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* T A Y L O R O L O G Y *
* A Continuing Exploration of the Life and Death of William Desmond Taylor *
* *
* Issue 46 -- October 1996 Editor: Bruce Long bruce@asu.edu *
* TAYLOROLOGY may be freely distributed *
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CONTENTS OF THIS ISSUE:
Flashes of Charlie Chaplin
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What is TAYLOROLOGY?
TAYLOROLOGY is a newsletter focusing on the life and death of William Desmond
Taylor, a top Paramount film director in early Hollywood who was shot to
death on February 1, 1922. His unsolved murder was one of Hollywood's major
scandals. This newsletter will deal with: (a) The facts of Taylor's life;
(b) The facts and rumors of Taylor's murder; (c) The impact of the Taylor
murder on Hollywood and the nation; (d) Taylor's associates and the Hollywood
silent film industry in which Taylor worked. Primary emphasis will be given
toward reprinting, referencing and analyzing source material, and sifting it
for accuracy.
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During the years Taylor was in Hollywood, no silent film star had greater
universal appeal than Charlie Chaplin. The following items give some insight
into Chaplin during the silent film era. (For more information in TAYLOROLOGY
regarding Chaplin, see issues 36 and 37.)
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
January 16, 1915
Clarence J. Caine
MOTOGRAPHY
Charles Chaplin in a Serious Mood
You, who have laughed at his antics--and there are many of you--will
pardon me for introducing Charles Chaplin, comedian-producer of the Essanay
Film Manufacturing Company. The pardon is asked because most of you have met
"the funny man of the films" via the screen route, and once you have met him
it is not likely you will forget him, for he is one of those rare comedians
who causes a smile to appear on the face of the most cynical critic every
time his funny "stunts" are recalled.
He arrived in Chicago the latter part of last week, in company with
"Broncho Billy" Anderson and will remain at the Essanay studios in that city
indefinitely, producing his inimitable farce comedies which have proved such
a drawing card for exhibitors in all parts of the world. He seldom moved as
fast while on the screen as he did during the first few days of his stay in
the Windy City. "Charlie" was wanted here and "Charlie" was wanted there,
from the time he arrived in the studio in the morning until he left at night.
Therefore it was a rather difficult task to catch him, but I finally managed
to corner him in the advertising department of the big studio on Argyle
street for an interview.
"A funny thing about my work before the public," he said in reply to a
question about his work, "is that my greatest desire when I adopted the stage
as a profession, was to become a leading man--one who would be called before
the footlights several times after every curtain. It was only the usual
ambition of a comedian to attain the sublime, I suppose, but it took me a
long time to become reconciled to the fact that I was best fitted for comic
work.
"I toured England and the continent for several years before coming to
America. My first visit to this side of the water was made while I was
playing the lead in a pantomime production, 'A Night in an English Music
Hall.' It was my work in this production that attracted the attention of
Mack Sennett and when an opening occurred in the Keystone forces he wired
east for me. As I had appeared under several names, much difficulty was
experienced in getting in touch with me, but finally I received their offer.
I at once had visions of myself as a screen hero, hurling villains over
cliffs and rescuing fair heroines from a thousand varieties of unknown
danger. I was sure that I had forever shaken the 'comedy' hoodoo off.
"It was a sad blow when I arrived in Los Angeles and learned that
instead of being a hero I was to be the thing I had grown to detest--
a funmaker. I was very dissatisfied for a few weeks, but slowly I began to
realize that there was some attraction in the film work which was lacking on
the stage. In less than a month my fascination for it entirely overcame my
prejudice and I threw myself into the work with my whole heart."
"Do you know to what extent the popularity of your comedies has
reached?" I queried.
"No," he frankly replied, "but I have been told that they are quite
amusing. I often wonder if the people sitting in a theater realize the
immense amount of thought we put into our efforts or the depth of screen
psychology."
Yes, friend reader, the care-free vision that "skates" into a scene on
one foot or that throws pies at his "opponents," is really a serious thinking
young man. Young because it was only 25 years ago that he was introduced to
this life, England being the first country to be honored by his presence.
"I have a distinct theory regarding farces," continued the laugh-getter,
"and one which, to my mind, meets with public favor. I believe that a plot
which could easily become a dramatic subject, but which is treated in an
amusing manner and which burlesques events of daily life, with which the
average person is familiar, depending principally upon its humorous action
for laughs, is the one to make a successful farce comedy. There are many
things in farces which I do not favor. I believe I have been ridiculed for
some of my actions, but whatever I have done has been unintentional I am
sure, for my one object in life now is to amuse, and to do it in a clean way.
Many persons see a subject on the screen and say that such-and-such a thing
should be done this way or that. They do not realize that we do things on
the spur of the moment and that our minds are under a constant strain, for we
must concentrate on our work from morning till night."
He paused again and I asked him if there was anything he would like to
tell our readers.
"Just say that I am doing my best to please them and that I hope my
releases under the Essanay banner will be as agreeable to them as my past
work. And say! Tell them that I'm just a fellow, a human being like they
are and that I enjoy almost everything that is enjoyable."
He said that he was just a fellow, but I would like to add the adjective
"regular" before "fellow," for Charlie Chaplin is just as likable in real
life as he is funny on the screen.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
February 13, 1915
MOVING PICTURE WORLD
Charlie Chaplin is back from the east and has gone up to Niles to work
in funnies for his company. He said, according to a local paper, that the
"east is too damned cold for me."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
April 1, 1916
Frank Wiltermood
MOVING PICTURE WORLD
...In an hour's talk I had with Charlie Chaplin some time ago I asked
him many questions about his art, and he said that most all his actions in a
comedy are copied from real life, from people whom he has met in his travels,
ranging all the way from a purse-proud millionaire to a tip-seeking barber.
"My leaden-foot walk," he stated, "typifies the sore feet of an almost
penniless upstart trying to pose as an aristocratic swell, while my attempted
smug complacency under the most adverse rebuffs characterizes concurrently
that usual human trait that is seen everywhere, in a stranded race track tout
or bootblack, to try to appear clever and superior to moneyless surroundings.
I am constantly studying people I meet, to note their personal
idiosyncrasies, and whenever I see any antics that impress me as being comic
I mark the eccentricities in my mind and practice them at the studio so as to
bring laughs to theater-goers, hence the greater part of my acting is
borrowed from real human characters."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Divorce Testimony of Mildred Harris Chaplin
December 26, 1920
AMERICAN WEEKLY
DIRECT EXAMINATION.
QUESTION BY LAWYER GILBERT--State your name in full, please.
ANSWER BY MRS. MILDRED HARRIS CHAPLIN--Mildred Harris Chaplin.
Q.--How old are you, Mrs. Chaplin?
A.--Nineteen.
Q.--How long have you been living in California?
A.--Since I was seven years old.
Q.--When were you married?
A.--October 23, 1918.
Q.--When did you and Mr. Chaplin become separated, finally?
A.--A year ago this coming February.
Q.--Were there any children by this marriage?
A.--One boy.
Q.--Is it living or dead?
A.--Dead.
Q.--You say you were married when you were seventeen years of age?
A.--Yes.
Q.--With whom had you lived prior to that time?
A.--My mother.
Q.--Did she keep you constantly under her care?
A.--She did.
Q.--What was the course of conduct which your mother pursued toward you
insofar as caring for you and your education and matters of that kind?
A.--Mother had always sent me to school and I started in motion pictures
when I was twelve years old and mother had a teacher for me.
Q.--What has been the general condition of your health ever since, whether
you are strong physically or otherwise?
A.--I have always been quite healthy; I have never been terribly strong,
and I have had a few spells of illness, but never very serious outside of
scarlet fever. I was not very strong when I was married.
Q.--You mean by that you have been generally healthy but frail?
A.--Yes.
Q.--Your mother's treatment toward you, you say, was always very excellent?
A.--Very sweet and very lovely.
Q.--How old was Mr. Chaplin at the time he married you?
A.--Twenty-nine.
Q.--You allege in your complaint that for the first period of four months
after you were married your marriage was kept a secret. At whose suggestion
was that?
A.--Mr. Chaplin's.
Q.--Did he give you any reason for it?
A.--Only that he did not want it known on account of professional reasons,
and other reasons he did not care to tell me.
Q.--You allege in your complaint that a short time after you were married,
about four weeks, you became seized with a spell of illness, nervous
prostration. Just tell the court about that.
A.--About four weeks, or perhaps a little less, after we were married, I
was taken quite ill with fainting spells, and the doctor said I would have to
go to the hospital.
Q.--Did you go?
A.--Yes.
Q.--Was that when the marriage became public?
A.--Yes.
Q.--Now, after the marriage became public, Mrs. Chaplin, just tell the
court in your own way about the course of treatment Mr. Chaplin adopted
toward you after that time?
A.--Well, after I was taken out of the hospital I had to stay in bed until
Christmas, Christmas Eve, and the doctor sent a nurse home with me, and Mr.
Chaplin got us a home up in Laughlin Park, and I had to stay in bed until
Christmas Eve, and that was the first time I was down after I got out of the
hospital. And Christmas afternoon--I mean the day before Christmas, Mr.
Chaplin told me that he would be home and have dinner with me and help me
trim the Christmas tree, and I had had mother get all the Christmas presents.
I was not able to get up and I had always thought a great deal of Christmas,
and that evening, I dressed and went downstairs and waited for him, and he
did not come home. And I waited until 11 o'clock, and he did not come, so I
trimmed the tree and mother helped me and then I went to bed and stayed awake
until about two or three, and Mr. Chaplin came home about three o'clock.
Q.--What occurred?
A.--And when he came home he came upstairs and was very angry at me for
buying so many Christmas presents and making such a time over Christmas.
Q.--Then what occurred?
A.--Then the next day was Christmas Day, and he would not get up all
Christmas morning, and I went downstairs and took him up his presents and he
was very angry at me for making so much over Christmas.
Q.--What would he say? What did he say?
A.--Well, he said it was very foolish and that he did not believe in such
things and that I should not be so silly over Christmas and over having
presents and liking such things.
Q.--Now, then, you allege that after that Christmas evening he began a
course of conduct toward you of absenting himself from home. Tell the court
about that.
A.--In February the doctor said I had to go up to Mt. Lowe for my health.
I kept getting worse and worse and I couldn't eat, so the doctor sent me up
to Mt. Lowe.
Q.--You were in bad shape physically at that time, as I understand it?
A.--Yes, sir.
Q.--Go ahead.
A.--I went to Mt. Lowe and Mr. Chaplin would not go with me; he said he had
to go away to think, and hat to be away from me for a while. I begged him to
go with me, but he would not go, so he went to Coronado.
Q.--With whom?
A.--With his secretary, and stayed down there a few days.
Q.--About three weeks, you say?
A.--He stayed a few days, and then he came back to his house. I could not
stand it any longer, so I went down to the city to ask him if he would come
up with me to Mt. Lowe for one day, and he said he would not come.
Q.--He said he would not come?
A.--Yes. So I took quite ill and threatened to do everything in the world
if he would not come up with me one day, so he went up with me for one day
and said he had to go right down; that he could just stay that day.
Q.--He got up there at what time in the morning?
A.--He went up in the evening and he went down the next morning.
Q.--Then how long before you saw him the next time?
A.--Then he went back to Coronado.
Q.--Well, how long did he remain there?
A.--He stayed a couple of weeks.
Q.--Were you ill all the time you were at Mt. Lowe?
A.--Yes.
Q.--Who was with you?
A.--Mother was with me.
Q.--Now, on this Christmas evening you have told about, the first Christmas
evening after your marriage in October, you had invited your friends there to
the house, had you?
A.--No, I had not; Mr. Chaplin had all his own friends; he did not want me
to have mine.
Q.--Then, you allege, that he came home about what time on Christmas
morning?
A.--It was about two-thirty or three.
Q.--Two-thirty or three. Then, on Christmas morning what occurred?
A.--He stayed in bed all day until four o'clock; he wouldn't go downstairs
with me to see the tree. I took him his presents.
Q.--Did he abuse you?
A.--He was very angry at me for making so much over Christmas.
Q.--What did he say?
A.--He said it was very foolish and wasn't right to make so much or for me
to like presents and foolish things; that it was not his idea to have
Christmas or celebrate Christmas; he had never done it.
Q.--You allege in your complaint that you had always had girl friends of
approximately your own age as companions?
A.--Yes, sir.
Q.--What condition existed after you were married with reference to whether
or not he would permit your friends to come and visit you?
A.--He did not like them; he didn't think that I should see them; he
thought I should like his friends and be more studious.
Q.--What did he say or do with reference to your friends if he should find
them in his house or the house, what was his conduct toward them?
A.--He was not nice to them; he wouldn't come home if I had them.
Q.--When you had your friends he would refuse to come to the house if he
found it out?
A.--Yes, sir.
Q.--How often did that occur, Mrs. Chaplin?
A.--All the time; he would never tell me when he would be home; he said he
had to be free to live his own life and do as he pleased.
Q.--Now, on that Christmas did he give you any present or token of any
kind?
A.--No.
Q.--Was he earning money in considerable amount at that time?
A.--Yes, sir.
Q.--He made you no present whatever?
A.--No, sir.
Q.--What was your condition at that time of your trip to Mt. Lowe?
A.--I was expecting to be a mother.
Q.--And he knew that?
A.--Yes, sir.
Q.--At that time did you have a contract with the Universal Film Company
for your services?
A.--I did.
Q.--Tell the court about that with reference to his insisting on your
working when you were unable to work.
A.--Well, when we were married Mr. Chaplin told me he wanted me to break
the contract with the Universal, because he did not want me working with
them. So, when I was in the hospital, after I was first taken ill, I sent a
written notice that I would not be with them any more and I was under age.
My lawyer told me we could break the contract. Then, in February, when I
came back from Mt. Lowe, they had been sending me my check each week, and I
had been sending them back and they would not return them again, but I had
not cashed any. In February a friend of mine, Miss Sweet, asked me to go to
New York with her when I came back from Mt. Lowe, and Mr. Chaplin had been
away so long, and when he came back he said it would do me good to go to New
York, so I went with her. But he wouldn't give me but $150, and when I got
East I bought a lot of baby clothes and some baby furniture and a few other
things, and I did not have enough money and I wired for more money. But he
would not send me any more, so I wired mother to please cash one of my
checks.
Q.--That was the check that would reaffirm your contract with the Universal
people, which he advised you to break.
A.--Yes, sir.
Q.--Did you advise him with reference to your circumstances?
A.--Yes.
Q.--Did you advise him that you expected to purchase some furniture for the
expected child?
A.--Yes, sir.
Q.--And he declined to send you any money at all?
A.--Yes.
Q.--And he was making approximately $6,000 or $7,000 a month at that time?
A.--More than that.
Q.--You mentioned the furniture. You say there was an arrangement made
about some furniture for the baby's room?
A.--Before I went East Mr. Chaplin said I could get a set of furniture for
my room up in our home, because it was very dark.
Q.--That was the room in which you were to be confined?
A.--Yes, sir; my own room. So, I bought it at Barker Brothers, and when I
got back from New York the room was all furnished in the new furniture, and
he took me up to see it, and I was very happy about it and he seemed to be
quite pleased, but when the bill came he refused to pay it. He said it was
too expensive and that I should send it back.
Q.--Did you sent it back?
A.--No, sir.
Q.--What did you do?
A.--I really wanted it so badly that I went to Barker Brothers and asked
them if I might pay so much a week or a month on it.
Q.--Out of your own funds?
A.--Yes, sir.
Q.--Did you advise Mr. Chaplin you would arrange it that way?
A.--Yes.
Q.--What did he say?
A.--He said it was very foolish to do that, and that I had better send it
back. And I told him I really wanted it so bad. Then he wouldn't talk to me
any more about it. So, I paid for it by the week.
Q.--Would he decline to discuss it with you?
A.--Yes, he stayed away for about six weeks at that time and I could not
see him at all.
Q.--Why did he stay away?
A.--Miss Sweet gave a little party when we got back for Mr. Chaplin and me
and he would not go. He said he didn't think--he didn't want to go out and
didn't think I should go out. So I went with Miss Sweet and her friend and
he didn't come home the next morning, and I called him and he stayed away for
about six weeks.
Q.--Did he give you any reason why he stayed away?
A.--No; he said I had disgraced him by going out.
Q.--Now, you allege that at the time you and the defendant began to live
together it was agreed that he was to furnish $50 per week for your personal
use and expenses. Tell the court about that.
A.--When we were married he promised to give me $50 a week to take care of
mother and myself, but after I was married about three months he started to
give it to me every two weeks, and then when I would ask for it, he wouldn't
give me a check for it.
Q.--Did the Barker Brothers' bill include any furniture for Mr. Chaplin's
own room?
A.--Yes; drapes and pillows.
Q.--Did he pay for that?
A.--No.
Q.--Would you buy anything for Mr. Chaplin himself?
A.--On Christmas I bought him a silver set for his dresser; I bought him a
great many things. I bought him--
Q.--His personal clothing and things of that kind, did you?
A.--Yes; socks.
Q.--Describe what you bought for him.
A.--I bought all his handkerchiefs and socks and pajamas and ties.
Q.--Did he pay for them or did you?
A.--I did.
Q.--Did you pay for it out of your own earnings?
A.--Yes, sir.
Q.--Did you ask him to pay and did he refuse?
A.--No; I wanted to give them to him.
Q.--Now, Mrs. Chaplin, all the time of these difficulties that you have
outlined, were you trying as best you could, were you in love with him deeply
at that time?
A.--I was.
Q.--Were you trying as best you could to do the things that would make you
attractive to him and make his home life comfortable?
A.--Yes, sir.
Q.--And you have testified that he stayed away from home about six weeks,
refusing to come home?
A.--Yes.
Q.--What effect did that have on you?
A.--I was taken quite ill while he was staying away and had fainting spells
and the doctor had to put me to bed every month for about a week or two. I
was very, very ill.
Q.--Now, you allege that subsequent to the time that you went to--went out
some place, Mr. Chaplin employed some detectives to watch you?
A.--Yes, sir.
Q.--Tell the court about that.
A.--Well, I understood that after the first night that I went out, from
that time on Mr. Chaplin hired detectives to watch me.
Q.--What effect did that have on your mind?
A.--Well, it made me very nervous, I think.
Q.--You allege that subsequent to that time and after he secured the
detectives he declined to "re-enter the home of the plaintiff or defendant at
all" and refused to talk to you over the telephone?
A.--Yes.
Q.--Tell the court about that.
A.--I called him and tried to see him; I went down to the club and would
call him and he would not come down.
Q.--Where were his personal belongings? Had he removed them to the club?
A.--Yes.
Q.--You did get to see him?
A.--I went to his studio and took him birthday presents on April 16.
Q.--Tell the court what happened at that time.
A.--I cried and begged him to come back home and I fainted and he said that
I was acting silly and I had disgraced him and he didn't see why he should
come back.
Q.--Did you take him some presents?
A.--Yes; I took him quite a few presents; I took him a gold fountain pen
and gold shaving set and several other things and he seemed to be very happy.
Q.--Did you prepare a birthday dinner for him then?
A.--Yes; I told him I would prepare a little birthday party for him, and to
please come home. I had invited some friends, and he said he would try to
get home if he could arrange it. He thought he was going to be very busy.
Q.--What occurred?
A.--The night of his birthday I waited for him and he didn't come. The
next morning some one called me and said he was at the Ship Cafe with a party
of people giving a birthday party; he had a birthday party of his own.
Q.--He promised you he would come home to the birthday party and went to
the Ship Cafe to an entertainment provided for him by some other people?
A.--Yes.
Q.--Did he invite you to go or advise you he was going?
A.--No, sir.
Q.--When you heard he had declined to come home and eat birthday dinner
with you and had gone down to the Ship Cafe with some other people on a
birthday party, what effect did it have on you, Mrs. Chaplin.
A.--I was taken quite ill and the doctor came out and put me back to bed
and he sent the nurse out and they called Mr. Chaplin and told him he would
have to come out, that they thought I was going to lose the baby.
Q.--Did he come?
A.--Yes, sir; he came up.
Q.--He found the nurse and doctor and found you in bed when he got there.
What did he do?
A.--He said he was going to be different and, of course, I was not able to
go out then and had to stay in bed two or three weeks, sitting up in bed.
Q.--Did he remain with you?
A.--No; he came home early for a couple of evenings.
Q.--Then what occurred?
A.--Then he started going out again and coming home at two and three and
four in the morning.
Q.--Did you lie awake waiting for him to come?
A.--Yes, sir.
Q.--What was the reason?
A.--I was nervous up in this big house up on the hill.
Q.--Then what did he say while you were living at Laughlin Park, what did
he say with reference to coming down town and renting another house there?
A.--He said the rent was too much and he would not renew the lease; that we
would have to move down and take a place that was cheaper; that the bills
were too much.
Q.--Go ahead.
A.--And so the doctor said I might get up and I went down to look for a
house, a nice house, the only house I could find with a nursery, and he said
he would not pay over $250 a month, and this was the only large house I could
find, large enough for his servants, and the lady would not let me have it
for less than $300 a month. So I told him, and he said, well, he would not
pay it; if we could have it for $250 he would take it. I told the lady that
I would pay the balance and not to let him know it was more than $250. So I
paid $200 on the rent for six months.
Q.--Did he ever pay the full rent or leave you to pay it?
A.--No; I paid it for that period until the next lease.
Q.--You allege that during the time you were expecting the baby he agreed
to purchase an automobile. Did you have an automobile at that time?
A.--No, I did not; I was using taxi cabs from the Athletic Club, but he
objected to the bills.
Q.--Was it necessary in your condition for you to have some kind of vehicle
to ride in?
A.--It was.
Q.--What did he say to you with reference to buying you an automobile?
A.--Well, he said he was going to get me a nice car when the baby was born,
for the baby and I.
Q.--Did he own a car for himself at that time?
A.--Yes, and a chauffeur.
Q.--Did he tender you the use of his car?
A.--No; he said I would have the use of it, but I never did.
Q.--What was his method of talking to you? Was it kindly or otherwise?
A.--No; it was not kindly.
Q.--How long were you in the hospital; Mrs. Chaplin, after the baby was
born?
A.--Two weeks--three weeks.
Q.--When it became possible for you to be taken home from the hospital did
Mr. Chaplin come for you?
A.--No.
Q.--How did he arrange for you to get home?
A.--He sent his secretary and his chauffeur with this car, this second-hand
car he bought me.
Q.--He bought you a car, did he?
A.--No; he traded in his studio car of a second-hand car.
Q.--The present he gave you was a second-hand car, and when he sent for you
to come home, to be taken from the hospital, he sent his chauffeur and his
secretary?
A.--Yes.
Q.--The child had died, as I understand. Lived how long?
A.--Three days.
Q.--Now, Mrs. Chaplin, what time did he get home that night after you came
from the hospital, after--let me see if I understand?
A.--I had Steve and Ada phone and ask him if he would come home for dinner
with me, and he said he would, and he came home that evening and brought a
man with him, and I asked him--I could not stay downstairs, I was supposed to
stay upstairs for two weeks, so he was going to eat downstairs, and I asked
him if he would not come up and eat with me, and he said he would, and he and
this man came up and ate with me and he said he had to leave, that he had an
engagement.
Q.--What time did he get home that night?
A.--I don't remember.
Q.--This was the first night after you had been home after you had been
confined in the hospital, after you lost the baby that lived for two or three
days, and he came home and brought a strange man into the bedroom there, and
you had your meal and he went off that night and left you?
A.--Yes, sir.
Q.--Give us something about the following nights with reference to his
conduct.
A.--Then he started staying--he came home a couple of nights and then he
started going up to some friends in Beverly Hills and staying there.
Q.--How late would he stay?
A.--He would stay until very late, and sometimes he would stay all night.
Q.--Would he telephone you?
A.--No.
Q.--Did he ever, Mrs. Chaplin, when he would be out away from home and
leave you, did he ever telephone you to advise you he would not be there?
Would he call you and talk to you?
A.--No.
QUESTION BY JUDGE YORK.--Did he do any work at that time?
ANSWER BY MRS. CHAPLIN.--No; he was not working at all after the baby was
born; he didn't start to work--
QUESTION BY LAWYER GILBERT.--Now, a short time after you recovered from
your confinement, what suggestions did he make with reference to your going
to work again--what did he do with reference to insisting that you should go
to work.
ANSWER BY MRS. CHAPLIN.--After the baby had died I was to go to work, three
months after, if I was able. If not, I was to go to work as soon as I was
able to, and he said that he thought I had better go right to work as soon as
I could, because he wanted me to get my mind off of myself; I was thinking
too much about the baby and myself, and that I ought to go to work and get my
mind on something.
Q.--Were you really able to go to work at that time?
A.--No. The doctor said I was not.
Q.--Now, during those times that he was staying downtown at night while you
were visiting your friends and humiliating you by remaining away, did you try
to do your best to get him to change his way.
A.--Yes.
Q.--You have told about the first Christmas after you were married--tell
the court about your second Christmas.
A.--On the second Christmas he had been staying out in Beverly Hills, He
had been staying up there for quite a time and he would stay all night a good
deal up there because he had a very good time, and the second Christmas he
said he would be home and I invited some people, and on Christmas Eve he
phoned he would not be able to come home until about nine, but he sent some
presents home for the people.
Q.--Did he send you a present?
A.--No.
Q.--Go ahead.
A.--He didn't come. So these people left and he came home about four in
the morning. I waited up until about two and then I went to bed and sat up
in bed waiting for him.
Q.--Then, as I understand it, on the second Christmas night, after your
marriage, after he had promised to come home, he didn't come until about four
o'clock in the morning?
A.--Yes, sir.
Q.--What did he say when he came in?
A.--Well, he said he had been detained; that he had met some people and had
been talking with them.
Q.--Did you afterward ascertain where he had been?
A.--He had had dinner with a lady and gentleman at a little cafe on Fifth
street. I don't know where he had gone. I think afterwards he told me he
had been talking business.
Q.--Then, you allege in your complaint that after that time he then came
home and remained for about two weeks? What did he do then?
A.--I told him if he wouldn't take me out and wouldn't be different, if he
didn't want to live with me I would get a separation, and he said he would be
different and that he would try and be good and he took me out for a few
nights and then he went away and I was working then and I went away on
location. Before that he had not been home for about six weeks. He took
almost all of his clothes out to Beverly Hills and stayed there, and when I
got back after being away for about a week he had his man come and take all
of his clothes, and I called and tried to see him.
Q.--Would he see you?
A.--No. He stayed away and moved everything, and he told his man to tell
me he would not be back any more.
Q.--Did you get to see him any more?
A.--Yes. I called him and had him come to see me.
Q.--What did he say?
A.--Well, he said he knew that he did not want to live with me any more;
that he had tried to change me and make me live his way and be different, and
that he saw it was impossible and that I wasn't good and that he couldn't
trust me, and that I was--everything.
Q.--Then he did decline to live with you from that time until now?
A.--Yes, sir.
Q.--During this period of time, when he was giving you insufficient funds
to live upon, did you accumulate bills?
A.--Yes, sir.
Q.--Would Mr. Chaplin pay those bills?
A.--No, sir; he paid the house bills, he gave me a check each month for the
house bills, which Mr. Harrington deposited, and I drew out the checks for
the house.
Q.--So far as your clothing and your own bills, he declined--
A.--No, he gave me a couple of checks, these fifty-dollar checks; when I
was married he gave me a check for mother and I for $500 apiece, and I think
he gave me one check after that for $500.
Q.--That is all he gave you during the time you lived together?
A.--Yes, sir.
Q.--You allege in your complaint that you had been accustomed, during your
life, to mingle and be associated with people of refinement and people of
your own age. What would Mr. Chaplin do with reference to that?
A.--I had never gone out before until I met Mr. Chaplin; I never had been
out alone without mother. Mr. Lee knows that.
Q.--Now, when he finally left, what did he do with reference to his
personal belongings?
A.--He had Mr. Harrington come for everything; he was living up in Beverly
Hills with some friends. Then he moved to the Athletic Club.
Q.--During that period did he contribute anything to your support at all?
A.--No, sir; he sent word to every one that he would not be responsible for
any more of my bills, to all the stores where I had always paid my own bills.
Q.--You always, I believe, did you best to retain him, did you not, Mrs.
Chaplin?
A.--I did.
CROSS-EXAMINATION.
QUESTION BY LAWYER WRIGHT (attorney for Mr. Chaplin).--Mrs. Chaplin, you
say during the time of your marriage Mr. Chaplin earned large sums of money?
ANSWER BY MRS. CHAPLIN.--I said during the time of his marriage he had
large sums of money.
Q.--Not that he earned large sums of money?
A.--Well, yes; during the time of our marriage he sold two pictures, I
believe.
Q.--Didn't they cost him more to make than he got for them?
A.--I don't know; I am sure I don't know that they cost him as much as he
got for them; I know he gets a percentage besides what he gets for his
pictures.
Q.--Does your information that he has made large sums of money come from
statements he made or come from an examination you made of his records?
A.--My reference to that is from the First National.
BY LAWYER WRIGHT.--That is all.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
September 4, 1921
Louella Parsons
NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
The Real Charlie Chaplin
So deeply rooted is Charles Chaplin's aversion to being questioned by
reporters, it is doubtful if he would have expressed himself on any subject
if Nathan Burkan had not invited me to dine with Mr. Chaplin and himself. My
conversations with the comedian--when there is an interview in the offing--
usually start and end this way:
"Oh, you know what I think. Say what you like."
A terrible responsibility and one of the penalties of knowing the hero
in the story well enough to be fairly conversant with his ideas on socialism,
art and marriage. Still, when a man has the active, scintillating brain of
Charles Chaplin there is always fresh material, and it is always a source of
genuine regret to me he dislikes being questioned, and that I have to
remember his dislike of anything that borders on an interview.
But when one is a guest at a dinner party, seated next to the guest of
honor, there are many subjects that come up and many ideas that present
themselves, spontaneously and naturally, without any thought of being forced.
This is what happened at Mr. Burkan's dinner. We talked of everything under
the sun from divorces to Japanese literature. Charlie expressing himself on
each subject with an amazing aptitude and a knowledge of life learned from
experience and from his wide acquaintance with the books on philosophy,
science and literature.
"One of the newspapers this evening," said Mr. Burkan, "carried an
editorial on your desire to make serious plays. They quoted you as saying
you wanted one day to play 'Hamlet' or 'Beau Brummel' to eliminate your
comedy and devote your attention to something deeper."
"I wouldn't say serious plays," answered Mr. Chaplin. "I want to make
beautiful plays. I am eager to bring poetry to the screen such as we have
never had. My experiment with 'The Kid' taught me there is a limitless field
for the expression of poetry through the motion pictures."
If Mr. Chaplin expects to bring the beautiful into pictures he will have
to wait for several months. He sailed yesterday on the Olympic for a holiday
abroad, and he is looking forward to it with all the zest of a boy. After
nine years he is returning to his home town with fame and fortune. He left a
poor boy, he comes back the uncrowned king of comedy, the best known man in
the world and the favorite of the motion picture public from darkest Africa
to civilized England. He will visit his birthplace in France, take a look at
Seville, Spain, and rest in sunny Italy. He has no intention of thinking or
talking work--and if any one wants to be his Santa Claus they will just let
him enjoy his vacation in his own way. As for the repeated hints that Mr.
Chaplin will make a picture on Socialism there is nothing to it.
"Why should I bother with propaganda?" he asked. "I have no message to
deliver."
Charlie Chaplin is like a boy in many ways. He seems very young despite
his gray hairs acquired within the last year, and very appealing in his
repeated remark that he knows very little about women, that they frighten
him. His late matrimonial disaster evidently prompted these words. He is
very sensitive about his divorce and mentions it as one would speak of a
great holocaust or a terrible murder.
He is at his best when he is with the people who know and love him or
when he is talking with a child. A Japanese lad aged 13, Shijo Tamura, son
of the great Tamura, came up to Mr. Burkan's apartment to see Mr. Chaplin.
The boy is a prodigy and will one day rival his gifted father and his mother,
who is an actress in her own country. He has written several books in long
hand and illustrated them with drawings. Charlie sat down on the divan next
to the boy and talked with him on his ambitions, his impressions of America
and what he intended to be when he reaches manhood. The child, fearless and
frank in his conversation, captivated the comedian, who spoke of Shijo as one
of the most remarkable children he had ever met.
T. Yoshida, a Japanese photographer, was so intrigued with his young
countryman's brilliant dissertation he insisted upon making a picture of the
boy and Mr. Chaplin. He likewise photographed our host and Mr. Chaplin. The
picture on this page is by T. Yoshida, who stayed up half the night to get it
ready for The Morning Telegraph.
While we were waiting for the smoke to clear out so we could dine and
get to the theatre, the janitor came in on some pretext or another. Seeing
his hero, he beamed and said:
"Hello, Charlie."
This informal greeting did not embarrass the much-sought-after comedian,
who put out his hand in a most democratic fashion and said, "How are you?"
It is these little unaffected ways that makes Mr. Chaplin the
fascinating person he is. Unspoiled, lacking in conceit and with the
discrimination of an artist, he is a genius. There is something lovable
about him, more so because, despite his fame and his enviable position in the
world, he is pathetic. To explain that pathos would be difficult, but it is
there and refuses to leave even when he is at his merriest and his eyes
twinkle over some bon mot or other.
Our conversation was very serious. Most people believe because a man is
a comedian on the stage or the screen he should bring his humor with him
wherever he goes. Mr. Chaplin is much more at ease discussing Freud,
Shakespeare, Neitschi or Lloyd George's latest message to the Irish than he
is in discussing custard pie tactics. Any actor who believes Charlie Chaplin
is an accident should hear him talk; he has the mentality of a giant, and is
without a shadow of a doubt as brilliant as any man with whom I have ever
talked.
Our dinner party broke up with Charlie and Mr. Burkan rushing to see
"Liliom" while I made tracks for the Plymouth to see Marjorie Rambeau's
opening.
"I want to see the heaven in 'Liliom'," said Mr. Chaplin. "It has
always been one of my favorite subjects."
"Is that why you featured heaven in 'The Kid'?" he was asked.
"One reason," he answered.
And the last I saw of him was at the entrance to the Fulton Theatre,
with the doorman hastening to get a better look. And come to think of it
Charlie does have his troubles with photographers, reporters and a constant
mob trying just to look at him. But wait until he reaches Paris--the town
will go mad with the real Charles to entertain.
We will hear all about it when he comes back.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Chaplin in Paris
September 20, 1921
NEW YORK HERALD (Paris Edition)
Charlie Hunts up His Old Haunts
Charlie Chaplin, the king of mirthmakers, has at last found that which
he came to Europe to seek--a simple rest. This was true up till late last
night, but whether he will be allowed to continue to exist in this pleasant
state during the remainder of his stay in Paris is another question. Charlie
was successful enough in coming from London to Paris incognito, and yesterday
morning there were few Parisians who knew at which hotel the secretive
Charlie was stopping--even after they had read their journals vaguely
announcing that he was somewhere in the avenue des Champs Elysees.
Charlot, as the French know him, was therefore permitted to rest
unperturbed in his apartment at Claridge's Hotel until noon yesterday, even
the French reporters having taken the comedian's gentle hint not to call on
him at an early hour. It was past eleven o'clock before the first newspaper
man appeared, and he was politely but firmly told that M. Charlot was asleep
and would probably not be ready for an interview before one o'clock.
So the newspaper tribe quietly foregathered in the hallway facing
Charlie's apartment to make sure that he did not get out incognito, and here
they were content to listen to Mr. Carlyle Robinson, Charlie's manager, who
told interesting tales of the comedian's wanderings the night before,
particularly his visit to the Folies-Bergere, where he used to appear before
the footlights some ten years ago.
While Mr. Robinson was thus discoursing, the elevator door opened and a
visitor, who proved to be Mr. Dudley Field Malone, walked straight into
Charlie's abode, leaving the newspaper men gasping that they should be thus
beaten at their own game. But within a few moments came an invitation for
everyone to enter. Inside the drawing room, Charlie was standing near his
bedroom door, attired in a blue silk dressing gown partly revealing yellow
pyjamas. Charlie had evidently had his usual amount of sleep, for he was all
smiles as he shook hands with each of his guests and assured them that he was
pleased to see them. In the absence of his famous derby hat, there was
revealed a healthy growth of curly, jet black hair, and instead of the
familiar little moustache one saw a smooth-shaven face, which made it
somewhat hard to realise that it was Charlie of filmland.
Once seated, Charlie asked the reporters to fire away, and this they
did, until at last Mr. Malone warned them that they had consumed just about
all his limited time. "How do I like Paris? Well, I'm always fascinated
with Paris," Charlie responded to the first bombardment.
Charlie then talked of his wanderings in Paris the night before. He
said that he was very much disappointed to find many of the old places
changed. His favorite little cafe, near the Folies-Bergere, was no longer to
be found, and neither was the cabaret from which he once fled after a mix-up,
in which his funny feet became somewhat involved.
At one moment the interview was interrupted, as a startled-looking, red
headed young man was ushered in. Glancing nervously about him, he asked with
a French accent: "Where is Charlot?" As Charlot stood up, he planted
himself squarely in front of the comedian and in broken English began an
effusive discourse, which he had apparently memorised in advance. "My dear
Charlie, is it really you?" he questioned. "I am so glad to see you,
Charlie. We have been waiting so long for you. Now, I do hope you like
Paris. Paris is such a wonderful city, you know. And, dear Charlie, you
must visit our shows. But you look so funny, Charlie. Where is your
moustache? And where is your hat? And how long are you going to stay in
Paris? And where do you go now, my dear Charlie! You must be so tired."
