"Don't be too hard on her," responded a playwright who sat near by.
"Consider how young she is."
"I deny that she is as young as you imply," retorted Frohman. "But I am
bound to admit that she is certainly a _stripling_."
* * *
Frohman's mind worked with amazing swiftness. Here is an example:
At the formation of a London society called the West End Managers
Association, Sir Charles Wyndham gave a luncheon at the Hyde Park Hotel
to discuss and arrange preliminaries. Most of the London managers were
present, including Frohman. There was a discussion as to what should be
the entrance fee for each member. Various sums were discussed from L100
downward. Twenty-five pounds seemed to be the most generally accepted,
when one manager said:
"Why should we not each give one night's receipts."
This was discussed for a little while, when Sir Charles said, "What do
you say, Frohman?"
The American replied, "I would sooner give a night's receipts than L25."
There was a short silence, then everybody seemed to remember that he had
at that moment a failure at his theater. The humor of it was hailed with
a shout of laughter.
* * *
Just as he mixed sentiment in business so did Frohman infuse wit into
most of his relations. He once instructed W. Lestocq, his London
manager, to conduct certain negotiations for a new play with a
Scotchwoman whose first play had made an enormous success in America,
and whose head had been turned by it. The woman's terms were ten
thousand dollars in advance and a fifteen-per-cent. royalty. When
Lestocq told Frohman these terms over the telephone, all he said was
this:
"Did you tell her not to slam the door?"
* * *
Frohman would always have his joke in London, as this incident shows:
He had just arrived in town and went to a bank in Charing Cross with a
letter of credit, which he deposited. When he emerged he was smiling all
over.
"I got one on that young man behind the counter," he said.
"How's that?" asked Lestocq, who was waiting for him.
"Well," he replied, "the young man bade me good morning and asked me if
I have brought over anything good this time. I replied, 'Yes, a letter
of credit on your bank, and I am waiting to see if _it_ is any good.'"
A manager, who for present purposes must be named Smith, called on
Frohman to secure the services of a star at that time under contract to
the latter. His plan was to drop in on Frohman at a busy hour, quickly
state the case, and, getting an affirmative answer, leave without
talking terms at all. Later he knew it would be enough to recall the
affirmative answer that had been given without qualification. The
transaction took but a moment, just as the manager wished.
"Well, then, I may have him?" said Smith.
"Er-m-ah-er-yes--I will let you have him," replied Frohman, at the same
time running over a paper before him. The visitor was already at the
door.
"By the way, Smith," called out Frohman, "how much do you want me to pay
you for taking him off my hands?"
* * *
Frohman was as playful as a child. Once he was riding in a _petite
voiture_ in Paris. It was a desperately hot night. The old _cocher_ took
his hat off, hung it on the lamp, and wiped his forehead. Frohman took
the hat and hid it under his seat. When the driver looked for his hat it
was gone. He stopped the horse and ran back two or three blocks before
he could be stopped. Then he went on without it, muttering and cursing,
and turning around every few moments. Watching his opportunity, Frohman
slipped the hat back on the lamp, and there was the expected climax that
he thoroughly enjoyed.
On one of his trips to Paris he was accompanied by Dillingham. Knowing
Frohman's fondness for rich food, his friend decided to take him to dine
at Durand's famous restaurant opposite the Madeleine. He even went to
the cafe in the afternoon and told the proprietor that he was going to
bring the great American manager. Great anticipation prevailed in the
establishment.
That night when they got to the restaurant Frohman gave Dillingham the
shock of his life by saying:
"I want to be a real American to-night. All I want is an oyster stew."
Dillingham instructed the chef how to make the stew. After long delay
there was a commotion. In strode the chef, followed by two assistants,
bearing aloft a gigantic silver tureen which was placed on the table and
opened with great ceremony. Inside was a huge quantity of consomme with
two lonely oysters floating on top.
Frohman regarded it as a great joke, and ever afterward when he met
anybody in Paris that he did not like, he would say to them:
"If you want the finest oyster stew in the world, go to Durand's."
* * *
Frohman, who was always playing jokes on his friends, was sometimes the
victim himself. He was crossing the ocean with Haddon Chambers when the
latter was accosted by two enterprising young men who were arranging the
ship's concert. Chambers was asked to take part, but declined. Then he
had an inspiration.
