Authors: Charles Chaplin
‘She’s had a little theatrical experience in summer stock in the East. You’d better take a film test of her and find out for yourself,’ she said. ‘Or better still, if you don’t wish to commit yourself, come to my house for dinner and I’ll have her there.’
I arrived early and on entering the sitting-room discovered a young lady seated alone by the fire. While waiting for Miss Wallace, I introduced myself, saying I presumed she was Miss O’Neill. She smiled. Contrary to my preconceived impression, I became aware of a luminous beauty, with a sequestered charm and a gentleness that was most appealing. While we waited for our hostess, we sat and talked.
Eventually Miss Wallace came in and we were formally introduced. There were four of us for dinner – Miss Wallace, Miss O’Neill, Tim Durant and myself. Although we did not talk business, we skirted around it. I mentioned that the girl in
Shadow and Substance
was very young, and Miss Wallace dropped the remark that Miss O’Neill was a little over seventeen. My heart sank. Although the part called for someone young, the character was extremely complex and would require an older and more experienced actress. So I reluctantly put her out of my mind.
But a few days later Miss Wallace telephoned to know if I was doing anything about Miss O’Neill, as the Fox film company was interested. It was then and there that I signed her up. This was the beginning of what was destined to be over twenty years of complete happiness – and I hope many more.
As I got to know Oona I was constantly surprised by her sense of humour and tolerance; she could always see the other person’s point of view. This and multitudinous other reasons were why I fell in love with her. She had by now just turned eighteen; but I was confident that she was not subject to the caprices of that age. Oona was the exception to the rule – though at first I was afraid of the discrepancy in our ages. But Oona was resolute as though she had come upon a truth. So we decided to marry after completing the filming of
Shadow and Substance
.
I had completed the first draft of the script and was now preparing to go into production. If I could get on film that rare quality of charm Oona had,
Shadow and Substance
would be a success.
At this juncture, Barry again blew into town, and blithely announced to the butler over the telephone that she was destitute and three months pregnant, but made no accusation or hint as to
who was responsible. It was certainly no concern of mine, so I told the butler if she started any skylarking around the house, scandal or no scandal, I would call the police. But the next day she showed up bright and cheerful and walked around the house and garden several times. Obviously she was following a planned procedure. It was disclosed later that she had gone to one of the sob sisters of the Press, who advised her to return to the house and get herself arrested. I spoke to her personally, warning her that if she did not leave the premises I would have to call the police. But she only laughed. Having come to the limit of enduring this blackmailing harassment, I told the butler to telephone the police.
A few hours later the newspapers were black with headlines. I was pilloried, excoriated and vilified: Chaplin, the father of her unborn child, had had her arrested, had left her destitute. A week later a paternity suit was brought against me. As a result of these accusations I called up Lloyd Wright, my lawyer, and told him that I had had nothing to do with the Barry woman in two years.
Knowing my intentions of going into production with
Shadow and Substance
, he discreetly suggested that I should put if off for the time being and that Oona should return to New York. But we would not consider this advice. Nor would we be governed by the lies of the Barry woman nor the headlines of the Press. As Oona and I had already talked of getting married, we decided to do so then and there. My friend Harry Crocker made all the preliminary arrangements. Now he was working for Hearst and promised to take only a few pictures of the wedding, explaining that it would be better to let Hearst have the exclusive story and Louella Parsons, a friend, write it up than subject ourselves to the belligerence of other newspapers.
We were married at Carpinteria, a quiet little village fifteen miles outside Santa Barbara. But before we could obtain the licence, we had to register at the Santa Barbara town hall. It was eight o’clock in the morning and little life was stirring in the town at that hour. The register clerk, if one of the couples happens to be celebrated, usually notifies the newspapers by pressing a secret button under the desk. So in order to avoid a photo festival Harry arranged that I should wait outside the office until Oona had registered. After taking down the usual details, her name and age, the clerk said: ‘Now where’s the young man?’
