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.”
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.
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.
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 theCorriere Della Seraat 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.
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.