Screenland (Sept 1922–Feb 1923)

something, anything. I am weak and perspiring. I blurt out, "I beg pardon," and then I rush off to my cabin and lie down. Oh, why did I leave England? Something smells, horrible. I look up. My head is near a new pigskin bag. Yes, that's it, that awful leathery smell. But I have company. Robinson is in the cabin with me and we are matching ailments. Thus we spent the trip from Dover to Calais and I was as glad to get to the French coast as the Kaiser would have been had he kept that dinner engagement in Paris. Nearing France, I am almost forgetting my sickness. There is something in the atmosphere. Something vibrant. The tempo of life is faster. The springs in its mechanism are wound taut. I feel as if I would like to take it apart and look at those springs. I am met by the chief of police, which surprised me, because I was confident that I had been canny enough to make a getaway this time. But no. The boat enters the quay and I see the dock crowded with people. Some treachery. Hats are waving, kisses are being thrown and there are cheers. Cheers that I can only get through the expression, because they are in French and I am notoriously deficient in that language. "VlVE LE CHARLOT!" "Bravo, Chariot !" I am "Charioted" all over the place. Strange, this foreign tongue. Wonder why a universal language isn't practicable? They are crowding about me, asking for autographs. Or at least I think they are, because they are pushing books in my face, though for the life of me I can't make out a word of their chatter. But I smile, God bless that old "prop" grin, because they seem to like it. Twice I was kissed. I was afraid to look around to see who did it, because I knew I was in France. And you must give me the benefit of the doubt. I am hoping that both kisses came from pretty girls, though I do think that at least one of those girls should shave. They examine my signature closely. They seem puzzled. I look. It is spelled right. Oh, I see! They expected "Chariot." And I write some more with "Chariot." I am being bundled along to a funny little French train. It seems . like a toy. But I am enjoying the difference. Everything is all changed. The new money, the new language, the new faces, the new architecture — it's a grown-up three-ring circus to me. The crowd gives a concerted cheer as the train pulls out and a few Hollywood. SCREENL&ND CMift^ intrepid ones run alongside until distanced by steam and steel. It has started to rain as we arrive in Paris, which adds to my state of excitement, and a reportorial avalanche falls upon me. I am about overcome. How did reporters know I was coming? The crowd outside the station is almost as large as the one in London. I am still feeling the effects of my seasickness. I am not equal to speaking nor answering questions. We go to the customs house and one journalist, finding us, suggests and points another way out. I am sick. I must disappoint the crowd, and I leap into a taxi and am driven to Claridge's hotel. OUT of the frying pan." Here are more reporters. And they speak nothing but French. The hubbub is awful. We talk to each other. We shout at each other. We talk slowly. We spell. We do everything to make Frenchmen understand English and Englishmen understand French, but it is no use. One of them manages to ask me what I think of Paris. I answer that I never saw so many Frenchmen in my life. I am looking forward eagerly to meeting Cami, the famous French cartoonist. We have been corresponding for several years, he sending me many drawings and I sending him still photos from pictures. We had built up quite a friendship and I have been looking forward to a meeting. I see him. He is coming to me and we are both smiling broadly as we open our arms to each other. "Cami!" "Chariot!" Our greeting is most effusive. And then something goes wrong. He is talking in French, a blue streak with the rapidity of a machine gun. I can feel my smile fading into blankness. Then I get an inspiration. I start talking in English just as rapidly. Then we both talk at once. It's the old story of the irresistible force and the immovable body. We get nowhere Then I try talking slowly, extren< ly slow. "Do — you — understand ?" It means nothing. We both realize at the same time what a hopeless thing our interview is. We are sad a bit, then we smile at the absurdity of it. He is still Cami and I am still Chariot, so we grin and have a good time anyhow. He stays to dinner, which is a hectic meal, for through it all I am tasting this Paris, this Paris that is waiting for me. We go out and to the Folies Bergere. Paris does not seem as light as I expected it to be. 31 And the Folies Bergere seems shabbier. I remember having played here once myself with a pantomime act. How grand it looked then. Rather antiquated now. Somehow it saddened me, this bit of memory that was chased up before me. Next day there is a luncheon with Dudley Field Malone and Waldo Frank. It is a brisk and vivacious meal, except when it is broken up by a visit from the American newspaper correspondents. "Mr. Chaplin, why did you come to Europe?" "Are you going to Russia?" "Did you call on Shaw?" They must have cabled over a set of questions. I went all over the catechism for them and managed to keep the "prop" grin at work. I wouldn't let them spoil Paris for me. We escaped after a bit and back at the hotel I notice an air of formality creeping into the atmosphere as I hear voices in the parlor of my suite. Then my secretary comes in and announces that a very important personage is calling and would speak with me. He enters, an attractive looking gentleman and he speaks English. "Mr. Chaplin, that I am to you talk of greetings from the heart of the people of France, that you make laugh. Cannot you forego to make showing of yourself with charity sometime for devastated France ? On it behalf, I say to you I tell him that I will take it up later. He smiles, "Ah, you are boozy." "Oh, no, I haven't had a drink for several days," I hasten to inform him. "I am busy and want to get to bed early tonight." But Malone butts in with, "Oh, yes, he's very boozy." And I get a bit indignant until Malone tells me that the Frenchman means "busy." T _ HEN I am told that there is one young journalist still waiting who has been here all day, refusing to go until I have seen him. And I tell them to bring him in. He comes in smiling in triumph. And he can't speak English. After his hours of waiting we cannot talk. I feel rather sorry for him and we do our best. Finally, with the aid of about every one in the hotel he manages to ask : "Do you like France?" "Yes," I answer. He is satisfied. That evening I go with a party of Dudley Field Malone's to the Palais Royale in the Montmartre district. This is a novelty. Different. Seems several steps ahead of America^ And