Part 7

"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.

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.