OFF TO FRANCE
Chapter 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15
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.
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.