A farewell to arms
all summer and got this girl with child and now I suppose you’ll sneak
off.”
I smiled at Catherine and she smiled at me.
“We’ll both sneak off,” she said.
“You’re two of the same thing,” Ferguson said. “I’m ashamed of you,
Catherine Barkley. You have no shame and no honor and you’re as sneaky
as he is.”
“Don’t, Fergy,” Catherine said and patted her hand. “Don’t denounce me.
You know we like each other.”
“Take your hand away,” Ferguson said. Her face was red. “If you had any
shame it would be different. But you’re God knows how many months gone
with child and you think it’s a joke and are all smiles because your
seducer’s come back. You’ve no shame and no feelings.” She began to cry.
Catherine went over and put her arm around her. As she stood comforting
Ferguson, I could see no change in her figure.
“I don’t care,” Ferguson sobbed. “I think it’s dreadful.”
“There, there, Fergy,” Catherine comforted her. “I’ll be ashamed. Don’t
cry, Fergy. Don’t cry, old Fergy.”
“I’m not crying,” Ferguson sobbed. “I’m not crying. Except for the awful
thing you’ve gotten into.” She looked at me. “I hate you,” she said.
“She can’t make me not hate you. You dirty sneaking American Italian.”
Her eyes and nose were red with crying.
Catherine smiled at me.
“Don’t you smile at him with your arm around me.”
“You’re unreasonable, Fergy.”
“I know it,” Ferguson sobbed. “You mustn’t mind me, either of you. I’m
so upset. I’m not reasonable. I know it. I want you both to be happy.”
“We’re happy,” Catherine said. “You’re a sweet Fergy.”
Ferguson cried again. “I don’t want you happy the way you are. Why don’t
you get married? You haven’t got another wife have you?”
“No,” I said. Catherine laughed.
“It’s nothing to laugh about,” Ferguson said. “Plenty of them have other
wives.”
“We’ll be married, Fergy,” Catherine said, “if it will please you.”
“Not to please me. You should want to be married.”
“We’ve been very busy.”
“Yes. I know. Busy making babies.” I thought she was going to cry again
but she went into bitterness instead. “I suppose you’ll go off with him
now to-night?”
“Yes,” said Catherine. “If he wants me.”
“What about me?”
“Are you afraid to stay here alone?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Then I’ll stay with you.”
“No, go on with him. Go with him right away. I’m sick of seeing both of
you.”
“We’d better finish dinner.”
“No. Go right away.”
“Fergy, be reasonable.”
“I say get out right away. Go away both of you.”
“Let’s go then,” I said. I was sick of Fergy.
“You do want to go. You see you want to leave me even to eat dinner
alone. I’ve always wanted to go to the Italian lakes and this is how it
is. Oh, Oh,” she sobbed, then looked at Catherine and choked.
“We’ll stay till after dinner,” Catherine said. “And I’ll not leave you
alone if you want me to stay. I won’t leave you alone, Fergy.”
“No. No. I want you to go. I want you to go.” She wiped her eyes. “I’m
so unreasonable. Please don’t mind me.”
The girl who served the meal had been upset by all the crying. Now as
she brought in the next course she seemed relieved that things were
better.
That night at the hotel, in our room with the long empty hall outside
and our shoes outside the door, a thick carpet on the floor of the room,
outside the windows the rain falling and in the room light and pleasant
and cheerful, then the light out and it exciting with smooth sheets and
the bed comfortable, feeling that we had come home, feeling no longer
alone, waking in the night to find the other one there, and not gone
away; all other things were unreal. We slept when we were tired and if
we woke the other one woke too so one was not alone. Often a man wishes
to be alone and a girl wishes to be alone too and if they love each
other they are jealous of that in each other, but I can truly say we
never felt that. We could feel alone when we were together, alone
against the others. It has only happened to me like that once. I have
been alone while I was with many girls and that is the way that you can
be most lonely. But we were never lonely and never afraid when we were
together. I know that the night is not the same as the day: that all
things are different, that the things of the night cannot be explained
in the day, because they do not then exist, and the night can be a
dreadful time for lonely people once their loneliness has started. But
with Catherine there was almost no difference in the night except that
it was an even better time. If people bring so much courage to this
world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills
them. The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the
broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very
good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none
of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no
special hurry.
I remember waking in the morning. Catherine was asleep and the sunlight
was coming in through the window. The rain had stopped and I stepped out
of bed and across the floor to the window. Down below were the gardens,
bare now but beautifully regular, the gravel paths, the trees, the stone
wall by the lake and the lake in the sunlight with the mountains beyond.
I stood at the window looking out and when I turned away I saw Catherine
was awake and watching me.
“How are you, darling?” she said. “Isn’t it a lovely day?”
“How do you feel?”
“I feel very well. We had a lovely night.”
“Do you want breakfast?”
She wanted breakfast. So did I and we had it in bed, the November
sunlight coming in the window, and the breakfast tray across my lap.
“Don’t you want the paper? You always wanted the paper in the hospital.”
“No,” I said. “I don’t want the paper now.”
“Was it so bad you don’t want even to read about it?”
“I don’t want to read about it.”
“I wish I had been with you so I would know about it too.”
“I’ll tell you about it if I ever get it straight in my head.”
“But won’t they arrest you if they catch you out of uniform?”
“They’ll probably shoot me.”
“Then we’ll not stay here. We’ll get out of the country.”
“I’d thought something of that.”
“We’ll get out. Darling, you shouldn’t take silly chances. Tell me how
did you come from Mestre to Milan?”
“I came on the train. I was in uniform then.”
“Weren’t you in danger then?”
“Not much. I had an old order of movement. I fixed the dates on it in
Mestre.”
“Darling, you’re liable to be arrested here any time. I won’t have it.
It’s silly to do something like that. Where would we be if they took you
off?”
“Let’s not think about it. I’m tired of thinking about it.”
“What would you do if they came to arrest you?”
“Shoot them.”
“You see how silly you are, I won’t let you go out of the hotel until we
leave here.”
“Where are we going to go?”
“Please don’t be that way, darling. We’ll go wherever you say. But
please find some place to go right away.”
“Switzerland is down the lake, we can go there.”
“That will be lovely.”
It was clouding over outside and the lake was darkening.
“I wish we did not always have to live like criminals,” I said.
“Darling, don’t be that way. You haven’t lived like a criminal very
long. And we never live like criminals. We’re going to have a fine
time.”
“I feel like a criminal. I’ve deserted from the army.”
“Darling, _please_ be sensible. It’s not deserting from the army. It’s
only the Italian army.”
I laughed. “You’re a fine girl. Let’s get back into bed. I feel fine in
bed.”
A little while later Catherine said, “You don’t feel like a criminal do
you?”
“No,” I said. “Not when I’m with you.”
“You’re such a silly boy,” she said. “But I’ll look after you. Isn’t it
splendid, darling, that I don’t have any morning-sickness?”
“It’s grand.”
“You don’t appreciate what a fine wife you have. But I don’t care. I’ll
get you some place where they can’t arrest you and then we’ll have a
lovely time.”
“Let’s go there right away.”
“We will, darling. I’ll go any place any time you wish.”
“Let’s not think about anything.”
“All right.”
CHAPTER XXXV
Catherine went along the lake to the little hotel to see Ferguson and I
sat in the bar and read the papers. There were comfortable leather
chairs in the bar and I sat in one of them and read until the barman
came in. The army had not stood at the Tagliamento. They were falling
back to the Piave. I remembered the Piave. The railroad crossed it near
San Dona going up to the front. It was deep and slow there and quite
narrow. Down below there were mosquito marshes and canals. There were
some lovely villas. Once, before the war, going up to Cortina D’Ampezzo
I had gone along it for several hours in the hills. Up there it looked
like a trout stream, flowing swiftly with shallow stretches and pools
under the shadow of the rocks. The road turned off from it at Cadore. I
wondered how the army that was up there would come down. The barman came
in.
“Count Greffi was asking for you,” he said.
“Who?”
“Count Greffi. You remember the old man who was here when you were here
before.”
“Is he here?”
“Yes, he’s here with his niece. I told him you were here. He wants you
to play billiards.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s taking a walk.”
“How is he?”
“He’s younger than ever. He drank three champagne cocktails last night
before dinner.”
“How’s his billiard game?”
“Good. He beat me. When I told him you were here he was very pleased.
There’s nobody here for him to play with.”
Count Greffi was ninety-four years old. He had been a contemporary of
Metternich and was an old man with white hair and mustache and beautiful
manners. He had been in the diplomatic service of both Austria and Italy
and his birthday parties were the great social event of Milan. He was
living to be one hundred years old and played a smoothly fluent game of
billiards that contrasted with his own ninety-four-year-old brittleness.
I had met him when I had been at Stresa once before out of season and
while we played billiards we drank champagne. I thought it was a
splendid custom and he gave me fifteen points in a hundred and beat me.
“Why didn’t you tell me he was here?”
“I forgot it.”
“Who else is here?”
“No one you know. There are only six people altogether.”
“What are you doing now?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on out fishing.”
“I could come for an hour.”
“Come on. Bring the trolling line.”
The barman put on a coat and we went out. We went down and got a boat
and I rowed while the barman sat in the stern and let out the line with
a spinner and a heavy sinker on the end to troll for lake trout. We
rowed along the shore, the barman holding the line in his hand and
giving it occasional jerks forward. Stresa looked very deserted from the
lake. There were the long rows of bare trees, the big hotels and the
closed villas. I rowed across to Isola Bella and went close to the
walls, where the water deepened sharply, and you saw the rock wall
slanting down in the clear water, and then up and along to the
fisherman’s island. The sun was under a cloud and the water was dark and
smooth and very cold. We did not have a strike though we saw some
circles on the water from rising fish.
I rowed up opposite the fisherman’s island where there were boats drawn
up and men were mending nets.
“Should we get a drink?”
“All right.”
I brought the boat up to the stone pier and the barman pulled in the
line, coiling it on the bottom of the boat and hooking the spinner on
the edge of the gunwale. I stepped out and tied the boat. We went into a
little café, sat at a bare wooden table and ordered vermouth.
“Are you tired from rowing?”
“No.”
“I’ll row back,” he said.
“I like to row.”