I meet Lady Rocksavage and Sir Philip Sassoon.
I meet Lady Rocksavage and Sir Philip Sassoon.
Next day there is to be a ceremonial in the schoolhouse, when a memorial is to be unveiled. It isin honour of the boys of the town who had fallen. There are mothers, fathers, and many old people, some of them old in years, others aged by the trials of the war.
The simple affair is most impressive and the streets are crowded on our way. I was to blame for an unhappy contrast. Outside people were shouting, "Hooray for Charlie!" while inside souls were hushed in grief.
Such a discordant note. I wished I had not been so prominent. I wanted everyone to bow in respect to these dead. The crowds did not belong outside.
And inside, on the little children's faces, I could see conflicting emotions. There is the reverence for the dead and yet there is eagerness as they steal glances at me. I wish I hadn't come. I feel that I am the disturbing element.
From the school Sir Philip and I went to the Star and Garter Hospital for wounded soldiers. Sheer tragedy was here.
Young men suffering from spinal wounds, some of them with legs withered, some suffering from shell shock. No hope for them, yet they smiled.
There was one whose hands were all twisted and he was painting signs with a brush held between his teeth. I looked at the signs. They were mottoes: "Never Say Die," "Are We Downhearted?" A superman.
Here is a lad who must take an anæsthetic whenever his nails are cut because of his twisted limbs.And he is smiling and to all appearances happy. The capacity that God gives for suffering is so tremendous, I marvel at their endurance.
I inquire about food and general conditions. They suggest that the food could be better. This is attended to.
We are received politely and with smiles from the crippled lads who are crippled in flesh only. Their spirit is boisterous. I feel a puny atom as they shout, "Good luck to you, Charlie."
I can't talk. There is nothing for me to say. I merely smile and nod and shake hands whenever this is possible. I sign autographs for as many as ask and I ask them to give me their autographs. I honestly want them.
One jovially says, "Sure, and Bill will give you one too." There is an uproar of laughter and Bill laughs just as loud as the rest. Bill has no arms.
But he bests them. He will sign at that. And he does. With his teeth. Such is their spirit. What is to become of them? That is up to you and me.
Back to Sir Philip's, very tired and depressed. We dine late and I go to my room and read Waldo Frank's "Dark Mothers." The next day there is tennis and music and in the evening I leave for London, where I am to meet H. G. Wells and go with him to his country home.
I am looking forward to this Saturday, Sunday, and Monday as an intellectual holiday. I meetH. G. at Whitehall and he is driving his own car. He is a very good chauffeur, too.
We talk politics and discuss the Irish settlement and I tell him of my trip to Germany. That leads to a discussion of the depreciation in the value of the mark. What will be the outcome? Wells thinks financial collapse. He thinks that marks issued as they are in Germany will be worthless.
I am feeling more intimate and closer to him. There is no strain in talking, though I am still a bit self-conscious and find myself watching myself closely.
We are out in the country, near Lady Warwick's estate, and H. G. tells me how the beautiful place is going to seed; that parts of it are being divided into lots and sold.
The estate, with its live stock, is a show place. It is breeding time for the deer and from the road we can hear the stags bellowing. H. G. tells me they are dangerous at this time of the year.
At the gate of the Wells' estate a young lad of ten greets us with a jovial twinkling of the eye and a brisk manner. There is no mistaking him. He is H. G.'s son. There is the same moulding of the structure and the same rounded face and eyes. H. G. must have looked that way at his age.
"Hello, dad," as he jumps on the running board.
"This is Charlie," H. G. introduces me.
He takes my grip. "How do?" and I notice what a fine boy he is.
Mrs. Wells is a charming little lady with keen, soft eyes that are always smiling and apparently searching and seeking something. A real gentlewoman, soft voiced, also with humorous lines playing around her mouth.
Everyone seems busy taking me into the house, and once there H. G. takes me all over it, to my room, the dining-room, the sitting-room and, an extra privilege, to his study. "My workshop," he calls it.
"Here's where the great events in the history of the world took place?"
He smiles and says "yes." The "Outline of History" was born here.
The room is not yet finished, and it is being decorated around the fireplace by paintings made by himself and wife. "I paint a bit," he explains. There is also some tapestry woven by his mother.
"Here is a place if you want to escape when the strain is too much for you. Come here and relax."
I felt that this was his greatest hospitality. But I never used the room. I had a feeling about that, too.
The study is simple and very spare of furniture. There is an old-fashioned desk and I get the general impression of books, but I can remember but one, the dictionary. Rare observation on my part to notice nothing but a dictionary, and this was so huge as it stood on his desk that I couldn't miss it.
There is a lovely view from the house of the countryside, with wide stretches of land and lovely trees, where deer are roaming around unafraid.
Mrs. Wells is getting lunch and we have it outdoors. Junior is there, the boy—I call him that already. Their conversation is rapid, flippant. Father and son have a profound analytical discussion about the sting of a wasp as one of the insects buzzed around the table.
It is a bit strange to me and I cannot get into the spirit of it, though it is very funny. I just watch and smile. Junior is very witty. He tops his father with jokes, but I sense the fact that H. G. is playing up to him. There is a twinkle in H. G.'s eye. He is proud of his boy. He should be.
