Pinocchio (7 page)

“Be a good boy, Lancelot,” said the Fairy to the Poodle, “and go harness the finest carriage in my carriage house and take the forest road to the Big Oak. There you'll find a poor puppet stretched out half dead on the grass. Pick him up gently, lay him ever so carefully on the cushions inside the carriage, and bring him here to me. Do you understand?”

The Poodle wagged the sky-blue satin cover three or four times, to show that he understood, and then raced off like a Barbary steed.

Out of the carriage house, moments later, there came a beautiful little sky-colored carriage, padded on the outside with canary feathers and lined on the inside with whipped cream, custard, and ladyfingers. It was drawn by a hundred pairs of white mice, and the Poodle, up on the driver's seat, was cracking his whip from side to side, like someone who's afraid he's running late.

In less than a quarter of an hour, the little carriage was back. The Fairy, waiting at the door of the house, took the poor puppet in her arms and carried him into a small room with mother-of-pearl walls. Then she quickly sent for the most famous doctors in the area.

The doctors soon arrived, one after the other. The first was a crow, the second an owl, and the third a talking cricket.

“I would like you gentlemen to tell me,” said the Fairy, looking at the three doctors gathered around Pinocchio's bed, “I would like you gentlemen to tell me whether this unlucky puppet is alive or dead!”

Hearing this request, the Crow stepped forward first. He felt Pinocchio's pulse, then he felt his nose, then he felt his little toe, and when he had finished feeling all these things very carefully, he solemnly pronounced these words: “It is my opinion that the puppet is quite dead. But if by some strange chance he is not dead, then that would be a sure sign that he is still alive.”

“I regret,” said the Owl, “that I must contradict my illustrious friend and colleague, the Crow. I believe, rather, that the puppet is still alive. But if by some strange chance he is not alive, then that would indicate that he is, in fact, dead.”

“And you—do you have nothing to say?” the Fairy asked the Talking Cricket.

“I say that the best thing a prudent doctor can do when he doesn't know what he's talking about is to keep his mouth shut. And as for that puppet there, his countenance is not new to me—I've known him for some time!”

Pinocchio had been lying motionless, like a true piece of wood, but at these words he began shuddering feverishly, causing the whole bed to shake.

“That puppet there,” continued the Talking Cricket, “is a confirmed rogue.”

Pinocchio opened his eyes and quickly shut them again.

“He's a ragamuffin, a lazybones, a vagabond.”

Pinocchio hid his face beneath the sheets.

“That puppet there is a disobedient brat who will cause his poor father to die of a heart attack!”

Now everyone in the room could hear the muffled sound of crying and sobbing. Imagine their reaction when, after peering under the sheets, they realized that those cries and sobs were coming from Pinocchio.

“When a dead person cries, it's a sign that he's on the mend,” said the Crow solemnly.

“It grieves me to contradict my illustrious friend and colleague,” added the Owl, “but I believe that when a dead person cries, it's a sign that he doesn't like dying.”

A
S SOON
as the three doctors had left the room, the Fairy went to Pinocchio's side and discovered, by touching his forehead, that he was suffering from a terribly high fever.

She then dissolved a special white powder in half a glass of water and offered it to the puppet, saying lovingly, “Drink it, and in a few days you will be cured.”

Pinocchio looked at the glass, scrunched up his mouth, and then asked in a whiny voice: “Is it sweet or bitter?”

“It's bitter, but it will do you good.”

“If it's bitter, I don't want it.”

“Listen to me: drink it.”

“I don't like bitter stuff.”

“Drink it—and after you do, I'll give you a lump of sugar, to take away the bitterness.”

“Where's the lump of sugar?”

“Right here,” said the Fairy, extracting one from a gold sugar bowl.

“First I want the lump of sugar, and then I'll choke down that bitter stuff.”

“Promise?”

“Yes.”

As soon as the Fairy handed him the lump of sugar, Pinocchio chewed it up and gulped it down. Licking his lips, he said, “Wouldn't it be great if sugar was medicine, too? I'd take some every day.”

