Authors: Charles Chaplin
I laughed: ‘I don’t mind.’ Later Mr and Mrs Stassen and Mr and Mrs Gromyko were shot through the door. Khrushchev then excused himself, saying he would only be a few minutes, and went to a far corner of the room to talk with Stassen and Gromyko.
To make conversation I asked Mrs Gromyko if she was returning to Russia. She said she was going back to the United States. I remarked that she and her husband had been there a long time. She laughed, a little embarrassed. ‘I don’t mind it,’ she said; ‘I like it there.’
I said: ‘I don’t think the real America is in New York or on the Pacific Coast; personally, I like the Middle West much better, places like North and South Dakota, Minneapolis and Saint Paul. There, I think, are the true Americans.’
Mrs Stassen suddenly exclaimed: ‘Oh, I’m so glad you said that! Minnesota is where my husband and I come from.’ She laughed nervously and repeated: ‘I’m so glad you said that.’ I think she had an idea I was going to heap a tirade on the United States, and that the slings and arrows I had received from that country had left me bitter. But it was not so – and, even if it had been, I am not one to vent my spleen on a very charming lady like Mrs Stassen.
I could see that Khrushchev and the rest were in for a long session, so Oona and I got up. When Khrushchev saw the stir he left Stassen and came over to say goodbye. As we shook hands I caught a glimpse of Stassen; he had backed up to the wall and was looking straight ahead in a non-committal way. I
bade everyone good-bye, ignoring Stassen – which under the circumstances I felt was the diplomatic thing to do - but from the brief glance I had of him I liked him.
The next evening Oona and I dined alone in the Grill at the Savoy. In the middle of our dessert Sir Winston Churchill and Lady Churchill came in and stood before our table. I had not seen Sir Winston or heard from him since 1931. But after the opening of
Limelight
in London, I had received a message from United Artists, our distributors, asking permission to show Sir Winston the film at his house. Of course I had been only too pleased. A few days later he sent a charming letter of thanks, telling me how much he had enjoyed it.
And now Sir Winston stood before our table, confronting us. ‘Well!’ he said.
There seemed to be a disapproving note in the ‘Well!’
I quickly stood up, all smiling, and introduced Oona, who at that moment was about to retire.
After Oona had left I asked if I could join them for coffee, and went across to their table. Lady Churchill said she had read in the papers about my meeting with Khrushchev.
‘I always got along well with Khrushchev,’ said Sir Winston.
But all the time I could see that Sir Winston was nursing a grievance. Of course, much had happened since 1931. He had saved England with his indomitable courage and inspiring rhetoric; but I thought his ‘iron curtain’ Fulton speech had achieved nothing but an intensification of the cold war.
The conversation turned to my film
Limelight
. Eventually he said: ‘I sent you a letter two years ago complimenting you on your film. Did you get it?’
‘Oh yes,’ I said enthusiastically.
‘Then why didn’t you answer it?’
‘I didn’t think it called for an answer,’ I said apologetically.
But he was not to be cozened. ‘Hmmm,’ he said disgruntledly, ‘I thought it was some form of rebuke.’
‘Oh no, of course not,’ I answered.
‘However,’ he added, by way of dismissing me, ‘I always enjoy your pictures.’
I was charmed with the great man’s modesty in remembering that unanswered letter of two years ago. But I have never seen
eye to eye with his politics. ‘I am not here to preside over the dissolution of the British Empire,’ said Churchill. This may be rhetoric, but it is a fatuous statement in the face of modern facts.
This dissolution is not the result of politics, revolutionary armies, Communist propaganda, rabble-rousing or soap boxing. It is the soap wrappings that are the conspirators: those international advertisers – radio, television and motion pictures – the automobile and tractor, the innovation in science, the acceleration of speed and communication. These are the revolutionaries that are responsible for the dissolution of empires.
*
Soon after returning to Switzerland, I received a letter from Nehru enclosing a note of introduction from Lady Mountbatten. She was sure Nehru and I had a great deal in common with each other. He was passing Corsier and perhaps we could meet. As he was holding his annual meeting of ambassadors in Lucerne, he wrote that he would be delighted if I could come and spend the night there; the following day he would drop me off at the Manoir de Ban. So I went to Lucerne.
