I climbed the stairs to my lodgings at last,
still with a dull hazy feeling of unreality,
lighted the gas and sat down on my bed with
the bundle beside me. Then it came upon me
sharply that it was all true. The season was
over. I was not going to America. I had only
a few pounds and no prospect of getting
another part.
I unfolded the little suit I had worn as Billy
and looked at it for a long time, suffering as
only a sensitive boy of fifteen can when he
sees all his brightest hopes come to nothing.
I walked up and down, clenching my hands and
wishing that I might die. It was almost dawn
when I folded the little suit, put it away
in the farthest corner of a closet and crawled
miserably to bed.
Next morning I felt brighter. After all, I had
made a big hit as Billy; there must be any
number of managers in London who would be
glad to get me. There were no letters for me
in the mail, but I said to myself that I must
give them time. I would put an advertisement
in The Strand mentioning that I was "resting,"
and they would come around all right. I wrote
it out carefully, dressed my best and took it
down to The Strand office myself so there
would be no delay. Then I went to see my
mother and told her lightly that I had not
decided just what offer to accept. I could not
trouble her, for she had not recovered her
strength fully and could only lie on her couch
and smile happily at me, proud of my great
success.
148
All that month my hopes gradually faded while
I went from agent to agent trying to get a
part. At first my name got me an interview
with the agent immediately, but each one I saw
told me quite courteously, quite briskly, that
he had nothing whatever to offer me and I came
out of each office with a sinking heart, holding
my haughty pose with difficulty.
I got up early every morning to see as many
agents as possible during the day, and although
before the other actors I still kept my pose of
being a great success, merely dropping in to
pass the time of day with the agent, I felt
panic growing within me. My small stock of
money was gone. I pawned my watch, my clothes,
at last even my bag, and hoarded the pennies
desperately, dining in small, dirty eating
houses on two-pence worth of stew.
149
I still bravely made a show of importance
and success when I met the other actors tramp-
ing the Strand, lying miserably to them as they
lied to me while we spent hours in the outer
offices of the agents, bullied by the office
boy, waiting hopelessly for a chance to see
the agents. The season was far advanced and
chances for a part grew smaller daily, but it
was incredible to me that I should not find
something — I who had made such a hit with
William Gillette! Every morning I started
out saying to myself that surely I should get
something that day, and every night I crawled
wearily into my lodgings, tired and discour-
aged, avoiding the landlady.
One day I determined to stand it no longer.
I carefully trimmed my frayed collar and cuffs,
brushed my suit and hat and went to the offices
of the biggest agent of all, Mr. Braithewaite.
He was a courteous gentleman and had always
welcomed me politely. I walked in with my most
important air.
150
"Mr. Braithewaite, I must have a part," I
said briskly. "You know my work. You know
I made a big hit with William Gillette.
Now, I'll take anything you can give me,
I don't care how small it is or what it pays.
Haven't you something in a provincial
company — even a walking-on part?"
He thought it over for some time in silence,
while I heard my heart beating. Then he said
slowly, "Well, there is a part — I will see. You
come in to-morrow."
I came out whistling merrily, stepping high
with a dizzy feeling that the pavement was
unsteady under my feet. I was sure by his
manner that he meant to have a part for me
and all my self-complacency was restored. I
flipped my cane as I passed the doors of the
other agents, saying to myself, "Oh, ho! You'll
see what you have missed!" and thinking that
I would carelessly drop in and tell those who
had treated me worst how well I was doing as
soon as I should have the part. That night I
spent one of my last two shillings for dinner,
feasting on tripe and onions and ale in great
spirits.
151
Next day, nervous with hope, I hurried to
Mr. Braithewaite's offices and walked in con-
fidently, so wrapped in my own thoughts that
I did not notice that no actors were waiting as
usual. I said briskly to the office boy, trying
to keep my voice natural and steady, "Tell Mr.
Braithewaite I am here. I have an appointment."
...
He looked at me with a long shrill whistle
of surprise. Then, with great enjoyment in
telling startling news, he said, "Don't tell me
you 'aven't 'eard ! 'E was shot by burglars last
night. 'E's 'anging between life and death
right now."
I remember I stumbled on the stairs once or
twice, feeling numb all over and not able to
walk steady. The bright sunlight outside
seemed to jeer at me. My last hope was gone.
I could not muster courage to start again on
the endless tramp up and down the Strand or
to face the other actors. I went back to my
lodgings. The landlady met me on the stairs
and looked steadily at me with tight lips and
an eye which said, "I know you have only a
shilling; what are you going to do about the
rent?" I went hurriedly past her and climbed
up to my room bitterly humiliated.
152
There was a letter waiting for me on the
mantel. I seized it and tore it open, wild
thoughts that at last I had an offer whirling
in my brain. It was dated Paris. I looked at
the signature — Sidney! Good old Sidney, I
said to myself; he will help me. Then I read
the letter.
"Dear Charlie," it said. "Your press notices
are received and no one is gladder than I am.
You know we always knew you would be a great
success. How does it feel to have all London
applauding? I wager you enjoy cutting a dash
on the Strand, what? Well, Charlie, I am in
the profession now, and not so great a success
as you yet, but I have a prospect of a part in
a couple of weeks perhaps. You know how it goes.
Can you lend me five pounds, or even three, till
I get a part? Love to mother and congratulations
&nbs
p; again to the clever one of the family.
"Your brother, Sidney."
CHAPTER XX
In which I try to drown my troubles in liquor
and find them worse than before ; try to make
a living by hard work and meet small success ;
and find myself at last in a hospital bed,
saying a surprising thing.
I STARED stupidly at Sidney's letter for a
minute and then I reread it slowly. It seemed
like a horrible mockery — "cutting a dash on
the Strand" — "The clever one of the family."
And he wanted to borrow five pounds — or
three — when I had only a shilling in the world.
...
It was the most bitter humiliation of my life.
I who had always been so sure of my talent,
who had patronized Sidney and promised so
grandly to help him if he ever needed it and
sent him the press notices of my great success
with a condescending little note saying that it
made no difference to me, I remembered him
as fondly as ever — I could not send him a
penny, or even buy food for myself.
After a while I took out a sheet of paper and
tried to write to him, but I could not manage
it. I made several beginnings and chewed my
pen a long time, while my shame and misery
grew until I could bear it no longer. I put
on my hat and went out.
154
Then, having made so many mistakes already
and lost so much by them that I could not
endure my own thoughts, I tried to make mat-
ters better by making them worse. A little way
down the street was a barroom. Its windows
were brightly lighted, casting a warm shining
glow out into the foggy twilight, and I could
hear men laughing inside. I went in, threw my
shilling on the bar and called for whisky. It
was strong raw stuff and made my throat burn,
but standing there by the bar I felt a little
self-esteem come back and said to myself that
I was not beaten yet. I pushed the change
back to the bartender and asked for another
glass of the same.
I remember telling some one loudly who I
was and declaring that I was the greatest actor
in London. Somebody paid for more drinks
and I drank again and told very witty stories
and became amazingly clever and successful,
laughing loudly and boasting of my dancing.
155
I did dance, and there was great applause, and
more drinks and a great deal of noise, and I
became fast friends with some one whom I
promised to give a fine part in my next play
and we drank again. In a word, I got glori-
ously drunk.
I woke up some time the next day in an alley,
feeling very ill and more discouraged and de-
pressed than before. When I slowly realized
what had happened and that I had not a cent
in the world, nor anything else but the rumpled,
dirty clothes I wore, I sat with my head in my
hands and groaned and loathed the thought of
living. I did not want ever to stir again, but
after a while I got up dizzily and managed to
come out into the street. I knew I must do
something.
I was in the North End of London. The dingy
warehouses and dirty cobbled streets,
through which the heavy vans rumbled, drawn
by big, clumsy-footed horses, reminded me of
the days in Covent Garden market, and I
thought of the way I had lived there and won-
dered if I could find something to do there
now. The thought of the Strand, where I had
walked so many weeks, was hideous to me. I
hated it. I said to myself then that I would
never be an actor again.
I found a watering trough and washed in it,
splashing the cold water over my head until
I felt refreshed. I determined not to go back
to my lodgings, the few things I had left there
would settle the small score and I did not want
to face the landlady. The thought of my
mother was more than I could face, too, but I
said to myself that Mrs. Dobbs would keep
her until I could get some work and send her
the rent. Then I set out to hunt for a job.
...
I found one that afternoon. It was hard
work, rolling heavy casks from one end of a
warehouse to the other and helping to load
them on vans. I was about fifteen at the time
and slight, but some way I managed to do the
work, though aching in every muscle long be-
fore the day was over. I got ten shillings a
week and permission to sleep in the vans in the
court behind the warehouse. I held the place
almost a week before the foreman lost patience
with me and found some one else to take my
place.
I had made friends with several of the men,
and one of them got me a place as driver for
a milk company. This was easier work, though
I had to be at it soon after midnight, driving
through the cold dark morning, the horses
almost pulling my arms from the sockets with
every toss of their heavy heads, and delivering
the milk in dark area-ways, where I stumbled
sleepily on the steps. I had money enough
now to pay for lodging in a dirty room without
a window in a cheap lodging house, and I
breakfasted and lunched on buns and stolen
milk. I could not bring myself to visit my
mother, but I sent her a few shillings in a letter
and wrote that I was well and busy, so that she
need not worry.
157
Then one morning the loss of the stolen milk
was discovered. I had been unusually hungry
and drunk too much of it. The boss swore at
me furiously, and again I was out of a job. I
was wandering up the street wondering what
I could do next when I saw a great crowd about
the door of a glass factory. It was still early,
about four o'clock in the morning, but hundreds
of men and boys were massed there waiting.
I pushed my way into the crowd and asked
what had happened.
Most of the boys looked at me sullenly and
would not answer, but one of them showed me
an advertisement. It read: "Boy wanted to
work in glass factory. Seven shillings a week."
My heart gave a leap, I might be the lucky one !
I pushed as close to the door as I could and
waited. At seven o'clock the door opened and
the crowd began to sway in excitement, each
one crying out eager words to the man in the
doorway.
158
I climbed nimbly up the back of the man be-
fore me, and gripping his neck with my knees,
called vigorously, "Here I am, sir! My
theatrical training had taught me how to use
my voice, the man heard me above the uproar
and looked at me.
"I want an experienced boy in the cooling
room," he said. "Had any experience?"
> "Oh, yes, sir!" I answered, while the man on
whose back I crouched tried to pull me down.
...
"All right, come in and I'll try you," the
man in the doorway answered, and while the
others fell back, disappointed, I crushed
through the crowd and rushed in.
The work proved to be carrying bottles from
the furnace room to the cooling place. I went
at it with a will, hurrying from the terrif-
ically heated room into the cold air with the
heavy trays and back again as fast as I could.
No matter how fast I ran there were always
more bottles waiting than I could get out
in time and the half-naked men, sweltering
in the furnace heat, swore at me while I
jumped back and forth. At noon, too exhaus-
ted to eat, I lay down in a corner to rest,
but before my aching muscles had stopped
throbbing the afternoon work began and the
foreman was calling to me to hurry.
My head ached with a queer jumping pain
and I was so dizzy that I dropped a tray of
bottles and blundered into the edge of the
door more than once, but I shut my teeth
tight and kept on. I did not mean to lose
that job. It meant nearly two dollars a week.
...
I kept at it till late that afternoon, dripping
with perspiration while my teeth chattered and
my legs grew more unsteady with every trip.
Then, as I bent before a furnace to pick up a
tray there was a sudden glare of light and heat,
a tremendous, crashing explosion. Everything
swirled into flame and then into darkness.
...
When I came to myself again I was in an
infirmary bed, just a mass of burning pain
wrapped in bandages, and I heard myself say-
ing vigorously, while some tried to quiet me,
"I am the greatest actor in London. I tell you
I am the greatest actor in London."
160
CHAPTER XXI
In which I encounter the inexorable rules of
a London hospital, causing much consternation;
fight a battle with pride; and unexpectedly
enter an up-setting situation.
I DID not find the hospital unpleasant, for I
had enough to eat there, and although my burns
were painful, it was a delight to be in a clean
bed. I lay there three weeks, quite contented,
and all day long, and when I could not sleep
at night, I thought over my stage experience
and the mistakes I had made in it and finally
grew able to laugh at myself. It is the only
valuable thing I have ever learned.
Life trips people up and makes them fall on
Charlie Chaplins Own Story Page 11