After lunch we walk about the grounds and I doze most of the afternoon in the summer-house. They leave me alone and I have my nap out.
A number of friends arrive later in the evening and we are introduced all around. Most of these are literary, and the discussion is learned. St. John Ervine, the dramatist and author of "John Ferguson," came in later in the evening.
Ervine discusses the possibility of synchronising the voice with motion pictures. He is very much interested. I explain that I don't think the voice is necessary, that it spoils the art as much as painting statuary. I would as soon rouge marble cheeks. Pictures are pantomimic art. We might as well have the stage. There would be nothing left to the imagination.
Another son comes in. He is more like his mother. We all decide to play charades and I am selected as one of the actors. I play Orlando, the wrestler, getting a lot of fun through using a coal hod as a helmet. Then Noah's Ark, with Junior imitating the different animals going into the ark, using walking sticks as horns for a stag, and putting a hat on the end of the stick for a camel, and making elephants and many other animals through adroit, quick changes. I played old Noah and opened an umbrella and looked at the sky. Then I went into the ark and they guessed.
Then H. G. Wells did a clog dance, and did it very well. We talked far into the night, and I marvelled at Wells's vitality. We played many mental guessing games and Junior took all the honours.
I was awakened next morning by a chorus outside my door: "We want Charlie Chaplin." This was repeated many times. They had been waiting breakfast half an hour for me.
After breakfast we played a new game of H. G.'s own invention. Everyone was in it and we played it in the barn. It was a combination of handball and tennis, with rules made by H. G. Very exciting and good fun.
Then a walk to Lady Warwick's estate. As I walk I recall how dramatic it had sounded last night as I was in bed to hear the stags bellowing, evidently their cry of battle.
The castle, with beautiful gardens going to seed,seemed very sad, yet its ruins assumed a beauty for me. I liked it better that way. Ruins are majestic.
H. G. explains that everyone about is land poor. It takes on a fantastic beauty for me, this cultivation of centuries now going to seed, beautiful in its very tragedy.
Home for tea, and in the evening I teach them baseball. Here is my one chance to shine. It is funny to see H. G. try to throw a curve and being caught at first base after hitting a grounder to the pitcher. H. G. pitched, and his son caught. As a baseball player H. G. is a great writer. Dinner that night is perfect, made more enjoyable for our strenuous exercise. As I retire that night I think of what a wonderful holiday I am having.
Next day I must leave at 2.30 p.m., but in the morning H. G. and I take a walk and visit an old country church built in the eleventh century. A man is working on a tomb-stone in the churchyard, engraving an epitaph.
H. G. points out the influence of the different lords of the manor on the art changes of different periods. Here the families of Lady Warwick and other notable people are buried. The tombstones show the influence of the sculpture of all periods.
We go to the top of the church and view the surrounding country and then back home for lunch. My things are all packed and H. G. and his son see me off. H. G. reminds me not to forgetanother engagement to dine with him and Chaliapin, the famous Russian baritone.
As I speed into town I am wondering if Wells wants to know me or whether he wants me to know him. I am certain that now I have met Wells, really met him, more than I've met anyone in Europe. It's so worth while.
I had promised to attend thepremièreshowing of "The Kid" in Paris, and I went back to the French capital as I came, via aeroplane. The trip was uneventful, and on landing and going to my hotel I find a message from Doug Fairbanks. He and Mary had arrived in Paris and were stopping at the Crillon. They asked me over for a chat but I was too tired. Doug promised to attend thepremièreat the Trocadero Theatre.
During the afternoon there came 250 souvenir programmes to be autographed. These were to be sold that night for 100 francs each.
In the evening I went to the theatreviathe back way, but there was no escape. It was the biggest demonstration I had yet seen. For several blocks around the crowds were jammed in the streets and the gendarmes had their hands full.
Paris had declared a holiday for this occasion, and as the proceeds of the entertainment were to be given to the fund for devastated France the élite of the country were there. I am introduced to Ambassador Herrick, then shown to my box and introduced to the Ministers of the French Cabinet.
I do not attempt to remember names, but the following list has been preserved for me by my secretary:
M. Menard, who attended on behalf of President Millerand; M. Jusserand, M. Herbette, M. Careron, M. Loucheur, Minister of the Liberated Regions; M. Hermite, Col. and Mrs. H. H. Harjes, Miss Hope Harjes, Mr. and Mrs. Ridgeley Carter, Mrs. Arthur James, Mrs. W. K. Vanderbilt, Mrs. Rutherford Stuyvesant, Walter Berry, M. de Errazu, Marquis de Vallambrosa, Mlle. Cecile Sorel, Robert Hostetter, M. Byron-Kuhn, Mr. and Mrs. Charles G. Loeb, Florence O'Neill, M. Henri Lettelier, M. Georges Carpentier, Paul C. Otey, Mr. and Mrs. George Kenneth End, Prince George of Greece, Princess Xenia, Prince Christopher, Lady Sarah Wilson, Mrs. Elsa Maxwell, Princess Sutzo, Vice-Admiral and Mrs. Albert P. Niblack, Comte and Comtesse Cardelli, Duchess de Talleyrand, Col. and Mrs. N. D. Jay, Col. Bunau Varila, Marquise de Talleyrand-Périgord, Marquis and Marquise de Chambrun, Miss Viola Cross, Miss Elsie De Wolf, Marquis and Marquise de Dampierre, and Mr. and Mrs. Theodore Rousseau.
My box is draped with American and British flags, and the applause is so insistent that I find I am embarrassed. But there is a delicious tingle to it and I am feeling now what Doug felt when his "Three Musketeers" was shown. The programmes which I autographed during the afternoonare sold immediately and the audience wants more. I autograph as many more as possible.
I am photographed many times and I sit in a daze through most of it, at one time going back stage, though I don't know why, except that I was photoed back there too.
The picture was shown, but I did not see much of it. There was too much to be seen in that audience.
At the end of the picture there came a messenger from the Minister:
"Would I come to his box and be decorated?" I almost fell out of my box.
I grew sick. What would I say? There was no chance to prepare. I had visions of the all-night preparation for my speech in Southampton. This would be infinitely worse. I couldn't even think clearly. Why do I pick out stunts like that? I might have known that something would happen.
But the floor would not open up for me to sink through and there was no one in this friendly audience who could help in my dilemma, and the messenger was waiting politely, though I imagined just a bit impatiently, so, summoning what courage I had, I went to the box with about the same feeling as a man approaching the guillotine.
I am presented to everybody. He makes a speech. It is translated for me, but very badly. While he was speaking I tried to think of something neat and appropriate, but all my thoughts seemed trite. I finally realised that he was finishedand I merely said "Merci," which, after all, was about as good as I could have done.
And believe me, I meant "Merci" both in French and in English.
But the applause is continuing. I must say something, so I stand up in the box and make a speech about the motion-picture industry and tell them that it is a privilege for us to make a presentation for such a cause as that of devastated France.
Somehow they liked it, or made me believe they did. There was a tremendous demonstration and several bearded men kissed me before I could get out. But I was blocked in and the crowd wouldn't leave. At last the lights were turned out, but still they lingered. Then there came an old watchman who said he could take us through an unknown passage that led to the street.
We followed him and managed to escape, though there was still a tremendous crowd to break through in the street. Outside I meet Cami, who congratulates me, and together we go to the Hotel Crillon to see Doug and Mary.
Mary and Doug are very kind in congratulating me, and I tell them of my terrible conduct during the presentation of the decoration. I knew that I was wholly inadequate for the occasion. I keep mumbling of myfaux pasand they try to make me forget my misery by telling me that General Pershing is in the next room.
I'll bet the general never went through a battle like the one I passed through that night.
Then they wanted to see the decoration, which reminded me that I had not yet looked at it myself. So I unrolled the parchment and Doug read aloud the magic words from the Minister of Instruction of the Public and Beaux Arts which made Charles Chaplin, dramatist, artist, anOfficier de L'instruction Publique.
We sit there until three in the morning, discussing it, and then I go back to my hotel tired but rather happy. That night was worth all the trip to Europe.
At the hotel there was a note from Skaya. She had been to the theatre to see the picture. She sat in the gallery and saw "The Kid," taking time off from her work.
Her note:
"I saw picture. You are a grand man. My heart is joy. You must be happy. I laugh—I cry."Skaya."
"I saw picture. You are a grand man. My heart is joy. You must be happy. I laugh—I cry.
"Skaya."
This little message was not the least of my pleasures that night.
Elsie De Wolf was my hostess at luncheon next day at the Villa Trianon, Versailles, a most interesting and enjoyable occasion, where I met some of the foremost poets and artists.
Returning to Paris, I meet Henry Wales, and we take a trip through the Latin Quarter together. That night I dine with Cami, Georges Carpentier, and Henri Letellier. Carpentier asks for an autograph and I draw him a picture of my hat, shoes,cane, and moustache, my implements of trade. Carpentier, not to be outdone, draws for me a huge fist encased in a boxing glove.
I am due back in England next day to lunch with Sir Philip Sassoon and to meet Lloyd George. Lord and Lady Rocksavage, Lady Diana Manners, and many other prominent people are to be among the guests, and I am looking forward to the luncheon eagerly.
We are going back by aeroplane, though Carl Robinson lets me know that he prefers some other mode of travel. On this occasion I am nervous and I say frequently that I feel as though something is going to happen. This does not make a hit with Carl.
We figure that by leaving at eight o'clock in the morning we can make London by one o'clock, which will give me plenty of time to keep my engagement.
But we hadn't been up long before we were lost in the fog over the Channel and were forced to make a landing on the French coast, causing a delay of two hours. But we finally made it, though I was two hours late for my engagement, and the thought of keeping Lloyd George and those other people waiting was ghastly.
Our landing in England was made at the Croydon aerodrome, and there was a big automobile waiting outside, around which were several hundred people. The aerodrome officials, assuming that the car was for me, hustled me into it and it was driven off.
But it was not mine, and I found that I was not being driven to the Ritz, but the Majestic Theatre in Clapham.
The chauffeur wore a moustache, and, though he looked familiar, I did not recognise him. But very dramatically he removed the moustache.
"I am Castleton Knight. A long time ago you promised me to visit my theatre. I have concluded that the only way to get you there is to kidnap you. So kindly consider yourself kidnapped."
I couldn't help but laugh, even as I thought of Lloyd George, and I assured Mr. Knight that he was the first one who had ever kidnapped me. So we went to the theatre, and I stayed an hour and surprised both myself and the audience by making a speech.
Back to my hotel Sir Philip meets me and tells me that Lloyd George couldn't wait, that he had a most important engagement at four o'clock. I explained the aeroplane situation to Sir Philip and he was very kind. I feel that it was most unfortunate, for it was my only opportunity to meet Lloyd George in these times, and I love to meet interesting personages. I would like to meet Lenin, Trotsky, and the Kaiser.
This is to be my last night in England, and I have promised to dine and spend the evening with my Cousin Aubrey. One feels dutiful to one's cousin.
I also discover that this is the day I am to meet Chaliapin and H. G. Wells. I 'phone H. G. and explain that this is my last day, and of my promiseto my cousin. H. G. is very nice. He understands. You can only do these things with such people.
My cousin calls for me at dusk in a taxi and we ride to his home in Bayswater. London is so beautiful at this hour, when the first lights are being turned on, and each light to me is symbolical. They all mean life, and I wish sometimes I could peer behind all these lighted windows.
Reaching Aubrey's home I notice a number of people on the other side of the street standing in the shadows. They must be reporters, I think, and am slightly annoyed that they should find me even here. But my cousin explains hesitatingly that they are just friends of his waiting for a look at me.
I feel mean and naughty about this, as I recall that I had requested him not to make a party of my visit.
I just wanted a family affair, with no visitors, and these simple souls on the other side of the street were respecting my wishes. I relent and tell Aubrey to ask them over, anyway. They are all quite nice, simple tradesmen, clerks, etc.
Aubrey has a saloon, or at least a hotel, as he calls it, in the vicinity of Bayswater, and later in the evening I suggest that we go there and take his friends with us. Aubrey is shocked.
"No, not around to my place." Then they all demur. They don't wish to intrude. I like this. Then I insist. They weaken. He weakens.
We enter a bar. The place is doing a flourishing business. There are a number of pictures of my brother Syd and myself all over the walls, in character and straight. The place is packed to-night. It must be a very popular resort.
"What will you have?" I feel breezy. "Give the whole saloon a drink."
Aubrey whispers, "Don't let them know you are here." He says this for me.
But I insist. "Introduce me to all of them." I must get him more custom.
He starts quietly whispering to some of his very personal friends: "This is my cousin. Don't say a word."
I speak up rather loudly. "Give them all a drink." I feel a bit vulgar to-night. I want to spend money like a drunken sailor. Even the customers are shocked. They hardly believe that it's Charlie Chaplin, who always avoids publicity, acting in this vulgar way.
I am sure that some of them don't believe despite many assurances. A stunt of my cousin's. But they drink, reverently and with reserve, and then they bid me good night, and we depart quietly, leaving Bayswater as respectable as ever.
To the house for dinner, after which some one brings forth an old family album. It is just like all other family albums.
"This is your great-granduncle and that is your great-grandmother. This is Aunt Lucy. This one was a French general."
Aubrey says: "You know we have quite a good family on your father's side." There are pictures of uncles who are very prosperous cattle ranchers in South Africa. Wonder why I don't hear from my prosperous relations.
This is the first time that I am aware of my family and I am now convinced that we are true aristocrats, blue blood of the first water.
Aubrey has children, a boy of twelve, whom I have never met before. A fine boy. I suggest educating him. We talk of it at length and with stress. "Let's keep up family tradition. He may be a member of Parliament or perhaps President. He's a bright boy."
We dig up all the family and discuss them. The uncles in Spain. Why, we Chaplins have populated the earth.
When I came I told Aubrey that I could stay only two hours, but it is 4 a.m. and we are still talking. As we leave Aubrey walks with me toward the Ritz.
We hail a Ford truck on the way and a rather dandified young Johnny, a former officer, gives us a lift.
"Right you are. Jump on."
A new element, these dandies driving trucks, some of them graduates of Cambridge and Oxford, of good families, most of them, impecunious aristocrats. Perhaps it is the best thing that could happen to such families.
This chap is very quiet and gentle. He talksmostly of his truck and his marketing, which he thinks is quite a game. He has been in the grocery business since the war and has never made so much money. We get a good bit of his story as we jolt along in the truck.
He is providing vegetables and fruit for all his friends in Bayswater, and every morning at four o'clock he is on his way to the market. He loves the truck. It is so simple to drive.
"Half a mo." He stops talking and pulls up for petrol at a pretty little white-tiled petrol station. The station is all lit up, though it is but 5 a.m.
"Good morning. Give me about five gal."
"Right-o!"
The cheery greeting means more than the simple words that are said.
The lad recognises me and greets me frankly, though formally. It seems so strange to me to hear this truck driver go along conversing in the easiest possible manner. A truck driver who enjoyed truck driving.
He spoke of films for just a bit and then discreetly stopped, thinking, perhaps, that I might not like to talk about them. And, besides, he liked to talk about his truck.
He told us how wonderful it was to drive along in the early morning with only the company of dawn and the stars. He loved the silent streets, sleeping London. He was enterprising, full of hopes and ambitions. Told how he bartered. He knew how. His was a lovely business.
He was smoking a pipe and wore a trilby hat, with a sort of frock coat, and his neck was wrapped in a scarf. I figured him to be about thirty years of age.
I nudged my cousin. Would he accept anything? We hardly know whether or not to offer it, though he is going out of his way to drive me to the Ritz.
He has insisted that it is no trouble, that he can cut through to Covent Garden. No trouble. I tell the petrol man to fill it up and I insist on paying for the petrol.
The lad protests, but I insist.
"That's very nice of you, really. But it was a pleasure to have you," he says, as he gets back in his seat.
We cut through to Piccadilly and pull up at the Ritz in a Ford truck. Quite an arrival.
The lad bids us good-bye. "Delighted to have met you. Hope you have a bully time. Too bad you are leaving. Bon voyage. Come back in the spring. London is charming then. Well, I must be off. I'm late. Good morning."
We talk him over on the steps as he drives away. He is the type of an aristocrat that must live. He is made of the stuff that marks the true aristocrat. He is an inspiration. He talked just enough, never too much. The intonation of his voice and his sense of beauty as he appreciated the dawn stamped him as of the élite—the real élite, not the Blue Book variety.
Loving adventure, virtuous, doing something all the time, and loving the doing. What an example he is! He has two stores. This is his first truck. He loves it. He is the first of his kind that I have met. This is my last night in England. I am glad that it brought me this contact with real nobility.
I am off in the morning for Southampton, miserable and depressed. Crowds—the same crowds that saw me come—are there. But they seem a bit more desirable. I am leaving them. There are so many things I wish I had done. It is pleasant to be getting this applause on my exit.
I do not doubt its sincerity now. It is just as fine and as boisterous as it was when I arrived. They were glad to see me come and are sorry I am going.
I feel despondent and sad. I want to hug all of them to me. There is something so wistful about London, about their kind, gentle appreciation. They smile tenderly as I look this way, that way, over there—on every side it is the same. They are all my friends and I am leaving them.
Will I sign this? A few excited ones are shoving autograph books at me, but most of them are under restraint, almost in repose. They feel the parting. They sense it, but are sending me away with a smile.
My car is full of friends going with me to Southampton. They mean little at the moment. The crowd has me. Old, old friends turn up, friends that I have been too busy to see. Faithful old friends who are content just to get a glimpse before I leave.
There's Freddy Whittaker, an old music-hall artist with whom I once played. Just acquaintances, most of them, but they all knew me, and had all shared, in spirit, my success. All of them are at the station and all of them understand. They know that my life has been full every minute I have been here. There had been so much to do.
They knew and understood, yet they had come determined just to see me, if only at the door of my carriage. I feel very sad about them.
The train is about to pull out and everything is excitement. Everyone seems emotional and there is a tenseness in the very atmosphere.
"Love to Alf and Amy," many of them whisper, those who know my manager and his wife. I tell them that I am coming back, perhaps next summer. There is applause. "Don't forget," they shout. I don't think I could forget.
The trip to Southampton is not enjoyable. There is a sadness on the train. A sort of embarrassed sentimentality among my friends. Tom Geraghty is along. Tom is an old American and he is all choked up at the thought of my going back while he has to stay on in England. We are going back to his land. We cannot talk much.
We go to the boat. Sonny is there to see me off. Sonny, Hetty's brother.
There is luncheon with my friends and there are crowds of reporters. I can't be annoyed. There is nothing for me to say. I can't even think. We talk, small talk, joke talk.
Sonny is very matter-of-fact. I look at him and wonder if he has ever known. He has always been so vague with me. Has always met me in a joking way.
He leans over and whispers, "I thought you might like this." It is a package. I almost know without asking that it is a picture of Hetty. I am amazed. He understood all the time. Was always alive to the situation. How England covers up her feelings!
Everybody is off the boat but the passengers. My friends stand on the dock and wave to me. I see everything in their glowing faces—loyalty, love, sadness, a few tears. There is a lump in my throat. I smile just as hard as I can to keep them from seeing. I even smile at the reporters. They're darn nice fellows. I wish I knew them better. After all, it's their job to ask questions and they have been merely doing their job with me. Just doing their jobs, as they see it. That spirit would make the world if it were universal.
England never looked more lovely. Why didn't I go here? Why didn't I do this and that? There is so much that I missed. I must come back again. Will they be glad to see me? As glad as I am tosee them? I hope so. My cheek is damp. I turn away and blot out the sadness. I am not going to look back again.
A sweet little girl about eight years of age, full of laughing childhood, is coming toward me with a bubbling voice. Her very look commands me not to try to escape. I don't think I want to escape from her.
"Oh, Mr. Chaplin," gurgled the little girl, "I've been looking for you all over the boat. Please adopt me like you did Jackie Coogan. We could smash windows together and have lots of fun. I love your plays."
She takes my hand and looks up into my face. "They are so clever and beautiful. Won't you teach me like you taught him? He's so much like you. Oh, if I could only be like him."
And with a rapt look on her little face she prattles on, leaving me very few opportunities to get in a word, though I prefer to listen to her rather than talk.
I wave good-bye to my friends and then walk along with her, going up and looking back at the crowd over the rail.
Reporters are here. They scent something interesting in my affair with the little girl. I answer all questions. Then a photographer. We are photographed together. And the movie men are getting action pictures. We are looking back at my friends on shore.
The little girl asks: "Are they all actors and inthe movies? Why are you so sad? Don't you like leaving England? There will be so many friends in America to meet you. Why, you should be so happy because you have friends all over the world!"
I tell her that it is just the parting—that the thought of leaving is always sad. Life is always "Good-bye." And here I feel it is good-bye to new friends, that my old ones are in America.
We walk around the deck and she discusses the merits of my pictures.
"Do you like drama?" I ask.
"No. I like to laugh, but I love to make people cry myself. It must be nice to act 'cryie' parts, but I don't like to watch them."
"And you want me to adopt you?"
"Only in the pictures, like Jackie. I would love to break windows."
She has dark hair and a beautiful profile of the Spanish type, with a delicately formed nose and a Cupid's bow sort of mouth. Her eyes are sensitive, dark and shining, dancing with life and laughter. As we talk I notice as she gets serious she grows tender and full of childish love.
"You like smashing windows! You must be Spanish," I tell her.
"Oh no, not Spanish; I'm Jewish," she answers.
"That accounts for your genius."
"Oh, do you think Jewish people are clever?" she asks, eagerly.
"Of course. All great geniuses had Jewish blood in them. No, I am not Jewish," as she is about to put that question, "but I am sure there must be some somewhere in me. I hope so."
"Oh, I am so glad you think them clever. You must meet my mother. She's brilliant and an elocutionist. She recites beautifully, and is so clever at anything. And I am sure you would like my father. He loves me so much and I think he admires me some, too."
She chatters on as we walk around. Then suddenly. "You look tired. Please tell me and I will run away."
As the boat is pulling out her mother comes toward us and the child introduces us with perfect formality and without any embarrassment. She is a fine, cultured person.
"Come along, dear, we must go down to the second class. We cannot stay here."
I make an appointment to lunch with the little girl on the day after the morrow, and am already looking forward to it.
I spend the greater part of the second day in reading books by Frank Harris, Waldo Frank, Claude McKay, and Major Douglas's "Economic Democracy."
The next day I met Miss Taylor, a famous moving-picture actress of England, and Mr. Hepworth, who is a director of prominence in Great Britain. Miss Taylor, though sensitive, shy, and retiring, has a great bit of charm.
They are making their first trip to America, and we soon become good friends. We discuss the characteristics of the American people, contrasting their youthful, frank abruptness with the quiet, shy, and reserved Britisher.
I find myself running wild as I tell them of this land. I explain train hold-ups, advertising signs, Broadway lights, blatant theatres, ticket speculators, subways, the automat and its big sister, the cafeteria. It has a great effect on my friends and at times I almost detect unbelief. I find myself wanting to show the whole thing to them and to watch their reactions.
At luncheon next day the little girl is the soul of the party. We discuss everything from Art to ambitions. At one moment she is full of musical laughter, and the next she is excitedly discussing some happening aboard ship. Her stories are always interesting. How do children see so much more than grown-ups?
She has a great time. I must visit her father, he is so much like me. He has the same temperament, and is such a great daddy. He is so good to her. And she rattles on without stopping.
Then again she thinks I may be tired. "Sit back now." And she puts a pillow behind my head and bids me rest.
These moments with her make days aboard pass quickly and pleasantly.
Carl Robinson and I are strolling around the top deck the next day in an effort to get away fromeveryone, and I notice someone looking up at a wire running between the funnels of the ship. Perched on the wire is a little bird, and I am wondering how it got there and if it had been there since we left England.
The other watcher notices us. He turns and smiles. "The little bird must think this is the promised land."
I knew at once that he was somebody. Those thoughts belong only to poets. Later in the evening he joins us at my invitation and I learn he is Easthope Martin, the composer and pianist. He had been through the War and it had left its stamp on this fine, sensitive soul. He had been gassed. I could not imagine such a man in the trenches.
He is very frail of body, and as he talks I always imagine his big soul at the bursting point with a pent-up yearning.
There is the inevitable concert on the last night of the voyage. We are off the banks of Newfoundland, and in the midst of a fog. Fog horns must be kept blowing at intervals, hence the effect on the concert, particularly the vocal part, is obvious.
We land at seven in the morning of a very windy day, and it is eleven before we can get away. Reporters and camera men fill the air during all that time, and I am rather glad, because it shows Miss Taylor and Mr. Hepworth a glimpse of what America is like. We arrange to meet that night at Sam Goldwyn's for dinner.
Good-byes here are rather joyous, because we are all getting off in the same land and there will be an opportunity to see one another again.
My little friend comes to me excitedly and gives me a present—a silver stamp box. "I hope that when you write your first letter you take a stamp from here and mail it to me. Good-bye."
She shakes hands. We are real lovers and must be careful. She tells me not to overwork. "Don't forget to come and see us; you must meet daddy. Good-bye, Charlie."
She curtsies and is gone. I go to my cabin to wait until we can land. There is a tiny knock. She comes in.
"Charlie, I couldn't kiss you out there in front of all those people. Good-bye, dear. Take care of yourself." This is real love. She kisses my cheek and then runs out on deck.
Easthope Martin is with us that night at Goldwyn's party. He plays one of his own compositions and holds us spellbound. He is very grateful for our sincere applause and quite retiring and unassuming, though he is the hit of the evening.
Following the dinner I carried the English movie folk on a sight-seeing trip, enjoying their amazement at the wonders of a New York night.
"What do you think of it?" I asked them.
"Thrilling," says Hepworth. "I like it. There is something electrical in the air. It is a driving force. You must do things."
We go to a café, where the élite of New Yorkare gathered, and dance until midnight. I bid them good-bye, hoping to meet them later when they come to Los Angeles.
I dine at Max Eastman's the next night and meet McKay, the negro poet. He is quite handsome, a full-blooded Jamaican negro not more than twenty-five years of age. I can readily see why he has been termed an African prince. He has just that manner.
I have read a number of his poems. He is a true aristocrat with the sensitiveness of a poet and the humour of a philosopher, and quite shy. In fact, he is rather supersensitive, but with a dignity and manner that seem to hold him aloof.
There are many other friends there, and we discuss Max's new book on humour. There is a controversy whether to call it "Sense of Humour" or "Psychology of Humour." We talk about my trip. Claude McKay asks if I met Shaw. "Too bad," he says. "You would like him and he would have enjoyed you."
I am interested in Claude. "How do you write your poetry? Can you make yourself write? Do you prepare?" I try to discuss his race. "What is their future? Do they——"
He shrugs his shoulders. I realise he is a poet, an aristocrat.
I dine the next evening with Waldo Frank and Marguerite Naumberg and we discuss her new system. She has a school that develops children along the lines of personality. It is a study in individuality.She is struggling alone, but is getting wonderful results. We talk far into the morning on everything, including the fourth dimension.
Next day Frank Harris calls and we decide to take a trip to Sing Sing together. Frank is very sad and wistful. He is anxious to get away from New York and devote time to his autobiography before it is too late. He has so much to say that he wants to write it while it is keen.
I try to tell him that consciousness of age is a sign of keenness. That age doesn't bother the mind.
We discuss George Meredith and a wonderful book he had written. And then in his age Meredith had rewritten it. He said it was so much better rewritten, but he had taken from it all the red blood. It was old, withered like himself. You can't see things as they were. Meredith had become old. Harris says he doesn't want the same experience.
All this on the way to Sing Sing. Frank is a wonderful conversationalist. Like his friend Oscar Wilde. That same charm and brilliancy of wit, ever ready for argument. What a fund of knowledge he has. What a biography his should be. If it is just half as good as Wilde's, it will be sufficient.
Sing Sing. The big, grey stone buildings seem to me like an outcry against civilisation. This huge grey monster with its thousand staring eyes. We are in the visiting room. Young men in grey shirts.Thank God, the hideous stripes are gone. This is progress, humanity. It is not so stark.
There is a mite of a baby holding her daddy's hand and playing with his hair as he talks with her mamma, his wife. Another prisoner holding two withered hands of an old lady. Mother was written all over her, though neither said a word. I felt brutal at witnessing their emotion.
All of them old. Children, widows, mothers—youth crossed out of faces by lines of suffering and life's penalties. Tragedy and sadness, and always it is in the faces of the women that the suffering is more plainly written. The men suffer in body—the women in soul.
The men look resigned. Their spirit is gone. What is it that happens behind these grey walls that kills so completely?
The devotion of the prisoners is almost childish in its eagerness as they sit with their children, talking with their wives, here and there a lover with his sweetheart—all of them have written a compelling story in the book of life. But love is in this room, love unashamed. Why are sinners always loved? Why do sinners make such wonderful lovers? Perhaps it is compensation, as they call it. Love is paged by every eye here.
Children are playing around the floor. Their laughter is like a benediction. This is another improvement, this room. There are no longer bars to separate loved ones. Human nature improves, but the tragedy remains just as dramatic.
The cells where they sleep are old-fashioned, built by a monster or a maniac. No architect could do such a thing for human beings. They are built of hate, ignorance, and stupidity. I understand they are building a new prison, more sane, with far more understanding of human needs. Until then these poor wretches must endure these awful cells. I'd go mad there.
I notice quite a bit of freedom. A number of prisoners are strolling around the grounds while others are at work. The honour system is a great thing, gives a man a chance to hold self-respect.
They have heard that I am coming, and most of them seem to know me. I am embarrassed. What can I say? How can I approach them? I wave my hand merely. "Hello, folks!"
I decide to discard conversation. Be myself. Be comic. Cut up. I twist my cane and juggle my hat. I kick up my leg in back. I am on comic ground. That's the thing.
