Sometime in the life of every Gilbert and Sullivan company there arises the onerous necessity of mounting Princess Ida--usually after all other possible expedients have been tried. Unfortunately, only Gilbert and Sullivan have ever succeeded in writing a Gilbert and Sullivan opera, and even they only wrote a few. Ida is second-rate, but authentic; a weak sister, but still one of the family. This production is unlikely to make any fanatical converts, but Agassiz these days is still a pretty good place in which to forget worldly cares.

Ida is the one about education for women, and it shows Gilbert at close to his worst. Behind the gruff whiskers, fat belly, and sharp tongue there lurked a small, narrow, smug, Philistine, and thoroughly reactionary mind, and a nagging weakness for the most squalidly dull-thud variety of pun. Both these latter qualities are prominently on display in Princess Ida. Moreover, some mad infatuation (something, perhaps, to do with the Tennyson poem of which Ida is a parody) led him to cast the thing in blank verse, of the sort Shaw must have had in mind when he said that blank verse was easier to write than prose. On the other hand, Gilbert was a master of his own peculiar medium, and between the gaps there is some pretty good stuff and not a little absolutely splendid stuff. His exposition of his own personal form of social Darwinism, for instance, is typically Gilbertian, which is one of the finest possible ways for a song lyric to be.

As for Sullivan, Sullivan is always Sullivan, but here he is less so than usual. His pathetic numbers, for one thing, are all sheer glop. On the other hand, as almost always, the pretty tunes are sufficiently numerous to make the reputation of most composers, and to keep the casual whistler supplied for days.

Most of the glop falls to Joy Myers as Ida, which is profoundly unfair, since Miss Myers is a big, beautiful girl with a big, beautiful voice, and deserves better. She can belt it out with the best of them when belting is required, but she has a comic sense unusual in a soprano, and manages, almost miraculously, to avoid giving the impression that she is about to emit a "ho-jo-to-ho," grab a horse, and make it back to Valhalla.

Ben Cox as her prince owns a nice little tenor and is possessed with (or perhaps by) what somebody once called a sort of gee-whiz charm. No freckles were discernible on Mr. Cox's visage from Row H, but he played as if in his soul he were freckled. This was probably not what anybody had in mind, but it will certainly do.

The unenviable responsibility for King Gama, a not-overly-pleasant example of Gilbert's penchant for uglification, falls to Arthur Waldstein, who emerges victorious if not triumphant.

Ferry Marquand has enough of the hair-on-the-chest quality proper to a Savoy contralto, and Susan Stone makes the scene in a smaller role. But the singing in certain other roles encroaches on the eyebrow-raising, and conductor Danny R. Moates, equal to his responsibilities for the most part, has failed from time to time to give the members of his chorus much in common.

John C. Beck's staging is at its best in some attractive groupings and funny bits, but his business is frequently over-busy, and occasional lost opportunities and miscellaneous lacks of clarity are discernible. The sets had to be simple and portable, since there are three of them; ven de shtate has videred avay, Ida will not have to be set against black curtains, but meanwhile let us praise the witty setpieces of James Peters, especially the down-left second-act tree, which has a neat bird painted on it.

Withal, if you know what I mean, Ida is a pretty good show. People who like Gilbert and Sullivan will probably be reasonably happy with it. People who do not like Gilbert and Sullivan can go to hell.