first success as George Grossmith's understudy
in "Ruddigore." That period was destined to continue almost without
interruption until 1901. For most of this time I was touring in the
provinces, though I was in London for many of the revivals, as well as
for several of the plays not by Gilbert and Sullivan produced by Mr.
D'Oyly Carte. Eventually this latter enterprise was brought to an end by
the death of Sir Arthur Sullivan in 1900, and by that of Mr. Carte
himself four months later in 1901. London saw the Gilbert and Sullivan
works no more until 1906, though the suburban theatres were sometimes
visited by the provincial company, which in the country kept alight the
flickering torch that was to burn once more with all its accustomed
brightness.

Shortly after my old chief had passed away, I closed my second period
with the company in order to throw in my lot with the musical comedy
stage, and it was my good fortune to play leading comedy parts under
several successful managements. Looking back on those years, I regard
them as amongst the most prosperous and happy in my career, and yet it
is no affectation to say that all other parts seemed shallow and
superficial when one has played so long in Gilbert and Sullivan. Shall
I say I was anxious to return to them? In a sense that would be true.
Certainly the yearning was there--if not the opportunity. Then, in 1909,
Sir William Gilbert earnestly invited me to rejoin the company, and I
relinquished a very profitable engagement in order to play once more the
parts I loved so well. Thus began my third period with the operas. This
period has still to be finished.

Sir William, I ought to say, was at this time an ageing man, and he had
retired with a comfortable fortune. Grim's Dyke and its beautiful
grounds gave him all the enjoyment he wanted, and to the end he had the
solace and companionship of his devoted wife, Lady Gilbert. He died in
1911. Following a visit to town, he had gone to bathe in the lake in his
grounds, and had a heart seizure whilst swimming. He was rescued from
the water and carried to his room, but there life was found to be
extinct. The curtain had fallen.

But to proceed. I propose to give a list of the comedies in which I
played between 1901 and 1909. Lacking a good memory for dates, I cannot
guarantee at all that the order in which they appear is correct, though
approximately this may be the case:--

      Comedy.                        Part.              Management.

    "The Rose of Persia"           _The Sultan_       D'Oyly Carte.
    "The Emerald Isle"             _Pat Murphy_       D'Oyly Carte.
    "Merrie England"               _Earl of Essex_    D'Oyly Carte.
    "The Beauty Stone"             _Simon_            D'Oyly Carte.
    "The Lucky Star"               _Tobasco_          D'Oyly Carte.
    "His Majesty"                  _The King_         D'Oyly Carte.
    "The Grand Duchess"            _Prince Paul_      D'Oyly Carte.
    "The Vicar of Bray"            _The Vicar_        D'Oyly Carte.
    "The Princess of Kensington."  _Jelf_             D'Oyly Carte.
    "The Earl and the Girl"        _The Earl_         William Greet.
    "The Spring Chicken"           _Boniface_         George Edwardes
    "The Little Michus"            _Aristide_         George Edwardes
    "My Darling"                   _Hon. Jack_
                                   _Hylton_           Seymour Hicks.
    "Talk of the Town"             _Lieut. Reggie_    Seymour Hicks.
                                   _Drummond._
    "The White Chrysanthemum"      _Lieut. R._        Frank Curzon.
                                   _Armitage_
    "The Amateur Raffles"          _Raffles_          Music Halls.
    "Mirette"                      _Bobinet_          D'Oyly Carte.
    "The Chieftain"                _Peter Grigg_      D'Oyly Carte.
    "The Grand Duchess"            _Prince Paul_      D'Oyly Carte.
    "Billie Taylor"                _Captain Flapper_  D'Oyly Carte.

In the opinion of many friends, my best piece of pure character acting
was that as _Pat Murphy_, the piper in "The Emerald Isle." Without a
doubt it _was_ a fine part. I had to be blind, and in contrast to the
manner in which most blind characters were played at that time, my eyes
were wide open and rigid. From the moment I entered I riveted my gaze
tragically on one particular spot, and my eyes never moved, no matter
who spoke or however dramatic the point. Naturally the strain was
tremendous. Then, at last, _Pat's_ colleen lover began to have
suspicions that he was not really blind--that the idle good-for-nothing
fellow was shamming. And when _Pat_ admitted it, the subterfuge had been
kept up so long that, both to those on the stage and to the audience,
the effect was marvellous to a degree. I loved playing the piper and
speaking the brogue. "The Emerald Isle," as is now generally known, was
the last work that Sir Arthur Sullivan composed, and on his lamented
death the music was completed by my gifted friend, Edward German. I
remember that when, later on, the piece was taken to Dublin, we had
doubts as to whether anything in it might offend the susceptibilities
of the good people of the "disthressful counthree." Strangely enough, no
objection of any kind was raised until the jig in the second act, and as
it was believed that this was not done correctly and that the girls were
lifting their heels too high, the dance was greeted with an outburst of
booing. This was quelled by the lusty voice at the back of the pit.
"Shame on ye," he shouted. "Can't ye be aisy out of respect for the
dead?" And another voice: "Eh, an' Sullivan an Oirishman too, so he
was!" The appeal was magical. The interruption died away and the
performance proceeded.

"The Earl and the Girl," the most successful of all the musical comedies
in which I appeared and the one which gave me my biggest real comedy
part, ran for one year at the Adelphi, and then for a further year at
the Lyric. When it was withdrawn I secured the permission of the
management to use "My Cosy Corner," the most tuneful of all its musical
numbers, as a scena on the music-halls, and with my corps of Cosy Corner
Girls it was a decided success.

One other venture of mine on the music-halls was in conjunction with
Connie Ediss when we had both completed an engagement at the Gaiety.
"United Service," in which we figured together, ran for fourteen weeks
at the Pavilion, and it provided me with one of the best salaries I ever
drew. The idea of this piece was a contrast in courtships. First we
would imitate a stately old colonel paying his addresses to an exquisite
lady, and then a ranker making love to the cook, with an idiom
appropriate to life "below-stairs." Eighteen changes of dress had to be
made by each of us, and the fun waxed fast and furious when the colonel
commenced pouring his courtly phrases into the ears of the cook, and
when, by a similar deliberate mishap, the soldier in his most ardent
vernacular declared his passion for m'lady.

Connie Ediss and I might have done as well with a successor to "United
Service." But the theatre, she said, "called her back," and accordingly
we went our separate ways in "legitimate."

Some reminiscences still remain to be told of my struggling early days
on the stage. One of these concerns my brief and boisterous connection
with the well-known Harvey Troupe. I was chosen as deputy for their page
boy, whom these acrobats threw hither and thither as if he were a human
shuttlecock, and a very clever act it was, however uncomfortable for the
unfortunate youngster. I scarcely relished the job, but old Harvey told
me "All you've to do is to come on the stage; leave the rest to us;
we'll pull you through." It was not a case of pulling me through. They
literally _threw_ me through. For half-an-hour I was thrown from one to
another with lightning speed, and that was about all I knew of the
performance. "You did very well," they told me afterwards, "didn't you
hear the laughs?" I am afraid I hadn't heard them. I had been conscious
only of an appalling giddiness and of feeling bruised and sore. Next day
I was black and blue, and unable to perform, but in those hard days,
when food was scarce, one had to be ready for anything.

It was about this time in my career that I secured a pantomime
engagement at the Prince's, Manchester, though my rôle was merely that
of standard-bearer, in the finale, to the "show lady," before whom I
walked with a banner inscribed, "St. George and the Dragon."
Unfortunately, in my nervousness, I marched on with the reverse side of
the banner to the front, and at the sight of this piece of tawdry linen
the audience laughed uproariously.

When the Second Demon was absent I was chosen as his understudy, and it
seemed to me to be a wonderful honour, because it gave me eight words to
speak. I had the comforting feeling of being a big star already. How
well I remember those lines:--

    Second Demon (sepulchral and sinister): Who calls on me in
        this unfriendly way?
    Fairy Queen (in a piping treble): A greater power than yours;
        hear and obey!

Coming to a much later date, I include in my list of memorable
theatrical occasions the benefit matinee given in the Drury Lane Theatre
for Nellie Farren, for many years the bright particular star at the
Gaiety. The stage was determined to pay the worthiest tribute it could
to the brilliant artiste who, once the idol of her day, was now laid
aside by sickness and suffering, and never had such a wonderful
programme been presented. King Edward, then Prince of Wales, gave the
benefit his gracious patronage, and it was in every way a remarkable
success. The D'Oyly Carte contribution to the entertainment was "Trial
by Jury." Gilbert himself figured in the scene as the _Associate_. It
was, I believe, his only appearance before the footlights in public, and
it was a part in which he had not a line to speak. I played the
_Foreman_. Amongst other benefit performances in which I have taken part
were those to Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Dacre and Miss Ellen Terry. We gave
"Trial by Jury" on these occasions also, and my part was _Counsel_.

Speaking of King Edward, I am reminded that when, by going to the Palace
Theatre after his accession, His Majesty paid the first visit of any
British Sovereign to a music-hall, the occasion coincided with the run
there of an operetta of my own, called the "Knights of the Road." It was
a Dick Turpin story, for which I had written the lyrics, and the music
had been provided by my good friend Sir Alexander Mackenzie, Principal
of the Royal Academy of Music. I conceived the idea that pieces of this
kind, based on English stories and typically English alike in sentiment
and musical setting, might be made an attractive feature on the
music-halls, and in point of fact, all that was wrong with the
experiment was that it was a little too early. To-day, when the
better-class music-halls have attained a remarkable standard of taste,
they would be just the thing. Nevertheless, my "Knights of the Road" had
a successful career, and it served to give Walter Hyde, now one of our
leading operatic tenors, one of his first chances to sing in the
Metropolis.

I wrote about eight of these pieces altogether. The libretto and the
scores are still in existence, and for better or for worse, they may be
produced even yet. One of them is written round the well-known picture,
"The Duel in the Snow." This depicts a beautiful woman rushing between
the two swords in a duel, and my object was to fill in the dramatic
significance of the picture, representing how it came about that the men
were fighting in those wintry surroundings for the hand of the lady.

"For one night only" I appeared with the Follies. I was at the Palace in
"My Cosy Corner," and Pellissier asked me to come on, garbed as the
poet, in their burlesque on Shakespeare. Leaning from my pedestal, I had
to reproach them for daring to take such liberties, and we finished up
with a boxing match. Our jokes on that occasion were mainly
extemporised. Nobody in the audience knew that I was acting deputy, but
those in the wings had heard that a conspiracy of some kind was afoot,
and they entered heartily into the spirit of the burlesque.

It is far easier, I think, to improvise on the stage than it is away
from the footlights, and I well remember my dilemma when I was once
invited to an "at home." It was a children's party, and my hostess had
told the youngsters that they were going to see _Ko-Ko_, the "funny man"
in "The Mikado." No doubt if I had come in my Oriental costume it would
have been less difficult to act up to the part, but it was quite another
thing to arrive in an immaculate frock-coat and silk hat, to be escorted
at once into the circle of children, and invited then and there to act
the clown in the circus with "jibe and joke and quip and crank." For
some moments I stood almost tongue-tied. Luckily, as it happened, my
hostess handed me a cup of tea, and in my nervousness I dropped it. The
children giggled hugely. With that trivial incident the ice was broken.

Enjoyable as it is to meet so many people in the social sphere, our good
friends who see us from the auditorium, and then shower their
invitations upon us, are at times a little embarrassing. Kind as they
undoubtedly are--and we do appreciate the hospitality so readily
offered to us wherever we go--they are perhaps forgetful that every week
we have to get through seven or eight hard performances. With rehearsals
taken into account, we have not over-much leisure for social enjoyment,
and certainly no great reserves of energy. A Scotch lady was once most
pressing that I should attend a dance she was arranging. Now, much as I
love dancing on the stage, I have never had any taste at all for the
conventional ball-room dancing, and really how could one have after
doing, say, the courtly gavotte in "The Gondoliers?" "I never dance," I
told my Scottish friend, "unless I'm paid for it." Evidently she mistook
my meaning, for with her invitation to her dance she enclosed me--a
cheque for £5. I returned it with my compliments.

From time to time on these social occasions we are prevailed upon to
give one or two of our songs from the operas. Songs from the Gilbert and
Sullivan operas, nevertheless, seldom sound well away from the stage and
their familiar surroundings, and long ago most amateur vocalists dropped
them from their repertory. I, personally, have found that the most
suitable of my numbers for private circles are the _Lord Chancellor's_
"Dream Song"--it is so dramatic that it goes quite well as an
unaccompanied recitation--and _King Gama's_ "I can't tell why." Here I
must note a remarkable fact. When I am on the stage, I know not only my
own lines, but the lines of everyone else, but away from the stage and
the atmosphere of the play my otherwise excellent memory is not always
so amenable to discipline. Indeed, I can recall an occasion when, at a
garden party, I was asked to sing "Tit Willow." I cheerfully undertook
to do so, but half-way through I stumbled, and try as I would even with
the promptings of obliging friends, I could get no further than the
middle of the second verse. And yet on the stage I have sung "Tit
Willow" without a fault many thousands of times.

I think I was only once in any danger of forgetting my lines on the
stage. It happened in "The Mikado." Behind the scenes, unknown to me,
_Pooh Bah_ had fainted, and one of his entrances had to be made by _Pish
Tush_. Well, I was on as _Ko-Ko_ at the time, and the sound of an
unexpected voice was so strange, so bewildering, that for a moment it
seemed to me that my reason had gone! "Get off! It's _Pooh Bah_" I
whispered, excitedly. _Pish Tush_ managed to give me a hint that
something had happened, and we continued our comedy scene, though in my
frame of mind this might easily have come to grief!

