A scene from "Sunnyside," one of my favourite photo plays.
A scene from "Sunnyside," one of my favourite photo plays.
They must think I am very dull. Why, anyone should know the answers to the questions theyfigure. 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 mymind 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 memoriesOf 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.
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 memoriesOf 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.
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.
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 memoriesOf fruit trees laden, by low-singing rills,And dewy dawns and mystical blue skies.In benediction over nunlike hills.
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.
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 mangoNodding 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 shoulderAnd 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;Source to me of sweet delight,In your far-off sunny SouthlandDo you dream of me to-night?
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 mangoNodding 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 shoulderAnd 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;Source to me of sweet delight,In your far-off sunny SouthlandDo you dream of me to-night?
Lovely, dainty Spanish Needle,With your yellow flower and white;Dew-decked and softly sleeping;Do you think of me to-night?
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 mangoNodding o'er the rippling stream,Tell me, dear plant of my childhood,Do you of the exile dream?
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 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 shoulderAnd a pail slung from a string?
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?
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;Source to me of sweet delight,In your far-off sunny SouthlandDo you dream of me to-night?
Lovely, dainty Spanish Needle;
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 mebon 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 anythingthis 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 readingEconomic Democracyby some one important. I have splendid intentions of reading Wells'sOutline 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. Sheis 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.
Everything sails along smoothly and delightfully until the night of the concert for the seaman's fund. This entertainment is customary on all liners and usually is held on the last night out. The passengers provide the entertainment.
I am requested to perform. The thought scares me. It is a great tragedy, and, much as I would like to do something, I am too exhausted and tired. I beg to be excused, I never like making appearances in public. I find that they are always disappointing.
I give all manner of reasons for not appearing—one that I have no particular thing to do, nothing arranged for, that it is against my principles because it spoils illusion—especially for the children. When they see me minus my hat, cane, and shoes, it is like taking the whiskers off Santa Claus. And not having my equipment with me, I feel very conscious of this. I am always self-conscious when meeting children without my make-up for that very reason. I must say the officers werevery sympathetic and understood my reasons for not wanting to appear, and I can assure you that the concert was a distinct success without me. There were music and recitations and singing and dancing, and one passenger did a whistling act, imitating various birds and animals, also the sawing of wood, with the screeching sound made when the saw strikes a knot. It was very effective.
I watched and enjoyed the concert immensely until near the end, when the entertainment chairman announced that I was there and that if the audience urged strongly enough I might do something for them. This was very disconcerting, and after I had explained that I was physically exhausted and had nothing prepared I am sure the audience understood. The chairman, however, announced that it did not matter, as they could see Charlie Chaplin at any time for a nickel—and that's that.
The next day is to be the last aboard. We are approaching land. I have got used to the boat and everybody has got used to me. I have ceased to be a curiosity. They have taken me at my face value—face without moustache and kindred make-up. We have exchanged addresses, cards, invitations; have made new friends, met a lot of charming people, names too numerous to mention.
The lighter is coming out. The top deck is black with men. Somebody tells me they are French and British camera men coming to welcome me. I am up on the top deck, saying good-bye toMme. Namara and her husband. They are getting off at Cherbourg. We are staying aboard.
Suddenly there is an avalanche. All sorts and conditions of men armed with pads, pencils, motion-picture cameras, still cameras. There is an embarrassing pause. They are looking for Charlie Chaplin. Some have recognised me. I see them searching among our little group. Eventually I am pointed out.
"Why, here he is!"
My friends suddenly become frightened and desert me. I feel very much alone, the victim. Square-headed gentlemen with manners different—they are raising their hats.
"Do I speak French?" Some are speaking in French to me—it means nothing, I am bewildered. Others English. They all seem too curious to even do their own business. I find that they are personally interested. Camera men are forgetting to shoot their pictures.
But they recover themselves after their curiosity has been gratified. Then the deluge.
"Are you visiting in London?"
"Why did you come over?"
"Did you bring your make-up?"
"Are you going to make pictures over here?"
Then from Frenchmen:
"Will I visit France?"
"Am I going to Russia?"
I try to answer them all.
"Will you visit Ireland?"
