Across the River and into the Trees

Across the River and into the Trees Plot Summary

Introduction

The cold wind sweeps across Venice's Grand Canal as Colonel Richard Cantwell arrives in the ancient water city. At fifty years old, his body bears the scars of two wars, his heart damaged beyond repair. The military doctors have given him their verdict—his time is short. Yet in this final weekend, between the elegant corridors of the Gritti Palace Hotel and the misty waters of the lagoon, he finds something unexpected: Renata, a nineteen-year-old Venetian countess whose dark beauty and passionate spirit offer him one last chance at love. Their affair unfolds against the backdrop of post-war Venice, a wounded soldier's memories, and the inexorable shadow of mortality. As they navigate the canals in gondolas under the winter sky, share intimate moments in hotel rooms with windows open to the bitter cold, and speak of art, war, and love, Cantwell knows this is his final stand—not against an enemy army, but against time itself. In these precious hours, he seeks not just pleasure but redemption, a meaningful end to a life defined by combat.

Chapter 1: A Wounded Soldier in the City of Water

Colonel Richard Cantwell stepped out of the Fiat garage into the winter wind of Venice, feeling the familiar twinges in his damaged heart. At fifty, his weathered face told the story of a career soldier who had seen too much combat. Yesterday, he had taken mannitol hexanitrate to pass his physical examination, hiding the severity of his condition from the army doctor who nevertheless suspected the truth: the Colonel was living on borrowed time. "You know, Dick," the surgeon had said, "it isn't indicated in increased intra-ocular and intra-cranial pressure." "I don't know what you're talking about," the Colonel had replied, but he knew exactly what the doctor meant. His heart was failing. Now, standing at the edge of the Grand Canal, he hired a water taxi to take him to the Gritti Palace Hotel. The boatman navigated through the narrow canals, passing ancient palazzos and under stone bridges. Cantwell watched the city slide by, this place he had first defended as a young soldier in the First World War, long before becoming a colonel, then briefly a general, then a colonel again in a career marked by both brilliance and bluntness. "That's the house of Gabriele d'Annunzio," he told his driver Jackson, pointing to a small villa. He was full of such knowledge about Venice—its history, its battles, its secrets. This was his city in a way, earned through blood on battlefields to defend it decades ago. At the Gritti Palace, the concierge greeted him warmly. The Gran Maestro—the head waiter with whom the Colonel shared a bond from old campaigns—welcomed him with formal affection. They had created a fictional military order between them, a private joke sustained over years of friendship. In his room overlooking the Grand Canal, the Colonel unpacked, took more heart medication, and gazed out at the winter waters. He had come to Venice for two purposes: a duck shoot in the marshes outside the city, and something more personal—a reunion with the young Venetian countess who had captured his heart.

Chapter 2: The Dance of Love Against Time's Shadow

The telephone call came just as the Colonel was finishing his morning glass of Valpolicella at Harry's Bar. He had been waiting for her voice all morning. "I called twice, Richard," she said. "But they explained that you were out. Where were you?" "At the market. How are you, my lovely?" Minutes later, Renata appeared at the table, the wind having tousled her long dark hair. Not yet nineteen, she had the bearing of Venetian nobility and the natural beauty that made the Colonel's damaged heart race dangerously. She wore a simple black sweater that accentuated her olive skin and fine bone structure. "I love you," he told her simply. "Whatever that means," she replied with a slight smile, their familiar exchange. They walked arm in arm across the flooded Piazza San Marco, where water from the high tide reflected the winter sky. Pigeons huddled on elevated platforms, and tourists navigated the square on temporary wooden walkways. The Colonel felt a surge of joy despite the growing pain in his chest, which he masked by swallowing two more pills when Renata looked away. Back in his room at the Gritti, they found a portrait waiting—a painting of Renata that she had sent as a gift. The Colonel studied it while she watched him. "It's wonderful," he said. "But you can't give me that." "I already have," she answered, then approached him. Their embrace was tender at first, then urgent, both aware of the impossible mathematics of their situation: her youth against his age, her future against his absence of one. "Will you marry me and will we have the five sons?" she asked, half in jest, half in painful earnest. "I will," he said, knowing he would not. Later, as they lay together on the bed, Renata asked him about the war, about Paris, about his life as a soldier. The Colonel hesitated, then began to speak of things he rarely shared—the brutal realities of combat, the mistakes of high command, the pointless deaths of good men. "I'll tell you how it was," he said, "and General Walter Bedell Smith doesn't know how it was yet."

Chapter 3: Ghosts of Battle: Memories Across the Lagoon

They crossed the Grand Canal in a gondola that evening, the wind whipping across the black water. Wrapped in a blanket, they huddled close while the gondolier maneuvered through narrow side canals. The Colonel held Renata against the cold, his damaged hand finding comfort in her warmth. "Tell me about when you were wounded," Renata asked. The Colonel's mind drifted to the Piave River, to the day a shell burst above him during the First World War. He had been a lieutenant then, serving with the Italian army, defending Venice from the Austrians. Recently, he had revisited that riverbank, standing on the exact spot where he'd been hit thirty years before. "A poor effort," he had said to the empty battlefield, "but my own." He didn't tell Renata these details. Instead, he spoke of the Second World War, of commanding troops in the forests of Hurtgen, where American soldiers died by the hundreds in what he called "Passchendaele with tree bursts." He described the nightmare of that campaign—the snow, the mines, the endless artillery fire. "We attacked exactly where the Germans wished us to attack," he explained. "We lost three battalion commanders in the first day." As he spoke, the Colonel felt the burden of those memories—the men he'd sent to their deaths, the orders from higher command that made no tactical sense, the responsibility that never left him. Renata listened, stroking his scarred hand, sensing that he needed to unburden himself. "Don't you ever write?" she asked. "So someone would know about such things?" "No," he answered. "I have not the talent for it, and I know too much. Almost any liar writes more convincingly than a man who was there." They returned to the Gritti in silence, each aware that their time together was measured not in years but in hours. In the Colonel's room, with the windows open to the cold night air, they made love with the desperate tenderness of those who know they will soon part forever.

Chapter 4: Emeralds and Portraits: Exchanges of the Heart

Morning light streamed through the open windows of the Colonel's room at the Gritti, illuminating the portrait of Renata. She lay beside him, still sleeping, her dark hair spread across the pillow. The Colonel watched her breathe, measuring his own heartbeat against hers, aware of the contrast between her youth and his decay. When she awoke, they spoke of plans they knew they would never fulfill—a journey across America in a Cadillac, stopping at motels, seeing the mountains of Wyoming. "Will our cars climb them properly?" she asked, playing along with the fantasy. "You're damn right they will," the Colonel answered. Then watched as she struggled not to cry. After breakfast, they walked to a jewelry shop near the Piazza. In the window display, they examined two small Negro heads carved in ebony, adorned with studded jewels. "Which do you like best, Daughter?" the Colonel asked, using his tender nickname for her. "I think the one on the right. Don't you think he has the nicer face?" Inside, Renata negotiated with the clerk in rapid Venetian dialect, securing a lower price—though still more than the Colonel carried. He arranged for Cipriani at Harry's Bar to pay for it and hold it for him. As they walked away, the Colonel said, "By the way, your stones are in the safe at the Gritti in your name." "Your stones," she corrected. The night before, Renata had slipped a set of square emeralds into his pocket—family heirlooms of considerable value. The Colonel had accepted them reluctantly, knowing he must return them. "There are some things that a person cannot do," he explained. "You cannot marry me, and I understand that, although I do not approve it." "Very well," she said. "I understand. But would you take one for a lucky stone?" "No. I couldn't. They are too valuable." "But the portrait has value." "That is different," he said, unable to articulate why he could accept one gift but not the other. They ducked into a side alley where the Colonel kissed her deeply, her hair whipping around both their faces in the winter wind. Both felt the weight of what remained unsaid: that tomorrow he would leave Venice, and that they would likely never see each other again.

