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.
A scene from "Sunnyside," one of my favourite photo plays.
They must think I am very dull. Why, anyone should know the answers to the questions they figure. There are grave doubts as to whether I am Charlie Chaplin or not. I wish they would decide that I am not. I confess that I have never met Theda Bara. They return to motion pictures of my own. How do I think up my funny stunts? It is too much. Considerably against my wishes I have to retreat from the hot room. I want to get away from this terrible, strenuous experience. But retreat is not so easy.
A little rotund individual, smiling, lets me know that he has seen a number of my pictures. He says: