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Authors: Nicholas Meyer
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to the stage door and found the door open. There was activity within the theatre, though it was clear from the bustle backstage that no play was in progress, We threaded our way amongst actors and stagehands until our presence was discovered by the manager, who politely enquired as to our business there. Holmes tendered his card and explained that we were in search of either Mr. Gilbert or Sir Arthur Sullivan.
“Sir Arthur ain’t here, and Mr. Gilbert’s leading the rehearsal,” we were told. “Perhaps you’d best speak with Mr. D’Oyly Carte. He’s in the stalls. Right through this door and very quiet, gentlemen, please.”
We thanked the man and stepped into the empty auditorium. The house lights were on and I marvelled once again at the lighting in the Savoy. It was the first theatre in the world to be totally lit by electricity, and the resultant illumination differed greatly from that supplied by gas. I thought back fifteen years and tried to recall my first visit to the place. I had worried then about the danger of fire originating from an electrical failure, since I could not understand who Reginald Bunthorne was supposed to be and allowed my mind to wander from the piece. My fears were apparently without foundation, because years have gone by since and the Savoy still stands unharmed.
A lone figure was seated in the stalls towards the back, and he favoured us with a baleful stare as we walked up the aisle in his direction. He was a small man, dwarfed by his chair, wearing a dark, pointed beard that complemented his black eyes. Something in his glower, at once so regal and so forbidding, made me think of Napoleon. It was my subsequent impression that this was his intention.
“Mr. Richard D’Oyly Carte?” Holmes asked when we were close enough to be heard in a whisper.
“What do you want? The press is not permitted here before opening nights; that is a rule at the Savoy. There’s a rehearsal in progress, and I must ask you to leave.”
‘We are not from the papers. I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate, Dr. Watson.”
“Sherlock Holmes!” The name had produced the desired effect, and D’Oyly Carte’s countenance broke into a smile. He half-rose from his chair and proffered two seats beside him. “Sit down, gentlemen, sit down! The Savoy is honoured. Please make yourselves comfortable. They have been at it all day and are at rather low ebb just now, but you are welcome, nonetheless.”
He appeared to think we had entered his theatre on a whim, having for some reason taken it into our heads to attend a rehearsal. For the present Holmes encouraged this view.
“What is the name of the piece” he enquired in a polite undertone, slipping into his seat beside the impresario.
“The Grand Duke.”
We turned our attention to the stage, where a tall man in his late fifties, of military bearing, was addressing the actors. I say “addressing them,” but it would be more truthful to say he was drilling them. It seemed in no wise inconsistent with his military stamp, which marked him as a compulsive man of precision. The stage was devoid of scenery, making it difficult to understand what the piece was about. Gilbert–obviously the military fellow was he–directed a tall, gangling actor to repeat his entrance and first speech. The man disappeared into the wings only to emerge seconds later with his lines, but Gilbert cut him off in mid-sentence and requested him to do it again. Next to us our host made several rapid notations in a book propped upon his knees. With some little hesitation the actor retreated once more upon his errand. Though nothing was said, it was clear that all were fatigued and that tempers were fraying. Carte looked up at the stage, pen in hand, a scowl creasing his features. He tapped the stylus nervously against his teeth.
“They’re played out,” he proclaimed in a mutter directed to no one in particular. From his inflection, it was impossible to determine whether
“Sir Arthur ain’t here, and Mr. Gilbert’s leading the rehearsal,” we were told. “Perhaps you’d best speak with Mr. D’Oyly Carte. He’s in the stalls. Right through this door and very quiet, gentlemen, please.”
We thanked the man and stepped into the empty auditorium. The house lights were on and I marvelled once again at the lighting in the Savoy. It was the first theatre in the world to be totally lit by electricity, and the resultant illumination differed greatly from that supplied by gas. I thought back fifteen years and tried to recall my first visit to the place. I had worried then about the danger of fire originating from an electrical failure, since I could not understand who Reginald Bunthorne was supposed to be and allowed my mind to wander from the piece. My fears were apparently without foundation, because years have gone by since and the Savoy still stands unharmed.
A lone figure was seated in the stalls towards the back, and he favoured us with a baleful stare as we walked up the aisle in his direction. He was a small man, dwarfed by his chair, wearing a dark, pointed beard that complemented his black eyes. Something in his glower, at once so regal and so forbidding, made me think of Napoleon. It was my subsequent impression that this was his intention.
“Mr. Richard D’Oyly Carte?” Holmes asked when we were close enough to be heard in a whisper.
“What do you want? The press is not permitted here before opening nights; that is a rule at the Savoy. There’s a rehearsal in progress, and I must ask you to leave.”
‘We are not from the papers. I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate, Dr. Watson.”
“Sherlock Holmes!” The name had produced the desired effect, and D’Oyly Carte’s countenance broke into a smile. He half-rose from his chair and proffered two seats beside him. “Sit down, gentlemen, sit down! The Savoy is honoured. Please make yourselves comfortable. They have been at it all day and are at rather low ebb just now, but you are welcome, nonetheless.”
He appeared to think we had entered his theatre on a whim, having for some reason taken it into our heads to attend a rehearsal. For the present Holmes encouraged this view.
“What is the name of the piece” he enquired in a polite undertone, slipping into his seat beside the impresario.
“The Grand Duke.”
We turned our attention to the stage, where a tall man in his late fifties, of military bearing, was addressing the actors. I say “addressing them,” but it would be more truthful to say he was drilling them. It seemed in no wise inconsistent with his military stamp, which marked him as a compulsive man of precision. The stage was devoid of scenery, making it difficult to understand what the piece was about. Gilbert–obviously the military fellow was he–directed a tall, gangling actor to repeat his entrance and first speech. The man disappeared into the wings only to emerge seconds later with his lines, but Gilbert cut him off in mid-sentence and requested him to do it again. Next to us our host made several rapid notations in a book propped upon his knees. With some little hesitation the actor retreated once more upon his errand. Though nothing was said, it was clear that all were fatigued and that tempers were fraying. Carte looked up at the stage, pen in hand, a scowl creasing his features. He tapped the stylus nervously against his teeth.
“They’re played out,” he proclaimed in a mutter directed to no one in particular. From his inflection, it was impossible to determine whether
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