When I appeared he took it big. ‘Well, this is a surprise!’ And Harry saw his hand disappear under the counter. But we hurried him up, and after stalling as long as he could he reluctantly gave us the licence. Just as we left the building and were entering our car the Press drove into the courtyard. From then on it was a race for life, driving in the early morning through the deserted streets of Santa Barbara, skidding and screeching then turning suddenly into one by-street and up another. In this way we evaded them and arrived in Carpinteria, where Oona and I were quietly married.
We leased a house for two months in Santa Barbara. And in spite of the paroxysms of the Press, we spent a peaceful existence there, for they did not know where we were – although every time the door-bell rang we would jump.
In the evening we would go for quiet walks in the country, careful not to be seen or recognized. Occasionally I would sink into a deep depression, feeling that I had the acrimony and the hate of a whole nation upon me and that my film career was lost. At such times Oona would lift me out of this mood by reading
Trilby
to me, which is very Victorian and laughable, especially when the author goes on for pages of explanations and excuses for Trilby’s continual generosity in giving away her virtue. This Oona would read curled up in an armchair before a log fire. In spite of an occasional depression those two months in Santa Barbara were poignantly romantic, motivated by bliss, anxiety and despair.
*
When we returned to Los Angeles, disturbing news came from my friend Justice Murphy of the United State Supreme Court, who informed me that at a dinner of influential politicians one of them had remarked that they were out ‘to get Chaplin’. ‘If you get into trouble,’ wrote Justice Murphy, ‘you will do better to get a small, unimportant lawyer and not an expensive one.’
It was some time, however, before the Federal Government got into action. They were supported by a unanimous Press, in whose eyes I was the blackest of villains.
In the meantime we were preparing for the paternity suit, which was a civil case and had nothing to do with the Federal Government. For the paternity suit Lloyd Wright suggested a blood-test which, if in my favour, would be absolute proof of my not being the father of the Barry child. Later he came with the news that he had reached an agreement with her lawyer. The terms were that if we gave Joan Barry $25,000 she and her child would submit to a blood-test, and if the test proved that I could not be the father, she would drop the paternity suit. I leaped at the offer. But it was a fourteen-to-one chance against me because so many people have the same blood type. He explained that if in the blood type of the child there was a type that was neither the mother’s nor the accused father’s, then that blood type must come from the blood of a third person.
After the Barry child was born, the Federal Government started a grand jury investigation, questioning Barry with the intention of indicting me – on what grounds I could not possibly imagine. Friends advised me to call up Giesler, the well-known criminal lawyer, and against Justice Murphy’s advice I did so. This was a mistake, for it looked as though I were in serious trouble. Lloyd Wright had arranged a meeting with Giesler to discuss on what grounds the grand jury could bring an indictment. Both lawyers had heard that the Government wanted to prove the violation of the Mann Act.
Every once in a while the Federal Government used this bit of legal blackmail to discredit a political opponent. The original intention of the Mann Act was to prohibit the transporting of women from one state to another for prostitution. After the abolition of the red-light district there was little legitimate use for it, but it is still used to victimize citizens. Should a man accompany his divorced wife over the border to another state, and should he have intercourse with her, he has committed an offence against the Mann Act and is liable to five years in prison. It was this bogus piece of legal opportunism upon which the United States Government brought an indictment against me.
Besides this incredible charge, the Government was concocting another, which was based on an obsolete legal technicality
so fantastic that eventually they dropped it. Wright and Giesler agreed that both charges were absurd and saw no difficulty in winning the case if I were indicted.
And now the grand jury investigation was on. I felt confident that the whole thing would collapse: after all, the Barry woman had, I understood, travelled to and from New York with her mother. A few days later, however, Giesler called me up. ‘Charlie, you’ve been indicted on all counts,’ he said. ‘We will get the bill of particulars later. I will let you know the dates of the preliminary hearing.’
The following weeks were like a Kafka story. I found myself engrossed in the all-absorbing enterprise of fighting for my liberty. If convicted on all counts, I would be facing twenty years’ imprisonment.
After the preliminary hearing in court, photographers and Press had a field day. They barged into the Federal Marshal’s office over my protestations and photographed me while I was being fingerprinted.
‘Have they a right to do this?’ I asked.
‘No,’ said the Marshal, ‘but you can’t control these fellows.’
This was an official of the Federal Government talking.
Now the Barry child was old enough to take a blood-test. A clinic was chosen by mutual agreement of her lawyer and mine, and Barry, her child and I submitted to the test.
Later my lawyer called up, his voice vibrant. ‘Charlie, you are exonerated! The blood-test proves that you cannot be the father!’
‘This,’ I said emotionally, ‘is retribution!’
The news created a momentary sensation in the Press. Said one newspaper: ‘Charles Chaplin exonerated.’ Said another: ‘Blood-test definitely proves Chaplin not to be father!’
Although the result of the blood-test embarrassed the Federal Government it continued to pursue the case. As it drew near I was obliged to spend long dreary evenings at Giesler’s house, going over every depressing detail of how and when I had met Joan Barry. An important letter came from a Catholic priest living in San Francisco, stating that he had information that Barry was being used by a fascist organization, and that he would be willing to come from San Francisco to Los Angeles to give evidence to that effect. But Giesler dismissed the matter as irrelevant.
We also had plenty of damaging evidence concerning Barry’s character and her past. On these angles we had been working for several weeks, when one night, to my surprise, Giesler suddenly announced that attacking her character was old stuff, and although successful in the Errol Flynn trial, it would not be necessary here. ‘We can win this case easily without using all this crap,’ he said. It might be crap to Giesler, but the evidence we had of her background was very important to me.
I also had letters from Barry apologizing for all the trouble she had caused me and thanking me for all my kindness and generosity. These letters I wanted in evidence because they would have refuted the vicious stories of the Press. For that reason I was happy that the scandal had come to a head, for now the Press would have to print the truth and I would be exonerated at least in the eyes of the American public – so I thought.
At this point I must mention a word about Edgar Hoover and his F.B.I. organization, because, this being a Federal case, the F.B.I. was very much involved in trying to get evidence for the prosecuting attorney. I had met Hoover at dinner many years ago. After one has overcome a rather brutal face and broken nose, one finds him quite agreeable. On that occasion he spoke to me enthusiastically about attracting a fine type of man into his service, including law students.
And now a few nights after my indictment Edgar Hoover was in Chasen’s Restaurant, sitting three tables away from Oona and me with his F.B.I. men. At the same table was Tippy Gray, whom I had seen sporadically about Hollywood since 1918. He would appear at Hollywood parties, a negative, easy-going type with a perpetual vacuous grin that rather irritated me. I took it for granted that he was a playboy or a small-bit man in films. Now I wondered what he was doing at Hoover’s table. As Oona and I got up to leave, I turned just as Tippy Gray turned, and for a second our glances met. He grinned non-committally. Then I suddenly understood the invaluable use of that grin.
At last the day of the trial came. Giesler told me to meet him outside the Federal building punctually at ten minutes to ten so that we could walk into court together.
The courtroom was on the second floor. When we entered it our appearance made little stir – in fact members of the Press now ignored me. They would get plenty of material from the trial itself, I supposed. Giesler parked me in a chair, then circulated about the courtroom talking to several people. It seemed everyone’s party but mine.
I looked at the Federal Attorney. He was reading papers, making entries, talking and laughing confidently with several men. Tippy Gray was there, and every once in a while he would cast a furtive glance at me, and grin non-committally.
Giesler had left paper and pencil on the table to make notes during the trial, so in order not to just sit and stare I began drawing. Immediately Giesler hurried over. ‘Don’t doodle!’ he whispered, snatching the paper from me and tearing it up. ‘If the Press get hold of it, they’ll have it analysed and draw all sorts of conclusions from it.’ I had drawn a little sketch of a river and a rustic bridge; something I used to draw as a child.