"We have on board the greatest American singer of coon songs known to
the stage."
"Who is that?" asked the men.
"It's Charles Frohman."
The men gasped.
"Of course we knew him as a great manager, but we never knew he could
sing."
"Oh yes," said Chambers. "He is a great singer."
He pointed out Frohman and hid behind a lifeboat to await the result.
Soon he heard a sputter and a shriek of rage, and the two men came
racing down the boat as if pursued by some terror. Up came Frohman, his
face livid with rage.
"What do you think?" he said to Chambers, who stood innocently by.
"Those men had the nerve to ask me to sing a coon song. I have never
been so insulted in all my life."
He was so enraged that he wrote a letter to the steamship line about it
and withdrew his patronage from the company for several years in
consequence.
* * *
Here is another instance when the joke was on Frohman. No one viewed the
manager's immense success with keener pride or pleasure than his father,
Henry Frohman. As theater after theater came under the son's direction
the parent could gratify his great passion for giving people free passes
to its fullest extent. He would appear at the offices at the Empire
Theater with his pockets bulging with home-made cigars. The men in the
office always accepted the cigars, but never smoked them. But they gave
him all the passes he wanted.
One day the father stopped in to see Charles. It was a raw spring day.
Charles remarked that the overcoat Henry wore was too thin.
"Go to my tailor and get an overcoat," he said.
"Not much," said the father. "Your tailor is too expensive. He robs you.
He wouldn't make one under seventy-five dollars, and I never pay more
than twenty dollars."
Charles's eye twinkled. He said, quickly:
"You are mistaken. My tailor will make you a coat for twenty dollars. Go
down and get one."
Father went down to the fashionable Fifth Avenue tailor. Meanwhile
Frohman called him up and gave instructions to make a coat for his
father at a very low price and have the difference charged to him.
In an hour Henry Frohman came back all excitement. "I am a real business
man," he said. "I persuaded that tailor of yours to make me an overcoat
for twenty dollars."
Charles immediately gave him the twenty dollars and sent the tailor a
check for the difference between that and the real price, which was
ninety-five dollars. He dismissed the matter from his mind.
A few days later Charles had another visit from his father. This time he
was in high glee. He could hardly wait to tell the great news.
"You've often said I wasn't a good business man," he told his son.
"Well, I can prove to you that I am. The other night one of my friends
admired my new overcoat so much that I sold it to him for thirty-five
dollars."
Charles said nothing, but had to pay for another
one-hundred-and-fifteen-dollar overcoat because he did not want to
shatter his father's illusion.
* * *
Here is still another. When Frohman got back to New York from a trip few
things interested him so much as a good dinner. It always wiped out the
memory of hard times or unpleasant experiences. Once he returned from a
costly visit to the West. On Broadway he met an old-time comedian who
had been in one of his companies. His greeting was cordial.
"And now, 'C. F.,'" said the comedian, "you've got to come to dinner
with me. We have a new club, for actors only, and we have the best roast
beef in town. We make a specialty of a substantial, homelike dinner.
Come right along."
The club rooms were over a saloon on the west side of Broadway, between
Thirty-first and Thirty-second streets. The two went up to the room and
sat down. The actor ordered dinner for two. The waiter went away and
Frohman's spirits began to rise.
"It's the best roast beef in New York, I tell you," said the host, by
way of an appetizer.
Then the waiter reappeared, but not with the food. He was visibly
embarrassed.
"Sorry, sir," he said to the comedian, "but the steward tells me that
you can't have dinner to-night. He says you were posted to-day, and that
you can't be served again until everything is settled."
Charles used to tell this story and say that he never had such an
appetite for roast beef as he did when he rose from that club table to
go out again into Broadway.
* * *
Frohman was always interested in mechanical things. When the phonograph
was first put on the market he had one in his office at 1127 Broadway.
Once in London he found a mechanical tiger that growled, walked, and
even clawed. He enjoyed watching it crouch and spring.
He took it with him on the steamer back to New York, and played with it
on the deck. One day Richard Croker, who was a fellow-passenger, came
along and became interested in the toy, whereupon Frohman showed him how
it worked.
