“Good luck.”
“Good luck. When you going back to the front?”
“Pretty soon.”
“Well, I’ll see you around.”
“So long.”
“So long. Don’t take any bad nickels.”
I walked on down a back street that led to a cross-cut to the hospital. Ettore was twenty-three. He had been brought up by an uncle in San Francisco and was visiting his father and mother in Torino when war was declared. He had a sister, who had been sent to America with him at the same time to live with the uncle, who would graduate from normal school this year. He was a legitimate hero who bored every one he met. Catherine could not stand him.
“We have heroes too,” she said. “But usually, darling, they’re much quieter.”
“I don’t mind him.”
“I wouldn’t mind him if he wasn’t so conceited and didn’t bore me, and bore me, and bore me.”
“He bores me.”
“You’re sweet to say so, darling. But you don’t need to. You can picture him at the front and you know he’s useful but he’s so much the type of boy I don’t care for.”
“I know.”
“You’re awfully sweet to know, and I try and like him but he’s a dreadful, dreadful boy really.”
“He said this afternoon he was going to be a captain.”
“I’m glad,” said Catherine. “That should please him.”
“Wouldn’t you like me to have some more exalted rank?”
“No, darling. I only want you to have enough rank so that we’re admitted to the better restaurants.”
“That’s just the rank I have.”
“You have a splendid rank. I don’t want you to have any more rank. It might go to your head. Oh, darling, I’m awfully glad you’re not conceited. I’d have married you even if you were conceited but it’s very restful to have a husband who’s not conceited.”
We were talking softly out on the balcony. The moon was supposed to rise but there was a mist over the town and it did not come up and in a little while it started to drizzle and we came in. Outside the mist turned to rain and in a little while it was raining hard and we heard it drumming on the roof. I got up and stood at the door to see if it was raining in but it wasn’t, so I left the door open.
“Who else did you see?” Catherine asked.
“Mr. and Mrs. Meyers.”
“They’re a strange lot.”
“He’s supposed to have been in the penitentiary at home. They let him out to die.”
“And he lived happily in Milan forever after.”
“I don’t know how happily.”
“Happily enough after jail I should think.”
“She’s bringing some things here.”
“She brings splendid things. Were you her dear boy?”
“One of them.”
“You are all her dear boys,” Catherine said. “She prefers the dear boys. Listen to it rain.”
“It’s raining hard.”
“And you’ll always love me, won’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And the rain won’t make any difference?”
“No.”
“That’s good. Because I’m afraid of the rain.”
“Why?” I was sleepy. Outside the rain was falling steadily.
“I don’t know, darling. I’ve always been afraid of the rain.”
“I like it.”
“I like to walk in it. But it’s very hard on loving.”
“I’ll love you always.”
“I’ll love you in the rain and in the snow and in the hail and — what else is there?”
“I don’t know. I guess I’m sleepy.”
“Go to sleep, darling, and I’ll love you no matter how it is.”
“You’re not really afraid of the rain are you?”
“Not when I’m with you.”
“Why are you afraid of it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Tell me.”
“Don’t make me.”
“Tell me.”
“No.”
“Tell me.”
“All right. I’m afraid of the rain because sometimes I see me dead in it.”
“No.”
“And sometimes I see you dead in it.”
“That’s more likely.”
“No it’s not, darling. Because I can keep you safe. I know I can. But nobody can help themselves.”
“Please stop it. I don’t want you to get Scotch and crazy to-night. We won’t be together much longer.”
“No, but I am Scotch and crazy. But I’ll stop it. It’s all nonsense.”
“Yes it’s all nonsense.”
“It’s all nonsense. It’s only nonsense. I’m not afraid of the rain. I’m not afraid of the rain. Oh, oh, God, I wish I wasn’t.” She was crying. I comforted her and she stopped crying. But outside it kept on raining.
CHAPTER 20
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