along. I just want to go out on the stage
and be funny," I said. "And I want the cam-
era to keep going- all the time, so I can
forget about it."
219
"Oh, see here, Chaplin, you can't do that.
Do you know what film costs? Four cents a
foot, a thousand feet of film. You'd waste
thousands of dollars' worth of it in a season.
You see that yourself. Great Scott, man, you
can't take pictures that way!"
"You give me a chance at it, and I'll show
you whether I can or not," I replied. "Let
me try it, just for a day or so, just one
scene. If the film's spoiled, I'll pay for
it myself."
We argued it out for a long time. The notion
seemed utterly crazy to Mr. Sennett, but
after all I had made a real success in comedy,
and his disappointment must have been great
at my failure on the films. Finally he con-
sented to let me try making pictures my way,
on condition that I should pay the salary of
the operator and the cost of the spoiled film.
...
That night I walked up and down the street
for hours, planning the outlines of a scenario
and the make-up I would wear. My cane, of
course, and the loose baggy trousers which are
always funny on the stage, I don't know why.
I debated a long time about the shoes. My
feet are small, and I thought perhaps they
might seem funnier in tight shoes, under the
baggy trousers. At last, however, I decided
on the long, flat, floppy shoes, which would
trip me up unexpectedly.
These details determined upon, I was return-
ing to my hotel when suddenly I discovered I
was hungry, and remembered that I had eaten
no dinner. I dropped into a cafeteria for a
cup of coffee, and there I saw a mustache.
A little clipped mustache, worn by a very dig-
nified solemn gentleman who was eating soup.
He dipped his spoon into the bowl and the mus-
tache quivered apprehensively. He raised the
spoon and the mustache drew back in alarm.
He put the soup to his lips and the mustache
backed up against his nose and clung there.
...
It was the funniest thing I had ever seen.
I choked my coffee, gasped, finally laughed
outright. I must have a mustache like that!
Next day, dressed in the costume I had chosen,
I glued the mustache to my lip before the
dressing-room mirror, and shouted at the
reflection. It was funny; it was uproariously
funny! It waggled when I laughed, and I
laughed again. I went out on the stage still
laughing, and followed by a shout of mirth
from every one who saw me. I tripped on my
cane, fell over my shoes, got the camera man
to shouting with mirth. A crowd collected to
watch me work, and I plunged into my first
scene in high spirits.
221
I played the scene over and over, introduc-
ing funnier effects each time. I enjoyed it
thoroughly, stopping every time I got out of
the range of the camera to laugh again. The
other actors, watching behind the camera,
held their sides and howled, as my old
audiences had done when I was with Carno.
"This," I said to myself triumphantly.
"This is going to be a success!"
When the camera finally stopped clicking
all my old self-confidence and pride had come
back to me. "Not so bad, what?" I said, tri-
umphantly twirling my cane, and in sheer good
spirits I pretended to fall against the camera,
wringing a shout of terror from the operator.
Then, modestly disclaiming the praises of the
actors, though indeed I felt they were less
than I deserved, I went whistling to my
dressing-room.
222
"How soon do you want to see the film, Mr.
Chaplin?" the operator asked, tapping at my
door while I was changing into street clothes.
"Just as soon as you can have it, old top,"
I replied cheerfully. "Oh, by the way, how
many feet did we use?"
"Little over two thousand," he called back,
and I heard the sound of his retreating feet.
...
A little over two thousand! At four cents
a foot! Eighty dollars! I felt as though a
little cold breeze was blowing on my back.
Nearly a month's salary with Carno wagered
on the success of three hours' work! After
all, I thought, I was not sure how the film
would turn out; the beastly machine might not
see the humor of my acting, good as it had
been. I finished dressing in a hurry, and
went out to find Mr. Sennett and show him
the film in the dark room.
I sat on the edge of my chair in the dark
room, waiting for the picture to flash on the
screen, thinking of that eighty dollars, which
alternately loomed large as a fortune and sank
into insignificance. If the picture was good —
But suppose it, too, was a failure! Then I
would be stranded in California, thousands of
miles from home, and where would I get the
eighty dollars?
223
The shutter clicked open and the negative
began to flicker on the screen. I saw myself,
black-faced, with a little white mustache and
enormous white shoes, walking in great dignity
across the patch of light. I saw myself trip
over my shoes. I saw the mustache quiver
with alarm. I saw myself stop, look wise,
twirl my cane knowingly, and hit myself on
the nose. Then, suddenly in the stillness, I
heard a loud chuckle from Mr. Sennett. The
picture was good. It was very good.
"Well, Chaplin, you've done it! By George,
you've certainly got the comedy! It's a
corker!" Mr. Sennett said, clapping me
heartily on the back as we came out of the
dark room. "You've wasted a lot of film,
but hang the film! You're worth it! Go on
and finish this up. I'd like to release it
next week."
CHAPTER XXIX
In which I taste success in the movies ;
develop a new aim in life; and form an
ambitious project.
"WE'LL use the third scene," Mr. Sennett
said to the camera operator. "How long will
it run?"
"About two hundred feet," the operator re-
plied.
"Well, keep it and throw away the rest.
Think you can finish two good reels this week?"
Mr. Sennett asked, turning to me.
"Watch me!" I responded airily, and my
heart gave a great jump. They were paying
me two hundred dollars a week and were will-
ing to throw away thousands of feet of film
in addition to get my comedies. "There's a
fortune in this business! A fortune!" I
thought.
My ambition soared at that moment to dazzling
heights. I saw myself re
tiring, after five or
ten years in the business, with a fortune of
ten thousand pounds — yes, even twenty
thousand !
225
The comedy was finished that week; I worked
every day, during every moment when the light
was good, not stopping for luncheon or to rest.
I enjoyed the work; the even click- click-
click of the camera, running steadily, was
a stimulant to me; my ideas came thick and
fast. I sketched in my mind the outlines of
a dozen comedies, to be played later. I remem-
bered all the funny things I had seen or
heard and built up rough scenarios around
them. I woke in the night, chuckling at a
new idea that occurred to me.
When my first comedy was released it was a
great success. The producers demanded more,
quickly. I was already working on 'Caught in
the Rain'. I followed it the next week with
'Laughing Gas'. They all went big.
Every morning when I reached the stage in
make-up the actors who were to play with me
stood waiting to learn what their parts were to
be. I myself did not always know, but when I
had limbered up a bit by a jig or clog dance
and the camera began to click, ideas came fast
enough.
I told the other actors how to play their
parts, played them myself to show how it
should be done; played my own part enthusi-
astically, teased the camera man, laughed and
whistled and turned handsprings. The click-
ing camera took it all in ; later, in the
negative room, we chose and cut and threw
away film, picking out the best scenes,
rearranging the reels, shaping up the final
picture to be shown on the screens. I liked
it all ; I was never still a minute in the
studio and never tired.
226
The only time I was quiet was while I was
making up. Then I thought sometimes of my
early days in England, of Covent Garden, and
my mother and my year with William Gillette.
"Life's a funny thing," I said to myself. Then
I made up as a baker, ordered a wagonload of
bread-dough and flour and went out and
romped through it hilarious, shouting with
laughter whenever I was out of range of the
camera. The result was 'Dough and Dynamite',
and it clinched what I then thought was
my success in the movies.
At first when my pictures began to appear in
the moving-picture houses I took great de-
light in walking among the crowds in front of
the doors, idly twirling my cane and listening
to the comments on my comedies. I liked to go
inside, too, and hear the audiences laugh at
the comical figure I cut on the screen. That
was the way I got my first real ambition in
moving-picture work. I still have it. I want
to make people chuckle.
227
Audiences laugh in two ways. Upon the stage,
in all the tense effort of being funny be-
hind the footlights, I had never noticed that.
But one night, packed with the crowd in a
small, dark moving-picture house, watching
the flickering screen, listening for the
response of the people around me, I suddenly
realized it.
I had wedged into a crowded house to see
my latest film. It was a rough-and-tumble
farce; the audience had been holding its sides
and shrieking hysterically for five minutes.
"Oh, ho!" I was saying to myself. "You're
getting 'em, old top, you're getting 'em!"
Suddenly the laughter stopped.
I looked around dismayed. I could see a hundred
faces, white in the dim light, intent on the
picture — and not a smile on any of them. I
looked anxiously at the screen. There was
Charlie Chaplin in his make-up standing still.
Standing still in a farce! I wondered how I
had ever let a thing like that get past the
negative. The house was still; I could hear
the click of the un-rolling film.
228
Then on the screen I saw myself turn slowly ;
saw my expression become grim and resolute ;
saw myself grip my cane firmly and stalk
away. I was going after the husky laborer
who had stolen my beer.
Then it came — a chuckle, a deep hearty
"Ha! Ha! Ha!" It spread over the crowd
like a wave ; the house rocked with it.
"That's it! That's what I want, that's what
I want !" I said. I got out quickly to think
it over. I had to crowd past the knees of a
dozen people to do it, and not one of them
glared at me. They were still chuckling.
...
I walked back to my hotel with my cane tucked
under my arm and my hands in my pockets. That
was the thing — the chuckle! Any kind of
laughter is good; any kind of laughter will
get the big salaries. But a good, deep,
hearty chuckle is the thing that warms a
man's heart; it's the thing that makes him
your friend ; it's the thing that shows,
when you get it, that you have a real hold
on your audience. I have worked for it ever
since.
After that I visited the picture houses night
after night, watching for that chuckle, plan-
ning ways to get it. I was never recognized by
strangers, and more than once some one asked
me what I thought of Charlie Chaplin. I do
not recall that I ever told the truth. In fact,
I was not thinking much about Charlie Chaplin
in those days ; I was thinking of his work and
his success and his growing bank-account.
I had come into the business at the height of
its first big success. Fortunes were being made
overnight in it; producers could not turn out
film fast enough to satisfy the clamoring pub-
lic. The studios were like gambling houses in
the wild fever of play. Money was nothing;
it was thrown away by hundreds, by thousands.
"Give us the film, give us the film! To hell
with the expense!" was the cry. I heard of
small tailors, of street-car motormen, who had
got into the game with a few hundred dollars
and now were millionaires. In six months I was
smiling at my early notion of making fifty
thousand dollars.
Sidney, who was still in vaudeville, came to
Los Angeles about that time, and I met him at
the train with one of the company's big auto-
mobiles. The same old reliable Sidney with
his sound business sense. He had figured out
the trend of affairs and was already negotiat-
ing with the Essanay company for a good con-
tract with them, going deliberately into the
work I had blundered into by accident.
230
"There's a fortune in this if it's handled
right, Charlie," he said.
"A fortune? If this holds out, if I can
keep up my popularity, I'll have a cool half
/>
million before I quit, my lad ! Keep your eye
piped for your Uncle Charlie !" I said gaily.
CHAPTER XXX
In which I see myself as others see me ;
learn many surprising things about myself
from divers sources ; and see a bright
future ahead.
SID laughed.
"Well, have it your way, old top!" he said.
"What will you do when you get your half
million?"
"Do? I'll quit. I'll be satisfied," I said.
"You can't keep 'em coming forever, and I
don't expect it. I'll give them the best I
have as long as I can, and then — curtains!
But I wager we keep out of the Actor's Home,
what?"
Sid laughed again. "There's money in the
movies, Charlie," he said. "Half a million?
You wait a year. Your popularity hasn't be-
gun."
He was right. In a world where so many people
are troubled and unhappy, where women lead
such dreary lives as my mother did when I
was a boy, where men spend their days in
hard unwilling toil and children starve as
I starved in the London slums, laughter is
precious. People want to laugh ; they long to
forget themselves for half an hour in the
hearty-joy of it. Every night on a hundred
thousand motion-picture screens my floppy
shoes and tricky cane and eloquent mustache
were making people laugh, and they remem-
bered them and came to laugh again. Suddenly,
almost overnight, Charlie Chaplin became a
fad, a craze.
232
My first idea of it came one night when I
was returning from a hard day's work at the
studio. It had been a hot day; I had worked
thirteen hours in a mask of grease paint under
the blazing heat of the Southern California
sun intensified by a dozen huge reflectors be-
fore the inexorable click-click-click of the
camera, driven by the necessity of finishing the
reel while the light lasted. My exuberance of
spirit had waned by noon; by four o'clock I
was driving myself by sheer will-power,
doggedly, determinedly being funny. At
seven we finished the reel. At nine we had got
the film in shape in the negative room, and I
had nothing to do till next morning but get my
ideas together for a new comedy.
233
I was slumped in a heap in the tonneau of
the director's car hurrying to my hotel -and
thinking that the American system of built-in
baths had its advantages, when we ran up to a
crowd that almost stopped street traffic. The
sidewalk was jammed for half a block; men
Charlie Chaplins Own Story Page 16
