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

A song-and-dance troupe preceded us called ‘Bert Coutts’ Yankee-Doodle Girls.’ I was hardly aware of them. But the second evening, while I stood in the wings indifferent and apathetic, one of the girls slipped during the dance and the others began to giggle. One looked off and caught my eye to see if I was also enjoying the joke. I was suddenly held by two large brown eyes sparkling mischievously, belonging to a slim gazelle with a shapely oval face, a bewitching full mouth, and beautiful teeth – the effect was electric. When she came off, she asked me to hold a small mirror while she arranged her hair. This gave me a chance to scrutinize her. That was the beginning. By Wednesday I had asked her if I could meet her on Sunday. She laughed. ‘I don’t even know what you look like without the red nose!’ – I was playing the comedy drunk in Mumming Birds, dressed in long tails and a white tie.

‘My nose is not quite this red, I hope, and I’m not quite as decrepit as I look,’ I said, ‘and to prove it I’ll bring a photo of myself tomorrow night.’

I gave her what I thought was a flattering one of a sad, callow youth, wearing a black stock tie.

‘Oh, but you’re quite young,’ she said. ‘I thought you were much older.’

‘How old did you think I was?’

‘At least thirty.’

I smiled. ‘I’m going on for nineteen.’

As we were rehearsing every day, it was impossible to meet her during the week. However, she promised to meet me at Kennington Gate at four O’clock on Sunday afternoon.

Sunday was a perfect summer’s day and the sun shone continuously. I wore a dark suit that was cut smartly in at the waist, also a dark stock tie, and sported a black ebony cane. It was ten minutes to four, and I was all nerves, waiting and watching passengers alighting from tram-cars.

As I waited I realized I had not seen her without make-up. I began to lose the vision of what she looked like. Much as I tried, I could not recall her features. A mild fear seized me. Perhaps her beauty was bogus! An illusion! Every ordinary-looking young girl that alighted sent me into throes of despair. Would I be disappointed? Had I been duped by my own imagination or by the artifices of theatrical make-up?

At three minutes to four, someone got off a tram-car and came towards me. My heart sank. Her looks were disappointing. The depressing thought of facing the whole afternoon with her, keeping up a pretence of enthusiasm, was already deplorable. However, I raised my hat and beamed; she stared indignantly and passed on. Thank God it was not she.

Then precisely at one minute past four, a young girl alighted from a tram-car, came forward and stopped before me. She was without make-up and looked more beautiful than ever, wearing a simple sailor hat, a blue reefer coat with brass buttons, with her hands dug deep in her overcoat pockets. ‘Here I am,’ she said.

Her presence so overwhelmed me that I could hardly talk. I became agitated. I could think of nothing to say or do. ‘Let’s take a taxi,’ I said huskily, looking up and down the road, then turned to her. ‘Where would you like to go?’

She shrugged. ‘Anywhere.’

‘Then let’s go over to the West End for dinner.’

‘I’ve had dinner,’ she said calmly.

‘We’ll discuss it in the taxi,’ I said.

The intensity of my emotion must have bewildered her, for all during the drive I kept repeating: ‘I know I’m going to regret this – you’re too beautiful!’ I tried vainly to be amusing and impress her. I had drawn three pounds from the bank and had planned to take her to the Trocadero, where, in an atmosphere of music and plush elegance, she could see me under the most romantic auspices. I wanted to sweep her off her feet. But she remained cool-eyed and somewhat perplexed at my utterances, one in particular: that she was my Nemesis, a word I had recently acquired.

How little she understood what it all meant to me. It had little to do with sex; more important was her association. To meet elegance and beauty in my station of life was rare.

That evening at the Trocadero, I tried to persuade her to have dinner, but to no avail. She would have a sandwich to keep me company, she said. As we were occupying a whole table in a very posh restaurant, I felt it incumbent to order an elaborate meal which I really did not want. The dinner was a solemn ordeal: I was uncertain which implement to eat with. I bluffed through the meal with a dégagé charm, even to my casualness in using the finger-bowl, but I think we were both happy to leave the restaurant and relax.

After the Trocadero she decided to go home. I suggested a taxi, but she preferred to walk. As she lived in Camberwell nothing suited me better; it meant I could spend more time with her.

Now that my emotions had simmered down she seemed more at ease. That evening we walked along the Thames Embankment, Hetty chattering away about her girl friends, pleasantries and other inconsequential things. But I was hardly aware of what she was saying. I only knew that the night was ecstatic – that I was walking in Paradise with inner blissful excitement.

After I left her I returned to the Embankment, possessed! And illumined with kindly light and a fervent goodwill, I distributed among the derelicts who slept on the Thames Embankment the remainder of my three pounds.

We promised to meet the following morning at seven o’clock because she had rehearsals at eight o’clock somewhere in Shaftesbury Avenue. It was a walk of about a mile and a half from her house to the Underground in the Westminster Bridge Road, and although I worked late, never getting to bed before two o’clock, I