quivering with the strain of it, but determined
to play up to the big moment. I was doing
well. I knew it. I saw it in the relaxation
of Mr. Gillette's anxious watching. He was
abandoning himself to his part, trusting me to
play up to him.
133
"Now, Billy, listen to me carefully," he said.
I turned my head to the right angle, felt the
muscles of my face quiver with the exact ex-
pression that should be there.
"Yes, sir," I replied, with the exact tone of
eagerness I had practised so often. Gillette
took up his lines. The scene was going well.
The house hung breathless on every word.
...
"Don't look at the royal box," I repeated to
myself, feeling an almost irresistible long-
ing to turn my head in that direction, and stif-
fening my neck against it.
I did not know who was in the box and would
have been no wiser if I had looked, for I had
never seen the royal family, but I learned
later. The late King Edward himself was
present, with Queen Alexandria, the King of
Greece, Prince Christian and the Duke of Con-
naught. Prince Christian, who was a personal
friend of William Gillette, came often to see
him act, but this was an unusually brilliant
party.
134
I stood tense, waiting for my cue. It came
at last.
"Billy, I want you to watch the thieves,"
said Sherlock Holmes.
It was a thrilling moment in the play. I
must be silent just long enough — not too long
— before I spoke. I heard my heart beat in
the pause; the audience waited, tense. The
house was silent.
Then, in the stillness, we heard a murmur
from Prince Christian, and an impatient stage
whisper in reply from the King of Greece.
...
"Don't tell me — don't tell me ; I want to see
it," he said. "Jove, watch that youngster!"
The tension of my nerves broke. William
Gillette, in an effort to save the dramatic
moment of the scene, repeated, "Billy, I want
you to watch the thieves." And, while the house
gazed at me, I turned my head and looked full
at the royal box.
The audience was stunned. It sat dumb, in
frozen horror. There was an awful silence,
while I stood helpless, gazing at the King of
Greece, and he stared back at me with slowly
widening eyes. Then his face broke into little
lines; they ran down from his eyes to his
mouth; it widened into a smile. A sudden
chuckle from King Edward broke the terrible
stillness. Again we heard the voice of the
King of Greece:
"By Jove! Ha! Ha!"
I tore my eyes away and continued the scene
through a haze. We finished it before a silent
house. The curtain fell. Then, led by the
royal box, a storm of applause arose. We took
our curtain call — I was on the stage of a great
West End theater, bowing before applauding
crowds, in the company of one of the greatest
actors in London. The voice of royalty itself
had been heard speaking of my acting. I was
dizzy with exultation.
The curtain fell for the last time and I
strutted proudly from the stage, looking from
one to another of the company, eager to meet
their envious looks. They hurried to their
dressing-rooms without a glance at me. No
one spoke. There was a strained chill feeling
in the atmosphere. I passed Mr. Postham and
he hurried by me as if I were not there.
136
A feeling of trouble and loneliness grew
upon me while I touched up my make-up for
the second scene, though I told myself as
confidently as possible that my looking at
the royal box could not have been so bad,
since the King of Greece had smiled and
Mr. Postham had said nothing. Yet I would
have been more at ease if he had sworn at me.
...
I threw myself into the work of the remaining
scenes with all the skill I had learned, and
I felt that I was doing them well, but the cold
feeling of uncertainty and doubt grew upon me.
At last the final curtain fell. Then for the
first time that evening the eyes of the whole
company turned on me. They lingered on the
stage, waiting. Mr. Postham walked slowly
out and looked at me quietly.
"Well, it went well, didn't it?" I said cockily
to him, saying savagely to myself that I had
been the hit of the evening. My words fell
on a dead silence, while Mr. Postham contin-
ued to look at me, and little by little I felt
myself growing very small and would have
liked to go away, but could not.
"I suppose you realize what you did," Mr.
Postham said, after a long time, and paused.
I opened my mouth, but could not say a word.
...
"It is fortunate — very fortunate — that His
Majesty — was pleased — to overlook it," Mr.
Postham continued slowly. He paused again.
"Fined three pounds," he said briskly, then,
and walked away. So I went meekly from
the scene of my first appearance in a good
theater under the scornful and surprised
glances of the other actors, who had expected
to see the part taken from me, and I said
bitterly to myself that if this was the
reward of talent on the stage — !
I did good work that season with William
Gillette, as all the press notices showed.
