_Many Deeds and Few Words_
My dear little friends, I won't stop to show you Pinocchio in the sad
surroundings of a hospital. I will tell you only that he stayed there
for more than two months, and that he left it with his two wooden
legs, new and well oiled, and that Fatina, by a curious coincidence,
was his careful and affectionate nurse, and that Ciampanella, playing
the part of a good friend, did not fail to make him frequent visits,
bringing with him certain samples of camp cookery which enraptured
Pinocchio. His surgeon was a most polite Piedmontese, always bowing
and salaaming, who announced to him with all formality the misfortune
which had again overtaken him and asked his permission two days in
advance to amputate his frozen leg.
"All right," exclaimed Pinocchio, "go ahead. I've got accustomed to
such trifles now. But you must do me a favor."
"Let me hear it."
"When you give me my new wooden leg I want it to be longer than usual
and that naturally you change the other one, too."
"Why?"
"Because I'd feel as if I were on stilts and it would amuse me to
death to take steps longer than any one else."
He was satisfied and left the hospital with such long legs that he was
almost as tall as Ciampanella, who took Pinocchio's arm in his as if
he were his sweetheart.
"Heh, youngster, but you have grown! And then they say that we
non-combatants never do anything! I haven't done anything, but if I
were the one I have in mind I would bestow on you the medal for
bravery because your legs have won it. I tell you, I, who know what I
am talking about."
"Even if they don't give me anything, I am satisfied all the same. All
I ask is for them to leave me here and not send me home."
"Come with me and I'll appoint you first adjutant of the mess kitchen,
and when I have taught you how and put the ladle in your hand _we
will live on the fat of the land_ and will make meat-balls with our
leavings for the general, and when we don't know what else to do we'll
write the _Manual of War Cookery_, which I won't risk now because I
haven't a writing hand, as the saying is."
"Listen, Ciampanella, I am as grateful as if you had offered to lend
me a hundred lire without interest, but just now I can't accept."
"Why?"
"Because it requires a special constitution to be a cook. I'd be all
right as far as eating the best morsels was concerned, but it would be
dangerous for me to stay near the stove. I am half wooden and run the
risk of catching on fire. I should have to decide to take out
insurance against fire. Moreover, let's consider. To-day I have other
views. Fatina here has given me a letter for my friend Bersaglierino,
who is at headquarters as the war correspondent of an important
newspaper. We'll see what he advises me to do."
They parted good friends after a solemn feast which almost made
Ciampanella roll under the table, like an ancient Roman at one of the
banquets of Lucullus or Nero.
[Illustration]
Bersaglierino was truly delighted to see his dear little friend again
and kept him with him several days for company. From him he learned a
number of things he didn't know. One day he asked him:
"Tell me, Pinocchio, do you know the reason for this war in which you,
too, have played your small part and to which you have paid tribute of
part of yourself?"
"Do you imagine I don't know? It is _to make Italy bigger_."
"And that seems a just reason to you?"
"That's what every one says."
"All those who don't know what they are talking about. If every nation
had the right to let loose a war for the sole purpose of enlarging her
boundaries we'd have to take off our hats to the Germans who provoked
the present curse for their own purposes. We have other and nobler
ideals. We have brothers to liberate, peoples to free from a foreign
yoke. Certain lands which are ours because they were enriched by the
labors of our fathers, because our Italian tongue is spoken in them,
were until to-day exploited by the enemy, who sought in every way to
embitter the existence of our brothers, paying with contempt and
scorn, with persecution and oppression, their loyalty and love for the
mother-country. Italian unity, begun in the revolutionary movement of
1811, was not completed in 1870 with the taking of Rome. The jealousy
of other nations halted us on our way to emancipation. We were too
weak then to make our will felt; we were exhausted with fifty years of
continuous fighting and we had need of a little rest in order to
restore our energy. To-day we are strong enough to stand up for our
rights. Neither underhand dealings of wicked men nor betrayal by
partizans will prevent the victory of our arms. Italy will be
retempered in the war. Our destiny will be fulfilled.
"I see as in a dream our borders which have been overrun won back to
us, Trent bleeding with Italian blood, Goriza twice redeemed, Trieste
in the shadow of the tricolor. Istria awaits us impatiently; Parenzo
is preparing the way for us to Pola, which we shall take intact, with
the defenses the Austrians erected there against our own brothers.
Zara, Sebenico, and the coast of Dalmatia, which for so many centuries
displayed the glorious insignia of the Lion of St. Mark, are longing
impatiently for the moment which shall reunite them to the
mother-country, that for them and with them will grow ever greater.
War is a curse; this one which is being fought to-day all over the
civilized world is perhaps the most terrible which humanity has ever
known; yet it will not fail to bring great blessings. It has awakened
the consciences of peoples and revealed the virtues and the defects of
particular races. In the contest of the ancient Latin civilization
with the Teuton power the might of right has been re-established, the
right that has been trampled upon by force...."
And so on and so on, for when Bersaglierino began to argue there was
no way of stopping him, and Pinocchio stood there listening with his
mouth open like a peasant absorbed by the wonderful discourse of a
fakir at a fair. And who knows how long he would have stood there, but
Bersaglierino had so much to do and was obliged to leave him alone,
letting him stay in the rear where he could follow the progress of the
war without exposing himself too much, but where he could still be
doing important service for his country. He put him in the care of a
captain of the commissary department, a good friend of his who had the
unlucky idea of making him a baker in a camp bakery. He stayed there
only two days, astounded at the enormous quantity of bread which was
kneaded and baked all the time. All he did was to give a hand in
filling the baskets which were loaded on automobiles that carried the
bread to the front. The third day he made a figure of dough that
looked like the twin brother of the captain, put it in the oven and,
when it was baked, set it astraddle on the cup of coffee poured out
for that officer, then hid himself behind a curtain to take part in
the welcome which would certainly be given to his most valuable work
of art. But the commissary officer's orderly found him and wanted to
dust his trousers and pull his ears. He never succeeded in doing this.
Pinocchio helped him out of the house with kicks and then hurled him
into the flour-barrel. If they had not pulled him out in time he would
have suffocated.
The boy fled on the first automobile which left for the front, and for
several days whirled back and forth between the front and rear lines,
going forward on the supply automobiles and returning on the Red Cross
ambulances which brought the wounded to the first-aid posts. The
drivers were glad to take him on their machines because he kept them
all jolly with his pranks, and he, better than any one, was able to
get an idea of the gigantic and wonderful work which was being done
side by side with the army which was fighting for the defense of its
country. What profound respect for discipline, what order, what spirit
of self-sacrifice in those brave soldiers (almost all fathers of
families), continually exposed to bad weather, to the hardest
fatigues, to the most complete privations! Rain, snow, ice, tornadoes
of wind and of shot and shell, nothing succeeded in interrupting for a
single minute the interminably long chain of wagons and lorries that
carried food to the trenches, ammunition to the artillery, and cannon
to the fortified positions. The drivers, dead with sleep, soaked with
rain, shivering with cold, remained calmly at their wheels and at the
heads of their horses. When the great caravan stopped for a moment for
any reason these men, revived with new energy and by the force of
their will, started the huge mechanism on its way again.
For a little way Pinocchio thought he would become an
automobile-driver, but when they told him that he would have to have a
license and that, in order to get one, he would have to take a regular
examination, he didn't proceed farther. Examiners he looked upon as
even greater enemies than Franz Joe's hunters.
[Illustration]
After pondering the subject a long time he decided to become a
military postman. At first he took pleasure in it all. When he
arrived it seemed as if heaven had come down to earth. He was received
like a king, with joyous cries and shouts, and he walked between two
rows of soldiers like a general. When he distributed the letters it
was as if he conferred a favor; when he handed out a money-order he
had an air of condescension as if he were doling the soldi from his
purse. When he had finished distributing the mail he would let them
pay him to read their letters. I can tell you it was not an easy
matter. Often he had hieroglyphics to decipher which would have given
trouble to a professor of paleontology. But Pinocchio had such a quick
mind that when he found he couldn't puzzle it out he invented a letter
and did it so well that he earned a soldo by it and the deep gratitude
of his clients. What disgusted him with the business was the postal
service, which suddenly became confoundedly bad, perhaps on account of
a change in the Ministry. Pinocchio saw his popularity vanish in an
instant, and the soldiers made him bear the brunt of their
dissatisfaction. One day he heard so many complaints that he grew
furious and flung away the bag he wore about his neck and cried out to
those who were disputing around him:
"You are a bunch of imbeciles. Why do you come to me with your
letters? Do you know what you ought to do? Go and get them, because I
won't take another step for the sake of your pretty faces."
His ears were boxed again and again and he replied with as many kicks,
but he didn't play postman any more. He was wondering to what new
service he could dedicate himself when a corporal baker gave him this
note:
DEAR PINOCCHIO,--I am having the one who will hand you this
write these lines so that he can tell you for me that I have
a great longing to see you, because I am not well and I
don't know what to do, and I sign myself your most
affectionate
CIAMPANELLA,
_Chief Mess-cook in the service of the
Commander-in-chief_.
Pinocchio was so affected by this letter that he set off at once in
search of his friend. He found him in full performance of his noble
functions, white, red, and flourishing as if he had come back the day
before from taking the cure at Montecatini.
"Well?" he said in astonishment, after they had embraced.
"Well, youngster, I am here and I am not here in this beastly world."
"But, truly ..."
"You wouldn't say that I am on the downward path, to make use of the
words of the chaplain, but Ciampanella is no longer himself. They have
given me only a few months more to live. I don't mind for myself, you
know. I think that I shall be as well off there as I have been
here.... But I am thinking of humanity."
"Nothing and a little less than nothing."
"No joking now, youngster. Without the _Manual of War Cookery_ written
by Ciampanella humanity can never be happy, because with it men will
eat and laugh, and when you laugh you spend willingly, and when you
spend willingly you eat well.... So that ..."
"Why don't you write it?"
"First of all, because I lack the knowledge of handwriting, which
you've got to do; that is why I sent for you, and then ... because I
am afraid that I won't have time enough to dictate it all, because the
surgeon-major who examined me said that I had a disease of the liver
from eating too much, and that it would be the liver that would bring
me to my grave if I didn't stop immediately living on the fat of the
land and drink quantities of water. Listen, youngster, I have always
had a great antipathy for liver, so much so that I never even put it
in patties called Strasburg and which in my _Manual_ I will rechristen
'Austro-German Trenches with Reinforcements of War Bread and Ambushed
in Jelly.' But that's not the point. As I tell you, I have always had
a great antipathy to liver, but also for water, so much so, I'll tell
you in confidence, that sometimes I don't even use it to wash my face
in.
"So listen. Since they have brought me to this crossroads--either
drink water and live or eat good things and let my liver take me to
the next world--I have decided on the latter. Before dying I wanted to
call you to my presence to tell you that as I have no one in the world
I have been thinking of leaving you everything I possess: ten ladles,
a carver, the change-purse, and the recipes for the _Manual_, for
which, when you publish it, they will give you at least the cross of a
knight, that when you put it on will make, you feel 'way and ahead of
those who look at you."
[Illustration]
In short, Ciampanella said so much and did so much that he persuaded
Pinocchio to stay with him. And certainly the boy could not find a
better way of making himself useful to his country. The mess-cook was
at the orders of a division. Each day he satisfied the hunger of four
generals, six colonels, and a crowd of majors and captains of the
General Staff. All these were men who had need of good eating that
wouldn't cause indigestion. Pinocchio served ... as director of the
mess. When he saw some saucepan boiling over, a pot too full, he
quickly reduced them by tasting their contents generously. Sauces and
ragoûts were his passion. Every now and then you might have seen him
dipping half a loaf of bread into the casseroles. One day a captain
who was inspecting surprised him at this, and naturally he lit into
Ciampanella about it, who threatened to quit the kitchen if they
didn't leave him in peace.
"Do you understand, Mr. Captain? Do you imagine that standing over a
fire is a great pleasure? I am beginning to believe that it is better
to stay in the trenches and die _with a ball in the head_ than in the
rear when you come and ruin my comfort with your inspections. But do
you know what I'll do? I'll hide the ladles in a place I know of and
I'll take up a musket and you'll see what you'll see."
The captain had to slink off, speeded by the laughs of Pinocchio,
whose nose was smeared and greasy and his mouth dripping with tomato
sauce. Ciampanella, who was so lacking in respect to his superiors,
obeyed the boy as if he were a head taller than he. Pinocchio had
persuaded him to drink quarts of water and to take digestive tablets
after his meals, and every morning a spoonful of salts in a glass of
water as the surgeon-major had ordered. And he followed out this
prescription so carefully that he had noticed a wonderful improvement,
and he kept a big bottle full of medicine among his cans of pepper and
spices. This fact had several times started an idea in Pinocchio's
whimsical pate, and several times he had been on the point of
exchanging this medicine for the kitchen salt, but the thought of the
serious consequences which might result had kept him from doing it.
Moreover, Pinocchio was called more and more often to serve the
mess-table and spent less time in the kitchen. The famous captain of
the inspection had thought in this way to avenge himself upon that
most insolent of semi-puppets, but, to tell you the truth, he didn't
find it bad. Serving at table so many grand generals seemed to him
almost an honor, and he was proud of it. When he handed the dishes to
the highest officers he would make low bows; the captains he treated
almost with disdain. He always tried to serve his "particular" captain
the last, and when there was left in the dish scarcely enough to
scrape out another portion he would whisper in his ear:
"Heh, Captain, blessed are those that are last!"
The captain fumed, but waited for the moment when he could give him a
reprimand. He thought the time had come one morning when he found a
fly in the stew.
"Come here, you little beast."
"Yes, sir; at your orders, sir."
"Look!" and he stuck the plate of stew two inches from his nose.
"There is no doubt, Captain, that it is a fly, a very vulgar fly," and
sticking two fingers delicately into the sauce he pulled the insect
out ... "a fly indeed! But you may consider yourself lucky because in
the rations of your men there will be at least twenty of them. And
those who fight don't think much of it. You do the same, Captain ...
in war-time don't bother about such trifles."
A tank commander who was next to him laughed heartily. The captain, as
green as a newly formed tomato, kept quiet and ate the stew.
* * * * *
That day there was a grand dinner for some French and British officers
who had come on a mission to the front. Ciampanella had cooked one of
his wonderful recipes. Pinocchio, who had stuck his nose and tongue
into all the pots and pans, swore that even the King's cook was not
equal to producing such a dinner. And he, too, wished to do himself
honor. He set the table in a grassy spot surrounded by high trees and
thick hedges. It wasn't possible to find a more picturesque spot,
shady and safe from curious eyes, from reporters, and--spies. It was a
little distance from the kitchen, but distances didn't bother
Pinocchio, whose legs, longer than ordinary ones, could take steps
like a giant's. He decorated the table with wild flowers and wove
between the branches of the trees the flags of Italy, France, England,
and America, tied together with the colors of Belgium, dressed himself
afresh, and prepared to display all his good manners.
All the high officers seated at the table made a wonderful sight. The
uniforms, starred with crosses and ribbons, shining with gold and
silver, were all the more sparkling against the green background of
the trees and the meadow.
Pinocchio had served the finest _consommé_ with the air of a head
waiter in an expensive restaurant. When he returned to serve a
magnificent capon in jelly shaped like a cannon surrounded by hearts
of green lettuce which appeared on the menu under the name "William's
Wishes, with Evasions of German Financiers," he was struck by a
strange sight. All the diners had fled from the table and were going
hurriedly behind the hedge, overcome with nausea. A terrible idea
flashed through Pinocchio's mind. He turned around and, his capon in
his hand, rushed to the kitchen.
"Ciampanella! Ciampanella!"
"What's the matter?"
"The medicine?"
"What's the medicine got to do with dinner?"
"What did you put in the soup?"
"Are you crazy, youngster? Be quiet and let the officers eat."
"Ciampanella, are you perfectly sure of yourself?"
"Why do you ask me if I am sure of myself?"
"Because ... the officers aren't eating."
"What are they doing?"
"Just come and see, because I don't understand about cooking."
They went running, but had scarcely passed the threshold when a bomb
from an enemy airplane burst a few feet from them. They were hit in
the chest by a column of air which turned them round, were hurled back
into the kitchen, and buried beneath a shower of masonry.
* * * * *
Ciampanella remained buried there, to the great misfortune of
humanity, who, after all, had to do without his _Manual of War
Cookery_, but Pinocchio was dug out alive. He was carried hastily to
the nearest ambulance station and fell into the hands of a splendid
surgeon, who, after having set a slender fracture of the arm and of
the breastbone, swore to save him in spite of fate. He hurriedly
amputated an arm, and a fortnight later in the hospital of a near-by
city they extracted the broken ribs, for which they substituted two
silver plates.
When Fatina and the Bersaglierino hurried to his bed to help him and
cheer him they found themselves face to face with a poor creature who,
with his artificial legs, arm, and breast, seemed indeed ... a wooden
puppet.
But Pinocchio was still himself, humorous, lively, and mischievous.
When he noticed that Fatina was looking at him with her big blue eyes
full of tears and pity, he shrugged his shoulders and, scratching his
left ear vigorously, made a face and said:
"Pretty object, heh? But you must be patient. In order to become a
real boy I couldn't help but go back to ... the old one!"