_Charlie Ponta-Tutti_ Robert Warwick.
_Denis Le Guern_ Frank Reicher.
_Joseph_ John P. Brawn.
_Gabrielle Jannelot_ Frances Starr.
_Henriette Durand_ Marguerite Leslie.
_Clotilde DeSavageat_ Harriet Otis Dellenbaugh.
_Marie_ Beatrice Reinhardt.
“MARIE-ODILE.”
[Of all the productions which he has made, excepting only that of
“Madame Butterfly,” Belasco feels most pride in that of Edward
Knoblauch’s play entitled “Marie-Odile,”--a work esteemed by him to be
one of great artistic excellence and beauty. It was brought out in
Washington, January 18, and at the Belasco Theatre, New York, January
26, 1915. Through a series of mischances it happened that neither my
father nor I saw that production. Therefore, as critical consideration
of it should not be omitted from this Memoir, I here copy, from “The New
York Evening Post,” the review of the representation written by my
father’s old friend and co-worker John Ranken Towse, now the most
experienced and authoritative writer on the drama connected with the New
York press.--J. W.]
“The ‘Marie-Odile’ of Edward Knoblauch, which was presented for the
first time in the Belasco Theatre last evening, is in many respects
a remarkable play, which would have been still more noteworthy if
it did not slip now and then below the highest level of its ideal.
For the most part, it is sweet, idyllic romance, with an
undercurrent of satirical symbolism and a tincture of somewhat
perilous philosophy, and it is told with delicacy and imagination,
except for occasional touches of rougher realism, which are
unnecessary and inartistic, and have a harsh and jarring effect in
a rarefied and sentimental atmosphere. The object of them--one of
contrast--is obvious and legitimate, but it might have been
attained by less violent methods.
“On the surface, at first, the tale is one for the nursery, but
beneath is deep and earnest purpose, the enforcement of the
distinction between the essential goodness of loving and unselfish
innocence, delighting in service, and the hard and cruel Pharisaism
of a narrow, egoistic bigotry. Presently the parable illustrates
the savagery which perfect innocence may experience at the hands of
arrogant and sophisticated virtue. But a brief outline will most
clearly show the motive of Mr. Knoblauch’s story. The scene is laid
in a convent in France, during the Franco-German conflict of 1870.
_Marie-Odile_, the embodiment of childish innocence, is virtually
the servant of the sisterhood. As an infant she had been found on
the door-step. Now she is serving her novitiate and doing the
domestic work, until ready for the final vows. She is a bright,
affectionate, devout, and indefatigable little creature, who has
never been outside the convent walls, has never seen a man--except
an old priest and a decrepit, half-witted gardener--and is
absolutely ignorant of the world and the ways of life. She has been
taught that babies are the rewards which kindly angels bring from
heaven to deserving mothers. By the _Mother Superior_, a martinet
and zealot, she is persistently bullied. Even her tenderness for
her pet pigeon is accounted a mortal sin, and, by way of spiritual
discipline, she is ordered to tell the gardener to kill it for the
_Mother Superior’s_ table. At this she revolts. Sooner than obey
she hides herself, and is not to be found when the terrible news
arrives that the French have been hopelessly beaten, and that the
_Uhlans_ are at the convent door. The priests and the nuns flee and
_Marie-Odile_ and the old gardener are left behind alone. Soon the
first German, a handsome young corporal, arrives, and
_Marie-Odile_, who has never seen a male figure of such splendor
before, concludes that he is Saint Michael--the convent’s patron
saint--and kneels to him in rapturous worship. Other soldiers come
in, led by a rough sergeant, and are disposed to take liberties,
but are promptly disarmed by her fearlessness, her simplicity, and
her transparent innocence. They even affect to respect the laws of
the _Mother Superior_, which she quotes as paramount. She feeds
them, presides at their table, and holds them in subjection--all
but one or two--by magic of the ignorance that knows no wrong. The
corporal champions her against the advances of his more brutal
fellows, and to him she appeals with the confidence of a child.
When the troops depart the sergeant, learning that the corporal has
never had a love affair of any kind, purposely leaves him behind,
bidding him take advantage of his manifest opportunity.
The _Corporal_, who is not vicious, is so moved by _Marie-Odile’s_
unsuspecting confidence that he resolves not to molest her, but she
begs him so earnestly to remain, and so willingly lets him kiss
her, that he yields to temptation, and the curtain falls upon the
second act as she reposes happily in his arms. The scene is natural
and charming, and the sentiment that of pure, youthful romance. In
the third and last act, after the lapse of a year, the convent has
another tenant. _Marie-Odile_ and the old gardener are no longer
alone. There is an infant, which _Marie-Odile_ accounts for as a
miraculous gift from Heaven. She is conscious of no ill, has
followed unhesitatingly the promptings of nature, and rejoices in
her new possession with boundless exultation. But now the war is
over and the nuns are returning. _Sister Louise_, the
personification of true Christian charity, is the first to enter,
and sorely afflicted is she as she listens to _Marie-Odile’s_
grateful pæans, and thinks of what the _Mother Superior_ will say.
That austere judge is inflexible from the first. Straightway she
orders the amazed but unrepentant young mother from the sacred
precincts, in spite of the protests of _Sister Louise_, who
declares that the true responsibility lay with the sisterhood which
had failed to instruct or guard innocence.
“Simple as the play is in external form, it deals with more than
one difficult and complex problem. Concerning the particular
instance of the heroine--who becomes in Mr. Knoblauch’s sketch a
fresh and delightful ideal of ignorant and untainted
innocence--there need be no question. Like _Haidée_, she flew to
her love like a young bird. She was guiltless, and her story--with
the exceptions hinted at--is told very prettily, with an unaffected
naturalism which is rare, and with many charming little poetic
interludes. Her love episode is handled with notable tact and
fancy, and is an eloquent plea for the sanctity of nature’s own
laws. But obviously it is less ingenuous than _Marie-Odile_ in its
wilful disregard of certain awkward and wholly incontrovertible
facts. The Pharisaism of the _Mother Superior_ is, of course,
utterly indefensible upon any count, but may be set down partly to
the credit of poetic license. Unfortunately, the innocence of love
is not, in the present state of this imperfect world, sufficient to
exempt it from the material penalties of unrestricted freedom. And
the instruction of ignorance is not altogether so simple a matter
as some of our younger social philosophers seem to suppose.
“But in ‘Marie-Odile’ Mr. Knoblauch has produced a work of superior
calibre, and has acquitted himself of a difficult task with
ingenuity and tact. His first act is too much overladen with
(dramatically) trifling details, but the piece acquires strength
and impetus as it proceeds. _Marie-Odile_ is one of the most
credible examples of complete unsophistication that has been put
upon the stage for a long time, and she is admirably impersonated
by Miss Frances Starr. The part does not, it is true, present many
difficulties, but most actresses would have betrayed in it a
self-consciousness of the superfine quality of the innocence which
they were portraying, and this Miss Starr did not do. She did
really suggest the purity of a completely isolated maidenhood. Her
completely natural maternal exultation in the possession of a baby
was really excellent acting. Harriet Otis Dellenbaugh showed warm
womanly feeling as the kindly _Sister Louise_, Jerome Patrick did
very well as the _Corporal_, and Frank Reicher furnished a clever
character bit as the senile old gardener. The setting in the
convent was perfect--a notable specimen of Mr. Belasco’s
handiwork.”
This was the cast of “Marie-Odile”:
_Mother Saint Dominic_, Mother Superior
of the Convent Marie Wainwright.
_Sister Clotilde_ Ada C. Nevil.
_Sister Louise_ Harriet Otis Dellenbaugh.
_Sister Monica_ Alice Martin.
_Sister Anatole_ Sally Williams.
_Sister Angela_ Mildred Dean.
_Sister Cecilia_ Amy Fitzpatrick.
_Sister Joseph_ Mary Green.
_Sister Elizabeth_ Nona Murray.
_Sister Catherine_ Alice Carroll.
_Marie-Odile_, a novice Frances Starr.
[Illustration:
Photograph by White. Belasco’s Collection.
FRANCES STARR AS _MARIE ODILE_]
_Father Fisher_ Edward Donnelly.
_Peter_ Frank Reicher.
_Sergeant Otto Beck_ } { Henry Vogel.
_Corp. Philip Meissner_ } Uhlans { Jerome Patrick.
_Steinhauser_ } in a { Paul Stanley.
_Hartmann_ } Prussian { Alphonse Ethier.
_Horn_ } Regiment. { Edward Waldmann.
_Mittendorf_ } { Charles W. Kaufman.
_Schramm_ } { Robert Robson.
{ Margaret Cadman.
{ Edith King.
_Sisters_ { Dorothy Turner.
{ Edythe Maynard.
{ Madeleine Marshall.
{ Gertrude Wagner.
{ Hugo Schmedes.
_Soldiers_ { August Nelson.
{ Albert Mack.
RECONCILIATION WITH CHARLES FROHMAN--AND JOINT PRESENTMENT OF “A
CELEBRATED CASE.”
The antagonism of Belasco and the Theatrical Syndicate, which he fought
for so many years, naturally led to friction between him and Charles
Frohman,--a person of extraordinary self-conceit, who loved to have
applied to himself the ridiculous designation of “the Napoleon of the
Theatre”; who aspired to be thought the greatest of theatrical managers,
and who, necessarily, felt himself rebuked under the superior talents of
the man with whom, in early years, he had been so closely associated
and who had done so much to make his career possible. In 1903 he had a
personal quarrel with Belasco (about what I do not know), and for twelve
years thereafter they were more or less actively at enmity and treated
each other as strangers. Frohman, however, appears to have possessed
engaging qualities, which endeared him to many of those who knew him
well. Belasco, for example, has assured me that through all the time of
their estrangement he “cherished a great affection for ‘Charlie,’” and
that he is “grateful beyond words that our misunderstanding was cleared
up and our friendship renewed before he sailed away to his death.”
Frohman left New York on board the steamship Lusitania, May 1, 1915, and
he lost his life, May 7, when, to the eternal infamy of the German
nation, that vessel was sunk off Old Head of Kinsale, Ireland. “I was
alone in my studio, one evening early in 1915,” Belasco has told me,
“and by chance I noticed a newspaper paragraph about Charles Frohman
being ill, at the Hotel Knickerbocker. It set me thinking about our
first meeting so long ago in San Francisco, and of all that followed; of
our first venture in Chicago and of all the years when we worked
together and had rooms side by side, when ‘Charlie’ used to consult me
about everything and I used to read my ‘May Blossom’ to him. As I sat
there thinking it all over I realized that the shadows were beginning
to slant toward the east--and suddenly I decided that if ‘Charlie’
should die without our being reconciled it should not be my fault. I
started to write a little note to him but got no further than ‘Dear
Charlie’ when my telephone-bell rang. The caller was Roeder--and the
first thing he said was: ‘I’ve just had a telephone message from Charles
Frohman. He wants to see you’! We met that night, in his rooms, and
forgot that we ever had a disagreement.”
Soon after that reconciliation Belasco held a little festival in honor
of Frohman, in his theatre-studio, and there, at first in jest, it was
proposed that they should make a joint revival of some notably
successful play of earlier days. This proposal led to a serious
discussion and eventually to an agreement whereby the two managers
covenanted to make a joint production every season during a term of
years. At Frohman’s request Belasco agreed to choose the first play to
be presented by them, and his election fell upon “A Celebrated Case.”
That play (first produced in America at the Union Square Theatre, New
York, January 23, 1878) is a melodrama in six acts, translated, in rough
English, from the French of Adolphe D’Ennery (1811-1899) and Eugène
Cormon (18--- 18--). It presents the image of a murder which was done in
France, on the eve of the Battle of Fontenoy (May 11, 1745), and for
which an innocent man was made to suffer years of cruel punishment,
till, at last, in a mysterious and circuitous way, it was brought home
to its perpetrator. The circumstances of the crime are peculiarly
hideous and the circumstances of the belated retribution are peculiarly
complex. The innocent man, _Jean Renaud_, is condemned, for the murder
of his wife, on the testimony of their child. _Lazare_, the guilty man
(as in many other fictions on this antiquated pattern), assumes the
identity of another person connected with the crime, the _Count de
Mornay_, and, after various escapes from exposure and much suspense, he
is baffled in his maintenance of the assumed identity and is brought to
justice. The parting of the condemned father with his innocent,
prattling child, who has unconsciously convicted him of murder, and
their meeting in after years, he a wretched galley-slave and she a young
woman, afford a poignantly affecting contrast. Adroit use, likewise, is
made of a certain singular jewel as the instrument for discovery of the
actual criminal. Although there are no remarkable characters in the
piece and nothing extraordinary in its dialogue, it possesses
substantial dramatic merit in its occasional scenes of acute agony,
relieved by the violent action of natures taxed beyond endurance. Its
sentiment, moreover,--that of filial affection,--is pure; and in its
complication of the lives and the emotional troubles of two young girls
it deals skilfully and tenderly with difficult and lovely themes. Its
choice by Belasco (who had several times directed performances of it in
the days of his youth and in whom predilection for tense situation and
sharp effect is dominant) was a natural one. Affiliated with Frohman, he
presented it in a slightly revised form--some of its dialogue being a
little “modernized”--but substantially unaltered and in picturesque and
rich dress. It was well acted and kindly received. The first performance
of this Belasco-Frohman revival occurred at the Hollis Street Theatre,
Boston, March 28, 1915, and, April 7, they brought it out at the Empire
Theatre, New York. This was the cast:
_Count d’Aubeterre_ Frederic de Belleville.
_Lazare_ } Robert Warwick.
_Count de Mornay_ }
_Chanoinesse_ Elita Proctor Otis.
_Viscount Raoul de Mornay_ Eugene O’Brien.
_Jean Renaud_ Otis Skinner.
_Dennis O’Rourke_ N. C. Goodwin.
_Corporal_ Walter F. Scott.
_Seneschal_ George Allison.
_Captain_ John Warnick.
_Duchess d’Aubeterre_ Minna Gale Haynes.
_Little Adrienne_ Mimi Yvonne.
_Martha_ Beverly Sitgreaves.
_Julia_ Ruth Farnum.
_Madeleine Renaud_ Helen Ware.
_Adrienne Renaud_ Ann Murdock.
_Annette_ Esther Cornell.
_Valentine de Mornay_ Florence Reed.
_Julie_ Marie Sasse.
LENORE ULRIC.--AND “THE HEART OF WETONA.”
