here the same will happen to me as happens to other boys: I shall be sent to school, and one way or other, by love or by force, I shall be made to study.’
‘You poor fool! Don’t you know that, if you spend your time like that, you will grow up to be a great donkey, and everyone will make fun of you?’
‘Be quiet, you good for nothing, croaking cricket!’ shouted Pinocchio.
But the cricket, who was patient, and a philosopher too, instead of being offended by such impudence, continued in the same tone, ‘But if you don’t like to go to school, why don’t you learn a trade, so that you may at least earn your bread honestly?’
‘Do you want me to tell you something?’ answered Pinocchio, beginning to lose his patience. ‘Of all the trades in the world, there is only one which really attracts me.’
‘And what might that be?’
‘To eat, drink, sleep, and amuse myself, and to lead a vagabond life from morning to night.’
‘Let me tell you,’ said the talking cricket, as calm as ever, ‘that those who follow that trade finish, nearly always, in a hospital or in prison.’
‘Be careful, you cricket of ill omen! If you make me angry, woe betide you!’
‘Poor Pinocchio! I am really sorry for you!’
‘Why are you sorry for me?’
‘Because you are a puppet, and – what is worse – you have a wooden head.’
At these last words Pinocchio lost his temper and, seizing a mallet from the bench, threw it at the cricket.
Perhaps he did not mean to hit him, but unfortunately the mallet struck him right on the head. The poor cricket had scarcely time to cry ‘Cri-cri-cri’, and there he was, stretched out stiff, and flattened against the wall.
Pinocchio is hungry, and he looks for an egg to make himself an omelette; but just as he breaks it in the pan the omelette flies through the window
It was growing dark, and Pinocchio remembered that he had eaten nothing all day. There was a painful feeling in his stomach that closely resembled appetite.
With boys appetite grows fast. In fact, after a few minutes his appetite became hunger, and in no time he was as hungry as a wolf. His hunger was unbearable.
Poor Pinocchio hurried to the fireplace where a kettle was boiling and put out his hand to lift the lid and see what was in it; but the kettle was only painted on the wall. Imagine his disappointment! His nose, which was already too long, grew three inches longer.
He ran about the room, searched in every cupboard and in every possible place for a little bread – even dry bread. He would have been grateful for a crust, or a bone left by a dog, for a fishbone or a cherry stone – in short, for anything he could chew. But he found nothing, just nothing, absolutely nothing.
He kept growing hungrier every moment, yet he could do nothing but yawn. He yawned so tremendously that his mouth reached his ears; and after he yawned he spattered, and he felt as if he hadn’t any stomach left.
At last, in despair, he began to cry, saying, ‘The talking cricket was right. I did wrong to revolt against my father and run away from home. If my father were here now, I shouldn’t be dying of yawning. Oh, hunger is a dreadful illness!’
Suddenly, in a rubbish heap, he noticed something white and round that looked like an egg. In less than no time he grabbed it. It was really an egg.
To describe his joy would be impossible; you can only imagine it. He feared he might be dreaming. He turned the egg from one hand to the other, and patted it and kissed it as he said, ‘Now, how shall I cook it? Shall I make an omelette? No, it would be better to poach it. But perhaps it would be more tasty if I fried it in a pan. Or shall I just boil it in the shell? No, the quickest way would be to poach it. I am just dying to eat it.’
Without further ado, he set a stewing pan over a brazier of red charcoal. Instead of oil or butter, he put some water in it and when the water began to boil – tac! he broke the eggshell and held it over the pan that the contents might drop into it.
But instead of the yolk and white of an egg, a little chicken flew out and, making a polite curtsy, said gaily, ‘A thousand thanks, Master Pinocchio, for having spared me the trouble of breaking the shell! Take care of yourself, and give my love to the folks at home. I hope to see you again.’
With that, the chicken spread its wings and, flying through the open window, was soon lost to sight.
The poor puppet stood there as if bewitched, with his eyes fixed, his mouth open, and the broken eggshell in his hands. When he recovered a little from his first bewilderment, he began to cry, and scream, and stamp on the floor in despair; and as he sobbed he said, ‘Indeed, the talking cricket was right. If I hadn’t run away from home, and if my father were here, I should not now be dying of hunger. Oh, hunger is a dreadful illness!’
His stomach was complaining more than ever and, as he did not know how to quieten it, he decided to go out again into the village, in the hope of meeting some charitable person who would give him some bread.
Pinocchio falls asleep with his feet on the brazier, and, when he wakes up in the morning, finds them burnt off
It was a windy, cold night. The thunder was fierce, and the lightning as violent as though the sky was on fire. A bitter wind whistled angrily, raising clouds of dust and making the trees tremble and groan.
Pinocchio was frightened of thunder, but he was still more hungry than frightened; so he opened the door, and ran as fast as he could to the village, which he soon reached, panting, with his tongue hanging out like a hunting dog’s.
But all was dark and quiet. The shops were closed, the doors and windows shut, and there was not even a dog in the street. It seemed a village of the dead.
However Pinocchio, driven by hunger and despair, gave a very long peal at the doorbell of one of the houses, saying to himself, ‘This will bring somebody out.’
And indeed, a little old man with a nightcap on his head came to the window, and shouted angrily, ‘What do you want at this hour?’
‘Will you be so kind as to give me some bread?’
‘Wait! I’ll be back at once!’ said the old man, believing that he had to do with one of those street urchins who amuse themselves at night by ringing doorbells, and rousing good people who are sleeping peacefully.
In half a minute the window was opened, and the same voice called Pinocchio, ‘Stand under the window, and hold out your hand!’
Pinocchio held out his hands, and a great kettle of water poured down on him, drenching him from head to foot, as if he had been a pot of dry geraniums.
He went home wet as a rag and exhausted with fatigue and hunger. He had no strength to stand, and so he sat down, and put his wet, muddy feet on the brazier full of burning coal.
Then he fell asleep, and while he was asleep his feet, which were wooden, caught fire, and slowly burned away to cinders.
Pinocchio slept and snored, as though his feet belonged to someone else. At last, at daybreak, he was awakened by someone rapping on the door.
‘Who is it?’ he called, yawning, and rubbing his eyes.
‘It is I!’ answered a voice.
And it was the voice of Geppetto.