James O’Neill, she distinguished herself as Milady, in “The Three Guardsmen,” and on October 19, that year, at the Herald Square Theatre, she gave a notably fine performance,—splendidly effective in the principal scene,—of Hannah Jacobs, in Israel Zangwill’s stage synopsis of his novel of “The Children of the Ghetto.” A few weeks later Belasco informed Miss Bates that if she were willing to begin in a farce which he did not much esteem he was ready to undertake her management preparatory to “giving her her chance.” “The Children of the Ghetto” had proved a failure, and the actress joyfully accepted the manager’s proposal.

Blanche Bates first acted under Belasco’s management, December 25, 1899, at the Columbia Theatre, Washington, D. C., appearing as Cora, the principal person in Belasco’s “Naughty Anthony”: on January 8, 1900, she appeared in it at the Herald Square Theatre, New York. The title of that farce is not altogether felicitous, because possibly suggestive of impropriety, but there is nothing mischievous in the fabric itself. The piece is incorporative of one scene, varied and rewritten, from an unremembered farce of other days, and, with its freightage of old but always effective stage subterfuges and comic “business,” it reminded experienced observers of such plays, far and forgot now, as “Flies in the Web,” “My Neighbor’s Wife,” “Playing with Fire,” “To Oblige Benson,” etc. In it Belasco made use of one of the oldest theatrical expedients for creating comic confusion and mirthful effect,—the expedient of a mistaken identity. The chief male in it is Anthony Depew, a moral professor of the Chautauqua brotherhood, who becomes enamoured of a coquettish girl, in the hosiery business, and whose exploits in osculation lead him into a troublesome dilemma, from which he endeavors to escape by pretending to be somebody else. This kind of perplexity has been common on the stage since the distant days of “The Three Singles; or, Two and the Deuce.” Such themes do not require much comment. The chief fact to be recorded in this case is the uncommon felicity of the cast and the excellence of the stage direction. But such an actor as Frank Worthing (who was essentially a light comedian, and, as such, the most conspicuous local performer of the day, in his particular line) and such an actress as Miss Bates were practically wasted in so ephemeral a trifle. This was the cast in full:

CowleyAlbert Bruning.
Adam BuddWilliam J. LeMoyne.
Zachary ChillintonWilliam Elton.
Jack CheviotCharles Wyngate.
Mr. HeustedClaude Gillingwater.
Mr. BrighamE. P. Wilkes.
Miss RinkettFanny Young.
CowleyAlbert Bruning.
KnoxSamuel Edwards.
EdBrandon Tynan.
Mrs. Zachary ChillinghamMaud Harrison.
RosyMary Barker.
WinnieOlive Redpath.
CoraBlanche Bates.

Belasco’s serious purpose, in this play, underlying the quest of laughter, was to satirize moral humbug, and that good purpose he accomplished. Anthony Depew is an amiable impostor, established at Chautauqua, New York, to give lessons in moral conduct to persons who deem themselves tempted to go astray. He goes astray himself, as far as compromising osculation, and he causes all manner of disturbance, in several households, by fixing the guilt of a kiss upon an innocent booby, who is his landlord. Worthing embodied that humbug in an admirable manner. His plan was definite, his execution firm and true, his satire cumulative; and from first to last he never swerved from that demeanor of perfect gravity which makes absurd proceedings irresistibly amusing. Miss Bates, even more than usually beautiful as Cora, made the tempter of Anthony a compound of demure simplicity and arch, piquant glee, and, in her complete frustration of the Professor’s moral heroics, she was a delightful incarnation of honest, healthful, triumphant woman nature. A colloquy of these two players, as preceptor and pupil, has seldom been surpassed for pure fun. Specification of the fantastic situations in which the Professor involves himself and his landlord, Adam Budd,—abundantly comical in the seemingly unpremeditated humor, the soft, silky manner, and the grotesque personality assumed by Le Moyne,—would be a tedious business. Good acting, however, did not suffice to sustain the play in public favor. Writing about this venture Belasco says:

“At the time I wrote ’Naughty Anthony’ the country was farce mad,—but the public will not accept me as a farce writer, and it was a failure. I believed, at the time, that had somebody else produced my play it might have succeeded, and this actually proved to be the case; for when I sold the piece and it was taken on the road, with my name omitted from the programme, it made money, although it had cost me a pretty penny. I soon saw that ’Naughty Anthony’ must be withdrawn or something added to the bill in order to keep it going.”

“MADAME BUTTERFLY.”

Some little while before the production of “Naughty Anthony” Belasco had received from a stranger a letter in which he was urged to read a story, called “Madame Butterfly,” by John Luther Long, with a view to making it into a play. When anxiously casting about for some means of providing required reinforcement for his farce he chanced to recollect that suggestion, procured a copy of Long’s book containing his tragic tale, read it and was so much impressed by the possibilities which he perceived of basing on it a striking theatrical novelty that he entered into communication with Long and arranged with him for the use of his story. This proved, in several ways, a most fortunate occurrence: it led to a valued and lasting friendship and, ultimately, to the writing of two other memorable dramas,—“The Darling of the Gods” and “Adrea,”—as well as to the composition of a beautiful and extraordinarily popular opera, and it resulted, directly, in the making and production, by Belasco, of one of the most effective short plays of the last twenty-five years,—the success of which did much to sustain him under the disappointment of failure and the burden of heavy loss.

Belasco’s tragedy of “Madame Butterfly” is comprised in one act, of two scenes, which, connected by a pictorial intercalation, are presented without a break, and it implicates eight persons, besides its heroine, all of whom are merely incidental to depiction of her tragic fate. The substance of its story is contained in Goldsmith’s familiar lines about the sad consequences of lovely woman’s genuflexion to folly. A man commits the worst and meanest of all acts, the wronging of an innocent girl, and then deserts her. The case has often been stated—but it is not less pathetic because it is familiar. In this instance the girl is a Japanese, and in Japan, and thus the image of her joy, sorrow, desolation, and death are investable with opulent color and quaint accessories. Her name is Cho-Cho-San, and, by her lover, she is called “Madame Butterfly.” Her family is one of good position, but her father, a soldier of the emperor, having been defeated in battle, has killed himself, and her relatives, being poor, have induced Cho-Cho-San, in order that she may be able to provide maintenance for them, to enter into the relation of housekeeping prostitute with an officer of the United States Navy, Lieutenant B. F. Pinkerton by name, who is stationed for a few months at Higashi, Japan, and who feels himself to be in need of female companionship and that “comfort other than pecuniary” specified by Patrick Henry. According to the enlightened and advanced customs of Japan (which various English-speaking exponents of progress and free-everything, including free-“love,” are laboring to establish in our benighted country) this relationship is not degrading and despicable but respectable and, in circumstances which are of frequent occurrence, to be desired. As Butterfly expresses it, though the naval officer is described by the Japanese as “a barbarian and a beast,” “Aevery one say: ’yaes, take him—take him beas’—he’s got moaneys,’ so I say for jus’ liddle while, perhaps I can stan’.” Pinkerton, however, proves to be a delightful companion who wins the love of the Japanese girl and, with the crass cruelty common among viciously self-indulgent men, he assures that forlorn waif that her marriage to him is not merely a temporary arrangement of convenience, terminable, according to Japanese law, by the mere act of desertion, but is a binding, permanent one, according to American custom and law and that she is, in fact, Mrs. B. F. Pinkerton. Having led her to believe this, the amiable Pinkerton presently departs upon his ship, after making Butterfly a present of money, informing her that he has “had a very nice time” and assuring her that he will come back “when the robins nest again.” The girl, confidently awaiting the return of her lover, whom she declares and believes to be her lawful husband, after a little time becomes a mother by him. Two years pass—during which she refuses many suitors—and the money given her by Pinkerton has been all but exhausted: Butterfly is confronted by the alternative of beggary or starvation, yet she contemptuously rejects all proffers of rich alliances, serenely trusting in the faith of Pinkerton. Then, at last, he comes back, and she is apprised that though for two weeks after leaving her he was “dotty in love with her” he recovered from his sublime passion and that he has married another woman (who magnanimously offers to take away her child and rear it!)—whereupon Madame Butterfly kills herself.

The play is a situation, and, though some of its detail is trivial, it reveals elemental extremes and contrasts of much human experience; in its essential passages it possesses the cardinal merits of simplicity and directness, and in representation its effect is tragic and afflictingly pathetic. One feature of its performance, devised by Belasco, was, in respect to execution, unique,—namely, the intercalation whereby the two scenes of the tragedy are connected. When, at evening, the forlorn Butterfly,—after two years “jus’ waitin’—sometimes cry in’—sometimes watchin’—but always waitin’!”—sees the warship to which Pinkerton is attached entering the harbor of Higashi she believes that her “husband” will immediately repair to their abode and she becomes almost delirious with joy. She prepares for his