Many players of talent and present eminence have been fostered and
developed under Belasco’s management--that being, indeed, one of his
most important services to our Stage. He is an inveterate
theatre-goer,--attending performances everywhere and, sooner or later,
seeing practically everything and everybody visible on the American
Stage. This customary vigilant observance of all activity within his
profession he facetiously describes as “my fishing trips,” and,
conversing with me on the subject, he has remarked: “It is often a long
time between ‘bites,’ but one of the delights of the sport is that you
never know, as the curtain goes up, how soon you may ‘hook a big one.’
Among the biggest I have ever landed is, I believe, little Miss Ulric: I
think she will grow bigger every season she is before the public.”
Miss Lenore Ulric, to whom Belasco thus referred, was born at New Ulm,
Minnesota, July 21, 189--. In childhood she knew the meaning of
hardship, and she has studied and learned in the often harsh school of
experience. Whether or not she will fulfil Belasco’s high expectation
time alone can tell, but one thing about her is certain: she belongs to
a class of which there is urgent need on our Stage,--she is “a born
actress.” She resorted to the dramatic calling not through mere vanity,
the impulse of personal exhibition, or the acquisitive hope of
profit,--motives which actuate a majority of the young women who go upon
the Stage,--but because her natural vocation is acting. As far as known,
no precedent member of her family was ever associated with the Theatre,
and for some time her choice of that calling met with severe paternal
disapproval. Her novitiate was served in various stock companies in
Milwaukee, Grand Rapids, Chicago, and Syracuse. In August, 1913, Miss
Ulric appeared as _Luana_, in “The Bird of Paradise,” under the
management of Mr. Oliver Morosco: she acted that part for two seasons.
In 1914, while playing at the Standard Theatre, New York, she wrote to
Belasco asking him to witness her performance of that part and
expressing the hope that after having done so he might find a place for
her in some one of his companies. “I have long made it a rule,” writes
Belasco, “to comply with such requests from young players whenever it is
possible for me to do so. I well remember how long _I_ pleaded with dear
John McCullough for a hearing before I got it and I know the
discouragement of ‘hope deferred.’ Besides--nobody can make a fairer
proposition than ‘watch my work and, if you think it is good, engage
me.’ But I was extremely busy when I received Miss Ulric’s request and
couldn’t give the time,--so I sent my secretary, Mr. Curry. His report
was so favorable that I felt I must see her at work--so, since I could
not go to her, I had Mr. Roeder bring her to me by making her a
tentative offer of an engagement to act in George Scarborough’s play of
‘The Girl.’ She accepted, of course (she has told me, since, that she
had set her heart on getting with me and would have accepted almost any
offer to do so), and I had my stage manager call a rehearsal. I was not
supposed to attend,--but I slipped into the gallery unknown to anybody
(a little trick I have) and watched her carefully. After twenty minutes
I knew I was watching a very talented and unusual young woman--one who
with opportunity and proper training might do great things. Before the
rehearsal was over I had told Roeder to close the arrangement with her
to play the leading part in ‘The Girl,’ which, afterward, became ‘The
Heart of Wetona.’”
In its original form the scene of that play was “A Middle Western Town”
(Missouri), its five characters were Caucasian, and its story was one of
erring love, deceit, shame, and rescue set in a commonplace rural
environment,--a main purpose of its author being, presumably, to exhibit
a group of conventional persons impelled by violent passion yet
restrained by religious feeling. In that form it received a trial
presentment, June 28, 1915, at Atlantic City, New Jersey, with this
cast:
_In the Prologue._
_David Greer_ William H. Thompson.
_Elizabeth Greer_ Lenore Ulric.
_In the Play._
_Jonathan Wells, D.D_ Arthur Lewis.
_Anthony Wells_ Lowell Sherman.
_The Rev. Frederick Forbes_ John Miltern.
_Elizabeth Greer_ Lenore Ulric.
_David Greer_ William H. Thompson.
“Although its material was undeniably good, I had felt strong doubts
about the piece, from the first, but I gave it a ‘try-out,’ anyway,”
said Belasco. “Then I saw that it would not do as it stood and took it
off, and, at my suggestion and under my supervision, with such
assistance as I could give, Mr. Scarborough rewrote ‘The Girl’ and
eventually we had a real success with it.”
The rewritten play was first acted, January 20, 1916, at Stamford,
Connecticut, under the title of “Oklahoma”; soon after it was called
“The Heart of Wetona,” and under that name it was brought forth,
February 29, at the Lyceum Theatre, New York, where it held the stage
until May 20.
In its definitive form the scene of “The Heart of Wetona” is an Indian
Reservation, in the torrid State of Oklahoma; several of its persons are
aborigines of the Comanche tribe, and,--though its action and incidents
are sometimes arbitrarily directed,--it is a remarkably good melodrama
of a long-familiar kind. Belasco’s purpose in directing the revision was
to provide an effective play for the exploitation of the young actress
whose talents had so favorably impressed him, and that purpose was well
accomplished,--the interest centring continuously in the principal
female part, a girl named _Wetona_, the child of a Comanche chieftain
and a white mother, deceased. This girl, who has been seduced under a
lying promise of marriage by _Anthony Wells_, a visitor to the Indian
Reservation, is chosen as a sort of vestal virgin in ceremonial rites of
the Comanches, and thereupon, in the Tribal House, before her father
and his assembled warriors, though concealing her lover’s identity, she
confesses her transgression. The girl is then subjected to a harrowing
inquisition by the Indians, who desire to find and slay her lover. At
last, unable to endure longer, she agrees to reveal his name on
condition that she first be permitted to warn him of his danger. She
seeks him in the home of his friend _John Hardin_, the Indian Agent on
the Reservation (who secretly loves the girl and desires to make her his
wife), and is followed by her father, _Chief Quannah_, who, finding her
in conference with _Hardin_, furiously accuses him of being the wronger
of his daughter and demands that he instantly marry her--as an
alternative to being instantly slain with her. To save the girl,
himself, and her to him unknown lover, _Hardin_ agrees to do so,
privately assuring _Wetona_ that the marriage shall be one in name but
not in fact, and, a clergyman being conveniently accessible, the wedding
is at once performed. Afterward _Wetona_, collapsing, calls upon the
name of her _Anthony_--thus discovering to her husband her resolutely
guarded secret. Later, _Wells_, ensconced in the home of _Hardin_ and
supposing himself unsuspected and secure, seeks to resume his relation
with _Wetona_, but is repulsed by her until a divorce (to which
_Hardin_ will connive) shall have been obtained and he shall have
fulfilled his promise of marriage. Then the perfidy of _Wells_ is
revealed to _Wetona_ and she revolts from him; _Quannah_ discovers the
truth; _Hardin_, though righteously wrathful against _Wells_, tries to
save him from the vengeance of the Indians (providing him with weapons
and a steed) but fails,--that rascal being shot and killed as he
attempts to ride away in the night,--and the injured, forlorn Indian
girl humbly and thankfully confesses to _Hardin_ her contrition, her
gratitude for his protective generosity, the affection with which he has
inspired her, and her glad willingness to remain with him as his wife.
The ethics of all this will hardly bear scrutiny--but the dramatic
effect of it in representation was undeniable; and, perhaps, where
virtue is, presumably, intended it is to consider too curiously to
consider further. Miss Ulric presented with vigor, skill, simplicity,
sustained continuity of identity, and remarkable force a true, pathetic,
and alluring ideal of unsophisticated girlhood, confiding feminine ardor
and passionate distress, and she gained an auspicious success.--The cast
of “The Heart of Wetona,” as acted at the Lyceum under the management of
Belasco and a corporation called “Charles Frohman, Inc.,” is appended:
[Illustration:
Photograph by Abbe. Belasco’s Collection.
LENORE ULRIC AS _WETONNA_, IN “THE HEART OF WETONNA”]
_Quannah_, Chief of the Comanches William Courtleigh.
_Wetona_ Lenore Ulric.
_John Hardin_ John Miltern.
_David Wells_ Edward L. Snader.
_Anthony Wells_ Lowell Sherman.
_Mary Greer_ Isabel O’Madigan.
_Comanche Jack_ Curtis Cooksey.
_Nauma_ Ethel Benton.
_Nipo_ H. G. Carleton.
_Pasequa_ Langdon West.
_Eagle_ Chief Deer.
VARIOUS PRODUCTIONS--MISCELLANEOUS RECORD: “WHAT’S WRONG.”--“THE
VANISHING BRIDE.”--“THE LOVE THOUGHT.”--“ALIAS.”
During the last five years [that is, the five years preceding April,
1917] Belasco has made productions of various plays which do not require
extended consideration, though they must be specified and briefly
described in this Memoir in order to complete the record of his labors.
Those plays are “The Governor’s Lady,” “Years of Discretion,” “The
Temperamental Journey,” “What’s Wrong,” “The Man Inside,” “The Vanishing
Bride,” “The Phantom Rival,” “The Boomerang,” “The Love Thought,” “Seven
Chances,” “Alias,” “The Little Lady in Blue,” and “The Very Minute.”
Of these, “What’s Wrong,” by Frederick Ballard; “The Love Thought,” by
Henry Irving Dodge; “The Vanishing Bride,” adapted by Sydney Rosenfeld
from a German original called “Tantalus,” by Leo Kastner and Ralph
Tesmar; and “Alias” (based on a story by John A. Moroso and originally
called “The Treadmill”), by Willard Mack, are plays to which Belasco
gave trial productions, and all of which, except “The Vanishing Bride,”
he purposes to present in New York hereafter, when they have been
smoothed and polished and are deemed by him to be ready for metropolitan
presentment. “What’s Wrong” was brought out at the National Theatre,
Washington, D. C., May 4, 1914; “The Vanishing Bride” at Long Branch,
New Jersey, July 27, the same year; “The Love Thought,” at the Parsons
Theatre, Hartford, Connecticut, April 26, 1915; and “Alias,” first under
its original title, at the Apollo Theatre, Atlantic City, May 8, 1916,
then, February 5, 1917, at the Belasco Theatre, Washington. “The
Vanishing Bride” would have been produced in New York soon after its
trial had not Belasco found Mr. Rosenfeld (who is an industrious and
moderately clever writer but flatulent with self-conceit) excessively
fractious and troublesome to deal with. “I had spent $18,000 on that
play,” Belasco has told me, “and I know it could be made a success,
because it has excellent material in it. But life is too short for
disputes with Mr. Sydney Rosenfeld. I am always glad to do my best for
the men and women, writers or actors, who work with me, but I am not
willing to wrangle and fight with them for the privilege of doing so!
Therefore, I preferred to pocket my loss and let the piece go--with my
blessing and the hope that its adapter will find a more satisfactory
producer.”
The casts of the trial productions enumerated are here appended:
CAST OF “WHAT’S WRONG.”
_George H. Smith_ Frederick Burton.
_Perry Dodge_ Richie Ling.
_Eddie_ William Dixon.
_Woodrow_ Percy Helton.
_Heavy_ } { Henry Weaver.
_Bill_ } Farm hands { J. W. Kennedy.
_Red_ } { Russell Simpson.
_Jennie Brown_ Janet Beecher.
_Mrs. Perry Dodge_ Maidel Turner.
_Mrs. Lee-Hugh_, S.P.A.I.H. Louise Sylvester.
_Phoebe Snow_ Dorothy Walters.
_Flossie_ Susanne Willa.
_Agnes_ Grace Vernon.
_Tillie_ Jane Shore.
CAST OF “THE VANISHING BRIDE.”
_Zachary Hollis_ Thomas A. Wise.
_Dick Hollis_ Howard Estabrook.
_Baron Von Berndorff_ Gustav Von Seyffertitz.
_Eric Von Berndorff_ Frank Gillmore.
_Phelim O’Hara_ Denman Maley.
_An Upholsterer_ Conrad Cantzen.
_A Postman_ Lee Metford.
_Letty Von Berndorff_ Janet Beecher.
_Eva_, the bride Ottola Nesmith.
_Eileen O’Hara_ Angela Keir.
_Mrs. Miller_ Margaret Seddon.
_Anna_ Edith Houston.
CAST OF “THE LOVE THOUGHT.”
_Stephen Bennett_ Ramsey Wallace.
_Howard Johnson_ Lowell Sherman.
_Squire Miley_ George Gaston.
_Jake Means_ Hardee Kirkland.
_Dupley Reed_ Henry Forsman.
_George Culligan_ Daniel Moyles.
_Lew Bates_ George Berry.
_Billy_ Edwin Dupont, Jr.
_Anne Gardner_ Janet Beecher.
_Mary Miley_ Isabel O’Madigan.
_Frances Avery_ Katherine Proctor.
_Nellie Avery_ Antoinette Walker.
_Mrs. Means_ Harriet Ross.
_Mrs. Bates_ Lois Frances Clark.
_Mrs. Culligan_ Elizabeth Hunt.
CAST OF “THE TREADMILL”--“ALIAS.”
_Herman Strauss_, “Old Dutch” Willard Mack.
_Warden John Healey_ Edwin Mordant.
_“Biff” Schulte_ Jay Wilson.
_Dan Davis_ E. J. Mack.
_Toby_ Jack Jevne.
_Mrs. John Weldon_ Margaret Moreland.
_Mrs. Franklyn Joyce_ Carmilla Crume.
_Amanda Joyce_ Constance Molineaux.
_Titheradge Joyce_ Francis Joyner.
_Jacob Fralinger_ Arthur Donaldson.
_John Weldon_ William Boyd.
_Oscar Spiegel_ Gus Weinberg.
_Mrs. Mary Gilligan_ Annie Mack Berlein.
_Dick_ Tammany Young.
_Harry_ Cornish Beck.
_Greta_ Ruth Collins.
_Bertha_ Jean Temple.
_Andrews_ Tex Charwate.
“THE GOVERNOR’S LADY.”
Belasco produced “The Governor’s Lady” for the first time, May 1, 1912,
at the Broad Street Theatre, Philadelphia, and, September 9, that year,
at the Republic, he brought it out in New York. It is a drama of
domestic dissension and tribulation sequent on the surrender to
selfishness and vanity of a wilful man who is indicated as being,
notwithstanding his faults and errors, innately kind and good. The name
of him is _Daniel S. Slade_. He has been a miner and poor. Having
acquired riches he has become ambitious and aspires to social and
political eminence; would, in fact, be Governor of the State of
Colorado, wherein he dwells. _Mrs. Slade_, his wife, is an exemplary but
homely and home-keeping person and she cannot adapt herself to the ways
of the rich and fashionable society in which _Slade_ desires to be a
leader. She is, at first, disposed to consider their newborn
incompatibility and her husband’s dissatisfaction as fanciful. But when
_Slade_ intimates that he regards her as a hindrance to his advancement
and signifies that there had better be a formal separation, or a
divorce, between them she is deeply wounded. She agrees, however, to
separate from him, while indignantly repelling his suggestion that he
obtain a divorce. Later she ascertains that he has chosen as her
successor a young, beautiful, and unscrupulous woman who he believes
will be useful in furthering his ambitions and who is willing to abandon
the youth she loves in order to make a better match. _Mrs. Slade_ then
rounds on her discontented spouse and, being thrice armed in the justice
of her quarrel, notwithstanding his wealth and influence, brings upon
him and his prospective consort public odium, confronts and defeats him
in court, and, bringing a counter suit, is granted a divorce from him.
