Gilbert and Sullivan.

"Then I can hum a fugue, of which I've heard the music's din afore, and whistle all the airs from that infernal nonsense, Pinafore." The Pirates of Penzance.

I played in comparatively few amateur theatrical performances—half a dozen, at the outside. I played John Chodd, jun., in Society, at the old Gallery of Illustration, in 1868; and, singularly enough, one of my critics was Mr. W. S. Gilbert, who, under the heading of "The Theatrical Lounger," in The Illustrated Times, said: "Mr. Grossmith has comic powers of no mean order; and his idea of John Chodd, carefully modelled on Mr. Clarke, had, nevertheless, an amusing originality of its own." The after-piece was a burlesque on No Thoroughfare, written by my father, in which I danced and sang more than I acted. This performance was repeated once.

I then essayed the part of Paul Pry, in Poole's comedy of that name, at the Gallery of Illustration, in 1870, and played in the afternoon a burlesque of which I was part author. These performances went off very well, and we were very much complimented (as all amateurs are), and declared our attempts to have eclipsed our neighbours (as all amateurs do). But such a thought as going on the stage never entered my head for a moment; I refused several offers, including a good one from Mr. E. P. Hingston to appear in the comic opera La Branche Cassee, at the Opera Comique, the very theatre at which I was destined to make my debut.

After entertaining all over the country for seven years, I made a rather important discovery; viz., that my income was as rapidly _de_creasing each year as my family and household expenses were _in_creasing. I disliked being away so long from London; for there is nothing so valuable to any public singer or actor as the constant appearance of his name in the entertainments or theatrical columns of the metropolitan daily papers.

I had begun my autumn and winter tour with my father for 1877-8, when, in the November of 1877, I received the following letter:

         "Beefsteak Club,
            "King William Street, W.C.
              "Tuesday Night.

"Dear Mr. Grossmith,—Are you inclined to go on the stage for a time? There is a part in the new piece I am doing with Gilbert which I think you would play admirably. I can't find a good man for it. Let me have a line, or come to 9 Albert Mansions to-morrow after 4, or Thursday before 2.30.

            "Yours sincerely,
              "ARTHUR SULLIVAN."

The great compliment which I considered the letter conveyed filled me with more delight than I ever could express. I think I read the letter over twenty times. I was not thinking of the offer of the engagement, for I was immediately under the impression that I should decline it. My father never had a good opinion of my amateur acting, and I valued his judgment so highly that his opinion was in a great measure shared by me.

Arthur Sullivan had only heard me sing once, after a dinner party, and it was evident, from his letter, I had created some sound impression; hence my extreme delight at his offer. I remember, after the said party, Sir Arthur (he was then Mr.) kindly asked me back to his rooms, with a few other friends, including Alfred Cellier, the composer, and Arthur Cecil, to whom I was (and still am) much indebted for the most valuable hints he had from time to time given me respecting the style of sketch and song suitable for "smart" drawing-room work, and who had taken great interest in me. At Sullivan's, that evening, we all sang, played, and chatted till an early hour in the morning; and I, as a comparatively "new" man, was especially "drawn out."

Following Arthur Sullivan's letter, with its complimentary offer, came a long one from Arthur Cecil (who, it appears, had suggested my name to Sullivan), pointing out the pros and cons, with an additional "summing up" of both, worthy of a judge—and a good judge, too.

Cecil told me afterwards that Sullivan both writing letters at the Beefsteak, when the former said, "I can't find a fellow for this opera."

Arthur Cecil said, "I wonder if Grossmith——"

Before the sentence was completed, Arthur Sullivan said, "The very man!"

I was then communicated with. I am much indebted to these two Arthurs. I reverence the name of Arthur; and if ever I am blessed with another son—— But there! as they say in novels, "I am digressing."

Then came a week of awful anxiety. Should I cancel the provincial engagements which I had already made, and which were, of course, a certainty, in favour of a new venture, which was not? My father said, "Not." He did not think I had voice enough. Arthur Sullivan, however, thought I had. I went to consult him, and he struck the D (fourth line in treble clef, if you please), and said, "Sing it out as loud as you can." I did. Sullivan looked up, with a most humorous expression on his face—even his eye-glass seemed to smile—and he simply said, "Beautiful!" Sullivan then sang, "My name is John Wellington Wells," and said, "You can do that?"

