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

a few alterations, I began to think of an idea. I thought of a title: His Night Out – a drunk in pursuit of pleasure – that was enough to start with. I added a fountain to the night-club, feeling I could get some gags out of it, and I had Ben Turpin as a stooge. The day before we started the picture a member of Anderson’s company invited me to a supper party. It was a modest affair, with beer and sandwiches. There were about twenty of us, including Miss Purviance. After supper some played cards while others sat around and talked. We got on to the subject of hypnotism and I bragged about my hypnotic powers. I boasted that within sixty seconds I could hypnotize anyone in the room. I was so convincing that most of the company believed me, but Edna did not.

She laughed. ‘What nonsense! No one could hypnotize me!’

‘You,’ I said, ‘are just the perfect subject. I bet you ten dollars that I’ll put you to sleep in sixty seconds.’

‘All right,’ said Edna, ‘I’ll bet.’

‘Now, if you’re not well afterwards don’t blame me for it – of course it will be nothing serious.’

I tried to scare her into backing out, but she was resolute. One woman begged her not to allow it. ‘You’re very foolish,’ she told her.

‘The bet still goes,’ said Edna, quietly.

‘Very well,’ I answered. ‘I want you to stand with your back firmly against the wall, away from everybody, so that I can get your undivided attention.’

She obeyed, smiling superciliously. By this time everyone in the room was interested.

‘Somebody watch the time,’ I said.

‘Remember,’ said Edna, ‘you’re to put me to sleep in sixty seconds.’

‘In sixty seconds you will be completely unconscious,’ I answered.

‘Go!’ said the time-keeper.

Immediately I made two or three dramatic passes, staring intensely into her eyes. Then I came near to her face and whispered so that the other could not hear: ‘Fake it!’ and made passes, saying: ‘You will be unconscious – you are unconscious, unconscious!’

Then I drew back and she began to stagger. Quickly I caught her in my arms. Two of the onlookers screamed. ‘Quick!’ I said. ‘Someone help me put her on the couch.’

When she came to, she feigned bewilderment and said the felt tired. Although she could have won her argument and proved her point to all present, she had generously relinquished her triumph for the sake of a good joke. This won her my esteem and affection and convinced me that she had a sense of humour.

I made four comedies at Niles, but as the studio facilities were not satisfactory, I did not feel settled or contented there, so I suggested to Anderson my going to Los Angeles, where they had better facilities for making comedies. He agreed, but also for another reason: because I was monopolizing the studio, which was not big enough or adequately staffed for three companies. So he negotiated the renting of a small studio at Boyle Heights, which was in the heart of Los Angeles.

While we were there, two young men who were just beginning in the business came and rented studio space, named Hal Roach and Harold Lloyd.

As the value of my comedies increased with every new picture, Essanay began demanding unprecedented terms, charging exhibitors a minimum of fifty dollars a day rental for my two-reel comedies. This meant that they were collecting over fifty thousand dollars in advance for each picture.

One evening, after I had returned to the Stoll Hotel, where I was staying, a middle-rate place but new and comfortable, there was an urgent telephone call from the Los Angeles Examiner. They read a telegram they had received from New York stating:

WILL GIVE CHAPLIN $25,000 FOR TWO WEEKS

TO APPEAR FIFTEEN MINUTES EACH EVENING AT

THE NEW YORK HIPPODROME. THIS WILL NOT

INTERFERE WITH HIS WORK.

Immediately I put in a call to G. M. Anderson in San Francisco. It was late and I was not able to reach him until three in the morning. Over the phone I told him of the telegram and asked if he would let me off for two weeks in order to earn that twenty-five thousand dollars. I suggested that I could start a comedy on the train going to New York, and while there finish it. But Anderson did not want me to do it.

My bedroom window opened out on the well of the hotel, so that the voice of anyone talking resounded through the rooms. The telephone connexion was bad – ‘I don’t intend to pass up twenty-five thousand dollars for two weeks’ work!’ I had to shout several times.

A window opened above and a voice shouted back: ‘Cut out that bull and go to sleep, you big dope!’

Anderson said over the phone that, if I gave Essanay another two-reeler comedy, they would give me the twenty-five thousand. He agreed to come to Los Angeles the following day and give me the cheque and draw up an agreement. After I had finished telephoning I turned off the light and was about to go to sleep, then, remembering the voice, I got out of bed, opened the window and shouted up: ‘Go to hell!’

Anderson came to Los Angeles the following day with a cheque for twenty-five thousand dollars, and the New York company that made the original offer went bankrupt two weeks later. Such was my luck.

Now back in Los Angeles I was much happier. Although the studio at Boyle Heights was in a slummy neighbourhood, it enabled me to be near my brother, whom I occasionally saw in the evening. He was still at Keystone and would finish his contract there about a month earlier than the completion of mine with Essanay. My success had taken on such proportions that Sydney now intended devoting his whole time to my business affairs. According to reports, my popularity kept increasing with each succeeding comedy. Although I knew the extent of my success in Los Angeles by the long lines at