I Am The Very Model of a Child Major-General

“Jarvis Merryman! What's all this?” Mr. Richard Barker bellowed as I blew in through the Savoy Theatre’s stage door with the remnants of 1884 and her December wind and fog residue on my cap and overcoat. “It's 5:30 a.m., lad! What in heaven's name you doin' here so early?”

“Bother it all! Am I that late, Uncle Dick?” I groaned in mock dismay, wiggling out of my coat and shaking the wet from it. "I was aiming for 4:00. Be a chum and don't tell that old boss of the boards I had a lie-in."

He huffed as only a stage manager can. "Cheeky boy. You know good and well there's no one here but the guard at 4 a.m."

"Oh, it's all right. He knows me. I've bribed him with enough peppermints over the last three weeks to let me in early for some piano practice. Besides, dress rehearsals don't come ‘round every day."

He clicked his tongue and crossed his arms. “How many times I got to tell ya, Merry-boy? There is such a thing as over-prepared.”

I shoved my coat and cap onto a vestibule hook. "No, no, can't be, sir. I won't hear of it. No such thing. Never,” I chirped.

He raised his eyebrows. “What, ​never​?”

I turned and flashed my trademarked cheeky smile. "​Never​.”

He couldn't help himself.

He laughed.

Now, my dear reader, I'm sure you have figured out that when I told Mr. Barker that I had overslept, I lied.

I hadn't slept at all.

How on earth could a principal in the 1884 D'Oyly Carte children's production of The Pirates of Penance get a wink of sleep knowing the next day he would be magically transformed from a 14-year-old lad with a particular talent for singing tongue-twistery patter songs into a miniature Major General Stanley, complete with red coat with gold trimmings, belt and sword, blue trousers and chapeau?

Well, for your information, he simply can't.

And as he simply can't, such a boy does what he must and—after he is sure his father has fallen asleep—creeps up to the attic of their Golden Square residence and spends this restless night tripping, skipping, and flipping through the entire libretto to perform the entire opera from memory, even the parts that aren't his, so it keeps its narrative integrity in his body.

Considering I was that boy, it was no wonder that my voice was a bit rough by the time I could safely slip out and stroll briskly through the pea-soup fog in the direction of the Victoria Embankment and the Savoy Theatre's stage door. Echoing in the mist were the evidences of London coming alive: the scrapping crunches of wheels, the slow clomping gait of horses, scattered voices bouncing off the damp stones, none of which I could see by the sleepy gas street lights which never had enough strength to beat back the early morning yellow-grey gloom.

As I clattered along, I kept my scarf wrapped in thick layers around my nose and mouth to limit my intake of any sooty dust. The one thing that mattered was that my voice would be ready for the vocal gymnastics ahead.

Mr. D'Oyly Carte's children's productions were always matinees. We were the opportunity for children and their governesses or nannies or whoever else might be minding little ones to see an official Savoy theatre performance of a Gilbert and Sullivan opera, but without the impropriety of hauling little ones to the regular evening productions in which the real Savoyard players appeared. Mr. Richard Barker was our stage manager, but he was determined that our little company would match pose for pose, note for note, gesture for gesture, business for business the exacting precision of Mr. W. S. Gilbert's direction for our adult counterparts. And thus we children were drilled as rigorously as any Mr. Grossmith or Mr. Barrington or Miss Bond or Mr. Temple was.

The best part of it all was—

Oh, no, never mind. I won’t tell you. It’s a secret.

No, no. I mustn’t. I don’t wish to embarrass Mr. Grossmith or any of the other adult principals.

Unless ... you are able to keep a terribly delicious secret?

Oh, all right then. Only because you promised.

Here it is: It was rumoured that Mr. Gilbert himself said, after seeing the Children's H.M.S. Pinafore for the Christmas season of 1879—the one where I won a spot in the chorus—that he believed we little amateurs did the Savoy operas better.

Isn’t that delicious?

And now we were about to do it again. Only this time with Pirates.

And me as the Major-General Stanley.

Mr. François Cellier, the music director, had auditioned us back in November. He remembered me from Pinafore and asked if I had continued with my goal to memorize all the patter songs in the Gilbert and Sullivan operas as four more operas had been produced since 1879.

Of course, I had.

"Even the Lord Chancellor's Nightmare song?" he pressed.

"Oh, yes, sir. That one 'specially, sir."

He gave me a doubtful look.

So when it was my turn to audition, I sang it, top to bottom. Not one mistake.

And with that, there was no more doubt to be had.

The dress rehearsal would be staged at 10:00 a.m. sharp. As the hours ticked by, our company of sixty children prepared—those of us older preparing ourselves, the younger receiving preparation—warmed up, ran through lines, and generally did whatever we individually found worked well to teach the excitement in our bellies to behave properly. Once I was fully made up and in costume, my approach was to dismiss that boy Jess Merryman so he might go find his seat in the stalls while I, Major-General Stanley, sauntered about the green room greeting the daughters and pirates and policemen in the appropriate manner in which a General of Major-ness ought to rally one's troops, all while humming a bright allegro vivace tune in strict cut-time.

At 10:00 a.m. the curtain rose.

My entrance was to take place toward the end of Act I, and thus I had about forty minute to wait for my cue. I continued puttering about the green room and eventually charted my way into the wings, General-Stanley-ing the whole time.

As my moment neared, Mr. Barker slipped in beside me. "Right, lad?" he whispered.

I smiled at him. "Right, Uncle Dick," I said.

He nodded and disappeared.

When I relive this moment, I have to admit I had noticed it all morning, the whole time, a little nagging sensation. But it was December. And it was London. And it was all those things that make up nice, easy excuses not to feel the approaching shadow.

And I wasn't listening because I was here to be listened to.

"Hold, monsters!"

I straightened.

"Ere your pirate caravanserai

Proceed against our will, to wed us all!

Just bear in mind that we are wards in Chancery,

And Father is a Major-General!"

Scuffling as pirate band reacts.

"We'd better pause or danger may befall.

Their father is a Major-General."

The chorus, heightening the tension:

"Yes, yes, he is a ...

Cue.

"... Major-General."

Out, into the lights.

Blind.

But I trust in them.

"Yes, yes. I am a Major-General."

The chorus, parting as I advance downstage.

"For he is a Major-General!

"He is! Hurrah for the Major-General!"

I walk toward them. I can't see them. But they are there.

The audience.

Halt. Announce:

"And it is, it is a glorious thing

To be a Major-General!"

As the chorus affirmed, I looked toward the orchestra pit and focused my sight on the top and back of Mr. Cellier's head, the conductor's baton in his hand.

"It is! Hurrah for the Major-General!

Hurray for the Major-General!"

The orchestra, trumpet first, then urgent strings, brass, woodwinds into a short swirling motif.

Then, it all thins to staccato, light pizzicato.

"I am the very model of a modern Major-General.

I've information vegetable, animal, and mineral.

I know the kings of England, and I quote the fights historical

From Marathon to Waterloo in order categorical."

Breath.

"I'm very well-acquainted, too, with matters mathematical.

I understand equations, both the simple and quadratical,

About binomial theorem, I'm teeming with a lot o'news,

With many cheerful facts about the square of the hypotenuse!"

Breathe normally as the chorus affirms my existence and the orchestra swells:

With many cheerful facts about the square of the hypotenuse!"

With many cheerful facts about the square of the hypotenuse!"

With many cheerful facts about the square of the hypo-ta-tenuse!"

Thinning melody into a quick fluttery flute.

Go.

"I'm very good at integral and differential cal—"

It felt as if a thick mass of cotton was shoved deep into my throat.

I swallowed. Hard.

The lower strings and woodwind blending continued.

I tried.

But my throat was tight, scratched.

And all it could do was squeak like a knife on a porcelain plate.

Mr. Cellier, his baton still waving, pivoted ever so slightly.

I caught his eye.

His brow saddened with resignation.

For now the pure, angelic, heavenly voice of a boy was no longer mine to give.