impossible for me to see devastated France even though we passed
through a considerable portion of it. Our compartment on the train is
very stuffy and smelly and the train service is atrocious, food and
sanitary conditions being intolerable after American train service.
Again there is a crowd at the station to see me off, but I am rather
enjoying it. A beautiful French girl presents me with a bouquet of
flowers with a cute little speech, or at least I suppose it was,
because she looked very cute delivering it, and the pouts that the
language gave to her red lips were most provocative. She tells me in
delicious broken English that I look tired and sad, and I find myself
yielding without a struggle to her suggestion.
We arrive at Joumont near the Belgian frontier along about midnight,
and, like a message from home, there is a gang of American soldier
boys at the station to greet me. And they are not alone, for French,
Belgian, and British troops are also waving and cheering. I wanted to
talk to the Belgians, and we tried it, but it was no use. What a pity!
But one of them had a happy inspiration and saved the day.
"Glass of beer, Charlot?"
I nod, smiling. And to my surprise they bring me beer, which I lift to
my lips for politeness, and then drink it to the last drop in pure
pleasure. It is very good beer.
There is a group of charming little Belgian girls. They are smiling at
me shyly and I so want to say something to them. But I can't. Ah, the
bouquet! Each little girl gets a rose and they are delighted.
"_Merci, merci_, monsieur." And they keep "merciing" and bowing until
the train pulls out of the station, which emboldens them to join the
soldiers in a cheer.
Through an opening between the railroad structures I see a brilliant
lighting display. It is universal, this sign. Here is a movie in this
tiny village. What a wonderful medium, to reach such an obscure town.
On the train I am being told that my pictures have not played in
Germany, hence I am practically unknown there. This rather pleases me
because I feel that I can relax and be away from crowds.
Everyone on the train is nice and there is no trouble. Conductors
struggle with English for my benefit, and the Customs officers make
but little trouble. In fact, we cross the border at three in the
morning and I am asleep.
Next morning I find a note from the Customs man saying; "Good luck,
Charlie. You were sleeping so soundly that I did not have the heart
to wake you for inspection."
Germany is beautiful. Germany belies the war. There are people
crowding the fields, tilling the soil, working feverishly all the time
as our train rushes through. Men, women, and children are all at work.
They are facing their problem and rebuilding. A great people,
perverted for and by a few.
The different style of architecture here is interesting. Factories are
being built everywhere. Surely this isn't conquered territory. I do
not see much live stock in the fields. This seems strange.
A dining-car has been put on the train and the waiter comes to our
compartment to let us know that we may eat. Here is a novelty. A
seven-course dinner, with wine, soup, meat, vegetables, salad,
dessert, coffee, and bread for twenty-eight cents. This is made
possible by the low rate of exchange.
We go to the Adlon Hotel in Berlin and find that hostelry jammed,
owing to the auto races which are being run off at this time. A
different atmosphere here. It seems hard for me to relax and get the
normal reaction to meeting people. They don't know me here. I have
never been heard of. It interests me and I believe I resent it just a
bit.
I notice how abrupt the Germans are to foreigners, and I detect a
tinge of bitterness, too. I am wondering about my pictures making
their début here. I question the power of my personality without its
background of reputation.
I am feeling more restful under this disinterested treatment, but
somehow I wish that my pictures had been shown here. The people at the
hotel are very courteous. They have been told that I am the
"white-headed boy and quite the guy in my home town." Their reactions
are amusing. I am not very impressive-looking and they are finding it
hard to believe.
There is quite a crowd in the lobby and a number of Americans and
English. They are not long in finding me, and a number of English,
French, and American reporters start making a fuss over me. The
Germans just stand and look on, bewildered.
Carl von Weigand comes forward with the offer of the use of his office
while I am here. The Germans are impressed with all this, but they
show no enthusiasm. I am accepted in an offhand way as some one of
importance and they let it go at that.
The Scala Theatre, where I spent the evening, is most interesting,
though I think a bit antiquated when compared with English and
American theatrical progress along the same lines. It seats about five
thousand, mostly on one floor, with a very small balcony. It is of the
variety-music-hall type, showing mostly "dumb" acts. Acts that do not
talk or sing, like comic jugglers, acrobats, and dancers.
