by John Lahr
… For your information, I would like to explain to you that Mrs. Lahr has a defective memory for important events and dates in her life; she is unable to give even a brief account of her early childhood, career on the stage and her married life. Because of her inability to cooperate and to maintain a conversation, she could not possibly appear at a social or public gathering without causing comment and embarrassment. She is unfit to care for her son, and she must be forced to bathe herself properly and to take walks.
On April 7, Mildred returned from her honeymoon nervous and distraught over the rumors she had heard about Lahr’s reaction to the marriage. She was confused by the ambiguity of her emotions and the silence at her return. Lahr knew of her arrival, but he would not phone her; he had made a decision and a difficult adjustment. “She was married. It was all over. I tried to make the best of it.” But Mildred could not erase the previous four years. “I called him up. They said he was pretty sick, carrying a big torch for me. After all, we’d gone with each other for so many years. I was so confused. I didn’t know whether I was right or wrong marrying Robby. I discovered I loved them both.” A woman who longed for the affection denied her in childhood, Mildred could not give up her sentimental memories of Lahr or bear the thought of his pain. His voice on the phone was still wounded and sadly humorous. She knew he was drinking, walking aimlessly until sunrise. She knew he was taking friends by Mildred’s new apartment, passing back and forth across the street and pointing to the window.
At their first meeting, a pavane of silence and tears, Mildred had no answer for his simple question of “Why?” She needed his friendship as much as the love that filtered through his anger. “I said, ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ She said, ‘I didn’t want to hurt you.’ She hurt me more. I told her, ‘If you’d been frank and come out with it, I wouldn’t have felt so badly as this.’ I was broken up. I couldn’t work well.”
In the months that followed Lahr and Mildred spoke on the phone and met occasionally in frustrated urgency. Mildred raised the possibility of divorcing Robinson. Lahr was stunned and humiliated. He loved Mildred, but after this torment he wondered whether he could ever care again. “I kept thinking ‘Why should this happen to me at the height of my career?’ I was full of selfpity.” He could see no possibility for divorce if there were no grounds for it. Willingly at first to try and get over Mildred’s sudden marriage, Lahr was ushered back into the drama of indecision. If Mildred wanted a divorce, he loved her enough to pay the costs, but his own conservatism winced at the ugliness of the whole preceedings. Frantic and lonely, he followed any advice that promised the possibility of resolution. His concern led him to one of his cabaret acquaintances—a detective named R. C. Schindler—who knew that marriages were not always made in heaven or dissolved by death, and who set out to find some evidence that would compromise Robinson. “You don’t think when you’re in that state of mind. I didn’t know what I was doing. I just knew I was hurt and wanted to resolve this thing once and for all.”
Whatever evil Lahr read into Robinson’s character could not be validated in his private history. According to Robinson’s subsequent appellant’s brief, a friend of Lahr’s approached him about the possibility of a “collusive divorce.” Robinson flatly rejected the suggestion. Lahr cannot remember the incident; as with much of his life with Mercedes, he has blocked these painful months from his memory. Loving Mildred yet fearing involvement, committed to recovering his emotional equilibrium as well as his loved one, Lahr continued to call Mildred, lavishing husbandly attention on her. Mildred found New York suddenly bleak; it was not merely less ebullient than it had been with Lahr, it was actually hostile. His friends stopped calling or looked nervously away when she met them on the street. She felt alone, and worse, to a woman who longed for the safety of embrace, the object of deep antagonism. Her predicament was compounded by passion; Lahr’s hurt was transformed into a frenzied desire to regain the only woman who had been able to order his life.
On July 10, 1936—four months after his marriage, Robinson made legal headlines as the attorney who won a $35,000 love-theft settlement for a cuckolded Florida socialite. Speaking after the trial, Robinson told the press:
This verdict indicates to me that society still places a premium on the sacredness of the marriage union and the sanctity of the home and that here in Florida the rights of residents of other states are respected and persons who violate those rights are punished.
It is against the laws of God and man for a third person to interfere with the marriage status and I hope this verdict will serve as a deterrent to other persons who fail to respect the holy state of matrimony.
Nearly a month after the legal victory, Robinson enclosed this press clipping with a warning in a letter to Lahr. Either Lahr would desist or Robinson would bring suit against him.
Mildred’s indecisiveness and the sudden threat of legal action petrified Lahr. His immediate reaction was to bolt from the scene. With the Scandals already closed (it ran only 110 performances), there was only a blank space of time in front of him, time to think of his loss and a hazardous future. Everything in New York held a memory of Mildred, and the press was making good copy out of his jilting. He decided to set sail for London with White and movie director Gregory Ratoff. If he was going into isolation, he wanted good company.
They sailed on the Paris, a nine-day voyage that Lahr hoped would clear his head and soothe his sullen disposition. White took charge of his rehabilitation the minute the trio were on board. He demanded forty dollars from each of them, and immediately sent it down to the cook with a note of greeting. The steward got fifty dollars before the boat was out of New York harbor. Until the docking in Southampton, Lahr lived in luxury beyond even his most fantastic daydreams. For a man who was taking the sea air as heart balm, his memories are more vivid about his stomach. “I never ate so well in my life. A five-pound can of caviar on the table every day. You never saw such food. When we ordered desserts they would come in a swan—iced. We’d phone down ahead of time to order meals—boeuf bourguignon, steaks, pâté de foie gras, coq au vin—it was the best food I ever ate.”
“I must have walked half way to London on that ship, but I had to force myself to have fun.”
Gregory Ratoff was a small, portly man whose size and thick Russian accent made him a kindly focus of Lahr’s pranks. Ratoff was going to England to make up with his first wife. He was nervous and excited about the trip. He carried a diamond necklace for her in his valise. It was a reconciliation present, which he inspected each day. Lahr, who should have been sympathetic to fine sentiments, was merciless about the present. He and White baited Ratoff about its price and kept claiming they’d seen a woman wearing a similar setting on the ship. Ratoff would grow gradually angrier, until, like a disturbed peahen, his head would incline toward his chest and his neck would swell in rancor. He would bluster, “Dees is as fine as can be gotten, yes?” And on that exclamation he would stuff it back into his bag and leave the room. But Lahr would not let the joke end on such an uncomplicated note.
“I played another gag on him.” He says: “I went up to the radio operator’s room and with a little persuasion I sent him wires.” The first one read:
DEAR MR RATOFF
ARE YOU INTERESTED IN PLAYING
IN AND DIRECTING “MAYTIME”
IN ENGLAND?
CHARLES COCHRAN
Ratoff, who had done the play in America and recognized the name of the well-known producer, was pleased. He cabled England at once.
“At dinner, after I sent the first wire, he kept saying, ‘I’ve got to go on a ship to get a job. This is wonderful. I make money while I’m over there. I can pay for the trip.’”
The following day Lahr sent another wire:
DEAR MR RATOFF
PLEASE DISREGARD PREVIOUS
WIRE STOP WILL CONTACT YOU
AGAIN TOMORROW STOP NEW PLANS
CHARLES COCHRAN
Lahr giggles at the thought of seei
ng Ratoff worried. “He keeps saying to me, ‘I don’t like this, Bert. I wonder what it is. You don’t think they’ve got somebody else, do you?’ “Ratoff could hardly contain his excitement. Lahr was not quick to placate him. It was nice to watch someone else worry.
The next day he sent his final cable:
DEAR MR RATOFF
FORGET THE WHOLE GODDAMN THING!
CHARLES COCHRAN
Lahr never admitted the joke to Ratoff. While he walked the decks and thought about the misery of his own life, he didn’t mind rankling his friends.
The trip to Europe was Lahr’s first. He had read about Boswell’s Grand Tour and imagined a similar kind of madcap elegance for himself. His own adventure could not have been more clownish. The day after he arrived, he received word that Mildred had finally left Robinson.
Confused while Lahr was in New York, beset by acquaintances who urged his cause, Mildred could not decide what to do. “The whole damn bunch haunt me so much,” she confided to Robinson, “I’m almost out of my mind.” While Lahr strolled in Hyde Park, Mildred was writing a note and placing it on the living-room table.
Dear Robby:
I have received the copy of Arnold Bennett and thanks so much.
Today I am checking out of the hotel and going away for a time. I really think it’s the best and please do not be bitter toward me.
Robby you have everything I admire in a man but I could not find happiness with you. I took $50 and paid the bill which I am enclosing marked “paid.”
Goodbye and may God bless you and give you happiness.
Sincerely,
Mildred
When Lahr heard the news, he visited one of Mildred’s showgirl friends in London and asked her to go to America to keep Mildred company and protect his interests. Restless and disconsolate, he moved to Paris, where he saw the Eiffel Tower by accident and had a French model fall in love with him at the Ritz bar. She called him, sent him notes, but Lahr was not interested. His entire Grand Tour lasted five days. On the sixth, he was at Le Havre, still as empty and confused as when he had left, ready to set sail for home and an apprehensive future.
By the time Lahr arrived, Mildred had already moved to the American Woman’s Club. Lahr inherited a situation he only half controlled. Mildred was not committed to him, and both of them recognized the capriciousness of their situation. There was absolutely no guarantee that she could get a divorce from Robinson or that Lahr could ever marry her. Nonetheless, she took the step for a man she could hardly understand and who could barely articulate his own emotions. “There was no romance with Bert—he never said things. You just knew he liked you.”
Lahr himself was amazed by Mildred’s decision. “I still don’t know why she came back to me. He was younger, more handsome.” In many ways Joseph Robinson would have made a much better husband than Bert Lahr. He was romantic and considerate. He remembered the little things that flattered her—the flowers, the birthdays, the surprise telephone calls. He liked picnics and long walks.
But Mildred now wanted a divorce. Lahr could only stick by her and prepare himself for what would be a long and, as he feared, dirty fight. On November 20, 1936, the long-threatened suit became national front-page news. Lahr was unmasked as a love-thief, an idea that seemed to amuse city editors.
BERT LAHR REHEARSES YELPS FOR $500,000 HEART BALM SUIT
Ooooo-wah!
Can’t you hear it? It’s Bert Lahr’s cry of distress, and he was brushing up on it today because—
Someone is preparing to slap him with a half-million dollar heart balm suit charging him with stealing the affections of beautiful Mildred Schroeder, blonde showgirl.
And that someone—irony where is thy sting—is Joseph S. Robinson, the attorney who led the fight in the State Legislature to outlaw love-balm suits …
New York Post
To someone so concerned about his career as Lahr, these headlines brought fantasies of total disaster. The press, which had always loved his humor, was now exploiting his troubles. Lahr wisely let Abe Berman speak for him five days later when he made a rebuttal.
COMEDIAN LAHR READY TO DENY THEFT OF LOVE
Indirectly but vigorously, Bert Lahr, the comedian named as love thief, replied yesterday to the charges of Joseph F. Robinson, attorney, whose wife, Mildred Schroeder, deserted him.
The answer was made through A. L. Berman, counsel for the comedian in affidavits declaring the Brooklyn Supreme Court had no jurisdiction in the case.
Mr. Berman asked Justice Conway to vacate the order under which Mr. Robinson was authorized to examine the records of Mr. Berman, the Schindler Detective Agency, and telephone and telegraph companies before trial of an alienation of affections suit.
“My client would make categorical denial of the charges were there any charges to deny. But it is impossible for Lahr to make any defense in the present state of litigation, because there is nothing to defend here.
“Mr. Robinson declares that he has enough data to warrant a suit. If that is so, this order is unnecessary.”
Mr. Berman declared that Mr. Robinson, a resident and voter of Manhattan courts, had sustained the new anti-alienation law and Brooklyn courts had rejected it. The statute is now on appeal.
Mr. Robinson charged that the comedian, whose real name was revealed as Irving Lahrheim, lured Mrs. Schroeder-Robinson from him on their honeymoon and is now maintaining her in a Beverly Hills cottage. Justice Conway reserved decision.
New York American, November 25, 1936
While Lahr at no time tried to inveigle Mildred away from her husband while they were on their honeymoon, as the New York American said that Robinson charged, the fact remains that he was supporting her while she got a separation.
Robinson maintained to the press that Lahr, with the help of a detective agency, had tried to uncover information that might lead to a fraudulent divorce. That he was foolish and the agency bumbling Lahr cannot deny. A letter from the detective remains.
Dear Bert,
The enclosed appeared in yesterday’s paper. Of course, it is a matter of considerable embarrassment to me as the rat implies that we tried to frame him, and it certainly doesn’t help me with the type of clients for whom we do business. However, there is nothing you can do about a situation of this sort.
But Lahr, angered by the publicity and gross mishandling of what had begun as a whim, refused to honor the detective’s bill.
Having tried and failed to obtain a Florida divorce, Mildred decided to move to California as a stepping stone to residence in Reno. Robinson tried to bring an injunction against a Nevada divorce, restraining her from obtaining legal decree out of the state of New York. As the tension and court appeals mounted, the legal questions blurred. Lahr was cast as the Diomedes to true love. In a full-page story in the American Weekly (“Persevering Mr. Robinson vs. Wicked Reno”), a caption describes Robinson as he muscles his right arm in fierce debate in the picture above.
Mr. Joseph Robinson, who, whether he wants his wife back or not, is determined Funny Mr. Lahr shall not have her.
The adjudication was harrowing; and although Lahr stuck by Mildred, he shrank from each news story. While he never believed what drama critics said about his work, he began to question his own dignity when reporters classified his private life. “They called me a love thief—it was humiliating. Nothing like that had ever happened to me before.”
Lahr was trapped between his career and his suddenly public private life. His nerves were frayed; he lived in constant disgust about the recent past and fear of the future. Lee Shubert, who had signed him for The Show Is On late in 1936, called Lahr into his office to talk about women. Mr. Shubert, small, sallow, with an aquiline nose, was a businessman who rarely dealt with the dilemmas of his performers’ personal lives. But Shubert was worried that Lahr might suddenly skip town to join Mildred in California or go on a drinking spree. He wanted to try to stabilize his comedian. He had never met Mildred; but he knew from reading the papers the
circumstances that perplexed Lahr.
“Shubert was a hard businessman. It was the first time he ever talked to me like this. He sat me down—I can remember it so vividly, and he said, ‘Young fellow, I was once madly in love with a woman. She was known in show business as the most beautiful woman of the stase. Justine Johnston. I found she was untrue to me. I found there was another man. I took it very hard. The nights became months. I kept walking, nobody could talk to me, everybody was concerned. I walked the docks. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep. Finally, after many months, one morning I woke up and it was gone. The whole weight, that sadness, had left me like a bad dream. In later years, when I looked back at it—it seems so silly, so laughable. It was puppy love. Don’t do anything rash, Bert. Try to forget this thing, Bert. You won’t, I know—but try. Because one day, you’ll wake up and it will be gone. Like the snap of a finger.’”
Lahr remembered Shubert’s words. The confession surprised him. “Here was the head of a theatrical empire, this calculating, brilliant businessman, and he was under the same stress as I was. He had felt the same pangs.” But Lahr could not be so easily consoled. The experience compounded his suspicion of the world, and even of Mildred. His view of himself fluctuated with his mood; at times he felt flippantly above society and at others, nervously under the scrutiny of the public eye. Before going into rehearsals with The Show Is On, he visited Mildred. Even with her, he was, in his imagination, some kind of social leper. A distressed letter from Mildred to A. L. Berman indicates his obsession.
Dear Abe,
… I have been staying in every night because B. L. is ashamed to be out with me since the publicity. Truly, I sometimes feel that I am a criminal the way he acts. Do you think, Abe, that I have committed a great act? I know I made a mistake but did feel, at the time, I was doing the right thing, even if it turned out miserably. If only B. L. had some of your understanding qualities. I hope you believe me, Abe, that I have made every effort to do the right thing by B. L. since the day he left for London. But as the years pass by, he throws it up to me and seems unforgivable to the point of making me a bundle of nerves. Waking up and asking me what I did with what man and so on …
