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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 42449 ***
+
+Transcriber's Note:
+
+  Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
+  been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
+
+  Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by =equal
+  signs=.
+
+
+
+
+  [Illustration: Charlie as he is to his friends.]
+
+
+
+
+     _MY WONDERFUL
+     VISIT By Charlie
+     Chaplin_
+
+     _WITH ILLUSTRATIONS_
+
+     _LONDON: HURST & BLACKETT, LTD.
+     Paternoster House, E.C._
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+     CHAP.                                          PAGE
+
+     I.    I DECIDE TO PLAY HOOKEY                     9
+
+     II.   OFF TO EUROPE                              26
+
+     III.  DAYS ON SHIPBOARD                          41
+
+     IV.   HELLO! ENGLAND                             56
+
+     V.    I ARRIVE IN LONDON                         71
+
+     VI.   THE HAUNTS OF MY CHILDHOOD                 83
+
+     VII.  A JOKE AND STILL ON THE GO                 94
+
+     VIII. A MEMORABLE NIGHT IN LONDON               103
+
+     IX.   I MEET THE IMMORTALS                      117
+
+     X.    I MEET THOMAS BURKE AND H. G. WELLS       133
+
+     XI.   OFF TO FRANCE                             147
+
+     XII.  MY VISIT TO GERMANY                       162
+
+     XIII. I FLY FROM PARIS TO LONDON                177
+
+     XIV.  FAREWELLS TO PARIS AND LONDON             191
+
+     XV.   BON VOYAGE                                204
+
+
+
+
+ILLUSTRATIONS
+
+
+     CHARLIE AS HE IS TO HIS FRIENDS        FRONTISPIECE
+
+     MY FAVOURITE AUTOGRAPH                       Page 8
+
+     ONE OF MY FAVOURITE CARTOONS                  "  15
+
+     A SCENE FROM "SUNNYSIDE," ONE OF MY
+     FAVOURITE PHOTO PLAYS                         "  48
+
+     I AM WELCOMED BY THE MAYOR OF
+     SOUTHAMPTON                                   "  64
+
+     MY "PROPERTY GRIN"                            "  96
+
+     ANOTHER SCENE FROM "SUNNYSIDE," ONE
+     OF MY FAVOURITE PHOTO PLAYS                   " 123
+
+     I MEET H. G. WELLS                            " 140
+
+     IN PARIS WITH SIR PHILIP SASSOON AND
+     GEORGES CARPENTIER                            " 154
+
+     I MEET LADY ROCKSAVAGE AND SIR PHILIP
+     SASSOON                                       " 182
+
+
+
+
+  [Illustration: My favourite autograph.]
+
+
+
+
+My Wonderful Visit
+
+
+
+
+I.
+
+I DECIDE TO PLAY HOOKEY
+
+
+A steak-and-kidney pie, influenza, and a cablegram. There is the
+triple alliance that is responsible for the whole thing. Though there
+might have been a bit of homesickness and a desire for applause mixed
+up in the cycle of circumstances that started me off to Europe for a
+vacation.
+
+For seven years I had been basking in California's perpetual sunlight,
+a sunlight artificially enhanced by the studio Cooper-Hewitts. For
+seven years I had been working and thinking along in a single channel
+and I wanted to get away. Away from Hollywood, the cinema colony, away
+from scenarios, away from the celluloid smell of the studios, away
+from contracts, press notices, cutting rooms, crowds, bathing
+beauties, custard pies, big shoes, and little moustaches. I was in the
+atmosphere of achievement, but an achievement which, to me, was
+rapidly verging on stagnation.
+
+I wanted an emotional holiday. Perhaps I am projecting at the start a
+difficult condition for conception, but I assure you that even the
+clown has his rational moments and I needed a few.
+
+The triple alliance listed above came about rather simultaneously. I
+had finished the picture of "The Kid" and "The Idle Class" and was
+about to embark on another. The company had been engaged. Script and
+settings were ready. We had worked on the picture one day.
+
+I was feeling very tired, weak, and depressed. I had just recovered
+from an attack of influenza. I was in one of those "what's the use"
+moods. I wanted something and didn't know what it was.
+
+And then Montague Glass invited me to dinner at his home in Pasadena.
+There were many other invitations, but this one carried with it the
+assurance that there would be a steak-and-kidney pie. A weakness of
+mine. I was on hand ahead of time. The pie was a symphony. So was the
+evening. Monty Glass, his charming wife, their little daughter, Lucius
+Hitchcock, the illustrator, and his wife--just a homey little family
+party devoid of red lights and jazz orchestras. It awoke within me a
+chord of something reminiscent. I couldn't quite tell what.
+
+After the final onslaught on the pie, into the parlour before an open
+fire. Conversation, not studio patois nor idle chatter. An exchange of
+ideas--ideas founded on ideas. I discovered that Montague Glass was
+much more than the author of _Potash and Perlmutter_. He thought. He
+was an accomplished musician.
+
+He played the piano. I sang. Not as an exponent of entertainment, but
+as part of the group having a pleasant, homey evening. We played
+charades. The evening was over too soon. It left me wishing. Here was
+home in its true sense. Here was a man artistically and commercially
+successful who still managed to lock the doors and put out the cat at
+night.
+
+I drove back to Los Angeles. I was restless. There was a cablegram
+waiting for me from London. It called attention to the fact that my
+latest picture, "The Kid," was about to make its appearance in London,
+and, as it had been acclaimed my best, this was the time for me to
+make the trip back to my native land. A trip that I had been promising
+myself for years.
+
+What would Europe look like after the war?
+
+I thought it over. I had never been present at the first showing of
+one of my pictures. Their début to me had been in Los Angeles
+projection rooms. I had been missing something vital and stimulating.
+I had success, but it was stored away somewhere. I had never opened
+the package and tasted it. I sort of wanted to be patted on the back.
+And I rather relished the pats coming in and from England. They had
+hinted that I could, so I wanted to turn London upside down. Who
+wouldn't want to do that? And all the time there was the spectre of
+nervous breakdown from overwork threatening and the results of
+influenza apparent, to say nothing of the steak-and-kidney pie.
+
+Sensation of the pleasantest sort beckoned me, at the same time rest
+was promised. I wanted to grab it while it was good. Perhaps "The Kid"
+might be my last picture. Maybe there would never be another chance
+for me to bask in the spotlight. And I wanted to see Europe--England,
+France, Germany, and Russia. Europe was new.
+
+It was too much. I stopped preparations on the picture we were taking.
+Decided to leave the next night for Europe. And did it despite the
+protests and the impossibility howlers. Tickets were taken. We packed;
+everyone was shocked. I was glad of it. I wanted to shock everyone.
+
+The next night I believe that most of Hollywood was at the train in
+Los Angeles to see me off. And so were their sisters and their cousins
+and their aunts. Why was I going? A secret mission, I told them. It
+was an effective answer. I was immediately under contract to do
+pictures in Europe in the minds of most of them. But then, would they
+have believed or understood if I had told them I wanted an emotional
+holiday? I don't believe so.
+
+There was the usual station demonstration at the train. The crowd
+rather surprised me. It was but a foretaste. I do not try to remember
+the shouted messages of cheer that were flung at me. They were of the
+usual sort, I imagine. One, however, sticks. My brother Syd at the
+last moment rushed up to one of my party.
+
+"For God's sake, don't let him get married!" he shouted.
+
+It gave the crowd a laugh and me a scare.
+
+The train pulled out and I settled down to three days of relaxation
+and train routine. I ate sometimes in the dining car, sometimes in our
+drawing-room. I slept atrociously. I always do. I hate travelling. The
+faces left on the platform at Los Angeles began to look kinder and
+more attractive. They did not seem the sort to drive one away. But
+they had, or maybe it was optical illusion on my part, illusion
+fostered by mental unrest.
+
+For two thousand miles we did the same thing over many times, then
+repeated it. Perhaps there were many interesting people on the train.
+I did not find out. The percentage of interesting ones on trains is
+too small to hazard. Most of the time we played solitaire. You can
+play it many times in two thousand miles.
+
+Then we reached Chicago. I like Chicago, I have never been there for
+any great length of time, but my glimpses of it have disclosed
+tremendous activity. Its record speaks achievement.
+
+But to me, personally, Chicago suggested Carl Sandburg, whose poetry I
+appreciate highly and whom I had met in Los Angeles. I must see dear
+old Carl and also call at the office of the _Daily News_. They were
+running an enormous scenario contest. I am one of the judges, and it
+happens that Carl Sandburg is on the same paper.
+
+Our party went to the Blackstone Hotel, where a suite had been placed
+at our disposal. The hotel management overwhelmed us with courtesies.
+
+Then came the reporters. You can't describe them unless you label them
+with the hackneyed interrogation point.
+
+"Mr. Chaplin, why are you going to Europe?"
+
+"Just for a vacation."
+
+"Are you going to make pictures while you are there?"
+
+"No."
+
+"What do you do with your old moustaches?"
+
+"Throw them away."
+
+"What do you do with your old canes?"
+
+"Throw them away."
+
+"What do you do with your old shoes?"
+
+"Throw them away."
+
+That lad did well. He got in all those questions before he was
+shouldered aside and two black eyes boring through lenses surrounded
+by tortoise-shell frames claimed an innings. I restored the "prop
+grin" which I had decided was effective for interviews.
+
+"Mr. Chaplin, have you your cane and shoes with you?"
+
+"No."
+
+"Why not?"
+
+"I don't think I'll need them."
+
+"Are you going to get married while you are in Europe?"
+
+"No."
+
+  [Illustration: THE CALIFORNIAN SEA LION
+   THE ORIGIN OF THE FAMOUS BOOTS REVEALED AT LAST.
+   (_One of my favourite cartoons._)]
+
+The bespectacled one passed with the tide. As he passed I let
+the grin slip away, but only for a moment. Hastily I recalled it as a
+charming young lady caught me by the arm.
+
+"Mr. Chaplin, do you ever expect to get married?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"To whom?"
+
+"I don't know."
+
+"Do you want to play 'Hamlet'?"
+
+"Why, I don't know. I haven't thought much about it, but if you think
+there are any reasons why----"
+
+But she was gone. Another district attorney had the floor.
+
+"Mr. Chaplin, are you a Bolshevik?"
+
+"No."
+
+"Then why are you going to Europe?"
+
+"For a holiday."
+
+"What holiday?"
+
+"Pardon me, folks, but I did not sleep well on the train and I must go
+to bed."
+
+Like a football player picking a hole in the line, I had seen the
+bedroom door open and a friendly hand beckon. I made for it. Within I
+had every opportunity to anticipate the terror that awaited me on my
+holiday. Not the crowds. I love them. They are friendly and
+instantaneous. But interviewers! Then we went to the _News_ office,
+and the trip was accomplished without casualty. There we met
+photographers. I didn't relish facing them. I hate still pictures.
+
+But it had to be done. I was the judge in the contest and they must
+have pictures of the judge.
+
+Now I had always pictured a judge as being a rather dignified
+personage, but I learned about judges from them. Their idea of the way
+to photograph a judge was to have him standing on his head or with one
+leg pointing east. They suggested a moustache, a Derby hat, and a
+cane.
+
+It was inevitable.
+
+I couldn't get away from Chaplin.
+
+And I did so want a holiday.
+
+But I met Carl Sandburg. There was an oasis amid the misery. Good old
+Carl! We recalled the days in Los Angeles. It was a most pleasant
+chat.
+
+Back to the hotel.
+
+Reporters. More reporters. Lady reporters.
+
+A publicity barrage.
+
+"Mr. Chaplin--"
+
+But I escaped. What a handy bedroom! There must be something in
+practice. I felt that I negotiated it much better on the second
+attempt. I rather wanted to try out my theory to see if I had become
+an adept in dodging into the bedroom. I would try it. I went out to
+brave the reporters. But they were gone. And when I ducked back into
+the bedroom, as a sort of rehearsal, it fell flat. The effect was lost
+without the cause.
+
+A bit of food, some packing, and then to the train again. This time
+for New York. Crowds again. I liked them. Cameras. I did not mind
+them this time, as I was not asked to pose.
+
+Carl was there to see me off.
+
+I must do or say something extra nice to him. Something he could
+appreciate. I couldn't think. I talked inanities and I felt that he
+knew I was being inane. I tried to think of a passage of his poetry to
+recite. I couldn't. Then it came--the inspiration.
+
+"Where can I buy your book of poems, Carl?" I almost blurted it out.
+It was gone. Too late to be recalled.
+
+"At any bookstore."
+
+His reply may have been casual. To me it was damning.
+
+Ye gods, what a silly imbecile I was! I needed rest. My brain was
+gone. I couldn't think of a thing to say in reprieve. Thank God, the
+train pulled out then. I hope Carl will understand and forgive when he
+reads this, if he ever does.
+
+A wretched sleep _en train_, more solitaire, meals at schedule times,
+and then we hit New York.
+
+Crowds. Reporters. Photographers. And Douglas Fairbanks. Good old
+Doug. He did his best, but Doug has never had a picture yet where he
+had to buck news photographers. They snapped me in every posture
+anatomically possible. Two of them battled with my carcass in argument
+over my facing east or west.
+
+Neither won. But I lost. My body couldn't be split. But my clothes
+could--and were.
+
+But Doug put in a good lick and got me into an automobile. Panting, I
+lay back against the cushions.
+
+To the Ritz went Doug and I.
+
+To the Ritz went the crowd.
+
+Or at least I thought so, for there was a crowd there and it looked
+like the same one. I almost imagined I saw familiar faces. Certainly I
+saw cameras. But this time our charge was most successful. With a
+guard of porters as shock troops, we negotiated the distance between
+the curb and the lobby without the loss of a single button.
+
+I felt rather smart and relieved. But, as usual, I was too previous.
+We ascended to the suite. There they were. The gentlemen of the press.
+And one lady of the press.
+
+"Mr. Chaplin, why are you going to Europe?"
+
+"For a vacation."
+
+"What do you do with your old moustaches?"
+
+"Throw them away."
+
+"Do you ever expect to get married?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"What's her name?"
+
+"I don't know."
+
+"Are you a Bolshevik?"
+
+"I am an artist. I am interested in life. Bolshevism is a new phase of
+life. I must be interested in it."
+
+"Do you want to play 'Hamlet'?"
+
+"Why, I don't know--"
+
+Again Lady Luck flew to my side. I was called to the telephone. I
+answered the one in my bedroom, and closed the door, and kept it
+closed. The Press departed. I felt like a wrung dish-rag. I looked
+into the mirror. I saw a Cheshire cat grinning back at me. I was still
+carrying the "prop" grin that I had invented for interviews. I
+wondered if it would be easier to hold it all the time rather than
+chase it into play at the sight of reporters. But some one might
+accuse me of imitating Doug. So I let the old face slip back to
+normal.
+
+Doug came. Mary was better. She was with him. It was good to see her.
+The three of us went to the roof to be photographed. We were, in every
+conceivable pose until some one suggested that Doug should hang over
+the edge of the roof, holding Mary in one hand and me in the other.
+Pretty little thought. But that's as far as it got. I beat Doug to the
+refusal by a hair.
+
+It's great to have friends like Doug and Mary. They understood me
+perfectly. They knew what the seven years' grind had meant to my
+nerves. They knew just how badly I needed this vacation, how I needed
+to get away from studios and pictures, how I needed to get away from
+myself.
+
+Doug had thought it all out and had planned that while I was in New
+York my vacation should be perfect. He would see that things were kept
+pleasant for me.
+
+So he insisted that I should go and see his new picture, "The Three
+Musketeers."
+
+I was nettled. I didn't want to see pictures. But I was polite. I did
+not refuse, though I did try to evade.
+
+It was useless. Very seriously he wanted me to see the picture and
+give my honest opinion. He wanted my criticism, my suggestions.
+
+I had to do it. I always do. I saw the picture in jerks.
+
+Reporters were there. Their attendance was no secret.
+
+The picture over, I suggested a few changes and several cuts which I
+thought would improve it.
+
+I always do.
+
+They listened politely and then let the picture ride the way it was.
+
+They always do.
+
+Fortunately, the changes I suggested were not made, and the picture is
+a tremendous success.
+
+But I still have status as a critic. I am invited to a showing of
+Mary's picture, "Little Lord Fauntleroy," and asked for suggestions.
+They know that I'll criticise. I always do and they are afraid of me.
+Though when they look at my pictures they are always kind and
+sympathetic and never criticise.
+
+I told Mary her picture was too long. I told her where to cut it.
+Which, of course, she doesn't do. She never does.
+
+She and Doug listen politely and the picture stands. It always does.
+
+Newspaper men are at the hotel. I go through the same barrage of
+questions. My "prop" grin does duty for fifteen minutes. I escape.
+
+Douglas 'phones me. He wants to be nice to me. I am on my vacation and
+he wants it to be a very pleasant one. So he invites me to see "The
+Three Musketeers" again. This time at its first showing before the
+public.
+
+Before the opening of Doug's picture we were to have dinner together,
+Mary and Doug, Mrs. Condé Nast and I.
+
+I felt very embarrassed at meeting Mrs. Nast again. Somewhere there
+lurks in my memory a broken dinner engagement. It worried me, as I had
+not even written. It was so foolish not to write. I would be met
+probably with an "all-is-forgiven" look.
+
+I decide that my best defence is to act vague and not speak of it. I
+do so and get away with it.
+
+And she has the good taste not to mention it, so a pleasant time is
+had by all.
+
+We went to the theatre in Mrs. Nast's beautiful limousine. The crowds
+were gathered for several blocks on every side of the theatre.
+
+I felt proud that I was in the movies. Though on this night, with
+Douglas and Mary, I felt that I was trailing in their glory. It was
+their night.
+
+There are cheers--for Mary, for Doug, for me. Again I feel proud that
+I am in the movies. I try to look dignified. I coax up the "prop"
+smile and put into it real pleasure. It is a real smile. It feels good
+and natural.
+
+We get out of the car and crowds swarm. Most of the "all-American"
+selections are there. Doug takes Mary under his wing and ploughs
+through as though he were doing a scene and the crowd were extras.
+
+I took my cue from him. I took Mrs. Nast's arm. At least I tried to
+take it, but she seemed to sort of drift away from me down towards
+Eighth Avenue, while I, for no apparent reason, backed toward
+Broadway. The tide changed. I was swept back toward the entrance of
+the theatre. I was not feeling so proud as I had been. I was still
+smiling at the dear public, but it had gone back to the "prop" smile.
+
+I realised this and tried to put real pleasure into the smile again.
+As the grin broadened it opened new space and a policeman parked his
+fist in it.
+
+I don't like the taste of policemen's fists. I told him so. He glared
+at me and pushed me for a "first down." My hat flew toward the
+heavens. It has never returned to me.
+
+I felt a draught. I heard machinery. I looked down. A woman with a
+pair of scissors was snipping a piece from the seat of my trousers.
+Another grabbed my tie and almost put an end to my suffering through
+strangulation. My collar was next. But they only got half of that.
+
+My shirt was pulled out. The buttons torn from my vest. My feet
+trampled on. My face scratched. But I still retained the smile, "prop"
+one though it was. Whenever I could think of it I tried to raise it
+above the level of a "prop" smile and was always rewarded with a
+policeman's fist. I kept insisting that I was Charlie Chaplin and that
+I belonged inside. It was absolutely necessary that I should see "The
+Three Musketeers."
+
+Insistence won. As though on a prearranged signal I felt myself lifted
+from my feet, my body inverted until my head pointed toward the centre
+of the lobby and my feet pointed toward an electric sign advertising
+the Ziegfeld Roof. Then there was a surge, and I moved forward right
+over the heads of the crowd through the lobby.
+
+As I went through the door, not knowing into what, I saw a friend.
+
+With the "prop" smile still waving, I flung back, "See you later,"
+and, head first, I entered the theatre and came to in a heap at the
+foot of a bediamonded dowager. I looked up, still carrying the "prop"
+smile, but my effort fell flat. There was no applause in the look she
+gave me.
+
+Crestfallen, I gathered myself together, and with what dignity there
+was left I strode to the box that had been set aside for our party.
+There was Mary, as sweet and beautiful as ever; Mrs. Nast, calm and
+composed: Doug serene and dapper.
+
+"Late again," they looked.
+
+And Mary, steely polite, enumerated my sartorial shortcomings. But I
+knew one of them, at least better than she did, and I hastened to the
+men's room for repairs. Soap and water and a brush did wonders, but I
+could find no trousers, collar, or tie, and I returned clean but
+ragged to the box, where disapproval was being registered unanimously.
+
+I tried to make the "prop" grin more radiant, even though I was most
+tired after my journey, but it didn't go with Doug and Mary.
+
+But I refused to let them spoil my pleasure and I saw "The Three
+Musketeers."
+
+It was a thrilling success for Doug. I felt good for him, though I was
+a bit envious. I wondered if the showing of "The Kid" could have meant
+as big a night for me.
+
+'Twas quite a night, this opening of the Fairbanks masterpiece, and,
+considering all the circumstances, I think I behaved admirably.
+Somehow, though, I think there is a vote of three to one against me.
+
+
+
+
+II.
+
+OFF TO EUROPE
+
+
+Next morning there was work to do. My lawyer, Nathan Burkan, had to be
+seen. There were contracts and other things. Almost as much a nuisance
+as interviews. But I dare say they are necessary.
+
+Poor old Nath! I love him, but am afraid of him. His pockets always
+bulge contracts. We could be such good friends if he were not a
+lawyer. And I am sure that there must be times when he is delightful
+company. I might fire him and then get acquainted.
+
+A very dull day with him. Interrupted by 'phones, invitations,
+parties, theatre tickets sent to me, people asking for jobs. Hundreds
+of letters camouflaged with good wishes and invariably asking favours.
+But I like them.
+
+Calls from many old friends who depress me and many new ones who
+thrill me. I wanted some buckwheat cakes. I had to go three blocks to
+a Childs' restaurant to get them.
+
+That night I went to see "Liliom," the best play in New York at the
+time and one which in moments rises to true greatness. It impressed me
+tremendously and made me dissatisfied with myself. I don't like being
+without work. I want to go on the stage. Wonder if I could play that
+part?
+
+I went back behind the scenes and met young Skildkraut. I was amazed
+at his beauty and youth. Truly an artist, sincere and simple. And Eva
+Le Gallienne, I recall no one else on the stage just like her. She is
+a charming artist. We renewed our acquaintance made in Los Angeles.
+
+The next morning provided a delightful treat. Breakfast for me,
+luncheon for the others, at the Coffee House Club, a most interesting
+little place where artists and artizans belong--writers, actors,
+musicians, sculptors, painters--all of them interesting people. I go
+there often whenever I am in New York. It was a brilliant party,
+Heywood Broun, Frank Crowninshield, Harrison Rhodes, Edward Knoblock,
+Condé Nast, Alexander Woolcott--but I can't remember all the names. I
+wish all meals were as pleasant.
+
+I received an invitation to dine with Ambassador Gerard and then go
+for a ride in the country. The motor broke down, as they usually do on
+such occasions, and I had to 'phone and disappoint. I was sorry,
+because I was to meet some brilliant people.
+
+I had luncheon next day with Max Eastman, one of my best friends. He
+is a radical and a poet and editor of _The Liberator_, a charming and
+sympathetic fellow who thinks. All of his doctrines I do not subscribe
+to, but that makes no difference in our friendship. We get together,
+argue a bit, and then agree to disagree and let it go at that and
+remain friends.
+
+He told me of a party that he was giving at his home that evening and
+I hastened to accept his invitation to attend. His home is always
+interesting. His friends likewise.
+
+What a night it was for me! I got out of myself. My emotions went the
+gamut of tears to laughter without artificiality. It was what I had
+left Los Angeles for, and that night Charlie Chaplin seemed very far
+away, and I felt or wanted to feel myself just a simple soul among
+other souls.
+
+I was introduced to George, an ex-I. W. W. secretary. I suppose he has
+a last name, but I didn't know it and it didn't seem to matter when
+one met George. Here was a real personality. He had a light in his
+eyes that I have never seen before, a light that must have shone from
+his soul. He had the look of one who believes he is right and has the
+courage of his convictions. It is a scarce article.
+
+I learned that he had been sentenced by Judge Landis to serve twenty
+year in the penitentiary, that he had served two years and was out
+because of ill-health. I did not learn the offence. It did not seem to
+matter.
+
+A dreamer and a poet, he became wistfully gay on this hectic night
+among kindred spirits. In a mixed crowd of intellectuals he stood out.
+
+He was going back to serve his eighteen years in the penitentiary and
+was remaining jovial. What an ordeal! But ordeal signifies what it
+would have been for me. I don't believe it bothered him. I hardly
+believe he was there. He was somewhere else in the place from which
+that look in his eyes emanated. A man whose ideas are ideals.
+
+I pass no opinion, but with such charm one must sympathise.
+
+It was an amusing evening. We played charades and I watched George
+act. It was all sorts of fun. We danced a bit.
+
+Then George came in imitating Woodrow. It was screamingly funny, and
+he threw himself into the character, or caricature, making Wilson seem
+absurdly ridiculous. We were convulsed with laughter.
+
+But all the time I couldn't help thinking that he must go back to the
+penitentiary for eighteen years.
+
+What a party!
+
+It didn't break up until two in the morning, though clock or calendar
+didn't get a thought from me.
+
+We all played, danced, and acted. No one asked me to walk funny, no
+one asked me to twirl a cane. If I wanted to do a tragic bit, I did,
+and so did everyone else. You were a creature of the present, not a
+production of the past, not a promise of the future. You were accepted
+as is, _sans_ "Who's Who" labels and income-tax records.
+
+George asks me about my trip, but he does not interview. He gives me
+letters to friends.
+
+In my puny way, sounding hollow and unconvincing, I try to tell George
+how foolish he is. He tries to explain that he can't help it. Like all
+trail blazers, he is a martyr. He does not rant. He blames no one. He
+does not rail at fate.
+
+If he believes himself persecuted, his belief is unspoken. He is
+almost Christlike as he explains to me. His viewpoint is beautiful,
+kind, and tender.
+
+I can't imagine what he has done to be sentenced to twenty years. My
+thought must speak. He believes he is spoiling my party through making
+me serious. He doesn't want that.
+
+He stops talking about himself. Suddenly he runs, grabs a woman's hat,
+and says, "Look, Charlie, I'm Sarah Bernhardt!" and goes into a most
+ridiculous travesty.
+
+I laugh. Everyone laughs. George laughs.
+
+And he is going back to the penitentiary to spend eighteen of the most
+wonderful years of his life!
+
+I can't stand it. I go out in the garden and gaze up at the stars. It
+is a wonderful night and a glorious moon is shining down. I wish there
+was something I could do for George. I wonder if he is right or wrong.
+
+Before long George joins me. He is sad and reflective, with a sadness
+of beauty, not of regret. He looks at the moon, the stars. He
+confides, how stupid is the party, any party, compared with the
+loveliness of the night. The silence that is a universal gift--how few
+of us enjoy it. Perhaps because it cannot be bought. Rich men buy
+noise. Souls revel in nature's silences. They cannot be denied those
+who seek them.
+
+We talk of George's future. Not of his past nor of his offence. Can't
+he escape? I try to make him think logically toward regaining his
+freedom. I want to pledge my help. He doesn't understand, or pretends
+not to. He has not lost anything. Bars cannot imprison his spirit.
+
+I beg him to give himself and his life a better chance.
+
+He smiles.
+
+"Don't bother about me, Charlie. You have your work. Go on making the
+world laugh. Yours is a great task and a splendid one. Don't bother
+about me."
+
+We are silent. I am choked up. I feel a sort of pent-up helplessness.
+I want relief. It comes.
+
+The tears roll down my cheeks and George embraces me.
+
+There are tears in both our eyes.
+
+"Good-bye, Charlie."
+
+"Good-bye, George."
+
+What a party! Its noise disgusts me now. I call my car. I go back to
+the Ritz.
+
+George goes back to the "pen."
+
+Chuck Reisner, who played the big bully in "The Kid," called the next
+day. He wants to go to Europe. Why? He doesn't know. He is emotional
+and sensational. He is a pugilist and a song writer. A civil soldier
+of fortune. He doesn't like New York and thinks he wants to get back
+to California at once.
+
+We have breakfast together. It is a delightful meal because it is so
+different from my usual lonely breakfast. Chuck goes on at a great
+rate and succeeds in working up his own emotions until there are tears
+in his eyes.
+
+I promise him all sorts of things to get rid of him. He knows it and
+tells me so. We understand each other very well. I promise him an
+engagement. Tell him he can always get a job with me if he doesn't
+want too much money.
+
+He is indignant at some press notices that have appeared about me and
+wants to go down to newspaper row and kill a few reporters. He
+fathers, mothers me in his rough way.
+
+We talk about everybody's ingratitude for what he and I have done for
+people. We have a mutual-admiration convention. Why aren't we
+appreciated more? We are both sour on the world and its hypocrisies.
+It's a great little game panning the world so long as you don't let
+your sessions get too long or too serious.
+
+I had a luncheon engagement at the Coffee House Club with Frank
+Crowninshield, and we talked over the arrangements of a dinner which I
+am giving to a few intimate friends. Frank is my social mentor, though
+I care little about society in the general acceptance of the term. We
+arranged for a table at the Elysée Café and it was to be a mixed
+party.
+
+Among the guests were Max Eastman, Harrison Rhodes, Edward Knoblock,
+Mme. Maeterlinck, Alexander Woolcott, Douglas Fairbanks and Mary,
+Heywood Broun, Rita Weiman, and Neysa McMein, a most charming girl for
+whom I am posing.
+
+Frank Harris and Waldo Frank were invited, but were unable to attend.
+Perhaps there were others, but I can't remember, and I am sure they
+will forgive me if I have neglected to mention them. I am always
+confused about parties and arrangements.
+
+The last minute sets me wild. I am a very bad organiser. I am always
+leaving everything until the last minute, and as a rule no one shows
+up.
+
+This was the exception. For on this occasion everybody did turn up.
+And it started off like most parties; everybody was stiff and formal;
+I felt a terrible failure as a host. But in spite of Mr. Volstead
+there was a bit of "golden water" to be had, and it saved the day.
+What a blessing at times!
+
+I had been worried since sending the invitations. I wondered how Max
+Eastman would mix with the others, but I was soon put at my ease,
+because Max is clever and is just as desirous of having a good time as
+anyone, in spite of intellectual differences. That night he seemed the
+necessary ingredient to make the party.
+
+The fizz water must have something of the sort of thing that old Ponce
+de Leon sought. Certainly it made us feel very young. Back to
+children we leaped for the night. There were games, music, dancing.
+And no wallflowers. Everyone participated.
+
+We began playing charades, and Doug and Mary showed us some clever
+acting. They both got on top of a table and made believe he was the
+conductor of a trolley car and she was a passenger. After an orgy of
+calling out stations _en route_ the conductor came along to the
+passenger and collected her fare. Then they both began dancing around
+the floor, explaining that they were a couple of fairies dancing along
+the side of a brook, picking flowers. Soon Mary fell in and Douglas
+plunged in after her and pulled her up on the banks of the brook.
+
+That was their problem, and, guess though we would, we could not solve
+it.
+
+They gave the answer finally. It was "Fairbanks."
+
+Then we sang, and in Italian--at least it passed for that. I acted
+with Mme. Maeterlinck. We played a burlesque on the great dying scene
+of "Camille." But we gave it a touch that Dumas overlooked.
+
+When she coughed, I got the disease immediately, and was soon taken
+with convulsions and died instead of Camille.
+
+We sang some more, we danced, we got up and made impromptu speeches on
+any given subject. None were about the party, but on subjects like
+"political economy," "the fur trade," "feminism."
+
+Each one would try to talk intelligently and seriously on a given
+subject for one minute. My subject was the "fur trade."
+
+I prefaced my talk by references to cats, rabbits, etc., and finished
+up by diagnosing the political situation in Russia.
+
+For me the party was a great success. I succeeded in forgetting myself
+for a while. I hope the rest of them managed to do the same thing.
+From the café the party went over to a little girl's house--she was a
+friend of Mr. Woolcott--and again we burst forth in music and dancing.
+We made a complete evening of it and I went to bed tired and exhausted
+about five in the morning.
+
+I want a long sleep, but am awakened by my lawyer at nine. He has
+packages of legal documents and papers for me to sign, my orders about
+certain personal things of great importance. I have a splitting
+headache. My boat is sailing at noon, and altogether, with a lawyer
+for a companion, it is a hideous day.
+
+All through the morning the telephone bell is ringing. Reporters. I
+listen several times, but it never varies.
+
+"Mr. Chaplin, why are you going to Europe?"
+
+"To get rid of interviews," I finally shout, and hang up the 'phone.
+
+Somehow, with invaluable assistance, we get away from the hotel and
+are on our way to the dock. My lawyer meets me there. He has come to
+see me off. I tremble, though, for fear he has more business with me.
+
+I am criticised by my lawyer for talking so sharply the first thing in
+the morning. That's just it. He always sees me the first thing in the
+morning. That's what makes me short.
+
+But it is too big a moment. Something is stirring within me. I am
+anxious and reluctant about leaving. My emotions are all mixed.
+
+It is a beautiful morning. New York looks much finer and nicer because
+I am leaving it. I am terribly troubled about passports and the usual
+procedure about declaring income tax, but my lawyer reassures me that
+he has fixed everything O.K. and that my name will work a lot of
+influence with the American officials; but I am very dubious about it
+when I am met by the American officials at the port.
+
+I am terrified by American officials. I am extra nice to the
+officials, and to my amazement they are extra nice to me. Everything
+passes off very easily.
+
+As usual, my lawyer was right. He had fixed everything. He is a good
+lawyer.
+
+We could be such intimate friends if he wasn't.
+
+But I am too thrilled to give much time to pitying lawyers.
+
+I am going to Europe.
+
+The crowds of reporters, photographers, all sorts of traffic, pushing,
+shoving, opening passports, visés O.K.'d, stamped, in perfect, almost
+clocklike precision, I am shoved aboard.
+
+The newspaper battery pictorial and reportorial. There is no original
+note.
+
+"Mr. Chaplin, why are you going to Europe?"
+
+I feel that in this last moment I should be a bit more tolerant and
+pleasant, no matter how difficult. I bring forth the "prop" smile
+again.
+
+"For a vacation," I answer.
+
+Then they go through the standard interview form and I try to be
+obliging.
+
+Mrs. John Carpenter is on the boat--was also invited to my party, but
+couldn't attend--with her charming daughter, who has the face of an
+angel, also Mr. Edward Knoblock. We are all photographed. Doug and
+Mary are there. Lots of people to see me off. Somehow I don't seem
+interested in them very much. My mind is pretty well occupied. I am
+trying to make conversation, but am more interested in the people and
+the boat and those who are going to travel with me.
+
+Many of the passengers on the boat are bringing their children that I
+may be introduced. I don't mind children.
+
+"I have seen you so many times in the pictures."
+
+I find myself smiling at them graciously and pleasantly, especially
+the children.
+
+I doubt if I am really sincere in this, as it is too early in the
+morning. Despite the fact that I love children, I find them difficult
+to meet. I feel rather inferior to them. Most of them have assurance,
+have not yet been cursed with self-consciousness.
+
+And one has to be very much on his best behaviour with children
+because they detect our insincerity. I find there are quite a lot of
+children on board.
+
+Everyone is so pleasant, especially those left behind. Handkerchiefs
+are waving. The boat is off. We start to move, the waters are
+churning. Am feeling very sad, rather regretful--think what a nice man
+my lawyer is.
+
+We turn around the bend and get into the channel. The crowds are but
+little flies now. In this fleeting dramatic moment there comes the
+feeling of leaving something very dear behind.
+
+The camera man and many of his brothers are aboard. I discover him as
+I turn around. I did not want to discover anyone just then. I wanted
+to be alone with sky and water. But I am still Charlie Chaplin. I must
+be photographed--and am.
+
+We are passing the Statue of Liberty. He asks me to wave and throw
+kisses, which rather annoys me.
+
+The thing is too obvious. It offends my sense of sincerity.
+
+The Statue of Liberty is thrilling, dramatic, a glorious symbol. I
+would feel self-conscious and cheap in deliberately waving and
+throwing kisses at it. I will be myself.
+
+I refuse.
+
+The incident of the photographic seeker before the Statue of Liberty
+upset me. I felt that he was trying to capitalise the statue. His
+request was deliberate, insincere. It offended me. It would have been
+like calling an audience to witness the placing of flowers upon a
+grave. Patriotism is too deep a feeling to depict in the posing for a
+photograph. Why are attempts made to parade such emotions? I feel glad
+that I have the courage to refuse.
+
+As I turn from the photographer I feel a sense of relief. I am to have
+a reprieve from such annoyances. Reporters for the while are left
+behind. It is a delicious sense of security.
+
+I am ready for the new adjustment. I am in a new world, a little city
+of its own, where there are new people--people who may be either
+pleasant or unpleasant, and mine is the interesting job of placing
+them in their proper category. I want to explore new lands and I feel
+that I shall have ample opportunity on such an immense ship. The
+_Olympic_ is enormous and I conjure up all sorts of pleasure to be had
+in its different rooms--Turkish baths, gymnasium, music rooms--its
+Ritz-Carlton restaurant, where everything is elaborate and of ornate
+splendour. I find myself looking forward to my evening meal.
+
+We go to the Ritz grill to dine. Everyone is pleasant. I seem to sense
+the feel of England immediately. Foreign food--a change of system--the
+different bill of fare, with money in terms of pounds, shillings, and
+pence. And the dishes--pheasant, grouse, and wild duck. For the first
+time I feel the elegant gentleman, the man of means.
+
+I ask questions and discover that there are really some very
+interesting people aboard. But I resent anyone telling me about them.
+I want to discover them myself. I almost shout when someone tries to
+read me a passenger list. This is my desert island--I am going to
+explore it myself. The prospect is intriguing. I am three thousand
+miles from Hollywood and three thousand miles from Europe. For the
+moment I belong to neither.
+
+God be praised, I am myself.
+
+It is my little moment of happiness, the glorious "to-day" that is
+sandwiched in between the exhausting "yesterday" of Los Angeles and
+the portentous "to-morrow" of Europe.
+
+For the moment I am content.
+
+
+
+
+III.
+
+DAYS ON SHIPBOARD
+
+
+I notice a thoughtful-looking, studious sort of man seated across from
+us. He is reading a book, a different sort of book, if covers mean
+anything. It looks formidable, a sort of intellectual fodder. I wonder
+who he is. I weave all sorts of romance about him. I place him in all
+sorts of intellectual undertakings, though he may be a college
+professor. I would love to know him. I feel that he is interested in
+us. I mention it to Knoblock. He keeps looking at us. Knoblock tells
+me he is Gillette, the safety-razor man. I feel like romancing about
+him more than ever. I wonder what he is reading? I would love to know
+him. It is our loss, I believe. And I never learned what the book was
+that he was reading.
+
+There are very few pretty girls aboard. I never have any luck that
+way. And it is a weakness of mine. I feel that it would be awfully
+pleasant to cross the ocean with a number of nice girls who were
+pretty and who would take me as I am. We listened to the music and
+retired early, this because of a promise to myself that I would do
+lots of reading aboard. I have a copy of Max Eastman's poems, colours
+of life, a volume of treasures. I try to read them, but am too
+nervous. The type passes in parade, but I assimilate nothing, so I
+prepare to sleep and be in good shape for the morning. But that is
+also impossible.
+
+I am beyond sleep to-night now. I am in something new, something
+pregnant with expectation. The immediate future is too alluring for
+sleep.
+
+How shall I be received in England? What sort of a trip shall I have?
+Whom shall I meet on board? The thoughts chased one another round my
+brain and back again, all running into one another in their rambling.
+
+I get up at one o'clock. Decide to read again. This time H. G. Wells's
+_Outline of History_. Impossible! It doesn't register. I try to force
+it by reading aloud. It can't be done. The tongue can't cheat the
+brain, and right now reading is out of the question.
