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diff --git a/75201-0.txt b/75201-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..17440f0 --- /dev/null +++ b/75201-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,13084 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75201 *** + + + [Cover Illustration] + + + + + BOOKS BY ERNEST HEMINGWAY + + + A FAREWELL TO ARMS + MEN WITHOUT WOMEN + THE SUN ALSO RISES + THE TORRENTS OF SPRING + IN OUR TIME + + + + + A FAREWELL TO ARMS + + + + + A FAREWELL TO ARMS + + By + ERNEST HEMINGWAY + + NEW YORK + CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS + 1929 + + + + + COPYRIGHT, 1929, BY + CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS + + Printed in the United States of America + + [Illustration] + + + + + TO + G. A. PFEIFFER + + + + + BOOK 1 + + + + + CHAPTER I + +In the late summer of that year we lived in a house in a village that +looked across the river and the plain to the mountains. In the bed of +the river there were pebbles and boulders, dry and white in the sun, and +the water was clear and swiftly moving and blue in the channels. Troops +went by the house and down the road and the dust they raised powdered +the leaves of the trees. The trunks of the trees too were dusty and the +leaves fell early that year and we saw the troops marching along the +road and the dust rising and leaves, stirred by the breeze, falling and +the soldiers marching and afterward the road bare and white except for +the leaves. + +The plain was rich with crops; there were many orchards of fruit trees +and beyond the plain the mountains were brown and bare. There was +fighting in the mountains and at night we could see the flashes from the +artillery. In the dark it was like summer lightning, but the nights were +cool and there was not the feeling of a storm coming. + +Sometimes in the dark we heard the troops marching under the window and +guns going past pulled by motor-tractors. There was much traffic at +night and many mules on the roads with boxes of ammunition on each side +of their pack-saddles and gray motor-trucks that carried men, and other +trucks with loads covered with canvas that moved slower in the traffic. +There were big guns too that passed in the day drawn by tractors, the +long barrels of the guns covered with green branches and green leafy +branches and vines laid over the tractors. To the north we could look +across a valley and see a forest of chestnut trees and behind it another +mountain on this side of the river. There was fighting for that mountain +too, but it was not successful, and in the fall when the rains came the +leaves all fell from the chestnut trees and the branches were bare and +the trunks black with rain. The vineyards were thin and bare-branched +too and all the country wet and brown and dead with the autumn. There +were mists over the river and clouds on the mountain and the trucks +splashed mud on the road and the troops were muddy and wet in their +capes; their rifles were wet and under their capes the two leather +cartridge-boxes on the front of the belts, gray leather boxes heavy with +the packs of clips of thin, long 6.5 mm. cartridges, bulged forward +under the capes so that the men, passing on the road, marched as though +they were six months gone with child. + +There were small gray motor-cars that passed going very fast; usually +there was an officer on the seat with the driver and more officers in +the back seat. They splashed more mud than the camions even and if one +of the officers in the back was very small and sitting between two +generals, he himself so small that you could not see his face but only +the top of his cap and his narrow back, and if the car went especially +fast it was probably the King. He lived in Udine and came out in this +way nearly every day to see how things were going, and things went very +badly. + +At the start of the winter came the permanent rain and with the rain +came the cholera. But it was checked and in the end only seven thousand +died of it in the army. + + + + + CHAPTER II + +The next year there were many victories. The mountain that was beyond +the valley and the hillside where the chestnut forest grew was captured +and there were victories beyond the plain on the plateau to the south +and we crossed the river in August and lived in a house in Gorizia that +had a fountain and many thick shady trees in a walled garden and a +wistaria vine purple on the side of the house. Now the fighting was in +the next mountains beyond and was not a mile away. The town was very +nice and our house was very fine. The river ran behind us and the town +had been captured very handsomely but the mountains beyond it could not +be taken and I was very glad the Austrians seemed to want to come back +to the town some time, if the war should end, because they did not +bombard it to destroy it but only a little in a military way. People +lived on in it and there were hospitals and cafés and artillery up side +streets and two bawdy houses, one for troops and one for officers, and +with the end of the summer, the cool nights, the fighting in the +mountains beyond the town, the shell-marked iron of the railway bridge, +the smashed tunnel by the river where the fighting had been, the trees +around the square and the long avenue of trees that led to the square; +these with there being girls in the town, the King passing in his motor +car, sometimes now seeing his face and little long necked body and gray +beard like a goat’s chin tuft; all these with the sudden interiors of +houses that had lost a wall through shelling, with plaster and rubble in +their gardens and sometimes in the street, and the whole thing going +well on the Carso made the fall very different from the last fall when +we had been in the country. The war was changed too. + +The forest of oak trees on the mountain beyond the town was gone. The +forest had been green in the summer when we had come into the town but +now there were the stumps and the broken trunks and the ground torn up, +and one day at the end of the fall when I was out where the oak forest +had been I saw a cloud coming over the mountain. It came very fast and +the sun went a dull yellow and then everything was gray and the sky was +covered and the cloud came on down the mountain and suddenly we were in +it and it was snow. The snow slanted across the wind, the bare ground +was covered, the stumps of trees projected, there was snow on the guns +and there were paths in the snow going back to the latrines behind +trenches. + +Later, below in the town, I watched the snow falling, looking out of the +window of the bawdy house, the house for officers, where I sat with a +friend and two glasses drinking a bottle of Asti, and, looking out at +the snow falling slowly and heavily, we knew it was all over for that +year. Up the river the mountains had not been taken; none of the +mountains beyond the river had been taken. That was all left for next +year. My friend saw the priest from our mess going by in the street, +walking carefully in the slush, and pounded on the window to attract his +attention. The priest looked up. He saw us and smiled. My friend +motioned for him to come in. The priest shook his head and went on. That +night in the mess after the spaghetti course, which every one ate very +quickly and seriously, lifting the spaghetti on the fork until the loose +strands hung clear then lowering it into the mouth, or else using a +continuous lift and sucking into the mouth, helping ourselves to wine +from the grass-covered gallon flask; it swung in a metal cradle and you +pulled the neck of the flask down with the forefinger and the wine, +clear red, tannic and lovely, poured out into the glass held with the +same hand; after this course, the captain commenced picking on the +priest. + +The priest was young and blushed easily and wore a uniform like the rest +of us but with a cross in dark red velvet above the left breast pocket +of his gray tunic. The captain spoke pidgin Italian for my doubtful +benefit, in order that I might understand perfectly, that nothing should +be lost. + +“Priest to-day with girls,” the captain said looking at the priest and +at me. The priest smiled and blushed and shook his head. This captain +baited him often. + +“Not true?” asked the captain. “To-day I see priest with girls.” + +“No,” said the priest. The other officers were amused at the baiting. + +“Priest not with girls,” went on the captain. “Priest never with girls,” +he explained to me. He took my glass and filled it, looking at my eyes +all the time, but not losing sight of the priest. + +“Priest every night five against one.” Every one at the table laughed. +“You understand? Priest every night five against one.” He made a gesture +and laughed loudly. The priest accepted it as a joke. + +“The Pope wants the Austrians to win the war,” the major said. “He loves +Franz Joseph. That’s where the money comes from. I am an atheist.” + +“Did you ever read the ‘Black Pig’?” asked the lieutenant. “I will get +you a copy. It was that which shook my faith.” + +“It is a filthy and vile book,” said the priest. “You do not really like +it.” + +“It is very valuable,” said the lieutenant. “It tells you about those +priests. You will like it,” he said to me. I smiled at the priest and he +smiled back across the candle-light. “Don’t you read it,” he said. + +“I will get it for you,” said the lieutenant. + +“All thinking men are atheists,” the major said. “I do not believe in +the Free Masons however.” + +“I believe in the Free Masons,” the lieutenant said. “It is a noble +organization.” Some one came in and as the door opened I could see the +snow falling. + +“There will be no more offensive now that the snow has come,” I said. + +“Certainly not,” said the major. “You should go on leave. You should go +to Rome, Naples, Sicily——” + +“He should visit Amalfi,” said the lieutenant “I will write you cards to +my family in Amalfi. They will love you like a son.” + +“He should go to Palermo.” + +“He ought to go to Capri.” + +“I would like you to see Abruzzi and visit my family at Capracotta,” +said the priest. + +“Listen to him talk about the Abruzzi. There’s more snow there than +here. He doesn’t want to see peasants. Let him go to centres of culture +and civilization.” + +“He should have fine girls. I will give you the addresses of places in +Naples. Beautiful young girls—accompanied by their mothers. Ha! Ha! +Ha!” The captain spread his hand open, the thumb up and fingers +outspread as when you make shadow pictures. There was a shadow from his +hand on the wall. He spoke again in pidgin Italian. “You go away like +this,” he pointed to the thumb, “and come back like this,” he touched +the little finger. Every one laughed. + +“Look,” said the captain. He spread the hand again. Again the +candle-light made its shadows on the wall. He started with the upright +thumb and named in their order the thumb and four fingers, “soto-tenente +(the thumb), tenente (first finger), capitano (next finger), maggiore +(next to the little finger), and tenente-colonello (the little finger). +You go away soto-tenente! You come back soto-colonello!” They all +laughed. The captain was having a great success with finger games. He +looked at the priest and shouted, “Every night priest five against one!” +They all laughed again. + +“You must go on leave at once,” the major said. + +“I would like to go with you and show you things,” the lieutenant said. + +“When you come back bring a phonograph.” + +“Bring good opera disks.” + +“Bring Caruso.” + +“Don’t bring Caruso. He bellows.” + +“Don’t you wish you could bellow like him?” + +“He bellows. I say he bellows!” + +“I would like you to go to Abruzzi,” the priest said. The others were +shouting. “There is good hunting. You would like the people and though +it is cold it is clear and dry. You could stay with my family. My father +is a famous hunter.” + +“Come on,” said the captain. “We go whorehouse before it shuts.” + +“Good-night,” I said to the priest. + +“Good-night,” he said. + + + + + CHAPTER III + +When I came back to the front we still lived in that town. There were +many more guns in the country around and the spring had come. The fields +were green and there were small green shoots on the vines, the trees +along the road had small leaves and a breeze came from the sea. I saw +the town with the hill and the old castle above it in a cup in the hills +with the mountains beyond, brown mountains with a little green on their +slopes. In the town there were more guns, there were some new hospitals, +you met British men and sometimes women, on the street, and a few more +houses had been hit by shell fire. It was warm and like the spring and I +walked down the alleyway of trees, warmed from the sun on the wall, and +found we still lived in the same house and that it all looked the same +as when I had left it. The door was open, there was a soldier sitting on +a bench outside in the sun, an ambulance was waiting by the side door +and inside the door, as I went in, there was the smell of marble floors +and hospital. It was all as I had left it except that now it was spring. +I looked in the door of the big room and saw the major sitting at his +desk, the window open and the sunlight coming into the room. He did not +see me and I did not know whether to go in and report or go upstairs +first and clean up. I decided to go on upstairs. + +The room I shared with the lieutenant Rinaldi looked out on the +courtyard. The window was open, my bed was made up with blankets and my +things hung on the wall, the gas mask in an oblong tin can, the steel +helmet on the same peg. At the foot of the bed was my flat trunk, and my +winter boots, the leather shiny with oil, were on the trunk. My Austrian +sniper’s rifle with its blued octagon barrel and the lovely dark walnut, +cheek-fitted, _schutzen_ stock, hung over the two beds. The telescope +that fitted it was, I remembered, locked in the trunk. The lieutenant, +Rinaldi, lay asleep on the other bed. He woke when he heard me in the +room and sat up. + +“Ciaou!” he said. “What kind of time did you have?” + +“Magnificent.” + +We shook hands and he put his arm around my neck and kissed me. + +“Oughf,” I said. + +“You’re dirty,” he said. “You ought to wash. Where did you go and what +did you do? Tell me everything at once.” + +“I went everywhere. Milan, Florence, Rome, Naples, Villa San Giovanni, +Messina, Taormina——” + +“You talk like a time-table. Did you have any beautiful adventures?” + +“Yes.” + +“Where?” + +“Milano, Firenze, Roma, Napoli——” + +“That’s enough. Tell me really what was the best.” + +“In Milano.” + +“That was because it was first. Where did you meet her? In the Cova? +Where did you go? How did you feel? Tell me everything at once. Did you +stay all night?” + +“Yes.” + +“That’s nothing. Here now we have beautiful girls. New girls never been +to the front before.” + +“Wonderful.” + +“You don’t believe me? We will go now this afternoon and see. And in the +town we have beautiful English girls. I am now in love with Miss +Barkley. I will take you to call. I will probably marry Miss Barkley.” + +“I have to get washed and report. Doesn’t anybody work now?” + +“Since you are gone we have nothing but frostbites, chilblains, +jaundice, gonorrhea, self-inflicted wounds, pneumonia and hard and soft +chancres. Every week some one gets wounded by rock fragments. There are +a few real wounded. Next week the war starts again. Perhaps it starts +again. They say so. Do you think I would do right to marry Miss +Barkley—after the war of course?” + +“Absolutely,” I said and poured the basin full of water. + +“To-night you will tell me everything,” said Rinaldi. “Now I must go +back to sleep to be fresh and beautiful for Miss Barkley.” + +I took off my tunic and shirt and washed in the cold water in the basin. +While I rubbed myself with a towel I looked around the room and out the +window and at Rinaldi lying with his eyes closed on the bed. He was +good-looking, was my age, and he came from Amalfi. He loved being a +surgeon and we were great friends. While I was looking at him he opened +his eyes. + +“Have you any money?” + +“Yes.” + +“Loan me fifty lire.” + +I dried my hands and took out my pocket-book from the inside of my tunic +hanging on the wall. Rinaldi took the note, folded it without rising +from the bed and slid it in his breeches pocket. He smiled, “I must make +on Miss Barkley the impression of a man of sufficient wealth. You are my +great and good friend and financial protector.” + +“Go to hell,” I said. + +That night at the mess I sat next to the priest and he was disappointed +and suddenly hurt that I had not gone to the Abruzzi. He had written to +his father that I was coming and they had made preparations. I myself +felt as badly as he did and could not understand why I had not gone. It +was what I had wanted to do and I tried to explain how one thing had led +to another and finally he saw it and understood that I had really wanted +to go and it was almost all right. I had drunk much wine and afterward +coffee and Strega and I explained, winefully, how we did not do the +things we wanted to do; we never did such things. + +We two were talking while the others argued. I had wanted to go to +Abruzzi. I had gone to no place where the roads were frozen and hard as +iron, where it was clear cold and dry and the snow was dry and powdery +and hare-tracks in the snow and the peasants took off their hats and +called you Lord and there was good hunting. I had gone to no such place +but to the smoke of cafés and nights when the room whirled and you +needed to look at the wall to make it stop, nights in bed, drunk, when +you knew that that was all there was, and the strange excitement of +waking and not knowing who it was with you, and the world all unreal in +the dark and so exciting that you must resume again unknowing and not +caring in the night, sure that this was all and all and all and not +caring. Suddenly to care very much and to sleep to wake with it +sometimes morning and all that had been there gone and everything sharp +and hard and clear and sometimes a dispute about the cost. Sometimes +still pleasant and fond and warm and breakfast and lunch. Sometimes all +niceness gone and glad to get out on the street but always another day +starting and then another night. I tried to tell about the night and the +difference between the night and the day and how the night was better +unless the day was very clean and cold and I could not tell it; as I +cannot tell it now. But if you have had it you know. He had not had it +but he understood that I had really wanted to go to the Abruzzi but had +not gone and we were still friends, with many tastes alike, but with the +difference between us. He had always known what I did not know and what, +when I learned it, I was always able to forget. But I did not know that +then, although I learned it later. In the meantime we were all at the +mess, the meal was finished, and the argument went on. We two stopped +talking and the captain shouted, “Priest not happy. Priest not happy +without girls.” + +“I am happy,” said the priest. + +“Priest not happy. Priest wants Austrians to win the war,” the captain +said. The others listened. The priest shook his head. + +“No,” he said. + +“Priest wants us never to attack. Don’t you want us never to attack?” + +“No. If there is a war I suppose we must attack.” + +“Must attack. Shall attack!” + +The priest nodded. + +“Leave him alone,” the major said. “He’s all right.” + +“He can’t do anything about it anyway,” the captain said. We all got up +and left the table. + + + + + CHAPTER IV + +The battery in the next garden woke me in the morning and I saw the sun +coming through the window and got out of the bed. I went to the window +and looked out. The gravel paths were moist and the grass was wet with +dew. The battery fired twice and the air came each time like a blow and +shook the window and made the front of my pajamas flap. I could not see +the guns but they were evidently firing directly over us. It was a +nuisance to have them there but it was a comfort that they were no +bigger. As I looked out at the garden I heard a motor truck starting on +the road. I dressed, went downstairs, had some coffee in the kitchen and +went out to the garage. + +Ten cars were lined up side by side under the long shed. They were +top-heavy, blunt-nosed ambulances, painted gray and built like +moving-vans. The mechanics were working on one out in the yard. Three +others were up in the mountains at dressing stations. + +“Do they ever shell that battery?” I asked one of the mechanics. + +“No, Signor Tenente. It is protected by the little hill.” + +“How’s everything?” + +“Not so bad. This machine is no good but the others march.” He stopped +working and smiled. “Were you on permission?” + +“Yes.” + +He wiped his hands on his jumper and grinned. “You have a good time?” +The others all grinned too. + +“Fine,” I said. “What’s the matter with this machine?” + +“It’s no good. One thing after another.” + +“What’s the matter now?” + +“New rings.” + +I left them working, the car looking disgraced and empty with the engine +open and parts spread on the work bench, and went in under the shed and +looked at each of the cars. They were moderately clean, a few freshly +washed, the others dusty. I looked at the tires carefully, looking for +cuts or stone bruises. Everything seemed in good condition. It evidently +made no difference whether I was there to look after things or not. I +had imagined that the condition of the cars, whether or not things were +obtainable, the smooth functioning of the business of removing wounded +and sick from the dressing stations, hauling them back from the +mountains to the clearing station and then distributing them to the +hospitals named on their papers, depended to a considerable extent on +myself. Evidently it did not matter whether I was there or not. + +“Has there been any trouble getting parts?” I asked the sergeant +mechanic. + +“No, Signor Tenente.” + +“Where is the gasoline park now?” + +“At the same place.” + +“Good,” I said and went back to the house and drank another bowl of +coffee at the mess table. The coffee was a pale gray and sweet with +condensed milk. Outside the window it was a lovely spring morning. There +was that beginning of a feeling of dryness in the nose that meant the +day would be hot later on. That day I visited the posts in the mountains +and was back in town late in the afternoon. + +The whole thing seemed to run better while I was away. The offensive was +going to start again I heard. The division for which we worked were to +attack at a place up the river and the major told me that I would see +about the posts for during the attack. The attack would cross the river +up above the narrow gorge and spread up the hillside. The posts for the +cars would have to be as near the river as they could get and keep +covered. They would, of course, be selected by the infantry but we were +supposed to work it out. It was one of those things that gave you a +false feeling of soldiering. + +I was very dusty and dirty and went up to my room to wash. Rinaldi was +sitting on the bed with a copy of Hugo’s English grammar. He was +dressed, wore his black boots, and his hair shone. + +“Splendid,” he said when he saw me. “You will come with me to see Miss +Barkley.” + +“No.” + +“Yes. You will please come and make me a good impression on her.” + +“All right. Wait till I get cleaned up.” + +“Wash up and come as you are.” + +I washed, brushed my hair and we started. + +“Wait a minute,” Rinaldi said. “Perhaps we should have a drink.” He +opened his trunk and took out a bottle. + +“Not Strega,” I said. + +“No. Grappa.” + +“All right.” + +He poured two glasses and we touched them, first fingers extended. The +grappa was very strong. + +“Another?” + +“All right,” I said. We drank the second grappa, Rinaldi put away the +bottle and we went down the stairs. It was hot walking through the town +but the sun was starting to go down and it was very pleasant. The +British hospital was a big villa built by Germans before the war. Miss +Barkley was in the garden. Another nurse was with her. We saw their +white uniforms through the trees and walked toward them. Rinaldi +saluted. I saluted too but more moderately. + +“How do you do?” Miss Barkley said. “You’re not an Italian, are you?” + +“Oh, no.” + +Rinaldi was talking with the other nurse. They were laughing. + +“What an odd thing—to be in the Italian army.” + +“It’s not really the army. It’s only the ambulance.” + +“It’s very odd though. Why did you do it?” + +“I don’t know,” I said. “There isn’t always an explanation for +everything.” + +“Oh, isn’t there? I was brought up to think there was.” + +“That’s awfully nice.” + +“_Do_ we have to go on and talk this way?” + +“No,” I said. + +“That’s a relief. Isn’t it?” + +“What is the stick?” I asked. Miss Barkley was quite tall. She wore what +seemed to me to be a nurse’s uniform, was blonde and had a tawny skin +and gray eyes. I thought she was very beautiful. She was carrying a thin +rattan stick like a toy riding-crop, bound in leather. + +“It belonged to a boy who was killed last year.” + +“I’m awfully sorry.” + +“He was a very nice boy. He was going to marry me and he was killed in +the Somme.” + +“It was a ghastly show.” + +“Were you there?” + +“No.” + +“I’ve heard about it,” she said. “There’s not really any war of that +sort down here. They sent me the little stick. His mother sent it to me. +They returned it with his things.” + +“Had you been engaged long?” + +“Eight years. We grew up together.” + +“And why didn’t you marry?” + +“I don’t know,” she said. “I was a fool not to. I could have given him +that anyway. But I thought it would be bad for him.” + +“I see.” + +“Have you ever loved any one?” + +“No,” I said. + +We sat down on a bench and I looked at her. + +“You have beautiful hair,” I said. + +“Do you like it?” + +“Very much.” + +“I was going to cut it all off when he died.” + +“No.” + +“I wanted to do something for him. You see I didn’t care about the other +thing and he could have had it all. He could have had anything he wanted +if I would have known. I would have married him or anything. I know all +about it now. But then he wanted to go to war and I didn’t know.” + +I did not say anything. + +“I didn’t know about anything then. I thought it would be worse for him. +I thought perhaps he couldn’t stand it and then of course he was killed +and that was the end of it.” + +“I don’t know.” + +“Oh, yes,” she said. “That’s the end of it.” + +We looked at Rinaldi talking with the other nurse. + +“What is her name?” + +“Ferguson. Helen Ferguson. Your friend is a doctor, isn’t he?” + +“Yes. He’s very good.” + +“That’s splendid. You rarely find any one any good this close to the +front. This is close to the front, isn’t it?” + +“Quite.” + +“It’s a silly front,” she said. “But it’s very beautiful. Are they going +to have an offensive?” + +“Yes.” + +“Then we’ll have to work. There’s no work now.” + +“Have you done nursing long?” + +“Since the end of ’fifteen. I started when he did. I remember having a +silly idea he might come to the hospital where I was. With a sabre cut, +I suppose, and a bandage around his head. Or shot through the shoulder. +Something picturesque.” + +“This is the picturesque front,” I said. + +“Yes,” she said. “People can’t realize what France is like. If they did, +it couldn’t all go on. He didn’t have a sabre cut. They blew him all to +bits.” + +I didn’t say anything. + +“Do you suppose it will always go on?” + +“No.” + +“What’s to stop it?” + +“It will crack somewhere.” + +“We’ll crack. We’ll crack in France. They can’t go on doing things like +the Somme and not crack.” + +“They won’t crack here,” I said. + +“You think not?” + +“No. They did very well last summer.” + +“They may crack,” she said. “Anybody may crack.” + +“The Germans too.” + +“No,” she said. “I think not.” + +We went over toward Rinaldi and Miss Ferguson. + +“You love Italy?” Rinaldi asked Miss Ferguson in English. + +“Quite well.” + +“No understand,” Rinaldi shook his head. + +“Abbastanza bene,” I translated. He shook his head. + +“That is not good. You love England?” + +“Not too well. I’m Scotch, you see.” + +Rinaldi looked at me blankly. + +“She’s Scotch, so she loves Scotland better than England,” I said in +Italian. + +“But Scotland is England.” + +I translated this for Miss Ferguson. + +“Pas encore,” said Miss Ferguson. + +“Not really?” + +“Never. We do not like the English.” + +“Not like the English? Not like Miss Barkley?” + +“Oh, that’s different. You mustn’t take everything so literally.” + +After a while we said good-night and left. Walking home Rinaldi said, +“Miss Barkley prefers you to me. That is very clear. But the little +Scotch one is very nice.” + +“Very,” I said. I had not noticed her. “You like her?” + +“No,” said Rinaldi. + + + + + CHAPTER V + +The next afternoon I went to call on Miss Barkley again. She was not in +the garden and I went to the side door of the villa where the ambulances +drove up. Inside I saw the head nurse, who said Miss Barkley was on +duty—“there’s a war on, you know.” + +I said I knew. + +“You’re the American in the Italian army?” she asked. + +“Yes, ma’am.” + +“How did you happen to do that? Why didn’t you join up with us?” + +“I don’t know,” I said. “Could I join now?” + +“I’m afraid not now. Tell me. Why did you join up with the Italians?” + +“I was in Italy,” I said, “and I spoke Italian.” + +“Oh,” she said. “I’m learning it. It’s a beautiful language.” + +“Somebody said you should be able to learn it in two weeks.” + +“Oh, I’ll not learn it in two weeks. I’ve studied it for months now. You +may come and see her after seven o’clock if you wish. She’ll be off +then. But don’t bring a lot of Italians.” + +“Not even for the beautiful language?” + +“No. Nor for the beautiful uniforms.” + +“Good-evening,” I said. + +“A rivederci, Tenente.” + +“A rivederla.” I saluted and went out. It was impossible to salute +foreigners as an Italian, without embarrassment. The Italian salute +never seemed made for export. + +The day had been hot. I had been up the river to the bridgehead at +Plava. It was there that the offensive was to begin. It had been +impossible to advance on the far side the year before because there was +only one road leading down from the pass to the pontoon bridge and it +was under machine-gun and shell fire for nearly a mile. It was not wide +enough either to carry all the transport for an offensive and the +Austrians could make a shambles out of it. But the Italians had crossed +and spread out a little way on the far side to hold about a mile and a +half on the Austrian side of the river. It was a nasty place and the +Austrians should not have let them hold it. I suppose it was mutual +tolerance because the Austrians still kept a bridgehead further down the +river. The Austrian trenches were above on the hillside only a few yards +from the Italian lines. There had been a little town but it was all +rubble. There was what was left of a railway station and a smashed +permanent bridge that could not be repaired and used because it was in +plain sight. + +I went along the narrow road down toward the river, left the car at the +dressing station under the hill, crossed the pontoon bridge, which was +protected by a shoulder of the mountain, and went through the trenches +in the smashed-down town and along the edge of the slope. Everybody was +in the dugouts. There were racks of rockets standing to be touched off +to call for help from the artillery or to signal with if the telephone +wires were cut. It was quiet, hot and dirty. I looked across the wire at +the Austrian lines. Nobody was in sight. I had a drink with a captain +that I knew in one of the dugouts and went back across the bridge. + +A new wide road was being finished that would go over the mountain and +zig-zag down to the bridge. When this road was finished the offensive +would start. It came down through the forest in sharp turns. The system +was to bring everything down the new road and take the empty trucks, +carts and loaded ambulances and all returning traffic up the old narrow +road. The dressing station was on the Austrian side of the river under +the edge of the hill and stretcher-bearers would bring the wounded back +across the pontoon bridge. It would be the same when the offensive +started. As far as I could make out the last mile or so of the new road +where it started to level out would be able to be shelled steadily by +the Austrians. It looked as though it might be a mess. But I found a +place where the cars would be sheltered after they had passed that last +bad-looking bit and could wait for the wounded to be brought across the +pontoon bridge. I would have liked to drive over the new road but it was +not yet finished. It looked wide and well made with a good grade and the +turns looked very impressive where you could see them through openings +in the forest on the mountain side. The cars would be all right with +their good metal-to-metal brakes and anyway, coming down, they would not +be loaded. I drove back up the narrow road. + +Two carabinieri held the car up. A shell had fallen and while we waited +three others fell up the road. They were seventy-sevens and came with a +whishing rush of air, a hard bright burst and flash and then gray smoke +that blew across the road. The carabinieri waved us to go on. Passing +where the shells had landed I avoided the small broken places and +smelled the high explosive and the smell of blasted clay and stone and +freshly shattered flint. I drove back to Gorizia and our villa and, as I +said, went to call on Miss Barkley, who was on duty. + +At dinner I ate very quickly and left for the villa where the British +had their hospital. It was really very large and beautiful and there +were fine trees in the grounds. Miss Barkley was sitting on a bench in +the garden. Miss Ferguson was with her. They seemed glad to see me and +in a little while Miss Ferguson excused herself and went away. + +“I’ll leave you two,” she said. “You get along very well without me.” + +“Don’t go, Helen,” Miss Barkley said. + +“I’d really rather. I must write some letters.” + +“Good-night,” I said. + +“Good-night, Mr. Henry.” + +“Don’t write anything that will bother the censor.” + +“Don’t worry. I only write about what a beautiful place we live in and +how brave the Italians are.” + +“That way you’ll be decorated.” + +“That will be nice. Good-night, Catherine.” + +“I’ll see you in a little while,” Miss Barkley said. Miss Ferguson +walked away in the dark. + +“She’s nice,” I said. + +“Oh, yes, she’s very nice. She’s a nurse.” + +“Aren’t you a nurse?” + +“Oh, no. I’m something called a V. A. D. We work very hard but no one +trusts us.” + +“Why not?” + +“They don’t trust us when there’s nothing going on. When there is really +work they trust us.” + +“What is the difference?” + +“A nurse is like a doctor. It takes a long time to be. A V. A. D. is a +short cut.” + +“I see.” + +“The Italians didn’t want women so near the front. So we’re all on very +special behavior. We don’t go out.” + +“I can come here though.” + +“Oh, yes. We’re not cloistered.” + +“Let’s drop the war.” + +“It’s very hard. There’s no place to drop it.” + +“Let’s drop it anyway.” + +“All right.” + +We looked at each other in the dark. I thought she was very beautiful +and I took her hand. She let me take it and I held it and put my arm +around under her arm. + +“No,” she said. I kept my arm where it was. + +“Why not?” + +“No.” + +“Yes,” I said. “Please.” I leaned forward in the dark to kiss her and +there was a sharp stinging flash. She had slapped my face hard. Her hand +had hit my nose and eyes, and tears came in my eyes from the reflex. + +“I’m so sorry,” she said. I felt I had a certain advantage. + +“You were quite right.” + +“I’m dreadfully sorry,” she said. “I just couldn’t stand the +nurse’s-evening-off aspect of it. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I did hurt +you, didn’t I?” + +She was looking at me in the dark. I was angry and yet certain, seeing +it all ahead like the moves in a chess game. + +“You did exactly right,” I said. “I don’t mind at all.” + +“Poor man.” + +“You see I’ve been leading a sort of a funny life. And I never even talk +English. And then you are so very beautiful.” I looked at her. + +“You don’t need to say a lot of nonsense. I said I was sorry. We do get +along.” + +“Yes,” I said. “And we have gotten away from the war.” + +She laughed. It was the first time I had ever heard her laugh. I watched +her face. + +“You are sweet,” she said. + +“No, I’m not.” + +“Yes. You are a dear. I’d be glad to kiss you if you don’t mind.” + +I looked in her eyes and put my arm around her as I had before and +kissed her. I kissed her hard and held her tight and tried to open her +lips; they were closed tight. I was still angry and as I held her +suddenly she shivered. I held her close against me and could feel her +heart beating and her lips opened and her head went back against my hand +and then she was crying on my shoulder. + +“Oh, darling,” she said. “You will be good to me, won’t you?” + +What the hell, I thought. I stroked her hair and patted her shoulder. +She was crying. + +“You will, won’t you?” She looked up at me. “Because we’re going to have +a strange life.” + +After a while I walked with her to the door of the villa and she went in +and I walked home. Back at the villa I went upstairs to the room. +Rinaldi was lying on his bed. He looked at me. + +“So you make progress with Miss Barkley?” + +“We are friends.” + +“You have that pleasant air of a dog in heat.” + +I did not understand the word. + +“Of a what?” + +He explained. + +“You,” I said, “have that pleasant air of a dog who—” + +“Stop it,” he said. “In a little while we would say insulting things.” +He laughed. + +“Good-night,” I said. + +“Good-night, little puppy.” + +I knocked over his candle with the pillow and got into bed in the dark. + +Rinaldi picked up the candle, lit it and went on reading. + + + + + CHAPTER VI + +I was away for two days at the posts. When I got home it was too late +and I did not see Miss Barkley until the next evening. She was not in +the garden and I had to wait in the office of the hospital until she +came down. There were many marble busts on painted wooden pillars along +the walls of the room they used for an office. The hall too, that the +office opened on, was lined with them. They had the complete marble +quality of all looking alike. Sculpture had always seemed a dull +business—still, bronzes looked like something. But marble busts all +looked like a cemetery. There was one fine cemetery though—the one at +Pisa. Genoa was the place to see the bad marbles. This had been the +villa of a very wealthy German and the busts must have cost him plenty. +I wondered who had done them and how much he got. I tried to make out +whether they were members of the family or what; but they were all +uniformly classical. You could not tell anything about them. + +I sat on a chair and held my cap. We were supposed to wear steel helmets +even in Gorizia but they were uncomfortable and too bloody theatrical in +a town where the civilian inhabitants had not been evacuated. I wore one +when we went up to the posts and carried an English gas mask. We were +just beginning to get some of them. They were a real mask. Also we were +required to wear an automatic pistol; even doctors and sanitary +officers. I felt it against the back of the chair. You were liable to +arrest if you did not have one worn in plain sight. Rinaldi carried a +holster stuffed with toilet paper. I wore a real one and felt like a +gunman until I practised firing it. It was an Astra 7.65 caliber with a +short barrel and it jumped so sharply when you let it off that there was +no question of hitting anything. I practised with it, holding below the +target and trying to master the jerk of the ridiculous short barrel +until I could hit within a yard of where I aimed at twenty paces and +then the ridiculousness of carrying a pistol at all came over me and I +soon forgot it and carried it flopping against the small of my back with +no feeling at all except a vague sort of shame when I met +English-speaking people. I sat now in the chair and an orderly of some +sort looked at me disapprovingly from behind a desk while I looked at +the marble floor, the pillars with the marble busts, and the frescoes on +the wall and waited for Miss Barkley. The frescoes were not bad. Any +frescoes were good when they started to peel and flake off. + +I saw Catherine Barkley coming down the hall, and stood up. She did not +seem tall walking toward me but she looked very lovely. + +“Good-evening, Mr. Henry,” she said. + +“How do you do?” I said. The orderly was listening behind the desk. + +“Shall we sit here or go out in the garden?” + +“Let’s go out. It’s much cooler.” + +I walked behind her out into the garden, the orderly looking after us. +When we were out on the gravel drive she said, “Where have you been?” + +“I’ve been out on post.” + +“You couldn’t have sent me a note?” + +“No,” I said. “Not very well. I thought I was coming back.” + +“You ought to have let me know, darling.” + +We were off the driveway, walking under the trees. I took her hands, +then stopped and kissed her. + +“Isn’t there anywhere we can go?” + +“No,” she said. “We have to just walk here. You’ve been away a long +time.” + +“This is the third day. But I’m back now.” + +She looked at me, “And you do love me?” + +“Yes.” + +“You did say you loved me, didn’t you?” + +“Yes,” I lied. “I love you.” I had not said it before. + +“And you call me Catherine?” + +“Catherine.” We walked on a way and were stopped under a tree. + +“Say, ‘I’ve come back to Catherine in the night.’” + +“I’ve come back to Catherine in the night.” + +“Oh, darling, you have come back, haven’t you?” + +“Yes.” + +“I love you so and it’s been awful. You won’t go away?” + +“No. I’ll always come back.” + +“Oh, I love you so. Please put your hand there again.” + +“It’s not been away.” I turned her so I could see her face when I kissed +her and I saw that her eyes were shut. I kissed both her shut eyes. I +thought she was probably a little crazy. It was all right if she was. I +did not care what I was getting into. This was better than going every +evening to the house for officers where the girls climbed all over you +and put your cap on backward as a sign of affection between their trips +upstairs with brother officers. I knew I did not love Catherine Barkley +nor had any idea of loving her. This was a game, like bridge, in which +you said things instead of playing cards. Like bridge you had to pretend +you were playing for money or playing for some stakes. Nobody had +mentioned what the stakes were. It was all right with me. + +“I wish there was some place we could go,” I said. I was experiencing +the masculine difficulty of making love very long standing up. + +“There isn’t any place,” she said. She came back from wherever she had +been. + +“We might sit there just for a little while.” + +We sat on the flat stone bench and I held Catherine Barkley’s hand. She +would not let me put my arm around her. + +“Are you very tired?” she asked. + +“No.” + +She looked down at the grass. + +“This is a rotten game we play, isn’t it?” + +“What game?” + +“Don’t be dull.” + +“I’m not, on purpose.” + +“You’re a nice boy,” she said. “And you play it as well as you know how. +But it’s a rotten game.” + +“Do you always know what people think?” + +“Not always. But I do with you. You don’t have to pretend you love me. +That’s over for the evening. Is there anything you’d like to talk +about?” + +“But I do love you.” + +“Please let’s not lie when we don’t have to. I had a very fine little +show and I’m all right now. You see I’m not mad and I’m not gone off. +It’s only a little sometimes.” + +I pressed her hand, “Dear Catherine.” + +“It sounds very funny now—Catherine. You don’t pronounce it very much +alike. But you’re very nice. You’re a very good boy.” + +“That’s what the priest said.” + +“Yes, you’re very good. And you will come and see me?” + +“Of course.” + +“And you don’t have to say you love me. That’s all over for a while.” +She stood up and put out her hand. “Good-night.” + +I wanted to kiss her. + +“No,” she said. “I’m awfully tired.” + +“Kiss me, though,” I said. + +“I’m awfully tired, darling.” + +“Kiss me.” + +“Do you want to very much?” + +“Yes.” + +We kissed and she broke away suddenly. “No. Good-night, please, +darling.” We walked to the door and I saw her go in and down the hall. I +liked to watch her move. She went on down the hall. I went on home. It +was a hot night and there was a good deal going on up in the mountains. +I watched the flashes on San Gabriele. + +I stopped in front of the Villa Rossa. The shutters were up but it was +still going on inside. Somebody was singing. I went on home. Rinaldi +came in while I was undressing. + +“Ah, ha!” he said. “It does not go so well. Baby is puzzled.” + +“Where have you been?” + +“At the Villa Rossa. It was very edifying, baby. We all sang. Where have +you been?” + +“Calling on the British.” + +“Thank God I did not become involved with the British.” + + + + + CHAPTER VII + +I came back the next afternoon from our first mountain post and stopped +the car at the _smistimento_ where the wounded and sick were sorted by +their papers and the papers marked for the different hospitals. I had +been driving and I sat in the car and the driver took the papers in. It +was a hot day and the sky was very bright and blue and the road was +white and dusty. I sat in the high seat of the Fiat and thought about +nothing. A regiment went by in the road and I watched them pass. The men +were hot and sweating. Some wore their steel helmets but most of them +carried them slung from their packs. Most of the helmets were too big +and came down almost over the ears of the men who wore them. The +officers all wore helmets; better-fitting helmets. It was half of the +brigata Basilicata. I identified them by their red and white striped +collar mark. There were stragglers going by long after the regiment had +passed—men who could not keep up with their platoons. They were sweaty, +dusty and tired. Some looked pretty bad. A soldier came along after the +last of the stragglers. He was walking with a limp. He stopped and sat +down beside the road. I got down and went over. + +“What’s the matter?” + +He looked at me, then stood up. + +“I’m going on.” + +“What’s the trouble?” + +“—— the war.” + +“What’s wrong with your leg?” + +“It’s not my leg. I got a rupture.” + +“Why don’t you ride with the transport?” I asked. “Why don’t you go to +the hospital?” + +“They won’t let me. The lieutenant said I slipped the truss on purpose.” + +“Let me feel it.” + +“It’s way out.” + +“Which side is it on?” + +“Here.” + +I felt it. + +“Cough,” I said. + +“I’m afraid it will make it bigger. It’s twice as big as it was this +morning.” + +“Sit down,” I said. “As soon as I get the papers on these wounded I’ll +take you along the road and drop you with your medical officers.” + +“He’ll say I did it on purpose.” + +“They can’t do anything,” I said. “It’s not a wound. You’ve had it +before, haven’t you?” + +“But I lost the truss.” + +“They’ll send you to a hospital.” + +“Can’t I stay here, Tenente?” + +“No, I haven’t any papers for you.” + +The driver came out of the door with the papers for the wounded in the +car. + +“Four for 105. Two for 132,” he said. They were hospitals beyond the +river. + +“You drive,” I said. I helped the soldier with the rupture up on the +seat with us. + +“You speak English?” he asked. + +“Sure.” + +“How you like this goddam war?” + +“Rotten.” + +“I say it’s rotten. Jesus Christ, I say it’s rotten.” + +“Were you in the States?” + +“Sure. In Pittsburg. I knew you was an American.” + +“Don’t I talk Italian good enough?” + +“I knew you was an American all right.” + +“Another American,” said the driver in Italian looking at the hernia +man. + +“Listen, lootenant. Do you have to take me to that regiment?” + +“Yes.” + +“Because the captain doctor knew I had this rupture. I threw away the +goddam truss so it would get bad and I wouldn’t have to go to the line +again.” + +“I see.” + +“Couldn’t you take me no place else?” + +“If it was closer to the front I could take you to a first medical post. +But back here you’ve got to have papers.” + +“If I go back they’ll make me get operated on and then they’ll put me in +the line all the time.” + +I thought it over. + +“You wouldn’t want to go in the line all the time, would you?” he asked. + +“No.” + +“Jesus Christ, ain’t this a goddam war?” + +“Listen,” I said. “You get out and fall down by the road and get a bump +on your head and I’ll pick you up on our way back and take you to a +hospital. We’ll stop by the road here, Aldo.” We stopped at the side of +the road. I helped him down. + +“I’ll be right here, lieutenant,” he said. + +“So long,” I said. We went on and passed the regiment about a mile +ahead, then crossed the river, cloudy with snow-water and running fast +through the spiles of the bridge, to ride along the road across the +plain and deliver the wounded at the two hospitals. I drove coming back +and went fast with the empty car to find the man from Pittsburg. First +we passed the regiment, hotter and slower than ever: then the +stragglers. Then we saw a horse ambulance stopped by the road. Two men +were lifting the hernia man to put him in. They had come back for him. +He shook his head at me. His helmet was off and his forehead was +bleeding below the hair line. His nose was skinned and there was dust on +the bloody patch and dust in his hair. + +“Look at the bump, lieutenant!” he shouted. “Nothing to do. They come +back for me.” + + + +When I got back to the villa it was five o’clock and I went out where we +washed the cars, to take a shower. Then I made out my report in my room, +sitting in my trousers and an undershirt in front of the open window. In +two days the offensive was to start and I would go with the cars to +Plava. It was a long time since I had written to the States and I knew I +should write but I had let it go so long that it was almost impossible +to write now. There was nothing to write about. I sent a couple of army +Zona di Guerra post-cards, crossing out everything except, I am well. +That should handle them. Those post-cards would be very fine in America; +strange and mysterious. This was a strange and mysterious war zone but I +supposed it was quite well run and grim compared to other wars with the +Austrians. The Austrian army was created to give Napoleon victories; any +Napoleon. I wished we had a Napoleon, but instead we had Il Generale +Cadorna, fat and prosperous, and Vittorio Emmanuele, the tiny man with +the long thin neck and the goat beard. Over on the right they had the +Duke of Aosta. Maybe he was too good-looking to be a great general but +he looked like a man. Lots of them would have liked him to be king. He +looked like a king. He was the King’s uncle and commanded the third +army. We were in the second army. There were some British batteries up +with the third army. I had met two gunners from that lot, in Milan. They +were very nice and we had a big evening. They were big and shy and +embarrassed and very appreciative together of anything that happened. I +wish that I was with the British. It would have been much simpler. Still +I would probably have been killed. Not in this ambulance business. Yes, +even in the ambulance business. British ambulance drivers were killed +sometimes. Well, I knew I would not be killed. Not in this war. It did +not have anything to do with me. It seemed no more dangerous to me +myself than war in the movies. I wished to God it was over though. Maybe +it would finish this summer. Maybe the Austrians would crack. They had +always cracked in other wars. What was the matter with this war? +Everybody said the French were through. Rinaldi said that the French had +mutinied and troops marched on Paris. I asked him what happened and he +said, “Oh, they stopped them.” I wanted to go to Austria without war. I +wanted to go to the Black Forest. I wanted to go to the Hartz Mountains. +Where were the Hartz Mountains anyway? They were fighting in the +Carpathians. I did not want to go there anyway. It might be good though. +I could go to Spain if there was no war. The sun was going down and the +day was cooling off. After supper I would go and see Catherine Barkley. +I wished she were here now. I wished I were in Milan with her. I would +like to eat at the Cova and then walk down the Via Manzoni in the hot +evening and cross over and turn off along the canal and go to the hotel +with Catherine Barkley. Maybe she would. Maybe she would pretend that I +was her boy that was killed and we would go in the front door and the +porter would take off his cap and I would stop at the concierge’s desk +and ask for the key and she would stand by the elevator and then we +would get in the elevator and it would go up very slowly clicking at all +the floors and then our floor and the boy would open the door and stand +there and she would step out and I would step out and we would walk down +the hall and I would put the key in the door and open it and go in and +then take down the telephone and ask them to send a bottle of capri +bianca in a silver bucket full of ice and you would hear the ice against +the pail coming down the corridor and the boy would knock and I would +say leave it outside the door please. Because we would not wear any +clothes because it was so hot and the window open and the swallows +flying over the roofs of the houses and when it was dark afterward and +you went to the window very small bats hunting over the houses and close +down over the trees and we would drink the capri and the door locked and +it hot and only a sheet and the whole night and we would both love each +other all night in the hot night in Milan. That was how it ought to be. +I would eat quickly and go and see Catherine Barkley. + +They talked too much at the mess and I drank wine because to-night we +were not all brothers unless I drank a little and talked with the priest +about Archbishop Ireland who was, it seemed, a noble man and with whose +injustice, the injustices he had received and in which I participated as +an American, and of which I had never heard, I feigned acquaintance. It +would have been impolite not to have known something of them when I had +listened to such a splendid explanation of their causes which were, +after all, it seemed, misunderstandings. I thought he had a fine name +and he came from Minnesota which made a lovely name: Ireland of +Minnesota, Ireland of Wisconsin, Ireland of Michigan. What made it +pretty was that it sounded like Island. No that wasn’t it. There was +more to it than that. Yes, father. That is true, father. Perhaps, +father. No, father. Well, maybe yes, father. You know more about it than +I do, father. The priest was good but dull. The officers were not good +but dull. The King was good but dull. The wine was bad but not dull. It +took the enamel off your teeth and left it on the roof of your mouth. + +“And the priest was locked up,” Rocca said, “because they found the +three per cent bonds on his person. It was in France of course. Here +they would never have arrested him. He denied all knowledge of the five +per cent bonds. This took place at Béziers. I was there and reading of +it in the paper, went to the jail and asked to see the priest. It was +quite evident he had stolen the bonds.” + +“I don’t believe a word of this,” Rinaldi said. + +“Just as you like,” Rocca said. “But I am telling it for our priest +here. It is very informative. He is a priest; he will appreciate it.” + +The priest smiled. “Go on,” he said. “I am listening.” + +“Of course some of the bonds were not accounted for but the priest had +all of the three per cent bonds and several local obligations, I forget +exactly what they were. So I went to the jail, now this is the point of +the story, and I stood outside his cell and I said as though I were +going to confession, ‘Bless me, father, for you have sinned.’” + +There was great laughter from everybody. + +“And what did he say?” asked the priest. Rocca ignored this and went on +to explain the joke to me. “You see the point, don’t you?” It seemed it +was a very funny joke if you understood it properly. They poured me more +wine and I told the story about the English private soldier who was +placed under the shower bath. Then the major told the story of the +eleven Czecho-slovaks and the Hungarian corporal. After some more wine I +told the story of the jockey who found the penny. The major said there +was an Italian story something like that about the duchess who could not +sleep at night. At this point the priest left and I told the story about +the travelling salesman who arrived at five o’clock in the morning at +Marseilles when the mistral was blowing. The major said he had heard a +report that I could drink. I denied this. He said it was true and by the +corpse of Bacchus we would test whether it was true or not. Not Bacchus, +I said. Not Bacchus. Yes, Bacchus, he said. I should drink cup for cup +and glass for glass with Bassi, Fillipo Vincenza. Bassi said no that was +no test because he had already drunk twice as much as I. I said that was +a foul lie and, Bacchus or no Bacchus, Fillipo Vincenza Bassi or Bassi +Fillippo Vicenza had never touched a drop all evening and what was his +name anyway? He said was my name Frederico Enrico or Enrico Federico? I +said let the best man win, Bacchus barred, and the major started us with +red wine in mugs. Half-way through the wine I did not want any more. I +remembered where I was going. + +“Bassi wins,” I said. “He’s a better man than I am. I have to go.” + +“He does really,” said Rinaldi. “He has a rendezvous. I know all about +it.” + +“I have to go.” + +“Another night,” said Bassi. “Another night when you feel stronger.” He +slapped me on the shoulder. There were lighted candles on the table. All +the officers were very happy. “Good-night, gentlemen,” I said. + +Rinaldi went out with me. We stood outside the door on the patch and he +said, “You’d better not go up there drunk.” + +“I’m not drunk, Rinin. Really.” + +“You’d better chew some coffee.” + +“Nonsense.” + +“I’ll get some, baby. You walk up and down.” He came back with a handful +of roasted coffee beans. “Chew those, baby, and God be with you.” + +“Bacchus,” I said. + +“I’ll walk down with you.” + +“I’m perfectly all right.” + +We walked along together through the town and I chewed the coffee. At +the gate of the driveway that led up to the British villa, Rinaldi said +good-night. + +“Good-night,” I said. “Why don’t you come in?” + +He shook his head. “No,” he said, “I like the simpler pleasures.” + +“Thank you for the coffee beans.” + +“Nothing, baby. Nothing.” + +I started down the driveway. The outlines of the cypresses that lined it +were sharp and clear. I looked back and saw Rinaldi standing watching me +and waved to him. + +I sat in the reception hall of the villa, waiting for Catherine Barkley +to come down. Some one was coming down the hall-way. I stood up, but it +was not Catherine. It was Miss Ferguson. + +“Hello,” she said. “Catherine asked me to tell you she was sorry she +couldn’t see you this evening.” + +“I’m so sorry. I hope she’s not ill.” + +“She’s not awfully well.” + +“Will you tell her how sorry I am?” + +“Yes, I will.” + +“Do you think it would be any good to try and see her to-morrow?” + +“Yes, I do.” + +“Thank you very much,” I said. “Good-night.” + +I went out the door and suddenly I felt lonely and empty. I had treated +seeing Catherine very lightly, I had gotten somewhat drunk and had +nearly forgotten to come but when I could not see her there I was +feeling lonely and hollow. + + + + + CHAPTER VIII + +The next afternoon we heard there was to be an attack up the river that +night and that we were to take four cars there. Nobody knew anything +about it although they all spoke with great positiveness and strategical +knowledge. I was riding in the first car and as we passed the entry to +the British hospital I told the driver to stop. The other cars pulled +up. I got out and told the driver to go on and that if we had not caught +up to them at the junction of the road to Cormons to wait there. I +hurried up the driveway and inside the reception hall I asked for Miss +Barkley. + +“She’s on duty.” + +“Could I see her just for a moment?” + +They sent an orderly to see and she came back with him. + +“I stopped to ask if you were better. They told me you were on duty, so +I asked to see you.” + +“I’m quite well,” she said, “I think the heat knocked me over +yesterday.” + +“I have to go.” + +“I’ll just step out the door a minute.” + +“And you’re all right?” I asked outside. + +“Yes, darling. Are you coming to-night?” + +“No. I’m leaving now for a show up above Plava.” + +“A show?” + +“I don’t think it’s anything.” + +“And you’ll be back?” + +“To-morrow.” + +She was unclasping something from her neck. She put it in my hand. “It’s +a Saint Anthony,” she said. “And come to-morrow night.” + +“You’re not a Catholic, are you?” + +“No. But they say a Saint Anthony’s very useful.” + +“I’ll take care of him for you. Good-by.” + +“No,” she said, “not good-by.” + +“All right.” + +“Be a good boy and be careful. No, you can’t kiss me here. You can’t.” + +“All right.” + +I looked back and saw her standing on the steps. She waved and I kissed +my hand and held it out. She waved again and then I was out of the +driveway and climbing up into the seat of the ambulance and we started. +The Saint Anthony was in a little white metal capsule. I opened the +capsule and spilled him out into my hand. + +“Saint Anthony?” asked the driver. + +“Yes.” + +“I have one.” His right hand left the wheel and opened a button on his +tunic and pulled it out from under his shirt. + +“See?” + +I put my Saint Anthony back in the capsule, spilled the thin gold chain +together and put it all in my breast pocket. + +“You don’t wear him?” + +“No.” + +“It’s better to wear him. That’s what it’s for.” + +“All right,” I said. I undid the clasp of the gold chain and put it +around my neck and clasped it. The saint hung down on the outside of my +uniform and I undid the throat of my tunic, unbuttoned the shirt collar +and dropped him in under the shirt. I felt him in his metal box against +my chest while we drove. Then I forgot about him. After I was wounded I +never found him. Some one probably got it at one of the dressing +stations. + +We drove fast when we were over the bridge and soon we saw the dust of +the other cars ahead down the road. The road curved and we saw the three +cars looking quite small, the dust rising from the wheels and going off +through the trees. We caught them and passed them and turned off on a +road that climbed up into the hills. Driving in convoy is not unpleasant +if you are the first car and I settled back in the seat and watched the +country. We were in the foot-hills on the near side of the river and as +the road mounted there were the high mountains off to the north with +snow still on the tops. I looked back and saw the three cars all +climbing, spaced by the interval of their dust. We passed a long column +of loaded mules, the drivers walking along beside the mules wearing red +fezzes. They were bersaglieri. + +Beyond the mule train the road was empty and we climbed through the +hills and then went down over the shoulder of a long hill into a +river-valley. There were trees along both sides of the road and through +the right line of trees I saw the river, the water clear, fast and +shallow. The river was low and there were stretches of sand and pebbles +with a narrow channel of water and sometimes the water spread like a +sheen over the pebbly bed. Close to the bank I saw deep pools, the water +blue like the sky. I saw arched stone bridges over the river where +tracks turned off from the road and we passed stone farmhouses with pear +trees candelabraed against their south walls and low stone walls in the +fields. The road went up the valley a long way and then we turned off +and commenced to climb into the hills again. The road climbed steeply +going up and back and forth through chestnut woods to level finally +along a ridge. I could look down through the woods and see, far below, +with the sun on it, the line of the river that separated the two armies. +We went along the rough new military road that followed the crest of the +ridge and I looked to the north at the two ranges of mountains, green +and dark to the snow-line and then white and lovely in the sun. Then, as +the road mounted along the ridge, I saw a third range of mountains, +higher snow mountains, that looked chalky white and furrowed, with +strange planes, and then there were mountains far off beyond all these +that you could hardly tell if you really saw. Those were all the +Austrians’ mountains and we had nothing like them. Ahead there was a +rounded turn-off in the road to the right and looking down I could see +the road dropping through the trees. There were troops on this road and +motor trucks and mules with mountain guns and as we went down, keeping +to the side, I could see the river far down below, the line of ties and +rails running along it, the old bridge where the railway crossed to the +other side and across, under a hill beyond the river, the broken houses +of the little town that was to be taken. + +It was nearly dark when we came down and turned onto the main road that +ran beside the river. + + + + + CHAPTER IX + +The road was crowded and there were screens of corn-stalk and straw +matting on both sides and matting over the top so that it was like the +entrance at a circus or a native village. We drove slowly in this +matting-covered tunnel and came out onto a bare cleared space where the +railway station had been. The road here was below the level of the river +bank and all along the side of the sunken road there were holes dug in +the bank with infantry in them. The sun was going down and looking up +along the bank as we drove I saw the Austrian observation balloons above +the hills on the other side dark against the sunset. We parked the cars +beyond a brickyard. The ovens and some deep holes had been equipped as +dressing stations. There were three doctors that I knew. I talked with +the major and learned that when it should start and our cars should be +loaded we would drive them back along the screened road and up to the +main road along the ridge where there would be a post and other cars to +clear them. He hoped the road would not jam. It was a one-road show. The +road was screened because it was in sight of the Austrians across the +river. Here at the brickyard we were sheltered from rifle or machine-gun +fire by the river bank. There was one smashed bridge across the river. +They were going to put over another bridge when the bombardment started +and some troops were to cross at the shallows up above at the bend of +the river. The major was a little man with upturned mustaches. He had +been in the war in Libya and wore two wound-stripes. He said that if the +thing went well he would see that I was decorated. I said I hoped it +would go well but that he was too kind. I asked him if there was a big +dugout where the drivers could stay and he sent a soldier to show me. I +went with him and found the dugout, which was very good. The drivers +were pleased with it and I left them there. The major asked me to have a +drink with him and two other officers. We drank rum and it was very +friendly. Outside it was getting dark. I asked what time the attack was +to be and they said as soon as it was dark. I went back to the drivers. +They were sitting in the dugout talking and when I came in they stopped. +I gave them each a package of cigarettes, Macedonias, loosely packed +cigarettes that spilled tobacco and needed to have the ends twisted +before you smoked them. Manera lit his lighter and passed it around. The +lighter was shaped like a Fiat radiator. I told them what I had heard. + +“Why didn’t we see the post when we came down?” Passini asked. + +“It was just beyond where we turned off.” + +“That road will be a dirty mess,” Manera said. + +“They’ll shell the —— out of us.” + +“Probably.” + +“What about eating, lieutenant? We won’t get a chance to eat after this +thing starts.” + +“I’ll go and see now,” I said. + +“You want us to stay here or can we look around?” + +“Better stay here.” + +I went back to the major’s dugout and he said the field kitchen would be +along and the drivers could come and get their stew. He would loan them +mess tins if they did not have them. I said I thought they had them. I +went back and told the drivers I would get them as soon as the food +came. Manera said he hoped it would come before the bombardment started. +They were silent until I went out. They were all mechanics and hated the +war. + +I went out to look at the cars and see what was going on and then came +back and sat down in the dugout with the four drivers. We sat on the +ground with our backs against the wall and smoked. Outside it was nearly +dark. The earth of the dugout was warm and dry and I let my shoulders +back against the wall, sitting on the small of my back, and relaxed. + +“Who goes to the attack?” asked Gavuzzi. + +“Bersaglieri.” + +“All bersaglieri?” + +“I think so.” + +“There aren’t enough troops here for a real attack.” + +“It is probably to draw attention from where the real attack will be.” + +“Do the men know that who attack?” + +“I don’t think so.” + +“Of course they don’t,” Manera said. “They wouldn’t attack if they did.” + +“Yes they would,” Passini said. “Bersaglieri are fools.” + +“They are brave and have good discipline,” I said. + +“They are big through the chest by measurement, and healthy. But they +are still fools.” + +“The granatieri are tall,” Manera said. This was a joke. They all +laughed. + +“Were you there, Tenente, when they wouldn’t attack and they shot every +tenth man?” + +“No.” + +“It is true. They lined them up afterward and took every tenth man. +Carabinieri shot them.” + +“Carabinieri,” said Passini and spat on the floor. “But those +grenadiers; all over six feet. They wouldn’t attack.” + +“If everybody would not attack the war would be over,” Manera said. + +“It wasn’t that way with the granatieri. They were afraid. The officers +all came from such good families.” + +“Some of the officers went alone.” + +“A sergeant shot two officers who would not get out.” + +“Some troops went out.” + +“Those that went out were not lined up when they took the tenth men.” + +“One of those shot by the carabinieri is from my town,” Passini said. +“He was a big smart tall boy to be in the granatieri. Always in Rome. +Always with the girls. Always with the carabinieri.” He laughed. “Now +they have a guard outside his house with a bayonet and nobody can come +to see his mother and father and sisters and his father loses his civil +rights and cannot even vote. They are all without law to protect them. +Anybody can take their property.” + +“If it wasn’t that that happens to their families nobody would go to the +attack.” + +“Yes. Alpini would. These V. E. soldiers would. Some bersaglieri.” + +“Bersaglieri have run too. Now they try to forget it.” + +“You should not let us talk this way, Tenente. Evviva l’esercito,” +Passini said sarcastically. + +“I know how you talk,” I said. “But as long as you drive the cars and +behave——” + +“—and don’t talk so other officers can hear,” Manera finished. + +“I believe we should get the war over,” I said. “It would not finish it +if one side stopped fighting. It would only be worse if we stopped +fighting.” + +“It could not be worse,” Passini said respectfully. “There is nothing +worse than war.” + +“Defeat is worse.” + +“I do not believe it,” Passini said still respectfully. “What is defeat? +You go home.” + +“They come after you. They take your home. They take your sisters.” + +“I don’t believe it,” Passini said. “They can’t do that to everybody. +Let everybody defend his home. Let them keep their sisters in the +house.” + +“They hang you. They come and make you be a soldier again. Not in the +auto-ambulance, in the infantry.” + +“They can’t hang every one.” + +“An outside nation can’t make you be a soldier,” Manera said. “At the +first battle you all run.” + +“Like the Tchecos.” + +“I think you do not know anything about being conquered and so you think +it is not bad.” + +“Tenente,” Passini said. “We understand you let us talk. Listen. There +is nothing as bad as war. We in the auto-ambulance cannot even realize +at all how bad it is. When people realize how bad it is they cannot do +anything to stop it because they go crazy. There are some people who +never realize. There are people who are afraid of their officers. It is +with them that war is made.” + +“I know it is bad but we must finish it.” + +“It doesn’t finish. There is no finish to a war.” + +“Yes there is.” + +Passini shook his head. + +“War is not won by victory. What if we take San Gabriele? What if we +take the Carso and Monfalcone and Trieste? Where are we then? Did you +see all the far mountains to-day? Do you think we could take all them +too? Only if the Austrians stop fighting. One side must stop fighting. +Why don’t we stop fighting? If they come down into Italy they will get +tired and go away. They have their own country. But no, instead there is +a war.” + +“You’re an orator.” + +“We think. We read. We are not peasants. We are mechanics. But even the +peasants know better than to believe in a war. Everybody hates this +war.” + +“There is a class that controls a country that is stupid and does not +realize anything and never can. That is why we have this war.” + +“Also they make money out of it.” + +“Most of them don’t,” said Passini. “They are too stupid. They do it for +nothing. For stupidity.” + +“We must shut up,” said Manera. “We talk too much even for the Tenente.” + +“He likes it,” said Passini. “We will convert him.” + +“But now we will shut up,” Manera said. + +“Do we eat yet, Tenente?” Gavuzzi asked. + +“I will go and see,” I said. Gordini stood up and went outside with me. + +“Is there anything I can do, Tenente? Can I help in any way?” He was the +quietest one of the four. “Come with me if you want,” I said, “and we’ll +see.” + +It was dark outside and the long light from the search-lights was moving +over the mountains. There were big search-lights on that front mounted +on camions that you passed sometimes on the roads at night, close behind +the lines, the camion stopped a little off the road, an officer +directing the light and the crew scared. We crossed the brickyard, and +stopped at the main dressing station. There was a little shelter of +green branches outside over the entrance and in the dark the night wind +rustled the leaves dried by the sun. Inside there was a light. The major +was at the telephone sitting on a box. One of the medical captains said +the attack had been put forward an hour. He offered me a glass of +cognac. I looked at the board tables, the instruments shining in the +light, the basins and the stoppered bottles. Gordini stood behind me. +The major got up from the telephone. + +“It starts now,” he said. “It has been put back again.” + +I looked outside, it was dark and the Austrian search-lights were moving +on the mountains behind us. It was quiet for a moment still, then from +all the guns behind us the bombardment started. + +“Savoia,” said the major. + +“About the soup, major,” I said. He did not hear me. I repeated it. + +“It hasn’t come up.” + +A big shell came in and burst outside in the brickyard. Another burst +and in the noise you could hear the smaller noise of the brick and dirt +raining down. + +“What is there to eat?” + +“We have a little pasta asciutta,” the major said. + +“I’ll take what you can give me.” + +The major spoke to an orderly who went out of sight in the back and came +back with a metal basin of cold cooked macaroni. I handed it to Gordini. + +“Have you any cheese?” + +The major spoke grudgingly to the orderly who ducked back into the hole +again and came out with a quarter of a white cheese. + +“Thank you very much,” I said. + +“You’d better not go out.” + +Outside something was set down beside the entrance. One of the two men +who had carried it looked in. + +“Bring him in,” said the major. “What’s the matter with you? Do you want +us to come outside and get him?” + +The two stretcher-bearers picked up the man under the arms and by the +legs and brought him in. + +“Slit the tunic,” the major said. + +He held a forceps with some gauze in the end. The two captains took off +their coats. “Get out of here,” the major said to the two +stretcher-bearers. + +“Come on,” I said to Gordini. + +“You better wait until the shelling is over,” the major said over his +shoulder. + +“They want to eat,” I said. + +“As you wish.” + +Outside we ran across the brickyard. A shell burst short near the river +bank. Then there was one that we did not hear coming until the sudden +rush. We both went flat and with the flash and bump of the burst and the +smell heard the singing off of the fragments and the rattle of falling +brick. Gordini got up and ran for the dugout. I was after him, holding +the cheese, its smooth surface covered with brick dust. Inside the +dugout were the three drivers sitting against the wall, smoking. + +“Here, you patriots,” I said. + +“How are the cars?” Manera asked. + +“All right.” + +“Did they scare you, Tenente?” + +“You’re damned right,” I said. + +I took out my knife, opened it, wiped off the blade and pared off the +dirty outside surface of the cheese. Gavuzzi handed me the basin of +macaroni. + +“Start in to eat, Tenente.” + +“No,” I said. “Put it on the floor. We’ll all eat.” + +“There are no forks.” + +“What the hell,” I said in English. + +I cut the cheese into pieces and laid them on the macaroni. + +“Sit down to it,” I said. They sat down and waited. I put thumb and +fingers into the macaroni and lifted. A mass loosened. + +“Lift it high, Tenente.” + +I lifted it to arm’s length and the strands cleared. I lowered it into +the mouth, sucked and snapped in the ends, and chewed, then took a bite +of cheese, chewed, and then a drink of the wine. It tasted of rusty +metal. I handed the canteen back to Passini. + +“It’s rotten,” he said. “It’s been in there too long. I had it in the +car.” + +They were all eating, holding their chins close over the basin, tipping +their heads back, sucking in the ends. I took another mouthful and some +cheese and a rinse of wine. Something landed outside that shook the +earth. + +“Four hundred twenty or minnenwerfer,” Gavuzzi said. + +“There aren’t any four hundred twenties in the mountains,” I said. + +“They have big Skoda guns. I’ve seen the holes.” + +“Three hundred fives.” + +We went on eating. There was a cough, a noise like a railway engine +starting and then an explosion that shook the earth again. + +“This isn’t a deep dugout,” Passini said. + +“That was a big trench-mortar.” + +“Yes, sir.” + +I ate the end of my piece of cheese and took a swallow of wine. Through +the other noise I heard a cough, then came the chuh-chuh-chuh-chuh—then +there was a flash, as when a blast-furnace door is swung open, and a +roar that started white and went red and on and on in a rushing wind. I +tried to breathe but my breath would not come and I felt myself rush +bodily out of myself and out and out and out and all the time bodily in +the wind. I went out swiftly, all of myself, and I knew I was dead and +that it had all been a mistake to think you just died. Then I floated, +and instead of going on I felt myself slide back. I breathed and I was +back. The ground was torn up and in front of my head there was a +splintered beam of wood. In the jolt of my head I heard somebody crying. +I thought somebody was screaming. I tried to move but I could not move. +I heard the machine-guns and rifles firing across the river and all +along the river. There was a great splashing and I saw the star-shells +go up and burst and float whitely and rockets going up and heard the +bombs, all this in a moment, and then I heard close to me some one +saying “Mama Mia! Oh, mama Mia!” I pulled and twisted and got my legs +loose finally and turned around and touched him. It was Passini and when +I touched him he screamed. His legs were toward me and I saw in the dark +and the light that they were both smashed above the knee. One leg was +gone and the other was held by tendons and part of the trouser and the +stump twitched and jerked as though it were not connected. He bit his +arm and moaned, “Oh mama mia, mama Mia,” then, “Dio te salve, Maria. Dio +te salve, Maria. Oh Jesus shoot me Christ shoot me mama mia mama Mia oh +purest lovely Mary shoot me. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Oh Jesus lovely +Mary stop it. Oh oh oh oh,” then choking, “Mama mama mia.” Then he was +quiet, biting his arm, the stump of his leg twitching. + +“Porta feriti!” I shouted holding my hands cupped. “Porta Feriti!” I +tried to get closer to Passini to try to put a tourniquet on the legs +but I could not move. I tried again and my legs moved a little. I could +pull backward along with my arms and elbows. Passini was quiet now. I +sat beside him, undid my tunic and tried to rip the tail of my shirt. It +would not rip and I bit the edge of the cloth to start it. Then I +thought of his puttees. I had on wool stockings but Passini wore +puttees. All the drivers wore puttees but Passini had only one leg. I +unwound the puttee and while I was doing it I saw there was no need to +try and make a tourniquet because he was dead already. I made sure he +was dead. There were three others to locate. I sat up straight and as I +did so something inside my head moved like the weights on a doll’s eyes +and it hit me inside in back of my eyeballs. My legs felt warm and wet +and my shoes were wet and warm inside. I knew that I was hit and leaned +over and put my hand on my knee. My knee wasn’t there. My hand went in +and my knee was down on my shin. I wiped my hand on my shirt and another +floating light came very slowly down and I looked at my leg and was very +afraid. Oh, God, I said, get me out of here. I knew, however, that there +had been three others. There were four drivers. Passini was dead. That +left three. Some one took hold of me under the arms and somebody else +lifted my legs. + +“There are three others,” I said. “One is dead.” + +“It’s Manera. We went for a stretcher but there wasn’t any. How are you, +Tenente?” + +“Where is Gordini and Gavuzzi?” + +“Gordini’s at the post getting bandaged. Gavuzzi has your legs. Hold on +to my neck, Tenente. Are you badly hit?” + +“In the leg. How is Gordini?” + +“He’s all right. It was a big trench-mortar shell.” + +“Passini’s dead.” + +“Yes. He’s dead.” + +A shell fell close and they both dropped to the ground and dropped me. +“I’m sorry, Tenente,” said Manera. “Hang onto my neck.” + +“If you drop me again.” + +“It was because we were scared.” + +“Are you unwounded?” + +“We are both wounded a little.” + +“Can Gordini drive?” + +“I don’t think so.” + +They dropped me once more before we reached the post. + +“You sons of bitches,” I said. + +“I am sorry, Tenente,” Manera said. “We won’t drop you again.” + +Outside the post a great many of us lay on the ground in the dark. They +carried wounded in and brought them out. I could see the light come out +from the dressing station when the curtain opened and they brought some +one in or out. The dead were off to one side. The doctors were working +with their sleeves up to their shoulders and were red as butchers. There +were not enough stretchers. Some of the wounded were noisy but most were +quiet. The wind blew the leaves in the bower over the door of the +dressing station and the night was getting cold. Stretcher-bearers came +in all the time, put their stretchers down, unloaded them and went away. +As soon as I got to the dressing station Manera brought a medical +sergeant out and he put bandages on both my legs. He said there was so +much dirt blown into the wound that there had not been much hemorrhage. +They would take me as soon as possible. He went back inside. Gordini +could not drive, Manera said. His shoulder was smashed and his head was +hurt. He had not felt bad but now the shoulder had stiffened. He was +sitting up beside one of the brick walls. Manera and Gavuzzi each went +off with a load of wounded. They could drive all right. The British had +come with three ambulances and they had two men on each ambulance. One +of their drivers came over to me, brought by Gordini who looked very +white and sick. The Britisher leaned over. + +“Are you hit badly?” he asked. He was a tall man and wore steel-rimmed +spectacles. + +“In the legs.” + +“It’s not serious I hope. Will you have a cigarette?” + +“Thanks.” + +“They tell me you’ve lost two drivers.” + +“Yes. One killed and the fellow that brought you.” + +“What rotten luck. Would you like us to take the cars?” + +“That’s what I wanted to ask you.” + +“We’d take quite good care of them and return them to the Villa. 206 +aren’t you?” + +“Yes.” + +“It’s a charming place. I’ve seen you about. They tell me you’re an +American.” + +“Yes.” + +“I’m English.” + +“No!” + +“Yes, English. Did you think I was Italian? There were some Italians +with one of our units.” + +“It would be fine if you would take the cars,” I said. + +“We’ll be most careful of them,” he straightened up. “This chap of yours +was very anxious for me to see you.” He patted Gordini on the shoulder. +Gordini winced and smiled. The Englishman broke into voluble and perfect +Italian. “Now everything is arranged. I’ve seen your Tenente. We will +take over the two cars. You won’t worry now.” He broke off, “I must do +something about getting you out of here. I’ll see the medical wallahs. +We’ll take you back with us.” + +He walked across to the dressing station, stepping carefully among the +wounded. I saw the blanket open, the light came out and he went in. + +“He will look after you, Tenente,” Gordini said. + +“How are you, Franco?” + +“I am all right.” He sat down beside me. In a moment the blanket in +front of the dressing station opened and two stretcher-bearers came out +followed by the tall Englishman. He brought them over to me. + +“Here is the American Tenente,” he said in Italian. + +“I’d rather wait,” I said. “There are much worse wounded than me. I’m +all right.” + +“Come come,” he said. “Don’t be a bloody hero.” Then in Italian: “Lift +him very carefully about the legs. His legs are very painful. He is the +legitimate son of President Wilson.” They picked me up and took me into +the dressing room. Inside they were operating on all the tables. The +little major looked at us furious. He recognized me and waved a forceps. + +“Ça va bien?” + +“Ça va.” + +“I have brought him in,” the tall Englishman said in Italian. “The only +son of the American Ambassador. He can be here until you are ready to +take him. Then I will take him with my first load.” He bent over me. +“I’ll look up their adjutant to do your papers and it will all go much +faster.” He stooped to go under the doorway and went out. The major was +unhooking the forceps now, dropping them in a basin. I followed his +hands with my eyes. Now he was bandaging. Then the stretcher-bearers +took the man off the table. + +“I’ll take the American Tenente,” one of the captains said. They lifted +me onto the table. It was hard and slippery. There were many strong +smells, chemical smells and the sweet smell of blood. They took off my +trousers and the medical captain commenced dictating to the +sergeant-adjutant while he worked, “Multiple superficial wounds of the +left and right thigh and left and right knee and right foot. Profound +wounds of right knee and foot. Lacerations of the scalp (he probed—Does +that hurt?—Christ, yes!) with possible fracture of the skull. Incurred +in the line of duty. That’s what keeps you from being court-martialled +for self-inflicted wounds,” he said. “Would you like a drink of brandy? +How did you run into this thing anyway? What were you trying to do? +Commit suicide? Anti-tetanus please, and mark a cross on both legs. +Thank you. I’ll clean this up a little, wash it out, and put on a +dressing. Your blood coagulates beautifully.” + +The adjutant, looking up from the paper, “What inflicted the wounds?” + +The medical captain, “What hit you?” + +Me, with the eyes shut, “A trench mortar shell.” + +The captain, doing things that hurt sharply and severing tissue—“Are +you sure?” + +Me—trying to lie still and feeling my stomach flutter when the flesh +was cut, “I think so.” + +Captain doctor—(interested in something he was finding), “Fragments of +enemy trench-mortar shell. Now I’ll probe for some of this if you like +but it’s not necessary. I’ll paint all this and—Does that sting? Good, +that’s nothing to how it will feel later. The pain hasn’t started yet. +Bring him a glass of brandy. The shock dulls the pain; but this is all +right, you have nothing to worry about if it doesn’t infect and it +rarely does now. How is your head?” + +“Good Christ!” I said. + +“Better not drink too much brandy then. If you’ve got a fracture you +don’t want inflammation. How does that feel?” + +Sweat ran all over me. + +“Good Christ!” I said. + +“I guess you’ve got a fracture all right. I’ll wrap you up and don’t +bounce your head around.” He bandaged, his hands moving very fast and +the bandage coming taut and sure. “All right, good luck and Vive la +France.” + +“He’s an American,” one of the other captains said. + +“I thought you said he was a Frenchman. He talks French,” the captain +said. “I’ve known him before. I always thought he was French.” He drank +a half tumbler of cognac. “Bring on something serious. Get some more of +that Anti-tetanus.” The captain waved to me. They lifted me and the +blanket-flap went across my face as we went out. Outside the +sergeant-adjutant knelt down beside me where I lay, “Name?” he asked +softly. “Middle name? First name? Rank? Where born? What class? What +corps?” and so on. “I’m sorry for your head, Tenente. I hope you feel +better. I’m sending you now with the English ambulance.” + +“I’m all right,” I said. “Thank you very much.” The pain that the major +had spoken about had started and all that was happening was without +interest or relation. After a while the English ambulance came up and +they put me onto a stretcher and lifted the stretcher up to the +ambulance level and shoved it in. There was another stretcher by the +side with a man on it whose nose I could see, waxy-looking, out of the +bandages. He breathed very heavily. There were stretchers lifted and +slid into the slings above. The tall English driver came around and +looked in, “I’ll take it very easily,” he said. “I hope you’ll be +comfy.” I felt the engine start, felt him climb up into the front seat, +felt the brake come off and the clutch go in, then we started. I lay +still and let the pain ride. + +As the ambulance climbed along the road, it was slow in the traffic, +sometimes it stopped, sometimes it backed on a turn, then finally it +climbed quite fast. I felt something dripping. At first it dropped +slowly and regularly, then it pattered into a stream. I shouted to the +driver. He stopped the car and looked in through the hole behind his +seat. + +“What is it?” + +“The man on the stretcher over me has a hemorrhage.” + +“We’re not far from the top. I wouldn’t be able to get the stretcher out +alone.” He started the car. The stream kept on. In the dark I could not +see where it came from the canvas overhead. I tried to move sideways so +that it did not fall on me. Where it had run down under my shirt it was +warm and sticky. I was cold and my leg hurt so that it made me sick. +After a while the stream from the stretcher above lessened and started +to drip again and I heard and felt the canvas above move as the man on +the stretcher settled more comfortably. + +“How is he?” the Englishman called back. “We’re almost up.” + +“He’s dead I think,” I said. + +The drops fell very slowly, as they fall from an icicle after the sun +has gone. It was cold in the car in the night as the road climbed. At +the post on the top they took the stretcher out and put another in and +we went on. + + + + + CHAPTER X + +In the ward at the field hospital they told me a visitor was coming to +see me in the afternoon. It was a hot day and there were many flies in +the room. My orderly had cut paper into strips and tied the strips to a +stick to make a brush that swished the flies away. I watched them settle +on the ceiling. When he stopped swishing and fell asleep they came down +and I blew them away and finally covered my face with my hands and slept +too. It was very hot and when I woke my legs itched. I waked the orderly +and he poured mineral water on the dressings. That made the bed damp and +cool. Those of us that were awake talked across the ward. The afternoon +was a quiet time. In the morning they came to each bed in turn, three +men nurses and a doctor and picked you up out of bed and carried you +into the dressing room so that the beds could be made while we were +having our wounds dressed. It was not a pleasant trip to the dressing +room and I did not know until later that beds could be made with men in +them. My orderly had finished pouring water and the bed felt cool and +lovely and I was telling him where to scratch on the soles of my feet +against the itching when one of the doctors brought in Rinaldi. He came +in very fast and bent down over the bed and kissed me. I saw he wore +gloves. + +“How are you, baby? How do you feel? I bring you this—” It was a bottle +of cognac. The orderly brought a chair and he sat down, “and good news. +You will be decorated. They want to get you the medaglia d’argento but +perhaps they can get only the bronze.” + +“What for?” + +“Because you are gravely wounded. They say if you can prove you did any +heroic act you can get the silver. Otherwise it will be the bronze. Tell +me exactly what happened. Did you do any heroic act?” + +“No,” I said. “I was blown up while we were eating cheese.” + +“Be serious. You must have done something heroic either before or after. +Remember carefully.” + +“I did not.” + +“Didn’t you carry anybody on your back? Gordini says you carried several +people on your back but the medical major at the first post declares it +is impossible. He has to sign the proposition for the citation.” + +“I didn’t carry anybody. I couldn’t move.” + +“That doesn’t matter,” said Rinaldi. + +He took off his gloves. + +“I think we can get you the silver. Didn’t you refuse to be medically +aided before the others?” + +“Not very firmly.” + +“That doesn’t matter. Look how you are wounded. Look at your valorous +conduct in asking to go always to the first line. Besides, the operation +was successful.” + +“Did they cross the river all right?” + +“Enormously. They take nearly a thousand prisoners. It’s in the +bulletin. Didn’t you see it?” + +“No.” + +“I’ll bring it to you. It is a successful coup de main.” + +“How is everything?” + +“Splendid. We are all splendid. Everybody is proud of you. Tell me just +exactly how it happened. I am positive you will get the silver. Go on +tell me. Tell me all about it.” He paused and thought. “Maybe you will +get an English medal too. There was an English there. I’ll go and see +him and ask if he will recommend you. He ought to be able to do +something. Do you suffer much? Have a drink. Orderly, go get a +corkscrew. Oh you should see what I did in the removal of three metres +of small intestine and better now than ever. It is one for _The Lancet_. +You do me a translation and I will send it to _The Lancet_. Every day I +am better. Poor dear baby, how do you feel? Where is that damn +corkscrew? You are so brave and quiet I forget you are suffering.” He +slapped his gloves on the edge of the bed. + +“Here is the corkscrew, Signor Tenente,” the orderly said. + +“Open the bottle. Bring a glass. Drink that, baby. How is your poor +head? I looked at your papers. You haven’t any fracture. That major at +the first post was a hog-butcher. I would take you and never hurt you. I +never hurt anybody. I learn how to do it. Every day I learn to do things +smoother and better. You must forgive me for talking so much, baby. I am +very moved to see you badly wounded. There, drink that. It’s good. It +cost fifteen lire. It ought to be good. Five stars. After I leave here +I’ll go see that English and he’ll get you an English medal.” + +“They don’t give them like that.” + +“You are so modest. I will send the liaison officer. He can handle the +English.” + +“Have you seen Miss Barkley?” + +“I will bring her here. I will go now and bring her here.” + +“Don’t go,” I said. “Tell me about Gorizia. How are the girls?” + +“There are no girls. For two weeks now they haven’t changed them. I +don’t go there any more. It is disgraceful. They aren’t girls; they are +old war comrades.” + +“You don’t go at all?” + +“I just go to see if there is anything new. I stop by. They all ask for +you. It is a disgrace that they should stay so long that they become +friends.” + +“Maybe girls don’t want to go to the front any more.” + +“Of course they do. They have plenty of girls. It is just bad +administration. They are keeping them for the pleasure of dugout hiders +in the rear.” + +“Poor Rinaldi,” I said. “All alone at the war with no new girls.” + +Rinaldi poured himself another glass of the cognac. + +“I don’t think it will hurt you, baby. You take it.” + +I drank the cognac and felt it warm all the way down. Rinaldi poured +another glass. He was quieter now. He held up the glass. “To your +valorous wounds. To the silver medal. Tell me, baby, when you lie here +all the time in the hot weather don’t you get excited?” + +“Sometimes.” + +“I can’t imagine lying like that. I would go crazy.” + +“You are crazy.” + +“I wish you were back. No one to come in at night from adventures. No +one to make fun of. No one to lend me money. No blood brother and +roommate. Why do you get yourself wounded?” + +“You can make fun of the priest.” + +“That priest. It isn’t me that makes fun of him. It is the captain. I +like him. If you must have a priest have that priest. He’s coming to see +you. He makes big preparations.” + +“I like him.” + +“Oh, I knew it. Sometimes I think you and he are a little that way. You +know.” + +“No, you don’t.” + +“Yes, I do sometimes. A little that way like the number of the first +regiment of the Brigata Ancona.” + +“Oh, go to hell.” + +He stood up and put on his gloves. + +“Oh I love to tease you, baby. With your priest and your English girl, +and really you are just like me underneath.” + +“No, I’m not.” + +“Yes, we are. You are really an Italian. All fire and smoke and nothing +inside. You only pretend to be American. We are brothers and we love +each other.” + +“Be good while I’m gone,” I said. + +“I will send Miss Barkley. You are better with her without me. You are +purer and sweeter.” + +“Oh, go to hell.” + +“I will send her. Your lovely cool goddess. English goddess. My God what +would a man do with a woman like that except worship her? What else is +an Englishwoman good for?” + +“You are an ignorant foul-mouthed dago.” + +“A what?” + +“An ignorant wop.” + +“Wop. You are a frozen-faced ... wop.” + +“You are ignorant. Stupid.” I saw that word pricked him and kept on. +“Uninformed. Inexperienced, stupid from inexperience.” + +“Truly? I tell you something about your good women. Your goddesses. +There is only one difference between taking a girl who has always been +good and a woman. With a girl it is painful. That’s all I know.” He +slapped the bed with his glove. “And you never know if the girl will +really like it.” + +“Don’t get angry.” + +“I’m not angry. I just tell you, baby, for your own good. To save you +trouble.” + +“That’s the only difference?” + +“Yes. But millions of fools like you don’t know it.” + +“You were sweet to tell me.” + +“We won’t quarrel, baby. I love you too much. But don’t be a fool.” + +“No. I’ll be wise like you.” + +“Don’t be angry, baby. Laugh. Take a drink. I must go, really.” + +“You’re a good old boy.” + +“Now you see. Underneath we are the same. We are war brothers. Kiss me +good-by.” + +“You’re sloppy.” + +“No. I am just more affectionate.” + +I felt his breath come toward me. “Good-by. I come to see you again +soon.” His breath went away. “I won’t kiss you if you don’t want. I’ll +send your English girl. Good-by, baby. The cognac is under the bed. Get +well soon.” + +He was gone. + + + + + CHAPTER XI + +It was dusk when the priest came. They had brought the soup and +afterward taken away the bowls and I was lying looking at the rows of +beds and out the window at the tree-top that moved a little in the +evening breeze. The breeze came in through the window and it was cooler +with the evening. The flies were on the ceiling now and on the electric +light bulbs that hung on wires. The lights were only turned on when some +one was brought in at night or when something was being done. It made me +feel very young to have the dark come after the dusk and then remain. It +was like being put to bed after early supper. The orderly came down +between the beds and stopped. Some one was with him. It was the priest. +He stood there small, brown-faced, and embarrassed. + +“How do you do?” he asked. He put some packages down by the bed, on the +floor. + +“All right, father.” + +He sat down in the chair that had been brought for Rinaldi and looked +out of the window embarrassedly. I noticed his face looked very tired. + +“I can only stay a minute,” he said. “It is late.” + +“It’s not late. How is the mess?” + +He smiled. “I am still a great joke,” he sounded tired too. “Thank God +they are all well.” + +“I am so glad you are all right,” he said. “I hope you don’t suffer.” He +seemed very tired and I was not used to seeing him tired. + +“Not any more.” + +“I miss you at the mess.” + +“I wish I were there. I always enjoyed our talking.” + +“I brought you a few little things,” he said. He picked up the packages. +“This is mosquito netting. This is a bottle of vermouth. You like +vermouth? These are English papers.” + +“Please open them.” + +He was pleased and undid them. I held the mosquito netting in my hands. +The vermouth he held up for me to see and then put it on the floor +beside the bed. I held up one of the sheaf of English papers. I could +read the headlines by turning it so the half-light from the window was +on it. It was the _News of the World_. + +“The others are illustrated,” he said. + +“It will be a great happiness to read them. Where did you get them?” + +“I sent for them to Mestre. I will have more.” + +“You were very good to come, father. Will you drink a glass of +vermouth?” + +“Thank you. You keep it. It’s for you.” + +“No, drink a glass.” + +“All right. I will bring you more then.” + +The orderly brought the glasses and opened the bottle. He broke off the +cork and the end had to be shoved down into the bottle. I could see the +priest was disappointed but he said, “That’s all right. It’s no matter.” + +“Here’s to your health, father.” + +“To your better health.” + +Afterward he held the glass in his hand and we looked at one another. +Sometimes we talked and were good friends but to-night it was difficult. + +“What’s the matter, father? You seem very tired.” + +“I am tired but I have no right to be.” + +“It’s the heat.” + +“No. This is only the Spring. I feel very low.” + +“You have the war disgust.” + +“No. But I hate the war.” + +“I don’t enjoy it,” I said. He shook his head and looked out of the +window. + +“You do not mind it. You do not see it. You must forgive me. I know you +are wounded.” + +“That is an accident.” + +“Still even wounded you do not see it. I can tell. I do not see it +myself but I feel it a little.” + +“When I was wounded we were talking about it. Passini was talking.” + +The priest put down the glass. He was thinking about something else. + +“I know them because I am like they are,” he said. + +“You are different though.” + +“But really I am like they are.” + +“The officers don’t see anything.” + +“Some of them do. Some are very delicate and feel worse than any of us.” + +“They are mostly different.” + +“It is not education or money. It is something else. Even if they had +education or money men like Passini would not wish to be officers. I +would not be an officer.” + +“You rank as an officer. I am an officer.” + +“I am not really. You are not even an Italian. You are a foreigner. But +you are nearer the officers than you are to the men.” + +“What is the difference?” + +“I cannot say it easily. There are people who would make war. In this +country there are many like that. There are other people who would not +make war.” + +“But the first ones make them do it.” + +“Yes.” + +“And I help them.” + +“You are a foreigner. You are a patriot.” + +“And the ones who would not make war? Can they stop it?” + +“I do not know.” + +He looked out of the window again. I watched his face. + +“Have they ever been able to stop it?” + +“They are not organized to stop things and when they get organized their +leaders sell them out.” + +“Then it’s hopeless?” + +“It is never hopeless. But sometimes I cannot hope. I try always to hope +but sometimes I cannot.” + +“Maybe the war will be over.” + +“I hope so.” + +“What will you do then?” + +“If it is possible I will return to the Abruzzi.” + +His brown face was suddenly very happy. + +“You love the Abruzzi!” + +“Yes, I love it very much.” + +“You ought to go there then.” + +“I would be too happy. If I could live there and love God and serve +Him.” + +“And be respected,” I said. + +“Yes and be respected. Why not?” + +“No reason not. You should be respected.” + +“It does not matter. But there in my country it is understood that a man +may love God. It is not a dirty joke.” + +“I understand.” + +He looked at me and smiled. + +“You understand but you do not love God.” + +“No.” + +“You do not love Him at all?” he asked. + +“I am afraid of him in the night sometimes.” + +“You should love Him.” + +“I don’t love much.” + +“Yes,” he said. “You do. What you tell me about in the nights. That is +not love. That is only passion and lust. When you love you wish to do +things for. You wish to sacrifice for. You wish to serve.” + +“I don’t love.” + +“You will. I know you will. Then you will be happy.” + +“I’m happy. I’ve always been happy.” + +“It is another thing. You cannot know about it unless you have it.” + +“Well,” I said. “If I ever get it I will tell you.” + +“I stay too long and talk too much.” He was worried that he really did. + +“No. Don’t go. How about loving women? If I really loved some woman +would it be like that?” + +“I don’t know about that. I never loved any woman.” + +“What about your mother?” + +“Yes, I must have loved my mother.” + +“Did you always love God?” + +“Ever since I was a little boy.” + +“Well,” I said. I did not know what to say. “You are a fine boy,” I +said. + +“I am a boy,” he said. “But you call me father.” + +“That’s politeness.” + +He smiled. + +“I must go, really,” he said. “You do not want me for anything?” he +asked hopefully. + +“No. Just to talk.” + +“I will take your greetings to the mess.” + +“Thank you for the many fine presents.” + +“Nothing.” + +“Come and see me again.” + +“Yes. Good-by,” he patted my hand. + +“So long,” I said in dialect. + +“Ciaou,” he repeated. + +It was dark in the room and the orderly, who had sat by the foot of the +bed, got up and went out with him. I liked him very much and I hoped he +would get back to the Abruzzi some time. He had a rotten life in the +mess and he was fine about it but I thought how he would be in his own +country. At Capracotta, he had told me, there were trout in the stream +below the town. It was forbidden to play the flute at night. When the +young men serenaded only the flute was forbidden. Why, I had asked. +Because it was bad for the girls to hear the flute at night. The +peasants all called you “Don” and when you met them they took off their +hats. His father hunted every day and stopped to eat at the houses of +peasants. They were always honored. For a foreigner to hunt he must +present a certificate that he had never been arrested. There were bears +on the Gran Sasso D’Italia but it was a long way. Aquila was a fine +town. It was cool in the summer at night and the spring in Abruzzi was +the most beautiful in Italy. But what was lovely was the fall to go +hunting through the chestnut woods. The birds were all good because they +fed on grapes and you never took a lunch because the peasants were +always honored if you would eat with them at their houses. After a while +I went to sleep. + + + + + CHAPTER XII + +The room was long with windows on the right-hand side and a door at the +far end that went into the dressing room. The row of beds that mine was +in faced the windows and another row, under the windows, faced the wall. +If you lay on your left side you could see the dressing room door. There +was another door at the far end that people sometimes came in by. If any +one were going to die they put a screen around the bed so you could not +see them die, but only the shoes and puttees of doctors and men nurses +showed under the bottom of the screen and sometimes at the end there +would be whispering. Then the priest would come out from behind the +screen and afterward the men nurses would go back behind the screen to +come out again carrying the one who was dead with a blanket over him +down the corridor between the beds and some one folded the screen and +took it away. + +That morning the major in charge of the ward asked me if I felt that I +could travel the next day. I said I could. He said then they would ship +me out early in the morning. He said I would be better off making the +trip now before it got too hot. + +When they lifted you up out of bed to carry you into the dressing room +you could look out of the window and see the new graves in the garden. A +soldier sat outside the door that opened onto the garden making crosses +and painting on them the names, rank, and regiment of the men who were +buried in the garden. He also ran errands for the ward and in his spare +time made me a cigarette lighter out of an empty Austrian rifle +cartridge. The doctors were very nice and seemed very capable. They were +anxious to ship me to Milan where there were better X-ray facilities and +where, after the operation, I could take mechano-therapy. I wanted to go +to Milan too. They wanted to get us all out and back as far as possible +because all the beds were needed for the offensive, when it should +start. + +The night before I left the field hospital Rinaldi came in to see me +with the major from our mess. They said that I would go to an American +hospital in Milan that had just been installed. Some American ambulance +units were to be sent down and this hospital would look after them and +any other Americans on service in Italy. There were many in the Red +Cross. The States had declared war on Germany but not on Austria. + +The Italians were sure America would declare war on Austria too and they +were very excited about any Americans coming down, even the Red Cross. +They asked me if I thought President Wilson would declare war on Austria +and I said it was only a matter of days. I did not know what we had +against Austria but it seemed logical that they should declare war on +her if they did on Germany. They asked me if we would declare war on +Turkey. I said that was doubtful. Turkey, I said, was our national bird +but the joke translated so badly and they were so puzzled and suspicious +that I said yes, we would probably declare war on Turkey. And on +Bulgaria? We had drunk several glasses of brandy and I said yes by God +on Bulgaria too and on Japan. But, they said, Japan is an ally of +England. You can’t trust the bloody English. The Japanese want Hawaii, I +said. Where is Hawaii? It is in the Pacific Ocean. Why do the Japanese +want it? They don’t really want it, I said. That is all talk. The +Japanese are a wonderful little people fond of dancing and light wines. +Like the French, said the major. We will get Nice and Savoia from the +French. We will get Corsica and all the Adriatic coast-line, Rinaldi +said. Italy will return to the splendors of Rome, said the major. I +don’t like Rome, I said. It is hot and full of fleas. You don’t like +Rome? Yes, I love Rome. Rome is the mother of nations. I will never +forget Romulus suckling the Tiber. What? Nothing. Let’s all go to Rome. +Let’s go to Rome to-night and never come back. Rome is a beautiful city, +said the major. The mother and father of nations, I said. Roma is +feminine, said Rinaldi. It cannot be the father. Who is the father, +then, the Holy Ghost? Don’t blaspheme. I wasn’t blaspheming, I was +asking for information. You are drunk, baby. Who made me drunk? I made +you drunk, said the major. I made you drunk because I love you and +because America is in the war. Up to the hilt, I said. You go away in +the morning, baby, Rinaldi said. To Rome, I said. No, to Milan. To +Milan, said the major, to the Crystal Palace, to the Cova, to Campari’s, +to Biffi’s, to the galleria. You lucky boy. To the Gran Italia I said, +where I will borrow money from George. To the Scala, said Rinaldi. You +will go to the Scala. Every night, I said. You won’t be able to afford +it every night, said the major. + +The tickets are very expensive. I will draw a sight draft on my +grandfather, I said. A what? A sight draft. He has to pay or I go to +jail. Mr. Cunningham at the bank does it. I live by sight drafts. Can a +grandfather jail a patriotic grandson who is dying that Italy may live? +Live the American Garibaldi, said Rinaldi. Viva the sight drafts, I +said. We must be quiet, said the major. Already we have been asked many +times to be quiet. Do you go to-morrow really, Federico? He goes to the +American hospital I tell you, Rinaldi said. To the beautiful nurses. Not +the nurses with beards of the field hospital. Yes, yes, said the major, +I know he goes to the American hospital. I don’t mind their beards, I +said. If any man wants to raise a beard let him. Why don’t you raise a +beard, Signor Maggiore? It could not go in a gas mask. Yes it could. +Anything can go in a gas mask. I’ve vomited into a gas mask. Don’t be so +loud, baby, Rinaldi said. We all know you have been at the front. Oh, +you fine baby, what will I do while you are gone? We must go, said the +major. This becomes sentimental. Listen, I have a surprise for you. Your +English. You know? The English you go to see every night at their +hospital? She is going to Milan too. She goes with another to be at the +American hospital. They had not got nurses yet from America. I talked +to-day with the head of their riparto. They have too many women here at +the front. They send some back. How do you like that, baby? All right. +Yes? You go to live in a big city and have your English there to cuddle +you. Why don’t I get wounded? Maybe you will, I said. We must go, said +the major. We drink and make noise and disturb Federico. Don’t go. Yes, +we must go. Good-by. Good luck. Many things. Ciaou. Ciaou. Ciaou. Come +back quickly, baby. Rinaldi kissed me. You smell of lysol. Good-by, +baby. Good-by. Many things. The major patted my shoulder. They tiptoed +out. I found I was quite drunk but went to sleep. + + + +The next day in the morning we left for Milan and arrived forty-eight +hours later. It was a bad trip. We were sidetracked for a long time this +side of Mestre and children came and peeked in. I got a little boy to go +for a bottle of cognac but he came back and said he could only get +grappa. I told him to get it and when it came I gave him the change and +the man beside me and I got drunk and slept until past Vicenza where I +woke up and was very sick on the floor. It did not matter because the +man on that side had been very sick on the floor several times before. +Afterward I thought I could not stand the thirst and in the yards +outside of Verona I called to a soldier who was walking up and down +beside the train and he got me a drink of water. I woke Georgetti, the +other boy who was drunk, and offered him some water. He said to pour it +on his shoulder and went back to sleep. The soldier would not take the +penny I offered him and brought me a pulpy orange. I sucked on that and +spit out the pith and watched the soldier pass up and down past a +freight-car outside and after a while the train gave a jerk and started. + + + + + BOOK II + + + + + CHAPTER XIII + +We got into Milan early in the morning and they unloaded us in the +freight yard. An ambulance took me to the American hospital. Riding in +the ambulance on a stretcher I could not tell what part of town we were +passing through but when they unloaded the stretcher I saw a +market-place and an open wine shop with a girl sweeping out. They were +watering the street and it smelled of the early morning. They put the +stretcher down and went in. The porter came out with them. He had gray +mustaches, wore a doorman’s cap and was in his shirt sleeves. The +stretcher would not go into the elevator and they discussed whether it +was better to lift me off the stretcher and go up in the elevator or +carry the stretcher up the stairs. I listened to them discussing it. +They decided on the elevator. They lifted me from the stretcher. “Go +easy,” I said. “Take it softly.” + +In the elevator we were crowded and as my legs bent the pain was very +bad. “Straighten out the legs,” I said. + +“We can’t, Signor Tenente. There isn’t room.” The man who said this had +his arm around me and my arm was around his neck. His breath came in my +face metallic with garlic and red wine. + +“Be gentle,” the other man said. + +“Son of a bitch who isn’t gentle!” + +“Be gentle I say,” the man with my feet repeated. + +I saw the doors of the elevator closed, and the grill shut and the +fourth-floor button pushed by the porter. The porter looked worried. The +elevator rose slowly. + +“Heavy?” I asked the man with the garlic. + +“Nothing,” he said. His face was sweating and he grunted. The elevator +rose steadily and stopped. The man holding the feet opened the door and +stepped out. We were on a balcony. There were several doors with brass +knobs. The man carrying the feet pushed a button that rang a bell. We +heard it inside the doors. No one came. Then the porter came up the +stairs. + +“Where are they?” the stretcher-bearers asked. + +“I don’t know,” said the porter. “They sleep down stairs.” + +“Get somebody.” + +The porter rang the bell, then knocked on the door, then he opened the +door and went in. When he came back there was an elderly woman wearing +glasses with him. Her hair was loose and half-falling and she wore a +nurse’s dress. + +“I can’t understand,” she said. “I can’t understand Italian.” + +“I can speak English,” I said. “They want to put me somewhere.” + +“None of the rooms are ready. There isn’t any patient expected.” She +tucked at her hair and looked at me near-sightedly. + +“Show them any room where they can put me.” + +“I don’t know,” she said. “There’s no patient expected. I couldn’t put +you in just any room.” + +“Any room will do,” I said. Then to the porter in Italian, “Find an +empty room.” + +“They are all empty,” said the porter. “You are the first patient.” He +held his cap in his hand and looked at the elderly nurse. + +“For Christ’s sweet sake take me to some room.” The pain had gone on and +on with the legs bent and I could feel it going in and out of the bone. +The porter went in the door, followed by the gray-haired woman, then +came hurrying back. “Follow me,” he said. They carried me down a long +hallway and into a room with drawn blinds. It smelled of new furniture. +There was a bed and a big wardrobe with a mirror. They laid me down on +the bed. + +“I can’t put on sheets,” the woman said. “The sheets are locked up.” + +I did not speak to her. “There is money in my pocket,” I said to the +porter. “In the buttoned-down pocket.” The porter took out the money. +The two stretcher-bearers stood beside the bed holding their caps. “Give +them five lire apiece and five lire for yourself. My papers are in the +other pocket. You may give them to the nurse.” + +The stretcher-bearers saluted and said thank you. “Good-by,” I said. +“And many thanks.” They saluted again and went out. + +“Those papers,” I said to the nurse, “describe my case and the treatment +already given.” + +The woman picked them up and looked at them through her glasses. There +were three papers and they were folded. “I don’t know what to do,” she +said. “I can’t read Italian. I can’t do anything without the doctor’s +orders.” She commenced to cry and put the papers in her apron pocket. +“Are you an American?” she asked crying. + +“Yes. Please put the papers on the table by the bed.” + +It was dim and cool in the room. As I lay on the bed I could see the big +mirror on the other side of the room but could not see what it +reflected. The porter stood by the bed. He had a nice face and was very +kind. + +“You can go,” I said to him. “You can go too,” I said to the nurse. +“What is your name?” + +“Mrs. Walker.” + +“You can go, Mrs. Walker. I think I will go to sleep.” + +I was alone in the room. It was cool and did not smell like a hospital. +The mattress was firm and comfortable and I lay without moving, hardly +breathing, happy in feeling the pain lessen. After a while I wanted a +drink of water and found the bell on a cord by the bed and rang it but +nobody came. I went to sleep. + +When I woke I looked around. There was sunlight coming in through the +shutters. I saw the big armoire, the bare walls, and two chairs. My legs +in the dirty bandages, stuck straight out in the bed. I was careful not +to move them. I was thirsty and I reached for the bell and pushed the +button. I heard the door open and looked and it was a nurse. She looked +young and pretty. + +“Good-morning,” I said. + +“Good-morning,” she said and came over to the bed. “We haven’t been able +to get the doctor. He’s gone to Lake Como. No one knew there was a +patient coming. What’s wrong with you anyway?” + +“I’m wounded. In the legs and feet and my head is hurt.” + +“What’s your name?” + +“Henry. Frederic Henry.” + +“I’ll wash you up. But we can’t do anything to the dressings until the +doctor comes.” + +“Is Miss Barkley here?” + +“No. There’s no one by that name here.” + +“Who was the woman who cried when I came in?” + +The nurse laughed. “That’s Mrs. Walker. She was on night duty and she’d +been asleep. She wasn’t expecting any one.” + +While we were talking she was undressing me, and when I was undressed, +except for the bandages, she washed me, very gently and smoothly. The +washing felt very good. There was a bandage on my head but she washed +all around the edge. + +“Where were you wounded?” + +“On the Isonzo north of Plava.” + +“Where is that?” + +“North of Gorizia.” + +I could see that none of the places meant anything to her. + +“Do you have a lot of pain?” + +“No. Not much now.” + +She put a thermometer in my mouth. + +“The Italians put it under the arm,” I said. + +“Don’t talk.” + +When she took the thermometer out she read it and then shook it. + +“What’s the temperature?” + +“You’re not supposed to know that.” + +“Tell me what it is.” + +“It’s almost normal.” + +“I never have any fever. My legs are full of old iron too.” + +“What do you mean?” + +“They’re full of trench-mortar fragments, old screws and bed-springs and +things.” + +She shook her head and smiled. + +“If you had any foreign bodies in your legs they would set up an +inflammation and you’d have fever.” + +“All right,” I said. “We’ll see what comes out.” + +She went out of the room and came back with the old nurse of the early +morning. Together they made the bed with me in it. That was new to me +and an admirable proceeding. + +“Who is in charge here?” + +“Miss Van Campen.” + +“How many nurses are there?” + +“Just us two.” + +“Won’t there be more?” + +“Some more are coming.” + +“When will they get here?” + +“I don’t know. You ask a great many questions for a sick boy.” + +“I’m not sick,” I said, “I’m wounded.” + +They had finished making the bed and I lay with a clean smooth sheet +under me and another sheet over me. Mrs. Walker went out and came back +with a pajama jacket. They put that on me and I felt very clean and +dressed. + +“You’re awfully nice to me,” I said. The nurse called Miss Gage giggled. +“Could I have a drink of water?” I asked. + +“Certainly. Then you can have breakfast.” + +“I don’t want breakfast. Can I have the shutters opened please?” + +The light had been dim in the room and when the shutters were opened it +was bright sunlight and I looked out on a balcony and beyond were the +tile roofs of houses and chimneys. I looked out over the tiled roofs and +saw white clouds and the sky very blue. + +“Don’t you know when the other nurses are coming?” + +“Why? Don’t we take good care of you?” + +“You’re very nice.” + +“Would you like to use the bedpan?” + +“I might try.” + +They helped me and held me up but it was not any use. Afterward I lay +and looked out the open doors onto the balcony. + +“When does the doctor come?” + +“When he gets back. We’ve tried to telephone to Lake Como for him.” + +“Aren’t there any other doctors?” + +“He’s the doctor for the hospital.” + +Miss Gage brought a pitcher of water and a glass. I drank three glasses +and then they left me and I looked out the window a while and went back +to sleep. I ate some lunch and in the afternoon Miss Van Campen, the +superintendent, came up to see me. She did not like me and I did not +like her. She was small and neatly suspicious and too good for her +position. She asked many questions and seemed to think it was somewhat +disgraceful that I was with the Italians. + +“Can I have wine with the meals?” I asked her. + +“Only if the doctor prescribes it.” + +“I can’t have it until he comes?” + +“Absolutely not.” + +“You plan on having him come eventually?” + +“We’ve telephoned him at Lake Como.” + +She went out and Miss Gage came back. + +“Why were you rude to Miss Van Campen?” she asked after she had done +something for me very skilfully. + +“I didn’t mean to be. But she was snooty.” + +“She said you were domineering and rude.” + +“I wasn’t. But what’s the idea of a hospital without a doctor?” + +“He’s coming. They’ve telephoned for him to Lake Como.” + +“What does he do there? Swim?” + +“No. He has a clinic there.” + +“Why don’t they get another doctor?” + +“Hush. Hush. Be a good boy and he’ll come.” + +I sent for the porter and when he came I told him in Italian to get me a +bottle of Cinzano at the wine shop, a fiasco of chianti and the evening +papers. He went away and brought them wrapped in newspaper, unwrapped +them and, when I asked him to, drew the corks and put the wine and +vermouth under the bed. They left me alone and I lay in bed and read the +papers awhile, the news from the front, and the list of dead officers +with their decorations and then reached down and brought up the bottle +of Cinzano and held it straight up on my stomach, the cool glass against +my stomach, and took little drinks making rings on my stomach from +holding the bottle there between drinks, and watched it get dark outside +over the roofs of the town. The swallows circled around and I watched +them and the night-hawks flying above the roofs and drank the Cinzano. +Miss Gage brought up a glass with some egg-nog in it. I lowered the +vermouth bottle to the other side of the bed when she came in. + +“Miss Van Campen had some sherry put in this,” she said. “You shouldn’t +be rude to her. She’s not young and this hospital is a big +responsibility for her. Mrs. Walker’s too old and she’s no use to her.” + +“She’s a splendid woman,” I said. “Thank her very much.” + +“I’m going to bring your supper right away.” + +“That’s all right,” I said. “I’m not hungry.” + +When she brought the tray and put it on the bed table I thanked her and +ate a little of the supper. Afterward it was dark outside and I could +see the beams of the search-lights moving in the sky. I watched for a +while and then went to sleep. I slept heavily except once I woke +sweating and scared and then went back to sleep trying to stay outside +of my dream. I woke for good long before it was light and heard roosters +crowing and stayed on awake until it began to be light. I was tired and +once it was really light I went back to sleep again. + + + + + CHAPTER XIV + +It was bright sunlight in the room when I woke. I thought I was back at +the front and stretched out in bed. My legs hurt me and I looked down at +them still in the dirty bandages, and seeing them knew where I was. I +reached up for the bell-cord and pushed the button. I heard it buzz down +the hall and then some one coming on rubber soles along the hall. It was +Miss Gage and she looked a little older in the bright sunlight and not +so pretty. + +“Good-morning,” she said. “Did you have a good night?” + +“Yes. Thanks very much,” I said. “Can I have a barber?” + +“I came in to see you and you were asleep with this in the bed with +you.” + +She opened the armoire door and held up the vermouth bottle. It was +nearly empty. “I put the other bottle from under the bed in there too,” +she said. “Why didn’t you ask me for a glass?” + +“I thought maybe you wouldn’t let me have it.” + +“I’d have had some with you.” + +“You’re a fine girl.” + +“It isn’t good for you to drink alone,” she said. “You mustn’t do it.” + +“All right.” + +“Your friend Miss Barkley’s come,” she said. + +“Really?” + +“Yes. I don’t like her.” + +“You will like her. She’s awfully nice.” + +She shook her head. “I’m sure she’s fine. Can you move just a little to +this side? That’s fine. I’ll clean you up for breakfast.” She washed me +with a cloth and soap and warm water. “Hold your shoulder up,” she said. +“That’s fine.” + +“Can I have the barber before breakfast?” + +“I’ll send the porter for him.” She went out and came back. “He’s gone +for him,” she said and dipped the cloth she held in the basin of water. + +The barber came with the porter. He was a man of about fifty with an +upturned mustache. Miss Gage was finished with me and went out and the +barber lathered my face and shaved. He was very solemn and refrained +from talking. + +“What’s the matter? Don’t you know any news?” I asked. + +“What news?” + +“Any news. What’s happened in the town?” + +“It is time of war,” he said. “The enemy’s ears are everywhere.” + +I looked up at him. “Please hold your face still,” he said and went on +shaving. “I will tell nothing.” + +“What’s the matter with you?” I asked. + +“I am an Italian. I will not communicate with the enemy.” + +I let it go at that. If he was crazy, the sooner I could get out from +under the razor the better. Once I tried to get a good look at him. +“Beware,” he said. “The razor is sharp.” + +I paid him when it was over and tipped him half a lira. He returned the +coins. + +“I will not. I am not at the front. But I am an Italian.” + +“Get the hell out of here.” + +“With your permission,” he said and wrapped his razors in newspaper. He +went out leaving the five copper coins on the table beside the bed. I +rang the bell. Miss Gage came in. “Would you ask the porter to come +please?” + +“All right.” + +The porter came in. He was trying to keep from laughing. + +“Is that barber crazy?” + +“No, signorino. He made a mistake. He doesn’t understand very well and +he thought I said you were an Austrian officer.” + +“Oh,” I said. + +“Ho ho ho,” the porter laughed. “He was funny. One move from you he said +and he would have—” he drew his forefinger across his throat. + +“Ho ho ho,” he tried to keep from laughing. “When I tell him you were +not an Austrian. Ho ho ho.” + +“Ho ho ho,” I said bitterly. “How funny if he would cut my throat. Ho ho +ho.” + +“No, signorino. No, no. He was so frightened of an Austrian. Ho ho ho.” + +“Ho ho ho,” I said. “Get out of here.” + +He went out and I heard him laughing in the hall. I heard some one +coming down the hallway. I looked toward the door. It was Catherine +Barkley. + +She came in the room and over to the bed. + +“Hello, darling,” she said. She looked fresh and young and very +beautiful. I thought I had never seen any one so beautiful. + +“Hello,” I said. When I saw her I was in love with her. Everything +turned over inside of me. She looked toward the door, saw there was no +one, then she sat on the side of the bed and leaned over and kissed me. +I pulled her down and kissed her and felt her heart beating. + +“You sweet,” I said. “Weren’t you wonderful to come here?” + +“It wasn’t very hard. It may be hard to stay.” + +“You’ve got to stay,” I said. “Oh, you’re wonderful.” I was crazy about +her. I could not believe she was really there and held her tight to me. + + + +“You mustn’t,” she said. “You’re not well enough.” + +“Yes, I am. Come on.” + +“No. You’re not strong enough.” + +“Yes. I am. Yes. Please.” + +“You do love me?” + +“I really love you. I’m crazy about you. Come on please.” + +“Feel our hearts beating.” + +“I don’t care about our hearts. I want you. I’m just mad about you.” + +“You really love me?” + +“Don’t keep on saying that. Come on. Please. Please, Catherine.” + +“All right but only for a minute.” + +“All right,” I said. “Shut the door.” + +“You can’t. You shouldn’t.” + +“Come on. Don’t talk. Please come on.” + + + +Catherine sat in a chair by the bed. The door was open into the hall. +The wildness was gone and I felt finer than I had ever felt. + +She asked, “Now do you believe I love you?” + +“Oh, you’re lovely,” I said. “You’ve got to stay. They can’t send you +away. I’m crazy in love with you.” + +“We’ll have to be awfully careful. That was just madness. We can’t do +that.” + +“We can at night.” + +“We’ll have to be awfully careful. You’ll have to be careful in front of +other people.” + +“I will.” + +“You’ll have to be. You’re sweet. You do love me, don’t you?” + +“Don’t say that again. You don’t know what that does to me.” + +“I’ll be careful then. I don’t want to do anything more to you. I have +to go now, darling, really.” + +“Come back right away.” + +“I’ll come when I can.” + +“Good-by.” + +“Good-by, sweet.” + +She went out. God knows I had not wanted to fall in love with her. I had +not wanted to fall in love with any one. But God knows I had and I lay +on the bed in the room of the hospital in Milan and all sorts of things +went through my head but I felt wonderful and finally Miss Gage came in. + +“The doctor’s coming,” she said. “He telephoned from Lake Como.” + +“When does he get here?” + +“He’ll be here this afternoon.” + + + + + CHAPTER XV + +Nothing happened until afternoon. The doctor was a thin quiet little man +who seemed disturbed by the war. He took out a number of small steel +splinters from my thighs with delicate and refined distaste. He used a +local anæsthetic called something or other “snow,” which froze the +tissue and avoided pain until the probe, the scalpel or the forceps got +below the frozen portion. The anæsthetized area was clearly defined by +the patient and after a time the doctor’s fragile delicacy was exhausted +and he said it would be better to have an X-ray. Probing was +unsatisfactory, he said. + +The X-ray was taken at the Ospedale Maggiore and the doctor who did it +was excitable, efficient and cheerful. It was arranged by holding up the +shoulders, that the patient should see personally some of the larger +foreign bodies through the machine. The plates were to be sent over. The +doctor requested me to write in his pocket notebook, my name, and +regiment and some sentiment. He declared that the foreign bodies were +ugly, nasty, brutal. The Austrians were sons of bitches. How many had I +killed? I had not killed any but I was anxious to please—and I said I +had killed plenty. Miss Gage was with me and the doctor put his arm +around her and said she was more beautiful than Cleopatra. Did she +understand that? Cleopatra the former queen of Egypt. Yes, by God she +was. We returned to the little hospital in the ambulance and after a +while and much lifting I was upstairs and in bed again. The plates came +that afternoon, the doctor had said by God he would have them that +afternoon and he did. Catherine Barkley showed them to me. They were in +red envelopes and she took them out of the envelopes and held them up to +the light and we both looked. + +“That’s your right leg,” she said, then put the plate back in the +envelope. “This is your left.” + +“Put them away,” I said, “and come over to the bed.” + +“I can’t,” she said. “I just brought them in for a second to show you.” + +She went out and I lay there. It was a hot afternoon and I was sick of +lying in bed. I sent the porter for the papers, all the papers he could +get. + +Before he came back three doctors came into the room. I have noticed +that doctors who fail in the practice of medicine have a tendency to +seek one another’s company and aid in consultation. A doctor who cannot +take out your appendix properly will recommend to you a doctor who will +be unable to remove your tonsils with success. These were three such +doctors. + +“This is the young man,” said the house doctor with the delicate hands. + +“How do you do?” said the tall gaunt doctor with the beard. The third +doctor, who carried the X-ray plates in their red envelopes, said +nothing. + +“Remove the dressings?” questioned the bearded doctor. + +“Certainly. Remove the dressings, please, nurse,” the house doctor said +to Miss Gage. Miss Gage removed the dressings. I looked down at the +legs. At the field hospital they had the look of not too freshly ground +hamburger steak. Now they were crusted and the knee was swollen and +discolored and the calf sunken but there was no pus. + +“Very clean,” said the house doctor. “Very clean and nice.” + +“Um,” said the doctor with the beard. The third doctor looked over the +house doctor’s shoulder. + +“Please move the knee,” said the bearded doctor. + +“I can’t.” + +“Test the articulation?” the bearded doctor questioned. He had a stripe +beside the three stars on his sleeve. That meant he was a first captain. + +“Certainly,” the house doctor said. Two of them took hold of my right +leg very gingerly and bent it. + +“That hurts,” I said. + +“Yes. Yes. A little further, doctor.” + +“That’s enough. That’s as far as it goes,” I said. + +“Partial articulation,” said the first captain. He straightened up. “May +I see the plates again, please, doctor?” The third doctor handed him one +of the plates. “No. The left leg, please.” + +“That is the left leg, doctor.” + +“You are right. I was looking from a different angle.” He returned the +plate. The other plate he examined for some time. “You see, doctor?” he +pointed to one of the foreign bodies which showed spherical and clear +against the light. They examined the plate for some time. + +“Only one thing I can say,” the first captain with the beard said. “It +is a question of time. Three months, six months probably.” + +“Certainly the synovial fluid must re-form.” + +“Certainly. It is a question of time. I could not conscientiously open a +knee like that before the projectile was encysted.” + +“I agree with you, doctor.” + +“Six months for what?” I asked. + +“Six months for the projectile to encyst before the knee can be opened +safely.” + +“I don’t believe it,” I said. + +“Do you want to keep your knee, young man?” + +“No,” I said. + +“What?” + +“I want it cut off,” I said, “so I can wear a hook on it.” + +“What do you mean? A hook?” + +“He is joking,” said the house doctor. He patted my shoulder very +delicately. “He wants to keep his knee. This is a very brave young man. +He has been proposed for the silver medal of valor.” + +“All my felicitations,” said the first captain. He shook my hand. “I can +only say that to be on the safe side you should wait at least six months +before opening such a knee. You are welcome of course to another +opinion.” + +“Thank you very much,” I said. “I value your opinion.” + +The first captain looked at his watch. + +“We must go,” he said. “All my best wishes.” + +“All my best wishes and many thanks,” I said. I shook hands with the +third doctor, “Capitano Varini—Tenente Enry,” and they all three went +out of the room. + +“Miss Gage,” I called. She came in. “Please ask the house doctor to come +back a minute.” + +He came in holding his cap and stood by the bed. “Did you wish to see +me?” + +“Yes. I can’t wait six months to be operated on. My God, doctor, did you +ever stay in bed six months?” + +“You won’t be in bed all the time. You must first have the wounds +exposed to the sun. Then afterward you can be on crutches.” + +“For six months and then have an operation?” + +“That is the safe way. The foreign bodies must be allowed to encyst and +the synovial fluid will re-form. Then it will be safe to open up the +knee.” + +“Do you really think yourself I will have to wait that long?” + +“That is the safe way.” + +“Who is that first captain?” + +“He is a very excellent surgeon of Milan.” + +“He’s a first captain, isn’t he?” + +“Yes, but he is an excellent surgeon.” + +“I don’t want my leg fooled with by a first captain. If he was any good +he would be made a major. I know what a first captain is, doctor.” + +“He is an excellent surgeon and I would rather have his judgment than +any surgeon I know.” + +“Could another surgeon see it?” + +“Certainly if you wish. But I would take Dr. Varella’s opinion myself.” + +“Could you ask another surgeon to come and see it?” + +“I will ask Valentini to come.” + +“Who is he?” + +“He is a surgeon of the Ospedale Maggiore.” + +“Good. I appreciate it very much. You understand, doctor, I couldn’t +stay in bed six months.” + +“You would not be in bed. You would first take a sun cure. Then you +could have light exercise. Then when it was encysted we would operate.” + +“But I can’t wait six months.” + +The doctor spread his delicate fingers on the cap he held and smiled. +“You are in such a hurry to get back to the front?” + +“Why not?” + +“It is very beautiful,” he said. “You are a noble young man.” He stooped +over and kissed me very delicately on the forehead. “I will send for +Valentini. Do not worry and excite yourself. Be a good boy.” + +“Will you have a drink?” I asked. + +“No thank you. I never drink alcohol.” + +“Just have one.” I rang for the porter to bring glasses. + +“No. No thank you. They are waiting for me.” + +“Good-by,” I said. + +“Good-by.” + + + +Two hours later Dr. Valentini came into the room. He was in a great +hurry and the points of his mustache stood straight up. He was a major, +his face was tanned and he laughed all the time. + +“How did you do it, this rotten thing?” he asked. “Let me see the +plates. Yes. Yes. That’s it. You look healthy as a goat. Who’s the +pretty girl? Is she your girl? I thought so. Isn’t this a bloody war? +How does that feel? You are a fine boy. I’ll make you better than new. +Does that hurt? You bet it hurts. How they love to hurt you, these +doctors. What have they done for you so far? Can’t that girl talk +Italian? She should learn. What a lovely girl. I could teach her. I will +be a patient here myself. No, but I will do all your maternity work +free. Does she understand that? She will make you a fine boy. A fine +blonde like she is. That’s fine. That’s all right. What a lovely girl. +Ask her if she eats supper with me. No I won’t take her away from you. +Thank you. Thank you very much, Miss. That’s all.” + +“That’s all I want to know.” He patted me on the shoulder. “Leave the +dressings off.” + +“Will you have a drink, Dr. Valentini?” + +“A drink? Certainly. I will have ten drinks. Where are they?” + +“In the armoire. Miss Barkley will get the bottle.” + +“Cheery oh. Cheery oh to you, Miss. What a lovely girl. I will bring you +better cognac than that.” He wiped his mustache. + +“When do you think it can be operated on?” + +“To-morrow morning. Not before. Your stomach must be emptied. You must +be washed out. I will see the old lady downstairs and leave +instructions. Good-by. I see you to-morrow. I’ll bring you better cognac +than that. You are very comfortable here. Good-by. Until to-morrow. Get +a good sleep. I’ll see you early.” He waved from the doorway, his +mustaches went straight up, his brown face was smiling. There was a star +in a box on his sleeve because he was a major. + + + + + CHAPTER XVI + +That night a bat flew into the room through the open door that led onto +the balcony and through which we watched the night over the roofs of the +town. It was dark in our room except for the small light of the night +over the town and the bat was not frightened but hunted in the room as +though he had been outside. We lay and watched him and I do not think he +saw us because we lay so still. After he went out we saw a searchlight +come on and watched the beam move across the sky and then go off and it +was dark again. A breeze came in the night and we heard the men of the +anti-aircraft gun on the next roof talking. It was cool and they were +putting on their capes. I worried in the night about some one coming up +but Catherine said they were all asleep. Once in the night we went to +sleep and when I woke she was not there but I heard her coming along the +hall and the door opened and she came back to the bed and said it was +all right she had been downstairs and they were all asleep. She had been +outside Miss Van Campen’s door and heard her breathing in her sleep. She +brought crackers and we ate them and drank some vermouth. We were very +hungry but she said that would all have to be gotten out of me in the +morning. I went to sleep again in the morning when it was light and when +I was awake I found she was gone again. She came in looking fresh and +lovely and sat on the bed and the sun rose while I had the thermometer +in my mouth and we smelled the dew on the roofs and then the coffee of +the men at the gun on the next roof. + +“I wish we could go for a walk,” Catherine said. “I’d wheel you if we +had a chair.” + +“How would I get into the chair?” + +“We’d do it.” + +“We could go out to the park and have breakfast outdoors.” I looked out +the open doorway. + +“What we’ll really do,” she said, “is get you ready for your friend Dr. +Valentini.” + +“I thought he was grand.” + +“I didn’t like him as much as you did. But I imagine he’s very good.” + +“Come back to bed, Catherine. Please,” I said. + +“I can’t. Didn’t we have a lovely night?” + +“And can you be on night duty to-night?” + +“I probably will. But you won’t want me.” + +“Yes, I will.” + +“No, you won’t. You’ve never been operated on. You don’t know how you’ll +be.” + +“I’ll be all right.” + +“You’ll be sick and I won’t be anything to you.” + +“Come back then now.” + +“No,” she said. “I have to do the chart, darling, and fix you up.” + +“You don’t really love me or you’d come back again.” + +“You’re such a silly boy.” She kissed me. “That’s all right for the +chart. Your temperature’s always normal. You’ve such a lovely +temperature.” + +“You’ve got a lovely everything.” + +“Oh no. You have the lovely temperature. I’m awfully proud of your +temperature.” + +“Maybe all our children will have fine temperatures.” + +“Our children will probably have beastly temperatures.” + +“What do you have to do to get me ready for Valentini?” + +“Not much. But quite unpleasant.” + +“I wish you didn’t have to do it.” + +“I don’t. I don’t want any one else to touch you. I’m silly. I get +furious if they touch you.” + +“Even Ferguson?” + +“Especially Ferguson and Gage and the other, what’s her name?” + +“Walker?” + +“That’s it. They’ve too many nurses here now. There must be some more +patients or they’ll send us away. They have four nurses now.” + +“Perhaps there’ll be some. They need that many nurses. It’s quite a big +hospital.” + +“I hope some will come. What would I do if they sent me away? They will +unless there are more patients.” + +“I’d go too.” + +“Don’t be silly. You can’t go yet. But get well quickly, darling, and we +will go somewhere.” + +“And then what?” + +“Maybe the war will be over. It can’t always go on.” + +“I’ll get well,” I said. “Valentini will fix me.” + +“He should with those mustaches. And, darling, when you’re going under +the ether just think about something else—not us. Because people get +very blabby under an anæsthetic.” + +“What should I think about?” + +“Anything. Anything but us. Think about your people. Or even any other +girl.” + +“No.” + +“Say your prayers then. That ought to create a splendid impression.” + +“Maybe I won’t talk.” + +“That’s true. Often people don’t talk.” + +“I won’t talk.” + +“Don’t brag, darling. Please don’t brag. You’re so sweet and you don’t +have to brag.” + +“I won’t talk a word.” + +“Now you’re bragging, darling. You know you don’t need to brag. Just +start your prayers or poetry or something when they tell you to breathe +deeply. You’ll be lovely that way and I’ll be so proud of you. I’m very +proud of you anyway. You have such a lovely temperature and you sleep +like a little boy with your arm around the pillow and think it’s me. Or +is it some other girl? Some fine Italian girl?” + +“It’s you.” + +“Of course it’s me. Oh I do love you and Valentini will make you a fine +leg. I’m glad I don’t have to watch it.” + +“And you’ll be on night duty to-night.” + +“Yes. But you won’t care.” + +“You wait and see.” + +“There, darling. Now you’re all clean inside and out. Tell me. How many +people have you ever loved?” + +“Nobody.” + +“Not me even?” + +“Yes, you.” + +“How many others really?” + +“None.” + +“How many have you—how do you say it?—stayed with?” + +“None.” + +“You’re lying to me.” + +“Yes.” + +“It’s all right. Keep right on lying to me. That’s what I want you to +do. Were they pretty?” + +“I never stayed with any one.” + +“That’s right. Were they very attractive?” + +“I don’t know anything about it.” + +“You’re just mine. That’s true and you’ve never belonged to any one +else. But I don’t care if you have. I’m not afraid of them. But don’t +tell me about them. When a man stays with a girl when does she say how +much it costs?” + +“I don’t know.” + +“Of course not. Does she say she loves him? Tell me that. I want to know +that.” + +“Yes. If he wants her to.” + +“Does he say he loves her? Tell me please. It’s important.” + +“He does if he wants to.” + +“But you never did? Really?” + +“No.” + +“Not really. Tell me the truth?” + +“No,” I lied. + +“You wouldn’t,” she said. “I knew you wouldn’t. Oh, I love you, +darling.” + +Outside the sun was up over the roofs and I could see the points of the +cathedral with the sunlight on them. I was clean inside and outside and +waiting for the doctor. + +“And that’s it?” Catherine said. “She says just what he wants her to?” + +“Not always.” + +“But I will. I’ll say just what you wish and I’ll do what you wish and +then you will never want any other girls, will you?” She looked at me +very happily. “I’ll do what you want and say what you want and then I’ll +be a great success, won’t I?” + +“Yes.” + +“What would you like me to do now that you’re all ready?” + +“Come to the bed again.” + +“All right. I’ll come.” + +“Oh, darling, darling, darling,” I said. + +“You see,” she said. “I do anything you want.” + +“You’re so lovely.” + +“I’m afraid I’m not very good at it yet.” + +“You’re lovely.” + +“I want what you want. There isn’t any me any more. Just what you want.” + +“You sweet.” + +“I’m good. Aren’t I good? You don’t want any other girls, do you?” + +“No.” + +“You see? I’m good. I do what you want.” + + + + + CHAPTER XVII + +When I was awake after the operation I had not been away. You do not go +away. They only choke you. It is not like dying it is just a chemical +choking so you do not feel, and afterward you might as well have been +drunk except that when you throw up nothing comes but bile and you do +not feel better afterward. I saw sandbags at the end of the bed. They +were on pipes that came out of the cast. After a while I saw Miss Gage +and she said, “How is it now?” + +“Better,” I said. + +“He did a wonderful job on your knee.” + +“How long did it take?” + +“Two hours and a half.” + +“Did I say anything silly?” + +“Not a thing. Don’t talk. Just be quiet.” + +I was sick and Catherine was right. It did not make any difference who +was on night duty. + + + +There were three other patients in the hospital now, a thin boy in the +Red Cross from Georgia with malaria, a nice boy, also thin, from New +York, with malaria and jaundice, and a fine boy who had tried to unscrew +the fuse-cap from a combination shrapnel and high explosive shell for a +souvenir. This was a shrapnel shell used by the Austrians in the +mountains with a nose-cap which went on after the burst and exploded on +contact. + +Catherine Barkley was greatly liked by the nurses because she would do +night duty indefinitely. She had quite a little work with the malaria +people, the boy who had unscrewed the nose-cap was a friend of ours and +never rang at night, unless it was necessary but between the times of +working we were together. I loved her very much and she loved me. I +slept in the daytime and we wrote notes during the day when we were +awake and sent them by Ferguson. Ferguson was a fine girl. I never +learned anything about her except that she had a brother in the +Fifty-Second Division and a brother in Mesopotamia and she was very good +to Catherine Barkley. + +“Will you come to our wedding, Fergy?” I said to her once. + +“You’ll never get married.” + +“We will.” + +“No you won’t.” + +“Why not?” + +“You’ll fight before you’ll marry.” + +“We never fight.” + +“You’ve time yet.” + +“We don’t fight.” + +“You’ll die then. Fight or die. That’s what people do. They don’t +marry.” + +I reached for her hand. “Don’t take hold of me,” she said. “I’m not +crying. Maybe you’ll be all right you two. But watch out you don’t get +her in trouble. You get her in trouble and I’ll kill you.” + +“I won’t get her in trouble.” + +“Well watch out then. I hope you’ll be all right. You have a good time.” + +“We have a fine time.” + +“Don’t fight then and don’t get her into trouble.” + +“I won’t.” + +“Mind you watch out. I don’t want her with any of these war babies.” + +“You’re a fine girl, Fergy.” + +“I’m not. Don’t try to flatter me. How does your leg feel?” + +“Fine.” + +“How is your head?” She touched the top of it with her fingers. It was +sensitive like a foot that had gone to sleep. “It’s never bothered me.” + +“A bump like that could make you crazy. It never bothers you?” + +“No.” + +“You’re a lucky young man. Have you the letter done? I’m going down.” + +“It’s here,” I said. + +“You ought to ask her not to do night duty for a while. She’s getting +very tired.” + +“All right. I will.” + +“I want to do it but she won’t let me. The others are glad to let her +have it. You might give her just a little rest.” + +“All right.” + +“Miss Van Campen spoke about you sleeping all the forenoons.” + +“She would.” + +“It would be better if you let her stay off nights a little while.” + +“I want her to.” + +“You do not. But if you would make her I’d respect you for it.” + +“I’ll make her.” + +“I don’t believe it.” She took the note and went out. I rang the bell +and in a little while Miss Gage came in. + +“What’s the matter?” + +“I just wanted to talk to you. Don’t you think Miss Barkley ought to go +off night duty for a while? She looks awfully tired. Why does she stay +on so long?” + +Miss Gage looked at me. + +“I’m a friend of yours,” she said. “You don’t have to talk to me like +that.” + +“What do you mean?” + +“Don’t be silly. Was that all you wanted?” + +“Do you want a vermouth?” + +“All right. Then I have to go.” She got out the bottle from the armoire +and brought a glass. + +“You take the glass,” I said. “I’ll drink out of the bottle.” + +“Here’s to you,” said Miss Gage. + +“What did Van Campen say about me sleeping late in the mornings?” + +“She just jawed about it. She calls you our privileged patient.” + +“To hell with her.” + +“She isn’t mean,” Miss Gage said. “She’s just old and cranky. She never +liked you.” + +“No.” + +“Well, I do. And I’m your friend. Don’t forget that.” + +“You’re awfully damned nice.” + +“No. I know who you think is nice. But I’m your friend. How does your +leg feel?” + +“Fine.” + +“I’ll bring some cold mineral water to pour over it. It must itch under +the cast. It’s hot outside.” + +“You’re awful nice.” + +“Does it itch much?” + +“No. It’s fine.” + +“I’ll fix those sandbags better.” She leaned over. “I’m your friend.” + +“I know you are.” + +“No you don’t. But you will some day.” + +Catherine Barkley took three nights off night duty and then she came +back on again. It was as though we met again after each of us had been +away on a long journey. + + + + + CHAPTER XVIII + +We had a lovely time that summer. When I could go out we rode in a +carriage in the park. I remember the carriage, the horse going slowly, +and up ahead the back of the driver with his varnished high hat, and +Catherine Barkley sitting beside me. If we let our hands touch, just the +side of my hand touching hers, we were excited. Afterward when I could +get around on crutches we went to dinner at Biffi’s or the Gran Italia +and sat at the tables outside on the floor of the galleria. The waiters +came in and out and there were people going by and candles with shades +on the tablecloths and after we decided that we liked the Gran Italia +best, George, the head-waiter, saved us a table. He was a fine waiter +and we let him order the meal while we looked at the people, and the +great galleria in the dusk, and each other. We drank dry white capri +iced in a bucket; although we tried many of the other wines, fresa, +barbera and the sweet white wines. They had no wine waiter because of +the war and George would smile ashamedly when I asked about wines like +fresa. + +“If you imagine a country that makes a wine because it tastes like +strawberries,” he said. + +“Why shouldn’t it?” Catherine asked. “It sounds splendid.” + +“You try it, lady,” said George, “if you want to. But let me bring a +little bottle of margaux for the Tenente.” + +“I’ll try it too, George.” + +“Sir, I can’t recommend you to. It doesn’t even taste like +strawberries.” + +“It might,” said Catherine. “It would be wonderful if it did.” + +“I’ll bring it,” said George, “and when the Lady is satisfied I’ll take +it away.” + +It was not much of a wine. As he said, it did not even taste like +strawberries. We went back to capri. One evening I was short of money +and George loaned me a hundred lire. “That’s all right, Tenente,” he +said. “I know how it is. I know how a man gets short. If you or the lady +need money I’ve always got money.” + +After dinner we walked through the galleria, past the other restaurants +and the shops with their steel shutters down, and stopped at the little +place where they sold sandwiches; ham and lettuce sandwiches and anchovy +sandwiches made of very tiny brown glazed rolls and only about as long +as your finger. They were to eat in the night when we were hungry. Then +we got into an open carriage outside the galleria in front of the +cathedral and rode to the hospital. At the door of the hospital the +porter came out to help with the crutches. I paid the driver, and then +we rode upstairs in the elevator. Catherine got off at the lower floor +where the nurses lived and I went on up and went down the hall on +crutches to my room; sometimes I undressed and got into bed and +sometimes I sat out on the balcony with my leg up on another chair and +watched the swallows over the roofs and waited for Catherine. When she +came upstairs it was as though she had been away on a long trip and I +went along the hall with her on the crutches and carried the basins and +waited outside the doors, or went in with her; it depending on whether +they were friends of ours or not, and when she had done all there was to +be done we sat out on the balcony outside my room. Afterward I went to +bed and when they were all asleep and she was sure they would not call +she came in. I loved to take her hair down and she sat on the bed and +kept very still, except suddenly she would dip down to kiss me while I +was doing it, and I would take out the pins and lay them on the sheet +and it would be loose and I would watch her while she kept very still +and then take out the last two pins and it would all come down and she +would drop her head and we would both be inside of it, and it was the +feeling of inside a tent or behind a falls. + +She had wonderfully beautiful hair and I would lie sometimes and watch +her twisting it up in the light that came in the open door and it shone +even in the night as water shines sometimes just before it is really +daylight. She had a lovely face and body and lovely smooth skin too. We +would be lying together and I would touch her cheeks and her forehead +and under her eyes and her chin and throat with the tips of my fingers +and say, “Smooth as piano keys,” and she would stroke my chin with her +finger and say, “Smooth as emery paper and very hard on piano keys.” + +“Is it rough?” + +“No, darling. I was just making fun of you.” + +It was lovely in the nights and if we could only touch each other we +were happy. Besides all the big times we had many small ways of making +love and we tried putting thoughts in the other one’s head while we were +in different rooms. It seemed to work sometimes but that was probably +because we were thinking the same thing anyway. + +We said to each other that we were married the first day she had come to +the hospital and we counted months from our wedding day. I wanted to be +really married but Catherine said that if we were they would send her +away and if we merely started on the formalities they would watch her +and would break us up. We would have to be married under Italian law and +the formalities were terrific. I wanted us to be married really because +I worried about having a child if I thought about it, but we pretended +to ourselves we were married and did not worry much and I suppose I +enjoyed not being married, really. I know one night we talked about it +and Catherine said, “But, darling, they’d send me away.” + +“Maybe they wouldn’t.” + +“They would. They’d send me home and then we would be apart until after +the war.” + +“I’d come on leave.” + +“You couldn’t get to Scotland and back on a leave. Besides, I won’t +leave you. What good would it do to marry now? We’re really married. I +couldn’t be any more married.” + +“I only wanted to for you.” + +“There isn’t any me. I’m you. Don’t make up a separate me.” + +“I thought girls always wanted to be married.” + +“They do. But, darling, I am married. I’m married to you. Don’t I make +you a good wife?” + +“You’re a lovely wife.” + +“You see, darling, I had one experience of waiting to be married.” + +“I don’t want to hear about it.” + +“You know I don’t love any one but you. You shouldn’t mind because some +one else loved me.” + +“I do.” + +“You shouldn’t be jealous of some one who’s dead when you have +everything.” + +“No, but I don’t want to hear about it.” + +“Poor darling. And I know you’ve been with all kinds of girls and it +doesn’t matter to me.” + +“Couldn’t we be married privately some way? Then if anything happened to +me or if you had a child.” + +“There’s no way to be married except by church or state. We are married +privately. You see, darling, it would mean everything to me if I had any +religion. But I haven’t any religion.” + +“You gave me the Saint Anthony.” + +“That was for luck. Some one gave it to me.” + +“Then nothing worries you?” + +“Only being sent away from you. You’re my religion. You’re all I’ve +got.” + +“All right. But I’ll marry you the day you say.” + +“Don’t talk as though you had to make an honest woman of me, darling. +I’m a very honest woman. You can’t be ashamed of something if you’re +only happy and proud of it. Aren’t you happy?” + +“But you won’t ever leave me for some one else.” + +“No, darling. I won’t ever leave you for some one else. I suppose all +sorts of dreadful things will happen to us. But you don’t have to worry +about that.” + +“I don’t. But I love you so much and you did love some one else before.” + +“And what happened to him?” + +“He died.” + +“Yes and if he hadn’t I wouldn’t have met you. I’m not unfaithful, +darling. I’ve plenty of faults but I’m very faithful. You’ll be sick of +me I’ll be so faithful.” + +“I’ll have to go back to the front pretty soon.” + +“We won’t think about that until you go. You see I’m happy, darling, and +we have a lovely time. I haven’t been happy for a long time and when I +met you perhaps I was nearly crazy. Perhaps I was crazy. But now we’re +happy and we love each other. Do let’s please just be happy. You are +happy, aren’t you? Is there anything I do you don’t like? Can I do +anything to please you? Would you like me to take down my hair? Do you +want to play?” + +“Yes and come to bed.” + +“All right. I’ll go and see the patients first.” + + + + + CHAPTER XIX + +The summer went that way. I do not remember much about the days, except +that they were hot and that there were many victories in the papers. I +was very healthy and my legs healed quickly so that it was not very long +after I was first on crutches before I was through with them and walking +with a cane. Then I started treatments at the Ospedale Maggiore for +bending the knees, mechanical treatments, baking in a box of mirrors +with violet rays, massage, and baths. I went over there afternoons and +afterward stopped at the café and had a drink and read the papers. I did +not roam around the town; but wanted to get home to the hospital from +the café. All I wanted was to see Catherine. The rest of the time I was +glad to kill. Mostly I slept in the mornings, and in the afternoons, +sometimes, I went to the races, and late to the mechano-therapy +treatments. Sometimes I stopped in at the Anglo-American Club and sat in +a deep leather-cushioned chair in front of the window and read the +magazines. They would not let us go out together when I was off crutches +because it was unseemly for a nurse to be seen unchaperoned with a +patient who did not look as though he needed attendance, so we were not +together much in the afternoons. Although sometimes we could go out to +dinner if Ferguson went along. Miss Van Campen had accepted the status +that we were great friends because she got a great amount of work out of +Catherine. She thought Catherine came from very good people and that +prejudiced her in her favor finally. Miss Van Campen admired family very +much and came from an excellent family herself. The hospital was quite +busy, too, and that kept her occupied. It was a hot summer and I knew +many people in Milan but always was anxious to get back home to the +hospital as soon as the afternoon was over. At the front they were +advancing on the Carso, they had taken Kuk across from Plava and were +taking the Bainsizza plateau. The West front did not sound so good. It +looked as though the war were going on for a long time. We were in the +war now but I thought it would take a year to get any great amount of +troops over and train them for combat. Next year would be a bad year, or +a good year maybe. The Italians were using up an awful amount of men. I +did not see how it could go on. Even if they took all the Bainsizza and +Monte San Gabriele there were plenty of mountains beyond for the +Austrians. I had seen them. All the highest mountains were beyond. On +the Carso they were going forward but there were marshes and swamps down +by the sea. Napoleon would have whipped the Austrians on the plains. He +never would have fought them in the mountains. He would have let them +come down and whipped them around Verona. Still nobody was whipping any +one on the Western front. Perhaps wars weren’t won any more. Maybe they +went on forever. Maybe it was another Hundred Years’ War. I put the +paper back on the rack and left the club. I went down the steps +carefully and walked up the Via Manzoni. Outside the Gran Hotel I met +old Meyers and his wife getting out of a carriage. They were coming back +from the races. She was a big-busted woman in black satin. He was short +and old, with a white mustache and walked flat-footed with a cane. + +“How do you do? How do you do?” She shook hands. “Hello,” said Meyers. + +“How were the races?” + +“Fine. They were just lovely. I had three winners.” + +“How did you do?” I asked Meyers. + +“All right. I had a winner.” + +“I never know how he does,” Mrs. Meyers said. “He never tells me.” + +“I do all right,” Meyers said. He was being cordial. “You ought to come +out.” While he talked you had the impression that he was not looking at +you or that he mistook you for some one else. + +“I will,” I said. + +“I’m coming up to the hospital to see you,” Mrs. Meyers said. “I have +some things for my boys. You’re all my boys. You certainly are my dear +boys.” + +“They’ll be glad to see you.” + +“Those dear boys. You too. You’re one of my boys.” + +“I have to get back,” I said. + +“You give my love to all those dear boys. I’ve got lots of things to +bring. I’ve some fine Marsala and cakes.” + +“Good-by,” I said. “They’ll be awfully glad to see you.” + +“Good-by,” said Meyers. “You come around to the galleria. You know where +my table is. We’re all there every afternoon.” I went on up the street. +I wanted to buy something at the Cova to take to Catherine. Inside, at +the Cova, I bought a box of chocolate and while the girl wrapped it up I +walked over to the bar. There were a couple of British and some +aviators. I had a martini alone, paid for it, picked up the box of +chocolate at the outside counter and walked on home toward the hospital. +Outside the little bar up the street from the Scala there were some +people I knew, a vice-consul, two fellows who studied singing, and +Ettore Moretti, an Italian from San Francisco who was in the Italian +army. I had a drink with them. One of the singers was named Ralph +Simmons, and he was singing under the name of Enrico DelCredo. I never +knew how well he could sing but he was always on the point of something +very big happening. He was fat and looked shopworn around the nose and +mouth as though he had hayfever. He had come back from singing in +Piacenza. He had sung Tosca and it had been wonderful. + +“Of course you’ve never heard me sing,” he said. + +“When will you sing here?” + +“I’ll be at the Scala in the fall.” + +“I’ll bet they throw the benches at you,” Ettore said. “Did you hear how +they threw the benches at him in Modena?” + +“It’s a damned lie.” + +“They threw the benches at him,” Ettore said. “I was there. I threw six +benches myself.” + +“You’re just a wop from Frisco.” + +“He can’t pronounce Italian,” Ettore said. “Everywhere he goes they +throw the benches at him.” + +“Piacenza’s the toughest house to sing in the north of Italy,” the other +tenor said. “Believe me that’s a tough little house to sing.” This +tenor’s name was Edgar Saunders, and he sang under the name of Edouardo +Giovanni. + +“I’d like to be there to see them throw the benches at you,” Ettore +said. “You can’t sing Italian.” + +“He’s a nut,” said Edgar Saunders. “All he knows how to say is throw +benches.” + +“That’s all they know how to do when you two sing,” Ettore said. “Then +when you go to America you’ll tell about your triumphs at the Scala. +They wouldn’t let you get by the first note at the Scala.” + +“I’ll sing at the Scala,” Simmons said. “I’m going to sing Tosca in +October.” + +“We’ll go, won’t we, Mac?” Ettore said to the vice-consul. “They’ll need +somebody to protect them.” + +“Maybe the American army will be there to protect them,” the vice-consul +said. “Do you want another drink, Simmons? You want a drink, Saunders?” + +“All right,” said Saunders. + +“I hear you’re going to get the silver medal,” Ettore said to me. “What +kind of citation you going to get?” + +“I don’t know. I don’t know I’m going to get it.” + +“You’re going to get it. Oh boy, the girls at the Cova will think you’re +fine then. They’ll all think you killed two hundred Austrians or +captured a whole trench by yourself. Believe me, I got to work for my +decorations.” + +“How many have you got, Ettore?” asked the vice-consul. + +“He’s got everything,” Simmons said. “He’s the boy they’re running the +war for.” + +“I’ve got the bronze twice and three silver medals,” said Ettore. “But +the papers on only one have come through.” + +“What’s the matter with the others?” asked Simmons. + +“The action wasn’t successful,” said Ettore. “When the action isn’t +successful they hold up all the medals.” + +“How many times have you been wounded, Ettore?” + +“Three times bad. I got three wound stripes. See?” He pulled his sleeve +around. The stripes were parallel silver lines on a black background +sewed to the cloth of the sleeve about eight inches below the shoulder. + +“You got one too,” Ettore said to me. “Believe me they’re fine to have. +I’d rather have them than medals. Believe me, boy, when you get three +you’ve got something. You only get one for a wound that puts you three +months in the hospital.” + +“Where were you wounded, Ettore?” asked the vice-consul. + +Ettore pulled up his sleeve. “Here,” he showed the deep smooth red scar. +“Here on my leg. I can’t show you that because I got puttees on; and in +the foot. There’s dead bone in my foot that stinks right now. Every +morning I take new little pieces out and it stinks all the time.” + +“What hit you?” asked Simmons. + +“A hand-grenade. One of those potato mashers. It just blew the whole +side of my foot off. You know those potato mashers?” He turned to me. + +“Sure.” + +“I saw the son of a bitch throw it,” Ettore said. “It knocked me down +and I thought I was dead all right but those damn potato mashers haven’t +got anything in them. I shot the son of a bitch with my rifle. I always +carry a rifle so they can’t tell I’m an officer.” + +“How did he look?” asked Simmons. + +“That was the only one he had,” Ettore said. “I don’t know why he threw +it. I guess he always wanted to throw one. He never saw any real +fighting probably. I shot the son of a bitch all right.” + +“How did he look when you shot him?” Simmons asked. + +“Hell, how should I know,” said Ettore. “I shot him in the belly. I was +afraid I’d miss him if I shot him in the head.” + +“How long have you been an officer, Ettore?” I asked. + +“Two years. I’m going to be a captain. How long have you been a +lieutenant?” + +“Going on three years.” + +“You can’t be a captain because you don’t know the Italian language well +enough,” Ettore said. “You can talk but you can’t read and write well +enough. You got to have an education to be a captain. Why don’t you go +in the American army?” + +“Maybe I will.” + +“I wish to God I could. Oh, boy, how much does a captain get, Mac?” + +“I don’t know exactly. Around two hundred and fifty dollars, I think.” + +“Jesus Christ what I could do with two hundred and fifty dollars. You +better get in the American army quick, Fred. See if you can’t get me +in.” + +“All right.” + +“I can command a company in Italian. I could learn it in English easy.” + +“You’d be a general,” said Simmons. + +“No, I don’t know enough to be a general. A general’s got to know a hell +of a lot. You guys think there ain’t anything to war. You ain’t got +brains enough to be a second-class corporal.” + +“Thank God I don’t have to be,” Simmons said. + +“Maybe you will if they round up all you slackers. Oh, boy, I’d like to +have you two in my platoon. Mac too. I’d make you my orderly, Mac.” + +“You’re a great boy, Ettore,” Mac said. “But I’m afraid you’re a +militarist.” + +“I’ll be a colonel before the war’s over,” Ettore said. + +“If they don’t kill you.” + +“They won’t kill me.” He touched the stars at his collar with his thumb +and forefinger. “See me do that? We always touch our stars if anybody +mentions getting killed.” + +“Let’s go, Sim,” said Saunders standing up. + +“All right.” + +“So long,” I said. “I have to go too.” It was a quarter to six by the +clock inside the bar. “Ciaou, Ettore.” + +“Ciaou, Fred,” said Ettore. “That’s pretty fine you’re going to get the +silver medal.” + +“I don’t know I’ll get it.” + +“You’ll get it all right, Fred. I heard you were going to get it all +right.” + +“Well, so long,” I said. “Keep out of trouble, Ettore.” + +“Don’t worry about me. I don’t drink and I don’t run around. I’m no +boozer and whorehound. I know what’s good for me.” + +“So long,” I said. “I’m glad you’re going to be promoted captain.” + +“I don’t have to wait to be promoted. I’m going to be a captain for +merit of war. You know. Three stars with the crossed swords and crown +above. That’s me.” + +“Good luck.” + +“Good luck. When you going back to the front?” + +“Pretty soon.” + +“Well, I’ll see you around.” + +“So long.” + +“So long. Don’t take any bad nickels.” + +I walked on down a back street that led to a cross-cut to the hospital. +Ettore was twenty-three. He had been brought up by an uncle in San +Francisco and was visiting his father and mother in Torino when war was +declared. He had a sister, who had been sent to America with him at the +same time to live with the uncle, who would graduate from normal school +this year. He was a legitimate hero who bored every one he met. +Catherine could not stand him. + +“We have heroes too,” she said. “But usually, darling, they’re much +quieter.” + +“I don’t mind him.” + +“I wouldn’t mind him if he wasn’t so conceited and didn’t bore me, and +bore me, and bore me.” + +“He bores me.” + +“You’re sweet to say so, darling. But you don’t need to. You can picture +him at the front and you know he’s useful but he’s so much the type of +boy I don’t care for.” + +“I know.” + +“You’re awfully sweet to know, and I try and like him but he’s a +dreadful, dreadful boy really.” + +“He said this afternoon he was going to be a captain.” + +“I’m glad,” said Catherine. “That should please him.” + +“Wouldn’t you like me to have some more exalted rank?” + +“No, darling. I only want you to have enough rank so that we’re admitted +to the better restaurants.” + +“That’s just the rank I have.” + +“You have a splendid rank. I don’t want you to have any more rank. It +might go to your head. Oh, darling, I’m awfully glad you’re not +conceited. I’d have married you even if you were conceited but it’s very +restful to have a husband who’s not conceited.” + +We were talking softly out on the balcony. The moon was supposed to rise +but there was a mist over the town and it did not come up and in a +little while it started to drizzle and we came in. Outside the mist +turned to rain and in a little while it was raining hard and we heard it +drumming on the roof. I got up and stood at the door to see if it was +raining in but it wasn’t, so I left the door open. + +“Who else did you see?” Catherine asked. + +“Mr. and Mrs. Meyers.” + +“They’re a strange lot.” + +“He’s supposed to have been in the penitentiary at home. They let him +out to die.” + +“And he lived happily in Milan forever after.” + +“I don’t know how happily.” + +“Happily enough after jail I should think.” + +“She’s bringing some things here.” + +“She brings splendid things. Were you her dear boy?” + +“One of them.” + +“You are all her dear boys,” Catherine said. “She prefers the dear boys. +Listen to it rain.” + +“It’s raining hard.” + +“And you’ll always love me, won’t you?” + +“Yes.” + +“And the rain won’t make any difference?” + +“No.” + +“That’s good. Because I’m afraid of the rain.” + +“Why?” I was sleepy. Outside the rain was falling steadily. + +“I don’t know, darling. I’ve always been afraid of the rain.” + +“I like it.” + +“I like to walk in it. But it’s very hard on loving.” + +“I’ll love you always.” + +“I’ll love you in the rain and in the snow and in the hail and—what +else is there?” + +“I don’t know. I guess I’m sleepy.” + +“Go to sleep, darling, and I’ll love you no matter how it is.” + +“You’re not really afraid of the rain are you?” + +“Not when I’m with you.” + +“Why are you afraid of it?” + +“I don’t know.” + +“Tell me.” + +“Don’t make me.” + +“Tell me.” + +“No.” + +“Tell me.” + +“All right. I’m afraid of the rain because sometimes I see me dead in +it.” + +“No.” + +“And sometimes I see you dead in it.” + +“That’s more likely.” + +“No it’s not, darling. Because I can keep you safe. I know I can. But +nobody can help themselves.” + +“Please stop it. I don’t want you to get Scotch and crazy to-night. We +won’t be together much longer.” + +“No, but I am Scotch and crazy. But I’ll stop it. It’s all nonsense.” + +“Yes it’s all nonsense.” + +“It’s all nonsense. It’s only nonsense. I’m not afraid of the rain. I’m +not afraid of the rain. Oh, oh, God, I wish I wasn’t.” She was crying. I +comforted her and she stopped crying. But outside it kept on raining. + + + + + CHAPTER XX + +One day in the afternoon we went to the races. Ferguson went too and +Crowell Rodgers, the boy who had been wounded in the eyes by the +explosion of the shell nose-cap. The girls dressed to go after lunch +while Crowell and I sat on the bed in his room and read the past +performances of the horses and the predictions in the racing paper. +Crowell’s head was bandaged and he did not care much about these races +but read the racing paper constantly and kept track of all the horses +for something to do. He said the horses were a terrible lot but they +were all the horses we had. Old Meyers liked him and gave him tips. +Meyers won on nearly every race but disliked to give tips because it +brought down the prices. The racing was very crooked. Men who had been +ruled off the turf everywhere else were racing in Italy. Meyers’ +information was good but I hated to ask him because sometimes he did not +answer, and always you could see it hurt him to tell you, but he felt +obligated to tell us for some reason and he hated less to tell Crowell. +Crowell’s eyes had been hurt, one was hurt badly, and Meyers had trouble +with his eyes and so he liked Crowell. Meyers never told his wife what +horses he was playing and she won or lost, mostly lost, and talked all +the time. + +We four drove out to San Siro in an open carriage. It was a lovely day +and we drove out through the park and out along the tramway and out of +town where the road was dusty. There were villas with iron fences and +big overgrown gardens and ditches with water flowing and green vegetable +gardens with dust on the leaves. We could look across the plain and see +farmhouses and the rich green farms with their irrigation ditches and +the mountains to the north. There were many carriages going into the +race track and the men at the gate let us in without cards because we +were in uniform. We left the carriage, bought programmes, and walked +across the infield and then across the smooth thick turf of the course +to the paddock. The grand stands were old and made of wood and the +betting booths were under the stands and in a row out near the stables. +There was a crowd of soldiers along the fence in the infield. The +paddock was fairly well filled with people and they were walking the +horses around in a ring under the trees behind the grand-stand. We saw +people we knew and got chairs for Ferguson and Catherine and watched the +horses. + +They went around, one after the other, their heads down, the grooms +leading them. One horse, a purplish black, Crowell swore was dyed that +color. We watched him and it seemed possible. He had only come out just +before the bell rang to saddle. We looked him up in the programme from +the number on the groom’s arm and it was listed a black gelding named +Japalac. The race was for horses that had never won a race worth one +thousand lire or more. Catherine was sure his color had been changed. +Ferguson said she could not tell. I thought he looked suspicious. We all +agreed we ought to back him and pooled one hundred lire. The odds sheets +showed he would pay thirty-five to one. Crowell went over and bought the +tickets while we watched the jockeys ride around once more and then go +out under the trees to the track and gallop slowly up to the turn where +the start was to be. + +We went up in the grand-stand to watch the race. They had no elastic +barrier at San Siro then and the starter lined up all the horses, they +looked very small way up the track, and then sent them off with a crack +of his long whip. They came past us with the black horse well in front +and on the turn he was running away from the others. I watched them on +the far side with the glasses and saw the jockey fighting to hold him in +but he could not hold him and when they came around the turn and into +the stretch the black horse was fifteen lengths ahead of the others. He +went way on up and around the turn after the finish. + +“Isn’t it wonderful,” Catherine said. “We’ll have over three thousand +lire. He must be a splendid horse.” + +“I hope his color doesn’t run,” Crowell said, “before they pay off.” + +“He was really a lovely horse,” Catherine said. “I wonder if Mr. Meyers +backed him.” + +“Did you have the winner?” I called to Meyers. He nodded. + +“I didn’t,” Mrs. Meyers said. “Who did you children bet on?” + +“Japalac.” + +“Really? He’s thirty-five to one!” + +“We liked his color.” + +“I didn’t. I thought he looked seedy. They told me not to back him.” + +“He won’t pay much,” Meyers said. + +“He’s marked thirty-five to one in the quotes,” I said. + +“He won’t pay much. At the last minute,” Meyers said, “they put a lot of +money on him.” + +“Who?” + +“Kempton and the boys. You’ll see. He won’t pay two to one.” + +“Then we won’t get three thousand lire,” Catherine said. “I don’t like +this crooked racing!” + +“We’ll get two hundred lire.” + +“That’s nothing. That doesn’t do us any good. I thought we were going to +get three thousand.” + +“It’s crooked and disgusting,” Ferguson said. + +“Of course,” said Catherine, “if it hadn’t been crooked we’d never have +backed him at all. But I would have liked the three thousand lire.” + +“Let’s go down and get a drink and see what they pay,” Crowell said. We +went out to where they posted the numbers and the bell rang to pay off +and they put up 18.50 after Japalac to win. That meant he paid less than +even money on a ten-lira bet. + +We went to the bar under the grand stand and had a whiskey and soda +apiece. We ran into a couple of Italians we knew and McAdams, the +vice-consul, and they came up with us when we joined the girls. The +Italians were full of manners and McAdams talked to Catherine while we +went down to bet again. Mr. Meyers was standing near the pari-mutual. + +“Ask him what he played,” I said to Crowell. + +“What are you on, Mr. Meyers?” Crowell asked. Meyers took out his +programme and pointed to the number five with his pencil. + +“Do you mind if we play him too?” Crowell asked. + +“Go ahead. Go ahead. But don’t tell my wife I gave it to you.” + +“Will you have a drink?” I asked. + +“No thanks. I never drink.” + +We put a hundred lire on number five to win and a hundred to place and +then had another whiskey and soda apiece. I was feeling very good and we +picked up a couple more Italians, who each had a drink with us, and went +back to the girls. These Italians were also very mannered and matched +manners with the two we had collected before. In a little while no one +could sit down. I gave the tickets to Catherine. + +“What horse is it?” + +“I don’t know. Mr. Meyers’ choice.” + +“Don’t you even know the name?” + +“No. You can find it on the programme. Number five I think.” + +“You have touching faith,” she said. The number five won but did not pay +anything. Mr. Meyers was angry. + +“You have to put up two hundred lire to make twenty,” he said. “Twelve +lire for ten. It’s not worth it. My wife lost twenty lire.” + +“I’ll go down with you,” Catherine said to me. The Italians all stood +up. We went downstairs and out to the paddock. + +“Do you like this?” Catherine asked. + +“Yes. I guess I do.” + +“It’s all right, I suppose,” she said. “But, darling, I can’t stand to +see so many people.” + +“We don’t see many.” + +“No. But those Meyers and the man from the bank with his wife and +daughters——” + +“He cashes my sight drafts,” I said. + +“Yes but some one else would if he didn’t. Those last four boys were +awful.” + +“We can stay out here and watch the race from the fence.” + +“That will be lovely. And, darling, let’s back a horse we’ve never heard +of and that Mr. Meyers won’t be backing.” + +“All right.” + +We backed a horse named Light For Me that finished fourth in a field of +five. We leaned on the fence and watched the horses go by, their hoofs +thudding as they went past, and saw the mountains off in the distance +and Milan beyond the trees and the fields. + +“I feel so much cleaner,” Catherine said. The horses were coming back, +through the gate, wet and sweating, the jockeys quieting them and riding +up to dismount under the trees. + +“Wouldn’t you like a drink? We could have one out here and see the +horses.” + +“I’ll get them,” I said. + +“The boy will bring them,” Catherine said. She put her hand up and the +boy came out from the Pagoda bar beside the stables. We sat down at a +round iron table. + +“Don’t you like it better when we’re alone?” + +“Yes,” I said. + +“I felt very lonely when they were all there.” + +“It’s grand here,” I said. + +“Yes. It’s really a pretty course.” + +“It’s nice.” + +“Don’t let me spoil your fun, darling. I’ll go back whenever you want.” + +“No,” I said. “We’ll stay here and have our drink. Then we’ll go down +and stand at the water jump for the steeplechase.” + +“You’re awfully good to me,” she said. + +After we had been alone awhile we were glad to see the others again. We +had a good time. + + + + + CHAPTER XXI + +In September the first cool nights came, then the days were cool and the +leaves on the trees in the park began to turn color and we knew the +summer was gone. The fighting at the front went very badly and they +could not take San Gabriele. The fighting on the Bainsizza plateau was +over and by the middle of the month the fighting for San Gabriele was +about over too. They could not take it. Ettore was gone back to the +front. The horses were gone to Rome and there was no more racing. +Crowell had gone to Rome too, to be sent back to America. There were +riots twice in the town against the war and bad rioting in Turin. A +British major at the club told me the Italians had lost one hundred and +fifty thousand men on the Bainsizza plateau and on San Gabriele. He said +they had lost forty thousand on the Carso besides. We had a drink and he +talked. He said the fighting was over for the year down here and that +the Italians had bitten off more than they could chew. He said the +offensive in Flanders was going to the bad. If they killed men as they +did this fall the Allies would be cooked in another year. He said we +were all cooked but we were all right as long as we did not know it. We +were all cooked. The thing was not to recognize it. The last country to +realize they were cooked would win the war. We had another drink. Was I +on somebody’s staff? No. He was. It was all balls. We were alone in the +club sitting back in one of the big leather sofas. His boots were +smoothly polished dull leather. They were beautiful boots. He said it +was all balls. They thought only in divisions and man-power. They all +squabbled about divisions and only killed them when they got them. They +were all cooked. The Germans won the victories. By God they were +soldiers. The old Hun was a soldier. But they were cooked too. We were +all cooked. I asked about Russia. He said they were cooked already. I’d +soon see they were cooked. Then the Austrians were cooked too. If they +got some Hun divisions they could do it. Did he think they would attack +this fall? Of course they would. The Italians were cooked. Everybody +knew they were cooked. The old Hun would come down through the Trentino +and cut the railway at Vicenza and then where would the Italians be? +They tried that in ’sixteen, I said. Not with Germans. Yes, I said. But +they probably wouldn’t do that, he said. It was too simple. They’d try +something complicated and get royally cooked. I had to go, I said. I had +to get back to the hospital. “Good-by,” he said. Then cheerily, “Every +sort of luck!” There was a great contrast between his world pessimism +and personal cheeriness. + +I stopped at a barber shop and was shaved and went home to the hospital. +My leg was as well as it would get for a long time. I had been up for +examination three days before. There were still some treatments to take +before my course at the Ospedale Maggiore was finished and I walked +along the side street practising not limping. An old man was cutting +silhouettes under an arcade. I stopped to watch him. Two girls were +posing and he cut their silhouettes together, snipping very fast and +looking at them, his head on one side. The girls were giggling. He +showed me the silhouettes before he pasted them on white paper and +handed them to the girls. + +“They’re beautiful,” he said. “How about you, Tenente?” + +The girls went away looking at their silhouettes and laughing. They were +nice-looking girls. One of them worked in the wine shop across from the +hospital. + +“All right,” I said. + +“Take your cap off.” + +“No. With it on.” + +“It will not be so beautiful,” the old man said. “But,” he brightened, +“it will be more military.” + +He snipped away at the black paper, then separated the two thicknesses +and pasted the profiles on a card and handed them to me. + +“How much?” + +“That’s all right.” He waved his hand. “I just made them for you.” + +“Please.” I brought out some coppers. “For pleasure.” + +“No. I did them for a pleasure. Give them to your girl.” + +“Many thanks until we meet.” + +“Until I see thee.” + +I went on to the hospital. There were some letters, an official one, and +some others. I was to have three weeks’ convalescent leave and then +return to the front. I read it over carefully. Well, that was that. The +convalescent leave started October fourth when my course was finished. +Three weeks was twenty-one days. That made October twenty-fifth. I told +them I would not be in and went to the restaurant a little way up the +street from the hospital for supper and read my letters and the +_Corriere Della Sera_ at the table. There was a letter from my +grandfather, containing family news, patriotic encouragement, a draft +for two hundred dollars, and a few clippings; a dull letter from the +priest at our mess, a letter from a man I knew who was flying with the +French and had gotten in with a wild gang and was telling about it, and +a note from Rinaldi asking me how long I was going to skulk in Milano +and what was all the news? He wanted me to bring him phonograph records +and enclosed a list. I drank a small bottle of chianti with the meal, +had a coffee afterward with a glass of cognac, finished the paper, put +my letters in my pocket, left the paper on the table with the tip and +went out. In my room at the hospital I undressed, put on pajamas and a +dressing-gown, pulled down the curtains on the door that opened onto the +balcony and sitting up in bed read Boston papers from a pile Mrs. Meyers +had left for her boys at the hospital. The Chicago White Sox were +winning the American League pennant and the New York Giants were leading +the National League. Babe Ruth was a pitcher then playing for Boston. +The papers were dull, the news was local and stale, and the war news was +all old. The American news was all training camps. I was glad I wasn’t +in a training camp. The baseball news was all I could read and I did not +have the slightest interest in it. A number of papers together made it +impossible to read with interest. It was not very timely but I read at +it for a while. I wondered if America really got into the war, if they +would close down the major leagues. They probably wouldn’t. There was +still racing in Milan and the war could not be much worse. They had +stopped racing in France. That was where our horse Japalac came from. +Catherine was not due on duty until nine o’clock. I heard her passing +along the floor when she first came on duty and once saw her pass in the +hall. She went to several other rooms and finally came into mine. + +“I’m late, darling,” she said. “There was a lot to do. How are you?” + +I told her about my papers and the leave. + +“That’s lovely,” she said. “Where do you want to go?” + +“Nowhere. I want to stay here.” + +“That’s silly. You pick a place to go and I’ll come too.” + +“How will you work it?” + +“I don’t know. But I will.” + +“You’re pretty wonderful.” + +“No I’m not. But life isn’t hard to manage when you’ve nothing to lose.” + +“How do you mean?” + +“Nothing. I was only thinking how small obstacles seemed that once were +so big.” + +“I should think it might be hard to manage.” + +“No it won’t, darling. If necessary I’ll simply leave. But it won’t come +to that.” + +“Where should we go?” + +“I don’t care. Anywhere you want. Anywhere we don’t know people.” + +“Don’t you care where we go?” + +“No. I’ll like any place.” + +She seemed upset and taut. + +“What’s the matter, Catherine?” + +“Nothing. Nothing’s the matter.” + +“Yes there is.” + +“No nothing. Really nothing.” + +“I know there is. Tell me, darling. You can tell me.” + +“It’s nothing.” + +“Tell me.” + +“I don’t want to. I’m afraid I’ll make you unhappy or worry you.” + +“No it won’t.” + +“You’re sure? It doesn’t worry me but I’m afraid to worry you.” + +“It won’t if it doesn’t worry you.” + +“I don’t want to tell.” + +“Tell it.” + +“Do I have to?” + +“Yes.” + +“I’m going to have a baby, darling. It’s almost three months along. +You’re not worried, are you? Please please don’t. You mustn’t worry.” + +“All right.” + +“Is it all right?” + +“Of course.” + +“I did everything. I took everything but it didn’t make any difference.” + +“I’m not worried.” + +“I couldn’t help it, darling, and I haven’t worried about it. You +mustn’t worry or feel badly.” + +“I only worry about you.” + +“That’s it. That’s what you mustn’t do. People have babies all the time. +Everybody has babies. It’s a natural thing.” + +“You’re pretty wonderful.” + +“No I’m not. But you mustn’t mind, darling. I’ll try and not make +trouble for you. I know I’ve made trouble now. But haven’t I been a good +girl until now? You never knew it, did you?” + +“No.” + +“It will all be like that. You simply mustn’t worry. I can see you’re +worrying. Stop it. Stop it right away. Wouldn’t you like a drink, +darling? I know a drink always makes you feel cheerful.” + +“No. I feel cheerful. And you’re pretty wonderful.” + +“No I’m not. But I’ll fix everything to be together if you pick out a +place for us to go. It ought to be lovely in October. We’ll have a +lovely time, darling, and I’ll write you every day while you’re at the +front.” + +“Where will you be?” + +“I don’t know yet. But somewhere splendid. I’ll look after all that.” + +We were quiet awhile and did not talk. Catherine was sitting on the bed +and I was looking at her but we did not touch each other. We were apart +as when some one comes into a room and people are self-conscious. She +put out her hand and took mine. + +“You aren’t angry are you, darling?” + +“No.” + +“And you don’t feel trapped?” + +“Maybe a little. But not by you.” + +“I didn’t mean by me. You mustn’t be stupid. I meant trapped at all.” + +“You always feel trapped biologically.” + +She went away a long way without stirring or removing her hand. + +“‘Always’ isn’t a pretty word.” + +“I’m sorry.” + +“It’s all right. But you see I’ve never had a baby and I’ve never even +loved any one. And I’ve tried to be the way you wanted and then you talk +about ‘always.’” + +“I could cut off my tongue,” I offered. + +“Oh, darling!” she came back from wherever she had been. “You mustn’t +mind me.” We were both together again and the self-consciousness was +gone. “We really are the same one and we mustn’t misunderstand on +purpose.” + +“We won’t.” + +“But people do. They love each other and they misunderstand on purpose +and they fight and then suddenly they aren’t the same one.” + +“We won’t fight.” + +“We mustn’t. Because there’s only us two and in the world there’s all +the rest of them. If anything comes between us we’re gone and then they +have us.” + +“They won’t get us,” I said. “Because you’re too brave. Nothing ever +happens to the brave.” + +“They die of course.” + +“But only once.” + +“I don’t know. Who said that?” + +“The coward dies a thousand deaths, the brave but one?” + +“Of course. Who said it?” + +“I don’t know.” + +“He was probably a coward,” she said. “He knew a great deal about +cowards but nothing about the brave. The brave dies perhaps two thousand +deaths if he’s intelligent. He simply doesn’t mention them.” + +“I don’t know. It’s hard to see inside the head of the brave.” + +“Yes. That’s how they keep that way.” + +“You’re an authority.” + +“You’re right, darling. That was deserved.” + +“You’re brave.” + +“No,” she said. “But I would like to be.” + +“I’m not,” I said, “I know where I stand. I’ve been out long enough to +know. I’m like a ball-player that bats two hundred and thirty and knows +he’s no better.” + +“What is a ball-player that bats two hundred and thirty? It’s awfully +impressive.” + +“It’s not. It means a mediocre hitter in baseball.” + +“But still a hitter,” she prodded me. + +“I guess we’re both conceited,” I said. “But you are brave.” + +“No. But I hope to be.” + +“We’re both brave,” I said. “And I’m very brave when I’ve had a drink.” + +“We’re splendid people,” Catherine said. She went over to the armoire +and brought me the cognac and a glass. “Have a drink, darling,” she +said. “You’ve been awfully good.” + +“I don’t really want one.” + +“Take one.” + +“All right.” I poured the water glass a third full of cognac and drank +it off. + +“That was very big,” she said. “I know brandy is for heroes. But you +shouldn’t exaggerate.” + +“Where will we live after the war?” + +“In an old people’s home probably,” she said. “For three years I looked +forward very childishly to the war ending at Christmas. But now I look +forward till when our son will be a lieutenant commander.” + +“Maybe he’ll be a general.” + +“If it’s an hundred years’ war he’ll have time to try both of the +services.” + +“Don’t you want a drink?” + +“No. It always makes you happy, darling, and it only makes me dizzy.” + +“Didn’t you ever drink brandy?” + +“No, darling. I’m a very old-fashioned wife.” + +I reached down to the floor for the bottle and poured another drink. + +“I’d better go to have a look at your compatriots,” Catherine said. +“Perhaps you’ll read the papers until I come back.” + +“Do you have to go?” + +“Now or later.” + +“All right. Now.” + +“I’ll come back later.” + +“I’ll have finished the papers,” I said. + + + + + CHAPTER XXII + +It turned cold that night and the next day it was raining. Coming home +from the Ospedale Maggiore it rained very hard and I was wet when I came +in. Up in my room the rain was coming down heavily outside on the +balcony, and the wind blew it against the glass doors. I changed my +clothing and drank some brandy but the brandy did not taste good. I felt +sick in the night and in the morning after breakfast I was nauseated. + +“There is no doubt about it,” the house surgeon said. “Look at the +whites of his eyes, Miss.” + +Miss Gage looked. They had me look in a glass. The whites of the eyes +were yellow and it was the jaundice. I was sick for two weeks with it. +For that reason we did not spend a convalescent leave together. We had +planned to go to Pallanza on Lago Maggiore. It is nice there in the fall +when the leaves turn. There are walks you can take and you can troll for +trout in the lake. It would have been better than Stresa because there +are fewer people at Pallanza. Stresa is so easy to get to from Milan +that there are always people you know. There is a nice village at +Pallanza and you can row out to the islands where the fishermen live and +there is a restaurant on the biggest island. But we did not go. + +One day while I was in bed with jaundice Miss Van Campen came in the +room, opened the door into the armoire and saw the empty bottles there. +I had sent a load of them down by the porter and I believe she must have +seen them going out and come up to find some more. They were mostly +vermouth bottles, marsala bottles, capri bottles, empty chianti flasks +and a few cognac bottles. The porter had carried out the large bottles, +those that had held vermouth, and the straw-covered chianti flasks, and +left the brandy bottles for the last. It was the brandy bottles and a +bottle shaped like a bear, which had held kümmel, that Miss Van Campen +found. The bear-shaped bottle enraged her particularly. She held it up; +the bear was sitting up on his haunches with his paws up; there was a +cork in his glass head and a few sticky crystals at the bottom. I +laughed. + +“It was kümmel,” I said. “The best kümmel comes in those bear-shaped +bottles. It comes from Russia.” + +“Those are all brandy bottles, aren’t they?” Miss Van Campen asked. + +“I can’t see them all,” I said. “But they probably are.” + +“How long has this been going on?” + +“I bought them and brought them in myself,” I said. “I have had Italian +officers visit me frequently and I have kept brandy to offer them.” + +“You haven’t been drinking it yourself?” she said. + +“I have also drunk it myself.” + +“Brandy,” she said. “Eleven empty bottles of brandy and that bear +liquid.” + +“Kümmel.” + +“I will send for some one to take them away. Those are all the empty +bottles you have?” + +“For the moment.” + +“And I was pitying you having jaundice. Pity is something that is wasted +on you.” + +“Thank you.” + +“I suppose you can’t be blamed for not wanting to go back to the front. +But I should think you would try something more intelligent than +producing jaundice with alcoholism.” + +“With what?” + +“With alcoholism. You heard me say it.” I did not say anything. “Unless +you find something else I’m afraid you will have to go back to the front +when you are through with your jaundice. I don’t believe self-inflicted +jaundice entitles you to a convalescent leave.” + +“You don’t?” + +“I do not.” + +“Have you ever had jaundice, Miss Van Campen?” + +“No, but I have seen a great deal of it.” + +“You noticed how the patients enjoyed it?” + +“I suppose it is better than the front.” + +“Miss Van Campen,” I said, “did you ever know a man who tried to disable +himself by kicking himself in the scrotum?” + +Miss Van Campen ignored the actual question. She had to ignore it or +leave the room. She was not ready to leave because she had disliked me +for a long time and she was now cashing in. + +“I have known many men to escape the front through self-inflicted +wounds.” + +“That wasn’t the question. I have seen self-inflicted wounds also. I +asked you if you had ever known a man who had tried to disable himself +by kicking himself in the scrotum. Because that is the nearest sensation +to jaundice and it is a sensation that I believe few women have ever +experienced. That was why I asked you if you had ever had the jaundice, +Miss Van Campen, because—” Miss Van Campen left the room. Later Miss +Gage came in. + +“What did you say to Van Campen? She was furious.” + +“We were comparing sensations. I was going to suggest that she had never +experienced childbirth——” + +“You’re a fool,” Gage said. “She’s after your scalp.” + +“She has my scalp,” I said. “She’s lost me my leave and she might try +and get me court-martialled. She’s mean enough.” + +“She never liked you,” Gage said. “What’s it about?” + +“She says I’ve drunk myself into jaundice so as not to go back to the +front.” + +“Pooh,” said Gage. “I’ll swear you’ve never taken a drink. Everybody +will swear you’ve never taken a drink.” + +“She found the bottles.” + +“I’ve told you a hundred times to clear out those bottles. Where are +they now?” + +“In the armoire.” + +“Have you a suitcase?” + +“No. Put them in that rucksack.” + +Miss Gage packed the bottles in the rucksack. “I’ll give them to the +porter,” she said. She started for the door. + +“Just a minute,” Miss Van Campen said. “I’ll take those bottles.” She +had the porter with her. “Carry them, please,” she said. “I want to show +them to the doctor when I make my report.” + +She went down the hall. The porter carried the sack. He knew what was in +it. + +Nothing happened except that I lost my leave. + + + + + CHAPTER XXIII + +The night I was to return to the front I sent the porter down to hold a +seat for me on the train when it came from Turin. The train was to leave +at midnight. It was made up at Turin and reached Milan about half-past +ten at night and lay in the station until time to leave. You had to be +there when it came in, to get a seat. The porter took a friend with him, +a machine-gunner on leave who worked in a tailor shop, and was sure that +between them they could hold a place. I gave them money for platform +tickets and had them take my baggage. There was a big rucksack and two +musettes. + +I said good-by at the hospital at about five o’clock and went out. The +porter had my baggage in his lodge and I told him I would be at the +station a little before midnight. His wife called me “Signorino” and +cried. She wiped her eyes and shook hands and then cried again. I patted +her on the back and she cried once more. She had done my mending and was +a very short dumpy, happy-faced woman with white hair. When she cried +her whole face went to pieces. I went down to the corner where there was +a wine shop and waited inside looking out the window. It was dark +outside and cold and misty. I paid for my coffee and grappa and I +watched the people going by in the light from the window. I saw +Catherine and knocked on the window. She looked, saw me and smiled, and +I went out to meet her. She was wearing a dark blue cape and a soft felt +hat. We walked along together, along the sidewalk past the wine shops, +then across the market square and up the street and through the archway +to the cathedral square. There were street-car tracks and beyond them +was the cathedral. It was white and wet in the mist. We crossed the tram +tracks. On our left were the shops, their windows lighted, and the +entrance to the galleria. There was a fog in the square and when we came +close to the front of the cathedral it was very big and the stone was +wet. + +“Would you like to go in?” + +“No,” Catherine said. We walked along. There was a soldier standing with +his girl in the shadow of one of the stone buttresses ahead of us and we +passed them. They were standing tight up against the stone and he had +put his cape around her. + +“They’re like us,” I said. + +“Nobody is like us,” Catherine said. She did not mean it happily. + +“I wish they had some place to go.” + +“It mightn’t do them any good.” + +“I don’t know. Everybody ought to have some place to go.” + +“They have the cathedral,” Catherine said. We were past it now. We +crossed the far end of the square and looked back at the cathedral. It +was fine in the mist. We were standing in front of the leather goods +shop. There were riding boots, a rucksack and ski boots in the window. +Each article was set apart as an exhibit; the rucksack in the centre, +the riding boots on one side and the ski boots on the other. The leather +was dark and oiled smooth as a used saddle. The electric light made high +lights on the dull oiled leather. + +“We’ll ski some time.” + +“In two months there will be skiing at Mürren,” Catherine said. + +“Let’s go there.” + +“All right,” she said. We went on past other windows and turned down a +side street. + +“I’ve never been this way.” + +“This is the way I go to the hospital,” I said. It was a narrow street +and we kept on the right-hand side. There were many people passing in +the fog. There were shops and all the windows were lighted. We looked in +a window at a pile of cheeses. I stopped in front of an armorer’s shop. + +“Come in a minute. I have to buy a gun.” + +“What sort of gun?” + +“A pistol.” We went in and I unbuttoned my belt and laid it with the +empty holster on the counter. Two women were behind the counter. The +women brought out several pistols. + +“It must fit this,” I said, opening the holster. It was a gray leather +holster and I had bought it secondhand to wear in the town. + +“Have they good pistols?” Catherine asked. + +“They’re all about the same. Can I try this one?” I asked the woman. + +“I have no place now to shoot,” she said. “But it is very good. You will +not make a mistake with it.” + +I snapped it and pulled back the action. The spring was rather strong +but it worked smoothly. I sighted it and snapped it again. + +“It is used,” the woman said. “It belonged to an officer who was an +excellent shot.” + +“Did you sell it to him?” + +“Yes.” + +“How did you get it back?” + +“From his orderly.” + +“Maybe you have mine,” I said. “How much is this?” + +“Fifty lire. It is very cheap.” + +“All right. I want two extra clips and a box of cartridges.” + +She brought them from under the counter. + +“Have you any need for a sword?” she asked. “I have some used swords +very cheap.” + +“I’m going to the front,” I said. + +“Oh yes, then you won’t need a sword,” she said. + +I paid for the cartridges and the pistol, filled the magazine and put it +in place, put the pistol in my empty holster, filled the extra clips +with cartridges and put them in the leather slots on the holster and +then buckled on my belt. The pistol felt heavy on the belt. Still, I +thought, it was better to have a regulation pistol. You could always get +shells. + +“Now we’re fully armed,” I said. “That was the one thing I had to +remember to do. Some one got my other one going to the hospital.” + +“I hope it’s a good pistol,” Catherine said. + +“Was there anything else?” the woman asked. + +“I don’t believe so.” + +“The pistol has a lanyard,” she said. + +“So I noticed.” The woman wanted to sell something else. + +“You don’t need a whistle?” + +“I don’t believe so.” + +The woman said good-by and we went out onto the sidewalk. Catherine +looked in the window. The woman looked out and bowed to us. + +“What are those little mirrors set in wood for?” + +“They’re for attracting birds. They twirl them out in the field and +larks see them and come out and the Italians shoot them.” + +“They are an ingenious people,” Catherine said. “You don’t shoot larks +do you, darling, in America?” + +“Not especially.” + +We crossed the street and started to walk up the other side. + +“I feel better now,” Catherine said. “I felt terrible when we started.” + +“We always feel good when we’re together.” + +“We always will be together.” + +“Yes, except that I’m going away at midnight.” + +“Don’t think about it, darling.” + +We walked on up the street. The fog made the lights yellow. + +“Aren’t you tired?” Catherine asked. + +“How about you?” + +“I’m all right. It’s fun to walk.” + +“But let’s not do it too long.” + +“No.” + +We turned down a side street where there were no lights and walked in +the street. I stopped and kissed Catherine. While I kissed her I felt +her hand on my shoulder. She had pulled my cape around her so it covered +both of us. We were standing in the street against a high wall. + +“Let’s go some place,” I said. + +“Good,” said Catherine. We walked on along the street until it came out +onto a wider street that was beside a canal. On the other side was a +brick wall and buildings. Ahead, down the street, I saw a street-car +cross a bridge. + +“We can get a cab up at the bridge,” I said. We stood on the bridge in +the fog waiting for a carriage. Several street-cars passed, full of +people going home. Then a carriage came along but there was some one in +it. The fog was turning to rain. + +“We could walk or take a tram,” Catherine said. + +“One will be along,” I said. “They go by here.” + +“Here one comes,” she said. + +The driver stopped his horse and lowered the metal sign on his meter. +The top of the carriage was up and there were drops of water on the +driver’s coat. His varnished hat was shining in the wet. We sat back in +the seat together and the top of the carriage made it dark. + +“Where did you tell him to go?” + +“To the station. There’s a hotel across from the station where we can +go.” + +“We can go the way we are? Without luggage?” + +“Yes,” I said. + +It was a long ride to the station up side streets in the rain. + +“Won’t we have dinner?” Catherine asked. “I’m afraid I’ll be hungry.” + +“We’ll have it in our room.” + +“I haven’t anything to wear. I haven’t even a nightgown.” + +“We’ll get one,” I said and called to the driver. + +“Go to the Via Manzoni and up that.” He nodded and turned off to the +left at the next corner. On the big street Catherine watched for a shop. + +“Here’s a place,” she said. I stopped the driver and Catherine got out, +walked across the sidewalk and went inside. I sat back in the carriage +and waited for her. It was raining and I could smell the wet street and +the horse steaming in the rain. She came back with a package and got in +and we drove on. + +“I was very extravagant, darling,” she said, “but it’s a fine +nightgown.” + +At the hotel I asked Catherine to wait in the carriage while I went in +and spoke to the manager. There were plenty of rooms. Then I went out to +the carriage, paid the driver, and Catherine and I walked in together. +The small boy in buttons carried the package. The manager bowed us +toward the elevator. There was much red plush and brass. The manager +went up in the elevator with us. + +“Monsieur and Madame wish dinner in their room?” + +“Yes. Will you have the menu brought up?” I said. + +“You wish something special for dinner. Some game or a soufflet?” + +The elevator passed three floors with a click each time, then clicked +and stopped. + +“What have you as game?” + +“I could get a pheasant, or a woodcock.” + +“A woodcock,” I said. We walked down the corridor. The carpet was worn. +There were many doors. The manager stopped and unlocked a door and +opened it. + +“Here you are. A lovely room.” + +The small boy in buttons put the package on the table in the centre of +the room. The manager opened the curtains. + +“It is foggy outside,” he said. The room was furnished in red plush. +There were many mirrors, two chairs and a large bed with a satin +coverlet. A door led to the bathroom. + +“I will send up the menu,” the manager said. He bowed and went out. + +I went to the window and looked out, then pulled a cord that shut the +thick plush curtains. Catherine was sitting on the bed, looking at the +cut glass chandelier. She had taken her hat off and her hair shone under +the light. She saw herself in one of the mirrors and put her hands to +her hair. I saw her in three other mirrors. She did not look happy. She +let her cape fall on the bed. + +“What’s the matter, darling?” + +“I never felt like a whore before,” she said. I went over to the window +and pulled the curtain aside and looked out. I had not thought it would +be like this. + +“You’re not a whore.” + +“I know it, darling. But it isn’t nice to feel like one.” Her voice was +dry and flat. + +“This was the best hotel we could get in,” I said. I looked out the +window. Across the square were the lights of the station. There were +carriages going by on the street and I saw the trees in the park. The +lights from the hotel shone on the wet pavement. Oh, hell, I thought, do +we have to argue now? + +“Come over here please,” Catherine said. The flatness was all gone out +of her voice. “Come over, please. I’m a good girl again.” I looked over +at the bed. She was smiling. + +I went over and sat on the bed beside her and kissed her. + +“You’re my good girl.” + +“I’m certainly yours,” she said. + +After we had eaten we felt fine, and then after, we felt very happy and +in a little time the room felt like our own home. My room at the +hospital had been our own home and this room was our home too in the +same way. + +Catherine wore my tunic over her shoulders while we ate. We were very +hungry and the meal was good and we drank a bottle of Capri and a bottle +of St. Estephe. I drank most of it but Catherine drank some and it made +her feel splendid. For dinner we had a woodcock with soufflé potatoes +and purée de marron, a salad, and zabaione for dessert. + +“It’s a fine room,” Catherine said. “It’s a lovely room. We should have +stayed here all the time we’ve been in Milan.” + +“It’s a funny room. But it’s nice.” + +“Vice is a wonderful thing,” Catherine said. “The people who go in for +it seem to have good taste about it. The red plush is really fine. It’s +just the thing. And the mirrors are very attractive.” + +“You’re a lovely girl.” + +“I don’t know how a room like this would be for waking up in the +morning. But it’s really a splendid room.” I poured another glass of St. +Estephe. + +“I wish we could do something really sinful,” Catherine said. +“Everything we do seems so innocent and simple. I can’t believe we do +anything wrong.” + +“You’re a grand girl.” + +“I only feel hungry. I get terribly hungry.” + +“You’re a fine simple girl,” I said. + +“I am a simple girl. No one ever understood it except you.” + +“Once when I first met you I spent an afternoon thinking how we would go +to the Hotel Cavour together and how it would be.” + +“That was awfully cheeky of you. This isn’t the Cavour is it?” + +“No. They wouldn’t have taken us in there.” + +“They’ll take us in some time. But that’s how we differ, darling. I +never thought about anything.” + +“Didn’t you ever at all?” + +“A little,” she said. + +“Oh you’re a lovely girl.” + +I poured another glass of wine. + +“I’m a very simple girl,” Catherine said. + +“I didn’t think so at first. I thought you were a crazy girl.” + +“I was a little crazy. But I wasn’t crazy in any complicated manner. I +didn’t confuse you did I, darling?” + +“Wine is a grand thing,” I said. “It makes you forget all the bad.” + +“It’s lovely,” said Catherine. “But it’s given my father gout very +badly.” + +“Have you a father?” + +“Yes,” said Catherine. “He has gout. You won’t ever have to meet him. +Haven’t you a father?” + +“No,” I said. “A step-father.” + +“Will I like him?” + +“You won’t have to meet him.” + +“We have such a fine time,” Catherine said. “I don’t take any interest +in anything else any more. I’m so very happy married to you.” + +The waiter came and took away the things. After a while we were very +still and we could hear the rain. Down below on the street a motor car +honked. + + “‘But at my back I always hear + Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near,’” + +I said. + +“I know that poem,” Catherine said. “It’s by Marvell. But it’s about a +girl who wouldn’t live with a man.” + +My head felt very clear and cold and I wanted to talk facts. + +“Where will you have the baby?” + +“I don’t know. The best place I can find.” + +“How will you arrange it?” + +“The best way I can. Don’t worry, darling. We may have several babies +before the war is over.” + +“It’s nearly time to go.” + +“I know. You can make it time if you want.” + +“No.” + +“Then don’t worry, darling. You were fine until now and now you’re +worrying.” + +“I won’t. How often will you write?” + +“Every day. Do they read your letters?” + +“They can’t read English enough to hurt any.” + +“I’ll make them very confusing,” Catherine said. + +“But not too confusing.” + +“I’ll just make them a little confusing.” + +“I’m afraid we have to start to go.” + +“All right, darling.” + +“I hate to leave our fine house.” + +“So do I.” + +“But we have to go.” + +“All right. But we’re never settled in our home very long.” + +“We will be.” + +“I’ll have a fine home for you when you come back.” + +“Maybe I’ll be back right away.” + +“Perhaps you’ll be hurt just a little in the foot.” + +“Or the lobe of the ear.” + +“No I want your ears the way they are.” + +“And not my feet?” + +“Your feet have been hit already.” + +“We have to go, darling. Really.” + +“All right. You go first.” + + + + + CHAPTER XXIV + +We walked down the stairs instead of taking the elevator. The carpet on +the stairs was worn. I had paid for the dinner when it came up and the +waiter, who had brought it, was sitting on a chair near the door. He +jumped up and bowed and I went with him into the side room and paid the +bill for the room. The manager had remembered me as a friend and refused +payment in advance but when he retired he had remembered to have the +waiter stationed at the door so that I should not get out without +paying. I suppose that had happened; even with his friends. One had so +many friends in a war. + +I asked the waiter to get us a carriage and he took Catherine’s package +that I was carrying and went out with an umbrella. Outside through the +window we saw him crossing the street in the rain. We stood in the side +room and looked out the window. + +“How do you feel, Cat?” + +“Sleepy.” + +“I feel hollow and hungry.” + +“Have you anything to eat?” + +“Yes, in my musette.” + +I saw the carriage coming. It stopped, the horse’s head hanging in the +rain, and the waiter stepped out, opened his umbrella, and came toward +the hotel. We met him at the door and walked out under the umbrella down +the wet walk to the carriage at the curb. Water was running in the +gutter. + +“There is your package on the seat,” the waiter said. He stood with the +umbrella until we were in and I had tipped him. + +“Many thanks. Pleasant journey,” he said. The coachman lifted the reins +and the horse started. The waiter turned away under the umbrella and +went toward the hotel. We drove down the street and turned to the left, +then came around to the right in front of the station. There were two +carabinieri standing under the light just out of the rain. The light +shone on their hats. The rain was clear and transparent against the +light from the station. A porter came out from under the shelter of the +station, his shoulders up against the rain. + +“No,” I said. “Thanks. I don’t need thee.” + +He went back under the shelter of the archway. I turned to Catherine. +Her face was in the shadow from the hood of the carriage. + +“We might as well say good-by.” + +“I can’t go in?” + +“No.” + +“Good-by, Cat.” + +“Will you tell him the hospital?” + +“Yes.” + +I told the driver the address to drive to. He nodded. + +“Good-by,” I said. “Take good care of yourself and young Catherine.” + +“Good-by, darling.” + +“Good-by,” I said. I stepped out into the rain and the carriage started. +Catherine leaned out and I saw her face in the light. She smiled and +waved. The carriage went up the street, Catherine pointed in toward the +archway. I looked, there were only the two carabinieri and the archway. +I realized she meant for me to get in out of the rain. I went in and +stood and watched the carriage turn the corner. Then I started through +the station and down the runway to the train. + +The porter was on the platform looking for me. I followed him into the +train, crowding past people and along the aisle and in through a door to +where the machine-gunner sat in the corner of a full compartment. My +rucksack and musettes were above his head on the luggage rack. There +were many men standing in the corridor and the men in the compartment +all looked at us when we came in. There were not enough places in the +train and every one was hostile. The machine-gunner stood up for me to +sit down. Some one tapped me on the shoulder. I looked around. It was a +very tall gaunt captain of artillery with a red scar along his jaw. He +had looked through the glass on the corridor and then come in. + +“What do you say?” I asked. I had turned and faced him. He was taller +than I and his face was very thin under the shadow of his cap-visor and +the scar was new and shiny. Every one in the compartment was looking at +me. + +“You can’t do that,” he said. “You can’t have a soldier save you a +place.” + +“I have done it.” + +He swallowed and I saw his Adam’s apple go up and then down. The +machine-gunner stood in front of the place. Other men looked in through +the glass. No one in the compartment said anything. + +“You have no right to do that. I was here two hours before you came.” + +“What do you want?” + +“The seat.” + +“So do I.” + +I watched his face and could feel the whole compartment against me. I +did not blame them. He was in the right. But I wanted the seat. Still no +one said anything. + +Oh, hell, I thought. + +“Sit down, Signor Capitano,” I said. The machine-gunner moved out of the +way and the tall captain sat down. He looked at me. His face seemed +hurt. But he had the seat. “Get my things,” I said to the +machine-gunner. We went out in the corridor. The train was full and I +knew there was no chance of a place. I gave the porter and the +machine-gunner ten lire apiece. They went down the corridor and outside +on the platform looking in the windows but there were no places. + +“Maybe some will get off at Brescia,” the porter said. + +“More will get on at Brescia,” said the machine-gunner. I said good-by +to them and we shook hands and they left. They both felt badly. Inside +the train we were all standing in the corridor when the train started. I +watched the lights of the station and the yards as we went out. It was +still raining and soon the windows were wet and you could not see out. +Later I slept on the floor of the corridor; first putting my pocket-book +with my money and papers in it inside my shirt and trousers so that it +was inside the leg of my breeches. I slept all night, waking at Brescia +and Verona when more men got on the train, but going back to sleep at +once. I had my head on one of the musettes and my arms around the other +and I could feel the pack and they could all walk over me if they +wouldn’t step on me. Men were sleeping on the floor all down the +corridor. Others stood holding on to the window rods or leaning against +the doors. That train was always crowded. + + + + + BOOK III + + + + + CHAPTER XXV + +Now in the fall the trees were all bare and the roads were muddy. I rode +to Gorizia from Udine on a camion. We passed other camions on the road +and I looked at the country. The mulberry trees were bare and the fields +were brown. There were wet dead leaves on the road from the rows of bare +trees and men were working on the road, tamping stone in the ruts from +piles of crushed stone along the side of the road between the trees. We +saw the town with a mist over it that cut off the mountains. We crossed +the river and I saw that it was running high. It had been raining in the +mountains. We came into the town past the factories and then the houses +and villas and I saw that many more houses had been hit. On a narrow +street we passed a British Red Cross ambulance. The driver wore a cap +and his face was thin and very tanned. I did not know him. I got down +from the camion in the big square in front of the Town Major’s house, +the driver handed down my rucksack and I put it on and swung on the two +musettes and walked to our villa. It did not feel like a homecoming. + +I walked down the damp gravel driveway looking at the villa through the +trees. The windows were all shut but the door was open. I went in and +found the major sitting at a table in the bare room with maps and typed +sheets of paper on the wall. + +“Hello,” he said. “How are you?” He looked older and drier. + +“I’m good,” I said. “How is everything?” + +“It’s all over,” he said. “Take off your kit and sit down.” I put my +pack and the two musettes on the floor and my cap on the pack. I brought +the other chair over from the wall and sat down by the desk. + +“It’s been a bad summer,” the major said. “Are you strong now?” + +“Yes.” + +“Did you ever get the decorations?” + +“Yes. I got them fine. Thank you very much.” + +“Let’s see them.” + +I opened my cape so he could see the two ribbons. + +“Did you get the boxes with the medals?” + +“No. Just the papers.” + +“The boxes will come later. That takes more time.” + +“What do you want me to do?” + +“The cars are all away. There are six up north at Caporetto. You know +Caporetto?” + +“Yes,” I said. I remembered it as a little white town with a campanile +in a valley. It was a clean little town and there was a fine fountain in +the square. + +“They are working from there. There are many sick now. The fighting is +over.” + +“Where are the others?” + +“There are two up in the mountains and four still on the Bainsizza. The +other two ambulance sections are in the Carso with the third army.” + +“What do you wish me to do?” + +“You can go and take over the four cars on the Bainsizza if you like. +Gino has been up there a long time. You haven’t seen it up there, have +you?” + +“No.” + +“It was very bad. We lost three cars.” + +“I heard about it.” + +“Yes, Rinaldi wrote you.” + +“Where is Rinaldi?” + +“He is here at the hospital. He has had a summer and fall of it.” + +“I believe it.” + +“It has been bad,” the major said. “You couldn’t believe how bad it’s +been. I’ve often thought you were lucky to be hit when you were.” + +“I know I was.” + +“Next year will be worse,” the major said. “Perhaps they will attack +now. They say they are to attack but I can’t believe it. It is too late. +You saw the river?” + +“Yes. It’s high already.” + +“I don’t believe they will attack now that the rains have started. We +will have the snow soon. What about your countrymen? Will there be other +Americans besides yourself?” + +“They are training an army of ten million.” + +“I hope we get some of them. But the French will hog them all. We’ll +never get any down here. All right. You stay here to-night and go out +to-morrow with the little car and send Gino back. I’ll send somebody +with you that knows the road. Gino will tell you everything. They are +shelling quite a little still but it is all over. You will want to see +the Bainsizza.” + +“I’m glad to see it. I am glad to be back with you again, Signor +Maggiore.” + +He smiled. “You are very good to say so. I am very tired of this war. If +I was away I do not believe I would come back.” + +“Is it so bad?” + +“Yes. It is so bad and worse. Go get cleaned up and find your friend +Rinaldi.” + +I went out and carried my bags up the stairs. Rinaldi was not in the +room but his things were there and I sat down on the bed and unwrapped +my puttees and took the shoe off my right foot. Then I lay back on the +bed. I was tired and my right foot hurt. It seemed silly to lie on the +bed with one shoe off, so I sat up and unlaced the other shoe and +dropped it on the floor, then lay back on the blanket again. The room +was stuffy with the window closed but I was too tired to get up and open +it. I saw my things were all in one corner of the room. Outside it was +getting dark. I lay on the bed and thought about Catherine and waited +for Rinaldi. I was going to try not to think about Catherine except at +night before I went to sleep. But now I was tired and there was nothing +to do, so I lay and thought about her. I was thinking about her when +Rinaldi came in. He looked just the same. Perhaps he was a little +thinner. + +“Well, baby,” he said. I sat up on the bed. He came over, sat down and +put his arm around me. “Good old baby.” He whacked me on the back and I +held both his arms. + +“Old baby,” he said. “Let me see your knee.” + +“I’ll have to take off my pants.” + +“Take off your pants, baby. We’re all friends here. I want to see what +kind of a job they did.” I stood up, took off the breeches and pulled +off the knee-brace. Rinaldi sat on the floor and bent the knee gently +back and forth. He ran his finger along the scar; put his thumbs +together over the kneecap and rocked the knee gently with his fingers. + +“Is that all the articulation you have?” + +“Yes.” + +“It’s a crime to send you back. They ought to get complete +articulation.” + +“It’s a lot better than it was. It was stiff as a board.” + +Rinaldi bent it more. I watched his hands. He had fine surgeon’s hands. +I looked at the top of his head, his hair shiny and parted smoothly. He +bent the knee too far. + +“Ouch!” I said. + +“You ought to have more treatment on it with the machines,” Rinaldi +said. + +“It’s better than it was.” + +“I see that, baby. This is something I know more about than you.” He +stood up and sat down on the bed. “The knee itself is a good job.” He +was through with the knee. “Tell me all about everything.” + +“There’s nothing to tell,” I said. “I’ve led a quiet life.” + +“You act like a married man,” he said. “What’s the matter with you?” + +“Nothing,” I said. “What’s the matter with you?” + +“This war is killing me,” Rinaldi said, “I am very depressed by it.” He +folded his hands over his knee. + +“Oh,” I said. + +“What’s the matter? Can’t I even have human impulses?” + +“No. I can see you’ve been having a fine time. Tell me.” + +“All summer and all fall I’ve operated. I work all the time. I do +everybody’s work. All the hard ones they leave to me. By God, baby, I am +becoming a lovely surgeon.” + +“That sounds better.” + +“I never think. No, by God, I don’t think; I operate.” + +“That’s right.” + +“But now, baby, it’s all over. I don’t operate now and I feel like hell. +This is a terrible war, baby. You believe me when I say it. Now you +cheer me up. Did you bring the phonograph records?” + +“Yes.” + +They were wrapped in paper in a cardboard box in my rucksack. I was too +tired to get them out. + +“Don’t you feel good yourself, baby?” + +“I feel like hell.” + +“This war is terrible,” Rinaldi said. “Come on. We’ll both get drunk and +be cheerful. Then we’ll go get the ashes dragged. Then we’ll feel fine.” + +“I’ve had the jaundice,” I said, “and I can’t get drunk.” + +“Oh, baby, how you’ve come back to me. You come back serious and with a +liver. I tell you this war is a bad thing. Why did we make it anyway?” + +“We’ll have a drink. I don’t want to get drunk but we’ll have a drink.” + +Rinaldi went across the room to the washstand and brought back two +glasses and a bottle of cognac. + +“It’s Austrian cognac,” he said. “Seven stars. It’s all they captured on +San Gabriele.” + +“Were you up there?” + +“No. I haven’t been anywhere. I’ve been here all the time operating. +Look, baby, this is your old toothbrushing glass. I kept it all the time +to remind me of you.” + +“To remind you to brush your teeth.” + +“No. I have my own too. I kept this to remind me of you trying to brush +away the Villa Rossa from your teeth in the morning, swearing and eating +aspirin and cursing harlots. Every time I see that glass I think of you +trying to clean your conscience with a toothbrush.” He came over to the +bed. “Kiss me once and tell me you’re not serious.” + +“I never kiss you. You’re an ape.” + +“I know, you are the fine good Anglo-Saxon boy. I know. You are the +remorse boy, I know. I will wait till I see the Anglo-Saxon brushing +away harlotry with a toothbrush.” + +“Put some cognac in the glass.” + +We touched glasses and drank. Rinaldi laughed at me. + +“I will get you drunk and take out your liver and put you in a good +Italian liver and make you a man again.” + +I held the glass for some more cognac. It was dark outside now. Holding +the glass of cognac, I went over and opened the window. The rain had +stopped falling. It was colder outside and there was a mist in the +trees. + +“Don’t throw the cognac out the window,” Rinaldi said. “If you can’t +drink it give it to me.” + +“Go something yourself,” I said. I was glad to see Rinaldi again. He had +spent two years teasing me and I had always liked it. We understood each +other very well. + +“Are you married?” he asked from the bed. I was standing against the +wall by the window. + +“Not yet.” + +“Are you in love?” + +“Yes.” + +“With that English girl?” + +“Yes.” + +“Poor baby. Is she good to you?” + +“Of course.” + +“I mean is she good to you practically speaking?” + +“Shut up.” + +“I will. You will see I am a man of extreme delicacy. Does she——?” + +“Rinin,” I said. “Please shut up. If you want to be my friend, shut up.” + +“I don’t _want_ to be your friend, baby. I _am_ your friend.” + +“Then shut up.” + +“All right.” + +I went over to the bed and sat down beside Rinaldi. He was holding his +glass and looking at the floor. + +“You see how it is, Rinin?” + +“Oh, yes. All my life I encounter sacred subjects. But very few with +you. I suppose you must have them too.” He looked at the floor. + +“You haven’t any?” + +“No.” + +“Not any?” + +“No.” + +“I can say this about your mother and that about your sister?” + +“And that about _your sister_,” Rinaldi said swiftly. We both laughed. + +“The old superman,” I said. + +“I am jealous maybe,” Rinaldi said. + +“No, you’re not.” + +“I don’t mean like that. I mean something else. Have you any married +friends?” + +“Yes,” I said. + +“I haven’t,” Rinaldi said. “Not if they love each other.” + +“Why not?” + +“They don’t like me.” + +“Why not?” + +“I am the snake. I am the snake of reason.” + +“You’re getting it mixed. The apple was reason.” + +“No, it was the snake.” He was more cheerful. + +“You are better when you don’t think so deeply,” I said. + +“I love you, baby,” he said. “You puncture me when I become a great +Italian thinker. But I know many things I can’t say. I know more than +you.” + +“Yes. You do.” + +“But you will have a better time. Even with remorse you will have a +better time.” + +“I don’t think so.” + +“Oh, yes. That is true. Already I am only happy when I am working.” He +looked at the floor again. + +“You’ll get over that.” + +“No. I only like two other things; one is bad for my work and the other +is over in half an hour or fifteen minutes. Sometimes less.” + +“Sometimes a good deal less.” + +“Perhaps I have improved, baby. You do not know. But there are only the +two things and my work.” + +“You’ll get other things.” + +“No. We never get anything. We are born with all we have and we never +learn. We never get anything new. We all start complete. You should be +glad not to be a Latin.” + +“There’s no such thing as a Latin. That is ‘Latin’ thinking. You are so +proud of your defects.” Rinaldi looked up and laughed. + +“We’ll stop, baby. I am tired from thinking so much.” He had looked +tired when he came in. “It’s nearly time to eat. I’m glad you’re back. +You are my best friend and my war brother.” + +“When do the war brothers eat?” I asked. + +“Right away. We’ll drink once more for your liver’s sake.” + +“Like Saint Paul.” + +“You are inaccurate. That was wine and the stomach. Take a little wine +for your stomach’s sake.” + +“Whatever you have in the bottle,” I said. “For any sake you mention.” + +“To your girl,” Rinaldi said. He held out his glass. + +“All right.” + +“I’ll never say a dirty thing about her.” + +“Don’t strain yourself.” + +He drank off the cognac. “I am pure,” he said. “I am like you, baby. I +will get an English girl too. As a matter of fact I knew your girl first +but she was a little tall for me. A tall girl for a sister,” he quoted. + +“You have a lovely pure mind,” I said. + +“Haven’t I? That’s why they call me Rinaldo Purissimo.” + +“Rinaldo Sporchissimo.” + +“Come on, baby, we’ll go down to eat while my mind is still pure.” + +I washed, combed my hair and we went down the stairs. Rinaldi was a +little drunk. In the room where we ate, the meal was not quite ready. + +“I’ll go get the bottle,” Rinaldi said. He went off up the stairs. I sat +at the table and he came back with the bottle and poured us each a half +tumbler of cognac. + +“Too much,” I said and held up the glass and sighted at the lamp on the +table. + +“Not for an empty stomach. It is a wonderful thing. It burns out the +stomach completely. Nothing is worse for you.” + +“All right.” + +“Self-destruction day by day,” Rinaldi said. “It ruins the stomach and +makes the hand shake. Just the thing for a surgeon.” + +“You recommend it?” + +“Heartily. I use no other. Drink it down, baby, and look forward to +being sick.” + +I drank half the glass. In the hall I could hear the orderly calling. +“Soup! Soup is ready!” + +The major came in, nodded to us and sat down. He seemed very small at +table. + +“Is this all we are?” he asked. The orderly put the soup bowl down and +he ladled out a plate full. + +“We are all,” Rinaldi said. “Unless the priest comes. If he knew +Federico was here he would be here.” + +“Where is he?” I asked. + +“He’s at 307,” the major said. He was busy with his soup. He wiped his +mouth, wiping his upturned gray mustache carefully. “He will come I +think. I called them and left word to tell him you were here.” + +“I miss the noise of the mess,” I said. + +“Yes, it’s quiet,” the major said. + +“I will be noisy,” said Rinaldi. + +“Drink some wine, Enrico,” said the major. He filled my glass. The +spaghetti came in and we were all busy. We were finishing the spaghetti +when the priest came in. He was the same as ever, small and brown and +compact looking. I stood up and we shook hands. He put his hand on my +shoulder. + +“I came as soon as I heard,” he said. + +“Sit down,” the major said. “You’re late.” + +“Good-evening, priest,” Rinaldi said, using the English word. They had +taken that up from the priest-baiting captain, who spoke a little +English. “Good-evening, Rinaldo,” the priest said. The orderly brought +him soup but he said he would start with the spaghetti. + +“How are you?” he asked me. + +“Fine,” I said. “How have things been?” + +“Drink some wine, priest,” Rinaldi said. “Take a little wine for your +stomach’s sake. That’s Saint Paul, you know.” + +“Yes I know,” said the priest politely. Rinaldi filled his glass. + +“That Saint Paul,” said Rinaldi. “He’s the one who makes all the +trouble.” The priest looked at me and smiled. I could see that the +baiting did not touch him now. + +“That Saint Paul,” Rinaldi said. “He was a rounder and a chaser and then +when he was no longer hot he said it was no good. When he was finished +he made the rules for us who are still hot. Isn’t it true, Federico?” + +The major smiled. We were eating meat stew now. + +“I never discuss a Saint after dark,” I said. The priest looked up from +the stew and smiled at me. + +“There he is, gone over with the priest,” Rinaldi said. “Where are all +the good old priest-baiters? Where is Cavalcanti? Where is Brundi? Where +is Cesare? Do I have to bait this priest alone without support?” + +“He is a good priest,” said the major. + +“He is a good priest,” said Rinaldi. “But still a priest. I try to make +the mess like the old days. I want to make Federico happy. To hell with +you, priest!” + +I saw the major look at him and notice that he was drunk. His thin face +was white. The line of his hair was very black against the white of his +forehead. + +“It’s all right, Rinaldo,” said the priest. “It’s all right.” + +“To hell with you,” said Rinaldi. “To hell with the whole damn +business.” He sat back in his chair. + +“He’s been under a strain and he’s tired,” the major said to me. He +finished his meat and wiped up the gravy with a piece of bread. + +“I don’t give a damn,” Rinaldi said to the table. “To hell with the +whole business.” He looked defiantly around the table, his eyes flat, +his face pale. + +“All right,” I said. “To hell with the whole damn business.” + +“No, no,” said Rinaldi. “You can’t do it. You can’t do it. I say you +can’t do it. You’re dry and you’re empty and there’s nothing else. +There’s nothing else I tell you. Not a damned thing. I know, when I stop +working.” + +The priest shook his head. The orderly took away the stew dish. + +“What are you eating meat for?” Rinaldi turned to the priest. “Don’ you +know it’s Friday?” + +“It’s Thursday,” the priest said. + +“It’s a lie. It’s Friday. You’re eating the body of our Lord. It’s +God-meat. I know. It’s dead Austrian. That’s what you’re eating.” + +“The white meat is from officers,” I said, completing the old joke. + +Rinaldi laughed. He filled his glass. + +“Don’t mind me,” he said. “I’m just a little crazy.” + +“You ought to have a leave,” the priest said. + +The major shook his head at him. Rinaldi looked at the priest. + +“You think I ought to have a leave?” + +The major shook his head at the priest. Rinaldi was looking at the +priest. + +“Just as you like,” the priest said. “Not if you don’t want.” + +“To hell with you,” Rinaldi said. “They try to get rid of me. Every +night they try to get rid of me. I fight them off. What if I have it. +Everybody has it. The whole world’s got it. First,” he went on, assuming +the manner of a lecturer, “it’s a little pimple. Then we notice a rash +between the shoulders. Then we notice nothing at all. We put our faith +in mercury.” + +“Or salvarsan,” the major interrupted quietly. + +“A mercurial product,” Rinaldi said. He acted very elated now. “I know +something worth two of that. Good old priest,” he said. “You’ll never +get it. Baby will get it. It’s an industrial accident. It’s a simple +industrial accident.” + +The orderly brought in the sweet and coffee. The dessert was a sort of +black bread pudding with hard sauce. The lamp was smoking; the black +smoke going close up inside the chimney. + +“Bring two candles and take away the lamp,” the major said. The orderly +brought two lighted candles each in a saucer, and took out the lamp +blowing it out. Rinaldi was quiet now. He seemed all right. We talked +and after the coffee we all went out into the hall. + +“You want to talk to the priest. I have to go in the town,” Rinaldi +said. “Good-night, priest.” + +“Good-night, Rinaldo,” the priest said. + +“I’ll see you Fredi,” Rinaldi said. + +“Yes,” I said. “Come in early.” He made a face and went out the door. +The major was standing with us. “He’s very tired and overworked,” he +said. “He thinks too he has syphilis. I don’t believe it but he may +have. He is treating himself for it. Good-night. You will leave before +daylight, Enrico?” + +“Yes.” + +“Good-by then,” he said. “Good luck. Peduzzi will wake you and go with +you.” + +“Good-by, Signor Maggiore.” + +“Good-by. They talk about an Austrian offensive but I don’t believe it. +I hope not. But anyway it won’t be here. Gino will tell you everything. +The telephone works well now.” + +“I’ll call regularly.” + +“Please do. Good-night. Don’t let Rinaldi drink so much brandy.” + +“I’ll try not to.” + +“Good-night, priest.” + +“Good-night, Signor Maggiore.” + +He went off into his office. + + + + + CHAPTER XXVI + +I went to the door and looked out. It had stopped raining but there was +a mist. + +“Should we go upstairs?” I asked the priest. + +“I can only stay a little while.” + +“Come on up.” + +We climbed the stairs and went into my room. I lay down on Rinaldi’s +bed. The priest sat on my cot that the orderly had set up. It was dark +in the room. + +“Well,” he said, “how are you really?” + +“I’m all right. I’m tired to-night.” + +“I’m tired too, but from no cause.” + +“What about the war?” + +“I think it will be over soon. I don’t know why, but I feel it.” + +“How do you feel it?” + +“You know how your major is? Gentle? Many people are like that now.” + +“I feel that way myself,” I said. + +“It has been a terrible summer,” said the priest. He was surer of +himself now than when I had gone away. “You cannot believe how it has +been. Except that you have been there and you know how it can be. Many +people have realized the war this summer. Officers whom I thought could +never realize it realize it now.” + +“What will happen?” I stroked the blanket with my hand. + +“I do not know but I do not think it can go on much longer.” + +“What will happen?” + +“They will stop fighting.” + +“Who?” + +“Both sides.” + +“I hope so,” I said. + +“You don’t believe it?” + +“I don’t believe both sides will stop fighting at once.” + +“I suppose not. It is too much to expect. But when I see the changes in +men I do not think it can go on.” + +“Who won the fighting this summer?” + +“No one.” + +“The Austrians won,” I said. “They kept them from taking San Gabriele. +They’ve won. They won’t stop fighting.” + +“If they feel as we feel they may stop. They have gone through the same +thing.” + +“No one ever stopped when they were winning.” + +“You discourage me.” + +“I can only say what I think.” + +“Then you think it will go on and on? Nothing will ever happen?” + +“I don’t know. I only think the Austrians will not stop when they have +won a victory. It is in defeat that we become Christian.” + +“The Austrians are Christians—except for the Bosnians.” + +“I don’t mean technically Christian. I mean like Our Lord.” + +He said nothing. + +“We are all gentler now because we are beaten. How would Our Lord have +been if Peter had rescued him in the Garden?” + +“He would have been just the same.” + +“I don’t think so,” I said. + +“You discourage me,” he said. “I believe and I pray that something will +happen. I have felt it very close.” + +“Something may happen,” I said. “But it will happen only to us. If they +felt the way we do, it would be all right. But they have beaten us. They +feel another way.” + +“Many of the soldiers have always felt this way. It is not because they +were beaten.” + +“They were beaten to start with. They were beaten when they took them +from their farms and put them in the army. That is why the peasant has +wisdom, because he is defeated from the start. Put him in power and see +how wise he is.” + +He did not say anything. He was thinking. + +“Now I am depressed myself,” I said. “That’s why I never think about +these things. I never think and yet when I begin to talk I say the +things I have found out in my mind without thinking.” + +“I had hoped for something.” + +“Defeat?” + +“No. Something more.” + +“There isn’t anything more. Except victory. It may be worse.” + +“I hoped for a long time for victory.” + +“Me too.” + +“Now I don’t know.” + +“It has to be one or the other.” + +“I don’t believe in victory any more.” + +“I don’t. But I don’t believe in defeat. Though it may be better.” + +“What do you believe in?” + +“In sleep,” I said. He stood up. + +“I am very sorry to have stayed so long. But I like so to talk with +you.” + +“It is very nice to talk again. I said that about sleeping, meaning +nothing.” + +We stood up and shook hands in the dark. + +“I sleep at 307 now,” he said. + +“I go out on post early to-morrow.” + +“I’ll see you when you come back.” + +“We’ll have a walk and talk together.” I walked with him to the door. + +“Don’t go down,” he said. “It is very nice that you are back. Though not +so nice for you.” He put his hand on my shoulder. + +“It’s all right for me,” I said. “Good-night.” + +“Good-night. Ciaou!” + +“Ciaou!” I said. I was deadly sleepy. + + + + + CHAPTER XXVII + +I woke when Rinaldi came in but he did not talk and I went back to sleep +again. In the morning I was dressed and gone before it was light. +Rinaldi did not wake when I left. + +I had not seen the Bainsizza before and it was strange to go up the +slope where the Austrians had been, beyond the place on the river where +I had been wounded. There was a steep new road and many trucks. Beyond, +the road flattened out and I saw woods and steep hills in the mist. +There were woods that had been taken quickly and not smashed. Then +beyond where the road was not protected by the hills it was screened by +matting on the sides and over the top. The road ended in a wrecked +village. The lines were up beyond. There was much artillery around. The +houses were badly smashed but things were very well organized and there +were signboards everywhere. We found Gino and he got us some coffee and +later I went with him and met various people and saw the posts. Gino +said the British cars were working further down the Bainsizza at Ravne. +He had great admiration for the British. There was still a certain +amount of shelling, he said, but not many wounded. There would be many +sick now the rains had started. The Austrians were supposed to attack +but he did not believe it. We were supposed to attack too, but they had +not brought up any new troops so he thought that was off too. Food was +scarce and he would be glad to get a full meal in Gorizia. What kind of +supper had I had? I told him and he said that would be wonderful. He was +especially impressed by the _dolce_. I did not describe it in detail, +only said it was a _dolce_, and I think he believed it was something +more elaborate than bread pudding. + +Did I know where he was going to go? I said I didn’t but that some of +the other cars were at Caporetto. He hoped he would go up that way. It +was a nice little place and he liked the high mountain hauling up +beyond. He was a nice boy and every one seemed to like him. He said +where it really had been hell was at San Gabriele and the attack beyond +Lom that had gone bad. He said the Austrians had a great amount of +artillery in the woods along Ternova ridge beyond and above us, and +shelled the roads badly at night. There was a battery of naval guns that +had gotten on his nerves. I would recognize them because of their flat +trajectory. You heard the report and then the shriek commenced almost +instantly. They usually fired two guns at once, one right after the +other, and the fragments from the burst were enormous. He showed me one, +a smoothly jagged piece of metal over a foot long. It looked like +babbiting metal. + +“I don’t suppose they are so effective,” Gino said. “But they scare me. +They all sound as though they came directly for you. There is the boom, +then instantly the shriek and burst. What’s the use of not being wounded +if they scare you to death?” + +He said there were Croats in the lines opposite us now and some Magyars. +Our troops were still in the attacking positions. There was no wire to +speak of and no place to fall back to if there should be an Austrian +attack. There were fine positions for defense along the low mountains +that came up out of the plateau but nothing had been done about +organizing them for defense. What did I think about the Bainsizza +anyway? + +I had expected it to be flatter, more like a plateau. I had not realized +it was so broken up. + +“Alto piano,” Gino said, “but no piano.” + +We went back to the cellar of the house where he lived. I said I thought +a ridge that flattened out on top and had a little depth would be easier +and more practical to hold than a succession of small mountains. It was +no harder to attack up a mountain than on the level, I argued. “That +depends on the mountains,” he said. “Look at San Gabriele.” + +“Yes,” I said, “but where they had trouble was at the top where it was +flat. They got up to the top easy enough.” + +“Not so easy,” he said. + +“Yes,” I said, “but that was a special case because it was a fortress +rather than a mountain, anyway. The Austrians had been fortifying it for +years.” I meant tactically speaking in a war where there was some +movement a succession of mountains were nothing to hold as a line +because it was too easy to turn them. You should have possible mobility +and a mountain is not very mobile. Also, people always over-shoot down +hill. If the flank were turned, the best men would be left on the +highest mountains. I did not believe in a war in mountains. I had +thought about it a lot, I said. You pinched off one mountain and they +pinched off another but when something really started every one had to +get down off the mountains. + +What were you going to do if you had a mountain frontier? he asked. + +I had not worked that out yet, I said, and we both laughed. “But,” I +said, “in the old days the Austrians were always whipped in the +quadrilateral around Verona. They let them come down onto the plain and +whipped them there.” + +“Yes,” said Gino. “But those were Frenchmen and you can work out +military problems clearly when you are fighting in somebody else’s +country.” + +“Yes,” I agreed, “when it is your own country you cannot use it so +scientifically.” + +“The Russians did, to trap Napoleon.” + +“Yes, but they had plenty of country. If you tried to retreat to trap +Napoleon in Italy you would find yourself in Brindisi.” + +“A terrible place,” said Gino. “Have you ever been there?” + +“Not to stay.” + +“I am a patriot,” Gino said. “But I cannot love Brindisi or Taranto.” + +“Do you love the Bainsizza?” I asked. + +“The soil is sacred,” he said. “But I wish it grew more potatoes. You +know when we came here we found fields of potatoes the Austrians had +planted.” + +“Has the food really been short?” + +“I myself have never had enough to eat but I am a big eater and I have +not starved. The mess is average. The regiments in the line get pretty +good food but those in support don’t get so much. Something is wrong +somewhere. There should be plenty of food.” + +“The dogfish are selling it somewhere else.” + +“Yes, they give the battalions in the front line as much as they can but +the ones in back are very short. They have eaten all the Austrians’ +potatoes and chestnuts from the woods. They ought to feed them better. +We are big eaters. I am sure there is plenty of food. It is very bad for +the soldiers to be short of food. Have you ever noticed the difference +it makes in the way you think?” + +“Yes,” I said. “It can’t win a war but it can lose one.” + +“We won’t talk about losing. There is enough talk about losing. What has +been done this summer cannot have been done in vain.” + +I did not say anything. I was always embarrassed by the words sacred, +glorious, and sacrifice and the expression in vain. We had heard them, +sometimes standing in the rain almost out of earshot, so that only the +shouted words came through, and had read them, on proclamations that +were slapped up by billposters over other proclamations, now for a long +time, and I had seen nothing sacred, and the things that were glorious +had no glory and the sacrifices were like the stockyards at Chicago if +nothing was done with the meat except to bury it. There were many words +that you could not stand to hear and finally only the names of places +had dignity. Certain numbers were the same way and certain dates and +these with the names of the places were all you could say and have them +mean anything. Abstract words such as glory, honor, courage, or hallow +were obscene beside the concrete names of villages, the numbers of +roads, the names of rivers, the numbers of regiments and the dates. Gino +was a patriot, so he said things that separated us sometimes, but he was +also a fine boy and I understood his being a patriot. He was born one. +He left with Peduzzi in the car to go back to Gorizia. + +It stormed all that day. The wind drove down the rain and everywhere +there was standing water and mud. The plaster of the broken houses was +gray and wet. Late in the afternoon the rain stopped and from out number +two post I saw the bare wet autumn country with clouds over the tops of +the hills and the straw screening over the roads wet and dripping. The +sun came out once before it went down and shone on the bare woods beyond +the ridge. There were many Austrian guns in the woods on that ridge but +only a few fired. I watched the sudden round puffs of shrapnel smoke in +the sky above a broken farmhouse near where the line was; soft puffs +with a yellow white flash in the centre. You saw the flash, then heard +the crack, then saw the smoke ball distort and thin in the wind. There +were many iron shrapnel balls in the rubble of the houses and on the +road beside the broken house where the post was, but they did not shell +near the post that afternoon. We loaded two cars and drove down the road +that was screened with wet mats and the last of the sun came through in +the breaks between the strips of mattings. Before we were out on the +clear road behind the hill the sun was down. We went on down the clear +road and as it turned a corner into the open and went into the square +arched tunnel of matting the rain started again. + +The wind rose in the night and at three o’clock in the morning with the +rain coming in sheets there was a bombardment and the Croatians came +over across the mountain meadows and through patches of woods and into +the front line. They fought in the dark in the rain and a counter-attack +of scared men from the second line drove them back. There was much +shelling and many rockets in the rain and machine-gun and rifle fire all +along the line. They did not come again and it was quieter and between +the gusts of wind and rain we could hear the sound of a great +bombardment far to the north. + +The wounded were coming into the post, some were carried on stretchers, +some walking and some were brought on the backs of men that came across +the field. They were wet to the skin and all were scared. We filled two +cars with stretcher cases as they came up from the cellar of the post +and as I shut the door of the second car and fastened it I felt the rain +on my face turn to snow. The flakes were coming heavy and fast in the +rain. + +When daylight came the storm was still blowing but the snow had stopped. +It had melted as it fell on the wet ground and now it was raining again. +There was another attack just after daylight but it was unsuccessful. We +expected an attack all day but it did not come until the sun was going +down. The bombardment started to the south below the long wooded ridge +where the Austrian guns were concentrated. We expected a bombardment but +it did not come. It was getting dark. Guns were firing from the field +behind the village and the shells, going away, had a comfortable sound. + +We heard that the attack to the south had been unsuccessful. They did +not attack that night but we heard that they had broken through to the +north. In the night word came that we were to prepare to retreat. The +captain at the post told me this. He had it from the Brigade. A little +while later he came from the telephone and said it was a lie. The +Brigade had received orders that the line of the Bainsizza should be +held no matter what happened. I asked about the break through and he +said that he had heard at the Brigade that the Austrians had broken +through the twenty-seventh army corps up toward Caporetto. There had +been a great battle in the north all day. + +“If those bastards let them through we are cooked,” he said. + +“It’s Germans that are attacking,” one of the medical officers said. The +word Germans was something to be frightened of. We did not want to have +anything to do with the Germans. + +“There are fifteen divisions of Germans,” the medical officer said. +“They have broken through and we will be cut off.” + +“At the Brigade, they say this line is to be held. They say they have +not broken through badly and that we will hold a line across the +mountains from Monte Maggiore.” + +“Where do they hear this?” + +“From the Division.” + +“The word that we were to retreat came from the Division.” + +“We work under the Army Corps,” I said. “But here I work under you. +Naturally when you tell me to go I will go. But get the orders +straight.” + +“The orders are that we stay here. You clear the wounded from here to +the clearing station.” + +“Sometimes we clear from the clearing station to the field hospitals +too,” I said. “Tell me, I have never seen a retreat—if there is a +retreat how are all the wounded evacuated?” + +“They are not. They take as many as they can and leave the rest.” + +“What will I take in the cars?” + +“Hospital equipment.” + +“All right,” I said. + +The next night the retreat started. We heard that Germans and Austrians +had broken through in the north and were coming down the mountain +valleys toward Cividale and Udine. The retreat was orderly, wet and +sullen. In the night, going slowly along the crowded roads we passed +troops marching under the rain, guns, horses pulling wagons, mules, +motor trucks, all moving away from the front. There was no more disorder +than in an advance. + +That night we helped empty the field hospitals that had been set up in +the least ruined villages of the plateau, taking the wounded down to +Plava on the river-bed: and the next day hauled all day in the rain to +evacuate the hospitals and clearing station at Plava. It rained steadily +and the army of the Bainsizza moved down off the plateau in the October +rain and across the river where the great victories had commenced in the +spring of that year. We came into Gorizia in the middle of the next day. +The rain had stopped and the town was nearly empty. As we came up the +street they were loading the girls from the soldiers’ whorehouse into a +truck. There were seven girls and they had on their hats and coats and +carried small suitcases. Two of them were crying. Of the others one +smiled at us and put out her tongue and fluttered it up and down. She +had thick full lips and black eyes. + +I stopped the car and went over and spoke to the matron. The girls from +the officers’ house had left early that morning, she said. Where were +they going? To Conegliano, she said. The truck started. The girl with +thick lips put out her tongue again at us. The matron waved. The two +girls kept on crying. The others looked interestedly out at the town. I +got back in the car. + +“We ought to go with them,” Bonello said. “That would be a good trip.” + +“We’ll have a good trip,” I said. + +“We’ll have a hell of a trip.” + +“That’s what I mean,” I said. We came up the drive to the villa. + +“I’d like to be there when some of those tough babies climb in and try +and hop them.” + +“You think they will?” + +“Sure. Everybody in the Second Army knows that matron.” + +We were outside the villa. + +“They call her the Mother Superior,” Bonello said. “The girls are new +but everybody knows her. They must have brought them up just before the +retreat.” + +“They’ll have a time.” + +“I’ll say they’ll have a time. I’d like to have a crack at them for +nothing. They charge too much at that house anyway. The government gyps +us.” + +“Take the car out and have the mechanics go over it,” I said. “Change +the oil and check the differential. Fill it up and then get some sleep.” + +“Yes, Signor Tenente.” + +The villa was empty. Rinaldi was gone with the hospital. The major was +gone taking hospital personnel in the staff car. There was a note on the +window for me to fill the cars with the material piled in the hall and +to proceed to Pordenone. The mechanics were gone already. I went out +back to the garage. The other two cars came in while I was there and +their drivers got down. It was starting to rain again. + +“I’m so —— sleepy I went to sleep three times coming here from Plava,” +Piani said. “What are we going to do, Tenente?” + +“We’ll change the oil, grease them, fill them up, then take them around +in front and load up the junk they’ve left.” + +“Then do we start?” + +“No, we’ll sleep for three hours.” + +“Christ I’m glad to sleep,” Bonello said. “I couldn’t keep awake +driving.” + +“How’s your car, Aymo?” I asked. + +“It’s all right.” + +“Get me a monkey suit and I’ll help you with the oil.” + +“Don’t you do that, Tenente,” Aymo said. “It’s nothing to do. You go and +pack your things.” + +“My things are all packed,” I said. “I’ll go and carry out the stuff +that they left for us. Bring the cars around as soon as they’re ready.” + +They brought the cars around to the front of the villa and we loaded +them with the hospital equipment which was piled in the hallway. When it +was all in, the three cars stood in line down the driveway under the +trees in the rain. We went inside. + +“Make a fire in the kitchen and dry your things,” I said. + +“I don’t care about dry clothes,” Piani said. “I want to sleep.” + +“I’m going to sleep on the major’s bed,” Bonello said. “I’m going to +sleep where the old man corks off.” + +“I don’t care where I sleep,” Piani said. + +“There are two beds in here.” I opened the door. + +“I never knew what was in that room,” Bonello said. + +“That was old fish-face’s room,” Piani said. + +“You two sleep in there,” I said. “I’ll wake you.” + +“The Austrians will wake us if you sleep too long, Tenente,” Bonello +said. + +“I won’t oversleep,” I said. “Where’s Aymo?” + +“He went out in the kitchen.” + +“Get to sleep,” I said. + +“I’ll sleep,” Piani said. “I’ve been asleep sitting up all day. The +whole top of my head kept coming down over my eyes.” + +“Take your boots off,” Bonello said. “That’s old fish-face’s bed.” + +“Fish-face is nothing to me.” Piani lay on the bed, his muddy boots +straight out, his head on his arm. I went out to the kitchen. Aymo had a +fire in the stove and a kettle of water on. + +“I thought I’d start some _pasta asciutta_,” he said. “We’ll be hungry +when we wake up.” + +“Aren’t you sleepy, Bartolomeo?” + +“Not so sleepy. When the water boils I’ll leave it. The fire will go +down.” + +“You’d better get some sleep,” I said. “We can eat cheese and monkey +meat.” + +“This is better,” he said. “Something hot will be good for those two +anarchists. You go to sleep, Tenente.” + +“There’s a bed in the major’s room.” + +“You sleep there.” + +“No, I’m going up to my old room. Do you want a drink, Bartolomeo?” + +“When we go, Tenente. Now it wouldn’t do me any good.” + +“If you wake in three hours and I haven’t called you, wake me, will +you?” + +“I haven’t any watch, Tenente.” + +“There’s a clock on the wall in the major’s room.” + +“All right.” + +I went out then through the dining-room and the hall and up the marble +stairs to the room where I had lived with Rinaldi. It was raining +outside. I went to the window and looked out. It was getting dark and I +saw the three cars standing in line under the trees. The trees were +dripping in the rain. It was cold and the drops hung to the branches. I +went back to Rinaldi’s bed and lay down and let sleep take me. + +We ate in the kitchen before we started. Aymo had a basin of spaghetti +with onions and tinned meat chopped up in it. We sat around the table +and drank two bottles of the wine that had been left in the cellar of +the villa. It was dark outside and still raining. Piani sat at the table +very sleepy. + +“I like a retreat better than an advance,” Bonello said. “On a retreat +we drink barbera.” + +“We drink it now. To-morrow maybe we drink rain-water,” Aymo said. + +“To-morrow we’ll be in Udine. We’ll drink champagne. That’s where the +slackers live. Wake up, Piani! We’ll drink champagne to-morrow in +Udine!” + +“I’m awake,” Piani said. He filled his plate with the spaghetti and +meat. “Couldn’t you find tomato sauce, Barto?” + +“There wasn’t any,” Aymo said. + +“We’ll drink champagne in Udine,” Bonello said. He filled his glass with +the clear red barbera. + +“We may drink —— before Udine,” Piani said. + +“Have you eaten enough, Tenente?” Aymo asked. + +“I’ve got plenty. Give me the bottle, Bartolomeo.” + +“I have a bottle apiece to take in the cars,” Aymo said. + +“Did you sleep at all?” + +“I don’t need much sleep. I slept a little.” + +“To-morrow we’ll sleep in the king’s bed,” Bonello said. He was feeling +very good. + +“To-morrow maybe we’ll sleep in ——,” Piani said. + +“I’ll sleep with the queen,” Bonello said. He looked to see how I took +the joke. + +“You’ll sleep with ——,” Piani said sleepily. + +“That’s treason, Tenente,” Bonello said. “Isn’t that treason?” + +“Shut up,” I said. “You get too funny with a little wine.” Outside it +was raining hard. I looked at my watch. It was half-past nine. + +“It’s time to roll,” I said and stood up. + +“Who are you going to ride with, Tenente?” Bonello asked. + +“With Aymo. Then you come. Then Piani. We’ll start out on the road for +Cormons.” + +“I’m afraid I’ll go to sleep,” Piani said. + +“All right. I’ll ride with you. Then Bonello. Then Aymo.” + +“That’s the best way,” Piani said. “Because I’m so sleepy.” + +“I’ll drive and you sleep awhile.” + +“No. I can drive just so long as I know somebody will wake me up if I go +to sleep.” + +“I’ll wake you up. Put out the lights, Barto.” + +“You might as well leave them,” Bonello said. “We’ve got no more use for +this place.” + +“I have a small locker trunk in my room,” I said. “Will you help take it +down, Piani?” + +“We’ll take it,” Piani said. “Come on, Aldo.” He went off into the hall +with Bonello. I heard them going upstairs. + +“This was a fine place,” Bartolomeo Aymo said. He put two bottles of +wine and half a cheese into his haversack. “There won’t be a place like +this again. Where will they retreat to, Tenente?” + +“Beyond the Tagliamento, they say. The hospital and the sector are to be +at Pordenone.” + +“This is a better town than Pordenone.” + +“I don’t know Pordenone,” I said. “I’ve just been through there.” + +“It’s not much of a place,” Aymo said. + + + + + CHAPTER XXVIII + +As we moved out through the town it was empty in the rain and the dark +except for columns of troops and guns that were going through the main +street. There were many trucks too and some carts going through on other +streets and converging on the main road. When we were out past the +tanneries onto the main road the troops, the motor trucks, the +horse-drawn carts and the guns were in one wide slow-moving column. We +moved slowly but steadily in the rain, the radiator cap of our car +almost against the tailboard of a truck that was loaded high, the load +covered with wet canvas. Then the truck stopped. The whole column was +stopped. It started again and we went a little farther, then stopped. I +got out and walked ahead, going between the trucks and carts and under +the wet necks of the horses. The block was farther ahead. I left the +road, crossed the ditch on a footboard and walked along the field beyond +the ditch. I could see the stalled column between the trees in the rain +as I went forward across from it in the field. I went about a mile. The +column did not move, although, on the other side beyond the stalled +vehicles I could see the troops moving. I went back to the cars. This +block might extend as far as Udine. Piani was asleep over the wheel. I +climbed up beside him and went to sleep too. Several hours later I heard +the truck ahead of us grinding into gear. I woke Piani and we started, +moving a few yards, then stopping, then going on again. It was still +raining. + +The column stalled again in the night and did not start. I got down and +went back to see Aymo and Bonello. Bonello had two sergeants of +engineers on the seat of his car with him. They stiffened when I came +up. + +“They were left to do something to a bridge,” Bonello said. “They can’t +find their unit so I gave them a ride.” + +“With the Sir Lieutenant’s permission.” + +“With permission,” I said. + +“The lieutenant is an American,” Bonello said. “He’ll give anybody a +ride.” + +One of the sergeants smiled. The other asked Bonello if I was an Italian +from North or South America. + +“He’s not an Italian. He’s North American English.” + +The sergeants were polite but did not believe it. I left them and went +back to Aymo. He had two girls on the seat with him and was sitting back +in the corner and smoking. + +“Barto, Barto,” I said. He laughed. + +“Talk to them, Tenente,” he said. “I can’t understand them. Hey!” he put +his hand on the girl’s thigh and squeezed it in a friendly way. The girl +drew her shawl tight around her and pushed his hand away. “Hey!” he +said. “Tell the Tenente your name and what you’re doing here.” + +The girl looked at me fiercely. The other girl kept her eyes down. The +girl who looked at me said something in a dialect I could not understand +a word of. She was plump and dark and looked about sixteen. + +“Sorella?” I asked and pointed at the other girl. + +She nodded her head and smiled. + +“All right,” I said and patted her knee. I felt her stiffen away when I +touched her. The sister never looked up. She looked perhaps a year +younger. Aymo put his hand on the elder girl’s thigh and she pushed it +away. He laughed at her. + +“Good man,” he pointed at himself. “Good man,” he pointed at me. “Don’t +you worry.” The girl looked at him fiercely. The pair of them were like +two wild birds. + +“What does she ride with me for if she doesn’t like me?” Aymo asked. +“They got right up in the car the minute I motioned to them.” He turned +to the girl. “Don’t worry,” he said. “No danger of ——,” using the +vulgar word. “No place for ——.” I could see she understood the word +and that was all. Her eyes looked at him very scared. She pulled the +shawl tight. “Car all full,” Aymo said. “No danger of ——. No place for +——.” Every time he said the word the girl stiffened a little. Then +sitting stiffly and looking at him she began to cry. I saw her lips +working and then tears came down her plump cheeks. Her sister, not +looking up, took her hand and they sat there together. The older one, +who had been so fierce, began to sob. + +“I guess I scared her,” Aymo said. “I didn’t mean to scare her.” + +Bartolomeo brought out his knapsack and cut off two pieces of cheese. +“Here,” he said. “Stop crying.” + +The older girl shook her head and still cried, but the younger girl took +the cheese and commenced to eat. After a while the younger girl gave her +sister the second piece of cheese and they both ate. The older sister +still sobbed a little. + +“She’ll be all right after a while,” Aymo said. + +An idea came to him. “Virgin?” he asked the girl next to him. She nodded +her head vigorously. “Virgin too?” he pointed to the sister. Both the +girls nodded their heads and the elder said something in dialect. + +“That’s all right,” Bartolomeo said. “That’s all right.” + +Both the girls seemed cheered. + +I left them sitting together with Aymo sitting back in the corner and +went back to Piani’s car. The column of vehicles did not move but the +troops kept passing alongside. It was still raining hard and I thought +some of the stops in the movement of the column might be from cars with +wet wiring. More likely they were from horses or men going to sleep. +Still, traffic could tie up in cities when every one was awake. It was +the combination of horse and motor vehicles. They did not help each +other any. The peasants’ carts did not help much either. Those were a +couple of fine girls with Barto. A retreat was no place for two virgins. +Real virgins. Probably very religious. If there were no war we would +probably all be in bed. In bed I lay me down my head. Bed and board. +Stiff as a board in bed. Catherine was in bed now between two sheets, +over her and under her. Which side did she sleep on? Maybe she wasn’t +asleep. Maybe she was lying thinking about me. Blow, blow, ye western +wind. Well, it blew and it wasn’t the small rain but the big rain down +that rained. It rained all night. You knew it rained down that rained. +Look at it. Christ, that my love were in my arms and I in my bed again. +That my love Catherine. That my sweet love Catherine down might rain. +Blow her again to me. Well, we were in it. Every one was caught in it +and the small rain would not quiet it. “Good-night, Catherine,” I said +out loud. “I hope you sleep well. If it’s too uncomfortable, darling, +lie on the other side,” I said. “I’ll get you some cold water. In a +little while it will be morning and then it won’t be so bad. I’m sorry +he makes you so uncomfortable. Try and go to sleep, sweet.” + +I was asleep all the time, she said. You’ve been talking in your sleep. +Are you all right? + +Are you really there? + +Of course I’m here. I wouldn’t go way. This doesn’t make any difference +between us. + +You’re so lovely and sweet. You wouldn’t go away in the night, would +you? + +Of course I wouldn’t go away. I’m always here. I come whenever you want +me. + +“——,” Piani said. “They’ve started again.” + +“I was dopey,” I said. I looked at my watch. It was three o’clock in the +morning. I reached back behind the seat for a bottle of the barbera. + +“You talked out loud,” Piani said. + +“I was having a dream in English,” I said. + +The rain was slacking and we were moving along. Before daylight we were +stalled again and when it was light we were at a little rise in the +ground and I saw the road of the retreat stretched out far ahead, +everything stationary except for the infantry filtering through. We +started to move again but seeing the rate of progress in the daylight, I +knew we were going to have to get off that main road some way and go +across country if we ever hoped to reach Udine. + +In the night many peasants had joined the column from the roads of the +country and in the column there were carts loaded with household goods; +there were mirrors projecting up between mattresses, and chickens and +ducks tied to carts. There was a sewing-machine on the cart ahead of us +in the rain. They had saved the most valuable things. On some carts the +women sat huddled from the rain and others walked beside the carts +keeping as close to them as they could. There were dogs now in the +column, keeping under the wagons as they moved along. The road was +muddy, the ditches at the side were high with water and beyond the trees +that lined the road the fields looked too wet and too soggy to try to +cross. I got down from the car and worked up the road a way, looking for +a place where I could see ahead to find a side-road we could take across +country. I knew there were many side-roads but did not want one that +would lead to nothing. I could not remember them because we had always +passed them bowling along in the car on the main road and they all +looked much alike. Now I knew we must find one if we hoped to get +through. No one knew where the Austrians were nor how things were going +but I was certain that if the rain should stop and planes come over and +get to work on that column that it would be all over. All that was +needed was for a few men to leave their trucks or a few horses be killed +to tie up completely the movement on the road. + +The rain was not falling so heavily now and I thought it might clear. I +went ahead along the edge of the road and when there was a small road +that led off to the north between two fields with a hedge of trees on +both sides, I thought that we had better take it and hurried back to the +cars. I told Piani to turn off and went back to tell Bonello and Aymo. + +“If it leads nowhere we can turn around and cut back in,” I said. + +“What about these?” Bonello asked. His two sergeants were beside him on +the seat. They were unshaven but still military looking in the early +morning. + +“They’ll be good to push,” I said. I went back to Aymo and told him we +were going to try it across country. + +“What about my virgin family?” Aymo asked. The two girls were asleep. + +“They won’t be very useful,” I said. “You ought to have some one that +could push.” + +“They could go back in the car,” Aymo said. “There’s room in the car.” + +“All right if you want them,” I said. “Pick up somebody with a wide back +to push.” + +“Bersaglieri,” Aymo smiled. “They have the widest backs. They measure +them. How do you feel, Tenente?” + +“Fine. How are you?” + +“Fine. But very hungry.” + +“There ought to be something up that road and we will stop and eat.” + +“How’s your leg, Tenente?” + +“Fine,” I said. Standing on the step and looking up ahead I could see +Piani’s car pulling out onto the little side-road and starting up it, +his car showing through the hedge of bare branches. Bonello turned off +and followed him and then Piani worked his way out and we followed the +two ambulances ahead along the narrow road between hedges. It led to a +farmhouse. We found Piani and Bonello stopped in the farmyard. The house +was low and long with a trellis with a grape-vine over the door. There +was a well in the yard and Piani was getting up water to fill his +radiator. So much going in low gear had boiled it out. The farmhouse was +deserted. I looked back down the road, the farmhouse was on a slight +elevation above the plain, and we could see over the country, and saw +the road, the hedges, the fields and the line of trees along the main +road where the retreat was passing. The two sergeants were looking +through the house. The girls were awake and looking at the courtyard, +the well and the two big ambulances in front of the farmhouse, with +three drivers at the well. One of the sergeants came out with a clock in +his hand. + +“Put it back,” I said. He looked at me, went in the house and came back +without the clock. + +“Where’s your partner?” I asked. + +“He’s gone to the latrine.” He got up on the seat of the ambulance. He +was afraid we would leave him. + +“What about breakfast, Tenente?” Bonello asked. “We could eat something. +It wouldn’t take very long.” + +“Do you think this road going down on the other side will lead to +anything?” + +“Sure.” + +“All right. Let’s eat.” Piani and Bonello went in the house. + +“Come on,” Aymo said to the girls. He held his hand to help them down. +The older sister shook her head. They were not going into any deserted +house. They looked after us. + +“They are difficult,” Aymo said. We went into the farmhouse together. It +was large and dark, an abandoned feeling. Bonello and Piani were in the +kitchen. + +“There’s not much to eat,” Piani said. “They’ve cleaned it out.” + +Bonello sliced a big white cheese on the heavy kitchen table. + +“Where was the cheese?” + +“In the cellar. Piani found wine too and apples.” + +“That’s a good breakfast.” + +Piani was taking the wooden cork out of a big wicker-covered wine jug. +He tipped it and poured a copper pan full. + +“It smells all right,” he said. “Find some beakers, Barto.” + +The two sergeants came in. + +“Have some cheese, sergeants,” Bonello said. + +“We should go,” one of the sergeants said, eating his cheese and +drinking a cup of wine. + +“We’ll go. Don’t worry,” Bonello said. + +“An army travels on its stomach,” I said. + +“What?” asked the sergeant. + +“It’s better to eat.” + +“Yes. But time is precious.” + +“I believe the bastards have eaten already,” Piani said. The sergeants +looked at him. They hated the lot of us. + +“You know the road?” one of them asked me. + +“No,” I said. They looked at each other. + +“We would do best to start,” the first one said. + +“We are starting,” I said. I drank another cup of the red wine. It +tasted very good after the cheese and apple. + +“Bring the cheese,” I said and went out. Bonello came out carrying the +great jug of wine. + +“That’s too big,” I said. He looked at it regretfully. + +“I guess it is,” he said. “Give me the canteens to fill.” He filled the +canteens and some of the wine ran out on the stone paving of the +courtyard. Then he picked up the wine jug and put it just inside the +door. + +“The Austrians can find it without breaking the door down,” he said. + +“We’ll roll,” I said. “Piani and I will go ahead.” The two engineers +were already on the seat beside Bonello. The girls were eating cheese +and apples. Aymo was smoking. We started off down the narrow road. I +looked back at the two cars coming and the farmhouse. It was a fine, +low, solid stone house and the ironwork of the well was very good. Ahead +of us the road was narrow and muddy and there was a high hedge on either +side. Behind, the cars were following closely. + + + + + CHAPTER XXIX + +At noon we were stuck in a muddy road about, as nearly as we could +figure, ten kilometres from Udine. The rain had stopped during the +forenoon and three times we had heard planes coming, seen them pass +overhead, watched them go far to the left and heard them bombing on the +main highroad. We had worked through a network of secondary roads and +had taken many roads that were blind, but had always, by backing up and +finding another road, gotten closer to Udine. Now, Aymo’s car, in +backing so that we might get out of a blind road, had gotten into the +soft earth at the side and the wheels, spinning, had dug deeper and +deeper until the car rested on its differential. The thing to do now was +to dig out in front of the wheels, put in brush so that the chains could +grip, and then push until the car was on the road. We were all down on +the road around the car. The two sergeants looked at the car and +examined the wheels. Then they started off down the road without a word. +I went after them. + +“Come on,” I said. “Cut some brush.” + +“We have to go,” one said. + +“Get busy,” I said, “and cut brush.” + +“We have to go,” one said. The other said nothing. They were in a hurry +to start. They would not look at me. + +“I order you to come back to the car and cut brush,” I said. The one +sergeant turned. “We have to go on. In a little while you will be cut +off. You can’t order us. You’re not our officer.” + +“I order you to cut brush,” I said. They turned and started down the +road. + +“Halt,” I said. They kept on down the muddy road, the hedge on either +side. “I order you to halt,” I called. They went a little faster. I +opened up my holster, took the pistol, aimed at the one who had talked +the most, and fired. I missed and they both started to run. I shot three +times and dropped one. The other went through the hedge and was out of +sight. I fired at him through the hedge as he ran across the field. The +pistol clicked empty and I put in another clip. I saw it was too far to +shoot at the second sergeant. He was far across the field, running, his +head held low. I commenced to reload the empty clip. Bonello came up. + +“Let me go finish him,” he said. I handed him the pistol and he walked +down to where the sergeant of engineers lay face down across the road. +Bonello leaned over, put the pistol against the man’s head and pulled +the trigger. The pistol did not fire. + +“You have to cock it,” I said. He cocked it and fired twice. He took +hold of the sergeant’s legs and pulled him to the side of the road so he +lay beside the hedge. He came back and handed me the pistol. + +“The son of a bitch,” he said. He looked toward the sergeant. “You see +me shoot him, Tenente?” + +“We’ve got to get the brush quickly,” I said. “Did I hit the other one +at all?” + +“I don’t think so,” Aymo said. “He was too far away to hit with a +pistol.” + +“The dirty scum,” Piani said. We were all cutting twigs and branches. +Everything had been taken out of the car. Bonello was digging out in +front of the wheels. When we were ready Aymo started the car and put it +into gear. The wheels spun round throwing brush and mud. Bonello and I +pushed until we could feel our joints crack. The car would not move. + +“Rock her back and forth, Barto,” I said. + +He drove the engine in reverse, then forward. The wheels only dug in +deeper. Then the car was resting on the differential again, and the +wheels spun freely in the holes they had dug. I straightened up. + +“We’ll try her with a rope,” I said. + +“I don’t think it’s any use, Tenente. You can’t get a straight pull.” + +“We have to try it,” I said. “She won’t come out any other way.” + +Piani’s and Bonello’s cars could only move straight ahead down the +narrow road. We roped both cars together and pulled. The wheels only +pulled sideways against the ruts. + +“It’s no good,” I shouted. “Stop it.” + +Piani and Bonello got down from their cars and came back. Aymo got down. +The girls were up the road about forty yards sitting on a stone wall. + +“What do you say, Tenente?” Bonello asked. + +“We’ll dig out and try once more with the brush,” I said. I looked down +the road. It was my fault. I had led them up here. The sun was almost +out from behind the clouds and the body of the sergeant lay beside the +hedge. + +“We’ll put his coat and cape under,” I said. Bonello went to get them. I +cut brush and Aymo and Piani dug out in front and between the wheels. I +cut the cape, then ripped it in two, and laid it under the wheel in the +mud, then piled brush for the wheels to catch. We were ready to start +and Aymo got up on the seat and started the car. The wheels spun and we +pushed and pushed. But it wasn’t any use. + +“It’s ——ed,” I said. “Is there anything you want in the car, Barto?” + +Aymo climbed up with Bonello, carrying the cheese and two bottles of +wine and his cape. Bonello, sitting behind the wheel, was looking +through the pockets of the sergeant’s coat. + +“Better throw the coat away,” I said. “What about Barto’s virgins?” + +“They can get in the back,” Piani said. “I don’t think we are going +far.” + +I opened the back door of the ambulance. + +“Come on,” I said. “Get in.” The two girls climbed in and sat in the +corner. They seemed to have taken no notice of the shooting. I looked +back up the road. The sergeant lay in his dirty long-sleeved underwear. +I got up with Piani and we started. We were going to try to cross the +field. When the road entered the field I got down and walked ahead. If +we could get across, there was a road on the other side. We could not +get across. It was too soft and muddy for the cars. When they were +finally and completely stalled, the wheels dug in to the hubs, we left +them in the field and started on foot for Udine. + +When we came to the road which led back toward the main highway I +pointed down it to the two girls. + +“Go down there,” I said. “You’ll meet people.” They looked at me. I took +out my pocket-book and gave them each a ten-lira note. “Go down there,” +I said, pointing. “Friends! Family!” + +They did not understand but they held the money tightly and started down +the road. They looked back as though they were afraid I might take the +money back. I watched them go down the road, their shawls close around +them, looking back apprehensively at us. The three drivers were +laughing. + +“How much will you give me to go in that direction, Tenente?” Bonello +asked. + +“They’re better off in a bunch of people than alone if they catch them,” +I said. + +“Give me two hundred lire and I’ll walk straight back toward Austria,” +Bonello said. + +“They’d take it away from you,” Piani said. + +“Maybe the war will be over,” Aymo said. We were going up the road as +fast as we could. The sun was trying to come through. Beside the road +were mulberry trees. Through the trees I could see our two big +moving-vans of cars stuck in the field. Piani looked back too. + +“They’ll have to build a road to get them out,” he said. + +“I wish to Christ we had bicycles,” Bonello said. + +“Do they ride bicycles in America?” Aymo asked. + +“They used to.” + +“Here it is a great thing,” Aymo said. “A bicycle is a splendid thing.” + +“I wish to Christ we had bicycles,” Bonello said. “I’m no walker.” + +“Is that firing?” I asked. I thought I could hear firing a long way +away. + +“I don’t know,” Aymo said. He listened. + +“I think so,” I said. + +“The first thing we will see will be the cavalry,” Piani said. + +“I don’t think they’ve got any cavalry.” + +“I hope to Christ not,” Bonello said. “I don’t want to be stuck on a +lance by any —— cavalry.” + +“You certainly shot that sergeant, Tenente,” Piani said. We were walking +fast. + +“I killed him,” Bonello said. “I never killed anybody in this war, and +all my life I’ve wanted to kill a sergeant.” + +“You killed him on the sit all right,” Piani said. “He wasn’t flying +very fast when you killed him.” + +“Never mind. That’s one thing I can always remember. I killed that —— +of a sergeant.” + +“What will