remember handling the pen in a dashing, swashbuckling manner--then
Wells, in his small, hardly discernible style. I am very conscious of
this difference, and I feel as though I had started to sing aloud
before a group of grand-opera stars.
Then there is a quick-sketch artist for whom we pose. He does his work
rapidly, however, and while he is drawing Wells leans over and
whispers in my ear.
"We are the goats," he tells me. "I was invited here to meet you and
you were probably invited here to meet me."
He had called the turn perfectly, and when we had both accepted the
invitation our double acceptance had been used to make the showing an
important event. I don't think that Wells liked it.
Wells and I go into the dark projection room and I sit with Wells. I
feel on my mettle almost immediately, sitting at his side, and I feel
rather glad that we are spending our first moments in an atmosphere
where I am at home. In his presence I feel critical and analytical and
I decide to tell the truth about the picture at all costs. I feel that
Wells would do the same thing about one of mine.
As the picture is reeling off I whisper to him my likes and dislikes,
principally the faulty photography, though occasionally I detect bad
direction. Wells remains perfectly silent and I begin to feel that I
am not breaking the ice. It is impossible to get acquainted under
these conditions. Thank God, I can keep silent, because there is the
picture to watch and that saves the day.
Then Wells whispers, "Don't you think the boy is good?"
The boy in question is right here on the other side of me, watching
his first picture. I look at him. Just starting out on a new career,
vibrant with ambition, eager to make good, and his first attempt being
shown before such an audience. As I watch he is almost in tears,
nervous and anxious.
The picture ends. There is a mob clustering about. Directors and
officials look at me. They want my opinion of the picture. I shall be
truthful. Shall I criticise? Wells nudges me and whispers, "Say
something nice about the boy." And I look at the boy and see what
Wells has already seen and then I say the nice things about him.
Wells's kindness and consideration mean so much more than a mere
picture.
Wells is leaving and we are to meet for dinner, and I am left alone to
work my way through the crush to the taxi and back to the hotel, where
I snatch a bit of a nap. I want to be in form for Wells.
There comes a little message from him:
Don't forget the dinner. You can wrap up in a cloak if you deem
it advisable, and slip in about 7.30 and we can dine in peace.
H. G. WELLS.
Whitehall Court, Entrance 4.
We talk of Russia and I find no embarrassment in airing my views, but
I soon find myself merely the questioner. Wells talks; and, though he
sees with the vision of a dreamer, he brings to his views the
practical. As he talks he appears very much like an American. He seems
very young and full of "pep."
There is the general feeling that conditions will right themselves in
some way. Organisation is needed, he says, and is just as important as
disarmament. Education is the only salvation, not only of Russia, but
of the rest of the world. Socialism of the right sort will come
through proper education. We discuss my prospects of getting into
Russia. I want to see it. Wells tells me that I am at the wrong time
of the year, that the cold weather coming on would make the trip most
inadvisable.
I talk about going to Spain, and he seems surprised to hear that I
want to see a bull fight. He asks, "Why?"
I don't know, except that there is something so nakedly elemental
about it. There is a picturesque technique about it that must appeal
to any artist. Perhaps Frank Harris's "Matador" gave me the impulse,
together with my perpetual quest for a new experience. He says it is
too cruel to the horses.
I relax as the evening goes on and I find that I am liking him even
more than I expected. About midnight we go out on a balcony just off
his library, and in the light of a full moon we get a gorgeous view of
London. Lying before us in the soft, mellow rays of the moon, London
looks as though human, and I feel that we are rather in the Peeping
Tom _rôle_.
I exclaim, "The indecent moon."
He picks me up. "That's good. Where did you get that?"
I have to admit that it is not original--that it belongs to Knoblock.
Wells comments on my dapperness as he helps me on with my coat. "I see
you have a cane with you." I was also wearing a silk hat. I wonder
what Los Angeles and Hollywood would say if I paraded there in this
costume?
Wells tries on my hat, then takes my cane and twirls it. The effect is
ridiculous, especially as just at the moment I notice the two volumes
of the "Outline of History" on his table.
Strutting stagily, he chants, "You're quite the fellow doncher know."
We both laugh. Another virtue for Wells. He's human.
I try to explain my dress. Tell him that it is my other self, a
reaction from the everyday Chaplin. I have always desired to look
natty and I have spurts of primness. Everything about me and my work
is so sensational that I must get reaction. My dress is a part of it.
I feel that it is a poor explanation of the paradox, but Wells thinks
otherwise.
He says I notice things. That I am an observer and an analyst. I am
pleased. I tell him that the only way I notice things is on the run.
Whatever keenness of perception I have is momentary, fleeting. I
observe all in ten minutes or not at all.
What a pleasant evening it is! But as I walk along toward the hotel I
feel that I have not met Wells yet.
And I am going to have another opportunity. I am going to have a
week-end with him at his home in Easton, a week-end with Wells at
home, with just his family. That alone is worth the entire trip from
Los Angeles to Europe.
XI.
OFF TO FRANCE
The hotel next day is teeming with activity.
My secretaries are immersed in mail and, despite the assistance of six
girls whom they have added temporarily to our forces, the mail bags
are piling up and keeping ahead of us.
In a fit of generosity or ennui or something I pitch in and help. It
seems to be the most interesting thing I have attempted on the trip.
Why didn't I think of it sooner? Here is drama. Here is life in
abundance. Each letter I read brings forth new settings, new
characters, new problems. I find myself picking out many letters
asking for charity. I lay these aside.
I have made up my mind to go to France immediately.
I call Carl Robinson. I tell him that we are going to France, to
Paris, at once. Carl is not surprised. He has been with me for a long
time. We decide that we tell nobody and perhaps we can escape
ceremonies. We will keep the apartment at the Ritz and keep the
stenographers working, so that callers will think that we are hiding
about London somewhere.
We are going to leave on Sunday and our plans are perfected in
rapid-fire order. We plunge about in a terrible rush as we try to
arrange everything at the last minute without giving the appearance of
arranging anything.
And in spite of everything, there is a mob at the station to see us
off and autograph books are thrown at me from all sides. I sign for as
many as I can and upon the others I bestow my "prop" grin. Wonder if I
look like Doug when I do this?
We meet the skipper. What does one ask skippers? Oh yes, how does it
look to-day for crossing? As I ask, I cast my weather eye out into the
Channel and it looks decidedly rough for me.
But the skipper's "just a bit choppy" disarms me.
I am eager to get on the boat, and the first person I meet is Baron
Long, owner of a hotel in San Diego. Good heavens! Can't I ever get
away from Hollywood? I am glad to see him, but not now. He is very
clever, however. He senses the situation, smiles quick "hellos," and
then makes himself scarce. In fact, I think he wanted to get away
himself. Maybe he was as anxious for a holiday as I.
I am approached on the boat by two very charming girls. They want my
autograph. Ah, this is nice! I never enjoyed writing my name more.
How I wish that I had learned French. I feel hopelessly sunk, because
after about three sentences in French I am a total loss so far as
conversation is concerned. One girl promises to give me a French
lesson. This promises to be a pleasant trip.
I am told that in France they call me Charlot. We are by this time
strolling about the boat and bowing every other minute. It is getting
rough and I find myself saying I rather like it that way. Liar.
She is speaking. I smile. She smiles. She is talking in French. I am
getting about every eighth word. I cannot seem to concentrate, French
is so difficult. Maybe it's the boat.
I am dying rapidly. I feel like a dead weight on her arm. I can almost
feel myself get pale as I try to say something, anything. I am weak
and perspiring. I blurt out, "I beg pardon," and then I rush off to my
cabin and lie down. Oh, why did I leave England? Something smells
horrible. I look up. My head is near a new pigskin bag. Yes, that's
it, that awful leathery smell. But I have company. Robinson is in the
cabin with me and we are matching ailments.
Thus we spent the trip from Dover to Calais and I was as glad to get
to the French coast as the Kaiser would have been had he kept that
dinner engagement in Paris.
Nearing France, I am almost forgetting my sickness. There is something
in the atmosphere. Something vibrant. The tempo of life is faster. The
springs in its mechanism are wound taut. I feel as if I would like to
take it apart and look at those springs.
I am met by the chief of police, which surprised me, because I was
confident that I had been canny enough to make a getaway this time.
But no. The boat enters the quay and I see the dock crowded with
people. Some treachery. Hats are waving, kisses are being thrown, and
there are cheers. Cheers that I can only get through the expression,
because they are in French and I am notoriously deficient in that
language.
"_Vive le Charlot!_" "Bravo, Charlot!"
I am "Charloted" all over the place. Strange, this foreign tongue.
Wonder why a universal language isn't practicable? They are crowding
about me, asking for autographs. Or at least I think they are, because
they are pushing books in my face, though for the life of me I can't
make out a word of their chatter. But I smile. God bless that old
"prop" grin, because they seem to like it.
Twice I was kissed. I was afraid to look around to see who did it,
because I knew I was in France. And you've got to give me the benefit
of the doubt. I am hoping that both kisses came from pretty girls,
though I do think that at least one of those girls should shave.
They examine my signature closely. They seem puzzled. I look. It is
spelled right. Oh, I see! They expected "Charlot." And I write some
more with "Charlot."
I am being bundled along to a funny little French train. It seems like
a toy. But I am enjoying the difference. Everything is all changed.
The new money, the new language, the new faces, the new
architecture--it's a grown-up three-ring circus to me. The crowd gives
a concerted cheer as the train pulls out and a few intrepid ones run
alongside until distanced by steam and steel.
We go into the dining-room and here is a fresh surprise. The dinner is
_table d'hôte_ and three waiters are serving it. Everyone is served at
once, and as one man is taking up the soup plates another is serving
the next course. Here is French economy--economy that seems very
sensible as they have perfected it. It seems so different from
America, where waiters always seem to be falling over one another in
dining-rooms. And wines with the meal! And the check; it did not
resemble in size the national debt, as dinner checks usually do in
America.
It has started to rain as we arrive in Paris, which adds to my state
of excitement, and a reportorial avalanche falls upon me. I am about
overcome. How did reporters know I was coming? The crowd outside the
station is almost as large as the one in London.
I am still feeling the effects of my sea-sickness. I am not equal to
speaking nor answering questions. We go to the Customs house and one
journalist, finding us, suggests and points another way out. I am
sick. I must disappoint the crowd, and I leap into a taxi and am
driven to Claridge's Hotel.
"Out of the frying pan." Here are more reporters. And they speak
nothing but French. The hubbub is awful. We talk to one another. We
shout at one another. We talk slowly. We spell. We do everything to
make Frenchmen understand English, and Englishmen understand French,
but it is no use. One of them manages to ask me what I think of Paris.
I answer that I never saw so many Frenchmen in my life. I am looking
forward eagerly to meeting Cami, the famous French cartoonist. We have
been corresponding for several years, he sending me many drawings and
I sending him still photos from pictures. We had built up quite a
friendship and I have been looking forward to a meeting. I see him.
He is coming to me and we are both smiling broadly as we open our arms
to each other.
"Cami!"
"Charlot!"
Our greeting is most effusive. And then something goes wrong. He is
talking in French, a blue streak, with the rapidity of a machine-gun.
I can feel my smile fading into blankness. Then I get an inspiration.
I start talking in English just as rapidly. Then we both talk at once.
It's the old story of the irresistible force and the immovable body.
We get nowhere.
Then I try talking slowly, extremely slow.
"Do--you--understand?"
It means nothing. We both realise at the same time what a hopeless
thing our interview is. We are sad a bit, then we smile at the
absurdity of it.
He is still Cami and I am still Charlot, so we grin and have a good
time, anyhow.
He stays to dinner, which is a hectic meal, for through it all I am
tasting this Paris, this Paris that is waiting for me. We go out and
to the Folies Bergère. Paris does not seem as light as I expected it
to be.
And the Folies Bergère seems shabbier. I remember having played here
once myself with a pantomime act. How grand it looked then. Rather
antiquated now. Somehow it saddened me, this bit of memory that was
chased up before me.
Next day there is a luncheon with Dudley Field Malone and Waldo Frank.
It is a brisk and vivacious meal except when it is broken up by a
visit from the American newspaper correspondents.
"Mr. Chaplin, why did you come to Europe?"
"Are you going to Russia?"
"Did you call on Shaw?"
They must have cabled over a set of questions. I went all over the
catechism for them and managed to keep the "prop" grin at work. I
wouldn't let them spoil Paris for me.
We escape after a bit, and back at the hotel I notice an air of
formality creeping into the atmosphere as I hear voices in the parlour
of my suite. Then my secretary comes in and announces that a very
important personage is calling and would speak with me.
He enters, an attractive-looking gentleman, and he speaks English.
"Mr. Chaplin, that I am to you talk of greetings from the heart of the
people with France, that you make laugh. Cannot you forego to make
showing of yourself with charity sometime for devastated France? On
its behalf, I say to you----"
I tell him that I will take it up later.
He smiles, "Ah, you are boozy."
"Oh, no. I haven't had a drink for several days," I hasten to inform
him. "I am busy and want to get to bed early to-night."
But Malone butts in with, "Oh yes, he's very boozy."
And I get a bit indignant until Malone tells me that the Frenchman
means "busy."
Then I am told that there is one young journalist still waiting who
has been here all day, refusing to go until I have seen him.
I tell them to bring him in. He comes in smiling in triumph.
And he can't speak English.
After his hours of waiting we cannot talk.
I feel rather sorry for him and we do our best. Finally, with the aid
of about everyone in the hotel he manages to ask:--
"Do you like France?"
"Yes," I answer.
He is satisfied.
[Illustration: In Paris with Sir Philip Sassoon and Georges
Carpentier.]
Waldo Frank and I sit on a bench in the Champs Elysées and watch the
wagons going to market in the early morning. Paris seems most
beautiful to me just at this time.
What a city! What is the force that has made it what it is? Could
anyone conceive such a creation, such a land of continuous gaiety? It
is a masterpiece among cities, the last word in pleasure. Yet I feel
that something has happened to it, something that they are trying to
cover by heightened plunges into song and laughter.
We stroll along the boulevard and it is growing light. I am recognised
and we are being followed. We are passing a church. There is an old
woman asleep on the steps, but she does not seem worn and haggard.
There is almost a smile on her face as she sleeps. She typifies Paris
to me. Hides her poverty behind a smile.
Sir Philip Sassoon, who is the confidential secretary to Lloyd George,
calls the next day with Georges Carpentier, the pugilistic idol of
France, and we are photographed many times, the three of us together,
and separately.
I am quite surprised that Sir Philip is such a young man. I had
pictured the secretary of Lloyd George as rather a dignified and aged
person. He makes an appointment for me to dine with Lord and Lady
Rocksavage the next day. Lady Rocksavage is his sister.
I also lunch with them the next day, and then to a very fashionable
modiste's for some shopping. This is my first offence of this sort. I
meet Lady Astor, who is shopping there also.
It was quite a treat for me, watching the models in this huge,
elaborate institution that was really a palace in appointments. In
fact, it greatly resembled the palace at Versailles.
I felt very meek when tall, suave creatures strolled out and swept
past me, some imperious, some contemptuous. It was a studied air, but
they did it well. I wonder what effect it has on the girl's mind as
she parades herself before the high-born ladies and gentlemen.
But I catch the imperfection in their schooling. It is very amusing to
watch them strut about until their display is made, and then, their
stunt done, slouch back into the dressing-rooms _sans_ carriage and
manner.
And then, too, I am discovered. This also causes a break in the spell
of their queenly stroll. They are laughing and at the same time trying
to maintain the dignity due to the gowns they are wearing. They become
self-conscious and the effect is ludicrous.
I am demoralising the institution, so we get away. I would like to
talk to some of the models, but it can't be done very well.
From there we go to a candy store, where I lay in a supply of
chocolates and preserved fruits for my trip into Germany the next day.
I am invited by Sir Philip to visit him at his country home in Lympne,
Kent, on my return from Germany.
That evening I go with a party of Dudley Field Malone's to the Palais
Royale in the Montmartre district. This is a novelty. Different. Seems
several steps ahead of America. And it has atmosphere, something
entirely its own, that you feel so much more than you do the tangible
things about you.
There is a woman wearing a monocle. A simple touch, but how it
changes! The fashions here proclaim themselves even without comparison
and expert opinion.
The music is simple, exotic, neurotic. Its simplicity demands
attention. It reaches inside you instead of affecting your feet.
They are dancing a tango. It is entertainment just to watch them. The
pauses in the music, its dreamy cadences, its insinuation, its
suggestiveness, its whining, almost monotonous swing. It is tropical
yet, this Paris. And I realise that Paris is at a high pitch. Paris
has not yet had relief from the cloddy numbness brought on with the
War. I wonder will relief come easily or will there be a
conflagration.
I meet Doughie, the correspondent. We recall our first meeting in the
kitchen of Christine's in Greenwich Village.
It is soon noised about that I am here and our table takes on the
atmosphere of a reception. What a medley!
Strangely garbed artists, long-haired poets, news-sheet and flower
vendors, sightseers, students, children, and cocottes. Presently came
a friend whom it was good to see again and we fix up a bit of a party
and get into Dudley's petrol wagon, and as we bowl along we sing
songs, ancient songs of the music-halls. "After the Ball," "The Man
That Broke the Bank of Monte Carlo," and many another which I had not
thought of in years.
Presently the wagon becomes balky and will not continue. So we all
pile out and into a tavern near by, where we call for wine.
And Dudley played upon the tin-pan-sounding piano. There came one, a
tall, strange, pale youth, who asked if we would like to go to the
haunt of the Agile Rabbit. Thence uphill and into a cavernous place.
When the patron came the youth ordered wine for us. Somehow I think he
sensed the fact that I wanted to remain incognito.
The patron was such a perfect host. Ancient and white bearded, he
served us with a finesse that was pure artistry. Then at his command
one named Réné Chedecal, with a sad, haunted face, played upon the
violin.
That little house sheltered music that night. He played as if from his
soul, a message--yearning, passionate, sad, gay, and we were
speechless before the emotional beauty and mystery of it.
I was overcome. I wanted to express my appreciation, but could do no
more than grasp his hand. Genius breeds in strange places and humble.
And then the bearded one sang a song that he said the followers of
Lafayette had sung before they left France for America. And all of us
joined in the chorus, singing lustily.
Then a young chap did two songs from Verlaine, and a poet with
considerable skill recited from his own poems. How effective for the
creator of a thought to interpret it. And afterward the violin player
gave us another selection of great beauty, one of his own
compositions.
Then the old patron asked me to put my name in his ledger, which
contained many names of both humble and famous. I drew a picture of my
hat, cane, and boots, which is my favourite autograph. I wrote, "I
would sooner be a gipsy than a movie man," and signed my name.
Home in the petrol wagon, which by this time had become manageable
again. An evening of rareness. Beauty, excitement, sadness and contact
with human, lovable personalities.
Waldo Frank called the next day, bringing with him Jacques Copeau, one
of the foremost dramatists and actors in France, who manages and
directs in his own theatre. We go to the circus together and I never
saw so many sad-faced clowns. We dine together, and late that night I
have supper with Copeau's company in a café in the Latin Quarter. It
is a gay night, lasting until about three in the morning.
Frank and I set out to walk home together, but the section is too
fascinating. Along about four o'clock we drift into another café,
dimly lit but well attended. We sit there for some time, studying the
various occupants.
Over in one corner a young girl has just leaned over and kissed her
sailor companion. No one seems to notice. All the girls here seem
young, but their actions stamp their vocations. Music, stimulating,
exotic, and for the dance, is being played. The girls are very much
alive. They are putting their hats on the men's heads.
There are three peasant farmer boys, in all probability. They seem
very much embarrassed as three tiny girls, bright-eyed and red-lipped,
join them for a drink. I can see fire smouldering in their dull faces
in spite of their awkwardness in welcoming the girls.
An interesting figure, Corsican, I should say, is very conspicuous. A
gentleman by his bearing, debonair and graceful, he looks the very
picture of an impecunious count. He is visiting all the tables in the
café. At most of them he calls the girls by their first names.
He is taking up a collection for the musicians. Everyone is
contributing liberally. With each tinkle of a coin in the hat the
Corsican bows elaborately and extends thanks.
He finishes the collection.
"On with the dance," he shouts. "Don't let the music stop," as he
rattles the money. Then he puts his hand in his pocket and draws forth
a single centime piece. It is very small, but his manner is that of a
philanthropist.
"I give something, no matter how small; you notice, ladies and
gentlemen, that I give something," and he drops his coin in the hat
and bows.
The party progresses rapidly. They have started singing and have had
just enough drink to make them maudlin. We leave.
XII.
MY VISIT TO GERMANY