I go abroad.--Milan.--The peace of Venice.--Music once
more.--Irving’s message.--A conspiracy of friends.--Charles
Frohman.--A “short engagement.”--A great personality.--Business
man and artist.--“Snap.”--Frohman and Hammerstein.--The London
Opera House.--“Bursting up Covent Garden.”--A tragic mistake.--Sail
for America.--The Empire Stock Company.--“The Conquerors.”--Gus
Frohman.--A friend of Mrs. Eddy’s.--“Phroso.”--Fears and a precious
moment.--The _matinée_ girl.--A social or an artistic success?--“Lady
Algy.”--A racing tip.--The outsider wins.--Dan Frohman.--Richard
Mansfield.--An underdone compliment.
Numbed, dazed, at the persuasion of Henry Irving and my friends I left
England to seek relief in travel on the Continent.
Life seemed wholly changed for me; the pleasant things which had meant
so much--the music, the flowers of the world--had become bitter, and my
art and work on which Irving had never ceased to lay such stress seemed
things remote. Above all, music hurt me.
I realised then what Swinburne meant when he sang:
I shall never be friends again with roses,
I shall loathe sweet tunes, where a note grown strong
Relents, and recoils, and climbs, and closes
Like a wave of the sea turned back by song.
At Milan, I remember, I shunned the opera with a feeling amounting to
a fear which was almost hysterical, and it was not until we reached
Venice that a sense of the outer world and the beautiful things in life
began to return to me. Perhaps it was Venice herself that soothed me.
For some childish reason I had always pictured her as ablaze with
sunshine, a perpetual carnival of blinding colour and garish music, and
had grown almost to fear her in advance; so, when we arrived on a grey
day of cool, soothing rain, and I stood at my hotel window watching the
black-hooded gondolas stealing over the waters of the canal, I began at
last to feel at peace. I think it was the soothing mystery and peace of
Venice that brought my sense of life back to me, and it was at Venice
that I amazed my patient friends by suddenly expressing a wish to go
to the opera. And even the visit to the opera did nothing to destroy
the soothing atmosphere of mystery in which from the first Venice had
enfolded me.
The silent arrival of the gondolas, with their cloaked and hooded
occupants, the blaze of lights inside the theatre, the rows upon rows
of boxes with their beautiful bejewelled occupants, the glorious music,
and then again, the silent departure over the dark quiet waterways
thrilled and enthralled me.
My senses were alive again, the dreadful numbness had departed, and
though the black curtain which had fallen over the past seemed terribly
near it no longer overshadowed the future.
By the time we moved to Florence I was sufficiently alive to be
overwhelmed by the old masters, and sufficiently iconoclastic to feel,
with Mark Twain, that I never wanted to see another old master as long
as I lived. Then Rome, where the wonderful scene in St. Peter’s on
Easter Sunday seemed to unseal every spring of emotion once more, and I
returned to England resigned to life.
The day after my arrival Henry Irving called.
“I have a letter which concerns you,” he said, producing it. “It is
from my friend Charles Frohman. He is coming to England and has asked
me to try to persuade you to return with him to the States to be his
leading lady.”
I shook my head.
“I can never act again,” I told him sadly.
He folded the letter and put it back in his pocket.
“I understand--I understand,” and he nodded kindly. “But, my dear, it
is your work--your work,” he repeated, “and, while we live, we must
work.” And then, after chatting on other things--tactful, crafty,
worldly-wise, human Henry Irving--he left me, and I thought no more of
Charles Frohman and his plans, but went off to stay with a dear friend,
Mrs. Wilson, at “Watermeetings,” her beautiful place at Elvanfoot,
Lanarkshire. Mrs. Wilson was a great friend of Henry Irving, William
Terriss, and Wilson Barrett--a memorial window to the memory of the
last has been placed by her in Elvanfoot Church--and I think that she
was in the conspiracy, for during my stay I received a letter from
Charles Frohman, formally asking me to go to America as leading lady
of his famous Empire Stock Company, and, the same day, a telegram from
Irving renewing his advice.
“At any rate,” urged Mrs. Wilson, “go back to town and _see_ Frohman;
there’s no harm in seeing the man. He can’t eat you. And no one can
pack you off to America against your will.” Happy is the woman with
kind friends as kindly conspirators!
So I returned to town, announcing my return both to Irving and Frohman
in letters which also contained a reiteration of my decision never to
return to the stage. When I reached my flat a telegram from Frohman was
waiting me.
“Anyway, come and talk to me,” it ran.
“It’s quite useless,” I told my sister, but she also was in the
conspiracy.
“He can’t carry you off to America against your will,” she said; “and
after his kindness, and Irving’s kindness and trouble, you can’t be
rude to the man. The very least you can do is to call and thank him.”
So I called.
After thanking him for his letters and telegram: “Mr. Frohman,” I
said nervously, “do please understand one thing. After all that has
happened, I can never return to the stage.”
“So?” he said gravely. “That is a great pity.”
And then after a little silence he began talking of other things, and
by degrees he led the talk to the theatre. Soon we were discussing
plays and players, and he was telling me all about the beautiful Empire
Theatre, New York, of the Empire Stock Company, and of the wonderful
success brilliant Miss Maude Adams had just made in Barrie’s “Little
Minister.”
“You would have had a difficult task in following her,” he said.
“That’s what I meant you to do, but----” and he sighed. “It’s a pity, a
great pity.”
And after the sigh he went on talking of all that he meant to do, of
the plays he meant to produce, of his theatre ideals, of his ambitions,
with the engaging and overwhelming simplicity of a boy.
Clever, kind Charles Frohman!
The end of it all was, of course--as the conspirators had
arranged--that when I left him I had accepted a short engagement.
“It must be a short one,” I told him. “I must see how I feel, and if I
can bear the stage again.”
“Of course,” he replied; “just as you like. Just as you like.”
And then I rose to go.
“Mr. Frohman,” I said suddenly, “when I entered this room I hadn’t the
faintest intention of accepting your offer--the absolute contrary, in
fact.”
“Miss Millward,” he replied, “when you entered this room I hadn’t
the faintest intention of your not accepting my offer--the absolute
contrary, in fact.”
On reaching home I told my sister of the result of the interview, and
we were still discussing it when the maid brought in a large envelope,
saying that the messenger was to wait for an answer.
I opened it. It was from Charles Frohman, and contained a contract for
five years. So that was his idea of a short engagement!
“It’s too long,” I exclaimed; “it’s much too long. Supposing that I
find I _can’t_----”
My sister rushed at me, a pen in her hand.
“Sign it! Sign it!” she cried.
And reluctantly, scarce comprehending, I signed it, and I think that my
guardian angel must have been very near to me that day.
A rare and lovable personality was Charles Frohman. Like many another
American business man--for, idealist as he was in so many ways, Charles
Frohman was also a business man--he had hanging in his office a “notice
to visitors,” but his notice to visitors was typical of him. It had
nothing about it of the “We’re busy; are you?” “Get it over quick and
get out!” “If you’ve time to fool around, we haven’t!” type beloved by
so many would-be hustlers. It was like himself, unique, and it ran:
“Blessed is the man diligent in business. He shall stand before kings.
He shall not stand before mean men.”
Smiling, humorous, kindly, gentle, lovable, like his brother, Daniel
Frohman, he was also a business man, and many and many a player and
playwright has had good reason to thank Providence that the Frohmans
were business men--for in the case of both Charles and Daniel it meant
higher salaries, higher royalties, fair dealing, and business methods
of unimpeachable integrity.
I have no patience with the theatrical “high-brows” who smile loftily
at this type of business, and, with a condescending sneer, label it
“commercialism.” Nothing I have ever seen in the theatrical world has
ever disproved to me Irving’s great axiom: “The theatre must succeed as
a business, or it will fail as an art.”
It is surely possible to combine the business instinct and business
capacity with the soul of an artist and a poet, and often do I think
of the crippled Charles Frohman, standing quietly on the deck of the
sinking “Lusitania,” his arms locked in the arms of his friends, and of
his last proud, gentle words:
“Why fear death? Death is only a beautiful adventure.”
At that moment the soul of the man spoke.
“A shy, nervous, lovable man,” said Sir Herbert Tree, discussing him
with a friend, when the terrible news of the “Lusitania” tragedy
reached London. “He had a yearning towards art. He was witty, with that
dry form of humour that takes your breath away by its unexpectedness.
I remember once, when he was buying some French plays--he established
a sort of corner for them in America--and I was discussing with him
American taste, he kept me amused with his description of some rather
primitive effects which delighted the audiences he knew so well.”
[Illustration: DANIEL FROHMAN.]
“‘Ah!’ I said, ‘America may stand for that sort of thing. It is a new
country.’
“‘Was,’ came the laconic reply.”
