By the Sea—California.
We seem to have been divinely led to this most beautiful and secluded place. One can hardly believe it was mere chance. So near civilization we are, and yet no one passes this way. As far as the eye can see the curving beach belongs to the sea-birds. There is a fresh water lake full of preserved wild duck, and word has been sent by the proprietor that we may shoot, hunt, cut wood, and do whatever we like! We surely picked a good spot, and then the sand dunes! We discovered such a high one yesterday, and Dick took a header down it, as if he were diving. So we got no further on our walk, but lingered there and spent the entire afternoon scrambling up and sliding down head first. Charlie brought it to a fine art, he came down slowly with a rhythmical movement as if swimming; even sand sliding he does beautifully. Once we rolled down, and fetched up dazed and giddy at the bottom.
When the sunset sky became streaked pink and purple, Charlie kicked off his shoes, and danced with his beautiful small feet naked on the sand. He did imitations of Nijinsky and Pavlowa—he does it so well and with so much grace that one doesn’t know whether to laugh or silently appreciate.
The more I see of Charlie, and the more I know him, the more I appreciate him. He never does, says, or thinks an ugly thing. I have never met anyone like him. I find myself dominated by his intensity, and metaphorically sitting at his feet, accepting his judgment. He is so immensely bigger than the work he is engaged on. I believe that if he survives, he may in a few years take a very big place in international public life. We have discussed half jokingly the project of his standing for Parliament. I assured him no one would dare to contest him and that he would have a “walk-over.” I have heard him make impassioned speeches to imaginary crowds. He has harangued the sand dunes. Not only did he talk well but he talked sense, and his magnetism and vision recalled to my memory that leader of men: Trotzky. The only pity is that he is too emotional, he is almost consumed by the flame within him. This is, I suppose, inevitable in so great an artist. His intensity is terrific. Whatever he does he does it intensely. He is intensely funny, but he is intensely tragic too, he shoots with such intensity that when he lost a duck it nearly broke his heart. He puts the same spirit into the tunneling of sand bridges for Dick, or the story he invents about the wrecked ship on the beach. He is as intensely materialist as he is idealist. As intensely sincere and honest, and now because he wants to be sound on some new philosophical doctrine, he is studying mathematics with equal intensity. I can imagine that at night he must sleep with clenched fists and eyelids tight shut, and all the intensity of unconsciousness.
In moments of intense depression he exclaims: “I must get back to work—but I don’t feel like it. I don’t feel funny. Think—think of it: if I never could be funny again!”
It is his visit to England that has shattered him emotionally.
Friday, November 11, 1921. Los Angeles.
Yesterday evening when we started out on a walk, at dusk, a party appeared and waylaid us on our path, they had with them some children, to whom they wished,—they said—to show Charlie Chaplin.
It was a painful moment, he was shy and unprepared, the children gaped, conversation was halting.
