There are people in the world who take things seriously, and since such there be, it is a delightful respite to view them with "Patience" through the eyes of Gilbert and Sullivan. Now these people (yes, you may be one of them) are like the Snark, of which's unmistakable marks
"The worst is its slowness in taking a jest,
Should you happen to venture on one,
It will sigh like a thing that is deeply distressed,
And it always looks grave at a pun."
These Mrs. Gummidges hold, all seriously and quite incontrovertibly, that the Savoy Operas are silly, which is true enough; that George White has lovelier ladies in his chorus than the Gilbertians, and more effective stage properties, solid pudding arguments not to be denied. But they forget to add, that, whatever the Roman splendors of George White may be, the Savoy Operas have an evasive, indefinable, yet robust charm.
The Playgoer shrinks when he realizes how coarsely some may construe his comparison with twentieth-century George White. A good fifty years ago when "Patience" was first played, the streets of London were lighted by gas, Bond Street brightened by a sunflower in the arms of a velveteen breeched young man, later known to his friends as Sebastian Melmouth. To understand this remarkable young man one had to read the Yellow Book, live up to one's blue china, grow long hair, be super-aesthetical, think of lilies, and have a sense of humor; the last qualification is, of course, paradoxical. Now Gilbert and Sullivan refused to have anything except a sense of humor, and insisted on putting too-too together to get vanity. That is sufficient apologia for "Patience."
The Hollis, one may discover, is not L'Opera, "Patience" is not Wagnerian, it is not the height of the season even in Boston; it is to display a most quibbling quiddity to remark that the twenty love-sick maidens of the Civic Light Opera Company are but sixteen, or that the choruses might conceivably be better. There are excellences which triumphantly conquer all cavil. Lingering uppermost in memory is ever Mr. Moulan, who is as sprightly an aesthetic sham as ever trod worn boards. Miss Hart, as Patience, she is blithe, and she is gay, and she is sufficient. Mr. Joseph Macaulay makes, ah, a very Narcissus in the velveteens of Archibald the All-Right. If one might criticize Miss Laura Ferguson for languishing overmuch, there is always the answer that languishing becomes her as it did many a Victorian damozel. For the residuum, they are All-Right.
There are many things one longs to say to an indifferent Harvard. To the commonplace young man, the matter of fact young man, the study and stolid-y, week-end half-holiday, three A's and a B young man, the message is:
Tickets for the Savoys should be purchased with avidity,
To overcome your dullness and your natural placidity.
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