Punch: Punch (100.1891)

76

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [February 14, 1891.

SULLIVANHOE !

Brayissimo, Sir Arthur Sullivan of Ivanhoe, or to compress it
telegraphically by wire, " Bravissimo Sullivanhoe /"i^Loud cries of
" Arthur ! Arthur ! " and as Arthur and Composer he bows a solo
gracefully in front of the Curtain. Then Mr. Julian Sturgis is
handed out to him, when "Sullivan" and
"Julian"—latter name phonetically suggestive
of ancient musical associations, though' who
nowadays remembers " Mons. Jullien " ?—the
composer and librettist, bow a duet together.
"Music" and "Words"
disappear behind gorgeous
new draperies, "All's
swell that ends swell," and
nothing
could be
s w e 11 e r
than the
audience
on the first
night. But
to our tale.
As to the
dramatic
construc-
tion of this
Opera, had
I not been
informed
by the
kindly
playbill
that I was
seeing
Ivanhoe, I
should
never have
found it
out from
the first
scene, nor
should I

quite clear ^ Dicky with Ivanhoe ; or, The Long and Short of it.
about it until the situation where that slyboots Rebecca artfully
threatens to chuck herself off from the topmost turret rather than
throw herself away on the bad Templar Sir Brian de Bois- Guilbert-
sans-Sullivan. The Opera might be fairly described as " Scenes from
Ivanhoe," musically illustrated. There is, however, a continuity in
the music which is lacking in the plot.

The scenic effects are throughout admirable, and the method,
adopted at the end of each tableau, of leaving the audience still
more in the dark than they were before as to what is going on on
the stage, is an excellent notion, well calculated to intensify the
mystery in which the entire plot is enveloped.

The change of scene—of course highly recommended by the leech
in attendance on the suffering Ivanhoe—from the little second-floor-
back in the top storey of the castle tower, where the stout Knight
of Ivanhoe is in durance, is managed with the least possible incon-
venience to the invalid, who, whether suffering from gout or pains
in his side,—and, judging by his action, he seemed to feel it, what-
ever it was, all over him,—found himself and his second-hand
lodging-house sofa (quite good enough for a prisoner) suddenly
deposited at the comparatively safe distance of some three hundred
yards or so from the burning Castle of Torquilstone, in which iden-
tical building he himself, not a minute before, had been immured.
So marvellous a flight of fancy is only to be found in an Arabian,
not a Christian, Night's Entertainment.

The Tournament Scene is a very effective " set," but practically
an elaborate " sell," as all the fighting on horseback is done
"without." Presently, after a fierce clashing of property-swords,
sounding suspiciously like fire-irons, Ivanhoe and Sir Brian come in,
afoot, to fight out " round the sixth, and last." There is refreshing
novelty in Mr. Copland's impersonation of Isaac of York, who
might be taken for Shylock's younger brother who has been experi-
menting on his beard with some curious kind of hair-dye. This
comic little Isaac will no doubt grow older during the run of the piece,
but on the first night he neither looked nor behaved like Rebecca's
aged and venerable sire, nor did Miss Mactnttre—who, by the way, is
charming as Rebecca, and who is so nimble in skipping about the
stage when avoiding the melodramatic Sir Brian de Bois- Guilbert-
sans-Sullivan, and so generally active and artful as to be quite a
Becky Sharp—hot, I say, did Miss Macinttre seem to treat her
precocious parent (Isaac must have married very young, seeing that
Becky is full twenty-one, and Isaac apparently very little more

than twenty-eight, or, say, thirty) with any great tenderness and
affection; but these feelings no doubt will be intensified, as she

becomes more and more accustomed to
her jewvenile father during the run of
the Opera, and he may say to her, as the

Bottle Imp did
victim, "Ha!

You must learn to love The game of " Becky my Xeighbour." The
mg , Stout Knight lays low.

I have not time to enumerate all the charming effects of the Opera,
but I must not forget the magic property-harp, with, apparently,
limp whip-cord strings, " the harp that once," or several times, was
played by those accomplished musicians, Xing Richard, and Friar
Tuck, the latter of whom has by far the most taking song in the
Opera, and which would have received a treble [or a baritone]
encore, had Bark is—meaning Sir Arthur—"been willin'." The
contest between Richard and the Friar is decidedly "Dicky." Nor
must I forget the magnificent property supper in the first scene, at
so much a head, where not a ham or a chicken is touched ; nor must
" the waits " between some of the sets be forgotten,—"waits" being
so suggestive of music at the merriest time of the year. Nor, above
all, must I omit to mention the principal character, Ivanhoe himself,
played by Mr. Ben Davles, who would be quite an ideal Ivanhoe if
he were not such a very real Ivanhoe—only, of course, we must not
forget that he " doubles " the part. There is no thinness about "Ben
Mio," whether considered as a man, or as a good all-round tenor.
I did not envy Ivanhoe's marvellous power of sleep while Miss
Macinttre was singing her best, her sweetest, and her
loudest. For my part I prefer to believe that the crafty
Saxon was " only purtendin'," and was no more asleep
than Josh Sedley on the eve of Waterloo, or the Tat

Boy when he surprised
Mr. Tupman and Aunt
Rachel in the arbour, or
when he pinched Mr.
Fickwick's leg in order
to attract his attention.
But, after all, Ivanhoe
and Roivena, as Thac-
kerat remarked, are a
poor namby-pamby pair,
and the real heroine is
Rebecca. The Opera ends
with a "Rebecca Riot."
Every one wishes success
to the new venture.

As to the Music,—well,
I am not a musician, and
in any new Opera when
there is no one tuneful
phrase as in A'ida or
Tannhduser, which, at
the very first hearing,
anyone with half an ear
can straightway catch,
and reproduce next day
till evervone about him
cries, "Oh don't!" and
when, as in this in-
"Al Saxon Fnar. stance, the conducting-

composer, Wagnerianly, will not permit encores — where am IP
Nowhere. I return home in common time, but tuneless. On the other
hand, besides being certain that Friar Tuck's jovial song will "catch
on," I must record the complete satisfaction with which I heard the
substantial whack on the drum so descriptive of Sir Brian de Bois-
Guilbert-sans-Sullivan's heavy fall "at the ropes." This last effect,