“We could talk Italian. I am a little tired, too.”
“Oh, but when you are tired it will be easier for you to talk English.”
“American.”
“Yes. American. You will please talk American. It is a delightful language.”
“I hardly ever see Americans.”
“You must miss them. One misses one’s countrymen and especially one’s countrywomen. I know that experience. Should we play or are you too tired?”
“I’m not really tired. I said that for a joke. What handicap will you give me?”
“Have you been playing very much?”
“None at all.”
“You play very well. Ten points in a hundred?”
“You flatter me.”
“Fifteen?”
“That would be fine but you will beat me.”
“Should we play for a stake? You always wished to play for a stake.”
“I think we’d better.”
“All right. I will give you eighteen points and we will play for a franc a point.”
He played a lovely game of billiards and with the handicap I was only four ahead at fifty. Count Greffi pushed a button on the wall to ring for the barman.
“Open one bottle please,” he said. Then to me, “We will take a little stimulant.” The wine was icy cold and very dry and good.
“Should we talk Italian? Would you mind very much? It is my weakness now.”
We went on playing, sipping the wine between shots, speaking in Italian, but talking little, concentrated on the game. Count Greffi made his one hundredth point and with the handicap I was only at ninety-four. He smiled and patted me on the shoulder.
“Now we will drink the other bottle and you will tell me about the war.” He waited for me to sit down.
“About anything else,” I said.
“You don’t want to talk about it? Good. What have you been reading?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I’m afraid I am very dull.”
“No. But you should read.”
“What is there written in war-time?”
“There is ‘Le Feu’ by a Frenchman, Barbusse. There is ‘Mr. Britling Sees Through It.’ ”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“What?”
“He doesn’t see through it. Those books were at the hospital.”
“Then you have been reading?”
“Yes, but nothing any good.”
“I thought ‘Mr. Britling’ a very good study of the English middle-class soul.”
“I don’t know about the soul.”
“Poor boy. We none of us know about the soul. Are you Croyant?”
“At night.”
Count Greffi smiled and turned the glass with his fingers. “I had expected to become more devout as I grow older but somehow I haven’t,” he said. “It is a great pity.”
“Would you like to live after death?” I asked and instantly felt a fool to mention death. But he did not mind the word.
“It would depend on the life. This life is very pleasant. I would like to live forever,” he smiled. “I very nearly have.”
We were sitting in the deep leather chairs, the champagne in the ice-bucket and our glasses on the table between us.
“If you ever live to be as old as I am you will find many things strange.”
“You never seem old.”
“It is the body that is old. Sometimes I am afraid I will break off a finger as one breaks a stick of chalk. And the spirit is no older and not much wiser.”
“You are wise.”
“No, that is the great fallacy; the wisdom of old men. They do not grow wise. They grow careful.”
“Perhaps that is wisdom.”
“It is a very unattractive wisdom. What do you value most?”
“Some one I love.”
“With me it is the same. That is not wisdom. Do you value life?”
“Yes.”
“So do I. Because it is all I have. And to give birthday parties,” he laughed. “You are probably wiser than I am. You do not give birthday parties.”
We both drank the wine.
“What do you think of the war really?” I asked.
“I think it is stupid.”
“Who will win it?”
“Italy.”
“Why?”
“They are a younger nation.”
“Do younger nations always win wars?”
“They are apt to for a time.”
“Then what happens?”
“They become older nations.”
“You said you were not wise.”
“Dear boy, that is not wisdom. That is cynicism.”
“It sounds very wise to me.”
“It’s not particularly. I could quote you the examples on the other side. But it is not bad. Have we finished the champagne?”
“Almost.”
“Should we drink some more? Then I must dress.”
“Perhaps we’d better not now.”
“You are sure you don’t want more?”
“Yes.” He stood up.
“I hope you will be very fortunate and very happy and very, very healthy.”
“Thank you. And I hope you will live forever.”
“Thank you. I have. And if you ever become devout pray for me if I am dead. I am asking several of my friends to do that. I had expected to become devout myself but it has not come.” I thought he smiled sadly but I could not tell. He was so old and his face was very wrinkled, so that a smile used so many lines that all gradations were lost.
“I might become very devout,” I said. “Anyway, I will pray for you.”
“I had always expected to become devout. All my family died very devout. But somehow it does not come.”
“It’s too early.”
“Maybe it is too late. Perhaps I have outlived my religious feeling.”
“My own comes only at night.”
“Then too you are in love. Do not forget that is a religious feeling.”
“You believe so?”
“Of course.” He took a step toward the table. “You were very kind to play.”
“It was a great pleasure.”
