The Life of David Belasco; Vol. 2

The following description of this handsome female explains, at least partially, the influence that she exerted. It was written by the Comte de Belleval, one of her many admirers:

A FANCIFUL FABRIC.—“DU BARRY” FIRST PRODUCED.

authentic records were ignored and an arbitrary, gilt-edged, rosy ideal took the place of truth. Nell Gwynn, in the person of Miss Henrietta Crosman, had worn the halo but a little time before (Bijou Theatre, New York, October 9, 1900), and if Nell Gwynn could wear it, why not Marie Jeanne? This burnishing process, to be sure, is diffusive of vast and general misinformation, but for most persons that seems to be quite as useful as accurate knowledge, and, after all, if the Stage is to present imperial wantons in any fashion it may as well present them in a decent one. The gay du Barry as seen by the dramatist,—or, at least, as shown by him,—was abundantly frail, but she was also fond, and while she did not scruple to pick up the royal pocket-handkerchief she nevertheless, in her woman’s heart, remained true to her first love: that is the story of the play. The adventurous actual du Barry became the paramour of Cossé-Brissac, after King Louis the Fifteenth had died and after she had been exiled from the French Court. In the play the lady hides that lover in her bed (he has been wounded, and she persuades him to seek this retirement by pounding on his wounds with a heavy candlestick, until he becomes insensible), so that the jealous King, committing the blunder of Byron’s Don Alfonso, in “Don Juan,” cannot find him: she also wields the convenient candlestick with which to smash the sconce of an interloping relative who otherwise would betray him; she defies, for his sake, the gracious Majesty of France and every appurtenance thereunto belonging; and, at the last, she goes pathetically to the guillotine, still loving him and still deploring her innocent, youthful past, when they were happy lovers together, when all was peace, joy, and hope,—because as the old poet Rogers prettily phrases it, “Life was new and the heart promised what the fancy drew.” As a matter of fact, the amiable countrymen of du Barry sent her to the guillotine, in the winter of 1793, because they had ascertained that she was too rich to be a patriot and also, probably, had entered on a secret correspondence with their enemies in England.

As an epigraph to his play the dramatist selected a remark by Oliver Wendell Holmes, that “not the great historical events but the personal incidents that call up sharp pictures of some human being in its pang or struggle reach us more nearly.” That statement sounds well, but it labors under the disadvantage of not being true. The play, however, exemplifies it to the extent of showing its heroine chiefly in her “pang”—a condition which, seemingly, ensues upon her being a feather-brained fool, but which she loquaciously ascribes to Fate and a ruthless appetite for “pretty things.” There is some lightness at the start, when Jeanne is a milliner, but the opening act proves to be practically needless, since the play does not actually begin till after the second curtain has been raised. Then the volatile girl is tempted by the offer of the King’s love, and in order that she may accept it her honest lover is made to misunderstand her, in an incredible manner, such as is possible only on the stage. In the Third Act she has become a great personage, almost a queen, and that act, which is interesting, various, and dramatic, terminates with a highly effective scene, possible in a play, but impossible in life,—when du Barry’s wounded lover, falling insensible on that lady’s bed and being carelessly covered with drapery, remains there, sufficiently visible to a crowd of eager and suspicious pursuers who are searching for him—but do not find him. The rest of the piece shows the King’s efforts to capture the fugitive and du Barry’s schemes and pleadings to save him, and it terminates with a pathetic farewell between the lovers as Jeanne, deserted and forlorn, is being conveyed to the guillotine.

Mrs. Carter, adept in coquetry, displayed, as du Barry, her abundant physical fascination, but if she had refrained from removing her shoes and showing her feet at brief intervals during the performance she would have been considerably more pleasing in that easy vein of bewitchment:—they were not even pretty feet. In serious business the method of Mrs. Carter as du Barry was to work herself into a state of violent excitement, to weep, vociferate, shriek, rant, become hoarse with passion, and finally to flop and beat the floor. That method has many votaries and by them is thought to be “acting” and is much admired, but to judicious observers it is merely the facile expedient of transparent artifice and the ready resource of a febrile, unstable nature. An actor who loses self-control can never really control an audience. There were, nevertheless, executive force and skill in Mrs. Carter’s performance, after it had been often repeated under the guiding government of her sagacious and able manager.

Belasco’s “Du Barry” was first produced at the New National Theatre, Washington, D. C., December 12, 1901. The first performance of it in New York occurred December 25, that year, at the Criterion Theatre, where it was continuously acted till the close of the season, May 31, 1902, receiving 165 consecutive performances. The play is comprehended in five acts and eight scenes and it implicates fifty-five persons,—of whom five are conspicuous characters by whom the burden of the action is sustained,—and a host of supernumeraries. It was set on the stage in a scenic investiture of extreme costliness and ostentation, being, indeed, almost overwhelmed in the profusion of its accessories of spectacle. Referring to this extreme opulence of environment and attire, Belasco has said: “I offered Charles Frohman a half-interest in my ‘Du Barry,’ but he declined to come in with me because of the immense expense. His judgment was logical, too. ‘Du Barry’ might easily have ruined any manager. The expenses of the production were such that there was little profit to be made. When the curtain rose it afforded the public an opportunity to see how a manager’s hands were forced by the very prodigality of the subject he had chosen. My production was lavish because the play was laid in a lavish time. The mere ‘suggestion’ of luxury would not do,—or so I thought. Were I to do it again, it would be from an entirely different standpoint.” I much doubt whether, if the venture were to be made anew, Belasco would make it in a different way. At any rate, the purpose he had in mind was fully accomplished: the immense prodigality of his presentment profoundly impressed and greatly delighted his audiences, and the Criterion was densely crowded at every performance. The two most striking scenes were those of Act Three, which showed a room in the Palace of Versailles, and the Last Scene of Act Five, in front of a milliner’s shop. The latter portrayed a street in Paris, shadowed by strange, “high-shouldered” houses, through which the wretched du Barry, abject and terrified, was dragged to execution,—huddled in a tumbril, attended only by a priest, the Papal Nuncio, and followed by a fierce, hooting rabble, while other men and women appeared at various house-windows, to jeer and curse her. It was an afflictingly pathetic scene, conceived and executed with perfect sense of dramatic effect and perfect mastery of the means of creating it.

This was the original cast of “Du Barry”:

RICHEPIN AND THE “DU BARRY” LAWSUIT.

on behalf of the French author, alleging, substantially, that Belasco’s “Du Barry” was, in fact, Richepin’s drama of similar name (“La du Barry”) and demanding an accounting for the receipts from representations of it. Belasco’s reply to the complaint in that suit was served on March 4, 1902, and it was explicit and conclusive. In that answer he specifies that on July 22, 1899, he entered into a contract with M. Richepin, which that author obtained “by false and fraudulent representations,” wherein he agreed to write for Belasco a “new and original” play about du Barry, which was to be “entirely satisfactory to this defendant [Belasco],”—failing which he was at liberty to reject the work and return it to Richepin. Belasco, “relying upon the said representations, statements, and promises, and not otherwise, and believing the same to be true, paid to the plaintiff, on the signing and execution of the agreement, the sum of $1,000”; and, on or about July 1, 1901, upon receiving from Richepin (in London, during the run of “Zaza”) the manuscript, in French, of “La du Barry,” he paid $1,500 more. Of his own play, “Du Barry,” Belasco swore that it is “wholly composed and originated by this defendant, without any aid or assistance whatever from the play alleged to have been written by” Richepin. The latter’s play, Belasco pointed out, was “not new and original,” as required by the contract between them, but was “taken, plagiarized, pirated, and copied, by the plaintiff, from public sources and publications, common and open to the public, and that the said play was wholly unsatisfactory to him [Belasco], of which fact he notified the plaintiff, and that the said manuscript was thereafter returned to, and accepted by, the plaintiff.” A motion on behalf of Richepin to strike out these damaging clauses from Belasco’s answer was made and argued before Justice Freeman, in the Supreme Court, March 13,—Mr. Hummel maintaining that the allegations of fraud and plagiarism by Richepin were “irrelevant and redundant.” The motion was peremptorily denied,—after which the legal ardor of the French poet and his agents cooled and his suit languished: Richepin never proceeded in the case (which appears to have been an effort to extort money from Belasco), and it was formally discontinued in January, 1908.

Richepin’s play (called “Du Barri”) was produced by Mrs. Cora Urquhart Potter, March 18, 1905, at the Savoy Theatre, London, and it was a complete failure. “I had planned to take Mrs. Carter to London, in ‘Du Barry,’” Belasco has told me, “but Mrs. Potter’s failure was so decisive that I gave up all thought of attempting to do so.” Writing about the “Du Barry” lawsuit, Belasco says: “Our quarrel was long and heated, but eventually all was ‘forgotten and forgiven,’ and I could once more read Richepin’s mellow poetry without tearing my hair, and Richepin said publicly, ‘The rest is silence,’ or something as nearly like it as the Frenchman can say,”—which, truly, was most generous on the part of “the Frenchman,” in view of the fact that, altogether, Belasco had paid him $8,500 in a venture toward making which he had, at most, contributed merely the suggestion of a subject.

A GRACIOUS TRIBUTE:—“REMEMBER THAT WE LOVED YOU.”

On the first day of the new year, 1902, Belasco was the recipient of a gracious tribute which, as he feelingly said to me, is one of his most cherished memories. The performance ended about half-past eleven on the night of December 31, 1901, and a little before midnight all the members of the company concerned in representation of his drama assembled on the stage about Belasco, Mrs. Carter, and Charles A. Stevenson, ostensibly to greet the new year. Just at midnight beautiful silver chimes slowly rang out the hour, and as Belasco turned to wish the assembled company a happy New Year Mr. Stevenson stepped forward before he could speak and, uncovering a massive and beautiful loving-cup of silver set upon an ebony pedestal, presented it to Belasco “as a token of the great esteem and true affection with which, during the long and arduous preparation of ‘Du Barry,’ every member of your organization has learned to regard you.” Belasco, always warm-hearted and peculiarly susceptible to even casual acts of courtesy and kindness, was so much affected by the cordial feeling displayed by all about him in the conveyance of this rich gift that for several moments he was unable to make any acknowledgment. Then, speaking with difficulty and almost in a whisper, he said: “I—I thank you, all—all—from my heart. It is very lovely. You have worked so hard, with me and for me—all of you—so nobly and so unselfishly that I feel it is I who should give a loving-cup to you—to every member of the company. In all my experience I have not received a more generous, touching tribute—anything which I have appreciated more. I am poor in words—I can only say to all of you thank you, thank you, thank you—a thousand thousand times.”

As Belasco ceased speaking the orchestra began to play the air of “Maryland, My Maryland,” passing

from that into other melodies associated with his successful plays and closing with a plaintive tune written specially for use in “Du Barry.”

On the “Du Barry” loving-cup there are three inscriptions. The first is

Washington, D. C.
December 12, 1901
Mrs Leslie Carter in David Belasco’s Play “Du Barry”

The second is

Presented to
Mr. David Belasco by the Members of His Company
New Year’s, 1902

The third is a line from the play of “Du Barry”:

“Remember that we loved you; we loved you
through it all”

THE THEATRIC RICHMOND “LOOKS PROUDLY O’ER THE CROWN.”

The upward progress which Belasco made in the Theatre within a period of six years is amazing. When the curtain was raised for the first performance of his “The Heart of Maryland,” at the Herald Square, in October, 1895, he possessed almost nothing except his reputation as one of the most skilful of stage managers and a copious crop of debts. When the curtain fell on the last performance in 1901 of “Du Barry,” at the Criterion, he was, as dramatist, director, and theatrical manager, known, esteemed, and recognized throughout the English-speaking world: his debts were all discharged: he possessed a competent fortune, hosts of admirers, troops of friends: within less than three years he had made three memorably successful presentments in the British capital (where American ventures are supposed always to fail!): three of the most accomplished and popular actors of the American Stage, Mrs. Carter, Blanche Bates, and David Warfield, were under his direction and closely bound to him. The whirligig of Time had indeed brought striking changes. Lester Wallack, Edwin Booth, Lawrence Barrett, John McCullough—they were but names in theatrical management. Augustin Daly, the great representative manager of the Theatre in America, was dead. Albert M. Palmer, once Daly’s rival, was obscurely employed as a “business agent” for Richard Mansfield, while Mansfield’s own ambitious but ill-fated essay in theatre management (at the Garrick, New York, in 1895) was completely forgotten; Mansfield was definitely committed to the policy of a “travelling star,” and the Theatre in New York was Charles Frohman’s much vaunted Department Store. Mr. and Mrs. Harrison Grey Fiske, at the Manhattan, were indeed maintaining an admirable dramatic company and making an earnest endeavor in authentic theatrical management. But, in general, the mean spirit of the petty huckster and the sordid, selfish policy of trade monopoly dominated the American Stage; the chair of artistic managerial sovereignty was empty, “the sword unswayed, the empire unpossessed,” and Belasco, ambitiously emulative of great exemplars in his vocation, like a theatric Richmond, looked “proudly o’er the crown.” He was, unquestionably, the natural successor to Wallack, Booth, and Daly; but in order to seize their pre-eminence, to win and wear their laurel crown of leadership, he required to have what they had each possessed,—namely, a theatre of his own in the capital. There seemed no chance of his obtaining one: yet, without such a citadel, notwithstanding all his labor and achievement, he might easily be crushed: the oppressive hand of the Theatrical Syndicate (in his estimation veritably a “wretched, bloody, and usurping boar”) had already been laid heavily on Belasco: a half-interest in his presentment of Warfield in “The Auctioneer” had been extorted from him and an equal share in his exploitations of Mrs. Carter and Miss Bates had been demanded, though not yielded up. What if he should be denied “routes” for those players? He had brought out Mrs. Carter in “Du Barry” at the Criterion not because he wished to do so,—that house, which accommodated only 932 persons, being far too small for an advantageous season,—but because it was the only theatre in New York which he could secure. Charles Frohman was its manager and Charles Frohman was a member of the Syndicate: the Criterion might be closed to him at the end of his current contract. If shut off from the “first class theatres” of the leading cities “on the road” and shut out of New York he would practically be ruined. These and similar considerations gave grounds for grave uneasiness to Belasco. On the afternoon of January 7, 1902, he was alone in his office, a little room in Carnegie Hall, as he had been every afternoon for more than a week, seeking to devise some means of obtaining control of a New York theatre for a term of years. Toward evening he was disturbed by a knocking at the office door. His visitor, when admitted, proved to be the theatrical manager Oscar Hammerstein, between whom and himself there existed merely a casual acquaintance. “Mr. Belasco,” said Hammerstein, without any preliminaries, “the Theatrical Syndicate is trying to crush me out of business. Valuable attractions have been prevented from patronizing my houses this season. I must have attractions. You must have a New York theatre, or you will find yourself helpless. I have one in Forty-second Street, the Republic, which I am willing to turn over to you. I have come up here on an impulse, on the chance that you may be willing to take over control of the Republic.” Belasco instantly replied: “Mr. Hammerstein, I shall be very glad to take over your theatre.” In less than a week all details of agreement had been arranged between the two managers, and on January 14, in the office of Judge A. J. Dittenhoefer, they signed a contract whereby Belasco undertook the management of the Republic Theatre. That contract was for a period of five years, with an option of renewal by Belasco for another five years, and under it he assumed full government of the theatre,—engaging himself to pay to Hammerstein a rental of $30,000 a year and 10 per cent. of the gross receipts from all performances given there. It was also stipulated that neither Mrs. Carter, Blanche Bates, David Warfield, nor any other “star or attraction” under Belasco’s management should play at any other New York theatre, “except for one week each at the Harlem Opera House and the Grand Opera House.” “That lease,” Belasco has declared to me, “was a great thing for Hammerstein,—but it was a greater thing for me, and I did not forget that afterward, when I was paying him from $60,000 to $72,000 a year for his theatre. When some of my friends used to say to me, ‘Don’t you realize that you are paying Hammerstein an unheard-of rent for his house?’ I used to answer, ‘And don’t you realize how very lucky I am to be in a position to pay him an unheard-of rent?’”

A DANGEROUS ACCIDENT.—ALTERING THE REPUBLIC.

A few weeks subsequent to signing the lease of the Republic Theatre with Hammerstein Belasco met with an accident which came near to putting an end to all his projects by causing his death. On the night of March 16 he witnessed a performance of his “Du Barry,” at the Criterion. While the setting was being placed for the last scene—a cumbrous, intricate setting, in which he took special interest—he left his box in the auditorium and went upon the stage to direct the work. As he did so a large and heavy cornice which was being swung into position high in air broke and fell, striking him full upon the head. Another piece of scenery, thrown out of balance by the falling cornice, collapsed, and in a moment Belasco was buried beneath a mass of tangled wreckage. He was with difficulty extricated, unconscious and profusely bleeding. A physician was called, who, after a quarter of an hour, having stanched the bleeding, succeeded in restoring the injured manager to consciousness. It was at first feared that he had sustained a fracture of the skull, but happily he was found to be suffering only from shock and loss of blood due to a severe scalp wound. He was removed to his home and within a few days he had regained his usual health.

After carefully examining the interior of the Republic Theatre Belasco became convinced that it required to be altered for his use. “The stage was wrong, the house was wrong, and the colors set my teeth on edge,” he has told me. Hammerstein was willing that he should make any changes he desired. Belasco, accordingly, took possession of the theatre at about the end of March and, on April 19, 1902, the work of altering it so as to make it conform to his wishes was begun. He started that work intending to spend from $15,000 to $20,000 on improvements. When it was finished he had expended more than $150,000. The whole interior of the building was torn out, leaving nothing but four walls and part of the roof. Toward the front of the property a space was blasted out of solid rock wherein, beneath the auditorium, were built a retiring-room for women and a smoking-room for men. A sub-stage chamber, more than twenty-five feet deep, was also blasted out of the rock,—incidental to which excavation a perpetual spring of water was tapped. Talking with me about his experience in remodelling the Republic Theatre, Belasco, in his characteristically cheery and philosophical way, said: “I remember your telling me about the trouble Edwin Booth got into, blasting out a ledge of rock when he was building his theatre [Booth’s Theatre, Twenty-third Street and Sixth Avenue, 1868-’69], but I don’t believe he had half as bad a time as we did when that spring broke loose! I was so crazy about having my own theatre I wanted to have a hand in everything and I used to go down and fire some of the blasts, in spite of the protests of my family and staff, who expected I’d blow myself to Kingdom Come. And it was I who fired the charge that started that spring! My boys in the theatre used to call me ‘Moses’ after that, for that I did smite the rock and there came water out of it. We damned it, heartily, I can tell you, but it was a long time before we could get it dammed, and it cost me a small fortune to have the stage cavity cemented in.”

One day, during the work of alteration, a stranger presented himself to Belasco, demanding that he be permitted to inspect the property and explaining that he held a mortgage on it. “I had nothing to do with the mortgage,” Belasco told me; “that was Mr. Hammerstein’s business; but I let him come in. He surveyed the scene of devastation with horror, standing on a scaffold, high up, and gazing into the black pit. ‘God above me!’ he exclaimed, after a little while, ‘I’ve got a mortgage on four walls and a hole in the ground!’—and he fled. I never saw him again.”

THE FIRST BELASCO THEATRE.

The work of demolishing and rebuilding the Republic for Belasco was performed in five months. When it was completed he possessed one of the handsomest and best equipped playhouses in the world. “The theatre,” Belasco has often said, “is, first of all, a place for the acting of plays.” That simple statement might be deemed a platitude, were it not for the striking fact that its maker is the only theatrical manager of the present day who practically recognizes its truth: to the majority of other managers the theatre, it seems, is, primarily, a place for almost anything rather than acting,—is, in fact, first of all, a place for the exploitation of their tedious conceit and the making of money by any means. The stage of the Belasco Theatre was designed and built with the purpose of obviating the disadvantages of restricted space and of affording every possible mechanical aid to the acting of plays. The entire “acting surface” of that stage—the entire surface, that is, which could be revealed to the view of the spectators,—was a mosaic of close-fitting trapdoors, so that on occasion it might be opened at any place desired. In the centre of the stage was “an elevator,”—that is, in fact, a movable platform,—fifteen feet wide and thirty feet long. Upon this platform, when it had been lowered into the cellar cavity, were placed the paraphernalia required in the setting of the scenes,—articles technically designated as “properties” (furniture, etc.), and “set pieces” (solid, heavy parts of scenic rooms, houses, etc.)—which were then raised to the stage level for use: when done with, these paraphernalia were sunk again into the cellarage, where the platform bearing them was shifted aside and another similar one, loaded with material for the next setting, replaced it and was in turn raised to the stage.

The drops (painted cloths), ceilings, etc., were all arranged for hoisting into the flies, as in most modern theatres; but Belasco had the ropes by which these articles were raised from his stage so attached to counterweights and cranks that one man could, with ease, raise pieces which, in former times, it had required from three to six men to hoist.

The footlights were so arranged that the light from them was diffused upon the stage and players without the spectators, even those in the upper stage boxes, being able to perceive whence it came. The electric lamps in the footlights, borders, etc., were placed in small, individual compartments, so that no unintentional blending of lights could occur: but every necessary different color of lamp was provided and all the lamps in the house, whether upon the stage or in the auditorium, were connected “on resistance,”—that is, so connected with the electric current feed wires that the lights could be (as invariably they were) turned up or down, as required, gently, by degrees. In short, every arrangement that knowledge, experience, and prevision could suggest as necessary and that liberality, ingenuity, and care could devise was provided. “I have an even better electrical equipment in my present theatre than I had in my first house,” Belasco has said to me, “and I am proud of it. But in my first house I had the very best there was in the world at the time. I had a plant that would have lit a palace: in fact, I very much doubt whether there was a palace anywhere in all the world as well equipped in the matter of lighting.”

Belasco’s first theatre contained seating accommodation for 950 persons,—300 in the gallery, 200 in the balcony, and 450 on the orchestra, or main, floor. No effort or expense was spared to make the house in every way comfortable and delightful to all who visited it. Outside, in front, a massive iron marquee-awning shadowed the main entrance, overhanging the street-walk out to the curb. The doors of the theatre were of heavy wrought iron and opened into a lobby which was, in fact, a sort of reception hall. The walls and ceilings of this lobby were sheathed in oak panelling of antique finish, and large, luxurious seats of heavy oak, upholstered in leather, were placed at each end of it. Across the rear of the auditorium, on the orchestra floor, close to the hindermost row of seats, extended a massive screen built of rosewood, with heavy crystal lights, to protect the audience within from drafts of air and to exclude street sounds. The colors of the decorations were reds, greens, and deep golden browns,—all used in warm, subdued shades. The rear and side walls were hung with rich tapestries, depicting an autumnal forest. The

floors were covered with heavy, soft, dark-green velvet carpets. The seats were upholstered in silk tapestry of a complementary shade of silver-green color, and on the back of each of them was embroidered the semblance of a bee,—fit emblem of Belasco’s energetic, ceaseless toil. The ceiling and dome were handsomely decorated in dull gold, sparingly used, with soft grays and rose. There were two drop curtains,—one of heavy, rose-colored velvet; the other an old-fashioned one of plain green baize. Every detail of the architecture and decorations was delicate and harmonious, and the general effect was at once opulent and restful. The architects employed by Belasco were Messrs. Bigelow, Wallis & Cotton, of New York: the director was Mr. Rudolph Allen. But the active inspiration of all this beauty and luxury provided for the public enjoyment, the conglutinating and executive force which in the face of manifold dissensions and difficulties held all the associate laborers together and drove through to successful completion all the varied work of invention and reconstruction, was Belasco himself. At last he had carried bricks for himself to some lasting purpose! When he opened his playhouse it was in every detail as well as in every essential a new theatre, veritably the creation of his mind and will, and he very appropriately dropped the name of the Republic and called it The Belasco Theatre.

“AFTER THIRTY YEARS OF LABOR.”—BELASCO IN HIS OWN THEATRE;—THE OPENING NIGHT.

THE FIRST PROGRAMME.

“Not the great historical events, but the personal incidents that call up single, sharp pictures of some human being in its pang or struggle, reach us more nearly.”—Oliver Wendell Holmes.

CAST

Guests of the Fête, Dancers from the Opera, King’s Guardsmen, Monks, Clowns, Pages, Milliners, Sentries, Lackeys, Footmen, King’s Secret Police, Sans-Culottes, a Mock King, a Mock Herald, a Drunken Patriot, a Cocoa Vender, Federals, National Guards, Tricoteuses.

SYNOPSIS OF SCENES.