The Adventures of Pinocchio
The Carabineer grabbed him by the nose (it was an extremely long one and
seemed made on purpose for that very thing) and returned him to Mastro
Geppetto.
The little old man wanted to pull Pinocchio’s ears. Think how he felt
when, upon searching for them, he discovered that he had forgotten to
make them!
All he could do was to seize Pinocchio by the back of the neck and take
him home. As he was doing so, he shook him two or three times and said
to him angrily:
“We’re going home now. When we get home, then we’ll settle this matter!”
Pinocchio, on hearing this, threw himself on the ground and refused to
take another step. One person after another gathered around the two.
Some said one thing, some another.
“Poor Marionette,” called out a man. “I am not surprised he doesn’t want
to go home. Geppetto, no doubt, will beat him unmercifully, he is so
mean and cruel!”
“Geppetto looks like a good man,” added another, “but with boys he’s a
real tyrant. If we leave that poor Marionette in his hands he may tear
him to pieces!”
They said so much that, finally, the Carabineer ended matters by setting
Pinocchio at liberty and dragging Geppetto to prison. The poor old
fellow did not know how to defend himself, but wept and wailed like a
child and said between his sobs:
“Ungrateful boy! To think I tried so hard to make you a well-behaved
Marionette! I deserve it, however! I should have given the matter more
thought.”
What happened after this is an almost unbelievable story, but you may
read it, dear children, in the chapters that follow.
CHAPTER 4
The story of Pinocchio and the Talking Cricket, in which one sees that
bad children do not like to be corrected by those who know more than
they do.
Very little time did it take to get poor old Geppetto to prison. In
the meantime that rascal, Pinocchio, free now from the clutches of the
Carabineer, was running wildly across fields and meadows, taking one
short cut after another toward home. In his wild flight, he leaped over
brambles and bushes, and across brooks and ponds, as if he were a goat
or a hare chased by hounds.
On reaching home, he found the house door half open. He slipped into
the room, locked the door, and threw himself on the floor, happy at his
escape.
But his happiness lasted only a short time, for just then he heard
someone saying:
“Cri-cri-cri!”
“Who is calling me?” asked Pinocchio, greatly frightened.
“I am!”
Pinocchio turned and saw a large cricket crawling slowly up the wall.
“Tell me, Cricket, who are you?”
“I am the Talking Cricket and I have been living in this room for more
than one hundred years.”
“Today, however, this room is mine,” said the Marionette, “and if you
wish to do me a favor, get out now, and don’t turn around even once.”
“I refuse to leave this spot,” answered the Cricket, “until I have told
you a great truth.”
“Tell it, then, and hurry.”
“Woe to boys who refuse to obey their parents and run away from home!
They will never be happy in this world, and when they are older they
will be very sorry for it.”
“Sing on, Cricket mine, as you please. What I know is, that tomorrow,
at dawn, I leave this place forever. If I stay here the same thing will
happen to me which happens to all other boys and girls. They are sent to
school, and whether they want to or not, they must study. As for me,
let me tell you, I hate to study! It’s much more fun, I think, to chase
after butterflies, climb trees, and steal birds’ nests.”
“Poor little silly! Don’t you know that if you go on like that, you
will grow into a perfect donkey and that you’ll be the laughingstock of
everyone?”
“Keep still, you ugly Cricket!” cried Pinocchio.
But the Cricket, who was a wise old philosopher, instead of being
offended at Pinocchio’s impudence, continued in the same tone:
“If you do not like going to school, why don’t you at least learn a
trade, so that you can earn an honest living?”
“Shall I tell you something?” asked Pinocchio, who was beginning to lose
patience. “Of all the trades in the world, there is only one that really
suits me.”
“And what can that be?”
“That of eating, drinking, sleeping, playing, and wandering around from
morning till night.”
“Let me tell you, for your own good, Pinocchio,” said the Talking
Cricket in his calm voice, “that those who follow that trade always end
up in the hospital or in prison.”
“Careful, ugly Cricket! If you make me angry, you’ll be sorry!”
“Poor Pinocchio, I am sorry for you.”
“Why?”
“Because you are a Marionette and, what is much worse, you have a wooden
head.”
At these last words, Pinocchio jumped up in a fury, took a hammer from
the bench, and threw it with all his strength at the Talking Cricket.
Perhaps he did not think he would strike it. But, sad to relate, my dear
children, he did hit the Cricket, straight on its head.
With a last weak “cri-cri-cri” the poor Cricket fell from the wall,
dead!
CHAPTER 5
Pinocchio is hungry and looks for an egg to cook himself an omelet; but,
to his surprise, the omelet flies out of the window.
If the Cricket’s death scared Pinocchio at all, it was only for a very
few moments. For, as night came on, a queer, empty feeling at the pit of
his stomach reminded the Marionette that he had eaten nothing as yet.
A boy’s appetite grows very fast, and in a few moments the queer, empty
feeling had become hunger, and the hunger grew bigger and bigger, until
soon he was as ravenous as a bear.
Poor Pinocchio ran to the fireplace where the pot was boiling and
stretched out his hand to take the cover off, but to his amazement the
pot was only painted! Think how he felt! His long nose became at least
two inches longer.
He ran about the room, dug in all the boxes and drawers, and even looked
under the bed in search of a piece of bread, hard though it might be,
or a cookie, or perhaps a bit of fish. A bone left by a dog would have
tasted good to him! But he found nothing.
And meanwhile his hunger grew and grew. The only relief poor Pinocchio
had was to yawn; and he certainly did yawn, such a big yawn that his
mouth stretched out to the tips of his ears. Soon he became dizzy and
faint. He wept and wailed to himself: “The Talking Cricket was right. It
was wrong of me to disobey Father and to run away from home. If he were
here now, I wouldn’t be so hungry! Oh, how horrible it is to be hungry!”
Suddenly, he saw, among the sweepings in a corner, something round and
white that looked very much like a hen’s egg. In a jiffy he pounced upon
it. It was an egg.
The Marionette’s joy knew no bounds. It is impossible to describe it,
you must picture it to yourself. Certain that he was dreaming, he turned
the egg over and over in his hands, fondled it, kissed it, and talked to
it:
“And now, how shall I cook you? Shall I make an omelet? No, it is better
to fry you in a pan! Or shall I drink you? No, the best way is to fry
you in the pan. You will taste better.”
No sooner said than done. He placed a little pan over a foot warmer full
of hot coals. In the pan, instead of oil or butter, he poured a
little water. As soon as the water started to boil--tac!--he broke the
eggshell. But in place of the white and the yolk of the egg, a little
yellow Chick, fluffy and gay and smiling, escaped from it. Bowing
politely to Pinocchio, he said to him:
“Many, many thanks, indeed, Mr. Pinocchio, for having saved me the
trouble of breaking my shell! Good-by and good luck to you and remember
me to the family!”
With these words he spread out his wings and, darting to the open
window, he flew away into space till he was out of sight.
The poor Marionette stood as if turned to stone, with wide eyes, open
mouth, and the empty halves of the egg-shell in his hands. When he came
to himself, he began to cry and shriek at the top of his lungs, stamping
his feet on the ground and wailing all the while:
“The Talking Cricket was right! If I had not run away from home and if
Father were here now, I should not be dying of hunger. Oh, how horrible
it is to be hungry!”
And as his stomach kept grumbling more than ever and he had nothing
to quiet it with, he thought of going out for a walk to the near-by
village, in the hope of finding some charitable person who might give
him a bit of bread.
CHAPTER 6
Pinocchio falls asleep with his feet on a foot warmer, and awakens the
next day with his feet all burned off.
Pinocchio hated the dark street, but he was so hungry that, in spite of
it, he ran out of the house. The night was pitch black. It thundered,
and bright flashes of lightning now and again shot across the sky,
turning it into a sea of fire. An angry wind blew cold and raised dense
clouds of dust, while the trees shook and moaned in a weird way.
Pinocchio was greatly afraid of thunder and lightning, but the hunger he
felt was far greater than his fear. In a dozen leaps and bounds, he
came to the village, tired out, puffing like a whale, and with tongue
hanging.
The whole village was dark and deserted. The stores were closed, the
doors, the windows. In the streets, not even a dog could be seen. It
seemed the Village of the Dead.
Pinocchio, in desperation, ran up to a doorway, threw himself upon the
bell, and pulled it wildly, saying to himself: “Someone will surely
answer that!”
He was right. An old man in a nightcap opened the window and looked out.
He called down angrily:
“What do you want at this hour of night?”
“Will you be good enough to give me a bit of bread? I am hungry.”
“Wait a minute and I’ll come right back,” answered the old fellow,
thinking he had to deal with one of those boys who love to roam around
at night ringing people’s bells while they are peacefully asleep.
After a minute or two, the same voice cried:
“Get under the window and hold out your hat!”
Pinocchio had no hat, but he managed to get under the window just in
time to feel a shower of ice-cold water pour down on his poor wooden
head, his shoulders, and over his whole body.
He returned home as wet as a rag, and tired out from weariness and
hunger.
As he no longer had any strength left with which to stand, he sat down
on a little stool and put his two feet on the stove to dry them.
There he fell asleep, and while he slept, his wooden feet began to burn.
Slowly, very slowly, they blackened and turned to ashes.
Pinocchio snored away happily as if his feet were not his own. At dawn
he opened his eyes just as a loud knocking sounded at the door.
“Who is it?” he called, yawning and rubbing his eyes.
“It is I,” answered a voice.
It was the voice of Geppetto.
CHAPTER 7
Geppetto returns home and gives his own breakfast to the Marionette
The poor Marionette, who was still half asleep, had not yet found out
that his two feet were burned and gone. As soon as he heard his Father’s
voice, he jumped up from his seat to open the door, but, as he did so,
he staggered and fell headlong to the floor.
In falling, he made as much noise as a sack of wood falling from the
fifth story of a house.
“Open the door for me!” Geppetto shouted from the street.
“Father, dear Father, I can’t,” answered the Marionette in despair,
crying and rolling on the floor.
“Why can’t you?”
“Because someone has eaten my feet.”
“And who has eaten them?”
“The cat,” answered Pinocchio, seeing that little animal busily playing
with some shavings in the corner of the room.
“Open! I say,” repeated Geppetto, “or I’ll give you a sound whipping
when I get in.”
“Father, believe me, I can’t stand up. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I shall have
to walk on my knees all my life.”
Geppetto, thinking that all these tears and cries were only other pranks