Frohman told of this episode with great satisfaction. He would always
end his description by saying:
"Fancy showing the boss of Tammany Hall how to work a tiger!"
* * *
The extraordinary affinity that existed between Frohman and a small
group of intimates was shown by an incident that occurred on shipboard.
He and Dillingham were on their way to Europe. They were playing
checkers in the smoking-room when an impertinent, pushing American came
up and half hung himself over the table. Frohman said nothing, but made
a very ridiculous move. Dillingham followed suit.
"What chumps you are!" said the interloper, and went away.
Frohman wanted to get rid of the man without saying anything. This was
his way of doing it, and it succeeded.
* * *
Frohman was always having queer adventures out of which he spun the most
amazing yarns. This is an experience that he liked to recount:
When Augustus Thomas had an apartment in Paris he received a visit from
Frohman. The flat was five flights up, but there was an elevator that
worked by pushing a button.
There was a ring at the bell of the Thomas apartment. When the
playwright opened the door he found Frohman gasping for breath, and he
sank exhausted on a settee.
"I walked up," he managed to say. When he was able to talk Thomas said
to him:
"Why in Heaven's name didn't you use the elevator?"
Frohman replied:
"I couldn't make the woman down-stairs understand what I wanted. She
made motions and showed me a little door, but I thought she had designs
on my life, so I preferred to walk."
* * *
That Charles Frohman had the happy faculty of saying the right thing and
saying it gracefully is well illustrated by the following:
When the beautiful Scala Theater in London was opened it made such a
sensation that Frohman asked Lestocq if he could not inspect it. The
proprietor, Dr. Distin Maddick, being an old friend of Lestocq, the
latter called informally with Frohman. While they were admiring the
white stone and brass interior, Maddick was suddenly called away. He
returned in a few minutes to say that a manager friend from Edinburgh,
hearing that Frohman was in the theater, had come in and asked to be
introduced. Of course Frohman acquiesced. After a little talk the
gentleman said:
"We have no beautiful theater like this in Edinburgh."
Quickly Frohman replied, with his fascinating smile, "No, but you have
Edinburgh."
* * *
Frohman hated exercise. In this he had a great community of interest
with Mark Twain.
On Sunday mornings, when he was out at his farm at White Plains, he
would read all the dramatic news in the papers, and then he searched
them carefully for items about people who had died from over-exertion.
When he found one he was greatly pleased, and always sent it to Mark
Twain.
In order to get him to exercise Dillingham once took him for a stroll
and pretended to be lost. The second time he tried this, however,
Frohman discovered the subterfuge and refused to go walking.
* * *
Frohman could pack a world of meaning in a word or a sentence. As Sir
Herbert Beerbohm Tree once expressed it, "he was witty with a dry form
of humor that takes your breath away with its suddenness." He gave an
example of this with Tree one day in London. They were discussing French
plays for America. The question of American taste came up. Frohman
described certain primitive effects which delighted our audiences.
"Ah," said Tree, "America can stand that sort of thing. It is a new
country."
"_Was_," came the laconic reply.
* * *
Frohman's retiring disposition and dislike for putting himself forward
was one of his chief traits. An illustration occurred when he controlled
the Garden Theater. It was during the presentation of Stephen Phillips's
play "Ulysses." There was a new man on the door one night when Frohman
dropped into the theater for a few minutes' look at the play. The
doorkeeper did not know the producer, his own employer, and would not
allow him to enter without a ticket. Instead of storming about the
lobby, Frohman simply walked quickly out of the door, around to the
stage entrance and through the theater. At the end of the act he walked
out of the main entrance. The doorkeeper, recognizing him as the man he
had "turned down," was about to ask him how he got in when the manager
of the house interposed.
* * *
He liked surprise and contrast. On one occasion his old chum, Anson
Pond, wanted to talk over business matters with him.
"Let's go to a quiet place," said Frohman.
They went to a Childs restaurant. Before their luncheon was served an
intoxicated man came in, ordered a plate of beans, and then exploded a
package of fire-crackers on it.
When he went to pay his check Frohman's comment was:
"I didn't know they had changed the date of the Fourth of July."