Speaking of memory, I am reminded that my first recollection in life was
that of listening, as a very small child, to a lad playing a quaint
little tune on a banjo. I never heard that tune again, but it has ever
since remained in my mind, and only a few years ago I was talking about
it to a man who had spent nearly all his life in Australia. When we were
children we were neighbours in the same village. "Yes," said my
long-lost friend, "I was the lad who played that tune on the banjo, and
you were lying in a cot in the garden!" Between that incident and our
mutual recollection of it nearly fifty eventful years for both of us had
passed.

Before I close this chapter of random reminiscences I feel I must pay my
tribute to the best, the oldest and the truest of all my friends--my
helpmate in life, "Louie Henri." As Albert Chevalier would put it,
"We've been together now for (almost) forty years, and it don't seem a
day too much." Louie Henri, as I have already told, secured me my first
engagement, and from that time to this she has been the intimate sharer
in whatever troubles and successes have fallen to me in what is now a
long and eventful career. Optimistic as I may be in temperament, there
were times when her encouragement meant a great deal, and to my wife I
pay this brief tribute (as brief it is bound to be). Our family has
consisted of three sons and two daughters. Our two elder sons served
during the war in the Royal Air Force, and one of them was lost whilst
flying in a night-bombing raid in France. I well remember the time when
my boy was first reported missing. With that anxious sorrow weighing on
my mind, it was no small trial to keep alive the semblance, at least, of
comedy.

    Oh, a private buffoon is a light-hearted loon,
    If you listen to popular rumour.

_Jack Point's_ song appealed to me with peculiar poignancy during that
time of heavy anxiety. But to return to my wife.

Louie Henri, as the older generation well remembers, is able to count
herself amongst the distinguished Savoyards. Before she retired she had
probably played a greater number of parts--soprano, contralto, and
soubrette--than any other lady connected with the company. I am sure it
will be of interest if I enumerate here the rôles she has played:--

    "Trial by Jury"                _Plaintiff._
    "The Sorcerer"                 _Constance_; _Mrs. Partlet_.
    "H.M.S. Pinafore"              _Josephine_; _Hebe_.
    "The Pirates of Penzance"      _Edith._
    "Patience"                     _Lady Angela._
    "Iolanthe"                     _Iolanthe._
    "Princess Ida"                 _Melissa._
    "The Mikado"                   _Pitti Sing._
    "Ruddigore"                    _Mad Margaret._
    "The Yeoman of the Guard"      _Phoebe._
    "The Gondoliers"               _Tessa._
    "Utopia, Ltd"                  _Nelraya._
    "The Grand Duke"               _Julia._

Mrs. Lytton, apart from her success as an actress, has always been an
accomplished musician, and in that respect I owe much to her for the way
in which, during the preparation of my new rôles, she has helped me, "a
lame, unmusical dog, over the stile." Our pianoforte at home is the one
on which Sir Arthur Sullivan first played over his music for "The
Mikado." It is a handsome satinwood grand, designed for Mr. D'Oyly Carte
by the late Sir Alma Tadema, R.A., and this most interesting and
valuable souvenir was presented to me by Mrs. D'Oyly Carte.




VII.
FRIENDS ON AND OFF THE STAGE.

    Lessons to the Prince on the Bagpipes--A Charming and Lovable
    Personality--Queen Alexandra's Compliment--An Afternoon with
    Fisher--Stories of the Great Seaman--George Edwardes and His
    Genius for Stagecraft--His Successes on the Turf--"Honest Frank"
    Cellier--A Model Conductor--Traditions of the Savoy--Rutland
    Barrington--An Admiral in Disguise--Fred Billington--A Strange
    Premonition--Our War-Time Experiences--Caught in the Toils of
    the Dublin Rebellion.


It was my great privilege and pleasure, when we were at Oxford on one
occasion, to be introduced to the Prince of Wales, who was then in
residence at Magdalen. Nothing impressed me more than his sunny nature
and the wonderful knack he had of putting everybody at their ease
immediately. Since then it has been just those qualities which have made
him so immensely popular in his tours of the Empire.

Our first meeting was in His Royal Highness's own rooms, where he was
accompanied by his tutor, Mr. H. P. Hansell. I remember that as I was
speaking to him the members of a college team were brought in to be
presented. "Ah!" exclaimed the Prince, "that's the best of being a
celebrity, Lytton. I could not draw a muster like this." It was just a
little pleasantry, this suggestion that it was myself who was the
attraction, but it was an example of his happy knack of putting
everybody at their ease immediately. I recall, too, that the Prince at
that time was learning the chanter, with which one proceeds to the full
glory of playing the bagpipes. Greatly to his surprise, I took the
chanter and proceeded to give him a lesson, to which he listened most
attentively, and then played a skirl, with which he was delighted. It so
happens that, although I am no musician, I do know how to handle the
bagpipes, and once a group of Scottish yokels who were listening to me
stood open-mouthed with astonishment that such skill should be possessed
by a trousered Englishman. This was when I visited my old colleague
Durward Lely's place in the Highlands. The Scotties were enjoying a
homely dance in a barn, and as the piper had been hard at it and seemed
tired, I volunteered to act as his deputy. I don't want to be boastful,
but my performance was regarded as a _tour de force_, at least for a
Saxon.

The Prince came to the theatre frequently during our stay, and one night
he came round to our dressing-room, where once more one fell
irresistibly under the spell of his lovable and attractive personality.
He invariably addressed me as "Ko-Ko." The Prince told me then, as he
had done on other occasions, how really delightful he thought the operas
were, and he said he looked forward to seeing them again and again. Then
he asked to be introduced to a member who, in more than one sense, is
one of the stalwarts of the choristers, Joe Ruff. Seeing that Joe had
been with us so many years, I thought this special "recognition" was
particularly happy, and it was a very great pleasure to me to be allowed
to introduce my colleague to the Heir-Apparent.

From time to time, both during my connection with D'Oyly Carte and when
temporarily away from the company, I have played before Royalty.
Especially do I recall a night when Queen Alexandra occupied a box at
the Savoy. It was in the "Yeoman of the Guard" revivals and my rôle was
_Shadbolt_. Her Majesty was kind enough to send Sir Arthur Sullivan to
my dressing-room to compliment me on the clearness of my enunciation,
and I need hardly say how gratifying such praise was to me.

Seldom was "H.M.S. Pinafore" staged during the 1920 season without Lord
Fisher coming to chuckle over Gilbert's clever satire on the "ruler of
the Queen's Navee." He revelled in that opera. It was not only, I think,
that it smacked of the sea, but he loved the gibes at the politicians
and the hearty loyalty of the honest salt who, "in spite of all
temptation," firmly resolves to "remain an Englishman." It was after he
had seen me several times as _Sir Joseph Porter_ that he invited me to
bring a few of my colleagues and spend an afternoon with him at his home
in London. I reproduce his very typical letter on another page. My
recollections of that afternoon are very delightful. Lord Fisher was a
wonderful veteran, and it was difficult afterwards to realise that a
fortnight later he was stricken down with his last illness, to which he
succumbed in the following July.

I remember that we did not have to do much of the talking. Lord Fisher
walked up and down, up and down the room as if it were the quarter-deck,
and he was telling us all the while such capital stories that we forgot
that we, too, were still standing up! Of his yarns there were two that
were very typical of the man and his ways.

[Illustration: A LETTER FROM THE LATE LORD FISHER.]

"One day," he began, "I was walking through Trafalgar Square, and as I
always do, I looked up at the statue of the greatest man that ever
lived. Then a woman who was munching a bun came along. 'Here, master,'
she said, 'who's 'e?' 'That's Lord Nelson,' I answered. 'Is it?' she
returned, 'and who's 'e?' Fancy! Never heard of Nelson! Such ignorance!
'Well,' I said, 'if it had not been for him, that bun would have cost
you, not a halfpenny, but fourpence. Good day!' And I walked on. I
suppose she thought she had been talking to a lunatic."

Then Lord Fisher spoke of the exertion needed in our dances on the
stage. "Energy! Energy! That's what we want," he declared. "Why, I was
fed by my mother until I was quite a big baby. I refused to be weaned--I
was so determined even in those days! You must have good natural food
when you are born. It means everything. It gives you stamina--it makes a
man of you."

From that interview I brought away a signed portrait of the great
seaman. "I'm an ugly blighter, aren't I?" he reflected, sadly, as he
handed it to me, "but I'm good." Candour would have compelled one to
admit that he was anything but strikingly handsome, but in that small,
intensely sallow face there was, after all, something that was
extraordinarily kindly and strong. In that sense his face was the
faithful mirror of his character.

"Jackie Fisher's" candour reminds me of a frank admission made to me by
a statesman who still wields a leading influence in present-day
politics. I think I had better not mention his name, although he is
numbered amongst my friends, and he has often been exceedingly kind in
his appreciation of my work on the stage. He told me he once met a lady
whom he had not seen for several years, and having cordially greeted
her, he said, "I'm so delighted to see you, Sybil." That he should have
remembered her, and still more, that he should have remembered her first
name, pleased the lady immensely. She said she was charmed that he had
not forgotten her name. "Oh," responded the statesman, with the best of
intentions, "I've a remarkable memory for trifles." The next moment he
realised he had committed an awful _faux pas_. What was more, he saw
that he, though a politician, could not explain it away.

Not many people remember now that Mr. George Edwardes, who created the
vogue for musical comedies as we now know them, and who made a fortune
out of his connection with the Gaiety and Daly's, was in his early days
Mr. D'Oyly Carte's manager at the Savoy. When he became a producer his
flair for stage effect amounted to genius. He could decide in a moment
to make the most revolutionary changes in a production. For instance, I
have heard him give orders that the first act should be made the second
one and the second the first, because he saw that it would better work
up the interest in the play. He would transpose a certain scene from
here to there because he knew instinctively that there was its proper
place. "I don't like that man singing that song," he said once, just
before a new comedy was due to have its first performance, and when even
the dress rehearsals were almost complete, "We'll give it to a lady."
"But," it was objected, "it's a man's song--a military song." "Never
mind," he answered in that familiar drawling voice of his, "we'll dress
her in a red coat, and we'll bring the chorus on as soldiers too." And
his judgment was absolutely right. That girl's soldier song was the
great hit of the piece.

George Edwardes was a generous, kindly-natured man, accessible to
everybody, and a splendid companion. Keenly interested as he was in his
theatrical ventures, he never made these his sole and only
pre-occupation. Upon the Turf, as every sportsman knows, he was a
shining light, and many horses from his stables won the biggest prizes
of their year. He often invited me to join him at the races, and never
failed to tell me the winners--"well, hardly ever." One day he gave me
three running. Just then I was arranging to play under his management
for a term of three years, and he said those three winners proved that
we could make money together both on and off the stage, and that we must
sign up the contract, which we did the next day.

One of my closest friends was Francois Cellier, of whom it would be
literally true to say that he devoted his life, his talents and all his
enthusiasm to the operas at the Savoy. For thirty-five years he served
them as conductor, to the exclusion of all the fame he might have won in
a wider field, for he was a musician of surpassing accomplishments. He
was the younger brother of Alfred Cellier, who was the composer, amongst
other delightful comedies, of "Dorothy." Both men were Bohemians, and
both of them might have been the architects of their own fortunes if
they had put only their own goal in front of them, and pursued it
steadily.

Francois Cellier--Honest Frank they called him, and the name suited him
well--was a prince of good fellows and a most charming and helpful
companion. I can never tell the debt I owe to him for all the advice he
gave to me regarding our performances. He knew Gilbert's and Sullivan's
ideas to the minutest detail, and, with all his love of the operas, he
wanted those ideas carried through exactly on the stage. Even with the
audiences he had a magnetic personality. Unlike most conductors, who
feel they must allow just as many encores as the audience demands, he
could indicate by some strange method to those behind him that an encore
would be unreasonable or inconsiderate, and immediately the applause
would subside and the play would proceed.

Cellier had his heart and soul in every performance, and what that means
is known only to those who work on the stage, and who do sometimes
become dull and listless because of their very familiarity with the
parts they are playing or because the audience cannot easily be aroused
to "concert pitch." What brightness they may give to their acting is of
a superficial and mechanical kind that can give them no pleasure. It is
at just such times as these that a real conductor is worth his weight in
gold. Notwithstanding that he may have seen the piece hundreds of
times--and might with reason be more bored than the principals
themselves--he comes to each new performance with an enthusiasm which
shakes the company out of themselves and makes everything go with a
will.

Some conductors I have known have shown so little interest in their work
that they did not even attempt to conceal their boredom. This is very
unfair to the players. Can anyone expect there to be any spirit in the
singing of a chorus when the conductor is just listlessly waving his
baton, or when he shows such little respect for the artistes that,
during their dialogues, he either yawns sleepily or leans over for a
chat with the strings? Cellier was never guilty of that discourtesy.
From the time he picked up his baton for the first bar of the overture
the "play was the thing." During a chorus you would see him alert and
awake and stirring on the company to give their best, and during your
own solos or dialogues you would see him listening intently so that,
like a friendly critic, he could afterwards praise you for what you had
done well or give you hints where there was cause for improvement. It is
a great thing to the artistes to see a genial face at the conductor's
desk, and the operas go with a great spirit and nerve whenever the
conductor, seconded by the orchestra, is doing everything to help us
along. Our company's record has been a very fortunate one in this
respect.

Everybody who plays in Gilbert and Sullivan makes it a point of honour
to do his or her best to preserve what we call the traditions of the
Savoy. If I were asked to name the secret of the charm of these operas,
I should have to answer that there was not one secret, but many, but
that one of the chief is their sense of "repose." Gilbert, like the
master playwright he was, would never have two situations running
together. If, that is to say, the leading character was going to offer
his hand to the heroine, the whole company must look on eagerly and
expectantly. It would never do for them to be indifferent and
uninterested. Still less would it do for subsidiary characters to do
something that might attract the audience's eye to them in some other
part of the stage. Everything must be focussed on the central incident,
and to this end every member of the company must think first and all the
time of the play, and not indulge in those hateful individual touches of
"pantomime."

What I mean is best seen in what happens quite frequently in ordinary
plays. Nearly every minor actor and actress seems to take, or is allowed
to take, licence to put in a little bit of "business" on his or her own
account, and so draw kudos to himself or herself by being supposed to be
"funny." It is really only "supposed." Generally it is not funny at all,
and it mars the effect of the play by making the entire atmosphere
restless and perplexed. Eyes are strained here, there and everywhere,
and the poor audience in trying to catch this, that and the other point,
is probably missing what is the chief point of the play. Well, if
refinement is not the keynote of a production, this may possibly not
matter so much, but it is certainly foreign to the tranquil atmosphere
of Gilbert and Sullivan.

No one, I think, could have done more by his example on the stage to
encourage refinement in these operas than my good friend, Rutland
Barrington. During his playing career--now at an end, unhappily--he was
an artiste to his finger tips. He had also a great asset in his fine
presence and personality. Our friendship has been of the closest, and I
call to mind an incident when we were at Portsmouth and when there was
something important occurring at the Royal Dockyard. "We can't get in
without a pass," I said to him, but he only smiled and said that, at all
events, we could try. "Watch me," he commanded. Straightening himself
up, he walked to the gates as if in the manner born, took the salute
from the sentries, and entered the yard. It looked ridiculously easy. So
I decided to follow suit. The sentries would not let me through. "Can't
come in without a pass," I was told, and let me through they would not
on any account, however much I tried to "flatter, cajole and persuade."
Barrington always did have "a way with him." I imagine the sentries were
impressed by his bearing, or it may be that they had mistaken him for
his brother, Admiral Fleet.

This naval reference serves to recall a most interesting story bearing
on the subject of "make-up." Now, "make-up" has always been a
fascinating study to me, and many kind friends tell me that I have a
special gift for it, instancing how completely I transform my appearance
for parts so different, for example, as the hunchback _King Gama_ and
the martial old _General Stanley_. Certainly I do spend more time than
most actors do over the arts and deceptions of the dressing-room. For
_King Gama_ the make-up of the face alone takes an hour, apart from all
the physical deformities that have to be contrived when playing this
ugly, ungainly character in "Princess Ida." But all this by the way.
What I was going to write about was an incident when a worried young
naval lieutenant came to see me at the close of our show at the Savoy.
He was at the romantic age then, a trifle oblivious to the passing of
time when there was a charming lady at his side, and at the theatre he
overlooked that by a certain hour he should have been back at the Naval
College at Greenwich. Lieutenant X came round to see me in a terrible
state. What was he to do? If he went back, he told me, he would be
stopped at the gates by the sentries and he would have to give
explanations, of which none he could think of would be adequate. If, on
the other hand, he did not return there would be a court-martial, and he
would be dismissed from the Service. Before him, whichever way he
turned, was the blank ruin of his career and he disgraced in the eyes of
his family. Well I don't know which of us actually suggested it, but it
occurred to us that if only he could be disguised as an Admiral, he
might easily get into the college! An Admiral had to keep no strict
hours when absent from duty, and if only he could look and act the part,
the sentries would let him pass and ask no awkward questions. So in a
very few minutes I was busy treating him with all the arts of "make-up."
Certainly the addition of a pointed beard made a most effective
disguise, and it answered splendidly, for at Greenwich he marched boldly
through the gates to the dutiful salutes of the sentries. The situation
was saved. For my own part I felt that I had done something to save a
career, and as it happens, the romantic young friend of those days is
now a real Admiral, and a very well-known and popular one, in his
Majesty's Navy.

Numerous are the stories told about my friend and colleague for so many
years--Fred Billington. In temperament and character we were entirely
opposites, but there was scarcely one disagreement throughout our long
companionship, during which we played together almost continuously. He
was a Yorkshireman, and before he joined the company, with which he
remained for thirty-seven years, he was in the office of the Water Board
at Huddersfield. The whole of his stage career was spent with these
operas.

It was not everybody who understood Billington. Sometimes he could be
uncommonly moody and gruff, and if he did not feel in the mood to talk,
he would make it clear that he wanted no introductions to one's own
acquaintances. But under the rugged surface he was a fine-hearted
fellow, who lived life heartily and lived it well, and nothing pleased
him better, apart from a game of golf, than to sit and gossip with those
whose society he liked.

One day he invited three of us to a round of golf, and it being a cold
morning, he told us that he was ordering "a good beef-steak and kidney
pudding." Well, when we had finished the game and returned to the
club-house, in came that steaming pudding. Billington looked at it long
and earnestly. "It won't do for four," he reflected. Then a pause. "It
would make a poor meal for three. There's scarcely enough for two. I'll
tell you what. I'll have it--and you three can have chops." And that is
just what we did.

Billington had a gift of robust eloquence, and unless one was accustomed
to it, the freedom with which it flowed from his tongue was most
embarrassing. He was playing a clergyman one day at golf. The cleric,
whenever he made a bad shot, invariably relieved his feelings by
exclaiming, "Oh, Pickles! Pickles!" Language of this kind in
Billington's ears was exceedingly trying, and as if determined to give
the parson a lesson, he came out with a string of oaths of the richest
and most vivid description. "Thank you very much, Mr. Billington," said
the clergyman, smilingly, "thank you very much!" Evidently those were
the sort of words which, but for respect for his cloth, he wanted to
say!

One day he went out for a match with a bishop. The club officials,
knowing how exuberant his language could be, were on tenter-hooks of
anxiety all the time they were out, and on their return the secretary
hastened to take the episcopal visitor apart. "Mr. Billington, the
actor, you know, my lord," he explained. "I hope his language didn't
shock you." "Oh, no!" responded the bishop, diplomatically, "he did once
call on the Almighty, but otherwise his language was beyond reproach."

Dear old Billington! Earlier in life he had been with the company on a
South African tour, and the wide spaces, the ample life and the
boundless opportunities of that vast country appealed to him
irresistibly. South Africa had a "call" for him, and he had ambitions,
when the time came for him to retire, to settle there. That ambition was
never realised. Only the night before he died, while we were in our
dressing-room, he surprised me with the question, "How would you like to
die, Harry?"

From a man so little inclined to brood on the morbid the question was
strange. I told him I didn't know. I had never, I told him, thought it
out, and didn't intend to, either.

"But if you had to die," he insisted, "how would you prefer to go?"

"Oh! I don't know," I retorted. "Anyhow, we're not going to die just
yet."

"Well," was his answer, "if I had my way, it would be a good dinner, a
bottle of wine, a good cigar, a good joke, and--pop-off!"

It must have been a premonition. The very next day, while still
apparently in perfect health, he left Cambridge to keep a luncheon
engagement with Mr. Rupert D'Oyly Carte at the Great Eastern Hotel,
London. The intention was that he should be back for the night
performance. With the lunch they had a bottle of wine, and afterwards,
over cigars, they talked with many a hearty joke in between. Then he
went out into the foyer--and collapsed. It was at least good to think
that the passing of my dear old friend was free from pain or suffering.

Fred Billington's end must have been hastened by a sequence of events
during the war. Strangely enough, when we were at Sheffield, the town
was visited by a Zeppelin raid, and there was another raid when we were
at Hull, a third when we were at Kennington, and a fourth when we were
at Wimbledon. Billington's nerves, naturally enough, were very upset.
Wherever we went the Zepps seemed to be after us. "Do you know, Harry,"
he said, at last, "I believe that bally Kaiser has got our tour." What
he meant, of course, was that our list of bookings had got into the
hands of the All-Highest, and that he thought, apparently, that if he
could wipe out the Gilbert and Sullivan operas he would be able to break
the spirit of England. Looked at in that way, the attention paid to us,
whether intentional or not, was certainly flattering.

Worse than those raids, however, was the Dublin rebellion, into which we
ran at Easter 1916. We should have opened there on the Bank Holiday. In
point of fact we did not play one single night. Fred and I were at the
Gresham Hotel. The very first day we were not allowed out at all, for we
were in the very centre of hostilities, and no one could go into the
street except at his peril. Chafing under the restraint, I did at last
attempt to venture out, though feeling that there were too many bullets
about for things to be healthy. Opposite the Gresham, at the door of the
Irish Club, I saw the well-known figure of the Dublin Coroner, Mr.
Friery. I rushed across to him, and it was because I spoke to him, I
believe, that I was ever able to get back alive. Mr. Friery, with his
top hat and frock-coat, was an easily distinguished citizen, and neither
the military nor the rebels would have been likely to fire at him
deliberately. "You ought never to have come across," he told me, and as
it happened, the very same thought had occurred to me.

Conditions in the hotel itself were the reverse of pleasant, what with
the noise of the firing outside and bullets shooting through our own
windows, though these were shuttered and protected as far as possible.
Our food stocks commenced to run low--by the end of the week's siege we
had only biscuits and ham--and the strain on the larder was added to by
the arrival of scores of visitors who had been turned out of the
Metropole Hotel. They had been told to take their valuables with them,
and it was remarkable how, in the fright of such an emergency, men would
grasp the first thing that came into their hands and leave their real
treasures behind. One man rushed over clutching two dirty collars, while
another had a bath-towel which he had picked up, it seemed, instead of a
dressing-gown. English jockeys who were there for the race week hurried
over holding a saddle case.

Our anxieties were increased in the meanwhile by the systematic
operations of the military around Eden Quay. One by one the houses were
being demolished by shellfire, and in one of the threatened houses, as
we knew, were many of the ladies of the company. To get to them was
impossible. Luckily for them a sergeant on signalling duty heard their
cries, and at once rushed to their help. "Who are you?" he shouted.
"What are you doing here?" "We're the D'Oyly Carte," they answered. The
D'Oyly Carte name worked like magic. Signalling to the gunners to cease
fire, the sergeant hurried them out and through the streets, where
sniping was going on at every corner, and took them to a police-station
for safety.

All the other members of the company had more or less miraculous
escapes. Leicester Tunks, Frederick Hobbs, Leo Sheffield, and several
others lost all their luggage, but fortunately none sustained any more
serious mishap. From the good people of Dublin we received every
possible kindness, but as you will imagine, we were thankful when we
heard that there were berths on a boat to take us back to Holyhead.

I have not, of course, told all my experiences of that awful week,
though in memory these still linger vividly. But one of the things I
remember best of all was a quaint remark of Billington's. Outside there
was still the noise of the fighting, and most persistent of all was the
crack! crack! crack! of a sniper somewhere near our own building. "Oh!
Harry," said poor Fred, in utter weariness, "I do wish that bally
wood-pecker would chuck it!"




VIII.
HOBBIES OF A SAVOYARD.

    _Luckless ventures in Theatrical Management--Farces that
    failed--New outlets for Enthusiasm--Baldness in the poultry
    run--Captain Corcoran and the crooks--Floricultural
    topsy-turvydom--The flowers that did not bloom in the
    Spring--Recreations that remain--Prize Costumes at fancy-dress
    balls--The big-game shot and the tiger._


Like "Mr. Punch" in another connection, I have a sound piece of advice
for those who may ever think of embarking on theatrical management.
"Don't!" I say this after bitter experience. It was not only that my
gallanty show as a boy ended disastrously. This, of course, was itself a
bad omen, and it ought to have taught me that public taste is fickle and
that the gamble of theatrical management is surrounded by all kinds of
perils. A West-end audience may be just as capricious and as hard to
please as my audience of village lads in the garden.

My first real venture, a London one, was at the Criterion Theatre, which
with a few others I took on lease from Sir Charles Wyndham, in order to
produce "The Wild Rabbit." It was by Mr. George Arliss, who has since
given up writing plays in order to act them, and he is now a "star" in
America. It was one of those rollicking farces which, one would have
thought, would have filled the house every night. I was playing
elsewhere at the time, but we got together a really excellent company,
amongst whom were the Broughs. But fate was against us from the very
beginning. The production coincided with a heat wave, which is bound to
be disastrous to all but the best of shows, and one of the facetious
complaints of the newspaper critics was that they had to come to the
theatre when the temperature was eighty in the shade.

"The Wild Rabbit" survived three weeks only. It drew £34 the first
night--and that was the high-water mark in the matter of receipts. One
night the box-office took a mere £8. Seeing that the expenses were about
£600 a week, it will be understood that the failure was severe and
complete, and in most circumstances one lesson of the kind would have
been enough. However, a number of friends of mine had secured the rights
of "Melnotte," an operatic version of that good old comedy, "The Lady of
Lyons." They did not ask me to invest any capital, but they invited me
to let them have the use of my name in booking a tour for the provinces,
as they themselves were unknown to theatrical managers. Upon that basis
an eight weeks' tour was arranged. Gathering together about sixty
artistes all told, they rehearsed them and bought all the scenery, and
were almost on the eve of the first production of "Melnotte." Then one
fine morning there came the thunderbolt. They told me that all the money
they had put into the venture had gone! It had gone before the company
had even left London. What was to be done? Seemingly their idea was
centred in how speedily they could cut their losses and abandon the
venture. Such a thing to me was impossible. With my name attached to the
tour, a breach of faith with so many provincial managers would have
been a serious blow to my reputation, and apart from that, the fact that
sixty of my fellow artistes were in danger of being thrown out of work
compelled me to take both a moral and a financial obligation on my
shoulders and run the show myself. I could only hope for the best and
wait patiently for the report of my manager that the tour was
flourishing.

That report never came. Every week I had to post a big cheque to cover
the deficit on the takings, and every week made it clearer that,
although the play itself was a good one, it was a thoroughly bad
speculation. Something certainly was amiss. I could not leave London
myself, and the only alternative was to offer a friend his railway fare
and expenses and ask him to run into the country, see the play and tell
me frankly what was amiss. "Harry," said my friend very meaningly, "I've
never done you a bad turn. I've seen it--_once_." Once was enough!

