“Hazel Kirke” met with extraordinary success, chiefly because of the superb impersonation of its central character, Dunstan Kirke, by Charles Walter Couldock (1815-1898). It was acted 486 consecutive times, at the Madison Square, and subsequently it was performed all over the country. Couldock withdrew from the cast, temporarily, after the 200th performance in New York, and Mackaye succeeded him. The run of “Hazel Kirke” at the Madison Square terminated on May 31, 1881, and on June 1 it was succeeded by William Gillette’s farce of “The Professor,” which held the stage till October 29, following, when it gave place to a play called “Esmeralda,” by Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett, which had 350 performances. Meanwhile Mackaye had become dissatisfied with his position and had determined to withdraw from it. His contract with the Mallorys, as he told me at that time (for I knew him well and he often talked with me about his affairs), had been heedlessly made and largely to his disadvantage. Contract or no contract, Mackaye and the Mallorys could not have long remained in association on amicable terms, because they were as antagonistic as fire and water. Mackaye was a wayward genius, of poetic temperament, wildly enthusiastic, impetuous, capricious, volatile, prone to extravagant fancies and bold experiments, and completely unsympathetic with regulative, Sunday-school morality. The Mallorys, on the contrary, were shrewd, practical business men, in no way visionary, thoroughly conventional in character,—in fact, moral missionaries, intent on making the Theatre a sort of auxiliary to the Church, their whole scheme of theatrical management being, originally, to profit by the patronage of the Christian public. Some persons, like some things, are incompatible. Mackaye resigned and withdrew while “Esmeralda” was still current, and thus the office was left vacant to which David Belasco succeeded.
BELASCO AT THE MADISON SQUARE.
On reaching New York and presenting himself at the Madison Square Theatre as a candidate for the office of stage manager,—or, as it is now often and incorrectly designated, “producer,”—Belasco was subjected to minute interrogation, first by Daniel Frohman, the business manager, and then by both the Mallorys. This ordeal appears to have been rigorous, but it was satisfactorily ended and the appointment was duly made. Belasco remembers that, after a long conversation, the Rev. Dr. Mallory remarked, “I’m glad you have laid such small stress on the melodramatic emotions of life, for here we are trying to uphold those emotions which are common to us in our daily existence.” By what means the candidate contrived to convey that impression to his clerical inquisitor must remain a mystery, because in all Belasco’s views of dramatic composition, and in all his contributions to it, the most prominent and obvious fact is his propensity to melodrama,—meaning the drama of startling situation and striking stage effect. Dion Boucicault was the originator and the denominator of “the sensation drama,” and David Belasco has been, from the first, and is now, a conspicuously representative exponent of it. He was approved, however, he entered at once on the performance of his duties, and thus began his permanent connection with the New York Stage.
It is doubtful whether Belasco decided wisely when he accepted the office of stage manager of the Madison Square Theatre, under the Mallory management. His play of “American Born” having succeeded in Chicago, he might have accumulated capital from its success and from other resources, and so happily escaped from an association which imposed on him a heavy burden of exacting labor, without advantage of public recognition, and without adequate monetary recompense. He believes, however, that his acceptance of that office laid the cornerstone of his success. Conjecture now is useless. He did accept the office, and he held it, industriously and honorably, for about three years. The terms of his contract with the Mallorys, as he has stated them to me (the original document, I understand, perished in the San Francisco earthquake fire), were, in my judgment, iniquitously unjust to him. As stage manager he was obligated to render all his services to the Madison Square Theatre management,—that is, to the Mallorys. His salary was $35 a week for the first season, $45 a week for the second season, and thereafter to be increased in the same proportion the third, fourth, and fifth seasons. The contract was to continue in force for five years, unless the Mallorys should become dissatisfied. The Mallorys further acquired, by the terms of the agreement, a first option on any play he might write during the period of his employment by them. If a play of his were accepted and produced by them he was to be paid $10 a night, and $5 for each matinée, during its representation,—a possible $70 a week. Furthermore, if a play, or plays, of his which had been rejected by the Mallorys should be accepted and produced by another management, Belasco was to