Chapter I: Arrive in London

London! There are familiar buildings. This is thrilling. The same buildings. They have not altered. I expected that England would be altered. It isn't. It's the same. The same as I left it, in spite of the War. I see no change, not even in the manner of the people.

There's Doulton's Potteries! And look, there's the Queen's Head public-house that my cousin used to own. I point it out to him decidedly, but he reminds me that he has a much better place now. Now we are coming into the Cut. Can it be true? I can see two or three familiar stores. This train is going too fast. I want more time with these discoveries. I find my emotions almost too much for me. I have more sentiment about the buildings than I have the people.

The recognition of these localities! There is a lump rising in my throat from somewhere. It is something inexplicable. They are there, thank God!

If I could only be alone with it all. With it as it is, and with it as I would people it with ghosts of yesterday. I wish these people weren't in the compartment. I am afraid of my emotions.

The dear old Cut. We are getting into it now. Here we are. There are all conceivable kinds of noises, whistles, etc. Crowds, throngs lined up on the platforms. Here comes a police sergeant looking for a culprit. He looks straight at me. Good Lord! I am going to be arrested! But no, he smiles.

A shout, "There he is!"

Previous to this we had made resolutions. "Don't forget we are all to lock arms, Knoblock, my cousin, Robinson, Geraghty, and myself."

Immediately I get out of the train, however, we somehow get disorganised and our campaign manoeuvre is lost. Policemen take me by each arm. There are motion-picture men, still-camera men. I see a sign announcing that motion pictures of my trip on board ship will be shown that night at a picture theatre. That dogged photographer of the boat must have gotten something in spite of me.

I am walking along quite the centre of things. I feel like royalty. I find I am smiling. A regular smile. I distinguish distant faces among those who crowd about me. There are voices at the end of the platform.

"Here he is. He is there, he is. That's him." My step is lightning gay. I am enjoying each moment. I am in Waterloo Station, London.

The policemen are very excited. It is going to be a terrible ordeal for them. Thousands are outside. This also thrills me. Everything is beyond my expectations. I revel in it secretly. They all stop to applaud as I come to the gate. Some of them say:

"Well done, Charlie." I wonder if they mean my present stunt between the bobbies. It is too much for me.

What have I done? I feel like a cricketer who has made a hundred and is going to the stand. There is real warm affection. Do I deserve even a part of it?

A young girl rushes out, breaks the line, makes one leap, and smothers me with a kiss. Thank God, she is pretty. There seem to be others ready to follow her, and I find myself hesitating a bit on my way. It is a signal. The barriers are broken.

They are coming on all sides. Policemen are elbowing and pushing. Girls are shrieking.

"Charlie! Charlie! There he is! Good luck to you. Charlie. God bless you." Old men, old women, girls, boys, all in one excited thrill. My friends are missing. We are fighting our way through the crowd. I do not mind it at all. I am being carried on the crest of a wave. Everybody is working but me. There seems to be no effort. I am enjoying it--lovely.

Eventually we get through to the street. It is worse here. "Hooray!" "Here he is!" "Good luck, Charlie!" "Well done, Charlie!" "God bless you. God love you!" "Good luck, Charlie!" Bells are ringing. Handkerchiefs are waving. Some are raising their hats. I have lost mine. I am bewildered, at a loss, wondering where it is all leading to, but I don't care. I love to stay in it.

Suddenly there is a terrific crash. Various currents of the crowd are battling against one another. I find that now I am concerned about my friends. Where's Tom? Where's So-and-so? Where's Carl? Where's my cousin? I'm asking it all aloud, on all sides, of anyone who will listen to me. I am answered with smiles.

I am being pushed toward an automobile.

"Where's my cousin?" Another push.

Policemen on all sides. I am pushed and lifted and almost dumped into the limousine. My hat is thrown in behind me. There are three policemen on each side of the car, standing on the running board. I can't get out. They are telling the chauffeur to drive on. He seems to be driving right over the people. Occasionally a head, a smiling face, a hand, a hat flashes by the door of the car. I ask and keep asking, "Where's my cousin?"

But I regain myself, straighten my clothes, cool off a bit, and look round. There is a perfect stranger in the limousine with me. I seem to take him for granted for the moment. He is also cut up and bleeding. Evidently he is somebody. He must be on the schedule to do something. He looks bewildered and confused.

I say, "Well--I have missed my cousin."

He says, "I beg your pardon, I have not been introduced to you."

"Do you know where we are going?" I ask.

He says, "No."

"Well, what are you doing--Who are you?" I splutter.

"No one in particular," he answers. "I have been pushed in here against my will. I think it was the second time you cried for your cousin. One of the cops picked me, but I don't believe there is any relationship."

We laugh. That helps. We pull up and he is politely let off at the corner. As quickly as possible he is shut out. Crowds are around on both sides, raising their hats English fashion, as though they were meeting a lady. The mounted policemen leave us. I am left alone with my thoughts.

If I could only do something--solve the unemployment problem or make some grand gesture--in answer to all this. I look through the window in the back of the car. There are a string of taxis following behind. In the lead, seated on top of the cab, is a young and pretty girl all dressed in scarlet. She is waving to me as she chases. What a picture she makes! I think what good fun it would be to get on top of the cab with her and race around through the country.

I feel like doing something big. What an opportunity for a politician to say something and do something big! I never felt such affection. We are going down York Road. I see placards, "Charlie Arrives." Crowds standing on the corner, all lined up along my way to the hotel. I am beginning to wonder what it's all about.

Am feeling a bit reflective, after all, thinking over what I have done; it has not been very much. Nothing to call forth all this. "Shoulder Arms" was pretty good, perhaps, but all this clamour over a moving-picture actor!

Now we are passing over Westminster Bridge. There are double-decked street cars. There's one marked "Kennington."

I want to get out and get on it--I want to go to Kennington. The bridge is so small; I always thought it was much wider. We are held up by traffic. The driver tells the bobby that Charlie Chaplin is inside. There is a change in the expression of the cop.

"On your way."

By this time the policemen have dropped off the side of the car and are on their way back. Once more I am a private citizen. I am just a bit sad at this. Being a celebrity has its nice points.

