My Autobiography

by Charles Chaplin

  I had been looking forward to standing on the top deck with my family, enjoying that stirring moment of a ship’s severance as it glides off and away into another life. Instead I was ignominiously locked in my cabin, peering through the porthole.

  ‘It’s me,’ said Oona, rapping on the door.

  I opened it.

  ‘Jim Agee has just arrived to see us off. He is standing on the dock. I shouted that you were hiding from process-servers and that you’d wave to him from the porthole. There he is now at the end of the pier,’ she said.

  I saw Jim a little apart from a group of people, standing in fierce sunlight scanning the boat. Quickly I took my fedora hat and put my arm through the porthole and waved, while Oona looked out of the second porthole. ‘No, he hasn’t seen you yet,’ she said.

  And Jim never did see me; and that was the last I ever saw of Jim, standing alone as though apart from the world, peering and searching. Two years later he died of a heart-attack.

  At last we were on our way and, before the pilot left, I unlocked the door and came out on deck a free man. There it was – the towering skyline of New York, aloof and magnanimous, racing away from me in sunlight, becoming ethereally more beautiful every moment… and as that vast continent disappeared into the mist it gave me a peculiar feeling.

  Although excited with the anticipation of visiting England with my family, I was pleasantly relaxed. The wide expanse of the Atlantic is cleansing. I felt like another person. No longer was I a myth of the film world, or a target of acrimony, but a married man with a wife and family on a holiday. The children were on the top deck engrossed in play while Oona and I sat in a couple of deck-chairs. And in this mood I had a realization of perfect happiness – something very near to sadness.

  We talked affectionately of friends we were leaving behind. We even talked of the friendliness of the Immigration Department. How easily one succumbs to a small courtesy – enmity is difficult to nourish.

  Oona and I intended taking a long vacation and devoting ourselves to pleasure, and with the launching of Limelight our vacation would not be aimless. The knowledge of combining business with pleasure was exceedingly pleasant.

  Lunch the next day could not have been gayer. Our guests were the Artur Rubinsteins and Adolph Green. But in the middle of it Harry Crocker was handed a cablegram. He was about to put it in his pocket, but the messenger said: ‘They’re waiting for an answer over the wireless.’ A cloud came over Harry’s face as he read it; then he excused himself and left the table.

  Later he called me into his cabin and read the cable. It stated that I was to be barred from the United States, and that before I could re-enter the country I would have to go before an Immigration Board of Enquiry to answer charges of a political nature and of moral turpitude. The United Press wanted to know if I had any comments to make.

  Every nerve in me tensed. Whether I re-entered that unhappy country or not was of little consequence to me. I would like to have told them that the sooner I was rid of that hate-beleaguered atmosphere the better, that I was fed up with America’s insults and moral pomposity, and that the whole subject was damned boring. But everything I possessed was in the States and I was terrified they might find a way of confiscating it. Now I could expect any unscrupulous action from them. So instead I came out with a pompous statement to the effect that I would return and answer their charges, and that my re-entry permit was not a ‘scrap of paper’, but a document given to me in good faith by the United States Government – blah, blah, blah.

  There was no further rest on the boat. Press radiograms from all parts of the world wanted statements. At Cherbourg, our first stop before Southampton, a hundred or more European newsmen embarked wanting interviews. We arranged to give them an hour in the buffet room after lunch. Although they were sympathetic, the ordeal was dreary and exhausting.

  *

  The journey from Southampton to London was one of uneasy suspense; for more important than being barred from the U.S. was my anxiety to know what Oona’s and the children’s reaction would be to their first view of the English countryside. For years I had been extolling the wondrous beauty of the south-western part of England, Devonshire and Cornwall, and now we were passing through dreary clusters of red brick buildings and lanes of uniform houses climbing over hills. Said Oona: ‘They all look alike.’

  ‘Give us a chance,’ I said. ‘We’re only just outside Southampton.’ And as we travelled along, of course the countryside grew more beautiful.

  When we arrived in London at Waterloo Station, the faithful crowd was still there, and was just as loyal and enthusiastic as ever. They waved and cheered as we left the station. ‘Give it to ‘em, Charlie,’ said one. It was indeed heart-warming.

  When at last Oona and I had a moment to ourselves, we stood at the window of our suite on the fifth floor of the Savoy Hotel. I pointed to the new Waterloo Bridge; although beautiful, it meant little to me now, only that its road led over to my boyhood. We stood silent, drinking in the most stirring view of a city in all this world. I have admired the romantic elegance of the Place de la Concorde in Paris, have felt the mystic message from a thousand glittering windows at sunset in New York, but to me the view of the London Thames from our hotel window transcends them all for utilitarian grandeur – something deeply human.

  I glanced at Oona as she stood taking in the view, her face tense with excitement which made her look younger than her twenty-seven years. Since our marriage she had been through many an ordeal with me; and as she gazed upon London, the sunlight playing about her dark hair, I saw for the first time one or two silver threads. I made no comment, but at that moment I felt slavishly dedicated to her as she said quietly: ‘I like London.’

  Twenty years had elapsed since I had been here last. From my view the river bends and the contours of its banks have ugly, modern shapes that marred the skyline. Half of my boyhood had gone in the charred embers of its sooty, vacant lots.

  As Oona and I wandered through Leicester Square and Piccadilly, now adulterated by American gimcracks, lunch counters, hot-dog stands and milk bars, we saw hatless youths and blue-jeaned girls ambling about. I remember when one dressed the part for the West End, and strolled with yellow gloves and a walking-stick. But that world has gone, and another takes its place, eyes see differently, emotions react to other themes. Men weep at jazz, and violence has become sexual. Time marches on.

  We taxied over to Kennington to look at 3 Pownall Terrace, but the house was empty, ready to be demolished. We paused before 287 Kennington Road where Sydney and I had lived with my father. We passed through Belgravia and saw in the rooms of those once magnificent private houses neon lights and clerks working at desks; other houses were replaced by oblong shapes, glass tanks and cement match-boxes towering upwards – all in the name of progress.

  We had many problems: first, getting our money out of the States. This meant Oona would have to fly back to California and take everything from our safe-deposit box. She was away ten days. When she returned, she told me in detail what had happened. At the bank the clerk studied her signature, looked at her, then left and had quite a conference with the bank manager. Oona had a moment of uneasiness until they opened our deposit box.

  She said that after completing the business at the bank she went to the house in Beverly Hills. Everything was just as we had left it and the flowers and the grounds looked lovely. She stood alone a moment in the living-room and was quite emotional. Then later she saw Henry, our Swiss butler, who told her that since we went away the F.B.I. men had called twice and interrogated him, wanting to know what kind of a man I was, if he knew of any wild parties with nude girls that had gone on in the house, etc. When he told them that I lived quietly with my wife and family, they began to bully him and asked what nationality he was and how long he had been in the country, and demanded to see his passport.

  Oona said that when she heard all this, whatever attachment she had for the house was severed then and there. Even the tear
s of Helen, our maid, who wept when Oona left, had little effect but to hasten her departure.

  Friends have asked how I came to engender this American antagonism. My prodigious sin was, and still is, being a nonconformist. Although I am not a Communist I refused to fall in line by hating them. This, of course, has offended many, including the American Legion. I am not opposed to that organization in its true constructive sense; such measures as the G.I. Bill of Rights and other benefits for ex-soldiers and the needy children of veterans are excellent and humanitarian. But when the legionnaires go beyond their legitimate rights, and under the guise of patriotism use their power to encroach upon others, then they commit an offence against the fundamental structure of the American Government. Such super-patriots could be the cells to turn America into a fascist state.

  Secondly, I was opposed to the Committee on Un-American Activities – a dishonest phrase to begin with, elastic enough to wrap around the throat and strangle the voice of any American citizen whose honest opinion is a minority one.

  Thirdly, I have never attempted to become an American citizen. Yet scores of Americans earning their living in England have never attempted to become British subjects; for example, an American executive of M.G.M. earning in dollars a four-figure salary a week has lived and worked in England for over thirty-five years without becoming a British subject, and the English have never bothered about it.

  This explanation is not an apology. When I began this book I asked myself the reason for writing it. There are many reasons but apology is not one of them. In summing up my situation, I would say that in an atmosphere of powerful cliques and invisible governments I engendered a nation’s antagonism and unfortunately lost the affection of the American public.

  *

  Limelight was booked to open at the Odeon in Leicester Square. I was uneasy as to what the reception would be, as it was not the usual Chaplin comedy. Before the première we had a preview for the Press. Time had sufficiently removed me from the film to view it objectively, and I must say I was moved by it. This was not being narcissistic, for I can enjoy certain sequences in my films and loathe others. However, I never wept as some snide reporter said I did – and even if I had, so what? If the author does not feel emotional about his work he can hardly expect the public to. Frankly I enjoy my comedies even more than the audience.

  The première of Limelight was for charity, and Princess Margaret attended. The next day it opened to the general public. Although the reviews were lukewarm it broke world records, and in spite of the fact that it was boycotted in America it grossed more money than any picture I have ever made.

  Before leaving London for Paris, Oona and I were the guests of Lord Strabolgi at a dinner in the House of Lords. I sat next to Herbert Morrison and was surprised to hear that as a socialist he supported the policy of atomic defence. I told him that no matter how much we increased our atomic piles, England would always be a vulnerable target; she was a small island, and retaliation would be little consolation after we had been reduced to ashes. I am convinced that the soundest strategy for England’s defence is absolute neutrality, for in an atomic era I doubt that absolute neutrality would be violated. But my views were by no means in accord with Morrison’s.

  I am surprised how many intelligent people talk in favour of atomic weapons. At another house I met Lord Salisbury, who was of the same opinion as Morrison, and in expressing my abhorrence of nuclear defence I felt that I did not stand in good stead with his Lordship.

  At this juncture, I think it appropriate to sum up the state of the world as I see it today. The accumulating complexities of modern life, the kinetic invasion of the twentieth century finds the individual hemmed in by gigantic institutions that threaten from all sides, politically, scientifically and economically. We are becoming the victims of soul-conditioning, of sanctions and permits.

  This matrix into which we have allowed ourselves to be cast is due to a lack of cultural insight. We have gone blindly into ugliness and congestion and have lost our appreciation of the aesthetic. Our living sense has been blunted by profit, power and monopoly. We have permitted these forces to envelop us with an utter disregard of the ominous consequences.

  Science, without thoughtful direction or sense of responsibility, has delivered up to politicians and the militaire weapons of such destruction that they hold in their hands the destiny of every living thing on this earth.

  This plethora of power given into the hands of men whose moral responsibility and intellectual competence are to say the least not infallible, and in many cases questionable, could end in a war of extermination of all life on earth. Yet we go blindly on.

  As Dr Robert Oppenheimer once told me: ‘Man is driven by a compulsion to know.’ Well and good – but in many cases with a disregard of the consequences. With this the Doctor agreed. Some scientists are like religious fanatics. They rush ahead, believing that what they discover is always for good and that their credo to know is a moral one.

  Man is an animal with primary instincts of survival. Consequently, his ingenuity has developed first and his soul afterwards. Thus the progress of science is far ahead of man’s ethical behaviour.

  Altruism is slow along the path of human progress. It ambles and stumbles along after science. And only by force of circumstances is it allowed to function. Poverty was not reduced by altruism or the philanthropy of governments, but by the forces of dialectic materialism.

  Carlyle said that the salvation of the world will be brought about by people thinking. But in order to bring this about, man must be forced into serious circumstances.

  Thus, in splitting the atom, he is driven into a corner and made to think. He has the choice to destroy himself or to behave himself; the momentum of science is forcing him to make this decision. And under these circumstances, I believe that eventually his altruism will survive and his good-will towards mankind will triumph.

  *

  After leaving America life was on another level. In Paris and Rome we were received like conquering heroes: invited by President Vincent Auriol to lunch at the Èlysée and invited to lunch at the British Embassy. Then the French Government elevated me to the rank of Officer of the Legion of Honour, and on that same day the Société des Auteurs et Compositeurs Dramatiques made me an honorary member. A letter referring to that occasion which I received from Mr Roger Ferdinand, the President, was most affecting. It is here translated.

  Dear Mr Chaplin,

  Should certain people be surprised at the publicity given to your presence here, they would be ill acquainted with the reasons for which we love and admire you; they would also be very bad judges of human values, and would not have taken the trouble to count the blessings that you have heaped upon us during the last forty years, nor have appreciated your teaching, or the quality of the joys and emotions that you have lavished upon us, at their true worth; to say the least they would be thoroughly ungrateful.

  You are among the greatest personalities of the world and your claim to fame is equal to that of those who can be placed among the most illustrious.

  There is your genius, for a start. This much abused word, genius, takes on its real sense when applied to a man who is not only a marvellous comedian, but also an author, composer, producer, and, best of all, a man of warmth and magnanimity. For you are all of these, and moreover with a simplicity which increases your stature and makes a warm, spontaneous appeal, without calculation or effort, to the hearts of men today, which are as tormented as your own. But genius is not sufficient to merit esteem; neither is it sufficient to engender love. And yet love is the only word for the sentiment you inspire.

  When we saw Limelight we laughed, often heartily, and we wept, with real tears – yours, for you gave us the precious gift of tears.

  In truth, real fame is never usurped; it only has a sense, a value and duration when it is turned to a good cause. And your victory is in the fact that you have human generosity and spontaneity that are not inhibited by rules or cleverness but
stem from your own sufferings, your joys, hopes and disappointments; all that is understood by those who suffer beyond their strength and ask for pity, and who constantly hope to be comforted, to be made to forget for a moment, by that laughter which does not pretend to cure, but only to console.

  One could imagine, even if we did not know it, the price that you have paid for this marvellous gift of being able to make us laugh and then suddenly cry. One can guess or, better still, perceive what sufferings you have yourself undergone to be able to portray in detail all those little things that touch us so deeply, and which you have taken from moments of your own life.

  For you have a good memory. You are faithful to the memories of your childhood. You have forgotten nothing of its sadness, its bereavements; you have wanted to spare others the harm you suffered, or at least you have wanted to give everybody reason for hope. You have never betrayed your sad youth, and fame has never had the power to separate you from the past – for, alas, these things can happen.

  This fidelity to your earliest memories is perhaps your greatest merit and the most important of your assets, and also the real reason why the crowds adore you. They respond to the subtleties of your acting. It seems as if you are always in direct touch with the hearts of others. And indeed nothing is more harmonious than this cooperation of author, the actor and director, who place their combined talents at the service of all that is humane and good.

  This is why your work is always generous. It is not handicapped by theories – scarcely even by technique; it is forever a confession, a confidence, a prayer. And each person is your accomplice because he thinks and feels as you do.

  You have, by your talent alone, subdued the critics because you have succeeded in captivating them. This is a difficult task. They will never admit that you respond equally to the charm of old-fashioned melodrama and to the devilish zest of Feydeau. And yet you do, while also possessing a certain grace that makes us think of Musset – although you imitate no one and resemble no one. That is also the secret of your glory.