Not I! So long as the tiger remained there I kept cringed up in my seat on the other side of the room, and mighty thankful I was when he had taken his strange pet away. I've an old-fashioned notion that a library is not the happiest place for a menagerie. I heard that just a month afterwards the beast did, in fact, turn on the big-game shot, and his arm was terribly ripped. He must have trusted it just a day too long.
IX.
GILBERT AND SULLIVAN.
World-wide Fame of the Operas—The Secrets of Their Charm—Sullivan's Music and the Popular Taste—Gilbert and the Englishman—Stage Figures That Are True to National Type—The Germans and "H.M.S. Pinafore"—Characters That Mirror Ourselves—Gilbert's Versatility—Pedigree of the Operas—Practical Hints for Amateurs—The Importance of the First Entrance—Studying the Art of Make-up—A Splendid Heritage of Humour and Song.
The Gilbert and Sullivan public are said to number three millions. Exactly how this figure is arrived at I cannot say, but it is presumed to represent those who make it a point of honour to see the operas whenever they possibly can, who are familiar with all the music and the songs, and who lose no chance of making others as enthusiastic as they are. Literally they are to be found the whole world over—from China to Peru—and the operas are as successful in Australia and America as they are in the United Kingdom. I was told once of an Englishman, exiled in the wilds of China, who had an audience of Celestials listening at his garden gate while he was warbling to himself "Take a Pair of Sparkling Eyes!"
What a wonderful thing it is that plays which are all well over thirty years old should have such a faithful following! Clearly there must be something exceptional about them, some magnetic force that draws the multitudes to them, some elixir that gives to them the freshness of eternal youth. Imitators have tried hard to capture the secret of their sweet simplicity. That they have failed so far to do so is a misfortune. The Savoy operas still stand alone, unchallenged either by any changing in popular taste or by the passage of time, though if there were more of them it would be good for the public that loves such honest, wholesome enjoyment. It would also be good for the stage. What is the secret?
Sullivan's music often reminds me of a beautiful garden. No attempt is there here to picture in bold orchestral strokes the frowning peaks, the expansive landscapes or the scenes of pomp and splendour. The canvas is ever a miniature one. Each melody is comparable to a lily or a daffodil—just as unpretentious and just as charming—while the whole has the fragrance of the flowers that bloom in the spring. We love this music because it soothes and delights. It is not too "intellectual." We appreciate it as a free and easy distraction, just as we appreciate a popular novel, though we may have high-brow moments when we peer into our Darwin and Spencer. Sullivan's greatest virtue was that he wrote music that was "understanded of the people."
British folk, as we know, are easy going. We are a little too inclined to doff the thinking-cap at the first opportunity. Speaking generally, we are not a studious race, and we don't want to be bothered with "problems." Sullivan's music is never in the problem style—the problem of intricate chords and modern progressions—and just as certainly does it avoid the strident atrocities of the modern ragtime type. It is transparent and simple. It sparkles like the stream in the sunshine, and it is always joyous, buoyant and happy. We want more of such music. Give the people more of these delicate melodies—frankly popular as they are, and yet supremely good music—and into their own lives will enter much of the same romantic warmth and content.