IX The Birth of the Syndicate
C harles Frohman’s talents and energies were very much like those of E. H. Harriman in that they found their largest and best expression when dedicated to a multitude of enterprises. Like Harriman, too, he did things in a wholesale way, for he had a contempt for small sums and small ventures.
Going back a little in point of time from the close of the preceding chapter, the final years of the last century found Frohman geared up to a myriad of activities. He had already assumed the rôle of Star-Maker, for Drew and Gillette were on his roster, and Maude Adams was about to be launched; the Empire Stock Company was an accredited institution with a national influence; he had started a chain of theaters; his booking interests in the West had assumed the proportions of an immense business; he had begun to make his presence felt in London. Yet no event of these middle ‘nineties was more momentous in its relation to the future of the whole American theater than one which was about to transpire—one in which Charles Frohman had an important hand.
Despite the efforts made by the booking offices conducted by Charles Frohman and Klaw & Erlanger, the making of routes for theatrical attractions in the United States was in a most disorganized and economically unsound condition. The local manager was still more or less at the mercy of the booking free-lance in New York. The booking agent himself only represented a comparatively few theaters and could not book a complete season for a traveling attraction.
In New York the manager was an autocrat who frequently dictated unbelievable terms to the traveling companies. Immense losses resulted from small traveling companies being pitted against one another in provincial towns that could only support one first-class attraction. Most theatrical contracts were not worth the paper they were written on.
Charles Frohman had first counted the cost of this theatrical demoralization when his great “Shenandoah” run at the old Star Theater had to be interrupted while playing to capacity because another attraction had been booked into that theater. He and all his representative colleagues in the business realized that some steps must be taken to rectify the situation. Piled on this was the general business depression that had followed the panic of 1893.
One day in 1896 a notable group of theatrical magnates met by chance at a luncheon at the Holland House in New York. They included Charles Frohman, whose offices booked attractions for a chain of Western theaters extending to the coast; A. L. Erlanger and Marc Klaw, who, as Klaw & Erlanger, controlled attractions for practically the entire South; Nixon & Zimmerman, of Philadelphia, who were conducting a group of the leading theaters of that city, and Al Hayman, one of the owners of the Empire Theater.
These men naturally discussed the chaos in the theatrical business. They decided that its only economic hope was in a centralization of booking interests, and they acted immediately on this decision. Within a few weeks they had organized all the theaters they controlled or represented into one national chain, and the open time was placed on file in the offices of Klaw & Erlanger. It now became possible for the manager of a traveling company to book a consecutive tour at the least possible expense. In a word, booking suddenly became standardized.
This was the beginning of the famous Theatrical Syndicate which, in a brief time, dominated the theatrical business of the whole country. It marked a real epoch in the history of the American theater because within a year a complete revolution had been effected in the business. The booking of attractions was emancipated from curb and café; a theatrical contract became an accredited and licensed instrument. The Syndicate became a clearing-house for the theatrical manager and the play-producer, and the medium through which they did business with each other. Charles Frohman contributed his growing chain of theaters to the organization and secured a one-sixth interest in it which he retained up to the time of his death.
Once launched, the Syndicate proceeded to ride the tempest, for the biggest storm in all American theatrical history soon began to develop. Out of the long turmoil came a whole new line-up in the business. It affected Charles Frohman less than any of his immediate associates in the big combination because, first of all, he was a passive member, and, second, he had a kingdom all his own. Yet the story of these turbulent years is so inseparably linked up with the development of the drama in this country that it is well worth rehearsing.
Although the Syndicate standardized the theatrical contract and made efficient and economical booking possible, it did not immediately secure the willing co-operation of some of the best-known traveling stars of the day. They included Mrs. Fiske, Richard Mansfield, Joseph Jefferson, Nat C. Goodwin, Francis Wilson (then in comic opera), and James A. Herne. They were great popular favorites and had been accustomed to appear at stated intervals in certain theaters in various parts of the country. They booked their own “time” and had a more or less personal relation with the lessees and managers of the theaters in which they appeared.
The Syndicate began to book these stars as it saw fit and as they could be best fitted into the country-wide scheme. A scale of terms was arranged that was regarded as equitable both to the attraction and the local manager.
These stars, however, refused to be booked in this way. They denied the right of the new organization to say when and where they should play. Out of this denial came the famous revolt against the Syndicate which blazed intermittently for more than two decades.
