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   [Illustration: “I LIKE THIS FUR”]


                               THE LITTLE
                               MATCH MAN

                           _BY_ LUIGI BARZINI


                           _Illustrations by_
                           HATTIE LONGSTREET



                          THE PENN PUBLISHING
                          COMPANY—PHILADELPHIA
                                  1917




                             COPYRIGHT 1917
                          THE PENN PUBLISHING
                                COMPANY

                                  1917

                          The Little Match Man




                          THE LITTLE MATCH MAN

             _Translated from the Italian of Luigi Barzini
                           by S. F. Woodruff_




CONTENTS


      I. MY SURPRISE                                  11
     II. THE FIRST ADVENTURE                          19
    III. HE CONFIDES IN ME                            27
     IV. ABOUT A STORK AND A BATTLE                   33
      V. THE HAJI SAVES THE WARRIOR                   43
     VI. THE SAD STORY OF THE TRANSFORMATION          51
    VII. THE END OF FIAM’S FEARS                      59
   VIII. FIAM GOES TO THE WAR                         67
     IX. POSTAGE STAMPS                               73
      X. FIAMMIFERINO HAS A BATH                      83
     XI. A CURIOUS COSTUME                            91
    XII. FIAM AS A MOUNTAIN CLIMBER                   97
   XIII. A CHANGE OF RESIDENCE                       103
    XIV. FIAM OVERLOOKS THE BATTLE                   109
     XV. FIAM WEARS A FUR COAT                       115
    XVI. FIAM’S SILVER ARMOUR                        123
   XVII. A SINGULAR ENCOUNTER                        129
  XVIII. I AM ENTRUSTED WITH A DELICATE MISSION      137
    XIX. THE EFFECT OF FIAM’S FORESIGHT              143
     XX. FIAM GOES FORTH                             149
    XXI. THE ZEAL OF DR. TASA                        159




ILLUSTRATIONS


                                                          PAGE
  “I Like This Fur”                             _Frontispiece_
  The Little Man Moved                                      16
  “Look at Me!”                                             22
  “The Knot is Loose”                                       24
  “You Are Right,” He Said                                  30
  “My Friend the Stork Arrived”                             36
  “I Must Conquer or Cease to Live”                         46
  “You Will Be Adored”                                      48
  “They Took Me First Into the Valley”                      56
  He Read What I Wrote                                      64
  Going Down From Button to Button                          70
  He Hurried Under My Waistcoat                             75
  He Walked Over Them                                       80
  Fiam Began to Dance                                       87
  He Leaned Over                                            87
  I Raised Him Up                                           88
  Fiam Falls In                                             89
  He Was Dreadfully Humiliated                              95
  “It Was a Long Tunnel”                                   101
  I Found Him a Good Place                                 107
  “Bravo, Advance!”                                        112
  “Who is Winning?”                                        112
  He Was Lying There Immovable                             119
  How Proud He Was                                         125
  He Began to Caper                                        126
  “I Will Tell You an Important Secret”                    140
  “Don’t Lose Time”                                        154
  I Put Him on the Ground                                  157




   [Illustration: THE LITTLE MATCH MAN—My Surprise]




CHAPTER I

MY SURPRISE


I am going to tell you something that you must never tell any one.
Stupid people wouldn’t believe it, anyway; and there are so many stupid
people that I should seem like the greatest fibber in the world. But if
you will keep still I will confide in you.

Once on a time, I was in Japan in a city called Takoshima. It rained
buckets full. I was thoroughly disgusted, and not being able to walk
about the streets, decorated with lanterns and weathercocks, and
through the gardens full of flowers, I had to stay shut up in a little
room sitting on the floor, for in Japan they don’t use chairs.

I kept yawning like a dog in front of a fire.

Trying to forget how tedious it was I began to poke into all the
corners of the room, hoping to discover something with which to amuse
myself. After a thorough search, all I found was a box of matches. For
lack of anything else to do they might help me to pass the time, as
I could place them in all sorts of positions, and make any number of
interesting designs.

In the box, however, there were only three, and you know with three
matches even a genius can’t make anything but a triangle, the simplest
of all the figures in geometry.

After all, I might try to make a little man. I had learned that game
long ago when I wore short trousers and went to school, and always had
my pockets stuffed full of marbles, pens, peach stones, buttons, twine
and other precious things—sometimes even matches.

With patience and a little string I used to tie them together and
make arms and legs, and so transform them into a very slim person that
seemed to me altogether lovely.

I began to work, and in a quarter of an hour the three matches had
become the little man that I remembered; and I can assure you, he still
looked to me extremely fine.

First he was very bold, with arms and legs stretched out in the
position of a fierce warrior. Then I changed him into a calm and
civilized person, and made him sit down on his box, and then began to
hold an old time conversation with him.

“Good-morning, little match[1]; how are you?”

    [1] “Fiammiferino,” in Italian.

I suppose that you are surprised that a man of my age could still
amuse himself with this game. But you know a man is always a boy when
he is all by himself and lonely. If you look over the manuscripts of
illustrious scientists and celebrated writers, you will see here and
there the same kind of scribbling and the same little drawings that
they made in their copy books when they were boys and didn’t want to
write their compositions.

The little match naturally greeted my advances with dignified silence.
When I was young and talked to my toys, I made up their answers too,
and so it was possible to hold long and animated discussions. But in
these days my imagination is worn out. After a few minutes, my little
man looked to me like nothing but a match, and I thought I had better
use him in the way I was accustomed to. I put a cigarette in my mouth
and holding out my hand I said to him:

“Dear little match, I will now strike your head and....”

But I got no further. The little man moved, and falling on his knees
held out his hands as if in prayer.

I was very much surprised, and examined him carefully on every side.
I had made a great many little men just like him, but I had never seen
any one of them move by himself. I looked to see if there was anywhere
a bit of string that I had pulled without meaning to. But no, I found
nothing. The little man remained quite still in his new position, until
at last I was reassured. I thought the jar of some one passing outside,
or a puff of air had thrown him from the box, he was so slim and light.
I sat him up again and watched him closely.

After a few minutes I saw distinctly that he moved himself. For some
time he trembled very slightly, then he held out his arms, and slowly
rose to his feet. I could hear a tiny voice, which seemed to come from
him, but it was so feeble that compared with it the voice of a cricket
would sound like a trombone.




   [Illustration: The First Adventure]

CHAPTER II

THE FIRST ADVENTURE


I leaned toward him, so that I almost touched I him with my ear and,
still uncertain, I said to him:

“Did you speak?”

“Yes,” said the voice, about as loud as a needle piercing a cork.

“What did you say?” I asked.

“I was so afraid you might burn me up.”

I was stupefied. You understand why. It was all so unexpected. I didn’t
in the least know what to say to him, but the idea of a match that was
afraid of being burned up made me laugh.

“Don’t laugh,” he exclaimed. “I am a Haji.”

“A Haji!” I repeated.

“Yes, I was the Haji of an old willow.”

Ah! now I understood. Everything was explained. Certain trees in Japan
are inhabited by Genii which are like our fairies, and are called Haji.
Only we have no more fairies, and Hajis still exist, because Japan
is much younger than our countries. When a country grows old it loses
all its fairies, magicians and incantations. But how could a Haji ever
leave his woods, and his flowers, and become a match, with the risk of
being destroyed to light the cigarette of a foreigner?

“Why are you here?” I asked.

“Oh, I lived so happily for two hundred and fifty years on the mountain
Karniyama in the province of Noto! Now they have cut down the woods up
there.”

“Why?”

“Judging from the conversations I overheard, they needed the wood for
railroads. From the soft wood of trees like me they made matches. Look
at all that remains of my beautiful willow! Look at me! Just to think,
I once had branches ten arms long; and with my roots I could drink from
the fountain of Tashira, which was fifty feet away.”

“What shall I call you, poor Haji?” I asked impetuously.

“Call me by the name you have already given me.”

“Fiammiferino?”

“Yes, Fiammiferino.”

“Let’s say Fiam then, for short.”

With this he put out the little sticks of which his arms were made, and
caressed the lobe of my ear and asked timidly:

“You are my friend, aren’t you?”

“Certainly,” I replied, much moved.

“You won’t burn me, will you?”

“Never.”

“If you take care of me, I will live with you, and serve you—and I am
able to.”

“Yes, I will take care of you.”

“I was powerful, respected, and venerated in the woods. I had a
beautiful voice, and sang when the wind swayed my branches. Now I am so
different—but I can be useful to you and help you. I know many things.
I can see a long distance, and I know the world, and can give you
advice and information, and tell you old stories when you are sad. I
promise to be affectionate and faithful. Now I will try to walk.”

With a stiff step and unsteadily, as if he were walking on stilts,
Fiam took a trip around the room and then returned and climbed up on my
knee.

“Is it all right?” I asked.

“Tighten up the joint of the left leg. The knot is loose so the leg is
trembly.”

With the help of my teeth I tightened the knot, and placed Fiam on the
floor. He tried again, and this time stepped more quickly and steadily.

“Thank you,” he said to me, as he came back. “Now, listen to me. You
must carry me always with you; you must never leave me; you must never
give me to any one else.”

“Don’t be afraid. I shall put you in your little box. That will be your
home. Does it please you?”

