The New Movie Magazine (Jan-Sep 1935)

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City... Canadians should mail coupon to The Charles E. Hires Co., Ltd., Toronto Love Laughs at the Little Clown would. Would he come to New York and make a ceremony of signing it? He would not. The studio heads in the East insisted and Charlie became stubborn. He was not tripping to New York on a ballyhoo stunt and that was that. As the date of signing approached, the comedian remained adamant in his decision to take part in no publicity stunts. In the meantime, what of Hetty? Charlie had set out from England to develop himself and become worthy of her. He had certainly done so. He was now an artist who played upon people's heartstrings with the skill Jascha Heifitz displayed fingering his violin. Tears and laughter were his to command. He was famous, he was Midas rich. Now he could go to Hetty with his head up, with the world in his hands to lay at her feet. Even her sister must recognize him now. But — he hesitated. He did not know why. It merely seemed the moment had not arrived. One day, as the studio was demanding the New York excursion and he was with equal force declaring he would not take it, he saw a picture in a New York newspaper that had by chance been left on his dressing-room table. It was a picture of Hetty's sister. The caption under it stated she, her sister, her brother and her husband had arrived from England some time before and were living in a Fifth Avenue residence. Charlie Chaplin stared at that picture for a long time. Hetty — in New York. "I'll see you in America," she had said. Z\ SMILE slowly turned the corners of his mouth. Now was the time, and it would be done as he desired, casually. He would meet her on the street accidentally. At least she would never know it was not an accident. His eyes would light up and he would say as he grasped her hand, "Hetty! Think of meeting you here! This is wonderful!" And she would smile happily and say, "Charlie! I've thought of you so much." He would answer, still holding her hand, "I've thought of you, too, Hetty." Then he would present her with gifts, the finest he could buy. He would see how she reacted to him and if — dreamland was very real — all was well, the publicity-seeking studio would be handed a story, the newspapers would cry in black headlines across front pages, "CHAPLIN MARRIES BOYHOOD SWEETHEART!" It had to be done that way. Genius is unaccountable, often over-sensitive and shy. It would kill him, kill forever his dream, if he went directly to her and found indifference. They had to meet casually and Charlie picked up his telephone, called the Eastern studio heads. "Okay," he said, "I'll come to New York. Leave tonight." The studio heads nodded wisely. They had licked him. He was coming to New York to sign the million-dollar contract. The police were pressed into service to stem the tide of fans who met him at the Grand Central Station. He was escorted to his hotel, lodged in a magnificent suite far above the noise and bedlam of the street. Much closer to the stars than in his London garret he looked for a moment out the window, and then no one could find him. The studio wanted him for luncheons with the mayor, the governor, important {Continued from page 63) personages of the metropolitan business and social life. His days had been dated to the full with meetings and interviews. Reporters waited by the hour for him and then returned to their city rooms to write stories which proclaimed, "CHAPLIN IN HIDING," "CHARLIE DISAPPEARS." And everyone asked, "Where is he?" Where? While all New York sought him, a slender little man sat alone on a bench in Central Park. His coat collar turned up around his chin, hat brim lowered over his eyes, he stared across Fifth Avenue. When it became too cold to sit in the open, he hailed a taxi, instructed the driver to stay right where he was — within view of the doorway through which sooner or later Hetty must pass. When she did he would hurry down Fifth Avenue, across the street, stroll back toward her and meet — casually, accidentally. So as thousands looked for Charlie Chaplin to give him homage, he sat in full view and dreamed his dream, wrote and rewrote in his thoughts the scenario of his meeting with Hetty, of what was to follow. . . . The door remained closed, or opened to admit or exude strangers. Days of waiting and Charlie saw Arthur, the young brother. Here, at last, was a contact. Arthur was happy to see him. After the first greetings, Charlie inquired for Hetty's sister. "She's fine." "And your other sister — Hetty?" asked Charlie. "Hetty!" said Arthur. "She's married now, you know. She