came away in high spirits again.
Every day we went to see my mother, and the
nurses said she was a little better, but she
never knew us or spoke to us and we could not
see any change. This sadness because she could
not be happy with us made our rooms seem
gloomy when we returned to them, and I know
that Sidney felt it always. Often, planning
what we should do when she was well again,
and how proud she would be of my success
when I was a great actor, I almost believed it
all true and was as happy as if it were. My
imagination has always seemed truer to me
than facts.
90
Christmas came and went and I did not have
an offer of a place on the stage. Sidney must
go back to sea. Nearly all of his savings were
gone and he felt he must leave some money to
buy little delicacies for my mother. The prob-
lem of what to do with me bothered him, and
when he spoke of it, as he did sometimes, all
my dreams faded suddenly and I felt so deso-
late that if I had been smaller I would have
wept in despair.
At last he arranged with his company to
take me on the ship as cabin-boy. He said it
would not be half bad, I might grow to like the
sea, and although I hated the thought of it, it
seemed letter than going back to Covent Gar-
den market again. We were to sail sometime
in January, bound for Africa. As a last resort
we made the rounds of the theatrical agents
again, but there was nothing in sight for me,
and so it was settled that I must go to sea.
91
Sidney bought me a little bag and packed it
with the things I should need on ship-board.
We gave up the lodgings and paid a last visit
to mother. This time she was quieter and
looked at us several times almost as if she
recognized us. It nearly broke my heart to leave
her so, but we could not think of anything else
to do.
The morning of our last day in London my
breakfast almost choked me. Our bags were
packed, waiting beside our chairs, and it
seemed to me that everything in the world was
wrong. I knew I should not like the sea. The
maid had brought in a few letters, with the bill
for the lodgings, and Sidney was looking them
over. Suddenly he looked at me queerly and
threw a card across the table to me.
"Seems to be for you," he said. I turned it
over in a hurry and read it. It said, "Call and
see me, Frank Stern, 55 the Strand." Frank
Stern was a theatrical agent.
I leaped from my chair with a shout of
excitement.
"What price the sea now?" I cried. "I've
got a place worth the whole of it ! Where's my
hat?"
"Go slow, go slow, lad," said Sidney. "You
haven't got the place yet, you know."
92
"I've as good as got it," I retorted, tearing
open the bags to find my comb and a clothes
brush. "Come, now, Sidney, lend me your
cane? An actor has to have a cane, you know."
...
Sidney lent me his cane, and I leaped down"
the stairs three steps at a time.
A tram would not do, I must have a cab to
go in a style suiting my new position. All the
way I gave myself the airs of a great actor,
looking haughtily from the cab-window at the
common Londoners and thinking how the audi-
ences would applaud when I strode down the
stage.
Frank Stern was a little man, plump and
important, with a big diamond on his finger,
and he began by clearing his throat in an im-
pressive manner and looking me over very
sharply, but I sat down with a careless air,
swinging Sidney's cane and asked him in an
offhand way if he had anything particularly
good. At the moment so great was the power
of my imaginings on my own mind I felt
quite careless as to whether I got the place or
not and was resolved not to take any small part
unworthy my talents.
93
"It's the leading-part with a provincial com-
pany From Rags to Riches, he said. "Our
lead's fallen sick and we need a new one in a
hurry. Think you can do it?"
"E — Er — provincial company," I said
doubtfully. "I had not thought of leaving
London. Still — what's the screw?"
"One pound ten a week," he answered.
"Impossible!" I said. "I could not think
of it."
"Well — we might make it two pounds. We
need some one in a hurry. If you are a quick
study and make a good showing at rehearsal —
say two pounds. Yes, I'll make it two pounds."
...
"It's a small salary — a very small salary," I
said gruffly. I, who had been glad to steal a
donkey's carrots only a few weeks earlier! But
I did not think of that. I thought of my great
talents, wasted in a provincial company. "I'll
think it over," I told the agent, seeing he
would not increase the amount.
"No. I must know right now," he replied
firmly.
94.
I wrinkled my brows with an air of inde-
cision and thou gilt for a minute.
"All right, I'll do it," I said.
"Rehearsal to-morrow at ten," Frank Stern
said, giving me the address in a quite common-
place manner.
CHAPTER XII
In which I rehearse the part of the boy hero
of the thrilling melodrama, From Rags to
Riches; and start off on a tour of the
provinces.
I SAW Sidney off on the ship for Africa, having
induced him to give me the cane, and as I stood
waving at him I was so elated with success that
I felt almost intoxicated. I was an actor at
last — a real actor, with a rehearsal in prospect !
I strutted up and down on the dock a bit after
Sidney was gone feeling sorry for all the
people about, who little realized what an im-
portant person they were passing so heedlessly.
Then I took a cab again, as due to my position,
and gave the driver the address of the rooms
Sidney had taken for me in Burton Crescent.
I was not only an actor, but a man with an
income of my own and bachelor chambers. I
was very haughty with the char-woman who
brought in the coals for my fire, and I sat
frowning for some time in an attitude of deep
thought, pondering whether I should have
cream tart or apple-and-blackberry pudding
for dinner. At last I decided on both and ate
them in state before my own fire. It was a
great evening.
96
Next morning I was divided between my eagerness
to hurry to the rehearsal and my feeling that
it would more accord with my importance if I
should arrive a little late. It was not until
the
cab began to rattle over the cobbles
about Covent Garden market that a sense of
strangeness began to come over me, and I real-
ized that I had never acted before and should
not quite know what to do at the rehearsal. I
looked from the windows of the cab at the
costers' donkeys and thought what a short time
ago I had envied them, woebegone and hungry
as they were.
The rehearsal was in a room over a public
house in Covent Garden, and as I climbed the
stairs I began to feel small and a bit uncertain.
When I went in the room was full of people
standing about or sitting on boxes, and they
all looked at me with interest. At one end,
near the rough stage, was a little table with
three important-looking men standing beside
it, and after a look around I walked up to them.
...
"I am Charles Chaplin," I said, wishing I
were taller. "I am, I believe, to play leading
man in your production."
97
They looked me over as Mr. Stern had done,
rather sharply, and then introduced themselves.
The man in the dirty plaid waistcoat was Joe
Baxter, manager of From Rags to Riches and
also the villain in the piece. The company had
been playing for a ten-weeks' round of the
suburbs and was now about to go into the
provinces. They were already delayed by the
illness of the lead, which Mr. Baxter cursed
roundly, and his chief interest in me was the
hope that I was a quick study. I assured him
that I was, and without any further talk he
began to read the play to me.
It appeared that I was to play the boy hero,
an earl's son, defrauded of my rights by the
villain after my mother had pitifully died in
the streets of London with property snow sifted
on her from the flies. I wandered in rags
through three acts, which contained a couple of
murders, a dozen hair-breadth escapes, and
comic relief by the comedian, and I came tri-
umphantly into my own in the fourth act,
where the villain died a terrible death.
...
Now whether my liking for mimicry came to
my aid or whether my own experiences, so
much like those of the part I was to play, had
given me material which I used unconsciously,
I do not know, but when Mr. Baxter gave me
my part and asked me to read it, I did it well.
Mr. Baxter stood chewing his cigar when I had
finished, and the look on his face was less
discontented.
98
"Orl right," he said briskly. "Now, ladies
and gents, ready! First act, second scene,
Lord Plympton's droring-room! You walk
through this and read your part," he said to me.
" No time for study, got to play Sweetbay to-
morrow night. Do the best you can with it."
...
The woman who was to play my mother came over
while I stood waiting with the part in my
hand. She was a thin sallow woman in a bright
red waist and a hat with blue and yellow
feathers.
"Have a toffy?" she said, holding out a bag.
"No, thanks. I left off eating them years
ago," I answered, swinging my cane.
"Horrid play, aren't it?" she went on.
"Beastly life, on tour. How do you like your
part?"
"Oh," I answered carelessly, "it's not much
of a part, but I do what I can with it. I won't
mind the provinces for a season. I'm tired of
London."
99
"Here you, Reginald — Chaplett, whatever
your name is — come on!" Mr. Baxter yelled,
and I started forward on to the stage. Mr.
Baxter uttered such a sound, between a groan
and a roar, that I stopped, startled.
"Good Gawd !" he moaned. "That's the window,
you idiot! Come through the door! Come through
the door! What do you think you are, a bloomin'
bird?"
It was hard work, rehearsing on the bare
stage, with no idea what the scenery was to be,
and Mr. Baxter went from rage to profanity
and from that to speechlessness and groans
while he drove us through the parts. We
worked all day and late into the night and he
did not let me stop a minute, although I grew
hungry and the smell of the fried fish the other
actors ate while I was on the stage took my
mind from the work. At last he let me go, with
a groan.
"It couldn't well be worse!" he said grimly.
"Now, ladies and gents, Waterloo station
eleven sharp to-morrow, ready fer Sweetbay!"
100
I came very wearily down the flight of stairs
holding the bundle of manuscript and my cane
while the words of my part and all the stage
directions buzzed together in my brain. I had
not money enough for a cab ; if we were to go
to Sweetbay the next day I must walk back to
my rooms. It was a cold foggy night and my
steps sounded loud and echoing on the pave-
ments as I hurried along, tired and hungry,
almost ready to wish for a coster's cart that
I might crawl into and rest. But I held as
firmly as I could to the thought that I was
an actor, though finding small comfort in it,
and when at last I had reached my rooms I had
persuaded myself that I was driven by the
duties and ambitions of a great position.
So I scowled fiercely at my reflection in
the mirror over the mantel, and tying a towel
about my head so as to look the character
of a diligent student, I sat all night reading
the words of my part and committing them to
memory.
Next morning, when I reached the station
with my bag, the rest of the company was wait-
ing, very draggled and weary looking, while
Mr. Baxter bustled about, swearing loudly.
My spirits rose at the noise and excitement of
the starting, and when I saw the compartment
labeled, "Reserved: From Rags to Riches
company," I held my head proudly again, hop-
ing that passers-by would notice and say to
each other, "See! He must be the leading
man."
101
I lingered on the platform until the last
minute, looking as important as I could and
thinking how well the cane carried out the
effect, and then, as the engine began to puff
and the train slowly started, I swung myself
aboard and walked into the compartment where
the company was settling itself for the trip to
Sweetbay.
CHAPTER XIII
In which I encounter the difficulties of
a make-up box ; make my first appearance
in drama ; and learn the emptiness of
success with no one to share it.
THE REST of the company were very glum on
that journey to Sweetbay, sitting hunched up
any way in their seats and looking drearily
from the win
dows, not even glancing at me as
I strode up and down the compartment, mur-
muring the words of my part to myself and
hoping Mr. Baxter was noticing how studious
I was.
"Well enough for you, old man," I said to
myself, seeing him absorbed in a copy of
Floats and not even looking in my direction.
"Wait till you see me act!" But I felt my
spirits somewhat dampened by his indifference,
nevertheless.
When the train stopped at Sweetbay I stepped
to the platform with a lively air and stood
looking around while the others dragged down
the steps. It was raining a little, very few
people were about and they were not at all
interested in us, which seemed to me a personal
affront.
103
"Hustle, now ! No time to look for lodgings
till after matinee!" Mr. Baxter said briefly,
and set off at a brisk pace, the rest of us
straggling behind him through the streets.
...
I walked as jauntily as possible, swinging
my cane with an air, but the gloom of it all
depressed me. I wished myself older than
twelve years, and larger, so that I would not
have to look up at the others, and I wondered
if I could do the make-up right, but deter-
mined not to ask any one how it was done. I
had bought a make-up box and experimented a
bit before my mirror, but I was doubtful of
the effect on the stage.
When we reached the Theater Royal, a dark
smelly place, with littered, dirty dressing-
rooms, I felt quite helpless before the problem.
It appeared that all the men were to share one
dressing-room, and I crowded into the tiny
place with the others and opened my make-up
box, ashamed of its new look. The comedian
and Lord Plympton, who behind the scenes was
a sallow gloomy individual with a breath
smelling of beer and onions, sat down at once
in their shirt-sleeves before the small cracked
mirrors and began smearing their faces with
grease-paint, for we were late, and already the
lights had gone on in front and a few people
were shuffling in.
104
I made shift with the make-up as best I
might and hurried into the ragged suit I was
to wear in the first scene, pinning it up in
small folds about me, for it was the costume
worn by the former lead and too large for me.
However, I hoped to make it do, and when, by
the glimpses I could get of myself in the
mirror, it seemed to be all right, I left the
dressing-room and wandered into the wings,
Charlie Chaplins Own Story Page 7