Charlie stood it as best he could, but it was too much for the
risibilities of the newspaper men. They retreated to the end of the room,
where, by the aid of handkerchiefs, they stifled their laughter and the
congeal plight of "dear" besieged Charlie. Then they came to his aid by
shaking hands with him, as they took their leave and filed out.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
September 22, 1921
NEW YORK HERALD (Paris Edition)
Charlot Cheers Rive Gauche Crowds;
Then Holds Wassail in Montmarte
A taxi drew up by the Cafe de la Rotonde and some newcomers took
possession of a terrace table, ordered bocks, lighted cigarettes and
nonchalantly surveyed the other tables, the moon, and the world in general so
far as it entered within their vision. One of the men wore a lightist tan
overcoat and a soft velours hat pulled low on his forehead, and it was when
he suddenly removed this head covering and ran a hand over his black hair
with a gesture of contentment that events began to take a turn out of the
usual.
"For heaven's sake, Charlie, keep that hat on if you want to stay incog.
here," admonished the other man in his party. The velour was hastily jerked
back into position, and the man called "Charlie" slunk down just as far as he
could into his coat collar. But it was too late. "Oh, Charlot! c'est
Charlot!" screamed a young Parisienne, fixing worshipful eyes on the hapless
comedian, and then beginning a triumphal rush that ended in ignominious
retreat under guard of a watchful waiter.
In the end, however, the people won, and the waiters had to surrender.
Round the section where the action was taking place there was suddenly a
solid, high wall of humanity, largely supported by such tottery foundations
as tables and chairs. In the centre sat Charlie, trying to see what the
Latin Quarter is like. There was no way to improve the situation, so he took
it with a smile, had a handshake for the acquaintances and friends of
acquaintances who felt entitled to the attention, and a genuine bit of
consolation when he discovered in the crowd Miss Iris Tree, daughter of Sir
Herbert Tree.
"Isn't it extraordinary, astonishing?" he asked once when he found the
space around him rapidly contracting, merely because everyone wanted to look
at him. "I think I will open a chain of restaurants and eat on exhibition.
Or I might go to restaurants and cafes on a commission basis. Tonight
reminds me of the day I arrived in Paris. Once the police shoved me into the
sidelines to make room for myself to go past. My French was not adequate to
the situation, but fortunately I was rescued. Next thing I knew I was in a
taxi with a strange man. I asked him where he came from and where he was
going, and he said: 'I don't know; I just got pushed here.'
"I say, Dudley, let's leave this place and go somewhere quiet now," was
Charlie's next remark addressed to Mr. Dudley Field Malone, with whom he took
dinner at the Tour d'Argent and started the night under the auspicious
influence of good roast duck. But his companions disillusioned him. "This
is a quiet place, Charlie. You should have seen how calm, how almost bored
everyone was until you came." He accepted, ate with his usual good humor and
was let to the Petit Napolitain next door to see the pictures exposed there,
and at his heels came all Montparnasse, and ahead of him departed all
semblance of peace and quiet.
"My idea is don't let's walk where we go." Charlie caught sight of the
friendly retreat offered by a taxi when he finally emerged, and he made a
dash for it. "Oh, vous allez partir; e'est pas gentil!" "Hang around here!"
"Resiez ici, Charlot!" the chorus of shouts went up. "Signez, signez!"
pleaded one man, standing on the running-board with paper and pencil in his
hand. Roses fell in the car. A kiss hit the mark from somewhere, and the
kind of the films rolled triumphantly down the boulevard du Montparnasse.
"Nice, everything turned out just as we hoped. I feel sure no one
recognised us," Charlie laughed. And then: "I wonder what they want me to
do, anyway! I would like to know what they want," he said seriously to his
companions.
The Latin Quarter probably relapsed into utter drabness. Charlie
continued to enjoy himself. On and on he went to that other part of Paris
called Montmartre, and in the wake of the taxi there were snatches of gay
songs drifting through the dark streets; then came a hill and a splutter from
the engine and a choke with the air of finality about it.
"Il n'y a pas d'essence," beamed the driver, proud to have discovered
what was the trouble. "On ne peut pas marcher plus loin."
"Nice place to find it outz!" commented one of the occupants of the car,
regarding the isolated aspect of the landscape. But it was not the
philosophical Charlie. He had discovered an obscure little cafe and was
making for it. That is the kind he enjoys--"Where there is just room for a
few to go in," like some unnamed retreat where he watched the hours slip by
in company of Jacques Capeau and members of the Vieu Colombier, after
visiting the Medrano circus and the wonderful Italian clowns the other night,
or like some others of more ancient memory.
There were only three or four others who had the good fortune to be in
that little cafe and they either failed to recognise Charlot, or they were
resolved to allow him to have a good time. There was no camera and no crowd
to watch and he could follow his whims, to play the old piano, to sing a few
choice music-hall selections, to tip a straw hat jauntily over one eye and
promenade, with the gait of the Charlot on the screen combining oddly with
his immaculate tailormades.
There was one other scene worth looking on before Charlie decided to
call it a night and make his way back to his hotel. It is in the Lapin
Agile, high on the hill of the Sacre Coeur. Lights burn low in the room as
the hands of the clock go toward 2 o'clock. Round the wooden tables, leaning
against the rough stone walls, are not more than ten or twelve left from the
crowd of the evening. There a tall man stands up in the half light to play
wistful, crying melodies, play them it seems as never before with all the
fire of his Viennese blood and temper. A man stands there to recite a
dramatic poem in which he puts feeling and a wonderful voice that makes even
the knowledge of his French words unnecessary to understand him. Men sing
and play the banjo or guitar. Best of all, old "Frede" himself, the ancien
patron, with his flowing gray beard and his sixty odd years, plays and sings
and tells a few shrewd facts about art. And his face is happy while he pours
his best wine in honor of his guests.
In the midst of all this is Charlie Chaplin, moved and deeply content
because he is seeing a part of Paris that he wants to know. He orders wine
and more toasts are drunk, and then a huge tome is brought out and he affixes
his "trade mark," hat, moustache, stick and shoes, besides others that have
gone down there during many years. And he signs his name to pieces of paper
--until he comes to one offered by the Viennese violinist. "I am going to
wait until tomorrow and send a real letter," he decides. "There is something
more personal and sincere about it I think."
Charlie left for Berlin yesterday afternoon, but he expects to be back
in Paris on Thursday.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
[In 1925, Chaplin sued Charles Amador, a film comedian who was a "Chaplin
imitator" who used the film name "Charles Aplin." Chaplin took the witness
stand during that trial.]
February 20, 1925
Marjorie Driscoll
LOS ANGELES EXAMINER
...When Mr. Chaplin resumed his testimony...he was asked by Attorney Ben
Goldman, representing Amador, if in his opinion the public would be deceived
by the resemblance.
"Yes, I believe the public would be misled," said Mr. Chaplin. "That
is, in regard to the clothes and makeup. I don't know how close the
resemblance would seem otherwise."
Incidentally, during his final testimony, Mr. Chaplin set at rest rumors
that he might be preparing to cease acting and become a producer and
director.
"I'll act as long as they'll have me," he said with a smile.
..."I have received many letters of protest," he said, "coming from
people who told me that they had gone to a motion picture theater because
they saw outside a picture which they believed was mine. Once inside they
discovered it was a different actor. I have taken this action now because of
those protests and my desire to keep faith with the public."
Chaplin took the stand, while the crowd buzzed and rustled and tried to
climb in the windows from the hall at the rear of the courtroom in an eager
effort to get a closer look at the little man in the gray suit who ran his
hand through his hair, screwed his mobile face into frowns, and gestured with
expressive fingers as he tried hard to understand the questions of the cross-
examination.
His direct examination was brief. He testified that he had entered
motion pictures in 1913, that he had almost immediately created the character
he now plays, and that he had never seen anyone else before then on stage or
screen who played the same character with the same complete makeup.
Cross-examination started with his stage career. He said he could not
remember all the details.
"I really don't remember much about my first part," he said. "I suppose
I was about four years old."
Before going into pictures, he played the role of a drunk in a sketch
called "A Night in an English Music Hall."
"It wasn't in the least like this character," he said, waving his hand
toward the poster pinned to a blackboard in which a pictured Charlie Chaplin
was sorrowfully counting a diminishing bank roll.
"The drunk wore a full dress suit," Chaplin said.
Attorney Morris took up the details of the costume as pictured on the
poster. Chaplin freely admitted that he had seen stage comedians wearing
baggy trousers, tight coats, small hats and big shoes.
"But never all at once," he explained.
He sought to explain the psychology of his screen character.
"It isn't so much the clothes," he said. "It's the personality, the
attitude. The character I play is a symbol, a satire on life."
"Where did you get the idea for that character?" asked attorney Goldman.
Chaplin smiled almost helplessly.
"Why, where does any one get ideas?" he countered. "From life; from the
whole pageantry of life."
Goldman went into details.
"Where did you get the walk?" he asked. "Wasn't it suggested by some of
your fellow players on the stage?"
"I got it--or at least the idea of it--from an old cab driver," said
Chaplin.
"Where did you get your glide?" asked Goldman.
Chaplin looked puzzled.
"Glide?" he asked. "Just what do you mean?"
Admitting that he would rather not be compelled to illustrate in person,
Goldman explained that he meant the habit of the screen Chaplin of skidding
around a corner with one foot upraised.
"I got that on the spur of the moment," answered Chaplin.
"Goldman endeavored to show that Chaplin had copied his "goose walk"
from Fred Kitchin, an actor with him in the "Music Hall."
"Didn't Kitchin walk like that?" he asked.
"He had bad feet," responded Chaplin demurely, and the crowded courtroom
laughed until Judge Jamison told it to keep still."
"And the grimaces you use?" asked Goldman.
"I really don't know," said Chaplin. "I don't know that I am making any
special grimaces. I just do what the situation and the moment seem to
suggest."...
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
January 15, 1927
Austin O'Malley
LOS ANGELES EXAMINER
Chaplin's Own Story!
New York, Jan. 14 -- Universal Service and the Chicago Herald and
Examiner herewith present Charlie Chaplin's own amazing story of his marital
difficulties. The world-famous comedian related the story to this writer
today as he was speeding to New York from Chicago on the Twentieth Century
Limited.
It took six hours in its recital. Exhausted at the conclusion, the
wearied-eyed comedian heaved a deep sigh and in a weak voice exclaimed:
"I had intended not to talk about my case until I filed a cross-bill to
my wife's suit for divorce, but I can no longer restrain my pent-up feelings,
and I will tell you everything."
Just as his moving pictures are tinged with pathos, so did Chaplin's
remarkable tale contain both the familiar comic and tragic elements.
Flashing eyes, lowering brow, banging fist--and every now and then the famous
smile--punctuated the story.
Chaplin was utterly frank. He realized, he explained, that he is
tremendously handicapped in his battle to maintain his reputation by the fact
that he is fighting a woman who bore him two babies. He feels, however, that
judgment of him should be made after both sides of the story are told.
Curled up in a seat in his drawing room, smoking cigaret after cigaret,
he unfolded the story which he says he some day intends putting on the
screen, himself enacting the part he is playing in real life.
"I know," he stated, "that I will be vindicated by any judge or jury
that gives me a fair hearing. I have a sad story to tell, and I hope the
public will believe it.
"I find myself in this unfortunate predicament because I am a victim of
a dastardly plot, not only to besmirch my character, but also to deprive me
of the fruit of my life's work.
"My wife's mother is responsible for my misfortune. She forced me to
marry her daughter; she caused the separation, and now she wants me to give
her daughter nearly everything I possess. She will stop at nothing to attain
her purpose.
"Lita, my wife, was only 15 years old when I selected her as my leading
lady in a picture I was making. She seemed to worship me. Her mother often
came to me and said: 'Mr. Chaplin, my daughter adores you; please be nice to
her.' Well, I fell in love.
"We often went to parties and took drives out in the country. At that
time Lita was wonderful.. She was so different from many of the flappers of
today. She did not smoke or drink.
"She told me I was everything to her. I was in a very Heaven [sic].
Shortly after that we were married. I shall never forget that day. The
ceremony took place in a little hamlet in Mexico. It was performed in a rude
cabin, the home of the Mayor. The sun was just coming up over the desert;
there was a heavy mist. Always I have had an eye for the dramatic, and I
realized that here was drama in the nth degree.
"Just as the magistrate, speaking in Spanish, little of which I
understood, was pronouncing us man and wife, a ray of sunlight penetrated
through a tiny window which was crossed by four wooden bars. The shadow of
the cross was thrown full on my breast and I gasped, wondering at its
significance.
"After the ceremony we went out into the sea--the illimitable sea--in a
rowboat. I was exhausted by the ordeal I had gone through. Later, we
returned to Los Angeles.
"We got along splendidly--Lita and I--for a while. Then one day she
told me she did not love me.
"She said she did not love me when she married me. I begged her to
retract her statement. I was so blinded in my infatuation that I was trying
to convince myself she did not mean what she had said.
"Well, the baby was born, and I thought that would make her attitude
change. She was lovely to me for a while. Then she became cold again.
Later again, she would nestle up to me and purr, and tell me she was so sorry
she had mistreated me.
"Our second baby was born. I adored both of the babies. I have always
wanted children. Not long after the baby came, I noticed a most radical
change in Lita's behavior. She started to smoke and to drink. She went to
wild parties. Reports came to me about her conduct. I begged her, for the
babies' sake and my reputation, to conduct herself in a manner befitting her
name.
"Then again she told me she did not love me. With tears in my eyes I
begged her to tell me the reason. She did not reply.
"Soon I got the biggest shock of my life when friends told me Lita was
circulating infamous slanders on my character. These reports were so amazing
that I suffered a nervous breakdown. I demanded an explanation. She meekly
answered she had not meant to harm me. She added she was sorry.
"Then came the most terrific wallop of all. I had engaged Merna
Kennedy, a sweet young girl, to play opposite me in "The Circus." The
picture I have half completed. Merna and Lita were inseparable companions.
She often visited at our home.
"One night Lita, Merna and myself were in the kitchen making sandwiches.
The servants had retired. I was standing across the table from Merna,
cutting the bread, when Lita left the room, explaining she would return
immediately.
"Her departure struck me as strange at the time, because Lita had never
before gone into a room in my home alone. She had a fear complex which is
still inexplicable. She returned in five minutes.
"Merna left a few minutes later. The door had hardly closed on her when
Lita turned on me and exclaimed:
"Well, I caught you that time--I saw you 'necking' Merna. You thought I
had gone upstairs, but I remained outside the door and saw it all.'
"I was dumbfounded--I reeled.
"'For God's sake, Lita! How could you make such an infamous statement?'
I cried.
"She insisted she had seen me with my arms around Merna's neck.
"'Lita!' I screamed. 'Will you swear that what you are saying is the
truth? I will give you an oath that you dare not take.
"'Swear that you hope our darling babies will die before the week is
out, if you are not telling the truth.'
"You could have killed me when she calmly repeated the oath.
"Even after that I tried to win her back. I failed. Then I offered her
a divorce. Her mother entered the negotiations. Their demands were so
exorbitant that I refused to consider them.
"You can't understand my anguish. I would pace up and down my room,
stand in front of the mirror, shake my finger at my image and exclaim:
'Charlie, you must find a way to make her love you. Think of the babies!'
"All my pleas were in vain.
"Not only did she scorn my love, but she boasted of the fact in public.
Friends told me she was in the habit of declaring before her associates:
'Charlie is a genius, but I know how to handle him.'
"I learned she had again been making defamatory remarks against me in
public. I reproached her as gently as possible.
"'Lita,' I would say to her, 'even if you do not love me, please, for
God's sake, do not slander me. Why do you insist on circulating these
damnable stories?'
"She would only stare at the ceiling and promise never to do it again.
"Little did I then realize that that was all part of the scheme to force
me to terms.
"At last I could endure the torture no longer. I suddenly awakened to
the fact that Charlie Chaplin was being used as a fool. I called Lita in my
room one night and told her that I would give her a divorce. I offered her
$300,000 in cash and $100,000 for each of the babies. I insisted on keeping
the babies. I suggested the easiest way out of the difficulty--a trip to
Paris and a decree there.
"I asked her to await the completion of 'The Circus.' I had very little
available cash. I pointed out I would have plenty after the picture was
marketed. Lita accepted the proposition.
"She agreed to take a trip to Hawaii to wait until the picture was
finished. There were tears in her eyes when I said good-by at the boat.
"She returned from Hawaii in two weeks, just as I was getting in some
real work on my picture. The very first day she was back she bought $8000
worth of clothes in one shop and $600 worth of shoes in another.
"When I remonstrated with her for her extravagance, she told me I had no
occasion for complaint. She said I had spent $50,000 in one trip to New
York. That, of course, is absurd.
"A few days later, Lita asked me for permission to 'throw a little
party' at the house. She had been befriended by a baron and baroness on the
boat returning from Hawaii. I consented. Later I learned she had
entertained the party that same night at the Ambassador at dinner. There
were nineteen guests.
"Well, they all came to the house later, and you know that I made her
take them all out when they started up the Victrola, piano playing and organ
at the same time. Lita was incensed and insulted me.
"She did not return, and I have not seen her since. The next day her
mother and attorneys notified me they were going to sue me and demanded a
settlement of $1,000,000. I replied that I would give Lita $500,000 and
$100,000 for custody of one baby.
"I allowed them to examine my books. They learned I had very little
cash. I had invested $900,000 in making my last picture, 'The Gold Rush.'
It brought in $2,500,000. Out of that I had to pay the cost of a picture
that was shelved. That picture featured Edna Purviance. She is still on my
payroll for $250 a week.
"'The Circus' has cost $900,000 to date, and I don't know when it will
be finished. After all obligations were settled, I had around $135,000 cash
left when Lita's attorney's demanded a million. Besides, I have earned most
of the money I have--which is closer to three million than the sixteen
million they claim I have--before I ever met Lita.
"The negotiations continued for six weeks. Then they sued. Just before
I left Los Angeles they had cut their demand to $525,000. I refused to give
more than $400,000.
"I am innocent of all the charges Lita has brought against me, and I
know I will be vindicated."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
June 8, 1929
Bert Levy
HOLLYWOOD FILMOGRAPH
Charlie Chaplin -- As Seen by Bert Levy
More than twenty years ago I stood in the wings of an English Music Hall
and watched his antics in a typical Fred Karno sketch. There was something
extraordinary about him. Though his broad comedy registered hilariously with
the audience, it was the quiet subtle bits of business and the little touches
of genuine pathos which, in my humble opinion, stamped him as a real
comedian.
He was then, comparatively speaking, an unknown member of that happy-go-
lucky gang of English Music Hall clowns who lived only for the laughs in life
and gave very little thought for the morrow. He was a sad-faced, and it
seemed to me an undernourished youngster just burning up with suppressed
emotion. I saw him, and talked casually with him several times around
London, and somehow or other I could not, even when I returned to America,
forget him.
I came across him again in nineteen hundred and ten when he opened with
a Fred Karno troupe at the Colonial Theatre, New York (then run by Percy
Williams), and we renewed a pleasant acquaintance. Off and on, through the
nineteen years which followed--years during which he has risen from
comparative obscurity to fame, we have often met, and though I am privileged
to call him friend, I have kept aloof from him for I did not want him to
number me among those pests who are ever ready to claim acquaintance with and
remind a celebrity that they "knew him when, etc. etc."
Not that he inspires such a feeling, for, once one has had the good
fortune to break through that necessary reserve of his, one will not find a
more simple, honest--nor yet a more self-willed, straight-from-the-shoulder
human being than Charlie Chaplin.
In his bungalow on the lot last week he kept me rooted to my chair for
over three hours while he delivered short, sharp jabs of satire intermingled
with caressing touches of poetry and pathos. In a moment he lifts one to
sublime heights by some inspired thought only to be dropped to the depths of
despair by his knocking into a cocked hat one's pet ideals. From a sober
discussion of the Talmud he suddenly switches to a screamingly funny
imitation of a jazz songwriter in the throes of composition or vigorously
sketches in words the portrait of a typical Babbit.
Chaplin is obviously impatient of humbug and a bitter enemy of the
useless conventions. For instance, he objects to be decorated with diplomas
for his screen work and refuses to stand stupidly at attention while some
intruder introduces himself while he (Chaplin) is at the dining table with a
lady.
Charlie's face shows very little trace of the early hardships--not to
speak of the sorrow and strife of the later years of his chequered career.
His boyish smile dissipates all that. When he exploited the baggy pants,
antique derby and the nimble cane of his lean London days, nobody bothered
him; but, in the days of his affluence unsuccessful imitators hung on to him
like barnacles and complained that he (Chaplin) sought to restrict to his own
use the rags that made him famous. The fools. It was not the colors he used
that brought Rembrandt immortality, but how he used them.
There was a time when scandal sought to waylay and drag him down. Mud-
slingers were yapping at his heels like a lot of curs. Chaplin asked for no
quarter and gave none. Subsequent events proved that he still holds his
place in the affections of the people. The writer was present when Charlie,
with the world seemingly against him, stepped upon the platform before a
gathering of distinguished newspapermen at the New York Press Club. What a
frantic demonstration in his favor there was on that day. It is the first
time I have seen Chaplin holding back tears.
His philosophical outlook on life inspired, not by any particular "ism"
or cult, but by his intimate knowledge of human nature, is the thing that
makes Chaplin's companionship worth while. He steadfastly maintains that it
is necessary for the artist to have known the pangs of hunger and to have
experienced bitterness and hatred as well as love in order to bring out
whatever of soul there is in him. Chaplin's way of jumping from one
interesting subject to another is responsible for my doing the same thing in
this article.
Limited space at my disposal prompts me to briefly chronicle the
highlights in our studio chat. Chaplin has an incurable fear of crowds and a
dislike of unnecessary publicity. "Charlie Chaplin belongs on the screen,"
he will say. "Any undue publicity regarding my petty aches and pains is
distasteful to me and of no interest to the public."
A peculiar thing about Chaplin is that he seems to look upon his reel
self and his real self as two separate beings. He criticizes his shadow in
quite an impersonal way. When he makes up his mind that he is right, nothing
will influence him to change it. Evidence his attitude against his best
friends and some of the most powerful men in the film business, when he
refused to consent to the pooling of his interests with Warner's. They
threatened and cajoled, but all to no purpose, for, Chaplin standing at bay,
refused all overtures and won out.
I asked Charlie his opinion of the talkies. "Entertainment without
charm," he replied quickly, and then added, "while watching a silent picture
each individual supplies the unspoken words according to his own
understanding of the action. The dullard sees the story in his own way as
does the intelligent, the wise, and so on--each one, as I said before,
supplying his own understanding and everyone is pleased. But when the actor
gives through the spoken word his own interpretation--then--well, there is
bound to be disappointment. Yes, the talkie is undoubtedly entertainment,
but in my opinion lacks charm."
I left Charlie grateful that I am privileged to call him friend--that is
the sort of influence he has over those who know him best. Today the world
is at his feet, but to me his is just the same lovable, lonely little clown I
first met over twenty years ago.
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