My Autobiography Charles Chaplin (best books to read ever TXT) 📖

had been left in the Channel; nevertheless, I waved and smiled weakly. I was pushed, shoved and pressured into the train. On arriving in Paris I was greeted by a large crowd and a cordon of police. Again I was pushed and massaged with enthusiasm and, with the help of the police, I was lifted and bundled into a taxi. It was fun and I frankly enjoyed it. But it was more than I had bargained for. Although it was a stirring reception, the excitement of it left me exhausted.

At Claridge’s, the telephone rang persistently every ten minutes. It was Miss Anne Morgan’s secretary calling. I knew this would be for some request or other, as she was the daughter of J. P. Morgan. So we put the secretary off. But the secretary would not be put off: would I meet Miss Anne Morgan? She would not take up much of my time. I succumbed, promising to meet her at my hotel at a quarter to four. But Miss Morgan was late, so after ten minutes I started to leave. As I went through the lobby the manager came running after me, very concerned. ‘Miss Anne Morgan is here to see you, sir.’

I was nettled by Miss Morgan’s persistence and assurance –and then to be late! I greeted her smilingly. ‘I’m sorry, I have an appointment at four.’

‘Oh really?’ she said. ‘Well, I won’t detain you more than five minutes.’

I looked at the clock; it was five minutes to four.

‘Perhaps we could sit down for a moment,’ she said, and began talking while we were looking for a place to sit in the lobby. ‘I am helping to raise funds for the rebuilding of devastated France and if we could have your picture, The Kid, for a gala at the Trocadero and you could appear with it we could raise thousands of dollars.’

I told her that she could have the picture for that occasion, but that I would not appear with it.

‘But your presence will add extra thousands of dollars,’ she insisted, ‘and I am sure you will be decorated.’

Something devilish came over me and I looked at her steadily. ‘Are you sure?’

Miss Morgan laughed. ‘One can only make recommendations to the Government,’ she said, ‘and of course I’ll do my best.’

I looked at the clock and extended my hand. ‘I am awfully sorry but I must go. However, I shall be in Berlin for the next three days, so perhaps you can let me know.’ And with this cryptic remark I said good-bye. I know it was naughty of me and the moment I left the hotel I regretted such brashness.

*

An introduction to the social set usually comes about by one incident, which, like a spark from a flint, ignites a conflagration of social activities – and you’re ‘in’.

I remember two ladies from Venezuela – simple girls – telling me how they broke into New York society. On an ocean liner they had met one of the Rockefellers, who gave them a letter of introduction to friends, and that started the ball rolling. The secret of their success, one told me years later, was that they never made a play for the married men; consequently New York hostesses adored them and invited them everywhere – and even found husbands for them.

As for myself, my entrée into the English set came unexpectedly, while I was taking a bath at Claridge’s. Georges Carpentier, whom I had met in New York before his fight with Jack Dempsey, was announced and entered the bathroom. After a warm greeting, he whispered that he had a friend waiting in the sitting-room whom he would like me to meet, an Englishman who was ‘très important en Angleterre’. So I slipped on a bathrobe and met Sir Philip Sassoon. That was the beginning of a very dear friendship that lasted for over thirty years. That evening I had dinner with Sir Philip and his sister, who was then Lady Rocksavage, and the following day I left for Berlin.

The reaction of the public in Berlin was amusing. I was stripped of everything but my personality, and that could not get me even a decent table in a night-club, for my pictures had not yet been shown there. It was not until I was recognized by an American officer, who indignantly informed the bewildered proprietor who I was, that at least we were placed out of a draught. It was also amusing to see the management’s reaction when those who recognized me gathered about our table. One, a German who had been a prisoner in England and had seen two or three of my comedies there, suddenly screamed ‘Schaarlie!’ and turned to the bewildered customers. ‘Do you know who this is? Schaarlie!’ Then hysterically he embraced and kissed me. But his excitement caused little stir. It was not until Pola Negri, the German film star, who was the cynosure of all eyes, asked if I would join her table that mild interest was aroused.

The day after my arrival, I received a mysterious message. It read:

Dear friend Charlie,

So much has happened to me since we met in New York at Dudley Field Malone’s party. At present I am very ill in a hospital, so please do come and see me. It will cheer me up so much…

The writer gave the address of the hospital and signed himself ‘George’.

At first I did not realize who it was. Then it occurred to me: of course, it was George the Bulgarian, who had been due to go back to prison for eighteen years. It seemed obvious from the tone of the letter that it was all leading up to a ‘touch’. So I thought I would take along $500. To my surprise, at the hospital I was ushered into a spacious room with a desk and two telephones, where I was greeted by two well-dressed civilians who, I learnt later, were George’s secretaries. One of them ushered me into the next room, where