* * *
No other theatrical manager in New York had a better news sense than
Frohman. He knew just what a paper wanted, and all the matter sent out
from his offices was short, newsy, and direct. He knew how to shape a
big "story," and could offhand dictate an interview that was all "meat."
While he had little time in New York to greet newspaper men personally,
he was especially cordial to all that came to see him on the road. He
never went out of town without visiting some of the older critics he had
known throughout his career, men like George P. Goodale of _The Detroit
Free Press_, and Montgomery Phister of _The Commercial Tribune_ in
Cincinnati. When in Baltimore he invariably gave an hour for a long
interview to Walter E. McCann, the critic of The News of that city.
Frohman knew a newspaper's wants and limitations as far as theatrical
matter was concerned. He knew just how far his press representative
could be expected to go, and what his obstacles were.
On one occasion in Cleveland, when he was producing a play by Clyde
Fitch for the late Clara Bloodgood, the chief press representative from
the New York office was taken along to look after the work. The press
agent sent stories to all of the papers for Saturday morning's
publication, and to his dismay not a line was used. Feeling that Frohman
would be hurt about it (for Charles was hurt and not angered by the
failure of any of his men), he wrote a note to his chief, stating that
he was sorry nothing had been used in print and did not understand it.
At lunch that day Frohman remarked to the agent:
"Why did you send me that note about the papers?"
"Because," replied the young man, "I feared that you would think I had
not attended to my work."
"Well," said Frohman, "you sent matter to all the papers, didn't you?"
"Yes," said the agent, "all of them, of course."
"Then," said the manager, "what else could you do? You are not running
the papers."
It was not only an evidence of Frohman's fairness, but an instance of
his knowledge of newspapers.
* * *
Frohman had a remarkable memory. One night during Collier's London
engagement he asked the actor to meet him at the Savoy the next morning
at nine o'clock. Collier, who had been playing bridge until dawn, showed
up at the appointed time, whereupon Frohman said:
"How did you do it?"
"I sat up for it," said Collier.
Five years later Frohman asked Collier one night to meet him at nine
o'clock the next morning. Then he added, quickly:
"You can sit up for it."
* * *
Frohman got much amusement out of a butler named Max who was employed at
his house at White Plains. One of the most original episodes in which
this man figured happened on the opening night of "Catherine" at the
Garrick Theater.
The play was a little thin, and the whole action depended on a love
scene in the third act, in which the hero, a young swell played by J. M.
Holland, on telling his mother that he loved a humble girl, gets the
unexpected admonition to go and be happy with her. Dillingham had two
seats well down in the orchestra. Frohman was to sit in the back of a
box. Just before the curtain went up Frohman said to Dillingham, who
then had a house on Twenty-fourth Street, "Let us have some of those
nice little lamb chops and peas down at your house after the play."
"All right," said Dillingham, and he telephoned the instructions to Max,
who had been drafted for town service.
The curtain went up, the first two acts went off all right, and the
house was dark for the third act. The seat alongside Dillingham was
vacated, so Frohman came down and occupied it. The curtain went up and
the action of the play progressed. The great scene which was to carry it
was about to begin when Dillingham heard a loud thump, thump, thump down
the aisle. Frohman turned to Dillingham and said:
"What in the name of Heaven is that? The play is ruined!"
The thump, thump, thump continued, coming nearer. Just in the middle of
the act a German voice spoke up and said:
"Oxkuse me, Meester Dillingham, dere ain't a lam' chop in der house."
It was Max, the butler, who, worried over what seemed the imminent
failure of the midnight repast, had come to report to headquarters for
further instructions. Fortunately the interruption passed unnoticed and
the play made quite a hit.
* * *
On one occasion Nat C. Goodwin invited him to the Goodwin residence in
West End Avenue, New York. The comedian wanted to place himself under
the management of his guest. Goodwin stated the case, and Frohman then
asked how remunerative his last season had been. The host produced his
books. After a careful examination Frohman remarked, with a smile:
"My dear boy, you don't require a manager. What you need is a lawyer."
XVIII
THE MAN FROHMAN
Great as producer, star-maker, and conqueror of two stage-worlds,
Charles Frohman was greater as a human being. Like Roosevelt, whom he
greatly admired, he was more than a man--he was an institution. His
quiet courage, his unaffected simplicity, his rare understanding, his
ripe philosophy, his uncanny penetration--above all, his abundant
humor--made him a figure of fascinating and incessant interest.
