almost a complete catalogue of American drama revealed to English eyes.
Curiously enough, at least two plays, "The Lion and the Mouse" and "Paid
in Full," that had made enormous successes in America, failed utterly in
England under his direction. He gave England such typically American
dramas as "The Great Divide," "Brewster's Millions," "Alias Jimmy
Valentine," "Years of Discretion," "A Woman's Way," "On the Quiet," and
"The Dictator."
In addition to Gillette he presented Billie Burke in "Love Watches,"
William Collier in "The Dictator" and "On the Quiet," and Ethel
Barrymore in "Cynthia."
With his presentation of Collier he did one of his characteristic
strokes of enterprise. Marie Tempest was playing at the Comedy in
London. He had always been anxious to try Collier's unctuous American
humor on the British, so the American comedian swapped engagements with
Miss Tempest. She came over to the Criterion in New York to do "The
Freedom of Suzanne," while Collier took her time at the Comedy in "The
Dictator." He scored a great success and remained nearly a year.
* * *
The time was now ripe for the most brilliant of all the Charles Frohman
achievements in England. Had he done nothing else than the Repertory
Theater he would have left for himself an imperishable monument of
artistic endeavor. The extraordinary feature of this undertaking was
that it was left for an American to finance and promote in the very
cradle of the British drama the highest and finest attempt yet made to
encourage that drama. The Repertory Theater would have proclaimed any
manager the open-handed patron of drama for drama's sake.
The National or Repertory Theater idea, which was the antidote for the
long run, the agency for the production of plays that had no sustained
box-office virtue, which took the speculative feature out of production,
had been preached in England for some time. Granville Barker had tried
it at the Court Theater, where the Shaw plays had been produced
originally. The movement lagged; it needed energy and money.
Barrie had been a disciple of the Repertory Theater from the start. He
knew that there was only one man in the world who could make the attempt
in the right way. One day in 1909 he said to Frohman:
"Why don't you establish a Repertory Theater?"
Then he explained in a few words what he had in mind.
Without a moment's hesitation Frohman said, briskly:
"All right, I'll do it."
With these few words he committed himself to an enterprise that cost him
a fortune. But it was an enterprise that revealed, perhaps as nothing in
his career had revealed, the depths of his artistic nature.
With his marvelous grasp of things, Frohman swiftly got at the heart of
the Repertory proposition. When he launched the enterprise at the Duke
of York's he said:
_Repertory companies are usually associated in the public mind with
the revival of old masterpieces, but if you want to know the
character of my repertory project at the Duke of York's, I should
describe it as the production of new plays by living authors.
Whatever it accomplishes, it will represent the combined resources
of actor and playwright working with each other, a combination that
seems to me to represent the most necessary foundation of any
theatrical success._
Frohman stopped at nothing in carrying out the Repertory Theater idea.
He engaged Granville Barker to produce most of the plays. Barker in turn
surrounded himself with a superb group of players. The most brilliant of
the stage scenic artists in England, headed by Norman Wilkinson, were
engaged to design the scenes. Every possible detail that money could buy
was lavished on this project.
The result was a series of plays that set a new mark for English
production, that put stimulus behind the so-called "unappreciated" play,
and gave the English-speaking drama something to talk about--and to
remember. The mere unadorned list of the plays produced is impressive.
They were "Justice," by John Galsworthy; "Misalliance," by Bernard Shaw;
"Old Friends" and the "The Twelve-Pound Look," by James M. Barrie; "The
Sentimentalists," by George Meredith; "Madras House," by Granville
Barker; "Chains," by Elizabeth Baker; "Prunella," by Lawrence Housman
and Granville Barker; "Helena's Path," by Anthony Hope and Cosmo Gordon
Lenox, and a revival of "Trelawney of the Wells," by Sir Arthur Pinero.
The way "The Twelve-Pound Look" came to be produced is interesting. When
the repertory for the theater was being discussed one day by Barrie and
Barker at the former's flat in Adelphi Terrace House, Barker said:
"Haven't you got a one-act play that we could do?"
Barrie thought a moment, scratched his head, and said:
"I think I wrote one about six months ago when I was recovering from
malaria. You might find it somewhere in that desk." He pointed toward
the flat-top table affair on which he had written "The Little Minister"
and "Peter Pan."
