Charlie Chaplins Own Story

by Charlie Chaplin

  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,