Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by =equal
signs=.
[Illustration: Charlie as he is to his friends.]
_MY WONDERFUL
VISIT By Charlie
Chaplin_
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS_
_LONDON: HURST & BLACKETT, LTD.
Paternoster House, E.C._
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. I DECIDE TO PLAY HOOKEY 9
II. OFF TO EUROPE 26
III. DAYS ON SHIPBOARD 41
IV. HELLO! ENGLAND 56
V. I ARRIVE IN LONDON 71
VI. THE HAUNTS OF MY CHILDHOOD 83
VII. A JOKE AND STILL ON THE GO 94
VIII. A MEMORABLE NIGHT IN LONDON 103
IX. I MEET THE IMMORTALS 117
X. I MEET THOMAS BURKE AND H. G. WELLS 133
XI. OFF TO FRANCE 147
XII. MY VISIT TO GERMANY 162
XIII. I FLY FROM PARIS TO LONDON 177
XIV. FAREWELLS TO PARIS AND LONDON 191
XV. BON VOYAGE 204
ILLUSTRATIONS
CHARLIE AS HE IS TO HIS FRIENDS FRONTISPIECE
MY FAVOURITE AUTOGRAPH Page 8
ONE OF MY FAVOURITE CARTOONS " 15
A SCENE FROM "SUNNYSIDE," ONE OF MY
FAVOURITE PHOTO PLAYS " 48
I AM WELCOMED BY THE MAYOR OF
SOUTHAMPTON " 64
MY "PROPERTY GRIN" " 96
ANOTHER SCENE FROM "SUNNYSIDE," ONE
OF MY FAVOURITE PHOTO PLAYS " 123
I MEET H. G. WELLS " 140
IN PARIS WITH SIR PHILIP SASSOON AND
GEORGES CARPENTIER " 154
I MEET LADY ROCKSAVAGE AND SIR PHILIP
SASSOON " 182
[Illustration: My favourite autograph.]
My Wonderful Visit
I.
I DECIDE TO PLAY HOOKEY
A steak-and-kidney pie, influenza, and a cablegram. There is the
triple alliance that is responsible for the whole thing. Though there
might have been a bit of homesickness and a desire for applause mixed
up in the cycle of circumstances that started me off to Europe for a
vacation.
For seven years I had been basking in California's perpetual sunlight,
a sunlight artificially enhanced by the studio Cooper-Hewitts. For
seven years I had been working and thinking along in a single channel
and I wanted to get away. Away from Hollywood, the cinema colony, away
from scenarios, away from the celluloid smell of the studios, away
from contracts, press notices, cutting rooms, crowds, bathing
beauties, custard pies, big shoes, and little moustaches. I was in the
atmosphere of achievement, but an achievement which, to me, was
rapidly verging on stagnation.
I wanted an emotional holiday. Perhaps I am projecting at the start a
difficult condition for conception, but I assure you that even the
clown has his rational moments and I needed a few.
The triple alliance listed above came about rather simultaneously. I
had finished the picture of "The Kid" and "The Idle Class" and was
about to embark on another. The company had been engaged. Script and
settings were ready. We had worked on the picture one day.
I was feeling very tired, weak, and depressed. I had just recovered
from an attack of influenza. I was in one of those "what's the use"
moods. I wanted something and didn't know what it was.
And then Montague Glass invited me to dinner at his home in Pasadena.
There were many other invitations, but this one carried with it the
assurance that there would be a steak-and-kidney pie. A weakness of
mine. I was on hand ahead of time. The pie was a symphony. So was the
evening. Monty Glass, his charming wife, their little daughter, Lucius
Hitchcock, the illustrator, and his wife--just a homey little family
party devoid of red lights and jazz orchestras. It awoke within me a
chord of something reminiscent. I couldn't quite tell what.
After the final onslaught on the pie, into the parlour before an open
fire. Conversation, not studio patois nor idle chatter. An exchange of
ideas--ideas founded on ideas. I discovered that Montague Glass was
much more than the author of _Potash and Perlmutter_. He thought. He
was an accomplished musician.
He played the piano. I sang. Not as an exponent of entertainment, but
as part of the group having a pleasant, homey evening. We played
charades. The evening was over too soon. It left me wishing. Here was
home in its true sense. Here was a man artistically and commercially
successful who still managed to lock the doors and put out the cat at
night.
I drove back to Los Angeles. I was restless. There was a cablegram
waiting for me from London. It called attention to the fact that my
latest picture, "The Kid," was about to make its appearance in London,
and, as it had been acclaimed my best, this was the time for me to
make the trip back to my native land. A trip that I had been promising
myself for years.
What would Europe look like after the war?
I thought it over. I had never been present at the first showing of
one of my pictures. Their début to me had been in Los Angeles
projection rooms. I had been missing something vital and stimulating.
I had success, but it was stored away somewhere. I had never opened
the package and tasted it. I sort of wanted to be patted on the back.
And I rather relished the pats coming in and from England. They had
hinted that I could, so I wanted to turn London upside down. Who
wouldn't want to do that? And all the time there was the spectre of
nervous breakdown from overwork threatening and the results of
influenza apparent, to say nothing of the steak-and-kidney pie.
Sensation of the pleasantest sort beckoned me, at the same time rest
was promised. I wanted to grab it while it was good. Perhaps "The Kid"
might be my last picture. Maybe there would never be another chance
for me to bask in the spotlight. And I wanted to see Europe--England,
France, Germany, and Russia. Europe was new.
It was too much. I stopped preparations on the picture we were taking.
Decided to leave the next night for Europe. And did it despite the
protests and the impossibility howlers. Tickets were taken. We packed;
everyone was shocked. I was glad of it. I wanted to shock everyone.
The next night I believe that most of Hollywood was at the train in
Los Angeles to see me off. And so were their sisters and their cousins
and their aunts. Why was I going? A secret mission, I told them. It
was an effective answer. I was immediately under contract to do
pictures in Europe in the minds of most of them. But then, would they
have believed or understood if I had told them I wanted an emotional
holiday? I don't believe so.
There was the usual station demonstration at the train. The crowd
rather surprised me. It was but a foretaste. I do not try to remember
the shouted messages of cheer that were flung at me. They were of the
usual sort, I imagine. One, however, sticks. My brother Syd at the
last moment rushed up to one of my party.
"For God's sake, don't let him get married!" he shouted.
It gave the crowd a laugh and me a scare.
The train pulled out and I settled down to three days of relaxation
and train routine. I ate sometimes in the dining car, sometimes in our
drawing-room. I slept atrociously. I always do. I hate travelling. The
faces left on the platform at Los Angeles began to look kinder and
more attractive. They did not seem the sort to drive one away. But
they had, or maybe it was optical illusion on my part, illusion
fostered by mental unrest.
For two thousand miles we did the same thing over many times, then
repeated it. Perhaps there were many interesting people on the train.
I did not find out. The percentage of interesting ones on trains is
too small to hazard. Most of the time we played solitaire. You can
play it many times in two thousand miles.
Then we reached Chicago. I like Chicago, I have never been there for
any great length of time, but my glimpses of it have disclosed
tremendous activity. Its record speaks achievement.
But to me, personally, Chicago suggested Carl Sandburg, whose poetry I
appreciate highly and whom I had met in Los Angeles. I must see dear
old Carl and also call at the office of the _Daily News_. They were
running an enormous scenario contest. I am one of the judges, and it
happens that Carl Sandburg is on the same paper.
Our party went to the Blackstone Hotel, where a suite had been placed
at our disposal. The hotel management overwhelmed us with courtesies.
Then came the reporters. You can't describe them unless you label them
with the hackneyed interrogation point.
"Mr. Chaplin, why are you going to Europe?"
"Just for a vacation."
"Are you going to make pictures while you are there?"
"No."
"What do you do with your old moustaches?"
"Throw them away."
"What do you do with your old canes?"
"Throw them away."
"What do you do with your old shoes?"
"Throw them away."
That lad did well. He got in all those questions before he was
shouldered aside and two black eyes boring through lenses surrounded
by tortoise-shell frames claimed an innings. I restored the "prop
grin" which I had decided was effective for interviews.
"Mr. Chaplin, have you your cane and shoes with you?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I don't think I'll need them."
"Are you going to get married while you are in Europe?"
"No."
[Illustration: THE CALIFORNIAN SEA LION
THE ORIGIN OF THE FAMOUS BOOTS REVEALED AT LAST.
(_One of my favourite cartoons._)]
The bespectacled one passed with the tide. As he passed I let
the grin slip away, but only for a moment. Hastily I recalled it as a
charming young lady caught me by the arm.
"Mr. Chaplin, do you ever expect to get married?"
"Yes."
"To whom?"
"I don't know."
"Do you want to play 'Hamlet'?"
"Why, I don't know. I haven't thought much about it, but if you think
there are any reasons why----"
But she was gone. Another district attorney had the floor.
"Mr. Chaplin, are you a Bolshevik?"
"No."
"Then why are you going to Europe?"
"For a holiday."
"What holiday?"
"Pardon me, folks, but I did not sleep well on the train and I must go
to bed."
Like a football player picking a hole in the line, I had seen the
bedroom door open and a friendly hand beckon. I made for it. Within I
had every opportunity to anticipate the terror that awaited me on my
holiday. Not the crowds. I love them. They are friendly and
instantaneous. But interviewers! Then we went to the _News_ office,
and the trip was accomplished without casualty. There we met
photographers. I didn't relish facing them. I hate still pictures.
But it had to be done. I was the judge in the contest and they must
have pictures of the judge.
Now I had always pictured a judge as being a rather dignified
personage, but I learned about judges from them. Their idea of the way
to photograph a judge was to have him standing on his head or with one
leg pointing east. They suggested a moustache, a Derby hat, and a
cane.
It was inevitable.
I couldn't get away from Chaplin.
And I did so want a holiday.
But I met Carl Sandburg. There was an oasis amid the misery. Good old
Carl! We recalled the days in Los Angeles. It was a most pleasant
chat.
Back to the hotel.
Reporters. More reporters. Lady reporters.
A publicity barrage.
"Mr. Chaplin--"
But I escaped. What a handy bedroom! There must be something in
practice. I felt that I negotiated it much better on the second
attempt. I rather wanted to try out my theory to see if I had become
an adept in dodging into the bedroom. I would try it. I went out to
brave the reporters. But they were gone. And when I ducked back into
the bedroom, as a sort of rehearsal, it fell flat. The effect was lost
without the cause.
A bit of food, some packing, and then to the train again. This time
for New York. Crowds again. I liked them. Cameras. I did not mind
them this time, as I was not asked to pose.
Carl was there to see me off.
