My Autobiography

by Charles Chaplin

  The next morning I was awakened by the telephone ringing in the sitting-room, and then heard the metallic voice of my American secretary: ‘Who?… The Prince of Wales!’

  Eddie was there and, since he claimed to be versed in protocol, took the phone. I could hear Eddie’s voice saying: ‘Are you there? Oh yes. Tonight? Thank you!’

  He announced excitedly to my secretary that the Prince of Wales would like Mr Chaplin to dine with him that night and started for my bedroom.

  ‘Don’t wake him now,’ said my secretary.

  ‘Good God, man, this is the Prince of Wales!’ said Eddie indignantly, and launched into a tirade on British etiquette.

  A moment later I heard the handle of my bedroom door turn, so I pretended to be just waking. Eddie came in and announced with suppressed excitement and a phoney nonchalance: ‘You must keep tonight open; you’re invited to dine with the Prince of Wales.’

  Assuming a similar nonchalance, I told him it would be awkward, as this evening I had a previous engagement to dine with H. G. Wells. Eddie ignored what I said and repeated the message. Naturally I was thrilled – the thought of dining with the Prince at Buckingham Palace! ‘But I think someone must be spoofing us,’ I said, ‘because only last night I read that the Prince was up in Scotland, shooting.’

  Eddie suddenly looked foolish. ‘Perhaps I’d better telephone the Palace and find out.’

  He returned with an inscrutable look and announced unemotionally: ‘It’s true, he’s still in Scotland.’

  That morning news came that Fatty Arbuckle, my associate at the Keystone Company, had been charged with murder. This was preposterous; I knèw Roscoe to be a genial, easy-going type who would not harm a fly, and expressed this view to the Press when they interviewed me about it. Eventually, Arbuckle was completely exonerated, but it ruined his career: although he was reinstated with the public, the ordeal took its toll, and within a year or so he died.

  I was to meet Wells in the afternoon at the offices of Oswald Stoll Theatres, where we were to see a film based on one of Wells’s stories. As we drew near I noticed a dense crowd. Very soon I was pushed and propelled and shot into an elevator and swept up into a small office where there were more people.

  I was bewildered that our first meeting should be under such auspices. Wells was seated calmly by a desk, his violet-blue eyes kindly and twinkling, looking a little embarrassed. Before we could shake hands, a barrage of flashlights and photographers appeared from everywhere. Wells leaned over and whispered: ‘You and I are the goats.’

  Then we were ushered into a projection-room and towards the end of the film Wells whispered: ‘How do you like it?’ I told him frankly that it was not good. When the lights went up, Wells quickly leaned over. ‘Say something nice about the boy.’ As a matter of fact, the boy, George K. Arthur, was the only redeeming feature of the picture.

  Wells’s attitude to movies was an affected tolerance. ‘There is no such thing as a bad film,’ he said; ‘The fact that they move is wonderful!’

  There was no chance to get acquainted on that occasion, but later that day I received a message:

  Don’t forget dinner. You can wrap up in an overcoat if you deem it advisable, and slip in about 7.30 and we can dine in peace.

  That evening Rebecca West was there. Conversation was a little stiff at first. But eventually we began to thaw out. Wells talked of Russia, for he had recently been there.

  ‘Progress is slow,’ he said. ‘It is easy to issue ideal manifestoes but difficult to carry them out.’

  ‘What’s the solution?’ I asked.

  ‘Education.’

  I told him that I was not well informed about socialism, and said jestingly that I saw little virtue in a system in which man must work to live. ‘Frankly, I prefer one that enables him to live without work.’

  He laughed. ‘What about your films?’

  ‘That isn’t work – that’s child’s play,’ I said, facetiously.

  He asked me what I intended doing during my holiday in Europe. I told him I thought of going to Paris, then on to Spain to see a bullfight. ‘I’ve been told that the technique is dramatic and beautiful.’

  ‘Quite so, but it’s very cruel to horses,’ he said.

  ‘Why be sentimental about horses?’ I could have kicked myself for making such a silly remark; it was my nerves. But I could see that Wells understood. However, all the way home I reproached myself for being such an ass.

