My Autobiography by Charles Chaplin (find a book to read .txt) 📗

of our room. I stood a moment to catch my breath, intensely scrutinizing her. It was a summer’s afternoon and the atmosphere was close and oppressive. Mother was sitting as usual at the window. She turned slowly and looked at me, her face pale and tormented.

‘Mother!’ I almost shouted.

‘What is it?’ she said listlessly.

Then I ran and fell on my knees and buried my face in her lap, and burst into uncontrollable weeping.

‘There, there,’ she said gently, stroking my head. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘You’re not well,’ I cried between sobs.

She spoke reassuringly: ‘Of course I am.’

She seemed so vague, so preoccupied.

‘No! No! They say you’ve been going to all the houses and –’ I could not finish, but continued sobbing.

‘I was looking for Sydney,’ she said weakly; ‘they’re keeping him away from me.’

Then I knew that what the children had said was true.

‘Oh, Mummy, don’t talk like that! Don’t! Don’t!’ I sobbed. ‘Let me get you a doctor.’

She continued, stroking my head: ‘The McCarthys know where he is, and they’re keeping him away from me.’

‘Mummy, please let me get a doctor,’ I cried. I got up and went towards the door.

She looked after me with a pained expression. ‘Where are you going?’

‘To get a doctor. I won’t be long.’

She never answered, but looked anxiously after me. Quickly I rushed downstairs to the landlady. ‘I’ve got to get a doctor at once, Mother’s not well!’

‘We’ve already sent for him,’ the landlady said.

The parish doctor was old and grumpy and after hearing the landlady’s story, which was similar to that of the children, he made a perfunctory examination of Mother. ‘Insane. Send her to the infirmary,’ he said.

The doctor wrote out a paper; besides other things it said she was suffering from malnutrition, which the doctor explained to me, saying that she was undernourished.

‘She’ll be better off and get proper food there,’ said the landlady by way of comforting me.

She helped to gather up Mother’s clothes and to dress her Mother obeyed like a child; she was so weak, her will seemed to have deserted her. As we left the house, the neighbours and children were gathered at the front gate, looking on with awe.

The infirmary was about a mile away. As we ambled along Mother staggered like a drunken woman from weakness, veerign from side to side as I supported her. The stark, afternoon sun seemed to ruthlessly expose our misery. People who passed us must have thought Mother was drunk, but to me they were like phantoms in a dream. She never spoke, but seemed to know where we were going and to be anxious to get there. On the way I tried to reassure her, and she smiled, too weak to talk.

When at last we arrived at the infirmary a young doctor took her in charge. After reading the note, he said kindly: ‘All right, Mrs Chaplin, come this way.’

She submitted obediently. But as the nurses started to lead her away she turned suddenly with a painful realization that she was leaving me behind.

‘See you tomorrow,’ I said, feigning cheerfulness.

They led her away looking anxiously back at me. When she had gone, the doctor turned. ‘And what will become of you, young man?’

Having had enough of workhouse schools, I replied politely: ‘Oh, I’ll be living with my aunt.’

As I walked from the hospital towards home, I could feel only a numbing sadness. Yet I was relieved, for I knew that Mother would be better off in the hospital than sitting alone in that dark room with nothing to eat. But that heart-breaking look as they led her away I shall never forget. I thought of all her endearing ways, her gaiety, her sweetness and affection; of that weary little figure that used to come down the streets looking tired and preoccupied until she saw me charging towards her; how she would change immediately and become all smiling as I looked eagerly inside the paper bag she carried for those little niceties that she always brought home for Sydney and me. Even that morning she had saved some candy – had offered it to me while I wept in her lap.

I did not go straight home, I could not. I turned in the direction of the Newington Butts market and looked in shop windows until late afternoon. When I returned to the garret it looked reproachfully empty. On a chair was a wash-tub, half-filled with water. Two of my shirts and a chemise were soaking in it. I began to investigate; there was no food in the cupboard except a small half-filled package of tea. On the mantelpiece was her purse, in which I found three halfpence, some keys and several pawn tickets. On the corner of the table was the candy she had offered me. Then I broke down and wept again.

Emotionally exhausted, I slept soundly that night. In the morning I awoke to a haunting emptiness in the room; the sun streaming in on the floor seemed to heighten Mother’s absence. Later the landlady came up and said that I could stay on there until she let the room and that if I needed food I had only to ask for it. I thanked her and told her that Sydney would pay all our debts when he returned. But I was too shy to ask for food.

I did not go to see Mother the next day as promised. I could not; it would have been too upsetting. But the landlady saw the doctor, who said that she had already been transferred to Cane Hill asylum. This melancholy news relieved my conscience, for Cane Hill was twenty miles away and I had no means of getting there. Sydney would soon return and then we could see her together. For the first few days I neither saw nor spoke to anyone I knew.

I would steal out in the early morning and stay out all day; I always managed to get food somewhere – besides, missing a meal was no hardship. One morning