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

MacDonald, invited Ralph and me to meet his father and spend the night at Chequers. We met the Prime Minister along the road as he was taking his constitutional walk in his plus-fours, his scarf, his cap, his pipe and walking stick, a typical country squire, the last person to look like a leader of the Labour Party. My first impression was of a gentleman of great dignity, extremely conscious of the burden of premiership, with a noble countenance which was not without humour.

The first part of the evening was somewhat restrained. But after dinner we went to the famous historical Long Room for coffee, and after viewing the original Cromwellian death mask and other historical objects we got down to a cosy chat. I told him that since my first visit there was a great change for the better. In 1921 I had seen much poverty in London, grey-haired old ladies sleeping on the Thames Embankment, but now those old ladies were gone; no more were derelicts sleeping there. The shops looked well stocked and the children well shod, and that, surely, must be to the credit of the Labour Government.

He wore an inscrutable expression and let me go on without interruption. I asked him if the Labour Government, which I understood to be a socialist government, had the power to alter basically the constitution of the country. His eyes twinkled and he replied humourously: ‘It should do, but that is the paradox of British politics: the moment one appropriates power one becomes impotent.’ He reflected a moment, then told the story of his being first called to Buckingham Palace as Prime Minister. Said His Majesty, greeting him cordially: ‘Well, what are you socialists going to do about me?’

The Prime Minister laughed and said: ‘Nothing but try to serve Your Majesty and the country’s best interest.’

During the election, Lady Astor invited Ralph and me to spend the week-end at her house in Plymouth and to meet T. E. Lawrence, who was also to spend the week-end there. But for some reason Lawrence did not show up. However, she invited us to her constituency and to a meeting at the dock-side where she was to speak before some fishermen. She asked if I would say a few words. I warned her that I was for Labour and could not really endorse her politics.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said; ‘it is only that they would like to see you, that’s all.’

It was an open-air meeting and we spoke from a large truck. The bishop of her constituency was there and seemed in a rather irritable mood and greeted us perfunctorily, I thought. After Lady Astor’s short introductory speech, I got up on the truck. ‘How do you do, friends,’ I said. ‘It’s all very well for us millionaires to tell you how to vote, but our circumstances are quite different from yours.’

Suddenly I heard an exclamation from the bishop. ‘Bravo!’ said he.

I continued: ‘Lady Astor and yourselves may have something in common – what it is I don’t know. I think you know better than I do.’

‘Excellent! Very good!’ exclaimed the bishop.

‘As to her politics and past record in representing this eh – eh – ’ ‘Constituency,’ said the bishop – any time I hesitated he would give me the word – ‘Lady Astor’s record must be very satisfactory,’ and I finished by saying that I knew her to be a very sweet and kindly woman with the best of intentions. When I stepped down, the bishop was all glowing and smiles and shook my hand heartily.

There is a strong sense of frankness and sincerity about the English clergy that is a reflection of England at its best. It is men like Dr Hewlett Johnson and Canon Collins and many other prelates that give vitality to the English Church.

*

My friend Ralph Barton was acting strangely. I noticed the electric clock in the sitting-room had stopped – the wires had been cut. When I told Ralph about it he said: ‘Yes, I cut them. I hate the ticking of clocks.’ I was dismayed and slightly annoyed, but dismissed the matter as one of Ralph’s idiosyncrasies. Since leaving New York he had seemed fully recovered from his depression. Now he had decided to return to the States.

Before leaving he asked if I would go with him to visit his daughter, who had only a year previously taken the veil and was now in a Catholic convent in Hackney. She was his eldest daughter by his first wife. Ralph had often spoken about her, saying that since the age of fourteen she had felt the call to become a nun, although he and his wife had done everything they could to dissuade her. He showed me a photograph of her taken when she was sixteen, and I was instantly struck by her beauty: two large dark eyes, a full sensitive mouth and an engaging smile looked out of the picture.

Ralph explained that they had taken her round Paris to many dances and night-clubs, hoping to wean her away from her ecclesiastic desire. They had introduced her to beaux and given her the gayest time, which she seemed to have enjoyed. But nothing could deter her from becoming a nun. Ralph had not seen her in eighteen months. She had now graduated from novice-hood and had fully embraced the order.

The convent was a gloomy, dark building in the heart of a slum district in Hackney. When we arrived there, we were greeted by the Mother Superior and ushered into a small, dismal room. Here we sat and waited for what seemed an interminable time. Eventually his daughter entered. I was immediately struck with sadness, for she was just as beautiful as her picture. Only, when she smiled, two teeth were missing at the side.

The scene was incongruous: the three of us sitting in that small gloomy room, this debonair, urbane father of thirty-seven, his legs crossed, smoking a cigarette, and his daughter, this pretty young nun