she speaks.
"Then you are bourgeoisie?"
"No, but not a Bolshevik." Her voice suggests a tremendous vitality,
though her vocabulary is limited. "Bolshevik good idea for the mind,
but not for practice."
"Has it had a fair opportunity?" I ask her.
"Plenty. My father, my mother, my brother all in Russia and very poor.
Mother is Bolshevik, father bourgeoisie. Bolshevik man very impudent
to me. I want to kill him. He insult me. What can I do? I escape.
Bolshevik good idea, but no good for life."
"What of Lenin?"
"Very clever man. He tried hard for Bolshevik--but no good for
everybody--just in the head."
I learn that she was educated in a convent and that she had lost all
trace of her people. She earns her living singing here. She has been
to the movies, but has never seen me. She "is go first chance because
I am nice man."
I ask her if she would like to go into moving pictures. Her eyes light
up.
"If I get opportunity I know I make success. But"--she curls her mouth
prettily--"it's difficult to get opportunity."
She is just twenty years old and has been in the café for two weeks,
coming there from Turkey, to which country she fled following her
escape from Russia.
I explain that she must have photographic tests made and that I will
try to get her a position in America. She puts everything into her
eyes as she thanks me. She looks like a combination of Mary Pickford
and Pola Negri plus her own distinctive beauty and personality. Her
name is "Skaya." I write her full name and address in my book and
promise to do all I can for her. And I mean to. We say "Good Night,"
and she says she feels that I will do what I say. How has she kept
hidden?
Due at Sir Philip Sassoon's for a garden party the next day, I decide
to go there in an aeroplane and I leave the Le Bourget aerodrome in
Paris in a plane of La Compagnie des Messageries Aériennes, and at
special request the pilot landed me at Lympne in Kent and I thereby
avoided the crowd that would have been on hand in London.
It was quite thrilling and I felt that I made a very effective
entrance to the party.
And what a delightful retreat! All the charm of an English country
home, and Sir Philip is a perfect host. I get English food and
treatment. I have a perfect rest, with no duties, and entertainment as
I desire it. A day and a half that are most pleasant!
[Illustration: I meet Lady Rocksavage and Sir Philip Sassoon.]
Next day there is to be a ceremonial in the schoolhouse, when a
memorial is to be unveiled. It is in honour of the boys of the
town who had fallen. There are mothers, fathers, and many old people,
some of them old in years, others aged by the trials of the war.
The simple affair is most impressive and the streets are crowded on
our way. I was to blame for an unhappy contrast. Outside people were
shouting, "Hooray for Charlie!" while inside souls were hushed in
grief.
Such a discordant note. I wished I had not been so prominent. I wanted
everyone to bow in respect to these dead. The crowds did not belong
outside.
And inside, on the little children's faces, I could see conflicting
emotions. There is the reverence for the dead and yet there is
eagerness as they steal glances at me. I wish I hadn't come. I feel
that I am the disturbing element.
From the school Sir Philip and I went to the Star and Garter Hospital
for wounded soldiers. Sheer tragedy was here.
Young men suffering from spinal wounds, some of them with legs
withered, some suffering from shell shock. No hope for them, yet they
smiled.
There was one whose hands were all twisted and he was painting signs
with a brush held between his teeth. I looked at the signs. They were
mottoes: "Never Say Die," "Are We Downhearted?" A superman.
Here is a lad who must take an anæsthetic whenever his nails are cut
because of his twisted limbs. And he is smiling and to all
appearances happy. The capacity that God gives for suffering is so
tremendous, I marvel at their endurance.
I inquire about food and general conditions. They suggest that the
food could be better. This is attended to.
We are received politely and with smiles from the crippled lads who
are crippled in flesh only. Their spirit is boisterous. I feel a puny
atom as they shout, "Good luck to you, Charlie."
I can't talk. There is nothing for me to say. I merely smile and nod
and shake hands whenever this is possible. I sign autographs for as
many as ask and I ask them to give me their autographs. I honestly
want them.
One jovially says, "Sure, and Bill will give you one too." There is an
uproar of laughter and Bill laughs just as loud as the rest. Bill has
no arms.
But he bests them. He will sign at that. And he does. With his teeth.
Such is their spirit. What is to become of them? That is up to you and
me.
Back to Sir Philip's, very tired and depressed. We dine late and I go
to my room and read Waldo Frank's "Dark Mothers." The next day there
is tennis and music and in the evening I leave for London, where I am
to meet H. G. Wells and go with him to his country home.
