CHAPTER III
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.
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.”