I told him frankly my reason for wanting to see him. I knew Bridges was anti-Nazi so I explained that I was making an anti-Nazi comedy and that I had been receiving threatening letters. I said: ‘If I could invite, say, twenty or thirty of your longshoremen to my opening, and have them scattered amongst the audience, then if any of these pro-Nazi fellows started a rumpus, your folks might gently stamp on their toes before anything got seriously going.’
Bridges laughed. ‘I don’t think it will come to that, Charlie. You’ll have enough defenders with your own public to take care of any cranks. And if these letters are from Nazis, they’ll be afraid to show up in the daylight anyway.’
That night Harry told an interesting story of the San Francisco strike. At that time he had practically commanded the whole city, controlling all its supplies. But he never interfered with the necessary supplies for hospitals and for children. In telling me about the strike he said: ‘When the cause is justified, you don’t have to persuade people; all you do is to tell them the facts, they they decide for themselves. I told my men that if they decided to strike there’d be plenty of trouble; some might never know the results. But whatever they decided, I would abide by their decision. If it’s to strike, I’ll be there on the front line, I said – and the five thousand voted unanimously to strike.’
The Great Dictator was booked to play two theatres in New York, the Astor and the Capitol. At the Astor we previewed it for the Press. Harry Hopkins, Franklin Roosevelt’s chief adviser, dined with me that night. Afterwards we went to the Press showing and arrived half-way through the picture.
A Press preview of a comedy has a very definite characteristic – the laughter sounds in spite of itself. At that preview, what laughter there was sounded the same.
‘It’s a great picture,’ said Harry as we left the theatre, ‘a very worth-while thing to do, but it hasn’t a chance. It will lose money.’ Since $2,000,000 of my own money and two years’ work were involved, I was not frantically ebullient about his prognostications. However, I nodded soberly. Thank God Hopkins was wrong. The Great Dictator opened at the Capital to a glamorous audience who were elated and enthused. It stayed fifteen weeks in New York, playing two theatres, and turned out to be the biggest grosser of all my pictures up to that time.
But the reviews were mixed. Most of the critics objected to the last speech. The New York Daily News said I pointed a finger of Communism at the audience. Although the majority of the critics objected to the speech and said it was not in character, the public as a whole loved it, and I had many wonderful letters eulogizing it.
Archie L. Mayo, one of Hollywood’s important directors, asked permission to print the speech on his Christmas card. What follows is his introduction to it and the speech:
Had I lived at the time of Lincoln, I believe I would have sent you his Gettysburg speech, because it was the greatest inspirational message of his period. Today we face new crises, and another man has spoken from the depth of an earnest and sincere heart. Although I know him but slightly, what he says has moved me deeply… I am inspired to send you the full text of the speech written by Charles Chaplin that you, too, may share the expression of Hope.
The Concluding Speech of
THE DICTATOR
I’m sorry, but I don’t want to be an emperor. That’s not my business. I don’t want to rule or conquer anyone. I should like to help everyone – if possible – Jew, Gentile – black men – white.
We all want to help one another. Human beings are like that. We want to live by each other’s happiness – not by each other’s misery. We don’t want to hate and despise one another. In this world there is room for everyone. And the good earth is rich and can provide for everyone.
The way of life can be free and beautiful, but we have lost the way. Greed has poisoned men’s souls – has barricaded the world with hate – has goose-stepped us into misery and bloodshed. We have developed speed, but we have shut ourselves in. Machinery that gives abundance has left us in want. Our knowledge has made us cynical; our cleverness, hard and unkind. We think too much and feel too little. More than machinery we need humanity. More than cleverness, we need kindness and gentleness. Without these qualities, life will be violent and all will be lost.
