My Autobiography

by Charles Chaplin

  No member of my cast was injured in any of our pictures. Violence was carefully rehearsed and treated like choreography. A slap in the face was always tricked. No matter how much of a skirmish, everyone knew what he was doing, everything was timed. It was inexcusable to get hurt, because in films all effects – violence, earthquakes, shipwrecks, and catastrophes – can be faked.

  We had only one accident in that whole series. It happened in Easy Street. While I was pulling a street-lamp over the big bully to gas him, the head of the lamp collapsed and its sharp metal edge fell across the bridge of my nose, necessitating two surgical stitches.

  Fulfilling the Mutual contract, I suppose, was the happiest period of my career. I was light and unencumbered, twenty-seven years old, with fabulous prospects and a friendly, glamorous world before me. Within a short time I would be a millionaire – it all seemed slightly mad. Money was pouring into my coffers. The ten thousand dollars I received every week accumulated into hundreds of thousands. Now I was worth four hundred thousand, now five hundred thousand. I could never take it for granted.

  I remember Maxine Elliott, a friend of J. P. Morgan, said to me once: ‘Money is only good to forget.’ But it is also something to remember say I.

  There is no doubt that men of success live in a different world; when I met people their faces would light up with interest. Although I was a parvenu, my opinions were seriously considered. Acquaintances were willing to enter into the warmest of friendships and share my problems as though they were relatives. It was all very flattering, but my nature does not respond to such intimacy. I like friends as I like music – when I am in the mood. Such freedom, however, was at the price of occasional loneliness.

  One day, towards the completion of my contract, my brother entered my bedroom at the Athletic Club and blithely announced: ‘Well, Charlie, you’re now in the millionaire class. I’ve just completed a deal for you to make eight two-reel comedies for First National for $1,200,000.’

  I had just taken a bath and was wandering about the room with a towel around my loins, playing The Tales of Hoffmann on my violin. ‘Hum-um, I suppose that’s wonderful.’

  Sydney suddenly burst into laughter. ‘This goes into my memoirs: you with that towel around your hips, playing the violin, and your reaction to the news that I’ve signed up for a million and a quarter!’

  I admit there was a tinge of pose because of the task it involved – the money had to be earned.

  Notwithstanding, all this promise of wealth did not change my mode of living. I was reconciled to wealth but not to the use of it. This money I earned was legendary – a symbol in figures, for I had never actually seen it. I therefore had to do something to prove that I had it. So I procured a secretary, a valet, a car and a chaffeur. Walking by a show-room one day, I noticed a seven-passenger Locomobile, which, in those days, was considered the best car in America. The thing looked too magnificently elegant to be for sale. However, I walked into the shop and asked: ‘How much?’

  ‘Four thousand nine hundred dollars.’

  ‘Wrap it up,’ I said.

  The man was astonished and tried to put up a resistance to such an immediate sale. ‘Wouldn’t you like to see the engine?’ he asked.

  ‘Wouldn’t make any difference – I know nothing about them,’ I answered. However, I pressed the tyre with my thumb to show a professional touch.

  The transaction was simple; it meant writing my name on a piece of paper and the car was mine.

  Investing money was a problem and I knew little about it, but Sydney was familiar with all its nomenclature: he knew about book values, capital gains, preferred and common shares; A and B ratings, convertible stocks and bonds, industrial fiduciaries and legal securities of savings banks. Investment opportunities were rife in those days. A Los Angeles realtor pleaded with me to go into partnership with him, each of us putting up two hundred and fifty thousand dollars to buy a large tract of land in the Los Angeles Valley. Had I invested in his project my share would have amounted to fifty million dollars, for oil was discovered and it became one of the richest areas in California.

  thirteen

  MANY illustrious visitors came to the studio at this time: Melba, Leopold Godowsky and Paderewski, Nijinsky and Pavlova.

  Paderewski had great charm, but there was something bourgeois about him, an over-emphasis of dignity. He was impressive with his long hair, severe, slanting moustache and the small tuft of hair under his lower lip, which I thought revealed some form of mystic vanity. At his recitals, with house lights lowered and the atmosphere sombre and awesome when he was about to sit on the piano stool, I always felt someone should pull it from under him.

