FOOTNOTES:

“CHARLIE” IN HIS DRESSING-GOWN ON HIS MOORISH SUNBATHED VERANDA(Photograph by Clare Sheridan)

“CHARLIE” IN HIS DRESSING-GOWN ON HIS MOORISH SUNBATHED VERANDA

(Photograph by Clare Sheridan)

Charlie would get down from the model stand and observe the progress through half closed eyes. Once he said: “I wish this was not me, so that I could admire it as I please. I find him very interesting, this fellow you have made!” and then, after a close examination from all angles he added:

“It might be the head of a criminal, mightn’t it—?” and proceeded to elaborate a sudden born theory that criminals and artists were psychologically akin. On reflection we all have a flame. A burning flame of impulse, a vision, a side tracked mind, a deep sense of unlawfulness.

Later, as I was finishing, the Comte de Limur arrived. He is a young Frenchman who is studying the moving picture work, for France. Helooked at the bust, and then at Charlie, and then slyly at me: “I see, it is Pan ...” and added with a chuckle: “one can never deceive a woman!”

As I needed to work until quite late, it was fortunate that Charlie had changed his mind about Catalina. He heard yesterday that the fishing season closed there on November 1st.

On receipt of this news he flashed a new idea: summoning by shouts “To-om!” his secretary, he asked: “Can you get some tents? Can you get some tinned foods? Can you find a location suitable for camping—can we start on Sunday morning?”

The reply was in the affirmative, unhesitatingly. “Shall we take a chef, or do our own cooking?” Charlie looked at me, I informed him that I couldn’t boil an egg. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself. We’ll take a chef—” he said. And so my return to New York planned for Wednesday is again delayed.

Sunday, November 6, 1921.

We had planned to start in the morning at half past ten, but it was nearer half past twelve when we found ourselves en route, and Charlie had changed his mind. He said: “They found two locations for camp, one in the mountains, and one in the woods, but I have decided I want to go to the sea shore—we will go and look for a place ...”

“Then is no camp ready for us?” I asked in dismay. (Knowing something of the business of camping.) “Our tents are following us in a van,” he said and they surely followed.—What a “follow the leader game” for anything as cumbersome as a van! And a Ford followed us as well, containing the chef!

We stopped by the wayside for an ice-cream cone, and we lunched in a little town, where the proprietor addressed Charlie as “brother”—Charlie said it was quite habitual among the real Americans of that class. I said I thought it was very attractive as that one hardly needed a revolution to bring about comradeship, in a country where the waiter calls you “brother.” Charlie was rather scornful about the sentimentalism of my revolutionary ideals.

When we left the cafe, children had assembled in the streets and shouted “Goodbye Charlie” as we drove away. It was only his fondness for children that made him wave to them. Otherwise (I have observed) he has no desire to be recognized or lionized.

Who has ever seen an American country road on a Sunday, and not deplored the prosperity of the nation, especially within radius of Los Angeles? The road is like a smooth winding ribbon on which they race, they pursue, they overtake, the atmosphere is gas and dust, the surface is thick and oily.Any road that is a road at all is humming with the throb of machines. The only road that has no traffic in America is what is called a “dirt-road.” It isn’t “dirt” at all as we understand the word dirt in England. It is just Mother Earth, but these roads lead to nowhere, they end in a field on a farmhouse, as we discovered, and lost much time exploring and re-tracing. The macadam roads led down to the sea shore in places where crowds had gathered together to camp or picnic. That is peculiar about Americans, they love being together. I questioned Charlie: “Surely there must be lovely peaceful places unmarred by civilization?” and he said: “No—if there is a lovely place that is accessible, everyone will have found it....”

“Then,” I said, “we must content ourselves with a horrid place that nobody wants!”

The sun sank lower and Charlie’s spirit with it. He mopped his brow and shouted: “On—on—hurry!” to the chauffeur. It was a race with daylight. Would anyone have believed it was so difficult to get away from the world!

“You should do like the Mexican motors,” Dick said, “and go across country—”

In the distance we saw a clump of trees that stood out from afar in a flat colorless country, and they were by the sea. Once again we plunged off the macadam road and pursued a sandy trackfor more miles. Little by little the world and the sounds of the world were left behind and we were alone. The road ended as usual, and we found a farm house and a notice:

“Private property.—No trespassing—no camping—no hunting—” and then the sun set.

Our feelings just for a moment were indescribable.

The place was perfect. It was everything we had dreamed, and more. The wood was of eucalyptus trees, and the smell of them mingled with the smell of the sea, and the evening air was still and fragrant. We sent a messenger to the land proprietor, asking permission to remain, and impending the answer we walked over the sand dunes to the sea shore. The sun had left a crimson and indigo reflection in the sky which colored the foam waves as they broke one upon another. Charlie was in ecstasies, he was breathlessly inarticulate in his appreciation, and we both followed his example, doubled ourselves up, and looked at the horizon upside down because as he said, one got a far stronger impression of it. When we got back to the wood we found that all was well. Charlie of course is Charlie and permission was granted to remain. In the dark five tents were pitched on the outskirts of the wood.

Late into the night I sat with him over the campfire. A half-moon rose and little veils of sea sweptlike gossamer over the dunes, and the naked shiny eucalyptus stems cast black shadows. Mingling with the night bird cries, the rhythmical sound of the sea on the shore.

One by one the lanterns in the camp flickered and went out. Charlie sat huddled up before the flame, an elfin, elemental creature with gleaming eyes and towsled hair. His little nervous hands raking the embers with a stick. His voice was very deep, the voice of a much bigger man. He ruminated moodily. He said it was “too much—too great—too beautiful—there are no words—”

Wednesday, November 9, 1921.

By the Sea—California.

We seem to have been divinely led to this most beautiful and secluded place. One can hardly believe it was mere chance. So near civilization we are, and yet no one passes this way. As far as the eye can see the curving beach belongs to the sea-birds. There is a fresh water lake full of preserved wild duck, and word has been sent by the proprietor that we may shoot, hunt, cut wood, and do whatever we like! We surely picked a good spot, and then the sand dunes! We discovered such a high one yesterday, and Dick took a header down it, as if he were diving. So we got no further on our walk, but lingered there and spent the entire afternoon scrambling up and sliding downhead first. Charlie brought it to a fine art, he came down slowly with a rhythmical movement as if swimming; even sand sliding he does beautifully. Once we rolled down, and fetched up dazed and giddy at the bottom.

When the sunset sky became streaked pink and purple, Charlie kicked off his shoes, and danced with his beautiful small feet naked on the sand. He did imitations of Nijinsky and Pavlowa—he does it so well and with so much grace that one doesn’t know whether to laugh or silently appreciate.

The more I see of Charlie, and the more I know him, the more I appreciate him. He never does, says, or thinks an ugly thing. I have never met anyone like him. I find myself dominated by his intensity, and metaphorically sitting at his feet, accepting his judgment. He is so immensely bigger than the work he is engaged on. I believe that if he survives, he may in a few years take a very big place in international public life. We have discussed half jokingly the project of his standing for Parliament. I assured him no one would dare to contest him and that he would have a “walk-over.” I have heard him make impassioned speeches to imaginary crowds. He has harangued the sand dunes. Not only did he talk well but he talked sense, and his magnetism and vision recalled to my memory that leader of men: Trotzky. The onlypity is that he is too emotional, he is almost consumed by the flame within him. This is, I suppose, inevitable in so great an artist. His intensity is terrific. Whatever he does he does it intensely. He is intensely funny, but he is intensely tragic too, he shoots with such intensity that when he lost a duck it nearly broke his heart. He puts the same spirit into the tunneling of sand bridges for Dick, or the story he invents about the wrecked ship on the beach. He is as intensely materialist as he is idealist. As intensely sincere and honest, and now because he wants to be sound on some new philosophical doctrine, he is studying mathematics with equal intensity. I can imagine that at night he must sleep with clenched fists and eyelids tight shut, and all the intensity of unconsciousness.

In moments of intense depression he exclaims: “I must get back to work—but I don’t feel like it. I don’t feel funny. Think—think of it: if I never could be funny again!”

It is his visit to England that has shattered him emotionally.

Friday, November 11, 1921.Los Angeles.

Yesterday evening when we started out on a walk, at dusk, a party appeared and waylaid us on our path, they had with them some children, to whom they wished,—they said—to show Charlie Chaplin.

It was a painful moment, he was shy and unprepared, the children gaped, conversation was halting.

“CHARLIE” TELLS DICK THE STORY OF THE WRECKED SHIP ON THE BEACH(Photograph by Clare Sheridan)

“CHARLIE” TELLS DICK THE STORY OF THE WRECKED SHIP ON THE BEACH

(Photograph by Clare Sheridan)

This morning five motors full of children arrived, being the entire family, nephews and nieces of the landowner. The camp was disarrayed, we had planned our departure. Later two reporters appeared and undaunted by the fact that Charlie was not in camp they set out over the dunes in search of him.

I watched them walking back together, Charlie, head bowed the picture of dejection. His last morning had been spoiled, the beauty and peace, so hard to attain, seemed to have been a little tarnished. We left hurriedly, leaving the reporters in possession of the cherished spot that we had not time to look at lingeringly.

“It was time we left—” he said, and I visualised to myself, Charlie hunted, flying from pursuers, lost to view for perhaps 4 days, maybe 5, then discovered, and fleeing again “ad infinitem.” For him no peace. When at the end of a 70 mile drive we reached his house he ordered tea. We sat in chairs by an electric lamp, and tried to talk. We found ourselves making conversation to one another with difficulty. He looked at me as strangely as I looked at him, and then he said:

“You know what’s the matter—We don’t know each other.”

And it was true. I was talking not with the elemental wild-haired Charlie of the campfire, nor yet with Charlie Chaplin of the films, but with a neatly dressed, smooth-haired sophisticated young man I didn’t even know by sight. Civilization and its trappings have changed us both. The past seemed tinged with unreality.

The next day (Nov. 12, 1921) we said goodbye to the sunshine, the orange trees, the avenues of date palms and took the “sunset route” for New York. Charlie came to see us off, and was allowed past the barrier onto the departure platform, a privilege which made him conspicuous. Later, the conductor took Dick aside and asked him if he was Jackie Coogan’s brother! Four whole days and nights we travelled over this endless and tremendous country. Dick said he wished the train were a Mexican train, and I knew what he meant. In Mexico the monotony would have been relieved by an occasional good breakdown, which would have enabled us to bathe in wayside ponds and rivers, or explore woods. But the “Sunset Express” went on and on, day after day, hardly ever stopping. Little by little the dust of the desert and the sunshine of California gave way to greyness and cold, until suddenly one morning we found ourselves in Chicago.

There was no temptation to linger in Chicago.We went to a store and bought some warm clothes, and caught the very next train out.

We got back to New York just in time for Louise and Dick to sail for England on theBaltic. I had made up my mind some time before that I must have Margaret. The ache caused by our separation grew worse, not better. So I risked the possibility of Dick being kidnapped by the family in England and sent him to fetch her.

During the ten days he was there I received about three cables a day from various relations, containing every variety of excuse for the children remaining over there. I was denying them “their British birthright” was the grandiose statement. I felt none too happy and secure until a few days before Xmas a wireless from theCelticannounced their triumphant return. It was a triumph indeed, after six years work, the realisation of this dream, that we should have a home together. As the ship came gliding alongside the quay I saw the pink radiant face, the luminously bright eyes of the little daughter I had not seen for a year. L. and she shouted to me across the narrow water space: “Mummie! Am I ever to leave you again?” I was struck by the strangeness of her English accent. “It will soon go!” she said when I commented on it (and it surely is fading fast!). Dick meanwhile, according to the lettersthat accompanied him, scandalised the already overstrained English relations by saying that “God save the King” was quite “dreadfully awful,” and preferring America to England when asked his opinion. They do not understand that we do not love England less, nor America more; we regard the world as ours and our right is to take the best wherever we find it. Why should one be confined to one country? Italy is my garden, Russia is my church, England is my sleeping-chamber, the United States my work-shop. In my mother’s country there is an atmosphere of hope, a vitality and a work incentive that does not exist any more in the old world. This is called “the land of promise” and people come as to no other country—in thousand and thousands, of all races, creeds and classes. There is no disloyalty implied to the land of one’s birth in seeking fortune beyond its shores. The blood in the veins of some of us may belong to varying countries and conflicting races, and as the only hope for the future peace of the world is in internationalism this spirit should be encouraged—not deplored.

January 9, 1922.

I had settled down in my studio, with the desire that overcomes one after awhile to atone for infidelity. I had firmly resolved never more to write nor speak, and to cleave only to the one artthat is in my heart. My mind was full of new creative work, dancing figures, fantasies and portraits, when suddenly I was asked to go to Boston and address a meeting for Russian relief.

I accepted the offer, not because I presumed that any effort of mine could help much towards the starving Russian babies, but I wanted to see Boston.

I had heard of Boston almost more than of any town in the United States. Henry James whom I’d loved from childhood, had come from there, and my mother-in-law who used to say to me: “I am not American, I am Bostonian.” Henry Adams I had known, and Cabot Lodge, the friend of my father, they too came from there. I had heard of the child who recited the Lord’s prayer saying: “... Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, as it is in Boston,” and so I started off with curiosity, and expectations.

I got there on Friday night just in time to speak at Ford Hall, which was fitted with a motley crowd (and some Motleys among the crowd, who had come out of curiosity to see their unknown in-law, and who would never otherwise have dreamt of going to such a meeting!)

The audience were responsive and sympathetic, but I knew they had to be cajoled, entertained, amused. I made them laugh. So they stayed and listened. I made an appeal, and brought in a fewhundred dollars. But I despise the methods that have to be used to induce sympathy for starving babies. People have to be bribed to give, bribed by the possibility of amusement—endless vitality is exhausted in organising balls, theatre performances, concerts, or entertaining lectures that will draw the otherwise apathetic. I have seen in a little fifth story room on the East Side, the voluntary efforts of skilled workers, who are giving up their Saturday afternoons and holidays and giving their labor free and making garments for the children of Russia from the lengths of woolen material donated by various mills. There I saw some of the garment workers who have been so long out on strike, not only contributing their work, but a dollar a month besides towards the rent of their premises. These were the “Tailors’ Technical Aid Society” for Russian children. These were the people whose services brought a lump to my throat as I watched the zeal and earnestness with which they worked. Theirs was the real blessedness of giving.

To the people of leisure and means I hate to appeal, telling them my personal narrative lightly for their entertainment. Even as I did it, I vowed it should be the last time. On Saturday I was invited to lunch and speak at the Harvard Liberal Club. I went, thinking it would be pleasant andliking immature youth, and having thoughts full of the remote future possibilities of Dick’s education.

As it turned out they were not liberal at all but rather prejudiced, and I was assailed with economic questions and problems. Very erudite indeed were these young men. But they seemed to believe in human nature working only for gain, ignoring completely the existence of enthusiasms and beliefs, and sacrifices for ideals, which made those skilled workers, just referred to, work for no gain at all, as they never would have worked for an employer. I put up the best fight I could, but in the end, feeling exhausted and battered, I thanked God that I had no education but at least an open heart.

After lunch Harry Dana rescued me and took me to his aunt’s house where he lives, and which is called “Longfellow House.” It is of historic interest as having been the residence of Washington and also of Longfellow whose grandson Harry Dana is. The house was quaintly and attractively Georgian and full of dead memories, marble busts and musty laurel wreaths. We retired to his book lined sanctum and with us was an Indian, a follower of Gandhi, who was lecturing at Harvard. We lit a fire and sat before it on the floor while the follower of Gandhi talked to us of Eastern philosophy and oriental serenity. Hewas not calm in spite of all he said about it, but his restlessness was not the impatient unrest of the West, it had the dignity of the tiger. As he paced back and forth, talking the while, his talk was full of poetry and imagery. I realised what had been lacking in the composition of one’s days: Here there is no poetry (with apologies to Johnny Weaver!). There is not time, they say, and dreams are not for practical people. But the follower of Gandhi combined all the practicability and all the activity, restlessness and humor of the West with the force of Eastern imagery. They are great artists, the descendants of a great culture. They, not we, know how to live, and how to love life.

