My Autobiography

by Charles Chaplin

  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.

  nineteen

  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 pic
tures 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.

  At the suggestion of Douglas and Mary, Honest Joe, as we called Joseph Schenck, joined United Artists with his wife Norma Talmadge, whose films were to be released through our company. Joe was to be made president. Although I was fond of Joe, I did not think his contribution was valuable enough to justify his presidency. Although his wife was a star of some magnitude, she could not match the box-office receipts of Mary or Douglas. We had already refused to give Adolph Zukor stock in our company, so why give it to Joe Schenck, who was not as important as Zukor? Nevertheless, Douglas and Mary’s enthusiasm won the day, and Joe became president and an equal stockholder in United Artists.

  Shortly after, I received an urgent letter requiring my presence at a meeting concerning the future of United Artists. After the formal and optimistic remarks of our president, Mary solemnly addressed us. She said that she was alarmed at what was going on in the industry – she was always alarmed – theatre circuits were merging, and, unless we took measures to counteract these moves, the future of United Artists would be in jeopardy.

  This pronouncement did not bother me, because I believed that the excellence of our films was the answer to all such competition. But the others would not be reassured. Joe Schenck warned us gravely that, although the company was fundamentally healthy, we should insure our future by not taking all the risks ourselves, but letting others participate a little in our profits. He had approached Dillon Read and Company of Wall Street, who were willing to put up $40,000,000 for an issue of stock and an interest in our company. I said frankly that I was opposed to Wall Street having anything to do with my work, and again contended that we had nothing to fear from mergers as long as we made good pictures. Joe, repressing his irritation, said in a calm, lofty way that he was trying to do something constructive for the company and that we should take advantage of it.

  Mary again took over. She had a reproving way of talking business, addressing me not directly but through the others, that made me feel guilty of gross selfishness. She extolled the virtues of Joe, stressing how hard he had worked and to what trouble he had gone in building up our company. ‘We must all try to be constructive,’ she said.

  But I was adamant, maintaining that I did not want anyone else participating in my personal efforts; I was confident and willing to invest my own money in those efforts. The meeting developed into a heated discussion – more heat than discussion – but I stood my ground, saying that if the rest wished to go ahead without me, they could do so and I would retire from the company. This brought about a solemn avowal of loyalty among us all, and an affirmation from Joe that he did not wish to do anything that would disrupt our friendship or the harmony of our company. And so the matter of Wall Street was dropped.

  *

  Before starting on my first picture for United Artists, I intended launching Edna Purviance in a star role. Although Edna and I were emotionally estranged, I was still interested in her career. But, looking objectively at Edna, I realized she was growing rather matronly, which would not be suitable for the feminine confection necessary for my future pictures. Besides, I did not wish to confine my ideas and characters to the limits of a comedy stock company, for I had vague, ambitious ideas about feature comedies which would require more general casting.

  For months I had toyed with the idea of doing The Trojan Women with Edna, using my own adaptation of it. But the more research we did, the more it developed into an expensive production, so the idea was abandoned.

  Then I began to think of other interesting women that Edna might portray. Of course, Josephine! The fact that it would involve period costumes and cost twice as much as The Trojan Women was of little consequence. I was enthusiastic.

  We began extensive research, reading Bourrienne’s Memoirs of Napoleon Bonaparte and the Memoirs of Constant, Napoleon’s valet. But the further we delved into the life of Josephine, the more Napoleon got in the way. So fascinated was I with this flamboyant genius that a film about Josephine ended in a pale cast of thought, and Napoleon loomed up as a part I might play myself. The film would be a record of his Italian campaign: an epic story of the will and courage of a young man of twenty-six, overcoming stupendous opposition and the jealousies of old, experienced generals. But, alas, my enthusiasm subsided and so the enterprise of both Napoleon and Josephine went away.

  About this time Peggy Hopkins Joyce, the celebrated matrimonial beauty, appeared on the Hollywood scene, bedecked in jewels and with a collected bank-roll of three million dollars from her five husbands – so she told me. Peggy was of humble origin: a barber’s daughter who became a Ziegfeld chorus girl and had married five millionaires. Although Peggy was still a beauty, she was a little tired-looking. She came direct from Paris, attractively gowned in black, for a young man had recently committed suicide over her. In this funereal chic, she invaded Hollywood.

  During a quiet dinner together, she confided to me that she hated notoriety. ‘All I want is to marry and have babies. At heart I’m a simple woman,’ she said, adjusting the twenty-carat diamond and emerald bracelets that mounted up her arm. When not in a serious mood, Peggy referred to them as ‘my service stripes’.

  Of one husband, she said that on her bridal night she had locked herself in her bedroom and would not let him in unless he put a $500,000 cheque under the door.

  ‘And did he?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said petulantly and not without humour, ‘and I cashed it the first thing in the morning before he was awake. But he was a fool and drank a lot. Once I hit him over the head with a bottle of champagne and sent him to the hospital.’

  ‘And that’s how you parted?’

  ‘No,’ she laughed, ‘he seemed to like it, and was even more crazy about me.’

  Thomas Ince invited us on to his yacht. There were just three of us, Peggy, Tom and I, sitting at a table in the stateroom drinking champagne. It was in the evening and a champagne bottle was in close proximity to Peggy. As the night wore on, I could see Peggy’s interest veering from me over to Tom Ince, and she began to grow a little ugly, reminding me that what she had done to her husband with a champagne bottle she might do to me.

  Although I had drunk a little champagne, I was sober, and told her gently that if I saw the slightest suspicion of such a notion cross her pretty brow, I would toss her overboard. After that I was dropped from her coterie, and Irving Thalberg of M.G.M. became the next focal point of her affection. For a while, her notoriety dazzled Irving, for he was very young. At the M.G.M. studios there were alarming rumours of marriage, but the fever left him and nothing came of it.

  During our bizarre, though brief, relationship, Peggy told me several anecdotes about her association with a well-known French publisher. These inspired me to write the story A Woman of Paris for Edna Purviance to star in. I had no intention of appearing in the film but I directed it.

  Some critics declared that psychology could not be expressed on the silent screen, that obvious action, such as heroes bending ladies over tree-trunks and breathing fervently down into their tonsils, or chair-swinging, knock-out rough stuff, was its only means of expression. A Woman of Paris was a challenge. I intended to convey psychology by subtle action. For example, Edna plays a demi-mondaine, Edna’s girl-friend enters and shows her a society magazine which announces the marriage of Edna’s lover. Edna nonchalantly takes the magazine, looks at it, then quickly casts it aside, acting with in
difference, and lights a cigarette. But the audience can see that she has been shocked. After smilingly bidding her friend adieu at the door, she quickly goes back to the magazine and reads it with dramatic intensity. The film was full of subtle suggestion. In a scene in Edna’s bedroom, a maid opens a chest of drawers and a man’s collar accidentally falls to the floor, which reveals her relationship with the leading man (played by Adolphe Menjou).

  The film was a great success with discriminating audiences. It was the first of the silent pictures to articulate irony and psychology. Other films of the same nature followed, including Ernst Lubitsch’s The Marriage Circle, with Menjou playing almost the same character again.

  Adolphe Menjou became a star overnight, but Edna did not quite make the grade. Nevertheless, she got an offer of $10,000 for five weeks’ work to make a film in Italy, and asked my advice about accepting it. Of course, I was enthusiastic; but Edna was reluctant to sever her ties completely. So I suggested that she should take the offer, and, if it did not work out, she could return and continue with me and still be $10,000 to the good. Edna made the picture, but it was not a success, and so she returned to the company.

  *

  Before I completed A Woman of Paris, Pola Negri made her American début in true Hollywood fashion. The Paramount publicity department went beyond even its usual asinine excesses. In a mélange of cooked-up jealousies and quarrels, Gloria Swanson and Pola were publicized and glamorized. Headlines announced: ‘Negri demands Swanson’s dressing-room.’ ‘Gloria Swanson refuses to meet Pola Negri.’ ‘Negri accedes to Swanson’s request for a social visit.’ And so the Press went on, ad nauseam.

  Neither Gloria nor Pola was to blame for those invented stories. In fact, they were very good friends from the start. But the twisted feline angle was manna to the publicity department. Parties and receptions were given in Pola’s honour. During this cooked-up festival I met Pola at a symphony concert at the Hollywood Bowl. She was seated next to my box with her suite of publicity men and Paramount executives.