‘Lady Astor,’ said the housemaster, ‘you have an unfortunate habit of pushing people off their balance. I wish you wouldn’t do it.’
At this Lady Astor’s savoir faire deserted her.
Somehow the conversation turned to politics, which the housemaster cut short with the laconic remark: ‘The trouble with English politics is that women interfere too much in them, and with that I shall say good-night, Lady Astor.’ Then he nodded curtly to both of us and left.
‘What a disgruntled man,’ said Lady Astor.
But the boy spoke up for him. ‘Oh no, Mother, he’s really very nice.’
I could not but admire the man, in spite of his anti-feminism, for there was an honesty and forthrightness about him; humourless but nevertheless sincere.
*
As I had not seen my brother Sydney for a number of years, I left England to spend a little time with him in Nice. Sydney had always said that when he had saved $250,000 he would retire. I might add that he saved considerably more than that. Besides being a shrewd business man he was an excellent comedian and had made many successful pictures, Submarine Pilot, The Better ’Ole, Man in the Box and Charley’s Aunt among others, which added to his substantial fortune. And now Sydney had retired, as he said he would, and with his wife was living in Nice.
When Frank J. Gould, who also lived in Nice, heard that I was coming to visit my brother he invited me to be his guest at Juanles-Pins, so I accepted.
Before going to Nice I stopped off in Paris for two days and went to the Folies Bergère, because Alfred Jackson, of the original Eight Lancashire Lads, was working there; he was one of the sons of the original troupe. When I met Alfred, he told me that the Jackson family had grown fairly prosperous, having eight troupes of dancing girls working for them, and that his father was still alive. If I came down to the Folies Bergère, where they were rehearsing, I could meet him there. Although past eighty, the old chap was still lithe and healthy-looking. We spoke of old times with exclamations of ‘Who would have thought it!’
‘You know, Charlie,’ he said, ‘the outstanding memory I have of you as a little boy was your gentleness.’
*
It is a mistake to dally long in the public’s adulation; like a soufflé, if left standing, it bogs down. So with this welcome of mine: it suddenly cooled off. The first draught came from the Press. After their hyperboles of praise they took an opposite slant. I suppose it made interesting reading.
The excitement of London and Paris had taken its toll. I was tired and needed a rest. While recuperating in Juan-les-Pins I was asked to appear at a Command Performance at the Palladium in London. Instead, I sent a cheque for two hundred pounds. That started a rumpus. I had offended the King and slighted the Royal Command. I did not regard a note from the manager of the Palladium as a royal edict. Besides, I was unprepared to perform at a moment’s notice.
The next attack came a few weeks later. I happened to be waiting on the tennis court for my partner, when a young gentleman introduced himself as a friend of a friend of mine. After an exchange of pleasantries, we drifted on to mutual opinions. He was an engaging young man and extremely sympathetic. Having a weakness for taking a sudden liking to people – especially if they are good listeners – I talked on many subjects. On the state of world affairs, I wallowed pessimistically, telling him that the situation in Europe was leading up to another war.
‘Well, they won’t get me in the next one’ said my friend.
‘I don’t blame you,’ I replied. ‘I have no respect for those who get us into trouble; I dislike being told whom to kill and what to die for – and all in the name of patriotism.’
We parted in a cordial way. I believe I made a date with him to dine the next evening, but he never showed up. And lo! instead of talking to a friend, I discovered I had been talking to a news reporter; and the next day a front-page spread was in the newspapers: ‘Charlie Chaplin no patriot!’, etc.
This is true, but at the time I did not want my private views aired in the Press. The fact is I am no patriot – not for moral or intellectual reasons alone, but because I have no feeling for it. How can one tolerate patriotism when six million Jews were murdered in its name? Some might say that was in Germany; nevertheless, these murderous cells lie dormant in every nation.
I cannot vociferate about national pride. If one is steeped in family tradition, home and garden, a happy childhood, family and friends, I can understand this feeling – but I have not that background. At best patriotism to me is nurtured in local habits; horse-racing, hunting, Yorkshire pudding, American hamburgers and Coca-Cola, but today such native yams have become worldwide. Naturally, if the country in which I lived were to be invaded, like most of us, I believe I would be capable of an act of supreme sacrifice. But I am incapable of a fervent love of homeland, for it has only to turn Nazi and I would leave it without compunction – and from what I have observed, the cells of Nazism, although dormant at the moment, can be activated very quickly in every country. Therefore, I do not wish to make any sacrifice for a political cause unless I personally believe in it. I am no martyr for nationalism – neither do I wish to die for a president, a prime minister or a dictator.
A day or so later Sir Philip Sassoon took me to Consuelo Vanderbilt Balsan’s house for
