You have here the authors of France, authors of plays and of films, composers, producers – all of them like you, in their own way, familiar with the pride and the self-sacrifice of hard work which you know so well, having one ambition, to move and amuse the crowds, to show them the joys and sorrows of life, to portray the fear of lost love, pity for undeserved tribulations, and a desire to mend what is marred in a spirit of peace, hope and fraternity.
Thank you, Mr Chaplin.
(Signed) Roger Ferdinand.
The première of Limelight was attended by a most distinguished audience, including French cabinet ministers and foreign ambassadors. The American Ambassador, however, did not come.
At the Comédie Française we were the guests of honour at a special performance of Moliére’s Don Juan, which was enacted by the greatest representative artists of France. That night the fountains of the Palais Royale were lit up and flowing and Oona and I were met by students of the Comèdie Française, dressed in eighteenth-century liveries and holding lighted candelabros, who escorted us to the Grand Circle filled with the most beautiful women in all Europe.
In Rome our reception was the same, I was honoured and decorated and received by the President and the Ministers. On that occasion an amusing incident happened at the preview of Limelight. The Minister of Fine Arts suggested that I enter by the stage door in order to avoid the crowds. I thought the Minister’s suggestion rather peculiar and told him that if the people were patient enough to stand outside the theatre wanting to see me, I could at least be gracious enough to enter the front way and show myself. I thought the Minister wore a curious expression as he mildly reiterated that it would save me a great deal of trouble going in the back way. But I insisted, so he pressed no further.
That night was the usual glittering preview. When we drove up in a limousine, the crowds were roped off on the far side of the street – too far, I thought. With all my graciousness and charm I stepped out and around the limousine into the middle of the road, and, before a flood of arc-lights, with a big smile threw up my arms de Gaulle fashion. Instantly a barrage of cabbages and tomatoes flew by me. I was not too sure what they were or what had happened until I heard my Italian friend, the interpreter, moaning at the back of me: ‘to think this should happen in my country.’ However, nothing hit me and we hurried into the theatre. Then the humour of the situation struck me and I could not stop laughing. Even my Italian friend had to laugh with me.
Later we learned that the offenders were young neo-fascists. I must say there was no vehemence in their throwing; it was more of a demonstration. Four of them were immediately arrested and the police wanted to know if I wished to bring any charge against them. ‘Of course not,’ I said; ‘they are only young boys’ - they were youths of fourteen and sixteen - and so the matter was dropped.
Before leaving Paris for Rome, Louis Aragon, poet and editor of Les Lettres Françaises, had telephoned so say that Jean-Paul Sartre and Picasso would like to meet me, so I invited them to dinner. They suggested somewhere quiet, so we dined in my rooms at the hotel. When Harry Crocker, my publicity man, heard about it, he almost had a conniption fit. ‘This will undo all the good we have done since we left the States.’
‘But, Harry, this is Europe, not the States, and these gentlemen happen to be three of the world’s great figures,’ I said. I had been careful not to confide to Harry or anyone that I had no intention of returning to America because I still had property there which I had not yet disposed of. Harry had me almost believing that a meeting with Aragon, Picasso and Sartre was a conspiracy to overthrow Western democracy. Nevertheless, his concern did not deter him from staying behind to have them sign his autograph book. Harry was not invited to dinner. I told him we expected Stalin to arrive later and did not want any publicity about it.
I was not too sure about the evening. Only Aragon could speak English, and conversation through an interpreter is like shooting at a distant target and waiting for the result of your aim.
Aragon is handsome with well-defined features. Picasso has a quizzical, humorous look, and could pass for an acrobat or a clown more readily than a painter. Sartre has a round face and, although his features do not bear analysis, they have a subtle beauty and sensitiveness. Sartre revealed little of what went on in his mind. That evening, after the party had broken up, Picasso took us to the Left Bank studio which he still uses. As we climbed the stairs we saw a sign on the door of the apartment below him: ‘This is not Picasso’s studio – another flight up, please.’
We came upon the most deplorable, barnlike garret, that even Chatterton would have been loth to die in. Hanging from a nail in one rafter was a stark electric bulb, which enabled us to see a rickety old iron bed and a broken-down stove. Resting against the wall was a pile of old dusty canvases. He picked up one – a Cézanne, and a most beautiful one. He picked up another and another. We must have looked at fifty masterpieces. I was tempted to offer him a round sum for the lot – just to get rid of the litter. In that Gorki’s ‘lower depth’ was a gold mine.
thirty-one
AFTER the Paris and Rome openings we returned to London where we