I must do or say something extra nice to him. Something he could
appreciate. I couldn't think. I talked inanities and I felt that he
knew I was being inane. I tried to think of a passage of his poetry to
recite. I couldn't. Then it came--the inspiration.
"Where can I buy your book of poems, Carl?" I almost blurted it out.
It was gone. Too late to be recalled.
"At any bookstore."
His reply may have been casual. To me it was damning.
Ye gods, what a silly imbecile I was! I needed rest. My brain was
gone. I couldn't think of a thing to say in reprieve. Thank God, the
train pulled out then. I hope Carl will understand and forgive when he
reads this, if he ever does.
A wretched sleep _en train_, more solitaire, meals at schedule times,
and then we hit New York.
Crowds. Reporters. Photographers. And Douglas Fairbanks. Good old
Doug. He did his best, but Doug has never had a picture yet where he
had to buck news photographers. They snapped me in every posture
anatomically possible. Two of them battled with my carcass in argument
over my facing east or west.
Neither won. But I lost. My body couldn't be split. But my clothes
could--and were.
But Doug put in a good lick and got me into an automobile. Panting, I
lay back against the cushions.
To the Ritz went Doug and I.
To the Ritz went the crowd.
Or at least I thought so, for there was a crowd there and it looked
like the same one. I almost imagined I saw familiar faces. Certainly I
saw cameras. But this time our charge was most successful. With a
guard of porters as shock troops, we negotiated the distance between
the curb and the lobby without the loss of a single button.
I felt rather smart and relieved. But, as usual, I was too previous.
We ascended to the suite. There they were. The gentlemen of the press.
And one lady of the press.
"Mr. Chaplin, why are you going to Europe?"
"For a vacation."
"What do you do with your old moustaches?"
"Throw them away."
"Do you ever expect to get married?"
"Yes."
"What's her name?"
"I don't know."
"Are you a Bolshevik?"
"I am an artist. I am interested in life. Bolshevism is a new phase of
life. I must be interested in it."
"Do you want to play 'Hamlet'?"
"Why, I don't know--"
Again Lady Luck flew to my side. I was called to the telephone. I
answered the one in my bedroom, and closed the door, and kept it
closed. The Press departed. I felt like a wrung dish-rag. I looked
into the mirror. I saw a Cheshire cat grinning back at me. I was still
carrying the "prop" grin that I had invented for interviews. I
wondered if it would be easier to hold it all the time rather than
chase it into play at the sight of reporters. But some one might
accuse me of imitating Doug. So I let the old face slip back to
normal.
Doug came. Mary was better. She was with him. It was good to see her.
The three of us went to the roof to be photographed. We were, in every
conceivable pose until some one suggested that Doug should hang over
the edge of the roof, holding Mary in one hand and me in the other.
Pretty little thought. But that's as far as it got. I beat Doug to the
refusal by a hair.
It's great to have friends like Doug and Mary. They understood me
perfectly. They knew what the seven years' grind had meant to my
nerves. They knew just how badly I needed this vacation, how I needed
to get away from studios and pictures, how I needed to get away from
myself.
Doug had thought it all out and had planned that while I was in New
York my vacation should be perfect. He would see that things were kept
pleasant for me.
So he insisted that I should go and see his new picture, "The Three
Musketeers."
I was nettled. I didn't want to see pictures. But I was polite. I did
not refuse, though I did try to evade.
It was useless. Very seriously he wanted me to see the picture and
give my honest opinion. He wanted my criticism, my suggestions.
I had to do it. I always do. I saw the picture in jerks.
Reporters were there. Their attendance was no secret.
The picture over, I suggested a few changes and several cuts which I
thought would improve it.
I always do.
They listened politely and then let the picture ride the way it was.
They always do.
Fortunately, the changes I suggested were not made, and the picture is
a tremendous success.
But I still have status as a critic. I am invited to a showing of
Mary's picture, "Little Lord Fauntleroy," and asked for suggestions.
They know that I'll criticise. I always do and they are afraid of me.
Though when they look at my pictures they are always kind and
sympathetic and never criticise.
I told Mary her picture was too long. I told her where to cut it.
Which, of course, she doesn't do. She never does.
She and Doug listen politely and the picture stands. It always does.
Newspaper men are at the hotel. I go through the same barrage of
questions. My "prop" grin does duty for fifteen minutes. I escape.
Douglas 'phones me. He wants to be nice to me. I am on my vacation and
he wants it to be a very pleasant one. So he invites me to see "The
Three Musketeers" again. This time at its first showing before the
public.
Before the opening of Doug's picture we were to have dinner together,
Mary and Doug, Mrs. Condé Nast and I.
I felt very embarrassed at meeting Mrs. Nast again. Somewhere there
lurks in my memory a broken dinner engagement. It worried me, as I had
not even written. It was so foolish not to write. I would be met
probably with an "all-is-forgiven" look.
I decide that my best defence is to act vague and not speak of it. I
do so and get away with it.
And she has the good taste not to mention it, so a pleasant time is
had by all.
We went to the theatre in Mrs. Nast's beautiful limousine. The crowds
were gathered for several blocks on every side of the theatre.
I felt proud that I was in the movies. Though on this night, with
Douglas and Mary, I felt that I was trailing in their glory. It was
their night.
There are cheers--for Mary, for Doug, for me. Again I feel proud that
I am in the movies. I try to look dignified. I coax up the "prop"
smile and put into it real pleasure. It is a real smile. It feels good
and natural.
We get out of the car and crowds swarm. Most of the "all-American"
selections are there. Doug takes Mary under his wing and ploughs
through as though he were doing a scene and the crowd were extras.
I took my cue from him. I took Mrs. Nast's arm. At least I tried to
take it, but she seemed to sort of drift away from me down towards
Eighth Avenue, while I, for no apparent reason, backed toward
Broadway. The tide changed. I was swept back toward the entrance of
the theatre. I was not feeling so proud as I had been. I was still
smiling at the dear public, but it had gone back to the "prop" smile.
I realised this and tried to put real pleasure into the smile again.
As the grin broadened it opened new space and a policeman parked his
fist in it.
I don't like the taste of policemen's fists. I told him so. He glared
at me and pushed me for a "first down." My hat flew toward the
heavens. It has never returned to me.
I felt a draught. I heard machinery. I looked down. A woman with a
pair of scissors was snipping a piece from the seat of my trousers.
Another grabbed my tie and almost put an end to my suffering through
strangulation. My collar was next. But they only got half of that.
My shirt was pulled out. The buttons torn from my vest. My feet
trampled on. My face scratched. But I still retained the smile, "prop"
one though it was. Whenever I could think of it I tried to raise it
above the level of a "prop" smile and was always rewarded with a
policeman's fist. I kept insisting that I was Charlie Chaplin and that
I belonged inside. It was absolutely necessary that I should see "The
Three Musketeers."
Insistence won. As though on a prearranged signal I felt myself lifted
from my feet, my body inverted until my head pointed toward the centre
of the lobby and my feet pointed toward an electric sign advertising
the Ziegfeld Roof. Then there was a surge, and I moved forward right
over the heads of the crowd through the lobby.
As I went through the door, not knowing into what, I saw a friend.
With the "prop" smile still waving, I flung back, "See you later,"
and, head first, I entered the theatre and came to in a heap at the
foot of a bediamonded dowager. I looked up, still carrying the "prop"
smile, but my effort fell flat. There was no applause in the look she
gave me.
Crestfallen, I gathered myself together, and with what dignity there
was left I strode to the box that had been set aside for our party.
There was Mary, as sweet and beautiful as ever; Mrs. Nast, calm and
composed: Doug serene and dapper.
"Late again," they looked.
And Mary, steely polite, enumerated my sartorial shortcomings. But I
knew one of them, at least better than she did, and I hastened to the
men's room for repairs. Soap and water and a brush did wonders, but I
could find no trousers, collar, or tie, and I returned clean but
ragged to the box, where disapproval was being registered unanimously.
I tried to make the "prop" grin more radiant, even though I was most
tired after my journey, but it didn't go with Doug and Mary.
But I refused to let them spoil my pleasure and I saw "The Three
Musketeers."
It was a thrilling success for Doug. I felt good for him, though I was
a bit envious. I wondered if the showing of "The Kid" could have meant
as big a night for me.
'Twas quite a night, this opening of the Fairbanks masterpiece, and,
considering all the circumstances, I think I behaved admirably.
Somehow, though, I think there is a vote of three to one against me.
II.
OFF TO EUROPE
Next morning there was work to do. My lawyer, Nathan Burkan, had to be
seen. There were contracts and other things. Almost as much a nuisance
as interviews. But I dare say they are necessary.
Poor old Nath! I love him, but am afraid of him. His pockets always
bulge contracts. We could be such good friends if he were not a
lawyer. And I am sure that there must be times when he is delightful
company. I might fire him and then get acquainted.
A very dull day with him. Interrupted by 'phones, invitations,
parties, theatre tickets sent to me, people asking for jobs. Hundreds
of letters camouflaged with good wishes and invariably asking favours.
But I like them.
Calls from many old friends who depress me and many new ones who
thrill me. I wanted some buckwheat cakes. I had to go three blocks to
a Childs' restaurant to get them.
That night I went to see "Liliom," the best play in New York at the
time and one which in moments rises to true greatness. It impressed me
tremendously and made me dissatisfied with myself. I don't like being
without work. I want to go on the stage. Wonder if I could play that
part?
I went back behind the scenes and met young Skildkraut. I was amazed
at his beauty and youth. Truly an artist, sincere and simple. And Eva
Le Gallienne, I recall no one else on the stage just like her. She is
a charming artist. We renewed our acquaintance made in Los Angeles.
The next morning provided a delightful treat. Breakfast for me,
luncheon for the others, at the Coffee House Club, a most interesting
little place where artists and artizans belong--writers, actors,
musicians, sculptors, painters--all of them interesting people. I go
there often whenever I am in New York. It was a brilliant party,
Heywood Broun, Frank Crowninshield, Harrison Rhodes, Edward Knoblock,
Condé Nast, Alexander Woolcott--but I can't remember all the names. I
wish all meals were as pleasant.
I received an invitation to dine with Ambassador Gerard and then go
for a ride in the country. The motor broke down, as they usually do on
such occasions, and I had to 'phone and disappoint. I was sorry,
because I was to meet some brilliant people.
I had luncheon next day with Max Eastman, one of my best friends. He
is a radical and a poet and editor of _The Liberator_, a charming and
sympathetic fellow who thinks. All of his doctrines I do not subscribe
to, but that makes no difference in our friendship. We get together,
argue a bit, and then agree to disagree and let it go at that and
remain friends.
He told me of a party that he was giving at his home that evening and
I hastened to accept his invitation to attend. His home is always
interesting. His friends likewise.