Every morning, lying luxuriously in bed in
my lodgings, I pored over the London journals,
seizing eagerly on every comment on my acting,
reading and rereading it. I was the "most
promising young actor on the English stage,"
I was "doing clever work," I was "the best
Billy London has seen yet." To me, as I
gazed at these notices, William Gillette was
merely "also mentioned." I felt that I alone
was making the play a success and I walked
afterward up and down the Strand in a glow
of pride and self-confidence, dressed in all
the splendor money could buy, swinging my cane,
nodding carelessly to the men I knew and pic-
turing them saying to each other after I had
passed, "He is the great actor at the Duke of
York's Theater. I knew him once."
138
The season was drawing to a close and, learning
that William Gillette was returning to America,
I confidently expected nothing less than an
invitation to return with him, when one day
I arrived at the theater early and found a
note awaiting me. I tore it open carelessly
and read :
"Will you please call at St. James' Theater
to-morrow afternoon? I should like to see you.
"Mrs. Kendall."
"Oh, ho! Mrs. Kendall!" I said to myself.
"Well, she will have to offer something good
to get me!"
CHAPTER XVIII
In which I refuse an offer to play in the
provinces ; make my final appearance as
Billy at the Duke of York's Theater ; and
suffer a bitter disappointment.
I ASSUMED a slightly bored air while I glanced
through the note again. Oh, yes, Mrs. Kendall!
The greatest actress in London. Well, I would
call on her if she liked; I would just drop in
and see what she had to offer. Something good,
no doubt, but I should soon show her that it
would have to be something very good indeed
if she hoped to get me,
I flipped the note under the dressing-table
and began to make up, wondering what America
would prove to be like, picturing to myself
the enthusiasm of American reporters when it
was known that William Gillette was bringing
England's greatest boy actor to New York
with him.
"Curtain!" cried the call boy down the cor-
ridors, I called him in, hastily scribbled
off a note to Mrs. Kendall, saying that I
would call at twelve next day, and gave it
to the call boy to post. Then I went out,
nodding affably to the other actors, and
took my place in the wings to await my cue.
140
"Too bad the season's closing, isn't it?"
said Irene Vanbrugh, who stood beside me.
...
"Oh, it's been a pleasant season enough, as
seasons go," I replied carelessly. "The deuce
of it is, there's no rest between 'em when one
has made a hit. Rehearsals and all that."
...
"Y-yes," she said, looking at me queerly.
...
"And it's such a bore, so many people after
one," I continued. "Now, there's Mrs. Ken-
dall, very pleasant woman and all that — had
another note from her just now. Suppose I'll
have to run around and see her again."
...
"Oh, I say, Mrs. Kendall — not really !" Miss
Vanbrugh cried, in such a tone of awe that it
annoyed me. Mrs. Kendall was well enough,
I said to myself, but I was the greatest boy
actor in England. I took my cue confidently,
glad not to be bothered with any more of Miss
Vanbrugh's conversation.
The next day at noon I arrived at Mrs. Ken-
dall's hotel, humming a bit and swinging a new
cane, very well pleased with myself, for the
notices in the London journals had been very
good indeed that day. I noticed that the lift
boy recognized me and seemed properly impres-
sed, and I stepped into Mrs. Kendall's sit-
ting-room disposed to be quite affable to her.
...
She was not there. I waited five minutes and
still she had not come. I began to be irri-
tated. What, keeping me waiting! I glanced
at my watch, walked up and down a minute,
very much bored with such lack of considera-
tion on her part. Then I determined to leave
and show her I was not to be trifled with in
such a manner. Just as I took up my cane
the door opened and Mrs. Kendall entered.
She was a pleasant matronly-looking woman
with tired lines around her eyes and a quiet
gentle manner.
"I'm afraid I have just a minute," I said,
ostentatiously looking at my watch again.
...
"I'm very sorry to have kept you waiting,"
she answered in a soft low voice. "We under-
stand your season with Mr. Frohman is ending
next week. Mr. Kendall and I have seen your
work. We are taking out a company for a
forty-weeks' tour in the provinces, and there
is a part with us which we think you would fill
very well."
I looked at her with raised eyebrows.
"In the provinces?" I said coldly. "I am
very sorry, madam, but I could not think of
leaving London." I took up my cane again
and rose briskly.
Mrs. Kendall looked at me a moment with
a tired smile about her lips. Then she rose,
said that in that case she regretted having
taken up my time, and told me good-by very
pleasantly.
