Chapter 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15
A JOKE AND STILL ON THE GO
In the evening I dined at the Ritz with Ed. Knoblock, Miss Forrest, and several other friends. The party was a very congenial one and the dinner excellent. It did much to lift me from the depression into which the afternoon in Kennington had put me.
Following dinner we said “Good night” to Miss Forrest, and the rest of us went around to Ed. Knoblock’s apartment in the Albany. The Albany is the most interesting building I have yet visited in London.
In a sort of dignified grandeur it stands swathed in an atmosphere of tradition. It breathes the past, and such a past! It has housed men like Shelley and Edmund Burke and others whose fame is linked closely with the march of English civilisation.
Naturally, the building is very old. Ed.’s apartment commands a wonderful view of London. It is beautifully and artistically furnished, its high ceilings, its tapestries, and its old Victorian windows giving it a quaintness rather startling in this modern age.
We had a bit of supper, and about eleven-thirty it began to rain, and later there was a considerable thunderstorm.
Conversation, languishing on general topics, turns to me, the what and wherefore of my coming and going, my impressions, plans, etc. I tell them as best I can.
Knoblock is anxious to get my views on England, on the impression that London has made. We discuss the matter and make comparisons. I feel that England has acquired a sadness, something that is tragic and at the same time beautiful.
We discuss my arrival. How wonderful it was. The crowds, the reception. Knoblock thinks that it is the apex of my career. I am inclined to agree with him.
Whereupon Tom Geraghty comes forward with a startling thought. Tom suggests that I die immediately. He insists that this is the only fitting thing to do, that to live after such a reception and ovation would be an anti-climax. The artistic thing to do would be to finish off my career with a spectacular death. Everyone is shocked at his suggestion. But I agree with Tom that it would be a great climax. We are all becoming very sentimental; we insist to one another that we must not think such thoughts, and the like.
The lightning is flashing fitfully outside. Knoblock, with an inspiration, gathers all of us, except Tom Geraghty, into a corner and suggests that on the next flash of lightning, just for a joke, I pretend to be struck dead, to see what effect it would have on Tom.
We make elaborate plans rapidly. Each is assigned to his part in the impromptu tragedy. We give Tom another drink and start to talking about death and kindred things. Then we all comment how the wind is shaking this old building, how its windows rattle and the weird effect that lightning has on its old tapestries and lonely candlesticks. Surreptitiously, some one has turned out all but one light, but old Tom does not suspect.
The atmosphere is perfect for our hoax and several of us who are “in the know” feel sort of creepy as we wait for the next flash. I prime myself for the bit of acting.
The flash comes, and with it I let forth a horrible shriek, then stand up, stiffen, and fall flat on my face. I think I did it rather well, and I am not sure but that others beside Tom were frightened.
Tom drops his whisky glass and exclaims: “My God! It’s happened!” and his voice is sober. But no one pays any attention to him.
They all rush to me and I am carried feet first into the bedroom, and the door closed on poor old Tom, who is trying to follow me in. Tom just paces the floor, waiting for some one to come from the bedroom and tell him what has happened. He knocks on the door several times, but no one will let him in.
Finally, Carl Robinson comes out of the room, looking seriously intent, and Tom rushes to him.
“For God’s sake, Carl, what’s wrong?”
Carl brushes him aside and makes for the telephone.
“Is he—dead?” Tom puts the question huskily and fearfully.
Carl pays no attention except: “Please don’t bother me now, Tom. This is too serious.” Then he calls on the telephone for the coroner. This has such an effect on Geraghty that Knoblock comes forth from the bedroom to pacify him.
“I am sure it will be all right,” Knoblock says to Tom, at the same time looking as though he were trying to keep something secret. Everything is staged perfectly and poor old Tom just stands and looks bewildered, and every few moments tries to break into the bedroom, but is told to stay out, that he is in no condition to be mixing up in anything so serious.
The chief of police is called, doctors are urged to rush there in all haste with motors, and with each call Tom’s suffering increases. We keep up the joke until it has reached the point of artistry, and then I enter from the bedroom in a flowing sheet for a gown and a pillow slip on each arm to represent wings, and I proceed to be an angel for a moment.
But the effect has been too great on Tom, and even the travesty at the finish does not get a laugh from him.
We laughed and talked about the stunt for a while and Tom was asked what he would have done if it had been true and I had been hit by the lightning.
Tom made me feel very cheap and sorry that I had played the trick on him when he said that he would have jumped out of the window himself, as he would have no desire to live if I were dead.
But we soon got away from serious things and ended the party merrily and went home about five in the morning. Which meant that we would sleep very late that day.
Three o’clock in the afternoon found me awakened by the news that there was a delegation of reporters waiting to see me. They were all ushered in and the whole thirty-five of them started firing questions at me in a bunch. And I answered them all, for by this time I was quite proficient with reporters, and as they all asked the same questions that I had answered before it was not hard.
In fact, we all had luncheon or tea together, though for me it was breakfast, and I enjoyed them immensely. They are real, sincere, and intelligent and not hero worshippers.
Along about five o’clock Ed. Knoblock came in with the suggestion that we go out for a ride together and call around to see Bernard Shaw. This did sound like a real treat. Knoblock knows Shaw very well and he felt sure that Shaw and I would like each other.
First, though, I propose that we take a ride about London, and Ed. leads the way to some very interesting spots, the spots that the tourist rarely sees as he races his way through the buildings listed in guide books.
He takes me to the back of the Strand Theatre, where there are beautiful gardens and courts suggesting palaces and armour and the days when knights were bold. These houses were the homes of private people during the reign of King Charles and even farther back. They abound in secret passages and tunnels leading up to the royal palace. There is an air about them that is aped and copied, but it is not hard to distinguish the real from the imitation. History is written on every stone; not the history of the battlefield that is laid bare for the historians, but that more intimate history, that of the drawing-room, where, after all, the real ashes of empires are sifted.
Now we are in Adelphi Terrace, where Bernard Shaw and Sir James Barrie live. What a lovely place the terrace is! And its arches underneath leading to the river. And at this hour, six-thirty, there comes the first fall of evening and London with its soft light is at its best.
I can quite understand why Whistler was so crazy about it. Its lighting is perfect—so beautiful and soft. Perhaps there are those who complain that it is poorly lighted and who would install many modern torches of electricity to remedy the defect, but give me London as it is. Do not paint the lily.
We make for Shaw’s house, which overlooks the Thames Embankment. As we approach I feel that this is a momentous occasion. I am to meet Shaw. We reach the house. I notice on the door a little brass name plate with the inscription, “Bernard Shaw.” I wonder if there is anything significant about Shaw’s name being engraved in brass. The thought pleases me. But we are here, and Knoblock is about to lift the knocker.
And then I seem to remember reading somewhere about dozens of movie actors going abroad, and how they invariably visited Shaw. Good Lord! the man must be weary of them. And why should he be singled out and imposed upon? And I do not desire to ape others. And I want to be individual and different. And I want Bernard Shaw to like me. And I don’t want to force myself upon him.
And all this is occurring very rapidly, and I am getting fussed, and we are almost before him, and I say to Knoblock, “No, I don’t want to meet him.”
Ed. is annoyed and surprised and thinks I am crazy and everything. He asks why, and I suddenly become embarrassed and shy. “Some other time,” I beg. “We won’t call to-day.” I don’t know why, but suddenly I feel self-conscious and silly—
Would I care to see Barrie? He lives just across the road.
“No, I don’t want to see any of them to-day.” I am too tired. I find that it would be too much effort.
So I go home, after drinking in all the beauties of the evening, the twilight, and the loveliness of Adelphi Terrace. This requires no effort. I can just drift along on my own, let thoughts come and go as they will, and never have to think about being polite and wondering if I am holding my own in intelligent discussion that is sure to arise when one meets great minds. I wasted the evening just then. Some other time, I know, I am going to want Shaw and Barrie.
I drift along with the sight and am carried back a hundred years, two hundred, a thousand. I seem to see the ghosts of King Charles and others of Old England with the tombstones epitaphed in Old English and dating back even to the eleventh century.
It is all fragrant and too fleeting. We must get back to the hotel to dress for dinner.
Then Knoblock, Sonny, Geraghty, and a few others dine with me at the Embassy Club, but Knoblock, who is tired, leaves after dinner. Along about ten o’clock Sonny, Geraghty, Donald Crist, Carl Robinson, and myself decide to take a ride. We make toward Lambeth. I want to show them Lambeth. I feel as if it is mine—a choice discovery and possession that I wish to display.
I recall an old photographer’s shop in the Westminster Bridge Road just before you come to the bridge. I want to see it again. We get out there. I remember having seen a picture framed in that window when I was a boy—a picture of Dan Leno, who was an idol of mine in those days.
The picture was still there, so is the photographer—the name “Sharp” is still on the shop. I tell my friends that I had my picture taken here about fifteen years ago, and we went inside to see if we could get one of the photos.
“My name is Chaplin,” I told the person behind the counter. “You photographed me fifteen years ago. I want to buy some copies.”
“Oh, we destroyed the negative long ago,” the person behind the counter thus dismisses me.
“Have you destroyed Mr. Leno’s negative?” I ask him.
“No,” was the reply, “but Mr. Leno is a famous comedian.”
Such is fame. Here I had been patting myself on the back, thinking I was some pumpkins as a comedian, and my negative destroyed. However, there is balm in Gilead. I tell him I am Charlie Chaplin and he wants to turn the place upside down to get some new pictures of me; but we haven’t the time, and, besides, I want to get out, because I am hearing suppressed snickers from my friends, before whom I was going to show off.