So with a tinge of melancholy we picked up our belongings and with the four children arrived in Switzerland. We settled temporarily at the Beau Rivage Hotel, Lausanne, facing the lake. It was autumn and rather drear, but the mountains were beautiful.
We were four months searching for a suitable house. Oona, expecting her fifth child, said emphatically that after the hospital she did not wish to return to a hotel. It was this emergency that made me hustle and look around, and eventually settle at the Manoir de Ban in the village of Corsier, a little above Vevey. To our amazement we discovered that it had thirty-seven acres, with an orchard which among other things produces large black cherries, delicious green plums, apples and pears ; and a vegetable garden that grows strawberries and wonderful asparagus and corn, to which, in season, no matter where we are, we make a special pilgrimage. In front of the terrace is a five-acre lawn with magnificent tall trees which frame the mountains and the lake in the distance.
I acquired a very competent staff: Miss Rachel Ford, who established our household and then became my business manager, and Mme Burnier, my Swiss-English secretary, who retyped this book many times.
We were a little awed at the pretentiousness of the place and wondered whether it would be commensurate with our income, but when the owner told us what it could be run for, we discovered it was within the bounds of our budget. Thus we came to live in the village of Corsier, which has a population of 1,350.
It took at least a year before we could get oriented. For a while the children went to the village school of Corsier. It was quite a problem for them to be suddenly taught everything in French, and we had qualms as to the psychological effect it might have on them. But it was not long before they spoke French fluently, and it was quite moving to see how well they adapted themselves to the Swiss way of life. Even Kay Kay and Pinnie, the children’s nurses, began struggling with French.
And now we began to divest ourselves of every tie in the United States. This took a considerable time. I went to the American Consul and handed in my re-entry permit, telling him that I had given up my residence in the United States.
‘You’re not going back, Charlie?’
‘No,’ I said, almost apologetically. ‘I’m a little too old to take any more of that nonsense.’
He made no comment, but said: ‘Well, you can always get back on an ordinary visa, if you want to return.’
I smiled and shook my head. ‘I’ve decided to settle in Switzerland.’ We shook hands and that was that.
Now Oona decided to give up her American citizenship. So while visiting London she notified the American Embassy, They said, however, it would take at least three-quarters of an hour to go through the formalities. ‘What nonsense!’ I told Oona. ‘It seems ridiculous that it should take so long. I’ll go with you.’
When we arrived at the Embassy, all the insults and slanders of the past inflated within me like a balloon ready to burst. In a loud voice I demanded the office of the Immigration Department. Oona was embarrassed. One of the office doors opened and a man appeared and said: ‘Hello, Charlie, won’t you come in the office with your wife?’
He must have read my mind, for his opening remark was; ‘An American giving up his citizenship should know what he is doing and be in his right mind. That’s why we have this procedure of questioning: it’s for the protection of the citizen.’
Naturally, this made sense to me.
He was a man in his late fifties. ‘I saw you in Denver in 1911 at the old Empress Theatre,’ he said, looking at me reproachfully.
Of course I melted and we spoke about the good old days.
When the ordeal was finished, the last paper signed, and we had said our cheery good-bye, I was slightly sad at my lack of feeling in the matter.
*
In London we occasionally see friends, among whom are Sydney Bernstein, Ivor Montagu, Sir Edward Beddington-Behrens, Donald Ogden Stewart, Ella Winter, Graham Greene, J. B. Priestley, Max Reinhardt and Douglas Fairbanks Jr. Although some we rarely see, the thought of them is comforting, like the pleasure of knowing there is a mooring somewhere, if occasionally we want to sail into port.
On one of our visits to London we received a message that Khrushchev and Bulganin would like to meet us at a reception given by the Soviet Embassy at Claridge’s Hotel. When we arrived, the lobby was packed with smiling and excited crowds. With the help of a member of the Russian Embassy we began ploughing through them. Suddenly coming from the opposite direction we saw Khrushchev and Bulganin; they too were ploughing, and from their expression they had given up in disgust and were retreating.
One could see that Khrushchev even in distress is not without humour. As he pressed forward to an exit, our escort called after him: ‘Khrushchev!’ But he waved him away, he was fed up. ‘Khrushchev, Charlie Chaplin!’ our man shouted. Both Bulganin and Khrushchev stopped and turned and their faces lit up. I was indeed flattered. In the surging and eddying of the crowd we were introduced. Through an interpreter Khrushchev said something about how much the Russian people appreciated my films, then we were offered some vodka. I thought the pepper-box had spilled into it, but Oona loved it.
We managed to make a small circle so that we could be photographed together. Because of the din I could not say anything. ‘Let’s go into the next room,’ said
