There are, I believe, few instances in theatrical history of a more protracted experience of the “hope deferred” which “maketh the heart sick” than befell Belasco with this fine melodrama. The subject, and, roughly, the story, of that play were in his mind when first he undertook the training and direction of Mrs. Leslie Carter (1889): again and again he endeavored to have his play brought on the stage,—but it was not produced till more than six years after he had resolved to use it as a vehicle for that actress, and within that period he altered and reshaped it at least four times. After the death of Hooley and the failure of “The Younger Son” he was for some time dejected and inert. Then, reviewing the manuscript of his “Maryland,” he imbibed belief that the play lacked sufficient verisimilitude to Southern life. “What I needed most,” he said, “was atmosphere; so I decided to visit a Southern town and meet some typical Southern families. Mrs. Carter, her mother, and I went to Oakland, Maryland [1894?], where I added the finishing touches to the play. When we reached a certain point I bade my associates good-by and boarded a train for New York, to make another attempt to find a manager.” Speaking of the experience immediately preceding the actual accomplishment of his long obstructed purpose, Belasco told me: “It has always seemed very strange that I should have been rebuffed on almost every side with that play. If there did not exist a strong opposition to my getting an independent foothold as a manager, why was my play of ’Maryland’ refused, over and over again? Look at the list of successes which I had brought out, for others, in the preceding ten years, including ’La Belle Russe,’ ’May Blossom,’ ’The Highest Bidder,’ ’The Wife,’ ’Lord Chumley,’ ’The Charity Ball,’ ’Men and Women,’ and ’The Girl I Left Behind Me.’ Good, bad, or indifferent—whatever anybody thinks about them—there is no room for argument as to the business proposition. Those were all great big popular successes—money-getters. Why, when I was more than usually hard-up, I had been able, often, to get money in advance on my royalties on plays that had not even been begun. Yet, with a finished play, a good one, one I’d worked on for years, that I knew was good and that anybody could see was good; with an actress for whom the leading part had been made as carefully as though it were a dress for her to wear, I could not get a hearing. I think pretty nearly every producing manager in New York refused that play. Why? I never knew—and I don’t know now: yet I believed then and I believe now that, underlying all my difficulty, was far more than any antagonism to Mrs. Carter; that the men whom afterward I fought for so many years were glad enough to have me work for them as a stage manager and stock playwright, but that they were not willing I should get established as an independent manager.”

This view of Belasco’s position has been stated before, and I have heard it ridiculed. In my judgment the record of facts fully supports it. It cannot be proved, but “if imputation and strong circumstances, which lead directly to the door of truth, will give you satisfaction, you may have’t.” There is the record—and readers must decide for themselves. Writing of his dark days in 1894, Belasco has declared:

Negotiations with Palmer,—who at the time of Belasco’s withdrawal from the Lyceum Theatre had been sympathetic with him, had placed the stages of two theatres at his disposal for rehearsal of Mrs. Carter, and had even then shown some interest in the projected play,—were brought to a satisfactory issue, and, in August, 1894, a contract was formally made whereby Palmer agreed to produce “The Heart of Maryland,” “with his own stock company, known as ’A. M. Palmer’s Stock Company,’ at Palmer’s Theatre, in the City of New York, not later than January 1, 1895,” and also agreed that whether in New York or elsewhere Mrs. Carter should be employed “to play the part entitled Maryland Calvert.” Active preparations to produce “The Heart of Maryland” immediately were begun; scenery was designed, built and painted, involving an investment of more than $3,500; but Palmer was heavily involved, financially, and the rehearsals, which Belasco was eager to begin, were postponed from week to week. At last the date limit specified in the agreement passed, yet Belasco continued to hope and to expect that Palmer would fulfil his agreement. One day, however, happening to meet Charles Frohman, that manager told him: “I am very sorry for you, but Palmer won’t be able to produce ’The Heart of Maryland.’” Belasco at once went to Palmer and asked him to state his purpose,—“Because,” he said, “I mean that play shall be produced! If you can’t do it—somebody else can.” Palmer, foreseeing the success of the play, wished to hold it; if Belasco could have been given any reasonable assurance that, eventually, the elder manager would be able to bring it out, he would have been glad to wait; but, after some hesitation, Palmer admitted that he could not set any definite time, manifesting, at first, a disposition to prevent Belasco from placing his drama elsewhere. Realizing, however, that the passage of the date-limit within which he had agreed to produce the play had, in fact, released Belasco from his contract with him, he finally acquiesced, asking the latter to take and pay for the scenery which had been made for it. This Belasco promised should be done, as soon as the play was produced.

Once more opportunity had seemed to be within his grasp: once more it eluded him: yet he persevered and resolutely resumed his quest of a producer. Writing of the manner in which, at last, some months after the collapse of the arrangement with Palmer, he found one, Belasco has recorded incidents of his search and the process of his ultimate success:

“The Heart of Maryland” was acted for the first time anywhere at the Grand Opera House, Washington, D. C., October 9, 1895; and the first performance of it in New York occurred on October 22, that year, at the Herald Square Theatre. It is a meritorious and highly effective melodrama, and its New York production marks a vital point in the career of its indefatigible and brilliantly accomplished author. When the curtain rose on its first performance in the metropolis he had been for nearly a quarter of a century toiling in the Theatre, working in every capacity connected with the Stage; he had written and produced, for others, plays which had received thousands of representations and to see which several millions of dollars had been paid: yet he was,—through no fault of his, no improvidence, dissipation, reckless neglect or abuse of talent,—still a struggling author, without recognized position, without place or influence in the field of theatrical management, and so poor that, if the venture failed, he had no better prospect than renewed drudgery in a subservient place, working for the profit and aggrandizement of men vastly inferior to himself in every way. Perhaps the best explanation of and commentary on this fact were supplied, several years later, when, testifying in court during trial of a lawsuit of his against the late Joseph Brooks, he said of himself: