It was a great comfort to go to sleep embracing and embraced by a
shaggy friend of one’s own world, but when the morning came it seemed
that, somehow, to the _forestieri_ it appeared a different thing. When
Nicola came in she uttered an exclamation of horror.
“The dirty little thing!” she cried. “Ah, my goodness, he has been
asleep all night with that dusty, muddy dog! What _will_ my lady say?
Look at his face, and the sheets, and her ladyship’s jacket!”
Piccino sat up in his silk and lace tent, holding on to the dog.
Something was wrong, he saw, though he understood nothing. What could
it be?
“Get out!” cried Nicholson, slapping the dog vigorously. “Get out! How
in the world did you get here?” and she pushed the shaggy friend off
the bed and ran after him, driving him out of the room.
Lady Aileen met her on the threshold.
“What is that animal doing here?” she asked.
“Indeed, my lady, I don’t know,” said Nicholson. “He never did such a
thing before. He must have sniffed out the child. He has been sleeping
with him all night.”
“Sleeping with him!” exclaimed Lady Aileen. She stepped into the
bedroom and stood for a moment gazing at Piccino.
The dog had been both muddy and dusty. Both Piccino and the bed
revealed unmistakable signs of the fact.
“Dear me!” said her ladyship. “Nicholson, take him at once and wash
him.”
And so he was taken again into the blue and white porcelain bathroom.
He could not believe the evidence of his senses when Nicola turned
the silver things again, and the streams came rushing forth. He stood
and looked at her, quaking. And she came and took off his fantastic
nightgown as she had taken off his rags the night before. And she
lifted him up and put him into the deep water again, and soaped and
splashed and washed him almost as hard as she had done it the first
time.
He began to feel stunned and dazed. He did not scream or fight or
struggle. He simply gave himself up and stared into space. Moment by
moment Ceriani removed itself farther and farther. The dog had brought
it nearer, but the dog had been torn away from him. And here he was in
the water, being scrubbed once more.
He was taken out and rubbed dry, and Nicola left him for a moment
again. When she came back she carried white things. She began to put
them on him—a strange little fine shirt with lace, curious little short
things for his legs—not the beautiful masculine trousers of Sandro,
alas! but short white things trimmed with embroidery, and only just
reaching to his knees—and then—a petticoat! Yes, it was a petticoat!
Just as if he had never been a man at all. He pushed it aside, his
cheeks crimson with indignation.
“_Roba di donna! No! no! Dove sono i miei pantaloni! Io porto
pantaloni!_” (Not women’s clothes! Where are my trousers? I wear
trousers.)
Nicholson gave him a sharp slap. She was tired of his Italian
exclaimings.
“You naughty child!” she said, “behave yourself! I don’t know what you
mean, but I won’t have it!” And so, in spite of himself, the indignity
was put upon him. He was dressed in _roba di donna_, just like a girl.
And round his waist was tied a broad sash, and round his neck was put
a lace collar, and on his brown legs short socks, which did not reach
his calves. And at his back there was a big bow, and under his chin a
smaller one; and combs were dragged through his hair as before, and
brushes plied on it. And when it was all done he stood feeling like a
mountebank, and dumb and scarlet under his sense of insult.
Let him once get away—let him once get away, and he would show them
whether they would get him again! He did not know how far it was to
Ceriani, but if he could steal out of a door when no one was looking,
and walk back, they might take the donkey if they liked, but he would
scream and kick and fight and bite until they were afraid to touch him,
before they should buy him again.
This was rankling in his mind as Nicholson pulled him after her down
the staircase and through the hall to the breakfast-room. Nicholson was
getting rather cross. She had not been engaged as a nurse, but as a
maid. And she had had to go through all that scrubbing in the evening,
and in the morning had had to rush out and borrow clothes for the child
to wear from one of Lady Aileen’s married friends, and she had not
enjoyed having to get up and take a walk so early.
But her grievance was not so deep a one as Piccino’s.
When he was taken into the breakfast-room Lady Aileen made him feel
sulkier than ever. It was the way she looked at him, though he did not
in the least know why. If he had been old enough he might have known
that to be looked at as if one was not a person, but only a curious
little animal, is enough to make any one rebellious. She called him to
her just as she would have called her black poodle.
“Come here!” she said.
He went to her, sticking his red mouth out.
“What are you pouting for?” she asked. “What is the matter, Nicholson?”
“I don’t know, my lady,” answered Nicholson, with rather acid
respectfulness. “He doesn’t like to be washed, and he doesn’t like to
be dressed. I suppose he’s not used to being kept tidy.”
“Kept tidy!” said Lady Aileen, “I should think not. You look very nice
in your new clothes,” she added to Piccino, in Italian.
“_Ma queste sono vestite di ragazza_,” (But these are girl’s clothes,)
he said, pouting.
“You will wear what I wish,” said Lady Aileen. “Nicholson, give him
some porridge. I am going to feed him as English children are fed.
Heaven knows how he will behave at table! I am curious to see.”
It was only that—she was curious to see.
And the queer breakfast was given to him; not nice black bread and
figs, or _pasta_ or salad, but oatmeal porridge, which he had never
seen before. He did not like it. It seemed sloppy and flavorless to
him, and he would not eat it. He pushed it back, and sat and pouted,
and Lady Aileen was amused, and sat and talked English to the visitors
who were at table with her, and they told each other how pretty he was
and how like a picture, and how interesting it was that, in spite of
being dressed like an English child and given porridge to eat, he was
still more than ever nothing but a beautiful little Italian peasant.
And all the day was like that, and baby as he was he raged within his
little soul, knowing somehow that he was only there to be looked at and
remarked upon, and to amuse them by being a curiosity.
They took him out in a grand carriage and drove him about the town,
taking him to shops and buying clothes for him—always _roba di
donna_—and when they were tried on, and he looked angry, Lady Aileen
laughed, and even the men or women in the shops made jokes aside. He
would have liked to fly at them and kill them, but they were so big and
he was so little—only Piccino from Ceriani.
And then they took him back to the villa—the poor dog leaping and
straining at his chain by which he was fastened again when they passed
the gate—and his face and hands were washed once more, and his hair
combed, and he was given more strange things for dinner. A solid
underdone English chop without sauce seemed a horrible thing to him,
and nursery rice pudding filled him with amazement. He stared at the
big potato Nicola put on his plate, and wondered if he was to be made
to starve.
“Goodness, what does the child want?” exclaimed Nicholson. “I am sure
he has never had such a dinner set before him before.”
That was exactly it. He had lived on things so different that this
substantial nursery food quite revolted him.
He thought of himself only as a prisoner. He began to feel empty and
furious. He was possessed by but one thought—how he could get away.
In the afternoon he was dressed again—in another girl’s frock and sash
and lace collar—and a lot of ladies and gentlemen came to see Lady
Aileen. Her five-o’clock teas were very popular, and this afternoon
every one wanted to see the child she had picked up at Ceriani. People
were always curious about her whims. So Piccino was talked about and
examined and laughed over as the most charming of jokes, and the more
he hung back and pouted the more he was laughed at, until his cheeks
were crimson all the time, and he would not eat the cakes people kept
giving him, just as they would have fed a parrot to make it talk, or a
poodle to make it play tricks.
“He seems rather a sulky child,” said Lady Aileen, “and he evidently
detests civilization. He thought Nicholson was going to drown him, and
fought like a little tiger when she put him in his bath. The watch-dog
broke loose and came and slept with him last night. He has hardly eaten
anything to-day. I wonder if one could civilize him.”
While all the gay people were drinking tea and chocolate, and eating
cakes in the _salon_, and sauntering in groups among the flowers on
the terrace, some strolling musicians came into the grounds. A man and
woman and some children, who played guitars and mandolins and sang
peasant songs, seeing the bright dresses and hearing the voices, were
attracted by them. At such places they often got money.
When they began to play and sing Piccino ran to the window. They sang
as the people at Ceriani did, and he was wild to see them. When he
saw them he wanted to get near them. There was a boy, who sang with
the father and mother, and a girl about the age of Maria, who was not
singing. It was she who went round to beg for money, and she stood
aside, calmly munching a piece of black bread. She had other pieces of
something tied in her apron, and she looked so like Maria did when she
had begged something good, that Piccino’s mouth watered and a bold idea
came to him.
Everybody was so busy amusing themselves that for a while he was
forgotten. He glanced furtively about him, and slipped out of a side
door.
The next minute the girl who was like Maria almost jumped. From
among the rose-trees and palms she stood by, there came a strange
little figure. It was a child dressed grandly, as if he belonged to
the richest of the _forestieri_, but he had a beautiful little dark,
rich-colored face and immense black eyes, and he looked at her only as
one little peasant looks at another, and he spoke in the Italian only
spoken by peasant children.
“I am hungry,” he said. “I have had nothing to eat. Give me some of
your bread.”
The girl stared at him, bewildered.
“Some bread!” she exclaimed; “do you live here?”
“I live at Ceriani,” he said; “I am Piccino. The signora took me away.
Give me some bread.”
She broke off a big piece, still staring wildly. She had a vague idea
that perhaps he would give her something for it. In her apron she had a
piece of Salame sausage, well flavored with garlic, and she broke off a
piece of that and gave it to him too.
[Illustration: “THE GIRL STARED AT HIM”]
Piccino seized it and devoured it. Never in his life had anything
seemed so good to him. He ate like a little wolf, alternate bites of
black bread and sausage. His face and hands became smeared and covered
with grease, he clutched his Salame so hungrily and ate in such a hurry.
“Don’t they feed you?” asked the girl.
“They have lumps of raw meat, and I cannot eat their pasta,” said
Piccino.
It was in this guise mutton chops, oatmeal porridge, and rice pudding
appeared to him.
Mr. Gordon, who was one of the visitors, chanced to look out of the
window. He put up his eyeglass suddenly.
“Piccino is fraternizing with the little girl musician, Lady Aileen,”
he said with a laugh, “and they are eating bread and sausage.”
“Horrors!” exclaimed Lady Aileen.
She sent Greggs out to bring him in at once.
Greggs returned in a few minutes, bringing him, hanging back
reluctantly, his cheeks and mouth glossy with sausage grease, and
exhaling such fragrance that people became aware of him as he
approached, and stepped aside, making a pathway.
“Horrors!” said Lady Aileen again, “he _reeks_ with garlic! Take him
away at once, Greggs. Take him to Nicholson and—and tell her to _wash_
him.”
And so for the third time that day Piccino was deluged with soap
and water. But it was not possible for Nicholson to wash away
the fragrance of the garlic. Even when he shone with cleanliness
outwardly, and had had still another frock put on, he was redolent of
it and perfumed all the air about him. He was not, of course, able to
translate the names Nicholson called him, but he knew very well that
he was being called names. He had often heard Maria scolded at home,
but he had not been exactly used to ratings himself. But he could
not mistake Nicholson. She was in a rage, and thought him a dirty,
troublesome little pig. She had been dressed trimly for the afternoon,
and had been enjoying herself looking on at the party in the garden,
and to be called to wash and dress again a greasy little peasant,
smelling of garlic, was more than her temper could stand. In fact, it
happened at last, at some movement of resentment of Piccino’s, she gave
him a sound slap for the second time that day.
He opened his mouth, gave one howl of rage, and then as suddenly
stopped. If he had been twenty-six instead of six he would have stuck
his knife into her, if he had had one. He belonged to a race of
people who used knives. As it was, the look in his handsome eyes gave
Nicholson a queer feeling.
He could not be taken back to the _salon_, and Nicholson did not intend
to sit in the room with him and inhale garlic. So she set him smartly
in an arm-chair and left him, going out and shutting the door after
her. She was going to stay in an adjoining chamber and look out of the
window, coming to give him a glance now and then.
And there he sat, breathing passion and garlic, after she had gone.
Upon the wall opposite to him there hung an oval mirror with a frame
of flowers in Dresden china. He could see himself in it—his beautiful
little face, his flashing eyes, and fiercely pouting mouth, his lace
collar and bow, and his _vestite di ragazza_ altogether. He did not
know he was pretty, he only felt he was ridiculous—that they had kept
putting him in water, that the servants despised him and did not want
to touch him, that he had been scolded and slapped, and that the
donkey would not know him. Suddenly big tears rushed into his eyes.
Was he going to stay here always and be put in water every few hours,
and called names, and have no one to play with, and never understand
anybody, and never see Maria and the donkey—never—never! The big tears
rolled hot and angry as well as miserable down his soft cheeks.
“_Voglio andare a casa!_” he sobbed. “_Voglio andare a casa!_” (I want
to go home! I want to go home!)
* * * * *
When Nicholson came to look at him he was lying against the cushioned
arm of the chair, fast asleep.
“Goodness knows I am not going to waken him!” she said. “I shall let
him sleep until I have had my dinner and it is time to give him his. If
her ladyship intends to keep him she must have a regular nurse.”