Chapter 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15
I ARRIVE IN LONDON
London! There are familiar buildings. This is thrilling. The same buildings. They have not altered. I expected that England would be altered. It isn’t. It’s the same. The same as I left it, in spite of the War. I see no change, not even in the manner of the people.
There’s Doulton’s Potteries! And look, there’s the Queen’s Head public-house that my cousin used to own. I point it out to him decidedly, but he reminds me that he has a much better place now. Now we are coming into the Cut. Can it be true? I can see two or three familiar stores. This train is going too fast. I want more time with these discoveries. I find my emotions almost too much for me. I have more sentiment about the buildings than I have the people.
The recognition of these localities! There is a lump rising in my throat from somewhere. It is something inexplicable. They are there, thank God!
If I could only be alone with it all. With it as it is, and with it as I would people it with ghosts of 72 yesterday. I wish these people weren’t in the compartment. I am afraid of my emotions.
The dear old Cut. We are getting into it now. Here we are. There are all conceivable kinds of noises, whistles, etc. Crowds, throngs lined up on the platforms. Here comes a police sergeant looking for a culprit. He looks straight at me. Good Lord! I am going to be arrested! But no, he smiles.
A shout, “There he is!”
Previous to this we had made resolutions. “Don’t forget we are all to lock arms, Knoblock, my cousin, Robinson, Geraghty, and myself.”
Immediately I get out of the train, however, we somehow get disorganised and our campaign manœuvre is lost. Policemen take me by each arm. There are motion-picture men, still-camera men. I see a sign announcing that motion pictures of my trip on board ship will be shown that night at a picture theatre. That dogged photographer of the boat must have gotten something in spite of me.
I am walking along quite the centre of things. I feel like royalty. I find I am smiling. A regular smile. I distinguish distant faces among those who crowd about me. There are voices at the end of the platform.
“Here he is. He is there, he is. That’s him.” My step is lightning gay. I am enjoying each moment. I am in Waterloo Station, London.
The policemen are very excited. It is going to be a terrible ordeal for them. Thousands are outside. 73 This also thrills me. Everything is beyond my expectations. I revel in it secretly. They all stop to applaud as I come to the gate. Some of them say:
“Well done, Charlie.” I wonder if they mean my present stunt between the bobbies. It is too much for me.
What have I done? I feel like a cricketer who has made a hundred and is going to the stand. There is real warm affection. Do I deserve even a part of it?
A young girl rushes out, breaks the line, makes one leap, and smothers me with a kiss. Thank God, she is pretty. There seem to be others ready to follow her, and I find myself hesitating a bit on my way. It is a signal. The barriers are broken.
They are coming on all sides. Policemen are elbowing and pushing. Girls are shrieking.
“Charlie! Charlie! There he is! Good luck to you. Charlie. God bless you.” Old men, old women, girls, boys, all in one excited thrill. My friends are missing. We are fighting our way through the crowd. I do not mind it at all. I am being carried on the crest of a wave. Everybody is working but me. There seems to be no effort. I am enjoying it—lovely.
Eventually we get through to the street. It is worse here. “Hooray!” “Here he is!” “Good luck, Charlie!” “Well done, Charlie!” “God bless you. God love you!” “Good luck, Charlie!” Bells are ringing. Handkerchiefs are waving. Some are raising their hats. I have lost mine. I am bewildered, at a loss, wondering where it is all leading to, but I don’t care. I love to stay in it.
Suddenly there is a terrific crash. Various currents of the crowd are battling against one another. I find that now I am concerned about my friends. Where’s Tom? Where’s So-and-so? Where’s Carl? Where’s my cousin? I’m asking it all aloud, on all sides, of anyone who will listen to me. I am answered with smiles.
I am being pushed toward an automobile.
“Where’s my cousin?” Another push.
Policemen on all sides. I am pushed and lifted and almost dumped into the limousine. My hat is thrown in behind me. There are three policemen on each side of the car, standing on the running board. I can’t get out. They are telling the chauffeur to drive on. He seems to be driving right over the people. Occasionally a head, a smiling face, a hand, a hat flashes by the door of the car. I ask and keep asking, “Where’s my cousin?”
But I regain myself, straighten my clothes, cool off a bit, and look round. There is a perfect stranger in the limousine with me. I seem to take him for granted for the moment. He is also cut up and bleeding. Evidently he is somebody. He must be on the schedule to do something. He looks bewildered and confused.
I say, “Well—I have missed my cousin.”
He says, “I beg your pardon, I have not been introduced to you.”
