There are mystics who believe that our existence is a half-dream and that it is difficult to know where the dream ends and reality begins. Thus it was with me. For months I was absorbed in writing the script. Then strange and eerie things began to happen. Barry began driving up in her Cadillac at all hours of the night, very drunk, and I would have to awaken my chauffeur to drive her home. One time she smashed up her car in the driveway and had to leave it there. As her name was now associated with the Chaplin Studios, I became worried that if she were picked up by the police for drunken driving, it would create a scandal. Finally she got so obstreperous that when she called in the small hours I would neither answer the phone nor open the door to her. Then she began smashing in the windows. Overnight, my existence became a nightmare.
Then I discovered that she had been absent from the Reinhardt school for several weeks. When I confronted her about it, she suddenly announced that she did not want to be an actress, and that if I would pay her and her mother’s fare back to New York and give her $5,000, she would tear up the contract. At this juncture I happily agreed to her demands, paid their fare and the $5,000, and was glad to be rid of her.
Although the Barry enterprise had caved in, I was not sorry that I had bought Shadow and Substance, for I had almost completed the script and thought it a very good one.
Since the San Francisco meeting months had elapsed and the Russians were still calling for a second front. Now another request came from New York, asking me to speak at Carnegie Hall. I debated with myself whether I should go or not, and concluded that I had started the ball rolling and that was enough. But a day later when Jack Warner was playing on my tennis court, I spoke about it and he shook his head cryptically. ‘Don’t go,’ he said.
‘Why not?’ I asked.
He would not say, but added: ‘Let me tip you off, don’t go.’
This had the opposite effect. It was a challenge. At that moment it needed very little eloquence to ignite the sympathy of all America for a second front, for Russia had just won the battle of Stalingrad. So I went, taking Tim Durant with me.
At the Carnegie Hall meeting, Pearl Buck, Rockwell Kent, Orson Welles and many other illustrious people were present. Orson Welles was to speak on that occasion, but as the opposition storm grew, he charted his craft very close to shore, I thought. He spoke before me, stating that he saw no reason why he should not speak, since it was for Russian war relief and the Russians were our allies. His speech was a meal without salt. This made me all the more determined to speak my mind. In my opening words I referred to a columnist who had accused me of wanting to run the war, and I said: ‘From the raging fits he is having I should say he is jealous, and wants to run the war himself. The trouble is we disagree on strategy – he doesn’t believe in a second front at this moment, but I do!’
‘The meeting was a love feast between Charlie and the audience,’ wrote the Daily Worker. But my emotions were mixed; although gratified, I was apprehensive.
After leaving Carnegie Hall, Tim and I had supper with Constance Collier, who had been present at the meeting. She was very moved by it – and Constance was anything but a leftist. When we reached the Waldorf-Astoria there were several telephone messages from Joan Barry. My flesh began to creep. I tore them up immediately, but the telephone rang again. I wanted to instruct the operator not to put any more calls through, but Tim said: ‘You’d better not, you’d better answer or she’ll be up here and create a scene.’
The next time the phone rang I answered. She seemed quite normal and pleasant and said she just wanted to come up and say hello. So I acquiesced and told Tim not to leave me alone with her. That evening she told me that since her arrival in New York she had been living at the Pierre Hotel, owned by Paul Getty. I lied and told her that we were staying for one or two days and that I would try and fit in a lunch somewhere. She stayed half an hour and asked if I would see her home to the Pierre Hotel. When she insisted that I see her to the elevator, I became suspicious. However, I left her at the entrance and that was the first and last time I saw her in New York.
As a result of my second front speeches my social life in New York gradually receded. No more was I invited to spend weekends in opulent country houses. After the Carnegie Hall meeting Clifton Fadiman, writer and essayist, who was working for Columbia Broadcasting System, called at the hotel to ask me if I would care to broadcast internationally. They would give me seven minutes to say what I liked. I was tempted to accept until he mentioned that it would be on the Kate Smith programme. Then I refused on the grounds that my convictions about the war effort would end in an advertisement for Jello. I meant no offence to Fadiman. He is a gentle soul, gifted and cultured, and at the mention of Jello he actually blushed. I was immediately sorry and could have swallowed my words.
After that, a considerable number of letters came with offers of all kinds. One from the prominent ‘America Firster’, Gerald K. Smith, who wanted to debate with me on that subject. Other offers were to lecture, other to speak on behalf of the second front.
Now I felt I was caught up in a political avalanche. I began to question my motives: how much was I stimulated by the actor in me and the reaction of a live audience? Would I have entered this quixotic adventure if I had not made an anti-Nazi film? Was it a sublimation of all my irritations and reactions against the talking pictures? I suppose all these elements were involved, but the strongest one was my hate and contempt for the Nazi system.
twenty-seven
BACK in Beverly Hills, while I was working on Shadow and Substance again, Orson Welles came to the house with a proposition, explaining that he thought of doing a series of documentaries, stories of real life, one to be on the celebrated French murderer, Bluebeard Landru, which he thought would be a wonderful dramatic part for me.
I was interested, as it would be a change from comedy, and a change from writing, acting and directing myself as I had done for years. So I asked to see the script.
‘Oh, it isn’t written yet,’ he said, ‘but all that’s necessary is to take the records of the Landru trial and you’ll have it.’ He added: ‘I thought you might like to help with the writing of it.’
I was disappointed. ‘If I have to help in writing the script, I’m not interested,’ I said, and the matter ended there.
But a day or so later it struck me that the idea of Landru would make a wonderful comedy. So I telephoned Welles. ‘Look, your proposed documentary about Landru has given me an idea for a comedy. It has nothing to do with Landru, but to clear everything I am willing to pay you five thousand dollars, only because your proposition made me think of it.’
He hemmed and hawed.
‘Listen, Landru is not an original story with you or anyone else,’ I said; ‘it is in the public domain.’
He thought a moment, then told me to get in touch with his manager. Thus a deal was negotiated: Welles to get $5,000 and I to be clear of all obligations. Welles accepted but asked for one provision: that after seeing the picture he could have the privilege of screen credit, to read: ‘Idea suggested by Orson Welles.’ I thought little of the request because of my enthusiasm. Had I foreseen the kudos he eventually tried to make out of it, I would have insisted on no screen credit at all.
Now I put aside Shadow and Substance and began writing Monsieur Verdoux. I had been working three months on it when Joan Barry blew into Beverly Hills, my butler informing me that she had telephoned. I said that under no circumstances would I see her.
The events that followed were not only sordid but sinister. Because I would not see her, she broke into the house, smashed windows, threatened my life and demanded money. Eventually I was compelled to call the police, something I should have done long before, in spite of it being a gala opportunity for the Press. But the police were most cooperative. They said they would withhold the charges of vagrancy against her if I were willing to pay her fare back to New York. So again I paid her fare, and the police warned her that if she were seen in the vicinity of Be
verly Hills again she would be charged with vagrancy.
*
It seems a pity that after this sordid episode the happiest event of my life should follow contiguously, one might say. But shadows disappear into night and out of the dawn the sun rises.
One day, a few months later, Miss Mina Wallace, a Hollywood film agent, telephoned to say that she had a client just out from New York who, she thought, might fit the part of Bridget, the principal lead in Shadow and Substance. Having had trouble with Monsieur Verdoux because it was a difficult story to motivate, I took Miss Wallace’s message as a lucky omen for reconsidering the filming of Shadow and Substance, and for temporarily putting aside Monsieur Verdoux. So I telephoned to find out more particulars. Miss Wallace said that her client was Oona O’Neill, daughter of the famous playwright Eugene O’Neill. I had never met Eugene O’Neill, but from the solemnity of his plays I had rather a sepia impression of what the daughter would be like. So I asked Miss Wallace laconically: ‘Can she act?’
‘She’s had a little theatrical experience in summer stock in the East. You’d better take a film test of her and find out for yourself,’ she said. ‘Or better still, if you don’t wish to commit yourself, come to my house for dinner and I’ll have her there.’
I arrived early and on entering the sitting-room discovered a young lady seated alone by the fire. While waiting for Miss Wallace, I introduced myself, saying I presumed she was Miss O’Neill. She smiled. Contrary to my preconceived impression, I became aware of a luminous beauty, with a sequestered charm and a gentleness that was most appealing. While we waited for our hostess, we sat and talked.
Eventually Miss Wallace came in and we were formally introduced. There were four of us for dinner – Miss Wallace, Miss O’Neill, Tim Durant and myself. Although we did not talk business, we skirted around it. I mentioned that the girl in Shadow and Substance was very young, and Miss Wallace dropped the remark that Miss O’Neill was a little over seventeen. My heart sank. Although the part called for someone young, the character was extremely complex and would require an older and more experienced actress. So I reluctantly put her out of my mind.
But a few days later Miss Wallace telephoned to know if I was doing anything about Miss O’Neill, as the Fox film company was interested. It was then and there that I signed her up. This was the beginning of what was destined to be over twenty years of complete happiness – and I hope many more.
As I got to know Oona I was constantly surprised by her sense of humour and tolerance; she could always see the other person’s point of view. This and multitudinous other reasons were why I fell in love with her. She had by now just turned eighteen; but I was confident that she was not subject to the caprices of that age. Oona was the exception to the rule – though at first I was afraid of the discrepancy in our ages. But Oona was resolute as though she had come upon a truth. So we decided to marry after completing the filming of Shadow and Substance.
I had completed the first draft of the script and was now preparing to go into production. If I could get on film that rare quality of charm Oona had, Shadow and Substance would be a success.
At this juncture, Barry again blew into town, and blithely announced to the butler over the telephone that she was destitute and three months pregnant, but made no accusation or hint as to who was responsible. It was certainly no concern of mine, so I told the butler if she started any skylarking around the house, scandal or no scandal, I would call the police. But the next day she showed up bright and cheerful and walked around the house and garden several times. Obviously she was following a planned procedure. It was disclosed later that she had gone to one of the sob sisters of the Press, who advised her to return to the house and get herself arrested. I spoke to her personally, warning her that if she did not leave the premises I would have to call the police. But she only laughed. Having come to the limit of enduring this blackmailing harassment, I told the butler to telephone the police.
A few hours later the newspapers were black with headlines. I was pilloried, excoriated and vilified: Chaplin, the father of her unborn child, had had her arrested, had left her destitute. A week later a paternity suit was brought against me. As a result of these accusations I called up Lloyd Wright, my lawyer, and told him that I had had nothing to do with the Barry woman in two years.
Knowing my intentions of going into production with Shadow and Substance, he discreetly suggested that I should put if off for the time being and that Oona should return to New York. But we would not consider this advice. Nor would we be governed by the lies of the Barry woman nor the headlines of the Press. As Oona and I had already talked of getting married, we decided to do so then and there. My friend Harry Crocker made all the preliminary arrangements. Now he was working for Hearst and promised to take only a few pictures of the wedding, explaining that it would be better to let Hearst have the exclusive story and Louella Parsons, a friend, write it up than subject ourselves to the belligerence of other newspapers.
We were married at Carpinteria, a quiet little village fifteen miles outside Santa Barbara. But before we could obtain the licence, we had to register at the Santa Barbara town hall. It was eight o’clock in the morning and little life was stirring in the town at that hour. The register clerk, if one of the couples happens to be celebrated, usually notifies the newspapers by pressing a secret button under the desk. So in order to avoid a photo festival Harry arranged that I should wait outside the office until Oona had registered. After taking down the usual details, her name and age, the clerk said: ‘Now where’s the young man?’
When I appeared he took it big. ‘Well, this is a surprise!’ And Harry saw his hand disappear under the counter. But we hurried him up, and after stalling as long as he could he reluctantly gave us the licence. Just as we left the building and were entering our car the Press drove into the courtyard. From then on it was a race for life, driving in the early morning through the deserted streets of Santa Barbara, skidding and screeching then turning suddenly into one by-street and up another. In this way we evaded them and arrived in Carpinteria, where Oona and I were quietly married.
We leased a house for two months in Santa Barbara. And in spite of the paroxysms of the Press, we spent a peaceful existence there, for they did not know where we were – although every time the door-bell rang we would jump.
In the evening we would go for quiet walks in the country, careful not to be seen or recognized. Occasionally I would sink into a deep depression, feeling that I had the acrimony and the hate of a whole nation upon me and that my film career was lost. At such times Oona would lift me out of this mood by reading Trilby to me, which is very Victorian and laughable, especially when the author goes on for pages of explanations and excuses for Trilby’s continual generosity in giving away her virtue. This Oona would read curled up in an armchair before a log fire. In spite of an occasional depression those two months in Santa Barbara were poignantly romantic, motivated by bliss, anxiety and despair.
*
When we returned to Los Angeles, disturbing news came from my friend Justice Murphy of the United State Supreme Court, who informed me that at a dinner of influential politicians one of them had remarked that they were out ‘to get Chaplin’. ‘If you get into trouble,’ wrote Justice Murphy, ‘you will do better to get a small, unimportant lawyer and not an expensive one.’
It was some time, however, before the Federal Government got into action. They were supported by a unanimous Press, in whose eyes I was the blackest of villains.
In the meantime we were preparing for the paternity suit, which was a civil case and had nothing to do with the Federal Government. For the paternity suit Lloyd Wright suggested a blood-test which, if in my favour, would be absolute proof of my not being the father of the Barry child. Later he came with the news that he had reached an agreement with her lawyer. The terms were that if we gave Joan Barry $25,000 she and her child would submit to a blood-test, and if the test proved that I could not be the father, she would drop th
e paternity suit. I leaped at the offer. But it was a fourteen-to-one chance against me because so many people have the same blood type. He explained that if in the blood type of the child there was a type that was neither the mother’s nor the accused father’s, then that blood type must come from the blood of a third person.
After the Barry child was born, the Federal Government started a grand jury investigation, questioning Barry with the intention of indicting me – on what grounds I could not possibly imagine. Friends advised me to call up Giesler, the well-known criminal lawyer, and against Justice Murphy’s advice I did so. This was a mistake, for it looked as though I were in serious trouble. Lloyd Wright had arranged a meeting with Giesler to discuss on what grounds the grand jury could bring an indictment. Both lawyers had heard that the Government wanted to prove the violation of the Mann Act.
Every once in a while the Federal Government used this bit of legal blackmail to discredit a political opponent. The original intention of the Mann Act was to prohibit the transporting of women from one state to another for prostitution. After the abolition of the red-light district there was little legitimate use for it, but it is still used to victimize citizens. Should a man accompany his divorced wife over the border to another state, and should he have intercourse with her, he has committed an offence against the Mann Act and is liable to five years in prison. It was this bogus piece of legal opportunism upon which the United States Government brought an indictment against me.
Besides this incredible charge, the Government was concocting another, which was based on an obsolete legal technicality so fantastic that eventually they dropped it. Wright and Giesler agreed that both charges were absurd and saw no difficulty in winning the case if I were indicted.
My Autobiography Page 47