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 hearTime’s wingèd chariot hurrying near,’ ”
“ ‘But at my back I always hearTime’s wingèd chariot hurrying near,’ ”
“ ‘But at my back I always hearTime’s wingèd chariot hurrying near,’ ”
“ ‘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.”
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
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’twantto be your friend, baby. Iamyour 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 aboutyour 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.
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.