In acting Dennison, Herne, while often heavy and monotonous, gained sympathy and favor by the simplicity of his demeanor, his facile assumption of manliness, and his expert simulation of deep feeling; but he did nothing that had not been done before, and much better done, by other actors,—in particular, by Edwin Adams in Enoch Arden, and by William Rufus Blake and Charles Fisher in Peggotty and kindred parts, of which the fibre is rugged manliness and magnanimity. Katherine Corcoran, playing Chrystal, gave a performance that was interesting more by personality than by art. She had not then been long on the Stage. She was handsome, graceful, and winning, of slender figure, with an animated, eagerly expressive face, blue-gray eyes, silky brown hair, and a sweet voice. In calm moments and level speaking she was efficient. In excitement her vocalism became shrill and her action spasmodic. Scenery of more than common merit, painted by William Voegtlin, was provided to embellish the play, at the Fifth Avenue Theatre. One picture, in particular, representing a prospect of a tranquil seacoast, was excellent in composition, true and fine in color, and poetic in quality; another effectively portrayed a broad expanse of troubled sea, darkening ominously under a sombre sky tumultuous with flying scud. Herne somewhat improved the play in the course of his protracted repetitions of it, after he parted from Belasco, but he always retained in it the “real” trappings which Belasco had introduced. Both those actors, as playwrights, were conjunctive in favor of “limbs and outward flourishes,”—the “real tubs” of Mr. Crummles.
FAILURE AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
The play, which without Belasco’s consent or knowledge was announced in New York as “by James A. Herne” (mention being made, in the programme, that it was remotely based on “The Mariner’s Compass,” but, practically, was Herne’s original composition!), failed there. Belasco states, in his “Story,” that it was produced in “the summer time,” and adds that “notwithstanding the play’s success, we could not combat the intense humidity.” That statement is incorrect. March is not summer, and it was not “intense humidity” but intense frost that could not be combated. The business was further injured by the fact that Herne was on several occasions incapacitated to appear, and Belasco replaced him as Terry Dennison. The initial expenses had been heavy, the profit was soon almost dissipated, the engagement was ended April 16, and, on going to Philadelphia, to fulfil an engagement at Mrs. Drew’s Arch Street Theatre, the partners quarrelled. Herne there expressed to Belasco his opinion that the play was rubbish, that he was wasting his time by acting in it, and proposed that Belasco should buy his half interest, for $1,500, or that he should buy Belasco’s for the same amount,—“knowing,” Belasco has told me, “that I had not drawn any of my share of the profits, while there were any; that I had been living and keeping my family, in San Francisco, on $50 a week (I was allowed that and talked to all the time about ’the barrels of money “Dave” would have at the end of the season’!), and also knowing that I didn’t have fifteen hundred cents!” Herne, after profuse condemnation of the play and harsh censure of Belasco, in which he was sustained by his business associate, Frederick W. Burt, finally obtained Belasco’s signature to an agreement to sell to Herne, for $1,500, all his half-interest in “Hearts of Oak,” and so that play became Herne’s exclusive property. The purchase money was not paid, but Herne gave a promissory note for it. Later, realizing that he had acted imprudently, Belasco called on his friend Mrs. John Drew, informed her of the business, and asked her advice. That eminently practical lady was both sympathetic and indignant. She commended him to her attorneys, Messrs. Shakespeare and Devlin, and desired that they should see what could be done “for this boy.” There was, however, little to do. “You are of age,” said Devlin, “you’ve signed an agreement; you’ll have to stand by it,—but I’ll get you the $1,500. The first thing is to find where Herne banks.” That information was easily obtained, and Belasco and Devlin repaired to the bank,—where they met Herne coming out, and where, a few moments later, they were told that he had withdrawn his money and closed his account. The $1,500 was not paid until several years later, when Belasco, then employed at the Madison Square Theatre, New York, stated the facts to Marshall H. Mallory, one of the managers of that house, and, with assistance of his lawyers, obtained from Herne payment of the debt, with interest.
SAN FRANCISCO AGAIN.
Meantime, Belasco had been left in a painful predicament. “I had,” he told me, “quite honestly, but very extravagantly, painted our success in brilliant colors when writing to my dear wife,—and there I was, in Philadelphia, without enough money to pay my fare back to San Francisco, and nobody to borrow from. I went, first, to New York, hoping to get employment, but luck was against me—I could get nothing, and I spent three nights on the benches in Union Square Park. I met Marcus Mayer, a friend of mine, in the Park one morning, and he got part of my story from me, lent me some money, and promised to try to help me further. But I had to get to San Francisco, and as soon as he lent me a little money I made up my mind to start. It took me eighteen days to make the trip, but I did it,—paying what I could, persuading conductors and brakemen to let me ride free, if only for a few miles, and, when I was put off, stealing rides on anything that was going. I got there, but it was a pretty wretched homecoming. I had to swallow any pride I had left and go to work again at the Baldwin,—where I’d been stage manager and playwright and amounted to something,—and where now I played anything,—‘bits,’ mostly,—given me: I got only $25 a week.”
The story of Belasco’s venture with “Hearts of Oak” has been told minutely for the reason that it involves his first determined effort to break away from what he viewed as thraldom in the Theatre of San Francisco, and make for himself a position in the metropolis of the country. The failure of that effort was a bitter humiliation and disappointment to him. It did not, however, weaken his purpose. After he rejoined the Baldwin he was not long constrained to occupy a subservient position.
BELASCO’S RECOLLECTIONS OF ADELAIDE NEILSON.
One of the associations of Belasco’s professional life much prized by him is that with the lovely woman and great actress Adelaide Neilson. Miss Neilson first appeared in San Francisco, March 10, 1874, at the California Theatre, acting Juliet,—of which part she was the best representative who has been seen within the last sixty years. During her engagement at the California, which lasted till March 30, and in the course of which she acted Rosalind, Lady Teazle, Julia, in “The Hunchback,” and Pauline, in “The Lady of Lyons,” as well as Juliet, Belasco was employed in the theatre, acting as an assistant to the prompter, and participating as a super in all the plays that were presented. “Little a thing as it is,” he has said to me, “I have always been proud to remember that I danced with her, in the minuet, in ’Romeo and Juliet,’ the first night she ever played in our city. I never saw such wonderful eyes, or heard a voice so silver-toned, so full of pathos, so rich and thrilling. I shall never forget how deeply affected I was when, in the dance, for the first time I touched her hand and she turned those wonderful eyes on me.”
When Belasco was re-employed at the Baldwin Miss Neilson was acting there, in the second week of her farewell engagement, which began on June 8. On July 17 that engagement closed, and one of the brightest yet saddest of theatrical careers came to an end. Belasco, always closely attentive to his stage duties, never depended on anybody but himself to give the signals for raising and lowering the curtain, and, on that night, he “rang down” on the last performance Adelaide Neilson ever gave. The bill was the Balcony Scene, from “Romeo and Juliet,” and the play of “Amy Robsart.” In the course of the performance Belasco, after the Balcony Scene, went to assist her in descending from the elevated platform and, as she came down, she laid a hand on his shoulder and sprang to the stage,—losing a slipper as she did so. Belasco took it up. “You may keep it,” she said, “for Rosemary,”—and, says Belasco, “having thanked her I nailed it, then and there, to the wall by the prompter’s stand and there it stayed, as a mascot, for years.” Referring to that last night of her stage career, Belasco has written the following reminiscence:
THE BLACK PEARL.