"I don't expect to do so."
"What do you think of the Irish question?"
"It requires too much thought."
"Are you a Bolshevik?"
"I am an artist, not a politician."
"Why do you want to visit Russia?"
"Because I am interested in any new idea."
"What do you think of Lenin?"
"I think him a very remarkable man."
"Why?"
"Because he is expressing a new idea."
"Do you believe in Bolshevism?"
"I am not a politician?"
Others ask me to give them a message to France. A message to London. What have I to say to the people of Manchester? Will I meet Bernard Shaw? Will I meet H. G. Wells? Is it true that I am going to be knighted? How would I solve the unemployment problem?
In the midst of all this a rather mysterious gentleman pulls me to one side and tells me that he knew my father intimately and acted as agent for him in his music-hall engagements. Did I anticipate working? If so, he could get me an engagement. Would I give him the first opportunity? Anyway, he was very pleased to meet me. If I wanted a nice quiet rest I could come down to his place and spend a few days with my kind of people, the people I liked.
I am rescued by my secretaries, who insist that I go to my cabin and lie down. Anything the newspapermen have to ask they will answer for me. I am dragged away bewildered.
Is this what I came six thousand miles for? Is this rest? Where is that vacation that I pictured so vividly?
I lie down and nap until dinner time. I have dinner in my cabin. Now comes another great problem.
Tipping. One has the feeling that if you are looked at you should tip. One thing that I believe in, though—tipping. It gets you good service. It is money well spent. But when and how to tip—that is the question. It is a great problem on shipboard.
There's the bedroom steward, the waiter, the head waiter, the hallboy, the deck steward, boots, bathroom steward, Turkish bath attendants, gymnasium instructor, smoking-room steward, lounge-room steward, page boys, elevator boys, barber. It is depressing. I am harassed as to whether to tip the doctor and the captain.
I am all excited now; full of expectancy. Wonder what's going to happen. After my first encounter with fifty newspaper men at Cherbourg, somehow I do not resent it. Rather like it, in fact. Being a personage is not so bad. I am prepared for the fray. It is exciting. I am advancing on Europe. One o'clock. I am in my cabin. We are to dock in the morning.
I look out of the porthole. I hear voices. They are alongside the dock. Am very emotional now.The mystery of it out there in blackness envelops me. I revel in it—its promise. We are at Southampton. We are in England.
To-morrow! I go to bed thinking of it. To-morrow!
I try to sleep, childishly reasoning that in sleeping I will make the time pass more quickly. My reasoning was sound, perhaps, but somewhere in my anatomy there slipped a cog. I could not sleep. I rolled and tossed, counted sheep, closed my eyes and lay perfectly still, but it was no go. Somewhere within me there stirred a sort of Christmas Eve feeling. To-morrow was too portentous.
I look at my watch. It is two o'clock in the morning. I look through the porthole. It is pitch dark outside. I try to pierce the darkness, but can't. Off in the distance I hear voices coming out of the night. That and the lapping of the waves against the side of the boat.
Then I hear my name mentioned once, twice, three times. I am thrilled. I tingle with expectancy and varying emotions. It is all so peculiar and mysterious. I try to throw off the feeling. I can't.
There seems to be no one awake except a couple of men who are pacing the deck. Longshoremen, probably. Every once in a while I hear the mystic "Charlie Chaplin" mentioned. I peer through the porthole. It is starting to rain. This adds to the spell. I turn out the lights and get back to bed and try to sleep. I get up again and look out.
I call Robinson. "Can you sleep?" I ask.
"No. Let's get up and dress." It's got him, too.
We get up and walk around the top deck. There is a curious mixture of feelings all at once. I am thrilled and depressed. I cannot understand the depression. We keep walking around the deck, looking over the side. People are looking up, but they don't recognise me in the night. I feel myself speculating, wondering if it is going to be the welcome I am expecting.
Scores of messages have been arriving all day.
"Will you accept engagements?" "Will you dine with us?" "How about a few days in the country?" I cannot possibly answer them all. Not receiving replies, they send wireless messages to the captain.
"Mr. Lathom, is Mr. Chaplin on board?" "Has my message been delivered?"