No sentiment, no slopping over, no morals—they are fed up with that. What is there in common between us? Our viewpoints are entirely different. They're in—I'm out.
They show me a cup presented by Sir Thomas Lipton, inscribed, "We have all made mistakes."
"How do we know but what some of you haven't?" I ask, humorously. It makes a hit. They want me to talk.
"Brother criminals and fellow sinners: Christ said, 'Let him who is without sin cast the firststone.' I cannot cast the stone, though I have compromised and thrown many a pie. But I cannot cast the first stone." Some got it. Others never will.
We must be sensible. I am not a hero worshipper of criminals and bad men. Society must be protected. We are greater in number than the criminals and have the upper hand. We must keep it; but we can at least treat them intelligently, for, after all, crime is the outcome of society.
The doctor tells me that but a few of them are criminals from heredity, that the majority had been forced into crime by circumstances or had committed it in passion. I notice a lot of evil-looking men, but also some splendid ones. I earnestly believe that society can protect itself intelligently, humanly. I would abolish prisons. Call them hospitals and treat the prisoners as patients.
It is a problem that I make no pretence of solving.
The death house. It is hideous. A plain, bare room, rather large and with a white door, not green, as I have been told. The chair—a plain wooden armchair and a single wire coming down over it. This is an instrument to snuff out life. It is too simple. It is not even dramatic. Just cold-blooded and matter of fact.
Some one is telling me how they watch the prisoner after he is strapped in the chair. Good God! How can they calmly plan with such exactness? And they have killed as many as seven in one day. I must get out.
Two men were walking up and down in a bare yard, one a short man with a pipe in his mouth, walking briskly, and at his side a warden. The keeper announces, shortly, "The next for the chair."
How awful! Looking straight in front of him and coming toward us, I saw his face. Tragic and appalling. I will see it for a long time.
We visit the industries. There is something ironical about their location with the mountains for a background, but the effect is good, they can get a sense of freedom. A good system here, with the wardens tolerant. They seem to understand. I whisper to one.
"Is Jim Larkin here?" He is in the boot department, and we go to see him for a moment. There is a rule against it, but on this occasion the rule is waived.
Larkin struts up. Large, about six feet two inches, a fine, strapping Irishman. Introduced, he talks timidly.
He can't stay, mustn't leave his work. Is happy. Only worried about his wife and children in Ireland. Anxious about them, otherwise fit.
There are four more years for him. He seems deserted even by his party, though there is an effort being made to have his sentence repealed. After all, he is no ordinary criminal. Just a political one.
He asks about my reception in England. "Glad to meet you, but I must get back."
Frank tells him he will help to get his release. He smiles, grips Frank's hand hard. "Thanks." Harris tells me he is a cultured man and a fine writer.
But the prison marked him. The buoyancy and spirit that must have gone with those Irish eyes are no more. Those same eyes are now wistful, where they once were gay. He hasn't been forgotten. Our visit has helped. There may be a bit of hope left to him.
We go to the solitary-confinement cell, where trouble makers are kept.
"This young man tried to escape, got out on the roof. We went after him," says the warden.
"Yes, it was quite a movie stunt," said the youngster. He is embarrassed. We try to relieve it.
"Whatever he's done, he's darn handsome," I tell the warden. It helps. "Better luck next time," I tell him. He laughs. "Thanks. Pleased to meet you, Charlie."
He is just nineteen, handsome and healthy. What a pity! The greatest tragedy of all. He is a forger, here with murderers.
We leave and I look back at the prison just once. Why are prisons and graveyards built in such beautiful places?
Next day everything is bustling, getting ready for the trip back to Los Angeles. I sneak out in the excitement and go to a matinée to see Marie Doro in "Lilies of the Field," and that night to"The Hero," a splendid play. A young actor, Robert Ames, I believe, gives the finest performance I have ever seen in America.
We are on the way. I am rushing back with the swiftness of the Twentieth Century Limited. There is a wire from my studio manager. "When will I be back for work?" I wire him that I am rushing and anxious to get there. There is a brief stop in Chicago and then we are on again.
And as the train rushes me back I am living again this vacation of mine. Its every moment now seems wonderful. The petty annoyances were but seasoning. I even begin to like reporters. They are regular fellows, intent on their job.
And going over it all, it has been so worth while and the job ahead of me looks worth while. If I can bring smiles to the tired eyes in Kennington and Whitechapel, if I have absorbed and understood the virtues and problems of those simpler people I have met, and if I have gathered the least bit of inspiration from those greater personages who were kind to me, then this has been a wonderful trip, and somehow I am eager to get back to work and begin paying for it.
I notice a newspaper headline as I write. It tells of the Conference for Disarmament. Is it prophetic? Does it mean that War will never stride through the world again? Is it a gleam of intelligence coming into the world?
We are arriving at Ogden, Utah, as I write. There is a telegram asking me to dine with ClareSheridan on my arrival in Los Angeles. The prospect is most alluring. And that wire, with several others, convinces me that I am getting home.
I turn again to the newspaper. My holiday is over. I reflect on disarmament. I wonder what will be the answer? I hope and am inclined to believe that it will be for good. Was it Tennyson who wrote: