‘The meeting was a love feast between Charlie and the audience,’ wrote the Daily Worker. But my emotions were mixed; although gratified, I was apprehensive.
After leaving Carnegie Hall, Tim and I had supper with Constance Collier, who had been present at the meeting. She was very moved by it – and Constance was anything but a leftist. When we reached the Waldorf-Astoria there were several telephone messages from Joan Barry. My flesh began to creep. I tore them up immediately, but the telephone rang again. I wanted to instruct the operator not to put any more calls through, but Tim said: ‘You’d better not, you’d better answer or she’ll be up here and create a scene.’
The next time the phone rang I answered. She seemed quite normal and pleasant and said she just wanted to come up and say hello. So I acquiesced and told Tim not to leave me alone with her. That evening she told me that since her arrival in New York she had been living at the Pierre Hotel, owned by Paul Getty. I lied and told her that we were staying for one or two days and that I would try and fit in a lunch somewhere. She stayed half an hour and asked if I would see her home to the Pierre Hotel. When she insisted that I see her to the elevator, I became suspicious. However, I left her at the entrance and that was the first and last time I saw her in New York.
As a result of my second front speeches my social life in New York gradually receded. No more was I invited to spend weekends in opulent country houses. After the Carnegie Hall meeting Clifton Fadiman, writer and essayist, who was working for Columbia Broadcasting System, called at the hotel to ask me if I would care to broadcast internationally. They would give me seven minutes to say what I liked. I was tempted to accept until he mentioned that it would be on the Kate Smith programme. Then I refused on the grounds that my convictions about the war effort would end in an advertisement for Jello. I meant no offence to Fadiman. He is a gentle soul, gifted and cultured, and at the mention of Jello he actually blushed. I was immediately sorry and could have swallowed my words.
After that, a considerable number of letters came with offers of all kinds. One from the prominent ‘America Firster’, Gerald K. Smith, who wanted to debate with me on that subject. Other offers were to lecture, other to speak on behalf of the second front.
Now I felt I was caught up in a political avalanche. I began to question my motives: how much was I stimulated by the actor in me and the reaction of a live audience? Would I have entered this quixotic adventure if I had not made an anti-Nazi film? Was it a sublimation of all my irritations and reactions against the talking pictures? I suppose all these elements were involved, but the strongest one was my hate and contempt for the Nazi system.
twenty-seven
BACK in Beverly Hills, while I was working on Shadow and Substance again, Orson Welles came to the house with a proposition, explaining that he thought of doing a series of documentaries, stories of real life, one to be on the celebrated French murderer, Bluebeard Landru, which he thought would be a wonderful dramatic part for me.
I was interested, as it would be a change from comedy, and a change from writing, acting and directing myself as I had done for years. So I asked to see the script.
‘Oh, it isn’t written yet,’ he said, ‘but all that’s necessary is to take the records of the Landru trial and you’ll have it.’ He added: ‘I thought you might like to help with the writing of it.’
I was disappointed. ‘If I have to help in writing the script, I’m not interested,’ I said, and the matter ended there.
But a day or so later it struck me that the idea of Landru would make a wonderful comedy. So I telephoned Welles. ‘Look, your proposed documentary about Landru has given me an idea for a comedy. It has nothing to do with Landru, but to clear everything I am willing to pay you five thousand dollars, only because your proposition made me think of it.’
He hemmed and hawed.
‘Listen, Landru is not an original story with you or anyone else,’ I said; ‘it is in the public domain.’
He thought a moment, then told me to get in touch with his manager. Thus a deal was negotiated: Welles to get $5,000 and I to be clear of all obligations. Welles accepted but asked for one provision: that after seeing the picture he could have the privilege of screen credit, to read: ‘Idea suggested by Orson Welles.’ I thought little of the request because of my enthusiasm. Had I foreseen the kudos he eventually tried to make out of it, I would have insisted on no screen credit at all.
Now I put aside Shadow and Substance and began writing Monsieur Verdoux. I had been