There is an auto with a motion-picture camera on top of it photographing our car. I tell the driver to put down the top. Why didn't we do this before? I wanted to let the people see. It seemed a shame to hide in this way. I wanted to be seen. There are little crowds on the street corners again.

Ah yes, and Big Ben. It looks so small now. It was so big before I went away. We are turning up the Haymarket. People are looking and waving from their windows. I wave back. Crowded streets. We are nearing the Ritz, where I am to stop.

The crowds are much denser here. I am at a loss. I don't know what to do, what to say. I stand up. I wave and bow at them, smile at them, and go through the motions of shaking hands, using my own hands. Should I say something? Can I say anything? I feel the genuineness of it all, a real warmth. It is very touching. This is almost too much for me. I am afraid I am going to make a scene.

I stand up. The crowd comes to a hush. It is attentive. They see I am about to say something. I am surprised at my own voice. I can hear it. It is quite clear and distinct, saying something about its being a great moment, etc. But tame and stupid as it is, they like it.

There is a "Hooray!" "Good boy, Charlie!"

Now the problem is how am I going to get out of this? The police are there, pushing and shoving people aside to make way, but they are out-numbered. There are motion-picture cameras, cameras on the steps. The crowds close in. Then I step out. They close in. I am still smiling. I try to think of something useful, learned from my experience at the New York opening of "The Three Musketeers." But I am not much help to my comrades.

Then as we approach, the tide comes in toward the gates of the hotel. They have been kept locked to prevent the crowd from demolishing the building. I can see one intrepid motion-picture camera man at the door as the crowd starts to swarm. He begins to edge in, and starts grinding his camera frantically as he is lifted into the whirlpool of humanity. But he keeps turning, and his camera and himself are gradually turned up to the sky, and his lens is registering nothing but clouds as he goes down turning--the most honorable fall a camera man can have, to go down grinding. I wonder if he really got any pictures.

In some way my body has been pushed, carried, lifted, and projected into the hotel. I can assure you that through no action of mine was this accomplished. I am immediately introduced to some English nobleman. The air is electric. I feel now I am free. Everybody is smiling. Everybody is interested. I am shown to a suite of rooms.

I like the hotel lobby. It is grand. I am raced to my room. There are bouquets of flowers from two or three English friends whom I had forgotten. There come cards. I want to welcome them all. Do not mind in the least. Am out for the whole day of it. The crowds are outside. The manager presents himself. Everything has been spread to make my stay as happy as possible.

The crowd outside is cheering. What is the thing to do? I had better go to the window. I raise my hands again. I pantomime, shake hands with myself, throw them kisses. I see a bouquet of roses in the room. I grab it and start tossing the flowers into the crowd. There is a mad scramble for the souvenirs. In a moment the chief of police bursts into my room.

"Please, Mr. Chaplin, it is very fine, but don't throw anything. You will cause an accident. They will be crushed and killed. Anything but that, don't throw anything. If you don't mind, kindly refrain from throwing anything." Excitedly he repeats his message over and over again.

Of course I don't mind; the flowers are all gone, anyway. But I am theatrically concerned. "Ah, really I am so sorry. Has anything happened?" I feel that everything is all right.

The rest of my friends arrive all bruised and cut up. Now that the excitement has died down, what are we going to do? For no reason at all we order a meal. Nobody is hungry. I want to get out again. Wish I could.

I feel that everybody ought to leave immediately. I want to be alone. I want to get out and escape from all crowds. I want to get over London, over to Kennington, all by myself. I want to see some familiar sights. Here baskets of fruit keep pouring in, fresh bouquets, presents, trays full of cards, some of them titles, some well-known names--all paying their respects. Now I am muddled. I don't know what to do first. There is too much waiting. I have too much of a choice.

But I must get over to Kennington, and to-day. I am nervous, overstrung, tense. Crowds are still outside. I must go again and bow and wave my hands. I am used to it, am doing it mechanically; it has no effect. Lunch is ordered for everybody. Newspaper men are outside, visitors are outside. I tell Carl to get them to put it off until to-morrow. He tells them that I am tired, need a rest, for them to call to-morrow and they will be given an interview.

The bishop of something presents his compliments. He is in the room when I arrive. I can't hear what he is saying. I said 'yes, I shall be delighted.' We sit down to lunch. What a crowd there is eating with me! I am not quite sure I know them all.

Everyone is making plans for me. This irritates me. My cousin, Tom Geraghty, Knoblock--would I spend two or three days in the country and get a rest? No. I don't want to rest. Will you see somebody? I don't want to see anybody. I want to be left entirely alone. I've just got to have my whim.

I make a pretence at lunch. I whisper to Carl, "You explain everything to them--tell them that I am going out immediately after lunch." I am merely taking the lunch to discipline myself.

I look out the window. The crowds are still there. What a problem! How am I going to get out without being recognised? Shall I openly suggest going out, so I can get away? I hate disappointing them. But I must go out.

Tom Geraghty, Donald Crisp, and myself suggest taking a walk. I do not tell them my plans, merely suggest taking the walk. We go through the back way and escape. I am sure that everything is all right, and that no one will recognise me. I cannot stand the strain any longer. I tell Donald and Tom--they really must leave me alone. I want to be alone, and want to visit alone. They understand. Tom is a good sort and so is Donald. I do not want to ride, but just for a quicker means of getting away I call a taxicab.

I tell him to drive to Lambeth. He is a good driver, and an old one. He has not recognised me, thank heaven!

But he is going too fast. I tell him to drive slower, to take his time. I sit back now. I am passing Westminster Bridge again. I see it better. Things are more familiar. On the other side is the new London County Council building. They have been building it for years. They started it before I left.

The Westminster Road has become very dilapidated, but perhaps it is because I am riding in an automobile. I used to travel across it another way. It doesn't seem so long ago, either.

My God! Look! Under the bridge! There's the old blind man. I stop the driver and drive back. We pull up outside the Canterbury.

"You wait there, or do you want me to pay you off?" He will wait. I walk back.

There he is, the same old figure, the same old blind man I used to see as a child of five, with the same old earmuffs, with his back against the wall and the same stream of greasy water trickling down the stone behind his back.

The same old clothes, a bit greener with age, and the irregular bush of whiskers coloured almost in a rainbow array, but with a dirty grey predominant.

What a symbol from which to count the years that I had been away. A little more green to his clothes! A bit more grey in his matted beard!

He has that same stark look in his eyes that used to make me sick as a child. Everything exactly the same, only a bit more dilapidated.

No. There is a change. The dirty little mat for the unhealthy-looking pup with the watering eyes that used to be with him--that is gone. I would like to hear the story of the missing pup.

Did its passing make much difference to the lonely derelict? Was its ending a tragic one, dramatic, or had it just passed out naturally?

The old man is laboriously reading the same chapter from his old, greasy, and bethumbed embossed Bible. His lips move, but silently, as his fingers travel over the letters. I wonder if he gets comfort there? Or does he need comfort?

To me it is all too horrible. He is the personification of poverty at its worst, sunk in that inertia that comes of lost hope. It is too terrible.

VI.

THE HAUNTS OF MY CHILDHOOD

I jump into the automobile again and we drive along past Christ Church. There's Baxter Hall, where we used to see magic-lantern slides for a penny. The forerunner of the movie of to-day. I see significance in everything around me. You could get a cup of coffee and a piece of cake there and see the Crucifixion of Christ all at the same time.

We are passing the police station. A drear place to youth. Kennington Road is more intimate. It has grown beautiful in its decay. There is something fascinating about it.

Sleepy people seem to be living in the streets more than they used to when I played there. Kennington Baths, the reason for many a day's hookey. You could go swimming there, second class, for three pence (if you brought your own swimming trunks).

Through Brook Street to the upper Bohemian quarter, where third-rate music-hall artists appear. All the same, a little more decayed, perhaps. And yet it is not just the same.

I am seeing it through other eyes. Age trying to look back through the eyes of youth. A common pursuit, though a futile one.

It is bringing home to me that I am a different person. It takes the form of art; it is beautiful. I am very impersonal about it. It is another world, and yet in it I recognise something, as though in a dream.

We pass the Kennington "pub," Kennington Cross, Chester Street, where I used to sleep. The same, but, like its brother landmarks, a bit more dilapidated. There is the old tub outside the stables where I used to wash. The same old tub, a little more twisted.

I tell the driver to pull up again. "Wait a moment." I do not know why, but I want to get out and walk. An automobile has no place in this setting. I have no particular place to go. I just walk along down Chester Street. Children are playing, lovely children. I see myself among them back there in the past. I wonder if any of them will come back some day and look around enviously at other children.

Somehow they seem different from those children with whom I used to play. Sweeter, more dainty were these little, begrimed kids with their arms entwined around one another's waists. Others, little girls mostly, sitting on the doorsteps, with dolls, with sewing, all playing at that universal game of "mothers."

For some reason I feel choking up. As I pass they look up. Frankly and without embarrassment they look at the stranger with their beautiful, kindly eyes. They smile at me. I smile back. Oh, if I could only do something for them. These waifs with scarcely any chance at all.

Now a woman passes with a can of beer. With a white skirt hanging down, trailing at the back. She treads on it. There, she has done it again. I want to shriek with laughter at the joy of being in this same old familiar Kennington. I love it.

It is all so soft, so musical; there is so much affection in the voices. They seem to talk from their souls. There are the inflections that carry meanings, even if words were not understood. I think of Americans and myself. Our speech is hard, monotonous, except where excitement makes it more noisy.

There is a barber shop where I used to be the lather boy. I wonder if the same old barber is still there? I look. No, he is gone. I see two or three kiddies playing on the porch. Foolish, I give them something. It creates attention. I am about to be discovered.

I leap into the taxi again and ride on. We drive around until I have escaped from the neighbourhood where suspicion has been planted and come to the beginning of Lambeth Walk. I get out and walk along among the crowds.

People are shopping. How lovely the cockneys are! How romantic the figures, how sad, how fascinating! Their lovely eyes. How patient they are! Nothing conscious about them. No affectation, just themselves, their beautifully gay selves, serene in their limitations, perfect in their type.

I am the wrong note in this picture that nature has concentrated here. My clothes are a bit conspicuous in this setting, no matter how unobtrusive my thoughts and actions. Dressed as I am, one never strolls along Lambeth Walk.

I feel the attention I am attracting. I put my handkerchief to my face. People are looking at me, at first slyly, then insistently. Who am I? For a moment I am caught unawares.

A girl comes up--thin, narrow-chested, but with an eagerness in her eyes that lifts her above any physical defects.

"Charlie, don't you know me?"

Of course I know her. She is all excited, out of breath. I can almost feel her heart thumping with emotion as her narrow chest heaves with her hurried breathing. Her face is ghastly white, a girl about twenty-eight. She has a little girl with her.

This girl was a little servant girl who used to wait on us at the cheap lodging-house where I lived. I remembered that she had left in disgrace. There was tragedy in it. But I could detect a certain savage gloriousness in her. She was carrying on with all odds against her. Hers is the supreme battle of our age. May she and all others of her kind meet a kindly fate.

With pent-up feelings we talk about the most commonplace things.

"Well, how are you, Charlie?"

"Fine." I point to the little girl. "Is she your little girl?"

She says, "Yes."

That's all, but there doesn't seem to be much need of conversation. We just look and smile at each other and we both weave the other's story hurriedly through our own minds by way of the heart. Perhaps in our weaving we miss a detail or two, but substantially we are right. There is warmth in the renewed acquaintance. I feel that in this moment I know her better than I ever did in the many months I used to see her in the old days. And right now I feel that she is worth knowing.

There's a crowd gathering. It's come. I am discovered, with no chance for escape. I give the girl some money to buy something for the child, and hurry on my way. She understands and smiles. Crowds are following. I am discovered in Lambeth Walk.

But they are so charming about it. I walk along and they keep behind at an almost standard distance. I can feel rather than hear their shuffling footsteps as they follow along, getting no closer, losing no ground. It reminds me of the Pied Piper of Hamelin.

All these people just about five yards away, all timid, thrilled, excited at hearing my name, but not having the courage to shout it under this spell.

"There he is." "That's 'im." All in whispers hoarse with excitement and carrying for great distance, but at the same time repressed by the effort of whispering. What manners these cockneys have! The crowds accumulate. I am getting very much concerned. Sooner or later they are going to come up, and I am alone, defenceless. What folly this going out alone, and along Lambeth Walk!

Eventually I see a bobby, a sergeant--or, rather, I think him one, he looks so immaculate in his uniform. I go to him for protection.

"Do you mind?" I say. "I find I have been discovered. I am Charlie Chaplin. Would you mind seeing me to a taxi?"

"That's all right, Charlie. These people won't hurt you. They are the best people in the world. I have been with them for fifteen years." He speaks with a conviction that makes me feel silly and deservedly rebuked.

I say, "I know it; they are perfectly charming."

"That's just it," he answers. "They are charming and nice."

They had hesitated to break in upon my solitude, but now, sensing that I have protection, they speak out.

"Hello, Charlie!" "God bless you, Charlie!" "Good luck to you, lad!" As each flings his or her greetings they smile and self-consciously back away into the group, bringing others to the fore for their greeting. All of them have a word--old women, men, children. I am almost overcome with the sincerity of their welcome.

We are moving along and come to a street corner and into Kennington Road again. The crowds continue following as though I were their leader, with nobody daring to approach within a certain radius.

The little cockney children circle around me to get a view from all sides.

I see myself among them. I, too, had followed celebrities in my time in Kennington. I, too, had pushed, edged, and fought my way to the front rank of crowds, led by curiosity. They are in rags, the same rags, only more ragged.

They are looking into my face and smiling, showing their blackened teeth. Good God! English children's teeth are terrible! Something can and should be done about it. But their eyes!

Soulful eyes with such a wonderful expression. I see a young girl glance slyly at her beau. What a beautiful look she gives him! I find myself wondering if he is worthy, if he realises the treasure that is his. What a lovely people!

We are waiting. The policeman is busy hailing a taxi. I just stand there self-conscious. Nobody asks any questions. They are content to look. Their steadfast watching is so impressing. I feel small--like a cheat. Their worship does not belong to me. God, if I could only do something for all of them!

But there are too many--too many. Good impulses so often die before this "too many."

I am in the taxi.

"Good-bye, Charlie! God bless you!" I am on my way.

The taxi is going up Kennington Road along Kennington Park. Kennington Park. How depressing Kennington Park is! How depressing to me are all parks! The loneliness of them. One never goes to a park unless one is lonesome. And lonesomeness is sad. The symbol of sadness, that's a park.

But I am fascinated now with it. I am lonesome and want to be. I want to commune with myself and the years that are gone. The years that were passed in the shadow of this same Kennington Park. I want to sit on its benches again in spite of their treacherous bleakness, in spite of the drabness.

But I am in a taxi. And taxis move fast. The park is out of sight. Its alluring spell is dismissed with its passing. I did not sit on the bench. We are driving toward Kennington Gate.

Kennington Gate. That has its memories. Sad, sweet, rapidly recurring memories.

'Twas here, my first appointment with Hetty (Sonny's sister). How I was dolled up in my little, tight-fitting frock coat, hat, and cane! I was quite the dude as I watched every street car until four o'clock waiting for Hetty to step off, smiling as she saw me waiting.

I get out and stand there for a few moments at Kennington Gate. My taxi driver thinks I am mad. But I am forgetting taxi drivers. I am seeing a lad of nineteen, dressed to the pink, with fluttering heart, waiting, waiting for the moment of the day when he and happiness walked along the road. The road is so alluring now. It beckons for another walk, and as I hear a street car approaching I turn eagerly, for the moment almost expecting to see the same trim Hetty step off, smiling.

The car stops. A couple of men get off. An old woman. Some children. But no Hetty.

Hetty is gone. So is the lad with the frock coat and cane.

Back into the cab, we drive up Brixton Road. We pass Glenshore Mansions--a more prosperous neighbourhood. Glenshore Mansions, which meant a step upward to me, where I had my Turkish carpets and my red lights in the beginning of my prosperity.

We pull up at The Horns for a drink. The same Horns. Used to adjoin the saloon bar. It has changed. Its arrangement is different. I do not recognise the keeper. I feel very much the foreigner now; do not know what to order. I am out of place. There's a barmaid.

How strange, this lady with the coiffured hair and neat little shirtwaist!

"What can I do for you, sir?"

I am swept off my feet. Impressed. I want to feel very much the foreigner. I find myself acting.

"What have you got?"

She looks surprised.

"Ah, give me ginger beer." I find myself becoming a little bit affected. I refuse to understand the money--the shillings and the pence. It is thoroughly explained to me as each piece is counted before me. I go over each one separately and then leave it all on the table.

There are two women seated at a near-by table. One is whispering to the other. I am recognised.

"That's 'im; I tell you 'tis."

"Ah, get out! And wot would 'e be a-doin' 'ere?"

I pretend not to hear, not to notice. But it is too ominous. Suddenly a white funk comes over me and I rush out and into the taxi again. It's closing time for a part of the afternoon. Something different. I am surprised. It makes me think it is Sunday. Then I learn that it is a new rule in effect since the war.

I am driving down Kennington Road again. Passing Kennington Cross.

Kennington Cross.

It was here that I first discovered music, or where I first learned its rare beauty, a beauty that has gladdened and haunted me from that moment. It all happened one night while I was there, about midnight. I recall the whole thing so distinctly.

I was just a boy, and its beauty was like some sweet mystery. I did not understand. I only knew I loved it and I became reverent as the sounds carried themselves through my brain _via_ my heart.

I suddenly became aware of a harmonica and a clarinet playing a weird, harmonious message. I learned later that it was "The Honeysuckle and the Bee." It was played with such feeling that I became conscious for the first time of what melody really was. My first awakening to music.

I remembered how thrilled I was as the sweet sounds pealed into the night. I learned the words the next day. How I would love to hear it now, that same tune, that same way!

Conscious of it, yet defiant, I find myself singing the refrain softly to myself:

You are the honey, honeysuckle. I am the bee;
I'd like to sip the honey, dear, from those red lips. You see
I love you dearie, dearie, and I want you to love me--
You are my honey, honeysuckle. I am your bee.

