When you stop to think about it, nobody is quite free. The freest man I know is Scipione, the travelling knife-grinder. He carries his tools on his back, the open street is his shop, the people he meets his customers. As I sat at work this morning I heard the welcome sound of his cracked bell. My knife being duller than even I can endure, I hailed him from the window. He came slowly up the long stair to the landing outside the old green door, and bade me a civil good morning.
“We have not seen you for a long time, I was afraid I should have to buy a new knife,” I said.
Scipione let a few drops of water trickle from the tap of the small can fixed above his wheel, ran his finger along the edge of my penknife, held the blade to the emery wheel, and began to work the treadle with his foot.
“It is quite true, I have not passed this way lately. You did well, however, to wait for me. Another might have ruined this really desirable knife, whose beauty and value the first comer might not realize.” Under my admiring eyes, the sparks began to fly from the wheel—who does not work better when watched by admiring eyes?
“That is a good trade of yours, is it not, Scipione?” I said.
“E un arte civile, Signora. Non c’è ‘boss’; quando si vuole lavorare, si lavora, quando si vuole reposare, si riposa (It is a civil art; there is no ‘boss’; when one feels like working, one works, when one wishes to rest, one rests).”
“You have not told me what kept you so long away.”
“My grandmother has been ill, Poverella, there is nobody but myself to look after her.”
Scipione is not so free as I had supposed!
“Where does the nonna live?”