I have never received so many messages. "Will you appear on Tuesday?" "Will you dine here?" "Will you join a revue?" "Are you open for engagements?" "I am the greatest agent in the world."
One of the messages is from the Mayor of Southampton, welcoming me to that city. Others from heads of the motion-picture industry in Europe. This is a source of great worriment. Welcomed by the mayor. It will probably mean a speech. I hate speeches, I can't make them. This is the worst spectre of the night.
In my sleeplessness I go back to my cabin and try to write down what I shall say, trying to anticipate what the mayor will say to me. I picture his speech of welcome. A masterpiece of oratory brought forth after much preparation by those who are always making speeches. It is their game, this speech-making, and I know I shall appear a hopeless dub with my reply.
But I attack it valiantly. I write sentence after sentence and then practise before the mirror.
"Mr. Mayor and the people of Southampton." The face that peers back at me from the mirror looks rather silly. I think of Los Angeles and wonder how they would take my speech there. But I persevere. I write more. I overcome that face in the looking-glass to such an extent that I want a wider audience.
I call Carl Robinson. I make him sit still and listen. I make my speech several times. He is kind the first time and the second time, but after that he begins to get fidgety. He makes suggestions. I take out some lines and put in others. I decide that it is prepared and leave it. I am to meet the mayor in the morning at eight o'clock.
Eventually I get to bed and asleep, a fitful, tossing sleep. They wake me in the morning. People are outside my door. Carl comes in.
"The mayor is upstairs waiting for you." I am twenty minutes late. This adds to my inefficiency.
I am pushed and tumbled into my clothes, thentaken by the arm, as if I were about to be arrested, and led from my cabin. Good Lord! I've forgotten my slip—my speech, my answer to the mayor, with its platform gestures that I had laboured with during the long night. I believed that I had created some new gestures never before attempted on platform, or in pulpit, but I was lost without my copy.
But there is little time for regrets. It doesn't take long to reach any place when that place is holding something fearful for you. I was before the mayor long before I was ready to see him.
This mayor wasn't true to type. He was more like a schoolmaster. Very pleasant and concise, with tortoiseshell rims to his glasses and with none of the ornaments of chain and plush that I had anticipated as part of the regalia of his office. This was somewhat of a relief.
There are lots of men, women and children gathered about. I am introduced to the children. I am whirled around into the crowd, and when I turn back I can't quite make out who is the mayor. There seems to be a roomful of mayors. Eventually I am dug from behind. I turn. I am whirled back by friendly or official assistance. Ah, here is the mayor.
I am welcomed by the Mayor of Southampton.
I am welcomed by the Mayor of Southampton.
I stand bewildered, twirling my thumbs, quite at a loss as to what is expected of me.
The mayor begins. I have been warned that it is going to be very formal.
"Mr. Chaplin, on behalf of the citizens of Southampton—"
Nothing like I had anticipated. I am trying to think. Trying to hear precisely what he says. I think I have him so far. But it is nothing like I had anticipated. My speech doesn't seem to fit what he is saying. I can't help it. I will use it anyhow, at least as much as I can recall.
It is over. I mumble some inane appreciation. Nothing like I had written, with nary a gesture so laboriously rehearsed.
There comes interruptions of excited mothers with their children.
"This is my little girl."
I am shaking hands mechanically with everybody. From all sides autograph albums are being shoved under my nose. Carl is warding them off, protecting me as much as possible.
I am aware that the mayor is still standing there. I am trying to think of something more to say. All visions of language seem to have left me. I find myself mumbling. "This is nice of you" and "I am very glad to meet you all."
Somebody whispers in my ear, "Say something about the English cinema." "Say a word of welcome to the English." I try to and can't utter a word, but the same excitement that had bothered me now comes forward to my aid.
The whole thing is bewildering and thrilling and I find that I am pleased with it all.
But now strange faces seem to fade out and familiar ones take their places. There is Tom Geraghty, who used to be Doug Fairbanks'sscenario writer. He wrote "When the Clouds Roll By" and "The Mollycoddle." Tom is a great friend of mine and we have spent many a pleasant hour in Doug's home in Los Angeles. There is Donald Crisp, who played Battling Burrows in "Broken Blossoms," a clubmate in the Los Angeles Athletic Club.
My cousin, Aubrey Chaplin, a rather dignified gentleman, but with all the earmarks of a Chaplin, greets me.
Heavens! I look something like him. I picture myself in another five years. Aubrey has a saloon in quite a respectable part of London. I feel that Aubrey is a nice simple soul and quite desirous of taking me in hand.
Then Abe Breman, manager of the United Artists' affairs in England. And there is "Sonny," a friend in the days when I was on the stage. I have not heard from him in ten years. It makes me happy and interested, the thought of reviving the old friendship.
We talk of all sorts of subjects. Sonny is prosperous and doing well. He tells me everything in jerky asides, as we are hustled about amidst the baggage and bundled into a compartment that somebody has arranged.
Somehow the crowds here are not so large as I had anticipated. I am a little shocked. What if they don't turn up? Every one has tried to impress upon me the size of the reception I am to get. There is a tinge of disappointment, but then I aminformed that, the boat being a day late, the crowd expected had no way of knowing when I would arrive.
This explanation relieves me tremendously, though it is not so much for myself that I feel this, but for my companions and my friends, who expect so much. I feel that the whole thing should go off with a bang for their sake. Yes, I do.
But I am in England. There is freshness. There is glow. There is Nature in its most benevolent mood. The trains, those little toy trains with the funny little wheels like those on a child's toy. There are strange noises. They come from the engine—snorting, explosive sounds, as though it was clamoring for attention.
I am in another world. Southampton, though I have been there before, is absolutely strange to me. There is nothing familiar. I feel as though I am in a foreign country. Crowds, increasing with every minute. What lovely women, different from American women. How, why, I cannot tell.
There is a beautiful girl peering at me, a lovely English type. She comes to the carriage and in a beautiful, musical voice says, "May I have your signature, Mr. Chaplin?" This is thrilling. Aren't English girls charming? She is just the type you see in pictures, something like Hall Caine's Gloria inThe Christian—beautiful auburn hair, about seventeen.
Seventeen! What an age! I was that once—and here, in England. It seems very long ago.
Tom Geraghty and the bunch, we are all so excited we don't know just what to do or how to act. We cannot collect ourselves. Bursting with pent-up questions of years of gathering, overflowing with important messages for one another, we are talking about the most commonplace things. I find that I am not listening to them, nor they to me. I am just taking it all in, eyes and ears.
An English "bobby." Everything is different. Taking the tickets. The whole thing is upside down. The locking us in our compartment. I look at the crowds. The same old "prop" smile is working. They smile. They cheer. I wave my hat. I feel silly, but it seems that they like it. Will the train never start? I want to see something outside the station.
I want to see the country. They are all saying things. I do not know what they all think of me, my friends. I wish they were not here. I would love to be alone so that I could get it all.
We are moving. I sit forward as though to make the train go faster. I want a sight of Old England. I want more than a sight.
Now I see the English country. New houses going up everywhere. New types for labouring men. More new houses. I have never seen Old England in such a frenzy of building. The brush fields are rather burned up. This is something new for England, for it is always so green. It is not as green as it used to be. But it is England, and I am loving every mile of it.
I discover that everything is Los Angeles in my compartment, with the exception of my cousin and Sonny. Here I am in the midst of Hollywood. I have travelled six thousand miles to get away from Hollywood. Motion pictures are universal. You can't run away from them. But I am not bothering much, because I am cannily figuring on shaking the whole lot of them after the usual dinner and getting off by myself.
And I am getting new thrills every minute. There are people waiting all along the line, at small stations, waiting for the train to pass. I know they are waiting to see me. It's a wonderful sensation—everybody so affectionate. Gee! I am wondering what's going to happen in London?
Aubrey and the bunch are talking about making a strong-arm squad around me for protection. I intimately feel that it is not going to be necessary. They say: "Ah, you don't know, my boy. Wait until you get to London."
Secretly, I am hoping it is true. But I have my doubts. Everybody is nice. They suggest that I should sleep awhile, as I look tired. I feel that I am being pampered and spoiled. But I like it. And they all seem to understand.