What a night it was for me! I got out of myself. My emotions went the
gamut of tears to laughter without artificiality. It was what I had
left Los Angeles for, and that night Charlie Chaplin seemed very far
away, and I felt or wanted to feel myself just a simple soul among
other souls.
I was introduced to George, an ex-I. W. W. secretary. I suppose he has
a last name, but I didn't know it and it didn't seem to matter when
one met George. Here was a real personality. He had a light in his
eyes that I have never seen before, a light that must have shone from
his soul. He had the look of one who believes he is right and has the
courage of his convictions. It is a scarce article.
I learned that he had been sentenced by Judge Landis to serve twenty
year in the penitentiary, that he had served two years and was out
because of ill-health. I did not learn the offence. It did not seem to
matter.
A dreamer and a poet, he became wistfully gay on this hectic night
among kindred spirits. In a mixed crowd of intellectuals he stood out.
He was going back to serve his eighteen years in the penitentiary and
was remaining jovial. What an ordeal! But ordeal signifies what it
would have been for me. I don't believe it bothered him. I hardly
believe he was there. He was somewhere else in the place from which
that look in his eyes emanated. A man whose ideas are ideals.
I pass no opinion, but with such charm one must sympathise.
It was an amusing evening. We played charades and I watched George
act. It was all sorts of fun. We danced a bit.
Then George came in imitating Woodrow. It was screamingly funny, and
he threw himself into the character, or caricature, making Wilson seem
absurdly ridiculous. We were convulsed with laughter.
But all the time I couldn't help thinking that he must go back to the
penitentiary for eighteen years.
What a party!
It didn't break up until two in the morning, though clock or calendar
didn't get a thought from me.
We all played, danced, and acted. No one asked me to walk funny, no
one asked me to twirl a cane. If I wanted to do a tragic bit, I did,
and so did everyone else. You were a creature of the present, not a
production of the past, not a promise of the future. You were accepted
as is, _sans_ "Who's Who" labels and income-tax records.
George asks me about my trip, but he does not interview. He gives me
letters to friends.
In my puny way, sounding hollow and unconvincing, I try to tell George
how foolish he is. He tries to explain that he can't help it. Like all
trail blazers, he is a martyr. He does not rant. He blames no one. He
does not rail at fate.
If he believes himself persecuted, his belief is unspoken. He is
almost Christlike as he explains to me. His viewpoint is beautiful,
kind, and tender.
I can't imagine what he has done to be sentenced to twenty years. My
thought must speak. He believes he is spoiling my party through making
me serious. He doesn't want that.
He stops talking about himself. Suddenly he runs, grabs a woman's hat,
and says, "Look, Charlie, I'm Sarah Bernhardt!" and goes into a most
ridiculous travesty.
I laugh. Everyone laughs. George laughs.
And he is going back to the penitentiary to spend eighteen of the most
wonderful years of his life!
I can't stand it. I go out in the garden and gaze up at the stars. It
is a wonderful night and a glorious moon is shining down. I wish there
was something I could do for George. I wonder if he is right or wrong.
Before long George joins me. He is sad and reflective, with a sadness
of beauty, not of regret. He looks at the moon, the stars. He
confides, how stupid is the party, any party, compared with the
loveliness of the night. The silence that is a universal gift--how few
of us enjoy it. Perhaps because it cannot be bought. Rich men buy
noise. Souls revel in nature's silences. They cannot be denied those
who seek them.
We talk of George's future. Not of his past nor of his offence. Can't
he escape? I try to make him think logically toward regaining his
freedom. I want to pledge my help. He doesn't understand, or pretends
not to. He has not lost anything. Bars cannot imprison his spirit.
I beg him to give himself and his life a better chance.
He smiles.
"Don't bother about me, Charlie. You have your work. Go on making the
world laugh. Yours is a great task and a splendid one. Don't bother
about me."
We are silent. I am choked up. I feel a sort of pent-up helplessness.
I want relief. It comes.
The tears roll down my cheeks and George embraces me.
There are tears in both our eyes.
"Good-bye, Charlie."
"Good-bye, George."
What a party! Its noise disgusts me now. I call my car. I go back to
the Ritz.
George goes back to the "pen."
Chuck Reisner, who played the big bully in "The Kid," called the next
day. He wants to go to Europe. Why? He doesn't know. He is emotional
and sensational. He is a pugilist and a song writer. A civil soldier
of fortune. He doesn't like New York and thinks he wants to get back
to California at once.
We have breakfast together. It is a delightful meal because it is so
different from my usual lonely breakfast. Chuck goes on at a great
rate and succeeds in working up his own emotions until there are tears
in his eyes.
I promise him all sorts of things to get rid of him. He knows it and
tells me so. We understand each other very well. I promise him an
engagement. Tell him he can always get a job with me if he doesn't
want too much money.
He is indignant at some press notices that have appeared about me and
wants to go down to newspaper row and kill a few reporters. He
fathers, mothers me in his rough way.
We talk about everybody's ingratitude for what he and I have done for
people. We have a mutual-admiration convention. Why aren't we
appreciated more? We are both sour on the world and its hypocrisies.
It's a great little game panning the world so long as you don't let
your sessions get too long or too serious.
I had a luncheon engagement at the Coffee House Club with Frank
Crowninshield, and we talked over the arrangements of a dinner which I
am giving to a few intimate friends. Frank is my social mentor, though
I care little about society in the general acceptance of the term. We
arranged for a table at the Elysée Café and it was to be a mixed
party.
Among the guests were Max Eastman, Harrison Rhodes, Edward Knoblock,
Mme. Maeterlinck, Alexander Woolcott, Douglas Fairbanks and Mary,
Heywood Broun, Rita Weiman, and Neysa McMein, a most charming girl for
whom I am posing.
Frank Harris and Waldo Frank were invited, but were unable to attend.
Perhaps there were others, but I can't remember, and I am sure they
will forgive me if I have neglected to mention them. I am always
confused about parties and arrangements.
The last minute sets me wild. I am a very bad organiser. I am always
leaving everything until the last minute, and as a rule no one shows
up.
This was the exception. For on this occasion everybody did turn up.
And it started off like most parties; everybody was stiff and formal;
I felt a terrible failure as a host. But in spite of Mr. Volstead
there was a bit of "golden water" to be had, and it saved the day.
What a blessing at times!
I had been worried since sending the invitations. I wondered how Max
Eastman would mix with the others, but I was soon put at my ease,
because Max is clever and is just as desirous of having a good time as
anyone, in spite of intellectual differences. That night he seemed the
necessary ingredient to make the party.
The fizz water must have something of the sort of thing that old Ponce
de Leon sought. Certainly it made us feel very young. Back to
children we leaped for the night. There were games, music, dancing.
And no wallflowers. Everyone participated.
We began playing charades, and Doug and Mary showed us some clever
acting. They both got on top of a table and made believe he was the
conductor of a trolley car and she was a passenger. After an orgy of
calling out stations _en route_ the conductor came along to the
passenger and collected her fare. Then they both began dancing around
the floor, explaining that they were a couple of fairies dancing along
the side of a brook, picking flowers. Soon Mary fell in and Douglas
plunged in after her and pulled her up on the banks of the brook.
That was their problem, and, guess though we would, we could not solve
it.
They gave the answer finally. It was "Fairbanks."
Then we sang, and in Italian--at least it passed for that. I acted
with Mme. Maeterlinck. We played a burlesque on the great dying scene
of "Camille." But we gave it a touch that Dumas overlooked.
When she coughed, I got the disease immediately, and was soon taken
with convulsions and died instead of Camille.
We sang some more, we danced, we got up and made impromptu speeches on
any given subject. None were about the party, but on subjects like
"political economy," "the fur trade," "feminism."
Each one would try to talk intelligently and seriously on a given
subject for one minute. My subject was the "fur trade."
I prefaced my talk by references to cats, rabbits, etc., and finished
up by diagnosing the political situation in Russia.
For me the party was a great success. I succeeded in forgetting myself
for a while. I hope the rest of them managed to do the same thing.
From the café the party went over to a little girl's house--she was a
friend of Mr. Woolcott--and again we burst forth in music and dancing.
We made a complete evening of it and I went to bed tired and exhausted
about five in the morning.
I want a long sleep, but am awakened by my lawyer at nine. He has
packages of legal documents and papers for me to sign, my orders about
certain personal things of great importance. I have a splitting
headache. My boat is sailing at noon, and altogether, with a lawyer
for a companion, it is a hideous day.
All through the morning the telephone bell is ringing. Reporters. I
listen several times, but it never varies.
"Mr. Chaplin, why are you going to Europe?"
"To get rid of interviews," I finally shout, and hang up the 'phone.
Somehow, with invaluable assistance, we get away from the hotel and
are on our way to the dock. My lawyer meets me there. He has come to
see me off. I tremble, though, for fear he has more business with me.
I am criticised by my lawyer for talking so sharply the first thing in
the morning. That's just it. He always sees me the first thing in the
morning. That's what makes me short.
But it is too big a moment. Something is stirring within me. I am
anxious and reluctant about leaving. My emotions are all mixed.
It is a beautiful morning. New York looks much finer and nicer because
I am leaving it. I am terribly troubled about passports and the usual
procedure about declaring income tax, but my lawyer reassures me that
he has fixed everything O.K. and that my name will work a lot of
influence with the American officials; but I am very dubious about it
when I am met by the American officials at the port.
I am terrified by American officials. I am extra nice to the
officials, and to my amazement they are extra nice to me. Everything
passes off very easily.
As usual, my lawyer was right. He had fixed everything. He is a good
lawyer.
We could be such intimate friends if he wasn't.
But I am too thrilled to give much time to pitying lawyers.
I am going to Europe.
The crowds of reporters, photographers, all sorts of traffic, pushing,
shoving, opening passports, visés O.K.'d, stamped, in perfect, almost
clocklike precision, I am shoved aboard.
The newspaper battery pictorial and reportorial. There is no original
note.
"Mr. Chaplin, why are you going to Europe?"
I feel that in this last moment I should be a bit more tolerant and
pleasant, no matter how difficult. I bring forth the "prop" smile
again.
"For a vacation," I answer.
Then they go through the standard interview form and I try to be
obliging.
Mrs. John Carpenter is on the boat--was also invited to my party, but
couldn't attend--with her charming daughter, who has the face of an
angel, also Mr. Edward Knoblock. We are all photographed. Doug and
Mary are there. Lots of people to see me off. Somehow I don't seem
interested in them very much. My mind is pretty well occupied. I am
trying to make conversation, but am more interested in the people and
the boat and those who are going to travel with me.
Many of the passengers on the boat are bringing their children that I
may be introduced. I don't mind children.
"I have seen you so many times in the pictures."
