‘My old friend the Marchesa Dolce, whom you know very well,’ he said once, ‘is beginning to show her age, and for that I blame the Americans. Since they left Rome she has become careless about her figure. She had always a tendency to put on weight, and now she does little to control it. Her mind is still brisk and youthful, but the mind is not everything; especially in women. A nimbleness, indeed, of thought and speech sometimes draws attention to the relaxation of the body. I wish they had remained in Rome: the Americans, I mean.’
With the Countess’s weakness he was most sympathetic, when he had recovered from the surprise it caused him, and he told Angelo: ‘I must confess that I have not been the ideal husband. There are men, a few of them, designed by nature for the married state, and they make women happy and destroy their souls. But I am not one of them. We had two or three years of mutual delight, and then a progressive disappointment in each other that was mollified by charity and good manners. Love and wine have much in common – though the former is apt to be exclusive, and the latter inclined to invite others to share its happiness – and if she can find pleasure in the bottle, I call it just compensation for the failure of bed and board. I have given her good advice. I have told her that she should drink nothing before lunch, and not much at lunch; for to drink in the morning obscures the outline and destroys the individuality of a day. And a day is something that dawn and sunset enclose, and should not be demeaned.’
At another time he asked: ‘Do you remember a young man called Trivet? I knew nothing of him till recently, but my wife tells me that he spent several years here during the war, and that you shared an adventure with him. – It appears that he is not happy. After being wounded and discharged from the army he made some attempt to resume a domestic life, but without success, and volunteered for service in the Far East. Then the war against Japan came abruptly to an end, the unfortunate Trivet was again discharged, and now he is desperately anxious to escape from a wife whom he finds intolerable, but with whom circumstances compel him to live; for both families are thoroughly respectable in the peculiar fashion of the north of England. So he wants to come back to Pontefiore. Do you think that would be a good thing?’
‘Yes,’ said Angelo, ‘I should like to see him again. – But no, it would not be a good thing. He was very popular with the girls here, especially with Bianca Miretti, Vittoria Carpaccio, and some others. Bianca is now married to Vittoria’s brother Roberto, and Roberto has recently discovered that Bianca is still somewhat in love with Corporal Trivet. No, it would not be a good thing if he came back.’
‘I shall tell my wife what you say,’ said the Count.
About this time Angelo’s labour on the farm was much lightened by a sturdy young man from the mountains north of Udine who, in the last days of the war, had had a series of unfortunate experiences in that part of the country which had persuaded him to leave it forever. He had joined a group of Italian partisans and fought in some small actions against the Germans. Then, for no reason that he could understand, his group had been attacked and he had been taken prisoner by Slovene partisans, who had used him with some brutality, and from whom he had escaped by the timely but inexplicable action of a band of Independent Croats who treated the Slovenes, so the Slovenes said, with great cruelty. Losing his head completely, the young man had fled to the north and fallen into the hands of a regiment of renegade Cossacks who were running away from the Bulgarians who were endeavouring to rescue them from the pluto-democratic forces of the Americans and bring them back into the arms of Soviet Russia. The Cossacks, when they had robbed him of everything he possessed, showed no further interest in him, and he succeeded in joining a company of Free Austrians who, because neither the British nor the Americans would recognize them, grew very morose and handed him over to a ridiculous little party of people who called themselves Werewolves. They, by mere chance, fell foul of a lost company of Ukrainian Separatists, who were also on the run but could not decide whither, and the young man presently found himself alone on a road between Judenburg and Graz. He was desperately anxious to escape – not from anyone in particular but from danger in general – but he found it difficult to decide which way to go; for on one side of the road there were many refugees trudging to the east, and on the other an equal number limping to the west. He finally decided to go west because a female Brazilian war-correspondent, having halted to ask him his political views, offered him a ride in her jeep as far as Klagenfurt.
After re-entering Italy he had managed to make a living for a year or two in the provinces of Lombardy and Emilia, but a persistent impulse to escape kept him moving south until he came into Tuscany and eventually to Pontefiore. There he had met Lucrezia’s young sister Simonetta, by now a very handsome and lively girl, and having fallen wildly in love with her he had agreed to work for Angelo for a merely nominal wage.
One hot day when they were all busy in a field of barley, cutting with steady sickles, Angelo said he would go home to fetch a flask of wine, and Annunziata decided to walk with him to see if the children were safe and happy. There were by now five of them in the house. Annunziata’s baby, a charming little girl just a year old, was a few weeks older than Lucrezia’s, which was also a girl. Tommaso had been left to look after them. Tommaso, a well-grown boy of five, had developed a sense of responsibility and a serious manner, but the young Otello, though an extremely handsome child, was difficult to control, and the little Stanislas had moods of wild exuberance. Otello, now rather more than two years old, had sometimes shown a fondness for killing chickens, and Annunziata was always a little anxious about her infant daughter when he was in the vicinity. On this occasion, however, her fears were groundless, and under Tommaso’s supervision the children were all peacefully occupied.
‘Let us have a glass of wine before we return to the field,’ said Angelo. ‘Simonetta’s young man is doing twice his share to show her how strong he is, so we shall not be missed.’
‘He is nice,’ said Annunziata, rubbing her wrists that the rough beard of the barley had scored with red. ‘Oh, what a happy life we lead here!’
‘Well,’ said Angelo, ‘it is far from perfect, but in comparison with many others we are fortunate. Pontefiore is a small place, of no great importance to the world, so we miss a lot of excitement, but miss a lot of trouble too.’
‘That day when you saw me begging from the soldiers with my baby – look at him now! – was the luckiest day of my life.’
‘Dear Annunziata! You have repaid that little kindness a thousand times.’
‘I am very happy,’ she repeated,
‘Do you never regret your home by the sea? Are you truly contented in this landward place?’
‘I should like some fish for dinner. Fresh fish. I cannot think of anything else I want.’
‘Some day,’ said Angelo, ‘I shall go to Livorno and bring you some fish from there.’
‘Then Pontefiore will be quite perfect.’
He kissed her and said, ‘The wine here is better than anything you grew on the other side. Let us have another glass.’
When she returned to the field, Angelo made an excuse to remain and decided, a little later, that he was disinclined for more work. After thoughtfully drinking a third glass of wine he strolled into the farmyard, and where a broken wall threw a triangle of dark blue shadow lay down, and yawned a little, and presently fell fast asleep.
Voices, some time later, invaded his sleep, but not so strongly as to drive him out of it. He lay between waking and slumber, and listened to the words that were spoken without, at first, hearing anything strange in them or anything very relevant. There were two speakers.
One of them said, ‘Well, there’s no one here except those children. I suppose they’re all at work.’
‘They work hard,’ said the other.
‘What they’ve done,’ said the first voice, ‘is really remarkable. When you think of the state their country was in, and look at it now with the fields decently tended, and the crops growi
ng, and bridges built again, you’ve got to give them credit. Credit for courage as well as hard work. It looked such a hopeless task. Here in Pontefiore, for example, and all down the Liri valley. Quite hopeless. But they tackled it and they did it. They’ve got courage.’
Angelo by now was sufficiently wide awake to realize what was strange about the voices. They were talking English! And one of the voices was well known to him, though he found it very hard to believe that the owner of it had returned to Pontefiore and now stood no more than a few feet away. While he considered this charming improbability, the other voice continued.
‘I think I agree with you,’ it said. ‘You remember all those wretched little towns and villages that we bombed and shelled till you wouldn’t think a human being could live in them? But when we went in there were always some people waiting to cheer us, and throw flowers and give us wine, though we’d smashed their houses and scattered them on the road. I couldn’t do that, and I wouldn’t if I could. Yes, we may have been wrong about them. We laughed at them in Africa, because they ran like rabbits from time to time, but we may have been wrong. They’ve got something. It’s their own sort of courage, but they’ve got it.’
Angelo leapt to his feet, and clutching the flask of wine – which he had thoughtfully taken out with him – stepped round the ruined corner of the house and exclaimed, ‘Oh, Captain Telfer, Major Telfer, or is it Colonel Telfer now? I am transported into bliss to see you again! And do you really and truly believe that I have the dono di coraggio?’
‘Angelo, my dear fellow,’ said Simon, ‘how are you? We went to the castle and saw the Countess – she’s beginning to feel her age, isn’t she? – and she told us where you lived. This is a friend of mine: Major Crowther.’
‘How do you do?’ said Angelo. ‘But is it true that I have the dono di coraggio?’
‘You were listening, were you?’
‘I was sleeping, but not quite asleep after you began to talk. – Let us have some wine: hold the flask and I shall get some glasses. But no! I have a house of my own now, you must come inside and we shall drink in comfort.’
He ushered them into the kitchen and then inquired, with a little anxiety, ‘You do not dislike children, I hope? We have rather a lot here.’
‘Are they all yours?’ asked Major Crowther.
‘In one way, yes. In another, no,’ said Angelo, and briefly explained the ancestry of his family. ‘The babies, however, are truly mine.’
‘Angelo,’ said Simon, raising his glass, ‘have no doubt about it. You possess the dono di coraggio.’
His face beaming with pleasure, Angelo replied, ‘That is something I never expected to hear you say. It makes me very happy to hear it. – But tell me, what are you doing here?’
‘We are on leave,’ said Simon. ‘We are on holiday, we are revisiting familiar scenes and reviving old acquaintance.’
‘Then clearly,’ said Angelo, ‘we must have another drink. This is a day of celebration. And when you have refreshed yourselves we shall go and talk to Lucrezia and Annunziata, who are working in the fields.’
It was nearly an hour later when they set out for the barley-field, and as they left the house Angelo said, ‘I must warn you that Annunziata, who in ordinary circumstances is quite uncommonly pretty, is at the moment not looking her best.’
‘I am sorry to hear that,’ said Simon.
‘No,’ said Angelo, ‘there is nothing to worry about. It is quite natural.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘I hear that your wife is extremely handsome,’ said Major Crowther.
‘Yes, I am very fortunate,’ said Angelo. ‘But Lucrezia too, just at present, is at some disadvantage so far as looks are concerned.’
Simon Telfer and Major Crowther stopped, and stood, and stared at him in astonishment.
‘It is a remarkable coincidence,’ said Angelo modestly.
‘It is a good thing,’ said Simon, ‘that your fields are also bearing well.’
‘Our country is very fertile,’ said Angelo, and leading his guests through the barley, introduced them to Lucrezia, Annunziata, Lucia, Simonetta, and the young man from the mountains north of Udine. ‘Lucrezia,’ he said, ‘there can be no more work today. We have honoured guests. You must go home at once and prepare a meal for them.’
‘There is not very much to eat in the house,’ she whispered.
‘There is prosciutto,’ said Angelo, ‘there are hens in the yard. Carve the one and kill the others. We must eat well tonight.’
‘We are sleeping at the castle,’ said Simon.
‘But you will dine with me!’
It was late in the evening before they had had their fill of food and wine and talk, and not until his guests were about to leave did Angelo remember to ask if Simon had any news of a former companion, the strange adventurer who had worn a tortoiseshell monocle.
‘You mean Fest,’ said Simon. ‘Poor Fest went to look for trouble, and found it. He was killed in Bologna. When the Poles went in they met a person in the uniform of a German colonel. He was eager to be friendly with them, so they shot him immediately. It was Fest.’
‘I remember him clearly in that affair on the road to Vallombrosa,’ said Angelo. ‘He was very brave but rather selfish.’
He and Lucrezia walked a little way towards the castle with Simon and his friend, and when they had arranged to meet again in the morning, said good night.
‘What a day it has been!’ exclaimed Angelo as he turned homeward with Lucrezia. ‘I was sleeping when they arrived, and when I woke I lay for some time and listened to them talking before I got up to greet them. There was one thing they said that pleased me greatly, whether it was true or not. They said I had the dono di coraggio.’
‘Is that really important?’ asked Lucrezia.
‘It is highly important when one has had to do without it for most of one’s life. It gave me so much pleasure to hear what they said that all day, whenever I have thought of it, I have wanted to sing. Shall I sing now?’
‘No,’ said Lucrezia.
‘Just a little song? It would be appropriate, I think.’
‘Courage is a common quality in men of little sense,’ said Lucrezia. ‘I think you over-rate it. A good understanding is much rarer and more important.’
‘I have always had a good understanding of things,’ said Angelo, ‘and I assure you that it does not always make for happiness.’
‘You did not show much understanding when you insisted on inviting your friends to dinner. I told you there was hardly any food in the house, and now there is none at all. We ate the last of the ham and there is no more pasta.’
‘But when one meets an old friend,’ said Angelo, ‘one does not count the cost of entertainment. That would be base indeed.’
‘It is not your way. I know that.’
‘Darling Lucrezia! My way is to be so deeply in love with you that I am in great danger of drowning.’
‘You are a little drunk, aren’t you?’
‘Perhaps – but only a little – and what does it matter? We are going to live for a long, long time, and to be always sober would be most ungrateful.’
‘I hope life will become a little easier if we are to live so long.’
‘It will. I am sure it will.’
‘And some day, perhaps, we shall have enough to eat as well as enough to drink.’
‘We shall have everything we need!’
‘Speriamo,’ said Lucrezia with a sigh.
‘Pazienza!’ cried Angelo. ‘We have stood up to a great deal, we can stand what is still to come, whether it’s poverty or plenty. For we have learnt the most useful of all accomplishments, which is to survive!’
Rome, August 1944 – Orkney, August 1945
About the Author
PRIVATE ANGELO
To the Eighth Army in its new clothes:
an entertainment for virtue.
Eric Linklater (1899–1974), was born in Wales and educated in Aberdeen. His fa
mily came from the Orkney Islands (his father was a master mariner), and the boy spent much of his childhood there.
Linklater served as a private in the Black Watch at the close of the First World War, surviving a nearly fatal head wound to return to Aberdeen to take a degree in English. A spell in Bombay with the Times of India was followed by some university teaching at Aberdeen again, and then a Commonwealth Fellowship which allowed him to travel in America from 1928 to 1930.
Linklater’s memories of Orkney and student life informed his first novel, White Maa’s Saga (1929), while the success of Poet’s Pub in the same year led him to take up writing as a full-time career. A hilarious satirical novel, Juan in America (1931), followed his American trip, while the equally irreverent Magnus Merriman (1934) was based on his experiences as Nationalist candidate for a by-election in East Fife.
Linklater joined the army again in the Second World War, to serve in fortress Orkney, and later as a War Office correspondent reporting the Italian campaign, and later writing the official history. The compassionate comedy of Private Angelo (1946) was drawn from this Italian experience.
With these and many other books, stories and plays to his name, Linklater enjoyed a long and popular career as a writer. His early creative years were described in The Man on my Back (1941), while a fuller autobiography, Fanfare for a Tin Hat, appeared in 1970.
Copyright
First published in Great Britain in 1946 by Jonathan Cape Ltd
First published as a Canongate Classic in 1992,
by Canongate Books Ltd,
14 High Street, Edinburgh, EH1 1TE
This edition first published in 1999, reprinted in 2000
by Canongate Books Ltd
This digital edition first published in 2009
Private Angelo Page 28
