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

even more enormous crowds. After being shown the exterior of hotels and railroad stations of London, Paris, Moscow, Vienna and Budapest, I innocently asked: ‘When are we going to see a little of the town and country?’ They both laughed. I confess I have not been overly modest in describing my own welcoming crowds.

In Berlin I was the guest of the democratic government, and Countess York, a very attractive German girl, was assigned my attaché, as it were. It was 1931, soon after the Nazis had emerged as a power in the Reichstag, and I was not aware that half the Press was against me, objecting that I was a foreigner and that the Germans were making themselves ridiculous by such a fanatical demonstration. Of course that was the Nazi Press, and I was innocently oblivious of all this, and had a wonderful time.

A cousin of the Kaiser kindly conducted me around Potsdam and Sans Souci. To me all palaces are preposterous, a tasteless, dreary expression of ostentation. In spite of their historic interest, when I think of Versailles, the Kremlin, Potsdam, Buckingham Palace, and the rest of those mausoleums, I realize what pompous egos must have created them. The cousin of the Kaiser told me that Sans Souci was in better taste, small and more human; but to me it had the feeling of a vanity case and left me cold.

Frightening and depressing was my visit to the Berlin Police Museum – photographs of murder victims, suicides, degenerates and human abnormalities of every kind. I was thankful to leave the building and to breathe the fresh air again.

Dr von Fulmuller, author of The Miracle, entertained me at his house, where I met German representatives of the arts and the theatre. Another evening I spent with the Einsteins in their small apartment. Arrangements were made for me to dine with General von Hindenburg, but at the last moment he was indisposed, so I went to the South of France again.

*

Elsewhere I have said that sex will be mentioned but not stressed, as I can add nothing new to the subject. However, procreation is nature’s principal occupation, and every man, whether he be young or old, when meeting every woman measures the potentiality of sex between them. Thus it has always been with me.

During work, women never interested me; it was only between pictures, when I had nothing to do, that I was vulnerable. As H. G. Wells said: ‘There comes a moment in the day when you have written your pages in the morning, attended to your correspondence in the afternoon, and have nothing further to do. Then comes that hour when you are bored; that’s the time for sex.’

So, having nothing to do on the Côte d’Azur, I had the good fortune to be introduced to a very charming girl who had all the requisites to alleviate that blue hour of boredom. She was footloose like myself and we accepted each other at face value. She confided in me that she had just recovered from an unhappy love affair with a young Egyptian. Our relationship, though not discussed, was understood; she knew that eventually I would return to America. I gave her a weekly allowance and together we went the rounds of casinos, restaurants and galas. We dined and tangoed and did all the usual foru-foru. But propinquity caught me in the meshes of her charm and the inevitable happened, my emotions became involved; and thinking about returning to America, I was not too sure about leaving her behind. The mere thought of leaving her excited my pity; she was gay, charming and sympathetic. Nevertheless, there were occasions that provoked my mistrust.

One afternoon at a thé dansant at the casino, she suddenly clutched by hand. There was ‘S—’, her Egyptian lover, whom she had told me so much about. I was nettled; however, a few moments later we left. As we neared the hotel, she suddenly discovered that she had left her gloves behind and must go back for them, telling me to go on ahead. Her excuse was too obvious. I put up no resistance and made no comment but went on to the hotel. When she had not returned after two hours, I came to the conclusion that there was more than a pair of gloves involved. That evening I had invited some friends for dinner, and when the time drew near she was still missing. As I was about to leave the room without her, she showed up, looking pale and dishevelled.

‘You’ve left it too late for dinner,’ I said, ‘so you’d better go back to your nice warm bed.’

She denied, pleaded, implored, but could give no plausible excuse for being absent so long. I was convinced that she had been with her Egyptian lover, and after a tirade of invectives I went off without her.

Who has not sat talking above the noise of sobbing saxophones and the humdrum and clatter of a night-club, depressed with sudden loneliness? You sit with others, acting the host, but you are inwardly tormented. When I returned to the hotel she was not there. This threw me into a panić. Had she gone already? So quickly! I went into her bedroom and to my great relief her clothes and other things were still there. She came in ten minutes later, bright and cheerful, and said she had been to a movie. Coldly I told her that as I was leaving for Paris the next day, I would settle up my accounts with her and this was definitely the end. To all this she acquiesced, but still denied having been with her Egyptian lover.

‘Whatever friendship there’s left,’ I said, ‘you kill it by keeping up this deception.’ Then I lied and told her that I had had her followed and that she had left the casino and had gone with her Egyptian friend to his hotel. To my surprise she broke down and confessed it was true, and made vows and