I am terrified by American officials. I am extra nice to the officials, and to my amazement they are extra nice to me. Everything passes off very easily.
As usual, my lawyer was right. He had fixed everything. He is a good lawyer.
We could be such intimate friends if he wasn't.
But I am too thrilled to give much time to pitying lawyers.
I am going to Europe.
The crowds of reporters, photographers, all sorts of traffic, pushing, shoving, opening passports, visés O.K.'d, stamped, in perfect, almost clocklike precision, I am shoved aboard.
The newspaper battery pictorial and reportorial. There is no original note.
"Mr. Chaplin, why are you going to Europe?"
I feel that in this last moment I should be a bit more tolerant and pleasant, no matter how difficult. I bring forth the "prop" smile again.
"For a vacation," I answer.