Screenland (Sept 1922–Feb 1923)

did it well. I wonder what effect it has on the girl's mind as she parades herself before the high-born ladies and gentlemen. But I catch the imperfection in their schooling. It is very amusing to watch them strut about until their display is made and then, their stunt done, slouch back into the dressing-rooms sans carriage and manner. And then, too, I am discovered. This also caused a break in the spell of their queenly stroll. They are laughing and at the same time trying to maintain the dignity due the gowns they are wearing. They become selfconscious and the effect is ludicrous. I am demoralizing the institution, so we get away. I would like to talk to some of the models, but it can't be done very well. From there we go to a candy store, where I lay in a supply of chocolates and preserved fruits for my trip into Germany the next day. I am invited by Sir Philip to visit him at his country home in Lympne, Kent, on my return from Germany. 1 HE train to Germany left so late in the evening that it was impossible for me to see devastated France, even though we passed through a considerable portion of it. Our compartment on the train is very stuffy and smelly and the train service is atrocious, food and sanitary conditions being intolerable after American train service. Again there is a crowd at the station to see me off, but I am rather enjoying it. A beautiful French girl presents me with a bouquet of flowers with a cute little speech, or at least I suppose it was, because she looked very cute delivering it, and the pouts that the language gave to her red lips were most provocative. She tells me in delicious broken English that I look tired and sad and I find myself yielding without a struggle to her suggestion. We arrive at Joumont near the Belgian frontier along about midnight, and like a message from home, there is a gang of American soldier boys at the station to greet me. And they are not alone, for French, Belgian and British troops are also waving and cheering. I wanted to talk to the Belgians, and we tried it, but it was no use. What a pity. But one of them had a happy inspiration and saved the day. "Glass of beer, Chariot?" • I nod, smiling. And to my surprise they bring me beer, which I lift to my lips for politeness, and then drink it to the last drop in pure pleasure. It is very good beer. There is a group of charming little Belgian girls. They are smiling at me SCREENIAND C*ii£*»~ shyly and I so want to say something to them. But I can't. Ah, the bouquet ! Each little girl gets a rose and they are delighted. . . "Merci, Merci, Monsieur. And they keep "merciing" and bowing until the train pulls out of the station, which emboldens them to join the soldiers in a cheer. Through an opening between the railroad structures I see a brilliant lighting display. It is universal, this sign. Here is a movie in this tiny village. What a wonderful medium to reach such an obscure town. On the train I am being told that my pictures have not played in Germany, hence I am practically unknown there. This rather pleases me, because I feel that I can relax and be away from crowds. Every one on the train is nice and there is no trouble. Conductors struggle with English for my benefit and the custom officers make but little trouble. In fact, we cross the border at 3 in the morning and I am asleep. Next morning I find a note from the customs man saying: "Good luck, Charlie. You were sleeping so soundly that I did not have the heart to wake you for inspection." Germany is beautiful. Germany belies the war. There are people crowding the fields, tilling the soil, working feverishly all the time as our train rushes through. Men, women and children are all at work. They are facing their problem and rebuilding. A great people preverted for and by a few. The different style of architecture here is interesting.' Factories are being built everywhere. Surely, this isn't conquered territory. I do not see much live stock in the fields. This seems strange. A dining car has been put on the train and the waiter comes to our compartment to let us know that we may eat. Here is novelty. A sevencourse dinner, with wine, soup, meat, vegetables, salad, dessert, coffee and bread for 28 cents. This is made possible by the low rate of exchange. 33 Wi E go to the Adlon Hotel in Berlin and find that hostelry jammed owing to the auto races, which are being run off at this time. A different atmosphere here. It seems hard for me to relax and get the normal reaction to meeting people. They don't know me here. I have never been heard of. It interests me and I believe I resent it just a bit. I notice how abrupt and polite the Germans are to foreigners and I detect a tinge of bitterness, too. I am wondering about my pictures making their debut here. I question the power of my personality without its background of reputation. I am feeling more restful under this disinterested treatment, but somehow I wish that my pictures had been shown here. The people at the hotel are very courteous. They have been told that I am the "white-headed boy and quite the guy in my home town." Their reactions are amusing. I am not very impressive looking and they are finding it hard to believe. There is quite a crowd in the lobby and a number of American and English. They are not long in finding me, and a number of English, French and American reporters start making a fuss over me. The Germans just stand and look on bewildered. Carl von Weigand comes forward with the offer of the use of his office while I am here. The Germans are impressed with all this, but they show no enthusiasm. I am accepted in an offhand way as some one of importance and they let it go at that. The Scala Theatre, where I spent the evening, is most interesting, though I think a bit antiquated when compared to English and American theatrical progress along the same lines. It seats about 5,000, mostly on one floor, with a very small balcony. It is of the variety, music hall type, showing mostly "dumb" acts— acts that do not talk or sing, like comic jugglers, acrobats and dancers. I am amused by a German comedian singing a song of about twenty verses, but the audience is enthused and voices its approval at every verse. During the intermission we have frankfurters and beer, which are served in the theatre. I notice the crowds. They go to the theatre there as a family. It is j"ust that type of an affair. I notice the different types of beauty, though beauty is not very much in evidence here. Here and there are a few pretty girls, but not many. It is interesting to watch the people strolling during the intermission, drinking lager and eating all sorts of food. LEAVING the theatre, we visit the Scala Cafe, a sort of impressionistic casino. The Scala is one of the largest cafes in Berlin, where the modernist style of architecture has been carried out fully. The walls are deep mottled sea green, shading into light verdigris and emerald, leaning outward at an angle, thereby producing an effect of collapse and forward motion. The junction of the walls and the ceiling is broken into irregular slabs of