My Autobiography by Charles Chaplin (find a book to read .txt) 📗

they said it was not enough to hold a maudlin play together, so he completed the rest of his season with the revival of Sherlock Holmes, in which I was retained for the part of Billie.

In my excitement to play with the famous William Gillette, I had forgotten to ask about terms. At the end of the week Mr Postance came apologetically with my pay envelope. ‘I’m really ashamed to give you this,’ he said, ‘but at the Frohman office they said I was to pay you the same as you were getting with us before: two pounds ten.’ I was agreeably surprised.

At rehearsals of Holmes, I met Marie Doro again – more beautiful than ever! – and in spite of my resolutions not to be overwhelmed by her, I began to sink further into the hopeless mire of silent love. I hated this weakness and was furious with myself for lack of character. It was an ambivalent affair. I both hated and loved her. What’s more, she was charming and gracious to boot.

In Holmes she played Alice Faulkner, but in the play we never met. I would wait, however, timing the moment when I could pass her on the stairs and gulp ‘Good evening’, and she would answer cheerfully ‘Good evening’. And that was all that ever passed between us.

Holmes was an immediate success. During the engagement Queen Alexandra saw the play; sitting with her in the Royal Box were the King of Greece and Prince Christian. The Prince was evidently explaining the play to the King and during the most tense and silent moment, when Holmes and I were alone on the stage, a booming voice with an accent resounded throughout the theatre: ‘Don’t tell me! Don’t tell me!’

Dion Boucicault had his offices in the Duke of York’s Theatre, and in passing he would give me an approving little tap on the head; as did Hall Caine, who frequently came back stage to see Gillette. On one occasion I also received a smile from Lord Kitchener.

During the run of Sherlock Holmes, Sir Henry Irving died and I attended the funeral at Westminster Abbey. Being a West End actor, I was given a special pass and I felt very proud of the fact. At the funeral, I sat between the solemn Lewis Waller, then the romantic matinée idol of London, and ‘Dr’ Walford Bodie of bloodless surgery fame, whom I later burlesqued in a vaudeville skit. Waller looked handsomely profiled for the occasion, sitting stiffly, looking neither right nor left. But ‘Dr’ Bodie, in order to get a better view as they lowered Sir Henry into the crypt, kept stepping on the chest of a supine duke, much to the indignation and contempt of Mr Waller. I gave up trying to see anything and sat down, resigned to viewing the backsides of those in front of me.

Two weeks before the ending of Sherlock Holmes, Mr Boucicault gave me a letter of introduction to the illustrious Mr and Mrs Kendal, with the prospects of getting a part in their new play. They were terminating a successful run at the St James’s Theatre. The appointment was for ten a.m., to meet the lady in the foyer of the theatre. She was twenty minutes late. Eventually, a silhouette appeared off the street: it was Mrs Kendal, a stalwart imperious lady, who greeted me with: ‘Oh, so you’re the boy! We are shortly to begin a tour of the provinces in a new play, and I’d like to hear you read for the part. But at the moment we are very busy. So will you be here tomorrow morning at the same time?’

‘I’m sorry, madam,’ I replied coldly, ‘but I cannot accept anything out of town.’ And with that I raised my hat, walked out of the foyer, hailed a passing cab – and was out of work for ten months.

The night Sherlock Holmes ended its run at the Duke of York’s Theatre and Marie Doro was to return to America, I went off alone and got desperately drunk. Two or three years later in Philadelphia, I saw her again. She dedicated the opening of a new theatre in which I was playing in Karno’s comedy company. She was still as beautiful as ever. I stood in the wings watching her in my comedy make-up while she made a speech, but I was too shy to make myself known to her.

At the closing of Holmes in London the company in the provinces also ended, so both Sydney and I were out of work. But Sydney lost no time in getting another job. As a result of seeing an advertisement in the Era, a theatrical paper, he joined Charlie Manon’s troupe of knockabout comedians. In those days there were several of these troupes touring the halls: Charlie Baldwin’s Bank Clerks, Joe Boganny’s Lunatic Bakers, and the Boicette troupe, all of them pantomimists. And although they played slapstick comedy, it was performed to beautiful music à la ballet and was most popular. The outstanding company was Fred Karno’s, who had a large repertoire of comedies. Each one was called ‘Birds’. There were Jail Birds, Early Birds, Mumming Birds, etc. From these three sketches Karno built a theatrical enterprise of more than thirty companies, whose repertoire included Christmas pantomimes and elaborate musical comedies, from which he developed such fine artists and comedians as Fred Kitchen, George Graves, Harry Weldon, Billie Reeves, Charlie Bell and many others.

It was while Sydney was working with the Manon troupe that Fred Karno saw him and signed him up at a salary of four pounds a week. Being four years younger than Sydney, I was neither fish nor fowl for any form of theatrical work, but I had saved a little money from the London engagement and while Sydney was working in the provinces I stayed in London and played around pool-rooms.

six

I HAD arrived at that difficult and unattractive age of adolescence, conforming to the teenage emotional pattern. I was