Volume 1 — “THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME.”

The result of that collaboration was the widely known and admired drama of “The Girl I Left Behind Me,”—the title of which was suggested by Daniel Frohman. “We had much difficulty in choosing a title for this play,” writes Belasco; “in fact, we had none as we neared the last rehearsals. A Fourth of July celebration occurs in the First Act, during which a band plays ’The Girl I Left Behind Me.’ Daniel Frohman was in front, at one of the rehearsals, and sent me a slip of paper on which was written ’The Girl I Left Behind Me,’ and that was how our play was named.” Few persons, I believe, hear even the name of that stirring air without a thrill: the associations with it that rise in any sensitive mind,—the agony of solicitude, doubt, hope, grief, and joy,—are irresistibly affecting; it singularly arouses apprehension and exultation, and its association with this play is specially appropriate because of its relevancy to the desperate military enterprise which creates the splendid climax of the drama.

“After I had agreed to write the opening play for Frohman,” Belasco has told me, “I said nothing of my subject, because I had made up my mind to try to bring on the American Stage a phase of American life, on our Western frontiers, involving the American Indian, in a new way; I didn’t want discussion and I dreaded discouragement.” That, surely, was discreet, because it is immeasurably wiser, where works of art are concerned, to execute them rather than to talk about them. Belasco’s interest in the Indian and Indian affairs began in his childhood: one of his stepping-stones into the Theatre was his performance of an Indian Chief, in Hager’s “The Great Republic”: and his determination to undertake depiction, at once dramatic and veritable, of an aspect of actual yet romantic life on our frontiers displayed sound artistic taste in selection of a theme and shrewd judgment in opening a fresh field, thitherto practically untouched.

At that time, early in 1892, the Indian troubles in the West were much in the public mind. The fierce insurrections of 1876, under the leadership of Sitting Bull, Crazy Horse, Spotted Tail, and others, and the lamentable slaughter of the gallant Custer and his intrepid followers in the terrible battle at the Little Bighorn (June 25, that year), had not been forgotten. Indeed, they could not be: the rising under Sitting Bull, in 1890, after his return from Canada; the death of that wily old Medicine Man, who was shot, December 15, that year, with 300 braves, when he sought to escape, during the fight at Wounded Knee; the resistance to disarmament and the frightful massacre at the Pine Ridge Agency, two weeks later; the vigilant and finally successful movements of United States troops under General Nelson A. Miles, against the Indians, especially the Sioux, incident to the “Ghost Dance” furor, which was inspired by Sitting Bull and which extended through 1890-’91; and the massacre at the Rosebud Agency,—all those events made the subject unusually prominent in the public mind. Belasco and Fyles labored zealously at their task and it was duly completed; Frohman enthusiastically expressed himself satisfied; and, on January 25, 1893, the Empire Theatre (thereafter, till the day of his death, that manager’s headquarters) was auspiciously dedicated with a performance of one of the most deservedly popular plays ever produced under his management: it had been acted for a week, beginning January 16, at the New National Theatre, Washington, D. C., in preparation for the New York presentment.

EXCELLENCE OF THAT INDIAN DRAMA.

The play of “The Girl I Left Behind Me” is among the best with which Belasco has been concerned and likewise one of the best that have been contributed to American dramatic literature. Its superiority to all the problematic, polemic, didactic, sociologic disquisitions, pretending to be plays, which have, of late years, so cluttered our Stage, is very great. The story is clear, direct, animated, sympathetic, and thrilling. The persons introduced are various, natural, interesting, discriminated, and finely drawn. The greater part of the dialogue is terse and characteristic. The scene is laid in the country of the Blackfoot Sioux, in Montana, chiefly at a remote and lonely outlying United States Army Post; otherwise at Fort Assiniboine. The chief characters are Scar-Brow, an Indian Chief, who has been educated in civilization and bears the name of John Ledru, but whom education has only made more bitter and revengeful, and who has rejoined his malignant tribe; General Kennion, a veteran of the United States Army, in command of the district in which he is stationed; Lieutenant Edgar Hawksworth, Lieutenant Morton Parlow, and Kate Kennion, the General’s daughter. Hawksworth is a gentleman and a gallant soldier. Parlow is a specious rascal, as yet undetected. Kate Kennion, though she loves Hawksworth, has promised to marry Parlow,—this being an inscrutable incongruity of the plot. Parlow has, much earlier, seduced and abandoned the wife of a brother officer, Major Burleigh by name,—under whose command he is now enrolled,—but who has long vainly sought to ascertain the identity of his wronger.

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 KennionFrank Mordaunt.

Major BurleighFrank Thompson.

Lieut. Edgar HawksworthWilliam Morris.

Lieut. Morton ParlowNelson Wheatcroft.

DicksThomas Oberle.

Orderly McGlynnJames O. Barrows.

Private JonesOrrin Johnson.

Dr. Arthur PenwickCyril Scott.

Dick BurleighMaster “Wallie” Eddinger.

Andy JacksonJoseph Adelman.

John Ladru, or Scar-BrowTheodore Roberts.

Fell-An-OxFrank Lathrop.

Silent TongueArthur Hayden.

Kate KennionSydney Armstrong.

Lucy HawksworthOdette Tyler.

Wilber’s AnnEdna Wallace.

Fawn AfraidKatharine 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 KennionMaclyn Arbuckle.

Major BurleighMart E. Heisey.

Lieut. Edgar HawksworthHarold Russell.

Lieut. Morton ParlowHenry Herman.

DicksG. E. Bryant.

Orderly McGlynnJ. P. MacSweeney.

Private JonesFrank Dayton.

Dr. Arthur PenwickHarry Mills.

Dick BurleighMaster George Enos.

Andy JacksonT. S. Guise.

John Ladru, or Scar-BrowHarry G. Carleton.

Fell-An-OxWilliam Redstone.

Silent TongueArthur Hayden.

Kate KennionMrs. Berlan Gibbs.

Lucy HawksworthIrene Everell.

Wilber’s AnnLottie Altar.

Fawn AfraidBijou 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.

In the stage history of this play there is a significant and important illustration of the vital principle in dramatic writing,—often recognized and expounded by Belasco, yet sometimes by him ignored,—of the value of suggestion instead of realism in creation of effect,—the device, that is, so well expressed by Wordsworth in the line “part seen, imagined part.” Writing with regard to what he learned from dramatization, at first literal, afterward suggestive, of an incident witnessed by him during his wild Virginia City days,—the funeral of a poor, misled girl who died in a vile resort,—Belasco says:

“About this time [1874-’75?] I think it was that I completed my play, ’The Doll Master,’ which served so many emotional actresses on the road. It was founded on many incidents in my Virginia City career, and I remember how much I made of the scene occurring in the house of Annie Grier. I even went to the extreme of introducing the casket of the dead girl, and her weeping companions around it. Then it was that I learned my first big lesson in suggestion—a lesson which has been one of the greatest that has ever been brought home to me. As a dramatist it was not incumbent on me to show everything to the audience—only enough to stimulate the imagination. My task was to let the audience know that somewhere near was the casket. How many times since then have I spent hours and hours devising the best means of thus appealing to the imagination. In the olden days when there was a battle scene a scanty crowd of supers was marshalled upon the stage in farcical fashion, and you could hear the tin armor rattle as the warriors fought half-heartedly. This matter of suggestion being uppermost in my mind, it occurred to me that much more effect could be gained, as far as proportion and magnitude were concerned, by having those fights off stage. I put this theory of mine into practice when the time came for me to produce my ’The Girl I Left Behind Me.’ The audience heard the Indians chanting, and heard the approach of the United States soldiers off stage, and they did not know whether there were ten or ten thousand men at hand. It is my impression that this was the first instance of suggested warfare seen in the East.”

The principle here expounded is exactly right,—and, as used in the original production of “The Girl I Left Behind Me,” it was splendidly successful. Yet when that drama was revived, March 12, 1894, at the Academy of Music, where it ran till June 2, Belasco, deferring to an alleged or assumed requirement of popular taste, introduced, at the climax of the Third Act, a troop of mounted cavalry, which dashed upon the stage—and, though popular enough with the “groundlings,” spoiled the artistic effect of the play.

An interesting sidelight with regard to the writing of “The Girl I Left Behind Me” is provided in the following fragment of reminiscence by Belasco,—though, whether consciously or not, it is certain that the influence of Boucicault’s “Jessie Brown” (which he had produced in San Francisco in his stock company days) operated on his mind in writing his Indian drama:

A SUGGESTIVE REMINISCENCE OF FRONTIER DAYS.

Writing of the inception of this play, Belasco says:

“During the ’Heart of Maryland’ days, when I was in the South, I met Mrs. George Crook, widow of General George Crook, who fought in the Civil War and afterwards gained fame as an Indian fighter. Mrs. Crook delighted in relating her husband’s exploits and I delighted in hearing them. Her tales were exciting, and the general’s uniform, his sword and pistols, his boots and spurs, made the scenes she was describing very convincing and in my mind I dramatized everything she told me.

“‘I always accompanied the general,’ said Mrs. Crook, ’and shared many of his dangers.’ Immediately there came before me the spectacle of a woman within easy reach of the firing-line, facing the anguish and uncertainty of never seeing her husband alive again, and her own terrible fate if the battle went against him. One incident impressed me particularly. ’The general had rounded up a band of Indians whom he had been pursuing for some time,’ said Mrs. Crook, ’and the place where he was to give them battle was so close to our camp that he was in great distress for my safety. He condemned himself bitterly for having permitted me to come with him. If the battle were lost, we in the camp would be at the mercy of the Indians. An orderly was holding the general’s horse, but my husband could not bear to leave our tent. Three times he started and returned. He and I once made an agreement that were I in danger of being captured I was to shoot myself. And now, under the stress of great necessity, he reminded me of the compact, and saw that my revolver was in good order. We read the Bible together, prayed, kissed, and parted. All through the night I sat in the camp, knowing if the battle were lost I must die before the savages could surround us. I heard the sounds of firing, and knew the fighting was desperate. After hours of waiting I heard hurried steps. Some one was running towards my tent. I grasped my pistol, thinking my time had come. “We’ve licked ’em,” I heard a soldier cry. He had been sent by the general to tell me all was well. I sank to the ground, overcome by the relief, after the suspense I had endured. You can imagine my joy when the general came back to me!’

“I had always intended to dramatize this adventure of Mrs. Crook’s, and decided to do it now. This was the inspiration for ’The Girl I Left Behind Me.’”