Barker rummaged around through the drawers and finally found a
manuscript written in Barrie's hieroglyphic hand. It was "The
Twelve-Pound Look."
[Illustration: _PAULINE CHASE_]
The production of "Justice" was generally regarded in England as the
finest example of stage production that has been made within the last
twenty-five years. Despite the expense, and the fact that Frohman
insisted upon making each play a splendid production, the Repertory
Theater prospered. It ran from February 21, 1910, until the middle of
May. Its run was temporarily terminated by the death of King Edward
VII., and it was impossible to revive the project successfully after
the formal period of mourning closed.
* * *
Frohman's constantly widening activities in London made it necessary for
him to have more spacious quarters. The story of his offices really
tells the story of his work, for they increased in scope as his
operations widened. When he leased the Aldwych Theater he set up his
headquarters there. With the acquisition of the Globe he needed more
room, and this theater became the seat of his managerial operations. In
1913, and with characteristic lavishness, he engaged what is perhaps the
finest suite of theatrical offices in London. They were in a marble
structure known as Trafalgar House, in Waterloo Place, one of the
choicest and most expensive locations in the city.
Here he had a suite of six rooms. Like the man himself, his own personal
quarters were very simple. There was a long, high-ceiled room, with a
roll-top desk, which was never used, at one end, and a low morris-chair
at the other. From this morris-chair and from his rooms at the Savoy
Hotel he ruled his English realm.
Charles's love for his stars never lagged, and wherever it was possible
for him to surround himself with their pictures he did so. As a result,
the visitor to his London rooms found him surrounded by the familiar
faces of Maude Adams, Ethel Barrymore, Ann Murdock, Marie Doro, Julia
Sanderson, William Gillette, and John Drew. On the roll-top desk, side
by side, were the pictures of his two _Peter Pans_, Miss Adams and
Pauline Chase.
Charles's last London production, strangely enough, consisted of two
plays by his closest friend, Barrie. This double bill was "The New
Word," a fireside scene, which was followed by "Rosy Rapture."
By a strange coincidence his first English venture was a failure, and so
was his last. Yet the long and brilliant journey between these two dates
was a highway that any man might have trod with pride. The
English-speaking drama received an impetus and a standard that it never
would have had without his unflagging zeal and his generous purse. He
left an influence upon the English stage that will last.
What endeared him perhaps more than anything else to England was the
smiling serenity with which he met criticism and loss. There may have
been times when the English resented his desire for monopoly, but they
forgot it in tremendous admiration for his courage and his resource. He
revolutionized the economics of the British stage; he invested it with
life, energy, action; he established a whole new relation between author
and producer. Here, as in America, he was the pioneer and the builder.
XII
BARRIE AND THE ENGLISH FRIENDSHIPS
The fortunes of Charles Frohman's English productions ebbed and flowed;
actors and actresses came and went; to him it was all part of a big and
fascinating game. What really counted and became permanent were the
man's friendships, often made in the theatrical world of make-believe,
but always cemented in the domain of very sincere reality. In England
were some of his dearest personal bonds.
They grew out of the fact that Charles had the rare genius of inspiring
loyal friendship. He gave much and he got much. Yet, like Stevenson, it
was a case of "a few friends, but these without capitulation."
In England he seemed to be a different human being. The inaccessibility
that hedged him about in America vanished. He emerged from his unsocial
shell; he gave out interviews; he relaxed and renewed his youth in jaunt
and jest. His annual trip abroad, therefore, was like a joyous
adventure. It mattered little if he made or lost a fortune each time.
Frohman was happy in London. He liked the soft, gray tones of the somber
city. "It's so restful," he always said. Even the "bobbie" delighted
him. He would watch the stolid policeman from the curb and say,
admiringly: "He is wonderful; he raises his hand and all London stops."
He was greatly interested in the traffic regulations.
Although he had elaborate offices, his real London headquarters were in
the Savoy Hotel. Here, in the same suite that he had year after year,
and where he was known to all employees from manager to page, he
literally sat enthroned, for his favorite fashion was to curl up on a
settee with his feet doubled under him. More than one visitor who saw
him thus ensconced called him a "beaming Buddha."