you say in confession?” Aymo asked. + +“I’ll say, ‘Bless me, father, I killed a sergeant.’” They all laughed. + +“He’s an anarchist,” Piani said. “He doesn’t go to church.” + +“Piani’s an anarchist too,” Bonello said. + +“Are you really anarchists?” I asked. + +“No, Tenente. We’re socialists. We come from Imola.” + +“Haven’t you ever been there?” + +“No.” + +“By Christ it’s a fine place, Tenente. You come there after the war and +we’ll show you something.” + +“Are you all socialists?” + +“Everybody.” + +“Is it a fine town?” + +“Wonderful. You never saw a town like that.” + +“How did you get to be socialists?” + +“We’re all socialists. Everybody is a socialist. We’ve always been +socialists.” + +“You come, Tenente. We’ll make you a socialist too.” + +Ahead the road turned off to the left and there was a little hill and, +beyond a stone wall, an apple orchard. As the road went uphill they +ceased talking. We walked along together all going fast against time. + + + + + CHAPTER XXX + +Later we were on a road that led to a river. There was a long line of +abandoned trucks and carts on the road leading up to the bridge. No one +was in sight. The river was high and the bridge had been blown up in the +centre; the stone arch was fallen into the river and the brown water was +going over it. We went on up the bank looking for a place to cross. Up +ahead I knew there was a railway bridge and I thought we might be able +to get across there. The path was wet and muddy. We did not see any +troops; only abandoned trucks and stores. Along the river bank there was +nothing and no one but the wet brush and muddy ground. We went up to the +bank and finally we saw the railway bridge. + +“What a beautiful bridge,” Aymo said. It was a long plain iron bridge +across what was usually a dry river-bed. + +“We better hurry and get across before they blow it up,” I said. + +“There’s nobody to blow it up,” Piani said. “They’re all gone.” + +“It’s probably mined,” Bonello said. “You cross first, Tenente.” + +“Listen to the anarchist,” Aymo said. “Make him go first.” + +“I’ll go,” I said. “It won’t be mined to blow up with one man.” + +“You see,” Piani said. “That is brains. Why haven’t you brains, +anarchist?” + +“If I had brains I wouldn’t be here,” Bonello said. + +“That’s pretty good, Tenente,” Aymo said. + +“That’s pretty good,” I said. We were close to the bridge now. The sky +had clouded over again and it was raining a little. The bridge looked +long and solid. We climbed up the embankment. + +“Come one at a time,” I said and started across the bridge. I watched +the ties and the rails for any tripwires or signs of explosive but I saw +nothing. Down below the gaps in the ties the river ran muddy and fast. +Ahead across the wet countryside I could see Udine in the rain. Across +the bridge I looked back. Just up the river was another bridge. As I +watched, a yellow mud-colored motor car crossed it. The sides of the +bridge were high and the body of the car, once on, was out of sight. But +I saw the heads of the driver, the man on the seat with him, and the two +men on the rear seat. They all wore German helmets. Then the car was +over the bridge and out of sight behind the trees and the abandoned +vehicles on the road. I waved to Aymo who was crossing and to the others +to come on. I climbed down and crouched beside the railway embankment. +Aymo came down with me. + +“Did you see the car?” I asked. + +“No. We were watching you.” + +“A German staff car crossed on the upper bridge.” + +“A staff car?” + +“Yes.” + +“Holy Mary.” + +The others came and we all crouched in the mud behind the embankment, +looking across the rails at the bridge, the line of trees, the ditch and +the road. + +“Do you think we’re cut off then, Tenente?” + +“I don’t know. All I know is a German staff car went along that road.” + +“You don’t feel funny, Tenente? You haven’t got strange feelings in the +head?” + +“Don’t be funny, Bonello.” + +“What about a drink?” Piani asked. “If we’re cut off we might as well +have a drink.” He unhooked his canteen and uncorked it. + +“Look! Look!” Aymo said and pointed toward the road. Along the top of +the stone bridge we could see German helmets moving. They were bent +forward and moved smoothly, almost supernaturally, along. As they came +off the bridge we saw them. They were bicycle troops. I saw the faces of +the first two. They were ruddy and healthy-looking. Their helmets came +low down over their foreheads and the side of their faces. Their +carbines were clipped to the frame of the bicycles. Stick bombs hung +handle down from their belts. Their helmets and their gray uniforms were +wet and they rode easily, looking ahead and to both sides. There were +two—then four in line, then two, then almost a dozen; then another +dozen—then one alone. They did not talk but we could not have heard +them because of the noise from the river. They were gone out of sight up +the road. + +“Holy Mary,” Aymo said. + +“They were Germans,” Piani said. “Those weren’t Austrians.” + +“Why isn’t there somebody here to stop them?” I said. “Why haven’t they +blown the bridge up? Why aren’t there machine-guns along this +embankment?” + +“You tell us, Tenente,” Bonello said. + +I was very angry. + +“The whole bloody thing is crazy. Down below they blow up a little +bridge. Here they leave a bridge on the main road. Where is everybody? +Don’t they try and stop them at all?” + +“You tell us, Tenente,” Bonello said. I shut up. It was none of my +business; all I had to do was to get to Pordenone with three ambulances. +I had failed at that. All I had to do now was get to Pordenone. I +probably could not even get to Udine. The hell I couldn’t. The thing to +do was to be calm and not get shot or captured. + +“Didn’t you have a canteen open?” I asked Piani. He handed it to me. I +took a long drink. “We might as well start,” I said. “There’s no hurry +though. Do you want to eat something?” + +“This is no place to stay,” Bonello said. + +“All right. We’ll start.” + +“Should we keep on this side—out of sight?” + +“We’ll be better off on top. They may come along this bridge too. We +don’t want them on top of us before we see them.” + +We walked along the railroad track. On both sides of us stretched the +wet plain. Ahead across the plain was the hill of Udine. The roofs fell +away from the castle on the hill. We could see the campanile and the +clock-tower. There were many mulberry trees in the fields. Ahead I saw a +place where the rails were torn up. The ties had been dug out too and +thrown down the embankment. + +“Down! down!” Aymo said. We dropped down beside the embankment. There +was another group of bicyclists passing along the road. I looked over +the edge and saw them go on. + +“They saw us but they went on,” Aymo said. + +“We’ll get killed up there, Tenente,” Bonello said. + +“They don’t want us,” I said. “They’re after something else. We’re in +more danger if they should come on us suddenly.” + +“I’d rather walk here out of sight,” Bonello said. + +“All right. We’ll walk along the tracks.” + +“Do you think we can get through?” Aymo asked. + +“Sure. There aren’t very many of them yet. We’ll go through in the +dark.” + +“What was that staff car doing?” + +“Christ knows,” I said. We kept on up the tracks. Bonello tired of +walking in the mud of the embankment and came up with the rest of us. +The railway moved south away from the highway now and we could not see +what passed along the road. A short bridge over a canal was blown up but +we climbed across on what was left of the span. We heard firing ahead of +us. + +We came up on the railway beyond the canal. It went on straight toward +the town across the low fields. We could see the line of the other +railway ahead of us. To the north was the main road where we had seen +the cyclists; to the south there was a small branch-road across the +fields with thick trees on each side. I thought we had better cut to the +south and work around the town that way and across country toward +Campoformio and the main road to the Tagliamento. We could avoid the +main line of the retreat by keeping to the secondary roads beyond Udine. +I knew there were plenty of side-roads across the plain. I started down +the embankment. + +“Come on,” I said. We would make for the side-road and work to the south +of the town. We all started down the embankment. A shot was fired at us +from the side-road. The bullet went into the mud of the embankment. + +“Go on back,” I shouted. I started up the embankment, slipping in the +mud. The drivers were ahead of me. I went up the embankment as fast as I +could go. Two more shots came from the thick brush and Aymo, as he was +crossing the tracks, lurched, tripped and fell face down. We pulled him +down on the other side and turned him over. “His head ought to be +uphill,” I said. Piani moved him around. He lay in the mud on the side +of the embankment, his feet pointing downhill, breathing blood +irregularly. The three of us squatted over him in the rain. He was hit +low in the back of the neck and the bullet had ranged upward and come +out under the right eye. He died while I was stopping up the two holes. +Piani laid his head down, wiped at his face, with a piece of the +emergency dressing, then let it alone. + +“The ——,” he said. + +“They weren’t Germans,” I said. “There can’t be any Germans over there.” + +“Italians,” Piani said, using the word as an epithet, “Italiani!” +Bonello said nothing. He was sitting beside Aymo, not looking at him. +Piani picked up Aymo’s cap where it had rolled down the embankment and +put it over his face. He took out his canteen. + +“Do you want a drink?” Piani handed Bonello the canteen. + +“No,” Bonello said. He turned to me. “That might have happened to us any +time on the railway tracks.” + +“No,” I said. “It was because we started across the field.” + +Bonello shook his head. “Aymo’s dead,” he said. “Who’s dead next, +Tenente? Where do we go now?” + +“Those were Italians that shot,” I said. “They weren’t Germans.” + +“I suppose if they were Germans they’d have killed all of us,” Bonello +said. + +“We are in more danger from Italians than Germans,” I said. “The rear +guard are afraid of everything. The Germans know what they’re after.” + +“You reason it out, Tenente,” Bonello said. + +“Where do we go now?” Piani asked. + +“We better lie up some place till it’s dark. If we could get south we’d +be all right.” + +“They’d have to shoot us all to prove they were right the first time,” +Bonello said. “I’m not going to try them.” + +“We’ll find a place to lie up as near to Udine as we can get and then go +through when it’s dark.” + +“Let’s go then,” Bonello said. We went down the north side of the +embankment. I looked back. Aymo lay in the mud with the angle of the +embankment. He was quite small and his arms were by his side, his +puttee-wrapped legs and muddy boots together, his cap over his face. He +looked very dead. It was raining. I had liked him as well as any one I +ever knew. I had his papers in my pocket and would write to his family. +Ahead across the fields was a farmhouse. There were trees around it and +the farm buildings were built against the house. There was a balcony +along the second floor held up by columns. + +“We better keep a little way apart,” I said. “I’ll go ahead.” I started +toward the farmhouse. There was a path across the field. + +Crossing the field, I did not know but that some one would fire on us +from the trees near the farmhouse or from the farmhouse itself. I walked +toward it, seeing it very clearly. The balcony of the second floor +merged into the barn and there was hay coming out between the columns. +The courtyard was of stone blocks and all the trees were dripping with +the rain. There was a big empty two-wheeled cart, the shafts tipped high +up in the rain. I came to the courtyard, crossed it, and stood under the +shelter of the balcony. The door of the house was open and I went in. +Bonello and Piani came in after me. It was dark inside. I went back to +the kitchen. There were ashes of a fire on the big open hearth. The pots +hung over the ashes, but they were empty. I looked around but I could +not find anything to eat. + +“We ought to lie up in the barn,” I said. “Do you think you could find +anything to eat, Piani, and bring it up there?” + +“I’ll look,” Piani said. + +“I’ll look too,” Bonello said. + +“All right,” I said. “I’ll go up and look at the barn.” I found a stone +stairway that went up from the stable underneath. The stable smelt dry +and pleasant in the rain. The cattle were all gone, probably driven off +when they left. The barn was half full of hay. There were two windows in +the roof, one was blocked with boards, the other was a narrow dormer +window on the north side. There was a chute so that hay might be pitched +down to the cattle. Beams crossed the opening down into the main floor +where the hay-carts drove in when the hay was hauled in to be pitched +up. I heard the rain on the roof and smelled the hay and, when I went +down, the clean smell of dried dung in the stable. We could pry a board +loose and see out of the south window down into the courtyard. The other +window looked out on the field toward the north. We could get out of +either window onto the roof and down, or go down the hay chute if the +stairs were impractical. It was a big barn and we could hide in the hay +if we heard any one. It seemed like a good place. I was sure we could +have gotten through to the south if they had not fired on us. It was +impossible that there were Germans there. They were coming from the +north and down the road from Cividale. They could not have come through +from the south. The Italians were even more dangerous. They were +frightened and firing on anything they saw. Last night on the retreat we +had heard that there had been many Germans in Italian uniforms mixing +with the retreat in the north. I did not believe it. That was one of +those things you always heard in the war. It was one of the things the +enemy always did to you. You did not know any one who went over in +German uniform to confuse them. Maybe they did but it sounded difficult. +I did not believe the Germans did it. I did not believe they had to. +There was no need to confuse our retreat. The size of the army and the +fewness of the roads did that. Nobody gave any orders, let alone +Germans. Still, they would shoot us for Germans. They shot Aymo. The hay +smelled good and lying in a barn in the hay took away all the years in +between. We had lain in hay and talked and shot sparrows with an +air-rifle when they perched in the triangle cut high up in the wall of +the barn. The barn was gone now and one year they had cut the hemlock +woods and there were only stumps, dried tree-tops, branches and fireweed +where the woods had been. You could not go back. If you did not go +forward what happened? You never got back to Milan. And if you got back +to Milan what happened? I listened to the firing to the north toward +Udine. I could hear machine-gun firing. There was no shelling. That was +something. They must have gotten some troops along the road. I looked +down in the half-light of the hay-barn and saw Piani standing on the +hauling floor. He had a long sausage, a jar of something and two bottles +of wine under his arm. + +“Come up,” I said. “There is the ladder.” Then I realized that I should +help him with the things and went down. I was vague in the head from +lying in the hay. I had been nearly asleep. + +“Where’s Bonello?” I asked. + +“I’ll tell you,” Piani said. We went up the ladder. Up on the hay we set +the things down. Piani took out his knife with the corkscrew and drew +the cork on a wine bottle. + +“They have sealing-wax on it,” he said. “It must be good.” He smiled. + +“Where’s Bonello?” I asked. + +Piani looked at me. + +“He went away, Tenente,” he said. “He wanted to be a prisoner.” + +I did not say anything. + +“He was afraid we would get killed.” + +I held the bottle of wine and did not say anything. + +“You see we don’t believe in the war anyway, Tenente.” + +“Why didn’t you go?” I asked. + +“I did not want to leave you.” + +“Where did he go?” + +“I don’t know, Tenente. He went away.” + +“All right,” I said. “Will you cut the sausage?” + +Piani looked at me in the half-light. + +“I cut it while we were talking,” he said. We sat in the hay and ate the +sausage and drank the wine. It must have been wine they had saved for a +wedding. It was so old that it was losing its color. + +“You look out of this window, Luigi,” I said. “I’ll go look out the +other window.” + +We had each been drinking out of one of the bottles and I took my bottle +with me and went over and lay flat on the hay and looked out the narrow +window at the wet country. I do not know what I expected to see but I +did not see anything except the fields and the bare mulberry trees and +the rain falling. I drank the wine and it did not make me feel good. +They had kept it too long and it had gone to pieces and lost its quality +and color. I watched it get dark outside; the darkness came very +quickly. It would be a black night with the rain. When it was dark there +was no use watching any more, so I went over to Piani. He was lying +asleep and I did not wake him but sat down beside him for a while. He +was a big man and he slept heavily. After a while I woke him and we +started. + +That was a very strange night. I do not know what I had expected, death +perhaps and shooting in the dark and running, but nothing happened. We +waited, lying flat beyond the ditch along the main road while a German +battalion passed, then when they were gone we crossed the road and went +on to the north. We were very close to Germans twice in the rain but +they did not see us. We got past the town to the north without seeing +any Italians, then after a while came on the main channels of the +retreat and walked all night toward the Tagliamento. I had not realized +how gigantic the retreat was. The whole country was moving, as well as +the army. We walked all night, making better time than the vehicles. My +leg ached and I was tired but we made good time. It seemed so silly for +Bonello to have decided to be taken prisoner. There was no danger. We +had walked through two armies without incident. If Aymo had not been +killed there would never have seemed to be any danger. No one had +bothered us when we were in plain sight along the railway. The killing +came suddenly and unreasonably. I wondered where Bonello was. + +“How do you feel, Tenente?” Piani asked. We were going along the side of +a road crowded with vehicles and troops. + +“Fine.” + +“I’m tired of this walking.” + +“Well, all we have to do is walk now. We don’t have to worry.” + +“Bonello was a fool.” + +“He was a fool all right.” + +“What will you do about him, Tenente?” + +“I don’t know.” + +“Can’t you just put him down as taken prisoner?” + +“I don’t know.” + +“You see if the war went on they would make bad trouble for his family.” + +“The war won’t go on,” a soldier said. “We’re going home. The war is +over.” + +“Everybody’s going home.” + +“We’re all going home.” + +“Come on, Tenente,” Piani said. He wanted to get past them. + +“Tenente? Who’s a Tenente? _A basso gli ufficiali!_ Down with the +officers!” + +Piani took me by the arm. “I better call you by your name,” he said. +“They might try and make trouble. They’ve shot some officers.” We worked +up past them. + +“I won’t make a report that will make trouble for his family.” I went on +with our conversation. + +“If the war is over it makes no difference,” Piani said. “But I don’t +believe it’s over. It’s too good that it should be over.” + +“We’ll know pretty soon,” I said. + +“I don’t believe it’s over. They all think it’s over but I don’t believe +it.” + +“_Viva la Pace!_” a soldier shouted out. “We’re going home!” + +“It would be fine if we all went home,” Piani said. “Wouldn’t you like +to go home?” + +“Yes.” + +“We’ll never go. I don’t think it’s over.” + +“_Andiamo a casa!_” a soldier shouted. + +“They throw away their rifles,” Piani said. “They take them off and drop +them down while they’re marching. Then they shout.” + +“They ought to keep their rifles.” + +“They think if they throw away their rifles they can’t make them fight.” + +In the dark and the rain, making our way along the side of the road I +could see that many of the troops still had their rifles. They stuck up +above the capes. + +“What brigade are you?” an officer called out. + +“_Brigata di Pace_,” some one shouted. “Peace Brigade!” The officer said +nothing. + +“What does he say? What does the officer say?” + +“Down with the officer. _Viva la Pace!_” + +“Come on,” Piani said. We passed two British ambulances, abandoned in +the block of vehicles. + +“They’re from Gorizia,” Piani said. “I know the cars.” + +“They got further than we did.” + +“They started earlier.” + +“I wonder where the drivers are?” + +“Up ahead probably.” + +“The Germans have stopped outside Udine,” I said. “These people will all +get across the river.” + +“Yes,” Piani said. “That’s why I think the war will go on.” + +“The Germans could come on,” I said. “I wonder why they don’t come on.” + +“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about this kind of war.” + +“They have to wait for their transport I suppose.” + +“I don’t know,” Piani said. Alone he was much gentler. When he was with +the others he was a very rough talker. + +“Are you married, Luigi?” + +“You know I am married.” + +“Is that why you did not want to be a prisoner?” + +“That is one reason. Are you married, Tenente?” + +“No.” + +“Neither is Bonello.” + +“You can’t tell anything by a man’s being married. But I should think a +married man would want to get back to his wife,” I said. I would be glad +to talk about wives. + +“Yes.” + +“How are your feet?” + +“They’re sore enough.” + +Before daylight we reached the bank of the Tagliamento and followed down +along the flooded river to the bridge where all the traffic was +crossing. + +“They ought to be able to hold at this river,” Piani said. In the dark +the flood looked high. The water swirled and it was wide. The wooden +bridge was nearly three-quarters of a mile across, and the river, that +usually ran in narrow channels in the wide stony bed far below the +bridge, was close under the wooden planking. We went along the bank and +then worked our way into the crowd that were crossing the bridge. +Crossing slowly in the rain a few feet above the flood, pressed tight in +the crowd, the box of an artillery caisson just ahead, I looked over the +side and watched the river. Now that we could not go our own pace I felt +very tired. There was no exhilaration in crossing the bridge. I wondered +what it would be like if a plane bombed it in the daytime. + +“Piani,” I said. + +“Here I am, Tenente.” He was a little ahead in the jam. No one was +talking. They were all trying to get across as soon as they could: +thinking only of that. We were almost across. At the far end of the +bridge there were officers and carabinieri standing on both sides +flashing lights. I saw them silhouetted against the sky-line. As we came +close to them I saw one of the officers point to a man in the column. A +carabiniere went in after him and came out holding the man by the arm. +He took him away from the road. We came almost opposite them. The +officers were scrutinizing every one in the column, sometimes speaking +to each other, going forward to flash a light in some one’s face. They +took some one else out just before we came opposite. I saw the man. He +was a lieutenant-colonel. I saw the stars in the box on his sleeve as +they flashed a light on him. His hair was gray and he was short and fat. +The carabiniere pulled him in behind the line of officers. As we came +opposite I saw one or two of them look at me. Then one pointed at me and +spoke to a carabiniere. I saw the carabiniere start for me, come through +the edge of the column toward me, then felt him take me by the collar. + +“What’s the matter with you?” I said and hit him in the face. I saw his +face under the hat, upturned mustaches and blood coming down his cheek. +Another one dove in toward us. + +“What’s the matter with you?” I said. He did not answer. He was watching +a chance to grab me. I put my arm behind me to loosen my pistol. + +“Don’t you know you can’t touch an officer?” + +The other one grabbed me from behind and pulled my arm up so that it +twisted in the socket. I turned with him and the other one grabbed me +around the neck. I kicked his shins and got my left knee into his groin. + +“Shoot him if he resists,” I heard some one say. + +“What’s the meaning of this?” I tried to shout but my voice was not very +loud. They had me at the side of the road now. + +“Shoot him if he resists,” an officer said. “Take him over back.” + +“Who are you?” + +“You’ll find out.” + +“Who are you?” + +“Battle police,” another officer said. + +“Why don’t you ask me to step over instead of having one of these +airplanes grab me?” + +They did not answer. They did not have to answer. They were battle +police. + +“Take him back there with the others,” the first officer said. “You see. +He speaks Italian with an accent.” + +“So do you, you ——,” I said. + +“Take him back with the others,” the first officer said. They took me +down behind the line of officers below the road toward a group of people +in a field by the river bank. As we walked toward them shots were fired. +I saw flashes of the rifles and heard the reports. We came up to the +group. There were four officers standing together, with a man in front +of them with a carabiniere on each side of him. A group of men were +standing guarded by carabinieri. Four other carabinieri stood near the +questioning officers, leaning on their carbines. They were wide-hatted +carabinieri. The two who had me shoved me in with the group waiting to +be questioned. I looked at the man the officers were questioning. He was +the fat gray-haired little lieutenant-colonel they had taken out of the +column. The questioners had all the efficiency, coldness and command of +themselves of Italians who are firing and are not being fired on. + +“Your brigade?” + +He told them. + +“Regiment?” + +He told them. + +“Why are you not with your regiment?” + +He told them. + +“Do you not know that an officer should be with his troops?” + +He did. + +That was all. Another officer spoke. + +“It is you and such as you that have let the barbarians onto the sacred +soil of the fatherland.” + +“I beg your pardon,” said the lieutenant-colonel. + +“It is because of treachery such as yours that we have lost the fruits +of victory.” + +“Have you ever been in a retreat?” the lieutenant-colonel asked. + +“Italy should never retreat.” + +We stood there in the rain and listened to this. We were facing the +officers and the prisoner stood in front and a little to one side of us. + +“If you are going to shoot me,” the lieutenant-colonel said, “please +shoot me at once without further questioning. The questioning is +stupid.” He made the sign of the cross. The officers spoke together. One +wrote something on a pad of paper. + +“Abandoned his troops, ordered to be shot,” he said. + +Two carabinieri took the lieutenant-colonel to the river bank. He walked +in the rain, an old man with his hat off, a carabiniere on either side. +I did not watch them shoot him but I heard the shots. They were +questioning some one else. This officer too was separated from his +troops. He was not allowed to make an explanation. He cried when they +read the sentence from the pad of paper, and they were questioning +another when they shot him. They made a point of being intent on +questioning the next man while the man who had been questioned before +was being shot. In this way there was obviously nothing they could do +about it. I did not know whether I should wait to be questioned or make +a break now. I was obviously a German in Italian uniform. I saw how +their minds worked; if they had minds and if they worked. They were all +young men and they were saving their country. The second army was being +re-formed beyond the Tagliamento. They were executing officers of the +rank of major and above who were separated from their troops. They were +also dealing summarily with German agitators in Italian uniform. They +wore steel helmets. Only two of us had steel helmets. Some of the +carabinieri had them. The other carabinieri wore the wide hat. Airplanes +we called them. We stood in the rain and were taken out one at a time to +be questioned and shot. So far they had shot every one they had +questioned. The questioners had that beautiful detachment and devotion +to stern justice of men dealing in death without being in any danger of +it. They were questioning a full colonel of a line regiment. Three more +officers had just been put in with us. + +“Where was his regiment?” + +I looked at the carabinieri. They were looking at the newcomers. The +others were looking at the colonel. I ducked down, pushed between two +men, and ran for the river, my head down. I tripped at the edge and went +in with a splash. The water was very cold and I stayed under as long as +I could. I could feel the current swirl me and I stayed under until I +thought I could never come up. The minute I came up I took a breath and +went down again. It was easy to stay under with so much clothing and my +boots. When I came up the second time I saw a piece of timber ahead of +me and reached it and held on with one hand. I kept my head behind it +and did not even look over it. I did not want to see the bank. There +were shots when I ran and shots when I came up the first time. I heard +them when I was almost above water. There were no shots now. The piece +of timber swung in the current and I held it with one hand. I looked at +the bank. It seemed to be going by very fast. There was much wood in the +stream. The water was very cold. We passed the brush of an island above +the water. I held onto the timber with both hands and let it take me +along. The shore was out of sight now. + + + + + CHAPTER XXXI + +You do not know how long you are in a river when the current moves +swiftly. It seems a long time and it may be very short. The water was +cold and in flood and many things passed that had been floated off the +banks when the river rose. I was lucky to have a heavy timber to hold on +to, and I lay in the icy water with my chin on the wood, holding as +easily as I could with both hands. I was afraid of cramps and I hoped we +would move toward the shore. We went down the river in a long curve. It +was beginning to be light enough so I could see the bushes along the +shore-line. There was a brush island ahead and the current moved toward +the shore. I wondered if I should take off my boots and clothes and try +to swim ashore, but decided not to. I had never thought of anything but +that I would reach the shore some way, and I would be in a bad position +if I landed barefoot. I had to get to Mestre some way. + +I watched the shore come close, then swing away, then come closer again. +We were floating more slowly. The shore was very close now. I could see +twigs on the willow bush. The timber swung slowly so that the bank was +behind me and I knew we were in an eddy. We went slowly around. As I saw +the bank again, very close now, I tried holding with one arm and kicking +and swimming the timber toward the bank with the other, but I did not +bring it any closer. I was afraid we would move out of the eddy and, +holding with one hand, I drew up my feet so they were against the side +of the timber and shoved hard toward the bank. I could see the brush, +but even with my momentum and swimming as hard as I could, the current +was taking me away. I thought then I would drown because of my boots, +but I thrashed and fought through the water, and when I looked up the +bank was coming toward me, and I kept thrashing and swimming in a +heavy-footed panic until I reached it. I hung to the willow branch and +did not have strength to pull myself up but I knew I would not drown +now. It had never occurred to me on the timber that I might drown. I +felt hollow and sick in my stomach and chest from the effort, and I held +to the branches and waited. When the sick feeling was gone I pulled into +the willow bushes and rested again, my arms around some brush, holding +tight with my hands to the branches. Then I crawled out, pushed on +through the willows and onto the bank. It was half-daylight and I saw no +one. I lay flat on the bank and heard the river and the rain. + +After a while I got up and started along the bank. I knew there was no +bridge across the river until Latisana. I thought I might be opposite +San Vito. I began to think out what I should do. Ahead there was a ditch +running into the river. I went toward it. So far I had seen no one and I +sat down by some bushes along the bank of the ditch and took off my +shoes and emptied them of water. I took off my coat, took my wallet with +my papers and my money all wet in it out of the inside pocket and then +wrung the coat out. I took off my trousers and wrung them too, then my +shirt and underclothing. I slapped and rubbed myself and then dressed +again. I had lost my cap. + +Before I put on my coat I cut the cloth stars off my sleeves and put +them in the inside pocket with my money. My money was wet but was all +right. I counted it. There were three thousand and some lire. My clothes +felt wet and clammy and I slapped my arms to keep the circulation going. +I had woven underwear and I did not think I would catch cold if I kept +moving. They had taken my pistol at the road and I put the holster under +my coat. I had no cape and it was cold in the rain. I started up the +bank of the canal. It was daylight and the country was wet, low and +dismal looking. The fields were bare and wet; a long way away I could +see a campanile rising out of the plain. I came up onto a road. Ahead I +saw some troops coming down the road. I limped along the side of the +road and they passed me and paid no attention to me. They were a +machine-gun detachment going up toward the river. I went on down the +road. + +That day I crossed the Venetian plain. It is a low level country and +under the rain it is even flatter. Toward the sea there are salt marshes +and very few roads. The roads all go along the river mouths to the sea +and to cross the country you must go along the paths beside the canals. +I was working across the country from the north to the south and had +crossed two railway lines and many roads and finally I came out at the +end of a path onto a railway line where it ran beside a marsh. It was +the main line from Venice to Trieste, with a high solid embankment, a +solid roadbed and double track. Down the tracks a way was a flag-station +and I could see soldiers on guard. Up the line there was a bridge over a +stream that flowed into the marsh. I could see a guard too at the +bridge. Crossing the fields to the north I had seen a train pass on this +railroad, visible a long way across the flat plain, and I thought a +train might come from Portogruaro. I watched the guards and lay down on +the embankment so that I could see both ways along the track. The guard +at the bridge walked a way up the line toward where I lay, then turned +and went back toward the bridge. I lay, and was hungry, and waited for +the train. The one I had seen was so long that the engine moved it very +slowly and I was sure I could get aboard it. After I had almost given up +hoping for one I saw a train coming. The engine, coming straight on, +grew larger slowly. I looked at the guard at the bridge. He was walking +on the near side of the bridge but on the other side of the tracks. That +would put him out of sight when the train passed. I watched the engine +come nearer. It was working hard. I could see there were many cars. I +knew there would be guards on the train, and I tried to see where they +were, but, keeping out of sight, I could not. The engine was almost to +where I was lying. When it came opposite, working and puffing even on +the level, and I saw the engineer pass, I stood up and stepped up close +to the passing cars. If the guards were watching I was a less suspicious +object standing beside the track. Several closed freight-cars passed. +Then I saw a low open car of the sort they call gondolas coming, covered +with canvas. I stood until it had almost passed, then jumped and caught +the rear hand-rods and pulled up. I crawled down between the gondola and +the shelter of the high freight-car behind. I did not think any one had +seen me. I was holding to the hand-rods and crouching low, my feet on +the coupling. We were almost opposite the bridge. I remembered the +guard. As we passed him he looked at me. He was a boy and his helmet was +too big for him. I stared at him contemptuously and he looked away. He +thought I had something to do with the train. + +We were past. I saw him still looking uncomfortable, watching the other +cars pass and I stooped to see how the canvas was fastened. It had +grummets and was laced down at the edge with cord. I took out my knife, +cut the cord and put my arm under. There were hard bulges under the +canvas that tightened in the rain. I looked up and ahead. There was a +guard on the freight-car ahead but he was looking forward. I let go of +the hand-rails and ducked under the canvas. My forehead hit something +that gave me a violent bump and I felt blood on my face but I crawled on +in and lay flat. Then I turned around and fastened down the canvas. + +I was in under the canvas with guns. They smelled cleanly of oil and +grease. I lay and listened to the rain on the canvas and the clicking of +the car over the rails. There was a little light came through and I lay +and looked at the guns. They had their canvas jackets on. I thought they +must have been sent ahead from the third army. The bump on my forehead +was swollen and I stopped the bleeding by lying still and letting it +coagulate, then picked away the dried blood except over the cut. It was +nothing. I had no handkerchief, but feeling with my fingers I washed +away where the dried blood had been, with rain-water that dripped from +the canvas, and wiped it clean with the sleeve of my coat. I did not +want to look conspicuous. I knew I would have to get out before they got +to Mestre because they would be taking care of these guns. They had no +guns to lose or forget about. I was terrifically hungry. + + + + + CHAPTER XXXII + +Lying on the floor of the flat-car with the guns beside me under the +canvas I was wet, cold and very hungry. Finally I rolled over and lay +flat on my stomach with my head on my arms. My knee was stiff, but it +had been very satisfactory. Valentini had done a fine job. I had done +half the retreat on foot and swum part of the Tagliamento with his knee. +It was his knee all right. The other knee was mine. Doctors did things +to you and then it was not your body any more. The head was mine, and +the inside of the belly. It was very hungry in there. I could feel it +turn over on itself. The head was mine, but not to use, not to think +with; only to remember and not too much remember. + +I could remember Catherine but I knew I would get crazy if I thought +about her when I was not sure yet I would see her, so I would not think +about her, only about her a little, only about her with the car going +slowly and clickingly, and some light through the canvas and my lying +with Catherine on the floor of the car. Hard as the floor of the car to +lie not thinking only feeling, having been away too long, the clothes +wet and the floor moving only a little each time and lonesome inside and +alone with wet clothing and hard floor for a wife. + +You did not love the floor of a flat-car nor guns with canvas jackets +and the smell of vaselined metal or a canvas that rain leaked through, +although it is very fine under a canvas and pleasant with guns; but you +loved some one else whom now you knew was not even to be pretended +there; you seeing now very clearly and coldly—not so coldly as clearly +and emptily. You saw emptily, lying on your stomach, having been present +when one army moved back and another came forward. You had lost your +cars and your men as a floorwalker loses the stock of his department in +a fire. There was, however, no insurance. You were out of it now. You +had no more obligation. If they shot floorwalkers after a fire in the +department store because they spoke with an accent they had always had, +then certainly the floorwalkers would not be expected to return when the +store opened again for business. They might seek other employment; if +there was any other employment and the police did not get them. + +Anger was washed away in the river along with any obligation. Although +that ceased when the carabiniere put his hands on my collar. I would +like to have had the uniform off although I did not care much about the +outward forms. I had taken off the stars, but that was for convenience. +It was no point of honor. I was not against them. I was through. I +wished them all the luck. There were the good ones, and the brave ones, +and the calm ones and the sensible ones, and they deserved it. But it +was not my show any more and I wished this bloody train would get to +Mestre and I would eat and stop thinking. I would have to stop. + +Piani would tell them they had shot me. They went through the pockets +and took the papers of the people they shot. They would not have my +papers. They might call me drowned. I wondered what they would hear in +the States. Dead from wounds and other causes. Good Christ I was hungry. +I wondered what had become of the priest at the mess. And Rinaldi. He +was probably at Pordenone. If they had not gone further back. Well, I +would never see him now. I would never see any of them now. That life +was over. I did not think he had syphilis. It was not a serious disease +anyway if you took it in time, they said. But he would worry. I would +worry too if I had it. Any one would worry. + +I was not made to think. I was made to eat. My God, yes. Eat and drink +and sleep with Catherine. To-night maybe. No that was impossible. But +to-morrow night, and a good meal and sheets and never going away again +except together. Probably have to go damned quickly. She would go. I +knew she would go. When would we go? That was something to think about. +It was getting dark. I lay and thought where we would go. There were +many places. + + + + + BOOK IV + + + + + CHAPTER XXXIII + +I dropped off the train in Milan as it slowed to come into the station +early in the morning before it was light. I crossed the track and came +out between some buildings and down onto the street. A wine shop was +open and I went in for some coffee. It smelled of early morning, of +swept dust, spoons in coffee-glasses and the wet circles left by +wine-glasses. The proprietor was behind the bar. Two soldiers sat at a +table. I stood at the bar and drank a glass of coffee and ate a piece of +bread. The coffee was gray with milk, and I skimmed the milk scum off +the top with a piece of bread. The proprietor looked at me. + +“You want a glass of grappa?” + +“No thanks.” + +“On me,” he said and poured a small glass and pushed it toward me. +“What’s happening at the front?” + +“I would not know.” + +“They are drunk,” he said, moving his hand toward the two soldiers. I +could believe him. They looked drunk. + +“Tell me,” he said, “what is happening at the front?” + +“I would not know about the front.” + +“I saw you come down the wall. You came off the train.” + +“There is a big retreat.” + +“I read the papers. What happens? Is it over?” + +“I don’t think so.” + +He filled the glass with grappa from a short bottle. “If you are in +trouble,” he said, “I can keep you.” + +“I am not in trouble.” + +“If you are in trouble stay here with me.” + +“Where does one stay?” + +“In the building. Many stay here. Any who are in trouble stay here.” + +“Are many in trouble?” + +“It depends on the trouble. You are a South American?” + +“No.” + +“Speak Spanish?” + +“A little.” + +He wiped off the bar. + +“It is hard now to leave the country but in no way impossible.” + +“I have no wish to leave.” + +“You can stay here as long as you want. You will see what sort of man I +am.” + +“I have to go this morning but I will remember the address to return.” + +He shook his head. “You won’t come back if you talk like that. I thought +you were in real trouble.” + +“I am in no trouble. But I value the address of a friend.” + +I put a ten-lira note on the bar to pay for the coffee. + +“Have a grappa with me,” I said. + +“It is not necessary.” + +“Have one.” + +He poured the two glasses. + +“Remember,” he said. “Come here. Do not let other people take you in. +Here you are all right.” + +“I am sure.” + +“You are sure?” + +“Yes.” + +He was serious. “Then let me tell you one thing. Do not go about with +that coat.” + +“Why?” + +“On the sleeves it shows very plainly where the stars have been cut +away. The cloth is a different color.” + +I did not say anything. + +“If you have no papers I can give you papers.” + +“What papers?” + +“Leave-papers.” + +“I have no need for papers. I have papers.” + +“All right,” he said. “But if you need papers I can get what you wish.” + +“How much are such papers?” + +“It depends on what they are. The price is reasonable.” + +“I don’t need any now.” + +He shrugged his shoulders. + +“I’m all right,” I said. + +When I went out he said, “Don’t forget that I am your friend.” + +“No.” + +“I will see you again,” he said. + +“Good,” I said. + +Outside I kept away from the station, where there were military police, +and picked up a cab at the edge of the little park. I gave the driver +the address of the hospital. At the hospital I went to the porter’s +lodge. His wife embraced me. He shook my hand. + +“You are back. You are safe.” + +“Yes.” + +“Have you had breakfast?” + +“Yes.” + +“How are you, Tenente? How are you?” the wife asked. + +“Fine.” + +“Won’t you have breakfast with us?” + +“No, thank you. Tell me is Miss Barkley here at the hospital now?” + +“Miss Barkley?” + +“The English lady nurse.” + +“His girl,” the wife said. She patted my arm and smiled. + +“No,” the porter said. “She is away.” + +My heart went down. “You are sure? I mean the tall blonde English young +lady.” + +“I am sure. She is gone to Stresa.” + +“When did she go?” + +“She went two days ago with the other lady English.” + +“Good,” I said. “I wish you to do something for me. Do not tell any one +you have seen me. It is very important.” + +“I won’t tell any one,” the porter said. I gave him a ten-lira note. He +pushed it away. + +“I promise you I will tell no one,” he said. “I don’t want any money.” + +“What can we do for you, Signor Tenente?” his wife asked. + +“Only that,” I said. + +“We are dumb,” the porter said. “You will let me know anything I can +do?” + +“Yes,” I said. “Good-by. I will see you again.” + +They stood in the door, looking after me. + +I got into the cab and gave the driver the address of Simmons, one of +the men I knew who was studying singing. + +Simmons lived a long way out in the town toward the Porta Magenta. He +was still in bed and sleepy when I went to see him. + +“You get up awfully early, Henry,” he said. + +“I came in on the early train.” + +“What’s all this retreat? Were you at the front? Will you have a +cigarette? They’re in that box on the table.” It was a big room with a +bed beside the wall, a piano over on the far side and a dresser and +table. I sat on a chair by the bed. Simmons sat propped up by the +pillows and smoked. + +“I’m in a jam, Sim,” I said. + +“So am I,” he said. “I’m always in a jam. Won’t you smoke?” + +“No,” I said. “What’s the procedure in going to Switzerland?” + +“For you? The Italians wouldn’t let you out of the country.” + +“Yes. I know that. But the Swiss. What will they do?” + +“They intern you.” + +“I know. But what’s the mechanics of it?” + +“Nothing. It’s very simple. You can go anywhere. I think you just have +to report or something. Why? Are you fleeing the police?” + +“Nothing definite yet.” + +“Don’t tell me if you don’t want. But it would be interesting to hear. +Nothing happens here. I was a great flop at Piacenza.” + +“I’m awfully sorry.” + +“Oh yes—I went very badly. I sung well too. I’m going to try it again +at the Lyrico here.” + +“I’d like to be there.” + +“You’re awfully polite. You aren’t in a bad mess, are you?” + +“I don’t know.” + +“Don’t tell me if you don’t want. How do you happen to be away from the +bloody front?” + +“I think I’m through with it.” + +“Good boy. I always knew you had sense. Can I help you any way?” + +“You’re awfully busy.” + +“Not a bit of it, my dear Henry. Not a bit of it. I’d be happy to do +anything.” + +“You’re about my size. Would you go out and buy me an outfit of civilian +clothes? I’ve clothes but they’re all at Rome.” + +“You did live there, didn’t you? It’s a filthy place. How did you ever +live there?” + +“I wanted to be an architect.” + +“That’s no place for that. Don’t buy clothes. I’ll give you all the +clothes you want. I’ll fit you out so you’ll be a great success. Go in +that dressing room. There’s a closet. Take anything you want. My dear +fellow, you don’t want to buy clothes.” + +“I’d rather buy them, Sim.” + +“My dear fellow, it’s easier for me to let you have them than go out and +buy them. Have you got a passport? You won’t get far without a +passport.” + +“Yes. I’ve still got my passport.” + +“Then get dressed, my dear fellow, and off to old Helvetia.” + +“It’s not that simple. I have to go up to Stresa first.” + +“Ideal, my dear fellow. You just row a boat across. If I wasn’t trying +to sing, I’d go with you. I’ll go yet.” + +“You could take up yodelling.” + +“My dear fellow, I’ll take up yodelling yet. I really can sing though. +That’s the strange part.” + +“I’ll bet you can sing.” + +He lay back in bed smoking a cigarette. + +“Don’t bet too much. But I can sing though. It’s damned funny, but I +can. I like to sing. Listen.” He roared into “Africana,” his neck +swelling, the veins standing out. “I can sing,” he said. “Whether they +like it or not.” I looked out of the window. “I’ll go down and let my +cab go.” + +“Come back up, my dear fellow, and we’ll have breakfast.” He stepped out +of bed, stood straight, took a deep breath and commenced doing bending +exercises. I went downstairs and paid off the cab. + + + + + CHAPTER XXXIV + +In civilian clothes I felt a masquerader. I had been in uniform a long +time and I missed the feeling of being held by your clothes. The +trousers felt very floppy. I had bought a ticket at Milan for Stresa. I +had also bought a new hat. I could not wear Sim’s hat but his clothes +were fine. They smelled of tobacco and as I sat in the compartment and +looked out the window the new hat felt very new and the clothes very +old. I myself felt as sad as the wet Lombard country that was outside +through the window. There were some aviators in the compartment who did +not think much of me. They avoided looking at me and were very scornful +of a civilian my age. I did not feel insulted. In the old days I would +have insulted them and picked a fight. They got off at Gallarate and I +was glad to be alone. I had the paper but I did not read it because I +did not want to read about the war. I was going to forget the war. I had +made a separate peace. I felt damned lonely and was glad when the train +got to Stresa. + +At the station I had expected to see the porters from the hotels but +there was no one. The season had been over a long time and no one met +the train. I got down from the train with my bag, it was Sim’s bag, and +very light to carry, being empty except for two shirts, and stood under +the roof of the station in the rain while the train went on. I found a +man in the station and asked him if he knew what hotels were open. The +Grand-Hôtel & des Isles Borromées was open and several small hotels that +stayed open all the year. I started in the rain for the Isles Borromées +carrying my bag. I saw a carriage coming down the street and signalled +to the driver. It was better to arrive in a carriage. We drove up to the +carriage entrance of the big hotel and the concierge came out with an +umbrella and was very polite. + +I took a good room. It was very big and light and looked out on the +lake. The clouds were down over the lake but it would be beautiful with +the sunlight. I was expecting my wife, I said. There was a big double +bed, a _letto matrimoniale_ with a satin coverlet. The hotel was very +luxurious. I went down the long halls, down the wide stairs, through the +rooms to the bar. I knew the barman and sat on a high stool and ate +salted almonds and potato chips. The martini felt cool and clean. + +“What are you doing here in _borghese_?” the barman asked after he had +mixed a second martini. + +“I am on leave. Convalescing-leave.” + +“There is no one here. I don’t know why they keep the hotel open.” + +“Have you been fishing?” + +“I’ve caught some beautiful pieces. Trolling this time of year you catch +some beautiful pieces.” + +“Did you ever get the tobacco I sent?” + +“Yes. Didn’t you get my card?” + +I laughed. I had not been able to get the tobacco. It was American +pipe-tobacco that he wanted, but my relatives had stopped sending it or +it was being held up. Anyway it never came. + +“I’ll get some somewhere,” I said. “Tell me have you seen two English +girls in the town? They came here day before yesterday.” + +“They are not at the hotel.” + +“They are nurses.” + +“I have seen two nurses. Wait a minute, I will find out where they are.” + +“One of them is my wife,” I said. “I have come here to meet her.” + +“The other is my wife.” + +“I am not joking.” + +“Pardon my stupid joke,” he said. “I did not understand.” He went away +and was gone quite a little while. I ate olives, salted almonds and +potato chips and looked at myself in civilian clothes in the mirror +behind the bar. The bartender came back. “They are at the little hotel +near the station,” he said. + +“How about some sandwiches?” + +“I’ll ring for some. You understand there is nothing here, now there are +no people.” + +“Isn’t there really any one at all?” + +“Yes. There are a few people.” + +The sandwiches came and I ate three and drank a couple more martinis. I +had never tasted anything so cool and clean. They made me feel +civilized. I had had too much red wine, bread, cheese, bad coffee and +grappa. I sat on the high stool before the pleasant mahogany, the brass +and the mirrors and did not think at all. The barman asked me some +question. + +“Don’t talk about the war,” I said. The war was a long way away. Maybe +there wasn’t any war. There was no war here. Then I realized it was over +for me. But I did not have the feeling that it was really over. I had +the feeling of a boy who thinks of what is happening at a certain hour +at the schoolhouse from which he has played truant. + + + +Catherine and Helen Ferguson were at supper when I came to their hotel. +Standing in the hallway I saw them at table. Catherine’s face was away +from me and I saw the line of her hair and her cheek and her lovely neck +and shoulders. Ferguson was talking. She stopped when I came in. + +“My God,” she said. + +“Hello,” I said. + +“Why it’s you!” Catherine said. Her face lighted up. She looked too +happy to believe it. I kissed her. Catherine blushed and I sat down at +the table. + +“You’re a fine mess,” Ferguson said. “What are you doing here? Have you +eaten?” + +“No.” The girl who was serving the meal came in and I told her to bring +a plate for me. Catherine looked at me all the time, her eyes happy. + +“What are you doing in mufti?” Ferguson asked. + +“I’m in the Cabinet.” + +“You’re in some mess.” + +“Cheer up, Fergy. Cheer up just a little.” + +“I’m not cheered by seeing you. I know the mess you’ve gotten this girl +into. You’re no cheerful sight to me.” + +Catherine smiled at me and touched me with her foot under the table. + +“No one got me in a mess, Fergy. I get in my own messes.” + +“I can’t stand him,” Ferguson said. “He’s done nothing but ruin you with +his sneaking Italian tricks. Americans are worse than Italians.” + +“The Scotch are such a moral people,” Catherine said. + +“I don’t mean that. I mean his Italian sneakiness.” + +“Am I sneaky, Fergy?” + +“You are. You’re worse than sneaky. You’re like a snake. A snake with an +Italian uniform: with a cape around your neck.” + +“I haven’t got an Italian uniform now.” + +“That’s just another example of your sneakiness. You had a love affair +all summer and got this girl with child and now I suppose you’ll sneak +off.” + +I smiled at Catherine and she smiled at me. + +“We’ll both sneak off,” she said. + +“You’re two of the same thing,” Ferguson said. “I’m ashamed of you, +Catherine Barkley. You have no shame and no honor and you’re as sneaky +as he is.” + +“Don’t, Fergy,” Catherine said and patted her hand. “Don’t denounce me. +You know we like each other.” + +“Take your hand away,” Ferguson said. Her face was red. “If you had any +shame it would be different. But you’re God knows how many months gone +with child and you think it’s a joke and are all smiles because your +seducer’s come back. You’ve no shame and no feelings.” She began to cry. +Catherine went over and put her arm around her. As she stood comforting +Ferguson, I could see no change in her figure. + +“I don’t care,” Ferguson sobbed. “I think it’s dreadful.” + +“There, there, Fergy,” Catherine comforted her. “I’ll be ashamed. Don’t +cry, Fergy. Don’t cry, old Fergy.” + +“I’m not crying,” Ferguson sobbed. “I’m not crying. Except for the awful +thing you’ve gotten into.” She looked at me. “I hate you,” she said. +“She can’t make me not hate you. You dirty sneaking American Italian.” +Her eyes and nose were red with crying. + +Catherine smiled at me. + +“Don’t you smile at him with your arm around me.” + +“You’re unreasonable, Fergy.” + +“I know it,” Ferguson sobbed. “You mustn’t mind me, either of you. I’m +so upset. I’m not reasonable. I know it. I want you both to be happy.” + +“We’re happy,” Catherine said. “You’re a sweet Fergy.” + +Ferguson cried again. “I don’t want you happy the way you are. Why don’t +you get married? You haven’t got another wife have you?” + +“No,” I said. Catherine laughed. + +“It’s nothing to laugh about,” Ferguson said. “Plenty of them have other +wives.” + +“We’ll be married, Fergy,” Catherine said, “if it will please you.” + +“Not to please me. You should want to be married.” + +“We’ve been very busy.” + +“Yes. I know. Busy making babies.” I thought she was going to cry again +but she went into bitterness instead. “I suppose you’ll go off with him +now to-night?” + +“Yes,” said Catherine. “If he wants me.” + +“What about me?” + +“Are you afraid to stay here alone?” + +“Yes, I am.” + +“Then I’ll stay with you.” + +“No, go on with him. Go with him right away. I’m sick of seeing both of +you.” + +“We’d better finish dinner.” + +“No. Go right away.” + +“Fergy, be reasonable.” + +“I say get out right away. Go away both of you.” + +“Let’s go then,” I said. I was sick of Fergy. + +“You do want to go. You see you want to leave me even to eat dinner +alone. I’ve always wanted to go to the Italian lakes and this is how it +is. Oh, Oh,” she sobbed, then looked at Catherine and choked. + +“We’ll stay till after dinner,” Catherine said. “And I’ll not leave you +alone if you want me to stay. I won’t leave you alone, Fergy.” + +“No. No. I want you to go. I want you to go.” She wiped her eyes. “I’m +so unreasonable. Please don’t mind me.” + +The girl who served the meal had been upset by all the crying. Now as +she brought in the next course she seemed relieved that things were +better. + + + +That night at the hotel, in our room with the long empty hall outside +and our shoes outside the door, a thick carpet on the floor of the room, +outside the windows the rain falling and in the room light and pleasant +and cheerful, then the light out and it exciting with smooth sheets and +the bed comfortable, feeling that we had come home, feeling no longer +alone, waking in the night to find the other one there, and not gone +away; all other things were unreal. We slept when we were tired and if +we woke the other one woke too so one was not alone. Often a man wishes +to be alone and a girl wishes to be alone too and if they love each +other they are jealous of that in each other, but I can truly say we +never felt that. We could feel alone when we were together, alone +against the others. It has only happened to me like that once. I have +been alone while I was with many girls and that is the way that you can +be most lonely. But we were never lonely and never afraid when we were +together. I know that the night is not the same as the day: that all +things are different, that the things of the night cannot be explained +in the day, because they do not then exist, and the night can be a +dreadful time for lonely people once their loneliness has started. But +with Catherine there was almost no difference in the night except that +it was an even better time. If people bring so much courage to this +world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills +them. The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the +broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very +good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none +of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no +special hurry. + + + +I remember waking in the morning. Catherine was asleep and the sunlight +was coming in through the window. The rain had stopped and I stepped out +of bed and across the floor to the window. Down below were the gardens, +bare now but beautifully regular, the gravel paths, the trees, the stone +wall by the lake and the lake in the sunlight with the mountains beyond. +I stood at the window looking out and when I turned away I saw Catherine +was awake and watching me. + +“How are you, darling?” she said. “Isn’t it a lovely day?” + +“How do you feel?” + +“I feel very well. We had a lovely night.” + +“Do you want breakfast?” + +She wanted breakfast. So did I and we had it in bed, the November +sunlight coming in the window, and the breakfast tray across my lap. + +“Don’t you want the paper? You always wanted the paper in the hospital.” + +“No,” I said. “I don’t want the paper now.” + +“Was it so bad you don’t want even to read about it?” + +“I don’t want to read about it.” + +“I wish I had been with you so I would know about it too.” + +“I’ll tell you about it if I ever get it straight in my head.” + +“But won’t they arrest you if they catch you out of uniform?” + +“They’ll probably shoot me.” + +“Then we’ll not stay here. We’ll get out of the country.” + +“I’d thought something of that.” + +“We’ll get out. Darling, you shouldn’t take silly chances. Tell me how +did you come from Mestre to Milan?” + +“I came on the train. I was in uniform then.” + +“Weren’t you in danger then?” + +“Not much. I had an old order of movement. I fixed the dates on it in +Mestre.” + +“Darling, you’re liable to be arrested here any time. I won’t have it. +It’s silly to do something like that. Where would we be if they took you +off?” + +“Let’s not think about it. I’m tired of thinking about it.” + +“What would you do if they came to arrest you?” + +“Shoot them.” + +“You see how silly you are, I won’t let you go out of the hotel until we +leave here.” + +“Where are we going to go?” + +“Please don’t be that way, darling. We’ll go wherever you say. But +please find some place to go right away.” + +“Switzerland is down the lake, we can go there.” + +“That will be lovely.” + +It was clouding over outside and the lake was darkening. + +“I wish we did not always have to live like criminals,” I said. + +“Darling, don’t be that way. You haven’t lived like a criminal very +long. And we never live like criminals. We’re going to have a fine +time.” + +“I feel like a criminal. I’ve deserted from the army.” + +“Darling, _please_ be sensible. It’s not deserting from the army. It’s +only the Italian army.” + +I laughed. “You’re a fine girl. Let’s get back into bed. I feel fine in +bed.” + + + +A little while later Catherine said, “You don’t feel like a criminal do +you?” + +“No,” I said. “Not when I’m with you.” + +“You’re such a silly boy,” she said. “But I’ll look after you. Isn’t it +splendid, darling, that I don’t have any morning-sickness?” + +“It’s grand.” + +“You don’t appreciate what a fine wife you have. But I don’t care. I’ll +get you some place where they can’t arrest you and then we’ll have a +lovely time.” + +“Let’s go there right away.” + +“We will, darling. I’ll go any place any time you wish.” + +“Let’s not think about anything.” + +“All right.” + + + + + CHAPTER XXXV + +Catherine went along the lake to the little hotel to see Ferguson and I +sat in the bar and read the papers. There were comfortable leather +chairs in the bar and I sat in one of them and read until the barman +came in. The army had not stood at the Tagliamento. They were falling +back to the Piave. I remembered the Piave. The railroad crossed it near +San Dona going up to the front. It was deep and slow there and quite +narrow. Down below there were mosquito marshes and canals. There were +some lovely villas. Once, before the war, going up to Cortina D’Ampezzo +I had gone along it for several hours in the hills. Up there it looked +like a trout stream, flowing swiftly with shallow stretches and pools +under the shadow of the rocks. The road turned off from it at Cadore. I +wondered how the army that was up there would come down. The barman came +in. + +“Count Greffi was asking for you,” he said. + +“Who?” + +“Count Greffi. You remember the old man who was here when you were here +before.” + +“Is he here?” + +“Yes, he’s here with his niece. I told him you were here. He wants you +to play billiards.” + +“Where is he?” + +“He’s taking a walk.” + +“How is he?” + +“He’s younger than ever. He drank three champagne cocktails last night +before dinner.” + +“How’s his billiard game?” + +“Good. He beat me. When I told him you were here he was very pleased. +There’s nobody here for him to play with.” + +Count Greffi was ninety-four years old. He had been a contemporary of +Metternich and was an old man with white hair and mustache and beautiful +manners. He had been in the diplomatic service of both Austria and Italy +and his birthday parties were the great social event of Milan. He was +living to be one hundred years old and played a smoothly fluent game of +billiards that contrasted with his own ninety-four-year-old brittleness. +I had met him when I had been at Stresa once before out of season and +while we played billiards we drank champagne. I thought it was a +splendid custom and he gave me fifteen points in a hundred and beat me. + +“Why didn’t you tell me he was here?” + +“I forgot it.” + +“Who else is here?” + +“No one you know. There are only six people altogether.” + +“What are you doing now?” + +“Nothing.” + +“Come on out fishing.” + +“I could come for an hour.” + +“Come on. Bring the trolling line.” + +The barman put on a coat and we went out. We went down and got a boat +and I rowed while the barman sat in the stern and let out the line with +a spinner and a heavy sinker on the end to troll for lake trout. We +rowed along the shore, the barman holding the line in his hand and +giving it occasional jerks forward. Stresa looked very deserted from the +lake. There were the long rows of bare trees, the big hotels and the +closed villas. I rowed across to Isola Bella and went close to the +walls, where the water deepened sharply, and you saw the rock wall +slanting down in the clear water, and then up and along to the +fisherman’s island. The sun was under a cloud and the water was dark and +smooth and very cold. We did not have a strike though we saw some +circles on the water from rising fish. + +I rowed up opposite the fisherman’s island where there were boats drawn +up and men were mending nets. + +“Should we get a drink?” + +“All right.” + +I brought the boat up to the stone pier and the barman pulled in the +line, coiling it on the bottom of the boat and hooking the spinner on +the edge of the gunwale. I stepped out and tied the boat. We went into a +little café, sat at a bare wooden table and ordered vermouth. + +“Are you tired from rowing?” + +“No.” + +“I’ll row back,” he said. + +“I like to row.” + +“Maybe if you hold the line it will change the luck.” + +“All right.” + +“Tell me how goes the war.” + +“Rotten.” + +“I don’t have to go. I’m too old, like Count Greffi.” + +“Maybe you’ll have to go yet.” + +“Next year they’ll call my class. But I won’t go.” + +“What will you do?” + +“Get out of the country. I wouldn’t go to war. I was at the war once in +Abyssinia. Nix. Why do you go?” + +“I don’t know. I was a fool.” + +“Have another vermouth?” + +“All right.” + +The barman rowed back. We trolled up the lake beyond Stresa and then +down not far from shore. I held the taut line and felt the faint pulsing +of the spinner revolving while I looked at the dark November water of +the lake and the deserted shore. The barman rowed with long strokes and +on the forward thrust of the boat the line throbbed. Once I had a +strike: the line hardened suddenly and jerked back, I pulled and felt +the live weight of the trout and then the line throbbed again. I had +missed him. + +“Did he feel big?” + +“Pretty big.” + +“Once when I was out trolling alone I had the line in my teeth and one +struck and nearly took my mouth out.” + +“The best way is to have it over your leg,” I said. “Then you feel it +and don’t lose your teeth.” + +I put my hand in the water. It was very cold. We were almost opposite +the hotel now. + +“I have to go in,” the barman said, “to be there for eleven o’clock. +_L’heure du cocktail._” + +“All right.” + +I pulled in the line and wrapped it on a stick notched at each end. The +barman put the boat in a little slip in the stone wall and locked it +with a chain and padlock. + +“Any time you want it,” he said, “I’ll give you the key.” + +“Thanks.” + +We went up to the hotel and in to the bar. I did not want another drink +so early in the morning so I went up to our room. The maid had just +finished doing the room and Catherine was not back yet. I lay down on +the bed and tried to keep from thinking. + +When Catherine came back it was all right again. Ferguson was +downstairs, she said. She was coming to lunch. + +“I knew you wouldn’t mind,” Catherine said. + +“No,” I said. + +“What’s the matter, darling?” + +“I don’t know.” + +“I know. You haven’t anything to do. All you have is me and I go away.” + +“That’s true.” + +“I’m sorry, darling. I know it must be a dreadful feeling to have +nothing at all suddenly.” + +“My life used to be full of everything,” I said. “Now if you aren’t with +me I haven’t a thing in the world.” + +“But I’ll be with you. I was only gone for two hours. Isn’t there +anything you can do?” + +“I went fishing with the barman.” + +“Wasn’t it fun?” + +“Yes.” + +“Don’t think about me when I’m not here.” + +“That’s the way I worked it at the front. But there was something to do +then.” + +“Othello with his occupation gone,” she teased. + +“Othello was a nigger,” I said. “Besides, I’m not jealous. I’m just so +in love with you that there isn’t anything else.” + +“Will you be a good boy and be nice to Ferguson?” + +“I’m always nice to Ferguson unless she curses me.” + +“Be nice to her. Think how much we have and she hasn’t anything.” + +“I don’t think she wants what we have.” + +“You don’t know much, darling, for such a wise boy.” + +“I’ll be nice to her.” + +“I know you will. You’re so sweet.” + +“She won’t stay afterward, will she?” + +“No. I’ll get rid of her.” + +“And then we’ll come up here.” + +“Of course. What do you think I want to do?” + +We went downstairs to have lunch with Ferguson. She was very impressed +by the hotel and the splendor of the dining-room. We had a good lunch +with a couple of bottles of white capri. Count Greffi came into the +dining-room and bowed to us. His niece, who looked a little like my +grandmother, was with him. I told Catherine and Ferguson about him and +Ferguson was very impressed. The hotel was very big and grand and empty +but the food was good, the wine was very pleasant and finally the wine +made us all feel very well. Catherine had no need to feel any better. +She was very happy. Ferguson became quite cheerful. I felt very well +myself. After lunch Ferguson went back to her hotel. She was going to +lie down for a while after lunch she said. + +Along late in the afternoon some one knocked on our door. + +“Who is it?” + +“The Count Greffi wishes to know if you will play billiards with him.” + +I looked at my watch; I had taken it off and it was under the pillow. + +“Do you have to go, darling?” Catherine whispered. + +“I think I’d better.” The watch was a quarter-past four o’clock. Out +loud I said, “Tell the Count Greffi I will be in the billiard-room at +five o’clock.” + +At a quarter to five I kissed Catherine good-by and went into the +bathroom to dress. Knotting my tie and looking in the glass I looked +strange to myself in the civilian clothes. I must remember to buy some +more shirts and socks. + +“Will you be away a long time?” Catherine asked. She looked lovely in +the bed. “Would you hand me the brush?” + +I watched her brushing her hair, holding her head so the weight of her +hair all came on one side. It was dark outside and the light over the +head of the bed shone on her hair and on her neck and shoulders. I went +over and kissed her and held her hand with the brush and her head sunk +back on the pillow. I kissed her neck and shoulders. I felt faint with +loving her so much. + +“I don’t want to go away.” + +“I don’t want you to go away.” + +“I won’t go then.” + +“Yes. Go. It’s only for a little while and then you’ll come back.” + +“We’ll have dinner up here.” + +“Hurry and come back.” + +I found the Count Greffi in the billiard-room. He was practising +strokes, looking very fragile under the light that came down above the +billiard table. On a card table a little way beyond the light was a +silver icing-bucket with the necks and corks of two champagne bottles +showing above the ice. The Count Greffi straightened up when I came +toward the table and walked toward me. He put out his hand, “It is such +a great pleasure that you are here. You were very kind to come to play +with me.” + +“It was very nice of you to ask me.” + +“Are you quite well? They told me you were wounded on the Isonzo. I hope +you are well again.” + +“I’m very well. Have you been well?” + +“Oh, I am always well. But I am getting old. I detect signs of age now.” + +“I can’t believe it.” + +“Yes. Do you want to know one? It is easier for me to talk Italian. I +discipline myself but I find when I am tired that it is so much easier +to talk Italian. So I know I must be getting old.” + +“We could talk Italian. I am a little tired too.” + +“Oh, but when you are tired it will be easier for you to talk English.” + +“American.” + +“Yes. American. You will please talk American. It is a delightful +language.” + +“I hardly ever see Americans.” + +“You must miss them. One misses one’s countrymen and especially one’s +countrywomen. I know that experience. Should we play or are you too +tired?” + +“I’m not really tired. I said that for a joke. What handicap will you +give me?” + +“Have you been playing very much?” + +“None at all.” + +“You play very well. Ten points in a hundred?” + +“You flatter me.” + +“Fifteen?” + +“That would be fine but you will beat me.” + +“Should we play for a stake? You always wished to play for a stake.” + +“I think we’d better.” + +“All right. I will give you eighteen points and we will play for a franc +a point.” + +He played a lovely game of billiards and with the handicap I was only +four ahead at fifty. Count Greffi pushed a button on the wall to ring +for the barman. + +“Open one bottle please,” he said. Then to me, “We will take a little +stimulant.” The wine was icy cold and very dry and good. + +“Should we talk Italian? Would you mind very much? It is my great +weakness now.” + +We went on playing, sipping the wine between shots, speaking in Italian, +but talking little, concentrated on the game. Count Greffi made his one +hundredth point and with the handicap I was only at ninety-four. He +smiled and patted me on the shoulder. + +“Now we will drink the other bottle and you will tell me about the war.” +He waited for me to sit down. + +“About anything else,” I said. + +“You don’t want to talk about it? Good. What have you been reading?” + +“Nothing,” I said. “I’m afraid I am very dull.” + +“No. But you should read.” + +“What is there written in war-time?” + +“There is ‘Le Feu’ by a Frenchman, Barbusse. There is ‘Mr. Britling Sees +Through It.’” + +“No, he doesn’t.” + +“What?” + +“He doesn’t see through it. Those books were at the hospital.” + +“Then you have been reading?” + +“Yes, but nothing any good.” + +“I thought ‘Mr. Britling’ a very good study of the English middle-class +soul.” + +“I don’t know about the soul.” + +“Poor boy. We none of us know about the soul. Are you _Croyant_?” + +“At night.” + +Count Greffi smiled and turned the glass with his fingers. “I had +expected to become more devout as I grow older but somehow I haven’t,” +he said. “It is a great pity.” + +“Would you like to live after death?” I asked and instantly felt a fool +to mention death. But he did not mind the word. + +“It would depend on the life. This life is very pleasant. I would like +to live forever,” he smiled. “I very nearly have.” + +We were sitting in the deep leather chairs, the champagne in the +ice-bucket and our glasses on the table between us. + +“If you ever live to be as old as I am you will find many things +strange.” + +“You never seem old.” + +“It is the body that is old. Sometimes I am afraid I will break off a +finger as one breaks a stick of chalk. And the spirit is no older and +not much wiser.” + +“You are wise.” + +“No, that is the great fallacy; the wisdom of old men. They do not grow +wise. They grow careful.” + +“Perhaps that is wisdom.” + +“It is a very unattractive wisdom. What do you value most?” + +“Some one I love.” + +“With me it is the same. That is not wisdom. Do you value life?” + +“Yes.” + +“So do I. Because it is all I have. And to give birthday parties,” he +laughed. “You are probably wiser than I am. You do not give birthday +parties.” + +We both drank the wine. + +“What do you think of the war really?” I asked. + +“I think it is stupid.” + +“Who will win it?” + +“Italy.” + +“Why?” + +“They are a younger nation.” + +“Do younger nations always win wars?” + +“They are apt to for a time.” + +“Then what happens?” + +“They become older nations.” + +“You said you were not wise.” + +“Dear boy, that is not wisdom. That is cynicism.” + +“It sounds very wise to me.” + +“It’s not particularly. I could quote you the examples on the other +side. But it is not bad. Have we finished the champagne?” + +“Almost.” + +“Should we drink some more? Then I must dress.” + +“Perhaps we’d better not now.” + +“You are sure you don’t want more?” + +“Yes.” He stood up. + +“I hope you will be very fortunate and very happy and very, very +healthy.” + +“Thank you. And I hope you will live forever.” + +“Thank you. I have. And if you ever become devout pray for me if I am +dead. I am asking several of my friends to do that. I had expected to +become devout myself but it has not come.” I thought he smiled sadly but +I could not tell. He was so old and his face was very wrinkled, so that +a smile used so many lines that all gradations were lost. + +“I might become very devout,” I said. “Anyway, I will pray for you.” + +“I had always expected to become devout. All my family died very devout. +But somehow it does not come.” + +“It’s too early.” + +“Maybe it is too late. Perhaps I have outlived my religious feeling.” + +“My own comes only at night.” + +“Then too you are in love. Do not forget that is a religious feeling.” + +“You believe so?” + +“Of course.” He took a step toward the table. “You were very kind to +play.” + +“It was a great pleasure.” + +“We will walk upstairs together.” + + + + + CHAPTER XXXVI + +That night there was a storm and I woke to hear the rain lashing the +window-panes. It was coming in the open window. Some one had knocked on +the door. I went to the door very softly, not to disturb Catherine, and +opened it. The barman stood there. He wore his overcoat and carried his +wet hat. + +“Can I speak to you, Tenente?” + +“What’s the matter?” + +“It’s a very serious matter.” + +I looked around. The room was dark. I saw the water on the floor from +the window. “Come in,” I said. I took him by the arm into the bathroom; +locked the door and put on the light. I sat down on the edge of the +bathtub. + +“What’s the matter, Emilio? Are you in trouble?” + +“No. You are, Tenente.” + +“Yes?” + +“They are going to arrest you in the morning.” + +“Yes?” + +“I came to tell you. I was out in the town and I heard them talking in a +café.” + +“I see.” + +He stood there, his coat wet, holding his wet hat and said nothing. + +“Why are they going to arrest me?” + +“For something about the war.” + +“Do you know what?” + +“No. But I know that they know you were here before as an officer and +now you are here out of uniform. After this retreat they arrest +everybody.” + +I thought a minute. + +“What time do they come to arrest me?” + +“In the morning. I don’t know the time.” + +“What do you say to do?” + +He put his hat in the washbowl. It was very wet and had been dripping on +the floor. + +“If you have nothing to fear an arrest is nothing. But it is always bad +to be arrested—especially now.” + +“I don’t want to be arrested.” + +“Then go to Switzerland.” + +“How?” + +“In my boat.” + +“There is a storm,” I said. + +“The storm is over. It is rough but you will be all right.” + +“When should we go?” + +“Right away. They might come to arrest you early in the morning.” + +“What about our bags?” + +“Get them packed. Get your lady dressed. I will take care of them.” + +“Where will you be?” + +“I will wait here. I don’t want any one to see me outside in the hall.” + +I opened the door, closed it, and went into the bedroom. Catherine was +awake. + +“What is it, darling?” + +“It’s all right, Cat,” I said. “Would you like to get dressed right away +and go in a boat to Switzerland?” + +“Would you?” + +“No,” I said. “I’d like to go back to bed.” + +“What is it about?” + +“The barman says they are going to arrest me in the morning.” + +“Is the barman crazy?” + +“No.” + +“Then please hurry, darling, and get dressed so we can start.” She sat +up on the side of the bed. She was still sleepy. “Is that the barman in +the bathroom?” + +“Yes.” + +“Then I won’t wash. Please look the other way, darling, and I’ll be +dressed in just a minute.” + +I saw her white back as she took off her nightgown and then I looked +away because she wanted me to. She was beginning to be a little big with +the child and she did not want me to see her. I dressed hearing the rain +on the windows. I did not have much to put in my bag. + +“There’s plenty of room in my bag, Cat, if you need any.” + +“I’m almost packed,” she said. “Darling, I’m awfully stupid, but why is +the barman in the bathroom?” + +“Sh—he’s waiting to take our bags down.” + +“He’s awfully nice.” + +“He’s an old friend,” I said. “I nearly sent him some pipe-tobacco +once.” + +I looked out the open window at the dark night. I could not see the +lake, only the dark and the rain but the wind was quieter. + +“I’m ready, darling,” Catherine said. + +“All right.” I went to the bathroom door. “Here are the bags, Emilio,” I +said. The barman took the two bags. + +“You’re very good to help us,” Catherine said. + +“That’s nothing, lady,” the barman said. “I’m glad to help you just so I +don’t get in trouble myself. Listen,” he said to me. “I’ll take these +out the servants’ stairs and to the boat. You just go out as though you +were going for a walk.” + +“It’s a lovely night for a walk,” Catherine said. + +“It’s a bad night all right.” + +“I’m glad I’ve an umbrella,” Catherine said. + +We walked down the hall and down the wide thickly carpeted stairs. At +the foot of the stairs by the door the porter sat behind his desk. + +He looked surprised at seeing us. + +“You’re not going out, sir?” he said. + +“Yes,” I said. “We’re going to see the storm along the lake.” + +“Haven’t you got an umbrella, sir?” + +“No,” I said. “This coat sheds water.” + +He looked at it doubtfully. “I’ll get you an umbrella, sir,” he said. He +went away and came back with a big umbrella. “It is a little big, sir,” +he said. I gave him a ten-lira note. “Oh you are too good, sir. Thank +you very much,” he said. He held the door open and we went out into the +rain. He smiled at Catherine and she smiled at him. “Don’t stay out in +the storm,” he said. “You will get wet, sir and lady.” He was only the +second porter, and his English was still literally translated. + +“We’ll be back,” I said. We walked down the path under the giant +umbrella and out through the dark wet gardens to the road and across the +road to the trellised pathway along the lake. The wind was blowing +offshore now. It was a cold, wet November wind and I knew it was snowing +in the mountains. We came along past the chained boats in the slips +along the quay to where the barman’s boat should be. The water was dark +against the stone. The barman stepped out from beside the row of trees. + +“The bags are in the boat,” he said. + +“I want to pay you for the boat,” I said. + +“How much money have you?” + +“Not so much.” + +“You send me the money later. That will be all right.” + +“How much?” + +“What you want.” + +“Tell me how much.” + +“If you get through send me five hundred francs. You won’t mind that if +you get through.” + +“All right.” + +“Here are sandwiches.” He handed me a package. “Everything there was in +the bar. It’s all here. This is a bottle of brandy and a bottle of +wine.” I put them in my bag. “Let me pay you for those.” + +“All right, give me fifty lire.” + +I gave it to him. “The brandy is good,” he said. “You don’t need to be +afraid to give it to your lady. She better get in the boat.” He held the +boat, it rising and falling against the stone wall and I helped +Catherine in. She sat in the stern and pulled her cape around her. + +“You know where to go?” + +“Up the lake.” + +“You know how far?” + +“Past Luino.” + +“Past Luino, Cannero, Cannobio, Tranzano. You aren’t in Switzerland +until you come to Brissago. You have to pass Monte Tamara.” + +“What time is it?” Catherine asked. + +“It’s only eleven o’clock,” I said. + +“If you row all the time you ought to be there by seven o’clock in the +morning.” + +“Is it that far?” + +“It’s thirty-five kilometres.” + +“How should we go? In this rain we need a compass.” + +“No. Row to Isola Bella. Then on the other side of Isola Madre go with +the wind. The wind will take you to Pallanza. You will see the lights. +Then go up the shore.” + +“Maybe the wind will change.” + +“No,” he said. “This wind will blow like this for three days. It comes +straight down from the Mattarone. There is a can to bail with.” + +“Let me pay you something for the boat now.” + +“No, I’d rather take a chance. If you get through you pay me all you +can.” + +“All right.” + +“I don’t think you’ll get drowned.” + +“That’s good.” + +“Go with the wind up the lake.” + +“All right.” I stepped in the boat. + +“Did you leave the money for the hotel?” + +“Yes. In an envelope in the room.” + +“All right. Good luck, Tenente.” + +“Good luck. We thank you many times.” + +“You won’t thank me if you get drowned.” + +“What does he say?” Catherine asked. + +“He says good luck.” + +“Good luck,” Catherine said. “Thank you very much.” + +“Are you ready?” + +“Yes.” + +He bent down and shoved us off. I dug at the water with the oars, then +waved one hand. The barman waved back deprecatingly. I saw the lights of +the hotel and rowed out, rowing straight out until they were out of +sight. There was quite a sea running but we were going with the wind. + + + + + CHAPTER XXXVII + +I rowed in the dark keeping the wind in my face. The rain had stopped +and only came occasionally in gusts. It was very dark, and the wind was +cold. I could see Catherine in the stern but I could not see the water +where the blades of the oars dipped. The oars were long and there were +no leathers to keep them from slipping out. I pulled, raised, leaned +forward, found the water, dipped and pulled, rowing as easily as I +could. I did not feather the oars because the wind was with us. I knew +my hands would blister and I wanted to delay it as long as I could. The +boat was light and rowed easily. I pulled it along in the dark water. I +could not see, and hoped we would soon come opposite Pallanza. + +We never saw Pallanza. The wind was blowing up the lake and we passed +the point that hides Pallanza in the dark and never saw the lights. When +we finally saw some lights much further up the lake and close to the +shore it was Intra. But for a long time we did not see any lights, nor +did we see the shore but rowed steadily in the dark riding with the +waves. Sometimes I missed the water with the oars in the dark as a wave +lifted the boat. It was quite rough; but I kept on rowing, until +suddenly we were close ashore against a point of rock that rose beside +us; the waves striking against it, rushing high up, then falling back. I +pulled hard on the right oar and backed water with the other and we went +out into the lake again; the point was out of sight and we were going on +up the lake. + +“We’re across the lake,” I said to Catherine. + +“Weren’t we going to see Pallanza?” + +“We’ve missed it.” + +“How are you, darling?” + +“I’m fine.” + +“I could take the oars awhile.” + +“No, I’m fine.” + +“Poor Ferguson,” Catherine said. “In the morning she’ll come to the +hotel and find we’re gone.” + +“I’m not worrying so much about that,” I said, “as about getting into +the Swiss part of the lake before it’s daylight and the custom guards +see us.” + +“Is it a long way?” + +“It’s thirty some kilometres from here.” + + + +I rowed all night. Finally my hands were so sore I could hardly close +them over the oars. We were nearly smashed up on the shore several +times. I kept fairly close to the shore because I was afraid of getting +lost on the lake and losing time. Sometimes we were so close we could +see a row of trees and the road along the shore with the mountains +behind. The rain stopped and the wind drove the clouds so that the moon +shone through and looking back I could see the long dark point of +Castagnola and the lake with white-caps and beyond, the moon on the high +snow mountains. Then the clouds came over the moon again and the +mountains and the lake were gone, but it was much lighter than it had +been before and we could see the shore. I could see it too clearly and +pulled out where they would not see the boat if there were custom guards +along the Pallanza road. When the moon came out again we could see white +villas on the shore on the slopes of the mountain and the white road +where it showed through the trees. All the time I was rowing. + +The lake widened and across it on the shore at the foot of the mountains +on the other side we saw a few lights that should be Luino. I saw a +wedgelike gap between the mountains on the other shore and I thought +that must be Luino. If it was we were making good time. I pulled in the +oars and lay back on the seat. I was very, very tired of rowing. My arms +and shoulders and back ached and my hands were sore. + +“I could hold the umbrella,” Catherine said. “We could sail with that +with the wind.” + +“Can you steer?” + +“I think so.” + +“You take this oar and hold it under your arm close to the side of the +boat and steer and I’ll hold the umbrella.” I went back to the stern and +showed her how to hold the oar. I took the big umbrella the porter had +given me and sat facing the bow and opened it. It opened with a clap. I +held it on both sides, sitting astride the handle hooked over the seat. +The wind was full in it and I felt the boat suck forward while I held as +hard as I could to the two edges. It pulled hard. The boat was moving +fast. + +“We’re going beautifully,” Catherine said. All I could see was umbrella +ribs. The umbrella strained and pulled and I felt us driving along with +it. I braced my feet and held back on it, then suddenly, it buckled; I +felt a rib snap on my forehead, I tried to grab the top that was bending +with the wind and the whole thing buckled and went inside-out and I was +astride the handle of an inside-out, ripped umbrella, where I had been +holding a wind-filled pulling sail. I unhooked the handle from the seat, +laid the umbrella in the bow and went back to Catherine for the oar. She +was laughing. She took my hand and kept on laughing. + +“What’s the matter?” I took the oar. + +“You looked so funny holding that thing.” + +“I suppose so.” + +“Don’t be cross, darling. It was awfully funny. You looked about twenty +feet broad and very affectionate holding the umbrella by the edges—” +she choked. + +“I’ll row.” + +“Take a rest and a drink. It’s a grand night and we’ve come a long way.” + +“I have to keep the boat out of the trough of the waves.” + +“I’ll get you a drink. Then rest a little while, darling.” + +I held the oars up and we sailed with them. Catherine was opening the +bag. She handed me the brandy bottle. I pulled the cork with my +pocket-knife and took a long drink. It was smooth and hot and the heat +went all through me and I felt warmed and cheerful. “It’s lovely +brandy,” I said. The moon was under again but I could see the shore. +There seemed to be another point going out a long way ahead into the +lake. + +“Are you warm enough, Cat?” + +“I’m splendid. I’m a little stiff.” + +“Bail out that water and you can put your feet down.” + +Then I rowed and listened to the oarlocks and the dip and scrape of the +bailing tin under the stern seat. + +“Would you give me the bailer?” I said. “I want a drink.” + +“It’s awfully dirty.” + +“That’s all right. I’ll rinse it.” + +I heard Catherine rinsing it over the side. Then she handed it to me +dipped full of water. I was thirsty after the brandy and the water was +icy cold, so cold it made my teeth ache. I looked toward the shore. We +were closer to the long point. There were lights in the bay ahead. + +“Thanks,” I said and handed back the tin pail. + +“You’re ever so welcome,” Catherine said. “There’s much more if you want +it.” + +“Don’t you want to eat something?” + +“No. I’ll be hungry in a little while. We’ll save it till then.” + +“All right.” + +What looked like a point ahead was a long high headland. I went further +out in the lake to pass it. The lake was much narrower now. The moon was +out again and the _guardia di Finanza_ could have seen our boat black on +the water if they had been watching. + +“How are you, Cat?” I asked. + +“I’m all right. Where are we?” + +“I don’t think we have more than about eight miles more.” + +“That’s a long way to row, you poor sweet. Aren’t you dead?” + +“No. I’m all right. My hands are sore is all.” + +We went on up the lake. There was a break in the mountains on the right +bank, a flattening-out with a low shore-line that I thought must be +Cannobio. I stayed a long way out because it was from now on that we ran +the most danger of meeting _guardia_. There was a high dome-capped +mountain on the other shore a way ahead. I was tired. It was no great +distance to row but when you were out of condition it had been a long +way. I knew I had to pass that mountain and go up the lake at least five +miles further before we would be in Swiss water. The moon was almost +down now but before it went down the sky clouded over again and it was +very dark. I stayed well out in the lake, rowing awhile, then resting +and holding the oars so that the wind struck the blades. + +“Let me row awhile,” Catherine said. + +“I don’t think you ought to.” + +“Nonsense. It would be good for me. It would keep me from being too +stiff.” + +“I don’t think you should, Cat.” + +“Nonsense. Rowing in moderation is very good for the pregnant lady.” + +“All right, you row a little moderately. I’ll go back, then you come up. +Hold on to both gunwales when you come up.” + +I sat in the stern with my coat on and the collar turned up and watched +Catherine row. She rowed very well but the oars were too long and +bothered her. I opened the bag and ate a couple of sandwiches and took a +drink of the brandy. It made everything much better and I took another +drink. + +“Tell me when you’re tired,” I said. Then a little later, “watch out the +oar doesn’t pop you in the tummy.” + +“If it did”—Catherine said between strokes—“life might be much +simpler.” + +I took another drink of the brandy. + +“How are you going?” + +“All right.” + +“Tell me when you want to stop.” + +“All right.” + +I took another drink of the brandy, then took hold of the two gunwales +of the boat and moved forward. + +“No. I’m going beautifully.” + +“Go on back to the stern. I’ve had a grand rest.” + +For a while, with the brandy, I rowed easily and steadily. Then I began +to catch crabs and soon I was just chopping along again with a thin +brown taste of bile from having rowed too hard after the brandy. + +“Give me a drink of water, will you?” I said. + +“That’s easy,” Catherine said. + +Before daylight it started to drizzle. The wind was down or we were +protected by mountains that bounded the curve the lake had made. When I +knew daylight was coming I settled down and rowed hard. I did not know +where we were and I wanted to get into the Swiss part of the lake. When +it was beginning to be daylight we were quite close to the shore. I +could see the rocky shore and the trees. + +“What’s that?” Catherine said. I rested on the oars and listened. It was +a motor boat chugging out on the lake. I pulled close up to the shore +and lay quiet. The chugging came closer; then we saw the motor boat in +the rain a little astern of us. There were four _guardia_ _di finanza_ +in the stern, their _alpini_ hats pulled down, their cape collars turned +up and their carbines slung across their backs. They all looked sleepy +so early in the morning. I could see the yellow on their hats and the +yellow marks on their cape collars. The motor boat chugged on and out of +sight in the rain. + +I pulled out into the lake. If we were that close to the border I did +not want to be hailed by a sentry along the road. I stayed out where I +could just see the shore and rowed on for three-quarters of an hour in +the rain. We heard a motor boat once more but I kept quiet until the +noise of the engine went away across the lake. + +“I think we’re in Switzerland, Cat,” I said. + +“Really?” + +“There’s no way to know until we see Swiss troops.” + +“Or the Swiss navy.” + +“The Swiss navy’s no joke for us. That last motor boat we heard was +probably the Swiss navy.” + +“If we’re in Switzerland let’s have a big breakfast. They have wonderful +rolls and butter and jam in Switzerland.” + + + +It was clear daylight now and a fine rain was falling. The wind was +still blowing outside up the lake and we could see the tops of the +white-caps going away from us and up the lake. I was sure we were in +Switzerland now. There were many houses back in the trees from the shore +and up the shore a way was a village with stone houses, some villas on +the hills and a church. I had been looking at the road that skirted the +shore for guards but did not see any. The road came quite close to the +lake now and I saw a soldier coming out of a café on the road. He wore a +gray-green uniform and a helmet like the Germans. He had a +healthy-looking face and a little toothbrush mustache. He looked at us. + +“Wave to him,” I said to Catherine. She waved and the soldier smiled +embarrassedly and gave a wave of his hand. I eased up rowing. We were +passing the waterfront of the village. + +“We must be well inside the border,” I said. + +“We want to be sure, darling. We don’t want them to turn us back at the +frontier.” + +“The frontier is a long way back. I think this is the customs town. I’m +pretty sure it’s Brissago.” + +“Won’t there be Italians there? There are always both sides at a customs +town.” + +“Not in war-time. I don’t think they let the Italians cross the +frontier.” + +It was a nice-looking little town. There were many fishing boats along +the quay and nets were spread on racks. There was a fine November rain +falling but it looked cheerful and clean even with the rain. + +“Should we land then and have breakfast?” + +“All right.” + +I pulled hard on the left oar and came in close, then straightened out +when we were close to the quay and brought the boat alongside. I pulled +in the oars, took hold of an iron ring, stepped up on the wet stone and +was in Switzerland. I tied the boat and held my hand down to Catherine. + +“Come on up, Cat. It’s a grand feeling.” + +“What about the bags?” + +“Leave them in the boat.” + +Catherine stepped up and we were in Switzerland together. + +“What a lovely country,” she said. + +“Isn’t it grand?” + +“Let’s go and have breakfast!” + +“Isn’t it a grand country? I love the way it feels under my shoes.” + +“I’m so stiff I can’t feel it very well. But it feels like a splendid +country. Darling, do you realize we’re here and out of that bloody +place?” + +“I do. I really do. I’ve never realized anything before.” + +“Look at the houses. Isn’t this a fine square? There’s a place we can +get breakfast.” + +“Isn’t the rain fine? They never had rain like this in Italy. It’s +cheerful rain.” + +“And we’re here, darling! Do you realize we’re here?” + +We went inside the café and sat down at a clean wooden table. We were +cockeyed excited. A splendid clean-looking woman with an apron came and +asked us what we wanted. + +“Rolls and jam and coffee,” Catherine said. + +“I’m sorry, we haven’t any rolls in war-time.” + +“Bread then.” + +“I can make you some toast.” + +“All right.” + +“I want some eggs fried too.” + +“How many eggs for the gentleman?” + +“Three.” + +“Take four, darling.” + +“Four eggs.” + +The woman went away. I kissed Catherine and held her hand very tight. We +looked at each other and at the café. + +“Darling, darling, isn’t it lovely?” + +“It’s grand,” I said. + +“I don’t mind there not being rolls,” Catherine said. “I thought about +them all night. But I don’t mind it. I don’t mind it at all.” + +“I suppose pretty soon they will arrest us.” + +“Never mind, darling. We’ll have breakfast first. You won’t mind being +arrested after breakfast. And then there’s nothing they can do to us. +We’re British and American citizens in good standing.” + +“You have a passport, haven’t you?” + +“Of course. Oh let’s not talk about it. Let’s be happy.” + +“I couldn’t be any happier,” I said. A fat gray cat with a tail that +lifted like a plume crossed the floor to our table and curved against my +leg to purr each time she rubbed. I reached down and stroked her. +Catherine smiled at me very happily. “Here comes the coffee,” she said. + + + +They arrested us after breakfast. We took a little walk through the +village then went down to the quay to get our bags. A soldier was +standing guard over the boat. + +“Is this your boat?” + +“Yes.” + +“Where do you come from?” + +“Up the lake.” + +“Then I have to ask you to come with me.” + +“How about the bags?” + +“You can carry the bags.” + +I carried the bags and Catherine walked beside me and the soldier walked +along behind us to the old custom house. In the custom house a +lieutenant, very thin and military, questioned us. + +“What nationality are you?” + +“American and British.” + +“Let me see your passports.” + +I gave him mine and Catherine got hers out of her handbag. + +He examined them for a long time. + +“Why do you enter Switzerland this way in a boat?” + +“I am a sportsman,” I said. “Rowing is my great sport. I always row when +I get a chance.” + +“Why do you come here?” + +“For the winter sport. We are tourists and we want to do the winter +sport.” + +“This is no place for winter sport.” + +“We know it. We want to go where they have the winter sport.” + +“What have you been doing in Italy?” + +“I have been studying architecture. My cousin has been studying art.” + +“Why do you leave there?” + +“We want to do the winter sport. With the war going on you cannot study +architecture.” + +“You will please stay where you are,” the lieutenant said. He went back +into the building with our passports. + +“You’re splendid, darling,” Catherine said. “Keep on the same track. You +want to do the winter sport.” + +“Do you know anything about art?” + +“Rubens,” said Catherine. + +“Large and fat,” I said. + +“Titian,” Catherine said. + +“Titian-haired,” I said. “How about Mantegna?” + +“Don’t ask hard ones,” Catherine said. “I know him though—very bitter.” + +“Very bitter,” I said. “Lots of nail holes.” + +“You see I’ll make you a fine wife,” Catherine said. “I’ll be able to +talk art with your customers.” + +“Here he comes,” I said. The thin lieutenant came down the length of the +custom house, holding our passports. + +“I will have to send you into Locarno,” he said. “You can get a carriage +and a soldier will go in with you.” + +“All right,” I said. “What about the boat?” + +“The boat is confiscated. What have you in those bags?” + +He went all through the two bags and held up the quarter-bottle of +brandy. “Would you join me in a drink?” I asked. + +“No thank you.” He straightened up. “How much money have you?” + +“Twenty-five hundred lire.” + +He was favorably impressed. “How much has your cousin?” + +Catherine had a little over twelve hundred lire. The lieutenant was +pleased. His attitude toward us became less haughty. + +“If you are going for winter sports,” he said, “Wengen is the place. My +father has a very fine hotel at Wengen. It is open all the time.” + +“That’s splendid,” I said. “Could you give me the name?” + +“I will write it on a card.” He handed me the card very politely. + +“The soldier will take you in to Locarno. He will keep your passports. I +regret this but it is necessary. I have good hopes they will give you a +visa or a police permit at Locarno.” + +He handed the two passports to the soldier and carrying the bags we +started into the village to order a carriage. “Hi,” the lieutenant +called to the soldier. He said something in a German dialect to him. The +soldier slung his rifle on his back and picked up the bags. + +“It’s a great country,” I said to Catherine. + +“It’s so practical.” + +“Thank you very much,” I said to the lieutenant. He waved his hand. + +_“Service!_” he said. We followed our guard into the village. + +We drove to Locarno in a carriage with the soldier sitting on the front +seat with the driver. At Locarno we did not have a bad time. They +questioned us but they were polite because we had passports and money. I +do not think they believed a word of the story and I thought it was +silly but it was like a law-court. You did not want something +reasonable, you wanted something technical and then stuck to it without +explanations. But we had passports and we would spend the money. So they +gave us provisional visas. At any time this visa might be withdrawn. We +were to report to the police wherever we went. + +Could we go wherever we wanted? Yes. Where did we want to go? + +“Where do you want to go, Cat?” + +“Montreux.” + +“It is a very nice place,” the official said. “I think you will like +that place.” + +“Here at Locarno is a very nice place,” another official said. “I am +sure you would like it here very much at Locarno. Locarno is a very +attractive place.” + +“We would like some place where there is winter sport.” + +“There is no winter sport at Montreux.” + +“I beg your pardon,” the other official said. “I come from Montreux. +There is very certainly winter sport on the Montreux Oberland Bernois +railway. It would be false for you to deny that.” + +“I do not deny it. I simply said there is no winter sport at Montreux.” + +“I question that,” the other official said. “I question that statement.” + +“I hold to that statement.” + +“I question that statement. I myself have _luge-ed_ into the streets of +Montreux. I have done it not once but several times. Luge-ing is +certainly winter sport.” + +The other official turned to me. + +“Is luge-ing your idea of winter sport, sir? I tell you you would be +very comfortable here in Locarno. You would find the climate healthy, +you would find the environs attractive. You would like it very much.” + +“The gentleman has expressed a wish to go to Montreux.” + +“What is luge-ing?” I asked. + +“You see he has never even heard of luge-ing!” + +That meant a great deal to the second official. He was pleased by that. + +“Luge-ing,” said the first official, “is tobogganing.” + +“I beg to differ,” the other official shook his head. “I must differ +again. The toboggan is very different from the luge. The toboggan is +constructed in Canada of flat laths. The luge is a common sled with +runners. Accuracy means something.” + +“Couldn’t we toboggan?” I asked. + +“Of course you could toboggan,” the first official said. “You could +toboggan very well. Excellent Canadian toboggans are sold in Montreux. +Ochs Brothers sell toboggans. They import their own toboggans.” + +The second official turned away. “Tobogganing,” he said, “requires a +special _piste_. You could not toboggan into the streets of Montreux. +Where are you stopping here?” + +“We don’t know,” I said. “We just drove in from Brissago. The carriage +is outside.” + +“You make no mistake in going to Montreux,” the first official said. +“You will find the climate delightful and beautiful. You will have no +distance to go for winter sport.” + +“If you really want winter sport,” the second official said, “you will +go to the Engadine or to Mürren. I must protest against your being +advised to go to Montreux for the winter sport.” + +“At Les Avants above Montreux there is excellent winter sport of every +sort.” The champion of Montreux glared at his colleague. + +“Gentlemen,” I said, “I am afraid we must go. My cousin is very tired. +We will go tentatively to Montreux.” + +“I congratulate you,” the first official shook my hand. + +“I believe that you will regret leaving Locarno,” the second official +said. “At any rate you will report to the police at Montreux.” + +“There will be no unpleasantness with the police,” the first official +assured me. “You will find all the inhabitants extremely courteous and +friendly.” + +“Thank you both very much,” I said. “We appreciate your advice very +much.” + +“Good-by,” Catherine said. “Thank you both very much.” + +They bowed us to the door, the champion of Locarno a little coldly. We +went down the steps and into the carriage. + +“My God, darling,” Catherine said. “Couldn’t we have gotten away any +sooner?” I gave the name of a hotel one of the officials had recommended +to the driver. He picked up the reins. + +“You’ve forgotten the army,” Catherine said. The soldier was standing by +the carriage. I gave him a ten-lira note. “I have no Swiss money yet,” I +said. He thanked me, saluted and went off. The carriage started and we +drove to the hotel. + +“How did you happen to pick out Montreux?” I asked Catherine. “Do you +really want to go there?” + +“It was the first place I could think of,” she said. “It’s not a bad +place. We can find some place up in the mountains.” + +“Are you sleepy?” + +“I’m asleep right now.” + +“We’ll get a good sleep. Poor Cat, you had a long bad night.” + +“I had a lovely time,” Catherine said. “Especially when you sailed with +the umbrella.” + +“Can you realize we’re in Switzerland?” + +“No, I’m afraid I’ll wake up and it won’t be true.” + +“I am too.” + +“It is true, isn’t it, darling? I’m not just driving down to the +_stazione_ in Milan to see you off.” + +“I hope not.” + +“Don’t say that. It frightens me. Maybe that’s where we’re going.” + +“I’m so groggy I don’t know,” I said. + +“Let me see your hands.” + +I put them out. They were both blistered raw. + +“There’s no hole in my side,” I said. + +“Don’t be sacrilegious.” + +I felt very tired and vague in the head. The exhilaration was all gone. +The carriage was going along the street. + +“Poor hands,” Catherine said. + +“Don’t touch them,” I said. “By God I don’t know where we are. Where are +we going, driver?” The driver stopped his horse. + +“To the Hotel Metropole. Don’t you want to go there?” + +“Yes,” I said. “It’s all right, Cat.” + +“It’s all right, darling. Don’t be upset. We’ll get a good sleep and you +won’t feel groggy to-morrow.” + +“I get pretty groggy,” I said. “It’s like a comic opera to-day. Maybe +I’m hungry.” + +“You’re just tired, darling. You’ll be fine.” The carriage pulled up +before the hotel. Some one came out to take our bags. + +“I feel all right,” I said. We were down on the pavement going into the +hotel. + +“I know you’ll be all right. You’re just tired. You’ve been up a long +time.” + +“Anyhow we’re here.” + +“Yes, we’re really here.” + +We followed the boy with the bags into the hotel. + + + + + BOOK V + + + + + CHAPTER XXXVIII + +That fall the snow came very late. We lived in a brown wooden house in +the pine trees on the side of the mountain and at night there was frost +so that there was thin ice over the water in the two pitchers on the +dresser in the morning. Mrs. Guttingen came into the room early in the +morning to shut the windows and started a fire in the tall porcelain +stove. The pine wood crackled and sparked and then the fire roared in +the stove and the second time Mrs. Guttingen came into the room she +brought big chunks of wood for the fire and a pitcher of hot water. When +the room was warm she brought in breakfast. Sitting up in bed eating +breakfast we could see the lake and the mountains across the lake on the +French side. There was snow on the tops of the mountains and the lake +was a gray steel-blue. + +Outside, in front of the chalet a road went up the mountain. The wheel +ruts and ridges were iron hard with the frost, and the road climbed +steadily through the forest and up and around the mountain to where +there were meadows, and barns and cabins in the meadows at the edge of +the woods looking across the valley. The valley was deep and there was a +stream at the bottom that flowed down into the lake and when the wind +blew across the valley you could hear the stream in the rocks. + +Sometimes we went off the road and on a path through the pine forest. +The floor of the forest was soft to walk on; the frost did not harden it +as it did the road. But we did not mind the hardness of the road because +we had nails in the soles and heels of our boots and the heel nails bit +on the frozen ruts and with nailed boots it was good walking on the road +and invigorating. But it was lovely walking in the woods. + +In front of the house where we lived the mountain went down steeply to +the little plain along the lake and we sat on the porch of the house in +the sun and saw the winding of the road down the mountain-side and the +terraced vineyards on the side of the lower mountain, the vines all dead +now for the winter and the fields divided by stone walls, and below the +vineyards the houses of the town on the narrow plain along the lake +shore. There was an island with two trees on the lake and the trees +looked like the double sails of a fishing-boat. The mountains were sharp +and steep on the other side of the lake and down at the end of the lake +was the plain of the Rhone Valley flat between the two ranges of +mountains; and up the valley where the mountains cut it off was the Dent +du Midi. It was a high snowy mountain and it dominated the valley but it +was so far away that it did not make a shadow. + +When the sun was bright we ate lunch on the porch but the rest of the +time we ate upstairs in a small room with plain wooden walls and a big +stove in the corner. We bought books and magazines in the town and a +copy of “Hoyle” and learned many two-handed card games. The small room +with the stove was our living-room. There were two comfortable chairs +and a table for books and magazines and we played cards on the +dining-table when it was cleared away. Mr. and Mrs. Guttingen lived +downstairs and we would hear them talking sometimes in the evening and +they were very happy together too. He had been a headwaiter and she had +worked as maid in the same hotel and they had saved their money to buy +this place. They had a son who was studying to be a headwaiter. He was +at a hotel in Zurich. Downstairs there was a parlor where they sold wine +and beer, and sometimes in the evening we would hear carts stop outside +on the road and men come up the steps to go in the parlor to drink wine. + +There was a box of wood in the hall outside the living-room and I kept +up the fire from it. But we did not stay up very late. We went to bed in +the dark in the big bedroom and when I was undressed I opened the +windows and saw the night and the cold stars and the pine trees below +the window and then got into bed as fast as I could. It was lovely in +bed with the air so cold and clear and the night outside the window. We +slept well and if I woke in the night I knew it was from only one cause +and I would shift the feather bed over, very softly so that Catherine +would not be wakened and then go back to sleep again, warm and with the +new lightness of thin covers. The war seemed as far away as the football +games of some one else’s college. But I knew from the papers that they +were still fighting in the mountains because the snow would not come. + + + +Sometimes we walked down the mountain into Montreux. There was a path +went down the mountain but it was steep and so usually we took the road +and walked down on the wide hard road between fields and then below +between the stone walls of the vineyards and on down between the houses +of the villages along the way. There were three villages; Chernex, +Fontanivent, and the other I forget. Then along the road we passed an +old square-built stone château on a ledge on the side of the +mountain-side with the terraced fields of vines, each vine tied to a +stick to hold it up, the vines dry and brown and the earth ready for the +snow and the lake down below flat and gray as steel. The road went down +a long grade below the château and then turned to the right and went +down very steeply and paved with cobbles, into Montreux. + +We did not know any one in Montreux. We walked along beside the lake and +saw the swans and the many gulls and terns that flew up when you came +close and screamed while they looked down at the water. Out on the lake +there were flocks of grebes, small and dark, and leaving trails in the +water when they swam. In the town we walked along the main street and +looked in the windows of the shops. There were many big hotels that were +closed but most of the shops were open and the people were very glad to +see us. There was a fine coiffeur’s place where Catherine went to have +her hair done. The woman who ran it was very cheerful and the only +person we knew in Montreux. While Catherine was there I went up to a +beer place and drank dark Munich beer and read the papers. I read the +_Corriere Della Sera_ and the English and American papers from Paris. +All the advertisements were blacked out, supposedly to prevent +communication in that way with the enemy. The papers were bad reading. +Everything was going very badly everywhere. I sat back in the corner +with a heavy mug of dark beer and an opened glazed-paper