Incidentally I gathered that a hot place to be in, next December, is India! This Indian revolution interests me very much. I believe that before long all eyes will be turned on India.

If Gandhi’s methods of passive resistance are successful, and India is liberated by a comparatively bloodless revolution, it may mark the epoch of a new era and a new religion.

To-day, the majority of people one meets are expressing the desire that Jews and Bolsheviks, and Germans, too, should be wiped out. The Christian peoples whose religion is based on forgiveness, love and tolerance, have been killing each other mercilessly. It is just possible that Christianity is over,that it “went out” in blood and war. Maybe the renaissance of the world will come in the Orient.

Spirit is unquenchable and inextinguishable. When crushed in one part of the world it will reappear elsewhere. I make no pretense of prophecy. I only say: Watch India!

I spent the week-end in the family circle and was overwhelmed with kindness and hospitality. I, who have grown socialistic and Bohemian, suddenly went back to being a perfect lady, and as a novelty enjoyed it. What beautiful manners they had, the Bostonians I met, just naturally beautiful old world manners. They seemed like those well bred people one knows in Europe who are so absolutely “placés,” so deep rootedly aristocratic, that they can afford to be tolerant without fear of losing caste.

I have wondered a good deal about America and Americans during the year I have spent here. They have amused, surprised and bewildered me, but it was not until I came to Boston that I felt I was at home. Even the town is English. There was Beacon Street with its long row of individual small houses just as in London, and every one had a street door. I never went into an apartment. Peoples’ rooms seemed to be full of books instead of American beauty roses. It was in one of these houses, after luncheon one day,that the women left alone together discussed the immortality of the soul without any semblance of effort or affectation.

On Sunday afternoon my host took me to the Public Library as I wanted to see the Sargent mural paintings. Crowds were pouring in. The reading rooms were packed full of silent studious figures. People came, apparently not to look at the Sargent’s and few of them lingered over the Puvis de Chevannes that lined the staircase walls. They came, as people long accustomed to their own, and went straight for the reading rooms. This interested me more even than the paintings I went to see. I felt that all my expectations of Boston were being fulfilled, as if it had been staged for me. Boston could not have been more magnificently Bostonian. Here resplendent in the winter sunlight stood the imposing Library Building, and people kept pouring into it from every direction. It seemed emblematical of all that Boston stands for.

I am glad I have been to Boston, it seems to complete one’s great perplexity concerning the United States. Here is a country that is composed of such widely different towns as Washington, Philadelphia, San Francisco, Los Angeles, all as different from one another as they are different from New York, and as different as New York is from Boston.

I wonder there is any co-ordination of movement or feeling at all in such a country. I wonder there is any political unity, any fraternity, and yet there is more than all that; there exists a national patriotic spirit.

Well—I have finished wondering, it brings one nowhere, it solves nothing. I will return where I belong, to the world of line and form, a world of one’s own imaginings where there are fewer perplexities and more harmonies.

THE END

1Wife of Sir Alan Johnstone, British diplomatic service.

2Prince and Princess Christian of England.

3Hugh Frewen, brother of C. S.

4Who was Minister for foreign affairs under Kolchak.

5F. E. Smith, now Lord Birkenhead, Lord Chancellor of England.

6Daughter of John Lothrop Motley, author of “The Rise of the Dutch Republic,” etc.

7Since writing he has been appointed U. S. Ambassador to Rome.

8Lady Randolph Churchill—Mother of Winston Churchill.

9Popocatapetl, simultaneously with my plans, went into eruption so I never achieved the ascent.

10Margaret, his sister.

Transcriber’s Note:Obvious printer errors corrected silently.Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.

Obvious printer errors corrected silently.

Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.

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