Part 8

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.

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.

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.