He was too well accustomed to his dirt to think of it as being
objectionable, so the way in which Greggs lifted him up on to the seat
on the box did not at all explain itself to him. He did not realize
that in exactly the same manner the excellent Greggs would have handled
an extremely dirty little dog her ladyship had chosen to pick up by the
wayside and order him to take charge of.
But though he did not understand how he was regarded by the illustrious
_signori_ in livery who sat near him, he was conscious that he was not
comfortable, and felt that somehow they were not exactly friendly. His
place on the box seemed at an enormous height from the ground, and as
they went down hill over the winding road he was rather frightened,
particularly when they rounded a sharp curve. It seemed so probable
that he might fall off, and he was afraid to clutch at Greggs, who kept
as far from him as possible under the circumstances.
It was a long, long drive to San Remo, and it seemed longer to Piccino
than it really was. San Remo to him appeared a wonderful foreign
country. He had never been there, and only knew of it what Maria had
told him. Maria had once gone there in the small cart drawn by the
donkey, and she had never forgotten the exaltation of the adventure.
She was always willing to describe over again the streets, the white
villas, the shops, and the grand hotels.
Piccino was so tired that he fell asleep before the carriage had left
the curving road, but when it reached the city the jolting of the
wheels wakened him, and he opened his beautiful drowsy eyes and found
them dazzled by the lights. They were not very bright or numerous
lights, but they seemed so very dazzling to him that he felt bewildered
by them. If Maria had been with him he would have clung to her and
asked questions about everything, but, even if he had not been too
much a baby and too shy, he could not have asked questions of Greggs,
who was sufficiently English to feel his own language quite enough for
a sensible footman. If the Italians wished to speak Italian that was
their own taste, and they might bear the consequences of not being able
to make him understand them. English was enough for Greggs.
So Piccino was borne through the amazing streets in silence. The people
in the carriage had also become rather silent, having been lulled, as
it were, by the long drive through the woods and olive groves. Lady
Aileen, in fact, had had time to begin to wonder if her new plan would
prove as satisfactory and amusing as she had fancied it might. Mr.
Gordon was quietly speculating about it himself; the other man in the
carriage was thinking of the Battle of Flowers at Nice, and inventing
a new scheme of floral decoration for a friend’s victoria. The only
person who was really thinking of Piccino himself was the girl who sat
by Lady Aileen. She was a clever girl, and kind, and she was wondering
how he would like the change in his life, and if he had begun to feel
homesick.
The carriage had to go up-hill again before it reached Lady Aileen’s
villa. It was a snowy white villa on an eminence, and it had a terraced
garden and looked out over the sea. When they drove through the stately
gateway Piccino felt his small heart begin to thump, though he did not
know why at all. There were shadows of trees and scents of roses and
orange blossom and heliotrope. And on the highest terrace the white
house stood, with a glow of light in its portico and gleams in its
windows. Poor little dirty peasant baby, how could it be otherwise than
that all this grandeur and whiteness should alarm him!
But there was just one thing that gave him a homely feeling. And oh!
he felt it so good that it was so! As they turned in at the gate he
heard a familiar sound. It was the hysteric sniffing and jumping and
yelping whines of welcome of a dog—a poor, exiled doggie, whose kennel
was kept close by the gate, probably to guard it. He was fastened by a
chain, and evidently, being a friendly, sociable creature, did not like
being kept in this lonely place and not allowed to roam with the world.
He could not have friendly fights and associates, and he could not rush
about and jump on ladies’ dresses and gentlemen’s clothes and leave his
dusty or muddy affectionate paw-marks all over them. And so he was not
happy, and when he heard footsteps approaching always strained at his
chain, and sniffed and whined. As these returning carriages belonged to
his own domestic circle he almost went wild with joy, and leaped and
yelped and did his best to make somebody speak to him. He was adoringly
fond of Lady Aileen, who scarcely ever noticed him at all, but once
or twice had said “Good fellow! Nice dog!” as she went by, and once
had come and looked at him and given him two whole pats, while he had
wriggled and fawned himself nearly into hysterics of dog delight.
And so it happened that as the carriage turned into the beautiful
gateway Piccino heard this sound he knew—that loving, eager, pleading
dog voice, which is as much Italian as it is English, and as much
peasant as it is noble. The dogs in the hovels near Ceriani spoke just
as Lady Aileen’s dog did, and asked for just the same thing—that human
things should love them a little and believe that they themselves love
a great deal. And Piccino, who was only a beautiful little baby animal
himself, understood it vaguely, and was somehow reminded of his friend
the donkey, and felt not quite so many hundred miles from home and the
tumble-down stable and Maria. He involuntarily lifted his soft, dirty,
blooming face to Greggs in the dark.
“_A chi il cane?_” he said. (Whose dog is that?)
“What’s that he’s saying?” said Greggs to the coachman.
“Must be something about the dog,” answered Hepburn. “He said something
or other about a carney, and carney means dog. It’s a deuce of a
language to make out.”
And so, not being answered, Piccino could only resign himself, and, as
the carriage rolled up the drive, listen to the familiar homely dog
sound and wish he could get down and go to the kennel. And then the
carriage stopped before the door. And the door was thrown open by a
liveried servant, and showed the brilliantly lighted hall, where there
were beautiful pictures and ornaments, and curious things hung on
the walls, and rich rugs on the floor, and quaint seats and bits of
furniture about, so that to Piccino it looked like a grand room.
Lady Aileen spoke to the footman at the door.
“Send Nicholson to me,” she said. “Bring the child into the hall,” she
said to Greggs.
So Piccino was taken down in as gingerly a manner as he had been put
up, and Greggs set him discreetly on a bit of the floor not covered by
rugs.
He stood there without moving, his luminous eyes resting on Lady Aileen.
Lady Aileen spoke to her companions, but he did not know what she was
saying, because she spoke English.
“He is exactly like some little animal,” she said. “He does not know
what to make of it all. I am afraid he is rather stupid—but what a
beauty!”
“Poor little mite!” said the girl, “I dare say he is tired.”
Nicholson appeared almost immediately. She was a neat, tall, prim young
woman, who wore black cashmere and collar and apron of snow.
Lady Aileen made a gesture towards Piccino.
“I have brought this child from Ceriani,” she said. “Take him up-stairs
and take his rags off and burn them. Give him a bath—perhaps two or
three will be necessary. Get his hair in order. Modesta can change my
dress for me. I shall come into the bathroom myself presently.”
Piccino was watching her fixedly. What was she saying? What were they
going to do to him?
She turned away and went into the _salon_ with her guests, and
Nicholson came towards him. She gave him the same uncomfortable feeling
Greggs had given him. He felt that she did not like him, and she spoke
in English.
“Come up-stairs with me. I am going to wash you,” she said.
But Piccino did not understand and did not move. So she had to take
hold of his hand to lead him, which she objected very much to doing.
She took him up the staircase, and through landings and corridors where
he caught glimpses of wonderful bedrooms that were of dainty colors and
had silk and lace and frills and cushions in them, and made him feel
more strange than ever. And at last she opened a door and took him into
a place which was all blue and white porcelain—walls and floors and
everything else—including a strange large object in one corner, which
had shining silver things at one end. And she released his hand and
went to the silver things and twisted them round, and, as if by magic,
two streams of clear water gushed out and began to fill the blue and
white trough as the bed of a torrent is filled by the spring rains.
Piccino’s eyes grew bigger and more lustrous every second as he stared.
Was she doing this interesting but rather alarming thing to amuse him?
Maria had never seen anything like this in San Remo, or she would
certainly have told him. He was seeing more than Maria. For a moment or
so he was not sorry he had come. If the rich _forestieri_ had things
like this to play with, they must have other things as amusing. And
somehow the water was hot. He could see the pretty white steam rise
from it. He came a little closer to look. “Nicola,” as he called her in
his mind, having heard Lady Aileen speak to her as “Nicholson”—Nicola
moved to and fro and collected curious things together—a white cake
of something, a big, light, round thing made of holes, large pieces
of thick, soft, white cloth with fringe at the ends, something—these
last—which must be like the things Maria had heard of as being used in
churches by the priests.
“_Che fai?_” (What are you doing?) he said to Nicola.
But she did not understand him, and only said something in English as
she took off her white cuffs and rolled up her sleeves.
By this time the two rushing streams had splashed and danced into the
bed of the torrent until it was nearly full. Nicola twisted the silver
things as before, and by magic again the rushing ceased and the clear
pool was still, the light vapor rising from it.