Chief among the insurgents was Mrs. Fiske, who had returned to the stage in “Tess of the D’Urbervilles,” a dramatization of Thomas Hardy’s great novel. Her husband and manager, Harrison Gray Fiske, was editor and publisher of The Dramatic Mirror, which became the voice of protest. Mrs. Fiske refused to appear in Syndicate theaters, and she hired independent houses all over the country. Such places were few and far between in those days, and she was forced to play in public halls, even skating-rinks.
Mansfield became one of the leaders of the opposition to the Syndicate. He made speeches before the curtain, denouncing its methods. His lead was followed by Francis Wilson, and subsequently by James K. Hackett, David Belasco, and Henry W. Savage. The fight on the huge combination became a matter of nation-wide interest.
All the while the Syndicate was growing in power and authority. Gradually the revolutionists returned to the fold because desirable terms were made for them. Only Mrs. Fiske remained outside the ranks. In order to secure a New York City stage for her Mr. Fiske leased the Manhattan Theater for a long term.
It was during these strenuous years, and as one indirect result of the Syndicate fight, that a whole new theatrical dynasty sprang up. It took shape and centered in the growing importance of three then obscure brothers, Lee, Sam, and Jacob J. Shubert by name, who lived in Syracuse, New York. They were born in humble circumstances, and early in life had been forced to become breadwinners. The first to get into the theatrical business was Sam, the second son, who, as a youngster barely in his teens, became program boy and later on assistant in the box-office of the Grand Opera House in his native town. At seventeen he was treasurer of the Weiting Opera House there, and from that time until his death in a railroad accident in 1905 he was an increasingly powerful figure in the business.
Before Sam Shubert was twenty he controlled a chain of theaters with stock companies in up-state New York cities and had taken his two brothers into partnership with him. In 1900 he subleased the Herald Square Theater in New York City and thus laid the corner-stone of what came to be known as the “Independent Movement” throughout the country. He had initiative and enterprise. Gradually he and his brothers and their associates controlled a line of theaters from coast to coast. In these theaters they offered attractive bookings to the managers who were outside the Syndicate. The Shuberts also became producers and encouragers of productions on a large scale.
For the first time the Syndicate now had real opposition. A warfare developed that was almost as bitter and costly in its way as was the old disorganized method in vogue before the business was put on a commercial basis. It naturally led to over-production and to a surplus of theaters. Towns that in reality could only support one first-class playhouse were compelled to have a “regular” and an “independent” theater. Attractions of a similar nature, such as two musical comedies, were pitted against each other. In dividing the local patronage both sides suffered loss.
During the last year of Charles Frohman’s life the Syndicate and the Shuberts, wisely realizing that such an uneconomic procedure could only spell disaster in a large way for the whole theatrical business, buried their differences. A harmonious working agreement was entered into that put an end to the destructive strife. Theatrical booking became an open field, and the producer can now play his attractions in both Syndicate and Shubert theaters.
Charles Frohman’s activities were now nation-wide. Just as Harriman built up a transcontinental railroad system, so did the rotund little manager now set up an empire all his own. The building of the Empire Theater had given him a closer link with Rich and Harris. Through them he acquired an interest in the Columbia Theater, in Boston, and subsequently he became part owner of the Hollis Street Theater in that city. His third theater in Boston was the Park. By this time the firm name for Boston operation was Rich, Harris, and Charles Frohman. Their next venture was the construction of the magnificent Colonial Theater, on the site of the old Boston Public Library, which was opened with “Ben-Hur.” With the acquisition of the Boston and Tremont playhouses, the firm controlled the situation at Boston.
Up to this time Frohman had controlled only one theater in New York—the Empire. In 1896 he saw an opportunity to acquire control of the Garrick in Thirty-fifth Street. He wrote to William Harris, saying, “I will take it if you will come on and run it.” Harris assented, and the Garrick passed under the banner of Charles Frohman, who inaugurated his régime with John Drew in “The Squire of Dames.” He put some of his biggest successes into this theater and some of his favorite stars, among them Maude Adams and William Gillette. To the chain of Charles Frohman controlled theaters in New York were added in quick order the Criterion, the Savoy, the Garden, and a part interest in the Knickerbocker.
During his early tenancy of the Garrick occurred an incident which showed Frohman’s resource. He produced a play called “The Liars,” by Henry Arthur Jones, in which he was very much interested. In the out-of-town try-out up-state Frohman heard that the critic of one of the most important New York newspapers had expressed great disapproval of the piece on account of some personal prejudice. He did not want this prejudice to interfere with the New York verdict, so he went to Charles Dillingham one day shortly before the opening and said:
“Can you get me some loud laughers?”
