stood and was standing. Only a bit more decrepit, a bit older, more
dyspeptic, his clothes greasier, his shoulder rounder, his one eye
rather filmy and not so all-seeing as it once was. And I waited. But
he did not shout his wares any more. Even the good lung was failing.
He just stood there inert in his ageing. And somehow the tomatoes did
not look so good as they once were.
We get into a cab and drive back towards Brixton to the Elephant and
Castle, where we pull up at a coffee store. The same old London coffee
store, with its bad coffee and tea.
There are a few pink-cheeked roués around and a couple of old
derelicts. Then there are a lot of painted ladies, many of them with
young men and the rest of them looking for young men. Some of the
young fellows are minus arms and many of them carry various ribbons of
military honour. They are living and eloquent evidence of the War and
its effects. There are a number of stragglers. The whole scene to me
is depressing. What a sad London this is! People with tired, worn
faces after four years of War!
Someone suggests that we go up and see George Fitzmaurice, who lives
in Park Lane. There we can get a drink and then go to bed. We jump in
a cab and are soon there. What a difference! Park Lane is another
world after the Elephant and Castle. Here are the homes of the
millionaires and the prosperous.
Fitzmaurice is quite a successful moving-picture director. We find a
lot of friends at his house, and over whiskies-and-sodas we discuss
our trip. Our trip through Kennington suggests Limehouse, and
conversation turns toward that district and Thomas Burke.
I get their impressions of Limehouse. It is not as tough as it has
been pictured. I rather lost my temper through the discussion.
One of those in the party, an actor, spoke very sneeringly of that
romantic district and its people.
"Talk about Limehouse nights. I thought they were tough down there.
Why, they are like a lot of larks!" said this big-muscled leading man.
And then he tells of a visit to the Limehouse district--a visit made
solely for the purpose of finding trouble. How he had read of the
tough characters there and how he had decided to go down to find out
how tough they were.
"I went right down there into their joints," he said, "and told them
that I was looking for somebody that was tough, the tougher the
better, and I went up to a big mandarin wearing a feather and said:
'Give me the toughest you've got. You fellows are supposed to be tough
down here, so let's see how tough you are.' And I couldn't get a rise
out of any of them," he concluded.
This was enough for me. It annoyed.
I told him that it was very fine for well-fed, over-paid actors
flaunting toughness at these deprived people, who are gentle and nice
and, if ever tough, only so because of environment. I asked him just
how tough he would be if he were living the life that some of these
unfortunate families must live. How easy for him, with five meals a
day beneath that thrust-out chest with his muscles trained and
perfect, trying to start something with these people. Of course they
were not tough, but when it comes to four years of War, when it comes
to losing an arm or a leg, then they are tough. But they are not going
around looking for fights unless there is a reason.
It rather broke up the party, but I was feeling so disgusted that I
did not care.
We meander along, walking from Park Lane to the Ritz.
On our way we are stopped by two or three young girls. They are
stamped plainly and there is no subtlety about their "Hello boys! You
are not going home so early?" They salute us. We wait a moment. They
pause and then wave their hands to us and we beckon them.
"How is it you are up so late?" They are plainly embarrassed at this
question. Perhaps it has been a long time since they were given the
benefit of the doubt. They are not sure just what to say. We are
different. Their usual method of attack or caress does not seem in
order, so they just giggle.
Here is life in its elemental rawness. I feel very kindly disposed
toward them, particularly after my bout with the well-fed actor who
got his entertainment from the frailties of others. But it is rather
hard for us to mix. There is a rather awkward silence.
Then one of the girls asks if we have a cigarette. Robinson gives them
a package, which they share between the three of them. This breaks the
ice. They feel easier. The meeting is beginning to run along the
parliamentary rules that they know.
Do we know where they can get a drink?
"No." This is a temporary setback, but they ask if we mind their
walking along a bit with us. We don't, and we walk along towards the
Ritz. They are giggling, and before long I am recognised. They are
embarrassed.
They look down at their shabby little feet where ill-fitting shoes run
over at the heels. Their cheap little cotton suits class them even low
in their profession, though their youth is a big factor toward their
potential rise when they have become hardened and their mental
faculties have become sharpened in their eternal battles with men.
Then men will come to them.
Knowing my identity, they are on their good behaviour. No longer are
we prospects. We are true adventure for them this night. Their
intimacy has left them and in its place there appears a reserve which
is attractive even in its awkwardness.
The conversation becomes somewhat formal. And we are nearing the
hotel, where we must leave them. They are very nice and charming now,
and are as timid and reserved as though they had just left a convent.
They talk haltingly of the pictures they have seen, shyly telling how
they loved me in "Shoulder Arms," while one of them told how she wept
when she saw "The Kid" and how she had that night sent some money home
to a little kid brother who was in school and staying there through
her efforts in London.
The difference in them seems so marked when they call me Mr. Chaplin
and I recall how they had hailed us as "Hello, boys." Somehow I rather
resent the change. I wish they would be more intimate in their
conversation. I would like to get their viewpoint. I want to talk to
them freely. They are so much more interesting than most of the people
I meet.
But there is a barrier. Their reserve stays. I told them that I was
sure they were tired and gave them cab fare.
One of their number speaks for the trio.
"Thanks, Mr. Chaplin, very much. I could do with this, really. I was
broke, honest. Really, this comes in very handy."
They could not quite understand our being nice and sympathetic.
They were used to being treated in the jocular way of street
comradery. Finer qualities came forward under the respectful attention
we gave them, something rather nice that had been buried beneath the
veneer of their trade.
Their thanks are profuse, yet awkward. They are not used to giving
thanks. They usually pay, and pay dearly, for anything handed them. We
bid them "good night." They smile and walk away.
We watch them for a bit as they go on their way. At first they are
strolling along, chattering about their adventure. Then, as if on a
signal, they straighten up as though bracing themselves, and with
quickened steps they move toward Piccadilly, where a haze of light is
reflected against the murky sky.
It is the beacon light from their battleground, and as we follow them
with our eyes these butterflies of the night make for the lights where
there is laughter and gaiety.
As we go along to the Ritz we are all sobered by the encounter with
the three little girls. I think blessed is the ignorance that enables
them to go on without the mental torture that would come from knowing
the inevitable that awaits them.
As we go up the steps of the hotel we see a number of derelicts
huddled asleep against the outside of the building, sitting under the
arches and doors, men and women, old and young, underfed, deprived,
helpless, so much so that the imprint of helplessness is woven into
their brain and brings on an unconsciousness that is a blessing.
We wake them up and hand them each money. "Here, get yourself a bed."
They are too numbed. They thank us mechanically, accepting what we
give them, but their reaction and thanks are more physical than
mental.
There was one old woman about seventy. I gave her something. She woke
up, or stirred in her sleep, took the money without a word of
thanks--took it as though it was her ration from the bread line and no
thanks were expected, huddled herself up in a tighter knot than
before, and continued her slumber. The inertia of poverty had long
since claimed her.
We rang the night bell at the Ritz, for they are not like our American
hotels, where guests are in the habit of coming in at all hours of the
night. The Ritz closes its doors at midnight, and after that hour you
must ring them.
But the night was not quite over. As we were ringing the bell we
noticed a waggon a little way off in the street, with the horse
slipping and the driver out behind the waggon with his shoulder to the
wheel and urging the horse along with cheery words.
We walked to the waggon and found it was loaded with apples and on its
way to the market. The streets were so slippery that the horse could
not negotiate the hill. I could not help but think how different from
the usual driver this man was.
He did not belay the tired animal with a whip and curse and swear at
him in his helplessness. He saw that the animal was up against it, and
instead of beating him he got out and put his shoulder to the wheel,
never for the moment doubting that the horse was doing his best.
We all went out into the street and put our shoulders against the
waggon along with the driver. He thanked us, and as we finally got the
momentum necessary to carry it over the hill he said:
"These darn roads are so slippery that the darned horse even can't
pull it."
It was a source of wonder to him that he should come upon something
too much for his horse. And the horse was so well fed and well kept. I
could not help but notice how much better the animal looked than his
master. The evening was over. I don't know but that the incident of
the apple waggon was a fitting finale.
The next morning for the first time I am made to give my attention to
the mail that has been arriving. We have been obliged to have another
room added to our suite in order to have some place in which to keep
the numerous sacks that are being brought to us at all hours.
The pile is becoming so mountainous that we are compelled to engage
half a dozen stenographers just for the purpose of reading and
classifying them.
We found that there were 73,000 letters or cards addressed to me
during the first three days in London, and of this number more than
28,000 were begging letters--letters begging anywhere from £1 to
£100,000.
Countless and varied were the reasons set forth. Some were ridiculous.
Some were amusing. Some were pathetic. Some were insulting. All of
them in earnest.
I discovered from the mail that there are 671 relatives of mine in
England that I knew nothing about.
The greater part of these were cousins, and they gave very detailed
family-tree tracings in support of their claims. All of them wished to
be set up in business or to get into the movies.
But the cousins did not have a monopoly on the relationships. There
were brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles, and there were nine
claiming to be my mother, telling wondrous adventure stories about my
being stolen by gipsies when a baby or being left on doorsteps, until
I began to think my youth had been a very hectic affair. But I did not
worry much about these last, as I had left a perfectly good mother
back in California, and so far I have been pretty much satisfied with
her.
There were letters addressed just to Charles Chaplin, some to King
Charles, some to the "King of Mirth"; on some there was drawn the
picture of a battered derby; some carried a reproduction of my shoes
and cane; and in some there was stuck a white feather with the
question as to what I was doing during the war?
Would I visit such and such institutions? Would I appear for such and
such charity? Would I kick off the football season or attend some
particular Soccer game? Then there were letters of welcome and one
enclosing an iron cross inscribed, "For your services in the Great
War," and "Where were you when England was fighting?"
Then there were others thanking me for happiness given the senders.
These came by the thousand. One young soldier sent me four medals he
had gotten during the big war. He said that he was sending them
because I had never been properly recognised. His part was so small
and mine so big, he said, that he wanted me to have his _Croix de
Guerre_, his regimental and other medals.
Some of the letters were most interesting. Here are a few samples:
DEAR MR. CHAPLIN,--You are a leader in your line and I am a
leader in mine. Your speciality is moving pictures and custard
pies. My speciality is windmills.
I know more about windmills than any man in the world. I have
studied the winds all over the world and am now in a position
to invent a windmill that will be the standard mill of the
world, and it will be made so it can be adapted to the winds of
the tropics and the winds of the arctic regions.
I am going to let you in on this in an advantageous way. You
have only to furnish the money. I have the brains, and in a few
years I will make you rich and famous. You had better 'phone me
for quick action.
DEAR MR. CHAPLIN,--Won't you please let me have enough money to
send little Oscar to college? Little Oscar is twelve, and the
neighbours all say that he is the brightest little boy they
have ever seen. And he can imitate you so well that we don't
have to go to the movies any more. [This is dangerous. Oscar is
a real competitor, ruining my business.] And so, if you can't
send the little fellow to college, won't you take him in the
movies with you like you did Jackie Coogan?
DEAR MR. CHAPLIN,--My brother is a sailor, and he is the only
man in the world who knows where Capt. Kidd's gold is buried.
He has charts and maps and everything necessary, including a
pick and shovel. But he cannot pay for the boat.
Will you pay for the boat, and half the gold is yours? All you
need do is to say "yes" to me in a letter, and I will go out
and look for John as he is off somewhere on a bust, being what
you might call a drinking man when ashore. But I am sure that I
can find him, as he and I drink in the same places. Your
shipmate.
DEAR CHARLIE,--Have you ever thought of the money to be made in
peanuts? I know the peanut industry, but I am not telling any
of my business in a letter. If you are interested in becoming a
peanut king, then I'm your man. Just address me as Snapper
Dodge, above address.
DEAR MR. CHAPLIN,--My daughter has been helping me about my
boarding-house now for several years, and I may say that she
understands the art of catering to the public as wishes to stay
in quarters. But she has such high-toned ideas, like as putting
up curtains in the bathroom and such that at times I think she
is too good for the boarding-house business and should be
having her own hotel to run.
If you could see your way to buy a hotel in London or New York
for Drusilla, I am sure that before long your name and
Drusilla's would be linked together all over the world because
of what Drusilla would do to the hotel business. And she would
save money because she could make all the beds and cook
herself, and at nights could invent the touches like what I
have mentioned. Drusilla is waiting for you to call her.
DEAR MR. CHAPLIN,--I am enclosing pawn tickets for Grandma's
false teeth and our silver water pitcher, also a rent bill
showing that our rent was due yesterday. Of course, we would
rather have you pay our rent first, but if you could spare it,
grandma's teeth would be acceptable, and we can't hold our
heads up among the neighbours since father sneaked our silver
pitcher to get some beer.
IX.
I MEET THE IMMORTALS
Here are extracts from a number of letters selected at random from the
mountain of mail awaiting me at the hotel:
"---- wishes Mr. Chaplin a hearty welcome and begs him to give him the
honour of shaving him on Sunday, Sept. 11, any time which he thinks
suitable."
A West End moneylender has forwarded his business card, which states:
"Should you require temporary cash accommodation, I am prepared to
advance you £50 to £10,000 on note of hand alone, without fees or
delay. All communications strictly private and confidential."
A man living in Golden Square, W., writes: "My son, in the endeavour
to get a flower thrown by you from the Ritz Hotel, lost his hat, the
bill for which I enclose, seven shillings and sixpence."
A Liverpool scalp specialist gathers that Mr. Chaplin is much
concerned regarding the appearance of grey hairs in his head. "I claim
to be," he adds, "the only man in Great Britain who can and does
restore the colour of grey hair. You may visit Liverpool, and if you
will call I shall be pleased to examine your scalp and give you a
candid opinion. If nothing can be done I will state so frankly."
"Is there any chance," writes a woman of Brixton, "of you requiring
for your films the services of twin small boys nearly four years old
and nearly indistinguishable? An American agent has recently been in
this neighbourhood and secured a contract with two such small girls
(twins), which points to at least a demand for such on American
films."
A widow of sixty-two writes: "I have a half-dozen china teaset of the
late Queen Victoria's diamond jubilee, and it occurred to me that you
might like to possess it. If you would call or allow me to take it
anywhere for you to see, I would gladly do so. I have had it
twenty-four years, and would like to raise money on it."
A South London picture dealer writes: "If ever you should be passing
this way when you are taking your quiet strolls around London, I would
like you to drop in and see a picture that I think might interest you.
It is the Strand by night, painted by Arthur Grimshaw in 1887. I hope
you won't think I have taken too much of a liberty--but I knew your
mother when I was in Kate Paradise's troupe, and I think she would
remember me if ever you were to mention Clara Symonds of that troupe.
It is a little link with the past."
"DEAR OLD FRIEND,--Some months ago I wrote to you, and no doubt you
will remember me. I was in 'Casey's Court,' and, as you know, we had
Mr. Murray for our boss. You have indeed got on well. I myself have
only this month come home from being in Turkey for eight years. Dear
old boy, I should like to see you when you come to London--that is, if
you do not mind mixing with one of the Casey's Court urchins."
A Sussex mother writes: "Would you grant a few moments' interview to a
little girl of nine (small for her years) whom I am anxious to start
on the films? She has much in her favour, being not only bright and
clever, but unusually attractive in appearance, receiving unlimited
attention wherever she goes, as she is really quite out of the
ordinary."
A disengaged actress writes: "If you should take a film in England it
would be a great kindness to employ some of the hundreds of actresses
out of work now and with no prospects of getting any. A walk-on would
be a very welcome change to many of us, to say nothing of a part."
A Somerset man writes: "A friend of mine has a very old-time spot
right here in Somerset, with the peacocks wandering across the
well-kept grounds and three lovely trout ponds, where last night I
brought home five very fine rainbow trout each weighing about
one-and-a-half pounds. You will be tired of the crowds. Slip away down
to me and I will give you ten days or more of the best time you can
get. There will be no side or style, and your oldest clothes will be
the thing."
Another correspondent says: "My husband and I should consider it an
honour if during your visit to South London you would call and take a
homely cup of tea with us. I read in the paper of your intention to
stay at an old-fashioned inn, and should like to recommend the White
Horse Inn at Sheen, which, I believe, is the oldest in Surrey. It
certainly corresponds with your ideal. Welcome to your home town."
This from the seaside: "When you are really tired of the rush of
London there is a very nice little place called Seaford, not very far
from London, just a small place where you can have a real rest. No
dressing up, etc., and then fishing, golf, and tennis if you care for
the same. You could put up at an hotel or here. There will be no one
to worry you. Don't forget to drop us a line."
A London clubman, in offering hospitality, says: "I do not know you.
You do not know me, and probably don't want to. But just think it over
and come and have a bit of lunch with me one day. This between
ourselves--no publicity."
"Saint Pancras Municipal Officers' Swimming Club would be greatly
honoured by your presiding at our annual swimming gala to be held at
the St. Pancras Public Baths."
Dorothy, writing from Poplar, asks: "Dear Mr. Charlie Chaplin, if you
have a pair of old boots at home will you throw them at me for luck?"
An aspirant for the position of secretary writes: "I am a musical
comedy artist by profession, but am at present out of work. I am six
feet two inches in height and 27 years of age. If there is any
capacity in which you can use my services I shall be very thankful.
Hoping you will have an enjoyable stay in your home country."
A Barnes man writes: "If you have time we should be very proud if you
could spare an afternoon to come to tea. We should love to give you a
real old-fashioned Scotch tea, if you would care to come. We know you
will be fêted, and everyone will want you, but if you feel tired and
want a wee rest come out quietly to us. If it wasn't for your dear
funny ways on the screen during the war we would all have gone under."
"Dear Charles," writes an eleven-year-old, "I'd like to meet you very,
very much. I'd like to meet you just to say thank you for all the
times you've cheered me up when I've felt down and miserable. I've
never met you and I don't suppose I ever will, but you will always be
my friend and helper. I'd love your photograph signed by you! Are you
likely to come to Harrogate? I wish you would. Perhaps you could come
and see me. Couldn't you try?"
I wish I could read them all, for in every one there is human feeling,
and I wish it were possible that I could accept some of the
invitations, especially those inviting me to quietness and solitude.
But there are thousands too many. Most of them will have to be
answered by my secretaries, but all of them will be answered, and we
are taking trunkfuls of the letters back to California in order that
as many of the requests as possible shall receive attention.
During the afternoon there came Donald Crisp, Tom Geraghty and the
bunch, and before long my apartment in the London Ritz might just as
well be home in Los Angeles. I realise that I am getting nowhere,
meeting nobody and still playing in Hollywood.
I have travelled 6,000 miles and find I have not shaken the dust of
Hollywood from my shoes. I resent this. I tell Knoblock I must meet
other people besides Geraghty and the Hollywood bunch. I have seen as
much as I want to see of it. Now I want to meet people.
Knoblock smiles, but he is too kind to remind me of my retreat before
the name plate of Bernard Shaw. He and I go shopping and I am measured
for some clothes; then to lunch with E. V. Lucas.
Lucas is a very charming man, sympathetic and sincere. He has written
a number of very good books. It is arranged to give me a party that
night at the Garrick Club.
After luncheon we visit Stoll's Theatre, where "Shoulder Arms" and
Mary Pickford's picture "Suds," are being shown. This is my first
experience in an English cinema. The opera house is one that was built
by Steinhouse and then turned into a movie theatre.
It is strange and odd to see the English audience drinking tea and
eating pastry while watching the performance. I find very little
difference in their appreciation of the picture. All the points
tell just the same as in America. I get out without being recognised
and am very thankful for that.
[Illustration: Another scene from "Sunnyside," one of my favourite
photo plays.]
Back to the hotel and rest for the evening before my dinner at the
Garrick Club.
The thought of dining at the Garrick Club brought up before me the
mental picture that I have always carried of that famous old meeting
place in London, where Art is most dignified. And the club itself
realised my picture to the fullest.