a theatrical trust, he need only refer to an old lithograph showing
this astute gentleman on an elevation and in his hands various wires,
to the ends of which are attached ten theatres. Haverly controlled
these houses and about six attractions. There he stands, smiling and
manipulating the wires. This was the birth of the syndicate.)
In a few years Charles blossomed forth as a manager. I think his first
winner was "Shenandoah," written by Bronson Howard. The world knows of
his rapid ascent, so I won't dwell upon his wonderful and well deserved
success. I write of the man as I know him and Charles Frohman is a man
among men. Yet he is seldom seen among men! Only a few are privileged
to enjoy his magnetic society. I have been one of these. I have met
him in my own home, in England, in my dressing-room, at his office,
on the stage, when he and I were producing plays, at dinners, supper
parties--in fact under every circumstance and in all walks of life.
And he is always the same urbane, kindly, patient creature. He laughs
at failures and runs from success--runs, but only in quest of another!
He is one of the most scintillating persons in the world. Geographical
space means nothing to him. His word is a contract. I have never known
such perseverance, industry and thought combined in one man.
I am one of the few who knew what he was up against when he began his
American invasion of England. A conversation held in my presence in
my home at Jackwood, England, between three men who have since been
associated with him advised me of a conspiracy to ruin him. But Frohman
overcame them all, beat them at their own game and his methods have
been imitated broadcast throughout the British Empire. The little
corporal has made himself a factor in London and his name as a rule
spells success.
He has brought before the American public the most celebrated players
of the day, made so only by his undying energy and patience. I have
often regretted that even after I had begun my career I had not
started under his management, for notwithstanding his great business
capabilities he has a naturally artistic temperament, combined with
a wondrous sense of humor--splendid qualities in these days of
commercialism.
One time, nearly twenty-three years ago, I sent for him to come to my
residence on West End Avenue, New York, with a view of placing myself
under his management. He listened very quietly as is his custom and
when I had finished asked how remunerative the season I had just closed
had been. I showed him my books thinking that disclosure might lead to
results. After examining them most carefully he placed them gently upon
the table and with that merry twinkle in his eyes his friends know so
well said,
"My dear boy, you don't require a manager; you want a lawyer."
Later I played under his management in London and I am happy to say I
caused him no loss. The engagement was a most happy one and I look back
to the association with joy.
During my several engagements at his Knickerbocker Theatre he was
seldom in evidence. The first night he would take his customary seat in
the rear of the balcony and at the end of the play a slight knock would
come at my dressing-room door. "Come in," I would say. The door would
open and his bright, cheery face appear. "It's all right," would be the
assurance and he would disappear as quickly as he came.
During the run of "Nathan Hale" I had not seen him for four or five
weeks. One night I came into the dressing-room, turned on the electric
light and there he sat in a corner, all huddled up. "What in the world
are you doing there, Charley?" I asked. He quietly replied, "I am
casting a new play and came here to get some inspiration. Good night."
and away he went.
My next association with him was in the production of "Beauty and the
Barge" at the Lyceum Theatre. I often regretted that I had not listened
to his suggestions and gone on the road with the play, but the sting of
defeat was too bitter and in a hysterical moment I decided to abandon
it.
He offered no advice, but, as usual, when his stars are unhappy in
their rôles, he left me to determine the fate of the play.
Charles Frohman is the most unselfish man whom I have ever met in
the theatrical profession. A spendthrift, so far as productions are
concerned, with no thought of pecuniary results, no sordid desires,
a slave to his work, and with a thorough appreciation of an artist's
value, he has done more to increase actors' salaries, he has produced
more plays and received less reward than any manager in the world. The
history of the American stage will be incomplete unless the name of
Charles Frohman stands conspicuous among the many.
Will history do the little corporal justice?
I wonder!
About the time that the idea of Haverly's began scintillating along
the horizon it became noised about that a theatrical syndicate was to
be formed--to make the booking of tours less irksome; to guarantee
continued time in the cities; to amalgamate forces which would lessen
the burden of the actor-manager--in fact everything would be done to
enhance the success of both player and producer.
