Charlie Chaplins Own Story

Chaplin, Charlie

Unknown (2011)

Product Description

This illustrated biography, a true "rags to riches" story, was published in 1916.

Being the faithful recital of a romantic career, beginning with
the early recollections of boyhood in London and closing with
the signing of his latest motion-picture contract.

CHARLIE CHAPLIN'S

OWN STORY

BEING THE FAITHFUL RECITAL OF A ROMANTIC CAREER,

BEGINNING WITH EARLY RECOLLECTIONS OF BOY-

HOOD IN LONDON AND CLOSING WITH THE

SIGNING OF HIS LATEST MOTION-

PICTURE CONTRACT

- Illustrated with Photographs -

Copyright 1916

The Bobbs-Merrill Company

The subject of this biography takes great

pleasure in expressing his obligations and

his thanks to Mrs. Rose Wilder Lane for her

valuable editorial assistance.

CONTENTS

Chapter Page

I.

In which I relate my experiences up to the

age of five; and describe the occasion of

my first public appearance on any stage... 11

II.

In which I make my first public appearance

on the stage and my first success; and

meet the red-faced man... 19

III.

In which I join the clog dancers; fail to

get the cream tarts; and incur the wrath of

Mr. Hawkins... 26

IV.

In which I feel very small and desolate;

encounter once more the terrible wrath of

Mr. Hawkins; and flee from it into the

unknown perils of a great and fearful

world... 34

V.

In which I have an adventure with a cow;

become a lawless filcher of brandy-snaps;

and confound an honest farmer ... 43

VI.

In which I come home again; accustom my-

self to going to bed hungry; and have an

unexpected encounter with my father... 50

VII.

In which I see my father for the last

time; learn that real tragedy is silent; and

go out into the world to make my own way...57

VIII.

In which I take lodgings in a barrel and

find that I have invaded a home; learn some-

thing about crime; and forgot that I was

to share in nefarious profits ... 6O

IX.

In which I trick a Covent Garden co-star;

get glorious news from Sidney; and make a

sad trip to the hospital...71

X. In which Sidney comes home to find father

dead, mother too ill to recognize him and

me half starved and in rags .... 81

XI.

In which I vainly make the rounds of the

theatrical agents; almost go to sea; and

at last get the chance for which I have

long been yearning ... 88

XII.

In which I rehearse the part of the boy

hero of the thrilling melodrama. From Rags

to Riches; and start off on a tour of the

provinces ... 96

XIII.

In which I encounter the difficulties

of a make-up box; make my first appearance

in drama; and learn the emptiness of suc-

cess with no one to share it ... 103

XIV.

In which I taste the flavor of success;

get unexpected word from my mother; and

face new responsibilities ... 110

XV.

In which I understand why other people

fall; burn my bridges behind me; and re-

ceive a momentous telegram ... 117

XVI.

In which I journey to London; meet and

speak with a wax-works figure; and make

my first appearance in a great theater...125

XVII.

In which I play with a celebrated actor;

dare to look at the royal box; pay a pen-

alty for my awful crime; gain favor with

the public; and receive a summons from

another famous star ... 133

XVIII.

In which I refuse an offer to play in

the provinces; make my final appearance as

Billy at the Duke of York's Theater; and

suffer a bitter disappointment ... 140

XIX.

In which my fondest hopes are shattered

by cold reality; I learn the part played by

luck on the Strand; and receive an unex-

pected appeal for help ... 147

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 ... 154

XXI.

In which I encounter the inexorable

rules of a London hospital, causing much

consternation; fight a battle with pride;

and unexpectedly enter an upsetting situation

...162

XXII.

In which I attempt to be serious and am

funny instead; seize the opportunity to

get a raise in pay; and again consider

coming to America ... 170

XXIII.

In which I startle a promoter; dream a great

triumph in the land of skyscrapers and

buffalo; and wait long for a message ... 178

XXIV.

In which I discover many strange things

in that strange land, America; visit San

Francisco for the first time; and meet an

astounding reception in the offices of a

cinematograph company ... 186

XXV.

In which I find that the incredible has hap-

pened; burn my bridges behind me and

penetrate for the first time the myste-

rious regions behind the moving-picture

film ...194

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 ... 201

XXVII.

In which, much against my will, I eat

three cherry pies; see myself for the first

time on a moving-picture screen and discover

that I am a hopeless failure on the films..209

XXVIII.

In which I introduce an innovation in

motion-picture production; appropriate an

amusing mustache; and wager eighty dollars

on three hours' work ...217

XXIX.

In which I taste success in the movies;

develop a new aim in life; and form an am-

bitious project ... 225

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 ... 232

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 ... 239

XXXII.

In which I see success in my grasp;

proudly consider the heights to which I have

climbed; and receive an unexpected shock

... 247

XXXIII.

In which I realize my wildest dreams

of fortune; ponder on the comedy tricks of

life and conclude without reaching any

conclusion ... 253

CHAPTER I

In which I relate my experiences up to the

age of five; and describe the occasion of my

first public appearance on any stage.

LIFE itself is a comedy — a slap-stick comedy

at that. It is always hitting you over the head

with the unexpected. You reach to get the

thing you want — slap ! hang ! It's gone ! You

strike at your enemy and hit a friend. You

walk confidently, and fall. Whether it is trag-

edy or comedy depends on how you look at it.

There is not a hair's breadth between them.

...

When I was eleven years old, homeless and

starving in London, I had big dreams. I was

a precocious youngster, full of imagination

and fancies and pride. My dream was to be-

come a great musician, or an actor like Booth.

Here I am to-day, becoming a millionaire be-

cause I wear funny shoes. Slap-stick comedy,

what?

11

Still, there is not much laughter in the

world, and a lot of that is cynical. As long

as I can keep people laughing good chuckling

laughs I shall be satisfied. I can't keep it

up long, of course. The public is like a child;

it gets tired of its toys and throws them away.

When that happens I shall do something else,

and still be satisfied. I always knew that some

day I would have my share of the spot-light,

and I am having it, so after all I have realized

my ambitions.

My mother is proud of it. That is another

of life's slap-stick comedies — that my mother,

one of the proudest, most gentle women in

England, should hope for twenty years that

some day I would be a great tragic actor, and

now should lie in an English hospital, glad

that I am greeted with howls of laughter when-

ever I appear in comedy make-up on the mov-

ing-picture screen.

When I was two or three years old my mother

began to be proud of my acting. After she

and my father came back from their work

in the London music-halls they used to have

little parties of friends for supper, and

father would come and pull me out of bed to

stand on the table and recite for them.

12

My father was a great, dark, handsome man.

He would put me upon his shoulder to bring

me out, and I did not like it, because his

rough prickly cheek hurt me. Then he would

set me upon the table in my nightgown, with

the bright lights hurting my eyes, and every

one would laugh and tell me to sing for the

drops of wine in their glasses. I always did,

and the party applauded and laughed and called

for more. I could mimic every one I had ever

seen and sing all the songs I had heard.

They would keep me doing it for hours, un-

til I got so sleepy I could not stand up and

fell over among the dishes. Then mother

picked me up and carried me to bed again.

I remember just how her hair fell down over

the pillow as she tucked me in. It was brown

hair, very soft and perfumed, and her face was

so full of fun it seemed to sparkle. That was

in the early days, of course.

I do not know my mother's real name. She came

of a good respected family in London, and when

she was sixteen she ran away and married my

father, a music-hall actor. She never heard

from her own people again. She drifted over

England and the Continent with my father,

and went on the music-hall stage herself.

They never made much money, and my father

spent it all. Most of the time we lived

very poorly, in actors' lodgings, and my

mother worried about food for us. Then there

would he a streak of luck, and we all had new

clothes and lived lavishly for a few days.

13

My brother Sidney was four years old when I

was born in a little town in France, between

music-hall engagements. As soon as my

mother could travel we went back to London,

and she went to work again. Her stage name

was Lillie Harley, and she was very popular

in English music-halls, where she sang char-

acter songs. She had a beautiful sweet voice,

but she hated the stage and the life. Some-

times at night she came into my bed and cried

herself to sleep with her arms around me, and

I was so miserable that I wanted to scream,

but I did not dare, for fear of waking my

father.

He was Charles Chaplin, the singer of descrip-

tive ballads. His voice was a fine baritone,

and he was a great music-hall success and

is still remembered in England. My mother

and he were always laughing and singing to-

gether, and my mother was very fond of him,

but a little afraid, too. When he was angry

she grew white and her hands shook. She had

thin delicate hands, which reminded me of the

claws of some little bird when she dressed me.

14

In spite of the hit-and-miss life we led,

always moving from town to town, and my

mother's hard work on the stage and our lack

of money, she took pride in keeping my brother

and me beautifully dressed. At night, after

her music-hall work was done and the party

had gone, I woke and saw her pressing out

our little white Eton collars and brushing our

suits, while every one was asleep.

One day, when I was about five years old,

Sidney and I were playing on the floor when

my mother came in, staggering. I thought

she was drunk. I had seen so many persons

drunk it was commonplace to me, but seeing

my mother that way was horrible. I opened

my mouth and screamed in terror. I screamed

and screamed ; it seemed as if I could not

stop.

Sidney ran out of the room. My mother did not

look at me; she stumbled across the room and

tried to take off her hat. All her hair came

tumbling down over her face, and she fell on

the bed.

15

After a while I crawled over and touched

her hand, which hung down. It was cold, and

it frightened me so I could not make a sound.

I backed under the bed, little by little,

until I reached the wall, and sat there,

still, staring at my mother's hand.

After a long time the door opened and I

saw my father's boots walk in. I heard him

swearing. The boots came over and stood by

the bed. I smelled whisky, and after a while

I heard my mother's voice, very weak.

"Don't be a hysterical fool. You've got to

work to-night. We need the money," my

father said.

"I can't. I'm not up to it. I'm sick," I

heard my mother say, sobbing.

My father's boots stamped up and down the

room.

"Well, I'll take Charlie, then," he said.

"Where's the brat?"

I backed closer to the wall, and kept still.

With no reason, I was terrified. Then the

door opened again, my father's boots tramped

out and down the stairs, and I heard my

mother calling me. I came slowly out from

under the bed.

16

My mother said she wanted me to go on the

stage in her place that night and sing my very

best. I said I would. Then she had me bring

her a little new coat she had made for me, and

a fresh collar. She still lay on the bed, and

my chin barely came above the edge of it, so

it took her a long time to dress me and to get

my hair combed to suit her. She was still busy

with it when my father came back.

Then she kissed me in a hurry and told me

to do my best. My father took my hand and

we started to the music-hall. We were at Al-

dershot, a garrison town, and soldiers were

everywhere. I kept tipping my head back to

see their uniforms as they passed us, and my

father was jerking me along at such a rate my

neck nearly snapped in two.

We were late when we reached the music-

hall. I had never seen one before ; my mother

had always put us to bed before she went to

work. My father took me down a little alley,

through a bare dim place, to one end of the

stage. I saw a big crowd on the other side

of it — just hundreds of heads massed together.

There were music and noise, and the stage was

a glare of light.

17

A girl in tights and shiny spangles came

and put grease paint on my cheeks, and when

I wanted to rub it off they would not let me.

Then it was time for my mother's act, and my

father faced me toward the stage and gave me

a little push.

"Go out and sing Jack Jones" he said.

CHAPTER II

In which I make my first public appearance

on the stage and my first success ; and

meet the red-faced man.

I WALKED uncertainly out on the stage. The

glare of the lights dazzled me so I stumbled.

The stage seemed a great empty place, and

I felt little and alone. I did not know just

what to do, but my father had told me to go

out and sing Jack Jones, and I did not dare

go back until I had done it.

There was a great uproar beyond the foot-

lights, and it confused me more, until I saw

that the people were laughing and applauding.

Then I remembered my singing on the table,

with people all around and noise and light, and

I saw that this was the same thing. I opened

my mouth and sang Jack Jones with all my

might.

It was an old coster song my father had

taught me. I sang one verse and started on

the second, hurrying to get through. I was

not afraid of the crowd, but the stage got big-

ger and I got littler every minute, and I

wanted to be with my mother.

19

There was a great noise which interrupted

my song, and something hit me on the cheek.

I stopped singing with my mouth open on a

note, and something else hit the floor by my

feet, and then a shower of things fell on the

stage and one struck my arm. The audience

was throwing them at me.

I backed away a little, terrified, but I went

on singing as well as I could, with my face

quivering and a big lump in my throat. I

knew I had to finish the song because my

father had told me to. Great tears came up

in my eyes, and I ducked my head and rubbed

at them with my knuckles, and then I saw the

floor of the stage. It was almost covered with

pennies and shillings. Money ! It was money

they were throwing at me!

"Oh! Wait, wait!" I shouted, and went

down on my hands and knees to gather it up.

"It's money! Wait just a minute!"

I got both hands full of it, and still there

was more. I crawled around, picking it up

and putting it in my pockets and shouted at

the audience, "Walt till I get it all and I'll

sing a lot !"

20

It was a great hit. People laughed and

shouted and climbed on their seats to throw

more money. It kept falling around me, roll-

ing across the stage, while I ran after it,

shouting with joy. I filled all my pockets

and put some in my hat. Then I stood up and

sang Jack Jones twice, and would have sung it

again, but my father came out on the stage

and led me off.

I had almost three pounds in six-penny

pieces, shillings, and even a few half-crowns.

I sat on a box and played with it while my

father did his act. I could not count it, but

I knew it was money, and I felt rich. Then

we went home, where my father set me upon

the bed beside my mother, and I poured the

money over her, laughing. She laughed, too,

and my father took the money and bought us

all a great feast, and let me drink some of the

ale. I remember how I crowed over Sidney

that night.

My mother was able to go back to work next

day, and Sidney and I were left in the rooms

again. There was a quarrel before she

went; my father swore, and mother cried and

stamped her foot. She said, "No! No! No!

He's too little yet." And I knew they were

talking about me, and crawled away into a

corner, where I kept very still.

21

After that I think we grew poorer and

poorer. There were no more parties at night.

My mother would come in alone, and when she

waked me, tucking me in, I felt so sad it

seemed as if my heart would break, because

her face did not sparkle any more. Sidney

and I played about in the daytime, and kept

out of father's way. When he came in his

face was red, and his breath was hot and strong

with whisky. He used to throw himself on the

bed without a word to mother and fall asleep

with his mouth open. Then Sidney and I went

quietly out and played on the stairs. Sidney

was a wide-awake lively young person, always

running about and shouting "Ship ahoy !" He

wanted to be a sailor. I could not play with

him long because it tired me. I liked to get

into a corner by myself and think and dream

of things I had seen and what I would do some

day — vague dreams of making music and

wearing velvet suits and bowing to immense

audiences and having cream tarts for every

meal and six white ponies to drive.

22

The worry and the unhappiness which

seemed to grow like a cloud around us in those

years made me sit sometimes and cry quietly

to myself, not knowing why, but feeling mis-

erable and sad. Then my great dreams faded

and I felt little and lonely, and not even my

mother could comfort me.

So I came to be about ten years old, and all

my memories of the years between my first ap-

pearance on the stage and the day I met the

red-faced man are vague recollections of these

dreams and hurried trips from place to place,

and the unhappiness, and my mother's face

growing sadder. Then I remember clearly the

night I went with her to the music-hall in Lon-

don and ran away with the clog dancers.

My mother took me with her because when

it was time for her to go to work she could not

find Sidney. He was almost fourteen and

played a great deal in the streets, and used

to go away for the whole day sometimes, which

worried my mother. But she had to work and

could not be with us or keep us together. It

is my impression that my father was making

very little money then, and spending all he got

in bars, as he was a very popular man and had

many friends who wanted him to drink with

them. I know that we were living in very poor

lodgings, and my mother cried sometimes when

the landlady asked her for the rent.

23

I remember on this day standing beside my

mother and watching a troupe of clog dancers

who were working on the stage. Mother was

wearing her stage dress, waiting to go on for

her act, and she kept asking me where I had

seen Sidney last, but I could hardly listen. I

knew how to clog dance, for Sidney and I had

done it with the boys in the streets, and I was

impatient because my mother had her hand on

my shoulder, and I wanted to do the steps with

the others. I squirmed away from her and

began dancing by myself. I did all the diffi-

cult steps very proudly, and when the music

stopped I saw that my mother looked proud,

too. I looked around to see if any one else

was admiring me, and saw the red-faced man.

...

He was standing behind my mother, a fat

man, with a double chin, and a wart on one of

his lower eyelids. It fascinated me so I could

not take my eyes from it. When my mother

went on for her act I still stood staring at it.

24

"I say, you're lively on your feet, young fel-

ler," he said to me. "Could you do that every

day, say?"

"Oh, yes, I like to do it," I said.

"Would you like to come along, now, with

a nice troupe of fine little boys and do

it for a fortnight or so?" he asked.

"What's the screw?" I said, looking shrewd,

as I had seen my father do. He laughed.

"Three six a week," he said, "all for your

own pocket money. And I'll buy you a velvet

suit, and you can eat hearty — meat pies and

pudding every meal."

"And cream tarts?" I stipulated.

"Up to your eyes in cream tarts if you like,"

He said. "Come now, will you do it?"

"Yes," I answered promptly.

"All right, come along," he said, and led me

out of the music-hall.

CHAPTER III

In which I join the clog dancers ; fail to

get the cream tarts; and incur the wrath of

Mr. Hawkins.

WAITING just inside the door to the alley were

the five boys who had been clog dancing. They

were huddled together, not playing or talking,

and when the red-faced man led me up to them

they looked at me curiously, without a word.

Each one had his stage dress in a brown paper

bundle under his arm, and in the gas light they

looked ragged and tired.

"This 'ere's the new little boy what's a-going

to come with us," said the red-faced man, hold-

ing my hand so tight it hurt, and I squirmed.

...

The other boys did not say a word. They

looked at me, and all those staring eyes made

me uncomfortable.

"Speak up, there!" roared the man suddenly,

and they all jumped. "Say 'Yes, sir, yes, Mr.

'Awkins,' when I speak to you!"

"Yes, sir, yes, Mr. 'Awkins!" they all said.

26

"Now step up, young fellers; we're going

to our nice 'ome and 'ave cream tarts for our

supper," Mr. Hawkins said. He nodded to

the stage doorkeeper, a silent whiskered man

who sat smoking a pipe, and we all filed out

through the dark little alley into the street.

...

It was a cold foggy night. The street lamps

were weird ghostly-looking blurs in the mist,

and our steps sounded hollow and muffled. I

had never been out so late before, and the

strange look of things in the fog and the emp-

tiness of the streets, with only a cab rat-

tling by now and then, made me shiver.

The boys walked ahead, and Mr. Hawkins

and I followed close behind. We walked for

a long time, till my legs began to ache and

my fingers stopped hurting and grew numb in

Mr. Hawkins' hard grip. My mind was all

a-muddle and confused, so that the only thing

I thought of clearly was my mother, and how

pleased she would be when I came home again

rich, with three and sixpence and a velvet suit.

...

We came at last to a doorway with a lamp

burning dimly over it, and Mr. Hawkins

herded the boys into it. A very fat dirty

woman opened the door and said something

shrill to us. Then we climbed many flights of

dark stairs, and Mr. Hawkins let go my hand

to open a door.

27

A damp musty smell came out as we stum-

bled in. It was a poor dirty room, furnished

with two beds and a long table with chairs

about it.

"Well, 'ere we are 'ome!" said Mr. Hawkins

cheerfully. "Now for a nice 'ot supper, what!"

The boys did not say a word. They sat down

and watched him, looking now and then at the

door. I rubbed my aching fingers and looked

at him, too. The wart was still there on his

lower eyelid, and I could not take my eyes

from it.

After a while the fat woman came in with

our supper — chops and ale for Mr. Hawkins;

plates of porridge and thick slices of bread for

us. The boys all fell to eating hungrily, but

I pushed my plate back and looked at Mr.

Hawkins, who was eating his chops and drink-

ing his ale with great enjoyment.

"Where are the cream tarts?" I asked him.

"Cream tarts! Who ever 'card of cream

tarts for supper?" he shouted. "Cream tarts!"

He chuckled and repeated it over and over,

till I felt ashamed and confused. Then he

thrust his great red face almost against mine

and roared in a terrible voice, "That's enough,

young feller I'll cream tart you! I'll jolly

well cream tart you !" I shrank into my chair,

frightened.

"You don't want cream tarts," he said.

"You want a caning. You want a good hard

caning, don't you?"

"No, sir," I said. "Oh, no, sir, please."

"Oh, you don't, don't you? Yes, you do.

You want a caning, that's what you want.

Where's my cane?" he roared in a frightful

voice. I crouched in my chair in such terrible

fear I could not even cry out until his great

hand gripped my shoulder. Then I shrieked

in agony.

He only shook me and flung me back in the

chair, but from that moment I lived in terror

of him — a terror that colored everything dur-

ing the day and at night made my dreams hor-

rible. The other boys were afraid of him, too.

When he was with us we sat silent and wary,

looking at him. He used to swing his cane

as he walked up and down the room in the

evenings, and we watched it in fearful fascina-

tion, though I do not remember that he ever

caned one of us. It was the constant fear of

his doing it that was so terrible. Sometimes

when he had locked us in the room and gone

away in the morning the boldest boys used to

make fantastic threats of the things they would

do to him when he returned, but they said them

under their breath, with an eye on the door,

and the rest of us quaked as we listened.

29

In the evenings we were marched out before

him to music-halls. These music-halls were

different from the ones my mother sang in.

They were large rooms, with rough wooden

benches and tables arranged around a square

in the center, where we danced. The air was

thick with tobacco smoke and heavy with the

smell of ale and stout, and the ugly bearded

faces of hundreds of men staring at us con-

fused me sometimes so that I could hardly

dance. I was so little, so weary from hunger

and the constant fear of Mr. Hawkins, that

my feet felt too heavy to lift in the hard

steps, and my head swam in the glare of the

lights. I wanted so much to crawl away to

a quiet dark place where I could rest and

feel my mother's hand tucking in the covers,

that sometimes I sobbed as I danced, but I

never stopped nor missed a step ; I did not

dare.

30

For all the pain and fear in my childish heart

I did the steps very well, so that often the

crowd cheered "the young 'un" and called for

more. Then, while they shouted and banged

their mugs of ale on the tables, I would

wearily dance again and again, until all my

body ached. Sometimes they threw money to me,

and then, after they let me go at last, Mr.

Hawkins would go through my pockets for it

and rap my head with his knuckles, under the

suspicion that I had concealed some.

All my memory of those weeks is colored by

my terror of him. It never left me. When

he was in the room I got as far as possible

from him and sat quite still, staring at his

face and the wart on his eyelid and his great

cane. When he was gone I sat and brooded about

him and shivered. At the table, hungry as I

was, I could not swallow my porridge under

the gaze of his awful eye.

At last one night when we reached the music-

hall where we were to dance we found it in

great uproar. The audience was standing on

benches and tables and shouting, "Slug 'im!"

Slug 'im! Slug 'im!" in horrible waves of

sound. In the center, where we were to dance,

two men were fighting.

31

Mr. Hawkins pushed us before him through

the crowd to a place close to them. I saw their

strong naked bodies glistening under the gas

flare and heard the terrible smashing blows.

There was a sweetish sickening smell in the air

which made me feel ill, and the roar of the

crowd terrified me. Then one of the men

reeled, staggered backward and fell. He was

close to me and I saw his face, a shapeless

mass of flesh, with no eyes, covered with

blood, with blood running from the open mouth.

The horror of it struck my childish mind so,

after all those weeks of terror, that I fainted.

...

I was revived in time to dance, and the

crowd, excited by the fight, threw us a great

deal of money. When he searched my pockets

at the door, Mr. Hawkins stooped low, put his

great face almost against mine and swore, but

he did not rap me with his knuckles. I was

in a kind of stupor, quivering all over, and

could not walk, so he put me up on his shoul-

der, as my father used to do, and started home.

...

A long time afterward I knew I was standing

between his knees, while he tipped my head

back and looked closely at me.

"Hingratitude, that's wot it is," he said

fiercely. "Speak up, young 'un. Don't you

'ave a-plenty to eat of good 'olesome porridge?

Don't you 'ave a good kind master wot never

canes yer?"

"Oh, yes, sir," I said, in a panic of fear.

...

"Then don't you go a-being ungrateful, and

a-dying on my 'ands, like young Jim done,"

he roared at me furiously. "You 'ear? Stub-

bornness, that's wot it is. I won't 'ave it!"

CHAPTER IV

In which I feel very small and desolate;

encounter once more the terrible wrath of

Mr. Hawkins ; and flee from it into the

unknown perils of a great and fearful world.

...

"IT'S stubbornness, that's wot it is! I won't

'ave it!" Mr. Hawkins said fiercely, and

reached for his cane.

I struggled in the grip of his great knees,

and cried in terror that I did not mean it, I

was sorry, I would be good. I begged him not

to beat me. Even when he let me go I could

not stop screaming.

It must have been some time next day that

I woke in a hot tumbled bed. I thought my

mother had been there, with her hair falling

over the pillow and her face all sparkling with

fun. I put up my arms with a cry, and she

was gone. A strange ugly girl, with a broom

in her hand, was leaning over me.

"Coom, coom," she said crossly, shaking my

shoulder. "Wark's to be done. No time to be

lyin' a-bed."

I struggled to get away from her heavy

hand, and sobbed that I wanted my mother,

I wanted to go home. I was so little and so

miserable and weary- that the grief of missing

my mother seemed almost to break my heart.

...

"She's gone," the girl said, still pulling at

me. "She willna be vexed wi' a girt boy, weep-

ing like a baaby."

"No ! No !" I screamed at her. "My mother

hasn't gone away. "My mother hasn't left me."

"Yus, she has," the girl told me. "She's

gone."

I let her lift me from the bed then, and sat

limp on the floor where she put me, leaning

my aching head against the bedpost. All my

childish courage and hope was gone, and I was

left very little and alone in a terrible black

world where my mother did not care for me

any more. I sat there desolate, with great

tears running down my cheeks, and did not

wish to stir or move or ever see any one again.

...

Long hours later, after it had been dark a

long time, Mr. Hawkins came in with the boys,

and I had no strength even to fear him. When

he roared at me I still sat there and only trem-

bled and turned my head away. I remember

his walking up and down and looking at me

a long time, and I remember his holding a mug

of ale to my lips and making me swallow some,

but everything was confused and vague, and

I did not care for anything, only wanting to be

left alone.

It may have been the next day, or several

days later, that we were all walking over rough

cobbled streets, very early in the morning, in

a cold thick fog. I walked unsteadily, because

my legs felt limp, and Mr. Hawkins held my

hand tight, so that my arm ached. We were

all going to a fair in the country. I was in-

terested in that, because my mother had once

taken Sidney and me to a meadow, where we

all played in the grass and found cowslips and

ate cakes from a basket under a tree.

After we had walked a long time Mr. Hawkins

took us into an eating-house, where we had a

breakfast of sausages and I drank a big mug

of hot coffee. When we came out the sun was

shining and we walked down a wide white road,

past many great houses with grass and trees

about them. I had never imagined such places,

and with the delight of seeing them, and the

sunlight and the good breakfast,

36

I felt better, and thought I could walk by my-

self if Mr. Hawkins would let go my hand,

though I dared not speak of it.

As we walked on, the road grew busy with

carriages coming and going and farmers' wag-

ons coming in to market, and after a time a

coster's cart overtook us, and Mr. Hawkins

bargained with the driver to carry us.

Then I began to be almost happy again, as I

sat in the back of the cart with my legs dan-

gling and saw the road unrolling backward be-

tween the wheels. It was a warm morning;

the road was thick with white dust, and the

smell of it and of the green fields, to which

we came presently, and all the country sights

and sounds, were pleasant. We drove for miles

between the hedgerows, and I grew quite ex-

cited looking for the five-barred gates in them,

through which we caught glimpses of the farms

on either side. So at last we came to Barnett,

where the fair was to be.

The village looked bright and clean, with red

brick buildings standing close to the narrow

street, and shining white cobblestones.

We all climbed down before the inn, and I

looked eagerly for meadows, but there were

none. Mr. Hawkins hurried us to the field

where the fair had already begun. It was

crowded with tents and people, and there was

a great noise of music and shouting and cries

of hokey-pokey men and venders.

37

"Step lively now, young 'uns," ordered Mr.

Hawkins in an awful voice. " Ustle into them

velveteen smalls, and get your jackets on in a

'urry, or I'll show you wot's wot!"

We dressed in mad haste in a little tent,

and he had us into a larger one and hard at

work dancing in no time. We heard his voice

outside, shouting loud over the uproar of the

crowd, " 'Ere! 'Ere! This way for the Lunnon

clog dancers! Only a penny! See the grite

Lunnon clog dancers!" A few people came in,

then more, and more, till the tent was full

of them, coming and going.

It was hard work dancing; my feet felt heavy

to lift and my stomach ached with hunger, but

I did not dare stop a minute. I danced on and

on, in that hot and stuffy place, with a fearful

eye on the tent-flap, where now and again

Mr. Hawkins' red face appeared and glared at

us, and we saw his hand with the cane gripped

in it.

38

Over and over we did the steps, while the

tent grew hotter, and laughing people came

and stared and went away, until my breath

came in gasps and my head swam and grew

large, and larger, and then very tiny again,

in a most confusing manner. Then everything

went black and I must have fallen, for Mr.

Hawkins was shaking me where I lay on the

ground, and saying to some one, " 'E's all

right. 'E's only wilful; 'e wants a good can-

ing, 'e does.'"

After that I was dancing again, but I did

not see the crowd any more. I only danced,

and longed for the time when I might stop.

...

It came after a long, long while. The tent

was cooler and empty when Mr. Hawkins came

in and took me by the shoulder, and my head

cleared so that I saw I need dance no more.

My weary muscles gave way and I sat on the

floor, looking at him fearfully while he

wiped his face with his handkerchief.

"You, with yer woite faces!" he roared

hoarsely. " 'Ow many times 'ave I told yer

to look cheery while you dance? I've a mind

to cane the lot of yer!" We trembled. "But

I won't," he said, after a dreadful pause.

"We're all a-goin' hover to the inn and 'ave

bread and cheese."

39

He took my hand again and we dragged

wearily over to the inn, a bright clean place,

with sawdust on the floor. It was crowded

with men, and they greeted us with loud voices

as we came in,

" 'Ere's the Lunnon clog dancers, come to

dance for bread and cheese," Mr. Hawkins said

cheerfully. He looked at the barmaid, who

nodded, and a place was cleared for us to begin

our weary dancing again.

My tired little legs would hardly hold me

up, and I stumbled in the steps. Under the

terrible eye of Mr. Hawkins I did my best,

panting with fear, but I could not dance. I

stopped at last, and leaned against the bar.

Mr. Hawkins reached for me, but as I shrank

back with a cry I felt warm arms around me.

It was the barmaid who held me, and after

one look at her red cheeks, so close, I began

to cry on her shoulder.

"Pore little dear, 'e's tired," she said, hold-

ing me tight from Mr. Hawkins. " 'E shall

'ave his bread and cheese without 'is dancing."

40

" 'E's a wilful, perverse hungrateful

creetur!" Mr. Hawkins said, but she did not

seem to mind. She took me behind the bar

and gave me a scorching drink of something

and a great piece of bread which I was

too weary to eat. Afterward Mr. Hawkins

took me back to the fair, jerking me furiously

along by the arm. He took me to the little

tent where we had dressed and put me inside.

...

"I'll tike the 'ide off you when I come back,"

he said hoarsely, bending to bring his red face

close to mine. "I'll give you a caning wot is

a caning, I will. I've been too gentle with you,

I 'ave. You stay 'ere, and wait."

With these dreadful words and a horrible

oath he went away, and I could hear him shout-

ing before the other tent above the sounds of

the evening's merrymaking. "'Ere! 'Ere!

This way to the Lunnon clog dancers! Only

a penny!"

I was left in such a state of misery and

wretchedness, shaking with such fear, that

not even my great weariness would let me

sleep. I sat there in the dark for a long

time, trembling, and then, driven by terror

of Mr. Hawkins' return, I crawled beneath

the edge of the tent and set out blindly to

get beyond the reach of his voice.

41

When I came to the edge of the crowd I ran

as fast as I could.

CHAPTER V

In which I have an adventure with a cow; become

a lawless filcher of brandy-snaps ; and confound

an honest farmer.

I RAN for a long time in the darkness, blindly,

not caring where I went, only that I escaped

from Mr. Hawkins. The pounding of my heart

shook me as I plunged across fields and

scrambled under gates in my way, until at last

I came to a corner of two hedges, and had no

strength to go farther. I curled myself into

as small a space as possible, close to the

hedges, and lay there. It seemed to me that

I was hidden and safe, and I was quite content

as I went to sleep.

Early in the morning I was awakened by a

curious swishing noise, and saw close to my

face the great staring eyes of a strange animal.

It was a cow, but I had never seen one, and I

thought it was one of the giants my mother

had told about. I saw its tongue, lapping up

about its nose, and as I stared it licked my

face. The moist sandpapery feeling of it

startled me and I howled.

43

At the sound it backed away with a snort,

and so we remained, staring at each other for

a long time. It was a bright morning, with

birds singing in the hedgerows, and if it had

not been for my hunger and an uneasiness lest

the cow meant to lick me again I would have

been quite happy, so far from Mr. Hawkins.

...

Then between me and the cow came a woman

with a big bucket on her arm, carrying a three-

legged stool. Quite fearlessly she slapped the

great animal, and it turned meekly and stood,

while she sat on the stool and began to milk.

It was the strangest thing I had ever seen,

and I went over to her side and stood watching

the thin white stream pattering on the bottom

of the bucket. She gave a great start and cried

out in surprise when she saw me.

"Lawk a mussy!" she said, and sat with her

mouth open. I must have been a strange sight

in that farmyard, a thin little child — for I

was only ten and very small for that age —

in velveteen smalls and a round jacket with

tinsel braid on it.

44

"Where did you coom from?" she asked.

"I come from London. I am an actor," I

said importantly. "What are you doing?" and

pointed to the bucket.

She laughed at that and seeing, I suppose,

that I looked hungry, she held the bucket to

my lips, and I tasted the fresh warm milk. I

drank every drop, in great delight. I had

never tasted anything so delicious before.

...

"Are you hungry?" she asked me, and I told

her solemnly, believing it, that I had had

nothing to eat for a week. Her consternation

at that was so great she dropped the bucket,

but hastily picking it up, she sat down and

milked again until she had another huge draught

for me. Then she finished the milking in a

hurry and took me into the farmhouse kitchen,

a bright place, with shining pans on the wall

and a pleasant smell of cooking.

The tale I told the farmer's wife I do not

remember, but she took me up in her arms, say-

ing, "Poor little lad! Poor little lad!" over

and over, while she felt my thin arms, and I

squirmed, for I did not like to be pitied, and

besides, I saw the breakfast on the table and

wished she would let me have some. When she

set me down before it at last I could hardly

wait to begin, while, to my surprise, she tied

a napkin around my neck.

45

It was a mighty breakfast — porridge and

eggs, with a rasher of bacon and marmalade,

and the maid who had milked the cow was cut-

ting great slices of crusty bread and butter.

But before I had taken up a spoon the farmer

came in. He was a big bluff man, and at sight

of me he began to ask questions in a loud voice.

...

"Well, my lad, where did you come from?"

he said.

"From the fair, sir," I answered, eager to

be at the food, and not thinking what I said.

"Oh, 'e's the little lad wi' the clog dancers

I told you of, Mary," he said. "Gi' him break-

fuss, if you like, and I'll be takin' him back

to his master as I go to the village."

At the terrible thought of Mr. Hawkins,

whom I had almost forgotten, panic took me.

I sat there trembling for a second, and then,

before a hand could be reached to stay me, I

leaped from my chair and fled from the kitchen,

through the farmyard and out the gate, the

napkin fluttering at my neck. A long way

down the lane I stopped, panting, and looked

to see if any one was following me. No one

was.

46

I wandered on for some time, growing hungrier

with every step and regretting passionately

the loss of that great breakfast before I

saw the girl with the brandy-snaps. She was

a fat round-cheeked little girl, with her

hair in braids, and she was swinging on a gate,

humming to herself and nibbling a cookie.

Others were piled on the gatepost beside her.

I stopped and looked eagerly at them and at

her. Badly as I wanted some I would not ask

for them, and she looked at me round-eyed and

said nothing.

So we eyed each other, until finally she made

a face and stuck out her tongue at me. Then

she opened her mouth wide and popped in a

brandy-snap. It was too much. With a yell

I sprang at her and seized the cookies. She

tumbled from the gate, and as she fell she

howled appallingly. At the sound a great

shaggy dog came bounding, and I fled in

panic, clutching the brandy-snaps.

The dog pursued me as I ran, in great leaps,

my ears filled with the fearful sound of his

barks. I sped around a turn in the lane and

saw before me a farmer's wagon going slowly

along. The dog was hard on my heels. I

caught a glimpse of his great red mouth and

tongue. With a last panting effort I clam-

bered upon the tail of the wagon and dived

beneath the burlap which covered the load.

47

There, lying in the dimness among green

vegetables, I consumed the brandy-snaps to the

last crumb, listening to the farmer's bewildered

expostulation with the honest dog, which con-

tinued barking at the wagon until the farmer

dismounted and pursued him down the road with

his whip. Then, as the wagon went onward again,

I ate a number of radishes and a raw potato,

and experimentally bit the squash and marrows

until, with a contented stomach, I curled up

among the lettuce and fell asleep.

I was awakened by the stopping of the wagon

and heard the farmer, busied with the horse,

exchanging jovial greetings with other gruff

voices. Undecided what to do, I lay still

until I heard him speaking loudly almost over

my head.

"I lay these are the finest vegetables ever

come to market," he said proudly, and tore the

burlap covering from me. I sat up.

48

There never was a more surprised farmer.

He stood open-mouthed. While the men around

him laughed, I scrambled from among the

vegetables over the wagon's edge and dived

into the uproar of Covent Garden market.

Horses, donkeys, wagons, men, women and

children crowded the place ; on every side were

piles of vegetables and bright fruit, and there

was a clamor of laughter, shouts and the cries

of hucksters.

I ran about, happy in all the confusion, and

glad to feel London about me again. After

a while I met a man who gave me a penny for

helping him unload his vegetables, and I wan-

dered out of the market and down the dirty

cobbled streets outside. There was a barrel

organ which I followed for a time, and then I

met a hokey-pokey man and spent my penny for

his sweets. I felt as rich as a lord as I sat

on the curb in the sunshine eating them.

CHAPTER VI

In which I come home again; accustom myself

to going to bed hungry ; and have an unexpected

encounter with my father.

AS I sat there in the sunshine eating the hokey-

pokey for which I had spent my only penny all

my old dreams came back to me. I imagined my-

self rich and famous, bowing before cheering

audiences, wearing a tall silk hat and a cane,

and buying my mother a silk dress.

It was a rough dirty street, swarming with

ragged children and full of heavy vans driven

by swearing drivers, but reality did not inter-

fere with my dreams. It never has.

When I had licked the last sweetness of the

cream from my fingers I rose and walked with

a haughty swagger, raising my eyebrows dis-

dainfully. It was difficult to look down on

a person whose waistband was on a level with

my eyes, but I managed it. Then I amused

myself walking behind people and imitating

them, until I heard a barrel organ and followed

it, dancing with the other children.

I was adventurous and gay that morning, with

no cares in the world. What did it matter that

I had no food nor shelter nor friends in all

London? I did not think of that.

50

It was late that afternoon, and I had wan-

dered a long way, when my increasing hunger

began to damp my spirits. My feet dragged

before the windows of pastry shops, and the

fruit on the street stands tempted me. When

it grew dark and the gas lamps were lighted

I felt very little and lonely again and longed

to cry. The streets were crowded with people

hurrying home — women with market baskets,

and rough men, but no one noticed me. I was

only a ragged hungry child, and there are

thousands of them in London.

At last I stood forlorn before a baker's win-

dow looking at the cakes and buns inside and

wanting them with all my heart. I stood there

a long time, jostled by people going by, till

a woman stopped beside me to look in also.

Something about her skirt and shoes gave me

a wild hope, and I looked up. It was my

mother. My mother!

I clasped her about the knees and screamed.

Then I felt her arms tight about me and she

was kneeling beside me while we sobbed to-

gether. My mother, my dear mother, at last.

She had not gone away ; she had not forgotten

me ; she wanted me as much as ever. I clutched

her, shaking and sobbing, as if I could never

let go, until, little as she was, she picked me

up and carried me home.

51

She was not living in actors' lodgings any

more; she had a poor little room in Palermo

Terrace, Kensington — a room little better than

the dreadful one where Mr. Hawkins had kept

me — but it was like Heaven to me to be there,

with my mother. I clung to her a long time,

hysterical when she tried to take my arms from

her neck, and we laughed and cried together

while she petted and comforted me.

Neither my father nor Sidney was there, nor

was there any sign that they were expected.

When I was quieter, sitting on her lap eating

a bun and tea, my mother said that they were

gone. On the day I ran away with Mr. Hawkins,

Sidney had gone to sea. My mother had a note

from him, telling her about his grand place

as steward's assistant on a boat going to

Africa, and promising to bring her back

beautiful presents and money, she had not

heard from him again.

52

She undressed me with her tiny hands that

reminded me of birds' claws and tucked me

in bed, just as I had dreamed so often, with

her soft hair falling over the pillow, and I

went to sleep, my heart almost bursting with

happiness at being home again.

When I woke in the morning, so early that it

was not yet light, I saw her sitting beside a

lamp, sewing. All my memories of my mother for

weeks after that are pictures of her sitting

sewing, her sweet thin face, with dark circles

under the eyes, bending over the work and her

fingers flying. She was making blouses for

a factory. There were always piles of them,

finished and unfinished, on the table and bed,

and she never stopped work on them. When I

awoke in the night I saw her in the lamp-

light working, and all day long she worked,

barely stopping to eat. When she had a great

pile of them finished I took them to the

factory and brought back more for her to do.

...

I used to climb the long dark stairs to the

factory loft with the bundle and watch the

man who took the blouses and examined them,

hating him. He was a sleek fat man, with

rings on his fingers, and he used to point out

every stitch which was not just right, and claim

there were spots on the blouses, though there

were none at all, and then he kept out some

of the money. My mother got half a crown

— about fifty cents — for a dozen blouses, and

by working all week without stopping a minute

she earned about five shillings.

53

I would keep out three and six for the rent

money, and then go bargaining at the market

stalls for food. A pound of two-penny bits

of meat, with a pennyworth of pot-herbs, made

us a stew, and sometimes I got a bit of stale

bread besides. Then I came panting up the

stairs to my mother with the bundles, and gave

her the rent money, warm from being clutched

in my hand, and she would laugh and kiss me

and say how well I had done.

The stew had to last us the week, and I know

now that often my mother made only a pre-

tense of eating, so that there would be more

for me. I was always hungry in those days

and used to dream of cakes and buns, but we

were very happy together. Sometimes I would

do an errand for some one and get a penny,

and then I proudly brought it to her and we

would have buns, or even a herring, for supper.

54

But she was uneasy when I was away, and

wanted me to sit by her and read aloud while

she worked, so I did not often leave her.

...

At this time she was passionately eager to

have me study. She had taught me to read

before, and now while she sewed she talked to

me about history and other countries and peo-

ples, and showed me how to draw maps of the

world, and we played little spelling games.

She had me read the Bible aloud to her for

hours at a time. It was the only book we had.

But most of all she taught me acting. I had

a great gift for mimicry, and she had me mimic

every one I saw in the streets. I loved it and

used to make up little plays and act them for

her.

Remembering the first time I had danced on the

stage, and the money I made, I wanted to go back

to the music-halls, but she roused almost into a

fury at the idea. All her most painful memories

were of the music-hall life, and she passion-

ately made me promise never to act in one. I

could not have done it in any case, because

at this time there was a law forbidding child-

ren under fourteen to work on the stage. I was

only eleven.

55

My mother grew thinner and more tired. She

complained sometimes of a pain in her head,

and her beautiful hair, like long, fine silk,

had threads in it that shone like silver. I

loved to watch them when she brushed it at

night. But she was always gay and sweet with

me, and I adored her. I had no life at all

separate from her; all my dreams and hopes

were of making her happy and buying her

beautiful things, and taking her to a place

in the country where she could rest and do

nothing but play with me.

Then one day while I was coming from the

factory with the money clutched in my hand I

passed a barroom. I had never been in one,

or cared to, but something seemed to attract

me to this one. I stood before the swinging

doors, thinking with a fluttering heart of

going in, and wanting to, and not wanting to,

both at once. Finally I timidly pushed the

doors apart and looked in. There, at a little

table, drinking with some men, I saw my father.

CHAPTER VII

In which I see my father for the last time; learn

that real tragedy is silent; and go out into the

world to make my own way.

IT GAVE me a great shock to recognize my father

in the man who sat there drinking. I quivered

as I looked at him. He was changed ; his dark

handsome face had reddened and looked swollen

and flabby; his eyes were bloodshot. He did

not see me at first. The man with him appeared

to be urging something, and my father cried

with an oath that he would not. I caught the

word "hospital," and saw his hands shake as

he pounded the table. Then some one coming

in pushed me into the room and he saw me.

...

"Hello, here's the little tike " he cried.

"Blast me, he hasn't grown an inch! Here,

come here to your daddy!"

I went over to the table and stood looking at

him, the bundles under my arm. He was very

boisterous, calling all the men in the bar to

see me, and boasting of how I could dance.

He swung me to the table-top, crying, "Come,

my beauty, show 'em what you can do!" and

they began to clap. I danced for them, and

then I mimicked them one by one until the

room was in an uproar.

57

"He's his father's own son!" they cried.

"Little Charlie Chaplin!"

My father was very proud of me and kept

me at it until I was tired, and, remembering

that my mother was waiting, I climbed down

from the table and picked up my bundles.

...

"Going without a drink?" cried my father,

and offered me his glass, but I pushed it away.

I did not like the smell of it. My father seemed

hurt and angry ; he drained the glass and put it

on the table with a slam, and I saw again how

his hand shook.

"Just like his mother!" he said bitterly.

"Despises his own father! I'm not good enough

for his little highness. She's taught him that."

...

"It's not true!" I cried, enraged. "My

mother never says a word about you!"

"Oh, don't she?" he sneered, but his lip shook.

He stared moodily at the table, drumming on it

with his fingers, and then he turned to me

with a dreary look in his eyes. "Well, then,

come home with me," he said. "I'll take good

care of you and give you a fine start in the

profession and clothes that aren't rags. I

can do that, yet. I'm not done for, whatever

they say. Come, will you do it?"

58

"No," I said. "I want to stay with my mother."

...

"We'll see about that!" he shouted angrily. He

seized my arm and shook it. "You'll come with

me, if I say so. You hear?" He glared at me

and I looked back at him, frightened.

"You hurt! I want to go home to my mother!"

I cried.

He held me a minute and then wearily pushed me

away. "All right, go and be damned !" he said.

"It's a hell of a life." Then, with a sudden

motion, he caught my hand and put a sovereign

in it. I dodged through the crowd and escaped

into the street, eager to take the money to my

mother.

The next week, as we were sitting together, my

mother sewing and I painfully spelling out

long words in my reading, the landlady came

puffing up the stairs and knocked at the door.

...

"Your mister's took bad and in the hospital,"

she said to my mother. "He's sent a message 'e

wants to see you."

59

My mother turned whiter and rose in a hurry

to put on her bonnet, while I picked the bits

of thread from her gown. Then she kissed me,

told me to mind the stew and not go out till

she came back, and went away.

There seemed a horror left in the room when

she was gone. I could not keep my thoughts

from that word "hospital," which all the poor

of London fear and dread. I wandered about the

room, looking from the window at the starving

cats in the court and at the brick wall oppo-

site till it grew dark. Then I ate a small

plate of the stew, leaving some for my mother,

and went miserably to bed.

Late in the night my mother woke me and I saw

that her face was shining almost as it used

to do.

"Oh, my dear!" she cried, hugging me. "It's

all right. We are going to be so happy again!"

She rocked back and forth, hugging me, and

her hair tumbled down about us. Then she

told me that when my father was well we were

all going to leave London and go far away

together — to Australia. We were going to

have a farm there, in the country, with cows,

and I was to have milk and cream and eggs,

and she would make butter, and my father

would never drink again. She poured it all

out, in little bursts of talk, and her warm

tears fell on my face.

60

When at last she left me to brush out her hair

she hummed a little song and smiled at herself

in the tiny mirror.

"I wish my hair was all brown as it used to be,"

she said. "It hurt him so to see it white. I

will get fat in the country. Do you remember

how handsome your father was and how jolly?

Oh, won't it be fun?" After she had put out the

light we lay a long time in the dark talking,

and she told me tales of the pleasant times

they had when I was little and asked if I

remembered them.

After that my mother went every day to the

hospital. She did not sew any more, and she

bought bunches of flowers and fruit for my

father and cakes for me. At night, when she

tucked me in, her face was bright with hope,

and hearing her laugh, I remembered how sel-

dom she had done it lately. We were both

very happy.

61

Then one day she came in slowly, stumbling'

a bit. My heart gave a terrible leap when I

saw her face — gray, with a blue look about

her lips. I ran to her, frightened, and

helped her to a chair. She sat there quite

still, not answering me at first, and then

she said in a dull voice, "He's dead. He's

dead. He was dead when I got there. It

can't be true. He's dead."

My father had died suddenly the night before.

There was some confusion about the burial

arrangements. My mother seemed dazed and there

was no money. People came and talked with her

and she did not seem to understand them, but

it seemed that the music-hall people were

making the arrangements, and then that some-

body objected to that and undertook them —

I gathered that it was my father's sister.

...

Then one day my mother and I dressed very

carefully and went to the funeral. It was a

foggy cold day, late in autumn, with drops of

rain falling slowly. At one end of the grave

stood a thin angular woman with her lips

pressed together tight, and my mother and I

stood at the other. My mother held her head

proudly and did not shed a tear, but her hand

in mine was cold. There were several carriages

and people from the music-halls with a few

flowers. When the coffin was lowered into the

grave the thin hard-looking woman dropped

some flowers on it. My mother looked at her

and she looked at my mother coldly. We had

no flowers, but my mother took from my pocket

a little handkerchief of hers which she had

given me — a little handkerchief with an em-

broidered border which I prized very much —

and put it in my hand.

62

"You can put that in," she said, and I dropped

it into the open grave and watched it flutter

down. My heart was almost breaking with grief

for my mother.

Then we went back to our cold room alone, and

my mother went at once at her sewing.

We had no more talks or study, and she did

not seem to hear when I read aloud, so after

a time I stopped. She sat silently, all day,

sewing at the blouses, and I hunted for errands

in the streets, and made the stew, and tried to

get her to eat some. She said she did not care

to eat because her head ached, she would rather

I had it.

At this time I looked everywhere for work, but

could not seem to find any. I was so small and

thin that people thought I could not do it well.

I picked up a few pennies here and there and

learned the ways of the streets, and wished I

were bigger and not so shabby, so that I might

go on the stage. I was sure I could make money

there.

63

Then one day I came home and found my mother

lying on the floor beside her chair, gray and

cold, with blue lips. I could not rouse her.

I screamed on the staircase for the landlady,

and she came up and we worked over my mother

together. After a while the parish doctor came —

a busy bustling little man. He pursed up his

lips and shook his head. "Infirmary case!" he

said briskly. "Looks bad!"

A wagon came and they took my mother away,

still gray and cold. She had not moved or

spoken to me. When she had gone I sat at the

top of the staircase in blank hopeless mis-

ery, thinking of the grave in which they had

buried my father, and that I would never see

my mother again. After a while the landlady

came up with a broom.

"Well, well," she said crossly. "I 'ave my

room to let again. It's a 'ard world. I'm a

poor woman, you know; you can't stay 'ere."

64

"Yes, I know. I have other lodgings," I said

importantly, so that she should not see how

miserable I was. I went into the room with

her and looked around. I had nothing to take

away but a comb and a collar. I put them in

my pocket and left.

"When I was on the stairs the landlady called

to me from the top.

"You know I'd like to keep you 'ere if I

could," she said.

"Yes, I know. But I can look out for myself,"

I said. I put my hands in my pockets and

whistled to show her I needed no pity, and

went out into the street.

CHAPTER VIII

In which I take lodgings in a barrel and find

that I have invaded a home; learn something

about crime ; and forget that I was to share

in nefarious profits.

IT WAS a cold wet evening in the beginning of

winter and the rain struck chilly through my

thin clothes as I walked, wondering where I

could find shelter. Probably in America a

homeless, hungry child of eleven would find

friends, but in London I was only one of thou-

sands as wretched as I. Such poverty is so

common there that people are accustomed to it

and pass by with their minds full of their own

concerns.

I wandered aimlessly about for a long time,

watching the gas lamps flare feebly, one by

one, and make long, glimmering marks on the

wet pavements. I could not whistle any more,

there was such an ache in my throat at the

thought of my mother, and I was so miserable

and forlorn. At last I found an overturned

barrel with a little damp straw in it in an

alley, and I curled up in it and lay there

hearing the raindrops muffled, hollow, beating

above me.

66

After a while I must have fallen into a dose,

for I was awakened by something crawling into

the barrel. I thought it was a dog and put out

my hand, half afraid and half glad of the

company. It was another boy.

"Hello, 'ere!" he said. "Wot are you up to?

This 'ere is my 'ome!"

"I don't care, I'm here and I'm going to stay

here," I said. "Say what you like about that!"

"Ho, you are, are you? I'll punch your bloomin'

'ead off first!" he answered.

"I won't go, not for twenty punchings," I

said doggedly. There was not room to fight

in the barrel and I was sure he could not get

me out, because I knew by the feel of his wet

shoulder in the dark that he was smaller than I.

...

" 'Ere's a pretty go, a man carn't 'ave 'is

own 'ome!" lie said bitterly, after we had sat

breathing bard for a minute. "Wot's yer

name ?"

I told him who I was and how I had come there

and promised to leave in the morning. He was

much interested in hearing that I had a mother

and asked what she was like, assuming at once

a condescending air. He had never had a mother,

he said importantly ; he knew his way about,

he did.

67

"You can stye 'ere if you like," he said

grandly. " 'Ave you 'ad grub?"

I told him no, that I had not been able to find

anything to eat.

" Hi know, the cats get to it first," he said.

"But hi'ave my wye, hi'ave. 'Ere's 'arf a bun

for yer." He put into my hand a damp bit of

bread and I ate it gratefully while he talked.

His name was Snooper, he said, and he could

show me about — how to snatch purses and

dodge the bobbies and have larks.

At last we went to sleep, curled in the damp

straw, with an understanding that the next

day we should forage together for purses.

Next morning I was awakened by a terrific

noise, and crawling from the barrel found

Snooper standing outside kicking it. He was

a wizened, small child, not more than nine

years old, wearing a ragged coat too small

for him and a man's trousers torn off at the

knee. He wore his cap on one side with a

jaunty air and whistled, his hands in the

rents in his coat.

68

We started off together to Covent Garden

market, where he said we would find good pick-

ings, and seeing the knowing cock of his eye

and his gay manner, I too managed to whistle

and walk with a swagger, though my heart was

still heavy with missing my mother, and I was

very hungry. It was early when we came to

the market, but the place was crowded with

farmers' wagons and horses and costers' carts.

We wandered about and Snooper, with great

enterprise, filled the front of his blouse with

raw eggs, which we ate in a near-by alley.

When we returned to the market it was begin-

ning to fill with purchasers. Snooper, with his

finger at his nose and a cock of his eye, pointed

out one of them, a fat woman in black, carry-

ing a big market basket on her arm and clutch-

ing a fat leather purse.

"When I glom the leather you hupset the heggs

at 'er feet," he said to me in a hoarse

whisper, and we edged closer to her through

the crowd. She was standing before a vegetable

stand with a bunch of herbs in her hand arguing

with the farmer.

69

"Thrippence," said the farmer firmly.

"Tuppence ha'penny, not a farthing more,"

she said.. "It's robbery, that's wot it is." We

edged closer.

"Worth fourpence by rights," said the

farmer. "Take 'em for thrippence or leave

'em."

"Tuppence ha'penny," she insisted. "They're

stale. Tuppence ha' — ow!" Snooper had

snatched her purse.

With a yell she leaped after him, stumbled

and fell in the crate of eggs. The farmer, rush-

ing from behind his stand, overturned the

pumpkins, which bounced among the crowd. There

was great uproar. I fled.

Diving under wagons and dodging among the

horses and people, I had gone half-way down

the big market when I encountered a perspiring,

swearing farmer, who was trying to unload his

wagon and hold his horse at the same time.

The beast was plunging and rearing.

"Hi, lad!" the farmer called to me. "Want

a ha'penny? 'Old 'is bloomin' 'ead for me and

I'll gi' you one."

I gladly seized the halter, and a few minutes

later I had the halfpenny and a carrot as well.

I liked the market, with all its noise and bustle

and the excitement of seeing new things, and

while I wandered through the crowd munching

my carrot I decided to stay there. Snooper had

said he would wait for me at the barrel and

divide the contents of the purse, but among all

the interesting sights and sounds of the market

I forgot that, and although I looked for him

several days later, I never saw him again.

70

Before noon I had earned another ha'penny

and an apple, only partly spoiled. I had not

eaten an apple since the old days when I was

very little and mother used to bring home treats

to Sidney and me. The loneliness of my mother

still lay at the bottom of my heart like a dull

ache, and I determined to take the apple to her.

The parish doctor who had taken her away had

said I might be able to see her at the hospital

that afternoon.

I held the apple carefully all the long way

through the London streets to the hospital. It

was a big bare place, with very busy people

coming and going, and for a long time I could

not get anyone to tell me where my mother

was. At last a woman all in black, with a wide,

flaring white cap on her head, took my hand

and led me past a great many beds with moan-

ing people in them to the one where my mother

lay.

71

They had cut away all her beautiful hair,

and her small bare head looked strange upon

the pillow. Her eyes were wide open and

bright, but they frightened me, and though she

was talking rapidly to herself, she did not

say a word to me when I stood beside her and

showed her the apple.

"Mother, mother, see, I've brought you

something," I said, but she only turned her

head restlessly on the pillow.

"One more. Are the buttonholes finished?

Nine more to make the dozen, and then a dozen

more, and that's a half-crown, and thread costs

so much," she went on to herself.

"What's the matter with my mother? Why don't

she speak to me?" I asked the woman in the

white cap.

"It's the fever — she's out of her head, poor

thing," the woman said.

"Won't she ever be able to speak to me?" I

asked her, and something in the way she shook

her head and said she didn't know made me

cold all over. Then she led me out again and

I went back to Covent Garden market.

72

CHAPTER IX

In which I trick a Covent Garden coster ;

get glorious news from Sidney ; and make

another sad trip to the hospital.

I SLEPT that night in Covent Garden market,

cuddled close to the back of a coster's donkey,

which was warm, but caused me great alarm at

intervals by wheezing loudly and making as if

to turn over upon me. Then I scurried out of

the straw and wandered about in the empty,

echoing place, feeling very small in the vast

dimness among the shadows, until the donkey

was quiet again and I could creep back beside

him.

In the strange eery chill of the morning,

while the gas lamps in the streets were still

showing dimly through in the fog, the farmers

began to come in with their wagons. I hurried

about in the darkness of the market, asking

each one if I might help him unload the

vegetables or hold the horse for a halfpenny,

or even for a carrot or raw potato. The horses

were large, heavy-footed beasts and their

broad, huge-muscled chests towered over me

as I held the halters, while every toss of their

heads lifted me from the floor. But I held on

bravely, very hungry, thinking of the bun I

might buy with a halfpenny, and indeed, before

the market was light I had two halfpennies and

a small assortment of vegetables.

73

I ate these, and then I went out into the

dirty, cobbled streets about the market where

the heavy vans were already beginning to

rumble by and found an eating-house where,

for my penny, I bought not only two buns, but

a big mug of very hot coffee as well. As I sat

on a stool drinking and taking bites from the

buns, the waiter leaned his elbows on the

counter and asked me where I had come from

and who I was.

"I am an actor," I told him, for this idea

was always in the back of my mind. He laughed

heartily at this, and I swallowed the rest of

the coffee in a hurry, scalding my throat, for

I resented his laughing and wished to get away.

I put the bits of bun in my pocket and slipped

down from the stool, but before I had reached

the door the man came around the counter with

another bun in his hand.

74

" 'Ere, me pore lad, tike this," he said kindly

enough, putting the bun in my pocket. I let

him do it, feeling confused and resentful, and

ate the bun later, sitting on a box in the market,

but I never went back to that eating-house again.

I hated to be pitied.

All the months I lived in Covent Garden

market I was hungry. I ate eagerly every bit

of spoiled fruit or partly decayed vegetable I

could find, and sometimes the farmers, amused

by my dancing for them while they were eat-

ing, would give me crusts from their baskets,

but my stomach was never satisfied. The

people who came to Covent Garden market were

poor, and halfpennies were scarce, though I

hunted all day long for small jobs that I

could do. Very early in the morning when the

farmers first came in was the best time to find

them, but sometimes days went by when all I

could earn was raw vegetables.

After a time, when the market people knew

me, I had permission to sleep in one of the

coster's carts, with a sack over me for warmth,

but at first I curled up in the straw beside

the donkeys. One of the donkeys in particular

was quite sleek and fat. His owner took great

pride in him, feeding him every day a large

portion of carrots, and fondly swearing at him

while he ate them. I used to look enviously at

that donkey and finally I evolved a great plan.

75

When the donkey had first begun to munch

the carrots, I would scream from the tail of the

cart, "Thieves! Thieves! Catch 'im!" and

spring away, overturning boxes and making a

great commotion. The coster would leave his

donkey and come running, excited, and while

he was wondering what had happened I would

steal slyly up on the other side of the donkey

and filch the carrots. The poor beast looked

reproachfully at me, wagging his ears and

sometimes braying frightfully, but I ran glee-

fully away, and sitting concealed beneath a

wagon, ate his dinner for him to the last bite.

...

The stupid coster, amazed, would scratch his

head and marvel at the donkey's appetite, but

I do not remember that he ever failed to run

at the cry of "Thieves!" or that I ever failed

to make way with the carrots.

Several times that winter I screwed up my

courage to attempt getting work on the stage,

but after I had walked a long way in the foggy,

dripping streets, I would be so cold and wet

and so conscious of my rags and of my dirty

collar that I turned back to the market again.

76

Sometimes at long intervals the people at the

hospital let me see my mother, but I could not

bear to look at her, she was so altered and

seemed so strange. She lay quite still, some-

times, and would not speak or answer me when

I called to her, so that I thought she was dead,

and a great black misery came over me. Some-

times she turned her head from side to side on

the pillow and talked to herself in a quick,

clear voice about blouses, dozens and dozens

of blouses. She never looked at me or seemed

to know that I was there, and I came away from

the hospital so wretched that I wished never to

go back.

Still I went again, as often as they would

let me, and one day a marvelous thing hap-

pened. The nurse with the flaring white cap

took me into a little office and showed me a

letter.

"A woman brought it here from the lodgings

where your mother lived," she said. "We read

it to your mother, but she could not under-

stand, so we saved it for you."

She gave it to me and I read it in great

excitement.

77

"Dear mother," it read. "I am coming back

from Africa. I will be home for Christmas

Day, with thirty pounds saved, and I am

bringing grand presents for you, but I will not

tell you what they are. Tell Charlie to look

out for his big brother, I have presents for

him, too. I will be home two months from to-day,

at Waterloo station at nine o'clock. Be sure

to have a Christmas pudding ready. Hoping you

are all well, I am your dutiful son,

"Sidney.

"Postscript — It is a shawl, and there are ear-

rings, too, but I will not tell you what else."

My heart gave a great leap and seemed to choke

me, and I trembled so I could not speak. I

had not thought of Sidney for a long time,

and now he was coming home with money and

presents! And thinking of my poor mother,

who was so ill and could not understand the

great news, tears came into my eyes so that I

had to rub them not to let the nurse see. Then

I saw how dirty I was, and ragged, and was

ashamed to have Sidney see me.

78

The nurse kindly told the day, and comparing it

with the date of the letter, I saw it was that

very evening that Sidney would reach London.

...

Quivering with excitement, I begged to see my

mother again and tell her about it, and when

they said I might, I could not walk down the

long ward, but must run in my eagerness.

" Mother! Mother! Sidney's coming home!

With presents for you — a shawl, and earrings!"

I cried. But it was no use. My mother lay there

with her thin drawn face quite still and would

not even open her eyes.

So, with a heavy heart, wondering how I was

to tell Sidney of all that had occurred, I came

out of the hospital and tried to make ready for

going to Waterloo station.

I washed my face and hands carefully in a

puddle and dried them upon some straw. Then

I took some mud and blacked my shoes as well

as possible, and the toe which showed so that

it would not be so conspicuous. Then my hands

must be washed again and my hair combed. I

smoothed out my wrinkled clothes as well as I

could and tucked in the torn lining of my cap

so that it would not show.

79

All this took much time, so that it was almost

dusk before I started to meet Sidney, and I ran

most of the way, not to be late, hoping that I

would not miss him in all the confusion of the

station.

CHAPTER X

In which Sidney comes home to find father dead,

mother too ill to recognize him and me half

starved and in rags.

WHEN AT last I arrived, panting, at Waterloo

station the lamps were already lighted and all

the place was bright with them. There was

such a noise of people coming and going and

so much confusion that, used as I was to the

turmoil of the market, I hardly knew where to

go or what to do. Besides, the manner of these

people was so different and their clothes so

good that I felt more than ever ashamed of my

raggedness and doubtful what Sidney would

think when he saw me.

However, I was so determined not to miss

him that I got up courage to ask the way to

the trains and was waiting there trembling with

excitement and eagerness when the nine o'clock

express came in. I had not quite courage

enough to run forward, but hung back a little,

keeping my broken shoe with the hole in it

where my toe showed behind the other and

looking carefully at each man that passed in

the hope that he might be Sidney.

At last I saw him. He was almost seventeen

then ; big, well-dressed and healthy looking as

he swung along with his cap pushed back look-

ing eagerly at every woman in sight, expect-

ing, I knew, to see my mother. He went by

me without a glance and I saw his bright clean

boots and the new glove he wore on the hand

that held his bag. They seemed to put such a

distance between us that I let him go past, not

daring to stop him. I stood there stupidly

looking at his back.

Then I realized that he was going, that I

was losing him, and I ran after him and

desperately touched his arm. He looked down

at me impatiently.

"No, lad," he said sharply, "I will carry the

bag."

He went on through the station still watching

for my mother, and I followed him, ashamed

to speak to him again, ragged and dirty as

I was, and yet not being able to let him go.

At last he gave up hope of my mother's coming

to meet him and went outside, where he hailed

a cab. I stood there beside him trying to

speak to him and choking while the driver

opened the cab door and he got in. Then I

could bear it no longer. I seized the

door handle and clung to it desperately.

" 0h, Sidney, don't you know me?" I cried.

"I'm Charlie."

He looked at me a minute, surprised, before

he recognized me. Then his face went white

and he pulled me into the cab, calling to the

driver to go on, anywhere.

"For God's sake, what has happened?" he

asked.

"Father's dead and mother's in the parish

hospital, and I haven't had anywhere to sleep

or to wash," I blurted out.

Sidney did not speak for a minute. His face

seemed to set and harden as I watched it, while

the cab bumped over the cobbles.

"How long has this been going on?" he said

at last, choking over the words.

"About three months," I said. Then I told

him as much as I could, tangling it up because

there was so much to say — about father's death,

and how my mother had sewed, and why I was

so dirty because I had no soap and had to sleep

in the cart, and that I could not make mother

understand that his letter had come.

83

"And I've been — saving my money!" he

said, once, like a groan, and his hand shook.

Then he became very brisk and spoke sharply

to the driver, ordering him where to go.

...

I sat in the cab while he got out to see about

rooms and then he came back and took me into

a place that seemed as beautiful as a palace —

a suite of rooms with lace curtains, and carpets,

and a piano, and a fireplace. I stood on some

papers and undressed, while Sidney drew the

bath for me, and it seemed as unreal as a fairy

tale.

"Good heavens, you're starving !" Sidney

cried when he saw how thin I was, and he sent

out for hot milk and biscuits. Then, leaving

me happy with the hot water and soap and

plenty of clean soft towels, he went out,

taking my rags done in a bundle.

When he came back I was sitting wrapped in

his bathrobe, curling my toes before the fire,

as happy as I could possibly be. He brought

new clothes for me, warm underwear and a

Norfolk suit and new shoes. When I was

dressed in them, with my hair combed and a

bright silk tie knotted under a clean white

collar, I walked up and down, feeling cocky

enough to speak to a king, except when I saw

Sidney's white set face and thought of my

poor mother.

84

"I got a permit to see her to-night," Sidney

said. "I have the cab waiting. I thought

maybe when she saw the presents I brought —

and saw you looking so well — she always liked

you best — "

So we set out in the cab again for the hos-

pital. I felt quite grand coming up the steps

in my new clothes and walked among the nurses,

who did not recognize me at first, with a

superior air, speaking to them confidently. I

led Sidney down the long ward I knew so well,

holding my head high, but all my new impor-

tance left me when I saw my mother.

She lay there with her eyes closed and her

sweet face so thin, with deep hollows in the

cheeks and dark marks under her lashes, that

the old fear hurt my heart and I trembled.

...

"Is she — is she alive?" I asked the nurse.

"Yes. Speak to her and rouse her if you

can," she said. Sidney and I leaned over the

bed and called to her.

85

"Mother, look ! Here's Sidney home ! Look,

mother!" I said cheerily.

"See, mother dear — all the beautiful pres-

ents. Wake up and see — it's Christmas!"

Sidney said, taking her hand. She did not

seem to hear at first, and then she turned her

head on the pillow and opened her eyes.

"Here we are, mother!" we cried happily.

"All the hard times are over — we'll have

Christmas together — look at the lovely things

Sidney's brought — see Charlie's new clothes."

We tumbled the words together, excited and

eager.

"Is — it — morning?" mother said painfully.

"Three dozen more to sew. He shouldn't keep

out the money for spots, there were no spots at

all. Twelve make a dozen, and that's a half-

crown, and then a dozen more, and then a

dozen more, and then a dozen more — " She

did not know us at all.

Sidney spread over the bed the beautiful

shawl he had brought for her and put the ear-

rings in her hand and showed her the comb of

brilliants for her hair, which the nurses had cut

away, but she only turned her head restlessly

on the pillow and talked wildly until the nurse

told us we must come away.

86

We rode back to the rooms, not saying a word.

Sidney sat with his arm about my shoulders

and his eyes were hard and bright. When we

were home again he ordered up a great supper

of chops and a meat pie and pudding. We sat

down and he piled my plate high with food.

Then suddenly he put his arms down on the

table and began to sob.

It was terrible. He could not stop. I tried

to speak to him, but could not, so after a

moment I got up and went over to the window.

I stood there leaning my forehead against the

glass, looking at the lights outside, so miser-

able that I could not cry. What was the good

of all this comfort without our mother?

...

Sidney came over after a while and we stood

together not saying anything for a long

time. Then he drew a deep breath and said:

"Well, all we can do is to go on. I suppose we

must look up a berth for you after you have

been fed up a bit. What do you want to do?"

...

"I want to be an actor," I answered dully.

"All right. We'll see what we can do to-

morrow," he said.

CHAPTER XI

In which I vainly make the rounds of the

theatrical agents ; almost go to sea ; and

at last get the chance for which I have

long been yearning.

NOTHING, I believe, makes so much difference,

not only with the appearance of a man, but with

the man himself, as good clothes and a well-

filled stomach, and this is even more true of a

boy, who is more sensitive to impressions of

every sort.

When I was dressed next morning in my new

clothes, which already had almost ceased to

feel strange to me, and had eaten a breakfast

so large that Sidney's eyes widened with alarm

while he watched me, I did not feel at all like

the shabby boy of the day before. I did a few

dance steps, in high spirits, and mimicked for

Sidney's benefit a great many of the market

people and the coster who had fed his donkey

carrots. I even assumed a little of my old

patronizing attitude toward Sidney, who had

never been considered the clever one of the

family, and promised him large returns for

all he had done for me as soon as I should

become a famous actor.

This matter of cleverness I believe now to be

greatly overrated. The clever person is too

apt to let his cleverness excuse the absence of

most of the solid qualities of character, and to

rely on facility and surface brilliance to supply

the want of industry and prudence. All my

life I have been going up like a rocket, all

sparks and a loud noise, and coming down like

one again, but Sidney has always been the

steady stand-by of the family, ready to pick

me out of the mud and start me up again. He

is the better man of the two.

That morning, though, after I had eaten his

breakfast, I could not imagine myself ever in

need of help again and my mind was full of

future success on the stage. I could hardly

wait while he dressed to go with me to the

agents, and when we were in the streets I

walked with a swagger, and pointed out the

sights as if he were only a provincial and I at

least a capitalist of London.

89

I was just twelve then and the law was strict

against the employment on the stage of chil-

dren under fourteen, but I do not remember

that I ever had any difficulty in convincing the

agents that I was over the legal age. My self-

confidence and my talent for mimicry were so

strong that they overcame the impression of

my small size, and I suppose the month of

hunger and suffering for my mother had given

my face an older look.

In the weeks which followed Sidney's home-

coming we visited dozens of agents. I climbed

the long stairs to their offices in a fever of

expectation and hope; I talked to each agent

quite confidently, and when he had taken my

name and address and said he had nothing for

me at present, I came down again in the depths

of gloom, so despondent that only a good

dinner and a visit to the theater would cheer

me. I always felt that I could play the parts

much better than any actor I saw, and so I

came away in high spirits again.

Every day we went to see my mother, and the

nurses said she was a little better, but she

never knew us or spoke to us and we could not

see any change. This sadness because she could

not be happy with us made our rooms seem

gloomy when we returned to them, and I know

that Sidney felt it always. Often, planning

what we should do when she was well again,

and how proud she would be of my success

when I was a great actor, I almost believed it

all true and was as happy as if it were. My

imagination has always seemed truer to me

than facts.

90

Christmas came and went and I did not have

an offer of a place on the stage. Sidney must

go back to sea. Nearly all of his savings were

gone and he felt he must leave some money to

buy little delicacies for my mother. The prob-

lem of what to do with me bothered him, and

when he spoke of it, as he did sometimes, all

my dreams faded suddenly and I felt so deso-

late that if I had been smaller I would have

wept in despair.

At last he arranged with his company to

take me on the ship as cabin-boy. He said it

would not be half bad, I might grow to like the

sea, and although I hated the thought of it, it

seemed letter than going back to Covent Gar-

den market again. We were to sail sometime

in January, bound for Africa. As a last resort

we made the rounds of the theatrical agents

again, but there was nothing in sight for me,

and so it was settled that I must go to sea.

91

Sidney bought me a little bag and packed it

with the things I should need on ship-board.

We gave up the lodgings and paid a last visit

to mother. This time she was quieter and

looked at us several times almost as if she

recognized us. It nearly broke my heart to leave

her so, but we could not think of anything else

to do.

The morning of our last day in London my

breakfast almost choked me. Our bags were

packed, waiting beside our chairs, and it

seemed to me that everything in the world was

wrong. I knew I should not like the sea. The

maid had brought in a few letters, with the bill

for the lodgings, and Sidney was looking them

over. Suddenly he looked at me queerly and

threw a card across the table to me.

"Seems to be for you," he said. I turned it

over in a hurry and read it. It said, "Call and

see me, Frank Stern, 55 the Strand." Frank

Stern was a theatrical agent.

I leaped from my chair with a shout of

excitement.

"What price the sea now?" I cried. "I've

got a place worth the whole of it ! Where's my

hat?"

"Go slow, go slow, lad," said Sidney. "You

haven't got the place yet, you know."

92

"I've as good as got it," I retorted, tearing

open the bags to find my comb and a clothes

brush. "Come, now, Sidney, lend me your

cane? An actor has to have a cane, you know."

...

Sidney lent me his cane, and I leaped down"

the stairs three steps at a time.

A tram would not do, I must have a cab to

go in a style suiting my new position. All the

way I gave myself the airs of a great actor,

looking haughtily from the cab-window at the

common Londoners and thinking how the audi-

ences would applaud when I strode down the

stage.

Frank Stern was a little man, plump and

important, with a big diamond on his finger,

and he began by clearing his throat in an im-

pressive manner and looking me over very

sharply, but I sat down with a careless air,

swinging Sidney's cane and asked him in an

offhand way if he had anything particularly

good. At the moment so great was the power

of my imaginings on my own mind I felt

quite careless as to whether I got the place or

not and was resolved not to take any small part

unworthy my talents.

93

"It's the leading-part with a provincial com-

pany From Rags to Riches, he said. "Our

lead's fallen sick and we need a new one in a

hurry. Think you can do it?"

"E — Er — provincial company," I said

doubtfully. "I had not thought of leaving

London. Still — what's the screw?"

"One pound ten a week," he answered.

"Impossible!" I said. "I could not think

of it."

"Well — we might make it two pounds. We

need some one in a hurry. If you are a quick

study and make a good showing at rehearsal —

say two pounds. Yes, I'll make it two pounds."

...

"It's a small salary — a very small salary," I

said gruffly. I, who had been glad to steal a

donkey's carrots only a few weeks earlier! But

I did not think of that. I thought of my great

talents, wasted in a provincial company. "I'll

think it over," I told the agent, seeing he

would not increase the amount.

"No. I must know right now," he replied

firmly.

94.

I wrinkled my brows with an air of inde-

cision and thou gilt for a minute.

"All right, I'll do it," I said.

"Rehearsal to-morrow at ten," Frank Stern

said, giving me the address in a quite common-

place manner.

CHAPTER XII

In which I rehearse the part of the boy hero

of the thrilling melodrama, From Rags to

Riches; and start off on a tour of the

provinces.

I SAW Sidney off on the ship for Africa, having

induced him to give me the cane, and as I stood

waving at him I was so elated with success that

I felt almost intoxicated. I was an actor at

last — a real actor, with a rehearsal in prospect !

I strutted up and down on the dock a bit after

Sidney was gone feeling sorry for all the

people about, who little realized what an im-

portant person they were passing so heedlessly.

Then I took a cab again, as due to my position,

and gave the driver the address of the rooms

Sidney had taken for me in Burton Crescent.

I was not only an actor, but a man with an

income of my own and bachelor chambers. I

was very haughty with the char-woman who

brought in the coals for my fire, and I sat

frowning for some time in an attitude of deep

thought, pondering whether I should have

cream tart or apple-and-blackberry pudding

for dinner. At last I decided on both and ate

them in state before my own fire. It was a

great evening.

96

Next morning I was divided between my eagerness

to hurry to the rehearsal and my feeling that

it would more accord with my importance if I

should arrive a little late. It was not until

the cab began to rattle over the cobbles

about Covent Garden market that a sense of

strangeness began to come over me, and I real-

ized that I had never acted before and should

not quite know what to do at the rehearsal. I

looked from the windows of the cab at the

costers' donkeys and thought what a short time

ago I had envied them, woebegone and hungry

as they were.

The rehearsal was in a room over a public

house in Covent Garden, and as I climbed the

stairs I began to feel small and a bit uncertain.

When I went in the room was full of people

standing about or sitting on boxes, and they

all looked at me with interest. At one end,

near the rough stage, was a little table with

three important-looking men standing beside

it, and after a look around I walked up to them.

...

"I am Charles Chaplin," I said, wishing I

were taller. "I am, I believe, to play leading

man in your production."

97

They looked me over as Mr. Stern had done,

rather sharply, and then introduced themselves.

The man in the dirty plaid waistcoat was Joe

Baxter, manager of From Rags to Riches and

also the villain in the piece. The company had

been playing for a ten-weeks' round of the

suburbs and was now about to go into the

provinces. They were already delayed by the

illness of the lead, which Mr. Baxter cursed

roundly, and his chief interest in me was the

hope that I was a quick study. I assured him

that I was, and without any further talk he

began to read the play to me.

It appeared that I was to play the boy hero,

an earl's son, defrauded of my rights by the

villain after my mother had pitifully died in

the streets of London with property snow sifted

on her from the flies. I wandered in rags

through three acts, which contained a couple of

murders, a dozen hair-breadth escapes, and

comic relief by the comedian, and I came tri-

umphantly into my own in the fourth act,

where the villain died a terrible death.

...

Now whether my liking for mimicry came to

my aid or whether my own experiences, so

much like those of the part I was to play, had

given me material which I used unconsciously,

I do not know, but when Mr. Baxter gave me

my part and asked me to read it, I did it well.

Mr. Baxter stood chewing his cigar when I had

finished, and the look on his face was less

discontented.

98

"Orl right," he said briskly. "Now, ladies

and gents, ready! First act, second scene,

Lord Plympton's droring-room! You walk

through this and read your part," he said to me.

" No time for study, got to play Sweetbay to-

morrow night. Do the best you can with it."

...

The woman who was to play my mother came over

while I stood waiting with the part in my

hand. She was a thin sallow woman in a bright

red waist and a hat with blue and yellow

feathers.

"Have a toffy?" she said, holding out a bag.

"No, thanks. I left off eating them years

ago," I answered, swinging my cane.

"Horrid play, aren't it?" she went on.

"Beastly life, on tour. How do you like your

part?"

"Oh," I answered carelessly, "it's not much

of a part, but I do what I can with it. I won't

mind the provinces for a season. I'm tired of

London."

99

"Here you, Reginald — Chaplett, whatever

your name is — come on!" Mr. Baxter yelled,

and I started forward on to the stage. Mr.

Baxter uttered such a sound, between a groan

and a roar, that I stopped, startled.

"Good Gawd !" he moaned. "That's the window,

you idiot! Come through the door! Come through

the door! What do you think you are, a bloomin'

bird?"

It was hard work, rehearsing on the bare

stage, with no idea what the scenery was to be,

and Mr. Baxter went from rage to profanity

and from that to speechlessness and groans

while he drove us through the parts. We

worked all day and late into the night and he

did not let me stop a minute, although I grew

hungry and the smell of the fried fish the other

actors ate while I was on the stage took my

mind from the work. At last he let me go, with

a groan.

"It couldn't well be worse!" he said grimly.

"Now, ladies and gents, Waterloo station

eleven sharp to-morrow, ready fer Sweetbay!"

100

I came very wearily down the flight of stairs

holding the bundle of manuscript and my cane

while the words of my part and all the stage

directions buzzed together in my brain. I had

not money enough for a cab ; if we were to go

to Sweetbay the next day I must walk back to

my rooms. It was a cold foggy night and my

steps sounded loud and echoing on the pave-

ments as I hurried along, tired and hungry,

almost ready to wish for a coster's cart that

I might crawl into and rest. But I held as

firmly as I could to the thought that I was

an actor, though finding small comfort in it,

and when at last I had reached my rooms I had

persuaded myself that I was driven by the

duties and ambitions of a great position.

So I scowled fiercely at my reflection in

the mirror over the mantel, and tying a towel

about my head so as to look the character

of a diligent student, I sat all night reading

the words of my part and committing them to

memory.

Next morning, when I reached the station

with my bag, the rest of the company was wait-

ing, very draggled and weary looking, while

Mr. Baxter bustled about, swearing loudly.

My spirits rose at the noise and excitement of

the starting, and when I saw the compartment

labeled, "Reserved: From Rags to Riches

company," I held my head proudly again, hop-

ing that passers-by would notice and say to

each other, "See! He must be the leading

man."

101

I lingered on the platform until the last

minute, looking as important as I could and

thinking how well the cane carried out the

effect, and then, as the engine began to puff

and the train slowly started, I swung myself

aboard and walked into the compartment where

the company was settling itself for the trip to

Sweetbay.

CHAPTER XIII

In which I encounter the difficulties of

a make-up box ; make my first appearance

in drama ; and learn the emptiness of

success with no one to share it.

THE REST of the company were very glum on

that journey to Sweetbay, sitting hunched up

any way in their seats and looking drearily

from the windows, not even glancing at me as

I strode up and down the compartment, mur-

muring the words of my part to myself and

hoping Mr. Baxter was noticing how studious

I was.

"Well enough for you, old man," I said to

myself, seeing him absorbed in a copy of

Floats and not even looking in my direction.

"Wait till you see me act!" But I felt my

spirits somewhat dampened by his indifference,

nevertheless.

When the train stopped at Sweetbay I stepped

to the platform with a lively air and stood

looking around while the others dragged down

the steps. It was raining a little, very few

people were about and they were not at all

interested in us, which seemed to me a personal

affront.

103

"Hustle, now ! No time to look for lodgings

till after matinee!" Mr. Baxter said briefly,

and set off at a brisk pace, the rest of us

straggling behind him through the streets.

...

I walked as jauntily as possible, swinging

my cane with an air, but the gloom of it all

depressed me. I wished myself older than

twelve years, and larger, so that I would not

have to look up at the others, and I wondered

if I could do the make-up right, but deter-

mined not to ask any one how it was done. I

had bought a make-up box and experimented a

bit before my mirror, but I was doubtful of

the effect on the stage.

When we reached the Theater Royal, a dark

smelly place, with littered, dirty dressing-

rooms, I felt quite helpless before the problem.

It appeared that all the men were to share one

dressing-room, and I crowded into the tiny

place with the others and opened my make-up

box, ashamed of its new look. The comedian

and Lord Plympton, who behind the scenes was

a sallow gloomy individual with a breath

smelling of beer and onions, sat down at once

in their shirt-sleeves before the small cracked

mirrors and began smearing their faces with

grease-paint, for we were late, and already the

lights had gone on in front and a few people

were shuffling in.

104

I made shift with the make-up as best I

might and hurried into the ragged suit I was

to wear in the first scene, pinning it up in

small folds about me, for it was the costume

worn by the former lead and too large for me.

However, I hoped to make it do, and when, by

the glimpses I could get of myself in the

mirror, it seemed to be all right, I left the

dressing-room and wandered into the wings,

feeling well satisfied with myself.

The stage was shadowy and dark behind the

big canvas scenes. "A street in a London

slums" was already set, and the scene shifters,

swearing in hoarse whispers, were wheeling

Lord Plympton's drawing-room into position

for a quick change. I made my way warily

around this and encountered Mr. Baxter, who

was rushing about in a frenzy, roundly cursing

everything in sight. When he saw me he

stopped short.

"Good Gord!" he cried. "Going on like

this?"

"What's wrong?" I asked, startled.

"Wrong? Wrong? Why was I ever a

manager?" moaned Mr. Baxter, seizing his

head in both hands. "You gory idiot !" he

exploded, and seemed to choke.

"What's the row, Joe?" the woman who was

to play my mother asked, coming over to us,

while I stood very uneasy and doubtful what

to say.

"Look at 'im!" roared 'Mr. Baxter. "How

many times have I told him he's pathetic —

PATHETIC! And here he comes with a face

like a bloomin' cranberry! And he goes

on in six minutes!"

"I'll look out for the lad," the woman said,

kindly enough, and taking me by the hand she

led me into the women's dressing-room, where

she made up my face with her own paint and

powder and I squirmed with humiliation.

...

"It's your first shop, aren't it?" she said,

drawing the dark circles under my eyes, and

I drew myself up with as much dignity as pos-

sible in the circumstances and said stiffly,

...

"This is my first engagement with a provincial

company."

106

Then I returned to the wings and waited

with beating heart for my cue. Mr. Baxter,

made up as the villain now, stood beside me

giving me last orders, but my head whirled so

I could hardly hear him, and all the lights

made a dazzling glare in my eyes. Then my

cue came — my mother, on the stage, moaned

piteously, and Mr. Baxter gave me a little

push. I stumbled out on the stage, crying,

"See, mother dear, here is a crust!"

...

The blinding glare in my eyes and the confusion

in my brain were over in a minute. The strange-

ness of it all fell away from me, and, in a

manner I can not explain to one who is not an

actor, I was at the same time the ragged,

hungry child, starving in Covent Garden market,

and the self-conscious actor playing a part.

I wept sincerely for the suffering of my poor

mother, who moaned at my feet, and at the

same time I said to myself, proudly, "What, ho!

now they see how pathetic I am, what?" When

I did not remember the words I made them up,

paying no heed to the villain's anxious prompt-

ing behind his hand, and I defied him vigor-

ously at the close of the act, crying, "You

shall touch my mother only over my dead body!"

with enthusiasm. The curtain fell and there

was a burst of applause behind it.

107

"Not half bad, what?" I said triumphantly

to Mr. Baxter, while my stage mother scram-

bled to her feet, and he replied moodily,

"Don't be so cocky, young 'un. There's three

acts yet to go."

But I was warmed up to the work now and

I enjoyed it, wandering forlorn through my

imitation griefs and at last coming grandly

into my rights as the earl's son and wearing

the splendor of the velvet suit with great

aplomb in the last act, although I was obliged

surreptitiously to hold up the trousers with

one hand because I could not find enough pins

in the dressing-room to make them fit me. I

felt that I was the hit of the piece and rushed

out of the theater afterward to find lodgings

and eat a chop before the evening performance

with all the emotions of an actor who had

arrived at the pinnacle of fame. I could not

forbear telling the waiter who served me the

chop, a grimy little eating house not far from

the theater, that I was the leading man of the

From Rags to Riches company and must be

served quickly, as pressing duties awaited me

at the theater before the evening performance.

He looked down at me with a broad grin on

his fat face and said, "You don't say, now!"

in a highly gratifying tone, although I wished

he had said it more solemnly.

108

That night, sitting alone in my bed-sitting-

room in actors' lodgings, I was greatly pleased

with myself and wished only that my mother

were there to see me. I wrote her a long letter,

telling her how well I had done and promised

to send her at least ten shillings, and perhaps

a pound, when I was paid on Saturday. Then

I went out into the dark silent streets where

the rain fell mournfully to post it. The night

was very gloomy. After all, I was only twelve

and had no friends anywhere except Sidney, who

had gone to Africa. I thought of my mother

lying alone in the hospital and perhaps not

able to understand my glad news when it should

arrive, and such a feeling of sadness and lone-

liness came over me that I hurried back to my

room and crawled into bed without lighting the

gas, very unhappy, indeed.

109

CHAPTER XIV

In which I taste the flavor of success ;

get unexpected word from my mother; and

face new responsibilities.

HOWEVER, though I never entirely forgot my

mother in London, I enjoyed the life on tour

with the From Rags to Riches company, with

all the excitement of catching trains and find-

ing different lodgings in each town, and I

never understood the grumblings of the others

when we traveled all night and had to rush

to a matinee without resting. I liked it all;

I liked the thrill of having to pause in a scene

while the audience applauded, as they did

pretty often after I became used to the stage.

I liked standing with the others after the Sat-

urday matinees, when Mr. Baxter came around

giving each one his salary, and I had great

fun afterward jingling the two pounds in my

pocket and feeling very wealthy and important

when I spent sixpence for a copy of Floats.

110

Best of all I like lying late in bed Sunday

mornings, as I could do sometimes, and look-

ing for my name in the provincial journals —

"Charles Chaplin, as Reginald, showed an ar-

tistic appreciation which gives promise of a

brilliant future," or "Charles Chaplin, the

talented young actor, plays the part of

Reginald with feeling."

Then, though no one could see me, I would

pretend great indifference, yawning wearily

and saying: "Oh, very well for a provincial

journal, but wait till we get to London !"

But I always saved the clippings.

I became friendly with the comedian, who

was a fat good-humored fellow enough, and

always got a laugh in the third act by sitting

on an egg. I sometimes treated him to oysters

after the show on Saturday nights, and he used

to grumble about the stage, saying: "It's a

rotten life, lad, a rotten life. You'd be well

out of it." Then he would shake his head

mournfully and stop a great sigh by popping

an oyster into his mouth.

"It suits me, old top," I would reply, with

a wave of my hand, thinking that when I was

his age I would have London at my feet.

111

I did not care much for the others in the

company, as I felt they greatly underrated

my importance, and I especially shunned Cora,

the woman who played my mother, because she

was inclined to make a small boy of me behind

the scenes, and would inquire if my socks were

darned or if my underwear were warm, no mat-

ter who was present.

In the spring the tour of From Rags to

Riches came to an end. For the last time I

clutched my stage mother while the paper snow

was sifted on us from the flies; for the last

time I defied the villain and escaped the mur-

derer and wore the velvet suit, very shabby

now, but fitting better, when I came back to

Lord Plympton's drawing-room.

I felt very depressed and lonely when I came

off the stage. The company was breaking up,

most of them were gone already, and the

'Street in a London Slum' had been loaded

into a wagon with 'The Thieves' Den' and

'The Thames at Midnight.' No one was in

sight but the grubby scene shifters, who were

swearing while they struggled with Lord

Plympton's drawing-room, and the dressing-

room was deserted by all but the comedian,

who was very drunk, and said mournfully:

"It's a rotten life, it's a rotten life."

112

I dressed quickly and went back to my lodg-

ings, wondering with a sinking heart what I

should do next. I had seen enough of stage

life by that time to realize that it was not

easy to get a hearing on the Strand, and for

the first time I took small comfort in the

thought of my pile of clippings from the

provincial journals. My rooms were cold and

dark, but no gloomier than my mood when I

went in, hunting in my pockets for a match

to light the gas.

When the gas flared up I saw a letter propped

against the cold pasty set out for my supper.

I took it up, surprised, for it was the first

letter I had ever received, and then I saw

on the envelope the name of the parish hos-

pital where I had left my mother.

I tore it open quickly, but my hands were

shaking so it seemed a long time before I

could get the sheet of paper out of the

envelope. I held it close to the gas and

read it. It said that my mother had asked

them to write and say she was glad I was

doing so well. She was able to leave the

hospital now if I could take her away,

or should they send her to the almshouse,

as she was not strong enough to work?

113

I could not eat or sleep that night. Some

time about dawn the landlady came knocking

at my door and spoke bitterly through the

panels about my wasting her gas, threatening

to charge it extra on the bill. I said I was

packing, paid her for the lodging, and told

her to go away. Then I went out with my bags,

in a very dark and chilly morning, when the

early carts were beginning to rattle through

the empty streets. I rode up to London on the

first train, my mind torn between joy and a

sort of panic, confused with a dozen plans,

all of which seemed valueless.

My mother was sitting up in bed with Sidney's

shawl wrapped about her when I was allowed to

see her. Her hair was longer and curled about

her face, but there were dark circles under

her eyes and she looked very little, almost

like a child.

"My, my, what a great lad you've grown!"

she said, and then she began to cry. The least

excitement made her sob, and her hands trem-

bled all the while I was there.

114

"Never you mind, mother; I'll take care of

you!" I said briskly, and I told her what a

great success I had become on the stage. It

was the first pose I had ever taken which did

not deceive myself, for I wondered, miserably,

while I talked, what we should do if I could

get no engagement. I promised to take her

soon to beautiful lodgings, and the words

sounded hollow to me as I said them, but she

seemed pleased and was greatly cheered when

I left her. Without stopping to look for lodg-

ings for myself, I hurried at once to the

Strand, eager to see the agents.

Now in the success or failure of an actor a

great deal depends on luck, as I was very wil-

ling to admit later when it turned against me,

although in the early days I ascribed all my

good fortune to my own great merit. On that

day when I walked down the Strand I passed

dozens of actors who had been struggling for

years to find a foothold on the stage, going

from one small part to another, with months

of starvation between, furbishing up their

shabby clothes and walking endless miles up

and down the stairs to the agents' offices in

vain. The numbers of them appalled me.

115

Frank Stern's outer office was full of them

and they did not leave off watching his door

with hungry eyes to look at me when I walked

in and gave my card to the office boy.

"Can't see you," he said briefly, without

looking at it. "No use the rest of you wait-

ing, either," he said raising his voice. "He

won't see nobody else to-day."

They rose and began to straggle out, some

of them protesting with the office boy, who

only looked at them contemptuously, repeating,

"He won't see nobody." I was following them

when Frank Stern's door opened and he ap-

peared. "

"Oh, hello, my lad!" he said genially.

"You're just the chap I want to see. Come

in, come in!" He ushered me into his inner

office, clapping me on the shoulder.

CHAPTER XV

In which I understand why other people fall;

burn my bridges behind me ; and receive a

momentous telegram.

THIS time I sat in Frank Stern's office with

no inflated opinion of my own importance, only

hoping, with a fast-beating heart, that he

would offer me some place with a salary. I

could hardly hear what he said for thinking of

the few coins in my pocket and my mother in

the hospital waiting for me to come back and

take her to the beautiful lodgings I had prom-

ised to engage.

"Joe Baxter tells me you did fairly well on

tour," the agent said, after an idle remark or

two. "He's taking out 'Jim, the Romance of

a Cockney' in a few weeks. How would you

like the lead?"

"I'd like it," I said eagerly, and realized the

next minute I had done myself out of a raise

in the pay by not asking first how much it

would he. But the relief of having a part was

so great that I did not much care.

117

I came whistling down the stairs after I had

left Frank Stern, and in the Strand I looked

with a different eye on the actors I passed,

beginning to think that, after all, they must

lack real merit such as I had, or else they

drank or were not willing to work. I saw the

comedian from the From Rags to Riches com-

pany, looking very seedy, and was passing him

with a nod when he stopped me.

"How's tricks?" he asked of me. "Shopped

yet?"

"Oh, yes, I have an engagement," I replied

carelessly, swinging my cane. "Only a pro-

vincial company, but not so bad."

"I say, not really?" he said, surprised.

"You're in luck. Look here, old chap, could

you lend me five bob ?"

"Well, no," I answered. "No, I'm afraid

not. But I hope you're shopped soon. You

ought to quit drinking, you know — you'd do

better."

"Well enough for you to talk, my lad.

You'll think different when you've been

tramping the Strand for twenty years, like I

have, and never a decent chance in the whole

of them. You're on top now, but you'll find

it's not all beer and skittles before you've

done. I say, make it three bob — or two?"

...

I gave him a shilling and he begged me to

say a word to Baxter for him, which I meant

to do, but later forgot. Then I went search-

ing lodgings for my mother. I found them in

a private home for convalescents in Burton

Crescent — very decent rooms with a little bal-

cony overlooking a small park, and Mrs. Dobbs,

the landlady, seemed a pleasant person and

promised to look out for my mother while

I was on tour.

My mother was delighted when she saw the

place, laughing and crying at the same time,

while I wrapped her in Sidney's shawl and

made her comfortable with some cushions on

the couch before the fire. We had tea together

very cozily, and I told her I should soon be

a great London actor, which she firmly be-

lieved, only saying I was too modest and made

a mistake in going on tour when I should have

at least a good part in a West End theater.

...

By closest economy I managed to send her

a pound every week during that season with

'Jim, the Romance of a Cockney', though some-

times going without supper to buy the en-

velope and stamp; and because it is not pov-

erty, but economy, which teaches the value of

a penny, I learned it so thoroughly that year

that I have never forgotten it. The only part

of the tour which I enjoyed was the time I

spent on the stage, when I forgot my constant

thought of money and lived the romantic joys

and griefs of Jim. I played the part so well,

perhaps for this reason, that I was becoming

known as one of the most promising boy actors

in England, and I used to clip every mention

of my acting which I could find and send it

to my mother in the Saturday letter.

119

When I came back to London at the close of

the season I expected nothing less than a

rush of the managers to engage me. I walked

into Frank Stern's office very chesty and im-

portant with not even a glance for the office

boy or the crowd of actors patiently waiting

and knocked on his door with my cane. Then

I pushed it open and went in.

Frank Stern was sitting with his feet on his

desk, smoking and reading Floats in great con-

tentment. He leaped to his feet when he heard

me walk in, but when he saw who it was he

welcomed me boisterously.

120

"Glad to see you back, glad to see you!" he

said jovially. "Sit down."

"No, thanks. I just dropped in to see what

you had to offer for next season," I said care-

lessly. "It must be something good this time,

you know."

His cordiality dropped like a mask; he

looked at me very sternly.

"There's a part in 'His Mother Left Him

to Starve' he said. "We could use you in

that."

"How much salary?" I asked.

"Two pounds," he answered sharply.

"No, thanks," I said airily. "Though I

won't say I mightn't consider it for four."

...

"Then I'm afraid I haven't anything," he said,

and turned back to his desk as though he were

very busy. I went out whistling, so sure of

my value that I was careless of offending

him. And indeed when, ten days later, I was

offered the part of Billy, the page, in

Sherlock Holmes, at a salary of thirty shil-

lings, I was sure that I had acted astutely,

and gave myself credit for good business sense

as well as great talent. I even had some

thoughts of holding out for a part in the Lon-

don company, and if I had had a few shillings

more, or any money to pay for my mother's

lodgings, I might have been foolish enough

to do it.

As it was, I walked into the rooms where the

company was rehearsing with a feeling that

it was a condescension on my part to go on

tour again, and marching briskly up to the

prompter's table, laid my cane upon it — a

breach of theatrical etiquette at which the

company stood aghast. I never did it again,

for that day's work with a real stage manager

gave me my first idea of good acting, and I

left late that night with my vanity smarting

painfully.

" 'Act natural!'" I said to myself, bitterly

mocking the stage manager. " 'Talk like a

human being!' My eye, what do they think

the people want? I act like an actor, I talk

like an actor, and if they don't like it they

can jolly well take their old show! I can get

better!"

Nevertheless, I went back next day and

worked furiously under the scathing sarcasm

and angry oaths of the manager until I had

learned the part passably well and forgotten

most of the stage tricks I had found so

effective in From Bags to Riches. The night

before we went on tour I had dinner with my

mother, who was still in the care of Mrs. Hobbs,

so thin and nervous that it worried me to see

her, and she was fluttering with excitement and

overjoyed at my being a great actor, but for

the first time I doubted it. 122

However, the press notices speedily brought

back my self-confidence. In almost every town

they praised my work so highly that the actor

who played Holmes gave me cold glances when-

ever he saw me and even cut bits of my part.

Then, though complaining bitterly, I knew I

had really "arrived," and I openly grinned

at him before the company, and demanded a

better dressing-room.

Just before the close of the tour I was stand-

ing in the wings one evening confiding to one

of the actresses my intention of placing a bent

pin in Holmes' chair on the stage next evening,

where I calculated it would have great effect,

owing to his drawing his dressing gown tight

around him with a dignified air just before-

sitting down, when a boy came up and gave me

a telegram. I tore it open, fearing bad news

from my; mother, and read it. It said:

123

"William Gillette opens in Sherlock Holmes

here next week. Wants you for Billy. Charles

Frohman."

William Gillette! Charles Frohman!

CHAPTER XVI

In which I journey to London ; meet and

speak with a wax-works figure ; and make

my first appearance in a great theater.

...

I do not know how I got through my act that

night. I was in such a flurry of excitement

and so jubilant over the great news that I

missed my cues and played with only half my

wits on my work, careless how Holmes frowned

at me. Every one in the company had heard

of my telegram from Frohman before the end

of the second act, and I knew they were watch-

ing me enviously from the wings. I rushed

past them, in wild haste to get to the

dressing-room and take off my make-up as soon

as my last scene was finished, and I was half

dressed while they were taking the curtain

call.

I met Holmes and the manager just outside

the dressing-room and resigned my place in

their company with great haughtiness.

...

"Of course — er — you understand that I — ;

er — can not do justice to my art as long as

I am supported by merely provincial actors,"

I said, looking at Holmes as majestically as

I might from a height two feet less than his.

Then I drew the manager aside and said kindly,

"Of course, old man, I appreciate all you've

done, and all that — any time I can do any-

thing for you with Frohman, you understand,

you've only to say the word."

125

The entire company, excepting only Holmes,

was at the station to see me off next morning,

and since in the meantime my first vainglory

had diminished and I felt more my usual self,

there was a jolly half-hour before the train

left. Every one wished me luck and promised

to come to see me act in London, while I

assured them I would not forget old friends,

and the manager clapped me heartily on the

back and said he'd always known I would do

great things. They gave a great cheer when

the train started and I waved at them from

the back platform. Then I was off, to London

and fame.

Early the next afternoon, dressed in a new suit

with new shirt and tie to match, I arrived at

the Duke of York's Theater in the West End and

inquired for the stage manager. I had to wait

for him a minute on the dim stage and I stood

looking out over the rows of empty seats in

the big dark house, thrilling to think that

before long they would be filled with scores

of persons watching me act. Then Mr. Postham

came hurrying up, a very busy man with a

quick nervous voice. I told him who I was,

and he gave me the manuscript of my part in

a hurried manner.

126

"That's all. Rehearsal here, nine to-morrow,"

he said. Then, as I was turning away, he added,

"Like to see Mr. Gillette?"

"I would, yes," I answered eagerly, and tried

to clutch at my self-possession, which I had

never lacked before, while the boy led me

til rough the dim passages to Mr. Gillette's

dressing-room. The boy knocked at the door of

it, said loudly, "Mr. Chaplin to see Mr. Gil-

lette," and left me standing there, breathing

hard.

An instant later the door opened and a little

Japanese, perfectly dressed in the clothes

of an English man-servant, popped into the

aperture. I had never seen a Japanese servant

before, and his appearance so confounded me

that I could only look at him and repeal what

the boy had said, while I fumbled in my pocket

for a card and wondered if it would be proper

to give it to him if I should find one. It ap-

peared that it was not necessary for he opened

the door wider. I stepped in.

127

William Gillette was sitting before his dress-

ing-table, busy with make-up. He rose to meet

me — a very tall stately man, his face entirely

covered with dead white paint. The whole place

was white — the walls, the dressing-table, even

the floor, as I remember it — and the whiteness

was intensified by a glare of strong white light.

In that bright glare, and under the mask of

white paint, Mr. Gillette did not seem like a

real man. He seemed like some fantastic curio

in a glass case.

"You're to play Billy, I understand," he said,

looking keenly at me through narrow, almost

almond, eyes. "How old are you?"

"Fourteen, sir," I answered as if hypnotized,

for I was now telling every one that I was six-

teen.

"I hear you're a very promising young actor,"

he said. "I hope you'll make a good

Billy — what did you want to see me about?"

"I just wanted to see you," I replied.

"Well, I'm very glad we've met," he said,

looking amused, I thought. "If I can be any

help to you, come again, won't you?"

128

I think I replied suitably as I backed out.

I reached the street before I quite recovered

from the effect of his strange appearance in

that white room. I had met one of the great-

est actors on the English stage, and I felt as

though I had seen a figure in a wax-works and

it had spoken to me.

Then, when I stood on the curb in all the

noise of the London traffic, I realized that

the events of that momentous day were all real.

I was engaged to play with William Gillette

in the finest of West End theaters; I held the

manuscript of my part in my hand. Excited

and jubilant, I rushed off to tell my mother

the great news, and then to engage lodgings

of my own, where I spent all that evening

walking up and down, rehearsing the part of

Billy, only pausing now and then, with a

whoop, to do a few dance steps or stand on my

head.

The next morning I was one of the first to

reach the theater for rehearsal. I had risen

early to take a few turns up and down the

Strand, hoping to meet some one I knew to

whom I could mention casually that I was with

Frohman now, but every one I passed was a

stranger and I had to content myself with

looking haughtily at them and saying to my-

self: "'You wouldn't half like to he on your

way to rehearsal with William Gillette, would

you now? What, ho!"

129

Mr. Postham proved to be different from the

stage managers I had known before. He was

nervous and excitable, but no matter how badly

an actor read his lines, Mr. Postham never

swore at him.

"No," he said quietly. "This way, 'I'll do

it, sir.' No, not 'I'll do it, sir,' but 'I'll

do it, sir.' Try it again. No, that's a little

too emphatic. Listen, 'I'll do it, sir.' Not

quite so self-confident. Again, 'I'll do it,

sir.' Once more, please." He never seemed to

grow tired. He kept us at it for hours, watching

every detail, every inflection or shade of tone,

and his patience was endless. It was new work

to me, but I liked it; and after rehearsal I

would practise for hours in my rooms, liking

the sound of my voice in the different tones.

...

William Gillette had come to London with

a play called 'Clarice', which had not gone

well.

130

He was putting on Sherlock Holmes to save

the season and rushing rehearsals in order

to have the new play ready in the shortest

possible time. We worked all day, and twice

were called for midnight rehearsals, after

'Clarice' was off the boards. Two weeks

after I reached London we were called at

seven in the morning for dress rehearsal.

Sherlock Holmes was to be put on that night.

Everything went wrong at the dress rehearsal.

We were overworked and nervous; we missed our

cues; some of the properties were lost ;

Mr. Postham was intensely quiet. I was very

well pleased by it all, for every East End

actor knows that a bad dress rehearsal means

a good first performance, but the manager and

Mr. Gillette did not seem to share my opinion,

and the company scattered gloomily enough when

at last they let us go, with admonitions to be

early at the theater that night.

I was made up and dressed for the first scene

early, and hurried out to the peep-hole in

the curtain, hoping to catch a glimpse of

my mother in the audience. I had got tickets

for her and Mrs. Hobbs and ordered a carriage

for them, as my mother was not strong and

could not come in a tram. The house was fill-

ing fast. Behind the scenes there was tense

breathless excitement; scene shifters and stage

carpenters were hurrying back and forth ; there

was a furious scene over something mislaid.

Every one's nerves were strained to the break-

ing point.

The curtain went up. From the wings, where

I stood waiting for my cue and saying my

lines over and over to myself with a tight

feeling in my throat, I saw Mr. Gillette open-

ing the scene. I listened carefully to every

word he spoke, knowing that every one brought

my entrance nearer. Suddenly Mr. Postham

touched my shoulder.

"Royalty's in front," he said. "Whatever

you do, don't look at the royal box."

Then, on the stage, Mr. Gillette spoke my

cue. I put back my shoulders, cleared my

throat, and stepped out on the stage, my brain

repeating, "Don't look at the royal box."

CHAPTER XVII

In which I play with a celebrated actor; dare

to look at the royal box ; pay a penalty for

my awful crime; gain favor with the public;

and receive a summons from another famous star.

...

MY nerves were stretched tight, like badly;

tuned violin strings, and I seemed to feel them

vibrate when I stepped on the stage and spoke

my opening line, with Gillette's eyes upon me

and the packed house listening. My brain was

keyed to a high pitch, working smoothly, but

it did not seem in any way attached to my body,

and I heard the words as though some one else

had spoken them. They were clear, firm, the

accent perfect. I felt myself stepping three

steps forward, one to the right, and turning

to Mr. Gillette; heard my second line spoken,

with the emphasis placed properly on the third

word.

"Don't look at the royal box," I said to my-

self.

Then I was in the swing of the scene. Mr.

Gillette spoke; I answered him; the situation

came clearly into my mind. I realized that

I was playing opposite William Gillette, that

the eyes of London were on me, and royalty

itself listening. I threw myself into the work,

quivering with the strain of it, but determined

to play up to the big moment. I was doing

well. I knew it. I saw it in the relaxation

of Mr. Gillette's anxious watching. He was

abandoning himself to his part, trusting me to

play up to him.

133

"Now, Billy, listen to me carefully," he said.

I turned my head to the right angle, felt the

muscles of my face quiver with the exact ex-

pression that should be there.

"Yes, sir," I replied, with the exact tone of

eagerness I had practised so often. Gillette

took up his lines. The scene was going well.

The house hung breathless on every word.

...

"Don't look at the royal box," I repeated to

myself, feeling an almost irresistible long-

ing to turn my head in that direction, and stif-

fening my neck against it.

I did not know who was in the box and would

have been no wiser if I had looked, for I had

never seen the royal family, but I learned

later. The late King Edward himself was

present, with Queen Alexandria, the King of

Greece, Prince Christian and the Duke of Con-

naught. Prince Christian, who was a personal

friend of William Gillette, came often to see

him act, but this was an unusually brilliant

party.

134

I stood tense, waiting for my cue. It came

at last.

"Billy, I want you to watch the thieves,"

said Sherlock Holmes.

It was a thrilling moment in the play. I

must be silent just long enough — not too long

— before I spoke. I heard my heart beat in

the pause; the audience waited, tense. The

house was silent.

Then, in the stillness, we heard a murmur

from Prince Christian, and an impatient stage

whisper in reply from the King of Greece.

...

"Don't tell me — don't tell me ; I want to see

it," he said. "Jove, watch that youngster!"

The tension of my nerves broke. William

Gillette, in an effort to save the dramatic

moment of the scene, repeated, "Billy, I want

you to watch the thieves." And, while the house

gazed at me, I turned my head and looked full

at the royal box.

The audience was stunned. It sat dumb, in

frozen horror. There was an awful silence,

while I stood helpless, gazing at the King of

Greece, and he stared back at me with slowly

widening eyes. Then his face broke into little

lines; they ran down from his eyes to his

mouth; it widened into a smile. A sudden

chuckle from King Edward broke the terrible

stillness. Again we heard the voice of the

King of Greece:

"By Jove! Ha! Ha!"

I tore my eyes away and continued the scene

through a haze. We finished it before a silent

house. The curtain fell. Then, led by the

royal box, a storm of applause arose. We took

our curtain call — I was on the stage of a great

West End theater, bowing before applauding

crowds, in the company of one of the greatest

actors in London. The voice of royalty itself

had been heard speaking of my acting. I was

dizzy with exultation.

The curtain fell for the last time and I

strutted proudly from the stage, looking from

one to another of the company, eager to meet

their envious looks. They hurried to their

dressing-rooms without a glance at me. No

one spoke. There was a strained chill feeling

in the atmosphere. I passed Mr. Postham and

he hurried by me as if I were not there.

136

A feeling of trouble and loneliness grew

upon me while I touched up my make-up for

the second scene, though I told myself as

confidently as possible that my looking at

the royal box could not have been so bad,

since the King of Greece had smiled and

Mr. Postham had said nothing. Yet I would

have been more at ease if he had sworn at me.

...

I threw myself into the work of the remaining

scenes with all the skill I had learned, and

I felt that I was doing them well, but the cold

feeling of uncertainty and doubt grew upon me.

At last the final curtain fell. Then for the

first time that evening the eyes of the whole

company turned on me. They lingered on the

stage, waiting. Mr. Postham walked slowly

out and looked at me quietly.

"Well, it went well, didn't it?" I said cockily

to him, saying savagely to myself that I had

been the hit of the evening. My words fell

on a dead silence, while Mr. Postham contin-

ued to look at me, and little by little I felt

myself growing very small and would have

liked to go away, but could not.

"I suppose you realize what you did," Mr.

Postham said, after a long time, and paused.

I opened my mouth, but could not say a word.

...

"It is fortunate — very fortunate — that His

Majesty — was pleased — to overlook it," Mr.

Postham continued slowly. He paused again.

"Fined three pounds," he said briskly, then,

and walked away. So I went meekly from

the scene of my first appearance in a good

theater under the scornful and surprised

glances of the other actors, who had expected

to see the part taken from me, and I said

bitterly to myself that if this was the

reward of talent on the stage — !

I did good work that season with William

Gillette, as all the press notices showed.

Every morning, lying luxuriously in bed in

my lodgings, I pored over the London journals,

seizing eagerly on every comment on my acting,

reading and rereading it. I was the "most

promising young actor on the English stage,"

I was "doing clever work," I was "the best

Billy London has seen yet." To me, as I

gazed at these notices, William Gillette was

merely "also mentioned." I felt that I alone

was making the play a success and I walked

afterward up and down the Strand in a glow

of pride and self-confidence, dressed in all

the splendor money could buy, swinging my cane,

nodding carelessly to the men I knew and pic-

turing them saying to each other after I had

passed, "He is the great actor at the Duke of

York's Theater. I knew him once."

138

The season was drawing to a close and, learning

that William Gillette was returning to America,

I confidently expected nothing less than an

invitation to return with him, when one day

I arrived at the theater early and found a

note awaiting me. I tore it open carelessly

and read :

"Will you please call at St. James' Theater

to-morrow afternoon? I should like to see you.

"Mrs. Kendall."

"Oh, ho! Mrs. Kendall!" I said to myself.

"Well, she will have to offer something good

to get me!"

CHAPTER XVIII

In which I refuse an offer to play in the

provinces ; make my final appearance as

Billy at the Duke of York's Theater ; and

suffer a bitter disappointment.

I ASSUMED a slightly bored air while I glanced

through the note again. Oh, yes, Mrs. Kendall!

The greatest actress in London. Well, I would

call on her if she liked; I would just drop in

and see what she had to offer. Something good,

no doubt, but I should soon show her that it

would have to be something very good indeed

if she hoped to get me,

I flipped the note under the dressing-table

and began to make up, wondering what America

would prove to be like, picturing to myself

the enthusiasm of American reporters when it

was known that William Gillette was bringing

England's greatest boy actor to New York

with him.

"Curtain!" cried the call boy down the cor-

ridors, I called him in, hastily scribbled

off a note to Mrs. Kendall, saying that I

would call at twelve next day, and gave it

to the call boy to post. Then I went out,

nodding affably to the other actors, and

took my place in the wings to await my cue.

140

"Too bad the season's closing, isn't it?"

said Irene Vanbrugh, who stood beside me.

...

"Oh, it's been a pleasant season enough, as

seasons go," I replied carelessly. "The deuce

of it is, there's no rest between 'em when one

has made a hit. Rehearsals and all that."

...

"Y-yes," she said, looking at me queerly.

...

"And it's such a bore, so many people after

one," I continued. "Now, there's Mrs. Ken-

dall, very pleasant woman and all that — had

another note from her just now. Suppose I'll

have to run around and see her again."

...

"Oh, I say, Mrs. Kendall — not really !" Miss

Vanbrugh cried, in such a tone of awe that it

annoyed me. Mrs. Kendall was well enough,

I said to myself, but I was the greatest boy

actor in England. I took my cue confidently,

glad not to be bothered with any more of Miss

Vanbrugh's conversation.

The next day at noon I arrived at Mrs. Ken-

dall's hotel, humming a bit and swinging a new

cane, very well pleased with myself, for the

notices in the London journals had been very

good indeed that day. I noticed that the lift

boy recognized me and seemed properly impres-

sed, and I stepped into Mrs. Kendall's sit-

ting-room disposed to be quite affable to her.

...

She was not there. I waited five minutes and

still she had not come. I began to be irri-

tated. What, keeping me waiting! I glanced

at my watch, walked up and down a minute,

very much bored with such lack of considera-

tion on her part. Then I determined to leave

and show her I was not to be trifled with in

such a manner. Just as I took up my cane

the door opened and Mrs. Kendall entered.

She was a pleasant matronly-looking woman

with tired lines around her eyes and a quiet

gentle manner.

"I'm afraid I have just a minute," I said,

ostentatiously looking at my watch again.

...

"I'm very sorry to have kept you waiting,"

she answered in a soft low voice. "We under-

stand your season with Mr. Frohman is ending

next week. Mr. Kendall and I have seen your

work. We are taking out a company for a

forty-weeks' tour in the provinces, and there

is a part with us which we think you would fill

very well."

I looked at her with raised eyebrows.

"In the provinces?" I said coldly. "I am

very sorry, madam, but I could not think of

leaving London." I took up my cane again

and rose briskly.

Mrs. Kendall looked at me a moment with

a tired smile about her lips. Then she rose,

said that in that case she regretted having

taken up my time, and told me good-by very

pleasantly.

"She sees she can not offer me anything!"

I said proudly to myself, putting back my

shoulders importantly as I came down in the

lift. I walked through the hotel lounging-

room with a quick brisk step, called a cab

and said to the driver in a loud voice, so

the bystanders might guess who I was, "Duke

of York's Theater, and be quick about it, my

man!"

I awaited confidently an offer from Frohman

to bring me to New York with William Gillette,

determining when it came to insist on an

increase in salary. Every evening I expected

to find a note from him in my dressing-room,

and I met the gloomy glances of the other

actors with a wise smile and a knowing look.

They might be troubled with the prospect of

an uncertain future, I said to myself, but

I was secure. I had made the hit of the

piece, as the nightly applause showed.

143

The last week of 'Sherlock Holmes' drew to

a close, and with a sinking heart I realized

that no offer had come from Frohman. I played

my part every night with all the skill I knew,

and hearing the house echo and echo again

with loud applause, I said to myself,

"Now Frohman will see how badly he needs

me!" But still there was no word from him.

...

The last night came, and behind the scenes

there was such a deep gloom that one could

almost feel it like a fog. There was no joking

in the dressing-rooms, the actors moodily made

up and walked about the corridors afterward

with strained anxious faces or laughed in a

manner more gloomy than silence. The com-

pany was breaking up, no one knew what part

he might find next, and all faced the prospect

of wearily walking the Strand again, strug-

gling to get a hearing with the agents, hoping

against hope for a chance, growing shabbier

and hungrier as they waited and hoped and saw

the weeks going by.

144

For the last time I played Billy; for the

last time I met Mr. Gillette's kindly glance

and felt him pat my shoulder, saying, "Well

done, Billy!" while the audience applauded.

We stood together on the stage, bowing and

smiling, while the curtain rose and fell and

rose again and applause came over the foot-

lights in crashing waves. Then the curtain

fell for the last time.

"It's over," said Mr. Gillette, his shoulders

drooping with weariness. Then he spoke a word

or two of farewell to each of us and went to

his dressing-room. The actors hurriedly took

off their make-up and scattered, calling to

one another in the corridor. "Well, so long,

old man !" "See you later, Mabel, tata!"

"Wait a minute, I'm coming !" "Good luck

old fellow !"

I dressed slowly, unable to believe that this

was the last night and that there was no offer

from Mr. Frohman. Mr. Gillette was still in

his dressing-room. I walked up and down out-

side his door debating whether or not to tap

on it and ask him if there had not been a mis-

take.

"I was the hit of the play, wasn't I?" I said

defiantly to myself, but a great wave of doubt

and depression had come over me and I could

not bring myself to knock on that door. Sud-

denly it opened and Mr. Gillette came out

dressed for the street. Behind him I saw the

Japanese servant carrying a bag.

145

"Mr. Gillette," I said boldly, though my

knees were unsteady. "Aren't you taking any

of the company to America with you?"

"Er — oh, it's you!" he said, startled, for he

had almost stumbled against me in the gloom.

"No ; oh, no ; I'm not taking any one with me.

You were a very good Billy, Charles. I hope

you get something good very soon. Good-by."

CHAPTER XIX

In which my fondest hopes are shattered by

cold reality ; I learn the part played by

luck on the Strand ; and receive an unex-

pected appeal for help.

I STOOD there watching Mr. Gillette's back

receding-down the corridor. I felt stunned,

unable to realize that he was really going. I

could not believe that it was all over, that he

did not mean to take me to America after all.

He stopped once and my heart gave a great

leap and began to pound loudly, but he only

spoke to some one he met and then went on.

He turned a corner, the little Japanese servant

turned the corner after him, carrying the bag.

They were gone.

I went back into my dressing-room then and

made a little bundle of my stage clothes and

make-up box. The stage hands had finished

clearing the stage; it was bare and dim when I

crossed it and came out through the stage door

for the last time. A cold gray fog was drift-

ing down the deserted street and I wished to

take a cab, but it came to me suddenly that I

had no part now and could not afford it. I

tucked my bundle under my arm and set out

on foot for my lodgings.

147

All the way it seemed to me that I was in a

bad dream — a dream where I must walk on

and on and on mechanically through an unreal

world of blurred lights and swirling grayness.

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

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

their noses at every step. It takes the very

qualities that make success and turns them into

stumbling blocks, and when we go tumbling

over them the only thing to do is to get up and

laugh at ourselves. If I had not been a pre-

cocious, self-satisfied, egotistic boy, able to

imagine unreal things and think them true, I

could never have been a success on the stage,

and if I had been none of those things I would

not have thrown away the opportunity Mrs.

Kendall gave me and been a failure. That is

an Irish bull, but life must have its little

joke, and there you are.

162

At the end of the three weeks my burns were

sufficiently healed, and one day the nurse came

and told me that I could leave the hospital.

"Very well," I said, "but how? I have no

clothes."

"My goodness !" she said. "I — but you can't

stay here, you know."

"Will you lend me a sheet?" I asked. "I

must wear something."

"Oh, no; we couldn't do that," she replied,

and went away, dazed by the problem. I lay

there grinning to myself and ate my supper

with good appetite. The next day the doctor

came and looked at me and scratched his head

and said testily that I was well enough to go

and must go ; I must get some clothes.

"How can I get clothes unless I go and earn

them, and how can I earn them if I don't have

any?" I asked him.

"Isn't there any way to get this lad any

clothes?" he said to the nurse. She said she

did not know, there had never been a case

just like it before. She would ask the super-

intendent. She came back with the superin-

tendent, and all three of them looked at me.

The superintendent said firmly that I must

go, that it was against the rules for me to

stay any longer. I replied firmly that I

would not go into the streets of London

without any clothes. The superintendent

shut her lips firmly and went away.

163

There was a great sensation in the hospital.

My own garments had been destroyed in the

explosion. The rules demanded that I go, but

the rules provided no clothes for me; I would

not go without clothes, and no one could feel

my position unreasonable. The hospital swayed

under the strain of the situation.

The next afternoon a representative of the

Society for the Relief of the Deserving Poor

called to see me. She asked a dozen questions,

wrote the answers in a book and went away.

Another day passed. The nurses were pale

with suspense. No clothes arrived.

Wild rumors circulated that I was to be

wrapped in a blanket and set out in the night,

but they were contradicted by the fact that

the rules did not provide for the loan of the

blanket. Friendly patients urged me to be firm,

kindly nurses told me not to worry, the super-

intendent was reported baffled by the rules

of the charitable organizations, which did

not provide for clothing patients in the

charity hospitals.

Some natural resentment was felt against me

for not fitting any rules, but the food came

regularly and I ate and slept comfortably. On

the fourth day, when it was felt that something

desperate must be done, the situation suddenly

cleared. Sidney arrived.

The representative of the S. R. D. P. had

called at my mother's address in the course of

her investigations as to my worthiness and

found him there. He was playing in an East

End theater and very much worried about my

disappearance. On hearing of my plight he

had hastened to the rescue and cut short my

life of ease and plenty under the unwilling

shelter of the hospital rules. He brought me

clothes, and I departed, to the disappointment

of the other patients who felt it an anti-climax.

...

Well fed and rested, and with the stimulus

of Sidney's encouragement, I started again my

search for a part. Much as I had hated the

Strand at times, it was like coming home again

to be tramping up and down the agents' stairs

and exchanging boasts with the other actors

while I waited in the outer offices. Usually I

waited long hours, only to he sent away at last

with the office boy's curt announcement that

the agent would see no one, and when some-

times I did penetrate into the inner offices I

met always the same, "Nothing in sight.

Things are very quiet just now. Drop in

again." Then I came out, with my old jaunty

air hiding my bitter disappointment and

tramped down the stairs and along the Strand

and up to another office, to wait again.

165

Mrs. Dobbs, my mother's landlady, moved to

Sweetbay, and being fond of my mother and

her sweet gentle ways, had consented to take

her there for a moderate rate. Sidney and I

lived together in a bed-sitting-room in Alfred

Place on very scant fare and I hated to face

him at night.

"Well, any news?" he always asked, pleas-

antly enough, but I dreaded the moment and

having to say, "No, not yet." It hurt my pride

terribly, and after several months of it the

misery of that first moment of meeting Sidney

drove me into hurting my pride even more in

another way.

"Look here, what's all this talk about play-

ing lead and being with William Gillette worth

to you?" an agent said to me one day. "You'll

take anything you can jolly well get, no matter

what it is, won't you? Well, Dailey, over at

the Grand, is putting out a comedy next week

with Casey's Circus. There's fifteen parts,

none of 'em cast yet. Go and see what you

can do."

I came out of his office in an agony of inde-

cision, for while it was true that I had said

to myself many times that I would take any

part I could get, I had never imagined myself

acting in Casey's Circus. All the pride that

had survived those months of discouragement

writhed at the idea — I who had been a hit in

a West End theater acting a low vulgar

comedy in dirty fourth-rate houses — why,

it was not so good a chance as my part in

Rags to Riches! I said savagely that I

would not do it. Then I thought of Sidney

and bit my lips and hesitated.

In the end, burning with shame and resentment,

I went to see Dailey. At least a hundred third-

rate actors packed the stairs to his office

and more were blocking the street and sitting

on the curbs before his door opened. I was

crushed in the crowd of them, smothered by

rank perfume and the close thick air of the

dirty stairs, and I hated myself and the situa-

tion more every minute of the three hours I

waited there, but I stayed, half hoping he

would not give me a part. At least I could

feel then that I had done all I could.

...

At last my turn came. I straightened my hat,

squared my shoulders and marched in, determined

to be very haughty and dignified. Mr. Dailey,

a fat red-faced man, with his waistcoat un-

buttoned, sat by a desk chewing a big cigar.

...

"Mr. Dailey," I said, "I ____ " I don't know

how it happened. My foot slipped. I tried

to straighten up, slipped again, fell on all

fours over a chair, which fell over on me,

and sat up on the floor with the chair in

my lap.

" ______ want a part," I finished, furious.

...

Mr. Dailey howled and laughed and choked,

and held his sides and laughed again and

choked, purple in the face.

"You'll do," he said at last. "Great entrance !

Great! Ten shillings a week and railway

fares; what do you say to that, my lad?"

"I won't take it," I retorted.

168

CHAPTER XXII

In which I attempt to be serious and am funny

instead; seize the opportunity to get a raise

in pay ; and again consider coming to America.

...

MR. DAILEY would not let me go, but, still

wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, began

shilling by shilling to raise his offer. My

entirely unintentional comedy entrance had

pleased him mightily, and indeed, as soon as

I saw he took it as a deliberate effort on my

part, I began to be not a little proud of it

myself. It was not every one, I said to myself,

who could fall over a chair so comically as

that!

Cheered and emboldened by this reflection,

I drove a shrewd bargain, and at last, per-

suaded by the offer of a pound a week and a

long engagement if I could keep on being

funny, I consented to become a member of

Casey's Circus, and returned whistling to our

lodgings, able to face Sidney with some degree

of pride because I had an engagement at last.

170

We began rehearsals next day in a very dirty

dark room over a public house — fifteen

ragged, hungry-looking, sallow-faced boys

desperately being funny under the direction

of a fat greasy-looking manager who smelled

strongly of ale. It was difficult work for

me at first. Being funny is at best a hard

job, and being funny in those conditions,

which I heartily detested, seemed at first

almost impossible. More than once, when the

manager swore at me more than usual, I felt

like throwing the whole thing up and would

have done so but for the dread of going back

to the endless tramping up and down the

Strand and being a burden on Sidney.

Casey's Circus was putting on that season a

burlesque of persons in the public eye, and I

was cast for the part of Doctor Body, a patent-

medicine faker, who was drawing big crowds

on the London street corners and selling a

specific for all the ills of man and beast at

a shilling the bottle. Watching him one after-

noon, I was seized with a great idea. I would

let the manager rehearse me all he jolly well

liked, but when the opening night came I

would play Doctor Body as he really was — I

would put on such a marvelous character de-

lineation that even the lowest music-hall

audience would recognize it as great acting and

I would be rescued by some good manager and

brought back to a West End theater.

171

The idea grew upon me. Despising with all my

heart the cheap, clap-trap burlesque which the

manager tried to drill into me, I paid only

enough attention to it to get through rehear-

sals somehow, hurrying out afterward to watch

Doctor Body and to practise before the mirror

in our lodgings my own idea of the part. I

felt that I did it well and thrilled with

pride at the thought of playing it soon with

the eye of a great manager upon me.

The night of the opening came and I hurried

to the dirty makeshift dressing-room in a

cheap East End music-hall with all the sensa-

tions of a boy committing his first burglary.

I must manage to make up as the real Doctor

Body and to get on the stage before I was

caught. Once on the stage, without the bur-

lesque make-up which I was supposed to wear,

I knew I could make the part go. I painted

my face stealthily among the uproar and

quarrels of the other fourteen boys, who were

all in the same dressing-room fighting over

the mirrors and hurling epithets and make-up

boxes at one another.

172

The air tingled with excitement. The dis-

tracted manager, thrusting his head in at the

door, cried with oaths that Casey himself was

in front and he'd stand for no nonsense. We

could hear him rushing away, swearing at the

scene shifters, who had made some error in

placing the set. The audience was in bad

humor; we could faintly hear it hooting and

whistling. It had thrown rotten fruit at the

act preceding ours. In the confusion I man-

aged to make up and to get into my clothes,

troubled by the size of the high hat I was to

wear, which came down over my ears. I stuffed

it with paper to keep it at the proper angle on

my head, and trembling with nervousness, but

sure of myself when I should get on the stage,

I stole out of the dressing-room and stationed

myself in the darkest part of the wings.

The boy who appeared first was having a bad

time of it, missing his cues and being

hissed and hooted by the audience. The man-

ager rushed up to me, caught sight of my

make-up and stopped aghast.

173

" 'Ere, you can't go on like that!" he said

in a furious whisper, catching my arm.

"Let me alone; I know what I'm doing!" I cried

angrily, wrenching myself from him. My great

plan was not to be spoiled now at the last

minute. The manager reached for me again,

purple with wrath, but, quick as an eel, I

ducked under his arm, seized the cane I was to

carry and rushed on to the stage half a minute

too soon.

Once in the glare of the footlights I dropped

into the part, determined to play it, play it

well, and hold the audience. The other boy,

whose part I had spoiled, confused by my un-

expected appearance, stammered in his lines

and fell back. I advanced slowly, impressively,

feeling the gaze of the crowd, and, with a care-

fully studied gesture, hung my cane — I held

it by the wrong end ! Instead of hanging on

my arm, as I expected, it clattered on the stage.

Startled, I stooped to pick it up, and my high

silk hat fell from my head. I grasped it, put

it on quickly, and, paper wadding falling out,

I found my whole head buried in its black

depths.

A great burst of laughter came from the

audience. "When, pushing the hat back, I went

desperately on with my serious lines, the

crowd roared, held its sides, shrieked with

mirth till it gasped. The more serious I was,

the funnier it struck the audience. I came

off at last, pursued by howls of laughter and

wild applause, which called me back again. I

had made the hit of the evening.

174

"That was a good bit of business, my lad,"

Mr. Casey himself said, coming behind the

scenes and meeting me in the wings when

finally the audience let me leave the stage

the second time. "Your idea?"

"Oh, certainly," I replied airily. "Not bad,

I flatter myself — er — but of course not what

I might do at that." And, seizing the auspicious

moment, I demanded a raise to two pounds a week

and got it.

The next week I was headlined as "Charles

Chaplin, the funniest actor in London," and

Casey's Circus packed the house wherever it

was played. I had stumbled on the secret of

being funny — unexpectedly. An idea, going

in one direction, meets an opposite idea sud-

denly. "Ha! Ha!" you shriek. It works every

time.

175

I walk on to the stage, serious, dignified,

solemn, pause before an easy chair, spread my

coat-tails with an elegant gesture — and sit

on the cat. Nothing funny about it, really,

especially if you consider the feelings of

the cat. But you laugh. You laugh because it

is unexpected. Those little nervous shocks make

you laugh; you can't help it. Peeling onions

makes you weep, and seeing a fat man carrying

a custard pie slip and sit down on it makes you

laugh.

In the two years I was with Casey's Circus I

gradually gave up my idea of playing great

parts on the dramatic stage. I grew to like

the comedy work, to enjoy hearing the bursts

of laughter from the audience, and getting the

crowd in good humor and keeping it so was a

nightly frolic for me. Then, too, by degrees

all my old self-confidence and pride came back,

with the difference, indeed, that I did not

take them too seriously, as before, but merely

felt them like a pleasant inner warmth as I

walked on the Strand and saw the envious looks

of other actors not so fortunate.

One day, walking there in this glow of suc-

cess, swinging my cane with a nonchalant air

and humming to myself, I met the old come-

dian who had been with the Rags to Riches

company.

"I say, old top," he said eagerly, falling into

step with me, "do a chap a favor, won't you

now? There's a big chance with Carno — I have

it on the quiet he's planning to take a

company to America, and half a dozen parts

not cast. Good pickings, what? I can't get a

word with the beggar, but he'd listen to you.

See what you can do for yourself and then say

a good word for me, won't you, what?"

CHAPTER XXIII

In which I startle a promoter; dream a great

triumph in the land of skyscrapers and buffalo;

and wait long for a message.

AMERICA ! Fred Carno !

The words went off like rockets in my mind,

bursting into thousands of sparkling ideas.

Fred Carno, the biggest comedy producer in

London — a man who could by a word make me

the best-known comedian in Europe ! I could

already see the press notices — "Charlie Chap-

lin, the great comedian, in the spectacular

Carno production — ." And America, that

strange country across the sea, where I had

heard men thought no more of half-crowns

than we thought of six-pences; New York,

where the buildings were ten, twenty, even

thirty floors high, and the sky blazed with

enormous signs in electric light; Chicago,

where the tinned meat came from, and, be-

tween, vast plains covered with buffalo and

wild forests, where, as the train plunged

through them at tremendous speed, I might

see from the compartment window the Amer-

ican red men around their camp-fires! The

man at my side was saying that there was a

chance to go to America with Carno!

178

"Go see him, old chap; please do," the old

comedian begged me. "He'll see you, quick

enough, though he keeps me waiting in his

offices like a dog. And say a good word for

me; just get me a chance to see him. I've put

you on to a good thing, what? You won't for-

get old friends, will you now?"

"Er — certainly not, certainly not!" I assured

him loftily. "Now I think of it, Freddie was

mentioning to me the other day something

about sending a company to America. Next

time I see him — the very next time, on my

word — I'll mention your name. You can de-

pend on it."

Then, waving away his fervid thanks and

declining kindly his suggestion to have a

glass of bitters, I hailed a cab and drove

away, eager to be alone and think over the

dazzling prospect. My own small success

seemed flat enough beside it. America —

Fred Carno! After all, why not? I asked

myself. I could make people laugh ; Carno

did not have a man who could do it better.

Just let me have a chance to show him what

I could do !

So excited that I could feel the blood beat-

ing in my temples and every nerve quivering,

I beat on the cab window with my cane and

called to the driver to take me to Carno's

offices quick. "An extra shilling if you do

it in five minutes!" I cried, and sat on the

edge of the seat as the cab lurched and swayed,

hoping only that I could get there before all

the parts were gone.

I walked into Carno's offices with a quick

assured step, hiding my excitement under an

air of haughty importance, though only a great

effort kept my hand from trembling as I gave

my card to the office boy. I swallowed hard

and called to mind all the press notices I had

received in the two years with Casey's Circus

while I waited, trying to gain an assurance I

did not feel, for Carno was a very big man,

indeed. When the office boy returned and

ushered me into the inner office I felt my

knees unsteady under me.

"Ah, you got here quickly," Mr. Carno said

pleasantly, waving me to a chair, and this

unexpected reception completed my confusion.

180

"Oh, yes. I was — I happened to be going

by," I replied, dazed.

Mr. Carno leaned back in his chair, careful-

ly fitting his finger tips together and looked

at me keenly with his lips pursed up. I said

nothing more, being doubtful just what to say,

and after a minute he sat up very briskly and

spoke.

"As I mentioned in my note," he began, and

the office seemed to explode into fireworks

about me. He had sent me a note. He wanted

me, then. I could make my own terms. "And

perhaps I could use you for next season", he

finished whatever he had said.

"Yes," I said promptly. "In your American

company."

"My American company? Well, no. That is still

very indefinite," he replied. "But I can

give you a good part with 'Repairs' in the

provinces. Thirty weeks, at three pounds."

...

"No, I would not consider that," I answered

firmly. "I will take a part in your American

company at six pounds." Six pounds — it was

an enormous salary; twice as much as I had

ever received. I was aghast as I heard the

words, but I said doggedly to myself that I

would stand by them. I was a great comedian;

Fred Carno himself had sent for me; I was

worth six pounds.

181

"Six pounds ! It's unheard of. I never pay

it," Mr. Carno said sharply.

"Six pounds, not a farthing less," I insisted.

"In that case I am afraid I can't use you.

Good morning," he answered.

"Good morning," I said, and rising prompt-

ly I left the office.

That night I played as I had never played

before. The audience howled with laughter

from my entrance till my last exit and recalled

me again and again, until I would only how

and back off. I carried in a pocket of my stage

clothes the note from Mr. Carno, which I had

found waiting at the theater, and I winked at

myself triumphantly in the mirror while I took

off my make-up.

"He'll come around. Watch me!" I said

confidently, and not even Sidney's misgivings

nor his repeated urgings to seize the chance

with Carno at any salary could shake my de-

termination.

"I'm going to America," I said firmly.

"And I won't go under six pounds. Living

costs terrifically over there; all the lodgings

have built-in baths and they charge double for

it. I stand by six pounds and I'll get it,

never fear."

In my own heart I had misgivings more than

once in the months that followed without an-

other message from Carno, but I set my teeth

and vowed that, since I had said six pounds,

six pounds it should be. And I worked at

comedy effects all day long in our lodgings,

falling over chairs and tripping over my cane

for hours together, till I was black and blue,

but prepared, when the curtain went up at

night, to make the audience hold their sides

and shriek helplessly with tears of laughter

on their cheeks.

"Any news?" Sidney began to ask again

every evening, but I managed always to say,

"Not yet!" with cocky assurance. "He'll send

for me, never fear," I said, warmed with the

thought of the applause I was getting and the

press notices.

The season with Casey's Circus was ending and

I took care not to let any hint of my inten-

tion to leave reach the cars of the manager,

but I refused to believe that I would be

obliged to fall back on him. I looked eagerly

every day for another note from Carno.

"Don't worry'-, I'll see you get your bit

when the time is ripe," I told the old comedian

whenever he importuned me for news, as he did

frequently. "You know how it is, old top

— you have to manage these big men just

right."

At last the note came. It reached me at my

lodgings early one morning, having been sent

on from the theater, and I trembled with ex-

citement while I dressed. I forced myself to

eat breakfast slowly and to idle about a bit

before starting for Carno's offices, not to

reach them too early and appear too eager,

but when at last I set out the cab seemed to

do no more than crawl.

"Well, I find I can use you in the American

company," Mr. Carno said.

"Very well," I replied nonchalantly.

"And — er — as to salary — ," he began, but

I cut in.

"Salary?" I said, shrugging my shoulders.

"Why mention it ? We went over that before,"

and I waved my hand carelessly. "Six

pounds," I said airily.

He looked at me a minute, frowning. Then

he laughed.

"All right, confound you I" he said, smiling,

and took out the contract.

Three weeks later, booked for a solid year in

the United States, looking forward to playing

on the Keith circuit among the Eastern sky-

scrapers and on the Orpheum circuit in the

Wild West among the American red men, I

stood on the deck of a steamer and saw the

rugged sky-line of New York rising from the

sea.

CHAPTER XXIV

In which I discover many strange things in that

strange land, America; visit San Francisco for

the first time; and meet an astounding reception

in the offices of a cinematograph company.

NOW, since I was twenty at the time, four years

ago, when I stood on the deck of the steamer

and saw America rising into view on the horizon,

it may seem strange to some persons that I had

no truer idea of this country than to suppose

just west of New York a wild country inhabited

by American Indians and traversed by great

herds of buffalo. It is natural enough, however,

when one reflects that I had spent nearly all my

life in London, which is, like all great cities,

a most narrow-minded and provincial place, and

that my only schooling had been the little my

mother was able to give me, combined later with

much eager reading of romances. Fenimore Cooper,

your own American writer, had pictured for me

this country as it was a hundred years ago,

and what English boy would suppose a whole

continent could be made over in a short hundred

years?

186

So, while the steamer docked, I stood quiver-

ing with eagerness to be off into the wonders

of that forest of skyscrapers which is New

York, with all the sensations of a boy trans-

ported to Mars, or any other unknown world,

where anything might happen. Indeed, one

of the strangest things — to my way of think-

ing — which I encountered in the New World,

was brought to my attention a moment after I

landed. At the very foot of the gangplank

Mr. Reeves, the manager of the American com-

pany, who was with me, was halted by a very

fat little man, richly dressed, who rushed up

and grasped him enthusiastically by both

hands.

"Velgome! Velgome to our gountry!" he

cried. "How are you, Reeves? How goes it?"

Mr. Reeves replied in a friendly manner, and

the little man turned to me inquiringly.

"Who's the kid?" he asked.

"This is Mr. Chaplin, our leading comedian,"

Mr. Reeves said, while I bristled at the word

"kid." The fat man, I found, was Marcus Loew,

a New York theatrical producer. He shook

hands with me warmly and asked immediately,

"Veil, and vot do you think of our gountry,

young man?"

"I have never been in Berlin," I said stiffly.

"I have never cared to go there," I added

rudely, resenting his second reference to my

youth.

"I mean America. How do you like America? This

is our gountry now. We're all Americans together

over here !" Marcus Loew said with real enthus-

iasm in his voice, and I drew myself up in

haughty surprise. "My word, this is a strange

country," I said to myself. Foreigners, and

all that, calling themselves citizens ! This

is going rather far, even for a republic,

even for America, where anything might happen.

...

That was the thing which most impressed me

for weeks. Germans, it seemed, and English

and Irish and French and Italians and Poles,

all mixed up together, all one nation —

it seemed incredible to me, like something

against all the laws of nature. I went about

in a continual wonder at it. Not even the high

buildings, higher even than I had imagined,

nor the enormous, flaming electric signs on

Broadway, nor the high, hysterical, shrill

sound of the street traffic, so different

from the heavy roar of London, was so strange

to me as this mixing of races. Indeed, it was

months before I could become accustomed to it,

and months more before I saw how good it is,

and felt glad to be part of such a nation

myself.

188

We were playing a sketch called 'A Night in a

London Music-Hall', which probably many people

still remember. I was cast for the part of a

drunken man, who furnished most of the comedy,

and the sketch proved to be a great success,

so that I played that one part continuously

for over two years, traveling from coast to

coast with it twice.

The number of American cities seemed endless

to me, like the little bores the Chinese make,

one inside the other, so that it seems no

matter how many you take out, there are still

more inside. I had imagined this country a

broad wild continent, dotted sparsely with

great cities — New York, Chicago, San Francisco

— with wide distances between. The distances

were there, as I expected, but there seemed

no end to the cities. New York, Buffalo,

Pittsburgh, Cincinnati, Columbus, Indianapolis,

Chicago, St. Louis, Kansas City, Omaha, Denver

— and San Francisco not even in sight yet!

No Indians, either.

Toward the end of the summer we reached San

Francisco the first time, very late, because

the train had lost time over the mountains, so

that there was barely time for us to reach the

Orpheum and make up in time for the first

performance. My stage hat was missing,

there was a wild search for it, while we held

the curtain and the house grew a little impa-

tient, but we could not find it anywhere. At

last I seized a high silk hat from the outraged

head of a man who had come behind the scenes

to see Reeves and rushed on to the stage. The

hat was too loose. Every time I tried to speak

a line it fell off, and the audience went into

ecstasies. It was one of the best hits of the

season, that hat.

It slid back down my neck, and the audience

laughed ; it fell over my nose, and they

howled ; I picked it up on the end of my cane,

looked at it stupidly and tried to put the

cane on my head, and they roared. I do not

know the feelings of its owner, who for a time

stood glaring at me from the wings, for when

at last, after the third curtain call, I came

off holding the much dilapidated hat in my

hands, he had gone. Bareheaded, I suppose,

and probably still very angry.

190

After the show I came out on the street into

a cold gray fog, which blurred the lights and

muffled the sound of my steps on the damp

pavement, and, drawing great breaths of it

into my lungs, I was happy. "For the lova

Mike!" I said to Reeves, being very proud of

my American slang. "This is a little bit of

all right, what? Just like home, don't you

know! What do you know about that!" And

I felt that, next to London, I liked San

Francisco, and was sorry we were to stay

only two weeks.

We returned to New York, playing return dates

on the "big time" circuits, and I almost

regretted the close of the season and the

return to London. The night we closed at

Keith's I found a message waiting for me at

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-

fore 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

brisk and hurried as before and plunged imme-

diately into a description of the part I was

to play, pausing only to mop his perspiring

forehead now and then. The heat had increased;

under the reflectors the place was like a

furnace, but my spine was still cold with ap-

prehension.

"Is it an acrobatic part?" I asked, as soon

as I could force myself to inquire.

"No, not this one. You're a hungry tramp in

the country. "We'll take the interiors here,

and for the rest we'll go out on 'location,'"

the director answered, ruffling the pages of

the "working script" of the play. "We'll do

the last scene first — basement set. Let's

run through it now; then you can make up and

we'll get it on the film before the light's

gone."

He led the way to the basement set and began

to instruct me how to play the part.

"You fall in, down the trap-door," he said.

"Pick yourself up, slowly, and register sur-

prise. Don't look at the camera, of course.

You have a pie under your coat. Take it out,

begin to eat it. Register extreme hunger.

Then you hear a noise, start, set down the

pie, and peer out through the grating. When

you turn around the rats will be eating the

pie. Get it?"

I said I did, and while the director peered

through the camera lens I rehearsed as well

as I could. I had to do it over and over,

because each time I forgot and got out of the

range of the camera lens. At last, however,

with the aid of a five-foot circle of dots

on the floor, I did it passably well, and was

sent to make up in one of dozens of dressing-

rooms, built in a long row beside the stage.

My costume, supplied by the Keystone wardrobe,

was ready, and I was reassured by the sight

of it and the make-up box. Here at last was

something I was quite familiar with, and I

produced a make-up of which I was proud.

206

When I returned to the stage the camera

operator was waiting, and a small crowd of

actors and carpenters had gathered to watch

the scene. The director was inspecting the

colored rats and giving orders to have their

tails repainted — quick, because the blamed

things had licked the color off and would

register tail- less. A stage hand was standing

by with a large pie in his hand.

"Ready, Chaplin?" the director called, and

then he looked at me.

"Holy Moses, where did you get that make-

up?" he asked in astonishment, and every one

stared. "That won't do; that won't do at all.

Look at your skin, man; it will register gray

— and those lines — you can't use lines like

that in the pictures. Roberts, go show him how

to make up."

I thought of my first appearance in Rags to

Riches, and felt almost as humiliated as I

had then, while Roberts went with me to the

dressing-room and showed me how to coat my

face and neck with a dull brick-brown paint,

and to load my lashes heavily with black.

The character lines I had drawn with such

care would not do in the pictures, I learned,

because they would show as lines. I must give

the character effect by the muscles of my face.

207

Feeling very strange in this make-up, I went

back the second time to the stage. The di-

rector, satisfied this time, gave me a few

last directions and the pie, and I mounted

to the top of the set.

"Remember, don't look at the camera, keep

within range, throw yourself into the part

and say anything that comes into your head,"

the director said. "All ready? Go to it."

...

The camera began to click; I clutched the

pic, took a long breath, and tumbled through

the trap-door.

CHAPTER XXVII

In which, much against my will, I eat three

cherry pies ; see myself for the first time

on a moving-picture screen and discover that

I am a hopeless failure on the films.

"REGISTER surprise! Register surprise!" the

director ordered in a low tense voice, while

I struggled to get up without damaging the pie.

I turned my head toward the clicking camera,

and suddenly it seemed like a great eye watch-

ing me. I gazed into the round black lens,

and it seemed to swell until it was yards

across. I tried to pull my face into an

expression of surprise, but the muscles were

stiff and I could only stare fascinated at

the lens. The clicking stopped.

"Too bad. You looked at the camera. Try it

again," said the director, making a note of

the number of feet of film spoiled. He was

a very patient director; he stopped the

camera and placed the pie on top of it for

safety, while I fell through the trap-door

twice and twice played the scene through,

using the pie tin.

209

Then the pie was placed under my coat again,

the camera began to click, and again I started

the scene. But the clicking drew my attention

to the lens in spite of myself. I managed to

keep from looking directly at it, but I felt

that my acting was stiff, and half-way through

the scene the camera stopped again.

"Out of range," said the camera man care-

lessly, and lighted a cigarette. I had for-

gotten the circle of dots on the floor and

crossed them.

I had eaten a large piece of the pie. There was

a halt while another was brought, and the

director, after an anxious look at the sun,

used the interval in playing the scene through

himself, falling through the trap-door, reg-

istering surprise and apprehension and panic

at the proper points, and impressing upon me

the way it was done. Then I tried it again.

...

All that afternoon I worked, black and blue

from countless falls on the cement floor, per-

spiring in the intense heat, and eating no less

than three large pies. They were cherry pies,

and I had never cared much for them at any

time.

When the light failed that evening the di-

rector, with a troubled frown, thoughtfully

folded the working script and dismissed the

camera man. Most of the actors in the other

companies had gone; the wilderness of empty

sets looked weird in the shadows. A boy ap-

peared, caught the rats by their tails, and

popped them back into their box.

"Well, that's all for to-day. We'll try it

again to-morrow," the director said, not look-

ing at me. "I guess you'll get the hang of it

all right, after a while."

In my dressing-room I scrubbed the paint from

my face and neck with vicious rubs. I knew I

had failed miserably and my self-esteem

smarted at the thought. Even if I had succeed-

ed, I said bitterly, what was the fun in a

life like that? No excitement, no applause,

just hard work all day and long empty evenings

with nothing to do.

Only two considerations prevented me from

canceling my contract and quitting at once —

I was getting two hundred dollars a week, and

I would not admit to myself that I — I, who

had been a success with William Gillette and

a star with Carno — was a failure in the films

Nevertheless, I was in a black mood that night,

and when after dinner the waiter, bending def-

erentially at my elbow, insinuated politely,

"The cherry pie is very good, sir," he fell

back aghast at the language I used.

211

Work at the studio began at eight next morn-

ing, and I arrived very tired and ill-tempered

because of waking so early. We began imme-

diately on the same scene, and after I had

ruined some more film by unexpectedly landing

on a rat when I fell through the trapdoor,

we managed to get it done, to my relief.

However, all that week, and the next, my

troubles increased.

We played all the scenes which occurred in one

set before we went on to the next set, so we

were obliged to take the scenes at haphazard

through the play, with no continuity or

apparent connection. The interiors were all

played on the stage, and most of the exteriors

were taken "on location," that is, somewhere in

the country. It was confusing, after being

booted through a door, to be obliged to appear

on the other side of it two days later, with the

same expression, and complete the tumble be-

gun fifteen miles away. It was still more con-

fusing to play the scenes in reverse order, and

I ruined three hundred feet of film by losing

my hat at the end of a scene, when the succeed-

ing one had already been played with my hat

on.

212

At the end of the second week the comedy was

all on the film and the director and I were

being polite to each other with great effort.

I was angry with every one and everything,

my nerves worn thin with the early hours and

unaccustomed work, and he was worried because

I had made him a week late in producing the

film. The day the negative was done Mack

Sennett arrived from New York, and I met him

with a jauntiness which was a hollow mockery

of my real feeling.

"Well, they tell me the film's done," he said

heartily, shaking my hand. "Now you're going

to see yourself as others see you for the

first time. Is the dark room ready? Let's go

and see how you look on the screen."

The director led the way, and the three of us

entered a tiny perfectly dark room. I could

hear my heart beating while we waited, and

talked nervously to cover the sound of it. Then

there was a click, the shutter opened, and the

picture sprang out on the screen. It was the

negative, which is always shown before the real

film is made, and on it black and white were

reversed. It was several seconds before I real-

ized that the black-faced man in white clothes,

walking awkwardly before me, was myself.

Then I stared in horror.

213

Funny ? A blind man couldn't have laughed at

it. I had ironed out entirely any trace of

humor in the scenario. It was stiff, wooden,

stupid. We sat there in silence, seeing the

picture go on, seeing it become more awkward,

more constrained, more absurd with every

flicker. I felt as though the whole thing were

a horrible nightmare of shame and embarrass-

ment. The only bearable thing in the world

was the darkness ; I felt I could never come

out into the light again, knowing I was the

same man as the inane ridiculous creature

on the film. Half-way through the picture

Mr. Sennett took pity on me and stopped the

operator.

"Well, Chaplin, you didn't seem to get it

that time," he said. "What's wrong, do you

suppose?"

"I don't know," I said.

"Yes, it's plain we can't release this," the

director put in moodily. "Two thousand feet

of film spoiled."

214

"0h, damn your film!" I burst out in a fury,

and rising" with a spring which upset my chair

I slammed open the door and stalked out.

"Well, here is where I quit the pictures," I

thought.

Mr. Sennett and the director overtook me

before I reached my dressing-room and we

talked it over. I felt that I would never make

a moving-picture actor, but Mr. Sennett was

more hopeful. "You're a cracker jack come-

dian," he said. "And you'll photograph well.

All you need is to get camera-wise. We'll try

you out in something else ; I'll direct you,

and you will get the hang of the work all

right."

The director brought out a mass of scenarios

which had been passed up to him by the scena-

rio department and Mr. Sennett picked out one

and ordered the working script of it made im-

mediately. Next day we set to work together

on it ; Mr. Sennett patient, good-humored,

considerate, coaching me over and over In

every gesture and expression; I with a hard

tense determination to make a success this

time.

We worked another week on this second play,

using every hour of good daylight. It was not

entirely finished then, but enough was done

to give an idea of its success, and again

the negative was sent to the dark room for

review.

215

I went to see it with the sensations of dread

and shrinking one feels at sight of a dentist's

chair, and my worst fears were justified. The

film was worse than the first one — utterly

stupid and humorless.

CHAPTER XXVIII

In which I introduce an innovation in motion-

picture production ; appropriate an amusing

mustache ; and wager eighty dollars on three

hours' work.

"WELL, what are we going to do about it?"

Mr. Sennett asked, when the flicker of the

second film had ceased and we knew it a worse

failure than the first. "Looks hopeless,

doesn't it?"

"Yes," I said, with a sinking heart, for

after all I had had a flicker of hope for

success this time. We had both worked hard,

and now we were tired and discouraged. I

went alone to my dressing-room, shut the

door and sat down to think it over.

The trouble with the films, I decided, was

lack of spontaneity. I was stiff; I took all

the surprise out of the scenes by anticipating

the next motion. When I walked against a tree,

I showed that I knew I would hit it, long

before I did. I was so determined to he funny

that every muscle in my body was stiff and

serious with the strain. And then that con-

founded clicking of the camera and the effort

it took to keep from looking at it — and the

constant fear of spoiling a foot of film.

217

"So you're a failure," I said, looking at

myself in the mirror. "You're a failure ;

no good; down and out. You can't make a

cinema film. You're beaten by a click and

an inch of celluloid. You are a rotter,

no mistake!"

I was so furious at that that I smashed the

mirror into bits with my fist. I walked up

and down the dressing-room, hating myself

and the camera and the film and the whole

detestable business. I thought of haughtily

stalking out and telling Mr. Sennett I was

through with the whole thing ; I was going

back to London, where I was appreciated.

Then I knew he would be glad to let me go;

he would say to himself that I was no good

in the pictures, and I would always know

it was true. My vanity ached at the thought.

No matter how much success I made, no matter

how loud the audience applauded, I would

always say to myself, "Very well for you,

but you know you failed in the cinemas."

...

With a furious gesture I grabbed my hat and

went out to find Mr. Sennett. He was on the

stage watching the work of another company.

I walked up to him in a sort of cold rage

and said, "See here, Mr. Sennett, I can

succeed in this beastly work. I know I can.

You let me have a chance to do things the way

I want to and I'll show you."

218

"I don't know what I can do. You've had

the best scenarios we've got, and we haven't

hurried you," he said reasonably. "You know

the rest of the companies get out two reels a

week, and we've taken three weeks to do what

we've done with you — about a reel and a half."

...

"Yes, but the conditions are all wrong," I

hurried on. "Rehearsing over and over, and

no chance to vary an inch, and then that click-

ing beginning just when I start to play. And

I miss a cane. I have to have a cane to be

funny."

It must have sounded childish enough. Mr.

Sennett looked at me in surprise.

"You can have a cane, if that's what you want.

But I don't know how you are going to make

pictures without rehearsing and without a

camera," he said.

"I want to make up my own scenarios as I go

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 retiring, 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

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 Essanay 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

were good actors ; I knew I could do good work

with them.

247

"That is the offer as it stands," he concluded.

"Half a million dollars in salary, another half-

million, probably, in royalties. That depends

on the amount of film the Lone Star company

turns out. We'll give you every facility for

producing it; the Mutual will handle the re-

leases. We will be ready to start work as soon

as you sign the contract."

"Then," I said pleasantly, "we need only

decide the amount of the bonus to be paid me

for signing it."

"Frankly, Mr. Chaplin, I am not authorized

to offer you a bonus," he replied. "We don't

do that. And we feel that in organizing your

own company, building studios, giving you

such a supporting cast, we are doing all that

is possible, in addition to the record-breaking

salary and royalties we are willing to pay you."

248

"On the other hand, you must consider that

I have other offers," I answered. "Frankly,

also, I imagine the size of the bonus paid me

will decide which company I choose. I want

two hundred and fifty thousand. We both

know I am worth it to any company."

It was a deadlock. The old thrill of my

dealing with Carno came back to me while we

talked. In the end he left, the matter still

undecided.

There were many interviews after that. I

still believe that it might have been possible,

by holding out longer, to get that amount, but

I was eager to begin work again, and besides,

as Mr. Caulfield pointed out, the sooner we

began releasing films the sooner the royalties

would begin coming in.

In the end we compromised on a cash bonus of

one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and

an agreement on my part to secure the com-

pany for that payment by allowing them to

insure my life for half a million dollars. We

made application for the insurance policy and

I was examined by the insurance company's

physician, so that there might be no delay in

closing the arrangements with the Mutual and

beginning work.

"Fit as a fiddle, sir; fit as a fiddle !" the

doctor said, thumping my chest. He felt the

muscles of my arms approvingly. "Outdoor life,

outdoor life and exercise, they're the best

medicine in the world. What is your occupation,

sir, if I may ask?"

"I'm a sort of rough-and-tumble acrobat,"

I said. "A moving-picture actor."

"Well, bless my soul! Chaplin, of course!

I didn't get the name. Yes, yes, I see the

resemblance now. I'm glad to meet you, sir.

That last comedy of yours — when you fell

into the lake — " He chuckled.

In great good spirits, then, we set out for

New York, where the contract was to be signed

by Mr. Freuler and myself and the final de-

tails settled.

Ten years ago I had been a starving actor on

the Strand, a precocious youngster with big

dreams and an empty stomach. Now I was on

my way to New York and a salary of five hun-

dred and twenty thousand dollars a year. Then

I had been hungry for the slightest recog-

nition ; I had schemed and posed and acted

a part with every one I met, craving a glance

of admiration or envy to encourage my really

tremulous hopes of one day succeeding; I had

deceived myself with flattery to keep up my

spirits. Now my name was known wherever moving

pictures were shown throughout the world; a

million hearty laughs applauded me every day.

I felt that I had arrived and I was happy.

250

From New York I hastened to cable my mother

the dazzling news — my poor, pretty little

mother, older now and never really strong

since the terrible days when we starved

together in a London garret. She can not

come to America because she can not stand

the sea trip, but from the first I had

written her at great length about my

tremendous success, and when my comedies

appeared in England she went for the first

time to the cinema houses, and wrote that

it was good to see me again and my comedy

work was splendid ; she was proud of me.

...

We were to sign the contract in the offices

of the Mutual company in New York. When we

stepped into that suite of richly furnished

rooms, to be ushered at once into the presence

of the president of this multi-million-dollar

parent corporation, I had one fleeting thought

of myself, ten years before, wearily tramping

the Strand from agent's office to agent's

office, the scorn of the grimiest cockney

office boy.

251

The curious twists and turns of chance in

those old days should have prepared me for

the shock I received when I met Mr. Freuler,

but they had not done so. I felt so secure,

so satisfied with myself and the world as I

stepped into his private office.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Chaplin," he said when Mr.

Caulfield had introduced us and we were

seated. "I'm afraid there will be a hitch in

the paying of that bonus. The insurance company

has refused to issue your policy."

CHAPTER XXXIII

In which I realize my wildest dreams of fortune;

ponder on the comedy tricks of life and conclude

without reaching any conclusion.

"REFUSED to issue — impossible!" I cried, start-

ing in my chair. With the swiftness of a knife

stab I saw myself stopped at the very moment

of my greatest success, fighting, struggling,

hoping — and dying swiftly of some inexorable,

concealed disease. Why, I had never felt bet-

ter in my life !

"Yes, we received their refusal only this

morning. On account of your extra-hazardous

occupation they will not carry a policy for

such a large sum," said Mr. Freuler. "I'm

sorry, but I'm afraid it will hold matters

up until we have found a company which will

insure you or distributed the amount among

a number of companies."

I laughed. I felt that Fate had shot her last

bolt at me and missed. Extra hazardous, of

course! I had grown accustomed to the staff

of nurses waiting at every large studio during

thrilling scenes. I had trained myself by long

practise to come comically through every dan-

gerous mishap with as little danger of broken

bones as possible. That was part of the work

of being funny.

"Oh, very well," I said. "What shall we do

to arrange the matter?"

253

It was a question which occupied our thoughts

for several days. No large company would

insure my life against the hazards of my

comedies. We did, however, finally hit upon a

way of solving the problem, and at last, worth

nearly half a million dollars to the Mutual

company if I died and much more if I lived, I

signed the contract and received my check for

one hundred and. fifty thousand dollars.

...

I did it, as was fitting, to the sound of a

clicking camera, for the Mutual company, with

great enterprise, filmed the event, that audi-

ences the world over might see me in my proper

person, wielding the fateful pen. It was a

moment during which I should have felt a de-

gree of emotion, that moment at which the pen

point, scrawling "Charles Chaplin," made me

worth another million dollars. But the click-

click-click of the camera as the operator

turned the crank made the whole thing unreal

to me. I was careful only to register the

proper expression.

254

" Well — it's finished. What about your half-

million now?" Sidney said affectionately when,

my copy of the contract safely tucked into my

breast pocket, we set off down the street to-

gether. "You'll quit, will you, with half a

million! You'll never leave the moving pic-

tures, my lad!"

"Have it your own way, old scamp," I said.

"You would, anyway. Just the same I would

like to write a book. I wager I could do it,

with half a chance. By the way, there's

another thing I'd like to do — "

Then I had all the pleasure and delight of

feeling rich, of which the camera had robbed

me while I signed my contract. At last I had

an opportunity to repay Sidney the money part

of the debt I have owed him since he came to

my rescue so many times when we were boys.

He could not refuse half of the bonus money

which he had worked so hard to get for me, and

that check for seventy-five thousand dollars

gave me more pleasure than I can recall receiv-

ing from any other money I have ever handled.

255

So I came back to the Pacific coast to begin

my work with the Mutual company. I am now

an assured success in moving-picture comedy

work and I am most proud of it. There is

great cause for pride in keeping thousands of

persons laughing. There is the satisfaction,

also, of having attained, through lucky chance

and accident, the goal on which I set my eyes

so many years ago.

But I have no golden rule for such attain-

ment to offer any one. I have worked — yes,

to the limit of my ability — but so have many

other men who have won far less reward than I,

Whether you call it chance, fate or providence,

to my mind the ruling of men's lives is in

other hands than theirs.

If Sidney had not returned to London I might

have become a thief in the London streets.

If William Gillette had brought me to America

I might have become a great tragic actor.

If the explosion in the glass factory had

been more violent I might have been buried in

a pauper's grave. Now, by a twist of public

fancy, which sees great humor in my best work,

and less in the best work of other men who are

toiling as hard as I, I have become Charlie

Chaplin, "the funniest man in America," and

a millionaire.

256

What rules our destinies in this big comedy,

the world? I do not know. I know only that

it is good, whatever happens, to laugh at it.

...

Meantime, I am working on a new comedy.

I am always working on a new comedy. I have

a whole stage to myself, a stage of bare new

boards that smell of turpentine in the hot

sunshine, covered with dozens of sets —

drawing-rooms, bedrooms, staircases, base-

ments, roofs, fire-escapes, laundries,

baker-shops, barrooms - — everything.

...

As soon as the light is strong enough I arrive

in my big automobile, falling over the steps

when I get out to amuse the chauffeur. I coat

my face with light brown paint, paste on my

mustache, get into my floppy shoes, loop my

trousers up about my waist, clog-dance a bit.

Then the camera begins to click and I begin

to be funny. I enjoy my comedies; they seem

the funniest things on earth while I am

playing them. I laugh, the other actors laugh,

the director fans himself with his straw hat

and laughs ; the camera man chuckles aloud.

257

Dozens of ideas pop into my mind as I play ;

I play my parts each with a fresh enthusiasm,

changing them, inventing, devising, accident-

ally producing unexpected effects, carefully

working out others, enjoying every moment

of it.

When the light falls in the evening I may sit

a while, for coolness, in the basement set,

where the glare of the reflectors has not beat

all day. Then sometimes I think of the tricks

fate has played with me since the days I clog-

danced for Mr. Hawkins, and I wonder why and

what the meaning of it all may be. But I never

decide.

THE END