It was not until he was fairly plunged into the great sea of the city,
and had begun to be a little dazed by more lights than he ever saw when
he closed his eyes in bed, that he remembered that he had disobeyed
orders and broken his promise not to go out. But even then, he told
himself, he was not responsible. He was Donna Roma's porter now.
Therefore, he couldn't be Joseph, could he?
So, with his magic mace in hand, the serious man of seven marched on,
and reconciled himself to his disobedience by thinking nothing more
about it. People looked at him and smiled as he passed through the
Piazza Madama, where the Senate House stands, and that made him lift his
head and walk on proudly, but as he went through the Piazza of the
Pantheon a boy who was coming out of a cookshop with a tray on his head
cried, "Helloa, kiddy! playing Pulcinello?" and that dashed his
worshipful dignity for several minutes.
It began to snow, and the white flakes on his gold braid clouded his
soul at first, but when he remembered that porters had to work in all
weathers, he wagged his sturdy head and strode on. He was going to Donna
Roma's according to her invitation, and he found his way by his
recollection of what he had seen when he made the same journey on
Sunday--here a tramcar coming round a corner, there a line of posts
across a narrow thoroughfare, and there a fat man with a gruff voice
shouting something at the door of a trattoria.
At the corner of a lane there was a shop window full of knives and
revolvers. He didn't care for knives--they cut people's fingers--but he
liked guns, and when he grew up to be a man he would buy one and kill
somebody.
Coming to the Piazza Monte Citorio, he remembered the soldiers at the
door of the House of Parliament, and the cellar full of long guns with
knives (bayonets) stuck on the ends of their muzzles. One of the
soldiers laughed, called him "Uncle," and asked him something about
enlisting, but he only struck his mace firmly on the flags and marched
on.
At the corner of the Piazza Colonna he had to wait some time before he
could cross the Corso, for the crowds were coming both ways and the
traffic frightened him. He had made various little sorties and had been
driven back, when a soft hand was slipped into his fat palm and he was
piloted across in safety. Then he looked up at his helper. It was a girl
with big white feathers in her hat, and her face painted pink and white
like the face of the little Jesus in the cradle in church at Christmas.
She asked him what his name was, and he told her; also where he was
going, and he told her that too. It was dark by this time, and the great
little man was beginning to be glad of company.