  The next day Eddie Knoblock’s friend, Sir Edwin Lutyens, the celebrated architect, came to the hotel. He was working on the plans of a new Government building for Delhi, and had just returned from Buckingham Palace after an interview with King George V. He had taken with him a workable miniature toilet; it was about six inches high with a cistern that held a small wine-glass full of water, and when the chain was pulled it flushed like a regular toilet. Both the King and Queen had been so charmed and amused by it, pulling its chain and refilling its cistern, that Lutyens had suggested building a dolls’ house around it. Later he arranged for various important English artists to paint miniature pictures for the principal rooms. Every domestic installation was made in miniature. When it was finished, the Queen permitted it to be exhibited to the public, and collected large sums of money for charity.

  *

  After a while the tide of my social activity began to recede. I had met the literati and the illustrious and had visited the scenes of my boyhood; now there seemed little left but to jump in and out of taxis to escape the crowds; and as Eddie Knoblock had left for Brighton, I suddenly decided to pack up and go to Paris and get away from it all.

  We left without publicity – so I thought – but at Calais a large crowd greeted us. ‘Vive Charlot!’ they cried as I came down the gangplank. We had had a rough crossing, and half of me had been left in the Channel; nevertheless, I waved and smiled weakly. I was pushed, shoved and pressured into the train. On arriving in Paris I was greeted by a large crowd and a cordon of police. Again I was pushed and massaged with enthusiasm and, with the help of the police, I was lifted and bundled into a taxi. It was fun and I frankly enjoyed it. But it was more than I had bargained for. Although it was a stirring reception, the excitement of it left me exhausted.

  At Claridge’s, the telephone rang persistently every ten minutes. It was Miss Anne Morgan’s secretary calling. I knew this would be for some request or other, as she was the daughter of J. P. Morgan. So we put the secretary off. But the secretary would not be put off: would I meet Miss Anne Morgan? She would not take up much of my time. I succumbed, promising to meet her at my hotel at a quarter to four. But Miss Morgan was late, so after ten minutes I started to leave. As I went through the lobby the manager came running after me, very concerned. ‘Miss Anne Morgan is here to see you, sir.’

  I was nettled by Miss Morgan’s persistence and assurance –and then to be late! I greeted her smilingly. ‘I’m sorry, I have an appointment at four.’

  ‘Oh really?’ she said. ‘Well, I won’t detain you more than five minutes.’

  I looked at the clock; it was five minutes to four.

  ‘Perhaps we could sit down for a moment,’ she said, and began talking while we were looking for a place to sit in the lobby. ‘I am helping to raise funds for the rebuilding of devastated France and if we could have your picture, The Kid, for a gala at the Trocadero and you could appear with it we could raise thousands of dollars.’

  I told her that she could have the picture for that occasion, but that I would not appear with it.

  ‘But your presence will add extra thousands of dollars,’ she insisted, ‘and I am sure you will be decorated.’

  Something devilish came over me and I looked at her steadily. ‘Are you sure?’

  Miss Morgan laughed. ‘One can only make recommendations to the Government,’ she said, ‘and of course I’ll do my best.’

  I looked at the clock and extended my hand. ‘I am awfully sorry but I must go. However, I shall be in Berlin for the next thr
ee days, so perhaps you can let me know.’ And with this cryptic remark I said good-bye. I know it was naughty of me and the moment I left the hotel I regretted such brashness.

  *

  An introduction to the social set usually comes about by one incident, which, like a spark from a flint, ignites a conflagration of social activities – and you’re ‘in’.

  I remember two ladies from Venezuela – simple girls – telling me how they broke into New York society. On an ocean liner they had met one of the Rockefellers, who gave them a letter of introduction to friends, and that started the ball rolling. The secret of their success, one told me years later, was that they never made a play for the married men; consequently New York hostesses adored them and invited them everywhere – and even found husbands for them.

  As for myself, my entrée into the English set came unexpectedly, while I was taking a bath at Claridge’s. Georges Carpentier, whom I had met in New York before his fight with Jack Dempsey, was announced and entered the bathroom. After a warm greeting, he whispered that he had a friend waiting in the sitting-room whom he would like me to meet, an Englishman who was ‘très important en Angleterre’. So I slipped on a bathrobe and met Sir Philip Sassoon. That was the beginning of a very dear friendship that lasted for over thirty years. That evening I had dinner with Sir Philip and his sister, who was then Lady Rocksavage, and the following day I left for Berlin.

  The reaction of the public in Berlin was amusing. I was stripped of everything but my personality, and that could not get me even a decent table in a night-club, for my pictures had not yet been shown there. It was not until I was recognized by an American officer, who indignantly informed the bewildered proprietor who I was, that at least we were placed out of a draught. It was also amusing to see the management’s reaction when those who recognized me gathered about our table. One, a German who had been a prisoner in England and had seen two or three of my comedies there, suddenly screamed ‘Schaarlie!’ and turned to the bewildered customers. ‘Do you know who this is? Schaarlie!’ Then hysterically he embraced and kissed me. But his excitement caused little stir. It was not until Pola Negri, the German film star, who was the cynosure of all eyes, asked if I would join her table that mild interest was aroused.

  The day after my arrival, I received a mysterious message. It read:

  Dear friend Charlie,

  So much has happened to me since we met in New York at Dudley Field Malone’s party. At present I am very ill in a hospital, so please do come and see me. It will cheer me up so much…

  The writer gave the address of the hospital and signed himself ‘George’.

  At first I did not realize who it was. Then it occurred to me: of course, it was George the Bulgarian, who had been due to go back to prison for eighteen years. It seemed obvious from the tone of the letter that it was all leading up to a ‘touch’. So I thought I would take along $500. To my surprise, at the hospital I was ushered into a spacious room with a desk and two telephones, where I was greeted by two well-dressed civilians who, I learnt later, were George’s secretaries. One of them ushered me into the next room, where George was in bed. ‘My friend!’ he said, greeting me emotionally. ‘I am so glad you have come. I’ve never forgotten your sympathy and kindness at Dudley Malone’s party!’ Then he gave a perfunctory order to his secretary and we were left alone. As he never proffered any explanation about his departure from the States, I felt it would be indiscreet to ask him about it; besides, he was too interested in inquiring about his friends in New York. I was bewildered; I could not make sense of the situation; it was like skipping several chapters of a book. The dénouement came when he explained that he was now the purchasing agent for the Bolshevik Government and was in Berlin buying railway engines and steel bridges. I left with my $500 intact.

  *

  Berlin was depressing. It still had an atmosphere of defeat, with its tragic aftermath of armless and legless soldiers begging on almost every street corner. Now I began to receive telegrams from Miss Anne Morgan’s secretary, fraught with anxiety, for already the Press was announcing my appearance at the Troca-dero. I wired back that I had made no promise to attend, and that to keep faith with the French public I would have to apprise them of the fact.

  Eventually a telegram arrived: ‘Have absolute assurance that you will be decorated if you are present, but it has been a veritable series of manoeuvres and crises – Anne Morgan.’ So after three days in Berlin I returned to Paris.

  On the night of the Trocadero première I was in the box with Cécile Sorel, Anne Morgan and several others. Cécile leaned close to impart a deep secret. ‘Tonight you are going to be decorated.’

  ‘How wonderful!’ I said with modesty.

  A dreary documentary film went on endlessly up to the intermission. After I had suffered interminable ennui the lights went up and two officials escorted me to the Minister’s box. Several journalists accompanied us; one, an astute American correspondent, kept continually whispering down my neck: ‘You’re getting the Legion of Honour, kid.’ As the Minister was delivering his encomium, my friend kept up a stream of whispering: ‘They’ve double-crossed you, kid; that’s the wrong colour – that’s what they give to school-teachers; you don’t get the smackeroos on the cheek for that one; you want the red ribbon, kid.’

  Actually, I was very happy to be honoured in a class with school-teachers. The certificate stated: ‘Charles Chaplin, dramatist, artist, an Officier de l’Instruction Publique… ’ etc.

  I received a charming letter of thanks from Anne Morgan and an invitation to lunch next day at the Villa Trianon, Versailles, saying that she would see me there. It was an affluent pot-pourri. – Prince George of Greece, Lady Sarah Wilson, the Marquis de Talleyrand-Périgord, Commandant Paul-Louis Weiller, Elsa Maxwell and others. Whatever incident or conversation took place on that matutinal occasion I do not remember, for I was too busy exercising my charm.

  The next day my friend Waldo Frank came to the hotel with Jacques Copeau, the leader of a new movement in the French theatre. Together we went to the circus that evening and saw some excellent clowns, then later we supped with Copeau’s company in the Latin Quarter.

  The day following I was due in London for a lunch with Sir Philip Sassoon and Lord and Lady Rocksavage, to meet Lloyd George. But the plane was forced to land on the French coast because of a fog over the Channel, and we arrived three hours too late.

  A word about Sir Philip Sassoon. He had been official secretary to Lloyd George during the war. A man about my own age, he was a picturesque personality, handsome and exotic-looking. He had a seat in Parliament representing Brighton and Hove, and, although one of the wealthiest men in England, he was not satisfied to be idle, but worked hard and made an interesting life for himself.

  When I first met him in Paris I had said that I was exhausted and needed to get away from people and was moreover extremely nervous, complaining that even the colour of the hotel walls was getting on my nerves.

  He laughed. ‘What coloured walls would you like?’

  ‘Yellow and gold,’ I said jokingly.

  He then suggested my going to his estate in Lympne, where I would be quiet and away from people. To my astonishment, when I arrived there I discovered my room had pastel curtains of yellow and gold.

  His estate was extraordinarily beautiful, the house furnished with flamboyant daring. Philip could do this successfully because he had great taste. I remember how impressed I was with my luxurious suite: the lighted chafing-dish to keep soup warm in case I was hungry during the night and in the morning two stalwart butlers wheeling into the room a veritable cafeteria, with a choice of American cereals, fish cutlets, and bacon and eggs. I had remarked that since visiting Europe I missed American wheat-cakes, and there they were, brought to my bedside, all hot, with butter and maple syrup. It was something out of the Arabian Nights.

  Sir Philip went about conducting his household affairs with one hand in his coat pocket, fingering his mother’s pearls – a
string over a yard long, and each pearl the size of a thumbnail. ‘I carry them around to keep them alive,’ he said.

  After I had recovered from my fatigue, he asked if I would accompany him to a hospital in Brighton to visit the incurable spastic cases who had been wounded during the war. It was terribly sad to look into those young faces and to see the lost hope there. One young man was so paralysed that he painted with a brush in his mouth, the only part of his body he could use. Another had fists so clenched that he had to be given an anaesthetic in order to cut his finger-nails to prevent them from growing into the palms of his hands. Some patients were in such a terrible state that I was not allowed to see them – but Sir Philip did.

  After Lympne we drove together back to London to his house in Park Lane, where he was holding his annual Four Georges Exhibition of paintings for charity. It was a magnificent house with a large conservatory carpeted with blue hyacinths. On the second day I lunched there, the hyacinths had been changed and were of another colour.

  We visited Sir William Orpen’s studio and saw a portrait of Philip’s sister, Lady Rocksavage, which was beautifully luminous. I had a rather negative reaction to Orpen, for he affected a dumb, incredulous expression which I thought was supercilious.

  Another visit was to H. G. Wells’s country house on the Countess of Warwick’s estate, where he lived with his wife and their two sons, who had just come down from Cambridge. I had been invited to stay the night.

  In the afternoon over thirty members of the Cambridge faculty showed up and sat cloistered together in the garden like a school group being photographed, mutely observing me as they would a species from another planet.

  In the evening, the Wells family played a game called ‘Animal, Vegetable or Mineral’ which made me feel that I was taking an I.Q. test. Paramount in my memory are the icy sheets and going to bed by candle-light. It was the coldest night I ever spent in England. After I had thawed out the next morning, H.G. asked me how I had slept.