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diff --git a/42449-8.txt b/42449-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 4002ecc..0000000 --- a/42449-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6632 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of My Wonderful Visit, by Charlie Chaplin - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: My Wonderful Visit - -Author: Charlie Chaplin - -Release Date: March 31, 2013 [EBook #42449] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY WONDERFUL VISIT *** - - - - -Produced by Melissa McDaniel and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - - -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. - - - - - PRINTED BY THE FIELD PRESS LTD., WINDSOR HOUSE, - BREAM'S BUILDINGS, LONDON, E.C. 4. - - - - -BOOKS WHICH are BEING REQUIRED - - -By JAMES JAMES - -Honeymoon Dialogues - -_In crown 8vo, cloth_, =4s. 6d.= _net_. Thirteenth Edition - - -By JAMES JAMES - -Lola of the Chocolates - -_In crown 8vo, cloth_, =3s. 6d.= _net_. Second Edition - - -By JAMES JAMES - -Guide Book to Women - -_In crown 8vo, cloth_, =3s. 6d.= _net_. Third Edition - -"It is as amusing as it is audacious."--_Daily Chronicle._ - - -By BEATRICE POWELL - -Gleanings from the Writings of Gertrude Page - -_In pocket size, cloth gilt, with photogravure portrait of Gertrude -Page_ =5s.= _net_. - -"A book for the shelf nearest one's elbow. A little book of -riches."--_Yorkshire Post._ - - -By GERTRUDE PAGE - -Two Lovers and a Lighthouse - -_In small crown 8vo, daintily bound and printed on special paper_, =3s. -6d.= _net_. _One of the most beautiful love stories ever written._ - - -By JEROME K. 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