Charlie Chaplins Own Story

by Charlie Chaplin

  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