The performance of this painful play was, in the main, excellent, Miss Marguerite Leslie acting the errant _Henriette_ with deep and sympathetic feeling, and Miss Starr, as _Gabrielle_, giving perhaps the most completely finished and artistic performance of her career,--because definite and intelligible in ideal, sustained, fluent, precise in expression, and entirely plausible in effect. Mr. Frank Reicher appeared as the excitable and jealous _Guern_ and provided a significant exhibition of the radically artificial, insincere, and finical method so common to the Continental European Stage and so much admired and commended in America for the reason, apparently, that it is European.--“The Secret” was exquisitely set upon the stage, in scenery designed by Ernest Gros, and was presented by Belasco with the following cast: _Constant Jannelot_ Basil Gill. _Charlie Ponta-Tutti_ Robert Warwick. _Denis Le Guern_ Frank Reicher. _Joseph_ John P. Brawn. _Gabrielle Jannelot_ Frances Starr. _Henriette Durand_ Marguerite Leslie. _Clotilde DeSavageat_ Harriet Otis Dellenbaugh. _Marie_ Beatrice Reinhardt. “MARIE-ODILE.” [Of all the productions which he has made, excepting only that of “Madame Butterfly,” Belasco feels most pride in that of Edward Knoblauch’s play entitled “Marie-Odile,”--a work esteemed by him to be one of great artistic excellence and beauty. It was brought out in Washington, January 18, and at the Belasco Theatre, New York, January 26, 1915. Through a series of mischances it happened that neither my father nor I saw that production. Therefore, as critical consideration of it should not be omitted from this Memoir, I here copy, from “The New York Evening Post,” the review of the representation written by my father’s old friend and co-worker John Ranken Towse, now the most experienced and authoritative writer on the drama connected with the New York press.--J. W.] “The ‘Marie-Odile’ of Edward Knoblauch, which was presented for the first time in the Belasco Theatre last evening, is in many respects a remarkable play, which would have been still more noteworthy if it did not slip now and then below the highest level of its ideal. For the most part, it is sweet, idyllic romance, with an undercurrent of satirical symbolism and a tincture of somewhat perilous philosophy, and it is told with delicacy and imagination, except for occasional touches of rougher realism, which are unnecessary and inartistic, and have a harsh and jarring effect in a rarefied and sentimental atmosphere. The object of them--one of contrast--is obvious and legitimate, but it might have been attained by less violent methods.