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

the Morning Telegraph. One read: ‘Chaplin returns like a Conqueror! Progress from Southampton to London will resemble a Roman triumph.’

Another read: ‘The daily bulletins on the ship’s run and Charlie’s activities on board have been superseded by hourly flashes from the boat, and special editions of the newspapers are on the streets telling about this great little man with the preposterous feet.’

Another read: ‘The old Jacobite song, Charlie is My Darling, epitomizes the Chaplin madness that has run through England this last week, becoming more acute every hour as the Olympic shoves the knots behind her, bearing Charlie home.’

Another read: ‘The Olympic was fog-bound outside Southampton tonight and in the city there waited a huge army of worshippers come to welcome the little comedian. The police were busy making special arrangements to handle the crowd at the docks and at the civic ceremony in which Charlie is to be received by the Mayor.… The newspapers, as in the days preceding the victory parade, are pointing out the best points from which the people may see Chaplin.’

*

I was not prepared for this kind of welcome. Wonderful and extraordinary as it was, I would have postponed my visit until I felt more equal to it. What I yearned for was the sight of old familiar places. To go around quietly and look about London, to look around Kennington and Brixton, to look up at the window at 3 Pownall Terrace, to peer in at the darkened wood shed where I had helped the wood-choppers, to look up at the second-floor window of 287 Kennington Road where I had lived with Louise and my father; this desire had suddenly developed almost into an obsession.

At last we reached Cherbourg! Many were getting off and many getting on – cameramen and newspaper men. What message had I for England? What message for France? Would I visit Ireland? What did I think of the Irish question? Metaphorically, I was being devoured.

We left Cherbourg and were on our way to England, but crawling, crawling ever so slowly. Sleep was out of the question. One, two, three O’clock and I was still awake. The engines stopped, then started in reverse, then completely stopped. I could hear hollow footsteps running up and down the passage outside. Tense and wide awake, I looked through the porthole. But it was dark, I could see nothing; nevertheless, I could hear English voices!

The dawn broke and from sheer exhaustion I fell asleep, but only for two hours. After the steward had brought me some hot coffee and the morning papers, I was up like a lark.

One headline stated:

HOMECOMING OF COMEDIAN TO RIVAL

ARMISTICE DAY

Another:

ALL LONDON TALKS OF CHAPLIN’S VISIT

Another:

CHAPLIN GOING TO LONDON ASSURED MIGHTY

WELCOME

And another in big type:

BEHOLD OUR SON –

Of course there were a few critical comments:

A CALL FOR SANITY

In heaven’s name, let us recover our sanity. I daresay Mr Chaplin is a most estimable person, and I am not much interested to inquire why the home-sickness which so touchingly affects him at this juncture did not manifest itself during the black years when the homes of Great Britain were in danger through the menace of the Hun. It may be true, as has been argued, that Charlie Chaplin was better employed playing funny tricks in front of a camera than he would have been doing manly things behind a gun.

At the dockside I was greeted by the Mayor of Southampton. then hurried on to the train. Eventually, we were on our way to London! Arthur Kelly, Hetty’s brother, was in my compartment. I remember looking out at the revolving panorama of green fields as Arthur and I sat together trying to make conversation. I told him that I had received a letter from his sister inviting me to dinner at their house in Portman Square.

He looked at me strangely and seemed embarrassed. ‘Hetty died, you know.’

I was shocked, but at that moment I could not assimilate the full tragedy of it; too many events were crowding in; but I felt I had been robbed of an experience. Hetty was the one audience from the past I should have liked to meet again, especially under these fantastic circumstances.

*

We were coming into the suburbs of London. Eagerly I looked out of the window, trying vainly to recognize a passing street. Mingling with my excitement lurked a fear that perhaps London had greatly changed since the war.

Now the excitement intensified. Nothing seemed to be registering but anticipation. Anticipation of what? My mind was chaotic. I could not think. I could only see objectively the roof-tops of London, but the reality was not there. It was all anticipation, anticipation!

At last we were entering that enclosing sound of a railway station – Waterloo! As I stepped off the train I could see at the end of the platform vast crowds roped off, and lines of policemen. Everything was high tension, vibrant. And although I was beyond assimilating anything but excitement, I was conscious of being grabbed and marched down the platform as though under arrest. As we approached the roped-off crowds, the tension began to loosen: ‘Here he is! Here he is!’ ‘Good old Charlie!’ Then they burst into cheers. In the midst of it I was bundled into a limousine with my cousin Aubrey, whom, I had not seen in fifteen years. I had not the presence of mind to object to being hidden from the crowds, who had waited so long to see me.

I asked Aubrey to be sure we went over Westminster Bridge. Passing out of Waterloo and down York Road, I noticed the old houses had gone and in their place was a new structure, the L.C.C. building. But when we turned the corner of York Road, like a sunburst Westminster Bridge came into view! It was exactly the same, its solemn Houses of Parliament still erect and eternal. The whole scene was just as I had left it. I was on the verge of tears.

I chose the Ritz Hotel because it had