Dillingham said he could.
“All right,” said Frohman; “I want you to plant one on either side of Mr. Blank,” referring to the critic who had a prejudice against the play.
This was done, and on the opening night the “prop” laughers made such a noisy demonstration that the critic said it was the funniest farce in years.
Charles Frohman’s first foreign star, who paved the way for so many, was Olga Nethersole. His management of her came about in a curious way. A difference had arisen between Augustin Daly and Ada Rehan, his leading woman. Miss Rehan had decided to withdraw from the company, and in casting about quickly for a successor had decided upon Olga Nethersole, then one of the most prominent of the younger English actresses. While the deal was being consummated Daly and Miss Rehan adjusted their differences, and the arrangements for Miss Nethersole’s appearance in America were abrogated.
Miss Nethersole was left without an American manager. Daniel Frohman, then manager of the Lyceum Theater, stepped in and became her American sponsor, forming a partnership with his brother Charles to handle her interests. Jointly they now conducted an elaborate tour for her covering two years, in which she appeared in “Denise,” “Frou-Frou,” “Camille,” and “Carmen.”
The sensational episode of her tour was the production of “Carmen.” The fiery, impetuous, emotional, and sensuous character of the Spanish heroine appealed to Miss Nethersole’s vivid imagination, and she gave a realistic portrayal of the rôle that became popular and spectacular. In all parts of the country the “Carmen Kiss” became a byword. The play, in addition to its own merits as a striking drama, and its vogue at the opera through Madame Calvé’s performance of the leading rôle, became a very successful vehicle for Miss Nethersole’s two tours. Miss Nethersole was the first star outside of Charles Frohman’s own force who appeared at the Empire Theater, where she played a brief engagement with “Camille” and “Carmen.”
From his earliest theatrical day Charles believed implicitly in melodrama. His first production on any stage was a thriller. The play that turned the tide in his fortunes was a spine-stirrer. He now turned to his favorite form of play by producing “The Fatal Card,” by Haddon Chambers and B. C. Stephenson, at Palmer’s Theater. He did it with an admirable cast that included May Robson, Agnes Miller, Amy Busby, E. J. Ratcliffe, William H. Thompson, J. H. Stoddart, and W. J. Ferguson.
A big melodrama now became part of his regular season. He leased the old Academy of Music at Fourteenth Street and Irving Place in New York, where, as a boy, he had seen his brother Gustave sell opera librettos, and where he became fired with the ambition to make money. Here he produced a notable series of melodramas in lavish fashion. The first was “The Sporting Duchess.” This piece, which was produced in England as “The Derby Winner,” was a sure-enough thriller. The cast included E. J. Ratcliffe, Francis Carlyle, J. H. Stoddart, Alice Fischer, Cora Tanner, Agnes Booth, and Jessie Busley.
Charles Frohman’s next melodrama at the Academy was the famous “Two Little Vagrants,” adapted from the French by Charles Klein. In this cast he brought forward a notable group destined to shine in the drama, for among them were Dore Davidson, Minnie Dupree, Annie Irish, George Fawcett, and William Farnum, the last named then just beginning to strike his theatrical stride.
Still another famous melodrama that Charles introduced to the United States at the famous old playhouse was “The White Heather,” in which he featured Rose Coghlan, and in which Amelia Bingham made one of her first successes. With this piece Charles emphasized one of the customs he helped to bring to the American stage. He always paid for the actresses’ clothes. He told Miss Coghlan to spare no expense on her gowns, and she spent several thousand dollars on them. When she saw Frohman after the opening, which was a huge success, she said:
“I am almost ashamed to see you.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Because I spent so much money on my gowns.”
“Nonsense!” said Frohman. “You did very wisely. You and the gowns are the hit of the piece.”
Frohman here established a new tradition for the production of melodrama in the United States. Up to his era the producer depended upon thrill rather than upon accessory. Frohman lavished a fortune on each production. Any competition with him had to be on the same elaborate scale.
Fully a year before Maude Adams made her stellar début Frohman put forth his first woman star in Annie Russell. This gifted young Englishwoman, who had appeared on the stage at the age of seven in “Pinafore,” had made a great success in “Esmeralda,” at the Madison Square Theater. Frohman, who was then beginning his managerial career, was immediately taken with her talent. She appeared in some of his earlier companies. He now starred her in a play by Bret Harte called “Sue.” He presented her both in New York and in London.
Under Frohman, Miss Russell had a long series of starring successes. When she appeared in “Catherine,” at the Garrick Theater, in her support was Ethel Barrymore, who was just beginning to emerge from the obscurity of playing “bits.” In succession Miss Russell did “Miss Hobbs,” “The Royal Family,” “The Girl and the Judge,” “Jinny the Carrier,” and “Mice and Men.”
In connection with “Mice and Men” is a characteristic Frohman story. Charles ordered this play written from Madeleine Lucette Ryley for Maude Adams. When he read the manuscript he sent it back to Miss Ryley with the laconic comment, “Worse yet.” She showed it to Gertrude Elliott, who bought it for England. When Charles heard of this he immediately accepted the play, and it proved to be a success. The moment a play was in demand it became valuable to him.
Spectacular success seemed to have taken up its abode with Charles. It now found expression in the production of “Secret Service,” the most picturesque and profitable of all the Gillette enterprises. The way it came to be written is a most interesting story.
Frohman was about to sail for Europe when Gillette sent him the first act of this stirring military play. Frohman read it at once, sent for the author and said:
“This is great, Gillette. Let me see the second act.”
Gillette produced this act forthwith, and Frohman’s enthusiasm increased to such an extent that he postponed his sailing until he received the complete play. Frohman’s interest in “Secret Service” was heightened by the fact that he had scored two tremendous triumphs with military plays, “Held by the Enemy” and “Shenandoah.” He felt that the talisman of the brass button was still his, and he plunged heavily on “Secret Service.”
It was first put on in Philadelphia. Even at that time there obtained the superstition widely felt in the theatrical business that what fails out of town must succeed in New York. Frohman, who shared this superstition, was really eager not to register successfully in the Quaker capital.
But “Secret Service” smashed this superstition, because it scored heavily in Philadelphia and then had an enormous run at the Garrick Theater in New York. In “Secret Service” Maurice Barrymore had the leading part, and he played it with a distinction of bearing and a dash of manner that were almost irresistible.
William Gillette always proved to be one of Charles Frohman’s mascots. Practically whatever he touched turned to gold. He and Frohman had now become close friends, and the actor-author frequently accompanied the manager on his trips to London.
During their visit in 1899, “Sherlock Holmes” had become the literary rage. Everybody was talking about the masterful detective of Baker Street.
“We must get those Doyle stories,” said Frohman to Gillette.
“All right,” said the author.
Frohman personally went to see Conan Doyle and made a bid for the rights.
“Certainly, Mr. Frohman,” replied Doyle, “but I shall make one stipulation. There must be no love business in ‘Sherlock Holmes.’”
“All right,” said Frohman; “your wishes shall be respected.”
Frohman now engaged Gillette to make the adaptation, but he said absolutely nothing about the condition that Doyle had made. Gillette, as most American theater-goers know, wove a love interest into the strenuous life of the famous detective.
A year later, Gillette and Frohman again were in England, Gillette to read the manuscript of the play to Doyle. The famous author liked the play immensely and made no objection whatever to the sentimental interest. In fact, his only comment when Gillette finished reading the manuscript was:
“It’s good to see the old chap again.”
He referred, of course, to Sherlock Holmes, who, up to this time, had already met his death on four or five occasions.
“Sherlock Holmes” proved to be another “Secret Service” in every way. Gillette made an enormous success in the title rôle, and after a long run at the Garrick went on the road. Frohman revived it again and again until it had almost as many “farewells” as Adelina Patti. The last business detail that Charles discussed with Gillette before sailing on the fatal trip in 1915 was for a revival of this play at the Empire.
The Frohman Star Factory was now working full time. Next in output came William Faversham. This brilliant young Englishman had started with Daniel Frohman’s company at the Lyceum in a small part. At a rehearsal of “The Highest Bidder” Charles singled him out.
“Where did you get your cockney dialect?” he asked.
“Riding on the top of London ’buses,” was the reply.
“Well,” answered Charles, “I want to do that myself some day.”
This was the first contact between two men who became intimate friends and who were closely bound up in each other’s fortunes.
During his Lyceum engagement Faversham wanted to widen his activities. He read in the papers one day that Charles was producing a number of plays, so he made up his mind he would try to get into one of them. He went to Frohman’s office every morning at half-past nine and asked to see him or Al Hayman. Sometimes he would arrive before Frohman, and the manager had to pass him as he went into his office. He invariably looked up, smiled at the waiting actor, and passed on. Faversham kept this up for weeks. One day Alf Hayman asked him what he wanted there.
