My Autobiography (42 page)

The following day in the middle of work I was told that she had passed on. I was prepared for it, for the doctor had warned me. I stopped work, took off my make-up, and with Harry Crocker, my assistant director, went to the hospital.

Harry waited outside, and I entered the room and sat in a chair between the window and the bed. The shades were half drawn. The sunlight outside was intense, as was the silence of the room. I sat and gazed at that small figure on the bed, the face tilted upwards, the eyes closed. Even in death her expression looked troubled, as though anticipating further woes to come. How strange that her life should end here, in the environs of Hollywood, with all its absurd values – seven thousand miles from Lambeth, the soil of her heart-break. Then a flood of memories surged in upon me of her life-long struggle, her suffering, her courage and her tragic, wasted life… and I wept.

It was an hour before I could recover and leave the room. Harry Crocker was still there and I apologized for keeping him waiting so long; of course he understood, and in silence we drove home.

Sydney was in Europe, ill, at the time and unable to attend the funeral. My sons, Charlie and Sydney, were there with their mother, but I did not see them. I was asked if I wanted her cremated. Such a thought horrified me! No, I preferred her buried in the green earth, where she still lies, in Hollywood Cemetery.

I do not know if I have given a portrait worthy of Mother. But I do know that she carried her burden cheerfully.
Kindness and sympathy were her outstanding virtues. Although religious, she loved sinners and always identified herself with them. Not an atom of vulgarity was in her nature. Whatever Rabelaisian expression she used, it was always rhetorically appropriate. And in spite of the squalor in which we were forced to live, she had kept Sydney and me off the streets and made us feel we were not the ordinary product of poverty, but unique and distinguished.

*

When Clare Sheridan, the sculptress, who created quite a sensation with her book
From Mayfair to Moscow
, came to Hollywood, Sam Goldwyn gave a dinner for her and I was invited.

Clare, tall and good-looking, was the niece of Winston Churchill and wife of a direct descendant of Richard Brinsley Sheridan. She was the first Englishwoman to enter Russia after the Revolution, and had been commissioned to do busts of the principal heads of the Bolshevik party, including Lenin and Trotsky.

Although pro-Bolshevik, her book aroused only mild antagonism; Americans were confused by it because the writer was reputed to be an English aristocrat. She was entertained by New York society and did several busts of them. She also did busts of Bayard Swope and Bernard Baruch and others. When I met her she was lecturing across the country, her son Dicky, six years old, travelling with her. She complained that in the States it was difficult earning a living sculpting. ‘American men don’t mind their wives sitting for busts, but are reluctant to pose themselves, they are so modest.’

‘I’m not modest,’ I said.

So arrangements were made to bring her clay and tools to my house, and after lunch I would sit for her into the late afternoon. Clare had a faculty of stimulating conversation and I found myself intellectually showing off. Near the completion of the bust, I examined it. ‘This could be the head of a criminal,’ I said.

‘On the contrary,’ she answered with mock solemnity, ‘it’s the head of a genius.’

I laughed and developed a theory about the genius and the criminal being closely allied, both being extreme individualists.

She told me that since lecturing about Russia she had
felt ostracized. I knew Clare was no pamphleteer, nor a political fanatic. ‘You wrote a very interesting book about Russia – let it go at that,’ I said. ‘Why enter the political arena? You are bound to get hurt.’

‘I am lecturing for a living,’ she said, ‘but they don’t want to hear the truth, and when I speak spontaneously I can only be guided by truth. Besides,’ she added airily, ‘I love my darling Bolsheviks.’

‘My darling Bolsheviks,’ I repeated and laughed. Nevertheless, I felt that underneath Clare had a clear, realistic attitude about her circumstances, for when I met her later in 1931 she told me she was living outside Tunis.

‘But why do you live there?’ I asked.

‘It’s cheaper,’ she answered quickly. ‘In London, with my limited income, I would be living in two small rooms in Blooms-bury, but in Tunis I can have a house and servants, with a beautiful garden for Dicky.’

Dicky died at the age of nineteen, a sad and terrible blow from which she never recovered. She became a Catholic and lived for a while in a convent, turning to religion, I suppose as a solace.

