routine would go on through sheer mechanics of spirit, even if its
various employees should forget to show up some day. The corners seem
almost peopled with the ghosts of Henry Irving and his comrades. There
in one end of the gloomy old room is a chair in which David Garrick
himself sat.
All those at the dinner were well known in art circles--E. V. Lucas,
Walter Hackett, George Frampton, J. M. Barrie, Herbert Hammil, Edward
Knoblock, Harry Graham, N. Nicholas, Nicholas D. Davies, Squire
Bancroft, and a number of others whose names I do not remember.
What an interesting character is Squire Bancroft. I am told that he is
England's oldest living actor, and he is now retired. He does not look
as though he should retire.
I am late and that adds to an embarrassment which started as soon as I
knew I was to meet Barrie and so many other famous people.
There is Barrie. He is pointed out to me just about the time I
recognise him myself. This is my primary reason for coming. To meet
Barrie. He is a small man, with a dark moustache and a deeply marked,
sad face, with heavily shadowed eyes; but I detect lines of humour
lurking around his mouth. Cynical? Not exactly.
I catch his eye and make motions for us to sit together, and then find
that the party had been planned that way anyhow. There is the
inevitable hush for introductions. How I hate it. Names are the bane
of my existence. Personalities, that's the thing.
But everyone seems jovial except Barrie. His eyes look sad and tired.
But he brightens as though all along there had been that hidden smile
behind the mask. I wonder if they are all friendly toward me, or if I
am just the curiosity of the moment.
There is an embarrassing pause, after we have filed into the
dining-room, which E. V. Lucas breaks.
"Gentlemen, be seated."
I felt almost like a minstrel man and the guests took their seats as
simultaneously as though rehearsed for it.
I feel very uncomfortable mentally. I cough. What shall I say to
Barrie? Why hadn't I given it some thought? I am aware that Squire
Bancroft is seated at my other side. I feel as though I am in a vice
with its jaws closing as the clock ticks. Why did I come? The
atmosphere is so heavy, yet I am sure they feel most hospitable toward
me.
I steal a glance at Squire Bancroft. He looks every bit the eminent
old-school actor. The dignity and tradition of the English stage is
written into every line in his face. I remember Nicholson having said
that the squire would not go to a "movie," that he regarded his stand
as a principle. Then why is he here? He is going to be difficult, I
fear.
He breaks the ice with the announcement that he had been to a movie
that day! Coming from him it was almost a shock.
"Mr. Chaplin, the reading of the letter in 'Shoulder Arms' was the
high spot of the picture." This serious consideration from the man who
would not go to the movies.
I wanted to hug him. Then I learn that he had told everyone not to say
anything about his not having been to a movie for fear that it would
offend me. He leans over and whispers his age and tells me he is the
oldest member of the club. He doesn't look within ten years of his
age. I find myself muttering inanities in answering him.
Then Barrie tells me that he is looking for some one to play Peter Pan
and says he wants me to play it. He bowls me over completely. To think
that I was avoiding and afraid to meet such a man! But I am afraid to
discuss it with him seriously, am on my guard because he may decide
that I know nothing about it and change his mind.
Just imagine, Barrie has asked me to play Peter Pan! It is too big and
grand to risk spoiling it by some chance witless observation, so I
change the subject and let this golden opportunity pass. I have failed
completely in my first skirmish with Barrie.
There are laboured jokes going the rounds of the table and everyone
seems to feel conscious of some duty that is resting on his shoulders
ungracefully.
One ruddy gentleman whose occupation is a most serious one, I am told,
that of building a giant memorial in Whitehall to the dead of the late
War, is reacting to the situation most flippantly. His conversation,
which has risen to a pitch of almost hysterical volume, is most
ridiculously comic. He is a delightful buffoon.
Everyone is laughing at his chatter, but nothing seems to be
penetrating my stupidity, though I am carrying with me a wide
mechanical grin, which I broaden and narrow with the nuances of the
table laughing. I feel utterly out of the picture, that I don't
belong, that there must be something significant in the badinage that
is bandied about the board.
Barrie is speaking again about moving pictures. I must understand. I
summon all of my scattered faculties to bear upon what he is saying.
What a peculiarly shaped head he has.
He is speaking of "The Kid," and I feel that he is trying to flatter
me. But how he does it! He is criticising the picture.
He is very severe. He declares that the "heaven" scene was entirely
unnecessary, and why did I give it so much attention? And why so much
of the mother in the picture, and why the meeting of the mother and
the father? All of these things he is discussing analytically and
profoundly, so much so that I find that my feeling of self-consciousness
is rapidly leaving me.
I find myself giving my side of the argument without hesitation,
because I am not so sure that Barrie is right, and I had reasons, good
reasons, for wanting all those things in the picture. But I am
thrilled at his interest and appreciation and it is borne in upon me
that by discussing dramatic construction with me he is paying a very
gracious and subtle compliment. It is sweet of him. It relieves me of
the last vestige of my embarrassment.
"But, Sir James," I am saying, "I cannot agree with you--" Imagine the
metamorphosis. And our discussion continues easily and pleasantly. I
am aware of his age as he talks and I get more of his spirit of
whimsicality.
The food is being served and I find that E. V. Lucas has provided a
treacle pudding, a particular weakness of mine, to which I do justice.
I am wondering if Barrie resents age, he who is so youthful in spirit.
There seems to be lots of fun in the general buffoonery that is going
on around the table, but despite all efforts to the contrary I am
serving a diet of silence. I feel very colourless, that the whole
conversation that is being shouted is colourless.
I am a good audience. I laugh at anything and dare not speak. Why
can't I be witty? Are they trying to draw me out? Maybe I am wrong and
there is a purpose behind this buffoonery. But I hardly know whether
to retaliate in kind, or just grin.
I am dying for something to happen. Lucas is rising. We all feel the
tension. Why are parties like that? It ends.
Barrie is whispering, "Let's go to my apartment for a drink and a
quiet talk," and I begin to feel that things are most worth while.
Knoblock and I walk with him to Adelphi Terrace, where his apartment
overlooks the Thames Embankment.
Somehow this apartment seems just like him, but I cannot convey the
resemblance in a description of it. The first thing you see is a
writing desk in a huge room beautifully furnished, and with dark-wood
panelling. Simplicity and comfort are written everywhere. There is a
large Dutch fireplace in the right side of the room, but the
outstanding piece of furniture is a tiny kitchen stove in one corner.
It is polished to such a point that it takes the aspect of the
ornamental rather than the useful. He explains that on this he makes
his tea when servants are away. Such a touch, perhaps, just the touch
to suggest Barrie.
Our talk drifts to the movies and Barrie tells me of the plans for
filming "Peter Pan." We are on very friendly ground in this discussion
and I find myself giving Barrie ideas for plays while he is giving me
ideas for movies, many of them suggestions that I can use in comedies.
There is a knock at the door. Gerald du Maurier is calling. He is one
of England's greatest actors and the son of the man who wrote
"Trilby." Our party lasts far into the night, until about three in the
morning. I notice that Barrie looks rather tired and worn, so we
leave, walking with Du Maurier up the Strand. He tells us that Barrie
is not himself since his nephew was drowned, that he has aged
considerably.
We walk slowly back to the hotel and to bed.
Next day there is a card from Bruce Bairnsfather, England's famous
cartoonist, whose work during the war brought him international
success, inviting me to tea. He carries me out into the country, where
I have a lovely time. His wife tells me that he is just a bundle of
nerves and that he never knows when to stop working. I ask what H. G.
Wells is like and Bruce tells me that he is like "Wells" and no one
else.
When I get back to the hotel there is a letter from Wells.
"Do come over. I've just discovered that you are in town. Do you want
to meet Shaw? He is really very charming out of the limelight. I
suppose you are overwhelmed with invitations, but if there is a chance
to get hold of you for a talk, I will be charmed. How about a week-end
with me at Easton, free from publicity and with harmless, human
people. No 'phones in the house."
I lost no time in accepting such an invitation.
There is a big luncheon party on among my friends and I am told that a
party has been arranged to go through the Limehouse district with
Thomas Burke, who wrote "Limehouse Nights." I resent it exceedingly
and refuse to go with a crowd to meet Burke. I revolt against the
constant crowding. I hate crowds.
London and its experiences are telling on me and I am nervous and
unstrung. I must see Burke and go with him alone. He is the one man
who sees London through the same kind of glasses as myself.
I am told that Burke will be disappointing because he is so silent,
but I do not believe that I will be disappointed in him.
Robinson tells the crowd of my feelings and how much I have planned on
this night alone with Burke, and the party is called off. We 'phone
Burke and I make an engagement to meet him at his home that evening at
ten o'clock. We are to spend the night together in Limehouse. What a
prospect!
That night I was at Thomas Burke's ahead of time. The prospect of a
night spent in the Limehouse district with the author of "Limehouse
Nights" was as alluring as Christmas morning to a child.
Burke is so different from what I expected. "Limehouse Nights" had led
me to look for some one physically, as well as mentally, big, though I
had always pictured him as mild-mannered and tremendously human and
sympathetic.
I notice even as we are introduced that Burke looks tired and it is
hard to think that this little man with the thin, peaked face and
sensitive features is the same one who has blazed into literature such
elemental lusts, passions and emotions as characterise his short
stories.
I am told that he doesn't give out much. I wonder just who he is like.
He is very curious. Doesn't seem to be noticing anything that goes on
about him. He just sits with his arm to his face, leaning on his hand
and gazing into the fire. As he sits there, apparently unperturbed and
indifferent, I am warming up to him considerably. I feel a sort of
master of the situation. It's a comfortable feeling. Is the reticence
real or is this some wonderful trick of his, this making his guest
feel superior?
His tired-looking, sensitive eyes at first seem rather severe and
serious, but suddenly I am aware of something keen, quick and
twinkling in them. His wife has arrived. A very young lady of great
charm, who makes you feel instantly her artistic capabilities even in
ordinary conversation.
Shortly after his wife comes in Burke and I leave, I feeling very much
the tourist in the hands of the super city guide.
"What, where--anything particular that I want to see?"
This rather scares me, but I take it as a challenge and make up my
mind that I will know him. He is difficult, and, somehow, I don't
believe that he cares for movie actors. Maybe I am only possible
"copy" to him?
He seems to be doing me a kindness and I find myself feeling rather
stiff and on my best behaviour, but I resolve that before the evening
is through I will make him open up and like me, for I am sure that his
interest is well worth while.
I have nothing to suggest except that we ramble along with nothing
deliberate in view. I feel that this pleases him, for a light of
interest comes into his eyes, chasing one of responsibility. We are
just going to stroll along.
X.
I MEET THOMAS BURKE AND H. G. WELLS
As Burke and I ramble along toward no place in particular, I talk
about his book. I have read "Limehouse Nights" as he wrote it. There
is nothing I could see half so effective. We discuss the fact that
realities such as he has kept alive seldom happen in a stroll, but I
am satisfied. I don't want to see. It could not be more beautiful than
the book. There is no reaction to my flattery. I must watch good
taste. I feel that he is very intelligent, and I am silent for quite a
while as we stroll toward Stepney. There is a greenish mist hanging
about everything and we seem to be in a labyrinth of narrow alleyways,
now turning into streets and then merging into squares. He is silent
and we merely walk.
And then I awaken. I see his purpose. I can do my own story--he is
merely lending me the tools, and what tools they are! I feel that I
have served an ample apprenticeship in their use, through merely
reading his stories. I am fortified.
It is so easy now. He has given me the stories before. Now he is
telling them over in pictures. The very shadows take on life and
romance. The skulking, strutting, mincing, hurrying forms that pass us
and fade out into the night are now becoming characters. The curtain
has risen on "Limehouse Nights," dramatised with the original cast.
There is a tang of the east in the air and I am tinglingly aware of
something vital, living, moving, in this murky atmosphere that is more
intense even for the occasional dim light that peers out into the soft
gloom from attic windows and storerooms, or municipal lights that
gleam on the street corners.
Here is a little slice of God's fashioning, where love runs hand in
hand with death, where poetry sings in withered Mongolian hearts, even
as knives are buried in snow-white breasts and swarthy necks. Here
hearts are broken casually, but at the same time there comes just as
often to this lotus land the pity, terror, and wonder of first love,
and who shall say which is predominant?
Behind each of those tiny garret windows lurks life--life in its most
elemental costume. There is no time, thought, or preparation for
anything but the elemental passions, and songs of joy, hope, and
laughter are written into each existence, even as the killings go on,
surely, swiftly.
There must be a magic wand forever doing a pendulum swing over this
land, for the point of view often changes from the beastly to the
beautiful, and in one short moment the innocent frequently gather the
sophistication of the aged. These creatures of life's game run
blithely along their course ignorant of the past, joyful in the
present, and careless of the future, while their tiny lightened
windows seem to wink deliberately as they make pinpricks of light
through the shuttered gloom.
On the other side of the street there is stepping a little lady whose
cheap cotton clothes are cut with Parisian cunning, and as we cross
and pass her we discern beauty, enhanced manyfold by youth and
vitality, but hardened with premature knowledge. I can't help but
think of little Gracie Goodnight, the little lady who resented the
touch of a "Chink," so much so that she filled the fire extinguishers
in his place with oil, and when he was trapped in the blazing
building, calmly, and with a baby smile upon her face, poured the
contents of the extinguisher over him and his furniture.
There is the Queen's Theatre, bringing forward a mental picture of
little Gina of Chinatown, who stopped a panic in the fire-frightened
audience of the playhouse as her début offering on the stage. Little
Gina, who brought the whole neighbourhood to her feet in her joyous
dancing delight. Little Gina, who at fourteen had lived, laughed, and
loved, and who met death with a smile, carrying the secret of him with
her.
Every once in a while Burke merely lifts his stick and points. His
gesture needs no comment. He has located and made clear without
language the only one object he could possibly mean, and, strangely,
it is always something particularly interesting to me. He is most
unusual.
What a guide he is! He is not showing me Main Street, not the obvious,
not even the sightseer's landmarks, but in this rambling I am getting
the heart, the soul, the feeling. I feel that he has gauged me
quickly--that he knows I love feelings rather than details, that he is
unconsciously flattering to my subtlety, after two miles through
black, though lovely, shadows.
Now he is picking the spots where lights are shining from the fish
shops. He knows their locations, knows their lights because he has
studied them well. There are forms slinking gracefully, as though on
location and with rehearsed movement. What an effect for a camera!
This is rugged. Here are the robust of the slums. People act more
quickly here than in Lambeth. And suddenly we are back where we
started. In a car we go to the old Britannia, Hoxton, rather
reluctantly.
There is a glaring moving-picture palace. What a pity! I resent its
obtrusion. We go along toward the East India Docks--to Shadwell. And I
am feeling creepy with the horror of his stories of Shadwell. I could
hear a child screaming behind a shuttered window and I wondered and
imagined, but we did not stop anywhere.
We meandered along with just an occasional gesture from him, all that
was necessary to make his point. To Stanhope Road, Bethnal Green,
Spitalfields, Ratcliffe, Soho, Notting Dale, and Camden Town.
And through it all I have the feeling that things trivial, portentous,
beautiful, sordid, cringing, glorious, simple, epochal, hateful,
lovable are happening behind closed doors. I people all those shacks
with girls, boys, murders, shrieks, life, beauty.
As we go back we talk of life in the world outside this adventurous
Utopia. He tells me that he has never been outside of London, not even
to Paris. This is very curious to me, but it doesn't seem so as he
says it. He tells me of another book that he has ready and of a play
that he is working on for early production. We talked until three in
the morning and I went back to my hotel with the same sort of feelings
that I had at twelve when I sat up all night reading Stevenson's
"Treasure Island."
The next day I did some shopping, and was measured for boots. How
different is shopping here! A graceful ceremony that is pleasing even
to a man. The sole advertisement I see in the shop is "Patronised by
His Majesty." It is all said in that one phrase.
And the same methods have been in vogue at this bootmaker's for
centuries. My foot is placed on a piece of paper and the outline
drawn. Then measurements are taken of the instep, ankle, and calf, as
I want riding boots. Old-fashioned they will probably continue until
the end of time, yet somehow I sort of felt that if that old shop had
a tongue to put in its cheek, there it would be parked, because
tradition, as an aid to the cash register, is no novelty.
In the evening I dined at the Embassy Club with Sonny, and was made an
honorary member of the club.
It is amazing how much Europe is aping America, particularly with its
dance music. In cafés you hear all the popular airs that are being
played on Broadway. The American influence has been felt to such an
extent that King Jazz is a universal potentate. Sonny and I go to the
theatre and see a part of the "League of Notions," but we leave early
and I run to say hello to Constance Collier, who is playing in London.
The next day is exciting. Through the invitation of a third party I am
to meet H. G. Wells at Stoll's office to view the first showing of
Wells's picture, "Kipps."
In the morning the telephone rings and I hear some one in the parlour
say that the Prince of Wales is calling. I get in a blue funk, as does
everyone else in the apartment, and I hear them rush toward the
'phone. But Ed. Knoblock claiming to be versed in the proper method of
handling such a situation, convinces everyone that he is the one to do
the talking and I relapse back into bed, but wider awake than I ever
was in my life.
Knoblock on the 'phone:
"Are you there? ... Yes ... Oh, yes ... to-night ... Thank you."
Knoblock turning from the 'phone announces, very formally, "The Prince
of Wales wishes Charlie to dine with him to-night," and he starts
toward my bedroom door. (Through all of this I have been in the
bedroom, and the others are in the parlour confident, with the
confidence of custom, that I am still asleep.)
As Knoblock starts for my bedroom door my very American secretary, in
the very routine voice he has trained for such occurrences, says:
"Don't wake him. Tell him to call later. Not before two o'clock."
Knoblock: "Good God man! This is the Prince of Wales," and he launches
into a monologue regarding the traditions of England and the customs
of Court and what a momentous occasion this is, contemptuously
observing that I am in bed and my secretary wants him to tell the
Prince to call later! He cannot get the American viewpoint.
Knoblock's sincere indignation wins, and the secretary backs away from
the bedroom as I plunge under the covers and feign sleep. Knoblock
comes in very dignified and, trying to keep his voice in the most
casual tone, announces, "Keep to-night open to dine with the Prince of
Wales."
I try to enter into it properly, but I feel rather stiff so early in
the morning. I try to remonstrate with him for having made the
engagement. I have another engagement with H. G. Wells, but I am
thrilled at the thought of dining with the Prince in Buckingham
Palace. I can't do it. What must I do?
Knoblock takes me in hand. He repeats the message. I think some one is
spoofing and tell him so. I am very suspicious, and the thrill leaves
me as I remember that the Prince is in Scotland, shooting. How could
he get back?
But Knoblock is practical. This must go through. And I think he is a
bit sore at me for my lack of appreciation. He would go to the palace
himself and find out everything. He goes to the palace to verify.
I can't tell his part of it--he was very vague--but I gathered that
when he reached there he found all the furniture under covers, and I
can hear that butler now saying:
"His Royal Highness the Prince will not be back for several days,
sir."
Poor Ed.! It was quite a blow for him, and, on the level, I was a bit
disappointed myself.
But I lost no time mooning over my lost chance to dine with royalty,
for that afternoon I was going to meet Wells. Going to Stoll's; I was
eagerly looking forward to a quiet little party where I could get off
somewhere with Wells and have a long talk.
[Illustration: I meet H. G. Wells.]
As I drew near the office, however, I noticed crowds, the same sort of
crowds that I had been dodging since my exit from Los Angeles. It was
a dense mass of humanity packed around the entire front of the
building, waiting for something that had been promised them. And then
I knew that it was an arranged affair and that, so far as a chat was
concerned, Wells and I were just among those present, even though we
were the guests of honour.
I remember keenly the crush in the elevator, a tiny little affair
built for about six people and carrying nearer sixty. I get the
viewpoint of a sardine quite easily. Upstairs it is not so bad, and I
am swept into a room where there are only a few people and the door is
then closed. I look all around, trying to spot Wells. There he is.
I notice his beautiful, dark-blue eyes first. Keen and kindly they
are, twinkling just now as though he were inwardly smiling, perhaps at
my very apparent embarrassment.
Before we can get together, however, there comes forward the camera
brigade with its flashlight ammunition. Would we pose together? Wells
looks hopeless. I must show that before cameras I am very much of a
person, and I take the initiative with the lens peepers.
We are photoed sitting, standing, hats on and off, and in every other
stereotyped position known to camera men.