Part 3

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.

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.