My Autobiography, Charles Chaplin [books to read in your 20s .TXT] 📗

animal with primary instincts of survival. Consequently, his ingenuity has developed first and his soul afterwards. Thus the progress of science is far ahead of man’s ethical behaviour.

Altruism is slow along the path of human progress. It ambles and stumbles along after science. And only by force of circumstances is it allowed to function. Poverty was not reduced by altruism or the philanthropy of governments, but by the forces of dialectic materialism.

Carlyle said that the salvation of the world will be brought about by people thinking. But in order to bring this about, man must be forced into serious circumstances.

Thus, in splitting the atom, he is driven into a corner and made to think. He has the choice to destroy himself or to behave himself; the momentum of science is forcing him to make this decision. And under these circumstances, I believe that eventually his altruism will survive and his good-will towards mankind will triumph.

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After leaving America life was on another level. In Paris and Rome we were received like conquering heroes: invited by President Vincent Auriol to lunch at the Èlysée and invited to lunch at the British Embassy. Then the French Government elevated me to the rank of Officer of the Legion of Honour, and on that same day the Société des Auteurs et Compositeurs Dramatiques made me an honorary member. A letter referring to that occasion which I received from Mr Roger Ferdinand, the President, was most affecting. It is here translated.

Dear Mr Chaplin,

Should certain people be surprised at the publicity given to your presence here, they would be ill acquainted with the reasons for which we love and admire you; they would also be very bad judges of human values, and would not have taken the trouble to count the blessings that you have heaped upon us during the last forty years, nor have appreciated your teaching, or the quality of the joys and emotions that you have lavished upon us, at their true worth; to say the least they would be thoroughly ungrateful.

You are among the greatest personalities of the world and your claim to fame is equal to that of those who can be placed among the most illustrious.

There is your genius, for a start. This much abused word, genius, takes on its real sense when applied to a man who is not only a marvellous comedian, but also an author, composer, producer, and, best of all, a man of warmth and magnanimity. For you are all of these, and moreover with a simplicity which increases your stature and makes a warm, spontaneous appeal, without calculation or effort, to the hearts of men today, which are as tormented as your own. But genius is not sufficient to merit esteem; neither is it sufficient to engender love. And yet love is the only word for the sentiment you inspire.

When we saw Limelight we laughed, often heartily, and we wept, with real tears – yours, for you gave us the precious gift of tears.

In truth, real fame is never usurped; it only has a sense, a value and duration when it is turned to a good cause. And your victory is in the fact that you have human generosity and spontaneity that are not inhibited by rules or cleverness but stem from your own sufferings, your joys, hopes and disappointments; all that is understood by those who suffer beyond their strength and ask for pity, and who constantly hope to be comforted, to be made to forget for a moment, by that laughter which does not pretend to cure, but only to console.

One could imagine, even if we did not know it, the price that you have paid for this marvellous gift of being able to make us laugh and then suddenly cry. One can guess or, better still, perceive what sufferings you have yourself undergone to be able to portray in detail all those little things that touch us so deeply, and which you have taken from moments of your own life.

For you have a good memory. You are faithful to the memories of your childhood. You have forgotten nothing of its sadness, its bereavements; you have wanted to spare others the harm you suffered, or at least you have wanted to give everybody reason for hope. You have never betrayed your sad youth, and fame has never had the power to separate you from the past – for, alas, these things can happen.

This fidelity to your earliest memories is perhaps your greatest merit and the most important of your assets, and also the real reason why the crowds adore you. They respond to the subtleties of your acting. It seems as if you are always in direct touch with the hearts of others. And indeed nothing is more harmonious than this cooperation of author, the actor and director, who place their combined talents at the service of all that is humane and good.

This is why your work is always generous. It is not handicapped by theories – scarcely even by technique; it is forever a confession, a confidence, a prayer. And each person is your accomplice because he thinks and feels as you do.

You have, by your talent alone, subdued the critics because you have succeeded in captivating them. This is a difficult task. They will never admit that you respond equally to the charm of old-fashioned melodrama and to the devilish zest of Feydeau. And yet you do, while also possessing a certain grace that makes us think of Musset – although you imitate no one and resemble no one. That is also the secret of your glory.

Today our Society of Authors and Dramatists has the honour and joy of welcoming you. We are thus adding, for a few moments, to the weight of the engagements you so valiantly undertake. We are most anxious to receive you into our midst and to tell you how much we admire and love you, and also to say that you are really one of us. For