She leaves Denver and goes to New York,--where, two years later,
_Slade_, who has meantime become Governor of Colorado, finds her in one
of Child’s restaurants. The _Governor_ makes known to her that he is
perceptive of the impropriety of his course; that in spite of his
conduct he has always loved the wife who has divorced him, and proposes
that they remarry. This _Mrs. Slade_ declines to do, not, however,
concealing the fact that she still cherishes affection for _Slade_, and
the play ends with his picking her up and carrying her off in his arms,
in quest of a parson, in order to establish her as the _Governor’s
Lady_.
Belasco described this fabric as “a play in three acts and an epilogue
in Child’s,” and it was announced as having been written by Miss Alice
Bradley. During its first performance in New York Mr. Emmett Corrigan
(who impersonated the character of _Slade_) came before the curtain and,
in a brief speech on behalf of Miss Bradley, made known that she
disclaimed credit for anything more than “the central idea” of the play.
Neither that “central idea” (the idea, presumably, of showing the
patient acquiescence of _Mrs. Slade_ suddenly turned into resolute and
triumphant opposition by discovery of the full extent of her husband’s
baseness) nor anything else in the piece is dramatically precious or
extraordinary. Many other “collaborators” with Belasco might, however,
fairly emulate Miss Bradley’s frankness. The construction of “The
Governor’s Lady” is sometimes arbitrary and the characters in it are in
some respects extravagantly drawn--causing more the effect of rough
sketches than that of finished portraits. The dialogue possesses the
merit of suitability to the situations and, in general, of seeming to
arise spontaneously from them. The notable excellence of the production
was its exact fidelity to the surface details of everyday life and the
really remarkable smoothness, harmony, and sincerity with which it was
acted--imparting to much that was crude and improbable an aspect of
veracity.--The play was cast as follows:
_Daniel S. Slade_ Emmett Corrigan.
_Senator Strickland_ William H. Tooker.
_Robert Hayes_ Milton Sills.
_Wesley Merritt_ S. K. Walker.
_Brigham Hunt_ Bert Hyde.
_Ex-Governor Hibbard_ John A. Dewey.
_Colonel George Smith_ Will H. Nicholson.
_John Hart_ Albert Lane.
_Charles Ingram_ Harry B. Wilson.
_William_ Jack Smith.
_Martin_ Frank Hand.
_Jake_ John N. Wheeler.
_A Passerby_ James Singer.
_A Bookworm_ Stuart Walker.
_Jake’s Friend_ Edward Horton.
_A Cashier_ George H. Shelton.
_A Man Behind the Pastry Counter_ Robert J. Lance.
_Waiter No. 7_ John H. McKenna.
_Waiter No. 2_ Harrison Fowler.
_Mary Slade_ Emma Dunn.
_Katherine Strickland_ Gladys Hanson.
_Mrs. Wesley Merritt_ Teresa Maxwell-Conover.
_Susan_ Jane Briggs.
_A Girl of the Streets_ Eloise Murray.
_A Scrubwoman_ Judith Snaith.
“YEARS OF DISCRETION.”
Satirical and amusing use has been made in various works of fiction of
the old, or elderly, parent who behaves in an inappropriately youthful
manner. Charles Mathews built the capital old farce (I wonder if anybody
else ever recalls it now?) of “My Awful Dad!” around that idea: Collins
utilized it when he sketched _Madame Pratolungo’s_ “Evergreen Papa.” It
is one of the expedients of comicality in “Years of Discretion,” a
farcical comedy by Frederick Hatton and Fanny Locke Hatton which Belasco
presented, November 4, 1912, at the Empire Theatre, Syracuse, New York,
and at the Belasco Theatre, New York, on December 12, following. In that
entertaining play a buxom widow of fifty, _Mrs. Farrell Howard_ by name,
growing intolerably weary of a humdrum life, leaves the little rural
town where she resides and repairs to New York,--where, with the aid of
hair dye, tight lacing and a fashionable dressmaker, she puts on the
semblance of a gay young woman and recklessly participates in frivolous
dissipations, fascinating many ardent males and scandalizing her
somewhat sedate and priggish son. At the last she consents to marry one
of her numerous admirers, to whom she is honestly attached. After a
little struggle with vanity and the fear of losing his regard she
confesses to him that, with her, things are not what they seem; that she
is not really a roguish young woman eager for social festivity, but
rather an elderly one who has grown tired of it, who is inclined to be
stout and is extremely uncomfortable by reason of restrictive stays and
tight shoes. She is surprised and delighted when he, in turn, confesses
to rheumatism, years equal to hers, and a strong preference for easy old
slippers instead of dancing pumps. They then agree to abandon a
projected honeymoon trip around the world, to which both of them have
looked forward with dread, and to take their ease sensibly, in the home
surroundings which they prefer.--This was the cast of “Years of
Discretion”:
_Christopher Dallas_ Lyn Harding.
_Michael Doyle_ Bruce McRae.
_John Strong_ Herbert Kelcey.
_Amos Thomas_ Robert McWade, Jr.
_Farrell Howard, Jr._ Grant Mitchell.
_Metz_ E. M. Holland.
_Mrs. Farrell Howard_ Effie Shannon.
_Mrs. Margaret Brinton_ Alice Putnam.
_Anna Merkel_ Mabel Bunyea.
_Lilly Newton_ Ethel Pettit.
_Bessie Newton_ Myrtle Morrison.
“THE TEMPERAMENTAL JOURNEY.”
Leo Ditrichstein adapted “The Temperamental Journey” from a French
original called “Pour Vivre Heureux,” by André Rivoire and Yves Mirande,
and Belasco produced it, for the first time, at the Lyceum Theatre,
Rochester, New York, August 28, 1913, and, September 4, following, for
the first time in New York, at the Belasco Theatre. It is an unusually
clever, sometimes humorous, sometimes bitterly satirical, farce blent
with elements of comedy and constructed around the struggles and
tribulations of a sincere, capable, “temperamental,” and unappreciated
painter named _Jacques Dupont_,--a part that was admirably acted (with
discretion, humor, feeling, and even a touch of passion) by Mr.
Ditrichstein. Notwithstanding the merit of his art _Dupont_ is unable to
sell his paintings. In a moment of despair, having been meanly upbraided
for his ill-fortune by his wife,--a shallow, selfish
hypocrite,--_Dupont_ resolves to destroy himself. He writes a farewell
letter to his wife, which he leaves with his clothes on the shore and,
forgetful of the fact that he is a capital swimmer, flings himself into
the waters of Long Island Sound to drown. The immersion so much
refreshes him that he changes his mind about dying, swims lustily, and,
being hauled on board of a sailing craft, makes a voyage to Halifax.
Upon returning home a fortnight or so later he finds his hypocritical
wife and friends, indulging to the full in “the luxury of woe,” about to
hold funeral services over a dead body which they receive as his; and,
also, he finds that his paintings, previously the objects of contumely,
are selling for high prices,--public interest having been inspired by
the pathetic circumstances of his supposed suicide. After observing from
an unsuspected coign of vantage in their home his hypocritical “widow’s”
ready acceptance of the embraces of one of his “friends,” and after
witnessing with ironic contempt the funeral over what are supposed to be
his remains, _Dupont_ betakes himself to Paris, where he paints many
landscapes. After an interval of three years he returns to America,
representing himself to be a collector of pictures, named _Lenoir_, who
has gathered together a large number of paintings by the defunct
_Dupont_--whose works now sell for enormous sums. He finds his “widow”
married to his former “friend” and the mother of a child by him, and
also he finds that person to be industriously engaged in forging
paintings by _Dupont_. During an auction sale of his works _Dupont_,
stung by manifestations of injustice, sordid meanness, and duplicity,
declares his identity and rebukes those who have wronged and contemned
him. Then, for the sake of the child, he agrees to arrange for a divorce
from his unworthy wife,--signifying his purpose, in due course, to unite
himself in matrimony to a loving young girl who has befriended him in
his earlier afflictions and remained faithful to his memory while
supposing him to be dead.
The opportunity for gibes and railings provided by the successive
postures of circumstance thus indicated are obvious and many. Yet, at
best, the comicality evoked by them is bitter and painful.--“The
Temperamental Journey,” which was much admired and exceptionally
successful, was cast as follows:
_Jacques Dupont_ Leo Ditrichstein.
_Prof. Babcock Roland_ Henry Bergman.
_Vernon Neil_ Frank Connor.
_Billy Shepherd_ Richie Ling.
_Dorval_ Edouard Durand.
_Howard Locke_ Julian Little.
_Carrington McLiss_ Lee Millar.
_Tamburri_ M. Daniel Schatts.
_Roy_ } { Edwin R. Wolfe.
_Max_ } { Earle W. Grant.
_Edna_ } _Prof. Roland’s_ { Carree Clarke.
_Eleanor_ } Pupils. { Anna McNaughton.
_Marjorie_ } { Dorothy Ellis.
_Lina_ } { Annette Tyler.
_Messenger_ William Dixon.
_Delphine_ Isabel Irving.
_Maria_ Josephine Victor.
_Fanny Lamont_ Cora Witherspoon.
_Teresa_ Gertrud Morisini.
_Maid_ Alice Jones.
A REVIVAL OF “THE AUCTIONEER.”
An incident of the theatrical season of 1913-’14 which requires passing
record here is the revival by Belasco of “The Auctioneer,”--a play
which, in all essentials, was original with him and which for this
revival he again revised, making it somewhat more closely-knit and
effective than it was when first he brought forward David Warfield in
it. “The Auctioneer” was acted at the Knickerbocker Theatre, New York,
September 30, 1913, with the following cast:
_Simon Levi_ David Warfield.
_Mrs. Levi_ Mrs. Jennie Moscowitz.
_Mrs. Eagan_ Marie Bates.
_Callahan_ Louis Hendricks.
_Isaac Leavitt_ Harry Lewellyn.
_Mrs. Leavitt_ Helena Philips.
_Meyer Cohen_ Harry Rogers.
_Mrs. Cohen_ Marie Reichardt.
_Mo Fininski_ Frank Nelson.
_Richard Eagan_ George LeGuere.
_Minnie_ Charlotte Leslay.
_Dawkins_ Horace James.
_Customer_ John A. Rice.
_Helga_ Janet Dunbar.
_Miss Manning_ Frances Street.
_Misses Crompton_ { Margaret Johnson.
{ Maud Roland.
_Miss Finch_ Ethel Marie Sasse.
_Mrs. Smith_, a shopper Geraldine de Rohan.
_Policeman_ George Berliner.
_Chestnut Vendor_ Tony Bevan.
_Visitors_ { Watson White.
{ Douglas Farne.
{ Irving Laudeutscher.
{ Frank L. Van Vlissingen.
_Man from Hester Street_ Michael Levine.
_Newsboys_ { Meyer Howard.
{ Jess Kelly.
A MANIAC’S PLAY--“THE MAN INSIDE.”
A singular yet characteristic incident of Belasco’s career was his
production of a play called “The Man Inside,” written by a madman who
had been the central figure in one of the most notorious murder cases in
modern criminal annals,--Roland Burnham Molineux. That poor wretch is
the son of a much respected citizen, General Edward Leslie Molineux, who
gained rank and honorable distinction in the Union Army during the Civil
War. He was arrested, February 7, 1899, charged with the murder of Mrs.
Katherine J. Adams, who died, December 28, 1898, of poisoning by
cyanide of mercury, which she unwittingly swallowed mixed with a
medicine received through the mails and which it was alleged that
Molineux had prepared and sent. His trial began, November 14, 1899,
before Recorder (now Supreme Court Justice) John B. Goff and continued
for fifty-five days, ending, January 7, 1900, with his conviction of
murder in the first degree. On February 16 Recorder Goff sentenced
Molineux to death and he was then taken to the Sing Sing Prison, where,
for many months, he was incarcerated in the “Death House.” His case was
carried to the Court of Appeals and, October 15, 1901, he was granted a
new trial which began, before Justice Lambert, in Part--of the Supreme
Court, October 17, 1902, and ended, November 11, with his acquital,--an
issue which, at the time, was regarded by some persons as a miscarriage
of justice. The second jury which heard all the testimony, however,
found him not guilty and he therefore stands vindicated. Mrs. Adams,
meanwhile, certainly was murdered and the guilt of that crime has never
been legally placed.
Throughout the ordeal of his trials, his condemnation, and his
imprisonment under sentence of death Roland Molineux was sustained by
the unwavering support of his devoted parents--his sturdy old father
resolutely maintaining the son’s innocence and laboring without
remission to establish it. The younger man’s health, however, was
hopelessly undermined by the dreadful strain to which he was subjected
and after his release he became ill and morose. In 1912 his parents
obtained an introduction to Belasco and appealed to him for help. “His
mother said to me,” writes the manager, “‘My boy’s life has been ruined.
His health is gone--he has never been the same since he was released
from prison. He has written a play which he believes will do great good
and he has set his heart on getting it acted. If he is disappointed in
this, on top of all the rest that he has suffered, we fear that he will
die. If his play should be a success it might open a new life to him.
Will you read it and help us, if you can?’ They told me other
things--dreadful and afflicting things some of them, that I need not
repeat. I had been tremendously impressed by General Molineux’s great
fight for his son; I felt a great sympathy and pity for them--and I
consented to read the young man’s play and to do it, if I found it
practicable.
“When the manuscript came to me I found the piece long and crude, but I
saw possibilities in it and I told the parents I would produce it. Their
gratitude was very touching. Soon afterward, I met young Molineux, gave
him several interviews, and went to work to knock his play into shape.
At the beginning everything seemed all right and he accepted my first
cuts and suggestions in a proper spirit and worked hard. But toward the
end, along about August or September [1913], when I put the piece into
rehearsal and began to make extensive changes, he turned sullen and very
ugly. Sometimes, instead of working, he would sit and roll his eyes or
glare at me; and, what was very dreadful, he gave off a horrible,
sickening odor like that of a wild beast. I shall never forget the last
night I ever had him with me. He was furious because of the changes I
was making and I am sure he was going to attack me. Suddenly I stopped
arguing with him and, picking up a heavy walking stick, I said: ‘See
here, Molineux, stop looking at me like that; I’m not afraid of you. If
you had brought me a finished play instead of a lot of words I wouldn’t
have had to change your manuscript. Now, it’s hot and I’m tired, so
we’ll call the whole thing off for to-night and you can go home and
think it over.’ He pulled himself together then and tried to apologize
and say how much he appreciated all I was doing, but I wouldn’t have it
and just showed him out of my studio as quickly as I could--and I took
care _he_ should walk in front, all the way! There wasn’t another soul
in the place, except the night watchman, away down at the stagedoor. I
never let him come near me again.”
When “The Man Inside” had been made ready for production Molineux was
permitted to attend the dress rehearsal in New York, during the first
act of which he was self-contained and quiet. But after the curtain had
been lowered he became so violently excited and created so much
disturbance that Belasco was constrained to order him to be taken out of
the theatre. “It was hard to do, but it had to be done,” he writes; “I
didn’t know whether to go on or drop the whole thing, and I really
expected the man would break out and kill somebody.” Molineux’s
unfortunate family and friends were, however, happily able to intervene
and restrain him and no act of violence was committed. On November 7,
1914, he was placed in the King’s Park State Hospital, Long Island, and
there he is still confined,--hopelessly insane. His brave, devoted old
father, worn out and heart broken, died, June 10, 1915: his mother, a
few months earlier. [Roland B. Molineux died, in the King’s Park State
Hospital for the Insane, on November 2, 1917, of paresis. There is no
doubt that he was a dangerous madman when first Belasco met him.--J.
W.]
_The Man Inside_ of Molineux’s play is, symbolically, Conscience; and
the fundamental idea which it expounds is that Society errs in its
treatment of criminals, because crime cannot be prevented by punishment
but only by an effective appeal to the self-respecting moral nature and
“better self” of the criminal,--who must first be taught to “think
right” before he can be made to _do_ right. Sublime discovery! No
intimation is made as to what method Society ought to employ in
cases--unhappily numerous--of criminals who do not possess any “better
selves” and who cannot by any means, not even the threat of death, be
restrained from crimes which profit them or gratify their ruling
passions. There was, without doubt, an honest altruistic purpose in the
distempered, tortured mind of Molineux,--though, since he did not
possess the power to elucidate it, there is no need to dwell upon the
subject in this place. Belasco, having through kindness undertaken to
produce an ill-digested, “talky” and undramatic play, revised it as well
as possible in the circumstances, making of it a moderately effective
melodrama, dealing with crime and injustice. In that melodrama a
philanthropic young man, who is also an Assistant District Attorney of
the City of New York, resorts to the haunts of criminals in order to
ascertain, if possible, why they persist in crime in spite of efforts
to reclaim them. He there becomes deeply interested in a girl named
_Annie_, the daughter of a desperate forger known as _Red Mike_, and
also he becomes so incensed at the viciousness and cruelty of some
methods employed by the Police Department and officials from the
District Attorney’s Office to insure convictions of accused criminals
that he assists _Annie_ in the theft of a forged check, upon possession
of which the fate of her father depends,--thus himself becoming party to
a crime, and, later, participating in a general bath of “whitewash.” The
First Act of “The Man Inside” passes in an opium den of the New York
“Chinatown”; the Second, in the office of the District Attorney--with
the Tombs Prison visible through the window; the Third, in a squalid
tenement house. Belasco placed the play on the stage in a setting of
extraordinary verisimilitude and caused it to be acted in a well-nigh
perfect manner. It was first produced at the Euclid Avenue Opera House,
Cleveland, Ohio, October 27, 1913, and, November 11, was brought forward
in New York at the Criterion Theatre. Public interest in it, however,
was languid and it did not long survive. This was the original cast:
_Mr. Trainer_ A. Byron Beasley.
_James Poor_ Charles Dalton.
_Richard Gordon_ Milton Sills.
_“Red” Mike_ A. E. Anson.
_“Big” Frank_ Edward H. Robins.
_“Pop” Olds_ John Cope.
_Josh Hayes_ John Miltern.
_Larry_ Joseph Byron Totten.
_“Whispering” Riley_ Lawrence Wood.
_Cafferty_ Erroll Dunbar.
_Clusky_ Jerome Kennedy.
_Wang Lee_ J. J. Chaille.
_Chong Fong_ H. H. McCollum.
_“The Major”_ Herbert Jones.
_Murphy_ Karl Ritter.
_Raleigh_ Charles B. Givan.
_“Frisco” George_ Joseph Barker.
_“Monk” Verdi_ J. A. Esposito.
_Annie_ Helen Freeman.
_Maggie_ Clare Weldon.
_Lizzie_ Gertrude Davis.
BELASCO IN CHINATOWN.
While Belasco was preparing “The Man Inside” for the stage he made
several expeditions into the “Chinatown” of New York, accompanied by
members of his staff and his theatrical company, in order that some of
the ways and denizens of that place--the very prose of the earth--might
be pictured with literal exactitude. On those occasions he and his
companions, including Mr. Gros, the scenic artist, were convoyed and
protected by an eccentric being once well known in the purlieus of vice
and crime, whose disreputable acquaintance he had made by chance and to
whom he had commended himself by kindness. Describing the last of those
insalubrious visits Belasco wrote the following characteristic letter to
the young woman who afterward played the principal female part in his
adaptation of the Molineux play:
(_Belasco to Miss Helen Freeman_.)
“My dear Miss Helen:--
“We went on the postponed, and probably the last, trip into the
‘underworld’ last night. It might have been useful to have had you
see it once more; but, on the whole, I think you have seen enough
for the purpose and am glad you weren’t along. Familiar as I am
with the sights of such places (and far worse, such as I used to
visit in old San Francisco) I found some of it last night rather
shocking. But as I promised to give you an account of this trip I
will write a little description of our adventures--which, perhaps,
you may find suggestive.
“At half-past nine my boys [meaning some members of the technical
staff of the Belasco Theatre and two actors] and I met at the
stagedoor and left for Chinatown, where, by appointment, we met a
very ardent admirer of yours--Mr. ‘Chuck’ Conners, no less! Perhaps
one of the reasons why I like the man is because, in his
unpicturesque, rough, human fashion, he felt and expressed your
sweetness--the quality which will help you so much in this play,
and in all parts. I shall tell you more particularly what he said
about you presently, and if you will translate his primitive
speech into the finer shaded meanings of a cultivated man, I am
sure it will touch your heart as it did mine. But I must get to my
story....
“First we sat in the Chatham Club, and had a few ‘rounds,’--which I
had a hard time to avoid drinking. I don’t know what the others did
with theirs--I was too busy with my own troubles to watch! While
human beings put such stuff inside themselves I can’t wonder at
anything they do. While there, the girls came and did some
‘ragtime’ for us. ‘Chuck,’ I must tell you, was dressed for the
occasion,--‘to kill,’--with a white ’kerchief about his neck and
_one_ shoe polished! The other was a characteristic contrast. We
listened to the same old stories and ‘our hero’ sang the same old
songs. Also, as aforetime, to punctuate his remarks he found it
necessary to _punch_ me in the ribs, and so to-day I find myself
more or less black and blue. The old pianola was set to the wildest
airs, and they had a new one, for our especial benefit, called ‘In
the Harem,’--which is so good that I am going to introduce it in
our play. Do you remember the big, tall girl, with the flat nose
and her poor teeth out? She was still sitting in her corner, more
forlorn than ever, and with her sad ‘lamps’ looking into my very
heart. I gave her another five dollars and told her that if I came
again I should expect to see her wearing a new pair of shoes,--for
her poor toes were peeping out of frayed stockings, through the
impossible boots, and it was all very sad.
“Well, from there we went to the same old opium bungalows and the
same old ‘Chink’ ‘hit the pipe’ for us,--afterward, however, taking
us into a female ‘joint,’ where we saw several regular denizens of
the place. It is all part of the show; but I am glad Conners did
not take us to it when you and the other ladies were along.... One
of the women there had been a belle of Philadelphia: another, a
runaway wife. Gradually, they have slipped down the ladder of shame
and remorse, until their poor, wavering little hands could hold the
rungs no longer, and so they fell into that ‘Slough of Despond,’
with the ‘pipe’ for their favorite companion. I was glad to get
away from it, for it made my heart ache. With infinite
understanding there would be infinite tolerance; and if we knew the
springs of action, the circumstances and environment, of these
poor, stray souls, perhaps we shouldn’t judge them very harshly.
“But to return to my story: ‘Chuck’ was in his element. Never did I
know that such unmentionable slang, such mere depravity of phrase,
could come from human lips, although my experience has been a
varied one! The night you ladies were with us the ‘choicest gems’
of his vernacular were bottled up: last night the cork was
drawn--with a vengeance! And yet, after all (though I’m glad you
did not hear him), it was only words. At heart, the man is kind and
generous, and he lives up to his code closer than many another who
has had every advantage.
“Of course, he asked all about you. He said you were ‘Der real
t’ing,’ ‘der right stuff,’ ‘der whole cheese,’ etc. ‘Next day,’
said he, ‘all der fleet wanted t’ know who der swell little skoit
was. “And,” I sez, “why dat’s der Princess Nicotine!” I sez.’
“He was anxious to know your opinion of him, and so I said that he
had made ‘a great hit’ with you. This pleased him mightily. I then
said that he ‘was tearing every skirt’s heart wide open!’ ‘Stop
dat--stop dat!’ he said; ‘Go ‘way back! She was kidding of yer!’
“We wound up by dining at the Chinese Delmonico’s on tea and rice
and chop suey. Of course, I ordered some, but not daring to eat it
I slipped my plate to ‘Chuck,’ whose chop-sticks soon made short
work of the concoction. He ordered _more_, afterward, and I wish
you could have seen his expression when he had at length reached a
stage of repletion and exclaimed ‘Hully gee! dis is goin’ some! I
wouldn’t change me feed-bag dis minute wif Rockefeller!’...
“We parted with ‘Chuck’ about three in the morning. He escorted us
to the same old car, which was piloted by the same old chauffeur.
As we were leaving he blew me a kiss! ‘Hully gee!’ he said, ‘I
likes youse; an’ don’ yer ferget to tell de little skoit dat she’s
der _real t’ing_!’ We were about to start when he gave a yell that
frightened us and said he had forgotten something. He pulled the
enclosed book from his pocket and, using the chauffeur’s back as a
desk, wrote the inscription on the fly-leaf!...
“The last act will soon be in final shape. Study hard, but don’t
over-do,--and everything will be all right. Good-night and good
luck.
“Faithfully,
“DAVID BELASCO.”
AN ADMONITION TO STAGE ASPIRANTS.
(_Belasco to a Recalcitrant Novice_.)
Another letter which Belasco wrote at about the same period as that
above quoted is characteristic and informative as to his views
concerning the Stage and stage aspirants and can conveniently be placed
here:
“The Belasco Theatre.
My dear Mrs. H.------:--
“It is not an easy task to write what I have to say, but it is time
that it should be written and understood. If I am to do for your
cousin, Miss V------, what I want to do and have hoped to do; if I
am to open the way for her to a career, she must be guided by me;
_my_ influence, not yours nor that of anybody else, must
predominate. The Stage is a harsh master. Real success on it does
not ‘happen’: it is _made_--made of striving and sacrifice and
self-denial and _hard work_.
“What you do is, of course, no concern of mine and I have no wish
to meddle in anybody else’s business, having far more of my own
than I can properly look after. But I have every reason to think
that, if it were not for your influence, I might not have so many
causes to be dissatisfied with Miss V------. At present, my wishes
are not heeded by her. And so that we may all reach an
understanding, I want to say to you that I resent Miss V------‘s
recent conduct; that, in view of the fact that I have taken the
trouble to interest myself in her future as an actress, I resent it
_very much_, and will not any longer tolerate it.
“If I am in some ways a strict master I am always a fair and
considerate one. But,--and please realize this,--in everything
connected with my theatre, from the waterboys in the smoking room
to the ‘star’ on the stage; from the carpets to be laid on the
floors to the plays that are produced, _I am the Master, and my
word is the absolute and final law_.
“Miss V------ is a very young girl, who has seen very little of the
world. She is not only exceptionally talented but pretty,
attractive, and charming. Consequently she is admired by the idlers
who have time to kill in dangling after young women of the
Stage--and nothing better to do. Miss V------ is much sought after
by matrons who are ever on the look-out for pretty girls to attract
men to their dances and their ‘week-end’ visits. Such women care
nothing at all about a girl’s career or whether they ruin it or
not--and they will ruin it, every time, if the girl is weak or
foolish enough to be persuaded. Miss V------ likes this kind of
attention, which is natural, but it won’t do--not if she is to
remain with _me_. No big man or woman has time for frivolities; it
is either one thing or the other: we work and work and rise and
rise; or else we try to flutter through life on butterfly
wings--and then we fall by the wayside.
“Miss V------ has, I am informed, been neglecting her duties at the
theatre. True, at present she has only the minor position of an
understudy; but she should at least be conscientious enough to
attend to its duties. She knows very well that she should keep Mr.
L------ informed of her whereabouts. She has no right, no excuse,
to go anywhere, or to be in any place, where he cannot reach her at
a moment’s notice, by telephone. An understudy is just a reserve
soldier, subject to instant call. If Mr. Dean had been well, of
course he would have attended to this matter of Miss V------‘s
neglect. But as it is, Mr. L------ has too many details to look
after. Her conduct is not fair to him, to say nothing of me, nor
does it show any proper respect for the theatre, for Miss V------
so to ignore her obligations. Last evening, through an
indisposition, Miss------, whom she understudies, was nearly
obliged to remain away. If she had done so, the house would have
been dismissed, and Mr. L------ would have been discharged, through
her negligence. Have you any conception what it would mean to me to
disappoint an audience, _in my theatre_?
“If Miss V------ is to remain under my guidance she must obey _my_
wishes: not yours, or her own, or anybody else’s, but _mine_--at
all times and in everything. If she does not see fit to follow my
advice, I shall reluctantly leave her to her own resources.
Inasmuch as I have made myself responsible for her artistic
success, her mental and physical condition are matters of much
moment to me and I will not have them jeopardized as [they are] by
her present mode of life. Automobile rides, midnight suppers and
dances until daylight are all very well--but they are not conducive
to health. They are a sapping of the vitality which, if she wishes
to succeed, should be reserved for higher things....
