The situation, at the opening of the play, is one of unrest, discontent, and impending danger. The Indians, commanded by Scar-Brow, are sullen, hostile, and on the verge of revolt, and they are about to participate in one of their religious ceremonials called “The Sun Dance,”—of which purpose the military authorities in Montana disapprove. A vague sense of coming calamity broods over all the region and whispers of peril are borne on every breeze. A formal conference is held, between General Kennion and his officers and Scar-Brow and his savage warriors, at which the General commands that the “Sun Dance” shall not take place, and from which the Indian Chieftain then angrily and defiantly withdraws. The time is the Fourth of July, and appropriate arrangement has been made for a patriotic festival and ball, at the Post. Kate Kennion has come from the Fort and joined the ladies, to enjoy the festival. There, in the lonely outpost of civilization in Montana, even as in populous and brilliant Brussels, on the night before Waterloo, the ball begins, even while the menace of danger and death draws ever nearer. Scar-Brow has desired, more than anything else, occasion for an outbreak. After the angry parting from General Kennion a small detachment of troopers from the Post is treacherously and through the cowardice of Parlow overwhelmed in an ambuscade, and while the guests of the Post are dancing and frolicking in one room General Kennion, in another, is receiving dispatch after dispatch by telegraph from Fort Assiniboine apprising him of a spreading insurrection among the Indians; of messengers murdered, troops embattled against overwhelming odds, intercepted appeals for help, and the swiftly approaching peril of an Indian besiegement of the Post. Then, suddenly, telegraphic communication ceases and the yells of the savages denote that the investment of the stockade has begun. One hope—and but one—remains: that of apprising the Fort, by messenger, of the desperate situation of the Post. Lieutenant Hawksworth, every chance against him, undertakes to attempt the passage of the cordon of Indians surrounding the beleaguered garrison, and he goes forth, to almost certain death. The poor remains of white men, with the women and children, are left to face hundreds of savages, wrought to frenzy and capable of demoniac cruelty almost equal to that of the educated, civilized Germans of the present day.
Then comes one of the most effective acts of the kind that I have ever seen. The place is within the stockade of logs surrounding the Post. There has been an all-night vigil, with fierce, intermittent fighting. The time is just before daybreak. The first faint gray of light is beginning to steal into the sky; there is a reflected glow of distant fires, and, far off, yet clear and indescribably horrible, are heard the “blip-blip” of the Indian war-drums and the shrill, hideous cries of the savage warriors, working themselves to frenzy for the last murderous rush to storm and overwhelm the defenders of the Post. A parley has been sought with Scar-Brow, and he rides up, heard but unseen, in the slowly growing light, contemptuously secure and safe under protection of the white man’s flag of truce. At the same time his daughter, a gentle girl, friendly to the whites, making her way into the fortress to bring water for the garrison, has been mistaken for a foe, has been fired on and hit by a sentry but has stoically persevered and made her way in. General Kennion speaks from the stockade to Scar-Brow, warns him of the punishment sure to follow his rebellion, and appeals to him to restrain and withdraw his rebellious warriors. The savage is bitterly contemptuous in his answer; the men within the Post shall die,—those that die fighting the fortunate ones; the women, in particular the General’s daughter, shall not be killed! Kennion cries out to the ruffian, warning him that his daughter, little Fawn Afraid, is at that moment in the Post and that she is hostage for the safety of the women and the garrison. There is a pause: in the reptile nature of Scar-Brow there is a strong affection for his daughter; then he speaks: “Show her to me—let me see her,” he demands; and as, standing unseen outside the stockade among the sage-brush, he makes this demand, his daughter, within, reels and falls and the doctor, tending her, whispers to the General “She’s dead, sir!” It is a situation of terrible significance. The Indian leader waits for a moment, then he denounces the General as a liar,—and the next instant the wild hoof-beats of his horse are heard as he gallops away.
A situation even more poignant ensues. There is a ripple of shots—then a pause. Kate Kennion steals from the shadow of the stockade: she has heard the parley,—she knows her danger: on her knees she begs her loving father, brave, noble old man, when the last terrible storm of attack shall come, when there is no other alternative, that he will, with his own hand, shoot her dead. This the agonized father promises to do. Then, suddenly through the heavy silence, bursts the infernal din of the Indian war-cries—the increasing crackle of rifle shots—the devoted garrison answering, while ammunition lasts, shot for shot—and then the poor old father takes his daughter in his arms, kisses her farewell, causes her to kneel, bids her pray to God, and as, clasping his hand in both hers, she sinks upon her knees and begins the Lord’s Prayer, he slowly draws his revolver: “Our Father which art in heaven,” the poor child’s lips murmur—and in the breathing pause is heard the single sharp click of the pistol-hammer being raised—“hallowed be thy name: thy kingdom come”—and slowly the weapon begins to turn toward her—“thy will be done on earth”—and the barrel almost touches her temple—“as it is in heaven”—“WAIT!“—and frantically she thrusts the pistol from her: the father believes she is unnerved—wrenches his weapon free—is about to do his deed of dreadful mercy—his child seizes the pistol barrel—“Wait—wait!” she cries—and, faint, far-off, yet clear, unmistakable, thrilling, what she has heard before is now heard by the audience—the cavalry-bugle blowing “Charge!” Then follows the rapidly increasing beat of horses’ hoofs—the crackle of rifle fire, fiercer and fiercer—the wild cries of the savages—the increasing tumult of galloping steeds as, struck behind, they break and fly, and the successful Hawksworth and the relieving reinforcements sweep up, driving the enemy before them to save the garrison and “The Girl I Left Behind Me.”
That the situations, with one exception, are not new is known to all persons of experience, whether of life or art. The situation, invented by Belasco, of the death of Fawn Afraid, in the moment when General Kennion warns her father, Scar-Brow, that her life and safety depend upon those of the women and the garrison, is new; the others, in form, are old: the ball on the eve of battle has never been more imaginatively used than by Byron, in “Childe Harold”; the representation of the father who is to kill his daughter to save her from outrage is, in substance, Virginius and Virginia; the rescue of the beleagured garrison is the climax scene of Boucicault’s “Jessie Brown; or, The Relief of Lucknow” over again, with a difference. But what of it? The dramatic situations possible in human life are limited in number. In “The Girl I Left Behind Me” the treatment of the situations is fresh, vivid, vital. I have read that those situations are made to order and “merely theatrical.” That is untrue. There is not an essential situation in this play that is improbable, for there is not an essential situation or experience in it that might not happen, nor one that has not happened in the region and period designated. The play, of course, has faults, and they are as obvious as need be, to please even the most captious disciple of detraction. There is a story of a Mormon preacher who deemed it desirable to convince his auditors that “the Lord was but a man, as other men,” and who undertook to do so by citations from Holy Writ. “The Lord saw” he quoted—therefore the Lord had eyes; “the Lord heard“—therefore he had ears; “the Lord spake“—therefore he had a mouth and vocal organs; “the Lord sat“—therefore the Lord had hinder parts, and so following. That is very much the method of criticasters: they clamber and crawl about upon a work of art with a foot-rule and a plumb-bob of censure, and seem to find delight and to suppose they have fulfilled the duty of criticism when they have ascertained and enumerated the defects or faults of the work under consideration. The impartial critic, on the other hand, who studies “The Girl I Left Behind Me” will, I think, most strongly feel a mingled regret and wonder that, when a play of such exceptional merit had been created, the comparatively small and easy amount of additional labor required to relieve it of every considerable defect should have been withheld. The necessity of completing it in a definite time and Belasco’s anxious and harassed situation may, no doubt, explain the lack of needfully scrupulous revision, though they make it no less deplorable. The “comedy” elements, the passages between young Dr. Penwick and Wilber’s Ann, are juvenile, thin, and weak, and (the most serious fault in the play, which easily could have been obviated) there is no adequate reason provided why Kate Kennion, loving Lieutenant Hawksworth, to whom eventually she is united, Parlow being slain, should ever have engaged herself to wed that skulking traitor. But, set against it every objection that can be raised, “The Girl I Left Behind Me” remains a work of sterling merit and an honor to its authors. The atmosphere is pure. The characters are veritable. The events are credible. The sentiment is elemental and sincere. The action is definite and fluent. The dramatic effect, to the end of the Third Act, is cumulative and thrilling. The treatment of the different persons,—especially of Major Burleigh, General Kennion, Kate Kennion, and Scar-Brow,—is remarkably felicitous; and the influence is stimulative of manliness, gallantry, and heroism. The play was splendidly stage-managed and superbly acted,—the elements of illusion and thrilling suspense, in the Second and Third acts, being perfectly created and sustained. A remarkably artistic performance, instinct with authority, power, bitter pride, malevolence and cruelty, was given by Theodore Roberts, as Scar-Brow. The obnoxious character of Lieutenant Parlow—an exceedingly well dramatized scoundrel—is one that requires a fine order of histrionic talent for its adequate representation, and that requirement was entirely fulfilled by Nelson Wheatcroft, who personated him with minute precision, yet in such a way as to win pity for his weakness and miserable failure and death, as well as to inspire antipathy for his wickedness. Sydney Armstrong acted with inspiring vigor and feeling as Kate Kennion, and Frank Mordaunt with force, dignity, and reticence as the General. Not many persons, surely, could have gazed on the climax of the Third Act of this play without tear-dimmed eyes. W. H. Thompson, who played Major Burleigh, gave a picture of sturdy, simple manhood, suffering with fortitude, such as has seldom adorned our Stage. It has ever seemed to me that some of the extreme enthusiasm generally bestowed on “natural method” and “perfection of detail” as exemplified in the performances of foreign actors on our Stage might, more justly, have been bestowed on the original production of “The Girl I Left Behind Me.” There was, however, no lack of general appreciation. The play ran at the Empire till June 24, 1893, receiving 288 consecutive performances. This was the original cast:
| General Kennion | Frank Mordaunt. |
| Major Burleigh | Frank Thompson. |
| Lieut. Edgar Hawksworth | William Morris. |
| Lieut. Morton Parlow | Nelson Wheatcroft. |
| Dicks | Thomas Oberle. |
| Orderly McGlynn | James O. Barrows. |
| Private Jones | Orrin Johnson. |
| Dr. Arthur Penwick | Cyril Scott. |
| Dick Burleigh | Master “Wallie” Eddinger. |
| Andy Jackson | Joseph Adelman. |
| John Ladru, or Scar-Brow | Theodore Roberts. |
| Fell-An-Ox | Frank Lathrop. |
| Silent Tongue | Arthur Hayden. |
| Kate Kennion | Sydney Armstrong. |
| Lucy Hawksworth | Odette Tyler. |
| Wilber’s Ann | Edna Wallace. |
| Fawn Afraid | Katharine Florence. |
After the first week Stella Teuton replaced Odette Tyler as Lucy Hawksworth; and on March 27, 28 and (matinée) 29 Emmett Corrigan replaced Wheatcroft as Lieutenant Parlow. On March 29, at night, the play was acted with the following cast:
| General Kennion | Maclyn Arbuckle. |
| Major Burleigh | Mart E. Heisey. |
| Lieut. Edgar Hawksworth | Harold Russell. |
| Lieut. Morton Parlow | Henry Herman. |
| Dicks | G. E. Bryant. |
| Orderly McGlynn | J. P. MacSweeney. |
| Private Jones | Frank Dayton. |
| Dr. Arthur Penwick | Harry Mills. |
| Dick Burleigh | Master George Enos. |
| Andy Jackson | T. S. Guise. |
| John Ladru, or Scar-Brow | Harry G. Carleton. |
| Fell-An-Ox | William Redstone. |
| Silent Tongue | Arthur Hayden. |
| Kate Kennion | Mrs. Berlan Gibbs. |
| Lucy Hawksworth | Irene Everell. |
| Wilber’s Ann | Lottie Altar. |
| Fawn Afraid | Bijou Fernandez. |
The original company was conveyed to Chicago, and there, during the World’s Columbian Exposition in that city, it performed “The Girl I Left Behind Me” at the Schiller, now (1917) the Garrick, Theatre, for many weeks.
THE VALUE OF SUGGESTION IN ART.