My Autobiography by Charles Chaplin (most read book in the world TXT) 📕

showpieces. It was customary that after a steam one would arrive at Pickfair about eight, dine at eight-thirty and after dinner see a movie. So I never got down to knowing the guests too intimately. Occasionally, however, I would relieve the Fairbankses of their social overflow and put some of them up at my house. But I confess I could not ‘host’ them as well as the Fairbankses.

When entertaining the exalted, Douglas and Mary were at their best. They could assume a dégagé familiarity with them, which was difficult for me. Of course, when entertaining dukes, on the first night the formal appellation of ‘Your Grace’ was constantly heard; but it was not long before ‘Your Grace’ became the familiar ‘Georgie’ or ‘Jimmy’.

At dinner, Douglas’s little mongrel dog often appeared and Douglas, with an easy diverting manner, would make it perform foolish little tricks, which would loosen up what could have been a stiff and formal affair. I was often the recipient of whispered compliments paid to Douglas by the guests. ‘Such a delightful person!’ said the ladies confidingly. And of course he was. No one could charm them more than Douglas.

But on one occasion he met his Waterloo. I am not mentioning names for obvious reasons, but the entourage was exclusive, abounding in exalted titles, and Douglas devoted a whole week to their pleasure and entertainment. The guests of honour were a honeymoon couple. Everything imaginable was done to entertain them. There was a fishing expedition on a private yacht to Catalina, where Douglas had had a steer killed and sunk in the sea to attract the fish (but they did not catch any), then a private rodeo on the studio grounds. But the beautiful, tall, young bride, though gracious, was extemely reticent and showed little enthusiasm.

Each night at dinner Douglas tried his best to entertain her, but all his wit and ebullience could not rouse her from her cool demeanour. On the fourth night Douglas took me aside. ‘She baffles me, I can’t talk to her,’ he said, ‘so at dinner tonight I’ve arranged for you to sit next to her.’ He chuckled. ‘I’ve told her how brilliant and amusing you are.’

After Douglas’s build-up, I felt as comfortable as a paratrooper about to jump as I took my seat at dinner. However, I thought I would try the esoteric approach. So, taking my napkin from the table, I leant over and whispered to the lady: ‘Cheer up.’

She turned, not quite sure of what I had said. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Cheer up!’ I repeated, cryptically.

She looked surprised. ‘Cheer up?’

‘Yes,’ I replied, adjusting my napkin over my knee and looking straight ahead.

She paused, studying me a moment. ‘Why do you say that?’

I took a chance. ‘Because you are very sad,’ and before she could answer I continued: ‘You see, I’m part gipsy and know these things – what month were you born in?’

‘April.’

‘Of course, Aries! I should have known.’

She became animated, which was most becoming to her. ‘Know what?’ she smiled.

‘This month is the low ebb of your vitality.’

She thought a moment. ‘It’s extraordinary you should say that.’

‘It’s simple if one is intuitive – your aura at the moment is an unhappy one.’

‘Is it that apparent?’

‘Perhaps not to others.’

She smiled, then studied a moment and said thoughtfully: ‘So strange you should say that. Of course it is true. I’m very depressed.’

I nodded sympathetically. ‘This is your worst month.’

‘I’m so despondent, I feel utterly desperate,’ she continued.

‘I think I understand,’ I said, not realizing what was coming next.

She continued mournfully: ‘If only I could run away – away from everything and everybody… I’d do anything – get a job – do extra work in films, but it would hurt everyone concerned and they are too fine for that.’

She spoke in the plural – but of course I knew she was speaking of her husband. Now I became alarmed, so I dropped all pose of the esoteric and tried to give her serious advice, which, of course, was banal. ‘It’s futile to run away; responsibilities always pursue you,’ I said. ‘Life is an expression of want, no one is ever satisfied, so don’t do anything rash – something you may regret all your life.’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ she said wistfully. ‘However, I’m so relieved to talk to someone who understands.’

Every so often during the chatter of the other guests Douglas threw a glance in our direction. Now she turned to him and smiled.

After dinner, Douglas took me aside. ‘What on earth were you two talking about? I thought you were going to bite each other’s ears off!’

‘Oh, just the usual fundamentals,’ I said smugly.

nineteen

I WAS now entering the last mile of my contract with First National and looking forward to its termination. They were inconsiderate, unsympathetic and short-sighted, and I wanted to be rid of them. Moreover, ideas for feature films were nagging at me.

Completing the last three pictures seemed an insuperable task. I worked on Pay Day, a two-reeler, then I had only two more films to go. The Pilgrim, my next comedy, took on the proportions of a feature-length film. This again meant more irksome negotiations with First National. But as Sam Goldwyn said of me: ‘Chaplin is no business man – all he knows is that he can’t take anything less.’ The negotiations terminated satisfactorily. After the phenomenal success of The Kid, I met little resistance to my terms for The Pilgrim: it would take the place of two films and they would give me a guarantee of $400,000 and an interest in the profits. At last I was free to join my associates in United Artists.

At the suggestion of Douglas and Mary, Honest Joe, as we called Joseph Schenck, joined United Artists with his wife Norma Talmadge, whose films were to be released through our company. Joe was to be made president. Although I was fond of Joe, I did not think his contribution was valuable enough to justify his presidency. Although his wife was a star