were standing up in automobiles to get a better
view of whatever was happening. My chauf-
feur stopped.
"What's the row?" I asked one of the men
in the crowd.
"Charlie Chaplin's in there!" he said excit-
edly, jumping on the running-board and cran-
ing his neck to look over the heads of the men
in front of him.
"Really?" I said. I stood up and looked.
There in front of a moving-picture theater was
Charlie Chaplin, sure enough — shoes, baggy
trousers, mustache and all. The chap was
walking up and down as well as he could in the
jam of people, twirling his cane and tripping
over his shoes. Policemen were trying to clear
the sidewalk, but the crowd was mad for a
glimpse of him. I stood there looking at him
with indescribable emotions.
"That's funny," I said after a minute. The
man on the running-board had only half heard
me.
"Funny? I should say he is! He's the
funniest man in America!" he said. "They
say he gets a hundred dollars a day and only
works when he's stewed."
"Well, well! Really!" I said.
234
"I guess that's right, too," he went on. "He
acts like it on the screen, don't he ? Say,
have you seen his latest picture? Man, it's
a knock-out! When he fell into that sewer — !
They faked the sewer, of course, but say — !
I like to of fell out of my seat !"
We had not faked the sewer. It was a thor-
oughly real sewer. Rut I drove on to my
hotel without explaining. The whole situation
was too complex.
Within a week half the motion-picture houses
in Los Angeles had the only original and
genuine Charlie Chaplin parading up and down
before them. I grew so accustomed to meeting
myself on the street that I started in sur-
prise every time I looked into a mirror with-
out my make-up. Overnight, too, a thousand
little figures of Charlie Chaplin in plaster
sprang up and crowded the shop windows. I
could not buy a tooth-brush without reaching
over a counter packed with myself to do it.
...
It was odd, walking up and down the streets,
eating in cafes, hearing Charlie Chaplin talked
about, seeing Charlie Chaplin on every hand
and never being recognized as Charlie Chaplin.
I had a feeling that all the world was cross-
eyed, or that I was a disembodied spirit. But
that did not last long. A plague of reporters
descended on the studios soon, like whatever
it was that fell upon Egypt. Then the world
seemed more topsy-turvy than ever, for here
I was, an actor, dodging reporters !
Not that I have any dislike of reporters.
Indeed, in the old days I asked nothing better
than to get one to listen to me and often
planned for days to capture one's attention.
But that's another of life's little jokes. A
man who tries hard enough for anything will
always get it — after he has stopped wanting
it.
I had to turn out the film, hundreds of feet
of it every week, and it must be made while
the light lasted. The gambling fever had spent
itself in the picture business; directors were
beginning to count costs. To stop my company
half an hour meant a waste of several hundred
dollars. And every morning half a dozen repor-
ters waited for me to give them "Just a few
minutes, Mr. Chaplin!"
I took to dodging in and out of the studio
like a hunted man. Did I stop to give a har-
ried and unwary opinion upon something I knew
nothing whatever about, next Sunday I beheld
with staring eyes a full-page story on my
early life, told in the first person. At last,
in the pressure of getting out two new come-
dies in a hurry, I escaped interviews for
nearly three weeks. We were working overtime;
it was late in the fall, when the weather was
uncertain and the light bad. We would start
at five in the morning to get to our "location"
in the country by sunrise, only to have the
morning foggy. Then we hurried back to the
studio to work under artificial light, and
the afternoon was sunny. It was a hard
nerve-racking three weeks and our tempers
were not improved when, at the end of the
last day, we tried out the negative as usual
and found the camera had leaked light and
ruined nearly a reel of film.
Hurrying off the stage to get a quick sup-
per, so that I could return and make up as
much lost time as possible that night, I en-
countered on the studio steps a thin young
man in a derby, who did not recognize me.
237
"Say, is it true Chaplin's crazy?" he asked.
"Crazy?" I said.
"Yes. He hasn't released a film for over a
month and I can't get hold of him here. They
say he's raving crazy, confined in an asylum."
...
"He is not," I said. Then the humor of the
thing struck me. "He isn't violent yet," I
said, "but he may be, any minute."
Half an hour later two morning papers tele-
phoned the director for confirmation of the
report, which he denied emphatically and pro-
fanely. No story appeared in the papers, but
I have since been solemnly told by a hundred
people who "have it straight" that Chaplin
is, or has been, confined in the California
Hospital for the Insane.
Behind all this flurry of comment and con-
jecture I was working, working hard, turning
out the best film I could devise, with my mind
always on the problem of getting that deep,
hearty chuckle from the audience. I did not
always get it, but I did get laughs. And my
contract with the Keystone company was run-
ning out; I saw still brighter prospects ahead.
CHAPTER XXXI
In which the moving-picture work palls on me;
I make other plans, am persuaded to abandon
them and am brought to the brink of a deal
in high finance.
THE reorganization among the producers of
motion pictures, which followed the era of
mushroom companies sprung up overnight,
making fabulous fortunes, wildly, in the
first scramble for quick profits and going
down again in the general chaos, was still
under way when my contract with the Keystone
company expired.
Millions of laughs, resounding every night
in hundreds of moving-picture theaters had set
producers to bidding for me. I received offers
of incredible sums from some companies ;
lavish promises of stock from others. The
situation, I felt, required the mind of a
financier. I called in Sidney.
After a great deal of consideration, we de-
cided to accept the offer of the Essan
ay com-
pany, as combining in due proportion size of
salary and security of its payment. My con-
tract called for a thousand dollars a day,
also a percentage on my films.
239
A thousand dollars a day! Two hundred
pounds every twenty-four hours! At the
moment of signing the contract a feeling of
unreality came over me. It seemed incredible.
Only five years ago I had been cockily con-
gratulating myself on wringing ten pounds a
week from Carno !
I returned to Los Angeles in the highest
spirits and set to work again. A small com-
pany, three actors and a score of "supers,"
was got together for me. The stage, a rough
board structure large enough for a dozen
" sets", built near the bridge of the street
railway between Los Angeles and Pasadena, was
turned over to me and my company. Here, on a
little side street of tumble-down sheds half
buried in tangles of dusty woods, I shut my-
self in behind the high wooden wall of the
studio through the long hot summer and worked
at being funny.
240
Every morning, as soon as the light was right
for the pictures, I arrived at the studio and
got into my make-up, racking my brain the
while for a funny idea. The company stood
waiting in the white-hot glare of the big
canvas reflectors; the camera was ready;
at the other end of the long-distance wire
the company clamored for film, more film
and still more. I must go out on the stage
and be funny, be funny as long as the light
lasted.
"The whole thing's in your hands, Chaplin,"
the managers said cheerfully. "Give us the
film, that's all we ask."
I gave them the film. All day long, tumbling
down-stairs, falling into lakes, colliding
with moving vans, upsetting stepladders,
sitting in pails of wall-paper paste, I
heard it click-click-clicking past the
camera shutter. At night, in the negative
room, I checked and cut and revised it.
And all the time I searched my mind for
funny ideas.
Now, nothing in the world Is more rare than
an idea, except a funny idea. The necessity
of working out a new one every day, the re-
sponsibility of it and the labor so wore upon
me that by fall I had come to a stern deter-
mination. I would leave the moving pictures.
I would leave them as soon as I had a million
dollars.
"If this keeps up another year I will be a
millionaire," I said to myself one evening,
lying on the cement floor of the basement set,
where I had gone in my search for a cool spot
to rest. "Then I'll quit. I will quit and
write a book. I never have written a book,
and I might as well. But not a funny book.
Ye gods, no!"
After all, I had had my share of the lime-
light, as I had always known, even in my worst
days, that I would some day. I had made my
success on the legitimate stage with William
Gillette. I had made my success and my money
in the moving pictures in America. I was still
in my twenties. "Why not leave the stage
altogether, settle down on some snug little
ranch and write? It might be jolly fun to be
an author. By jove, I'd do it!
My arrangement with the Essanay people had
been for only a year — Sidney's prudent
idea. The contract was expiring in a few
months; already I was receiving offer from
other companies. I would refuse them all;
yes, I would quit with less than a million
dollars. Three-quarters of a million would be
plenty. Lying there on the cool cement floor,
still in my baggy trousers, with the grease
paint on my face, I stretched my legs and
waggled my floppy shoes contentedly. Jove,
the relief of never being funny again!
242
"Charlie, old boy, don't be a gory idiot!" Sid
protested, when I told him my project. "Why,
you can make a fortune at this. Hutchinson,
of the Mutual, is in town right now; I was
talking to him last night. They'll make you
an offer — you can get fifty offers that will
beat anything you've dreamed about. You can
be the highest-paid movie actor in the world."
...
"What's a million more or less, old man?"
I said airily, though I began to waver. "I've
made my pile. I want to write a book."
"How do you know you can write a book?"
Sidney returned. "Of all the bally rot ! D'you
want to go off somewhere and never be heard
of again? Or have you got another notion
that William Gillette's going to take you to
America?"
It was the first time Sidney had ever men-
tioned that affair since the day he had bought
me clothes and so got me out of the London
hospital and taken me home. I had told him
all about it then.
243
It struck me he was probably right. It has
been my experience that he usually is.
"All right," I said. "Your contract's up
with the Essanay, too. Come over and manage
things for me and I'll stay with the moving
pictures."
He agreed and we began to consider which
company I should choose. The moving-picture
business is standardized now; a few big com-
panies practically divide the field between
them. The various departments of the work
have been segregated also, a producing com-
pany turning its films over to a releasing
company which markets them. What we most
desired was to make a connection with a big
releasing company, since if I got a percentage
of the profits which we meant to stand out for,
the marketing of the films was most important.
...
I felt greatly relieved when my contract
expired and I drove away from the studio for
the last time, free for some wrecks from the
obligation of being funny. Sidney was busily
negotiating with several companies, consider-
ing their offers and their advantages from our
view-point. I was idle and care-free ; I might
do what I liked. I whistled cheerfully to my-
self, swinging my cane as I walked down to
dinner that night, facing the prospect before
me with happy anticipation.
In a week I discovered that the one thing I
most wanted to do was to be acting. A thou-
sand bright ideas for comedy situations rushed
into my mind ; I longed to put on my make-up
again, to smell the piny odor of the studio
in the hot sun, to hear the click of the
camera. I looked regretfully at the old
signs on the movie theaters; no new Chaplin
pictures were being released. I was eager
to be back at work.
Each night I discussed more eagerly with
Sidney the different companies we were con-
sidering. At last, after a great many talks
with Mr. Hutchinson, we privately decided on
the Mutual as offering the best advantages.
This decision, however, we prudently refrained
from mentioning until after Mr. Caulfield, the
personal representative of the Mutual's presi-
dent, Mr. Freuler, should come to Los Angeles
and make us a definite money offer.
Mr. Caulfield promptly arrived, and Sidney
undertook the negotiations with him, keeping
me in reserve to bring up at the proper time.
I relied a great deal upon Sidney; I knew
myself entirely capable in handling theatrical
managers, but I had greater confidence in Sid-
ney's handling of business men. I awaited
somewhat nervously my share in the arrange-
ments.
One night my cue came. Sidney telephoned up
from down-stairs. "I'm bringing Caulfield
he said. "He offers ten thousand a week
and royalties. I'm holding out for two hun-
dred and fifty thousand dollars bonus on sign-
ing the contract. Stick at that if you can,
but whatever you do, don't take less than one
hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars."
CHAPTER XXXII
In which I see success in my grasp; proudly
consider the heights to which I have climbed;
and receive an unexpected shock.
SIDNEY came in a moment later, bringing Mr.
Caulfield. Like Mr. Hutchinson, like, indeed,
most of the men handling the affairs of the
big motion-picture corporations, Mr. Caulfield
is a keen, quick-witted business man. Producing
and selling moving-picture films is now a busi-
ness as matter of fact as dealing in stocks and
bonds ; there is nothing of the theatrical man-
ager about the men who control it.
"Well, Mr. Chaplin, your brother and I have
been reaching an agreement about your contract
with us," he said briskly. "We will give you
a salary of ten thousand dollars a week
and royalties that should double that figure."
He mentioned the per cent, agreed upon, as I
assented.
"More than that, we are planning to create
a separate producing company, subsidiary to
the Mutual, which will be its releasing com-
pany, and to call the new concern the Lone
Star company — you to be the lone star. The
new company will build its own studios at
Santa Barbara, and it will give you the finest
supporting cast that money can hire." He
mentioned a few of the actors he had in mind,
and I agreed heartily to his suggestions. They
Charlie Chaplins Own Story Page 17
