Chapter 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15
DAYS ON SHIPBOARD
I notice a thoughtful-looking, studious sort of man seated across from us. He is reading a book, a different sort of book, if covers mean anything. It looks formidable, a sort of intellectual fodder. I wonder who he is. I weave all sorts of romance about him. I place him in all sorts of intellectual undertakings, though he may be a college professor. I would love to know him. I feel that he is interested in us. I mention it to Knoblock. He keeps looking at us. Knoblock tells me he is Gillette, the safety-razor man. I feel like romancing about him more than ever. I wonder what he is reading? I would love to know him. It is our loss, I believe. And I never learned what the book was that he was reading.
There are very few pretty girls aboard. I never have any luck that way. And it is a weakness of mine. I feel that it would be awfully pleasant to cross the ocean with a number of nice girls who were pretty and who would take me as I am. We listened to the music and retired early, this because of a promise to myself that I would do lots of reading aboard. I have a copy of Max Eastman’s poems, colours of life, a volume of treasures. I try to read them, but am too nervous. The type passes in parade, but I assimilate nothing, so I prepare to sleep and be in good shape for the morning. But that is also impossible.
I am beyond sleep to-night now. I am in something new, something pregnant with expectation. The immediate future is too alluring for sleep.
How shall I be received in England? What sort of a trip shall I have? Whom shall I meet on board? The thoughts chased one another round my brain and back again, all running into one another in their rambling.
I get up at one o’clock. Decide to read again. This time H. G. Wells‘s Outline of History. Impossible! It doesn’t register. I try to force it by reading aloud. It can’t be done. The tongue can’t cheat the brain, and right now reading is out of the question.
I get up and go to see if Knoblock is in. He sleeps audibly and convincingly. He is not making his debut.
I go back to my room. I rather feel sorry for myself. If only the Turkish baths were open I could while a few hours of time away until morning. Thus I mediate. The last thing I remember it is four o’clock in the morning and the next thing eleven-thirty. I can hear a great bit of excitement going on outside my cabin door. There are a lot of little children there with autograph books. I tell them that I will sign them later and have them leave the books with my secretary, Tom Harrington.
There is a composite squeal of pleasure at this and a sickening fear comes over me. I call Tom. He enters amid a raft of autograph books. I start to sign, then postpone it until after breakfast.
Knoblock comes in all refreshed and with that radiant sort of cheerfulness that I resent in the morning. Am I going to get up for lunch or will I have it in my cabin? There is a pleading lethargy that says, “Take it in bed,” but I cannot overcome the desire to explore and the feeling of expectancy of something about to happen—I was to see somebody or meet somebody—so I decide to have luncheon in the dining-room. I am giving myself the emotional stimulus. Nothing comes off. We meet nobody.
After lunch a bit of exercise. We run around the deck for a couple of miles. It brings back thoughts of the days when I ran in Marathon races. I feel rather self-conscious, however, as I am being pointed out by passengers. With each lap it gets worse. If there was only a place where I could run with nobody looking. We finally stop and lean against the rail.
All the stewards are curious. They are trying to pick me out. I notice it and pretend not to notice it. I go up into the gymnasium and look around. There is every contrivance to give joy to healthy bodies. And best of all, nobody else is there. Wonderful!
I try the weights, the rowing machine, the travelling rings, punch the bag a bit, swing some Indian clubs, and leap to the trapeze. Suddenly the place is packed. News travels quickly aboard ship. Some come for the purpose of exercising, like myself; others out of curiosity to watch me perform. I grow careless. I don’t care to go through with it. I put on my coat and hat and go to my room, finding that the old once-discarded “prop” smile is useful as I make my way through the crowd.
At four o’clock we have tea. I decide that the people are interesting. I love to meet so many. Perhaps they are the same ones I hated to see come into the gym, but I feel no sense of being paradoxical. The gymnasium belongs to individuals. The tea-room suggests and invites social intercourse. Somehow there are barriers and conventionalities that one cannot break, for all the vaunted “freedom of shipboard.” I feel it’s a sort of awkward situation. How is it possible to meet people on the same footing? I hear of it, I read of it, but somehow I cannot meet people myself and stay myself.
I immediately shift any blame from myself and decide that the first-class passengers are all snobs. I resolve to try the second-class or the third-class. Somehow I can’t meet these people. I get irritable and decide deliberately to seek the other classes of passengers and the boat crew.
Another walk around the deck. The salt air makes me feel good in spite of my mental bothers. I look over the rail and see other passengers, second or third class, and in one large group the ship’s firemen and stokers. They are the night force come on deck for a breath of air between working their shifts in the hellish heat below.
They see and recognise me. To their coal-blackened faces come smiles. They shout “Hooray!” “Hello, Charlie!” Ah, I am discovered. But I tingle all over with pleasure. As those leathery faces crack into lines through the dust I sense sincerity. There is a friendly feeling. I warm to them.
There is a game of cricket going on. That’s intriguing. I love cricket. Wish I could try my hand at it. Wish there was enough spontaneity about first-cabin passengers to start a game. I wish I wasn’t so darn self-conscious. They must have read my thoughts. I am invited timidly, then vociferously, to play a game. Their invitation cheers me. I feel one of them. A spirit of adventure beckons. I leap over the rail and right into the midst of it.
I carry with me into the steerage just a bit of self-consciousness—there are so many trying to play upon me. I am looked upon as a celebrity, not a cricket player. But I do my part and try and we get into the game. Suddenly a motion-picture camera man bobs up from somewhere. What leeches! He snaps a picture. This gets sickening.
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 manœuvred 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;
Claude McKay
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.