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

he came. It was almost midnight when he arrived. Hyton, a heavy-set, prosaic type of man, who would have looked at home in a wholesale warehouse, sat down and without any preliminaries started: ‘Charlie, all these rumours in the Press are making Pola ill. Why don’t you make a statement and stop them?’

Confronted in such a blatant manner, I looked at him squarely. ‘What do you want me to say?’

With humorous audacity he tried to hide his embarrassment. ‘You’re fond of her, aren’t you?’

‘I don’t think that’s anyone’s business,’ I answered.

‘But we have millions invested in this woman! And this publicity is bad for her.’ He paused. ‘Charlie, if you’re fond of her, why don’t you marry her?’

At the moment I saw little humour in this incredible affront. ‘If you think I am going to marry someone just to safeguard Paramount’s investment, you’re very much mistaken!’

‘Then don’t see her again,’ he said.

‘That’s up to Pola,’ I answered.

The conversation that followed ended on a dry, humorous note to the effect that as I had no stock in the Paramount Company, I did not see why I should marry her. And as suddenly as my relationship with Pola had begun, so it ended. She never called me again.

During this hectic association with Pola, a young Mexican girl arrived at the studio; she had walked all the way from Mexico City to meet Charlie Chaplin. Having had several experiences with nuts and cranks, I told my manager to ‘get rid of her in a nice way’.

I thought nothing more about it until a telephone message from the house informing me that the lady was sitting on the front-door step. This made my hair stand on end. I told the butler to get rid of the girl and that I would wait at the studio until the coast was clear. Ten minutes later a message came that she had gone.

That evening Pola, Dr Reynolds and his wife dined at my house and I told them of the incident. We opened the front door and looked around to make sure the girl had not returned. But half-way through dinner the butler came bursting into the dining-room, looking white. ‘She’s upstairs in your bed!’ He said that he had gone to prepare my room for the night and had discovered her in bed in my pyjamas.

I was at a loss what to do.

‘I’ll see her,’ said Reynolds, getting up from the table and hurrying upstairs. The rest of us sat awaiting developments. A little later, he came down. ‘I’ve had a long talk with her,’ he said. ‘She’s young and good-looking – and talks quite intelligently. I asked her what she was doing in your bed. “I want to meet Mr Chaplin,” she said. “Do you know,” I told her, “your conduct might be considered insane and possibly you could be put in a mental institution for it?” She was not in the least perturbed. “I’m not insane,” she said, “I’m just an admirer of Mr Chaplin’s art and I’ve come all the way from Mexico to meet him.” I told her that she had better take off your pyjamas and get dressed and leave at once, otherwise we’d call the police.’

‘I would like to see this girl,’ said Pola airily. ‘Have her come downstairs to the sitting-room.’ I demurred, feeling it would be embarrassing for everyone. However, the girl entered the room with great poise. Reynolds was right: she was young and attractive. She told us she had been hanging around outside the studio all day. We offered her dinner, but she would only take a glass of milk.

As she sat sipping it, Pola plied her with questions. ‘Are you in love with Mr Chaplin?’ (I winced).

The girl laughed. ‘In love! Oh no, I only admire him because he is a great artist.’

Proffered Pola: ‘Have you seen any of my pictures?’

‘Oh yes,’ she said casually.

‘What do you think of them?’

‘Very good – but you are not as great an artist as Mr Chaplin.’

Pola’s expression was a study.

I warned the girl that her actions could be misunderstood, then asked her if she had any means of getting back to Mexico City. She said that she had; and after Reynolds had given her more advice she left the house.

But the following midday, the butler again came rushing into the room, saying she was lying in the middle of the road, having poisoned herself. Without further ado, we telephoned the police and she was taken away in an ambulance.

There was quite a spread in the newspapers the following day, with photographs of her sitting up in bed in hospital. She had been given the stomach-pump and was now receiving the Press. She declared that she had not taken poison but had only wanted to attract attention, that she was not in love with Charlie Chaplin, but had come to Hollywood only to try and get into movies.

After her discharge from hospital she was placed in the custody of the Welfare League, who wrote a nice letter to me, asking if I would care to help in getting her back to Mexico City. ‘She is harmless and not a bad sort,’ they declared, so we paid her fare home.

*

I was now free to make my first comedy for United Artists and anxious to top the success of The Kid. For weeks I strove, thought and brooded, trying to get an idea. I kept saying to myself: ‘This next film must be an epic! The greatest!’ But nothing would come. Then one Sunday morning, while spending the week-end at the Fairbankses, I sat with Douglas after breakfast, looking at stereoscopic views. Some were of Alaska and the Klondike; one a view of the Chilkoot Pass, with a long line of prospectors climbing up over its frozen mountain, with a caption printed on the back describing the trials and hardships endured in surmounting it. This was a wonderful theme, I thought, enough to stimulate my imagination. Immediately ideas and comedy business