Part 23 (1/2)

”Don't apologize, General. I beg your pardon. Does old Geppetto live here?”

”Yes, sir, on the floor above. Ring the second bell.”

”Thank you.”

”Not at all.”

Old Geppetto was getting ready to mend an old table the legs of which were red with worm-holes and had in hand a piece of seasoned wood, a splendid piece. He was going to cut it with a hatchet and he had lifted up his hand holding the s.h.i.+ning tool, when who knows what queer thoughts made his arm fall heavily. Did he perhaps remember that other famous piece of wood from which the sprightly little old man had shaped the wonderful puppet which had brought him so much bother and trouble? And what had become of him? Why had he sent no news of himself since he had gone out into the world like a real boy? Perhaps the poor little old man would have preferred to have him still at his side, a puppet as he used to be, and of wood out of which he had made him, than to be left thus alone in the last years of his life. He had tried so often to make another Pinocchio, but he had never been able to finish his work. His hands trembled; his eyes were no longer what they used to be, and even the wood--certainly it was the truth about the wood--wasn't what it used to be.

When he heard the bell ring he felt his heart beat, and he ran to open the door, swaying from side to side like a drunken man.

”Who's there?”

”It's I, Geppetto. Don't you recognize me?”

”My Fatina!”

”Yes, indeed, your Fatina who has come to introduce her husband, the Bersaglierino, to you, and to see how you are, and to bring you somebody you are fond of, very fond of,” she replied, as they entered.

He gave her a long, questioning glance from beneath his spectacles; then he spied Pinocchio mischievously hiding behind Fatina and the Bersaglierino.

”Oh, Fatina! Fatina! How did they bring my poor puppet to such a state?” sobbed Geppetto as he looked at Pinocchio. ”What under the sun is all this machinery and these contraptions? I made him of wood, all of wood, and so splendidly that no one was ever able to imitate him.

Why did you let them abuse him in this way? Wouldn't it have been better if you had let him stay a _real boy_ than to bring him back to me in this condition?”

And the dear little old man couldn't contain himself and gave vent to his sorrow in loud weeping.

Fatina and the Bersaglierino could find no words to comfort him with and looked at him compa.s.sionately, their own throats tightening. When Papa Geppetto had grown a little calmer he took his puppet in his arms and examined him carefully all over, shaking his head and drawing his lips tightly as if he wished to keep his sobs from bursting out again.

He saw the artificial legs, the arm with its steel spring and the tweezers for hands; he saw the large silver plate which supported the breastbone--admired all this up-to-date mechanism, but was not in the least satisfied. The poor little old man preferred his wooden puppet _all of wood_ to the marrow ... and he no longer recognized _his_ old Pinocchio.

”Oh, Fatina!” he said, sighing, ”who brought him to such a state?”