  During the war I met him at the Ritz Hotel in New York and greeted him enthusiastically, asking if he were there to give a concert. With pontifical solemnity he replied: ‘I do not give concerts when I am in the service of my country.’

  Paderewski became Prime Minister of Poland, but I felt like Clemenceau, who said to him during a conference of the ill-fated Versailles Treaty: ‘How is it that a gifted artist like you should stoop so low as to become a politician?’

  On the other hand Leopold Godowsky, a greater pianist, was simple and humorous, a small man with a smiling, round face. After his concert in Los Angeles he rented a house there, and I visited him quite frequently. On Sundays I was privileged to listen to him practising and to witness the extraordinary facility and technique of his exceptionally small hands.

  Nijinsky, with members of the Russian Ballet, also came to the studio. He was a serious man, beautiful-looking, with high cheekbones and sad eyes, who gave the impression of a monk dressed in civilian clothes. We were shooting The Cure. He sat behind the camera, watching me at work on a scene which I thought was funny, but he never smiled. Although the other onlookers laughed, Nijinsky sat looking sadder and sadder. Before leaving he came and shook hands, and in his hollow voice said how much he enjoyed my work and asked if he could come again. ‘Of course,’ I said. For two more days he sat lugubriously watching me. On the last day I told the cameraman not to put film in the camera, knowing Nijinsky’s doleful presence would ruin my attempts to be funny. Nevertheless, at the end of each day he would compliment me. ‘Your comedy is balletique, you are a dancer,’ he said.

  I had not yet seen the Russian Ballet, or any other ballet for that matter. But at the end of the week I was invited to attend the matinée.

  At the theatre Diaghilev greeted me – a most vital and enthusiastic man. He apologized for not having the programme he thought I would most enjoy. ‘Too bad it isn’t L’Après-midi d’un Faune,’ he said. ‘I think you would have liked it.’ Then quickly he turned to his manager. ‘Tell Nijinsky we’ll put on the Faune after the interval for Charlot.’

  The first ballet was Scheherazade. My reaction was more or less negative. There was too much acting and too little dancing, and the music of Rimsky-Korsakov was repetitive, I thought. But the next was a pas de deux with Nijinsky. The moment he appeared I was electrified. I have seen few geniuses in the world, and Nijinsky was one of them. He was hypnotic, godlike, his sombreness suggesting moods of other worlds; every movement was poetry, every leap a flight into strange fancy.

  He had asked Diaghilev to bring me to his dressing-room during the intermission. I was speechless. One cannot wring one’s hand and express in words one’s appreciation of great art. In his dressing-room I sat silent, watching the strange face in the mirror as he made up for the Faune, putting green circles around his cheeks. He was gauche in his attempt at conversation, asking inconsequential questions about my films, and I could only answer in monosyllables. The warning bell rang at the end of the interval, and I suggested returning to my seat.

  ‘No, no, not yet,’ he said.

  There came a knock at the door. ‘Mr Nijinsky, the overture is finished.’

  I began to look anxious.

  ‘That’s all right,’ he answered. ‘There’s plenty of time.’

  I was shocked and a
t a loss to know why he was acting this way. ‘Don’t you think I had better go?’

  ‘No, no, let them play another overture.’

  Diaghilev eventually came bursting into the dressing-room. ‘Come, come! The audience are applauding.’

  ‘Let them wait, this is more interesting,’ said Nijinsky, then began asking me more banal questions.

  I was embarrassed. ‘I really must get back to my seat,’ I said.

  No one has ever equalled Nijinsky in L’Après-midi d’un Faune. The mystic world he created, the tragic unseen lurking in the shadows of pastoral loveliness as he moved through its mystery, a god of passionate sadness – all this he conveyed in a few simple gestures without apparent effort.

  Six months later Nijinsky went insane. There were signs of it that afternoon in his dressing-room, when he kept the audience waiting. I had witnessed the beginning of a sensitive mind on its way out of a brutal war-torn world into another of its own dreaming.

  The sublime is rare in any vocation or art. And Pavlova was one of those rare artists who had it. She never failed to affect me profoundly. Her art, although brilliant, had a quality pale and luminous, as delicate as a white rose-petal. As she danced every move was the centre of gravity. The moment she made her entrance, no matter how gay or winsome she was, I wanted to weep.

  I met ‘Pav’, as her friends called her, while she was in Hollywood making a picture at the Universal studios, and we became very good friends. It was a tragedy that the speed of the old cinema failed to capture the lyricism of her dancing, and because of that her great art has been lost to the world.

  On one occasion the Russian Consulate gave her a testimonial dinner at which I was present. It was an international affair and quite a solemn one. During dinner there were many toasts and speeches, some in French and others in Russian. I believe I was the only Englishman called upon. Before my turn came to speak, however, a professor delivered a brilliant eulogy of Pavlova’s art in Russian. At one moment the professor burst into tears, then went up to Pavlova and kissed her fervently. I knew that any attempt of mine would be tame after that, so I rose and said that as my English was totally inadequate to express the greatness of Pavlova’s art I would speak in Chinese. I spoke in a Chinese jargon, building up to a crescendo as the professor had done, finishing by kissing Pavlova more fervently than the professor, taking a napkin and placing it over both our heads as I continually kissed her. The party roared with laughter, and it broke the solemnity of the occasion.

  Sarah Bernhardt played at the Orpheum vaudeville theatre. She was, of course, very old and at the end of her career, and I cannot give a true appraisal of her acting. But when Duse came to Los Angeles, even her age and approaching end could not dim the brilliance of her genius. She was supported by an excellent Italian cast. One handsome young actor gave a superb performance before she came on, holding the centre of the stage magnificently. How could Duse excel this young man’s remarkable performance? I wondered.

  Then from extreme left up-stage Duse unobtrusively entered through an archway. She paused behind a basket of white chrysanthemums that stood on a grand piano, and began quietly rearranging them. A murmur went through the house, and my attention immediately left the young actor and centred on Duse. She looked neither at the young actor nor at any of the other characters, but continued quietly arranging the flowers and adding others which she had brought with her. When she had finished, she slowly walked diagonally down-stage and sat in an armchair by the fireplace and looked into the fire. Once, and only once, did she look at the young man, and all the wisdom and hurt of humanity was in that look. Then she continued listening and warming her hands – such beautiful, sensitive hands.

  After his impassioned address, she spoke calmly as she looked into the fire. Her delivery had not the usual histrionics; her voice came from the embers of tragic passion. I did not understand a word, but I realized I was in the presence of the greatest actress I had ever seen.

  *

  Constance Collier, Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree’s leading lady, was engaged to play Lady Macbeth with Sir Herbert for the Triangle Film Company. When a boy I had seen her many times from the gallery of His Majesty’s Theatre and had admired her memorable performances in The Eternal City and as Nancy in Oliver Twist. So when a note came to my table at Levy’s Café that Miss Collier would like to meet me and would I come over to her table, I was delighted to do so. From that meeting we became lifelong friends. She was a kindly soul who had a glowing warmth and a zest for living. She enjoyed bringing people together. Her desire was to have me meet Sir Herbert and a young man named Douglas Fairbanks, with whom she said I would have much in common.

  Sir Herbert, I suppose, was the dean of the English theatre and the subtlest of actors, appealing to the mind as well as the emotions. His Fagin in Oliver Twist was both humorous and horrific. With little effort he could create tension that was almost unbearable. He had only to gently prod the Artful Dodger jokingly with a toasting-fork to evoke terror. Tree’s conception of character was always brilliant. The ridiculous Svengali was an example; he made one believe in this absurd character and endowed him not only with humour but with poetry. Critics said Tree was beset with mannerisms; true, but he used them effectively. His acting was extremely modern. In Julius Caesar his interpretation was intellectual. His Mark Antony in the funeral scene, instead of haranguing the crowd with conventional passion, he spoke perfunctorily over their heads with cynicism and underlying contempt.

  As a boy of fourteen I had seen Tree in many of his great productions, so when Constance arranged a small dinner for Sir Herbert, his daughter Iris and myself, I was indeed excited at the prospect. We were to meet in Tree’s rooms at the Alexandria Hotel. I was deliberately late, hoping that Constance would be there to relieve pressure, but when Sir Herbert ushered me into his rooms he was alone, except for John Emerson, his film director.

  ‘Ah, come in, Chaplin,’ said Sir Herbert. ‘I’ve heard so much about you from Constance!’

  After introducing Emerson, he explained that they were going over some scenes of Macbeth. Soon Emerson left, and I was suddenly petrified with shyness.

  ‘I am sorry to have kept you waiting,’ said Sir Herbert, sitting in an armchair opposite me. ‘We were discussing an effect for the witch scene.’

  ‘Oh-h-h,’ I stammered.

  ‘I think it would be rather effective to hang gauze over balloons and have them float through the scene. What do you think?’

  ‘Oh-h-h… wonderful!’

  Sir Herbert paused and looked at me. ‘You’ve had phenomenal success, haven’t you?’

  ‘Nothing at all,’ I mumbled apologetically.

  ‘But you’re known all over the world! In England and France the soldiers even sing songs about you.’

  ‘Is that so?’ I said, feigning ignorance.

  He looked at me again – I could see doubt and a reservation spreading all over his face. Then he got up. ‘Constance is late. I’ll telephone and find out what has happened. In the meantime you must meet my daughter Iris,’ he said, as he left the room.

  I was relieved, for I had visions of a child with whom I could talk on my own level about school and the movies. Then a tall young lady entered the room with a long cigarette-holder, saying in a sonorous low voice: ‘How do you do, Mr Chaplin. I suppose I am the only person in the world who hasn’t seen you on the screen.’

  I grinned and nodded.

  Iris looked Scandinavian, with blonde bobbed hair, snub nose and light blue eyes. She was then eighteen years old, very attractive with a bloom of Mayfair sophistication about her, having had a book of her poems published at the age of fifteen.

  ‘Constance speaks so much about you,’ she said.

  I grinned and nodded again.

  Eventually, Sir Herbert returned, announcing that Constance could not come as she had been delayed with costume fittings, and that we would dine without her.

  Dear God! With these strangers how would I endure the ni
ght? With this burning thought in my mind, we left the room in silence and entered the lift in silence and in silence entered the dining-room and sat at table as though we had just returned from a funeral.

  Poor Sir Herbert and Iris did their best to make conversation. Soon she gave up and just sat back scanning the dining-room. If only the food would come, eating might relieve my awful tension.… Father and daughter conversed a little and talked about the South of France, Rome and Salzburg – had I ever been there? Had I ever seen any of Max Reinhardt’s productions?

  I shook my head apologetically.

  Tree now surveyed me. ‘You know, you should travel.’

  I told him that I had little time for that, then I came to: ‘Look, Sir Herbert, my success has been so sudden that I have had little time to catch up with it. But as a boy of fourteen I saw you as Svengali, as Fagin, as Anthony, as Falstaff, some of them many times, and ever since you have been my idol. I never thought of you as existing off-stage. You were a legend. And to be dining with you tonight in Los Angeles overwhelms me.’

  Tree was touched. ‘Really!’ he kept repeating. ‘Really!’

  From that night on we became very good friends. He would call me up occasionally and the three of us, Iris, Sir Herbert and I, would dine together. Sometimes Constance would come along, and we would go to Victor Hugo’s restaurant and muse over our coffee and listen to sentimental chamber music.

  *

  From Constance I had heard much about Douglas Fairbanks’s charm and ability, not only as a personality but as a brilliant after-dinner speaker. In those days I disliked brilliant young men – especially after-dinner speakers. However, a dinner was arranged at his house.

  Both Douglas and I tell a story of that night. Before going I had made excuses to Constance that I was ill, but she would have none of it. So I made up my mind to feign a headache and leave early. Fairbanks said that he was also nervous, and that when the door-bell rang he quickly descended into the basement, where there was a billiard-table, and began playing pool. That night was the beginning of a lifelong friendship.