Charlie Chaplins Own Story

by Charlie Chaplin

  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.