My cousin interests me. He warns me what to talk about. At first I felt a little conscious in his presence. A little sensitive. His personality—how it mixes with my American friends. I sense that I am shocking him with my American points of view.
He has not seen me in ten years. I know that I am altered. I sort of want to pose before him a little. I want to shock him; no, not exactly shock him, but surprise him. I find myself deliberately posing and just for him. I want to be different, and I want him to know that I am a different person. This is having its effect.
Aubrey is bewildered. I am sure that he doesn't know me. I feel that I am not acting according to his schedule. It encourages me.
I become radical in my ideas. Against his conservatism. But I am beginning not to like this performing for him. One feels so conscious. I am wondering whether he will understand. There are lots of other people I have got to meet. I won't be able to devote all my time to him. I shall have a long talk with Aubrey later and explain everything. I doze off for a while.
But just for a moment. We are coming to the outskirts of London. I hear nothing, I see nothing, but I know it is so and I awake. Now I am all expectancy. We are entering the suburbs of the city.
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 ofyesterday. 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.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 arewaving. 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, "CharlieArrives." 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 turningup 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 towardthe 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 bouquetof 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 arestill 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 suggesttaking 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 thesame 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.
I jump into the automobile again and we drive along past Christ Church. There's Baxter Hall, where we used to see magic-lantern slides for a penny. The forerunner of the movie of to-day. I see significance in everything around me. You could get a cup of coffee and a piece of cake there and see the Crucifixion of Christ all at the same time.
We are passing the police station. A drear place to youth. Kennington Road is more intimate. It has grown beautiful in its decay. There is something fascinating about it.
Sleepy people seem to be living in the streets more than they used to when I played there. Kennington Baths, the reason for many a day's hookey. You could go swimming there, second class, for three pence (if you brought your own swimming trunks).
Through Brook Street to the upper Bohemian quarter, where third-rate music-hall artists appear. All the same, a little more decayed, perhaps. And yet it is not just the same.
I am seeing it through other eyes. Age trying to look back through the eyes of youth. A common pursuit, though a futile one.
It is bringing home to me that I am a different person. It takes the form of art; it is beautiful. I am very impersonal about it. It is another world, and yet in it I recognise something, as though in a dream.
We pass the Kennington "pub," Kennington Cross, Chester Street, where I used to sleep. The same, but, like its brother landmarks, a bit more dilapidated. There is the old tub outside the stables where I used to wash. The same old tub, a little more twisted.
I tell the driver to pull up again. "Wait a moment." I do not know why, but I want to get out and walk. An automobile has no place in this setting. I have no particular place to go. I just walk along down Chester Street. Children are playing, lovely children. I see myself among them back there in the past. I wonder if any of them will come back some day and look around enviously at other children.
Somehow they seem different from those children with whom I used to play. Sweeter, more dainty were these little, begrimed kids with their arms entwined around one another's waists. Others, little girls mostly, sitting on the doorsteps, with dolls, with sewing, all playing at that universal game of "mothers."
For some reason I feel choking up. As I passthey look up. Frankly and without embarrassment they look at the stranger with their beautiful, kindly eyes. They smile at me. I smile back. Oh, if I could only do something for them. These waifs with scarcely any chance at all.
Now a woman passes with a can of beer. With a white skirt hanging down, trailing at the back. She treads on it. There, she has done it again. I want to shriek with laughter at the joy of being in this same old familiar Kennington. I love it.
It is all so soft, so musical; there is so much affection in the voices. They seem to talk from their souls. There are the inflections that carry meanings, even if words were not understood. I think of Americans and myself. Our speech is hard, monotonous, except where excitement makes it more noisy.
There is a barber shop where I used to be the lather boy. I wonder if the same old barber is still there? I look. No, he is gone. I see two or three kiddies playing on the porch. Foolish, I give them something. It creates attention. I am about to be discovered.
I leap into the taxi again and ride on. We drive around until I have escaped from the neighbourhood where suspicion has been planted and come to the beginning of Lambeth Walk. I get out and walk along among the crowds.
People are shopping. How lovely the cockneys are! How romantic the figures, how sad, how fascinating! Their lovely eyes. How patient theyare! Nothing conscious about them. No affectation, just themselves, their beautifully gay selves, serene in their limitations, perfect in their type.
