Charlie Chaplin Charlie Chaplin's Own Story (ep

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.He stared moodily at the table, drumming on itwith his fingers, and then he turned to mewith a dreary look in his eyes."Well, then,come home with me," he said."I'll take goodcare of you and give you a fine start in theprofession and clothes that aren't rags.Ican do that, yet.I'm not done for, whateverthey 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.Heseized my arm and shook it."You'll come withme, if I say so.You hear?" He glared at meand 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 meaway."All right, go and be damned !" he said."It's a hell of a life." Then, with a suddenmotion, he caught my hand and put a sovereignin it.I dodged through the crowd and escapedinto the street, eager to take the money to mymother.The next week, as we were sitting together, mymother sewing and I painfully spelling outlong words in my reading, the landlady camepuffing 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 'ewants to see you."59My mother turned whiter and rose in a hurryto put on her bonnet, while I picked the bitsof thread from her gown.Then she kissed me,told me to mind the stew and not go out tillshe came back, and went away.There seemed a horror left in the room whenshe was gone.I could not keep my thoughtsfrom that word "hospital," which all the poorof London fear and dread.I wandered about theroom, looking from the window at the starvingcats in the court and at the brick wall oppo-site till it grew dark.Then I ate a smallplate of the stew, leaving some for my mother,and went miserably to bed.Late in the night my mother woke me and I sawthat her face was shining almost as it usedto do."Oh, my dear!" she cried, hugging me."It'sall right.We are going to be so happy again!"She rocked back and forth, hugging me, andher hair tumbled down about us.Then shetold me that when my father was well we wereall going to leave London and go far awaytogether — to Australia.We were going tohave 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 fatherwould never drink again.She poured it allout, in little bursts of talk, and her warmtears fell on my face.60When at last she left me to brush out her hairshe hummed a little song and smiled at herselfin 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.Iwill get fat in the country.Do you rememberhow handsome your father was and how jolly?Oh, won't it be fun?" After she had put out thelight we lay a long time in the dark talking,and she told me tales of the pleasant timesthey had when I was little and asked if Iremembered them.After that my mother went every day to thehospital.She did not sew any more, and shebought bunches of flowers and fruit for myfather and cakes for me.At night, when shetucked me in, her face was bright with hope,and hearing her laugh, I remembered how sel-dom she had done it lately.We were bothvery happy.61Then one day she came in slowly, stumbling'a bit.My heart gave a terrible leap when Isaw her face — gray, with a blue look abouther lips.I ran to her, frightened, andhelped her to a chair.She sat there quitestill, not answering me at first, and thenshe said in a dull voice, "He's dead.He'sdead.He was dead when I got there.Itcan't be true.He's dead."My father had died suddenly the night before.There was some confusion about the burialarrangements.My mother seemed dazed and therewas no money.People came and talked with herand she did not seem to understand them, butit seemed that the music-hall people weremaking the arrangements, and then that some-body objected to that and undertook them —I gathered that it was my father's sister.Then one day my mother and I dressed verycarefully and went to the funeral.It was afoggy cold day, late in autumn, with drops ofrain falling slowly.At one end of the gravestood a thin angular woman with her lipspressed together tight, and my mother and Istood at the other.My mother held her headproudly and did not shed a tear, but her handin mine was cold.There were several carriagesand people from the music-halls with a fewflowers.When the coffin was lowered into thegrave the thin hard-looking woman droppedsome flowers on it.My mother looked at herand she looked at my mother coldly.We hadno flowers, but my mother took from my pocketa little handkerchief of hers which she hadgiven me — a little handkerchief with an em-broidered border which I prized very much —and put it in my hand.62"You can put that in," she said, and I droppedit into the open grave and watched it flutterdown.My heart was almost breaking with grieffor my mother.Then we went back to our cold room alone, andmy mother went at once at her sewing.We had no more talks or study, and she didnot seem to hear when I read aloud, so aftera time I stopped.She sat silently, all day,sewing at the blouses, and I hunted for errandsin the streets, and made the stew, and tried toget her to eat some.She said she did not careto eat because her head ached, she would ratherI had it.At this time I looked everywhere for work, butcould not seem to find any.I was so small andthin that people thought I could not do it well.I picked up a few pennies here and there andlearned the ways of the streets, and wished Iwere bigger and not so shabby, so that I mightgo on the stage.I was sure I could make moneythere.63Then one day I came home and found my motherlying on the floor beside her chair, gray andcold, with blue lips.I could not rouse her [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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