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

‘What do you think of it?’ he said. ‘Crowds have been gathering from early morning at the station, and the Press has been issuing bulletins every day since you left Los Angeles.’ He showed me a newspaper announcing in big black type: ‘He’s here!’ Another headline: ‘Charlie in hiding!’ On the way to the hotel he told me that he had completed a deal with the Mutual Film Corporation amounting to six hundred and seventy thousand dollars payable at ten thousand a week, and after I had passed the insurance test, a hundred and fifty thousand bonus would be paid on my signing the contract. He had a lunch engagement with the lawyer which would occupy him for the rest of the day, so he would drop me off at the Plaza, where he had booked a room for me, and would see me in the morning.

As Hamlet said: ‘Now I am alone.’ That afternoon I walked the streets and looked into shop windows and paused aimlessly on street corners. Now what happens to me? Here I was at the apogee of my career – all dressed up and no place to go. How does one get to know people, interesting people? It seemed that everyone knew me, but I knew no one; I became introspective, full of self-pity, and a spell of melancholy beset me. I remember a successful Keystone comedian once saying: ‘Now that we’ve arrived, Charlie, what’s it all about?’ ‘Arrived where?’ I answered.

I thought of Nat Goodwin’s advice: ‘Keep off Broadway.’ Broadway was a desert as far as I was concerned. I thought of old friends whom I would like to meet framed in this success extravaganza – did I have old friends either in New York, London or elsewhere? I wanted a special audience – perhaps Hetty Kelly. I had not heard from her since my entry into movies – her reactions would be amusing.

She was then living in New York with her sister, Mrs Frank Gould. I took a walk up Fifth Avenue; 834 was her sister’s address. I paused outside the house, wondering if she were there, but I had not the courage to call. However, she might come out and I could accidentally bump into her. I waited for about half an hour, sauntering up and down, but no one went in or came out of the house.

I went to Childs Restaurant at Columbus Circle and ordered wheat-cakes and a cup of coffee. I was served perfunctorily until I asked the waitress for an extra pat of butter; then she recognized me. From then on it was a chain reaction until everyone in the restaurant and from the kitchen was peering at me. Eventually I was obliged to propel my way through an immense crowd that had gathered both inside and out, and escape in a passing taxi.

For two days I walked about New York without meeting anyone I knew, vacillating between happy excitement and depression. Meanwhile the insurance doctors had examined me. A few days later, Sydney came to the hotel, elated. ‘It’s all settled, you’ve passed the insurance.’

The formalities of signing the contract followed. I was photographed receiving the one-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar cheque. That evening I stood with the crowd in Times Square as the news flashed on the electric sign that runs round the Times building. It read: ‘Chaplin signs with Mutual at six hundred and seventy thousand a year.’ I stood and read it objectively as though it were about someone else. So much had happened to me, my emotions were spent.

twelve

LONELINESS is repellent. It has a subtle aura of sadness, an inadequacy to attract or interest; one feels slightly ashamed of it. But, to a more or less degree, it is the theme of everyone. However, my loneliness was frustrating because I had all the requisite means for making friends; I was young, rich and celebrated, yet I was wandering about New York alone and embarrassed. I remember meeting the beautiful Josie Collins, the English musical comedy star, who suddenly came upon me walking along Fifth Avenue. ‘Oh,’ she said sympathetically, ‘what are you doing all alone?’ I felt I had been apprehended in some petty crime. I smiled and said that I was just on my way to have lunch with some friends; but I would like to have told her the truth – that I was lonely and would have loved to have taken her to lunch – only my shyness prevented it.

The same afternoon I took a stroll by the Metropolitan Opera House and ran into Maurice Guest, son-in-law of David Belasco. I had met Maurice in Los Angeles. He had started as a ticket-scalper, a business quite prevalent when I first arrived in New York. (A scalper was a man who bought up the best seats in the house, and stood outside the theatre selling them for a profit.) Maurice had a meteoric rise as a theatrical entrepreneur, climaxed by the great spectacle, The Miracle, directed by Max Reinhardt. Maurice – Slavic, pale face with large kidney eyes, a wide mouth and thick lips – looked like a coarse edition of Oscar Wilde. He was an emotional man who when he spoke seemed to bully you.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ Then before I could answer: ‘Why in hell didn’t you call me up?’

I told him that I was just taking a walk.

‘What the hell! You shouldn’t be alone! Where are you going?’

‘Nowhere,’ I answered meekly. ‘Just getting some fresh air.’

‘Come on!’ he said, twisting me around in his direction and locking his arm through mine so that there was no escape. ‘I’ll introduce you to real people – the kind you should mix with.’

‘Where are we going?’ I asked anxiously.

‘You’re going to meet my friend Caruso,’ said he.

My protestations were futile.

‘There’s a matinée of Carmen today with Caruso and Graldine Farrar.’

‘But I – ’

‘Christ’s sake, you’re not scared! Caruso’s a wonderful guy – simple and human like yourself. He’ll be crazy to meet