“Do you realize that, for months past, I have given two nights a
week to Miss V------,--time and work that no money could buy and no
influence induce me to waste? _I_ realize it! I once refused a
fortune, a theatre in London and an endowment for life, in return
for which I was to give a popular actress what I have given Miss
V------ for nothing, simply because she has great talent and I have
believed in her. And I refused to direct that actress because I
knew she would never sacrifice her society life and pleasures for
her work. Understand, please; _I_ have a reputation to maintain, a
standard to live up to. Sickness, weariness, accident, trouble,
death--the Public does not want and will not take excuses. That is
not what they [it] comes into my theatre for. It comes to see the
best plays I can put on, acted by the best artists I can engage
and train. Miss V------ can be one of these, if she will pay the
price; if, like the women who have made a success of their lives
she can be strong enough to give up everything else, ‘for the love
of the working.’ Miss ------ did, and little Miss ------; otherwise,
they would not be where they are to-day....
If it is your intention for Miss V------ to make her _début_ in
society, with matrimony in view for her, then I suggest that you
and she be frank enough to let me know, so that I may make my plans
accordingly. Matrimony is a career with which _nothing else_ can
compete....
“I have been very lenient and have written at length and explained
myself, because Miss V------ is very young, and because I hold you
more to blame than I do her. But if I am to continue the moulding
of her artistic career it must be with the distinct understanding
that my wishes and my influence shall dominate, in everything.
“If Miss V------ wishes to continue under my direction,--absolute
obedience, application, study, effort, and constant hard work are
the conditions. On the other hand, when you have read this letter
to her, she is at liberty to consider herself released from all
engagements to me if she so desires.
“Yours faithfully,
“DAVID BELASCO.”
“THE PHANTOM RIVAL.”
“The Phantom Rival,” adapted by Leo Ditrichstein from an Austrian
original by Ferenc Molnar, postulates that a woman idealizes the man
whom she first loves and never forgets him; and, by presenting her
extravagant notions about him in a dream and then showing,--in an
individual case,--that he turns out to be a commonplace person, implies
that the ideals founded in youth and cherished by females in after life
are mistakes and absurd. It may be so. It probably is true that all
ideals of human perfection are unsound and even ridiculous. It certainly
is true that the longer we live and the more we see of human nature the
more disappointed we are, in ourselves as well as in others, till we
come at last to believe, as Lockhart wrote:
“That nothing’s new and nothing’s true
And nothing signifies!”
The “visible dream” is an old device of the theatre and a good one. It
was exceedingly well managed in this play--the only blemish, indeed,
being a certain effect of monotony which, being inherent in the dramatic
fabric, was ineradicable in the stage exhibition of it. The principal
persons in this drama, which centres around “the dream,” are an American
woman, _Mrs. Marshall_, and an Austrian, named _Sascha Taticheff_. In
youth they dwelt in the same Brooklyn boarding house. Propinquity had a
usual consequence. The girl, romantic, admired the youth and became fond
of him. The youth was flattered and reciprocated. Then, suddenly, he
went away, called back to his native land, taking a sentimental farewell
and writing a letter filled with ardent vaporings. Years have passed.
The girl has met and loved and married a successful American lawyer;
they dwell together; they would be happy, in a staid, conventional way,
were it not for the preposterous, boorish jealousy of the husband. He
suspects his wife of having had an earlier lover and he tortures himself
and her because of this suspicion, this paltry jealousy of “the phantom
rival” of a youthful attachment. And then, by chance, in a public
restaurant, _Taticheff_ and _Mrs. Marshall_, who is with her husband,
meet again. Scarce able to recall each other, they exchange formal bows.
Having returned to their home _Marshall_ badgers his wife about the
stranger in the restaurant until, exasperated, she admits that she once
knew _Taticheff_ and was fond of him; and, finally, she surrenders to
her husband, who reads it, the farewell letter of her youthful
sweetheart. The sentimental folly of that screed so amuses _Marshall_
that he declares himself cured of his jealousy, speaks of the writer
with contempt, and, laughing heartily, goes out to a business
conference. The wife, incensed by this cavalier attitude toward the
object of her girlhood affection, rereads his perfervid protestations:
then, falling asleep, she has a dream in which her _Sascha_ returns to
her, at a fashionable ball, in, successively, the different characters
suggested by his letter:--first, as an all-conquering military hero;
then as a world-dominating statesman; next as a peerless singer, the
idol of two hemispheres; finally,--after she has been turned out of
doors by an indignant hostess because of the scandal of her conduct with
her multiform lover,--in the guise of a wretched, one-armed
street-beggar, upon whom her husband makes a furious assault, whereupon,
shrieking, she awakes. Then, her husband returning with the actual
_Sascha_ (who proves to be subordinately concerned with the business
which _Marshall_ has in hand), she is left alone with him. The interview
that then occurs between them is much the cleverest passage in the play.
The woman, rather forlornly, tries to discover in the man before her
some trace of the romantic glamour with which she had fancifully
invested him, but finds only a plebeian dullard, stupidly embarrassed,
inveterately selfish and petty, and much interested in her husband’s
brandy. At last, when she is relieved of his tiresome presence, she
drops his long-cherished letters into the fire and joins her husband in
his contemptuous amusement at her sentimental memories and the sorry
figure of his “phantom rival.”--Belasco’s preservation of an unreal,
dream-like atmosphere throughout the dream scenes of this play was
perfect. And, of the kind, nothing so good as the acting of Miss Laura
Hope Crews and Mr. Ditrichstein in the last scene of it has been visible
on our Stage for many years. “The Phantom Rival” was first produced,
September 28, 1914, at Ford’s Opera House, Baltimore: on October 6, it
was presented at the Belasco Theatre, New York. This was the original
cast:
_Sascha Taticheff_ Leo Ditrichstein.
_Frank Marshall_ Malcolm Williams.
_Dover_ Frank Westerton.
_Earle_ Lee Millar.
_Farnald_ John Bedouin.
_Oscar_ John McNamee.
_Waiters_ { Louis Pioselli.
{ Frank E. Morris.
_Louise, Mrs. Marshall_ Laura Hope Crews.
_Mrs. Van Ness_ Lila Barclay.
_Nurse_ Anna McNaughton.
_Maid_ Ethel Marie Sasse.
“THE BOOMERANG.”
It was an opinion of the philosophic Bacon that women “will sooner
follow you by slighting than by too much wooing.” That is an opinion
shared by many and one which observation perceives to be grounded on
fact: _some_ women _will_. It is the basic idea underlying the play by
Messrs. Winchell Smith and Victor Mapes, called “The Boomerang,” which
Belasco produced at his New York theatre, August 10, 1915,--and which,
slender as it is, has proved one of the most richly remunerative of all
his ventures. In that play a youth, _Budd Woodbridge_ by name, loves a
girl, _Grace Tyler_, so unreservedly that she finds him wearisome and is
inclined to repel his devotion and bestow her affections upon another
youth. Young _Woodbridge_ so peaks and pines under his mistress’ disdain
and the pangs of juvenile jealousy that his mother fears that he is
passing into a decline and insists on his consulting a physician. That
physician, _Dr. Gerald Sumner_, finds the young man depressed,
irritable, and in extreme nervous distress. He questions him shrewdly
and soon ascertains the nature of the distemper for which he is desired
to prescribe. He rather cynically undertakes to cure the youth and his
directions are obeyed. His patient is sent home and put to bed; a daily
hypodermic injection is ordered of a mysterious, vivifying serum (in
fact, water), and a young woman nurse, beautiful and peculiarly kind and
sympathetic, is employed to administer the injection and to amuse and
cheer the unhappy sufferer, who is obediently responsive to her angelic
ministration. The capricious _Miss Tyler_, seeing her adorer apparently
succumbing to the fascinations of the lovely nurse and finding herself
rather slighted off, discovers that she cannot live without him and
_Woodbridge’s_ amatory anguish is soon in a fair way to be assuaged. The
relevancy of the title of this farce, “The Boomerang,” is revealed in a
dictionary comment on that implement of Antipodal warfare which declares
that: “in inexperienced hands the boomerang recoils upon the thrower,
sometimes with very serious results.” This is illustrated by the fate of
_Dr. Sumner_, who, having been scornful on the subject of love and
jealousy, becomes violently enamoured of the charming nurse and for a
time suffers much because of her affectionate tendance upon his
patient,--until, at last, he learns that her regard is really fixed upon
himself.
This play was designated as a “comedy,”--and, if Dr. Johnson’s
definition of a comedy as something to make people laugh be accepted,
that definition is plausible. The piece is, in fact, a farce and, in my
judgment, rather a slight one; but it was so exquisitely stage-managed
and so admirably acted that it passed for being something far more
substantial and worthy than, intrinsically, it is. With the view that it
is slight and merely ephemeral Belasco emphatically disagrees. “I
maintain,” he has declared to me, “that ‘The Boomerang’ has a vital
theme, of universal appeal, no matter how much you may ridicule it: I
mean Calf Love. Everybody has had it--and, while it lasts, it’s
terrible. No matter how much we may laugh at the boys and girls
suffering from juvenile love and jealousy, we sympathize with them, too.
That’s why everybody in the country wants to see our little play--why
men and women have stood in line all night (as they have done in many
places) to buy tickets for the performance. I believed in the little
piece from the very first. I wish I knew where to get another as good!”
One of many scores of letters received by Belasco, commendatory of this
play and its exemplary presentment, came from perhaps the most generous
of contemporary patrons of the Theatre and it may appropriately be
quoted here:
(_Otto H. Kahn to David Belasco._)
“52 William Street, New York,
“November 8, 1915.
“Dear Mr. Belasco:--
“I need not tell you that I have frequently and greatly admired
your art and skill, but there are gradations of achievement even in
an acknowledged master and, having just seen your latest
production, ‘The Boomerang,’ I cannot refrain from sending you a
few lines of particularly warm appreciation and congratulation.
Nothing is more difficult in art than to produce great effects with
simple means, to do a simple thing superlatively well. Nothing is
more rare in art than restraint. Nothing is a greater test of the
art of the producer than to maintain throughout an entire evening
the atmosphere, the illusion and the effect of comedy, unaided as
he is by either the stirring incidents of drama or the broad appeal
of farce. Your wisdom in picking out one of the very best and most
genuine comedies that I have seen in many a day, your judgment in
providing an admirable cast, and your skill and art in producing,
have combined to bring about the most happy result, and I owe you
thanks for that rare treat, a wholly delightful evening at the
theatre, unmarred by any jarring note.
“Believe me,
“Very faithfully yours,
“OTTO H. KAHN.”
“The Boomerang” was originally produced at The Playhouse, Wilmington,
Delaware, April 5, 1915. This was the cast:
_Dr. Gerald Sumner_ Arthur Byron.
_Budd Woodbridge_ Wallace Eddinger.
_Preston de Witt_ Gilbert Douglas.
_Heinrich_ Richard Malchien.
_Hartley_ John N. Wheeler.
_Mr. Stone_ John Clements.
_Virginia Xelva_ Martha Hedman.
_Grace Tyler_ Ruth Shepley.
_Marion Sumner_ Josephine Parks.
_Gertrude Ludlow_ Dorothy Megrew.
_Mrs. Creighton Woodbridge_ Ida Waterman.
“SEVEN CHANCES.”
“Odds life, sir! if you have the estate, you must take it with the live
stock on it, as it stands!” exclaims _Sir Anthony Absolute_, in “The
Rivals,” to his son, when mentioning that his proffer of “a noble
independence” is “saddled with a wife.” Such arbitrary bestowal of
wealth contingent on matrimony--frequent in actual experience--is one of
the best established and most respected expedients of comical stage
dilemmas, and it recurs, at intervals, in one form or another, with much
the inevitability of death and taxes. It is the basis of another
entertaining farce, called “Seven Chances,” which Belasco produced at
the George M. Cohan Theatre, New York, August 8, 1916, and which also
enjoyed a long and prosperous career. That farce was built on a
“suggestion” derived from a short story by Mr. Gouverneur Morris,
entitled “The Cradle Snatcher,” and, originally, it was called
“Shannon’s Millions.” It was several times rebuilt, under Belasco’s
supervision,--Mr. Roi Cooper Megrue being the last of his coadjutory
playwrights. It was produced, April 17, 1916, at the Apollo Theatre,
Atlantic City, New Jersey, under the name of “The Lucky Fellow.” Its
comical incidents revolve around _Jimmy Shannon_, an amiable young
bachelor with a vigorous antipathy to matrimony, whose sardonic
grandsire, dying, leaves to him by will a fortune of twelve million
dollars, conditional upon his being married by the time that he is
thirty years old. _Shannon_ is informed of that contingent bequest on
the eve of his attainment of the specified age. He is at a Country Club
where, also, there are seven young women. “The affair cries haste and
speed must answer it.” The impecunious _Shannon_ will propose marriage
to each one of those females, if necessary: thus he has “seven chances”
of obtaining the impendent fortune,--which, at last, he gets, along with
a bride so young and beauteous as to reconcile him to the imposed change
in his state. The opportunities for fun in all this are obvious;
critically to dilate upon them would be much like breaking a butterfly
on the wheel. They were utilized to the full under Belasco’s direction
by a good company,--the parts being cast as follows:
_Jimmie Shannon_ Frank Craven.
_Billy Meekin_ John Butler.
_Earl Goddard_ Hayward Ginn.
_Ralph Denby_ Charles Brokate.
_Joe Spence_ Frank Morgan.
_Henry Garrison_ Harry Leighton.
_George_ Freeman Wood.
_Anne Windsor_ Carroll McComas.
_Mrs. Garrison_ Marion Abbott.
_Lilly Trevor_ Anne Meredith.
_Peggy Wood_ Emily Callaway.
_Irene Trevor_ Beverly West.
_Georgiana Garrison_ Gladys Knorr.
_Florence Jones_ Florence Deshon.
_Betty Brown_ Alice Carroll.
“THE LITTLE LADY IN BLUE”: THE LAST PLAY EVER SEEN BY WILLIAM WINTER.
[The last play ever seen by my father was “The Little Lady in Blue,”
which Belasco produced on October 16, 1916, in Washington, and, on
December 22, at the Belasco Theatre, in New York. It is a very agreeable
piece, with a somewhat trite but expertly handled story. The period of
it is 1820. The scene of it is England. The principal character in it is
named _Anne Churchill_. She is an impoverished little governess who sets
out to be an adventuress. She wins the affection of a wild young naval
officer named _Anthony Addenbrooke_., incidentally rescuing him from the
clutches of a much bepainted Circe of the Portsmouth waterfront. Next
she helps him to meet the conditions under which he will inherit
£60,000, intending to marry him for the sake of that money. Then she
discovers that she really loves him, she is ashamed of her conduct, and
she cannot go through with the part of a mercenary adventuress. She
confesses to _Addenbrooke_ the real origin of her interest in his
affairs and releases him from his engagement to marry her. Being
recognized as an earthly paragon she is not permitted to retire into
indigence but is wedded to her lover, who has gained a lieutenant’s
commission through her assistance and is about to sail away to fight for
King and country.--The piece was written by Messrs. Horace Hodges and T.