The aeroplane and the radio have brought us closer together. The very nature of these things cries out for the goodness in man – cries out for universal brotherhood – for the unity of us all. Even now my voice is reaching millions throughout the world – millions of despairing men, women, and little children – victims of a system that makes men torture and imprison innocent people. To those who can hear me, I say: ‘Do not despair.’ The misery that has come upon us is but the passing of greed – the bitterness of men who fear the way of human progress. The hate of men will pass, and dictators die, and the power they took from the people will return to the people. And so long as men die, liberty will never perish.
Soldiers! Don’t give yourselves to these brutes – who despise you – enslave you – who regiment your lives – tell you what to do – what to think and what to feel! Who drill you – diet you – treat you like cattle and use you as cannon fodder. Don’t give yourselves to these unnatural men – machine men with machine minds and machine hearts! You are not machines! You are men! With the love of humanity in your hearts! Don’t hate! Only the unloved hate – the unloved and the unnatural!
Soldiers! Don’t fight for slavery! Fight for liberty! In the seventeenth chapter of St Luke, it is written that the kingdom of God is within man – not one man nor a group of men, but in all men! In you! You, the people, have the power – the power to create machines. The power to create happiness! You, the people, have the power to make this life free and beautiful – to make this life a wonderful adventure. Then – in the name of democracy – let us use that power – let us all unite. Let us fight for a new world – a decent world that will give men a chance to work – that will give youth a future and old age a security.
By the promise of these things, brutes have risen to power. But they lie! They do not fulfil that promise. They never will! Dictators free themselves but they enslave the people. Now let us fight to free the world – to do away with national barriers – to do away with greed, with hate and intolerance. Let us fight for a world of reason – a world where science and progress will lead to the happiness of us all. Soldiers, in the name of democracy, let us unite!
Hannah, can you hear me? Wherever you are, look up! Look up, Hannah! The clouds are lifting! The sun is breaking through! We are coming out of the darkness into the light! We are coming into a new world – a kindlier world, where men will rise above their greed, their hate and their brutality. Look up, Hannah! The soul of man has been given wings and at last he is beginning to fly. He is flying into the rainbow – into the light of hope. Look up, Hannah! Look up!
*
A week after the première I was invited to a luncheon given by Arthur Sulzberger, the owner of the New York Times. When I arrived, I was taken to the top floor of the Times building and ushered into a domestic suite, a drawing-room furnished with paintings, photographs and leather upholstery. Gracing the fireplace with his august presence was the ex-President of the United States, Mr Herbert Hoover, a towering man of saintly demeanour and small eyes.
‘This, Mr President, is Charlie Chaplin,’ said Mr Sulzberger, leading me up to the great man.
Mr Hoover’s face smiled through many wrinkles. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, beamingly, ‘we’ve met before many years ago.’
I was surprised that Mr Hoover should remember, because at the time he had seemed intensely preoccupied with grooming himself for the White House. He was attending a Press dinner at the Astor Hotel, and I had been brought in by one of the members as a side-dish, as it were, before Mr Hoover’s speech. I was in the throes of being divorced and believe I mumbled something to the effect of knowing little about state affairs – in fact, knowing very little about my own affairs. After rambling on this way for a couple of minutes I s
at down. Later, I was introduced to Mr Hoover. I think I said ‘how do you do,’ and that was about all.
He had spoken from a loose manuscript, about four inches high, lifting off page after page as he read. After an hour and a half, everyone watched those pages wistfully. After two hours the pages were evenly divided. Sometimes he skipped a dozen or more and laid them aside. Those, indeed, were gracious moments. As nothing is permanent in life the speech came to an end. As he gathered up his agenda in a most businesslike way, I smiled and was about to congratulate him on his speech, but he brushed by without noticing me.
And now, after many years, an interim in which he had been President, he was standing in front of the fireplace looking unusually genial. We sat down to lunch at a large round table, twelve of us. I was told that these lunches were exclusively inner sanctum affairs.
