VARIOUS PRODUCTIONS—MISCELLANEOUS RECORD: “WHAT’S WRONG.”—“THE VANISHING BRIDE.”—“THE LOVE THOUGHT.”—“ALIAS.”

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.”

CAST OF “THE VANISHING BRIDE.”

CAST OF “THE LOVE THOUGHT.”

CAST OF “THE TREADMILL”—“ALIAS.”

“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:

“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”:

“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:

A REVIVAL OF “THE AUCTIONEER.”

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:

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.)

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 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: