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

Khrushchev. The crowd saw our intentions and a battle royal ensued. With the aid of four men we were catapulted into a private room. Once alone, Khrushchev and all of us sighed: ‘Phew!’ Now I had a chance to collect my wits and talk. Khrushchev had just made a wonderful speech of goodwill on his arrival in London. It had come like a ray of sunshine, and I told him so, saying that it had given hope for peace to millions throughout the world.

We were interrupted by an American reporter: ‘I understand, Mr Khrushchev, your son was out on the town, last night, enjoying himself.’

Khrushchev’s smile was one of nettled amusement. ‘My son is a serious young man, studying hard to be an engineer – but he occasionally enjoys himself, I hope.’

A few minutes later a message came to say that Mr Harold Stassen was outside and would like to see Mr Khrushchev. He turned to me jokingly: ‘Do you mind – he’s an American?’

I laughed: ‘I don’t mind.’ Later Mr and Mrs Stassen and Mr and Mrs Gromyko were shot through the door. Khrushchev then excused himself, saying he would only be a few minutes, and went to a far corner of the room to talk with Stassen and Gromyko.

To make conversation I asked Mrs Gromyko if she was returning to Russia. She said she was going back to the United States. I remarked that she and her husband had been there a long time. She laughed, a little embarrassed. ‘I don’t mind it,’ she said; ‘I like it there.’

I said: ‘I don’t think the real America is in New York or on the Pacific Coast; personally, I like the Middle West much better, places like North and South Dakota, Minneapolis and Saint Paul. There, I think, are the true Americans.’

Mrs Stassen suddenly exclaimed: ‘Oh, I’m so glad you said that! Minnesota is where my husband and I come from.’ She laughed nervously and repeated: ‘I’m so glad you said that.’ I think she had an idea I was going to heap a tirade on the United States, and that the slings and arrows I had received from that country had left me bitter. But it was not so – and, even if it had been, I am not one to vent my spleen on a very charming lady like Mrs Stassen.

I could see that Khrushchev and the rest were in for a long session, so Oona and I got up. When Khrushchev saw the stir he left Stassen and came over to say goodbye. As we shook hands I caught a glimpse of Stassen; he had backed up to the wall and was looking straight ahead in a non-committal way. I bade everyone good-bye, ignoring Stassen – which under the circumstances I felt was the diplomatic thing to do - but from the brief glance I had of him I liked him.

The next evening Oona and I dined alone in the Grill at the Savoy. In the middle of our dessert Sir Winston Churchill and Lady Churchill came in and stood before our table. I had not seen Sir Winston or heard from him since 1931. But after the opening of Limelight in London, I had received a message from United Artists, our distributors, asking permission to show Sir Winston the film at his house. Of course I had been only too pleased. A few days later he sent a charming letter of thanks, telling me how much he had enjoyed it.

And now Sir Winston stood before our table, confronting us. ‘Well!’ he said.

There seemed to be a disapproving note in the ‘Well!’

I quickly stood up, all smiling, and introduced Oona, who at that moment was about to retire.

After Oona had left I asked if I could join them for coffee, and went across to their table. Lady Churchill said she had read in the papers about my meeting with Khrushchev.

‘I always got along well with Khrushchev,’ said Sir Winston.

But all the time I could see that Sir Winston was nursing a grievance. Of course, much had happened since 1931. He had saved England with his indomitable courage and inspiring rhetoric; but I thought his ‘iron curtain’ Fulton speech had achieved nothing but an intensification of the cold war.

The conversation turned to my film Limelight. Eventually he said: ‘I sent you a letter two years ago complimenting you on your film. Did you get it?’

‘Oh yes,’ I said enthusiastically.

‘Then why didn’t you answer it?’

‘I didn’t think it called for an answer,’ I said apologetically.

But he was not to be cozened. ‘Hmmm,’ he said disgruntledly, ‘I thought it was some form of rebuke.’

‘Oh no, of course not,’ I answered.

‘However,’ he added, by way of dismissing me, ‘I always enjoy your pictures.’

I was charmed with the great man’s modesty in remembering that unanswered letter of two years ago. But I have never seen eye to eye with his politics. ‘I am not here to preside over the dissolution of the British Empire,’ said Churchill. This may be rhetoric, but it is a fatuous statement in the face of modern facts.

This dissolution is not the result of politics, revolutionary armies, Communist propaganda, rabble-rousing or soap boxing. It is the soap wrappings that are the conspirators: those international advertisers – radio, television and motion pictures – the automobile and tractor, the innovation in science, the acceleration of speed and communication. These are the revolutionaries that are responsible for the dissolution of empires.

*

Soon after returning to Switzerland, I received a letter from Nehru enclosing a note of introduction from Lady Mountbatten. She was sure Nehru and I had a great deal in common with each other. He was passing Corsier and perhaps we could meet. As he was holding his annual meeting of ambassadors in Lucerne, he wrote that he would be delighted if I could come and spend the night there; the following day he would drop me off at the Manoir de Ban. So I went to Lucerne.

I was surprised to