Charlie Chaplins Own Story

by Charlie Chaplin

  bered upon the tail of the wagon and dived

  beneath the burlap which covered the load.

  47

  There, lying in the dimness among green

  vegetables, I consumed the brandy-snaps to the

  last crumb, listening to the farmer's bewildered

  expostulation with the honest dog, which con-

  tinued barking at the wagon until the farmer

  dismounted and pursued him down the road with

  his whip. Then, as the wagon went onward again,

  I ate a number of radishes and a raw potato,

  and experimentally bit the squash and marrows

  until, with a contented stomach, I curled up

  among the lettuce and fell asleep.

  I was awakened by the stopping of the wagon

  and heard the farmer, busied with the horse,

  exchanging jovial greetings with other gruff

  voices. Undecided what to do, I lay still

  until I heard him speaking loudly almost over

  my head.

  "I lay these are the finest vegetables ever

  come to market," he said proudly, and tore the

  burlap covering from me. I sat up.

  48

  There never was a more surprised farmer.

  He stood open-mouthed. While the men around

  him laughed, I scrambled from among the

  vegetables over the wagon's edge and dived

  into the uproar of Covent Garden market.

  Horses, donkeys, wagons, men, women and

  children crowded the place ; on every side were

  piles of vegetables and bright fruit, and there

  was a clamor of laughter, shouts and the cries

  of hucksters.

  I ran about, happy in all the confusion, and

  glad to feel London about me again. After

  a while I met a man who gave me a penny for

  helping him unload his vegetables, and I wan-

  dered out of the market and down the dirty

  cobbled streets outside. There was a barrel

  organ which I followed for a time, and then I

  met a hokey-pokey man and spent my penny for

  his sweets. I felt as rich as a lord as I sat

  on the curb in the sunshine eating them.

  CHAPTER VI

  In which I come home again; accustom myself

  to going to bed hungry ; and have an unexpected

  encounter with my father.

  AS I sat there in the sunshine eating the hokey-

  pokey for which I had spent my only penny all

  my old dreams came back to me. I imagined my-

  self rich and famous, bowing before cheering

  audiences, wearing a tall silk hat and a cane,

  and buying my mother a silk dress.

  It was a rough dirty street, swarming with

  ragged children and full of heavy vans driven

  by swearing drivers, but reality did not inter-

  fere with my dreams. It never has.

  When I had licked the last sweetness of the

  cream from my fingers I rose and walked with

  a haughty swagger, raising my eyebrows dis-

  dainfully. It was difficult to look down on

  a person whose waistband was on a level with

  my eyes, but I managed it. Then I amused

  myself walking behind people and imitating

  them, until I heard a barrel organ and followed

  it, dancing with the other children.

  I was adventurous and gay that morning, with

  no cares in the world. What did it matter that

  I had no food nor shelter nor friends in all

  London? I did not think of that.

  50

  It was late that afternoon, and I had wan-

  dered a long way, when my increasing hunger

  began to damp my spirits. My feet dragged

  before the windows of pastry shops, and the

  fruit on the street stands tempted me. When

  it grew dark and the gas lamps were lighted

  I felt very little and lonely again and longed

  to cry. The streets were crowded with people

  hurrying home — women with market baskets,

  and rough men, but no one noticed me. I was

  only a ragged hungry child, and there are

  thousands of them in London.

  At last I stood forlorn before a baker's win-

  dow looking at the cakes and buns inside and

  wanting them with all my heart. I stood there

  a long time, jostled by people going by, till

  a woman stopped beside me to look in also.

  Something about her skirt and shoes gave me

  a wild hope, and I looked up. It was my

  mother. My mother!

  I clasped her about the knees and screamed.

  Then I felt her arms tight about me and she

  was kneeling beside me while we sobbed to-

  gether. My mother, my dear mother, at last.

  She had not gone away ; she had not forgotten

  me ; she wanted me as much as ever. I clutched

  her, shaking and sobbing, as if I could never

  let go, until, little as she was, she picked me

  up and carried me home.

  51

  She was not living in actors' lodgings any

  more; she had a poor little room in Palermo

  Terrace, Kensington — a room little better than

  the dreadful one where Mr. Hawkins had kept

  me — but it was like Heaven to me to be there,

  with my mother. I clung to her a long time,

  hysterical when she tried to take my arms from

  her neck, and we laughed and cried together

  while she petted and comforted me.

  Neither my father nor Sidney was there, nor

  was there any sign that they were expected.

  When I was quieter, sitting on her lap eating

  a bun and tea, my mother said that they were

  gone. On the day I ran away with Mr. Hawkins,

  Sidney had gone to sea. My mother had a note

  from him, telling her about his grand place

  as steward's assistant on a boat going to

  Africa, and promising to bring her back

  beautiful presents and money, she had not

  heard from him again.

  52

  She undressed me with her tiny hands that

  reminded me of birds' claws and tucked me

  in bed, just as I had dreamed so often, with

  her soft hair falling over the pillow, and I

  went to sleep, my heart almost bursting with

  happiness at being home again.

  When I woke in the morning, so early that it

  was not yet light, I saw her sitting beside a

  lamp, sewing. All my memories of my mother for

  weeks after that are pictures of her sitting

  sewing, her sweet thin face, with dark circles

  under the eyes, bending over the work and her

  fingers flying. She was making blouses for

  a factory. There were always piles of them,

  finished and unfinished, on the table and bed,

  and she never stopped work on them. When I

  awoke in the night I saw her in the lamp-

  light working, and all day long she worked,

  barely stopping to eat. When she had a great

  pile of them finished I took them to the

  factory and brought back more for her to do.

  ...

  I used to climb the long dark stairs to the

  factory loft with the bundle and watch the

  man who took the blouses and examined them,

  hating him. He was a sleek fat man, with

  rings on his fingers, and he used to
point out

  every stitch which was not just right, and claim

  there were spots on the blouses, though there

  were none at all, and then he kept out some

  of the money. My mother got half a crown

  — about fifty cents — for a dozen blouses, and

  by working all week without stopping a minute

  she earned about five shillings.

  53

  I would keep out three and six for the rent

  money, and then go bargaining at the market

  stalls for food. A pound of two-penny bits

  of meat, with a pennyworth of pot-herbs, made

  us a stew, and sometimes I got a bit of stale

  bread besides. Then I came panting up the

  stairs to my mother with the bundles, and gave

  her the rent money, warm from being clutched

  in my hand, and she would laugh and kiss me

  and say how well I had done.

  The stew had to last us the week, and I know

  now that often my mother made only a pre-

  tense of eating, so that there would be more

  for me. I was always hungry in those days

  and used to dream of cakes and buns, but we

  were very happy together. Sometimes I would

  do an errand for some one and get a penny,

  and then I proudly brought it to her and we

  would have buns, or even a herring, for supper.

  54

  But she was uneasy when I was away, and

  wanted me to sit by her and read aloud while

  she worked, so I did not often leave her.

  ...

  At this time she was passionately eager to

  have me study. She had taught me to read

  before, and now while she sewed she talked to

  me about history and other countries and peo-

  ples, and showed me how to draw maps of the

  world, and we played little spelling games.

  She had me read the Bible aloud to her for

  hours at a time. It was the only book we had.

  But most of all she taught me acting. I had

  a great gift for mimicry, and she had me mimic

  every one I saw in the streets. I loved it and

  used to make up little plays and act them for

  her.

  Remembering the first time I had danced on the

  stage, and the money I made, I wanted to go back

  to the music-halls, but she roused almost into a

  fury at the idea. All her most painful memories

  were of the music-hall life, and she passion-

  ately made me promise never to act in one. I

  could not have done it in any case, because

  at this time there was a law forbidding child-

  ren under fourteen to work on the stage. I was

  only eleven.

  55

  My mother grew thinner and more tired. She

  complained sometimes of a pain in her head,

  and her beautiful hair, like long, fine silk,

  had threads in it that shone like silver. I

  loved to watch them when she brushed it at

  night. But she was always gay and sweet with

  me, and I adored her. I had no life at all

  separate from her; all my dreams and hopes

  were of making her happy and buying her

  beautiful things, and taking her to a place

  in the country where she could rest and do

  nothing but play with me.

  Then one day while I was coming from the

  factory with the money clutched in my hand I

  passed a barroom. I had never been in one,

  or cared to, but something seemed to attract

  me to this one. I stood before the swinging

  doors, thinking with a fluttering heart of

  going in, and wanting to, and not wanting to,

  both at once. Finally I timidly pushed the

  doors apart and looked in. There, at a little

  table, drinking with some men, I saw my father.

  CHAPTER VII

  In which I see my father for the last time; learn

  that real tragedy is silent; and go out into the

  world to make my own way.

  IT GAVE me a great shock to recognize my father

  in the man who sat there drinking. I quivered

  as I looked at him. He was changed ; his dark

  handsome face had reddened and looked swollen

  and flabby; his eyes were bloodshot. He did

  not see me at first. The man with him appeared

  to be urging something, and my father cried

  with an oath that he would not. I caught the

  word "hospital," and saw his hands shake as

  he pounded the table. Then some one coming

  in pushed me into the room and he saw me.

  ...

  "Hello, here's the little tike " he cried.

  "Blast me, he hasn't grown an inch! Here,

  come here to your daddy!"

  I went over to the table and stood looking at

  him, the bundles under my arm. He was very

  boisterous, calling all the men in the bar to

  see me, and boasting of how I could dance.

  He swung me to the table-top, crying, "Come,

  my beauty, show 'em what you can do!" and

  they began to clap. I danced for them, and

  then I mimicked them one by one until the

  room was in an uproar.

  57

  "He's his father's own son!" they cried.

  "Little Charlie Chaplin!"

  My father was very proud of me and kept

  me at it until I was tired, and, remembering

  that my mother was waiting, I climbed down

  from the table and picked up my bundles.

  ...

  "Going without a drink?" cried my father,

  and offered me his glass, but I pushed it away.

  I did not like the smell of it. My father seemed

  hurt and angry ; he drained the glass and put it

  on the table with a slam, and I saw again how

  his hand shook.

  "Just like his mother!" he said bitterly.

  "Despises his own father! I'm not good enough

  for his little highness. She's taught him that."

  ...

  "It's not true!" I cried, enraged. "My

  mother never says a word about you!"

  "Oh, don't she?" he sneered, but his lip shook.

  He stared moodily at the table, drumming on it

  with his fingers, and then he turned to me

  with a dreary look in his eyes. "Well, then,

  come home with me," he said. "I'll take good

  care of you and give you a fine start in the

  profession and clothes that aren't rags. I

  can do that, yet. I'm not done for, whatever

  they say. Come, will you do it?"

  58

  "No," I said. "I want to stay with my mother."

  ...

  "We'll see about that!" he shouted angrily. He

  seized my arm and shook it. "You'll come with

  me, if I say so. You hear?" He glared at me

  and I looked back at him, frightened.

  "You hurt! I want to go home to my mother!"

  I cried.

  He held me a minute and then wearily pushed me

  away. "All right, go and be damned !" he said.

  "It's a hell of a life." Then, with a sudden

  motion, he caught my hand and put a sovereign

  in it. I dodged through the crowd and escaped

  into the street, eager to take the money to my

  mother.

  The next week, as we were sitting together, my

  mother sewing and I painfully spelling out


  long words in my reading, the landlady came

  puffing up the stairs and knocked at the door.

  ...

  "Your mister's took bad and in the hospital,"

  she said to my mother. "He's sent a message 'e

  wants to see you."

  59

  My mother turned whiter and rose in a hurry

  to put on her bonnet, while I picked the bits

  of thread from her gown. Then she kissed me,

  told me to mind the stew and not go out till

  she came back, and went away.

  There seemed a horror left in the room when

  she was gone. I could not keep my thoughts

  from that word "hospital," which all the poor

  of London fear and dread. I wandered about the

  room, looking from the window at the starving

  cats in the court and at the brick wall oppo-

  site till it grew dark. Then I ate a small

  plate of the stew, leaving some for my mother,

  and went miserably to bed.

  Late in the night my mother woke me and I saw

  that her face was shining almost as it used

  to do.

  "Oh, my dear!" she cried, hugging me. "It's

  all right. We are going to be so happy again!"

  She rocked back and forth, hugging me, and

  her hair tumbled down about us. Then she

  told me that when my father was well we were

  all going to leave London and go far away

  together — to Australia. We were going to

  have a farm there, in the country, with cows,

  and I was to have milk and cream and eggs,

  and she would make butter, and my father

  would never drink again. She poured it all

  out, in little bursts of talk, and her warm

  tears fell on my face.

  60

  When at last she left me to brush out her hair

  she hummed a little song and smiled at herself

  in the tiny mirror.

  "I wish my hair was all brown as it used to be,"

  she said. "It hurt him so to see it white. I

  will get fat in the country. Do you remember

  how handsome your father was and how jolly?

  Oh, won't it be fun?" After she had put out the

  light we lay a long time in the dark talking,

  and she told me tales of the pleasant times

  they had when I was little and asked if I

  remembered them.

  After that my mother went every day to the

  hospital. She did not sew any more, and she

  bought bunches of flowers and fruit for my

  father and cakes for me. At night, when she

  tucked me in, her face was bright with hope,

  and hearing her laugh, I remembered how sel-

  dom she had done it lately. We were both

  very happy.

  61

  Then one day she came in slowly, stumbling'