I meet H. G. Wells.
I meet H. G. Wells.
As I drew near the office, however, I noticed crowds, the same sort of crowds that I had been dodging since my exit from Los Angeles. It wasa dense mass of humanity packed around the entire front of the building, waiting for something that had been promised them. And then I knew that it was an arranged affair and that, so far as a chat was concerned, Wells and I were just among those present, even though we were the guests of honour.
I remember keenly the crush in the elevator, a tiny little affair built for about six people and carrying nearer sixty. I get the viewpoint of a sardine quite easily. Upstairs it is not so bad, and I am swept into a room where there are only a few people and the door is then closed. I look all around, trying to spot Wells. There he is.
I notice his beautiful, dark-blue eyes first. Keen and kindly they are, twinkling just now as though he were inwardly smiling, perhaps at my very apparent embarrassment.
Before we can get together, however, there comes forward the camera brigade with its flashlight ammunition. Would we pose together? Wells looks hopeless. I must show that before cameras I am very much of a person, and I take the initiative with the lens peepers.
We are photoed sitting, standing, hats on and off, and in every other stereotyped position known to camera men.
We sign a number of photos, I in my large, sweeping, sprawling hand—I remember handling the pen in a dashing, swashbuckling manner—then Wells, in his small, hardly discernible style. I amvery conscious of this difference, and I feel as though I had started to sing aloud before a group of grand-opera stars.
Then there is a quick-sketch artist for whom we pose. He does his work rapidly, however, and while he is drawing Wells leans over and whispers in my ear.
"We are the goats," he tells me. "I was invited here to meet you and you were probably invited here to meet me."
He had called the turn perfectly, and when we had both accepted the invitation our double acceptance had been used to make the showing an important event. I don't think that Wells liked it.
Wells and I go into the dark projection room and I sit with Wells. I feel on my mettle almost immediately, sitting at his side, and I feel rather glad that we are spending our first moments in an atmosphere where I am at home. In his presence I feel critical and analytical and I decide to tell the truth about the picture at all costs. I feel that Wells would do the same thing about one of mine.
As the picture is reeling off I whisper to him my likes and dislikes, principally the faulty photography, though occasionally I detect bad direction. Wells remains perfectly silent and I begin to feel that I am not breaking the ice. It is impossible to get acquainted under these conditions. Thank God, I can keep silent, because there is the picture to watch and that saves the day.
Then Wells whispers, "Don't you think the boy is good?"
The boy in question is right here on the other side of me, watching his first picture. I look at him. Just starting out on a new career, vibrant with ambition, eager to make good, and his first attempt being shown before such an audience. As I watch he is almost in tears, nervous and anxious.
The picture ends. There is a mob clustering about. Directors and officials look at me. They want my opinion of the picture. I shall be truthful. Shall I criticise? Wells nudges me and whispers, "Say something nice about the boy." And I look at the boy and see what Wells has already seen and then I say the nice things about him. Wells's kindness and consideration mean so much more than a mere picture.
Wells is leaving and we are to meet for dinner, and I am left alone to work my way through the crush to the taxi and back to the hotel, where I snatch a bit of a nap. I want to be in form for Wells.
There comes a little message from him:
Don't forget the dinner. You can wrap up in a cloak if you deem it advisable, and slip in about 7.30 and we can dine in peace.H. G. Wells.Whitehall Court, Entrance 4.
Don't forget the dinner. You can wrap up in a cloak if you deem it advisable, and slip in about 7.30 and we can dine in peace.
H. G. Wells.Whitehall Court, Entrance 4.
We talk of Russia and I find no embarrassment in airing my views, but I soon find myself merely the questioner. Wells talks; and, though he sees with the vision of a dreamer, he brings to his viewsthe practical. As he talks he appears very much like an American. He seems very young and full of "pep."
There is the general feeling that conditions will right themselves in some way. Organisation is needed, he says, and is just as important as disarmament. Education is the only salvation, not only of Russia, but of the rest of the world. Socialism of the right sort will come through proper education. We discuss my prospects of getting into Russia. I want to see it. Wells tells me that I am at the wrong time of the year, that the cold weather coming on would make the trip most inadvisable.
I talk about going to Spain, and he seems surprised to hear that I want to see a bull fight. He asks, "Why?"
I don't know, except that there is something so nakedly elemental about it. There is a picturesque technique about it that must appeal to any artist. Perhaps Frank Harris's "Matador" gave me the impulse, together with my perpetual quest for a new experience. He says it is too cruel to the horses.
I relax as the evening goes on and I find that I am liking him even more than I expected. About midnight we go out on a balcony just off his library, and in the light of a full moon we get a gorgeous view of London. Lying before us in the soft, mellow rays of the moon, London looks as though human, and I feel that we are rather in the Peeping Tomrôle.
I exclaim, "The indecent moon."
He picks me up. "That's good. Where did you get that?"
I have to admit that it is not original—that it belongs to Knoblock.
Wells comments on my dapperness as he helps me on with my coat. "I see you have a cane with you." I was also wearing a silk hat. I wonder what Los Angeles and Hollywood would say if I paraded there in this costume?
Wells tries on my hat, then takes my cane and twirls it. The effect is ridiculous, especially as just at the moment I notice the two volumes of the "Outline of History" on his table.
Strutting stagily, he chants, "You're quite the fellow doncher know."
We both laugh. Another virtue for Wells. He's human.
I try to explain my dress. Tell him that it is my other self, a reaction from the everyday Chaplin. I have always desired to look natty and I have spurts of primness. Everything about me and my work is so sensational that I must get reaction. My dress is a part of it. I feel that it is a poor explanation of the paradox, but Wells thinks otherwise.
He says I notice things. That I am an observer and an analyst. I am pleased. I tell him that the only way I notice things is on the run. Whatever keenness of perception I have is momentary, fleeting. I observe all in ten minutes or not at all.
What a pleasant evening it is! But as I walk along toward the hotel I feel that I have not met Wells yet.
And I am going to have another opportunity. I am going to have a week-end with him at his home in Easton, a week-end with Wells at home, with just his family. That alone is worth the entire trip from Los Angeles to Europe.
The hotel next day is teeming with activity.
My secretaries are immersed in mail and, despite the assistance of six girls whom they have added temporarily to our forces, the mail bags are piling up and keeping ahead of us.
In a fit of generosity or ennui or something I pitch in and help. It seems to be the most interesting thing I have attempted on the trip. Why didn't I think of it sooner? Here is drama. Here is life in abundance. Each letter I read brings forth new settings, new characters, new problems. I find myself picking out many letters asking for charity. I lay these aside.
I have made up my mind to go to France immediately.
I call Carl Robinson. I tell him that we are going to France, to Paris, at once. Carl is not surprised. He has been with me for a long time. We decide that we tell nobody and perhaps we can escape ceremonies. We will keep the apartment at the Ritz and keep the stenographers working, so that callers will think that we are hiding about London somewhere.
We are going to leave on Sunday and our plans are perfected in rapid-fire order. We plunge about in a terrible rush as we try to arrange everything at the last minute without giving the appearance of arranging anything.
And in spite of everything, there is a mob at the station to see us off and autograph books are thrown at me from all sides. I sign for as many as I can and upon the others I bestow my "prop" grin. Wonder if I look like Doug when I do this?
We meet the skipper. What does one ask skippers? Oh yes, how does it look to-day for crossing? As I ask, I cast my weather eye out into the Channel and it looks decidedly rough for me.
But the skipper's "just a bit choppy" disarms me.
I am eager to get on the boat, and the first person I meet is Baron Long, owner of a hotel in San Diego. Good heavens! Can't I ever get away from Hollywood? I am glad to see him, but not now. He is very clever, however. He senses the situation, smiles quick "hellos," and then makes himself scarce. In fact, I think he wanted to get away himself. Maybe he was as anxious for a holiday as I.
I am approached on the boat by two very charming girls. They want my autograph. Ah, this is nice! I never enjoyed writing my name more.
How I wish that I had learned French. I feel hopelessly sunk, because after about three sentencesin French I am a total loss so far as conversation is concerned. One girl promises to give me a French lesson. This promises to be a pleasant trip.
I am told that in France they call me Charlot. We are by this time strolling about the boat and bowing every other minute. It is getting rough and I find myself saying I rather like it that way. Liar.
She is speaking. I smile. She smiles. She is talking in French. I am getting about every eighth word. I cannot seem to concentrate, French is so difficult. Maybe it's the boat.
I am dying rapidly. I feel like a dead weight on her arm. I can almost feel myself get pale as I try to say something, anything. I am weak and perspiring. I blurt out, "I beg pardon," and then I rush off to my cabin and lie down. Oh, why did I leave England? Something smells horrible. I look up. My head is near a new pigskin bag. Yes, that's it, that awful leathery smell. But I have company. Robinson is in the cabin with me and we are matching ailments.
Thus we spent the trip from Dover to Calais and I was as glad to get to the French coast as the Kaiser would have been had he kept that dinner engagement in Paris.
Nearing France, I am almost forgetting my sickness. There is something in the atmosphere. Something vibrant. The tempo of life is faster. The springs in its mechanism are wound taut. I feel as if I would like to take it apart and look at those springs.
I am met by the chief of police, which surprised me, because I was confident that I had been canny enough to make a getaway this time. But no. The boat enters the quay and I see the dock crowded with people. Some treachery. Hats are waving, kisses are being thrown, and there are cheers. Cheers that I can only get through the expression, because they are in French and I am notoriously deficient in that language.
"Vive le Charlot!" "Bravo, Charlot!"
I am "Charloted" all over the place. Strange, this foreign tongue. Wonder why a universal language isn't practicable? They are crowding about me, asking for autographs. Or at least I think they are, because they are pushing books in my face, though for the life of me I can't make out a word of their chatter. But I smile. God bless that old "prop" grin, because they seem to like it.
Twice I was kissed. I was afraid to look around to see who did it, because I knew I was in France. And you've got to give me the benefit of the doubt. I am hoping that both kisses came from pretty girls, though I do think that at least one of those girls should shave.
They examine my signature closely. They seem puzzled. I look. It is spelled right. Oh, I see! They expected "Charlot." And I write some more with "Charlot."
I am being bundled along to a funny little French train. It seems like a toy. But I am enjoying thedifference. Everything is all changed. The new money, the new language, the new faces, the new architecture—it's a grown-up three-ring circus to me. The crowd gives a concerted cheer as the train pulls out and a few intrepid ones run alongside until distanced by steam and steel.
We go into the dining-room and here is a fresh surprise. The dinner istable d'hôteand three waiters are serving it. Everyone is served at once, and as one man is taking up the soup plates another is serving the next course. Here is French economy—economy that seems very sensible as they have perfected it. It seems so different from America, where waiters always seem to be falling over one another in dining-rooms. And wines with the meal! And the check; it did not resemble in size the national debt, as dinner checks usually do in America.