“Now keep your promise and drink these few drops, which will restore you to health.”

Pinocchio reluctantly took the glass from her hand and stuck the tip of his nose in it. Then he brought it up to his lips. But in the end he said, “It's too bitter! too bitter! I can't drink it.”

“How can you say that if you haven't even tasted it?”

“I can tell! I smelled it. First I want another lump of sugar—then I'll drink it!”

And so, with all the patience of a good mother, the Fairy put a little more sugar in his mouth. Then she gave him the glass again.

“I can't drink it like this!” said the puppet, making all kinds of faces.

“Why not?”

“Because that pillow down there on my feet is bothering me.”

The Fairy removed the pillow.

“It's no use! I still can't bear to drink it.”

“What else is bothering you?”

“The door to this room—it's open.”

The Fairy went and closed the door.

“The fact is,” yelled Pinocchio, bursting into tears, “I just won't drink this nasty bitter stuff—I won't, I won't, I won't!”

“You'll be sorry, my boy.”

“I don't care.”

“You're terribly ill.”

“I don't care.”

“In a few hours the fever will carry you to the world beyond.”

“I don't care.”

“You're not afraid of death?”

“Not at all! I'd rather die than drink that nasty medicine.”

At these words, the door flew open and four ink-black rabbits entered the room, carrying a little coffin on their shoulders.

“What do you want with me?” yelled Pinocchio, sitting bolt upright in fear.

“We've come to take you away,” replied the largest rabbit.

“To take me away? But I'm not dead yet!”

“Not yet, no. But you have only a few minutes left to live, since you've refused to drink the medicine that would have cured your fever!”

“Oh Fairy, oh Fairy,” the puppet began to howl, “give me that glass at once. And hurry up, for pity's sake, for I don't want to die—no, I don't want to die!”

He seized the glass in both hands and emptied it in a single swallow.

“Well then!” said the rabbits. “We made the trip for nothing this time.”

And they lifted the little coffin back onto their shoulders and left the room, grousing and grumbling under their breath.

Indeed a few minutes later, Pinocchio hopped out of bed, perfectly healthy. Wooden puppets, you see, have the advantage of falling ill only rarely and of then healing quite quickly.

Seeing him running and romping around the room as spry and jolly as a young buck, the Fairy said, “So my medicine really made you feel better?”

“More than that! It brought me back to life!”

“In that case why did you make such a fuss about drinking it?”

“Because that's what all kids do! We're more afraid of taking medicine than of being sick.”

“Shame on you! Children should know that the right medicine at the right time can save them from a serious illness and maybe even from death.”

“Well, next time I won't make such a fuss! I'll remember those black rabbits, with that coffin on their shoulders—and then I'll grab the glass at once and drink!”

“Now come sit over here by me and tell me how it happened that you found yourself in the clutches of murderers.”

“It happened because Fire-Eater, the puppet master, gave me five gold coins and said to me, ‘Here, take these to your daddy,' but on the way I ran into the Fox and the Cat, two very nice fellows who said, ‘Would you like these coins to become a thousand or two thousand? Come with us and we'll take you to the Field of Miracles,' and I said, ‘Let's go,' and they said, ‘Let's stop here at the Red Crayfish Inn, and after midnight we'll set out again,' and then when I woke up they weren't around because they had already left. So I began walking in the middle of the night, which was so dark I couldn't believe it, which is why I ran into two murderers in coal sacks who said, ‘Out with your money,' and I said, ‘I don't have any,' because I had hidden the gold coins in my mouth, and then one of the murderers tried to stick his hand in my mouth, so I bit it right off and spat it out, but instead of a hand it was a cat's paw. And the murderers ran after me, and I ran and ran and ran, until they caught me and strung me up by my neck from a tree in these woods, saying, ‘Tomorrow we'll come back, and then you'll be dead and your mouth will be open, so we can get the gold coins you've hidden under your tongue.'”

“And where have you put the four coins now?”

“I lost them!” replied Pinocchio. But he was telling a lie—he had the coins in his pocket.

As soon as he told the lie, his nose, which was already long, suddenly grew two inches longer.

“And where did you lose them?”

“In the woods, nearby.”

At this second lie, his nose continued growing.

“If you lost them nearby in the woods,” said the Fairy, “we'll look for them and find them, because anything that's lost nearby in the woods is always found again.”

“Ah, now that I think of it,” replied the puppet, getting himself in deeper, “I didn't lose the four coins, I accidentally swallowed them as I was drinking your medicine.”

At this third lie, his nose grew to such an extraordinary length that poor Pinocchio could no longer even turn his head. If he turned in one direction, he banged his nose against the bed or into the windowpanes; if he turned in the other, he banged it against the wall or into the door; if he lifted his head a little, he ran the risk of poking the Fairy in the eye.

And the Fairy looked at him and laughed.

“Why are you laughing?” asked the puppet, thoroughly confounded and worried about this nose of his that was growing by leaps and bounds.

“I'm laughing at the lie you told.”

“But how did you know I told a lie?”

“Lies, my boy, are immediately recognizable, for there are two kinds: lies that have short legs and lies that have long noses. Yours happen to be the long-nosed variety.”

Pinocchio, wanting to hide his face in shame, tried to run from the room—but he couldn't. His nose was so long that it wouldn't fit through the doorway.

A
S YOU
might imagine, the Fairy let the puppet weep and wail for a good half hour about that nose of his that could no longer fit through the doorway. She did it to teach him a hard lesson, so that he might break the ugly habit of telling lies, which is the worst vice a child can have. But seeing him so transfigured, his eyes bulging out of their sockets in true despair, she was soon moved to pity, and then she clapped her hands together. At that signal a thousand woodpeckers flew through the window into the room. Every one of them perched on Pinocchio's nose, and they began pecking at it so vigorously that in a few minutes that enormous, whopping nose was restored to its natural size.

“You're such a nice Fairy,” said the puppet, drying his eyes, “and I love you so much!”

“I love you, too,” replied the Fairy, “and if you wish to stay with me, you can be my little brother and I your good little sister.”

“I'd love to stay—but what about my poor daddy?”

“I've thought of everything. Your daddy has already been notified, and he'll be here before dark.”

“Really?” shouted Pinocchio, jumping for joy. “In that case, Fairy, if it's okay with you, I'd like to go meet him! I can't wait to give that poor old man a kiss—he's suffered so much on my account!”

“Go ahead, but be careful not to get lost. Stay on the forest path and I'm sure you'll meet him.”

Pinocchio left, and as soon as he entered the forest he started running like a deer. But at a certain point, very near the Big Oak, he stopped when he thought he heard something in the bushes. Can you guess who he saw step out onto the road? The Fox and the Cat—the two traveling companions with whom he had dined at the Red Crayfish Inn.

“Here is our dear Pinocchio!” shouted the Fox, hugging and kissing him. “What are you doing here?”

“It's a long story,” replied the puppet, “and I'll tell you the whole thing when I have time. But you should know that the other night, when you left me alone at the inn, I ran into some murderers on the road.”

“Murderers! Oh, my poor friend! And what did they want?”

“They wanted to steal my gold coins.”

“Those villains!” said the Fox.

“Those wicked villains!” repeated the Cat.

“But I started running,” continued the puppet, “and they were right behind me, until they caught me and hung me from a branch of that oak.”

And Pinocchio pointed to the Big Oak, a few steps away.

“Can you imagine anything worse?” said the Fox. “What a world we're condemned to live in! Where will gentlemen such as ourselves find refuge?”

As they were talking, Pinocchio noticed that the Cat's front right leg was injured—in fact, the whole paw was missing, claws and all. So he asked, “What have you done with your paw?”

The Cat tried to say something but became confused. The Fox quickly said, “My friend is too modest, that's why he's not answering. I'll answer for him. You should know that an hour ago, on this path, we encountered an old wolf who was nearly fainting with hunger—he asked us for a handout. We didn't have so much as a fishbone to give him, but what did my kindhearted friend do? He bit off one of his front paws and tossed it to the poor beast, so he would have something to eat.”