I am looking forward to this Saturday, Sunday, and Monday as an
intellectual holiday. I meet H. G. at Whitehall and he is driving his
own car. He is a very good chauffeur, too.
We talk politics and discuss the Irish settlement and I tell him of my
trip to Germany. That leads to a discussion of the depreciation in the
value of the mark. What will be the outcome? Wells thinks financial
collapse. He thinks that marks issued as they are in Germany will be
worthless.
I am feeling more intimate and closer to him. There is no strain in
talking, though I am still a bit self-conscious and find myself
watching myself closely.
We are out in the country, near Lady Warwick's estate, and H. G. tells
me how the beautiful place is going to seed; that parts of it are
being divided into lots and sold.
The estate, with its live stock, is a show place. It is breeding time
for the deer and from the road we can hear the stags bellowing. H. G.
tells me they are dangerous at this time of the year.
At the gate of the Wells' estate a young lad of ten greets us with a
jovial twinkling of the eye and a brisk manner. There is no mistaking
him. He is H. G.'s son. There is the same moulding of the structure
and the same rounded face and eyes. H. G. must have looked that way at
his age.
"Hello, dad," as he jumps on the running board.
"This is Charlie," H. G. introduces me.
He takes my grip. "How do?" and I notice what a fine boy he is.
Mrs. Wells is a charming little lady with keen, soft eyes that are
always smiling and apparently searching and seeking something. A real
gentlewoman, soft voiced, also with humorous lines playing around her
mouth.
Everyone seems busy taking me into the house, and once there H. G.
takes me all over it, to my room, the dining-room, the sitting-room
and, an extra privilege, to his study. "My workshop," he calls it.
"Here's where the great events in the history of the world took
place?"
He smiles and says "yes." The "Outline of History" was born here.
The room is not yet finished, and it is being decorated around the
fireplace by paintings made by himself and wife. "I paint a bit," he
explains. There is also some tapestry woven by his mother.
"Here is a place if you want to escape when the strain is too much for
you. Come here and relax."
I felt that this was his greatest hospitality. But I never used the
room. I had a feeling about that, too.
The study is simple and very spare of furniture. There is an
old-fashioned desk and I get the general impression of books, but I
can remember but one, the dictionary. Rare observation on my part to
notice nothing but a dictionary, and this was so huge as it stood on
his desk that I couldn't miss it.
There is a lovely view from the house of the countryside, with wide
stretches of land and lovely trees, where deer are roaming around
unafraid.
Mrs. Wells is getting lunch and we have it outdoors. Junior is there,
the boy--I call him that already. Their conversation is rapid,
flippant. Father and son have a profound analytical discussion about
the sting of a wasp as one of the insects buzzed around the table.
It is a bit strange to me and I cannot get into the spirit of it,
though it is very funny. I just watch and smile. Junior is very witty.
He tops his father with jokes, but I sense the fact that H. G. is
playing up to him. There is a twinkle in H. G.'s eye. He is proud of
his boy. He should be.
After lunch we walk about the grounds and I doze most of the afternoon
in the summer-house. They leave me alone and I have my nap out.
A number of friends arrive later in the evening and we are introduced
all around. Most of these are literary, and the discussion is learned.
St. John Ervine, the dramatist and author of "John Ferguson," came in
later in the evening.
Ervine discusses the possibility of synchronising the voice with
motion pictures. He is very much interested. I explain that I don't
think the voice is necessary, that it spoils the art as much as
painting statuary. I would as soon rouge marble cheeks. Pictures are
pantomimic art. We might as well have the stage. There would be
nothing left to the imagination.
Another son comes in. He is more like his mother. We all decide to
play charades and I am selected as one of the actors. I play Orlando,
the wrestler, getting a lot of fun through using a coal hod as a
helmet. Then Noah's Ark, with Junior imitating the different animals
going into the ark, using walking sticks as horns for a stag, and
putting a hat on the end of the stick for a camel, and making
elephants and many other animals through adroit, quick changes. I
played old Noah and opened an umbrella and looked at the sky. Then I
went into the ark and they guessed.
Then H. G. Wells did a clog dance, and did it very well. We talked far
into the night, and I marvelled at Wells's vitality. We played many
mental guessing games and Junior took all the honours.
I was awakened next morning by a chorus outside my door: "We want
Charlie Chaplin." This was repeated many times. They had been waiting
breakfast half an hour for me.
After breakfast we played a new game of H. G.'s own invention.
Everyone was in it and we played it in the barn. It was a combination
of handball and tennis, with rules made by H. G. Very exciting and
good fun.
Then a walk to Lady Warwick's estate. As I walk I recall how dramatic
it had sounded last night as I was in bed to hear the stags bellowing,
evidently their cry of battle.
The castle, with beautiful gardens going to seed, seemed very sad,
yet its ruins assumed a beauty for me. I liked it better that way.
Ruins are majestic.
H. G. explains that everyone about is land poor. It takes on a
fantastic beauty for me, this cultivation of centuries now going to
seed, beautiful in its very tragedy.
Home for tea, and in the evening I teach them baseball. Here is my one
chance to shine. It is funny to see H. G. try to throw a curve and
being caught at first base after hitting a grounder to the pitcher. H.
G. pitched, and his son caught. As a baseball player H. G. is a great
writer. Dinner that night is perfect, made more enjoyable for our
strenuous exercise. As I retire that night I think of what a wonderful
holiday I am having.
Next day I must leave at 2.30 p.m., but in the morning H. G. and I
take a walk and visit an old country church built in the eleventh
century. A man is working on a tomb-stone in the churchyard, engraving
an epitaph.
H. G. points out the influence of the different lords of the manor on
the art changes of different periods. Here the families of Lady
Warwick and other notable people are buried. The tombstones show the
influence of the sculpture of all periods.
We go to the top of the church and view the surrounding country and
then back home for lunch. My things are all packed and H. G. and his
son see me off. H. G. reminds me not to forget another engagement to
dine with him and Chaliapin, the famous Russian baritone.
As I speed into town I am wondering if Wells wants to know me or
whether he wants me to know him. I am certain that now I have met
Wells, really met him, more than I've met anyone in Europe. It's so
worth while.
XIV.
FAREWELLS TO PARIS AND LONDON
I had promised to attend the _première_ showing of "The Kid" in Paris,
and I went back to the French capital as I came, via aeroplane. The
trip was uneventful, and on landing and going to my hotel I find a
message from Doug Fairbanks. He and Mary had arrived in Paris and were
stopping at the Crillon. They asked me over for a chat but I was too
tired. Doug promised to attend the _première_ at the Trocadero
Theatre.
During the afternoon there came 250 souvenir programmes to be
autographed. These were to be sold that night for 100 francs each.
In the evening I went to the theatre _via_ the back way, but there was
no escape. It was the biggest demonstration I had yet seen. For
several blocks around the crowds were jammed in the streets and the
gendarmes had their hands full.
Paris had declared a holiday for this occasion, and as the proceeds of
the entertainment were to be given to the fund for devastated France
the élite of the country were there. I am introduced to Ambassador
Herrick, then shown to my box and introduced to the Ministers of the
French Cabinet.
I do not attempt to remember names, but the following list has been
preserved for me by my secretary:
M. Menard, who attended on behalf of President Millerand; M.
Jusserand, M. Herbette, M. Careron, M. Loucheur, Minister of the
Liberated Regions; M. Hermite, Col. and Mrs. H. H. Harjes, Miss Hope
Harjes, Mr. and Mrs. Ridgeley Carter, Mrs. Arthur James, Mrs. W. K.
Vanderbilt, Mrs. Rutherford Stuyvesant, Walter Berry, M. de Errazu,
Marquis de Vallambrosa, Mlle. Cecile Sorel, Robert Hostetter, M.
Byron-Kuhn, Mr. and Mrs. Charles G. Loeb, Florence O'Neill, M. Henri
Lettelier, M. Georges Carpentier, Paul C. Otey, Mr. and Mrs. George
Kenneth End, Prince George of Greece, Princess Xenia, Prince
Christopher, Lady Sarah Wilson, Mrs. Elsa Maxwell, Princess Sutzo,
Vice-Admiral and Mrs. Albert P. Niblack, Comte and Comtesse Cardelli,
Duchess de Talleyrand, Col. and Mrs. N. D. Jay, Col. Bunau Varila,
Marquise de Talleyrand-Périgord, Marquis and Marquise de Chambrun,
Miss Viola Cross, Miss Elsie De Wolf, Marquis and Marquise de
Dampierre, and Mr. and Mrs. Theodore Rousseau.
My box is draped with American and British flags, and the applause is
so insistent that I find I am embarrassed. But there is a delicious
tingle to it and I am feeling now what Doug felt when his "Three
Musketeers" was shown. The programmes which I autographed during the
afternoon are sold immediately and the audience wants more. I
autograph as many more as possible.
I am photographed many times and I sit in a daze through most of it,
at one time going back stage, though I don't know why, except that I
was photoed back there too.
The picture was shown, but I did not see much of it. There was too
much to be seen in that audience.
At the end of the picture there came a messenger from the Minister:
"Would I come to his box and be decorated?" I almost fell out of my
box.
I grew sick. What would I say? There was no chance to prepare. I had
visions of the all-night preparation for my speech in Southampton.
This would be infinitely worse. I couldn't even think clearly. Why do
I pick out stunts like that? I might have known that something would
happen.
But the floor would not open up for me to sink through and there was
no one in this friendly audience who could help in my dilemma, and the
messenger was waiting politely, though I imagined just a bit
impatiently, so, summoning what courage I had, I went to the box with
about the same feeling as a man approaching the guillotine.
I am presented to everybody. He makes a speech. It is translated for
me, but very badly. While he was speaking I tried to think of
something neat and appropriate, but all my thoughts seemed trite. I
finally realised that he was finished and I merely said "_Merci_,"
which, after all, was about as good as I could have done.
And believe me, I meant "_Merci_" both in French and in English.
But the applause is continuing. I must say something, so I stand up in
the box and make a speech about the motion-picture industry and tell
them that it is a privilege for us to make a presentation for such a
cause as that of devastated France.
Somehow they liked it, or made me believe they did. There was a
tremendous demonstration and several bearded men kissed me before I
could get out. But I was blocked in and the crowd wouldn't leave. At
last the lights were turned out, but still they lingered. Then there
came an old watchman who said he could take us through an unknown
passage that led to the street.
We followed him and managed to escape, though there was still a
tremendous crowd to break through in the street. Outside I meet Cami,
who congratulates me, and together we go to the Hotel Crillon to see
Doug and Mary.
Mary and Doug are very kind in congratulating me, and I tell them of
my terrible conduct during the presentation of the decoration. I knew
that I was wholly inadequate for the occasion. I keep mumbling of my
_faux pas_ and they try to make me forget my misery by telling me that
General Pershing is in the next room.
I'll bet the general never went through a battle like the one I passed
through that night.
Then they wanted to see the decoration, which reminded me that I had
not yet looked at it myself. So I unrolled the parchment and Doug read
aloud the magic words from the Minister of Instruction of the Public
and Beaux Arts which made Charles Chaplin, dramatist, artist, an
_Officier de L'instruction Publique_.
We sit there until three in the morning, discussing it, and then I go
back to my hotel tired but rather happy. That night was worth all the
trip to Europe.
At the hotel there was a note from Skaya. She had been to the theatre
to see the picture. She sat in the gallery and saw "The Kid," taking
time off from her work.
Her note:
"I saw picture. You are a grand man. My heart is joy. You must
be happy. I laugh--I cry.
"SKAYA."
This little message was not the least of my pleasures that night.
Elsie De Wolf was my hostess at luncheon next day at the Villa
Trianon, Versailles, a most interesting and enjoyable occasion, where
I met some of the foremost poets and artists.
Returning to Paris, I meet Henry Wales, and we take a trip through the
Latin Quarter together. That night I dine with Cami, Georges
Carpentier, and Henri Letellier. Carpentier asks for an autograph and
I draw him a picture of my hat, shoes, cane, and moustache, my
implements of trade. Carpentier, not to be outdone, draws for me a
huge fist encased in a boxing glove.
I am due back in England next day to lunch with Sir Philip Sassoon and
to meet Lloyd George. Lord and Lady Rocksavage, Lady Diana Manners,
and many other prominent people are to be among the guests, and I am
looking forward to the luncheon eagerly.
We are going back by aeroplane, though Carl Robinson lets me know that
he prefers some other mode of travel. On this occasion I am nervous
and I say frequently that I feel as though something is going to
happen. This does not make a hit with Carl.
We figure that by leaving at eight o'clock in the morning we can make
London by one o'clock, which will give me plenty of time to keep my
engagement.
But we hadn't been up long before we were lost in the fog over the
Channel and were forced to make a landing on the French coast, causing
a delay of two hours. But we finally made it, though I was two hours
late for my engagement, and the thought of keeping Lloyd George and
those other people waiting was ghastly.
Our landing in England was made at the Croydon aerodrome, and there
was a big automobile waiting outside, around which were several
hundred people. The aerodrome officials, assuming that the car was for
me, hustled me into it and it was driven off.
But it was not mine, and I found that I was not being driven to the
Ritz, but the Majestic Theatre in Clapham.
The chauffeur wore a moustache, and, though he looked familiar, I did
not recognise him. But very dramatically he removed the moustache.
"I am Castleton Knight. A long time ago you promised me to visit my
theatre. I have concluded that the only way to get you there is to
kidnap you. So kindly consider yourself kidnapped."
I couldn't help but laugh, even as I thought of Lloyd George, and I
assured Mr. Knight that he was the first one who had ever kidnapped
me. So we went to the theatre, and I stayed an hour and surprised both
myself and the audience by making a speech.
Back to my hotel Sir Philip meets me and tells me that Lloyd George
couldn't wait, that he had a most important engagement at four
o'clock. I explained the aeroplane situation to Sir Philip and he was
very kind. I feel that it was most unfortunate, for it was my only
opportunity to meet Lloyd George in these times, and I love to meet
interesting personages. I would like to meet Lenin, Trotsky, and the
Kaiser.
This is to be my last night in England, and I have promised to dine
and spend the evening with my Cousin Aubrey. One feels dutiful to
one's cousin.
I also discover that this is the day I am to meet Chaliapin and H. G.
Wells. I 'phone H. G. and explain that this is my last day, and of my
promise to my cousin. H. G. is very nice. He understands. You can
only do these things with such people.
My cousin calls for me at dusk in a taxi and we ride to his home in
Bayswater. London is so beautiful at this hour, when the first lights
are being turned on, and each light to me is symbolical. They all mean
life, and I wish sometimes I could peer behind all these lighted
windows.
Reaching Aubrey's home I notice a number of people on the other side
of the street standing in the shadows. They must be reporters, I
think, and am slightly annoyed that they should find me even here. But
my cousin explains hesitatingly that they are just friends of his
waiting for a look at me.
I feel mean and naughty about this, as I recall that I had requested
him not to make a party of my visit.
I just wanted a family affair, with no visitors, and these simple
souls on the other side of the street were respecting my wishes. I
relent and tell Aubrey to ask them over, anyway. They are all quite
nice, simple tradesmen, clerks, etc.
Aubrey has a saloon, or at least a hotel, as he calls it, in the
vicinity of Bayswater, and later in the evening I suggest that we go
there and take his friends with us. Aubrey is shocked.
"No, not around to my place." Then they all demur. They don't wish to
intrude. I like this. Then I insist. They weaken. He weakens.
We enter a bar. The place is doing a flourishing business. There are a
number of pictures of my brother Syd and myself all over the walls, in
character and straight. The place is packed to-night. It must be a
very popular resort.
"What will you have?" I feel breezy. "Give the whole saloon a drink."
Aubrey whispers, "Don't let them know you are here." He says this for
me.
But I insist. "Introduce me to all of them." I must get him more
custom.
He starts quietly whispering to some of his very personal friends:
"This is my cousin. Don't say a word."
I speak up rather loudly. "Give them all a drink." I feel a bit vulgar
to-night. I want to spend money like a drunken sailor. Even the
customers are shocked. They hardly believe that it's Charlie Chaplin,
who always avoids publicity, acting in this vulgar way.
I am sure that some of them don't believe despite many assurances. A
stunt of my cousin's. But they drink, reverently and with reserve, and
then they bid me good night, and we depart quietly, leaving Bayswater
as respectable as ever.
To the house for dinner, after which some one brings forth an old
family album. It is just like all other family albums.
"This is your great-granduncle and that is your great-grandmother.
This is Aunt Lucy. This one was a French general."
Aubrey says: "You know we have quite a good family on your father's
side." There are pictures of uncles who are very prosperous cattle
ranchers in South Africa. Wonder why I don't hear from my prosperous
relations.
This is the first time that I am aware of my family and I am now
convinced that we are true aristocrats, blue blood of the first water.
Aubrey has children, a boy of twelve, whom I have never met before. A
fine boy. I suggest educating him. We talk of it at length and with
stress. "Let's keep up family tradition. He may be a member of
Parliament or perhaps President. He's a bright boy."