"She sees she can not offer me anything!"
I said proudly to myself, putting back my
shoulders importantly as I came down in the
lift. I walked through the hotel lounging-
room with a quick brisk step, called a cab
and said to the driver in a loud voice, so
the bystanders might guess who I was, "Duke
of York's Theater, and be quick about it, my
man!"
I awaited confidently an offer from Frohman
to bring me to New York with William Gillette,
determining when it came to insist on an
increase in salary. Every evening I expected
to find a note from him in my dressing-room,
and I met the gloomy glances of the other
actors with a wise smile and a knowing look.
They might be troubled with the prospect of
an uncertain future, I said to myself, but
I was secure. I had made the hit of the
piece, as the nightly applause showed.
143
The last week of 'Sherlock Holmes' drew to
a close, and with a sinking heart I realized
that no offer had come from Frohman. I played
my part every night with all the skill I knew,
and hearing the house echo and echo again
with loud applause, I said to myself,
"Now Frohman will see how badly he needs
me!" But still there was no word from him.
...
The last night came, and behind the scenes
there was such a deep gloom that one could
almost feel it like a fog. There was no joking
in the dressing-rooms, the actors moodily made
up and walked about the corridors afterward
with strained anxious faces or laughed in a
manner more gloomy than silence. The com-
pany was breaking up, no one knew what part
he might find next, and all faced the prospect
of wearily walking the Strand again, strug-
gling to get a hearing with the agents, hoping
against hope for a chance, growing shabbier
and hungrier as they waited and hoped and saw
the weeks going by.
144
For the last time I played Billy; for the
last time I met Mr. Gillette's kindly glance
and felt him pat my shoulder, saying, "Well
done, Billy!" while the audience applauded.
We stood together on the stage, bowing and
smiling, while the curtain rose and fell and
rose again and applause came over the foot-
lights in crashing waves. Then the curtain
fell for the last time.
"It's over," said Mr. Gillette, his shoulders
drooping with weariness. Then he spoke a word
or two of farewell to each of us and went to
his dressing-room. The actors hurriedly took
off their make-up and scattered, calling to
one another in the corridor. "Well, so long,
&nb
sp; old man !" "See you later, Mabel, tata!"
"Wait a minute, I'm coming !" "Good luck
old fellow !"
I dressed slowly, unable to believe that this
was the last night and that there was no offer
from Mr. Frohman. Mr. Gillette was still in
his dressing-room. I walked up and down out-
side his door debating whether or not to tap
on it and ask him if there had not been a mis-
take.
"I was the hit of the play, wasn't I?" I said
defiantly to myself, but a great wave of doubt
and depression had come over me and I could
not bring myself to knock on that door. Sud-
denly it opened and Mr. Gillette came out
dressed for the street. Behind him I saw the
Japanese servant carrying a bag.
145
"Mr. Gillette," I said boldly, though my
knees were unsteady. "Aren't you taking any
of the company to America with you?"
"Er — oh, it's you!" he said, startled, for he
had almost stumbled against me in the gloom.
"No ; oh, no ; I'm not taking any one with me.
You were a very good Billy, Charles. I hope
you get something good very soon. Good-by."
CHAPTER XIX
In which my fondest hopes are shattered by
cold reality ; I learn the part played by
luck on the Strand ; and receive an unex-
pected appeal for help.
I STOOD there watching Mr. Gillette's back
receding-down the corridor. I felt stunned,
unable to realize that he was really going. I
could not believe that it was all over, that he
did not mean to take me to America after all.
He stopped once and my heart gave a great
leap and began to pound loudly, but he only
spoke to some one he met and then went on.
He turned a corner, the little Japanese servant
turned the corner after him, carrying the bag.
They were gone.
I went back into my dressing-room then and
made a little bundle of my stage clothes and
make-up box. The stage hands had finished
clearing the stage; it was bare and dim when I
crossed it and came out through the stage door
for the last time. A cold gray fog was drift-
ing down the deserted street and I wished to
take a cab, but it came to me suddenly that I
had no part now and could not afford it. I
tucked my bundle under my arm and set out
on foot for my lodgings.
147
All the way it seemed to me that I was in a
bad dream — a dream where I must walk on
and on and on mechanically through an unreal
world of blurred lights and swirling grayness.
Charlie Chaplins Own Story Page 10