I am amused by a German comedian singing a song of about twenty
verses, but the audience is enthused and voices its approval at every
verse. During the intermission we have frankfurters and beer, which
are served in the theatre. I notice the crowds. They go to the theatre
there as a family. It is just that type of an affair.
I notice the different types of beauty, though beauty is not very much
in evidence here. Here and there are a few pretty girls, but not many.
It is interesting to watch the people strolling during the
intermission, drinking lager and eating all sorts of food.
Leaving the theatre, we visit the Scala Café, a sort of
impressionistic casino. The Scala is one of the largest cafés in
Berlin, where the modernist style in architecture has been carried out
fully.
The walls are deep mottled sea green, shading into light verdigris and
emerald, leaning outward at an angle, thereby producing an effect of
collapse and forward motion. The junction of the walls and the ceiling
is broken into irregular slabs of stone, like the strata of a cave.
Behind these the lights are hidden, the whole system of illumination
being based on reflection.
The immense dislocation of the planes and angles of the vault-like
ceiling is focused on the central point, the huge silver star or
crystal bursting like an exploding bomb through the roof. The whole
effect is weird, almost ominous. The shape of the room in its ground
plan is itself irregular--the impression is that of a frozen
catastrophe. Yet this feeling seems to be in accord with the mood of
revellers in Germany to-day.
From there to the Palais Heinroth, the most expensive place in Berlin
and the high spot of night life. It is conspicuous in its brilliance,
because Berlin as a city is so badly lighted. At night the streets are
dark and gloomy, and it is then that one gets the effect of war and
defeat.
At the Heinroth everybody was in evening dress. We weren't. My
appearance did not cause any excitement. We check our hats and coats
and ask for a table. The manager shrugs his shoulders. There is one in
the back, a most obscure part of the room. This brings home forcibly
the absence of my reputation. It nettled me. Well, I wanted rest. This
was it.
We are about to accept humbly the isolated table, when I hear a shriek
and I am slapped on the back and there's a yell:
"Charlie!"
It is Al Kaufman of the Lasky Corporation and manager of the Famous
Players studio in Berlin.
"Come over to our table. Pola Negri wants to meet you."
Again I come into my own. The Germans look on, wondering. I have
created attention at last. I discover that there is an American jazz
band in the place. In the middle of a number they stop playing and
shout:
"Hooray for Charlie Chaplin!"
The proprietor shrugs his shoulders and the band resumes playing. I
learn that the musicians are former American doughboys. I feel rather
pleased that I have impressed the Germans in the place.
In our party were Rita Kaufman, wife of Al, Pola Negri, Carl Robinson,
and myself.
Pola Negri is really beautiful. She is Polish and really true to the
type. Beautiful jet-black hair, white, even teeth and wonderful
coloring. I think it such a pity that such coloring does not register
on the screen.
She is the centre of attraction here. I am introduced. What a voice
she has! Her mouth speaks so prettily the German language. Her voice
has a soft, mellow quality, with charming inflections. Offered a
drink, she clinks my glass and offers her only English words, "Jazz
boy Charlie."
Language again stumps me. What a pity! But with the aid of a third
party we get along famously. Kaufman whispers: "Charlie, you've made a
hit. She just told me that you are charming."
"You tell her that she's the loveliest thing I've seen in Europe."
These compliments keep up for some time, and then I ask Kaufman how to
say, "I think you are divine" in German. He tells me something in
German and I repeat it to her.
She's startled and looks up and slaps my hand.
"Naughty boy," she says.
The table roars. I sense that I have been double-crossed by Kaufman.
What have I said? But Pola joins in the joke, and there is no
casualty. I learn later that I have said, "I think you are terrible."
I decided to go home and learn German.
As I am going out the proprietor approaches and very formally
addresses me: "I beg pardon, sir. I understand that you are a great
man in the United States. Accept my apologies for not knowing, and the
gates here are always open to you." I accept them formally, though
through it all I feel very comic opera. I didn't like the proprietor.
I want to go through the German slums. I mention such a trip to a
German newspaper man. I am told that I am just like every Londoner and
New-Yorker who comes to Berlin for the first time; that I want the
Whitechapel district, the Bowery of Berlin, and that there is no such
district. Once upon a time there were hovels in Berlin, but they have
long since disappeared.
This to me is a real step toward civilisation.
My newspaper friend tells me that he will give me the next best thing
to the slums, and we go to Krogel. What a picture could be made here!
I am fascinated as I wander through houses mounted on shaky stilts and
courts ancient but cleanly.
Then we drove to Acker Street and gazed into courts and basements. In
a café we talked to men and women and drank beer. I almost launched a
new war when, wishing to pay a charge of one hundred and eighty marks,
I pulled from my pocket a roll of fifty one-thousand-mark notes.
My friend paid the check quickly with small change and hustled me out,
telling me of the hard faces and criminal types who were watching.
He's probably right, but I love those poor, humble people.
We drove to the arbor colonies in the northern part of the city,
stopping at some of the arbors to talk to the people. I feel that I
would like to eat dinner here among these people, but I haven't
sufficient courage to persuade my companion, who wouldn't think of it.
Passing through the northern part of Berlin, I found many beauties
which, my friend let me know, were not considered beautiful at all.
He even suggested that he show me something in contrast with all I had
seen. I told him no, that it would spoil my whole viewpoint.
It has been rather a restful experience, going through the whole town
without being recognised, but even as I am thinking it a fashionable
lady and her young daughter pass, and by their smiles I know that I am
again discovered.
And then we meet Fritz Kreisler and his wife, who are just leaving for
Munich. We have quite a chat and then make tentative engagements to be
carried out in Los Angeles on his next trip there.
I notice that the Germans seem to be scrupulously honest, or maybe
this was all the more noticeable to me because of genial and
unsuspicious treatment by a taxi driver. We left the cab many times
and were gone as long as half an hour at a time, and out of sight, yet
he always waited and never suggested that he be paid beforehand.
In the business section we pass many cripples with embittered, sullen
looks on their faces. They look as though they had paid for something
which they hadn't received.
We are approached by a legless soldier beggar in a faded German
uniform. Here was the War's mark. These sights you will find on every
side in Berlin.
I am presented with a police card to the Berliner Club, which is
evidently a technicality by which the law is circumvented. Berlin is
full of such night-life clubs. They are somewhat like the gatherings
that Prohibition has brought to America.
There are no signs, however, from the outside of any activity, and you
are compelled to go up dark passages and suddenly come upon gaily lit
rooms very similar to Parisian cafés.
Dancing and popping corks are the first impression as I enter. We are
taken in hand by two girls and they order drinks for us. The girls are
very nervous. In fact, the whole night-life of this town seems to be
nervous, neurotic, over-done.
The girls dance, but very badly. They do not seem to enjoy it and
treat it as part of the job. They are very much interested in my
friend, who seems to have the money for the party. On these occasions
my secretary always carries the family roll, and they are paying much
attention to him.
I sit here rather moody and quiet, though one of the girls works hard
to cheer me up. I hear her asking Robinson what is the matter with me.
I smile and become courteous. But, her duty done, she turns again to
Robinson.
I am piqued. Where is that personality of mine? I have been told many
times that I have it. But here it is convincingly shown that
personality has no chance against "pursenality."
But I am beginning to get so much attention from my friends that one
of the girls is noticing me. She senses that I am some one important,
but she can't quite make it out.
"Who is this guy, an English diplomat?" she whispers to Robinson. He
whispers back that I am a man of considerable importance in the
diplomatic service. I smile benevolently and they become more
interested.
I am treating her rather paternally and am feeling philosophical. I
ask about her life. What is she doing with it? What ambitions? She is
a great reader, she tells me, and likes Schopenhauer and Nietzsche.
But she shrugs her shoulders in an indifferent and tragic manner and
says, "What does it matter about life?"
"You make it what it is," she says. "In your brain alone it exists and
effort is only necessary for physical comfort." We are becoming closer
friends as she tells me this.
But she must have some objective, there must be some dreams of the
future still alive within her. I am very anxious to know what she
really thinks.
I ask her about the defeat of Germany. She becomes discreet at once.
Blames it on the Kaiser. She hates war and militarism. That's all I
can get out of her, and it is getting late and we must leave. Her
future intrigues me, but does not seem to worry her.
On the way home we step in at Kaufman's apartment and have quite a
chat about pictures and things back in Los Angeles. Los Angeles seems
very far away.
I am invited to a formal dinner party for the next evening at the home
of Herr Werthauer, one of the most prominent lawyers in all Europe and
a chief of the Kaiser during the war. The occasion for the dinner was
to celebrate the announcement of Werthauer's engagement to his third
wife.
His is a wonderful home in the finest section of Berlin. At the party
there are a number of his personal friends, Pola Negri, Al Kaufman,
Mrs. Kaufman, Robinson, and myself.
There is a Russian band playing native music all through the dinner
and jazz music is also being dispensed by two orchestras made up of
American doughboys who have been discharged, but have stayed on in
Germany.
For no reason at all, I think of the story of Rasputin. This seems the
sort of house for elaborate murders. Perhaps it is the Russian music
that is having this effect on me. There is a huge marble staircase
whose cold austereness suggests all sorts of things designed to send
chills up the spine. The servants are so impressive and the meal such
a ceremony that I feel that I am in a palace. The Russian folk-songs
that are being dreamily whined from the strings of their peculiar
instruments have a very weird effect and I find food and dining the
least interesting things here.
There is a touch of mystery, of the exotic, something so foreign
though intangible, that I find myself searching everything and
everybody, trying to delve deeper into this atmosphere.
We are all introduced, but there are too many people for me to try to
remember names. There are herrs, fräuleins, and fraus galore, and I
find it hard to keep even their sex salutations correct. Some one is
making a long, formal speech in German, and everybody is watching him
attentively.
The host arises and offers a toast to his bride-to-be. Everyone rises
and drinks to their happiness. The party is very formal and I can make
nothing from the talk going on all about me. The host is talking and
then all get up again with their glasses. Why, I don't know, but I get
up with them.
At this there is general laughter, and I wonder what calamity has
befallen me. I wonder if my clothes are all right.
Then I understand. The host is about to toast me. He does it in very
bad English, though his gestures and tone make it most graceful. He is
inclined to be somewhat pedantic and whenever he cannot think of the
proper English word he uses its German equivalent.
As the various courses come the toasts are many. I am always about two
bites late in getting to my feet with my glass. After I have been
toasted about four times, Mrs. Kaufman leans over and whispers, "You
should toast back again to the host and say something nice about his
bride-to-be."
I am almost gagged with the stage fright that grips me. It is the
custom to toast back to the host and here I have been gulping down all
kinds of toasts without a word. And he had been sitting there waiting
for me.
I rise and hesitate. "Mr.--"
I feel a kick on the shins and I hear Mrs. Kaufman whisper hoarsely:
"Herr."
I think she means the bride-to-be. "Mrs.--" No, she isn't that yet.
Heavens! this is terrible.
I plunge in fast and furious. "My very best respects to your future
wife." As I speak I look at a young girl at the head of the table whom
I thought was the lucky woman. I am all wrong. I sit, conscious of
some horrible mistake.
He bows and thanks me. Mrs. Kaufman scowls and says: "That's not the
woman. It's the one on the other side."
I have a suppressed convulsion and almost die, and as she points out
the real bride-to-be I find myself laughing hysterically into my soup.
Rita Kaufman is laughing with me. Thank heaven for a sense of humour.
I am so weak and nervous that I am almost tempted to leave at once.
The bride-to-be is reaching for her glass to return my salute, though
unless she thinks I am cross-eyed I don't see how she knows I said
anything nice to her.
But she gets no chance to speak. There is launched a long-winded
pedantic speech from the host, who says that on such rare occasions as
this it is customary to uncork the best in the cellar. This point gets
over in great shape and everybody is smiling.
I even feel myself growing radiant. I was under the impression that
the best had already been served. Didn't know he was holding back
anything. With the promise of better wine I am tempted to try another
toast to the bride-to-be.
XIII.
I FLY FROM PARIS TO LONDON
The first night in Paris after our return from Germany we dined at
Pioccardi's, then walked up to the arches of the old gates of Paris.
Our intention was to visit the Louvre and see the statue of Venus de
Milo, but it only got as far as intention.
We drifted into the Montmartre district and stopped in Le Rat Mort,
one of its most famous restaurants. As it is very early in the
evening, there are very few people about--one reason why I picked out
this place, which later in the night becomes the centre of hectic
revelry.
Passing our table is a striking-looking girl with bobbed blond hair,
shadowing beautiful, delicate features of pale coloring and soft,
strange eyes of a violet blue. Her passing is momentary, but she is
the most striking-looking girl I have seen in Europe.
Although there are but few people here, I am soon recognised. The
French are so demonstrative. They wave, "Hello, Charlot!"
I am indifferent. I smile mechanically. I am tired. I shall go to bed
early. I order champagne.
The bobbed-hair one is sitting at a table near us. She interests me.
But she doesn't turn so that I can see her face. She is sitting facing
her friend, a dark, Spanish-looking girl.
I wish she'd turn. She has a beautiful profile, but I would like to
see her full face again. She looked so lovely when she passed me
before. I recall that ghost of a smile that hovered near her mouth,
showing just a bit of beautiful, even, white teeth.
The orchestra is starting and dancers are swinging on to the floor.
The two girls rise and join the dance. I will watch closely now and
perhaps get another flash at her when she whirls by.
There is something refined and distinguished about the little girl.
She is different. Doesn't belong here. I am watching her very closely,
though she has never once looked my way. I like this touch of the
unusual in Montmartre. Still she may be just clever.
She is passing me in the dance and I get a full view of her face. One
of real beauty, with a sensitive mouth, smiling at her friend and
giving a complete view of the beautiful teeth. Her face is most
expressive. The music stops and they sit at their table.
I notice that there is nothing on their table. They are not drinking.
This is strange, here. Nor are there sandwiches or coffee. I wonder
who they are. That girl is somebody. I know it.
She gets up as the orchestra plays a few strains of a plaintive
Russian thing. She is singing the song. Fascinating! An artist! Why is
she here? I must know her.
The song itself is plaintive, elemental, with the insinuating nuances
that are vital to Russian music. The orchestra, with the violins and
'cellos predominant, is playing hauntingly, weaving a foreign exotic
spell.
She has poise, grace, and is compelling attention even in this place.
There comes a bit of melancholy in the song and she sings it as one
possessed, giving it drama, pathos. Suddenly there is a change. The
music leaps to wild abandon. She is with it. She tosses her head like
a wild Hungarian gipsy and gives fire to every note. But almost as it
began, the abandon is over. With wistful sweetness, she is singing
plaintively again.
She is touching every human emotion in her song. At times she is
tossing away care, then gently wooing, an elusive strain that is
almost fairylike, that crescendos into tragedy, going into a crashing
climax that diminishes into an ending, searching yearning, and
wistfully sad.
Her personality is written into every mood of the song. She is at once
fine, courageous, pathetic, and wild. She finished to an applause that
reflected the indifference of the place. In spots it was spontaneous
and insistent. In others little attention was paid to her. She is
wasted here.
But she cares not. In her face you can see that she gets her applause
in the song itself. It was glorious, just to be singing with heart,
soul and voice. She smiles faintly, then sits down modestly.
I knew it. She is Russian. She has everything to suggest it. Full of
temperament, talent and real emotional ability, hidden away here in Le
Rat Mort. What a sensation she would be in America with a little
advertising! This is just a thought, but all sorts of schemes present
themselves to me.
I can see her in "The Follies" with superb dressing and doing just the
song she had done then. I did not understand a word of it, but I felt
every syllable. Art is universal and needs no language. She has
everything from gentleness to passion and a startling beauty. I am
applauding too much, but she looks and smiles, so I am repaid.
They dance again, and while they are gone I call the waiter and have
him explain to the manager that I would like to be presented to her.
The manager introduces her and I invite her to my table. She sits
there with us, while her companion, the dark girl, does a solo dance.
She talks charmingly and without restraint. She speaks three
languages--Russian, French, and English. Her father was a Russian
general during the Tsar's reign. I can see now where she gets her
imperious carriage.
"Are you a Bolshevik?"
She flushes as I ask it, and her lips pout prettily as she struggles
with English. She seems all afire.