FAREWELLS TO PARIS AND LONDON
Chapter 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15
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 193 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 194 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. 195
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 198 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.