The One I Knew Least of All, part III
Mr. Frohman used to say if you could make the young man “in front” wish that he were the hero and the young girl sitting beside him the heroine of your play, you could be quite sure the play would succeed; and that when the audience took the trouble to “explain” a play, the manager could feel safe, for their never bothered to explain a failure. The Little Minister was one of the most explained plays of its time. No one seemed able to put his finger on just what made it popular. Of course it could not be the play itself, the Scotch dialect made that a mystery; if one could understand the Scotch dialect, perhaps-bu after a time the Scotch words seemed to mean what the author had intended, and some other explanation had to be found. It was said that the company held the play together; it was a very fine company, but the play was done by several companies in the United States as well as in England and Australia, and that could not have been the controlling factor. Some said the charm lay in a sort of elfish quality in the play; what did they mean by that? One of the older managers said he knew: “It's the leaves she wears in her hair,” said he, his mind lighting on the heroine; but even that did not seem to explain it. Someone asked Mr. Frohman flatly what there was in the play that made it so attractive. “That man, Barrie,” said Mr. Frohman; and someone that did seem to account for it. There was a glamour about the play as about all the Barrie plays-a curious quality which no other plays have.
Encouragement From Frohman
The Little Minister held so much of the wit and charm of its author that it was difficult to find one scene or one part more attractive than another, each was so part of the play. But the most lovable scenes were those of “the four elders,” those delightful old men. one could listen night after night and never tire, the lines were so full of human nature; and surely no scenes were ever better played. But the whole company was very fine; there was not a member who had not won his spurs, and the star was something of an interloper as every young star must be. Her experiments were always alarming to the well-trained, experienced company, and if the audience chanced to be amused, there was general relief and rejoicing. Actors have great respect for sincerity, and young stars who are sincere can count upon any amount of help from their elders. But the one I knew least had very little confidence in herself as an actress, and her anxiety made her self-conscious. Mr. Frohman encouraged her in interesting herself in all the details of the performance, on the principle that the more she had to think about, the less time she would have to worry about herself; and that most interesting detail in the theater at that moment was the development in stage lighting which incandescent lamps had made possible.
Stage lighting had always fascinated her. I remember a distinct impression made upon her as a young child; it was in a small military post in the far Northwest; a tiny dining room; some tables formed a stage, several sheets did service as a curtain, and the footlights were kerosene lamp. From this primitive beginning, in her not too long life, she had seen “lighting” evolve; before she was sixteen, with electric lamps had come a different method of acting; with kerosene lamps and to some extent with gas, it was difficult to see and the expression of the face was exaggerated. Incandescent lamps came with their intense power and a more subtle use of the face became the mode, and a more subdued method of acting; all the old ideas for making up the face gave way to new ideas, a matter of prime importance.
[ Maude Adams, of course, later went on to invent a lighting system for the stage. The Little Minister was a major hit for her, perhaps her biggest. The problem I have had with that play is that I have not been able to find a copy of the actual play; the book is fairly easily available, but the play, not. From what I have read there were a number of differences between the play and the book and some people criticized those differences.
There was an article I read in one of the old newspapers about how, in one instance, some person came to the stage when general work was being done and asked to see the electrician. The person working there showed him Maude Adams door, I believe, and the guy couldn't believe a woman of all things was actually an electrician. The guy at the stage pointed out she was also a carpenter, stage designer, etc. ]
Lighting Problems
Until electric lamps came, night scenes were almost impossible. The curtain would rise on blackness; suddenly the whole scene would become as light as day, with “foots” and “borders” and “spots” at full force, the audience still kindly pretending it was black, black night. With incandescent lamps, footlights came into their own; they could not only be turned up or out, they could be colored, and night scenes were no longer a problem.
But the incandescent lamps were not sufficiently powerful to dislodge the old arc lamps which were used for “spots” and when it was necessary to light the stage from the auditorium. The arcs were always a nuisance. They had been despised from earliest girlhood when they were substituted for the soft, beautiful calcium lights. The arcs were a perfect torment. If a scene needed quit and concentrated attention, the arc took that more to, chitter and sizzle, hum a little tune and – go out.
Something had to be found to take the place of the arcs. The incandescents had not sufficient power. A search was made in Europe, and some lamps were found on the continent that seemed likely substitutes. Unfortunately they were very fragile, and the manufacturers would guarantee their safe passage to London, but no further. Mr. Frohman was then in London; he was cabled – lights are no respecters of persons; he promised to bring the lamps from England and have his people take care of them on the steamer, but through some inadvertence the lamps were put in his own quarters, and when he arrived in America he swore ha had not breathed from Liverpool to Quarantine for fear of breaking “the wretched things.” But they were a great success, and they took their place in the gallery of the Empire Theatre as the front lamps.
Mr. Frohman was always indulgent, but he delighted in playing tricks and Wiliam Gilette was no mean assistant. The year of the new lamps Mr. Gilette had begun his season at the Empire Theatre. He had made made one of his usual great successes and it was necessary to prolong his stay. It was more or less understood that the one I knew least was to play only at the Empire where she was at home with all her lamps, and Mr. Gilette very generously transferred his play to the Garrick Theatre; but he and Mr. Frohman had put their heads together, and when Mr. Gilette moved to the Garrick he walked off with the front lamps! And refused to send them back! Through two dress rehearsals she twiddled her thumbs in darkness. But the lamps came home for the opening night. She knew they would.
The difference between being a leading woman and a star was like going form geometry into higher mathematics; it was the same thing, but more so. There was more responsibility but, under the starring system, the manager was the actual head of the company, and a star of very little authority except what could be exerted in personal influence and earned by daily performance. It was a difficult system, but very steadying, especially to a young star who might have notions, but who would have to earn the confidence of the company before any experiments could be tried.
Calling Rehearsal
At first during the long run in New York, Mr. Frohman took full charge of the performances, and life slipped along very easily for the one I knew least, thanks to a more than generous public, a loyal company of the finest actors, and a very extraordinary play.
As Mr. Frohman's companies multiplied-they became nearly twenty, I think-the care and responsibility for the performances fell more and more upon the individual stars. It was all very well to know about “lights,” to watch the pace of the play and time the waits between the acts, that the play might not lose its rhythm; but when the one I knew least was told to call a rehearsal, that was quite a different matter. Her youth was a decided disadvantage; there was scarcely a person in the company who had not served a longer apprenticeship than she; to call a rehearsal might seem a great impertinence; but there they were, half-way across the continent, and Mr. Frohman was in New York. I don't know how she had the temerity, but the rehearsal was called. One of the younger men frankly showed his resentment. It was very difficult, so difficult that she wondered what would be left of her when the scenes with the other men came.
More than of anyone she was afraid of Mr. Thompson, who was the oldest and most important member of the company. She had known him since she was a child; a look from him would wither her. The scene with “the elders” came. They were pretty perfunctory, the dears, and everything went black before her. Mr. Thompson's scene came; little by little she began to realize that her head was above water and that he was addressing her as if she were eighty and had been calling rehearsals every day. It was so generous and so funny that everyone in the company was delighted with him, and that whole year of dreaded rehearsals she sailed safe under his indulgent care, and rehearsals, instead of being a penance, became a delight.
There was so little chance of seeing other performances that the dress rehearsals of other plays assumed the greatest interest and importance. Mr. Frohman made it possible for her to see not only the rehearsals of his own plays, but the plays of all the visiting companies. She would travel any distance to see a dress rehearsal; it was part of her education.
Richard Mansfield
The most interesting rehearsal were those of Richard Mansfield. Often his own performance would be extraordinary. There was one especially, of Richard III; though the rest of the company was in costume, he was in his ordinary clothes topped with a billycock hat and adorned with a walking stick; yet one would have sworn that blood was dripping from the end of that stick after the fight with Richmond. His rehearsals were apt also to be amusing. In Ten Thousand a Year, Tittlebat, the pauper, returned to his garret; he was groping about for a match to light a candle. Mr. Mansfield was playing the scene so convincingly that no mistake was apparent until his voice, with a little rising inflection, said; “ I would light the candle, if there were a match to light the candle.” On the instant it seemed that a hand came from every entrance proffering matches. He ignored every hand but that of the property man. As he took the box he said calmly but decidedly: “If this occurs Monday night, I shall discharge you on the spot.” I don't know how he would have done it, but he was so clever I am sure he could have done it without interrupting the performance.
Mr. Mansfield was said to be irascible, but I never saw him angry. When a star has an entire production on his mind as well as his own performance, every evidence of carelessness opens a flood of anxiety, and he is apt to suffer as much from pin pricks as from real disasters. Mr. Mansfield's perfection of detail was exquisite, but no man can forsee carelessness. At this same rehearsal of Richard III one of the soldiers became confused, and instead of entering with his hundred comrades, he dashed on – alone! - in the middle of one of Mr. Mansfield's best and most difficult speeches. But even worse, he had escaped the wardrobe man, and scarcely a piece of his armor was in its right place. Straps upon straps with no buckles to take care of them hung about him like a fringe. Mr. Mansfield stopped short and looked at the mess standing before him; he was horrified. He walked slowly round the poor man, who was throwing appealing glances to his less impetuous friends in the entrance. Touching bits of the armor with the tip of his walking stick Mr. Mansfield made the circuit; he looked into the man's face and said: “I don't know how you did it!” He pointed to a tiny strap. “Where does that belong?” The man said he didn't know. Mr. Mansfield threw out his arms and wailed; “Take him away! Take him away!”
An Effect That Was Lost
The rehearsals of the English companies seemed more casual than ours; it was only seeming; they were strict, but the English managers were less apt to waste valuable time when it was not appreciated than we were. It was in one of Mr. Beerbohm Tree's rehearsals. One of the younger men, who was promising and who had made something of a success, did not reach the climax of a scene as Mr. Tree desired. He explained the idea he had in mind, and when the young man still seemed unable to grasp it Mr. Tree volunteered to act the scene, to show just what he wanted. He went off the stage to do the thing quite properly from the beginning; the young man took this favorite moment to speak to a friend in the corner. He was chatting pleasantly when Mr. Tree, acting full tilt, made the entrance, staggering exhausted, fainting; he reached the gate, which was barred; he beat against it with all the strength he could muster; someone opened the gate and Mr. Tree, staggering downstage, fell into the arms of the man he ws supposed to be seeking. It was very effective, done as an expert would do it. He turned to the young man, who was still chatting with his friend in the corner and had paid no attention whatever. The silence caused the young man to turn his eyes to the stage; there was Mr. Tree, glaring at him. The young man said: “Oh, yes, yes; oh, yes Mr. Tree. I understand perfectly.” With us the young man would have been rehearsed ten times and been no better at the end than at the beginning. Not so Mr. Tree; he looked at the young man who understood “perfectly” and said “Oh, do you!” and they went on to the next scene. But the young man was not a member of Mr. Tree's company the following season.
Experienced actors always know whether they do well or ill with a part, and often have an amusing way of declaring themselves. A favorite company was putting on a Shakespearean production in Boston, and there was real anxiety among their friends, as the members of the cast were not trained in Shakespearean parts and were more used to modern comedies. There was a delightful, old-fashioned hotel in Boston where most of the people of the theater lived during their stay there. The men had a sort of Round Table where they forgathered after the performances were over, to have their super and their chat about plays and politics and this and that. A man they were very fond of was in the cast of the Shakespearean play. It was the opening night and the performance was late. Everyone was eager for news of him and of how the company had come through. As he appeared in the doorway they all cried out, “How did it go?” “How was it?”
”Oh,” he answered cheerfully, “they were all bad except me-and I was ridiculous!”
A Beacon in the Distance
During all the childhood of the one I knew least the only “respectable” thing in the theater was tragedy. Comedy was a very little sister, and farce-oh, well, farce was beyond the pale, and an audience that enjoyed face was not “up to standard.” Her mother's wisdom, which opposed this old-fashioned idea, was too near at hand to seem disinterested; wisdom close at hand is so seldom recognized. But all those early years tragedy was the beacon gleaming far in the distance; and it is difficult-no, it is impossible to describe the red-letter day when Mr. Frohman decided to produce Romeo and Juliet. He was fond of the play and greatly interested in the venture. Then, too, it would give his company fresh work and break the monotony of the long run of The Little Minister.
