_And Now--Finished or Not Finished_
It was a beautiful morning, sparkling with sunshine and glory because
the tricolor was waving from the windows of every house and the people
in the streets had joy in their eyes and a smile on their lips. On the
terrace of a handsome mansion, a terrace of marble decorated with
exotic plants, at the end of which was a large stained-glass window, a
man of mature age and military bearing was stretched out in a
reclining-chair. He was smoking a large meerschaum pipe and blew out
such puffs of smoke that it seemed as if he were trying to obscure the
sun. By his side was a soldier awaiting orders, and near by was a
stand on which a magnificent green parrot stood, scratching his head
with his claw and rolling his big yellow eyes.
"Heh! What do you say to that, Duretti? Are we or are we not great?
To-day that we can say we have made Italy?"
"Now you see
Italy
The general has made so free ..."
chattered the wretch of a parrot.
"Be quiet, Coccorito; if you keep on with that nonsense I won't give
you any sunflower seeds for a week. I'd like to know who trained him
to be so impertinent during my absence. If it were not ..."
General Win-the-War started to get up, but a sudden twinge of pain
made him cry out and keep still in his chair. After biting his lips
for five minutes he began again to suck the mouthpiece of his pipe,
and after smoking up the air for another five minutes he said:
"Heh! My dear Duretti, it is a great satisfaction to fight for the
greatness of one's country, and if it were not for that cursed
Austrian shot which broke my leg I should like ..."
But Coccorito wouldn't let him finish and began to sing in his
horrible voice:
"Every day,
Pé--pé--pé,
When he grew great,
The soldiers he ate,
Ho, ho, ho!
He broke his leg,
Or so he said,
'Tis gout, you know,
Won't let him go ..."
[Illustration]
The general groaned and threw with all the strength he had left his
big meerschaum pipe at the bird. Coccorito would have come to a sad
end if the god of parrots had not, as he always did, held his
protecting hand over his tuft. The pipe grazed his head and fell in
the street, while he, with a strong tug at his light brass chain, flew
off and perched himself on the window-sill of the floor above, where
he laughed loudly and cried:
"Ha, ha, ha!
The general to the front set out,
Felt a blow and down he fell,
Because he suffers from the gout.
He says his leg he broke--well, well--
For his King, for Italy
He broke his leg--he, he, he, he!"
But Coccorito could now sing in peace and be as insolent as he liked
because the general was no longer paying any attention to him, for two
excellent reasons. First, because, in spite of his high rank, he was
not great enough to reach up to the second-floor window; second, and
more important, because at the moment that his pipe fell in the street
a carriage stopped in front of the house and out of it got a
gentleman, a lady, and ... a small box they were carrying, and it was
against this box that the strange projectile fell, making such a
clatter that the lady couldn't help uttering a few words of protest.
Win-the-War, who never allowed any one to outdo him in courtesy, found
it necessary to explain matters, and with the help of his orderly got
up from his chair and dragged himself to the railing of the terrace.
"Pardon me, I beg you.... You are right to protest, but my pipe ...
fell.... I threw it.... In short, it is all the fault of my parrot,
who upset me and the pipe. Coccorito, show them at least ... so that
the lady and gentleman may not believe ..."
"But don't imagine such a thing, General. Don't bother yourself ... it
is no matter."
"Ha, ha, ha!
The general to the front set out,
Felt a blow and down he fell,
Because he suffers from the gout.
He says his leg he broke--well, well--
For his King, for Italy
He broke his leg--he, he, he, he!"
Coccorito began again.
"Oh, you wretch! Did you hear him?"
"Don't apologize, General. I beg your pardon. Does old Geppetto live
here?"
"Yes, sir, on the floor above. Ring the second bell."
"Thank you."
"Not at all."
Old Geppetto was getting ready to mend an old table the legs of which
were red with worm-holes and had in hand a piece of seasoned wood, a
splendid piece. He was going to cut it with a hatchet and he had
lifted up his hand holding the shining tool, when who knows what queer
thoughts made his arm fall heavily. Did he perhaps remember that other
famous piece of wood from which the sprightly little old man had
shaped the wonderful puppet which had brought him so much bother and
trouble? And what had become of him? Why had he sent no news of
himself since he had gone out into the world like a real boy? Perhaps
the poor little old man would have preferred to have him still at his
side, a puppet as he used to be, and of wood out of which he had made
him, than to be left thus alone in the last years of his life. He had
tried so often to make another Pinocchio, but he had never been able
to finish his work. His hands trembled; his eyes were no longer what
they used to be, and even the wood--certainly it was the truth about
the wood--wasn't what it used to be.
When he heard the bell ring he felt his heart beat, and he ran to open
the door, swaying from side to side like a drunken man.
"Who's there?"
"It's I, Geppetto. Don't you recognize me?"
"My Fatina!"
"Yes, indeed, your Fatina who has come to introduce her husband, the
Bersaglierino, to you, and to see how you are, and to bring you
somebody you are fond of, very fond of," she replied, as they entered.
He gave her a long, questioning glance from beneath his spectacles;
then he spied Pinocchio mischievously hiding behind Fatina and the
Bersaglierino.
"Oh, Fatina! Fatina! How did they bring my poor puppet to such a
state?" sobbed Geppetto as he looked at Pinocchio. "What under the sun
is all this machinery and these contraptions? I made him of wood, all
of wood, and so splendidly that no one was ever able to imitate him.
Why did you let them abuse him in this way? Wouldn't it have been
better if you had let him stay a _real boy_ than to bring him back to
me in this condition?"
And the dear little old man couldn't contain himself and gave vent to
his sorrow in loud weeping.
Fatina and the Bersaglierino could find no words to comfort him with
and looked at him compassionately, their own throats tightening. When
Papa Geppetto had grown a little calmer he took his puppet in his arms
and examined him carefully all over, shaking his head and drawing his
lips tightly as if he wished to keep his sobs from bursting out again.
He saw the artificial legs, the arm with its steel spring and the
tweezers for hands; he saw the large silver plate which supported the
breastbone--admired all this up-to-date mechanism, but was not in the
least satisfied. The poor little old man preferred his wooden puppet
_all of wood_ to the marrow ... and he no longer recognized _his_ old
Pinocchio.
"Oh, Fatina!" he said, sighing, "who brought him to such a state?"
"Our country, dear friend."
"Our country?" and for a moment he stood there, his eyes wide open
with surprise. "Our country, did you say, Fatina?" Then he was lost in
thought again.
[Illustration]
While the old man was bending over Pinocchio, Fatina and
Bersaglierino quietly slipped out of the door. Papa Geppetto was again
alone with his beloved puppet in the same room where he had first
carved the little fellow out of pine wood.
Don't you remember how Pinocchio first broke up everything before he
ran away? How he knocked over the chest, rummaged the wardrobe, broke
the mirror, upset the little table, turned over the chairs, pulled the
pictures off the walls, and tore down the window-curtains? And don't
you remember how he left everything in a mess and ran out into the
street wrapped in a flowered chintz curtain?
Well, Pinocchio was home again, and Papa Geppetto had long ago
repaired the things Pinocchio had broken. Everything was in good order
except Pinocchio himself. That was what worried the old man. He did
not care much about the mirrors, wardrobes, or window-curtains, but he
_did_ care about his little puppet friend whom he loved.
It was getting dark and old Geppetto sat down in a large armchair and
held Pinocchio on his lap. As the shadows began to gather and the room
to get darker, Papa Geppetto began to nod and soon closed his eyes.
With his arms clasped around Pinocchio, he went to sleep.
If you could now step quietly into the room, you would see both of
them asleep. The old man's head was resting on Pinocchio's head, and
Pinocchio's on Geppetto's shoulder.
The little puppet was sleeping quietly, but the old man was not. He
seemed to be having a bad dream, judging from his sighs and groans.
"Oh, Pinocchio!" he said, aloud, in his sleep, "why did you run away
and go to the war? Just look at you! No legs, and one arm gone! I wish
you were my dear wooden puppet again."
Then the old man sighed, but kept on sleeping.
After about two hours Papa Geppetto awoke. It was now quite dark, but
not so dark that the old man could not see that some change had come
over Pinocchio. He looked down at the little sleeping puppet and what
do you think he saw? Not artificial legs and an arm. Oh no! Pinocchio
was just as he was when he was first made. Pinocchio was again the
little wooden puppet!
Papa Geppetto was so overcome with joy that he caught up Pinocchio in
his arms and hugged him so tight he nearly smothered the little
fellow. And Pinocchio threw his arms around the old man's neck and
kissed the top of his bald head.
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's The Heart of Pinocchio, by Collodi Nipote