I am the wrong note in this picture that nature has concentrated here. My clothes are a bit conspicuous in this setting, no matter how unobtrusive my thoughts and actions. Dressed as I am, one never strolls along Lambeth Walk.
I feel the attention I am attracting. I put my handkerchief to my face. People are looking at me, at first slyly, then insistently. Who am I? For a moment I am caught unawares.
A girl comes up—thin, narrow-chested, but with an eagerness in her eyes that lifts her above any physical defects.
"Charlie, don't you know me?"
Of course I know her. She is all excited, out of breath. I can almost feel her heart thumping with emotion as her narrow chest heaves with her hurried breathing. Her face is ghastly white, a girl about twenty-eight. She has a little girl with her.
This girl was a little servant girl who used to wait on us at the cheap lodging-house where I lived. I remembered that she had left in disgrace. There was tragedy in it. But I could detect a certain savage gloriousness in her. She was carrying on with all odds against her. Hers is the supreme battle of our age. May she and all others of her kind meet a kindly fate.
With pent-up feelings we talk about the most commonplace things.
"Well, how are you, Charlie?"
"Fine." I point to the little girl. "Is she your little girl?"
She says, "Yes."
That's all, but there doesn't seem to be much need of conversation. We just look and smile at each other and we both weave the other's story hurriedly through our own minds by way of the heart. Perhaps in our weaving we miss a detail or two, but substantially we are right. There is warmth in the renewed acquaintance. I feel that in this moment I know her better than I ever did in the many months I used to see her in the old days. And right now I feel that she is worth knowing.
There's a crowd gathering. It's come. I am discovered, with no chance for escape. I give the girl some money to buy something for the child, and hurry on my way. She understands and smiles. Crowds are following. I am discovered in Lambeth Walk.
But they are so charming about it. I walk along and they keep behind at an almost standard distance. I can feel rather than hear their shuffling footsteps as they follow along, getting no closer, losing no ground. It reminds me of the Pied Piper of Hamelin.
All these people just about five yards away, all timid, thrilled, excited at hearing my name, but not having the courage to shout it under this spell.
"There he is." "That's 'im." All in whispers hoarse with excitement and carrying forgreat distance, but at the same time repressed by the effort of whispering. What manners these cockneys have! The crowds accumulate. I am getting very much concerned. Sooner or later they are going to come up, and I am alone, defenceless. What folly this going out alone, and along Lambeth Walk!
Eventually I see a bobby, a sergeant—or, rather, I think him one, he looks so immaculate in his uniform. I go to him for protection.
"Do you mind?" I say. "I find I have been discovered. I am Charlie Chaplin. Would you mind seeing me to a taxi?"
"That's all right, Charlie. These people won't hurt you. They are the best people in the world. I have been with them for fifteen years." He speaks with a conviction that makes me feel silly and deservedly rebuked.
I say, "I know it; they are perfectly charming."
"That's just it," he answers. "They are charming and nice."
They had hesitated to break in upon my solitude, but now, sensing that I have protection, they speak out.
"Hello, Charlie!" "God bless you, Charlie!" "Good luck to you, lad!" As each flings his or her greetings they smile and self-consciously back away into the group, bringing others to the fore for their greeting. All of them have a word—old women, men, children. I am almost overcome with the sincerity of their welcome.
We are moving along and come to a street corner and into Kennington Road again. The crowds continue following as though I were their leader, with nobody daring to approach within a certain radius.
The little cockney children circle around me to get a view from all sides.
I see myself among them. I, too, had followed celebrities in my time in Kennington. I, too, had pushed, edged, and fought my way to the front rank of crowds, led by curiosity. They are in rags, the same rags, only more ragged.
They are looking into my face and smiling, showing their blackened teeth. Good God! English children's teeth are terrible! Something can and should be done about it. But their eyes!
Soulful eyes with such a wonderful expression. I see a young girl glance slyly at her beau. What a beautiful look she gives him! I find myself wondering if he is worthy, if he realises the treasure that is his. What a lovely people!
