Authors: Charles Chaplin
One could imagine, even if we did not know it, the price that you have paid for this marvellous gift of being able to make us laugh and then suddenly cry. One can guess or, better still, perceive what sufferings you have yourself undergone to be able to portray in detail all those little things that touch us so deeply, and which you have taken from moments of your own life.
For you have a good memory. You are faithful to the memories of your childhood. You have forgotten nothing of its sadness, its bereavements; you have wanted to spare others the harm you suffered, or at least you have wanted to give everybody reason for hope. You have never betrayed your sad youth, and fame has never had the power to separate you from the past – for, alas, these things can happen.
This fidelity to your earliest memories is perhaps your greatest merit and the most important of your assets, and also the real reason why the crowds adore you. They respond to the subtleties of your acting. It seems as if you are always in direct touch with the hearts of others. And indeed nothing is more harmonious than this cooperation of author, the actor and director, who place their combined talents at the service of all that is humane and good.
This is why your work is always generous. It is not handicapped by theories – scarcely even by technique; it is forever a confession, a confidence, a prayer. And each person is your accomplice because he thinks and feels as you do.
You have, by your talent alone, subdued the critics because you have succeeded in captivating them. This is a difficult task. They will never admit that you respond equally to the charm of old-fashioned melodrama and to the devilish zest of Feydeau. And yet you do, while also possessing a certain grace that makes us think of Musset – although you imitate no one and resemble no one. That is also the secret of your glory.
Today our Society of Authors and Dramatists has the honour and joy of welcoming you. We are thus adding, for a few moments, to the weight of the engagements you so valiantly undertake. We are most anxious to receive you into our midst and to tell you how much we admire and love you, and also to say that you are really one of us. For in your films the story is written by Mr Chaplin. So is the music by him, and the direction. And the comedian is an additional, and also first-class, contribution.
You have here the authors of France, authors of plays and of films, composers, producers – all of them like you, in their own way, familiar with the pride and the self-sacrifice of hard work which you know so well, having one ambition, to move and amuse the crowds, to show them the joys and sorrows of life, to portray the fear of lost love, pity for undeserved tribulations, and a desire to mend what is marred in a spirit of peace, hope and fraternity.
Thank you, Mr Chaplin.
(Signed) Roger Ferdinand.
The première of
Limelight
was attended by a most distinguished audience, including French cabinet ministers and foreign ambassadors. The American Ambassador, however, did not come.
At the Comédie Française we were the guests of honour at a special performance of Moliére’s
Don Juan
, which was enacted by the greatest representative artists of France. That night the fountains of the Palais Royale were lit up and flowing and Oona and I were met by students of the Comèdie Française, dressed in eighteenth-century liveries and holding lighted candelabros, who escorted us to the Grand Circle filled with the most beautiful women in all Europe.
In Rome our reception was the same, I was honoured and decorated and received by the President and the Ministers. On that occasion an amusing incident happened at the preview of
Limelight
. The Minister of Fine Arts suggested that I enter by the stage door in order to avoid the crowds. I thought the Minister’s suggestion rather peculiar and told him that if the people were patient enough to stand outside the theatre wanting to see me, I could at least be gracious enough to enter the front way and show myself. I thought the Minister wore a curious expression as he mildly reiterated that it would save me a great deal of trouble going in the back way. But I insisted, so he pressed no further.
That night was the usual glittering preview. When we drove up in a limousine, the crowds were roped off on the far side of the street – too far, I thought. With all my graciousness and charm I stepped out and around the limousine into the middle of the road, and, before a flood of arc-lights, with a big smile threw up my arms de Gaulle fashion. Instantly a barrage of cabbages and tomatoes flew by me. I was not too sure what they were or what had happened until I heard my Italian friend, the interpreter, moaning at the back of me: ‘to think this should happen in my country.’ However, nothing hit me and we hurried into the theatre. Then the humour of the situation struck me and I could not stop laughing. Even my Italian friend had to laugh with me.
Later we learned that the offenders were young neo-fascists. I must say there was no vehemence in their throwing; it was more of a demonstration. Four of them were immediately arrested and the police wanted to know if I wished to bring any charge against them. ‘Of course not,’ I said; ‘they are only young boys’ - they were
youths of fourteen and sixteen - and so the matter was dropped.
Before leaving Paris for Rome, Louis Aragon, poet and editor of
Les Lettres Françaises
, had telephoned so say that Jean-Paul Sartre and Picasso would like to meet me, so I invited them to dinner. They suggested somewhere quiet, so we dined in my rooms at the hotel. When Harry Crocker, my publicity man, heard about it, he almost had a conniption fit. ‘This will undo all the good we have done since we left the States.’
‘But, Harry, this is Europe, not the States, and these gentlemen happen to be three of the world’s great figures,’ I said. I had been careful not to confide to Harry or anyone that I had no intention of returning to America because I still had property there which I had not yet disposed of. Harry had me almost believing that a meeting with Aragon, Picasso and Sartre was a conspiracy to overthrow Western democracy. Nevertheless, his concern did not deter him from staying behind to have them sign his autograph book. Harry was not invited to dinner. I told him we expected Stalin to arrive later and did not want any publicity about it.
I was not too sure about the evening. Only Aragon could speak English, and conversation through an interpreter is like shooting at a distant target and waiting for the result of your aim.
Aragon is handsome with well-defined features. Picasso has a quizzical, humorous look, and could pass for an acrobat or a clown more readily than a painter. Sartre has a round face and, although his features do not bear analysis, they have a subtle beauty and sensitiveness. Sartre revealed little of what went on in his mind. That evening, after the party had broken up, Picasso took us to the Left Bank studio which he still uses. As we climbed the stairs we saw a sign on the door of the apartment below him: ‘This is not Picasso’s studio – another flight up, please.’
We came upon the most deplorable, barnlike garret, that even Chatterton would have been loth to die in. Hanging from a nail in one rafter was a stark electric bulb, which enabled us to see a rickety old iron bed and a broken-down stove. Resting against the wall was a pile of old dusty canvases. He picked up one – a Cézanne, and a most beautiful one. He picked up another and another. We must have looked at fifty masterpieces. I was tempted to offer him a round sum for the lot – just to get rid of the litter. In that Gorki’s ‘lower depth’ was a gold mine.
A
FTER
the Paris and Rome openings we returned to London where we stayed several weeks. I had yet to find a home for my family. A friend suggested Switzerland. Of course I should like to have settled in London, but we were doubtful if the climate would be suitable for the children; and, at that time, we were frankly concerned about blocked currency.
So with a tinge of melancholy we picked up our belongings and with the four children arrived in Switzerland. We settled temporarily at the Beau Rivage Hotel, Lausanne, facing the lake. It was autumn and rather drear, but the mountains were beautiful.
We were four months searching for a suitable house. Oona, expecting her fifth child, said emphatically that after the hospital she did not wish to return to a hotel. It was this emergency that made me hustle and look around, and eventually settle at the Manoir de Ban in the village of Corsier, a little above Vevey. To our amazement we discovered that it had thirty-seven acres, with an orchard which among other things produces large black cherries, delicious green plums, apples and pears ; and a vegetable garden that grows strawberries and wonderful asparagus and corn, to which, in season, no matter where we are, we make a special pilgrimage. In front of the terrace is a five-acre lawn with magnificent tall trees which frame the mountains and the lake in the distance.
I acquired a very competent staff: Miss Rachel Ford, who established our household and then became my business manager, and Mme Burnier, my Swiss-English secretary, who retyped this book many times.
We were a little awed at the pretentiousness of the place and wondered whether it would be commensurate with our income,
but when the owner told us what it could be run for, we discovered it was within the bounds of our budget. Thus we came to live in the village of Corsier, which has a population of 1,350.
It took at least a year before we could get oriented. For a while the children went to the village school of Corsier. It was quite a problem for them to be suddenly taught everything in French, and we had qualms as to the psychological effect it might have on them. But it was not long before they spoke French fluently, and it was quite moving to see how well they adapted themselves to the Swiss way of life. Even Kay Kay and Pinnie, the children’s nurses, began struggling with French.