Chapter 5: Farewell in Venice: The Bittersweet Departure

The morning of departure arrived cold and bright. At lunch in the Gritti's dining room, the Colonel and Renata sat by the window overlooking the Grand Canal. She had pinned the small ebony Negro head high on her left shoulder. It glinted in the winter sunlight as she moved. "Daughter," the Colonel said, "how long has it been since I told you that I loved you?" "Not since we sat at the table." "I tell you now." The Gran Maestro served them with particular care, bringing special dishes not on the menu, opening a bottle of wine from Vesuvius. Around them, the dining room remained empty—it was the dead of winter, and few tourists visited Venice in this season. After lunch, they walked to the motor launch that would take the Colonel to the garage where his car waited. Jackson, his driver, had already loaded the luggage and the carefully wrapped portrait. The cold wind still blew off the mountains. "Can't I ride with you to the garage?" Renata asked. "It would be just as bad at the garage." "Please let me ride to the garage." "All right," the Colonel said. "It's your show, really. Get in." They rode in silence across the lagoon, the wind at their backs. At the landing, Jackson handled the luggage while the Colonel and Renata sat on a bench under the bare trees. "Look, Daughter," the Colonel said finally. "There isn't anything to say. They didn't install shock-absorbers in this vehicle we ride in now." Renata was crying, despite her resolution never to do so. "I've stopped," she said, wiping her eyes. "I'm not an hysterical." "I wouldn't say you were. I'd say you're the loveliest and most beautiful girl that ever lived. Any time. Any place. Anywhere." "If it were true, what difference would it make?" "You have me there," the Colonel said. "But it is true." They stood and held each other close, kissing hard and true. The Colonel walked her back to the water taxi that would return her to Venice. "Good-bye, my dear, lovely, beautiful," he said. "Good-bye," she answered, and was gone.

Chapter 6: The Final Hunt: Communion with Nature

The Colonel sat in the sunken oak hogshead used as a duck blind in the Veneto marshes. It had been a good evening with the Barone Alvarito and the other hunters at the lodge, with excellent food cooked on an open hearth and a fair amount of exaggeration and good-natured lying after the grappa had been passed around. Now, in the bitter cold of dawn, he watched the frozen lagoon stretch before him. His poler—a local man who handled the boat and retrieved downed birds—had positioned him in what should have been the best spot, but the overnight freeze had ruined the hunting. Most ducks would not land on ice. A pair of pintails suddenly appeared, slanting down fast in a dive no airplane could match. The Colonel swung and killed the drake cleanly. Before it hit the ice, he had killed its mate as she climbed, long-necked and fast. "So it is murder," the Colonel thought. "And what isn't nowadays? But, boy, you can still shoot." The morning progressed slowly. Few ducks came within range, and those that did approached cautiously. The Colonel heard a shot behind him, where he knew there was no other blind. Turning, he saw the sullen boatman shooting at ducks that would have come to the Colonel's blind—a serious breach of hunting etiquette. He took two of his heart pills and washed them down with Gordon's gin from his flask. On the flat silver surface, hidden under a worn leather cover, was engraved: "to Richard From Renata With Love." No one had ever seen this inscription except the girl, the Colonel, and the man who had engraved it. By mid-morning, with the lagoon still frozen and few birds moving, the Colonel signaled the boatman to retrieve him. The man came slowly, breaking ice all the way, his earlier anger now replaced by a grim satisfaction. "You shot very few," he said to the Colonel. "With your help," the Colonel replied. They worked together in silence, collecting decoys and the few ducks the Colonel had managed to shoot. As they poled back through the breaking ice toward the brown canal, the Colonel saw the boatman's retriever dog stop suddenly in the high grass and sedge, then pounce on a crippled mallard drake. The Colonel took the duck from the dog's mouth and felt it intact and beautiful to hold, its heart beating, its captured eyes hopeless. "He's only wing-tipped," he said. "We'll keep him for a caller or to turn loose in the Spring." At the landing, the head game-keeper counted the Colonel's meager take—only a handful compared to the Barone's forty-two birds. "It was frozen-up at our post," the Colonel explained, and went inside to find Alvarito waiting by the fire.