I replied, "Yes; I think I can do that."

"Very well," said Sir Arthur, "if you can do that, you can do the rest."

Then off I went to W. S. Gilbert, at Bolton Gardens, to see what the part itself was like. Mr. Gilbert was very kind, and seemed pleased that I meditated accepting the engagement. [A few months beforehand I had played the Judge, in Trial by Jury, at the Hall in Archer Street, Bayswater, and the rehearsals were conducted by Mr. Gilbert, who himself coached me for the first time.] Gilbert read me the opening speech of J. W. Wells, with reference to the sale, "Penny curses," &c., with which, of course, I was much amused, and said he had not completed the second act yet; but the part of Wells had developed into greater prominence than was at first anticipated. I saw that the part would suit me excellently, but I said to Mr. Gilbert, "For the part of a Magician I should have thought you required a fine man with a fine voice."

I can still see Gilbert's humorous expression as he replied, "No; that is just what we don't want."

I then went to Mr. R. D'Oyly Carte, who had hit upon the idea of comic opera, by English author and composer, and interpreted by English artists, and who formed the Comedy Opera Company Limited, for the purpose of starting the venture at the Opera Comique. I asked Carte if he could give me a day or two to think of it. The request was granted, apparently to oblige me; but I imagined, from his look, that D'Oyly Carte also required a day or two to think of it.

I afterwards learned that the directors of Comedy Opera Company, to a man, were adverse to my engagement. One of them sent the following telegram to Carte: "Whatever you do, don't engage Grossmith." I myself personally was being tossed on the terrible billows of indecision. I had a certain amount of confidence in myself, but thought that if the piece failed—and the Opera Comique had been an unlucky theatre—I should practically be thrown out on my beam ends, having cancelled all my provincial engagements; and they were not many.

I thought, however, that the advertisement of being associated with W. S. Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan would be invaluable; and, in spite of the entreaties of all my friends, I decided to write and accept the engagement. I informed my father of my decision, and he did not hesitate to express his disappointment, not to say disapproval. To my great joy and relief, I received the following letter from Mrs. Howard Paul, whose opinion on all professional matters I esteemed most highly, and who had always given me so much encouragement:

Private.] "17 The Avenue,
                        "Bedford Park,
                           "Turnham Green.

"My dear Brother George,—May I claim the privilege of an old friend, and be impertinent enough to make a suggestion and give my opinion?—which is as follows: First, that, under any circumstances, and at some sacrifice, you do not fail to accept the part of the 'Magician' in Gilbert and Sullivan's new play. It is a splendid part—better than you think, I fancy—and the 'patter song' is great in its way. Make your time suit them, or theirs suit you, if possible. I have sacrificed a week's business engagements. This is only a hint to you. I think, if you will arrange, it will be a new and magnificent introduction for you, and be of very great service afterwards. I'm sure the part will suit you exactly. Don't think me impertinent in writing this; but I want to see your name in the cast. If I have any influence with you, now's the time to prove it. . . . I suppose you know Mr. Barrington and self play in the aforesaid piece. Write me per return, with love to you all, believe me,

                      "Yours affectionately,
                         "ISABELLA HOWARD PAUL."

This was a great comfort to me—in fact, to all of us. I wrote Mrs. Howard Paul that I had decided to take the engagement; and on the 5th November, 1877, she, Barrington and myself, and a few others, celebrated the event in the back garden at Bedford Park with a display of fireworks.

Messrs. Gilbert, Sullivan, and Carte backed up the engagement with me, and the directors, though in the majority, were, happily for me, defeated.

Then came the business part of the matter with D'Oyly Carte, which was amusing. As I had sacrificed my country engagements, I wished Carte to guarantee me a month's salary. That request he acceded to, but not to the amount of salary I required. He was instructed "only to go to a certain amount," which happened to be three guineas a week less than I asked for. The discussion, such it was, was quite pleasant, as, in fact, all my future negotiations with him were destined to be. I have been associated with Mr. D'Oyly Carte for over ten years now, and am pleased to say I have never had anything approaching a disagreeable word with him.

I said to Carte: "Look at the risk I am running. If I fail, I don't believe the Young Men's Christian Associations will ever engage me again, because I have appeared on the stage, and my reputation as comic singer to religious communities will be lost for ever."

Carte said, "Well, I dare say I can make that all right." Then a sudden idea occurred to him. "Come and have some oysters."

I did!! I shall ever regret it! A lunch off oysters and most excellent Steinberg Cabinet infused a liberality into my nature for which I shall never forgive myself. Carte again broached the subject—after lunch—of the salary; and in the end, with a cheerful smile, I waived the extra three guineas a week.

I calculate that, irrespective of all accumulative interest, that lunch cost me, up till now, about ￡1,800.

One dark night in that very November I fulfilled my last provincial institution engagement (at Dudley), and went back to stay the night, or what was left of it, at the Guest Hospital, with Dr. Orwin, my old schoolfellow, with whom I had the pugilistic encounter at the preparatory school on Haverstock Hill. He called me up at five o'clock the next morning, which was, if possible, darker than the night before, and packed me off to London to attend my first rehearsal, which was held in the refreshment saloon (without refreshments) at the Opera Comique.

The course adopted with reference to the Gilbert and Sullivan rehearsals is as follows: The music is always taken first. The principal singers and the ladies and gentlemen of the chorus are seated in a semi-circle on the stage. A cottage piano is in the middle, and we are rehearsed as an ordinary choir would be. Sir Arthur Sullivan usually first composes the difficult choruses, especially the finale to the first act—an elaborate score.

The quartettes and trios arrive next, and the duets and songs last.

I have sometimes only received the tunes of my songs the week before production. The song in the second act of Princess Ida was re-written, and I only got the music two nights before the performance. The difficulty then was, not in learning the new tune, but in _un_learning the old one.

The greatest interest is evinced by us all as the new vocal numbers arrive. Sir Arthur Sullivan will arrive hurriedly, with a batch of MSS. under his arm, and announce the fact that there is something new. He takes his at the piano and plays over the new number. The vocal parts are written in, but no accompaniment.

Mr. Francois Cellier listens and watches; and how he can remember for future rehearsal, as he does, the elaborate accompaniments and symphonies, with the correct harmonies, &c., from simply hearing Sir Arthur play the pieces over a few times, is to me astonishing.

Mr. Gilbert will attend all these musical rehearsals: he takes mental notes of the style of composition, time, rhythm, everything, and goes home and invents his groups and business. For every piece he has small stages constructed—exact models of the Savoy Theatre—with set scenes. The characters are represented by little bricks of various colours, to distinguish chorus from principals, and ladies from gentlemen. Many a time he has shown me some future intended grouping, entrance, or general effect; and I must say it has been most interesting. No expense is spared to get the requisite accuracy; and I believe the little model of a ship, for the recent revival of H.M.S. Pinafore, cost ￡60.

It is well known that Mr. Gilbert is an extremely strict man, and on all matters of stage business his word is law. All the arrangements of colours and the original groupings, with which the frequenters of the Savoy are so well acquainted, are by him.

Sir Arthur Sullivan is also very exact with reference to the rendering of the music; and it is perfectly understood between author and composer that no business should be introduced by the former into the chorus so as to interfere with a proper performance of the music.

For example, in the original rehearsals of The Mikado, Mr. Gilbert arranged a group of the chorus to "bow down" to his Majesty as he entered, with their backs to the audience. Sir Arthur Sullivan came down, and, the moment he saw this, said that the voices could not be well heard from the front, as the faces of the singers were turned towards the back of the stage. Mr. Gilbert immediately altered the business; and as his powers of invention are apparently unlimited, the present effective grouping in a semi-circle on the right-hand side and back of the stage was substituted.

I have said that Sir Arthur Sullivan is strict with the music. Every member of the chorus has to sing the exact note set down for him or her; and often, in the midst of the rehearsal of a full chorus double-forte we have been pulled up because a careless gentleman has sung a semi-quaver instead of a demi-semi-quaver, or one of the cousins, sisters, or aunts has failed to dot a crotchet.

One of the most prominent and popular members of our company was remarkably quick in picking up the music by ear—a method of learning music by no means advisable. One day he was singing a solo allotted to him which he had learned in the way mentioned, and he occasionally sang (let us say) two even crotchets instead of one dotted and a quaver, and he made one or two slight deviations from the melody. Sullivan listened, with a most amused expression, and, at the conclusion, said: "Bravo! that is really a very good tune of yours—capital! And now, if you have no objection, I will trouble you to sing mine."

The music is generally given to us before the piece is read by Mr. Gilbert; so we are often in complete darkness as to the meaning of the words we are singing. In the opera of Princess Ida we were rehearsing the whole of the concerted music of the first act. My song, "I can't think why," sung by King Gama, was not composed, and the whole of my share in the rehearsals was the following three bars and a half of recitative:

"King Gama (recitative): Must we till then in prison cell be thrust?

"Hildebrand: You must.

"King Gama: This seems unnecessarily severe."

At one of the rehearsals, after singing this trifling bit of recitative, I addressed the composer and said:

"Could you tell me, Sir Arthur, what the words, 'This seems unnecessarily severe,' have reference to?"

Sir Arthur Sullivan replied:

"Because you are to be detained in prison, of course."

I replied: "Thank you. I thought they had reference to my having been detained here three hours a day for the past fortnight to sing them."

The result was, that Sir Arthur liberated me from the remainder of the first act rehearsals; and as I had not to put in an appearance in the second act, and had only one unwritten song in the third, I had, for a wonder, a pretty easy time of it.

The musical rehearsals are child's play in comparison with the stage rehearsals. Mr. Gilbert is a perfect autocrat, insisting that his words should be delivered, even to an inflection of the voice, as he dictates. He will stand on the stage beside the actor or actress, and repeat the words with appropriate action over and over again, until they are delivered as he desires them to be. In some instances, of course, he allows a little license, but very little.

He has great patience at times; and, indeed, he needs it, for occasionally one or other of the company, through inaccurate ear or other cause, will not catch the proper action or inflection. From the beginning it has been the custom, if possible, to allot some small part to a member of the chorus. The girls have nearly always benefited by the chance, and some have risen to the foremost ranks. The men are not so fortunate, I regret to say. They do not seem to be so quick. Gilbert has nearly been driven frantic (and so have the onlookers for the matter of that) because a sentence has been repeated with a false accent.

The following sketch, founded on fact, is an example of what I mean:

Suppose Mr. Snooks has been promoted from the chorus, and allotted a very small part, on account of his suitable voice, slimness, stoutness, gigantic proportions, or the reverse. He has one line—let us say, The King is in the counting-house. The first thing Mr. Snooks does when his cue arrives is to make the most of his opportunity by entering with a comic slow walk, which he has evidently been studying for past few days in front of a looking-glass. The walk is the conventional one indulged in by the big Mask in a pantomime.

Mr. Gilbert: Please don't enter like that, Mr. Snooks. We don't want any "comic man" business here.

Mr. Snooks: I beg your pardon, sir; I thought you meant the part to be funny.

Mr. Gilbert: Yes, so I do; but I don't want you to tell the audience you're the funny man. They'll find it out, if you are, quickly enough. Go on, please.

Mr. Snooks enters again with a rapid and sharp catch-the-six-thirteen-Liverpool-street-local-train kind of walk.

Mr. Gilbert: No, no, no, Mr. Snooks. This is not a "walking gentleman's" part. As it is only a short one, there is no necessity to hurry through it like that. Enter like this.

Mr. Gilbert proceeds to exemplify what he requires, and after a trial or two Mr. Snooks gets it nearly right.

Mr. Gilbert (encouragingly): That'll do capitally. Go on, please.

Mr. Snooks: The King is in the counting-house.

Mr. Gilbert: No, no, Mr. Snooks; he is nothing of the sort. He is in the counting-house.

Mr. Snooks: The King is in the counting-house.

Mr. Gilbert (very politely): I am afraid I have not made myself understood. It is not counting-house, but counting-house. Do you understand me?

Mr. Snooks: Yes, sir.

Mr. Gilbert: Very well; try again, please.

Mr. Snooks: The King is in the counting-house.

Mr. Gilbert (still politely): Mr. Snooks, don't you appreciate the difference between the accent on "counting" and the accent on "house"? I want the accent on "counting"—counting-house. Surely you have never heard it pronounced in any other way? Try again, and please pay attention.

Mr. Snooks (getting rather nervous): The King is in the counting-HOUSE!

