My Autobiography by Charles Chaplin (most read book in the world TXT) 📕

got snatches. Then he told me he had been left behind in a hospital in Cape Town for medical treatment and that on the return trip he had made twenty pounds, money he looked forward to giving Mother. He had made it from the soldiers, organizing sweepstakes and lotteries.

He told me of his plans. He intended giving up the sea and becoming an actor. He figured that the money would keep us for twenty weeks, in which time he would seek work in the theatre.

Our arrival in a cab with a crate of bananas impressed both the neighbours and the landlady. She told Sydney about Mother, but did not go into harrowing details.

The same day Sydney went shopping and outfitted me with new clothes, and that night, all dressed up, we sat in the stalls of the South London Music Hall. During the performance Sydney kept repeating: ‘Just think what tonight would have meant to Mother.’

That week we went to Cane Hill to see her. As we sat in the visiting room, the ordeal of waiting became almost unbearable. I remember the keys turning and Mother walking in. She looked pale and her lips were blue, and, although she recognized us, it was without enthusiasm; her old ebullience had gone. She was accompanied by a nurse, an innocuous, glib woman, who stood and wanted to talk. ‘It’s a pity you came at such a time,’ she said, ‘for we’re not quite ourselves today, are we, dear?’

Mother politely glanced at her and half smiled as though waiting for her to leave.

‘You must come again when we’re a little more up to the mark,’ added the nurse.

Eventually she went, and we were left alone. Although Sydney tried to cheer Mother up, telling her of his good fortune and the money he had made and his reason for having been away so long, she just sat listening and nodding, looking vague and preoccupied. I told her that she would soon get well. ‘Of course,’ she said dolefully, ‘if only you had given me a cup of tea that afternoon, I would have been all right.’

The doctor told Sydney afterwards that her mind was undoubtedly impaired by malnutrition, and that she required proper medical treatment, and that although she had lucid moments, it would be months before she completely recovered. But for days I was haunted by her remark: ‘If only you had given me a cup of tea I would have been all right.’

five

JOSEPH CONRAD wrote to a friend to this effect: that life made him feel like a cornered blind rat waiting to be clubbed. This simile could well describe the appalling circumstances of us all; nevertheless, some of us are struck with good luck, and that is what happened to me.

I had been newsvendor, printer, toy-maker, glass-blower, doctor’s boy etc., but during these occupational digressions, like Sydney, I never lost sight of my ultimate aim to become an actor. So between jobs I would polish my shoes, brush my clothes, put on a clean collar and make periodical calls at Blackmore’s theatrical agency in Bedford Street off the Strand. I did this until the state of my clothes forbade any further visits.

The first time I went there, the office was adorned with immaculately dressed Thespians of both sexes, standing about talking grandiloquently to each other. With trepidation I stood in a far corner near the door, painfully shy, trying to conceal my weatherworn suit and shoes slightly budding at the toes. From the inner office a young clerk sporadically appeared and like a reaper would cut through the Thespian hauteur with the laconic remark: ‘Nothing for you – or you – or you’ – and the office would clear like the emptying of a church. On one occasion I was left standing alone! When the clerk saw me he stopped abruptly. ‘What do you want?’

I felt like Oliver Twist asking for more. ‘Have you any boys’ parts?’ I gulped.

‘Have you registered?’

I shook my head.

To my surprise he ushered me into the adjoining office and took my name and address and all particulars, saying that if anything came up he would let me know. I left with a pleasant sense of having performed a duty, but also rather thankful that nothing had come of it.

And now one month after Sydney’s return I received a postcard. It read: ‘Would you call at Blackmore’s agency, Bedford Street, Strand?’

In my new suit I was ushered into the very presence of Mr Blackmore himself, who was all smiles and amiability. Mr Blackmore, whom I had imagined to be all-mighty and scrutinizing, was most kindly and gave me a note to deliver to Mr C. E. Hamilton at the offices of Charles Frohman.

Mr Hamilton read it and was amused and surprised to see how small I was. Of course I lied about my age, telling him I was fourteen – I was twelve and a half. He explained that I was to play Billie, the page-boy in Sherlock Holmes, for a tour of forty weeks which was to start in the autumn.

‘In the meantime,’ said Mr Hamilton, ‘there is an exceptionally good boy’s part in a new play Jim, the Romance of a Cockney, written by Mr H. A. Saintsbury, the gentleman who is to play the title role in Sherlock Holmes on the forthcoming tour.’ Jim would be produced in Kingston for a trial engagement, prior to the tour of Holmes. The salary was two pounds ten shillings a week, the same as I would get for Sherlock Holmes.

Although the sum was a windfall I never batted an eye. ‘I must consult my brother about the terms,’ I said solemnly.

Mr Hamilton laughed and seemed highly amused, then brought out the whole office staff to have a look at me. ‘This is our Billie! What do you think of him?’

Everyone was delighted and smiled beamingly at me. What had happened? It seemed the world had suddenly changed, had taken me into its fond embrace and adopted