You are the honey, honeysuckle. I am the bee;I'd like to sip the honey, dear, from those red lips. You seeI love you dearie, dearie, and I want you to love me—You are my honey, honeysuckle. I am your bee.
You are the honey, honeysuckle. I am the bee;I'd like to sip the honey, dear, from those red lips. You seeI love you dearie, dearie, and I want you to love me—You are my honey, honeysuckle. I am your bee.
You are the honey, honeysuckle. I am the bee;
I'd like to sip the honey, dear, from those red lips. You see
I love you dearie, dearie, and I want you to love me—
You are my honey, honeysuckle. I am your bee.
Kennington Cross, where music first entered my soul. Trivial, perhaps, but it was the first time.
There are a few stragglers left as I pass on my way along Manchester Bridge at the Prince Road. They are still watching me. I feel that Kennington Road is alive to the fact that I am in it. I am hoping that they are feeling that I have come back, not that I am a stranger in the public eye.
I am on my way back. Crossing Westminster Bridge. I enter a new land. I go back to the Haymarket, back to the Ritz to dress for dinner.
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 pretendto 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.
My "property grin."
My "property grin."
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 canjust 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 tellmy 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.
So we wandered along through South London by Kennington Cross and Kennington Gate, Newington Butts, Lambeth Walk, and the Clapham Road, and all through the neighbourhood. Almost every step brought back memories, most of them of a tender sort. I was right here in the midst of my youth, but somehow I seemed apart from it. I felt as though I was viewing it under a glass. It could be seen all too plainly, but when I reached to touch it it was not there—only the glass could be felt, this glass that had been glazed by the years since I left.
If I could only get through the glass and touch the real live thing that had called me back to London. But I couldn't.
A man cannot go back. He thinks he can, but other things have happened to his life. He has new ideas, new friends, new attachments. He doesn't belong to his past, except that the past has, perhaps, made marks on him.
My friends and I continue our stroll—a stroll so pregnant with interest to me at times that I forget that I have company and wander along alone.
Who is that old derelict there against the cart? Another landmark. I look at him closely. He is the same—only more so. Well do I remember him, the old tomato man. I was about twelve when I first saw him, and he is still here in the same old spot, plying the same old trade, while I—
I can picture him as he first appeared to me standing beside his round cart heaped with tomatoes, his greasy clothes shiny in their unkemptness, the rather glassy single eye that had looked from one side of his face staring at nothing in particular, but giving you the feeling that it was seeing all, the bottled nose with the network of veins spelling dissipation.
I remember how I used to stand around and wait for him to shout his wares. His method never varied. There was a sudden twitching convulsion, and he leaned to one side, trying to straighten out the other as he did so, and then, taking into his one good lung all the air it would stand, he would let forth a clattering, gargling, asthmatic, high-pitched wheeze, a series of sounds which defied interpretation.
Somewhere in the explosion there could be detected "ripe tomatoes." Any other part of his message was lost.
And he was still here. Through summer suns and winter snows he had stood and was standing. Only a bit more decrepit, a bit older, more dyspeptic, his clothes greasier, his shoulder rounder, his one eye rather filmy and not so all-seeingas it once was. And I waited. But he did not shout his wares any more. Even the good lung was failing. He just stood there inert in his ageing. And somehow the tomatoes did not look so good as they once were.
We get into a cab and drive back towards Brixton to the Elephant and Castle, where we pull up at a coffee store. The same old London coffee store, with its bad coffee and tea.
There are a few pink-cheeked roués around and a couple of old derelicts. Then there are a lot of painted ladies, many of them with young men and the rest of them looking for young men. Some of the young fellows are minus arms and many of them carry various ribbons of military honour. They are living and eloquent evidence of the War and its effects. There are a number of stragglers. The whole scene to me is depressing. What a sad London this is! People with tired, worn faces after four years of War!
Someone suggests that we go up and see George Fitzmaurice, who lives in Park Lane. There we can get a drink and then go to bed. We jump in a cab and are soon there. What a difference! Park Lane is another world after the Elephant and Castle. Here are the homes of the millionaires and the prosperous.
Fitzmaurice is quite a successful moving-picture director. We find a lot of friends at his house, and over whiskies-and-sodas we discuss our trip. Our trip through Kennington suggests Limehouse, andconversation turns toward that district and Thomas Burke.
I get their impressions of Limehouse. It is not as tough as it has been pictured. I rather lost my temper through the discussion.
One of those in the party, an actor, spoke very sneeringly of that romantic district and its people.
"Talk about Limehouse nights. I thought they were tough down there. Why, they are like a lot of larks!" said this big-muscled leading man.
And then he tells of a visit to the Limehouse district—a visit made solely for the purpose of finding trouble. How he had read of the tough characters there and how he had decided to go down to find out how tough they were.
"I went right down there into their joints," he said, "and told them that I was looking for somebody that was tough, the tougher the better, and I went up to a big mandarin wearing a feather and said: 'Give me the toughest you've got. You fellows are supposed to be tough down here, so let's see how tough you are.' And I couldn't get a rise out of any of them," he concluded.
This was enough for me. It annoyed.
I told him that it was very fine for well-fed, over-paid actors flaunting toughness at these deprived people, who are gentle and nice and, if ever tough, only so because of environment. I asked him just how tough he would be if he were living the life that some of these unfortunate families must live.How easy for him, with five meals a day beneath that thrust-out chest with his muscles trained and perfect, trying to start something with these people. Of course they were not tough, but when it comes to four years of War, when it comes to losing an arm or a leg, then they are tough. But they are not going around looking for fights unless there is a reason.
It rather broke up the party, but I was feeling so disgusted that I did not care.
We meander along, walking from Park Lane to the Ritz.
On our way we are stopped by two or three young girls. They are stamped plainly and there is no subtlety about their "Hello boys! You are not going home so early?" They salute us. We wait a moment. They pause and then wave their hands to us and we beckon them.
"How is it you are up so late?" They are plainly embarrassed at this question. Perhaps it has been a long time since they were given the benefit of the doubt. They are not sure just what to say. We are different. Their usual method of attack or caress does not seem in order, so they just giggle.
Here is life in its elemental rawness. I feel very kindly disposed toward them, particularly after my bout with the well-fed actor who got his entertainment from the frailties of others. But it is rather hard for us to mix. There is a rather awkward silence.
Then one of the girls asks if we have a cigarette. Robinson gives them a package, which they share between the three of them. This breaks the ice. They feel easier. The meeting is beginning to run along the parliamentary rules that they know.
Do we know where they can get a drink?
"No." This is a temporary setback, but they ask if we mind their walking along a bit with us. We don't, and we walk along towards the Ritz. They are giggling, and before long I am recognised. They are embarrassed.
They look down at their shabby little feet where ill-fitting shoes run over at the heels. Their cheap little cotton suits class them even low in their profession, though their youth is a big factor toward their potential rise when they have become hardened and their mental faculties have become sharpened in their eternal battles with men. Then men will come to them.
Knowing my identity, they are on their good behaviour. No longer are we prospects. We are true adventure for them this night. Their intimacy has left them and in its place there appears a reserve which is attractive even in its awkwardness.
The conversation becomes somewhat formal. And we are nearing the hotel, where we must leave them. They are very nice and charming now, and are as timid and reserved as though they had just left a convent.
They talk haltingly of the pictures they haveseen, shyly telling how they loved me in "Shoulder Arms," while one of them told how she wept when she saw "The Kid" and how she had that night sent some money home to a little kid brother who was in school and staying there through her efforts in London.
The difference in them seems so marked when they call me Mr. Chaplin and I recall how they had hailed us as "Hello, boys." Somehow I rather resent the change. I wish they would be more intimate in their conversation. I would like to get their viewpoint. I want to talk to them freely. They are so much more interesting than most of the people I meet.
But there is a barrier. Their reserve stays. I told them that I was sure they were tired and gave them cab fare.
One of their number speaks for the trio.
"Thanks, Mr. Chaplin, very much. I could do with this, really. I was broke, honest. Really, this comes in very handy."
They could not quite understand our being nice and sympathetic.
They were used to being treated in the jocular way of street comradery. Finer qualities came forward under the respectful attention we gave them, something rather nice that had been buried beneath the veneer of their trade.
Their thanks are profuse, yet awkward. They are not used to giving thanks. They usually pay, and pay dearly, for anything handed them. Webid them "good night." They smile and walk away.
We watch them for a bit as they go on their way. At first they are strolling along, chattering about their adventure. Then, as if on a signal, they straighten up as though bracing themselves, and with quickened steps they move toward Piccadilly, where a haze of light is reflected against the murky sky.
It is the beacon light from their battleground, and as we follow them with our eyes these butterflies of the night make for the lights where there is laughter and gaiety.
As we go along to the Ritz we are all sobered by the encounter with the three little girls. I think blessed is the ignorance that enables them to go on without the mental torture that would come from knowing the inevitable that awaits them.
As we go up the steps of the hotel we see a number of derelicts huddled asleep against the outside of the building, sitting under the arches and doors, men and women, old and young, underfed, deprived, helpless, so much so that the imprint of helplessness is woven into their brain and brings on an unconsciousness that is a blessing.
We wake them up and hand them each money. "Here, get yourself a bed."
They are too numbed. They thank us mechanically, accepting what we give them, but their reaction and thanks are more physical than mental.
There was one old woman about seventy. I gave her something. She woke up, or stirred in her sleep, took the money without a word of thanks—took it as though it was her ration from the bread line and no thanks were expected, huddled herself up in a tighter knot than before, and continued her slumber. The inertia of poverty had long since claimed her.
We rang the night bell at the Ritz, for they are not like our American hotels, where guests are in the habit of coming in at all hours of the night. The Ritz closes its doors at midnight, and after that hour you must ring them.
But the night was not quite over. As we were ringing the bell we noticed a waggon a little way off in the street, with the horse slipping and the driver out behind the waggon with his shoulder to the wheel and urging the horse along with cheery words.
We walked to the waggon and found it was loaded with apples and on its way to the market. The streets were so slippery that the horse could not negotiate the hill. I could not help but think how different from the usual driver this man was.
He did not belay the tired animal with a whip and curse and swear at him in his helplessness. He saw that the animal was up against it, and instead of beating him he got out and put his shoulder to the wheel, never for the moment doubting that the horse was doing his best.
We all went out into the street and put our shoulders against the waggon along with the driver. He thanked us, and as we finally got the momentum necessary to carry it over the hill he said:
"These darn roads are so slippery that the darned horse even can't pull it."
It was a source of wonder to him that he should come upon something too much for his horse. And the horse was so well fed and well kept. I could not help but notice how much better the animal looked than his master. The evening was over. I don't know but that the incident of the apple waggon was a fitting finale.
The next morning for the first time I am made to give my attention to the mail that has been arriving. We have been obliged to have another room added to our suite in order to have some place in which to keep the numerous sacks that are being brought to us at all hours.
The pile is becoming so mountainous that we are compelled to engage half a dozen stenographers just for the purpose of reading and classifying them.
We found that there were 73,000 letters or cards addressed to me during the first three days in London, and of this number more than 28,000 were begging letters—letters begging anywhere from £1 to £100,000.
Countless and varied were the reasons set forth. Some were ridiculous. Some were amusing. Some were pathetic. Some were insulting. All of them in earnest.
I discovered from the mail that there are 671 relatives of mine in England that I knew nothing about.
The greater part of these were cousins, and they gave very detailed family-tree tracings in support of their claims. All of them wished to be set up in business or to get into the movies.
But the cousins did not have a monopoly on the relationships. There were brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles, and there were nine claiming to be my mother, telling wondrous adventure stories about my being stolen by gipsies when a baby or being left on doorsteps, until I began to think my youth had been a very hectic affair. But I did not worry much about these last, as I had left a perfectly good mother back in California, and so far I have been pretty much satisfied with her.
There were letters addressed just to Charles Chaplin, some to King Charles, some to the "King of Mirth"; on some there was drawn the picture of a battered derby; some carried a reproduction of my shoes and cane; and in some there was stuck a white feather with the question as to what I was doing during the war?
Would I visit such and such institutions? Would I appear for such and such charity? Would I kick off the football season or attend some particular Soccer game? Then there were letters of welcome and one enclosing an iron cross inscribed, "For your services in the Great War,"and "Where were you when England was fighting?"
Then there were others thanking me for happiness given the senders. These came by the thousand. One young soldier sent me four medals he had gotten during the big war. He said that he was sending them because I had never been properly recognised. His part was so small and mine so big, he said, that he wanted me to have hisCroix de Guerre, his regimental and other medals.
Some of the letters were most interesting. Here are a few samples:
Dear Mr. Chaplin,—You are a leader in your line and I am a leader in mine. Your speciality is moving pictures and custard pies. My speciality is windmills.I know more about windmills than any man in the world. I have studied the winds all over the world and am now in a position to invent a windmill that will be the standard mill of the world, and it will be made so it can be adapted to the winds of the tropics and the winds of the arctic regions.I am going to let you in on this in an advantageous way. You have only to furnish the money. I have the brains, and in a few years I will make you rich and famous. You had better 'phone me for quick action.
Dear Mr. Chaplin,—You are a leader in your line and I am a leader in mine. Your speciality is moving pictures and custard pies. My speciality is windmills.
I know more about windmills than any man in the world. I have studied the winds all over the world and am now in a position to invent a windmill that will be the standard mill of the world, and it will be made so it can be adapted to the winds of the tropics and the winds of the arctic regions.
I am going to let you in on this in an advantageous way. You have only to furnish the money. I have the brains, and in a few years I will make you rich and famous. You had better 'phone me for quick action.
Dear Mr. Chaplin,—Won't you please let me have enough money to send little Oscar to college? Little Oscar is twelve, and the neighbours all say that he is the brightest little boy they have ever seen. And he can imitate you so well that we don't have to go to the movies any more. [This is dangerous. Oscar is a real competitor, ruining my business.] And so, if youcan't send the little fellow to college, won't you take him in the movies with you like you did Jackie Coogan?
Dear Mr. Chaplin,—Won't you please let me have enough money to send little Oscar to college? Little Oscar is twelve, and the neighbours all say that he is the brightest little boy they have ever seen. And he can imitate you so well that we don't have to go to the movies any more. [This is dangerous. Oscar is a real competitor, ruining my business.] And so, if youcan't send the little fellow to college, won't you take him in the movies with you like you did Jackie Coogan?
Dear Mr. Chaplin,—My brother is a sailor, and he is the only man in the world who knows where Capt. Kidd's gold is buried. He has charts and maps and everything necessary, including a pick and shovel. But he cannot pay for the boat.Will you pay for the boat, and half the gold is yours? All you need do is to say "yes" to me in a letter, and I will go out and look for John as he is off somewhere on a bust, being what you might call a drinking man when ashore. But I am sure that I can find him, as he and I drink in the same places. Your shipmate.
Dear Mr. Chaplin,—My brother is a sailor, and he is the only man in the world who knows where Capt. Kidd's gold is buried. He has charts and maps and everything necessary, including a pick and shovel. But he cannot pay for the boat.
Will you pay for the boat, and half the gold is yours? All you need do is to say "yes" to me in a letter, and I will go out and look for John as he is off somewhere on a bust, being what you might call a drinking man when ashore. But I am sure that I can find him, as he and I drink in the same places. Your shipmate.
Dear Charlie,—Have you ever thought of the money to be made in peanuts? I know the peanut industry, but I am not telling any of my business in a letter. If you are interested in becoming a peanut king, then I'm your man. Just address me as Snapper Dodge, above address.
Dear Charlie,—Have you ever thought of the money to be made in peanuts? I know the peanut industry, but I am not telling any of my business in a letter. If you are interested in becoming a peanut king, then I'm your man. Just address me as Snapper Dodge, above address.
Dear Mr. Chaplin,—My daughter has been helping me about my boarding-house now for several years, and I may say that she understands the art of catering to the public as wishes to stay in quarters. But she has such high-toned ideas, like as putting up curtains in the bathroom and such that at times I think she is too good for the boarding-house business and should be having her own hotel to run.If you could see your way to buy a hotel in London or New York for Drusilla, I am sure that before long your name and Drusilla's would be linked together all over the world because of what Drusilla would do to the hotel business. And she would save money because she could make all the beds and cook herself, and at nights could invent the touches like what I have mentioned. Drusilla is waiting for you to call her.
Dear Mr. Chaplin,—My daughter has been helping me about my boarding-house now for several years, and I may say that she understands the art of catering to the public as wishes to stay in quarters. But she has such high-toned ideas, like as putting up curtains in the bathroom and such that at times I think she is too good for the boarding-house business and should be having her own hotel to run.
If you could see your way to buy a hotel in London or New York for Drusilla, I am sure that before long your name and Drusilla's would be linked together all over the world because of what Drusilla would do to the hotel business. And she would save money because she could make all the beds and cook herself, and at nights could invent the touches like what I have mentioned. Drusilla is waiting for you to call her.
Dear Mr. Chaplin,—I am enclosing pawn tickets for Grandma's false teeth and our silver water pitcher, also a rent bill showing that our rent was due yesterday. Of course, we would rather have you pay our rent first, but if you could spare it, grandma's teeth would be acceptable, and we can't hold our heads up among the neighbours since father sneaked our silver pitcher to get some beer.
Dear Mr. Chaplin,—I am enclosing pawn tickets for Grandma's false teeth and our silver water pitcher, also a rent bill showing that our rent was due yesterday. Of course, we would rather have you pay our rent first, but if you could spare it, grandma's teeth would be acceptable, and we can't hold our heads up among the neighbours since father sneaked our silver pitcher to get some beer.
Here are extracts from a number of letters selected at random from the mountain of mail awaiting me at the hotel:
"—— wishes Mr. Chaplin a hearty welcome and begs him to give him the honour of shaving him on Sunday, Sept. 11, any time which he thinks suitable."
A West End moneylender has forwarded his business card, which states: "Should you require temporary cash accommodation, I am prepared to advance you £50 to £10,000 on note of hand alone, without fees or delay. All communications strictly private and confidential."
A man living in Golden Square, W., writes: "My son, in the endeavour to get a flower thrown by you from the Ritz Hotel, lost his hat, the bill for which I enclose, seven shillings and sixpence."
A Liverpool scalp specialist gathers that Mr. Chaplin is much concerned regarding the appearance of grey hairs in his head. "I claim to be," he adds, "the only man in Great Britain who can and does restore the colour of grey hair. You may visit Liverpool, and if you will call I shall bepleased to examine your scalp and give you a candid opinion. If nothing can be done I will state so frankly."
"Is there any chance," writes a woman of Brixton, "of you requiring for your films the services of twin small boys nearly four years old and nearly indistinguishable? An American agent has recently been in this neighbourhood and secured a contract with two such small girls (twins), which points to at least a demand for such on American films."
A widow of sixty-two writes: "I have a half-dozen china teaset of the late Queen Victoria's diamond jubilee, and it occurred to me that you might like to possess it. If you would call or allow me to take it anywhere for you to see, I would gladly do so. I have had it twenty-four years, and would like to raise money on it."
A South London picture dealer writes: "If ever you should be passing this way when you are taking your quiet strolls around London, I would like you to drop in and see a picture that I think might interest you. It is the Strand by night, painted by Arthur Grimshaw in 1887. I hope you won't think I have taken too much of a liberty—but I knew your mother when I was in Kate Paradise's troupe, and I think she would remember me if ever you were to mention Clara Symonds of that troupe. It is a little link with the past."
"Dear Old Friend,—Some months ago I wrote to you, and no doubt you will remember me.I was in 'Casey's Court,' and, as you know, we had Mr. Murray for our boss. You have indeed got on well. I myself have only this month come home from being in Turkey for eight years. Dear old boy, I should like to see you when you come to London—that is, if you do not mind mixing with one of the Casey's Court urchins."
A Sussex mother writes: "Would you grant a few moments' interview to a little girl of nine (small for her years) whom I am anxious to start on the films? She has much in her favour, being not only bright and clever, but unusually attractive in appearance, receiving unlimited attention wherever she goes, as she is really quite out of the ordinary."
A disengaged actress writes: "If you should take a film in England it would be a great kindness to employ some of the hundreds of actresses out of work now and with no prospects of getting any. A walk-on would be a very welcome change to many of us, to say nothing of a part."
A Somerset man writes: "A friend of mine has a very old-time spot right here in Somerset, with the peacocks wandering across the well-kept grounds and three lovely trout ponds, where last night I brought home five very fine rainbow trout each weighing about one-and-a-half pounds. You will be tired of the crowds. Slip away down to me and I will give you ten days or more of the best time you can get. There will be no side or style, and your oldest clothes will be the thing."
Another correspondent says: "My husband andI should consider it an honour if during your visit to South London you would call and take a homely cup of tea with us. I read in the paper of your intention to stay at an old-fashioned inn, and should like to recommend the White Horse Inn at Sheen, which, I believe, is the oldest in Surrey. It certainly corresponds with your ideal. Welcome to your home town."
This from the seaside: "When you are really tired of the rush of London there is a very nice little place called Seaford, not very far from London, just a small place where you can have a real rest. No dressing up, etc., and then fishing, golf, and tennis if you care for the same. You could put up at an hotel or here. There will be no one to worry you. Don't forget to drop us a line."
A London clubman, in offering hospitality, says: "I do not know you. You do not know me, and probably don't want to. But just think it over and come and have a bit of lunch with me one day. This between ourselves—no publicity."
"Saint Pancras Municipal Officers' Swimming Club would be greatly honoured by your presiding at our annual swimming gala to be held at the St. Pancras Public Baths."
