Читать книгу My Wonderful Visit - Charlie Chaplin - Страница 7

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I notice a thoughtful-looking, studious sort of man seated across from us. He is reading a book, a different sort of book, if covers mean anything. It looks formidable, a sort of intellectual fodder. I wonder who he is. I weave all sorts of romance about him. I place him in all sorts of intellectual undertakings, though he may be a college professor. I would love to know him. I feel that he is interested in us. I mention it to Knoblock. He keeps looking at us. Knoblock tells me he is Gillette, the safety-razor man. I feel like romancing about him more than ever. I wonder what he is reading? I would love to know him. It is our loss, I believe. And I never learned what the book was that he was reading.

There are very few pretty girls aboard. I never have any luck that way. And it is a weakness of mine. I feel that it would be awfully pleasant to cross the ocean with a number of nice girls who were pretty and who would take me as I am. We listened to the music and retired early, this because of a promise to myself that I would do lots of reading aboard. I have a copy of Max Eastman's poems, colours of life, a volume of treasures. I try to read them, but am too nervous. The type passes in parade, but I assimilate nothing, so I prepare to sleep and be in good shape for the morning. But that is also impossible.

I am beyond sleep to-night now. I am in something new, something pregnant with expectation. The immediate future is too alluring for sleep.

How shall I be received in England? What sort of a trip shall I have? Whom shall I meet on board? The thoughts chased one another round my brain and back again, all running into one another in their rambling.

I get up at one o'clock. Decide to read again. This time H. G. Wells's Outline of History. Impossible! It doesn't register. I try to force it by reading aloud. It can't be done. The tongue can't cheat the brain, and right now reading is out of the question.

I get up and go to see if Knoblock is in. He sleeps audibly and convincingly. He is not making his debut.

I go back to my room. I rather feel sorry for myself. If only the Turkish baths were open I could while a few hours of time away until morning. Thus I mediate. The last thing I remember it is four o'clock in the morning and the next thing eleven-thirty. I can hear a great bit of excitement going on outside my cabin door. There are a lot of little children there with autograph books. I tell them that I will sign them later and have them leave the books with my secretary, Tom Harrington.

There is a composite squeal of pleasure at this and a sickening fear comes over me. I call Tom. He enters amid a raft of autograph books. I start to sign, then postpone it until after breakfast.

Knoblock comes in all refreshed and with that radiant sort of cheerfulness that I resent in the morning. Am I going to get up for lunch or will I have it in my cabin? There is a pleading lethargy that says, "Take it in bed," but I cannot overcome the desire to explore and the feeling of expectancy of something about to happen—I was to see somebody or meet somebody—so I decide to have luncheon in the dining-room. I am giving myself the emotional stimulus. Nothing comes off. We meet nobody.

After lunch a bit of exercise. We run around the deck for a couple of miles. It brings back thoughts of the days when I ran in Marathon races. I feel rather self-conscious, however, as I am being pointed out by passengers. With each lap it gets worse. If there was only a place where I could run with nobody looking. We finally stop and lean against the rail.

All the stewards are curious. They are trying to pick me out. I notice it and pretend not to notice it. I go up into the gymnasium and look around. There is every contrivance to give joy to healthy bodies. And best of all, nobody else is there. Wonderful!

I try the weights, the rowing machine, the travelling rings, punch the bag a bit, swing some Indian clubs, and leap to the trapeze. Suddenly the place is packed. News travels quickly aboard ship. Some come for the purpose of exercising, like myself; others out of curiosity to watch me perform. I grow careless. I don't care to go through with it. I put on my coat and hat and go to my room, finding that the old once-discarded "prop" smile is useful as I make my way through the crowd.

At four o'clock we have tea. I decide that the people are interesting. I love to meet so many. Perhaps they are the same ones I hated to see come into the gym, but I feel no sense of being paradoxical. The gymnasium belongs to individuals. The tea-room suggests and invites social intercourse. Somehow there are barriers and conventionalities that one cannot break, for all the vaunted "freedom of shipboard." I feel it's a sort of awkward situation. How is it possible to meet people on the same footing? I hear of it, I read of it, but somehow I cannot meet people myself and stay myself.

I immediately shift any blame from myself and decide that the first-class passengers are all snobs. I resolve to try the second-class or the third-class. Somehow I can't meet these people. I get irritable and decide deliberately to seek the other classes of passengers and the boat crew.

Another walk around the deck. The salt air makes me feel good in spite of my mental bothers. I look over the rail and see other passengers, second or third class, and in one large group the ship's firemen and stokers. They are the night force come on deck for a breath of air between working their shifts in the hellish heat below.

They see and recognise me. To their coal-blackened faces come smiles. They shout "Hooray!" "Hello, Charlie!" Ah, I am discovered. But I tingle all over with pleasure. As those leathery faces crack into lines through the dust I sense sincerity. There is a friendly feeling. I warm to them.

There is a game of cricket going on. That's intriguing. I love cricket. Wish I could try my hand at it. Wish there was enough spontaneity about first-cabin passengers to start a game. I wish I wasn't so darn self-conscious. They must have read my thoughts. I am invited timidly, then vociferously, to play a game. Their invitation cheers me. I feel one of them. A spirit of adventure beckons. I leap over the rail and right into the midst of it.

I carry with me into the steerage just a bit of self-consciousness—there are so many trying to play upon me. I am looked upon as a celebrity, not a cricket player. But I do my part and try and we get into the game. Suddenly a motion-picture camera man bobs up from somewhere. What leeches! He snaps a picture. This gets sickening.

One of the crew has hurriedly made himself up as "Charlie Chaplin." He causes great excitement. This also impresses me. I find myself acting a part, looking surprised and interested. I am conscious of the fact that this thing has been done many times before. Then on second thought I realise it is all new to them and that they mean well, so I try to enter into the spirit of the thing. There comes a pause in the cricket game. Nobody is very much interested in it.

I find that I have been resurrected again in character and am the centre of attraction. There are calls, "What have you done with your moustache?" I look up with a grin and ready to answer anything they ask, these chaps who labour hard and must play the same way. But I see that hundreds of first-class passengers are looking down over the rail as though at a side show. This affects my pride, though I dare say I am supersensitive. I have an idea that they think I am "Charlie" performing for them. This irritates me. I throw up my hands and say, "See you to-morrow."

One of the bystanders presents himself. "Charlie, don't you remember me?" I have a vague recollection of his face, but cannot place him.

Now I have it, of course; we worked in some show together. Yes, I can actually place him. He has a negative personality. I remember that he played a small part, a chorus man or something of the sort. This brings back all sorts of reminiscences, some depressing and others interesting. I wonder what his life has been. I remember him now very plainly. He was a bad actor, poor chap. I never knew him very well even when we worked in the same company. And now he is stoking in the hold of a ship. I think I know what his emotions are and understand the reasons. I wonder whether he understands mine.

I try to be nice, even though I discover the incident is not over interesting. But I try to make it so—try harder just because he never meant a great deal before. But now it seems to take on a greater significance, the meeting with this chap, and I find myself being extra nice to him, or at least trying to be.

Darn it all, the first-class passengers are looking on again, and I will not perform for them. They arouse pride, indignation. I have decided to become very exclusive on board. That's the way to treat them.

It is five o'clock. I decide to take a Turkish bath. Ah, what a difference travelling first class after the experience in the steerage!

There is nothing like money. It does make life so easy. These thoughts come easily in the luxury of a warm bath. I feel a little more kindly disposed toward the first-cabin passengers. After all, I am an emotional cuss.

Discover that there are some very nice people on board. I get into conversation with two or three. They have the same ideas about lots of things that I have. This discovery gives me a fit of introspection and I discover that I am, indeed, a narrow-minded little pinhead.

What peculiar sights one sees in a Turkish bath. The two extremes, fat and thin, and so seldom a perfect physique. I am a discovered man—even in my nakedness. One man will insist upon showing me how to do a hand balance in the hot room. Also a somersault and a back flip. It challenges my nimbleness. Can I do them? Good heavens—no! I'm not an acrobat, I'm an actor. I am indignant.

Then he points out the value of regular exercise, outlining for my benefit a daily course for me to do aboard. I don't want any daily course and I tell him so.

"But," says he, "if you keep this up for a week you may be able to do the stunts I do."

But I can't see it even with that prospect ahead, because to save my life I can't think of any use I would have for the hand balance, somersault, or the back flip.

I meet another man who has manœuvred until he has me pinned in a corner. He shows a vital interest in Theda Bara. Do I know her? What sort of a person is she? Does she "vamp" in real life? Do I know Louise Glaum? He sort of runs to the vampish ladies. Do I know any of the old-timers? So his conversation goes depressingly on, with me answering mostly in the negative.