We are waiting. The policeman is busy hailing a taxi. I just stand there self-conscious. Nobody asks any questions. They are content to look. Their steadfast watching is so impressing. I feel small—like a cheat. Their worship does not belong to me. God, if I could only do something for all of them!
But there are too many—too many. Good impulses so often die before this "too many."
I am in the taxi.
"Good-bye, Charlie! God bless you!" I am on my way.
The taxi is going up Kennington Road along Kennington Park. Kennington Park. How depressing Kennington Park is! How depressing to me are all parks! The loneliness of them. One never goes to a park unless one is lonesome. And lonesomeness is sad. The symbol of sadness, that's a park.
But I am fascinated now with it. I am lonesome and want to be. I want to commune with myself and the years that are gone. The years that were passed in the shadow of this same Kennington Park. I want to sit on its benches again in spite of their treacherous bleakness, in spite of the drabness.
But I am in a taxi. And taxis move fast. The park is out of sight. Its alluring spell is dismissed with its passing. I did not sit on the bench. We are driving toward Kennington Gate.
Kennington Gate. That has its memories. Sad, sweet, rapidly recurring memories.
'Twas here, my first appointment with Hetty (Sonny's sister). How I was dolled up in my little, tight-fitting frock coat, hat, and cane! I was quite the dude as I watched every street car until four o'clock waiting for Hetty to step off, smiling as she saw me waiting.
I get out and stand there for a few moments at Kennington Gate. My taxi driver thinks I am mad. But I am forgetting taxi drivers. I am seeing a lad of nineteen, dressed to the pink, with flutteringheart, waiting, waiting for the moment of the day when he and happiness walked along the road. The road is so alluring now. It beckons for another walk, and as I hear a street car approaching I turn eagerly, for the moment almost expecting to see the same trim Hetty step off, smiling.
The car stops. A couple of men get off. An old woman. Some children. But no Hetty.
Hetty is gone. So is the lad with the frock coat and cane.
Back into the cab, we drive up Brixton Road. We pass Glenshore Mansions—a more prosperous neighbourhood. Glenshore Mansions, which meant a step upward to me, where I had my Turkish carpets and my red lights in the beginning of my prosperity.
We pull up at The Horns for a drink. The same Horns. Used to adjoin the saloon bar. It has changed. Its arrangement is different. I do not recognise the keeper. I feel very much the foreigner now; do not know what to order. I am out of place. There's a barmaid.
How strange, this lady with the coiffured hair and neat little shirtwaist!
"What can I do for you, sir?"
I am swept off my feet. Impressed. I want to feel very much the foreigner. I find myself acting.
"What have you got?"
She looks surprised.
"Ah, give me ginger beer." I find myself becoming a little bit affected. I refuse to understandthe money—the shillings and the pence. It is thoroughly explained to me as each piece is counted before me. I go over each one separately and then leave it all on the table.
There are two women seated at a near-by table. One is whispering to the other. I am recognised.
"That's 'im; I tell you 'tis."
"Ah, get out! And wot would 'e be a-doin' 'ere?"
I pretend not to hear, not to notice. But it is too ominous. Suddenly a white funk comes over me and I rush out and into the taxi again. It's closing time for a part of the afternoon. Something different. I am surprised. It makes me think it is Sunday. Then I learn that it is a new rule in effect since the war.
I am driving down Kennington Road again. Passing Kennington Cross.
Kennington Cross.
It was here that I first discovered music, or where I first learned its rare beauty, a beauty that has gladdened and haunted me from that moment. It all happened one night while I was there, about midnight. I recall the whole thing so distinctly.
I was just a boy, and its beauty was like some sweet mystery. I did not understand. I only knew I loved it and I became reverent as the sounds carried themselves through my brainviamy heart.
I suddenly became aware of a harmonica and a clarinet playing a weird, harmonious message. I learned later that it was "The Honeysuckle andthe Bee." It was played with such feeling that I became conscious for the first time of what melody really was. My first awakening to music.
I remembered how thrilled I was as the sweet sounds pealed into the night. I learned the words the next day. How I would love to hear it now, that same tune, that same way!
Conscious of it, yet defiant, I find myself singing the refrain softly to myself: