The Proofs of the Pudding

fter, what, sixteen months, seventeen, the contract has been signed, the book has been started, finished, and accepted by The History Press as the fulfilment of my side of the bargain, and today I received the proofs for me to correct. Hallelujah! The story isn't over yet, of course; I can see there are details to adjust, and there is the index to prepare. But the end is in sight. What a relief it will be to see the dam' thing pushed into the world and... and then to wait with ever-increasing anxiety to hear the world's reaction. Oh, is there no end to it all?

I am writing a short essay for the Gilbert Society Journal attempting to explain what I was trying to achieve in the book. I am finding it harder than expected to set it down in words, even though it is clear enough in my head. I think part of the problem is that I don't want to offend my more conventional readers. Because the fact is that, much though I love the Gilbert and Sullivan operas, I feel that in the context of Gilbert's life they form a semi-tragic culmination. That is to say, at the start of his career, say from 1861 to about 1877, he was an enfant terrible, a shocking and somewhat wearisome cynical observer of his society forever seeking to pull down the sacred icons and show them to be clay. Audiences responded sometimes with enthusiasm and sometimes with boos and hisses and disgust. Victorian theatre audiences in general wanted their society's values validated, not questioned. His plays, and his conduct in the theatre, made him lasting enemies. He became accepted as the best and most interesting playwright of his day, but his journey to the top of the tree was a never-ending battle. This first half of his life saw him kicking against the pricks (to use a vivid Biblical phrase) every step of the way.

But then he met Sullivan and D'Oyly Carte, and together they started to create a sequence of comic operas that would be attended and appreciated by all ranks from the lowest to the highest. The Savoy first nights were social occasions for the nobility and the gentry, and they were characterised by polite, genteel enjoyment, rather than raucous immediacy on a knife-edge between cheers and hisses. The operas made Gilbert rich and respected, but from a modern point of view it might seem that something of the real Gilbert died. He was, perhaps, destroyed by success. I exaggerate for effect. However, it doesn't matter, because all this is simply me writing to myself, and no one else will ever read it. Apparently.

I've got till the end of the month to complete and return the proofs. I will have to reverse the habits of a lifetime and be efficient about the business and get them returned on time. There must be no delays.