I REMEMBER being very strongly impressed with the music of Iolanthe at the first band rehearsal for this revival, but at the same time could not rid myself of the feeling that the opera as a whole was far from being one of the strongest of the series.

My own particular share in it being rather unimportant may unconsciously have suggested this idea, Lord Tolloller being practically a kind of leader of the chorus, his only chance of distinction coming with the song in Act 2 – "In Good King George's Glorious Days"; his twin part, Mount Ararat, not being very much more prominent, but then he was a tenor, whereas I was a comedian, or so considered myself, and rather wasted on a "walking gentleman" type of part. [Barrington has confused Tolloller and Mountarat. — Ed.]

My conviction as to its slightness was borne out to the extent of our commencing rehearsals for the Pirates of Penzance very shortly after its production.

In my very natural wish to get a little more out of the part than I formerly had, it occurred to me to use a different make-up and manner, so I ventured, "for this occasion only," to suggest to Gilbert that I should represent him as a kind of brainless person with reddish hair – parted in the centre and smoothed down on either side; this suggestion, being made to Gilbert by letter, brought me one of his characteristic replies to add to my archives, conveying his consent subject to the wig not being "scarlet" and the absence of brain not "too conspicuous." I naturally modified both items – if one may speak of modifying the absence of a thing – and the result undoubtedly contributed a little something of prominence, to judge from one criticism, which alluded to my performance as "richly Barringtonian, possessing all the bouquet of fine old fruity port!"

It was in noticing this opera that another journal alluded to me as "a National Institution," and I am still in doubt whether this referred to myself or the species of invertebrate nobleman I was endeavouring to depict; but both references are distinct compliments, as to be hailed as an institution of a national character must be pleasing to any right-minded Englishman, while the "bouquet" indicated by the former writer can only be ascribed to my subtle sense of delineation, port being a beverage denied me, and also one for which I have no particular desire.

In criticising Pinafore a very well-known journalist refers to the "delicious humour of the recitatives," and regrets that in his later operas Sullivan should have "given up this source of innocent merriment." I fancy he must have also had The Sorcerer in his mind, that opera certainly containing more examples of this delightful humour on Sullivan's part than Pinafore, and really, in view of the laughter invariably excited by these trifling burlesques of the seriousness of grand opera, the question of their omission is a difficult one to solve. A simple explanation may be that Gilbert discontinued writing lines which could only be dealt with in that manner, but the fact remains they were dispensed with, and with them a form of humour always effective.

Would-be imitators of the two great collaborators have never ventured upon the recitative, as far as my memory serves me, which may have had as much to do with their want of success as the reason put forward by another eminent critic – namely, that "Gilbert and Sullivan seem to have occupied the whole territory of satirical Comic Opera."

I confess to a certain doubt as to the application of the term "satirical" to these operas, with the exception perhaps of Patience, which was deliberately aimed at the craze for æstheticism so much in vogue at the time of its production.

There is no doubt that Gilbert and Sullivan set a standard which has proved extremely difficult of attainment by their successors in the form of light entertainment, but I have always felt it a little hard that a comparison of methods and skill when dealing with later aspirants should have been instituted at all. Is it an impossibility to judge an author or composer on his own merits without endeavouring to find traces of an indebtedness to this distinguished couple? Surely not – and yet for many years after the last Gilbert and Sullivan opera was produced there seemed to obtain a "vogue of comparison," as it were, among the critics which must have hampered the aspirants as much as it annoyed them – in truth this habit has not yet become entirely extinct, especially among the public, who will still speak of a certain piece as being "the nearest they have seen" to Gilbert and Sullivan.

In fairness to these critics it should be admitted that, in many cases, there has been strong evidence of an effort to work on the same lines, but without the brilliant turns and twists of humour in the celebrated prototypes.

There was a great discussion as to whether the allusion to Captain Shaw in the Fairy Queen's song should be allowed to stand, in view of the death of the gallant chief of the fire brigade since the opera was last seen. It was generally felt that to alter it in any way would only make it more noticeable, and it therefore remained as written, but it struck a note of pathos which was quite evident.

I think the Lord Chancellor quite the best performance given by Workman in all the series. The humour of the part was brought out with a somewhat lighter touch than he used in some of his other parts, with conspicuous success in the delightful burlesque of legal arguments with which the part abounds, for it is an undoubted truth that, to properly declaim Gilbert's lines, the comedian must never betray his consciousness of the fact that they are humorous, a trap that even my dear old friend and colleague George Grossmith was not invariably able to avoid.

An admirable foil to this lighter touch was provided by Workman in the pathetic little scene at the close of Act 2, where Iolanthe appeals to him for her son, in which he was of great assistance to Jessie Rose by his sympathetic attitude in listening, and final encouragement. One journal in referring to his performance in very laudatory terms concludes with the following remark:– "He made even the orchestra laugh; no higher tribute to his genius could be imagined!"

This is a poor compliment, with a sinister double edge to it, for it implies a distinct lack of sense of humour on the part of the orchestra, by the use of the word "even," and, as every artist on the stage well knows, the slightest deviation from the usual order of events or happenings in a play is sufficient to excite the risibility of the estimable people whose monotonous fate it is to have to listen nightly to the same people, making the same remarks, and exploiting the same humorous "business." The same writer felt himself compelled to fall foul of my performance on the occasion, by most sympathetically regretting that "we cannot chronicle an artistic success as well as a personal triumph for Mr Rutland Barrington; he did not fill the part so well as other members of the same company has filled it" (the word "has" is his, not mine), "he cannot now – if he ever could – sing, 'When Britain really ruled the Waves' – and worse – he forgot his part."

I sincerely hope that my allusion to this criticism will not be looked upon as an effort to "get a bit of my own back," for it is not so intended, as I should be among the first to recognise the enormity of the actor sitting in judgment on the critic; it simply arises from a desire to express my regret at having so offended his sense of harmony, and to offer him my hearty congratulations on the evident fact that he did not hear me "sing" that song in the original production, when the effect on his possibly oversensitive ear might have proved fatal.

Iolanthe was followed by the Pirates of Penzance, which met with a better reception, not only from the artistic point of view, but the financial as well. Harry Lytton elaborated the melodramatic side of the character of the Pirate King to an extent that pleased Gilbert immensely at rehearsals, and the audiences even more at nights. He wore what are commonly known as "lifts" inside his jack-boots to give him a little extra height and dignity, and in taking his enormous strides about the stage they imparted to him a kind of flat-footed walk that was most effective and funny, especially in the scene between the King, Ruth and Frederic in Act 2, which I used to watch almost nightly, for the sake of the hearty laughs it gave me. I strongly advised him, when he later on joined the touring company as principal comedian, to alternate the part of the King with the Major General, but I believe it was not found possible.

Many journals alluded to this opera as being in all probability the last of the series, chiefly owing to the fact that Mrs Carte was suffering very much in health, but they reckoned without a full appreciation of her qualities as a fighter, and, in spite of several enforced absences of days, and even weeks, she continued to hold the reins of management until the end of March 1909.

About the same time Rumour was busy –and, possibly, presumably owing to the same cause – with the name of Workman as the possible successor in management at the Savoy, with the intention of carrying on the series of revivals. It is now a matter of history that he was the next tenant of the theatre, but that he discarded (if he ever entertained) the idea of exploiting further Gilbert and Sullivan operas in favour of a work by two unknown collaborators, with, I fear, disastrous consequences. It was not my fate to see either The Mountaineers or the Two Merry Monarchs, both of which operas I heard spoken of as possessing "a certain amount of good material, but requiring pulling together by a master hand," but I did see the intermediate production, which was Gilbert's Wicked World transmogrified into an opera.

With pleasant memories of Mr and Mrs Kendal in two of the most important parts at the Haymarket, when it was a comedy, I went to see the opera, fully anticipating a most delightful evening, but I was doomed to disappointment. In the first place, Workmen could not efface my memories of Buckstone, with his oleaginous humour, in the part of the old servitor, and, in addition, I found both ear and eye wearied by the unavoidable lack of men's voices and presence in the songs, concerted numbers and choruses.

The present tendency is, I know, to crowd the stage with pretty girls in pretty costumes, and keep mere men somewhat in the background, but this particular opera was, to my mind, a distinct intimation that he must be kept so far back as to be totally invisible, and that as he is the natural support of the softer sex in real life, so it is equally important that he should support her (I have my doubts about the grammar of this sentence, but did not presume to speak of the fair sex as "it") in her stage existence.

I was also to a great extent disappointed in the music, which I do not for a moment doubt or dispute was as scholarly as any virtuoso could desire, but as we cannot all be virtuosi I found myself, in common with others of the audience, I believe, longing for that "tuney" something which we felt the composer could give us "an he would." If the truth were known, I fancy he was also hampered by the lack of male voices, for I noticed that there were some of the dainty-looking lady choristers who appeared to be producing notes "from their sandals,"and I presumed them to be, rightly or wrongly, the missing tenors and basses.

I wonder what Sullivan would have done in such a case – whether he would have permitted the author to include men in his scheme or perhaps have secured some good-looking beardless youths and disguised them as girls, which might easily be done by decimating the ranks of the O.U.D.C. and Cambridge A.D.C.

It has often occurred to me that a vast increase of enjoyment would accrue to the parents – the male ones certainly – who take their little ones to the pantomimes if the Prince who invariably woos and wins the heroine were personated by a good-looking youth instead of the doubtless talented and beautiful young women known as "Principal Boys," and the figures of whom, as a rule, offer a very obvious surmise as to their sex.

The origin of this bouleversement of nature appears to be lost in the mists of antiquity, but in these days of reform it seems a pity that some enterprising manager does not try the effect of a change, the spectacle of two girls indulging in endearments being entirely opposed to all manly ideas as to the fitness of things, and as unwelcome as the fitness of some of the things worn by its exponents.

Page modified 22 January 2008