“I am tired of hanging round the Lyceum with nothing to do. I want a better engagement,” was the answer.
Hayman evidently communicated this to Frohman and Al Hayman, but they made no change in their attitude. Every day they passed the waiting Faversham as they arrived in the morning and went out to lunch, and always Frohman smiled at him.
Finally one morning Charles came to the door, looked intently at Faversham, puffed out his cheeks as was his fashion, and smiled all over his face. Turning to Al Hayman, who was with him, he said:
“Al, we’ve got to give this fellow something to do or we won’t be able to go in and out of here much longer.”
In a few moments Frohman emerged again, asked Faversham how tall he was. When he was told, he invited Faversham into his office and inquired of him if he could study a long part and play it in two days. Faversham said he could. The result was his engagement for Rider Haggard’s “She.” Such was the unusual beginning of the long and close association between Faversham and Charles Frohman.
Faversham became leading man of the Empire Stock Company, and his distinguished career was a matter of the greatest pride to Charles. He now was caught up in the Frohman star machine and made his first appearance under the banner of “Charles Frohman Presents,” in “A Royal Rival,” at the Criterion in August, 1901.
Charles not only made Faversham a star, but provided him with a wife, and a very charming one, too. In the spring of 1901 an exquisite young girl, Julie Opp by name, was playing at the St. James Theater in London. Frohman sent for her and asked her if she could go to the United States to act as leading woman for William Faversham.
“I have been to America once,” she said, “and I want to go back as a star.”
When Frohman let loose the powers of his persuasiveness, Miss Opp began to waver.
“I don’t want to leave my nice London flat and my English maid,” she protested.
“Take the maid with you,” said Frohman. “We can’t box the flat and take that to New York, but we have flats in New York that you can hire.”
“I hate to leave all my friends,” continued Miss Opp.
“Well, I can’t take over all your friends,” replied Frohman, “but you will have plenty of new admirers in New York.”
Miss Opp asked what she thought were unreasonable terms. Frohman said nothing, but sent Charles Dillingham to see her next day. He said Frohman wanted to know if she was joking about her price. “Of course,” he said, “if you are not joking he will pay it anyhow, because when he makes up his mind to have anybody he is going to have him.”
This shamed Miss Opp. She asked a reasonable fee, went to the United States, and not only became Faversham’s leading woman, but his wife. Frohman always took infinite delight in teasing the Favershams about having been their matchmaker.
Charles, who loved to create a sensation in a big way, was now able to gratify one of his favorite emotions with the production of “The Conquerors.” Like many of the Frohman achievements, it began in a picturesque way.
During the summer of 1897, Frohman and Paul Potter, being in Paris, dropped in at that chamber of horrors, the Grand Guignol, in the Rue Chaptal. There they saw “Mademoiselle Fifi,” a playlet lasting less than half an hour, adapted by the late Oscar Metenier from Guy de Maupassant’s short story. It was the tale of a young Prussian officer who gets into a French country house during the war of 1870, abuses the aristocrats who live there, shoots out the eyes of the family portraits, entertains at supper a number of loose French girls from Rouen, and is shot by one of the girls for vilifying Frenchwomen. Frohman was deeply impressed.
“Why can’t you make it into a long play?” said Frohman.
“I can,” said Potter.
“How?” queried Frohman.
“By showing what happened to the French aristocrats while the Prussian officer was shooting up the place,” answered the author.
“Do it,” said Frohman, “and I’ll open the season of the Empire Stock Company in this drama, and get George Alexander interested for London.”
As “The Conquerors” the play went into rehearsal about Christmas. Mrs. Dazian, wife of Henry Dazian, the costumier, was watching a scene in which William Faversham plans the ruin of Viola Allen, the leading woman.
“Well,” said Mrs. Dazian, “if New York will stand for that it will stand for anything.”
Frohman jumped up in excitement. “What is wrong with it?” he cried. “The manuscript was shown to a dozen people of the cleanest minds. They found nothing wrong. I’ve done the scene a dozen times. I have it up-stairs on my shelves at this moment in ‘The Sporting Duchess.’”
Mrs. Dazian was obdurate. “It is awful,” she said.
The first night approached. Potter was to sail for Europe next day. Frohman had provided him with sumptuous cabin quarters on the New York. After the dress rehearsal, Potter appeared on the Empire stage, where he found Frohman. The latter was worried.
“Paul,” said he, “the first three acts are fine; the last is rotten. You must stay and rewrite the last act.”
Potter had to postpone his trip. At ten next morning the new act was handed in; the company learned and rehearsed it by three in the afternoon, and that night Frohman and the author stood in the box-office watching the audience file in.
“How’s the house, Tommy?” demanded Frohman of Thomas Shea, his house manager.
“Over seventeen hundred dollars already,” said Shea.
“You can go to Europe, Paul,” said Frohman. “Your last act is all right. We don’t want you any more.”
The American public agreed with Mrs. Dazian. They thought the play excruciatingly wicked, but they were just as eager to see it on the Fourth of July as they had been six months earlier.
A dozen details combined to make “The Conquerors” a storm-center. First of all it was attacked because of its alleged immorality. In the second place the author was charged with having appropriated some of Sardou’s “La Haine.” In the third place, this play marked the first stage appearance of Mrs. Clara Bloodgood, wife of “Jack” Bloodgood, one of the best-known men about town in New York. Mr. Bloodgood became desperately ill during rehearsals, and his wife divided her time between watching at his bedside and going to the theater. Of course, the newspapers were filled with the account of the event which was agitating all society, and it added greatly to popular interest in the play.
“The Conquerors” not only brought Paul Potter and Frohman a great success, but it sped William Faversham on to the time when he was to become a star. The cast was one of the most distinguished that Frohman had ever assembled, and it included among its women five future stars—Viola Allen, Blanche Walsh, Ida Conquest, Clara Bloodgood, and May Robson.
By this time Henry Miller had left the Empire Stock Company and had gone on the road with a play called “Heartsease,” by Charles Klein and J. I. C. Clark. It failed in Cincinnati, and Miller wrote Frohman about it. A week later the men met on Broadway. Miller still believed in “Heartsease” and asked Frohman if he could read it to him.
“All right,” replied Frohman; “come to-morrow and let me hear it.”
Miller showed up the next morning and left Klein and Clark, who had accompanied him, in a lower office. Frohman locked the door, as was his custom, curled himself up on a settee, lighted a cigar, and asked for the manuscript.
“I didn’t bring it. I will act it out for you.”
Miller knew the whole production of the play depended upon his performance. He improvised whole scenes and speeches as he went along, and he made a deep impression. When he finished, Frohman sat still for a few moments. Then he rang a bell and Alf Hayman appeared. To him he said, quietly:
“We are going to do ‘Heartsease.’”
Miller rushed down-stairs to where Klein and Clark were waiting, and told them to get to work revising the manuscript.
When the play went into rehearsal, Frohman, who sat in front, spoke to Miller from time to time, asking, “Where is that line you spoke in my office?”
This incident is cited to show Charles’s amazing memory. Miller, of course, had improvised constantly during his personal performance of the play, and Frohman recognized that these improvisations were missing when the piece came into rehearsal.
Charles now added a third star to his constellation in Henry Miller. He first produced “Heartsease” in New Haven. Charles Dillingham sat with him during the performance. When the curtain went down on a big scene, and the audience was in a tumult, demanding star and author, Frohman leaned over to speak to his friend. Dillingham thought he was about to make a historic remark, inspired by the enormous success of the play before him. Instead, Frohman whispered:
“Charley, I wonder if they have any more of that famous apple-pie over at Hueblein’s?”
He was referring to a famous article of food that had added almost as much glory to New Haven as had its historic university, and for which Frohman had an inordinate love.
Henry Miller now became an established Frohman star. After “Heartsease” had had several successful road seasons, Frohman presented Miller in “The Only Way,” an impressive dramatization of Charles Dickens’s great story, “A Tale of Two Cities.”
Charles Dillingham’s friendship with Frohman had now become one of the closest of his life. He always accompanied Frohman to England, and was regarded as his right-hand man. Frohman had always urged his friend to branch out for himself. The result was that Dillingham assumed the managership of Julia Marlowe.
Dillingham presented Miss Marlowe at the Knickerbocker Theater in New York in “The Countess Valeska.” Frohman liked the play so much that he became interested in the management of Miss Marlowe, and together they produced “Colinette,” adapted from the French by Henry Guy Carleton, at this theater. “Colinette” inspired one of the many examples of Frohman’s quick retort.
The “try-out” was at Bridgeport, and Dillingham had engaged a private chair car for the company. When Frohman tried to get on this car at Grand Central Station the porter turned him down, saying:
“This is the Marlowe car.”
Whereupon Frohman spoke up quickly and said: “I am Mr. Marlowe,” and stepped aboard.
The production of “Colinette” marked the beginning of another one of Frohman’s intimate associations. He engaged William Seymour to rehearse and produce the play. Seymour later directed some of the greatest Frohman undertakings and eventually became general stage-manager for his chief. Frohman was now actively interested in Miss Marlowe’s career. Under the joint Frohman-Dillingham management she played in “As You Like It” and “Ingomar.”
By this time Clyde Fitch had steadily made his way to the point where Frohman had ceased to regard him as a “pink tea” author, but as a really big playwright. They became great friends. He gave Fitch every possible encouragement. The time was at hand when Fitch was to reward that encouragement, and in splendid fashion.
Once more the Civil War proved a Charles Frohman mascot, for Fitch now wrote “Barbara Fritchie,” founded on John G. Whittier’s famous war poem. He surrounded the star with a cast that included W. J. Lemoyne, Arnold Daly, Dodson Mitchel, and J. H. Gilmour. The play opened at the Broad Street Theater in Philadelphia. At the dress rehearsal began an incident which showed Charles’s ready resource.
In the second act the business of the play required that Miss Marlowe take a gun and shoot a man. No gun was at hand. It was decided to send the late Byron Ongley, assistant stage-manager of the company, to the Stratford Hotel, where the star lived, with a gun and show her how to use it there.
When Frohman, who came to see the rehearsal, heard of this he had an inspiration for a fine piece of publicity.
“Why can’t Ongley pretend to be a crank and appear to be making an attempt on Miss Marlowe’s life?”
He liked Ongley, and he really conceived the idea more to play one of his numerous practical jokes than to capitalize the event.
Without saying a word to Ongley, Dillingham notified the Stratford management that Miss Marlowe had received a threatening letter from a crank who might possibly appear and make an attempt on her life. When Ongley entered the hotel lobby innocently carrying the gun he was beset by four huge porters and borne to the ground. The police were summoned and he was hauled off to jail, where he spent twenty-four hours. The newspapers made great capital of the event, and it stimulated interest in the performance.
When “Barbara Fritchie” opened at the Criterion Theater in New York, which had passed under the Frohman control, it scored an immediate success. It ran for four months. Not only was Miss Marlowe put into the front rank of paying stars, but the success of the play gave Clyde Fitch an enormous prestige, for it was his first big triumph as an original playwright. From this time on his interest was closely linked with that of Charles Frohman, who became his sponsor.
In connection with Julia Marlowe is a characteristic Frohman story. The manager always refused to accept the new relation when one of his women stars married. This incident grew out of Julia Marlowe’s marriage to Robert Taber.
One day his office-boy brought in word that Mrs. Taber would like to see him.
“I don’t know her.”
After an interval of a few moments a dulcet voice came through the door, saying, “Won’t you see me?”
“Who are you?”
“Mrs. Taber.”
“I don’t know Mrs. Taber, but Julia Marlowe can come in.”
Charles was now in a whirlwind of activities. He was not only making stars, but also, as the case of Clyde Fitch proved, developing playwrights. In the latter connection he had a peculiar distinction.
One day some years before, Madeline Lucette Ryley came to see him. She was a charming English ingénue who had been a singing soubrette in musical comedies at the famous old Casino, the home of musical comedies, where Francis Wilson, De Wolf Hopper, Jefferson De Angelis, and Pauline Hall had achieved fame as comic-opera stars. She had also appeared in a number of serious plays.
Mrs. Ryley made application for a position. Frohman said to her:
“I don’t need actresses, but I need plays. Go home and write me one.”
Mrs. Ryley up to that time had written plays only as an amateur. She went home and wrote “Christopher Jr.” and it started her on a notably successful career as a playwright. In fact, she was perhaps the first of the really successful women playwrights.
Charles Frohman celebrated the opening theatrical season of the new twentieth century by annexing a new star and a fortune at the same time. It was William H. Crane in “David Harum” who accomplished this.
Again history repeated itself in a picturesque approach to a Frohman success. One morning, at the time when both had apartments at Sherry’s, Frohman and Charles Dillingham emerged from the building after breakfast. On the sidewalk they met Denman Thompson, the old actor. Frohman engaged him in conversation. Suddenly Thompson began to chuckle.
“What are you laughing at?” asked Frohman.
“I was thinking of a book I read last night, called ‘David Harum,’” replied Thompson.
“Was it interesting?”
“The best American story I ever read,” said the actor.
Frohman’s eyes suddenly sparkled. He winked at Dillingham, who hailed a cab and made off. Frohman engaged Thompson in conversation until he returned. In his pocket he carried a copy of “David Harum.”
Frohman read the book that day, made a contract for its dramatization, and from the venture he cleared nearly half a million dollars.
Frohman considered four men for the part of David Harum. They were Denman Thompson, James A. Hearne, Sol Smith Russell, and Crane. Thompson was too old, Hearne had been associated too long with the “Shore Acres” type to adapt himself to the Westcott hero, and Sol Smith Russell did not meet the requirements. Frohman regarded Crane as ideal.
His negotiations with Crane for this part were typical of his business arrangements. It took exactly five minutes to discuss them. When the terms had been agreed upon, Frohman said to Crane:
“Are you sure this is perfectly satisfactory to you?”
“Perfectly,” replied Crane.
Frohman reached over from his desk and shook his new star by the hand. It was his way of ratifying a contract that was never put on paper, and over which no word of disagreement ever arose. Crane’s connection with Charles Frohman lasted for nine years.
Frohman personally rehearsed “David Harum.” Much of its extraordinary success was due to his marvelous energy. It was Frohman, and not the dramatist, who introduced the rain-storm scene at the close of the second act which made one of the biggest hits of the performance. Throughout the play there were many evidences of Frohman’s skill and craftsmanship.
It was just about this time that the real kinship with Augustus Thomas began. Frohman, after his first meeting with Thomas years before in the box-office of a St. Louis theater, had produced his play “Surrender,” and had engaged him to remodel “Sue.” Now he committed the first of the amazing quartet of errors of judgment with regard to the Thomas plays that forms one of the curious chapters in his friendship with this distinguished American playwright.
Thomas had conceived the idea of a cycle of American plays, based on the attitude toward women in certain sections of the country. The first of these plays had been “Alabama,” the second “In Mizzoura.” Thomas now wrote “Arizona” in this series. When he offered the play to Frohman, the manager said:
“I like this play, Gus, but I have one serious objection to it. I don’t see any big situation to use the American flag. Perhaps I am superstitious about it. I have had such immense luck with the flag in ‘Shenandoah’ and ‘Held by the Enemy’ that I have an instinct that I ought not to do this play, much as I would like to.”
As everybody knows, the play went elsewhere and was one of the great successes of the American stage.
Frohman now realized his mistake. He sent for Thomas and said: “I want you to write me another one of those rough plays.”
The result was “Colorado,” which Frohman put on at the Grand Opera House in New York with Wilton Lackaye in the leading rôle, but it was not a success.
A few years later Frohman made another of the now famous mistakes with Thomas. Thomas had seen Lawrence D’Orsay doing his usual “silly ass” part in a play. He also observed that the play lagged unless D’Orsay was on the stage. He therefore wrote a play called “The Earl of Pawtucket,” with D’Orsay in mind, and Frohman accepted it. When the time came to select the cast, Thomas suggested D’Orsay for the leading part.
“Impossible!” said Frohman. “He can’t do it.”
Thomas was so convinced that D’Orsay was the ideal man that Frohman made this characteristic concession:
“I think well of your play, and it will probably be a success,” he said, “but I do not believe that D’Orsay is the man for it. If you can get another manager to do it I will turn back the play to you, and if you insist upon having D’Orsay I will release him from his contract with me.”
Kirk La Shelle took the play and it was another “Arizona.”
Frohman produced a whole series of Thomas successes, notably “The Other Girl,” “Mrs. Leffingwell’s Boots,” and “De Lancey.” To the end of his days the warmest and most intimate friendship existed between the men. It was marked by the usual humor that characterized Frohman’s relations. Here is an example:
Thomas conducted the rehearsals of “The Other Girl” alone. Frohman, who was up-stairs in his offices at the Empire, sent him a note on a yellow pad, written with the blue pencil that he always used:
“How are you getting along at rehearsals without me?”
“Great!” scribbled Thomas.
The next day when he went up-stairs to Frohman’s office, he found the note pinned on the wall.
Such was the mood of the man who had risen from obscurity to one of commanding authority in the whole English-speaking theater.