pay to the Mallorys one-half of all royalties he might receive from such play or plays. In Charles Reade’s powerful novel “It’s Never Too Late to Mend” one of the persons, expostulating with the honest old Jew, Isaac Levi, who has declared his intention to leave the Australian goldfields, exclaims: “But, if you go, who is to buy our gold-dust?” To this inquiry Levi replies, “There are the Christian merchants”; whereupon the other earnestly rejoins, “Oh, but they are such damned Jews!” Perhaps some such thought as this passed through the mind of the Jew Belasco as he signed his bond with his Christian employers. He has been successful and has risen in eminence, but his experience has been far from tranquil,—has been, on the contrary, one of much painful vicissitude and many hardships. At the Madison Square and at several other theatres with which, later, he became associated his labors were, for a long time, as far as the public was concerned, conducted almost entirely under the surface. He worked hard, his industry being incessant, and it was useful to many persons, but his name was seldom or never mentioned in public or in print. The managers by whom he was employed, while utilizing his talent, may almost be said to have been intent on hindering his advancement,—that is, David Belasco, as stage manager, hack dramatist, and general factotum, would be far more useful to those persons than David Belasco, independent and recognized dramatist and theatrical manager, could ever be, and therefore he was repressed: the terms, above stated, of his first Madison Square Theatre contract and the conditions of all his labor during the thirteen years or so succeeding 1882 disclose his situation. He, nevertheless, made his way, slowly but surely, by patient, persistent effort, by the repeated manifestation of special skill in stage management, by felicity as a mender of plays, and by good judgment in the assembling of companies and the casting of parts. At the Madison Square Theatre he was materially benefited by Bronson Howard’s public recognition of his service in having, with the sanction and approval of that author, made minor emendations of the play of “Young Mrs. Winthrop,”—the first play presented there under his direction,—and in having placed it on the stage in a correct, tasteful, and effective manner,—recognition expressed in terms of cordial compliment, on the night of its first performance, October 9, 1882.
Among the plays which were produced at the Madison Square Theatre, under Belasco’s efficient and admirable supervision, subsequent to the presentment of “Young Mrs. Winthrop,” were Mrs. Burton N. Harrison’s “A Russian Honeymoon,” April 9, 1883; William Young’s “The Rajah; or, Wyndcot’s Ward,” June 5, 1883; Henry C. De Mille’s “Delmar’s Daughter,”—which failed,—December 10, 1883; and Hjalmar Hjorth Boyesen’s “Alpine Roses,” January 31, 1884. Mrs. Harrison’s “A Russian Honeymoon,” one of those exotics that bloom in select society, had been acted, in private, December, 1882, by amateurs, prior to its exposure to the profane gaze,—the amateur company including Mrs. Bradley Martin, Mrs. William C. Whitney, Mrs. August Belmont, and Mrs. Cora Urquhart Potter,—and thus had obtained social patronage which was specially advantageous to it when shown in the theatre. A revival of “The Rajah” occurred on December 17, 1883. Boyesen’s “Alpine Roses” ran till April 10, 1884. Belasco’s treatment of all those plays redounded to his credit, but his first signal personal victory ensued on the production of his play called “May Blossom,” effected April 12, 1884.
“MAY BLOSSOM.”
The Mallorys, he has told me, did not like this play, because of the character of its chief male part, did not wish to present it, and did so, finally, with reluctance, after strong opposition, and only because another play which they were preparing to produce was not ready. “May Blossom” pleased the public and kept its place on the Madison Square stage for nearly five months. The 100th performance of it occurred on July 21, the 150th on September 9, and, on September 27, 1884, its first run was ended: it is included in French’s Miscellaneous Drama, being No. 59,—but the version of it there published is not the authentic text of Belasco’s prompt book as used at the Madison Square Theatre: it is printed from a manuscript furnished by Gustave Frohman.
That play, which marks the beginning of Belasco’s lasting achievement as a dramatist, claims particular consideration as representative of the character of his mind, the peculiarity of his method of dramatic mechanism, and the quality of his style. He has written better plays than “May Blossom,”—plays which are more symmetrical because more deftly constructed and more fluent and rapid in movement, plays which contain more substantial and interesting character, more knowledge of human nature, and more stress of feeling,—but he has written no play that more distinctly manifests his strength and his weakness, his scope and his limitations,—what, intrinsically, he is as a dramatist.
May Blossom is the daughter of an old fisherman, resident in a village on the coast of Chesapeake Bay, Virginia, in and some time after the period of the American Civil War. She is beloved by two young men, Richard Ashcroft and Steve Harland, both estimable and both by her esteemed. Each of those lovers, on the same day, asks her to become his wife. She accepts the proposal of Ashcroft, whom she loves, and in rejecting that of Harland apprises him of her betrothal to his rival, who is also one of his friends. Harland, though bitterly wounded, accepts her decision in a right and manly spirit. Later, Ashcroft, who is sympathetic with the Confederate cause and who has been secretly in communication with the Confederate Army, is suddenly and privately arrested, at night, by Federal military authorities, as a Rebel spy. The arrest is witnessed by Harland, whom Ashcroft beseeches to inform May Blossom of his capture and who solemnly promises to do so. Harland, however, believing, or persuading himself to believe, that Ashcroft will inevitably be shot as a spy, and being infatuated by passion, breaks his promise and permits the girl to believe that her affianced lover has perished in a storm on Chesapeake Bay. After the lapse of a year Harland, still persistent as a lover, persuades May Blossom to marry him, and for a time they dwell happily together and a child is born to them. On the second anniversary of their wedding, just before the occurrence of a domestic festival which their friends have arranged in their honor, Ashcroft, having escaped from prison, arrives at their home, and, in an interview with May, tells her of his arrest and imprisonment, and of Harland’s promise, and so reveals her husband’s treachery. Harland is confronted by them and a scene of painful crimination ensues. Ashcroft, maddened by jealousy, declares his purpose of forcible abduction of May, who, thereupon, speaking as a wife and mother, repels him. Ashcroft departs. Harland can plead no defence for his perfidy in breaking his promise to Ashcroft except the overwhelming strength of his great love, and his wife is agonized and horrified. The domestic festival, nevertheless, is permitted to proceed. The guests arrive. The miserable husband and wife, masking their wretchedness in smiles, are constrained to participate in merrymaking, and finally are caused by the village pastor to kneel before him, receive his blessing, and embrace and kiss each other, after which ceremonial their guests depart and they are left alone. Then Harland, condemning himself and feeling that his wife can no longer love him, leaves her, purposing to join the Rebel Army. Their separation lasts six years. Ashcroft is heard of no more. Harland survives and ultimately returns to his Virginia home, where a reconciliation is effected between him and his wife, partly by the benevolent offices of the village pastor, but more because May has realized that she truly loves him, and because the inevitable action of time has dissipated her resentment of a wrong.
The analyzer of the drama that tells this story perceives in it a constructive mind that is imaginative, romantic, and eccentric, an ardently vehement faculty of expression, and a nimble fancy intent on devising pictorial and pathetic situations, while often heedless of probability—sometimes even of possibility. Things happen not because they would, in actual life, so happen, under the pressure of circumstances, but because the dramatist ordains them to occur, to suit his necessity. Experience has taught the indiscretion of declaring that anything is impossible, but it is at least highly improbable that a good man would, in any circumstances, break a promise solemnly made to a friend whom he believed was about to die. Harland is depicted as a gentleman and one of deep feeling. Ashcroft’s death, if Harland considers it to be inevitable, would at once relieve him of any need to break his promise, even if he had been ever so strongly tempted to do so: doubt of Ashcroft’s death would inspire far more poignant remorse and fear than Harland actually denotes. May Blossom, furthermore, would not have omitted to inquire, with far more insistence than she is represented to have shown, into the disappearance of the lover to whom she is betrothed. Ashcroft, though a prisoner, would have been permitted to communicate with his friends, since at his trial nothing was proved against him,—yet he was still held in captivity. It is questionable whether the manly Harland, a thoroughly good fellow, would have married May Blossom, however much he might have loved her, knowing that she loved another man. It is more than questionable whether May, having married Harland and borne a child to him, would have repudiated her husband, would have acquiesced in his parting from her and their child, because of the particular wrong that he had done in breaking his promise to Ashcroft. The sin that a man commits out of the uncontrollable love that he feels for a woman is, of all sins, the one that she is readiest to forgive. The likelihood that May Blossom, loving Ashcroft, betrothed to him and mourning for him, would, after the lapse of so short a time as one year, have married anybody is, likewise, open to doubt. Belasco, however, was bent on devising situations, and he accomplished his purpose: grant his premises (as a theatrical audience, in the presence of a competent performance of this play, almost invariably will do), and his dramatic fabric captivates entire sympathy.