It has started to rain as we arrive in Paris, which adds to my state of excitement, and a reportorial avalanche falls upon me. I am about overcome. How did reporters know I was coming? The crowd outside the station is almost as large as the one in London.
I am still feeling the effects of my sea-sickness. I am not equal to speaking nor answering questions. We go to the Customs house and one journalist, finding us, suggests and points another way out. I am sick. I must disappoint the crowd, and I leap into a taxi and am driven to Claridge's Hotel.
"Out of the frying pan." Here are more reporters. And they speak nothing but French. The hubbub is awful. We talk to one another. We shout at one another. We talk slowly. We spell. We do everything to make Frenchmen understand English, and Englishmen understand French, but it is no use. One of them manages to ask me what I think of Paris.
I answer that I never saw so many Frenchmen in my life. I am looking forward eagerly to meeting Cami, the famous French cartoonist. We have been corresponding for several years, he sending me many drawings and I sending him still photos from pictures. We had built up quite a friendship and I have been looking forward to a meeting. I see him.
He is coming to me and we are both smiling broadly as we open our arms to each other.
"Cami!"
"Charlot!"
Our greeting is most effusive. And then something goes wrong. He is talking in French, a blue streak, with the rapidity of a machine-gun. I can feel my smile fading into blankness. Then I get an inspiration. I start talking in English just as rapidly. Then we both talk at once. It's the old story of the irresistible force and the immovable body. We get nowhere.
Then I try talking slowly, extremely slow.
"Do—you—understand?"
It means nothing. We both realise at the sametime what a hopeless thing our interview is. We are sad a bit, then we smile at the absurdity of it.
He is still Cami and I am still Charlot, so we grin and have a good time, anyhow.
He stays to dinner, which is a hectic meal, for through it all I am tasting this Paris, this Paris that is waiting for me. We go out and to the Folies Bergère. Paris does not seem as light as I expected it to be.
And the Folies Bergère seems shabbier. I remember having played here once myself with a pantomime act. How grand it looked then. Rather antiquated now. Somehow it saddened me, this bit of memory that was chased up before me.
Next day there is a luncheon with Dudley Field Malone and Waldo Frank. It is a brisk and vivacious meal except when it is broken up by a visit from the American newspaper correspondents.
"Mr. Chaplin, why did you come to Europe?"
"Are you going to Russia?"
"Did you call on Shaw?"
They must have cabled over a set of questions. I went all over the catechism for them and managed to keep the "prop" grin at work. I wouldn't let them spoil Paris for me.
We escape after a bit, and back at the hotel I notice an air of formality creeping into the atmosphere as I hear voices in the parlour of my suite. Then my secretary comes in and announces that avery important personage is calling and would speak with me.
He enters, an attractive-looking gentleman, and he speaks English.
"Mr. Chaplin, that I am to you talk of greetings from the heart of the people with France, that you make laugh. Cannot you forego to make showing of yourself with charity sometime for devastated France? On its behalf, I say to you——"
I tell him that I will take it up later.
He smiles, "Ah, you are boozy."
"Oh, no. I haven't had a drink for several days," I hasten to inform him. "I am busy and want to get to bed early to-night."
But Malone butts in with, "Oh yes, he's very boozy."
And I get a bit indignant until Malone tells me that the Frenchman means "busy."
Then I am told that there is one young journalist still waiting who has been here all day, refusing to go until I have seen him.
I tell them to bring him in. He comes in smiling in triumph.
And he can't speak English.
After his hours of waiting we cannot talk.
I feel rather sorry for him and we do our best. Finally, with the aid of about everyone in the hotel he manages to ask:—
"Do you like France?"
"Yes," I answer.
He is satisfied.
In Paris with Sir Philip Sassoon and Georges Carpentier.
In Paris with Sir Philip Sassoon and Georges Carpentier.
Waldo Frank and I sit on a bench in the Champs Elysées and watch the wagons going to market in the early morning. Paris seems most beautiful to me just at this time.
What a city! What is the force that has made it what it is? Could anyone conceive such a creation, such a land of continuous gaiety? It is a masterpiece among cities, the last word in pleasure. Yet I feel that something has happened to it, something that they are trying to cover by heightened plunges into song and laughter.
We stroll along the boulevard and it is growing light. I am recognised and we are being followed. We are passing a church. There is an old woman asleep on the steps, but she does not seem worn and haggard. There is almost a smile on her face as she sleeps. She typifies Paris to me. Hides her poverty behind a smile.
Sir Philip Sassoon, who is the confidential secretary to Lloyd George, calls the next day with Georges Carpentier, the pugilistic idol of France, and we are photographed many times, the three of us together, and separately.
I am quite surprised that Sir Philip is such a young man. I had pictured the secretary of Lloyd George as rather a dignified and aged person. He makes an appointment for me to dine with Lord and Lady Rocksavage the next day. Lady Rocksavage is his sister.
I also lunch with them the next day, and then to a very fashionable modiste's for some shopping.This is my first offence of this sort. I meet Lady Astor, who is shopping there also.
It was quite a treat for me, watching the models in this huge, elaborate institution that was really a palace in appointments. In fact, it greatly resembled the palace at Versailles.
I felt very meek when tall, suave creatures strolled out and swept past me, some imperious, some contemptuous. It was a studied air, but they did it well. I wonder what effect it has on the girl's mind as she parades herself before the high-born ladies and gentlemen.
But I catch the imperfection in their schooling. It is very amusing to watch them strut about until their display is made, and then, their stunt done, slouch back into the dressing-roomssanscarriage and manner.
And then, too, I am discovered. This also causes a break in the spell of their queenly stroll. They are laughing and at the same time trying to maintain the dignity due to the gowns they are wearing. They become self-conscious and the effect is ludicrous.
I am demoralising the institution, so we get away. I would like to talk to some of the models, but it can't be done very well.
From there we go to a candy store, where I lay in a supply of chocolates and preserved fruits for my trip into Germany the next day. I am invited by Sir Philip to visit him at his country home in Lympne, Kent, on my return from Germany.
That evening I go with a party of Dudley Field Malone's to the Palais Royale in the Montmartre district. This is a novelty. Different. Seems several steps ahead of America. And it has atmosphere, something entirely its own, that you feel so much more than you do the tangible things about you.
There is a woman wearing a monocle. A simple touch, but how it changes! The fashions here proclaim themselves even without comparison and expert opinion.
The music is simple, exotic, neurotic. Its simplicity demands attention. It reaches inside you instead of affecting your feet.
They are dancing a tango. It is entertainment just to watch them. The pauses in the music, its dreamy cadences, its insinuation, its suggestiveness, its whining, almost monotonous swing. It is tropical yet, this Paris. And I realise that Paris is at a high pitch. Paris has not yet had relief from the cloddy numbness brought on with the War. I wonder will relief come easily or will there be a conflagration.
I meet Doughie, the correspondent. We recall our first meeting in the kitchen of Christine's in Greenwich Village.
It is soon noised about that I am here and our table takes on the atmosphere of a reception. What a medley!
Strangely garbed artists, long-haired poets, news-sheet and flower vendors, sightseers,students, children, and cocottes. Presently came a friend whom it was good to see again and we fix up a bit of a party and get into Dudley's petrol wagon, and as we bowl along we sing songs, ancient songs of the music-halls. "After the Ball," "The Man That Broke the Bank of Monte Carlo," and many another which I had not thought of in years.
Presently the wagon becomes balky and will not continue. So we all pile out and into a tavern near by, where we call for wine.
And Dudley played upon the tin-pan-sounding piano. There came one, a tall, strange, pale youth, who asked if we would like to go to the haunt of the Agile Rabbit. Thence uphill and into a cavernous place. When the patron came the youth ordered wine for us. Somehow I think he sensed the fact that I wanted to remain incognito.
The patron was such a perfect host. Ancient and white bearded, he served us with a finesse that was pure artistry. Then at his command one named Réné Chedecal, with a sad, haunted face, played upon the violin.
That little house sheltered music that night. He played as if from his soul, a message—yearning, passionate, sad, gay, and we were speechless before the emotional beauty and mystery of it.
I was overcome. I wanted to express my appreciation, but could do no more than grasp his hand. Genius breeds in strange places and humble.
And then the bearded one sang a song that hesaid the followers of Lafayette had sung before they left France for America. And all of us joined in the chorus, singing lustily.
Then a young chap did two songs from Verlaine, and a poet with considerable skill recited from his own poems. How effective for the creator of a thought to interpret it. And afterward the violin player gave us another selection of great beauty, one of his own compositions.
Then the old patron asked me to put my name in his ledger, which contained many names of both humble and famous. I drew a picture of my hat, cane, and boots, which is my favourite autograph. I wrote, "I would sooner be a gipsy than a movie man," and signed my name.
Home in the petrol wagon, which by this time had become manageable again. An evening of rareness. Beauty, excitement, sadness and contact with human, lovable personalities.
Waldo Frank called the next day, bringing with him Jacques Copeau, one of the foremost dramatists and actors in France, who manages and directs in his own theatre. We go to the circus together and I never saw so many sad-faced clowns. We dine together, and late that night I have supper with Copeau's company in a café in the Latin Quarter. It is a gay night, lasting until about three in the morning.
Frank and I set out to walk home together, but the section is too fascinating. Along about four o'clock we drift into another café, dimly lit but wellattended. We sit there for some time, studying the various occupants.
Over in one corner a young girl has just leaned over and kissed her sailor companion. No one seems to notice. All the girls here seem young, but their actions stamp their vocations. Music, stimulating, exotic, and for the dance, is being played. The girls are very much alive. They are putting their hats on the men's heads.
There are three peasant farmer boys, in all probability. They seem very much embarrassed as three tiny girls, bright-eyed and red-lipped, join them for a drink. I can see fire smouldering in their dull faces in spite of their awkwardness in welcoming the girls.
An interesting figure, Corsican, I should say, is very conspicuous. A gentleman by his bearing, debonair and graceful, he looks the very picture of an impecunious count. He is visiting all the tables in the café. At most of them he calls the girls by their first names.
He is taking up a collection for the musicians. Everyone is contributing liberally. With each tinkle of a coin in the hat the Corsican bows elaborately and extends thanks.
He finishes the collection.
"On with the dance," he shouts. "Don't let the music stop," as he rattles the money. Then he puts his hand in his pocket and draws forth a single centime piece. It is very small, but his manner is that of a philanthropist.
"I give something, no matter how small; you notice, ladies and gentlemen, that I give something," and he drops his coin in the hat and bows.
The party progresses rapidly. They have started singing and have had just enough drink to make them maudlin. We leave.
The train to Germany left so late in the evening that it was impossible for me to see devastated France even though we passed through a considerable portion of it. Our compartment on the train is very stuffy and smelly and the train service is atrocious, food and sanitary conditions being intolerable after American train service.
Again there is a crowd at the station to see me off, but I am rather enjoying it. A beautiful French girl presents me with a bouquet of flowers with a cute little speech, or at least I suppose it was, because she looked very cute delivering it, and the pouts that the language gave to her red lips were most provocative. She tells me in delicious broken English that I look tired and sad, and I find myself yielding without a struggle to her suggestion.
We arrive at Joumont near the Belgian frontier along about midnight, and, like a message from home, there is a gang of American soldier boys at the station to greet me. And they are not alone, for French, Belgian, and British troops are also waving and cheering. I wanted to talk to the Belgians, and we tried it, but it was no use. What a pity!
But one of them had a happy inspiration and saved the day.
"Glass of beer, Charlot?"
I nod, smiling. And to my surprise they bring me beer, which I lift to my lips for politeness, and then drink it to the last drop in pure pleasure. It is very good beer.
There is a group of charming little Belgian girls. They are smiling at me shyly and I so want to say something to them. But I can't. Ah, the bouquet! Each little girl gets a rose and they are delighted.
"Merci, merci, monsieur." And they keep "merciing" and bowing until the train pulls out of the station, which emboldens them to join the soldiers in a cheer.
Through an opening between the railroad structures I see a brilliant lighting display. It is universal, this sign. Here is a movie in this tiny village. What a wonderful medium, to reach such an obscure town.
On the train I am being told that my pictures have not played in Germany, hence I am practically unknown there. This rather pleases me because I feel that I can relax and be away from crowds.
Everyone on the train is nice and there is no trouble. Conductors struggle with English for my benefit, and the Customs officers make but little trouble. In fact, we cross the border at three in the morning and I am asleep.
Next morning I find a note from the Customs man saying; "Good luck, Charlie. You weresleeping so soundly that I did not have the heart to wake you for inspection."
Germany is beautiful. Germany belies the war. There are people crowding the fields, tilling the soil, working feverishly all the time as our train rushes through. Men, women, and children are all at work. They are facing their problem and rebuilding. A great people, perverted for and by a few.
The different style of architecture here is interesting. Factories are being built everywhere. Surely this isn't conquered territory. I do not see much live stock in the fields. This seems strange.
A dining-car has been put on the train and the waiter comes to our compartment to let us know that we may eat. Here is a novelty. A seven-course dinner, with wine, soup, meat, vegetables, salad, dessert, coffee, and bread for twenty-eight cents. This is made possible by the low rate of exchange.
We go to the Adlon Hotel in Berlin and find that hostelry jammed, owing to the auto races which are being run off at this time. A different atmosphere here. It seems hard for me to relax and get the normal reaction to meeting people. They don't know me here. I have never been heard of. It interests me and I believe I resent it just a bit.
I notice how abrupt the Germans are to foreigners, and I detect a tinge of bitterness, too. I am wondering about my pictures making theirdébut here. I question the power of my personality without its background of reputation.
I am feeling more restful under this disinterested treatment, but somehow I wish that my pictures had been shown here. The people at the hotel are very courteous. They have been told that I am the "white-headed boy and quite the guy in my home town." Their reactions are amusing. I am not very impressive-looking and they are finding it hard to believe.
There is quite a crowd in the lobby and a number of Americans and English. They are not long in finding me, and a number of English, French, and American reporters start making a fuss over me. The Germans just stand and look on, bewildered.
Carl von Weigand comes forward with the offer of the use of his office while I am here. The Germans are impressed with all this, but they show no enthusiasm. I am accepted in an offhand way as some one of importance and they let it go at that.
The Scala Theatre, where I spent the evening, is most interesting, though I think a bit antiquated when compared with English and American theatrical progress along the same lines. It seats about five thousand, mostly on one floor, with a very small balcony. It is of the variety-music-hall type, showing mostly "dumb" acts. Acts that do not talk or sing, like comic jugglers, acrobats, and dancers.
I am amused by a German comedian singing asong of about twenty verses, but the audience is enthused and voices its approval at every verse. During the intermission we have frankfurters and beer, which are served in the theatre. I notice the crowds. They go to the theatre there as a family. It is just that type of an affair.
I notice the different types of beauty, though beauty is not very much in evidence here. Here and there are a few pretty girls, but not many. It is interesting to watch the people strolling during the intermission, drinking lager and eating all sorts of food.
Leaving the theatre, we visit the Scala Café, a sort of impressionistic casino. The Scala is one of the largest cafés in Berlin, where the modernist style in architecture has been carried out fully.
The walls are deep mottled sea green, shading into light verdigris and emerald, leaning outward at an angle, thereby producing an effect of collapse and forward motion. The junction of the walls and the ceiling is broken into irregular slabs of stone, like the strata of a cave. Behind these the lights are hidden, the whole system of illumination being based on reflection.
The immense dislocation of the planes and angles of the vault-like ceiling is focused on the central point, the huge silver star or crystal bursting like an exploding bomb through the roof. The whole effect is weird, almost ominous. The shape of the room in its ground plan is itself irregular—the impression is that of a frozen catastrophe. Yet thisfeeling seems to be in accord with the mood of revellers in Germany to-day.
From there to the Palais Heinroth, the most expensive place in Berlin and the high spot of night life. It is conspicuous in its brilliance, because Berlin as a city is so badly lighted. At night the streets are dark and gloomy, and it is then that one gets the effect of war and defeat.
At the Heinroth everybody was in evening dress. We weren't. My appearance did not cause any excitement. We check our hats and coats and ask for a table. The manager shrugs his shoulders. There is one in the back, a most obscure part of the room. This brings home forcibly the absence of my reputation. It nettled me. Well, I wanted rest. This was it.
We are about to accept humbly the isolated table, when I hear a shriek and I am slapped on the back and there's a yell:
"Charlie!"
It is Al Kaufman of the Lasky Corporation and manager of the Famous Players studio in Berlin.
"Come over to our table. Pola Negri wants to meet you."
Again I come into my own. The Germans look on, wondering. I have created attention at last. I discover that there is an American jazz band in the place. In the middle of a number they stop playing and shout:
"Hooray for Charlie Chaplin!"
The proprietor shrugs his shoulders and theband resumes playing. I learn that the musicians are former American doughboys. I feel rather pleased that I have impressed the Germans in the place.
In our party were Rita Kaufman, wife of Al, Pola Negri, Carl Robinson, and myself.
Pola Negri is really beautiful. She is Polish and really true to the type. Beautiful jet-black hair, white, even teeth and wonderful coloring. I think it such a pity that such coloring does not register on the screen.
She is the centre of attraction here. I am introduced. What a voice she has! Her mouth speaks so prettily the German language. Her voice has a soft, mellow quality, with charming inflections. Offered a drink, she clinks my glass and offers her only English words, "Jazz boy Charlie."
Language again stumps me. What a pity! But with the aid of a third party we get along famously. Kaufman whispers: "Charlie, you've made a hit. She just told me that you are charming."
"You tell her that she's the loveliest thing I've seen in Europe." These compliments keep up for some time, and then I ask Kaufman how to say, "I think you are divine" in German. He tells me something in German and I repeat it to her.
She's startled and looks up and slaps my hand.
"Naughty boy," she says.
The table roars. I sense that I have been double-crossed by Kaufman. What have I said? But Pola joins in the joke, and there is no casualty.I learn later that I have said, "I think you are terrible." I decided to go home and learn German.
As I am going out the proprietor approaches and very formally addresses me: "I beg pardon, sir. I understand that you are a great man in the United States. Accept my apologies for not knowing, and the gates here are always open to you." I accept them formally, though through it all I feel very comic opera. I didn't like the proprietor.
I want to go through the German slums. I mention such a trip to a German newspaper man. I am told that I am just like every Londoner and New-Yorker who comes to Berlin for the first time; that I want the Whitechapel district, the Bowery of Berlin, and that there is no such district. Once upon a time there were hovels in Berlin, but they have long since disappeared.
This to me is a real step toward civilisation.
My newspaper friend tells me that he will give me the next best thing to the slums, and we go to Krogel. What a picture could be made here! I am fascinated as I wander through houses mounted on shaky stilts and courts ancient but cleanly.
Then we drove to Acker Street and gazed into courts and basements. In a café we talked to men and women and drank beer. I almost launched a new war when, wishing to pay a charge of one hundred and eighty marks, I pulled from my pocket a roll of fifty one-thousand-mark notes.
My friend paid the check quickly with small change and hustled me out, telling me of the hardfaces and criminal types who were watching. He's probably right, but I love those poor, humble people.
We drove to the arbor colonies in the northern part of the city, stopping at some of the arbors to talk to the people. I feel that I would like to eat dinner here among these people, but I haven't sufficient courage to persuade my companion, who wouldn't think of it. Passing through the northern part of Berlin, I found many beauties which, my friend let me know, were not considered beautiful at all.
He even suggested that he show me something in contrast with all I had seen. I told him no, that it would spoil my whole viewpoint.
It has been rather a restful experience, going through the whole town without being recognised, but even as I am thinking it a fashionable lady and her young daughter pass, and by their smiles I know that I am again discovered.
And then we meet Fritz Kreisler and his wife, who are just leaving for Munich. We have quite a chat and then make tentative engagements to be carried out in Los Angeles on his next trip there.
I notice that the Germans seem to be scrupulously honest, or maybe this was all the more noticeable to me because of genial and unsuspicious treatment by a taxi driver. We left the cab many times and were gone as long as half an hour at a time, and out of sight, yet he always waited and never suggested that he be paid beforehand.
In the business section we pass many cripples with embittered, sullen looks on their faces. They look as though they had paid for something which they hadn't received.
We are approached by a legless soldier beggar in a faded German uniform. Here was the War's mark. These sights you will find on every side in Berlin.
I am presented with a police card to the Berliner Club, which is evidently a technicality by which the law is circumvented. Berlin is full of such night-life clubs. They are somewhat like the gatherings that Prohibition has brought to America.
There are no signs, however, from the outside of any activity, and you are compelled to go up dark passages and suddenly come upon gaily lit rooms very similar to Parisian cafés.
Dancing and popping corks are the first impression as I enter. We are taken in hand by two girls and they order drinks for us. The girls are very nervous. In fact, the whole night-life of this town seems to be nervous, neurotic, over-done.
The girls dance, but very badly. They do not seem to enjoy it and treat it as part of the job. They are very much interested in my friend, who seems to have the money for the party. On these occasions my secretary always carries the family roll, and they are paying much attention to him.
I sit here rather moody and quiet, though one of the girls works hard to cheer me up. I hear her asking Robinson what is the matter with me. Ismile and become courteous. But, her duty done, she turns again to Robinson.
I am piqued. Where is that personality of mine? I have been told many times that I have it. But here it is convincingly shown that personality has no chance against "pursenality."
But I am beginning to get so much attention from my friends that one of the girls is noticing me. She senses that I am some one important, but she can't quite make it out.
"Who is this guy, an English diplomat?" she whispers to Robinson. He whispers back that I am a man of considerable importance in the diplomatic service. I smile benevolently and they become more interested.
I am treating her rather paternally and am feeling philosophical. I ask about her life. What is she doing with it? What ambitions? She is a great reader, she tells me, and likes Schopenhauer and Nietzsche. But she shrugs her shoulders in an indifferent and tragic manner and says, "What does it matter about life?"
"You make it what it is," she says. "In your brain alone it exists and effort is only necessary for physical comfort." We are becoming closer friends as she tells me this.
But she must have some objective, there must be some dreams of the future still alive within her. I am very anxious to know what she really thinks.
I ask her about the defeat of Germany. She becomes discreet at once. Blames it on the Kaiser.She hates war and militarism. That's all I can get out of her, and it is getting late and we must leave. Her future intrigues me, but does not seem to worry her.
On the way home we step in at Kaufman's apartment and have quite a chat about pictures and things back in Los Angeles. Los Angeles seems very far away.
I am invited to a formal dinner party for the next evening at the home of Herr Werthauer, one of the most prominent lawyers in all Europe and a chief of the Kaiser during the war. The occasion for the dinner was to celebrate the announcement of Werthauer's engagement to his third wife.
His is a wonderful home in the finest section of Berlin. At the party there are a number of his personal friends, Pola Negri, Al Kaufman, Mrs. Kaufman, Robinson, and myself.
There is a Russian band playing native music all through the dinner and jazz music is also being dispensed by two orchestras made up of American doughboys who have been discharged, but have stayed on in Germany.
For no reason at all, I think of the story of Rasputin. This seems the sort of house for elaborate murders. Perhaps it is the Russian music that is having this effect on me. There is a huge marble staircase whose cold austereness suggests all sorts of things designed to send chills up the spine. The servants are so impressive and the meal such a ceremony that I feel that I am in a palace. The Russianfolk-songs that are being dreamily whined from the strings of their peculiar instruments have a very weird effect and I find food and dining the least interesting things here.
There is a touch of mystery, of the exotic, something so foreign though intangible, that I find myself searching everything and everybody, trying to delve deeper into this atmosphere.
We are all introduced, but there are too many people for me to try to remember names. There are herrs, fräuleins, and fraus galore, and I find it hard to keep even their sex salutations correct. Some one is making a long, formal speech in German, and everybody is watching him attentively.
The host arises and offers a toast to his bride-to-be. Everyone rises and drinks to their happiness. The party is very formal and I can make nothing from the talk going on all about me. The host is talking and then all get up again with their glasses. Why, I don't know, but I get up with them.
At this there is general laughter, and I wonder what calamity has befallen me. I wonder if my clothes are all right.
Then I understand. The host is about to toast me. He does it in very bad English, though his gestures and tone make it most graceful. He is inclined to be somewhat pedantic and whenever he cannot think of the proper English word he uses its German equivalent.
As the various courses come the toasts are many. I am always about two bites late in getting to my feet with my glass. After I have been toasted about four times, Mrs. Kaufman leans over and whispers, "You should toast back again to the host and say something nice about his bride-to-be."
I am almost gagged with the stage fright that grips me. It is the custom to toast back to the host and here I have been gulping down all kinds of toasts without a word. And he had been sitting there waiting for me.
I rise and hesitate. "Mr.—"
I feel a kick on the shins and I hear Mrs. Kaufman whisper hoarsely:
"Herr."
I think she means the bride-to-be. "Mrs.—" No, she isn't that yet. Heavens! this is terrible.
I plunge in fast and furious. "My very best respects to your future wife." As I speak I look at a young girl at the head of the table whom I thought was the lucky woman. I am all wrong. I sit, conscious of some horrible mistake.
He bows and thanks me. Mrs. Kaufman scowls and says: "That's not the woman. It's the one on the other side."
I have a suppressed convulsion and almost die, and as she points out the real bride-to-be I find myself laughing hysterically into my soup. Rita Kaufman is laughing with me. Thank heaven for a sense of humour.
I am so weak and nervous that I am almosttempted to leave at once. The bride-to-be is reaching for her glass to return my salute, though unless she thinks I am cross-eyed I don't see how she knows I said anything nice to her.
But she gets no chance to speak. There is launched a long-winded pedantic speech from the host, who says that on such rare occasions as this it is customary to uncork the best in the cellar. This point gets over in great shape and everybody is smiling.
I even feel myself growing radiant. I was under the impression that the best had already been served. Didn't know he was holding back anything. With the promise of better wine I am tempted to try another toast to the bride-to-be.
The first night in Paris after our return from Germany we dined at Pioccardi's, then walked up to the arches of the old gates of Paris. Our intention was to visit the Louvre and see the statue of Venus de Milo, but it only got as far as intention.
We drifted into the Montmartre district and stopped in Le Rat Mort, one of its most famous restaurants. As it is very early in the evening, there are very few people about—one reason why I picked out this place, which later in the night becomes the centre of hectic revelry.
Passing our table is a striking-looking girl with bobbed blond hair, shadowing beautiful, delicate features of pale coloring and soft, strange eyes of a violet blue. Her passing is momentary, but she is the most striking-looking girl I have seen in Europe.
Although there are but few people here, I am soon recognised. The French are so demonstrative. They wave, "Hello, Charlot!"
I am indifferent. I smile mechanically. I am tired. I shall go to bed early. I order champagne.
The bobbed-hair one is sitting at a table near us. She interests me. But she doesn't turn so that I can see her face. She is sitting facing her friend, a dark, Spanish-looking girl.
I wish she'd turn. She has a beautiful profile, but I would like to see her full face again. She looked so lovely when she passed me before. I recall that ghost of a smile that hovered near her mouth, showing just a bit of beautiful, even, white teeth.
The orchestra is starting and dancers are swinging on to the floor. The two girls rise and join the dance. I will watch closely now and perhaps get another flash at her when she whirls by.
There is something refined and distinguished about the little girl. She is different. Doesn't belong here. I am watching her very closely, though she has never once looked my way. I like this touch of the unusual in Montmartre. Still she may be just clever.
She is passing me in the dance and I get a full view of her face. One of real beauty, with a sensitive mouth, smiling at her friend and giving a complete view of the beautiful teeth. Her face is most expressive. The music stops and they sit at their table.
I notice that there is nothing on their table. They are not drinking. This is strange, here. Nor arethere sandwiches or coffee. I wonder who they are. That girl is somebody. I know it.
She gets up as the orchestra plays a few strains of a plaintive Russian thing. She is singing the song. Fascinating! An artist! Why is she here? I must know her.
The song itself is plaintive, elemental, with the insinuating nuances that are vital to Russian music. The orchestra, with the violins and 'cellos predominant, is playing hauntingly, weaving a foreign exotic spell.
She has poise, grace, and is compelling attention even in this place. There comes a bit of melancholy in the song and she sings it as one possessed, giving it drama, pathos. Suddenly there is a change. The music leaps to wild abandon. She is with it. She tosses her head like a wild Hungarian gipsy and gives fire to every note. But almost as it began, the abandon is over. With wistful sweetness, she is singing plaintively again.
She is touching every human emotion in her song. At times she is tossing away care, then gently wooing, an elusive strain that is almost fairylike, that crescendos into tragedy, going into a crashing climax that diminishes into an ending, searching yearning, and wistfully sad.
Her personality is written into every mood of the song. She is at once fine, courageous, pathetic, and wild. She finished to an applause that reflected the indifference of the place. In spots it was spontaneousand insistent. In others little attention was paid to her. She is wasted here.
But she cares not. In her face you can see that she gets her applause in the song itself. It was glorious, just to be singing with heart, soul and voice. She smiles faintly, then sits down modestly.
I knew it. She is Russian. She has everything to suggest it. Full of temperament, talent and real emotional ability, hidden away here in Le Rat Mort. What a sensation she would be in America with a little advertising! This is just a thought, but all sorts of schemes present themselves to me.
I can see her in "The Follies" with superb dressing and doing just the song she had done then. I did not understand a word of it, but I felt every syllable. Art is universal and needs no language. She has everything from gentleness to passion and a startling beauty. I am applauding too much, but she looks and smiles, so I am repaid.
They dance again, and while they are gone I call the waiter and have him explain to the manager that I would like to be presented to her. The manager introduces her and I invite her to my table. She sits there with us, while her companion, the dark girl, does a solo dance.
She talks charmingly and without restraint. She speaks three languages—Russian, French, and English. Her father was a Russian general during the Tsar's reign. I can see now where she gets her imperious carriage.
"Are you a Bolshevik?"
She flushes as I ask it, and her lips pout prettily as she struggles with English. She seems all afire.
"No, they are wicked. Bolshevik man, he's very bad." Her eyes flash as she speaks.
"Then you are bourgeoisie?"
"No, but not a Bolshevik." Her voice suggests a tremendous vitality, though her vocabulary is limited. "Bolshevik good idea for the mind, but not for practice."
"Has it had a fair opportunity?" I ask her.
"Plenty. My father, my mother, my brother all in Russia and very poor. Mother is Bolshevik, father bourgeoisie. Bolshevik man very impudent to me. I want to kill him. He insult me. What can I do? I escape. Bolshevik good idea, but no good for life."
"What of Lenin?"
"Very clever man. He tried hard for Bolshevik—but no good for everybody—just in the head."
I learn that she was educated in a convent and that she had lost all trace of her people. She earns her living singing here. She has been to the movies, but has never seen me. She "is go first chance because I am nice man."
I ask her if she would like to go into moving pictures. Her eyes light up.
"If I get opportunity I know I make success. But"—she curls her mouth prettily—"it's difficult to get opportunity."
She is just twenty years old and has been in the café for two weeks, coming there from Turkey, to which country she fled following her escape from Russia.
I explain that she must have photographic tests made and that I will try to get her a position in America. She puts everything into her eyes as she thanks me. She looks like a combination of Mary Pickford and Pola Negri plus her own distinctive beauty and personality. Her name is "Skaya." I write her full name and address in my book and promise to do all I can for her. And I mean to. We say "Good Night," and she says she feels that I will do what I say. How has she kept hidden?
Due at Sir Philip Sassoon's for a garden party the next day, I decide to go there in an aeroplane and I leave the Le Bourget aerodrome in Paris in a plane of La Compagnie des Messageries Aériennes, and at special request the pilot landed me at Lympne in Kent and I thereby avoided the crowd that would have been on hand in London.
It was quite thrilling and I felt that I made a very effective entrance to the party.
And what a delightful retreat! All the charm of an English country home, and Sir Philip is a perfect host. I get English food and treatment. I have a perfect rest, with no duties, and entertainment as I desire it. A day and a half that are most pleasant!