was here, but left for England a week ago." Charlie smiled. "That's too bad," he said. "It would have been nice to see her." The newspapers the next day heralded the sudden departure of Charlie Chaplin for California. Months passed, and if he dreamed any dreams, he did not recount them to us who listened, so quietly, as night entirely fled before the sun rising over the Hollywood hills. None of us noticed the coming of a new day. We were living in years gone by with a lonely little man who thought of a girl six thousand miles away from him in London. "The Kid" was finished and proved the greatest of his motion pictures. He threw himself into preparation of the next one. It had to be good; everything Charlie Chaplin did had to be good. There was yet, as there had always been since leaving England, a reason. He must be worthy. His fan mail increased by the sack load. And the studio began whispering. Had Chaplin gone high-hat? Was he getting the fat head? He must be balmy. As proof of one or the other, he insisted upon seeing every piece of fan mail coming to the studio addressed to him. It was a ritual each morning, Chaplin going through his fan mail. Why? Did he need to read these glowing tributes to his genius? He heard the whispers but said nothing. He knew what he was looking for — and at last it came. A letter from Hetty! "Dear Charlie," it said. "Do you remember me? I have often thought of you and never had the courage to write. If you ever come to London, be sure and look me up." Did he remember her! He swallowed with difficulty as he read and reread the letter. She often thought of him . . . she wanted to see him! Later that day there were doings on the Chaplin lot. Carlyle Robinson, the comedian's publicity man, was called into his employer's dressing-room. He found Charlie pacing the floor, Charlie's brother, Syd, following him quizzically with his eyes. "Can you go to England?" Charlie asked Robinson. "Why, surely. Wherever you send me." "Then get under way. Arrange for passports, money, whatever else is necessary. We leave in the morning for London." Robinson's eyes flew open and he gulped. "We?" "We," said Charlie. "You and I." "But, Charlie," the words rushed out of Robinson's mouth, "you start shooting today. You've been getting ready for this picture for four months. There's a hundred extras on the set right now waiting for you. What " Chaplin waved his hand. "We leave for London tomorrow. The picture can wait. Pay the extras." Pay. Thousands upon thousands of dollars this would cost him. Money. But of what value was money . . . "DOBINSON has told of that trip. ^ Mentioned how Charlie Chaplin was not the man Hollywood and his studio had known. On the boat crossing the Atlantic he was nervous. Three years later I crossed on that same boat, and the chief officer told me of Charlie's solitude, of his walking the deck alone late at night and early in the morning. How for hours he would stand at the bow, looking toward England, the salt waves breaking below him and sprinkling him with spray. As the ship approached Southampton, Chaplin's nervousness increased. Robinson thought it was because an enormous reception, including a welcome with the keys of the city donored by the Lord Mayor, was planned for the return after eight years of this boy from an East End garret. But Charlie Chaplin was thinking past Southampton to London, to another welcome and reception. On the deck, fortune favored him. As the crowd was frantically yelling "Welcome, Charlie!" "Happy homecoming!" "Welcome home, our Charlie!" he spied Arthur. While thousands screamed the name of this slender man who not too long before had sailed from these same shores a penniless, unknown, unhailed music-hall comedian, he grabbed Arthur by the arm. "Nice of you to come down to meet me," he told the boy. "It's good to see a familiar face. Come, ride to London in the carriage with me." On the train they talked of many things. The old days in the theater, the monkey in the zoo after fleas, the struggles against poverty, the hopes and laughs and hurts of bygone moments. Charlie carefully avoided mention of Hetty, but during long stretches of silence he continued to dream his dreams. Hetty was married. But at least he could see her, could give her his love in a different way, perhaps in a bigger, finer way. He wondered if her husband was wealthy. If not, he, Charlie, would somehow see to it he became so. And through him he would give to Hetty what he wanted her to have, the best in life, everything. Perhaps — who could tell? — some day her husband would pass on and then ... oh, it was going to be glorious just 64 The New Movie Magazine, August, 1935