The Napoleonic Erlanger was the instigator and promoter of the
finally adopted scheme and he was aided by the subtle Klaw, whom I
had previously known in Louisville as a reporter--a silent, but ever
watchful person. Associated with these clever gentlemen were the
elusive Al Hayman, then a wealthy and powerful man; Rich and Harris,
of Boston and Nixon and Zimmerman, of Philadelphia. This sextette made
a very powerful organization.
Being possessed of a little business instinct I saw the danger, or
rather the supposed danger, that lurked behind these samaritans of the
drama, but not until I was approached by Mr. Rapley of Washington,
Charlie Ford of Baltimore and one or two suburban managers did I
realize what was in the power of this coterie if they succeeded in
carrying out their schemes. Those managers realized their peril and
were quietly soliciting the stars not to play at any other theatres
save theirs, as they feared the Syndicate would book the then strong
attractions at opposition houses, offering as an inducement better
terms and time. Being loyal, as I have always tried to be, I assured
them that I would stick. Then it occurred to me that if I could
organize a syndicate of players we might be able to strangle the
contemplated move at its very birth.
I succeeded in interesting Joseph Jefferson, William H. Crane, Stuart
Robson, Sol Smith Russell, Richard Mansfield, Fanny Davenport,
Francis Wilson, Modjeska, J. K. Emmet and four or five other leading
players--and they all promised to stand by me. We were to elect A. M.
Palmer president. I was to be the vice-president. We were all to form
an incorporated company and play as one body. I even went so far as to
have the papers drawn up. I worked incessantly night and day. I even
had sites picked out and money guaranteed for theatres in Boston, New
York, Chicago, Cleveland and St. Louis, providing I could guarantee the
appearance of these players for five years.
Everything was going better than I anticipated when one day I received
my first shock. The "dear old Dean," Mr. Jefferson, had reneged! He
went back on every promise made to me in New Orleans. Crane, after
being my guest for a week in Baltimore, going over every detail and
agreeing that it was "a great scheme," quietly and unknown to me signed
a three-years' contract with Joseph Brooks, a representative of the
Syndicate. One by one they all left me, with the single exception of
Francis Wilson, who had to stay, as he had been blacklisted by Nixon
and Zimmerman with whom he had quarreled.
I was disgusted and quietly folded my tent and departed for Europe
to ponder over the ass I had made of myself and to wonder what the
Syndicate would do to me by way of a punishment I so richly deserved.
Imagine my surprise when Abe Erlanger called me into his office
one morning after my return from Europe and after greeting me most
cordially said, "Well, my boy, you didn't pull that thing off." I
answered, "No, but I tried hard, Abe, I can tell you." He said, "I
know you did. Some of your companions have lied to me, and they will
get their's, but you have told me the truth and the Syndicate will
always be your friend; at least I'll be. Your terms will always be the
same, no matter what you have to offer, your tours booked and all your
business done through this office without charge."
The Syndicate has kept faith with me, with but one exception. Only one
man out of the eight has broken faith with me. They are all, barring
this particular one, my personal friends.
I would rather have Abe Erlanger's word than a contract from
Rockefeller.
After all, what a silly fight I contemplated making and what a blessing
it turned out that I did not consummate it. The theatrical syndicate
has in fifteen years made more actors and managers rich, improved the
drama to a greater extent, built more theatres and increased patronage
more consistently than has been accomplished by any other factor
during the last century.
The only fault that I have to find with the Syndicate is that through
its dignified and thorough business-like methods it has made the
theatrical profession so alluring that unreliable imitations have
broken through the windows of the drama and allowed the draughts of
unsavory methods to permeate the stage.
Other so-called syndicates have sprung up and nauseated the thinking
public with vulgar and obscene plays which, I am sorry to admit, some
seem to fancy.
But everything will adjust itself in time and the theatrical syndicate,
headed by the brainy Erlanger, will destroy all enemies of the drama.
Honest plays and playwrights will receive their just dues, wholesome
plays will be in vogue, and the names of Klaw and Erlanger will be
synonyms for Honesty and Justice.
_Chapter XIX_
STARS
To be a star to-day an actor needs only to be featured in large type
in all advertising matter. At least this is all that is necessary to
win popular acceptance as a star. That such undeserved, misapplied,
wrongful foistering of mediocre actors on a long suffering public is
unwise is self-evident. The antagonism it provoked among authors and
managers is quite justified.
All true artists object to the featuring of incompetency fostered by
notoriety. The men and women of the stage who entered the profession
through the small door and not the open broad window protest with much
vehemence against the launching of a so-called "star" who, because of
some act of violence, the singing of a rotten song with an attractive
melody, a beautiful face, a German accent, becomes born over night. But
the managers who are now objecting to this kind of starring system are
the very ones who inaugurated the iniquity.
I maintain that when a man or woman has attained a position on the
stage through honest endeavor, mental application, strict attention,
conscientious study and practical experience, he should be rewarded
and recompensed. And these gains should be conspicuous and financially
worth while.
Among many of the so-called producers of to-day there seems a
prevailing tendency to decry and belittle the starring system. This is
all very well from their point of view. If they succeed in making the
star subservient to the author and to those who "present," they will
add more to their respective coffers by confiscating the financial
share of those men and women who have in the past made them rich.
They base their theories (that stars do not make successes) on the fact
of the success of such plays as "The Lion and the Mouse," "Bought and
Paid For," "The Heir to the Hoorah," "Seven Days," "Paid in Full" and a
half dozen more. With the possible exception of "Bought and Paid For"
most all of these so-called starless plays were accidental successes.
"The Lion and the Mouse" was turned down by several stars and as
many managers and I consider rightly so. When the stars refused to
accept it, the managers followed suit. Ethically, and in spite of
its remarkably successful financial success, I consider it a most
improbable play. I refused to play the leading part in London,
predicting its failure. London can distinguish between a good and bad
play. "The Lion and the Mouse" was a failure in London.
There are some plays in which the characters are so equal that it
is unwise to feature any particular one, as the public expects
too much from the one conspicuous in the billing and being
disappointed--dislikes the play. Not only the play suffers but, when
the unlooked for happens and some unknown person suddenly makes a hit
in a play in which a star is featured, the star naturally suffers. The
public never differentiates.
When "The Heir to the Hoorah" was submitted to me I told Paul
Armstrong, the author, that it would be unwise to star any one in his
plays and he took my advice. "Bought and Paid For" was written for a
star, but the author unwittingly wrote another part that proved more
acceptable to the public than the character he originally intended
should be featured. The play was eventually produced without a star
and proved a success. Perhaps had a different star been selected at the
beginning there would have been a different story told. In spite of
the success of "Bought and Paid For" in New York, "Baby Mine" played a
week in Los Angeles (with Marguerite Clarke featured) to more than two
thousand dollars more than "Bought and Paid For."
The manuscript of "Paid in Full" kept the author warm for many nights
as he slumbered on the benches of the parks in New York. And the stars
refused to comfort him. "Paid in Full" was an accidental hit, but it
created a star--Tully Marshall.
Clyde Fitch read "The Climbers" to me many years before Henry Harris
decided to produce it. Almost every manager in New York had turned it
down. The excellent acting of that play saved it. From the cast sprang
such stars as Robert Edeson, Clara Bloodgood, Amelia Bingham and Minnie
Dupree.
The average author and manager of to-day are prone to advertise
themselves as conspicuously as the play (as if the public cared a snap
who wrote the play or who "presents"!). I doubt if five per cent of the
public know who wrote "The Second Mrs. Tanqueray," "In Mizzoura" or
"Richelieu," but they know their stage favorites.
I wonder how many mantels are adorned with pictures of the successful
dramatist and those who "present" and how many there are on which
appear Maude Adams, Dave Warfield, Billie Burke, John Drew, Bernhardt,
Duse and hundreds of other distinguished players.