+
+I get up and go to see if Knoblock is in. He sleeps audibly and
+convincingly. He is not making his debut.
+
+I go back to my room. I rather feel sorry for myself. If only the
+Turkish baths were open I could while a few hours of time away until
+morning. Thus I mediate. The last thing I remember it is four o'clock
+in the morning and the next thing eleven-thirty. I can hear a great
+bit of excitement going on outside my cabin door. There are a lot of
+little children there with autograph books. I tell them that I will
+sign them later and have them leave the books with my secretary, Tom
+Harrington.
+
+There is a composite squeal of pleasure at this and a sickening fear
+comes over me. I call Tom. He enters amid a raft of autograph books. I
+start to sign, then postpone it until after breakfast.
+
+Knoblock comes in all refreshed and with that radiant sort of
+cheerfulness that I resent in the morning. Am I going to get up for
+lunch or will I have it in my cabin? There is a pleading lethargy that
+says, "Take it in bed," but I cannot overcome the desire to explore
+and the feeling of expectancy of something about to happen--I was to
+see somebody or meet somebody--so I decide to have luncheon in the
+dining-room. I am giving myself the emotional stimulus. Nothing comes
+off. We meet nobody.
+
+After lunch a bit of exercise. We run around the deck for a couple of
+miles. It brings back thoughts of the days when I ran in Marathon
+races. I feel rather self-conscious, however, as I am being pointed
+out by passengers. With each lap it gets worse. If there was only a
+place where I could run with nobody looking. We finally stop and lean
+against the rail.
+
+All the stewards are curious. They are trying to pick me out. I notice
+it and pretend not to notice it. I go up into the gymnasium and look
+around. There is every contrivance to give joy to healthy bodies. And
+best of all, nobody else is there. Wonderful!
+
+I try the weights, the rowing machine, the travelling rings, punch the
+bag a bit, swing some Indian clubs, and leap to the trapeze. Suddenly
+the place is packed. News travels quickly aboard ship. Some come for
+the purpose of exercising, like myself; others out of curiosity to
+watch me perform. I grow careless. I don't care to go through with it.
+I put on my coat and hat and go to my room, finding that the old
+once-discarded "prop" smile is useful as I make my way through the
+crowd.
+
+At four o'clock we have tea. I decide that the people are interesting.
+I love to meet so many. Perhaps they are the same ones I hated to see
+come into the gym, but I feel no sense of being paradoxical. The
+gymnasium belongs to individuals. The tea-room suggests and invites
+social intercourse. Somehow there are barriers and conventionalities
+that one cannot break, for all the vaunted "freedom of shipboard." I
+feel it's a sort of awkward situation. How is it possible to meet
+people on the same footing? I hear of it, I read of it, but somehow I
+cannot meet people myself and stay myself.
+
+I immediately shift any blame from myself and decide that the
+first-class passengers are all snobs. I resolve to try the
+second-class or the third-class. Somehow I can't meet these people. I
+get irritable and decide deliberately to seek the other classes of
+passengers and the boat crew.
+
+Another walk around the deck. The salt air makes me feel good in
+spite of my mental bothers. I look over the rail and see other
+passengers, second or third class, and in one large group the ship's
+firemen and stokers. They are the night force come on deck for a
+breath of air between working their shifts in the hellish heat below.
+
+They see and recognise me. To their coal-blackened faces come smiles.
+They shout "Hooray!" "Hello, Charlie!" Ah, I am discovered. But I
+tingle all over with pleasure. As those leathery faces crack into
+lines through the dust I sense sincerity. There is a friendly feeling.
+I warm to them.
+
+There is a game of cricket going on. That's intriguing. I love
+cricket. Wish I could try my hand at it. Wish there was enough
+spontaneity about first-cabin passengers to start a game. I wish I
+wasn't so darn self-conscious. They must have read my thoughts. I am
+invited timidly, then vociferously, to play a game. Their invitation
+cheers me. I feel one of them. A spirit of adventure beckons. I leap
+over the rail and right into the midst of it.
+
+I carry with me into the steerage just a bit of
+self-consciousness--there are so many trying to play upon me. I am
+looked upon as a celebrity, not a cricket player. But I do my part and
+try and we get into the game. Suddenly a motion-picture camera man
+bobs up from somewhere. What leeches! He snaps a picture. This gets
+sickening.
+
+One of the crew has hurriedly made himself up as "Charlie Chaplin." He
+causes great excitement. This also impresses me. I find myself acting
+a part, looking surprised and interested. I am conscious of the fact
+that this thing has been done many times before. Then on second
+thought I realise it is all new to them and that they mean well, so I
+try to enter into the spirit of the thing. There comes a pause in the
+cricket game. Nobody is very much interested in it.
+
+I find that I have been resurrected again in character and am the
+centre of attraction. There are calls, "What have you done with your
+moustache?" I look up with a grin and ready to answer anything they
+ask, these chaps who labour hard and must play the same way. But I see
+that hundreds of first-class passengers are looking down over the rail
+as though at a side show. This affects my pride, though I dare say I
+am supersensitive. I have an idea that they think I am "Charlie"
+performing for them. This irritates me. I throw up my hands and say,
+"See you to-morrow."
+
+One of the bystanders presents himself. "Charlie, don't you remember
+me?" I have a vague recollection of his face, but cannot place him.
+
+Now I have it, of course; we worked in some show together. Yes, I can
+actually place him. He has a negative personality. I remember that he
+played a small part, a chorus man or something of the sort. This
+brings back all sorts of reminiscences, some depressing and others
+interesting. I wonder what his life has been. I remember him now very
+plainly. He was a bad actor, poor chap. I never knew him very well
+even when we worked in the same company. And now he is stoking in the
+hold of a ship. I think I know what his emotions are and understand
+the reasons. I wonder whether he understands mine.
+
+I try to be nice, even though I discover the incident is not over
+interesting. But I try to make it so--try harder just because he never
+meant a great deal before. But now it seems to take on a greater
+significance, the meeting with this chap, and I find myself being
+extra nice to him, or at least trying to be.
+
+Darn it all, the first-class passengers are looking on again, and I
+will not perform for them. They arouse pride, indignation. I have
+decided to become very exclusive on board. That's the way to treat
+them.
+
+It is five o'clock. I decide to take a Turkish bath. Ah, what a
+difference travelling first class after the experience in the
+steerage!
+
+There is nothing like money. It does make life so easy. These thoughts
+come easily in the luxury of a warm bath. I feel a little more kindly
+disposed toward the first-cabin passengers. After all, I am an
+emotional cuss.
+
+Discover that there are some very nice people on board. I get into
+conversation with two or three. They have the same ideas about lots of
+things that I have. This discovery gives me a fit of introspection
+and I discover that I am, indeed, a narrow-minded little pinhead.
+
+What peculiar sights one sees in a Turkish bath. The two extremes, fat
+and thin, and so seldom a perfect physique. I am a discovered
+man--even in my nakedness. One man will insist upon showing me how to
+do a hand balance in the hot room. Also a somersault and a back flip.
+It challenges my nimbleness. Can I do them? Good heavens--no! I'm not
+an acrobat, I'm an actor. I am indignant.
+
+Then he points out the value of regular exercise, outlining for my
+benefit a daily course for me to do aboard. I don't want any daily
+course and I tell him so.
+
+"But," says he, "if you keep this up for a week you may be able to do
+the stunts I do."
+
+But I can't see it even with that prospect ahead, because to save my
+life I can't think of any use I would have for the hand balance,
+somersault, or the back flip.
+
+I meet another man who has manoeuvred until he has me pinned in a
+corner. He shows a vital interest in Theda Bara. Do I know her? What
+sort of a person is she? Does she "vamp" in real life? Do I know
+Louise Glaum? He sort of runs to the vampish ladies. Do I know any of
+the old-timers? So his conversation goes depressingly on, with me
+answering mostly in the negative.
+
+  [Illustration: A scene from "Sunnyside," one of my favourite photo
+   plays.]
+
+They must think I am very dull. Why, anyone should know the answers to
+the questions they figure. There are grave doubts as to whether
+I am Charlie Chaplin or not. I wish they would decide that I am not. I
+confess that I have never met Theda Bara. They return to motion
+pictures of my own. How do I think up my funny stunts? It is too much.
+Considerably against my wishes I have to retreat from the hot room. I
+want to get away from this terrible, strenuous experience. But retreat
+is not so easy.
+
+A little rotund individual, smiling, lets me know that he has seen a
+number of my pictures. He says:
+
+"I have seen you so much in 'reel' life that I wanted to talk to you
+in 'real' life." He laughs at this bright little sally of his and I
+dare say he thinks it original. The first time I heard it I choked on
+my milk bottle.
+
+But I grinned. I always do. He asked what I was taking a Turkish bath
+for, and I told him I was afraid of acquiring a bit of a stomach. I
+was speaking his language. He knew the last word in taking down
+stomachs. He went through all the stomach-reducing routine. He rolled,
+he slapped, he stretched across a couch on his stomach while he
+breathed deeply and counted a hundred. He had several other stunts but
+I stopped him. He had given me enough ideas for a beginning. He got up
+panting, and I noticed that the most prominent thing about him was his
+stomach and that he had the largest stomach in the room. But he
+admitted that the exercise had fixed him O.K.
+
+Eventually he glanced down at my feet. "Good heavens! I always thought
+you had big feet. Have you got them insured?" I can stand it no
+longer. I burst through the door into the cooling room and on to the
+slab.
+
+At last I am where I can relax. The masseur is an Englishman and has
+seen most of my pictures. He talks about "Shoulder Arms." He mentions
+things in my pictures that I never remembered putting there. He had
+always thought I was a pretty muscular guy, but was sadly
+disappointed.
+
+"How do you do your funny falls?" He is surprised that I am not
+covered with bruises. "Do I know Clara Kimball Young? Are most of the
+people in pictures immoral?"
+
+I make pretences. I am asleep. I am very tired. An audience has
+drifted in and I hear a remark about my feet.
+
+I am manhandled and punched and then handed on into another room.
+
+At last I can relax. I am about to fall asleep when one of the
+passengers asks if I would mind signing my autograph for him. But I
+conquer them. Patience wins and I fall asleep to be awakened at seven
+o'clock and told to get out of the bath.
+
+I dress for dinner. We go into the smoking-room. I meet the demon
+camera man. I do not know him, as he is dressed up like a regular
+person. We get into conversation. Well, hardly conversation. He talks.
+
+"Listen, Charlie, I am very sorry, but I've been assigned to
+photograph you on this trip. Now we might as well get to know each
+other and make it easy for both of us, so the best thing to do is to
+let's do it fully and get it over with. Now, let's see, I'll take
+to-morrow and part of the next day. I want to photograph you with the
+third-class passengers, then the second-class, and have you shown
+playing games on deck. If you have your make-up and your moustache,
+hat, shoes, and cane, it will be all the better."
+
+I call for help. He will have to see my personal representative, Mr.
+Robinson.
+
+He says, "I won't take 'No' for an answer."
+
+And I let him know that the only thing he isn't going to do on the
+trip is to photograph me. I explain that it would be a violation of
+contract with the First National exhibitors.
+
+"I have been assigned to photograph you and I'm going to photograph
+you," he says. And then he told me of his other camera conquests, of
+his various experiences with politicians who did not want to be
+photographed.
+
+"I had to break through the palace walls to photograph the King of
+England, but I got him. Also had quite a time with Foch, but I have
+his face in celluloid now." And he smiled as he deprecatingly looked
+up and down my somewhat small and slight figure.
+
+This is the last straw. I defy him to photograph me. For from now on I
+have made up my mind that I am going to lock myself in my cabin--I'll
+fool him.
+
+But my whole evening is spoiled. I go to bed cursing the
+motion-picture industry, the makers of film, and those responsible for
+camera men. Why did I take the trip? What is it all for? It has gotten
+beyond me already and it is my trip, my vacation.
+
+It is early, and I decide to read a bit. I pick up a booklet of poems
+by Claude McKay, a young negro poet who is writing splendid verse of
+the inspired sort. Reading a few of his gems, my own annoyances seem
+puny and almost childish.
+
+I read:
+
+The Tropics of New York.
+
+     Bananas ripe and green, and ginger root,
+       Cocoa in pods and alligator pears,
+     And tangerines and mangos and grapefruit,
+       Fit for the highest prize at parish fairs.
+
+     See in the windows, bringing memories
+       Of fruit trees laden, by low-singing rills,
+     And dewy dawns and mystical blue skies.
+       In benediction over nunlike hills.
+
+     Mine eyes grow dim and I could no more gaze.
+       A wave of longing through my body swept,
+     And a hunger for the old, familiar ways;
+       I turned aside and bowed my head and wept.
+
+I read again:
+
+     Lovely, dainty Spanish Needle,
+       With your yellow flower and white;
+     Dew-decked and softly sleeping;
+       Do you think of me to-night?
+
+     Shadowed by the spreading mango
+       Nodding o'er the rippling stream,
+     Tell me, dear plant of my childhood,
+       Do you of the exile dream?
+
+     Do you see me by the brook's side,
+       Catching grayfish 'neath the stone,
+     As you did the day you whispered:
+       "Leave the harmless dears alone?"
+
+     Do you see me in the meadow,
+       Coming from the woodland spring,
+     With a bamboo on my shoulder
+       And a pail slung from a string?
+
+     Do you see me, all expectant,
+       Lying in an orange grove,
+     While the swee-swees sing above me,
+       Waiting for my elf-eyed love?
+
+     Lovely, dainty Spanish Needle;
+       Source to me of sweet delight,
+     In your far-off sunny Southland
+       Do you dream of me to-night?
+
+I am passing this along because I don't believe it is published in
+this country, and I feel as though I am extending a rare treat. They
+brought me better rest that night--a splendid sleep.
+
+Next morning there were more autograph books and several wireless
+messages from intimate friends wishing me _bon voyage_. They are all
+very interesting.
+
+Also there are about two hundred ship postcards. Would I mind signing
+them for the stewards? I am feeling very good-natured and I enjoy
+signing anything this morning. I pass the forenoon till lunch time.
+
+I really feel as though I haven't met anybody. They say that barriers
+are lowered aboard ship, but not for me.
+
+Ed. Knoblock and I keep very much to ourselves. But all the time I
+have been sort of wondering what became of the beautiful opera singer
+who came aboard and was photographed with me. I wonder if being
+photographed together constitutes an introduction? I have not seen her
+since the picture.
+
+We get seats in deck chairs. Knoblock and myself. Ed. is busy reading
+_Economic Democracy_ by some one important. I have splendid intentions
+of reading Wells's _Outline of History_. My intentions falter after a
+few paragraphs. I look at the sea, at people passing all around the
+ship. Every once in a while I glance at Knoblock hoping that he is
+overcome by his book and that he will look up, but Knoblock apparently
+has no such intention.
+
+Suddenly I notice, about twenty chairs away, the beautiful singer. I
+don't know why I always have this peculiar embarrassment that grips me
+now. I am trying to make up my mind to go over and make myself known.
+No, such an ordeal would be too terrific. The business of making
+oneself known is a problem. Here she is within almost speaking
+distance and I am not sure whether I shall meet her or not. I glance
+away again. She is looking in my direction. I pretend not to see her
+and quickly turn my head and get into conversation with Knoblock, who
+thinks I have suddenly gone insane.
+
+"Isn't that lady the opera singer?" I ask.
+
+"Yes."
+
+That about expresses his interest.
+
+"Shouldn't we go over and make ourselves known?" I suggest.
+
+"By all means, if you wish it." And he is up and off almost before I
+can catch my breath.
+
+We get up and walk around the deck. I just do not know how to meet
+people. At last the moment comes in the smoking-room, where they are
+having "log auction." She is with two gentlemen. We meet. She
+introduces one as her husband, the other as a friend.
+
+She reprimands me for not speaking to her sooner. I try to pretend
+that I had not seen her. This amuses her mightily and she becomes
+charming. We become fast friends. Both she and her husband join us at
+dinner the following night. We recall mutual friends. Discover that
+there are quite a lot of nice people aboard. She is Mme. Namara and in
+private life Mrs. Guy Bolton, wife of the author of "Sally." They are
+on their way to London where he is to witness the English opening of
+"Sally." We have a delightful evening at dinner and then later in
+their cabin.
+
+
+
+
+IV.
+
+HELLO, ENGLAND!
+
+
+Everything sails along smoothly and delightfully until the night of
+the concert for the seaman's fund. This entertainment is customary on
+all liners and usually is held on the last night out. The passengers
+provide the entertainment.
+
+I am requested to perform. The thought scares me. It is a great
+tragedy, and, much as I would like to do something, I am too exhausted
+and tired. I beg to be excused, I never like making appearances in
+public. I find that they are always disappointing.
+
+I give all manner of reasons for not appearing--one that I have no
+particular thing to do, nothing arranged for, that it is against my
+principles because it spoils illusion--especially for the children.
+When they see me minus my hat, cane, and shoes, it is like taking the
+whiskers off Santa Claus. And not having my equipment with me, I feel
+very conscious of this. I am always self-conscious when meeting
+children without my make-up for that very reason. I must say the
+officers were very sympathetic and understood my reasons for not
+wanting to appear, and I can assure you that the concert was a
+distinct success without me. There were music and recitations and
+singing and dancing, and one passenger did a whistling act, imitating
+various birds and animals, also the sawing of wood, with the
+screeching sound made when the saw strikes a knot. It was very
+effective.
+
+I watched and enjoyed the concert immensely until near the end, when
+the entertainment chairman announced that I was there and that if the
+audience urged strongly enough I might do something for them. This was
+very disconcerting, and after I had explained that I was physically
+exhausted and had nothing prepared I am sure the audience understood.
+The chairman, however, announced that it did not matter, as they could
+see Charlie Chaplin at any time for a nickel--and that's that.
+
+The next day is to be the last aboard. We are approaching land. I have
+got used to the boat and everybody has got used to me. I have ceased
+to be a curiosity. They have taken me at my face value--face without
+moustache and kindred make-up. We have exchanged addresses, cards,
+invitations; have made new friends, met a lot of charming people,
+names too numerous to mention.
+
+The lighter is coming out. The top deck is black with men. Somebody
+tells me they are French and British camera men coming to welcome me.
+I am up on the top deck, saying good-bye to Mme. Namara and her
+husband. They are getting off at Cherbourg. We are staying aboard.
+
+Suddenly there is an avalanche. All sorts and conditions of men armed
+with pads, pencils, motion-picture cameras, still cameras. There is an
+embarrassing pause. They are looking for Charlie Chaplin. Some have
+recognised me. I see them searching among our little group. Eventually
+I am pointed out.
+
+"Why, here he is!"
+
+My friends suddenly become frightened and desert me. I feel very much
+alone, the victim. Square-headed gentlemen with manners
+different--they are raising their hats.
+
+"Do I speak French?" Some are speaking in French to me--it means
+nothing, I am bewildered. Others English. They all seem too curious to
+even do their own business. I find that they are personally
+interested. Camera men are forgetting to shoot their pictures.
+
+But they recover themselves after their curiosity has been gratified.
+Then the deluge.
+
+"Are you visiting in London?"
+
+"Why did you come over?"
+
+"Did you bring your make-up?"
+
+"Are you going to make pictures over here?"
+
+Then from Frenchmen:
+
+"Will I visit France?"
+
+"Am I going to Russia?"
+
+I try to answer them all.
+
+"Will you visit Ireland?"
+
+"I don't expect to do so."
+
+"What do you think of the Irish question?"
+
+"It requires too much thought."
+
+"Are you a Bolshevik?"
+
+"I am an artist, not a politician."
+
+"Why do you want to visit Russia?"
+
+"Because I am interested in any new idea."
+
+"What do you think of Lenin?"
+
+"I think him a very remarkable man."
+
+"Why?"
+
+"Because he is expressing a new idea."
+
+"Do you believe in Bolshevism?"
+
+"I am not a politician?"
+
+Others ask me to give them a message to France. A message to London.
