“Who’s there?” shouted a voice from inside.
“It’s me!” screamed the little boy. “Bellissima is gone! Open up the door and kill me!”
They were shocked, especially the glovemaker’s wife. Her glance went at once to the peg where the little dog’s sheepskin coat was still hanging.
“Bellissima at the police station!” she screamed. “You evil child! How could you have taken him out in such cold weather? The poor dog will freeze to death! That little gentle creature in the hands of such ruffians as the police!”
The glovemaker rushed out of the house to go to the police station and retrieve the dog. His wife kept on screaming, and the boy kept on crying. They made such a lot of noise that all the people in the house were awakened and came down to see what was happening, including the painter.
The artist took the boy on his lap; and slowly the child told him the whole story of the bronze pig and his visit to the Galleria degli Uffizi. The painter shook his head in wonder; it was a strange story. He comforted the boy and tried to calm the glovemaker’s wife, but that was impossible. Not until her husband had returned with the little dog did she stop lamenting and wailing. Though when she had examined Bellissima and realized that he didn’t seem any the worse for having associated with the police, she did cheer up.
The painter patted the boy on the head and gave him some drawings as a gift. They were marvelous drawings! Some of them were caricatures and very funny, but the picture that the boy loved most was the one of the bronze pig. Only a few lines on a piece of paper and there it was, and even the house behind the fountain was there too.
“If you can draw and paint,” thought the child, “then you can call the whole world your own.”
The next day, as soon as he had finished his work he took a pencil stub and tried to copy the sketch of the bronze pig on the back of one of the artist’s drawings. He succeeded! Well, he almost did—true, one of the legs was a little too long and another was too thin; but still, the pig was there on paper. Joyfully, the boy tried again the following day. It was not easy to make the pencil draw lines as straight as he wanted them to be. But the second pig was better than the first; and the third one, anyone could have recognized.
Although his drawing improved, his glove sewing did not; and when he was sent on errands it took him longer and longer to return, for the bronze pig had taught him that all pictures can be drawn; and Florence is one enormous picture book, for anyone who cares to turn the pages. On the Piazza Santa Trinita there stands a slender column with a statue of Justice on top of it; the goddess is blindfolded and has a pair of scales in her hands. Soon she not only stood on a column, but also on a sheet of paper, for the boy had drawn her.
The folio of the glovemaker’s little appentice was growing; but until now he had only drawn dead, immobile objects. One day Bellissima was romping gaily about him.
“Sit still,” he said to the dog, “and I shall make a lovely picture of you for my collection.”
But Bellissima would neither sit nor stand still. If the boy wanted to draw it, there was nothing else for him to do but tie the animal. The child tied the dog both by the tail and by the neck, which the animal didn’t like in the least. It barked and tried to jump; and at last the signora came.
“You unchristian boy!” she cried. “Oh, the poor animal!” And she kicked the child. “You ungrateful wretch!” she screamed while she picked up the half-strangled little dog and kissed it. Then she dragged the weeping child out of her home.
At that very moment the painter came down the stairs; and this is the turning point of the story.
In Florence, in 1834, there was an exhibition at the Academy of Art. Two paintings that hung next to each other attracted special attention. The smaller one portrayed a little boy who was sketching a closely cropped little white poodle; the dog had not wanted to stand still and the artist had tethered it with strings around both his neck and his tail. The painting was strangely alive, and there was a loveliness about it that revealed the artist’s talent. It was told that the painter was born in Florence and had been found in the streets by an elderly glovemaker who had taken the child in. He had taught himself how to draw. A famous painter had discovered the boy’s ability, on the very day that the glover’s wife had thrown him out of her house for having tied up her darling poodle, so that he could use him as a model.
The glovemaker’s little apprentice had become a great artist; this was proven by the other painting as well. It was a picture of a boy, so poor that his clothes were rags, sleeping on the back of the bronze pig in the Via Porta Rossa. Everyone who saw the painting knew the street and the fountain. The child’s arm was resting on the pig’s head. The little lamp on the wall under the image of the Blessed Virgin cast its light on the child’s pale, beautiful face. It was a marvelous painting, framed in gold. On the very top of the frame was a laurel wreath; among the green leaves there was a band of black crepe, and a long black ribbon hung down the side of the painting.
Only a few days before, the young painter had died!
18
The Pact of Friendship
Let us leave the familiar Danish coast and visit the strange shores of Greece, where the sea is as blue as a cornflower in our northern fields. See the lemon trees, how their branches heavy with yellow, yellow fruit bend toward the earth. Around the marble pillars, thistles are growing and hide the pictures cut in the white stone. Here is a shepherd, beside him is his dog. We sit down nearby; and he begins to tell us about an ancient custom, the friendship pact, in which he himself has taken part:
The walls of our house were made of mud; yet our entrance was framed by two marble pillars. They had been found near where our house was built. The roof almost touched the ground. It was black and ugly, although it had been made from flowering oleander and fresh laurel branches, brought from the other side of the mountains. The plot of land around our house was narrow; behind it rose the black, bare, stone sides of the mountains. Their tops were often covered by clouds that looked like living white figures. Never have I heard a bird sing there, nor did the men of my district ever dance to the tune of the bagpipes. From ancient times it has been considered a holy place. The name itself is sacred: Delphi.
The dark, somber mountains are covered with snow until late spring. The highest, on whose pinnacle the evening sun shines longest, is called Parnassus. The waters of the brook that flows past our house come from up there. It was once holy, but now mules muddy it with their feet; yet it flows so swiftly that soon it is clear again. Oh, I recall it all: the holy, lonely stillness!
In the middle of our hut was the fire; here, when the glowing ashes were piled high, bread was baked. In winter, when there was so much snow that our house was almost hidden, my mother seemed happiest. Then she would take my head into both her hands, kiss my forehead, and sing the songs that she dared not sing in summer; for the Turks were our masters and they did not allow us to sing such songs:
“On the Mountain of Olympus, among the low fir trees, stood an old stag;
His eyes were heavy with tears: red, green, and
pale blue were their colors.
A young deer came by and asked: ‘Why are you
shedding red, green, and pale blue tears?’
‘The Turks have come to our village, they have
brought wild dogs for the hunt.’
‘I will chase them out upon the islands,’ said
the young deer,
But before night had come, the deer was slain;
And before night was over, the old stag had been
hunted down and killed.”
As my mother finished her sad song, her eyes grew moist and she had to turn away in order to hide the tears that clung to her long eyelashes.
I clenched my fists and said, “We will kill the Turks.” My mother turned our black bread in the ashes and sang again the last lines of the song:
“But before night had come, the deer was slain;
And before night was over, t
he stag had been
hunted down and killed.”
My father had been away for many days. When I saw him coming I ran to meet him. I hoped that he would be bringing me some shiny shells from the Bay of Lepanto, or maybe even a sharp knife. But he brought us a little naked girl. He had carried her inside his sheepskin coat. She lay in a bag of lambskin, and when she was taken out of it and put into my mother’s lap, all that she was wearing were the three silver coins that were braided in her hair.
My father told us that the Turks had killed her parents. He himself had been wounded, and his coat was stiff from his own blood that had frozen to ice. My mother bandaged the wound; it was deep and ugly. That night I had strange dreams.
The little girl was to be brought up as my sister. She was beautiful; her eyes were as kind and as beautiful as my mother’s. Anastasia was my little sister’s name. Her father had taken a vow of friendship with mine. It was an ancient custom to which we still adhere. Those youths who decide to take an oath of brotherhood choose among the girls of the village the one whom they consider the most virtuous and the most beautiful; and she is the witness: the priestess who confirms their pact of friendship.
Now the little girl had become my sister. She sat on my lap, and I picked flowers for her and brought her feathers that I had found on the mountainside. Together we drank of the waters from Parnassus; and we slept next to each other under the laurel-leaf roof of our hut.
Many long winters we listened to my mother’s song about the red, green, and pale blue tears, without understanding that it was the sorrow of our people that was mirrored in these tears.
One day three Frenchmen came. They were dressed so differently from us. They had beds and tents on their pack horses. Twenty Turkish soldiers, all armed with swords and guns, escorted them, for they were friends of the pasha, and had a letter from him to tell us who they were and that we were to be hospitable to them. They had only come to look at our barren, black mountains, to climb to the top of Parnassus, up among the clouds and snow. Our little hut was too small for them all; besides, the smoke from our fire made their eyes smart, as it drifted toward the door. They set up camp on the narrow patch of ground around our house and built their fires, over which they roasted lambs and birds. They drank sweet wine, which they offered to the Turkish soldiers, but they didn’t dare touch it.
When they left I followed them part of the way. I carried Anastasia on my back in a bag made from goatskins. One of the Frenchmen asked me to stand, leaning against a cliff, and he would make a sketch of us. In the drawing we looked almost alive, and as though we were only one person. When I saw it I could not help thinking that it was true, we were one, for Anastasia was never out of my sight or out of my mind; even at night, if I dreamed, she was in my dreams.
Two nights later there were other people in our hut. They were armed with guns and knives. They were Albanians—“brave people,” my mother said. They did not stay long. One of them took my sister Anastasia on his knee; when they were gone she had only two, not three, silver coins in her braids. They put tobacco in strips of paper and smoked it. They discussed in which direction they should go and the oldest of them said: “If I spit up in the air, the spit will fall in my face; and if I spit downward it will fall in my beard.”
But finally they had to make up their minds. They left and my father went with them, to show them the way. A little while later we heard shots.
Soldiers came into our hut. They said that we had hidden robbers and that my father had joined their band, so now we would have to leave our home and follow the soldiers.
We passed the place where the battle had been. I saw the corpses of the robbers and the dead body of my father. All I can remember is crying and crying, and then waking up in prison. But the cell was neither smaller nor more barren than the room in our hut. We were given onions and resined wine, and that, too, was not much different from the fare we were used to.
I do not remember how long we were imprisoned, but many days and weeks must have passed. We were set free on Easter Day. My mother was sick. For her sake, we had to walk very slowly; it took us a long time to walk to the coast. When we arrived at the Bay of Lepanto we entered a church.
The holy pictures glistened, for they were on a background of gold. There were pictures of angels, though none of them seemed to me more beautiful than our Anastasia. In the middle of the church stood a coffin filled with roses. The roses were the symbol of Our Lord Jesus, my mother said. The priest declared: “Christ has risen!” And everybody kissed one another. We were all given a lighted candle, even little Anastasia had one. Someone played the bagpipes and the men made their way from the church dancing, hand in hand, while the women of the village roasted the Easter lambs over great fires. We were invited to eat and sat down by the fire.
A boy a few years older than myself kissed me and said: “Christ has risen!” And that was how we two met: Aphtanides and I.
My mother was clever at weaving fishnets and we stayed several months near the sea. I learned to love the water that tasted of salt and reminded me of the stag’s tears, for the beautiful sea is sometimes red, other times green, only to turn pale blue at midday.
Aphtanides was a good sailor; he knew how to steer a boat. As silently as the clouds sail in the sky, we would glide through the waters. Anastasia and I would sit in the bottom of the boat. At sunset the mountains were dark blue. One chain seemed to look over the shoulder of another, farthest away stood Mount Parnassus with its snow-covered peaks; blood-red in the evening sun, it towered over all the others. Its peak looked as if it were made of melting iron. The luminous red glow seemed to come from inside the mountain, for it shone long after the sun had set. Only the wings of the sea gulls disturbed the mirror of the sea. Anastasia was sitting next to me. I leaned back. The first stars of evening had come, shining like the candles under the holy pictures in church. They were the same stars that had looked down on me when I sat outside our hut in Delphi. I closed my eyes. Everything was as peaceful, and I dreamed myself back there.
There was a splash! The boat rocked, I screamed! Anastasia had fallen into the sea. Aphtanides was already in the water. He handed my little sister up to me before she had even swallowed a mouthful of water.
We took off her clothes and wrung them out. Aphtanides did the same with his. We stayed out until their clothes were dry, so that no one else ever knew how close to death my little sister had come, and what a part Aphtanides had played in saving her life.
Summer came. The sun baked down upon the earth, scorching it. I thought of the cool mountains and the brook near our house. My mother, too, longed for home. One evening we started the long walk back.
How silent and still it was! The thyme grew tall, and though the sun had dried its leaves, it still had a sweet smell. We did not pass a hut or see a shepherd. Everything was so motionless, so quiet, that the faraway heavens seemed more alive than the earth. I counted the shooting stars. I don’t know whether the blue air lighted itself or was lit by starlight, but we could plainly see the outlines of the mountains.… My mother made a fire and roasted onions for us to eat. Anastasia and I lay down to sleep without fear of the monstrous Smidraki—from whose mouths, it is said, come burning fire—or the wolves who live in the mountains. For my mother sat close to us, and my little sister and I were still young enough not to be afraid of the world when she was near.
Finally we reached our old home. It was a ruin. It would have to be rebuilt. A couple of women helped my mother, and within a few days the walls stood again and a new roof of oleander covered them. Out of skin and bark my mother wove nets for covering wine bottles; I tended the priest’s little herd of goats. Anastasia and the little turtles were my playmates.
One day Aphtanides came to visit us. He said that he had missed us very much, and he stayed two whole days. A month later he returned. This time to say good-by. He was to become a sailor and was leaving on a ship bound for Patras and Corfu. He had brought a big fish, which he gave to
my mother. He could tell so many stories, not only about the fishermen who lived in the Bay of Lepanto but also about the heroes and kings who once ruled Greece, as now the Turks do.
When does the bud on the rosebush open itself: what day, what week or what hour? One does not notice, but suddenly it is there and one realizes how beautiful the flower is. Thus it was with Anastasia: one day I noticed that she was a lovely full-grown girl. Years had gone by. The wolfskins that covered my mother’s and Anastasia’s bed had come from animals that I had shot.
One evening toward sunset Aphtanides came. He was thin as a reed, strong, and browned by the sun. He kissed us all and told us about his life as a seaman and the places he had seen: the fortress of Malta and the pyramids of Egypt. He spoke well and his stories were like the legends the priest could tell. I felt a great respect and admiration for him.
“How much you have seen and experienced,” I said. “And how well you tell about it.”
“But you have told me about something that I think is the most beautiful of all,” replied Aphtanides. “I can’t forget it. I mean the old custom of having a pact of friendship. Let us be brothers, as your father and Anastasia’s were. Anastasia, our sister, shall be our witness, for a more beautiful or virtuous girl there is not in all of Greece.”
Anastasia blushed and her cheeks turned the color of a rose petal. My mother kissed Aphtanides.
It is an hour’s walk from our hut to the church. There the soil is richer and tall trees cast their shade. In front of the altar a little lamp is always burning.
I wore my best clothes. My red blouse fitted me tightly around my waist. Silver was woven into the tassel of my fez. In my belt were stuck not only a knife but a pistol as well. Aphtanides wore the blue uniform of a Greek sailor; on a silver chain around his neck he wore a medallion of the Holy Virgin. His scarf was as costly as only the richest men wear. Everyone could see that we were dressed for no ordinary occasion. We walked into the little church. The evening sun shone through the door, and the many-colored pictures and the silver lamp reflected its light.
The Complete Fairy Tales and Stories Page 21