There is a type of American business executive that makes me feel inadequate. They are very tall, good-looking, immaculately dressed, unruffled, clear-thinking men with facts clearly before them. They have amplified metallic voices and speak in geometrical terms about human affairs, such as: ‘The organizational processes occurring in the yearly unemployment pattern,’ etc. Such were the types that sat around the table at lunch, looking formidable and most stalwart – like towering skyscrapers. The only human influence was Anne O’Hare McCormick, a brilliant and charming lady, the celebrated political columnist of the New York Times.
At lunch the atmosphere was formal and conversation was difficult. Everyone addressed Mr Hoover as ‘Mr President’, somewhat more than necessary I thought. As lunch went on I began to feel that it was not for nought that I had been invited. A moment later Mr Sulzberger left no doubt about it. During a propitious silence he said: ‘Mr President, I wish you would explain to us your proposed mission to Europe.’
Mr Hoover put down his knife and fork, thoughtfully chewed, then swallowed and began to speak of what had been evidently occupying his mind throughout lunch. He talked into his plate and as he spoke threw furtive glances at Mr Sulzberger and at me. ‘We are all aware of the deplorable state of Europe at the moment, of the misery and famine rapidly growing there since the war. The condition is so urgent that I have prevailed upon Washington that it should immediately relieve the situation.’ (I assumed Washington meant President Roosevelt.) Here he enumerated the facts and figures and results of his last mission in the First World War, when ‘we fed the whole of Europe’. ‘Such a mission,’ he continued, ‘would be non-partisan, purely for humanitarian purposes – you’re somewhat interested in that,’ he said, throwing me a side-glance.
I nodded solemnly.
‘When do you propose to launch this project, Mr President?’ Mr Sulzberger asked.
‘As soon as we can get Washington’s approval,’ said Mr Hoover. ‘Washington needs urging by public demand and support of well-known public figures’ – again another side-glance at me, and again I nodded. ‘In occupied France,’ he went on, ‘there are millions in want. In Norway, Denmark, Holland, Belgium, all through Europe famine is growing!’ He spoke eloquently, marshalling his facts and endowing them with faith, hope and charity.
Then came a silence. I cleared my throat. ‘Of course, the situation is not exactly the same as in the First World War. France is completely occupied as well as many other countries – naturally we don’t want this food to fall into the hands of the Nazis.’
Mr Hoover frowned slightly, and a slight stir went through the assembled group, all of whom looked across at Mr Hoover, then at me.
Mr Hoover frowned again into his plate. ‘We would set up a non-partisan commission in cooperation with the American Red Cross and work through the Hague Agreement, under paragraph twenty-seven, section forty-three, which allows a Commission of Mercy to administer to the sick and needy of both sides, belligerent or not. I think you as a humanitarian will endorse such a commission.’ This is not accurately what he said – only an impression of it.
I held my ground. ‘I am whole-heartedly in agreement with the idea, providing the food does not get into the Nazis’ hands,’ I said.
This remark created another stir round the table.
‘We did this sort of thing before.’ said Mr Hoover with an air of nettled modesty. The towering skyline of young men now directed their attention to me. One of them smiled. ‘I think Mr President can handle that situation,’ he said.
‘It’s an excellent idea,’ said Mr Sulzberger authoritatively.
‘I quite agree,’ I answered meekly, ‘and would endorse it one hundred per cent, if the physical administration of it could be handled by Jews only!’
‘Oh,’ said Mr Hoover curtly, ‘that wouldn’t be possible.’
*
It was strange to listen to slick young Nazis along Fifth Avenue haranguing small gatherings from little mahogany pulpits. One spiel went as follows: ‘The philosophy of Hitler is a profound and thoughtful study of the problems of this industrial age, in which there is little room for the middleman or the Jew.’
A woman interrupted. ‘What kind of talk is that!’ she exclaimed. ‘This is America. Where do you think you are?’
The young man, an obsequious, good-looking type, smiled blandly. ‘I’m in the United States and I happen to be an American citizen,’ he said smoothly.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’m an American citizen, and a Jew, and if I were a man I’d knock your block off!’
One or two endorsed the lady’s threat, but most of them stood apathetically silent. A policeman standing by quietened the woman. I came away astonished, hardly believing my ears.
A day or so later I was at a country house and a pale, anaemic-looking young Frenchman, Count Chambrun, husband of Pierre Laval’s daughter, pursued me continually before lunch. He had seen The Great Dictator the opening night in New York. Said he magnanimously: ‘But of course, your point of view is not to be taken seriously.’
‘After all, it’s a comedy,’ I answered.
Had I been aware of the bestial murders and tortures that went on in the Nazi concentration camps, I would not have been so polite. About fifty guests were present and we sat four at a table. He joined ours and tried to draw me into a political argument, but I told him I much preferred good food to politics. His conversation was such that I lifted my glass and said: ‘I seem to be drinking in a lot of “Vichy”.’ I had no sooner said this than a violent altercation broke out at another table, and two women went at it hammer and tongs. It became so violent that I thought they would resort to hair-pulling. One shouted to the other: ‘I won’t listen to that kind of talk. You’re a goddam Nazi!’
A young New York scion asked me in a benign way why I was so anti-Nazi. I said because they were anti-people. ‘Of course,’ he said, as though making a sudden discovery, ‘you’re a Jew, aren’t you?’
‘One doesn’t have to be a Jew to be anti-Nazi,’ I answered. ‘All one has to be is a normal decent human being.’ And so the subject was dropped.
A day or so later I was to appear at the Hall of the Daughters of the American Revolution in Washington, to recite the last speech from The Great Dictator over the radio. Beforehand I was called to meet President Roosevelt, at whose request we had sent the film to the White House. When I was ushered into his private study, he greeted me saying: ‘Sit down, Charlie; your picture is giving us a lot of trouble in the Argentine.’ This was his only comment about it. A friend of mine later summed it up by saying: ‘You were received at the White House, but not embraced.’
I sat with the President for forty minutes, during which he served me several dry martinis which I tossed down quickly from shyness. When it was time to leave, I literally reeled out of the White House – then suddenly remembered that at ten o’clock I was to speak over the radio. It was to be a national hook-up, which meant speaking to over sixty million people. After taking several cold showers and drinking strong black coffee, I had more or less pulled myself together.
The States had not entered the war yet, so there were plenty
of Nazis in the hall that night. No sooner had I begun my speech than they began to cough. It was too loud to be natural. It made me nervous so that my mouth became dry and my tongue began sticking to the roof of my palate and I could not articulate. The speech was six minutes long. In the middle of it I stopped and said that I could not continue unless I had a drink of water. Of course, there was not a drop in the house; and here I was keeping sixty million listeners waiting. After an interminable two minutes I was handed water in a small paper envelope. Thus I was able to finish the speech.
twenty-six
IT was inevitable that Paulette and I should separate. We both knew it long before The Dictator was started, and now that it was completed we were confronted with making a decision. Paulette left word that she was going back to California to work in another picture for Paramount, so I stayed on for a while and played around New York. Frank, my butler, telephoned that when she returned to the Beverly Hills house she did not stay but packed up her things and left. When I returned home to Beverly Hills she had gone to Mexico to get a divorce. It was a very sad house. The wrench naturally hurt, for it was hard cleaving eight years’ association from one’s life.
Although The Great Dictator was extremely popular with the American public, it no doubt created underground antagonism. The first inkling of this came from the Press on my return to Beverly Hills, an ominous gathering of men, over twenty of them, who sat in silence in our glassed-in porch. I offered tham a drink and they refused – this was unusual for members of the Press.
‘What’s on your mind, Charlie?’ said one, who evidently spoke for all of them.
‘A little publicity for The Dictator,’ I said jokingly.
I told them of my interview with the President and remarked that my film was giving the American Embassy trouble in the Argentine, believing it a good story, but they still remained silent. Then after a pause, I said humorously: ‘That didn’t seem to go over so well, did it?’
My Autobiography Page 45
