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.
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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 dramatist'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.
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 the 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 degree of 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 school-boy 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
today, 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.
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
her's 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,
not-withstanding 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.