Chaplin’s Music Hall: The Chaplins and their Circle in the Limelight 9780755694051, 9781786723857

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Illustrations Frontispiece - Comic adventures in Paris, described by Charles Chaplin in ‘Oui! Tray Bong!’ (1893). 1. ‘Across the Bridge’. Charles Godfrey’s hit song of 1888 concerns transience, love and despair. 2. Westminster Bridge Road, 1896, looking toward Christ Church. 3. Kennington Road in the early 1900s. Posters advertise the Canterbury Music Hall, the South London Palace and the Empress Theatre of Varieties, Brixton. 4. ‘Music-Halls Inanities’. Punch artist Bernard Partridge portrays a typical serio-comic, 1899. 5. ‘Poverty Corner’. York Road, Waterloo, location of many variety agents. 6. The White Horse, Brixton Road. Sunday morning rendezvous for the music-hall profession. 7. Hannah Chaplin. The only known portrait of Charlie Chaplin’s mother as a young woman. 8. Prostitutes on the Empire Music Hall Promenade by Dudley Hardy, 1891. A similar scene was recreated by Chaplin for the film Limelight. 9. The Royal Standard Music Hall, Victoria, with G. H. Chirgwin on stage. Drawing by Joseph Pennell, 1890.

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10. Sheet music cover for ‘Eh! Boys’, a Charles Chaplin success from 1890. 11. Chaplin’s act interrupted by two women at the South London Music Hall. Illustrated Police News, 18 April 1896. 12. Charles Chaplin’s lodgings in Kennington Road, photographed in 1921. 13. The Horns Tavern and Assembly Rooms, Kennington Road. 14. Arthur West portrayed on a sheet music cover. c. 1891. 15. ‘Love and Duty’ (1889), Leo Dryden’s first music-hall success. 16. A patriotic ballad from 1897, written by the famous team of John P. Harrington and George Le Brunn. 17. Leo Dryden performs ‘The Miner’s Dream of Home’ in Trafalgar Square, New Year’s Eve, 1919. 18. ‘The Hand of Justice’, a story-telling song by Will Godwin. 19. ‘What Would I Give To Be Home Again!’ (1908). Many years after ‘The Miner’s Dream of Home’ Godwin was still writing about homesick gold-miners. 20. The Eight Lancashire Lads and other performers appearing at the People’s Palace, Bristol; in September 1897. William Jackson stands at extreme right, Rose Jackson stands second right and Elizabeth Jackson is seated next to her. 21. Bransby Williams impersonating ‘Grandfather’ from Charles Dickens’ The Old Curiosity Shop. 22. Wal Pink’s comedy sketch Repairs with Charlie Chaplin seen crouching at front of stage and Sydney Chaplin standing on step-ladder.

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23. Will Murray as Mrs Casey. Detail from a poster for Casey’s Legacy, c. 1930. 24. Chaplin as Calvero performing ‘I Am an Animal Trainer’. 25. Charlie Chaplin as Calvero, the Tramp Comedian. 26. Chaplin and music-hall comedian George Robey exchange costumes, London, 1931.

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Foreword

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iecing this book together from critical reviews, printed announcements, personal advertisements in local papers, also from music hall posters and the comments by the artists themselves in published interviews, Barry Anthony has managed to bring back to life the often remarkable and dramatic lives of the performers who once entertained the British public in the many music halls throughout the country. As some of the stories he tells are linked to me by way of the blood that rushes through my veins, I was particularly moved to discover the ups and downs some of my relatives went through in the pursuit of their careers, the downs often far more precipitous and dramatic than the ups, and one of the side effects of reading this fascinating book is a deeper understanding it gives of the often criticized sentimentality of some of the scenes portrayed in my father’s films. What Barry clearly reveals is that these scenes are in no way the whimsical inventions of an overcharged emotional imagination, but in fact have their roots firmly embedded in my father’s childhood environment and in the lives of the people closest to him. It seems as well that my father’s spectacular rise to planetary fame in an art that was in large part fashioned on the music hall stage by his parents and their rivals and friends, leaving them more often than not penniless, sick and alone in their old age, was a kind of vindication that redeemed their struggle in some strange way. Michael Chaplin

Acknowledgements

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would like to thank Tony Barker for giving me unlimited access

to his music-hall archive; Richard Anthony Baker for his very practical comments; and Kate Guyonvarch and Claire Byrski of the Association Chaplin for their help and encouragement. Thanks also go out to Richard Brown, Sheila Clarke, Glenn Mitchell, Terry Mortimer, David Robinson, Frank Scheide, Lisa Stein, Matthew Sweet, Max Tyler of Music Hall Studies magazine, Stephen Weissman and Hannah Wilks. I am indebted to Michael Chaplin for supplying the Foreword and to my wife Jean for being my first line of advice. Tony Barker supplied the frontispiece and illustrations 10, 11, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 22 and 26; Lambeth Archives, 3; Roy Export S. A. S., 7 and 24. The remainder are from the author’s collection. Extracts from My Autobiography by Charles Chaplin – Copyright © Pac Holdings S. A.

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ondon, a warm summer evening during the mid-1890s. The sun is setting behind the Houses of Parliament and the prostitutes are on their way to work. Groups of them saunter across Waterloo Bridge, their dyed hair and gaudy costumes softened by the rosy light. They are heading towards the Strand, Leicester Square and Piccadilly Circus where the pubs, restaurants and music halls provide a ready source of custom. Come the early hours of the morning, they will make the weary return journey to their homes in Lambeth and Southwark. That is the direction that we now take. On arriving at the other side of the bridge we soon encounter a major crossroads: Stamford Street to the left, Waterloo Road running straight ahead, with York Road and the South Western Railway terminus to the right. Close to the station a few men stand drinking under the hanging gas lamps of the York Hotel. Earlier in the day the pub and the adjacent pavements of ‘Poverty Corner’ would have been packed with performers hoping to obtain last-minute musichall bookings from the many variety agents who occupy the area. A glance across the junction reveals Wolf Goldstein’s old offices from where ‘Dashing’ Eva Lester was ejected after trading blows with her theatrical representative. The district is seedy and down-at-heel with many lodging houses catering for the ‘work girls’ of ‘Whoreterloo’.

ILLUSTRATION 1. ‘Across the Bridge’. Charles Godfrey’s hit song of 1888 concerns transience, love and despair.

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Moving onward towards the New Cut we pass St John’s Church, an imposing neo-classical edifice that stands out from its dingy surroundings. Here the great Dan Leno’s parents were married and more recently the patriotic vocalist Leo Dryden brought his abducted son to be baptized. Approaching another large crossroads, we see the substantial frontage of the Royal Victoria Theatre, familiarly known as the ‘Old Vic’. We do not carry onward towards Bethlehem Lunatic Asylum and the Walworth Road, but turn into Lower Marsh, a narrow thoroughfare which plays host to a clamouring street market. Crowds of impecunious shoppers gather round stalls selling flowers, crockery, second-hand books, even spectacles. Street hawkers offer cheap toasting forks, boot-laces, braces and badly printed song sheets pirated from the more expensive publications of Francis, Day and Hunter and Charles Sheard. Running across the far end of the market we see, and hear, Westminster Bridge Road, its heavy traffic grinding northward to the Thames and south to the distant, green fields of Kent. On the far side of the road stands a tall building, designed in the Italianesque style. Bright lighting illuminates the colourful posters and florid decorations of the Canterbury Theatre of Varieties, a music hall that has dominated this corner of Lambeth for the past 40 years. The theatre has long since outgrown its humble tavern ancestor, but everyone remembers that back in the early 1850s Charles Morton took the old Canterbury Arms and converted it into the first modern music hall. Everyone remembers this because the venerable Charlie is still around to remind them. Although advanced in years, he continues his distinguished managerial career at the newly built Palace Theatre in Cambridge Circus. A smaller hall, Gatti’s, stands on this side of the road, built close to the brick viaduct of the station. At its entrance a lady of easy virtue is accepting a gift from a smartly dressed gentleman – a

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risky business considering the recent exploits of the Stamford Street poisoner Dr Neil Cream.1 Against the dank wall beneath the railway bridge a blind beggar has taken up a position that he is set to occupy for many years to come. We leave him fingering a grubby Braille bible and continue along the Westminster Bridge Road. A couple of trams have stopped, giving their horses the opportunity to catch a moment’s rest. Other vehicles slow down, coming to an impatient halt. There are hansom cabs, tradesmen’s vans, pony traps, and buses whose occupants lean over the top deck to see what has caused the delay. A crossing sweeper takes the opportunity to clear a path from one side of the road to the other, pushing the grainy balls of horse-dung into a heap that intermingles with multi-coloured bus tickets. A sign on the left announces Lambeth Baths, not only a centre for physical recreation, but a venue for mass social and political meetings. On the right the oyster rooms are doing a brisk trade. Directly in front of us the spire of Christ Church presents a sharp outline against the darkening sky. Although built in the Gothic style, the church is less than 20 years old. Its opening in 1876 occurred 100 years after the start of the American Revolution and much of the money for its construction was raised by donations from the charitably inclined citizens of the United States. Westminster Bridge Road extends to the left of the church, but we take the right fork. The road before us is broad and straight, with lines of softly glowing street lamps stretching as far as the eye can see. Kennington Road is long both in distance and in history. It was created in 1751 across open land to link Westminster Bridge with Kennington Common and thence the south coast. Now, hemmed in by narrow streets of jerry-built dwellings, it still appears spacious and airy. Its eighteenth-century terraces are well proportioned, with large windows and fanlights over panelled front doors. But these elegant houses are as crowded as the back streets, partitioned

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ILLUSTRATION 2. Westminster Bridge Road, 1896, looking toward Christ Church.

into apartments that make a mockery of their original symmetry. Taken as a whole, the boroughs that constitute south-east London are grossly overpopulated, accommodating some two million people within an area whose dimensions scarcely measure 6 by 12 miles. Once past Christ Church the first major building on our left is the police station. Of lesser note is the York, a common beerhouse, and then, at the corner of the junction with Lambeth Road, the Three Stags. It’s at this pub that the Terriers, a philanthropic society of music-hall performers, hold their weekly ‘Grand Ceremonial Meetings’. We will pass several public houses on our progress along the road. On the west side are the Tankard, the Ship and the Roebuck and on the east side the Crystal Fountain, the Prince George and the Cock. Come Sunday morning these taverns

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will provide the backdrop for one of London’s best free shows as over-dressed, over-exuberant variety performers take the air and a ‘drop of something’ along the way. Tonight the pubs are busy but not crowded, music from impromptu concerts drifting into the street. Although some shops remain open until a very late hour, many tradesmen are closing their premises, hauling heavy wooden shutters across the windows. In the private houses most of the front room curtains have been drawn, with occasional chinks of light betraying the presence of inquisitive or guilty occupants. The warmth has lured a few people outside. Some chat across cast-iron railings, others sit on the front door steps. Outside number 267 Mrs Allgood talks to her son. Perhaps they are recalling the time when the extempore vocalist Arthur West came to their lodging-house at two in the morning, punching young Ernest on the nose when he answered the door. He was looking for Jenny, his runaway wife. Or was she his wife? It’s not always easy to tell in the Kennington Road. As with the prostitutes, large numbers of music-hall artists are attracted by the proximity of the area to central London. Many guardians of public morality consider that the variety profession is synonymous with prostitution, an opinion perhaps satirized by performers who refer to themselves as ‘pros’ or ‘prossers’. The major stars hold court in commodious villas in nearby Clapham and Brixton, but many lesser lights live in and around Kennington Road. At the moment the Craggs, ‘Gentlemen Acrobats’, have a private gymnasium at number 68; the sketch artist Fred Karno is at 86; Lauck and Dunbar, ‘America’s Greatest Double Somersault Flying Trapeze Artists’, reside at 133; while the Sisters Flexmore, singers of ‘The Art of Making Love’, have a temporary home at 265. A few months ago number 88 witnessed a tragedy when the American quick-change artist Robert Lorraine blew out

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his brains after being unable to repay loans to his landlady and the manager of the Tankard. Number 289 also has a gloomy history. It was there that the famous cannon-ball catcher Captain Athya died, not like Lorraine of gunshot wounds, but lingering consumption. An apartment in the same house served as the base for the swindler George Edward Bishop who was sentenced to a year’s hard labour for running a bogus theatrical agency. Kennington Cross is not a religious monument, but the area linking Upper and Lower Kennington Lane. To the left the Lane leads to Renfrew Road where the local Police Court and Lambeth Workhouse stand in baleful proximity. Having no immediate business with either the Magistrate or the Workhouse Master we press on, soon passing another much-resented manifestation of municipal authority, the Town Hall. Across the way a few sooty trees surround a small open space known as Kennington Green. Finally, at the very end of Kennington Road, we are confronted with one of its most imposing buildings. It is a public edifice, but not of overtly civic function. Surmounted with giant antlers, the Horns Tavern is an extensive, confident building with a wealth of terracotta ornamentation. Its adjoining assembly rooms have hosted all kinds of entertainments, including benefit performances for variety performers down on their luck. Outside the Horns a small, curly-haired boy is singing. He deserves a few pennies, for his impersonation of the great ‘coster’ comedian Gus Elen is surprisingly accurate: ‘E ’as the cheek and impudence to call ’is muvver, ’is ma, Since Jack Jones come into a little bit o’ coin, Why ’e don’t know where ’e are! *

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ILLUSTRATION 3. Kennington Road in the early 1900s. Posters advertise the Canterbury Music Hall, the South London Palace and the Empress Theatre of Varieties, Brixton.

This evocation of late Victorian Waterloo and Kennington is partly based on Charlie Chaplin’s recollections of the area as it was when he lived there with his performer parents. He was to recreate aspects of this world in many of his films, most significantly in Limelight, his tribute to the music hall. The autobiographical references found in the film were drawn from a preparatory treatment, a 100,000-word unpublished novel that Charlie worked on over a period of years. In the rambling text of Footlights he filled in the backgrounds of the film’s two central characters; Calvero, a washed-up comedian played by Charlie, and Terry, a washed-out dancer played by Claire Bloom. In much of his written work, particularly My Autobiography, Charlie conflated characters with memories of south-east London. The emotional content of

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particular scenes was frequently heightened by their atmospheric settings. The closing-in of his mother’s madness took place at the top of a ‘rickety’ staircase in the claustrophobic garret of 3 Pownall Terrace, Kennington Road. ‘The room was stifling,’ he wrote, ‘a little over twelve feet square, and seemed smaller and the slanting ceiling seemed lower.’2 Charles Chaplin Senior’s selfdestructive nature was suggested by the furnishings of the apartment at the unlucky 289 Kennington Road: ‘the stuffed pike in a glass case that had swallowed another pike as large as itself – the head sticking out of its mouth – looked gruesomely sad.’3 Charlie discovered the power of music outside the White Hart, Kennington Cross, while his first love blossomed a little further along the road at Kennington Gate. Kennington Park was synonymous with loneliness, its benches remembered for their ‘treacherous bleakness’.4 Some of Charlie’s most vivid childhood memories were of his mother, deserted by Chaplin Senior, trying to maintain an air of respectability as she and her two sons moved from one set of sordid lodgings to another. She did her best to patch their tatty clothes and to impose standards of speech and behaviour. Despite Hannah Chaplin’s best endeavours, it was Charlie’s cockney accent that won him his first major role on the stage. As Billy the impudent newspaper boy in Jim, A Romance of Cockayne he found himself commended in the theatrical press and, of greater importance, in receipt of a regular income. It was a salutary lesson that one’s imagined weaknesses might, in fact, be abiding strengths. If only the drunks and derelicts who shuffled the streets of Kennington could have turned their afflictions to such advantage. They, of course, could not, but Charlie, under Hannah’s perceptive tutelage, was able to study their idiosyncrasies and, in the course of time, to replicate them to devastatingly funny effect on stage and in films. Charlie was an observant bystander on the road to ruin. As a child he soaked in the dysfunctional, disordered world of his parents and

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their circle of acquaintances. In them he was to recognize the absurd pretensions of shabby-gentility; the ludicrous discrepancies that existed between stage fiction and everyday reality; and, above all, the extremes of behaviour caused by popularity and rejection. ‘Comedy,’ he reportedly observed, ‘is life viewed from a distance; tragedy, life in a close-up.’5 The characters in the tragicomedy of Charlie’s youth were a group of music-hall folk who inhabited the same small area of London and whose lives were sometimes intimately and disastrously linked. Their personal ups and downs were paralleled by a profession in a state of crisis. Solo ‘turns’ like Charlie’s parents struggled to make an impact in the oversized variety theatres which began to spring up during the 1890s. Major tensions arose as performers schooled in ‘free and easy’, tavern-based entertainment attempted to meet the increasing demands of businessmen running the music-hall industry. Eventually, having lost touch with its audience, music hall surrendered its popularity to cinema. Some performers migrated from the old entertainment to the new. Others remained, watching their careers fade away with the last music halls. Charlie monitored the decline and fall with mixed feelings. Music hall, which both made and destroyed his parents, had provided him with an escape route from the slums of south-east London. But in becoming the silent cinema’s premier comedian he had helped destroy the older institution. As years passed and his own form of cinema became outmoded and undervalued, he grew nostalgic for the entertainment and entertainers of his childhood. He was to spend much time reflecting on the turbulent lives and careers of his parents and their friends, finally reconciling their triumphs and disasters in his own gritty philosophy of success, failure and, above all, survival.

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he stood like a stag at bay, hounded by a group of boys who mocked her filthy clothes and closely cropped hair. Once she had charmed audiences with her fashionable dresses, good looks and natural vivacity – now the lads pushed each other forward, as if merely touching her would cause immediate contamination. ‘Dashing’ Eva Lester’s fall, like her rise to music-hall fame, had been rapid. In common with many variety performers she had lived beyond her means, existing on a day-by-day basis with little idea how she might provide for herself during periods of unemployment. Such a time arrived with disastrous consequences. Following a prolonged illness she had been reduced to sleeping in Salvation Army shelters and in the streets beneath railway arches. At this low point of her life she encountered the young Charlie Chaplin, accompanied by his mother who had been her friend in happier times. As the child of two failed performers the meeting was to have a profound effect on Charlie. His father had recently died, aged 37, having frittered away a successful career, while his mother had hardly performed since she had been booed from the stage some eight years previously. Although only 12, Charlie had already experienced his own first theatrical failure. It was hardly surprising that, for him, ‘Dashing’ Eva Lester came to personify the

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rejected performer. Hers was an abject surrender that he could not begin to accept or even allow himself to understand. There are hardly any details of Eva’s pre-music hall life. She was apparently born Rosa Pritchard, either in Bristol or the United States, sometime during the second half of the 1860s.1 Her regular music-hall billing ‘The Californian Gem’ suggests that she had spent at least part of her early life in America, but is only with her first stage appearances that her life becomes well documented. When Eva made her debut in 1882 the music-hall industry was around 40 years old. Although originating as tavern-based entertainment, most halls had become purpose-built theatres, varying in size, quality and reputation. An easygoing atmosphere prevailed with patrons coming and going as they pleased, chatting to each other and smoking and drinking at bars that were frequently situated within sight of the stage. A succession of variety acts or ‘turns’ were announced by a loquacious compère who occupied a table beside the orchestra. The ‘Chairman’ was still common when Eva first appeared, but during the course of her career his function was gradually replaced by large numbered cards that were linked to entries on a programme of entertainment. The reasons for Eva’s initial success were self-evident. She was pretty, sang and danced with spirit and wore striking costumes. Her temperament was fiery and pugnacious; not bad qualities when it came to making her way in a male-dominated world. An early review of her turn at Crowder’s Music Hall at Greenwich in southeast London suggests that she had already acquired a good rapport with the chorus-chanting audience, if not with The Era critic: Miss Eva Lester sang of not being willing to be kissed and squeezed. She added a song the chorus of which consisted chiefly of ‘Jack, Jack, Jack,’ and ‘Quack, Quack, Quack.’ On her third entry she was smartly dressed in boy fashion, and

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professed to being a spendthrift, who, when people asked for payment of what was due to them, tells them to ‘call in the Guv!’ Her performances were evidently liked by the audience.2 Perhaps the reporter from The Era realized that ‘jack’ was workingclass slang for sexual intercourse. But, despite his apparent reservations, she had won him over within a few months: The fascinating style of Miss Eva Lester never fails to render her a favourite with an audience, and there was no lack of applause during her stay. The amount of ‘go’ she is able to put into her songs, ‘Why shouldn’t I?’ ‘There are times that I like jollity’, and ‘Oh! Matilda, what a girl you are’ should always make her appearance a welcome one on any music hall stage.3 During the course of Eva’s career, popular entertainment underwent a transformation that rendered such songs as ‘Jack, Jack, Jack’ unacceptable. The first music halls had been created in the 1850s by individual entrepreneurs, often publicans who opened upstairs singing-rooms or built separate halls adjoining their premises. By the 1890s, however, many music halls, increasingly styled ‘Theatres of Variety’, were floated as limited companies with their directors seeking to attract the widest possible investment by providing entertainments guaranteed not to cause disapproval or offence. To attract finance, music-hall companies and conglomerations of ‘syndicated’ halls were happy, even anxious, to submit to greater regulation by local licensing authorities. Consequently, solo comedians with their penchant for introducing unscripted asides into their routines and female dancers with provocative movements and revealing costumes were replaced by turns whose principal virtue was that of predictability. Amongst acts popular with managements aiming to achieve respectability were dramatic and comic sketches; performances by trained animals; musical turns;

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acrobats; jugglers; and the newly emerging motion pictures. In an additional attempt to maximize revenue larger music halls were constructed, contributing to entertainments that were dissociated from their audience and lacking in spontaneity. But Eva’s precocity and vivacity were ideally suited to the unreformed music halls of the early 1880s. Stage fashions had changed radically from those of the 1860s and 1870s. The swaggering Lions Comiques who represented the self-absorbed world of ‘men about town’ had abandoned their striped pantaloons and brightly coloured frock-coats in favour of smart evening suits. Their female equivalent, the serio-comics, distanced themselves from the matronly appearance of earlier performers by lowering their necklines and raising the hem of their skirts. Breaking away from the style of performers who had been content to provide sedate ‘ladies’ versions’ of male performers’ songs, the new wave of serios introduced more sexually orientated material into their acts. Increasingly the serio presented herself as a knowing young woman with relaxed morals. In 1890 a London correspondent for a New Zealand newspaper described the archetypal serio-comic and her subject material: ‘W’y,’ trills the ‘serio comic’ to a pleasant tune, and sketching as she trills a little dance – ‘W’y does the world look giy to-diy?’ And the answer is that she is going to meet a young man, her own or Another’s. In the lingo of the ‘Alls the ‘serio-comic’ is an ‘artiste’ whose function is to produce an effect of mingled gravity and fun; to be powder and jam in person, and to disguise a nice morality in the skirts of gaiety and the silken hose of freedom. She . . . is mostly ‘dashing’ or ‘charming,’ but she may also be ‘sparkling,’ she is frequently ‘refined,’ she is sometimes even ‘gifted,’ on occasion she may even be a ‘popular idol;’ and she may

ILLUSTRATION 4. ‘Music-Halls Inanities’. Punch artist Bernard Partridge portrays a typical serio-comic, 1899.

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attire herself at will in the evening wear (but tighter than society admits) of civilised man, or the latest fashion of the Burlington Arcade, or as a Fairy Prince – (chiefly in tights, that is, and diamonds and sixteen-button gloves) – or as a kind of little maid of Arcady. Very frequently she works alone, and then she sings soul-animating strains as ‘It’s a way they ‘ve got in the Nivy’ – that lyric which did so exquisitely shock the good M’Dougall4 – or O you gurls, you naughty young gurls, Why don’t you try to be good – be good?5 Sometimes, like Eva, the younger serios cross-dressed to satirize the narcissism and social pretensions of male members of the audience. Among the new generation of performers were Fannie Leslie (1856–1935), Marie Loftus (1857–1940), Lottie Collins (1865–1910) and, above all, Nelly (or Nellie) Power (1854– 1887). Wearing a jaunty bowler hat and jacket over tights, Nelly sang of city ‘toffs’ whose abundance of style masked their paucity of funds: He wears a penny flower in his coat, lardy-dah! And a penny paper collar round his throat, lardydah! In his hand, a penny stick, In his mouth, a penny pick, And a penny in his pocket, lardy-dah, lardy-dah! And a penny in his pocket, lardy-dah! She appears to have given permission for the young Eva to sing her song ‘Jack, Jack, Jack’ in much the same way that she allowed Marie Lloyd to perform her famous ‘The Boy in the Gallery’ (1885). In

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the latter number both 15-year-old Marie and 31-year-old Nelly wore the short dress and lacy pinafore of a schoolgirl. When Eva appeared at the Trocadero, Leicester Square, at the start of 1885 she appears to have included examples of both social satire and exuberant schoolgirl in her act: A serio-comic singer, who calls herself Kitty Vaughan, did not impress her audience too favourably; but there was Miss Eva Lester, who may be credited with a very saucy style, who told the gentlemen among her audience that they are ‘all very nice in their tin pot way’, and that, although very tricky, the ladies know quite as much as they do. She also sang ‘Why shouldn’t I?’ a claim to indulgence which, we suppose, in these days of women’s rights must be granted without hesitation. Miss Lester has a most taking manner and is sure to be most successful wherever she appears.6 Like most performers Eva soon acquired an agent to organize her publicity, arrange bookings and to take his 10 per cent of the salaries that he negotiated on her behalf. The majority of musichall agents occupied offices in the streets adjoining ‘Poverty Corner’ and the York Hotel. Many were Jewish, Anglicizing their names, either in an attempt to avoid prejudice or merely to simplify business dealings. ‘Roberts and Co.’, operating from offices at 55 Waterloo Road, was in fact the trading name of two brothers, Wolf and Louis Goldstein. Although Eva claimed that she had been a pupil of Fred Bullen, manager of the Oxford Music Hall, Brighton, it is clear that she had been extensively groomed by the Goldsteins. Many of her early songs and material were written by Louis, while the caption ‘Robert’s Queen of Song’ headed her ‘card’ (i.e. a short advert listing current engagements)

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in The Era. In 1883 the Goldsteins offered a complete music-hall tuition package: Ladies and Gentlemen desirous of entering the profession as Comic, Serio-comic, and Characteristic Vocalists, Duettists, Sketch Artistes, general Variety Entertainers, and Dancers, should at once apply to MR HARRY ROBERTS, the Celebrated Professional Tutor and Musical and Dramatic Agent, 55, WATERLOO ROAD, LAMBETH, S.E . . .“The only recognised Academy in England.” New and Original Songs, Duets, Sketches, and Entertainments, written and composed to suit any style and compass of voices of each pupil. Special facilities. Private Lessons. Public Practice. Every requisite provided, and engagements procured when proficient. Terms moderate. Easy payments. Lessons given at any hour to suit convenience of pupils . . .“Mr Harry Roberts has introduced more artistes to the stage than any other tutor in the wide world. His system is perfection.” Great success of latest pupils:– Mr Victor Regnard, motto and topical vocalist, seventh week at the Sun Music Hall; People’s Palace, Peckham, and Queen’s, Poplar, to follow; Miss Eva Lester, serio-comic, Alhambra, Bristol; Temple and Frampton, Sun, Knightsbridge; Sisters Burnand, Florrie Heywood, the Michaelsons, Miss Olive Bedford, People’s Palace, Peckham; Archer, the negro nondescript, &c., &c., &c . . . 7 Despite their vigorous promotion of her career, the Goldsteins were often in dispute with Eva. Differences had arisen between variety agents and their clients in the past, but the relationship that existed between Eva and the brothers Goldstein reached unprecedented levels of acrimony. The volatile situation probably had its origins in the long-term affair that Eva had with Louis, the younger of the brothers. Following a quarrel between the two lovers in the summer of 1884, Wolf had accompanied his brother to Eva’s lodgings, trying

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ILLUSTRATION 5. ‘Poverty Corner’. York Road, Waterloo, location of many variety agents.

to arrange a reconciliation. The plea to ‘make it up’ was rejected and the Goldsteins were said to have insulted Eva. Four days later, on 5 August, Eva appeared at 55 Waterloo Road demanding property that she had left in an upstairs apartment. According to Eva, Wolf Goldstein punched her in the eye before pushing her into the street. Wolf counter-claimed that she had burst into his premises and on running upstairs had started to smash pictures with her umbrella. His

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attempt to restrain her resulted in them both tumbling downstairs. The subsequent case tried at Southwark Police Court (the early title for a magistrates’ court) resulted in Wolf Goldstein being fined £1 with £3 costs and agreeing to pay the singer £10 compensation. Another court appearance by Wolf, in November 1884, also involved Eva. On this occasion he was forced to pay the Oldham Theatrical and Entertainments Company £1. 9s. when Eva was unable to fulfil a booking that he had made with them. Wolf was contracted to supply the services of ‘an attractive serio-comic’ for £3. 10s., but after Eva’s portrait had been posted throughout Oldham, he sent a telegram to say that she had a prior engagement. Despite the violent scenes in Waterloo Road, Eva and Louis resumed their relationship. But by July 1886 the couple were again in court, arguing over the contents of their home. At Bow Street Police Court she alleged that he was detaining a sofa and eight chairs, together with other property and a sum of money. Louis was forced to pay Eva the value of the furniture and to refund her money, while both parties agreed not to see each other. It proved too great a restriction for the headstrong Eva. At 7.30 p.m. on the evening of Thursday 29 July she appeared at Louis’ home, arguing with him into the early hours of the morning. At one stage a policeman persuaded her to leave, but she returned, allegedly kicking her ex-lover and threatening to throw vitriol over him. Applying for a warrant for her arrest, Louis told the magistrate ‘I go in fear of her, that she will do me some serious bodily injury.’ When Eva appeared to answer the charge two weeks later – and to support a counter-charge against Louis – the magistrate finally ran out of patience with the feuding couple. Both parties were sent away with the strict instruction not to molest each other. Within a year Louis married Rosina Treavish, a musichall dancer who performed under the name Rose D’Almaine. *

*

*

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The training that Louis offered prospective music-hall singers and dancers was to end in personal disaster. In 1891 the radical journalist Henry Labouchere published a feature in Truth entitled ‘The Stamford-street Road to Ruin’. He alleged that Louis and his assistant John Gardiner were obtaining money under false pretences by claiming that they could launch young hopefuls on successful careers. During the two trials that followed it was revealed that much of the training involved avoiding the lascivious advances of the two men. Gardiner was found guilty of indecent assault and sentenced to six months’ hard labour, while Louis escaped abroad where he remained in exile.8 Not surprisingly the firm of Roberts ceased to represent its onetime ‘Queen of Song’. It was replaced by Fred Gilbert, and, in turn, by Frank Albert, G. H. Macdermott, E. A. Morris and finally Joe Lawrence. With the Goldsteins retiring from the legal fray Eva found new courtroom adversaries. Her next battle took place in September 1891 when Katherine Brown, a ‘wardrobe dealer’ [clothes seller] of Brook Street, Kennington, brought an action against her to recover 11s. that was allegedly owed for two small tankards, a set of scales and a picture. Eva said the objects had been presented to her in recognition of an act of kindness, and that the summons had been motivated by spite. ‘It is three years ago this August since I received the things,’ she explained. ‘I really didn’t want them; they were of no use to me.’ The case was dismissed with Eva retaining custody of the tankards.9 The moral character suggested by her saucy songs, tumultuous love-life and frequent court appearances was confirmed by an association with horse-racing and gambling. Her billing ‘The Californian Gem’ was sometimes dropped in favour of ‘The Racing Man’s Pet’, a compliment not only to the wealthy punters and horse owners in her audience, but to the ‘touts’, ‘bookies’ and jockeys who found a comfortable home from

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home in the music-hall environment. Many variety performers were inordinately fond of horses and gambling; dual interests that were reflected in the profession’s most famous and longestlasting association, the Grand Order of Water Rats. Originally a syndicate founded by 12 performers to exploit the trap-racing potential of a pony named Water Rat; the original membership was soon increased, adding philanthropic objectives to their original mercenary and sporting motives. Water Rat was stabled at De Laune Street, Kennington, close to the Horns Tavern, and his racing excursions would have been a familiar sight on local roads, much to the annoyance of the Metropolitan Police Force whose job it was to prevent such hazardous contests. Pony and trap racing was celebrated in Gus Elen’s famous song ‘Down the Road’, but the incipient dangers of gambling on horses also formed the basis for Charles Godfrey’s hit ‘The Road to Ruin’. In a less competitive frame of mind, members of the variety profession took to their traps and carriages to celebrate their Sunday off. The scene made a vivid impression on Charlie Chaplin who remembered performers setting off on excursions to leafy London suburbs. On their return journey they would call at pubs such as the White Horse, Brixton, and the Horns and the Tankard in Kennington Road.10 Some leading performers owned their own carriages and employed coachmen, but most hired the transport that they needed to transport themselves from hall to hall or on their frequent leisure excursions. In 1893 Eva fell foul of a cabman named Parsons who accused her of owing him 25s. in unpaid fares. The case was heard at Lambeth Police Court, a crenellated, Tudor Gothic-style building situated close to the gates of Lambeth Workhouse in Renfrew Road. Robert John Biron, the elderly magistrate, had encountered many theatrical types during his tenure in Lambeth, but had seldom been up-staged. In this case he was called upon to assess the expenses incurred during a particularly extended pub crawl. Eva’s cabbie

ILLUSTRATION 6. The White Horse, Brixton Road. Sunday morning rendezvous for the music-hall profession.

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claimed to have picked her up from the Horns Tavern at about three o’clock in the afternoon and to have driven her around until one o’clock the next morning, their final stop being a return visit to the Horns. He claimed to have received nothing in payment. In response Eva said that he had dropped her at her home in Hilda Road, Brixton, at about six in the afternoon and that she had paid him seven shillings. She had also given him a brandy and soda and, as he complained of feeling hungry, a mutton chop. When she told him that she was going out with her dressmaker at 7.30, Parsons, overcome with her kindness, had offered to drive them free of charge. Perhaps the trip around the local public houses had made her unwell for she remembered that the cabman had offered to return next morning to ‘see how she was’. A report of the case concluded: Mr Biron said he considered the 7s., settled the account up to six, and that the mutton chop and brandy and soda squared it up to eight – (laughter) – but the defendant must pay for the remainder of the evening. He made an order for the payment of 12s. 6d., and 5s. costs.11 It was not surprising that Eva chose her dressmaker as a companion. Fashionable outfits formed an important constituent of her stage act; her advertising announced ‘more glorious songs and additional gorgeous costumes calculated to tickle the ears and dazzle the optics of that good old institution, the B. P. [presumably the British Public]’.12 The Era commented on her reappearance at the Marylebone Music Hall after a serious attack of bronchitis: She has lost none of her vivacity and prettiness.The attractiveness of her face and figure are besides enhanced by some of the most beautiful costumes we ever remember to have seen on

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the variety stage. A peacock blue plush dress, trimmed with primroses and hat to match, all in exquisite taste, was perhaps the greatest success of a series of successes. Miss Lester, we need scarcely add, infused great spirit and liveliness into her songs and won the approval of a well-pleased audience.13 It is tempting to connect the unnamed dressmaker with Charlie’s mother. Hannah, a friend of Eva, was a capable seamstress and had created her own stage costumes. Both Eva and Hannah were about the same age and for a while had the same agent, Frank Albert. Perhaps Eva spent too much time touring the taverns of southeast London. Or perhaps her dash became somewhat attenuated as she approached early middle age. Whatever the cause, there were fewer reports of her music-hall appearances in the theatrical press during the second half of the 1890s. She was still able to top the bills at minor halls, but she no longer enjoyed parity with the major stars of the day. At least one fan, however, remained obsessively fascinated by her charms. In 1897 a Brixton farrier named Louis Holmstock appeared in court charged with ‘disturbing Eva Lester by pulling and ringing her bell and knocking on her door without lawful excuse’. The horse-loving Eva had previously had business dealings with Holmstock, but had rejected an unexpected proposal of marriage. Subsequently, the farrier stalked Eva in the street and had knocked on her door late at night. He was bound over to keep the peace of his own recognizance of £10.14 Her worsening financial situation was highlighted in the same year when an unpaid milk bill of £1. 17s resulted in yet another court appearance. Despite keeping a servant and paying a yearly rental of £45 for a house in Appach Road, Brixton, she claimed to have been ill, with debts amounting to £700. Magistrate Emden asked her ‘Can’t you afford the luxury of bankruptcy?’ to which Eva ‘shook her head dubiously’.15

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With bookings becoming sparser and unpaid bills mounting up, Eva decided to go on an extended foreign tour. She retuned home in the early summer of 1898, placing an upbeat ‘card’ in The Entr’acte magazine: Dashing Eva Lester. After a successful tour in Australia, South Africa (Johannesburg), Buenos Aires, and U.S.A, has returned to England, and the scene of her former triumphs. Standard, Gatti’s and Metropolitan, October. Whit Monday, Portsmouth, Leicester, Oldham, Liverpool and Paris to follow. Many thanks to all friends for kind enquiries and birthday presents. Agent J. Lawrence.16 Sadly, the scene of her former triumph did not become the setting for her future success. Eva lived at various addresses in and around Brixton. In April 1901 the census recorded her at 36 Guilford Road, Kennington, her profession being given as actress and her age as 28. She appears to have been instructing a potential recruit to the profession, 15-yearold Olive Gwynne being listed as a ‘pupil’. A female servant was also listed as a member of the household. Within a few months Eva had no pupil, no servant, no sofas, no mutton chops, no tankards and no front door on which to knock. Following a period in hospital she lost her lodgings and, with nothing to fall back on, had started to sleep rough. When Charlie came across her he was returning from the Brompton Hospital, Fulham, where he was being treated for severe asthma which Hannah feared might be tuberculosis. It was the summer of 1901 and he had recently left the Eight Lancashire Lads, a troupe in which he had enjoyed considerable success and one hurtful failure when he attempted a solo performance. His father had just died after a drunken, desultory end to a once successful music-hall

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career, while his mother’s appearances as a promising serio-comic had been blighted by poor health and mental illness. The sight of a vagrant being abused by callous youths was not uncommon on the streets of south-east London, but it was to acquire lasting significance for Charlie. Eva was so ragged and dirty that she was unrecognizable. It was not until Hannah had driven the boys away that she revealed her identity: ‘Lil, don’t you know me – Eva Lester?’17 Although poorly dressed himself, Charlie was so embarrassed that he walked on, waiting anxiously at the street corner. But an introduction was inevitable: ‘You remember little Charlie?’ ‘Do I! I’ve held him in my arms many a time when he was a baby.’ Eva was sent to the public baths to wash and then brought back to the room in Kennington where Hannah and Charlie were only just managing to survive. She remained with them for some time, sleeping, to Charlie’s disgust, on his absent half-brother’s fold-down bed. Hannah scraped together two shillings and gave Eva a few old clothes that were somewhat less disreputable than her own rags. After three days, Charlie recalled, she departed and he was to hear nothing further of ‘Dashing’ Eva Lester. Eva’s repulsive image remained in his memory as a stark warning of what could happen if an artist became alienated from his or her audience. The horror of the meeting was compounded by the completeness of Eva’s capitulation. Despite his own poverty, Charlie remained resourceful, eventually making a success in the world of show business when he resurrected the shabby clothes of his childhood to dress the world’s most insouciant comedy tramp. Eva’s decline was not, however, as terminal as Charlie implied. Perhaps he chose to exaggerate her dereliction or maybe the precious florin donated by Hannah provided her with a means to regain a tenuous footing in society. Years later, while living at Glenshaw Mansions in Brixton Road, Charlie might easily have encountered a somewhat less

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haunting Eva. In the 1911 census she was recorded as living nearby at 56 Brailsford Road, Tulse Hill, where she was sharing the house with one Thomas Rutherford, a 62-year-old retired railway worker. She continued to describe her profession as an ‘actress’ while he was described as her ‘uncle’.

3 LITTLE LILY HARLEY – ORIGINAL AND REFINED

H

annah Harriet Pedlingham Hill was a Walworth girl, born on 6 August 1865 close to the Elephant and Castle and the New Kent Road. The place of her birth, 11 Camden Street, was adjacent to East Street, a meandering open-air market where costermongers abounded and the overriding smell was that of rotting vegetables. There were a great many brightly decorated pubs in the area and, more discreetly, a number of brothels.1 Although not costers, Hannah’s parents were typical inhabitants of the claustrophobic courts, terraces and tenements of this part of south-east London. Her father Charles Hill, a journeyman boot-maker, was assisted in his trade by his wife Mary Ann and a stepson, Henry. When the April 1881 census was taken 15-year-old Hannah was facing a life of unrelieved drudgery. Her occupation – stitching ladies’ mantles on a sewing-machine – was repetitive and poorly paid and her expectations were severely limited. At best she might anticipate marriage to a manual worker or small tradesman, with a rapidly growing family soon filling an uncomfortable home. But Hannah and her younger sister Kate were bright, attractive girls with ideas substantially above their station. Within two years Hannah had transformed herself into ‘Lily Harley’, a sparkling serio-comic singer and dancer appearing at music halls throughout the United Kingdom.

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In My Autobiography Charlie Chaplin recorded that his mother Hannah and his father, Charles Chaplin, had met when they were appearing in an Irish melodrama, Shamus O’Brien, in about 1882. They became sweethearts, with Charles falling for Hannah’s dainty charm and cockney cheekiness and Hannah for Charles’ brooding, Napoleonic good looks.2 Based on Sheridan Le Fanu’s poem about a celebrated Irish patriot, the production that brought them together was probably not a full-length play as suggested by Charlie, but a music-hall sketch, perhaps Donnybrook; or, a Tale of ‘98 presented at the Queen’s Theatre of Varieties, Poplar, East London, in March 1882. By March 1883 17-year-old ‘Lillie Harley’ was appearing as a solo act at the Royal Amphitheatre music hall, Gun Wharf Road, Portsmouth. A career on the music-hall stage was certainly more lucrative and eventful than machining capes, but it was a profession that was widely regarded as morally suspect. Serio-comics sang about sex, dressed provocatively and danced in a way that was not compatible with feminine decency. The writer George Gamble expressed the views of many: Some sing like dancers; others dance like singers. Most ‘get through’ their business in a manner precisely opposed to that that they should. Of course, many are not expected to do much; but when these so completely fulfil expectation, I am none the less disappointed. Some are all leg and no larynx, all figure and no form, all manner and no matter. And what a bad manner! Often they sing with their limbs. M. Zola’s Nana, when, once upon a time, she broke down in a song, cunningly wriggled her hips, to distract attention from her incompetence. Some of our music-hall ladies do nothing else.3 Added eroticism was imparted by the youth, or apparent youth, of the performers. It was an age that revered innocence, sometimes to an eyebrow-lifting extent. The love of 50-yearold art critic John Ruskin for 12-year-old Rose La Touche, the

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Reverent Kilvert’s passion for young ‘Gypsy Lizzie’ and Lewis Carroll’s sentimental attachments to a string of small girls were only extreme manifestations of a widespread cult of childhood. It was not an area that most Victorians desired to analyse in any great detail. When, in 1885, W. T. Stead lifted the lid on child prostitution and the procurement of young virgins in a series of sensational articles for the Pall Mall Gazette there was public outrage, not at the situation revealed, but the indelicacy of the journalist exposing it.4 The extent of child prostitution was exacerbated by the fear of sexually transmitted diseases that were endemic in Victorian Britain. According to one of Stead’s informants (a Member of Parliament) virginity was a ‘realizable asset’ for many girls and for their parents who had ‘kept them straight until they are sixteen or seventeen’. Hannah and Kate may have chosen the music hall as their escape route during their mid-teens, but many other girls of their class were lured into a life of prostitution. The two institutions were hardly mutually exclusive, Stead blaming the theatre and music hall for creating many young prostitutes. When the supply of ‘unspoilt’ females faltered, experts were on hand to hoodwink customers with ‘vamped-up virgins’. In an attempt to satisfy the craving for young females many adult prostitutes dressed in the lacy, knee-length smocks and black stockings worn by schoolgirls. It was a costume depicted by artists of the sentimentalized ‘Baby Black-Leg’ school of painting and replicated by serio-comics on the music-hall stage. The outfit was most famously adopted by Marie Lloyd who, from 1885, sang a succession of euphemistic songs about defloration and the loss of innocence. Marie’s performances and those of other serio-comics offered their own form of ‘vamped-up virginity’, recreating the childish discovery of sexual matters for audiences every evening. Such provocative material eventually resulted in widespread moral condemnation of music-hall entertainments. In 1896 Marie’s

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singing of ‘Johnny Jones; or, I Know Now’, in which a precocious schoolgirl asked her parents embarrassing questions about prostitution and pregnancy, resulted in vigorous opposition to the renewal of the Oxford Music Hall’s entertainment licence. As a serio-comic Hannah would have sometimes worn short, schoolgirl dresses, assuming an air of juvenile ingenuousness as she sang songs laced with double meanings. She was well suited for the role, barely five feet tall with delicately moulded features. Charlie Chaplin himself demonstrated a lifelong fixation with women barely out of childhood, falling in love first with 15-year-old Hetty Kelly and later marrying 17-year-old Mildred Harris and 16-year-old Lita Grey. Hannah, in her late twenties, struck her two young sons as ‘divine-looking’. ‘Mother was a soubrette on the variety-stage,’ Charlie recalled, ‘a mignonne . . . with fair complexion, violet-blue eyes and long light-brown hair that she could sit upon . . . Those who knew her told me in later years that she was dainty and attractive and had compelling charm.’5 It was not long before such a fascinating young ‘artiste’ conformed to the popular stereotype by taking an older lover, in her case a shadowy individual remembered by the Chaplin family as Sydney Hawkes. A legend frequently repeated in biographies of Charlie Chaplin is that Hannah turned her back on Charles and went to South Africa with a Jewish bookmaker.6 Charlie received a different version from his mother: At eighteen Mother had eloped with a middle-aged man to Africa. She often spoke of her life there; living in luxury amidst plantations, servants and saddle horses. In her eighteenth year my brother Sydney was born. I was told he was the son of a lord and that when he reached the age of twenty-one he would inherit a fortune of two thousand pounds, which information both pleased and annoyed me.7 There is no evidence to confirm or disprove such a visit during 1883 or 1884. With only two recorded engagements for 1883,

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ILLUSTRATION 7. Hannah Chaplin. The only known portrait of Charlie Chaplin’s mother as a young woman.

in March and April, Hannah and Mr Hawkes would have had sufficient time to make the two-week voyage to South Africa and to have remained there for an extended stay. But Hannah would have needed to be back in London by May 1884 when she was reported to be appearing at the Bijou Music Hall, Southwark. Had Sydney’s conception (about June 1884) taken place in South Africa, as is sometimes suggested, Hannah would have had less time to spend ‘amidst plantations’, for she appeared at the Castle

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Music Hall, Camberwell, in November 1884. A possible clue to her whereabouts during at least part of this period may be found in her first professional card published in The Era on 31 March 1883. An address for communications is given as ‘Antelope, Lorn Road, Brixton’. Although any of the comfortable Victorian villas of Lorn Road would have been an ideal location for mysterious Mr Hawkes to maintain a mistress, it appears that Hannah’s new London base was the Antelope Tavern, a long-established public house with good stabling and accommodation. Perhaps a painted inn-sign stimulated exotic visions of South Africa. Hannah’s paramour was later named by Wheeler Dryden (Hannah’s third child) as Sidney Hawke, not Sydney Hawkes as usually given.8 At the risk of blackening the already dubious reputation of someone long dead it is worth noting that a Sidney John Hawke, born in Deptford in 1859, lived in the same area of London during the late nineteenth century. Listed as an inspector for a gas company in 1881, he later described himself as a merchant and a hotel proprietor. Whoever and whatever Hannah’s ‘Sydney Hawke’ was, he did not prove himself to be a particularly good protector. When she gave birth to their child, registered as Sidney (not Sydney) John Hill, on 16 March 1885, she was living with poor relations at 57 Brandon Street, Walworth. On 26 November 1891 Sidney John Hawke, now recorded as a‘gentleman’, married Catherine Julia Pearce, ten years his junior, at St James’ Church, Hatcham, New Cross. He appears to have been an aggressive and uncaring husband. Their divorce papers of seven years later listed acts of violence against his wife and frequent episodes of adultery with unknown women.9 A few miles from Hannah’s Newington homeland, Hatcham was to provide the location for her last recorded stage appearance. If Sidney John Hawke was one and the same as Sydney Hawkes it is possible that he had a hand in procuring the engagement. Whether named Hawke or Hawkes, he was almost certainly known to Hannah’s sons, for

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Charlie remembered being entertained by a ‘cousin of my brother’s related to Sydney’s father in some way’ in Paris in 1909.10 Within a few weeks of Sydney’s birth Hannah travelled to northern France.The month-long engagement at the Royal Music Hall, Le Havre, seems to have been Hannah’s only connection with a country with whose culture and history she and her sister often identified.11 Soon after returning to London she married her old flame Charles Chaplin at a ceremony which took place on 22 June 1885 at St John’s Church, Larcom Street,Walworth.The couple remained together for five stormy years, after which recrimination and animosity continued to take a heavy toll on both parties. Although Charles Chaplin’s occupation was given as ‘professional singer’ on their wedding certificate, no musichall engagements have been traced for him before 1887, indicating that his appearances may have been at clubs and small tavernconcerts. Hannah, on the other hand, toured extensively during the period, travelling the length and breadth of the country with the constant hope of obtaining a breakthrough engagement at a major London music hall. During 1885 and 1886 she made appearances in Bristol (September 1885); Dublin (December 1885 and December 1886); Belfast (January, June and October 1886); Glasgow (January– February, June–July and September 1886); Peckham, London (April 1886); Aberdeen (August 1886); and Dundee (September 1886). On Thursday, 27 May 1886 her name appeared alongside such musichall luminaries as Vesta Tilley, the Great Vance, G. H. Chirgwin and Marie Lloyd on the programme of William Bishop’s benefit concert at the South London Palace, close to her Lambeth birthplace. Her theatrical cards for 1886 suggested a rapidly progressing career: New Song, ‘He might have sent on the gloves,’ J. Bowers. LILLIE HARLEY, just finished, grand success Nightly, Star, Dublin, and Buffalo, Belfast. SCOTIA, GLASGOW, Monday next. Booking dates fast.12

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The Refined and Talented Artist LILY HARLEY complimented by Proprietors, the Public and Press. Heaps of notices in different papers every week. Pleasing success SCOTIA, GLASGOW. A few good songs required.13 Something like success, girls eh? Lily Harley has made a most brilliant hit at GAIETY and STAR, GLASGOW, four and five turns every night and heaps of flowers. Now meeting with the greatest reception ever known in BELFAST. Glasgow and Edinburgh to follow.14 LILY HARLEY, biggest hit ever made by any Serio-Comic Lady at FOLLY, GLASGOW. ‘Would you do it if, you knew it,’ by A. Seal, Esq., a big success. ‘I’m going to meet my Laurie Darling.’15 By January 1887 she had returned to London, not starring at a West End music hall, but back in Walworth suffering from an unspecified illness. With no idea of her husband’s whereabouts she placed a small ad in a theatrical paper The Entr’acte: TO CHARLES CHAPLIN. Send address to ‘L.H.,’ 56 Darwin Street, Old Kent Road. Very ill.16 A number of references to illness and indisposition in the theatrical press and in Chaplin’s autobiography indicate that Hannah’s state of health was precarious. It has been suggested that the severe headaches from which she began to suffer were an early manifestation of neurosyphilis of the brain, the abbreviation ‘syph.’ having been entered on her medical records in 1898. In confidential mood, Charlie once told a close colleague that Hannah had suffered from the illness.17 Perhaps in an attempt to support his delicate wife Charles Chaplin – now back in contact with Hannah - began to arrange his engagements to coincide with her appearances. They first featured on the same bill at the

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Pavilion, Bath, for the week commencing Monday 14 March 1887, while the last six months of the year saw them making joint appearances at several northern halls. Towards the end of 1887 there were signs that Charles was beginning to outshine his wife. A joint Era card announced: Another fact, and no ‘gas’.The Coming Comedian, MR CHARLES CHAPLIN, the biggest hit of the Season, CIRCUS, ST HELENS, also the Original Pretty Little LILY HARLEY Scoring big hit in her lifelike impersonations.18 Male performers could usually expect to be before the public for far longer than their female counterparts. An American journalist writing in the late 1880s provided a candid snapshot of two women at different stages of their careers: Stand at the bar of a music hall for an hour, almost any night, and you will see professional life in various stages.The dashing Bessie Bellwood, after her great song, ‘Oh I’m so afraid of you men,’ comes up with a detachment of male admirers, each struggling to give the first order for champagne. A pop and a fizz and then a hand sparkling with gems tosses down a glass of Pommery. No time to be lost. Slap goes the glass on the counter, and the favourite comedienne with huge diamonds glittering in her ears and her plump form encased in a tight fitting seal skin, rushes to the awaiting carriage. In a few minutes she will appear before another enthusiastic audience. Hardly is the commotion of this departure over when up comes Bessie’s predecessor, whose name is Lily Wilford, and a faded Lily it is. To use the favourite term of her former admirers, she has ‘gone off,’ and is coarsely

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reminded of it as she walks up to the bar. There is no cry of ‘champagne’ from high collared youths. There was no commotion when Lily went out, there was little applause when she finished her score, no encore and no chorus. She was dressed in a yellow cloth Newmarket, and would have escaped unrecognised by the hangers-on had not the manager noticed her. ‘Take something, Miss W–,’ said the manager, who was a curly-haired man much given to pomatum and chequerboard trousers. ‘Little drop of Scotch, not six, four will do.’ Lily drank the four-pennorth of Scotch whiskey in silence, and then the manager, eyeing her critically, said: ‘Not so plump as you used to be.’ ‘But I can’t keep plump while I ‘ave to dance so much. I ‘ave to work very ‘ard to keep myself in tights and respectable.’ This was said with evident irritation at the manager’s remark.19 Lillie or Lily Harley’s virtual disappearance from the variety stage may have been the result of failing popularity, illness or other circumstances. There is little doubt that in an age before mechanical amplification her voice was often pushed far beyond its natural capacity. Her son remembered that she continued to perform while suffering from lengthy attacks of laryngitis. As her voice became increasingly unreliable worries about a hostile audience reception resulted in her becoming ‘a nervous wreck’.20 A physical problem is also suggested by an advert in The Entr’acte for 17 November 1888:

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The Original and Refined Lily Harley. Terrific success after her indisposition – Bedford, Special concerts, open for pantomime. Hannah also had the encumbrance of a second child, born in East Street, Walworth, on the 15 or 16 April 1889.21 The birth of Charles Spencer Chaplin, later to achieve worldwide fame as the film star Charlie Chaplin, does not appear to have been formally registered, but it was announced in at least two theatrical periodicals, The Magnet and The Era: Birth – April 15th, the wife of Mr Charles Chaplin, nee Lily Harley, of a beautiful boy, Mother and son both doing well.22 While it lasted, Charles and Hannah’s relationship was explosive. On one occasion she ran away with some friends to Brighton and in response to Charles’ telegram ‘What are you up to? Answer at once!’ replied ‘Balls, parties and picnics, darling!’23 It has often been assumed that the reason for their eventual separation was Charles’ heavy drinking, but it is just as likely that he left Hannah because of her medical condition, state of mind or promiscuous behaviour. Whatever the cause, the catalyst for the breakdown of their marriage appears to have been Charles’ tour of America in the summer of 1890. By April 1891 Hannah and her two children were occupying three rooms in a house shared with her mother at 94 Barlow Street, Walworth. The census taker was frustrated by Mary Ann Hill’s unconventional lifestyle, noting the presence of two unknown women in her rooms: ‘These 2 females were admitted Saturday night & turned out Monday without information being obtained.’ Also separated from her husband, Hannah’s mother was drinking heavily and becoming increasingly eccentric. Mary Ann was taken from the street to Newington Workhouse in February 1893 and certified insane later the same month.

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Hannah soon became involved with another variety performer, the singer of one of the year’s most popular musichall songs, ‘The Miner’s Dream of Home’. With unfailingly bad judgement she chose another man who would cause her misery. The unpredictable and quick-tempered Leo Dryden appears to have been on friendly terms with both Hannah and her sister, advertising that they were the only performers allowed to sing one of his latest songs.24 But it was Hannah alone who issued a stern warning on behalf of Leo in The Era for 14 November 1891: NOTICE: Proprietors and Managers permitting the song, Written and Composed by Leo Dryden, and entitled ‘Opportunity’ to be sung in either Theatres or Music halls from this date will render themselves liable to penalties under the copyright act. Signed, LILY HARLEY. Hannah’s subsequent pregnancy occurred at a time when her moribund career was showing some signs of revival. She was supporting Dryden in his act and had also made a confidenceboosting success during the Christmas season of 1891/92. When Kate became unwell during the run of the pantomime Aladdin and his Wonderful Lamp at the Theatre Royal, Middlesbrough, Hannah was on hand to take over the role of Mary Ann at a few minutes notice. Encouraged by her reception she announced: ‘Lily Harley. Resumes Business Shortly. All principal halls booked.’25 The principal halls failed to materialize and, on 31 August 1892, she gave birth to Leo Dryden’s son Leo George, later known as Wheeler Dryden. Despite the apparent lack of engagements, Hannah and her children lived comfortably. Charlie remembered that they occupied a three-room apartment in West Square, Southwark, floridly decorated with long decanters, a rococo music box and a full-length portrait of the famous theatrical mistress Nell

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Gwynn. In describing the atmosphere of the household at this period Charlie referred to his father, but it is more likely that it was Leo that he actually remembered: . . . he would set me upon the table in my nightgown, with the bright light 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 seen and sing all the songs I had heard. They would keep me doing it for hours until 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.26 Hannah may also have acted as a secretary-cum-manager for Leo. Number 39 West Square has been linked with her stay, but number 48 might also be a contender for her place of residence. On l0 October 1891 The Era carried a small ad: ‘WANTED, at once, an Eccentric Comedian, Height, 4ft to 4ft 9ins, H. C., 48 Westsquare.’ ‘H. C.’ may not have been Hannah Chaplin, but the Square was home to several members of the music-hall profession, not least her sister Kate who lived at number 30. The period provided Charlie with some of his first and happiest memories: . . . a visit to the Royal Aquarium, viewing its side-shows with Mother, watching ‘She’, the live head of a lady smiling in flames, the sixpenny lucky-dip, Mother lifting me up to a large sawdust barrel to pick a surprise packet which contained a candy whistle which would not blow and a toy ruby brooch. Then a visit to

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the Canterbury Music Hall, sitting in a red plush seat watching my father perform . . . Now it is night and I am wrapped in a travelling rug on top of a four-in-hand coach, driving with Mother and her theatrical friends, cosseted in their gaiety and laughter as our trumpeter, with clarion braggadocio, heralds us along the Kennington Road to the rhythmical jingle of harness and the beat of horses’ hoofs.27 Once again it appears that Charlie’s recollection was faulty and that, given the state of his parents’ relationship, the artist he saw performing at the Canterbury was probably Leo Dryden. Some 20 or so years later Leo told his son that he had lived with Hannah ‘as man and wife’, but neither Charlie nor Sydney ever referred to such an arrangement. What is in no doubt is that, about six months after his birth, Leo George was abruptly removed from Hannah’s custody by Leo, perhaps violently. Without Dryden’s financial support and in the absence of contributions from a disgruntled Charles Chaplin, the family were suddenly condemned to a bleak and uncertain existence. There is an intriguing, but unsubstantiated suggestion that Hannah may have found employment as a dancer in the famous ballets presented at the Empire Theatre of Varieties, Leicester Square. Along with its neighbour the Alhambra, the Empire presented high-class music-hall entertainment and large-scale ballets which utilized the finest principal dancers available. But it was not necessary to have studied classical dance to appear as one of the Empire’s corps de ballet: The stage was encumbered with gorgeous properties and with the crowd of those who did not dance but merely took their place in the pageant. The effect may have been

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magnificent, but it was not art. At the same time the balletdancers, whose business was to dance, were transformed into members of a chorus, whose chief function was to look pretty. They marched and counter-marched across the stage, performing a number of evolutions with a kind of military precision. Little more skill was demanded of them than of the banner-bearers at a Christmas pantomime. The ballet of the period has been described as chiefly a procession of ‘rank after rank and file after file of honest bread-winners from Camberwell and Peckham Rye, performing mechanical movements with the dogged perseverance of a company of Boy Scouts’.28 In an interview published in 1931, Nellie Richards remembered encountering Charlie, aged about six, and his mother at the Empire: Charlie’s mother was in the Empire ballet at that time as one of Katti Lanner’s dancers. She liked to have her youngest son with her as much as possible, so Charlie spent most of his evenings running in and out of the various dressing-rooms . . . He was a regular little demon at times, though. He would stop there in the wings, singing my choruses half a line ahead of me, and so vigorously that I’m sure people in front must have heard him. The harder I frowned at him, the wider he grinned, and went right on with it. I was always threatening to spank him, so usually he ran like a hare when the last lines of my songs were on my lips. Among my numbers Charlie liked ‘Hush, Little Baby, Don’t You Cry’ and ‘I’m So Lonely, Oh So Lonely’ best, but he had a wonderful ear for music even then, and picked up almost everything I sang.29

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Nellie Richards was a major star of the 1890s appearing at top halls such as the Royal, Holborn, and the London Pavilion. Elements of her reminiscences have a ring of authenticity, but no record of her engagement at the Empire has been discovered. In the film Limelight Charlie may have indulged in some wishful thinking by depicting his heroine Terry’s progress from a humble member of the corps to prima ballerina at the Empire. Nothing certain is known of Hannah’s life between the summers of 1892 and 1895. On separating from Dryden she might have nursed her voice by joining the ballet, but it is possible that, like many dancers, she turned to prostitution to supplement her meagre income. Charlie hinted at such a situation to his friend Konrad Bercovici when he explained that he was contemplating writing a personal memoir that would be ‘a sensational exposé on how the children of the poor learn the facts of life at a tender age’.30 His obsession with immature women was paralleled by a fascination with prostitutes, ranging from the high-class call girl picked up at the Folies Bergère in 190931 to the three young streetwalkers encountered in Piccadilly in 1921.32 In addition to the sympathetic portrayals of the courtesan heroine of A Woman of Paris, the dance-hall girl in The Gold Rush and the harlot spared from poisoning in Monsieur Verdoux, Limelight featured the Empire Theatre’s infamous promenade with a number of welldressed prostitutes searching for clients. As a ‘prosser’ the film’s hero Calvero expresses solidarity with a closely affiliated profession: ‘Streetwalking, huh. We’re all grubbing for a living.’ A passage in Footlights, possibly inspired by a real incident, in which the ten-year-old Terry discovers that her sister is maintaining the family by resorting to prostitution perhaps provides a clue to Charlie’s planned exposé: Sometimes they would follow such a lady at a respectful distance and watch her accost a man, which would amuse the older girls

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but bewilder Terry. However, the older girls soon told her the facts of life, which depressed and frightened her, and made her think of all parents with loathing . . . It was soon after, when these facts were still fresh in her mind, that another revelation was to deeply wound her and leave a psychological scar for many years to come. It happened on one of their usual jaunts through Piccadilly. Terry and her companions had stopped to play about the windows of a department store. When through a large mirror, Terry, saw her sister walking by! Like a flash she knew for what reason! She saw it in the aimless, self-conscious walk, the same oblivious expression that she had seen on the faces of the ‘other’ women. The sickening fact struck her to the heart.33

ILLUSTRATION 8. Prostitutes on the Empire Music Hall Promenade by Dudley Hardy, 1891. A similar scene was recreated by Chaplin for the film Limelight.

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Hannah appears to have had very few singing engagements during the period. Sometime in 1893 or ’94, however, she managed to obtain a booking at one of the ‘Canteen’ music halls situated in the garrison town of Aldershot, in Hampshire. It is probable that she secured the engagement by responding to an advert in the theatrical press. Several appeared in The Era during the period, with a Canteen agent Fred Williams inviting ‘Lady Serios’ to wire him with their lowest terms for employment commencing the following week.34 Hannah’s willingness to travel 30 miles to appear for minimum salary in a rough establishment patronized by soldiers gives some idea of how desperate her situation had become. Aldershot audiences were notoriously unruly. In 1893 trooper Lee of the 20th Hussars was so savagely beaten by men of the Scottish Rifles at the Red, White and Blue Music Hall that his regiment took up arms and attacked their rival’s barracks. Performers booked for the Canteen and other Aldershot halls would have recognized that they were little more than theatrical cannon fodder. Hannah was subjected to a psychological rather than a physical assault when her voice broke down at the Canteen. She was given ‘the bird’, with the audience unleashing a barrage of mocking catcalls and abusive language. In an attempt to defuse the situation the manager led young Charlie onto the stage, announcing that he would sing in place of his mother.35 Charlie had clearly been well trained. He launched into a version of Gus Elen’s current hit ‘’E Dunno Where ’E Are’, the story of a costermonger whose small inheritance had caused him to put on ‘airs and graces’: When ‘e’s up at Covent Garden you can see ‘m standin’ all alone, Won’t join in a quiet Tommy Dodd, Drinkin’ Scotch and Soda on ‘is own,

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‘As the cheek and impidence to call ‘is muvver ‘is ma. Since Jack Jones come into a little bit o’ splosh, Why ‘e dunno where ‘e are.36 Perhaps the reference to ‘Tommy Dodd’, a gambling game which involved tossing coins, struck a chord with the audience, for they started to throw loose change onto the stage. Chaplin halted midsong and announced that he would stop to collect the money and then continue. Having deposited a handkerchief filled with coins with his mother, the young singer returned to his act. I talked to the audience, danced and did several imitations including one of Mother singing her Irish march song that went as follows: Riley, Riley, that’s the boy to beguile ye, Riley, Riley, that’s the boy for me. In all the Army great and small, There’s none so trim and neat As the noble Sergeant Riley Of the Gallant Eighty-eighth. And in repeating the chorus, in all innocence I imitated Mother’s voice cracking and was surprised at the impact it had on the audience. There was laughter and cheers, then more moneythrowing; and when Mother came on to the stage to carry me off, her presence evoked tremendous applause.37 Charlie had rescued his first distressed damsel, a scenario that was re-enacted many times in his films. A few other engagements may have followed but, by the time Hannah appeared as ‘Lily Chaplin, Serio and Dancer’ at a Saturday

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night entertainment at the Hatcham Liberal Club on 8 February 1896, she had well and truly ‘gone off’. Having sold all other belongings of value she reluctantly began to dispose of her trunk of theatrical props and costumes. A few items were recycled to provide Sydney and Charlie with embarrassing outfits. The former remembered: My mother replaced the sleeves of my worn-out jacket with sleeves taken from an old velvet jacket of her own. This would not have been so bad if her sleeves had not been multicoloured. I was very embarrassed, as the boys kept calling me ‘Joseph with the coat of many colours,’ Poor Charlie was even worse off. He wore a pair of mother’s red stage stockings and was known by the boys in the street as ‘Sir Francis Drake.’38 Once more Hannah took up sewing, but it hardly generated enough income to support the family. The vision of his mother hunched over a sewing machine for hours on end was to haunt Charlie, later surfacing as a portrait of Terry’s mother in Footlights. At one stage she was employed by a sweatshop stitching together blouses that were delivered to her already cut out. Charlie recollected that she was paid one and sixpence a dozen and that her record total was 54 garments in one week. As the family lurched from one crisis to another, moving regularly from shabby to shabbier lodgings, she must have looked with anger and envy at the flourishing careers of her husband, sister and other successful music-hall acquaintances. On one occasion an old friend who had given up the stage to become the mistress of a wealthy colonel invited her and Charlie to stay for a few weeks at a ‘very sedate corner house’ in Lansdowne Square, Stockwell. Such moments of relief were rare and it was more usual for the family to dine on free pea soup collected by Sydney from a

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church close to the Old Vic in Waterloo Road. At other times when the larder was empty Charlie contrived to have tea with the McCarthys, old friends of Hannah’s from her days as a performer, who had a flat ‘in the better part of Kennington Road’.39 If Charlie’s account is to be believed, his father Charles and Hannah’s sister Kate did little to help his floundering mother. The morals of the music-hall profession were generally lax, but had Hannah spent time working as a prostitute the position taken by Charles, Leo, or Kate might be understood. When Hannah spent the month of July 1895 in Lambeth Infirmary (adjacent to the workhouse in Renfrew Road) Charlie was cared for by distant relatives, while Sydney was sent first to Lambeth Workhouse and then to West Norwood Schools, an institution catering for the infant poor of Lambeth. From June 1896 both boys were removed to the Central London District Poor Law School at Hanwell, West London, Charlie remaining there to the end of 1897 and Sydney transferring to the Training Ship Exmouth. The Southwark Board of Guardians reacted to the situation by ordering Charles Chaplin to pay 15s towards the maintenance of his children, but he was recalcitrant and did everything possible to avoid providing Hannah with any money. On being returned to his mother in January 1898 Charlie discovered that she had rejected her previous lifestyle and embraced religion. Bible stories rather than music-hall songs became the order of the day, with regular Sunday morning visits to Christ Church where the evangelical Reverend F. B. Meyer delivered excruciatingly long sermons. With a degree of self-interest Hannah told her son of Christ’s forgiveness for the woman charged with adultery and his admonition to the mob ‘he that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her’.40 Following her baptism at Christ Church in February 1898 Hannah’s hymn singing and other manifestations of religious fervour grew increasingly strident. After a period in the

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workhouse she was committed to Cane Hill Asylum where her violent outbursts resulted in confinement in a padded cell. On 12 September a doctor reported that she was ‘[s]houting, singing and talking incoherently. Complains of her head and depressed and crying this morning – dazed and unable to give any reliable information. Asks if she is dying . . . She was sent here on a mission . . . by the lord. Says she wants to get out of the world.’41 In the autumn of 1898 Sydney, who had left the Exmouth earlier in the year, and Charlie stayed briefly with Charles Chaplin and his new companion Louise before returning to their mother when she was discharged from Cane Hill. The reunion was short-lived. At the end of the year Charlie was recruited into the Eight Lancashire Lads, meaning that Hannah and Sydney saw him only when the troupe was appearing in London. Sydney found a job as a telegraph boy at the West Strand Post Office and, in 1900, he also left home to tour with Maggie Morton’s company in the military drama The Two Little Drummer Boys. Charlie and Sydney’s contributions to the household budget were minimal, but probably amounted to more than Charles Chaplin’s maintenance payments. His earning potential had declined sharply around the turn of the century as his heavy drinking began to affect both his health and performances. Although he and Hannah had been separated for several years, his final illness and funeral in 1901 provided yet another trauma to endure. The wider Chaplin family, already alienated from Hannah, were scandalized by her suggestion that the Variety Artistes’ Benevolent Fund might be approached to pay for the funeral. A brother, Albert Chaplin, visiting from South Africa, eventually picked up the bill. After the ceremony, held in heavy rain at Tooting Cemetery, Hannah and Charlie were dropped off at their foodless apartment, while their relatives went on to lunch at one of the pubs they owned. Hannah’s mental health never fully recovered, but as they grew older her boys managed to break free from the ties of

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poverty and deprivation. After being committed as a lunatic to Lambeth Infirmary in May 1903 Hannah spent many years at Cane Hill and at a private nursing home, Peckham House Asylum. Despite her bleak surroundings, she continued to show an interest in the stage and occasionally to exhibit a down-toearth sense of humour. A 1905 letter preserved in the Chaplin family archive has an immediacy that suggests her everyday conversation: My Dear Boys, – for I presume you are both together by this time, although Charlie has not written. Never mind, I expect you are both very busy, so I must forgive you. Oh, I do wish you had gone and seen about my (‘Ta-yeithe’) I mention this word as [illegible] know what I mean. Do see what you can do about them, as I am most uncomfortable without them, & if W. G. should pay me a visit on this coming Monday, I am afraid he will not renew his offer of a few years back & I shall be ‘on the shelf’ for the rest of my life, now don’t smile. But joking apart you might have attended to small matter like that whilst you were in Town. Now I must draw to a close as it is Bedtime & broad daylight. Guess how I feel? Anyhow, good wishes & God bless you both is always the Prayer of Your Loving Mother, H. H. P. Chaplin

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Send me a few stamps and if possible The Era. Do not forget this, there’s a dear. Mum.42 Hannah was presumably asking for a set of false teeth from which she had become separated. ‘W. G.’, who had previously made an offer, may have been Will Godwin, a music-hall singer who wrote songs for both Charles Chaplin and Leo Dryden. After protracted negotiations with US immigration officials Hannah travelled to Hollywood in 1921 where she was reunited with Charlie and Sydney, both of whom had become movie stars in the intervening years. On landing in the United States she apparently sang a selection of songs from Patience, backing up Charlie’s assertion that she had once been a star of Gilbert and Sullivan opera. It was said that she was suffering from a nervous condition resulting from wartime Zeppelin raids on London with no mention being made of her long-term illness. Some time later she was visited by her other son, Wheeler Dryden, who had made contact with his half-brothers after 23 years. Hannah’s final days were spent in a comfortable home in the San Fernando Valley, attended by a team of carers and provided with luxuries that she found almost impossible to appreciate. *

*

*

As a serio-comic Hannah made only a minute impact on the world of British music hall. As a mother, however, she was a major influence on the silent cinema’s most famous comedian. During the countless hours spent in barely furnished garrets and basements in and around the Kennington Road she acted out scenes from popular plays and sung songs that she had heard on the music-hall stage. Often she would attempt to analyse the performances of actors and singers. Charlie remembered her recreating scenes from plays, particularly

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the biblical epic The Sigh of the Cross in which she alternatively portrayed the Christian virgin Mercia and the religious convert Marcus (as played by the diminutive author of the play Wilson Barrett). Another of Hannah’s favourite scenes involved Napoleon Bonaparte. Playing the emperor she stood on tiptoes to select a book from a library shelf. Switching to the role of Marshal Ney she offered to reach the volume because, as he diplomatically put it, he was ‘higher’. ‘Higher?’ responded Napoleon with an indignant scowl – ‘Taller!’.43 Hannah’s theatrical vignette appears to have infused Charlie with a ‘persistent ambition’44 to play Napoleon on film. As well as explaining stage technique Hannah drew Charlie’s attention to the distinctive body language of neighbours, explaining how it might reveal mood and emotion. Confined to home by poverty and her own deteriorating mental state she spent hours gazing through the window at passers by in the street outside. Although hers was a withdrawal motivated by defeat, the sharp focus she exercised on the outside world was to have a stimulating effect on her two sons. Sydney recalled: Mother is the one who made Charlie a successful mimic. When we were little boys living in bitter poverty in London mother used to brighten the drab days for us. She would point out, for instance, the incongruous manners of the old chap who worked in a laundry and who took his best suit out of pawn on Saturday night, to meet his ‘Moll,’ and bright and early would pledge it again. ‘Look at him,’ mother would say. ‘He’s walking way out near the kerb for fear of getting his suit dirty and losing a shilling on the pledge. Now, watch him, he’s not used to gloves and he wants to put his hands in his pockets.’ And

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the next day Charlie would have a perfect imitation of the laundryman for mother’s approval.45 There are unfortunately no illustrations of Hannah in any of her stage costumes. A series of photographs taken by ‘Charles’ of Belfast in 1886 must now be considered lost.46 Although there are fewer references to Hannah’s performances in the theatrical press than to her sister Kate or ‘Dashing’ Eva Lester, there is sufficient evidence to arrive at a reasonable idea of her music-hall act. It seems that even without laryngitis her style would not have been suited to the rough-and-ready Aldershot Canteen. Hannah did not ‘dash’ or ‘romp’. Her songs may well have made reference to kissing and squeezing, but they did not dwell on salacious detail, for, as The Era observed: ‘Miss Lily Harley’s songs are rendered with great taste and her dancing is both graceful and refined.’47 Her style was relatively sophisticated, intended to cajole rather than cudgel her audience: ‘We must not forget to mention the appearance of Miss Lily Harley, a young lady who sings coquettish ballads with much grace and archness of manner, and is extremely well received.’48 There was another factor militating against her ultimate success: she did not possess the vocal power to command a large theatre. That her voice was pleasant, but not powerful might be implied by the comment: ‘Next comes Lily Harley who has a very pleasing voice’.49 The Stage’s verdict on her appearance at the Star, Glasgow in 1886, ‘a clever and graceful little lady’,50 encapsulates her problems in becoming a major turn. Cleverness and grace in someone as slight as Hannah were easily appreciated in an auditorium seating under a thousand, but were far less impressive in the new, larger music halls that increasingly employed the leading acts. Most of Hannah’s performances took place in the smaller provincial and metropolitan halls. At these her success or failure lay largely in her own tiny hands. She probably exercised greater

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control than most performers over the content of her act, for her early employment had provided her with the expertise to produce her own stage costumes, while she also appears to have been a capable songwriter (unusual in a male-dominated profession). Chaplin recalled her singing one of her own compositions: I remember her donning a judge’s wig and cap and gown and singing in her weak voice one of her successes that she had written herself. The song had a bouncy two-four tempo and went as follows: I’m a lady judge, And a good judge too, Judging cases fairly – They are so very rarely – I mean to teach the lawyers A thing or two, And show them just exactly What the girls can do . . . With amazing ease she would then break into a graceful dance and forget her dressmaking and regale us with her other song successes and perform the dances that went with them until she was breathless and exhausted.51 ‘The Lady Judge’ was to prove a long-term hit for her sister on the halls and, in 1892, Hannah provided Kate with another song, ‘My Lady Friend’, writing an indignant letter to the editor of The Encore when the comedian George Byford sang a number with the same title three years later.52 Charlie Chaplin’s childhood memories, or at least those he chose to record, were of his mother as an unlucky, ill-used woman desperately struggling to keep her young family together. Unlike Charles Chaplin

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and his mistress Louise, My Autobiography contains no references to Hannah drinking, and of other vices there is just a single mention of her gambling on horses. Only once does Charlie recall his mother swearing, calling a supercilious woman ‘Lady Shit’. And yet, despite her saintly demeanour, there was something about Hannah that caused three men to abandon her and led to her own sister ignoring her plight for long periods of time. Charlie felt that his mother had abandoned him in favour of insanity. My Autobiography opens with Hannah on the verge of a breakdown telling young Charlie to ‘run along to the McCarthys’ and get your dinner – there’s nothing here for you’. Later in the book he recorded his feelings about her illness: Why had she done this? Mother, so light-hearted and gay, how could she go insane? Vaguely I felt that she had deliberately escaped from her mind and had deserted us. In my despair I had visions of her looking pathetically at me, drifting away into a void.53 By his early teens, if not before, Charlie must have acquired some knowledge of his mother’s complicated sexual history. He had always been aware that he and Sydney had different fathers and it is hard to believe that Sydney would not have spoken of the relationship that had existed between Hannah and Leo Dryden. Perhaps it was his mother’s alluring but disturbing sexuality that triggered a lifelong obsession with younger women, his frequent references to prostitution representing troubling echoes from a troubled childhood. When he came to write Footlights Charlie may well have been thinking about Hannah when he described Eva Morton’s ‘insatiable desire’ and unfaithfulness to her husband Calvero.54 Whatever Charlie’s feelings were towards his mother, her memory provided him with an apparently infinite source of raw material to fashion into comic and sentimental themes in many

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of his films. Through her efforts during their early years together Hannah Chaplin – failed performer, failed partner and failed mother – succeeded in bequeathing one vital gift to her son. Charlie explained: If it had not been for my mother I doubt if I could have made a success of pantomime. She was one of the greatest pantomime artists I have ever seen . . . it was through watching and listening to her that I learned not only how to express my emotions with my hands and face, but also how to observe and study people.55 Such lessons in imitating the world around him provided Charlie with the means to explore and, through such a process, to exculpate his bleak and painful heritage.

4 KITTY FAIRDALE – THE CRÈME DE LA CRÈME OF TERPSICHOREAN SERIO-COMICS

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hree months after the birth of Charlie Chaplin his aunt Kate was assaulted by a drunken carpenter in Middlesbrough. This is known only because the case, like many details of her musichall career, was reported in a contemporary newspaper. Charlie himself left virtually no record of his mother’s younger sister. ‘Aunt Kate,’ he vaguely recalled, ‘was also a soubrette; but we knew little about her, for she wove in and out of our lives sporadically. She was pretty and temperamental and never got along very well with Mother. Her occasional visits usually ended abruptly with acrimony at something Mother had said or done.’1 For someone who took obvious pleasure in recalling the names of past neighbours, employers, local shopkeepers and even the man who minded the horses outside his uncle’s pub, Charlie’s reluctance to provide Kate Hill’s stage name was significant. It was almost certainly a punishment for eclipsing Hannah as a music-hall performer. He may also have been attempting to mitigate the embarrassment caused by the periods that he, Sidney and Hannah spent in workhouses and other institutions while ‘Aunt Kate’ and Charles Chaplin Senior were high-earning stars of the London variety stage.

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Kate was born on 18 January 1870, almost five years after her sister. The Hill family had moved from Hannah’s Camden Street birthplace and when Kate was born they were living just a few yards away at 39 Bronti Place, a short cul-de-sac running parallel to East Street. A year later they were to be found sharing a house at nearby 77 Beckway Street with two other families.2 The close proximity of all three addresses was a situation that repeated itself many times as Charles, Mary Ann and their children hunted for cheap accommodation in the same small pool of Walworth streets. Hannah appears to have left the family home when Kate was about 13, although they often had lodgings in the same neighbourhood. At first the sisters lived in the immediate vicinity of East Street (known locally as ‘East Lane’), later moving westward to the Kennington Road area. When Hannah was a patient in the Peckham House asylum Kate lived in Bloomsbury, but there is a possibility that she returned to her Walworth homeland shortly before World War I. Like Hannah and Eva Lester, Kate joined the ranks of ‘The Profession’ while still in her teens. Along with many young women from a working-class background she saw a career as a singer and dancer as a temporary means of escape from a life of boredom and poverty. Certainly there were risks, but they were worth taking. One had only to read the ‘rags-toriches’ stories of Jenny Hill, Marie Lloyd or Bessie Bellwood to realize what might be achieved. A steady stream of musichall hopefuls borrowed and saved to afford the rudimentary tuition provided by music-hall ‘Academies’ such as that run by Louis Goldstein. At the Stanford Street ‘Road to Ruin’ trial a succession of working-class girls told how they had parted with their precious 10–15 guineas for a short course of instruction in the basics of music-hall technique. Altogether 200 women had approached the agency in 1891, including 16-year-old

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kitchen-maid Lily Halton who explained to the judge how she had wanted to go on the variety stage ‘ever since she was a very, very little girl’.3 Considering the humble occupation of their father it was probably Hannah who assisted Kate in setting out on a music-hall career (in Charlie Chaplin’s Limelight the older sister, Louise, pays for her younger sister, Terry, to take dancing lessons). It seems that they had appeared together as early as 1886 when the names Lily Harley and Kate Hill appeared alongside each other in an advert for the entertainment offered at the Buffalo Variety Theatre, Belfast. Several sisters had made a success on the music-hall stage, although, as in the cases of Marie Lloyd and Lottie Collins, it was usually the older sister’s popularity that paved the way for their younger siblings’ success. By 1888 Kate was on her way to becoming an established performer with a distinctive new stage name, not Hill or Harley, but Fairdale. Her first recorded engagement took place in October 1888 at the Phoenix, a small tavern music hall situated in the market square, Dover. At first she was billed as Kate or Katy Fairdale, but within a year she had settled on Kitty as a first name. During 1888–1890 she steadily laid the foundation for her future career. Most of her engagements were in the Midlands and the north of England with appearances at such venues as the Gaiety, Newcastle; Thorton’s Palace of Varieties, Jarrow; the Victoria Variety Theatre, Bolton; and the Argyle, Birkenhead. It was while playing at the Oxford Music Hall, in Middlesbrough, that Kate was subjected to John Young’s violent and apparently unprovoked assault. On Saturday 20 July 1889 the intoxicated joiner approached Kate in South Street, and, after making some insulting remarks, attempted to knock her to the ground. Fortunately, a gallant youth named William Rackley went to her assistance and Young was arrested for being ‘drunk and disorderly’.4 Kate was a serio-comic, but unlike her older sister she went on to become a top-ranking performer who appeared at leading

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halls throughout the United Kingdom. On stage she was perhaps slightly saucier than Lily and somewhat less dashing than Eva Lester. Her dancing was exceptional, her costumes exquisite and she had an abundance of chic. Like Hannah she appears to have been a Francophile, sometimes adding piquancy to her Era card with phrases written in French. Early in her career she described herself as ‘the Crême de la Crême of Terpsichorean Serio Comics’ and after her first success in the capital she announced ‘Grand succes de Londres MISS KITTY FAIRDALE Scarborough plus tard, maintenant des Engagements necessaires en ville. Tous les soirs, Marylebone.’5 It is possible that Hannah played a part in composing the adverts, for Charlie once claimed that she was fluent in four languages. After appearing for almost three years in the provinces Kate made her London debut at the Queen’s Palace, a large East End music hall which stood in Poplar High Street, sandwiched between the West and East India Docks. For the week commencing Monday 22 June 1891 she shared the bill with a number of music-hall favourites including the eccentric comedian T. E. Dunville. Kitty inserted a jubilant card in The Era: MISS KITTY FAIRDALE Latest successes ‘Say yes’ and ‘Please tell me the meaning of that.’ Concludes Three Weeks (a rarity), Queen’s, Poplar, and Re-Engaged at an increase. Resting this week (not through indisposition) just for fun. The Era, July 4th: ‘Following this Miss Kitty Fairdale trips on the stage to sing “Kitty dear, do be good,” and Kitty is good, especially in her song and dance.’6 While Kate was appearing at the Queen’s Palace, across London at the Hammersmith Varieties Leo Dryden was enhancing his already considerable reputation as a comedian and descriptive singer. Kate and Hannah may have met Leo previously, but the first evidence linking the three performers dates to the autumn

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of 1891. Their growing friendship was such that Leo granted the sisters the singing rights of one of his songs, ‘Opportunity’: In answer to many letters received, I beg to inform those ladies who have written that I intend to retain the London Rights for myself. Re‘Opportunity,’Artistes wishing to secure the Pantomime Rights (£1 1s.) may apply to me for same. Middlesbrough Right Secured by Miss Kittie Fairdale. No other Artiste has my permission to Sing the above but Miss Kittie Fairdale and Miss Lillie Harley. Proprietors and Managers kindly note.7 The cynical moral tone of the song was not to everybody’s taste. The Era critic was prompted to complain that Leo Dryden ‘promulgates in his first ditty the theory that only want of opportunity prevents mankind from being generally vicious . . .’8 Despite the questionable philosophy of ‘Opportunity’, Kate would have been pleased to have a song connected with a major London star. She almost certainly made use of the number at the Theatre Royal, Middlesbrough, when she appeared as Mary Ann in the 1891–1892 pantomime Aladdin and his Wonderful Lamp. Her performance was briefly noted by the Northern Echo: ‘Miss Kitty Fairdale is very merry and dances in splendid style.’ Hannah also had a chance to exercise her concession to sing Leo’s song because on one occasion she had to take over the role of Mary Ann when her sister was suddenly taken ill. In 1892 Kate was given permission to sing a Leo Dryden number which might well have served as an anthem for the entire variety profession, ‘Living Beyond His Means’. Hannah did not have the chance to share the new song for on August 31 she gave birth to Leo’s son. The lives of Kate and her sister seem to have remained closely linked during the early 1890s. Charlie remembered living in West Square, an elegant enclave of Georgian houses off St George’s

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Road, Southwark, when he was three or three and a half – that is, 1892–1893. It is perhaps no coincidence that Kate’s address at the beginning of 1894 was ‘The Kitteries’, 30 West Square.9 Although there is a tradition that Charlie lived at 39 West Square, it is likely that Hannah and Kate lived together for some period of time. As a skilful dressmaker and creator of her own stage costumes Hannah may well have had a hand in shaping her sister’s stage appearance. Her advertising demonstrates that Kate was fiercely protective of her professional outfits: ‘Notice: My new Dresses are a Sensation. I am the originator of the new Pringle Sleeve which I have registered.’10 Hannah certainly contributed to the vocal side of Kate’s act, supplying her with a number of songs. In 1892 she wrote ‘My Lady Friend’ which her sister apparently sang successfully at the Royal, Holborn.11 The following year Hannah appears to have presented Kate with her greatest hit, a catchy number entitled ‘The Lady Judge’. Students of Charlie Chaplin’s early life will recognize the song as it is partially quoted in My Autobiography. Chaplin refers to ‘The Lady Judge’ as being a song that his mother had written and performed, describing the costume that she pulled from her trunk as a ‘judge’s cap and gown’12. As Kate performed the song between 1893 and 1896 it may be that the costume remembered by Charlie had only recently been discarded by his aunt. On stage Kate had cut an imposing figure in her legal robes: ‘Miss Kitty Fairdale, in long golden wig, a velvet gown, and a mortar-board, sang “The Lady Judge” which is a fairly good specimen of its kind.’13 Whether Lily Harley had performed the song at, or on, some stage, it was Kitty Fairdale who made it her own. Within a year of her London debut Kate had become a leading music-hall performer able to command a high salary. The titles of her songs have a risqué ring reminiscent of the naughty Marie Lloyd – ‘I Don’t Parlez Vous’; ‘What’s the Consequence?’; ‘Have a Change’ and ‘She Didn’t Know the Difference’. Unlike Hannah, Kate

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was to appear at major music halls such as the Royal Standard, the Middlesex, Collins’, the Canterbury and the Paragon. There was even an extended engagement in South Africa. On 27 April 1895 Kate and a troupe of other music-hall performers boarded a train at Waterloo Station, bound for Southampton where they embarked on SS Moor.14 Perhaps Hannah took the boys along to wave their aunt goodbye. During the four months that Kate was abroad Hannah was admitted to Lambeth Infirmary and Sydney was taken into the workhouse. Like her sister, Kate did not always enjoy good health, causing her to cancel several engagements. At the beginning of 1893 ‘a serious indisposition’ resulted in her being out of work for three months; ‘Still Alive’, announced her Era card in June of that year.15 Judging Kate by Charlie’s later silence it would seem that she was either incapable or unwilling to help her sister and nephews as their situation worsened during the second half of the 1890s. Her own financial situation was gradually becoming less secure. As she approached 30 her drawing power was reduced, although she was still well received at provincial venues such as the Empire Circus, Coventry: An artiste who gives much pleasure is Miss Kitty Fairdale, vocalist. She was on Monday enthusiastically encored for her singing of the new song ‘How long are you going to be?’ a reply to ‘Now we shan’t be long,’ and though she readily responded with another song, the audience still called for more.16 There were occasional bookings at the main London halls. For the week commencing 22 February 1897 she appeared at the South London Palace, where the programme also included her brotherin-law Charles Chaplin, the Karno Trio and a harbinger of a new form of entertainment, R. W. Paul’s film show the ‘Theatrograph’. Despite the negative impression given by Charlie, Kate was still in touch with her sister, probably taking care of her nephews on

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several occasions. In a posthumously published newspaper article she recalled sharing intimate domestic moments with the Chaplin family. She remembered Charlie bringing home stray animals; finding him one morning sleeping on the doorstep; and, more than anything, his early musical prowess: As a baby, he would stop playing with his toys the instant he heard music of any description, and would beat time with his tiny hand and nod his head until the music ceased. In later years I have seen him sit for hours at the piano, composing as he went along. The ’cello was the instrument I think he loved best, ‘because it was so plaintive’, he said. I took a delight in watching his changing expression and his small hand quivering as he touched the cords. It was almost a caress. It was only when he caught my eyes glistening that he would laugh, and suddenly do some funny little movement or dash off a gay air. This would immediately change my sad mood to one scream of laughter.17 Kate even made an oblique reference to Hannah’s poverty: Some of his sketches as a small child were splendid as to detail. My sister had quite a collection. Whatever appealed to him he tried to illustrate. ‘Mama trying to make ends meet,’ was a sketch of his mother with a very perplexed look on her face. He had heard her express herself like this some time or other.18 In November 1898 Charlie joined J. W. Jackson’s Eight Lancashire Lads dance troupe. John Willie’s son Alfred Jackson recalled that Charlie and Sydney were then living with their aunt above a barber’s shop in Chester Street, off Kennington Road.19 As Hannah had been discharged from Cane Hill Asylum on the twelfth of that month it

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is possible that she too shared the lodgings. A few weeks later Kate featured in a special charity entertainment at the Lambeth Workhouse, an institution well known to Hannah and one which had been home to Charlie and Sydney only three months previously.20 The key to establishing Kate’s professional identity, along with many other details of her life, is to be found within the pages of The Era. An entry in the Births, Deaths and Marriages column for 6 November 1897 announced: ‘HILL – On 12th ult. [last month], Mrs Mary Ann Hill, mother of Kitty Fairdale and Lily Harley, aged fifty-eight.’ Unlike her sister Kate had a relatively long career, still receiving favourable reviews during the early 1900s. In January 1902 she was described as ‘a pleasing comedienne’ when she played the Empire, Hull. Although she revisited many music halls over the years, her appearance at the Empire Palace, Dover, in November 1900 must have been more poignant than most for it was a rebuilt version of the Phoenix Tavern where she had started back in 1888. From the start of the twentieth century it becomes difficult to trace Kate’s life and career. When Hannah was certified insane in 1905, Kate, as her next of kin, was recorded as living at 27 Montague Place, Russell Square, Bloomsbury. By World War I her adoption of the name Mowbray suggests that she had either married or had become involved in a long-term relationship. A possible clue to the circumstances surrounding the change of name is found in an obscure legal case reported in the national press early in 1912: A strange story was hinted at when Kate Mowbray, a welldressed young woman, of Chatham-street, Walworth, S. E., was summonsed at the Westminster Police court yesterday, to show cause why the recognisance which she entered into in December last should not be estreated. Mr Thusby Pelham, J. P., of Cadogan-gardens, S.W., said he had never previously seen Miss Mowbray, but she had written several

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letters to Mrs Pelham. In one of the two he produced occurred the sentences:I shall finish the work which I have begun . . . You call yourself a gentle-woman, yet you will see me without help and without money. The letter also referred to a relative of Mrs Pelham. ‘I believe,’ stated Mr. Pelham, ‘that she only wrote the letters for the purpose of obtaining the address of my brother-inlaw, Major Mowbray Farquhar. Personally, I had nothing but pity for her, and I only desire that she should not annoy my wife and myself. ‘It was recently announced that my daughter was about to be married and she wrote threatening to come to the church, but the neighbourhood was watched and she was not allowed to come near the church.’ ‘Major Mowbray Farquhar has ruined my life,’ cried Miss Mowbray. ‘I will kill him to save other women from him. My object in writing the letters was to find his address and to get him to help me. ‘Mrs Thursby Pelham promised to intercede for me. Mr Pelham had nothing to do with it, but he has not shown you the many letters – pleading letters – I wrote before these.’ ‘Whatever your grievance may be,’ remarked the magistrate, ‘you must not write letters of this character to this gentleman. He assures you he does not know his brother-in-law’s address.’ Miss Mowbray promised not to annoy Mr Pelham or his wife, and the summons against her sine die. ‘But,’ she added, ‘I intend to compel Major Farquhar to help me.’21

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Although Kate could hardly be considered a young woman in January 1912, there is evidence to suggest that she looked considerably more youthful than her 41 years. Certainly she would have known Chatham Street, situated as it was within a short walk of her own, Hannah’s and Charlie’s birthplaces. Alice Thursby Pelham and Mowbray (or Moubray) Gore Farquhar were the children of Admiral Sir Arthur Farquhar, a pillar of the Conservative party and the Scottish establishment. Little is known of the detested Major Farquhar. He was a keen horseman, seeing active service with Thorneycroft’s Mounted Infantry during the Boer War and becoming a Lieutenant Colonel in the Scottish Horse Yeomanry in World War I. Along with a passion for salmon fishing he was an inventor who filed patents for a machine-gun and several other automatic weapons. He died in 1948, unmarried, at the age of 88. With World War I preventing Charlie and Sydney from returning from the United States Kate was left to oversee Hannah, who had been a private patient at Peckham House since 1912. When a problem arose with her sons’ weekly payments in May 1915, Kate, then living at 4 Coram Street, Bloomsbury, was forced to borrow money to ensure that Hannah was not returned to Cane Hill. It is possible that Hannah left Peckham House for a while. The Magnet for 20 October 1915 reported that she was living with Kate at Hove, in Sussex.22 In the same year Kate received an alluring offer from America. In an attempt to control the rapidly expanding market in Charlie Chaplin novelty items, Sydney had persuaded his brother to set up the Charles Chaplin Advertising Service Company. Sydney’s assertion that their aunt would make an ideal English representative for the company backfired when Kate unilaterally appointed herself to the position and demanded a 25 per cent cut of all royalties. But unpaid hospital fees and an excess of business acumen were soon to become irrelevant. Kate died of cancer at her lodgings at 99 Gower Street in 1916, her death certificate – issued under the name Mowbray – describing her

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as an actress. Not knowing her age, 46, the neighbour who acted as informant guessed that she was only 35. Although commentators have seen reflections of Charlie’s mother in Terry Ambrose, the heroine of Footlights and Limelight, it seems likely that the character was a conflation of several ailing serios – Hannah, Kate, Eva Lester and Jessie Macnally (see Chapter 10). All four were attractive female performers whose careers were threatened or destroyed by ill health. For the purposes of the plot Charlie provided Terry with an older, not younger sister. It is she, not Terry, who is said to have travelled to South Africa with a wealthy man. As with Calvero, Charlie was reluctant to acknowledge all the original models for his vulnerable heroine.23 If audiences and critics assumed that the broken, but reparable, Terry was based on his mother alone so much to the good. There is a similar tendency to manipulate the reader in My Autobiography. Charlie’s memories are edited to create the impression that his rise to stardom resulted solely from his own innate ability reinforced by his mother’s inspiring example. All other influences are ignored or minimized. Dan Leno, described by Charlie in 1921 as ‘an idol of mine’,24 is dismissed as ‘more of a character actor than a comedian’. George Robey, who he once claimed to have followed from ‘hall to hall’,25 does not receive a mention. Similarly the comedians Wal Pink and Will Murray in whose sketch companies he appeared are conspicuous by their absence. His mother’s lover, Leo Dryden, is, of course, passed over without comment. Kate was in good company as someone only vaguely recollected by Charlie. But the reasons for such opacity of memory concerning a close relative are more difficult to explain than the obvious attempts to downplay influences that other performers might have had on his comedy. Did Charlie have the opportunity to compare his mother and aunt’s performances? Was there a sense of disappointment that Kate outshone Hannah? When Hannah performed ‘The Lady Judge’

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for her sons, was it her own interpretation of the song or did she merely mimic Miss Kitty Fairdale? In later years Charlie arranged his own life history to make sure that he was never overshadowed. Without testimony from Charlie or Sydney it is difficult to reach a conclusion regarding Kate’s treatment of her sister. Was she shocked by her promiscuity, appalled by her insanity or condescending about her lack of success? Did she assist the family in more ways than we now know? The discovery of Kate Hill’s music-hall identity might have created more questions than answers, but it strongly suggests that Charlie owed more to his ‘pretty and temperamental’ aunt than he was ever prepared to acknowledge.

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n an act of supreme self-sacrifice, honest, hard-working Sam rescued his wife from a blazing house. At this final cataclysmic moment her unfaithfulness was forgotten. They had loved each other once and the noble ostler was prepared to lay down his own life for old time’s sake. But the tears caused by his death soon dried. A rollicking comic song replaced the mournful ballad as Charles Chaplin swapped from tragedy to comedy in the twinkling of an eye. As a comedian and ‘descriptive’ singer, Charles’ imaginary world seldom reflected his off-stage existence. In his humorous songs he portrayed a carefree observer commenting on the hilarious hazards of everyday life, whilst in his dramatic numbers he depicted characters that were selfless and loyal. In reality he was a morose drunkard and womanizer. Despite his own relaxed morals, there was no forgiveness for his wife’s infidelity, only an undignified battle to avoid paying her maintenance. To his son Charlie he was a well-known stranger; a familiar name to be lived up to and an infamous reputation to be lived down. Charles was the fifth child of Spencer Chaplin and Ellen Elizabeth Chaplin, née Smith. Tradition had it that the Chaplins had been French Huguenots, fleeing from persecution to East Anglia in the seventeenth century. It was also said that one line of the family

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had descended from the relationship between Nell Gwynn and Charles II. More mundanely Charles’ father had been a butcher in Ipswich, Suffolk, before migrating to London to pursue the same trade. Charles’ mother was a gypsy and it has been suggested that her grandson, Charlie Chaplin, inherited his dark curly hair and expressive eyes from her. The family were living at 22 Orcus Street, on the borders of Paddington and St Marylebone, when Charles was born on 18 March 1863. Soon they had moved to Rillington Place, a small street in Notting Hill which was destined to become notorious in criminal history. There, 60 years later at number 10, the quietly spoken John Christie murdered at least six women. During their time in Rillington Place Spencer Chaplin and family lived at number 15, remaining there for many years after the death of Ellen in 1873.Young Charles attended the adjacent St Mark’s School, Lancaster Road, where at the age of 11 he was awarded a poetry book as a prize in Standard 4. Eventually the long-lost volume was rediscovered and sent to the film star Charlie Chaplin by an admirer.1 At the age of 18 Charles was employed as a barman, serving under his older brother Spencer William Tunstill Chaplin who had become the manager of a public house on Battersea Rise, south-west London.The popular Northcote Hotel was a large, well-proportioned pub occupying a prominent corner position on one of the main roads into and out of London. Charles was to spend a good deal of his future life in beery, smoke-filled bars, often as the guest of family members. Spencer went on to manage several public houses in southeast London, while his sister Ellen married two licensed victuallers; Charles Norden, of the Surrey Gardens Hotel, Southwark, and, on Norden’s demise, James Ellis of the Clarence Hotel, Clapham. Earlier Charles’ grandfather Shadrack had abandoned pork butchery and innkeeping to become a shoemaker, a career move that was reversed by his father Spencer who gave up his trade as a butcher to run the Davenport Arms, Radnor Place, in Paddington.

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Among their extensive collection of pubs the Chaplin family would have had good reason to remember the Northcote Hotel for Spencer married during his stint as manager and his first child was born there in October 1881. A few months later Spencer transferred to the Old King and Queen in Newington Butts, a short but busy street that linked the Elephant and Castle with Kennington Lane. It is likely that Charles made the move with him. If so he had probably already started to combine work as a barman with appearing as a performer. Music hall had its roots in tavern-based entertainment and many pubs still provided ‘freeand-easy’ concerts at which amateurs and professionals appeared alongside each other. That Spencer had some involvement with variety entertainments is suggested by a report of him acting as Chairman at a benefit concert held on behalf of another publican at the Montpelier Music Hall, Walworth, in April 1886.2 Charles soon made the acquaintance of a local girl, an aspiring singer and dancer named Hannah Hill. Despite possessing a fine, light baritone voice and youthful good looks, he took longer to establish himself as a performer than his new companion. With the growth of her career Hannah drifted away from him, starting a relationship with an older man. Despite or because of the birth of a child, things did not work out and she returned to Charles. When they married at St John’s Church, Larcomb Street, Walworth, on 22 June 1885, just 14 weeks after the arrival of Sydney John, their address was given as 57 Brandon Street, just a short walk from the Old King and Queen. Hannah had already become an established music-hall performer, but Charles’ notices in the theatrical press seem to be limited to an appearance at the Masonic Hall, Llandudno, in December 1882.3 While Hannah toured music halls across the United Kingdom, Charles either tagged along or remained in London with the infant Sydney and the ‘home’ comforts of Spencer’s pub.

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It was not until 1887 that Charles’ name began to be regularly mentioned in the theatrical press. He and Hannah toured together throughout the year, appearing as separate acts on the same musichall programmes. She was usually announced as a ‘serio-comic and dancer’, he as a ‘vocalist and comedian’. After an engagement at J. T. Welch’s Pavilion Music Hall, Bath, on Monday 14 March 1887,4 Charles subsequently made appearances at the Folly Variety Theatre, Manchester (June); the People’s Music Hall, Manchester (July); the Theatre Royal, Wigan (August); the Gaiety, Oldham (August); the Circus of Varieties, Stockport (September); the Borough Concert Hall, Crewe, and the Circus, St Helens (October); and the Surrey Grand Palace of Varieties, Barnsley (December). The following year, 1888, seems to have brought a clutch of difficulties for the young couple. An unspecified ‘indisposition’ caused Hannah to miss many engagements, while Charles was still struggling to find his feet on the variety stage. Few of his appearances were recorded by the press and those that were took place outside London. There is little to suggest the style or content of his act. A single review of the Gaiety Palace of Varieties, Leicester, stated that ‘Mr Charles Chaplin also made a first appearance, and is a clever impersonator’,5 whether of characters or actual people is not clear. His emergence as a major music-hall performer did not occur until after the birth of his first child, Charles Spencer Chaplin, the following year. Hannah can have seen very little of Charles during the later stages of her pregnancy for he was touring continuously in the north of England, Ireland and Scotland. When news reached him of the birth he was appearing at Boscoe’s Empire Palace, at the fishing port of Hull, Yorkshire. He returned briefly to inspect the child who was to carry on his name, but was soon back on the road, placing an advert in The Era on 18 May: ‘WANTED, by Charles Chaplin, The Dead Cert, Six or Twelve Nights Next, Wire Victoria, Bolton.’ Soon the years of developing his act in the provinces were

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ILLUSTRATION 9. The Royal Standard Music Hall,Victoria, with G. H. Chirgwin on stage. Drawing by Joseph Pennell, 1890.

to come to fruition when he was engaged to appear at the Royal Standard Music Hall, Pimlico, opposite London’s Victoria Station. The Royal Standard exemplified the development of music hall from ‘pot-house to palace’.6 Built as a public house in 1832, the Royal Standard Hotel was taken over during the 1840s by John Moy who began to offer professional entertainments on the premises. After functioning for some years as Moy’s Music Hall, the extended building was renamed the Royal Standard Concert Hall in 1854. Its surroundings changed radically with the construction of the railway station in 1860 and the Royal Standard was refurbished as an up-to-date music hall in 1864. Twenty years later the building was demolished and a completely new music hall constructed. Despite such modern luxuries as a grill-room, billiard parlour and electric lighting, the Royal Standard retained

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elements of its tavern origins. Unlike the patrons of leading London halls who wore smart evening dress, the Royal Standard’s customers occupied the best seats in the stalls dressed in their everyday clothes. Hats, whether gentlemen’s bowlers or lady’s feather bonnets, were hardly ever removed. Smoke from pipes and cigarettes drifted throughout the auditorium, while waiters picked their way deftly around the theatre delivering drinks from the adjacent bars. Such an easygoing and familiar environment must have appealed to a young barman turned music-hall singer. Of the 40 music halls located in London, the Royal Standard was an example of what F. Anstey described in 1890 as one of the ‘smaller and less aristocratic West End halls’.7 Above it he ranked ‘the aristocratic variety theatres of the West End, chiefly found in the immediate neighbourhood of Leicester Square’, and below it ‘the large bourgeois music halls of the less fashionable parts and in the suburbs’, and ‘the minor music halls of the poor and squalid districts’. Although the audiences differed widely, Anstey pointed out that the performances offered were less varied. When Charles Chaplin ‘comedian’ made his debut at the Royal Standard on Monday 19 August 1889 he shared a programme with a number of well-established London stars – the Irish comedian Walter Munroe, the ventriloquist Lieutenant Travis, Medley the mimic and a veteran comedian, J. W. ‘Over’ Rowley. Within a few weeks Charles was appearing at three halls nightly; the Cambridge, the Canterbury and the Paragon. He had been lucky to have been spotted by the leading music-hall agent of the time, Hugh J. Didcott. ‘Diddy’ had an unfailing eye for natural talent and had engineered the careers of many leading performers, often angering managers and proprietors with everincreasing salary demands. By the time that Charles left London to fulfil engagements in Liverpool and South Shields in October 1889 Didcott appears to have supplanted a previous agent:

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MR CHARLES CHAPLIN Arriving unheralded in London, this clever young Comedian, after a short season of enormous success, makes a triumphant departure, for a few weeks only, intending, by his Agent’s advice to fulfil all legitimate contracts. Sole and exclusive agent Mr Hugh J. Didcott.8 Under Didcott’s skilful management Charles’ career flourished. He was transformed from an ordinary ‘comedian’ into a ‘descriptive comedian’, putting less emphasis on broad humour and specializing in songs that possessed a strong dramatic narrative. Back in London in November 1889 he was engaged at the Trocadero, a smart, 600-seat music hall standing alongside the London Pavilion. The following month his schedule became more hectic with nightly appearances at the Canterbury at 20.05, the Paragon at 21.30, the Middlesex at 22.30, finishing with the Trocadero at 23.00. Amongst his most successful songs from the period, his own composition ‘Every-day Life’ provided an opportunity to demonstrate his developing acting skills: In every-day life many marvels around Fill us with a feeling of wonder profound. Often the heart aches and tears dim the eye, As sad scenes in passing through life we descry. Poor wretches huddled on bridges at night, Beggars who plaintively beg just a mite, These make us wonder, ‘How can such things be In our Christian England – so great and so free!’ Chorus: Then see the swell in his carriage dash by, Little he cares for the poverty nigh; He gives them nothing to save them from strife – These are the characters taken from every-day life.

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Next, we see the man on delirium’s brink, With no thought save one – his wild craving for drink; Clothes worn and tattered, boots down at the heel, Knowing not where to obtain his next meal. Haunting the public-house, daily he’ll wait, Begging tobacco and cursing his fate. Work unto him is a thing quite unknown, Body and soul he’s a drunkard alone. Chorus: Borrowing, where he can, small sums of pelf, Spending it all on no-one but himself; Neglecting his children, ill-using his wife – That’s a character taken from every-day life . . . Not all critics were impressed by the new performer. One complained of his ‘nasal twang and cockney mispronunciation’,9 while another commented: Mr Charles Chaplin, a rising young singer, is much applauded in ‘Taken from life’, but his style is faulty and full of incipient mannerisms, which he would do well to correct in good time.10 ‘Nasal twang’ and ‘incipient mannerisms’ aside, much of Charles’ impact as a performer derived from the juxtaposition of comic and dramatic or sentimental songs.11 The well-known songwriting partnership of John P. Harrington and George Le Brunn provided him with examples of both categories in 1890. Their ‘Duty Called’, which remained in his repertoire for many years, recounted the heroic exploits of soldiers, sailors and fireman. In the contrasting ‘We All of Us Know What That Means (Eh! Boys)’ he reminded his audience of some awkward and embarrassing situations: When you’re courting, oft your sweetheart, With an ardour none can check,

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Being pleased with you, and loving, Throws her arms around your neck; But if sometimes she’s kept waiting In the rain, her temper fails; If, when one hour late you meet her, She looks so, and bites her nails– Chorus: We all of us know what that means. – Eh, boys? Eh, boys? We all of us know what that means. – Eh, boys? Eh? If her temper goes up. Then she turns her pretty nose up, We all of us know what that means – it’s her playful little way. Illustrations of Charles performing his songs began to appear on the covers of sheet music sold by firms such as Francis, Day and Hunter, Howard and Co., and Mocatta. Usually his costume consisted of the top hat, starched white shirt and tailcoat worn by a man-about-town. On other occasions he would adopt the light suit, floppy bow-tie and straw boater of a carefree gentleman on a seaside holiday. Charles’ features became increasingly familiar to London audiences during the first half of 1890 as Didcott arranged for him to appear at a succession of leading music halls, including a week at the prestigious Oxford, in Oxford Street. In the summer there was a new departure, a tour of the United States. John P. Harrington recalled a meeting that he, Charles and George Le Brunn had at the offices of Francis, Day and Hunter shortly before Chaplin set sail: One of our first clients was Charlie Chaplin, father of the famous film ‘star.’ Chaplin was a good, sound performer of the Charles Godfrey type, although he, of course, lacked the

ILLUSTRATION 10. Sheet music cover for ‘Eh! Boys’, a Charles Chaplin success from 1890.

CHARLES CHAPLIN – THE POPULAR METROPOLITAN COMIQUE

latter’s wonderful talent and versatility. We wrote the majority of Charlie’s songs for some considerable time; in fact, at one period, all three of the songs he was nightly singing were from our pens. In this connection, an incident which strikes me as far more amusing now than when it happened occurs to me. We had made an appointment with Mr David Day, head of Francis, Day and Hunter, the music publishers, to hear the three songs played over and sung in his office, with a view to their publication. In due course, Chaplin, Le Brunn, and I arrived; the songs were played over by George and sung by Charlie, and David was delighted with all three. The cheque book appeared on the scene. ‘Terms? The usual, I suppose?’ Trio of voices in delighted unanimity: ‘Certainly, Mr Day.’ The cheque book is opened – the pen is raised – then. George Le Brunn, anxious to paint the lily and gild refined gold, says: ‘You know, he’ll sing all these songs in America, as well, Mr Day.’ Pen suspended in mid-air. ‘Ah, yes?’ murmurs Mr Day softly. ‘And when do you go to America, Mr Chaplin?’ ‘Week after next,’ says Charlie. ‘How long for?’ ‘Four months.’ Snap! Cheque book returned to its neat little desk-drawer; pen carefully laid aside. ‘Come and see me again, when you come back from America. It won’t be any use publishing the songs while you’re singing them on the other side of the Atlantic!’ The things Charlie Chaplin and deponent said to George Le Brunn when we got outside that office would not look well if set down in this veracious narrative.12

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After making his American debut on 18 August 1890 Charles toured with T. D. Mark’s International Vaudevilles troupe, before returning in the autumn. The trip was a professional success, but seems to have resulted in matrimonial disaster. Hannah claimed that it was Charles’ heavy drinking that caused her to leave him, although it is possible that she had already started a relationship with the singer Leo Dryden. By April 1891 the couple were living apart. Hannah and her sons were staying with her mother, while Charles was lodging with the singer and songwriter Arthur West.The marriage may have been failing for some time, but it is not clear when it actually foundered. There is an outside possibility that there had been a brief reconciliation between Charles and Hannah. When the artists and employees of Martin Montgomery’s Theatre Royal and Westminster Hall, Liverpool, went for their annual outing on Sunday 19 May 1894, ‘Mr and Mrs Charles Chaplin’ were listed as part of the group. The woman enjoying lunch at the Henshaw Hotel, Woolside, and the subsequent fun and games on the beach might have been Hannah, but was more likely to have been one of Charles’ lady-friends provided with a temporary and spurious legitimacy.13 Whatever affection Charles might have retained for Hannah, Charlie and Sydney it was not powerful enough to induce him to contribute towards their support. He had started a new relationship and another family. Charlie remembered that his father’s partner ‘Louise’ was ‘dissipated and morose-looking, yet attractive, tall and shapely, with full lips and sad, doe-like eyes’.14 Their child, another half-brother for Charlie, was born in about 1894. In 1917 an unidentified music-hall performer with the pseudonym ‘Flaneur’ described meeting Charles and his ‘son’ at the Empire, Leicester. Young Charlie was a ‘nipper’ then, and as full of mischief as a cage full of monkeys . . . One Sunday evening Charlie Chaplin and I were invited to a Jewish club in Leicester. We ‘bunged’ young

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Charlie (the present picture craze merchant) off to bed and proceeded to accept the hospitality of our Yiddisher friends . . . 15 It is likely that ‘Flaneur’ had confused Charles’ and Louise’s child with the future film star; certainly Charlie made no reference to touring with his father. Although Charles may have decided to cut Hannah out of his life completely, by 1896 her mental and physical condition had deteriorated so badly that the local authorities decided to compel him to take responsibility for his children’s upkeep. But before the start of his long-running battle with the Southwark Board of Guardians, another strand in his complex personal life began to unravel. It was not particularly unusual to see small children in music halls. At the South London Palace on the evening of 11 April 1896, more glances might have been drawn by two sisters than the baby they carried with them. They were young, fashionably dressed, with an ostentatious display of jewellery. At about 21.00 Charles Chaplin took to the stage to sing his old favourite ‘Duty Called’. For once the song did not end in a crescendo of applause. Helena De Pledge and Lena Baggallay began to hiss, and Lena shook her baby in the singer’s direction. As heads turned and members of the audience stood to get a better view the two women shouted abuse and gesticulated. The song was halted amid scenes of confusion as attendants hustled the women into a corridor. They were escorted from the theatre by a policeman, but their continuing protest caused a large crowd to block traffic in the Blackfriars Road. When Mrs De Pledge, age 22, of 358 Kennington Road, and Mrs Baggallay, 25, of Brixton Road, appeared at Southwark Court the following day, the magistrate tried to coax from them the reason for such disorderly conduct: ‘What made you behave as you did?’ ‘Well, sir, we did not like the song, and we thought we could use our discretion whether we hissed or not. We thought we were at liberty to do so.’

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ILLUSTRATION 11. Chaplin’s act interrupted by two women at the South London Music Hall. Illustrated Police News, 18 April 1896.

‘Tell me in confidence why you hissed him. Don’t you like him?’ ‘No we don’t.’ Charles Chaplin’s presence in court caused considerable annoyance to the two ladies. Bound over to keep the peace, Helena and Lena left ‘very crestfallen, but still darting angry looks at Mr Chaplin’.16 It has been impossible to establish whether Helena De Pledge and Lena Baggallay were protesting on behalf of a third party or whether the shaken baby represented yet another half-brother for young Charlie. Both ladies appear to have kept the peace, at least in public, and Charles was allowed to return to the problems created by his estranged wife.17

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With Hannah proving increasingly unable to take care of herself, let alone her children, the local parish authority insisted that Charles should make a regular financial contribution to his family’s upkeep. At a meeting of the District Relief Committee in June 1896 he offered to make payments towards Charlie’s maintenance, but not for Sydney who he stated was illegitimate. Determined not to incur further costs on the public purse the committee insisted that Charles should pay 15 shillings a week for both children, an arrangement to which he reluctantly agreed. But with no payments forthcoming during the following year the Southwark Board of Guardians applied for a warrant for Charles’ arrest, offering a £1 reward for information regarding his whereabouts. At this stage his older brother Spencer stepped in and paid the arrears of £44. 7s. In November 1897 the Guardians decided that Charlie (then at the Central London District Poor Law School) and Sydney (on the Training Ship Exmouth) should be placed in their father’s care. The boys’ uncle Spencer, who from 1890 had owned the Queen’s Head public house on Broad Street, near Lambeth Walk, proved easier to locate than the wanderer Charles. A letter was despatched: Dear Sir, I shall esteem it a favour if you will kindly inform your brother Charles Chaplin that the Guardians desire him to relieve them of the future maintenance of his two children Sydney and Charles within 14 days from this date. I am compelled to write to you not knowing his address.18 On this occasion Spencer was not able, or inclined, to assist his troublesome brother. Another warrant was issued in December 1897, leading to Charles’ arrest while playing at the New Empire Theatre of Varieties, Leicester, in January 1898. His prompt payment of £5. 6s.

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3d may well have been influenced by the punishment that had been meted out to the author of a number of his songs. In September 1897 Norton Atkins was sentenced to two months’ hard labour for deserting his wife and six children, ‘whereby they became chargeable to the Lambeth Board of Guardians’.19 Having temporarily settled the maintenance arrears Charles requested that Charlie and Sydney should be placed in his wife’s custody. The situation had come full circle with the boys returned to Hannah’s faltering ‘care’. Inevitably, the downward spiral ended with the family being admitted to the Lambeth Workhouse. Hannah’s health broke down completely and in September 1898 she was admitted to Cane Hill Asylum. It was decided that the boys, who had been sent from the workhouse to West Norwood Schools, should rejoin their father. They were consequently packed into a baker’s van and delivered to 289 Kennington Road, one of a terrace of late-Georgian houses.20 Although of short duration, their stay was extremely miserable. Louise and Charles were drinking heavily, leading to frequent arguments and violent behaviour. The house itself seemed to have grown weary of human habitation. It was here that the strongman, Captain Athya, gradually succumbed to consumption and, more recently, in 1893, the address acted as a poste restante for the dashed hopes of scores of would-be performers who had sent money to the conman Charles Bishop. Charlie recollected a general air of mournfulness, with light filtering into the two room apartment ‘as if from under water’.21 Charles spent little time at home, preferring the hospitality of music-hall bars or local pubs. With a family so closely connected to innkeeping and belonging to a profession that both praised and promoted alcohol he was in need of far greater powers of self-control than he could possibly muster. A culture of treat and treating, of taking a ‘wet’ with a colleague or being toasted by an admirer, was sociable but unrelenting. With music halls

ILLUSTRATION 12. Charles Chaplin’s lodgings in Kennington Road, photographed in 1921.

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depending on the sale of alcohol for much of their profits, artists were used as on-stage salesman who extolled the joys of drinkfuelled conviviality. ‘Eccentric’, red-nosed comedians joked about drunkenness, hangovers and delirium tremens, but ‘descriptive’ singers seldom linked cause with effect as they described merry escapades and tipsy bonhomie. Charles’ friend Arthur West wrote such bacchanalian numbers as ‘Drink Up Boys!’, ‘Good Health, Old Boy!’ and ‘Let’s Have Another!’, while Will Godwin, the author of Charles’ famous song ‘Dear Old Pals’, supplied the music to the 1890s drinking anthem ‘Beer, Beer, Glorious Beer’. Most ‘prossers’ had favourite inns where they could meet when not working, often, like Eva Lester, visiting several during horsedrawn pub crawls. Charlie recreated a crowded music-hall pub for a scene in Footlights and Limelight, naming it ‘The Queen’s Head’ after Spencer’s establishment, but locating it in a side street off Leicester Square rather than the vicinity of Lambeth Walk. In the course of a number of rewrites the atmosphere of the bar became significantly altered. Early versions depicted a place where the fallen star Calvero could go and happily mingle with ‘those who had known him in the past; vaudevillians, actors, agents, critics, jockeys and tipsters’.22 In the finished scene, cut out soon after the film’s premiere, ‘The Queen’s Head’ had become a place of judgement. A group of men are seen discussing the reasons for Calvero’s failure. ‘It’s funny, a few years ago he was the rage of London, and now he can’t get a job,’ says one, eliciting a damning response from another: ‘Well, it’s his own fault. Half the time he was too drunk to go on.’The dialogue brings to mind Charlie’s recollection of ‘an excellent funny man’, T. E. Dunville, who drowned himself after hearing someone in a saloon bar say ‘that fellow’s through’.23 When Charles eventually lurched his way back to number 289 he carried little of his stage joviality with him. One Saturday evening Louise, Charles and Charlie were sitting with their landlady and

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husband in a front-room parlour. As usual both Charles and Louise had been drinking to excess. Charles was muttering to himself, ‘in an ugly mood’.24 Suddenly he pulled a fistful of loose change from his pocket and threw it violently to the floor, an action which had the effect of transfixing the others until young Charlie thought it prudent to start gathering up the coins. On another occasion Charles, returning from the Queen’s Head late one night, encountered Charlie in the street. Louise, drunk again, was refusing to let him into the house. Confronting his mistress, Charles demanded: ‘Why didn’t you let him in?’ Louise’s mumbled response that they could both ‘go to hell’ provoked him into throwing a heavy clothes brush which struck her cheek and rendered her unconscious. Charlie’s recollection that Louise’s ‘little boy with his beautiful angelic face . . . would swear at her and use vile language’25 suggests that Charles frequently abused his new partner. Professional colleagues remembered a different Charles Chaplin – ‘a dear old pal, and one of the best’.26 He was a well-known and well-liked member of the Terriers, a mutual benefit society set up by a group of music-hall performers in 1890. Occasionally this more prepossessing personality manifested itself at home. Charlie wrote: There were times when he was charming and tender and would kiss her [Louise] good-night before leaving for the theatre. And on a Sunday morning, when he had not been drinking, he would breakfast with us and tell Louise about the vaudeville acts that were working with him, and have us all enthralled. I would watch him like a hawk, absorbing every action. In a playful mood, he once wrapped a towel round his head and chased his little son around the table crying: ‘I’m King Turkey Rhubarb.’27 During his unhappy stay with his father and Louise, Charlie used to lie awake listening to the sounds of Saturday evenings in Kennington Road. He remembered concertina music, rowdy

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youths and giggling girls, the street-cry of an oyster seller and the drunks at the nearby pub singing: For old times’ sake don’t let our enmity live, For old times’ sake say you’ll forget and forgive, Life’s too short to quarrel, Hearts are too precious to break. Shake hands and let us be friends For old times’ sake.’28 No stranger to heavy sentimentality in his films, Charlie considered the song ‘maudlin’ and ‘dreary’. His assessment of Millie Lindon’s 1898 music-hall hit might also have applied to his father’s most successful song, ‘Dear Old Pals, or Pals That Time Cannot Alter’, a mawkish epic composed by Will Godwin and written by Godwin and Chaplin himself: Dear old pals that nothing can alter, Staunch old pals, pals that are always true, Let the weather be rough, you know, Give me the pal that will always go Through hail, rain, fire and snow For a dear old pal. Such numbers were beginning to sound ‘old-fashioned’. Their popularity was increasingly challenged by catchy new songs like young Charlie’s favourite, the more syncopated, sexually titillating ‘Honeysuckle and the Bee’. ‘For Old Times’ Sake’, ‘Dear Old Pals’ and Leo Dryden’s ‘The Miner’s Dream of Home’ might retain a place in the public’s heart, but they were becoming objects of nostalgia, musical relics to be resurrected only for ceremonial events like Christmas parties and old-people’s sing-songs. Charles Chaplin was the representative of a dying tradition. He was a close follower of the famous Charles Godfrey, bearing a striking

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resemblance to the older singer and often employing the same songwriters. Godfrey was also a notoriously heavy drinker, dying at the age of 49 in 1900. Back in the late 1870s he had reinterpreted the style of the overblown Lions Comiques to present the persona of an elegant man-about-town or ‘masher’. In addition to the drinking and comic songs which formed the main part of the Lion Comiques’ performances, Godfrey introduced sentimental, heroic and patriotic numbers into his act. Having once been an actor he frequently performed songs with dramatic, sometimes spoken, content. The regularly revived ‘On Guard’ opened with him as a ragged beggar being turned away from the workhouse gate, the scene then changing to depict him 25 years earlier as a hero of the Battle of Balaclava in the Crimean War. Another remarkable transformation took place in his song ‘Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde’, based on Robert Louis Stevenson’s best-selling novel. Sometimes he portrayed famous Britons in their historic context – Sir Francis Drake, Horatio Lord Nelson and General Gordon. Many of his songs were billed as ‘descriptive’, telling stories with the assistance of specially painted backcloths, extras and elaborate props. Although Chaplin did not employ such large-scale effects, he closely resembled Godfrey in the way he used acting to enhance the lyrics of his songs. Reviews in the theatrical press give an idea of the dramatic range contained within Charles’ 10–15 minute ‘turn’: The difference in men’s aspects after winning or losing at the races are amusingly and forcibly shown by Mr Charles Chaplin, who has also an effective patriotic lay in ‘At Duty’s Call’, the heroism of the soldier, the sailor and the fireman receiving due recognition.29 Loyalty, too, is the keynote of Mr Charles Chaplin’s first song, which deals with the sixty years’ reign [Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee]. ‘Winning and Losing’ gives him the opportunity of putting in some good descriptive work, and he

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makes a deep impression with ‘Ostler Sam’, a tale of a woman’s frailty and an injured husband’s heroism.30 Despite considerable success throughout his career, there were areas of his performances that seemed regularly to annoy and irritate reviewers. In an age where reviews of music-hall acts were either favourable or non-committal he attracted criticism of his appearance, style and presentation: Mr Charles Chaplin sang upon this occasion for the first time a well-written ditty, called ‘The Wanderer’s Return’. It was received with favour; but Mr Chaplin’s make-up might be considerably improved upon . . . 31 And: Mr Charles Chaplin, with curious gestures and amid much changing limelight effect, recites and sings ‘Sam the Ostler’32 By the late 1890s even one of Charles’ most famous songs, Norton Atkins’ ‘As the Church Bells Chime’, was probably a little too melodramatic for popular taste: ’Tis the hour of praise and worship in a dreary prison’s gloom. And the distant church bells’ chiming breaks a stillness like the tomb; Seated in his lonely dungeon is a man with haggard face; Yet, though grief has told upon it, nothing vicious there you trace. Grim and stern the gaoler enters, takes him to the place of pray’r; Mark his brow, so calm and fearless – not a sign of guilt is there.

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Then the kindly chaplain bids him fervently to pray and fast – Ere the church bells ring next Sunday, he is doom’d to breath his last! Chorus: ‘I fear not death!’ he replies, ‘but my child! – She by a villain to sin was beguiled; I struck him down in my frenzy so wild – Surely it wasn’t a crime! What is it thrills me? – ah, what do I see? Why – ’tis a message – a pardon for me! Merciful heaven! – I am sav’d – I am free!’ As the church bells chime! There is little doubt that Charles’ performances were idiosyncratic, over-emphasized and sometimes a little tipsy. Most criticism, however, was directed at his choice of the descriptive song. In 1898 the Hull Entr’acte reflected: Audiences for a long time past have been so surfeited with ‘eccentric’ vocalists with extravagant make-up and songs to match, they seem, just at present, to be incapable of appreciating the work of a singer who appears in evening dress and condescends to give them sensible humour. Perhaps this explains to some extent why Mr Charles Chaplin, who tops the Alhambra bill, does not seem to meet with the warm reception he might expect. His songs are real good stuff, especially The Ostler’s Story; English, French, and German; and Winning and Losing; and descriptive work which needs histrionic capability. He sings four songs in all.33 The Canterbury audience seemed easier to please, but the future of the descriptive song was still a subject for discussion:

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Descriptive singing is, perhaps, scarcely so popular as it was when Jenny Hill used to delight London with ‘That’s how he carries on’; but Mr Charles Chaplin’s selection concerning Ostler Sam, who loses his life while rescuing his unfaithful wife, is quite to the liking of the Canterburians, who listen with sympathetic interest to the sorrowful tale of a woman’s frailty. Mr Chaplin in a more humorous selection depicts the different temperaments of the Frenchman, the German, and the Englishman.34 In one of his last notices the reviewer preferred the comedy element of his act: Charles Chaplin as a descriptive vocalist is less well suited in his serious selection than in his humorous one, the latter making a hit.35 A combination of changing public taste and his own flawed character resulted in the gradual decline of Charles’ career. Most music-hall performers had occasional periods when engagements were difficult to obtain, but Charles began to suffer long periods when he was ‘out of a shop’. Fellow comedian Austin Rudd remembered: Charles Chaplin, the father of the ‘Movie King’, was very much like his famous son, with the same black, wavy hair and expressive eyes. I can see him now, with his serious face, coming down from the agent’s steps over the water in the early ‘nineties. I said to him ‘What’s the matter, Charlie?’ ‘Matter,’ he replied; ‘not a date in my book and not the price of a cigarette.’ We consoled each other over a glass of ale.36 Charles was appearing at the Foresters in May 1897 when news of his father’s death reached him. In an apparent attempt to impose some stability on his son’s erratic lifestyle, old Spencer Chaplin left instructions in his will that Charles should run the Davenport Arms for a year, after which it should be sold and the proceeds distributed

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among the family. Somehow Charles managed to avoid his father’s last wishes. But three years later he was probably called upon to lend a hand running the Queen’s Head following Spencer’s death at the age of 45. A decade or more of pub culture and heavy drinking were beginning to take their toll. Charlie wrote: About eight o’clock in the evening, before departing for the theatre, he would swallow six raw eggs in port wine, rarely eating solid food.That was all that sustained him day after day. He seldom came home, and, if he did, it was to sleep off his drinking.37 By 1900 engagements, unlike Charles, had almost dried up. In January he appeared at Portsmouth and Leicester; in February at the Tivoli, Manchester (where he was described as a ‘breezy comedian’); in August at the Grand, Clapham; and in September at the Camberwell Varieties. His last known performances took place at the Empire, Portsmouth, during the week commencing Monday 31 December. By the beginning of 1901 his state of health was so poor that a benefit concert was held for him at the first floor assembly rooms attached to the Horns Tavern. It appears that Charles’ popularity was not sufficient to ensure a packed house for there was a lastminute attempt to dispose of tickets in the bar below. Spencer’s son Aubrey remembered that his uncle Charles appeared at the door, a ‘dishevelled, slightly shabby figure’. Walking to the counter the comedian recognized a local undertaker. ‘You have buried most of our family,’ he remarked: ‘in a few months you will bury me. Meanwhile I hope you will buy a ticket for my benefit.’38 Appearing at the concert as one of the Eight Lancashire Lads young Charlie was provided with a chance to see his father once again: The night of the benefit my father appeared on stage breathing with difficulty and with painful effort made a speech. I stood at the side of the stage watching him, not realizing that he was a dying man.39

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ILLUSTRATION 13. The Horns Tavern and Assembly Rooms, Kennington Road.

At this late stage Charles seems to have parted company with Louise for the April 1901 census records him living at a lodging house at 112 Lambeth Road, sharing with 20 other men including several with theatrical connections. Charlie’s last meeting with his father was, appropriately, in a pub. The Three Stags was a large establishment not dissimilar to the Northcote Hotel where Charles had worked for Spencer 20 years previously. Although patronized by the music-hall society the Terriers, it was not one of Charles’ regular haunts. But walking had become painfully difficult and, situated at the corner of Kennington Road and Lambeth Road, it was just close enough to reach from his lodgings. Guided by a sixth sense, Charlie looked into the saloon bar where his father was seated in a corner. He recalled: He looked very ill; his eyes were sunken, and his body had swollen to an enormous size. He rested one hand, Napoleonlike in his waistcoat as if to ease his difficult breathing.40

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Charlie was surprised when his normally undemonstrative father seemed genuinely pleased to see him. They talked and he asked after Hannah and Sydney. As they parted he took Charlie in his arms and kissed him – for the first and only time. Three weeks later, on 29 April 1901, Charles was admitted to St Thomas’ Hospital, Lambeth. It was a disturbing process that involved rendering him blind drunk before he could be moved. To Charlie his father’s illness seemed to take on mythic proportions; ‘they tapped sixteen quarts of liquid from his knee’, he recalled.41 Hannah visited him on a number of occasions and he talked wistfully about starting a new life with her in Africa. It was too late, for the end of the road was rapidly approaching. A well-known evangelical minister, Rev. John McNeil, dropped in to lecture and gloat over the dying man: ‘Well Charlie, when I look at you I can only think of the old proverb: “Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap”.’42 His death on 9 May 1901 was caused by dropsy and, like the great Charles Godfrey, cirrhosis of the liver. Few of Charles’ old variety acquaintances visited him while he was in hospital and few attended his funeral at Tooting Cemetery. As his widow, Hannah took possession of his worldly belongings, the clothes that he stood up in and a half sovereign that was discovered secreted in a slipper. Having no place at the funeral, Louise visited the undertakers to pay her last respects to her ex-lover and to place a simple halo of daisies around his face. She was to die in Lambeth Workhouse four years later, leaving her orphaned son with no recollection of his father.43

6 ARTHUR WEST – TOPICAL AND EXTEMPORE VOCALIST

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harles Chaplin’s friend Arthur West was a multi-talented performer, composer and songwriter. His songs ranged from parodies of contemporary hits to dramatic tales of the past, and from satirical jibes at eminent politicians to sympathetic portrayals of working-class life. On stage he often fused the acts of composition and performance as he improvised verses on subjects suggested to him by members of the audience. Although he was an artist who exuded confidence and self-control, his private life was chaotic. His marriage to one music-hall artist and long-term affair with another were to encompass violence, legal wrangling and a double betrayal. After a series of court appearances he fled to the United States, dying there at the age of 30. Arthur was born in about 1863, probably in Birmingham. By the early 1880s he had arrived in London where he quickly established himself as a popular music-hall performer. A review of his appearance at Crowder’s Music Hall, Greenwich, in 1882 shows that his act was divided between comic songs and the extempore compositions for which he was to become famous: Mr Arthur West sang of courting a girl who had a little sister named Mary Ann, who is always in the way. He sang a topical song with the motto ‘1882,’ and made verses on people in

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the audience and on subjects which were named by persons present. His doings in the last respect will bear comparison for ingenuity, quickness and finish with those of the best extempore rhymesters who appear on the stage. He concluded with a song on ‘The Earl of Beaconsfield,’ written by himself, in which, while he praised the deceased statesman, he paid compliments to the present Premier.1 Although Arthur’s improvisations often involved contemporary issues, they derived from a long theatrical tradition. As early as the 1830s Charles Sloman, ‘The Great Improvastore and Only English Extemporaneous Poet’, had been a favourite performer at tavern concerts and the first music halls. Like Arthur, he also wrote many songs for fellow artists. After a long career Sloman fell on hard times, dying in the Strand Union Workhouse in 1870 at the age of 62. During the 1870s Fred Albert (1845–1886) became famous for his improvisational abilities. Soon after Fred’s death, Arthur was earmarked as his likely successor: Mr Arthur West, extempore vocalist, occupies the place that was once filled by the late Fred. Albert; but Mr West is even more ready in his ‘instantaneous’ effusions than the artist mentioned who occupied a prominent – indeed a chief – place as a topical vocalist for so many years. A similar successful career has opened for Mr West, who has only ‘to keep his head straight’ to win equally as high a position.2 The facility for creating instant verses was accompanied by Arthur’s talents for writing songs and sketches. Amongst his prolific and varied output were Harry Anderson’s ‘Drink Up Boys’, Charles Seel’s ‘The Pantomime Fairy’, Tom Woottwell’s ‘The Lady That He Met at Monte Carlo’, J. W. Rowley’s ‘Life in the East of London’ and Harry Freeman’s ‘Many a Time: We’d Both Been There Before’.

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Several of his songs examined social differences and inequalities from a stridently working-class point of view. In 1892 Arthur Reece performed Arthur West’s composition ‘The Difference Between East and West’, a simultaneously tear-jerking and mirth-provoking example of a ‘descriptive’ song: Many people love the study of our fellow folk, mankind, In the east and west of London diff’rent studies you can find; Tho’ they’re all confined to London, city of five million souls, They’re widely separated as the north and southern poles. See inside a West end ball-room Lady Gertrude Vere de Vere, Her affianced husband near her, they’re to married be this year. ‘Tis a match that’s made for money, love there’s not the very least. But inside another dance room far away in London’s East, It’s Chorus: Oh, Liza, you knows that I loves yer, I don’t like yer dancing with that other bloke; Dear Liza, you’ll marry me, won’t yer? I’ll settle on you the whole business and moke. Nobody loves yer like I do, A ‘onest ‘eart in this chest, Strike me pink, Liza, it’s true, old girl! That’s the diff’rence between East and West.

ILLUSTRATION 14. Arthur West portrayed on a sheet music cover. c. 1891.

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When the lights are brightly burning see the West-end music hall, With his pals you’ll see Lord Ernest, lounging in his cosy stall; All the time the champagne flowing, and his eyeglass in his eye, Lazily he’ll quiz the singers, thus an hour or so goes by. ‘Waiter, bring some more wine here – keep the change’ ‘Oh, thanks, my lord.’ ‘Charley, that’s a fine girl singing.’ ‘Ya-a-as, but hang it, don’t applaud; Bad form, don’t you know, old fellow, they’ll think you know her, at the least’ That’s the style in West-end London – What’s the style in London east? Chorus: Come on, Liza, they’ve got a surpriser Down at the Varieties, a blooming show, The Stars and the Serios a fair appetizer – Come on, old lady, yer musn’t say ‘No!’ Liza and Bob have a gargle, Pot of four ale at the best, Fried fish and taters their banquet is That’s the difference between East and West. In the early hours of morning, see his lordship in club land – ‘Telegram for you, my lord?’ ‘Ah, thank you, Jones, I understand, Lady Ernest died one-forty. Hang it all, a perfect bore,

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Spoiled this splendid game of euchre. Gentlemen, I play no more. Perfect nuisance, family troubles, that damnation kind of thing, Lady Ernest just expired, must for form’s sake say “ting-ting”’ It breaks his heart to leave the cards, and pay respect to his dead wife; While at that hour, in darkest London, slowly ebbs poor Liza’s life. Chorus: The poor coster now knows that he’s lost a Good mate, that he loved with his poor rough heart, He stands sighing beside of the dying, He knows in his rough way they’ll soon have to part, ‘Liza, old girl, I’m here near yer!’ Six nights he’s not been to rest, Right to the last he stands at his post That’s the difference between East and West. Many of Arthur’s earliest successes were written for the male impersonator Bessie Bonehill (1855–1902), a performer who was to establish the pattern for later artists such as Vesta Tilley and Hetty King. After appearing with her sister Marion as a double act in the 1860s, Bessie cut her hair short and started to appear in male costume during the early 1870s. Chunkily built with a clear and penetrating voice she soon became a popular principal boy in pantomime and burlesque. Arthur’s songs for Bessie were carefully designed to provide scope for flamboyant stage costumes, often taking historic subjects as their theme. Starting in 1884 his songs for her included

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‘Ladies, I’ve Been Told’, ‘The Noble Men of Merry, Merry England’, ‘Would You Do That?’, ‘Money’, ‘In the Days of “Gay King Charlie”’, ‘The Good Old Fashioned Days’, ‘Katie Brown’ and ‘Night Owls’. With an increasing income Arthur was able to contemplate a more settled existence. On 28 April 1885 he married 18-year-old Kate Le Blanche, of the Sisters Le Blanche, at St Stephen’s church, Salford. But three years after their wedding a series of saucy songs written for a beautiful new serio-comic signalled the start of their marital breakdown. Despite her previous career as a teacher in a convent school, Jenny Valmore quickly became one of the most provocative female artists on the music-hall stage. Her coquettish performances inspired Arthur to create numbers which, like his own extempore efforts, invited a large degree of audience participation. When she sang Arthur’s ‘Yes You Do’ in 1889 her exchanges with the audience were so familiar that they resulted in accusations of impropriety. Following a visit to the Folly Music Hall in Manchester, Sidney A. Halifax, a member of the Society for the Prevention of the Degradation of Women and Children, brought a summons against the theatre’s management alleging ‘conspiracy to procure the singing of indecent songs’. The chief culprit in Mr Halifax’s eyes (or ears) was Peggy Pryde, who performed a song in which a parlour maid described the honeymoon of her master and mistress: It would make you feel so funny to hear them go kiss, kiss; It would make you feel so funny to see them go like this . . . Hardly less shocking was the patter accompanying Jenny’s song: The witness, proceeding, said he visited the Folly Theatre in October, 1889, and heard several songs sung. One was by

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Miss Jennie Valmore, with a chorus, ‘They do it on the sly.’ The artiste afterwards turned to the audience and said, ‘Oh, yes, you do,’ and a portion of the audience rejoined, ‘No, we don’t.’ The singer retorted, ‘You know you do,’ and turning to the ladies in the house she said, ‘Ladies, I appeal to you,’ whereupon there was a loud laugh.3 Such exchanges persisted throughout her career. Ten years later when Jenny declared in a song that she did not pad her bosom, use cosmetics or ‘slyly sip the cup that inebriates’ her audience reportedly called out ‘yes you do!’4 The chief objections to the entertainment provided at many music halls were summarized by an American journalist in 1893: Indeed any one who knows this great city at all in that wandering, vagrant, observant way which leads through into grave conclusions, would have no hesitancy in saying that a quarter of a million human beings may be found any week-day night in these places ‘cheery’ or more so, from liquor, and from these sources forming their odd ideas of international contrasts; gathering from vile mouthed performers’ quips the news and scandals of the day; increasing their contempt of order and law from their endless satire and ridicule; gaining in general and particular deeper hatred of English society above them; and hearing, often with their wives and daughters besides them, the most sacred relationships of men and women never spoken or sung of save as a perennial playground for cunning and infidelity; until the heaviest laugh is in response to the broadest entendre, and the loudest roar rises from those great sea of upturned faces when the vilest music-hall indecencies are perpetuated.5 Such perceived failings may have been of a general nature, but Arthur embodied many of them in his own specific way. He was to

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abandon his wife for another woman, had little regard for authority and was happy to ferment social resentment whenever he had an opportunity. Even a song which ostensibly celebrated the marriage of Princess Louise of Wales to ‘The Earl of Fife’ was used to criticize the German aristocracy (one of whom she might have married) and to assert an Englishman’s right to express his views on any subject, particularly the distribution of wealth. So in eighteen hundred and eighty nine, We have come to the dawn of reason, And an Englishman may speak his mind And not be accused of treason; It shows good sense in the Prince of Wales And in his oldest daughter. To choose a mate from the British Isles, Instead of over the water. All the hard earned money of an Englishman We can keep at home just now, sirs, We’d rather give it to the Earl of Fife, Than stick it in a German’s trousers. Arthur’s relationship with Jenny soon became more than professional. From the late 1880s they were partners, arranging their engagements to coincide at the same halls and staying in the same lodgings. Despite his own talents, Arthur appears to have grown jealous of his young mistress. Early in 1889 his violent behaviour became so extreme that she left their apartment, taking up brief residence at Mrs Allgood’s lodging at 279 Kennington Road (Calvero’s landlady in Limelight is called Mrs Alsop). After two days Arthur appeared at the front door at about 2 a.m., waking the occupants with loud knocking. When Mrs Allgood’s son Ernest refused him admittance Arthur punched him on the nose, an assault which led to his arrest and a £1 fine at Lambeth Police Court.6 Ernest

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Allgood patched up his bloody nose and Jenny and Arthur patched up their differences – for a short while. In May 1889 they were appearing at Day’s Concert Hall, Birmingham, when an argument broke out at their Holloway Head lodgings. In the early hours of the morning (apparently not a good time for Arthur) the noise of shouting and a struggle caused Abraham Blitz, the landlord, to enter their bedroom. He arrived just in time to hear Arthur threatening to kill Jenny. Arthur was persuaded to leave, but returned next day to throw his hat and a jug of beer at the fearful serio. Although Jenny was keen to drop the matter when Arthur appeared at Birmingham Police Court, he insisted on the case proceeding. In answer to the question ‘Have you any intention to do her bodily injury?’ he replied, ‘I have no intention of ever speaking to her again’.7 Within a year they were back together, announcing their intention of moving to the United States. During the second half of the 1880s the American impresario Tony Pastor became well known for importing British music-hall talent to his 14th Street theatre in New York. The strategy was doubly effective in that it introduced new acts and fresh material to an American public while providing a reminder of ‘home’ for the large ex-patriate population of the city. Arriving in England in the summer of 1889, Pastor recruited Bessie Bonehill, Jenny Valmore and Arthur West. Bessie, who made her debut on 4 November 1889, scored an instant hit with American audiences. In its turn America was an immediate success with Bessie who introduced the song ‘How I like America’ (written by Arthur) into her act. She was to return to the United States on a yearly basis, making a fortune from her appearances and buying a 50-acre farm on Long Island. Waved off by Jenny, Arthur left England on the SS State of Nebraska on 15 November 1889. His debut, at Pastor’s, took place on 9 December. Jenny’s passage was a rough one, delayed so long by snow storms that her debut on Christmas Day took place just a day after her

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arrival. ‘The stage seemed to rock beneath her like the deck she had so recently left,’ as she told an Era interviewer.8 The couple’s stay in the United States was prolonged by additional engagements and a serious accident. After leaving Pastor’s Arthur went on to appear at Harry Miner’s Theatre and the Gaiety, Brooklyn. Jenny remained at Pastor’s for three weeks, and then accepted an offer to appear in the title role of a burlesque, Helen of Troy, presented at Koster and Bial’s. A subsequent engagement at the Bowery Theatre was cut short when a wooden staircase leading to her dressing-room collapsed, causing leg injuries that resulted in a prolonged stay in hospital. Despite this minor disaster, Jenny and Arthur appear to have enjoyed their time in New York. The city’s casual and egalitarian atmosphere was described by Charles B. Cochran who was an actor there during the early 1890s: It had, so to speak, a more colonial atmosphere. There was a great deal of very pleasant home life. The regular New Yorkers seemed to be plain, charming, family folk. There was also a most agreeable and yet simple Bohemian life. One remembers the Hoffman House in Madison Square, with its fine bar, full of pictures, which Phil May called the National Gallery of America. You saw ‘Western’ millionaires come to NewYork to spend money. Wonderful sombreros they wore, and occasionally tie-pins made from rough nuggets of gold set with one large diamond. All sorts of picturesque figures, indicative of a new and rapidly developing country, were to be seen. A great number of hostelries had their free-lunch counters where, just for buying a drink, you could have a stand-up meal; but at Hoffman House you could have not merely sandwiches and biscuits, but solid cuts off the joint.9 While in New York Arthur received some unwelcome correspondence from the solicitor W. H. Armstrong, probably

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the same ‘Armstrong’ remembered by Charlie Chaplin as being involved with the child support dispute between Charles and Hannah.10 Armstrong was attempting to enforce a maintenance order imposed by Lambeth Police Court. With the Atlantic Ocean between himself and south-east London, an emboldened Arthur saw no reason why he should pay his music-hall performer wife £2 a week. He wrote Armstrong an arrogant reply: With all your client’s perjury and your own misstatements, which of course were accepted as you have the ‘ear of the Court,’ I am safe here, and doing well. Have you any idea of coming to terms? If not I can live and die here in peace and comfort and plenty.11 Despite the legal proceedings, Jenny and Arthur decided to come home in the spring of 1890, intending to return to the land of plenty within a few weeks. Arthur was appearing at the Grand Theatre, Liverpool, in June 1890, immediately prior to setting sail for the United States with Jenny. Their intentions should not have been so clearly announced in the theatrical press, for Armstrong obtained a warrant for Arthur’s arrest which was duly served at the music hall on Thursday 19 June. He was escorted back to London where he was brought before the astringent Robert John Biron at Lambeth Police Court. Arthur cut a pathetic figure as he faced the magistrate seated on his ornately canopied Bench. He pleaded with Biron, claiming that he was incapable of making the weekly payment of £2, let alone settling the £70 that he owed in arrears. Mr Biron retorted that he had to make the order to which the prisoner answered ‘I cannot comply’. When told that he would have to settle the debt or go to prison, Arthur broke down, moaning and crying as he clutched the rails of the dock: ‘What, three months! My God, what shall I do? Give me time.’ It was a good performance,

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but not sufficient to sway Biron who duly imposed a sentence of three months’ hard labour. In one final dramatic gesture Arthur looked towards his wife. ‘Now then, you are satisfied.’12 The nearest Arthur got to ‘three months hard’ was performing a song with that title, for a group of colleagues led by the singer Charles Godfrey and the agent Hugh J. Didcott quickly clubbed together and paid off the arrears. In January 1891 he made one further attempt to avoid paying the weekly £2, applying to Lambeth Police Court for a reduction on the grounds of altered circumstances. Appearing once more before Robert John Biron he claimed that he had suffered injuries during a cab incident and that his income was not as high as it had been. Songwriting, he asserted, was now less profitable. He had recently sold a song about the Irish politician Charles Stuart Parnell (performed, amongst others, by Charles Chaplin) for a meagre five pounds. And as one of the Sisters Le Blanche, Kate was already in receipt of a £3 weekly salary. As usual Biron was completely unmoved, at least in Arthur’s direction. Dismissing the application he informed the singer that he would have increased the order if he had the power.13 Arthur found a new way of supplementing his supposedly diminishing income – he took in Charles Chaplin as a lodger. The April 1891 census recorded six individuals at 38 Albert Street, Newington. Those listed were Arthur and his ‘wife’ Anne (presumably Jenny’s real name); a 19-year-old visitor Anne Novelle (probably Amy Novelle, a music-hall serio-comic); another 19-yearold ‘music-hall artist’ Carry Lacey; and, inexplicably, two boarders named Charles Chaplin. The first ‘Charles Chaplin’ was described as a 26-year-old music-hall artist born in London, and the second ‘Charles J. (or) S. Chaplin’ as a 27-year-old ‘music-hall singer’ born in Paddington. Perhaps the census taker was so dazzled by the presence of three lovely young women that he failed to notice that there was only one Chaplin. Albert Street, later renamed Alberta Street, ran parallel to Kennington Park Road and was close to Lambeth

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Workhouse. In June 1891 Arthur’s card in The Era mentioned the address: ‘No Gas Required. MR ARTHUR WEST receives clients daily from 12 to 1. 38, Albert-street, Penton Place, Newington-butts.’ Jenny and Arthur eventually parted company in late 1891 or early 1892. With a new three-year contract to appear at two of London’s major music halls, the Tivoli and the Pavilion, she had become one of the leading members of her profession. No longer needing to stay in downbeat theatrical lodgings, she acquired a ‘quaint old house at Streatham’.14 Arthur remained a well-known and respected songwriter, but his music-hall appearances were usually at lesser London venues such as the Variety, Hoxton. It was at this hall in 1891 that he shared the bill with one of the great names of music hall, then at the beginning of a long career: Mr Arthur West, a clever extempore singer, is doing well here. He makes rhymes on everybody and anybody, anyone sitting prominently in the house, a pretty face – Mr West, we notice, is particularly happy in extemporising on pretty faces – in fact, anyone who happens to catch the rhymester’s merry, twinkling eye is sure to come in for some of his good-natured chaff, and when Arthur West ‘spots’ a subject, that subject’s got to have it. The audience takes very kindly to the rhymester, and he retires amidst loud cheering. Winsome Vesta Victoria sings with much freshness and piquancy, and dances her way in favour very quickly. In response to loud applause, whistling that could not be stopped, and numbers of people screaming themselves hoarse with ‘‘cor, ‘cor, ‘cor,’ Miss Victoria, on the evening under notice, came upon the stage and treated us to a clog dance in capital style, greatly to every one’s satisfaction.15 An act that relied on the active cooperation of the audience was always likely to run into difficulties. In 1891 The Era reported Arthur losing patience with galleryites who continually called out ‘inappropriate’

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topics on which to improvise songs.16 It was probably Arthur who became a victim of fellow comedian George Robey’s sense of mischief at Day’s Concert Hall in Birmingham. The singer, who had won much applause with his extempore verses about soldiers, sailors, statesmen and topicalities, called out: ‘Any other subject?’ ‘Impecuniosity!’ yelled Robey. The performer was nonplussed: He stepped back and stared. ‘What’s that, sir?’ he gasped. ‘Impecuniosity,’ I repeated. For a minute he was stumped.Then, pulling himself together, he advanced to the footlights and with an air of deep injury and a dignified gesture of regret, said slowly, ‘Pardon me, but I never rhyme on religious subjects!’17 Arthur’s songs about working-class life and his less than respectful approach to authority seem to have endeared him to audiences in the poorer parts of London. At his benefit night at the East End music hall the Foresters, in December 1888, he performed a new song which was to become his most popular number. In ‘Gentlemen of the Jury’ he appeared as a legal counsel prepared to improvise the prosecution of any well-known public figure suggested to him by the audience. As he bowed his acknowledgement at the conclusion of the song he was surprised to be interrupted by a deputation of costermongers who wished to present him with an inscribed ebony silver-mounted cane ‘from the boys of Whitechapel’. The purchase of the gift had been financed entirely by penny subscriptions.18 In return Arthur seems to have had great respect for the East Enders. In a letter to The Era complaining about his profession’s inability to contest an archaic piece of legislation that prevented the presentation of dramatic sketches in music halls, Arthur praised the East End dock workers who had recently struck against their employers: . . . I wish to say that, if we, as a profession, had one-tenth of the union and pluck which has been displayed at the East-end by poor dock labourers, the pantomimes of 1890–91 throughout

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the length and breadth of the United Kingdom would be without one music hall artist or one word or note of any popular song that has emanated from the music halls.19 Although the idea of a music-hall performers’ union was not to be realized until the founding of the Variety Artistes’ Federation in 1906, a number of small societies dedicated to charitable work and the mutual benefit of their members were created during the early 1890s. Following the foundation of the Grand Order of Water Rats and the Terriers Society in 1890, Arthur and several music-hall colleagues, including Charles Chaplin and Leo Dryden, set up the Stags in February 1892. Arthur was prominent in the society, being elected its first ‘Secretary Stag’. Like other charitable organizations, the Stags aimed to raise money by membership subscriptions and social events such as the billiard match played in a local pub: On Wednesday afternoon Arthur West and Fred Harvey decided a billiard match of 250, all in, for £5 a-side and two silk hats at Mr Douglas Hart’s, the Horse and Groom, Westminster-bridge-road. There was a fine and large assortment of talent present, notably Messrs Gus Leach, jun., of Harwood’s Varieties, Hoxton; Harry Pleon, and George Beauchamp. Soon after three o’clock the men appeared and were received with silent admiration, but there being no claque, favouritism was not manifested. Harvey was the first to get ‘a hand’ with a good break of twenty-five, when he became favourite. As the game progressed they alternatively led, but it appeared at one time that Harvey would reverse the defeat experienced at the hands of the ‘Blondin Donkey.’ The variety Q.C., however, with forensic acumen, applied his wits and dexterity to the driving of Fred. Harvey from the post of honour, and eventually he succeeded. His best contribution was twenty-one and finally he won by fifty-three.20

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During the early 1890s hardly a single day went past without Arthur West’s compositions being sung at music halls across the United Kingdom. Leading performers were proud to announce that he had written them new songs, while brightly coloured song-sheets carried his name in large and ornate lettering. Yet, along with other songwriters, Arthur made very little money. Sole performing rights were usually sold to artists for sums ranging from around one guinea to two guineas. In the event of a song being accepted for publication, a £5–15 fee was split between writer, composer and singer with the possibility of a third of any royalties. At 3s to 4s, published songs with their sheet music were relatively expensive, leading to mass piracy that sometimes reduced royalties to a trickle. When George Le Brunn (possibly the greatest composer of music-hall songs) died in 1905, his 50 songs published by Francis, Day and Hunter had only netted £1. 0s. 7d in the course of the previous year. Arthur’s income as a performer was reduced by agent’s fees and the necessity to provide transport from hall to hall. It was, perhaps, this financial imperative that led to the least honourable episode of his life. Early in 1892 Arthur returned to Kate. She became pregnant and during their brief rapprochement he ran through her savings of £160. Following the birth of their daughter in Aberdeen on 22 November, he once more deserted her. Not surprisingly he was absent when, in April 1893, his bête noire Robert John Biron of the Lambeth Police Court re-imposed a maintenance order for £2 a week.21 Arthur had vamoosed back to the United States, but he had little time to enjoy his new life. In the winter of 1893/4 he developed pneumonia which confined him to his home at 60 East Tenth Street, New York. After ten days he was admitted to St Vincent’s Hospital, Greenwich Village, where he died on 14 January 1894. During his final illness he was frequently visited by the English music-hall singer Bessie Bellwood. For a while Arthur may have become the nation’s leading extempore vocalist, but it was a hollow title that carried no lasting

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place in music-hall history. The numbers that he wrote for himself – titles such as ‘The Paris Exhibition’, ‘The Fellow Who Played the Drum’ and ‘Johnny Bull’s Concert Hall’ – were never revived or reissued in collections of the most popular variety songs. In the end Arthur’s life and career were as ephemeral as one of his spur-ofthe-moment rhymes. With the increasing size of auditoriums and greater regulation by local licensing authorities, spontaneity was becoming a rare quality on the music-hall stage. Audiences were becoming more passive and less likely to interact with performers. In 1900 Arthur’s old patron Bessie Bonehill lamented the decline of the chorus song, telling an interviewer that ‘in many places they simply smoke, listen, and go away’.22 The wonders of mechanical entertainment were also beginning to challenge live performance. During the second half of the 1890s sound recording and motion pictures were providing a form of entertainment that required considerably less audience engagement. The two women whom Arthur treated so badly fared better when freed from his destructive influence. Kate’s pregnancy caused the dissolution of the Sisters Le Blanche in 1892, but she subsequently became a solo act, appearing at music halls, in burlesques and as both principal boy and girl in many pantomimes. There was just one setback when she lost her entire wardrobe and a second tranche of savings in a fire at the Newport Theatre in 1896. Jenny Valmore also overcame a personal disaster after she suffered severe facial injuries in a cab accident in 1899. Both women were fighters and recovered to pursue their careers into the twentieth century. Arthur West had finally been put to rest.

7 LEO DRYDEN – THE KIPLING OF THE HALLS

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f all the performers known to Charlie Chaplin, it was Leo Dryden who most resembled the Great Calvero. Although Chaplin Senior’s failing career and alcoholism have frequently caused him to be identified with his son’s creation, he died at a comparatively young age and had not resorted to singing in the streets. It was Leo who became an alfresco performer, with the decline of his once-glittering career extending over many years. There were occasional bittersweet reminders of his former prominence when he would be advertised as a once famous star at ‘old time’ music-hall revivals. Posterity too has been less than kind to Leo. Unlike most of his contemporaries he is remembered, but largely as a violent bully who seduced a married woman and then violently abducted their offspring. It is an unflattering and probably inaccurate portrait. Charlie must have known Leo’s story very well. While he could only have had the vaguest recollection of the time when his mother was Leo’s mistress, he must almost certainly have encountered the famous singer while appearing at music halls as one of the Eight Lancashire Lads or in various sketch companies. It is also probable that Leo’s son and Charlie’s half-brother, Wheeler Dryden, would have kept him up to date with his father’s wayward progress during the 1920s and 30s. In 1941 Wheeler announced that he was writing

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Leo’s biography, a literary project that must have aroused Charlie’s interest and concern. In Limelight Calvero is portrayed as a performer who has fallen out of step with contemporary trends, an old-style music-hall singer struggling to survive in the modern variety world of 1914. This was certainly true of Leo, as it would have been of Charles Chaplin, Arthur West, Eva, Lily or Kitty had they continued to perform.The indomitable Leo survived long enough in the profession to reap some meagre reward for being a relic of the period before world war and Depression commonly referred to as ‘The Good Old Days’. Like Calvero, who defies age and illness to achieve success at his final benefit performance, the elderly Dryden enjoyed one last triumph at a star-studded benefit in 1936. George Dryden Wheeler was born in Limehouse, East London, on 6 June 1863, the son of George Kingman Wheeler who himself was born nearby in Tower Hamlets in 1836. Although a gas-fitter and plumber by trade, George Wheeler Senior supplemented his income by appearing as a music-hall singer, a part-time occupation which rubbed off on his 13-year-old son.Young Leo began to perform at ‘free and easy’ concerts at pubs situated in the notoriously rough Ratcliffe Highway.1 Not content with the frontier-like atmosphere encountered at local establishments such as the Jolly Sailor, the Hoop and Grapes and the White Swan (popularly known as ‘Paddy’s Goose’), the teenage Leo sought excitement further afield, running away from his home and family. At first he found employment as a ‘layer on’ in a print works (a job inserting sheets of paper into a printing machine later performed by the young Charlie Chaplin), but before long he became a fully fledged variety performer. It was a choice of profession that apparently brought distress to his mother. He once identified himself with David Garrick, quoting the eighteenth-century actor’s words: I caused her but one anger, that was when I adopted my profession. She forgave me – she forgave me – mother like.

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I became a famous actor – applauded, feasted, marvelled at by many, but my triumph came too late. My mother was dead. Her tears weigh upon me yet.2 Having first appeared as a blackface minstrel, Leo compounded his mother’s dismay by performing in the streets: Mr Alfresco was a great friend; he was my manager for seven years, and we used to have a treasury every ten minutes. Some folk growl nowadays [1894] at two houses a night – why, we did forty houses in twelve hours and never grumbled.3 During the first half of the 1880s he roamed the country, occasionally finding indoor employment, although not always on a conventional stage: I once played a rather expensive engagement at a place called ‘Besse’s-I’-th’-barn, in Lancashire, for one night, for the great salary of 10s. I had to use Shanks’s pony to get there, and when I arrived I was met by Mr Boniface, the proprietor, who was a retired collier with a very stentorian voice. ‘Art thou singer?’ he asked me. ‘Yes’, I said. ‘All right’. I then inquired for the hall, and found it was a tap-room with a piano. On mentioning that I could see no stage, the boss said, ‘Ah, Mary, bring in the stage.’ The servant brought in the stage, which proved to be a baconbox, kept wonderfully clean. When I commenced my first song the proprietor stopped me and said, ‘Aye, old chappy, gets off th’ stage. Thy voice is too high for my stage. You had better sing on th’ floor rest o’ the evenin’.’ But may I say that the audience was principally composed of colliers and their wives, and they took as much notice of me as if I hadn’t been there; but directly the music stopped one or two would start shouting, ‘Now, there, singer, brass’t off with another song wi.’4

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By 1886 Leo, billed as ‘The Wandering Minstrel’, was advertising his services in The Era, describing himself as a ‘versatile comedian and musical entertainer’. To complement his fine baritone voice he was a skilful instrumentalist, having constructed his first banjo from a coconut shell and later mastering the mandolin (such musical talents were also displayed by Calvero, whose violin and banjo were prominently featured in Limelight). Leo had become a good allround performer capable of supplying an extended entertainment. In March 1888 he offered to provide: Dryden’s Drolleries, a New and Refined Drawing-room Entertainment, occupying from Fifteen to Fifty minutes, Monday next Star Music Hall, Bradford.5 Although largely confined to the northern halls, Leo made occasional excursions to London. One such appearance occurred at the Royal Cambridge in April 1888 when he deputized for ‘Bonnie’ Kate Harvey, appearing on the same bill as Charles Godfrey who was presenting his gripping song-scena ‘Across the Bridge’. It was probably Hugh J. Didcott, soon to guide Charles Chaplin’s career, who brought Leo to London on a permanent basis. A two-week engagement at a small south-east London hall, the Peckham Palace of Varieties, commencing on 4 February 1889 was followed by an appearance at a benefit held at the Parthenon, Greenwich, on 28 February: Mr Leo Dryden is a very capable comic singer, who knows how to use his voice, and who acts his songs very well indeed.6 Not content to be considered solely as a comic singer, Leo announced in April that he was preparing a ‘new, descriptive, philosophical song “Everyday Life” by Charles Williams’ (Charles

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Chaplin also performed a number with the same title, perhaps the same song). In May he returned to Peckham with a ‘descriptive vocal scena’ only to find that the audience were not impressed. Some time later he commented: Next I tried a very classical and a very difficult song, ‘The Desert’, with special scenery. I produced it at Peckham, but, as the ‘gods’ remarked that they could not understand the words, I gave up singing it.7 At this early stage of his career he was noticed singing at Gatti’s Charing Cross Music Hall by the writer Rudyard Kipling, who had just taken rooms across the way in Villiers Street. In the short story ‘The Great and Only’, Kipling provides a fictionalized account, perhaps rooted in truth, of how he wrote a song for a leading comedian. Immediately before its first performance he became worried that it would be overshadowed by the success of a previous singer. That performer – ‘one who was winning triple encores with a priceless ballad beginning deep down in the bass; “We was shopmates – boozin’ shopmates”’ – is clearly identifiable as Leo. He had appeared at the hall ‘under the arches’ of Charing Cross Railway Station at the time the story was written (October– November 1889), singing his parody of Frederick Weatherley’s and Stephen Adams’ sentimental parlour ballad ‘Shipmates’. At the end of 1889 Leo announced two new songs, the rousing ‘Drink, Boys, Drink’ set to the tune of ‘Funiculi, Funiculo’ and a melodramatic number ‘Love and Duty’, which was to become his first major hit. With considerable acting talent he, like Charles Chaplin, gravitated towards the storytelling type of ‘descriptive’ songs made popular by Charles Godfrey. ‘Love and Duty’ posed a series of moral dilemmas, each of which received a crowd-pleasing solution:

ILLUSTRATION 15. ‘Love and Duty’ (1889), Leo Dryden’s first music-hall success.

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At his post the soldier’s standing, ‘Duty’ tells him he must stay. True love’s calling him yonder, which command must he obey? Little Nell, his wife is dying, why oh, why’s his lot so hard? Like a dream, perhaps, she’ll vanish while he’s standing here on guard, Blinding tears his eyes are filling, as he thinks ‘what shall I do? Stick to my post and lose my darling without one fond, last adieu!’ Tho’ he’s proved himself a hero, with the foe stood face to face, Now to leave would mean dishonour, on his good name bring disgrace. Chorus: He stands between love and duty, fighting the bitter fight, His heart is torn with anguish between the wrong and right. The soldier’s love still remains the same, His country’s cause he’d never shame, But wife comes first and who can blame. He stands between love and duty! In an attempt to find a successor to ‘Love and Duty’ Leo bought many different songs, but it took two years before he discovered another number that he felt might equal its popularity. It was worth the wait for the new song was to become one of the most famous in music-hall history. The writer and performer Will Godwin had originally offered him ‘Twenty Years After’, a descriptive song

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with ‘an extremely catchy line at the end of a very long chorus’.8 After some rewriting Leo presented the song at the Cambridge on the 20 October 1891. Dressed as a gold-miner in knee-length boots, baggy flannel shirt and wide-brimmed hat, he sang of his homesickness in the Australian goldfields: It is ten weary years, since I left England’s shore, In a far distant country to roam, How I long to return to my own native land, To my friends and the old folks at home! Last night, as I slumbered, I had a strange dream, One that seemed to bring distant friends near, I dreamt of old England, the land of my birth, To the heart of her sons ever dear! Chorus: I saw the old homestead, and faces I love, I saw England’s valleys and dells, I listened with joy, as I did when a boy, To the sound of the old village bells, The log was burning brightly, ‘Twas a night that would banish all sin, For the bells were ringing the Old Year out, And the New Year in. Although highly sentimentalized, the song basically told the story of an economic migrant prevented from returning home by lack of money. It was a theme that on a less dramatic level was distressingly familiar to many members of his audience. Leo’s engagement was due to conclude the following week, but the success of the song was such that the Cambridge’s manager rebooked him and moved his ‘turn’ from 8.20 to the most prominent time, 10.20. Soon he was also singing the song at the

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Foresters and at the Alhambra, while remaining at the Cambridge for a further nine weeks. Renamed ‘The Wanderer’s Dream’, the song soon caught the attention of Francis Brothers and Day who purchased the publishing rights for the then colossal sum of £20. It was David Day who suggested the final title: ‘The Miner’s Dream of Home’. By the end of October 1891 Leo was announcing that ‘The Miner’s Dream’ was ‘a Song that will be Sung in every home, where the “Mother Tongue” is spoken’.9 Audiences demanded numerous encores each time he performed the number, sometimes to the detriment of artists who followed him on the bill: Mr Leo Dryden sang a couple of songs, his ‘Miner’s Dream of Home’ calling forth such loud and hearty applause that he had to return again and again to bow his thanks. Miss – was the next to appear, but the audience still kept applauding and shouting for Leo Dryden. Miss – struggled bravely on with a male impersonation, but no one heard a word of what she said, as the applause for Dryden was maintained throughout her song.10 Having struck gold Leo continued to mine the lucrative seam. New scenery was painted, extra scenes added, and, in a presage of cinema techniques, a dream sequence was created by the use of a gauze sheet painted with an idyllic rural scene. A year later The Era reported: Audiences at the Cambridge are deeply stirred by the homely sentiments of Mr Leo Dryden’s monologue The Miner, which is divided into three parts. When the curtain rises we see the delver after gold in the Australian bush lying asleep. He soon rouses himself and his hearers by his ringing tones in ‘The

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Miner’s Dream of Home,’ a thoroughly catchy and heartsearching ditty that Mr Dryden sings with remarkable fervour. In the second scene the miner is about to go on board a vessel bound for ‘home, sweet, home;’ but the pleasant prospect is only a continuation of the dream, and the last scene shows the miner again in the bush. He sleeps on, and as he dreams of home a transparency shows his welcome at the cottage ‘where the log burns brightly,’ and a voice is heard singing the melody that so completely captures the sympathies of the audience.11 It was probably just before the furore created by ‘The Miner’s Dream of Home’ that Leo became acquainted with Kate and Hannah, or Kate Fairdale and Lily Harley as they were professionally billed. He appears to have lived with Hannah for some time, possibly in one of the tall Georgian houses in West Square, St George’s Road, Southwark. It has always been assumed that Hannah stayed in the square with her husband, but as Charlie Chaplin remembered being there at the age of three and a half (i.e. late 1892 to early 1893) it is more likely that it was Dryden who was supplying the three tastefully furnished rooms. Charlie recollected that his mother left him and Sydney in the care of a housemaid each evening to go to the theatre. She was, in fact, supporting Dryden in his song-scenas, almost certainly supplying the off-stage voice heard in The Miner. Such an arrangement was confirmed by Sydney who recalled being held by his mother in the wings of a music hall while she sang the chorus of a descriptive song being performed by his ‘father at the time’.12 The song in which a miner ‘tells the audience that he is leaving the gold fields of Australia and returning to England to marry the dearest and sweetest little girl in the world’ was probably connected with the second scene of the extended ‘The Miner’s Dream of Home’ scena.

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Many years later, without hinting at their relationship, Leo told a journalist that Hannah had been ‘a very attractive and talented woman’. Choosing his words carefully he explained: I engaged Charlie’s mother to sing the chorus of the latter song [‘Driven Away from Home’] from the back of the stage. It was in those days that I taught Charlie to walk. His mother sat on one chair, and I on another and the future King of Mirth toddled backwards and forwards, looking comically rueful when he fell. His mother, whose stage name was Lilly Harley, was one of the smartest vaudeville artists of her day. She was wonderfully versatile, and had a sweet voice. She was a great mimic. Charlie was not born in Kennington-road, as has been said, but at East Street, Walworth. I remember the house well. It was in Birmingham that I saved Charlie’s life. His mother was singing in a music-hall there. I had to call at her lodgings, and as I approached I saw young Charlie leaning out of the window. If I had not rushed up the stairs and caught the rascal he would have fallen many feet to the ground.13 Soon after the birth of their child, Leo George (later known as Wheeler Dryden) on 31 August 1892, the couple separated. Leo replaced Hannah in the wings and in his affections with the singer Amy Fenton, a situation that was obliquely alluded to in an Era review from November 1892: Mr Leo Dryden whose descriptive scena The Miner we spoke of in our last notice of the Commercial-street establishment is still retained. New scenery enhances the effect of the bush scene, where the wanderer sings, as in a dream, of the old homestead, the village bells, and of his mother. The tune has a swing and go about it that are irresistible in their effect, and Mr Dryden’s

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powerful and mellow organ does it full justice. The Miner is in three parts, and in the last it has been the custom for Mrs Dryden to assist her husband by singing in the wings. The gallery occupants, who are nothing if not gallant, have always demanded the appearance of that lady upon the stage: but of late she has not been working, and her place has been taken by another.The lady deputy was loth to come in front of the curtain on the night to which we are now referring, but the popular voice insisted, and she had to bow her acknowledgements of the applause so freely bestowed.14 In Chaplin: the Immortal Tramp R. J. Minney tells how Charlie made his stage debut as a babe in arms. In a story that seems to have originated with Sydney he relates how pregnant Hannah, ‘unable to continue with her own act as a dancer, had joined forces with her husband, and stood in the wings and supplied vocal effects for his songs’.15 On her return to the off-stage area with her newborn son, the audience had demanded that she take a bow – ‘it was thus that the future film star made his first appearance before a cheering, whistling crowd’. As her time as a vocal accompanist seems to have been limited to Leo’s songs it is more than likely that the baby was not Charlie but Leo George, a substitution that may have resulted from faulty memory or a desire to improve upon reality. Chaplin mythology insists that a dastardly Leo snatched his baby son from the distraught Hannah. Leo was certainly an unpredictable character who was quite capable of perpetrating sudden acts of violence. Yet in the case of Leo George’s supposed abduction he may have been unfairly judged. Unlike Hannah he was to prove a reliable parent, caring for his child until he reached adulthood. In return Leo George remained a devoted son and was part of an extended family that included his grandfather and his aunts

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Jessie, Ada and Louie. On 12 March 1893 Leo George Wheeler was baptized at St John’s church, Waterloo, his parents given as George and Annie (Amy?) Wheeler, their address recorded as nearby Tenison Street. There is no evidence that Leo and Amy Fenton married, but she remained a partner in his act for some time. In March 1894 they appeared together in ‘Britannia’, an elaborate new song-scena, and one of the first of the patriotic offerings that led to Leo being dubbed ‘the Kipling of the Halls’. The highlight of the production was a closing tableaux depicting Amy as Britannia surrounded by a phalanx of her naval and military defenders from both home and abroad. Although ‘Britannia’ was extremely popular, the high cost of scenery, costumes and employing extras persuaded Leo that he should abandon such spectacles and continue as a solo act. Having made the decision he appears to have made use of many of the redundant uniforms in future performances that celebrated the military might of the British Empire. With Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee approaching Leo started to present studies of loyal subjects from the far-flung dominions. Even during the heady days of imperialism his approach was sometimes perceived as excessively jingoistic: Among many excellent ‘turns’ to be seen and heard at the Oxford there is, perhaps, none more genuinely amusing at the present time than that of Mr Leo Dryden, who is singing a patriotic ditty entitle ‘India’s Reply.’ One had feared that this sort of thing had died out with the Great Macdermott; even Mr Charles Godfrey has of late resorted to less stern stuff. This, or something like it, is Mr Dryden’s chorus:– England asks the question when danger’s nigh, Will the sons of India your foes defy?

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Will we fight for England? Yes, until we die, That is India’s reply! This might be thought precious enough, but Mr Dryden assists its significance by wearing, not the extremely picturesque uniform of one of our Indian regiments, but a costume which suggests that of a Government chaprassi, the scarlet Colorado beetle of ‘Twenty-one Days in India.’ He has, it is true, a tulwar, which appears to be genuine, and of which he makes great use as he declaims his sentiments. The way in which he points and thrusts with its curved blade is perhaps the gem of his performance.16 Patriotic numbers remained a major part of Leo’s act for many years, sometimes being recycled when moments of international crisis ensured receptive audiences. Most of the songs, such as ‘Father of the Boys; or, John Bull Up to Date’, ‘Great White Mother’, ‘Gallant Gordon Highlanders’ and ‘Bravo, Dublin Fusiliers’, celebrated British achievements and military victories, although Leo became a cosmopolitan patriot in ‘Remember The Maine’ and ‘Freedom and Japan’. In 1895 he suggested a scheme whereby funds for military charities might be raised by the sale of penny song-books to music-hall audiences. He claimed to have sold over a thousand copies of his own song-book on one evening at the People’s Palace, Bristol, the popularity of the pamphlet being enhanced by the presence of nearly a hundred specially invited Crimean War veterans.17 Amy and Leo soon went their separate ways. He was volatile and quick to take offence, always likely to erupt into a spectacular display of bad temper. His aggressive personality was vented in threats and admonishments frequently added to his theatrical ‘cards’. In 1888

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he included the cryptic message: ‘Dark clouds have a silver lining, a nightingale’s hair ditto, champagne corks are secured with wire, so are false teeth’,18 while a few weeks later he appeared to be complaining about the standard of his musical accompaniment: ‘When is a band like an unsuccessful newspaper? When it has a bad leader.’19 A dispute over his business representative was indicated in 1890 when he wrote ‘proprietors beware of a certain agent who has been shadowing me for some time’. Leo seemed to provoke acts of violence, even from admirers. While he was appearing at Day’s Concert Hall, Birmingham, in 1892, a member of the audience threw a cake onto the stage. Leo accepted the gesture as a compliment: ‘Thanks to the gentleman who publicly presented me with the “Cake”. Thanks! I take it. Thanks! I deserve it’, adding yet another jibe – ‘and the machinations of “Fluffy Rinkapong” the “Male Impostor” didn’t come off.’20 It was not surprising that Leo made a number of court appearances over the years. One of the first, in 1894, occurred when a Mr Henry Hood claimed that he had struck him in the face without provocation. Several character witnesses testified to ‘the improbability of Mr Dryden doing any such foolish action’ and the magistrate dismissed the summons with the added opinion that ‘the position of the litigants should have been reversed’.21 It may have been with some apprehension that the music-hall performer Marie Tyler married Leo at Lambeth Registry Office in 1897. By the late 1890s Leo appears to have noticed the decline in popularity of descriptive songs. A collection of thrilling incidents, heart-rending situations or ethical dilemmas compressed into a fiveminute performance was proving a mixture increasingly difficult for audiences to digest. His answer was to introduce combined songs and monologues possessing a single plot, frequently adapted from popular plays. Two such productions would have appealed to Hannah Chaplin who had acted out scenes from the original plays for the benefit of

ILLUSTRATION 16. A patriotic ballad from 1897, written by the famous team of John P. Harrington and George Le Brunn.

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her young sons. In ‘Josephine’, based on F. G. Wills’ melodrama A Royal Divorce, Leo appeared as the Emperor Napoleon; while as Marcus Superbus in ‘Mercia’ he recounted the story of Wilson Barrett’s The Sign of the Cross. By 1912 Leo had created ‘song playlets’ of The Only Way, A White Man, False Gods, The Prodigal Son, The House of Temperley, Mice and Men and David Garrick. At a time when many music-hall proprietors were actively pursuing respectable, middle-class audiences, Leo also aimed to provide a more elevating form of entertainment. Interviewed in 1904 he stated: I have never yet allowed myself to indulge in low suggestiveness, and I never will do so. I am continually striving for the betterment of the quality of the performances brought before music hall audiences. Why should not Shakespeare be introduced on the variety stage? Take, for instance, such a scene as might be made of Brutus’ speaking from the rostrum and giving his reason for the assassination of Caesar.22 Marie Tyler died in 1905. Although she had topped musichall bills as a male impersonator for many years, she was aged only 35. Leo remarried within the year, his new wife being an operatic soprano famous for hitting remarkable top notes. As ‘The Australian Nightingale’ Ada Colley had enchanted audiences across Europe during the late 1890s, receiving tokens of esteem from both Queen Victoria and Kaiser Wilhelm II. By the time Leo met her she had abandoned opera and concert performances to pursue her career on the variety stage, a decision that fitted in well with his declared mission to bring culture to the music halls. There was no such accord in their married life which appears to have been extremely stormy. The final breakdown of their relationship occurred in March 1910 when Ada was starring at the Empire, Newport, in Wales. On arriving home Ada’s landlord,

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Alfred Gibbs, was horrified to find Leo rampaging around his house, wielding a golf club and destroying furniture and clothing. The situation became more chaotic when Ada looked out of her bedroom. Rushing upstairs Leo grabbed her by the throat and dragged her by the hair to the sitting room. In a desperate attempt to salvage what was left of his property Gibbs managed to subdue the singer by holding him round the neck. Leo was bound over to keep the peace on a surety of £150. Storming out of Newport Crown Court, he fumed ‘I suppose they will not prevent me instituting divorce proceedings’.23 As the 1900s progressed Leo was forced to look much further afield for engagements and to make extensive alterations to his act. Traditional music-hall entertainments all but vanished in central London, being replaced by slickly produced revues which presented songs, comedy and speciality turns within a themed framework. Many suburban and provincial music halls still provided a programme of unrelated turns, although their content began to alter as the public embraced American ragtime music and its insinuating syncopations. Dramatic sketches, which had previously been illegal, became popular, often featuring well-known actors from the legitimate theatre. By the early 1900s motion pictures, first shown in music-halls in 1896, had developed from single-shot views to multi-scene narratives filled with comedy and excitement. Within a short time purposebuilt cinemas were attracting the music hall’s core audience. In an attempt to keep up with contemporary trends Leo introduced his own series of revues – The Bowery Girl (1903), Ambition’s Slaves (1904), Comical Cleaners (1906), Voco-Tableaux-Rama (1908) and The Passing Show (1913) – alternating them with appearances as a solo turn. Eventually Leo decided to leave the country in search of audiences more like those that had applauded him during the 1890s. At the end of 1911 the Leo Dryden Variety Company travelled to India, stopping

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off at Gibraltar, Suez and Colombo to give shows. The programme for the Grand Opera House, Bombay, 24 January 1912, listed Mr Leo Dryden, supported by such lesser-known performers as Miss Marie Vincent ‘The Dainty Male Impersonator’, Miss Kittie Corrie,‘Soubrette and Dancer’ and Leo George in ‘sketches from Charles Dickens’. After the company had disbanded in Singapore in April 1912 young Leo George decided not to return home with his father. Instead he met up with an old family friend, Will Godwin, joining his company on a tour of India. Returning to old England Leo found himself facing a forlorn future. He was an ageing representative of a dying institution, his private life littered with failed relationships and his public persona reduced to that of a historical curiosity. But he had a stroke of good fortune – the outbreak of World War I. Suddenly the dissonant rhythms of ragtime gave way to the reassuring rhetoric of patriotism. ‘India’s Reply’ and the Boer War hit ‘Bravo, Dublin Fusiliers’ were reintroduced, and Leo added a stirring new song, ‘Call Us! And We’ll be There’. His services were increasingly in demand for fund-raising events and charity concerts. It was at a ‘Patriotic Rally’ in January 1915 that Leo appeared before an audience of over 20,000. So great were the crowds attending the rally at the Royal Albert Hall that many of the contributors, including the newspaper magnate Horatio Bottomley, were unable to reach the stage. A call went up for volunteer performers to keep the programme going and Leo, who was present only as a member of a guard of honour on stage, stepped forward to sing ‘India’s Reply’. Amid scenes of wild enthusiasm he was inevitably called upon to perform ‘The Miner’s Dream of Home’. During the early part of the war Leo became aware that his onetime temporary ‘stepson’ Charlie Chaplin was achieving international fame as a Hollywood film star. His own son Leo George, now renamed Wheeler Dryden, was also making a living in the world

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ILLUSTRATION 17. Leo Dryden performs ‘The Miner’s Dream of Home’ in Trafalgar Square, New Year’s Eve, 1919.

of entertainment. Following his appearances with Will and Marie Godwin in India, Wheeler (also sometimes billed as Leo Dryden Junior) became principal comedian with the Charles Hewitt and A. Phillips Dramatic and Comedy Repertory Company touring India,

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Burma, the Federated Malay States, the Straights Settlements, China, Japan and the Philippines. Originally he had appeared as a mimic of music-hall comedians and, inspired by Bransby Williams, an impersonator of Dickensian characters (Charlie was also fascinated by Williams and had on one occasion tried to reproduce his act on stage). Shortly after his twenty-third birthday in 1915 Wheeler received a letter from his father explaining his relationship to Charlie. He was initially surprised, but on checking with his grandfather and aunts realized that Leo’s story was accurate. With the end of the war Leo’s situation again worsened. He was in the curious position that while ‘The Miner’s Dream of Home’ had become an unofficial anthem, regularly sung in private households and at public functions to celebrate the arrival of the New Year, his role in the creation and exploitation of the song had become of secondary interest. It was true that the song assured him employment every 31 December, but such bookings, though regular, did not constitute a career. Although there were heady moments, such as the performance that he gave from the plinth of Nelson’s Column in Trafalgar Square to celebrate the arrival of 1920, he found engagements difficult to obtain. As a last resort he decided to become a ‘busker’, singing in the streets of London. He was no stranger to such an elementary form of entertainment, having spent years performing alfresco as a young man. There is also a well-documented account that he was discovered singing to the gallery queue outside the Middlesex Theatre of Varieties as early as 1913.24 Leo appears to have disguised himself by wearing a mask, though his choice of songs might have provided a clue to his identity. After performing in the suburbs, particularly Finchley and Hampstead, he arrived at a pitch in Fleet Street, conveniently close to the offices of the Evening News. Unmasking himself for a reporter he explained how he had been making about £5 a week: ‘On Saturday I sang in the streets for three hours and got about

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12s. It tells on the voice, and today I am not in form.’25 If the street-singing venture was a publicity stunt it seems to have been of a prolonged nature for, in October 1924, he claimed that it had extended over two years.26 Nostalgia again came to Leo’s rescue. At the end of 1922 the songwriter John P. Harrington provided him with a ringing endorsement: . . . I cannot for the life of me understand why managers often allow inferior talent to inflict itself on a long suffering public; while such splendid all-round performers as Leo Dryden are frequently without a ‘shop’. Only a few weeks ago, at a social gathering, at the Playgoers’ Club, Leo sang several of his old successes, to the great delight of all present, and that most genial of playgoers, Harry Hart, assured me that never had he heard him in finer form or grander voice. Why such an artist, in the maturity of his powers as an entertainer, a good comedian, as well as a fine vocalist and actor, should be overlooked by booking managers passes my comprehension. It were idle to say that his songs are old-fashioned or out of date, for Dryden could adapt himself to any style of song most in demand at the moment, and his unique and rich experience of stage and public requirements would do the rest.27 Within a month, on Boxing Day 1922, Leo was appearing on the stage of the London Palladium in a troupe made up of oncefamous music-hall performers. Ironically the ‘Veterans of Variety’ were brought together by Albert de Courville, an impresario whose revues had done so much to hasten the demise of music hall. As one would expect from the innovative creator of Hullo, Rag-time and

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Razzle-Dazzle the veterans were presented with considerable aplomb. Their first appearance was as a group of shrouded figures. One by one the performers removed their hooded cloaks, shedding the years to reveal the costumes worn for their most celebrated songs. Seated at the centre of the group, Leo announced Florrie Robina, Marguerite Cornille, Sable Fern, Arthur Roberts, Tom Costello, Charles Bignell, Charles Lee and Jake Friedman – all of whom were bill-toppers back in the 1890s. The next month de Courville persuaded another batch of ageing performers to join the original nine. After appearing in music halls across the country the ‘Veterans of Variety’ toured South Africa in 1924 –1925. A split in the party occurred, causing half to remain in South Africa and the others, including Leo, to return home. As the British public’s enthusiasm for the music-hall revival seemed unabated, Arthur Roberts, Ray Wallace and Leo joined forces to tour as the ‘Veteran’s Variety Trio’. While appearing with the trio in August 1925 Leo performed ‘The Miner’s Dream of Home’ during an early radio broadcast. By chance the transmission, from Newcastle, was heard 3,000 miles away in New York by Wheeler Dryden. He had not heard Leo since they parted company in 1912. After several unsuccessful attempts Wheeler managed to make contact with his half-brothers. He had already given a fairly straightforward indication of Leo and Hannah’s relationship by placing an advert in The Stage Year Book for 1918 which announced him to be the ‘son of Leo Dryden and half-brother of Charles Chaplin’. If the ad was ever brought to Charlie’s attention it does not seem to have caused major annoyance. When Wheeler arrived in the United States he was provided with an allowance from the Chaplin studio, although he did not work with his half-brothers until some years had elapsed. Despite pursuing his career as a stage actor, he had some early experiences of film-making. In 1919 he appeared with Blanche

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Bates, Constance Binney, Otis Skinner and Florenz Ziegfeld Junior in Tom’s Little Star, a two-reel drama released by Universal Pictures in aid of ‘after-the-war-relief’. At about the same time he also featured in a series of comedy films made by Grey Seal Productions in New York. During the late 1920s he travelled to London with Sydney in an attempt to set up a production company, directing his half-brother in the 1928 comedy A Little Bit of Fluff. By 1939 he had become a regular member of the Chaplin Studio staff, working on The Great Dictator, Monsieur Verdoux and Limelight. Leo also had a very brief flirtation with the cinema. At the beginning of 1920 a dramatized film version of ‘The Miner’s Dream of Home’ was proposed, while in 1928 he had a small role in the costume drama The Lady of the Lake. With the 1920s giving way to the 1930s Leo’s life seems to have become relatively settled. Approaching 70, he was working as hard as ever. New Year’s Eve 1930 saw an itinerary that was even more punishing than that encountered in the 1890s when he played four halls in an evening. At 7.40 p.m. he appeared at the South London, followed by a private engagement at a party in Berkeley Square at 8.15. Returning for the South London’s second house at 9.40, he moved on to Fulham Town Hall at 11.05 and then performed at a large ‘Road House’ pub on the road to Northampton at 11.55. Finally he appeared at a Northampton cabaret at 12.35. Having endured long periods without engagements he was tenacious in pursuing work, placing regular adverts in the trade press which stated that he was available for ‘At Homes, Concerts, Masonic Banquets’.28 Revivals continued with Leo appearing at ‘The Only Modern and Old-Time Music Hall in England’ at the Garrick Theatre over Christmas in 1933 and Collins’ Music Hall the following week. Unfortunately Leo appears to have been forced to take to the streets yet again. Radio producer and historian Charles Chilton interviewed an elderly lady during the 1970s who claimed to have

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been Leo’s wife.29 She recalled expeditions to entertain London cinema queues during the 1930s. Wearing a sandwich board which announced ‘Tomorrow Night – at this Theatre – in person – LEO DRYDEN’, she would patrol potential West End venues. Next evening she would switch to another placard: ‘Leo Dryden, the Kipling of the Halls is Here.’30 Whether due to pride or other personal reasons Leo refused help from his profession. It was not until 1937 that ill-health compelled him to accept the Variety Artistes’ Benevolent Fund’s offer of a place at Brinsworth House retirement home in the London suburb of Twickenham. Unlike many of his contemporaries Leo lived long enough to see his name enshrined in some of the earliest histories of the music hall. Although flattering, it was no surprise to him for he had always seen himself in a historical perspective. He was the singer of the musichall’s most famous song; the enlightened performer who brought culture to the masses; the man, moreover, who took the cake. For many years he had employed a form of self-referencing nostalgia to remind the public of his unique place in the development of popular entertainment. Even the symmetry of his career’s beginning and end as a street performer had an epic ring to it. Wheeler also assiduously promoted his father’s name, often invoking it in his own advertising material and planning the never-published biography. Just before he retired to the enforced comforts of Brinsworth House, Leo featured in a last hurrah that may well have come to Charlie Chaplin’s attention. A benefit evening was arranged for 20 February 1936 to provide funds for the ageing singer after he had been seriously ill in hospital.The Windmill Hotel, a large pub situated in Cricklewood Broadway, north London, may not have been the Empire Theatre of Varieties where Calvero made his final triumphant performance, but the names of the famous music-hall performers gathered there would have graced any Leicester Square programme.

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Amongst those appearing were Tom Costello, the singer of such stirring ballads as ‘Comrades’ and ‘The Ship I Love’; Harry Champion, whose quick-fire numbers included ‘I’m ‘Enery the Eighth, I Am’ and ‘Any Old Iron’; and two comedians who had forged successful film careers, Robb Wilton and Harry Tate. And the star of the evening was, of course, the one and only Leo Dryden, bringing a tear to many an eye with his heart-wrenching dream of ‘the old homestead’ and ‘England’s valleys and dales’. For one evening the good old days had returned in all their glory. Nostalgia, of course, is a commodity to be traded like any other. Charlie recognized the potential for marketing the past in his Footlights, the unpublished novel which formed the basis and background for Limelight. Mr Postant, the fictional manager of the Empire Music Hall, and his assistant, Reeves, are described discussing Calvero’s billing for his final Benefit Gala performance. The latter runs the poster layout past his boss: ‘Calvero, master of pantomime and comic songs, his genius to recall those vibrant days . . .’ Postant has obviously employed such backward-looking advertising many time before and waves Reeves away with a dismissive ‘Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera’.31

8 WILL GODWIN – DOYEN OF DRAMATIC SKETCH ARTISTS

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ill Godwin wrote and composed hit songs for Charles Chaplin, Leo Dryden and many other solo artists. His own act, however, often involved interaction with other performers, employing large-scale dramatic effects that were calculated to shock and astound his audiences. He was in many ways a performer who linked the old and new music halls, still capable of dominating a small auditorium with a rousing chorus song, but also able to present a spectacular entertainment that made full use of the larger theatrical spaces that were becoming the order of the day. Relying on material that he himself devised, Will was a prime example of the music-hall performer as master or mistress of their own fortune. Although possessing a wider range of talents than most of his contemporaries, his self-sufficiency was typical of many variety artists, not least Charlie Chaplin, whose music-hall training later equipped him to tackle so many different areas of film-making. Lack of official records suggests that Godwin was not Will’s real name. A single census return, from 1901, indicates that he was born in Birmingham in about 1859. Apart from that, little is known about his early life. His earliest discovered professional appearance was made as a humble comedian at the Museum Concert Hall, Birmingham in April 1879,1 but it was not long before he devised a far more

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elaborate entertainment. During his first engagement in Scotland, at the Britannia, Glasgow, in April 1883, he introduced a song with striking visual effects and an optimistic political message. He was still performing the number two years later when he appeared at the recently refurbished Deacon’s Music Hall, north London: The seating of the higher priced portions of the house also now conforms to the more luxurious demands of this comfort-seeking age, and chairs covered in yellow plush and softly upholstered front the chairman’s table, at which Mr Sam Sutton still so genially presides. The reforms have not been restricted to increased elegance and comfort in the building, but include besides an increased salary list, and, therefore, a more attractive entertainment on the stage. Mr Davis [the proprietor] has up to the present had no cause to regret his expenditure, for it has borne fruit in crowded and wellpleased audiences, not only on the popular nights but during the week. As we entered the hall on Saturday evening last we found an exceptionally large audience exhibiting a very favourable attitude towards a novel entertainment by Mr Will Godwin, who has the flags of the greater and the lesser powers prettily arranged round a figure of Britannia. Peace and Unity, a decidedly pleasing title, does not appeal to the bellicose instincts of the Britisher, but rather points to that far distant period when the sword will be turned into a ploughshare. It was pleasant to hear Mr Godwin’s advocacy of international amity so warmly encouraged, but it was extremely perplexing later in the evening to hear the same audience applaud with even greater vehemence and enthusiasm the warlike attitude of ‘the old Admiral’ who buckles on his sword and emerges from his retirement determined that that Britannia shall still rule the waves.2

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Will’s act was well suited to a rapidly developing entertainment industry. More music halls were becoming limited companies with directors who sought legitimacy with the investing public. Not only were solo performers and their interaction with the audience more closely monitored, but material suited to middle-class interests was often introduced. The gentleman, married ladies and spinsters who purchased music-hall shares needed to be reassured that the entertainments they supported were not morally or politically subversive. As a means of extracting more revenue from theatres the cheap, basically furnished area at the rear of the stalls known as ‘The Pit’ was replaced by more comfortable, and inevitably more expensive, seating. New music halls were built with far greater audience capacity, their immense size completely dwarfing the individual on stage and destroying any sense of intimacy. The members of the public most likely to participate in choruses and to engage in banter with the performer were banished to the distant gallery. Will made full use of larger stages, writing and appearing in a series of musical sketches with melodramatic and patriotic themes. More often than not his productions were described as ‘sensational’ or ‘spectacular’. Their titles provide a reasonable guide to their content. For Love of Country (1891) was followed by Saved (1893), Britannia (1895), A Rogue’s Reward (1898), A Fight for Life (1898), Severed; or, The Broken Pledge (1899), Murderer; or,The Hand of Justice (1899), Wishing the Boys Farewell (1900) and Repentance (1903). The content of his sketches was often cinematic in effect: A blood-curdling specimen of what may be called the destructive type of condensed drama has been rapturously received at the Bedford. All the villainy of ‘A Rogue’s Reward’ leads up to a more or less realistic hand-to-hand fight, in which crockery, glassware, and furniture are smashed in most reckless fashion. Mr Will Godwin and company do ample justice to it.3

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Despite the popularity of such action-packed productions, his most successful sketch was a fantasy that appeared to draw inspiration from contemporary Symbolist dramas: A musical sketch entitled The Wanderer in Dreamland is being played here [the Royal Albert, Canning Town, East London] this week by Mr Will Godwin and company. As far as one can gather, the principal character falls asleep, and has a vivid dream. In a distant land he and two or three companions have a series of adventures, but at last the wanderer finds himself at home again in merry England. Mr Will Godwin, who impersonates Jack Stirling, the leading part, sings several songs very effectively, including ‘Mother’s Letter’ and ‘Follow the Flag,’ with chorus. Mr George Davenport is amusing as Algy, a swell who unsuccessfully makes love to Rosie, a character that is briskly played by Miss Marie West. Other roles are safely entrusted to Mr John Fairman, Miss Miriam Cohen and Little George Nickley. About thirty local children take part in a village scene, and, besides joining in the choruses, impart brightness to the picture.4 For his sketches to have full effect Will required acquiescent audiences who were content to settle back in their softly upholstered seats and wait for the entertainment to absorb them. Such an arrangement was always at risk from disruptive influences. A drunk being removed from the gallery, a cheeky interjection from ‘the gods’ or even a well-meaning expression of support could completely dissolve the fourth wall that Will and his company had worked so hard to create. Traditionally, the audience had been an integral part of music-hall entertainment, but increasingly sketch artists, dancers, acrobats, conjurors and jugglers performed in a self-imposed vacuum. Sometimes dramatic tension was destroyed when things went wrong on stage. At Sadler’s Wells, in 1901, Will stopped singing during a ‘tuneful, tear-tapping tragedy’ to

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complain to the orchestra leader that his music was not being played correctly.5 After several unsuccessful attempts to rectify the problem Will stormed off stage and out of the theatre. Although relying on passively attentive spectators for the success of his sketches, Will also required rowdy, chorus-singing audiences to support the songwriting side of his career. During the early 1890s he wrote and performed several ‘convivial’ songs celebrating ‘manly’ pursuits. ‘Here We Are Again. With a Hi-Gee-Whoa!’ extolled the auxiliary joys of coaching: You can see that I’m a member of the Club Four in hand boys, jolly Club boys, Such a dancing singing joking smoking Club And right good boys are we. Providing words and music with equal facility he was also associated with a number of comic songs which may have troubled music-hall’s moral guardians. But suggestive-sounding compositions such as ‘She Was a Girl Who Knew a Bit’, ‘Saucy Sally’ and ‘I Want to Play with Little Dick’ were more than outweighed by numbers extolling the bonds of friendship, the bliss of having a sweetheart and, above all, the love of home and country. Among well-known artists to purchase Will’s songs were Bessie Bellwood, Tom Costello, R. G. Knowles, Fannie Leslie, Marie Tyler, Jenny Valmore and Vesta Victoria. In 1893 he supplied the music and some of the words to Charles Chaplin’s best-known song, ‘Dear Old Pals, or Pals that Time Cannot Alter’. Of all performers he was most associated with Leo Dryden for whom he wrote many songs over a period of at least ten years. Will and Leo were both predominantly dramatic performers employing similar material. Had Leo not purchased ‘Christmas Bells, or Let’s Drive the Old Year Away’, ‘Love is the Magnet’, ‘Goodbye Mary! Wait

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‘Till My Ship Comes Home’ and ‘Pull, Boys, Together’, the songs might well have been absorbed into their author’s own repertoire. Their most fruitful collaboration, ‘The Miner’s Dream of Home’, was the biggest hit of 1891, if not the entire 1890s. Its lilting verses and rousing chorus describing a homesick English prospector dreaming in the wilds of Australia became an anthem for a nation afflicted with an over-sentimentalized view of home life and a ridiculously optimistic hope of acquiring sudden fortune. Sixteen years later Will achieved a major success with another song about a tearful dreamer. This time there was no way of reconciling the degree of separation suffered by the narrator: He stood in a beautiful mansion Surrounded by riches untold; He gazed at a beautiful picture That hung in a frame of gold. ‘Twas the picture of a lady, So beautiful, young and fair, To the beautiful life-like features He murmured in sad despair: Chorus: ‘If those lips could only speak, If those eyes could only see, If those beautiful golden tresses Were there in reality; Could I only take your hand, As I did when you took my name! But it’s only a beautiful picture In a beautiful golden frame.’ Details of Will’s private life are not plentiful, but it appears that he was married three times.6 In about 1894 his sketch company

ILLUSTRATION 18. ‘The Hand of Justice’, a story-telling song by Will Godwin.

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was reinforced by an attractive young serio named Marian, or Marie, West. She and Will were to have at least three children – Gladys, born 1894; Marie Josephine, 1895; and William, 1900. Both daughters appeared on stage with their parents from an early age. In March 1901 the census recorded the family living at 7 Chester Street, just off Kennington Road, raising the possibility that they were close neighbours of Hannah and Charlie. Sixteenyear-old Sydney had joined the merchant navy in April 1901 and had sent his first pay instalment to his mother who rented two rooms above a barber’s shop in Chester Street. The lodging may have been at number 14, over Frederick Clarke’s premises, or number 24 where Harry Clifton was also listed as a hairdresser. Like several other addresses in Chester Street, the apartments at number 24 were frequently occupied by music-hall performers.7 Hannah probably knew Will from the time of her relationship with Leo Dryden in the early 1890s, but a renewed meeting in 1901 would tie in with her note to Sydney and Charlie written in 1905: ‘. . . if W. G. should pay me a visit on this coming Monday, I am afraid he will not renew his offer of a few years back . . .’ As the 1900s progressed Will probably gave some thought to the way in which film-making was beginning to influence music hall and the theatre. With the advent of genuine talkies still years in the future there had been a number of attempts to synchronize films with phonograph and gramophone recordings of songs and monologues, each of which was allocated a pseudo-scientific title and presented as the latest novelty on the music-hall stage. Film was also used to provide plays and sketches with a moving background such as the car chase depicted in The Great Millionaire8 or the railway scenes in The Diamond Express.9 Some adventurous musichall artists had even started to experiment with film as part of their acts – Percy Honri performing a song to a projected ‘Mr Moon’; May Moore Duprez covering a costume break by showing a film

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of herself in a fictional dressing room; and Gus Elen preceding his act with a series of film vignettes of the different characters he portrayed in his songs. But Will was most likely to be concerned by the way in which the fiction film began to trespass on the content of his melodramatic sketches. With storytelling films growing longer in duration and more complex in technique, Will’s relatively simple plots were becoming commonplace, even to the least discriminating of audiences. Some other dramatic sketch artists hedged their bets by filming their productions, but generally such transcriptions of stage performances lacked the vigour of original screenplays. The first wave of cinema building in the United Kingdom took place in 1908–1914, but the distinctions between the picture house and the palace of variety were not always clear cut. Shortly before World War I most music halls were still showing films as part of their entertainments, while many cinemas were including live acts to support their selections of films. It was this fusion of live and mechanical entertainment that Will was briefly to embrace. The Godwins left England in 1911 to tour India. It soon proved a catastrophic move, with 35-year-old Marie dying in Quetta, on 5 August 1911. Will continued to appear in India, supplementing his live entertainment with film exhibition. When ‘Godwin’s Premier Variety and London Bioscope Company’ featured at the Alexandra Theatre, Bombay in August 1912, Will was announced as ‘The Charles Wyndham of the Music Hall’. It was perhaps not such a flattering comparison for the once swashbuckling actormanager had by then become infirm and forgetful. Among the supporting acts were Will’s daughter Marie and Hannah’s son Wheeler (billed as Leo George). Like the miner Will may have dreamt of home, but he never returned. He died of pneumonia at St George’s Hospital, Bombay on 24 April 1913, aged about 53. Four months later his 19-year-old daughter Gladys died of blood

ILLUSTRATION 19. ‘What Would I Give To Be Home Again!’ (1908). Many years after ‘The Miner’s Dream of Home’ Godwin was still writing about homesick gold-miners.

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poisoning caused by a mosquito bite. Her sister Marie continued to appear as a solo turn. Many authors of songs and sketches were themselves performers. Unlike actors in the legitimate theatre, variety artists were compelled to revise and adapt their performance to suit different audiences and conditions. In addition, many performers wrote the words and music to their own songs, collaborated with professional writers and designed their make-up and costumes. Both Hannah and Charles Chaplin made major contributions to their own acts, while Leo Dryden wrote numerous songs and sketches for himself under his real name George Dryden Wheeler. Although often stereotyped and predictable, music hall was a medium that fostered individual creativity, with artists such as Will Godwin extending their range far beyond jokes and songs to produce extended dramatic and comic narratives. Will had not only written the words and music to some of music-hall’s most famous songs, but had also taken the dramatic sketch to the very limit of its entertainment potential.

9 THE EIGHT LANCASHIRE LADS – CHARACTERISTIC AND CHAMPION CLOG DANCERS

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r and Mrs Jackson’s troupe of juvenile dancers brought a breath of fresh air to the music-hall stage. Dressed in their Sunday best and with rosy complexions they exuded innocence and youthful well-being. Yet behind their open countenances the Eight Lancashire Lads harboured a dark secret. They were, in fact, only seven – their eighth member being the Jacksons’ daughter Rose. And when, in 1898, Charles Chaplin arranged for his London-born son Charlie to join the troupe, the quota was reduced to only six Lancashire lads. Such minor subterfuges would not have tarnished ‘John Willie’ Jackson’s reputation. He was a regular churchgoer, a diligent parent and guardian, and, in Charlie’s opinion, ‘an essentially good man’.1 He was to instil into Charlie much-needed discipline and the understanding that practice was the cornerstone of theatrical success. John William, more commonly known as William Jackson (1860– 1941) was a late starter in the variety profession.The son of a labourer at a paper mill he lived the first 35 years of his life in Golborne, near Manchester. For much of the time his occupation was also linked to the mill; he was employed as a ‘marbler’ of the ornamental paper used for the decorative endpapers of books. After the early death of

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his wife, Rose, he was left to bring up five small children; four sons and a daughter. In desperation he sought to find a new mother for his family by placing an advert in a local paper. Despite the high degree of commitment required, he apparently received 300 responses. As a devout Catholic he prayed for guidance, after which he selected a single letter which on opening transpired to be from a mature lady of the same religious persuasion. Although five years older than her husband, ex-school teacher Elizabeth Jackson proved to be a conscientious mother and a dutiful wife. Within a short time another child was born. Like most Lancastrians William had a passion for clog-dancing which he somehow managed to pass on to Elizabeth, who had been born in London’s clogless Newington. Together they schooled their children in a multiplicity of steps and routines. Hard-wearing, wooden-soled clogs had been almost universally worn by industrial workers in the north of England throughout the century. By the 1840s and 1850s the clatter of the clogs had been harnessed for entertainment purposes with amateurs and professionals participating in competitions that often aroused violently partisan sentiments. Performers usually danced with no movement of the upper body, while the speed and intricacy of their steps and taps was assessed by judges who sometimes sat beneath the stage. Several music-hall performers were skilful clog-dancers, most famously Dan Leno who had once won a gold and silver belt that proclaimed him ‘Champion of the World’. By the close of the century clogs still retained their popularity both as a pastime and an entertainment. In Golborne alone there were eight clog sellers operating in 1895. In the summer of 1896 the Jackson family visited Blackpool. A talent contest on the Central Pier proved irresistible to the children, their dancing so impressive that the venue’s manager immediately offered them a 12-week contract. As William had work-related

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problems it was decided that he should give up his job to become a full-time manager.Three sons of a widowed Golborne colliery worker were quickly recruited to bring the newly founded troupe’s number up to eight. After concluding their long engagement on the pier the Eight Lancashire Lads appeared at the Blackpool Empire; the Grand Circus of Varieties, Rochdale; and in the 1896–1897 pantomime Blue Beard at the Grand Theatre, Rochdale. Emboldened by their initial success William and Elizabeth decided to try their luck in London. They were an unknown act, but somehow managed to obtain a trial turn at Gatti’s, Westminster Bridge Road. The Era critic was on hand to report: A big hit was made on Tuesday night by the Eight Lancashire Lads, an octet of youngsters from Liverpool, whose clog dancing comes as something of a revelation. We so seldom get dancing in the wooden shoe nowadays that the doings of these boys has a touch of novelty that should aid them considerably in their wanderings. They dance together, then singly, and anon in couples; but the tap of the clog never ceases, for ere one finishes another joins in on the last few steps. Their time is perfect, and considering how young some of the troupe are, their work is really wonderful. They had a most cordial reception on Tuesday, and richly deserved it.2 With three of the children younger than 11 the Jacksons had to obtain special licences for each show to comply with the Children’s Performances Act. Shortly after their Gatti’s success Elizabeth took the most juvenile members of the troupe to the Southwark Police Court. They were, she explained, her own daughter and the twin sons of James Cawley who had 13 children to provide for. They required the licences for an engagement at the South London Palace for which they were to receive £10 per week. The

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ILLUSTRATION 20. The Eight Lancashire Lads and other performers appearing at the People’s Palace, Bristol; in September 1897. William Jackson stands at extreme right, Rose Jackson stands second right and Elizabeth Jackson is seated next to her.

magistrate, Mr Fenwick, was well disposed toward the application, requiring only a few further formalities: ‘Have you got a doctor’s certificate as to the fitness of the children to appear in public?’ ‘No, sir’ Mrs Jackson replied ‘I did not know that was necessary. You see they look very healthy.’ ‘They certainly look very well.’ ‘All our children are very strong and hearty. They eat thirty loaves a-week.’ ‘The twins are fine little fellows. You say you have the father’s consent?’ ‘Oh, yes. Sir, we are friends of his. Here is a letter from him.’

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‘And a very sensible letter it seems to be.You must get a doctor’s certificate, and I would like to have the father’s consent to this engagement.’3 Elizabeth obtained the doctor’s certificate, James Cawley responded to the court’s telegram and the South London engagement went ahead. An entirely different official response occurred a month later when another court’s refusal to grant the necessary licences provoked a local controversy. Elizabeth dutifully attended the Newport Borough Police Court, Monmouthshire, bringing with her the same three beaming children and Mr Cawley’s very sensible letter. She was met by a mistrustful committee who fired a volley of hostile questions. Why were children of such a tender age put upon the stage? Did she and Mr Jackson get their living from the children? Did the children go to school? How long did they perform for? Despite her assurance that the children were entered into local schools wherever the troupe appeared and that the whole act only lasted about nine-and-a-half minutes, the magistrate and his colleagues remained unconvinced. When informed that the Bench was disinclined to grant a licence Elizabeth pleaded: ‘I hope you will not say that. We cannot keep the children, and they will have to go home again.’ Mr Moses, the magistrate, hard-heartedly remarked: ‘they should not have brought away from home’.4 The Western Mail published a critical account of the proceedings headed ‘At Cardiff, Yes! But at Newport, No!’ An editorial in the same issue suggested a hidden agenda to the Newport magistrate’s original judgement: The refusal on the part of the Newport magistrates to allow three youngsters under the age of twelve years to perform at the Empire Music-hall in that town during the current

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week is, on the face of it, an illustration of cramped, and even crabbed, ideas in high places. These little budding artistes were part of a troupe of eight Lancashire lads who take turns in the innocent and invigorating pastime of clog dancing. The woman who has charge of them explained to the bench that one of them was her own child, and the two others children adopted from a poor collier in Lancashire who had thirteen children to support. There was incontestable evidence that the boys attend school at the towns on their tour. They were bright, intelligent, even captivating little fellows, and there was the example before the Newport magistrates of at least a dozen licences granted to them in other towns. But the lay lawgivers at Newport were icy to all this, and refused to sanction the appearance of the boys on the stage. The contaminating influence of the music-hall, which looms so large in the minds generally of those who know nothing about such places, is, we suppose, at the bottom of this exercise of strained discretion. Is it desirable that the youngsters, who have been trained in the art of public entertaining, shall be forced to give up their work to become street vagrants, or that a couple of bright, healthy, well-nourished, and educated boys, who are now able to provide their own maintenance, are necessarily to be sent again upon the back of a parent who has thirteen of them to keep upon collier’s wages? The choice is all in favour of the stage.5 After two days the original decision was reversed and the licenses granted. Had the Newport magistrate taken a less blinkered view he might have considered that acts such as the Eight Lancashire Lads should be encouraged as a positive influence on the moral climate of the music hall. William and Elizabeth emphasized the wholesomeness of the

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boys, frequently pointing out that their ruddy cheeks were the result of natural well-being rather than stage make-up. Not only did they appeal to the family audiences who many managers were actively courting, but they displayed a degree of self-control and physical fitness that would serve as a good example to many young people. Their success was the result of intense training and practice, the swift, continuous and almost mechanical movement of their routines completely fixing the attention of the spectator. The Eight Lancashire Lads joined a growing number of other entertainments that required no participation from their audience save enthusiastic and astounded applause. Music-hall acts began to dominate rather than collaborate. Loië Fuller introduced the Serpentine Dance, inspiring many imitators who created breathtaking, abstract patterns by the use of flowing fabrics and projected colour lighting. It was suggested of Loië that ‘no human being was necessary in her performance at all, and that a small motor or gas-engine could have done the work with equal animation and less fatigue.’6 Music hall’s greatest juggler, Paul Cinquevalli, seemed superhuman in his abilities, apparently able to defy the laws of physics as he juggled with objects of all shapes and sizes. Similarly difficult to comprehend was the speed with which the impersonator Bransby Williams was able to assume the appearance of famous fictional characters. And, from 1896, films with their startling views of rushing trains and breaking waves were increasingly included in the music-hall programme. By the time nine-year-old Charlie made the temporary change from being a Lambeth to a Lancashire Lad real life had already imposed a series of violently contrasting roles upon him. As a toddler he had resembled Little Lord Fauntleroy, smugly promenading along Kennington Road in a blue velvet suit.7 With Hannah’s rapidly worsening situation he had been forced to adopt the grotesquely cut-down adult clothes of an Artful Dodger.

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At home he had been a cheeky, creative imp, the centre of his mother’s chaotic, but caring world. Later, as a pupil at the poor law school at Hanwell, he became just one of a regiment of harshly disciplined boys. When William Jackson’s son Alfred took him back to the troupe’s lodging at 167 Kennington Road his first task was to initiate another, less dramatic, change of character. He escorted Charlie to a local barber to have his unruly mop of hair cut into a more conventional ‘short back and sides’. Although his previous stage career was apparently limited to one triumphant appearance at the Aldershot Canteen, Charlie had performed for friends and family throughout his early childhood. Probably deriving his information from Sydney, A. J. Minney claimed that as a four-year-old Charlie and his halfbrother sang outside local pubs to earn a few coppers. Dancing was also part of their entertainment: ‘the aptitude possessed by every child for giving vent to its gayer feelings in a little dance was encouraged and developed by their mother, who taught them steps and movements that, bit by bit, took them into the most advanced forms of professional dancing.’8 An account of Charlie being discovered as he danced to the music of a barrel-organ can probably be discounted, although William and Elizabeth must have been convinced that he possessed talents on which they could readily build. Charlie understood that his father, an acquaintance of William Jackson, had recommended him for the troupe,9 although it is possible that Fred Holden, the manager of the Canterbury, had acted as an intermediary.10 Alfred Jackson recalled that Sidney and Charlie were living with Aunt Kate at the time, making it possible that ‘Kitty Fairdale’ also had a hand in enlisting her nephew into the ranks of the profession. Charlie started training with the troupe in late 1898 and left in the spring of 1901. Appearing at halls across the country and

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at major London venues such as the Oxford and the Tivoli he had many opportunities to observe the leading performers of his time. When, in later life, he was asked by the novelist Thomas Burke what his ultimate ambition had been – ‘the unattainable peak’ – while appearing with the troupe, Charlie replied: Top of the bill in a West End music-hall. That was all I wanted. That was the limit – the maddest dream – the most hopeless goal. To be a Chirgwin or Robey or Albert Chevalier.11 Amongst the artists that Charlie studied were music hall’s most popular stars Dan Leno and Marie Lloyd; the acrobatic clowns Fred and Joe Griffiths; and George Robey whose comedy routines he was able to quote at length 30 years later. For at least three weeks the Lads appeared on the same bills as Charles Chaplin Senior. The deepest impression was created by Bransby Williams, a young performer whose swiftly constructed representations of characters from the works of Charles Dickens enthralled even the rowdiest of audiences.12 After appearing on the same bill on a number of occasions Chaplin became preoccupied with Williams, practicing hard to replicate his performance as the grandfather in The Old Curiosity Shop. At first his only audience were the other members of the troupe, but in the course of time William Jackson was sufficiently impressed to feature Charlie as a solo contributor. Unfortunately the sight of a young lad in dancing costume wearing a bald-head wig seemed more comic than dramatic. When Charlie mimicked Bransby Williams’ hushed voice as he struggled to come to terms with the death of Little Nell, a hard-bitten northern audience merely shouted for him to ‘speak up!’. Although Mr Jackson had announced Charlie as a child genius, he did not see fit to repeat the Dickensian experiment.

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ILLUSTRATION 21. Bransby Williams impersonating ‘Grandfather’ from Charles Dickens’ The Old Curiosity Shop.

Another performer to make a strong impression on Charlie was Joe Zarmo (1869–1943), a juggler who billed himself as ‘the Only and Original Hebrew Jew Comedian-Juggler’. After practicing a particular trick for four years Joe decided that he was sufficiently expert to perform it before a live audience. The Jacksons and the Eight Lancashire Lads gathered in the wings. They

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watched anxiously as he balanced a billiard cue on his chin and then threw a billiard ball into the air catching it on the very tip of the cue. A second ball was tossed up, astonishingly coming to rest on the first. A surprisingly lukewarm reception prompted William Jackson to offer some advice: ‘You make the trick look too easy, you don’t sell it. You should miss it several times, then do it.’ The wellmeaning suggestion was of no use to Joe. ‘I’m not expert enough to miss it yet,’ he replied.13 Fifty years later Charlie incorporated the episode into Footlights, reassigning the conversation to Calvero and Cinquevalli.14 Discontented with group work yet apprehensive of solo performance, Charlie planned to form a double-act with another member of the troupe. He and Tommy Briscoe (later remembered as Bristow) were inspired by a relatively new genre of comedian to appear as ‘Millionaire Tramps’. Their hobo characters were to have whiskers like two American performers, W. E. Ritchie – ‘The Tramp Cyclist’ – and W. C. Fields – ‘The Tramp Juggler’, added to which gigantic diamond rings would demonstrate that they had chosen vagrancy rather than having it thrust upon them. Briscoe and Chaplin never made a stage appearance, but the nonchalant tramp was to remain a concept close to Charlie’s heart. More often than not the Eight Lancashire Lads appeared on the same programme as displays of animated photographs. Genuine moving pictures had been available in the United Kingdom on Thomas Edison’s Kinetoscope viewer since 1894, but it was not until March 1896 that they were first projected onto a screen as part of a music-hall entertainment. Before Charlie had joined them the Eight Lancashire Lads had shared the bill with ‘The American Biograph’, an impressively large projector that was operated by Euge`ne Lauste (later to achieve fame as the inventor of talking pictures). During Charlie’s time the troupe more frequently appeared alongside Walter Gibbons’

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‘Anglo-American-Bio-Tableaux’ films. It was possibly courtesy of the ‘Bio-Tableaux’ that Charlie made his screen debut. Alfred Jackson explained how some of the lads had played truant: We spent a morning following the Scots Guards through St James’s Park. Some days later my father was ‘in front’ at the old Oxford, where we were performing, during an exhibition of London street films. He was horrified to see us all marching as bold as brass, as near to the big drummer as we could get, when we should have been at school.15 A likely date for the film would have been November or December 1899 when both the Eight Lancashire Lads and the ‘Bio-Tableaux’ were featured at the Oxford. The patriotic furore caused by the outbreak of hostilities with the Boer republics in South Africa had been reflected on screen by numerous films of military subjects, particularly marching troops. By the end of March 1901 the Jacksons were running two troupes. That year’s census shows Elizabeth Jackson at 32 Mincing Lane, Blackburn, with eight juvenile performers, including two of her stepsons. Nine other Lancashire Lads (including Rose Jackson and Charlie) were recorded at 94 Ferndale Road, Lambeth. Seventeen-year-old John William Jackson was given as head of household, but the presence of two-year-old Willie suggests that Jackson senior’s absence was only temporary. William Jackson was present to watch his troupe appearing in Cinderella (26 December 1900–13 April 1901), a magnificent pantomime mounted as part of the programme at a gigantic, new circus-cum-music hall, the London Hippodrome. Charlie remembered improvising a piece of down-to-earth comedy when he appeared as a dog (or a cat) in the production. Sniffing other animal’s backsides was not the sort of humour expected of a family-orientated resort and, although

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his byplay apparently aroused some laughter, Mr Jackson and the manager of the Hippodrome were not amused. Everything about the five-scene pantomime was on a colossal scale, from a forest created in the circus arena to a grand procession featuring many real animals including an elephant. During his brief appearance in ‘The Baron’s Kitchen’, a scene presented on the theatre’s stage, Charlie once again encountered the ‘Bio-Tableaux’. Film was used to depict a dream sequence in which Cinderella’s Fairy Godmother conducted a series of magical transformations. Charlie left the Eight Lancashire Lads soon after the pantomime. There had been complaints from Hannah about his state of health, causing Mr and Mrs Jackson to discharge him from the troupe. The Jacksons, assisted by their sons, continued to train dance troupes for many years, constantly rejuvenating the ‘Lads and creating fresh combinations such as the Jackson Girls, the Jackson Boys and the Eight Grecian Maids. Their troupes became popular on the continent and in 1909 the success of the ‘Jaxon’ troupe at the Folies Bergère led to the foundation of the immensely successful 24 English Dancers. While visiting Europe in 1931 Charlie caught up with his old employer behind the scenes at the famous Parisian music hall. Avuncular, church-going ‘John Willie’ now shared the same backstage milieu as smutty comedians and half-naked, powdered showgirls. As Charlie might have told him, the age of innocence was of limited duration.

10 JESSIE MACNALLY – THE DUBLIN GIRL

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fter leaving the Eight Lancashire Lads in 1901 Charlie tried his hand at a succession of short-term, menial jobs. At this stage Sydney had joined the merchant navy and was away from Kennington for many weeks at time. Although he sent letters and money home, Charlie missed his companionship and his support in coping with an increasingly unstable Hannah. Often Charlie contrived to visit his friend Wally McCarthy in search of a few vicarious home comforts. While enjoying the McCarthys’ hospitality he might also have picked up some valuable guidance on his future career. Charlie recalled in My Autobiography that Mrs McCarthy had been an Irish comedienne and was an old friend of his mother. What he failed to record was that Wallace’s mother had two well-known siblings. Her sister was Norah M’Evoy, a musichall singer sometimes billed as ‘The Pride of Kildare’, while her brother, John Patrick Macnally, was a founding member of one of the most famous knockabout acts in British theatrical history. Charlie’s recollections were vague, but a little detective work reveals that Mrs McCarthy had performed on the halls as Jessie Macnally and that, unlike many ‘Irish’ singers and comedians, was actually born in Ireland. She appears to have made her British debut at the age of 19 in the autumn of 1886. For the first few months of her career she was billed as ‘The American

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Specialty Knockabout, High Kicker and Champion Lady Clog Dancer’, but by 1888 she had become an ‘Irish Songstress and Serio-Comic’. Whether they originated from the Emerald Isle or not, there was plenty of work for Irish performers. Since the mid-nineteenth century when the industrial towns and cities of Britain had attracted waves of immigrants no music-hall programme had been complete without a Katy, Mick or Paddy offering vigorous step-dancing, broad humour and a heady mix of sentimentality and fiery patriotism. One of the first stars of the genre, a London-born chimney sweep named Samuel Vagg (1825–1865), renamed himself Collins in the early 1850s and made a small fortune by performing traditional and newly written Irish songs. He was succeeded at the major London halls by Paddy Fannin (1840–1888); Pat Feeney (1850–1889) and his wife Nelly Farrell (1859–1889). Other performers, such as Dan Lowrey (d. 1890) and W. J. Ashcroft (1845–1916) had a more regional following, whilst hundreds, if not thousands, of similar artists eked out an existence in small local halls, pubs and clubs. Even the greatest of music-hall artists, Dan Leno, had started his solo career as ‘The Great Little Leno – Quintessence of Irish Comedians’. Irish acts largely perpetuated popular stereotypes. Male performers were amiable, but obtuse; expressing themselves in quaint, if illogical, language and frequently displaying a fondness for whisky and other alcoholic beverages. In turn women were soft-eyed and sharp-witted, loyal to their menfolk and fulsome in describing the natural beauty of their homeland. Both sexes could be relied on for a lively jig. It was surprising, therefore, when Jack Macnally and his partner Frederick Michael Maccabe attempted something completely different. As ‘The Two Macs’ they introduced cross-talk routines, enlivened by wild slapstick comedy. Their performances were full of acts of surreal violence such as the episode in The Roof Mender where one buried a hatchet into the head

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of the other, only to repair the damage by nailing on a couple of pieces of wood and adding some mortar and half a brick.1 Such humour was well established in the United States, but in Britain was a considerable novelty. The pair were performing together by 1877, their early billing ‘Maccabe and Macnally – the Rose and the Shamrock’ indicating that Mike came originally from England (Manchester) and Jack from Ireland (Dublin). It was at the Gaiety Music Hall, Liverpool, that the owner Harry de Frece christened them The Two Macs, a name that was later to cause acrimony and confusion. With comedy duets, quickfire dialogues and a frenetic brand of knockabout humour, the Macs soon became London favourites. For the August Bank Holiday 1879 they were to be found at the Oxford Music Hall, The Middlesex and Collins, sharing the bill with such favourites as Jenny Hill and Charles Godfrey. A review from an early London appearance indicates that the act, unlike its performers, changed very little over the next ten years: Messrs. Maccabe and Macnally represent what may be called knockabout Irishmen. They sang, acted, and danced cleverly, but their banging, tumbling, and turning over elicited the most hearty expressions of surprise from the spectators.2 In the autumn of 1881 the partnership was dissolved. Mike Maccabe enlisted his brother Patrick Joseph as a second Mac, while John appeared with a number of partners, also as The Two Macs. When, in 1888, the Maccabe brothers sued Jack and his current partner (named as John William Young Maccabe) it was decided that no one had the monopoly of the name. From then on the situation became complicated. Mike and Joe split up in 1892, each taking new partners who, of course, became Macs. After Joe’s death in 1893 and Mike’s in 1894, their partners took new partners. Meanwhile, Jack Macnally continued to appear, sometimes billed under his own name, sometimes with a partner as The Two Macs and occasionally as

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The One Mac. All permutations of Macs were extremely successful, offering entertainments that remained true to the original act’s slapstick origins. Jack eventually retired from the stage to run a pub, but died after a long illness in 1908. With the demise of Nelly Farrell early in 1889 a number of contenders arose for the title of premier Irish female performer. Lottie Swinburne styled herself ‘The Second Nelly Farrell’, Rose Sullivan became ‘The Modern Nelly Farrell’, while Jessie’s sister, Norah M’Evoy, adapted Nelly’s billing to become ‘The New Glittering Star of Erin’. Norah seems to have first appeared at the London music halls at the beginning of 1886, remaining for at least seven months before returning to fulfil provincial engagements. In later years she was often represented by Jack Macnally, frequently appearing on the same programmes. Her style was the usual blending of comedy and sentimental ballads, reinforced by opulent costumes and brash advertising: ‘The Irish Colleen’ cheered to the echo. How else could it be when you take into consideration that Norah M’Evoy is the Queen? Norah M’Evoy has a voice, and knows how to use it. Norah M’Evoy’s wardrobe is valued at £150 Sterling. Norah M’Evoy buys the best Songs from the best Authors and pays cash.3 Although Norah continued to appear until at least 1906, she was never to achieve Nelly Farrell’s star status. In fact, she was soon challenged by a new rival for Irish honours, her younger sister. Frequently billed as ‘The Dublin Girl’, Jessie Macnally also modelled herself on Nelly Farrell. Her songs, though frequently the work of English writers, were overwhelmingly Irish in content – ‘Twas in Ireland; How Katie Paid the Rent’; ‘He Was One of the Brave Connaught Rangers’, ‘That’s All Blarney’, ‘Irishmen Awake’, ‘My Irish Toast; Queenstown’, ‘Three Leaves of Shamrock’, ‘Norah

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Brady’, ‘Eileen O’Shea’ and ‘Don’t Leave Old Ireland’ (written and composed by Leo Dryden). It was not long before ‘Erin’s Own True Representative’ started to put down roots in England. On Saturday 13 July 1889 she established her own version of the Two Macs by marrying Walter Herbert McCarthy (186?-1944) at a special ceremony at Brighton, Sussex. As a music-hall performer she was marrying above her station for as an accountant and auditor Walter was a professional, not a ‘prosser’. At first they lived in Portsmouth, but by 1890 they had moved to King Street, Lambeth, where a ‘fine, bouncing boy, weighing 11 lb’4 (Charlie’s future friend Wally) was born on 25 October. A second child, Norah, was born back in Portsmouth in 1895. By 1901 the family had returned to Lambeth, living at Walcot Mansions in the Kennington Road. Jessie was particularly popular during the early 1890s, performing at such London venues as Collins’ (once owned by the great Sam); the South London; the Washington; and the Royal Cambridge. It is possible that Mr McCarthy (sometimes given as Carty or McCarty) was also connected to a famous show business family. The McCarthy troupe was well known from the 1870s onwards, the members of the extended clan being so numerous that they sometimes provided the major proportion of the cast in provincial pantomimes. When the first music-hall trade union, the Variety Artistes’ Federation, was founded in 1906 Walter was appointed auditor, a position he filled with distinction for many years. He certainly seemed to have been on good terms with his performer brother-in-law, The Era reporting in 1890: On Tuesday last Mr J. P. Macnally was presented by Mr W. H. McCarty, of Portsmouth with a very handsome gilt trowel. On the top is an ink-bottle cased in silver, with a compass and square in the same metal.5

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Walter appears to have mixed happily with Jessie’s music-hall friends. Before their return to Portsmouth the McCarthys often saw Hannah and the infant Charlie. Their meetings were typical of performer families, with the children causing much amusement by copying adult behaviour. Charlie remembered how he and Wally pretended ‘we were vaudevillians, smoking our imaginary cigars and driving in our imaginary pony and trap’.6 After the McCarthys returned to Kennington Hannah’s condition had deteriorated to such an extent that she was reluctant to meet with her former acquaintances. Charlie, on the other hand, was keen to renew his previous friendship with Wally. After school he would return home to see if Hannah needed any errands to be run, and then hurry on to Walcot Mansions. There, in the courtyard at the rear of the building, he and his old friend played at stage melodrama, with Charlie usually allocating himself the colourful role of villain. When it came to suppertime Charlie seldom declined an invitation to stay.7 Their impromptu theatrical productions attracted the attention of two other residents of Walcot Mansions. Songwriters Dan Lipton and C. W. Murphy were so impressed by the performances that took place in the small paved yard that they were inspired to write a sketch about slum children playing adult roles. The production eventually appeared on the music halls as Casey’s Court, its sequel Casey’s Circus featuring a young Charlie Chaplin. After a prolonged illness Jessie died on 11 February 1903. With childish simplicity Charlie contrived a plan to unite his and Wally’s family. He advised his mother to see more of Mr McCarthy in the hope that they might marry. As desperate as her situation was Hannah was not convinced. ‘Give the poor man a chance,’ she replied.8 On the morning of 5 May 1903 Charlie left the depressing room that he and his mother shared on the top floor of 3 Pownall

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Terrace to visit Wally and his father. Feeling uneasy about Hannah he refused their offer to stay to lunch, but returned home. A group of children had gathered outside the house. A small girl informed him that his mother had gone insane, while another explained that she had been knocking at doors and giving away pieces of coal which she said were birthday presents. When Charlie found his mother sitting vacantly by the window he realized that the children were right. She claimed that she had been searching for Sydney (who was still away at sea), blaming the McCarthys for hiding him from her. A doctor was called and Charlie was left to walk with his mother to Lambeth Infirmary. Within days she had been committed as a lunatic and admitted to Cane Hill Asylum leaving a penniless Charlie waiting anxiously for Sydney’s return. ‘I kept away from the McCarthys because I did not want them to know about Mother,’ he recalled. ‘I kept out of everybody’s way.’9 It is tempting to imagine Charlie happily ensconced at a Macnally family gathering, making mental notes as Uncle Jack demonstrated slapstick tricks from his famous stage routines. Or the youthful duo of Chaplin and McCarthy rehearsing a comedy act based on the stage business of The Two Macs. But Charlie did not require such direct contact to influence his later performances. The Two Macs had created a new kind of comedy which was imitated throughout their profession, with acts such as the Poluskis,The McNaughtons and the Brothers Egbert vying to perform the most absurd and aggressive material. Chaplin remembered how the Brothers Griffiths ‘would ferociously kick each other in the face with large padded shoes’.10 Although, at the time, he found such ‘crazy violence’ shocking, it was to become a staple ingredient of his film comedy. In Limelight he enlisted fellow silent film comedian Buster Keaton to play his stage partner in a knockabout sketch. The sequence in which Chaplin planted his boot on Keaton’s chest to help lever off a violin that had

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become wedged onto his foot might have come directly from the Two Macs. Unlike her brother, Jessie McCarthy was not an innovator. She was content to rely on tried-and-tested methods. As a critic observed in 1890: Miss Jessie Macnally is an Irish type of songstress, who sings the type of material which the late Miss Nelly Farrell in her lifetime interpreted, and strengthens her vocal performance with a wellstepped dance.11 Off stage Jessie married well, created a comfortable home and for a brief time provided Charlie with a glimpse of how happy family life might be. It is impossible to know how deeply Charlie shared the McCarthys’ sense of sorrow. He was already outwardly immured to much of life’s unpleasantness, quite capable of turning loss to advantage as when he adopted a black armband to hawk penny bunches of narcissi after his father’s death.12 But despite his tough exterior, the loss of Mrs McCarthy, combined with Hannah’s mental breakdown, must have robbed him of a much needed source of emotional, as well as material, sustenance.

11 CASEY’S CIRCUS – A RAGGED BURLESQUE

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aving suffered a series of bruising personal misfortunes Charlie was tested with a more insidious set of circumstances during the mid-1900s. Following the death of Jessie McCarthy and the hospitalization of his mother in the first half of 1903 he endured a period of lonely uncertainty waiting for Sydney to return from sea. In July, however, his luck altered when he was chosen to appear in a stage play based on Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes stories. ‘It seemed,’ he remembered, ‘as if the world had suddenly changed, had taken me into its fond embrace and adopted me.’ But being accepted into the acting profession was to burden him with ambitions that were almost impossible to achieve. While he sought to become a respected actor in the legitimate theatre, circumstances dragged him towards low comedy roles on the much-derided music-hall stage. As the possessor of a West End actor’s pass he stood proudly alongside the matinee idol Lewis Waller at Sir Henry Irving’s funeral ceremony in Westminster Abbey. Seven months later he was performing with a comedian in drag and a troupe of unruly children in an ‘awful’ music-hall sketch called Casey’s Circus. It was to take many years before he was able to reconcile his gift to create laughter and his desire to be considered as a serious artist.

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Charlie’s change of fortune occurred after he had registered with Blackmore’s Theatrical Agency in Bedford Street, Covent Garden. His initial experience when visiting the firm’s offices was intimidating. A gathering of ‘immaculately dressed thespians of both sexes, talking grandiloquently to each other’1 made him acutely aware of his ‘weather-worn’ suit and ‘budding at the toes’ shoes. Luckily, the theatrical impresario Charles Frohman was not looking for an immaculately dressed, grandiloquent thespian, but for a quickwitted young cockney to play Sherlock Holmes’ pageboy Billy. Charlie’s potential suitability for cheeky working-class roles was such that before appearing as Billy the cockney pageboy he was engaged to play Sam, a cockney newsboy. H. A. Saintsbury, a leading actor and occasional playwright, chose Charlie to play alongside him in his own play Jim, A Romance of Cockayne. Although not successful (running for only two weeks in July 1903), it proved a valuable trial run for Billy in Sherlock Holmes, a part that Charlie was to fill with minor interruptions for the next two-and-a-half years. The exciting melodrama Sherlock Holmes had first been produced in New York in 1900 starring its celebrated American author William Gillette. For the first English tour (July 1903–June 1904) Saintsbury played Holmes, while a second tour (October 1904–April 1905) featured the less well-known Kenneth Rivington. When Frohman sold the provincial rights in August 1905 the virtually unknown H. Lawrence Layton took the part of the famous fictional detective. Charlie was engaged for a third tour in his original role, but found the inferior production ‘a depressing come-down’. In September 1905 Charlie’s luck changed once again when Gillette arrived from the United States to play a season at the Duke of York’s Theatre, London. For some reason he plucked Charlie from his miserable provincial tour to appear as Billy in the ‘curtainraiser’ The Painful Predicament of Sherlock Holmes and later to reprise his original role in the full-length version of Sherlock Holmes. ‘Returning

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to London to play in a West End theatre I can only describe as my renaissance,’ remembered Charlie with some feeling.2 Charlie became convinced that a glittering stage career lay before him. Suddenly he saw an opportunity to play the great roles so alluringly suggested by his mother. When he met his friends Fred and Joe Evans, who lived on the other side of Kennington Road, he acted out scenes from Sherlock Holmes, playing his own part and then representing Holmes and the arch-villain Moriarty. Like Charlie the Evans were the children of music-hall performers, having appeared with their parents in the highly successful Florador Quartet. But Charlie was adamant that he did not want to be a ‘comic’, and the brothers agreed that he had great dramatic potential.3 Despite their youthful optimism, it was hardly likely that Charlie would have been accepted as an adult actor in the class-conscious Edwardian theatre. Although an ideal representative of ‘street arabs’ and impudent pageboys, his working-class accent and lack of education would have severely impeded any further progress. Many actors despised, and feared, their music-hall counterparts. The situation described by an American journalist in 1893 was less polarized by 1903, but there were still deep divisions between actors and musichall performers: The only time when dramatic actor and ‘pros’ ever meet is at the annual Christmas plays and pantomimes. Then the ‘pros’ is in demand at the theatres to do specialties. The lofty scorn and the airy defiance between actor and ‘pros’ is then something wonderful to behold . . . . . . between London actors and London music-hall performers the gulf is impassable. The London actor is a gentleman bred and born. He has been given the best of home and school, often of university, training. He is a student; frequently a traveller. His culture has been persistent, sequential and unavoidable. And his

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excellent social status keeps him permanently in touch with the best rather than the undesirable elements. The ‘pros’ being the product of an entirely different set of conditions and environment, is necessarily the endlessly impinging element. He is believed by the gentleman actor and gentleman vocalist to be on the alert to reach his station; push into his place; secure his honour and emoluments; just as the boot-blacks, butcher-boys and newsboys of great cities, with special gifts and dauntless energy, surpass trained business men, and at last with prestige and wealth, force the barred doors of aristocratic society. Therefore the London actor scorns the London ‘pros’ as he would a tramp.4 An impetuous moment of self-importance in the foyer of the St James’s Theatre signalled the end of Charlie’s short acting career. In November 1905, two weeks before the end of the London run of Sherlock Holmes, he had been given a letter of introduction to the illustrious Mr and Mrs Kendall with a view towards reading for a part in their new production. Piqued by Mrs Kendall’s late arrival and her offhand manner Charlie rejected the offer of an audition for a forthcoming tour, stating that he could only accept engagements in town. Within a short time he was again touring the provinces, not in a new role with the highly respected Kendalls, but in his old part in the scaled-down version of Sherlock Holmes. At the conclusion of the tour in March 1906 no further engagements were forthcoming and Charlie reluctantly agreed to join Sydney in a music-hall sketch. Over half a century later the sense of humiliation at dropping out of the acting profession to become one of ‘Wal Pink’s Workmen’ was apparently still so great that he omitted to mention the six-week engagement in My Autobiography. The sketch Repairs could not have been more slapstick or knockabout. A gang of clumsy decorators were seen

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renovating a large room in Muddleton Villa. Their efforts became increasingly disastrous as they constantly refreshed themselves from a barrel of beer. Ladders collapsed, paint-pots were upturned and lengths of wallpaper were pasted onto everything but the walls. In an attempt to hammer in a nail on which to hang his hat Charlie’s character managed to knock a panel out of the door and then puncture a water pipe. The humour was predictable, but executed well by an acrobatic cast. Halfway through May 1906 Charlie left Wal Pink’s troupe to appear in a new sketch called Casey’s Circus. His reasons for switching from one low comedy sketch to another are obscure. It is probable that he was recruited by the writer Dan Lipton who remembered him from his days visiting the McCarthys in Walcot Mansions.5 Years later Lipton was to claim that the original idea for Casey’s Court and, subsequently, Casey’s Circus resulted from watching Charlie and his friends performing in the courtyard below. Charlie made a vivid impression: In those days I had a room in Walcot Gardens. In the evenings when we were trying to work, the kids in the court below used to make such a hubbub that we could not get on. When I looked out, there was a lad as un-self-conscious as when he did the ocean roll in The Gold Rush with an audience around him. I used to jump down flights of stairs furious, and then would listen. The boy was the most marvellous mimic I ever saw. When he saw me he would say, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, a slight impression of the bloke upstairs who comes down to chase us,’ and as I listened my face turned red and I knew the kid was a genius.6 Although diverse and frequently changing, the population of Kennington Road formed a close-knit community and, had Lipton

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ILLUSTRATION 22. Wal Pink’s comedy sketch Repairs with Charlie Chaplin seen crouching at front of stage and Sydney Chaplin standing on step-ladder.

wanted to contact Charlie, his whereabouts would easily have been discerned. The concept of Casey’s Court and Casey’s Circus, that a group of children amuse the audience by aping adult performers, was well established in theatrical and music-hall history. Many infant phenomenons had enjoyed preternaturally long careers on the legitimate stage, while among variety artists Vesta Tilley, Cecilia Loftus and Vesta Victoria had started by giving impressions of older performers.Young Charlie himself had always been a talented mimic of the adult world. If Charlie was their inspiration Harry Lipton and his writing partner C. W. Murphy appear to have taken some time to create Casey’s Court for it was not seen on stage until March 1906. When it did appear it was so successful that its producer, Harry Cardle, immediately organized a second troupe. A link with Charlie was provided by the painted backcloth which showed a scene almost identical to the view from the yard at Walcot Mansions.7

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With two Casey’s Court troupes touring, Cardle next produced Casey’s Circus. Although set in a circus ring rather than a back street, the sketch retained the same format, presenting a large number of boys and a few girls performing variety turns and often impersonating well-known comedians and actors. The children were depicted as ragged and dirty, their slum background providing the rationale for their boisterous and undignified behaviour. Attempting, but often failing, to exercise some control over the urchins was Mrs Casey, a lady whose employment as a theatrical wardrobe dealer provided an explanation of how the young performers were able to acquire suitable costumes for their various performances. For Casey’s Circus the role of Mrs Casey was given to Will Murray, a 29-year-old comedian who was to become linked, if not chained, to the role for most of the next 50 years. Will was born in Liverpool in 1877. He had made his own debut as a child performer, his first appearance taking place at the giant Haymarket Music Hall, Beau Street, Liverpool, in 1890. Two years later Will and a partner, billed as ‘Murray and McMahon – Comedians and Dancers’, appeared in London at the Star Music Hall, Bermondsey. They had been introduced to the Star’s manager, Harry Hart, by none other than Leo Dryden, but the great patriotic singer’s enthusiasm for their talents was not shared by south-east London audiences. Murray later reminisced that after three weeks playing to empty houses Hart decided to allow them one more week at a salary reduced from £3 to £2. 10s. When audiences still failed to materialize the phlegmatic Hart allowed the young performers to stay on anyway.8 Whether Will persisted with the same partner or not, by the late 1890s he had become one of ‘The Freans’, a double act whose comedy boxing routine might well have been passed on to Charlie. The Freans continued to perform until 1906 when Will accepted the role of Mrs Casey. Casey’s Court, Casey’s Circus and many other derivative sketches soon became totally identified with Murray who continued to manage

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and appear in the show until the 1950s. With its extensive cast, usually numbering around 30, and varied use of props it was well suited to the new larger-sized theatres of variety. Will had seen the shape of things to come back in Liverpool in 1890. The Haymarket was one of the first music halls to be constructed specifically to accommodate two audiences nightly, with a rear exit allowing 2,500 people to leave the theatre while another 2500 entered from the front. Such an effective way of extracting the most from both audience and performer later became common, but was a revolutionary concept when the Haymarket opened in 1882. As well as fitting the size of modern variety theatres the various Casey sketches appealed to contemporary audiences through their quick-fire humour and compact presentation. A perception that the pace of modern life had caused the attention span of audiences to shorten had led, during the early 1900s, to the introduction of the revue. Drawing its inspiration from topical French productions the new form of entertainment developed within the framework of the music-hall programme. Musical numbers and sketches, often satirizing contemporary culture, were amalgamated into a loosely themed entertainment which formed part of the larger, generalized music-hall show. With each short item merging into the next the revue exuded a feeling of pace that made individual turns on the same bill appear ponderous by comparison. As with the Casey sketches, caricatures of celebrities and fictional characters were often given: in The Tivoli Revue of 1902 Marie Lloyd portrayed Sarah Bernhardt; Little Tich appeared as a scaleddown Ben Hur; George Gray played the cricketer W. G. Grace while Charles Raymond impersonated Shamrock Holmes. By the outbreak of World War I many revues had become so elaborate that they either dominated their music-hall host or replaced it completely. An advert published in The Stage in 1913 revealed a much expanded Casey’s Court:

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WILL MURRAY . . . GRAND VARIETY COMPANY . . . Of Eight Star Turns, Including CASEY COURT MINSTRELS . . . Forty Trained Singers . . . In Two Scenes. Most Gorgeous Sit-round Touring9 Charlie’s contract, signed on his behalf by his guardian Sydney, specified that he should receive £2. 5s. a week from 14 May 1906, rising to £2. 10s. from July 1906. His recollections of the sketch are strangely at odds with the degree of success that he achieved while performing in it. It is understandable that he did not refer to Will Murray, for most performers who might be considered to have influenced him in any way suffered a similar lack of acknowledgement. But to dismiss Casey’s Circus so arbitrarily when he had received such good reviews strongly suggests an ulterior motive. In My Autobiography he reluctantly recalled that it was ‘an awful show . . . but it gave me a chance to develop as a comedian’.10 Casey’s Circus was the showcase for Charlie’s talent from May 1906 to July 1907. As the show toured music halls across the United Kingdom (including two lengthy periods in the capital) his performances as Walford Bodie and Dick Turpin were frequently singled out for praise. Much has been written about the extraordinary ‘Dr’ Bodie, a good proportion of it by the self-promoting Bodie himself. As a ventriloquist, hypnotist, mind-reader, lightning cartoonist and, above all, a showman he exploited the Victorian and Edwardian obsession with alternative medical treatments and scientific wonders. In his music-hall act he made extensive and showy use of electricity,

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ILLUSTRATION 23. Will Murray as Mrs Casey. Detail from a poster for Casey’s Legacy, c. 1930.

using his own body as a conductor and treating the sick and disabled with beneficial charges. Claiming to be a ‘bloodless surgeon’ he would hypnotize members of the audience apparently suffering from paralysis and then restore them to mobility by running his sparking hands over their bodies. Mute testimony to the amazing

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cures he performed every evening was provided by a selection of sticks, crutches and leg-irons impressively arranged in the foyers of the music halls in which he appeared. Needless to say the medical profession were not impressed by his claims. An action brought against him by the Medical Defence League at Lambeth Police Court in 1905 resulted in a £5 fine for the improper use of the initials ‘M. D.’ (which he laughingly claimed stood for ‘Merry Devil’). Bodie was a commanding figure; tall and muscular, with dark hair swept back and a magnificent upward-pointing moustache. His stage costume usually consisted of a dark cloak, blue silk sash and a chest covered with impressive, if somewhat obscure, decorations. There was more than a hint of Nietzsche’s superman about his public persona. ‘The work is arduous . . .’ he declared, ‘therefore, it requires a man of strong personality, indomitable will and energy and powerful physique.’11 Such a charismatic presence was eminently suited for a Casey Circus burlesque. Once Will Murray had allocated the role to him Charlie spent hours in front of a mirror practicing the part. He had never seen the ‘Electric Wizard’ perform, but with Will’s guidance and a little imagination he was able to produce such a good pastiche that he was once complimented by Bodie’s sister.12 Charlie clearly relished the impersonation. Although there was obvious humour in the imposing Bodie being represented by a slightly built youth, there was also a degree of acting skill required to provide added comedy to the skit. When he appeared as Dick Turpin Charlie both poked fun at a traditional subject and anticipated a new form of entertainment. Since the publication of the novel Rookwood in 1834 Harrison Ainsworth’s account of the highwayman’s 200-mile ride from London to York had frequently been represented on stage and in circuses. Panoramic devices, revolving bands, turntables and real horses had been employed to provide the illusion of Turpin on ‘Black Bess’ being pursued along roads and over toll-gates by

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the Bow Street Runners. Charlie’s version concentrated less on dramatic effect and more on the comic aspects of the chase. The Casey’s Circus Dick Turpin appears to have been a burlesque of a burlesque, based on a 1905 sketch in which the ‘Protean’ actor R. A. Roberts played five characters by the means of exceptionally quick costume changes. As a skilled pantomime performer Will Murray was well placed to instruct Charlie in the best ways to convey frantic movement within a limited space. In later years he claimed to have taught him the onelegged corner turn that was to become a trademark of his screen comedy. Having been popular on stage for many years the actionpacked chase from London to York was to provide an ideal subject for early fiction film-makers. At the very time that Charlie first performed the sketch two films on the subject were released; a 10-scene Dick Turpin’s Last Ride to York starring the equestrian performer Fred Ginnett and Cecil Hepworth’s Dick Turpin’s Ride toYork (the longest British film to date at 1,000 feet). In 1913 his old friend Fred Evans starred in the slapstick film comedy Dicke Turpin’s Ride to Yorke. Charlie probably attempted other impersonations during his 14-month stay with Casey’s Circus. A portrait of him posing as ‘Dr’ Bodie is usually accompanied by another in which he appears as Herbert Beerbohm Tree playing Charles Dickens’ Fagin (Tree had appeared in the role in a stage adaptation of Oliver Twist in 1903). Had he contributed a version of Fagin to the show Charlie might have felt some discomfort at presuming to burlesque such a highly respected actor. He would have had no such reservations about two other impersonations which an acquaintance remembered him performing in private just after he had left the troupe. A lady school teacher who lived in the same theatrical lodging house in 283 Kennington Road described how Charlie had given impressions of the musical comedy star Maurice Farkoa and the blackface music-hall performer

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G. H. Chirgwin.13 An impersonation of a different kind occurred when Charlie borrowed some of her clothes and accompanied her on a stroll around the local area. It appears that Charlie was dismissed from Casey’s Circus, a surprising move as he was clearly its leading juvenile performer. His departure may have resulted from a mutiny that he led when Will dismissed one of the troupe to make room for a newcomer, Hal Forde. A deputation headed by Charlie threatened to strike unless their colleague was given two weeks’ notice. Their seemingly reasonable demand was met with anger by Will who instructed the stage carpenter to ‘go to their digs and throw their stuff into the street’.14 Whatever the reason, Charlie’s departure brought a temporary end to the show, which was soon replaced by Casey’s Army. In the years to come the show’s format was occasionally readjusted and revamped, but Will always returned to Casey’s Court and Casey’s Circus, regularly advertising for fresh intakes of small boys and girls. He married twice and his son Roy and daughter-in-law Peggy were both performers in Casey’s Circus. Father and son ran the Grand Theatre of Variety, Blackburn from 1934 to 1951, during which time Will occasionally toured in revivals of the show. He was proud to talk about his connection with Charlie, often referring to the time he spent teaching the young performer. ‘It took many, many hours of monotonous rehearsals,’ he told a reporter, ‘but I am sure Charlie Chaplin, in looking back over those hours of rehearsals, will thank me for being so persistent in my instructions as to how I wanted the thing done.’15 In the course of half a century Will’s thorough tuition was to lead to several of his proteges becoming well-known comedians. Once, lured by the possibility of future fame, John Lennon’s father ‘Freddie’ ran away from an orphanage in an abortive attempt to join the troupe. Will remained a popular and active member of the variety profession, dying at the age of 77 in 1955.

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When appearing in London, Charlie and several other Casey’s Circus performers rented rooms in Kennington Road (probably the previously mentioned number 283). On leaving the troupe 18-yearold Charlie returned to the lodging house where he became friendly with its widowed owner Sarah Field and her three daughters. He was particularly attracted to 12-year-old Phoebe whose age he diplomatically increased to 15 in My Autobiography. ‘Her features were long and aquiline, and she had a strong appeal for me both physically and sentimentally,’ he remembered. It was an infatuation that suggests Charlie’s later fixation on younger women was not, as is usually suggested, caused by his failed relationship with Hetty Kelly. His brief encounter with the teenage dancer occurred in the late summer of 1908, at least a year after he had taken up residence with the Fields. Although the pangs of unrequited love for 15-year-old Hetty were to remain with him for many years, they were preceded by spasms of desire induced by an even younger Phoebe. The Fields were a volatile group whose frequent arguments were quickly resolved. Embedding himself into another family Charlie soon sought their approval of a new act. For several weeks he rehearsed before his captive audience, testing their reaction to his new stage persona, ‘Sam Cohen – the Jewish Comedian’. The material to which the Fields were subjected had been culled from the pages of what Charlie remembered as American joke-book, ‘Madison’s Budget’, actually a serial publication advertised as the ‘Greatest Book of Comedy Material ever written’. James Madison may have devised gags for such American vaudeville stars as Al Jolson, Fred Duprez and Marshal P. Wilder, but his humour, or Charlie’s interpretation of it, left the Kennington Road audience unmoved. His reception was ‘attentive and encouraging but nothing more’. On 23 December 1907, some five months after he had left Casey’s Circus, Charlie felt sufficiently confident to appear at the Foresters

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Music Hall, Bethnal Green, an area with a large Jewish population. Young Phoebe was there to see his stumbling failure before an audience who reacted angrily to what they perceived as stereotyped, anti-Semitic material. Like Hannah at the Aldershot Canteen Charlie withdrew in the face of howls of abuse and a barrage of coins and orange peel. Phoebe did not subsequently refer to the debacle and in turn Charlie said nothing of his failure to the Fields.They had probably anticipated his hostile reception from the East End audience for in all likelihood they were themselves Jewish. Born in Russian Poland, Sarah Field had probably emigrated to escape the harsh conditions of ‘The Pale’, while her husband, Isaac, had also been a Russian citizen. Charlie had been too preoccupied with his own dreams of stardom to realize what offence he might have caused. Despite concentrating on the family’s eccentricities and his own sexual feelings toward the underage Phoebe, Charlie at least remembered the Fields in My Autobiography. Will Murray was accorded no such distinction. He would have been an extremely poor teacher had he not imparted some stagecraft to Charlie during his time with Casey’s Circus, but evidence suggests that he was a motivational, if somewhat menacing, mentor. Similarly, the other juvenile performers with their ragged costumes and cheeky resilience were not discussed by Charlie. They were a talented group, many of whom went on to become well-established performers. But they were, perhaps, too close in spirit to his own creation ‘The Little Tramp’.

12 FRED KARNO AND HIS COLOSSAL COMBINATION OF COMEDIANS

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red Karno mass-produced comedy and sold it by the lorry load. He was as much an industrialist as any Victorian mill-owner, building his own ‘fun factory’ where he constructed comic sketches and manufactured comedians. A stock of situations, techniques and characters were prefabricated parts that could be arranged and rearranged to form new, but familiar, entertainments. Similarly, performers were interchangeable components in the large-scale productions that he and his assistants so skilfully assembled. Managers liked the predictability of his sketches; their scripted vulgarity was less likely to offend the licensing authorities than the impromptu quips of solo performers. But despite their popularity, Karno sketches soon became displaced by an even more controllable form of comic narrative. A usually astute businessman, Fred failed to make allowance for the growth of the film industry, sticking with an increasingly outmoded form of theatrical presentation, while his one-time comic creation, Charlie Chaplin, became the most famous performer in the world. In his business enterprises Fred was calculating and ruthless; a hard taskmaster who suffered fools only in a professional capacity. From an early age he had learned the advantages of precision and determination. Born Frederick John Westcott in 1866, he was the

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son of an Exeter cabinet-maker. Soon after his family moved to Nottingham in 1875 he went to work in a lace factory. Following a series of odd jobs he was apprenticed to a plumber, spending what time he had left playing sports and practicing gymnastics. After winning a collection of trophies at amateur events Fred became the junior partner in an acrobatic act billed as Olvene and Leonardo. During the 1880s he participated in a variety of entertainments that required daring and skilful athleticism, appearing as an acrobat, actor, comedian and clown in music halls, theatres and circuses. While appearing at local fairs Fred witnessed many traditional melodramatic and comedy shows performed in tented ‘mumming booths’. Like lace-making and plumbing his dangerous new pursuits demanded careful attention to detail. On one occasion in Amsterdam a misjudged double somersault into a safety net resulted in a near-fatal back injury. Fred probably employed several stage names before he settled on ‘Karno’. The acquisition of the name is rooted in music-hall mythology. Sometime in 1887 or 1888 an acrobatic comedy troupe, The Three Carnos, were unable to perform at the Metropolitan Music Hall, Paddington, causing an agent to visit ‘Poverty Corner’ in search of a replacement. Fred instantly joined with two other performers to take the Carnos’ place and, by some curious absorptive process, to usurp their name. Though unethical such a move would have made economic sense for The Three Carnos were a well known and respected act. As with The Two Macs, a long-running dispute over the ownership of the name ensued, the original Three Carnos confusing the situation even further by becoming The Three Karnos. By April 1889 Fred was also using the name ‘Karnes’ for his appearances with another comedy acrobat, Ric Klaie. Billed as ‘the Oddities, Eccentrics, Acrobats and Knockabout Comedians’1 they appeared together over a period of years, although they usually played separately with their own troupes. In June 1891, billed as

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the Klaie and Karno Company, they featured at the Gaiety Concert Hall, Birmingham, in a sketch entitled He Knocked Them.2 Within four months the independent Karno troupe appeared in their first and longest-serving sketch, Hilarity. Descriptions suggest that the piece was similar to many other non-verbal, knockabout productions that were modelled on the closing section of the traditional Christmas pantomime. Acting as a postscript to the familiar fairy-tale narrative the Harlequinade provided scenes of disorder and comic violence as Pantaloon and Clown pursued the eloping Columbine and Harlequin through familiar, often urban, landscapes. Authority figures joining in the chase were invariably outwitted and up-ended. Many performers alternated between such theatre-based entertainments and comedy sketches put on in music halls, a process that resulted in the disruptive qualities of the Harlequinade cast being reallocated to naughty boys, drunken men or, in Dan Leno’s youthful example, mischievous monkeys. The raison d’être of such characters was to bring farcical chaos to a seemingly realistic environment, the size of the stage dictating the length and duration of the chase sequences. The Era reported: Situated in the midst of a thickly populated neighbourhood the Queen’s Palace of Varieties continues to flourish under the new management. The secret of its success is that a really excellent entertainment is provided, and that the management of the hall is conducted upon modern lines. In the arrangement of the programme every care is evidently taken that the numerous items shall be as varied as possible. Hilarity is the very appropriate title of the sketch in which Mr Fred Karno and his troupe of pantomimists have for a long time now been amusing countless audiences.Who can help laughing at the pranks played by the mischievous page who delights in worrying elderly gentlemen and young lovers, and upsets everybody in turn? The tiresome boy is chased by the irate victims of his playfulness, but the punishment intended for

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him usually falls upon an innocent person. A good deal of fun is also caused by the eccentric behaviour of the animal attached to the little cart which conveys some of the party on to the stage; and altogether the audience pass a very merry twenty minutes in witnessing this extremely funny pantomime sketch.3 The speechlessness of Karno’s comedy made it easily accessible to a non-English-speaking public. As early as 1895 Hilarity was taken on a six-month European tour, playing extended engagements in Naples, Munich, Dresden, Prague, Hanover and Rotterdam. Fred was following in a strong tradition of English and European pantomime sketches typified by the Hanlon-Lees, the Lauris, the Boissets and the Florador Quartet. Perhaps Karno productions relied more on broader comic acting than their predecessors, but they demonstrated a similar emphasis on acrobatic movement and mechanical tricks. With extensive experience of stage machinery and an inventive aptitude Fred started to design sketches that combined immaculately timed comedy with startling visual effects. In Jail Birds (1895) he portrayed blasting operations at the Portland Prison quarry, followed by a recreation of the jail’s interior. The chase theme that became so popular in silent movies was central to the comedy: In the final scene, the exterior of the cells, the warders’ office, and the carpenters’ and barbers’ shops are shown. The shaving and hair-dressing of the convicts is represented by means of clever pantomime, which causes general laughter. Then one of the most agile of the prisoners manages to creep down a chimney and steal from a sleeping warder the keys of the jail. Armed with these he liberates his comrades; the warder awakes and sounds an alarm; and then follows an exciting chase after the runaways. Walls and floors open as if by magic, to make way for pursuers and pursued, and finally the curtain falls on an

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effective tableau. Mr Fred Karno and his company are excellent pantomimists, and their incessant activity, as well as facility in expressing their meaning in dumb show, is deserving of the warmest praise.4 The next Karno sketch, The New Woman’s Club (1896), was a skit on women’s emancipation with Fred appearing as a lady cyclist in bloomers. Part of the humour was to portray the seriously minded female reformers as a disreputable gang of harridans who gambled, picked pockets and inflicted physical violence on their guests. The arrival of the police resulted in a sudden scenery change which transformed the ‘very sporting’5 interior of the club into a temple of respectability. The introduction of speech into Fred’s sketches occurred with a three-act ‘Musical, Pantomimical Farce’ entitled Her Majesty’s Guests first produced at the Prince of Wales Theatre, Kennington, on 26 March 1900. In an attempt to break into ‘legitimate’ theatre Fred had employed Herbert Darnley to link Jail Birds and The New Woman’s Club together, and to add dialogue and songs in an attempt to impose some form of narrative framework. Within a few weeks a scaled-down version was added to Karno’s music-hall repertoire. Having added the spoken word to his sketches Fred had to find a different kind of performer to appear in them. Previously he had required only that his comedians were able to trip, tumble and to trade blows. In his usual blunt way he had once advertised for: ‘a First-class Pantomimist. Must be Good Knockabout. Those that do not understand what a pantomimist means need not apply.’6 Now he required good knockabouts that could also patter and perform comic songs. Although Fred would sometimes employ relatively well-known comedians, he preferred the cheaper expedient of spotting likely performers in minor entertainments, often in the north of England. Amongst his earliest non-silent comedians were

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Billy (or Billie) Reeves (1866–1942), a circus performer; Billy Ritchie (1874–1921), a Scottish music-hall artist; Fred Kitchen (1872–1951), the son of a famous pantomimist and himself once a member of Charles Lauri’s pantomime troupe; and Seth Egbert who had served an apprenticeship in Sanger’s circus before becoming one of ‘Her Majesty’s Guests’. In 1906 Fred saw Sydney Chaplin performing with Charlie Manon’s troupe and engaged him at £3 a week. As early as 1899 Fred had advertised a ‘Colossal Combination of Comedians’. With the number of troupes that he ran multiplying, he found that he needed a larger repertoire of sketches. His productions became more technically complex with increasingly elaborate sets making full use of the more extensive stage areas in newly built music halls.The opening scene of Early Birds (1902) featured a full-size Lambeth coffee-stall patronized by a drunken woman, an urchin, a street musician, a ‘swell’ and various ‘loafers’. The Football Match (1906) employed over 100 extras, and London Suburbia (1907) represented a row of houses and their occupants. With solo performers becoming marginalized, music halls began to rely more heavily on sketches to combat the growing popularity of the cinema. Frequently the broader effects required for 3,000-seat theatres was provided by the large-scale, comedy ensembles run by Joe Elvin, Joe Boganny and Karno’s ex-employee Herbert Darnley. Other sketches sought to amaze the audience with startling effects such as the disasters reproduced in The Great Forest Fire (featured at the Palladium in 1914) and The Loss of the Empress of Ireland (advertised as presenting the events ‘in a manner NO CINEMATOGRAPH PRODUCER can aspire to’7). In his sketches Fred aimed to amalgamate both comedy and spectacle. The most sensational, The Wontdetainia (1910), employed a 120-foot steel-framed ship hinged in five sections so that it could be manoeuvred across the stage. With a cast of over 50 artists and a series of hydraulic lifts that provided the rocking

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motion for a storm at sea the expensive spoof on luxury ocean-liners could only be mounted at the larger music halls.8 Although purposebuilt cinemas had begun to appear across the country, this threescene epic was to provide a more immediate and realistic experience than any of the films that they exhibited. Fred’s headquarters in Vaughan Road, Coldharbour Lane, Camberwell, was also on a larger scale and more organized than any contemporary film studio. He had occupied premises there since 1895, but by 1906 the ‘Fun Factory’ had expanded to occupy three houses with a newly built wing that provided a huge paint room for the preparation of scenic backcloths, a 316-square yard storage dock and a rehearsal room with sufficient height to allow aerial gymnasts and trapeze artists to practice their acts. Karno performers went through a rigorous training process. By the mid-1900s Fred was running between eight to ten troupes, often sending them forth in a fleet of unusual vehicles. Some travelled on double-decker buses, others in the late Duke of Cambridge’s state carriages that had been acquired at a knock-down price. The ‘Jail Birds’ and their warders were frequently transported – Keystone Kops style – in a ‘Black Maria’ prison van. Fred used a Rolls-Royce, painted primrose and scarlet with ‘Karno’ emblazoned on the side. Wherever Karno sketches were played, carefully organized stunts advertised their presence. When Moses and Son (1905) was produced handfuls of ‘coins’ bearing Fred’s portrait were distributed to the public, an advertising device that cinemas later employed for Charlie Chaplin’s The Gold Rush. Mass-produced entertainment and flamboyant publicity had found a home in south-east London long before they arrived in Hollywood. Early in 1907 Fred started to employ a would-be ‘Jewish’ comedian who had recently been booed off the stage at the Foresters Music Hall. Although Charlie Chaplin had done well as one of the Eight Lancashire Lads, in the drama Sherlock Holmes and with the Casey’s

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Circus company his attempt to launch himself on a solo career had foundered immediately. Combined with recollections of his mother’s failure, the Foresters fiasco convinced Charlie that he could never again take on a live audience alone. ‘As a crowd they are like a monster without a head that never knows which way it’s going to turn,’ he made Calvero remark. Despite a natural gravitation towards centre stage, he must have relished the protection and reassurance afforded to a member of one of Fred’s well-drilled units. He later wrote: All of the pieces we did, as I remember them, were cruel and boisterous, filled with acrobatic humour and low, knockabout comedy. Each man working for Karno had to have perfect timing, and to know the peculiarities of every one else in the cast so that we could collectively achieve a tempo. It took about a year for an actor to get the repertoire of a dozen shows down pat. Karno required us to know a number of parts so that the players could be interchanged. When one left the company it was like taking a screw or a pin out of a very delicate piece of machinery.9 Initially sceptical about Charlie’s comic potential, Fred was won over by ‘a kind of pathetic stout-heartedness, a take-itand-come-up-for-more attitude to life’10 that reflected his own rugged outlook. After serving his apprenticeship in The Football Match, The Smoking Concert, The Casuals, Early Birds, London Suburbia, The G.P.O., The Bailiffs, Skating, The Dandy Thieves, Mr Perkins, M.P., and, above all, Mumming Birds Charlie became one of Fred’s most trusted comedians, remaining with him until 1913 when he toured the United States for a second time. Several of Karno’s performers had defected while in America, and, although Charlie assured the ‘Gov’nor’ that he would not join their ranks, he eventually

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succumbed to a lucrative offer from Max Sennett at the Keystone Film Company. Perhaps Fred should have anticipated such a move when Charlie began to manifest an acute, if dismissive, interest in the cinema. He recalled: When on tour he would visit cinemas in between our shows. And standing at the back of the hall, would follow the actions on the screen improvising lines which kept his fellow artists in roars of laughter and the audience would turn away from the movement on the screen to watch Charlie’s antics.11 Other Karno performers to make the switch from variety to film in the United States included Billy Reeves, Billy Ritchie, Albert Austin and Stan Laurel (later, with Oliver Hardy, to form one of the screen’s most popular partnerships). In the United Kingdom ex-Karno comic Seth Egbert joined with his brother Albert and a group of other music-hall performers to set up the Ec-Ko Film Company in 1912. It is surprising that Fred himself did not move into film-making until late in his career. He was not averse to diversification – building the King’s Theatre, Sunderland; managing and directing the King’s Theatre, Holloway; and opening a major entertainment complex on Tagg’s Island in the Thames. In 1896 he even experimented with a new entertainment technology when he exhibited a phonograph renamed ‘The Karnophone’. Fred’s recordings were amongst the earliest to feature celebrity music-hall performers (including May Evans, the aunt of famous British film comedian Fred ‘Pimple’ Evans) and were employed as a separate ‘turn’.12 After a year the novelty value of the ‘Karnophone’ began to wane and Fred dropped it from the act. Although he does not appear to have considered adding filmmaking to his music-hall activities, Fred was concerned about the effect that motion pictures might have on his sketches. When the firm of Pathé Frère issued At the Music Hall in 1907 he was quick to

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seek an injunction and damages on the grounds that the film was a copy of Mumming Birds. For the purpose of comparison the court temporarily moved its proceedings to the Oxford Music Hall where, on the afternoon of 6 April 1908, both the sketch and the film were presented. Judge Mr Justice Jelf sat at a table placed in the central stalls gangway, laughing throughout the Karno production. His merriment was not sufficient to influence his judgement for he decided that, although the film was a direct copy and had the effect of devaluing Karno productions, the sketch was not a dramatic piece protected under copyright laws.13 Fred seems to have been less worried about film performers using techniques developed under his guidance. Pioneer director and excircus clown Dave Aylott recalled: There were a number of Fred Karno boys in the early days. Ernie Westo was a Karno boy, and Jack Lovell was another. They were pretty regular with us. The others would join us at different times when they were not touring, and some of the old boys have told me that Charlie Chaplin was one of this number, but I cannot remember if it was so. I did not know the names of them all. Coleby and I built quite a number of plots around these boys, as they were all such good knockabouts, and from these we formed our troupe of ‘Comic Coppers.’ ‘The Keystone Kops’ as many of my readers will remember, became famous in American films, but years after we had been featuring ‘The Comic Coppers’. . . They were a bunch of real comedians, and nothing bothered them. They would do all sorts of falls on any kind of surface, even concrete roads, without hurting themselves. One of the funniest tricks, as some people may remember, was the file of funny policemen going on duty. The first one is struck by

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someone, he falls back on the others, and they all collapse in a heap. The above always got a laugh. Bob Reed, Johnny Butt, Ernie Westo and Sid Butler were exceptionally good at this sort of comedy, and worked with me until the outbreak of the first World War, when we all split up to wear a different sort of uniform.14 Fred was short, in temper as well as stature. To his employees he was often cruel, sarcastic, mean and domineering. To the mother of his eight children he was considerably less pleasant. He had met 17-year-old Edith Cuthbert at the Theatre Royal, Stockport, during the 1888 pantomime, marrying her at Lambeth Registry Office just a few weeks later. For some time Edith appeared under the name Winnie Warren, ‘Premier Tyrolean Vocalist and Serio’, but the birth of their first child, Frederick Arthur, in 1891 brought an end to her stage career. The subsequent death in infancy of their next six children suggests a congenital condition such as syphilis. Fred was an abusive husband and was involved with a large number of women he had met in the course of his theatrical enterprises. Three weeks after the birth of their eighth child Leslie, in February 1902, Edith received a package from Fred containing a selection of compromising photographs of him and another woman. He had always been an aggressive self-publicist, but his motive in providing Edith with such incontrovertible evidence of his infidelity was unclear. It seems that he considered her sufficiently downtrodden to accept the presence of a third party in their marriage. Edith’s spirit had not been totally crushed, however, and she moved out of Vaughn Road to seek refuge with the comedian Charlie Bell and his wife Clara. In turn Fred set up home with his showgirl mistress Marie Moore. Following his refusal to offer her any support during their separation Edith was compelled to sue for divorce in 1904.

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After seeing Fred’s candid photos the judge had no other option than to decide in her favour, granting her custody of Leslie and awarding her a £10 weekly maintenance payment. Fred could well afford Edith’s £10. Ignoring a wave of disapproval that ran around the variety profession he indulged his passion for fast cars and loose women, spending much of his spare time on The Highland Lassie, a houseboat moored on the Thames, at Tagg’s Island close to Hampton Court. Conscious that there were a few finer houseboats on the river Fred planned to eclipse them all with a floating palace. The Astoria, laid down at nearby Brentford in 1912, was 90 feet long with a spacious sun terrace partially covered by a cast iron and glass canopy. With its ornately moulded ceilings, mahogany panelling and marble bathroom the boat cost around £20,000. It was on the deck of the Astoria that Charlie impressed ‘the gov’nor’ with a torrent of obscene language. He had been specially favoured with an invitation to spend a weekend on the houseboat and was chatting with Fred after dinner on a pleasant summer’s evening. Suddenly they were interrupted by a foppish man in a rowing boat who took exception to the Astoria’s size and colourful decorations. Turning to his lady companion he mocked the houseboat and its occupants. When Fred’s loudest raspberry proved incapable of stopping the flow of sarcastic comments, Charlie decided that the only tactic was to confirm the ‘flannelled fool’s prejudices. A barrage of swearwords was sufficient to repel the interloper, leaving Charlie to ponder on the narrow-mindedness of the English class system. ‘The idiot’s ridiculous outburst was not a criticism of taste, but a snobbish prejudice against what he considered lower-class ostentatiousness,’ he later wrote, ‘the everpresent class tabulating I felt keenly while in England.’15 The usually quiet backwaters of the Thames at Hampton might have been a long way from Xanadu, but Kubla Karno soon decreed

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a stately pleasure dome. Fred looked at the dilapidated hotel on Tagg’s Island and began to hatch another grandiose scheme. Early in 1913 he took out a 40-year building lease on the island, agreeing to an initial rent of £150 a year, increasing to £350. By the early summer a new hotel, built to the designs of theatre architect Frank Matcham, was open for business. The ‘Karsino’ offered luxury accommodation with the added attractions of an oak-panelled billiard room, an enormous ballroom, landscaped gardens and 100 small boats for use on the river. Having invested £26,000 on the hotel, Fred spent a further £44,000 on additional attractions that were completed in the summer of 1914. The Palm Court Concert Pavilion had a reversible stage so that audiences could be seated either inside or, in good weather, on the lawn outside. A domed roof had painted views of Windsor Castle, Hampton Court Palace and other riverside beauty spots. The outbreak of World War I in August 1914 dealt the ‘Karsino’ a severe blow from which it never fully recovered. By 1918 Fred estimated he had lost £25,000 on the venture, following which a number of indifferent summers put him even further into the red. To add to his troubles a fire gutted much of the ‘Fun Factory’ in 1916. With his sketch troupes diminished in number and struggling to find work in a shrinking network of music halls, he branched out, introducing several touring revues. But Fred’s highhanded approach did not lie easy on post-war performers and he lost more money in a contractual wrangle with the cast of The 1923 Revue. As his own fortunes declined he was painfully aware that Charlie Chaplin, whom he had once paid £3. 10s. a week had now become the highest-paid comedian in the world. After offering the film star £1,000 a week to appear in a ‘mammoth revue’ that C. B. Cochran was planning at the London Opera House, Kingsway, Fred received a polite letter from Charlie indicating that though such a figure would have given him

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‘heart failure’ earlier in his career it was now insufficient to coax him away from the United States.16 During the early years of Charlie’s cinema success Fred had a number of brushes with the world of films. One Sunday in May 1915 Britain’s main rival to Chaplin, ‘Pimple’, filmed one of his 200 comedies on Tagg’s Island. He was joined in the slapstick production by members of Karno’s Parlez-vous Français? company, including Syd Walker who was later to become a popular radio personality. Fred gave his blessing to the film, entertaining its performers to lunch at the ‘Karsino’.17 No doubt Fred ‘Pimple’ Evans (the nephew of Karno comedian Seth Egbert) also looked enviously at Charlie’s opulent Hollywood lifestyle, remembering the days when they had hung out together on the streets of Kennington. In 1923 Fred Karno reprised his original role of ‘The Jew’ in a film version of Early Birds directed by the French actor and comedian Albert Brouett, a performance now sadly lost along with versions of Mumming Birds and Jail Birds.18 With his financial situation deteriorating rapidly, Fred was forced to sell the ‘Fun Factory’ and the Astoria. In October 1927 he was declared bankrupt with liabilities amounting to £19,768 and assets of £1,662. Two years later, in an attempt to reconstruct his collapsed career, he travelled to the United States where Charlie greeted him as an old and respected friend. Despite a flurry of publicity, Fred was unable to find work until another of his proteges who had made good in the film world, Stan Laurel, introduced him to the director Hal Roach. Employed as an advisor-cum-apprentice, Fred managed to survive six months in the alien world of an American film studio before his superiority complex reasserted itself. Muttering that he was ‘no bloody use’ to Roach he packed his bags and returned to London. Fred still felt he could make headway in the world of films. After writing scripts for a number of low-budget comedies, including a

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version of The Bailiffs starring the Crazy Gang double act Bud Flanagan and Chesney Allen, he set up the Fred Karno Film Company.19 He had made some money with a theatrical show called Real Life and now invested the profits in a last throw of the entrepreneurial dice. Unfortunately his first production, Don’t Rush Me (1935), featuring the music-hall comedian Robb Wilton was a box-office disaster. It was the end of the road for Fred, time finally to eat humble pie as the variety profession contributed towards a retirement package. Helped by a gift of £1,000 from Charlie, Fred was set up in a seaside offlicence business in Lilliput, a well-heeled suburb of Poole, in Dorset. After a few years of twiddling his thumbs he died of diabetes on 17 September 1941. For the period leading up to 1914 Fred’s progress had been unstoppable, but despite his success he had been heading in the wrong direction. Karno sketches were easily expandable and capable of filling the deepest and widest stages, often playing to audiences of 3,500 at the London Coliseum. But although able to compete with film in terms of elaborate effects and frantic action, his sketches became increasingly subverted by cinema’s ability to focus on the small rather than the large and on the individual rather than the group. The intimate connection between audience and performer that had been lost in the oversized music hall was now restored by the gradual evolution of the screen close-up. With a raised eyebrow and an apologetic smile Charlie threw a spanner into the fun factory’s complicated works.

13 THE GREAT CALVERO – MASTER OF PANTOMIME AND COMIC SONGS The Great Calvero died at the Empire Theatre of Varieties, the scene of many of his former successes. He had been a major star during the 1890s and early 1900s, alternating between appearances as a comic singer and as clown in Drury Lane pantomimes. Although appearing in many guises, the costume that he most frequently adopted was the ragged motley of a ‘Gentleman of the Road’. Amongst his best known numbers were ‘Oh for the Life of a Sardine’; ‘I’m an Animal Trainer’; and ‘Spring is Here’ (sung to the tune of George Washington’s Johnson’s ‘Laughing Song’). The highlight of his career took place in 1902 when he became the first music-hall performer to appear before a reigning monarch, the newly crowned Edward VII (an honour sometimes mistakenly accorded to his famous contemporary Dan Leno).1 In later years ill-health blighted his career and his death occurred during a star-studded benefit show organised to raise funds for his retirement. He had been married five times.2

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Such an obituary might have appeared for the tramp comedian Calvero, fictional hero of Charlie Chaplin’s Limelight. Charlie decided to make his film about Calvero and the British music hall after a ten-year period during which his once massive popularity in the United States had been eroded by accusations of immoral behaviour and, even worse, of being pro-Communist. With his own star on the wane he had given some thought to other artists who had lost touch with their audiences. His childhood and youth in Kennington had provided him with numerous examples of rejected performers, but in their failure he had often detected signs of fortitude, flexibility and a philosophical acceptance of life’s uncertainties. Many music-hall artists had struggled to survive as the medium in which they worked changed and finally disappeared in the face of competition from the cinema – spearheaded, of course, by Charlie Chaplin. But, by the late 1940s, Chaplin’s own career was threatened by radio and T.V. In the most personal of his films Limelight he found himself with parallels to draw, acknowledgements to make and, finally, a belated homage to render. The film’s opening scene reveals a Hollywood version of Kennington Road, with a long terrace of houses receding into the studio’s false perspective. A barrel organ plays to a group of street urchins and a hansom cab is parked outside a corner pub. Calvero is drunk, weaving his way back to his lodgings where he salutes the children (played by Charlie’s own children Geraldine, Josephine and Michael). It is impossible not to link the scene with Charlie’s recollections of his own father returning from extended drinking sessions. Alcohol had ruined both Chaplin Senior’s and Calvero’s careers, although in the latter’s case it was abandoning the drink that had caused him to lose his comic spark. Charles died of dropsy and cirrhosis of the liver; Calvero from a heart condition attributed to excessive drinking.

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Despite the temptation to see the film’s central character as a portrait of Charles Chaplin Senior, similarities between them are soon exhausted. Charles’s decline was rapid, whereas Calvero’s was tortuously drawn out. Although Charles had few engagements towards the end of his career, his demise was sudden, leaving him with little time to consider the nature of his failure. Calvero, on the other hand, was progressively transformed from being the most famous performer of his day into box-office ‘poison’, a disastrous falling-out with his audience that necessitated the adoption of a different name and a return to the lowest rungs of the entertainment ladder. It is the steady decline in popularity, the abandonment of a once-famous name and resurgence late in life that marks out Leo Dryden as, at least, a partial model for Calvero. Why Charlie chose the name ‘Calvero’ is not known. Somewhat too exotic for a musichall comedian, it was perhaps intended to reflect popular pantomime performers such as the Lupinos, the Paulos or even Dan Leno. Had he not presided so effectively over the destruction of his own career, changing tastes would probably have caused Calvero to be sidelined and eventually forgotten. Like many other comic singers of the 1880s/90s he combined verbal vulgarity with visual squalidness, qualities unlikely to appeal to the middle-class audiences who were increasingly being wooed by music-hall managers. Having previously provoked minimal comment, comic singers were widely disparaged by writers and journalists during the late 1890s. In a commentary to a lavishly illustrated book on ‘The Halls’ George Gamble found nothing good to say about ‘red nose’ comics: Some are not content to transform themselves into things of absurdity and laughter; they must need become things of horror and loathing. Some are not content to array themselves in appropriate garments flecked with colour, and provocative of mirth; they need bespread upon their persons unnecessary

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ILLUSTRATION 24. Chaplin as Calvero performing ‘I Am an Animal Trainer’.

rags maculated with mud, and suggestive of parasites . . . They are not vicious; but they are vulgar. They are not indecent; but they are indelicate.3 Gamble would not have approved of Calvero’s performances. In Limelight the comedian and a partner are seen poking fun at

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‘high brow’ musical recitals and, like the Two Macs, indulging in moments of mindless violence. As the proprietor of a flea circus Calvero is not only the trainer of two sexually rampant insects, but their willing host. And as a lecherous tramp he appears in a cross-talk routine with the elegantly demure Terry (played by Claire Bloom). Dressed in the short skirts of a serio-comic she feigns innocence in response to Calvero’s sexual banter: TERRY: ‘I like you. You feel things.’ CALVERO: ‘Now, don’t encourage me.’ TERRY: ‘So few have the capacity to feel.’ CALVERO: ‘Or [with echoes of Kitty Fairdale, Lily Harley and Leo Dryden’s song] the opportunity!’ By 1912 music hall was sufficiently purged of such impurities to justify the honour of a Royal Command Performance. The carefully chosen programme included comic sketches, magicians, acrobats, dancers, jugglers, the Imperial Russian Ballet, but only a handful of comic singers. The process left at least one critic pining for former days: . . . the music-hall stage has been invaded by hordes of marauding savages. Drawing-room entertainers in white-shirt front and jewelled décolleté; opera singers, fat and fatuous; balladmongers; Russian dancers; impertinent actors with snippets from the regular stage, have overrun the boards and shoved my dear naughty frou-frou girl and her red-nosed colleague into the suburbs.4 With his disreputable appearance, leering allusions to sex and bodily functions and cheerful admission of parasitical infestation, the once-great Calvero was going nowhere in the increasingly refined Edwardian ‘Variety Theatre’.

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The declining numbers of traditional comic singers meant that comedy sketches became one of music-hall’s principal means of representing ‘low’ or working-class life. But the characters who peopled Fred Karno’s comedy doss-houses, coffee-stalls, prisons and workhouses savoured more of vulgarization than vulgarity. His creations were gross stereotypes: the avaricious Jew, the bungling burglar, the bamboozled policeman, the mischievous urchin, the flirty housewife, the upper-class twit and the vile villain. Deprived of the personal touches with which solo performers enriched their material, such characters engaged the public only through the broadest of jokes and the most extravagant slapstick. In Fred’s celebrated sketch Mumming Birds ridicule was directed at the easiest of targets – a cast of variety performers. Mumming Birds played on and off for nearly half a century and became enshrined in film history as the model for Charlie Chaplin’s A Night in the Show (Keystone, 1915). The sketch was first presented at the Star Music hall, Bermondsey, south-east London in April 1904. All the classic Karno elements were present from the start: a complex stage set, a group of stereotyped protagonists, a precisely orchestrated knockabout routine and, permeating everything, a violently robust sense of humour. An early review outlined the ‘plot’: The programme that is arranged under the direction of Mr George Adney Payne at the palace over the water [the Canterbury Music Hall] is nightly sampled by a mirthloving crowd of South Londoners, who positively shout with laughter at the new production by Mr Fred Karno’s comedians entitled Mumming Birds, which has been seen at other London halls under the differing titles of Twice Nightly and A Stage Within a Stage. The fun arises mostly from the behaviour of certain occupants of the boxes of a temporary theatre fixed up on the stage, where a variety entertainment

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ILLUSTRATION 25. Charlie Chaplin as Calvero, the Tramp Comedian.

is in progress. The extempore and topical singer persists in composing verses about the wrong people, and is pelted by a terrible boy in the o. p. box; a ballad singer, most amusingly indistinct, evidently possesses fascinations for the funny

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individual in the prompt-side box, who is in a happy state of intoxication. Then there is the short-skirted damsel who deprecates in song and dance the doings of the naughty, naughty men; and the fun is on the up grade during the tricks of the conjuror. It, however, becomes uproarious with the announcement of the great Marconi, the ‘terrible Turkey,’ who is prepared to wrestle all comers, and who will forfeit twenty-five pounds if he fail to pin any opponent in five seconds. The challenge is immediately taken up by one of the troupe seated among the audience. But the laughter is loudest when the inebriated one before referred to, who has shown his dissatisfaction with the show in various ways, prepares himself for a contest with the wrestler, and eventually, after some droll falling about business, ‘downs’ him, claiming the promised reward of £25. A general mêlée ensues, and the curtains close in on an uproarious scene.5 As an entertainment that encouraged engagement and participation, music hall had always presented the fictionalized doings of its performers and comic or sentimental portrayals of its audiences. The Lion Comique George Leybourne had sung ‘She Danced Like a Fairy; she doted on Leybourne’, while Marie Lloyd told of ‘Marie Lloyd’s Charity Bazaar’. A romantic music-hall patron was the subject of Nelly Power’s ‘The Boy in the Gallery’ and disruptive customers supplied the knockabout comedy in Bessie Bellwood’s ‘Watch Cheer Ria’. The serio-comic Billie Barlow even offered advice to would-be blackface, patriotic, sentimental and comic performers in ‘The Way to Sing a Song’ (1902): Wear a pair of trousers that’s a mile too big, Put a bit of red upon your nose. Make a face, or fall down in the middle of the verse,

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And carefully repeat it if it goes. Do this when you’re singing of the lodgings by the sea; Shout it, and you can’t go wrong. Let your audience see they’ve got to have it! – there you are, And that’s the way to sing a comic song. With Mumming Birds music hall became less self-referential and more self-abasing, depicting its own performers as incompetent and banal and its audience as drunken and unsympathetic.The very title of the sketch evoked an archaic and inferior entertainment, the fairground mumming booth. As up-and-coming Karno comics Sydney and Charlie both came to play Archibald, ‘the drunken dude’ who was both a judge of and judgement on the world of music hall. What unease Charlie might have felt at sending up an entertainment that was so closely connected with his family was probably compounded when the sketch was presented in the United States. On two American tours of the renamed A Night in an English Music Hall (1910–1912, 1912–1913), Charlie colluded in making the British music hall an international joke. When Chaplin used Mumming Birds as the basis for his Keystone film comedy the action of the sketch was relocated to an American vaudeville theatre. The extempore singer, the serio-comic and the ‘Terrible Turk’ were replaced by a Hoochie Coochie dancer, a lady snake charmer and a fire-eater. The magic of film now allowed Charlie to play two characters; his familiar role of the tipsy swell and a rowdy Galleryite who brought the proceedings to a premature conclusion by spraying the whole house with a hose-pipe. In Charlie’s hands the sketch becomes less about pathetic performers and more about an awful audience. Archibald the drunk and the nameless fat boy were reinforced by an ugly woman in the stalls;

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two disgruntled men who objected to Archie sitting on their top hats; a formidably large female whose feathered bonnet obscured the stage; and a disorderly rabble occupying the gallery (impossible to depict in the original on-stage sketch). There was also an implication that the vaudeville theatre audience was stuffier than the patrons of the picture palace. Made towards the end of Charlie’s career Limelight was also concerned with unpredictable music-hall audiences. Following longrunning allegations of being a Communist sympathizer Charlie had been troubled by the poor reception of his previous film Monsieur Verdoux. At its premiere in 1947 he had wandered from stalls to gallery, uneasily listening to the nervous laughter of supporters and the angry hisses of his enemies. Although regarding the theme of Limelight as ‘completely opposite to the cynical pessimism of Monseur Verdoux’,6 Charlie still chose to explore the destructive relationship that existed between audience and performer. In his first on-stage appearance in Limelight the fallen star Calvero is quite as abject as the turns depicted in Mumming Birds and A Night in the Show. He has yet to rediscover his comic genius and readily agrees with a heckler who calls out ‘Alright old boy, let’s all go home’. But he does not stay home. He accepts a low-paid engagement as a clown in the Empire ballet and later joins a group of street entertainers; ‘it’s the tramp in me’, he reflects. At the conclusion of the film a disparate audience are united in their appreciation of a rejuvenated Calvero. The tramp in Charlie Chaplin had originated in the mid-1890s when his family had lived on the very fringes of society. Around 1900 he and his friend Tommy Briscoe had planned a ‘Millionaire Tramps’ double act, but Charlie had already been made painfully aware of the comic potential of ill-matched clothing when other children dubbed him ‘Sir Francis Drake’. Although threadbare and battered costumes were the uniform of many comic singers, fully

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fledged tramps were not usually depicted on the music-hall stage until the late 1890s. It was the popular illustrated press that had most frequently portrayed the tramp, the cartoonist Tom Browne creating two memorable characters in the disreputable form of ‘Weary Willie’ and ‘Tired Tim’. Such tramps were normally presented as renegade figures dismissive of any conventional morality. They stole clothes from washing lines, filched food from open windows and made lascivious advances to unaccompanied females. They lazed while others toiled, but were swift and stealthy in the pursuit of mischief. Tramps were popular in American vaudeville, but were only glimpsed in British halls in the performances of W. E. Ritchie, W. C. Fields and James Harrigan (all visitors from the United States). Had he existed, Calvero would have been one of the very first British tramp comedians. Unlike the vaudeville and comic-strip tramp much of the humour of the British red-nose or low comedian derived from his perceived attempts to remain within society. The state of ‘shabby-gentility’ in which a social or professional outcast made a pathetically unsuccessful attempt to keep up appearances had long been an ingredient of Victorian literature and of music-hall song. Victor Liston had explored the theme in a dramatic number dating back to 1868: I’m too proud to beg, too honest to steal; I know what it is to be wanting a meal. My tatters and rags I try to conceal – I’m one of the Shabby Genteel! Thirty years later when Harry Bedford was elaborating on the comic aspects of being ‘One of the Shabby Genteel’ (‘I wore shooting boots, but the ones I wear now/Have got all the toes

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shooting out’) 13-year-old Charlie had a real-life meeting which cruelly exposed his social pretensions. While staying with his mother’s friend in upmarket Stockwell he had become friendly with the son of middle-class neighbours. Because the colonel’s mistress was kept in luxury it was assumed that Charlie’s status was higher than it actually was. After the brief excursion into the affluent classes had ended, he was horrified to meet his old playmate in a Kennington street. It was a classic shabby-genteel encounter with Charlie putting on his ‘best, cultured voice’7 and trying to excuse his extensively patched outfit as the clothes he wore for carpentry classes. A similar situation occurred in Blackmore’s agency. Although chronically embarrassed by his down-at-heel appearance, Charlie refused to be thwarted in his theatrical ambitions. Dabbing some polish on his cracked shoes and brushing down his threadbare suit, he continued to attend until he secured an all-important break. When his first film Making a Living was released early in 1914 Charlie appeared not as a tramp, but one of the shabby-genteel. Constantly adjusting his cuffs and trouser turn-ups to disguise their frayed edges and pulling his frock coat tight to conceal the absence of a shirt, he tried to ingratiate himself with others more securely rooted in their social position. With the adoption of his tramp persona Charlie became shabbier and less genteel, but he still equipped himself with such tokens of respectability as a collar and tie, bowler hat and cane. In its final state his comic character combined elements of both the red-nose comedian and the American-style tramp. Charlie’s determination and eventual success was in stark contrast to Eva Lester’s catastrophic decline, an episode that is related in My Autobiography immediately following the shabby–genteel encounter. With firsthand experience of stage failure he was to display an almost morbid fascination with performers whose careers had

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foundered or ended in disaster. He listed once-famous comedians who had committed suicide. Marceline the Hippodrome clown had shot himself while listening to a sentimental gramophone record; the comic singers T. E. Dunville and Mark Sheridan had ended their own lives after receiving adverse criticism; and Frank Coyne, ‘a gay, bouncy type’, had taken a razor and cut his throat from ear to ear. In Limelight Calvero lectures Terry after he has rescued her from a gas-filled room: ‘Are you in pain? That’s all that matters. The rest is fantasy.’ When she remonstrates that her life is hopeless he suggests: ‘Then live without hope. Live for the moment.’ Defeat, in all of its spirit-sapping manifestations, was part of the human condition, but the unconditional surrender implicit in self-destruction was anathema to Charlie. In a 1966 interview he reiterated his philosophy: ‘I think life is a very wonderful thing, and must be lived under all circumstances, even in misery.’8 Charlie’s respect was reserved for those who made the most of what fate had dealt them or who refused to buckle under the pressure of adversity. He particularly remembered two pairs of men who contrived to make a living in the hinterland at the rear of Kennington Road. The first, a father and son from Glasgow, made toy boats from materials discarded by local shops, while the second worked throughout the day chopping salvaged timber and tying it into bundles which they sold for firewood. Another local character, ‘Rummy’ Binks, defied crippling rheumatism to find employment minding horses outside Uncle Spencer’s pub. His shuffling gait was to supply the original inspiration for Charlie’s funny walk. Among the members of the musichall profession that Charlie admired were Marie Lloyd and Joe Zarmo, for their conscientiousness and self-discipline, and the old-timers G. H. Chirgwin and George Robey for their stamina in pursuing extended careers. After watching Robey perform in 1931, Charlie told him: ‘I really think you are wonderful – as

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ILLUSTRATION 26. Chaplin and music-hall comedian George Robey exchange costumes, London, 1931.

agile and strong as a man of twenty-five!’9 At the time George was 62, the same age as Charlie when he portrayed Calvero. As the veteran Calvero, Charlie’s performances in Limelight reflect those of a traditional music-hall comedian; broad in general effect, but containing much specific and closely observed detail. The table-top flea circus is juxtaposed with a painted big top tent on the backcloth behind him. His miniature show seems strangely at odds with the dimensions of the theatre in which it is performed. Like Chirgwin, who often entertained audiences by manipulating two clay pipes to

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dance a hornpipe, Calvero creates an intimate entertainment within a large, crowded auditorium. Early versions of the screenplay would have further emphasized his individualism by introducing a troupe of German acrobats onto the benefit bill. Even more important to Charlie than recreating the style of earlier performers was his desire to show how they had faced the hardships of theatrical life.‘I’m an old weed,’ he makes Calvero declare,‘the more you cut me down the more I spring up again.’ In Limelight his final, glorious flowering is witnessed by two audiences. The first is made up of the fictional patrons of the Empire Theatre who are captivated to see a once-famous performer turn back time, both in personal and theatrical terms. The second consists of generations of filmgoers who have been engaged by him as a dramatic character, while marvelling at his creator’s unflagging creativity and comic genius. At the close of Limelight Calvero and Chaplin are both triumphant. Through their synthesis the artistry and bravery of a generation of music-hall performers are temporarily resurrected on the cinema screen.

Notes 1: OVERTURE – ACROSS THE BRIDGE

1. Dr Neil Cream was executed in November 1892 for the murder of four south-east London prostitutes. 2. Chaplin, Charles, My Autobiography. London, 1964, p. 2. 3. Ibid., p. 28. 4. Chaplin, Charles, My Wonderful Visit. London, 1922, p. 90. 5. Ulm, Gerith von, Charlie Chaplin: King of Tragedy. Caldwell, Idaho, 1940. Quoted on title page.

2: ‘DASHING’ EVA LESTER – THE CALIFORNIAN GEM

1. 2. 3. 4.

5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11.

UK censuses 1901, 1911. The Era, 11 November 1882. Ibid., 21 July 1883. John McDougall, a member of the London County Council, founder member of the National Vigilance Association and an implacable opponent of music-hall immorality. Hawke’s Bay Herald, 14 May 1890. The Era, 17 January 1885. The Stage, 7 December 1883. The Daily News, 30 July 1892. The Era, 26 September 1891. Chaplin, Charles, My Autobiography. London, 1964, p. 1. Reynold’s Newspaper, 15 October 1893.

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12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17.

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The Era, 23 January 1886. Ibid., 23 January 1886. Reynold’s Newspaper, 14 November 1897. Daily Mail, 12 February 1897. The Entr’acte, 21 May 1898. Chaplin, My Autobiography, pp. 52–3. Chaplin records the name as ‘Dashing’ Eva Lestock, an error probably caused by a subliminal memory of Lestock Place, East Street.

3: LITTLE LILY HARLEY – ORIGINAL AND REFINED

1. Contemporary descriptions of East Street and the surrounding area are to be found in Charles Booth’s survey notebooks, Library of the London School of Economics. 2. Chaplin, Charles, My Autobiography. London, 1964, p. 7. 3. Gamble, George, The Halls. London, 1899, p. 26. 4. Stead, W. T., ‘The Maiden Tribute of Modern Babylon’, Pall Mall Gazette, 6–10 July 1885. 5. Chaplin, My Autobiography, p. 5. 6. It is possible that Hannah toured South Africa with a theatrical troupe. R. J. Minney probably quotes Sydney when he writes: ‘. . . she would tell them of her amusing experiences on the halls, in theatrical boarding houses, in railway trains, of her journey to South Africa with a theatrical troupe, of people she had met there . . .’ 7. Chaplin, My Autobiography, p. 9. 8. Letter quoted in Robinson, David, Chaplin: His Life and Art. London, 2001, p. 227. 9. National Archive, J77/647. 10. Chaplin, My Autobiography, p. 115. 11. In a number of early interviews Charlie claimed that he had been born in Fontainebleau, near Paris. 12. The Era, 9 January 1886.

NOTES

13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21.

22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34.

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Ibid., 16 January 1886. The Entr’acte, 26 June 1886. The Era, 24 July 1886. The Entr’acte, 29 January 1887. Darwin Street is only a short distance from Charlie Chaplin’s birthplace, East Street. Weissman, Stephen, Chaplin: a Life. New York, 2008, p. 18. The Era, 29 October 1887. Porter, Robert P., ‘The Toilers of London’, Hartford Weekly Times, 21 July 1887. Chaplin, My Autobiography, pp. 9–10. Charlie stated that his birthplace was East Lane, i. e. East Street, Walworth, as did Leo Dryden. The 1891 census records his place of birth as Walworth. The Era, 11 May 1889. Chaplin, My Autobiography, p. 8. The Era, 28 November 1891. Ibid., 23 January 1892. Chaplin, Charles, Charlie Chaplin’s Own Story. Bloomington, 1985, p. 2. Chaplin, My Autobiography, pp. 6–7. Flitch, J. E. Crawford, Modern Dancing and Dancers. London, 1912, p. 65. Film Weekly, 4 April 1931. Quoted in Weissman, Chaplin: a Life, p. 30. Chaplin, My Autobiography, pp. 113–15 Chaplin, Charles, My Wonderful Visit. London, 1922, pp. 107–10. Charlie Chaplin Archives. One such advert appearing in The Era for 18 November 1893 may have been the one that resulted in the disastrous engagement: ‘WANTED, Lady Serios, also Male Artists, for Monday next. Wire, lowest terms. F. Williams, Canteen Agent, 193 Victoria-road, Aldershot.’

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35. Chaplin stated that the manager had previously seen him entertaining some of Hannah’s friends. Chaplin, My Autobiography, p. 10. 36. Gus Elen first performed the song in about March 1893. 37. Chaplin, My Autobiography, p. 11. 38. Minney, R. J., Chaplin – The Immortal Tramp. London, 1954, p. 7. 39. Ibid., p. 3. 40. Ibid., p. 15. 41. Quoted in Robinson, Chaplin: His Life and Art, p. 27. 42. Quoted in Robinson, Chaplin: His Life and Art, p. 60. 43. Chaplin, My Autobiography, p. 14. 44. Robinson, Chaplin: His Life and Art, p. 507. 45. The Mansfield News, 8 May 1921. 46. ‘Usual success of LITTLE LILY HARLEY, Buffalo, Belfast. Reengaged through success for Third Week at an increase of salary. FOLLY, GLASGOW to follow. Lovely photos, by Charles, Esq., Belfast . . .’ The Era, 19 July 1886. 47. The Era, 9 January 1886. 48. Ibid., 8 May 1886. Review of Peckham Varieties, London. 49. Aberdeen Weekly Journal, 24 August 1886. 50. The Stage, 18 July 1886. 51. Chaplin, My Autobiography, p. 13. 52. The Encore, 14 June 1895. 53. Chaplin, My Autobiography, p. 27. 54. Charlie Chaplin Archives. 55. The American Magazine, November 1918. 4: KITTY FAIRDALE – THE CRÈME DE LA CRÈME OF TERPSICHOREAN SERIO-COMICS

1. Chaplin, Charles, My Autobiography. London, 1964, pp. 8–9. 2. UK census 1871.

NOTES

3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25.

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Illustrated Police News, 25 June 1892. The Northern Echo, 23 July 1889. The Era, 1 August 1891. Ibid., 18 July 1891. Ibid., 28 November 1891. Ibid., 27 February 1892. Ibid., 20 January 1894. Ibid., 16 April 1892. The Encore, 14 June 1895 Chaplin, My Autobiography, p. 13. The Stage, 8 March 1894. Review of the Royal Music Hall, Holborn. Kitty returned to Southampton on 3 September 1895. The Era, 24 June 1893. Coventry Evening Telegraph, 14 March 1899. Pearson’s Weekly, 24 September 1921. Ibid. The Daily Mail, 2 September 1921. The Era, 7 January 1899. The Daily Express, 6 February 1912. The Daily Express for 13 April 1920 also reports that Hannah was living at Hove ‘quite recently’. Chaplin claimed that the original inspiration for Calvero was a well-known American comedian, Frank Tinney. Chaplin, Charles, My Wonderful Visit. London, 1922, p. 101. Robey, George, Looking Back on Life. London, 1933, p. 263.

5: CHARLES CHAPLIN – THE POPULAR METROPOLITAN COMIQUE

1. Robinson, David, Chaplin: His Life and Art. London, 2001, p. 2. 2. Bell’s Life in London, 17 April 1886.

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3. The Stage, 22 December 1882. The performer, of course, might have been another Charles Chaplin. 4. The Era, 12 March 1887. 5. Ibid., 4 August 1888. 6. A popular phrase used to describe the evolution of music hall mentioned by H. H. Hibbert in Fifty Years of a Londoner’s Life. London, 1916, p. 31. 7. Anstey, F., ‘London Music Halls’, Harper’s New Monthly Magazine. New York, 1891. 8. The Era, 5 October 1889. 9. Ibid., 14 December 1889. 10. The Stage, 20 December 1889. 11. Among his comic songs were ‘What’s the Row?’ (1890), ‘Hi Diddle Diddle’ (1891), ‘Oh! Mr Jackson’ (1891); ‘Now What Will Become of Poor Old Ireland, or Charlie Parlie’ (1891), ‘A Millionaire’ (1892), ‘The Girl Was Young and Pretty’ (1893), ‘Oui! Tray Bong! Or My Pal Jones’ (1893), ‘R. H. I. N. O.’ (1893), ‘Jack Jones’ (1894), ‘She Must Be Witty, She Must Be Pretty’ (1896) and ‘My Son Jack’ (1898). Dramatic numbers included ‘Rejected Loves’ (1892), ‘Lucy; or, the Prodigal’s Daughter’ (1892), ‘England’s Champions’ (1893), ‘The Land That Gave Us Birth’ (1894), ‘The Workhouse Gate’ (1894), ‘One of the Best’ (1894), and ‘How he Wins and Loses’ (1895), ‘The 60 Years Reign’ (1897) . 12. Music Hall, No. 42, May 2003. 13. The Era, 26 May 1894. 14. Chaplin, My Autobiography. London, 1964, p. 27. 15. ‘Flaneur’, ‘Thirty Years Behind the Footlights’, Nottingham Evening News, 3 March 1917. 16. Reynold’s Newspaper, 12 April 1896. 17. A Helena Baggallay was living at 133 Brixton Road in 1896. Born in Cork, Ireland, in about 1869 she married Robert Baggallay,

NOTES

18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39.

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an engineer, in 1891. They already had a son, Robert, born in Lambeth in 1885. Robinson, Chaplin: His Life and Art, p. 25. The Era, 4 September 1898. Official documents give the house number as 289 while Charlie remembered it as 287. Chaplin, My Autobiography, p. 28. Charlie Chaplin Archives. Chaplin, My Autobiography, p. 41. Ibid., p. 30. Ibid., p. 29. ‘Flaneur’, ‘Thirty Years Behind the Footlights’, Nottingham Evening News, 3 March 1917. Chaplin, My Autobiography, pp. 33–4. Ibid., p. 30. The Era, 12 September 1896. Review of the Forester’s Music Hall. Ibid., 24 July 1897. Review of Gatti’s, Westminster Bridge Road. Ibid., 10 March 1892. Review of the Bedford Music Hall, Camden Town. The Stage, 28 December 1899. The Hull Entr’acte, 28 September 1898. The Era, 17 December 1898. Review of Canterbury Music Hall. The Stage, 6 September 1900. Review of Camberwell Theatre of Varieties. The South African Pictorial, 19 September 1925. Chaplin, Charles, My Autobiography, p. 34. Minney, R. J., Chaplin: the Immortal Tramp. London, 1954, pp. 4 –5. Chaplin, My Autobiography, p. 43.

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40. 41. 42. 43.

Ibid., p. 55. Ibid., p. 55. Ibid., p. 35. Ibid., p. 88.

6: ARTHUR WEST – TOPICAL AND EXTEMPORE VOCALIST

1. The Era, 11 November 1882. 2. Ibid., 30 June 1888. Review of the Standard Music Hall, Pimlico. 3. Ibid., 1 March 1890. 4. Ibid., 14 January 1899. 5. Deseret News, 11 April 1893. 6. The Era, 16 February 1889. 7. The Birmingham Daily Post, 6 June 1889. 8. ‘A Chat with Jenny Valmore’, The Era, 3 February 1894. 9. Cochran, Charles B., The Secrets of a Showman. London, 1929, p. 10. 10. Armstrong’s office was situated conveniently close to the Lambeth Police Court at 1 Renfrew Road. 11. The Era, 28 June 1890. 12. The Daily News, 21 June 1890. 13. Reynold’s Newspaper, 11 January 1891. 14. The Era, 3 February 1894. 15. Ibid., 23 April 1891. 16. Ibid., 13 June 1891. 17. Robey, George, Looking back on Life. London, 1933, p. 28. 18. The Era, 22 December 1888. 19. Ibid., 19 October 1889. 20. Ibid., 30 January 1892.

NOTES

227

21. Reynold’s Newspaper, 30 April 1893. 22. Western Mail (Cardiff), 7 February 1900. 7: LEO DRYDEN – THE KIPLING OF THE HALLS

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24.

The Daily Express, 1 August 1925. The Era, 16 July 1904. The Encore, 9 November 1894. Ibid., 9 November 1894. The Era, 10 March 1888. Ibid., 2 March 1889. The Encore, 9 November 1894. Ibid., 9 November 1894. The Era, 31 October 1891. Newspaper review quoted in Dryden’s card, The Era, 23 April 1892. The Era, 29 October 1892. The Bioscope, 11 March 1915. Evening News, undated clipping in the Charlie Chaplin Archive. The Era, 26 November 1892. Minney, R. J., Chaplin: the Immortal Tramp. London, 1953, p. 3. The Pall Mall Gazette, 14 June 1895. The Era, 23 November 1895. Ibid., 24 November 1888. Ibid., 22 December 1888. The Entr’acte, 2 April 1892. Ibid., 2 June 1894. The Era, 16 July 1904. Lloyd’s Weekly News, 3 April 1910. ‘One wet evening in 1913 I was walking down Drury Lane, in the direction of the Middlesex, with Charles East by my side.

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25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30.

31.

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A shabby figure was singing The Miner’s Dream of Home to the gallery queue outside the theatre. It was none other than the originator of the song, Leo Dryden himself. He was down and out, with only a few coppers in his hat to secure a night’s rest in the nearby doss house.’ B.B.C. interview with Douglas Payne quoted in East, John, ‘Neath the Mask: The Story of the East Family. London, 1967, p. 256. The Evening News, 28 February 1921. South African Pictorial, 11 October 1924. The Era, 30 November 1922. The Stage, 5 May 1932. Certainly not Ada Colley who died in 1947. Chilton, Charles, ‘Leo Dryden and “The Miner’s Dream of Home”’, in Chaplin’s Limelight and the Music Hall Tradition. Jefferson, North Carolina, 2006, pp. 133–4. Charlie Chaplin Archives.

8: WILL GODWIN – DOYEN OF DRAMATIC SKETCH ARTISTS

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

The Era, 20 April 1879. Ibid., 25 April 1885. Lloyd’s Weekly, 17 February 1901. The Era, 17 July 1897. Ibid., 4 July 1901. The Performer, 29 May 1913. During the late 1890s number 24 Chester Street provided a London base for the Sisters Sprightly and the comedian Johnny Worman. 8. Produced at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, in 1901. 9. Produced at the Coliseum, London, in 1905.

NOTES

229

9: THE EIGHT LANCASHIRE LADS – CHARACTERISTIC AND CHAMPION CLOG DANCERS

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15.

Chaplin, Charles, My Autobiography. London, 1964, p. 45. The Era, 10 April 1897. Ibid., 24 April 1897. Ibid., 22 May 1897. Western Mail (Cardiff ), 18 May 1897. Crawford Flitch, J. E., Modern Dancing and Dancers. London, 1912, p. 88. Chaplin, My Autobiography, p. 5. Minney, A. J., Chaplin – The Immortal Tramp. London, 1954, p. 7. Chaplin, My Autobiography, p. 38. Mellor, G. J., The Northern Music Hall. Newcastle upon Tyne, 1970, p. 109. Burke, Thomas, City of Encounters. London, 1932, p. 137. Chaplin, My Autobiography, p. 43. Ibid., p. 42. Robinson, David, Chaplin: His Life and Art. London, 2001, p. 606. The Daily Mail, 2 September 1921. 10: JESSIE MACNALLY – THE DUBLIN GIRL

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8.

The Era, 24 April 1886. Ibid., 20 April 1879. Ibid., 2 March 1889. Ibid., 1 November 1890. The Era, 3 May 1890. Chaplin, My Autobiography, p. 64. Ibid., pp. 64–5. Ibid., p. 66.

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9. 10. 11. 12.

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Ibid., p. 70. Ibid., p. 43. The Era, 4 January 1890. Chaplin, My Autobiography, p. 57.

11: CASEY’S CIRCUS – A RAGGED BURLESQUE

1. Chaplin, Charles, My Autobiography. London, 1964, p. 75. 2. Ibid., p. 90. 3. Audio-tape interview with Joe Evans recorded by Denis Gifford, BFI National Archive. 4. ‘Wakeman’s Wanderings’, Deseret News, 11 April 1893. 5. ‘Later I got Charlie a job in a burlesque act in a circus.’ Interview with Dan Lipton, New York Times, 30 August 1928. 6. New York Times, 30 August 1928. 7. A point made convincingly by ‘A. J.’ Marriot in Chaplin: Stage by Stage, London, 2005, p. 66. 8. The Stage, 5 October 1950. 9. Ibid., 24 July 1913. 10. Chaplin, My Autobiography, pp. 94 –5. 11. The Entr’acte, 26 August 1905. 12. Interview with Will Murray, Weekly Record, 10 September 1921, quoted by Marriot, Chaplin: Stage by Stage, p. 75. 13. Daily Mail, 2 September 1921. 14. The Sunday Post, 18 January 1931. Interview with Will Murray. 15. Weekly Record, 10 September 1921.

12: FRED KARNO AND HIS COLOSSAL COMBINATION OF COMEDIANS

1. The Era, 22 June 1889. 2. Ibid., 27 June 1891.

NOTES

3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12.

13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18.

19.

231

Ibid., 22 January 1898. Ibid., 1 February 1896. Ibid., 24 September 1898. Ibid., 5 March 1898. Ibid., 1 July 1914. Karno claimed that the sketch for which he received £200 a week cost £130 a week to mount. Variety, January 1942. Picturegoer Weekly, 7 December 1933. Karno, Fred, ‘How I Discovered Charlie Chaplin’, The Gleaner, 19 October 1929. The Era, 24 October 1896. Other performers to be recorded included T. E. Dunville, Lizzie Howard, Jack Camp, O’Connor and Brady and Jessie De Grey. Daily Mail, 30 April 1908. Aylott, Dave, As I Was Walking Down Wardour Street. Unpublished autobiography, BFI National Archive, London. Chaplin, Charles, My Autobiography. London, 1964, p. 140. The Gleaner, 19 October 1929. The Era, 26 May 1915. The films made by Brouett-Egrot Productions feature other Karno performers such as Harry Wright, George Turner, Tom Coventry and Charlie Bell. Fred appears briefly at the start of The Bailiffs (1933).

13: THE GREAT CALVERO – MASTER OF PANTOMIME AND COMIC SONGS

1. Calvero’s royal command performance is referred to on a poster seen in Limelight. 2. Calvero’s obituary is based on preliminary notes for Limelight and the film itself.

232

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3. Gamble, George, introduction to Scotson-Clarke, G. F., The ‘Halls’. London, 1899, p. 25. 4. Titterton, W. R., From Theatre to Music Hall. London, 1912, p. 122. 5. The Era, 18 June 1904. 6. Chaplin, Charles, My Autobiography. London, 1964, p. 493. 7. Ibid., p. 52. 8. Interview with Richard Meryman, quoted in Jeffrey Vance, Chaplin: Genius of the Cinema. New York, 2003, p. 367. 9. Robey, George, Looking Back on Life. London, 1933, p. 264.

Bibliography Adeler, Edwin and West, Con, Remember Fred Karno. London, 1939. Anthony, Barry, ‘Leo Dryden’ in Music Hall, Number 33, London, 1986. Baker, Richard Anthony, British Music Hall: An Illustrated History. Thrupp, Gloucestershire, 2005. Besant, Walter, South London. London, 1912. Booth, Charles, Life and Labour of the People in London. London, 1889–1903, (Charles Booth Online Archive booth.lse.ac.uk). Burke, Thomas, City of Encounters. London, 1932. Chaplin, Charles, My Wonderful Visit. London, 1922. Chaplin, Charles, A Comedian Sees the World. New York, 1933. Chaplin, Charles, My Autobiography. London, 1964. Chaplin, Charles, My Life in Pictures. London, 1976. Epstein, Jerry, Remembering Charlie. London, 1988. Gallagher, J. P., Fred Karno: Master of Mirth and Tears. London, 1971. Gifford, Denis, Chaplin. London, 1974. Glasstone, Victor, Victorian and Edwardian Theatres; An Architectural and Social Survey. London, 1975. Grenier, Roger, Limelight (Les Feux de la Rampe). Paris, 1953. Guest, Ivor, Ballet in Leicester Square. London, 1992. Haining, Peter (ed.), The Legend of Charlie Chaplin. London, 1982. Kilgarriff, Michael, Sing Us One of the Old Songs: A Guide to Popular Song 1860– 1920. London, 1998. Lane, Rosa Wilder, Charlie Chaplin’s Own Story. 1916, reprinted Indiana, 1985. Louvish, Simon, Chaplin:The Tramp’s Odyssey. London, 2009. Lynn, Kenneth S., Charlie Chaplin and his Times. New York, 1997. McCabe, John, Charles Chaplin. New York, 1978.

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Manning, Harold, ‘Charlie Chaplin’s Early Life: Fact and Fiction’ in Historical Journal of Film, Radio and Television, Vol. III, Number 1, Oxford, 1983. Marriott, ‘A. J.’, Chaplin: Stage by Stage. London, 2005. Minney, R. J., Chaplin: the Immortal Tramp. London, 1954. Mitchell, Glenn, The Chaplin Encyclopedia. London, 1997. Payne, Robert, The Great Charlie. London, 1952. Plowden, Alison, The Case of Eliza Armstrong: A Child of 13 Bought For £5. London, 1974. Porter, Cecilia and Gardener, Martin Tilbrook, Charles Chaplin Senior. Six Victorian Music Hall Songs originally performed by Charlie Chaplin’s Father. Herefordshire, 2012. CD and book. Robinson, David, Chaplin: His Life and Art. London, 1985 (revised edition 2001). Scheide, Frank and Mehran, Hooman (eds.), Chaplin’s Limelight and the Music Hall Tradition. Jefferson, North Carolina, 2006. Sims, George R. (ed.), Living London; It’s Work and Play. It’s Humour and It’s Pathos. It’s Sights and It’s Scenes. London, 1903. Smith, Stephen P., The Charlie Chaplin Walk. Ammanford, Carmarthenshire, 2010. Sobel, Raoul and Francis, David, Chaplin: Genesis of a Clown. London, 1997. Stein, Lisa K., Syd Chaplin: A Biography. Jefferson, North Carolina, 2011. Titterton, W. R., From Theatre to Music Hall. London, 1912. Ulm, Gerith von, Charlie Chaplin: King of Tragedy. Caldwell, Idaho, 1940. Vance, Jeffrey, Chaplin: Genius of the Cinema. New York, 2003. Weissman, Stephen, Chaplin: A Life. New York, 2008.

Index A ‘Across the Bridge’, 2 (ill.1), 119 Adams, Stephen, 120 Ainsworth, Harrison, 184 Aladdin and his Wonderful Lamp, 40, 62 Albert, Frank, 21, 25 Albert, Fred, 99 Allen, Chesney, 203 Allgood, Ernest, 6, 106 Allgood, Mrs, 6, 106 Anderson, Harry, 99 Anstey, F., 76 Armstrong, W. H., 108–9 Ashcroft, W. J., 167 Astoria, 200, 202 At the Music Hall, 197 Athya, Captain, 7, 186 Atkins, Norton, 86, 92 Austin, Albert, 197 Aylott, Dave, 198

B Baggallay, Lena, 83–4 Bailiffs,The, 196, 203 Barlow, Billie, 211 Barrett, Wilson, 53, 132 Bates, Blanche, 139 Beauchamp, George, 113

Bedford, Harry, 214 ‘Beer, Beer, Glorious Beer’, 88 Bell, Charlie and Clara, 199 Bellwood, Bessie, 37, 59, 114, 146, 211 Bercovici, Konrad, 44 Bernhardt, Sarah, 181 Bignell, Charles, 138 Binks, ‘Rummy’, 216 Binney, Constance, 139 Biron, Robert John, 22, 24, 109–10, 114 Bishop, George Edward, 7 Blackmore’s Theatrical Agency, 175 Blitz, Abraham, 107 Bloom, Claire, 8, 208 Bodie, Walford, 182–3 Boganny, Joe, 194 Boissets, The, 192 Bonehill, Bessie, 103–4, 107, 115 Bottomley, Horatio, 134 ‘Boy in the Gallery, The’, 16 Brinsworth House, Twickenham, 140 Briscoe, Tommy, 163, 213 Brompton Hospital, Fulham, 26 Brouett, Albert, 202 Brown, Katherine, 21 Browne, Tom, 214 Bullen, Fred, 17 Butler, Sid, 199

CHAPLIN’S MUSIC HALL

236

Butt, Johnny, 199 Byford, George, 55

C Calvero, 8, 44, 56, 69, 88, 106, 116–17, 119, 140–1, 163, 196, 204–18 Cane Hill Asylum, 50, 51, 65, 86, 172 Cardle, Harry, 179–80 Carroll, Lewis, 31 Casey’s Circus, 171, 174–88 Casey’s Court, 171, 178–81, 186 Cawley, James, 155, 157 Central London District Poor Law School, Hanwell, 49 Champion, Harry, 141 Chaplin, Albert (Charlie Chaplin’s uncle), 50 Chaplin, Aubrey (Charlie Chaplin’s cousin), 95 Chaplin, Charles (Charlie Chaplin’s father), 9, 11, 29–32, 35–7, 39, 49–51, 77–97, 98, 110, 113, 120, 142, 146, 152, 160–1, 173, 205–6 Chaplin, Charlie (Sir Charles Spencer): ambitions, 53, 161, 163, 174, 176; appearance at Aldershot Canteen, 46–7; appearances in Repairs, 177–8; appearances in Sherlock Holmes, 175–7; appearances with Casey’s Circus, 178–80, 182–8; appearances with the Eight Lancashire Lads, 50, 65, 95, 159–65; appearances with Fred Karno, 195–8, 212–3; attitude

towards failure and success, 9–10, 27, 173, 196, 200, 205; attraction to younger women, 32, 187; birth, 39, 74; early film experiences, 164–5, 197, 212–3, 215; early friendships, 163, 166, 171–3, 176, 178, 187–8, 214–5 early hardships, 9–10, 26–7, 47–50, 64, 84–6, 159–60, 166, 171–3, 174; failure to credit others, 58, 64, 69–70, 182, 184; influences on his films, 8, 44, 53, 60, 69, 88, 116–17, 140–1, 172–3, 196, 205–8, 212–13, 215–18; precocious performances, 41–2, 43, 46, 53, 160–1, 164, 176, 178, 182–6; relationship with aunt Kate, 58, 64–5, 68– 70; relationship with father, 58, 72, 82–3, 85, 88–9, 95–7; relationship with mother, 52–7, 126; solo debut, 187–8 Chaplin, Ellen (Charlie Chaplin’s aunt), 72 Chaplin, Ellen Elizabeth (Charlie Chaplin’s grandmother), 71–2 Chaplin, Geraldine (Charlie Chaplin’s daughter), 205 Chaplin, Hannah Harriet (née Hill) (Charlie Chaplin’s mother) 9, 11, 25, 27, 29–57, 58–70, 73–4, 82–4, 86, 97, 109, 116, 125–7, 130, 138, 149, 152, 159–60, 164, 166, 171–3, 208

237

INDEX

Chaplin, Josephine (Charlie Chaplin’s daughter), 205 Chaplin, Michael (Charlie Chaplin’s son), 205 Chaplin, Spencer (Charlie Chaplin’s grandfather), 71–2, 94 Chaplin, Spencer William Tunstill (Charlie Chaplin’s uncle), 72–3, 85, 88, 95, 216 Chaplin, Sydney (Charlie Chaplin’s half-brother), 32–4, 48–53, 56, 58, 64, 68, 82, 85, 86, 97, 125, 139, 149, 160, 172, 174, 177, 179 (ill. 22), 182, 194, 212 Charles Chaplin Advertising Service Company, 68 Charles II, King, 72 Chevalier, Albert, 161 Chirgwin, G. H., 35, 74 (ill. 9), 161, 216–7 Christ Church, 4, 49 Christie, John, 72 Cinderella, 164 Cinquevalli, Paul, 159, 163 Cochran, Charles B., 108, 201 Colley, Ada, 132–3 Collins, Lottie, 16, 60 Collins, Sam, 167 Cornille, Marguerite, 138 Costello, Tom, 138, 141, 146 Coyne, Frank, 216 Craggs, The, 6 Crazy Gang, The, 203 Cream, Neal, 4

D Darnley, Herbert, 193–4 Day, David, 81, 124 de Courville, Albert, 137–8 De Pledge, Helena, 83–4 Dickens, Charles, 134, 161, 185 Didcott, Hugh J., 76–7, 79, 110, 119 Dick Turpin’s Ride to York, 185 Dick Turpin’s Last Ride to York, 185 Dicke Turpin’s Ride to Yorke, 185 Dock Strike, The London, 112 Donnybrook; or, a Tale of ’98, 30 Don’t Rush Me, 203 ‘Down the Road’, 22 Doyle, Sir Arthur Conan, 174 Drake, Sir Francis, 48, 91 Dryden, Leo, 40–2, 52, 56, 82, 113, 116–41, 142, 146–7, 149, 152, 170, 206, 208 Dryden, Wheeler, 34, 40, 52, 61–4, 69, 116–17, 126–8, 134, 136, 138, 150, 152 Dunville, T. E., 61, 88, 216 Duprez, Fred, 187 Duprez, May Moore, 149

E ‘’E Dunno Where ’E Are’, 7, 46–7 Early Birds, 194, 202 Edison, Thoma Alva, 163 Ec-Ko Film Company, 197 Edward VII, King, 204 Egbert Brothers, 172, 197 Egbert, Seth, 194, 202

CHAPLIN’S MUSIC HALL

238

Eight Lancashire Lads, 50, 65, 95, 116, 153–65 Elen, Gus, 7, 22, 46, 149 Ellis, James, 72 Elvin, Joe, 194 Evans, Fred, 176, 185, 192, 202 Evans, Joe, 176 Evans, May, 197 Exmouth (traing ship), 49–50, 85

F Fairdale, Kitty (Kate Hill), 29, 40, 55, 58–70, 125, 160, 208 Fannin, Paddy, 167 Farkoa, Maurice, 185 Farquhar, Mowbray Gore, 67–8 Farrell, Nelly, 167, 169 Feeney, Pat, 167 Fenton, Amy, 126–8 Fern, Sable, 138 Field, Isaac, 188 Field, Sarah, 187–8 Field, Phoebe, 187–8 Fields, W. C., 163, 214 Flanagan, Bud, 203 Florador Quartet, The, 192 Footlights, 8, 44, 48, 56, 69, 88, 141, 163 ‘For Old Times’ Sake’, 90 Forde, Hal, 186 Freans, The, 180 Freeman, Harry, 99 Freidman, Jake, 138 Frohman, Charles, 175 Fuller, Loië, 159 ‘Fun Factory, The’, 195, 201–2

G Gardiner, John, 21 Garrick, David, 117 Gibbons, Sir Walter, 163–4 Gibbs, Alfred, 133 Gilbert, Fred, 21 Gillette, William, 175 Ginnett, Fred, 185 Godfrey, Charles, 2 (ill. 1), 90–1, 97, 110, 119–20, 128, 168 Godwin, Gladys, 148–50 Godwin, Marie Josephine, 149–50, 152 Godwin, Will, 52, 88, 90, 122, 134–5, 142–52 Godwin, William, 149 Gold Rush,The, 44, 178, 195 Goldstein, Louis, 17–21, 59 Goldstein, Wolf, 1, 17–20 Gordon, General George, 91 Grace, W. G., 181 Gray, George, 181 Great Dictator,The, 139 Grey, Lita, 32 Griffiths, Fred and Joe, 161, 172 Gwynn, Nell, 40, 72

H Halifax, Sydney A., 104 Hanlon-Lees, The, 192 Hardy, Oliver, 197 Harrigan, James, 214 Harrington, John P., 78–81, 137 Harvey, Fred, 113 Harvey, Kate, 119

239

INDEX

Hawke, Sidney John (or Sydney Hawkes), 32–4 Harlequinade, 191 Harris, Mildred, 32 Hart, Harry, 180 Hepworth, Cecil, 185 Hewitt, Charles, 135 Hilarity, 191–2 Hill, Charles, 29, 58–9 Hill, Henry, 29 Hill, Jenny, 59, 168 Hill, Mary Ann, 29, 39, 58–9, 66 Holden, Fred, 160 Holmstock, Louis, 25 ‘Honeysuckle and the Bee, The’ 90 Honri, Percy, 149 Hood, Henry, 130 Hullo, Rag-time, 137

I Irving, Sir Henry, 174

J Jackson, Alfred, 65, 160, 164 Jackson, Elizabeth, 154–8, 160, 164–5 Jackson, Rose, 153, 156 (ill. 20), 164, Jackson, John William, 65, 153–8, 160–1, 164–5 Jackson, John William Junior, 164 Jelf, Justice, 198 Jim, a Romance of Cockayne, 175 Johnson, George Washington, 204 ‘Johnny Jones’, 32 Jolson, Al, 187

K Karno, Edith (née Cuthbert), 199–200 Karno, Fred, 6, 189–203, 209 Karno, Fred Junior, 199 Karsino, The, 201–2 Keaton, Buster, 172 Kelly, Hetty, 32, 187 Kendall, Madge, 177 Keystone Cops, 195, 198 Keystone Film Company, 197, 212 Kilvert, Reverend Francis, 31 King, Hetty, 103 Kipling, Rudyard, 120 Kitchen, Fred, 194 Klaie, Ric, 190–1 Knowles, R. G., 146

L Labouchere, Henry, 21 ‘Lady Judge, The’, 54–5, 63, 69–70 Lambeth Board of Guardians, 86 Lambeth Infirmary, 49–51, 64, 172 Lambeth Police Court, 22, 106, 109–10, 114, 184 Lambeth Workhouse, 22, 49, 64, 66, 97, 110 Laurel, Stan, 197, 202 Lauris, The, 192, 194 Lauste, Euge`ne, 163 Lawrence, Joe, 21 Layton, H. Lawrence, 175 Le Blanche, Kate, 104, 110, 114–5 Le Brunn, George, 78–81, 114 Le Fanu, Sheridan, 30 Leach, Gus, 113 Lee, Charles, 138

CHAPLIN’S MUSIC HALL

240

Lennon, John, 186 Lennon, Freddie, 186 Leno, Dan, 69, 154, 161, 167, 191, 204 Leslie, Fannie, 16, 146 Lester, Eva, 1, 11–28, 54, 59, 61, 69, 88, 215 Leybourne, George, 211 Limelight, 8, 44, 45 (ill. 8), 60, 69, 88, 106, 117, 119, 139, 141, 172, 205, 207, 213, 216–18 Lipton, Dan, 171, 178–9 Liston, Victor, 214 Little Bit of Fluff, A, 139 Little Tich, 181 Lloyd, Marie, 16, 31, 35, 59, 60, 63, 161, 181, 211, 216 Loftus, Cecilia, 179 Loftus, Marie, 16 Lorraine, Robert, 6 ‘Louise’ (Charles Chaplin’s mistress), 50, 56, 82–3, 86, 88–9, 96–7 Louise, Princess of Wales, 106 Lovell, Jack, 198 Lowrey, Dan, 167

M Maccabe, Frederick Michael, 167–8 Maccabe, John William Young, 168 Maccabe, Patrick Joseph, 168 McCarthy, Walter Herbert, 170–1 McCarthy, Walter (‘Wally’), 166, 170–1 Macdermott, G. H., 21 Macnally, Jessie, 69, 166–73 Macnally, John Patrick, 166–70 McNaughtons, The, 172 McNeil, John, 197

Madison’s Budget, 187 Making a Living, 215 Manon, Charlie, 194 Marceline, 216 Mark, T. D., 82 M’Evoy, Norah, 166, 169 Meyer, Reverend F. B., 49 ‘Miner’s Dream of Home, The’, 122–5, 134–6, 147 Monsieur Verdoux, 44, 139, 213 Moore, Marie, 199 Morris, E. A., 21 Morton, Charles, 3 Morton, Maggie, 50 Moy, John, 75 Munroe, Walter, 76 Murphy, C. W., 171, 179 Murray, Roy, 186 Murray, Will, 69, 180–8

N Napoleon Bonaparte, 53 Nelson, Horatio Lord, 91 Night in the Show, A, 209, 212–13 Norden, Charles, 72

O Old Curiosity Shop,The, 161 Oliver Twist, 185 ‘One of the Shabby Genteel’, 314 ‘Opportunity’, 40, 62, 208

P Painful Predicament of Sherlock Holmes,The, 175 Pantomime, 191

241

INDEX

Parnell, Charles Stuart, 110 Pastor, Tony, 107 Pathé Frère, 197 Pearce, Catherine Julia, 34 Peckham House Asylum, 51, 59, 68 Pelham, Thursby, 66–7 Pink, Wal, 69, 177–8, 179 (ill. 22) Pleon, Harry, 113 Poluskis, The, 172 ‘Poverty Corner’, 1, 17, 19 Power, Nelly, 16, 211 Prostitution, 1, 6, 44–5, 49, 56 Pryde, Peggy, 104 Public Houses: The Antelope, 34; The Canterbury Arms, 3; The Clarence Hotel, 172; The Cock, 5; The Crystal Fountain, 5; The Davenport Arms, 72, 94; The Henshaw Hotel, 82; The Hoop and Grapes, 117; The Horns Tavern, 7, 22, 24, 95–6; The Horse and Groom, 113; The Jolly Sailor, 117; The Northcote Hotel, 72, 73, 96; The Old King and Queen, 73; The Prince George, 5; The Queen’s Head, 85, 88, 95; The Roebuck, 5; The Ship, 5; The Surrey Gardens Hotel, 72; The Tankard, 5, 7; The Three Stags, 5, 96; The White Hart, 9; The White Horse, 23; The White Swan, 117; The Windmill Hotel, 140; The York, 5; York Hotel, 1, 17

R Rackley, William, 60 Razzle Dazzle, 138 Reece, Arthur, 100 Reed, Bob, 199 Reeves, Billy or Billie, 194, 197 Repairs, 177–8 Richards, Nellie, 43, 44 Rillington Place, 72 Ritchie, Billy, 194, 197 Ritchie, W. E., 163, 214 Rivington, Kenneth, 175 Roach, Hal, 202 ‘Road to Ruin, The’, 22 Roberts, R. A., 185 Roberts, Arthur, 138 Robey, George, 69, 112, 161, 216–17 Robina, Florrie, 138 Rookwood, 184 Rowley, J. W., 76, 99 Royal Command Variety Performance 1912, 208 Royal Divorce, A, 132 Rudd, Austin, 94 Ruskin, John, 30 Rutherford, Thomas, 28

S St James’ Church, New Cross, 34 St John’s Church, Walworth, 35, 73 St John’s Church, Waterloo, 3, 128 St Mark’s School, Notting Hill, 72 St Stephen’s Church, Salford, 104 St Thomas’ Hospital, Lambeth, 97

CHAPLIN’S MUSIC HALL

242

St Vincent’s Hospital, New York, 114 Saintsbury, H. A., 175 Seel, Charles, 99 Sennett, Mack, 197 Shamus O’Brien, 29 Sheridan, Mark, 216 Sherlock Holmes, 175–7 Sign of the Cross,The, 132 Skinner, Otis, 139 Sloman, Charles, 99 Southwark Board of Guardians, 49, 83–4 Southwark Police Court, 20, 83, 155 Stags, The, 113 Stead, W. T., 31 Sullivan, Rose, 169 Swinburne, Lottie, 169

T Tate, Harry, 141 Terriers, The, 5, 89, 96, 113 Theatres and Music Halls: Alexandra Theatre, Bombay, 150; Alhambra, Hull, 93; Alhambra, London, 42, 124; Amphitheatre, Portsmouth, 30; Argyle, Birkenhead, 60; Bedford, London, 39, 144; Bijou, London, 33; Borough Concert Hall, Crewe, 74; Bowery Theatre, New York, 108; Britannia, Glasgow, 143; Buffalo, Belfast, 60; Cambridge, London, 123, 170; Canteen, Aldershot, 46–7, 77; Canterbury, London, 3,

41–2, 64, 77, 93, 160, 209; Castle, London, 33–4; Circus, St Helens, 74; Circus of Varieties, Stockport, 74; Collins’, London, 64, 168, 170; Crowder’s, London, 12, 198; Day’s Concert Hall, Birmingham, 107, 130; Deacon’s, London, 143; Duke of York’s, London, 175; Empire, Blackpool, 155; Empire, Hull, 66, 74; Empire, Leicester, 82, 85; Empire, London, 42–4, 45 (ill. 8), 204, 213, 218; Empire, Newport, 132; Empire, Portsmouth, 95; Empire Circus, Coventry, 64; Empire Palace, Dover, 66; Folies Bergère, Paris, 165; Folly, Glasgow; 36; Folly, Manchester, 74, 104; Foresters, London, 111, 124, 187–8; Gaiety, Birmingham, 191; Gaiety, Glasgow, 36; Gaiety, Leicester, 74; Gaiety, Liverpool, 168; Gaiety, New York, 108; Gaiety, Newcastle, 60; Gaiety, Oldham, 74; Garrick, London, 139; Gatti’s, Charing Cross, 120; Gatti’s, Westminster Bridge Road, 3, 95, 155; Grand, Blackburn, 186; Grand, Clapham Junction, 95; Grand, Liverpool, 109; Grand Circus, Rochdale, 155; Grand Theatre, Rochdale, 155; Hammersmith Varieties, London, 61; Harry

INDEX

Miner’s Theatre, New York, 108; Harwood’s Varieties, London, 113; Hatcham Liberal Club, London, 48; Haymarket, Liverpool, 180; King’s Theatre, London, 197; King’s Theatre, Sunderland, 197; Koster and Bial’s, New York, 108; London Coliseum, 203; London Hippodrome, 164–5, 216; London Opera House, 201; London Palladium, 137; London Pavilion, London, 44, 77, 11; Marylebone, London, 24; Masonic Hall, Llandudno, 73; Metropolitan, London, 26, 190; Middlesex, London, 64, 77, 136, 168; Montpelier, London, 73; Museum Concert Hall, Birmingham, 142; Newport Theatre, 115; ‘Old Vic’, London, 3, 49; Oxford, Brighton, 17; Oxford, London, 32, 79, 161, 168, 198; Oxford, Middlesbrough, 60; Palace, London, 3; Paragon, London, 77; Parthenon, London, 64; Pavilion, Bath, 37, 74; Peckham Palace, London, 119; People’s Music Hall, Manchester, 74; People’s Palace, Bristol, 129; Phoenix, Dover, 60, 66; Prince of Wales, London, 193; Queen’s, London, 30, 61, 191; Red, White and Blue, Aldershot, 46; Royal, London, 44; Royal, Le

243

Havre, 35; Royal Albert, London, 145; Royal Albert Hall, London, 134; Royal Aquarium, London, 41; Royal Standard, London, 64, 75–6; Sadler’s Wells, London, 145; St James’s, London, 177; Scotia, Glasgow, 36, 54; South London Palace, London, 64, 83–5, 139, 155, 170; Star, Bradford, 119; Star, Dublin, 35; Star, Glasgow, 36; Star, London, 180, 209; Surrey Grand Palace, Barnsley, 74; Theatre Royal, Liverpool, 82; Theatre Royal, Middlesbrough, 40, 42; Theatre Royal, Stockport, 199; Theatre Royal, Wigan, 74; Thornton’s, Jarrow, 60; Tivoli, London, 111, 161, 181; Tivoli, Manchester, 95; Tony Pastor’s Theatre, New York, 107–8; Trocadero, London, 77, 181; Varieties, Camberwell, 95; Variety, London, 111; Victoria, Bolton, 60; Washington, London, 170 Three Carnos, The, 190 Three Karno’s, The, 190 Tilley, Vesta, 35, 103, 179 Travis, Lieutenant, 76 Tree, Sir Herbert Beerbohm, 185 Truth, 21 Turpin, Dick, 182, 184 Two Macs, The, 167–9, 172–3, 180, 208 Two Little Drummer Boys, 50 Tyler, Marie, 130, 132, 146

CHAPLIN’S MUSIC HALL

244

V Valmore, Jenny, 104–11, 115, 146 Vance, The Great, 35 Variety Artistes’ Benevolent Fund, 140 Variety Artistes’ Federation, 113, 170 Veterans of Variety, The, 137 Veterans of Variety Trio, The, 138 Victoria, Queen, 91, 128, 132 Victoria, Vesta, 111, 146, 179 Victoria Railway Station, 75

W Walker, Syd, 202 Wallace, Ray, 138 Waller, Lewis, 174 ‘Water Rat’, 22 Water Rats, The, 22, 113 Waterloo Station, 1, 64 Weary Willie and Tired Tim, 214 Weatherley, Frederick, 120

West, Arthur, 82, 88, 98–115 West, Marian or Marie, 135, 149–50 West Norwood Schools, 49, 86 Westo, Ernie, 198–9 Wheeler, George Kingman, 117 Wilder, Marshal P., 187 Wilford, Lily, 38 Wilhelm II, Kaiser, 132 Wilton, Robb, 141, 203 Williams, Bransby, 136, 159, 161 Williams, Charles, 119 Williams, Fred, 46 Woottwell, Tom, 99 Woman of Paris, A, 44 Wyndham, Charles, 150

Z Zarmo, Joe, 162–3, 216 Ziegfeld, Florenz Junior, 139 Zola, Emile, 30