he had ever received. With trembling hands he tore it open, his rosy
face broke into a seraphic smile, and the tears came into his eyes. He
rushed to his mother, threw his arms around her, and gasped:
"At last I'm in the business!"
He lost no time in starting. With a single grip-sack, which contained
his modest wardrobe, the eager boy started on his first railroad journey
of any length into the great West. It was the initial step of what, from
this time on, was to be a continuous march of ever-widening importance.
Begrimed but radiant, the boy stepped from a day-coach at two o'clock in
the morning at Winona. No scene could have been more desolate. Save for
the station-master and a solitary brakeman there was only one other
person on hand, and that individual was the faithful Gustave, who
advanced swiftly through the gloom and greeted his brother
enthusiastically.
Charles was all excitement. He had not slept a wink. It was perhaps the
longest and most irksome journey he ever took. He was bubbling with the
desire to get to work.
The two brothers went to a hotel where Gustave had a room, and there
they sat for four hours. It is a picture well worth keeping in mind: the
pleased older boy, eager to get his brother started right; the younger
lad all ears, and his eyes big with wonder and anticipation. There was
no thought of food or rest. Gustave was enthusiastic about the company.
He said to his brother:
"Why, Charley, we've got real New York actors, and our leading lady,
Louise Dillon, has a genuine sealskin coat. That coat will get us out of
any town. You've got no 'Ghost Show' amateurs to handle now, but real
actors and actresses."
Then came an announcement that startled the boy, for Gustave continued:
"Your salary is to be twenty-five dollars a week and hotel bills, but
you must not spend more than one dollar and a half a day for meals and
room."
In this dingy room of an obscure hotel in a country town Charles Frohman
got his first instructions in practical theatrical work. Perhaps the
most important of this related to bill-posting. In those days it was a
tradition in theatrical advertising that whoever did the most effective
bill-posting in a town got the audience. Most of the publicity was done
with posters. An advance-agent had to be a practical bill-poster
himself. To get the most conspicuous sites for bills and to keep those
bills up until the attraction played became the chief task of the
advance-agent. The provincial bill-posters were fickle and easily
swayed. The agent with the most persuasive personality, sometimes with
the greatest drinking capacity, won the day.
All this advice, and much more, was poured by Gustave into the willing
ears of the youthful Charles. No injunction laid on that keen-eyed boy
in the gray dawn of that historic morning back in the 'seventies was
more significant than these words from his elder brother:
"Your success in handling the bill-poster does not lie through a barroom
door. Give him all the passes he wants, but never buy him a drink."
That those words sank deeply into Charles Frohman is shown by the fact
that he seldom drank liquor. His chief tipple through all the coming
crowded years was never stronger than sarsaparilla, soda-water, or
lemonade.
The task ahead of Charles would have staggered any but the most
dauntless enthusiasm. Among other things, as Gustave discovered, there
was no route for the company after St. Paul, which was to be played the
following week.
"You must discover new towns and bill them," he said. "Get what printing
you want. The printers have been instructed to fill orders from you."
The hours sped on. Charles asked a thousand questions, and Gustave
filled him with facts as dawn broke and day came. It was nearly seven
o'clock, time for his train for St. Paul to leave. Charles would not
hear of having breakfast. He was too full of desire to get to work.
Among other things, Charles carried a letter from Gustave to Wallick,
who was temporarily ahead of the show, which said:
_This is my brother Charles, who will take the advance in your
place._
The first word that came from the young advance-agent announced action,
for he wired:
_All right with Wallick. Have discovered River Falls._
River Falls, it happened, had been "discovered" before and abandoned,
but Charles thought he was making route history.
Charles immediately set to work with the extraordinary energy that
always characterized him. The chief bill-poster in St. Paul was named
Haines. Charles captured him with his engaging smile, and he became a
willing slave. It was Haines who taught him how to post bills. Later on
when Gustave arrived with the show, he spoke of the boy with intense
pride. He said:
"I have taught your brother Charley how to post bills. He took to it
like a duck to water. He didn't mind how much paste he spattered over
himself. His one desire was to know how to do the job thoroughly. I am
going to make him the greatest theatrical agent in the world."
Curiously enough, Haines lived to be a very old man, and in the later
years of his life he was able to stick up the twenty-eight-sheet stands
that bore in large type the name of the little chubby protege he had
introduced to the art of bill-posting back in the long ago.
At St. Paul Charles had opposition--a big musical event at Ingersoll
Hall--and this immediately tested his resource. He got his printing
posted in the best places, went around to the newspaper offices and got
such good notices that John Dillon was inspired to remark that he had
never had such efficient advance work. It is interesting to remember
that at this time Charles Frohman was not yet eighteen years old.
Now came the first evidence of that initiative which was such a
conspicuous trait in the young man. He had come back to see the
performances of his company, and had watched them with swelling pride.
Several times he said, and with pardonable importance:
"What _we_ need is a new play. _We_ must have something fresh to
advertise."
The net result of this suggestion was that his brother obtained the
manuscript of "Lemons," a comedy that, under the title of "Wedlock for
Seven," had been first produced at Augustin Daly's New Fifth Avenue
Theater in New York. A copy of the play was sent on to Charles to
enable him to prepare the presswork for it, and it was the first play
manuscript he ever read. "Lemons" vindicated Charles's suggestion,
because it added to the strength of the repertory and brought
considerable new business.
Charles took an infinite pride in his work. He was eager for
suggestions, he worked early and late, and when the season closed at the
end of June he was a full-fledged and experienced advance-agent. With
his brother he reached Chicago July 4th. In the lobby of Hooley's
Theater he was introduced to R. M. Hooley, who, after various hardships,
again controlled the theater which bore his name, now Powers' Theater.
Out of that chance meeting came a long friendship and a connection that
helped in later years to give Charles Frohman his first spectacular
success, for it was Mr. Hooley who helped to back "Shenandoah."
On July 5th, six months after he had left the East for his first start,
Charles appeared at his mother's home in New York, none the worse for
his first experience on the road.
* * *
Charles was soon eager for the next season. Gustave had signed a
contract with John Dillon to take him out again, this time as part owner
of the company. He and George Stoddart agreed to put up two hundred and
fifty dollars each to launch the tour of the Stoddart Comedy Company
with John Dillon as star. Charles was to continue as advance-agent.
It was a long summer for the boy. When August arrived and the time came
to start west there was a financial council of war. Gustave counted on
getting his capital from members of the family, but no money was
forthcoming. Daniel had received no salary from Callender, and the great
road project seemed on the verge of failure. Charles was disconsolate.
But the mother of the boys, ever mindful of their interest, said, in her
serene way:
"I can get enough money to send you to Chicago and I will put up some
lunches for you."
Charles was eagerly impatient to start. He nagged at his brother:
"Gus, when do we start for Chicago? Do we walk?"
He was sent down-town to find out the cheapest route, and he returned in
great excitement, saying:
"The cheapest way is over the Baltimore & Ohio, second class, but it is
the longest ride. We can ride in the day-coach, and even if we have no
place to wash we will get to Chicago, and that is the main thing."
When they reached Chicago the first of the long chain of disasters that
was to attend them on this enterprise developed.
Stoddart was penniless. The two hundred and fifty dollars that he
expected to contribute to the capital of the new combination was swept
away in the failure of the Fidelity Bank. He had looked forward to
Gustave for help, and all the while Gustave, on that long, toilsome
journey west, was hoping that his partner would provide the first
railroad fares. So they sat down and pooled their woes, wondering how
they could start their tour, with Charles as an interested listener.
Every now and then he would chirp up with the question:
"How do I get out of town?"
Finally Gustave, always resourceful, said:
"You don't need any money, Charley. I've got railroad passes for you,
and you can give the hotels orders on me for your board and lodging."
It was a custom in those days for advance-agents to give orders for
their obligations--hotel, rent of hall, bill-posting, and baggage--upon
the company that followed. Hotels in particular were willing to accept
orders on the treasurer of a theatrical company about to play a date,
because, in the event of complete failure, there was always baggage to
seize and hold.
So, armed with passes and with the optimism of youth and anticipation,
Charles set forth on what became in many respects the most memorable
road experience in his life. The first town he billed was Streator,
Illinois. Then he hurried on to Ottawa and Peoria, where they were to
play during fair week, which was the big week of the year. Misfortune
descended at Streator, for despite the lavish display of posters and the
ample advance notice that Charles lured the local editors into
publishing, the total receipts on the first night were seventy-seven
dollars. This, and more, had already been pledged before the curtain
went up, and Gustave was not even able to pay John Dillon his seven
dollars and seventy cents, which represented his ten per cent, of the
gross receipts.
By "traveling on their baggage," which was one of the expedients of the
time and a custom which has not entirely passed out of use, the company
got to Ottawa, where Charles joined them. Here, in a comic circumstance,
he first developed the amazing influence that he was able to exert on
people.
Although an admirable actor with a large following and the most
delightful and companionable of men, John Dillon had one unfortunate
failing. He was addicted to drink, and, regardless of consequences, he
would periodically succumb to this weakness. At Ottawa, the town crowded
with visitors for the annual fair, Dillon fell from grace. The bill for
the evening was "Lemons," and there was every indication that the house
would be sold out. The receipts were badly needed, too.
Late in the afternoon came the terrifying news that Dillon lay stupefied
from liquor in his room. Everybody save Charles was in despair. Dillon
had conceived a great fancy for Charles, and he was deputized to take
the actor in hand, get him to the theater, and coerce him through the
play.
Charles responded nobly. He aroused the star, took him to the theater in
a carriage, and stood in the wings throughout the whole performance,
coaching and inspiring his intoxicated star. By an amusing circumstance,
Dillon was required to play a drunken scene in "Lemons." He performed
this part with so much realism that the audience gave him a great
ovation. The real savior of that performance was the chubby lad who
stood in the wings with beating heart, fearful every moment that Dillon
would succumb.
* * *
New and heavier responsibilities now faced Charles Frohman. The company
was booked to play a week in Memphis, Tennessee, the longest and most
important stand of the tour. In those days the printers who supplied the
traveling companies with advertising matter were powers to be reckoned
with. When the supply of printing was cut off the company was helpless.
Charles H. McConnell, of the National Printing Company, who supplied the
Stoddart Company with paper, was none too confident of the success of
that organization. When he heard of the Memphis engagement he insisted
that Gustave, who was older and more experienced, be sent ahead to pave
the way. Charles was sent back to manage the company, and now came his
first attempt at handling actors. He rose to the emergency with all his
characteristic ingenuity.
He began at Champaign, Illinois. The first test of his resource came at
a one-night stand--Waupaca, Iowa--where "Lemons" was billed as a
feature. The prospects for a big house were good. Board and railroad
fare seemed assured, when just before supper-time John F. Germon, one of
the company, approached Charles in great perturbation.
"We can't play to-night. Mrs. Post is sick."
Mrs. Post played the part of the old woman in the play, and it was a
very important role.
Charles Frohman only smiled, as he always did in an emergency. Then he
said to Germon:
"You're a member of the well-known Germon family, aren't you? Then live
up to its reputation and play the part yourself."
"But how about my mustache?" asked Germon.
"I will pay for having it shaved off," replied Frohman.
The net result was that Germon sacrificed his mustache, played the part
acceptably without any one in the audience discovering that he was a man
masquerading as an old woman. Charles put Wallick, who was acting as
stage-manager, in Germon's part. Thus the house was saved and the
company was able to proceed.
With his attractive ways and eternal thoughtfulness Charles captivated
the company. He supplied the women with candy and bought peanuts for the
men. On that trip he developed his fondness for peanuts that never
forsook him. He almost invariably carried a bag in his pocket. When he
could not get peanuts he took to candy.
A great friendship struck up between Frohman and Stoddart, who, in a
way, was a character. He played the violin, and when business was bad
and the company got in the dumps Stoddart added to their misfortunes by
playing doleful tunes on his fiddle. But that fiddle had a virtue not to
be despised, because it was Stoddart's bank. In its hollow box he
secreted his modest savings, and in more than one emergency they were
drawn on for company bed and board. When the organization reached
Memphis Charles had so completely won the affections of the company that
they urged him to stay on with them. But business was business, and he
had to go on in advance.
Charles now went ahead to "bill" Texas. The reason for the expedition
was this:
In Memphis business was so bad that the manager of the theater there
advised Gustave to send the company through Texas, where, he assured
them, there would be no opposition, and they would have the state to
themselves. This advice proved to be only too true, for the company not
only had the state to itself, but the state for a time held the company
fast--in the unwilling bonds of financial misfortune.
The plan was to play the best towns in Texas and then go back through
the Middle West, where John Dillon had a strong following, and where it
was hoped the season could close with full pockets. Up to this time the
company had received salaries with some degree of regularity. But from
this time on they were to have a constantly diminishing acquaintance
with money, for hard luck descended upon them the moment they crossed
the frontiers of the Lone Star State.
It was about this time that Charles Callender, at the solicitation of
Gustave, purchased an interest in the Stoddart Comedy Company for a
hundred-dollar bill. This bill was given to Charles as a "prop." In
those days the financial integrity of the legitimate theatrical
combination was sometimes questioned by hard-hearted hotel-keepers. The
less esthetic "variety" troupes, minstrel shows, and circuses enjoyed a
much higher credit. An advance-agent like Charles sometimes found
difficulty in persuading the hotel people to accept orders on the
company's treasurer.
With characteristic enterprise Charles used the hundred-dollar bill as a
symbol of solvency. He flashed it on hotel-keepers and railway agents in
the careless way that inspired confidence, and, what was more to the
point, credit. He carried this hundred-dollar bill for nearly a month.
Often when asked to pay his board bill he would produce the note and ask
for change. Before the startled clerk could draw his breath he would
add:
"Perhaps it might be best if I gave you an order on the treasurer."
This always served to get him out of town without spending cash for
hotel bills.
Texas was still a rough country, and Charles's reckless display of the
hundred-dollar bill once gave him a narrow escape from possible death.
He had made the usual careless display of wealth at a small hotel in
Calvert. The bad man of the town witnessed the performance and
immediately began to shadow the young advance-agent. When Charles
retired to his room he found, to his dismay, that there was no lock on
the door. He had a distinct feeling that a robbery would be attempted,
so he quietly left the hotel and spent the night riding back and forth
on the train between Calvert and Dallas. This cost him nothing, for he
had a pass.
At Galveston occurred an unexpected meeting. Daniel Frohman, who was
ahead of Callender's Minstrels, had arrived in town by boat from New
Orleans (there being no railway connection then) to book his show for
the next week. On arriving at the Tremont Opera House he was surprised
to see Charles writing press notices in the box-office.
"What are you doing here?" he asked. "I thought you were in Tennessee."
Charles walked to the window and said, with great pride, "We play here
all next week."
"Have you got the whole week?" asked Daniel.
"Yes," was the reply.
"But can't you give me Monday or Tuesday night?" asked Daniel.
"Impossible," replied Charles, haughtily.
"All right," said Daniel, in friendly rivalry, "then I will have to hire
Turner Hall and knock you out for two nights with our brass-band
parade."
Charles then came out into the lobby and confessed that his company was
up against it, and that it meant bread and butter and possibly the whole
future of the company if he could only play Galveston.
"We are coming here on our trunks," he said, "and we've got to get some
money."
Daniel immediately relented. He arranged with the railroad to delay the
train and thus make a connection which would carry his company on
through to the interior. He booked Galveston for the second week
following. This left the week in question free to Charles, who breathed
easier.
Charles now went on and billed Sherman, Houston, and Dallas. At Dallas
the hard luck that had gripped the company the moment it left Memphis
descended more vigorously than before. Dillon not only fell from grace
again, but disappeared. Gustave Frohman had vowed that he would
discharge him if he went on another spree, and he kept his word. They
were in a real predicament, with star gone, business bad, and
practically stranded a thousand miles from home.
Charles, who frequently came back to join the company, was the one
bright spot of those precarious days, for he never lost his optimism or
his smile.
"What we need," he said at a council of war in Dallas, "is a new play. I
have been reading in the _New York Clipper_ about one called 'Pink
Dominoes.' I think it is just the thing for us to do. In fact, I have
already sent for a copy of it."
The play arrived the next day, and when George Stoddart read it to him
the young agent bubbled with laughter and said:
"It's bound to be a big success."
It was decided to put on "Pink Dominoes" at Houston. Charles remained
behind and watched the rehearsals, the first of the kind he had ever
seen. Contrary to all expectations, Houston was shocked by the play. The
audience literally "walked out" and the run of one night ended.
Misfortunes now crowded thick and fast. Salaries had ceased entirely,
and it was with the utmost difficulty that the company proceeded on its
way. As a crowning hardship, Callender repented of his bargain and
withdrew the much-used and treasured hundred-dollar bill.
When Charles met Gustave in Seguin he said: "We're up against a hard
proposition. The people want John Dillon. It's hard to book an
attraction without a star."
In this statement Charles Frohman expressed a truth that he afterward
made one of his theatrical axioms, for he became the leading exponent of
the star system, and developed, in fact, into the king of the
star-makers.
Charles rose supreme over the hardships that filled his colleagues with
gloom. Many a night, in order to save hotel bills, he slept on a train
as it shunted back and forth between small towns. He always turned up in
the morning smiling and serene, with cheer for his now discouraged and
almost disgruntled colleagues.
Louise Dillon's sealskin sack rendered heroic service during these
precarious days. It was almost literally worn out as collateral. As
Gustave had predicted, it got the company out of town on more than one
occasion. A little incident will indicate some of the ordeals of that
stage of the tour. At Hempstead a "norther" struck the town and the
temperature dropped. Wesley Sisson caught a hard cold and concluded to
get what he called "a good sweat." He had scarcely made his preparations
and settled himself in bed when he heard a rap at the door and a voice
said, "Open up."
"Who's that?" asked Sisson.
"Charley," was the reply. "Let me in. There isn't a spare bed in this
house and I am freezing to death."
"All right," said Sisson, "but you don't want to come in here, because I
am trying to sweat to death."
"Great Scott!" yelled Frohman, "that's what I want to do."
Sisson let him in and he remained all night.
* * *
Everywhere Charles Frohman drew people to him. The first time he booked
Houston he made friends with Colonel McPherson, who owned the Perkins
Opera House and the inevitable saloon alongside. The old manager--a
rather rough customer who had killed his man--was a great casino-player,
and Charles beguiled several hours with him one night at a game while
waiting for a train.
In one of the company's darkest hours he said to Stoddart:
"I've got an idea. Let's play Houston."
"But we've just been there," said Stoddart.
"Never mind," said Charles. "I'll fix it."
The next day he turned up at Houston and went to Colonel McPherson.
"What, you here again?" he asked.
"We've come back," replied Charles with ready resource, "to play a
special benefit for your School Teachers' Association."
The old man chuckled. "Well, if you can get 'em in the house you are all
right."
Charles was already planning a series of benefits for volunteer firemen
and widows and orphans in future towns. It was a case of "anything to
get a crowd." He hesitated a moment, then faced the old man with his
winning smile and said:
"Colonel, I wish you would let me have fifty dollars to send back to the
company."
"All right, my boy; there's the safe. Help yourself. Hurry up. Let us
have a game of casino."
Charles wired the much-needed money to his brother, then came back and
dutifully played the game. But neither trumped-up benefits for the most
worthy of causes nor the unfailing good-humor of the boyish
advance-agent could stem the tide of adversity. Things went from bad to
worse. Louise Dillon, all hope of salary gone, gave her little remaining
capital to Gustave, saving only enough for her railway fare, and went
back to her home in Cincinnati. Stoddart now played more dolefully than
ever on his violin, ransacked its recesses, and turned over his last
cent for the common good.
"We've got to get back North," said Gustave.
With the utmost effort, and by pawning jewelry and clothes, the company
gladly saw the last trace of Texas disappear over the horizon.