I find myself smiling at them graciously and pleasantly, especially
the children.
I doubt if I am really sincere in this, as it is too early in the
morning. Despite the fact that I love children, I find them difficult
to meet. I feel rather inferior to them. Most of them have assurance,
have not yet been cursed with self-consciousness.
And one has to be very much on his best behaviour with children
because they detect our insincerity. I find there are quite a lot of
children on board.
Everyone is so pleasant, especially those left behind. Handkerchiefs
are waving. The boat is off. We start to move, the waters are
churning. Am feeling very sad, rather regretful--think what a nice man
my lawyer is.
We turn around the bend and get into the channel. The crowds are but
little flies now. In this fleeting dramatic moment there comes the
feeling of leaving something very dear behind.
The camera man and many of his brothers are aboard. I discover him as
I turn around. I did not want to discover anyone just then. I wanted
to be alone with sky and water. But I am still Charlie Chaplin. I must
be photographed--and am.
We are passing the Statue of Liberty. He asks me to wave and throw
kisses, which rather annoys me.
The thing is too obvious. It offends my sense of sincerity.
The Statue of Liberty is thrilling, dramatic, a glorious symbol. I
would feel self-conscious and cheap in deliberately waving and
throwing kisses at it. I will be myself.
I refuse.
The incident of the photographic seeker before the Statue of Liberty
upset me. I felt that he was trying to capitalise the statue. His
request was deliberate, insincere. It offended me. It would have been
like calling an audience to witness the placing of flowers upon a
grave. Patriotism is too deep a feeling to depict in the posing for a
photograph. Why are attempts made to parade such emotions? I feel glad
that I have the courage to refuse.
As I turn from the photographer I feel a sense of relief. I am to have
a reprieve from such annoyances. Reporters for the while are left
behind. It is a delicious sense of security.
I am ready for the new adjustment. I am in a new world, a little city
of its own, where there are new people--people who may be either
pleasant or unpleasant, and mine is the interesting job of placing
them in their proper category. I want to explore new lands and I feel
that I shall have ample opportunity on such an immense ship. The
_Olympic_ is enormous and I conjure up all sorts of pleasure to be had
in its different rooms--Turkish baths, gymnasium, music rooms--its
Ritz-Carlton restaurant, where everything is elaborate and of ornate
splendour. I find myself looking forward to my evening meal.
We go to the Ritz grill to dine. Everyone is pleasant. I seem to sense
the feel of England immediately. Foreign food--a change of system--the
different bill of fare, with money in terms of pounds, shillings, and
pence. And the dishes--pheasant, grouse, and wild duck. For the first
time I feel the elegant gentleman, the man of means.
I ask questions and discover that there are really some very
interesting people aboard. But I resent anyone telling me about them.
I want to discover them myself. I almost shout when someone tries to
read me a passenger list. This is my desert island--I am going to
explore it myself. The prospect is intriguing. I am three thousand
miles from Hollywood and three thousand miles from Europe. For the
moment I belong to neither.
God be praised, I am myself.
It is my little moment of happiness, the glorious "to-day" that is
sandwiched in between the exhausting "yesterday" of Los Angeles and
the portentous "to-morrow" of Europe.
For the moment I am content.
III.
DAYS ON SHIPBOARD
I notice a thoughtful-looking, studious sort of man seated across from
us. He is reading a book, a different sort of book, if covers mean
anything. It looks formidable, a sort of intellectual fodder. I wonder
who he is. I weave all sorts of romance about him. I place him in all
sorts of intellectual undertakings, though he may be a college
professor. I would love to know him. I feel that he is interested in
us. I mention it to Knoblock. He keeps looking at us. Knoblock tells
me he is Gillette, the safety-razor man. I feel like romancing about
him more than ever. I wonder what he is reading? I would love to know
him. It is our loss, I believe. And I never learned what the book was
that he was reading.
There are very few pretty girls aboard. I never have any luck that
way. And it is a weakness of mine. I feel that it would be awfully
pleasant to cross the ocean with a number of nice girls who were
pretty and who would take me as I am. We listened to the music and
retired early, this because of a promise to myself that I would do
lots of reading aboard. I have a copy of Max Eastman's poems, colours
of life, a volume of treasures. I try to read them, but am too
nervous. The type passes in parade, but I assimilate nothing, so I
prepare to sleep and be in good shape for the morning. But that is
also impossible.
I am beyond sleep to-night now. I am in something new, something
pregnant with expectation. The immediate future is too alluring for
sleep.
How shall I be received in England? What sort of a trip shall I have?
Whom shall I meet on board? The thoughts chased one another round my
brain and back again, all running into one another in their rambling.
I get up at one o'clock. Decide to read again. This time H. G. Wells's
_Outline of History_. Impossible! It doesn't register. I try to force
it by reading aloud. It can't be done. The tongue can't cheat the
brain, and right now reading is out of the question.
I get up and go to see if Knoblock is in. He sleeps audibly and
convincingly. He is not making his debut.
I go back to my room. I rather feel sorry for myself. If only the
Turkish baths were open I could while a few hours of time away until
morning. Thus I mediate. The last thing I remember it is four o'clock
in the morning and the next thing eleven-thirty. I can hear a great
bit of excitement going on outside my cabin door. There are a lot of
little children there with autograph books. I tell them that I will
sign them later and have them leave the books with my secretary, Tom
Harrington.
There is a composite squeal of pleasure at this and a sickening fear
comes over me. I call Tom. He enters amid a raft of autograph books. I
start to sign, then postpone it until after breakfast.
Knoblock comes in all refreshed and with that radiant sort of
cheerfulness that I resent in the morning. Am I going to get up for
lunch or will I have it in my cabin? There is a pleading lethargy that
says, "Take it in bed," but I cannot overcome the desire to explore
and the feeling of expectancy of something about to happen--I was to
see somebody or meet somebody--so I decide to have luncheon in the
dining-room. I am giving myself the emotional stimulus. Nothing comes
off. We meet nobody.
After lunch a bit of exercise. We run around the deck for a couple of
miles. It brings back thoughts of the days when I ran in Marathon
races. I feel rather self-conscious, however, as I am being pointed
out by passengers. With each lap it gets worse. If there was only a
place where I could run with nobody looking. We finally stop and lean
against the rail.
All the stewards are curious. They are trying to pick me out. I notice
it and pretend not to notice it. I go up into the gymnasium and look
around. There is every contrivance to give joy to healthy bodies. And
best of all, nobody else is there. Wonderful!
I try the weights, the rowing machine, the travelling rings, punch the
bag a bit, swing some Indian clubs, and leap to the trapeze. Suddenly
the place is packed. News travels quickly aboard ship. Some come for
the purpose of exercising, like myself; others out of curiosity to
watch me perform. I grow careless. I don't care to go through with it.
I put on my coat and hat and go to my room, finding that the old
once-discarded "prop" smile is useful as I make my way through the
crowd.
At four o'clock we have tea. I decide that the people are interesting.
I love to meet so many. Perhaps they are the same ones I hated to see
come into the gym, but I feel no sense of being paradoxical. The
gymnasium belongs to individuals. The tea-room suggests and invites
social intercourse. Somehow there are barriers and conventionalities
that one cannot break, for all the vaunted "freedom of shipboard." I
feel it's a sort of awkward situation. How is it possible to meet
people on the same footing? I hear of it, I read of it, but somehow I
cannot meet people myself and stay myself.
I immediately shift any blame from myself and decide that the
first-class passengers are all snobs. I resolve to try the
second-class or the third-class. Somehow I can't meet these people. I
get irritable and decide deliberately to seek the other classes of
passengers and the boat crew.
Another walk around the deck. The salt air makes me feel good in
spite of my mental bothers. I look over the rail and see other
passengers, second or third class, and in one large group the ship's
firemen and stokers. They are the night force come on deck for a
breath of air between working their shifts in the hellish heat below.
They see and recognise me. To their coal-blackened faces come smiles.
They shout "Hooray!" "Hello, Charlie!" Ah, I am discovered. But I
tingle all over with pleasure. As those leathery faces crack into
lines through the dust I sense sincerity. There is a friendly feeling.
I warm to them.
There is a game of cricket going on. That's intriguing. I love
cricket. Wish I could try my hand at it. Wish there was enough
spontaneity about first-cabin passengers to start a game. I wish I
wasn't so darn self-conscious. They must have read my thoughts. I am
invited timidly, then vociferously, to play a game. Their invitation
cheers me. I feel one of them. A spirit of adventure beckons. I leap
over the rail and right into the midst of it.
I carry with me into the steerage just a bit of
self-consciousness--there are so many trying to play upon me. I am
looked upon as a celebrity, not a cricket player. But I do my part and
try and we get into the game. Suddenly a motion-picture camera man
bobs up from somewhere. What leeches! He snaps a picture. This gets
sickening.
One of the crew has hurriedly made himself up as "Charlie Chaplin." He
causes great excitement. This also impresses me. I find myself acting
a part, looking surprised and interested. I am conscious of the fact
that this thing has been done many times before. Then on second
thought I realise it is all new to them and that they mean well, so I
try to enter into the spirit of the thing. There comes a pause in the
cricket game. Nobody is very much interested in it.
I find that I have been resurrected again in character and am the
centre of attraction. There are calls, "What have you done with your
moustache?" I look up with a grin and ready to answer anything they
ask, these chaps who labour hard and must play the same way. But I see
that hundreds of first-class passengers are looking down over the rail
as though at a side show. This affects my pride, though I dare say I
am supersensitive. I have an idea that they think I am "Charlie"
performing for them. This irritates me. I throw up my hands and say,
"See you to-morrow."
One of the bystanders presents himself. "Charlie, don't you remember
me?" I have a vague recollection of his face, but cannot place him.
Now I have it, of course; we worked in some show together. Yes, I can
actually place him. He has a negative personality. I remember that he
played a small part, a chorus man or something of the sort. This
brings back all sorts of reminiscences, some depressing and others
interesting. I wonder what his life has been. I remember him now very
plainly. He was a bad actor, poor chap. I never knew him very well
even when we worked in the same company. And now he is stoking in the
hold of a ship. I think I know what his emotions are and understand
the reasons. I wonder whether he understands mine.
I try to be nice, even though I discover the incident is not over
interesting. But I try to make it so--try harder just because he never
meant a great deal before. But now it seems to take on a greater
significance, the meeting with this chap, and I find myself being
extra nice to him, or at least trying to be.
Darn it all, the first-class passengers are looking on again, and I
will not perform for them. They arouse pride, indignation. I have
decided to become very exclusive on board. That's the way to treat
them.
It is five o'clock. I decide to take a Turkish bath. Ah, what a
difference travelling first class after the experience in the
steerage!