package of +pretzels and ate the pretzels for the salty flavor and the good way they +made the beer taste and read about disaster. I thought Catherine would +come by but she did not come, so I hung the papers back on the rack, +paid for my beer and went up the street to look for her. The day was +cold and dark and wintry and the stone of the houses looked cold. +Catherine was still in the hair-dresser’s shop. The woman was waving her +hair. I sat in the little booth and watched. It was exciting to watch +and Catherine smiled and talked to me and my voice was a little thick +from being excited. The tongs made a pleasant clicking sound and I could +see Catherine in three mirrors and it was pleasant and warm in the +booth. Then the woman put up Catherine’s hair, and Catherine looked in +the mirror and changed it a little, taking out and putting in pins; then +stood up. “I’m sorry to have taken such a long time.” + +“Monsieur was very interested. Were you not, monsieur?” the woman +smiled. + +“Yes,” I said. + +We went out and up the street. It was cold and wintry and the wind was +blowing. “Oh, darling, I love you so,” I said. + +“Don’t we have a fine time?” Catherine said. “Look. Let’s go some place +and have beer instead of tea. It’s very good for young Catherine. It +keeps her small.” + +“Young Catherine,” I said. “That loafer.” + +“She’s been very good,” Catherine said. “She makes very little trouble. +The doctor says beer will be good for me and keep her small.” + +“If you keep her small enough and she’s a boy, maybe he will be a +jockey.” + +“I suppose if we really have this child we ought to get married,” +Catherine said. We were in the beer place at the corner table. It was +getting dark outside. It was still early but the day was dark and the +dusk was coming early. + +“Let’s get married now,” I said. + +“No,” Catherine said. “It’s too embarrassing now. I show too plainly. I +won’t go before any one and be married in this state.” + +“I wish we’d gotten married.” + +“I suppose it would have been better. But when could we, darling?” + +“I don’t know.” + +“I know one thing. I’m not going to be married in this splendid matronly +state.” + +“You’re not matronly.” + +“Oh yes, I am, darling. The hairdresser asked me if this was our first. +I lied and said no, we had two boys and two girls.” + +“When will we be married?” + +“Any time after I’m thin again. We want to have a splendid wedding with +every one thinking what a handsome young couple.” + +“And you’re not worried?” + +“Darling, why should I be worried? The only time I ever felt badly was +when I felt like a whore in Milan and that only lasted seven minutes and +besides it was the room furnishings. Don’t I make you a good wife?” + +“You’re a lovely wife.” + +“Then don’t be too technical, darling. I’ll marry you as soon as I’m +thin again.” + +“All right.” + +“Do you think I ought to drink another beer? The doctor said I was +rather narrow in the hips and it’s all for the best if we keep young +Catherine small.” + +“What else did he say?” I was worried. + +“Nothing. I have a wonderful blood-pressure, darling. He admired my +blood-pressure greatly.” + +“What did he say about you being too narrow in the hips?” + +“Nothing. Nothing at all. He said I shouldn’t ski.” + +“Quite right.” + +“He said it was too late to start if I’d never done it before. He said I +could ski if I wouldn’t fall down.” + +“He’s just a big-hearted joker.” + +“Really he was very nice. We’ll have him when the baby comes.” + +“Did you ask him if you ought to get married?” + +“No. I told him we’d been married four years. You see, darling, if I +marry you I’ll be an American and any time we’re married under American +law the child is legitimate.” + +“Where did you find that out?” + +“In the New York _World Almanac_ in the library.” + +“You’re a grand girl.” + +“I’ll be very glad to be an American and we’ll go to America won’t we, +darling? I want to see Niagara Falls.” + +“You’re a fine girl.” + +“There’s something else I want to see but I can’t remember it.” + +“The stockyards?” + +“No. I can’t remember it.” + +“The Woolworth building?” + +“No.” + +“The Grand Canyon?” + +“No. But I’d like to see that.” + +“What was it?” + +“The Golden Gate! That’s what I want to see. Where is the Golden Gate?” + +“San Francisco.” + +“Then let’s go there. I want to see San Francisco anyway.” + +“All right. We’ll go there.” + +“Now let’s go up the mountain. Should we? Can we get the M. O. B.?” + +“There’s a train a little after five.” + +“Let’s get that.” + +“All right. I’ll drink one more beer first.” + +When we went out to go up the street and climb the stairs to the station +it was very cold. A cold wind was coming down the Rhone valley. There +were lights in the shop windows and we climbed the steep stone stairway +to the upper street, then up another stairs to the station. The electric +train was there waiting, all the lights on. There was a dial that showed +when it left. The clock hands pointed to ten minutes after five. I +looked at the station clock. It was five minutes after. As we got on +board I saw the motorman and conductor coming out of the station wine +shop. We sat down and opened the window. The train was electrically +heated and stuffy but fresh cold air came in through the window. + +“Are you tired, Cat?” I asked. + +“No. I feel splendid.” + +“It isn’t a long ride.” + +“I like the ride,” she said. “Don’t worry about me, darling. I feel +fine.” + + + +Snow did not come until three days before Christmas. We woke one morning +and it was snowing. We stayed in bed with the fire roaring in the stove +and watched the snow fall. Mrs. Guttingen took away the breakfast trays +and put more wood in the stove. It was a big snow storm. She said it had +started about midnight. I went to the window and looked out but could +not see across the road. It was blowing and snowing wildly. I went back +to bed and we lay and talked. + +“I wish I could ski,” Catherine said. “It’s rotten not to be able to +ski.” + +“We’ll get a bobsled and come down the road. That’s no worse for you +than riding in a car.” + +“Won’t it be rough?” + +“We can see.” + +“I hope it won’t be too rough.” + +“After a while we’ll take a walk in the snow.” + +“Before lunch,” Catherine said, “so we’ll have a good appetite.” + +“I’m always hungry.” + +“So am I.” + +We went out in the snow but it was drifted so that we could not walk +far. I went ahead and made a trail down to the station but when we +reached there we had gone far enough. The snow was blowing so we could +hardly see and we went into the little inn by the station and swept each +other off with a broom and sat on a bench and had vermouths. + +“It is a big storm,” the barmaid said. + +“Yes.” + +“The snow is very late this year.” + +“Yes.” + +“Could I eat a chocolate bar?” Catherine asked. “Or is it too close to +lunch? I’m always hungry.” + +“Go on and eat one,” I said. + +“I’ll take one with filberts,” Catherine said. + +“They are very good,” the girl said, “I like them the best.” + +“I’ll have another vermouth,” I said. + +When we came out to start back up the road our track was filled in by +the snow. There were only faint indentations where the holes had been. +The snow blew in our faces so we could hardly see. We brushed off and +went in to have lunch. Mr. Guttingen served the lunch. + +“To-morrow there will be skiing,” he said. “Do you ski, Mr. Henry?” + +“No. But I want to learn.” + +“You will learn very easily. My boy will be here for Christmas and he +will teach you.” + +“That’s fine. When does he come?” + +“To-morrow night.” + +When we were sitting by the stove in the little room after lunch looking +out the window at the snow coming down Catherine said, “Wouldn’t you +like to go on a trip somewhere by yourself, darling, and be with men and +ski?” + +“No. Why should I?” + +“I should think sometimes you would want to see other people besides +me.” + +“Do you want to see other people?” + +“No.” + +“Neither do I.” + +“I know. But you’re different. I’m having a child and that makes me +contented not to do anything. I know I’m awfully stupid now and I talk +too much and I think you ought to get away so you won’t be tired of me. + +“Do you want me to go away?” + +“No. I want you to stay.” + +“That’s what I’m going to do.” + +“Come over here,” she said. “I want to feel the bump on your head. It’s +a big bump.” She ran her finger over it. “Darling, would you like to +grow a beard?” + +“Would you like me to?” + +“It might be fun. I’d like to see you with a beard.” + +“All right. I’ll grow one. I’ll start now this minute. It’s a good idea. +It will give me something to do.” + +“Are you worried because you haven’t anything to do?” + +“No. I like it. I have a fine life. Don’t you?” + +“I have a lovely life. But I was afraid because I’m big now that maybe I +was a bore to you.” + +“Oh, Cat. You don’t know how crazy I am about you.” + +“This way?” + +“Just the way you are. I have a fine time. Don’t we have a good life?” + +“I do, but I thought maybe you were restless.” + +“No. Sometimes I wonder about the front and about people I know but I +don’t worry. I don’t think about anything much.” + +“Who do you wonder about?” + +“About Rinaldi and the priest and lots of people I know. But I don’t +think about them much. I don’t want to think about the war. I’m through +with it.” + +“What are you thinking about now?” + +“Nothing.” + +“Yes you were. Tell me.” + +“I was wondering whether Rinaldi had the syphilis.” + +“Was that all?” + +“Yes.” + +“Has he the syphilis?” + +“I don’t know.” + +“I’m glad you haven’t. Did you ever have anything like that?” + +“I had gonorrhea.” + +“I don’t want to hear about it. Was it very painful, darling?” + +“Very.” + +“I wish I’d had it.” + +“No you don’t.” + +“I do. I wish I’d had it to be like you. I wish I’d stayed with all your +girls so I could make fun of them to you.” + +“That’s a pretty picture.” + +“It’s not a pretty picture you having gonorrhea.” + +“I know it. Look at it snow now.” + +“I’d rather look at you. Darling, why don’t you let your hair grow?” + +“How grow?” + +“Just grow a little longer.” + +“It’s long enough now.” + +“No, let it grow a little longer and I could cut mine and we’d be just +alike only one of us blonde and one of us dark.” + +“I wouldn’t let you cut yours.” + +“It would be fun. I’m tired of it. It’s an awful nuisance in the bed at +night.” + +“I like it.” + +“Wouldn’t you like it short?” + +“I might. I like it the way it is.” + +“It might be nice short. Then we’d both be alike. Oh, darling, I want +you so much I want to be you too.” + +“You are. We’re the same one.” + +“I know it. At night we are.” + +“The nights are grand.” + +“I want us to be all mixed up. I don’t want you to go away. I just said +that. You go if you want to. But hurry right back. Why, darling, I don’t +live at all when I’m not with you.” + +“I won’t ever go away,” I said. “I’m no good when you’re not there. I +haven’t any life at all any more.” + +“I want you to have a life. I want you to have a fine life. But we’ll +have it together, won’t we?” + +“And now do you want me to stop growing my beard or let it go on?” + +“Go on. Grow it. It will be exciting. Maybe it will be done for New +Year’s.” + +“Now do you want to play chess?” + +“I’d rather play with you.” + +“No. Let’s play chess.” + +“And afterward we’ll play?” + +“Yes.” + +“All right.” + +I got out the chess-board and arranged the pieces. It was still snowing +hard outside. + + + +One time in the night I woke up and knew that Catherine was awake too. +The moon was shining in the window and made shadows on the bed from the +bars on the window-panes. + +“Are you awake, sweetheart?” + +“Yes. Can’t you sleep?” + +“I just woke up thinking about how I was nearly crazy when I first met +you. Do you remember?” + +“You were just a little crazy.” + +“I’m never that way any more. I’m grand now. You say grand so sweetly. +Say grand.” + +“Grand.” + +“Oh, you’re sweet. And I’m not crazy now. I’m just very, very, very +happy.” + +“Go on to sleep,” I said. + +“All right. Let’s go to sleep at exactly the same moment.” + +“All right.” + +But we did not. I was awake for quite a long time thinking about things +and watching Catherine sleeping, the moonlight on her face. Then I went +to sleep, too. + + + + + CHAPTER XXXIX + +By the middle of January I had a beard and the winter had settled into +bright cold days and hard cold nights. We could walk on the roads again. +The snow was packed hard and smooth by the hay-sleds and wood-sledges +and the logs that were hauled down the mountain. The snow lay over all +the country, down almost to Montreux. The mountains on the other side of +the lake were all white and the plain of the Rhone valley was covered. +We took long walks on the other side of the mountain to the Bains de +l’Alliaz. Catherine wore hobnailed boots and a cape and carried a stick +with a sharp steel point. She did not look big with the cape and we +would not walk too fast but stopped and sat on logs by the roadside to +rest when she was tired. + +There was an inn in the trees at the Bains de l’Alliaz where the +woodcutters stopped to drink, and we sat inside warmed by the stove and +drank hot red wine with spices and lemon in it. They called it +_glühwein_ and it was a good thing to warm you and to celebrate with. +The inn was dark and smoky inside and afterward when you went out the +cold air came sharply into your lungs and numbed the edge of your nose +as you inhaled. We looked back at the inn with light coming from the +windows and the woodcutters’ horses stamping and jerking their heads +outside to keep warm. There was frost on the hairs of their muzzles and +their breathing made plumes of frost in the air. Going up the road +toward home the road was smooth and slippery for a while and the ice +orange from the horses until the wood-hauling track turned off. Then the +road was clean-packed snow and led through the woods, and twice coming +home in the evening, we saw foxes. + +It was a fine country and every time that we went out it was fun. + +“You have a splendid beard now,” Catherine said. “It looks just like the +woodcutters’. Did you see the man with the tiny gold ear-rings?” + +“He’s a chamois hunter,” I said. “They wear them because they say it +makes them hear better.” + +“Really? I don’t believe it. I think they wear them to show they are +chamois hunters. Are there chamois near here?” + +“Yes, beyond the Dent de Jaman.” + +“It was fun seeing the fox.” + +“When he sleeps he wraps that tail around him to keep warm.” + +“It must be a lovely feeling.” + +“I always wanted to have a tail like that. Wouldn’t it be fun if we had +brushes like a fox?” + +“It might be very difficult dressing.” + +“We’d have clothes made, or live in a country where it wouldn’t make any +difference.” + +“We live in a country where nothing makes any difference. Isn’t it grand +how we never see any one? You don’t want to see people do you, darling?” + +“No.” + +“Should we sit here just a minute? I’m a little bit tired.” + +We sat close together on the logs. Ahead the road went down through the +forest. + +“She won’t come between us, will she? The little brat.” + +“No. We won’t let her.” + +“How are we for money?” + +“We have plenty. They honored the last sight draft.” + +“Won’t your family try and get hold of you now they know you’re in +Switzerland?” + +“Probably. I’ll write them something.” + +“Haven’t you written them?” + +“No. Only the sight draft.” + +“Thank God I’m not your family.” + +“I’ll send them a cable.” + +“Don’t you care anything about them?” + +“I did, but we quarrelled so much it wore itself out.” + +“I think I’d like them. I’d probably like them very much.” + +“Let’s not talk about them or I’ll start to worry about them.” After a +while I said, “Let’s go on if you’re rested.” + +“I’m rested.” + +We went on down the road. It was dark now and the snow squeaked under +our boots. The night was dry and cold and very clear. + +“I love your beard,” Catherine said. “It’s a great success. It looks so +stiff and fierce and it’s very soft and a great pleasure.” + +“Do you like it better than without?” + +“I think so. You know, darling, I’m not going to cut my hair now until +after young Catherine’s born. I look too big and matronly now. But after +she’s born and I’m thin again I’m going to cut it and then I’ll be a +fine new and different girl for you. We’ll go together and get it cut, +or I’ll go alone and come and surprise you.” + +I did not say anything. + +“You won’t say I can’t, will you?” + +“No. I think it would be exciting.” + +“Oh, you’re so sweet. And maybe I’d look lovely, darling, and be so thin +and exciting to you and you’ll fall in love with me all over again.” + +“Hell,” I said, “I love you enough now. What do you want to do? Ruin +me?” + +“Yes. I want to ruin you.” + +“Good,” I said, “that’s what I want too.” + + + + + CHAPTER XL + +We had a fine life. We lived through the months of January and February +and the winter was very fine and we were very happy. There had been +short thaws when the wind blew warm and the snow softened and the air +felt like Spring, but always the clear hard cold had come again and the +winter had returned. In March came the first break in the winter. In the +night it started raining. It rained on all morning and turned the snow +to slush and made the mountain-side dismal. There were clouds over the +lake and over the valley. It was raining high up the mountain. Catherine +wore heavy overshoes and I wore Mr. Guttingen’s rubber-boots and we +walked to the station under an umbrella, through the slush and the +running water that was washing the ice of the roads bare, to stop at the +pub before lunch for a vermouth. Outside we could hear the rain. + +“Do you think we ought to move into town?” + +“What do you think?” Catherine asked. + +“If the winter is over and the rain keeps up it won’t be fun up here. +How long is it before young Catherine?” + +“About a month. Perhaps a little more.” + +“We might go down and stay in Montreux.” + +“Why don’t we go to Lausanne? That’s where the hospital is.” + +“All right. But I thought maybe that was too big a town.” + +“We can be as much alone in a bigger town and Lausanne might be nice.” + +“When should we go?” + +“I don’t care. Whenever you want, darling. I don’t want to leave here if +you don’t want.” + +“Let’s see how the weather turns out.” + +It rained for three days. The snow was all gone now on the mountain-side +below the station. The road was a torrent of muddy snow-water. It was +too wet and slushy to go out. On the morning of the third day of rain we +decided to go down into town. + +“That is all right, Mr. Henry,” Guttingen said. “You do not have to give +me any notice. I did not think you would want to stay now the bad +weather is come.” + +“We have to be near the hospital anyway on account of Madame,” I said. + +“I understand,” he said. “Will you come back some time and stay, with +the little one?” + +“Yes, if you would have room.” + +“In the Spring when it is nice you could come and enjoy it. We could put +the little one and the nurse in the big room that is closed now and you +and Madame could have your same room looking out over the lake.” + +“I’ll write about coming,” I said. We packed and left on the train that +went down after lunch. Mr. and Mrs. Guttingen came down to the station +with us and he hauled our baggage down on a sled through the slush. They +stood beside the station in the rain waving good-by. + +“They were very sweet,” Catherine said. + +“They were fine to us.” + +We took the train to Lausanne from Montreux. Looking out the window +toward where we had lived you could not see the mountains for the +clouds. The train stopped in Vevey, then went on, passing the lake on +one side and on the other the wet brown fields and the bare woods and +the wet houses. We came into Lausanne and went into a medium-sized hotel +to stay. It was still raining as we drove through the streets and into +the carriage entrance of the hotel. The concierge with brass keys on his +lapels, the elevator, the carpets on the floors, and the white washbowls +with shining fixtures, the brass bed and the big comfortable bedroom all +seemed very great luxury after the Guttingens. The windows of the room +looked out on a wet garden with a wall topped by an iron fence. Across +the street, which sloped steeply, was another hotel with a similar wall +and garden. I looked out at the rain falling in the fountain of the +garden. + +Catherine turned on all the lights and commenced unpacking. I ordered a +whiskey and soda and lay on the bed and read the papers I had bought at +the station. It was March, 1918, and the German offensive had started in +France. I drank the whiskey and soda and read while Catherine unpacked +and moved around the room. + +“You know what I have to get, darling,” she said. + +“What?” + +“Baby clothes. There aren’t many people reach my time without baby +things.” + +“You can buy them.” + +“I know. That’s what I’ll do to-morrow. I’ll find out what is +necessary.” + +“You ought to know. You were a nurse.” + +“But so few of the soldiers had babies in the hospitals.” + +“I did.” + +She hit me with the pillow and spilled the whiskey and soda. + +“I’ll order you another,” she said. “I’m sorry I spilled it.” + +“There wasn’t much left. Come on over to the bed.” + +“No. I have to try and make this room look like something.” + +“Like what?” + +“Like our home.” + +“Hang out the Allied flags.” + +“Oh shut up.” + +“Say it again.” + +“Shut up.” + +“You say it so cautiously,” I said. “As though you didn’t want to offend +any one.” + +“I don’t.” + +“Then come over to the bed.” + +“All right.” She came and sat on the bed. “I know I’m no fun for you, +darling. I’m like a big flour-barrel.” + +“No you’re not. You’re beautiful and you’re sweet.” + +“I’m just something very ungainly that you’ve married.” + +“No you’re not. You’re more beautiful all the time.” + +“But I will be thin again, darling.” + +“You’re thin now.” + +“You’ve been drinking.” + +“Just whiskey and soda.” + +“There’s another one coming,” she said. “And then should we order dinner +up here?” + +“That will be good.” + +“Then we won’t go out, will we? We’ll just stay in to-night.” + +“And play,” I said. + +“I’ll drink some wine,” Catherine said. “It won’t hurt me. Maybe we can +get some of our old white capri.” + +“I know we can,” I said. “They’ll have Italian wines at a hotel this +size.” + +The waiter knocked at the door. He brought the whiskey in a glass with +ice and beside the glass on a tray a small bottle of soda. + +“Thank you,” I said. “Put it down there. Will you please have dinner for +two brought up here and two bottles of dry white capri in ice.” + +“Do you wish to commence your dinner with soup?” + +“Do you want soup, Cat?” + +“Please.” + +“Bring soup for one.” + +“Thank you, sir.” He went out and shut the door. I went back to the +papers and the war in the papers and poured the soda slowly over the ice +into the whiskey. I would have to tell them not to put ice in the +whiskey. Let them bring the ice separately. That way you could tell how +much whiskey there was and it would not suddenly be too thin from the +soda. I would get a bottle of whiskey and have them bring ice and soda. +That was the sensible way. Good whiskey was very pleasant. It was one of +the pleasant parts of life. + +“What are you thinking, darling?” + +“About whiskey.” + +“What about whiskey?” + +“About how nice it is.” + +Catherine made a face. “All right,” she said. + + + +We stayed at that hotel three weeks. It was not bad; the dining-room was +usually empty and very often we ate in our room at night. We walked in +the town and took the cogwheel railway down to Ouchy and walked beside +the lake. The weather became quite warm and it was like Spring. We +wished we were back in the mountains but the Spring weather lasted only +a few days and then the cold rawness of the breaking-up of winter came +again. + +Catherine bought the things she needed for the baby, up in the town. I +went to a gymnasium in the arcade to box for exercise. I usually went up +there in the morning while Catherine stayed late in bed. On the days of +false Spring it was very nice, after boxing and taking a shower, to walk +along the streets smelling the Spring in the air and stop at a café to +sit and watch the people and read the paper and drink a vermouth; then +go down to the hotel and have lunch with Catherine. The professor at the +boxing gymnasium wore mustaches and was very precise and jerky and went +all to pieces if you started after him. But it was pleasant in the gym. +There was good air and light and I worked quite hard, skipping rope, +shadow-boxing, doing abdominal exercises lying on the floor in a patch +of sunlight that came through the open window, and occasionally scaring +the professor when we boxed. I could not shadow-box in front of the +narrow long mirror at first because it looked so strange to see a man +with a beard boxing. But finally I just thought it was funny. I wanted +to take off the beard as soon as I started boxing but Catherine did not +want me to. + +Sometimes Catherine and I went for rides out in the country in a +carriage. It was nice to ride when the days were pleasant and we found +two good places where we could ride out to eat. Catherine could not walk +very far now and I loved to ride out along the country roads with her. +When there was a good day we had a splendid time and we never had a bad +time. We knew the baby was very close now and it gave us both a feeling +as though something were hurrying us and we could not lose any time +together. + + + + + CHAPTER XLI + +One morning I awoke about three o’clock hearing Catherine stirring in +the bed. + +“Are you all right, Cat?” + +“I’ve been having some pains, darling.” + +“Regularly?” + +“No, not very.” + +“If you have them at all regularly we’ll go to the hospital.” + +I was very sleepy and went back to sleep. A little while later I woke +again. + +“Maybe you’d better call up the doctor,” Catherine said. “I think maybe +this is it.” + +I went to the phone and called the doctor. “How often are the pains +coming?” he asked. + +“How often are they coming, Cat?” + +“I should think every quarter of an hour.” + +“You should go to the hospital then,” the doctor said. “I will dress and +go there right away myself.” + +I hung up and called the garage near the station to send up a taxi. No +one answered the phone for a long time. Then I finally got a man who +promised to send up a taxi at once. Catherine was dressing. Her bag was +all packed with the things she would need at the hospital and the baby +things. Outside in the hall I rang for the elevator. There was no +answer. I went downstairs. There was no one downstairs except the +night-watchman. I brought the elevator up myself, put Catherine’s bag in +it, she stepped in and we went down. The night-watchman opened the door +for us and we sat outside on the stone slabs beside the stairs down to +the driveway and waited for the taxi. The night was clear and the stars +were out. Catherine was very excited. + +“I’m so glad it’s started,” she said. “Now in a little while it will be +all over.” + +“You’re a good brave girl.” + +“I’m not afraid. I wish the taxi would come, though.” + +We heard it coming up the street and saw its headlights. It turned into +the driveway and I helped Catherine in and the driver put the bag up in +front. + +“Drive to the hospital,” I said. + +We went out of the driveway and started up the hill. + +At the hospital we went in and I carried the bag. There was a woman at +the desk who wrote down Catherine’s name, age, address, relatives and +religion, in a book. She said she had no religion and the woman drew a +line in the space after that word. She gave her name as Catherine Henry. + +“I will take you up to your room,” she said. We went up in an elevator. +The woman stopped it and we stepped out and followed her down a hall. +Catherine held tight to my arm. + +“This is the room,” the woman said. “Will you please undress and get +into bed? Here is a nightgown for you to wear.” + +“I have a nightgown,” Catherine said. + +“It is better for you to wear this nightgown,” the woman said. + +I went outside and sat on a chair in the hallway. + +“You can come in now,” the woman said from the doorway. Catherine was +lying in the narrow bed wearing a plain, square-cut nightgown that +looked as though it were made of rough sheeting. She smiled at me. + +“I’m having fine pains now,” she said. The woman was holding her wrist +and timing the pains with a watch. + +“That was a big one,” Catherine said. I saw it on her face. + +“Where’s the doctor?” I asked the woman. + +“He’s lying down sleeping. He will be here when he is needed.” + +“I must do something for Madame, now,” the nurse said. “Would you please +step out again?” + +I went out into the hall. It was a bare hall with two windows and closed +doors all down the corridor. It smelled of hospital. I sat on the chair +and looked at the floor and prayed for Catherine. + +“You can come in,” the nurse said. I went in. + +“Hello, darling,” Catherine said. + +“How is it?” + +“They are coming quite often now.” Her face drew up. Then she smiled. + +“That was a real one. Do you want to put your hand on my back again, +nurse?” + +“If it helps you,” the nurse said. + +“You go away, darling,” Catherine said. “Go out and get something to +eat. I may do this for a long time the nurse says.” + +“The first labor is usually protracted,” the nurse said. + +“Please go out and get something to eat,” Catherine said. “I’m fine, +really.” + +“I’ll stay awhile,” I said. + +The pains came quite regularly, then slackened off. Catherine was very +excited. When the pains were bad she called them good ones. When they +started to fall off she was disappointed and ashamed. + +“You go out, darling,” she said. “I think you are just making me +self-conscious.” Her face tied up. “There. That was better. I so want to +be a good wife and have this child without any foolishness. Please go +and get some breakfast, darling, and then come back. I won’t miss you. +Nurse is splendid to me.” + +“You have plenty of time for breakfast,” the nurse said. + +“I’ll go then. Good-by, sweet.” + +“Good-by,” Catherine said, “and have a fine breakfast for me too.” + +“Where can I get breakfast?” I asked the nurse. + +“There’s a café down the street at the square,” she said. “It should be +open now.” + +Outside it was getting light. I walked down the empty street to the +café. There was a light in the window. I went in and stood at the zinc +bar and an old man served me a glass of white wine and a brioche. The +brioche was yesterday’s. I dipped it in the wine and then drank a glass +of coffee. + +“What do you do at this hour?” the old man asked. + +“My wife is in labor at the hospital.” + +“So. I wish you good luck.” + +“Give me another glass of wine.” + +He poured it from the bottle slopping it over a little so some ran down +on the zinc. I drank this glass, paid and went out. Outside along the +street were the refuse cans from the houses waiting for the collector. A +dog was nosing at one of the cans. + +“What do you want?” I asked and looked in the can to see if there was +anything I could pull out for him; there was nothing on top but +coffee-grounds, dust and some dead flowers. + +“There isn’t anything, dog,” I said. The dog crossed the street. I went +up the stairs in the hospital to the floor Catherine was on and down the +hall to her room. I knocked on the door. There was no answer. I opened +the door; the room was empty, except for Catherine’s bag on a chair and +her dressing-gown hanging on a hook on the wall. I went out and down the +hall, looking for somebody. I found a nurse. + +“Where is Madame Henry?” + +“A lady has just gone to the delivery room.” + +“Where is it?” + +“I will show you.” + +She took me down to the end of the hall. The door of the room was partly +open. I could see Catherine lying on a table, covered by a sheet. The +nurse was on one side and the doctor stood on the other side of the +table beside some cylinders. The doctor held a rubber mask attached to a +tube in one hand. + +“I will give you a gown and you can go in,” the nurse said. “Come in +here, please.” + +She put a white gown on me and pinned it at the neck in back with a +safety pin. + +“Now you can go in,” she said. I went into the room. + +“Hello, darling,” Catherine said in a strained voice. “I’m not doing +much.” + +“You are Mr. Henry?” the doctor asked. + +“Yes. How is everything going, doctor?” + +“Things are going very well,” the doctor said. “We came in here where it +is easy to give gas for the pains.” + +“I want it now,” Catherine said. The doctor placed the rubber mask over +her face and turned a dial and I watched Catherine breathing deeply and +rapidly. Then she pushed the mask away. The doctor shut off the petcock. + +“That wasn’t a very big one. I had a very big one a while ago. The +doctor made me go clear out, didn’t you, doctor?” Her voice was strange. +It rose on the word doctor. + +The doctor smiled. + +“I want it again,” Catherine said. She held the rubber tight to her face +and breathed fast. I heard her moaning a little. Then she pulled the +mask away and smiled. + +“That was a big one,” she said. “That was a very big one. Don’t you +worry, darling. You go away. Go have another breakfast.” + +“I’ll stay,” I said. + + + +We had gone to the hospital about three o’clock in the morning. At noon +Catherine was still in the delivery room. The pains had slackened again. +She looked very tired and worn now but she was still cheerful. + +“I’m not any good, darling,” she said. “I’m so sorry. I thought I would +do it very easily. Now—there’s one—” she reached out her hand for the +mask and held it over her face. The doctor moved the dial and watched +her. In a little while it was over. + +“It wasn’t much,” Catherine said. She smiled. “I’m a fool about the gas. +It’s wonderful.” + +“We’ll get some for the home,” I said. + +“_There one comes_,” Catherine said quickly. The doctor turned the dial +and looked at his watch. + +“What is the interval now?” I asked. + +“About a minute.” + +“Don’t you want lunch?” + +“I will have something pretty soon,” he said. + +“You must have something to eat, doctor,” Catherine said. “I’m so sorry +I go on so long. Couldn’t my husband give me the gas?” + +“If you wish,” the doctor said. “You turn it to the numeral two.” + +“I see,” I said. There was a marker on a dial that turned with a handle. + +“_I want it now_,” Catherine said. She held the mask tight to her face. +I turned the dial to number two and when Catherine put down the mask I +turned it off. It was very good of the doctor to let me do something. + +“Did you do it, darling?” Catherine asked. She stroked my wrist. + +“Sure.” + +“You’re so lovely.” She was a little drunk from the gas. + +“I will eat from a tray in the next room,” the doctor said. “You can +call me any moment.” While the time passed I watched him eat, then, +after a while, I saw that he was lying down and smoking a cigarette. +Catherine was getting very tired. + +“Do you think I’ll ever have this baby?” she asked. + +“Yes, of course you will.” + +“I try as hard as I can. I push down but it goes away. _There it comes. +Give it to me._” + +At two o’clock I went out and had lunch. There were a few men in the +café sitting with coffee and glasses of kirsch or marc on the tables. I +sat down at a table. “Can I eat?” I asked the waiter. + +“It is past time for lunch.” + +“Isn’t there anything for all hours?” + +“You can have _choucroute_.” + +“Give me _choucroute_ and beer.” + +“A demi or a bock?” + +“A light demi.” + +The waiter brought a dish of sauerkraut with a slice of ham over the top +and a sausage buried in the hot wine-soaked cabbage. I ate it and drank +the beer. I was very hungry. I watched the people at the tables in the +café. At one table they were playing cards. Two men at the table next me +were talking and smoking. The café was full of smoke. The zinc bar, +where I had breakfasted, had three people behind it now; the old man, a +plump woman in a black dress who sat behind a counter and kept track of +everything served to the tables, and a boy in an apron. I wondered how +many children the woman had and what it had been like. + +When I was through with the _choucroute_ I went back to the hospital. +The street was all clean now. There were no refuse cans out. The day was +cloudy but the sun was trying to come through. I rode upstairs in the +elevator, stepped out and went down the hall to Catherine’s room, where +I had left my white gown. I put it on and pinned it in back at the neck. +I looked in the glass and saw myself looking like a fake doctor with a +beard. I went down the hall to the delivery room. The door was closed +and I knocked. No one answered so I turned the handle and went in. The +doctor sat by Catherine. The nurse was doing something at the other end +of the room. + +“Here is your husband,” the doctor said. + +“Oh, darling, I have the most wonderful doctor,” Catherine said in a +very strange voice. “He’s been telling me the most wonderful story and +when the pain came too badly he put me all the way out. He’s wonderful. +You’re wonderful, doctor.” + +“You’re drunk,” I said. + +“I know it,” Catherine said. “But you shouldn’t say it.” Then “_Give it +to me. Give it to me._” She clutched hold of the mask and breathed short +and deep, pantingly, making the respirator click. Then she gave a long +sigh and the doctor reached with his left hand and lifted away the mask. + +“That was a very big one,” Catherine said. Her voice was very strange. +“I’m not going to die now, darling. I’m past where I was going to die. +Aren’t you glad?” + +“Don’t you get in that place again.” + +“I won’t. I’m not afraid of it though. I won’t die, darling.” + +“You will not do any such foolishness,” the doctor said. “You would not +die and leave your husband.” + +“Oh, no. I won’t die. I wouldn’t die. It’s silly to die. There it comes. +_Give it to me._” + +After a while the doctor said, “You will go out, Mr. Henry, for a few +moments and I will make an examination.” + +“He wants to see how I am doing,” Catherine said. “You can come back +afterward, darling, can’t he, doctor?” + +“Yes,” said the doctor. “I will send word when he can come back.” + +I went out the door and down the hall to the room where Catherine was to +be after the baby came. I sat in a chair there and looked at the room. I +had the paper in my coat that I had bought when I went out for lunch and +I read it. It was beginning to be dark outside and I turned the light on +to read. After a while I stopped reading and turned off the light and +watched it get dark outside. I wondered why the doctor did not send for +me. Maybe it was better I was away. He probably wanted me away for a +while. I looked at my watch. If he did not send for me in ten minutes I +would go down anyway. + +Poor, poor dear Cat. And this was the price you paid for sleeping +together. This was the end of the trap. This was what people got for +loving each other. Thank God for gas, anyway. What must it have been +like before there were anæsthetics? Once it started, they were in the +mill-race. Catherine had a good time in the time of pregnancy. It wasn’t +bad. She was hardly ever sick. She was not awfully uncomfortable until +toward the last. So now they got her in the end. You never got away with +anything. Get away hell! It would have been the same if we had been +married fifty times. And what if she should die? She won’t die. People +don’t die in childbirth nowadays. That was what all husbands thought. +Yes, but what if she should die? She won’t die. She’s just having a bad +time. The initial labor is usually protracted. She’s only having a bad +time. Afterward we’d say what a bad time and Catherine would say it +wasn’t really so bad. But what if she should die? She can’t die. Yes, +but what if she should die? She can’t, I tell you. Don’t be a fool. It’s +just a bad time. It’s just nature giving her hell. It’s only the first +labor, which is almost always protracted. Yes, but what if she should +die? She can’t die. Why would she die? What reason is there for her to +die? There’s just a child that has to be born, the by-product of good +nights in Milan. It makes trouble and is born and then you look after it +and get fond of it maybe. But what if she should die? She won’t die. But +what if she should die? She won’t. She’s all right. But what if she +should die? She can’t die. But what if she should die? Hey, what about +that? What if she should die? + +The doctor came into the room. + +“How does it go, doctor?” + +“It doesn’t go,” he said. + +“What do you mean?” + +“Just that. I made an examination—” He detailed the result of the +examination. “Since then I’ve waited to see. But it doesn’t go.” + +“What do you advise?” + +“There are two things. Either a high forceps delivery which can tear and +be quite dangerous besides being possibly bad for the child, and a +Cæsarean.” + +“What is the danger of a Cæsarean?” What if she should die! + +“It should be no greater than the danger of an ordinary delivery.” + +“Would you do it yourself?” + +“Yes. I would need possibly an hour to get things ready and to get the +people I would need. Perhaps a little less.” + +“What do you think?” + +“I would advise a Cæsarean operation. If it were my wife I would do a +Cæsarean.” + +“What are the after effects?” + +“There are none. There is only the scar.” + +“What about infection?” + +“The danger is not so great as in a high forceps delivery.” + +“What if you just went on and did nothing?” + +“You would have to do something eventually. Mrs. Henry is already losing +much of her strength. The sooner we operate now the safer.” + +“Operate as soon as you can,” I said. + +“I will go and give the instructions.” + +I went into the delivery room. The nurse was with Catherine who lay on +the table, big under the sheet, looking very pale and tired. + +“Did you tell him he could do it?” she asked. + +“Yes.” + +“Isn’t that grand. Now it will be all over in an hour. I’m almost done, +darling. I’m going all to pieces. _Please give me that._ It doesn’t +work. _Oh, it doesn’t work!_” + +“Breathe deeply.” + +“I am. Oh, it doesn’t work any more. It doesn’t work!” + +“Get another cylinder,” I said to the nurse. + +“That is a new cylinder.” + +“I’m just a fool, darling,” Catherine said. “But it doesn’t work any +more.” She began to cry. “Oh, I wanted so to have this baby and not make +trouble, and now I’m all done and all gone to pieces and it doesn’t +work. Oh, darling, it doesn’t work at all. I don’t care if I die if it +will only stop. Oh, please, darling, please make it stop. _There it +comes. Oh Oh Oh!_” She breathed sobbingly in the mask. “It doesn’t work. +It doesn’t work. It doesn’t work. Don’t mind me, darling. Please don’t +cry. Don’t mind me. I’m just gone all to pieces. You poor sweet. I love +you so and I’ll be good again. I’ll be good this time. _Can’t they give +me something?_ If they could only give me something.” + +“I’ll make it work. I’ll turn it all the way.” + +“Give it to me now.” + +I turned the dial all the way and as she breathed hard and deep her hand +relaxed on the mask. I shut off the gas and lifted the mask. She came +back from a long way away. + +“That was lovely, darling. Oh, you’re so good to me. + +“You be brave, because I can’t do that all the time. It might kill you.” + +“I’m not brave any more, darling. I’m all broken. They’ve broken me. I +know it now.” + +“Everybody is that way.” + +“But it’s awful. They just keep it up till they break you.” + +“In an hour it will be over.” + +“Isn’t that lovely? Darling, I won’t die, will I?” + +“No. I promise you won’t.” + +“Because I don’t want to die and leave you, but I get so tired of it and +I feel I’m going to die.” + +“Nonsense. Everybody feels that.” + +“Sometimes I know I’m going to die.” + +“You won’t. You can’t.” + +“But what if I should?” + +“I won’t let you.” + +“Give it to me quick. _Give it to me!_” + +Then afterward, “I won’t die. I won’t let myself die.” + +“Of course you won’t.” + +“You’ll stay with me?” + +“Not to watch it.” + +“No, just to be there.” + +“Sure. I’ll be there all the time.” + +“You’re so good to me. There, give it to me. Give me some more. _It’s +not working!_” + +I turned the dial to three and then four. I wished the doctor would come +back. I was afraid of the numbers above two. + + + +Finally a new doctor came in with two nurses and they lifted Catherine +onto a wheeled stretcher and we started down the hall. The stretcher +went rapidly down the hall and into the elevator where every one had to +crowd against the wall to make room; then up, then an open door and out +of the elevator and down the hall on rubber wheels to the operating +room. I did not recognize the doctor with his cap and mask on. There was +another doctor and more nurses. + +“_They’ve got to give me something_,” Catherine said. “_They’ve got to +give me something._ Oh please, doctor, give me enough to do some good!” + +One of the doctors put a mask over her face and I looked through the +door and saw the bright small amphitheatre of the operating room. + +“You can go in the other door and sit up there,” a nurse said to me. +There were benches behind a rail that looked down on the white table and +the lights. I looked at Catherine. The mask was over her face and she +was quiet now. They wheeled the stretcher forward. I turned away and +walked down the hall. Two nurses were hurrying toward the entrance to +the gallery. + +“It’s a Cæsarean,” one said. “They’re going to do a Cæsarean.” + +The other one laughed, “We’re just in time. Aren’t we lucky?” They went +in the door that led to the gallery. + +Another nurse came along. She was hurrying too. + +“You go right in there. Go right in,” she said. + +“I’m staying outside.” + +She hurried in. I walked up and down the hall. I was afraid to go in. I +looked out the window. It was dark but in the light from the window I +could see it was raining. I went into a room at the far end of the hall +and looked at the labels on bottles in a glass case. Then I came out and +stood in the empty hall and watched the door of the operating room. + +A doctor came out followed by a nurse. He held something in his two +hands that looked like a freshly skinned rabbit and hurried across the +corridor with it and in through another door. I went down to the door he +had gone into and found them in the room doing things to a new-born +child. The doctor held him up for me to see. He held him by the heels +and slapped him. + +“Is he all right?” + +“He’s magnificent. He’ll weigh five kilos.” + +I had no feeling for him. He did not seem to have anything to do with +me. I felt no feeling of fatherhood. + +“Aren’t you proud of your son?” the nurse asked. They were washing him +and wrapping him in something. I saw the little dark face and dark hand, +but I did not see him move or hear him cry. The doctor was doing +something to him again. He looked upset. + +“No,” I said. “He nearly killed his mother.” + +“It isn’t the little darling’s fault. Didn’t you want a boy?” + +“No,” I said. The doctor was busy with him. He held him up by the feet +and slapped him. I did not wait to see it. I went out in the hall. I +could go in now and see. I went in the door and a little way down the +gallery. The nurses who were sitting at the rail motioned for me to come +down where they were. I shook my head. I could see enough where I was. + +I thought Catherine was dead. She looked dead. Her face was gray, the +part of it that I could see. Down below, under the light, the doctor was +sewing up the great long, forcep-spread, thick-edged, wound. Another +doctor in a mask gave the anæsthetic. Two nurses in masks handed things. +It looked like a drawing of the Inquisition. I knew as I watched I could +have watched it all, but I was glad I hadn’t. I do not think I could +have watched them cut, but I watched the wound closed into a high welted +ridge with quick skilful-looking stitches like a cobbler’s, and was +glad. When the wound was closed I went out into the hall and walked up +and down again. After a while the doctor came out. + +“How is she?” + +“She is all right. Did you watch?” + +He looked tired. + +“I saw you sew up. The incision looked very long.” + +“You thought so?” + +“Yes. Will that scar flatten out?” + +“Oh, yes.” + +After a while they brought out the wheeled stretcher and took it very +rapidly down the hallway to the elevator. I went along beside it. +Catherine was moaning. Downstairs they put her in the bed in her room. I +sat in a chair at the foot of the bed. There was a nurse in the room. I +got up and stood by the bed. It was dark in the room. Catherine put out +her hand, “Hello, darling,” she said. Her voice was very weak and tired. + +“Hello, you sweet.” + +“What sort of baby was it?” + +“Sh—don’t talk,” the nurse said. + +“A boy. He’s long and wide and dark.” + +“Is he all right?” + +“Yes,” I said. “He’s fine.” + +I saw the nurse look at me strangely. + +“I’m awfully tired,” Catherine said. “And I hurt like hell. Are you all +right, darling?” + +“I’m fine. Don’t talk.” + +“You were lovely to me. Oh, darling, I hurt dreadfully. What does he +look like?” + +“He looks like a skinned rabbit with a puckered-up old-man’s face.” + +“You must go out,” the nurse said. “Madame Henry must not talk.” + +“I’ll be outside,” I said. + +“Go and get something to eat.” + +“No. I’ll be outside.” I kissed Catherine. She was very gray and weak +and tired. + +“May I speak to you?” I said to the nurse. She came out in the hall with +me. I walked a little way down the hall. + +“What’s the matter with the baby?” I asked. + +“Didn’t you know?” + +“No.” + +“He wasn’t alive.” + +“He was dead?” + +“They couldn’t start him breathing. The cord was caught around his neck +or something.” + +“So he’s dead.” + +“Yes. It’s such a shame. He was such a fine big boy. I thought you +knew.” + +“No,” I said. “You better go back in with Madame.” + +I sat down on the chair in front of a table where there were nurses’ +reports hung on clips at the side and looked out of the window. I could +see nothing but the dark and the rain falling across the light from the +window. So that was it. The baby was dead. That was why the doctor +looked so tired. But why had they acted the way they did in the room +with him? They supposed he would come around and start breathing +probably. I had no religion but I knew he ought to have been baptized. +But what if he never breathed at all. He hadn’t. He had never been +alive. Except in Catherine. I’d felt him kick there often enough. But I +hadn’t for a week. Maybe he was choked all the time. Poor little kid. I +wished the hell I’d been choked like that. No I didn’t. Still there +would not be all this dying to go through. Now Catherine would die. That +was what you did. You died. You did not know what it was about. You +never had time to learn. They threw you in and told you the rules and +the first time they caught you off base they killed you. Or they killed +you gratuitously like Aymo. Or gave you the syphilis like Rinaldo. But +they killed you in the end. You could count on that. Stay around and +they would kill you. + +Once in camp I put a log on top of the fire and it was full of ants. As +it commenced to burn, the ants swarmed out and went first toward the +centre where the fire was; then turned back and ran toward the end. When +there were enough on the end they fell off into the fire. Some got out, +their bodies burnt and flattened, and went off not knowing where they +were going. But most of them went toward the fire and then back toward +the end and swarmed on the cool end and finally fell off into the fire. +I remember thinking at the time that it was the end of the world and a +splendid chance to be a messiah and lift the log off the fire and throw +it out where the ants could get off onto the ground. But I did not do +anything but throw a tin cup of water on the log, so that I would have +the cup empty to put whiskey in before I added water to it. I think the +cup of water on the burning log only steamed the ants. + +So now I sat out in the hall and waited to hear how Catherine was. The +nurse did not come out, so after a while I went to the door and opened +it very softly and looked in. I could not see at first because there was +a bright light in the hall and it was dark in the room. Then I saw the +nurse sitting by the bed and Catherine’s head on a pillow, and she all +flat under the sheet. The nurse put her finger to her lips, then stood +up and came to the door. + +“How is she?” I asked. + +“She’s all right,” the nurse said. “You should go and have your supper +and then come back if you wish.” + +I went down the hall and then down the stairs and out the door of the +hospital and down the dark street in the rain to the café. It was +brightly lighted inside and there were many people at the tables. I did +not see a place to sit, and a waiter came up to me and took my wet coat +and hat and showed me a place at a table across from an elderly man who +was drinking beer and reading the evening paper. I sat down and asked +the waiter what the _plat du jour_ was. + +“Veal stew—but it is finished.” + +“What can I have to eat?” + +“Ham and eggs, eggs with cheese, or _choucroute_.” + +“I had _choucroute_ this noon,” I said. + +“That’s true,” he said. “That’s true. You ate _choucroute_ this noon.” +He was a middle-aged man with a bald top to his head and his hair +slicked over it. He had a kind face. + +“What do you want? Ham and eggs or eggs with cheese?” + +“Ham and eggs,” I said, “and beer.” + +“A demi-blonde?” + +“Yes,” I said. + +“I remembered,” he said. “You took a demi-blonde this noon.” + +I ate the ham and eggs and drank the beer. The ham and eggs were in a +round dish—the ham underneath and the eggs on top. It was very hot and +at the first mouthful I had to take a drink of beer to cool my mouth. I +was hungry and I asked the waiter for another order. I drank several +glasses of beer. I was not thinking at all but read the paper of the man +opposite me. It was about the break through on the British front. When +he realized I was reading the back of his paper he folded it over. I +thought of asking the waiter for a paper, but I could not concentrate. +It was hot in the café and the air was bad. Many of the people at the +tables knew one another. There were several card games going on. The +waiters were busy bringing drinks from the bar to the tables. Two men +came in and could find no place to sit. They stood opposite the table +where I was. I ordered another beer. I was not ready to leave yet. It +was too soon to go back to the hospital. I tried not to think and to be +perfectly calm. The men stood around but no one was leaving, so they +went out. I drank another beer. There was quite a pile of saucers now on +the table in front of me. The man opposite me had taken off his +spectacles, put them away in a case, folded his paper and put it in his +pocket and now sat holding his liqueur glass and looking out at the +room. Suddenly I knew I had to get back. I called the waiter, paid the +reckoning, got into my coat, put on my hat and started out the door. I +walked through the rain up to the hospital. + +Upstairs I met the nurse coming down the hall. + +“I just called you at the hotel,” she said. Something dropped inside me. + +“What is wrong?” + +“Mrs. Henry has had a hemorrhage.” + +“Can I go in?” + +“No, not yet. The doctor is with her.” + +“Is it dangerous?” + +“It is very dangerous.” The nurse went into the room and shut the door. +I sat outside in the hall. Everything was gone inside of me. I did not +think. I could not think. I knew she was going to die and I prayed that +she would not. Don’t let her die. Oh, God, please don’t let her die. +I’ll do anything for you if you won’t let her die. Please, please, +please, dear God, don’t let her die. Dear God, don’t let her die. +Please, please, please don’t let her die. God please make her not die. +I’ll do anything you say if you don’t let her die. You took the baby but +don’t let her die. That was all right but don’t let her die. Please, +please, dear God, don’t let her die. + +The nurse opened the door and motioned with her finger for me to come. I +followed her into the room. Catherine did not look up when I came in. I +went over to the side of the bed. The doctor was standing by the bed on +the opposite side. Catherine looked at me and smiled. I bent down over +the bed and started to cry. + +“Poor darling,” Catherine said very softly. She looked gray. + +“You’re all right, Cat,” I said. “You’re going to be all right.” + +“I’m going to die,” she said; then waited and said, “I hate it.” + +I took her hand. + +“Don’t touch me,” she said. I let go of her hand. She smiled. “Poor +darling. You touch me all you want.” + +“You’ll be all right, Cat. I know you’ll be all right.” + +“I meant to write you a letter to have if anything happened, but I +didn’t do it.” + +“Do you want me to get a priest or any one to come and see you?” + +“Just you,” she said. Then a little later, “I’m not afraid. I just hate +it.” + +“You must not talk so much,” the doctor said. + +“All right,” Catherine said. + +“Do you want me to do anything, Cat? Can I get you anything?” + +Catherine smiled, “No.” Then a little later, “You won’t do our things +with another girl, or say the same things, will you?” + +“Never.” + +“I want you to have girls, though.” + +“I don’t want them.” + +“You are talking too much,” the doctor said. “Mr. Henry must go out. He +can come back again later. You are not going to die. You must not be +silly.” + +“All right,” Catherine said. “I’ll come and stay with you nights,” she +said. It was very hard for her to talk. + +“Please go out of the room,” the doctor said. “You cannot talk.” +Catherine winked at me, her face gray. “I’ll be right outside,” I said. + +“Don’t worry, darling,” Catherine said. “I’m not a bit afraid. It’s just +a dirty trick.” + +“You dear, brave sweet.” + +I waited outside in the hall. I waited a long time. The nurse came to +the door and came over to me. “I’m afraid Mrs. Henry is very ill,” she +said. “I’m afraid for her.” + +“Is she dead?” + +“No, but she is unconscious.” + +It seems she had one hemorrhage after another. They couldn’t stop it. I +went into the room and stayed with Catherine until she died. She was +unconscious all the time, and it did not take her very long to die. + + + +Outside the room, in the hall, I spoke to the doctor, “is there anything +I can do to-night?” + +“No. There is nothing to do. Can I take you to your hotel?” + +“No, thank you. I am going to stay here a while.” + +“I know there is nothing to say. I cannot tell you——” + +“No,” I said. “There’s nothing to say.” + +“Good-night,” he said. “I cannot take you to your hotel?” + +“No, thank you.” + +“It was the only thing to do,” he said. “The operation proved——” + +“I do not want to talk about it,” I said. + +“I would like to take you to your hotel.” + +“No, thank you.” + +He went down the hall. I went to the door of the room. + +“You can’t come in now,” one of the nurses said. + +“Yes I can,” I said. + +“You can’t come in yet.” + +“You get out,” I said. “The other one too.” + +But after I had got them out and shut the door and turned off the light +it wasn’t any good. It was like saying good-by to a statue. After a +while I went out and left the hospital and walked back to the hotel in +the rain. + + THE END + + + + + TRANSCRIBER NOTES + +Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple +spellings occur, majority use has been employed. + +Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors +occur. + +[The end of _A Farewell to Arms_ by Ernest Hemingway] + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75201 *** |