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

is rare in any vocation or art. And Pavlova was one of those rare artists who had it. She never failed to affect me profoundly. Her art, although brilliant, had a quality pale and luminous, as delicate as a white rose-petal. As she danced every move was the centre of gravity. The moment she made her entrance, no matter how gay or winsome she was, I wanted to weep.

I met ‘Pav’, as her friends called her, while she was in Hollywood making a picture at the Universal studios, and we became very good friends. It was a tragedy that the speed of the old cinema failed to capture the lyricism of her dancing, and because of that her great art has been lost to the world.

On one occasion the Russian Consulate gave her a testimonial dinner at which I was present. It was an international affair and quite a solemn one. During dinner there were many toasts and speeches, some in French and others in Russian. I believe I was the only Englishman called upon. Before my turn came to speak, however, a professor delivered a brilliant eulogy of Pavlova’s art in Russian. At one moment the professor burst into tears, then went up to Pavlova and kissed her fervently. I knew that any attempt of mine would be tame after that, so I rose and said that as my English was totally inadequate to express the greatness of Pavlova’s art I would speak in Chinese. I spoke in a Chinese jargon, building up to a crescendo as the professor had done, finishing by kissing Pavlova more fervently than the professor, taking a napkin and placing it over both our heads as I continually kissed her. The party roared with laughter, and it broke the solemnity of the occasion.

Sarah Bernhardt played at the Orpheum vaudeville theatre. She was, of course, very old and at the end of her career, and I cannot give a true appraisal of her acting. But when Duse came to Los Angeles, even her age and approaching end could not dim the brilliance of her genius. She was supported by an excellent Italian cast. One handsome young actor gave a superb performance before she came on, holding the centre of the stage magnificently. How could Duse excel this young man’s remarkable performance? I wondered.

Then from extreme left up-stage Duse unobtrusively entered through an archway. She paused behind a basket of white chrysanthemums that stood on a grand piano, and began quietly rearranging them. A murmur went through the house, and my attention immediately left the young actor and centred on Duse. She looked neither at the young actor nor at any of the other characters, but continued quietly arranging the flowers and adding others which she had brought with her. When she had finished, she slowly walked diagonally down-stage and sat in an armchair by the fireplace and looked into the fire. Once, and only once, did she look at the young man, and all the wisdom and hurt of humanity was in that look. Then she continued listening and warming her hands – such beautiful, sensitive hands.

After his impassioned address, she spoke calmly as she looked into the fire. Her delivery had not the usual histrionics; her voice came from the embers of tragic passion. I did not understand a word, but I realized I was in the presence of the greatest actress I had ever seen.

*

Constance Collier, Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree’s leading lady, was engaged to play Lady Macbeth with Sir Herbert for the Triangle Film Company. When a boy I had seen her many times from the gallery of His Majesty’s Theatre and had admired her memorable performances in The Eternal City and as Nancy in Oliver Twist. So when a note came to my table at Levy’s Café that Miss Collier would like to meet me and would I come over to her table, I was delighted to do so. From that meeting we became lifelong friends. She was a kindly soul who had a glowing warmth and a zest for living. She enjoyed bringing people together. Her desire was to have me meet Sir Herbert and a young man named Douglas Fairbanks, with whom she said I would have much in common.

Sir Herbert, I suppose, was the dean of the English theatre and the subtlest of actors, appealing to the mind as well as the emotions. His Fagin in Oliver Twist was both humorous and horrific. With little effort he could create tension that was almost unbearable. He had only to gently prod the Artful Dodger jokingly with a toasting-fork to evoke terror. Tree’s conception of character was always brilliant. The ridiculous Svengali was an example; he made one believe in this absurd character and endowed him not only with humour but with poetry. Critics said Tree was beset with mannerisms; true, but he used them effectively. His acting was extremely modern. In Julius Caesar his interpretation was intellectual. His Mark Antony in the funeral scene, instead of haranguing the crowd with conventional passion, he spoke perfunctorily over their heads with cynicism and underlying contempt.

As a boy of fourteen I had seen Tree in many of his great productions, so when Constance arranged a small dinner for Sir Herbert, his daughter Iris and myself, I was indeed excited at the prospect. We were to meet in Tree’s rooms at the Alexandria Hotel. I was deliberately late, hoping that Constance would be there to relieve pressure, but when Sir Herbert ushered me into his rooms he was alone, except for John Emerson, his film director.

‘Ah, come in, Chaplin,’ said Sir Herbert. ‘I’ve heard so much about you from Constance!’

After introducing Emerson, he explained that they were going over some scenes of Macbeth. Soon Emerson left, and I was suddenly petrified with shyness.

‘I am sorry to have kept you waiting,’ said Sir Herbert, sitting in an armchair opposite me. ‘We were discussing an effect for the witch scene.’

‘Oh-h-h,’ I stammered.

‘I think it would