come easily in the luxury of a warm bath. I feel a little more kindly
disposed toward the first-cabin passengers. After all, I am an
emotional cuss.
Discover that there are some very nice people on board. I get into
conversation with two or three. They have the same ideas about lots of
things that I have. This discovery gives me a fit of introspection
and I discover that I am, indeed, a narrow-minded little pinhead.
What peculiar sights one sees in a Turkish bath. The two extremes, fat
and thin, and so seldom a perfect physique. I am a discovered
man--even in my nakedness. One man will insist upon showing me how to
do a hand balance in the hot room. Also a somersault and a back flip.
It challenges my nimbleness. Can I do them? Good heavens--no! I'm not
an acrobat, I'm an actor. I am indignant.
Then he points out the value of regular exercise, outlining for my
benefit a daily course for me to do aboard. I don't want any daily
course and I tell him so.
"But," says he, "if you keep this up for a week you may be able to do
the stunts I do."
But I can't see it even with that prospect ahead, because to save my
life I can't think of any use I would have for the hand balance,
somersault, or the back flip.
I meet another man who has manoeuvred until he has me pinned in a
corner. He shows a vital interest in Theda Bara. Do I know her? What
sort of a person is she? Does she "vamp" in real life? Do I know
Louise Glaum? He sort of runs to the vampish ladies. Do I know any of
the old-timers? So his conversation goes depressingly on, with me
answering mostly in the negative.
[Illustration: A scene from "Sunnyside," one of my favourite photo
plays.]
They must think I am very dull. Why, anyone should know the answers to
the questions they figure. There are grave doubts as to whether
I am Charlie Chaplin or not. I wish they would decide that I am not. I
confess that I have never met Theda Bara. They return to motion
pictures of my own. How do I think up my funny stunts? It is too much.
Considerably against my wishes I have to retreat from the hot room. I
want to get away from this terrible, strenuous experience. But retreat
is not so easy.
A little rotund individual, smiling, lets me know that he has seen a
number of my pictures. He says:
"I have seen you so much in 'reel' life that I wanted to talk to you
in 'real' life." He laughs at this bright little sally of his and I
dare say he thinks it original. The first time I heard it I choked on
my milk bottle.
But I grinned. I always do. He asked what I was taking a Turkish bath
for, and I told him I was afraid of acquiring a bit of a stomach. I
was speaking his language. He knew the last word in taking down
stomachs. He went through all the stomach-reducing routine. He rolled,
he slapped, he stretched across a couch on his stomach while he
breathed deeply and counted a hundred. He had several other stunts but
I stopped him. He had given me enough ideas for a beginning. He got up
panting, and I noticed that the most prominent thing about him was his
stomach and that he had the largest stomach in the room. But he
admitted that the exercise had fixed him O.K.
Eventually he glanced down at my feet. "Good heavens! I always thought
you had big feet. Have you got them insured?" I can stand it no
longer. I burst through the door into the cooling room and on to the
slab.
At last I am where I can relax. The masseur is an Englishman and has
seen most of my pictures. He talks about "Shoulder Arms." He mentions
things in my pictures that I never remembered putting there. He had
always thought I was a pretty muscular guy, but was sadly
disappointed.
"How do you do your funny falls?" He is surprised that I am not
covered with bruises. "Do I know Clara Kimball Young? Are most of the
people in pictures immoral?"
I make pretences. I am asleep. I am very tired. An audience has
drifted in and I hear a remark about my feet.
I am manhandled and punched and then handed on into another room.
At last I can relax. I am about to fall asleep when one of the
passengers asks if I would mind signing my autograph for him. But I
conquer them. Patience wins and I fall asleep to be awakened at seven
o'clock and told to get out of the bath.
I dress for dinner. We go into the smoking-room. I meet the demon
camera man. I do not know him, as he is dressed up like a regular
person. We get into conversation. Well, hardly conversation. He talks.
"Listen, Charlie, I am very sorry, but I've been assigned to
photograph you on this trip. Now we might as well get to know each
other and make it easy for both of us, so the best thing to do is to
let's do it fully and get it over with. Now, let's see, I'll take
to-morrow and part of the next day. I want to photograph you with the
third-class passengers, then the second-class, and have you shown
playing games on deck. If you have your make-up and your moustache,
hat, shoes, and cane, it will be all the better."
I call for help. He will have to see my personal representative, Mr.
Robinson.
He says, "I won't take 'No' for an answer."
And I let him know that the only thing he isn't going to do on the
trip is to photograph me. I explain that it would be a violation of
contract with the First National exhibitors.
"I have been assigned to photograph you and I'm going to photograph
you," he says. And then he told me of his other camera conquests, of
his various experiences with politicians who did not want to be
photographed.
"I had to break through the palace walls to photograph the King of
England, but I got him. Also had quite a time with Foch, but I have
his face in celluloid now." And he smiled as he deprecatingly looked
up and down my somewhat small and slight figure.
This is the last straw. I defy him to photograph me. For from now on I
have made up my mind that I am going to lock myself in my cabin--I'll
fool him.
But my whole evening is spoiled. I go to bed cursing the
motion-picture industry, the makers of film, and those responsible for
camera men. Why did I take the trip? What is it all for? It has gotten
beyond me already and it is my trip, my vacation.
It is early, and I decide to read a bit. I pick up a booklet of poems
by Claude McKay, a young negro poet who is writing splendid verse of
the inspired sort. Reading a few of his gems, my own annoyances seem
puny and almost childish.
I read:
The Tropics of New York.
Bananas ripe and green, and ginger root,
Cocoa in pods and alligator pears,
And tangerines and mangos and grapefruit,
Fit for the highest prize at parish fairs.
See in the windows, bringing memories
Of fruit trees laden, by low-singing rills,
And dewy dawns and mystical blue skies.
In benediction over nunlike hills.
Mine eyes grow dim and I could no more gaze.
A wave of longing through my body swept,
And a hunger for the old, familiar ways;
I turned aside and bowed my head and wept.
I read again:
Lovely, dainty Spanish Needle,
With your yellow flower and white;
Dew-decked and softly sleeping;
Do you think of me to-night?
Shadowed by the spreading mango
Nodding o'er the rippling stream,
Tell me, dear plant of my childhood,
Do you of the exile dream?
Do you see me by the brook's side,
Catching grayfish 'neath the stone,
As you did the day you whispered:
"Leave the harmless dears alone?"
Do you see me in the meadow,
Coming from the woodland spring,
With a bamboo on my shoulder
And a pail slung from a string?
Do you see me, all expectant,
Lying in an orange grove,
While the swee-swees sing above me,
Waiting for my elf-eyed love?
Lovely, dainty Spanish Needle;
Source to me of sweet delight,
In your far-off sunny Southland
Do you dream of me to-night?
I am passing this along because I don't believe it is published in
this country, and I feel as though I am extending a rare treat. They
brought me better rest that night--a splendid sleep.
Next morning there were more autograph books and several wireless
messages from intimate friends wishing me _bon voyage_. They are all
very interesting.
Also there are about two hundred ship postcards. Would I mind signing
them for the stewards? I am feeling very good-natured and I enjoy
signing anything this morning. I pass the forenoon till lunch time.
I really feel as though I haven't met anybody. They say that barriers
are lowered aboard ship, but not for me.
Ed. Knoblock and I keep very much to ourselves. But all the time I
have been sort of wondering what became of the beautiful opera singer
who came aboard and was photographed with me. I wonder if being
photographed together constitutes an introduction? I have not seen her
since the picture.
We get seats in deck chairs. Knoblock and myself. Ed. is busy reading
_Economic Democracy_ by some one important. I have splendid intentions
of reading Wells's _Outline of History_. My intentions falter after a
few paragraphs. I look at the sea, at people passing all around the
ship. Every once in a while I glance at Knoblock hoping that he is
overcome by his book and that he will look up, but Knoblock apparently
has no such intention.
Suddenly I notice, about twenty chairs away, the beautiful singer. I
don't know why I always have this peculiar embarrassment that grips me
now. I am trying to make up my mind to go over and make myself known.
No, such an ordeal would be too terrific. The business of making
oneself known is a problem. Here she is within almost speaking
distance and I am not sure whether I shall meet her or not. I glance
away again. She is looking in my direction. I pretend not to see her
and quickly turn my head and get into conversation with Knoblock, who
thinks I have suddenly gone insane.
"Isn't that lady the opera singer?" I ask.
"Yes."
That about expresses his interest.
"Shouldn't we go over and make ourselves known?" I suggest.
"By all means, if you wish it." And he is up and off almost before I
can catch my breath.
We get up and walk around the deck. I just do not know how to meet
people. At last the moment comes in the smoking-room, where they are
having "log auction." She is with two gentlemen. We meet. She
introduces one as her husband, the other as a friend.
She reprimands me for not speaking to her sooner. I try to pretend
that I had not seen her. This amuses her mightily and she becomes
charming. We become fast friends. Both she and her husband join us at
dinner the following night. We recall mutual friends. Discover that
there are quite a lot of nice people aboard. She is Mme. Namara and in
private life Mrs. Guy Bolton, wife of the author of "Sally." They are
on their way to London where he is to witness the English opening of
"Sally." We have a delightful evening at dinner and then later in
their cabin.
IV.
HELLO, ENGLAND!
Everything sails along smoothly and delightfully until the night of
the concert for the seaman's fund. This entertainment is customary on
all liners and usually is held on the last night out. The passengers
provide the entertainment.
I am requested to perform. The thought scares me. It is a great
tragedy, and, much as I would like to do something, I am too exhausted
and tired. I beg to be excused, I never like making appearances in
public. I find that they are always disappointing.
I give all manner of reasons for not appearing--one that I have no
particular thing to do, nothing arranged for, that it is against my
principles because it spoils illusion--especially for the children.
When they see me minus my hat, cane, and shoes, it is like taking the
whiskers off Santa Claus. And not having my equipment with me, I feel
very conscious of this. I am always self-conscious when meeting
children without my make-up for that very reason. I must say the
officers were very sympathetic and understood my reasons for not
wanting to appear, and I can assure you that the concert was a
distinct success without me. There were music and recitations and
singing and dancing, and one passenger did a whistling act, imitating
various birds and animals, also the sawing of wood, with the
screeching sound made when the saw strikes a knot. It was very
effective.
I watched and enjoyed the concert immensely until near the end, when
the entertainment chairman announced that I was there and that if the
audience urged strongly enough I might do something for them. This was
very disconcerting, and after I had explained that I was physically
exhausted and had nothing prepared I am sure the audience understood.
The chairman, however, announced that it did not matter, as they could
see Charlie Chaplin at any time for a nickel--and that's that.
The next day is to be the last aboard. We are approaching land. I have
got used to the boat and everybody has got used to me. I have ceased
to be a curiosity. They have taken me at my face value--face without
moustache and kindred make-up. We have exchanged addresses, cards,
invitations; have made new friends, met a lot of charming people,
names too numerous to mention.
The lighter is coming out. The top deck is black with men. Somebody
tells me they are French and British camera men coming to welcome me.
I am up on the top deck, saying good-bye to Mme. Namara and her
husband. They are getting off at Cherbourg. We are staying aboard.
Suddenly there is an avalanche. All sorts and conditions of men armed
with pads, pencils, motion-picture cameras, still cameras. There is an
embarrassing pause. They are looking for Charlie Chaplin. Some have
recognised me. I see them searching among our little group. Eventually
I am pointed out.
"Why, here he is!"
My friends suddenly become frightened and desert me. I feel very much
alone, the victim. Square-headed gentlemen with manners
different--they are raising their hats.
"Do I speak French?" Some are speaking in French to me--it means
nothing, I am bewildered. Others English. They all seem too curious to
even do their own business. I find that they are personally
interested. Camera men are forgetting to shoot their pictures.
But they recover themselves after their curiosity has been gratified.
Then the deluge.
"Are you visiting in London?"
"Why did you come over?"
"Did you bring your make-up?"
"Are you going to make pictures over here?"
Then from Frenchmen:
"Will I visit France?"
"Am I going to Russia?"
I try to answer them all.
"Will you visit Ireland?"
"I don't expect to do so."
"What do you think of the Irish question?"
"It requires too much thought."
"Are you a Bolshevik?"
"I am an artist, not a politician."
"Why do you want to visit Russia?"
"Because I am interested in any new idea."
"What do you think of Lenin?"
"I think him a very remarkable man."
"Why?"
"Because he is expressing a new idea."
"Do you believe in Bolshevism?"
"I am not a politician?"
Others ask me to give them a message to France. A message to London.
What have I to say to the people of Manchester? Will I meet Bernard
Shaw? Will I meet H. G. Wells? Is it true that I am going to be
knighted? How would I solve the unemployment problem?
