Charles Frohman: Manager and Man Part 58

The really intimate Frohman letters were always written by hand on sc.r.a.ps of paper, and were short, jerky, and epigrammatic. Most of these were written, or rather scratched, to intimates like James M. Barrie, Paul Potter, and Haddon Chambers.

As indicated in one of the chapters of this book, Frohman delighted in caricature. To a few of his friends he would send a humorous cartoon instead of a letter. He caricatured whatever he saw, whether riding on trains or eating in restaurants. If he wanted a friend to dine with him he would sketch a rough head and mark it "Me"; then he would draw another head and label it "You." Between these heads he would make a picture of a table, and under it scrawl, "Knickerbocker, Friday, 7 o'clock."

Frohman seldom used pen and ink. Most of his letters were written with the heavy blue editorial pencil that he liked to use. He wrote an atrocious hand. His only compet.i.tor in this way was his close friend Barrie. The general verdict among the people who have read the writing of both men is that Frohman took the palm for illegible chirography.

Frohman could pack a world of meaning into his letters. To a fellow-manager who had written to Boston to ask if he had seen a certain actress play, he replied: "No, I have had the great pleasure of _not_ seeing her act."

His letters reflect his moods and throw intimate light on his character.

He would always have his joke. To William Collier, who had sent him a box for a play that he was doing in New York, he once wrote: "I do not think I will have any difficulty in finding your theater, although a great many new theaters have gone up. Many old ones have 'gone up' too."

His swift jugglery with words is always manifest. To Alfred Sutro he sent this sentence notifying him that his play was to go into rehearsal: "The die is cast--but not the play."

Through his letters there s.h.i.+nes his uncompromising rule of life.

Writing to W. Lestocq, his agent in London, in reference to the English failure of "Years of Discretion," he said: "It is a failure, and that is the end of it. You can't get around failure, so we must go on to something else."

The number of available Frohman letters is not large. The following, gathered from various sources, will serve to indicate something of their character:

_To an English author whose play, a weak one, was rapidly failing:_

No; it is not the war that is affecting your business. It is the play--nothing else.

_To Cyril Maude, whose penmans.h.i.+p is notably indecipherable:_

I can't read your handwriting very well; but I wonder if you can read my typewriting. Just pretend I typed this myself.... Speaking of hits, Granville Barker arrived yesterday, and the city suddenly became terribly cold--awful weather. Barker will do well.

_To Haddon Chambers:_

Last night we produced "Driven" against your judgment. The press not favorable. But still I'm hoping.

_To a colleague:_

I announced "Driven" as a comedy. Next day I called it a play. But soon I may call it off.

_To W. Lestocq:_

The American actors over here are worried about so many English actors in our midst. I employ both kinds--that is, I want good actors only.

_To an English author:_

As to conditions here being bad for good plays; that is a joke. The distressful business is for the bad plays that I and other managers sometimes produce.

_To one of his managers:_

Do not use the line "The World-Famous Tri-Star Combination." Just say "The Great Three-Star Combination." It is easier to understand.

And all will be well.

_To one of his managers who spoke of the superiority of an actress who had replaced another about to retire to private life:_

But now that her stage life is over we should remember her years of good work. She had a simple, childish, fairy-like appeal. I write this to you to express my feeling for one who has left our work for good, and I can think now only of pleasant memories. I want you to feel the same.

_To an English author, January, 1915:_

Over here they say the real heroes of the year are the managers that dare produce new plays.

_To a business colleague about a singing comedian who was laid up with a serious illness:_

I am sorry he is sick. But that was a rotten thing for him to do--to steal our song. I suppose he is better. Only the good die young.

_To Marie Doro:_

I saw you in the picture play. It and you were fine. What a lot of money you make! When I return from London I'm going to see if I can earn $10 a day to play in some of the screens. We are all going up to the Atlantic Ocean Island to see them taking you in the "White Pearl" pictures.

_Refusing to go to a public banquet:_

That's the first free thing that has been offered me this year. But there are three things my physician forbids me from doing--to eat, drink, or talk.

_To a manager:_

There are no bad towns--only bad plays!

_On hearing that an actress in his employ had reflected on his management:_

In this message I am charged with neglecting your interests. This is a shock to me, because when one neglects his trust, he is dishonest. This is the first time I have ever been so accused, and I am wondering if you inspired the message. I think it important that you should know.

_Being adjured by one of the family to take more exercise:_

I drove out to Richmond. Then I walked a mile. Now I hope you'll be satisfied.

_To his sisters (he lived then at the Waldorf, but joined the family at a weekly dinner up-town):_

I am sending you a cook-book by Oscar of this hotel. You may find some use for it.

When he came to the next weekly dinner he was offered several choice dishes prepared from Oscar's recipes. "I see my mistake," he said. "I wanted my usual home dinner. You give me what I receive all the time at the hotel."

_To Alfred Sutro, in London:_

Give us something full of situations, and we will give you a bully time again in America.

_To William Seymour, his stage-manager, about a performance of one of his plays:_

When you rehea.r.s.e to-day will you try and get the old woman out of too much crying; get some smiles, and stop her s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up her face every time she speaks. Of course, it's nervousness, but it looks as if she were ill.

_To one of his a.s.sociates:_

Miss Adams's receipts last week in Boston were the largest in the history of Boston theaters or anywhere--$23,000. But I had some others which I won't tell you about.

_To an English author in 1913:_