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

I promised and said I would take him to supper afterwards.

‘Good, I’ll get through early.’

It was not necessary to understand chess to appreciate the drama of that evening: twenty middle-aged men poring over their chessboards, thrown into a dilemma by an infant of seven who looked even less than his years. To watch him walking about in the centre of the ‘U’ table, going from one to another, was a drama in itself.

There was something surrealistic about the scene as an audience of three hundred or more sat in tiers on both sides of a hall, watching in silence a child pitting his brains against serious old men. Some looked condescending, studying with set Mona Lisa smiles.

The boy was amazing, yet he disturbed me, for I felt as I watched that concentrated little face flushing red, then draining white, that he was paying a price with his health.

‘Here!’ a player would call, and the child would walk over, study the board a few seconds, then abruptly make a move or call ‘Checkmate!’ And a murmur of laughter would go through the audience. I saw him checkmate eight players in rapid succession, which evoked laughter and applause.

And now he was studying the board of Dr Griffiths. The audience were silent. Suddenly he made a move, then turned away and saw me. His face lit up and he waved, indicating that he would not be long.

After checkmating several other players, he returned to Dr Griffiths, who was still deeply concentrating. ‘Haven’t you moved yet?’ said the boy impatiently.

The Doctor shook his head.

‘Oh come on, hurry up.’

Griffiths smiled.

The child looked at him fiercely. ‘You can’t beat me! If you move here, I’ll move there ! And if you move this, I’ll move that!’ He named in rapid succession seven or eight moves ahead. ‘We’ll be here all night, so let’s call it a draw.’

The Doctor acquiesced.

*

Although I had grown fond of Mildred, we were irreconcilably mismated. Her character was not mean, but exasperatingly feline. I could never reach her mind. It was cluttered with pink-ribboned foolishness. She seemed in a dither, looking always for other horizons. After we had been married a year, a child was born but lived only three days. This began the withering of our marriage. Although we lived in the same house, we seldom saw each other, for she was as much occupied at her studio as I was at mine. It became a sad house. I would come home to find the dinner table laid for one, and would eat alone. Occasionally she was away for a week without leaving word, and I would only know by seeing the door of her empty bedroom left open.

Sometimes, on a Sunday, we would meet accidentally as she was leaving the house, and she would tell me perfunctorily that she was going to spend the week-end with the Gishes or with some other girl-friends, and I would go to the Fairbankses’. Then the break came. It was during the cutting of The Kid. I was spending the week-end at the Fairbankses’ (Douglas and Mary were now married). Douglas came to me with rumours concerning Mildred. ‘I think you ought to know,’ he said.

How true these rumours were I never wanted to find out, but they depressed me. When I confronted Mildred she coldly denied them.

‘However, we can’t continue living this way,’ I said.

There was a pause and she looked at me coldly. ‘What do you want to do?’ she asked.

She spoke so dispassionately that I was a little shocked. ‘I – I think we should divorce,’ I said quietly, wondering what her reaction would be. But she did not answer, so after a silence I continued: ‘I think we’ll both be happier. You’re young, you still have your life ahead of you, and of course we can do it in a friendly way. You can have your lawyer see my lawyer, so whatever you want can be arranged.’

‘All I want is enough money to look after my mother,’ she said.

‘Perhaps you’d rather discuss it between ourselves,’ I ventured.

She thought a moment, then concluded: ‘I think I’d better see my lawyers.’

‘Very well,’ I answered. ‘In the meantime you stay on at the house and I’ll go back to the Athletic Club.’

We separated in a friendly way, agreeing that she was to get the divorce on grounds of mental cruelty, and that we would say nothing about it to the Press.

The following morning Tom Harrington moved my things to the Athletic Club. This was a mistake, for the rumour that we had separated quickly spread and the Press began telephoning Mildred. They also called at the Club, but I would neither see them nor make a statement. But she came out with a blast on the front page, saying that I had deserted her and that she was seeking a divorce on the grounds of mental cruelty. Compared to modern standards the attack was mild. However, I called her up to know why she had seen the Press. She explained that at first she had refused, but they had told her that I had given out a strong statement. Of course, they had lied in an attempt to build up an antagonism between us and I told her so. She promised not to give out any more statements – but she did.

The Community Property Law in California legally entitled her to $25,000 and I offered her $100,000, which she agreed to accept as a complete settlement. But when the day came for signing the final papers she suddenly reneged without giving any reason.

My lawyer was surprised– ‘there’s something in the wind,’ he said – and there was. I had been having disagreements with First National over The Kid; it was a seven-reel feature picture and they wanted to release it on a basis of three two-reel comedies. In this way they would have only paid me $405,000 for The Kid. As it had cost me almost half a million besides eighteen