“Yes, although I have suffered so much in there, constantly afraid of
being put to death. If I hadn’t been found by you....”

“Thank you, my friend.”

“And when you put me in there wrap up my head in cotton; have you any?”

“No. Let me see; wait. I will take some from the quilt. Will that be
all right?”

“Yes; I’m so afraid of taking fire, you see. Imagine how scared you
would be if your head were covered with phosphorus like mine.”

“Don’t speak of it. I can imagine it very well. It makes me shudder to
think of it.”

“Look out for fire, then. Don’t mix me up with others; I mean with
ordinary matches. Never smoke in my presence.”

“No, no, I promise you, I won’t.”

“Now put me away; I need a little rest. All this has made me tired.
Good-night.”

“Good-night, little match.”

I covered his head with a tuft of cotton which I took from the quilt on
my bed, and placed my friend in the wooden box, on which was printed
the picture of a dragon surrounded by Chinese words which meant
“Matches made in Sweden.”




   [Illustration: He Confides in Me]

CHAPTER III

HE CONFIDES IN ME


In this way I came to have a new companion and dear confidant with
whom I lived happily for many months. I soon became accustomed to him,
but I must own to you that during the first two or three days, when I
wasn’t looking at him, I still thought it all a dream. As soon as I had
put him to rest I went to sleep myself (the noise of the rain was so
soothing), and when I awoke I was so sure that Fiam was a dream that I
forgot him entirely. But the little boy was near me on the floor and
before long I heard rapid tapping on the thin wooden sides. Fiam was
knocking.

I opened his prison, and out he came. He took the cotton from his head
carefully, so as not to break the phosphorus, and sat down on top of a
slipper that was near him.

“Glad to see you,” I said.

“Thank you,” he replied in his feeble voice.

As I leaned toward him he shouted at me:

“Put me on your white wall; we can talk then more easily.”

“What wall?” I asked, looking all around me. “I don’t see any.”

“I mean the battlement that defends your neck. Put me on top of that. I
shall be near your ear.”

Then I understood what the little match meant. The walls of the
Japanese fortresses are painted white, and he had taken my collar for
a bulwark to defend my neck. I explained, and put him astride of the
collar.

“You are right,” he said to me as he sat serenely on the edge. “I find
now that it isn’t a wall. But you see I don’t know what is little and
what is big. I am so small myself that I can’t make things out. You
seem to me larger than Fuji-Yama, the sacred mountain.”

We began to chat. He talked so well that I listened enchanted. I
already loved him. It gave me pleasure to feel on my neck the light
touch of his little leg and the caress of his wooden arms on my ear
calling my attention when he had something important to tell me. This
little trick of his was the cause of some unfortunate incidents.

Occasionally when I was absent-minded and thinking of something else, I
would feel my ear being tickled and I would wave my hand as if brushing
away an insect, and that would throw poor Fiam to the floor from a
height that was really dangerous to him.

That first day, sitting astride the “battlement,” he gave me some
confidences. He told about his past so sorrowfully that it made me very
sad. It was the only time Fiam ever entertained me with the story of
his life in the tree; but if I should live a thousand years I could
never forget a single word of it.




   [Illustration: About a Stork and a Battle]

CHAPTER IV

ABOUT A STORK AND A BATTLE


This is what he told me.

“My father was the geni of a maple tree. My mother was the spirit of
a birch tree. They died of old age when their trees withered. I was
lively and vigorous. My tree was the first one to get its leaves in the
spring and the last one to lose them in the autumn. I always tried to
be faithful, and after a hundred years I hadn’t a single dry branch, so
attentive had I been in keeping my tree in good condition.”

“Isn’t it tiresome to be a tree and always stay still and be quiet?” I
interrupted.

“Oh, no. I played with the wind, which would swing my branches, and
I amused myself with the birds that came to me by the hundreds, and
made their nests among my leaves. I was just a hundred and fifty years
old when the quiet of the woods was broken by a great event. But I am
afraid I am tiring you.”

“No, no, go on, please tell me.”

“Listen, then. One evening in May, a wonderful evening, my friend
the stork arrived. He was always traveling around, and when he passed
by the mountain Hamiyama he never failed to rest himself on my third
branch toward the east. He was called To. He brought a lot of news from
the other mountains and from the plains across which he had flown in
his travels. This evening while he was still far off, he stopped in the
air, poising on his wings, and looking about for his favorite branch
began to cry, ‘Mikara! terrible things are happening. It is a miracle
that I am still alive.’

“‘What is the matter?’ I asked.

“He sat down, arranging the feathers on his breast, smoothing them with
his beak, and all out of breath replied, ‘Horrors, I have escaped from
the midst of a cloud of arrows which flew hissing about me. Brrrr...!’”

Fiam paused, absorbed in his thoughts. Anxious to hear the rest, I said
earnestly:

“And who shot the arrows?”

“Exactly the question I asked To.

“‘Who? The men!’ replied To. ‘The valley is full of soldiers, who are
fighting with bows and arrows, with lances and spears. There is war!
They are killing each other; they pursue, they shout, they gallop on
horseback; they are covered with shining armour. A great castle is
burning, and all around the ground is covered with the dead. Listen,’
added To, as he scratched his head with one of his long claws, as he
always did when he was thinking. ‘I must leave you. Don’t be offended
if I don’t pass the night with you. I must go farther on. Not that I
am afraid, you know, quite otherwise, but it is best to be careful.
Lances and spears don’t frighten me, but arrows—you never know. Adieu,
Mikara,’ and he drew in his claws and stretched his wings and swept
away into the air just like an arrow himself, without giving me time to
say good-bye. He said he wasn’t afraid, but really he was trembling.
Never believe in the courage of any one who boasts of not being
afraid.”

“And weren’t you afraid?” I asked Fiam.

“To tell the truth, I wasn’t any too brave. I kept thinking about
the castle on fire. My father had often told me, when I was a little
tree, that in war men burned the woods in order to drive out the
enemy. If the war came near me and the woods were burned, poor me!
You can imagine how anxiously I waited. I listened all night. When the
wind blew I held my branches still so they wouldn’t make a noise. At
midnight a cuckoo came. As he was a good friend I begged him to keep
quiet.

“‘I can’t,’ he said; ‘it is my duty to call “Cuckoo, cuckoo” a thousand
times every night. That is my work. But if it will give you any
pleasure I will go to another part of the mountain,’ and so he did. The
night passed peacefully. The dawn came, and then....”

“I beg of you, don’t stop. What happened at dawn?”

“At dawn I heard some noises here and there. I raised my leaves to
listen better and heard the sound of animals in flight.

“I waited to see some of them and to ask questions, and pretty soon
out of a hole came a family of boars; father, mother and two sons. I
didn’t love wild boars; they are worthless and badly educated beasts
that often came around to clean their tusks on my trunk, stripping off
all my bark, but this time I forgot all about my hatred and tried to
welcome them by holding out a branch. The father boar tore off some
leaves and went on without even saying thank you, and all the family
followed grunting.

“By good luck, soon after, a roebuck came along. ‘What is happening?’ I
whispered to him. He turned panting, and held up one ear, all anxiety,
and replied:

“‘They are coming here.’

“‘Who?’

“‘Armed men,’ he said and scampered away.

“‘And I must stay here,’ I thought.”

“Poor little match man!”

“Oh, yes. If I had only been able to fly. Even a mosquito can defend
himself, but a willow, even if he is large and has lived a hundred and
fifty years, can’t protect himself from any peril. It is terrible!”

“Indeed it is.”

“But to go on. Not long after I heard a cautious step and a
rustling among the shrubs. My leaves shivered all over when I saw
approaching—guess what!”

“A ferocious wild beast.”

“Worse! I saw a man coming.

“‘This is the first,’ I said to myself. ‘Now others will come—they will
set fire to the woods, and I shall die tortured in the flames.’ And my
leaves shook even harder, as if there had been I don’t know what kind
of a wind.

“But no more men came, and I began to calm myself and to look about
coolly. This man was very handsome, and dressed all in silver armour.
He was so exhausted he could hardly walk. It seemed to me he left drops
of blood behind him. He breathed hard. He stumbled over tufts of grass,
he fell and rose again and went on staggering. Where he fell the grass
was covered with blood. I am telling the truth when I say I forgot my
own danger, I was so full of pity for him.”

“Good for you, Fiam!”

“At last he fell, close to my trunk. I looked at him. He was very
young. The armour on his breast was broken. He took off his helmet,
which was tied with a red cord under his chin, and laid his head
against me to rest better. The sun had risen and I gave some shade to
the wounded man. Some time passed, but I don’t know how long it was
when I heard a distant noise.”

“Was it the others?”

“Wait. I heard the sound of arms, of steps, of voices. Little by little
the tumult drew nearer. It came from all sides. It filled the woods.
And the young warrior also heard it. He rose slowly to his feet, and
stood immovable, leaning against me listening.

“Suddenly a voice shouted, ‘Haiya, Hay!’ a kind of hurrah. A hundred
voices from every side called ‘Haiya!’ and the first said, ‘Come, I
have found traces of his blood! Let us follow it! Hay!’

“The other voices howled, ‘Haiya’ with so much eagerness and
satisfaction that I thought they were all friends and followers of this
unfortunate young man, happy to find him to save him, and care for him.
So little did I know about men.”

