A Farewell to Arms

by Ernest Hemingway

"Here is the corkscrew, Signor Tenente," the orderly said.

  "Open the bottle. Bring a glass. Drink that, baby. How is your poor head? I looked at your papers. You haven't any fracture. That major at the first post was a hog-butcher. I would take you and never hurt you. I never hurt anybody. I learn how to do it. Every day I learn to do things smoother and better. You must forgive me for talking so much, baby. I am very moved to see you badly wounded. There, drink that. It's good. It cost fifteen lire. It ought to be good. Five stars. After I leave here I'll go see that English and he'll get you an English medal."

  "They don't give them like that."

  "You are so modest. I will send the liaison officer. He can handle the English."

  "Have you seen Miss Barkley?"

  "I will bring her here. I will go now and bring her here."

  "Don't go," I said. "Tell me about Gorizia. How are the girls?"

  "There are no girls. For two weeks now they haven't changed them. I don't go there any more. It is disgraceful. They aren't girls; they are old war comrades."

  "You don't go at all?"

  "I just go to see if there is anything new. I stop by. They all ask for you. It is a disgrace that they should stay so long that they become friends."

  "Maybe girls don't want to go to the front any more."

  "Of course they do. They have plenty of girls. It is just bad administration. They are keeping them for the pleasure of dugout hiders in the rear."

  "Poor Rinaldi," I said. "All alone at the war with no new girls."

  Rinaldi poured himself another glass of the cognac.

  "I don't think it will hurt you, baby. You take it."

  I drank the cognac and felt it warm all the way down. Rinaldi poured another glass. He was quieter now. He held up the glass. "To your valorous wounds. To the silver medal. Tell me, baby, when you lie here all the time in the hot weather don't you get excited?"

  "Sometimes."

  "I can't imagine lying like that. I would go crazy."

  "You are crazy."

  "I wish you were back. No one to come in at night from adventures. No one to make fun of. No one to lend me money. No blood brother and roommate. Why do you get yourself wounded?"

  "You can make fun of the priest."

  "That priest. It isn't me that makes fun of him. It is the captain. I like him. If you must have a priest have that priest. He's coming to see you. He makes big preparations."

  "I like him."

  "Oh, I knew it. Sometimes I think you and he are a little that way. You know."

  "No, you don't."

  "Yes, I do sometimes. A little that way like the number of the first regiment of the Brigata Ancona."

  "Oh, go to hell."

  He stood up and put on his gloves.

  "Oh I love to tease you, baby. With your priest and your English girl, and really you are just like me underneath."

  "No, I'm not."

  "Yes, we are. You are really an Italian. All fire and smoke and nothing inside. You only pretend to be American. We are brothers and we love each other."

  "Be good while I'm gone," I said.

  "I will send Miss Barkley. You are better with her without me. You are purer and sweeter."

  "Oh, go to hell."

  "I will send her. Your lovely cool goddess. English goddess. My God what would a man do with a woman like that except worship her? What else is an Englishwoman good for?"

  "You are an ignorant foul-mouthed dago."

  "A what?"

  "An ignorant wop."

  "Wop. You are a frozen-faced . . . wop."

  "You are ignorant. Stupid." I saw that word pricked him and kept on. "Uninformed. Inexperienced, stupid from inexperience."

  "Truly? I tell you something about your good women. Your goddesses. There is only one difference between taking a girl who has always been good and a woman. With a girl it is painful. That's all I know." He slapped the bed with his glove. "And you never know if the girl will really like it."

  "Don't get angry."

  "I'm not angry. I just tell you, baby, for your own good. To save you trouble."

  "That's the only difference?"

  "Yes. But millions of fools like you don't know it."

  "You were sweet to tell me."

  "We won't quarrel, baby. I love you too much. But don't be a fool."

  "No. I'll be wise like you."

  "Don't be angry, baby. Laugh. Take a drink. I must go, really."

  "You're a good old boy."

  "Now you see. Underneath we are the same. We are war brothers. Kiss me good-by."

  "You're sloppy."

  "No. I am just more affectionate."

  I felt his breath come toward me. "Good-by. I come to see you again soon." His breath went away. "I won't kiss you if you don't want. I'll send your English girl. Good-by, baby. The cognac is under the bed. Get well soon."

  He was gone.

  11

  It was dusk when the priest came. They had brought the soup and afterward taken away the bowls and I was lying looking at the rows of beds and out the window at the tree-top that moved a little in the evening breeze. The breeze came in through the window and it was cooler with the evening. The flies were on the ceiling now and on the electric light bulbs that hung on wires. The lights were only turned on when some one was brought in at night or when something was being done. It made me feel very young to have the dark come after the dusk and then remain. It was like being put to bed after early supper. The orderly came down between the beds and stopped. Some one was with him. It was the priest. He stood there small, brown-faced, and embarrassed.

  "How do you do?" he asked. He put some packages down by the bed, on the floor.

  "All right, father."

  He sat down in the chair that had been brought for Rinaldi and looked out of the window embarrassedly. I noticed his face looked Very tired.

  "I can only stay a minute," he said. "It is late."

  "It's not late. How is the mess?"

  He smiled. "I am still a great joke," he sounded tired too. "Thank God they are all well.

  "I am so glad you are all right," he said. "I hope you don't suffer." He seemed very tired and I was not used to seeing him tired.

  "Not any more."

  "I miss you at the mess."

  "I wish I were there. I always enjoyed our talking."

  "I brought you a few little things," he said. He picked up the packages. "This is mosquito netting. This is a bottle of vermouth. You like vermouth? These are English papers."

  "Please open them."

  He was pleased and undid them. I held the mosquito netting in my hands. The vermouth he held up for me to see and then put it on the floor beside the bed. I held up one of the sheaf of English papers. I could read the headlines by turning it so the half-light from the window was on it. It was _The News of the World_.

  "The others are illustrated," he said.

  "It will be a great happiness to read them. Where did you get them?"

  "I sent for them to Mestre. I will have more."

  "You were very good to come, father. Will you drink a glass of vermouth?"

  "Thank you. You keep it. It's for you."

  "No, drink a glass."

  "All right. I will bring you more then."

  The orderly brought the glasses and opened the bottle. He broke off the cork and the end had to be shoved down into the bottle. I could see the priest was disappointed but he said, "That's all right. It's no matter."

  "Here's to your health, father."

  "To your better health."

  Afterward he held the glass in his hand and we looked at one another. Sometimes we talked and were good friends but to-night it was difficult.

  "What's the matter, father? You seem very tired."

  "I am tired but I have no right to be."

  "It's the heat."

  "No. This is only the spring. I feel very low."

&
nbsp; "You have the war disgust."

  "No. But I hate the war."

  "I don't enjoy it," I said. He shook his head and looked out of the window.

  "You do not mind it. You do not see it. You must forgive me. I know you are wounded."

  "That is an accident."

  "Still even wounded you do not see it. I can tell. I do not see it myself but I feel it a little."

  "When I was wounded we were talking about it. Passini was talking."

  The priest put down the glass. He was thinking about something else.

  "I know them because I am like they are," he said.

  "You are different though."

  "But really I am like they are."

  "The officers don't see anything."

  "Some of them do. Some are very delicate and feel worse than any of us."

  "They are mostly different."

  "It is not education or money. It is something else. Even if they had education or money men like Passini would not wish to be officers. I would not be an officer."

  "You rank as an officer. I am an officer."

  "I am not really. You are not even an Italian. You are a foreigner. But you are nearer the officers than you are to the men."

  "What is the difference?"

  "I cannot say it easily. There are people who would make war. In this country there are many like that. There are other people who would not make war."

  "But the first ones make them do it."

  "Yes."

  "And I help them."

  "You are a foreigner. You are a patriot."

  "And the ones who would not make war? Can they stop it?" I do not know.

  He looked out of the window again. I watched his face.

  "Have they ever been able to stop it?"

  "They are not organized to stop things and when they get organized their leaders sell them out."

  "Then it's hopeless?"

  "It is never hopeless. But sometimes I cannot hope. I try always to hope but sometimes I cannot."

  "Maybe the war will be over."

  "I hope so."

  "What will you do then?"

  "If it is possible I will return to the Abruzzi."

  His brown face was suddenly very happy.

  "You love the Abruzzi?"

  "Yes, I love it very much."

  "You ought to go there then."

  "I would be too happy. If I could live there and love God and serve Him."

  "And be respected," I said.

  "Yes and be respected. Why not?"

  "No reason not. You should be respected."

  "It does not matter. But there in my country it is understood that a man may love God. It is not a dirty joke."

  "I understand."

  He looked at me and smiled.

  "You understand but you do not love God."

  "No."

  "You do not love Him at all?" he asked.

  "I am afraid of Him in the night sometimes."

  "You should love Him."

  "I don't love much."

  "Yes," he said. "You do. What you tell me about in the nights. That is not love. That is only passion and lust. When you love you wish to do things for. You wish to sacrifice for. You wish to serve."

  "I don't love."

  "You will. I know you will. Then you will be happy."

  "I'm happy. I've always been happy."

  "It is another thing. You cannot know about it unless you have it."

  "Well," I said. "If I ever get it I will tell you."

  "I stay too long and talk too much." He was worried that he really did.

  "No. Don't go. How about loving women? If I really loved some woman would it be like that?"

  "I don't know about that. I never loved any woman."

  "What about your mother?"

  "Yes, I must have loved my mother."

  "Did you always love God?"

  "Ever since I was a little boy."

  "Well," I said. I did not know what to say. "You are a fine boy," I said.

  "I am a boy," he said. "But you call me father."

  "That's politeness."

  He smiled.

  "I must go, really," he said. "You do not want me for anything?" he asked hopefully.

  "No. Just to talk."

  "I will take your greetings to the mess."

  "Thank you for the many fine presents."

  "Nothing."

  "Come and see me again."

  "Yes. Good-by," he patted my hand.

  "So long," I said in dialect.

  "Ciaou," he repeated.

  It was dark in the room and the orderly, who had sat by the foot of the bed, got up and went out with him. I liked him very much and I hoped he would get back to the Abruzzi some time. He had a rotten life in the mess and he was fine about it but I thought how he would be in his own country. At Capracotta, he had told me, there were trout in the stream below the town. It was forbidden to play the flute at night. When the young men serenaded only the flute was forbidden. Why, I had asked. Because it was bad for the girls to hear the flute at night. The peasants all called you "Don" and when you met them they took off their hats. His father hunted every day and stopped to eat at the houses of peasants. They were always honored. For a foreigner to hunt he must present a certificate that he had never been arrested. There were bears on the Gran Sasso D'Italia but it was a long way. Aquila was a fine town. It was cool in the summer at night and the spring in Abruzzi was the most beautiful in Italy. But what was lovely was the fall to go hunting through the chestnut woods. The birds were all good because they fed on grapes and you never took a lunch because the peasants were always honored if you would eat with them at their houses. After a while I went to sleep.

  12

  The room was long with windows on the right-hand side and a door at the far end that went into the dressing room. The row of beds that mine was in faced the windows and another row, under the windows, faced the wall. If you lay on your left side you could see the dressing-room door. There was another door at the far end that people sometimes came in by. If any one were going to die they put a screen around the bed so you could not see them die, but only the shoes and puttees of doctors and men nurses showed under the bottom of the screen and sometimes at the end there would be whispering. Then the priest would come out from behind the screen and afterward the men nurses would go back behind the screen to come out again carrying the one who was dead with a blanket over him down the corridor between the beds and some one folded the screen and took it away.

  That morning the major in charge of the ward asked me if I felt that I could travel the next day. I said I could. He said then they would ship me out early in the morning. He said I would be better off making the trip now before it got too hot.

  When they lifted you up out of bed to carry you into the dressing room you could look out of the window and see the new graves in the garden. A soldier sat outside the door that opened onto the garden making crosses and painting on them the names, rank, and regiment of the men who were buried in the garden. He also ran errands for the ward and in his spare time made me a cigarette lighter out of an empty Austrian rifle cartridge. The doctors were very nice and seemed very capable. They were anxious to ship me to Milan where there were better X-ray facilities and where, after the operation, I could take mechano-therapy. I wanted to go to Milan too. They wanted to get us all out and back as far as possible because all the beds were needed for the offensive, when it should start.

  The night before I left the field hospital Rinaldi came in to see me with the major from our mess. They said that I would go to an American hospital in Milan that had just been installed. Some American ambulance units were to be sent down and this hospital would look after them and any other Americans on service in Italy. There were many in the Red Cross. The States had declared war on Germany but not on Austria.

  The Italians were sure America would declare war on A
ustria too and they were very excited about any Americans coming down, even the Red Cross. They asked me if I thought President Wilson would declare war on Austria and I said it was only a matter of days. I did not know what we had against Austria but it seemed logical that they should declare war on her if they did on Germany. They asked me if we would declare war on Turkey. I said that was doubtful. Turkey, I said, was our national bird but the joke translated so badly and they were so puzzled and suspicious that I said yes, we would probably declare war on Turkey. And on Bulgaria? We had drunk several glasses of brandy and I said yes by God on Bulgaria too and on Japan. But, they said, Japan is an ally of England. You can't trust the bloody English. The Japanese want Hawaii, I said. Where is Hawaii? It is in the Pacific Ocean. Why do the Japanese want it? They don't really want it, I said. That is all talk. The Japanese are a wonderful little people fond of dancing and light wines. Like the French, said the major. We will get Nice and Savoia from the French. We will get Corsica and all the Adriatic coast-line, Rinaldi said. Italy will return to the splendors of Rome, said the major. I don't like Rome, I said. It is hot and full of fleas. You don't like Rome? Yes, I love Rome. Rome is the mother of nations. I will never forget Romulus suckling the Tiber. What? Nothing. Let's all go to Rome.

  Let's go to Rome to-night and never come back. Rome is a beautiful city, said the major. The mother and father of nations, I said. Roma is feminine, said Rinaldi. It cannot be the father. Who is the father, then, the Holy Ghost? Don't blaspheme. I wasn't blaspheming, I was asking for information. You are drunk, baby. Who made me drunk? I made you drunk, said the major. I made you drunk because I love you and because America is in the war. Up to the hilt, I said. You go away in the morning, baby, Rinaldi said. To Rome, I said. No, to Milan. To Milan, said the major, to the Crystal Palace, to the Cova, to Campari's, to Biffi's, to the galleria. You lucky boy. To the Gran Italia, I said, where I will borrow money from George. To the Scala, said Rinaldi. You will go to the Scala. Every night, I said. You won't be able to afford it every night, said the major.

  The tickets are very expensive. I will draw a sight draft on my grandfather, I said. A what? A sight draft. He has to pay or I go to jail. Mr. Cunningham at the bank does it. I live by sight drafts. Can a grandfather jail a patriotic grandson who is dying that Italy may live? Live the American Garibaldi, said Rinaldi. Viva the sight drafts, I said. We must be quiet, said the major. Already we have been asked many times to be quiet. Do you go to-morrow really, Federico? He goes to the American hospital I tell you, Rinaldi said. To the beautiful nurses. Not the nurses with beards of the field hospital. Yes, yes, said the major, I know he goes to the American hospital. I don't mind their beards, I said. If any man wants to raise a beard let him. Why don't you raise a beard, Signor Maggiore? It could not go in a gas mask. Yes it could. Anything can go in a gas mask. I've vomited into a gas mask. Don't be so loud, baby, Rinaldi said. We all know you have been at the front Oh, you fine baby, what will I do while you are gone? We must go, said the major. This becomes sentimental. Listen, I have a surprise for you. Your English. You know? The English you go to see every night at their hospital? She is going to Milan too. She goes with another to be at the American hospital. They had not got nurses yet from America. I talked to-day with the head of their riparto. They have too many Women here at the front. They send some back. How do you like that, baby? All right. Yes? You go to live in a big city and have your English there to cuddle you. Why don't I get wounded? Maybe you will, I said. We must go, said the major. We drink and make noise and disturb Federico. Don't go. Yes, we must go. Good-by. Good luck. Many things. Ciaou. Ciaou. Ciaou. Come back quickly, baby. Rinaldi kissed me. You smell of lysol. Good-by, baby. Good-by. Many things. The major patted my shoulder. They tiptoed out. I found I was quite drunk but went to sleep.