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

I took a room at the Hotel Astor which was quite grandiose in those days. I wore my smart cut-away coat and derby hat and cane, and of course carried my small suitcase. The splendour of the lobby and the confidence of the people strutting about it made me tremble slightly as I registered at the desk.

The room cost $4.50 a day. Timidly I asked if I should pay in advance. The clerk was most courteous and reassuring: ‘Oh no, sir, it isn’t necessary.’

Passing through the lobby with all its gilt and plush did something to me emotionally, so that when I reached my room I felt I wanted to weep. I stayed in it over an hour, inspecting the bathroom with its elaborate plumbing fixtures and testing its generous flush of hot and cold water. How bountiful and reassuring is luxury!

I took a bath and combed my hair and put on my new bathrobe, intending to get every ounce of luxury out of my four dollars fifty worth.… If only I had something to read, a newspaper. But I had not the confidence to telephone for one. So I took a chair and sat in the middle of the room surveying everything with a feeling of luxuriant melancholy.

After a while I dressed and went downstairs. I asked for the main dining-room. It was rather early for dinner; the place was almost empty but for one or two diners. The maître d’hôtel led me to a table by the window. ‘Would you like to sit here, sir?’

‘Anywhere will do,’ I said in my best English voice.

Suddenly an industry of waiters whirled about me, delivering ice water, the menu, the butter and bread. I was too emotional to be hungry. However, I went through the gestures and ordered consommé, roast chicken, and vanilla ice-cream for dessert. The waiter offered me a wine-list, and after careful scrutiny I ordered a half-bottle of champagne. I was too preoccupied living the part to enjoy the wine or the meal. After I had finished, I tipped the waiter a dollar, which was an extraordinarily generous tip in those days. But it was worth it for the bowing and attention I received on my way out. For no apparent reason I returned to my room and sat in it for ten minutes, then washed my hands and went out.

It was a soft summer evening in keeping with my mood as I walked sedately in the direction of the Metropolitan Opera House. Tannhäuser was playing there. I had never seen grand opera, only excerpts of it in vaudeville – and I loathed it. But now I was in the humour for it. I bought a ticket and sat in the second circle. The opera was in German and I did not understand a word of it, nor did I know the story. But when the dead Queen was carried on to the music of the Pilgrim’s Chorus, I wept bitterly. It seemed to sum up all the travail of my life. I could hardly control myself; what people sitting next to me must have thought I don’t know, but I came away limp and emotionally shattered.

I took a walk down town, choosing the darkest streets, as I could not cope with the vulgar glare of Broadway, nor could I return to that silly room at the hotel until my mood had worn off. When I recovered I intended going straight to bed. I was emotionally and physically exhausted.

As I entered the hotel I suddenly ran into Arthur Kelly, Hetty’s brother, who used to be manager of the troupe that she was in. Because he was her brother I had cultivated him as a friend. I had not seen Arthur in several years.

‘Charlie! Where are you going?’ he said.

Nonchalantly I nodded in the direction of the Astor. ‘I was about to go to bed.’

The effect was not lost on Arthur.

He was with two friends, and after introducing me he suggested that we should go to his apartment on Madison Avenue for a cup of coffee and a chat.

It was quite a comfortable flat and we sat around and made light conversation, Arthur carefully avoiding any reference to our past. Nevertheless, because I was staying at the Astor, he was curious to glean information. But I told him little, only that I had come to New York for two or three days’ holiday.

Arthur had come a long way since living in Camberwell. He was now a prosperous business man working for his brother-in-law, Frank J. Gould. As I sat listening to his social chatter, it increased my melancholy. Said Kelly, referring to one of his friends: ‘He’s a nice chap, comes from a very good family, I understand.’ I smiled to myself at his genealogical interest and realized that Arthur and I had little in common.

I stayed only one day in New York. The following morning I decided to return to Philadelphia. Although that one day had been the change I needed, it had been an emotional and a lonely one. Now I wanted company. I looked forward to our Monday morning performance and meeting members of the troupe. No matter how irksome it was returning to the old grind, that one day of graceful living had sufficed me.

When I got back to Philadelphia I dropped by the theatre. There was a telegram addressed to Mr Reeves, and I happened to be there when he opened it. ‘I wonder if this means you,’ he said. It read: ‘Is there a man named Chaffin in your company or something like that stop if so will he communicate with Kessel and Bauman 24 Longacre Building Broadway.’

There was no one by that name in the company, but, as Reeves suggested, the name might mean Chaplin. Then I became excited, for Longacre Building, I discovered, was in the centre of Broadway and was full of lawyers’ offices; remembering that I had a rich aunt somewhere in the States, my imagination took flight; she