Wigney Percyval.
My father was unable to attend the first New York performance of that
play, and his work on this Memoir prevented his seeing it until several
weeks later. In his “Journal” he wrote:
[1917] “February 8. More damnable peace blather!--Belasco kindly
invited us to visit his Theatre and sent his automobile for us, and
‘Willy’ and I went and saw performance of ‘The Little Lady in
Blue,’--a pleasing entertainment.”
Two days afterward Mr. Winter wrote the following letter, which records
his critical views of the production.
--J. W.]
(_William Winter to David Belasco._)
“New Brighton, Staten Island,
“February 10, 1917.
“Dear Belasco:--
“It was indeed a pleasure to see, at your theatre, the play of ‘The
Little Lady in Blue.’ It is long since I have so much enjoyed
anything. The rightly conducted Theatre still remains to me what it
always was--the home of that magic art which cheers the loneliness
of life and opens the portal into an ideal world. Alas, that it is
not more generally conducted for such a purpose! ‘The Little Lady’
can hardly be considered _a play_; but, as you have presented it,
it is a charming entertainment--a whimsical, almost grotesque,
portrayal of eccentric characters and incredible incidents, which
are made to _seem_ real, for the moment by the glamour of the
Stage. Since the plot is so frail, I was all the more surprised and
delighted that so much interest could be excited and sustained and
so much pleasure diffused by the histrionic treatment of a theme so
slender. You have set the play on the stage in an exquisite manner,
and it is acted throughout with a scrupulous care and zeal that, in
recent years, I have seldom seen equalled. It is easy to ridicule
such quaint, fantastic, almost dream-like pieces. As Frederick
Locker wrote:
‘We love the rare old days and rich
That poetry has painted;
We mourn that sacred age with which
We never were acquainted!’
“But they have a potent charm, a sort of mignonette and wild-thyme
fragrance, a power to touch the gentler feelings and soothe the
mind, and so they are precious.
“There is one blemish that should be removed--namely, the character
of _A Girl of Portsmouth Town_: it adds nothing to the situation,
and it is only a blot on the delicacy of the play.
“I am glad to know the production is prosperous: it deserves to
be--and it ought to fill your theatre for months, and I hope it
will.
“With kind regards,
“Faithfully yours,
“WILLIAM WINTER.”
The cast of “The Little Lady in Blue appended:
_Admiral Sir Anthony Addenbrooke_ A. G. Andrews.
_Anthony Addenbrooke_ Jerome Patrick.
_Captain Kent, R. N._ Frederick Graham.
_Joe Porten_ Horace Braham.
_Baron von Loewe_ Carl Sauerman.
_John Speedwell_ Charles Garry.
_Cobbledick_ George Giddens.
_A Waiter_ Adrian H. Rosley.
_A Process Server_ Harry Holiday.
_Landlord of the Portsmouth Inn_ Roland Rushton.
_Anne Churchill_ Frances Starr.
_Miss Quick_ Lucy Beaumont.
_A Girl of Portsmouth Town_ Eleanor Pendleton.
“THE VERY MINUTE”--A MEMORANDUM.
_Memo._--David produced a new play called “The Very Minute” last Monday
night [April 9, 1917], at his N. Y. theatre, with Mr. Arnold Daly in the
principal part. All about bad effects of drinking too much liquor, &c.
Novelty--striking! Good old Towse calls it “a shallow pretence of a
serious play” and says it is a “nightmare.” Commends D. B.’s “meticulous
attention to the material and manner of production.” Also commends A. D.
for “moments of _powerful_ acting.” Well--he was there and I was not;
but how A. D. must have changed! _I_ never saw any more “power” in him
than there is in a pennywhistle. Used to have a sort of _sonsy_ quality
that was pleasing. Competent in a commonplace way: unusual
assurance--great conceit. Knows his business--generally _definite_,
which is a merit. Disagreeable personality. Head turned with vanity. And
nothing really IN him--that ever _I_ could see.
This play written by John Meehan. Young man, said to be related to me by
marriage. I never met him and do not know. Suppose I must see his play
and write about it. Don’t want to! “What, will the line stretch out to
the crack of doom?” Where do they [plays] all come from, I wonder? Hope
David has got another success, but surmise it’s an awful frost,--as
’twere “the very _last_ minute of the hour,” I fear. Wish he would stop
producing plays altogether until after I get through writing this
“Life”!
[“The Very Minute” was first acted at The Playhouse, Wilmington,
Delaware, April 5, 1917: it was “an awful frost,” as my father surmised,
and it was withdrawn on May 7--the Belasco Theatre being then
closed.--J. W.] This was the cast:
_Horace Cramner_ Forrest Robinson.
_Mrs. Cramner_ Marie Wainwright.
_Francis Cramner_ Arnold Daly.
_Kathleen_ Cathleen Nesbitt.
_Philip Cramner_ William Morris.
_Mr. Husner_ John W. Cope.
_Dr. Monticou_ Lester Lonergan.
_Robert_ Robert Vivian.
_Bennett_ Leon E. Brown.
SUMMARY.
[The various passages in the following “Summary” of the character and
career of Belasco were written disjointedly. They are here gathered and
arranged in what appears to be their natural sequence,--as nearly as I
can judge in the order in which Mr. Winter would have placed them. In
two or three instances an unfinished sentence has been completed and
here and there an essential word or two has been inserted or added.
Otherwise the matter stands unrevised: I have not attempted to write
connecting passages.--J. W.]
“_Not fearing death nor shrinking for distress,_
_But always resolute in most extremes._”
--SHAKESPEARE.
The estimate that observation forms of a person still living cannot
always be deemed conclusive: the person can invalidate it, in an
instant, by some sudden action, some unexpected development, some
surprising decadence; and, as a general rule, it should be remembered
that no person is ever completely
[Illustration: DAVID BELASCO
Inscription:
“_To my friend of many years, William Winter._”
From a photograph not before published--by the Misses Selby.
Author’s Collection.
]
comprehended by anybody. We have glimpses of each other; but,
practically, each individual is _alone_. In the most favorable
circumstances, accordingly, no life can be more than approximately
summarized until the record is complete--perhaps not even then. It was
perception of this fact that caused the old grave-digger of Drumtochty
to declare that there is no real comfort in a marriage because nobody
knows how it will turn out; whereas there is no room for solicitude
about a funeral, because, at all events, the play is over. David
Belasco, although he begins to see the shadow of the Psalmist’s
threescore years and ten, is still in the full vigor of life; he is,
indeed, the most powerful, vital influence now [1917] operant in the
English-speaking Theatre,--Herbert Beerbohm-Tree, in London, being his
only competitor,--and (as I hope and believe) is approaching the highest
achievements of his long, varied, and brilliant career, which there is
reason to expect will continue for many years....
Actors, it has been noted, who are actors only, often are remarkably
long-lived. Men who attain eminence in theatrical management,--whether
they be also actors or not,--seldom are so: Sir William Davenant died at
sixty-two; Garrick at sixty-one; John Kemble at sixty-six; Thomas S.
Hamblin at fifty-one; Charles Kean at fifty-seven; Benedict De Bar at
sixty-three; John McCollough at fifty-three; Lester Wallack at
sixty-eight; Lawrence Barrett at fifty-two; Edwin Booth at sixty; John
T. Ford at sixty-five; Augustin Daly at sixty-one; A. M. Palmer at
sixty-seven. Garrick had been three years in retirement when he died;
Kemble, six; Kean, nearly one; Booth, more than two; Palmer, five.
Belasco’s career has already extended over a period of forty-six years
and, excepting Wallack, he is now older than any of those men were when
their professional labors ended,[7]--yet there is in him none of the
dejection of age; none of the despondency of fatigue; no abatement of
his ambitious purpose, resolute enterprise, and amazing energy; no sign
of that forlorn loneliness which often settles on the mind as friends
die, things alter and long familiar environment drifts away, the old
order changing and giving place to new. On the contrary, his health is
excellent, his mind virile, his courage high, his spirit cheerful, and
in every way he shows as indeed “strong in will to strive, to seek, to
find, and not to yield.” It is, therefore, a specially difficult and
dubious task to attempt to make at this time a summary of his character,
life, and labor. But if another of the abrupt and lamentable
bereavements of the Stage which it has so often been my task to
chronicle and estimate should befall at this time; if, suddenly, now,
while all around seems bright and full of life and hope, mortality’s
strong hand should close upon Belasco and I should be required to write
of him as of one whose work was finished and who had “bid the world
good-night,” I should write in these words:
From the beginning and until the end David Belasco was an embodiment of
high ambition, zealous enterprise, resolute endeavor, and patient
endurance. He did not drift into his career--he selected it. His natural
proclivity for the Theatre was irresistible; in youth his aspiration was
to reach a dominant place in that institution; all his early life was
spent in arduous toil to equip himself for the eminence at which he
aimed; through long years, in which he became well acquainted with
bitter strife and grievous disappointment, he never lost hope or
faltered in the purpose which at last he achieved,--supremacy in the
American Theatre. He was a rare and vivid personality; an extraordinary
and many-sided man; the natural successor of Lester Wallack, Edwin
Booth, and Augustin Daly as the leading theatrical manager of America;
and, in the English-speaking world, he was absolutely the last of the
managers who, personally, were important and interesting. His place will
not be filled. It has been said of David Belasco that he was a “posing
and posturing charlatan.” That harsh censure is the tribute of envy to
merit and it is as unjust as it is mean. His nature was impetuous, his
temperament was intensely dramatic, his sensibility was extreme, the
tone of his mind was at times exuberant and florid, and, consequently,
his language and his conduct were sometimes extravagant. He, also,
understood the uses of advertising; he was occasionally over-solicitous
as to public opinion; he possessed a full share of very human, almost
childlike, vanity, and certainly he managed the public as well as the
Theatre. But his devotion to the dramatic calling was true, passionate,
and entire and to it he gave his life: he never desired retirement and
never thought of it. The secret of his success--if any secret there
be--was his inveterate determination, indefatigable labor, and profound
sincerity of purpose. If the public poured great wealth into his hands
(as it did), he never spared wealth, labor, and time--toilsome days and
sleepless, care-full nights--to give the public in return the very best
there was in him and to make that best as good as it could be made. He
was a master of every detail of his vocation and, alone among American
theatrical managers of the past twenty years, he understood and
practically recognized that Acting is a Fine Art and not merely a
business. The main result at which he aimed was always good plays,
correctly set and superbly acted. If that result was not always attained
by him, neither has it always been attained by any other worker of the
Stage,--not since “Roscius was an actor in Rome.” While judgment and
taste must deplore his production of “Zaza” and “The Easiest Way”
justice and candor must concede his right to be remembered by the best
and most influential of his works, which comprehend an amazing variety
of subjects and of merit, ranging, for example, from “May Blossom” to
“Peter Grimm,” from “Men and Women” to “Sweet Kitty Bellairs,” from “The
Heart of Maryland” to “The Music Master,” from “The Charity Ball” to
“The Girl of the Golden West,” from “The Girl I Left Behind Me” to
“Adrea,” from “Lord Chumley” to “Madame Butterfly,” from “The Darling of
the Gods” to “A Grand Army Man,” and which, first and last, deal with
most of the great elemental experiences of human life.
* * * * *
The sentiment of patriotism is a sublime and lovely sentiment, but it
cannot be nurtured by self-deception, by vainglorious boasting and
sycophantic adulation. There is far too much talk about our superiority
as a people and far too little thought about means of making that
alleged superiority actual. We are hearing much, and we shall hear more,
about the spiritual exaltation and the fine idealism which has recently
carried us into the Great War,--but such talk is not honest. We had as
much reason to enter the War in 1915 as we had in 1917. We have entered
it, primarily, from self-interest, for self-defence,--to fight now, in
Europe, in order that we need not fight, hereafter, in America. Let us
be honest and outspoken about our course. It is idle to seek, as some of
his “very articulate” political opponents and detractors do, to lay the
blame of our unworthy delay on Woodrow Wilson (one of the great men of
modern times) or on any other man or group of men. The blame rests
squarely on the people of the United States as a nation. The spirit of
our country is and long has been one of pagan Materialism, infecting all
branches of thought, and of unscrupulous Commercialism, infecting all
branches of action. Foreign elements, alien to our institutions and
ideals as to our language and our thought,--seditious elements,
ignorant, boisterous, treacherous, and dangerous,--have been introduced
into our population in immense quantities, interpenetrating and
contaminating it in many ways: in the face of self-evident peril and of
iterated warnings and protests, immigration into the United States has
been permitted during the last twenty years of about 15,000,000
persons--including vast numbers of the most undesirable order. We call
ourselves a civilized nation--but civility is conspicuous in our country
chiefly by its absence. Gentleness is despised. Good manners are
practically extinct. Public decorum is almost unknown. We are
notoriously a law-contemning people. The murder rate--the _unpunished_
murder rate--in our country has long been a world scandal. Mob outrage
is an incident of weekly occurrence among us. Our methods of business,
approved and practised, are not only unscrupulous but predatory. Every
public conveyance and place of resort bears witness to the general
uncouthness by innumerable signs enjoining the most elemental
decency--and by the almost universal disregard of the enjoinments! Slang
and thieves’ argot is the prevalent language of the people and there is
scarcely a periodical or a newspaper in the land which does not exhibit
and promote the corruption of good manners diffused by that evil
communication,--while the publicist who dares to record the facts and
censure the faults is generally stigmatized as a fool or ridiculed as a
pedant. The tone of the public mind is to a woful extent sordid,
selfish, greedy. In our great cities life is largely a semi-delirious
fever of vapid purpose and paltry strife, and in their public vehicles
of transportation the populace--men, women, and young girls--are herded
together without the remotest observance of common decency,--mauled and
jammed and packed one upon another in a manner which would not be
tolerated in shipment of the helpless steer or the long-suffering
swine....
If true civilization is to develop and live in our country, such
conditions, such a spirit, such ideals, manners, and customs as are
widely prevalent among us to-day, must utterly pass and cease. The one
rational hope that they will so disappear lies in disseminating
EDUCATION,--not merely schooling, imperative as that is; but, far more,
a truer and higher education imparted by the ministry of beauty;
education which recognizes that material prosperity and marvellous
discoveries of science are not ultimate goals of human pilgrimage but
mere instruments to be used in spiritual advancement; the inspiration
of noble ideals, gentleness, refinement, and the grace of manners;
cheerful courage, resolute patience, and the calm of hope. For that
education Society must look largely to the ministry of the arts and, in
particular, to the rightly conducted Theatre,--an institution
potentially of tremendous beneficence....
Few managers have been able to take or to understand that view of the
Stage. David Belasco was one of them. It is because his administration
of his “great office” has been, in the main, conducted in the spirit of
a zealous public servant; because for many years he maintained as a
public resort a beautiful theatre, diffusive of the atmosphere of a
pleasant, well-ordered home, placing before the public many fine plays,
superbly acted, and set upon the stage in a perfection of environment
never surpassed anywhere and equalled only by a few of an earlier race
of managers of which he was the last, that David Belasco has, directly
and indirectly, exerted an immense influence for good and is entitled to
appreciative recognition, enduring celebration, and ever grateful
remembrance. And, though on the two occasions when I differed with him I
vigorously opposed his course, it is a comfort to reflect that nothing
ever chilled our friendship and that all that could be done to sustain
and aid his great and worthy purpose and to cheer his mind was done
while he could benefit by it....
* * * * *
Among American theatrical managers David Belasco was long unique,--the
sole survivor, exemplar, and transmitter of an earlier and better theory
and practice of theatrical management than is anywhere visible now. When
he came to New York, to the Madison Square Theatre, representative
theatre managers of our country were Lester Wallack, Augustin Daly, John
T. Ford, Samuel Colville, Dion Boucicault, J. H. McVicker, R. M. Hooley,
Henry E. Abbey, Montgomery Field, and A. M. Palmer, and our Stage was
dominated and swayed by the influence of those men and of such players
as John Gilbert, Joseph Jefferson, William Warren, Charles W. Couldock,
Edwin Booth, Lawrence Barrett, W. J. Florence, Tommaso Salvini, Fanny
Janauschek, Helena Modjeska, Ada Rehan, Mary Anderson, Henry Irving, and
Ellen Terry. When, in 1895, Belasco first successfully struck out for
himself, great changes had taken place and greater ones were impending.
When, in 1902, he at last succeeded in establishing himself
independently, in a theatre of his own, it was in almost a new world
that he did so! Colville, Wallack, Ford, Boucicault,
[Illustration:
Photograph by William S. Page. Belasco’s Collection.
BELASCO AT ORIENTA POINT--SUMMER HOME OF HIS DAUGHTER, MRS. GEST]
McVicker, Hooley, Abbey, Daly, Field, Gilbert, Barrett, Florence,
Booth,--all were dead. Mansfield had made his ambitious venture in
theatre management and had utterly failed in it: Irving had lost the
Lyceum in London and was nearing the end of his life: Salvini and Mary
Anderson had left the Stage: Jefferson retired within eighteen months
and soon after died: Modjeska and Ada Rehan were in broken health, their
careers practically closed. Fine actors were visible and, here and
there, splendid things were being done: the histrionic fires have never
yet been wholly extinguished. But actors and men truly comprehensive of,
and sympathetic with, actors no longer controlled the Theatre: that
institution had passed almost entirely into the hands of the so-called
“business man,”--the speculative huckster and the rampant
vulgarian,--and the prevalent ideal in its management was that of the
soap chandler and the corner-grocery. The men who chiefly dominated the
Theatre in the period of fifteen years since Belasco’s establishment in
the metropolis,--with many of whom he was long righteously and bitterly
at variance,--were Charles Frohman, Al. Hayman, A. L. Erlanger, Marc
Klaw, Samuel Nirdlinger, J. F. Zimmermann, William Harris, George C.
Tyler, William A. Brady, Henry B. Harris, Lee Shubert, J. J. Shubert,
George M. Cohan, and Al. H. Woods.
There is not one of those men, his later contemporaries, with whom it is
possible properly to compare Belasco. _He_ was an artist, a dramatist,
an authentic manager actuated by a high purpose and one who exerted a
profound influence on the Theatre of his period. _The others_--though
several of them have manifested various talents--all belong in the
category of mere showmen,--speculators in theatrical business, and, save
for the bad influence fluent from some of them, they are of no more
interest or importance than so many “eminent brewers” or celebrated
purveyors of tallow and pork.
One of the managers named, however, by reason of exceptional energy and
shrewdness and by dint of incessant self-advertising, became and long
continued to be the most conspicuous figure in the theatrical field.
That manager was Charles Frohman, and because Belasco and he were
personal friends and personal enemies, because they were professional
associates and, in a business sense, professional rivals during many
years, it is inevitable that the student of the theatrical period from
1885 to 1917 should attempt to make some comparison of them. That
renders an estimate of Frohman desirable here....
Charles Frohman was born at Sandusky, Ohio, June 17, 1860, and he lost
his life in the sinking of the Lusitania, May 7, 1915. He entered the
theatrical business, as an “advance agent,” in January, 1877, and he
remained in it until his death. He was honest in his dealings, amiable
in his domestic and social relations, benevolent toward the poor, highly
popular among his friends, able and energetic in business affairs, a
gambler by temperament, and of a self-poised, resolute character. His
management of the Theatre, however, was injurious, both to that
institution and to society. He assisted to commercialize and thus to
degrade the Stage. His policy was distinctly and unequivocally expressed
by himself, in these words: “I keep a Department Store.” That is
precisely what he did, and that is precisely what no manager has a right
to do,--while claiming _to exercise an intellectual power and foster a
great art_. The man to whom Oofty Gooft and Edwin Booth, “Shenandoah”
and “Hamlet,” “Hattie” Williams and Helena Modjeska, “The Girl from
Maxim’s” and “Alabama,” and so following, are all alike--mere theatrical
commodities of commerce to be exploited as such--may be “a man of his
word,” an honest tradesman, a genial companion, a dutiful son, an
affectionate brother, a loyal friend, generous in prosperity,
unperturbed in adversity and expeditious in transaction of
business,--but he is not and he never can be a true theatrical manager.
In the “Life” of Charles Frohman--by his brother Daniel (a man of far
higher ability) and another writer--some informative utterances by him
are quoted,--utterances which reveal and establish the quality of his
mind more unmistakably than whole chapters of analysis could do. This is
one of them, imparting his view of the greatest poet and dramatist that
ever lived and of the consummate tragedy of youthful love, “Romeo and
Juliet”:
“‘Nonsense!’ exclaimed Frohman. ‘Who’s Shakespeare? He was just a
man. He won’t hurt you. I don’t see any Shakespeare. Just imagine
you’re looking at a soldier, home from the Cuban war, making love
to a giggling schoolgirl on a balcony. That’s all I see, and that’s
the way I want it played. Dismiss all idea of costume. Be
modern.’”--The tragedy was acted in the manner he desired.
Charles Frohman was simply a wholesale dealer in theatrical produce. He
“made” many “stars”--“stars” being a commodity requisite in his business
and for the manufacture of which he expressed a strong liking. He never
made an actor. There was nothing of importance accomplished in the
Theatre through his activity that would not have been accomplished
equally well if he had never been born. As far as the Art of the Theatre
is concerned he stands in about the same relation to such men as
Wallack, Daly, and Belasco as a maker of chromo-lithographs does to
Corot or Inness.
* * * * *
Belasco was a good fighter--resourceful, courageous, pertinacious. He
never forgot a kindness nor an injury,--yet bitter and, to a certain
point vindictive, as his resentment of injury unquestionably was, he
could easily be placated and he was instantly amenable to any appeal to
his kindness of heart. I well remember one occasion on which I chanced
to be with him and other friends (it was the last night of the run of
“The Darling of the Gods,” May 30, 1903) when he was called away by an
urgent appeal. He presently returned and, speaking aside with me,
informed me that the message had been from a person widely known among
journalists and actors as one of the vilest creatures that ever
scribbled slander about decent men and women for the blackguard section
of the press and one who had done him great wrong and injury. “And now,”
Belasco said, “he comes to _me_--appealing for help!” “What have you
done?” I asked. “What could I do?” he answered: “The man is in the
gutter--friendless--penniless--starving. I couldn’t refuse him--now,
could I? I gave him what he asked for.” That incident is significantly
characteristic....
* * * * *
Upon David Belasco’s ability as an actor I can give no judgment, never
having seen him act: he seldom appeared on the stage after 1880, and he
did not come to New York until 1882. He played more than 170 parts
between 1871 and 1880, and it is obvious that his early, continuous, and
practical experience in acting and in observation of the dramatic
methods and the stage business of many actors, of all kinds, as well as
of the practice of some of the best stage managers ever known in
America, must have largely contributed to the brilliant efficiency in
direction for which he was remarkable. No more capable, resourceful
mechanician has appeared in the modern Theatre....
Belasco was a great stage manager because he possessed a comprehensive
knowledge of human nature and human experience and an equally
comprehensive knowledge alike of scenery (including stage lighting) and
of acting; a dramatic temperament; clear insight; almost inexhaustible
patience; ability to impart knowledge, and the rare and precious faculty
of eliciting and developing the best that was in the actors whom he
directed. It was the latter attribute that made him unique among stage
managers of the last twenty years or so: the general custom of that
pestiferous animal “the stage producer” is to thrust upon actors an
arbitrary ideal of character....
Belasco possessed, moreover, exceptional understanding of the traits of
actors: he knew their vanity and sometimes almost intolerable conceit,
their often paltry purposes and petty ways; likewise he knew and deeply
sympathized with their fine and lovable qualities,--the noble ambitions
by which sometimes they are actuated, their often forlorn hopefulness,
their courage under disappointment, their restless impulse toward
_expression_, their honest longing for opportunity and recognition,
their peculiarities, foibles, and sensibility, and he possessed and
exercised extraordinary judgment, consideration, and tact in the control
of them....
* * * * *
Being human, Belasco possessed faults and made mistakes: being
successful, he never lacked for censurers to point out the one or, with
gleeful malice, to celebrate the other. He was weak by reason of an
inordinate craving for approbation and by reason of an excessive
amiability: rather than inflict the pain of immediate disappointment he
sometimes foolishly temporized in dealing with importunate persons,
thus, at last, incurring their bitter resentment and enmity because of
what they mistakenly though naturally deemed his insincerity. But, in
every respect, his virtues far exceeded his faults, his strength his
weakness, and his rectitude his errors: he was an extraordinary man,
worthy of public esteem and honor, and, in private, most loved by those
who knew him best. As the years speed away and the great place he filled
in the Theatre of his time, and the great void which his passing must
make, become rightly appreciated, those whose detraction followed David
Belasco may admit their injustice:
“They that reviled him may mourn to recover him,--
Knowing how gentle he was and how brave!
Nothing he’ll reck, where the wind blowing over him
Ripples the grasses that dream on his grave!”
* * * * *
Much has been written, first and last, about Belasco’s utter absorption
in artistic matters and his ignorance of business affairs. It is true
that, first of all, he was an artist and that in his theory of
theatrical business the keystone of the arch was the Art of Acting. But
it cannot be too strongly emphasized that he was one of the few managers
who united in himself a profound knowledge of the drama, all the
methods and expedients of histrionic art, the history of the Theatre and
entire familiarity with its contemporary conditions. He was, in short,
one of the most shrewd, sagacious, far-sighted, hard-headed managers
that ever lived. He early saw the futility of trying to attend, himself,
to every detail of a great and complex organization and so he employed
capable and vigorous men, able and willing to work under his direction
and to carry out his orders. But anybody who supposes that David Belasco
was not perfectly well and intimately aware of everything that was going
on around him and was not at all times the master of his own destiny in
the Theatre is cherishing a delusion!
Most conspicuous among the men associated with Belasco throughout his
long career in management was Benjamin Franklin Roeder, his general
business representative and close personal friend, whose name is here
fittingly linked with commemoration of the chief whom he so long and
faithfully served. Mr. Roeder, originally, aspired to be a dramatist,
and during the early days of Belasco’s activity in New York, while
connected with the Sargent School of Acting, he obtained an introduction
to him from Franklin Sargent. Roeder had made a dramatization of the
novel of “St. Elmo” (a subject which was successfully introduced on the
stage many years later) and desired that Belasco should read his play
with a view to its possible production. Belasco, pleased by the manner
and address of the young writer, agreed to consider the matter and made
an appointment to meet him and discuss it at the School office at one
o’clock on the following Sunday afternoon. In the stress of business he
forgot that appointment, but an urgent errand taking him to his office
at eleven o’clock on the night of the specified day he found Roeder
seated on the doorstep, asleep. He had been waiting there ten hours.
“When I asked him why he had waited,” said Belasco, telling me of this
incident, “he answered, ‘You said you might be late--and to wait.’ I
made up my mind then that there was surely a place for a boy so
tenacious and that he was just the fellow for me. I took him on, at
first as my secretary, and he has been my business assistant, sometimes
my bulwark, always ‘my friend, faithful and just to me,’ ever since.”
Members of the theatrical profession are almost without exception
indiscreet and garrulous; secrecy, which often would be invaluable in
that profession,--as in any calling in which success frequently depends
on priority in exploitation of ideas which cannot be protected from
imitation,--is almost unknown in it. Roeder unites in himself not only
fidelity to his
[Illustration:
Photograph by White. Belasco’s Collection.
BENJAMIN F. ROEDER, BELASCO’S GENERAL BUSINESS MANAGER]
employer, tenacity of purpose, familiarity with all the commercial
details of theatrical affairs, but also excellent executive faculties,
directness and celerity in the despatch of business and, on all
subjects, the restful reticence of the reclusive clam. His services were
often invaluable to Belasco.
* * * * *
In person David Belasco was singular. His height was only five feet, six
inches, and in later years he became rather stout, but in youth he was
slender and graceful. His raiment was, almost invariably, black and in
appearance much resembled that worn by Roman Catholic priests of the
present day. His hair, originally black (not, as most hair so designated
is, dark brown, but _jet black_), became first gray, then silver-white.
His eyebrows were remarkably heavy and black and so remained. His eyes
were extraordinarily fine--dark brown, large, and luminous--and his gaze
was attentive and direct. I have not observed a countenance more
singular, mobile, and expressive. When he chose he could make of it an
inscrutable mask. But when indifferent or unaware of observation the
changes of expression--shadows of his thoughts--would flit over his face
with astonishing variety and rapidity, so that I have watched him when
he would appear at one moment commonplace and dull--the next,
highly distinguished, then kind--gentle--thoughtful--dreamy--
ruminant--pensive--mischievous--pugnacious--alert--hard--cold--at
moments, even malignant--boyish--playful--tender. On the rare occasions
when passion mastered him (or when he chose to have it seem to do
so--occasions always difficult to distinguish), his aspect became
positively Mephistophelian....
