One can see, in the sadness of the eyes--which the humor of his smile cannot dispel--that the man has suffered--has known things we do not dream. Has striven, hoped and aimed. Has reached his goal, yet he is not content. He feels there is more to do, and see, and know, more to attain. He believes in work and in producing always the best of one’s effort. He is not Bolshevik nor Communist, nor Revolutionary, as I had heard rumoured. He is an individualist with the artist’s intolerance of stupidity, insincerity, and narrow prejudice. He is sincere and absolutely without affectation. He has no illusions as to what the bourgeois world thinks of “movie actors--” and he has no intention of being patronized by the condescending. He has an almost feminine intuition about people, he knows at once if they are sincere or not. Before the evening was over we had discussed Lenin, Lloyd George, Carpentier, J. M. Barrie, and H. G. Wells. I found that he had each person pretty well summed up, and his opinions of them were not biased by the world’s opinion of them, nor clouded by their fame; and just what he thought (of those I knew) was right. In fact Charlie was a great deal more interesting to talk to than most of the people who are expected to be. When he asked me about my work in this country, I explained that the United States had made of me a writer instead of a sculptor, and I told him my view of the American man who is so modest that he thinks it is a vanity to have his bust done. “He does not mind having his portrait _painted_” I said, “he has grown accustomed to the idea. But he exaggerates the importance of a portrait bust. In fact he is quite un-simple, in his point of view, almost self-conscious--” and Charlie, looking at me half shyly, half humorously, as he sat tucked away in the sofa corner, under the light of the lamp: “I’m vain!” he said--“Thank goodness!” I said. And so we fixed it right away--that I will linger here until his bust is done. On the way back to Hollywood Hotel where he dropped me in his car, we had a discussion on marriage. He has the chivalry, and the instinct to protect, I maintained my fanaticism of freedom. He is a strange little man with a great big soul. He made me think of Francis Thompson’s essay on Shelley, in which he said that Shelley tired not so much of a woman’s arms, as of her soul. It seemed to me it was more a spiritual than a physical companionship that Charlie is subconsciously searching for, in his heart. NOVEMBER 2, 1921. _Hollywood._