the theater.
"We want you in the pictures. Come and see
me and talk it over. Mack Sennett."
"Who's Mack Sennett?" I asked Reeves, and he
told me he was with the Keystone motion-
picture company. "Oh, the cinematographs!"
I said, for I knew them in London, and
regarded them as even lower than the
music-halls. I tore up the note and threw it
away.
"I suppose we're going home next week?"
I asked Reeves, and he said he thought not;
the "little big time" circuits wanted us
and he was waiting for a cable from Carno.
...
Early next day I called at his apartments,
eager to learn what he had heard, for I
wanted very much to stay in America another
year, and saw no way to do it if Carno re-
called the company. I did not think again
of the note from Sennett, for I did not
regard seriously an offer to go into the
cinematographs. I was delighted to hear
that we were going to stay, and left New
York in great spirits, with the prospect
of another year with 'A Night in a London
Music-Hall' in America.
Twelve months later, back in New York again,
I received another message from Mr. Sennett,
to which I paid no more attention than to
the first one. We were sailing for London
the following month. One day, while I was
walking down Broadway with a chance acquain-
tance, we passed the Keystone offices and my
companion asked me to come in with him. He
had some business with a man there. I went
in, and was waiting in the outer office when
Mr. Sennett came through and recognized me.
...
"Good morning, Mr. Chaplin, glad to see
you! Come right in," he said cordially, and,
ashamed to tell him I had not come in reply
to his message, that indeed I had not meant
to answer it at all, I followed him into his
private office. I talked vaguely, waiting for
an opportunity" to get away without appearing
rude. At last I saw it.
"Let's not beat about the bush any longer,"
Mr. Sennett said. "What salary will you take
to come with the Keystone?" This was my
chance to end the interview, and I grasped
it eagerly.
"Two hundred dollars a week," I said, naming
the most extravagant price which came into
my head.
"All right," lie replied promptly. "When
can you start?"
CHAPTER XXV
In which I find that the incredible has
happened; burn my bridges behind me and
penetrate for the first time the mysterious
regions behind the moving-picture film.
...
"BUT — I said two hundred dollars a week," I
repeated feebly, stunned by Mr. Sennett's un-
expected response. Two hundred dollars a
week — forty pounds — he couldn't mean it! It
was absolutely impossible.
"Yes. That's right. Two hundred dollars
a week," Mr. Sennett said crisply. "When can
you begin work?"
"Why — you know, I must have a two-years'
contract at that salary," I said, feeling my
way carefully, for I still could not credit
this as a genuine offer.
"All right, we'll fix it up. Two years, two
hundred — " he made a little memorandum on
a desk pad, and something in the matter-of-
fact way he did it convinced me that this in-
credible thing had actually happened. "Con-
tract will be ready this afternoon, say at four
o'clock. That will suit you? And we'd like you
to start for California as soon as possible."
"Certainly. Oh, of course," I said, though
still more confounded by this, for I did not
see the connection between California and the
cinematograph. More than anything else,
however, I felt that I needed air and an op-
portunity to consider where I stood anyway,
and what I was going to do.
I walked down Broadway in a daze. An actor
for a cinematographic company — my mind
shied at the thought. How were the con-
founded things made, anyhow? Still, two hun-
dred dollars a week — what would happen if I
could not do the work? I tried to imagine
what it would be like. Acting before a ma-
chine — how could I tell whether I was funny
or not? The machine would not laugh. Then
suddenly I stopped short in a tangle of cross-
street traffic and cried aloud, "Look here,
you could have got twice the money!" But in-
stantly that thought was swept away again by
my speculations about the work and my con-
cern as to whether or not I could do it.
...
At four o'clock I returned to the Keystone
offices, in a mood between exultation and
panic, and signed the contract, beginning with
a feeble scratch of the pen, but ending in a
bold black scrawl. It was done ; I was a mov-
ing-picture actor, and heaven only knew what
would happen next!
195
"Can you start for California to-night?"
Mr. Sennett asked, while he blotted the con-
tract.
"I can start any time," I said a little uncer-
tainly. "But shouldn't I rehearse first?"
...
He laughed. "You don't rehearse moving
pictures in advance. You do that as they are
being taken," he replied. "They'll show you
all that at the studios. You'll soon catch
on, and you'll photograph all right, don't
worry."
Still with some misgivings, but becoming
more jubilant every moment, I hurried away
to get my luggage and to announce to Mr.
Reeves that I was not going back to London
with Carno's company. He began to urge me
to change my mind, to wait while he could
cable to Carno and get me an offer from him
for the next season, but I triumphantly pro-
duced my contract, and after one look at the
figures he was dumb.
"Two hundred dollars — Holy Moses !" he
managed to ejaculate after a moment, and I
chuckled at the thought of Mr. Carno's face
when he should hear the news.
"It's not so bad, for a beginning," I said
modestly, trying my best to speak as though
it were but a trifle, but unable to keep the
exultation out of my voice. A dozen times,
in the hurry of arranging my affairs and
catching the train, I stopped to look at
the contract again, half fearful that the
figures might have changed.
My high spirits lasted until I was settled in
the Chicago Limited, pulling out of New York
with a great noise of whistles and bells, and
steaming away into the darkness toward Cali-
fornia and the unknown work of a moving-pic-
ture actor. Then misgivings came upon me in
a cloud. I saw myself trying to be funny be-
for
e the cold eye of a machine, unable to
speak my lines, not helped by any applause,
failing miserably. How could I give the
effect of ripping my trousers without the
"r-r-r-r-r-rip!" of a snare-drum? When I
slipped and fell on my head, how could
the audience get the point without the
loud hollow "boom !" from the orchestra?
...
Every added mile farther from London increased
my doubts, hard as I tried to encourage myself
with thoughts of my past successes. Moving-
picture work was different, and if I should
fail in California I would be a long, long
way from home.
I reached Los Angeles late at night, very
glad that I would not have to report at the
Keystone studios until morning. I tried to
oversleep next day, but it was impossible; I
was awake long before dawn. I dressed as
slowly as possible, wandered about the streets
as long as I could, and finally ordered an
enormous breakfast, choosing the most expen-
sive cafe I could find, because the more ex-
pensive the place the longer one must wait to
be served, and I was seizing every pretext for
delay. When the food came I could not eat it,
and suddenly I said to myself that I was
behaving like a child; I would hurry to the
studios and get it over. I rushed from the
cafe, called a taxi and bribed the chauffeur
to break the speed laws and get me there quick.
...
When I alighted before the studio, a big new
building of bright unpainted wood, I took
a deep breath, gripped my cane firmly, walked
briskly to the door — and hurried past it. I
walked a block or so, calling myself names,
before I could bring myself to turn and come
back. At last, with the feeling that I was
dragging myself by the collar, I managed to
get up the steps and push open the door.
198
I was welcomed with a cordiality that re-
stored a little of my self-confidence. The
director of the company in which I was to star
had been informed of my arrival by telegraph
and was waiting for me on the stage, they
said. An office boy, whistling cheerfully,
volunteered to take me to him, and, leading
me through the busy offices, opened the
stage door.
A glare of light and heat burst upon me.
The stage, a yellow board floor covering at
least two blocks, lay in a blaze of sunlight,
intensified by dozens of white canvas reflec-
tors stretched overhead. On it was a wilder-
ness of "sets" — drawing-rooms, prison inter-
iors, laundries, balconies, staircases,
caves, fire-escapes, kitchens, cellars.
Hundreds of actors were strolling about in
costume; carpenters were hammering away at
new sets; five companies were playing before
five clicking cameras. There was a roar of
confused sound — screams, laughs, an explo-
sion, shouted commands, pounding, whistling,
the bark of a dog. The air was thick with
the smell of new lumber in the sun, flash-
light powder, cigarette smoke.
199
The director was standing in his shirt-sleeves
beside a clicking camera, holding a mass of
manuscript in his hand and clenching an un-
lighted cigar between his teeth. He was bark-
ing short commands to the company which was
playing— "To the left ; to the left, Jim !
There, hold it! Smile, Maggie! That's right.
Good! Look out for the lamp!"
The scene over, he welcomed me cordially
enough, but hurriedly.
"Glad to see you. How soon can you go to work?
This afternoon? Good! Two o'clock, if you
can make it. Look around the studio a bit,
if you like. Sorry I haven't a minute to
spare; I'm six hundred feet short this week,
and they're waiting for the film.
G'by. Two o'clock, sharp!" Then he turned
away and cried, "All ready for the next scene.
Basement interior," and was hard at work
again.
CHAPTER XXVI
In which I see a near-tragedy which is a comedy
on the films ; meet my fellow actors, the red
and blue rats ; and prepare to fall through a
trap-door with a pie.
THE little self-confidence I had been able to
muster failed me entirely when the director dis-
missed me so crisply. The place was so strange
to my experience, every one of the hundreds
of persons about me was so absorbed in his
work, barely glancing at me as I passed, that
I felt helpless and out of place there. Still,
the studio was crowded with interesting things
to see, and I determined to remain and learn
all I could of this novel business of producing
cinema film before my own turn came to do
it. So I assumed an air of dignity, marred
somewhat by the fact that my collar was be-
ginning to wilt and my nose burning red in
the hot sunlight, and strolled down the stage
behind the clicking cameras.
At a little distance I saw the front of a
three-story tenement, built of brick, with
windows and fire-escape all complete, looking
quite natural in front, but supported by
wooden scaffolding behind. Near it, on a high
platform, was a big camera, and a man with a
shade over his eyes busy adjusting it, and a
dozen men were stretching a net such as
acrobats use. A number of actors were hurrying
in that direction, and I joined them, eager to
see what was to happen.
201
"What's all the row?" I asked a girl in the
costume of a nurse, who stood eating a sand-
wich, the only idle person in sight.
"Scene in a new comedy," she answered
pleasantly but indifferently.
"Ah, yes. That's in my own line," I said
importantly. "I am Charles Chaplin."
She looked at me, and I saw that she had
never heard of me.
"You're a comedian?" she inquired.
"Yes," I answered sharply. "Er — do you
go on in this?"
"Oh, no. I'm not an actress," she said, sur-
prised. "I'm here professionally." I did not
understand what she meant. "In case of acci-
dents," she - explained, plainly thinking me
stupid. "Sometimes nothing happens, but you
never can tell. Eight men were pretty badly
hurt in the explosion in the comedy they put
on last week," she finished brightly.
I felt a cold sensation creep up my spine.
In the "set" before us there was a great bus-
tle of preparation. A long light ladder was
set up at a sharp angle, firmly fastened at
the bottom, but with the upper end unsupported,
quivering in the air.
Men were running about shouting directions
and questions. Suddenly, balancing precari-
ously on the narrow platform behind the cam-
era operator, the director appeared and clapped
his hands sharply. "All ready down there?"
he called.
"All ready!" some one yelled in reply.
"Let 'er go!"
The windows in the brick wall burst outward
with a loud explosion and swirling clouds
of smoke. Up the swaying ladder ran a police-
man and at the same instant, caught up by
invisible wires, another man soared through
the air and met him. On the top rung of the
ladder they balanced, clutching each other.
...
"Fight! Fight! Put some life into it!"
yelled the director. "Turn on the water,
Jim !"
203
My eyes straining in their sockets, I saw
the two men in the air slugging each other
desperately, while the ladder bent beneath
them. Then from the ground a two-inch stream
of water rose and struck them — held there,
playing on them while they struggled.
...
"Great! Great! Keep it up!" the director
howled. "More smoke!" Another explosion
answered him; through the eddying smoke I
could see the two men still fighting, while
the stream from the hose played on them.
...
"Let go now. Fall! Fall! I tell you, fall !"
the director shouted. The two men lurched,
the wires gave way, and, falling backward,
sheer, from a height of twenty-five feet, the
comedian dropped and struck the net. The net
broke.
The scene broke up in a panic. The nurse
ran through the crowd, a stretcher appeared,
and on it the comedian was carried past me,
followed by the troubled director and a physi-
cian. "Not serious, merely shock; he'll be all
right to-morrow," the physician was saying,
but I felt my knees shaking under me.
"So this is the life of a cinema comedian!"
I thought, breathing hard.
I did not feel hungry, some way, and besides,
I felt that if I left the studio for luncheon
I would probably be unable to bring myself
back again, so I picked out the coolest place
I could find and sat down to await two o'clock.
I was in a dim damp "basement set," furnished
only with an overturned box, on which I sat.
After a time a strange scratching noise
attracted my attention, and looking down I
saw a procession of bright red and blue rats
coming out between my feet. I leaped from the
box with my hair on end and left, saying
nothing to any one.
At two o'clock, quivering with nervousness,
I presented myself to the director. He was
Charlie Chaplins Own Story Page 14
