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Title: Charles Frohman: Manager and Man

Author: Isaac Frederick Marcosson
Daniel Frohman

Contributor: J. M. Barrie

Release date: July 29, 2008 [eBook #26146]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/26146

Credits: E-text prepared by Robert Cicconetti, Chuck Greif, and the Project Gutenberg Online
Distributed Proofreading Team

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHARLES
FROHMAN: MANAGER AND MAN ***

E-text prepared by Robert Cicconetti, Chuck Greif,
and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
(http://www.pgdp.net)

COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY DANIEL FROHMAN

CHARLES FROHMAN

Charles Frohman:
M anager and M an
by Isaac F. Marcosson
and Daniel Frohman
With an Appreciation
by James M. Barrie

Illustrated
with
Portraits

New York and London

Harper & Brothers
M.C.M.X.V.I

Charles Frohman: Manager and Man
——
Copyright, 1916, by Harper & Brothers
Copyright, 1915, 1916, by
International Magazine Company (Cosmopolitan Magazine)
Printed in the United States of America
Published October, 1916

To
The Theater
That Charles Frohman
Loved and Served
Nought I did in hate but all in honor!
Hamlet

Contents
Chap.
CHARLES FROHMAN: AN APPRECIATION
I. A CHILD AMID THE THEATER
II. EARLY HARDSHIPS ON THE ROAD
III. PICTURESQUE DAYS AS MINSTREL MANAGER
IV. IN THE NEW YORK THEATRICAL WHIRLPOOL
V. BOOKING-AGENT AND BROADWAY PRODUCER
VI. "SHENANDOAH" AND THE FIRST STOCK COMPANY
VII. JOHN DREW AND THE EMPIRE THEATER
VIII. MAUDE ADAMS AS STAR
IX. THE BIRTH OF THE SYNDICATE
X. THE RISE OF ETHEL BARRYMORE
XI. THE CONQUEST OF THE LONDON STAGE
XII. BARRIE AND THE ENGLISH FRIENDSHIPS

XIII. A GALAXY OF STARS
XIV. STAR-MAKING AND AUDIENCES
XV. PLAYS AND PLAYERS
XVI. "C. F." AT REHEARSALS
XVII. HUMOR AND ANECDOTE
XVIII. THE MAN FROHMAN
XIX. "WHY FEAR DEATH?"
APPENDIX A—THE LETTERS OF CHARLES
APPENDIX B—COMPLETE CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF THE
FROHMAN PRODUCTIONS

Illustrations
CHARLES FROHMAN—Frontispiece
VIOLA ALLEN
WILLIAM GILLETTE
JOHN DREW
CLYDE FITCH
HENRY ARTHUR JONES
W. LESTOCQ
CHARLES DILLINGHAM
MAUDE ADAMS
MAUDE ADAMS
FRANCIS WILSON
WILLIAM COLLIER
MARGARET ANGLIN
ANNIE RUSSELL
WILLIAM FAVERSHAM
HENRY MILLER
WILLIAM H. CRANE

AUGUSTUS THOMAS
SIR ARTHUR WING PINERO
ETHEL BARRYMORE
JULIA MARLOWE
E. H. SOTHERN
ELSIE FERGUSON
EDNA MAY
BILLIE BURKE
PAULINE CHASE
JAMES M. BARRIE
PAUL POTTER
HADDON CHAMBERS
OTIS SKINNER
MARIE DORO
JULIA SANDERSON
ANN MURDOCK
CHARLES FROHMAN AND DAVID BELASCO
MARIE TEMPEST
MME. NAZIMOVA
CHARLES FROHMAN'S OFFICE IN THE
EMPIRE THEATER
CHARLES FROHMAN ON BOARD SHIP

Charles Frohman:
an
Appreciation
By James M. Barrie

T he man who never broke his word. There was a great deal more to
him, but every one in any land who has had dealings with Charles
Frohman will sign that.
I would rather say a word of the qualities that to his friends were his great
adornment than about his colossal enterprises or the energy with which he
heaved them into being; his energy that was like a force of nature, so that if
he had ever "retired" from the work he loved (a thing incredible) companies
might have been formed, in the land so skilful at turning energy to practical
account, for exploiting the vitality of this Niagara of a man. They could
have lit a city with it.
He loved his schemes. They were a succession of many-colored romances
to him, and were issued to the world not without the accompaniment of the
drum, but you would never find him saying anything of himself. He pushed
them in front of him, always taking care that they were big enough to hide
him. When they were able to stand alone he stole out in the dark to have a
look at them, and then if unobserved his bosom swelled. I have never
known any one more modest and no one quite so shy. Many actors have
played for him for years and never spoken to him, have perhaps seen him
dart up a side street because they were approaching. They may not have
known that it was sheer shyness, but it was. I have seen him ordered out of
his own theater by subordinates who did not know him, and he went
cheerfully away. "Good men, these; they know their business," was all his
comment. Afterward he was shy of going back lest they should apologize.
At one time he had several theaters here and was renting others, the while
he had I know not how many in America; he was not always sure how many
himself. Latterly the great competition at home left him no time to look
after more than one in London. But only one anywhere seemed a little
absurd to him. He once contemplated having a few theaters in Paris, but on
discovering that French law forbids your having more than one he gave up
the scheme in disgust.
A sense of humor sat with him through every vicissitude like a faithful
consort.

"How is it going?" a French author cabled to him on the first night of a
new play.
"It has gone," he genially cabled back.
Of a Scotch play of my own that he was about to produce in New York, I
asked him what the Scotch would be like.
"You wouldn't know it was Scotch," he replied, "but the American public
will know."
He was very dogged. I had only one quarrel with him, but it lasted all the
sixteen years I knew him. He wanted me to be a playwright and I wanted to
be a novelist. All those years I fought him on that. He always won, but not
because of his doggedness; only because he was so lovable that one had to
do as he wanted. He also threatened, if I stopped, to reproduce the old plays
and print my name in large electric letters over the entrance of the theater.

A play ofdistinguished
very actress under his management wanted to produce a
mine of which he had no high opinion. He was in despair, as he
had something much better for her. She was obdurate. He came to me for
help, said nothing could move her unless I could. Would not I tell her what
a bad play it was and how poor her part was and how much better the other
parts were and how absolutely it fell to pieces after the first act? Of course I
did as I was bid, and I argued with the woman for hours, and finally got her
round, the while he sat cross-legged, after his fashion, on a deep chair and
implored me with his eyes to do my worst. It happened long ago, and I was
so obsessed with the desire to please him that the humor of the situation
strikes me only now.
For money he did not care at all; it was to him but pieces of paper with
which he could make practical the enterprises that teemed in his brain. They
were all enterprises of the theater. Having once seen a theater, he never
afterward saw anything else except sites for theaters. This passion began
when he was a poor boy staring wistfully at portals out of which he was
kept by the want of a few pence. I think when he first saw a theater he
clapped his hand to his heart, and certainly he was true to his first love. Up

to the end it was still the same treat to him to go in; he still thrilled when the
band struck up, as if that boy had hold of his hand.

I knew
na sense he had no illusions about the theater, knew its tawdriness as he
the nails on his stages (he is said to have known every one). He
would watch the performance of a play in some language of which he did
not know a word and at the end tell you not only the whole story, but what
the characters had been saying to one another; indeed, he could usually tell
what was to happen in any act as soon as he saw the arrangement of the
furniture. But this did not make him blasé—a strange word, indeed, to
apply to one who seemed to be born afresh each morning. It was not so
much that all the world was a stage to him as that his stage was a world, a
world of the "artistic temperament"—that is to say, a very childish world of
which he was occasionally the stern but usually indulgent father.
His innumerable companies were as children to him; he chided them as
children, soothed them, forgave them, and certainly loved them as children.
He exulted in those who became great names in that world and gave them
beautiful toys to play with; but, great as was their devotion to him, it is not
they who will miss him most, but rather the far greater number who never
"made a hit," but set off like the rest to do it and fell by the way. He was of
so sympathetic a nature, he understood so well the dismalness to them of
being "failures," that he saw them as children with their knuckles to their
eyes, and then he sat back cross-legged on his chair with his knuckles, as it
were, to his eyes, and life had lost its flavor for him until he invented a
scheme for giving them another chance.

A of the past
of to-day sometimes discuss with one another what great writer
uthors
they would like most to spend an evening with if the shades
were willing to respond, and I believe (and hope) that the choice most often
falls on Johnson or Charles Lamb. Lamb was fond of the theater, and I
think, of all those connected with it that I have known, Mr. Frohman is the
one with whom he would most have liked to spend an evening. Not because
of Mr. Frohman's ability, though he had the biggest brain I have met with on
the stage, but because of his humor and charity and gentle chivalry and his

most romantic mind. One can conceive him as often, sitting at ease, far
back in his chair, cross-legged, occasionally ringing for another ice, for he
was so partial to sweets that he could never get them sweet enough, and
sometimes he mixed two in the hope that this would make them sweeter.
I hear him telling stories of the stage as only he could tell them, rising
now and roaming the floor as he shows how the lady of the play receives
the declaration, and perhaps forgetting that you are the author of the play
and telling you the whole story of it with superb gesture and gleaming eyes.
Then back again cross-legged to the chair. What an essay Elia might have
made of that night, none of it about the stories told, all about the man in the
chair, the humorous, gentle, roughly educated, very fine American
gentleman in the chair!
J. M. Barrie.
London, 1915.

Charles Frohman

I

A CHILD AMID THE THEATER

O ne evening, toward the close of the 'sixties, a plump, rosy-cheeked
lad in his eighth year stood enthralled in the gallery of the old
Niblo's Garden down on lower Broadway in New York. Far below
him on the stage "The Black Crook"—the extravaganza that held all New
York—unfolded itself in fascinating glitter and feminine loveliness. Deaf to
his brother's entreaties to leave, and risking a parental scolding and worse,

the boy remained transfixed until the final curtain. When he reached home
he was not in the least disturbed by the uproar his absence had caused.
Quite the contrary. His face beamed, his eyes shone. All he could say was:
"I have seen a play. It's wonderful!"
The boy was Charles Frohman, and such was his first actual experience in
the theater—the institution that he was to dominate in later years with far-
flung authority.

To write of the beginnings of his life is to become almost immediately the
historian of some phase of amusement. He came from a family in whom the
love of mimic art was as innate as the desire for sustenance.
About his parents was the glamour of a romance as tender as any he
disclosed to delighted audiences in the world of make-believe. His father,
Henry Frohman, was both idealist and dreamer. Born on the pleasant
countryside that encircles the town of Darmstadt in Germany, he grew up
amid an appreciation of the best in German literature. He was a buoyant and
imaginative boy who preferred reading plays to poring over tiresome
school-books.
One day he went for a walk in the woods. He passed a young girl of rare
and appealing beauty. Their eyes met; they paused a moment, irresistibly
drawn to each other. Then they went their separate ways. He inquired her
name and found that she was Barbara Strauss and lived not far away. He
sought an introduction, but before it could be brought about he left home to
make his fortune in the New World.
He was eighteen when he stepped down the gang-plank of a steamer in
New York in 1845. He had mastered no trade; he was practically without
friends, so he took to the task which so many of his co-religionists had
found profitable. He invested his modest financial nest-egg in a supply of
dry goods and notions and, shouldering a pack, started up the Hudson
Valley to peddle his wares.

Henry Frohman had a magnetic and fascinating personality. A ready story
was always on his lips; a smile shone constantly on his face. It was said of
him that he could hypnotize the most unresponsive housewife into buying
articles she never needed. Up and down the highways he trudged,
unmindful of wind, rain, or hardship.
New York was his headquarters. There was his home and there he
replenished his stocks. He made friends quickly. With them he often went to
the German theater. On one of these occasions he heard of a family named
Strauss that had just arrived from Germany. They had been shipwrecked
near the Azores, had endured many trials, and had lost everything but their
lives.
"Have they a daughter named Barbara?" asked Frohman.
"Yes," was the reply.
Henry Frohman's heart gave a leap. There came back to his mind the
picture of that day in the German woods.
"Where do they come from?" he continued, eagerly.
On being told that it was Darmstadt, he cried, "I must meet her."
He gave his friend no peace until that end had been brought about. He
found her the same lovely girl who had thrilled him at first sight; he wooed
her with ardor and they were betrothed.
He now yearned for a stable business that would enable him to marry.
Meanwhile his affairs had grown. The peddler's pack expanded to the
proportion of a wagon-load. Then, as always, the great West held a lure for
the youthful. In some indescribable way he got the idea that Kentucky was
the Promised Land of business. Telling his fiancée that he would send for
her as soon as he had settled somewhere, he set out.
But Kentucky did not prove to be the golden country. He was advised to
go to Ohio, and it was while driving across the country with his line of
goods that he came upon Sandusky. The little town on the shores of a

smiling lake appealed to him strongly. It reminded him of the home country,
and he remained there.
He found himself at once in a congenial place. There was a considerable
German population; his ready wit and engaging manner made him welcome
everywhere. The road lost its charm; he turned about for an occupation that
was permanent. Having picked up a knowledge of cigar-making, he
established a small factory which was successful from the start.
This fact assured, his next act was to send to New York for Miss Strauss,
who joined him at once, and they were married. These were the forebears of
Charles Frohman—the exuberant, optimistic, pleasure-loving father; the
serene, gentle-eyed, and spacious-hearted woman who was to have such a
strong influence in the shaping of his character.
The Frohmans settled in a little frame house on Lawrence Street that stood
apart from the dusty road. It did not even have a porch. Unpretentious as it
was, it became a center of artistic life in Sandusky.
Henry Frohman had always aspired to be an actor. One of the first things
he did after settling in Sandusky was to organize an amateur theatrical
company, composed entirely of people of German birth or descent. The
performances were given in the Turner Hall, in the German tongue, on a
makeshift stage with improvised scenery. Frohman became the directing
force in the production of Schiller's and other classic German plays, comic
as well as tragic.
Nor was he half-hearted in his histrionic work. One night he died so
realistically on the stage that his eldest son, who sat in the audience, became
so terrified that he screamed out in terror, and would not be pacified until
his parent appeared smilingly before the curtain and assured him that he
was still very much alive.

Frohman's business prospered. He began to build up trade in the adjoining
country. With a load of samples strapped behind his buggy, he traveled
about. He usually took one of his older sons along. While he drove, the boy
often held a prompt-book and the father would rehearse his parts. Out

across those quiet Ohio fields would come the thrilling words of "The
Robbers," "Ingomar," "Love and Intrigue," or any of the many plays that the
amateur company performed in Sandusky.
He even mixed the drama with business. Frequently after selling a bill of
goods he would be requested by a customer, who knew of his ability, to
recite or declaim a speech from one of the well-known German plays.
It was on his return from one of these expeditions that Henry Frohman
was greeted with the tidings that a third son had come to bear his name.
When he entered that little frame house the infantile Charles had made his
first entrance on the stage of life. It was June 17, 1860, a time fateful in the
history of the country, for already the storm-clouds of the Civil War were
brooding. It was pregnant with meaning for the American theater, too,
because this lusty baby was to become its Napoleon.
Almost before Charles was able to walk his wise and far-seeing mother,
with a pride and responsibility that maintained the best traditions of the
mothers in Israel, began to realize the restrictions and limitations of the
Sandusky life.
"These boys of ours," she said to the husband, "have no future here. They
must be educated in New York. Their careers lie there."
Strong-willed and resolute, she sent the two older sons, one at a time, on
to the great city to be educated and make their way. The eldest, Daniel,
went first, soon followed by Gustave. In 1864, and largely due to her
insistent urging, the remainder of the family, which included the youthful
Charles, packed up their belongings and, with the proceeds of the sale of the
cigar factory, started on their eventful journey to New York.
They first settled in one of the original tenement houses of New York, on
Rivington Street, subsequently moving to Eighth Street and Avenue D.
Before long they moved over to Third Street, while their fourth residence
was almost within the shadow of some of the best-known city theaters.
Henry Frohman had, as was later developed in his son Charles, a peculiar
disregard of money values. Generous to a fault, his resources were

constantly at the call of the needy. His first business venture in New York—
a small soap factory on East Broadway—failed. Later he became part
owner of a distillery near Hoboken, which was destroyed by fire. With the
usual Frohman financial heedlessness, he had failed to renew all his
insurance policies, and the result was that he was left with but a small
surplus. Adversity, however, seemed to trickle from him like water. Serene
and smiling, he emerged from his misfortune.
The only business he knew was the cigar business. With the assistance of
a few friends he was able to start a retail cigar-store at what was then 708
Broadway. It was below Eighth Street and, whether by accident or design,
was located in the very heart of the famous theatrical district which gave the
American stage some of its greatest traditions.
To the north, and facing on Union Square, was the Rialto of the day,
hedged in by the old Academy of Music and the Union Square Theater.
Down Broadway, and commencing at Thirteenth Street with Wallack's
Theater, was a succession of more or less historic playhouses. At Eighth
Street was the Old New York Theater; a few doors away was Lina Edwins's;
almost flanking the cigar-store and ranging toward the south were the
Olympic, Niblo's Garden, and the San Francisco Minstrel Hall. Farther
down was the Broadway Theater, while over on the Bowery Tony Pastor
held forth.
Thus the little store stood in an atmosphere that thought, breathed, and
talked of the theater. It became the rendezvous of the well-known theatrical
figures of the period. The influence of the playhouses extended even to the
shop next door, which happened to be the original book-store founded by
August Brentano. It was the only clearing-house in New York for foreign
theatrical papers, and to it came Augustin Daly, William Winter, Nym
Crinkle, and all the other important managers and critics to get the news of
the foreign stage.
It was amid an environment touching the theater at every point that
Charles Frohman's boyhood was spent. He was an impulsive, erratic,
restless child. His mother had great difficulty in keeping him at school. His
whole instinct was for action.

Gustave, who had dabbled in the theatrical business almost before he was
in his teens, naturally became his mentor. To Charles, Gustave was invested
with a rare fascination because he had begun to sell books of the opera in
the old Academy of Music on Fourteenth Street, the forerunner of the gilded
Metropolitan Opera House. Every night the chubby Charles saw him forge
forth with a mysterious bundle, and return with money jingling in his
pocket. One night, just before Gustave started out, the lad said to him:
"Gus, how can I make money like you?"
"I'll show you some night if you can slip away from mother," was the
brother's reply.
Unrest immediately filled the heart of Charles. Gustave had no peace until
he made good his promise. A week later he stole away after supper with his
little brother. They walked to the Academy, where the old Italian opera,
"The Masked Ball," was being sung. With wondering eyes and beating heart
Charles saw Gustave hawk his books in the lobby, and actually sell a few.
From the inside came the strains of music, and through the door a glimpse
of a fashionable audience. But it was a forbidden land that he could not
enter.
Fearful of the maternal scolding that he knew was in store, Gustave
hurried his brother home, even indulging in the unwonted luxury of riding
on the street-car, where he found a five-dollar bill. The mother was up and
awake, and immediately began to upbraid him for taking out his baby
brother at night, whereupon Gustave quieted the outburst by permitting
Charles to hand over the five-dollar bill as a peace offering.
From that hour life had a new meaning for Charles Frohman. He had seen
his brother earn money in the theater; he wanted to go and do likewise. The
opportunity was denied, and he chafed under the restraint.
In the afternoon, when he was through with the school that he hated, the
boy went down to his father's store and took his turn behind the counter.
Irksome as was this work, it was not without a thrilling compensation,
because into the shop came many of the theatrical personages of the time to
buy their cigars. They included Tony Pastor, whose name was then a

household word, McKee Rankin, J. K. Mortimer, a popular Augustin Daly
leading man, and the comedians and character actors of the near-by
theaters.
Here the magnetic personality of the boy asserted itself. His ready smile
and his quick tongue made him a favorite with the customers. More than
one actor, on entering the shop, asked the question: "Where is Charley? I
want him to wait on me."
In those days much of the theatrical advertising was done by posters
displayed in shop-windows. To get these posters in the most conspicuous
places passes were given to the shopkeepers, a custom which still holds.
The Frohman store had a large window, and it was constantly plastered with
play-bills, which meant that the family was abundantly supplied with free
admission to most of the theaters in the district. The whole family shared in
this dispensation, none more so than Henry Frohman himself, who could
now gratify his desire for contact with the theater and its people to an
almost unlimited extent. His greatest delight was to distribute these passes
among his boys. They were offered as rewards for good conduct. Charles
frequently accompanied his father to matinées at Tony Pastor's and the other
theaters. Pastor and the elder Frohman were great pals. They called each
other by their first names, and the famous old music-hall proprietor was a
frequent visitor at the shop.
But Charles became quite discriminating. Every Saturday night he went
down to the old Théâtre Comique, where Harrigan and Hart were serving
their apprenticeship for the career which made them the most famous Irish
team of their time. The next morning at breakfast he kept the family roaring
with laughter with his imitations of what he had seen and heard. Curiously
enough, Tony Hart later became the first star to be presented by Charles
Frohman.
All the while the boy's burning desire was to earn money in the theater. He
nagged at Gustave to give him a chance. One day Gustave saw some
handsome souvenir books of "The Black Crook," which was then having its
sensational run at Niblo's Garden. He found that he could buy them for
thirty-three cents by the half-dozen, so he made a small investment, hoping

to sell them for fifty cents in the lobby of the theater. That evening he
showed his new purchases to Charles.
Immediately the boy's eyes sparkled. "Let me see if I can sell one of
them!"
"All right," replied Gustave; "I will take you down to Niblo's to-night and
give you a chance."
The boy could scarcely eat his supper, so eager was he to be off. Promptly
at seven o'clock the two lads (Charles was only eight) took their stand in the
lobby, but despite their eager cries each was able to sell only a single copy.
Gustave consoled himself with the fact that the price was too high, while
Charles, with an optimism that never forsook him, answered, "Well, we
have each sold one, anyhow, and that is something."
Charles's profit on this venture was precisely seventeen cents, which may
be regarded as the first money he ever earned out of the theater.
But this night promised a sensation even greater. As the crowd in the
lobby thinned, the strains of the overture crashed out. Through the open
door the little boy saw the curtain rise on a scene that to him represented the
glitter and the glory of fairyland. Beautiful ladies danced and sang and the
light flashed on brilliant costumes. With their unsold books in their hands,
the two boys gazed wistfully inside. Charles, always the aggressor, fixed the
doorkeeper with one of his winning smiles, and the doorkeeper succumbed.
"You boys can slip in," he said, "but you've got to go up in the balcony." Up
they rushed, and there Charles stood delighted, his eyes sparkling and his
whole face transfigured.
During the middle of the second act Gustave tugged at his sleeve, saying:
"We'll have to go now. You follow me down."
With this he disappeared and hurried home. When he arrived he found the
home in an uproar because Charles had not come back. Gustave ran to the
theater, but the play was over, the crowd had dispersed, and the building
was deserted. With beating heart and fearful of disaster to his charge, he
rushed back to see Charles, all animation and excitement, in the midst of the

family group, regaling them with the story of his first play. He had
remained to the end.
That thrilling night at "The Black Crook," his daily contact with the actors
who came into the store, his frequent visits to the adjoining playhouses, fed
the fire of his theatrical interest. The theater got into his very blood.
A great event was impending. Almost within stone's-throw of the little
cigar-store where he sold stogies to Tony Pastor was the Old New York
Theater, which, after the fashion of that time, had undergone the evolution
of many names, beginning with the Athenæum, and continuing until it had
come under the control of the three famous Worrell sisters, who tacked their
name to it. Shortly after the New Year of 1869 they produced the
extravaganza "The Field of the Cloth of Gold," in which two of them,
Sophie and Jane, together with Pauline Markham, one of the classic
beauties of the time, appeared. Charles had witnessed part of this
extravaganza one afternoon. It kindled his memories of "The Black Crook,"
for it was full of sparkle and color. Charles and Gustave had made the
acquaintance of Owen, the doorkeeper. One afternoon they walked over to
the theater and stood in the lobby listening to a rehearsal.
Owen, who knew the boys' intense love of the theater, spoke up, saying:
"We need an extra page to-night. How would you like to go on?"
Both youngsters stood expectant. They loved each other dearly, yet here
was one moment where self-interest must prevail. Charles fixed the
doorkeeper with his hypnotic smile, and he was chosen. Almost without
hearing the injunction to report at seven o'clock, Charles ran back to the
store, well-nigh breathless with expectancy over the coming event. With
that family feeling which has marked the Frohmans throughout their whole
life, Gustave hurried down-town to notify their eldest brother to be on hand
for the grand occasion.
Charles ate no supper, and was at the stage-door long before seven.
Rigged up in a faded costume, he carried a banner during the performance.
His two elder brothers sat in the gallery. All they saw in the entire brilliant
spectacle was the little Charles and his faded flag.

Charles got twenty-five cents for his evening's work, and brought it home
bubbling with pride. To his great consternation he received a rebuke from
his mother and the strong injunction never to appear on the stage again.
This was Charles Frohman's first and only appearance on any stage. In the
years to come, although he controlled and directed hundreds of productions,
gave employment to thousands of actors in this country, England, and
France, and ruled the destinies of scores of theaters, he never appeared in a
single performance. Nor had he a desire to appear.

It will be recalled that in one way or another a great many passes for the
theater found their way into the hands of the elder Frohman, who, in his
great generosity of heart, frequently took many of the neighboring children
along. He was the type of man who loves to bestow pleasure. But this made
no difference with Charles. He was usually able to wring an extra pass from
the bill-poster or some of the actors who frequented the store. Hence came
about his first contract, and in this fashion: At that time Gustave Frohman
was a famous cyclist. He was the first man to keep a wheel stationary, and
he won prizes for doing so. He had purchased his bicycle with savings out
of the theatrical earnings, and his bicycle and his riding became a source of
great envy to Charles, who asked him one night if he would teach him how
to ride.
"Yes," replied Gustave, "I'll teach you if you will make a contract with me
to provide five dollars' worth of passes in return."
"Good!" said Charles, and the deal was closed.
Gustave kept his word, and down in Washington Place, in front of the
residence of old Commodore Vanderbilt, Charles learned to ride. He kept
his part of the contract, too, and delivered five dollars' worth of passes
ahead of schedule time.
One of Gustave's cycling companions was the son of George Vandenhoff,
the famous reader. Through him he met the father, who engaged him to post
his placards for his series of lectures on Dickens. Charles accompanied
Gustave on these expeditions, and got his first contact with theatrical

advertising. Frequently he held the ladder while Gustave climbed up to
hang a placard. Charles often employed his arts to induce an obdurate
shopkeeper to permit a placard in his window. These cards were not as
attractive as those of the regular theaters and it took much persuasion to
secure their display. Charles sometimes sat in the box-office of Association
Hall, where the Vandenhoff lectures were given and where Gustave sold
tickets. It was here that Charles got his introduction to the finance of the
theater.
These days in the early 'seventies were picturesque and carefree for
Charles. The boy was growing up in an atmosphere that, unconsciously, was
shaping his whole future life. In the afternoon he continued his service
behind the counter, hearing the actors tell stories of their triumphs and
hardships. Often he slipped next door to Brentano's, where he was a
welcome visitor and where he pored over the illustrations in the theatrical
journals.
Life at the store was not without incident. Among those who came in to
buy cigars were the Guy brothers, famous minstrels of their time. They
were particular chums of Gustave, and they likewise became great admirers
of the little Charles. At the boys' request they would step into the little
reception-room behind the store and practise their latest steps to a small but
appreciative audience. This was Charles Frohman's first contact with
minstrelsy, in which he was to have such an active part later on.
Strangely enough, music and moving color always fascinated Charles
Frohman. At that time, for it was scarcely more than a decade after the Civil
War, there were many parades in New York, and all of them passed the little
Broadway cigar-store. To get a better view, Charles frequently climbed up
on the roof and there beheld the marching hosts with all their tumult and
blare. Here it was, as he often later admitted, that he got his first
impressions of street-display and brass-band effects that he used to such
good advantage.
A picturesque friendship of those early days was with the clock-painter
Washburn, perhaps the foremost worker of that kind in this country. He
painted the faces of all the clocks that hung in front of the jewelers' shops in

the big city. He always painted the time at 8.17½ o'clock, and it became the
precedent which most clock-painters have followed ever since.
Charles watched Washburn at work. One reason for his interest was that it
dealt with gilt. The old painter took such a fancy to the lad that he wanted
him to become his apprentice and succeed him as the first clock-face
painter of his time. But this work seemed too slow for the future magnate.

Now came the first business contact of a Frohman with the theater, and
here one encounters an example of that team-work among the Frohman
brothers by which one of them invariably assisted another whenever
opportunity arose. Frequently they created this opportunity themselves. To
Gustave came the distinction of being the first in the business, and also the
privilege of bringing into it both of his brothers. Having hovered so
faithfully and persistently about the edges of theatricals, Gustave now
landed inside.
It was at the time of the high-tide of minstrelsy in this country—1870 to
1880. Dozens of minstrel companies, ranging from bands of real negroes
recruited in the South to aggregations of white men who blacked their faces,
traveled about the country. The minstrel was the direct product of the slave-
time singer and entertainer. His fame was recognized the world over. The
best audiences at home, and royalty abroad, paid tribute to his talents. Out
of the minstrel ranks of those days emerged some of the best known of our
modern stars—men like Francis Wilson, Nat Goodwin, Henry E. Dixey,
Montgomery and Stone, William H. Crane, and scores of others.
One of the most famous organizations of the time was Charles Callender's
Original Georgia Minstrels, hailing from Macon, Georgia, composed
entirely of negroes and headed by the famous Billy Kersands. Ahead of this
show was a mulatto advance-agent, Charles Hicks. He did very well in the
North, but when he got down South he faced the inevitable prejudice
against doing business with a negro. Callender needed some one to succeed
him. A man whom Gustave Frohman had once befriended, knowing of his
intense desire to enter the profession, recommended him for the position,
and he got it.

All was excitement in the Frohman family. At last the fortunes of one
member were definitely committed to the theater, and although it was a
negro minstrel show, it meant a definite connection with public
entertainment.
No one, not even Gustave himself, felt the enthusiasm so keenly as did
little Charles, then twelve years old. He buzzed about the fortunate brother.
"Do you think you can get me a job as programmer with your show?" he
asked.
"No," answered the new advance-agent. "Don't start in the business until
you can be an agent or manager."
On August 2, 1872, Gustave Frohman started to Buffalo to go ahead of the
Callender Minstrels. Charles followed his brother's career with eager
interest, and he longed for the time when he would have some connection
with the business that held such thrall for him.
Life now lagged more than ever for Charles. He chafed at the service in
the store; he detested school; his one great desire was to earn money and
share in the support of the family. His father urged him to prepare for the
law.
"No," he said, "I won't be a lawyer. I want to deal with lots of people."
Charles frequently referred to Tony Pastor. "He's a big man," he would
often say. "I would like to do what he is doing."
A seething but unformed aspiration seemed to stir his youthful breast.
Once he heard his eldest brother recite some stanzas of Alexander Pope, in
which the following line occurs:
The whole, the boundless continent is ours.
This line impressed the lad immensely. It became his favorite motto; he
wrote it in his sister's autograph-album; he spouted it on every occasion; it
is still to be found in his first scrap-book framed in round, boyish hand.

Now the singular thing about this sentiment is that he never quoted it
correctly. It was a life-long failing. His version—and it was strangely
prophetic of his coming career—was:
The whole—the boundless earth—is mine.
Meanwhile, Daniel Frohman had gone from The Tribune to work in the
office of The New York Graphic, down in Park Place near Church Street.
The Graphic was the aristocrat of newspapers—the first illustrated daily
ever published anywhere. With the usual family team-work, Daniel got
Charles a position with him in 1874. He was put in the circulation
department at a salary of ten dollars a week, his first regular wage. It was a
position with which personality had much to do, for one of the boy's chief
tasks was to select a high type of newsboy equipped to sell a five-cent daily.
His genial manner won the boys to him and they became his loyal co-
workers.
With amazing facility he mastered his task. Among other things, he had to
count newspapers. It was before the day of the machine enumerator, and the
work had to be done by hand. Charles developed such extraordinary
swiftness that patrons in the office often stopped to watch him. In throwing
papers over the counter it was necessary to be accurate and positive, and
here came the first manifestation of his dogged determination. He never lost
his cunning in counting papers, and sometimes, when he was rich and
famous, he would take a bundle of newspapers, to help a newsboy in the
street, and run through them with all his old skill and speed.

Though his fingers were in the newspapers, his heart yearned for the
theater. This ambition was heightened by the fact that his brother Daniel,
having heeded the lure of Gustave, joined the Callender Minstrels as
advance-agent, while Gustave remained back with the show. Slowly but
surely the theater was annexing the Frohman boys. In the summer of 1874
Charles was drawn into its charmed circle, and in a picturesque fashion.
It was the custom for minstrel companies and other theatrical
combinations to rent theaters outright during the dull summer months. The
playhouses were glad to get the rental, and the organizations could remain

intact during what would otherwise be a period of disorganization and loss.
Gustave, therefore, took Hooley's Theater in Brooklyn for summer minstrel
headquarters, and on a memorable morning in July Charles was electrified
to receive the following letter from him:
You can begin your theatrical career in the box-office of Hooley's Theater
in Brooklyn. Take a ferry and look at the theater. Hooley is going to rent it
to us for the summer. Your work will begin as ticket-seller. You will have to
sell 25, 50, and 75 cent tickets, and they will all be hard tickets, that is, no
reserved seats. Get some pasteboard slips or a pack of cards and practise
handling them. Your success will lie in the swiftness with which you can
hand them out. With these rehearsals you will be able to do your work well
and look like a professional.
Charles immediately bought a pack of the thickest playing-cards he could
find and began to practise with them. Soon he became an expert shuffler.
Often he used his father's cigar counter for a make-believe box-office sill,
and across it he handed out the pasteboards to imaginary patrons. A dozen
times he went over to Brooklyn and gazed with eager expectancy at the old
theater, destined, by reason of his association with it, to be a historic
landmark in the annals of American amusement.
He wrote Gustave almost immediately:
I will be ready when the time comes.
That great moment arrived the first Monday in August, 1874. Charles
could scarcely contain his impatience. So well had the publicity work for
the performance been done by the new advance-agent that when the boy (he
was just fourteen) raised the window of the box-office at seven o'clock
there was a long line waiting to buy tickets. The final word of injunction
from Gustave was:
"Remember, Charley, you must be careful, because you will be personally
responsible for any shortage in cash when you balance up."
The house was sold out. When Gustave asked him, after the count-up, if
he was short, the eager-faced lad replied:

"I am not short—I am fifty cents over!"
"Then you can keep that as a reward for your good work," said Gustave.
Callender was on hand the opening night. He watched the boy in the box-
office with, an amused and lively interest. When Charles had finished
selling tickets, Callender stepped up to him with a smile on his face and
said:
"Young fellow, I like your looks and your ways. You and I will be doing
business some day."
During this engagement, and with the customary spirit of family co-
operation, Gustave said to Charles:
"You can give your sister Rachel all the pennies that come in at the
Wednesday matinée." At this engagement very little was expected in the
way of receipts at a midweek matinée.
But Gustave did not reckon with Charles. With an almost uncanny sense
of exploitation which afterward enabled him to attract millions of theater-
goers, the boy kept the brass-band playing outside the theater half an hour
longer than usual. This drew many children just home from school, and they
paid their way in pennies. The receipts, therefore, were unexpectedly large.
When sister Rachel came over that day her beaming brother filled her bag
with coppers.
The summer of 1874 was a strenuous one for Charles Frohman. By day he
worked in The Graphic office, only getting off for the matinées; at night he
was in the box-office at Hooley's in Brooklyn, his smiling face beaming like
a moon through the window. He was in his element at last and supremely
happy. When the season ended the Callender Minstrels resumed their tour
on the road and Charles went back to the routine of The Graphic
undisturbed by the thrill of the theater.
He was developing rapidly. Daily he became more efficient. The
following year he was put in charge of a branch office established by The
Graphic in Philadelphia. Now came his second business contact with the
theater. Callender's Minstrels played an engagement at Wood's Museum,

and Daniel came on ahead to bill the show. Charles immediately offered his
services. His advice about the location of favorite "stands" was of great
service in getting posters displayed to the best advantage. It was the initial
expression of what later amounted to a positive genius in the art of well-
directed bill-board posting.
While prowling around Philadelphia in search of amusement novelty—a
desire that remained with him all his life—Charles encountered a unique
form of public entertainment which had considerable vogue. It was Pepper's
"Ghost Show," and was being shown in a small hall in Chestnut Street.
The "Ghost Show" was an illusion. The actors seemed to be on the stage.
In reality, they were under the stage, and their reflection was sent up by
refracting mirrors. This enabled them (in the sight of the audience) to
appear and disappear in the most extraordinary fashion. People apparently
walked through one another, had their heads cut off, were shown with
daggers plunged in their breasts. The whole effect was weird and thrilling.
This show impressed Charles greatly, as the unusual invariably did. It
gave him an idea. When Charles Callender joined his minstrel show at
Philadelphia, young Frohman went to him with this proposition:
"I believe," he said with great earnestness, "that there is money in the
'Ghost Show.' The trouble with it now is that it is not being properly
advertised. If you will let me have a hundred dollars, I will take charge of it
and I think we can make some money out of it. It won't interfere with my
work with The Graphic."
Charles, who seldom left anything to chance, had already made an
arrangement with the manager of the show to become his advertising agent.
Callender, who liked the boy immensely, readily consented and gave him
the required money, thus embarking Charles on his first venture with any
sort of capital.
Unfortunately, the show failed. Charles maintained that the Philadelphians
lacked imagination, but with his usual optimism he was certain that it would
succeed on the road. When he approached Callender again and offered to

take it out on the road the minstrel magnate slapped him on the shoulder
and said:
"All right, my boy. If you say so, I believe you. You can take the show out
and I'll back you."
Charles counseled with Gustave, who continued as his theatrical monitor.
Eagerly he said:
"I've got a great chance. Callender is going to back me on the road with
the 'Ghost Show.'"
"No," said Gustave, firmly, "your time has not come. Wait, as I told you
before, until you can go out ahead of a show as agent."
Bitter as was the ordeal, Charles took his brother's advice, and the "Ghost
Show" was abandoned to its fate.

II

EARLY HARDSHIPS ON THE ROAD

T he Christmas of 1876 was not a particularly merry one for Charles
Frohman. The ardent boy, whose brief experience in Hooley's box-
office had fastened the germ of the theater in his system, chafed at
the restraint that kept him at a routine task. But his deliverance was at hand.
Shortly before the close of the old year Gustave quit the Callender
Minstrels. With a capital of fifty-seven dollars he remained in Chicago,
waiting for something to turn up. One day as he sat in the lobby of the old
Sherman House he was accosted by J. H. Wallick, an actor-manager who
had just landed in town with a theatrical combination headed by John
Dillon, a well-known Western comedian of the time. They were stranded
and looking for a backer.
"Will you take charge of the company?" asked Wallick.

"I've only got fifty-seven dollars," said Gustave, "but I'll take a chance."
Between them they raised a little capital and started on a tour of the
Middle West that was destined to play a significant part in shaping the
career of Charles. In the company besides John Dillon were his wife,
Louise Dillon (afterward the ingénue of Daniel Frohman's Lyceum
Company); George W. Stoddart, brother of J. H. Stoddart of A. M. Palmer's
Company, his wife and his daughter, Polly Stoddart, who married Neil
Burgess; John F. Germon; Mrs. E. M. Post, and Wesley Sisson. Their
repertory consisted of two well-worn but always amusing plays, "Our
Boys" and "Married Life."
Gustave was to remain with the company until they reached Clinton,
Iowa. After that he was to go ahead while Wallick was to remain with the
company. When Gustave was about to leave, the company protested. He
had won their confidence, and they threatened to strike. What to do with
Wallick was the problem.
"Why not make him stage-manager?" suggested Dillon.
"All right," said Gustave, "but who is to go ahead of the show?"
The company was gathered on the stage of the Davis Opera House.
Gustave scratched his head. Then he turned quickly on the group of stage
folk and said:
"I've got some one for you. I'll wire my brother Charles to come on and be
advance-agent."
Thus it came about that from a little Iowa town there flashed back to New
York on a memorable morning in January, 1877, the following telegram
from Gustave to Charles Frohman:
Your time has come at last. Am wiring money for ticket to St. Paul, where
you begin as agent for John Dillon. Will meet you 2 A.M. at Winona, where
you change cars and where I will instruct.
Charles happened to be at home when this telegram came. It was the first
he had ever received. With trembling hands he tore it open, his rosy face

broke into a seraphic smile, and the tears came into his eyes. He rushed to
his mother, threw his arms around her, and gasped:
"At last I'm in the business!"
He lost no time in starting. With a single grip-sack, which contained his
modest wardrobe, the eager boy started on his first railroad journey of any
length into the great West. It was the initial step of what, from this time on,
was to be a continuous march of ever-widening importance.
Begrimed but radiant, the boy stepped from a day-coach at two o'clock in
the morning at Winona. No scene could have been more desolate. Save for
the station-master and a solitary brakeman there was only one other person
on hand, and that individual was the faithful Gustave, who advanced swiftly
through the gloom and greeted his brother enthusiastically.
Charles was all excitement. He had not slept a wink. It was perhaps the
longest and most irksome journey he ever took. He was bubbling with the
desire to get to work.
The two brothers went to a hotel where Gustave had a room, and there
they sat for four hours. It is a picture well worth keeping in mind: the
pleased older boy, eager to get his brother started right; the younger lad all
ears, and his eyes big with wonder and anticipation. There was no thought
of food or rest. Gustave was enthusiastic about the company. He said to his
brother:
"Why, Charley, we've got real New York actors, and our leading lady,
Louise Dillon, has a genuine sealskin coat. That coat will get us out of any
town. You've got no 'Ghost Show' amateurs to handle now, but real actors
and actresses."
Then came an announcement that startled the boy, for Gustave continued:
"Your salary is to be twenty-five dollars a week and hotel bills, but you
must not spend more than one dollar and a half a day for meals and room."
In this dingy room of an obscure hotel in a country town Charles Frohman
got his first instructions in practical theatrical work. Perhaps the most

important of this related to bill-posting. In those days it was a tradition in
theatrical advertising that whoever did the most effective bill-posting in a
town got the audience. Most of the publicity was done with posters. An
advance-agent had to be a practical bill-poster himself. To get the most
conspicuous sites for bills and to keep those bills up until the attraction
played became the chief task of the advance-agent. The provincial bill-
posters were fickle and easily swayed. The agent with the most persuasive
personality, sometimes with the greatest drinking capacity, won the day.
All this advice, and much more, was poured by Gustave into the willing
ears of the youthful Charles. No injunction laid on that keen-eyed boy in the
gray dawn of that historic morning back in the 'seventies was more
significant than these words from his elder brother:
"Your success in handling the bill-poster does not lie through a barroom
door. Give him all the passes he wants, but never buy him a drink."
That those words sank deeply into Charles Frohman is shown by the fact
that he seldom drank liquor. His chief tipple through all the coming
crowded years was never stronger than sarsaparilla, soda-water, or
lemonade.
The task ahead of Charles would have staggered any but the most
dauntless enthusiasm. Among other things, as Gustave discovered, there
was no route for the company after St. Paul, which was to be played the
following week.
"You must discover new towns and bill them," he said. "Get what printing
you want. The printers have been instructed to fill orders from you."
The hours sped on. Charles asked a thousand questions, and Gustave filled
him with facts as dawn broke and day came. It was nearly seven o'clock,
time for his train for St. Paul to leave. Charles would not hear of having
breakfast. He was too full of desire to get to work.
Among other things, Charles carried a letter from Gustave to Wallick, who
was temporarily ahead of the show, which said:
This is my brother Charles, who will take the advance in your place.

The first word that came from the young advance-agent announced action,
for he wired:
All right with Wallick. Have discovered River Falls.
River Falls, it happened, had been "discovered" before and abandoned, but
Charles thought he was making route history.
Charles immediately set to work with the extraordinary energy that always
characterized him. The chief bill-poster in St. Paul was named Haines.
Charles captured him with his engaging smile, and he became a willing
slave. It was Haines who taught him how to post bills. Later on when
Gustave arrived with the show, he spoke of the boy with intense pride. He
said:
"I have taught your brother Charley how to post bills. He took to it like a
duck to water. He didn't mind how much paste he spattered over himself.
His one desire was to know how to do the job thoroughly. I am going to
make him the greatest theatrical agent in the world."
Curiously enough, Haines lived to be a very old man, and in the later
years of his life he was able to stick up the twenty-eight-sheet stands that
bore in large type the name of the little chubby protégé he had introduced to
the art of bill-posting back in the long ago.
At St. Paul Charles had opposition—a big musical event at Ingersoll Hall
—and this immediately tested his resource. He got his printing posted in the
best places, went around to the newspaper offices and got such good notices
that John Dillon was inspired to remark that he had never had such efficient
advance work. It is interesting to remember that at this time Charles
Frohman was not yet eighteen years old.
Now came the first evidence of that initiative which was such a
conspicuous trait in the young man. He had come back to see the
performances of his company, and had watched them with swelling pride.
Several times he said, and with pardonable importance:
"What we need is a new play. We must have something fresh to advertise."

The net result of this suggestion was that his brother obtained the
manuscript of "Lemons," a comedy that, under the title of "Wedlock for
Seven," had been first produced at Augustin Daly's New Fifth Avenue
Theater in New York. A copy of the play was sent on to Charles to enable
him to prepare the presswork for it, and it was the first play manuscript he
ever read. "Lemons" vindicated Charles's suggestion, because it added to
the strength of the repertory and brought considerable new business.
Charles took an infinite pride in his work. He was eager for suggestions,
he worked early and late, and when the season closed at the end of June he
was a full-fledged and experienced advance-agent. With his brother he
reached Chicago July 4th. In the lobby of Hooley's Theater he was
introduced to R. M. Hooley, who, after various hardships, again controlled
the theater which bore his name, now Powers' Theater. Out of that chance
meeting came a long friendship and a connection that helped in later years
to give Charles Frohman his first spectacular success, for it was Mr. Hooley
who helped to back "Shenandoah."
On July 5th, six months after he had left the East for his first start, Charles
appeared at his mother's home in New York, none the worse for his first
experience on the road.

Charles was soon eager for the next season. Gustave had signed a contract
with John Dillon to take him out again, this time as part owner of the
company. He and George Stoddart agreed to put up two hundred and fifty
dollars each to launch the tour of the Stoddart Comedy Company with John
Dillon as star. Charles was to continue as advance-agent.
It was a long summer for the boy. When August arrived and the time came
to start west there was a financial council of war. Gustave counted on
getting his capital from members of the family, but no money was
forthcoming. Daniel had received no salary from Callender, and the great
road project seemed on the verge of failure. Charles was disconsolate. But
the mother of the boys, ever mindful of their interest, said, in her serene
way:

"I can get enough money to send you to Chicago and I will put up some
lunches for you."
Charles was eagerly impatient to start. He nagged at his brother:
"Gus, when do we start for Chicago? Do we walk?"
He was sent down-town to find out the cheapest route, and he returned in
great excitement, saying:
"The cheapest way is over the Baltimore & Ohio, second class, but it is
the longest ride. We can ride in the day-coach, and even if we have no place
to wash we will get to Chicago, and that is the main thing."
When they reached Chicago the first of the long chain of disasters that
was to attend them on this enterprise developed.
Stoddart was penniless. The two hundred and fifty dollars that he expected
to contribute to the capital of the new combination was swept away in the
failure of the Fidelity Bank. He had looked forward to Gustave for help, and
all the while Gustave, on that long, toilsome journey west, was hoping that
his partner would provide the first railroad fares. So they sat down and
pooled their woes, wondering how they could start their tour, with Charles
as an interested listener.
Every now and then he would chirp up with the question:
"How do I get out of town?"
Finally Gustave, always resourceful, said:
"You don't need any money, Charley. I've got railroad passes for you, and
you can give the hotels orders on me for your board and lodging."
It was a custom in those days for advance-agents to give orders for their
obligations—hotel, rent of hall, bill-posting, and baggage—upon the
company that followed. Hotels in particular were willing to accept orders
on the treasurer of a theatrical company about to play a date, because, in the
event of complete failure, there was always baggage to seize and hold.

So, armed with passes and with the optimism of youth and anticipation,
Charles set forth on what became in many respects the most memorable
road experience in his life. The first town he billed was Streator, Illinois.
Then he hurried on to Ottawa and Peoria, where they were to play during
fair week, which was the big week of the year. Misfortune descended at
Streator, for despite the lavish display of posters and the ample advance
notice that Charles lured the local editors into publishing, the total receipts
on the first night were seventy-seven dollars. This, and more, had already
been pledged before the curtain went up, and Gustave was not even able to
pay John Dillon his seven dollars and seventy cents, which represented his
ten per cent, of the gross receipts.
By "traveling on their baggage," which was one of the expedients of the
time and a custom which has not entirely passed out of use, the company
got to Ottawa, where Charles joined them. Here, in a comic circumstance,
he first developed the amazing influence that he was able to exert on
people.
Although an admirable actor with a large following and the most
delightful and companionable of men, John Dillon had one unfortunate
failing. He was addicted to drink, and, regardless of consequences, he
would periodically succumb to this weakness. At Ottawa, the town crowded
with visitors for the annual fair, Dillon fell from grace. The bill for the
evening was "Lemons," and there was every indication that the house would
be sold out. The receipts were badly needed, too.
Late in the afternoon came the terrifying news that Dillon lay stupefied
from liquor in his room. Everybody save Charles was in despair. Dillon had
conceived a great fancy for Charles, and he was deputized to take the actor
in hand, get him to the theater, and coerce him through the play.
Charles responded nobly. He aroused the star, took him to the theater in a
carriage, and stood in the wings throughout the whole performance,
coaching and inspiring his intoxicated star. By an amusing circumstance,
Dillon was required to play a drunken scene in "Lemons." He performed
this part with so much realism that the audience gave him a great ovation.

The real savior of that performance was the chubby lad who stood in the
wings with beating heart, fearful every moment that Dillon would succumb.

New and heavier responsibilities now faced Charles Frohman. The
company was booked to play a week in Memphis, Tennessee, the longest
and most important stand of the tour. In those days the printers who
supplied the traveling companies with advertising matter were powers to be
reckoned with. When the supply of printing was cut off the company was
helpless.
Charles H. McConnell, of the National Printing Company, who supplied
the Stoddart Company with paper, was none too confident of the success of
that organization. When he heard of the Memphis engagement he insisted
that Gustave, who was older and more experienced, be sent ahead to pave
the way. Charles was sent back to manage the company, and now came his
first attempt at handling actors. He rose to the emergency with all his
characteristic ingenuity.
He began at Champaign, Illinois. The first test of his resource came at a
one-night stand—Waupaca, Iowa—where "Lemons" was billed as a feature.
The prospects for a big house were good. Board and railroad fare seemed
assured, when just before supper-time John F. Germon, one of the company,
approached Charles in great perturbation.
"We can't play to-night. Mrs. Post is sick."
Mrs. Post played the part of the old woman in the play, and it was a very
important rôle.
Charles Frohman only smiled, as he always did in an emergency. Then he
said to Germon:
"You're a member of the well-known Germon family, aren't you? Then
live up to its reputation and play the part yourself."
"But how about my mustache?" asked Germon.
"I will pay for having it shaved off," replied Frohman.

The net result was that Germon sacrificed his mustache, played the part
acceptably without any one in the audience discovering that he was a man
masquerading as an old woman. Charles put Wallick, who was acting as
stage-manager, in Germon's part. Thus the house was saved and the
company was able to proceed.
With his attractive ways and eternal thoughtfulness Charles captivated the
company. He supplied the women with candy and bought peanuts for the
men. On that trip he developed his fondness for peanuts that never forsook
him. He almost invariably carried a bag in his pocket. When he could not
get peanuts he took to candy.
A great friendship struck up between Frohman and Stoddart, who, in a
way, was a character. He played the violin, and when business was bad and
the company got in the dumps Stoddart added to their misfortunes by
playing doleful tunes on his fiddle. But that fiddle had a virtue not to be
despised, because it was Stoddart's bank. In its hollow box he secreted his
modest savings, and in more than one emergency they were drawn on for
company bed and board. When the organization reached Memphis Charles
had so completely won the affections of the company that they urged him to
stay on with them. But business was business, and he had to go on in
advance.
Charles now went ahead to "bill" Texas. The reason for the expedition was
this:
In Memphis business was so bad that the manager of the theater there
advised Gustave to send the company through Texas, where, he assured
them, there would be no opposition, and they would have the state to
themselves. This advice proved to be only too true, for the company not
only had the state to itself, but the state for a time held the company fast—
in the unwilling bonds of financial misfortune.
The plan was to play the best towns in Texas and then go back through the
Middle West, where John Dillon had a strong following, and where it was
hoped the season could close with full pockets. Up to this time the company
had received salaries with some degree of regularity. But from this time on

they were to have a constantly diminishing acquaintance with money, for
hard luck descended upon them the moment they crossed the frontiers of
the Lone Star State.
It was about this time that Charles Callender, at the solicitation of
Gustave, purchased an interest in the Stoddart Comedy Company for a
hundred-dollar bill. This bill was given to Charles as a "prop." In those days
the financial integrity of the legitimate theatrical combination was
sometimes questioned by hard-hearted hotel-keepers. The less esthetic
"variety" troupes, minstrel shows, and circuses enjoyed a much higher
credit. An advance-agent like Charles sometimes found difficulty in
persuading the hotel people to accept orders on the company's treasurer.
With characteristic enterprise Charles used the hundred-dollar bill as a
symbol of solvency. He flashed it on hotel-keepers and railway agents in the
careless way that inspired confidence, and, what was more to the point,
credit. He carried this hundred-dollar bill for nearly a month. Often when
asked to pay his board bill he would produce the note and ask for change.
Before the startled clerk could draw his breath he would add:
"Perhaps it might be best if I gave you an order on the treasurer."
This always served to get him out of town without spending cash for hotel
bills.
Texas was still a rough country, and Charles's reckless display of the
hundred-dollar bill once gave him a narrow escape from possible death. He
had made the usual careless display of wealth at a small hotel in Calvert.
The bad man of the town witnessed the performance and immediately
began to shadow the young advance-agent. When Charles retired to his
room he found, to his dismay, that there was no lock on the door. He had a
distinct feeling that a robbery would be attempted, so he quietly left the
hotel and spent the night riding back and forth on the train between Calvert
and Dallas. This cost him nothing, for he had a pass.
At Galveston occurred an unexpected meeting. Daniel Frohman, who was
ahead of Callender's Minstrels, had arrived in town by boat from New
Orleans (there being no railway connection then) to book his show for the

next week. On arriving at the Tremont Opera House he was surprised to see
Charles writing press notices in the box-office.
"What are you doing here?" he asked. "I thought you were in Tennessee."
Charles walked to the window and said, with great pride, "We play here
all next week."
"Have you got the whole week?" asked Daniel.
"Yes," was the reply.
"But can't you give me Monday or Tuesday night?" asked Daniel.
"Impossible," replied Charles, haughtily.
"All right," said Daniel, in friendly rivalry, "then I will have to hire Turner
Hall and knock you out for two nights with our brass-band parade."
Charles then came out into the lobby and confessed that his company was
up against it, and that it meant bread and butter and possibly the whole
future of the company if he could only play Galveston.
"We are coming here on our trunks," he said, "and we've got to get some
money."
Daniel immediately relented. He arranged with the railroad to delay the
train and thus make a connection which would carry his company on
through to the interior. He booked Galveston for the second week
following. This left the week in question free to Charles, who breathed
easier.
Charles now went on and billed Sherman, Houston, and Dallas. At Dallas
the hard luck that had gripped the company the moment it left Memphis
descended more vigorously than before. Dillon not only fell from grace
again, but disappeared. Gustave Frohman had vowed that he would
discharge him if he went on another spree, and he kept his word. They were
in a real predicament, with star gone, business bad, and practically stranded
a thousand miles from home.

Charles, who frequently came back to join the company, was the one
bright spot of those precarious days, for he never lost his optimism or his
smile.
"What we need," he said at a council of war in Dallas, "is a new play. I
have been reading in the New York Clipper about one called 'Pink
Dominoes.' I think it is just the thing for us to do. In fact, I have already
sent for a copy of it."
The play arrived the next day, and when George Stoddart read it to him
the young agent bubbled with laughter and said:
"It's bound to be a big success."
It was decided to put on "Pink Dominoes" at Houston. Charles remained
behind and watched the rehearsals, the first of the kind he had ever seen.
Contrary to all expectations, Houston was shocked by the play. The
audience literally "walked out" and the run of one night ended.
Misfortunes now crowded thick and fast. Salaries had ceased entirely, and
it was with the utmost difficulty that the company proceeded on its way. As
a crowning hardship, Callender repented of his bargain and withdrew the
much-used and treasured hundred-dollar bill.
When Charles met Gustave in Seguin he said: "We're up against a hard
proposition. The people want John Dillon. It's hard to book an attraction
without a star."
In this statement Charles Frohman expressed a truth that he afterward
made one of his theatrical axioms, for he became the leading exponent of
the star system, and developed, in fact, into the king of the star-makers.
Charles rose supreme over the hardships that filled his colleagues with
gloom. Many a night, in order to save hotel bills, he slept on a train as it
shunted back and forth between small towns. He always turned up in the
morning smiling and serene, with cheer for his now discouraged and almost
disgruntled colleagues.

Louise Dillon's sealskin sack rendered heroic service during these
precarious days. It was almost literally worn out as collateral. As Gustave
had predicted, it got the company out of town on more than one occasion. A
little incident will indicate some of the ordeals of that stage of the tour. At
Hempstead a "norther" struck the town and the temperature dropped.
Wesley Sisson caught a hard cold and concluded to get what he called "a
good sweat." He had scarcely made his preparations and settled himself in
bed when he heard a rap at the door and a voice said, "Open up."
"Who's that?" asked Sisson.
"Charley," was the reply. "Let me in. There isn't a spare bed in this house
and I am freezing to death."
"All right," said Sisson, "but you don't want to come in here, because I am
trying to sweat to death."
"Great Scott!" yelled Frohman, "that's what I want to do."
Sisson let him in and he remained all night.

Everywhere Charles Frohman drew people to him. The first time he
booked Houston he made friends with Colonel McPherson, who owned the
Perkins Opera House and the inevitable saloon alongside. The old manager
—a rather rough customer who had killed his man—was a great casino-
player, and Charles beguiled several hours with him one night at a game
while waiting for a train.
In one of the company's darkest hours he said to Stoddart:
"I've got an idea. Let's play Houston."
"But we've just been there," said Stoddart.
"Never mind," said Charles. "I'll fix it."
The next day he turned up at Houston and went to Colonel McPherson.
"What, you here again?" he asked.

"We've come back," replied Charles with ready resource, "to play a special
benefit for your School Teachers' Association."
The old man chuckled. "Well, if you can get 'em in the house you are all
right."
Charles was already planning a series of benefits for volunteer firemen
and widows and orphans in future towns. It was a case of "anything to get a
crowd." He hesitated a moment, then faced the old man with his winning
smile and said:
"Colonel, I wish you would let me have fifty dollars to send back to the
company."
"All right, my boy; there's the safe. Help yourself. Hurry up. Let us have a
game of casino."
Charles wired the much-needed money to his brother, then came back and
dutifully played the game. But neither trumped-up benefits for the most
worthy of causes nor the unfailing good-humor of the boyish advance-agent
could stem the tide of adversity. Things went from bad to worse. Louise
Dillon, all hope of salary gone, gave her little remaining capital to Gustave,
saving only enough for her railway fare, and went back to her home in
Cincinnati. Stoddart now played more dolefully than ever on his violin,
ransacked its recesses, and turned over his last cent for the common good.
"We've got to get back North," said Gustave.
With the utmost effort, and by pawning jewelry and clothes, the company
gladly saw the last trace of Texas disappear over the horizon.
It was a hard journey back. At Pine Bluff, Arkansas, Charles had to wait
for the company because he did not have enough cash to go on ahead. Here
the whole company was stranded until several of the members succeeded in
getting enough money from home by wire to send them on.
Memphis proved to be a life-saver. Here the company took a steamboat
down the Arkansas. It is notable because thus early Charles showed that

eagerness to take a chance which eventually caused his death, for, on this
trip, as on the Lusitania, he had been warned not to sail.
The river was low and the pilot was reckless. Whenever the boat groaned
over a bar Charles would say, "That's great," although the other members of
the company shivered with apprehension.
By using every device and resource known to the traveling company of
those days, the Stoddart Comedy Company finally reached Richmond,
Kentucky. It had left a trail of baggage behind; there was not a watch in the
whole aggregation. Charles went on ahead to Cincinnati to book and bill the
adjacent towns.
At Richmond Gustave had an inspiration. Then, as always, "Uncle Tom's
Cabin" was the great life-saver of the harassed and needy theatrical
organization. The play was always accessible and it almost invariably drew
an audience.
"Why not have a real negro play Uncle Tom?" said Gustave.
So he wired Charles as follows:
Get me an Eva and send her down with Sam Lucas. Be sure to tell Sam to
bring his diamonds.
Sam Lucas was a famous negro minstrel who had been with the Callender
company. He sported a collection of diamonds that made him the envy and
admiration of his colleagues. Gustave knew that these jewels, like Louise
Dillon's sealskin sack, meant a meal ticket for the company and
transportation in an emergency.
Charles engaged Sallie Cohen (now Mrs. John C. Rice), and sent her
down with Lucas, who, by the way, provided the money for the trip. Charles
then proceeded to cover his "Lemons" posters with "Uncle Tom's Cabin"
printing which he hastily acquired, and awaited results.
"Uncle Tom's Cabin" was played to a packed house at Richmond, and the
company was able to get out of Kentucky. Gustave now had visions of big
business in Ohio, and especially at Wilmington, which was Sam Lucas's

home town. But the result was the usual experience with home patronage of
home talent, and only a handful of people came to see the play. Sallie
Cohen, despairing of getting her salary, had quit the company, and on this
night Polly Stoddart, who was a tall, well-developed woman, had to play
Little Eva. When she sat on the lap of Wesley Sisson, who played her father,
she not only hid him from sight, but almost crushed him to earth.
Wilmington proved to be the last despairing gasp of the Stoddart Comedy
Company, for the trouble-studded tour now ended. Some of Lucas's
diamonds were pawned to get the company back to Cincinnati.
The sad news was telegraphed to Charles, who was billing Newport,
Kentucky, which is just across the Ohio River from Cincinnati. He received
the message while standing on a step-ladder with a paste-brush in his hand.
Now came an early evidence of his humor and equanimity. He calmly went
on posting the bill for the show that he knew would never appear. Afterward
in reciting the incident he made this explanation:
"I didn't want to tell the bill-poster that the company was closed, because
he had just made a fresh bucket of paste and I didn't want him to waste it.
Besides, he had become enthusiastic at the prospect of seeing a real negro
Uncle Tom, and I had just given him some passes for the show. I didn't want
all his disappointments to come at one time."
After all the hardships of the previous months, and with salaries unpaid,
the company now found itself stranded in the spring of 1878 at the Walnut
Street Hotel in Cincinnati. Gustave's problem was to get his people home.
Fortunately, most of them lived in the Middle West. By pawning some of
his clothes and making other sacrifices he was able to get them off. Only
Frank Hartwell and Charles were left behind.
Gustave got a pass to Baltimore, where he borrowed enough money from
Callender, then in his decline, to take care of Hartwell. Charles was left
behind as security for the whole Frohman bill at the Walnut Street Hotel.
Although Charles was amiable and smiling, the hotel thought that his
cheerful demeanor was an unsatisfactory return for board and lodging, so he
was asked to vacate his room after a few days. He now spent his time

walking about the streets and eating one meal a day. At night he sat in the
summer-gardens "across the Rhine," listening to the music, and then
seeking out a place where he could get a bed for a quarter.
By giving an I O U to the same Pennsylvania ticket-agent who had staked
Gustave, and with five dollars telegraphed by the indefatigable brother back
in New York, he got as far as Philadelphia. He landed there without a cent
in his pocket.
"I must get home," he said.
He got on a day-coach of a New York train without the vestige of a ticket
and still penniless. In those days the cars were heated by stoves, and near
each stove was a large coal-box.
When Charles heard the conductor's cry, "Tickets, please!" he hid himself
in the coal-box and remained there until the awful personage passed by.
Being small, he could pull the lid of the box down and be completely
hidden from sight. After the conductor passed, he scrambled out and
resumed his seat. He had to repeat this performance several times on the
trip. Afterward in speaking of it he said:
"I wasn't a bit frightened for myself. I knew I would suffer no harm. My
chief concern was for a kind-hearted old man who sat in the seat next to the
coal-box. He was much more agitated than I was."
On a bright May afternoon Charles turned up, sooty but smiling, at 250
East Seventy-eighth Street, where the Frohman family then lived. He had
walked all the way up-town from the ferry. His first greeting to Gustave
was:
"Well, when do we start again?"

III

PICTURESQUE DAYS AS MINSTREL MANAGER

I nstead of discouraging him, Charles Frohman's baptism of hardship
with the John Dillon companies only filled him with a renewed ardor
for the theatrical business. The hunger for the road was strong in him.
Again it was Gustave who proved to be the good angel, and who now led
him to a picturesque experience.
During the summer of 1878 J. H. (Jack) Haverly acquired the Callender
Original Georgia Minstrels, and Gustave, who had an important hand in the
negotiation, was retained as manager. He started for the Pacific coast with
his dusky aggregation, and in Chicago fell in with his new employer.
Haverly was then at the high tide of his extraordinary career. He was in
many respects the amusement dictator of his time. Beginning as owner of a
small variety theater in Toledo, Ohio, he had risen to be the manager of half
a dozen important theaters in New York, Chicago, and Philadelphia. Not
less than ten traveling companies bore his name.
By instinct a plunger, his daring deals became the theatrical talk of the
country. He was a dashing and conspicuous figure; his spacious shirt-front
shone with diamonds, and he wore a large flat-crowned stiff hat in which he
carried all his correspondence and private papers.
Haverly specialized in minstrels, for he was a genius at capitalizing the
enthusiasm of the theater-going public. Just at this time he was launching
the greatest of all his traveling enterprises. To meet the competition of the
newly formed Barlow, Wilson, Primrose and West minstrels he decided to
merge all his white minstrel companies into the Haverly Mastodons. It was
to include forty star performers, more than had ever before been assembled
in a minstrel organization. So proud was Haverly of this total that the
advertising slogan of the company, which was echoed from coast to coast,
and which became a popular theatrical phrase everywhere, was "Forty—
Count 'Em—Forty."
Gustave found Haverly in the throes of Mastodon-making. Always
solicitous of the family interest, he asked him if he had engaged a treasurer.
When Haverly replied that he had not, Gustave immediately spoke up:

"Why don't you hire my brother Charley? He has had experience on the
road."
"All right, Gus," he replied. "I've got two Frohmans with me now. If
Charley is as good as they are, he is all right."
Thus it came about that for the first time the three Frohman brothers were
associated under the same employer.
Gustave wired the good news and transportation to the eager and
impatient Charles, who had irked under the inactivity of a hot summer in
New York. Gustave added ten dollars and instructed his brother to buy a
new suit, for the Frohman family funds were in a more or less sad way.
Henry Frohman's generosity and his absolute inability to press the
payment of debts due him had brought the father to a state of financial
embarrassment, and the burden of the family support fell upon the sons.
In a few days Charles showed up smiling in Chicago, but he had suffered
disaster on the way. The ten-dollar "hand-me-down" suit had faded
overnight, and when Charles appeared it was a sad sight.
"You can't meet Jack Haverly in that suit," said Gustave.
"All right," said Charley, "I will go to a tailor and have it fixed in some
way."
The tailor, apparently, worked a miracle with the clothes, for Charles
became presentable and was introduced to the great man, who, like most
other people, readily succumbed to the boy's winning manner.
"You and I will work the public, all right," he said to Charles. What was
more important, Haverly informed him that he was to act as treasurer of the
Mastodons at a salary of ten dollars a week, with an allowance of one dollar
and a half a day for board and lodging.
A serious complication now faced the boy. It was in the middle of July;
the company was not to start until August, and he could draw no salary until
the engagement began. With the assistance of Gustave he rented a two-

dollar-a-week room and existed on a meal-ticket good for twenty-two
fifteen-cent meals that he had bought for three dollars.
Charles sat at rehearsals with Haverly. He had a genius for stage effects
and made many practical suggestions. The big brass-band, an all-important
adjunct of the minstrel show, fascinated him. When the season opened with
a flourish the receipts amazed him.
For the first time he came in contact with real money. The gross income of
the Dillon company had never exceeded a thousand dollars a week; now he
was handling more than that sum every night.
After a brief engagement at the Adelphi Theater in Chicago, which
Haverly owned, the "Forty—Count 'Em—Forty" started on their long tour
which rounded out the amusement apprenticeship of Charles Frohman.

Charles now made his first real appearance before the public, and in
spectacular fashion. It was the custom of a minstrel company to parade each
day. With their record-breaking organization the Mastodons gave this
feature of minstrelsy perhaps its greatest traditions. Wearing shining silk
hats, frock-coats, and lavender trousers, and headed by "the world's greatest
minstrel band," the "Forty—Count 'Em—Forty" swayed the heart and
moved the imagination of admiring multitudes wherever they went.
Charles, who to the end of his days despised a silk hat, now wore one for
the first time, but under protest. However, he manfully took his place in the
front set of fours with the ranking officers of the organization, and marched
many a weary mile. So great was his dislike for a silk hat even then that he
invariably carried a cap in his pocket and the moment the parade was over
the abhorred headpiece was removed.
The first stop of the Mastodons was at Toledo, Ohio. A great crowd
assembled around the theater, and the treasurer, a weak little man, seemed
afraid to raise the window. "They'll run over me," he whined.
"All right," said Charles. "I'll take the window and sell the tickets."

Up to this time his only box-office experience had been as a mere lad at
Hooley's Theater in Brooklyn, but he handled that big crowd with such skill
and speed that even "Big Bill" Foote, who was the manager of the company,
patted him on the back and said a kind word.
Foote, who was Charles's superior officer on this trip, was a type of the
big, loud, blustering theatrical man of the time. He was six feet tall, and he
towered over his youthful assistant, who was his exact opposite in manner
and speech. Yet between these two men of strange contrast there developed
a close kinship. The little, plump, rosy-cheeked treasurer could handle the
big, bluff, noisy manager at will. Such was Charles Frohman's experience
with men always.
The first tour was replete with stirring incident. When the company
reached Bradford, Pennsylvania, they found the town in the throes of oil
excitement. Oil was on everybody's tongue and ankle-deep in some of the
streets. A great multitude collected at the theater. After the first part of the
show the gallery, which was full of people, creaked and settled a few
inches, creating a near panic. While this was being subdued an oil-
warehouse on the outskirts of the town burst into flames. Most of the
volunteer firemen were in the theater watching the minstrels. When an
agitated individual out on the sidewalk yelled "Fire!" a real panic started
inside the theater and there was a mad rush for the door.
Charles had just finished taking the tickets and stood with the ticket-box
in his hand, trying to calm the crowd, but he was as a straw in the wind. The
maddened people ran over him. When the excitement cleared away he was
found almost buried in mud, mire, and oil outside, his clothes torn to shreds,
but he still grasped the precious box in his hand.
Now began a comradeship that was unique in the history of theatricals.
The Mastodons, destined for long and continuous association, became a sort
of traveling club. It was really a fine group of men, and the favorite of the
organization was the rosy little treasurer who day by day fastened himself
more firmly in the hearts of his colleagues.

Nor was this due to the fact that he was "Haverly's pocket-book," as the
men affectionately called him, and their first aid in all financial need. He
was the friend, confidant, and repository of all their troubles. With
characteristic humor he gave each member of the company a day on which
he could relate his hardships. He had a willing ear and an open hand.
When he could not give them the relief they sought he invariably said with
that constant smile, "Well, I sympathize with you, anyhow."
Frohman was custodian of the company funds. One day in Denver four
members of the company found themselves without a cent. Charles had
tided them over so many difficulties that they hesitated to ask him again. As
they talked their troubles over they saw him coming down the street.
Instantly all four went down on their knees and held up their hands in
supplication. When Charles saw them he said, "How much do you want?"
And they got it.
He was always playing some practical joke. With half a dozen members of
the company he formed a little club which often had supper after the play.
This club was the fountain-head of a thousand jests and pranks. On one
occasion Charles suggested that for the sake of the novelty of the thing
every member of the club have his head shaved. The group went to a
barber-shop. Only one chair was vacant, however, and Charles Cushman
got that chair. While his dome was being shorn of every vestige of hair
Charles nudged the others and they crept away. When Cushman emerged,
bald as a babe, he found himself alone. The joke was on him.
In his joke Charles was usually aided and abetted by Johnnie Rice, one of
the many famous minstrels of that name. Rice could never resist the
temptation to stroke long whiskers. Whenever the house was unusually big
Charles took Rice out of the company for the first part and got him to assist
him with the ticket-taking. Any spectator with a long facial hirsute growth
was sure to have it caressed to the accompaniment of "Ticket, please."
Sometimes the men in the company, knowing of Rice's eccentricity, often
watched the gallery for such a performance, and it invariably made them
laugh. Once while the Mastodons were playing an engagement at the

Olympic in St. Louis they were surprised to find Rice sitting in a front
orchestra seat, wearing a long pair of Dundreary whiskers. He looked so
solemn that every one on the stage burst into laughter. It almost broke up
the performance. Charles had provided the whiskers.

It was on this minstrel tour that Charles Frohman gave the first real
expression to his talents for publicity. Everything about a minstrel company
was showy and flashy. So Charles originated a unique idea of establishing a
reputation for solvency. He bought a small iron safe about three feet high.
On it were painted in large gilt letters, "Treasurer, Haverly's Mastodon
Minstrels."
In reality there was very little need for this safe, because "Jack" Haverly's
constant and insistent demands for cash kept the company coffers stripped
of surplus.
Charles saw in this safe a spectacular means of advertising. It was put
conspicuously on the top of the first load of baggage that went to the hotel.
He always engaged at least four men to unload it from the truck. It was then
placed in a conspicuous position in the hotel lobby and invariably drew a
comment like this:
"Gee whiz! That Haverly show has got so much money that it is carrying a
safe to hold it."
This was precisely the response that Charles desired. No sooner was the
safe unloaded in the lobby than Charles approached it with great ceremony,
holding a bunch of one-dollar bills in his hand. This immediately attracted a
crowd. With an admiring gallery, he would stow away the money. Just as
soon as the crowd dispersed he would be back on the job removing this
"prop" capital to where it was needed.
He was always alert to publicity possibilities. Among other things he
organized a drum corps composed of volunteers who were only too glad to
serve him. He inspired this corps to such proficiency that its marching and
counter-marching became a feature of the parades. By diverting the drum
corps to one part of the town and the parade to another, having them unite

later on, he was able to attract two big street crowds and then bring them
together at a common point.
All the while the boy was growing in responsibility. Without a murmur he
assumed practically all the duties of manager. He arranged the parades,
visited the newspaper offices, devised new numbers for the company,
handled the money, and always remained serene, undisturbed, smiling, and
optimistic.
Now came evidence of his initiative. While his first desire was to build up
the attractiveness of his bill, he combined with it a genuine desire to
develop his associates. Frequently he would say to men like the three
Gorman brothers—George, James, and John—who were among his prime
pals in the company:
"Why don't you rehearse some new steps? I'll go on and watch you at
rehearsals and we can put it in the bill."
Out of such incidents as this came a dozen new features.

During this tour Charles displayed on many occasions what amounted to a
reckless disregard of danger. He had proved on the Dillon tour that he was
always willing to take a chance.
Once while climbing a steep incline on the way to Grass Valley in
California their special train stopped. When he asked what the trouble was
he was told that they would have to wait on a switch while another train
came down the single track. He was afraid he would miss the evening's
performance, so he asked the engineer if he could beat the down train to the
double track. On being told that there was a chance, he said:
"Take it and go as fast as you can." He made his town in time.
Again in Colorado his train was stopped by a slight fire on a bridge. He
urged the conductor to go across, and was so insistent that the man yielded,
and the train got over just before the flames leaped up and the structure
began to crackle.

What would have been an ordinary theatrical season waned. A minstrel
company, however, seldom closed for the summer, so the tour continued.
For the first time Charles Frohman crossed the continent. Despite its high-
sounding name and the glitter and splash that marked its spectacular
progress from place to place, the long trip of the Mastodons was not
without its hardships, for business was often bad. Nor did it lack interesting
episodes.
Once while making an over-Sunday jump from St. Paul to Omaha the
train broke down somewhere in Iowa, and at seven o'clock the company
was four hours from its destination. The house had been sold out. Charles
immediately began to send optimistic and encouraging telegrams.
"Hold the crowd," he wired. "We are on the way. Tell them we will give
them a double show."
From every station he sent on some cheering message. When the train was
half an hour from Omaha he sought out Sam Devere, the prize banjoist of
the company and a great fun-maker.
"Go into the baggage-car and black up," he said to Sam. "I want to rush
you on to the theater as soon as we get to town."
They reached Omaha at eleven-fifteen o'clock. Charles hustled Devere up
to the opera-house in a hack. The comedian went before the curtain and
entertained the audience until midnight. When the company arrived not
twenty people had left. The final curtain dropped at two-thirty o'clock
before a delighted but weary crowd. The telegrams from the treasurer which
were read to the audience had saved the day—and the receipts.
In the early stages of this long journey of the Mastodons came an episode
that made an indelible impress upon the memory of young Charles. In view
of the later history of the two actors in it, it is both picturesque and historic.
It was in Cleveland, and the day was hot. The Mastodons had just finished
their parade, and Charles, weary, perspiring, and wearing the abhorred silk
hat, entered the box-office of the Opera House on Cleveland Avenue.
Sitting in the treasurer's seat at the window he saw a sturdy lad fingering a

pile of silver dollars. He slipped them in and out with an amazing dexterity.
Hearing a noise, he looked up and beheld young Frohman with the tile tilted
back on his head.
The boys' eyes met. Into each came a wistful look.
"I wish I had that silk hat of yours," said the boy at the window.
"I wish I could do what you are doing with that money," was the response
from the envied one.
Such was the first meeting between Charles Frohman and A. L. Erlanger.
Here is another episode of those early days that resulted in a life-long and
significant friendship. In a Philadelphia newspaper office Charles met a
rangy, keen-eyed young man named Alf Hayman, who was advance-agent
for Mr. and Mrs. W. J. Florence. When Hayman and Charles had concluded
their business they started out for a walk. The Colonnade Hotel, at the
corner of Fifteenth and Chestnut streets, was then the fashionable hotel of
the city. In the course of this walk the two boys (they were each scarcely
twenty) stopped in front of the hostelry, and Charles said:
"Some day I hope to have enough money to stop at the Colonnade."
He never forgot this, and whenever he met Hayman in Philadelphia he
would always insist upon walking over to the hotel and recalling the
conversation. Hayman afterward became general manager of all the Charles
Frohman forces and remained until the end perhaps the closest of all the
business associates of the manager.

Thus passed the years 1878 and 1879. Charles was growing in authority
and experience until he was really doing all of "Big Bill" Foote's work and
his own. Now came a great and thrilling experience.
Haverly sent the Mastodons on their first trip to England, and Charles
naturally went along. It was the first of the many trips he was to make to the
country which in time he was to annex to his own amusement kingdom.

In July, 1880, the company sailed on the Canada, and their arrival in
London created a sensation. The men, headed by "Big Bill" Foote and
Charles Frohman—"The Long and the Short of It," as they were called—
marched with their hat-boxes to the old Helvetia Hotel in Soho.
Overnight their printing—the first colored paper ever used on an English
bill-board—was posted, and it startled the staid Londoners. It made them
realize that a wide-awake aggregation was in town. Charles knew that a real
opportunity confronted him, and he rose to the occasion.
The engagement opened on July 30th at Her Majesty's Theater. The sacred
precincts that Patti, Neilson, Gerster, and Campanini had adorned now
resounded with the jokes and rang with the old-time plantation melodies of
the American negro. The début was an enormous success and the prosperity
of the engagement was insured.
Before long came a request from the royal household to make ready the
royal box. The fun-loving Prince of Wales, afterward King Edward VII.,
wanted to see an American minstrel show.
But it was the wide-awake Charles who had started the machinery that led
to this royal dictate. He realized soon after his arrival how important a royal
visit would be. He got in touch with the right people, and the net result was
that on a certain night in December the red canopy and carpet that betoken
the royal visit were spread before Her Majesty's Theater.
By virtue of his rank "Big Bill" Foote should have received the royal party
on behalf of the company. But Foote fled from the responsibility, and
Charles, wearing his much-hated evening clothes and the equally despised
silk hat, did the honors. The royal party included Edward, his wife,
Alexandra (now the Queen Mother), his brother Clarence (now dead), and a
troop of royal children old enough to stay up late at nights.
With his usual foresight Frohman had prepared himself for all the
formalities that attended a royal visit to the theater. Among other things he
found out that precedent decreed that the entire performance must be
directed toward the royal box. With much effort he carefully impressed this
fact upon the company. He even had a rehearsal the morning of the royal

night and all eyes were ordered to be "dressed" toward the big, canopied
box.
But these well-laid plans miscarried, for this is what happened:
The curtain had risen on the assembled fun-makers; their swinging
opening chorus had given the show a rousing start, and the interlocutor had
said those well-known introductory minstrel words, "Gentlemen, be
seated." The royal party was well bestowed in its place and every gleaming
eyeball on the stage was centered on the glittering representatives of the
reigning house of Britain. Just at that moment a flutter ran through the
theater. The only remaining vacant box, and opposite to the one used by the
royal family, was suddenly occupied by the most entrancing and radiant
feminine vision that these American minstrels had ever seen. It was Lily
Langtry, then in the full tide of her marvelous beauty, and wearing an
extremely low-cut evening gown.
The Mastodons were only human. They had never beheld such loveliness,
to say nothing of a gown cut so low. They forgot all the careful coaching of
Frohman and fixed their eyes on the beauty-show in the box.
Charles stood anxiously in the back of the house, fearing that the royal
displeasure would be aroused. But his fears were groundless. The
hypnotized minstrels on the stage were only part of an admiring host that
had for its most distinguished head the Prince of Wales himself.
The "Forty—Count 'Em—Forty" now became the vogue in London.
Royalty had set the stamp of its approval, and aristocracy flocked. One
night in the momentary absence of the chief usher, Charles, who was
always on the job, escorted a distinguished group of nobility to a box. After
bowing them in a member of the party slipped a shilling into his hand,
which Frohman, of course, refused.
"Take it, you beggar," said the peer, with some irritation, throwing the
coin at him.
"Thank you, sir," responded Frohman, picking it up and slipping it into his
pocket. He kept it as a lucky-piece for twenty years, often telling the story

of how he got it.
On Christmas Day, 1880, came a concrete evidence of the affection in
which Charles was held by his minstrel colleagues. They assembled on the
stage of Her Majesty's Theater and presented him with a gold watch and
chain. The charm was a tiny reproduction of the famous safe that Charles
had introduced into the company, and which was his inseparable
companion. Charles never carried a watch, and this timepiece, together with
many other similar gifts, was put away among his treasures.
One day, accompanied by Robert Filkins, the advance-agent, Charles had
occasion to see Col. M. B. Leavitt, who was a notable theatrical figure of
the time, with extensive interests in this country and abroad. After Leavitt
had regaled the younger men with an account of his varied activities,
Charles suddenly exclaimed to him:
"Gee! But you've got London by the neck, haven't you?"
Many years later Leavitt again met Charles Frohman in London. The
encounter this time took place on the Strand, in front of the Savoy, where
Frohman was installed in his usual luxurious suite. He now controlled half a
dozen theaters in the British metropolis and he was a world theatrical
figure. Leavitt, whose memory is one of the wonders of the amusement
business, clapped the magnate on the shoulder and repeated the words
spoken to him so long ago:
"Gee! Frohman, you've got London by the neck, haven't you?"
After a tour of the provinces the company returned home and opened in
Brooklyn.

With the return to America came the first realization of one of Charles
Frohman's earlier dreams. "Big Bill" Foote, fascinated by the lure of
English life, bought a small hotel near London and settled down. This left
the managership of the company vacant. Although Charles had practically
done all the work for nearly a year, he was, so far as title was concerned,
treasurer.

Immediately there was a scramble for the position of manager. Among
those who sought it were Robert Filkins, William S. Strickland, and a
number of other mature and experienced men.
But when the company heard that an outsider sought the position to which
Charles was entitled there was great indignation. A meeting of protest,
instigated by the Gorman brothers and Eddie Quinn, was held on the stage
in Brooklyn, and a round-robin, signed by every member of the company,
was despatched to Jack Haverly, insisting that Charles Frohman be made
the manager.
A little later Charles walked back on the stage after the night's
performance and quietly remarked:
"Boys, I am your new manager."
A great shout of delight went up. The rosy, boyish youth (for he had
scarcely entered his twenties) was lifted to the shoulders of half a dozen
men and to the words of a favorite minstrel song, "Hear Those Bells," a
triumphant march was made around the stage. None of the many honors
that came to him in his later years touched him quite so deeply as that
affectionate demonstration.
It was now 1881, and once more the "Forty—Count 'Em—Forty" set forth
to rediscover America, with Charles Frohman as manager. His name now
appeared at the head of the bill, and to celebrate the great event Eddy
Brooke wrote a "Frohman March," which had a conspicuous place on the
program.
Strangely prophetic of the circumstances which brought about his
untimely death was an incident which occurred while the company was
going by boat from New York to New London. It was a bitter cold night
when the aggregation boarded the old John B. Starin. The decks were piled
with waste, cord, and jute for the New England mills.
"What a fine night for a fire on board!" remarked Frohman as he led his
"soldiers," as he always called the Mastodons, aboard. Everybody retired
early. At two o'clock in the morning there was great excitement. Men

rushed frantically about; there were calls for hose, and the Mastodons, most
of them clad in their night-clothes and trousers, rushed, frightened, on deck.
They found a fire raging aft.
Immediately panic reigned. The coolest man aboard was the smallest.
Here, there, and everywhere went Charles, urging everybody to be quiet.
"There is no danger," he said. "Let us all go in the cabin and wait."
Under his direction the passengers assembled in the water-soaked saloon
and there waited until the flames were subdued. Here was evidence of the
equanimity with which he faced disaster and which marked him on that ill-
starred day when he was plunged to his death in the Irish Sea.
On through the summer of 1881 the Mastodons went their way. Charles
was now able to watch the minstrel parade from the sidewalk, but he was
still the friend, philosopher, and guide of the company to which he was now
bound by nearly three years of constant association.
They played Washington during the Garfield inaugural week. Charles
realized that here was a great opportunity for spectacular publicity. First of
all he took his now famous band down to the Willard Hotel and serenaded
the new executive. A vast crowd gathered; the President-elect appeared at
the window, smiled and bowed, and then sent for the little manager, to
whom he expressed his personal thanks. Then a heaven-born opportunity
literally fell into his hands.
To the same hotel came the Massachusetts Phalanx, of Lowell, which had
secured a conspicuous place in the inaugural parade. Their arrangement
committee had seen the Haverly parade, and the members were so greatly
impressed with the band that they asked if its services could be secured.
"Certainly," said Frohman. "You can have not only the band, but the whole
company will escort you in the parade."
Thus it came about that the Haverly Mastodon Minstrels headed the third
division of the Garfield inaugural parade. Ever mindful and proud of his
men, Frohman, at his personal expense, bought a buttonhole bouquet for
every member for the occasion and fastened it on their coats himself. On

the sidewalk he followed with admiring eye and flushed face the progress
of his company.
By a curious coincidence the Haverly Mastodons played Washington
during the week of the Garfield funeral, and the band marched in the
funeral parade to the station, playing "Nearer, My God, to Thee."
A happier sequel of the inaugural episode came when the minstrels next
played Lowell, where they were received by the Phalanx in full uniform,
paraded through the town, with Charles marching proudly at the head. The
Phalanx was host at a banquet given at the armory after the performance.
The Mastodons were now making their way to the Pacific coast. At the
same time Gustave Frohman was in San Francisco with the Number One
"Hazel Kirke" Company, direct from the Madison Square Theater in New
York, which was playing at the California Theater.
One morning in May, 1881, he received the following telegram from
Charles, dated Salt Lake City:
Am stranded here with the "Big Forty." So is Frank Sanger with "A Bunch
of Keys." Theater management has failed to send railroad fares. Wire me
what you can. Will return amount out of receipts Bush Street Theater.
The manager of the Bush Street Theater, in San Francisco, had agreed to
provide railroad transportation for the company from Salt Lake City to San
Francisco and had not kept his agreement. The receipts in the former city
did not leave a sufficient surplus to negotiate this jump.
Gustave wired the needed cash, and Charles showed up on time in San
Francisco. For the second and only other time in his theatrical career
Charles was somewhat downcast. Despite his effective services during the
preceding years, Haverly had only raised his salary to twenty-five dollars a
week. The boy had handled hundreds of thousands of dollars and had
helped in no small way to give to the organization its prestige and its esprit
de corps. He was now, in the phraseology of his associates, "the whole
show." His word was law with the company, and the men adored him.

He met Gustave at the Palace Hotel and said to him, "I suppose the time
has come for me to quit Haverly."
"All right," said Gustave, still the good angel. "I'll put you out ahead of
our Number Two 'Hazel Kirke' Company at a salary of seventy-five dollars
a week. You can start out right away. What do you say?"
Charles thought a moment, and then said: "Well, Gus, it's pretty tough to
go ahead of a Number Two company even at seventy-five dollars a week
when you have been manager of Haverly's Mastodons. The money doesn't
mean anything to me. I like the minstrel boys and they like me."
He still hesitated and walked up and down the room two or three times, as
was his habit. Finally he came over to his brother and said, decisively:
"I'll take it."
During this memorable visit to San Francisco occurred another event that
had large influence on the whole future life of the young man. One night in
a famous ratheskeller on Kearney Street he saw an artistic-looking youth
with curly hair and dreamy eyes sitting in the midst of a group of actors.
This youth was David Belasco, who had passed from actor to author-stage-
manager and whose melodrama, "American Born," was running at the
Baldwin Theater. Frohman had seen this play and was much impressed with
it. Thrillers had interested him from the start.
Gustave, who was with Belasco, said to him: "There's my brother Charley.
You ought to know him."
Simultaneously Belasco was pointed out to Charles. They glanced up at
the same time, nodded smilingly across the space between, and later on
when they were introduced Charles expressed his great admiration for
"American Born." Belasco had just received the offer from Daniel Frohman
to come to the Madison Square Theater in New York as stage-manager.
Out of this contact came the association between Charles Frohman and
David Belasco that added much to their achievements.

Charles gave Haverly notice, and at Indianapolis he left the Mastodons.
He slipped away without farewells, and when his absence became known a
gloom settled down on the company. Unconsciously the rosy-cheeked boy
had become its inspiration. For weeks the performances lacked their
customary zip and enthusiasm.
His minstrel days over, save for two brief intervals, Charles was now
about to begin his connection with the Madison Square Theater. It was to
mark, because of the men with whom he now became associated and the
revolution in theatrical methods which he brought about, the first really
significant epoch in his crowded career.

IV

IN THE NEW YORK THEATRICAL WHIRLPOOL

W hen Charles Frohman went to the Madison Square Theater in
1881 the three Frohman brothers were literally installed for the
first time under the same managerial roof. From this hour on the
affairs of Charles were bound up in large theatrical conduct.
Since the Madison Square Theater thus becomes the background of his
real activities, the shell out of which he emerged as a full-fledged manager,
the institution, and its significance in dramatic history, are well worth
recording here.
The little Madison Square Theater, located back of the old Fifth Avenue
Hotel, on Twenty-fourth Street near Broadway, was established at a time
when a new force was hovering over the New York stage. This playhouse,
destined to figure so prominently in the fortunes of all the Frohmans, and
especially Charles, grew out of the somewhat radical convictions of Steele
Mackaye, one of the most brilliant and erratic characters of his time. He
was actor, lecturer, and playwright, and he taught the art of acting on lines
laid down by Delsarte. Dr. George Mallory, editor of The Churchman,

became interested in his views and regarded Mackaye as a man with a
distinct mission. He induced his brother, Marshall Mallory, to build the
Madison Square Theater.
Steele Mackaye was the first director, and, with the active co-operation of
the Mallorys, launched its career. Dr. Mallory believed that the drama
needed reform; that the way to reform it was to play reformed drama. So the
place was dedicated to healthy plays. "A wholesome place for wholesome
amusement" became the slogan. Contracts for plays were made only with
American authors. Here were produced the earlier triumphs of Steele
Mackaye, Bronson Howard, William Gillette, H. H. Boyessen, and Mrs.
Frances Hodgson Burnett. In this house, in "May Blossom," De Wolf
Hopper first appeared in a stock company, afterward going into musical
comedy. Among the actors seen on its boards during the Frohman régime
were Agnes Booth, Viola Allen, Effie Ellsler, Georgia Cayvan, Mrs.
Whiffen, Marie Burroughs, Annie Russell, George Clarke, Jeffreys Lewis,
C. W. Couldock, Thomas Whiffen, Dominick Murray, and Eben Plympton.
Rose Coghlan was also a member of the company, but had no opportunity
of playing.
The house had certain unique and attractive qualities. It had been
charmingly decorated by Louis C. Tiffany, and one of its principal features
was a double stage, which enabled the scenery for one act to be set while
another was being played before the audience. Thus long waits were
avoided.
The name of Frohman was associated with this theater from the very start,
because its first manager was Daniel Frohman. It opened in February, 1880,
with Steele Mackaye's play "Hazel Kirke," which was an instantaneous
success. The little theater, with its novel stage, intimate atmosphere,
admirable company, and a policy that was definite and original, became one
of the most popular in America. "Hazel Kirke" ran four hundred and eighty-
six nights in New York City without interruption, which was a record run up
to that time. In the original cast were Effie Ellsler, Eben Plympton, Mr. and
Mrs. Whiffen, and Charles W. Couldock.

The Madison Square Theater was also an important factor in New York
dramatic life and began to rival the prestige of the Wallack, Palmer, and
Daly institutions. Its fame, due to the record-breaking "Hazel Kirke"
success, became nation-wide.
Now began an activity under its auspices that established a whole new era
in the conduct of the theater. It was the dawn of a "big business"
development that sent the Madison Square successes throughout the
country, and Charles Frohman was one of its sponsors.
Gustave Frohman had been engaged as director of the traveling
companies. He engaged Charles as an associate. The work of the Frohmans
was carefully mapped out. It was Daniel's business to select the casts,
organize and rehearse the companies in New York; Gustave took general
charge of the road equipment; while Charles arranged and booked the road
tours.
It was after the phenomenal first season's run of "Hazel Kirke" that
Charles Frohman hung up his hat in the little "back office" of the Madison
Square Theater to begin the work that was to project his name and his
talents prominently for the first time. New York sizzled through the hottest
summer it had ever known; Garfield lay dying, and the whole country was
in a state of unrest. Charles sweltered in his little cubbyhole, but he was
enthusiastic and optimistic about his new job.
Gustave and Charles had complete charge of all the traveling companies
that developed out of the series of "runs" at the theater. They inaugurated a
whole new and brilliant theatrical activity in towns and cities removed from
theatrical centers, regarding which the other big managers in New York
were ignorant.
With the organization of these Madison Square companies the "Number
Two Company" idea was born. It was a distinct innovation. A play like
"Hazel Kirke," for example, was played by as many as five companies at
one time, each company being adjusted financially to the type of town to
which it was sent. "Hazel Kirke" appeared simultaneously in New York

City at three different theaters, each with a separate and distinct type of
audience.
Under the direction of Gustave and Charles, the outside business of the
Madison Square Theater spread so rapidly that in a short time fourteen road
companies carried the name of the establishment to all parts of the United
States. Despite their youth, the three Frohmans had had a very extensive
experience over the whole country.
In those days the booking of road attractions was not made through
syndicates. Applications for time had to be made individually to every
manager direct, even in the case of the most obscure one-night stand. The
big New York managers only concerned themselves with the larger cities in
which their companies made annual appearances. The smaller towns had to
trust to chance to get attractions outside the standard "road shows."
Charles realized this lack of booking facilities, and dedicated his talents
and experience to remedying it. His seasons on the road with John Dillon
and the Haverly Minstrels had equipped him admirably. He not only
displayed remarkable judgment in routing companies, but he was now able
to express his genius for publicity. He always believed in the value of big
printing.
"Give them pictures," he said.
He urged a liberal policy in this respect, and the Madison Square Theater
backed his judgment to the extent of more than one hundred thousand
dollars a year for picture posters and elaborate printing of all kinds. The
gospel of Madison Square Theater art and its enterprises was thus spread
broadcast, not with ordinary cheap-picture advertising, but with artistic
lithographs. In fact, here began the whole process of expensive and
elaborate bill-posting, and Charles Frohman was really the father of it.
Under his direction the first "flashlights" ever taken of a theatrical
company for advertising purposes were made at the Madison Square
Theater.

Charles was now director of nearly a score of agents who traveled about
with the various companies. He vitalized them with his enthusiasm. In order
to expedite their work, Charles and his brothers rented and furnished a large
house on Twenty-fourth Street near the theater. It was in reality a sort of
club, for a dining-room was maintained, and there were a number of
bedrooms. When the agents came to town they lodged here. Charles,
Gustave, and Daniel also had rooms in this house. A dressmaking
department was established on the premises where many of the costumes
for the road companies were made.
During these days Charles gave frequent evidence of his tact and
persuasiveness. Often when matters of policy had to be fixed and discussed,
the managers of out-of-town theaters would be called to New York. It was
Charles's business to take them in hand and straighten out their troubles.
They would leave, feeling that they had got the best "time" for their theaters
and that they had made a friend in the optimistic little man who was then
giving evidence of that uncanny instinct for road management that stood
him in such good stead later on.
With his usual energy Charles was interested in every phase of the
Madison Square Theater. Frequently, accompanied by Wesley Sisson, who
succeeded Daniel Frohman during the latter's occasional absences from the
theater, he would slip into the balcony and watch rehearsals. He sat with
one leg curled under him, following the scenes with keenest interest. More
than once his sharp, swift criticism helped to smooth away a rough spot.
He impressed his personality and capacity upon all who came in contact
with him. It was said of him then, as it was said later on, that he could sit in
his little office and make out a forty weeks' tour for a company without
recourse to a map. In fact, he carried the whole theatrical map of the
country under his hat.

In the strenuous life of those Madison Square days came some of Charles
Frohman's closest and longest friendships.
The first was with Marc Klaw. It grew out of play piracy, the inevitable
result of the theater's successes. Throughout the country local managers

began to steal the Madison Square plays and put them on with "fly-by-
night" companies. Since they were unable to get manuscripts of the play,
the pirates sent stenographers to the theater to copy the parts. These
stenographers had to sit in the dark and write surreptitiously. In many
instances, in order to keep the lines of their notes straight, they stretched
strings across their note-books.
Gustave Frohman happened to be in Louisville with the Number One
"Hazel Kirke" Company. He was looking about for a lawyer who could
investigate and prosecute the piracy of the Madison Square plays. He made
inquiry of John T. Macauley, manager of Macauley's Theater, who said:
"There's a young lawyer here named Marc Klaw who is itching to get into
the theatrical business. Why don't you give him a chance?"
Frohman immediately engaged Klaw to do some legal work for the
Madison Square Theater, and he successfully combated the play pirates in
the South. The copyright laws then were inadequate, however, and Klaw
was ordered to New York, where, after a short preliminary training, he was
sent out as manager of the Number Two "Hazel Kirke" Company of which
Charles Frohman was advance-agent. In this way the meeting between the
two men, each destined to wield far-flung theatrical authority, came about.
Charles resented going out with a "Number Two" Company, so to placate
his pride and to give distinction to the enterprise, Daniel put Georgia
Cayvan, leading lady of the Madison Square Theater, at the head of the cast.
There was good business method in putting out Miss Cayvan on this tour,
because she was a New-Englander, born at Bath, Maine, and Bath was
included in this tour. When Charles reached Bath ahead of the show he rode
on the front seat of the stage to the hotel. He told the driver that he was
coming with a big New York show, and said:
"I've got a big sensation for Bath."
"What's that?" said the driver.
"We have Miss Cayvan as the leading lady," answered Frohman.

"Miss Who?" asked the driver.
"Miss Cayvan—Miss Georgia Cayvan, leading woman of the Madison
Square Theater," answered Frohman, with a great flourish.
"Oh," replied the driver, "you mean our little Georgie. We heard tell that
she was acting on the stage, and now I guess some folks will be right smart
glad to see her."
Charles was so much interested in Miss Cayvan's appearance in her home
town that he came back and joined the company on its arrival and was
present at the station when Marc Klaw brought the company in.
Quite a delegation of home people were on hand to meet Miss Cayvan,
and she immediately assumed the haughty airs of a prima donna.
Charles was much amused, and decided to "take her down" in an amiable
way. So he stepped up to her with great solemnity, removed his hat, and
said, after the manner of his old minstrel days:
"Miss Cayvan, we parade at eleven."
Miss Cayvan saw the humor of the situation, took the hint, and got down
off her high horse. In the company with Miss Cayvan at that time were
Maude Stuart, Charles Wheatleigh, Frank Burbeck, W. H. Crompton, and
Mrs. E. L. Davenport, the mother of Fanny Davenport.

While Charles was impressing his personality and talents at the Madison
Square Theater and really finding himself for the first time, Gustave
Frohman met Jack Haverly on the street one day. The old magnate said,
with emphasis:
"Gus, I've got to have Charles back."
"You can't have him," said Gustave.
"But I must," said Haverly.

"Well, if you pay him one hundred and forty-six dollars a week (one
hundred and twenty-five dollars salary and twenty-one dollars for hotel
bills) you can have him for a limited time."
"All right," said Haverly.
Charles went back to the Mastodons, where he received a royal welcome.
But his heart had become attuned to the real theater—to the hum of its
shifting life, to the swift tumult of its tears and laughter. The excitement of
the drama, and all the speculation that it involved (and he was a born
speculator), were in his blood. He heeded the call and went back to the
Madison Square Theater.
But the minstrel field was to claim him again and for the last time.
Gustave conceived a plan to send the Callender Minstrels on a spectacular
tour across the continent. The nucleus of the old organization, headed by the
famous Billy Kersands, was playing in England under the name of
Haverly's European Minstrels, Haverly having acquired the company some
years before. Charles was sent over to get the pick of the Europeans for the
new aggregation. Accompanied by Howard Spear, he sailed on June 7,
1882, on the Wyoming.
He encountered some difficulty in getting the leading members, so with
characteristic enterprise he bought the whole company from Haverly and
brought it back to the United States, where it was put on the road as
Callender's Consolidated Spectacular Colored Minstrels. On all the bills
appeared the inscription "Gustave and Charles Frohman, Proprietors." As a
matter of fact, Charles had very little to do with the company, although he
made a number of its contracts. His financial interest was trivial. Gustave
used his name because Charles had been prominently associated with the
Mastodons and he had achieved some eminence as a minstrel promoter.
Having launched the Callender aggregation, he went on to Chicago, where
Gustave was putting on David Belasco's play "American Born," with the
author himself as producer. Charles joined his brother in promoting the
enterprise.

Now began the real friendship between Charles Frohman and David
Belasco. The chance contact in San Francisco a few years before was now
succeeded by a genuine introduction. The men took to each other
instinctively and with a profound understanding. They shared the same
room and had most of their meals together. Then, as throughout his whole
life, Charles consumed large portions of pie (principally apple, lemon
meringue, and pumpkin) and drank large quantities of lemonade or
sarsaparilla. One day while they were having lunch together Frohman said
to Belasco:
"You and I must do things together. I mean to have my own theater in
Broadway and you will write the plays for it."
"Very well," replied the ever-ready Belasco. "I will make a contract with
you now."
"There will never be need of a contract between us," replied Frohman,
who expressed then the conviction that guided him all the rest of his life
when he engaged the greatest stars in the world and spent millions on
productions without a scrap of paper to show for the negotiation.
Charles worked manfully for "American Born." It was in reality his first
intimate connection with a big production. At the outset his ingenuity saved
the enterprise from threatened destruction. Harry Petit, a local manager,
announced a rival melodrama called "Taken From Life" at McVicker's
Theater, and had set his opening date one night before the inaugural of
"American Born."
Charles scratched his head and said, "We must beat them to it."
He announced the "American Born" opening for a certain night and then
opened three nights earlier, which beat the opposition by one night.
Belasco's play was spectacular in character and included, among other
things, a realistic fire scene. When the time came for rehearsal the manager
of the theater said that it could not be done, because the fire laws would be
violated.
"I'll fix that," said Charles.

He went down to the City Hall, had a personal interview with the mayor,
and not only got permission for the scene, but a detail of real firemen to act
in it.
While in Chicago, Belasco accepted Daniel Frohman's offer to come to
New York as stage-manager of the Madison Square Theater. Charles and
Belasco came east together, and the intimacy of this trip tightened the bond
between them. The train that carried them was speeding each to a great
career.
With Belasco installed as stage-manager there began a daily contact
between the two. Belasco went to Frohman with all his troubles. In
Frohman's bedroom he wrote part of "May Blossom," in which he scored
his first original success at the Madison Square. Charles was enormously
interested in this play, and after it was finished carried a copy about in his
pocket, reading it or having it read wherever he thought it could find a
friendly ear.
So great was Belasco's gratitude that he gave Charles a half-interest in it,
which was probably the first ownership that Charles Frohman ever had in a
play.
During those days at the Madison Square, when both Frohman and
Belasco were seeing the vision of coming things, they often went at night to
O'Neil's Oyster House on Sixth Avenue near Twenty-second Street. The
day's work over, they had a bite of supper, in Frohman's case mostly pie and
sarsaparilla, and talked about the things they were going to do.
Charles Frohman's ambition for a New York theater obsessed him. One
night as they were walking up Broadway they passed the Fifth Avenue
Hotel. A big man in his shirt-sleeves sat tilted back in his chair in front of
the hotel. The two young men were just across the street from him.
Frohman stopped Belasco, pointed to the man, and said:
"David, there is John Stetson, manager of the Fifth Avenue Theater. Well,
some day I am going to be as big a man as he is and have my own theater
on Broadway."

Those were crowded days. Charles not only picked and "routed" the
companies, but he kept a watchful eye on them. This meant frequent
traveling. For months he lived in a suit-case. At noon he would say to his
stenographer, "We leave for Chicago this afternoon," and he was off in a
few hours. At that time "Hazel Kirke," "The Professor," "Esmeralda,"
"Young Mrs. Winthrop," and "May Blossom" were all being played by road
companies in various parts of the United States, and it was a tremendous
task to keep a watchful eye on them. It was his habit to go to a town where
a company was playing and not appear at the theater until the curtain had
risen. The company had no warning of his coming, and he could make a
good appraisal of their average work.
On one of the many trips that he made about this time he gave evidence of
his constant humor.
He went out to Columbus, Ohio, to see a "Hazel Kirke" company. He
arrived at the theater just before matinée, and as he started across the stage
he was met by a newly appointed stage-manager who was full of authority.
"Where are you going?" asked the man.
"To Mr. Hagan's dressing-room."
"I'll take the message," said the stage-director.
"No, I want to see him personally."
"But you can't. I am in charge behind the curtain."
Frohman left without a word, went out to the box-office and wrote a letter,
discharging the stage-director. Then he sat through the performance.
Directly the curtain fell the man came to him in a great state of mind.
"Why did you discharge me, Mr. Frohman?"
Frohman smiled and said: "Well, it was the only way that I could get back
to see my actors. If you will promise to be good I will re-engage you." And
he did.

It was on a trip of this same kind that Charles had one of his many narrow
escapes from death. During the spring of 1883 he went out to Ohio with
Daniel to visit some of the road companies. Daniel left him at Cleveland to
go over and see a performance of "The Professor" at Newcastle, while
Charles went on to join Gustave at Cincinnati.
Charles was accompanied by Frank Guthrie, who was a sort of
confidential secretary to all the Frohmans at the theater. Shortly before the
train reached Galion, Charles, who sat at the aisle, asked his companion to
change places. Ten minutes later the train was wrecked. Guthrie, who sat on
the aisle seat, was hurled through the window and instantly killed, while
Charles escaped unhurt.
Daniel heard of the wreck, rushed to the scene on a relief train, expecting
to find his brother dead, for there had been a report that he was killed.
Instead he found Charles bemoaning the death of his secretary.
A month afterward Charles and Marc Klaw were riding in the elevator at
the Monongahela House in Pittsburg when the cable broke and the car
dropped four stories. It had just been equipped with an air cushion, and the
men escaped without a scratch.

Along toward the middle of 1883 there were signs of a break at the
Madison Square Theater. Steele Mackaye had quarreled with the Mallorys
and had left, taking Gustave with him to launch the new Lyceum Theater on
Fourth Avenue and Twenty-third Street. Daniel was becoming ambitious to
strike out for himself, while Charles was chafing under the necessity of
being a subordinate. He yearned to be his own master. "I must have a New
York production," he said. The wish in his case meant the deed, for he now
set about to produce his first play.
Naturally, he turned to Belasco for advice and co-operation. Both were
still identified with the Madison Square Theater, which made their
negotiations easy.
In San Francisco Charles had seen a vivid melodrama called "The
Stranglers of Paris," which Belasco had written from Adolphe Belot's story

and produced with some success. Osmond Tearle, then leading man for
Lester Wallack and New York's leading matinée idol, had played in the West
the part of Jagon, who was physically one of the ugliest characters in the
play.
"'The Stranglers of Paris' is the play for me," said Frohman to Belasco.
"All right," said David; "you shall have it."
The original dramatization was a melodrama without a spark of humor. In
rewriting it for New York, Belasco injected considerable comedy here and
there.
Frohman, whose vision and ideas were always big, said:
"We've got to get a great cast. I will not be satisfied with anybody but
Tearle."
To secure Tearle, Frohman went to see Lester Wallack for the first time.
Wallack was then the enthroned theatrical king and one of the most
inaccessible of men. Frohman finally contrived to see him and made the
proposition for the release of Tearle. Ordinarily Wallack would have treated
such an offer with scorn. Frohman's convincing manner, however, led him
to explain, for he said:
"Mr. Tearle is the handsomest man in New York, and if I loaned him to
you to play the ugliest man ever put on the stage he would lose his drawing
power for me. I am sorry I can't accommodate you, Mr. Frohman. Come
and see me again."
Out of that meeting came a friendship with Lester Wallack that developed
large activities for Charles, as will be seen later on.
Unable to get Tearle, Belasco and Frohman secured Henry Lee, a brilliant
and dashing leading actor who had succeeded Eben Plympton in the cast of
"Hazel Kirke." The leading woman was Agnes Booth, a well-known stage
figure. She was the sister-in-law of Edwin Booth, and an actress of splendid
quality.

Unfortunately for him, the leading theaters were all occupied. There were
only a few playhouses in New York then, a mere handful compared with the
enormous number to-day. But a little thing like that did not disturb Charles
Frohman.
Up at the northwest corner of Thirty-fifth Street and Broadway was an old
barnlike structure that had been successively aquarium, menagerie, and
skating-rink. It had a roof and four walls and at one end there was a rude
stage.
One night at midnight Charles, accompanied by Belasco, went up to look
at the sorry spectacle. As a theater it was about the most unpromising
structure in New York.
"This is all I can get, David," said Charles, "and it must do."
"But, Charley, it is not a theater," said Belasco.
"Never mind," said Frohman. "I will have it made into one."
The old building was under the control of Hyde & Behman, who were
planning to convert it into a vaudeville house. Frohman went to see them
and persuaded them to turn it into a legitimate theater. Just about this time
the Booth Theater at Twenty-third Street and Sixth Avenue was about to be
torn down. Under Charles's prompting Hyde & Behman bought the inside
of that historic structure, proscenium arch, stage, boxes, and all, and
transported them to the Thirty-fifth Street barn. What had been a bare hall
became the New Park Theater, destined to go down in history as the
playhouse that witnessed many important productions, as well as the first
that Charles Frohman made on any stage. Years afterward this theater was
renamed the Herald Square.
Charles Frohman now had a play, a theater, and a cast. With characteristic
lavishness he said to Belasco:
"We must have the finest scenic production ever made in New York."
He had no capital, but he had no trouble in getting credit. Every one
seemed willing to help him. He got out handsome printing and advertised

extensively. He spared nothing in scenic effects, which were elaborate. He
devoted every spare moment to attending rehearsals.
Among the supernumeraries was a fat boy with a comical face. At one of
the rehearsals he sat in a boat and reached out for something. In doing this
he fell overboard. He fell so comically that Belasco made his fall a part of
the regular business. His ability got him a few lines, which were taken from
another actor. This fat-faced, comical boy was John Bunny, who became the
best-known moving-picture star in the United States, and who to the end of
his days never forgot that he appeared in Charles Frohman's first
production. He often spoke of it with pride.
The autumn of 1883 was a strenuous one, for Charles had staked a good
deal on "The Stranglers of Paris." Yet when the curtain rose on the evening
of November 10, 1883, he was the same smiling, eager, but imperturbable
boy who years before had uttered the wish that some day he would put on a
play himself in the great city. He now saw that dream come true. He was
just twenty-three.
"The Stranglers of Paris" made quite a sensation. The scenic effects were
highly praised, and especially the ship scene, which showed convicts in
their cages, their revolt, the sinking of the vessel, Jagon's struggle in the
water, his escape from death, and his dramatic appeal to Heaven. Lee scored
a great success and dated his popularity from this appearance.
Many of the lines in the piece were widely quoted, one of them in
particular. It was in substance, "Money has power to open prison gates, and
no questions asked."
It was the time of sensational graft revelations, and theater-goers thought
that it fitted the New York situation.

VIOLA ALLEN

"The Stranglers of Paris" ran at the New Park Theater until December 9,
when it was taken on the road. It continued on tour for a considerable
period, playing most of the principal cities of the East, but the production
was so expensive that it made no money. In fact, Charles lost on the
enterprise, but it did not in the least dash his spirits. He was supremely
content because at last he had produced a play.

"The Stranglers of Paris" filled the budding manager with a renewed zeal
to be a producer. He was still enthusiastic about the melodrama, so he
secured a vivid piece by R. G. Morris, a New York newspaper man, called
"The Pulse of New York," which he produced at the Star Theater, Thirteenth
Street and Broadway, which had been originally Wallack's Theater.
In the cast was a handsome, painstaking young woman named Viola
Allen, whom Charles had singled out because of her admirable work in a
play that he had seen, and who was headed for a big place in the annals of
the American theater. The youthful manager encouraged her and did much
to aid her progress.
Others in the cast were Caroline Hill, A. S. Lipman, Edward S. Coleman,
L. F. Massen, Frank Lane, Henry Tarbon, W. L. Denison, George Clarke, H.
D. Clifton, Ada Deaves, Max Freeman, Edward Pancoast, Frank Green,
Gerald Eyre, Nick Long, Frederick Barry, Oscar Todd, John March, Charles
Frew, Richard Fox, James Maxwell, J. C. Arnold, Stanley Macy, Lida Lacy,
George Mathews, and William Rose.
"The Pulse of New York" was produced May 10, 1884, but ran only three
weeks. Once more Charles faced a loss, but he met this as he met the
misfortunes of later years, with smiling equanimity.
Now came a characteristic act. He was still in the employ of the Madison
Square Theater and had a guarantee of one hundred dollars a week.
Although he had devoted considerable time to his two previous productions,
he was an invaluable asset to the establishment. He now felt that the time

had come for him to choose between remaining at the Madison Square
under a guarantee and striking out for himself on the precarious sea of
independent theatrical management. He chose the latter, and launched a
third enterprise.
In his wanderings about New York theaters Charles saw a serious-eyed
young actress named Minnie Maddern. He said to Daniel:
"I have great confidence in that young woman. Will you help me put her
out in a piece?"
"All right," replied his brother.
The net result was Miss Maddern in "Caprice."
In view of subsequent stage history this company was somewhat historic.
Miss Maddern's salary was seventy-five dollars a week. Her leading man,
who had been a general-utility actor at the Lyceum, and who also received
seventy-five dollars a week, was Henry Miller. A handsome young lad
named Cyril Scott played a very small part and got fifteen dollars a week.
The total week's salary of the company amounted to only six hundred and
ninety dollars.
"Caprice" opened at Indianapolis November 6, 1884, and subsequently
played Chicago, St. Louis, Evansville, Dayton, and Baltimore, with a week
at the Grand Opera House in New York, where its season closed. It made no
money, but it did a great deal toward advancing the career of Miss
Maddern, who afterward became known to millions of theater-goers as Mrs.
Fiske.
Charles had now made three productions on his own hook and began to
impress his courage and his personality on the theatrical world. He had
definitely committed himself to a career of independent management, and
from this time on he went it alone.

V

Booking-Agent and Broadway Producer

T he season of 1883-84 had seen Charles Frohman launched as
independent manager. He had at its conclusion cut his managerial
teeth on the last of three productions which, while not financially
successful, had shown the remarkable quality of his ability. People now
began to talk about the nervy, energetic young man who could go from
failure to failure with a smile on his face. It is a tradition in theatrical
management that successful starts almost invariably mean disastrous
finishes. An auspicious beginning usually leads to extravagance and lack of
balance. Failure at the outset provokes caution. Charles, therefore, had
enough early hard jolts to make him careful.
He always admired big names. Thus it came about that his next venture
was associated with a name and a prestige that meant much and, later on,
cost much. Just about that time he met a handsome young English actor
named E. H. Sothern, who had come to this country with his sister and who
had appeared for a short time with John McCullough, the tragedian. Sothern
had returned to New York and was looking for an engagement.
In those days actors usually secured engagements by running down
rumors of productions that were afloat on the Rialto. In this way Sothern
heard that Charles Frohman was about to send out an English play called
"Nita's First," which had been produced at Wallack's Theater. Sothern called
on Frohman and asked to be engaged.
"What salary do you want?" asked Frohman.
Sothern said he wanted fifty dollars.
"All right," said Frohman. "The part is worth seventy-five dollars, and I'll
pay it."
Twenty years later the manager paid this same actor a salary of one
hundred thousand dollars for a season of forty weeks in Shakespearian
rôles.

"Nita's First," however, ran for only two weeks on the road, and Charles
ended the engagement. The reason was that he had conceived what he
considered a brilliant idea.
Lester Wallack and the Wallack Theater Company almost dominated the
New York dramatic situation. The company, headed by Wallack himself,
included Rose Coghlan, Osmond Tearle, John Gilbert, and a whole galaxy
of brilliant people. The Wallack Theater plays were the talk of the town.
Frohman had an inspiration which he communicated one day to Lester
Wallack's son, Arthur, whom he knew. To Arthur he said:
"What do you think about my taking the Wallack successes out on the
road? It is a shame not to capitalize the popular interest in them while it is
hot. Look at what the Madison Square Theater has been doing. Will you
speak to your father about it?"
Arthur spoke to his father, who was not averse to the idea, and Charles
was bidden to the great presence. He had met Lester Wallack before when
he tried to engage Osmond Tearle for "The Stranglers of Paris." Now came
the real meeting. After Frohman had stated his case with all his persuasion,
he added:
"I am sure I can make you rich. You have overlooked a great chance to
make money."
Lester Wallack said, "It is a good idea, Mr. Frohman, but your company
must reflect credit upon the theater, and your leading woman must be of the
same type as my leading woman, Rose Coghlan."
Charles immediately said, "The company shall be worthy of you and the
name it bears."
Lester Wallack agreed to rehearse the company and to permit his name to
be used in connection with it. After Charles left, Lester Wallack said to his
son:
"Watch that young man, Arthur. He is going to make his mark."

Arthur Wallack was about to take a trip to England, and Charles
commissioned him to engage the leading people. He therefore engaged
Sophie Eyre, who had been leading woman at the Drury Lane Theater, and
W. H. Denny.
Charles himself selected the remaining members of the company, who
were Newton Gotthold; C. B. Wells; Charles Wheatleigh; Max Freeman;
Rowland Buckstone; Henry Talbot; Sam Dubois; George Clarke; Fred
Corbett; Louise Dillon, who had been with him in the precarious Stoddart
Comedy days; Kate Denin Wilson; Agnes Elliot; and Grace Wilson.
At the time he engaged the Wallack Theater Company Charles had no
office. He was then living at the Coleman House on Broadway, just
opposite the then celebrated Gilsey House. Most of the engagements were
made as he sat in a big leather chair in the lobby, with one foot thrown over
an arm of it.
The principal capital that Charles had for this venture was five thousand
dollars put up by Daniel J. Bernstein, who became treasurer of the
company. Alf Hayman, whom Frohman had met in Philadelphia, was
engaged as advance-agent.
It was a courageous undertaking even for a seasoned and well-financed
theatrical veteran. Although Lester Wallack was well known, his theater and
its successes were not familiar to the great mass of people outside New
York. In those days theatrical publicity was not as widespread as now. No
wonder, then, that the daring of a young manager of twenty-five in taking
out a company whose weekly salary list was nearly thirteen hundred dollars
was commented on.
Charles called his aggregation the Wallack Theater Company. The
repertoire consisted mainly of "Victor Durand," a play by Henry Guy
Carleton which had been produced at Wallack's on December 13, 1884.
Subsequently the company also played "Moths," "Lady Clare,"
"Diplomacy," and Belasco's "La Belle Russe."
This tour, which was to write itself indelibly on the career of Charles
Frohman, began in Chicago and was continued through the South to New

Orleans, where a stay of six weeks was made at the St. Charles Theater.
Belasco joined them here for a week to put on "The World," which had been
produced at Wallack's a short time before.
In New Orleans occurred one of those encounters in Charles Frohman's
life that led to life-long friendship. Two years before, while playing a
Madison Square company at one of the theaters in St. Louis, he had met a
bright young man in the box-office named Augustus Thomas. Thomas was
then a newspaper man and was beginning to write plays. He told Charles
that he had just made a short play out of Frances Hodgson Burnett's story,
"Editha's Burglar."
In New Orleans Charles discovered that young Thomas was playing in his
own play at a near-by theater and went over to see him. After the
performance he visited him in his dressing-room, renewed his acquaintance,
and said to him with the optimism of youth:
"Mr. Thomas, I hope that some day you will write a play for me."

The company now made a tour of Texas, where the troubles began.
Business declined, but Frohman succeeded in landing the company in
Chicago after a series of misfortunes. Here Sophie Eyre retired and was
succeeded by Louise Dillon as leading woman. Charles, of course, had no
money with which to buy costumes, so she pawned her jewels and used the
proceeds. Sadie Bigelow took her place as ingénue.
Charles now started his famous tour of the Northwest which rivaled the
Stoddart days in hardship and in humor. The Northern Pacific Railroad had
just been opened to the coast, and Charles followed the new route. A series
of tragic, dramatic, and comic experiences began. The tour was through the
heart of the old cow country. One night, when the train was stalled by the
wrecking of a bridge near Miles City, Montana, a group of cowboys started
to "shoot up" the train. Frohman, with ready resource, singled out the leader
and said:
"We've got a theatrical company here and we will give you a
performance."

He got Rowland Buckstone to stand out on the prairie and recite "The
Smuggler's Life," "The Execution," and "The Sanguinary Pirate" by the
light of a big bonfire which was built while the show was going on. This
tickled the cowboys and brought salvos of shots and shouts of laughter.
At Miles City occurred what might have been a serious episode. When the
company reached the hotel at about eleven in the morning Charles
Wheatleigh, the "first old man," asked the hotel-keeper what time breakfast
was served. When he replied "Eight-thirty o'clock," Wheatleigh pounded
the desk and said:
"That is for farmers. When do artists eat?"
The clerk was a typical Westerner, and thought this was an insult. He
made a lunge for Wheatleigh, when Frohman stepped in and settled the
difficulty in his usual suave and smiling way.
At Butte came another characteristic example of the Frohman enterprise
and resource. It was necessary at all hazards to get an audience. When
Charles got there he found that the wife of the leading gambler had died. He
expressed so much sympathy for the bereaved man that he was made a pall-
bearer, and this act created such an impression on the townspeople that they
flocked to the theater at night.
At Missoula, Montana, Charles went out ahead of the show for a week.
Approaching the treasurer at the box-office, he said:
"Will you please let me have a hundred dollars on account of the show?"
"I can't," replied the man. "We haven't sold a single seat for any of your
performances."
Frohman thought a moment and walked out of the lobby. All afternoon
orders for seats began to come in to the box-office. Late in the afternoon,
when Frohman got back, the agent smiled and said:
"Mr. Frohman, I can let you have that hundred dollars now. We are
beginning to have quite an advance sale."

Frohman had gone down-town and sent in the orders for the seats himself.
He used fictitious names.
Now began a summer of hardships. With the utmost difficulty the
company got to Portland, Oregon, where Charles established a sort of
headquarters. From this point he sent the company on short tours. But
business continued to be bad.
He started a series of "farewell" performances, as he did in Texas, and
placarded the city with the bills announcing "positively" closing
performances. These bills were typical of the publicity talents of Charles
Frohman. He headed them "Good-by Engagements," and added the words,
"A Long, Lingering Farewell." Under "Favorites' Farewell" he printed the
names of the members of the company with the titles or parts in which they
were known. "Good-by, Louise Dillon, our Esmeralda"; "Good-by, Kate
Denin Wilson, Pretty Lady Dolly"; "Good-by, Charles B. Wells, Faithful
Dave Hardy"; "Good-by, Rowland Buckstone, Some Other Man"—were
typical illustrations of his attempt to make a strong appeal for business.
Actual money in the company was a novelty. Bernstein's five thousand
dollars had long since vanished. When a member of the company wanted
some cash it had to be extracted from the treasurer in one-dollar
instalments.
Despite the hardships, the utmost good humor and feeling prevailed. Most
of the members of the company were young; there was no bickering. They
knew that Frohman's struggle was with and for them. They called him "The
Governor," and he always referred to them as his "nice little company." All
looked forward confidently to better days, and in this belief they were
supported and inspired by the cheery philosophy of the manager.
Charles's resource was tested daily. He had booked a near-by town for fair
week, which always meant good business. At last he had money in sight.
The local manager, however, insisted upon a great display of fancy printing.
Charles was in a dilemma because he owed his printer a big bill and he had
no more lithographs on hand. A friend who was in advance of William
Gillette's play, "The Private Secretary," came along with a lot of his own

paper. Charles borrowed a quantity of it and also from the "Whose Baby
Are You?" company, covered over these two titles with slips containing the
words "Lady Clare," the piece he was going to present. He billed the town
with great success and was able to keep going.
During the Portland sojourn Charles sent the company on to Salem,
Oregon. While there, six members had their photographs taken with a
disconsolate look on their faces and with Buckstone holding a dollar in his
hand. They sent the picture to Frohman with the inscription:
"From your nice little company waiting for its salary."
At Portland, Oregon, A. D. Charlton, who was passenger agent of the
Northern Pacific Railroad, and who had been of great service to Charles in
extricating him from various financial difficulties, said to him one day:
"Frohman, I want you to meet a very promising little actress who is out
here with her mother."
Frohman said he would be glad, and, accompanying Charlton to his office,
was introduced to Annie Adams, a well-known actress from Salt Lake City,
and her wistful-eyed little daughter, Maude. They were both members of the
John McGuire Company. This was Charles Frohman's first meeting with
Maude Adams.
At Portland Frohman added "Two Orphans" and "Esmeralda" to the
company's repertoire. But it barely got them out of town at the really and
truly "farewell."

Now began a return journey from Portland that was even more precarious
than the trip out. Baggage had to be sacrificed; there was scarcely any
scenery. One "back drop" showing the interior of a cathedral was used for
every kind of scene, from a gambling-house to a ball-room. To the financial
hardship of the homeward trip was added real physical trial. Frohman
showed in towns wherever there was the least prospect of any kind of a
house. The company therefore played in skating-rinks, school-houses, even
barns. In some places the members of the company had to take the oil-

lamps that served as footlights back in the makeshift dressing-rooms while
they dressed.
At Bozeman, Montana, occurred an incident which showed both the
humor and the precariousness of the situation. Frohman assembled the
company in the waiting-room of the station and, stepping up to the ticket-
office, laid down one hundred and thirty dollars in cash.
"Where do you want to go?" asked the agent.
Shoving the money at him, Frohman said, "How far will this take us?"
The agent looked out of the window, counted up the company, and said,
"To Billings."
Turning to the company, Frohman said, with a smile, "Ladies and
gentlemen, we play Billings next."
Just then he received a telegram from Alf Hayman, who was on ahead of
the company:
What town shall I bill?
Frohman wired back:
Bill Billings.
Hayman again wired:
Have no printing and can get no credit. What shall I do?
Frohman's resource came into stead, for he telegraphed:
Notify theaters that we are a high-class company from Wallack's Theater
in New York and use no ordinary printing. We employ only newspapers and
dodgers.
At Missoula, Montana, on their way back, a member of the company
became dissatisfied and stood with his associates at the station where two
trains met, one for the east and one for the west. As the train for the east

slowed up the actor rushed toward it and, calling to the members of the
company, said:
"I am leaving you for good. You'll never get anywhere with Frohman."
The company, however, elected to stay with Frohman. In later years this
actor fell into hardship. Frohman singled him out, and from that time on
until Frohman's death he had a good engagement every year in a Frohman
company.
At Bismarck, North Dakota, the company gave "Moths." In this play the
spurned hero, a singer, has a line which reads, "There are many marquises,
but very few tenors."
Money had been so scarce for months that this remark was the last straw,
so the company burst into laughter, and the performance was nearly broken
up. Frohman, who stood in the back of the house, enjoyed it as much as the
rest.
Through all these hardships Frohman remained serene and smiling. His
unfailing optimism tided over the dark days. The end came at Winona,
Minnesota. The company had sacrificed everything it could possibly
sacrifice. Frohman borrowed a considerable sum from the railroad agent to
go to Chicago, where he obtained six hundred dollars from Frank Sanger.
With this he paid the friendly agent and brought the company back to New
York.
Even the last lap of this disastrous journey was not without its humor. The
men were all assembled in the smoking-car on the way from Albany to New
York. Frohman for once sat silent. When somebody asked him why he
looked so glum, he said, "I'm thinking of what I have got to face to-
morrow."
Up spoke Wheatleigh, whose marital troubles were well known. He
slapped Frohman on the back and said:
"Charley, your troubles are slight. Think of me. I've got to face my wife
to-morrow."

It was characteristic of Frohman's high sense of integrity that he gave his
personal note to each member of the company for back salary in full, and
before five years passed had discharged every debt.

On arriving in New York Charles had less than a dollar in his pocket, his
clothes were worn, and he looked generally much the worse for wear. On
the street he met Belasco. They pooled their finances and went to
"Beefsteak John's," where they had a supper of kidney stew, pie, and tea.
They renewed the old experiences at O'Neil's restaurant and talked about
what they were going to do.
The next day Frohman was standing speculatively in front of the Coleman
House when he met Jack Rickaby, a noted theatrical figure of the time.
Rickaby slapped the young man on the back and said:
"Frohman, I am glad you have had a good season. You're going to be a big
man in this profession."
He shook Frohman's hand warmly and walked away.
It was the first cheering word that Frohman had heard. The news of his
disastrous trip had not become known. Always proud, he was glad of it.
After Rickaby had shaken his hand he felt something in it, and on looking
he saw that the big-hearted manager had placed a hundred-dollar bill there.
Rickaby had known all along the story of the Wallack tour hardships, and it
was his way of expressing sympathy. Frohman afterward said it was the
most touching moment in his life. Speaking of this once, he said:
"That hundred-dollar bill looked bigger than any sum of money I have
ever had since."

It was late in 1885 when Charles returned from the disastrous Wallack's
Theater tour, bankrupt in finance but almost over-capitalized in courage and
plans for the future. Up to that time he had no regular office. Like many of
the managers of the day, his office was in his hat. Now, for the first time, he
set up an establishment of his own. It required no capital to embark in the

booking business in those days. Nerve and resiliency were the two principal
requisites.
The first Frohman offices were at 1215 Broadway, in the same building
that housed Daly's Theater. In two small rooms on the second floor Charles
Frohman laid the corner-stone of what in later years became a chain of
offices and interests that reached wherever the English language was
spoken on the stage. The interesting contrast here was that while Augustin
Daly, then in the heyday of his great success, was creating theatrical history
on the stage below him, Charles Frohman was beginning his real
managerial career up-stairs.
Frohman's first associate was W. W. Randall, a San Francisco newspaper
man whom he had met in the Haverly's Minstrel days, in the mean time
manager of "The Private Secretary" and several of the Madison Square
companies on the road. He was alert and aggressive and knew the technique
of the theatrical business.
Charles Frohman's policy was always pretentious, so he set up two distinct
firms. One was the "Randall's Theatrical Bureau, Charles Frohman and W.
W. Randall, Managers," which was under Randall's direction and which
booked attractions for theaters throughout the country on a fee basis. The
other was called "Frohman & Randall, General Theatrical Managers." Its
function was to produce plays and was directly under Charles's supervision.
The two firm names were emblazoned on the door and business was started.
Their first employee was Julius Cahn.
These offices have an historic interest aside from the fact that they were
the first to be occupied by Charles Frohman. Out of them grew really the
whole modern system of booking attractions. Up to that era theatrical
booking methods were different from those of the present time; there were
no great centralized agencies to book attractions for strings of theaters
covering the entire country. Union Square was the Rialto, the heart and
center of the booking business. The out-of-town manager came there to fill
his time for the season. Much of the booking was done in a haphazard way
on the sidewalk, and whole seasons were booked on the curb, merely noted
in pocket note-books. Two methods of booking were then in vogue: one by

the manager of a company who wrote from New York to the towns for time;
the other through an agent of out-of-town house managers located in New
York. It was this latter system that Frohman and Randall began to develop
in a scientific fashion. Charles's extensive experience on the road and his
knowledge of the theatrical status of the different towns made him a
valuable agent.
Frohman and Randall at that time practically had the field to themselves.
Brooks & Dickson, an older firm which included the well-known Joseph
Brooks of later managerial fame, had conducted the first booking-office of
any consequence, but had now retired. H. S. Taylor had just established on
Fourteenth Street Taylor's Theatrical Exchange, destined to figure in
theatrical history as the forerunner of the Klaw & Erlanger business.
Despite the high-sounding titles on the door, the Frohman offices were
unpretentious. Frohman and Randall had a desk apiece, and there was a
second-hand iron safe in the corner. When Frohman was asked, one day
soon after the shingle had been hung out, what the safe was for, he replied,
with his characteristic humor:
"We keep the coal-scuttle in it."
As a matter of fact there was more truth than poetry in this remark,
because the office assets were so low that during the winter the firm had to
burn gas all day to keep warm. When asked the reason for this, Frohman
said, jocularly:
"We can get more credit if we use gas, because the gas bill has to be paid
only once a month. Coal is cash."
Indeed, the office was so cold during that season that it came to be known
in the profession as the "Cave of the Winds," and this title was no reflection
on the vocal qualities of the proprietors.
It was during those early and precarious days when Frohman was still
saddled with the debts of the Wallack's tour that one of the most amusing
incidents of his life happened. One morning he was served with the notice
of a supplementary proceeding which had been instituted against him. He

was always afraid of the courts, and he was much alarmed. He rushed
across the street to the Gilsey House and consulted Henry E. Dixey, the
actor, who was living there. Dixey's advice was to get a lawyer. Together
they returned to the Daly's Theater Building, where Frohman knew a lawyer
was installed on the top floor. They found the lawyer blacking that portion
of his white socks that appeared through the holes in his shoes.
Frohman stated his case, which the lawyer accepted. He then demanded a
two-dollar fee. Frohman had only one dollar in his pocket and borrowed the
other dollar from Dixey.
"This money," said the lawyer, "is to be paid into the court. How about my
fee?"
Frohman fumbled in his pocket and produced a ten-cent piece. He handed
it to the lawyer, saying: "I will pay you later on. Here is your car-fare. Be
sure to get to court before it opens."
Frohman and Dixey left. Frohman was much agitated. They walked
around the block several times. When he heard the clock strike ten he said
to Dixey:
"Now the lawyer is in the court-room and the matter is being settled." In
his expansive relief he said: "I have credit at Browne's Chop House. Let us
go over and have breakfast."
At the restaurant they ordered a modest meal. As Frohman looked up from
his table he saw a man sitting directly opposite whose face was hid behind a
newspaper. In front of him was a pile of wheat-cakes about a foot high.
"Gee whiz!" said Frohman. "I wish I had enough money to buy a stack of
wheat-cakes that high."
As he said this to Dixey the man opposite happened to lower his paper and
revealed himself to be the lawyer Frohman had just engaged. He was
having a breakfast spree himself with the two dollars extracted from his two
recent clients.

Business began to pick up with the new year. The first, and what afterward
proved to be the most profitable, clients of the booking-office were the
Baldwin and California theaters in San Francisco. They were dominated by
Al Hayman, brother of Alf, a man who now came intimately into Charles
Frohman's life and remained so until the end. He was a Philadelphian who
had conducted various traveling theatrical enterprises in Australia and had
met Frohman for the first time in London when the latter went over with the
Haverly Mastodons. Hayman admired Frohman very much and soon made
him general Eastern representative of all his extensive Pacific coast
interests.
Hayman was developing into a magnate of importance. With his
assistance Charles was able to book a company all the way from New York
to San Francisco. Charles made himself responsible for the time between
New York and Kansas City, while Hayman would guarantee the company's
time from Kansas City or Omaha to the coast.
Frohman and Randall made a good team, and they soon acquired a chain
of more than three hundred theaters, ranging from music-halls in small
towns that booked the ten-twenty-thirty-cent dramas up to the palatial
houses like Hooley's in Chicago, the Hollis in Boston, and the Baldwin in
San Francisco.
It was a happy-go-lucky time. If Frohman had ten dollars in his pocket to
spare he considered himself rich. Money then, as always, meant very little
to him. It came and went easily.

While the booking business waxed in volume the production end of the
establishment did not fare so well. Charles had this activity of the office as
his particular domain, and with the instinct of the plunger now began to put
on plays right and left.
Just before the association with Randall, Frohman had become manager of
Neil Burgess, the actor, and had booked him for a tour in a play called
"Vim." A disagreement followed, and Frohman turned him over to George
W. Lederer, who took the play out to the coast.

A year after this episode came the first of the many opportunities for
fortune that Charles Frohman turned down in the course of his eventful life.
This is the way it happened:
Burgess, who was quite an inventive person, had patented the treadmill
mechanism to represent horse-racing on the stage, a device which was
afterward used with such great effect in "Ben-Hur." He was so much
impressed with it that he had a play written around it called "The County
Fair."
Burgess, who liked Frohman immensely, tried to get him to take charge of
this piece, but Frohman would not listen to the proposition about the
mechanical device. He was unhappy over his experience about "Vim," and
whenever Burgess tried to talk "The County Fair" and its machine Frohman
would put him off.
Burgess finally went elsewhere, and, as most people know, "The County
Fair" almost rivaled "The Old Homestead" in money-making ability. The
horse-racing scene became the most-talked-of episode on the stage at the
time, and Burgess cleared more than a quarter of a million dollars out of the
enterprise. Charles Frohman afterward admitted that his prejudice against
Burgess and his machine had cost his office at least one hundred thousand
dollars.

Frohman and Randall now launched an important venture. McKee Rankin,
who was one of the best-known players of the time, induced them to
become his managers in a piece called "The Golden Giant," by Clay M.
Greene. Charles, however, agreed to the proposition on the condition that
Rankin would put his wife, Kitty Blanchard, in the cast. They had been
estranged, and Frohman, with his natural shrewdness, believed that the
stage reunion of Mr. and Mrs. McKee Rankin would be a great drawing-
card for the play. Rankin made the arrangements, and the Fifth Avenue
Theater was booked for two weeks, commencing Easter Monday, 1886.
The theater was then under the management of John Stetson, of Boston,
and both Frohman and Rankin looked forward to doing a great business. In
this cast Robert Hilliard, who had been a clever amateur actor in Brooklyn,

made his first professional appearance. Charles supervised the rehearsals
and had rosy visions of a big success. At four o'clock, however, on the
afternoon of the opening night, Charles went to the box-office and
discovered the advance sale had been only one hundred dollars.
"I tell you what to do, Randall," quickly thought out Frohman, "if Stetson
will stand for it we will paper the house to the doors. We must open to a
capacity audience."
When Frohman put the matter before Stetson he said he did not believe in
"second-hand reconciliations," but assented to the plan. Frohman gave
Randall six hundred seats, and the latter put them into good hands. The
première of "The Golden Giant," to all intents and purposes, took place
before a crowded and paying house. In reality there was exactly two
hundred and eighty-eight dollars in the box-office. Business picked up,
however, and the two weeks' engagement proved prosperous. The play
failed on the road, however, and the Frohman offices lost over five
thousand dollars on the venture. Rankin had agreed to pay Frohman forty
per cent. of the losses. That agreement remained in force all his life, for it
was never paid.
In Charles's next venture he launched his first star. Curiously enough, the
star was Tony Hart, a member of the famous Irish team of Harrigan and
Hart, who had delighted the boyhood of Frohman when he used to slip
away on Saturday nights and revel in a show.
Tony Hart, during the interim, had separated from Harrigan, and in some
way Charles obtained the manuscript of a farce-comedy by William Gill
called "A Toy Pistol."
Charles had never lost his admiration for Hart, and when he saw that the
leading character had to impersonate an Italian, a young Hebrew, an
Irishwoman, and a Chinaman, Frohman said, "Tony Hart is the very
person."
Accordingly, he engaged Hart and a company which included J. B.
Mackey, F. R. Jackson, T. J. Cronin, D. G. Longworth, Annie Adams, Annie

Alliston, Mattie Ferguson, Bertie Amberg, Eva Grenville, Vera Wilson,
Minnie Williams, and Lena Merville.
This production had an influence on Charles Frohman's life far greater
than the association with his first star, for Annie Adams now began a more
or less continuous connection with Charles Frohman's companies. Her
daughter, the little girl whom Charles had met casually years before, was
now about to make her first New York appearance as member of a traveling
company in "The Paymaster." Already the energetic mother was
importuning Charles to engage the daughter. His answer was, "I'll give her a
chance as soon as I can." He little dreamed that this wisp of a girl was to
become in later years his most profitable and best-known star.
Charles was, of course, keenly interested in "A Toy Pistol." He conducted
the rehearsals, and on February 20, 1886, produced it at what was then
called the New York Comedy Theater. It failed, however. The New York
Comedy Theater was originally a large billiard-hall in the Gilsey Building,
on Broadway between Twenty-eighth and Twenty-ninth streets, and had
been first named the San Francisco Minstrel Hall. It became successively
Haverly's Comedy Theater and the New York Comedy Theater.
Subsequently, it was known as Hermann's Theater, and was the scene of
many of the earlier Charles Frohman productions.

Charles now became immersed in productions. About this time Archibald
Clavering Gunter, who had scored a sensational success with his books,
especially "Mr. Barnes of New York," had written a play called "A Wall
Street Bandit," which had been produced with great success in San
Francisco. Frohman booked it for four weeks at the old Standard Theater,
afterward the Manhattan, on a very generous royalty basis, and plunged in
his usual lavish style. He got together a magnificent cast, which included
Georgia Cayvan, W. J. Ferguson, Robert McWade, Charles Bowser, Charles
Wheatleigh, and Sadie Bigelow. The play opened to capacity and the
indications were that the engagement would be a success; but it suddenly
fizzled out. On Sunday morning, when Charles read the papers with their
reviews of the week, he said to Randall, with his usual philosophy:

"We've got a magnificent frost, but it was worth doing."
This production cost the youthful manager ten thousand dollars.

Frohman still had control of "time" at the Standard, so he now put on a
play, translated by Henri Rochefort, called "A Daughter of Ireland," in
which Georgia Cayvan had the title rôle. Here he scored another failure, but
his ardor remained undampened and he went on to what looked at that
moment to be the biggest thing he had yet tried.
Dion Boucicault was one of the great stage figures of his period. He was
both actor and author, and wrote or adapted several hundred plays,
including such phenomenal successes as "Colleen Bawn," "Shaughraun,"
which ran for a year simultaneously in London, New York, and Melbourne,
and "London Assurance." There was much talk of his latest comedy, "The
Jilt." Frohman, who always wanted to be associated with big names, now
arranged by cable to produce this play at the Standard. Once more he
plunged on an expensive company which included, among others, Fritz
Williams, Louise Thorndyke, and Helen Bancroft.
For four weeks he cleared a thousand a week. Then he put the company on
the road, where it did absolutely nothing. Charles, who had an uncanny
sense of analysis of play failures, now declared that the reason for the
failure was that theater-goers resented Boucicault's treatment of his first
wife, Agnes Robertson. Boucicault had declared that he was not the father
of her child, and when she sued him in England the courts gave her the
verdict. Meanwhile Boucicault married, and in the eyes of the world he was
a bigamist. This experience, it is interesting to add, taught Charles Frohman
never to engage stars on whom there was the slightest smirch of scandal or
disrepute.
At Montreal Boucicault refused to continue the tour, and this engagement,
like so many of its predecessors, left Charles in a financial hole. Despite all
these reverses he was able to make a livelihood out of the booking end of
the office, which thrived and grew with each month. Nor was he without his
sense of humor in those days.

One day he met a certain manager who had lost a great deal of money in
comic opera. Frohman said to him that he heard that there was much money
in the comic-opera end of the business.
"So there is," replied the manager.
"You ought to know," responded Frohman, "for you have put enough into
it."
This remark, often attributed to others, is said to have originated here.

Frohman was now an established producer, and although the tide of
fortune had not gone altogether happily with him, he had a Micawber-like
conviction that the big thing would eventually turn up. Now came his first
contact with Bronson Howard, who, a few years later, was to be the first
mile-stone in his journey to fame and fortune.
Howard's name was one to conjure with. He had produced "Young Mrs.
Winthrop," "The Banker's Daughter," "Saratoga," and other great successes.
Charles Frohman, yielding, as usual, to the lure of big names, now put on
Howard's play, "Baron Rudolph," for which George Knight had paid the
author three thousand dollars to rewrite. Knight gave Frohman a free hand
in the matter of casting the production, and it was put on at the Fourteenth
Street Theater in an elaborate fashion. The company included various
people who later on were to become widely known. Among them were
George Knight and his wife, George Fawcett, Charles Bowser, and a very
prepossessing young man named Henry Woodruff.
"Baron Rudolph" proved to be a failure, and it broke Knight's heart, for
shortly afterward he was committed to an insane asylum from which he
never emerged alive. It was found that while the play was well written there
was no sympathy for a ragged tramp.
Whether he thought it would change his luck or not, Charles now turned
to a different sort of enterprise. He had read in the newspapers about the
astonishing mind-reading feats in England of Washington Irving Bishop.
Always on the lookout for something novel, he started a correspondence

with Bishop which ended in a contract by which he agreed to present
Bishop in the United States in 1887.
Bishop came over and Frohman sponsored his first appearance in New
York on February 27, 1887, at Wallack's Theater. With his genius for
publicity, Frohman got an extraordinary amount of advertising out of this
engagement. Among other things he got Bishop to drive around New York
blindfolded. He invited well-known men to come and witness his marvelous
gift in private. All of which attracted a great deal of attention, but very little
money to the box-office. Frohman and Bishop differed about the conduct of
the tour that was to follow, and M. B. Leavitt assumed the management.
While at 1215 Broadway Charles Frohman established another of his
many innovations by getting out what was probably the first stylographic
press sheet. This sheet, which contained news of the various attractions that
Frohman booked, was sent to the leading newspapers throughout the
country and was the forerunner of the avalanche of press matter that to-day
is hurled at dramatic editors everywhere.

The booking business had now grown so extensively that the office force
was increased. First came Julius Cahn, who assisted Randall with the
booking. Al Hayman took a desk in Frohman's office, which, because of
Hayman's extensive California enterprises, had a virtual monopoly on all
Western booking.
Now developed a curious episode. Charles, with his devotion to big
names, used the words "Daly's Theater Building" on his letter-heads. This
so infuriated Daly that he sent a peremptory message to the landlord
insisting that Frohman vacate the building. Frohman and Randall thereupon
moved their offices up the block to 1267 Broadway.
Charles Frohman made every possible capitalization of this change.
Among other things he issued a broadside, announcing the removal to new
offices, and making the following characteristic statement:
Our agency, we are pleased to state, has been an established success from
the very start. We now represent every important theater in the United

States and Canada, as an inspection of our list will show, and we will
always keep up the high standard of attractions that have been booked
through this office, and we want the business of no others. Mr. E. E. Rice,
the well-known manager and author, will have adjoining offices with us,
and his attractions will be booked through our offices. We transact a
general theatrical business (excepting that pertaining to a dramatic or
actor's agency), and are in competition with no other exchange, booking
agency, or dramatic concern. Neither do we have any desk-room to let,
reserving all the space of our office for our own use.
Attached to this announcement was a list of theaters that he represented,
which was a foot long. He was also representing Archibald Clavering
Gunter, who had followed up "A Wall Street Bandit" with "Prince Karl,"
and Robert Buchanan, author of "Lady Clare" and "Alone in London."
Frohman and Randall stayed at 1267 Broadway for a year. Shortly before
the next change Randall, who had become extensively interested in outside
enterprises, retired from the firm. His successor as close associate with
Charles Frohman was Harry Rockwood, ablest of the early Frohman
lieutenants.
Rockwood was a distinguished-looking man and a tireless worker. The
way he came to be associated with Charles Frohman was interesting. His
real name was H. Rockwood Hewitt, and he was related to ex-Mayor
Abram S. Hewitt of New York. He had had some experience in Wall Street,
but became infected with the theatrical virus.
One day in 1888 a well-groomed young man approached Gustave
Frohman at the Fourteenth Street Theater. He introduced himself as Harry
Hewitt. He said to Frohman:
"My name is Hewitt. I would like to get into the theatrical business."
Gustave invited him to come around to the Madison Square Theater the
next day, and asked him what he would like to do.
"Oh, I should like to do anything."
Frohman then gave him an imaginary house to "count up."

Rockwood, who was an expert accountant, did the job with amazing
swiftness. Whereupon Gustave Frohman telephoned to Charles Frohman as
follows:
"I've got the greatest treasurer in the world for you. Send for him."
Charles engaged him for a Madison Square Company, and in this way
Rockwood's theatrical career started. It was the fashion of many people of
that time interested in the theatrical business to change their names, so he
became Harry Rockwood. In the same way Harry Hayman, brother of Al
and Alf Hayman, changed his name to Harry Mann.
In 1889 came the separation between Randall and Frohman. Randall set
up an establishment of his own at 1145 Broadway, while Charles, who was
now an accredited and established personage in the theatrical world, took a
suite at 1127 Broadway, adjoining the old St. James Hotel. In making this
change he reached a crucial point in his career, for in these offices he
conceived and put into execution the spectacular enterprises that linked his
name for the first time with brilliant success.

VI

"SHENANDOAH" AND THE FIRST STOCK COMPANY

W ith his installation in the new offices at 1127 Broadway there
began an important epoch in the life of Charles Frohman. The
Nemesis which had seemed to pursue his productions now took
flight. The plump little man, not yet thirty, who had already lived a lifetime
of strenuous and varied endeavor, sat at a desk in a big room on the second
floor, dreaming and planning great things that were soon to be realized.
Although staggering under a burden of debt that would have discouraged
most people, Frohman, with his optimistic philosophy, felt that the hour had
come at last when the tide would turn. And it did. At this time his financial

complications were at their worst. Some of them dated back to the
disastrous Wallack Company tour; others resulted from his impulsive
generosity in indorsing his friends' notes. He was so involved that he could
not do business under his own name, and for a period the firm went on as Al
Hayman & Company.

WILLIAM GILLETTE

One of the very first enterprises in the new offices cemented the friendship
of Charles Frohman and William Gillette. While at the Madison Square
Theater he had booked Gillette's plays, "The Professor" and "The Private
Secretary." Frohman, with Al Hayman as partner, induced Gillette to make a
dramatization of Rider Haggard's "She," which was put on at Niblo's
Garden in New York with considerable success. Wilton Lackaye and Loie
Fuller were in the cast.
Gillette now tried his hand at a war play called "Held by the Enemy,"
which Frohman booked on the road. Frohman was strangely interested in
"Held by the Enemy." It had all the thrill and tumult of war and it lent itself
to more or less spectacular production. When the road tour ended, Frohman,
on his own hook, took the piece and the company, which was headed by
Gillette, for an engagement at the Baldwin Theater in San Francisco. He
transported all the original scenery, which included, among other things,
some massive wooden cannon.
The San Francisco critics, however, slated the piece unmercifully. The
morning after the opening Gillette stood in the lobby of the Palace Hotel
with the newspapers in his hand and feeling very disconsolate. Up bustled
Frohman in his usual cheery fashion.
"Look what the critics have done to us," said Gillette, gloomily.
"But we've got all the best of it," replied Frohman, with animation.
"How's that?" asked Gillette, somewhat puzzled.
"They've got to stay here."
This little episode shows the buoyant way in which Frohman always met
misfortune. His irresistible humor was the oil that he invariably spread upon
the troubled waters of discord and discouragement.
It was while selecting one of the casts of "Held by the Enemy," which was
revived many times, that Charles Frohman made two more life-long

connections.
At the same boarding-house with Julius Cahn lived an ambitious young
man who had had some experience as an actor. He was out of a position, so
Cahn said to him one day:
"Come over to our offices and Charles Frohman will give you a job."
The young man came over, and Cahn introduced him to Frohman. Soon he
came out, apparently very indignant. When Cahn asked him what was the
matter he said:
"That man Frohman offered me the part of a nigger, Uncle Rufus, in that
play. I was born in the South, and I will not play a nigger. I would rather
starve."
Cahn said, "You will play it, and your salary will be forty dollars a week."
The young man reluctantly accepted the engagement and proved to be not
only a satisfactory actor, but a man gifted with a marvelous instinct as
stage-director. His name was Joseph Humphreys, and he became in a few
years the general stage-director for Charles Frohman, the most
distinguished position of its kind in the country, which he held until his
death.
About this time Charles Frohman renewed his acquaintance with Augustus
Thomas. Thomas walked into the office one day and Rockwood said to
him:
"You are the very man we want to play in 'Held by the Enemy.'"
Thomas immediately went in to see Frohman, who offered him the
position of General Stamburg, but Thomas had an engagement in his own
play, "The Burglar," which was the expanded "Editha's Burglar," and could
not accept. Before he left, however, Frohman, whose mind was always full
of projects for the future, renewed the offer made in New Orleans, for he
said:
"Thomas, I still want you to write that play for me."

With "Held by the Enemy" Charles Frohman seemed to have found a
magic touchstone. It was both patriotic and profitable, for it was nothing
less than the American flag. Having raised it in one production, he now
turned to the enterprise which unfurled his success to the winds in brilliant
and stirring fashion.
Early in 1889 R. M. Field put on a new military play called "Shenandoah,"
by Bronson Howard, at the Boston Museum. Howard was then the most
important writer in the dramatic profession. He had three big successes,
"Young Mrs. Winthrop," "Saratoga," and "The Banker's Daughter," to his
credit, and he had put an immense amount of work and hope into the
stirring military drama that was to have such an important bearing on the
career of Charles Frohman. The story of Frohman's connection with this
play is one of the most picturesque and romantic in the whole history of
modern theatrical successes. He found it a Cinderella of the stage; he
proved to be its Prince Charming.
Oddly enough, "Shenandoah" was a failure in Boston. Three eminent
managers, A. M. Palmer, T. Henry French, and Henry E. Abbey, in
succession had had options on the play, and they were a unit in believing
that it would not go.
Daniel Frohman had seen the piece at Boston with a view to considering it
for the Lyceum. He told his brother Charles of the play, and advised him to
go up and see it, adding that it was too big and melodramatic for the
somewhat intimate scope of the small Lyceum stage.
So Charles went to Boston. On the day of the night on which he started he
met Joseph Brooks on Broadway and told him he was going to Boston to
try to get "Shenandoah."
"Why, Charley, you are crazy! It is a failure! Why throw away your
money on it? Nobody wants it."
"I may be crazy," replied Frohman, "but I am going to try my best to get
'Shenandoah.'"

Before going to Boston he arranged with Al Hayman to take a half-interest
in the play. When he reached Boston he went out to the house of Isaac B.
Rich, who was then associated with William Harris in the conduct of the
Howard Athenæum and the Hollis Street Theater. Rich was a character in
his way. He had been a printer in Bangor, Maine, had sold tickets in a New
Orleans theater, and had already amassed a fortune in his Boston
enterprises. He was an ardent spiritualist, and financed and gave much time
to a spiritualistic publication of Boston called The Banner of Light. One of
his theatrical associates at that time, John Stetson, owned The Police
Gazette.
Rich conceived a great admiration for Frohman, whom he had met with
Harris in booking plays for his Boston houses. He always maintained that
Frohman was the counterpart of Napoleon, and called him Napoleon.
On this memorable day in Boston Frohman dined with Rich at his house
and took him to see "Shenandoah." When it was over Frohman asked him
what he thought of it.
"I'll take any part of it that you say," replied Rich.
"If I were alone," answered Frohman, "I would take you in, but I have
already given Al Hayman half of it."
Frohman was very much impressed with "Shenandoah," although he did
not believe the play was yet in shape for success. After the performance he
asked Mr. Field if he could get the rights. Field replied:
"Abbey, French, and Palmer have options on it. If they don't want it you
can have it."
Frohman returned to New York the next day, and even before he had seen
Bronson Howard he looked up his friend Charles Burnham, then manager
of the Star Theater, and asked him to save him some time.
Frohman now went to see Howard, who then lived at Stamford. He
expressed his great desire for the play and then went on to say:

"You are a very great dramatist, Mr. Howard, and I am only a theatrical
manager, but I think I can see where a possible improvement might be made
in the play. For one thing, I think two acts should be merged into one, and I
don't think you have made enough out of Sheridan's ride."
When he had finished, Howard spoke up warmly and said, "Mr. Frohman,
you are right, and I shall be very glad to adopt your suggestions."
The very changes that Howard made in the play were the ones that helped
to make it a great success, as he was afterward frank enough to admit.
Frohman now made a contract for the play and went to Burnham to book
time. Burnham, meanwhile, had been to Boston to see the play, and he said:
"I saved six weeks for you at the Star for Shenandoah.'"
From the very beginning of his association with "Shenandoah" Charles
Frohman had an instinct that the play would be a success. He now dedicated
himself to its production with characteristic energy.
Scarcely had he signed the contract for "Shenandoah" than occurred one
of the many curious pranks of fate that were associated with this enterprise.
Al Hayman, who had a half-interest in the piece, was stricken with typhoid
fever in Chicago on his way to the coast. He thought he was going to die,
and, not having an extraordinary amount of confidence in "Shenandoah," he
sold half of his half-interest to R. M. Hooley, who owned theaters bearing
his name in Chicago and Brooklyn.
With his usual determination to do things in splendid fashion, Frohman
engaged a magnificent cast. Now came one of the many evidences of the
integrity of his word. Years before, when he had first seen Henry Miller act
in San Francisco he said to him:
"When I get a theater in New York and have a big Broadway production
you will be my leading man."
He had not yet acquired the theater, but he did have the big Broadway
production, so the first male character that he filled was that of Colonel
West, and he did it with Miller.

This cast included not less than half a dozen people who were then
making their way toward future stardom. He engaged Wilton Lackaye to
play General Haverill; Viola Allen played Gertrude Ellingham; Nanette
Comstock was the original Madeline West; Effie Shannon portrayed Jennie
Buckthorn; while Dorothy Dorr played Mrs. Haverill. Other actors in the
company who later became widely known were John E. Kellard, Harry
Harwood, Morton Selten, and Harry Thorn.
Charles determined that the public should not lose sight of "Shenandoah."
All his genius for publicity was concentrated to this end. Among the
ingenious agencies that he created for arousing suspense and interest was a
rumor that the manuscript of the third act had been lost. He put forth the
news that Mr. Howard's copy was mislaid, and a city-wide search was
instituted. All the while that the company was rehearsing the other acts the
anxiety about the missing act grew. A week before the production Frohman
announced, with great effect, that the missing manuscript had been found.
When the doors of the Star Theater were opened on the evening of
September 9, 1889, for the first performance of "Shenandoah," the outlook
was not very auspicious. Rain poured in torrents. It was almost impossible
to get a cab. Al Hayman, one of the owners of the play, who lived at the
Hotel Majestic, on West Seventy-second Street, was rainbound and could
not even see the première of the piece.
However, a good audience swam through the deluge, for the gross receipts
of this opening night, despite the inclement conditions outside, were nine
hundred and seventy-two dollars. This was considered a very good house at
the standard prices of the day, which ranged from twenty-five cents to one
dollar and a half.
The play was an immense success, for at no time during the rest of the
engagement did the receipts at any performance go below one thousand
dollars. The average gross receipts for each week were ten thousand dollars.
Charles Frohman watched the première from the rear of the house with a
beating heart. The crash of applause after the first act made him feel that he
had scored at last. After the sensational ending of the third act, which was

Sheridan's famous ride, he rushed back to the stage, shook Henry Miller
warmly by the hand, and said: "Henry, we've got it. The horse is yours!"
He meant the horse that the general rode in the play.
This horse, by the way, was named Black Bess. It got so accustomed to its
cue that it knew when it had to gallop across the stage. One night during the
third act this cue was given as usual. Its rider, however, was not ready, and
the horse galloped riderless across the stage.
"Shenandoah" led to a picturesque friendship in Charles Frohman's life.
On the opening night a grizzled, military-looking man sat in the audience.
He watched the play with intense interest and applauded vigorously. On the
way out he met a friend in the lobby. He stopped him and said, "This is the
most interesting war play I have ever seen."
The friend knew Charles Frohman, who was standing with smiling face
watching the crowd go out. He called the little manager over and said: "Mr.
Frohman, I want you to meet a man who really knows something about the
Civil War. This is General William T. Sherman."
Sherman and Frohman became great friends, and throughout the
engagement of "Shenandoah" the old soldier was a frequent visitor at the
theater. He then lived at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, and often he brought over
his war-time comrades.
Not only did "Shenandoah" mark the epoch of the first real success in
Frohman's life, but it raised his whole standard of living, as the following
incident will show.
When "Shenandoah" opened, Frohman and Henry Miller, and sometimes
other members of the company, went around to O'Neil's on Sixth Avenue,
scene of the old foregatherings with Belasco, and had supper. As the piece
grew in prosperity and success, the supper party gradually moved up-town
to more expensive restaurants, until finally they were supping at
Delmonico's. "We are going up in the world," said Frohman, with his usual
humor. At their first suppers they smoked ten-cent cigars; now they regaled
themselves with twenty-five-cent Perfectos.

Unfortunately the successful run of "Shenandoah" at the Star had to be
terminated on October 12th because the Jefferson & Florence Company,
which had a previous contract with the theater and could not be disposed of
elsewhere, came to play their annual engagement in "The Rivals." Frohman
transferred the play to Proctor's Twenty-third Street Theater, which was
from this time on to figure extensively in his fortunes, and the successful
run of the play continued there. Wilton Lackaye retired from the cast and
was succeeded by Frank Burbeck, whose wife, Nanette Comstock,
succeeded Miss Shannon in the rôle of Jenny Buckthorn.
Frohman was now able to capitalize his brilliant road-company
experience. The success of the play now assured, he immediately organized
a road company, in which appeared such prominent actors as Joseph
Holland, Frank Carlyle, and Percy Haswell. He established an innovation
on October 26th by having this company come over from Philadelphia,
where it was playing, to act in the New York house.
The two-hundred-and-fiftieth performance occurred on April 19, 1890,
when the run ended. It was a memorable night. Katherine Grey and Odette
Tyler meanwhile had joined the company. The theater was draped in flags,
and General Sherman made a speech in which he praised the accuracy of
the production.
With his usual enterprise and resource, Charles Frohman introduced a
distinct novelty on this occasion. He had double and triple relays of
characters for the farewell performance. Both Lilla Vane and Odette Tyler,
for example, acted the part of Gertrude Ellingham; Wilton Lackaye, Frank
Burbeck, and George Osborne played General Haverill; Alice Haines and
Nanette Comstock did Jenny Buckthorn; while Morton Selten and R. A.
Roberts doubled as Captain Heartsease.
Frohman now put the original "Shenandoah" company on the road. Its first
engagement was at McVicker's Theater in Chicago. Frohman went along
and took Bronson Howard with him.
Most of the Chicago critics liked "Shenandoah." But there was one
exception, a brilliant Irishman on The Tribune. Paul Potter, whose play,

"The City Directory," was about to be produced in Chicago, was a close
friend of Howard. He wanted to do something for the Howard play, so he
got permission from Robert W. Patterson, editor in chief of The Tribune, to
write a Sunday page article about "Shenandoah." Frohman was immensely
pleased, and through this he met Potter, who became one of his intimates.
Then came the opening of Potter's play at the Chicago Opera House.
Although Potter knew most of the critics, there was a feeling that they
would forget all friendship and do their worst. Five minutes after the curtain
went up the piece seemed doomed.
But an extraordinary thing happened. From a stage box suddenly came
sounds of uncontrollable mirth. The audience, and especially the critics,
looked to see who was enjoying the play so strenuously, and they beheld
Charles Frohman and Bronson Howard. The critics were puzzled. Here was
a great playwright in the flush of an enormous success and a rising young
manager evidently enjoying the performance. The mentors of public taste
were so impressed that they praised the farce and started "The City
Directory" on a career of remarkable success. Frohman and Howard were
repaying the good turn that Potter had done for "Shenandoah."

Charles Frohman now had a money-making success. "Shenandoah" was
the dramatic talk of the whole country; it did big business everywhere, and
its courageous young producer came in for praise and congratulation on all
sides.
The manager might well have netted what was in those days a huge
fortune out of this enterprise, but his unswerving sense of honor led him to
immediately discharge all his obligations. He wiped out the Wallack's tour
debts, and he eventually took up notes aggregating forty-two thousand
dollars that he had given to a well-known Chicago printer who had
befriended him in years gone by. What was most important, he was now
free to unfurl his name to the breezes and to do business "on his own."

Charles immediately launched himself on another sea of productions. The
most important was Gillette's "All the Comforts of Home," which he put on

at Proctor's Twenty-third Street Theater. Frohman had just acquired the
lease of this theater. Already a big idea was simmering in his mind, and the
leasehold was essential to its consummation. On May 8, 1890, he produced
the new Gillette play, which scored a success.
This production marked another one of the many significant epochs in
Frohman's life because it witnessed the first appearance of little Maude
Adams under the Charles Frohman management.
Frohman had seen Miss Adams in "The Paymaster" down at Niblo's and
had been much taken with her work. He had been unable, however, to find a
part for her, so it was reserved for his brother Daniel to give her the first
Frohman engagement at thirty-five dollars a week in "Lord Chumley."
Subsequently Daniel released her so that she could appear in the same cast
with her mother in Hoyt's "The Midnight Bell."
While trying "All the Comforts of Home" on the road there occurred an
amusing episode. Frohman, who had been watching the rehearsals very
carefully, said to Henry Miller, who was leading man:
"Henry, you are something of a matinée idol. I think it would help the play
if you had a love scene with Miss Adams."
Accompanied by Rockwood, Frohman visited Gillette at his home at
Hartford, got him to write the love scene, and then went on to Springfield,
Massachusetts, for the "try-out."
That night the three assembled in the bleak drawing-room of the hotel.
Frohman ordered a little supper of ham sandwiches and sarsaparilla, after
which he rehearsed the love scene, which simply consisted of a tender little
parting in a doorway. It served to bring out the wistful and appealing
tenderness that is one of Maude Adams's great qualities.
"All the Comforts of Home" ran in Proctor's Theater until October 18th.
When the theater reopened it disclosed a venture that linked the name of
Charles Frohman with high and artistic effort—his first stock company.
With this organization he hoped to maintain the traditions established by

Augustin Daly, A. M. Palmer, Lester Wallack, and the Madison Square
Company.
He projected the Charles Frohman Stock Company in his usual lavish
way. He engaged De Mille and Belasco to write the opening play. This was
a very natural procedure: first, because of his intimate friendship with
Belasco, and, second, because De Mille and Belasco had proved their skill
as collaborators at Daniel Frohman's Lyceum Theater with such successes
as "The Wife," "The Charity Ball," and "Lord Chumley." The result of their
new endeavors was "Men and Women."
In this play the authors wrote in the part Dora especially for Maude
Adams. They also created a rôle for Mrs. Annie Adams.
The cast of "Men and Women," like that of "Shenandoah," was a striking
one, and it contained many names already established, or destined to figure
prominently in theatrical history. Henry Miller had been engaged for
leading man, but he retired during the rehearsals, and his place was taken by
William Morris, who had appeared in the Charles Frohman production of
"She" and in the road company of "Held by the Enemy." In the company
that Frohman selected were Frederick de Belleville, who played Israel
Cohen, one of the finest, if not the finest, Jewish characters ever put on the
stage; Orrin Johnson; Frank Mordaunt; Emmet Corrigan; J. C. Buckstone;
and C. Leslie Allen, brother of Viola Allen.
In addition to Maude Adams were Sydney Armstrong, who was the
leading woman; Odette Tyler; and Etta Hawkins, who became the wife of
William Morris during this engagement.
At the dress rehearsal of "Men and Women" occurred a characteristic
Charles Frohman incident. When the curtain had gone down Frohman
hurried back to William Morris's dressing-room and said, "Will, that dress-
suit of yours doesn't look right."
"It's a brand-new suit, 'C. F.,'" he replied.
Frohman thought a moment and said: "Can you be at my office to-morrow
morning at eight o'clock? I've got a good tailor."

Promptly at eight the next day they went over to Frohman's tailor, whom
Frohman addressed as follows:
"I want you to make a dress-suit for William Morris by eight o'clock to-
morrow night."
"Impossible!" said the man.
"Nothing is impossible," said Frohman. "If that dress-suit is not in Mr.
Morris's dressing-room at eight o'clock you won't get paid for it."
The dress-suit showed up on time, and in it was a card, saying, "With
Charles Frohman's compliments."
Charles inaugurated his first stock season at Proctor's on October 21,
1890. Although the notices were uniformly good, the start into public favor
was a trifle slow. One reason was that a big bank failure had just shaken
Wall Street, and there was considerable apprehension all over the city. By a
curious coincidence there was a bank failure in the play. By clever publicity
this fact was capitalized; the piece found its stride and ran for two hundred
consecutive performances, when it was sent on the road with great success.
For this tour Charles also introduced another one of the many novelties
that he put into theatrical conduct. He ordered a private car for the
company, and they used it throughout the tour. It was considered an
extravagance, but it was merely part of the Charles Frohman policy to make
his people comfortable. With this private car he established a precedent that
was observed in most of his traveling organizations.

With the stock company on tour in "Men and Women," the manager now
organized the Charles Frohman Comedy Company to fill in the time at
Proctor's. Once more he collected a brilliant aggregation of players, for they
included Henrietta Crosman, Joseph Holland, Frederick Bond, and Thomas
Wise. Each one became a star in the course of the next ten years.
The opening bill for the comedy company was Gillette's "Mr. Wilkinson's
Widows," and was presented on March 30th, immediately following the run

of "Men and Women." Henrietta Crosman subsequently withdrew from the
cast, and Esther Lyons took her place.
Charles Frohman reopened the theater on August 27th with a revival of
this play, in which Georgia Drew Barrymore, the mother of Ethel, appeared
as Mrs. Perrin. Emily Bancker, afterward a star in "Our Flat," and Mattie
Ferguson were in the cast.
On October 5th the company did Sardou's big drama of "Thermidor" for
the first time on any stage, with another one of the casts for which Charles
Frohman was beginning to become famous. It included a thin, gaunt
Englishman whose name in the bill was simply J. F. Robertson, and who
had just come from an engagement with John Hare in London.
Subsequently the J. F. in his name came to be known as Johnston Forbes,
because the man was Sir Johnston Forbes-Robertson.
In this company was Elsie De Wolfe, who later became a star and who
years after left the theater to become an interior decorator. Among the male
members of the company, besides Forbes-Robertson, was Jamison Lee
Finney, who had graduated from the amateur ranks and who became one of
the best-known comedians in the country.
In the mean time Charles had commissioned Henry C. De Mille to furnish
a play for his stock company which was now on its way back from the
coast. This play was "The Lost Paradise," which the American had adapted
from Ludwig Fulda's drama. De Mille joined the company in Denver and
rehearsals were begun there. By the time the company reached New York
they were almost letter-perfect, and the opening at Proctor's on November
16th was a brilliant success. The play ran consecutively until March 1st.
The cast was practically the same as "Men and Women," with the addition
of Cyril Scott, Odette Tyler, and Bijou Fernandez.
In "The Lost Paradise" Maude Adams scored the biggest success that she
had made up to that time in New York. She played the part of Nell, the
consumptive factory girl. This character, with its delicate and haunting
interpretation, made an irresistible appeal to the audience.

"There's big talent in that girl," said Frohman in speaking of Miss Adams.
He began to see the vision of what the years would hold for her.

By this time Charles Frohman had begun to make his annual visit to
London. Out of one of the earliest journeys came still another success of the
many that now seemed to crowd upon him.
He had taken desk space with Abbey, Schoeffel & Grau in Henrietta Street
in London. On the trip in question Belasco accompanied him. One night
Frohman said:
"There is a little comedy around the corner called 'Jane.' Let's go and see
it."
Frohman was convulsed with laughter, and the very next day sought out
the author, William Lestocq, from whom he purchased the American rights.
Out of this connection came another one of the life-long friendships of
Frohman. Lestocq, a few years later, became his principal English
representative and remained so until the end.
Frohman was now in a whirlpool of projects. Although he was occupying
himself with both the comedy and stock companies at Proctor's, he put on
"Jane" as a midsummer attraction at the Madison Square Theater with a cast
that included Katherine Grey, Johnstone Bennett, Jennie Weathersby, and
Paul Arthur.
"Jane" became such an enormous success that Charles put out two road
companies at once. In connection with "Jane" it may be said that his first
real fortune—that is, the first money that he actually kept for a time—was
made with this comedy.
Production after production now marked the Frohman career. Charles had
always admired Henry E. Dixey, so he launched him as star in "The
Solicitor" at Hermann's Theater, on September 8, 1891. It was the first time
that the famous "Charles Frohman Presents" was used. In this company
were Burr McIntosh, Sidney Drew, and Joseph Humphreys. It was the
failure of "The Solicitor" that led Frohman to put Dixey out again as star in

a piece called "The Man with a Hundred Heads" at the Star Theater. This
also failed, so he ventured with "The Junior Partner" at the same theater
with a cast that included E. J. Ratcliffe, Mrs. McKee Rankin, Henrietta
Crosman, and Louise Thorndyke-Boucicault.
Early the following year he tried his luck at Hermann's with "Gloriana," in
which May Robson and E. J. Henley appeared. Hermann's Theater,
however, seemed to be a sort of hoodoo, so Frohman returned to the Star,
which had been his mascot, and made his first joint production with David
Belasco in a musical piece called "Miss Helyett." Frohman had seen the
play in Paris, and proceeded at once to buy the American rights from
Charles Wyndham. This production not only marked the first joint
presentation of Belasco and Charles, but it was the début of Mrs. Leslie
Carter, who had become a protégée of Mr. Belasco. When the piece was
moved to the Standard early in January, 1892, Mrs. Carter was starred for
the first time.

By this time Charles Frohman was a personage to be reckoned with.
"Shenandoah," the two stock companies, "Jane," and all the other
enterprises both successful and otherwise, had made his name a big one in
the theater. He now began to reach out for authors.
The first author to be approached was Augustus Thomas. He gave Charles
a play called "Surrender." It was put on in Boston. The original idea in
Thomas's mind was to write a satire on the war plays that had been so
successful, like "Shenandoah" and "Held by the Enemy." "Surrender" began
as a farce, but Charles Frohman and Eugene Presbrey, who produced it,
wanted to make it serious.
The cast was a very notable one, including Clement Bainbridge, E. M.
Holland, Burr McIntosh, Harry Woodruff, H. D. Blackmore, Louis Aldrich,
Maude Bancks, Miriam O'Leary, Jessie Busley, and Rose Eytinge.
The rehearsals of "Surrender" were marked by many amusing episodes.
Maude Bancks, for example, who was playing the part of a Northern girl in
a Southern town, had to wear a red sash to indicate her Northern
proclivities. This she refused to put on at the dress rehearsal because it did

not match her costume. Bainbridge, an actor who played a Southern
general, had a speech that he regarded as treason to his adopted country, and
quit. But all these troubles were bridged over and the play was produced
with some artistic success. It lasted sixteen weeks on the road.
After he had closed "Surrender" Frohman was telling a friend in New
York that he had lost twenty-eight thousand dollars on this piece.
"But why did you permit yourself to lose so much money on a play that
seemed bound to fail?"
"I believe in Gus Thomas. That is the reason," replied Frohman.

Although immersed in a multitude of enterprises, Frohman's activities
now took a new and significant tack. Through all these crowded years his
friendship for William Harris had been growing. Harris, who had graduated
from minstrelsy to theatrical management and was the partner of Isaac B.
Rich in the conduct of the Howard Athenæum and the Hollis Street Theater
in Boston, now added the Columbia Theater in that city to his string of
houses. Charles at once secured an interest in this lease, and it was his first
out-of-town theater. Quick to capitalize the opportunity, he put one of the
"Jane" road companies in it for a run and called it the Charles Frohman
Boston Stock Company.

VII

JOHN DREW AND THE EMPIRE THEATER

T he year 1892 not only found Charles Frohman established as an
important play-producing manager, but in addition he was reaching
out for widespread theater management. It was to register a
memorable epoch in the life of Charles and to record, through him, a
significant era in the history of the American theater. From this time on his

life-story was to be the narrative of the larger development of the drama and
its people.
With the acquisition of his first big star, John Drew, he laid the corner-
stone of what is the so-called modern starring system, which brought about
a revolution in theatrical conduct. The story of Charles's conquest in
securing the management of Drew, with all its attendant dramatic and
sensational features, illustrates the resource and vision of the one-time
minstrel manager who now began to come into his own as a real Napoleon
of the stage.
Charles always attached importance and value to big names. He had paid
dearly in the past for this proclivity with the Lester Wallack Company.
Undaunted, he now turned to another investment in name that was to be
more successful.
About this time John Drew had made his way to a unique eminence on the
American stage. A member of a distinguished Philadelphia theatrical family,
he had scored an instantaneous success on his first appearance at home and
had become the leading man of Augustin Daly's famous stock company. He
was one of "The Big Four" of that distinguished organization, which
included Ada Rehan, Mrs. G. H. Gilbert, and James Lewis. They were
known as such in America and England. Drew was regarded as the finest
type of the so-called modern actor interpreting the gentleman in the modern
play. He shone in the drawing-room drama; he had a distinct following, and
was therefore an invaluable asset. The general impression was that he was
wedded to the environment that had proved so successful and was so
congenial.
Charles knew Drew quite casually. Their first meeting was characteristic.
It happened during the great "Shenandoah" run. Henry Miller and Drew
were old friends. It was Frohman's custom in those days to have after-
theater suppers on Saturday nights at his rooms in the old Hoffman House,
and sometimes a friendly game of cards.
One Saturday Miller called Frohman up and asked him if he could bring
Drew down for supper.

"Certainly; with pleasure," said Frohman.
That night after the play Miller picked Drew up at Daly's and took him to
the Hoffman House. Knowing the way to the Frohman rooms, he started for
them unannounced, when he was stopped by a bell-boy, who said, "Mr.
Frohman is expecting you in here," opening the door and ushering the
guests into a magnificent private suite that Frohman had engaged for the
occasion. It was the first step in the campaign for Drew.

JOHN DREW

Although Frohman was eager to secure Drew, he made no effort to lure
the actor away from what he believed was a very satisfactory connection.
As the friendship between the men grew, however, he discovered that
Drew was becoming dissatisfied with his arrangement at Daly's. Up to that
time "The Big Four" shared in the profits of the theater. Daly canceled this
arrangement, and Drew suddenly realized that what seemed to be a most
attractive alliance really held out no future for him.
Drew's dissatisfaction was heightened by his realization that Augustin
Daly's greatest work and achievements were behind him. The famous old
manager was undergoing that cycle of experience which comes to all of his
kind when the flood-tide of their success begins to ebb.
Drew was speculating about his future when Frohman heard of his state of
mind. He now felt that he would not be violating the ethics of the profession
in making overtures looking to an alliance. He did not make a direct offer,
but sent a mutual friend, Frank Bennett, once a member of the Daly
company, who was then conducting the Arlington Hotel in Washington.
Through him Frohman made a proposition to Drew to become a star. The
actor accepted the offer, and a three-year contract was signed.
The capture of John Drew by Charles Frohman was more than a mere
business stroke. Frohman never forgot that the great Daly had succeeded in
ousting him from his first booking-offices in the Daly Theater Building. He
found not a little humor in pre-empting the services of the Daly leading man
as a sort of reciprocal stroke.
When Drew told Daly that he had signed a contract with Frohman the then
dictator of the American stage could scarcely find words to express his
astonishment. He assured Drew that he was making the mistake of his life,
because he regarded Frohman as an unlicensed interloper. Yet this
"interloper," from the moment of the Drew contract, began a new career of
brilliant and artistic development.
Frohman's starring arrangement with Drew created a sensation, both
among the public and in the profession. It broke up "The Big Four," for
Drew left a gap at Daly's that could not be filled.

There was also a widespread feeling that while Drew had succeeded in a
congenial environment, and with an actress (Miss Rehan) who was
admirably suited to him, he might not duplicate this success amid new
scenes. Hence arose much speculation about his leading woman. A dozen
names were bruited about.
Charles Frohman remained silent. He was keenly sensitive to the sensation
he was creating, and was biding his time to launch another. It came when he
announced Maude Adams as John Drew's leading woman. He had watched
her development with eager and interested eye. She had made good
wherever he had placed her. Now he gave her what was up to this time her
biggest chance. The moment her name became bracketed with Drew's there
was a feeling of satisfaction over the choice. How wise Charles Frohman
was in the whole Drew venture was about to be abundantly proved.

Charles Frohman not only made John Drew a star, but the nucleus of a
whole system. It was a time of rebirth for the whole American stage. Nearly
all the old stars were gone or were passing from view. Forrest, McCullough,
Cushman, Janauschek were gone; Modjeska's power was waning; Clara
Morris was soon to leave the stage world; Lawrence Barrett and W.J.
Florence were dead; Edwin Booth had retired.
Frohman realized that with the passing of these stars there also passed the
system that had created them. He knew that the public—the new generation
—wanted younger people, popular names—somebody to talk about. He
realized further that the public adored personality and that the strongest
prop that a play could get was a fascinating and magnetic human being,
whether male or female. The old stars had made themselves—risen from the
ranks after years of service. Frohman saw the opportunity to accelerate this
advance by providing swift and spectacular recognition. The new stars that
were now to blossom into life under him owed their being to the initiative
and the vision of some one else. Thus he became the first of the star-
makers.
Charles was now all excitement. He had the making of his first big star,
and he proceeded to launch him in truly magnificent fashion.

A play was needed that would bring out all those qualities that had made
Drew shine in the drawing-room drama. The very play itself was destined to
mark an epoch in the life of a man in the theater. Through Elizabeth
Marbury, who had just launched herself as play-broker in a little office on
Twenty-fourth Street, around the corner from Charles Frohman's, his
attention was called to a French farcical comedy called "The Masked Ball,"
by Alexandre Bisson and Albert Carre. Frohman liked the story and wanted
it adapted for American production. It was the beginning of his long
patronage of French plays.
"I know a brilliant young man who could do this job for you very well,"
said Miss Marbury.
"What's his name?" asked Frohman.
"Clyde Fitch, and I believe he is going to have a great career," was the
answer of his sponsor.
Fitch was given the commission. He did a most successful piece of
adaptation, and in this Way began the long and close relationship between
the author of "Beau Brummel" (his first play) and the man who, more than
any other, did so much to advance his career.
For Drew's début under his management Charles spared no expense. In
addition to Maude Adams, the company included Harry Harwood (who was
then coming into his own as a forceful and versatile character actor), C.
Leslie Allen, Mrs. Annie Adams, and Frank E. Lamb.
With his usual desire to do everything in a splendid way, Frohman
arranged for Drew's début at Palmer's Theater, the old Lester Wallack
playhouse which was now under the management of A. M. Palmer, then one
of the shining figures in the American drama, and located opposite Drew's
former scenes of activity. Thus Drew's first stellar appearance was on a
stage rich with tradition.
"The Masked Ball" opened October 3, 1892, in the presence of a
representative audience. It was an instantaneous success. Drew played with

brilliancy and distinction, and Frohman's confidence in him was amply
justified.

CLYDE FITCH HENRY ARTHUR JONES

The performance, however, had a human interest apart from the star.
Maude Adams, for the first time in her career, had a real Broadway
opportunity, and she made the most of it in such a fashion as to convince
Frohman and every one else that before many years were past she, too,
would have her name up in electric lights. She played the part of Zuzanne
Blondet, a more or less frivolous person, and it was in distinct contrast with
the character that she had just abandoned, that of Nell, the consumptive
factory-girl in "The Lost Paradise."

A CHARACTERISTIC FROHMAN BLUE PENCIL SKETCH

As Zuzanne in "The Masked Ball," Miss Adams went to a ball and
assumed tipsiness in order to influence her dissipated husband and achieve
his ultimate reformation. The way she prepared for this part was
characteristic of the woman. She wore a hat with a long feather, and she
determined to make it a "tipsy feather." This feature became one of the
comedy hits of the play, but in order to achieve it she worked for days and
days to bring about the desired effect. The result of all this painstaking

preparation was a brilliant performance. When the curtain went down on
that memorable night at Palmer's Theater the general impression was:
"Maude Adams will be the next Frohman star."
The morning after the opening Frohman went to John Drew and said:
"Well, John, you don't need me any more now. You're made."
"No, Charles; I shall need you always," was the reply.
Out of this engagement came the long and intimate friendship between
Drew and Frohman. The first contract, signed and sealed on that precarious
day when Frohman was seeing the vision of the modern star system, was
the last formal bond between them. Though their negotiations involved
hundreds of thousands of dollars in the years that passed, there was never
another scrap of paper between them.
Seldom in the history of the American theater has another event been so
productive of far-reaching consequence as "The Masked Ball." It brought
Clyde Fitch into contact with the man who was to be his real sponsor; it
made John Drew a star; it carried Maude Adams to the frontiers of the
stellar realm; it gave Charles Frohman a whole new and distinguished place
in the theater.
Frohman was quick to follow up this success. With Drew he had made his
first real bid for what was known in those days as "the carriage trade"—that
is, the patronage of the socially elect. He hastened to clinch this with
another stunning production at Palmer's. It was Bronson Howard's play,
"Aristocracy."
The play, produced on November 14, 1893, was done in Frohman's usual
lavish way. The company included not less than half a dozen people who
were then making their way toward stardom—Wilton Lackaye, Viola Allen,
Blanche Walsh, William Faversham, Frederick Bond, Bruce McRae, Paul
Arthur, W. H. Thompson, J. W. Piggott. "Aristocracy" was Bronson
Howard's reversion to the serenity of the society drama after the spectacle
of war. The first night's audience was fashionable. The distinction of the
cast lent much to the success of the occasion.

When John Drew called on Charles Frohman for the first time at his
offices at 1127 Broadway, his way was impeded by a bright-eyed, alert
young office-boy who bore the unromantic name of Peter Daly. He
incarnated every ill to which his occupation seems to be heir. Without
troubling himself to find out if Mr. Frohman was in, he immediately said,
after the grand fashion of theatrical office-boys:
"Mr. Frohman is out and I don't know when he will return."
"But I have an engagement with Mr. Frohman," said Drew.
"You will have to wait," said the boy.
Drew cooled his heels outside while Frohman waited impatiently inside
for him. When he emerged at lunchtime he was surprised to find his man
about to depart.
Daly was immediately discharged by Julius Cahn, who was office
manager, but was promptly reinstated the next day by Frohman, who had
been greatly impressed with the boy's quick wit and intelligence.
This office-boy, it is interesting to relate, became Arnold Daly, the actor.
No experience of his life was perhaps more amusing or picturesque than the
crowded year when he manned the outside door of Charles Frohman's
office. Instead of attending to business, he spent most of his time writing
burlesques on contemporary plays, which he solemnly submitted to Harry
Rockwood, the bookkeeper.
During these days occurred a now famous episode. Young Daly was
luxuriously reclining in the most comfortable chair in the reception-room
one day when Louise Closser Hale, the actress, entered and asked to see
Charles Frohman.
"He is out," said Daly.
"May I wait for him?" asked the visitor.
"Yes," answered Daly, and the woman sat down.
After three hours had passed she asked Daly, "Where is Mr. Frohman?"

"He's in London," was the reply.
Afterward Daly became "dresser" for John Drew, the virus of the theater
got into his system, and before long he was an actor.
Thus even Charles Frohman's office-boys became stars.

Epochal as had been 1892, witnessing the first big Frohman star and a
great artistic expansion, the new year that now dawned realized another and
still greater dream of Charles Frohman, for it brought the dedication of his
own New York theater at last, the famous Empire.
Ever since he had been launched in the metropolitan theatrical whirlpool,
Frohman wanted a New York theater. As a boy he had witnessed the glories
of the Union Square Theater under Palmer; as a road manager he had a part
in the success of the Madison Square Theater activities; in his early
managerial days he had been associated with the Lester Wallack
organization; he had watched the later triumphs of the Lyceum Theater
Company at home and on the road. Quite naturally he came to the
conviction that he was ready to operate and control a big theater of his own.
The way toward its consummation was this:
One day toward the end of the 'eighties, William Harris came to New York
to see Frohman about the booking of some attractions. He said:
"Charley, I want a theater in New York, and I know that you want one.
Let's combine."
"All right," said Frohman. "You can get the Union Square. The lease is on
the market."
"Very well," said Harris.
On the way down-stairs he met Al Hayman, who asked him where he was
going.
"I am going over to lease the Union Square Theater," he replied.

"That's foolish," said Hayman. "Everything theatrical is going up-town."
"Well," answered Harris, "C. F. wants a theater, and I am determined that
he shall have it, so I am going over to get the Union Square."
"If you and Frohman want a theater that badly, I will build one for you,"
he responded.
"Where?" asked Harris.
"I've got some lots at Fortieth and Broadway, and it's a good site, even if it
is away up-town."
They went back to Frohman's office, and here was hatched the plan for the
Empire Theater.
"I can't go ahead on this matter without Rich," said Harris.
"All right," said Frohman. "Wire Rich."
Rich came down next day, and the final details were concluded for the
building of the Empire. Frank Sanger came in as a partner; thus the builders
were Al Hayman, Frank Sanger, and William Harris. Without the formality
of a contract they turned it over to Charles Frohman with the injunction that
he could do with it as he pleased.
Frohman was in his element. He could now embark on another one of the
favorite dream-enterprises.
He was like a child during the building of the theater. Every moment that
he could spare from his desk he would walk up the street and watch the
demolition of the old houses that were to make way for this structure. Often
he would get Belasco and take him up the street to note the progress. One
night as they stood before the skeleton of the theater that stood gaunt and
gray in the gloom Charles said to his friend:
"David, just think; the great dream is coming true, and yet it's only a few
years since we sat at 'Beefsteak John's' with only forty-two cents between
us."

Naturally, Frohman turned to Belasco for the play to open the Empire. His
old friend was then at work on "The Heart of Maryland" for Mrs. Leslie
Carter. He explained the situation to Frohman. As soon as Mrs. Carter heard
of it she went to Frohman and told him that she would waive her
appearance and that Belasco must go ahead on the Empire play, which he
did.
Just what kind of play to produce was the problem. Frohman still clung to
the mascot of war. The blue coat and brass buttons had turned the tide for
him with "Shenandoah," and he was superstitious in wanting another
stirring and martial piece. Belasco had become interested in Indians, but he
also wanted to introduce the evening-clothes feature. Hence came the
inspiration of a ball at an army post in the far West during the Indian-
fighting days. This episode proved to be the big dramatic situation of the
new piece.
Then came the night when Belasco read the play to Frohman, who walked
up and down the floor. When the author finished, Frohman rushed up to him
with a brilliant smile on his face and said:
"David, you've done the whole business! You've got pepper and salt, soup,
entrée, roast, salad, dessert, coffee; it's a real play, and I know it will be a
success."
Having finished the work, which Belasco wrote in collaboration with
Franklin Fyles, then dramatic editor of the New York Sun, they needed a
striking name. So they sent the manuscript to Daniel, down at the Lyceum,
for Charles always declared he had been happy in the selection of play
titles. Back came the manuscript with his approval of the work, and with the
title "The Girl I Left Behind Me." This they eagerly adopted.
Long before "The Girl I Left Behind Me" manuscript was ready to leave
Belasco's hands, Frohman was assembling his company. Instead of having a
star, he decided to have an all-round stock company. The success of this
kind of institution had been amply proved at Daly's, Wallack's, the Madison
Square, and the Lyceum. Hence the Charles Frohman Stock Company,
which had scored so heavily with "Men and Women" and "The Lost

Paradise" at Proctor's Twenty-third Street Theater, now became the famous
Empire Theater Stock Company and incidentally the greatest of all star
factories. William Morris was retained as the first leading man, and the
company included Orrin Johnson, Cyril Scott, W. H. Thompson, Theodore
Roberts, Sydney Armstrong, Odette Tyler, and Edna Wallace. The child in
the play was a precocious youngster called "Wally" Eddinger, who is the
familiar Wallace Eddinger of the present-day stage.
The rehearsals for "The Girl I Left Behind Me" were held in the Standard
Theater, which Frohman had already booked for productions, and were
supervised by Belasco. Frohman, however, was always on hand, and his
suggestions were invaluable.
"The Girl I Left Behind Me" was tried out for a week at Washington. The
company arrived there on Sunday afternoon, but was unable to get the stage
until midnight because Robert G. Ingersoll was delivering a lecture there.
At the outset of this rehearsal Belasco became ill and had to retire to his
bed, and Frohman took up the direction of this final rehearsal and worked
with the company until long after dawn.
The week in Washington rounded out the play thoroughly, and the
company returned to New York on the morning of January 25, 1893. Now
came a characteristic example of Frohman's resource. At noon it was
discovered that the new electric-light installation was not yet complete.
Added to this was the disconcerting fact that the paint on the chairs was
scarcely dry. Sanger, Harris, and Rich urged Frohman to postpone the
opening. "It will be useless to open under these conditions," they said.
"The Empire must open to-night," said Frohman, "if we have to open it by
candle-light."
In saying this Charles Frohman emphasized what was one of his iron-clad
rules, for he never postponed an announced opening.
That January night was a memorable one in the life of Frohman. He sat on
a low chair in the wings, and alongside of him sat Belasco. His face
beamed, yet he was very nervous, as he always was on openings. At the end
of the third act, when the audience made insistent calls for speeches,

Belasco tried to drag Frohman out, but he would not go. "You go, David,"
he said. And Belasco went out and made a speech.
"The Girl I Left Behind Me" was a complete success, and played two
hundred and eighty-eight consecutive performances.
The opening of the Empire Theater strengthened Charles Frohman's
position immensely. More than this, it established a whole new theatrical
district in New York. When it was opened there was only one up-town
theater, the Broadway. Within a few years other playhouses followed the
example of the Empire, and camped in its environs. Thus again Charles
Frohman was a pioneer.
The Empire Theater now became the nerve-center of the Charles Frohman
interests. He established his offices on the third floor, and there they
remained until his death. He practically occupied the whole building, for his
booking interests, which had now grown to great proportions, and which
were in charge of Julius Cahn, occupied a whole suite of offices. He now
had his own New York theater, a star of the first magnitude, and a stock
company with a national reputation.
When the Empire Stock Company began its second season in the August
of 1893, in R. C. Carton's play, "Liberty Hall," Charles Frohman was able
to keep the promise he had made to Henry Miller back in the 'eighties in
San Francisco. That handsome and dashing young actor now succeeded
William Morris as leading man of the stock company, Viola Allen became
leading woman, and May Robson also joined the company. "Liberty Hall"
ran until the end of October, when David Belasco's play, "The Younger
Son," was put on. This added William Faversham to the ranks, and thus
another star possibility came under the sway of the Star-Maker.
The Empire became the apple of Charles Frohman's eye, and remained so
until his death. No star and no play was too good for it. On it he lavished
wealth and genuine affection. To appear with the Empire Stock Company
was to be decorated with the Order of Theatrical Merit. To it in turn came
Robert Edison, Ethel Barrymore, Elita Proctor Otis, Jameson Lee Finney,

Elsie De Wolfe, W. J. Ferguson, Ferdinand Gottschalk, J. E. Dodson,
Margaret Anglin, J. Henry Benrimo, Ida Conquest, and Arthur Byron.
The Empire Stock Company became an accredited institution. A new play
by it was a distinct event, its annual tour to the larger cities an occasion that
was eagerly awaited. To have a play produced by it was the goal of the
ambitious playwright, both here and abroad.
Through the playing of the Empire Company Frohman introduced Oscar
Wilde to America, and with the stock-company opportunities he developed
such playwrights as Henry Arthur Jones, Haddon Chambers, Sydney
Grundy, Louis N. Parker, Madeline Lucette Ryley, Henry Guy Carleton,
Clyde Fitch, Jerome K. Jerome, and Arthur Wing Pinero.
Having firmly established the Empire Theater, Charles now turned to a
myriad of enterprises. He acquired the lease of the Standard Theater
(afterward the Manhattan) and began there a series of productions that was
to have significant effect on his fortunes.
In May, 1893, he produced a comedy called "Fanny," by George R. Sims,
of London, in which W. J. Ferguson, Frank Burbeck, and Johnston Bennett
appeared. It was a very dismal failure, but it produced one of the famous
Frohman epigrams. Sims sent Frohman the following telegram a few days
after the opening:
How is Fanny going?
Whereupon Frohman sent this laconic reply:
Gone.
Now came another historic episode in Frohman's career. He was making
his annual visit to London. The lure and love of the great city was in him
and it grew with each succeeding pilgrimage. He had learned to select
successful English plays, as the case of "Jane" had proved. Now he was to
go further and capture one of his rarest prizes.
Just about this time Brandon Thomas's farce, "Charley's Aunt," had been
played at the Globe Theater as a Christmas attraction and was staggering

along in great uncertainty. W. S. Penley, who owned the rights, played the
leading part.
Suddenly it became a success, and the "managerial Yankee birds," as they
called the American theatrical magnates, began to roost in London. All had
their claws set for "Charley's Aunt."
Frohman had established an office in London at 4 Henrietta Street, in the
vicinity of Covent Garden. His friendship with W. Lestocq, the author of
"Jane," developed. Lestocq, who was the son of a publisher, and had
graduated from a clever amateur actor into a professional, conceived a great
liking for Frohman. While all the American managers were angling for
"Charley's Aunt," he went to Penley, who was his friend, and said:
"Frohman has done so well with 'Jane' in America, he is the man to do
'Charley's Aunt.'"
Penley agreed to hold up all his negotiations for the play until Frohman
arrived. A conference was held, and, through the instrumentality of Lestocq,
Frohman secured the American rights to "Charley's Aunt."
At the end of this meeting Lestocq said in jest, "What do I get out of this?"
"I'll show you," said Frohman. "You shall represent me in London
hereafter."
Out of this conference came one of the longest and most loyal associations
in Charles's career, because from that hour until the day of his death
Lestocq represented Charles Frohman in England with a fidelity of purpose
and a devotion of interest that were characteristic of the men who knew and
worked with Charles Frohman.

W. LESTOCQ

Frohman now returned to America to produce "Charley's Aunt." In spite of
the success of the Empire, Frohman had "plunged" in various ways, and had

reached one of the numerous financial crises in his life. He looked upon
"Charley's Aunt" as the agency that was to again redeem him. For the
American production he imported Etienne Girardot, who had played the
leading rôle in the English production. He surrounded Girardot with an
admirable cast, including W. J. Ferguson, Frank Burbeck, Henry Woodruff,
Nanette Comstock, and Jessie Busley.
Frohman personally rehearsed "Charley's Aunt." He tried it out first at
Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, where the reception was not particularly cordial.
He returned to New York in a great state of apprehension, although his good
spirits were never dampened. On October 2, 1893, he produced the play at
the Standard, and it was an immediate success. As the curtain went down on
the first night's performance he assembled the company on the stage and
made a short speech, thanking them for their co-operation. It was the first
time in his career that he had done this, and it showed how keenly
concerned he was. It was another "Shenandoah," because it recouped his
purse, depleted from numerous outside ventures, inspired him with a fresh
zeal, and enabled him to proceed with fresh enterprises. It ran for two
hundred nights, and then duplicated its New York success on the road.
While gunning for "Charley's Aunt," Charles Frohman made his first
London production with "The Lost Paradise." He put it on in partnership
with the Gattis, at the Adelphi Theater in the Strand. It was a failure,
however, and it discouraged him from producing in England for some little
time.
These were the years when Frohman was making the few intimate
friendships that would mean so much to him until the closing hours of his
life. That of Charles Dillingham is an important one.
Dillingham had been a newspaper man in Chicago at a time when George
Ade, Peter Dunne, and Frank Vanderlip (now president of the National City
Bank) were his co-workers. He became secretary to Senator Squire, and at
Washington wrote a play called "Twelve P.M." A manager named Frank
Williams produced it in the old Bijou Theater, New York, just about the
time that Charles Frohman was presenting John Drew across the street in
"The Masked Ball." Dillingham had previously come on to New York, and

his hopes, naturally, were in the play. "Twelve P.M." was a dismal failure,
but it brought two unusual men together who became bosom friends. It
came about in this extraordinary way:
During the second (and last) week of the engagement of "Twelve P.M." at
the Bijou, Dillingham, who came every night to see his play, noticed a
short, stout, but important-looking man pass into the playhouse.
"Who is that man?" he asked.
He was told it was Charles Frohman.
A few days later he received a letter from Frohman, which said:
Your play lacks all form and construction, but I like the lines very much.
Would you like to adapt a French farce for me?
Dillingham accepted this commission and thus met Frohman. Dillingham
was then dramatic editor of the New York Evening Sun. One day he called
on Frohman and asked him to send him out with a show.
"When do you want to go?"
"Right away."
"Very well," said Frohman, who would always have his little joke. "You
can go to-morrow. I would like to get you off that paper, anyhow. You write
too many bad notices of my plays."
Dillingham first went out ahead of the Empire Stock Company and
afterward in advance of John Drew, in "That Imprudent Young Couple." He
left the job, however, and soon returned to Frohman, seeking other work.
"What would you like to do?" asked Frohman.
"Take my yacht and go to England," said Dillingham, facetiously.
"All right," said Frohman. "We sail Saturday," and handed him fifty
thousand dollars in stage money that happened to be lying on his desk.
Dillingham thought at first he was joking, but he was not. They sailed on

the St. Paul. Frohman had just established his first offices in Henrietta
Street. There was not much business to transact, and the pair spent most of
their time seeing plays. Dillingham acted as a sort of secretary to Frohman.
One day a haughty Englishman came up to the offices and asked
Dillingham to take in his card.
"I have no time," said Dillingham, whose sense of humor is proverbial.
"What have you to do?" asked the man.
"I've got to wash the office windows first," was the reply.
The Englishman became enraged, strode in to Frohman, and told him what
Dillingham had said. Frohman laughed so heartily that he almost rolled out
of his chair. After the Englishman left he went out and congratulated
Dillingham on his jest. From that day dated a Damon and Pythias friendship
between the two men. They were almost inseparable companions.
The time was at hand for another big star to twinkle in the Frohman
heaven. During all these years William Gillette had developed in prestige
and authority, both as actor and as playwright. The quiet, thoughtful,
scholarly-looking young actor who had knocked at the doors of the
Madison Square Theater with the manuscript of "The Professor," where it
was produced after "Hazel Kirke," and whose road tours had been booked
by Charles Frohman in his early days as route-maker, now came into his
own. Curiously enough, his career was to be linked closely with that of the
little man he first knew in his early New York days.
Frohman, who had booked and produced Gillette's play "Held By the
Enemy," now regarded Gillette as star material of the first rank. Combined
with admiration for Gillette as artist was a strong personal friendship.
Gillette now wrote a play, a capital farce called "Too Much Johnson," which
Frohman produced with the author as star. In connection with this opening
was a typical Frohman incident.
The play was first put on at Waltham, Massachusetts. The house was small
and the notices bad. Frohman joined the company next day at Springfield.
Gillette was much depressed, and he met Frohman in this mood.

"This is terrible, isn't it? I'm afraid the play is a failure."
"Nonsense!" said Frohman. "I have booked it for New York and for a long
tour afterward."
"Why?" asked Gillette in astonishment.
"I saw your performance," was the reply.

CHARLES DILLINGHAM

Frohman's confidence was vindicated, for when the play was put on at the
Standard Theater in November, 1894, it went splendidly and put another
rivet in Gillette's reputation.
Frohman now had two big stars, John Drew and William Gillette. A half-
dozen others were in the making, chief among them the wistful-eyed little
Maude Adams, who was now approaching the point in her career where she
was to establish a new tradition for the American stage and give Charles
Frohman a unique distinction.

VIII

MAUDE ADAMS AS STAR

W hen Charles Frohman put Maude Adams opposite John Drew in
"The Masked Ball" he laid the foundation of what is, in many
respects, his most remarkable achievement. The demure little girl,
who had made her way from child actress through the perils of vivid
melodrama to a Broadway success, now set foot on the real highway to a
stardom that is unique in the annals of the theater.
Brilliant as was his experience with the various men and women whom he
raised from obscurity to fame and fortune, the case of Maude Adams stands
out with peculiar distinctness. It is the one instance where Charles Frohman
literally manufactured a star's future.
Yet no star ever served so rigorous or so distinguished an apprenticeship.
Her five years as leading woman with John Drew tried all her resource.
After her brilliant performance as Zuzanne Blondet in "The Masked Ball,"
she appeared in "The Butterflies," by Henry Guy Carleton. She had a much
better part in "The Bauble Shop," which followed the next year.

John Drew's vehicle in 1895 was "That Imprudent Young Couple," by
Henry Guy Carleton. This play not only advanced Miss Adams materially,
but first served to bring forward John Drew's niece, Ethel Barrymore, a
graceful slip of a girl, who developed a great friendship with Miss Adams.
Following her appearance in the Carleton play came "Christopher Jr.,"
written by Madeline Lucette Ryley, in which Miss Adams scored the
biggest hit of her career up to this time.
It remained for Louis N. Parker's charming play, "Rosemary," which was
produced at the Empire Theater in 1896, to put Miss Adams into the path of
the man who, after Charles Frohman, did more than any other person in the
world to give her the prominence that she occupies to-day.
"Rosemary" was an exquisite comedy, and packed with sentiment. Maude
Adams played the part of Dorothy Cruikshank, a character of quaint and
appealing sweetness. It touched the hidden springs of whimsical humor and
thrilling tenderness, qualities which soon proved to be among her chief
assets.
Just about that time a little Scot, James M. Barrie by name, already a
distinguished literary figure who had blossomed forth as a playwright with
"Walker London" and "The Professor's Love Story," came to America for
the first time. For three people destined from this time on to be inseparably
entwined in career and fortune, it was a memorable trip. For Barrie it meant
the meeting with Charles Frohman, who was to be his greatest American
friend and producer; for Miss Adams it was to open the way to her real
career, and for Frohman himself it was to witness the beginning of an
intimacy that was perhaps the closest of his life.
Barrie's book, "The Little Minister," had been a tremendous success, and,
not having acquired the formality of a copyright in America, the play pirates
were busy with it. Frohman, after having seen the performance of "The
Professor's Love Story," had cabled Barrie, asking him to make a play out
of the charming Scotch romance. Barrie at first declined. Frohman, as usual,
was insistent. Then followed the Scotchman's trip to America.

Under Frohman's influence he had begun to consider a dramatization of
"The Little Minister," but the real stimulus was lacking because, as he
expressed it to Frohman, he did not see any one who could play the part of
Babbie.
Now came one of those many unexpected moments that shape lives. On a
certain day Barrie dropped into the Empire Theater to see Frohman, who
was out.
"Why don't you stop in down-stairs and see 'Rosemary'?" said Frohman's
secretary.
"All right," said Barrie.
So he went down into the Empire and took a seat in the last row. An hour
afterward he came rushing back to Frohman's office, found his friend in,
and said to him, as excitedly as his Scotch nature would permit:
"Frohman, I have found the woman to play Babbie in 'The Little Minister'!
I am going to try to dramatize it myself."
"Who is it?" asked Frohman, with a twinkle in his eye, for he knew
without asking.
"It is that little Miss Adams who plays Dorothy."
"Fine!" said Frohman. "I hope you will go ahead now and do the play."
The moment toward which Frohman had looked for years was now at
hand. He might have launched Miss Adams at any time during the
preceding four or five seasons. But he desired her to have a better
equipment, and he wanted the American theater-going public to know the
woman in whose talents he felt such an extraordinary confidence. He
announced with a suddenness that was startling, but which in reality
conveyed no surprise to the few people who had watched Miss Adams's
career up to this time, that he was going to launch her as star.

COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY CHARLES FROHMAN

MAUDE ADAMS

Some of his friends, however, objected.
"Why split and separate a good acting combination?" was their comment,
meaning the combination of John Drew and Miss Adams. To this objection
Frohman made reply:
"I'll show you the wisdom of it. I'll put them both on Broadway at the
same time."
He therefore launched Miss Adams in "The Little Minister" at the Empire
and booked John Drew at Wallack's in "A Marriage of Convenience." His
decision was amply vindicated, for both scored successes.

Charles Frohman now proceeded to present Miss Adams with his usual
lavishness. First of all he surrounded her with a superb company. It was
headed by Robert Edeson, who played the title rôle, and included Guy
Standing, George Fawcett, William H. Thompson, R. Peyton Carter, and
Wilfred Buckland.
With "The Little Minister" Charles Frohman gave interesting evidence of
a masterful manipulation to make circumstances meet his own desires. He
realized that the masculine title of the play might possibly detract from
Miss Adams's prestige, so he immediately began to adapt several important
scenes which might have been dominated by Gavin Dishart, the little
minister, into strong scenes for his new luminary. These changes were
made, of course, with Barrie's consent, and added much to the strength of
the rôle of Lady Babbie.
To the mastery of the part of Lady Babbie Maude Adams now consecrated
herself with a fidelity of purpose which was very characteristic of her. Then,
as always, she asked herself the question:
"What will this character mean to the people who see it?"

In other words, here, as throughout all her career, she put herself in the
position of her audience. She devoted many weeks to a study of Scotch
dialect. She fairly lived in a Scotch atmosphere. One of her friends of that
time accused her of subsisting on a diet of Scotch broth.
As was his custom, Frohman gave the piece an out-of-town try-out. It
opened on September 13, 1897, a date memorable in the Charles Frohman
narrative, in the La Fayette Square Opera House in Washington. It was an
intolerably hot night, and, added to the discomfort of the heat, there was
considerable uncertainty about the success of the venture itself. This was
not due to a lack of confidence in Miss Adams, but to the feeling that the
play was excessively Scotch. A brilliant audience, including many people
prominent in public life, witnessed the début and seemed most friendly.
Miss Adams regarded the first night as a failure. Financially the play
limped along for a week, for the gross receipts were only $3,500. Yet when
the play opened in New York two weeks later it was a spectacular success
from the start.
Here is another curious example of the importance of the New York
verdict. "Hazel Kirke," which became one of the historic successes of the
American stage, tottered along haltingly for weeks in Philadelphia,
Washington, and Baltimore. In the Quaker City, "Barbara Fritchie," with
Julia Marlowe in the title rôle, came dangerously near closing because of
discouraging business. Yet she came to New York, and with the exception
of "When Knighthood was in Flower," registered the greatest popular
triumph she has ever known. This was now the case with "The Little
Minister."
Miss Adams was irresistible as Lady Babbie. As the quaint, slyly
humorous, make-believe gipsy, she found full play for all her talents, and
she captured her audience almost with her first speech.
Charles Frohman sat nervously in the wings during the performance.
When the curtain went down his new star said to him:
"How did it go?"

"Splendidly," was his laconic comment.
"The Little Minister" ran at the Empire for three hundred consecutive
performances, two hundred and eighty-nine of which were to "standing
room only." The total gross receipts for the engagement were $370,000—a
record for that time.
On the last night of the run Miss Adams received the following cablegram
from Barrie:
Thank you, thank you all for your brilliant achievement. "What a glory to
our kirk."
Barrie.
Maude Adams was now launched as a profitable and successful star. Like
many other conscientious and idealistic interpreters of the drama, she had a
great reverence for Shakespeare, and she burned with a desire to play in one
of the great bard's plays. Charles Frohman knew this. Then, as always, one
of his supreme ambitions in life was to gratify her every wish, so he
announced that he would present her in a special all-star production of
"Romeo and Juliet."
Charles Frohman himself was always frank enough to say that he had no
great desire to produce Shakespeare. He lived in the dramatic activities of
his day. It was shortly before this time that his brother Daniel, entering his
office one day, found him reading.
"I am reading a new book," he said; "that is, new to me."
"What is that?" was the query?
"'Romeo and Juliet,'" he replied.
When Maude Adams dropped the rôle of Babbie to assume that of Juliet
some people thought the transfer a daring one, to say the least. Even Miss
Adams was a little nervous. Not so Frohman. To him Shakespeare was
simply a playwright like Clyde Fitch or Augustus Thomas, with the
additional advantage that he was dead, and therefore, as there were no
royalties to pay, he could put the money into the production.

When Frohman went to rehearsal one day he noticed that the company
seemed a trifle nervous.
"What's up?" he asked, abruptly.
Some one told him that the players were fearful lest all the details of the
costume and play should not be carried out in strict accordance with history.
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Frohman. "Who's Shakespeare? He was just a
man. He won't hurt you. I don't see any Shakespeare. Just imagine you're
looking at a soldier, home from the Cuban war, making love to a giggling
school-girl on a balcony. That's all I see, and that's the way I want it played.
Dismiss all idea of costume. Be modern."
The production of "Romeo and Juliet" was supervised by William
Seymour. It was rehearsed in two sections. One half of the cast was in New
York, with Faversham and Hackett; the other was on tour with Miss Adams
in "The Little Minister." Seymour divided his time between the two wings,
with the omnipresent spirit of Frohman over it all.
Miss Adams had made an exhaustive study of the part. After his first
conference with her, Seymour wrote to Frohman as follows:
I thought I knew my Shakespeare, but Miss Adams has opened up a new
and most wonderful field. An hour with her has given me more inspiration
and ideas than twenty years of personal experience with it.
As usual, Frohman surrounded Miss Adams with a magnificent cast.
William Faversham played Romeo; James K. Hackett was Mercutio; W. H.
Thompson was Friar Lawrence; Orrin Johnson played Paris; R. Peyton
Carter was Peter. Others in the company were Campbell Gollan and
Eugene Jepson.
"Romeo and Juliet" was produced at the Empire Theater May 8, 1899, and
was a distinguished artistic success. Miss Adams's Juliet was appealing,
romantic, lovely. It touched the chords of all her gentle womanliness and
gave the character, so far as the American stage was concerned, a new
tradition of youthful charm.

A unique feature of the first night's performance of "Romeo and Juliet"
was the presence of Mary Anderson. This distinguished actress, who had
just arrived from London for a brief visit, expressed a desire to see the new
Juliet, and to feel once more the thrill of a Broadway first night. Miss
Anderson herself had, of course, achieved great distinction as Juliet. She
was regarded, in her day, as the physical and romantic ideal of the rôle.
When her desire to see the play was communicated to Charles, it was
found that every box had been sold except the one reserved for his sisters.
He therefore purchased this from them with a check for $200.
At the conclusion of the performance Miss Anderson was introduced to
Miss Adams, and congratulated her on her success.

It was in 1900 that Miss Adams first played the part of a boy, a type of
character that, before many years would pass, was to give her a great
success. Her début as a lad, however, was under the most brilliantly artistic
circumstances, because it was in Edmond Rostand's "L'Aiglon," adapted in
English by Louis N. Parker. As the young Eaglet, son of the great Napoleon,
she had fresh opportunity to display her versatility. It was a character in
which romance, pathos, and tragedy were curiously entwined. Bernhardt
had done it successfully in Paris, but Miss Adams brought to it the fidelity
and brilliancy of youth. In "L'Aiglon" she was supported by Edwin Arden,
Oswald Yorke, Eugene Jepson, J. H. Gilmour, and R. Peyton Carter.

When Charles Frohman put Miss Adams into "Romeo and Juliet" she
received a whimsical letter from J. M. Barrie, saying, among other things:
Are you going to take Willie Shakespeare by the arm and l'ave me?
The time was now at hand when she once more took the fascinating Scot
by the arm. She now appeared in his "Quality Street," a new play with the
real Barrie charm, in which she took the part of an exquisite English girl
whose betrothed goes to the Napoleonic wars. She thinks he has forgotten
her, and allows herself to externally fade into spinsterhood. When he comes

back he does not recognize her. Then she suddenly blooms into exquisite
youth—radiant and beguiling—and he discovers that it is his old love.
"Quality Street" was tried out in Toledo, Ohio, early in the season of 1901.
On the opening night an incident occurred which showed Frohman's
attitude toward new plays. The third act dragged somewhat toward the end,
evidently on account of an anti-climax. On the following day Frohman
asked his business manager to sit with him during the third act, saying:
"Last night Miss Adams played this act as Barrie wrote it. This afternoon
she will play it as I want it."
The act went much more effectively, and it was never changed after that
matinée performance.
"Quality Street" was another of what came to be known as a typical
"Adams success."
For her next starring vehicle, Charles presented Maude Adams in "The
Pretty Sister of José," a play which Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett made of
her well-known story. She was supported by Harry Ainley, at that time
England's great matinée idol. Here Miss Adams encountered for the first
time something that resembled failure, because she was not adapted to the
fiery, passionate character of the impetuous Spanish girl. The play, however,
made its usual tour after the local season, and with much financial success.
The tour ended, Miss Adams suddenly disappeared from sight. There were
even rumors that she had left the stage. As a matter of fact, she had retired
to the seclusion of a convent at Tours, in France. There were two definite
reasons for her retirement. One was that she wanted time for convalescence
from an operation for appendicitis; the other, that she wished to perfect her
French in order to fulfil a long-cherished desire to play Juliet to Sarah
Bernhardt's Romeo. Unfortunately, this plan was never consummated, but it
gave Miss Adams a very rare experience, for she lived with the simple
French nuns for months. Later, when they were driven from France, she
found them quarters near Birmingham, in England, saw to their comfort,
and got them buyers for their lace.

Brilliant as had been Miss Adams's success up to this time, the moment
was now at hand when she was to appear in the rôle that, more than all her
other parts combined, would complete her conquest of the American heart.
Once more she became a boy, this time the irresistible Peter Pan.
As Peter Pan she literally flew into a new fame. This play of Barrie's
provided Frohman with one of the many sensations he loved, and perhaps
no production of the many hundreds that he made in his long career as
manager gave him quite so much pleasure as the presentation of the
fascinating little Boy Who Never Would Grow Up.
The very beginning of "Peter Pan," so far as the stage presentation was
concerned, was full of romantic interest. Barrie had agreed to write a play
for Frohman, and met him at dinner one night at the Garrick Club in
London. Barrie seemed nervous and ill at ease.
"What's the matter?" said Charles.
"Simply this," said Barrie. "You know I have an agreement to deliver you
the manuscript of a play?"
"Yes," said Frohman.
"Well, I have it, all right," said Barrie, "but I am sure it will not be a
commercial success. But it is a dream-child of mine, and I am so anxious to
see it on the stage that I have written another play which I will be glad to
give you and which will compensate you for any loss on the one I am so
eager to see produced."
"Don't bother about that," said Frohman. "I will produce both plays."
Now the extraordinary thing about this episode is that the play about
whose success Barrie was so doubtful was "Peter Pan," which made several
fortunes. The manuscript he offered Frohman to indemnify him from loss
was "Alice-Sit-By-The-Fire," which lasted only a season. Such is the
estimate that the author often puts on his own work!
When Frohman first read "Peter Pan" he was so entranced that he could
not resist telling all his friends about it. He would stop them in the street

and act out the scenes. Yet it required the most stupendous courage and
confidence to put on a play that, from the manuscript, sounded like a
combination of circus and extravaganza; a play in which children flew in
and out of rooms, crocodiles swallowed alarm-clocks, a man exchanged
places with his dog in its kennel, and various other seemingly absurd and
ridiculous things happened.
But Charles believed in Barrie. He had gone to an extraordinary expense
to produce "Peter Pan" in England. He duplicated it in the United States. No
other character in all her repertory made such a swift appeal to Miss Adams
as Peter Pan. She saw in him the idealization of everything that was
wonderful and wistful in childhood.
The way she prepared for the part was characteristic of her attitude toward
her work. She took the manuscript with her up to the Catskills. She isolated
herself for a month; she walked, rode, communed with nature, but all the
while she was studying and absorbing the character which was to mean so
much to her career. In the great friendly open spaces in which little Peter
himself delighted, and where he was king, she found her inspiration for
interpretation of the wondrous boy.
The try-out was made in Washington at the old National Theater. It went
with considerable success, although the first-night audience was somewhat
mystified and did not know exactly what to say or do.
It was when the play was launched on November 6, 1905, at the Empire
Theater in New York, that little Peter really came into his own. The human
birds, the droll humor, the daring allegory, above all the appealing, almost
tragic, spectacle of Peter playing his pipe up in the tree-tops of the Never-
Never Land, all contributed to an event that was memorable in more ways
than one.
On this night developed the remarkable and thrilling feature in "Peter Pan"
which made the adorable dream-child the best beloved of all American
children. It came when Peter rushed forward to the footlights in the frantic
attempt to save the life of his devoted little Tinker Bell, and asked:
"Do you believe in fairies?"

It registered a whole new and intimate relation between actress and
audience, and had the play possessed no other distinctive feature, this alone
would have at once lifted it to a success that was all its own.

MAUDE ADAMS

This episode became one of the many marvelous features of the
memorable run of "Peter Pan" at the Empire. Nearly every child in New

York—and subsequently, on the long and successful tours that Miss Adams
made in "Peter Pan," their brothers everywhere—became acquainted with
the episode and longed impatiently to have a part in it. On one occasion,
fully fifteen minutes before Miss Adams made her appeal, a little child rose
in a box at the Empire and said: "I believe in fairies."
"Peter Pan" recorded the longest single engagement in the history of the
Empire. It ran from November 6, 1905, until June 9, 1906.
But "Peter Pan" did more than give Miss Adams her most popular part. It
became a nation-wide vogue. Children were named after the fascinating
little lad Who Never Would Grow Up; articles of wearing-apparel were
labeled with his now familiar title; the whole country talked and loved the
unforgettable little character who now became not merely a stage figure, but
a real personal friend of the American theater-going people.
It was on a road tour of "Peter Pan" that occurred one of those rare
anecdotes in which Miss Adams figures. Frohman always had a curious
prejudice against the playing of matinées by his stars, especially Maude
Adams. A matinée was booked at Altoona, Pennsylvania. Frohman
immediately had it marked off his contract. The advance-agent of the
company, however, ordered the matinée played at the urgent request of the
local manager, but he did not notify the office in New York. When Charles
got the telegram announcing the receipts, he was most indignant. "I'll
discharge the person responsible for this matinée," he said.
In answer to his telegraphed inquiry he received the following wire:
The matinée was played at my request. I preferred to work rather than
spend the whole day in a bad hotel.
Maude Adams.
In connection with "Peter Pan" is a curious and tragic coincidence. Of all
the Barrie plays that Charles produced he loved "Peter Pan" the best.
Curiously enough, it was little Peter himself who gave him the cue for his
now historic farewell as he stood on the sinking deck of the Lusitania.
At the end of one of the acts in "Peter Pan" the little boy says:

To die will be an awfully big adventure.
These words had always made a deep impression on Frohman. They came
to his mind as he stood on that fateful deck and said:
Why fear death? It is the most beautiful adventure in life.
Having made such an enormous success with "Peter Pan," Miss Adams
now turned to her third boy's part. It was that of "Chicot, the Jester," John
Raphael's adaptation of Miguel Zamaceis's play "The Jesters." This was a
very delightful sort of Prince Charming play, fragile and artistic. The
opposite part was played by Consuelo Bailey. It was a great triumph for
Miss Adams, but not a very great financial success.
Now came the first of her open-air performances. During the season of
"The Jesters" she appeared at Yale and Harvard as Viola in "Twelfth Night."
She gave a charming and graceful performance of the rôle.

But Maude Adams could not linger long from the lure that was Barrie's.
After what amounted to the failure of "The Jesters" she turned to her fourth
Barrie play, which proved to be a triumph.
For over a year Barrie had been at work on a play for her. It came forth in
his whimsical satire, "What Every Woman Knows." Afterward, in speaking
of this play, he said that he had written it because "there was a Maude
Adams in the world." Then he added, "I could see her dancing through
every page of my manuscript."
Indeed, "What Every Woman Knows" was really written around Miss
Adams. It was a dramatization of the roguish humor and exquisite
womanliness that are her peculiar gifts.
As Maggie Wylie she created a character that was a worthy colleague of
Lady Babbie. Here she had opportunity for her wide range of gifts. The rôle
opposite her, that of John Shand, the poor Scotch boy who literally stole
knowledge, was extraordinarily interesting. As most people may recall, the
play involves the marriage between Maggie and John, according to an
agreement entered into between the girl's brothers and the boy. The brothers

agree to educate him, and in return he weds the sister. Maggie becomes
John's inspiration, although he refuses to realize or admit it. He is
absolutely without humor. He thinks he can do without her, only to find
when it is almost too late that she has been the very prop of his success.
At the end of this play Maggie finally makes her husband laugh when she
tells him:
I tell you what every woman knows: that Eve wasn't made from the rib of
Adam, but from his funny-bone.
This speech had a wide vogue and was quoted everywhere.
Curiously enough, in "What Every Woman Knows" Miss Adams has a
speech in which she unconsciously defines the one peculiar and elusive gift
which gives her such rare distinction. In the play she is supposed to be the
girl "who has no charm." In reality she is all charm. But in discussing this
quality with her brothers she makes this statement:
Charm is the bloom upon a woman. If you have it you don't have to have
anything else. If you haven't it, all else won't do you any good.
"What Every Woman Knows" was an enormous success, in which Richard
Bennett, who played John Shand, shared honors with the star. Miss Adams's
achievement in this play emphasized the rare affinity between her and
Barrie's delightful art. They formed a unique and lovable combination,
irresistible in its appeal to the public. Commenting on this, Barrie himself
has said:
Miss Adams knows my characters and understands them. She really needs
no directions. I love to write for her and see her in my work.
Nor could there be any more delightful comment on Miss Adams's
appreciation of all that Barrie has meant to her than to quote a remark she
made not so very long ago when she said:
Wherever I act, I always feel that there is one unseen spectator, James M.
Barrie.

Maude Adams was now in what most people, both in and out of the
theatrical profession, would think the very zenith of her career. She was the
best beloved of American actresses, the idol of the American child. She was
without doubt the best box-office attraction in the country. Yet she had
made her way to this eminence by an industry and a concentration that were
well-nigh incredible.
People began to say, "What marvelous things Charles Frohman has done
for Miss Adams."
As a matter of fact, the career of Miss Adams emphasizes what a very
great author once said, which, summed up, was that neither nature nor man
did anything for any human being that he could not do for himself.
Miss Adams paid the penalty of her enormous success by an almost
complete isolation. She concentrated on her work—all else was subsidiary.
Charles Frohman had an enormous ambition for Miss Adams, and that
ambition now took form in what was perhaps his most remarkable effort in
connection with her. It was the production of "Joan of Arc" at the Harvard
Stadium. It started in this way:
John D. Williams, for many years business manager for Charles Frohman,
is a Harvard alumnus. Realizing that the business with which he was
associated had been labeled with the "commercial" brand, he had an
ambition to associate it with something which would be considered
genuinely esthetic. The pageant idea had suddenly come into vogue. "Why
not give a magnificent pageant?" he said to himself.
One morning he went into Charles Frohman's office and put the idea to
him, adding that he thought Miss Adams as Joan of Arc would provide the
proper medium for such a spectacle. Frohman was about to go to Europe.
With a quick wave of the hand and a swift "All right," he assented to what
became one of the most distinguished events in the history of the American
stage.
Schiller's great poem, "The Maid of Orléans," was selected. In suggesting
the battle heroine of France, Williams touched upon one of Maude Adams's

great admirations. For years she had studied the character of Joan. To her
Joan was the very idealization of all womanhood. Bernhardt, Davenport,
and others had tried to dramatize this most appealing of all tragedies in the
history of France, and had practically failed. It remained for slight, almost
fragile, Maude Adams to vivify and give the character an enduring
interpretation.
"Joan of Arc," as the pageant was called, was projected on a stupendous
scale. Fifteen hundred supernumeraries were employed. John W. Alexander,
the famous artist, was employed to design the costumes. A special electric-
lighting plant was installed in the stadium.
Miss Adams concentrated herself upon the preparations with a fidelity and
energy that were little short of amazing. One detail will illustrate. As most
people know, Miss Adams had to appear mounted several times during the
play and ride at the head of her charging army.
This equestrianism gave Charles Frohman the greatest solicitude. He
feared that she would be injured in some way, and he kept cabling warnings
to her, and to her associates who were responsible for her safety, to be
careful.
Miss Adams, however, determined to be a good horsewoman, and for
more than a month she practised every afternoon in a riding-academy in
New York. Since the horse had to carry the trappings of clanging armor,
amid all the tumult of battle, she rehearsed every day with all sorts of noisy
apparatus hanging about him. Shots were fired, colored banners and flags
were flaunted about her, and pieces of metal were fastened to her riding-
skirt so that the steed would be accustomed to the constant contact of a
sword.
Although the preparations for her own part were most exacting and
onerous, Miss Adams exercised a supervising direction over the whole
production, which was done in the most lavish fashion. She had every
resource of the Charles Frohman organization at her command, and it was
employed to the very last detail.

"Joan of Arc" was presented on the evening of June 22, 1909, in the
presence of over fifteen thousand people. It was a magnificent success, and
proved to be unquestionably the greatest theatrical pageant ever staged in
this country. The elaborate settings were handled mechanically. Forests
dissolved into regal courts; fields melted into castles. A hidden orchestra
played the superb music of Beethoven's "Eroica," which accentuated the
noble poetry of Schiller.
The first scene showed the maid of Domremy wandering in the twilight
with her vision; the last revealed her dying of her wounds at the spring,
soon to be buried under the shields of her captains.
The battle scene was an inspiring feature. It had been arranged that Miss
Adams's riding-master should change places with her at the head of the
charging troops and ride in their magnificent sweep down the field. It was
feared that some mishap might befall her. When the charge was over and
the stage-manager rushed up to congratulate the supposed riding-master on
his admirable make-up, he was surprised to hear Miss Adams's voice issue
forth from the armor, saying, "How did it go?" Strapped to her horse, she
had led the charge herself and had seen the performance through.
"Joan of Arc" netted $15,000, which Charles Frohman turned over to
Harvard University to do with as it pleased. There was unconscious irony in
this, for the performance aroused great admiration in Germany, and the
proceeds were devoted to the Germanic Museum in the university; in the
end, the Germans were responsible for his death.
Accentuating this irony was the fact that Charles Frohman had made a
magnificent vellum album containing the complete photographic record of
the play, and sent it to the German Kaiser with the following inscription:
To His Majesty the German Emperor. This photographic record of the first
English performance in America of Friedrich von Schiller's dramatic poem,
"Jungfrau von Orleans," given for the Building Fund of the Germanic
Museum of Harvard University under the auspices of the German
Department in the Stadium, Tuesday, twenty-second of June, 1909, is
respectfully presented by Charles Frohman.

There is no doubt that "Joan of Arc" was the supreme effort of Miss
Adams's career. She was the living, breathing incarnation of the Maid.
When she was told that Charles Frohman had refused an offer of $50,000
for the motion-picture rights, she said:
Of course it was refused. This performance is all poetry and solemnity.
The following June, in the Greek Theater of the University of California,
at Berkeley, Miss Adams made her first and only appearance as Rosalind in
"As You Like It." Ten thousand people saw the performance. Her
achievement illustrates the extraordinary and indefatigable quality of her
work. She rehearsed "As You Like It" during her transcontinental tour of
"What Every Woman Knows," which extended from sea to sea and lasted
thirty-nine weeks.

Most managers would have been content to rest with the laurel that such a
performance as "Joan of Arc" had won. Not so with Charles Frohman.
Every stupendous feat that he achieved merely whetted his desire for
something greater. He delighted in sensation. Now he came to the point in
his life where he projected what was in many respects the most unique and
original of all his efforts, the presentation of Rostand's classic, "Chantecler."
It was on March 30, 1910, that Charles crossed over from London to Paris
to see this play. It thrilled and stirred him, and he bought it immediately. He
realized that it would either be a tremendous success or a colossal failure,
and he was willing to stand or fall by it. In Paris the title rôle, originally
written for the great Coquelin, had been played by Guitry. It was essentially
a man's part. But Frohman, with that sense of the spectacular which so often
characterized him, immediately cast Miss Adams for it.
When he announced that the elf-like girl—the living Peter Pan to millions
of theater-goers—was to assume the feathers and strut of the barnyard
Romeo, there was a widespread feeling that he was making a great mistake,
and that he was putting Miss Adams into a rôle, admirable artist that she
was, to which she was absolutely unsuited. A storm of criticism arose. But
Frohman was absolutely firm. Opposition only made him hold his ground

all the stronger. When people asked him why he insisted upon casting Miss
Adams for this almost impossible part he always said:
"Chantecler" is a play with a soul, and the soul of a play is its moral. This
is the secret of "Peter Pan"; this is why Miss Adams is to play the leading
part.
Miss Adams was in Chicago when Frohman bought the play, and he
cabled her that she was to do the title part. She afterward declared that this
news changed the dull, dreary, soggy day into one that was brilliant and
dazzling. "To play Chantecler," she said, "is an honor international in its
glory."
The preparations for "Chantecler" were carried on with the usual Frohman
magnificence. A fortune was spent on it. The costumes were made in Paris;
John W. Alexander supervised the scenic effects.
The casting of the parts was in itself an enormous task. Frohman amused
himself by having what he called "casting parties." For example, he would
call up Miss Adams by long-distance telephone and say:
I've got ten minutes before my train starts for Atlantic City. Can you cast a
peacock for me?
Whereupon Miss Adams would say:
Ten minutes is too short.
Never, perhaps, in the history of the American stage was the advent of a
play so long heralded. The name "Chantecler" was on every tongue. Long
before the piece was launched hats had been named after it, controversies
had arisen over its Anglicized spelling and pronunciation. All the genius of
publicity which was the peculiar heritage of Charles Frohman was turned
loose to pave the way for this extraordinary production. It was a nation-
wide sensation.
For the first time in his life Charles had to postpone an opening. It was
originally set for the 13th of January, 1911, but the first night did not come
until the 23d. This added to the suspense and expectancy of the public.

The demand for seats was unprecedented. A line began to form at four
o'clock in the afternoon preceding the day the sale opened. Within twenty-
four hours after the window was raised at the box-office as high as $200
was offered in vain for a seat on the opening night.
The Empire stage was too small, so the play was produced at the
Knickerbocker Theater. A brilliant and highly wrought-up audience was
present. Extraordinary interest centered about Miss Adams's performance as
Chantecler. "Will she be able to do it?" was the question on every tongue.
On that memorable opening-night Frohman, as usual, sat in the back seat in
the gallery and had the supreme satisfaction of seeing his star distinguish
herself in a performance that in many respects revealed Miss Adams as she
had never been revealed before. She was recalled twenty-two times.
Chantecler literally crowed and conquered!
Just how much "Chantecler" meant to Charles Frohman is attested by a
remark he made soon after its inaugural. A friend was discussing epitaphs
with him.
"What would you like to have written about you, C. F.?" asked the man.
The brilliant smile left Frohman's face for a moment, and then he said,
solemnly:
"All that I would ask is this: 'He gave "Peter Pan" to the world and
"Chantecler" to America.' It is enough for any man."
The last original production that Charles Frohman made with Maude
Adams was "The Legend of Leonora," in which she returned once more to
Barrie's exquisite and fanciful satire, devoted this time to the woman
question. In England it had been produced under the title of "The Adored
One."
It was in the part of Leonora that James M. Barrie saw Maude Adams act
for the first time in one of his plays. He had come to America for a brief
visit to Frohman, and during this period Miss Adams was having her annual
engagement at the Empire Theater.

Of course, Barrie had Miss Adams in mind for the American production,
and it is a very interesting commentary on his admiration for the American
star that about the only instructions he attached to the manuscript of the
play was this:
Leonora is an unspeakable darling, and this is all the guidance that can
be given to the lady playing her.
On her last starring tour under the personal direction of Charles Frohman,
Miss Adams combined with a revival of "Quality Street" a clever skit by
Barrie called "The Ladies' Shakespeare," the subtitle being, "One Woman's
Reading of 'The Taming of the Shrew.'" With an occasional appearance in
Barrie's "Rosalind," it rounded out her stellar career under him.
Charles Frohman lived to see Maude Adams realize his highest desire for
her success. She justified his confidence and it gave him infinite
satisfaction.
Miss Adams's career as a star unfolds a panorama of artistic and practical
achievement unequaled in the life of any American star. It likewise reveals a
paradox all its own. While millions of people have seen and admired her,
only a handful of people know her. The aloofness of the woman in her
personal attitude toward the public represents Charles Frohman's own ideal
of what stage artistry and conduct should be.
It is illustrated in what was perhaps the keenest epigram he ever made. He
was talking about people of the stage who constantly air themselves and
their views to secure personal publicity. It moved him to this remark:
"Some people prefer mediocrity in the lime-light to greatness in the dark."
Herein he summed up the reason why Miss Adams has been an elusive
and almost mysterious figure. By tremendous reading, solitary thinking, and
extraordinary personal application she rose to her great eminence. With her
it has always been a creed of career first. Like Charles Frohman, she has
hidden behind her activities, and they form a worthy rampart.
The history of the stage records no more interesting parallel than the one
afforded by these two people—each a recluse, yet each known to the

multitudes.

IX

THE BIRTH OF THE SYNDICATE

C harles Frohman's talents and energies were very much like those
of E. H. Harriman in that they found their largest and best
expression when dedicated to a multitude of enterprises. Like
Harriman, too, he did things in a wholesale way, for he had a contempt for
small sums and small ventures.
Going back a little in point of time from the close of the preceding
chapter, the final years of the last century found Frohman geared up to a
myriad of activities. He had already assumed the rôle of Star-Maker, for
Drew and Gillette were on his roster, and Maude Adams was about to be
launched; the Empire Stock Company was an accredited institution with a
national influence; he had started a chain of theaters; his booking interests
in the West had assumed the proportions of an immense business; he had
begun to make his presence felt in London. Yet no event of these middle
'nineties was more momentous in its relation to the future of the whole
American theater than one which was about to transpire—one in which
Charles Frohman had an important hand.
Despite the efforts made by the booking offices conducted by Charles
Frohman and Klaw & Erlanger, the making of routes for theatrical
attractions in the United States was in a most disorganized and
economically unsound condition. The local manager was still more or less
at the mercy of the booking free-lance in New York. The booking agent
himself only represented a comparatively few theaters and could not book a
complete season for a traveling attraction.
In New York the manager was an autocrat who frequently dictated
unbelievable terms to the traveling companies. Immense losses resulted

from small traveling companies being pitted against one another in
provincial towns that could only support one first-class attraction. Most
theatrical contracts were not worth the paper they were written on.
Charles Frohman had first counted the cost of this theatrical
demoralization when his great "Shenandoah" run at the old Star Theater had
to be interrupted while playing to capacity because another attraction had
been booked into that theater. He and all his representative colleagues in the
business realized that some steps must be taken to rectify the situation.
Piled on this was the general business depression that had followed the
panic of 1893.
One day in 1896 a notable group of theatrical magnates met by chance at a
luncheon at the Holland House in New York. They included Charles
Frohman, whose offices booked attractions for a chain of Western theaters
extending to the coast; A. L. Erlanger and Marc Klaw, who, as Klaw &
Erlanger, controlled attractions for practically the entire South; Nixon &
Zimmerman, of Philadelphia, who were conducting a group of the leading
theaters of that city, and Al Hayman, one of the owners of the Empire
Theater.
These men naturally discussed the chaos in the theatrical business. They
decided that its only economic hope was in a centralization of booking
interests, and they acted immediately on this decision. Within a few weeks
they had organized all the theaters they controlled or represented into one
national chain, and the open time was placed on file in the offices of Klaw
& Erlanger. It now became possible for the manager of a traveling company
to book a consecutive tour at the least possible expense. In a word, booking
suddenly became standardized.
This was the beginning of the famous Theatrical Syndicate which, in a
brief time, dominated the theatrical business of the whole country. It
marked a real epoch in the history of the American theater because within a
year a complete revolution had been effected in the business. The booking
of attractions was emancipated from curb and café; a theatrical contract
became an accredited and licensed instrument. The Syndicate became a
clearing-house for the theatrical manager and the play-producer, and the

medium through which they did business with each other. Charles Frohman
contributed his growing chain of theaters to the organization and secured a
one-sixth interest in it which he retained up to the time of his death.

Once launched, the Syndicate proceeded to ride the tempest, for the
biggest storm in all American theatrical history soon began to develop. Out
of the long turmoil came a whole new line-up in the business. It affected
Charles Frohman less than any of his immediate associates in the big
combination because, first of all, he was a passive member, and, second, he
had a kingdom all his own. Yet the story of these turbulent years is so
inseparably linked up with the development of the drama in this country
that it is well worth rehearsing.
Although the Syndicate standardized the theatrical contract and made
efficient and economical booking possible, it did not immediately secure
the willing co-operation of some of the best-known traveling stars of the
day. They included Mrs. Fiske, Richard Mansfield, Joseph Jefferson, Nat C.
Goodwin, Francis Wilson (then in comic opera), and James A. Herne. They
were great popular favorites and had been accustomed to appear at stated
intervals in certain theaters in various parts of the country. They booked
their own "time" and had a more or less personal relation with the lessees
and managers of the theaters in which they appeared.
The Syndicate began to book these stars as it saw fit and as they could be
best fitted into the country-wide scheme. A scale of terms was arranged that
was regarded as equitable both to the attraction and the local manager.
These stars, however, refused to be booked in this way. They denied the
right of the new organization to say when and where they should play. Out
of this denial came the famous revolt against the Syndicate which blazed
intermittently for more than two decades.

FRANCIS WILSON WILLIAM COLLIER

Chief among the insurgents was Mrs. Fiske, who had returned to the stage
in "Tess of the D'Urbervilles," a dramatization of Thomas Hardy's great
novel. Her husband and manager, Harrison Gray Fiske, was editor and
publisher of The Dramatic Mirror, which became the voice of protest. Mrs.
Fiske refused to appear in Syndicate theaters, and she hired independent
houses all over the country. Such places were few and far between in those
days, and she was forced to play in public halls, even skating-rinks.
Mansfield became one of the leaders of the opposition to the Syndicate.
He made speeches before the curtain, denouncing its methods. His lead was
followed by Francis Wilson, and subsequently by James K. Hackett, David
Belasco, and Henry W. Savage. The fight on the huge combination became
a matter of nation-wide interest.
All the while the Syndicate was growing in power and authority.
Gradually the revolutionists returned to the fold because desirable terms
were made for them. Only Mrs. Fiske remained outside the ranks. In order
to secure a New York City stage for her Mr. Fiske leased the Manhattan
Theater for a long term.

It was during these strenuous years, and as one indirect result of the
Syndicate fight, that a whole new theatrical dynasty sprang up. It took
shape and centered in the growing importance of three then obscure
brothers, Lee, Sam, and Jacob J. Shubert by name, who lived in Syracuse,
New York. They were born in humble circumstances, and early in life had
been forced to become breadwinners. The first to get into the theatrical
business was Sam, the second son, who, as a youngster barely in his teens,
became program boy and later on assistant in the box-office of the Grand
Opera House in his native town. At seventeen he was treasurer of the
Weiting Opera House there, and from that time until his death in a railroad
accident in 1905 he was an increasingly powerful figure in the business.
Before Sam Shubert was twenty he controlled a chain of theaters with
stock companies in up-state New York cities and had taken his two brothers
into partnership with him. In 1900 he subleased the Herald Square Theater
in New York City and thus laid the corner-stone of what came to be known
as the "Independent Movement" throughout the country. He had initiative
and enterprise. Gradually he and his brothers and their associates controlled
a line of theaters from coast to coast. In these theaters they offered attractive
bookings to the managers who were outside the Syndicate. The Shuberts
also became producers and encouragers of productions on a large scale.
For the first time the Syndicate now had real opposition. A warfare
developed that was almost as bitter and costly in its way as was the old
disorganized method in vogue before the business was put on a commercial
basis. It naturally led to over-production and to a surplus of theaters. Towns
that in reality could only support one first-class playhouse were compelled
to have a "regular" and an "independent" theater. Attractions of a similar
nature, such as two musical comedies, were pitted against each other. In
dividing the local patronage both sides suffered loss.
During the last year of Charles Frohman's life the Syndicate and the
Shuberts, wisely realizing that such an uneconomic procedure could only
spell disaster in a large way for the whole theatrical business, buried their
differences. A harmonious working agreement was entered into that put an
end to the destructive strife. Theatrical booking became an open field, and

the producer can now play his attractions in both Syndicate and Shubert
theaters.

Charles Frohman's activities were now nation-wide. Just as Harriman built
up a transcontinental railroad system, so did the rotund little manager now
set up an empire all his own. The building of the Empire Theater had given
him a closer link with Rich and Harris. Through them he acquired an
interest in the Columbia Theater, in Boston, and subsequently he became
part owner of the Hollis Street Theater in that city. His third theater in
Boston was the Park. By this time the firm name for Boston operation was
Rich, Harris, and Charles Frohman. Their next venture was the construction
of the magnificent Colonial Theater, on the site of the old Boston Public
Library, which was opened with "Ben-Hur." With the acquisition of the
Boston and Tremont playhouses, the firm controlled the situation at Boston.
Up to this time Frohman had controlled only one theater in New York—
the Empire. In 1896 he saw an opportunity to acquire control of the Garrick
in Thirty-fifth Street. He wrote to William Harris, saying, "I will take it if
you will come on and run it." Harris assented, and the Garrick passed under
the banner of Charles Frohman, who inaugurated his régime with John
Drew in "The Squire of Dames." He put some of his biggest successes into
this theater and some of his favorite stars, among them Maude Adams and
William Gillette. To the chain of Charles Frohman controlled theaters in
New York were added in quick order the Criterion, the Savoy, the Garden,
and a part interest in the Knickerbocker.
During his early tenancy of the Garrick occurred an incident which
showed Frohman's resource. He produced a play called "The Liars," by
Henry Arthur Jones, in which he was very much interested. In the out-of-
town try-out up-state Frohman heard that the critic of one of the most
important New York newspapers had expressed great disapproval of the
piece on account of some personal prejudice. He did not want this prejudice
to interfere with the New York verdict, so he went to Charles Dillingham
one day shortly before the opening and said:
"Can you get me some loud laughers?"

Dillingham said he could.
"All right," said Frohman; "I want you to plant one on either side of Mr.
Blank," referring to the critic who had a prejudice against the play.
This was done, and on the opening night the "prop" laughers made such a
noisy demonstration that the critic said it was the funniest farce in years.

Charles Frohman's first foreign star, who paved the way for so many, was
Olga Nethersole. His management of her came about in a curious way. A
difference had arisen between Augustin Daly and Ada Rehan, his leading
woman. Miss Rehan had decided to withdraw from the company, and in
casting about quickly for a successor had decided upon Olga Nethersole,
then one of the most prominent of the younger English actresses. While the
deal was being consummated Daly and Miss Rehan adjusted their
differences, and the arrangements for Miss Nethersole's appearance in
America were abrogated.
Miss Nethersole was left without an American manager. Daniel Frohman,
then manager of the Lyceum Theater, stepped in and became her American
sponsor, forming a partnership with his brother Charles to handle her
interests. Jointly they now conducted an elaborate tour for her covering two
years, in which she appeared in "Denise," "Frou-Frou," "Camille," and
"Carmen."

MARGARET ANGLIN ANNIE RUSSELL

The sensational episode of her tour was the production of "Carmen." The
fiery, impetuous, emotional, and sensuous character of the Spanish heroine
appealed to Miss Nethersole's vivid imagination, and she gave a realistic
portrayal of the rôle that became popular and spectacular. In all parts of the
country the "Carmen Kiss" became a byword. The play, in addition to its
own merits as a striking drama, and its vogue at the opera through Madame
Calvé's performance of the leading rôle, became a very successful vehicle
for Miss Nethersole's two tours. Miss Nethersole was the first star outside
of Charles Frohman's own force who appeared at the Empire Theater, where
she played a brief engagement with "Camille" and "Carmen."

From his earliest theatrical day Charles believed implicitly in melodrama.
His first production on any stage was a thriller. The play that turned the tide
in his fortunes was a spine-stirrer. He now turned to his favorite form of
play by producing "The Fatal Card," by Haddon Chambers and B. C.
Stephenson, at Palmer's Theater. He did it with an admirable cast that
included May Robson, Agnes Miller, Amy Busby, E. J. Ratcliffe, William
H. Thompson, J. H. Stoddart, and W. J. Ferguson.

A big melodrama now became part of his regular season. He leased the
old Academy of Music at Fourteenth Street and Irving Place in New York,
where, as a boy, he had seen his brother Gustave sell opera librettos, and
where he became fired with the ambition to make money. Here he produced
a notable series of melodramas in lavish fashion. The first was "The
Sporting Duchess." This piece, which was produced in England as "The
Derby Winner," was a sure-enough thriller. The cast included E. J. Ratcliffe,
Francis Carlyle, J. H. Stoddart, Alice Fischer, Cora Tanner, Agnes Booth,
and Jessie Busley.
Charles Frohman's next melodrama at the Academy was the famous "Two
Little Vagrants," adapted from the French by Charles Klein. In this cast he
brought forward a notable group destined to shine in the drama, for among
them were Dore Davidson, Minnie Dupree, Annie Irish, George Fawcett,
and William Farnum, the last named then just beginning to strike his
theatrical stride.
Still another famous melodrama that Charles introduced to the United
States at the famous old playhouse was "The White Heather," in which he
featured Rose Coghlan, and in which Amelia Bingham made one of her first
successes. With this piece Charles emphasized one of the customs he helped
to bring to the American stage. He always paid for the actresses' clothes. He
told Miss Coghlan to spare no expense on her gowns, and she spent several
thousand dollars on them. When she saw Frohman after the opening, which
was a huge success, she said:
"I am almost ashamed to see you."
"Why?" he asked.
"Because I spent so much money on my gowns."
"Nonsense!" said Frohman. "You did very wisely. You and the gowns are
the hit of the piece."
Frohman here established a new tradition for the production of melodrama
in the United States. Up to his era the producer depended upon thrill rather

than upon accessory. Frohman lavished a fortune on each production. Any
competition with him had to be on the same elaborate scale.
Fully a year before Maude Adams made her stellar début Frohman put
forth his first woman star in Annie Russell. This gifted young
Englishwoman, who had appeared on the stage at the age of seven in
"Pinafore," had made a great success in "Esmeralda," at the Madison
Square Theater. Frohman, who was then beginning his managerial career,
was immediately taken with her talent. She appeared in some of his earlier
companies. He now starred her in a play by Bret Harte called "Sue." He
presented her both in New York and in London.
Under Frohman, Miss Russell had a long series of starring successes.
When she appeared in "Catherine," at the Garrick Theater, in her support
was Ethel Barrymore, who was just beginning to emerge from the obscurity
of playing "bits." In succession Miss Russell did "Miss Hobbs," "The Royal
Family," "The Girl and the Judge," "Jinny the Carrier," and "Mice and
Men."
In connection with "Mice and Men" is a characteristic Frohman story.
Charles ordered this play written from Madeleine Lucette Ryley for Maude
Adams. When he read the manuscript he sent it back to Miss Ryley with the
laconic comment, "Worse yet." She showed it to Gertrude Elliott, who
bought it for England. When Charles heard of this he immediately accepted
the play, and it proved to be a success. The moment a play was in demand it
became valuable to him.
Spectacular success seemed to have taken up its abode with Charles. It
now found expression in the production of "Secret Service," the most
picturesque and profitable of all the Gillette enterprises. The way it came to
be written is a most interesting story.
Frohman was about to sail for Europe when Gillette sent him the first act
of this stirring military play. Frohman read it at once, sent for the author and
said:
"This is great, Gillette. Let me see the second act."

Gillette produced this act forthwith, and Frohman's enthusiasm increased
to such an extent that he postponed his sailing until he received the
complete play. Frohman's interest in "Secret Service" was heightened by the
fact that he had scored two tremendous triumphs with military plays, "Held
by the Enemy" and "Shenandoah." He felt that the talisman of the brass
button was still his, and he plunged heavily on "Secret Service."
It was first put on in Philadelphia. Even at that time there obtained the
superstition widely felt in the theatrical business that what fails out of town
must succeed in New York. Frohman, who shared this superstition, was
really eager not to register successfully in the Quaker capital.
But "Secret Service" smashed this superstition, because it scored heavily
in Philadelphia and then had an enormous run at the Garrick Theater in
New York. In "Secret Service" Maurice Barrymore had the leading part, and
he played it with a distinction of bearing and a dash of manner that were
almost irresistible.
William Gillette always proved to be one of Charles Frohman's mascots.
Practically whatever he touched turned to gold. He and Frohman had now
become close friends, and the actor-author frequently accompanied the
manager on his trips to London.
During their visit in 1899, "Sherlock Holmes" had become the literary
rage. Everybody was talking about the masterful detective of Baker Street.
"We must get those Doyle stories," said Frohman to Gillette.
"All right," said the author.
Frohman personally went to see Conan Doyle and made a bid for the
rights.
"Certainly, Mr. Frohman," replied Doyle, "but I shall make one
stipulation. There must be no love business in 'Sherlock Holmes.'"
"All right," said Frohman; "your wishes shall be respected."

Frohman now engaged Gillette to make the adaptation, but he said
absolutely nothing about the condition that Doyle had made. Gillette, as
most American theater-goers know, wove a love interest into the strenuous
life of the famous detective.
A year later, Gillette and Frohman again were in England, Gillette to read
the manuscript of the play to Doyle. The famous author liked the play
immensely and made no objection whatever to the sentimental interest. In
fact, his only comment when Gillette finished reading the manuscript was:
"It's good to see the old chap again."
He referred, of course, to Sherlock Holmes, who, up to this time, had
already met his death on four or five occasions.
"Sherlock Holmes" proved to be another "Secret Service" in every way.
Gillette made an enormous success in the title rôle, and after a long run at
the Garrick went on the road. Frohman revived it again and again until it
had almost as many "farewells" as Adelina Patti. The last business detail
that Charles discussed with Gillette before sailing on the fatal trip in 1915
was for a revival of this play at the Empire.
The Frohman Star Factory was now working full time. Next in output
came William Faversham. This brilliant young Englishman had started with
Daniel Frohman's company at the Lyceum in a small part. At a rehearsal of
"The Highest Bidder" Charles singled him out.
"Where did you get your cockney dialect?" he asked.
"Riding on the top of London 'buses," was the reply.
"Well," answered Charles, "I want to do that myself some day."
This was the first contact between two men who became intimate friends
and who were closely bound up in each other's fortunes.
During his Lyceum engagement Faversham wanted to widen his activities.
He read in the papers one day that Charles was producing a number of
plays, so he made up his mind he would try to get into one of them. He

went to Frohman's office every morning at half-past nine and asked to see
him or Al Hayman. Sometimes he would arrive before Frohman, and the
manager had to pass him as he went into his office. He invariably looked
up, smiled at the waiting actor, and passed on. Faversham kept this up for
weeks. One day Alf Hayman asked him what he wanted there.
"I am tired of hanging round the Lyceum with nothing to do. I want a
better engagement," was the answer.
Hayman evidently communicated this to Frohman and Al Hayman, but
they made no change in their attitude. Every day they passed the waiting
Faversham as they arrived in the morning and went out to lunch, and
always Frohman smiled at him.

WILLIAM FAVERSHAM

Finally one morning Charles came to the door, looked intently at
Faversham, puffed out his cheeks as was his fashion, and smiled all over his
face. Turning to Al Hayman, who was with him, he said:
"Al, we've got to give this fellow something to do or we won't be able to
go in and out of here much longer."
In a few moments Frohman emerged again, asked Faversham how tall he
was. When he was told, he invited Faversham into his office and inquired of
him if he could study a long part and play it in two days. Faversham said he
could. The result was his engagement for Rider Haggard's "She." Such was
the unusual beginning of the long and close association between Faversham
and Charles Frohman.
Faversham became leading man of the Empire Stock Company, and his
distinguished career was a matter of the greatest pride to Charles. He now
was caught up in the Frohman star machine and made his first appearance
under the banner of "Charles Frohman Presents," in "A Royal Rival," at the
Criterion in August, 1901.
Charles not only made Faversham a star, but provided him with a wife,
and a very charming one, too. In the spring of 1901 an exquisite young girl,
Julie Opp by name, was playing at the St. James Theater in London.
Frohman sent for her and asked her if she could go to the United States to
act as leading woman for William Faversham.
"I have been to America once," she said, "and I want to go back as a star."
When Frohman let loose the powers of his persuasiveness, Miss Opp
began to waver.
"I don't want to leave my nice London flat and my English maid," she
protested.
"Take the maid with you," said Frohman. "We can't box the flat and take
that to New York, but we have flats in New York that you can hire."

"I hate to leave all my friends," continued Miss Opp.
"Well, I can't take over all your friends," replied Frohman, "but you will
have plenty of new admirers in New York."
Miss Opp asked what she thought were unreasonable terms. Frohman said
nothing, but sent Charles Dillingham to see her next day. He said Frohman
wanted to know if she was joking about her price. "Of course," he said, "if
you are not joking he will pay it anyhow, because when he makes up his
mind to have anybody he is going to have him."
This shamed Miss Opp. She asked a reasonable fee, went to the United
States, and not only became Faversham's leading woman, but his wife.
Frohman always took infinite delight in teasing the Favershams about
having been their matchmaker.

Charles, who loved to create a sensation in a big way, was now able to
gratify one of his favorite emotions with the production of "The
Conquerors." Like many of the Frohman achievements, it began in a
picturesque way.
During the summer of 1897, Frohman and Paul Potter, being in Paris,
dropped in at that chamber of horrors, the Grand Guignol, in the Rue
Chaptal. There they saw "Mademoiselle Fifi," a playlet lasting less than half
an hour, adapted by the late Oscar Metenier from Guy de Maupassant's
short story. It was the tale of a young Prussian officer who gets into a
French country house during the war of 1870, abuses the aristocrats who
live there, shoots out the eyes of the family portraits, entertains at supper a
number of loose French girls from Rouen, and is shot by one of the girls for
vilifying Frenchwomen. Frohman was deeply impressed.
"Why can't you make it into a long play?" said Frohman.
"I can," said Potter.
"How?" queried Frohman.

"By showing what happened to the French aristocrats while the Prussian
officer was shooting up the place," answered the author.
"Do it," said Frohman, "and I'll open the season of the Empire Stock
Company in this drama, and get George Alexander interested for London."
As "The Conquerors" the play went into rehearsal about Christmas. Mrs.
Dazian, wife of Henry Dazian, the costumier, was watching a scene in
which William Faversham plans the ruin of Viola Allen, the leading woman.
"Well," said Mrs. Dazian, "if New York will stand for that it will stand for
anything."
Frohman jumped up in excitement. "What is wrong with it?" he cried.
"The manuscript was shown to a dozen people of the cleanest minds. They
found nothing wrong. I've done the scene a dozen times. I have it up-stairs
on my shelves at this moment in 'The Sporting Duchess.'"
Mrs. Dazian was obdurate. "It is awful," she said.
The first night approached. Potter was to sail for Europe next day.
Frohman had provided him with sumptuous cabin quarters on the New York.
After the dress rehearsal, Potter appeared on the Empire stage, where he
found Frohman. The latter was worried.
"Paul," said he, "the first three acts are fine; the last is rotten. You must
stay and rewrite the last act."
Potter had to postpone his trip. At ten next morning the new act was
handed in; the company learned and rehearsed it by three in the afternoon,
and that night Frohman and the author stood in the box-office watching the
audience file in.
"How's the house, Tommy?" demanded Frohman of Thomas Shea, his
house manager.
"Over seventeen hundred dollars already," said Shea.
"You can go to Europe, Paul," said Frohman. "Your last act is all right. We
don't want you any more."

The American public agreed with Mrs. Dazian. They thought the play
excruciatingly wicked, but they were just as eager to see it on the Fourth of
July as they had been six months earlier.
A dozen details combined to make "The Conquerors" a storm-center. First
of all it was attacked because of its alleged immorality. In the second place
the author was charged with having appropriated some of Sardou's "La
Haine." In the third place, this play marked the first stage appearance of
Mrs. Clara Bloodgood, wife of "Jack" Bloodgood, one of the best-known
men about town in New York. Mr. Bloodgood became desperately ill during
rehearsals, and his wife divided her time between watching at his bedside
and going to the theater. Of course, the newspapers were filled with the
account of the event which was agitating all society, and it added greatly to
popular interest in the play.

HENRY MILLER

"The Conquerors" not only brought Paul Potter and Frohman a great
success, but it sped William Faversham on to the time when he was to
become a star. The cast was one of the most distinguished that Frohman had
ever assembled, and it included among its women five future stars—Viola
Allen, Blanche Walsh, Ida Conquest, Clara Bloodgood, and May Robson.

By this time Henry Miller had left the Empire Stock Company and had
gone on the road with a play called "Heartsease," by Charles Klein and J. I.
C. Clark. It failed in Cincinnati, and Miller wrote Frohman about it. A week
later the men met on Broadway. Miller still believed in "Heartsease" and
asked Frohman if he could read it to him.
"All right," replied Frohman; "come to-morrow and let me hear it."
Miller showed up the next morning and left Klein and Clark, who had
accompanied him, in a lower office. Frohman locked the door, as was his
custom, curled himself up on a settee, lighted a cigar, and asked for the
manuscript.
"I didn't bring it. I will act it out for you."
Miller knew the whole production of the play depended upon his
performance. He improvised whole scenes and speeches as he went along,
and he made a deep impression. When he finished, Frohman sat still for a
few moments. Then he rang a bell and Alf Hayman appeared. To him he
said, quietly:
"We are going to do 'Heartsease.'"
Miller rushed down-stairs to where Klein and Clark were waiting, and told
them to get to work revising the manuscript.
When the play went into rehearsal, Frohman, who sat in front, spoke to
Miller from time to time, asking, "Where is that line you spoke in my
office?"

This incident is cited to show Charles's amazing memory. Miller, of
course, had improvised constantly during his personal performance of the
play, and Frohman recognized that these improvisations were missing when
the piece came into rehearsal.
Charles now added a third star to his constellation in Henry Miller. He
first produced "Heartsease" in New Haven. Charles Dillingham sat with
him during the performance. When the curtain went down on a big scene,
and the audience was in a tumult, demanding star and author, Frohman
leaned over to speak to his friend. Dillingham thought he was about to
make a historic remark, inspired by the enormous success of the play before
him. Instead, Frohman whispered:
"Charley, I wonder if they have any more of that famous apple-pie over at
Hueblein's?"
He was referring to a famous article of food that had added almost as
much glory to New Haven as had its historic university, and for which
Frohman had an inordinate love.
Henry Miller now became an established Frohman star. After "Heartsease"
had had several successful road seasons, Frohman presented Miller in "The
Only Way," an impressive dramatization of Charles Dickens's great story,
"A Tale of Two Cities."

Charles Dillingham's friendship with Frohman had now become one of the
closest of his life. He always accompanied Frohman to England, and was
regarded as his right-hand man. Frohman had always urged his friend to
branch out for himself. The result was that Dillingham assumed the
managership of Julia Marlowe.
Dillingham presented Miss Marlowe at the Knickerbocker Theater in New
York in "The Countess Valeska." Frohman liked the play so much that he
became interested in the management of Miss Marlowe, and together they
produced "Colinette," adapted from the French by Henry Guy Carleton, at
this theater. "Colinette" inspired one of the many examples of Frohman's
quick retort.

The "try-out" was at Bridgeport, and Dillingham had engaged a private
chair car for the company. When Frohman tried to get on this car at Grand
Central Station the porter turned him down, saying:
"This is the Marlowe car."
Whereupon Frohman spoke up quickly and said: "I am Mr. Marlowe," and
stepped aboard.
The production of "Colinette" marked the beginning of another one of
Frohman's intimate associations. He engaged William Seymour to rehearse
and produce the play. Seymour later directed some of the greatest Frohman
undertakings and eventually became general stage-manager for his chief.
Frohman was now actively interested in Miss Marlowe's career. Under the
joint Frohman-Dillingham management she played in "As You Like It" and
"Ingomar."
By this time Clyde Fitch had steadily made his way to the point where
Frohman had ceased to regard him as a "pink tea" author, but as a really big
playwright. They became great friends. He gave Fitch every possible
encouragement. The time was at hand when Fitch was to reward that
encouragement, and in splendid fashion.
Once more the Civil War proved a Charles Frohman mascot, for Fitch now
wrote "Barbara Fritchie," founded on John G. Whittier's famous war poem.
He surrounded the star with a cast that included W. J. Lemoyne, Arnold
Daly, Dodson Mitchel, and J. H. Gilmour. The play opened at the Broad
Street Theater in Philadelphia. At the dress rehearsal began an incident
which showed Charles's ready resource.
In the second act the business of the play required that Miss Marlowe take
a gun and shoot a man. No gun was at hand. It was decided to send the late
Byron Ongley, assistant stage-manager of the company, to the Stratford
Hotel, where the star lived, with a gun and show her how to use it there.
When Frohman, who came to see the rehearsal, heard of this he had an
inspiration for a fine piece of publicity.

"Why can't Ongley pretend to be a crank and appear to be making an
attempt on Miss Marlowe's life?"
He liked Ongley, and he really conceived the idea more to play one of his
numerous practical jokes than to capitalize the event.
Without saying a word to Ongley, Dillingham notified the Stratford
management that Miss Marlowe had received a threatening letter from a
crank who might possibly appear and make an attempt on her life. When
Ongley entered the hotel lobby innocently carrying the gun he was beset by
four huge porters and borne to the ground. The police were summoned and
he was hauled off to jail, where he spent twenty-four hours. The newspapers
made great capital of the event, and it stimulated interest in the
performance.

WILLIAM H. CRANE

When "Barbara Fritchie" opened at the Criterion Theater in New York,
which had passed under the Frohman control, it scored an immediate
success. It ran for four months. Not only was Miss Marlowe put into the
front rank of paying stars, but the success of the play gave Clyde Fitch an
enormous prestige, for it was his first big triumph as an original playwright.
From this time on his interest was closely linked with that of Charles
Frohman, who became his sponsor.
In connection with Julia Marlowe is a characteristic Frohman story. The
manager always refused to accept the new relation when one of his women
stars married. This incident grew out of Julia Marlowe's marriage to Robert
Taber.
One day his office-boy brought in word that Mrs. Taber would like to see
him.
"I don't know her."
After an interval of a few moments a dulcet voice came through the door,
saying, "Won't you see me?"
"Who are you?"
"Mrs. Taber."
"I don't know Mrs. Taber, but Julia Marlowe can come in."

Charles was now in a whirlwind of activities. He was not only making
stars, but also, as the case of Clyde Fitch proved, developing playwrights.
In the latter connection he had a peculiar distinction.
One day some years before, Madeline Lucette Ryley came to see him. She
was a charming English ingénue who had been a singing soubrette in
musical comedies at the famous old Casino, the home of musical comedies,
where Francis Wilson, De Wolf Hopper, Jefferson De Angelis, and Pauline

Hall had achieved fame as comic-opera stars. She had also appeared in a
number of serious plays.
Mrs. Ryley made application for a position. Frohman said to her:
"I don't need actresses, but I need plays. Go home and write me one."
Mrs. Ryley up to that time had written plays only as an amateur. She went
home and wrote "Christopher Jr." and it started her on a notably successful
career as a playwright. In fact, she was perhaps the first of the really
successful women playwrights.

Charles Frohman celebrated the opening theatrical season of the new
twentieth century by annexing a new star and a fortune at the same time. It
was William H. Crane in "David Harum" who accomplished this.
Again history repeated itself in a picturesque approach to a Frohman
success. One morning, at the time when both had apartments at Sherry's,
Frohman and Charles Dillingham emerged from the building after
breakfast. On the sidewalk they met Denman Thompson, the old actor.
Frohman engaged him in conversation. Suddenly Thompson began to
chuckle.
"What are you laughing at?" asked Frohman.
"I was thinking of a book I read last night, called 'David Harum,'" replied
Thompson.
"Was it interesting?"
"The best American story I ever read," said the actor.
Frohman's eyes suddenly sparkled. He winked at Dillingham, who hailed
a cab and made off. Frohman engaged Thompson in conversation until he
returned. In his pocket he carried a copy of "David Harum."
Frohman read the book that day, made a contract for its dramatization, and
from the venture he cleared nearly half a million dollars.

Frohman considered four men for the part of David Harum. They were
Denman Thompson, James A. Hearne, Sol Smith Russell, and Crane.
Thompson was too old, Hearne had been associated too long with the
"Shore Acres" type to adapt himself to the Westcott hero, and Sol Smith
Russell did not meet the requirements. Frohman regarded Crane as ideal.
His negotiations with Crane for this part were typical of his business
arrangements. It took exactly five minutes to discuss them. When the terms
had been agreed upon, Frohman said to Crane:
"Are you sure this is perfectly satisfactory to you?"
"Perfectly," replied Crane.
Frohman reached over from his desk and shook his new star by the hand.
It was his way of ratifying a contract that was never put on paper, and over
which no word of disagreement ever arose. Crane's connection with Charles
Frohman lasted for nine years.
Frohman personally rehearsed "David Harum." Much of its extraordinary
success was due to his marvelous energy. It was Frohman, and not the
dramatist, who introduced the rain-storm scene at the close of the second
act which made one of the biggest hits of the performance. Throughout the
play there were many evidences of Frohman's skill and craftsmanship.

It was just about this time that the real kinship with Augustus Thomas
began. Frohman, after his first meeting with Thomas years before in the
box-office of a St. Louis theater, had produced his play "Surrender," and
had engaged him to remodel "Sue." Now he committed the first of the
amazing quartet of errors of judgment with regard to the Thomas plays that
forms one of the curious chapters in his friendship with this distinguished
American playwright.
Thomas had conceived the idea of a cycle of American plays, based on the
attitude toward women in certain sections of the country. The first of these
plays had been "Alabama," the second "In Mizzoura." Thomas now wrote

"Arizona" in this series. When he offered the play to Frohman, the manager
said:
"I like this play, Gus, but I have one serious objection to it. I don't see any
big situation to use the American flag. Perhaps I am superstitious about it. I
have had such immense luck with the flag in 'Shenandoah' and 'Held by the
Enemy' that I have an instinct that I ought not to do this play, much as I
would like to."
As everybody knows, the play went elsewhere and was one of the great
successes of the American stage.
Frohman now realized his mistake. He sent for Thomas and said: "I want
you to write me another one of those rough plays."
The result was "Colorado," which Frohman put on at the Grand Opera
House in New York with Wilton Lackaye in the leading rôle, but it was not
a success.
A few years later Frohman made another of the now famous mistakes with
Thomas. Thomas had seen Lawrence D'Orsay doing his usual "silly ass"
part in a play. He also observed that the play lagged unless D'Orsay was on
the stage. He therefore wrote a play called "The Earl of Pawtucket," with
D'Orsay in mind, and Frohman accepted it. When the time came to select
the cast, Thomas suggested D'Orsay for the leading part.
"Impossible!" said Frohman. "He can't do it."

AUGUSTUS THOMAS SIR ARTHUR WING PINERO

Thomas was so convinced that D'Orsay was the ideal man that Frohman
made this characteristic concession:
"I think well of your play, and it will probably be a success," he said, "but
I do not believe that D'Orsay is the man for it. If you can get another
manager to do it I will turn back the play to you, and if you insist upon
having D'Orsay I will release him from his contract with me."
Kirk La Shelle took the play and it was another "Arizona."
Frohman produced a whole series of Thomas successes, notably "The
Other Girl," "Mrs. Leffingwell's Boots," and "De Lancey." To the end of his
days the warmest and most intimate friendship existed between the men. It
was marked by the usual humor that characterized Frohman's relations.
Here is an example:
Thomas conducted the rehearsals of "The Other Girl" alone. Frohman,
who was up-stairs in his offices at the Empire, sent him a note on a yellow
pad, written with the blue pencil that he always used:
"How are you getting along at rehearsals without me?"

"Great!" scribbled Thomas.
The next day when he went up-stairs to Frohman's office, he found the
note pinned on the wall.
Such was the mood of the man who had risen from obscurity to one of
commanding authority in the whole English-speaking theater.

X

THE RISE OF ETHEL BARRYMORE

W hile the star of Maude Adams rose high in the theatrical heaven,
another lovely luminary was about to appear over the horizon.
The moment was at hand when Charles Frohman was to reveal
another one of his protégés, this time the young and beautiful Ethel
Barrymore. It is an instance of progressive and sympathetic Frohman
sponsorship that gave the American stage one of its most fascinating
favorites. Some stars are destined for the stage; others are born in the
theater. Ethel Barrymore is one of the latter. Two generations of eminent
theatrical achievement heralded her advent, for she is the granddaughter of
Mrs. John Drew, mistress of the famous Arch Street Theater Company of
Philadelphia, and herself, in later years, the greatest Mrs. Malaprop of her
day. Miss Barrymore's father was the brilliant and gifted Maurice
Barrymore; her mother the no less witty and talented Georgia Drew, while,
among other family distinctions, she came into the world as the niece of
John Drew.
Despite the royalty of her theatrical birth, no star in America had to labor
harder or win her way by more persistent and conscientious effort. At
fourteen she was playing child's parts with her grandmother. A few years
later she came to New York to get a start. Though she bore one of the most
distinguished and honored names in the profession, she sat around in agents'
offices for six months, beating vainly at the door of opportunity. Finally she

got a chance to understudy Elsie De Wolfe, who was playing with John
Drew, in "The Bauble Shop," at the Empire. One day when that actress
became ill this seventeen-year-old child played the part of a thirty-two-year-
old woman with great success. Understudies then became her fate for
several years. While playing a part on the road with her uncle in "The
Squire of Dames," Charles Frohman saw her for the first time. He looked at
her sharply, but said nothing. Later, during this engagement, she met the
man who was to shape her career.
About this time Miss Barrymore went to London. Charles had accepted
Haddon Chambers's play "The Tyranny of Tears," in which John Drew was
to star in America. She got the impression that she would be cast for one of
the two female parts in this play, and she studied the costuming and other
details. With eager expectancy she called on Frohman in London. Much to
her surprise Frohman said:
"Well, Ethel, what can I do for you?"
"Won't I play with Uncle John?" she said.
"No, I am sorry to say you will not," replied Frohman.
This was a tragic blow. It was in London that Miss Barrymore received
this first great disappointment, and it was in London that she made her first
success. Charles Frohman, who from this time on became much impressed
with her appealing charm and beauty, gave her a small rôle with the
company he sent over with Gillette to play "Secret Service" in the British
capital. Odette Tyler played the leading comedy part. One night when Miss
Barrymore was standing in the wings the stage-manager rushed up to her
and said, excitedly:
"You will have to play Miss Tyler's part."
"But I don't know her lines," said Miss Barrymore.
"That makes no difference; you will have to play. She's gone home sick."
"How about her costume?" said Miss Barrymore.

"Miss Tyler was so ill that we could not ask her to change her costume.
She wore it away with her," was the reply.
Dressed as she was, Miss Barrymore, who had watched the play carefully,
and who has an extremely good memory, walked on, played the part, and
made a hit.
When the "Secret Service" company returned to America, Miss Barrymore
remained in London. She lived in a small room alone. Her funds were low
and she had only one evening gown. But she had the Barrymore wit and
charm, her own beauty, and was in much social demand. By the time she
prepared to quit England the one gown had seen its best days. She had
arranged to sail for home on a certain Saturday. The night before sailing she
was invited to a supper at the home of Anthony Hope. Just as she was about
to dress she received a telegram from Ellen Terry, who was playing at the
Lyceum Theater, saying:
Do come and say good-by before you go. When she arrived at the Lyceum,
the first thing that Miss Terry said was, "Sir Henry wants to say good-by to
you."
On going into the adjoining dressing-room the great actor said to her:
"Wouldn't you like to stay in England?"
"Of course," said Miss Barrymore.
"Would you like to play with me?" he asked.
Coining at her hour of discouragement and despair, it was like manna
from heaven. Her knees quaked, but she managed to say, "Y-e-s."
"All right," said Sir Henry. "Go down-stairs. Loveday has a contract that is
ready for you to sign."
With this precious contract stuffed into her bosom, Miss Barrymore now
rode in triumph to the Hope supper-party.
"What a pity that you have got to leave England," said Sir Herbert
Beerbohm Tree.

"But I am going to stay," said Miss Barrymore.
A gasp ran around the table.
"And with whom?" asked Tree.
"With Sir Henry and Miss Terry," was the proud response.
Miss Barrymore played that whole season most acceptably with Irving
and Terry in "The Bells" and "Waterloo," and afterward with Henry B.
Irving in "Peter the Great."
When she returned to America in 1898 she had a new interest for Charles
Frohman. Yet the Nemesis of the Understudy, which had pursued her in
America, still held her in its grip, for she was immediately cast as
understudy for Ida Conquest in a play called "Catherine" that Frohman was
about to produce at the Garrick Theater. She had several opportunities,
however, to play the leading part, and at her every appearance she was
greeted most enthusiastically. Her youth and appealing beauty never failed
to get over the footlights.
Frohman was always impressed by this sort of thing. It was about this
time that he said to a friend of his.
"There is going to be a big development in one of my companies before
long. There's a daughter of 'Barry' [meaning Maurice Barrymore] who gets
a big reception wherever she goes. She has got the real stuff in her."
Miss Barrymore's first genuine opportunity came when Charles cast her
for the part of Stella De Gex in Marshall's delightful comedy "His
Excellency the Governor," which was first put on at the Empire in May,
1899. The grace and sprightliness that were later to bloom so delightfully in
Miss Barrymore now found their first real expression. Both in New York
and on the road she made a big success.
While rehearsing "His Excellency the Governor," Charles sat in the
darkened auditorium of the Empire one day. When the performance was
over he walked back on the stage and, patting Miss Barrymore on the
shoulder, said:

"You're so much like your mother, Ethel. You're all right."
Frohman was not the type of man to lag in interest. He realized what the
girl's possibilities were, so early in 1901 he sent for Miss Barrymore and
said to her:
"Ethel, I have a nice part for you at last."
It was the rôle of Madame Trentoni in Clyde Fitch's charming play of old
New York, "Captain Jinks." Now came one of those curious freaks of
theatrical fortune. "Captain Jinks" opened at the Walnut Street Theater in
Philadelphia, and seemed to be a complete failure from the start. Although
the Quakers did not like the play, they evinced an enormous interest in the
lovely leading woman. From the gallery they cried down:
"We loved your grandmother, Ethel, and we love you."
It was a tribute to the place that Mrs. John Drew had in the affections of
those staid theater-goers.
Despite the bad start in Philadelphia, Charles believed in Miss Barrymore,
and he had confidence in "Captain Jinks." He brought the play into New
York at the Garrick. The expectation was that it might possibly run two
weeks. Instead, it remained there for seven months and then played a
complete season on the road.
Now came the turn in the tide of Ethel Barrymore's fortunes. She was
living very modestly on the top floor of a theatrical boarding-house in
Thirty-second Street. With the success of "Captain Jinks" she moved down
to a larger room on the second floor. But a still greater event in her life was
now to be consummated.
During the third week of the engagement she walked over from Thirty-
second Street to the theater. As she passed along Sixth Avenue she
happened to look up, and there, in huge, blazing electric lights, she saw the
name "Ethel Barrymore." She stood still, and the tears came to her eyes.
She knew that at last she had become a star.

Charles had said absolutely nothing about it to her. It was his unexpected
way of giving her the surprise of arriving at the goal of her ambition.
The next day she went to Frohman and said, "It was a wonderful thing for
you to do."
Whereupon Frohman replied, very simply, "It was the only thing to do."
Ethel Barrymore was now a star, and from this time on her stage career
became one cycle of ripening art and expanding success. A new luminary
had entered the Frohman heaven, and it was to twinkle with increasing
brilliancy.
Her next appearance was in a double bill, "A Country Mouse" and
"Carrots," at the Savoy Theater, in October, 1902. Here came one of the
first evidences of her versatility. "A Country Mouse" was a comedy;
"Carrots," on the other hand, was impregnated with the deepest tragedy.
Miss Barrymore played the part of a sad little boy, and she did it with such
depth of feeling that discriminating people began to realize that she had
great emotional possibilities.
Her appearance in "Cousin Kate" the next year was a return to comedy. In
this play Bruce McRae made his first appearance with her as leading man,
and he filled this position for a number of years. He was as perfect an
opposite to her as was John Drew to Ada Rehan. Together they made a
combination that was altogether delightful.
It was while playing in a piece called "Sunday" that Miss Barrymore first
read Ibsen's "A Doll's House." She was immensely thrilled by the character.
She said to Frohman at once: "I must do this part. May I?"
"Of course," he said.
Here was another revelation of the Barrymore versatility, for she invested
this strange, weird expression of Ibsen's genius with a range of feeling and
touch of character that made a deep impression.
Charles now secured the manuscript of "Alice-Sit-By-The-Fire." He was
immensely taken with this play, not only because it was by his friend

Barrie, but because he saw in it large possibilities. Miss Barrymore was
with him in London at this time. Frohman told her the story of the play in
his rooms at the Savoy, acting it out as he always did with his plays. There
were two important women characters: the mother, played in London by
Ellen Terry, who philosophically accepts the verdict of the years, and the
daughter, played by the popular leading woman Irene Vanbrugh, who steps
into her place.
"Would you like to play in 'Alice'?" asked Frohman.
"Yes," said Miss Barrymore.
"Which part?"
"I would rather have you say," said Miss Barrymore.
Just then the telephone-bell rang. Barrie had called up Frohman to find out
if he had cast the play.
"I was just talking it over with Miss Barrymore," he replied.
Then there was a pause. Suddenly Frohman turned from the telephone and
said:
"Barrie wants you to play the mother."
"Fine!" said Miss Barrymore. "That is just the part I wanted to do."
In "Alice-Sit-By-The-Fire" Miss Barrymore did a very daring thing. Here
was an exquisite young woman who was perfectly willing to play the part
of the mother of a boy of eighteen rather than the younger rôle, and she did
it with such artistic distinction that Barrie afterward said of her:
"I knew I was right when I wanted her to play the mother. I felt that she
would understand the part."
"Alice-Sit-By-The-Fire" was done as a double bill with "Pantaloon," in
which Miss Barrymore's brother, John Barrymore, who was now coming to
be recognized as a very gifted young actor, scored a big success. Later

another brother, Lionel, himself a brilliant son of his father, appeared with
her.
The theater-going world was now beginning to look upon Ethel
Barrymore as one of the really charming fixtures of the stage. What
impressed every one, most of all Charles Frohman, was the extraordinary
ease with which she fairly leaped from lightsome comedy to deep and
haunting pathos. Her work in "The Silver Box," by John Galsworthy, was a
conspicuous example of this talent. Frohman gave the manuscript of the
play to Miss Barrymore to read and she was deeply moved by it.
"Can't we do it?" she said.
"It is very tragic," said Frohman.
"I don't mind," said Miss Barrymore. "I want to do it so much!"
In "The Silver Box" she took the part of a charwoman whose life moves in
piteous tragedy. It registered what, up to that time, was the most poignant
note that this gifted young woman had uttered. Yet the very next season she
turned to a typical Clyde Fitch play, "Her Sister," and disported herself in
charming frocks and smart drawing-room conversation.

Miss Barrymore's career justified every confidence that Charles had felt
for her. It remained, however, for Pinero's superb if darksome play
"Midchannel" to give her her largest opportunity.
When Frohman told her about this play he said: "Ethel, I have a big play,
but it is dark and sad. I don't think you want to do it."
After she had heard the story she said, impulsively: "You are wrong. I
want to play this part very much."
"All right," said Frohman. "Go ahead."

ETHEL BARRYMORE

As Zoe Blundell she had a triumph. In this character she was artistically
reborn. The sweetness and girlishness now stood aside in the presence of a
somber and haunting tragedy that was real. Miss Barrymore literally made
the critics sit up. It recorded a distinct epoch in her career, and, as in other
instances with a Pinero play, the American success far exceeded its English
popularity.
When Miss Barrymore did "The Twelve-Pound Look," by Barrie, the
following year, she only added to the conviction that she was in many
respects the most versatile and gifted of the younger American actresses.
Frohman loved "The Twelve-Pound Look" as he loved few plays. Its only
rival in his regard was "Peter Pan." He went to every rehearsal, he saw it at
every possible opportunity. Like most others, he realized that into this one
act of intense life was crowded all the human drama, all the human tragedy.
Miss Barrymore now sped from grave to gay. When the time came for her
to rehearse Barrie's fascinating skit, "A Slice of Life," Frohman was ill at
the Knickerbocker Hotel. He was very much interested in this little play, so
the rehearsals were held in his rooms at the hotel. There were only three
people in the cast—Miss Barrymore, her brother John, and Hattie Williams.
It was so excruciatingly funny that Frohman would often call up the Empire
and say:
"Send Ethel over to rehearse. I want to forget my pains."
Charles Frohman lived to see his great expectations of Ethel Barrymore
realized. He found her the winsome slip of a fascinating girl; he last beheld
her in the full flower of her maturing art. He was very much interested in
her transition from the seriousness of "The Shadow" into the wholesome
humor and womanliness of "Our Mrs. McChesney," a part he had planned
for her before his final departure. It was one of the many swift changes that
Miss Barrymore has made, and had he lived he would have found still
another cause for infinite satisfaction with her.

Another star now swam into the Frohman ken. This was the way of it:
Paul Potter was making a periodical visit to New York in 1901. David
Belasco came to see him at the Holland House.
"Paul," said he, "C. F. and I want you to make us a version of Ouida's
'Under Two Flags' for Blanche Bates."
"I never read the novel," said Potter.
"You can dramatize it without reading it," remarked Belasco, and in a
month he was sitting in Frohman's rooms at Sherry's and Potter was reading
to them his dramatization of "Under Two Flags," throwing in, for good
measure, a ride from "Mazeppa" and a snow-storm from "The Queen of
Sheba."
"I like all but the last scene," said Frohman. "When Cigarette rides up
those mountains with her lover's pardon, the pardon is, to all intents and
purposes, delivered. The actual delivery is an anti-climax. What the
audience want to see is a return to the garret where the lovers lived and
were happy."
As they walked home that night Belasco said to Potter:
"That was a great point which C. F. made. What remarkable intuition he
has!"
Frohman and Potter used to watch Belasco at work, teaching the actors to
act, the singers to sing, the dancers to dance.
Then came a hitch.
"Gros, our scene-painter," said Frohman, "maintains that Cigarette
couldn't ride up any mountains near the Algerian coast, for the nearest
mountains are the Atlas Mountains, eight hundred miles away."
He undertook to convert Mr. Gros. Fortunately for him the author of the
play stood in the Garden Theater while Belasco was rehearsing a dance.

"Oh," said he, "if it's a comic opera you can have all the mountains you
please. I thought it was a serious drama."
Then Frohman ventured to criticize the mountain torrent.
"What's the matter with the torrent?" called Belasco, while Cigarette and
her horse stood on the slope.
"It doesn't look like water at all," said Frohman.
Just then the horse plunged his nose into the torrent and licked it furiously.
Criticism was silenced. The play was a big, popular success, and with it
Blanche Bates arrived as star.
One day, a year later, Frohman remarked to Potter in Paris, "What do you
say to paying Ouida a visit in Florence?"
He and Belasco had paid her considerable royalties. He thought she would
be gratified by a friendly call. Frohman and Potter obtained letters of
introduction from bankers, consuls, and Florentine notables, and sent them
in advance to Ouida. The landlord of the inn gave them a resplendent two-
horse carriage, with a liveried coachman and a footman. Frohman objected
to the footman as undemocratic. The landlord insisted that it was Florentine
etiquette, and shrugged his shoulders when they departed, seeming to think
that they were bound on a perilous journey.
Through the perfumed, flower-laden hills they climbed, the Arno
gleaming below. The footman took in their cards to the villa of Mlle. de la
Ramée. He promptly returned.
"The signora is indisposed," he remarked.
The visitors sent him back to ask if they might come some other day.
Again he returned.
"The signora is indisposed," was the only answer he could get.
Potter and Frohman drove away. Frohman was hurt. He did not try to
conceal it.

"That's the first author," he said, "who ever turned me down. Anyway, the
pancakes at lunch were delicious." He met rebuff—as he met loss—with
infinite humor.

Stars now crowded quick and fast into the Frohman firmament. Next came
Virginia Harned. Daniel Frohman had seen her in a traveling company at
the Fourteenth Street Theater and engaged her to support E. H. Sothern. She
later came under Charles's control, and he presented her as star in "Alice of
Old Vincennes," "Iris," and "The Light that Lies in Woman's Eyes."
Effie Shannon and Herbert Kelcey followed. Their first venture with him,
"Manon Lescaut," was a direful failure, but it was followed up with "My
Lady Dainty," which was a success.
Charles Frohman had various formulas for making stars. Some he
discovered outright, others he developed. Here is an example of his
Christopher Columbus proclivities:
One day he heard that there was a very brilliant young Hungarian actor
playing a small part down at the Irving Place German Theater in New York
City. He went to see him, was very much impressed with his ability, sent for
him, and said:
"If you will study English I will agree to take care of you on the English-
speaking stage."

JULIA MARLOWE

The man assented, and Frohman paid him a salary all the while he was
studying English. Before many years he was a well-known star. His name
was Leo Ditrichstein.
Frohman now got Ditrichstein to adapt "Are You a Mason?" from the
German, put it on at Wallack's Theater, and it was a huge success. Besides
Ditrichstein, this cast, which was a very notable one, included John C. Rice,
Thomas W. Wise, May Robson, Arnold Daly, Cecil De Mille, and Sallie
Cohen, who had played Topsy in the stranded "Uncle Tom's Cabin"
Company, whose advance fortunes Frohman had piloted in his precarious
days on the road.
Just as Frohman led the American invasion in England, so did he now
bring about the English invasion of America. He had inaugurated it with
Olga Nethersole. He now introduced to American theater-goers such artists
as Charles Hawtrey, Mrs. Patrick Campbell, Charles Warner, Sir Charles
Wyndham, Mary Moore, Marie Tempest, and Fay Davis, in whose career he
was enormously interested. He starred Miss Davis in a group of plays
ranging from "Lady Rose's Daughter" to "The House of Mirth."
In connection with Mrs. Campbell's first tour occurred another one of the
famous Frohman examples of quick retort. He was rehearsing this highly
temperamental lady, and made a constructive criticism which nettled her
very much. She became indignant, called him to the footlights, and said:
"I want you to know that I am an artist?"
Frohman, with solemn face, instantly replied:
"Madam, I will keep your secret."
One of the early English importations revealed Frohman's utterly
uncommercialized attitude toward the theater. He was greatly taken with the
miracle play "Everyman," and brought over Edith Wynne Mathison and

Charles Rann Kennedy to do it. He was unable to get a theater, so he put
them in Mendelssohn Hall.
"You'll make no money with them there," said a friend to him.
"I don't expect to make any," replied Frohman, "but I want the American
people to see this fine and worthy thing."
The play drew small audiences for some time. Then, becoming the talk of
the town, it went on tour and repaid him with a profit on his early loss.

One of the happiest of Charles Frohman's theatrical associations now
developed. In 1903, when the famous Weber and Fields organization
seemed to be headed toward dissolution, Charles Dillingham suggested to
Willie Collier that he go under the Frohman management. Collier went to
the Empire Theater and was ushered into Frohman's office.
"It took you a long time to get up here," said the magnate. "How would
you like to go under my management?"
"Well," replied Collier, with his usual humor, "I didn't come up here to
buy a new hat."
The result was that Collier became a Frohman star and remained one for
eleven years. He and Frohman were constantly exchanging witty telegrams
and letters. Frohman sent Collier to Australia. At San Francisco the star
encountered the famous earthquake. He wired Frohman:
"San Francisco has just had the biggest opening in its history."
Whereupon Frohman, who had not yet learned the full extent of the
calamity, wired back:
"Don't like openings with so many 'dead-heads.'"

All the while, William Gillette had been thriving as a Frohman star. Like
many other serious actors, he had an ambition to play Hamlet. With
Frohman the wishes of his favorite stars were commands, so he proceeded

to make ready a production. Suddenly Barrie's remarkable play "The
Admirable Crichton" fell into his hands. He sent for Gillette and said:
"Gillette, I am perfectly willing that you should play Hamlet, but I have
just got from Barrie the ideal play for you."
When Gillette read "The Admirable Crichton," he agreed with Frohman,
and out of it developed one of his biggest successes. "Hamlet," with its
elaborate production, still awaits Gillette.

In presenting Clara Bloodgood as star in Clyde Fitch's play "The Girl with
the Green Eyes," Frohman achieved another one of his many sensations.
The smart, charming girl who had made her début under sensational
circumstances in "The Conquerors," now saw her name up in electric lights
for the first time. Frohman's confidence in her, as in many of his protégés,
was more than fulfilled.

Charles Frohman, who loved to dazzle the world with his Napoleonic
coups, launched what was up to this time, and which will long remain, the
most spectacular of theatrical deals. He greatly admired E. H. Sothern, who
had been associated with him in some of his early ventures. The years that
Julia Marlowe had played under his joint management had endeared her to
him. One day he had an inspiration. There had been no big Shakespearian
revival for some time, so he said:
"Why not unite Sothern and Marlowe and tour the country in a series of
magnificent Shakespearian productions?"
At that time Julia Marlowe had reverted to the control of Charles
Dillingham, while Sothern was still under the management of Daniel
Frohman. Charles now brought the stars together, offered them a guarantee
of $5,000 a week for a forty weeks' engagement and for three seasons. In
other words, he pledged these two stars the immense sum of $200,000 for
each season, which was beyond doubt the largest guarantee of the kind ever
made in the history of the American theater.

It was just about this time that Joseph Humphreys, Frohman's seasoned
general stage-manager, succumbed to the terrific strain under which he had
worked all these years, as both actor and producer. William Seymour
stepped into his shoes, and has retained that position ever since.
Charles was constantly bringing about revolutions. Through him Francis
Wilson, for example, departed from musical comedy, in which he had made
a great success, and took up straight plays. He began with Clyde Fitch's
French adaptation of "Cousin Billy," and thus commenced a connection
under Charles Frohman that lasted many years. With him, as with all his
other stars, there was never a scrap of paper.

E. H. SOTHERN

Frohman and Wilson met at the Savoy Hotel in London one day. Frohman
had often urged him to quit musical comedy, and he now said he was ready

to make the plunge.
"All right," said Frohman. "I will give you so much a week and a
percentage of the profits."
"It's done," said Wilson.
"Do you want a contract?" asked Frohman.
"No."
This was about all that ever happened in the way of arrangements between
Frohman and his stars, to some of whom he paid fortunes.
During these years Charles had watched with growing interest the
development of a young girl from Bloomington, Illinois, Margaret Illington
by name. She had appeared successfully in the old Lyceum Stock Company
when it was transferred by Daniel Frohman to Daly's, and had played with
James K. Hackett and E. H. Sothern. Charles now cast her in Pinero's play
"A Wife Without a Smile." Afterward she appeared in Augustus Thomas's
piece "Mrs. Leffingwell's Boots," and made such a strong impression that
Frohman made her leading woman with John Drew in Pinero's "His House
in Order."
Just about this time Charles, whose interest in French plays had constantly
increased through the years, singled out Henri Bernstein as the foremost of
the younger French playwrights. He secured his remarkable play "The
Thief" for America. He now produced this play at the Lyceum with Miss
Illington and Kyrle Bellew as co-stars, and it proved to be an enormous
success, continuing there for a whole season, and then duplicating its
triumph on the road, where Frohman at one time had four companies
playing it in various parts of the country.

XI

THE CONQUEST OF THE LONDON STAGE

G reat as were Charles Frohman's achievements in America, they
were more than matched in many respects by his activities in
England. He was the one American manager who made an impress
on the British drama; he led the so-called "American invasion." As a matter
of fact, he was the invasion. No phase of his fascinatingly crowded and
adventurous career reflects so much of the genius of the man, or reveals so
many of his finer qualities, as his costly attempt to corner the British stage.
Here, as in no other work, he showed himself in really Napoleonic
proportions.
Behind Charles's tremendous operations in London were three definite
motives. First of all, he really loved England. He felt that the theater there
had a dignity and a distinction far removed from theatrical production in
America. There was no sneer of "commercialism" about it. To be identified
with the stage in England was something to be proud of. He often said that
he would rather make fifteen pounds in London than fifteen thousand
dollars in America. It summed up his whole attitude toward the theater in
Great Britain.
In the second place, he knew that a strong footing in England was
absolutely necessary to a mastery of the situation in America. Just as
important as any of his other reasons was the conviction in his own mind
that to produce the best English-speaking plays in the United States he must
know English playwrights and English authors on their own ground, and to
produce, if possible, their own works on their home stages.
This latter desire led him to the long and brilliant series of productions
that he made in London, and which amounted to what later became an
almost complete monopoly on British dramatic output for the United States.
The net result was that he became a sort of Colossus of the English-
speaking theater. Figuratively, he stood astride the mighty sea in which he
was to meet his death, with one foot planted securely in England and the
other in New York.

Charles's first visits to England were made in the most unostentatious way,
largely to look over the ground and see what he could pick up for America.
His first offices in Henrietta Street were very modest rooms. Unpretentious
as they were, they represented a somewhat historic step, because Frohman
was absolutely the first American manager to set up a business in England.
Augustin Daly had taken over a company, but he allied himself in no
general way with British theatrical interests.
When Frohman first engaged W. Lestocq as his English manager, as has
already been recorded, he made a significant remark:
"You know I am coming into London to produce plays. But I am coming
in by the back door. I shall get to the front door, however, and you shall
come with me."
No sooner had he set foot in London than his productive activities were
turned loose. With A. and S. Gatti he put on one of his New York successes,
"The Lost Paradise," at the Adelphi Theater. In this instance he merely
furnished the play. It failed, however. Far from discouraging Frohman, it
only filled him with a desire to do something big.
This play marked the beginning of one of his most important English
connections. The Gattis, as they were known in England, were prominent
figures in the British theater. They were Swiss-Italians who had begun life
in England as waiters, had established a small eating-house, and had risen
to become the most important restaurateurs of the British capital. They
became large realty-owners, spread out to the theater, and acquired the
Adelphi and the Vaudeville.
Charles Frohman's arrangement with them was typical of all his business
transactions. Some years afterward a well-known English playwright asked
Stephen Gatti:
"What is your contract with Frohman?"
"We have none. When we want an agreement from Charles Frohman
about a business transaction it is time to stop," was his reply.

With the production of a French farce called "A Night Out," which was
done at the Vaudeville Theater in 1896, Frohman began his long and
intimate association with George Edwardes. This man's name was
synonymous with musical comedy throughout the amusement world. As
managing director of the London Gaiety Theater, the most famous musical
theater anywhere, he occupied a unique position. Charles was the principal
American importer of the Gaiety shows, and through this and various other
connections he had much to do with Edwardes.
Frohman and Edwardes were the joint producers of "A Night Out," and it
brought to Charles his first taste of London success. This was the only play
in London in which he ever sold his interest. Out of this sale grew a curious
example of Frohman's disregard of money. For his share he received a
check of four figures. He carried it around in his pocket for weeks. After it
had become all crumpled up, Lestocq persuaded him to deposit it in the
bank. Only when the check was almost reduced to shreds did he consent to
open an account with it.

It remained for an American play, presenting an American star, to give
Charles his first real triumph in London. With the production of "Secret
Service," in 1897, at the Adelphi Theater, he became the real envoy from
the New World of plays to the Old. It was an ambassadorship that gave him
an infinite pride, for it brought fame and fortune to the American playwright
and the American actor abroad. Frohman's envoyship was as advantageous
to England as it was to the United States, because he was the instrument
through which the best of the modern English plays and the most brilliant of
the modern English actors found their hearing on this side of the water.
Frohman was immensely interested in the English production of "Secret
Service." Gillette himself headed the company. Both he and Frohman were
in a great state of expectancy. The play hung fire until the third act. When
the big scene came British reserve melted and there was a great ovation. It
was an immediate success and had a long run.
One feature of the play that amused the critics and theater-goers generally
in London was the fact that the spy in "Secret Service," who was supposed

to be the bad man of the play, received all the sympathy and the applause,
while the hero was arrested and always had the worst of it, even when he
was denouncing the spy. Gillette's quiet but forceful style of acting was a
revelation to the Londoners.
It was during this engagement that an intimate friend said to Terriss, the
great English actor who was distinguished for his impulsiveness:
"Chain yourself to a seat at the Adelphi some night and learn artistic
repose from Gillette."
Concerning the first night of "Secret Service" is another one of the many
Frohman stories. When a London newspaper man asked the American
manager about the magnificent celebration that he was sure had been held
to commemorate Gillette's triumph, Frohman said:
"There was nothing of the sort. Mr. Dillingham, my manager, and I joined
Mr. Gillette in his rooms at the Savoy. We had some sandwiches and wine
and then played 'hearts' for several hours."
This episode inspired Frohman to give utterance to what was the very key-
note of his philosophy about an actor and his work. Talking with a friend in
England shortly after the opening of "Secret Service," about the modest way
in which Gillette regarded his success, he said:
"Nothing so kills the healthy growth of an actor and brings his usefulness
to an end so soon, as the idea that social enjoyment is a means to public
success, and that industrious labor to improve himself is no longer
necessary."

ELSIE FERGUSON

Frohman always regarded the success of "Secret Service" as the corner-
stone of his great achievements in England. Once, in speaking of this star's
hit, he said:
"You know, what tickles me is the fact that it was left for England to
discover that Gillette is a great actor. It's one on America."

A few years later, Frohman made his first Paris production with "Secret
Service." The masterful little man always regarded the world as his field;
hence the annexation of Paris. He had a version made by Paul de
Decourcelle, and the play was put on at the Renaissance Theater. Guitry, the
great French actor, played Gillette's part. A very brilliant audience saw the
opening performance, but the French did not get the atmosphere of the play.
They could not determine whether it was serious or comic. The character of
General Nelson was almost entirely omitted in the play because the actors
themselves could not tell whether it was humor or tragedy. Besides, the
French actors wanted to do it their own way.
Dillingham, who had charge of the production in Paris, realizing on the
opening night that it would be a failure, and knowing that he had to send
Frohman some sort of telegram, cabled, with his customary humor, the
following:
The tomb of Napoleon looks beautiful in the moonlight.
As was the case in England, Charles was the only American manager who
made any impression upon the French drama. From his earliest producing
days he had a weakness for producing adapted French plays. From France
came some of his hugest successes, especially those of Bernstein. He
"bulled" the French market on prices. The French playwright hailed him
with joy, for he always left a small fortune behind him.
Having established a precedent with Gillette, he now presented his first
American woman star in England. It was Annie Russell in Bret Harte's story
"Sue." He was very fond of this play, having already produced it in the
United States, and he was very proud of the impression that Miss Russell
made in London.

Up to this time Frohman had made his English productions in conjunction
with the Gattis or George Edwardes at the Adelphi, the Vaudeville, or the
Garrick theaters. This would have satisfied most people. But Frohman, who
wanted to do things in a big way, naturally desired his own English theater,
where he could unfurl his own banner and do as he pleased.
Early in 1897, therefore, he took what was up to that time his biggest
English step, for he leased the Duke of York's Theater for nineteen years.
His name went over the doorway and from that time on this theater was the
very nerve-center, if not the soul, of Charles Frohman's English operations.
It was one of the best known and the most substantial of British playhouses,
located in St. Martin's Lane, in the very heart of the theatrical district. He
took a vast pride in his control of it. He even emblazoned the announcement
of his London management on the walls of the Empire on Broadway in
New York. In his affections it was in England what the Empire was to him
in America. It was destined to be the background of his distinguished
artistic endeavors, perhaps the most distinguished.
Charles now embarked on a sea of lavish productions. Typical of his
attitude was his employment of the best-known and highest-salaried
producer in London. This man was Dion Boucicault, son of the famous
playwright of the same name, who was himself a very finished and versatile
actor. He gave the Frohman productions a touch of genuine distinction, and
his wife, the accomplished Irene Vanbrugh, added much to the
attractiveness of the Frohman ventures.
The Frohman sponsorship of the Duke of York's was celebrated with a
magnificent production of Anthony Hope's "The Adventure of Lady
Ursula," which had been a success in New York with E. H. Sothern. It ran
the entire season. The play was put on in the usual Frohman way, so much
so that the British critics said that "the production, from first to last, was
correct down to a coat-button."
Until the end of his life the Duke of York's Theater had a large place in his
heart. At the back of private box F, which was his own box, and which was
also used for royalty when it visited the play, was a comfortable retiring-
room, charmingly decorated in red. Here Frohman loved to sit and entertain

his friends, especially such close intimates as Sir James M. Barrie, Haddon
Chambers, Sir Arthur Pinero, Henry Arthur Jones, Michael Morton, and
other English playwrights.
These busy days at the Duke of York's furnished Frohman with many
amusing episodes. On one occasion he was caught in the self-operating
elevator of the theater and was kept a prisoner in it for over an hour. His
employees were in consternation. When he was finally extricated they
began to apologize most profusely.
"Nonsense!" said Frohman. "I am glad I got stuck. It's the first vacation I
have had in two years."
The lobby of the Duke of York's illustrates one of Charles's distinctive
ideas. Instead of ornamenting it with pictures of dead dramatic heroes like
Shakespeare and Garrick, he filled it with photographs of his live American
stars. The English theater-goers who went there saw huge portraits of
Maude Adams, Ethel Barrymore, Marie Doro, John Drew, Otis Skinner, and
William Gillette.
On one occasion he was held up at the entrance of the Duke of York's by a
new doorkeeper who asked for his ticket.
"I am Frohman," said the manager.
"Can't help it, sir; you've got to have a ticket."
"You're quite right," said Frohman, who went to the box-office and bought
himself a stall seat. When the house-manager, James W. Matthews,
threatened to discharge the doorkeeper, Frohman said:
"Certainly not. The man was obeying orders. If he had done otherwise you
should have discharged him."
Frohman so loved the Duke of York's that he would go back to it and
witness the same play twenty times. During his last visit to England, when
his right knee was troubling him, he telephoned down one night to have his
box reserved. Matthews, to spare him any trouble, had a little platform built

so that he would not have to walk up the steps. Two weeks later, Frohman
again telephoned that he wanted the box held, and added:
"I am better now. Don't bother to build a theater for me."
Curiously enough, the first failure that Charles had at the Duke of York's
was "The Christian," which had scored such an enormous success in
America. But failure only spurred him on to further efforts. When an
English friend condoled with him about his loss on this occasion he said:
"Forget it. Don't let's revive the past. Let's get busy and pulverize the
future."

To the average mind the extent of Frohman's London productions is
amazing. When the simple fact is stated that he made one hundred and
twenty-five of these, one obtains at a glance the immense scope of the
man's operations there. Many of them stand out brilliantly. Early among
them was the Frohman-Belasco presentation of Mrs. Leslie Carter in two of
her greatest successes at the Garrick Theater.
The first was "The Heart of Maryland." It was during this engagement that
Charles bought the English rights to "Zaza," then a sensational success in
Paris. It was his original intention to star Julia Marlowe in this play. When
Belasco heard of the play he immediately saw it was an ideal vehicle for
Mrs. Carter, and Frohman generously turned it over to him. After its great
triumph in the United States, Frohman and Belasco produced "Zaza" in
London.
It was a huge success and made the kind of sensation in which Frohman
delighted. There was much question as to its propriety, so much so that the
Lord Chamberlain himself, who supervised the censorship, came and
witnessed the performance. He made no objection, however.
An amusing incident, which shows the extraordinary devotion of Charles
Frohman's friends, occurred on the first night. While attending the
rehearsals at the Garrick, Frohman caught cold and went to bed with a

slight attack of pneumonia. On the inaugural night he lay bedridden. He
was so eager for news of the play that he said to Dillingham:
"Send me all the news you can."
Dillingham organized a bicycle service, and every fifteen minutes sent
encouraging and cheering bulletins to Frohman, who was so elated that he
was able to emerge from bed the next morning a well man.
Now the interesting thing about this episode is that Dillingham fabricated
most of the messages, because, until the end of the play and for several days
thereafter, its success was very much in doubt. Indeed, it took more than a
week for it to "catch on."
Charles followed up "Zaza" with a superb production of "Madame
Butterfly," in which he used Belasco's beautiful equipment. This production
put the artistic seal on Frohman's achievement as a London manager. Up to
this time there were some who believed that, despite the lavishness of his
policy, there was the germ of the commercial in him. "Madame Butterfly"
removed this, but if there had been any doubt remaining, it would have been
wiped out by his exquisite presentation of "The First Born." Associated with
this play is a story that shows Frohman's dogged determination and
resource.
Belasco had made the production of "The First Born" in America in lavish
fashion. He brought to it all his love and knowledge of Chinese art.

EDNA MAY

A rival manager, W. A. Brady, wishing to emulate the success of "The
First Born," got together a production of "The Cat and the Cherub," another
Chinese play, and secured time in London, hoping to beat Frohman out. It
now became a race between Frohman and Brady for the first presentation in
London. Both managers were in America. Brady got his production off first.
When Frohman heard of it he said:
"We must be in London first."
"But there are no sailings for a week," said one of his staff.
"Then we will hire a boat," was his retort.
However, there proved to be no need for this enterprise, because a regular
sailing developed.
"The Cat and the Cherub" won the race across the Atlantic and was
produced first. It took the edge off the novelty of "The First Born," which
was a failure, but its fine quality gave Charles the premier place as an
artistic producer in England, and he never regretted having made the
attempt despite the loss.
Frohman became immersed in a multitude of things. In September, 1901,
for example, he was interested in five English playhouses—the Aldwych,
the Shaftesbury, the Vaudeville, and the Criterion, as well as the Duke of
York's. He had five different plays going at the same time—"Sherlock
Holmes," "Are You a Mason?" "Bluebell in Fairyland," "The Twin Sister,"
and "The Girl from Maxim's." This situation was typical of his English
activities from that time until his death.

The picturesqueness of detail which seemed to mark the beginning of so
many of Charles Frohman's personal and professional friendships attended
him in England, as the case of his first experience with Edna May shows.
One hot night late in the summer season of 1900 Frohman was having
supper alone on his little private balcony at the Savoy Hotel overlooking the
Thames. It was before the Strand wing of the hostelry had been built. As he
sat there, clad only in pajamas and smoking a large black cigar, he heard a

terrific din on the street below. There was cheering, shouting, and clapping
of hands. Summoning a waiter, he asked:
"What's all that noise about?"
"Oh, it's only Miss Edna May coming to supper, sir."
"Why all this fuss?" continued Frohman.
"Well, you see, sir," answered the servant, "they are bringing her back in
triumph."
When Frohman made investigation he found that the doctors and nurses at
the Middlesex Hospital in London, where Edna May frequently sang for the
patients, had engaged the whole gallery of the Shaftesbury Theater where
she was singing in "The American Beauty," and attended in a body. After
the play they had surrounded her at the stage entrance, unhitched the horse
from her little brougham, and hauled her through the streets to the Savoy.
This episode made a tremendous impression on Frohman. He was always
drawn to the people who could create a stir. He had heard that Edna May
was nearing the end of her contract with George Lederer, so he entered into
negotiations with her, and that autumn she passed under his management
and remained so until she retired in 1907.
In the case of Edna May there could be no star-making. The spectacular
rise of this charming girl from the chorus to the most-talked-of musical
comedy rôle in the English-speaking world—that of the Salvation Army girl
in "The Belle of New York"—had given her a great reputation. Frohman
now capitalized that reputation in his usual elaborate fashion. He first
presented Miss May in "The Girl from Up There."
She appeared under his management in various pieces, both in New York
and in London. Her company in New York included Montgomery and
Stone, Dan Daly, and Virginia Earle. When he presented Miss May at the
Duke of York's in "The Girl from Up There" the result was the biggest
business that the theater had known up to that time. In succession followed
"Kitty Gray," which ran a year in London, "Three Little Maids," and "La
Poupée."

All the while there was being written for Miss May a musical piece in
which she was to achieve one of her greatest successes, and which was to
bring Charles into contact with another one of his future stars. It was "The
School Girl," which Frohman first did in May, 1903, in London, and
afterward put on with great success at Daly's in New York.
In the English production of this play was a petite, red-haired little girl
named Billie Burke, who sang a song called "Put Me in My Little Canoe,"
which became one of the hits of the play. Frohman was immensely attracted
by this girl, and afterward took her under his patronage and she became one
of his best-known stars.
Edna May, under Frohman's direction, was now perhaps the best known of
the musical comedy stars in England and America. He took keen delight in
her success. In "The Catch of the Season," which he did at Daly's in New
York in August, 1905, she practically bade farewell to the American stage.
Henceforth Frohman kept her in England. In "The Belle of Mayfair" she
was succeeded by Miss Burke in the leading part. Frohman's production of
"Nelly Neil" at the Aldwych Theater in 1907 was one of the most superb
musical comedy presentations ever made. For this Frohman imported
Joseph Coyne from America to do the leading juvenile rôle. He became
such a great favorite that he has remained in England ever since.
Just as Edna May had bidden farewell to America in "The Catch of the
Season," so she now bade farewell to the English stage in "Nelly Neil." She
had become engaged to Oscar Lewisohn, who insisted on an early marriage.
About this time Frohman and George Edwardes secured the English rights
to "The Merry Widow." They both urged Miss May to postpone her
marriage and appear in it. Miss May was now compelled to decide between
matrimony and what would have been perhaps her greatest success, and she
chose matrimony.
Her good-by appearance on the stage, May 1, 1907, was one of the most
extraordinary events in the history of the English theater. This lovely,
unassuming American girl had so completely endeared herself to the hearts
of the London theater-goers that she was made the center of a tumultuous
farewell. The day the seat-sale opened there was a queue several blocks

long. During the opening performance Charles sat in his box alone. When
some friends entered he was in tears. He had a genuine personal affection
for Miss May, and her retirement touched him very deeply.

BILLIE BURKE

In connection with "Nelly Neil" there is a little story which illustrates
Charles's attitude toward his productions. He had spent a fortune on "Nelly
Neil," and it was not a financial success. After giving it every chance he
instructed Lestocq to put up the two weeks' notice. Lestocq remarked that it
was a shame to end such a magnificent presentation. Whereupon Frohman
turned around quickly and said:
"Shut up, or I'll run it another month. You know, Lestocq, if I don't keep a
hand on myself sometimes my sentiment will be the ruin of me."

By this time Frohman and James M. Barrie had become close friends. The
manager had produced "Quality Street" at the Vaudeville Theater with great
success. He now approached a Barrie production which gave him perhaps
more pleasure than anything he did in his whole stage life. The advent of
"Peter Pan" was at hand. The remarkable story of how Charles got the
manuscript of "Peter Pan" has already been told in this biography.
The original title that Barrie gave the play was "The Great White Father,"
which Frohman liked. Just as soon as Barrie suggested that it be named
after its principal character, Frohman fairly overflowed with enthusiasm. In
preparing for "Peter Pan" in England, Charles was like a child with a toy.
Money was spent lavishly; whole scenes were made and never used. He
regarded it as a great and rollicking adventure.
The first production of the Barrie masterpiece on any stage took place at
the Duke of York's Theater, London, on December 27, 1904. Frohman was
then in America. At his country place up at White Plains, only his close
friend, Paul Potter, with him, he eagerly awaited the verdict. It was a
bitterly cold night, and a snow-storm was raging. Frohman's secretary in the
office in New York had arranged to telephone the news of the play's
reception which Lestocq was expected to cable from London. On account
of the storm the message was delayed.

Frohman was nervous. He kept on saying, "Will it never come?" His heart
was bound up in the fortunes of this beloved fairy play. While he waited
with Potter, Frohman acted out the whole play, getting down on all-fours to
illustrate the dog and crocodile. He told it as Wendy would have told it, for
Wendy was one of his favorites. Finally at midnight the telephone-bell rang.
Potter took down the receiver. Frohman jumped up from his chair, saying,
eagerly, "What's the verdict?" Potter listened a moment, then turned, and
with beaming face repeated Lestocq's cablegram:
Peter Pan all right. Looks like a big success.
This was one of the happiest nights in Frohman's life.
The first Peter in England was Nina Boucicault, who played the part with
great wistfulness and charm. She was the first of a quartet which included
Cissy Loftus, Pauline Chase, and Madge Titheradge.
Charles so adored "Peter Pan" that he produced it in Paris, June 1, 1909, at
the Vaudeville Theater, with an all-English cast headed by Pauline Chase.
Robb Harwood was Captain Hook, and Sibyl Carlisle played Mrs. Darling.
It was produced under the direction of Dion Boucicault. The first
presentation was a great hit, and the play ran for five weeks. On the opening
night Barrie and Frohman each had a box. Frohman was overjoyed at its
success, and Barrie, naturally, could not repress his delight. What pleased
them most was the spectacle of row after row of little French kiddies, who,
while not understanding a word of the narrative, seemed to be having the
time of their lives.
From the date of its first production until his death, "Peter Pan" became a
fixed annual event in the English life of Charles Frohman. He revived it
every year at holiday-time. No occasion in his calendar was more important
than the annual appearance of the fascinating boy who had twined himself
about the American manager's heart.

Charles was now a conspicuous and prominent figure in English theatrical
life. The great were his friends and his opinion was much quoted. In
addition to his sole control of the Duke of York's, he had interests in a

dozen other playhouses. He liked the English way of doing business. Yet,
despite what many people believed to be a strong pro-British tendency, he
was always deeply and patriotically American, and he lost several fortunes
in pioneering the American play and the American actor in England.
To name the American plays that he produced in London would be to give
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."

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

T he 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.

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 Hôtel Meurice, in the Rue
Royale, so he engaged a magnificent suite for his guest. He ordered a
sumptuous dinner at the Café de Paris, bought a box at the Théâtre Français,
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 Café 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 Théâtre Français 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 matinée 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.
The personal comradeship with Pauline Chase was one of the really
beautiful episodes in Frohman's life. He was genuinely interested in this
girl's career, and in tribute to her confidence in him she made him, in
conjunction with Barrie, her father confessor. Here is an episode that is
tenderly appealing, and which shows another of the many sides of his
character:
Frohman and Barrie were both afraid that Miss Chase would marry
without telling them about it, so a compact was made by the three that the
two men should be her mentors. There were many applicants for the hand of
this lovely American girl. The successful suitor eventually was Alec
Drummond, member of a distinguished English family, who went to the
front when the war began.

One reason for Miss Chase's devotion to Charles lay in the fact that the
American manager had the body of her mother removed from its resting-
place in Washington to the dreamy little churchyard at Marlow-on-the-
Thames. It is near Marlow that Miss Chase lived through all the years of the
Frohman-Barrie comradeship. Her little cottage at Tree Tops, Farnham
Common, five miles from Marlow, was one of the places he loved to visit.
On the vine-embowered porch he liked to sit and smoke. On the lawn he
indulged in his only exercise, croquet, frequently with Barrie or Captain
Scott, who died in the Antarctic, and Haddon Chambers, who lived near by.
Often he went with his hostess to feed the chickens.
But wherever he went he carried plays. No matter how late he retired to
his room, he read a manuscript before he went to bed. He probably read
more plays than any other manager in the world.
Frohman went to Marlow nearly every Saturday in summer. His custom
was to alight from the train at Slough, where Miss Chase would meet him in
her car and drive him over to Marlow, where they lunched at The Compleat
Angler, a charming inn on the river.
Miss Chase sometimes playfully performed the office of manicure for
Frohman. Once when she was in Paris he sent her this telegram:
Nails.
Whereupon she wired back:
I am afraid you will have to bite them.
Frohman then sent her the telegram by mail, and under it wrote:
I have.
Of all spots in England, and for that matter in all the world, Charles loved
Marlow best. It is typical of the many contrasts in his crowded life that he
would seek peace and sanctuary in this drowsy English town that nestled
between green hills on the banks of the Thames. He always said that it
framed the loveliest memories of his life.

PAUL POTTER HADDON CHAMBERS

When Miss Chase wrote Frohman that she was to be confirmed in the
little church in Marlow, she got the following reply from him, which
showed how dear the drowsy place was in his affection:
Dear Pauline:—I am glad about Marlow. That little church is the only one
in the world I care for—that one across the river at Marlow. Whenever I see
it I want to die and stay there.
And Marlow with its long street and nobody on it is fine.
It was Haddon Chambers who first took Frohman to Marlow. It came
about in a natural way, because Maidenhead, which is a very popular resort
in England (much frequented by theatrical people) is only a short distance
away. One day Chambers, who was with Frohman at Maidenhead, said,
"There is a lovely, quiet village called Marlow not far away. Let's go over
there." So they went.
On this trip occurred one of the many humorous adventures that were
always happening when Frohman and Chambers were together. Chambers
had the tickets and went on ahead. When he reached the train he found that

Frohman was not there. On returning he found his friend held up by the
gateman, who demanded a ticket. Quick as a flash Chambers said to him:
"Why do you keep His Grace waiting?"
The gateman immediately became flurried and excited and made
apologies. In the mean time Frohman, who took in the situation with his
usual quickness, looked solemn and dignified and then passed in like a peer
of the realm.
Chambers rented a cottage at Marlow each summer, and one of the things
to which Frohman looked forward most eagerly was a visit with him there.
Frequent visits to Marlow made the manager known to the whole town. The
simplicity of his manner and his keen interest, humor, and sympathy won
him many friends. His arrival was always more or less of an event in the
little township.
It is a one-street place, with many fascinating old shops. Frohman loved to
prowl around, look in the shop windows, and talk to the tradesmen, who
came to know and love him and look forward to his advent with the keenest
interest. To them he was not the great American theatrical magnate, but a
simple, kindly, interested human being who inquired about their babies and
who had a big and generous nature.
Frohman once made this remark about the Marlow antique shops:
"They're great. When I buy things the proprietor always tells me whether
they are real or only fake stuff. That's because I'm one of his friends." It was
typical of the man that he was as proud of this friendship as with that of a
prince.
On the tramps through Marlow he was often accompanied by Miss Chase
and Haddon Chambers. He had three particular friends in the town. One
was Muriel Kilby, daughter of the keeper of The Compleat Angler. When
Frohman first went to Marlow she was a slip of a child. He watched her
grow up with an increasing pride. This great and busy man found time in
New York to write her notes full of friendly affection. A few days before the
Lusitania went down she received a note from him saying that he was soon
to sail, and looked forward with eagerness to his usual stay at Marlow.

Through Miss Kilby Frohman became more intimately a part of the local
life of Marlow. She was head of the Marlow Amateur Dramatic Society,
which gave an amateur play every year. Frohman became a member, paid
the five shillings annual dues, and whenever it was possible he went to their
performances. As a matter of fact, the Marlow Dramatic Society has
probably the most distinguished non-resident membership in the world, for
besides Frohman (and through him) it includes Barrie, Haddon Chambers,
Pauline Chase, Marie Lohr, William Gillette, and Marc Klaw. Frohman
always took his close American friends to Marlow. One of the prices they
paid was membership in the amateur dramatic society.
Like every really great man, Charles Frohman was tremendously simple,
as his friendship with W. R. Clark, the Marlow butcher, shows. Clark is a
big, ruddy, John Bull sort of man, whose shop is one of the main sights of
High Street in the village. Frohman regarded his day at Marlow incomplete
without a visit to Clark. One day he met Clark dressed up in his best
clothes. He asked Clark where he was going.
"I am going to visit my pigs," replied the butcher. Frohman thought this a
great joke, and never tired of telling it.
Once when Frohman gave out an interview about his friends in Marlow,
he sent the clipping to his friend Clark, who wrote him a letter, which
contained, among other things:
I can assure you I quite appreciate your kindness in sending the cutting to
me. When the township of Marlow has obtained from His Majesty King
George the necessary charter to become a county borough, and you offer
yourself for the position of Mayor, I will give you my whole-hearted support
and influence to secure your election.
Then, too, there was Jones, the Marlow barber, who shaved Frohman for a
penny because he was a regular customer.
"Jones is a great man," Frohman used to say. "He never charges me more
than a penny for a shave because I am one of his regular customers.
Otherwise it would be twopence. I always give his boy a sixpence, however,
but Jones doesn't know that."

Indeed, the people of Marlow looked upon Frohman as their very own. He
always said that he wanted to be buried in the churchyard by the river. This
churchyard had a curious interest for him. He used to wander around in it
and struck up quite an acquaintance with the wife of the sexton. She was
always depressed because times were so bad and no one was dying. Then an
artist died and was buried there, and the old woman cheered up
considerably. Frohman used to tell her that the only funeral that he expected
to attend was his own.
"And mark you," he said, for he could never resist a jest, "you must take
precious good care of my grave."
His wish to lie in Marlow was not attained, but in tribute to the love he
had for it the memorial that his friends in England have raised to him—a
fountain—stands to-day at the head of High Street in the little town where
he loved to roam, the place in which he felt, perhaps, more at home than
any other spot on earth. Had he made the choice himself he would have
preferred this simple, sincere tribute, in the midst of simple, unaffected
people who knew him and loved him, to stained glass in the stateliest of
cathedrals.

Charles cared absolutely nothing for honors. He was content to hide
behind the mask of his activities. He would never even appear before an
audience. Almost unwillingly he was the recipient of the greatest
compliment ever paid an American theatrical man in England. It happened
in this way:
One season when Frohman had lost an unusual amount of money, Sir John
Hare gathered together some of his colleagues.
"Frohman has done big things," Hare said to them. "He loses his money
like a gentleman. Let us make him feel that he is not just an American, but
one of us."
A dinner was planned in his honor at the Garrick Club. He is the only
American theatrical manager to be elected to membership in this exclusive
club. When Frohman was apprised of the dinner project he shrank from it.

"I don't like that sort of thing," he said. "Besides, I can't make a speech."
"But you won't have to make a speech," said Sir Arthur Pinero, who
headed the committee.
Frohman tried in every possible way to evade this dinner. Finally he
accepted on the condition that when the time came for him to respond he
was merely to get up, bow his acknowledgment, and say, "Thank you." This
he managed to do.
At this dinner, over which Sir John Hare presided, Frohman was presented
with a massive silver cigarette-box, on which was engraved the facsimile
signatures of every one present. These signatures comprise the "Who's
Who" of the British theater. These princes of the drama were proud and
glad to call themselves "A few of his friends," as the inscription on the box
read.
The signers were, among others, Sir Arthur Pinero, Sir Charles Wyndham,
Sir John Hare, Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree, Sir James M. Barrie, Alfred
Sutro, Cyril Maude, H. B. Irving, Lawrence Irving, Louis N. Parker,
Anthony Hope, A. E. W. Mason, Seymour Hicks, Robert Marshall, W.
Comyns Carr, Weedon Grossmith, Gerald Du Maurier, Eric Lewis, Dion
Boucicault, A. E. Matthews, Arthur Bouchier, Cosmo Hamilton, Allan
Aynesworth, R. C. Carton, Sam Sothern, and C. Aubrey Smith.

Nothing gave Charles more satisfaction in England perhaps than his
encouragement of the British playwright. He inherited Pinero from his
brother Daniel, and remained his steadfast friend and producer until his
death. Pinero would not think of submitting a play to any other American
manager without giving Frohman the first call. In all the years of their
relations, during which Charles paid Pinero a large fortune, there was not a
sign of contract between them.
Frohman practically made Somerset Maugham in America. His first
association with this gifted young Englishman was typical of the man's
method of doing business. Maugham had written a play called "Mrs. Dot,"
in which Marie Tempest was to appear. Frederick Harrison, of the

Haymarket Theater, had an option on it, which had just expired. Another
manager wanted the play. Frohman heard of it, and asked to be allowed to
read it. Maugham then said:
"It must be decided to-night."
It was then dinner-time.
"Give me three hours," said Frohman.
At one o'clock in the morning he called up Maugham at his house and
accepted the play, which was probably the quickest reading and acceptance
on record in England.
Another experience with Maugham shows how Frohman really inspired
plays.
He was riding on the train with the playwright when he suddenly said to
him:
"I want a new play from you."
"All right," said Maugham.
Frohman thought a moment, and suddenly flashed out:
"Why not rewrite 'The Taming of the Shrew' with a new background?"
"All right," said Maugham.
The result was Maugham's play "The Land of Promise," which was really
built around Frohman's idea.
Frohman produced all of Maugham's plays in America, and most of them
were great successes. He also did the great majority of them in England.
Maugham waxed so prosperous that he was able to buy a charming old
residence in Chesterfield Street which he remodeled in elaborate fashion.
On its completion his first dinner guest was Charles Frohman. When
Maugham sent him the invitation it read:
Will you come and see the house that Frohman built?

In the same way he developed men like Michael Morton. He would see a
French farce in the Paris theaters, and, although he could not understand a
word of French, he got the spirit and the meaning through its action. He
would buy the play, go to London with the manuscript, and get Morton or
Paul Potter to adapt it for American consumption.

Life in London to Charles Frohman was one series of adventures. Like
Harun-al-Rashid in the Arabian Nights, he delighted to wander about, often
with Barrie, sometimes with Lestocq, seeking out strange and picturesque
places in which to eat.
These adventures began in his earliest days in England. Here is a
characteristic experience:
One day Madeline Lucette Ryley, the playwright, came to see him in his
office in Henrietta Street. A battered old man was hanging around the door.
"Did you see that man outside?" asked Frohman.
"Yes," said Mrs. Ryley. "Is he the bailiff?"
"Oh no," said Frohman, "he is a Maidenhead cabby." This is the story of
how he came there.
The day before Frohman had been down to Maidenhead alone for
luncheon. At the station he hailed a cabby who was driving a battered old
fly.
"Where to, Governor?" asked the man.
"Number 5 Henrietta Street," said Frohman.
"No such place in Maidenhead," said the driver.
"Oh, I mean the place opposite Covent Garden in London."
The old cabby wasn't a bit flustered, but he said, "I will have to get a new
horse."

He changed horses and they made the long way to London, arriving there
considerably after nightfall. When Frohman asked for his bill the old man
said, with some hesitation:
"I'm afraid it will cost you five pounds."
"That's all right," said Frohman, and paid the bill.
To his great surprise, the cabby showed up next morning, saying: "I like
London. I think I'll stay here." It was with the greatest difficulty that
Frohman got rid of him. When the cabby finally started to go he said:
"Well, Governor, if you want to go back to Maidenhead I'll do it for half-
price."
A short time after this incident Frohman, whose purse was none too full
then, asked some people to dine with him at the Hotel Cecil. By some
mistake he and his party were shown into a room that had been arranged for
a very elaborate dinner. Before he realized it the waiter began to serve the
meal. He soon knew that it was not the menu he had ordered, and was
costing twenty times more. But he was game and stuck to it. It was
midwinter, and when the fresh peaches came on he said to the woman on
his right:
"This will break me, I know, but we might as well have a good time."
Frohman almost invariably took one of his American friends to England
with him. It was usually Charles Dillingham, Paul Potter, or William
Gillette.
On one of Gillette's many trips with him Frohman got up an elaborate
supper for Mark Twain at the Savoy and invited a brilliant group of
celebrities, including all three of the Irvings, Beerbohm Tree, Chauncey M.
Depew, Sir Charles Wyndham, Haddon Chambers, Nat Goodwin, and
Arthur Bouchier. In his inconspicuous way, however, he made it appear that
Gillette was giving the supper.
Midnight arrived, and Twain had not shown up. It was before the days of
taxis, so Dillingham was sent after him in a hansom. After going to the

wrong address, he finally located the humorist in Chelsea. He found Mark
Twain sitting in his dressing-gown, smoking a Pittsburg stogie and reading
a book.
"Did you forget all about the supper?" asked Dillingham.
"No," was the drawling reply, "but I didn't know where the blamed thing
was. I had a notion that some one of you would come for me."
Mark Twain and Frohman were great friends. They were often together in
London. Their favorite diversion was to play "hearts."
The great humorist once drew a picture of Charles, and under it wrote:
N. B. I cannot make a good mouth. Therefore leave it out. There is enough
without it, anyway. Done with the best ink.
M. T.
Underneath this inscription he wrote:
To Charles Frohman, Master of Hearts.
Few things in England pleased Frohman more than to play a joke on
Gillette, for the author of "Secret Service," like his great friend, relaxed
when he was on the other side. When Frohman produced "Sue" in England
an amusing incident happened.

OTIS SKINNER

Frohman had brought over Annie Russell and Ida Conquest for his piece.
The actresses were very much excited before the first night, and went
without dinner. After the play they were very hungry. On going to the Savoy
they encountered the English prohibition against serving women at night
when unaccompanied by men. After trying at several places they went to
their lodging in Langham Place almost famished.
In desperation they telephoned to Dillingham, who was playing "hearts" at
the Savoy with Frohman and Gillette. He hurriedly got some food together
in a basket, and with his two friends drove to where the young women were
staying. The house was dark; fruitless pulls at the door-bell showed that it
was broken. It was impossible to raise any one.
Dillingham knew that the actresses were occupying rooms on the second
floor front. He had five large English copper pennies in his pocket, and so
he started to throw them up to the window to attract their attention. He
threw four, and each fell short.
"This is the last copper," he said to Frohman. "If we can't reach the girls
with this they will have to go hungry."
Whereupon Frohman said: "Let Gillette throw it. He can make a penny go
further than any man in the world."

Such was Charles Frohman's English life. It was joyous, almost rollicking,
and pervaded with the spirit of adventure. Yet behind all the humor was
something deep, searching, and significant, because in England, as in
America, this man was a vital and constructive force, and where he went,
whether in laughter or in seriousness, he left his impress.

XIII

A GALAXY OF STARS

T he last decade of Charles Frohman's life was one of continuous star-
making linked with far-flung enterprise. He now had a chain of
theaters that reached from Boston by way of Chicago to Seattle; his
productions at home kept on apace; his prestige abroad widened.
Frohman had watched the development of Otis Skinner with great interest.
That fine and representative American actor had thrived under his own
management. Early in the season of 1905 he revived his first starring
vehicle, a costume play by Clyde Fitch, called "His Grace de Grammont." It
failed, however, and Skinner looked about for another piece. He heard that
Frohman, who had a corner on French plays for America, owned the rights
to Lavedan's play "The Duel," which had scored a big success in Paris. He
knew that the leading rôle ideally fitted his talent and temperament.
Skinner went to Frohman and asked him if he could produce "The Duel"
in America.
"Why don't you do it under my management?" asked the manager.
"All right," replied the actor, "I will."
With these few remarks began the connection between Charles Frohman
and Otis Skinner.
It was during the closing years of Frohman's life that his genius for
singling out gifted young women for eminence found its largest expression.
Typical of them was Marie Doro, a Dresden-doll type of girl who made her
first stage appearance, as did Billie Burke and Elsie Ferguson, in musical
comedy.
Charles Frohman saw her in a play called "The Billionaire" at Daly's
Theater in New York, in which she sang and danced. He had an unerring
eye for beauty and talent. With her, as with others that he transported from
musical pieces to straight drama, he had an uncanny perception. He
engaged her and featured her in a slender little play called "Friquette."

Miss Doro made such an impression on her first appearance that Frohman
now put her in "Clarice," written by William Gillette, in which he also
appeared. Her success swept her nearer to stardom, for she next appeared in
a Frohman production which, curiously enough, reflected one of Frohman's
sentimental moods.
For many years Mrs. G. H. Gilbert was a famous figure on the American
stage. She had been one of the "Big Four" of Augustin Daly's company for
many years, and remained with Daly until his death. She was the beloved
first old woman of the dramatic profession. When the Daly company
disbanded Mrs. Gilbert did not prepare to retire. She was hearty and active.
Frohman realized what a warm place this grand old woman had in the
affection of theater-goers after all the years of faithful labor, so he said to
himself:
"Here is a wonderful old woman who has never been a star. She must have
this great experience before she dies."
He engaged Clyde Fitch to write a play called "Granny," in which Mrs.
Gilbert was starred. It made her very happy, and she literally died in the
part.
In the cast of "Granny" Miss Doro's youthful and exquisite beauty shone
anew. Her success with the press and the public was little short of
phenomenal. Charles now saw Miss Doro as star. He held youth, beauty,
and talent to be the great assets, and he seldom made a mistake. It was no
vanity that made him feel that if an artist pleased him she would likewise
please the public.
Frohman now starred Miss Doro in the stage adaptation of William J.
Locke's charming story, "The Morals of Marcus." She became one of his pet
protégées. With her, as with the other young women, he delighted to nurse
talent. He conducted their rehearsals with a view of developing all their
resources, and to show every facet of their temperaments. Failure never
daunted him so long as he had confidence in his ward. This was especially
the case with Miss Doro, who was unfortunate in a long string of
unsuccessful plays. Frohman's faith in her, however, was at last justified,

when she played Dora in Sardou's great play, "Diplomacy," with brilliant
success a year in London and later in New York.

With the exception of Maude Adams and Ann Murdock, no Frohman star
had so swift or spectacular a rise as Billie Burke. Her story is one of the real
romances of the Frohman star-making.

MARIE DORO

Billie Burke was the daughter of a humble circus clown in America. From
him she probably inherited her mimetic gifts. At the beginning of her career
she had obscure parts in American musical pieces.
It was in London, however, that she first came under the observation of
Charles. She had graduated from the chorus to a part in Edna May's great
success, "The School Girl." She had a song called "Put Me in My Little
Canoe," which made a great hit. Frohman became so much interested that
he thought of sending Miss Burke to America in the piece. He transferred
the song to Miss May, which left Miss Burke with scarcely any opportunity.
Subsequently she was put in "The Belle of Mayfair," and afterward replaced
Miss May when she retired.
Louis N. Parker saw her in this piece and agreed with Frohman that the
girl had possibilities as a serious actress. She was cast for her first dramatic
part in "The Honorable George," the play he was then producing in London.
When Michael Morton adapted a very beguiling French play called "My
Wife," Frohman saw that here was Miss Burke's opportunity for America.
He secured her release from the Gattis, who controlled her English
appearances, and made her John Drew's leading woman. She met his
confidence by adapting herself to the rôle with great brilliancy and effect.
Indeed, with Miss Burke, Frohman introduced a distinct and piquant
reddish-blond type of beauty to the American stage. It became known as the
"Billie Burke type." Realizing this, Frohman was very careful to adapt her
personal appearance, humor, and temperament to her plays. He literally had
plays written about her peculiar gifts.
Miss Burke's great success in "My Wife" projected her into the Frohman
stellar heaven. She was launched as a star in "Love Watches," an adaptation
from the French, securely established herself in the favor of theater-goers,
and from that time on her appearance in a chic, smart play became one of
the distinct features of the annual Frohman season. Her most distinguished

success was with Pinero's play "Mind the Paint Girl," in which Frohman
was greatly interested.
Few of Frohman's "discoveries" justified his confidence with lovelier
success than Julia Sanderson. Her first public appearance on the stage had
been in vaudeville. When Frohman sought a comedienne with a certain
dainty, lady-like quality for the English musical play called "The
Dairymaids," which he produced at the Criterion in 1907, his attention was
called to this charming girl, then doing musical numbers in a New York
vaudeville theater. Frohman went to see her, and was fascinated by her
beauty and charm. He noted, most of all, a certain gentle quality in her
personality, and with his peculiar genius in adapting plays to people and
people to plays, she fairly bloomed under his persuasive and sympathetic
sponsorship.
Frohman now obtained "The Arcadians," in which Miss Sanderson was
featured. Of all the musical plays that he produced, this was perhaps his
favorite. He liked it so much that he told Miss Sanderson one day during
rehearsal:
"If the public does not like 'The Arcadians,' then I am finished with light
opera."
"The Arcadians," however, proved to be a gratifying success, and
Frohman's confidence was vindicated. Frohman was undergoing his long
and almost fatal illness at the Knickerbocker Hotel when "The Arcadians"
was being rehearsed. He was so fond of the music that whenever possible
the rehearsals in which Miss Sanderson sang were conducted in his rooms
at the hotel. He always said that he could see the whole performance in her
singing. In rehearsing her he always seemed to well-nigh break her heart,
but it was his way, as he afterward admitted, of provoking her emotional
temperament.

JULIA SANDERSON

He next gave her a strong part in "The Siren," and subsequently made her
a co-star with Donald Brian in "The Sunshine Girl," which brought out to
the fullest advantage, so far, her exquisite and alluring qualities.

The last star to twinkle into life under the Frohman wand was Ann
Murdock. Here is presented an extraordinary example of the way that
Charles literally "made" stars, for seldom, if ever, before has a young
actress been so quickly raised from obscurity to eminence. Almost
overnight he lifted her into fame.
Miss Murdock, who was born in New York, and had spent her childhood
in Port Washington, Long Island, was not a stage-struck girl. She went on
the stage because she made up her mind that she wanted more nice frocks
than she was having. She rode over to New York one day and went to Henry
B. Harris's office to get a position. As she sat waiting among a score of
applicants, Harris came out. He was so much taken with her striking Titian
beauty and unaffected girlish charm that he immediately asked her to come
in ahead of the rest, and gave her a small part in one of "The Lion and the
Mouse" road companies. When Harris saw her act he took her out of the
cast and put her in a new production that he was making in New York.
At the end of the season she wanted to get under Charles Frohman's
management, so she went to the Empire Theater to try her luck. There she
met William Gillette, who was making one of his numerous revivals of
"Secret Service." The moment he saw this fresh, appealing young girl he
immediately cast her in his mind for the part of the young Southern girl.
After he had talked with her, however, he said:
"I think it would be best if I wrote a part for you. I am now working on a
play, and I think you had better go in that."
Miss Murdock now appeared in Gillette's new play, "Electricity," in which
Marie Doro was starred. Charles Frohman saw her at the opening rehearsal
for the first time.

"Electricity" was a failure. Instead of following up her connection with the
Frohman office, she went to the cast of "A Pair of Sixes," in which she
played for a whole season on Broadway, displaying qualities which brought
her conspicuously before the public and to the notice of the man who was to
do so much for her.
One night Charles stopped in to see this farce. He had never forgotten the
lovely young girl who had played in "Electricity." The next day he sent for
Miss Murdock, offered her an engagement, and made another of those
simple arrangements, for he said to her:
"You are with me for life."
This was Frohman's way of telling an actor or actress that, without the
formality of a contract, they were to look to him each season for
employment and that they need not worry about engagements.
From this time on Frohman took an earnest interest in Miss Murdock's
career. He saw in her, as he had seen in only a few of his women stars, an
immense opportunity to create a new and distinct type.

ANN MURDOCK

Just about this time he became very much interested in the English
adaptation of a French play which he called "The Beautiful Adventure,"
which was, curiously enough, one of the plays uppermost in his mind on the
day he went to his death.
He now did a daring but characteristic Frohman thing. He believed
implicitly in Miss Murdock's talents; he felt that the part of the ingenuous
young girl in this play was ideally suited to her pleading personality, so, in
conjunction with Mrs. Thomas Whiffen and Charles Cherry, he featured her
in the cast. Miss Murdock's characterization amply justified Frohman's
confidence, but the play failed in New York and on the road. He wrote to
Miss Murdock:
I am afraid our little play is too gentle for the West. Come back. I have
something else for you.
He now put Miss Murdock into Porter Emerson Browne's play "A Girl of
To-day," which had its first presentation in Washington. Frohman, Miss
Murdock, and her mother were riding from the station in Washington to the
Shoreham Hotel. As they passed the New National Theater, where the
young actress was to appear, Miss Murdock suddenly looked out of the cab
and saw the following inscription in big type on the bill:
Charles Frohman presents Ann Murdock in "A Girl of To-day."
It was the first intimation that she had been made a star, and she burst into
tears. In this episode Frohman had repeated what he had done in the case of
Ethel Barrymore ten years before.
Frohman had predicted great things for Miss Murdock, for at the time of
his death there was no doubt of the fact that she was destined, in his mind,
for a very remarkable career.

But those last years of Frohman's life were not confined exclusively to the
pleasant and grateful task of making lovely women stars. The men also had
a chance, as the case of Donald Brian shows. Frohman had been much
impressed with his success in "The Merry Widow," so he put him under his

management and starred him in "The Dollar Princess," which was the first
of a series of Brian successes.
Frohman saw that Brian had youth, charm, and pleasing appearance. He
was an unusually good singer and an expert dancer. He was equipped to
give distinction to the musical play Frohman wanted to present. He had
watched the interest of his audiences, and saw that young Brian was a
distinct favorite with women as well as men, and his success as star
justified all these plans.
While Frohman was making new stars, older ones came under his control
in swift succession, among them Madame Nazimova, William Courtnay,
James K. Hackett, Kyrle Bellew, Mrs. Fiske, Charles Cherry, John Mason,
Martha Hedman, Alexandra Carlisle, William Courtleigh, Nat Goodwin,
Blanche Bates, Hattie Williams, Gertrude Elliott, Constance Collier,
Richard Carle, and Cyril Maude.
Frohman now reached the very apex of his career. At one time he had
twenty-eight stars under his management; and in addition fully as many
more companies bore his name throughout the country. To be a Frohman
star was the acme of stage ambition, for it not only meant professional
distinction, but equitable and honorable treatment.

The year 1915 dawned with fateful significance for Charles Frohman.
With its advent began a chain of happenings that, in the light of later events,
seemed almost prophetic of the fatal hour which was now closing in.
Perhaps the most picturesque and significant of these events was the
reconciliation with his old friend David Belasco. Twelve years before,
through an apparently trivial thing, a breach had developed between these
two men whose fortunes had been so intimately entwined. They had
launched their careers in New York together; the old Madison Square
Theater had housed their first theatrical ambition; they had kept pace on the
road to fame; their joint productions had been features of the New York
stage. Yet for twelve years they had not spoken.

Frohman became ill, and lay stricken at the Knickerbocker Hotel. That he
had thought much of his old comrade, so long estranged, was evident. A
remarkable coincidence resulted. It was like an act in any one of the many
plays they had produced.
One afternoon Belasco, who had heard of the serious plight of Frohman,
sat in his studio on the top floor of the Belasco Theater. There, amid his Old
World curios, he pondered over the past.
"'C. F.' is lying ill at the Knickerbocker," he said to himself. "He may die. I
must see him. This quarrel of ours is a great mistake."
He started to write a note to his old friend, when the telephone-bell rang.
It was his business manager, Benjamin Roeder, who said:
"I have just had a telephone message from Charles Frohman. He wants to
see you."
When Belasco told Roeder that he was just in the act of writing to
Frohman to tell him that he wanted to see him, both men were amazed at
the coincidence.
That night, when the few friends who gathered each evening at Frohman's
bedside had gone, Belasco entered the sick-room at the Knickerbocker.
Frohman was so weak that he could hardly raise his hand. Belasco went to
him, took his right hand in both of his, and the old comrades put together
again the thread of their friendship just where it had been broken twelve
years before.
They talked over the old days. Frohman, whose mind was always on the
theater, suddenly said:
"Let's do a play together, David."
"All right," said Belasco.
"You name the play. I will get the cast, and we will rehearse it together,"
added Frohman.

Out of this reconciliation came the magnificent revival of "A Celebrated
Case," by D'Ennery and Cormon. The cast included Nat Goodwin, Otis
Skinner, Ann Murdock, Helen Ware, Florence Reed, and Robert Warwick.
On Frohman's recovery he undertook the rehearsals. Belasco came in at the
end, but he had little to do.

COPYRIGHT BY UNDERWOOD & UNDERWOOD

CHARLES FROHMAN and DAVID BELASCO

A photograph taken in Boston April 3, 1915, just after the
two had renewed their partnership, ending a separation of
twenty years.

Frohman and Belasco not only resumed their joint production of plays, but
they resumed part of their old life together. Now began again their favorite
diet of pumpkin and meringue pie and tea after the day's work was done.
Night after night they met after the theater, just as they had done in the old
Madison Square days when they went to O'Neil's, on Sixth Avenue, for their
frugal repast, dreaming and planning their futures. Now each man had
become a great personage. Frohman was the amusement dictator of two
worlds; Belasco, the acknowledged stage wizard of his time.
After a week in Boston the all-star cast in "A Celebrated Case" opened at
the Empire Theater in New York. History repeated itself. Frohman and
Belasco sat in the same place in the wings where they sat twenty-two years
before at the launching of "The Girl I Left Behind Me," which dedicated the
Empire. Now, as then, there were tumultuous calls for the producers. Again
David tried to induce Charles to go out, but he said:
"No, you go, David, and speak for me. Stand where you did twenty-two
years ago."
In 1915, as in 1893, Belasco went out and spoke Frohman's thanks and his
own.
The revival of "A Celebrated Case" not only brought Frohman and
Belasco together, but led to an agreement between them to do a production
together every year.

There was a tragic hint of the fate which was shaping Charles Frohman's
end in his last production on any stage. It was a war play called "The
Hyphen," by Justus Miles Forman, the novelist. The scenes were laid in
Pennsylvania, and the story dealt with the various attempts to unsettle the
loyalty of German-Americans through secret agencies. The whole problem

of the hyphenated citizen, which had complicated the American position in
the great war, was set forth.
Even in his unconscious stage farewell, Charles was the pioneer, because
the acceptance of "The Hyphen" and the prompt organization of the
company established a new record in play-producing. Up to a certain
Saturday morning Charles Frohman had never heard of the play. That
afternoon the manuscript was put into his hands and he read it. A messenger
was sent off post-haste to find the author. In the mean time, Frohman
engaged W. H. Thompson, Gail Kane, and a notable group of players for the
cast, and gave orders for the construction of the scenery. Late that afternoon
Mr. Forman called on Charles, whom he had never met. Without any further
ado the manager said to the playwright-author:
"I am going to produce your play. We have nothing to discuss. A manager
often discusses at great length the play that he does not intend to produce.
Therefore all that I have to tell you is that your play is accepted. I have
already engaged the chief actors needed, and the scenery was ordered two
hours ago. I am glad to produce a play on this timely subject, but I am
especially glad that it is an American who wrote it."
Charles was greatly interested in "The Hyphen." It was American to the
core; it flouted treachery to the country of adoption; it appealed to his big
sense of patriotism. He felt, with all the large enthusiasm of his nature, that
he was doing a distinct national service in producing the piece. He
personally supervised every rehearsal. He talked glowingly to his friends
about it. At fifty-five he displayed the same bubbling optimism with regard
to it that he had shown about his first independent venture.
Now began the last of the chain of dramatic events which ended in death.
As soon as "The Hyphen" was announced, Frohman began to get
threatening letters warning him that it would be a mistake to produce so
sensational a play in the midst of such an acute international situation. Pro-
Germans of incendiary tendency especially resented it. To all these
intimations Frohman merely shrugged his shoulders and smiled. It made
him all the more determined.

"The Hyphen" was produced April 19th at the Knickerbocker Theater
before a hostile audience. Unpatriotic pro-Germans had packed the theater.
During the progress of the play the dynamite explosions in the Broadway
subway construction outside were misinterpreted for bombs, and there was
suppressed excitement throughout the whole performance.
The play was a failure. Yet Frohman's confidence in it was unimpaired. He
went to see it nearly every night of its short life in New York. He even sent
it to Boston for a second verdict, but Boston agreed with New York. Like
every production that bore the Charles Frohman stamp, he gave it every
chance. Reluctantly he ordered up the notice to close.
Frohman became greatly attached to Forman. With his usual generosity he
invited the author to accompany him on his approaching trip to England.
"I want you to come with me and meet Barrie and know some of my other
English friends," Charles said, little dreaming that the invitation to a
holiday was the beckoning hand of death to both.

XIV

STAR-MAKING AND AUDIENCES

D uring all these busy years Frohman had reigned supreme as king of
star-makers. Under his persuasive sponsorship more men and
women rose to stellar eminence than with all his fellow-managers
combined. It was the very instinct of his life to develop talent, and it gave
him an extraordinary satisfaction to see the artist emerge from the
background into fame.
His attitude in the matter of star-making was never better expressed than
in one of his many playful moods with the pencil. Like Caruso, he was a
caricaturist. Few things gave him more delight than to make a hasty sketch
of one of his friends on any scrap of paper that lay near at hand. He usually

made these sketches just as he wrote most of his personal letters, with a
heavy blue pencil.
On one occasion he was talking with Pauline Chase about making stars. A
smile suddenly burst over his face; he seized pencil and paper and made a
sketch of himself walking along at night and pointing to the moon with his
stick. Under the picture he wrote, as if addressing the moon:
Watch out, or I'll make a star out of you.
Once he said to Billie Burke, in discussing this familiar star subject:
"A star has a unique value in a play. It concentrates interest. In some
respects a play is like a dinner. To be a success, no matter how splendidly
served, the menu should always have one unique and striking dish that,
despite its elaborate gastronomic surroundings, must long be remembered.
This is one reason why you need a star in a play."

MARIE TEMPEST MME. NAZIMOVA

Despite the fact, as the case of Ann Murdock shows, that Charles could
literally lift a girl from the ranks almost overnight, he generally regarded
the approach to stardom as a difficult and hard-won path. Just before the

great European war, he made this comment to a well-known English
journalist, who asked him how he made stars:
"Each of my stars has earned his or her position through honest
advancement. If the President of the United States wants to reward a soldier
he says to him, 'I will make you a general.' By the same process I say to an
actor, 'I will make you a star.'
"All the stars under my management owe their eminence to their own
ability and industry, and also to the fact that the American is an individual-
loving public. In America we regard the workman first and the work
second. Our imaginations are fired not nearly so much by great deeds as by
great doers. There are stars in every walk of American life. It has always
been so with democracies. Cæsar, Cicero, and the rest were public stars
when Rome was at her best, just as in our day Roosevelt and others shine.
"Far from fostering it, the star system as such has simply meant for me
that when one of my stars finishes with a play, that play goes permanently
on the shelf, no one ever hoping to muster together an audience for it
without the original actor or actress in the star part.
"Vital acting in plays of consequence is the foundation of theatrical
success. You have only to enumerate the plays to realize the drain even one
management can make upon what is, after all, a limited supply of capable
leading actors. This is because the American stage is short of leaders. There
is a world of actors, but too few leading actors."
"What do you mean by leading actor?" he was asked.
"I mean that if in casting a play you can find an actor who looks the part
you have in mind for him, be thankful; if you can find an actor who can act
the part, be very thankful; and if you can find an actor who can look and act
the part, get down on your knees and thank God!"
Frohman had a very definite idea about star material. He was once talking
with a well-known American publisher who mentioned that a certain very
rich woman had announced her determination to go on the stage. The
manager made one of his quick and impatient gestures, and said:

"She will never do."
"Why?" asked his friend.
"Because," replied Frohman, "in all my experience with the making of
stars I have seldom known of a very rich girl who made a finished success
on the stage. The reason is that the daughters of the rich are taught to
repress their emotions. In other words, they don't seem to be able to let go
their feelings. Give me the common clay, the kind that has suffered and
even hungered. It makes the best star material."
There is no doubt that Frohman liked to "make" careers. He wanted to see
people develop under his direction. To indulge in this diversion was often a
very costly thing, as this incident shows:
Chauncey Olcott, who had been associated with him in his minstrel days,
and become one of the most profitable stars in the country, once sent a
message to Frohman saying that he would like to come under his
management. To the intermediary Olcott said:
"Tell Mr. Frohman that I make one hundred thousand dollars a year. He
can name his own percentage of this income."
Frohman sent back this message:
"I greatly appreciate the offer, but I don't care to manage Olcott. He is
made. I like to make stars."
One reason that lay behind Frohman's success as star-maker was the fact
that he wove a great deal of himself into the character of the stars. In other
words, the personal element counted a great deal. When somebody once
remonstrated with him about giving up so much of his valuable time to
what seemed to be inconsequential talks with his women stars, he said:
"It is not a waste of time. I have often helped those young women to take
a brighter view of things, and it makes me feel that I am not just their
manager, but their friend."

Indeed, as Barrie so well put it, he regarded his women stars as his
children. If they were playing in New York they were expected to call on
him and talk personalities three or four times a week. On the road they sent
him daily telegrams; these were placed on his desk every morning, and
were dealt with in person before any other business of the day. He had the
names of his stars printed in large type on his business envelopes. These
were so placed on his table that as he sat and wrote or talked he could see
their names ranked before him.
When his women stars played in New York he always tried to visit them at
night at the theater before the curtain went up. He always said of this that it
was like seeing his birds tucked safely in their nests. Then he would go
back to his office or his rooms and read manuscripts until late.
One phase of Charles's great success in life was revealed in this attitude
toward his women stars. He succeeded because he mixed sentiment with
business. He was not all sentiment and he was not all business, but he was
an extraordinarily happy blend of each of these qualities, and they endeared
him to the people who worked for him.
The attitude of the great star toward Frohman is best explained perhaps by
Sir Henry Irving. Once, when the time came for his usual American tour, he
said to his long-time manager, Bram Stoker, who was about to start for New
York:
"When you get to America just tell Frohman—you need not bother to
write him—that I want to come under his management. He always
understands. He is always so fair."
One detail will illustrate Frohman's feeling about stars, and it is this: He
never wanted them, male or female, to make themselves conspicuous or to
do commonplace things. He was sensitive about what they said or did. For
example, he did not like to see John Drew walk up and down Broadway. He
spent a fortune sheltering Maude Adams from all kinds of intrusion. With
her especially he exhausted every resource to keep her aloof and secluded.
He preferred that she be known through her work and not through her
personal self. It was so with himself.