And now we began to divest ourselves of every tie in the United States. This took a considerable time. I went to the American Consul and handed in my re-entry permit, telling him that I had given up my residence in the United States.
‘You’re not going back, Charlie?’
‘No,’ I said, almost apologetically. ‘I’m a little too old to take any more of that nonsense.’
He made no comment, but said: ‘Well, you can always get back on an ordinary visa, if you want to return.’
I smiled and shook my head. ‘I’ve decided to settle in Switzerland.’ We shook hands and that was that.
Now Oona decided to give up her American citizenship. So while visiting London she notified the American Embassy, They said, however, it would take at least three-quarters of an hour to go through the formalities. ‘What nonsense!’ I told Oona. ‘It seems ridiculous that it should take so long. I’ll go with you.’
When we arrived at the Embassy, all the insults and slanders of the past inflated within me like a balloon ready to burst. In a loud voice I demanded the office of the Immigration Department. Oona was embarrassed. One of the office doors opened and a man appeared and said: ‘Hello, Charlie, won’t you come in the office with your wife?’
He must have read my mind, for his opening remark was; ‘An American giving up his citizenship should know what he is doing and be in his right mind. That’s why we have this procedure of questioning: it’s for the protection of the citizen.’
Naturally, this made sense to me.
He was a man in his late fifties. ‘I saw you in Denver in 1911
at the old Empress Theatre,’ he said, looking at me reproachfully.
Of course I melted and we spoke about the good old days.
When the ordeal was finished, the last paper signed, and we had said our cheery good-bye, I was slightly sad at my lack of feeling in the matter.
*
In London we occasionally see friends, among whom are Sydney Bernstein, Ivor Montagu, Sir Edward Beddington-Behrens, Donald Ogden Stewart, Ella Winter, Graham Greene, J. B. Priestley, Max Reinhardt and Douglas Fairbanks Jr. Although some we rarely see, the thought of them is comforting, like the pleasure of knowing there is a mooring somewhere, if occasionally we want to sail into port.
On one of our visits to London we received a message that Khrushchev and Bulganin would like to meet us at a reception given by the Soviet Embassy at Claridge’s Hotel. When we arrived, the lobby was packed with smiling and excited crowds. With the help of a member of the Russian Embassy we began ploughing through them. Suddenly coming from the opposite direction we saw Khrushchev and Bulganin; they too were ploughing, and from their expression they had given up in disgust and were retreating.
One could see that Khrushchev even in distress is not without humour. As he pressed forward to an exit, our escort called after him: ‘Khrushchev!’ But he waved him away, he was fed up. ‘Khrushchev, Charlie Chaplin!’ our man shouted. Both Bulganin and Khrushchev stopped and turned and their faces lit up. I was indeed flattered. In the surging and eddying of the crowd we were introduced. Through an interpreter Khrushchev said something about how much the Russian people appreciated my films, then we were offered some vodka. I thought the pepper-box had spilled into it, but Oona loved it.
We managed to make a small circle so that we could be photographed together. Because of the din I could not say anything. ‘Let’s go into the next room,’ said Khrushchev. The crowd saw our intentions and a battle royal ensued. With the aid of four men we were catapulted into a private room. Once alone, Khrushchev and all of us sighed: ‘Phew!’ Now I had a chance to collect my wits and talk. Khrushchev had just made a wonderful
speech of goodwill on his arrival in London. It had come like a ray of sunshine, and I told him so, saying that it had given hope for peace to millions throughout the world.
We were interrupted by an American reporter: ‘I understand, Mr Khrushchev, your son was out on the town, last night, enjoying himself.’
Khrushchev’s smile was one of nettled amusement. ‘My son is a serious young man, studying hard to be an engineer – but he occasionally enjoys himself, I hope.’
A few minutes later a message came to say that Mr Harold Stassen was outside and would like to see Mr Khrushchev. He turned to me jokingly: ‘Do you mind – he’s an American?’