MARGARET.
Oh, Master! Master! -- how shall I express the all-absorbing
gratitude that-- (about to throw herself at his feet).
DESPARD.
Now! (warningly).
MAR.
Yes, I know dear—it shan't happen again. (He is seated. She sits
on the ground by him.) Shall I tell you one of poor Mad
Margaret's odd thoughts? Well, then, when I am lying awake at night,
and the pale moonlight streams through the latticed casement, strange
fancies crowd upon my poor mad brain, and I sometimes think that if
we could hit upon some word for you to use whenever I am about to
relapse—some word that teems with hidden meaning—like
“Basingstoke”--it might recall me to my saner self. For, after
all, I am only Mad Margaret! Daft Meg! Poor Meg! He! he! he!
DES.
Poor child, she wanders! But soft—some one comes—Margaret—pray
recollect yourself—Basingstoke, I beg! Margaret, if you don't
Basingstoke at once, I shall be seriously angry.
MAR.
(recovering herself). Basingstoke it is!
DES.
Then make it so.
--
From Ruddigore, by William S.
Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan
I'm
not a “squee” sort of person. I have my passions, but they're not
likely to sending me spinning off into mad expostulations of delight,
like poor Margaret. (The one exception is an absolutely stellar
review—but there's nothing unusual about that. All authors react
similarly in that situation.) I'll experience a delightful sense of
anticipation when I learn about a new movie by Pedro Almodovar or a
new book by Haruki Murakami or Sarah Waters. I'll savor that internal
hum of excitement as I prepare for a trip to some foreign destination
I haven't yet visited. Overall, though, unrestrained squeals of
irrepressible glee are not my style.
Except,
of course, when I hear there's a Gilbert and Sullivan troupe in town.
My
love affair with G&S goes way back. I was only six when my
parents took me to a concert of G&S songs that featured the
legendary Martyn Green. Objectively I recognize that I couldn't have
possibly understood most of the patter, but the jaunty tunes
immediately had me hooked.
After
that, I attended G&S performances whenever I could. I think we
must have had some records of the better-known operettas (yes, this
was long before CDs) because the melodies and lyrics were familiar
even when I was a teen. I remember seeing a stripped down version of
Ruddigore with my dad when I was in college, in a theater in the
round with just a piano. I recall several exquisitely professional
stagings by the D'Oyl Carte Opera Company who was in residence for
two weeks in the small city nearest my home town. And the university
town where I lived for more than twenty years had a local light opera
group who put on a different G&S operetta every November.
I
still recall the excitement leading up to that annual treat. We'd
reserve our tickets as soon as they went on sale, in order to make
sure we had excellent seats. As the day grew closer, I'd sometimes
listen to the opera (by that time I owned recordings of all my
favorites), savoring my anticipation of the moment when the orchestra
would commence the familiar medley of the overture and then the
curtain would rise on the town of Titipu or the Tower of London, the
rocky coast of Penzance or the “fishing village of Rederring (in
Cornwall)”...I could hear the melodies ringing already in my mind,
the brilliant lyrics, the tripping rhymes...I'd want to jump up from
my seat and applaud wildly...!
Basingstoke.
Basingstoke
it is.
My
parents were both G&S fans; my volume of the complete plays has a
inscription to my mother from her older sister, dated 1940, so
perhaps my grandparents were too. The man who became my husband
revealed to me early on a penchant for the quarrelsome duo (Gilbert
and Sullivan were renowned for their sometimes acrimonious
relationship). I will admit that this was one of the characteristics
that encouraged me to submit to his attentions. Since we've been
married, we've enjoyed many G&S performances together. He's more
subdued in his appreciation than I am. In the run-up to the play, he
doesn't dress up like Yum Yum or do the hornpipe like Dick Dauntless
or carry on about his sisters and his cousins and aunts...!
Basingstoke.
Let
it be so.
Some
of you will remember the Rocky Horror Picture Show phenomenon. For
me, Gilbert and Sullivan are a bit like that. I don't know how many
times I've seen “The Mikado” or “Iolanthe” or “Ruddigore”.
I know the songs and the dialogue so well that the anticipation is
half the fun. I wait with baited breath for the fantastically twisted
logic that will resolve the ridiculous problems of the characters.
FAIRY
QUEEN. You have all incurred death; but I can't slaughter the whole
company! And yet (unfolding a scroll)
the law is clear—every fairy must die who marries a mortal!
LORD
CHANCELLOR. Allow me, as an old Equity draftsman, to make a
suggestion. The subtleties of the legal mind are equal to the
emergency. The thing is really quite simple—the insertion of a
single word will do it. Let it stand that every fairy shall die who
doesn't marry a mortal, and there you are, out of your difficulty at
once!
(From
Iolanthe)
ROBIN.
I can't stop to apologize—an idea has just occurred to me. A
Baronet of Ruddigore can only die through refusing to commit his
daily crime.
RODERICK.
No doubt.
ROB.
Therefore, to refuse to commit a daily crime is tantamount to
suicide.
ROD.
It would seem so.
ROB.
But suicide is, itself, a crime—and so, by your own showing, you
ought never to have died at all!
ROD.
I see—I understand! Then I'm practically alive!
(From
Ruddigore)
What
subtlety indeed! What mad brilliance! And the language, so eloquent
and articulate! Not to mention the music, often not appreciated (as
Sir Arthur frequently complained) but far more complex than it first
appears, with multi-part harmony, canons, madrigals, soaring arias,
dark instrumental passages that evoke the powers of hell...!
Basingstoke.
Indeed.
My
love affair with Gilbert and Sullivan has even seeped into my
writing. My story “Opening Night” in the alternative history
anthology Time Well Bent
has the initial 1887 performance of Ruddigore as its background, as
it postulates a homosexual seduction of Gilbert by a member of the
cast. My novel Miranda's Masks
(which has a Victorian subplot)
includes a scene set in the opera house at the 1886 Boston premier of
The Mikado. I've even toyed with the notion of an erotic ménage
story featuring Dick Dauntless, Robin Oakapple and Rose Maybud (since
in the play she clearly can't make up her mind between the two
gentlemen).
Would
that count as fan fiction?
Would
anyone other than a few old farts like me even recognize the
allusion?
Who
cares? Gilbert and Sullivan were geniuses whose oeuvre remains
outrageously entertaining even in this era of instant communication
and gratification. I don't have children, but if I did, I'd be
playing light opera for them on a daily basis. Of course that would
make it difficult for me to stay calm and fulfill my
responsibilities. I'd be moved to sing, to dance, to laugh, to
weep...!
Basingstoke.
(Deep
breath.)
Basingstoke
it is.
