very cozily, and I told her I should soon be
a great London actor, which she firmly be-
lieved, only saying I was too modest and made
a mistake in going on tour when I should have
at least a good part in a West End theater.
...
By closest economy I managed to send her
a pound every week during that season with
'Jim, the Romance of a Cockney', though some-
times going without supper to buy the en-
velope and stamp; and because it is not pov-
erty, but economy, which teaches the value of
a penny, I learned it so thoroughly that year
that I have never forgotten it. The only part
of the tour which I enjoyed was the time I
spent on the stage, when I forgot my constant
thought of money and lived the romantic joys
and griefs of Jim. I played the part so well,
perhaps for this reason, that I was becoming
known as one of the most promising boy actors
in England, and I used to clip every mention
of my acting which I could find and send it
to my mother in the Saturday letter.
119
When I came back to London at the close of
the season I expected nothing less than a
rush of the managers to engage me. I walked
into Frank Stern's office very chesty and im-
portant with not even a glance for the office
boy or the crowd of actors patiently waiting
and knocked on his door with my cane. Then
I pushed it open and went in.
Frank Stern was sitting with his feet on his
desk, smoking and reading Floats in great con-
tentment. He leaped to his feet when he heard
me walk in, but when he saw who it was he
welcomed me boisterously.
120
"Glad to see you back, glad to see you!" he
said jovially. "Sit down."
"No, thanks. I just dropped in to see what
you had to offer for next season," I said care-
lessly. "It must be something good this time,
you know."
His cordiality dropped like a mask; he
looked at me very sternly.
"There's a part in 'His Mother Left Him
to Starve' he said. "We could use you in
that."
"How much salary?" I asked.
"Two pounds," he answered sharply.
"No, thanks," I said airily. "Though I
won't say I mightn't consider it for four."
...
"Then I'm afraid I haven't anything," he said,
and turned back to his desk as though he were
very busy. I went out whistling, so sure of
my value that I was careless of offending
him. And indeed when, ten days later, I was
offered the part of Billy, the page, in
Sherlock Holmes, at a salary of thirty shil-
lings, I was sure that I had acted astutely,
and gave myself credit for good business sense
as well as great talent. I even had some
thoughts of holding out for a part in the Lon-
don company, and if I had had a few shillings
more, or any money to pay for my mother's
lodgings, I might have been foolish enough
to do it.
As it was, I walked into the rooms where the
company was rehearsing with a feeling that
it was a condescension on my part to go on
tour again, and marching briskly up to the
prompter's table, laid my cane upon it — a
breach of theatrical etiquette at which the
company stood aghast. I never did it again,
for that day's work with a real stage manager
gave me my first idea of good acting, and I
left late that night with my vanity smarting
painfully.
" 'Act natural!'" I said to myself, bitterly
mocking the stage manager. " 'Talk like a
human being!' My eye, what do they think
the people want? I act like an actor, I talk
like an actor, and if they don't like it they
can jolly well take their old show! I can get
better!"
Nevertheless, I went back next day and
worked furiously under the scathing sarcasm
and angry oaths of the manager until I had
learned the part passably well and forgotten
most of the stage tricks I had found so
effective in From Bags to Riches. The night
before we went on tour I had dinner with my
mother, who was still in the care of Mrs. Hobbs,
so thin and nervous that it worried me to see
her, and she was fluttering with excitement and
overjoyed at my being a great actor, but for
the first time I doubted it. 122
However, the press notices speedily brought
back my self-confidence. In almost every town
they praised my work so highly that the actor
who played Holmes gave me cold glances when-
ever he saw me and even cut bits of my part.
Then, though complaining bitterly, I knew I
had really "arrived," and I openly grinned
at him before the company, and demanded a
better dressing-room.
Just before the close of the tour I was stand-
ing in the wings one evening confiding to one
of the actresses my intention of placing a bent
pin in Holmes' chair on the stage next evening,
where I calculated it would have great effect,
owing to his drawing his dressing gown tight
around him with a dignified air just before-
sitting down, when a boy came up and gave me
a telegram. I tore it open, fearing bad news
from my; mother, and read it. It said:
123
"William Gillette opens in Sherlock Holmes
here next week. Wants you for Billy. Charles
Frohman."
William Gillette! Charles Frohman!
CHAPTER XVI
In which I journey to London ; meet and
speak with a wax-works figure ; and make
my first appearance in a great theater.
...
I do not know how I got through my act that
night. I was in such a flurry of excitement
and so jubilant over the great news that I
missed my cues and played with only half my
wits on my work, careless how Holmes frowned
at me. Every one in the company had heard
of my telegram from Frohman before the end
of the second act, and I knew they were watch-
ing me enviously from the wings. I rushed
past them, in wild haste to get to the
dressing-room and take off my make-up as soon
as my last scene was finished, and I was half
dressed while they were taking the curtain
call.
I met Holmes and the manager just outside
the dressing-room and resigned my place in
their company with great haughtiness.
...
"Of course — er — you understand that I — ;
er — can not do justice to my art as long as
I am supported by merely provincial actors,"
I said, looking at Holmes as majestically as
I might from a height two feet less than his.
Then I drew the manager aside and said kindly,
"Of course, old man, I appreciate all you've
done, and
all that — any time I can do any-
thing for you with Frohman, you understand,
you've only to say the word."
125
The entire company, excepting only Holmes,
was at the station to see me off next morning,
and since in the meantime my first vainglory
had diminished and I felt more my usual self,
there was a jolly half-hour before the train
left. Every one wished me luck and promised
to come to see me act in London, while I
assured them I would not forget old friends,
and the manager clapped me heartily on the
back and said he'd always known I would do
great things. They gave a great cheer when
the train started and I waved at them from
the back platform. Then I was off, to London
and fame.
Early the next afternoon, dressed in a new suit
with new shirt and tie to match, I arrived at
the Duke of York's Theater in the West End and
inquired for the stage manager. I had to wait
for him a minute on the dim stage and I stood
looking out over the rows of empty seats in
the big dark house, thrilling to think that
before long they would be filled with scores
of persons watching me act. Then Mr. Postham
came hurrying up, a very busy man with a
quick nervous voice. I told him who I was,
and he gave me the manuscript of my part in
a hurried manner.
126
"That's all. Rehearsal here, nine to-morrow,"
he said. Then, as I was turning away, he added,
"Like to see Mr. Gillette?"
"I would, yes," I answered eagerly, and tried
to clutch at my self-possession, which I had
never lacked before, while the boy led me
til rough the dim passages to Mr. Gillette's
dressing-room. The boy knocked at the door of
it, said loudly, "Mr. Chaplin to see Mr. Gil-
lette," and left me standing there, breathing
hard.
An instant later the door opened and a little
Japanese, perfectly dressed in the clothes
of an English man-servant, popped into the
aperture. I had never seen a Japanese servant
before, and his appearance so confounded me
that I could only look at him and repeal what
the boy had said, while I fumbled in my pocket
for a card and wondered if it would be proper
to give it to him if I should find one. It ap-
peared that it was not necessary for he opened
the door wider. I stepped in.
127
William Gillette was sitting before his dress-
ing-table, busy with make-up. He rose to meet
me — a very tall stately man, his face entirely
covered with dead white paint. The whole place
was white — the walls, the dressing-table, even
the floor, as I remember it — and the whiteness
was intensified by a glare of strong white light.
In that bright glare, and under the mask of
white paint, Mr. Gillette did not seem like a
real man. He seemed like some fantastic curio
in a glass case.
"You're to play Billy, I understand," he said,
looking keenly at me through narrow, almost
almond, eyes. "How old are you?"
"Fourteen, sir," I answered as if hypnotized,
for I was now telling every one that I was six-
teen.
"I hear you're a very promising young actor,"
he said. "I hope you'll make a good
Billy — what did you want to see me about?"
"I just wanted to see you," I replied.
"Well, I'm very glad we've met," he said,
looking amused, I thought. "If I can be any
help to you, come again, won't you?"
128
I think I replied suitably as I backed out.
I reached the street before I quite recovered
from the effect of his strange appearance in
that white room. I had met one of the great-
est actors on the English stage, and I felt as
though I had seen a figure in a wax-works and
it had spoken to me.
Then, when I stood on the curb in all the
noise of the London traffic, I realized that
the events of that momentous day were all real.
I was engaged to play with William Gillette
in the finest of West End theaters; I held the
manuscript of my part in my hand. Excited
and jubilant, I rushed off to tell my mother
the great news, and then to engage lodgings
of my own, where I spent all that evening
walking up and down, rehearsing the part of
Billy, only pausing now and then, with a
whoop, to do a few dance steps or stand on my
head.
The next morning I was one of the first to
reach the theater for rehearsal. I had risen
early to take a few turns up and down the
Strand, hoping to meet some one I knew to
whom I could mention casually that I was with
Frohman now, but every one I passed was a
stranger and I had to content myself with
looking haughtily at them and saying to my-
self: "'You wouldn't half like to he on your
way to rehearsal with William Gillette, would
you now? What, ho!"
129
Mr. Postham proved to be different from the
stage managers I had known before. He was
nervous and excitable, but no matter how badly
an actor read his lines, Mr. Postham never
swore at him.
"No," he said quietly. "This way, 'I'll do
it, sir.' No, not 'I'll do it, sir,' but 'I'll
do it, sir.' Try it again. No, that's a little
too emphatic. Listen, 'I'll do it, sir.' Not
quite so self-confident. Again, 'I'll do it,
sir.' Once more, please." He never seemed to
grow tired. He kept us at it for hours, watching
every detail, every inflection or shade of tone,
and his patience was endless. It was new work
to me, but I liked it; and after rehearsal I
would practise for hours in my rooms, liking
the sound of my voice in the different tones.
...
William Gillette had come to London with
a play called 'Clarice', which had not gone
well.
130
He was putting on Sherlock Holmes to save
the season and rushing rehearsals in order
to have the new play ready in the shortest
possible time. We worked all day, and twice
were called for midnight rehearsals, after
'Clarice' was off the boards. Two weeks
after I reached London we were called at
seven in the morning for dress rehearsal.
Sherlock Holmes was to be put on that night.
Everything went wrong at the dress rehearsal.
We were overworked and nervous; we missed our
cues; some of the properties were lost ;
Mr. Postham was intensely quiet. I was very
well pleased by it all, for every East End
actor knows that a bad dress rehearsal means
a good first performance, but the manager and
Mr. Gillette did not seem to share my opinion,
and the company scattered gloomily enough when
early at the theater that night.
I was made up and dressed for the first scene
early, and hurried out to the peep-hole in
the curtain, hoping to catch a glimpse of
my mother in the audience. I had got tickets
for her and Mrs. Hobbs and ordered a carriage
for them, as my mother was not strong and
could not come in a tram. The house was fill-
ing fast. Behind the scenes there was tense
breathless excitement; scene shifters and stage
carpenters were hurrying back and forth ; there
was a furious scene over something mislaid.
Every one's nerves were strained to the break-
ing point.
The curtain went up. From the wings, where
I stood waiting for my cue and saying my
lines over and over to myself with a tight
feeling in my throat, I saw Mr. Gillette open-
ing the scene. I listened carefully to every
word he spoke, knowing that every one brought
my entrance nearer. Suddenly Mr. Postham
touched my shoulder.
"Royalty's in front," he said. "Whatever
you do, don't look at the royal box."
Then, on the stage, Mr. Gillette spoke my
cue. I put back my shoulders, cleared my
throat, and stepped out on the stage, my brain
repeating, "Don't look at the royal box."
CHAPTER XVII
In which I play with a celebrated actor; dare
to look at the royal box ; pay a penalty for
my awful crime; gain favor with the public;
and receive a summons from another famous star.
...
MY nerves were stretched tight, like badly;
tuned violin strings, and I seemed to feel them
vibrate when I stepped on the stage and spoke
my opening line, with Gillette's eyes upon me
and the packed house listening. My brain was
keyed to a high pitch, working smoothly, but
it did not seem in any way attached to my body,
and I heard the words as though some one else
had spoken them. They were clear, firm, the
accent perfect. I felt myself stepping three
steps forward, one to the right, and turning
to Mr. Gillette; heard my second line spoken,
with the emphasis placed properly on the third
word.
"Don't look at the royal box," I said to my-
self.
Then I was in the swing of the scene. Mr.
Gillette spoke; I answered him; the situation
came clearly into my mind. I realized that
I was playing opposite William Gillette, that
the eyes of London were on me, and royalty
itself listening. I threw myself into the work,
Charlie Chaplins Own Story Page 9