Chapter 7: Crossing the River: A Soldier's Last Journey

"I am sorry you did not have better shooting," Alvarito said with his shy smile. "We froze up completely. I enjoyed what there was very much." The Barone explained that the cold would drive most ducks south that night, leaving only the local birds that stayed through winter. They spoke briefly about the shoot, about Venice. Then Alvarito asked for a ride to his home. As they prepared to leave, the Colonel asked what had troubled the sullen boatman. "It was the old battle-jacket," Alvarito explained. "Allied uniform affects him that way. You see, he was a bit over-liberated. When the Moroccans came through here, they raped both his wife and his daughter." "I think I'd better have a drink," the Colonel said. They dropped Alvarito at his villa with its grand gates and gravel drive. Before parting, the Barone asked, "Is that her portrait that you have wrapped in the back of the car?" "It is." "I'll tell her that you shot very well and that the portrait was in good condition." "Also my love." "Also your love." Back on the road, with Jackson driving, the Colonel directed him to turn left onto a smaller route. "That's not the road for Trieste, sir," Jackson said. "The hell with the road to Trieste. I ordered you to turn left." They were on the old road the Colonel knew well from the war, the one that ran along the Tagliamento River where he had fought as a young lieutenant. He reached into his pocket, found a pad and pencil, and with his bad hand printed a short message in block letters. "Put that in your pocket, Jackson, and act on it if necessary. If the circumstances described occur, it is an order." The Colonel settled back, feeling the familiar pressure building in his chest. Three strikes is out, he thought, and they gave me four. I've always been a lucky son of a bitch. It hit him again, worse this time. "Jackson," he said, "do you know what General Thomas J. Jackson said on one occasion? On the occasion of his unfortunate death... 'No, no, let us cross over the river and rest under the shade of the trees.'" The Colonel started to speak again but stopped as the pain gripped him so severely he knew he could not survive. "Jackson," the Colonel said. "Pull up at the side of the road and cut to your parking lights. Do you know the way to Trieste from here?" "Yes, sir, I have my map." "Good. I'm now going to get into the large back seat of this god-damned, over-sized luxurious automobile." That was the last thing Colonel Cantwell ever said. He made it to the back seat and shut the door—carefully and well. After a while, Jackson turned the car around and headed south toward Trieste. He switched on his map light and read the note the Colonel had given him: "IN THE EVENT OF MY DEATH THE WRAPPED PAINTING AND THE TWO SHOTGUNS IN THIS CAR WILL BE RETURNED TO THE HOTEL GRITTI VENICE WHERE THEY WILL BE CLAIMED BY THEIR RIGHTFUL OWNER SIGNED RICHARD CANTWELL, COL., INFANTRY, U.S.A."

Summary

Colonel Richard Cantwell died as he had lived—on his own terms, facing the inevitable with clear-eyed acceptance. His final weekend encompassed the fullness of his existence: passionate love with Renata, communion with nature in the marshes, and immersion in the beauty of Venice, the city he had defended in his youth. The portrait would return to the countess, along with his hunting guns—physical remnants of a man whose body had finally surrendered to the wounds of two wars. For Renata, left to walk the canals alone with her grief, remained the impossible mathematics of their love: the young woman who chose to love a dying man, knowing the emptiness that would follow. The Colonel's death, coming on a quiet road near battlefields where he had once commanded men, closed a circle begun thirty years earlier when he was first wounded by the Piave River. In those intervening decades, he had risen to general and fallen back to colonel, had loved and lost, had sent men to die and survived when perhaps he should not have. His last words—not of love or regret but of practical instruction—embodied the soldier's pragmatism that had defined him. Yet in his final weekend, he had achieved something that had eluded him throughout his military career: not victory over an enemy, but reconciliation with his own mortality, mediated through the tender mercies of love, beauty, and the dignity of facing death without flinching.

About Author

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Ernest Hemingway

Hemingway interrogates the essence of human courage and existential struggle through a prose style that emphasizes economy and precision. His narratives, such as "A Farewell to Arms" and "For Whom the Bell Tolls," often delve into themes of war, love, and the human condition, providing readers a profound exploration of life's inherent conflicts. By situating his characters in environments ranging from the Italian Front during World War I to the plains of Africa, Hemingway connects the visceral experiences of his protagonists with broader existential questions. \n\nHis commitment to this minimalist style not only defined his own literary voice but also influenced countless writers of the 20th century. While his book "The Old Man and the Sea" secured him the Pulitzer Prize, his overarching impact on narrative form led to his receipt of the Nobel Prize in Literature. Readers benefit from Hemingway’s approach as it invites them to engage actively with the text, uncovering deeper meanings beneath the surface. This short bio reveals how his own adventurous and tumultuous life, marked by his experiences as a war correspondent and his personal struggles, shaped his work, offering a window into the complex interplay between life and literature.

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