Charles Frohman’s big word was “snap.” If a play had no snap in it
there was no Charles Frohman behind it, and a good story used to be
told of the experience of a worried author who read on and on, Frohman
interjecting at intervals:
“No snap! No snap!”
The worried author lost his temper.
“What the dickens is snap?” he demanded.
“I’ll give you an example,” said Frohman, without a second’s
hesitation. “Suppose you start with a scene in a flat. Husband and
wife. Husband embraces wife, goes on journey. Lights down. Enter lover.
Embrace. Enter husband. Husband missed train. Short brisk talk, no long
speeches. Husband shoots both. Husband turns up light, and adjusts
spectacles. ‘My God! I’m in the wrong flat!’ Curtain. Snap!”
A fine judge of plays, and one who understood his public, Charles
Frohman knew exactly what he wanted, and wasted no time in coming to a
decision.
On one of his last visits to London, he went with a friend to see a new
play of which much was expected, but little, I fear, realized. After
five minutes’ careful attention, Frohman settled himself comfortably in
his stall.
“This is fine!” he said, “and I’m going to enjoy myself this evening!”
“But it’s rotten bad, isn’t it?” asked the astonished friend.
“That’s why. I know I haven’t got to worry about buying it.”
And Charles Frohman’s popularity in London and his host of English
friends formed an answer to the stupid question that at one time was
so often asked in London theatrical circles: “Will an American ever
understand an Englishman?”
In his capacity for friendship and his cheerfulness under temporary
setbacks he was poles apart from Oscar Hammerstein, for example,
who, after the failure of the London Opera House, told the New York
reporters that he had left London “because of the impossibility of
conforming myself to the particular habits and sentiments of the
English.” And Hammerstein certainly made few attempts to conform.
Unlike Charles Frohman, he never understood London or the Londoner.
He came to London with the declared intention of “bursting up” Covent
Garden, and, with no knowledge of English society, regarded its
traditions with contempt. That was his first and greatest mistake; the
mistake which spelt failure.
By bitter experience he discovered that money was not omnipotent. He
opened the magnificent London Opera House on Friday, November 13, 1911,
in order, he declared, to prove that he was not superstitious, and from
the first it was a lamentable failure. He resented the cold neglect of
the public, puffed more cigar smoke, and when he was worried more than
usual the poor man, too proud to admit defeat even to himself, would
shut himself up alone in his office and play the piano for hours on end.
Then at last, one Sunday afternoon, Oscar Hammerstein stood in
Kingsway. The road was deserted, and he had just left his Opera House.
He crossed and stood on the opposite pavement to take a farewell look
at the monument he had erected to opera in London.
A disappointed, down-hearted, beaten man, he seemed to have shrunk
in stature; his black frock-coat seemed too large for him, and his
broad-brimmed high silk hat, instead of being cocked in its usual
jaunty manner, was pulled down over his forehead. Gone was the defiant,
self-satisfied Hammerstein who had strutted about the vestibule of his
magnificent theatre on its opening night, hat on head and puffing his
cigar. He still had his cigar in his mouth--in fact he was seldom seen
without one. But even his cigar drooped. What was in his thoughts, one
wonders, as he stood looking at the beautiful building in which his
money and his hopes were buried?
Turning on his heel, with bowed head and lifeless step he walked back
to his hotel. He never entered his London Opera House again.
There are still too many Americans--and Englishmen--like poor
Hammerstein, who make no attempt to understand or appreciate another
country’s little ways and prejudices, and too few like Charles Frohman.
So it was that under Frohman I once more sailed for America, and,
preparatory to making my appearance in New York, I played for a few
weeks on tour with the famous Empire Stock Company, opening in “The
Conquerors” at Power’s Theatre, Chicago, in September, 1898. That first
performance was an ordeal, and many a time in the course of it did I
bitterly regret having yielded to Frohman’s persuasiveness.
I had been off the stage for a year, and the “behind the scenes” of the
theatre, half-forgotten, awoke bitter memories which were only half
slumbering. Then, for the first time in my life, I was alone amongst
strangers; they were the kindest of strangers, but still they were
strangers, and, in addition I was dreadfully nervous, and had little
or no confidence in my own powers. However, at the fall of the curtain
the acting manager, Gus Frohman--a brother of Charles--tapped at my
dressing-room door and asked to see me.
“I’m sending this telegram about you to Charles,” he observed, showing
me a piece of paper.
“What have you said?” I demanded, anxiously, and he showed me the
telegram: “Jessie Millward a big success.”
Like every Frohman I have met, Gus Frohman was kindness and
consideration itself. During this short tour we were rehearsing Anthony
Hope’s “Phroso,” with which we were to open in New York, every day,
and playing “The Conquerors” eight times a week, so it was small
wonder that, having been so long out of harness, I began to feel the
strain. Early one morning there came a knock at the door of my room in
the Boston hotel, and in response to my call of “Come in!” a quietly
dressed, middle-aged lady entered.
Seating herself beside me she told me that Gus Frohman had sent her to
call on me, and that she was a great friend of Mrs. Eddy. I am ashamed
to say that in those days I had not the faintest idea as to who Mrs.
Eddy was, but in a beautifully soft and sympathetic voice the visitor
kept assuring me that she could heal me.
At last: “What is the matter with me?” I ventured to ask.
“Overwork and nerves, my dear,” she replied, “but you’ll soon be very
much better.”
“I hope so,” I replied meekly, with the ordeal of my New York début in
view.
Whether it was due to the gentle little lady’s sympathetic presence
or not I am unable to say, but I was able to work from morning till
night preparatory to my first appearance at the Empire Theatre without
feeling any very ill effects; but perhaps those arduous days at the
Lyceum had inured me to hard work, in spite of my long absence from the
stage.
On the evening of December 26, 1898, I made my début at the Empire
Theatre, New York, in “Phroso,” a dramatization of Sir Anthony Hope’s
novel by the author and that gentle gentleman H. V. Esmond.
The Frohman thoughtfulness and consideration met me everywhere;
my dressing-room was a beautiful room on the right of the stage,
upholstered in gold brocade, and at one end of it was a tall,
full-length mirror, with footlights. There were flowers everywhere,
and the air was full of kindness. But in spite of all I felt utterly
wretched, and as I dressed the tears came to my eyes as I thought
how I, a stranger amongst strangers, should miss that kindly,
full-throated, warm-hearted old Adelphi roar as I once more set foot
upon the scene of my life’s work. Once again, in the atmosphere of the
theatre, old associations came flocking around me, and in blank misery
I made my way to the stage for my first entrance.
In the first act of “Phroso” I appeared disguised as a boy in Greek
costume, and had to walk past a window to make my entrance at the door
in the centre of the stage. As I passed the window I seemed to hear a
far-off, confused shouting, but when I stood in the doorway I found
myself--the lonely, heart-sick stranger--greeted by one of the biggest,
warmest and kindest-hearted welcomes I have ever received.
That is another of the precious moments in my life that I can never
forget. Those are the moments that make the player’s life worth living;
my heart went out to that generous audience, and as a poor return I
gave them of my utmost and my best.
It was during the run of “Phroso” that I first met the American
“_matinée_ girl,” and a very charming and very powerful young woman she
is.
After the play had been running a few days Mr. Frohman sent for me.
“You’ve made good with the girls,” he said delightedly.
I did not quite understand, but from his manner I felt that it was
something to be proud of.
“Is that very important?” I asked.
“I should think so!” he cried, “they rule the _matinées_.”
And then he went on to explain that the actor or actress who made
good with the “_matinée_ girl” would find that at every _matinée_ the
house would be packed with girls. The “_matinée_ girls” had their
favourites, and vied with one another in the number of times they could
see those favourites, most of them keeping little diaries with records
of their visits. So you will see how important a young lady, from the
point of view of the box-office--to say nothing of the player--was the
“_matinée_ girl.”
As I was leaving him: “Tell me one thing more, Mr. Frohman,” I begged.
“Everybody is so kind, and every day I receive shoals of invitations
from crowds of people who seem to want to do nothing but make me enjoy
myself. I can’t possibly accept a quarter of them, and even if I
accepted the quarter I should have little time for serious work. Which
do you want me to be--an artistic or a social success?”
[Illustration: JESSIE MILLWARD AS LADY ALGY IN “LORD AND LADY ALGY.”]
“Whichever you like.”
“Then,” I said, “I will try to be an artistic success.”
“That’s what I thought,” was his reply, “and, between ourselves, that’s
what I want.”
When at last “Phroso” came to an end, to my astonishment I found
myself cast for the part of Lady Algy in Mr. Carton’s brilliant comedy
“Lord and Lady Algy,” the play with which Miss Compton and Sir Charles
Hawtrey drew all London to the Avenue Theatre. I had little or no
confidence in myself, for while I endeavoured to make Lady Algy the
smart, good-natured, amusing woman of the world, I had never appeared
in such a part before, so at the end of the last dress rehearsal I went
to Mr. Frohman.
“I feel I’m going to be a failure,” I told him, sadly, for after all
his goodness and consideration I was every bit as anxious for him as
for myself. “I don’t think you ought to have cast me for the part.”
“I’ll take the responsibility,” he said, cheerily; “I’m used to it.”
And it is a happy memory that the play, with that fine actor William
Faversham as Lord Algy, was a tremendous success for everyone
concerned, and in America from that time on my nickname has been Lady
Algy.
In one particular instance my identification with the part was
profitable. At a race meeting with a party of friends at Sheepshead
Bay I was surprised at the persistent way in which the “boys” from the
different bookmakers kept coming to me to implore me to “have a bet.” I
was just as horribly ignorant of American racing as I was of English,
and at last I asked one “boy” point blank why he kept pestering me.
“Well,” said the “boy”--he was really a very big man--“guess it’s this
way. Lady Algy in your play wins a fifty-to-one chance on Flickamaroo.
Now if you bet with me, there’ll be heaps of people here who’ll follow
you on the chance.”
“All right,” I replied. “I’ll have a bet. What have you got at fifty to
one?”
I’m afraid that for the moment his respect for my racing knowledge fell
to zero, but perhaps he was not accustomed to young women asking for
fifty-to-one chances as they would ask for yards of muslin.
“Well,” he said, “there _is_ a so-called horse running called Harlem
Lane. You can have fifty to one about him, but it seems a shame.”
So five dollars “each way” went on Harlem Lane, after which important
transaction I and my friends retired to tea. When we returned a
blinding snowstorm was sweeping across the course, and nothing of any
race could be seen. Presently I heard a voice behind me:
“Guess your fifty-to-one chance won all right,” it said, sadly, and
turning, I saw the bookmaker’s “boy” who had tempted me.
“You don’t mean to say Harlem Lane’s won?” I cried in tremendous
excitement.
“It sure has,” was the reply, “and”--viciously--“nothing but a
condemned old cart-horse like him could ha’ ploughed through this
blizzard!”
Poor man, I forgave him his bitterness when I heard that any number of
people had followed Lady Algy’s lead, and that night at the theatre I
found waiting for me innumerable boxes of flowers with notes thanking
me for “the tip.”
After “Lord and Lady Algy” came “His Excellency the Governor,” which
Charles Frohman was under contract to produce, and he asked me if I
would play in it, if only for three weeks.
I agreed. “But it’s perfectly ridiculous, Mr. Frohman,” I told him;
“I can’t possibly play Stella as she ought to be played.” (Shades of
Adelphi heroines!)
I remember we were rehearsed by Dan Frohman, as Charles was finishing
his season before his annual visit to England, and one morning before
the dress rehearsal I called on the latter.
“Do come to the rehearsal,” I begged him. “I’m making a complete fool
of myself, and everybody is laughing, but oh! I _am_ enjoying myself!”
“Go away,” he smiled, “you’ll be late for rehearsal. Dan says you’re
fine.”
He was present the first night--he sailed for Europe next day--and when
the curtain fell he came to my room and congratulated me.
“And, Jessie Millward,” he concluded with sudden solemnity, “there’s
one thing I’m going to tell you. If you ever come to me and say you
_can_ play a part, I shan’t believe you.”
It was during the run of “His Excellency the Governor” that I again met
that great actor and curious personality, Richard Mansfield, who had
deserted England for America. I had first met him on the Lyceum stage
during one of his superb performances of Jekyll and Hyde, and I was
now invited to a reception at his home on Riverside Drive. Breaking my
usual rule I went, and found a gathering of the most celebrated and
interesting people in New York.
Mr. Mansfield was particularly kind and attentive to me, and, as he
insisted on escorting me personally to my carriage, I felt that, much
as I stood in awe of his curious and impressive personality, I really
ought to show my appreciation of his attention and say “something nice.”
“Mr. Mansfield,” I ventured at last, very nervously, “I hear everywhere
that, now you have made your home here, you are regarded as _the_
representative actor of America.”
And then as I heard my own voice stammering out the compliment my
subconscious self scolded me for its fulsomeness. But:
“Of the world, madam; of the world,” Mr. Mansfield corrected me
politely, but very, very firmly.
At the close of the run of “His Excellency the Governor,” I sailed
for England for a short holiday at home, bearing with me very happy
recollections of my first season with Charles Frohman and the Empire
Stock Company.
[Illustration: JESSIE MILLWARD AS LADY DOURA IN “MY LADY’S LORD.”]