Gilbert & Sullivan Opera
A History and a Comment
by H. M. Walbrook
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE ENGLISH OFFENBACH.
We all know the story of Klopstock, the author of "Messias" being pointed out to Coleridge as "the German Milton" and of the poet replying grimly, "Yes—a very German Milton!" Similarly in our own day we have heard of the unlucky phrase in which a French critic hailed M. Maeterlinck as "the Belgian Shakespeare." So also, in a luckless hour, did somebody once dub Sullivan "the English Offenbach," with the result that the phrase, being an easy one to remember, and carrying with it a sort of superficial plausibility, was repeated over and over again. And, just as M. Maeterlinck was seriously annoyed by his French admirer's deplorable epithet, so also was Sullivan by that of a well-meaning fellow-countryman whose honoured name we shall not repeat in so controversial a connection. Much less shall we have the folly and impudence of insinuating that the term was applied in a spirit of "jealous spleen."
Even as long ago as the early eighties there could be no "spleen" in coupling the name of Sullivan with that of Offenbach. The composer of La Grande Duchesse de Gerolstein was as inventive a melodist as Sullivan himself; his opéras bouffe were the delight of every capital in Europe; his melodies ran like a fire through the world — a fire that warmed and inspired. And since his death his fame has deepened and spread immeasurably as a result of the renown of his opera, Les Contes d'Hoffmann, now in the classic repertory of European Grand Opera, whereas Sullivan's one Grand Opera, Ivanhoe, is only (and perhaps undeservedly) remembered by one or two songs from it which have kept their place on the concert platform.
But when all is said and done, it really was very nearly as misguided to call Sullivan the English Offenbach as it was to call Klopstock the German Milton. The work of the two men is as different as the English and French temperaments are different. Compared with an Offenbachian score, the music of one of Sullivan's operas is as a calm sea compared with a stormy one, as good sherry compared with champagne, as the tune of "God Save the King" with that of the "Marseiilaise." The Mikado was written for one nation and one temperament, Orfée aux Enfers was written for another. How could they be the same? Sullivan's comic operas have never been popular in France. Offenbach's, once enormously popular here, were practically killed, so far as England is concerned, by the infinitely greater local attraction of the native article. Even at the height of their fame in London when it was the fashion for the West End to go in its thousands to Islington to see them at the Philharmonic, it was a great deal more than the music that drew the crowds. There was a certain Parisian "freedom" of dialogue and costume, of story and situation, that played a very considerable part in the matter. People went not only to be charmed but to be — shall we say, in all good humour? — a little scandalized; and they did not come empty away in either respect.
The whole spirit of the Gilbert and Sullivan productions was entirely different. In them, except, of course, in Thespis at the old Gaiety, no woman ever appeared in a man's part or wore a costume which she might not also have worn at a Victorian fancy dress ball. For years they banished "tights" from the London stage, except in pantomime, and short skirts, except in ballet. Many of their most famous and beautiful melodies were as suited to a church as to a playhouse. It is as true of the whole series of opera libretti as it was true of Archibald Grosvenor's decalet in Patience, that there was not one word in them calculated to bring the blush of shame to the cheek of modesty. Like that innocuous little poem, they were purity itself. And Sullivan's music was as pure. It added warmth and glow, and sometimes it added tears, but it never added the kind of wild fire with which many of Offenbach's melodies are so disturbingly charged. A distinguished critic once said of some of the music in Tannhäuser that it was "the most immoral music ever written." So also might some of the music in Offenbach's opérasbouffe be called "immoral," but not a bar of Sullivan's.
And when we consider for a moment some of the other famous music Sullivan wrote: the lovely setting of "The Golden Legend,'' the "In Memoriam" Overture, the "Irish" Symphony, the beautiful incidental music for "The Tempest" and "Henry VIII." and many of his songs and hynm-tunes, the description of him as "The English Offenbach" becomes more meaningless still. The fact is, his genius was essentially an English genius, and the repertory which he enriched with so many acknowledged masterpieces was emphatically the English repertory. Let us hope that never again will an English writer on Sullivan, be he a musician or not, evade his responsibilities by falling back upon any such discredited cliche as “The English Offenbach."
When we consider the personality of the speaker, the following always strikes me as the most impressive of the many tributes to Sullivan:
A composer of the rarest genius — who, because he was a composer of the rarest genius, was as modest and as unassuming as a neophyte should be, but seldom is . . . I remember all that he has done for me in allowing his genius to shed some of its lustre upon my humble name.
The man who spoke these words, in the presence of a company of more than four hundred performers in and admirers of Savoy Opera, was W. S. Gilbert. His true feelings for Sullivan were expressed in those sincere and modest phrases — spoken alas! when Sullivan could no longer hear them. For a brief period there had been a rift between the two men, and on this too, Gilbert had a touching thing to say: It was a sincere gratification to him to recall that at the time of the composer's lamented death that rift had been "completely bridged over" and "the most cordial relations existed between us." Those relations survive in the popular imagination. In death they are not divided.
