eafter to mark
him and shape all his work. There is an Oriental love of colour and effect
in all he does; but there is no monotony about it. "The Darling of the
Gods" was different from "The Girl of the Golden West," and both were
distinct from "The Rose of the Rancho." It is this scenic decorativeness
which has enriched many a slim piece, accepted by him for presentation,
and such a play has always been given that care and attention which has
turned it eventually into a Belasco "offering." None of his collaborators
will gainsay this genius of his. John Luther Long's novel was unerringly
dramatized; Richard Walton Tully, when he left the Belasco fold, imitated
the Belasco manner, in "The Bird of Paradise" and "Omar, the Tentmaker."
And that same ability Belasco possesses to dissect the heart of a romantic
piece was carried by him into war drama, and into parlour comedies, and
plays of business condition. I doubt whether "The Auctioneer" would read
well, or, for the matter of that, "The Music Master;" Charles Klein has
written more coherent dialogue than is to be found in these early pieces.
But they are vivid in mind because of Belasco's management, and because he
saw them fitted to the unique figure of David Warfield.

But a Belasco success is furthered by the tremendous public curiosity that
follows him in all he does. There is a wizardry about him which
fascinates, and makes excellent reading in the press. Long before I saw
the three-winged screen upon which it is his custom to sort out and pin up
his random notes for a play, it was featured in the press. So were
pictures of his "collection," in rooms adjoining his studio--especially
his Napoleonic treasures which are a by-product of his Du Barry days. No
man of the theatre is more constantly on the job than he. It is said that
old John Dee, the famous astrologer whom Queen Elizabeth so often
consulted, produced plays when he was a student at Cambridge University,
with stage effects which only one gifted in the secrets of magic could
have consummated. Belasco paints with an electric switchboard, until the
emotion of his play is unmistakably impressed upon the eye. At a moment's
notice he will root out his proscenium arch, and build a "frame" which
obliterates the footlights; at another time he will build an "apron" to
his stage, not for its historical significance, but merely to give depth
and mellowness to such an ecclesiastical picture as Knoblauch's
"Marie-Odile."