Eight weeks saw the end of "Melnotte." From the first it was a forlorn
hope, and in any case it was impossible to run a company successfully
unless one could be on the spot to superintend the production. The only
satisfaction I had out of it--and I admit it with some feelings of
pride--was that of standing by my fellow professionals, and, at whatever
cost to myself, "playing the game." I have never made--and never shall
be lured to make--another plunge into management. The risks are too
great.

Sometimes I am inclined to contrast my bad luck in these business
ventures with the good fortune of a friend who once asked me for a loan
of £90. He was in humble circumstances then, but he had a little money
of his own and his ambition was to buy the licence of a public-house in
Holloway. I lent him the cash, and later on he came to repay me, with
many thanks for thus giving him his opportunity. Years afterwards we met
again. Upon the basis of that little public-house he had built a
comfortable fortune, for he was a director of a brewery concern, had a
big interest in various industrial undertakings, and eventually became a
well-known member of Parliament. "You have been my mascot," he said--and
there have been others who for various reasons have said the very same
thing!

[Illustration: HENRY A. LYTTON AS "THE LORD CHANCELLOR" IN "IOLANTHE."]

Once I met a "dear friend"--you may know the kind yourself--who was
terribly anxious that I should be "in" with him in a rich gold mine in
Alaska. He brought some nuggets to show me, and they were so plentiful,
he told me, that he had picked these from the top of the ground.
Evidently I must have been a particularly credulous person, because he
got a good deal of my money, whereas all I got was experience!

Where hobbies are concerned my luck always seems to be appalling. I have
had a mania for turning my hands to all sorts of things. It began, I
remember, with my determination to commence breeding poultry, and having
made up my mind to this, it had to be done very thoroughly. I bought
quite a number of chickens and wired them within a very small space. The
poor things had nothing like enough room, and they began to get bad
tempered, to fight one another, and to pull out their feathers. Further,
having pulled out their rivals' feathers and found the oil at the roots
very tasty, they set to in earnest, and before long there was not one
bird with a feather left in the place. They were all bald! A more
miserable collection of freaks you could never imagine. With
characteristic humour Dan Leno sent me a bottle of Tatcho for them!

From hens to ducks was not a far cry. So I bought a number of ducks'
eggs, hatched them in an incubator, and at last decided that it was time
the little wretches had their first swim. I accordingly carried them
down to a pond to put them in. Alas! once more for my amateur
enthusiasm! The ducklings were too young for that, and they got cramp
and died.

Nothing daunted, I turned now to bulldogs, and in order to do things
well I bought seven big kennels, complete with iron gates. They would
have done credit to a big estate, where breeding is done on up-to-date
lines, and were quite out-of-place in my suburban garden at Chiswick. To
begin with we could not get the kennels into the garden. For hours they
were on the street pavement while we cogitated just how we were going to
get them round to the back of the house, and it was only after a
police-officer had intervened with an order to remove them forthwith,
because they were a nuisance, that we found that if there is a will,
there must be a way.

"Captain Corcoran" was the name I gave to my best bulldog, and as he
brought me luck, I was glad I had chosen that name from "Pinafore." He
was a sturdy fellow, the winner of very many championships, and his
progeny have since also carried off valuable prizes. But even my one
successful hobby was doomed to be blighted. One day two crafty-looking
individuals came to my house and said they wanted to see me about a dog.
They were Americans, and they wanted, they told me, to buy "Captain
Corcoran." I told them I would not sell him--not at any price. They
found it a waste of time to try to fix up a deal. "Well," they said as
their parting shot, "we're going to have him, anyhow." Within a day or
two police officers called to warn me that two expert dog thieves had
taken rooms in the neighbourhood, and I was forced to the conclusion,
much as I disliked it, that I must dispose of "Captain Corcoran." Later
on I commenced to breed dachshunds and Borzois, but somehow I did not
care for the "doggy" people with whom I had to mix, and the end was that
I gave up dogs altogether.

Then I determined I would venture into the more tranquil arts of
floriculture. I would have my own flower garden, and what was more,
everything in it should be done by myself. My wife, shrewd woman, said
nothing. It was a case of "leave him alone, and he'll play for hours."
From Holland I ordered an immense number of bulbs and put them into the
ground. Months went by, but not a sign was there of my hyacinths. I
pondered deeply over my manual of useful hints for gardening. Watered
them? Yes. Raked the soil? Yes. What was wrong? Certain it was that
these flowers never bloomed in the spring!

Eventually, I saw a tiny yellow spike creeping out of the earth, but the
colour and nature of it were not "according to plan." At last I called
in a gardener. "Oh," he declared, doing his best to soften the blow,
"you've planted the bulbs upside down." And so I had! The poor little
shoots had to dig down into the soil before they could curve round and
creep into the light. Nearly everything in that unfortunate garden had
been planted upside down.

Friends of mine chaffed me unmercifully over that topsy-turvy exploit.
When they came to my house they would turn all the ornaments upside
down. Before I entered the room they would reverse the chairs, the
settee and anything they could lay their hands upon, and then they would
explain themselves by saying, "We thought you liked things like that,
old man. The bulbs you know. We've just heard about the bulbs."

Well, after the failure with the hens, the ducks, and the flowers, there
seemed only one other diversion to try, and that was photography. Even
that did not survive very long, nor yet did my attempt to cultivate
mushrooms in my cellar, a craze that threatened very literally to get
the place into bad odour. But there are two recreations to which I still
remain faithful, and they, after all, are worth all the rest put
together. One is golf and the other painting. Golf is a great game for
keeping the actor fit, and his mind clear for his work, and it is very
popular in our profession. Now and then, too, a day with the palette and
easel is a wonderful pleasure to me, and seldom do I take up the brush
without a thought of poor old Trood and his studio at Chelsea.

One diversion at least in which I have had my share of success has been
in the fancy dress balls at Covent Garden. Once I took the first prize
with a representation of Nelson, the costume of which was copied in
every detail from the uniform of the great seaman preserved in Greenwich
Museum, and I remember that my entry was signalised by Dan Godfrey's
orchestra striking up "'Twas in Trafalgar Bay." Then I took the chief
honours with a wonderful bust of Nero, in connection with which I
received enormous help from my old friend, the celebrated sculptor,
Albert Toft. From my waist downward I was encased in what appeared to be
a blood-marble pedestal. My face was whitened, my eyes were closed, and
my brow was adorned with the laurel leaf, and when the lights were
focussed on my rigid figure and the plaster frame it was acclaimed as a
marvellously clever imitation of the statue of the great Roman Emperor.
Once again I took the first prize at Covent Garden with the subject of
the Knave of Clubs. The costume was a silk one, half black and half
white, and on it were fastened the names of all the well-known clubs in
London. Even the members of the Beef Steak Club found that their
institution had not been overlooked--and that this title appeared on the
costume in an appropriate place!

Nowadays, when we are on tour, it is very pleasant to be able to travel
by motor-car instead of by train. With my Austin-20 car I have now
covered well over 42,000 miles, and probably the only occasion when I
deliberately exceeded the speed limit was once outside Plymouth. A
doctor with a troublesome car was held up in the roadway. When I drew up
and asked whether I could help him, he told me he had been a
quarter-of-an-hour trying to get the engine to go, though he was due at
a very critical operation some miles away. It was, indeed, a matter of
life and death, and in my own car he was very speedily taken to the
hospital. It was in the same district, I think, that I gave a "lift" to
a man who was footsore and weary, and who said at the end of the
journey, "I suppose you won't tell the gov'nor about this, will you?"
Evidently he had mistaken me for somebody's chauffeur!

Some years ago, when I was setting out from my home at Chiswick, I was
held up by a 'bus bound for Twickenham. It was crowded already, and the
conductor had to refuse a poor old woman who wanted to board it, and who
was very distressed, because she had a job at Twickenham, "and if I
don't get there," she told me, "they'll think I'm too old for work and
they won't want me again." The problem was easily solved. I offered to
take her where she was going. She had never been in a motor-car before,
and in trying to stammer her thanks, she asked me to tell her my name
"so that I shall never forget you." So I handed her my card--she
certainly did not know anything about me or what was my profession--and
went on my way. Judge of my surprise when, soon after the end of the
war, I found that that old lady had bequeathed to me the two little
rooms and all the furniture that had been her poor, but neat and cosy,
home at Hammersmith. Luckily, I heard of a demobilised soldier who, with
his wife and child, was urgently in need of a shelter, and it was a
great pleasure to me to be able to turn this touching legacy to such
good account.

Speaking of hobbies, I don't think I knew a more curious taste than that
of an old friend of mine who was a big-game shot and traveller, and who
had a miniature zoo of his own at his home at Derby. Once, when the
company was playing in that town, he invited me to go and stay the night
with him after the performance, and in his library we sat chatting until
the early hours of the morning. He told me many graphic stories about
his expeditions into strange lands, about the tigers and elephants he
had shot, and about his marvellous escapes. One story was about a
faithful servant of his, a powerfully-built black, who stood right in
front of an infuriated wounded elephant, which trampled on him and
killed him, as the poor fellow doubtless knew would be the case, though
he was ready to chance all so that his master might be protected. I
remember that my friend, having told me this incident, added, "They are
the greatest men on God's earth, are these blacks."

"Just half-a-minute," then said the explorer. Listening to those strange
adventures in the jungle had already set my nerves on edge, and to be
left alone in that dimly-lit room, with everything outside and inside it
silent and still, was really uncanny. I heard my host walk along the
corridor, open one or two doors, and apparently enter the garden. He had
left me alone in that house! In a few moments I heard an unnatural tread
in the corridor. Pit-pat, pit-pat! My eyes almost sprang out of my head.
Pit-pat, pit-pat. Nearer and nearer it came until at last into the room
there sauntered a--tiger! My friend walked in behind it.

"For God's sake take it away," I screamed, drawing my feet up into the
chair and expecting every second the beast would pounce, "Take it away!"
The tiger was really only a cub, but coming like an apparition into that
room, it seemed to be the biggest and most ferocious and most ghastly
sight on earth. Large beads of perspiration were on my forehead, my
heart was beating itself out of my body, and through my mind flashed the
countless sins of my youth. My last hours had come. "Take it away," I
yelled, again and again, "it will tear us to pieces."

Now I think of it, the tiger did not really look as if it had much of an
appetite, or if it had, the idea of making a tough meal of an actor did
not appeal to its palate. The hunter tried to assure me that the beast
was "quite all right." It flopped down by his side, and as he stroked
it, the cub purred in a manner which, to me at all events, was not at
all pleasant. "I know just how long you can keep them," my host
explained. "This one will be harmless for another month. Then it will be
dangerous. It is quite all right to-night. Come and stroke it!"

Not I! So long as the tiger remained there I kept cringed up in my seat
on the other side of the room, and mighty thankful I was when he had
taken his strange pet away. I've an old-fashioned notion that a library
is not the happiest place for a menagerie. I heard that just a month
afterwards the beast did, in fact, turn on the big-game shot, and his
arm was terribly ripped. He must have trusted it just a day too long.

[Illustration: HENRY A. LYTTON AS "KO-KO" IN "THE MIKADO"]




IX.
GILBERT AND SULLIVAN.

    _World-wide Fame of the Operas--The Secrets of Their
    Charm--Sullivan's Music and the Popular Taste--Gilbert and the
    Englishman--Stage Figures That Are True to National Type--The
    Germans and "H.M.S. Pinafore"--Characters That Mirror
    Ourselves--Gilbert's Versatility--Pedigree of the
    Operas--Practical Hints for Amateurs--The Importance of the
    First Entrance--Studying the Art of Make-up--A Splendid Heritage
    of Humour and Song._


The Gilbert and Sullivan public are said to number three millions.
Exactly how this figure is arrived at I cannot say, but it is presumed
to represent those who make it a point of honour to see the operas
whenever they possibly can, who are familiar with all the music and the
songs, and who lose no chance of making others as enthusiastic as they
are. Literally they are to be found the whole world over--from China to
Peru--and the operas are as successful in Australia and America as they
are in the United Kingdom. I was told once of an Englishman, exiled in
the wilds of China, who had an audience of Celestials listening at his
garden gate while he was warbling to himself "Take a Pair of Sparkling
Eyes!"

What a wonderful thing it is that plays which are all well over thirty
years old should have such a faithful following! Clearly there must be
something exceptional about them, some magnetic force that draws the
multitudes to them, some elixir that gives to them the freshness of
eternal youth. Imitators have tried hard to capture the secret of their
sweet simplicity. That they have failed so far to do so is a
misfortune. The Savoy operas still stand alone, unchallenged either by
any changing in popular taste or by the passage of time, though if there
were more of them it would be good for the public that loves such
honest, wholesome enjoyment. It would also be good for the stage. What
is the secret?

Sullivan's music often reminds me of a beautiful garden. No attempt is
there here to picture in bold orchestral strokes the frowning peaks, the
expansive landscapes or the scenes of pomp and splendour. The canvas is
ever a miniature one. Each melody is comparable to a lily or a
daffodil--just as unpretentious and just as charming--while the whole
has the fragrance of the flowers that bloom in the spring. We love this
music because it soothes and delights. It is not too "intellectual." We
appreciate it as a free and easy distraction, just as we appreciate a
popular novel, though we may have high-brow moments when we peer into
our Darwin and Spencer. Sullivan's greatest virtue was that he wrote
music that was "understanded of the people."

British folk, as we know, are easy going. We are a little too inclined
to doff the thinking-cap at the first opportunity. Speaking generally,
we are not a studious race, and we don't want to be bothered with
"problems." Sullivan's music is never in the problem style--the problem
of intricate chords and modern progressions--and just as certainly does
it avoid the strident atrocities of the modern ragtime type. It is
transparent and simple. It sparkles like the stream in the sunshine, and
it is always joyous, buoyant and happy. We want more of such music.
Give the people more of these delicate melodies--frankly popular as they
are, and yet supremely good music--and into their own lives will enter
much of the same romantic warmth and content.

All this shows how Sullivan in his music was perfectly and typically
British. What about Gilbert? In his way I think he was the same. British
audiences, he knew, did not want either abstruse plots or out-and-out
farces, but they did like to be indulged with gentle ripples of
laughter. They did not care over-much for the incongruous, but they did
love rollicking, good-natured burlesque. And Gilbert was a master of
burlesque. Endless arrows are released from his bow, but they hit the
mark without disfiguring it, for the tips are not dipped in poison. The
Briton can laugh with the best when his own weaknesses and foibles are
held up to satire. Certain people would go at once into a tantrum. The
Germans, as we know, could never understand "H.M.S. Pinafore." They said
it was impossible! No doubt to them it was impossible. Gilbert was
making play with Britain's proudest possession--her Navy. Well, the
Germans could never have produced a Gilbert of their own in any case,
but imagine the enormity of the crime if such a one had written a play
caricaturing the omnipotent German War Lords and the old German Army!

Whatever the national costume in which the Gilbert characters are
dressed, and however remote the age to which these costumes belong, we
know at once that the garb is the purest "camouflage." We have met their
like in present-day London or Glasgow or Liverpool. What a lot of folk
in real life we know with the same little oddities! _The Duke of
Plaza-Toro_, though described as a Spanish grandee, is really very much
an Englishman. He sings, too, about the human weakness for small titles
and orders, and we know that that is not an exclusive weakness of the
Venetians or the Baratarians in "The Gondoliers." The cap can find a
head to fit it much nearer home. Then there is the character of _Sir
Joseph Porter_ in "Pinafore." No doubt he is an exaggerated political
type, but he is not exaggerated, after all, beyond recognition.

"The Yeomen of the Guard" is, of all operas ever written, the one most
essentially English. The Elizabethan setting is there, and so is the
happy spirit of old Merrie England. Slightly, perhaps, it may be a
drama, but it brings to the surface the tears of gentle melancholy only.
That also stamps it as typically British. _Colonel Fairfax_, under the
shadow of the executioner's axe, does not strike a dramatic pose and
tell us that it is a far, far better thing he is going to do than he has
ever done. Not a bit! In effect, he says its rather hard luck, but there
it is anyhow, and after all things might be very much worse. A British
officer always was ready to face death with a smile. Nor does _Jack
Point_ himself, the most lovable of characters, make a parade of his
grief. The burning, aching pain is smothered almost to the end beneath
the outward jesting, and when his honest heart breaks there is no murmur
against the cruelty of fate, nor any cry of vengeance upon the rival who
has won _Elsie Maynard_.

Yes, we British people can often see ourselves in these characters as
if in a mirror, and it is probably due to this, together with the
exquisite blend of inimitable music and wit, that the popularity of
these operas is so strong and enduring. Stage "puppets" as they may be,
they do show us a lot about both our virtues and follies, but rather
more about our follies, because as a race we are notoriously shy of our
praises being sung! They are always ready to own up to their weaknesses
in some capital song. So like the self-depreciating British! Like the
rest of us, too, they are for ever getting into some dilemma or other,
and they disentangle themselves without excitement or flurry. Each point
is made without the banging of drums or the sounding of trumpets.
Contrast this with Wagner, who makes a terrible fuss about the merest
trifle, and works up his orchestration in a manner that might suggest
that the heavens were falling. Whether we like our music like this must
be a matter of taste and individual discretion. Here in Gilbert and
Sullivan at all events we have common sense--for there can be common
sense even in the ridiculous--and a tranquilising atmosphere. In a busy,
workaday world, with its ceaseless nervous and physical strain, it is
surely a grateful attribute, a pleasant diversion between the burdens of
one day and those of the next!

Sir William Gilbert, as I have said before, had a master mind as a
playwright. Every opera he wrote had a definite and an interesting plot,
and a plot which had, moreover, a purpose. "H.M.S. Pinafore," as we
know, was a shrewd shaft aimed at some of the absurdities of our
political life, though I say this without being in any way a politician
myself! In "Patience" he held up to ridicule the æsthetic craze of the
'eighties. With "Iolanthe" we enter the fantastic field, and to me there
is always something uncommonly whimsical in the idea that Parliament is
ruled by the fairies, who thus must be the real rulers of England.
"Princess Ida" was a clever anticipation of the women's movement, though
it is well-known that Gilbert took the outlines of the story from
Tennyson. Then "The Mikado" transports to the romantic and picturesque
land of Japan. "Ruddigore" was intended to be a travesty on the
melodramatic stage. Following this came an historical play, designed to
show his gifts in a new, more serious and no less successful light. I
refer, of course, to "The Yeomen of the Guard." Then "The Gondoliers"
carried us to beautiful Venice, whilst last of all were "Utopia
Limited," which I trust will soon be revived, and "The Grand Duke." It
is remarkable that so wide a range could be covered in one series of
plays.

       *       *       *       *       *

Gilbert, at an O.P. Club dinner in 1906, admitted his "indebtedness to
the author of the 'Bab Ballads,' from whom I have so unblushingly
cribbed." The diligent student of the ballads and the operas will find
many evidences of the development of ideas from the chrysalis to the
butterfly stage. I have to thank Mr. Robert Bell for the following
notes--confirmed and amplified by Gilbert during his lifetime--on the
pedigree of a few of the more popular operas:--

    "H.M.S. Pinafore"              "Captain Reece," "The
                                   Baby's Vengeance," "General
                                   John," "Lieutenant-Colonel
                                   Flare," "The Bumboat
                                   Woman's Story," "Joe
                                   Golightly," "Little Oliver."

    "The Yeoman of the Guard"      "Annie Protheroe," "To
                                   Phoebe."

    "Iolanthe"                     "The Fairy Curate," "The
                                   Periwinkle Girl."

    "Patience"                     "The Rival Curates."

"H.M.S. Pinafore," it will be seen, owed more to the ballads than did
any of the later operas, and it will be noticed that _Captain Corcoran_,
with his solicitude for his crew and his carefully moderate language,
was clearly of the stock of _Captain Reece_, of "The Mantelpiece," who

    "Did all that lay within him to
    Promote the comfort of his crew;
    A feather bed had every man
    Warm slippers and hot-water can,
    Brown Windsor from the captain's store,
    A valet, too, to every four."

--an example of unselfishness to be compared in the other branch of the
Service only with the altruism of "Lieutenant-Colonel Flare." The main
theme of the opera--the babies changed in their cradles--was a great
favourite with Gilbert. In the ballads it appears in "General John" and
"The Baby's Vengeance," which latter poem may have suggested, moreover,
certain details in "Ruddigore." The origin of _Robin Oakapple's_
bashfulness may possibly be traced back to "The Married Couple," in
which the pair were betrothed in infancy, as also happens in "Princess
Ida."

"Iolanthe" has an obvious resemblance to "The Fairy Curate." In both a
fairy marries a mortal, with the result in one case of the curate,
_Georgie_, and in the other the Arcadian shepherd, _Strephon_. Then we
are bound to notice how the feud of the two poets in "Patience" is
modelled on the emulation of the _Rev. Clayton Hooper_ and the _Rev.
Hopley Porter_ in "The Rival Curates." Indeed, the parallel between the
ballad and the opera was originally so complete that in the opera the
dragoons were curates, and _Bunthorne_ and _Grosvenor_ clergymen! Sir
William, however, began to doubt whether it was good taste to hold up
the clergy to a certain amount of ridicule, and so he changed the
principals into æsthetes, and the curates into dragoons.

Coming to "The Yeomen of the Guard" we find that _Wilfred Shadbolt_,
with his anecdotes of the prison cells and the torture chamber, had a
prototype in the jailor in "Annie Protheroe." In both a condemned man is
reprieved and enabled to outwit his rival for the love of a lady. "Were
I thy Bride" is also a song with an obvious affinity to the ballad, "To
Phoebe." So we might continue to trace in the ballads ideas which the
playwright turned to the happiest account in the operas. Strangely
enough, "The Mikado" is the opera which best keeps its secrets, and one
searches the poems in vain for anything in the nature of a "pedigree."

Lucky is the actor or actress who secures an engagement in these operas
at the outset of his or her career on the stage. The Savoy tradition
which Gilbert and Sullivan founded was, of course, entirely different to
anything which had preceded it, and the great feature of this new school
was the insistence that was and still is placed on clear enunciation,
distinct vocal phrasing, and refinement of manner and gesture. The
beginner who is trained on these lines is thus taught the essentials of
genuine artistry, and it is also a great advantage to a new-comer that,
early in his professional life, he has played in pieces which have such
an infectious spirit about them and before audiences that are always so
ready with encouragement. By the management itself good work is
invariably recognised, and it is always possible, as has happened in my
own case, for one to rise from the chorus itself to the principal parts.

Gilbert and Sullivan's works are now given by hundreds of amateur
societies all the year round, and often we hear that parties of those
who are going to play in them have travelled some distance to see us,
and so to gather notes for their own performances. Scattered about these
pages are many practical hints for these amateur players. From an "old
hand" they may be of some service, not merely because they are drawn
from my own long experience, but because many of these points were given
me by Gilbert himself and by great actors like Irving. It will be
useful, I think, if I now summarise and amplify these suggestions, which
are applicable chiefly to those who are to play in these operas, but
which in a general way may be helpful to all amateur and young
professional performers. Here they are:--

1. Study your part very thoroughly beforehand, and when on the stage
forget all about yourself, and live that part entirely. Concentrate all
your thoughts upon it, and if it is a whimsical part, see that you get
the right atmosphere before you begin.

2. Speak clearly and deliberately. Never forget the man at the back of
the gallery, and so long as your enunciation is distinct, your words
will reach him without any need for shouting. Special care should be
taken to phrase clearly when singing.

3. Be perfectly natural in your actions and gestures. The secret of this
is, whether you are actually speaking or not, to wrap yourself up in
your part and in the play, and so save yourself from being troubled with
self-consciousness.

4. Give your audience credit for humorous perception. Gilbert's wit, in
other words, is such that the actor must not force his lines through
fear, as it were, that the people in front will otherwise not be
intelligent enough to "see the joke." Indeed, the more serious and
intense he is in many cases, the more oblivious he pretends to be to the
absurdity of what he is saying, the quainter and more delightful is the
effect on the other side of the footlights.

5. Exceptional instances apart, the actor who is speaking or being
spoken to, or who is singing a song, should stand well to the front of
the stage. Not only does this let you make the best use of your voice,
but it helps you, what is more important, to rivet the attention of the
audience.

6. Keep up a keen personal interest in the play. If you are in the
chorus, your job is not solely to help in the singing and to show off a
picturesque costume, but to assist in focussing the interest on the
central incident. If, on the other hand, you are listless and stare
about the theatre, it is bound to rob the whole performance of freshness
and spontaneity.

7. The Gilbert and Sullivan atmosphere, as I have said several times
elsewhere, is "repose." This is impossible if every member of the
company--and even the leading principal himself--indulges in little
mannerisms liable to take the audience's eye from the central point.

8. Never forget that a company, so far from being divided into
principals and chorus, is really one big family, and success depends on
one and all "pulling together." Still less should the principals forget
what they owe to the chorus for loyally backing them up, and a little
kindly appreciation, a word of encouragement from themselves, as the
more experienced players, to those who are anxious to learn, goes a
mighty long way.

Now that the old stock companies have become almost things of the past,
our amateur operatic societies should be recognised as one of the best
recruiting fields for theatrical talent, and it is a fact that from
their ranks many great artistes have sprung. I myself have seen numbers
of these amateur shows, and in most of them there have been two or three
performers who, with work and experience, could take a creditable place
on the professional stage. For this reason I am anxious to give them all
the advice it is in my power to give. First and foremost, therefore, I
should insist that before any words are memorised the part itself must
be thoroughly studied, so that one knows exactly what the author intends
and just what sort of figure one has to depict. Especially have I made
it my aim, on my first entrance in any part, to let the audience see
just what the character is, whether a comedian, a tragedian, a lover, a
fool, or a "fop." _Feel_ that you are actually one of these, and
especially when you make your first entry, and the battle is half won
already. You will then have something of what people variously call
"magnetism" or "personality" or "atmosphere." This _feeling_ of your
part at the first entrance is of vital importance, and as far as you
can, you must try to keep it up right through the play.

Take the case of _Jack Point_. From the moment he enters the audience
should know the manner of man that he is and he must win their sympathy
immediately. He is a poor strolling player who has been dragged from
pillar to post. Footsore and weary though he is, _Jack Point_ is anxious
to please the crowd who have roughly chased him and _Elsie Maynard_ in,
for if he fails them have they not threatened to duck him in the nearest
pond? _Jack_ and _Elsie_ are no ordinary players. In Elizabethan times
the street dancer was a familiar character. The Merry-man and his maid,
however, tell us that they can sing _and_ dance too, a wonderful
accomplishment. All this and more is made clear on their first entry. It
should be the same in the interpretation of all the other parts.

When the _Duke of Plaza-Toro_ arrives, he must at once impress the
audience that, although impecunious, he still expects the deference due
to birth and breeding. _Ko-Ko_, on the other hand, is a cheap tailor
suddenly exalted to the rank of Lord High Executioner, and from _his_
first entrance it is obvious that he was never brought up in the
dignified ways of a Court. He tells the gentlemen of Japan that he is
"much touched by this reception." Somehow one feels that that speech was
written out for him when he received his appointment, that he has since
recited it forty times a day, and that now the upstart is trying to make
believe it is entirely extempore! Then there is _Sir Joseph Porter_.
Whenever I play this rôle I do my best to cultivate a sense of immense
self-importance. I do this, of course, whilst waiting my cue, but the
effect of it should be seen on the stage. _Bunthorne_'s first appearance
should be done in such a way as to stamp him definitely for what he
is--an affected "poseur." The exaggeration may be relaxed a little
afterwards--but it _must_ be there at the beginning.

So long as one has studied one's part beforehand, particularly in regard
to the nature of the first entry, the memorisation of the words becomes
more or less easy. And amateurs ought to realise what a tremendous help
to them it would be to practice their own facial "make-up." Generally
they leave that to an expert, but if they practised it themselves, they
would find it a very fascinating, and certainly an important, branch of
the actor's profession. Many and many a time have I taken my pencils and
colours, retired to some quiet room at home, and spent an afternoon
experimenting in make-up. Notwithstanding that I have never played any
Shakespearian characters, I have made up privately for dozens of them,
and the practice has helped me in innumerable ways.

For instance, I used to be fond of making up as the hunchback _Richard
the Third_, and I turned these experiments to account when I had to play
the rôle of _King Gama_. Shakespeare's _Touchstone_ also appealed to me,
and having made up as this clown so often, I had many useful ideas when
I came to do _Jack Point_. The deathly pallor of the poor jester at the
end was contrived from many similar experiments. Setting photographs
before me, I would make myself resemble the late Lord Roberts and the
late Sir Evelyn Wood, and these were used as a model when I had to be
_Major-General Stanley_. Several visits to the Law Courts gave me
valuable hints for the _Lord Chancellor_. The _Duke of Plaza-Toro_ was
studied from an old print of a grandee. _Ko-Ko's_ make up, which was
bound to be a difficult one, was the outcome of a good deal of sketching
on paper, particularly in regard to the treatment of the lines round the
eyes. When Mrs. D'Oyly Carte first saw me as _Bunthorne_, she exclaimed
"How you do remind me of Whistler!" That was a compliment. It was from
Whistler, of course, that this rôle was understood to be drawn, and so I
was not loath to copy the poet's photograph, even to the white lock in
his ample jet-black hair!

Yes, make-up well rewards one for all the time one spends in practising
it, and many brother professionals agree with me that the great
past-masters of the art were the late Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree and the
late Wilson Barrett. With them, of course, make-up concerned not merely
the face but the figure, and it was wonderful how Tree, to instance only
two of his great parts, could adapt himself either to the portly and
blustering _Falstaff_ or to the lean and haggard _Svengali_. And
Barrett, though ordinarily stocky of build, could appear at times as a
towering, dominating personality. Seeing that these men were big
theatrical figures, they were not compelled to sink their identities in
the parts they were playing, and yet they were such great artistes that
they always did so completely.

I close this book with a simple story of the different operas. This
will, I am sure, be read with interest both by those who know them
already and by those, the younger generation, who are growing up to know
and love them too for what they are--a heritage of pure humour and song
of which the nation may well be proud, and to which it will remain
faithful as long as the spirit of laughter abides in its heart.

    Dear are their melodies to England's heart,
      Pure English is the fount from which they flow,
    As frank and tender as was English art
      In the rich times of Purcell, Arne and Blow;
    As English the libretto every whit,
      Jests how well polished, whimsies how well said;
    True English humour, and true English wit,
      Sword-sharp yet kindly, hearty yet well-bred.
    Thus have they lasted, and out-last the years.
      Being in their fantasy to life so true,
    So intermix't with laughter and with tears.
      So gay, so wise, so old, and yet so new.
    Long may they, living for our children's joy,
    Renew the triumphs of the old Savoy!




THE STORIES OF THE OPERAS.


"TRIAL BY JURY."
_Produced March 25th, 1875._

Gilbert and Sullivan's fame was really based on a little comic opera
called "Thespis." It was produced by John Hollingshead at the Gaiety,
and its success was so great that Mr. Richard D'Oyly Carte was induced
to invite them to collaborate again in the first of what we now know as
the D'Oyly Carte operas, the dramatic cantata, "Trial by Jury." Short
and slender as it is, this opera has always been immensely popular, and
it still appears regularly in the company's programmes. Gilbert, who had
himself followed the law before he transferred his talents to the stage,
took as his subject an imaginary breach of promise case between Edwin
and Angelina. That it is a faithful picture of a court of law and of
those who minister there one would never dare to suggest! But as a very
free and clever burlesque even those who follow the vocation of the wig
and gown will admit its claims immediately.

When the curtain rises we see the interior of a court of justice, and
the barristers, solicitors and jury are already in their places. The
Usher, a functionary of the old school, at once proceeds to give some
homely and informal advice to the jurymen, telling them to listen to the
case with minds free from vulgar prejudice. With that he goes on to try
to soften their masculine hearts over the plight of poor Angelina. When
the defendant enters the twelve good men and true shake their fists in
his face, hail him as a "monster," and bid him "dread our damages."
Edwin ventures to suggest that, as they are in the dark as to the merits
of his case, these proceedings are strange. He tells how he once
rapturously adored the lady, how she then began to bore him intensely,
and how at last he became "another's love-sick boy." The jury reflect
that they, too, were rather inconstant in their own youthful days, but
now that they are older and "shine with a virtue resplendent" they
"haven't a scrap of sympathy with the defendant."

The Judge now takes his seat on the bench. The genial soul, as a prelude
to the duties of the day, confides how he rose to judicial eminence. For
years he searched in vain for briefs, and then he found an easy escape
from poverty by marrying a rich attorney's elderly, ugly daughter. He
would, his father-in-law said, soon get used to her looks, and in the
meanwhile he promised to deluge him with briefs for the "Sessions and
Ancient Bailey." By these means he prospered, and then he "threw over
that rich attorney's elderly, ugly daughter." And now he is ready to try
this present breach of promise of marriage.

Counsel for the plaintiff having taken his place, the jury are sworn
well and truly to try the case, which they do by kneeling low down in
the box and, with the exception of their upraised hands, quite out of
sight. The plaintiff's arrival is heralded by that of a beautiful bevy
of bridesmaids. The Judge, having taken a fancy to one of them, pens her
a little note, which she kisses rapturously. Yet when he sees the
plaintiff, a still brighter vision of loveliness, he orders that the
note shall be taken from the bridesmaid and given to her. Judge and jury
alike are entranced. Counsel proceeds to open the case, and with bitter
reproaches he assails the traitor whose heartless wile victimised his
"interesting client," to whom "Camberwell (had) become a bower, Peckham
an Arcadian vale." The plaintiff weeps. When she is lead to the
witness-box she falls in a faint on to the foreman's shoulders, but upon
the Judge inquiring whether she would not rather recline on him, the
fair lady jumps on to the bench and sits down fondly by the side of the
Judge.

Edwin, regarded by all as an object of villainy, now proceeds to state
his case, and can only offer to marry the lady to-day and then marry his
new love to-morrow. The Judge suggests that this may be a fair
proposition, but counsel holds that, on the other hand, "to marry two at
once is burglaree." Angelina, with a view to increasing the damages, now
embraces her inconstant lover and calls upon the jury to witness what a
loss she has to deplore. Edwin, in the hope in turn of reducing them,
declares that at heart he is a ruffian and a bully, and that she could
never endure him a day. The Judge suggests that, as the man declares
that when tipsy he would thrash her and kick her, the best plan would be
for them to make him tipsy and see! Objection is raised to this on every
side, and then the man of law, losing his temper and scattering the
books hither and thither, declares that as nothing will please them he
will marry the lady himself. This solution seems to carry general
agreement. The Judge, having claimed her hand, sings:--

    "Though homeward as you trudge
    You declare my law is fudge,
    Yet of beauty I'm a judge."

To which all in court reply, "And a good judge too!"


"THE SORCERER."
_Produced November 17th, 1887._

"The Sorcerer" is a merry story of sentimental topsy-turvydom. Cupid
could never have performed such mischievous pranks as he did, aided by a
magician's love potion, in the pleasant village of Ploverleigh. Sir
Marmaduke Pointdextre, a baronet of ancient lineage, has invited the
tenantry to his Elizabethan mansion to celebrate the betrothal of his
son Alexis, a Grenadier Guardsman, to the lovely Aline. So happy and
romantic a union between two old families deserved to be worthily
honoured, and a large and lavishly stocked marquee, we notice, has been
erected at one side of the garden. Aline herself is rich, the only
daughter of the Lady Sangazure, and the seven thousand and
thirty-seventh in direct descent, it seems, from Helen of Troy. Nor are
there heart-stirrings only in the homes of the great. Early in the opera
it transpires that Constance Partlet, the daughter of a humble
pew-opener at the Parish Church, has a doting love for the vicar, Dr.
Daly. It is a hopeless passion. Not that the vicar, now a bachelor of
venerable years, had never felt the throb of romance in his soul, and
never recalled the "aching memory of the old, old days." Fondly does he
muse over the time when--

    "Maidens of the noblest station,
        Forsaking even military men,
        Would gaze upon me, rapt in admiration--
        Ah, me! I was a pale young curate then."

This, indeed, was the time when love and he were well acquainted, as he
tells us in a delightful ballad, and when none was better loved that he
in all the land! Yet even these dreams of yesteryear fail to awaken in
him the desires for a joyous to-morrow. Constance's mother finds him
quite unresponsive to her ingenious suggestions, for though he sees the
advantage of having a lady installed in the vicarage, he is too old now
for his estate to be changed.

Sir Marmaduke and Alexis enter. The honest heart of the father glows at
the thought of the marriage, though he confesses that he has little
liking for the new kind of love-making, in which couples rush into each
other's arms rapturously singing:--

    "Oh, my adored one!"       "Beloved boy!"
    "Ecstatic rapture!"        "Unmingled joy!"

So different, he reflects, to the older and more courtly "Madame, I
trust you are in the enjoyment of good health"; "Sir, you are vastly
polite, I protest I am mighty well." Even thus did he once pay his
addresses to the Lady Sangazure. For once they, too, were lovers! But
these reveries are ended by the arrival of Aline, and soon afterwards,
to the tuneful salutation of the villagers, the marriage contract is
signed and sealed in the presence of Counsel.

Left alone at last with his betrothed, Alexis tells her of his maxim
that true love, the source of every earthly joy, should break down all
such artificial barriers as rank, wealth, beauty and age. Upon this
subject he has lectured in the workhouses, beershops and asylums, and
been received with enthusiasm everywhere, though he cannot deny the
aloofness as yet of the aristocracy. He is going to take a desperate
step to put those noble principles to proof. From London he has summoned
the great John Wellington Wells. He belongs to an old-established firm
of family sorcerers, who practise all sorts of magics and spells, with
their wonderful penny curse as their quick-selling speciality. From the
moment he enters it is obvious that this glib-tongued charlatan is a
hustling dynamo. Alexis, much to Aline's alarm, commissions him to
supply liberal quantities of his patent love philtre in order that, from
purely philanthropical motives, as he explains, he may distribute it
secretly amongst the villagers. Wells, like the pushful tradesman he is,
has the very thing in his pocket. He guarantees that whoever drinks it
will fall in love, as a matter of course, with the first lady he meets
who has also tasted it, and his affection will be returned immediately.
Then follows a melodramatic incantation as the sorcerer deposits the
philtre into a gigantic teapot. "Spirits of earth and air, fiends of
flame and fire" are summoned "in shoals" to "this dreadful deed
inspire." This done Mr. Wells beckons the villagers, and all the party,
except the two lovers, join merrily in drinking a toast drawn from the
teapot. Quickly it becomes evident from their strange conduct that the
charm is working. All rub their eyes, and the curtain falls on the
picture of many amorous couples, rich and poor alike, under the spell of
the romantic illusion.

The same scene greets us when the second act opens. The couples are
strangely assorted--an old man with a girl, an elderly woman with a
youth--but all sing and dance to a love that is "the source of all joy
to humanity." Constance confesses her rapture for a deaf old Notary. Sir
Marmaduke himself walks arm-in-arm with Mrs. Partlet. Dr. Daly is sadly
perplexed. The villagers, who had not been addicted to marrying and
giving in marriage, have now been coming to him in a body and imploring
him to join them in matrimony with little delay. The sentimental old
bachelor reflects, moreover, how comely all the maidens are, and sighs
that alas! all now are engaged! Meanwhile, Alexis has tried to persuade
Aline that they should drink the philtre too, for only thus can they
ensure their own undying devotion. She refuses and there is a tiff, but
later, to prove that her love for him is true, she does drink the
potion, only to be seized by a passionate affection for--Dr. Daly. Nor
can the good vicar resist the yearning to reciprocate. Coming to the
scene, Alexis is outraged with his lover's perfidy, and at last has very
serious doubts about the excellence of his theories and the wisdom of
the sorcerer's spell. Dr. Daly, determined to be no man's rival, is
ready to quit the country at once and bury his sorrow "in the congenial
gloom of a colonial bishopric."

But one of the drollest effects of the enchantment has still to be told.
The first man on whom the Lady Sangazure casts her eye after she has
succumbed is none other than the notorious John Wellington Wells. In
vain does he lie to her that he is already engaged. In vain does he
describe a beauteous maiden with bright brown hair who waits for him in
the Southern Pacific. She threatens at last to end her sorrows in the
family vault, and only then does the sorcerer, as a small reparation for
all the emotional disturbance he has created, decide that the acceptance
of her hand might not be at all a bad bargain.

In the end the magic scheme becomes so involved that it must be at all
costs disentangled. It can be done in only one way. Someone must yield
his life to Ahrimanes. Wells agrees to commit this act of
self-immolation, and amidst a wreath of fire and brimstone he
disappears, melodramatic to the last, through a trap-door in the stage.
With his departure the couples re-assort themselves, selecting mates in
keeping with their various social stations and ages, and the betrothal
festivities resume their merry sway.


"H.M.S. PINAFORE."
_Produced May 25th, 1878._

Certainly "H.M.S. Pinafore" was not a model ship as regards the sense of
discipline that exists in the real British Navy. But in every other
respect it _was_ a model ship. Captain Corcoran was the commander of its
jovial crew, and a very fine commander he was, always indulgent to his
men and always ready to address them politely. Swearing on board was a
thing almost unknown. Corcoran did say "bother it" now and again, but he
tells us that he never used "a big, big d----" at least, "hardly ever."
Lustily do the crew "give three cheers and one cheer more for the
well-bred captain of the Pinafore."

The opera has the quarter-deck for its setting, and it is related that
Gilbert took as his model for this scene the old Victory, which he went
to see at Portsmouth. Our first introduction is to the crew, who busily
polish the brasswork and splice the rope while they sing in tuneful
nautical strains that their "saucy ship's a beauty" and manned by "sober
men and true, attentive to their duty." Only one gruff old salt is there
amongst them, and we discover him in the ugly, distorted form of Dick
Deadeye. He is thoroughly unpopular. Soon the sailors welcome on board
Little Buttercup, a Portsmouth bumboat woman who has come to sell her
wares, and who is hailed as "the rosiest, the roundest and the reddest
beauty in all Spithead." She has certainly some delightful ditties to
sing.

One member of the crew is handsome Ralph Rackstraw, who confesses to a
passion for Corcoran's pretty daughter, Josephine. The poor fellow is
downcast that his ambitions should have soared to such impossible
heights. Yet Josephine herself is also sad because of a heart that
"hopes but vainly." Corcoran chides her, and tells her how happy she
should be when her hand is to be claimed, that very day, by the great
Sir Joseph Porter, K.C.B., the First Lord of the Admiralty. She
confesses that, although she is a proud captain's daughter, she loves a
humble sailor on board her father's own ship.

Sir Joseph's stately barge is approaching. He comes attended by a host
of his sisters and his cousins and his aunts, a very large and charming
family group whom the sailors, instead of standing rigidly at attention,
salute with effusive politeness. Sir Joseph, attired in the Court dress
of his office, proceeds at once to describe his meteoric rise from an
office boy in an attorney's firm to become the "ruler of the Queen's
Navee." The story is that of an industrious clerk who, having "served
the writs with a smile so bland and copied all the letters in a big
round hand" is taken at last into partnership, and eventually becomes an
obedient party man in Parliament and a member of the Ministry. For
landsmen the moral of it all is summed up in this golden rule:--

    "Stick close to your desk and never go to sea
    And you all may be rulers of the Queen's Navee."

The First Lord has ideas of his own that the sense of independence in
the lower deck must be fully encouraged. The British sailor he holds to
be any man's equal, and he insists that Captain Corcoran shall accompany
every order of his crew, over whom he has been placed merely by accident
of birth, with a courteous "if you please." Then he takes Corcoran into
the cabin to teach him another accomplishment--dancing the hornpipe.
Josephine meanwhile steals out on to the deck. She meets Ralph
Rackstraw, who boldly gambles his all on an immediate protestation of
love, only to be refused for his presumption and impetuosity. The poor
fellow, before the whole ship's company and without their lifting a hand
to restrain him, prepares to blow out his brains, when the girl rushes
into his arms. Notwithstanding the evil Dick Deadeye's warning, they
arrange to steal ashore at night to be married, and the curtain falls on
the crew giving three cheers for the sailor's bride.

When the second act opens the deck is bathed in moonlight. Captain
Corcoran is strumming his mandoline and singing a plaintive song--he
laments that everything is at sixes and sevens--while gazing at him
sentimentally is Little Buttercup. Following a duet between them, Sir
Joseph Porter enters to complain that he is disappointed in Josephine,
and Corcoran can attribute her reticence only to the exalted rank of so
distinguished a suitor as the First Lord of the Admiralty. Corcoran
afterwards takes his daughter aside and explains to her that love is a
platform on which all ranks meet, little mindful how eloquently he is
thus pleading the cause of humble Ralph. When the girl has left Dick
Deadeye comes to warn the father of the plan for a midnight elopement.
Enveloping himself in a cloak, with a cat-o'-nine-tails in his hand, he
awaits developments. Soon the crew steal in on tiptoe, and afterwards
the two lovers, ready to escape ashore in the dingy. Captain Corcoran
surprises them, but, to his amazement, Ralph Rickshaw openly and
defiantly avows his love, while the crew chant his praises as an
Englishman:--

    "For he might have been a Roosian,
    A French, or Turk, or Proosian,
        Or perhaps Itali-an.
    But in spite of all temptations
    To belong to other nations
        He remains an Englishman!"

Even for the well-bred skipper this is too much. He explodes with a
"big, big d----." Sir Joseph hears the bad language and is horrified. He
will hear of no explanations. Captain Corcoran is banished to his cabin
in disgrace.

The First Lord is destined to receive still another shock. He hears of
the attachment between Josephine and Ralph. The "presumptuous mariner"
is ordered to be handcuffed and marched off to the dungeon. But it is
after this that we hear the biggest surprise of all--and from the lips
of Little Buttercup. She recalls that in the years long ago she
practised baby farming, and to her care were committed two infants, "one
of low condition, the other a patrician." Unhappily, in a luckless
moment she mixed those children up, and the poor baby really was
Corcoran and the rich one Ralph Rackstraw. Ralph thereupon enters in a
captain's uniform. Corcoran follows him in the dress of a mere
able-seaman. Sir Joseph decides that, although love levels rank in many
cases, his own marriage with a common sailor's daughter is out of the
question, and he resigns himself then and there to his venerable cousin,
Hebe. Ralph claims his Josephine, while the fallen Corcoran links his
future with that of the bumboat woman, Little Buttercup.

[Illustration: HENRY A. LYTTON AS "SIR JOSEPH PORTER"
IN "H.M.S. PINAFORE."]


"THE PIRATES OF PENZANCE."
_Produced April 30th, 1880._

Sheltered in the Cornish coast was the hiding place of a band of
tender-hearted pirates. Never was the trade of the skull-and-cross-bones
followed by men of such sensitive and compassionate feelings. They made
it a point of honour never to attack a weaker party, and whenever they
attempted to fight a stronger one they invariably got thrashed. Orphans
themselves, they shrank from ever laying a molesting hand on an orphan,
and many of the ships they captured had to be released because they were
found to be manned entirely by orphans. Little wonder was it that these
Pirates of Penzance could not make the grim trade of piracy pay.

The curtain rises on a scene of revelry. Frederic has just completed his
pirate apprenticeship and is being hailed as a fully-fledged member of
the gang. That he had been indentured with them at all was a mistake.
When he was a lad his nurse was told to take and apprentice him to a
pilot, and when she discovered her stupid blunder she let him stay with
the pirates, and remained with them herself as a maid-of-all-work rather
than return to brave the parental fury. Frederic, at all times the slave
of duty, has loyally served out his time, but now he announces that not
only will he not continue at a trade he detests, but he is going to
devote himself heart and soul to his old comrades' extermination. The
declaration turns the camp from joy into mourning, but these very
scrupulous pirates have to admit that a man must act as his conscience
dictates, and they can only crave that the manner of their deaths may
be painless and speedy.

Frederic has never seen a woman's face--no other woman's face, at least,
but Ruth's, his old nurse, who adores him--and thus there come as a
vision of loveliness to him the figures of the many daughters of
Major-General Stanley. They have penetrated into the rocky cove during a
picnic. Frederic, sensitive about his detested dress, hides from them
for a while, but soon he reveals himself and entreats them all to stoop
in pity so low is to accept the hand and heart of a pirate. Only one of
them, Mabel, is ready to take him for what he is, and the love-making
between the two is swift and passionate. It is interrupted by the return
of the gang, each member of which seizes a girl and claims her as his
bride, and during this lively interlude there arrives old General
Stanley. He has lagged behind the rest of the party.

The General, a resplendent figure in his uniform, knows a good deal
about the most abstruse and complicated sciences, though he proclaims
that he knows no more of tactics than a novice in a nunnery. In this he
holds himself to be "the very model of a modern major-general."
Completing the candid recital of his attainments and want of them, he
inquires what strange deeds are afoot, and he has no liking either for
pirates as sons-in-law or for the prospect of being robbed wholesale of
his daughters. But where is the way of escape? Luckily the General has
heard of these Penzance pirates before, and he wrings their sympathy
with the sad news that he, too, is "an orphan boy." For such
tender-hearted robbers that is enough. They surrender the girls, and
with them all thoughts of matrimonial felicity, and restore the entire
party to liberty.

The second act is laid in a ruined chapel at night. General Stanley,
surrounded by his daughters, has come to do penance for his lie before
the tombs of his ancestors, who are his solely by purchase, for he has
owned the estate only a year. Frederic is now to lead an expedition
against the pirates. For this perilous mission he has gathered together
a squad of police, who march in under their sergeant, all of them very
nervous and under misgivings that possibly they may be going to "die in
combat gory." Soon after they have left there is a whimsical
development. Frederic, alone in the chapel, is visited by the Pirate
King and Ruth. Covering him first of all with their pistols, they tell
him that they have remembered that he was born on the 29th of February,
and that as he thus has a birthday only every four years he is still but
five years of age!

Frederic, as we have observed before, has a keen sense of duty. In blank
despair he agrees to return to the gang to finish his apprenticeship.
Once more a member of the band, he is bound also to disclose the
horrible fact that the old soldier has practised on the pirates'
credulous simplicity, and that in truth he is no orphan boy. The Pirate
King decrees that there shall be a swift and terrible revenge that very
night.

When all have left but Mabel, who declares that she will remain faithful
to her lover until he has lived his twenty-one leap-years, there
re-enter the police. The sergeant laments that the policeman's lot is
not a happy one. It is distressing to them to have to be the agents
whereby their erring fellow-creatures are deprived of the liberty that
everyone prizes.

    "When the enterprising burglar's not a-burgling,
        When the cut-throat isn't occupied in crime,
    He loves to hear the little brook a-gurgling
        And listen to the merry village chime.
    When the coster's finished jumping on his mother,
        He loves to lie a-basking in the sun.
    Ah! Take one consideration with another
        The policeman's lot is not a happy one."

Sounds are heard that indicate the pirates' approach. The police conceal
themselves, and soon the intruders enter, armed with all kinds of
burglarious tools, and with a cat-like tread (they say so, at least,
though they are singing their loudest). They are interrupted, not by the
police, but by the appearance of General Stanley. He has had a sleepless
night, the effect of a tortured conscience, and he comes in in a
dressing-gown and carrying a light. Soon his daughters also appear in
their night-caps. The General is seized and ordered to prepare for
death. Frederic, even on Mabel's entreaties, cannot save him, for is he
not himself a pirate again?

Eventually the police, having passively watched the situation so long,
summon up courage and tackle the pirates, but they are soon overcome.
The sergeant, who with the rest of his men is held prostrate under drawn
swords, then calls upon the ruffians to surrender in the name of the
Queen. The command acts like magic. Loyally the pirates kneel to their
captives, for it transpires from Ruth's lips that they are really "no
members of the common throng; they are all noblemen who have gone
wrong." All ends happily. The Pirates of Penzance promise to return
forthwith to their legislative duties in the House of Lords and, in
doing so, they are to share their coronets with the beautiful daughters
of old General Stanley.


"PATIENCE."
_Produced April 23rd, 1881._

There is satire in the very name of this opera. The craze for
æstheticism against which it was directed must have placed a strain on
the patience of so brilliant an exponent of British commonsense as Sir
William Gilbert.

Shortly before the play opens, twenty of the maidens of the village
adjoining Castle Bunthorne had fallen in love with the officers of the
35th Heavy Dragoons. But when Reginald Bunthorne, a fleshly poet and a
devotee of the æsthetic cult, arrived at the castle, they had fallen out
of love with their Dragoons and united with Lady Jane (of uncertain age)
in worshipping him. When the curtain rises the "twenty love-sick
maidens" are lamenting that Bunthorne is "ice-insensible." Lady Jane
tells them that he loves Patience, the village milkmaid, who is seen
regarding them with pity. Lady Angela tells Patience that if she has
never loved she can never have known true happiness. Patience replies
that "the truly happy always seem to have so much on their minds," and
"never seem quite well." Lady Jane explains that it is "_Not_
indigestion, but æsthetic transfiguration." Patience informs the ladies
that the 35th Dragoon Guards have arrived. Lady Ella declares, "We care
nothing for Dragoon Guards." "But," exclaims Patience, "You were all
engaged to them." "Our minds have been etherealised, our perceptions
exalted," answers Lady Angela, who calls on the others to lift up their
voices in morning carol to "Our Reginald."

The 35th Dragoons arrive and the Colonel gives us in song:--

    "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 æsthetics" should have captured
the ladies' fancy. Angrily they return to their camp.

Bunthorne, left "alone and unobserved," confesses to being an "æsthetic
sham." "In short," he says, "my mediævalism'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 æsthetic
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 æsthetic 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 æsthetic 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 æstheticism, "It proves that æstheticism ought to be
discarded." Patience now discovers that she is free to love Grosvenor.
Bunthorne is disappointed, but Lady Jane, who is still æsthetic 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 naïvely 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 _tête-a-tête_ 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 roué, 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 £10,000 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 _protégés_, 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."




A SAVOYARD BIBLIOGRAPHY.


The literature about Savoy Opera forms a regular library. A great deal
of it has been contributed to newspapers and magazines. For the latter
the reader should consult Poole's "Index to Periodical Literature" and
its successor, "The Reader's Guide to Periodical Literature." The
following list contains the chief books about the Savoyards.


GILBERT.

W. S. GILBERT: By Edith A. Browne. Stars of the Stage Series. London:
John Lane, 1907.

    8vo: pp. xii+96+15 plates, one of them showing Gilbert in a kilt
    as a (3rd) Gordon Highlander (1868-78): gives a list of
    Gilbert's plays. The operas are dealt with by themselves (pp.
    55-84). There is a photograph of H. A. Lytton in "Patience"
    (facing p. 58).

