POSTAGE STAMPS
The train stopped at a large station. A dozen officers entered the car
all talking, threw their bags into their racks, took off their swords
and placed them near the window, seated themselves and lighted their
cigarettes. There was a perfect slaughter of matches. Poor Fiam was
so frightened that he hurried under my waistcoat and, creeping near a
buttonhole, hid his head under a button.
Outside of the train there was the noise of a great crowd. We could
hear the tread of the troops as they went to their places in the cars
prepared for them. We heard shouted commands, the rattle of cartridges
in their boxes at the belts of the soldiers, and the guns dropping
to the ground all at once sounded like falling iron. In the distance
hundreds of people kept shrieking and repeating: “Sayonara!” which
means good-bye. “Banzai,” hurrah. “Come back victorious! Destroy the
enemy! Glory!” and other similar cries.
One of the officers in my compartment asked:
“What are we waiting for?”
“They are attaching the cars of guns,” replied another.
“There will be lots of guns needed in this war!” exclaimed a third.
“It is going to be the greatest war of our country,” a fourth added
complacently.
Some one began to hum a tune. The others joined in the chorus. The
train started. I felt Fiam, who had taken his head from under the
button, climb along the waistcoat and crawl into his little box, which
was in an inside pocket. The box had been used so much that it was all
broken on one side, so that Fiam had learned to come and go through the
hole by himself.
He didn’t appear until late at night, when every one was asleep,
swaying with the motion of the train, and the car only dimly lighted
by a covered lamp. I was awakened by his little voice. He had climbed
up on my shoulder near my ear and was calling to me. In the dazed
condition of a person half awake I thought it was the singing of a
mosquito and put up my hand to catch him.
“It is I,” he said. “I am Fiammiferino.”
“Oh! good-morning. Aren’t you asleep?”
“No, I never sleep. I am not a man.”
“Then if you will excuse me, allow me to sleep. I am a man.”
“First tell me—from the conversation I have overheard I judge there is
war; is it true?”
“Yes, perfectly true.”
“And are we going there?”
“Does it displease you?”
“No, but it displeases me that you haven’t been frank with me. Am I not
your friend?”
“I believe so.”
“Well, I forgive you; don’t say anything more. I will go anywhere with
you. They talked of war in my country. If I could only do something to
help them to conquer.”
“You!” I exclaimed laughing. “Then aren’t you afraid?”
“No. I am afraid of nothing but fire; and you will protect me.”
“Yes, of course.”
“And you will always tell me the truth?”
“I promise you.”
“That’s all. Good-night.”
I could have kissed him if it were only possible to kiss a match.
He disappeared. At that moment some one shook me. It was one of the
officers who looked into my eyes.
“Are you awake?” he asked me.
“Yes,” I replied, sitting up.
“Are you feeling sick? I am the army surgeon; my name is Tasa. Let me
feel your pulse.”
“But I am perfectly well.”
“No, you are talking to yourself, and must have something the matter
with your head.”
“I assure you I am perfectly well.”
“Show me your tongue.”
“Not if I know myself,” I replied irritated.
“All right,” concluded Dr. Tasa; “calm yourself. I see you are armed. I
think it would be best for you to give me your revolver, and for you to
put a little ice on your head.”
“But I am not in the least crazy.”
“Well, well,” and his little yellow face wrinkled up as if to say, “Who
knows?”
“I wasn’t talking to myself,” I said in order to convince him.
“With whom were you talking?”
“With Fiam....” I didn’t finish, for I remembered my promise not to
reveal his presence to any one.
“Humph, humph!” He shook his head and murmured, “Quiet yourself,
and don’t think anything more about Fiam. Go to sleep; we shall see
to-morrow.”
The next morning I pretended to leave the train, and changed cars in
order to escape the watchfulness of Dr. Tasa.
The journey went on without incident. I didn’t dare to have Fiam come
out during the day, as I was never alone. But at night he took a walk
on my shoulders, and we held whispered conversations.
On board the steamer on our way to China we had more liberty, and
often conferred together. After our work was put away in an envelope,
Fiammiferino began looking for a postage stamp in the depths of the
portfolio. He went in and traveled all about the leather, explored the
little pockets, and came out with amazing dexterity. He had a passion
for putting on postage stamps after I had wet them. He walked over
them, carefully pressing the edges flat with his feet to be sure they
would stick fast to the envelope; when he had finished this operation,
which he did as carefully as an upholsterer laying a carpet, he always
danced a ballet to express his satisfaction in his completed work.
[Illustration: Fiammiferino Has a Bath]