I doubt he hoped very much from the performance of Juliet. But anything that spelled tragedy held a fatal lure for the one I knew least. She had been studying the play for some eight years or more, and this lent Mr. Frohman sufficient confidence to give her a share of responsibility for the production. This led to the work which became one of her chief interests and delights-the staging of plays. And it opened the way for many delightful experiences.
Some question came up about changes in the text of Romeo and Juliet; and through friends of hers who were life-long friends of his, Dr. Furness granted her an interview. It was a great privilege. Perhaps because he lived with Shakespeare, he was not nearly so fussy about tradition, and wanted the play to be human-as human as Shakespeare had made it; she complained that was no easy matter; he inferred that had been known for a long time. More food for pause was given her in another statement. He had finished the Variorum Hamlet. She asked what tragedy came next. He said, “Oh, no more tragedies; I shall work now on the comedies; I want to pass the rest of my life with pleasant people.”
[ Maude Adams did end up playing Shakespearean parts. She did Juliet in Romeo and Juliet, Rosalind in As You Like it, and also performed in The Merchant of Venice. The first and third met with fairly mixed reviews, although the second seemed to be fairly well liked. There was, of course, a difference between the views of the critics and the views of the people who went to see the plays and were not being paid to criticize them. ]
Taste and Temper
There it was again, that old comic masque; it was always poking in! But year by year it had grown more friendly, and year by year it had become more interesting-and she wondered. Why should she insist upon asking an audience to be miserable, and to pay for it too?
Changes of taste and temper come rather quickly in the theater. When she was a young girl they used to say to the leading lady at rehearsal: “Don't think-feel!” Then the poor soul would have fits of hysterics, and that was acting. Now those fits are called brain storms and have no standing whatever. I wonder, as we grow farther and farther away from our primitive selves, if the time will come when psychologists will dig out lost emotions and reconstruct human passions as scientists today reconstruct pterodactyls? There's jealousy; sympathy for many a heroine has been founded upon jealousy. Where would East Lynne have been without it? Yet today who dares admit jealousy? The poor dears who harbor it are compelled to conceal it, or they will live apart. But jealousy is so selfish and disloyal; it never deserved to be made appealing.
Of course the one I knew least was very bad as Juliet; she had an idea she was going to be, and that did not help much; but it did seem as if she might have been better than she was. Happily everyone else in the cast was more than successful, and the venture was not a disappointment to Mr. Frohman. He was a Spartan through all the details of production. And they were exasperating details, some of them; the medieval ballroom scene was intended to suggest gray stone, a rather cold and severe background for the gay colors in the costumes.
But the scene painter, without confiding in anyone, had an inspiration, and when the curtain rose upon the scene, at one of the early dress rehearsals, it looked like crushed raspberry plaster with Swiss chalet ornamentations.
They said it was the Saracenic influence, but that was to lead her off. Mr. Frohman said “What can we do about it?” She said, “If left to me, I should burn it.” “Oh, don't say that!” said Mr. Frohman, but the next day the scene had disappeared.
Searching for the “Real Thing”
One of the great pleasures and compensations in an actor's life of make-believe is the search for the “real thing” which may carry him to any corner of the world. L'Aiglon opened the way to Vienna.
Napoleon's son had never seemed real; he was always a child in a picture. David's King of Rome grew into the lovable Lawrence, but he was still a picture. And Schoenbrunn, where he lived his sad life, was but a name. There was no real reason for going. Madame Bernhardt had consented to have the Paris production copied and any alteration would have been impertinent. But sometimes the spirit moves, and it's a better reason than any logic.
There was no desire to see the performance of L'Aiglon in Paris. It was bad enough to have to play the part without being completely terrified by seeing Madame Bernhardt in it, and one foot was scarcely in Paris before the other boarded the train for Vienna.
Two young American friends had joined forces with her. They arrived in Vienna late a t night and were deposited in the Hotel Bristol. The most magnificent rooms were waiting for them, evidently through some misunderstanding; rooms and rooms. This aroused great consternation. The visitors were equipped with a certain amount of French, but if they could not muster enough German to rid themselves of this gorgeous apartment, it looked as if they would remain in Vienna for the rest of their lives. Their halting bits of German drew forth assurances of ultimate freedom, and they continued in the apartment. It was an extraordinary place, with a grand piano, and statues, and paintings, and in a corner one of those celebrated stoves of porcelain tiles, the hollow mockery in all its shining splendor.
The gorgeous apartment did not prepare the visitors for what, to them, seemed an amusing custom of the Viennese. They were told that it was the habit of all the concierges of Vienna to go to bed at ten o'clock or ten-thirty, and the theatergoers hurried from the theater and hurried for a bit of supper to be home before the concierge retired; otherwise a fine was imposed. The visitors were very much impressed and prepared to hurry, too, thinking the fine must be some vast sum. But no, it amounted to a few cents, less than five. And for this the Viennese spoiled their theater, their supper, the whole evening's entertainment; it seemed a strange obsession.
It was difficult to wait for the morning but it came at last, and through the kindness of some American friends the strangers were allowed to visit the Burg Theatre, the most thoroughly equipped theater in Europe, with everything in lights. London did not bother much about such things; Paris was even less interested, but the lights of the Burg Theatre are said to be extraordinary.
The strangers had expected the beauty of the auditorium and the foyer, but they were entirely unprepared for the magnificent stage and its bewildering mechanism. Great traps and platforms, worked by hydraulic power, could be lowered and lifted into every conceivable position. In case this mechanism did not work, a safety lever was at hand which would be controlled by one man. It was very reassuring that all this mechanism, if refractory, could be controlled by one strong right arm!
The visitors expressed a desire to see the electrical equipment. They were shown the furnaces and dynamos in one subcellar after another until they arrived at the coal hole, which seemed a coal min, it was so huge and so deep in the earth. The third subcellar, which was the controlling station for all lights, was connected with the switchboard on the stage-a most complete but complicated arrangement; the man on the stage lighted his scene by signaling to the man in the third subcellar. That seemed to spell confusion at the start; but the electricians said no, it worked like a charm, their system was so perfect. The visitors were greatly impressed, but a little dubious. Electricity had such a way of misbehaving, if it could get out of sight for a moment.
The day was all too long, and the museums and the Prater were a sorry makeshift to bridge the time until night when, scarcely pecking at their dinner, they were hurried away to see the curtain rise on The Jew of Malta. One of the visitors began to be suspicious; how anyone could be badgered into playing such a play, or how any theater could be induced to produce such a play, was beyond belief. But, thanks be, the play was of little consequence to the searchers for “light”; it was the “lights” that mattered.
An Old Enemy
When the curtain rose, it discovered the black-eyed heroine reclining under a sort of canopy, the curtains, the couch and the heroine all bathed in a beautiful yellow light. The damsel leaned forward and pushed aside the curtains to drink in the lovely golden sunset; and on the instant there was a familiar chittering and sizzling, the humming of a well-known lure-and out went the yellow light! Nearly five thousand miles to see her old enemy, the arc, misbehave again.
All the next morning the visitors were a little haughty, feeling that they could do as well in lights at home. The emperor's palace was given but a passing glance. In one of the courtyards they were shown a window with some beautiful amethyst panes; of course they didn't mention it but they recalled some charming amethyst windows in Beacon Street. But that afternoon they regained their equilibrium when they reached Schonbrunn, which was beautiful beyond their imagining. The whole afternoon they went from one gorgeous room to another, and finally at sunset they found themselves in the glorious park; it was all beautiful beyond saying, but there was something heavy in the atmosphere. France always sparkles. The poor Eaglet! Schonbrunn was magnificent, but for a lover of France it was as much a place of exile as St. Helena.
They returned to Vienna, and early the next morning they went to the Capuchin Church, where the royal family of Austria is interred. A stern, sad-faced monk led the way down a long, winding staircase, a lighted torch in his hand, and there at one side of the vault they found the Eaglet lying with his Austrian family. He seemed ill at ease. The crypt was small and the casket was not in line with the others, but had been slanted aside to make room for some one of his Austrian relatives. In a far corner of the chapel, the private chapter of Maria Theresa, there was a tiny niche. Behind the iron bars a glint of light showed three-small urns which held the hearts of the Princes of the House, two golden urns and one of silver. The golden urns held their places in the center and a little to the right; the silver urn was quite removed from the others, almost touching the cold stone wall; it held the heart of the King of Rome-he ws still apart, still proud of his French blood, still an exile.
A great thing was to happen. She was to go to England to meet J.M. Barrie. There had been letters, one or two, and cables, two or three, but she had never seen him; the end of the first year of the Minister brought illness; at the end of the second season the production of Romeo and Juliet carried far into the summer; and it was not until the end of the third year, when preparations for L'Aiglon were going forward, that the time came when she could go to England. She ran over from Paris to see him. It was her first visit to London. There was a longish ride in a hansom, and she was put down in front of a green gate; a bell rang somewhere; the gate opened on a charming garden, a little path led to an open door-and almost at once Mrs. Barrie was at the door with welcome in her eyes.
A Wrestling Match
They sat near the fireplace in a curiously charming long room. Two or three words-London, Paris, the channel and -”I'll fetch him.” In another moment there was a tumult on the upper landing, and he came careering down the stairs and bounding through the doorway, clutching at the largest St. Bernard she had ever seen. A voice barely whispered “How d'you do?” when a strengthened note said, “His name is Porthos. Isn't he fine? Wouldn't you like to see us wrestle?” Instantly she knew that, whatever her idea might have been at the start, the journey from New York to Cherbourg-Paris, Vienna, London-had been taken solely to see that wrestling. A cap was lifted from its place on a stand and pulled down to the eyes; this was evidently Porthos' cue, for the huge dog sprang at his opponent and the bout began. Struggling back and forth, escaping chairs, upending tables, battling down the long room the gladiators came! It lasted an exciting two minutes; honors were even; and then all three settled down together to make plans for that day and the next; for the day after that she was sailing for home.
He was just as she had thought he would be, just as she expected; there was nothing to explain. She was shown the desk which really “did” all the plays and books; it was very large and looked quite capable.
On the appointed day she was leaving for Southampton and home. She was taking her place in the train-and there he was at the door of the compartment. It was very early for London. Two or three words, and the train was off, and it seemed there had never been a time when she had not known him.
The long seasons of The Little Minister, L'Aiglon and Quality Street had taken a rather heavy toll. Even at the beginning of the third year of The Minister she had wanted to a holiday. It had not seemed possible to give the plan another year and endure the fatigues of traveling. But it was plain that to stop would be unfair to the managers throughout the country who had been waiting two years for the play. They could not be expected to have confidence in her if she did not keep her engagements. So more of each day was given to rest. But the round of train, hotel, theater was rather deadening. She had never bothered much about strength, because she was not supposed to have any; but whatever it was, it gave out.
Ready for a Holiday
At the end of the five years, after the season with Quality Street, it became evident that something had to be done. There was no freshness, no spontaneity; her mannerisms were becoming more and more marked and objectionable. Fortunately, no new plays had been written that she would have been under obligation to produce, and she had an idea that Shakespeare would not mind if a projected performance of As You Like It were postponed indefinitely; indeed, she was quite sure he would not mind. Mr. Frohman was kindness itself, and frank; she could go on as she was for a while, but the theater needed freshness and vitality; the public had been wonderfully kind to her, and she must be careful not to out-stay her welcome. Of course she had always known that a player does not go on forever, but no one ever thinks that he comes under the general rule. She began to realize that she was “through.”
She never ceased to be grateful to Mr. Frohman. It could not have been easy to tell such unpleasant truth. But Mr. Frohman was a great man and did not try to help in little ways. It was decided that she could take a year's holiday and see what could be done. It did not seem reasonable to be through before you had really begun; but without long stretches of rest, the steady grind of the theater devours vitality.
Naturally she wanted to go to the farthest edges of the earth. Egypt Egypt had always been a friend, standing firm in the miserable days of history and “jography”; why not trust her now, when a friend was needed? Egypt-the Pyramids. There would be great solace in living near something that had lasted. She would go to Egypt and see what could be done.
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