Chapter XIII: Act V: (A lapse of years.) During the Revolution (10)

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,

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

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.

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:

“‘I cannot express to you sufficiently my appreciation of your
adorable messages. I have long been an admirer and friend of yours.
My one regret is that I have never played under your direction.
That will be for another planet!

“‘All my heart devoted, “‘SARAH BERNHARDT.’

“Yes, my dear Jefferson Winter, if I must have one, and _only one_,
favorite player, I am quite sure it must be Mme. Sarah Bernhardt,
in whom the Spirit of Courage, the Spirit of Youth, the Spirit of
France, and the Spirit of Art are all united.

“Faithfully, “DAVID BELASCO.”

BRIEF EXTRACTS FROM MISCELLANEOUS CORRESPONDENCE OF BELASCO.

“In all my years of work in the Theatre I have never done anything with which I was wholly satisfied--and I never shall do so. It is the irony of Fate that we live only long enough to learn how, and then die before we can make use of the knowledge!”

“If I were asked what proportion of the aspirants for the Stage who apply to me for advice will ultimately become great artists, I should answer: ‘One in two thousand.’”

“The good stage manager is born--like the good actor. It [stage management] is, in itself, a special gift and cannot be acquired by training.”

“When I can think more with my head and less with my heart the world will think me wise--and I shall know myself a fool!”

“The eyes of the heart see quickly and judge rightly.”

“I think Dreams are the only Realities of Life--and Love is their soul.”

“My world is a small one, of my own making; a world of faith and dreams--and that’s why there are so few people in it!”

“When we are not physically well, the thoughts follow the line of least resistance--if the Will allows them to; but the Will is _Master_, and whatever we wish to be, whatever we wish to do, whatever we wish to get, we _can_ get, we can _be_ and _do_, by _willing_ it. So it is that you will be happy; so it is that you will do wonderful things with your life; so it is that you will get into the Castle of your Dreams.”

“For women, marriage is the greatest of all careers: therefore, do not try to mix any of the others with it!”

About Flaubert and de Maupassant: “Both of them are of the realistic school, and all students of human nature should read and reread them, for they are well worth thought and study. The joys and ills of life are so graphically portrayed that one may almost hear the souls of many women weep in their pages. Many of their women you will find frail and erring, but the light of love shines through nearly all their mistakes, hallowing them, and whether they be beautifully human, or just inhumanly beautiful, they are always women.”

“Actors are prone to think too much of themselves and too much of the affairs of other people. Gossip and frivolity in the theatre have killed many a promising career. The first maxim I would teach all beginners on the stage is this, by Augustin Daly.

‘A sure way to Success--Mind your business:
A sure way to Happiness--Mind your own business!’

I read that on a sign in the waiting room of Daly’s Theatre, more than thirty-five years ago, and I made up my mind if ever I had a theatre of my own I’d put it up where my actors could see it,--and I did. It’s over the Call Board at my theatre now. The second maxim I would teach actors is this: ‘Never fake on the stage. The public will always catch you and never forgive you!’”

“The day of the drunken actor, like that of the drunken statesman and the drunken doctor, has gone forever.”

“Try with all your might to think sweet and happy thoughts--and in time you will come to have faith in real things and so will understand life.”

“Life is very short, and happiness an elusive will-o’-the-wisp--a wraith of the night of Time who beckons and beckons, and when we try to follow him, escapes us very easily.”

“The ‘star’ actors of to-day lack that careful schooling and full equipment conspicuous in all the great ‘stars’ of twenty-five, thirty, fifty years ago, and which is to be acquired only through the old-time stock system. According to the method of those days, it was never possible for the actor to play the same part many times in succession. He was obliged to demonstrate ability not only in many parts but through a period of many years, and thus to establish himself deservedly in the good opinion of the public.... I doubt whether any of the young ‘stars’ could play as many and as great a variety of parts and play them as well as the ‘stars’ of former days,--although striking successes are made repeatedly in characters especially written for some particular ‘star.’ ...”

“In the old days we frequently produced plays with hardly anything at all to enhance them, either scenery or properties, but merely by a judicious use of clothes and lighting we made them effective: we did this because we did not have means to do them correctly. Nowadays, productions so made are hailed as novelties and the wonders of the age!”

“I maintain that the great thing, the essential thing, for a producer is to create _Illusion_ and _Effect_. The supreme object in all my work has been to get near to nature; to make my atmosphere as _real_ as possible, when I am dealing with a drama or a comedy of life. In mounting a fantastic play there is but one thing to do, and that is to be as fantastic as possible. And so, in a realist play to be as realistic as possible. And by this I mean to create the _illusion_ of reality. To do that every scene must be treated as a separate, a new, problem,--and the setting of it so as to create illusion is a problem that will never be solved by the ‘new art.’... When I set a scene representing a Child’s Restaurant how can I expect to hold the _attention_ of my audience unless I show them a scene that _looks_ real? They see it, recognize it, accept it and then, if the actors do their part, the audience forgets that it isn’t looking into a real place. In ‘Marie-Odile’ some benches, chairs, tables, a pot of carrots and a few other things, with the bare walls of the convent, were all we needed. But suppose I had tried to put ‘Adrea’ on in the same way? Let us cut our cloth to suit our pattern. Do not let us attempt to ‘suggest’ a Child’s Restaurant by setting up a counter with a coffee cup and a toothpick on it, nor try to picture the court of a Roman emperor with the same bare simplicity that answers for a lonely convent in Alsace!...”

“After all, hard work, a little love, courage to go on, strength to fight the daily battle,--what more can a man ask?”

Photograph by White. Belasco’s Collection.

DAVID WARFIELD AS _VAN DER DECKEN_]