“Do you know where we are going?” I ask.
He says, “No.”
“Well, what are you doing—Who are you?” I splutter.
“No one in particular,” he answers. “I have been pushed in here against my will. I think it was the second time you cried for your cousin. One of the cops picked me, but I don’t believe there is any relationship.”
We laugh. That helps. We pull up and he is politely let off at the corner. As quickly as possible he is shut out. Crowds are around on both sides, raising their hats English fashion, as though they were meeting a lady. The mounted policemen leave us. I am left alone with my thoughts.
If I could only do something—solve the unemployment problem or make some grand gesture—in answer to all this. I look through the window in the back of the car. There are a string of taxis following behind. In the lead, seated on top of the cab, is a young and pretty girl all dressed in scarlet. She is waving to me as she chases. What a picture she makes! I think what good fun it would be to get on top of the cab with her and race around through the country.
I feel like doing something big. What an opportunity for a politician to say something and do something big! I never felt such affection. We are going down York Road. I see placards, “Charlie 76 Arrives.” Crowds standing on the corner, all lined up along my way to the hotel. I am beginning to wonder what it’s all about.
Am feeling a bit reflective, after all, thinking over what I have done; it has not been very much. Nothing to call forth all this. “Shoulder Arms” was pretty good, perhaps, but all this clamour over a moving-picture actor!
Now we are passing over Westminster Bridge. There are double-decked street cars. There’s one marked “Kennington.”
I want to get out and get on it—I want to go to Kennington. The bridge is so small; I always thought it was much wider. We are held up by traffic. The driver tells the bobby that Charlie Chaplin is inside. There is a change in the expression of the cop.
“On your way.”
By this time the policemen have dropped off the side of the car and are on their way back. Once more I am a private citizen. I am just a bit sad at this. Being a celebrity has its nice points.
There is an auto with a motion-picture camera on top of it photographing our car. I tell the driver to put down the top. Why didn’t we do this before? I wanted to let the people see. It seemed a shame to hide in this way. I wanted to be seen. There are little crowds on the street corners again.
Ah yes, and Big Ben. It looks so small now. It was so big before I went away. We are turning 77 up the Haymarket. People are looking and waving from their windows. I wave back. Crowded streets. We are nearing the Ritz, where I am to stop.
The crowds are much denser here. I am at a loss. I don’t know what to do, what to say. I stand up. I wave and bow at them, smile at them, and go through the motions of shaking hands, using my own hands. Should I say something? Can I say anything? I feel the genuineness of it all, a real warmth. It is very touching. This is almost too much for me. I am afraid I am going to make a scene.
I stand up. The crowd comes to a hush. It is attentive. They see I am about to say something. I am surprised at my own voice. I can hear it. It is quite clear and distinct, saying something about its being a great moment, etc. But tame and stupid as it is, they like it.
There is a “Hooray!” “Good boy, Charlie!”
Now the problem is how am I going to get out of this? The police are there, pushing and shoving people aside to make way, but they are out-numbered. There are motion-picture cameras, cameras on the steps. The crowds close in. Then I step out. They close in. I am still smiling. I try to think of something useful, learned from my experience at the New York opening of “The Three Musketeers.” But I am not much help to my comrades.
Then as we approach, the tide comes in toward 78 the gates of the hotel. They have been kept locked to prevent the crowd from demolishing the building. I can see one intrepid motion-picture camera man at the door as the crowd starts to swarm. He begins to edge in, and starts grinding his camera frantically as he is lifted into the whirlpool of humanity. But he keeps turning, and his camera and himself are gradually turned up to the sky, and his lens is registering nothing but clouds as he goes down turning—the most honorable fall a camera man can have, to go down grinding. I wonder if he really got any pictures.
In some way my body has been pushed, carried, lifted, and projected into the hotel. I can assure you that through no action of mine was this accomplished. I am immediately introduced to some English nobleman. The air is electric. I feel now I am free. Everybody is smiling. Everybody is interested. I am shown to a suite of rooms.
I like the hotel lobby. It is grand. I am raced to my room. There are bouquets of flowers from two or three English friends whom I had forgotten. There come cards. I want to welcome them all. Do not mind in the least. Am out for the whole day of it. The crowds are outside. The manager presents himself. Everything has been spread to make my stay as happy as possible.
The crowd outside is cheering. What is the thing to do? I had better go to the window. I raise my hands again. I pantomime, shake hands with myself, throw them kisses. I see a bouquet 79 of roses in the room. I grab it and start tossing the flowers into the crowd. There is a mad scramble for the souvenirs. In a moment the chief of police bursts into my room.
“Please, Mr. Chaplin, it is very fine, but don’t throw anything. You will cause an accident. They will be crushed and killed. Anything but that, don’t throw anything. If you don’t mind, kindly refrain from throwing anything.” Excitedly he repeats his message over and over again.
Of course I don’t mind; the flowers are all gone, anyway. But I am theatrically concerned. “Ah, really I am so sorry. Has anything happened?” I feel that everything is all right.
The rest of my friends arrive all bruised and cut up. Now that the excitement has died down, what are we going to do? For no reason at all we order a meal. Nobody is hungry. I want to get out again. Wish I could.
I feel that everybody ought to leave immediately. I want to be alone. I want to get out and escape from all crowds. I want to get over London, over to Kennington, all by myself. I want to see some familiar sights. Here baskets of fruit keep pouring in, fresh bouquets, presents, trays full of cards, some of them titles, some well-known names—all paying their respects. Now I am muddled. I don’t know what to do first. There is too much waiting. I have too much of a choice.
But I must get over to Kennington, and to-day. I am nervous, overstrung, tense. Crowds are 80 still outside. I must go again and bow and wave my hands. I am used to it, am doing it mechanically; it has no effect. Lunch is ordered for everybody. Newspaper men are outside, visitors are outside. I tell Carl to get them to put it off until to-morrow. He tells them that I am tired, need a rest, for them to call to-morrow and they will be given an interview.
The bishop of something presents his compliments. He is in the room when I arrive. I can’t hear what he is saying. I said ‘yes, I shall be delighted.’ We sit down to lunch. What a crowd there is eating with me! I am not quite sure I know them all.
Everyone is making plans for me. This irritates me. My cousin, Tom Geraghty, Knoblock—would I spend two or three days in the country and get a rest? No. I don’t want to rest. Will you see somebody? I don’t want to see anybody. I want to be left entirely alone. I’ve just got to have my whim.
I make a pretence at lunch. I whisper to Carl, “You explain everything to them—tell them that I am going out immediately after lunch.” I am merely taking the lunch to discipline myself.
I look out the window. The crowds are still there. What a problem! How am I going to get out without being recognised? Shall I openly suggest going out, so I can get away? I hate disappointing them. But I must go out.
Tom Geraghty, Donald Crisp, and myself suggest taking a walk. I do not tell them my plans, merely suggest taking the walk. We go through the back way and escape. I am sure that everything is all right, and that no one will recognise me. I cannot stand the strain any longer. I tell Donald and Tom—they really must leave me alone. I want to be alone, and want to visit alone. They understand. Tom is a good sort and so is Donald. I do not want to ride, but just for a quicker means of getting away I call a taxicab.
I tell him to drive to Lambeth. He is a good driver, and an old one. He has not recognised me, thank heaven!
But he is going too fast. I tell him to drive slower, to take his time. I sit back now. I am passing Westminster Bridge again. I see it better. Things are more familiar. On the other side is the new London County Council building. They have been building it for years. They started it before I left.
The Westminster Road has become very dilapidated, but perhaps it is because I am riding in an automobile. I used to travel across it another way. It doesn’t seem so long ago, either.
My God! Look! Under the bridge! There’s the old blind man. I stop the driver and drive back. We pull up outside the Canterbury.
“You wait there, or do you want me to pay you off?” He will wait. I walk back.
There he is, the same old figure, the same old blind man I used to see as a child of five, with the same old earmuffs, with his back against the wall and the same stream of greasy water trickling down the stone behind his back.
The same old clothes, a bit greener with age, and the irregular bush of whiskers coloured almost in a rainbow array, but with a dirty grey predominant.
What a symbol from which to count the years that I had been away. A little more green to his clothes! A bit more grey in his matted beard!
He has that same stark look in his eyes that used to make me sick as a child. Everything exactly the same, only a bit more dilapidated.
No. There is a change. The dirty little mat for the unhealthy-looking pup with the watering eyes that used to be with him—that is gone. I would like to hear the story of the missing pup.
Did its passing make much difference to the lonely derelict? Was its ending a tragic one, dramatic, or had it just passed out naturally?
The old man is laboriously reading the same chapter from his old, greasy, and bethumbed embossed Bible. His lips move, but silently, as his fingers travel over the letters. I wonder if he gets comfort there? Or does he need comfort?
To me it is all too horrible. He is the personification of poverty at its worst, sunk in that inertia that comes of lost hope. It is too terrible.