No matter how hard you may strive to strangle the successful star
player, Messrs. Author and Manager, you won't succeed. You may succeed
in fostering a few more plays without a star but the clouds will
surely come and, when they disburse, the accidents that caused them
will give way before intelligence. The stars will twinkle again more
resplendent than ever and light you once more to the road that leads
to permanent success. You may trade and barter but you will finally be
made to understand that ours is a profession in which sentiment plays
a most important part and when you insist on robbing the public of
its favorite player, the disappointment will be as bitter as when the
little boy is told there is no such thing as Santa Claus.
Now I'll take the commercial side of the question. I'll venture the
opinion that Dave Warfield and Maude Adams play each season to double
the receipts any play without a star ever earned. The Cincinnati
Festival, composed only of stars, in one week played to more than one
hundred thousand dollars. Booth and Barrett cleared over six hundred
thousand dollars net in one season. Henry Irving took away from America
in one season three hundred thousand, Bernhardt averages a quarter of
a million net on every farewell tour. The average successful star up
to five years ago (before the influx of the so-called producers, the
authors who feature themselves and those who "present") counted it a
bad year if his profits failed to reach a hundred thousand dollars.
I wonder how much Charles Frohman has made with his stars!
And now let us face a fact that is indisputable--business is very bad.
Ten years ago a ten thousand dollar week was considered only a good
one. To-day it is an event. Even poor little I played to over fifteen
thousand and no fuss was made about it. Let me hear the name of a
single successful play without a star of to-day that averages eight
thousand per week.
I wonder if people go to see clever George Cohan or George Cohan's play?
[Illustration: IN THE GOLD MINE
_My get-up in The Gold Mine_]
I consider it an insult and audacity for any manager to, assert that
the starring system is a menace to the theatre when almost every
leading theatre of Europe heads the cast with the name of a conspicuous
player. Every first-class theatre in London for the last fifty years,
from Kean to Irving, has owed its success to one bright particular star.
If any manager in America would like to try the experiment I would be
willing to make a wager that I will take the most successful stock
play now running in any city in the world, go to any town or city in
America and with a star double, yes treble the receipts of the stock
organization presenting the same play.
Again let me ask the author and those who "present" as to the longevity
of a stock play as compared with that of the play in which a star
appears. Also how about the returns from a revival of both? In the
all star revival of "The Rivals" we averaged five thousand dollars a
performance.
Did the public go to see the players or the play?
I wonder.
How many knew the author or Joseph Brooks who presented us?
I wonder!
Again let me ask the great author and those who "present," those
commercial gentlemen who seek to crucify the star, what inducement they
offer the young beginner in the way of a future. Are all the budding
geniuses to be strangled at their birth, their dreams to be made
delusions? Are they to have no chance to gratify their ambitions, only
the remote possibility of being one of an ensemble? You are trying to
rob the public of its favorite player, to destroy all individuality, to
make us a melting-pot, a cesspool of ensemble, subject to your will and
dictation. It is a pretty tall order, my friends, and be careful lest
you who would destroy be not destroyed.
If the stars are forbidden to shine it is their own fault. If only
twenty would band themselves together (and it can be done) I'd
guarantee to finance the scheme with half a million dollars. If they
would form a syndicate, I would guarantee to drive these impertinent
gentlemen into the clouds of oblivion from which they sprang and the
little and big stars would form a constellation that would maintain the
dignity of our glorious profession!
_Chapter XX_
ATMOSPHERIC PLAYS
It was some sage of long ago who wrote:
"The muse of painting should be, on the stage, the handmaid, not
the sister nor rival of the drama."
I quite agree with the gentleman who penned those lines. I disagree
with any suggestion or device that dwarfs the beauty and art of a play.
That is why I strenuously object to the term "atmosphere" as applied to
any of our present day productions. It is only a cloak and an excuse to
conceal incompetency.
Let the scenery be well painted, attractive and fitted to the frame,
but don't take off your roof to pile Pelion upon Ossa! Endeavor to
please the eye--with processions and real running water, if you like,
but keep all in due subordination to the acting. Realism was strangled
after some ungodly years of struggling life. For a time acting became
subservient to railroad trains, buzz saws and waterfalls. Ships were
sunk in full view of the audience, ice floats cracked and dialogue was
smothered in the dust of stage cloth and salt. Public opinion soon
demonstrated this was wrong. "Bertha the Sewing Machine Girl" was
relegated to the farm to ascertain "Why Women Sin" until laundered
Hebraic managers rescued those ladies and atmospheric plays became the
vogue.
During the year 1911 I had splendid opportunities for reflection,
retrospect and thought, finding consolation in books pertaining to the
drama of the past, present and future. I have found great consolation
in going over the theatrical situation under existing conditions. True,
I note the devastating results of commercialism, the self-interested
remarks regarding the welfare of the drama (and all concerned in it),
the fact that too many theatres are being built by managers and stars
(with disgusting flaunting of the means employed to construct these
playhouses).
I have noticed this and I have marvelled. But I found relief in
reviewing the conditions of long ago. More than three hundred years
have played havoc with the theatres truly. The men of Shakespeare's
time are no more--and few worthy successors have been born. That
"inspired intellectual spendthrift," as Shakespeare was called by
Robert Ingersoll, failed to measure the wonder of the journey to be
traversed. I discover that we have gone back, artistically, in the last
fifty years.
The only atmosphere in the theatre of Shakespeare was furnished by
the hooting, jostling crowd as it wended its way over London bridge
for a night at the Fox Under the Hill, to be joined later on by the
"merry fellow" and his companions at the Falcon or Mermaid. No doubt
they criticised his play to their own, if not his entire satisfaction.
However, irrespective of any of their opinions and without
"atmosphere," these criticisms apparently had the same value as the
condemnations of the self-styled censors of our modern theatre and its
players.
What does it matter after all? In the words of Ben Jonson, "Let them
know the author defies them and their writing tables!"
One never heard of atmospheric plays in my early life. It is a
delightful coinage. Personally I prefer the aeriform fluid in front of
the curtain. I never discovered the intrinsic value of a painting in a
fog, neither did a frame ever enhance its value. I want the playhouse
to furnish its own nitrogen, oxygen, carbon dioxide and other organic
matter before the play is produced. Then let the performance proceed on
its merits, _sans_ atmosphere.
Widen your stage to allow your forests to be seen; paint your oceans
to flow into space, apparently interminable; dress your characters as
befits the times, with corresponding architecture, but, for heaven's
sake, don't add incense to injury! Let the play proceed and the
dialogue be heard; let your ear as well as the eye, decide the verdict
and devote whatever atmosphere you consider necessary to the Theatre
proper, as did Irving, the colossal. When one entered the portals of
the London Lyceum Theatre, as managed by Henry Irving, one felt that
sense of intellectual environment and cultivating influence experienced
on entering Notre Dame.
A theatre will lose its atmosphere when the lessee vacates the premises
just as a small town will when the inhabitants leave it. We remember
the cities that appealed to us in early life and note the changes that
advancement and progress have made architecturally. Maybe we admire the
improvements, but that charm of something has vanished. What is it?
Some will answer, "Atmosphere." I say, "the people"--those who talked
and invented the architecture and painting of the earlier day.
We want a Papin or a Newcombe to give us back the so-called atmosphere
of our youth, but that kind of atmosphere talked and said something.
_Chapter XXI_
ACTORS PAST AND PRESENT
In this era of dramatic chaos the question often arises, "How would the
actors of the past compare with those of the present?"
It is a motley question, and one that requires careful consideration
in the answer. In our youth, we are prone to worship those who occupy
a sphere above us. Youth is always demonstrative and always partial.
Therefore views formed at that time are apt to influence our opinions
in after life. To be honest we must discard early impressions, accept
existing conditions as they materialize and allow our judgment full
sway only after a thorough retrospect and careful analysis of what we
considered great in our youth.