BOY [walking towards him]: Polite, ain’t you, inviting blokes into their own drawing-room?
DETECTIVE: I’m a detective.
BOY: What, a cop? I’m off!
DETECTIVE: I’m not going to hurt you. All I want is a little information that will help to do someone a good turn.
BOY: A good turn indeed! If a bit of luck comes to anyone here, it won’t be through the cops!
DETECTIVE: Don’t be a fool. Would I have started by telling you I was in the Force?
BOY: Thanks for nothing. I can see your boots.
DETECTIVE: Who lives here?
BOY: The Duke.
DETECTIVE: Yes, but what’s his real name?
BOY: I don’t know. The duke is a ‘nom de guerre’ as he calls it, though blow me if I know what it means.
DETECTIVE: And what does he look like?
BOY: As thin as a lath. Grey hair, clean shaven, wears a top hat and an eye-glass. And blimey, the way he looks at you through it!
DETECTIVE: And Jim – who’s he?
BOY: He? You mean she!
DETECTIVE: Ah, then she’s the lady who –
BOY [interrupting] : Who sleeps in the cupboard – this here room’s ours, mine and the Duke’s, etc. etc.
There was much more to the part, and, believe it or not, it was highly amusing to the audience, due, I think, to my looking much younger than I was. Every line I spoke got a laugh. Only mechanics bothered me: the business of making real tea on the stage. I would get confused about whether to put the tea in the pot first or the hot water. Paradoxically enough, it was easier for me to talk lines than to carry out stage business.
Jim was not a success. The reviewers panned the play unmercifully. Nevertheless, I received favourable notices. One, which Mr Charles Rock, a member of our company, showed me, was exceptionally good. He was an old Adelphi actor of considerable reputation, and I played most of my scenes with him. ‘Young man,’ said he solemnly, ‘don’t get a swollen head when you read this.’ And after lecturing me about modesty and graciousness he read the review of the London Topical Times, which I remember word for word. After writing disparagingly of the play it continued: ‘But there is one redeeming feature, the part of Sammy, a newspaper boy, a smart London street Arab, much responsible for the comic part. Although hackneyed and old-fashioned, Sammy was made vastly amusing by Master Charles Chaplin, a bright and vigorous child actor. I have never heard of the boy before, but I hope to hear great things of him in the near future.’ Sydney bought a dozen copies.
After completing the two week’s run of Jim, we started rehearsals for Sherlock Holmes. During this time Sydney and I were still living at Pownall Terrace, because economically we were not too sure of our footing.
During rehearsals Sydney and I went to Cane Hill to see Mother. At first the nurses told us that she could not be seen as she was not well that day. They took Sydney aside out of my hearing, but I heard him say: ‘No, I don’t think he would.’ Then turning to me sadly: ‘You don’t want to see Mother in a padded room?’
‘No, no! I couldn’t bear it!’ I said, recoiling.
But Sidney saw her, and Mother recognized him and became rational. A few minutes later a nurse told me that Mother was well enough, if I wished to see her, and we sat together in her padded room. Before leaving she took me aside and whispered forlornly: ‘Don’t lose your way, because they might keep you here.’ She remained eighteen months at Cane Hill before regaining her health. But Sydney saw her regularly while I was on tour.
*
Mr H. A. Saintsbury, who played Holmes on tour, was a living replica of the illustrations in the Strand Magazine. He had a long, sensitive face and an inspired forehead. Of all those who played Holmes he was considered the best, even better than William Gillette, the original Holmes and author of the play.
On my first tour, the management decided that I should live with Mr and Mrs Green, the carpenter of the company, and his wife, the wardrobe lady. This was not very glamorous. Besides, Mr and Mrs Green drank occasionally. Moreover, I did not always want to eat when they did, or eat what they ate. I am sure my living with the Greens was more irksome to them than to me. So after three weeks we mutually agreed to part, and being too young to live with other members of the cast, I lived alone. I was alone in strange towns, alone in back rooms, rarely meeting anyone until the evening performance, only hearing my own voice when I talked to myself. Occasionally, I would go to the saloons where members of the company gathered, and watch them play billiards; but I always felt that my presence cramped their conversation, and they were quite obvious in making me feel so. I could not smile at their levity without being frowned upon.
I began to grow melancholy. Arriving in northern towns on a Sunday night, hearing the doleful clanging of church bells as I walked the darkened main street, added little comfort to my loneliness. On week-day I would scan the local markets and do my shopping, buying groceries and meat for the landlady to cook. Sometimes I would get board and lodging, and eat in the kitchen with the family. I liked this, for north-country kitchens were clean and wholesome, with polished fire-grates and blue hearths. When the landlady baked bread, it was cheerful to come out of a cold dark day into the red glow of a Lancashire kitchen fire, and see tins of unbaked loaves around the hearth, and sit down to tea with the family – the taste of hot bread just out of the oven with fresh butter was relished with grave solemnity.
I had been in the provinces for six months. Meanwhile Sydney had had little success in getting a