Mr. Gilbert twitches his right whisker, and takes a few paces up and down the front of the stage. Eventually he comes to a standstill, and calmly addresses Mr. Snooks:

"It is my desire to assist you as far as I possibly can, but I must have that sentence spoken properly. I would willingly cut it out altogether; but as it is essential to the story, that course is impossible. If you cannot speak it with the right accent, I shall be reluctantly compelled to give the words to someone else who can. Go back, please, and think before you speak."

Mr. Snooks (endeavouring to think he is "thinking"): The King (pause) is (pause) IN the . . . (very long pause) counting . . . (with a violent effort) HOUSE!!!

Mr. Gilbert (bottling up his fury): We won't bother about your scene now, Mr. Snooks. Get on with the next. Grossmith! Grossmith!! (To Seymour, the stage manager): Where's Mr. Grossmith?

Mr. Grossmith (a very small man, with a still smaller voice): Here I am.

Mr. Gilbert: Oh! there you are. I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. We'll go on with your scene. Do you want to try your song?

Mr. Grossmith: Not unless you want to hear it!

Mr. Gilbert: No; I don't want to hear it. (Roars of laughter from the company.) Do you?

Mr. Grossmith: No!

Good humour prevails, and the rehearsal proceeds. At its termination Mr. Gilbert approaches Mr. Snooks, who is absolutely wretched in the corner.

Mr. Gilbert (privately to Mr. Snooks): Don't worry yourself about that. Go home, and think it over. It will be all right to-morrow.

On the morrow, perhaps, it is not all right; but Mr. Gilbert will pass it over, and by dint of perseverance (which is, of course, appreciated), and the chaffing he gets from his fellow-choristers at the theatre, and the bullying from his wife at home, Mr. Snooks, in the course of a week, gets it actually right; but the word is always pronounced to the end with a certain amount of doubt.

The performer frequently gets the credit which is due to Mr. Gilbert, and to him absolutely. As a rule, the little midshipmite in H.M.S. Pinafore is supposed to be a perfect genius. There have been scores of midshipmites in town and "on tour," but they are all geniuses.

Some, of course, are naturally clever, and I should be grieved to disparage any child; but if admiration, cheers, and applause on the stage are at all times dangerous to the mind of man, what must be the effect on children!

A little boy, with a pretty voice, who played in the performance of the Pirates of Penzance by children, came to me some time back in despair. His vanity had been touched by the approbation of the public, and his eyes fascinated by the glare of the footlights and limelights. They were all he thought of. His voice had gone, or, to be more accurate, had cracked. He was too old to act as a child, and too young to act as a man; and he "pooh-poohed" any idea of an ordinary situation. All the credit of his success his friends attributed to his own talent, and not to his stage manager.

It is such a case as this, and this only, that induces me to say that I have seen Mr. Gilbert instruct a little boy in the part of the midshipmite for an hour or so at a time, simply how to walk across the stage. The boy has been absolutely stupid even for his age; but has been selected because he happened to be smaller than the others who had come up for competition. Through constant drilling the child developed into a mechanical toy, and received the approbation of the generous public, as if he merited it instead of his tutor, when he had no more done so than the little canary who walks the tight-rope on a barrow, fires a gun, or drives a tandem drawn by a couple of sparrows.

One of these little lads, besides his wages, received extra presents of shillings and half-crowns that in the course of a week amounted, most likely, to the limited salary given to the chorus man who had devoted the greater part of his life to his vocation, and who had a wife and large family to support out of it.

Apropos of the chorus, they are picked from hundreds who first sing before Mr. D'Oyly Carte on approval. They generally have some daily occupation or situation. Some of them sing and act so well in the groups that they have been retained from the very commencement of the operas.

When Iolanthe was produced, Gilbert decided that the peers should all have the upper lip shaven, and wear "mutton-chop" whiskers, and a little tuft under the lower lip. They were also to wear wigs bald at the top of the head. The effect was ultimately most successful; but there was a semblance of a "strike" beforehand, owing to the objection of some of the gentlemen to shave off the moustache.

These were called, for the purpose of giving their reasons for objecting to comply with the order. Some of the excuses were most amusing. One said he was a town traveller; and if he took off his moustache, he would look so young that ............