Private Angelo

by Eric Linklater

  Angelo fingered one of the sacks and exclaimed, ‘But this is flour.’

  ‘That is so,’ said the Count.

  ‘And is the other lorry loaded in the same way?’

  ‘In precisely the same way. I had been wondering how to protect these old and immensely valuable pictures against the jolting and tremors of a long journey, when I happened to remember that I had a certain stock of flour available.’

  ‘How very fortunate,’ said Angelo.

  ‘A lucky chance,’ agreed the Count, and having told the drivers to be ready to move within half an hour, he invited Angelo to have a glass of wine before he set off.

  They drank a glass or two in the small library where Angelo had already been received. Neither spoke for a few minutes, and then the Count asked, ‘Were you ever hungry when you were in Africa?’

  ‘We came near to starvation once or twice,’ said Angelo.

  ‘Those English submarines sank hundreds of our ships,’ said the Count. ‘At certain times they were sinking so many that it really seemed useless to send you any stores at all. Ship after ship we loaded, and what happened to them? They went to the bottom of the sea. Our labour and our goods were wasted. Utterly wasted. And now and again I felt that I could no longer be a partner in such destruction. My whole being rebelled against the idea of sending, to no other destination than the engulfing waves, great shiploads of boots and shirts and guns and ammunition and oil –’

  ‘And flour,’ said Angelo.

  ‘And flour,’ the Count agreed.

  ‘The lorries, then, are loaded with what should have been sent to your regiment in Africa?’

  ‘And if the regiment had been commanded by a man less prudent than I, it might indeed have been dispatched,’ declared the Count. ‘And what would have happened to it?’ he demanded. ‘It would have gone, like so many other cargoes, to the bottom of the sea. What horrible and wicked waste, when all over Italy our peasants are in just as great a need of flour as ever our poor soldiers were!’

  ‘So you are sending it to Pontefiore to be given away to anyone who is hungry?’

  ‘Not given,’ said the Count. ‘Our Tuscan peasants are proud people who would not ask to live on charity. I am too much devoted to their welfare to wish to pauperize them. No, no! But my steward has orders to sell the flour at a fair and just price, and it will, I am sure, be very welcome to all my people. – And now, Angelo, it is time for you to leave. Here is your pass, and the permission signed by von Kluggenschaft for two motor lorries to go to Pontefiore for some urgently needed military equipment. I do not think you will have any difficulty on the road, but if you are stopped, by some officious Tedescho, you will find in each lorry a dozen bottles of wine, and that will certainly dissolve the obstruction. God bless you, my boy, and give this letter to the Countess. Tell her that I am well, in spite of my grey hairs.’

  Angelo was appreciably moved by the kindness with which the Count had treated him, and he was forced to admit that there was something to be said for the prudence which had saved so much flour from the British Navy, and now, with an equal regard for the appetite and dignity of a Tuscan peasant, was sending it where it would certainly be useful. Stammering a sentence or two of gratitude, he took his leave, and, descending to the courtyard, elected to travel in the lorry driven by the Czech soldier. The Czech was a smaller man than the Russian.

  Suddenly a vision filled his mind, an enchanted view of the home that he had not seen for three long years, the landscape lighted with the dark green candle-flames of the cypress trees, and his boyhood’s sweetheart. Ah, the black eyes and the milk-white throat of dear Lucrezia! He was going home, and as he spoke the words aloud, to give them reality, his eyes filled with tears and he failed to notice the German staff-car that stopped before the Count’s front door at the very moment when the flour-laden lorries drove past.

  The Count was composing himself for his siesta when he was informed that two German officers desired to see him. He returned the answer that at three o’clock in the afternoon he could receive no one, but his reply was ignored and a moment or two later the library door was thrown rudely open, and two heavy-footed steel-helmeted Germans marched in.

  What louts they are, thought the Count, and in his most courteous voice inquired, ‘To what am I indebted for this honour, gentlemen?’

  ‘You are Lieutenant-Colonel the Count Agesilas Piccologrando of Pontefiore?’ asked the senior and more repellent of his visitors.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Then you are under arrest.’

  ‘Really,’ said the Count. ‘May I offer you a glass of wine?’

  Unhappy Angelo, he thought, I suppose they were waiting for him when he went down. But I cannot believe that this is going to be a serious matter. The flour is not theirs, and never was, and I fail to see that they have any legal claim to it now. Nor did von Kluggenschaft specify for what purpose the lorries were to be used on the outward journey …

  These musings were interrupted by the German who had already spoken, and now, having swallowed his wine, said harshly, ‘Last night you treacherously endeavoured to interfere with certain gunners of a German battery then in action against a regiment of Italian rebels and traitors.’

  ‘Last night?’ said the Count, who was much surprised. ‘Last night? Why, yes, I remember now. Of course I did. So that is what has brought you here. Well, well!’

  ‘Your attempt to obstruct the gun-crew in the execution of its duty was observed by Major Fluchs, commanding the battery, who promptly put you under open arrest.’

  ‘Poor Fluchs. And now he is dead.’

  ‘Before he died, however, he regained consciousness long enough to inform Captain Bluther of his action.’

  Captain Bluther, the other officer, looked proudly over the Count’s head and spoke in a loud voice: ‘With his last breath Major Fluchs did his duty as a German should, and expressed the wish that the Count Piccologrando should be punished for his swinish behaviour with appropriate severity.’

  ‘I am amazed,’ said the Count. ‘I thought he was dead when I left him. Had you asked me, I should have said that he died in my arms. But there is, of course, no truth in those last rambling words of his. Poor fellow, his mind was wandering. You cannot be so foolish as to arrest me on no surer evidence than a fragment of delirious conversation which I shall totally deny, and which you cannot substantiate by witnesses; for none of them survives.’

  ‘The word of a German officer does not require witnesses to prove it nor evidence to substantiate it, and is utterly indifferent to events which contradict it or enemies who deny it.’

  ‘In that case,’ said the Count, ‘I think I had better telephone to General von Kluggenschaft, who is my very good friend. You will excuse me?’

  ‘You will be wasting your time. The General is no longer in command.’

  ‘He was in command this morning. I know that, because I saw him.’

  ‘He is now on his way to the Führer’s Headquarters. He was replaced an hour ago by General Hammerfurter.’

  ‘But why? I cannot understand it. He was an excellent soldier. He did his work with admirable efficiency, and he was universally popular.’

  The senior of the German officers smiled sourly, but Captain Bluther indignantly explained: ‘General von Kluggenschaft had formed a most undesirable friendship in Rome. He was on intimate terms with a woman of vicious character whose other associates were known to engage in subversive conversation.’

  ‘That is slanderous!’ declared the Count fiercely. ‘Your statement contains a monstrous and abominable slander!’

  ‘What are your grounds for saying that?’

  ‘General von Kluggenschaft was on intimate terms with one lady only in Rome, and of all her sex she is the most lovely, prudent, and desirable. He was entirely faithful to her – and had he ever been unfaithful, he would have had to deal with me!’

  ‘You refer to the Marchesa Dolce?’

  ‘As the name is known to you – I do.
’

  ‘So you know her also, do you?’

  The Count’s brief anger subsided. For a moment he stood, very straight and still, and then, his slim figure losing its rigidity like a tall reed when the morning wind blows up the river-bed, he slightly bowed and very quietly answered, ‘For seven years she has been my dearest friend.’

  Captain Bluther shuffled his feet, coughed behind his hand, and was clearly embarrassed; but his senior and more repellent companion lost his temper, raised his voice, and began to abuse his prisoner in violent language. The Marchesa Dolce was widely known to be a beautiful, witty, and cultivated woman, and this poor German, who had been on close terms only with some ungainly girls in Wuppertal and Bochum, and with overworked foreign prostitutes, was wildly jealous of the Count – whose nation he despised – and therefore became furiously angry with him, because of his good fortune and superior happiness in knowing such a charming person as the Marchesa.

  The Count did not know how to reply. He was in no degree frightened of the German, but so deeply shocked by the display of violent rage that he could not protect himself against it. And in this state of helplessness, urged on by a pair of automatic pistols, he was presently marched out of his house, into the waiting car, and removed to a large villa on the outskirts of Rome which was maintained by the Schutzstaffel for their own peculiar purposes.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ANGELO’S JOURNEY was uneventful. He was halted several times by German soldiers, but the gift of a bottle or two of wine quickly persuaded them that he was fully entitled to travel where he liked; and the two drivers, of whom he had been somewhat afraid, showed clearly their desire to be friendly, and before very long were telling him their troubles.

  To avoid driving in the dark they spent the night in a villa – one of the Count’s smaller properties – on the eastern shore of Lake Bolsena, and there, after they had all drunk a good deal, the Czech and the Russian very earnestly sought his advice. They were both anxious to desert, and they wanted the help of someone who could guide them through the mountains to the southernmost parts of Italy, which, as they knew, had now been liberated by the English. Did Angelo know of such a person? Or would he himself show them the way?

  For a long time they discussed the technique of desertion, as they had learnt it from the legendary exploits of those who had succeeded and the sad tales of their friends who had failed in the attempt; and Angelo promised, with much repetition, that when they returned to Rome he would introduce them to the most reliable accomplices that could be found. Then, having embraced each other warmly, they retired to sleep. They dreamt of happiness, and early in the morning resumed their journey.

  It was an hour or so short of noon when they turned the last corner on the steeply climbing road to Pontefiore, and saw, like a crown of coloured stone on the hill-top, the old castle and the tightly gathered village. A narrow ravine divided the southern slope of the hill, and this, in one noble arch, was spanned by an ancient bridge whose abutments, at the proper season of the year, were overhung by blossoming trees. Even in Tuscany, where a handsome view is the merest commonplace, Pontefiore was notable for its dignified yet gentle beauty, and there was little wonder that Angelo, prone as he was to weeping, poured from his eyes a flood of delighted tears to see again its yellow roofs, the cobbled streets, and the castle tower rising among cypresses against a clear blue sky.

  He called excited greetings to some eighteen or twenty people whom he recognized in the doorways of their houses, but dutifully did not stop until he had reached the castle, and there, with a sudden dignity, he requested an indoor servant to inform the Countess of his arrival.

  She came out at once, for she did not believe in wasting time. She was small and trim, and though the prettiness of her girlhood had long since gone, much of its charm and some of its vivacity remained. Her hair was faded but her eyes were bright, and she still spoke Italian with an English accent. Had she spoken English, indeed, her accent would have been that of Yorkshire. She had formerly been a school-teacher in Bradford, and she had first met the Count in the railway station at Florence, during a holiday-fortnight that should have been devoted to the art of the Renaissance. She had won immediately while waiting for a train to Pisa – the Count’s most passionate interest, and though their early friendship had been greatly troubled, and scarred by tragedy, she now, after twenty years of marriage, enjoyed his profound respect and the assurance, generally from a distance, of his enduring affection.

  ‘So you’ve come back safe and sound after all?’ she said to Angelo. ‘Well, I’m glad to see you. How long have you been away?’

  ‘Three years, madam.’

  ‘And now, I hope, you’re ready to do some honest work for a change?’

  ‘No, madam, I can’t do anything of that sort. I am still in the army, you see.’

  ‘Haven’t you had enough of it yet?’

  ‘Oh, more than enough!’

  ‘Has it done you any good?’

  ‘None at all, so far as I am aware. It has taught me, indeed, that I shall never be a good soldier, but I was pretty sure of that before they called me up. Because, of course, I have not the dono di coraggio.’

  ‘Don’t you think you should keep that to yourself?’

  ‘How can I, when all my actions reveal it? – But I am forgetting my duty. Here is a letter from Don Agesilas, who asked me to tell you that he is very well, though his hair is turning a little grey.’

  The Countess read the letter quickly, for she had no interest in the art of correspondence, but was merely impatient to learn the news. Then she remarked, ‘He’s behaving quite sensibly, for a change. But where could he have got two lorry-loads of flour at a time like this?’

  ‘How should I know, madam?’

  ‘He says that you can explain everything.’

  Angelo thought for a moment, and then said with a certain hesitation, ‘Since all our soldiers in Africa have been taken prisoner, they are being fed by the English, and so our Government has no use for the food that was ready to be sent to them. And I remember, now, hearing that it was to be sold quickly, before it went bad, and that Don Agesilas had bought some flour for a small price. A very small price, I think.’

  ‘Well, it will come in handy, there’s no doubt of that. And you brought the pictures too?’

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  ‘Then we’ll get them unpacked at once.’

  But Angelo, blushing a little and speaking very rapidly, asked leave to go now on business of his own, and being pressed to explain it, admitted that he was burning with desire to see Lucrezia, his boyhood’s sweetheart.

  ‘You mean Lucrezia Donati, whose father sells charcoal?’ asked the Countess. ‘But she was only a chit of a girl when you left here.’

  ‘I was not very old myself.’

  ‘Has she been writing to you?’

  ‘Yes, three or four times.’

  The Countess was about to ask another question, but checked herself and looked at Angelo in doubt, then tightened her lips to a line of thin severity and thought again, and finally said, ‘Be kind to her, Angelo.’

  ‘Be sure of that,’ cried Angelo, laughing loudly and happily. ‘I’ll be as kind to her as she will let me, and all I hope is that she will be one half as kind to me.’

  He turned to go, but saw at that moment a young man who had newly come in to the hall and stood now, as if uncertain where to go, at the far end of it. He had a fair complexion and light brown hair, a lively look, and small neat features. He was about the same height and figure as Angelo himself. He stood a moment longer, then swiftly turned and went out again.

  ‘Who is that?’ asked Angelo. ‘I have not seen him here before.’

  ‘Italy nowadays is full of people whom no one has ever seen before,’ said the Countess, ‘and sometimes your best course will be to look the other way when you meet them, and then forget about them.’

  ‘That does not seem very courteous.’

  ‘Not to see a
man who doesn’t want to be seen is the very height of courtesy,’ said the Countess.

  ‘But you are quite right! I had not thought of it in that way,’ said Angelo. ‘And you can be sure of this: that as soon as I clap eyes on Lucrezia I shall forget everything else in the world – except your kindness to me, which I shall always remember.’

  Nearly everybody in the village wanted him to stop and talk. The women sitting in their doorways hailed him and asked for news of their sons and husbands who had gone with him to Africa, and men crossed the road to greet him and ask him to drink wine with them. But Angelo put them off, one and all, saying there would be plenty of time for gossip, but now he wanted to see Lucrezia. Where was Lucrezia Donati? he demanded. At the washing-place, they told him, at the end of the village.

  He started to run, and though the way was downhill he was out of breath when he arrived and saw the girls and the women bending over the great stone trough in which they were soaping and wringing and beating their linen. It was a charming and familiar scene, and even while his eyes were searching for Lucrezia, and his lungs labouring for breath, he took the greatest pleasure in it nor wholly denied an errant wish to embrace, not his sweetheart only, but all these brisk and buxom creatures. How gaily they chattered, and how lovely was their laughter and the sound of the splashing of water! And there, in the middle of the row, was one with the prettiest pair of legs he had ever seen, so properly plump, as smooth as a chestnut and almost as brown, then paler behind the knee where the soft skin dimpled, and pale above – for now she was stooping forward and rubbing the linen so vigorously that her prim little bottom looked like a pair of apples when a boy is shaking the branch they grow on; and the back of her short skirt lifted higher still. White above her dimpling knees rose two entrancing columns into the modesty of occluding shadows, and really, thought Angelo, though legs and arms are the commonest things in the world, there are certain pairs of them with so remarkable a texture and shape that their effect upon the sensitive observer may be almost overwhelming.