My Autobiography (51 page)

I changed into my pyjamas and entered the bathroom. When I turned on the light, there was the phantom sitting up in the bathtub looking at me! I leaped out of the bathroom almost horizontally. It was a skunk! The same little fellow I had seen from the corner of my eye, only downstairs it had seemed magnified.

In the morning, the butler put the bewildered little animal in a cage and we eventually made a pet of it. But one day it disappeared and we never saw it again.

*

Before I left London the Duke and Duchess of York invited me to lunch. It was an intimate affair, just the Duke, the Duchess, her father and mother and her brother, a young chap about thirteen. Sir Philip Sassoon called later, and he and I were assigned to return the Duchess’s little brother to Eton. He was a quiet little fellow who trailed along as Sir Philip and I were escorted around the school by two prefects, who, with several others, invited us to tea.

When we entered the tuck-shop, an ordinary place selling candy and serving sixpenny teas, he remained outside with about a hundred other Etonians. Four of us sat at a small table in a crowded little upstairs room. Everything was going splendidly
until I was asked if I would like another cup of tea and inadvertently said ‘Yes.’ This caused a financial crisis, as our host was short of money and was obliged to go into a huddle with several other boys.

Philip whispered: ‘I’m afraid we’ve caught them short for an extra twopence and there’s nothing we can do about it.’

However, between them they managed to order another pot of tea, which we had to drink hurriedly because the school bell rang; giving them only a minute to get within the school gates, so there was quite a scamper. Inside, we were greeted by the headmaster, who showed us the hall where Shelley and many of the illustrious had inscribed their names. Eventually the headmaster turned us back to the two prefects, who ushered us into the holiest of holy sanctums, the room that Shelley had once occupied. But our little Bowes-Lyon friend remained outside.

Said our young host in a most imperious voice to him: ‘What is it you want?’

‘Oh, he’s with us,’ interposed Philip, explaining that we had brought him down from London.

‘All right,’ said our young host impatiently. ‘Come in.’

Whispered Sir Philip: ‘They’re making a great concession allowing him in; it would imperil another boy’s career to trespass on such holy ground.’

Not until I later visited Eton with Lady Astor was I aware of its spartan discipline. It was bitterly cold and quite dark as we groped our way along the dimly-lit, brown corridor which had footbaths hanging on the walls next to each room-door. At last we found the right door and knocked.

Her son, a pale-faced little chap, opened the door. Inside his two companions were huddled over a handful of coals in a small fireplace, warming their hands. The atmosphere was indeed drear.

Lady Astor said: ‘I want to see if I can have you up for the week-end.’

We talked a moment, then suddenly there was a rap on the door and before we could say ‘Come in’ the handle turned and the housemaster entered, a handsome, blond man, well built, about forty. ‘Good evening,’ he said curtly to Lady Astor and nodded to me. He then leant his elbow on the small mantelpiece and began smoking his pipe. Her visit was evidently inopportune, so Lady
Astor began explaining: ‘I’ve come to see if I could take the young one back for the week-end.’

‘I’m very sorry, but you can’t,’ was the abrupt answer.

‘Oh, come now,’ said Lady Astor in her cosy way. ‘Don’t be so recalcitrant.’

‘I’m not recalcitrant, I’m merely stating a fact.’

‘But he looks so pale.’

‘Nonsense, there’s nothing wrong with him.’

She got up from the boy’s bed, upon which we were sitting, and went over to the housemaster. ‘Oh, come on!’ she cried beguilingly, giving him a slight characteristic push which I had often seen her give Lloyd George and others whom she wished to persuade.

‘Lady Astor,’ said the housemaster, ‘you have an unfortunate habit of pushing people off their balance. I wish you wouldn’t do it.’

At this Lady Astor’s
savoir faire
deserted her.

Somehow the conversation turned to politics, which the housemaster cut short with the laconic remark: ‘The trouble with English politics is that women interfere too much in them, and with that I shall say good-night, Lady Astor.’ Then he nodded curtly to both of us and left.

‘What a disgruntled man,’ said Lady Astor.

But the boy spoke up for him. ‘Oh no, Mother, he’s really very nice.’

I could not but admire the man, in spite of his anti-feminism, for there was an honesty and forthrightness about him; humourless but nevertheless sincere.

*

As I had not seen my brother Sydney for a number of years, I left England to spend a little time with him in Nice. Sydney had always said that when he had saved $250,000 he would retire. I might add that he saved considerably more than that. Besides being a shrewd business man he was an excellent comedian and had made many successful pictures,
Submarine Pilot, The Better ’Ole, Man in the Box
and
Charley’s Aunt
among others, which added to his substantial fortune. And now Sydney had retired, as he said he would, and with his wife was living in Nice.

When Frank J. Gould, who also lived in Nice, heard that I was
coming to visit my brother he invited me to be his guest at Juanles-Pins, so I accepted.

Before going to Nice I stopped off in Paris for two days and went to the Folies Bergère, because Alfred Jackson, of the original Eight Lancashire Lads, was working there; he was one of the sons of the original troupe. When I met Alfred, he told me that the Jackson family had grown fairly prosperous, having eight troupes of dancing girls working for them, and that his father was still alive. If I came down to the Folies Bergère, where they were rehearsing, I could meet him there. Although past eighty, the old chap was still lithe and healthy-looking. We spoke of old times with exclamations of ‘Who would have thought it!’

‘You know, Charlie,’ he said, ‘the outstanding memory I have of you as a little boy was your gentleness.’

*

It is a mistake to dally long in the public’s adulation; like a soufflé, if left standing, it bogs down. So with this welcome of mine: it suddenly cooled off. The first draught came from the Press. After their hyperboles of praise they took an opposite slant. I suppose it made interesting reading.

The excitement of London and Paris had taken its toll. I was tired and needed a rest. While recuperating in Juan-les-Pins I was asked to appear at a Command Performance at the Palladium in London. Instead, I sent a cheque for two hundred pounds. That started a rumpus. I had offended the King and slighted the Royal Command. I did not regard a note from the manager of the Palladium as a royal edict. Besides, I was unprepared to perform at a moment’s notice.

The next attack came a few weeks later. I happened to be waiting on the tennis court for my partner, when a young gentleman introduced himself as a friend of a friend of mine. After an exchange of pleasantries, we drifted on to mutual opinions. He was an engaging young man and extremely sympathetic. Having a weakness for taking a sudden liking to people – especially if they are good listeners – I talked on many subjects. On the state of world affairs, I wallowed pessimistically, telling him that the situation in Europe was leading up to another war.

‘Well, they won’t get me in the next one’ said my friend.

‘I don’t blame you,’ I replied. ‘I have no respect for those who get us into trouble; I dislike being told whom to kill and what to die for – and all in the name of patriotism.’

We parted in a cordial way. I believe I made a date with him to dine the next evening, but he never showed up. And lo! instead of talking to a friend, I discovered I had been talking to a news reporter; and the next day a front-page spread was in the newspapers: ‘Charlie Chaplin no patriot!’, etc.

This is true, but at the time I did not want my private views aired in the Press. The fact is I am no patriot – not for moral or intellectual reasons alone, but because I have no feeling for it. How can one tolerate patriotism when six million Jews were murdered in its name? Some might say that was in Germany; nevertheless, these murderous cells lie dormant in every nation.

I cannot vociferate about national pride. If one is steeped in family tradition, home and garden, a happy childhood, family and friends, I can understand this feeling – but I have not that background. At best patriotism to me is nurtured in local habits; horse-racing, hunting, Yorkshire pudding, American hamburgers and Coca-Cola, but today such native yams have become worldwide. Naturally, if the country in which I lived were to be invaded, like most of us, I believe I would be capable of an act of supreme sacrifice. But I am incapable of a fervent love of homeland, for it has only to turn Nazi and I would leave it without compunction – and from what I have observed, the cells of Nazism, although dormant at the moment, can be activated very quickly in every country. Therefore, I do not wish to make any sacrifice for a political cause unless I personally believe in it. I am no martyr for nationalism – neither do I wish to die for a president, a prime minister or a dictator.

A day or so later Sir Philip Sassoon took me to Consuelo Vanderbilt Balsan’s house for lunch. It was a beautiful place in the South of France. One guest stands out, a tall, lean man, dark-haired with cropped moustache, pleasant and engaging, to whom I found myself addressing my conversation at lunch. I was discussing Major Douglas’s book,
Economic Democracy
, and said how aptly his credit theory might solve the present world crisis – to quote Consuelo Balsan about that afternoon: ‘I found Chaplin interesting to talk to and noted his strong socialist tendencies.’

