THE METAL PIG [2]
boy stretched forth his hands
towards the light, and at the same moment the Metal Pig started
again so rapidly that he was obliged to cling tightly to him. The wind
whistled in his ears, he heard the church door creak on its hinges
as it closed, and it seemed to him as if he had lost his senses-
then a cold shudder passed over him, and he awoke.
It was morning; the Metal Pig stood in its old place on the
Porta Rosa, and the boy found he had slipped nearly off its back. Fear
and trembling came upon him as he thought of his mother; she had
sent him out the day before to get some money, he had not done so, and
now he was hungry and thirsty. Once more he clasped the neck of his
metal horse, kissed its nose, and nodded farewell to it. Then he
wandered away into one of the narrowest streets, where there was
scarcely room for a loaded donkey to pass. A great iron-bound door
stood ajar; he passed through, and climbed up a brick staircase,
with dirty walls and a rope for a balustrade, till he came to an
open gallery hung with rags. From here a flight of steps led down to a
court, where from a well water was drawn up by iron rollers to the
different stories of the house, and where the water-buckets hung
side by side. Sometimes the roller and the bucket danced in the air,
splashing the water all over the court. Another broken-down
staircase led from the gallery, and two Russian sailors running down
it almost upset the poor boy. They were coming from their nightly
carousal. A woman not very young, with an unpleasant face and a
quantity of black hair, followed them. "What have you brought home?"
she asked. when she saw the boy.
"Don't be angry," he pleaded; "I received nothing, I have
nothing at all;" and he seized his mother's dress and would have
kissed it. Then they went into a little room. I need not describe
it, but only say that there stood in it an earthen pot with handles,
made for holding fire, which in Italy is called a marito. This pot she
took in her lap, warmed her fingers, and pushed the boy with her
elbow.
"Certainly you must have some money," she said. The boy began to
cry, and then she struck him with her foot till he cried out louder.
"Will you be quiet? or I'll break your screaming head;" and she
swung about the fire-pot which she held in her hand, while the boy
crouched to the earth and screamed.
Then a neighbor came in, and she had also a marito under her
arm. "Felicita," she said, "what are you doing to the child?"
"The child is mine," she answered; "I can murder him if I like,
and you too, Giannina." And then she swung about the fire-pot. The
other woman lifted up hers to defend herself, and the two pots clashed
together so violently that they were dashed to pieces, and fire and
ashes flew about the room. The boy rushed out at the sight, sped
across the courtyard, and fled from the house. The poor child ran till
he was quite out of breath; at last he stopped at the church, the
doors of which were opened to him the night before, and went in.
Here everything was bright, and the boy knelt down by the first tomb
on his right, the grave of Michael Angelo, and sobbed as if his
heart would break. People came and went, mass was performed, but no
one noticed the boy, excepting an elderly citizen, who stood still and
looked at him for a moment, and then went away like the rest. Hunger
and thirst overpowered the child, and he became quite faint and ill.
At last he crept into a corner behind the marble monuments, and went
to sleep. Towards evening he was awakened by a pull at his sleeve;
he started up, and the same old citizen stood before him.
"Are you ill? where do you live? have you been here all day?" were
some of the questions asked by the old man. After hearing his answers,
the old man took him home to a small house close by, in a back street.
They entered a glovemaker's shop, where a woman sat sewing busily. A
little white poodle, so closely shaven that his pink skin could
towards the light, and at the same moment the Metal Pig started
again so rapidly that he was obliged to cling tightly to him. The wind
whistled in his ears, he heard the church door creak on its hinges
as it closed, and it seemed to him as if he had lost his senses-
then a cold shudder passed over him, and he awoke.
It was morning; the Metal Pig stood in its old place on the
Porta Rosa, and the boy found he had slipped nearly off its back. Fear
and trembling came upon him as he thought of his mother; she had
sent him out the day before to get some money, he had not done so, and
now he was hungry and thirsty. Once more he clasped the neck of his
metal horse, kissed its nose, and nodded farewell to it. Then he
wandered away into one of the narrowest streets, where there was
scarcely room for a loaded donkey to pass. A great iron-bound door
stood ajar; he passed through, and climbed up a brick staircase,
with dirty walls and a rope for a balustrade, till he came to an
open gallery hung with rags. From here a flight of steps led down to a
court, where from a well water was drawn up by iron rollers to the
different stories of the house, and where the water-buckets hung
side by side. Sometimes the roller and the bucket danced in the air,
splashing the water all over the court. Another broken-down
staircase led from the gallery, and two Russian sailors running down
it almost upset the poor boy. They were coming from their nightly
carousal. A woman not very young, with an unpleasant face and a
quantity of black hair, followed them. "What have you brought home?"
she asked. when she saw the boy.
"Don't be angry," he pleaded; "I received nothing, I have
nothing at all;" and he seized his mother's dress and would have
kissed it. Then they went into a little room. I need not describe
it, but only say that there stood in it an earthen pot with handles,
made for holding fire, which in Italy is called a marito. This pot she
took in her lap, warmed her fingers, and pushed the boy with her
elbow.
"Certainly you must have some money," she said. The boy began to
cry, and then she struck him with her foot till he cried out louder.
"Will you be quiet? or I'll break your screaming head;" and she
swung about the fire-pot which she held in her hand, while the boy
crouched to the earth and screamed.
Then a neighbor came in, and she had also a marito under her
arm. "Felicita," she said, "what are you doing to the child?"
"The child is mine," she answered; "I can murder him if I like,
and you too, Giannina." And then she swung about the fire-pot. The
other woman lifted up hers to defend herself, and the two pots clashed
together so violently that they were dashed to pieces, and fire and
ashes flew about the room. The boy rushed out at the sight, sped
across the courtyard, and fled from the house. The poor child ran till
he was quite out of breath; at last he stopped at the church, the
doors of which were opened to him the night before, and went in.
Here everything was bright, and the boy knelt down by the first tomb
on his right, the grave of Michael Angelo, and sobbed as if his
heart would break. People came and went, mass was performed, but no
one noticed the boy, excepting an elderly citizen, who stood still and
looked at him for a moment, and then went away like the rest. Hunger
and thirst overpowered the child, and he became quite faint and ill.
At last he crept into a corner behind the marble monuments, and went
to sleep. Towards evening he was awakened by a pull at his sleeve;
he started up, and the same old citizen stood before him.
"Are you ill? where do you live? have you been here all day?" were
some of the questions asked by the old man. After hearing his answers,
the old man took him home to a small house close by, in a back street.
They entered a glovemaker's shop, where a woman sat sewing busily. A
little white poodle, so closely shaven that his pink skin could