No trait of Charles Frohman was more highly developed than his shyness.
He was known as "The Great Unphotographed." The only time during the
last twenty-five years of his life that he sat for a photograph was when
he had to get a picture for his passport, and this picture went to a
watery grave with him. Behind his prejudice against being photographed
was a perfectly definite reason, which he once explained as follows:
"I once knew a theatrical manager whose prospects were very bright. He
became a victim of the camera. Fine pictures of him were made and stuck
up on the walls everywhere. He used to spend more time looking at these
pictures of himself than he did attending to his business. He made a
miserable failure. I was quite a young man when I heard of this, but it
made a great impression on me. I resolved then never to have my
photograph taken if I could help it."
Once when Frohman and A. L. Erlanger were in London he received the
usual request to be photographed by a newspaper camera man. The two
magnates looked something alike in that they had a more or less
Napoleonic cast of face. Frohman, who always saw a joke in everything,
hatched a scheme by which Erlanger was to be photographed for him. The
plan worked admirably, and pictures of Erlanger suddenly began to appear
all over London labeled "Charles Frohman."
He could be gracious, however, in his refusal to be photographed. One
bright afternoon he was watching the races at Henley when he was
approached by R. W. MacFarlane, of New York, who had been on the Frohman
staff. MacFarlane asked if he could take a photograph of Frohman and
give it to his niece, who was traveling with him.
"No," said the manager, "but you can take a picture of your niece and I
will pose her for it."
* * *
Frohman's shyness led to what is in many respects the most remarkable of
the countless anecdotes about him. It grew out of his illness. In 1913
he had a severe attack of neuritis in London. Although his friends urged
him to go and see a doctor, he steadfastly refused. He dreaded
physicians just as he dreaded photographers.
One day Barrie came to see him at his rooms at the Savoy. Frohman was in
such intense pain that the Scotch author said:
"Frohman, it is absurd for you not to see a doctor. You simply must have
medical attention. As a matter of fact, I have already made an
engagement for you to see Robson-Roose, the great nerve specialist, at
four o'clock to-morrow afternoon."
Frohman, who accepted whatever Barrie said, acquiesced. Next day, when
half-past three o'clock came, the manager was almost in a state of
panic. He said to Dillingham, who was with him:
"Dillingham, you know how I hate to go to see doctors. You also know
what is the matter with me. Why don't you go as my understudy and tell
the doctor what is the matter with you? He will give you a nice little
prescription or advise you to go to the Riviera or Carlsbad."
"All right," said Dillingham, who adored his friend. "I'll do what you
say."
Promptly at four o'clock Dillingham showed up at the great
specialist's office and said he was Frohman. He underwent a drastic
cross-examination. After which he was asked to remove his clothes, was
subjected to the most strenuous massage treatment, and, to cap it all,
was given an electric bath that reduced him almost to a wreck. He had
entered the doctor's office in the best of health, He emerged from it
worn and weary.
When he staggered into Frohman's rooms two hours later and told his tale
of woe, Frohman laughed so heartily over the episode that he was a well
man the next day.
* * *
Frohman had a great fund of pithy sayings, remarkable for their brevity.
With these he indicated his wishes to his associates. His charm of
manner, his quick insight into a situation, and his influence over the
minds of others were great factors in the accomplishment of his end,
often attaining the obviously impossible.
For example, when he would tell his business manager to negotiate a
business matter with a man, and it would come to a point where there
would be a deadlock, he would say:
"I will see him. Ask him to come down to my hotel."
The next morning he would walk into the office with a smile on his face,
and the first thing he would say perhaps would be:
"I fixed it up all right yesterday; it is going your way."
"You are a wonder!" his associates would exclaim.
"Oh no! I just talked to him," was the reply.
* * *
Frohman disliked formality. He wanted to go straight to the heart of a
thing and have it over with. Somebody once asked him why he did not join
the Masonic order. He said:
"I would like to very much if I could just write a check and not bother
with all the ceremony."
* * *
Although he never spoke of his great power in the profession,
occasionally there was a glimpse of how he felt about it as this
incident shows: