little shocked. What if they don't turn up? Every one has tried to
impress upon me the size of the reception I am to get. There is a
tinge of disappointment, but then I am informed that, the boat being
a day late, the crowd expected had no way of knowing when I would
arrive.
This explanation relieves me tremendously, though it is not so much
for myself that I feel this, but for my companions and my friends, who
expect so much. I feel that the whole thing should go off with a bang
for their sake. Yes, I do.
But I am in England. There is freshness. There is glow. There is
Nature in its most benevolent mood. The trains, those little toy
trains with the funny little wheels like those on a child's toy. There
are strange noises. They come from the engine--snorting, explosive
sounds, as though it was clamoring for attention.
I am in another world. Southampton, though I have been there before,
is absolutely strange to me. There is nothing familiar. I feel as
though I am in a foreign country. Crowds, increasing with every
minute. What lovely women, different from American women. How, why, I
cannot tell.
There is a beautiful girl peering at me, a lovely English type. She
comes to the carriage and in a beautiful, musical voice says, "May I
have your signature, Mr. Chaplin?" This is thrilling. Aren't English
girls charming? She is just the type you see in pictures, something
like Hall Caine's Gloria in _The Christian_--beautiful auburn hair,
about seventeen.
Seventeen! What an age! I was that once--and here, in England. It
seems very long ago.
Tom Geraghty and the bunch, we are all so excited we don't know just
what to do or how to act. We cannot collect ourselves. Bursting with
pent-up questions of years of gathering, overflowing with important
messages for one another, we are talking about the most commonplace
things. I find that I am not listening to them, nor they to me. I am
just taking it all in, eyes and ears.
An English "bobby." Everything is different. Taking the tickets. The
whole thing is upside down. The locking us in our compartment. I look
at the crowds. The same old "prop" smile is working. They smile. They
cheer. I wave my hat. I feel silly, but it seems that they like it.
Will the train never start? I want to see something outside the
station.
I want to see the country. They are all saying things. I do not know
what they all think of me, my friends. I wish they were not here. I
would love to be alone so that I could get it all.
We are moving. I sit forward as though to make the train go faster. I
want a sight of Old England. I want more than a sight.
Now I see the English country. New houses going up everywhere. New
types for labouring men. More new houses. I have never seen Old
England in such a frenzy of building. The brush fields are rather
burned up. This is something new for England, for it is always so
green. It is not as green as it used to be. But it is England, and I
am loving every mile of it.
I discover that everything is Los Angeles in my compartment, with the
exception of my cousin and Sonny. Here I am in the midst of Hollywood.
I have travelled six thousand miles to get away from Hollywood. Motion
pictures are universal. You can't run away from them. But I am not
bothering much, because I am cannily figuring on shaking the whole lot
of them after the usual dinner and getting off by myself.
And I am getting new thrills every minute. There are people waiting
all along the line, at small stations, waiting for the train to pass.
I know they are waiting to see me. It's a wonderful sensation--everybody
so affectionate. Gee! I am wondering what's going to happen in London?
Aubrey and the bunch are talking about making a strong-arm squad
around me for protection. I intimately feel that it is not going to be
necessary. They say: "Ah, you don't know, my boy. Wait until you get
to London."
Secretly, I am hoping it is true. But I have my doubts. Everybody is
nice. They suggest that I should sleep awhile, as I look tired. I feel
that I am being pampered and spoiled. But I like it. And they all seem
to understand.
My cousin interests me. He warns me what to talk about. At first I
felt a little conscious in his presence. A little sensitive. His
personality--how it mixes with my American friends. I sense that I am
shocking him with my American points of view.
He has not seen me in ten years. I know that I am altered. I sort of
want to pose before him a little. I want to shock him; no, not exactly
shock him, but surprise him. I find myself deliberately posing and
just for him. I want to be different, and I want him to know that I am
a different person. This is having its effect.
Aubrey is bewildered. I am sure that he doesn't know me. I feel that I
am not acting according to his schedule. It encourages me.
I become radical in my ideas. Against his conservatism. But I am
beginning not to like this performing for him. One feels so conscious.
I am wondering whether he will understand. There are lots of other
people I have got to meet. I won't be able to devote all my time to
him. I shall have a long talk with Aubrey later and explain
everything. I doze off for a while.
But just for a moment. We are coming to the outskirts of London. I
hear nothing, I see nothing, but I know it is so and I awake. Now I am
all expectancy. We are entering the suburbs of the city.
V.
I ARRIVE IN LONDON
London! There are familiar buildings. This is thrilling. The same
buildings. They have not altered. I expected that England would be
altered. It isn't. It's the same. The same as I left it, in spite of
the War. I see no change, not even in the manner of the people.
There's Doulton's Potteries! And look, there's the Queen's Head
public-house that my cousin used to own. I point it out to him
decidedly, but he reminds me that he has a much better place now. Now
we are coming into the Cut. Can it be true? I can see two or three
familiar stores. This train is going too fast. I want more time with
these discoveries. I find my emotions almost too much for me. I have
more sentiment about the buildings than I have the people.
The recognition of these localities! There is a lump rising in my
throat from somewhere. It is something inexplicable. They are there,
thank God!
If I could only be alone with it all. With it as it is, and with it as
I would people it with ghosts of yesterday. I wish these people
weren't in the compartment. I am afraid of my emotions.
The dear old Cut. We are getting into it now. Here we are. There are
all conceivable kinds of noises, whistles, etc. Crowds, throngs lined
up on the platforms. Here comes a police sergeant looking for a
culprit. He looks straight at me. Good Lord! I am going to be
arrested! But no, he smiles.
A shout, "There he is!"
Previous to this we had made resolutions. "Don't forget we are all to
lock arms, Knoblock, my cousin, Robinson, Geraghty, and myself."
Immediately I get out of the train, however, we somehow get
disorganised and our campaign manoeuvre is lost. Policemen take me
by each arm. There are motion-picture men, still-camera men. I see a
sign announcing that motion pictures of my trip on board ship will be
shown that night at a picture theatre. That dogged photographer of the
boat must have gotten something in spite of me.
I am walking along quite the centre of things. I feel like royalty. I
find I am smiling. A regular smile. I distinguish distant faces among
those who crowd about me. There are voices at the end of the platform.
"Here he is. He is there, he is. That's him." My step is lightning
gay. I am enjoying each moment. I am in Waterloo Station, London.
The policemen are very excited. It is going to be a terrible ordeal
for them. Thousands are outside. This also thrills me. Everything is
beyond my expectations. I revel in it secretly. They all stop to
applaud as I come to the gate. Some of them say:
"Well done, Charlie." I wonder if they mean my present stunt between
the bobbies. It is too much for me.
What have I done? I feel like a cricketer who has made a hundred and
is going to the stand. There is real warm affection. Do I deserve even
a part of it?
A young girl rushes out, breaks the line, makes one leap, and smothers
me with a kiss. Thank God, she is pretty. There seem to be others
ready to follow her, and I find myself hesitating a bit on my way. It
is a signal. The barriers are broken.
They are coming on all sides. Policemen are elbowing and pushing.
Girls are shrieking.
"Charlie! Charlie! There he is! Good luck to you. Charlie. God bless
you." Old men, old women, girls, boys, all in one excited thrill. My
friends are missing. We are fighting our way through the crowd. I do
not mind it at all. I am being carried on the crest of a wave.
Everybody is working but me. There seems to be no effort. I am
enjoying it--lovely.
Eventually we get through to the street. It is worse here. "Hooray!"
"Here he is!" "Good luck, Charlie!" "Well done, Charlie!" "God bless
you. God love you!" "Good luck, Charlie!" Bells are ringing.
Handkerchiefs are waving. Some are raising their hats. I have lost
mine. I am bewildered, at a loss, wondering where it is all leading
to, but I don't care. I love to stay in it.
Suddenly there is a terrific crash. Various currents of the crowd are
battling against one another. I find that now I am concerned about my
friends. Where's Tom? Where's So-and-so? Where's Carl? Where's my
cousin? I'm asking it all aloud, on all sides, of anyone who will
listen to me. I am answered with smiles.
I am being pushed toward an automobile.
"Where's my cousin?" Another push.
Policemen on all sides. I am pushed and lifted and almost dumped into
the limousine. My hat is thrown in behind me. There are three
policemen on each side of the car, standing on the running board. I
can't get out. They are telling the chauffeur to drive on. He seems to
be driving right over the people. Occasionally a head, a smiling face,
a hand, a hat flashes by the door of the car. I ask and keep asking,
"Where's my cousin?"
But I regain myself, straighten my clothes, cool off a bit, and look
round. There is a perfect stranger in the limousine with me. I seem to
take him for granted for the moment. He is also cut up and bleeding.
Evidently he is somebody. He must be on the schedule to do something.
He looks bewildered and confused.
I say, "Well--I have missed my cousin."
He says, "I beg your pardon, I have not been introduced to you."
"Do you know where we are going?" I ask.
He says, "No."
"Well, what are you doing--Who are you?" I splutter.
"No one in particular," he answers. "I have been pushed in here
against my will. I think it was the second time you cried for your
cousin. One of the cops picked me, but I don't believe there is any
relationship."
We laugh. That helps. We pull up and he is politely let off at the
corner. As quickly as possible he is shut out. Crowds are around on
both sides, raising their hats English fashion, as though they were
meeting a lady. The mounted policemen leave us. I am left alone with
my thoughts.
If I could only do something--solve the unemployment problem or make
some grand gesture--in answer to all this. I look through the window
in the back of the car. There are a string of taxis following behind.
In the lead, seated on top of the cab, is a young and pretty girl all
dressed in scarlet. She is waving to me as she chases. What a picture
she makes! I think what good fun it would be to get on top of the cab
with her and race around through the country.
I feel like doing something big. What an opportunity for a politician
to say something and do something big! I never felt such affection. We
are going down York Road. I see placards, "Charlie Arrives." Crowds
standing on the corner, all lined up along my way to the hotel. I am
beginning to wonder what it's all about.
Am feeling a bit reflective, after all, thinking over what I have
done; it has not been very much. Nothing to call forth all this.
"Shoulder Arms" was pretty good, perhaps, but all this clamour over a
moving-picture actor!
Now we are passing over Westminster Bridge. There are double-decked
street cars. There's one marked "Kennington."
I want to get out and get on it--I want to go to Kennington. The
bridge is so small; I always thought it was much wider. We are held up
by traffic. The driver tells the bobby that Charlie Chaplin is inside.
There is a change in the expression of the cop.
"On your way."
By this time the policemen have dropped off the side of the car and
are on their way back. Once more I am a private citizen. I am just a
bit sad at this. Being a celebrity has its nice points.
There is an auto with a motion-picture camera on top of it
photographing our car. I tell the driver to put down the top. Why
didn't we do this before? I wanted to let the people see. It seemed a
shame to hide in this way. I wanted to be seen. There are little
crowds on the street corners again.
Ah yes, and Big Ben. It looks so small now. It was so big before I
went away. We are turning up the Haymarket. People are looking and
waving from their windows. I wave back. Crowded streets. We are
nearing the Ritz, where I am to stop.
The crowds are much denser here. I am at a loss. I don't know what to
do, what to say. I stand up. I wave and bow at them, smile at them,
and go through the motions of shaking hands, using my own hands.
Should I say something? Can I say anything? I feel the genuineness of
it all, a real warmth. It is very touching. This is almost too much
for me. I am afraid I am going to make a scene.
I stand up. The crowd comes to a hush. It is attentive. They see I am
about to say something. I am surprised at my own voice. I can hear it.
It is quite clear and distinct, saying something about its being a
great moment, etc. But tame and stupid as it is, they like it.
There is a "Hooray!" "Good boy, Charlie!"
Now the problem is how am I going to get out of this? The police are
there, pushing and shoving people aside to make way, but they are
out-numbered. There are motion-picture cameras, cameras on the steps.
The crowds close in. Then I step out. They close in. I am still
smiling. I try to think of something useful, learned from my
experience at the New York opening of "The Three Musketeers." But I am
not much help to my comrades.
Then as we approach, the tide comes in toward the gates of the hotel.
They have been kept locked to prevent the crowd from demolishing the
building. I can see one intrepid motion-picture camera man at the door
as the crowd starts to swarm. He begins to edge in, and starts
grinding his camera frantically as he is lifted into the whirlpool of
humanity. But he keeps turning, and his camera and himself are
gradually turned up to the sky, and his lens is registering nothing
but clouds as he goes down turning--the most honorable fall a camera
man can have, to go down grinding. I wonder if he really got any
pictures.
In some way my body has been pushed, carried, lifted, and projected
into the hotel. I can assure you that through no action of mine was
this accomplished. I am immediately introduced to some English
nobleman. The air is electric. I feel now I am free. Everybody is
smiling. Everybody is interested. I am shown to a suite of rooms.
I like the hotel lobby. It is grand. I am raced to my room. There are
bouquets of flowers from two or three English friends whom I had
forgotten. There come cards. I want to welcome them all. Do not mind
in the least. Am out for the whole day of it. The crowds are outside.
The manager presents himself. Everything has been spread to make my
stay as happy as possible.
The crowd outside is cheering. What is the thing to do? I had better
go to the window. I raise my hands again. I pantomime, shake hands
with myself, throw them kisses. I see a bouquet of roses in the room.
I grab it and start tossing the flowers into the crowd. There is a mad
scramble for the souvenirs. In a moment the chief of police bursts
into my room.
"Please, Mr. Chaplin, it is very fine, but don't throw anything. You
will cause an accident. They will be crushed and killed. Anything but
that, don't throw anything. If you don't mind, kindly refrain from
throwing anything." Excitedly he repeats his message over and over
again.
Of course I don't mind; the flowers are all gone, anyway. But I am
theatrically concerned. "Ah, really I am so sorry. Has anything
happened?" I feel that everything is all right.
The rest of my friends arrive all bruised and cut up. Now that the
excitement has died down, what are we going to do? For no reason at
all we order a meal. Nobody is hungry. I want to get out again. Wish I
could.
I feel that everybody ought to leave immediately. I want to be alone.
I want to get out and escape from all crowds. I want to get over
London, over to Kennington, all by myself. I want to see some familiar
sights. Here baskets of fruit keep pouring in, fresh bouquets,
presents, trays full of cards, some of them titles, some well-known
names--all paying their respects. Now I am muddled. I don't know what
to do first. There is too much waiting. I have too much of a choice.
But I must get over to Kennington, and to-day. I am nervous,
overstrung, tense. Crowds are still outside. I must go again and bow
and wave my hands. I am used to it, am doing it mechanically; it has
no effect. Lunch is ordered for everybody. Newspaper men are outside,
visitors are outside. I tell Carl to get them to put it off until
to-morrow. He tells them that I am tired, need a rest, for them to
call to-morrow and they will be given an interview.
The bishop of something presents his compliments. He is in the room
when I arrive. I can't hear what he is saying. I said 'yes, I shall be
delighted.' We sit down to lunch. What a crowd there is eating with
me! I am not quite sure I know them all.
Everyone is making plans for me. This irritates me. My cousin, Tom
Geraghty, Knoblock--would I spend two or three days in the country and
get a rest? No. I don't want to rest. Will you see somebody? I don't
want to see anybody. I want to be left entirely alone. I've just got
to have my whim.
I make a pretence at lunch. I whisper to Carl, "You explain everything
to them--tell them that I am going out immediately after lunch." I am
merely taking the lunch to discipline myself.
I look out the window. The crowds are still there. What a problem! How
am I going to get out without being recognised? Shall I openly suggest
going out, so I can get away? I hate disappointing them. But I must go
out.
Tom Geraghty, Donald Crisp, and myself suggest taking a walk. I do
not tell them my plans, merely suggest taking the walk. We go through
the back way and escape. I am sure that everything is all right, and
that no one will recognise me. I cannot stand the strain any longer. I
tell Donald and Tom--they really must leave me alone. I want to be
alone, and want to visit alone. They understand. Tom is a good sort
and so is Donald. I do not want to ride, but just for a quicker means
of getting away I call a taxicab.
I tell him to drive to Lambeth. He is a good driver, and an old one.
He has not recognised me, thank heaven!
But he is going too fast. I tell him to drive slower, to take his
time. I sit back now. I am passing Westminster Bridge again. I see it
better. Things are more familiar. On the other side is the new London
County Council building. They have been building it for years. They
started it before I left.
The Westminster Road has become very dilapidated, but perhaps it is
because I am riding in an automobile. I used to travel across it
another way. It doesn't seem so long ago, either.
My God! Look! Under the bridge! There's the old blind man. I stop the
driver and drive back. We pull up outside the Canterbury.
"You wait there, or do you want me to pay you off?" He will wait. I
walk back.
There he is, the same old figure, the same old blind man I used to see
as a child of five, with the same old earmuffs, with his back against
the wall and the same stream of greasy water trickling down the stone
behind his back.
The same old clothes, a bit greener with age, and the irregular bush
of whiskers coloured almost in a rainbow array, but with a dirty grey
predominant.
What a symbol from which to count the years that I had been away. A
little more green to his clothes! A bit more grey in his matted beard!
He has that same stark look in his eyes that used to make me sick as a
child. Everything exactly the same, only a bit more dilapidated.
No. There is a change. The dirty little mat for the unhealthy-looking
pup with the watering eyes that used to be with him--that is gone. I
would like to hear the story of the missing pup.
Did its passing make much difference to the lonely derelict? Was its
ending a tragic one, dramatic, or had it just passed out naturally?
The old man is laboriously reading the same chapter from his old,
greasy, and bethumbed embossed Bible. His lips move, but silently, as
his fingers travel over the letters. I wonder if he gets comfort
there? Or does he need comfort?
To me it is all too horrible. He is the personification of poverty at
its worst, sunk in that inertia that comes of lost hope. It is too
terrible.
VI.
THE HAUNTS OF MY CHILDHOOD
I jump into the automobile again and we drive along past Christ
Church. There's Baxter Hall, where we used to see magic-lantern slides
for a penny. The forerunner of the movie of to-day. I see significance
in everything around me. You could get a cup of coffee and a piece of
cake there and see the Crucifixion of Christ all at the same time.
We are passing the police station. A drear place to youth. Kennington
Road is more intimate. It has grown beautiful in its decay. There is
something fascinating about it.
Sleepy people seem to be living in the streets more than they used to
when I played there. Kennington Baths, the reason for many a day's
hookey. You could go swimming there, second class, for three pence (if
you brought your own swimming trunks).
Through Brook Street to the upper Bohemian quarter, where third-rate
music-hall artists appear. All the same, a little more decayed,
perhaps. And yet it is not just the same.
I am seeing it through other eyes. Age trying to look back through the
eyes of youth. A common pursuit, though a futile one.
It is bringing home to me that I am a different person. It takes the
form of art; it is beautiful. I am very impersonal about it. It is
another world, and yet in it I recognise something, as though in a
dream.
We pass the Kennington "pub," Kennington Cross, Chester Street, where
I used to sleep. The same, but, like its brother landmarks, a bit more
dilapidated. There is the old tub outside the stables where I used to
wash. The same old tub, a little more twisted.
I tell the driver to pull up again. "Wait a moment." I do not know
why, but I want to get out and walk. An automobile has no place in
this setting. I have no particular place to go. I just walk along down
Chester Street. Children are playing, lovely children. I see myself
among them back there in the past. I wonder if any of them will come
back some day and look around enviously at other children.
Somehow they seem different from those children with whom I used to
play. Sweeter, more dainty were these little, begrimed kids with their
arms entwined around one another's waists. Others, little girls
mostly, sitting on the doorsteps, with dolls, with sewing, all playing
at that universal game of "mothers."
For some reason I feel choking up. As I pass they look up. Frankly
and without embarrassment they look at the stranger with their
beautiful, kindly eyes. They smile at me. I smile back. Oh, if I could
only do something for them. These waifs with scarcely any chance at
all.
Now a woman passes with a can of beer. With a white skirt hanging
down, trailing at the back. She treads on it. There, she has done it
again. I want to shriek with laughter at the joy of being in this same
old familiar Kennington. I love it.
It is all so soft, so musical; there is so much affection in the
voices. They seem to talk from their souls. There are the inflections
that carry meanings, even if words were not understood. I think of
Americans and myself. Our speech is hard, monotonous, except where
excitement makes it more noisy.
There is a barber shop where I used to be the lather boy. I wonder if
the same old barber is still there? I look. No, he is gone. I see two
or three kiddies playing on the porch. Foolish, I give them something.
It creates attention. I am about to be discovered.