Kennington Cross, where music first entered my soul. Trivial, perhaps, but it was the first time.

There are a few stragglers left as I pass on my way along Manchester Bridge at the Prince Road. They are still watching me. I feel that Kennington Road is alive to the fact that I am in it. I am hoping that they are feeling that I have come back, not that I am a stranger in the public eye.

I am on my way back. Crossing Westminster Bridge. I enter a new land. I go back to the Haymarket, back to the Ritz to dress for dinner.

VII.

A JOKE AND STILL ON THE GO

In the evening I dined at the Ritz with Ed. Knoblock, Miss Forrest, and several other friends. The party was a very congenial one and the dinner excellent. It did much to lift me from the depression into which the afternoon in Kennington had put me.

Following dinner we said "Good night" to Miss Forrest, and the rest of us went around to Ed. Knoblock's apartment in the Albany. The Albany is the most interesting building I have yet visited in London.

In a sort of dignified grandeur it stands swathed in an atmosphere of tradition. It breathes the past, and such a past! It has housed men like Shelley and Edmund Burke and others whose fame is linked closely with the march of English civilisation.

Naturally, the building is very old. Ed.'s apartment commands a wonderful view of London. It is beautifully and artistically furnished, its high ceilings, its tapestries, and its old Victorian windows giving it a quaintness rather startling in this modern age.

We had a bit of supper, and about eleven-thirty it began to rain, and later there was a considerable thunderstorm.

Conversation, languishing on general topics, turns to me, the what and wherefore of my coming and going, my impressions, plans, etc. I tell them as best I can.

Knoblock is anxious to get my views on England, on the impression that London has made. We discuss the matter and make comparisons. I feel that England has acquired a sadness, something that is tragic and at the same time beautiful.

We discuss my arrival. How wonderful it was. The crowds, the reception. Knoblock thinks that it is the apex of my career. I am inclined to agree with him.

Whereupon Tom Geraghty comes forward with a startling thought. Tom suggests that I die immediately. He insists that this is the only fitting thing to do, that to live after such a reception and ovation would be an anti-climax. The artistic thing to do would be to finish off my career with a spectacular death. Everyone is shocked at his suggestion. But I agree with Tom that it would be a great climax. We are all becoming very sentimental; we insist to one another that we must not think such thoughts, and the like.

The lightning is flashing fitfully outside. Knoblock, with an inspiration, gathers all of us, except Tom Geraghty, into a corner and suggests that on the next flash of lightning, just for a joke, I pretend to be struck dead, to see what effect it would have on Tom.

We make elaborate plans rapidly. Each is assigned to his part in the impromptu tragedy. We give Tom another drink and start to talking about death and kindred things. Then we all comment how the wind is shaking this old building, how its windows rattle and the weird effect that lightning has on its old tapestries and lonely candlesticks. Surreptitiously, some one has turned out all but one light, but old Tom does not suspect.

The atmosphere is perfect for our hoax and several of us who are "in the know" feel sort of creepy as we wait for the next flash. I prime myself for the bit of acting.

The flash comes, and with it I let forth a horrible shriek, then stand up, stiffen, and fall flat on my face. I think I did it rather well, and I am not sure but that others beside Tom were frightened.

Tom drops his whisky glass and exclaims: "My God! It's happened!" and his voice is sober. But no one pays any attention to him.

They all rush to me and I am carried feet first into the bedroom, and the door closed on poor old Tom, who is trying to follow me in. Tom just paces the floor, waiting for some one to come from the bedroom and tell him what has happened. He knocks on the door several times, but no one will let him in.

Finally, Carl Robinson comes out of the room, looking seriously intent, and Tom rushes to him.

"For God's sake, Carl, what's wrong?"

Carl brushes him aside and makes for the telephone.

"Is he--dead?" Tom puts the question huskily and fearfully.

Carl pays no attention except: "Please don't bother me now, Tom. This is too serious." Then he calls on the telephone for the coroner. This has such an effect on Geraghty that Knoblock comes forth from the bedroom to pacify him.

"I am sure it will be all right," Knoblock says to Tom, at the same time looking as though he were trying to keep something secret. Everything is staged perfectly and poor old Tom just stands and looks bewildered, and every few moments tries to break into the bedroom, but is told to stay out, that he is in no condition to be mixing up in anything so serious.

The chief of police is called, doctors are urged to rush there in all haste with motors, and with each call Tom's suffering increases. We keep up the joke until it has reached the point of artistry, and then I enter from the bedroom in a flowing sheet for a gown and a pillow slip on each arm to represent wings, and I proceed to be an angel for a moment.

But the effect has been too great on Tom, and even the travesty at the finish does not get a laugh from him.

We laughed and talked about the stunt for a while and Tom was asked what he would have done if it had been true and I had been hit by the lightning.

Tom made me feel very cheap and sorry that I had played the trick on him when he said that he would have jumped out of the window himself, as he would have no desire to live if I were dead.

But we soon got away from serious things and ended the party merrily and went home about five in the morning. Which meant that we would sleep very late that day.

Three o'clock in the afternoon found me awakened by the news that there was a delegation of reporters waiting to see me. They were all ushered in and the whole thirty-five of them started firing questions at me in a bunch. And I answered them all, for by this time I was quite proficient with reporters, and as they all asked the same questions that I had answered before it was not hard.

In fact, we all had luncheon or tea together, though for me it was breakfast, and I enjoyed them immensely. They are real, sincere, and intelligent and not hero worshippers.

Along about five o'clock Ed. Knoblock came in with the suggestion that we go out for a ride together and call around to see Bernard Shaw. This did sound like a real treat. Knoblock knows Shaw very well and he felt sure that Shaw and I would like each other.

First, though, I propose that we take a ride about London, and Ed. leads the way to some very interesting spots, the spots that the tourist rarely sees as he races his way through the buildings listed in guide books.

He takes me to the back of the Strand Theatre, where there are beautiful gardens and courts suggesting palaces and armour and the days when knights were bold. These houses were the homes of private people during the reign of King Charles and even farther back. They abound in secret passages and tunnels leading up to the royal palace. There is an air about them that is aped and copied, but it is not hard to distinguish the real from the imitation. History is written on every stone; not the history of the battlefield that is laid bare for the historians, but that more intimate history, that of the drawing-room, where, after all, the real ashes of empires are sifted.

Now we are in Adelphi Terrace, where Bernard Shaw and Sir James Barrie live. What a lovely place the terrace is! And its arches underneath leading to the river. And at this hour, six-thirty, there comes the first fall of evening and London with its soft light is at its best.

I can quite understand why Whistler was so crazy about it. Its lighting is perfect--so beautiful and soft. Perhaps there are those who complain that it is poorly lighted and who would install many modern torches of electricity to remedy the defect, but give me London as it is. Do not paint the lily.

We make for Shaw's house, which overlooks the Thames Embankment. As we approach I feel that this is a momentous occasion. I am to meet Shaw. We reach the house. I notice on the door a little brass name plate with the inscription, "Bernard Shaw." I wonder if there is anything significant about Shaw's name being engraved in brass. The thought pleases me. But we are here, and Knoblock is about to lift the knocker.

And then I seem to remember reading somewhere about dozens of movie actors going abroad, and how they invariably visited Shaw. Good Lord! the man must be weary of them. And why should he be singled out and imposed upon? And I do not desire to ape others. And I want to be individual and different. And I want Bernard Shaw to like me. And I don't want to force myself upon him.

And all this is occurring very rapidly, and I am getting fussed, and we are almost before him, and I say to Knoblock, "No, I don't want to meet him."

Ed. is annoyed and surprised and thinks I am crazy and everything. He asks why, and I suddenly become embarrassed and shy. "Some other time," I beg. "We won't call to-day." I don't know why, but suddenly I feel self-conscious and silly--

Would I care to see Barrie? He lives just across the road.

"No, I don't want to see any of them to-day." I am too tired. I find that it would be too much effort.

So I go home, after drinking in all the beauties of the evening, the twilight, and the loveliness of Adelphi Terrace. This requires no effort. I can just drift along on my own, let thoughts come and go as they will, and never have to think about being polite and wondering if I am holding my own in intelligent discussion that is sure to arise when one meets great minds. I wasted the evening just then. Some other time, I know, I am going to want Shaw and Barrie.

I drift along with the sight and am carried back a hundred years, two hundred, a thousand. I seem to see the ghosts of King Charles and others of Old England with the tombstones epitaphed in Old English and dating back even to the eleventh century.

It is all fragrant and too fleeting. We must get back to the hotel to dress for dinner.

Then Knoblock, Sonny, Geraghty, and a few others dine with me at the Embassy Club, but Knoblock, who is tired, leaves after dinner. Along about ten o'clock Sonny, Geraghty, Donald Crist, Carl Robinson, and myself decide to take a ride. We make toward Lambeth. I want to show them Lambeth. I feel as if it is mine--a choice discovery and possession that I wish to display.

I recall an old photographer's shop in the Westminster Bridge Road just before you come to the bridge. I want to see it again. We get out there. I remember having seen a picture framed in that window when I was a boy--a picture of Dan Leno, who was an idol of mine in those days.

The picture was still there, so is the photographer--the name "Sharp" is still on the shop. I tell my friends that I had my picture taken here about fifteen years ago, and we went inside to see if we could get one of the photos.

"My name is Chaplin," I told the person behind the counter. "You photographed me fifteen years ago. I want to buy some copies."

"Oh, we destroyed the negative long ago," the person behind the counter thus dismisses me.

"Have you destroyed Mr. Leno's negative?" I ask him.

"No," was the reply, "but Mr. Leno is a famous comedian."

Such is fame. Here I had been patting myself on the back, thinking I was some pumpkins as a comedian, and my negative destroyed. However, there is balm in Gilead. I tell him I am Charlie Chaplin and he wants to turn the place upside down to get some new pictures of me; but we haven't the time, and, besides, I want to get out, because I am hearing suppressed snickers from my friends, before whom I was going to show off.

VIII.

A MEMORABLE NIGHT IN LONDON

So we wandered along through South London by Kennington Cross and Kennington Gate, Newington Butts, Lambeth Walk, and the Clapham Road, and all through the neighbourhood. Almost every step brought back memories, most of them of a tender sort. I was right here in the midst of my youth, but somehow I seemed apart from it. I felt as though I was viewing it under a glass. It could be seen all too plainly, but when I reached to touch it it was not there--only the glass could be felt, this glass that had been glazed by the years since I left.

If I could only get through the glass and touch the real live thing that had called me back to London. But I couldn't.

A man cannot go back. He thinks he can, but other things have happened to his life. He has new ideas, new friends, new attachments. He doesn't belong to his past, except that the past has, perhaps, made marks on him.

My friends and I continue our stroll--a stroll so pregnant with interest to me at times that I forget that I have company and wander along alone.

Who is that old derelict there against the cart? Another landmark. I look at him closely. He is the same--only more so. Well do I remember him, the old tomato man. I was about twelve when I first saw him, and he is still here in the same old spot, plying the same old trade, while I--

I can picture him as he first appeared to me standing beside his round cart heaped with tomatoes, his greasy clothes shiny in their unkemptness, the rather glassy single eye that had looked from one side of his face staring at nothing in particular, but giving you the feeling that it was seeing all, the bottled nose with the network of veins spelling dissipation.

I remember how I used to stand around and wait for him to shout his wares. His method never varied. There was a sudden twitching convulsion, and he leaned to one side, trying to straighten out the other as he did so, and then, taking into his one good lung all the air it would stand, he would let forth a clattering, gargling, asthmatic, high-pitched wheeze, a series of sounds which defied interpretation.

Somewhere in the explosion there could be detected "ripe tomatoes." Any other part of his message was lost.

And he was still here. Through summer suns and winter snows he had stood and was standing. Only a bit more decrepit, a bit older, more dyspeptic, his clothes greasier, his shoulder rounder, his one eye rather filmy and not so all-seeing as it once was. And I waited. But he did not shout his wares any more. Even the good lung was failing. He just stood there inert in his ageing. And somehow the tomatoes did not look so good as they once were.

We get into a cab and drive back towards Brixton to the Elephant and Castle, where we pull up at a coffee store. The same old London coffee store, with its bad coffee and tea.

There are a few pink-cheeked roués around and a couple of old derelicts. Then there are a lot of painted ladies, many of them with young men and the rest of them looking for young men. Some of the young fellows are minus arms and many of them carry various ribbons of military honour. They are living and eloquent evidence of the War and its effects. There are a number of stragglers. The whole scene to me is depressing. What a sad London this is! People with tired, worn faces after four years of War!

Someone suggests that we go up and see George Fitzmaurice, who lives in Park Lane. There we can get a drink and then go to bed. We jump in a cab and are soon there. What a difference! Park Lane is another world after the Elephant and Castle. Here are the homes of the millionaires and the prosperous.

Fitzmaurice is quite a successful moving-picture director. We find a lot of friends at his house, and over whiskies-and-sodas we discuss our trip. Our trip through Kennington suggests Limehouse, and conversation turns toward that district and Thomas Burke.

I get their impressions of Limehouse. It is not as tough as it has been pictured. I rather lost my temper through the discussion.

One of those in the party, an actor, spoke very sneeringly of that romantic district and its people.

"Talk about Limehouse nights. I thought they were tough down there. Why, they are like a lot of larks!" said this big-muscled leading man.

And then he tells of a visit to the Limehouse district--a visit made solely for the purpose of finding trouble. How he had read of the tough characters there and how he had decided to go down to find out how tough they were.

"I went right down there into their joints," he said, "and told them that I was looking for somebody that was tough, the tougher the better, and I went up to a big mandarin wearing a feather and said: 'Give me the toughest you've got. You fellows are supposed to be tough down here, so let's see how tough you are.' And I couldn't get a rise out of any of them," he concluded.

This was enough for me. It annoyed.

I told him that it was very fine for well-fed, over-paid actors flaunting toughness at these deprived people, who are gentle and nice and, if ever tough, only so because of environment. I asked him just how tough he would be if he were living the life that some of these unfortunate families must live. How easy for him, with five meals a day beneath that thrust-out chest with his muscles trained and perfect, trying to start something with these people. Of course they were not tough, but when it comes to four years of War, when it comes to losing an arm or a leg, then they are tough. But they are not going around looking for fights unless there is a reason.

It rather broke up the party, but I was feeling so disgusted that I did not care.

We meander along, walking from Park Lane to the Ritz.

On our way we are stopped by two or three young girls. They are stamped plainly and there is no subtlety about their "Hello boys! You are not going home so early?" They salute us. We wait a moment. They pause and then wave their hands to us and we beckon them.

"How is it you are up so late?" They are plainly embarrassed at this question. Perhaps it has been a long time since they were given the benefit of the doubt. They are not sure just what to say. We are different. Their usual method of attack or caress does not seem in order, so they just giggle.

Here is life in its elemental rawness. I feel very kindly disposed toward them, particularly after my bout with the well-fed actor who got his entertainment from the frailties of others. But it is rather hard for us to mix. There is a rather awkward silence.

Then one of the girls asks if we have a cigarette. Robinson gives them a package, which they share between the three of them. This breaks the ice. They feel easier. The meeting is beginning to run along the parliamentary rules that they know.

Do we know where they can get a drink?

"No." This is a temporary setback, but they ask if we mind their walking along a bit with us. We don't, and we walk along towards the Ritz. They are giggling, and before long I am recognised. They are embarrassed.

They look down at their shabby little feet where ill-fitting shoes run over at the heels. Their cheap little cotton suits class them even low in their profession, though their youth is a big factor toward their potential rise when they have become hardened and their mental faculties have become sharpened in their eternal battles with men. Then men will come to them.

Knowing my identity, they are on their good behaviour. No longer are we prospects. We are true adventure for them this night. Their intimacy has left them and in its place there appears a reserve which is attractive even in its awkwardness.

The conversation becomes somewhat formal. And we are nearing the hotel, where we must leave them. They are very nice and charming now, and are as timid and reserved as though they had just left a convent.

They talk haltingly of the pictures they have seen, shyly telling how they loved me in "Shoulder Arms," while one of them told how she wept when she saw "The Kid" and how she had that night sent some money home to a little kid brother who was in school and staying there through her efforts in London.

The difference in them seems so marked when they call me Mr. Chaplin and I recall how they had hailed us as "Hello, boys." Somehow I rather resent the change. I wish they would be more intimate in their conversation. I would like to get their viewpoint. I want to talk to them freely. They are so much more interesting than most of the people I meet.

But there is a barrier. Their reserve stays. I told them that I was sure they were tired and gave them cab fare.

One of their number speaks for the trio.

"Thanks, Mr. Chaplin, very much. I could do with this, really. I was broke, honest. Really, this comes in very handy."

They could not quite understand our being nice and sympathetic.

They were used to being treated in the jocular way of street comradery. Finer qualities came forward under the respectful attention we gave them, something rather nice that had been buried beneath the veneer of their trade.

Their thanks are profuse, yet awkward. They are not used to giving thanks. They usually pay, and pay dearly, for anything handed them. We bid them "good night." They smile and walk away.

We watch them for a bit as they go on their way. At first they are strolling along, chattering about their adventure. Then, as if on a signal, they straighten up as though bracing themselves, and with quickened steps they move toward Piccadilly, where a haze of light is reflected against the murky sky.

It is the beacon light from their battleground, and as we follow them with our eyes these butterflies of the night make for the lights where there is laughter and gaiety.

As we go along to the Ritz we are all sobered by the encounter with the three little girls. I think blessed is the ignorance that enables them to go on without the mental torture that would come from knowing the inevitable that awaits them.

As we go up the steps of the hotel we see a number of derelicts huddled asleep against the outside of the building, sitting under the arches and doors, men and women, old and young, underfed, deprived, helpless, so much so that the imprint of helplessness is woven into their brain and brings on an unconsciousness that is a blessing.

We wake them up and hand them each money. "Here, get yourself a bed."

They are too numbed. They thank us mechanically, accepting what we give them, but their reaction and thanks are more physical than mental.

There was one old woman about seventy. I gave her something. She woke up, or stirred in her sleep, took the money without a word of thanks--took it as though it was her ration from the bread line and no thanks were expected, huddled herself up in a tighter knot than before, and continued her slumber. The inertia of poverty had long since claimed her.

We rang the night bell at the Ritz, for they are not like our American hotels, where guests are in the habit of coming in at all hours of the night. The Ritz closes its doors at midnight, and after that hour you must ring them.

But the night was not quite over. As we were ringing the bell we noticed a waggon a little way off in the street, with the horse slipping and the driver out behind the waggon with his shoulder to the wheel and urging the horse along with cheery words.

We walked to the waggon and found it was loaded with apples and on its way to the market. The streets were so slippery that the horse could not negotiate the hill. I could not help but think how different from the usual driver this man was.

He did not belay the tired animal with a whip and curse and swear at him in his helplessness. He saw that the animal was up against it, and instead of beating him he got out and put his shoulder to the wheel, never for the moment doubting that the horse was doing his best.

We all went out into the street and put our shoulders against the waggon along with the driver. He thanked us, and as we finally got the momentum necessary to carry it over the hill he said:

"These darn roads are so slippery that the darned horse even can't pull it."

It was a source of wonder to him that he should come upon something too much for his horse. And the horse was so well fed and well kept. I could not help but notice how much better the animal looked than his master. The evening was over. I don't know but that the incident of the apple waggon was a fitting finale.

The next morning for the first time I am made to give my attention to the mail that has been arriving. We have been obliged to have another room added to our suite in order to have some place in which to keep the numerous sacks that are being brought to us at all hours.

The pile is becoming so mountainous that we are compelled to engage half a dozen stenographers just for the purpose of reading and classifying them.

We found that there were 73,000 letters or cards addressed to me during the first three days in London, and of this number more than 28,000 were begging letters--letters begging anywhere from £1 to £100,000.

Countless and varied were the reasons set forth. Some were ridiculous. Some were amusing. Some were pathetic. Some were insulting. All of them in earnest.

I discovered from the mail that there are 671 relatives of mine in England that I knew nothing about.

The greater part of these were cousins, and they gave very detailed family-tree tracings in support of their claims. All of them wished to be set up in business or to get into the movies.

But the cousins did not have a monopoly on the relationships. There were brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles, and there were nine claiming to be my mother, telling wondrous adventure stories about my being stolen by gipsies when a baby or being left on doorsteps, until I began to think my youth had been a very hectic affair. But I did not worry much about these last, as I had left a perfectly good mother back in California, and so far I have been pretty much satisfied with her.

There were letters addressed just to Charles Chaplin, some to King Charles, some to the "King of Mirth"; on some there was drawn the picture of a battered derby; some carried a reproduction of my shoes and cane; and in some there was stuck a white feather with the question as to what I was doing during the war?

Would I visit such and such institutions? Would I appear for such and such charity? Would I kick off the football season or attend some particular Soccer game? Then there were letters of welcome and one enclosing an iron cross inscribed, "For your services in the Great War," and "Where were you when England was fighting?"

Then there were others thanking me for happiness given the senders. These came by the thousand. One young soldier sent me four medals he had gotten during the big war. He said that he was sending them because I had never been properly recognised. His part was so small and mine so big, he said, that he wanted me to have his _Croix de Guerre_, his regimental and other medals.

Some of the letters were most interesting. Here are a few samples:

DEAR MR. CHAPLIN,--You are a leader in your line and I am a
leader in mine. Your speciality is moving pictures and custard
pies. My speciality is windmills.

I know more about windmills than any man in the world. I have
studied the winds all over the world and am now in a position
to invent a windmill that will be the standard mill of the
world, and it will be made so it can be adapted to the winds of
the tropics and the winds of the arctic regions.

I am going to let you in on this in an advantageous way. You
have only to furnish the money. I have the brains, and in a few
years I will make you rich and famous. You had better 'phone me
for quick action.

DEAR MR. CHAPLIN,--Won't you please let me have enough money to
send little Oscar to college? Little Oscar is twelve, and the
neighbours all say that he is the brightest little boy they
have ever seen. And he can imitate you so well that we don't
have to go to the movies any more. [This is dangerous. Oscar is
a real competitor, ruining my business.] And so, if you can't
send the little fellow to college, won't you take him in the
movies with you like you did Jackie Coogan?

DEAR MR. CHAPLIN,--My brother is a sailor, and he is the only
man in the world who knows where Capt. Kidd's gold is buried.
He has charts and maps and everything necessary, including a
pick and shovel. But he cannot pay for the boat.

Will you pay for the boat, and half the gold is yours? All you
need do is to say "yes" to me in a letter, and I will go out
and look for John as he is off somewhere on a bust, being what
you might call a drinking man when ashore. But I am sure that I
can find him, as he and I drink in the same places. Your
shipmate.

DEAR CHARLIE,--Have you ever thought of the money to be made in
peanuts? I know the peanut industry, but I am not telling any
of my business in a letter. If you are interested in becoming a
peanut king, then I'm your man. Just address me as Snapper
Dodge, above address.

DEAR MR. CHAPLIN,--My daughter has been helping me about my
boarding-house now for several years, and I may say that she
understands the art of catering to the public as wishes to stay
in quarters. But she has such high-toned ideas, like as putting
up curtains in the bathroom and such that at times I think she
is too good for the boarding-house business and should be
having her own hotel to run.

If you could see your way to buy a hotel in London or New York
for Drusilla, I am sure that before long your name and
Drusilla's would be linked together all over the world because
of what Drusilla would do to the hotel business. And she would
save money because she could make all the beds and cook
herself, and at nights could invent the touches like what I
have mentioned. Drusilla is waiting for you to call her.

DEAR MR. CHAPLIN,--I am enclosing pawn tickets for Grandma's
false teeth and our silver water pitcher, also a rent bill
showing that our rent was due yesterday. Of course, we would
rather have you pay our rent first, but if you could spare it,
grandma's teeth would be acceptable, and we can't hold our
heads up among the neighbours since father sneaked our silver
pitcher to get some beer.

IX.