I was surprised to find a small man like myself. His daughter, Mrs Gandhi, was also present – a charming quiet lady. Nehru impressed me as a man of moods, austere and sensitive, with an exceedingly alert and appraising mind. He was diffident at first, until we left Lucerne together and drove to the Manoir de Ban where I had invited him for lunch, his daughter trailing in another car as she was going on to Geneva. On the way we had an interesting talk. He spoke highly of Lord Mountbatten who, as Viceroy of India, had done an excellent job in terminating England’s interests there.
I asked him in which ideological direction India was going. He said: ‘In whatever direction, it is for the betterment of the Indian people,’ and added that they had already inaugurated a five-year plan. He talked brilliantly throughout the journey, while his chauffeur must have been going at seventy miles an hour or more, speeding along precipitous, narrow roads, and coming suddenly upon sharp turns. Nehru was engrossed in explaining India’s politics, but I must confess I missed half of what he was saying, so occupied was I with back-seat driving. As the brakes screeched
and threw us forward, Nehru continued unperturbed. Thank heavens there was a respite when eventually the car stopped for a moment at a cross-roads, where his daughter was to leave us. It was then that he became a loving and solicitous father, embracing his daughter as he said to her tenderly: ‘take care of yourself’ - words which would have been more appropriate coming from the daughter to the father.
*
During the Korean crisis, when the world held its breath over that extremely dangerous brink, the Chinese Embassy telephoned to ask if I would allow
City Lights
to be shown in Geneva before Chou En-lai, who was the pivotal centre around which the decision of peace or war was to be decided.
The following day the Prime Minister invited us to have dinner with him in Geneva. Before we left for Geneva the Prime Minister’s secretary telephoned to say that His Excellency might be detained, as important business had suddenly arisen at the conference (an understatement), and that we were not to wait for him; he would join us later.
When we arrived, to our surprise Chou En-lai was waiting on the steps of his residence to greet us. Like the rest of the world I was anxious to know what had happened at the conference, so I asked him. He tapped me confidentially on the shoulder. ‘It has all been amicably settled,’ he said, ‘five minutes ago.’
I had heard many interesting stories about how the Communists had been driven far into the interior of China in the thirties, and how, under the leadership of Mao Tse-tung, a scattered few became reorganized and began marching back to Peking, gathering military impetus as they went. That march back won them the support of six hundred million Chinese people.
Chou En-lai that night told us a touching story of Mao Tse-tung’s triumphant entry into Peking. There were a million Chinese present to welcome him. A large platform, fifteen feet high, had been built at the end of the vast square, and as he mounted the steps from the back the top of his head appeared and a roar of welcome surged up from a million throats, increasing and increasing as the lone figure came fully into view.
And when Mao Tse-tung, the conqueror of China, saw that vast multitude, he stood for a moment, then suddenly covered his face with both hands and wept.
Chou En-lai had shared with him the hardships and heartbreaks of that famous march across China, yet as I looked at his vigorous, handsome face I was astonished to see how calm and youthful he looked.
I told him that the last time I had been in Shanghai was in 1936.
‘Oh yes,’ he said, thoughtfully, ‘that was before we were on the march.’
‘Well, you haven’t far to go now,’ I said jokingly.
At dinner we drank Chinese champagne (not bad), and like the Russians made many toasts. I toasted the future of China and said that although I was not a Communist I wholeheartedly joined in their hope and desire for a better life for the Chinese people, and for all people.
*
In Vevey we have new friends, among them Mr Emile Rossier and Mr Michel Rossier and their families, all of them lovers of music. Through Emile I met Clara Haskil, the concert pianist. She lived in Vevey and whenever in town Clara and both the Rossier families would come to dinner, and afterwards Clara would play for us. Although past sixty, she was at the apogee of her career, having her greatest triumphs both in Europe and America. But in 1960 she slipped off the step of a train in Belgium and was taken to hospital where she died.
Often I play her records, the last she made before her death. Before I started the task of rewriting this manuscript for the sixth time, I put on Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No. 3 with Clara at the piano and Markevitch conducting – which to me is as near an approximation of truth as any great work of art could be and which has been a source of encouragement for me to finish this book.
If we were not so preoccupied with our family, we could have quite a social life in Switzerland, for we live relatively near the Queen of Spain and the Count and the Countess Chevreau d’Antraigues, who have been most cordial to us, and there are a number of film stars and writers who live near. We often
see George and Benita Sanders and Noël Coward is also a neighbour. In the spring many of our American and English friends visit us. Truman Capote, who occasionally works in Switzerland, often drops by. During the Easter holidays, we take the children to the south of Ireland. This is something that the whole family looks forward to every year.
In summer we dine on the terrace in shorts and stay out till ten watching the twilight. Often on the spur of the moment we decide to go to London and Paris, sometimes to Venice or Rome – all within easy reach of a couple of hours.
In Paris we are often entertained by Paul-Louis Weiller, our very dear friend, who in August invites the whole family for one month to La Reine Jeanne, his beautiful estate on the Mediterranean, where the children get all the swimming and water-skiing they want.
Friends have asked me if I miss the United States – New York? In candour I do not. America has changed, so has New York. The gigantic scale of industrial institutions, of Press, television and commercial advertising has completely divorced me from the American way of life. I want the other side of the coin, a simpler personal sense of living – not the ostentatious avenues and towering buildings which are an ever-reminder of big business and its ponderous achievements.
It was more than a year before I could liquidate all my interests in the United States. They wanted to tax my European earnings on
Limelight
up to 1955, claiming that I was still an American resident in spite of having barred me from that country since 1952. I had no legal address since, as my American lawyer said, I would have little chance of getting back into the country to defend the case.
Having dissolved all my American companies and divested myself of every American interest, I was in a position to tell them to go sit on a tack. But not wishing to be under an obligation to another nation’s protection, I settled for an amount considerably less than their claim and considerably more than I should have paid.
Cutting my last ties from the United States was sad. When Helen, our maid at the Beverly Hills house, heard that we were not returning, she wrote the following letter:
Dear Mr and Mrs Chaplin,
I have written you so many letters, but never mailed them. It seems just everything has gone wrong since you left – I myself have never suffered so much grief over anyone else except my own family. But everything is so unnecessary and unneeded and unjust and I just can’t get over it. And then we received the sad news that we feared might come – to pack most everything – it just isn’t possible – it just can’t be – the things we packed have nearly been washed away with tears and I still have a headache from grief –I don’t know how you folks stand it.
Please
, PLEASE, Mrs C,
don’t let
Mr C sell the house if you can help it. Every room still bears its own personality even though there are mostly the rugs and draperies there – I am so positive minded about this house I would never let anyone else have it. If I only had the money myself, but that’s silly and out of reason for me too. Cut off all the excess that’s possible if you wish. But
please
, PLEASE keep the house. I know I should not say this but I can’t help it – and I shall never give up the idea but that some day you will all return. Mrs c, enough of that for now – I have three letters to send you but I must get some larger envelopes. Give my regards to everyone, and excuse my pencil as even my pen has gone wrong.
Sincerely, Helen.
We also received a letter from Henry, our butler, who wrote as follows:
Dear Mr and Mrs Chaplin,
I have not written you for a long time as I have an awful time to express myself correctly with my Swiss–English. I had one happy story a few weeks ago, as I had a chance to see the picture
Limelight
. It was a private showing. Miss Runser invited me. There were about twenty people present. Mr and Mrs Sydney Chaplin, Miss Runser and Rolly were the only ones I knew. I took my seat way in the rear, to be alone with my thoughts. It was well worth it. I probably laughed the loudest but also had the most tears in my eyes. The best picture I’ve ever seen. It has never been shown in L.A. There are several records played over the radio, music from
Limelight
. Beautiful music. They electrify me when I hear them. Mr C the composer is never mentioned. I am happy to hear the children like Switzerland. Of course, for grown up people it takes more time to get used to any foreign country. I do say Switzerland is one of the better ones. The best schools on the globe. Also the oldest republic on the globe, since 1191. First of August is the 4th of July there. Independence Day. Not a holiday, but you will see the fires on all mountain tops. As a whole, one of the few conservative and prosperous
countries. I left there in 1918 for South America. Have been back twice since. I also served two terms in the Swiss Army. Born in St Gallen, eastern part of Switzerland. I have one younger brother in Berne and one in St. Gallen.