+What have I to say to the people of Manchester? Will I meet Bernard
+Shaw? Will I meet H. G. Wells? Is it true that I am going to be
+knighted? How would I solve the unemployment problem?
+
+In the midst of all this a rather mysterious gentleman pulls me to one
+side and tells me that he knew my father intimately and acted as agent
+for him in his music-hall engagements. Did I anticipate working? If
+so, he could get me an engagement. Would I give him the first
+opportunity? Anyway, he was very pleased to meet me. If I wanted a
+nice quiet rest I could come down to his place and spend a few days
+with my kind of people, the people I liked.
+
+I am rescued by my secretaries, who insist that I go to my cabin and
+lie down. Anything the newspaper men have to ask they will answer for
+me. I am dragged away bewildered.
+
+Is this what I came six thousand miles for? Is this rest? Where is
+that vacation that I pictured so vividly?
+
+I lie down and nap until dinner time. I have dinner in my cabin. Now
+comes another great problem.
+
+Tipping. One has the feeling that if you are looked at you should tip.
+One thing that I believe in, though--tipping. It gets you good
+service. It is money well spent. But when and how to tip--that is the
+question. It is a great problem on shipboard.
+
+There's the bedroom steward, the waiter, the head waiter, the hallboy,
+the deck steward, boots, bathroom steward, Turkish bath attendants,
+gymnasium instructor, smoking-room steward, lounge-room steward, page
+boys, elevator boys, barber. It is depressing. I am harassed as to
+whether to tip the doctor and the captain.
+
+I am all excited now; full of expectancy. Wonder what's going to
+happen. After my first encounter with fifty newspaper men at
+Cherbourg, somehow I do not resent it. Rather like it, in fact. Being
+a personage is not so bad. I am prepared for the fray. It is exciting.
+I am advancing on Europe. One o'clock. I am in my cabin. We are to
+dock in the morning.
+
+I look out of the porthole. I hear voices. They are alongside the
+dock. Am very emotional now. The mystery of it out there in blackness
+envelops me. I revel in it--its promise. We are at Southampton. We are
+in England.
+
+To-morrow! I go to bed thinking of it. To-morrow!
+
+I try to sleep, childishly reasoning that in sleeping I will make the
+time pass more quickly. My reasoning was sound, perhaps, but somewhere
+in my anatomy there slipped a cog. I could not sleep. I rolled and
+tossed, counted sheep, closed my eyes and lay perfectly still, but it
+was no go. Somewhere within me there stirred a sort of Christmas Eve
+feeling. To-morrow was too portentous.
+
+I look at my watch. It is two o'clock in the morning. I look through
+the porthole. It is pitch dark outside. I try to pierce the darkness,
+but can't. Off in the distance I hear voices coming out of the night.
+That and the lapping of the waves against the side of the boat.
+
+Then I hear my name mentioned once, twice, three times. I am thrilled.
+I tingle with expectancy and varying emotions. It is all so peculiar
+and mysterious. I try to throw off the feeling. I can't.
+
+There seems to be no one awake except a couple of men who are pacing
+the deck. Longshoremen, probably. Every once in a while I hear the
+mystic "Charlie Chaplin" mentioned. I peer through the porthole. It is
+starting to rain. This adds to the spell. I turn out the lights and
+get back to bed and try to sleep. I get up again and look out.
+
+I call Robinson. "Can you sleep?" I ask.
+
+"No. Let's get up and dress." It's got him, too.
+
+We get up and walk around the top deck. There is a curious mixture of
+feelings all at once. I am thrilled and depressed. I cannot understand
+the depression. We keep walking around the deck, looking over the
+side. People are looking up, but they don't recognise me in the night.
+I feel myself speculating, wondering if it is going to be the welcome
+I am expecting.
+
+Scores of messages have been arriving all day.
+
+"Will you accept engagements?" "Will you dine with us?" "How about a
+few days in the country?" I cannot possibly answer them all. Not
+receiving replies, they send wireless messages to the captain.
+
+"Mr. Lathom, is Mr. Chaplin on board?" "Has my message been
+delivered?"
+
+I have never received so many messages. "Will you appear on Tuesday?"
+"Will you dine here?" "Will you join a revue?" "Are you open for
+engagements?" "I am the greatest agent in the world."
+
+One of the messages is from the Mayor of Southampton, welcoming me to
+that city. Others from heads of the motion-picture industry in Europe.
+This is a source of great worriment. Welcomed by the mayor. It will
+probably mean a speech. I hate speeches, I can't make them. This is
+the worst spectre of the night.
+
+In my sleeplessness I go back to my cabin and try to write down what I
+shall say, trying to anticipate what the mayor will say to me. I
+picture his speech of welcome. A masterpiece of oratory brought forth
+after much preparation by those who are always making speeches. It is
+their game, this speech-making, and I know I shall appear a hopeless
+dub with my reply.
+
+But I attack it valiantly. I write sentence after sentence and then
+practise before the mirror.
+
+"Mr. Mayor and the people of Southampton." The face that peers back at
+me from the mirror looks rather silly. I think of Los Angeles and
+wonder how they would take my speech there. But I persevere. I write
+more. I overcome that face in the looking-glass to such an extent that
+I want a wider audience.
+
+I call Carl Robinson. I make him sit still and listen. I make my
+speech several times. He is kind the first time and the second time,
+but after that he begins to get fidgety. He makes suggestions. I take
+out some lines and put in others. I decide that it is prepared and
+leave it. I am to meet the mayor in the morning at eight o'clock.
+
+Eventually I get to bed and asleep, a fitful, tossing sleep. They wake
+me in the morning. People are outside my door. Carl comes in.
+
+"The mayor is upstairs waiting for you." I am twenty minutes late.
+This adds to my inefficiency.
+
+I am pushed and tumbled into my clothes, then taken by the arm, as if
+I were about to be arrested, and led from my cabin. Good Lord! I've
+forgotten my slip--my speech, my answer to the mayor, with its
+platform gestures that I had laboured with during the long night. I
+believed that I had created some new gestures never before attempted
+on platform, or in pulpit, but I was lost without my copy.
+
+But there is little time for regrets. It doesn't take long to reach
+any place when that place is holding something fearful for you. I was
+before the mayor long before I was ready to see him.
+
+This mayor wasn't true to type. He was more like a schoolmaster. Very
+pleasant and concise, with tortoiseshell rims to his glasses and with
+none of the ornaments of chain and plush that I had anticipated as
+part of the regalia of his office. This was somewhat of a relief.
+
+There are lots of men, women and children gathered about. I am
+introduced to the children. I am whirled around into the crowd, and
+when I turn back I can't quite make out who is the mayor. There seems
+to be a roomful of mayors. Eventually I am dug from behind. I turn. I
+am whirled back by friendly or official assistance. Ah, here is the
+mayor.
+
+  [Illustration: I am welcomed by the Mayor of Southampton.]
+
+I stand bewildered, twirling my thumbs, quite at a loss as to what is
+expected of me.
+
+The mayor begins. I have been warned that it is going to be very
+formal.
+
+"Mr. Chaplin, on behalf of the citizens of Southampton--"
+
+Nothing like I had anticipated. I am trying to think. Trying to hear
+precisely what he says. I think I have him so far. But it is nothing
+like I had anticipated. My speech doesn't seem to fit what he is
+saying. I can't help it. I will use it anyhow, at least as much as I
+can recall.
+
+It is over. I mumble some inane appreciation. Nothing like I had
+written, with nary a gesture so laboriously rehearsed.
+
+There comes interruptions of excited mothers with their children.
+
+"This is my little girl."
+
+I am shaking hands mechanically with everybody. From all sides
+autograph albums are being shoved under my nose. Carl is warding them
+off, protecting me as much as possible.
+
+I am aware that the mayor is still standing there. I am trying to
+think of something more to say. All visions of language seem to have
+left me. I find myself mumbling. "This is nice of you" and "I am very
+glad to meet you all."
+
+Somebody whispers in my ear, "Say something about the English cinema."
+"Say a word of welcome to the English." I try to and can't utter a
+word, but the same excitement that had bothered me now comes forward
+to my aid.
+
+The whole thing is bewildering and thrilling and I find that I am
+pleased with it all.
+
+But now strange faces seem to fade out and familiar ones take their
+places. There is Tom Geraghty, who used to be Doug Fairbanks's
+scenario writer. He wrote "When the Clouds Roll By" and "The
+Mollycoddle." Tom is a great friend of mine and we have spent many a
+pleasant hour in Doug's home in Los Angeles. There is Donald Crisp,
+who played Battling Burrows in "Broken Blossoms," a clubmate in the
+Los Angeles Athletic Club.
+
+My cousin, Aubrey Chaplin, a rather dignified gentleman, but with all
+the earmarks of a Chaplin, greets me.
+
+Heavens! I look something like him. I picture myself in another five
+years. Aubrey has a saloon in quite a respectable part of London. I
+feel that Aubrey is a nice simple soul and quite desirous of taking me
+in hand.
+
+Then Abe Breman, manager of the United Artists' affairs in England.
+And there is "Sonny," a friend in the days when I was on the stage. I
+have not heard from him in ten years. It makes me happy and
+interested, the thought of reviving the old friendship.
+
+We talk of all sorts of subjects. Sonny is prosperous and doing well.
+He tells me everything in jerky asides, as we are hustled about amidst
+the baggage and bundled into a compartment that somebody has arranged.
+
+Somehow the crowds here are not so large as I had anticipated. I am a
+little shocked. What if they don't turn up? Every one has tried to
+impress upon me the size of the reception I am to get. There is a
+tinge of disappointment, but then I am informed that, the boat being
+a day late, the crowd expected had no way of knowing when I would
+arrive.
+
+This explanation relieves me tremendously, though it is not so much
+for myself that I feel this, but for my companions and my friends, who
+expect so much. I feel that the whole thing should go off with a bang
+for their sake. Yes, I do.
+
+But I am in England. There is freshness. There is glow. There is
+Nature in its most benevolent mood. The trains, those little toy
+trains with the funny little wheels like those on a child's toy. There
+are strange noises. They come from the engine--snorting, explosive
+sounds, as though it was clamoring for attention.
+
+I am in another world. Southampton, though I have been there before,
+is absolutely strange to me. There is nothing familiar. I feel as
+though I am in a foreign country. Crowds, increasing with every
+minute. What lovely women, different from American women. How, why, I
+cannot tell.
+
+There is a beautiful girl peering at me, a lovely English type. She
+comes to the carriage and in a beautiful, musical voice says, "May I
+have your signature, Mr. Chaplin?" This is thrilling. Aren't English
+girls charming? She is just the type you see in pictures, something
+like Hall Caine's Gloria in _The Christian_--beautiful auburn hair,
+about seventeen.
+
+Seventeen! What an age! I was that once--and here, in England. It
+seems very long ago.
+
+Tom Geraghty and the bunch, we are all so excited we don't know just
+what to do or how to act. We cannot collect ourselves. Bursting with
+pent-up questions of years of gathering, overflowing with important
+messages for one another, we are talking about the most commonplace
+things. I find that I am not listening to them, nor they to me. I am
+just taking it all in, eyes and ears.
+
+An English "bobby." Everything is different. Taking the tickets. The
+whole thing is upside down. The locking us in our compartment. I look
+at the crowds. The same old "prop" smile is working. They smile. They
+cheer. I wave my hat. I feel silly, but it seems that they like it.
+Will the train never start? I want to see something outside the
+station.
+
+I want to see the country. They are all saying things. I do not know
+what they all think of me, my friends. I wish they were not here. I
+would love to be alone so that I could get it all.
+
+We are moving. I sit forward as though to make the train go faster. I
+want a sight of Old England. I want more than a sight.
+
+Now I see the English country. New houses going up everywhere. New
+types for labouring men. More new houses. I have never seen Old
+England in such a frenzy of building. The brush fields are rather
+burned up. This is something new for England, for it is always so
+green. It is not as green as it used to be. But it is England, and I
+am loving every mile of it.
+
+I discover that everything is Los Angeles in my compartment, with the
+exception of my cousin and Sonny. Here I am in the midst of Hollywood.
+I have travelled six thousand miles to get away from Hollywood. Motion
+pictures are universal. You can't run away from them. But I am not
+bothering much, because I am cannily figuring on shaking the whole lot
+of them after the usual dinner and getting off by myself.
+
+And I am getting new thrills every minute. There are people waiting
+all along the line, at small stations, waiting for the train to pass.
+I know they are waiting to see me. It's a wonderful sensation--everybody
+so affectionate. Gee! I am wondering what's going to happen in London?
+
+Aubrey and the bunch are talking about making a strong-arm squad
+around me for protection. I intimately feel that it is not going to be
+necessary. They say: "Ah, you don't know, my boy. Wait until you get
+to London."
+
+Secretly, I am hoping it is true. But I have my doubts. Everybody is
+nice. They suggest that I should sleep awhile, as I look tired. I feel
+that I am being pampered and spoiled. But I like it. And they all seem
+to understand.
+
+My cousin interests me. He warns me what to talk about. At first I
+felt a little conscious in his presence. A little sensitive. His
+personality--how it mixes with my American friends. I sense that I am
+shocking him with my American points of view.
+
+He has not seen me in ten years. I know that I am altered. I sort of
+want to pose before him a little. I want to shock him; no, not exactly
+shock him, but surprise him. I find myself deliberately posing and
+just for him. I want to be different, and I want him to know that I am
+a different person. This is having its effect.
+
+Aubrey is bewildered. I am sure that he doesn't know me. I feel that I
+am not acting according to his schedule. It encourages me.
+
+I become radical in my ideas. Against his conservatism. But I am
+beginning not to like this performing for him. One feels so conscious.
+I am wondering whether he will understand. There are lots of other
+people I have got to meet. I won't be able to devote all my time to
+him. I shall have a long talk with Aubrey later and explain
+everything. I doze off for a while.
+
+But just for a moment. We are coming to the outskirts of London. I
+hear nothing, I see nothing, but I know it is so and I awake. Now I am
+all expectancy. We are entering the suburbs of the city.
+
+
+
+
+V.
+
+I ARRIVE IN LONDON
+
+
+London! There are familiar buildings. This is thrilling. The same
+buildings. They have not altered. I expected that England would be
+altered. It isn't. It's the same. The same as I left it, in spite of
+the War. I see no change, not even in the manner of the people.
+
+There's Doulton's Potteries! And look, there's the Queen's Head
+public-house that my cousin used to own. I point it out to him
+decidedly, but he reminds me that he has a much better place now. Now
+we are coming into the Cut. Can it be true? I can see two or three
+familiar stores. This train is going too fast. I want more time with
+these discoveries. I find my emotions almost too much for me. I have
+more sentiment about the buildings than I have the people.
+
+The recognition of these localities! There is a lump rising in my
+throat from somewhere. It is something inexplicable. They are there,
+thank God!
+
+If I could only be alone with it all. With it as it is, and with it as
+I would people it with ghosts of yesterday. I wish these people
+weren't in the compartment. I am afraid of my emotions.
+
+The dear old Cut. We are getting into it now. Here we are. There are
+all conceivable kinds of noises, whistles, etc. Crowds, throngs lined
+up on the platforms. Here comes a police sergeant looking for a
+culprit. He looks straight at me. Good Lord! I am going to be
+arrested! But no, he smiles.
+
+A shout, "There he is!"
+
+Previous to this we had made resolutions. "Don't forget we are all to
+lock arms, Knoblock, my cousin, Robinson, Geraghty, and myself."
+
+Immediately I get out of the train, however, we somehow get
+disorganised and our campaign manoeuvre is lost. Policemen take me
+by each arm. There are motion-picture men, still-camera men. I see a
+sign announcing that motion pictures of my trip on board ship will be
+shown that night at a picture theatre. That dogged photographer of the
+boat must have gotten something in spite of me.
+
+I am walking along quite the centre of things. I feel like royalty. I
+find I am smiling. A regular smile. I distinguish distant faces among
+those who crowd about me. There are voices at the end of the platform.
+
+"Here he is. He is there, he is. That's him." My step is lightning
+gay. I am enjoying each moment. I am in Waterloo Station, London.
+
+The policemen are very excited. It is going to be a terrible ordeal
+for them. Thousands are outside. This also thrills me. Everything is
+beyond my expectations. I revel in it secretly. They all stop to
+applaud as I come to the gate. Some of them say:
+
+"Well done, Charlie." I wonder if they mean my present stunt between
+the bobbies. It is too much for me.
+
+What have I done? I feel like a cricketer who has made a hundred and
+is going to the stand. There is real warm affection. Do I deserve even
+a part of it?
+
+A young girl rushes out, breaks the line, makes one leap, and smothers
+me with a kiss. Thank God, she is pretty. There seem to be others
+ready to follow her, and I find myself hesitating a bit on my way. It
+is a signal. The barriers are broken.
+
+They are coming on all sides. Policemen are elbowing and pushing.
+Girls are shrieking.
+
+"Charlie! Charlie! There he is! Good luck to you. Charlie. God bless
+you." Old men, old women, girls, boys, all in one excited thrill. My
+friends are missing. We are fighting our way through the crowd. I do
+not mind it at all. I am being carried on the crest of a wave.
+Everybody is working but me. There seems to be no effort. I am
+enjoying it--lovely.
+
+Eventually we get through to the street. It is worse here. "Hooray!"
+"Here he is!" "Good luck, Charlie!" "Well done, Charlie!" "God bless
+you. God love you!" "Good luck, Charlie!" Bells are ringing.
+Handkerchiefs are waving. Some are raising their hats. I have lost
+mine. I am bewildered, at a loss, wondering where it is all leading
+to, but I don't care. I love to stay in it.
+
+Suddenly there is a terrific crash. Various currents of the crowd are
+battling against one another. I find that now I am concerned about my
+friends. Where's Tom? Where's So-and-so? Where's Carl? Where's my
+cousin? I'm asking it all aloud, on all sides, of anyone who will
+listen to me. I am answered with smiles.
+
+I am being pushed toward an automobile.
+
+"Where's my cousin?" Another push.
+
+Policemen on all sides. I am pushed and lifted and almost dumped into
+the limousine. My hat is thrown in behind me. There are three
+policemen on each side of the car, standing on the running board. I
+can't get out. They are telling the chauffeur to drive on. He seems to
+be driving right over the people. Occasionally a head, a smiling face,
+a hand, a hat flashes by the door of the car. I ask and keep asking,
+"Where's my cousin?"
+
+But I regain myself, straighten my clothes, cool off a bit, and look
+round. There is a perfect stranger in the limousine with me. I seem to
+take him for granted for the moment. He is also cut up and bleeding.
+Evidently he is somebody. He must be on the schedule to do something.
+He looks bewildered and confused.
+
+I say, "Well--I have missed my cousin."
+
+He says, "I beg your pardon, I have not been introduced to you."
+
+"Do you know where we are going?" I ask.
+
+He says, "No."
+
+"Well, what are you doing--Who are you?" I splutter.
+
+"No one in particular," he answers. "I have been pushed in here
+against my will. I think it was the second time you cried for your
+cousin. One of the cops picked me, but I don't believe there is any
+relationship."
+
+We laugh. That helps. We pull up and he is politely let off at the
+corner. As quickly as possible he is shut out. Crowds are around on
+both sides, raising their hats English fashion, as though they were
+meeting a lady. The mounted policemen leave us. I am left alone with
+my thoughts.
+
+If I could only do something--solve the unemployment problem or make
+some grand gesture--in answer to all this. I look through the window
+in the back of the car. There are a string of taxis following behind.
+In the lead, seated on top of the cab, is a young and pretty girl all
+dressed in scarlet. She is waving to me as she chases. What a picture
+she makes! I think what good fun it would be to get on top of the cab
+with her and race around through the country.
+
+I feel like doing something big. What an opportunity for a politician
+to say something and do something big! I never felt such affection. We
+are going down York Road. I see placards, "Charlie Arrives." Crowds
+standing on the corner, all lined up along my way to the hotel. I am
+beginning to wonder what it's all about.
+
+Am feeling a bit reflective, after all, thinking over what I have
+done; it has not been very much. Nothing to call forth all this.
+"Shoulder Arms" was pretty good, perhaps, but all this clamour over a
+moving-picture actor!
+
+Now we are passing over Westminster Bridge. There are double-decked
+street cars. There's one marked "Kennington."
+
+I want to get out and get on it--I want to go to Kennington. The
+bridge is so small; I always thought it was much wider. We are held up
+by traffic. The driver tells the bobby that Charlie Chaplin is inside.
+There is a change in the expression of the cop.
+
+"On your way."
+
+By this time the policemen have dropped off the side of the car and
+are on their way back. Once more I am a private citizen. I am just a
+bit sad at this. Being a celebrity has its nice points.
+
+There is an auto with a motion-picture camera on top of it
+photographing our car. I tell the driver to put down the top. Why
+didn't we do this before? I wanted to let the people see. It seemed a
+shame to hide in this way. I wanted to be seen. There are little
+crowds on the street corners again.
+
+Ah yes, and Big Ben. It looks so small now. It was so big before I
+went away. We are turning up the Haymarket. People are looking and
+waving from their windows. I wave back. Crowded streets. We are
+nearing the Ritz, where I am to stop.
+
+The crowds are much denser here. I am at a loss. I don't know what to
+do, what to say. I stand up. I wave and bow at them, smile at them,
+and go through the motions of shaking hands, using my own hands.
+Should I say something? Can I say anything? I feel the genuineness of
+it all, a real warmth. It is very touching. This is almost too much
+for me. I am afraid I am going to make a scene.
+
+I stand up. The crowd comes to a hush. It is attentive. They see I am
+about to say something. I am surprised at my own voice. I can hear it.
+It is quite clear and distinct, saying something about its being a
+great moment, etc. But tame and stupid as it is, they like it.
+
+There is a "Hooray!" "Good boy, Charlie!"
+
+Now the problem is how am I going to get out of this? The police are
+there, pushing and shoving people aside to make way, but they are
+out-numbered. There are motion-picture cameras, cameras on the steps.
+The crowds close in. Then I step out. They close in. I am still
+smiling. I try to think of something useful, learned from my
+experience at the New York opening of "The Three Musketeers." But I am
+not much help to my comrades.
+
+Then as we approach, the tide comes in toward the gates of the hotel.
+They have been kept locked to prevent the crowd from demolishing the
+building. I can see one intrepid motion-picture camera man at the door
+as the crowd starts to swarm. He begins to edge in, and starts
+grinding his camera frantically as he is lifted into the whirlpool of
+humanity. But he keeps turning, and his camera and himself are
+gradually turned up to the sky, and his lens is registering nothing
+but clouds as he goes down turning--the most honorable fall a camera
+man can have, to go down grinding. I wonder if he really got any
+pictures.
+
+In some way my body has been pushed, carried, lifted, and projected
+into the hotel. I can assure you that through no action of mine was
+this accomplished. I am immediately introduced to some English
+nobleman. The air is electric. I feel now I am free. Everybody is
+smiling. Everybody is interested. I am shown to a suite of rooms.
+
+I like the hotel lobby. It is grand. I am raced to my room. There are
+bouquets of flowers from two or three English friends whom I had
+forgotten. There come cards. I want to welcome them all. Do not mind
+in the least. Am out for the whole day of it. The crowds are outside.
+The manager presents himself. Everything has been spread to make my
+stay as happy as possible.
+
+The crowd outside is cheering. What is the thing to do? I had better
+go to the window. I raise my hands again. I pantomime, shake hands
+with myself, throw them kisses. I see a bouquet of roses in the room.
+I grab it and start tossing the flowers into the crowd. There is a mad
+scramble for the souvenirs. In a moment the chief of police bursts
+into my room.
+
+"Please, Mr. Chaplin, it is very fine, but don't throw anything. You
+will cause an accident. They will be crushed and killed. Anything but
+that, don't throw anything. If you don't mind, kindly refrain from
+throwing anything." Excitedly he repeats his message over and over
+again.
+
+Of course I don't mind; the flowers are all gone, anyway. But I am
+theatrically concerned. "Ah, really I am so sorry. Has anything
+happened?" I feel that everything is all right.
+
+The rest of my friends arrive all bruised and cut up. Now that the
+excitement has died down, what are we going to do? For no reason at
+all we order a meal. Nobody is hungry. I want to get out again. Wish I
+could.
+
+I feel that everybody ought to leave immediately. I want to be alone.
+I want to get out and escape from all crowds. I want to get over
+London, over to Kennington, all by myself. I want to see some familiar
+sights. Here baskets of fruit keep pouring in, fresh bouquets,
+presents, trays full of cards, some of them titles, some well-known
+names--all paying their respects. Now I am muddled. I don't know what
+to do first. There is too much waiting. I have too much of a choice.
+
+But I must get over to Kennington, and to-day. I am nervous,
+overstrung, tense. Crowds are still outside. I must go again and bow
+and wave my hands. I am used to it, am doing it mechanically; it has
+no effect. Lunch is ordered for everybody. Newspaper men are outside,
+visitors are outside. I tell Carl to get them to put it off until
+to-morrow. He tells them that I am tired, need a rest, for them to
+call to-morrow and they will be given an interview.
+
+The bishop of something presents his compliments. He is in the room
+when I arrive. I can't hear what he is saying. I said 'yes, I shall be
+delighted.' We sit down to lunch. What a crowd there is eating with
+me! I am not quite sure I know them all.
+
+Everyone is making plans for me. This irritates me. My cousin, Tom
+Geraghty, Knoblock--would I spend two or three days in the country and
+get a rest? No. I don't want to rest. Will you see somebody? I don't
+want to see anybody. I want to be left entirely alone. I've just got
+to have my whim.
+
+I make a pretence at lunch. I whisper to Carl, "You explain everything
+to them--tell them that I am going out immediately after lunch." I am
+merely taking the lunch to discipline myself.
+
+I look out the window. The crowds are still there. What a problem! How
+am I going to get out without being recognised? Shall I openly suggest
+going out, so I can get away? I hate disappointing them. But I must go
+out.
+
+Tom Geraghty, Donald Crisp, and myself suggest taking a walk. I do
+not tell them my plans, merely suggest taking the walk. We go through
+the back way and escape. I am sure that everything is all right, and
+that no one will recognise me. I cannot stand the strain any longer. I
+tell Donald and Tom--they really must leave me alone. I want to be
+alone, and want to visit alone. They understand. Tom is a good sort
+and so is Donald. I do not want to ride, but just for a quicker means
+of getting away I call a taxicab.
+
+I tell him to drive to Lambeth. He is a good driver, and an old one.
+He has not recognised me, thank heaven!
+
+But he is going too fast. I tell him to drive slower, to take his
+time. I sit back now. I am passing Westminster Bridge again. I see it
+better. Things are more familiar. On the other side is the new London
+County Council building. They have been building it for years. They
+started it before I left.
+
+The Westminster Road has become very dilapidated, but perhaps it is
+because I am riding in an automobile. I used to travel across it
+another way. It doesn't seem so long ago, either.
+
+My God! Look! Under the bridge! There's the old blind man. I stop the
+driver and drive back. We pull up outside the Canterbury.
+
+"You wait there, or do you want me to pay you off?" He will wait. I
+walk back.
+
+There he is, the same old figure, the same old blind man I used to see
+as a child of five, with the same old earmuffs, with his back against
+the wall and the same stream of greasy water trickling down the stone
+behind his back.
+
+The same old clothes, a bit greener with age, and the irregular bush
+of whiskers coloured almost in a rainbow array, but with a dirty grey
+predominant.
+
+What a symbol from which to count the years that I had been away. A
+little more green to his clothes! A bit more grey in his matted beard!
+
+He has that same stark look in his eyes that used to make me sick as a
+child. Everything exactly the same, only a bit more dilapidated.
+
+No. There is a change. The dirty little mat for the unhealthy-looking
+pup with the watering eyes that used to be with him--that is gone. I
+would like to hear the story of the missing pup.
+
+Did its passing make much difference to the lonely derelict? Was its
+ending a tragic one, dramatic, or had it just passed out naturally?
+
+The old man is laboriously reading the same chapter from his old,
+greasy, and bethumbed embossed Bible. His lips move, but silently, as
+his fingers travel over the letters. I wonder if he gets comfort
+there? Or does he need comfort?
+
+To me it is all too horrible. He is the personification of poverty at
+its worst, sunk in that inertia that comes of lost hope. It is too
+terrible.
+
+
+
+
+VI.
+
+THE HAUNTS OF MY CHILDHOOD
+
+
+I jump into the automobile again and we drive along past Christ
+Church. There's Baxter Hall, where we used to see magic-lantern slides
+for a penny. The forerunner of the movie of to-day. I see significance
+in everything around me. You could get a cup of coffee and a piece of
+cake there and see the Crucifixion of Christ all at the same time.
+
+We are passing the police station. A drear place to youth. Kennington
+Road is more intimate. It has grown beautiful in its decay. There is
+something fascinating about it.
+
+Sleepy people seem to be living in the streets more than they used to
+when I played there. Kennington Baths, the reason for many a day's
+hookey. You could go swimming there, second class, for three pence (if
+you brought your own swimming trunks).
+
+Through Brook Street to the upper Bohemian quarter, where third-rate
+music-hall artists appear. All the same, a little more decayed,
+perhaps. And yet it is not just the same.
+
+I am seeing it through other eyes. Age trying to look back through the
+eyes of youth. A common pursuit, though a futile one.
+
+It is bringing home to me that I am a different person. It takes the
+form of art; it is beautiful. I am very impersonal about it. It is
+another world, and yet in it I recognise something, as though in a
+dream.
+
+We pass the Kennington "pub," Kennington Cross, Chester Street, where
+I used to sleep. The same, but, like its brother landmarks, a bit more
+dilapidated. There is the old tub outside the stables where I used to
+wash. The same old tub, a little more twisted.
+
+I tell the driver to pull up again. "Wait a moment." I do not know
+why, but I want to get out and walk. An automobile has no place in
+this setting. I have no particular place to go. I just walk along down
+Chester Street. Children are playing, lovely children. I see myself
+among them back there in the past. I wonder if any of them will come
+back some day and look around enviously at other children.
+
+Somehow they seem different from those children with whom I used to
+play. Sweeter, more dainty were these little, begrimed kids with their
+arms entwined around one another's waists. Others, little girls
+mostly, sitting on the doorsteps, with dolls, with sewing, all playing
+at that universal game of "mothers."
+
+For some reason I feel choking up. As I pass they look up. Frankly
+and without embarrassment they look at the stranger with their
+beautiful, kindly eyes. They smile at me. I smile back. Oh, if I could
+only do something for them. These waifs with scarcely any chance at
+all.
+
+Now a woman passes with a can of beer. With a white skirt hanging
+down, trailing at the back. She treads on it. There, she has done it
+again. I want to shriek with laughter at the joy of being in this same
+old familiar Kennington. I love it.
+
+It is all so soft, so musical; there is so much affection in the
+voices. They seem to talk from their souls. There are the inflections
+that carry meanings, even if words were not understood. I think of
+Americans and myself. Our speech is hard, monotonous, except where
+excitement makes it more noisy.
+
+There is a barber shop where I used to be the lather boy. I wonder if
+the same old barber is still there? I look. No, he is gone. I see two
+or three kiddies playing on the porch. Foolish, I give them something.
+It creates attention. I am about to be discovered.
+
+I leap into the taxi again and ride on. We drive around until I have
+escaped from the neighbourhood where suspicion has been planted and
+come to the beginning of Lambeth Walk. I get out and walk along among
+the crowds.
+
+People are shopping. How lovely the cockneys are! How romantic the
+figures, how sad, how fascinating! Their lovely eyes. How patient they
+are! Nothing conscious about them. No affectation, just themselves,
+their beautifully gay selves, serene in their limitations, perfect in
+their type.
+
+I am the wrong note in this picture that nature has concentrated here.
+My clothes are a bit conspicuous in this setting, no matter how
+unobtrusive my thoughts and actions. Dressed as I am, one never
+strolls along Lambeth Walk.
+
+I feel the attention I am attracting. I put my handkerchief to my
+face. People are looking at me, at first slyly, then insistently. Who
+am I? For a moment I am caught unawares.
+
+A girl comes up--thin, narrow-chested, but with an eagerness in her
+eyes that lifts her above any physical defects.
+
+"Charlie, don't you know me?"
+
+Of course I know her. She is all excited, out of breath. I can almost
+feel her heart thumping with emotion as her narrow chest heaves with
+her hurried breathing. Her face is ghastly white, a girl about
+twenty-eight. She has a little girl with her.
+
+This girl was a little servant girl who used to wait on us at the
+cheap lodging-house where I lived. I remembered that she had left in
+disgrace. There was tragedy in it. But I could detect a certain savage
+gloriousness in her. She was carrying on with all odds against her.
+Hers is the supreme battle of our age. May she and all others of her
+kind meet a kindly fate.
+
+With pent-up feelings we talk about the most commonplace things.
+
+"Well, how are you, Charlie?"
+
+"Fine." I point to the little girl. "Is she your little girl?"
+
+She says, "Yes."
+
+That's all, but there doesn't seem to be much need of conversation. We
+just look and smile at each other and we both weave the other's story
+hurriedly through our own minds by way of the heart. Perhaps in our
+weaving we miss a detail or two, but substantially we are right. There
+is warmth in the renewed acquaintance. I feel that in this moment I
+know her better than I ever did in the many months I used to see her
+in the old days. And right now I feel that she is worth knowing.
+
+There's a crowd gathering. It's come. I am discovered, with no chance
+for escape. I give the girl some money to buy something for the child,
+and hurry on my way. She understands and smiles. Crowds are following.
+I am discovered in Lambeth Walk.
+
+But they are so charming about it. I walk along and they keep behind
+at an almost standard distance. I can feel rather than hear their
+shuffling footsteps as they follow along, getting no closer, losing no
+ground. It reminds me of the Pied Piper of Hamelin.
+
+All these people just about five yards away, all timid, thrilled,
+excited at hearing my name, but not having the courage to shout it
+under this spell.
+
+"There he is." "That's 'im." All in whispers hoarse with excitement
+and carrying for great distance, but at the same time repressed by
+the effort of whispering. What manners these cockneys have! The crowds
+accumulate. I am getting very much concerned. Sooner or later they are
+going to come up, and I am alone, defenceless. What folly this going
+out alone, and along Lambeth Walk!
+
+Eventually I see a bobby, a sergeant--or, rather, I think him one, he
+looks so immaculate in his uniform. I go to him for protection.
+
+"Do you mind?" I say. "I find I have been discovered. I am Charlie
+Chaplin. Would you mind seeing me to a taxi?"
+
+"That's all right, Charlie. These people won't hurt you. They are the
+best people in the world. I have been with them for fifteen years." He
+speaks with a conviction that makes me feel silly and deservedly
+rebuked.
+
+I say, "I know it; they are perfectly charming."
+
+"That's just it," he answers. "They are charming and nice."
+
+They had hesitated to break in upon my solitude, but now, sensing that
+I have protection, they speak out.
+
+"Hello, Charlie!" "God bless you, Charlie!" "Good luck to you, lad!"
+As each flings his or her greetings they smile and self-consciously
+back away into the group, bringing others to the fore for their
+greeting. All of them have a word--old women, men, children. I am
+almost overcome with the sincerity of their welcome.
+
+We are moving along and come to a street corner and into Kennington
+Road again. The crowds continue following as though I were their
+leader, with nobody daring to approach within a certain radius.
+
+The little cockney children circle around me to get a view from all
+sides.
+
+I see myself among them. I, too, had followed celebrities in my time
+in Kennington. I, too, had pushed, edged, and fought my way to the
+front rank of crowds, led by curiosity. They are in rags, the same
+rags, only more ragged.
+
+They are looking into my face and smiling, showing their blackened
+teeth. Good God! English children's teeth are terrible! Something can
+and should be done about it. But their eyes!
+
+Soulful eyes with such a wonderful expression. I see a young girl
+glance slyly at her beau. What a beautiful look she gives him! I find
+myself wondering if he is worthy, if he realises the treasure that is
+his. What a lovely people!
+
+We are waiting. The policeman is busy hailing a taxi. I just stand
+there self-conscious. Nobody asks any questions. They are content to
+look. Their steadfast watching is so impressing. I feel small--like a
+cheat. Their worship does not belong to me. God, if I could only do
+something for all of them!
+
+But there are too many--too many. Good impulses so often die before
+this "too many."
+
+I am in the taxi.
+
+"Good-bye, Charlie! God bless you!" I am on my way.
+
+The taxi is going up Kennington Road along Kennington Park. Kennington
+Park. How depressing Kennington Park is! How depressing to me are all
+parks! The loneliness of them. One never goes to a park unless one is
+lonesome. And lonesomeness is sad. The symbol of sadness, that's a
+park.
+
+But I am fascinated now with it. I am lonesome and want to be. I want
+to commune with myself and the years that are gone. The years that
+were passed in the shadow of this same Kennington Park. I want to sit
+on its benches again in spite of their treacherous bleakness, in spite
+of the drabness.
+
+But I am in a taxi. And taxis move fast. The park is out of sight. Its
+alluring spell is dismissed with its passing. I did not sit on the
+bench. We are driving toward Kennington Gate.
+
+Kennington Gate. That has its memories. Sad, sweet, rapidly recurring
+memories.
+
+'Twas here, my first appointment with Hetty (Sonny's sister). How I
+was dolled up in my little, tight-fitting frock coat, hat, and cane! I
+was quite the dude as I watched every street car until four o'clock
+waiting for Hetty to step off, smiling as she saw me waiting.
+
+I get out and stand there for a few moments at Kennington Gate. My
+taxi driver thinks I am mad. But I am forgetting taxi drivers. I am
+seeing a lad of nineteen, dressed to the pink, with fluttering heart,
+waiting, waiting for the moment of the day when he and happiness
+walked along the road. The road is so alluring now. It beckons for
+another walk, and as I hear a street car approaching I turn eagerly,
+for the moment almost expecting to see the same trim Hetty step off,
+smiling.
+
+The car stops. A couple of men get off. An old woman. Some children.
+But no Hetty.
+
+Hetty is gone. So is the lad with the frock coat and cane.
+
+Back into the cab, we drive up Brixton Road. We pass Glenshore
+Mansions--a more prosperous neighbourhood. Glenshore Mansions, which
+meant a step upward to me, where I had my Turkish carpets and my red
+lights in the beginning of my prosperity.
+
+We pull up at The Horns for a drink. The same Horns. Used to adjoin
+the saloon bar. It has changed. Its arrangement is different. I do not
+recognise the keeper. I feel very much the foreigner now; do not know
+what to order. I am out of place. There's a barmaid.
+
+How strange, this lady with the coiffured hair and neat little
+shirtwaist!
+
+"What can I do for you, sir?"
+
+I am swept off my feet. Impressed. I want to feel very much the
+foreigner. I find myself acting.
+
+"What have you got?"
+
+She looks surprised.
+
+"Ah, give me ginger beer." I find myself becoming a little bit
+affected. I refuse to understand the money--the shillings and the
+pence. It is thoroughly explained to me as each piece is counted
+before me. I go over each one separately and then leave it all on the
+table.
+
+There are two women seated at a near-by table. One is whispering to
+the other. I am recognised.
+
+"That's 'im; I tell you 'tis."
+
+"Ah, get out! And wot would 'e be a-doin' 'ere?"
+
+I pretend not to hear, not to notice. But it is too ominous. Suddenly
+a white funk comes over me and I rush out and into the taxi again.
+It's closing time for a part of the afternoon. Something different. I
+am surprised. It makes me think it is Sunday. Then I learn that it is
+a new rule in effect since the war.
+
+I am driving down Kennington Road again. Passing Kennington Cross.
+
+Kennington Cross.
+
+It was here that I first discovered music, or where I first learned
+its rare beauty, a beauty that has gladdened and haunted me from that
+moment. It all happened one night while I was there, about midnight. I
+recall the whole thing so distinctly.
+
+I was just a boy, and its beauty was like some sweet mystery. I did
+not understand. I only knew I loved it and I became reverent as the
+sounds carried themselves through my brain _via_ my heart.
+
+I suddenly became aware of a harmonica and a clarinet playing a weird,
+harmonious message. I learned later that it was "The Honeysuckle and
+the Bee." It was played with such feeling that I became conscious for
+the first time of what melody really was. My first awakening to music.
+
+I remembered how thrilled I was as the sweet sounds pealed into the
+night. I learned the words the next day. How I would love to hear it
+now, that same tune, that same way!
+
+Conscious of it, yet defiant, I find myself singing the refrain softly
+to myself:
+
+     You are the honey, honeysuckle. I am the bee;
+     I'd like to sip the honey, dear, from those red lips. You see
+     I love you dearie, dearie, and I want you to love me--
+     You are my honey, honeysuckle. I am your bee.
+
+Kennington Cross, where music first entered my soul. Trivial, perhaps,
+but it was the first time.
+
+There are a few stragglers left as I pass on my way along Manchester
+Bridge at the Prince Road. They are still watching me. I feel that
+Kennington Road is alive to the fact that I am in it. I am hoping that
+they are feeling that I have come back, not that I am a stranger in
+the public eye.
+
+I am on my way back. Crossing Westminster Bridge. I enter a new land.
+I go back to the Haymarket, back to the Ritz to dress for dinner.
+
+
+
+
+VII.
+
+A JOKE AND STILL ON THE GO
+
+
+In the evening I dined at the Ritz with Ed. Knoblock, Miss Forrest,
+and several other friends. The party was a very congenial one and the
+dinner excellent. It did much to lift me from the depression into
+which the afternoon in Kennington had put me.
+
+Following dinner we said "Good night" to Miss Forrest, and the rest of
+us went around to Ed. Knoblock's apartment in the Albany. The Albany
+is the most interesting building I have yet visited in London.
+
+In a sort of dignified grandeur it stands swathed in an atmosphere of
+tradition. It breathes the past, and such a past! It has housed men
+like Shelley and Edmund Burke and others whose fame is linked closely
+with the march of English civilisation.
+
+Naturally, the building is very old. Ed.'s apartment commands a
+wonderful view of London. It is beautifully and artistically
+furnished, its high ceilings, its tapestries, and its old Victorian
+windows giving it a quaintness rather startling in this modern age.
+
+We had a bit of supper, and about eleven-thirty it began to rain, and
+later there was a considerable thunderstorm.
+
+Conversation, languishing on general topics, turns to me, the what and
+wherefore of my coming and going, my impressions, plans, etc. I tell
+them as best I can.
+
+Knoblock is anxious to get my views on England, on the impression that
+London has made. We discuss the matter and make comparisons. I feel
+that England has acquired a sadness, something that is tragic and at
+the same time beautiful.
+
+We discuss my arrival. How wonderful it was. The crowds, the
+reception. Knoblock thinks that it is the apex of my career. I am
+inclined to agree with him.
+
+Whereupon Tom Geraghty comes forward with a startling thought. Tom
+suggests that I die immediately. He insists that this is the only
+fitting thing to do, that to live after such a reception and ovation
+would be an anti-climax. The artistic thing to do would be to finish
+off my career with a spectacular death. Everyone is shocked at his
+suggestion. But I agree with Tom that it would be a great climax. We
+are all becoming very sentimental; we insist to one another that we
+must not think such thoughts, and the like.
+
+The lightning is flashing fitfully outside. Knoblock, with an
+inspiration, gathers all of us, except Tom Geraghty, into a corner and
+suggests that on the next flash of lightning, just for a joke, I
+pretend to be struck dead, to see what effect it would have on Tom.
+
+We make elaborate plans rapidly. Each is assigned to his part in the
+impromptu tragedy. We give Tom another drink and start to talking
+about death and kindred things. Then we all comment how the wind is
+shaking this old building, how its windows rattle and the weird effect
+that lightning has on its old tapestries and lonely candlesticks.
+Surreptitiously, some one has turned out all but one light, but old
+Tom does not suspect.
+
+The atmosphere is perfect for our hoax and several of us who are "in
+the know" feel sort of creepy as we wait for the next flash. I prime
+myself for the bit of acting.
+
+The flash comes, and with it I let forth a horrible shriek, then stand
+up, stiffen, and fall flat on my face. I think I did it rather well,
+and I am not sure but that others beside Tom were frightened.
+
+Tom drops his whisky glass and exclaims: "My God! It's happened!" and
+his voice is sober. But no one pays any attention to him.
+
+They all rush to me and I am carried feet first into the bedroom, and
+the door closed on poor old Tom, who is trying to follow me in. Tom
+just paces the floor, waiting for some one to come from the bedroom
+and tell him what has happened. He knocks on the door several times,
+but no one will let him in.
+
+  [Illustration: My "property grin."]
+
+Finally, Carl Robinson comes out of the room, looking seriously
+intent, and Tom rushes to him.
+
+"For God's sake, Carl, what's wrong?"
+
+Carl brushes him aside and makes for the telephone.
+
+"Is he--dead?" Tom puts the question huskily and fearfully.
+
+Carl pays no attention except: "Please don't bother me now, Tom. This
+is too serious." Then he calls on the telephone for the coroner. This
+has such an effect on Geraghty that Knoblock comes forth from the
+bedroom to pacify him.
+
+"I am sure it will be all right," Knoblock says to Tom, at the same
+time looking as though he were trying to keep something secret.
+Everything is staged perfectly and poor old Tom just stands and looks
+bewildered, and every few moments tries to break into the bedroom, but
+is told to stay out, that he is in no condition to be mixing up in
+anything so serious.
+
+The chief of police is called, doctors are urged to rush there in all
+haste with motors, and with each call Tom's suffering increases. We
+keep up the joke until it has reached the point of artistry, and then
+I enter from the bedroom in a flowing sheet for a gown and a pillow
+slip on each arm to represent wings, and I proceed to be an angel for
+a moment.
+
+But the effect has been too great on Tom, and even the travesty at the
+finish does not get a laugh from him.
+
+We laughed and talked about the stunt for a while and Tom was asked
+what he would have done if it had been true and I had been hit by the
+lightning.
+
+Tom made me feel very cheap and sorry that I had played the trick on
+him when he said that he would have jumped out of the window himself,
+as he would have no desire to live if I were dead.
+
+But we soon got away from serious things and ended the party merrily
+and went home about five in the morning. Which meant that we would
+sleep very late that day.
+
+Three o'clock in the afternoon found me awakened by the news that
+there was a delegation of reporters waiting to see me. They were all
+ushered in and the whole thirty-five of them started firing questions
+at me in a bunch. And I answered them all, for by this time I was
+quite proficient with reporters, and as they all asked the same
+questions that I had answered before it was not hard.
+
+In fact, we all had luncheon or tea together, though for me it was
+breakfast, and I enjoyed them immensely. They are real, sincere, and
+intelligent and not hero worshippers.
+
+Along about five o'clock Ed. Knoblock came in with the suggestion that
+we go out for a ride together and call around to see Bernard Shaw.
+This did sound like a real treat. Knoblock knows Shaw very well and he
+felt sure that Shaw and I would like each other.
+
+First, though, I propose that we take a ride about London, and Ed.
+leads the way to some very interesting spots, the spots that the
+tourist rarely sees as he races his way through the buildings listed
+in guide books.
+
+He takes me to the back of the Strand Theatre, where there are
+beautiful gardens and courts suggesting palaces and armour and the
+days when knights were bold. These houses were the homes of private
+people during the reign of King Charles and even farther back. They
+abound in secret passages and tunnels leading up to the royal palace.
+There is an air about them that is aped and copied, but it is not hard
+to distinguish the real from the imitation. History is written on
+every stone; not the history of the battlefield that is laid bare for
+the historians, but that more intimate history, that of the
+drawing-room, where, after all, the real ashes of empires are sifted.
+
+Now we are in Adelphi Terrace, where Bernard Shaw and Sir James Barrie
+live. What a lovely place the terrace is! And its arches underneath
+leading to the river. And at this hour, six-thirty, there comes the
+first fall of evening and London with its soft light is at its best.
+
+I can quite understand why Whistler was so crazy about it. Its
+lighting is perfect--so beautiful and soft. Perhaps there are those
+who complain that it is poorly lighted and who would install many
+modern torches of electricity to remedy the defect, but give me London
+as it is. Do not paint the lily.
+
+We make for Shaw's house, which overlooks the Thames Embankment. As we
+approach I feel that this is a momentous occasion. I am to meet Shaw.
+We reach the house. I notice on the door a little brass name plate
+with the inscription, "Bernard Shaw." I wonder if there is anything
+significant about Shaw's name being engraved in brass. The thought
+pleases me. But we are here, and Knoblock is about to lift the
+knocker.
+
+And then I seem to remember reading somewhere about dozens of movie
+actors going abroad, and how they invariably visited Shaw. Good Lord!
+the man must be weary of them. And why should he be singled out and
+imposed upon? And I do not desire to ape others. And I want to be
+individual and different. And I want Bernard Shaw to like me. And I
+don't want to force myself upon him.
+
+And all this is occurring very rapidly, and I am getting fussed, and
+we are almost before him, and I say to Knoblock, "No, I don't want to
+meet him."
+
+Ed. is annoyed and surprised and thinks I am crazy and everything. He
+asks why, and I suddenly become embarrassed and shy. "Some other
+time," I beg. "We won't call to-day." I don't know why, but suddenly I
+feel self-conscious and silly--
+
+Would I care to see Barrie? He lives just across the road.
+
+"No, I don't want to see any of them to-day." I am too tired. I find
+that it would be too much effort.
+
+So I go home, after drinking in all the beauties of the evening, the
+twilight, and the loveliness of Adelphi Terrace. This requires no
+effort. I can just drift along on my own, let thoughts come and go as
+they will, and never have to think about being polite and wondering if
+I am holding my own in intelligent discussion that is sure to arise
+when one meets great minds. I wasted the evening just then. Some other
+time, I know, I am going to want Shaw and Barrie.
+
+I drift along with the sight and am carried back a hundred years, two
+hundred, a thousand. I seem to see the ghosts of King Charles and
+others of Old England with the tombstones epitaphed in Old English and
+dating back even to the eleventh century.
+
+It is all fragrant and too fleeting. We must get back to the hotel to
+dress for dinner.
+
+Then Knoblock, Sonny, Geraghty, and a few others dine with me at the
+Embassy Club, but Knoblock, who is tired, leaves after dinner. Along
+about ten o'clock Sonny, Geraghty, Donald Crist, Carl Robinson, and
+myself decide to take a ride. We make toward Lambeth. I want to show
+them Lambeth. I feel as if it is mine--a choice discovery and
+possession that I wish to display.
+
+I recall an old photographer's shop in the Westminster Bridge Road
+just before you come to the bridge. I want to see it again. We get out
+there. I remember having seen a picture framed in that window when I
+was a boy--a picture of Dan Leno, who was an idol of mine in those
+days.
+
+The picture was still there, so is the photographer--the name "Sharp"
+is still on the shop. I tell my friends that I had my picture taken
+here about fifteen years ago, and we went inside to see if we could
+get one of the photos.
+
+"My name is Chaplin," I told the person behind the counter. "You
+photographed me fifteen years ago. I want to buy some copies."
+
+"Oh, we destroyed the negative long ago," the person behind the
+counter thus dismisses me.
+
+"Have you destroyed Mr. Leno's negative?" I ask him.
+
+"No," was the reply, "but Mr. Leno is a famous comedian."
+
+Such is fame. Here I had been patting myself on the back, thinking I
+was some pumpkins as a comedian, and my negative destroyed. However,
+there is balm in Gilead. I tell him I am Charlie Chaplin and he wants
+to turn the place upside down to get some new pictures of me; but we
+haven't the time, and, besides, I want to get out, because I am
+hearing suppressed snickers from my friends, before whom I was going
+to show off.
+
+
+
+
+VIII.
+
+A MEMORABLE NIGHT IN LONDON
+
+
+So we wandered along through South London by Kennington Cross and
+Kennington Gate, Newington Butts, Lambeth Walk, and the Clapham Road,
+and all through the neighbourhood. Almost every step brought back
+memories, most of them of a tender sort. I was right here in the midst
+of my youth, but somehow I seemed apart from it. I felt as though I
+was viewing it under a glass. It could be seen all too plainly, but
+when I reached to touch it it was not there--only the glass could be
+felt, this glass that had been glazed by the years since I left.
+
+If I could only get through the glass and touch the real live thing
+that had called me back to London. But I couldn't.
+
+A man cannot go back. He thinks he can, but other things have happened
+to his life. He has new ideas, new friends, new attachments. He
+doesn't belong to his past, except that the past has, perhaps, made
+marks on him.
+
+My friends and I continue our stroll--a stroll so pregnant with
+interest to me at times that I forget that I have company and wander
+along alone.
+
+Who is that old derelict there against the cart? Another landmark. I
+look at him closely. He is the same--only more so. Well do I remember
+him, the old tomato man. I was about twelve when I first saw him, and
+he is still here in the same old spot, plying the same old trade,
+while I--
+
+I can picture him as he first appeared to me standing beside his round
+cart heaped with tomatoes, his greasy clothes shiny in their
+unkemptness, the rather glassy single eye that had looked from one
+side of his face staring at nothing in particular, but giving you the
+feeling that it was seeing all, the bottled nose with the network of
+veins spelling dissipation.
+
+I remember how I used to stand around and wait for him to shout his
+wares. His method never varied. There was a sudden twitching
+convulsion, and he leaned to one side, trying to straighten out the
+other as he did so, and then, taking into his one good lung all the
+air it would stand, he would let forth a clattering, gargling,
+asthmatic, high-pitched wheeze, a series of sounds which defied
+interpretation.
+
+Somewhere in the explosion there could be detected "ripe tomatoes."
+Any other part of his message was lost.
+
+And he was still here. Through summer suns and winter snows he had
+stood and was standing. Only a bit more decrepit, a bit older, more
+dyspeptic, his clothes greasier, his shoulder rounder, his one eye
+rather filmy and not so all-seeing as it once was. And I waited. But
+he did not shout his wares any more. Even the good lung was failing.
+He just stood there inert in his ageing. And somehow the tomatoes did
+not look so good as they once were.
+
+We get into a cab and drive back towards Brixton to the Elephant and
+Castle, where we pull up at a coffee store. The same old London coffee
+store, with its bad coffee and tea.
+
+There are a few pink-cheeked roués around and a couple of old
+derelicts. Then there are a lot of painted ladies, many of them with
+young men and the rest of them looking for young men. Some of the
+young fellows are minus arms and many of them carry various ribbons of
+military honour. They are living and eloquent evidence of the War and
+its effects. There are a number of stragglers. The whole scene to me
+is depressing. What a sad London this is! People with tired, worn
+faces after four years of War!
+
+Someone suggests that we go up and see George Fitzmaurice, who lives
+in Park Lane. There we can get a drink and then go to bed. We jump in
+a cab and are soon there. What a difference! Park Lane is another
+world after the Elephant and Castle. Here are the homes of the
+millionaires and the prosperous.
+
+Fitzmaurice is quite a successful moving-picture director. We find a
+lot of friends at his house, and over whiskies-and-sodas we discuss
+our trip. Our trip through Kennington suggests Limehouse, and
+conversation turns toward that district and Thomas Burke.
+
+I get their impressions of Limehouse. It is not as tough as it has
+been pictured. I rather lost my temper through the discussion.
+
+One of those in the party, an actor, spoke very sneeringly of that
+romantic district and its people.
+
+"Talk about Limehouse nights. I thought they were tough down there.
+Why, they are like a lot of larks!" said this big-muscled leading man.
+
+And then he tells of a visit to the Limehouse district--a visit made
+solely for the purpose of finding trouble. How he had read of the
+tough characters there and how he had decided to go down to find out
+how tough they were.
+
+"I went right down there into their joints," he said, "and told them
+that I was looking for somebody that was tough, the tougher the
+better, and I went up to a big mandarin wearing a feather and said:
+'Give me the toughest you've got. You fellows are supposed to be tough
+down here, so let's see how tough you are.' And I couldn't get a rise
+out of any of them," he concluded.
+
+This was enough for me. It annoyed.
+
+I told him that it was very fine for well-fed, over-paid actors
+flaunting toughness at these deprived people, who are gentle and nice
+and, if ever tough, only so because of environment. I asked him just
+how tough he would be if he were living the life that some of these
+unfortunate families must live. How easy for him, with five meals a
+day beneath that thrust-out chest with his muscles trained and
+perfect, trying to start something with these people. Of course they
+were not tough, but when it comes to four years of War, when it comes
+to losing an arm or a leg, then they are tough. But they are not going
+around looking for fights unless there is a reason.
+
+It rather broke up the party, but I was feeling so disgusted that I
+did not care.
+
+We meander along, walking from Park Lane to the Ritz.
+
+On our way we are stopped by two or three young girls. They are
+stamped plainly and there is no subtlety about their "Hello boys! You
+are not going home so early?" They salute us. We wait a moment. They
+pause and then wave their hands to us and we beckon them.
+
+"How is it you are up so late?" They are plainly embarrassed at this
+question. Perhaps it has been a long time since they were given the
+benefit of the doubt. They are not sure just what to say. We are
+different. Their usual method of attack or caress does not seem in
+order, so they just giggle.
+
+Here is life in its elemental rawness. I feel very kindly disposed
+toward them, particularly after my bout with the well-fed actor who
+got his entertainment from the frailties of others. But it is rather
+hard for us to mix. There is a rather awkward silence.
+
+Then one of the girls asks if we have a cigarette. Robinson gives them
+a package, which they share between the three of them. This breaks the
+ice. They feel easier. The meeting is beginning to run along the
+parliamentary rules that they know.
+
+Do we know where they can get a drink?
+
+"No." This is a temporary setback, but they ask if we mind their
+walking along a bit with us. We don't, and we walk along towards the
+Ritz. They are giggling, and before long I am recognised. They are
+embarrassed.
+
+They look down at their shabby little feet where ill-fitting shoes run
+over at the heels. Their cheap little cotton suits class them even low
+in their profession, though their youth is a big factor toward their
+potential rise when they have become hardened and their mental
+faculties have become sharpened in their eternal battles with men.
+Then men will come to them.
+
+Knowing my identity, they are on their good behaviour. No longer are
+we prospects. We are true adventure for them this night. Their
+intimacy has left them and in its place there appears a reserve which
+is attractive even in its awkwardness.
+
+The conversation becomes somewhat formal. And we are nearing the
+hotel, where we must leave them. They are very nice and charming now,
+and are as timid and reserved as though they had just left a convent.
+
+They talk haltingly of the pictures they have seen, shyly telling how
+they loved me in "Shoulder Arms," while one of them told how she wept
+when she saw "The Kid" and how she had that night sent some money home
+to a little kid brother who was in school and staying there through
+her efforts in London.
+
+The difference in them seems so marked when they call me Mr. Chaplin
+and I recall how they had hailed us as "Hello, boys." Somehow I rather
+resent the change. I wish they would be more intimate in their
+conversation. I would like to get their viewpoint. I want to talk to
+them freely. They are so much more interesting than most of the people
+I meet.
+
+But there is a barrier. Their reserve stays. I told them that I was
+sure they were tired and gave them cab fare.
+
+One of their number speaks for the trio.
+
+"Thanks, Mr. Chaplin, very much. I could do with this, really. I was
+broke, honest. Really, this comes in very handy."
+
+They could not quite understand our being nice and sympathetic.
+
+They were used to being treated in the jocular way of street
+comradery. Finer qualities came forward under the respectful attention
+we gave them, something rather nice that had been buried beneath the
+veneer of their trade.
+
+Their thanks are profuse, yet awkward. They are not used to giving
+thanks. They usually pay, and pay dearly, for anything handed them. We
+bid them "good night." They smile and walk away.
+
+We watch them for a bit as they go on their way. At first they are
+strolling along, chattering about their adventure. Then, as if on a
+signal, they straighten up as though bracing themselves, and with
+quickened steps they move toward Piccadilly, where a haze of light is
+reflected against the murky sky.
+
+It is the beacon light from their battleground, and as we follow them
+with our eyes these butterflies of the night make for the lights where
+there is laughter and gaiety.
+
+As we go along to the Ritz we are all sobered by the encounter with
+the three little girls. I think blessed is the ignorance that enables
+them to go on without the mental torture that would come from knowing
+the inevitable that awaits them.
+
+As we go up the steps of the hotel we see a number of derelicts
+huddled asleep against the outside of the building, sitting under the
+arches and doors, men and women, old and young, underfed, deprived,
+helpless, so much so that the imprint of helplessness is woven into
+their brain and brings on an unconsciousness that is a blessing.
+
+We wake them up and hand them each money. "Here, get yourself a bed."
+
+They are too numbed. They thank us mechanically, accepting what we
+give them, but their reaction and thanks are more physical than
+mental.
+
+There was one old woman about seventy. I gave her something. She woke
+up, or stirred in her sleep, took the money without a word of
+thanks--took it as though it was her ration from the bread line and no
+thanks were expected, huddled herself up in a tighter knot than
+before, and continued her slumber. The inertia of poverty had long
+since claimed her.
+
+We rang the night bell at the Ritz, for they are not like our American
+hotels, where guests are in the habit of coming in at all hours of the
+night. The Ritz closes its doors at midnight, and after that hour you
+must ring them.
+
+But the night was not quite over. As we were ringing the bell we
+noticed a waggon a little way off in the street, with the horse
+slipping and the driver out behind the waggon with his shoulder to the
+wheel and urging the horse along with cheery words.
+
+We walked to the waggon and found it was loaded with apples and on its
+way to the market. The streets were so slippery that the horse could
+not negotiate the hill. I could not help but think how different from
+the usual driver this man was.
+
+He did not belay the tired animal with a whip and curse and swear at
+him in his helplessness. He saw that the animal was up against it, and
+instead of beating him he got out and put his shoulder to the wheel,
+never for the moment doubting that the horse was doing his best.
+
+We all went out into the street and put our shoulders against the
+waggon along with the driver. He thanked us, and as we finally got the
+momentum necessary to carry it over the hill he said:
+
+"These darn roads are so slippery that the darned horse even can't
+pull it."
+
+It was a source of wonder to him that he should come upon something
+too much for his horse. And the horse was so well fed and well kept. I
+could not help but notice how much better the animal looked than his
+master. The evening was over. I don't know but that the incident of
+the apple waggon was a fitting finale.
+
+The next morning for the first time I am made to give my attention to
+the mail that has been arriving. We have been obliged to have another
+room added to our suite in order to have some place in which to keep
+the numerous sacks that are being brought to us at all hours.
+
+The pile is becoming so mountainous that we are compelled to engage
+half a dozen stenographers just for the purpose of reading and
+classifying them.
+
+We found that there were 73,000 letters or cards addressed to me
+during the first three days in London, and of this number more than
+28,000 were begging letters--letters begging anywhere from £1 to
+£100,000.
+
+Countless and varied were the reasons set forth. Some were ridiculous.
+Some were amusing. Some were pathetic. Some were insulting. All of
+them in earnest.
+
+I discovered from the mail that there are 671 relatives of mine in
+England that I knew nothing about.
+
+The greater part of these were cousins, and they gave very detailed
+family-tree tracings in support of their claims. All of them wished to
+be set up in business or to get into the movies.
+
+But the cousins did not have a monopoly on the relationships. There
+were brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles, and there were nine
+claiming to be my mother, telling wondrous adventure stories about my
+being stolen by gipsies when a baby or being left on doorsteps, until
+I began to think my youth had been a very hectic affair. But I did not
+worry much about these last, as I had left a perfectly good mother
+back in California, and so far I have been pretty much satisfied with
+her.
+
+There were letters addressed just to Charles Chaplin, some to King
+Charles, some to the "King of Mirth"; on some there was drawn the
+picture of a battered derby; some carried a reproduction of my shoes
+and cane; and in some there was stuck a white feather with the
+question as to what I was doing during the war?
+
+Would I visit such and such institutions? Would I appear for such and
+such charity? Would I kick off the football season or attend some
+particular Soccer game? Then there were letters of welcome and one
+enclosing an iron cross inscribed, "For your services in the Great
+War," and "Where were you when England was fighting?"
+
+Then there were others thanking me for happiness given the senders.
+These came by the thousand. One young soldier sent me four medals he
+had gotten during the big war. He said that he was sending them
+because I had never been properly recognised. His part was so small
+and mine so big, he said, that he wanted me to have his _Croix de
+Guerre_, his regimental and other medals.
+
+Some of the letters were most interesting. Here are a few samples:
+
+     DEAR MR. CHAPLIN,--You are a leader in your line and I am a
+     leader in mine. Your speciality is moving pictures and custard
+     pies. My speciality is windmills.
+
+     I know more about windmills than any man in the world. I have
+     studied the winds all over the world and am now in a position
+     to invent a windmill that will be the standard mill of the
+     world, and it will be made so it can be adapted to the winds of
+     the tropics and the winds of the arctic regions.
+
+     I am going to let you in on this in an advantageous way. You
+     have only to furnish the money. I have the brains, and in a few
+     years I will make you rich and famous. You had better 'phone me
+     for quick action.
+
+     DEAR MR. CHAPLIN,--Won't you please let me have enough money to
+     send little Oscar to college? Little Oscar is twelve, and the
+     neighbours all say that he is the brightest little boy they
+     have ever seen. And he can imitate you so well that we don't
+     have to go to the movies any more. [This is dangerous. Oscar is
+     a real competitor, ruining my business.] And so, if you can't
+     send the little fellow to college, won't you take him in the
+     movies with you like you did Jackie Coogan?
+
+     DEAR MR. CHAPLIN,--My brother is a sailor, and he is the only
+     man in the world who knows where Capt. Kidd's gold is buried.
+     He has charts and maps and everything necessary, including a
+     pick and shovel. But he cannot pay for the boat.
+
+     Will you pay for the boat, and half the gold is yours? All you
+     need do is to say "yes" to me in a letter, and I will go out
+     and look for John as he is off somewhere on a bust, being what
+     you might call a drinking man when ashore. But I am sure that I
+     can find him, as he and I drink in the same places. Your
+     shipmate.
+
+     DEAR CHARLIE,--Have you ever thought of the money to be made in
+     peanuts? I know the peanut industry, but I am not telling any
+     of my business in a letter. If you are interested in becoming a
+     peanut king, then I'm your man. Just address me as Snapper
+     Dodge, above address.
+
+     DEAR MR. CHAPLIN,--My daughter has been helping me about my
+     boarding-house now for several years, and I may say that she
+     understands the art of catering to the public as wishes to stay
+     in quarters. But she has such high-toned ideas, like as putting
+     up curtains in the bathroom and such that at times I think she
+     is too good for the boarding-house business and should be
+     having her own hotel to run.
+
+     If you could see your way to buy a hotel in London or New York
+     for Drusilla, I am sure that before long your name and
+     Drusilla's would be linked together all over the world because
+     of what Drusilla would do to the hotel business. And she would
+     save money because she could make all the beds and cook
+     herself, and at nights could invent the touches like what I
+     have mentioned. Drusilla is waiting for you to call her.
+
+     DEAR MR. CHAPLIN,--I am enclosing pawn tickets for Grandma's
+     false teeth and our silver water pitcher, also a rent bill
+     showing that our rent was due yesterday. Of course, we would
+     rather have you pay our rent first, but if you could spare it,
+     grandma's teeth would be acceptable, and we can't hold our
+     heads up among the neighbours since father sneaked our silver
+     pitcher to get some beer.
+
+
+
+
+
+IX.
+
+I MEET THE IMMORTALS
+
+
+Here are extracts from a number of letters selected at random from the
+mountain of mail awaiting me at the hotel:
+
+"---- wishes Mr. Chaplin a hearty welcome and begs him to give him the
+honour of shaving him on Sunday, Sept. 11, any time which he thinks
+suitable."
+
+A West End moneylender has forwarded his business card, which states:
+"Should you require temporary cash accommodation, I am prepared to
+advance you £50 to £10,000 on note of hand alone, without fees or
+delay. All communications strictly private and confidential."
+
+A man living in Golden Square, W., writes: "My son, in the endeavour
+to get a flower thrown by you from the Ritz Hotel, lost his hat, the
+bill for which I enclose, seven shillings and sixpence."
+
+A Liverpool scalp specialist gathers that Mr. Chaplin is much
+concerned regarding the appearance of grey hairs in his head. "I claim
+to be," he adds, "the only man in Great Britain who can and does
+restore the colour of grey hair. You may visit Liverpool, and if you
+will call I shall be pleased to examine your scalp and give you a
+candid opinion. If nothing can be done I will state so frankly."
+
+"Is there any chance," writes a woman of Brixton, "of you requiring
+for your films the services of twin small boys nearly four years old
+and nearly indistinguishable? An American agent has recently been in
+this neighbourhood and secured a contract with two such small girls
+(twins), which points to at least a demand for such on American
+films."
+
+A widow of sixty-two writes: "I have a half-dozen china teaset of the
+late Queen Victoria's diamond jubilee, and it occurred to me that you
+might like to possess it. If you would call or allow me to take it
+anywhere for you to see, I would gladly do so. I have had it
+twenty-four years, and would like to raise money on it."
+
+A South London picture dealer writes: "If ever you should be passing
+this way when you are taking your quiet strolls around London, I would
+like you to drop in and see a picture that I think might interest you.
+It is the Strand by night, painted by Arthur Grimshaw in 1887. I hope
+you won't think I have taken too much of a liberty--but I knew your
+mother when I was in Kate Paradise's troupe, and I think she would
+remember me if ever you were to mention Clara Symonds of that troupe.
+It is a little link with the past."
+
+"DEAR OLD FRIEND,--Some months ago I wrote to you, and no doubt you
+will remember me. I was in 'Casey's Court,' and, as you know, we had
+Mr. Murray for our boss. You have indeed got on well. I myself have
+only this month come home from being in Turkey for eight years. Dear
+old boy, I should like to see you when you come to London--that is, if
+you do not mind mixing with one of the Casey's Court urchins."
+
+A Sussex mother writes: "Would you grant a few moments' interview to a
+little girl of nine (small for her years) whom I am anxious to start
+on the films? She has much in her favour, being not only bright and
+clever, but unusually attractive in appearance, receiving unlimited
+attention wherever she goes, as she is really quite out of the
+ordinary."
+
+A disengaged actress writes: "If you should take a film in England it
+would be a great kindness to employ some of the hundreds of actresses
+out of work now and with no prospects of getting any. A walk-on would
+be a very welcome change to many of us, to say nothing of a part."
+
+A Somerset man writes: "A friend of mine has a very old-time spot
+right here in Somerset, with the peacocks wandering across the
+well-kept grounds and three lovely trout ponds, where last night I
+brought home five very fine rainbow trout each weighing about
+one-and-a-half pounds. You will be tired of the crowds. Slip away down
+to me and I will give you ten days or more of the best time you can
+get. There will be no side or style, and your oldest clothes will be
+the thing."
+
+Another correspondent says: "My husband and I should consider it an
+honour if during your visit to South London you would call and take a
+homely cup of tea with us. I read in the paper of your intention to
+stay at an old-fashioned inn, and should like to recommend the White
+Horse Inn at Sheen, which, I believe, is the oldest in Surrey. It
+certainly corresponds with your ideal. Welcome to your home town."
+
+This from the seaside: "When you are really tired of the rush of
+London there is a very nice little place called Seaford, not very far
+from London, just a small place where you can have a real rest. No
+dressing up, etc., and then fishing, golf, and tennis if you care for
+the same. You could put up at an hotel or here. There will be no one
+to worry you. Don't forget to drop us a line."
+
+A London clubman, in offering hospitality, says: "I do not know you.
+You do not know me, and probably don't want to. But just think it over
+and come and have a bit of lunch with me one day. This between
+ourselves--no publicity."
+
+"Saint Pancras Municipal Officers' Swimming Club would be greatly
+honoured by your presiding at our annual swimming gala to be held at
+the St. Pancras Public Baths."
+
+Dorothy, writing from Poplar, asks: "Dear Mr. Charlie Chaplin, if you
+have a pair of old boots at home will you throw them at me for luck?"
+
+An aspirant for the position of secretary writes: "I am a musical
+comedy artist by profession, but am at present out of work. I am six
+feet two inches in height and 27 years of age. If there is any
+capacity in which you can use my services I shall be very thankful.
+Hoping you will have an enjoyable stay in your home country."
+
+A Barnes man writes: "If you have time we should be very proud if you
+could spare an afternoon to come to tea. We should love to give you a
+real old-fashioned Scotch tea, if you would care to come. We know you
+will be fêted, and everyone will want you, but if you feel tired and
+want a wee rest come out quietly to us. If it wasn't for your dear
+funny ways on the screen during the war we would all have gone under."
+
+"Dear Charles," writes an eleven-year-old, "I'd like to meet you very,
+very much. I'd like to meet you just to say thank you for all the
+times you've cheered me up when I've felt down and miserable. I've
+never met you and I don't suppose I ever will, but you will always be
+my friend and helper. I'd love your photograph signed by you! Are you
+likely to come to Harrogate? I wish you would. Perhaps you could come
+and see me. Couldn't you try?"
+
+I wish I could read them all, for in every one there is human feeling,
+and I wish it were possible that I could accept some of the
+invitations, especially those inviting me to quietness and solitude.
+But there are thousands too many. Most of them will have to be
+answered by my secretaries, but all of them will be answered, and we
+are taking trunkfuls of the letters back to California in order that
+as many of the requests as possible shall receive attention.
+
+During the afternoon there came Donald Crisp, Tom Geraghty and the
+bunch, and before long my apartment in the London Ritz might just as
+well be home in Los Angeles. I realise that I am getting nowhere,
+meeting nobody and still playing in Hollywood.
+
+I have travelled 6,000 miles and find I have not shaken the dust of
+Hollywood from my shoes. I resent this. I tell Knoblock I must meet
+other people besides Geraghty and the Hollywood bunch. I have seen as
+much as I want to see of it. Now I want to meet people.
+
+Knoblock smiles, but he is too kind to remind me of my retreat before
+the name plate of Bernard Shaw. He and I go shopping and I am measured
+for some clothes; then to lunch with E. V. Lucas.
+
+Lucas is a very charming man, sympathetic and sincere. He has written
+a number of very good books. It is arranged to give me a party that
+night at the Garrick Club.
+
+After luncheon we visit Stoll's Theatre, where "Shoulder Arms" and
+Mary Pickford's picture "Suds," are being shown. This is my first
+experience in an English cinema. The opera house is one that was built
+by Steinhouse and then turned into a movie theatre.
+
+It is strange and odd to see the English audience drinking tea and
+eating pastry while watching the performance. I find very little
+difference in their appreciation of the picture. All the points
+tell just the same as in America. I get out without being recognised
+and am very thankful for that.
+
+  [Illustration: Another scene from "Sunnyside," one of my favourite
+   photo plays.]
+
+Back to the hotel and rest for the evening before my dinner at the
+Garrick Club.
+
+The thought of dining at the Garrick Club brought up before me the
+mental picture that I have always carried of that famous old meeting
+place in London, where Art is most dignified. And the club itself
+realised my picture to the fullest.
+
+Tradition and custom are so deep-rooted there that I believe its
+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.
+
+We sign a number of photos, I in my large, sweeping, sprawling hand--I
+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
+
+
+The train to Germany left so late in the evening that it was
+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.
+
+"No, they are wicked. Bolshevik man, he's very bad." Her eyes flash as
+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."
+
+We dig up all the family and discuss them. The uncles in Spain. Why,
+we Chaplins have populated the earth.
+
+When I came I told Aubrey that I could stay only two hours, but it is
+4 a.m. and we are still talking. As we leave Aubrey walks with me
+toward the Ritz.
+
+We hail a Ford truck on the way and a rather dandified young Johnny, a
+former officer, gives us a lift.
+
+"Right you are. Jump on."
+
+A new element, these dandies driving trucks, some of them graduates of
+Cambridge and Oxford, of good families, most of them, impecunious
+aristocrats. Perhaps it is the best thing that could happen to such
+families.
+
+This chap is very quiet and gentle. He talks mostly of his truck and
+his marketing, which he thinks is quite a game. He has been in the
+grocery business since the war and has never made so much money. We
+get a good bit of his story as we jolt along in the truck.
+
+He is providing vegetables and fruit for all his friends in Bayswater,
+and every morning at four o'clock he is on his way to the market. He
+loves the truck. It is so simple to drive.
+
+"Half a mo." He stops talking and pulls up for petrol at a pretty
+little white-tiled petrol station. The station is all lit up, though
+it is but 5 a.m.
+
+"Good morning. Give me about five gal."
+
+"Right-o!"
+
+The cheery greeting means more than the simple words that are said.
+
+The lad recognises me and greets me frankly, though formally. It seems
+so strange to me to hear this truck driver go along conversing in the
+easiest possible manner. A truck driver who enjoyed truck driving.
+
+He spoke of films for just a bit and then discreetly stopped,
+thinking, perhaps, that I might not like to talk about them. And,
+besides, he liked to talk about his truck.
+
+He told us how wonderful it was to drive along in the early morning
+with only the company of dawn and the stars. He loved the silent
+streets, sleeping London. He was enterprising, full of hopes and
+ambitions. Told how he bartered. He knew how. His was a lovely
+business.
+
+He was smoking a pipe and wore a trilby hat, with a sort of frock
+coat, and his neck was wrapped in a scarf. I figured him to be about
+thirty years of age.
+
+I nudged my cousin. Would he accept anything? We hardly know whether
+or not to offer it, though he is going out of his way to drive me to
+the Ritz.
+
+He has insisted that it is no trouble, that he can cut through to
+Covent Garden. No trouble. I tell the petrol man to fill it up and I
+insist on paying for the petrol.
+
+The lad protests, but I insist.
+
+"That's very nice of you, really. But it was a pleasure to have you,"
+he says, as he gets back in his seat.
+
+We cut through to Piccadilly and pull up at the Ritz in a Ford truck.
+Quite an arrival.
+
+The lad bids us good-bye. "Delighted to have met you. Hope you have a
+bully time. Too bad you are leaving. Bon voyage. Come back in the
+spring. London is charming then. Well, I must be off. I'm late. Good
+morning."
+
+We talk him over on the steps as he drives away. He is the type of an
+aristocrat that must live. He is made of the stuff that marks the true
+aristocrat. He is an inspiration. He talked just enough, never too
+much. The intonation of his voice and his sense of beauty as he
+appreciated the dawn stamped him as of the élite--the real élite, not
+the Blue Book variety.
+
+Loving adventure, virtuous, doing something all the time, and loving
+the doing. What an example he is! He has two stores. This is his first
+truck. He loves it. He is the first of his kind that I have met. This
+is my last night in England. I am glad that it brought me this contact
+with real nobility.
+
+
+
+
+XV.
+
+BON VOYAGE
+
+
+I am off in the morning for Southampton, miserable and depressed.
+Crowds--the same crowds that saw me come--are there. But they seem a
+bit more desirable. I am leaving them. There are so many things I wish
+I had done. It is pleasant to be getting this applause on my exit.
+
+I do not doubt its sincerity now. It is just as fine and as boisterous
+as it was when I arrived. They were glad to see me come and are sorry
+I am going.
+
+I feel despondent and sad. I want to hug all of them to me. There is
+something so wistful about London, about their kind, gentle
+appreciation. They smile tenderly as I look this way, that way, over
+there--on every side it is the same. They are all my friends and I am
+leaving them.
+
+Will I sign this? A few excited ones are shoving autograph books at
+me, but most of them are under restraint, almost in repose. They feel
+the parting. They sense it, but are sending me away with a smile.
+
+My car is full of friends going with me to Southampton. They mean
+little at the moment. The crowd has me. Old, old friends turn up,
+friends that I have been too busy to see. Faithful old friends who are
+content just to get a glimpse before I leave.
+
+There's Freddy Whittaker, an old music-hall artist with whom I once
+played. Just acquaintances, most of them, but they all knew me, and
+had all shared, in spirit, my success. All of them are at the station
+and all of them understand. They know that my life has been full every
+minute I have been here. There had been so much to do.
+
+They knew and understood, yet they had come determined just to see me,
+if only at the door of my carriage. I feel very sad about them.
+
+The train is about to pull out and everything is excitement. Everyone
+seems emotional and there is a tenseness in the very atmosphere.
+
+"Love to Alf and Amy," many of them whisper, those who know my manager
+and his wife. I tell them that I am coming back, perhaps next summer.
+There is applause. "Don't forget," they shout. I don't think I could
+forget.
+
+The trip to Southampton is not enjoyable. There is a sadness on the
+train. A sort of embarrassed sentimentality among my friends. Tom
+Geraghty is along. Tom is an old American and he is all choked up at
+the thought of my going back while he has to stay on in England. We
+are going back to his land. We cannot talk much.
+
+We go to the boat. Sonny is there to see me off. Sonny, Hetty's
+brother.
+
+There is luncheon with my friends and there are crowds of reporters. I
+can't be annoyed. There is nothing for me to say. I can't even think.
+We talk, small talk, joke talk.
+
+Sonny is very matter-of-fact. I look at him and wonder if he has ever
+known. He has always been so vague with me. Has always met me in a
+joking way.
+
+He leans over and whispers, "I thought you might like this." It is a
+package. I almost know without asking that it is a picture of Hetty. I
+am amazed. He understood all the time. Was always alive to the
+situation. How England covers up her feelings!
+
+Everybody is off the boat but the passengers. My friends stand on the
+dock and wave to me. I see everything in their glowing faces--loyalty,
+love, sadness, a few tears. There is a lump in my throat. I smile just
+as hard as I can to keep them from seeing. I even smile at the
+reporters. They're darn nice fellows. I wish I knew them better. After
+all, it's their job to ask questions and they have been merely doing
+their job with me. Just doing their jobs, as they see it. That spirit
+would make the world if it were universal.
+
+England never looked more lovely. Why didn't I go here? Why didn't I
+do this and that? There is so much that I missed. I must come back
+again. Will they be glad to see me? As glad as I am to see them? I
+hope so. My cheek is damp. I turn away and blot out the sadness. I am
+not going to look back again.
+
+A sweet little girl about eight years of age, full of laughing
+childhood, is coming toward me with a bubbling voice. Her very look
+commands me not to try to escape. I don't think I want to escape from
+her.
+
+"Oh, Mr. Chaplin," gurgled the little girl, "I've been looking for you
+all over the boat. Please adopt me like you did Jackie Coogan. We
+could smash windows together and have lots of fun. I love your plays."
+
+She takes my hand and looks up into my face. "They are so clever and
+beautiful. Won't you teach me like you taught him? He's so much like
+you. Oh, if I could only be like him."
+
+And with a rapt look on her little face she prattles on, leaving me
+very few opportunities to get in a word, though I prefer to listen to
+her rather than talk.
+
+I wave good-bye to my friends and then walk along with her, going up
+and looking back at the crowd over the rail.
+
+Reporters are here. They scent something interesting in my affair with
+the little girl. I answer all questions. Then a photographer. We are
+photographed together. And the movie men are getting action pictures.
+We are looking back at my friends on shore.
+
+The little girl asks: "Are they all actors and in the movies? Why are
+you so sad? Don't you like leaving England? There will be so many
+friends in America to meet you. Why, you should be so happy because
+you have friends all over the world!"
+
+I tell her that it is just the parting--that the thought of leaving is
+always sad. Life is always "Good-bye." And here I feel it is good-bye
+to new friends, that my old ones are in America.
+
+We walk around the deck and she discusses the merits of my pictures.
+
+"Do you like drama?" I ask.
+
+"No. I like to laugh, but I love to make people cry myself. It must be
+nice to act 'cryie' parts, but I don't like to watch them."
+
+"And you want me to adopt you?"
+
+"Only in the pictures, like Jackie. I would love to break windows."
+
+She has dark hair and a beautiful profile of the Spanish type, with a
+delicately formed nose and a Cupid's bow sort of mouth. Her eyes are
+sensitive, dark and shining, dancing with life and laughter. As we
+talk I notice as she gets serious she grows tender and full of
+childish love.
+
+"You like smashing windows! You must be Spanish," I tell her.
+
+"Oh no, not Spanish; I'm Jewish," she answers.
+
+"That accounts for your genius."
+
+"Oh, do you think Jewish people are clever?" she asks, eagerly.
+
+"Of course. All great geniuses had Jewish blood in them. No, I am not
+Jewish," as she is about to put that question, "but I am sure there
+must be some somewhere in me. I hope so."
+
+"Oh, I am so glad you think them clever. You must meet my mother.
+She's brilliant and an elocutionist. She recites beautifully, and is
+so clever at anything. And I am sure you would like my father. He
+loves me so much and I think he admires me some, too."
+
+She chatters on as we walk around. Then suddenly. "You look tired.
+Please tell me and I will run away."
+
+As the boat is pulling out her mother comes toward us and the child
+introduces us with perfect formality and without any embarrassment.
+She is a fine, cultured person.
+
+"Come along, dear, we must go down to the second class. We cannot stay
+here."
+
+I make an appointment to lunch with the little girl on the day after
+the morrow, and am already looking forward to it.
+
+I spend the greater part of the second day in reading books by Frank
+Harris, Waldo Frank, Claude McKay, and Major Douglas's "Economic
+Democracy."
+
+The next day I met Miss Taylor, a famous moving-picture actress of
+England, and Mr. Hepworth, who is a director of prominence in Great
+Britain. Miss Taylor, though sensitive, shy, and retiring, has a great
+bit of charm.
+
+They are making their first trip to America, and we soon become good
+friends. We discuss the characteristics of the American people,
+contrasting their youthful, frank abruptness with the quiet, shy, and
+reserved Britisher.
+
+I find myself running wild as I tell them of this land. I explain
+train hold-ups, advertising signs, Broadway lights, blatant theatres,
+ticket speculators, subways, the automat and its big sister, the
+cafeteria. It has a great effect on my friends and at times I almost
+detect unbelief. I find myself wanting to show the whole thing to them
+and to watch their reactions.
+
+At luncheon next day the little girl is the soul of the party. We
+discuss everything from Art to ambitions. At one moment she is full of
+musical laughter, and the next she is excitedly discussing some
+happening aboard ship. Her stories are always interesting. How do
+children see so much more than grown-ups?
+
+She has a great time. I must visit her father, he is so much like me.
+He has the same temperament, and is such a great daddy. He is so good
+to her. And she rattles on without stopping.
+
+Then again she thinks I may be tired. "Sit back now." And she puts a
+pillow behind my head and bids me rest.
+
+These moments with her make days aboard pass quickly and pleasantly.
+
+Carl Robinson and I are strolling around the top deck the next day in
+an effort to get away from everyone, and I notice someone looking up
+at a wire running between the funnels of the ship. Perched on the wire
+is a little bird, and I am wondering how it got there and if it had
+been there since we left England.
+
+The other watcher notices us. He turns and smiles. "The little bird
+must think this is the promised land."
+
+I knew at once that he was somebody. Those thoughts belong only to
+poets. Later in the evening he joins us at my invitation and I learn
+he is Easthope Martin, the composer and pianist. He had been through
+the War and it had left its stamp on this fine, sensitive soul. He had
+been gassed. I could not imagine such a man in the trenches.
+
+He is very frail of body, and as he talks I always imagine his big
+soul at the bursting point with a pent-up yearning.
+
+There is the inevitable concert on the last night of the voyage. We
+are off the banks of Newfoundland, and in the midst of a fog. Fog
+horns must be kept blowing at intervals, hence the effect on the
+concert, particularly the vocal part, is obvious.
+
+We land at seven in the morning of a very windy day, and it is eleven
+before we can get away. Reporters and camera men fill the air during
+all that time, and I am rather glad, because it shows Miss Taylor and
+Mr. Hepworth a glimpse of what America is like. We arrange to meet
+that night at Sam Goldwyn's for dinner.
+
+Good-byes here are rather joyous, because we are all getting off in
+the same land and there will be an opportunity to see one another
+again.
+
+My little friend comes to me excitedly and gives me a present--a
+silver stamp box. "I hope that when you write your first letter you
+take a stamp from here and mail it to me. Good-bye."
+
+She shakes hands. We are real lovers and must be careful. She tells me
+not to overwork. "Don't forget to come and see us; you must meet
+daddy. Good-bye, Charlie."
+
+She curtsies and is gone. I go to my cabin to wait until we can land.
+There is a tiny knock. She comes in.
+
+"Charlie, I couldn't kiss you out there in front of all those people.
+Good-bye, dear. Take care of yourself." This is real love. She kisses
+my cheek and then runs out on deck.
+
+Easthope Martin is with us that night at Goldwyn's party. He plays one
+of his own compositions and holds us spellbound. He is very grateful
+for our sincere applause and quite retiring and unassuming, though he
+is the hit of the evening.
+
+Following the dinner I carried the English movie folk on a
+sight-seeing trip, enjoying their amazement at the wonders of a New
+York night.
+
+"What do you think of it?" I asked them.
+
+"Thrilling," says Hepworth. "I like it. There is something electrical
+in the air. It is a driving force. You must do things."
+
+We go to a café, where the élite of New York are gathered, and dance
+until midnight. I bid them good-bye, hoping to meet them later when
+they come to Los Angeles.
+
+I dine at Max Eastman's the next night and meet McKay, the negro poet.
+He is quite handsome, a full-blooded Jamaican negro not more than
+twenty-five years of age. I can readily see why he has been termed an
+African prince. He has just that manner.
+
+I have read a number of his poems. He is a true aristocrat with the
+sensitiveness of a poet and the humour of a philosopher, and quite
+shy. In fact, he is rather supersensitive, but with a dignity and
+manner that seem to hold him aloof.
+
+There are many other friends there, and we discuss Max's new book on
+humour. There is a controversy whether to call it "Sense of Humour" or
+"Psychology of Humour." We talk about my trip. Claude McKay asks if I
+met Shaw. "Too bad," he says. "You would like him and he would have
+enjoyed you."
+
+I am interested in Claude. "How do you write your poetry? Can you make
+yourself write? Do you prepare?" I try to discuss his race. "What is
+their future? Do they----"
+
+He shrugs his shoulders. I realise he is a poet, an aristocrat.
+
+I dine the next evening with Waldo Frank and Marguerite Naumberg and
+we discuss her new system. She has a school that develops children
+along the lines of personality. It is a study in individuality. She
+is struggling alone, but is getting wonderful results. We talk far
+into the morning on everything, including the fourth dimension.
+
+Next day Frank Harris calls and we decide to take a trip to Sing Sing
+together. Frank is very sad and wistful. He is anxious to get away
+from New York and devote time to his autobiography before it is too
+late. He has so much to say that he wants to write it while it is
+keen.
+
+I try to tell him that consciousness of age is a sign of keenness.
+That age doesn't bother the mind.
+
+We discuss George Meredith and a wonderful book he had written. And
+then in his age Meredith had rewritten it. He said it was so much
+better rewritten, but he had taken from it all the red blood. It was
+old, withered like himself. You can't see things as they were.
+Meredith had become old. Harris says he doesn't want the same
+experience.
+
+All this on the way to Sing Sing. Frank is a wonderful
+conversationalist. Like his friend Oscar Wilde. That same charm and
+brilliancy of wit, ever ready for argument. What a fund of knowledge
+he has. What a biography his should be. If it is just half as good as
+Wilde's, it will be sufficient.
+
+Sing Sing. The big, grey stone buildings seem to me like an outcry
+against civilisation. This huge grey monster with its thousand staring
+eyes. We are in the visiting room. Young men in grey shirts. Thank
+God, the hideous stripes are gone. This is progress, humanity. It is
+not so stark.
+
+There is a mite of a baby holding her daddy's hand and playing with
+his hair as he talks with her mamma, his wife. Another prisoner
+holding two withered hands of an old lady. Mother was written all over
+her, though neither said a word. I felt brutal at witnessing their
+emotion.
+
+All of them old. Children, widows, mothers--youth crossed out of faces
+by lines of suffering and life's penalties. Tragedy and sadness, and
+always it is in the faces of the women that the suffering is more
+plainly written. The men suffer in body--the women in soul.
+
+The men look resigned. Their spirit is gone. What is it that happens
+behind these grey walls that kills so completely?
+
+The devotion of the prisoners is almost childish in its eagerness as
+they sit with their children, talking with their wives, here and there
+a lover with his sweetheart--all of them have written a compelling
+story in the book of life. But love is in this room, love unashamed.
+Why are sinners always loved? Why do sinners make such wonderful
+lovers? Perhaps it is compensation, as they call it. Love is paged by
+every eye here.
+
+Children are playing around the floor. Their laughter is like a
+benediction. This is another improvement, this room. There are no
+longer bars to separate loved ones. Human nature improves, but the
+tragedy remains just as dramatic.
+
+The cells where they sleep are old-fashioned, built by a monster or a
+maniac. No architect could do such a thing for human beings. They are
+built of hate, ignorance, and stupidity. I understand they are
+building a new prison, more sane, with far more understanding of human
+needs. Until then these poor wretches must endure these awful cells.
+I'd go mad there.
+
+I notice quite a bit of freedom. A number of prisoners are strolling
+around the grounds while others are at work. The honour system is a
+great thing, gives a man a chance to hold self-respect.
+
+They have heard that I am coming, and most of them seem to know me. I
+am embarrassed. What can I say? How can I approach them? I wave my
+hand merely. "Hello, folks!"
+
+I decide to discard conversation. Be myself. Be comic. Cut up. I twist
+my cane and juggle my hat. I kick up my leg in back. I am on comic
+ground. That's the thing.
+
+No sentiment, no slopping over, no morals--they are fed up with that.
+What is there in common between us? Our viewpoints are entirely
+different. They're in--I'm out.
+
+They show me a cup presented by Sir Thomas Lipton, inscribed, "We have
+all made mistakes."
+
+"How do we know but what some of you haven't?" I ask, humorously. It
+makes a hit. They want me to talk.
+
+"Brother criminals and fellow sinners: Christ said, 'Let him who is
+without sin cast the first stone.' I cannot cast the stone, though I
+have compromised and thrown many a pie. But I cannot cast the first
+stone." Some got it. Others never will.
+
+We must be sensible. I am not a hero worshipper of criminals and bad
+men. Society must be protected. We are greater in number than the
+criminals and have the upper hand. We must keep it; but we can at
+least treat them intelligently, for, after all, crime is the outcome
+of society.
+
+The doctor tells me that but a few of them are criminals from
+heredity, that the majority had been forced into crime by
+circumstances or had committed it in passion. I notice a lot of
+evil-looking men, but also some splendid ones. I earnestly believe
+that society can protect itself intelligently, humanly. I would
+abolish prisons. Call them hospitals and treat the prisoners as
+patients.
+
+It is a problem that I make no pretence of solving.
+
+The death house. It is hideous. A plain, bare room, rather large and
+with a white door, not green, as I have been told. The chair--a plain
+wooden armchair and a single wire coming down over it. This is an
+instrument to snuff out life. It is too simple. It is not even
+dramatic. Just cold-blooded and matter of fact.
+
+Some one is telling me how they watch the prisoner after he is
+strapped in the chair. Good God! How can they calmly plan with such
+exactness? And they have killed as many as seven in one day. I must
+get out.
+
+Two men were walking up and down in a bare yard, one a short man with
+a pipe in his mouth, walking briskly, and at his side a warden. The
+keeper announces, shortly, "The next for the chair."
+
+How awful! Looking straight in front of him and coming toward us, I
+saw his face. Tragic and appalling. I will see it for a long time.
+
+We visit the industries. There is something ironical about their
+location with the mountains for a background, but the effect is good,
+they can get a sense of freedom. A good system here, with the wardens
+tolerant. They seem to understand. I whisper to one.
+
+"Is Jim Larkin here?" He is in the boot department, and we go to see
+him for a moment. There is a rule against it, but on this occasion the
+rule is waived.
+
+Larkin struts up. Large, about six feet two inches, a fine, strapping
+Irishman. Introduced, he talks timidly.
+
+He can't stay, mustn't leave his work. Is happy. Only worried about
+his wife and children in Ireland. Anxious about them, otherwise fit.
+
+There are four more years for him. He seems deserted even by his
+party, though there is an effort being made to have his sentence
+repealed. After all, he is no ordinary criminal. Just a political one.
+
+He asks about my reception in England. "Glad to meet you, but I must
+get back."
+
+Frank tells him he will help to get his release. He smiles, grips
+Frank's hand hard. "Thanks." Harris tells me he is a cultured man and
+a fine writer.
+
+But the prison marked him. The buoyancy and spirit that must have gone
+with those Irish eyes are no more. Those same eyes are now wistful,
+where they once were gay. He hasn't been forgotten. Our visit has
+helped. There may be a bit of hope left to him.
+
+We go to the solitary-confinement cell, where trouble makers are kept.
+
+"This young man tried to escape, got out on the roof. We went after
+him," says the warden.
+
+"Yes, it was quite a movie stunt," said the youngster. He is
+embarrassed. We try to relieve it.
+
+"Whatever he's done, he's darn handsome," I tell the warden. It helps.
+"Better luck next time," I tell him. He laughs. "Thanks. Pleased to
+meet you, Charlie."
+
+He is just nineteen, handsome and healthy. What a pity! The greatest
+tragedy of all. He is a forger, here with murderers.
+
+We leave and I look back at the prison just once. Why are prisons and
+graveyards built in such beautiful places?
+
+Next day everything is bustling, getting ready for the trip back to
+Los Angeles. I sneak out in the excitement and go to a matinée to see
+Marie Doro in "Lilies of the Field," and that night to "The Hero," a
+splendid play. A young actor, Robert Ames, I believe, gives the finest
+performance I have ever seen in America.
+
+We are on the way. I am rushing back with the swiftness of the
+Twentieth Century Limited. There is a wire from my studio manager.
+"When will I be back for work?" I wire him that I am rushing and
+anxious to get there. There is a brief stop in Chicago and then we are
+on again.
+
+And as the train rushes me back I am living again this vacation of
+mine. Its every moment now seems wonderful. The petty annoyances were
+but seasoning. I even begin to like reporters. They are regular
+fellows, intent on their job.
+
+And going over it all, it has been so worth while and the job ahead of
+me looks worth while. If I can bring smiles to the tired eyes in
+Kennington and Whitechapel, if I have absorbed and understood the
+virtues and problems of those simpler people I have met, and if I have
+gathered the least bit of inspiration from those greater personages
+who were kind to me, then this has been a wonderful trip, and somehow
+I am eager to get back to work and begin paying for it.
+
+I notice a newspaper headline as I write. It tells of the Conference
+for Disarmament. Is it prophetic? Does it mean that War will never
+stride through the world again? Is it a gleam of intelligence coming
+into the world?
+
+We are arriving at Ogden, Utah, as I write. There is a telegram asking
+me to dine with Clare Sheridan on my arrival in Los Angeles. The
+prospect is most alluring. And that wire, with several others,
+convinces me that I am getting home.
+
+I turn again to the newspaper. My holiday is over. I reflect on
+disarmament. I wonder what will be the answer? I hope and am inclined
+to believe that it will be for good. Was it Tennyson who wrote:
+
+         When shall all men's good
+     Be each man's rule, and universal peace
+     Shine like a shaft of light across the lane,
+     And like a layer of beams athwart the sea?
+
+What a beautiful thought! Can those who go to Washington make it more
+than a thought?
+
+The conductor is calling:
+
+"Los Angeles."
+
+"Bye."
+
+
+THE END.
+
+
+
+
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+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of My Wonderful Visit, by Charlie Chaplin
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 42449 ***