Nicola came to him and began to take off his clothes with the very tips
of her fingers, speaking in English as she did it. He did not know that
she was saying:
“A pretty piece of work for a lady’s maid to do. My own clothes may go
into the washtub and the rag-bag after it. The filth of such people
is past bearing. And it’s her ladyship all over to have such a freak.
There’s no end to her whims. Burn them! she might well say burn them.
The sooner they are in the fire the better.” She took off the last rag
and kicked it aside with her foot. Piccino stood before her, a little,
soft, brown cherub without wings.
“Upon my word!” she said, “he is pretty. I suppose that’s the reason.”
Piccino was beginning to feel very queer indeed. The rushing water was
amusing, but what was her intention in taking off all his clothes? That
was not funny. Surely the _forestieri_ wore clothes when they were
in San Remo. And, besides, she had given his cherished trousers—the
beautiful trousers of Sandro which had been given him for his own—a
kick which had no respect in it, and which sent them flying into a
corner. His little red mouth began to look unsteady at the corners.
“Yes, that’s the reason,” she said. “It’s because he’s so pretty.” And
she picked him up in her arms and bore him to the bath.
Piccino looked down into the blue and white pool which seemed to him so
big and deep. He felt himself being lowered into it, and uttered a wild
shriek. They were going to drown him—to drown him—to drown him!
He was in the water. He felt it all around him—nearly up to his
shoulders. He clung to Nicola and uttered shriek after shriek, he
kicked and splashed and beat with his feet, the water leaped and foamed
about him, and flew into his eyes and nose and mouth.
“_Lasciatemi! Lasciatemi!_” (Let me go! Let me go!) he screamed.
Nicholson tried her best to hold him.
“My goodness!” she exclaimed, “I can’t manage him. He is like a little
wildcat. Keep quiet, you naughty boy! Be still, you bad little pig, and
let me wash you! Good gracious! what am I to do?”
But Piccino would not be drowned without a struggle. To be held in
water like that! to be suffocated by its splashing in his nose and
mouth, and blinded by its dashing in his eyes! He fought with feet and
teeth, used his head like a battering-ram, and shrieked and shrieked
for aid.
“_Io non ho fatto niente! Io non ho fatto niente!_ (I have done
nothing.) Maria! Maria!”
And the noise was so appalling that almost immediately footsteps were
to be heard upon the stairs, swift movement in the corridor, and the
bathroom door opened.
It was Lady Aileen who came in, amazed, frowning, and rather alarmed.
The girl friend who had wondered if Piccino would like his surroundings
was with her.
Piccino threw back his head at sight of them and battled and shrieked
still more wildly. He thought they must have come to his aid.
“_M’amazza! M’amazza! Aiuto!_” he wailed.
“Bless me, what is the matter?” exclaimed Lady Aileen, and came towards
the bath.
“He doesn’t like to be washed, my lady,” panted Nicholson, struggling;
“he seems quite frightened.”
Suddenly Lady Aileen began to laugh.
“Take him out for a moment, Nicholson,” she said, “take him out.
Isobel,” to the girl, her words broken with laughter, “he thinks
Nicholson is drowning him. Soap and water are such unknown quantities
to him that he thinks that in this proportion they mean death.”
Nicholson had lifted her charge out at once, only too glad of the
respite. Piccino stood, wet and quaking and sobbing, by the bathtub.
Lady Aileen began to take off her gloves and bracelets.
“Give _me_ an apron,” she said to Nicholson. And on having one handed
to her she tied it over her dress and knelt down before her new
plaything.
“Little imbecile,” she said in Italian, taking hold of his wet
shoulders, “no one is going to hurt you. You are only going to be made
clean. You are too dirty to be touched, and the water will wash the
dirt off.”
Piccino only looked up at her, sobbing. At least, she had had him
taken out of the great pool; but what did she mean by wanting his dirt
removed by such appalling means?
“I am going to wash you myself,” said Lady Aileen, lifting him in her
strong white arms. “Don’t let me have any nonsense. If you make a
noise and fight I _will_ drown you.” She was laughing, but Piccino was
struck dumb with fear. She looked so tall and powerful and such a grand
lady, that he did not know what she might feel at liberty to do in her
powerfulness.
“It is only a bath,” said the girl Isobel in a kind voice. “The water
won’t go over your head. Don’t be frightened, it won’t hurt.”
Lady Aileen calmly put him back in the tub.
Her white hands were so firm and steady that he felt the uselessness of
struggle. And if he fought she might drown him. He looked up piteously
at the signorina with the encouraging face and voice, and stood in the
water, aghast, and with big tears rolling down his cheeks, but passive
in helpless despair.
But ah! what strange things were done to him!
The illustrious signora took the cake of white stuff and the big porous
thing, and rubbed them together in the water and made quantities of
snow-white froth; then she rubbed him over and over and over, then
she splashed the water over him until she washed the foam off his
body, then she scrubbed him with something, then she did strange
things to his ears, then she took a little brush and scrubbed his
finger-nails—covering them with the white froth and then washing it
off—then she did the same thing to his feet and rubbed them with a
piece of stone.
[Illustration: “‘I AM GOING TO WASH YOU MYSELF,’ SAID LADY AILEEN,
LIFTING HIM IN HER STRONG WHITE ARMS”]
Then she began with his head. Poor neglected little mop of matted
silk, what did she not do to it? She rubbed it with the cake of white
stuff till it was a soft, slippery ball of foam, then she scrubbed and
scrubbed and thrust her hands in it and shook it about, and almost
drowned him with the water she poured on it. If he had not been so
frightened he would have yelled. But people who will do such things
to you, what will they not do if you make them angry! Under this
avalanche of snowy stuff and this torrent of water a wild, despairing
memory of Maria and the donkey came back to him. Only last night he
had fallen asleep in his corner among all the familiar sights and
sounds and smells, and without water coming near him. And now he was
nearly up to his neck in it, it was streaming from his hair, his ears,
his body—he could hear and see and taste nothing else. Oh! could it
be possible that he had been all wrong in that first imagining that
perhaps the rushing streams were to amuse him? Could it be that this
was all to amuse the _forestieri_ themselves? That they had brought
him to San Remo to make him live in water like a fish? That they would
never let him out?
Suddenly the magnificent signora lifted him out of the pool. She set
him streaming upon something soft and white and dry, which Nicola had
spread upon the blue and white tiles of the floor.
“There!” she said. “Now I think he is clean, for the first time in his
life. Nicholson, you may rub him dry.”
She stood up, laughing, and rather flushed with exertion.
“It has amused me,” she said to Isobel; “I would not have believed it,
but it _has_ amused me. Almost anything new will amuse one the first
time one does it. When you have brushed his hair, Nicholson, put him to
bed.”
She laid aside the apron and picked up her gloves.
She went out of the room, smiling, and Piccino was left to the big
white cloths and Nicola.
What happened then was even more tiresome than the bath, though it was
not so alarming. He was rubbed as if he were a little horse, and his
hair received treatment which seemed to him incredible. When it was
dry, strange instruments were used upon it. The knots and tangles were
struggled with and dragged out. Sometimes it seemed as if his curls
were being pulled out by the roots, sometimes as if his head itself
was to be taken off. It seemed to him that he stood hours by Nicola’s
knee, whimpering. If Maria had been rash enough to attempt to subject
him to such indignities he would have kicked and screamed and fought,
but in this wonderful house, among these wonderful people who were all
_forestieri_, he was terror-stricken by his sense of strangeness. To be
plunged into water—to be rubbed and scrubbed—to have the hair dragged
from one’s head—who would not be terrified? Suddenly he buried his face
in Nicola’s lap and broke into woful weeping. “_Voglio andare a casa.
Lasciammi andare a Maria ed il ciuco!_” (I want to go home. Let me go
home to Maria—and the donkey!) he cried.
“Well, well, it is nearly done now,” said Nicholson, “and a nice job it
has been. And what I am to put you to bed in I don’t know, unless in
one of her ladyship’s own dressing-jackets.”
“_Voglio andare a casa!_” he wept. But Nicholson did not understand
him in the least. She went and found one of the dressing-jackets and
brought it back to the bathroom. It was covered with rich lace and tied
with ribbons; it was too big, and he was lost in it; but when Nicholson
bundled him up in it, and he stood with the lace frills dangling over
his hands, and his beautiful little face and head rising above the
great, rich ruff they made, he was a wonderful sight to see.
But he was not aware of it, and only felt as if he were dressed in
strange trickery; and when he was picked up and carried out of the
room—the beautiful trousers of Sandro being left on the floor in the
corner—he felt that the final indignity had been offered.
She carried him into one of the wonderful rooms he had caught a glimpse
of. It was all blue, and was so amazing with its frills and blue
flowers and lace and ornaments that he thought it must be a place where
some other strange thing was to be done to him. But Nicola only put him
down on a soft place covered with lace, and with a sort of tent of
lace and silk at the top of it.
She said something to him in English, and went away and left him.
He sat and stared about him. Was it a place where people slept? Did
the _forestieri_ lay their heads on those white things? Was this soft
wonder he sat on, a bed? He looked up above him at the beautiful tent,
and felt so lost and strange that he could almost have shouted for
Maria again. If she had been there, or if he could have understood what
Nicola said, it would not have been so awful. But it was so grand and
strange, and Ceriani and Maria and the donkey seemed in another world
thousands of miles away. It was as if suddenly he had been taken to
Paradise, and had found himself frightened and homesick because it was
so far from Ceriani, and so different.
Nicola came back with a plate. There were things to eat on it, and
she offered them to him. And then he realized that a strange thing
had happened to him, which had never happened before in his life.
There before him was a plateful of good things—things such as the
_forestieri_ brought in their hampers. And he did not want them!
Something seemed to have filled up his throat, and he could not eat.
He, Piccino, actually could not eat! The tears came into his eyes, and
he shook his head.
“_Non ho fame_” (I am not hungry,) he whimpered. And he poked the plate
away.
“I suppose he has been stuffed with cakes all day,” said Nicholson,
“and he is too sleepy. Good gracious, how pretty he is!”
She turned down the frilled and embroidered sheets, and gave the
pillows a little thump. Then she picked Piccino up again, put him
into the bed and covered him up. He lay among the whiteness, a lovely
picture put to bed, his eyes wide open, and shining with his awe.
“Go to sleep,” she said, “and don’t be a bad boy.” And then she turned
out the light and walked out of the room, leaving the door a little
open.
Piccino lay among the softness, his eyes growing bigger and bigger in
the dark. He was so little, and everything around him seemed so large
and magnificent. This was the way the king’s son was put to bed—bundled
up in a strange garment, with lace frills tickling his ears and cheeks,
and with big sleeves which prevented his using his hands. And he could
not hear the donkey in her stable—the donkey, who must be there this
very moment, because she had not been taken away, but had been bought
back from Beppo. Oh, if he could hear her now! but perhaps—perhaps he
never could get to the stable again; the _forestieri_—the strange,
rich lady, would never let him go back—never!
A little sob broke from him, under Lady Aileen’s dressing-jacket his
breast heaved piteously, he turned and buried his face upon the pillow,
and wept and wept and wept.
He cried so that he found he was beginning to make little sounds in
spite of himself, and he tried to smother them, because he did not know
what the _forestieri_ did to children who made a noise—perhaps held
them under the rushing streams of water. But just at the moment when
he was trying to stifle his sobs and prevent their becoming wails, a
strange thing happened. The door was pushed open and some one came into
the room. At least, he heard a sound of feet on the floor, though he
did not see any one even when he peeped. Feet? They were not Nicola’s
feet, but softer and more pattering. He held his breath to listen. They
came to his bed and stopped. And then he heard something else—a soft,
familiar panting, almost as familiar as the donkey’s stirring in the
stable. He sat up in bed.
“_E un cane_” (It is a dog,) he cried.
And the answer was a leap, and a rough, dear, hairy body was beside
him, while a warm, excitedly lapping, affectionate tongue caressed his
hands, his face, his neck.
For in some mysterious way the lonely dog at the entrance gate had
slipped his collar, and in rushing through the house to find some one
to love and rejoice over had heard the little smothered sobs, and come
in at once to answer and comfort him, knowing in his dog heart that
here was one who was lonely and exiled too.
And Piccino fell upon him and caught him in his arms, dragging him
close to his side, rubbing his wet cheeks upon the rough, hairy coat,
and so holding him, nestled against and pillowed his head upon him,
rescued from his loneliness and terror almost as he might have been if
the dog had been the donkey.