THE ADVENTURES OF PINOCCHIO

by C. Collodi

(pen name of Carlo Lorenzini)

Translated from the Italian by Carol Della Chiesa

CHAPTER 1

How Mastro Cherry the carpenter found a piece of wood that wept and laughed like a child

Centuries ago there lived—

"A king!" my young readers will say right away.

No, children, you're mistaken. Once upon a time there was a piece of wood. It wasn't fancy or expensive—just a plain block of firewood, the kind of thick, solid log people burn in winter to warm a cold room.

I can't explain exactly how it happened, but one fine day this piece of wood ended up in the shop of an old carpenter. His real name was Mastro Antonio, but everyone called him Mastro Cherry, because the tip of his nose was so round, red, and shiny that it looked like a ripe cherry.

The moment he spotted that piece of wood, Mastro Cherry lit up with delight. Rubbing his hands together happily, he muttered to himself:

"This has shown up at just the right time. I'll use it to make a table leg."

He grabbed his hatchet to strip off the bark and shape the wood. But just as he raised it for the first blow, he froze with his arm in the air—because he'd heard a tiny, pleading voice say, "Please be careful! Don't hit me so hard!"

The look of shock on Mastro Cherry's face was something to see. His already odd face grew odder still.

He glanced around the room in fright, trying to find where that little voice had come from—but there was no one there! He checked under the workbench—no one. He peeked in the closet—no one. He dug through the wood shavings—no one. He opened the door and looked up and down the street—still no one.

"Ah, I see," he said, laughing and scratching his wig. "I must have just imagined that tiny voice. Well then—back to work."

He struck the wood with a firm, solid blow.

"Ow! That hurt!" cried the same distant little voice.

Mastro Cherry went completely still, his eyes bulging, his mouth hanging open, his tongue dangling.

As soon as he could speak again, he stammered, shaking with fear:

"Where did that voice come from, when nobody's here? Could it be that this piece of wood has somehow learned to cry like a child? I can hardly believe it. It's just an ordinary piece of firewood, good for nothing but burning in a stove, same as any other. But then—could someone be hiding inside it? If so, it'll be the worse for him. I'll fix him!"

With that, he grabbed the log with both hands and began knocking it around without mercy—throwing it to the floor, against the walls, even up toward the ceiling.

He listened, waiting for the tiny voice to cry out again. Two minutes passed—nothing. Five minutes—nothing. Ten minutes—nothing.

"Ah, I see," he said, forcing a laugh and smoothing down his wig. "I really must have just imagined that little voice. Well then—back to work!"

The poor man was scared half out of his wits, so he tried humming a cheerful tune to build up his nerve.

He set the hatchet aside and picked up his plane to smooth the wood down, but as he pushed it back and forth, he heard that same tiny voice again—this time giggling as it spoke:

"Stop it! Oh, stop it! Ha, ha, ha! That tickles my stomach!"

This time poor Mastro Cherry dropped as if he'd been shot. When he opened his eyes, he found himself sitting on the floor.

His whole face had changed—fright had turned even the tip of his nose from red to deep purple.

CHAPTER 2

Mastro Cherry gives the piece of wood to his friend Geppetto, who plans to carve a Marionette that can dance, fence, and turn somersaults

At that very moment, someone knocked loudly on the door. "Come in," said the carpenter, too weak with fright to even stand.

The door opened, and in walked a dapper little old man. His name was Geppetto, though the neighborhood boys called him Polendina—"cornmeal mush"—because of the yellow wig he always wore, the color of corn.

Geppetto had quite a temper. Woe to anyone who called him Polendina! He'd fly into a rage that nothing could calm.

"Good day, Mastro Antonio," said Geppetto. "What are you doing on the floor?"

"I'm teaching the ants their ABCs."

"Good luck with that!"

"What brings you here, friend Geppetto?"

"My legs. And you should feel flattered, Mastro Antonio—I've come to ask you a favor."

"I'm at your service," the carpenter answered, pulling himself up onto his knees.

"A great idea came to me this morning."

"Let's hear it."

"I thought I'd carve myself a beautiful wooden Marionette—one that could dance, fence, and turn somersaults. I'd travel the world with it and earn my bread and wine. What do you think?"

"Bravo, Polendina!" cried that same tiny voice, coming from who-knows-where.

Hearing himself called Polendina, Mastro Geppetto turned as red as a pepper and rounded on the carpenter furiously.

"Why are you insulting me?"

"Who's insulting you?"

"You called me Polendina."

"I did not."

"So you think it was me? Well, I know it was you!"

"No!"

"Yes!"

"No!"

"Yes!"

Growing angrier by the second, they went from arguing to shoving, and finally to scratching, biting, and slapping each other.

When the fight ended, Mastro Antonio was holding Geppetto's yellow wig, and Geppetto had the carpenter's curly wig stuck in his mouth.

"Give me back my wig!" Mastro Antonio snapped.

"You give back mine, and we'll call it even."

The two old men, each wearing his own wig again, shook hands and swore to stay friends for life.

"Well then, Mastro Geppetto," said the carpenter, wanting to show there were no hard feelings, "what did you need?"

"A piece of wood, to make my Marionette. Will you give me one?"

Delighted, Mastro Antonio went straight to his workbench for the piece of wood that had frightened him so badly. But just as he handed it over, it gave a violent jerk, slipped from his grip, and struck poor Geppetto right in the shins.

"Ah! Is this your gentle way of giving gifts, Mastro Antonio? You've practically crippled me!"

"I swear I didn't do it!"

"Oh, so I did it myself?"

"It's the wood's fault."

"Fine—but you're the one who threw it at my legs."

"I did not throw it!"

"Liar!"

"Geppetto, don't insult me, or I'll call you Polendina."

"Idiot!"

"Polendina!"

"Donkey!"

"Polendina!"

"Ugly monkey!"

"Polendina!"

Hearing himself called Polendina a third time, Geppetto lost all control and lunged at the carpenter. The two of them gave each other a proper thrashing right then and there.

Afterward, Mastro Antonio had two fresh scratches on his nose, and Geppetto was missing two buttons from his coat. Having settled the score, they shook hands once more and swore, again, to be lifelong friends.

Then Geppetto took the fine piece of wood, thanked Mastro Antonio, and limped home.

CHAPTER 3

Geppetto carves the Marionette as soon as he gets home and names it Pinocchio. The puppet's first pranks.

Geppetto's house was small, but neat and comfortable—just one room on the ground floor, with a tiny window tucked under the stairway. The furniture was as simple as could be: a very old chair, a rickety bed, and a wobbly table. On the wall opposite the door was a painted fireplace, complete with painted flames, and above it a painted pot that seemed to be boiling merrily away, sending up clouds that looked almost like real steam.

The moment he got home, Geppetto took out his tools and began cutting and shaping the wood into a Marionette.

"What should I call him?" he wondered aloud. "I think I'll name him PINOCCHIO. That name ought to bring him luck. I once knew a whole family of Pinocchis—Pinocchio the father, Pinocchia the mother, and all the little Pinocchi—and every one of them did well for himself. Even the richest of them was a beggar."

Having settled on a name, Geppetto got seriously to work, carving the hair, the forehead, the eyes. To his astonishment, the eyes began to move—and then fixed themselves on him in a stare. Geppetto, feeling rather insulted, said crossly:

"Nasty wooden eyes, why are you staring at me like that?"

No answer came.

Next he carved the nose—but no sooner was it finished than it started to stretch. It grew and grew and grew, until it seemed like it would never stop.

Poor Geppetto trimmed it again and again, but the more he cut, the longer that stubborn nose became. Finally, in despair, he gave up and left it alone.

Then he made the mouth.

It had barely been finished when it burst out laughing, mocking him.

"Stop that laughing!" Geppetto said angrily—but he might as well have talked to a wall.

"I said, stop laughing!" he thundered.

The mouth stopped laughing—and stuck out a long tongue instead.

Not wanting to waste time arguing, Geppetto pretended not to notice and kept working. After the mouth came the chin, the neck, the shoulders, the chest, the arms, and the hands.

Just as he was finishing the fingertips, Geppetto felt his wig yanked off his head. He looked up—and there was his yellow wig, clutched in the Marionette's hand!

"Pinocchio, give me back my wig!"

But instead, Pinocchio plopped it onto his own head, where it nearly swallowed him whole.

Faced with this unexpected trick, Geppetto felt sadder and more discouraged than he'd ever felt before.

"Pinocchio, you wicked boy!" he cried. "You're not even finished yet, and already you're being disrespectful to your poor old father! Shame on you, my son—shame on you!"

And he wiped away a tear.

The legs and feet still remained to be carved. The moment they were done, Geppetto felt a sharp kick land right on the tip of his nose.

"I suppose I deserve that," he told himself. "I should have thought of this before I made him. Now it's too late."

He took the Marionette under the arms and stood him on the floor to teach him how to walk.

Pinocchio's legs were so stiff at first that he couldn't move them at all, so Geppetto held his hand and guided him, showing him how to put one foot in front of the other.

Once his legs loosened up, Pinocchio started walking on his own—and then took off running around the room. He reached the open door, leapt through it in a single bound, and was gone, dashing off down the street.

Poor Geppetto chased after him but couldn't catch up, since Pinocchio bounded along in great leaps, his wooden feet clattering against the cobblestones as loudly as twenty peasants stomping around in wooden clogs.

"Stop him! Catch him!" Geppetto shouted. But the people in the street, seeing a wooden puppet racing by like the wind, just stood and stared, laughing until tears ran down their faces.

Finally, by sheer luck, a Carabineer—a kind of military police officer—happened to be nearby. Hearing the commotion, he assumed a runaway colt was loose, and planted himself firmly in the middle of the street, legs spread wide, determined to stop whatever was coming and keep things from getting out of hand.

Pinocchio spotted the Carabineer from a distance and tried desperately to dart between his legs—but it didn't work.

The Carabineer caught him by the nose (which, being unusually long, seemed almost designed for grabbing) and handed him back to Mastro Geppetto.

The old man wanted to give Pinocchio's ears a good pull as punishment. But when he reached for them, he realized, to his d