“And weren’t they friends?”

“Far from it! The first voice said, ‘He can’t escape us any longer! He
is our prisoner!’ The others echoed, ‘He is ours. Haiya!’ They were
enemies looking for him, do you understand? He heard them. He knelt
down and bowed his head calling on Amaterasu, the god of the sun, the
god who made Japan. Then he took off his armour and bared his chest,
which was covered with blood, and put his hand to his side to find the
hilt of his sword. I saw at once that he didn’t wish to fall alive into
the hands of his enemies, and I decided to save him.”




   [Illustration: The Haji Saves the Warrior]

CHAPTER V

THE HAJI SAVES THE WARRIOR


I was so astonished at what Fiammiferino said that I threw up my hand
in amazement, and came near sending him flying with his legs in the
air.

“You,” I cried. “How could you save him?”

“I twisted the end of one of my branches around the hilt of his sword
to attract his attention, and then I spoke to him.”

“How could you speak to him?”

“You know each Haji is allowed to reveal himself three times during his
life. This was my first time. I whispered:

“‘Wait.’

“The young man turned and bowing politely exclaimed, ‘Honorable Willow!
may you live ten thousand years! I perceive that you are a Haji and my
friend, although I have done nothing to deserve your kindness. Thank
you for it, but you must let me die. You know what a disgrace it would
be for a soldier to fall alive into the hands of his enemies. I must
conquer or cease to live. You would not wish to have me dishonored.’

“I replied: ‘I desire above all things your honorable salvation. Keep
near my trunk and don’t move.’

“He obeyed, and I surrounded him with branches, covering him all over
with leaves, and interlacing my boughs in a tangle so thick that it
would have been impossible to see him or get at him without first
chopping off every branch with a hatchet.”

“How about the enemies?”

“Well, the enemies arrived. There were ever so many and all around.
They brandished their glistening swords and lances, and shouted, ‘He
is here, he is here.’ Guided by the drops of blood, they came directly
to me. I must confess I was frightened, not for myself but for him. I
strained every joint as much as I could and looked around. The one who
seemed to be the leader pointed to me with his sword and said:

“‘The tracks of blood end here, but he can’t be hidden in this thicket;
not even a bird could get through it. It isn’t possible for him to be
here; we must look somewhere else.’ And the disorderly crowd walked off
among the stubble and scrubbly trees thrusting their swords here and
there as if they were after game.”

“So the warrior was saved.”

“Yes, I saved him. I raised my branches and showed him the fountain
of Tashira, in which he could bathe his wounds, and told him where
he could find some healing fruit. He stayed near me for two days. At
night he slept at the foot of my trunk. When I heard suspicious noises
I called him and put my branches around him as a mother would do to a
child. The third day he said to me, bowing low:

“‘Generous and beloved willow, I must leave you. I am a prince; my name
is Funato. My enemy has attacked me with his army, burned my castle and
confiscated my property. But I must return to my people and save them
from further perils. I must protect them. I shall never forget what I
owe to you. You will be adored by me and my people as long as we have
life.’ And dressed in his armour, his helmet on his head, his sword at
his belt, he walked away, turning every few steps to look back as long
as he could see me.”

“And you?”

“I waved my branches to salute him, and from far away he could see me
swaying and bowing. No tempest ever shook me so hard. I was very sad
and not ashamed to weep.”

“Dear little Fiam; and have you ever seen him again?”

“Yes, listen. Exactly a year later, the stork who always stopped to
rest on my branch passed by again.

“‘How are things going?’ I asked him.

“‘I am in a hurry,’ he answered, scratching his head.

   [Illustration: “YOU WILL BE ADORED”]

“‘Oh, oh!’ I observed. ‘Arrows in the air?’

“‘Not yet,’ he exclaimed, ‘but there are armed men near here. I am
obliged to look after some business. Good-bye,’ and he flew away.

“There were really men in arms in the vicinity. Imagine my surprise
when I saw Prince Funato appear at the head of his soldiers and a great
number of servants all dressed in holiday clothes. They surrounded me,
they saluted me, they knelt about me, they burned incense to me under
my branches. They had brought food and saki, which is their wine made
of rice. For two days they had a great festival. Beautiful songs were
sung in my honor by their musicians. They poured saki on my trunk. I
drank so much that I wanted to dance, and to tell the truth, if I could
have walked I am afraid I should have reeled. Fortunately I was a tree
and no one discovered my condition. On the third day they returned to
the valley.”




   [Illustration: The Sad Story of the Transformation]

CHAPTER VI

THE SAD STORY OF THE TRANSFORMATION


I soon learned to feel so much affection and admiration for Fiam that
even now I never light a match without thinking of him.

“Was that the end?” I asked him.

“No; every year at that date in May there was a festival in the wood.
You see, I had become a god to these people; they adored me. But as the
years passed the festival grew very sad. The men became old. The army
dwindled away. The musicians lost their voices, and each year the songs
were slower and feebler. Prince Funato’s hair turned white, then his
back was bent, then he came up the mountain leaning on a cane, then he
was carried on a litter, and then he came no more.

“The first year his followers returned without him; they wept as they
burned incense under my boughs. Funato was dead. From that time the
pilgrimage was more and more melancholy.

“Fifty years after the battle there were left only one musician, two
servants and nine soldiers. At the end of another year, that day in
May, only one man came. He looked as if he were a hundred years old. He
could hardly drag himself along. He laid his wrinkled forehead against
me and murmured:

“‘Honorable Willow, we shall never meet again.’

“After that I saw no one; I was forgotten. How could I tell what
men were doing in the valley? But I am tiring you with all these old
memories.”

“Fiam!” I exclaimed, after a few minutes of silence, “I not only love
you, but respect you. You have done some beautiful things in your
life.”

“But think what I have come to be—a match!”

“Tell me how it happened.”

“Well, some years passed; then one day I heard voices and the sound of
axes in the woods, and I saw that companies of men were chopping down
the trees. This work lasted for months. Near me there was another Haji
living in a beautiful elm half-way up the mountain. One evening I heard
the crash of a great tree falling, and in the midst of the noise I
could hear the voice of my friend, who called out to me:

“‘Farewell, Mikara.’

“I looked over the tops of the trees. He was gone, and I never saw him
again. The next morning a man passed near me, looked at me and, with
a brush soaked in paint as red as blood, he made on my trunk the words
that mean, ‘To be cut down.’

“I shook my bark in the way horses shake their skins to drive away
flies, hoping to make those horrible words drop off, but I didn’t
succeed. Some days later a group of ragged men arrived with axes; they
read the words and fell upon me.”

“And what did you do?”

“I? In that moment of danger I revealed myself for the second time. You
know, I told you that Hajis could make themselves known three times. I
shouted, ‘Stop!’”

“And did they?”

“Yes, for an instant. They listened and I repeated, ‘Stop!’ They
laughed and said it was an echo. I don’t know what sort of a thing an
echo is. Once on a time when we heard a voice in the wood we all knew
it was a Haji speaking. Now they say: ‘It is an echo,’ and laugh.”

“And they cut you down?”

“Yes, indeed, they cut me down. They worked a whole day. They took me
first into the valley; next I felt myself carried quickly by a monster
that spit fire.”

“The train.”

“Call it that, if you like. I was taken into a great house where there
was another monster that cut the trees in sheets.”

“A sawmill.”

“Call it that if you like. I was cut into eight hundred parts, and
each part was caught by iron jaws, swallowed and spit out, turned
into thousands and thousands of little sticks, all exactly alike.
A real army of sticks, whole regiments, were put at one time into a
suffocating bath, from which they came out with phosphorus heads.

“At last they were shut up in little boxes, and then they were piled in
pyramids in an immense room.”

“A store.”

“Call it that if you like.”

“And what became of you?”

“You know that a Haji before dying can take refuge in whatever part of
the tree still remains. So I passed from box to box. As the boxes were
packed in larger boxes and carried away, I went from one to another of
those that remained.

“At last the pyramid became very small; only a hundred and forty-four
boxes were left. They were all put together and I was carried to this
city. The boxes were sold one by one. I lived in the last, in this one
where you found me. All this time I had before me the picture of the
frightful end that awaited me. At first when I realized that my power,
my peace and happiness were over, I supposed I should still live, so
imagine my terror when.... It makes me crazy to think of it.”




   [Illustration: The End of Fiam’s Fears]

CHAPTER VII

THE END OF FIAM’S FEARS


“Poor little thing!” I exclaimed. “Do tell me more.”

I was anxious to hear the end of this story, with which I had
sympathized so much.

“Well, then at last even my box was sold. I don’t know whether it was
daytime or night, for shut up in there I knew nothing about time. I
felt myself all shaken up; a little later the box was opened and two
big fingers fumbled around inside and rudely grasped one of the sticks,
which in this last store I had heard called matches. Then: tric, trac!
the head of the stick was struck violently against the side of the box
and ffroo! it burned. I jumped with horror and waited anxiously as the
little stick was consumed by its own flame between the big fingers. I
understood everything at once. This was my destiny!”

“You suffered horribly, eh?”

“Oh! I passed days and nights in agony. Every four or five hours the
box was opened and one of my matches was taken out to its death. Each
time I hid among the lower sticks till, at last, there remained only
three. I resigned myself to my dreadful end and began to count the
hours of my life. By this time I knew that all my tree, my beautiful
tree, with branches ten arms long, was all burned, fibre by fibre, and
had absolutely vanished. It was no use to struggle.”