I must have said something that particularly appealed to the tall gentleman, for his face lit up and his eyes opened so wide that I could see the whites of them. He seemed to be endorsing everything I said until I reached the climax of my thesis, which must have veered in a direction contrary to his own, for he looked disappointed. I had been talking to Sir Oswald Mosley, little realizing that this man was to be the future head of the black-shirts of England – but those eyes with the whites showing over the pupils and the broad grinning mouth stand out in my memory vividly as an expression most peculiar – if not a little frightening.

I also met Emil Ludwig in the South of France, voluminous biographer of Napoleon, Bismarck, Balzac and others. He wrote interestingly about Napoleon, but he over-applied psychoanalysis to the point of detracting from the interest of the narrative.

He sent me a telegram saying how much he admired
City Lights
and that he would like to meet me. He was entirely different from what I had imagined. He looked like a refined Oscar Wilde, with rather long hair and a feminine curve to a full mouth. We met at my hotel, where he presented himself in a rather florid, dramatic manner, handing me a bay leaf, saying: ‘When a Roman had achieved greatness he was presented with a laurel crown made of bay leaves. I therefore present one to you.’

It took a moment to get adjusted to this effusion; then I realized he was covering a shyness. When he came to I met a very clever and interesting man. I asked him what he considered most essential in writing a biography. He said an attitude. ‘Then a biography is a biased and censored account,’ I said.

‘Sixty-five per cent of the story is never told,’ he answered, ‘because it involves other people.’

During dinner he asked what I considered the most beautiful sight I had ever seen. Off-handedly I said the movement of Helen Wills playing tennis: it had grace and economy of action as well as a healthy appeal to sex. Another was a newsreel scene, soon after the Armistice, of a farmer ploughing a field in Flanders where thousands had died. Ludwig described a sunset on a Florida beach, an open sports car lazily travelling along filled with pretty girls in bathing suits, one perched on the back fender, her leg dangling, her toe touching the sand and making a continuous line as they drove along.

Since then I can recall other beautiful sights: Benvenuto Cellini’s ‘Perseus’ in the Piazza della Signoria in Florence. It was night, with the square lit up, and I was drawn there by the figure of Michelangelo’s ‘David’. But as soon as I saw ‘Perseus’, all else was secondary. I was enthralled by its impalpable beauty of grace and form. Perseus, holding high the head of Medusa with her pathetic twisted body at his feet, is the epitome of sadness, and made me think of Oscar Wilde’s mystic line: ‘For each man kills the thing he loves.’ In the combat of that eternal mystery, good and evil, his cause was ended.

I received a telegram from the Duke of Alba inviting me to Spain. But the following day large headlines appeared in all the newspapers: ‘Revolution in Spain’. So instead I went to Vienna – sad, sensuous Vienna. My predominant memory of it is a romance I had with a beautiful girl. It was like the last chapter of a Victorian novel: we made passionate vows of affection and kissed good-bye, knowing that we would never see each other again.

After Vienna, I went on to Venice. It was autumn and the place was deserted. I like it better when the tourists are there, because they give warmth and vitality to what could easily be a graveyard without them. In fact I like sightseers because the people seem more agreeable on holiday than when banging through revolving doors into office buildings.

Although Venice was beautiful it was melancholy, and I stayed only two nights, having nothing to do but play phonograph records – and that under cover, as Mussolini forbade dancing or playing records on Sunday.

I should have liked to return to Vienna to enact a sequel to my amour there. But I had an engagement in Paris that I did not want to miss, a lunch with Aristide Briand, implementer and patron of the idea of the United States of Europe. When I met him, Monsieur Briand seemed delicate in health, disillusioned and embittered. The luncheon took place at the house of Monsieur Balbi, publisher of the Paris
l’intransigeant
, and was most interesting although I did not speak French. Countess Noailles, a bright, birdlike little woman, spoke English and was extremely witty and charming. Monsieur Briand greeted her by saying: ‘I see so little of you these days; your presence is as rare as that of one’s discarded mistress.’