* * * * *
One of the mental advantages possessed by Belasco,--a qualification as
precious as it is rare,--was the faculty of absorbing knowledge without
effort. He learned all things with amazing ease. When little more than
thirteen years old he had imbibed from an uncle, a visionary scholar,
sufficient knowledge of Hebrew to enable him to conduct a religious
service in that language, which he did, “without the punctuation,”--an
achievement the difficulty of which will be appreciated only by Hebrew
scholars. That faculty persisted in him always....
Belasco early recognized the wisdom contained in the old poet Prior’s
injunction as to the treatment of woman,
“Be to her faults a little blind,
Be to her virtues very kind,”
and he consistently obeyed it. He possessed, furthermore, an intuitive
knowledge of the nature of women, a compassionate sympathy with them,
and, whether professionally or personally, exceptional skill in pleasing
and managing them: he was, in turn, readily subservient to female
influence....
As a writer he manifested amazing vitality, persistent industry, lively
fancy, considerable faculty of imagination, keen observation, quick
perception of character but more of striking situation and effect, and
great knowledge of human nature. He possessed more the sense of humor
than the faculty of it....
Belasco all his life possessed the spirit of adventure. He was eagerly
interested in the life of to-day. His sensibility was extreme. He had
great goodness of heart. He was very generous, extremely kind.
* * * * *
A GREAT SHAKESPEAREAN PROJECT.
[Not long before my father died he broached to Belasco the project of
making a remarkable series of Shakespearean productions. His suggestion
was eagerly adopted and, if he had lived, it would have been put into
effect during the theatrical season of 1918-’19. His death forced
postponement of the productions--but some preparatory work had been
accomplished and Belasco has not abandoned the project, which is
outlined in the following correspondence, and which will, I believe,
ultimately be fulfilled.--J. W.]
(_William Winter to David Belasco._)
“New Brighton, Staten Island,
“February 23, 1917.
“Dear David:--
“My work on your ‘Life,’ leading me into considerate examination of
what you have done and not done, the scope of your experience, the
difference between conditions, past and present, has, incidentally,
turned my mind toward the future and what you might do, and I
venture to make a suggestion, which I hope you will not deem
intrusive. It would be a great thing for our Stage, and I think for
you, if you were to make a splendid production of a Shakespeare
play--and I believe that you could, with profit, bring out ‘King
Henry IV.’ It has not been acted in New York since 1896, and then
only for a few nights and in a very inefficient way.[8] It had not
been acted previous to that for fifteen or twenty years. ‘On the
road’ it is, practically, as little known. The Second Part has not
been acted in our city (except two or three performances at the
Century [Theatre], by amateurs, signifying nothing) for more than
half-a-century. A production of the First Part might be made; or,
Daly’s original scheme of combining the two parts might be
fulfilled,--though I believe the former would be much the better
venture.
“If the idea pleases you, I should be most happy to talk with you
about it, in detail; to make suggestions, and to assist in any
possible way. I hope you will consider this matter with care. If
you do not bring out the play, before long somebody else will--and,
if with proper care, gain reputation and money by it.
“I have been very sick, but am improving and the work goes
on--though much slower than I would have it do. I hope to see you
before long.
“With kind regards,
“Faithfully yours,
“WILLIAM WINTER.”
(_David Belasco to William Winter._)
“Belasco Theatre, New York,
“March 2, 1917.
“My dear Mr. Winter:--
“I received your letter and regret very much that you were so ill.
I am glad, indeed, to learn that you are better. I think the
weather is very depressing and debilitating.
“I have long wanted to do a Shakespearean play, and your suggestion
gives me an idea. I think that ‘King Henry IV.,’ if well done and
produced with simple dignity, would be most timely. Thank you very
much for your suggestion.
“As soon as this hateful season is over (the spring season is
always so hard on me--engaging actors, getting manuscripts
together, etc.) do let me come over and talk over ‘King Henry IV.’:
meanwhile, I must read it again, as parts of it are very faint in
my memory. I do not believe in combining the two parts. I had
thought of ‘Julius Cæsar,’ which I consider the greatest play in
the world; but it is so well known that it invites comparison. It
is much better to produce a Shakespearean play but little seen....
“With many thanks, all good wishes--and looking forward to seeing
you and talking over a Shakespearean production, I am,
“Faithfully yours,
“DAVID BELASCO.”
(_William Winter to David Belasco._)
“New Brighton, Staten Island,
“March 8, 1917.
“Dear David:--
“Your letter of March 2 has reached me.
“I was glad to hear from you, and I thank you for your kind wishes.
I improve but slowly: still--I improve.
“The work goes on--but _not_ well. It goes slowly. But still--it
goes. I do not remember ever experiencing so much difficulty in
putting biographical matter in order....
“As soon as the weather settles, and the pressure of your business
will permit, I shall be glad to have you come to see me here. We
can then resume talks about your adventures; and we can confer
about ‘King Henry IV.’ The more I have reflected on the subject the
more I feel that you would do well to revive that play. It requires
editing, of course,--but it is a superb work. Besides _Falstaff_,
_King Henry the Fourth_, _Prince Henry_ and _Hotspur_ are all
splendid characters (_I_ prefer the _Prince_ to _Hotspur_: actors
usually do not), and several of the others are almost as good.
“The plan of combining the two Parts has some merits: but (in my
judgment) to produce the First Part is the ‘eftest scheme.’ We will
talk of it when you come....
“Faithfully yours,
“WILLIAM WINTER.”
(_William Winter to David Belasco._)
“46 Winter Avenue, New Brighton,
“Staten Island, New York,
“May 18, 1917.
“My dear David:--
“In the course of my work on the ‘Life’ I have had occasion to
examine and consider several forms of censure and disparagement
which, first and last, have been a good deal circulated about you.
One of these is the statement (which I, personally, have heard made
by some who ought to have known better) that you have not ‘produced
Shakespeare’ because you have been afraid the public would then
‘find you out.’ This has led me to make a very careful study of the
subject and an exposition of the quality of your early experience
and training as bearing upon competency to produce and direct
Shakespeare in revivals. This, in turn, has kept the suggestion I
ventured to make to you, some time ago, about ‘King Henry IV.,’
much in my mind. And turning over that subject and looking at it
from many points, I have formulated a plan, fulfilment of which
would give you an absolutely unique position among producers of
Shakespeare, and I venture to lay it before you, in the hope that
perhaps it may be of use, and that, at least, you will not think me
presumptuous.
“It is as follows:
“‘King Henry IV.,’ both parts, is a sequel to ‘King Richard II.’
The latter is one of the most eloquent and beautiful of all
Shakespeare’s plays. All three of the plays named could well and
conveniently be acted _by the same company_. The actual expense of
putting on all three of them would not be much more than that of
putting on one. You could make an IMMENSE impression by bringing
out those three plays as a ‘Shakespeare Trilogy.’ Thus:
“Mondays and Thursdays; ‘King Richard II.’
“Tuesdays and Fridays; ‘King Henry IV., Part One.’
“Wednesdays and Saturdays; ‘King Henry IV., Part Two.’
“Thus, every week, you could give two full ‘cycles’ of the trilogy;
and, on matinée days, the ‘First Part of King Henry IV.,’ or a
modern play.
“In presenting such a thing you would undertake and accomplish a
more distinctive, original, and impressive managerial enterprise
than any single venture of any of the representative Shakespearean
producers,--Garrick, Kemble, Macready, Phelps, Kean, Booth, Irving,
Daly, or Beerbohm-Tree.
“_I_ feel confident that, in a _business_ way, it could be made
profitable. If you got through even at cost, or at a small loss, it
would (in _my_ view) be, in a _business_ way (wholly aside from the
immense and incontestable service to art and the public), a
profitable investment. And I _am sure_ it would ‘make money,’ too.
“I would do anything and everything in my power to help so fine a
scheme,--would arrange the plays, write notes, etc., etc., if you
should desire it.
“Please do not think me intrusive with my suggestions. And please
give this very careful consideration.
“It would be a special satisfaction to me to see you crown your
career with such a wonderful, such an unparalleled, accomplishment.
However much honest difference of opinion there may be regarding
some of the productions you have made (as you know, you and I are
hopelessly at variance about some of the plays you have brought
out), there could be no room for cavil or honest censure of such a
venture as the production of three of Shakespeare’s greatest plays,
which, practically speaking, are unknown, are _new_, to the
American Stage, and which are peculiarly well suited to _your_
purposes and treatment. And it would be all the more splendid that
such production should not be made at the high-tide of general
theatrical prosperity, but should be made when the whole world
seems shattered, and the rest of theatrical managers are running
about like ants that have been disturbed in their hill!
“Faithfully yours,
“WILLIAM WINTER.”
(_Telegram, David Belasco to William Winter._)
“New York, May 19, 1917.
“Dear William Winter, I [have] just read your letter. You are
right, and I promise you and myself to do the plays as you suggest,
counting upon your generous assistance, without which I could not
do them. I shall come over as soon as I possibly can, to speak
further of this. Thank you for your enthusiasm and your faith. God
bless you!
“DAVID BELASCO.”
CONCERNING SARAH BERNHARDT.
[It was part of my father’s purpose in making this Memoir to devote a
section in it to BELASCO’S CONTEMPORARIES. The notes which he made on
the subject were not extensive. For that reason and for others I have
decided not to attempt to supply the section. Before making the
decision, however, I addressed to Belasco some inquiries bearing on the
subject and especially one concerning his “favorite player.” His reply
to the latter embodies a notable tribute to a wonderful woman and is, I
think, of exceptional interest. Among other things, it strikingly
illustrates how radically doctors sometimes disagree. No person more
admired the resolute courage shown by Sarah Bernhardt than Winter did,
who wrote of her: “It is good to see upon the Stage--and everywhere
else--indomitable endurance, the aspiring mind that nothing can daunt
and the iron will that nothing can break.” And no writer more justly
appreciated than he did her artistic faculties, her supremacy as “an
histrionic executant.” His final estimate of her, however,--an estimate
as exact as a chemist’s analysis and one which will survive all
disparagement,--is, in some respects, in such sharp disagreement with
Belasco’s that readers of the latter will find the former specially
instructive. It is embodied, together with his studies of her acting,
in his book entitled “The Wallet of Time.”--J. W.]
(_David Belasco to Jefferson Winter._)
“The Belasco Theatre, New York,
“May 31, 1918.
“My dear Jefferson Winter:--
“You ask me to tell you who, of all the players I have ever seen,
is my favorite. My, but that is a hard question to answer! In fact,
I don’t think I _can_ answer with just a name. I have so many
favorites! It is a case of ‘Not that I love Cæsar less but Rome
more!’ And then, too, I have seen and known so many players of so
many different kinds--of _all_ kinds--and our moods vary. As I look
back into my memory and try to call up the actors and actresses of
the Past it seems to me that John McCullough was the most _lovable_
as a man and, in the great, heroic parts, the most satisfying as an
actor. Barrett was the most _ambitious_; Booth was the most
_powerful_ and _interesting_; Owens was the _funniest_ man I ever
saw, and after him Raymond; Wallack was the most _polished_ and
_courtly_; Salvini was the most _imposing_; Irving the most
_intellectual_ and _dominating_; Mansfield the most _erratic_--and
all of them were great actors and each of them, I think, was my
special favorite! But if I could see only one more theatrical
performance and had to choose which one of those actors I would
see, I think I would choose Edwin Booth in _King Richard the
Third_.
“Of the women--Adelaide Neilson was easily the most _winsome_ and
_passionate_. Modjeska was the most _romantic_. Mary Anderson was
the _stateliest_, Ellen Terry the most _pathetic_, Ada Rehan the
_greatest comedienne_, and Sarah Bernhardt--ah, what shall I say
of the Divine Sarah!
“If I were to have the choice of one last performance by the _one
actress_ I admire the most I am afraid I should quarrel with Fate
and insist on choosing _two_--Adelaide Neilson in _Juliet_ and
Sarah Bernhardt in anything. To me, she is, in all seriousness, one
of the everlasting wonders of art. Her voice was like liquid gold;
her delivery was, and is, a supreme example for any man or woman
that ever stepped on a stage. She added a language to all the
others. French is beautiful; but
French-as-spoken-by-Sarah-Bernhardt is sublime! As an actress I
admired her most in the pre-Sardou plays; but she is great in
everything. She has always practised one of the great truths your
dear father taught--that the art of acting is the art of
_expression_ not _re_pression. I consider that she is the best
_listener_ I ever saw--and very few except stage managers know how
difficult it is to seem to listen for the first times to speeches
which have been heard over and over again, sometimes for many
years. She is always mistress of the scene. It is a dramatic
education just to watch her. She could play ‘quiet’ scenes as well
as anybody else--if not better. But when it came to the great
emotional outbursts Sarah Bernhardt could always make them and make
them so that she brought her audience right up on their feet. A
good deal of the so-called ‘repressed school’ of acting is not art
but artifice--mere trickery. Many players of that school ‘repress’
because they haven’t got anything to give out--they make a virtue
of necessity and dodge what they cannot do. Sarah Bernhardt never
tried to dodge anything and she never needed to, because she never
undertook anything she could not do superbly. As to the secret of
her wonderful success and great career that you hear people talk so
much about, it is simply this: She loves her work.
[Illustration:
Photographed by Rochlitz Studio Belasco’s Collection.
SARAH BERNHARDT]
When man, woman, or child _loves_ what they are doing, the doing of
it is to them like God’s sunlight to the flowers, it keeps them
alive and makes them beautiful.
“Much as I admire Mme. Bernhardt as an actress I think I admire her
most as a woman. She sets an example of pluck and perseverance for
all of us, and I have always been very solicitous of her good
opinion. She has come to see several of my productions and her
approval has meant much to me. I once gave a special performance of
‘Adrea’ for her,[9] because that was the only way she could get to
see it and her admiration and applause I regard as the highest
honor.
“Last Christmas I sent her a telegram which I should like to give
you. This is it:
“‘Dear and adored friend:--
“‘May God be good to you this coming year, may you have a bright
and happy Christmas, and may your glorious spirit remain with us
for many years to come. We all admire your courage and your genius
and love to call you “The Great Woman” of our century!’
“Her reply is one of my most valued treasures: