Charlie Chaplins Own Story

by Charlie Chaplin

  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