Dorothy, writing from Poplar, asks: "Dear Mr. Charlie Chaplin, if you have a pair of old boots at home will you throw them at me for luck?"
An aspirant for the position of secretary writes: "I am a musical comedy artist by profession, but am at present out of work. I am six feet twoinches in height and 27 years of age. If there is any capacity in which you can use my services I shall be very thankful. Hoping you will have an enjoyable stay in your home country."
A Barnes man writes: "If you have time we should be very proud if you could spare an afternoon to come to tea. We should love to give you a real old-fashioned Scotch tea, if you would care to come. We know you will be fêted, and everyone will want you, but if you feel tired and want a wee rest come out quietly to us. If it wasn't for your dear funny ways on the screen during the war we would all have gone under."
"Dear Charles," writes an eleven-year-old, "I'd like to meet you very, very much. I'd like to meet you just to say thank you for all the times you've cheered me up when I've felt down and miserable. I've never met you and I don't suppose I ever will, but you will always be my friend and helper. I'd love your photograph signed by you! Are you likely to come to Harrogate? I wish you would. Perhaps you could come and see me. Couldn't you try?"
I wish I could read them all, for in every one there is human feeling, and I wish it were possible that I could accept some of the invitations, especially those inviting me to quietness and solitude. But there are thousands too many. Most of them will have to be answered by my secretaries, but all of them will be answered, and we are taking trunkfuls of the letters back to California in order thatas many of the requests as possible shall receive attention.
During the afternoon there came Donald Crisp, Tom Geraghty and the bunch, and before long my apartment in the London Ritz might just as well be home in Los Angeles. I realise that I am getting nowhere, meeting nobody and still playing in Hollywood.
I have travelled 6,000 miles and find I have not shaken the dust of Hollywood from my shoes. I resent this. I tell Knoblock I must meet other people besides Geraghty and the Hollywood bunch. I have seen as much as I want to see of it. Now I want to meet people.
Knoblock smiles, but he is too kind to remind me of my retreat before the name plate of Bernard Shaw. He and I go shopping and I am measured for some clothes; then to lunch with E. V. Lucas.
Lucas is a very charming man, sympathetic and sincere. He has written a number of very good books. It is arranged to give me a party that night at the Garrick Club.
After luncheon we visit Stoll's Theatre, where "Shoulder Arms" and Mary Pickford's picture "Suds," are being shown. This is my first experience in an English cinema. The opera house is one that was built by Steinhouse and then turned into a movie theatre.
It is strange and odd to see the English audience drinking tea and eating pastry while watching the performance. I find very little difference in theirappreciation of the picture. All the points tell just the same as in America. I get out without being recognised and am very thankful for that.
Another scene from "Sunnyside," one of my favourite photo plays.
Another scene from "Sunnyside," one of my favourite photo plays.
Back to the hotel and rest for the evening before my dinner at the Garrick Club.
The thought of dining at the Garrick Club brought up before me the mental picture that I have always carried of that famous old meeting place in London, where Art is most dignified. And the club itself realised my picture to the fullest.
Tradition and custom are so deep-rooted there that I believe its routine would go on through sheer mechanics of spirit, even if its various employees should forget to show up some day. The corners seem almost peopled with the ghosts of Henry Irving and his comrades. There in one end of the gloomy old room is a chair in which David Garrick himself sat.
All those at the dinner were well known in art circles—E. V. Lucas, Walter Hackett, George Frampton, J. M. Barrie, Herbert Hammil, Edward Knoblock, Harry Graham, N. Nicholas, Nicholas D. Davies, Squire Bancroft, and a number of others whose names I do not remember.
What an interesting character is Squire Bancroft. I am told that he is England's oldest living actor, and he is now retired. He does not look as though he should retire.
I am late and that adds to an embarrassment which started as soon as I knew I was to meet Barrie and so many other famous people.
There is Barrie. He is pointed out to me just about the time I recognise him myself. This is my primary reason for coming. To meet Barrie. He is a small man, with a dark moustache and a deeply marked, sad face, with heavily shadowed eyes; but I detect lines of humour lurking around his mouth. Cynical? Not exactly.
I catch his eye and make motions for us to sit together, and then find that the party had been planned that way anyhow. There is the inevitable hush for introductions. How I hate it. Names are the bane of my existence. Personalities, that's the thing.
But everyone seems jovial except Barrie. His eyes look sad and tired. But he brightens as though all along there had been that hidden smile behind the mask. I wonder if they are all friendly toward me, or if I am just the curiosity of the moment.
There is an embarrassing pause, after we have filed into the dining-room, which E. V. Lucas breaks.
"Gentlemen, be seated."
I felt almost like a minstrel man and the guests took their seats as simultaneously as though rehearsed for it.
I feel very uncomfortable mentally. I cough. What shall I say to Barrie? Why hadn't I given it some thought? I am aware that Squire Bancroft is seated at my other side. I feel as though I am in a vice with its jaws closing as the clock ticks.Why did I come? The atmosphere is so heavy, yet I am sure they feel most hospitable toward me.
I steal a glance at Squire Bancroft. He looks every bit the eminent old-school actor. The dignity and tradition of the English stage is written into every line in his face. I remember Nicholson having said that the squire would not go to a "movie," that he regarded his stand as a principle. Then why is he here? He is going to be difficult, I fear.
He breaks the ice with the announcement that he had been to a movie that day! Coming from him it was almost a shock.
"Mr. Chaplin, the reading of the letter in 'Shoulder Arms' was the high spot of the picture." This serious consideration from the man who would not go to the movies.
I wanted to hug him. Then I learn that he had told everyone not to say anything about his not having been to a movie for fear that it would offend me. He leans over and whispers his age and tells me he is the oldest member of the club. He doesn't look within ten years of his age. I find myself muttering inanities in answering him.
Then Barrie tells me that he is looking for some one to play Peter Pan and says he wants me to play it. He bowls me over completely. To think that I was avoiding and afraid to meet such a man! But I am afraid to discuss it with him seriously, am on my guard because he may decide that I know nothing about it and change his mind.
Just imagine, Barrie has asked me to play Peter Pan! It is too big and grand to risk spoiling it by some chance witless observation, so I change the subject and let this golden opportunity pass. I have failed completely in my first skirmish with Barrie.
There are laboured jokes going the rounds of the table and everyone seems to feel conscious of some duty that is resting on his shoulders ungracefully.
One ruddy gentleman whose occupation is a most serious one, I am told, that of building a giant memorial in Whitehall to the dead of the late War, is reacting to the situation most flippantly. His conversation, which has risen to a pitch of almost hysterical volume, is most ridiculously comic. He is a delightful buffoon.
Everyone is laughing at his chatter, but nothing seems to be penetrating my stupidity, though I am carrying with me a wide mechanical grin, which I broaden and narrow with the nuances of the table laughing. I feel utterly out of the picture, that I don't belong, that there must be something significant in the badinage that is bandied about the board.
Barrie is speaking again about moving pictures. I must understand. I summon all of my scattered faculties to bear upon what he is saying. What a peculiarly shaped head he has.
He is speaking of "The Kid," and I feel that he is trying to flatter me. But how he does it! He is criticising the picture.
He is very severe. He declares that the"heaven" scene was entirely unnecessary, and why did I give it so much attention? And why so much of the mother in the picture, and why the meeting of the mother and the father? All of these things he is discussing analytically and profoundly, so much so that I find that my feeling of self-consciousness is rapidly leaving me.
I find myself giving my side of the argument without hesitation, because I am not so sure that Barrie is right, and I had reasons, good reasons, for wanting all those things in the picture. But I am thrilled at his interest and appreciation and it is borne in upon me that by discussing dramatic construction with me he is paying a very gracious and subtle compliment. It is sweet of him. It relieves me of the last vestige of my embarrassment.
"But, Sir James," I am saying, "I cannot agree with you—" Imagine the metamorphosis. And our discussion continues easily and pleasantly. I am aware of his age as he talks and I get more of his spirit of whimsicality.
The food is being served and I find that E. V. Lucas has provided a treacle pudding, a particular weakness of mine, to which I do justice. I am wondering if Barrie resents age, he who is so youthful in spirit.
There seems to be lots of fun in the general buffoonery that is going on around the table, but despite all efforts to the contrary I am serving a diet of silence. I feel very colourless, that the whole conversation that is being shouted is colourless.
I am a good audience. I laugh at anything and dare not speak. Why can't I be witty? Are they trying to draw me out? Maybe I am wrong and there is a purpose behind this buffoonery. But I hardly know whether to retaliate in kind, or just grin.
I am dying for something to happen. Lucas is rising. We all feel the tension. Why are parties like that? It ends.
Barrie is whispering, "Let's go to my apartment for a drink and a quiet talk," and I begin to feel that things are most worth while. Knoblock and I walk with him to Adelphi Terrace, where his apartment overlooks the Thames Embankment.
Somehow this apartment seems just like him, but I cannot convey the resemblance in a description of it. The first thing you see is a writing desk in a huge room beautifully furnished, and with dark-wood panelling. Simplicity and comfort are written everywhere. There is a large Dutch fireplace in the right side of the room, but the outstanding piece of furniture is a tiny kitchen stove in one corner. It is polished to such a point that it takes the aspect of the ornamental rather than the useful. He explains that on this he makes his tea when servants are away. Such a touch, perhaps, just the touch to suggest Barrie.
Our talk drifts to the movies and Barrie tells me of the plans for filming "Peter Pan." We are on very friendly ground in this discussion and I find myself giving Barrie ideas for plays while he isgiving me ideas for movies, many of them suggestions that I can use in comedies.
There is a knock at the door. Gerald du Maurier is calling. He is one of England's greatest actors and the son of the man who wrote "Trilby." Our party lasts far into the night, until about three in the morning. I notice that Barrie looks rather tired and worn, so we leave, walking with Du Maurier up the Strand. He tells us that Barrie is not himself since his nephew was drowned, that he has aged considerably.
We walk slowly back to the hotel and to bed.
Next day there is a card from Bruce Bairnsfather, England's famous cartoonist, whose work during the war brought him international success, inviting me to tea. He carries me out into the country, where I have a lovely time. His wife tells me that he is just a bundle of nerves and that he never knows when to stop working. I ask what H. G. Wells is like and Bruce tells me that he is like "Wells" and no one else.
When I get back to the hotel there is a letter from Wells.
"Do come over. I've just discovered that you are in town. Do you want to meet Shaw? He is really very charming out of the limelight. I suppose you are overwhelmed with invitations, but if there is a chance to get hold of you for a talk, I will be charmed. How about a week-end with me at Easton, free from publicity and with harmless, human people. No 'phones in the house."
I lost no time in accepting such an invitation.
There is a big luncheon party on among my friends and I am told that a party has been arranged to go through the Limehouse district with Thomas Burke, who wrote "Limehouse Nights." I resent it exceedingly and refuse to go with a crowd to meet Burke. I revolt against the constant crowding. I hate crowds.
London and its experiences are telling on me and I am nervous and unstrung. I must see Burke and go with him alone. He is the one man who sees London through the same kind of glasses as myself.
I am told that Burke will be disappointing because he is so silent, but I do not believe that I will be disappointed in him.
Robinson tells the crowd of my feelings and how much I have planned on this night alone with Burke, and the party is called off. We 'phone Burke and I make an engagement to meet him at his home that evening at ten o'clock. We are to spend the night together in Limehouse. What a prospect!
That night I was at Thomas Burke's ahead of time. The prospect of a night spent in the Limehouse district with the author of "Limehouse Nights" was as alluring as Christmas morning to a child.
Burke is so different from what I expected. "Limehouse Nights" had led me to look for some one physically, as well as mentally, big, though Ihad always pictured him as mild-mannered and tremendously human and sympathetic.
I notice even as we are introduced that Burke looks tired and it is hard to think that this little man with the thin, peaked face and sensitive features is the same one who has blazed into literature such elemental lusts, passions and emotions as characterise his short stories.
I am told that he doesn't give out much. I wonder just who he is like. He is very curious. Doesn't seem to be noticing anything that goes on about him. He just sits with his arm to his face, leaning on his hand and gazing into the fire. As he sits there, apparently unperturbed and indifferent, I am warming up to him considerably. I feel a sort of master of the situation. It's a comfortable feeling. Is the reticence real or is this some wonderful trick of his, this making his guest feel superior?
His tired-looking, sensitive eyes at first seem rather severe and serious, but suddenly I am aware of something keen, quick and twinkling in them. His wife has arrived. A very young lady of great charm, who makes you feel instantly her artistic capabilities even in ordinary conversation.
Shortly after his wife comes in Burke and I leave, I feeling very much the tourist in the hands of the super city guide.
"What, where—anything particular that I want to see?"
This rather scares me, but I take it as a challengeand make up my mind that I will know him. He is difficult, and, somehow, I don't believe that he cares for movie actors. Maybe I am only possible "copy" to him?
He seems to be doing me a kindness and I find myself feeling rather stiff and on my best behaviour, but I resolve that before the evening is through I will make him open up and like me, for I am sure that his interest is well worth while.
I have nothing to suggest except that we ramble along with nothing deliberate in view. I feel that this pleases him, for a light of interest comes into his eyes, chasing one of responsibility. We are just going to stroll along.
As Burke and I ramble along toward no place in particular, I talk about his book. I have read "Limehouse Nights" as he wrote it. There is nothing I could see half so effective. We discuss the fact that realities such as he has kept alive seldom happen in a stroll, but I am satisfied. I don't want to see. It could not be more beautiful than the book. There is no reaction to my flattery. I must watch good taste. I feel that he is very intelligent, and I am silent for quite a while as we stroll toward Stepney. There is a greenish mist hanging about everything and we seem to be in a labyrinth of narrow alleyways, now turning into streets and then merging into squares. He is silent and we merely walk.
And then I awaken. I see his purpose. I can do my own story—he is merely lending me the tools, and what tools they are! I feel that I have served an ample apprenticeship in their use, through merely reading his stories. I am fortified.
It is so easy now. He has given me the stories before. Now he is telling them over in pictures.The very shadows take on life and romance. The skulking, strutting, mincing, hurrying forms that pass us and fade out into the night are now becoming characters. The curtain has risen on "Limehouse Nights," dramatised with the original cast.
There is a tang of the east in the air and I am tinglingly aware of something vital, living, moving, in this murky atmosphere that is more intense even for the occasional dim light that peers out into the soft gloom from attic windows and storerooms, or municipal lights that gleam on the street corners.
Here is a little slice of God's fashioning, where love runs hand in hand with death, where poetry sings in withered Mongolian hearts, even as knives are buried in snow-white breasts and swarthy necks. Here hearts are broken casually, but at the same time there comes just as often to this lotus land the pity, terror, and wonder of first love, and who shall say which is predominant?
Behind each of those tiny garret windows lurks life—life in its most elemental costume. There is no time, thought, or preparation for anything but the elemental passions, and songs of joy, hope, and laughter are written into each existence, even as the killings go on, surely, swiftly.
There must be a magic wand forever doing a pendulum swing over this land, for the point of view often changes from the beastly to the beautiful, and in one short moment the innocent frequently gather the sophistication of the aged.These creatures of life's game run blithely along their course ignorant of the past, joyful in the present, and careless of the future, while their tiny lightened windows seem to wink deliberately as they make pinpricks of light through the shuttered gloom.
On the other side of the street there is stepping a little lady whose cheap cotton clothes are cut with Parisian cunning, and as we cross and pass her we discern beauty, enhanced manyfold by youth and vitality, but hardened with premature knowledge. I can't help but think of little Gracie Goodnight, the little lady who resented the touch of a "Chink," so much so that she filled the fire extinguishers in his place with oil, and when he was trapped in the blazing building, calmly, and with a baby smile upon her face, poured the contents of the extinguisher over him and his furniture.
There is the Queen's Theatre, bringing forward a mental picture of little Gina of Chinatown, who stopped a panic in the fire-frightened audience of the playhouse as her début offering on the stage. Little Gina, who brought the whole neighbourhood to her feet in her joyous dancing delight. Little Gina, who at fourteen had lived, laughed, and loved, and who met death with a smile, carrying the secret of him with her.
Every once in a while Burke merely lifts his stick and points. His gesture needs no comment. He has located and made clear without language the only one object he could possibly mean, and,strangely, it is always something particularly interesting to me. He is most unusual.
What a guide he is! He is not showing me Main Street, not the obvious, not even the sightseer's landmarks, but in this rambling I am getting the heart, the soul, the feeling. I feel that he has gauged me quickly—that he knows I love feelings rather than details, that he is unconsciously flattering to my subtlety, after two miles through black, though lovely, shadows.
Now he is picking the spots where lights are shining from the fish shops. He knows their locations, knows their lights because he has studied them well. There are forms slinking gracefully, as though on location and with rehearsed movement. What an effect for a camera!
This is rugged. Here are the robust of the slums. People act more quickly here than in Lambeth. And suddenly we are back where we started. In a car we go to the old Britannia, Hoxton, rather reluctantly.
There is a glaring moving-picture palace. What a pity! I resent its obtrusion. We go along toward the East India Docks—to Shadwell. And I am feeling creepy with the horror of his stories of Shadwell. I could hear a child screaming behind a shuttered window and I wondered and imagined, but we did not stop anywhere.
We meandered along with just an occasional gesture from him, all that was necessary to make his point. To Stanhope Road, Bethnal Green,Spitalfields, Ratcliffe, Soho, Notting Dale, and Camden Town.
And through it all I have the feeling that things trivial, portentous, beautiful, sordid, cringing, glorious, simple, epochal, hateful, lovable are happening behind closed doors. I people all those shacks with girls, boys, murders, shrieks, life, beauty.
As we go back we talk of life in the world outside this adventurous Utopia. He tells me that he has never been outside of London, not even to Paris. This is very curious to me, but it doesn't seem so as he says it. He tells me of another book that he has ready and of a play that he is working on for early production. We talked until three in the morning and I went back to my hotel with the same sort of feelings that I had at twelve when I sat up all night reading Stevenson's "Treasure Island."
The next day I did some shopping, and was measured for boots. How different is shopping here! A graceful ceremony that is pleasing even to a man. The sole advertisement I see in the shop is "Patronised by His Majesty." It is all said in that one phrase.
And the same methods have been in vogue at this bootmaker's for centuries. My foot is placed on a piece of paper and the outline drawn. Then measurements are taken of the instep, ankle, and calf, as I want riding boots. Old-fashioned they will probably continue until the end of time, yetsomehow I sort of felt that if that old shop had a tongue to put in its cheek, there it would be parked, because tradition, as an aid to the cash register, is no novelty.
In the evening I dined at the Embassy Club with Sonny, and was made an honorary member of the club.
It is amazing how much Europe is aping America, particularly with its dance music. In cafés you hear all the popular airs that are being played on Broadway. The American influence has been felt to such an extent that King Jazz is a universal potentate. Sonny and I go to the theatre and see a part of the "League of Notions," but we leave early and I run to say hello to Constance Collier, who is playing in London.
The next day is exciting. Through the invitation of a third party I am to meet H. G. Wells at Stoll's office to view the first showing of Wells's picture, "Kipps."
In the morning the telephone rings and I hear some one in the parlour say that the Prince of Wales is calling. I get in a blue funk, as does everyone else in the apartment, and I hear them rush toward the 'phone. But Ed. Knoblock claiming to be versed in the proper method of handling such a situation, convinces everyone that he is the one to do the talking and I relapse back into bed, but wider awake than I ever was in my life.
Knoblock on the 'phone:
"Are you there? ... Yes ... Oh, yes ... to-night ... Thank you."
Knoblock turning from the 'phone announces, very formally, "The Prince of Wales wishes Charlie to dine with him to-night," and he starts toward my bedroom door. (Through all of this I have been in the bedroom, and the others are in the parlour confident, with the confidence of custom, that I am still asleep.)
As Knoblock starts for my bedroom door my very American secretary, in the very routine voice he has trained for such occurrences, says:
"Don't wake him. Tell him to call later. Not before two o'clock."
Knoblock: "Good God man! This is the Prince of Wales," and he launches into a monologue regarding the traditions of England and the customs of Court and what a momentous occasion this is, contemptuously observing that I am in bed and my secretary wants him to tell the Prince to call later! He cannot get the American viewpoint.
Knoblock's sincere indignation wins, and the secretary backs away from the bedroom as I plunge under the covers and feign sleep. Knoblock comes in very dignified and, trying to keep his voice in the most casual tone, announces, "Keep to-night open to dine with the Prince of Wales."
I try to enter into it properly, but I feel rather stiff so early in the morning. I try to remonstrate with him for having made the engagement. I haveanother engagement with H. G. Wells, but I am thrilled at the thought of dining with the Prince in Buckingham Palace. I can't do it. What must I do?
Knoblock takes me in hand. He repeats the message. I think some one is spoofing and tell him so. I am very suspicious, and the thrill leaves me as I remember that the Prince is in Scotland, shooting. How could he get back?
But Knoblock is practical. This must go through. And I think he is a bit sore at me for my lack of appreciation. He would go to the palace himself and find out everything. He goes to the palace to verify.
I can't tell his part of it—he was very vague—but I gathered that when he reached there he found all the furniture under covers, and I can hear that butler now saying:
"His Royal Highness the Prince will not be back for several days, sir."
Poor Ed.! It was quite a blow for him, and, on the level, I was a bit disappointed myself.
But I lost no time mooning over my lost chance to dine with royalty, for that afternoon I was going to meet Wells. Going to Stoll's; I was eagerly looking forward to a quiet little party where I could get off somewhere with Wells and have a long talk.