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

Some newspapers criticized my not being in the war. Others came to my defence, proclaiming my comedies were needed more than my soldiering.

The American army, new and fresh when it reached France, wanted immediate action, and against the seasoned advice of the English and French, who had had three years of bloody combat, it plunged into battle with courage and daring, but at the cost of hundreds of thousands of casualties. For weeks the news was depressing; long lists were printed of the American dead and wounded. Then came a lull and for months the Americans, like the rest of the Allies, settled down in the trenches to an ennui of mud and blood.

At last the Allies began to move. On the map our flags began edging up. Each day crowds watched those flags with eagerness. Then the break-through came, but at a tremendous sacrifice. Big black headlines followed: THE KAISER ESCAPES TO HOLLAND! Then a full front page with two words: ARMISTICE SIGNED! I was in my room at the Athletic Club when that news broke. In the streets below pandemonium broke loose; automobile horns, factory whistles, trumpets began howling and went on all day and night. The world went mad with joy – singing, dancing, embracing, kissing and loving. Peace at last!

Living without a war was like being suddenly released from prison. We had been so drilled and disciplined that for months afterwards we were afraid to be without our registration cards. Nevertheless, the Allies had won – whatever that meant. But they were not sure that they had won the peace. One thing was sure, that civilization as we had known it would never be the same – that era had gone. Gone, too, were its so-called basic decencies – but, then, decency had never been prodigious in any era.

sixteen

TOM HARRINGTON sort of drifted into my service, but he was to play a part in a dramatic change in my life. He had been dresser and handyman to my friend Bert Clark, an English vaudeville comedian engaged by the Keystone Company. Bert, vague and impractical, an excellent pianist, had once talked me into going into partnership with him in the music-publishing business. We had rented a room three storeys up in a downtown office building and printed two thousand copies of two very bad songs and musical compositions of mine – then we waited for customers. The enterprise was collegiate and quite mad. I think we sold three copies, one to Charles Cadman, the American composer, and two to pedestrians who happened to pass our office on their way downstairs.

Clark had put Harrington in charge of the office, but a month later Clark went back to New York and the office was closed. Tom, however, stayed behind, saying he would like to work for me in the same capacity as he had worked for Clark. To my surprise he told me he had never received a salary from Clark, only his living expenses, which did not amount to more than seven or eight dollars a week; being a vegetarian, he lived only on tea, bread and butter and potatoes. Of course, this information appalled me and I gave him a proper salary for the time he had worked for the music company, and Tom became my handyman, my valet and my secretary.

He was a gentle soul, ageless-looking, with an enigmatic manner, the benign, ascetic face of St Francis, thin-lipped, with an elevated brow and eyes that looked upon the world with a sad objectivity. He was of Irish descent, a bohemian and a bit of a mystery, who came from the East Side of New York but seemed more fitted for a monastery than for living on the froth of show business.

He would call in the morning at the Athletic Club with my mail and the newspapers and order my breakfast. Occasionally without comment he would leave books by my bedside – Lafcadio Hearn and Frank Harris, authors I had never heard of. Because of Tom I read Boswell’s Life of Johnson – ‘that’s something to put you to sleep at night,’ he giggled. He never spoke unless spoken to and had the gift of effacing himself while I had breakfast. Tom became the sine qua non of my existence. I would just tell him to do something and he would nod and it was done.

*

Had not the telephone rung just as I was leaving the Athletic Club, the course of my life might have been different. The call came from Sam Goldwyn. Would I come down to his beach-house for a swim? It was the latter part of 1917.

It was a gay, innocuous afternoon. I remember that the beautiful Olive Thomas and many other pretty girls were there. As the day wore on a girl by the name of Mildred Harris arrived. She came with an escort, a Mr Ham. She was pretty, I thought. Someone remarked that she had a crush on Elliott Dexter, who was also present, and I noticed her ogling him the whole afternoon. But he paid little attention to her. I thought no more about her until I was ready to leave and she asked me if I would drop her on the way into town, explaining that she had quarrelled with her friend and that he had already left.

In the car I remarked flippantly that perhaps her friend was jealous of Elliott Dexter. She confessed that she thought Elliott was quite wonderful.

I felt that her naïve banter was an intuitive feminine trick to create interest about herself. ‘He’s a very lucky man,’ I said superciliously. It was all chit-chat to make conversation as we drove along. She told me she worked for Lois Weber and was now being starred in a Paramount picture. I dropped her off at her apartment, however, with the impression that she was a very silly young girl, and I returned to the Athletic Club with a sense of