The events that followed were not only sordid but sinister. Because I would not see her, she broke into the house, smashed windows, threatened my life and demanded money. Eventually I was compelled to call the police, something I should have done long before, in spite of it being a gala opportunity for the Press. But the police were most cooperative. They said they would withhold the charges of vagrancy against her if I were willing to pay her fare back to New York. So again I paid her fare, and the police warned her that if she were seen in the vicinity of Beverly Hills again she would be charged with vagrancy.
*
It seems a pity that after this sordid episode the happiest event of my life should follow contiguously, one might say. But shadows disappear into night and out of the dawn the sun rises.
One day, a few months later, Miss Mina Wallace, a Hollywood film agent, telephoned to say that she had a client just out from New York who, she thought, might fit the part of Bridget, the principal lead in Shadow and Substance. Having had trouble with Monsieur Verdoux because it was a difficult story to motivate, I took Miss Wallace’s message as a lucky omen for reconsidering the filming of Shadow and Substance, and for temporarily putting aside Monsieur Verdoux. So I telephoned to find out more particulars. Miss Wallace said that her client was Oona O’Neill, daughter of the famous playwright Eugene O’Neill. I had never met Eugene O’Neill, but from the solemnity of his plays I had rather a sepia impression of what the daughter would be like. So I asked Miss Wallace laconically: ‘Can she act?’
‘She’s had a little theatrical experience in summer stock in the East. You’d better take a film test of her and find out for yourself,’ she said. ‘Or better still, if you don’t wish to commit yourself, come to my house for dinner and I’ll have her there.’
I arrived early and on entering the sitting-room discovered a young lady seated alone by the fire. While waiting for Miss Wallace, I introduced myself, saying I presumed she was Miss O’Neill. She smiled. Contrary to my preconceived impression, I became aware of a luminous beauty, with a sequestered charm and a gentleness that was most appealing. While we waited for our hostess, we sat and talked.
Eventually Miss Wallace came in and we were formally introduced. There were four of us for dinner – Miss Wallace, Miss O’Neill, Tim Durant and myself. Although we did not talk business, we skirted around it. I mentioned that the girl in Shadow and Substance was very young, and Miss Wallace dropped the remark that Miss O’Neill was a little over seventeen. My heart sank. Although the part called for someone young, the character was extremely complex and would require an older and more experienced actress. So I reluctantly put her out of my mind.
But a few days later Miss Wallace telephoned to know if I was doing anything about Miss O’Neill, as the Fox film company was interested. It was then and there that I signed her up. This was the beginning of what was destined to be over twenty years of complete happiness – and I hope many more.
As I got to know Oona I was constantly surprised by her sense of humour and tolerance; she could always see the other person’s point of view. This and multitudinous other reasons were why I fell in love with her. She had by now just turned eighteen; but I was confident that she was not subject to the caprices of that age. Oona was the exception to the rule – though at first I was afraid of the discrepancy in our ages. But Oona was resolute as though she had come upon a truth. So we decided to marry after completing the filming of Shadow and Substance.
I had completed the first draft of the script and was now preparing to go into production. If I could get on film that rare quality of charm Oona had, Shadow and Substance would be a success.
At this juncture, Barry again blew into town, and blithely announced to the butler over the telephone that she was destitute and three months pregnant, but made no accusation or hint as to who was responsible. It was certainly no concern of mine, so I told the butler if she started any skylarking around the house, scandal or no scandal, I would call the police. But the next day she showed up bright and cheerful and walked around the house and garden several times. Obviously she was following a planned procedure. It was disclosed later that she had gone to one of the sob sisters of the Press, who advised her to return to the house and get herself arrested. I spoke to her personally, warning her that if she did not leave the premises I would have to call the police. But she only laughed. Having come to the limit of enduring this blackmailing harassment, I told the butler to telephone the police.
A few hours later the newspapers were black with headlines. I was pilloried, excoriated and vilified: Chaplin, the father of her unborn child, had had her arrested, had left her destitute. A week later a paternity suit was brought against me. As a result of these accusations I called up Lloyd Wright, my lawyer, and told him that I had had nothing to do with the Barry woman in two years.
Knowing my intentions of going into production with Shadow and Substance, he discreetly suggested that I should put if off for the time being and that Oona should return to New York. But we would not consider this advice. Nor would we be governed by the lies of the Barry