SIR WILLIAM S. GILBERT: A study in modern satire: a handbook on Gilbert
and the Gilbert and Sullivan operas. By Isaac Goldberg, M.A., Ph.D.
(Harvard.) Boston: Stratford Publishing Co., 1913.

    8vo. pp. 156. The operas are discussed pp. 83-146. "The
    character of Pooh-Bah is perhaps the greatest single creation of
    Gilbert's."

RECOLLECTIONS OF GILBERT. By G. W. Smalley. _McClure's Magazine_
(January 1903), xx, 302-304.

REAL CONVERSATION WITH GILBERT. By William Archer. _Critic_, New York
(September 1901), xxxix, 240-240.

    Mr. Archer's article on Gilbert as a dramatist in the _St.
    James's Magazine_, London, in 1881 (xlix, 287), was one of the
    first critical appreciations of Gilbert on a big scale.

GILBERT'S HUMOUR. By Max Beerbohm. _Saturday Review_, xcvii, 619; xcix,
696.

THE GENIUS OF GILBERT. _Blackwood's Magazine_ (July 1911), cxcix,
121-128.

THE ENGLISH ARISTOPHANES. By Walter Sichel. _Fortnightly Review_
(October 1911), xciv, 681-704.

THE LIBRETTOS OF W. S. GILBERT. By G. H. Powell. _Temple Bar_, cxxv, 36.

MR. GILBERT AS A LIBRETTIST. By J. M. Bulloch. _Evening Gazette_,
Aberdeen (June 16, 17, 1890).

    This was originally an address delivered to the Aberdeen
    University Literary Society, November 16, 1888. J. M. Bulloch
    also dealt with "The Pretty Wit of Mr. Gilbert" in the _Sketch_,
    June 12, 1898; "Mr. Gilbert's Majority as a Savoyard," in the
    _Sketch_, Sept. 9, 1898; and "The work of W. S. Gilbert,"
    illustrated in the _Bookbuyer_, New York, January, 1899.

GILBERT'S PROFITS FROM LIBRETTO. By G. Middleton. _Bookman_, New York
(October, 1908), xxviii, 116-123.

SIR W. S. GILBERT. Leading article and biography in _The Times_, May 30,
1911, pp. 11-12.

PORTRAITS. Ten reproductions are inventoried in the _A.L.A. Portrait
Index_ (Washington, 1908: p. 378) including those by Rudolf Lehman and
"Spy" in _Vanity Fair_ (1881: xiii., plate 13.).


SULLIVAN.

SIR ARTHUR SULLIVAN, HIS LIFE AND MUSIC. By B. W. Findon, London: James
Nisbet and Company, 1904.

    8vo. pp. viii+214+[2]: portrait of Sullivan. Dedicated to Mr.
    Findon's aunt, Mary Clementina Sullivan, 1811-82, mother of Sir
    Arthur. List of Sullivan's works (pp. 204-214): section
    specially devoted to the Savoy Opera (pp. 94-126). This book was
    reprinted by Sisley's, Ltd. [1908] as "Sir Arthur Sullivan and
    his Operas."

SULLIVAN. By Sir George Grove. _Dictionary of Music_ (1908), iv,
743-747.

SIR ARTHUR SULLIVAN: Life story, letters, and reminiscences. By Arthur
Lawrence; with critique by B. W. Findon; and bibliography by W. Bendall
London: James Bowden, 1899.

    8vo. pp. xvi.+360+11 plates+[8]. There are 19 illustrations,
    showing Sullivan at the ages of 12, 15, 25, 44, 52 and 57, with
    eight facsimiles of letters or scores. M. Findon's critique
    occupies pp. 288-326 and the bibliography, pp. 327-360.

SOUVENIR OF SIR ARTHUR SULLIVAN, Mus. Doc, M.V.O.; a brief sketch of his
life. By Walter J. Wells. London: George Newnes, Ltd., 1901.

    8vo. pp. viii. + 106 with 49 illustrations. Contains "Sullivan
    and Gilbert" (pp. 15-31): "D'Oyly Carte" (pp. 32-46): "American
    Success" (pp. 47-54.) List of his works (pp. 98-104).

ARTHUR SULLIVAN. By H. Saxe Wyndham. London: George Bell and Sons, 1903.

    8vo. pp. x+80, with eight illustrations. Dedicated "to my wife
    through whose skill as a musician the never ending delights of
    Sullivan's music were first unfolded to me." One of Bell's
    Miniature Series of Musicians.

PORTRAITS. Twenty-one reproductions are inventoried in the _A.L.A.
Portrait Index_ (Washington, 1908: p. 1405) including those by Millais
and by "Ape" in _Vanity Fair_ (1874: vi, plate 81).


CARTE.

The starting of the Gilbert and Sullivan operas: a letter written by R.
D'Oyly Carte in 1877 to "My Lord" (unnamed), apropos of a proposal to
form a small company to produce the operas. Printed in the _Pall Mall
Gazette_, May 1, 1907.

The petition by the Savoy Theatre and Operas, Ltd., and Reduced, for the
approval of the Court to the reduction of the capital from £75,000 to
£41,250 was heard before Mr. Justice Walton, August 26, 1903 (_Times_,
August 27). This led to a very interesting letter from Gilbert in the
_Times_ (Aug. 28) and one in the _Telegraph_ by Mrs. Carte (Aug. 29).

PORTRAITS. Four reproductions are inventoried in the _A.L.A. Portrait
Index_ (Washington, 1908: p. 259), including that by "Spy" in _Vanity
Fair_ (1891: xxiii, plate 498).


THE SAVOY OPERAS.

GILBERT, SULLIVAN, AND D'OYLY CARTE: Reminiscences of the Savoy and the
Savoyards. By Francois Cellier and Cunningham Bridgeman. London: Isaac
Pitman and Sons, 1914.

    8vo. pp. xxiv+443: with 63 portraits and other illustrations and
    six facsimile letters; and a complete set of casts at the Savoy
    (pp. 425-435). The collaboration between Mr. Cellier and Mr.
    Bridgeman (pp. 3-163) was ended by the former's death, January
    5, 1914. The rest of the book (pp. 164-422) was done by Mr.
    Bridgeman.

THE SAVOY OPERA AND THE SAVOYARDS. By Percy Fitzgerald, M.A., F.S.A.;
with six illustrations. London: Chatto and Windus, 1894.

    8vo. pp. xvi, 248. Most of the illustrations are pen and ink
    drawings.

GILBERT AND SULLIVAN OPERA: a history and a comment. By H. M. Walbrook:
with a foreword by Sir Henry Wood. London: F. V. White and Co., Ltd.,
1920.

    8vo. pp. 155+[3]+4 plates, including two drawings by H. M.
    Bateman and a reproduction of the Sullivan Memorial in the
    Victoria Embankment Gardens; with 42 pen and ink sketches in the
    text: Short bibliography (p. 155).

GILBERT AND SULLIVAN JOTTINGS. By Shelford Walsh [Harrogate?] coach to
the principal operatic societies in the United Kingdom [1903].

    16 mo.: pp. 24+cover. Contains little stories about the operas.
    Price 4d.

SAVOYARDS ON TOUR: a description of the various companies on the road.
_Sketch_, June 13, 1894.

SAVOYARD DINNER, given by the O.P. Club in the Hotel Cecil, December 30,
1906.

    Gilbert's historical speech on this occasion was printed
    verbatim in the _Daily Telegraph_, December 31, 1906.


BARRINGTON.

RUTLAND BARRINGTON: a record of thirty-five years' experience on the
English stage. By Himself; with a preface by Sir William S. Gilbert,
London: Grant Richards, 1908.

    8vo. pp. 270+31 illustrations and coloured portrait on the
    cover. Printed at Plymouth. Dedicated to "My good friend, Mrs.
    D'Oyly Carte." The Savoy is dealt with pp. 25-86.

MORE RUTLAND BARRINGTON. By Himself. London: Grant Richards, 1911.

    8vo. pp. 233+[1]+15 illustrations, including one of H. A. Lytton
    as the Pirate King. Printed in Edinburgh.


GROSSMITH.

A SOCIETY CLOWN: reminiscences. By George Grossmith. Bristol: J. W.
Arrowsmith, 1888.

    8vo. pp. iv+182. Forming vol. 31 of Arrowsmith's Bristol
    Library. Chapter on Gilbert and Sullivan pp. 91-125. In "Piano
    and I" (1910), he describes (pp. 11-18) why he left the Savoy.
    See also "The Diary of Nobody" (1892).


LYTTON.

MEMORIES OF A MERRYMAN. By H. A. Lytton. _Graphic_, Nov. 19, 26; Dec. 3,
10, 17, 1921.

This consists of some extracts from the present volume.




LONDON PRODUCTIONS OF THE SAVOY OPERAS.

      Opera.        Theatre.    Produced.       Withdrawn.    Per.

    Trial by Jury   Royalty   Mar. 25, 1875   Dec. 18, 1875   --

    The Sorcerer    Opera     Nov. 17, 1877   May 22, 1878    175
                    Comique
      "             Savoy     Oct. 11, 1884   Mar. 12, 1885   150
      "               "       Sep. 22, 1898   Dec. 31, 1898   102

    H.M.S.          Opera

    Pinafore        Comique   May 25, 1878    Feb. 20, 1880}
      "               "       Dec. 16, 1879   Mar. 20, 1880}  700
      "             Savoy     Nov. 12, 1887   Mar. 10, 1888   120
      "               "       June 6, 1889    Nov. 25, 1889   174
      "               "       July 14, 1908   Repertory        61
                                                Season
    The Pirates     Opera     Apl. 3, 1880    Apl. 2, 1881    363
    of Penzance     Comique
      "             Savoy     Mar. 17, 1888   June 6, 1888     80
      "               "       June 30, 1900   Nov. 3, 1900    127
      "               "       Dec. 1, 1909    Repertory        43
                                                Season
    Patience        Opera     Apl. 23, 1881   Oct. 8, 1881    170
                    Comique
      "             Savoy     Oct. 10, 1881   Nov. 22, 1882   448
      "               "       Nov. 7, 1900    Apl. 20, 1901   150
      "               "       Apl. 4, 1907    Repertory        51
                                                Season
    Iolanthe        Savoy     Nov. 25, 1882   Jan. 1, 1884    398
      "               "       Dec. 7, 1901    Mar. 29, 1902   113
      "               "       June 11, 1907   Repertory        42
                                                Season
      "               "       Oct. 19, 1908       "            38

    Princess Ida   Savoy      Jan. 5, 1884    Oct. 9, 1884    246

    The Mikado       "        Mar. 14, 1885   Jan. 19. 1887   672
      "              "        Jan. 7, 1888    Sept. 29, 1888  116
      "              "        Nov. 6, 1895    Mar. 4, 1896    127
      "              "        July 11, 1896   Feb. 17, 1897   226
      "              "        Apl. 28, 1908   Repertory       142
                                                Season
    Ruddigore      Savoy      Jan. 22, 1887   Nov. 5, 1887    288

    The Yeoman
    of the
    Guard          Savoy      Oct. 3, 1888    Nov. 30, 1889   423
      "              "        May 5, 1897     Nov. 20, 1897   186
      "              "        Dec. 8, 1906    Repertory        90
                                                Season
      "              "        Mar. 1, 1909        "            28

    The            Savoy      Dec. 7, 1889    June 20, 1891   554
    Gondoliers
      "              "        Mar. 22, 1898   May 21, 1898     62
      "              "        July 18, 1898   Sep. 17, 1898     63
      "              "        Jan. 22, 1907   Repertory        76
                                                Season
      "              "        Jan. 18, 1909       "            22




    PRINTED AT
    RIVERSIDE PRINTING WORKS
    32-36, FLEET LANE,
    LONDON, E.C.4




Transcriber's Notes

Obvious punctuation errors repaired.

Hyphen removed: "bull[-]dog(s)" (p. 35), "high-water[-]mark" (p. 111),
"school[-]boy" (p. 63), "yester[-]year" (p. 139).

Hyphen added: "Mount[-]Ararat" (p. 156).

The following words appear both with and without hyphens and have not
been changed: "light[-]hearted", "Merry[-]man", "Mount-Ararat" /
"Mountararat", "re[-]appear(s)".

P. 15: "waistcoast" changed to "waistcoat" (my striped waistcoat and
green apron).

P. 45: "caste" changed to "cast" (When George Grossmith returned to the
cast).

P. 53: "minature" changed to "miniature" (experiments on a miniature
stage).

P. 73: "once" changed to "one" (and in one case actually before).

P. 73, 108: "occured" changed to "occurred" (there occurred an incident,
thought had occurred to me).

P. 82: "Guiseppi" changed to "Guiseppe".

P. 97 "arn't" changed to "aren't" (I'm an ugly blighter, aren't I?).

P. 110: "CHAPTER" removed from title for consistency.

P. 123: "disfigurnig" changed to "disfiguring" (hit the mark without
disfiguring it).

P. 125: "playright" changed to "playwright" (master mind as a
playwright).

P. 142: "confesess" changed to "confesses" (She confesses that).

P. 149: "affection" changed to "affectation" (my mediævalism's
affectation).

P. 151: "Janes" changed to "Jane" (Lady Jane assures him).

P. 170: "hers" changed to "her" (his intentions towards her are
honourable).

P. 174: "to to" changed to "to" (go to fetch the prisoner).

P. 179: "Plazo-Toro" changed to "Plaza-Toro".

P. 180: "propropriety" changed to "propriety" (political or social
propriety).

P. 189: "Sullvian" changed to "Sullivan".

P. 190: "Nov. 17, 1877" restored from the context.





End of Project Gutenberg's The Secrets of a Savoyard, by Henry A. Lytton