“Why didn’t you try flight?”

“How? What could I do? How could I open the box? And if it was open
how could I fly without legs? If I had only had these legs that you
have made for me! But enough of that! By chance the box was forgotten
and laid where you found me. And you have saved me. I am your faithful
servant forever. To you I am revealing myself for the third and last
time.”

“Fiam, you are my dearest friend.”

“Do you know what the most evil thing in the world is?”

“No; what?”

“Those monsters that cut, and split and destroy and change, those new
monsters that once didn’t even exist.”

“The machines?”

“Call them that if you like. They are merciless. They devour the
most sacred and ancient beings to make things to sell. They respect
nothing.”

“But, my friend, you are not able to judge.”

Fiammiferino pinched my ear furiously and howled in a voice that
sounded like a whistle, it was so loud and shrill:

“Don’t contradict me. You must be careful, you know, for if you make me
angry I may take fire.”

I quieted him, talking as gently as I could. I was sorry he had such an
inflammable temper, but I suppose the phosphorus was largely to blame.

I can’t tell you how many other intimate conversations I had with Fiam.
When we were alone he always sat astride of my collar, and I usually
let him sit there when I was working and writing. I must tell you that
he gave me excellent advice, made suggestions, and explained Japanese
affairs to me. I shall even have to own that more than once my success
as a journalist at this time was due entirely to Fiam, but for pity’s
sake don’t mention it to any one.

He often left his post of observation on the battlement, and came down
onto my necktie, which he called “the silk waterfall.” There he read
what I wrote and gave me his opinion with a frankness that would have
made me very angry if I hadn’t been so fond of him. Sometimes in the
midst of a sentence I would hear his little voice shrieking:

“Oh, what stupidity! What have you written? Throw it away. I can’t
understand a word of it.”

At this interruption I would stop writing and say:

“What is that?”

And he would go on: “Rub out that nonsense. I will tell you what to
say, and you can put quotation marks.”

“Don’t you want to sign it, too?” I asked, laughing.

But I agreed to what he proposed, and was always satisfied with what he
did. In the end I accepted his services absolutely.

“Fiam,” I would sometimes say, “I am tired. I don’t feel like thinking.
Tell me what to write.”

And he would shout at me: “Lazy fellow, if I weren’t here what would
you do? Well, just this once” ... and he would dictate page after page.

Dear little Fiam, how good he was!




   [Illustration: Fiam Goes to the War]

CHAPTER VIII

FIAM GOES TO THE WAR


Fiam had been with me about a month when I was ordered to go to the war.

You know, this was just the time when a great war had broken out
between Japan and another empire, and I was ordered to go out and
describe what I saw there. While writing up the important events that
sent two armies to the front I couldn’t stop to narrate the adventures
of my little friend, and so I never put a word about Fiam in any of my
writings. Besides, grown people are so incredulous!

The war took place in a part of China called Manchuria. In order to get
there you have first to travel by railroad to a seaport, then on a ship
to China, then on horseback or afoot, crossing plains and mountains for
about a hundred miles, and so to the field of battle.

In telling his story Fiam had shown so much fear of war that I hadn’t
dared to tell him where we were going. He fairly flooded me with
questions.

“Why do we travel so much?” he asked me one day in the train when I
had put him up on my collar so that he could see the country out of
the window. I made him look at it well so that he could give me a
description of it, as, in fact, he did.

“We are traveling to amuse ourselves,” I replied.

“Beautiful amusement,” he grumbled, “to be carried by this monster
spitting out smoke. It seems to me like going back to that great
house where I was split up and cut to pieces. Look up there,” he added
after a few moments. “What lovely country! See the roof of that temple
through the trees, and that wonderful field of flowers. Let us stop
here.”

“We can’t.”

“Why not, if we are traveling to amuse ourselves?”

“Yes, but the amusement will come further on.”

Fiam gave a soft whistle—it was his way of sighing. Then he crept down
on my shirt to find the silk waterfall and rest a while in a fold; but
he couldn’t find any tie. I was wearing a kind of uniform similar to
that of the soldiers.

“Why are you dressed this way?” he asked in a surprised tone, tapping
me on my chin.

“It is the fashion in my country.”

He whistled again, and going down from button to button he reached my
knees.

“Why do you wear these great boots?” he said, looking down at my feet,
stretching himself out cautiously as if he were an Alpine climber
hanging over a precipice.

“It is the fashion in my country.”




   [Illustration: Postage Stamps]

CHAPTER IX

POSTAGE STAMPS


The train stopped at a large station. A dozen officers entered the car
all talking, threw their bags into their racks, took off their swords
and placed them near the window, seated themselves and lighted their
cigarettes. There was a perfect slaughter of matches. Poor Fiam was
so frightened that he hurried under my waistcoat and, creeping near a
buttonhole, hid his head under a button.

Outside of the train there was the noise of a great crowd. We could
hear the tread of the troops as they went to their places in the cars
prepared for them. We heard shouted commands, the rattle of cartridges
in their boxes at the belts of the soldiers, and the guns dropping
to the ground all at once sounded like falling iron. In the distance
hundreds of people kept shrieking and repeating: “Sayonara!” which
means good-bye. “Banzai,” hurrah. “Come back victorious! Destroy the
enemy! Glory!” and other similar cries.

One of the officers in my compartment asked:

“What are we waiting for?”

“They are attaching the cars of guns,” replied another.

“There will be lots of guns needed in this war!” exclaimed a third.

“It is going to be the greatest war of our country,” a fourth added
complacently.

Some one began to hum a tune. The others joined in the chorus. The
train started. I felt Fiam, who had taken his head from under the
button, climb along the waistcoat and crawl into his little box, which
was in an inside pocket. The box had been used so much that it was all
broken on one side, so that Fiam had learned to come and go through the
hole by himself.

He didn’t appear until late at night, when every one was asleep,
swaying with the motion of the train, and the car only dimly lighted
by a covered lamp. I was awakened by his little voice. He had climbed
up on my shoulder near my ear and was calling to me. In the dazed
condition of a person half awake I thought it was the singing of a
mosquito and put up my hand to catch him.

“It is I,” he said. “I am Fiammiferino.”

“Oh! good-morning. Aren’t you asleep?”

“No, I never sleep. I am not a man.”

“Then if you will excuse me, allow me to sleep. I am a man.”

“First tell me—from the conversation I have overheard I judge there is
war; is it true?”

“Yes, perfectly true.”

“And are we going there?”

“Does it displease you?”

“No, but it displeases me that you haven’t been frank with me. Am I not
your friend?”

“I believe so.”

“Well, I forgive you; don’t say anything more. I will go anywhere with
you. They talked of war in my country. If I could only do something to
help them to conquer.”

“You!” I exclaimed laughing. “Then aren’t you afraid?”

“No. I am afraid of nothing but fire; and you will protect me.”

“Yes, of course.”

“And you will always tell me the truth?”

“I promise you.”

“That’s all. Good-night.”

I could have kissed him if it were only possible to kiss a match.
He disappeared. At that moment some one shook me. It was one of the
officers who looked into my eyes.

“Are you awake?” he asked me.

“Yes,” I replied, sitting up.

“Are you feeling sick? I am the army surgeon; my name is Tasa. Let me
feel your pulse.”

“But I am perfectly well.”

“No, you are talking to yourself, and must have something the matter
with your head.”

“I assure you I am perfectly well.”

“Show me your tongue.”

“Not if I know myself,” I replied irritated.

“All right,” concluded Dr. Tasa; “calm yourself. I see you are armed. I
think it would be best for you to give me your revolver, and for you to
put a little ice on your head.”

“But I am not in the least crazy.”

“Well, well,” and his little yellow face wrinkled up as if to say, “Who
knows?”

“I wasn’t talking to myself,” I said in order to convince him.

“With whom were you talking?”

“With Fiam....” I didn’t finish, for I remembered my promise not to
reveal his presence to any one.

“Humph, humph!” He shook his head and murmured, “Quiet yourself,
and don’t think anything more about Fiam. Go to sleep; we shall see
to-morrow.”

The next morning I pretended to leave the train, and changed cars in
order to escape the watchfulness of Dr. Tasa.

The journey went on without incident. I didn’t dare to have Fiam come
out during the day, as I was never alone. But at night he took a walk
on my shoulders, and we held whispered conversations.

On board the steamer on our way to China we had more liberty, and
often conferred together. After our work was put away in an envelope,
Fiammiferino began looking for a postage stamp in the depths of the
portfolio. He went in and traveled all about the leather, explored the
little pockets, and came out with amazing dexterity. He had a passion
for putting on postage stamps after I had wet them. He walked over
them, carefully pressing the edges flat with his feet to be sure they
would stick fast to the envelope; when he had finished this operation,
which he did as carefully as an upholsterer laying a carpet, he always
danced a ballet to express his satisfaction in his completed work.




   [Illustration: Fiammiferino Has a Bath]

CHAPTER X

FIAMMIFERINO HAS A BATH


One evening—it was the night before we were to land—the officers with
us were polishing their swords, trying to make them like mirrors. In
order to enjoy themselves while they worked they had had saki brought,
and invited me to drink with them. As they drank they sang. Then they
put their swords in their scabbards and went to sleep. I was about to
follow their example when I felt Fiam moving.

He had come out of his box, and was walking energetically about on my
chest. I unbuttoned a button on my waistcoat and called to him: “Fiam!”
I forgot to tell you that sometimes he didn’t like this nickname that
I had adopted. He felt as if he had lost half his name, and would show
his disapproval by completing the word.

“Fiam!”

“Miferino!” he added.

“What do you want?”

“What do I want?” he replied excitingly, stepping outside with an
agility I had never observed in him before. “What do I want? How
delightful! I smell saki, and you left me shut up in the box.”

“Well, what of it?”

“Saki, sakii, sakiii,” he began to sing, dancing around on my shoulder.

He was beside himself with excitement.

“Be careful,” I said, “or you will fall off.” I had never seen him so
lively.

If Fiam had one fault it was that of being melancholy. Sometimes I
scolded him for it.

“In this world you must be resigned,” I would say. “It is true you
are no longer a beautiful willow in the woods, and I am sorry for you,
but that is no reason for being so sad, and for grumbling all the time
about everything and everybody.”

   [Illustration: FIAM BEGAN TO DANCE]

“But you don’t understand, my good friend,” he said now, “that the odor
of saki, this delicious perfume, reminds me of the most delightful time
of my life. When Prince Funato came with his court every year they
poured saki on my trunk. I loved it. It made me want to dance. It is
more than a hundred years since I smelled this marvelous odor. I beg
you to put me near the cup.”

I did so. The cup of saki from which I had drunk was as small as a
doll’s cup. It was beautiful blue china with white dragons and was
still half full of the good warm liquor which was something like
Marsala wine.

Fiam began to dance around on the brim as children do on the edges of
fountains in gardens. Then he leaned over and stirred the liquid. I
could hear him singing in his mosquito voice.

Unfortunately the dry wood of Fiam’s arms absorbed the saki, which
rose through the fibres till it reached his head. Then he indulged
in the craziest antics. At last he took a little run and, turning a
magnificent somersault, plunged into the cup.

I realized it all too late. I was perfectly distracted when I heard
Fiam splashing in the saki, spinning around quite like a top. I drew
him out and held him between two fingers to dry, but I couldn’t keep
him still. He was so wet he slipped away and skipped about, leaving
drops of liquid everywhere, and if I held him tight he pricked me on
the nails and kicked desperately.

Taking a good hold I raised him up so as to look at him near by. The
phosphorus on his head had melted and shone palely through my fingers.

“What have you done?” I said. “A little more and you would have been
drowned.”

“Who are you?” he answered, trying to make his voice heavy. “Who dares
to place mortal hands on the body of a god? Let me down, barbarian,”
and he twisted around. “Let me go or my vengeance will annihilate
you! You are a coward! I will try the effect of my divine power!
Tremble....”

I saw now what was the matter and whispered:

“Fiam, be good.”

“Shame on you! I am a Haji.”

“Yes, but you are also acting disgracefully. Let me put you in your box
and to-morrow you will thank me.”

“You want to lock me up. You want to make me a prisoner. You aren’t
satisfied to have me for a servant to carry around with you everywhere.
You are the cause of all my woes, but my power is infinite. At a call
from me all the animals in the world will come and tear you to pieces.
My friend To, the Stork, will come and eat your eyes out. The Prince
Funato will come and cut your head off with his sword.”

“Fiam, keep still; you are not used to wine. Don’t you see that if I
were really your enemy I should light you, and burn you to the tips of
your toes? I think I will now smoke a cigarette....”

These words quieted him, and in a little while I put him in his box and
placed that in my pocket.




   [Illustration: A Curious Costume]

CHAPTER XI

A CURIOUS COSTUME


The day after that we arrived in China.

Far out at sea we spied the land—all green hills with pagodas
everywhere.

In the morning, not feeling Fiam move, I looked for him in his box, but
it was empty, and he had disappeared. I was very anxious. There was no
trace anywhere of my little friend except an odor of saki. I was afraid
he had fallen on the ground and that some one had picked him up. Every
time I saw a lighted pipe or cigarette my heart beat and I ran to see
if the burning match could be Fiam. I couldn’t bear to leave the ship
until I had found him. I actually ransacked my pockets ten times in
succession. I looked in every corner of my valise, all over the floor
and in every crack of the deck and in my slippers—nothing. I was afraid
he had run away and I could have cried from grief.

“What have you lost?” asked one of the stewards, seeing me bending over
searching on the floor and stairs.

“I am looking for a match,” I answered.

“Here is one.”

Startled, I turned quickly, but he handed me an entirely fresh box of
matches.

“No, thank you,” I said. “Mine is double.”

He gazed at me in amazement and left me. If he had been the doctor he
might, perhaps, have ordered ice on the head; but as he was only the
steward he returned soon and gave me the bill for my meals.

I drew out my purse to pay him, and on opening it I saw a lot of
papers. I looked between them feverishly. Just guess! Fiam was among
the postage stamps, but in what a state!

While still wet with saki he had left his box and, without knowing what
he was doing, had crept among the stamps, because that way was familiar
to him. Of course, the glue on the stamps had stuck to him, and the
more he struggled to free himself the stickier he became. Then the saki
had dried, leaving him all covered by a collection of stamps. Think how
he looked! On his legs he had two blue five-cent stamps and three red
one-cent each; on his chest there were two red and one yellow. On his
arm was another of one cent.

He was dreadfully humiliated, and asked me to help him get rid of them.

I carefully stripped off those on his back, but he begged me to leave
some pieces on rather than scrape them off with my penknife. So from
this time Fiam wore a garment as gay as a clown’s. All over him you
could recognize little pieces of the face of the Emperor whose likeness
is on all Japanese stamps.

Fiam was very proud of this costume on account of those fragments of
the Imperial face.

“With this protection,” he said, “I can accomplish wonders.”

“Look out,” I told him. “Your suit has cost me more than twenty cents.
What if I should wipe your coat off and put on a Chinese stamp to
punish you?”

At this he was very angry. And when he was angry he had a queer way of
getting even with me. He would say:

“All that I told you to write is false, absurd and stupid; it is
exactly opposite to the pure and simple truth.” After that he wouldn’t
speak for two hours. You can see that he was really dreadfully
provoked.




   [Illustration: Fiam as a Mountain Climber]

CHAPTER XII

FIAM AS A MOUNTAIN CLIMBER


Twice more during that long journey I thought I had lost Fiam. Each
time it was on account of that hole in his box through which he crawled
out to ramble, and which he couldn’t always find on his way back.

One morning in a Chinese village, where I had passed the night, just as
I was mounting my horse to ride out to the army I discovered that Fiam
had disappeared.

I looked everywhere, especially among my postage stamps, but couldn’t
find him.

In the afternoon as I lay under a tree in the stillness of a deserted
field I thought I heard his little voice.

“Fiam! Fiam!” I called.

I could make out the response distinctly:

“Miferino! Miferino!”

As I was warm I had taken off my waistcoat to use as a pillow as I lay
stretched out. The voice came from that.

I fumbled around until I found him shut in between the lining and the
cloth. I pulled him out and greeted him effusively.

“How did you ever get there?”

“I have a habit of going out at night.”

“A very bad one.”

“Well, what do you expect me to do? I don’t sleep. Last night I went
out as usual. Your watch near my house made such an abominable noise,
tic, tac! It was like a blacksmith’s forge. Never mind. I went out and
took a trip over your clothes.”

“Over my clothes?”

“Exactly; you had thrown them on the floor, and they made a beautiful
landscape.”

“A landscape?”

“Surely. All in a heap they looked like mountains and valleys, ravines,
plains, precipices and grottoes—all kinds of things. It was a great
pleasure to travel all over it. I climbed up and slid down. I sat on
round things like immense tubes.”

“They were folds.”

“I know it, but your folds are gigantic to me. As I went around I
discovered the entrance to a cave. I went in. It was a long tunnel
where I had to crawl on all fours. When I got half-way in I wanted to
turn around; but I couldn’t, for my hands and feet got caught in the
folds, so I had to go forward.”

“I see; you were in one of the sleeves.”

“When I came out from the tunnel, I discovered a great opening with a
shed over it. I entered and found a cavern full of paper.”

“It was a pocket.”

“I traveled around until I found a little hole I could scarcely squeeze
through.”

“Ah, yes! My pocket is a little ripped.”

“I was now in a large and empty, wearisome place, and when I wanted to
get back I couldn’t find the hole through which I entered. Imagine my
suffering! After a while I felt you take up the clothes and put them
on. I screamed as loud as I could, but you didn’t hear me. I knew that
you were looking for me, but I could do nothing. But, at last, you
heard me and I am saved.”

“I say, Fiam....”

“Miferino!”

“You ought to promise me not to go out at night or I shall be obliged
to make you an iron house and shut you up for a hundred years. Just
think, if I lose you the first person who finds you will burn you up
without giving you time to say, ‘Ouch!’”

He promised. But a few days later he was gone again.




   [Illustration: A Change of Residence]

CHAPTER XIII

A CHANGE OF RESIDENCE


This time I was sure I should never find him. I went three whole
days without seeing him. Every evening I shook my clothes, uselessly
repeating my search. I would have given ten years of my life, and paid
a large sum of money, to have found him. I blamed myself for not having
looked thoroughly; perhaps I had left him on the ground among the
coarse Chinese mats of the house in which I had passed the night.

On the third evening, having a little spare time, I started to develop
some instantaneous photographs that I had taken during the journey.

To my immense surprise Fiam appeared in every picture, or rather his
shadow, thrown across each landscape. It was evident that Fiam was shut
up inside of the camera. I opened it and called inside: “Fiam!” holding
it near my ear.

“For pity’s sake help me!” It was his little voice beseeching. “Take
me out of this!” He was so desperate that he had forgotten his usual
correction of “Miferino.”

“Come out yourself.”

“I can’t. They are holding me by the leg.”

“Who are?”

“I don’t know who; please help me.”

I looked and saw my friend held by one foot caught in the spring of the
box. It was not easy to get him out. His foot was broken, and when I
put him on the table he limped.

“What were you doing in there?”

“That awful place,” he whined.

“But how did you get in there?”

“You left the door open and I wanted to see what it was like. I went
in.... What a horrible place! Pitch dark, and every now and then a
deafening noise and blinding flash, then grinding wheels. I had to
look out or I should have been completely crushed. There wasn’t a safe
corner. At last my foot was caught.”

“Now,” I said seriously, “you can’t live any longer in your little
house. It is for your good. You may live inside of this.” I showed
him my silver cigarette case. “You will be comfortable and live like a
lord. You see the inside is all decorated.”

When he saw the decoration he was resigned, and wanted to see how he
felt in his new home which he called the imperial tomb.

To make up for depriving him of his liberty at night, I found him a
good place to spend his days when he was near me. I put him in the
ribbon of my hat; only his little black head stuck outside. He saw
everything at enormous distances, and always told me what he had
discovered as if he were watching from the bridge of a ship.

“There is a city,” he called one day.

“How far off?”

“Twenty miles.”

“Is it large?”

“Yes, and full of soldiers.”

Then I knew we had reached the army, and were getting into the region
of the fighting.

Fiam had a passion for the top of my hat, which he called the cupola.
When I was alone, traveling on foot through the country, observing the
position of the armies from a distance, he asked me to let him walk on
the brim, which he called the balcony, and then he went around, keeping
near the crown so as not to fall off.




   [Illustration: Fiam Overlooks the Battle]

CHAPTER XIV

FIAM OVERLOOKS THE BATTLE


I don’t know how he managed it, but he understood the manœuvres of
war better than I. You see, Hajis are unusually intelligent. Often
I couldn’t make out what was going on. I could see soldiers running,
firing, apparently turning back, cavalry galloping, and could hear the
roar of cannon on all sides, yet I couldn’t tell how the battle was
going. But he explained everything to me.

“Look there at that hill. Do you see they are attacking? Look to the
left; that is an assault. There are ten thousand men. Bravo, advance!”
He would get wildly enthusiastic, running here and there and shouting
orders in his squeaky little voice, screaming encouragement, reproof,
praise and blame. You ought to have heard him calling: “Reënforcements
to the right! Place two batteries behind that hill! Forward with the
reserves! Smash their entrenchments!” He seemed to think himself the
general.

I often relied entirely on him for information. I put my hat, with him
on it, on the branch of a tree or on top of a cane and went tranquilly
to sleep near my horse browsing in the grass. When I awoke I called:

“Fiam, who is winning?”

“If you are awake,” he answered, “we will go and send a telegram to
your journal.”

Then I would put him in the hat band, mount my horse and gallop away to
the nearest military telegraph station.

We had many curious expressions. He could never understand firearms.
The discharge of muskets he called little thunder, and that of cannon
big thunder. He thought that men really hurled thunderbolts. When I
tried to explain to him about guns and cannon he would respond:

“All right! All right! But the fact is that these machines which
work with that thing you call powder are nothing but factories of
thunderbolts of various sizes, and we can prove it, because we see and
hear both the lightning and the thunder.”

   [Illustration: “WHO IS WINNING?”]

Another of his ideas was that the telegraph was nothing but a Haji. For
him it was a live Haji in a copper wire that carried the messages. He
spoke of it as “my brother of the wire.”

I tried to tell him about it: “But no, dear Fiam. This time it is
really a thunderbolt that carries the message.”

“Truly!” he exclaimed sceptically. “And where is the lightning, where
is the thunder? I should think that you would admit that I, a Haji,
understand such things a little better than you.”

The telegrams that he dictated to me and that I had to alter in
private, usually began this way: “Brother of the wire, go and say to
our friends in Europe and America that to-day after four hours of big
and little thunder, etc.”

Seeing him so infatuated with fighting, I said to him once:

“It appears to me, Fiam——”

“Miferino!”

“That you love war!”

“Not at all. Do you think any one could love slaughter?”

“But you think of nothing else!”

“That is true. This is a question of my country, so I would like to be
a soldier and fight with all my strength. I swear to you I wouldn’t
mind dying. Just think that the future of the country for centuries
and centuries, its prosperity and greatness, depend upon our victory.
Hurrah for the war!”

“Brave Fiam, you are a good citizen.”




   [Illustration: Fiam Wears a Fur Coat]

CHAPTER XV

FIAM WEARS A FUR COAT


One day when we were far away from our post there was a great storm. It
rained cats and dogs, and the brim of my hat dripped all around like an
overflowing gutter.

I walked through the wood with my head bent forward, completely
forgetting Fiam, who was fastened to the band of the crown and was
soaked through and through. After many hours I reached my tent. I took
off my hat and pulled out Fiam, whom I placed on a blanket, knowing
how he loved to climb around the folds. But to my dismay I saw that he
didn’t move. He stayed just as I had put him; flat on his back, with
his arms stretched out and one leg in the air. He looked as if he were
dead.

“Fiam!” I called frightened. “Fiam, my friend, speak to me.”

But he was quite still.

“He is dead, he is dead!” I exclaimed, almost with tears in my eyes.
“The rain has killed him, and it is all my fault. I was so cruel to
forget him.” I continued to call, “Fiam, come back. Forgive me! Fiam!”

It seemed to me as if I had lost a brother of whom I should have been
careful and should have protected better. I was overcome with remorse.
I thought of all the delightful times we had had together, of his
kindness, of his courage, of the work we had shared and of our sincere
friendship.

“Fiam, Fiam!” I called, now and again, hoping to hear once more his
little affectionate voice.

At last I thought of trying a radical way of reviving him if there were
still the tiniest hope.

I took a flask of saki which I had had on the ship and dropped a little
on Fiam. Then I put a wad of cotton (which I kept handy in case it
was needed for wounds) in the cigarette box; then put my friend on the
cotton, as if he were in a beautiful white feather bed, shut the box
and put it near the fire, which I lighted as best I could in the midst
of my small shelter.

When I again opened the box and looked in, he was lying there
immovable, his arms stretched out and his little leg raised up.

“Fiam!” I called.

No answer. I closed the box and waited, and am not ashamed to say that
I waited in tears. At last after about an hour had passed, during which
I had looked in for the hundredth time, I jumped for joy. His little
voice had answered.

But it was a tiny voice, even smaller and feebler than usual. I asked
him no end of questions most anxiously.

“Speak. What is the matter? How do you feel? What can I do for you?
Tell me—why don’t you move?”

“Why,” he replied faintly, “because the water has swollen my joints.”
That was it. The dampness had enlarged the wood and shrunk the thread
in such a way that the little fellow couldn’t move ever so slightly.

“But you ought to have told me at once,” I said to him reprovingly and
in an affectionate tone.

“I couldn’t. I was suffocated by the melted phosphorus. Now I begin to
feel stronger.”

“Wait a minute; I will put you near the fire again, and when you are
comfortably dry you will be as well as you ever were.”

“I am so afraid of the flames! Shut up the imperial tomb, and don’t put
me too near the fire,” he warned me.

“Just keep quiet.”

Three hours later Fiam was completely cured of his cold, and walked
carefully, like a person on stilts, around the house.

But a queer thing had happened. You remember that after the incident
of the postage stamps Fiam had always been covered with little gummed
pieces of paper showing parts of the Emperor’s face in different
colors. The rain had softened the gum, and when he was put in the
cotton to dry it had stuck to him, and with all my attempts to get him
free I was unable to succeed, so that now my companion was completely
covered with thick down, a kind of white fur coat, which made him look
like a miniature automobilist.

I proposed to shave him with my razor, but he opposed this
energetically.

“Don’t do it!” he said. “In the first place your razor frightens me.
I see that you can’t even shave yourself without cutting your chin,
and one of those slips would cut me in two. Then I like this fur; it
is becoming. It makes me look bigger, you know how thin I am, and it
protects me from bad weather. Let it be.”




   [Illustration: Fiam’s Silver Armour]

CHAPTER XVI

FIAM’S SILVER ARMOUR


After this to protect Fiam whenever we went out in bad or threatening
weather, I covered him with a magnificent waterproof made from the
tin-foil I had taken off of some chocolate. I wrapped him up well, and
I can’t tell you how proud he was to see himself clad in silver like an
ancient prince in armour. I put a cap made of the same material on his
head, which was exactly like a microscopic medieval helmet.

In this outfit Fiam was a little clumsy at first, but soon he could
move with ease, and at last he was able to walk. He was never ready to
take off the brilliant suit, and even when the sun shone gloriously he
would say:

“Put on my waterproof; the weather is threatening.”

“It doesn’t seem so to me.”

“Yes, yes. I feel the dampness in my joints.”

I indulged his little vanity and made him happy. But he glistened so
brightly that a Japanese officer once asked politely:

“What is that you wear in the band of your hat?”

“Oh, nothing,” I replied evasively; “a little pencil.”

Also I noticed that the general who commanded the troop looked at me
curiously, but said nothing, because he was afraid it was beneath his
dignity.

It was the first time I had been with the general. It was the day
before a battle, and he had invited me to breakfast in a tent as large
as a house, where all the superior officers ate, and where a military
band played all the time as loud as it could.

During the whole meal I could feel Fiam moving around.

“Is he crazy?” I thought. “He will surely be seen.”

Several hours later when I was alone again I stood him on a piece of
paper, and he began to caper and jump, so that he made holes in the
paper.

“Look out!” I exclaimed. “Has the smell of the saki gone to your head?”

“Oh, but something beside saki!” he shouted, standing still. “I am the
happiest being in the world! I have seen him again! I have found him,
his own self.”

“Who?”

“The prince Funato.”

“The one you shielded from his enemies in the wood?”

“Yes, yes, yes.”

“But you said he was dead.”

“Well then, precisely, so I did. He died ever and ever so many years
ago.”

“What then?”

“And then—oh, it is too beautiful—he has come back to life!”

“Fiam, you are laughing at me.”

“Indeed I’m not.” And he began to shout, ecstatically happy: “I have
seen him again, himself, his very self!”




   [Illustration: A Singular Encounter]

CHAPTER XVII

A SINGULAR ENCOUNTER


When he began dancing around again I caught him by the leg and held him
still.

“Explain yourself,” I commanded.

“Put me astride your collar, and I will tell you.”

“All right; now talk.”

“Do you remember I told you Prince Funato died an old man? And every
year at the anniversary of the battle where I had protected him by my
branches”—(here Fiam gave two of those sighs of his that sounded like
whistles, and observed sadly, “What a beautiful willow I was then!”)
“he came to find me?”

“Indeed, I remember perfectly.”

“Very well; his spirit has entered into one of his descendants.”

“That is only a Japanese superstition.”

“So you foreigners say; you also think that the Haji is an old Japanese
superstition. You have told me so, and yet you see that I really
exist.”

“That is true. I beg your pardon.”

“There is no harm done. Now I have met the man who has the spirit of
Prince Funato.”

“And who is it?”

“The general.”

“Not really.”

“It is he who is the descendant of the prince.”

“How did you find it out?”

“I am a Haji, and can see things that men can’t.”

“And does the general know it?”

“No; the spirit never remembers its former life.”

“Oh,” I smiled.

“Don’t be so sceptical. You ought to have more faith in me. I can tell
you something else.”

“Go on, tell it.”

“Did you see that tall, serious, gray-haired colonel, with a beautiful
beard, seated at the right of the general?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Colonel of the big thunderbolt?”

“The artillery——”

“If you like. Well, he is the old warrior that climbed up the mountain
alone the last time to greet me. He trembled all over from age. I
remember he leaned up against me and said:

“‘Honorable Willow, we shall never meet again.’” Another little whistle
showed me that Fiam was much moved by his recollections.

By this time my European ideas were pretty nearly turned upside down.
“What if Fiam should be right?” Two days later I called on the general
with the pretext of thanking him for the excellent breakfast of moist
bamboo roots that he had given me. I wanted to question him skilfully.

I found him with knitted brows bending over a map. Every once in a
while he gave an order to some officer, which was received and obeyed
in silence. They were coming and going very solemnly. We could hear the
tramp of horses arriving and departing outside the tent. Far off the
cannon roared.

After an exchange of compliments I risked asking the question which was
on the tip of my tongue.

“General,” I said, “among your ancestors was there one called Funato?”

“Yes,” he answered, with some surprise, but with a smile of
satisfaction; “Prince Funato Matabaci.”

“And after a great battle was he not pursued by an enemy until he was
saved by the Haji of a willow?”

“Ah, ah!” laughed the general. “I see you are up in the legends of the
country. I am glad to hear it.” Then ceasing to laugh, he added: “The
fact is that Funato Matabaci went to war with Nitoba Riocito, and in
great fright he hid in a wood. All the rest is legendary, and the fancy
of an ignorant and credulous age.”

Later when I told this to Fiam he was sad and very much hurt.

“Well,” he said, “let’s see. Look at the blessings you have brought us
from the West. Those lovely inventions that chop down, split and cut
poor willows in pieces. These are your beautiful ideas. The most sacred
things are only legends to you.”

“Fiam, I am....”

“You—you are a stupid....”

“Ah, thank you.”

He couldn’t make me angry with his insults, for after all I thought he
was quite right. Some minutes passed in silence, then Fiam went on:

“But it doesn’t matter. I love him just the same. It isn’t his fault
that he denies me. To me he is still the Funato that I protected as if
he were my son, and I promise you I shall never fail to guard, defend,
and save him, even if it takes my life.”

“But what can you do, poor Fiam?” I asked, much interested.

“Ah, who knows? who knows?” and he sighed sadly.




   [Illustration: I Am Entrusted With a Delicate Mission]

CHAPTER XVIII

I AM ENTRUSTED WITH A DELICATE MISSION


Although the fortunes of war turned out for the benefit of Japan in
general, this was not the case with the troops among which I found
myself.

When I had seen the general studying the map so intently I had
concluded that he had good reason to be so serious. Frankly, I
understood very little of what was going on, but Fiam knew all about
it perfectly, and he didn’t always explain it to me, because he said it
was dangerous to tell everything to foreigners by the Haji of the wire.
But I felt from his looks that important events were taking place.

He was restless. He seemed to be cherishing a secret sorrow. During
the fighting, while he watched from my hat, he was beside himself with
excitement and ran around the brim crying:

“No, no! The great thunder to the right, the little thunder to the
center! Quick! Whatever are they doing! To the right, I said. Stop! It
is a mistake.”

But he wouldn’t tell me of what error he was speaking. To me it seemed
as if things might be going very well. The enemy was withdrawing into
a mountainous region, and we followed them without hindrance. What more
could be desired?

The mountains grew nearer and nearer. As we approached them we came
to a deep valley, long and dark, which from a distance could be seen
swarming with the enemy in the midst of clouds of dust raised by the
cannon, by the baggage and the columns of marching soldiers.

One evening, after Fiam had been shouting “Halt!” from every side of my
hat, he said to me:

“Listen. I will tell you an important secret. If we enter that valley
we are lost.”

“Truly,” I observed doubtingly.

“Immediately. This whole division of our army would be captured. You
must run to the general and tell him to halt here and take the road
toward the right.”

“How shall I do it? He wouldn’t listen to me.”

“Try it.”

“Shall I say that you sent me?”

“No, he wouldn’t believe it. Tell him that you have explored and are
persuaded. Do try.”

He begged and implored with so much persistence that at last I decided
to please him. I put him in my hat, mounted my horse and started.

I found the general riding in the midst of his guard. I asked to speak
to him alone on a very important affair.

“General,” I said gravely, “if you enter that valley you are lost!”

He stopped his horse, looked at me in amazement, and broke into a laugh.

“Ha, ha, you are joking.”

Indeed, I felt a little shaky. I should have liked to beg his pardon
and withdraw in peace, but I knew that Fiam was listening, and I had
unlimited faith in him.

“I am not joking,” I said. “I beg you to believe that you risk having
this part of your army captured.”

He looked at me attentively as I went on:

“Send out your scouts, and you will be convinced of it.”

Then he replied courteously: “I have sent. The road is clear. Don’t
worry. I think you need to take care of yourself. At the first stop
take a long rest. Good-bye, and thank you.”

He held out his hand to me, spurred his horse, and rode off.




   [Illustration: The Effect of Fiam’s Foresight]

CHAPTER XIX

THE EFFECT OF FIAM’S FORESIGHT


As soon as we were alone I said to Fiam:

“You see what a fine figure you made me cut.”

He gave no answer. My request to dictate a telegram to the newspaper he
flatly refused. Half an hour later we arrived at the encampment. From
inside my tent I heard a horse trotting and then stop. A voice asked:

“May I come in?”

“Come in,” I cried.

An officer entered. I knew him at once. It was the surgeon I had talked
to on the railroad train.

“The general sent me,” he announced. “I am an army surgeon; my name is
Tasa. Let me feel your pulse.”

“But I am very well,” I replied, irritated.

“Keep calm. The general’s orders,” he whispered smiling.

I held out my hand. He felt my pulse, looking at his watch, then
commanded:

“Let me see your tongue.”

I showed it to him, at the same time making a face.

“Facial contraction,” he murmured, and then asked aloud:

“Do you still talk to yourself?”

“No.”

“With Fiam!”

“Let me alone; I am perfectly well.”

“No, you are ill, and I must cure you. I order ice on the head.”

“I have no ice.”

“But I have some.”

He went outside, took a piece of ice from his saddle bag, placed it on
my head, bound it tight and said:

“I will return later.”

For two days I endured this torture, which gave me the worst cold I
ever had in my life. I vowed to Fiam that I would never give any more
strategical advice to a general, not if the world perished.

The terrible perplexities of my little friend did not seem to be
fulfilled. Indeed, we entered the valley that he dreaded so much and
marched steadily a whole day.

There was not even a shadow of an enemy. From the instant we filled
the valley all firing ceased. It seemed as if the war were over. The
advance guard reported that the region was unoccupied. No more big
thunderbolts and no more little ones. The soldiers were delighted
with this unexpected quiet. We could hear nothing but the rumble of
the marching troops, echoed by the steep mountainsides. At night the
silence was absolute, only broken by the baying of dogs from far off
and the hissing of the wind on the crest of the mountain.

The valley grew constantly narrower; it was like a neck—and at last it
was merely an immense cleft—a great corridor of rock, without a roof
and with a narrow exit at the end.




   [Illustration: Fiam Goes Forth]

CHAPTER XX

FIAM GOES FORTH


In the evening of the second day after that I felt that something
extraordinary was taking place. Every one was grave and preoccupied,
and Fiam was very much excited.

“What’s the matter?” I asked him for the hundredth time. Instead of
answering, he said:

“Look at me well. Do you think I could still take fire like any other
match? I mean if I should strike myself against a stone could I set
myself on fire?”

“Yes, of course. But for heaven’s sake, what do you want to do?” He
made me anxious. “Do you want to kill yourself?”

“No, no; don’t be afraid, my friend.”

Later on the colonel of artillery, in whom Fiam had recognized the old
warrior, came to my tent. He had been sent by the general to ask who
had warned me of the danger of entering this valley.

“No one,” I replied.

“You were right,” he went on; “we are in danger, but the spirits of the
heroes protect us, and we will come out all right yet.”

“What of the enemy?”

“It has shut us into the valley. It seemed best to come this way
because it is the shortest, and appeared to be free.”

“And can’t we get out through the opening ahead?”

“That exit is closed. The enemy has buried there a thousand pounds of
dynamite. If our troops pass over it it will explode.”

“Can they blow it up from a distance?”

“Yes, with an electric wire.”

“And can’t we turn back?”

“No; the valley is barricaded in the rear. If we tried it there would
be a desperate battle in which every one would be killed or captured
from the general to the last soldier.”

“Couldn’t we climb the mountains?”

“They are inaccessible and the enemy occupies the summit. Listen; they
are already firing on us.”

We could indeed hear the first guns. The sun had gone down some
time ago; the valley was dark. We could see the stars and the flash
of powder on the tops of the mountains. Stray balls fell on our
unprotected camp. The soldiers were preparing for battle. They were
digging trenches and cutting down trees to make defences. All this
silently as possible, and in the dark.

I asked the colonel how he knew the exit of the valley was mined.

“Two prisoners told us, deserters from the enemy.”

“Perhaps it isn’t true,” I exclaimed, but a tiny voice that I alone
could hear said:

“It is true.”

Fiam, on my collar, had listened to the conversation.

I saluted the colonel and went into my tent.

I started to light a candle, but Fiam stopped me:

“Don’t make a light. If they see a light they may shoot you in the
back.”

So we stayed in the dark, and Fiam went on:

“Take hold of me. I am on your shoulder. Now put on my waterproof,” he
ordered.

“Why?”

“It is necessary for me to keep dry.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Don’t lose time. Do as I say. It is for the good of all.”

I reached for the tin-foil that I kept behind a book, wondering what
his words meant. When I had dressed him he said:

“You wish me well?”

“With all my heart.”

“Then obey me, and have faith in me. Carry me outside the tent, walk
twenty-five steps toward the north, then put me on the ground and leave
me.”

“Toward the north? Be careful—that way lies the mine they intend to
explode under us.”

“Yes; be quiet—there isn’t a moment to lose.”

I was very much impressed by his earnestness and emotion. I went out,
holding him near my face in my hand and spoke to him tenderly. I felt
it to be a solemn moment.

“Fiam, what are you going to do?”

“I have already told you that I love him.”

“Whom?”

“Prince Funato. And that I am ready to protect, to defend and save him
even if it means my death.”

“And then?” I asked anxiously.

“Well, the time has come. I am going to save him.”

“But how?”

“I am going to set fire to the mine, and so make a way out for him and
his soldiers. Go back to your tent and send this message: ‘To-morrow
will be a day of victory.’ It is the last thing I shall tell you, my
dear good foreign friend.”

“Fiam, you are crazy. You will never succeed, never.”

“Why not? It will take me seven hours to go from here to the mine. A
man could go in a few minutes, but my legs are so short. I shall run. I
shall run faster than seems possible to you. But I shall be seven hours
at least.”

“But the mine is hidden; you can’t find it.”

“I can see what a man can’t. I am a match, but I am also a Haji. I know
about the mine; do you know how? Because I saw it when they were making
it and we were forty miles off. I shall find it easily. I shall go
directly to the dynamite, and light it myself.”

“But you will die,” I said in horror.

“Yes, but what is my life compared to that of so many people and the
possibility of victory? Don’t you think I ought to sacrifice myself?”

   [Illustration: “I PUT HIM ON THE GROUND”]

I couldn’t answer. I was too sorrowful. Suddenly Fiam said:

“Here we must part. Good-bye. Think of me sometimes. I have cared a
great deal for you.”

I couldn’t control my tears.

“Fiam,” I protested, “let me carry you a hundred feet further.”

“No, it is useless. We must part now. Put me on the ground.”

“Good-bye.”

I put him on the ground and leaned down to him.

“Fiam,” I whispered, “forgive me if I have tried to hinder you. You are
doing well! Go and succeed. Your death is more beautiful than a hundred
lives. Some day I shall tell your story.”

“Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”

I watched him starting off in the dark. His armour shone white in the
light of the stars. He was so tiny, he looked like a strange little
animal traveling between the stones and over the tufts of grass. Then
he disappeared from sight. My little man—my wonderful little man—had
gone forever.




   [Illustration: The Zeal of Dr. Tasa]

CHAPTER XXI

THE ZEAL OF DR. TASA


I entered my tent. How awfully alone I was! I should never find him
again in the bottom of the camera or in the midst of postage stamps!
I should never hear his little voice, prompting me with “Miferino.” I
should never carry him astride the battlement, or on the crown of my
hat. The imperial tomb was empty except for the white cotton bed!

I couldn’t sleep. After I don’t know how long the moon rose. I got
up to look at the clock. It was midnight. Fiam had been walking four
hours. How far had he gone?

The firing continued every now and then. “Little thunder,” I thought,
remembering the queer idea of my friend. Every few minutes I looked
at the clock. One o’clock passed; two o’clock passed. I was getting
anxious. I thought an hour had gone by—it was five minutes.

At half-past two I began to listen. A quarter to three, three, a
quarter past three——

I thought he hadn’t found the mine, and I almost felt glad at the idea
that I might see him again.

Half-past three. The minutes seemed like eternity. Twenty-five minutes
to four. Twenty minutes to four——

It was (I shall never forget it) at precisely thirteen minutes to four
when the night was lighted by an immense brilliant blue light. A few
seconds later the whole earth shook and a horrible explosion rent the
air. Then silence.

It wasn’t long before the trumpets blew. The camp was all commotion.
Commands were issued, confused with shouts. These, I made out, were
joyful.

“The mine has been fired! The mine has been fired!” they repeated again
and again.

The ranks formed. The regiments drew up in line of march. The officers
galloped about. The flags were unfurled.

At dawn the columns moved—fresh and eager, as if starting off for the
first encounter.

The terrible pass was traversed by the soldiers singing while the
bayonets glistened in the rising sun. Two hours later we were safely
outside the mountainous defile, and were joined by the main army.

The enemy was forced to give battle, and was defeated.

That evening they all feasted in the general’s tent. All the officers
were happy. I alone was sad.

After a while they began to ask, Who could have blown up the mine? Some
one said:

“The soldiers sent to explore returned without finding anything.”

“Perhaps,” another suggested, “it blew up of itself on account of poor
construction.”

“No,” said a third. “It was blown up by the enemy; they thought we were
on the march, near the mine.”

I arose and said solemnly:

“I know who blew up the mine and made your victory and escape possible.”

“Tell us, tell us!” they shouted in chorus. “Who?”

“It was Fiam, who....”

“Who is that?” asked twenty voices at once. “Who is our hero and our
rescuer? How did you know him?”

“It is,” I proceeded firmly, “the Haji of an old willow tree that....”
A tumult of laughter greeted me. Even the general joined in. They
thought I was joking. The general cried:

“Still more legends, ha, ha!”

“I am in earnest,” I said, turning to him, and couldn’t help adding,
“It was the Haji of Funato, your Haji.”

The laughter increased. “Legends, superstitions, fancies,” I heard in
the midst of the hilarity.

I was so bewildered I didn’t know whether to get angry or laugh with
them.

Suddenly I felt a touch on my shoulder. I turned to see an officer
looking attentively at me. “My name is Tasa. Let me feel your pulse.
Show me your tongue. I recommend a little ice on the head.”





Transcriber's Notes

Original spelling and punctuation have been preserved as much as
possible. Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Little Match Man, by Luigi Barzini

*** 