ON 19th January 1909 I thus had the novel sensation of appearing in a new part in a Gilbert and Sullivan opera, repeating on this occasion an experience which I had for the first time in 1877, although, of course, on this later date the opera was a familiar one instead of a novelty.

In glancing through some of the criticisms of this revival, I am much struck with the marvellous insight displayed by some of the writers, deepening an impression already created in my mind, by the perusal of notices of other plays and performers, which have frequently excited in me a curious kind of wonder as to whether the said performers, myself included, really intended to produce certain effects and impressions ascribed to them, and if they were genuinely possessed of the subtlety with which they are credited.

Thus one of them pronounces on my performance as follows:– "To see him, with the courtly grace of an archbishop, solemnly wink at his own astuteness is an object lesson to the younger generation," a remark which pleases me immensely, and which I accept as a great compliment to the unconscious – or might one say subconscious – humour developed by my artistic temperament.

By the way, the so-called artistic temperament, which is so frequently alluded to in conversation and literature, on the one hand accounting for the successful portrayal of a part, and possibly the next moment, on the other hand, and in discussing the same artist, as accounting for certain pronounced eccentricities of conduct, has always appealed to me as being a very real attribute, and it was a severe shock to my conviction when discussing the subject with an eminent surgeon, at a dinner-party lately, to find him denying in toto the bare possibility of the existence of such a thing.

Even when I ventured to suggest that the delight with which so many of his colleagues undertake operations probably proceeded from their possession of this very temperament I could not convince him, and it was only when I pointed out that if the artistic world were robbed of this well-recognised excuse for its many shortcomings and brilliant achievements it would be imperative to substitute another, that he finally admitted that there might be something in it after all.

This was extremely gratifying, as I could not but feel guilty of a certain presumption in arguing with an eminent wielder of the merciful knife, whose very qualification for his eminence presupposed an intimacy amounting to certitude of all possible contents of the human frame. It is, however, only the knife of inquisitiveness which can dissect a soul, and the artistic temperament, being equally impalpable, might prove equally difficult of location.

One aspect of the "artistic temperament" is its sublime confidence in its ability to tackle successfully any and every job to which the attention of the possessor may be attracted, not invariably with conspicuous success; this was brought rather vividly to my observation on the occasion of a certain football match (under the title "Church v. Stage") which was organised for the Daily Mirror Fund for providing Christmas puddings for poor children, and which took place on the historic ground of Stamford Bridge, where we expect to witness the real article.

It was an undoubted success from the point of view of the Church and the puddings – which sounds rather an odd combination, "plums" we have heard of – but the actors could hardly have been said to shine at the game, not being as light as the component part of suet to the plums should have been.

George Alexander, having had "greatness thrust upon him" in being deputed to "kick off," seemed hardly to realise what he had to kick, and gazed excitedly at the referee, who however appeared unmoved – I presume from force of habit.

I myself had the vaguest idea of my duties as a "linesman," beyond careering up and down the ground, and "wig-wagging" when the ball went into touch; but with a laudable desire to prove my efficiency I twice, nervously but firmly, "foot-faulted" a stalwart cleric named Wilson, who took exception to my remonstrance in a comedian-like manner, which afforded the onlookers much amusement. Basil Foster was easily the best player on the stage side, and even he reminisced, at the end of the match – "Pudding never gave me such a pain before!"

H. V. Farnfield scored five of the seven goals for the Church, and it seemed to me that, had he given his mind and feet to the game seriously, he might have scored fifty, but there was no doubt that, "for this occasion only," the Church took matters easily, and, in fact, indulged in a levity not usually associated with their profession.

George Robey was the captain of the stage side, and having heard flattering reports of his skill I was much interested in the chance afforded of its manifestation, but, greatly to my disappointment, his mission appeared to be the doubtless excellent one of setting the Church a lesson in unselfishness, his great object, on gaining possession of the ball, being to rid himself of it as quickly as possible. I quote this match principally with the view of supporting my contention that the artistic temperament does exist, and that in the case of the Rev. H. V. Farnfield it took the form of a forbearance to a painstaking and overweighted adversary which was highly meritorious. That the members of the stage team were a painstaking lot was evidenced by three of their number retiring "hurt," and that "virtue is its own reward" was once more exemplified by the eventual carrying off the field of the forbearing cleric!

I was not altogether pleased with my performance, for the first time, of Don Alhambra, but this feeling of disappointment wore off with succeeding representations and I was finally able to compliment one of the critics on his discernment in stating that it was "one of my best efforts," a dictum with which I thoroughly agree, as indeed, owing to my own artistic temperament, I do with all their pronouncements.

As a slight excuse for awarding myself a certain amount of praise over this delineation, in spite of the part being, in my estimation, one of the most "grateful" I have ever played, I may mention that one of my comrades in the theatre, not too prone to giving encouragement, volunteered the remark that it was "a revelation."

I have spoken of the songs in the part of Don Alhambra, one of which is frequently quoted to this day, with the refrain of "No possible doubt whatever," and which was always tremendously popular, but his song in Act 2, "There lived a King, as I've been told," gave me more pleasure in singing than almost any song I can remember, not only for the delightful humour of the words, but also for the joyous swing of Sullivan's setting, which to me seems, if possible, fuller of humour than many of the others.

Cheered in this way by the approbation of (nearly) all concerned, I set to work seriously, with a light heart (I am not Irish), to study and rehearse yet another new part, that of Wilfrid Shadbolt, the Jailer, in The Yeomen of the Guard, which was, alas! to be really the last opera which Mrs Carte intended to present.

This part, owing possibly to the underlying streak of "grimness" it possesses, did not appeal to me quite so strongly as did the lighter vein of Don Alhambra, but in spite of that I was more than pleased at the opportunity it afforded me of being able to say, for the first time, that I had played in every one of the Gilbert and Sullivan series.

The words "study the part" are used advisedly in this particular instance, as, owing to the language of the period in which the plot was placed being adopted by Gilbert (as a matter of course), I found my usual method of allowing the words to "come to me" at rehearsal, only moderately effective.

I practised the method, however, to a certain extent, and with the inevitable result of amusing comments from Gilbert, who gravely announced one day that he had "a presentiment" that I should know my part at the next rehearsal. The presentiment did not prove a correct one, however, and when, after the dress rehearsal, he told me he had "another" I was rather alarmed, until, on my asking him what it was this time, he very kindly said that it was that I should play the part well.

During the rehearsals for the opera, Workman and myself had to apply for an "afternoon off," in order to go down to Richmond, to appear at the annual matinée for the local hospital, and on the way down it occurred to us, as a bright idea, that we might arrange a little unrehearsed effect by way of an "extra turn."

We carried this out by having his number on the programme displayed on one side of the stage at the same time as was mine on the other, then making a simultaneous entrance from opposite sides, and having a heated discussion as to who should recite first. The audience appeared to enjoy it all immensely, and we felt rather pleased at having thought of it, but a few days later my wife asked me," What were you and Workman doing together at that Richmond matinée?" I explained, and she enjoyed the joke, but informed me that some friends of ours, who had been present, had told her that "Mr Barrington and Mr Workman came on together, and did something that seemed to please themselves very much!"

In The Yeomen of the Guard I found myself no longer "alone on the raft" as the sole representative of the original band of Savoyards. My old colleague, Richard Temple, the original Sir Marmaduke in The Sorcerer, Deadeye in Pinafore, the Mikado, and other parts, emerging from his retirement to undertake his original part of Sergeant Merrill, to the advantage of the general representation.

The constant strain of nightly work combined with daily rehearsals had by this time had their due effect in tiring the company, and, in consequence, understudies were much in request, though I am happy to say that mine was not requisitioned once during the entire season of revivals.

I think it speaks rather well for my "artistic temperament," and also for theirs, that I have been able to maintain the most friendly relations with the many good men who have understudied me at different times and, in one or two cases, for some years, without a single opportunity of making a wished-for appearance in the part, for, although one must acquit understudies of a baleful desire for one's indisposition, it must be a wearisome business to hold that position to an artist who is never absent for any reason.

Workman and Herbert were absentees on account of throat troubles, and even Lytton found the dancing in Gondoliers too much for him one night, experiencing something closely resembling a fainting fit in the middle of the chachucha, and being greeted with loud applause on reappearing when the encore had been taken without him.

The weather during the first week of The Yeomen was simply dreadful, and all the theatres suffered, both in the business and the loss of artists. Workman had to give up after the second night, and the chorus was somewhat attenuated in numbers if not in figures. The dismal state of the weather was not the only factor in the debâcle, as it was a general consensus of opinion that the opera, although so great a favourite with audience and artists, was a depressing one to play on successive nights, and the relief when a change came, in the ordinary repertoire way, was undoubted.

I myself shared in the feeling of depression which lasted during the entire run of four weeks, and culminated on the last evening with all the girls crying at the end of the play, despite a most appreciative audience, a great call for all concerned, general enthusiasm, and a crowd of between two and three hundred demonstrative admirers gathered about the stage door to greet the departure of their popular favourites. I do not remember ever feeling more embarrassed than I was on this occasion. It was impossible to ascend the steps leading to the street except with the exercise of some gentle pressure, and I was cheered, and handshaken, and demonstratively kissed until I reached my cab, the same treatment being impartially bestowed on several other members of the company.

It was undoubtedly a great night, and a most delightful wind-up to a series of revivals, which I can only hope were as interesting to the audiences as they were to me personally. I created a record in not missing one performance throughout, a pleasant recollection, for which, however, I naturally do not wish to claim any credit, these things not being in our own hands.

As I left the scene of so many delightful evenings, and so many pleasant personal successes, my thoughts involuntarily went back to the time when the alert little figure of my old friend and manager, D'Oyly Carte, was constantly in evidence; and mingled with the regret that he should not have been able to take part in a scene such as his kindly disposition would have revelled in was the added sorrow that Mrs D'Oyly Carte had been prevented by illness from participating in what I think one might term a historic farewell. I am truly grateful to her for the opportunity afforded me of not only playing some of my old and favourite parts, but also for the chance of appearing in the two new ones which for me completed the cycle; and, although I have not the least doubt that the future will see further revivals of these operas, it is only human to wonder if they can possibly take place under the same management, and whether a kind Fate may have it in store for me to make a reappearance in some or any of them. It does not seem so very great a stretch of imagination to fancy that every stick and stone of the Savoy Theatre is so thoroughly impregnated with the Gilbert and Sullivan atmosphere as to render the management of it, for the reproduction of these operas, a comparatively easy task, nor, in saying this, will anyone for a moment imagine that any slight is intended on the well-known and frequently evidenced business capacity of Mrs Carte, but, failing her, I can almost imagine the ghosts of the past taking matters into their own hands, and giving performances for all to see who have the courage to revisit the "pale glimpses of the moon" on certain nights in "the wee sma' hours ayont the twal".

That anyone venturing on such an excursion would be received with the courtesy for which the Savoy is noted would be guaranteed by the presence, at all hours of the night, of my old friend, Kelly, of the fire brigade, who has kept watch and ward over the ghosts of the operas ever since the old days of the Opera Comique.

Page modified 22 January 2008