Screenland (Sept 1922–Feb 1923)

28 HJJywooi SCREENLAND C*xO**i* AND then he tells of a visit to the Limehouse district — a visit made solely for the purpose of finding trouble. How he had read of the tough characters there and how he had decided to go down to find out how tough they were. "I went right down there into their joints," he said, "and told them that I was looking for somebody that was tough, the tougher the better, and I went up to a big mandarin wearing a feather and said, 'Give me the toughest you've got. You fellows are supposed to be tough down here, so let's see how tough you are.' And I couldn't get a rise out of any of them," he concluded. This was enough for me. It annoys. I told him that it was very fine for well-fed overpaid actors flaunting toughness at these deprived people, who are gentle and nice and if ever tough only because of environment. I asked him just how tough he would be if he were living the life that some of these unfortunate families must live. How easy for him with five meals a day beneath that thrust-out chest with his muscles trained and perfect, trying to start something with these people. Of course they were not tough, but when it comes to four years of war, when it comes to losing an arm or a leg, then they are tough. But they are not going around looking for fights unless there is a reason. It rather breaks up the party, but I am feeling so disgusted that I do not care. We meander along, walking from Park Lane to the Ritz. On our way we are stopped by two or three young girls. They are stamped plainly and there is no subtlety about their "Hello boys, you are not going home so early?" They salute us. We wait a moment. They pause and then wave their hands to us and we beckon them. "How is it you are up so late?" They are plainly embarrassed at this question. Perhaps it has been a long time since they were given the benefit of the doubt. They are not just sure what to say. We are different. Their usual method of attack or caress does not seem in order, so they just giggle. Here is life in its elemental rawness. I feel very kindly disposed toward them, particularly after my bout with the well-fed actor who got his entertainment from the frailties of others. But it is rather hard for us to mix. There is a rather awkward silence. THEN one of the girls asks if we have a cigarette. Robinson gives them a package which they share between the three of them. This breaks the ice. They feel easier. The meeting is beginning to run along the parliamentary rules that they know. Do we know where they can get a drink? "No." This is a temporary setback, but they ask if we mind their walking along a bit with us. We don't and wre walk along toward the Ritz. They are giggling and before long I am recognized. They are embarrassed. They look down at their shabby little feet where ill-fitting shoes run over at the heels. Their cheap little cotton suits class them even low in their profession, though their youth is a big factor toward their potential rise when they have become hardened and their mental faculties have become sharpened in their eternal battles with men. Then men will come to them. Knowing my identity they are on their good behavior. No longer are we prospects. We are true adventure for them this night. Their intimacy has left them and in its place there appears a reserve which is attractive even in its awkwardness. The conversation becomes somewhat formal. And we are nearing the hotel, where we must leave them. They are very nice and charming now and are as timid and reserved as though they had just left a convent. They talk haltingly of the pictures they have seen, shyly telling how they loved me in Shoulder Arms, while one of them told how she wept when she saw The Kid and how she had that night sent some money home to a little kid brother who was in school and staying there through her efforts in London. The difference in them seems so marked when they call me Mr. Chaplin, and I recall how they had hailed us as "Hello, boys." Somehow I rather resent the change. I wish they would be more intimate in their conversation. I would like to get their viewpoint. I want to talk to them freely. They are so much more interesting than most of the people I meet. But there is a barrier. Their reserve stays. I told them that I was sure they were tired and gave them cab fare. One of their number speaks for the trio. "Thanks, Mr. Chaplin, very much. I could do with this, really. I was broke, honest. Really, this comes in very handy." They could not quite understand our being nice and sympathetic. They were used to being treated in the jocular way of street comeraderie. Finer qualities came forward under the respectful i.iention we gave them, something rather nice that had been buried beneath the veneer of their trade. Their thanks are profuse yet awkward. They are not used to giving thanks. They usually pay, and pay dearly, for anything handed them. We bid them "good night." They smile and walk away. WE watch them for a bit as they go on their way. At first they are strolling along, chattering about their adventure. Then, as if on a signal, they straighten up as though bracing themselves and with quickened steps they move toward Piccadilly, where a haze of light is reflected against the murky sky. It is the beacon light from their battle ground and as we follow them with our eyes these butterflies of the night make for the lights where there is laughter and gayety. As we go along to the Ritz we arc all sobered by the encounter with the three little girls. • I think blessed is the ignorance that enables them to go on without the mental torture that would come from knowing the inevitable that awaits them. As we go up the steps of the hotel we see a number of derelicts huddled asleep against the outside of the building, sitting under the arches and doors, men and women, old and young, underfed, deprived, helpless, so much so that the imprint of helplessness is woven into their brain and brings on an unconsciousness that is a blessing. We wake them up and hand them each money. "Here, get vourself a bed." They were too numbed. They thank us mechanically, accepting what we give them, but their reaction and thanks are more physical than mental. There was one old woman abcut 70. I gave her something. She woke up, or stirred in her sleep, took the money without a word of thanks — took it as though it was her ration from the bread line and no thanks were expected, huddled herself up in a tighter knot than before and continued her slumber. The inertia of poverty had long since claimed her. We rang the night bell at the Ritz, for they are not like our American hotels, where guests are in the habit of coming in at all hours of the night. The Ritz closes its doors at midnight and after that hour you must ring them. "D UT the night was not quite over. As we were ringing the bell we noticed a wagon in the street about a block away with the horse slipping and the driver out behind the wagon with his shoulder to the wheel and urging the horse along with cheery words. We walked to the wagon and found it was loaded with apples and on its way to the market. The streets were so slippery that the horse could not negotiate the hill. I could not help but think how different from the usual driver this man was. He did not belay the tired animal with a whip and curse and swear at him in his helplessness. He saw that the animal was up against it and instead of beating him he got out and put his shoulder to the wheel, never for the moment doubting that the horse was doing his best. We all went out into the street and put our shoulders against the wagon along writh the driver. He thanked us and as we finally got the momentum necessary to carry it over the hill, he said: "These darn roads are so slippery that the darn horse even can't pull it." It was a source of wonder to him that he should come upon something too much for his horse. And the horse was so well fed and well kept. I could not help but notice how much better the animal looked than his master. The evening was over and I don't know but what the incident of the apple wagon was a fitting finale. THE next morning for the first time I am made to give my attention to the mail that has been arriving. We have been obliged to have another room added to our suite in crdrr to have some place in which to keep the numerous sacks that are being brought to us at all hours. The pile is becoming so mountainous that we are compelled to engage half a dozen stenographers just for the purpose of reading and classifying them. We found that there were 73,000 letters or cards addressed to me during the first three days in London and of this number more than 28,000 were begging letters — letters begging anywhere from £l to ,£100,000. Countless and varied were the reasons set forth. Some were ridiculous. Some were amusing. Some were pathetic. Some were insulting. All of them in earnest. I discovered from the mail that there arc 671 relatives of mine in England that I knew nothing about. The greater part of these were cousins and they gave very detailed family tree tracings in support of their claims. All cf them wished to be set up in business or to get into the movies. But the cousins did not have a monopoly on the relationships. There were brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and there were nine claiming to be my mother, telling wondrous adventure stories about my being stolen by Gypsies when a baby or being left on doorsteps, until I began to think my youth had been a very hectic affair. But I did not worry -much about these latter, as I had left a perfectly good mo'hcr back in California, and so far I have been pretty much satisfied with her. There were letters addressed just to Charles Chaplin, some to King Charles, some to the "King of Mirth"; on some there was drawn the picture of a battered derby; some carried a reproduction of my shoes and cane and in some there was stuck a white feather with the question as to what I was doing during the war. Would I visit such and such institutions? Would I appear for such and such charity? Would I kick off the football season or attend some particular soccer game ? Then there were letters of . welcome and one inclosing an iron cross inscribed "For your service's in the great war" and "Where were you when England was fighting?" THEN there were others thanking me for happiness given the senders. These came by the thousand. One young soldier sent me four medals he had gotten during the big war. He said that he was sending them because I had never been properly recognized. His part was so small and mine so big, he said, that he wanted me to have his Croix de Guerre, his regimentals and other medals.