I once saw on a tombstone in the South of France a photograph of a smiling young girl of fourteen, and engraved below, one word:
‘Pourquoi?’
In such bewilderment of grief it is futile to seek an answer. It only leads to false moralizing and torment – yet it does not mean that there is no answer. I cannot believe that our existence is meaningless or accidental, as some scientists would tell us. Life and death are too resolute, too implacable to be accidental.

The ways of life and death – genius cut down in its prime, world upheavals, holocausts and catastrophes – may seem futile and meaningless. But the fact that these things have happened are demonstrable of a resolute, fixed purpose beyond the comprehension of our three-dimensional minds.

There are philosophers who postulate that all is matter in some form of action, and that in all existence nothing can be added or taken away. If matter is action, it must be governed by the laws of cause and effect. If I accept this, then every action is preordained. If so, is not the scratching of my nose predestined
as much as a shooting star? The cat walks round the house, the leaf falls from the tree, the child stumbles. Are not these actions traceable back into infinity? Are not they predestined and continuous into eternity? We know the immediate cause of the fallen leaf, the child stumbling, but we cannot trace its beginning or its end.

I am not religious in the dogmatic sense. My views are similar to those of Macaulay, who wrote to the effect that the same religious arguments were debated in the sixteenth century with the same philosophical astuteness as they are today; and in spite of accumulated knowledge and scientific progress, no philosopher, past or present, has contributed any further illuminating facts on the matter.

I neither believe nor disbelieve in anything. That which can be imagined is as much an approximation to truth as that which can be proved by mathematics. One cannot always approach truth through reason; it confines us to a geometric cast of thought that calls for logic and credibility. We see the dead in our dreams and accept them as living, knowing at the same time they are dead. And although this dream mind is without reason, has it not its own credibility? There are things beyond reason. How can we comprehend a thousand billionth part of a second? Yet it must exist according to the system of mathematics.

As I grow older I am becoming more preoccupied with faith. We live by it more than we think and achieve by it more than we realize. I believe that faith is a precursor of all our ideas. Without faith, there never could have evolved hypothesis, theory, science or mathematics. I believe that faith is an extension of the mind. It is the key that negates the impossible. To deny faith is to refute oneself and the spirit that generates all our creative forces.

My faith is in the unknown, in all that we do not understand by reason; I believe that what is beyond our comprehension is a simple fact in other dimensions, and that in the realm of the unknown there is an infinite power for good.

*

In Hollywood I was still a lone wolf, working in my own studio, so I had little chance of meeting people from other
studios; therefore it was difficult to make new friends. Douglas and Mary were my social salvation.

Since their marriage they were extremely happy. Douglas had rebuilt his old house and had refurbished it attractively and had added several guest-rooms. They lived in grand style, and had excellent service, excellent cuisine, and Douglas was an excellent host.

At the studio he had elaborate quarters, a dressing-room with a Turkish bath, and a swimming pool. It was there that he entertained the illustrious, lunching them at the studio, taking them on a sight-seeing tour round the lot, showing them how movies were made, then inviting them to a steam bath and a swim. Afterwards they sat around his dressing-room, wrapped in bath towels like Roman senators.

It was indeed odd to be presented to the King of Siam just as one had emerged from the steam-room and was about to plunge into the swimming pool. In fact I met many eminent gentlemen in the Turkish bath, including the Duke of Alba, the Duke of Sutherland, Austen Chamberlain, the Marquis of Vienna, the Duke of Panaranda and many others. When a man is stripped of all worldly insignia, one can appraise him for what he is truly worth – the Duke of Alba went up a great deal in my estimation.

Whenever Douglas was visited by these potentates I was invited, for I was one of the showpieces. It was customary that after a steam one would arrive at Pickfair about eight, dine at eight-thirty and after dinner see a movie. So I never got down to knowing the guests too intimately. Occasionally, however, I would relieve the Fairbankses of their social overflow and put some of them up at my house. But I confess I could not ‘host’ them as well as the Fairbankses.

When entertaining the exalted, Douglas and Mary were at their best. They could assume a
dégagé
familiarity with them, which was difficult for me. Of course, when entertaining dukes, on the first night the formal appellation of ‘Your Grace’ was constantly heard; but it was not long before ‘Your Grace’ became the familiar ‘Georgie’ or ‘Jimmy’.

At dinner, Douglas’s little mongrel dog often appeared and Douglas, with an easy diverting manner, would make it perform foolish little tricks, which would loosen up what could have been
a stiff and formal affair. I was often the recipient of whispered compliments paid to Douglas by the guests. ‘Such a delightful person!’ said the ladies confidingly. And of course he was. No one could charm them more than Douglas.

But on one occasion he met his Waterloo. I am not mentioning names for obvious reasons, but the entourage was exclusive, abounding in exalted titles, and Douglas devoted a whole week to their pleasure and entertainment. The guests of honour were a honeymoon couple. Everything imaginable was done to entertain them. There was a fishing expedition on a private yacht to Catalina, where Douglas had had a steer killed and sunk in the sea to attract the fish (but they did not catch any), then a private rodeo on the studio grounds. But the beautiful, tall, young bride, though gracious, was extemely reticent and showed little enthusiasm.

Each night at dinner Douglas tried his best to entertain her, but all his wit and ebullience could not rouse her from her cool demeanour. On the fourth night Douglas took me aside. ‘She baffles me, I can’t talk to her,’ he said, ‘so at dinner tonight I’ve arranged for you to sit next to her.’ He chuckled. ‘I’ve told her how brilliant and amusing you are.’

After Douglas’s build-up, I felt as comfortable as a paratrooper about to jump as I took my seat at dinner. However, I thought I would try the esoteric approach. So, taking my napkin from the table, I leant over and whispered to the lady: ‘Cheer up.’

She turned, not quite sure of what I had said. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Cheer up!’ I repeated, cryptically.

She looked surprised. ‘Cheer up?’

‘Yes,’ I replied, adjusting my napkin over my knee and looking straight ahead.

She paused, studying me a moment. ‘Why do you say that?’

I took a chance. ‘Because you are very sad,’ and before she could answer I continued: ‘You see, I’m part gipsy and know these things – what month were you born in?’

‘April.’

‘Of course, Aries! I should have known.’

She became animated, which was most becoming to her. ‘Know what?’ she smiled.

‘This month is the low ebb of your vitality.’

She thought a moment. ‘It’s extraordinary you should say that.’

‘It’s simple if one is intuitive – your aura at the moment is an unhappy one.’

‘Is it that apparent?’

‘Perhaps not to others.’

She smiled, then studied a moment and said thoughtfully: ‘So strange you should say that. Of course it is true. I’m very depressed.’

I nodded sympathetically. ‘This is your worst month.’

‘I’m so despondent, I feel utterly desperate,’ she continued.

‘I think I understand,’ I said, not realizing what was coming next.

She continued mournfully: ‘If only I could run away – away from everything and everybody… I’d do anything – get a job – do extra work in films, but it would hurt everyone concerned and they are too fine for that.’

She spoke in the plural – but of course I knew she was speaking of her husband. Now I became alarmed, so I dropped all pose of the esoteric and tried to give her serious advice, which, of course, was banal. ‘It’s futile to run away; responsibilities always pursue you,’ I said. ‘Life is an expression of want, no one is ever satisfied, so don’t do anything rash – something you may regret all your life.’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ she said wistfully. ‘However, I’m so relieved to talk to someone who understands.’

Every so often during the chatter of the other guests Douglas threw a glance in our direction. Now she turned to him and smiled.

After dinner, Douglas took me aside. ‘What on earth were you two talking about? I thought you were going to bite each other’s ears off!’

‘Oh, just the usual fundamentals,’ I said smugly.

I
WAS
now entering the last mile of my contract with First National and looking forward to its termination. They were inconsiderate, unsympathetic and short-sighted, and I wanted to be rid of them. Moreover, ideas for feature films were nagging at me.

Completing the last three pictures seemed an insuperable task. I worked on
Pay Day
, a two-reeler, then I had only two more films to go.
The Pilgrim
, my next comedy, took on the proportions of a feature-length film. This again meant more irksome negotiations with First National. But as Sam Goldwyn said of me: ‘Chaplin is no business man – all he knows is that he can’t take anything less.’ The negotiations terminated satisfactorily. After the phenomenal success of
The Kid
, I met little resistance to my terms for
The Pilgrim
: it would take the place of two films and they would give me a guarantee of $400,000 and an interest in the profits. At last I was free to join my associates in United Artists.