From his informal eminence he ruled his world. Around him assembled the
Knights of the Dramatic Round Table. Wherever Frohman sat became the
unofficial capitol of a large part of the English-speaking stage. In
those Savoy rooms there was made much significant theatrical history. To
the little American came Barrie, Pinero, Chambers, Jones, Sutro,
Maugham, Morton, with their plays; Alexander, Tree, Maude, Hicks,
Barker, Bouchier, with their projects.
Like Charles Lamb, Frohman loved to ramble about London. Often he would
stop in the midst of his work, hail a taxi, and go for a drive in the
green parks. The Zoological Gardens always delighted him. He frequently
stopped to watch the animals. The English countryside always lured him,
especially the long green hedges, which held a peculiar fascination. He
walked considerably in the country and in town, and he took great
delight in peering in shop windows.
[Illustration: _JAMES M. BARRIE_]
In London, as in New York, the theater was his life and inspiration.
Almost without exception he went to a performance of some kind every
evening. At most of the London theaters he was always given the royal
box whenever possible. He liked the atmosphere of the British
playhouse. He always said it was more like a drawing-room than a place
of amusement.
* * *
To Charles, London meant J. M. Barrie, and to be with the man who wrote
"Peter Pan" was one of his supreme delights. The devotion between these
two men of such widely differing temperaments constitutes one of the
really great friendships of modern times. Character of an unusual kind,
on both sides, was essential to such a communion of interest and
affection. Both possessed it to a remarkable degree.
No two people could have been more opposite. Frohman was quick, nervous,
impulsive, bubbling with optimism; Barrie was the quiet, canny Scot,
reserved, repressed, and elusive. Yet they had two great traits in
common--shyness and humor. As Barrie says:
"Because we were the two shyest men in the world, we got on so well and
understood each other so perfectly."
There was another bond between these two men in the fact that each
adored his mother. In Charles's case he was the pride and the joy of the
maternal heart; with Barrie the root and inspiration of all his life and
work was the revered "Margaret Ogilvy." He is the only man in all the
world who ever wrote a life of his mother.
There was still another and more tangible community of interest between
these two remarkable men. Each detested the silk hat. Frohman had never
worn one since the Haverly Minstrel days, when he had to don the tile
for the daily street parade. Barrie, in all his life, has had only one
silk hat. It is of the vintage of the early 'seventies. The only
occasion when he wears the much-detested headgear is at the first
rehearsal of the companies that do his plays. Then he attires himself in
morning clothes, goes to the theater, nervously holds the hat in his
hand while he is introduced to the actors and actresses. Just as Charles
used to hide his silk hat as soon as the minstrel parade was over and
put on a cap, so does Barrie send the objectionable headgear home as
soon as these formalities are over and welcome his more comfortable
bowler as an old friend.
Curiously enough, Frohman and Barrie did not drift together at once.
When the little Scotchman made his first visit to America in 1896 and
"discovered" Maude Adams as the inspired person to act _Lady Babbie_, he
met the man who was to be his great friend in a casual business way
only. The negotiations for "The Little Minister" from England were
conducted through an agent.
But when Frohman went abroad the following year the kinship between the
men started, and continued with increasing intimacy. The men became
great pals. They would wander about London, Barrie smoking a short,
black pipe, Frohman swinging his stick. On many of these strolls they
walked for hours without saying a word to each other. Each had the great
gift of silence--the rare sense of understanding.
Barrie and his pipe are inseparable, as the world knows. There is a
legend in London theatrical lore that Frohman wanted to drive to
Barrie's flat one night. He was in his usual merry mood, so the
instruction he gave was this:
"Drive to the Strand, go down to Adelphi Terrace, and stop at the first
smell of pipe smoke."
Frohman never tired of asking Barrie about "Peter Pan." It was a
curious commentary on the man's tenacity of interest and purpose that,
although he made nearly seven hundred productions in his life, the play
of the "Boy Who Would Never Grow Up" tugged most at his heart. Nor did
Barrie ever weary of telling him how the play began as a nursery tale
for children; how their insistent demand to "tell us more" made it the
"longest story in the world"; how, when one pirate had been killed,
little Peter (the original of the character, now a soldier in the great
war) excitedly said: "One man isn't enough; let's kill a lot of them."
No one will be surprised to know that in connection with "Peter Pan" is
one of the most sweetly gracious acts in Frohman's life. The original of
_Peter_ was sick in bed at his home when the play was produced in
London. The little lad was heartsick because he could not see it. When
Frohman came to London Barrie told him about it.
"If the boy can't come to the play, we will take the play to the boy,"
he said.
Frohman sent his company out to the boy's home with as many "props" as
could be jammed into the sick-room. While the delighted and excited
child sat propped up in bed the wonders of the fairy play were unfolded
before him. It is probably the only instance where a play was done
before a child in his home.
As most people know, Barrie, at his own expense, erected a statue of
_Peter Pan_ in Kensington Gardens as his gift to the children of London
who so adored his play. It was done as a surprise, for the statue stood
revealed one May Day morning, having been set up during the night.
When he planned this statue Barrie mentioned it casually to Frohman, and
said nothing more about it. Frohman never visited the park to see it,
but when the model was put on exhibition at the Academy he said to
Lestocq one day:
"Where is that _Peter Pan_ model?" When he was told he said: "I want to
see it, but do I have to look at anything else in the gallery?" On being
assured that he did not, he said, "All right."
Frohman went to the Academy, bolted straight for the sculpture-room, and
stood for a quarter of an hour gazing intently at the graceful figure of
_Peter_ playing his pipe. Then he walked out again, without stopping to
look at any of the lovely things about him. It was characteristic of
Frohman to do just the thing he had in mind to do and nothing else.
Frohman and Barrie seldom wrote to each other. When they did it was a
mere scrawl that no other human being in the world could read. The only
cablegram that Barrie ever sent Frohman was about "What Every Woman
Knows." Hilda Trevelyan played _Maggie Wylie_. Barrie liked her work so
much that he cabled Frohman about it on the opening night. When the
actress went down to breakfast the next morning to read what the
newspapers said about her she found on her plate a cable from Frohman
doubling her salary. It was Frohman's answer to Barrie.
Frohman's faith in Barrie was marvelous. It was often said in jest in
London that if Barrie had asked Frohman to produce a dramatization of
the Telephone Directory he would smile and say with enthusiasm:
"Fine! Who shall we have in the cast?"
One of the great Frohman-Barrie adventures was in Paris. It illustrates
so completely the relation between these men that it is worth giving in
detail.
Frohman was in Paris, and after much telegraphic insistence persuaded
his friend to come over on his first visit to the French capital.
Frohman was aglow with anticipation. He wanted to give Barrie the time
of his life.
"What would a literary man like to do in Paris?" was the question he
asked himself.
In his usual generous way he planned the first night, for Barrie was to
arrive in the afternoon. He was then living at the Hotel Meurice, in the
Rue Royale, so he engaged a magnificent suite for his guest. He ordered
a sumptuous dinner at the Cafe de Paris, bought a box at the Theatre
Francais, and engaged a smart victoria for the evening.
Barrie was dazed at the splendor of the Meurice suite, but he survived
it. When Frohman spoke of the Cafe de Paris dinner he said he would
rather dine quietly at the hotel, so the elaborate meal was given up.
"Now what would you like to do this evening?" asked his host.
"Are there any of those country fairs around here, where they have side
shows and you can throw balls at things?" asked Barrie.
Frohman, who had box seats for the most classic of all Continental
theaters in his pocket, said:
"Yes, there is one in Neuilly."
"All right," said Barrie, "let's go there."
"We'll drive out in a victoria," meekly suggested Frohman.
"No," said Barrie, "I think it would be more fun to go on a 'bus."
With the unused tickets for the Theatre Francais in his waistcoat, and
the smart little victoria still waiting in front of the Meurice (for
Frohman forgot to order the man home), the two friends started for the
country fair, where they spent the whole evening throwing balls at what
the French call "Aunt Sally." It is much like the old-fashioned
side-show at an American county fair. A negro pokes his head through a
hole in the canvas, and every time the thrower hits the head he gets a
knife. When Frohman and Barrie returned to the Meurice that night they
had fifty knives between them. The next night they repeated this
performance until they had knives enough to start a hardware-store. This
was the simple and childlike way that these two men, each a genius in
his own way, disported themselves on a holiday.
One more incident will show the amazing accord between Frohman and
Barrie. They were constantly playing jokes on each other, like two
youngsters. One day they were talking in Frohman's rooms at the Savoy
when a certain actress was announced.
"I would like to know what this woman really thinks of me," said Barrie.
"I have never met her."
"All right," said Frohman, "you pretend to be my secretary."
The woman came up and had a long talk with Frohman, during which she
gave her impressions, not very flattering, of British playwrights in
general and Barrie in particular. All the while the little Scot sat
solemnly at a near-by desk, sorting papers and occasionally handing one
to Frohman to sign. When the woman left they nearly exploded with
laughter.
One of Frohman's delights when in England was to go to Barrie's flat in
London, overlooking the Victoria Embankment. He liked this place, first
of all, because it was Barrie's. Then, too, he could sit curled up in
the corner on a settee, smoking a fat, black cigar, and look out on the
historic Thames. Here he knew he would not have to talk. It was the
place of Silence and Understanding. He was in an atmosphere he loved. In
the flat above lives John Galsworthy; down-stairs dwells Granville
Barker; while just across the street is the domicile of Bernard Shaw,
whose windows face Barrie's.
When Barrie wanted to notify Shaw that Frohman was with him, he would
throw bread-crusts against Shaw's window-panes. In a few moments the
sash would fly up and the familiar, grinning, bearded face would pop
out. On one of the occasions Shaw yelled across:
"Are you inviting me to a feast, Barrie--are you casting bread upon the
troubled waters or is it just Frohman?"
In view of Frohman's perfect adoration of Barrie--and it amounted to
nothing else--it is interesting, as a final glimpse of the relation
between these men, to see what the American thought of his friend's
work. In analyzing Barrie's work once, Frohman said:
"Barrie's distinctive note is humanity. There is rich human blood in
everything he writes. He is a satirist whose arrows are never barbed
with vitriol, but with the milk of human kindness; a humanist who never
surfeits our senses, but leaves much for our willing imagination; an
optimist whose message is as compelling for its reasonableness as it is
welcome for its gentleness."
* * *
Through Barrie and "Peter Pan" came another close and devoted friendship
in Charles Frohman's life--the one with Pauline Chase. This American
girl had been engaged by one of Frohman's stage-managers for a small
part with Edna May in "The Girl from Up There." Frohman did not even
know her in those days. After she made her great success as the Pink
Pajama girl in "Liberty Belles," at the Madison Square Theater, Frohman
engaged her and sent her to England, where, with the exception of one
visit to the United States in "Our Mrs. Gibbs," she has remained ever
since.
It was not until she played "Peter Pan" that the Frohman-Chase
friendship really began. The way in which Miss Chase came to play the
part is interesting. Cissie Loftus, who had been playing Peter, became
ill, and Miss Chase, who had been playing one of the twins, and was her
understudy, went on to do the more important part at a matinee in
Liverpool. Frohman said to her:
"Barrie and I are coming down to see you act. If we like you well enough
to play _Peter_, I will send you back a sheet of paper with a cross mark
on it after the play."
At the end of the first act an usher rapped on Miss Chase's
dressing-room door and handed her the much-desired slip with the cross.
Frohman sent word that he could not wait until the end of the play,
because he and Barrie were taking a train back to London. In this
unusual way Pauline Chase secured the part which helped to endear her to
the man who was her friend and sponsor.
Frohman, Barrie, and Miss Chase formed a trio who went about together a
great deal and had much in common, aside from the kinship of the
theater. It was for Miss Chase that Barrie wrote "Pantaloon," in which
she appeared in conjunction with "Peter Pan," and which gave her a
considerable reputation in England.
When Pauline Chase was confirmed in the little church in
Marlow-on-the-Thames, Barrie was her godfather and Miss Ellen Terry was
her godmother. Frohman attended this ceremony, and it made a tremendous
impression on him. He saw the spectacular side of the ceremony, and the
spiritual meaning was not lost on him.