A Father’s Letter to His Daughter — Charlie Chaplin

My daughter,
It is night now. Your birthday night.
All the silent guards of my small castle are asleep. Your brother and sister are asleep too. Even your mother has already drifted into rest. I almost woke those little dreaming birds while walking to this dimly lit room.

How far I am from you — and yet, may my eyes grow blind if your image ever leaves my sight, even for a moment. You are here — on my desk, and here — in my heart. There, in fairy-tale Paris, you are dancing on the stage of a magnificent theater, under the lights of the Champs-Élysées.

I know this well. And in the stillness of the night, I feel as if I can hear your footsteps, see your eyes shining like stars in a winter sky. I have been told that in that festive and radiant performance, you play the role of a Persian beauty captured by a Tatar khan.

Be beautiful. Dance. Shine like a star.
But if the applause intoxicates you, if the fragrance of the flowers makes your head spin, then step aside for a moment, read my letter, and listen to your father’s voice.

I am your father, Geraldine.
I am Charlie — Charlie Chaplin.

Do you know how many nights I spent by your bed when you were little? I told you stories — of sleeping beauties and watchful dragons. When sleep crept into my aging eyes, I laughed at it and said: “Go away — my sleep is my daughter’s dreams.”

I saw those dreams, Geraldine.
I saw your future and your present. I saw a girl dancing on stage, a fairy flying in the sky. I heard people say: “Do you see that young lady? She is the daughter of that old clown. What was his name? Charlie.”

Now it is your turn. Dance.
I danced in torn trousers — you dance in silk like a princess. Applause will lift you to the skies. Rise, my daughter — but return to the ground as well. You must see how people live. See how dancers in the outskirts live — trembling from cold and hunger.

I was like them once, Geraldine.

Those magical nights when you slept to my stories, I did not sleep. I watched your face, listened to your heartbeat, and asked myself: “Charlie, will this little kitten ever know you?”

You do not know me, Geraldine. I told you many fairy tales — but never my own. And it is an interesting one: the tale of a hungry clown who danced and sang in the poor districts of London… and then begged for mercy.

I will die — but you must live.
I wanted you never to know poverty.

With this letter, I send you an unsigned check so you may spend as you wish. But when you spend two francs, remember the third is not yours — it belongs to someone who needs it. You will easily find such a person.

I speak to you about money because I know its demonic power. I spent much time in the circus and feared for the tightrope walkers. But know this, my daughter: people on the ground are more unstable than those walking a rope.

One day, the sparkle of a diamond may blind you — that will be your unstable rope.
One day, the beauty of a prince may capture you — and the inexperienced always fall.
Do not sell your heart for gold. Remember — the greatest diamond is the sun. And it shines for everyone.

And when one day you fall in love — give yourself fully. I asked your mother to write to you about love. She understands it better than I do.

I know there is an eternal struggle between fathers and children. Fight me, my thoughts — but do not obey blindly. I do not love obedient children.

I was not an angel — but I tried to be human.
Try to be one too.

I kiss you.