The next day, Mac got a car from his law firm for the three hour, one-hundred- twenty-mile drive north of Rome to La Foce. The villa was in the province of Siena, located in the southern Tuscany Region. Mac told Carla to be ready early, so that they would have plenty of time to get there before the midday meal. He was still thrown off from their lunch with the Pontiff the day before.
“Don’t worry, Mac. It went very well. We both love you, and we both love you enough to give you the room you need to make your own decisions. The Pope had to agree that you were already serving both interests, mine, and that of the Church, so we did not need to upset the applecart. I think I charmed him.”
“There's no question. Every time he saw me afterwards, he mentioned you! It's distracting.”
“Let's just enjoy the day, Mac. It is beautiful. There are no bombs falling on us, at the moment anyway, and we are together.”
“You are right, Carla. But thank you for being you.”
During the three-hour drive, they went back and forth, laughing and enjoying their time alone together. As they pulled up to the gravel drive of La Foce, a man in a peasant-hunting shirt came out of nowhere to remove the chain blocking their way. The two-story white brick villa, with its terra cotta roof, was surrounded by many narrow green arborvitaes that reached twice the height of the home. The side yard was blocked by a four-foot sculpture-covered wall, with a rust-colored gate, open to welcome their guests down a path of more gravel, and even more incredibly tall arborvitaes.
Antonio and Iris Origo stood at the gate welcoming the young couple, as Iris held her six-month-old, Benedetta, in her arms. Antonio sported a plaid sports jacket with an open collar shirt, and grey trousers. His receding hairline did nothing to spoil his handsomeness. Iris, ten years his younger, had short dark hair, pinned back behind her ears. She was wearing a maroon cardigan, in deference to the spring morning chill, over a cotton blouse, open on her chest, and a pencil skirt, belying the fact that she had been with child only six months before. She was pretty in a motherly way, but she was no match for her husband in the looks department.
“Welcome to La Foce!” yelled Antonio. “Come in, come in!” he continued, holding out his hand to show the way.
“Thank you,” said Carla, as Mac followed her into the open gate, his hand placed behind her back.
“Virginia is inside freshening up,” said Iris. “Let me show you the villa. I’m sure you need to use the facilities after the long ride from Rome. Can you believe that when we first bought this place there was no indoor plumbing?” laughed Iris. “Horrors!”
On the way into the villa, Iris told the young couple how she and Antonio had purchased La Foce in 1924, shortly after they were married, when she was only twenty-two years old. The fifteenth century villa was in a dilapidated condition, and yet, they went forward anyway, despite all the advice they had received to the contrary. The land was barren and eroded; there was little water. Yet, they bought it because they wanted a place with enough work to fill their lifetimes.
“In that, we were very successful,” laughed Antonio.
The main house had no heat, no electric lights, and no bathroom. The estate included twenty-five farms, filled with families dependent upon the land. They spent the next fifteen years turning bare clay into golden wheat fields, rebuilding the farms, and modernizing the villa. The gardens were now lush, the woods green, and the families hard at work in the fields, bringing in marvelous crops for themselves, and to sell in the village. Iris told Carla that she should get Mac to do the same thing that she and Antonio had done, while Mac smiled politely.
“It keeps us busy, and keeps my man at home, if you know what I mean.”
The rear of the villa sported a large flagstone patio, with extensive mature plantings, and newly planted flowerpots bursting with color, along the perimeter. A table had been set on one side of the patio, under a flowering arbor. An eclectic collection of chairs were pushed under a white needlepoint flowered tablecloth, which was flapping in the light breeze. Open bottles of wine were breathing on the table, with platters of local cheeses and home-made dried sausage, already cut into mouth-sized pieces.
“Carla, Mac, this is Virginia,” said Iris, introducing their other guest, as she came onto the patio, after leaving the rear French doors of the villa.
“It is a pleasure,” said Mac. “I am a fan of your work.”
“Nice to meet you,” said Carla, shaking the woman's hand.
“The pleasure is all mine, darlings,” said Virginia. “Iris has told me all about you. Iris, dear, I need a drink, darling. I am parched after that interminable ride from Florence. I hear that you came all the way from Rome,” she said to Mac. “How dreadful! Weren’t you afraid they might drop a bomb on you?”
“Hardly,” laughed Mac. “After all, I am an American.”
They all laughed at Mac's quip, as Iris poured the wine at the table into crystal Waterford goblets.
“Iris is such a lovely hostess, don’t you think?” said Virginia as she accepted a glass of wine. “Waterford, darling? A girl after my own heart.”
“I lived in the Isles myself; you forget, dear. I am a transplanted Italian; an Italian by impregnation, as they say.”
“You dear thing,” laughed Virginia. “Benedetta is beautiful, by the way. She looks like her father,” chided the older woman.
“Thank God,” responded Iris. “Yes, she does look like Antonio. He has proven good for something.”
“At least he is with you,” offered Virginia. “My Leonard is off playing soldier in the Home Guard, if you can believe it. Most ridiculous! A bunch of overweight, aged, Englishmen, carrying clubs, and shouting slogans, as if they could keep the Germans on their side of the channel. I am much smarter. I came here to finish my latest novel, Between the Acts, before I go back to England. No one is going to attack Italy; not just yet anyway.”
