March 28, 1885.]

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

145


BEFORE THE CURTAIN.

Rarely, if ever, have Composer and Author produced piece after
piece under conditions so favourable to success as have Messrs.
Gilbert and Sullivan at the Savoy. They are their own Managers,

the theatre is
3 practically theirs,
the Members of
the Company,
from the soprano
and tenor down
to the latest
novice in the
chorus, or among
the “ extras,” de-
pend mainly, if
not entirely, upon
the Composer and
Author for their
engagements.
This Beaumont
and Fletcher of
Eccentric Opera
can order rehear-
sals when they
choose, can com-
mand the scene-
painters and pro-
perty-men, and,
what is much
more to the point,
he obeyed. They
have jointly and
separately the
authority of the
Centurion; the

r8^

The Two Yery Fanny Japs at the Savoy.

Author is the autocrat of the acting and the Savoy stage generally;
the Composer is the autocrat of the music, vocal, and instrumental.

At other theatres an Author may try to assume the autocrat, hut,
unless he can be absolutely independent, and able to take his piece out
of the theatre without damaging his chance of earning a livelihood,
the attempt is only a ridiculous and palpable failure. True that
times have changed, considerably for the better, since Albert Smith
said that “there was only one person in the theatre lower than the
call-boy, and that was the Author,” yet, in spite of much improve-
ment, a young Dramatist 'will soon sympathise with the spirit of
Albert Smith’s observation; and, ordinarily, the most experienced
Playwright, if not, as I have said, absolutely independent, has, in
almost every instance, to accommodate himself to the exigencies
ot the theatre, and to the tempers of the Actors. From the moment
he has a piece in rehearsal, there is no peace for him on the Stage,
hie is promised what he will never obtain; he has to accept just what he
can get; he has to humour the ideas of others and sacrifice his own ;
he has. to make the best of unintentional mistakes and deliberately
intentional alterations ; he has to accede to the Manager’s date for
producing the piece, and its first night of public performance is, in
the majority of cases, really and truly only a dressed rehearsal, and,
111 some cases, it is the first real rehearsal the piece has had.

Now nothing of this sort ought to take place at the Savoy. There
Messrs. Gilbert and Sullivan have only themselves to please, only
themselves and their piece to consider; they are monarchs of all they
°aI°yj—I should say “ survey,”—they are masters of the situation,
and if they allow any piece of theirs to be produced in a hurry, with
incomplete appointments, with inappropriate scenery, faulty dresses,
or after insufficient rehearsal, on their own heads be it and on no one
else s. The Actor-singers are only intelligent puppets in their
Showmen’s hands, and the more faithfully they carry out the
instruction given them by their masters, the greater their individual
a t chance of success.

It delights me to see the precision of the action on the Stage of
the Savoy, the result of a carefully thought-out plan and well-
regulated drill. The principals have been judiciously selected for
the work, and they are suited by the two clever fellow-workers who,
having taken their measure to a nicety, give them just what they
can ao, and no more; and who insist on their original conceptions
being executed exactly according to their ideas. The result is
that the ensemble is about the most effective thing in London,—or
in Fans for that matter,—because the individuality of the Actor-
wuger is not destroyed, but is judiciously made use of, and worked
A^hable material for the character he has to represent.

U . •AWe advantages and means to boot, a first night of anew
ccentric Opera at the Savoy should be judged by a far higher
anuard than a premiere elsewhere ; less leniency should be shown
0TLA.r-711^ngs’ wUch may be explained, but rarely excused.

The ■‘Hikado promises to be all that its successful predecessors have

been, though the first performance, which would have been good enough
anywhere else, was not quite up to the Savoy mark. It broke upon
many of us there, as quite a revelation, that our Georoe Grossmith’s
real humour had hitherto been less in his face and voice than in his
legs. Throughout the First Act his legs were invisible, and the
audience felt that something was wanting; they didn’t know exactly
what it was, but their favourite was not being funny. He didn’t
even look funny. He had a good song; he got flustered in the words;
was nervous ; but all this could have been forgiven him if he had
only been funny,—just once. But no, the Act went on, and all
Mr. Grossmith’s admirers were what Jeames called “ non-plushed.”
Suddenly, in the Second Act, he gave a kick-up, and showed a. pair of
white-stocking’d legs under the Japanese dress. It was an inspira-
tion. Forthwith, the house felt a strong sense of relief,—it had
got what it wanted, it had found out accidentally what it had really
missed, and at the first glimpse of George Grossmith’s legs there
arose a shout of long pent-up laughter. George took the hint; he,
too, had found out where the fault lay, and now he was so pleased
at the discovery that he couldn’t give them too much of a good
thing. Richard, I mean George, was himself again. There was
life in the old dog yet. So at it he went, up he kicked and twisted,
like the celebrated Old Joe, in the nigger song, who performed the
difficult feat of “kicking up behind and before,” and the Audience
shouted, applauded, encored, and actually joined in the action,
unconsciously kicking up their own legs in their irrepressible delight,
much after the manner of a less aristocratic and well-bred audience,
which gives vent to its feelings by chorusing a popular tune sung
by one of their favourites.

From that time to the end of the piece there wasn’t a dull minute,
George Grossmith was in the vein, he had kicked himself into the
humour of the situation, and though, up till then, Messrs. Temple
and Barrington had scored any amount to G. G.’s duck’s-egg, yet
now it was his innings, and he beat them all to nothing, carrying out
his bat, or his kick, in triumph.

Mr. Barrington, who was better made up as a Japanese than
anyone of the company, except Mr. Japanese Temple, who was very
droll, and Miss Jessie Bond, plays a part in which he represents
several Japanese officials rolled into one. History repeats itself, and
this particular history probably Mr. Gilbert never read or heard of;
but a similar character to that played by Mr. Barrington was
anticipated years ago by Planche in The Sleeping Beauty, when he
wrote Lord Factotum, who thus describes himself:—

“ I Bball go crazy. Ye who sigh for place,

Behold and profit by my piteous case.

As Lord High Chamberlain, I Blumber never;

Ab Lord High Steward, in a stew I’m ever;

As Lord High Constable, I watch all day;

As Lord High Treasurer, I’ve the deuce to pay.

Ab Great Grand Cup-bearer, I’m handled queerly;

As Great Grand Carver, I’m cut up severely.

Iu other States, the honours are divided,

But here, they ’re one and all to me confided.”

And, hy the way, a propos of “anticipation,” in these days of
irreverence ” towards such great works as Junius, which has had
a short and melancholy existence—an irreverence which much
distresses the tender artistic heart of our poor dear sympathetic
friend the Reverend Clemens Duns Scotus—it is indeed sad to find
that the Jingoish insular bombastic sentiment about being“‘tan Eng-

A Gee-Gee with legs, in anall-legger-o I A “ G. G.” without any legs to speak
movement and daring Equestrian I of, Act I., at the Savoy.

Act I., at the Gaiety.

lishman,” which Mr. ~W. S. Gilbert so happily satirised in Pinafore,
was emphasised—perhaps originated—by William Shajcspeare, in
his Richard the Second, when in Act I., Scene fii. he makes Boling-
broke exclaim:—

VOL. LXXXVm.

o