A farewell to arms
“All summer and all fall I’ve operated. I work all the time. I do
everybody’s work. All the hard ones they leave to me. By God, baby, I am
becoming a lovely surgeon.”
“That sounds better.”
“I never think. No, by God, I don’t think; I operate.”
“That’s right.”
“But now, baby, it’s all over. I don’t operate now and I feel like hell.
This is a terrible war, baby. You believe me when I say it. Now you
cheer me up. Did you bring the phonograph records?”
“Yes.”
They were wrapped in paper in a cardboard box in my rucksack. I was too
tired to get them out.
“Don’t you feel good yourself, baby?”
“I feel like hell.”
“This war is terrible,” Rinaldi said. “Come on. We’ll both get drunk and
be cheerful. Then we’ll go get the ashes dragged. Then we’ll feel fine.”
“I’ve had the jaundice,” I said, “and I can’t get drunk.”
“Oh, baby, how you’ve come back to me. You come back serious and with a
liver. I tell you this war is a bad thing. Why did we make it anyway?”
“We’ll have a drink. I don’t want to get drunk but we’ll have a drink.”
Rinaldi went across the room to the washstand and brought back two
glasses and a bottle of cognac.
“It’s Austrian cognac,” he said. “Seven stars. It’s all they captured on
San Gabriele.”
“Were you up there?”
“No. I haven’t been anywhere. I’ve been here all the time operating.
Look, baby, this is your old toothbrushing glass. I kept it all the time
to remind me of you.”
“To remind you to brush your teeth.”
“No. I have my own too. I kept this to remind me of you trying to brush
away the Villa Rossa from your teeth in the morning, swearing and eating
aspirin and cursing harlots. Every time I see that glass I think of you
trying to clean your conscience with a toothbrush.” He came over to the
bed. “Kiss me once and tell me you’re not serious.”
“I never kiss you. You’re an ape.”
“I know, you are the fine good Anglo-Saxon boy. I know. You are the
remorse boy, I know. I will wait till I see the Anglo-Saxon brushing
away harlotry with a toothbrush.”
“Put some cognac in the glass.”
We touched glasses and drank. Rinaldi laughed at me.
“I will get you drunk and take out your liver and put you in a good
Italian liver and make you a man again.”
I held the glass for some more cognac. It was dark outside now. Holding
the glass of cognac, I went over and opened the window. The rain had
stopped falling. It was colder outside and there was a mist in the
trees.
“Don’t throw the cognac out the window,” Rinaldi said. “If you can’t
drink it give it to me.”
“Go something yourself,” I said. I was glad to see Rinaldi again. He had
spent two years teasing me and I had always liked it. We understood each
other very well.
“Are you married?” he asked from the bed. I was standing against the
wall by the window.
“Not yet.”
“Are you in love?”
“Yes.”
“With that English girl?”
“Yes.”
“Poor baby. Is she good to you?”
“Of course.”
“I mean is she good to you practically speaking?”
“Shut up.”
“I will. You will see I am a man of extreme delicacy. Does she——?”
“Rinin,” I said. “Please shut up. If you want to be my friend, shut up.”
“I don’t _want_ to be your friend, baby. I _am_ your friend.”
“Then shut up.”
“All right.”
I went over to the bed and sat down beside Rinaldi. He was holding his
glass and looking at the floor.
“You see how it is, Rinin?”
“Oh, yes. All my life I encounter sacred subjects. But very few with
you. I suppose you must have them too.” He looked at the floor.
“You haven’t any?”
“No.”
“Not any?”
“No.”
“I can say this about your mother and that about your sister?”
“And that about _your sister_,” Rinaldi said swiftly. We both laughed.
“The old superman,” I said.
“I am jealous maybe,” Rinaldi said.
“No, you’re not.”
“I don’t mean like that. I mean something else. Have you any married
friends?”
“Yes,” I said.
“I haven’t,” Rinaldi said. “Not if they love each other.”
“Why not?”
“They don’t like me.”
“Why not?”
“I am the snake. I am the snake of reason.”
“You’re getting it mixed. The apple was reason.”
“No, it was the snake.” He was more cheerful.
“You are better when you don’t think so deeply,” I said.
“I love you, baby,” he said. “You puncture me when I become a great
Italian thinker. But I know many things I can’t say. I know more than
you.”
“Yes. You do.”
“But you will have a better time. Even with remorse you will have a
better time.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Oh, yes. That is true. Already I am only happy when I am working.” He
looked at the floor again.
“You’ll get over that.”
“No. I only like two other things; one is bad for my work and the other
is over in half an hour or fifteen minutes. Sometimes less.”
“Sometimes a good deal less.”
“Perhaps I have improved, baby. You do not know. But there are only the
two things and my work.”
“You’ll get other things.”
“No. We never get anything. We are born with all we have and we never
learn. We never get anything new. We all start complete. You should be
glad not to be a Latin.”
“There’s no such thing as a Latin. That is ‘Latin’ thinking. You are so
proud of your defects.” Rinaldi looked up and laughed.
“We’ll stop, baby. I am tired from thinking so much.” He had looked
tired when he came in. “It’s nearly time to eat. I’m glad you’re back.
You are my best friend and my war brother.”
“When do the war brothers eat?” I asked.
“Right away. We’ll drink once more for your liver’s sake.”
“Like Saint Paul.”
“You are inaccurate. That was wine and the stomach. Take a little wine
for your stomach’s sake.”
“Whatever you have in the bottle,” I said. “For any sake you mention.”
“To your girl,” Rinaldi said. He held out his glass.
“All right.”
“I’ll never say a dirty thing about her.”
“Don’t strain yourself.”
He drank off the cognac. “I am pure,” he said. “I am like you, baby. I
will get an English girl too. As a matter of fact I knew your girl first
but she was a little tall for me. A tall girl for a sister,” he quoted.
“You have a lovely pure mind,” I said.
“Haven’t I? That’s why they call me Rinaldo Purissimo.”
“Rinaldo Sporchissimo.”
“Come on, baby, we’ll go down to eat while my mind is still pure.”
I washed, combed my hair and we went down the stairs. Rinaldi was a
little drunk. In the room where we ate, the meal was not quite ready.
“I’ll go get the bottle,” Rinaldi said. He went off up the stairs. I sat
at the table and he came back with the bottle and poured us each a half
tumbler of cognac.
“Too much,” I said and held up the glass and sighted at the lamp on the
table.
“Not for an empty stomach. It is a wonderful thing. It burns out the
stomach completely. Nothing is worse for you.”
“All right.”
“Self-destruction day by day,” Rinaldi said. “It ruins the stomach and
makes the hand shake. Just the thing for a surgeon.”
“You recommend it?”
“Heartily. I use no other. Drink it down, baby, and look forward to
being sick.”
I drank half the glass. In the hall I could hear the orderly calling.
“Soup! Soup is ready!”
The major came in, nodded to us and sat down. He seemed very small at
table.
“Is this all we are?” he asked. The orderly put the soup bowl down and
he ladled out a plate full.
“We are all,” Rinaldi said. “Unless the priest comes. If he knew
Federico was here he would be here.”
“Where is he?” I asked.
“He’s at 307,” the major said. He was busy with his soup. He wiped his
mouth, wiping his upturned gray mustache carefully. “He will come I
think. I called them and left word to tell him you were here.”
“I miss the noise of the mess,” I said.
“Yes, it’s quiet,” the major said.
“I will be noisy,” said Rinaldi.
“Drink some wine, Enrico,” said the major. He filled my glass. The
spaghetti came in and we were all busy. We were finishing the spaghetti
when the priest came in. He was the same as ever, small and brown and
compact looking. I stood up and we shook hands. He put his hand on my
shoulder.
“I came as soon as I heard,” he said.
“Sit down,” the major said. “You’re late.”
“Good-evening, priest,” Rinaldi said, using the English word. They had
taken that up from the priest-baiting captain, who spoke a little
English. “Good-evening, Rinaldo,” the priest said. The orderly brought
him soup but he said he would start with the spaghetti.
“How are you?” he asked me.
“Fine,” I said. “How have things been?”
“Drink some wine, priest,” Rinaldi said. “Take a little wine for your
stomach’s sake. That’s Saint Paul, you know.”
“Yes I know,” said the priest politely. Rinaldi filled his glass.
“That Saint Paul,” said Rinaldi. “He’s the one who makes all the
trouble.” The priest looked at me and smiled. I could see that the
baiting did not touch him now.
“That Saint Paul,” Rinaldi said. “He was a rounder and a chaser and then
when he was no longer hot he said it was no good. When he was finished
he made the rules for us who are still hot. Isn’t it true, Federico?”
The major smiled. We were eating meat stew now.
“I never discuss a Saint after dark,” I said. The priest looked up from
the stew and smiled at me.
“There he is, gone over with the priest,” Rinaldi said. “Where are all
the good old priest-baiters? Where is Cavalcanti? Where is Brundi? Where
is Cesare? Do I have to bait this priest alone without support?”
“He is a good priest,” said the major.
“He is a good priest,” said Rinaldi. “But still a priest. I try to make
the mess like the old days. I want to make Federico happy. To hell with
you, priest!”
I saw the major look at him and notice that he was drunk. His thin face
was white. The line of his hair was very black against the white of his
forehead.
“It’s all right, Rinaldo,” said the priest. “It’s all right.”
“To hell with you,” said Rinaldi. “To hell with the whole damn
business.” He sat back in his chair.
“He’s been under a strain and he’s tired,” the major said to me. He
finished his meat and wiped up the gravy with a piece of bread.
“I don’t give a damn,” Rinaldi said to the table. “To hell with the
whole business.” He looked defiantly around the table, his eyes flat,
his face pale.
“All right,” I said. “To hell with the whole damn business.”
“No, no,” said Rinaldi. “You can’t do it. You can’t do it. I say you
can’t do it. You’re dry and you’re empty and there’s nothing else.
There’s nothing else I tell you. Not a damned thing. I know, when I stop
working.”
The priest shook his head. The orderly took away the stew dish.
“What are you eating meat for?” Rinaldi turned to the priest. “Don’ you
know it’s Friday?”
“It’s Thursday,” the priest said.
“It’s a lie. It’s Friday. You’re eating the body of our Lord. It’s
God-meat. I know. It’s dead Austrian. That’s what you’re eating.”
“The white meat is from officers,” I said, completing the old joke.
Rinaldi laughed. He filled his glass.
“Don’t mind me,” he said. “I’m just a little crazy.”
“You ought to have a leave,” the priest said.
The major shook his head at him. Rinaldi looked at the priest.
“You think I ought to have a leave?”
The major shook his head at the priest. Rinaldi was looking at the
priest.
“Just as you like,” the priest said. “Not if you don’t want.”
“To hell with you,” Rinaldi said. “They try to get rid of me. Every
night they try to get rid of me. I fight them off. What if I have it.
Everybody has it. The whole world’s got it. First,” he went on, assuming
the manner of a lecturer, “it’s a little pimple. Then we notice a rash
between the shoulders. Then we notice nothing at all. We put our faith
in mercury.”
“Or salvarsan,” the major interrupted quietly.
“A mercurial product,” Rinaldi said. He acted very elated now. “I know