In the midst of all this a rather mysterious gentleman pulls me to one
side and tells me that he knew my father intimately and acted as agent
for him in his music-hall engagements. Did I anticipate working? If
so, he could get me an engagement. Would I give him the first
opportunity? Anyway, he was very pleased to meet me. If I wanted a
nice quiet rest I could come down to his place and spend a few days
with my kind of people, the people I liked.
I am rescued by my secretaries, who insist that I go to my cabin and
lie down. Anything the newspaper men have to ask they will answer for
me. I am dragged away bewildered.
Is this what I came six thousand miles for? Is this rest? Where is
that vacation that I pictured so vividly?
I lie down and nap until dinner time. I have dinner in my cabin. Now
comes another great problem.
Tipping. One has the feeling that if you are looked at you should tip.
One thing that I believe in, though--tipping. It gets you good
service. It is money well spent. But when and how to tip--that is the
question. It is a great problem on shipboard.
There's the bedroom steward, the waiter, the head waiter, the hallboy,
the deck steward, boots, bathroom steward, Turkish bath attendants,
gymnasium instructor, smoking-room steward, lounge-room steward, page
boys, elevator boys, barber. It is depressing. I am harassed as to
whether to tip the doctor and the captain.
I am all excited now; full of expectancy. Wonder what's going to
happen. After my first encounter with fifty newspaper men at
Cherbourg, somehow I do not resent it. Rather like it, in fact. Being
a personage is not so bad. I am prepared for the fray. It is exciting.
I am advancing on Europe. One o'clock. I am in my cabin. We are to
dock in the morning.
I look out of the porthole. I hear voices. They are alongside the
dock. Am very emotional now. The mystery of it out there in blackness
envelops me. I revel in it--its promise. We are at Southampton. We are
in England.
To-morrow! I go to bed thinking of it. To-morrow!
I try to sleep, childishly reasoning that in sleeping I will make the
time pass more quickly. My reasoning was sound, perhaps, but somewhere
in my anatomy there slipped a cog. I could not sleep. I rolled and
tossed, counted sheep, closed my eyes and lay perfectly still, but it
was no go. Somewhere within me there stirred a sort of Christmas Eve
feeling. To-morrow was too portentous.
I look at my watch. It is two o'clock in the morning. I look through
the porthole. It is pitch dark outside. I try to pierce the darkness,
but can't. Off in the distance I hear voices coming out of the night.
That and the lapping of the waves against the side of the boat.
Then I hear my name mentioned once, twice, three times. I am thrilled.
I tingle with expectancy and varying emotions. It is all so peculiar
and mysterious. I try to throw off the feeling. I can't.
There seems to be no one awake except a couple of men who are pacing
the deck. Longshoremen, probably. Every once in a while I hear the
mystic "Charlie Chaplin" mentioned. I peer through the porthole. It is
starting to rain. This adds to the spell. I turn out the lights and
get back to bed and try to sleep. I get up again and look out.
I call Robinson. "Can you sleep?" I ask.
"No. Let's get up and dress." It's got him, too.
We get up and walk around the top deck. There is a curious mixture of
feelings all at once. I am thrilled and depressed. I cannot understand
the depression. We keep walking around the deck, looking over the
side. People are looking up, but they don't recognise me in the night.
I feel myself speculating, wondering if it is going to be the welcome
I am expecting.
Scores of messages have been arriving all day.
"Will you accept engagements?" "Will you dine with us?" "How about a
few days in the country?" I cannot possibly answer them all. Not
receiving replies, they send wireless messages to the captain.
"Mr. Lathom, is Mr. Chaplin on board?" "Has my message been
delivered?"
I have never received so many messages. "Will you appear on Tuesday?"
"Will you dine here?" "Will you join a revue?" "Are you open for
engagements?" "I am the greatest agent in the world."
One of the messages is from the Mayor of Southampton, welcoming me to
that city. Others from heads of the motion-picture industry in Europe.
This is a source of great worriment. Welcomed by the mayor. It will
probably mean a speech. I hate speeches, I can't make them. This is
the worst spectre of the night.
In my sleeplessness I go back to my cabin and try to write down what I
shall say, trying to anticipate what the mayor will say to me. I
picture his speech of welcome. A masterpiece of oratory brought forth
after much preparation by those who are always making speeches. It is
their game, this speech-making, and I know I shall appear a hopeless
dub with my reply.
But I attack it valiantly. I write sentence after sentence and then
practise before the mirror.
"Mr. Mayor and the people of Southampton." The face that peers back at
me from the mirror looks rather silly. I think of Los Angeles and
wonder how they would take my speech there. But I persevere. I write
more. I overcome that face in the looking-glass to such an extent that
I want a wider audience.
I call Carl Robinson. I make him sit still and listen. I make my
speech several times. He is kind the first time and the second time,
but after that he begins to get fidgety. He makes suggestions. I take
out some lines and put in others. I decide that it is prepared and
leave it. I am to meet the mayor in the morning at eight o'clock.
Eventually I get to bed and asleep, a fitful, tossing sleep. They wake
me in the morning. People are outside my door. Carl comes in.
"The mayor is upstairs waiting for you." I am twenty minutes late.
This adds to my inefficiency.
I am pushed and tumbled into my clothes, then taken by the arm, as if
I were about to be arrested, and led from my cabin. Good Lord! I've
forgotten my slip--my speech, my answer to the mayor, with its
platform gestures that I had laboured with during the long night. I
believed that I had created some new gestures never before attempted
on platform, or in pulpit, but I was lost without my copy.
But there is little time for regrets. It doesn't take long to reach
any place when that place is holding something fearful for you. I was
before the mayor long before I was ready to see him.
This mayor wasn't true to type. He was more like a schoolmaster. Very
pleasant and concise, with tortoiseshell rims to his glasses and with
none of the ornaments of chain and plush that I had anticipated as
part of the regalia of his office. This was somewhat of a relief.
There are lots of men, women and children gathered about. I am
introduced to the children. I am whirled around into the crowd, and
when I turn back I can't quite make out who is the mayor. There seems
to be a roomful of mayors. Eventually I am dug from behind. I turn. I
am whirled back by friendly or official assistance. Ah, here is the
mayor.
[Illustration: I am welcomed by the Mayor of Southampton.]
I stand bewildered, twirling my thumbs, quite at a loss as to what is
expected of me.
The mayor begins. I have been warned that it is going to be very
formal.
"Mr. Chaplin, on behalf of the citizens of Southampton--"
Nothing like I had anticipated. I am trying to think. Trying to hear
precisely what he says. I think I have him so far. But it is nothing
like I had anticipated. My speech doesn't seem to fit what he is
saying. I can't help it. I will use it anyhow, at least as much as I
can recall.
It is over. I mumble some inane appreciation. Nothing like I had
written, with nary a gesture so laboriously rehearsed.
There comes interruptions of excited mothers with their children.
"This is my little girl."
I am shaking hands mechanically with everybody. From all sides
autograph albums are being shoved under my nose. Carl is warding them
off, protecting me as much as possible.
I am aware that the mayor is still standing there. I am trying to
think of something more to say. All visions of language seem to have
left me. I find myself mumbling. "This is nice of you" and "I am very
glad to meet you all."
Somebody whispers in my ear, "Say something about the English cinema."
"Say a word of welcome to the English." I try to and can't utter a
word, but the same excitement that had bothered me now comes forward
to my aid.
The whole thing is bewildering and thrilling and I find that I am
pleased with it all.
But now strange faces seem to fade out and familiar ones take their
places. There is Tom Geraghty, who used to be Doug Fairbanks's
scenario writer. He wrote "When the Clouds Roll By" and "The
Mollycoddle." Tom is a great friend of mine and we have spent many a
pleasant hour in Doug's home in Los Angeles. There is Donald Crisp,
who played Battling Burrows in "Broken Blossoms," a clubmate in the
Los Angeles Athletic Club.
My cousin, Aubrey Chaplin, a rather dignified gentleman, but with all
the earmarks of a Chaplin, greets me.
Heavens! I look something like him. I picture myself in another five
years. Aubrey has a saloon in quite a respectable part of London. I
feel that Aubrey is a nice simple soul and quite desirous of taking me
in hand.
Then Abe Breman, manager of the United Artists' affairs in England.
And there is "Sonny," a friend in the days when I was on the stage. I
have not heard from him in ten years. It makes me happy and
interested, the thought of reviving the old friendship.
We talk of all sorts of subjects. Sonny is prosperous and doing well.
He tells me everything in jerky asides, as we are hustled about amidst
the baggage and bundled into a compartment that somebody has arranged.