CHAPTER II
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.
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.