Utopia, Limited

Act I – a remote, and fictional, island

Utopia is a paradise where languor describes the pace of life. King Paramount has his eye on British-style modernisations and has sent his eldest daughter, the Princess Zara, to Cambridge to learn how the English organise their government and society. She is soon to return home.

However, wily advisors and ‘Wise Men’ Scaphio and Phantis control King Paramount’s actions, and ‘Public Exploder’ Tarara can blow up the King on their orders and become King himself. Scaphio and Phantis appear and declare their duty to spy upon the King to maintain order in Utopia. Phantis is in love with Zara, and Scaphio promises to help him win her.

King Paramount arrives. His admiration of all things English has led him to introduce Lady Sophy, ‘a grave and good and gracious English lady’ as governess to his younger daughters, Nekaya and Kalyba. Lady Sophy explains how good English ladies comport themselves around gentlemen. After she leaves, Paramount expresses his affection for her – unfortunately, his deep regard for this lady is not returned as her susceptibilities are offended by the scurrilous tales regarding the King’s behaviour which appear in The Palace Peeper – ironically, written by the King himself under a pseudonym at the instigation of Scaphio and Phantis. While he thinks his articles are very well written, he hopes neither Sophy nor Zara will see them. Paramount comments on the farcical nature of life with his advisors. Lady Sophy returns and, over the course of conversation with the King, discovers the Palace Peeper article.

Zara returns home after her education at Cambridge, bringing along Captain Fitzbattleaxe and five other ‘Flowers of Progress’ who epitomise the best English qualities. Zara has struck up a romance with Captain Fitzbattleaxe. Scaphio and Phantis are both smitten with the princess and argue about who has the best claim. Fitzbattleaxe says that, should they duel, the rivals must entrust the lady at the heart of their argument to an officer for safeguarding until the matter is resolved. Scaphio and Phantis are too cowardly to fight and leave Zara with Fitzbattleaxe.

After telling her father that his island is not looked upon favourably in the outside world, Zara introduces the Flowers of Progress: Fitzbattleaxe, Sir Bailey Barre, Lord Dramaleigh, Mr Blushington, Mr Goldbury, and Captain Corcoran. They each advise on how to improve the country. The people and king are captivated. King Paramount decides to go one step further than even Great Britain has gone and declare the island a ‘Company Limited’.

Act II – the same island, now corporatised

Captain Fitzbattleaxe woos Princess Zara and the two pledge their troth. Meanwhile, the King and the Flowers of Progress celebrate success; Utopia has been transformed into an even more perfect Great Britain with army, navy, courts, culture, and every citizen a limited liability entity.

Paramount presides over a most unusual Cabinet Council and formal Drawing Room. The people are pleased with the country’s glorious reformation, but Scaphio and Phantis are full of rage: their influence and profit has dissolved. They threaten the King but he refuses to revoke the changes: they have the power to blow up the King as a person, but they do not have the power to blow up the King as a limited company. They plot with Tarara.

Mr Goldbury and Lord Dramaleigh attempt to disperse the excessive modesty displayed by the younger princesses Nekaya and Kalyba, extolling the virtues of bold and hearty English girls. The princesses are delighted. Lady Sophy mourns the King’s flaws, but Paramount is finally able to tell her the truth about the Palace Peeper articles and they declare their mutual love.

Just as all seems happiest, Scaphio, Phantis, and Tarara return with a rebellious crowd, turning against the Flowers of Progress for enacting too much change. The moment is quickly dispelled as Zara recalls the ‘most essential element’ of successful rule – Government by Party! Under such a system, all progress is inevitably reversed or confounded by the opposing party, leading to employment for all and no lasting change. This satisfies the crowd, Scaphio and Phantis are imprisoned, and the populace sings to a happy and prosperous ever after.

Gilbert and Sullivan’s penultimate opera was premiered in 1893 and marked the resumption of their partnership after the infamous ‘Carpet’ quarrel. Their previous collaboration, The Gondoliers, had been one of their most successful – only The Mikado had more performances in its initial run – and expectations were high. Richard D’Oyly Carte, having managed (with the help of his wife) to reunite the two partners, spared no expense to make the production one of the Savoy Theatre’s most lavish. Despite a respectable initial run of nearly 250 performances, however, Utopia, Limited disappeared from the repertory and was not revived by the D’Oyly Carte Company until their centenary in 1975.

Practical and artistic reasons have been put forward for its neglect. Certainly the large cast required, and corresponding set and costume costs, deterred D’Oyly Carte’s son Rupert from reviving it in the 1920s. Until recently, UK performances have been left to larger amateur or student societies seeking a change from the more popular operas. Gilbert’s libretto has been accused of trying to attack too many targets simultaneously, and Sullivan’s music has been criticised for merely re-hashing old formulae. Yet the work has always had its admirers – chief among them George Bernard Shaw, who thought it among the pair’s best.

Examination of the libretto and score reveals that the truth of the matter is not so clear-cut. Perhaps in a conscious effort to avoid confrontation, both Gilbert and (to a lesser extent) Sullivan did not do their usual self-editing when working on this piece. As a result, its dramatic structure, particularly in the long first act, is awkward in performance. On a recording where the dialogue is omitted, however, we can focus on the brilliance of Gilbert’s lyrics, with his ingenious rhyme schemes, and on Sullivan’s music, which gives the lie to those who maintain he was tired of writing such pieces by this stage in his career.

One of the musical problems in Utopia, Limited is that there is no formal overture in the printed vocal score. From early in the work’s performance history the Act II Drawing Room Music, with a short introductory fanfare, was used. This is certainly how the work begins in an autograph score from the mid-1890s now in the British Library. For this recording, we knew that the Drawing Room Music would appear in its normal position. Therefore, rather than having it twice, we begin with the Overture that John Owen Edwards (D’Oyly Carte Company’s Music Director from 1992–2003) prepared for a production he conducted at the 2011 International Gilbert and Sullivan Festival. He tells us:

I was very pleased to have the opportunity to conduct this piece for the first time since my university days, where we mounted a concert performance in the Holywell Music Room in Oxford... I saw the chance to provide a new overture, and I thought something along the lines of the potpourri overtures of most of the Savoy operas would not be inappropriate. As Sullivan entrusted many of these overtures to his assistants, I did not feel that I was interfering too severely with the piece.

This new Overture opens with the Ceremonial music from Act II. A short section of the ‘Quaff the nectar’ chorus leads to an extract from the Act I finale, then comes music from the ‘Wily brain’ trio into which – in true Sullivanesque fashion – is woven the melody of ‘O maiden, rich in Girton lore’. The march signalling the entrance of Captain Fitzbattleaxe with his escort of First Life Guards provides an extrovert conclusion.

The opening chorus of Act I, with its spacious orchestration and lyrical melody, reminds us that Sullivan had recently completed his one ‘grand’ opera, Ivanhoe. The middle section, a solo for Phylla, is notable for its unexpected harmonies and its fluttering accompaniment. This sense of harmonic adventure can be seen throughout the score – even the first patter duet for Scaphio and Phantis, ‘In ev’ry mental lore’, has more interesting harmonies and orchestration than might be expected in such a text-orientated number. This is not the work of a composer on autopilot! The dance interludes in their second duet (‘Let all your doubts take wing’) recall the syncopations of the ‘If Saphir I choose to marry’ in Patience.

The entrance of King Paramount begins a section of continuous music that is longer than many of Sullivan’s act finales. The chorus ‘Quaff the nectar’ gives us a further instance of rich orchestral sonorities, with the rhythm marked by repeated quaver and semiquaver patterns. Note the skilful addition of the bass drum in Paramount’s song (Sullivan’s use of percussion is effective for its relative scarcity) and the opening bars of Arne’s ‘Rule, Brittania’ and an Irish jig at the mention of Great Britain and Ireland in the following recitative. The duet for the two Princesses, Nekaya and Kalyba – with charming violin decorations in the accompaniment – is introduced by a short choral section aptly illustrating the text ‘How English and how pure’; you can almost hear Sullivan smiling to himself as he wrote this. The final number in this sequence, Lady Sophy’s ‘Bold-fac’d ranger’ has been criticised for ‘uninteresting’ harmony and repetitive accompaniment. While there is indeed a lot of D minor to begin with, Sullivan moves, via F and then B-flat Majors, to D Major for the refrain. He enlivens the basic string texture with some delicate woodwind writing. The melody develops into a lyrical waltz tune that seems to foreshadow those found in the operettas of Franz Lehár. 

The trio which follows, ‘First your born…’, contains one of Gilbert’s most bitter lyrics, but Sullivan ‘softens’ sardonic barbs by setting the text in a rather jolly polka rhythm. By contrast, the next duet for the King and Lady Sophy is a gentle pastoral number, though there is a touch of menace in both music and lyrics (‘This writer lies’) before the tranquil G Major ending. The entrance of Captain Fitzbattleaxe with the First Life Guards gave Sullivan an opportunity not unlike the Entrance of the Peers in Iolanthe, though this march is livelier – in places almost more Sousa than Sullivan. But it is also Princess Zara’s entrance, so there is a contrasting, lyrical side to this number though the martial aspect prevails. Much of the music reappears in the following number (‘Ah, gallant soldier, brave and true’), which is presented here in its original uncut version with orchestral postlude.

The ensuing quartet ‘It’s understood, I think all round’ is a good example of Schubert’s arguable influence on Sullivan’s music. The Dactylic rhythms (long, short, short), simplicity of melody, and unexpected harmonic twists are typical of the Viennese composer whose music Sullivan admired and helped to popularise through conducting and research. The quartet leads into a duet for Zara and the Captain that, after its exuberant start, becomes tender and intimate. Orchestral writing of the utmost simplicity is immensely effective.

The long Act I finale may not have the cumulative effect of some of Sullivan’s other extended finales: there are perhaps too many solo ‘songs’ as each Flower of Progress is introduced individually. But what wonderful tunes Sullivan gives us in the process! Before commenting on them, however, one other aspect of this finale needs to be discussed.

Gilbert’s view (and the premise of this piece) that Great Britain was supreme and her customs should be emulated throughout the world gave him a focus for his satire, but it is not a view that sits comfortably with 21^st century sensibilities. There are lines in this finale that now seem derogatory and offensive. For the concert performances preceding this recording, in which several cuts were made, it was easy to organise a cut of the whole section in which they appear. We were keen to record the music complete, however, so we had to decide what to do. After much discussion, and following the practice established in other operas where similar controversial lines occur, we have altered them while preserving Gilbert’s rhyme scheme. We hope that the result mitigates any potential offence while still staying true to Gilbert’s intentions and respecting Sullivan’s music.

As Princess Zara introduces the various Flowers of Progress, we may note the splendidly martial tones of ‘When Britain sounds the trump of war’ (note the snare drum) and the languorous waltz with which she introduces the Lord High Chamberlain and the County Councillor (‘Who these may be, Utopians all’) – another melody of which Lehár might have been proud, though his Merry Widow was 12 years into the future. There is also a charming orchestral interlude between the verses.

Captain Corcoran, formerly of H.M.S. Pinafore but now knighted, is the only character to appear in more than one Gilbert and Sullivan opera. He is introduced by a few bars of the ‘Sailor’s Hornpipe’ – with, for Sullivan, quite grotesque ‘wrong note’ harmonies – before quoting his well-known ‘What never? Hardly ever’ refrain from the earlier opera. These self-quotations by both Gilbert and Sullivan (there is also a reference to the Mikado of Japan in the spoken dialogue) sometimes elicit critical opprobrium but were no doubt enjoyed by audiences.

(Listeners who know the piece well or who are following the published vocal score as they listen may notice some apparent discrepancies in the vocal lines in the section beginning ‘Increase your army’. The autograph score now has these lines in slightly different rhythms, which make the counterpoint in the orchestra easier to hear, so we decided on this version for the recording.)

Another highpoint of this long musical sequence is Mr Goldbury’s song about setting up a limited company, ‘Some seven men form an association’, which shows Sullivan’s ability to shape a tune to make the most of both the pattern and sense of the lyrics. The conclusion of the finale contrasts quicksilver patter for the conspirators with rhapsodic lines for the two lovers. Both elements combine beautifully before the final general chorus singing the praises of the Joint Stock Companies Act of 1862 – surely one of the most unlikely subjects to enshrine in music.

Act II begins with a sonorous introduction to Captain Fitzbattleaxe’s song lamenting the effect being in love has on his voice – Sullivan obviously enjoying the colours available to him in the slightly larger orchestra he was able to employ in later Savoy Operas. Deliberately asking the tenor to crack a top C (though he did write a lower alternative) and effectively matching his music to the ‘chromatics’ and other musical terms Gilbert mentions in the text are only two of the skills he demonstrates in this number, which contains more humour than many of his tenor romantic solos. The beautiful ensuing duet ‘Words of love too loudly spoken’, with its delicate woodwind accompaniment, again recalls the sound world of Ivanhoe. The next number ‘Society has quite forsaken all its wicked courses’ is one of the opera’s cleverest. The irony of six ‘Establishment’ figures joining in a close-harmony refrain like a troupe of minstrels would not have been lost on the first audiences, though it maintains its humour today without the outdated connotations. Sullivan uses an old Plantation song in the introduction (though it always sounds to British audiences as if he is quoting the Northumbrian folk song ‘The Keel Row’) and the orchestra sounds like a huge guitar. Traditionally, the singers also play tambourines, and though not notated in the score, the number would certainly lose much of its effect without them. Gilbert too is on top form here with lyrics that hit home even today and must have done so even more in 1893.

The Entrance of the Court is an orchestral polonaise. Keen listeners may notice an interesting discrepancy in the opening bars of the main tune. At the end of the first complete bar, the vocal score and the relevant orchestral parts give the final two semiquavers as G# and A, a pattern repeated elsewhere and heard when the music is quoted at the beginning of John Owen Edwards’ Overture. But the autograph score in the British Library clearly gives these two semiquavers as A# and B, so we have followed that reading throughout this number, giving listeners the chance to choose which version they prefer. The Drawing Room music is full of charm – recalling the ballet music of Léo Delibes – though the martial middle section gives the brass a chance to shine.

Few commentators seem to have picked up that the chords underneath the King’s recitative introducing the chorus ‘Eagle high in cloudland soaring’ are based on the opening bars of the  National Anthem. The chorus itself – the most extended passage of unaccompanied singing in any of the Savoy operas – is a fine example of Sullivan’s part-song writing, rounded off by an extended orchestral postlude pointing towards the ceremonial music of Parry and Elgar. With the introduction of the duet for Scaphio and Phantis, ‘With fury deep we burn’, the orchestra is suddenly but briefly back in Verdian grand opera, while in the trio that follows the King gleefully reprises the jaunty syncopated dance of the conspirators’ Act I duet. The trio ‘With wily brain’ in which Scaphio, Phantis, and Tarara try to devise a plot to overturn the Flowers of Progress is another clever number, its conspiratorial beginning marked Andante misterioso. In the main Allegro section, the harmonies range widely around the home key of B Major (a tonality it shares with another ‘revenge’ trio in Act II of The Pirates of Penzance) before settling into a refrain sounding suspiciously like an Irish jig.

Mr Goldbury’s song extolling the virtues of ‘a bright and beautiful English girl’ captures the slightly over-hearty sentiments with subtler orchestral writing than the somewhat plain piano version in the published vocal score would suggest. The main theme of the ensuing charming quartet embodies the sort of prim joy expressed by the lyrics. The orchestral interludes seem delicately Tyrolean.

The entrance of Lady Sophy, heralded by a short Tchaikovskian outburst from the orchestra, leads to her somewhat soulful song ‘When but a maid of fifteen year’ (note the plaintive bassoon solo). When all the obstacles to her love for King Paramount have been removed, the music turns into a suitably sedate polka for these two more elderly characters. This followed by a sprightly Tarantella – Sullivan showing that he can easily outdo his Italian counterparts in this lively 6/8 dance.

The Chorus ‘Upon our sea-girt land’ brings a sudden change of mood at the start of the final scene with a dark, Beethovenian C minor tonality. The words of the finale itself – ushered in with another (possibly ironic) quote from ‘Rule, Britannia’ – originally stumped Sullivan. The first few performances ended with a trio composed by Sullivan that Gilbert fitted words to. By all accounts – partly because there was no chorus involvement – this made a highly unsatisfactory ending. Thus, Sullivan went back to Gilbert’s original text and produced the current finale, a two-verse pattern wrapping up this surprisingly varied score with a solid burst of E-flat major.

Derek Clark

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