feeling well satisfied with myself.
The stage was shadowy and dark behind the
big canvas scenes. "A street in a London
slums" was already set, and the scene shifters,
swearing in hoarse whispers, were wheeling
Lord Plympton's drawing-room into position
for a quick change. I made my way warily
around this and encountered Mr. Baxter, who
was rushing about in a frenzy, roundly cursing
everything in sight. When he saw me he
stopped short.
"Good Gord!" he cried. "Going on like
this?"
"What's wrong?" I asked, startled.
"Wrong? Wrong? Why was I ever a
manager?" moaned Mr. Baxter, seizing his
head in both hands. "You gory idiot !" he
exploded, and seemed to choke.
"What's the row, Joe?" the woman who was
to play my mother asked, coming over to us,
while I stood very uneasy and doubtful what
to say.
"Look at 'im!" roared 'Mr. Baxter. "How
many times have I told him he's pathetic —
PATHETIC! And here he comes with a face
like a bloomin' cranberry! And he goes
on in six minutes!"
"I'll look out for the lad," the woman said,
kindly enough, and taking me by the hand she
led me into the women's dressing-room, where
she made up my face with her own paint and
powder and I squirmed with humiliation.
...
"It's your first shop, aren't it?" she said,
drawing the dark circles under my eyes, and
I drew myself up with as much dignity as pos-
sible in the circumstances and said stiffly,
...
"This is my first engagement with a provincial
company."
106
Then I returned to the wings and waited
with beating heart for my cue. Mr. Baxter,
made up as the villain now, stood beside me
giving me last orders, but my head whirled so
I could hardly hear him, and all the lights
made a dazzling glare in my eyes. Then my
cue came — my mother, on the stage, moaned
piteously, and Mr. Baxter gave me a little
push. I stumbled out on the stage, crying,
"See, mother dear, here is a crust!"
...
The blinding glare in my eyes and the confusion
in my brain were over in a minute. The strange-
ness of it all fell away from me, and, in a
manner I can not explain to one who is not an
actor, I was at the same time the ragged,
hungry child, starving in Covent Garden market,
and the self-conscious actor playing a part.
I wept sincerely for the suffering of my poor
mother, who moaned at my feet, and at the
same time I said to myself, proudly, "What, ho!
now they see how pathetic I am, what?" When
I did not remember the words I made them up,
paying no heed to the villain's anxious prompt-
ing behind his hand, and I defied him vigor-
ously at the close of the act, crying, "You
shall touch my mother only over my dead body!"
with enthusiasm. The curtain fell and there
was a burst of applause behind it.
107
"Not half bad, what?" I said triumphantly
to Mr. Baxter, while my stage mother scram-
bled to her feet, and he replied moodily,
"Don't be so cocky, young 'un. There's three
acts yet to go."
But I was warmed up to the work now and
I enjoyed it, wandering forlorn through my
imitation griefs and at last coming grandly
into my rights as the earl's son and wearing
the splendor of the velvet suit with great
aplomb in the last act, although I was obliged
surreptitiously to hold up the trousers with
one hand because I could not find enough pins
in the dressing-room to make them fit me. I
felt that I was the hit of the piece and rushed
out of the theater afterward to find lodgings
and eat a chop before the evening performance
with all the emotions of an actor who had
arrived at the pinnacle of fame. I could not
forbear telling the waiter who served me the
chop, a grimy little eating house not far from
the theater, that I was the leading man of the
From Rags to Riches company and must be
served quickly, as pressing duties awaited me
at the theater before the evening performance.
He looked down at me with a broad grin on
his fat face and said, "You don't say, now!"
in a highly gratifying tone, although I wished
he had said it more solemnly.
108
That night, sitting alone in my bed-sitting-
room in actors' lodgings, I was greatly pleased
with myself and wished only that my mother
were there to see me. I wrote her a long letter,
telling her how well I had done and promised
to send her at least ten shillings, and perhaps
a pound, when I was paid on Saturday. Then
I went out into the dark silent streets where
the rain fell mournfully to post it. The night
was very gloomy. After all, I was only twelve
and had no friends anywhere except Sidney, who
had gone to Africa. I thought of my mother
lying alone in the hospital and perhaps not
able to understand my glad news when it should
arrive, and such a feeling of sadness and lone-
liness came over me that I hurried back to my
room and crawled into bed without lighting the
gas, very unhappy, indeed.
109
CHAPTER XIV
In which I taste the flavor of success ;
get unexpected word from my mother; and
face new responsibilities.
HOWEVER, though I never entirely forgot my
mother in London, I enjoyed the life on tour
with the From Rags to Riches company, with
all the excitement of catching trains and find-
ing different lodgings in each town, and I
never understood the grumblings of the others
when we traveled all night and had to rush
to a matinee without resting. I liked it all;
I liked the thrill of having to pause in a scene
while the audience applauded, as they did
pretty often after I became used to the stage.
I liked standing with the others after the Sat-
urday matinees, when Mr. Baxter came around
giving each one his salary, and I had great
fun afterward jingling the two pounds in my
pocket and feeling very wealthy and important
when I spent sixpence for a copy of Floats.
110
Best of all I like lying late in bed Sunday
mornings, as I could do sometimes, and look-
ing for my name in the provincial journals —
"Charles Chaplin, as Reginald, showed an ar-
tistic appreciation which gives promise of a
brilliant future," or "Charles Chaplin, the
talented young actor, plays the part of
Reginald with feeling."
Then, though no one could see me, I would
pretend great indifference, yawning wearily
and saying: "Oh, ve
ry well for a provincial
journal, but wait till we get to London !"
But I always saved the clippings.
I became friendly with the comedian, who
was a fat good-humored fellow enough, and
always got a laugh in the third act by sitting
on an egg. I sometimes treated him to oysters
after the show on Saturday nights, and he used
to grumble about the stage, saying: "It's a
rotten life, lad, a rotten life. You'd be well
out of it." Then he would shake his head
mournfully and stop a great sigh by popping
an oyster into his mouth.
"It suits me, old top," I would reply, with
a wave of my hand, thinking that when I was
his age I would have London at my feet.
111
I did not care much for the others in the
company, as I felt they greatly underrated
my importance, and I especially shunned Cora,
the woman who played my mother, because she
was inclined to make a small boy of me behind
the scenes, and would inquire if my socks were
darned or if my underwear were warm, no mat-
ter who was present.
In the spring the tour of From Rags to
Riches came to an end. For the last time I
clutched my stage mother while the paper snow
was sifted on us from the flies; for the last
time I defied the villain and escaped the mur-
derer and wore the velvet suit, very shabby
now, but fitting better, when I came back to
Lord Plympton's drawing-room.
I felt very depressed and lonely when I came
off the stage. The company was breaking up,
most of them were gone already, and the
'Street in a London Slum' had been loaded
into a wagon with 'The Thieves' Den' and
'The Thames at Midnight.' No one was in
sight but the grubby scene shifters, who were
swearing while they struggled with Lord
Plympton's drawing-room, and the dressing-
room was deserted by all but the comedian,
who was very drunk, and said mournfully:
"It's a rotten life, it's a rotten life."
112
I dressed quickly and went back to my lodg-
ings, wondering with a sinking heart what I
should do next. I had seen enough of stage
life by that time to realize that it was not
easy to get a hearing on the Strand, and for
the first time I took small comfort in the
thought of my pile of clippings from the
provincial journals. My rooms were cold and
dark, but no gloomier than my mood when I
went in, hunting in my pockets for a match
to light the gas.
When the gas flared up I saw a letter propped
against the cold pasty set out for my supper.
I took it up, surprised, for it was the first
letter I had ever received, and then I saw
on the envelope the name of the parish hos-
pital where I had left my mother.
I tore it open quickly, but my hands were
shaking so it seemed a long time before I
could get the sheet of paper out of the
envelope. I held it close to the gas and
read it. It said that my mother had asked
them to write and say she was glad I was
doing so well. She was able to leave the
hospital now if I could take her away,
or should they send her to the almshouse,
as she was not strong enough to work?
113
I could not eat or sleep that night. Some
time about dawn the landlady came knocking
at my door and spoke bitterly through the
panels about my wasting her gas, threatening
to charge it extra on the bill. I said I was
packing, paid her for the lodging, and told
her to go away. Then I went out with my bags,
in a very dark and chilly morning, when the
early carts were beginning to rattle through
the empty streets. I rode up to London on the
first train, my mind torn between joy and a
sort of panic, confused with a dozen plans,
all of which seemed valueless.
My mother was sitting up in bed with Sidney's
shawl wrapped about her when I was allowed to
see her. Her hair was longer and curled about
her face, but there were dark circles under
her eyes and she looked very little, almost
like a child.
"My, my, what a great lad you've grown!"
she said, and then she began to cry. The least
excitement made her sob, and her hands trem-
bled all the while I was there.
114
"Never you mind, mother; I'll take care of
you!" I said briskly, and I told her what a
great success I had become on the stage. It
was the first pose I had ever taken which did
not deceive myself, for I wondered, miserably,
while I talked, what we should do if I could
get no engagement. I promised to take her
soon to beautiful lodgings, and the words
sounded hollow to me as I said them, but she
seemed pleased and was greatly cheered when
I left her. Without stopping to look for lodg-
ings for myself, I hurried at once to the
Strand, eager to see the agents.
Now in the success or failure of an actor a
great deal depends on luck, as I was very wil-
ling to admit later when it turned against me,
although in the early days I ascribed all my
good fortune to my own great merit. On that
day when I walked down the Strand I passed
dozens of actors who had been struggling for
years to find a foothold on the stage, going
from one small part to another, with months
of starvation between, furbishing up their
shabby clothes and walking endless miles up
and down the stairs to the agents' offices in
vain. The numbers of them appalled me.
115
Frank Stern's outer office was full of them
and they did not leave off watching his door
with hungry eyes to look at me when I walked
in and gave my card to the office boy.
"Can't see you," he said briefly, without
looking at it. "No use the rest of you wait-
ing, either," he said raising his voice. "He
won't see nobody else to-day."
They rose and began to straggle out, some
of them protesting with the office boy, who
only looked at them contemptuously, repeating,
"He won't see nobody." I was following them
when Frank Stern's door opened and he ap-
peared. "
"Oh, hello, my lad!" he said genially.
"You're just the chap I want to see. Come
in, come in!" He ushered me into his inner
office, clapping me on the shoulder.
CHAPTER XV
In which I understand why other people fall;
burn my bridges behind me ; and receive a
momentous telegram.
THIS time I sat in Frank Stern's office with
no inflated opinion of my own importance, only
hoping, with a fast-beating heart, that he
would offer me some place with a salary. I
could hardly hear what he sa
id for thinking of
the few coins in my pocket and my mother in
the hospital waiting for me to come back and
take her to the beautiful lodgings I had prom-
ised to engage.
"Joe Baxter tells me you did fairly well on
tour," the agent said, after an idle remark or
two. "He's taking out 'Jim, the Romance of
a Cockney' in a few weeks. How would you
like the lead?"
"I'd like it," I said eagerly, and realized the
next minute I had done myself out of a raise
in the pay by not asking first how much it
would he. But the relief of having a part was
so great that I did not much care.
117
I came whistling down the stairs after I had
left Frank Stern, and in the Strand I looked
with a different eye on the actors I passed,
beginning to think that, after all, they must
lack real merit such as I had, or else they
drank or were not willing to work. I saw the
comedian from the From Rags to Riches com-
pany, looking very seedy, and was passing him
with a nod when he stopped me.
"How's tricks?" he asked of me. "Shopped
yet?"
"Oh, yes, I have an engagement," I replied
carelessly, swinging my cane. "Only a pro-
vincial company, but not so bad."
"I say, not really?" he said, surprised.
"You're in luck. Look here, old chap, could
you lend me five bob ?"
"Well, no," I answered. "No, I'm afraid
not. But I hope you're shopped soon. You
ought to quit drinking, you know — you'd do
better."
"Well enough for you to talk, my lad.
You'll think different when you've been
tramping the Strand for twenty years, like I
have, and never a decent chance in the whole
of them. You're on top now, but you'll find
it's not all beer and skittles before you've
done. I say, make it three bob — or two?"
...
I gave him a shilling and he begged me to
say a word to Baxter for him, which I meant
to do, but later forgot. Then I went search-
ing lodgings for my mother. I found them in
a private home for convalescents in Burton
Crescent — very decent rooms with a little bal-
cony overlooking a small park, and Mrs. Dobbs,
the landlady, seemed a pleasant person and
promised to look out for my mother while
I was on tour.
My mother was delighted when she saw the
place, laughing and crying at the same time,
while I wrapped her in Sidney's shawl and
made her comfortable with some cushions on
the couch before the fire. We had tea together
Charlie Chaplins Own Story Page 8