“I would love to write,” offered Carla, seeking to inject herself into the conversation.
“Just do it, darling,” responded Iris. “I am keeping a journal of my time here at La Foce. I hope to write novels one day. For now, I toil in obscurity on biographies of people no one really wants to know about.”
“Don’t be silly, darling,” offered Virginia. “Your work is well received. Just keep at it. You have the perfect place to write here at La Foce. Plenty of room to spread out, clean air to clear your palette, and enough money coming in to support you while you make a go of it.”
“A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction,” said Mac, quoting Virginia, in her essay, “A room of One's Own.”
“Touché, young man, you have read my work. I am flattered.”
“Honestly, I boned up on it before coming here today,” laughed Mac. “I do so love your writing, though. But as for memorizing it, I will not tell you that I remember anything else. That line just stuck with me.”
“You are too charming, young man. I am still flattered.”
“Thank you, Virginia. Well, then I am flattered, that you are flattered.”
“My doctors say I am crazy, but I say, it is they who are daft,” said Virginia. “I just see the truth, and I tell it like it is. Perhaps, I am crazy, come to think about it. Who tells the truth these days?”
“You and Carla have much in common, Virginia. Just yesterday, she told the Pope what it is. No fear, this girl,” said Mac, attempting to bring Carla into the conversation once again. “She flat out told Pope Pius XII what she thinks, and she charmed him in the process. She got him to turn around to the way she saw things. I tell you, no fear!”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” said Carla. “I was nervous as hell, but when something needs to be said, I feel obligated to say it.”
“Well, good for you, young Carla. Always be true to thyself,” said Virginia. “I have always been true to myself, no matter what anyone thinks about me. I do not feel I am long for this world, but I would hope that they remember me in that way.”
“Nonsense, Virginia, what are you talking about? You are not even sixty, my friend,” said Iris. “You have inspired a generation of women to be true to themselves.”
“Thank you, my dear. It has been a long road to here, I’m afraid. I’m hungry. You got any food in this place?” laughed Virginia.
“Yes, yes, Virginia,” responded Antonio. “I will see to it, dear,” he said, seemingly thrilled to be able to get away from the morose conversation.
The Origos served their guests Cornish game hens in plum sauce, which they claimed to have raised on the property, parsley potatoes, and broccoli rabe, along with bottle upon bottle of Chardonnay.
“How did you get your hands on this divine Chardonnay, darling?” Virginia asked Antonio. “I thought the fascists put a stop to all imports, something about retaliating against tariffs?”
“I have a stock of special vintages in the basement that I have gathered, as I could sense the coming storm. When it is all gone, I shall have to join up and volunteer for duty in France, where I can plunder the vineyards, and bring home the spoils of war,” laughed Antonio. “Actually, we have planted our own vineyards here at La Foce, but the wine is not yet ready for public consideration.”
The dinner banter was pleasant, and amusing, as the ladies went back and forth on the topic of how to keep their man happy. Carla, the least experienced, was clearly the most enthusiastic, much to Mac's embarrassment.
“Have you been to the beach here in Tuscany, Mac?” asked Iris, looking to bring him into the conversation.
“No, I haven’t yet. Where would you recommend?”
“We go to Viareggio when we want to go fancy,” offered Virginia.
“Yes, but for young lovers, I would go to Maremma, by the nature reserve of the Uccellina Park,” offered Iris. “The clear water, the endless sunsets, so romantic. Just beautiful!”
“The further south you go, the clearer the water becomes, and the less rocky the coast,” offered Antonio. “The Etruscan coast south of Viareggio is tranquil, with long sandy beaches. There are many coves where you can just sneak in, and take dip au naturel,” winked Antonio, while everyone else laughed.
“Oh Antonio, you’re terrible, you beast,” said Virginia. “How come you have never taken me to these au naturel places?”
“Perhaps, I will, Ginny. Perhaps, I will! You would shed your modesty for me, my dear?”
“As long as you bring your lovely wife. For her, I would shed my modesty,” laughed Virginia. “Unless you would like to come along, Carla?”
Carla blushed crimson, but she laughed along with everyone else.
“Maybe, I should get to take Carla first, no?” asked Mac, laughing along with the others.
“So, did anyone hear Il Duce's speech, last weekend?” asked Iris, changing the topic to what she knew Mac wanted to hear about.
“I caught part of it on the radio,” said Antonio, “but it is all the same drivel, if you ask me.”
“What would we do without the radio,” wondered Iris, out loud. “I have joined the wide captive audience, I am afraid, listening to confused, discordant voices from far away lands, all saying nothing. The radio has made fools of us all if you ask me.”
“Too much information,” yelled Virginia, the wine clearly having an effect. “Propaganda, I say! They tell you what they want you to hear, whether it is true or not. You would have to listen to the radio reports from every country around the world, then distill it, to get something approximating the truth.”
“I used to like Mussolini,” said Iris. “In some ways, anyway. His firmness, his sense of complete remoteness and loneliness, I found somewhat endearing. I, like most Italians, closed my eyes to the oppressiveness. But I am afraid it has become too much to ignore.”
“It seems the King and Mussolini are at odds,” said Antonio. “The Army is intensely anti-German, and the King is anti-war. The Army will follow the King if there is a difference of opinion.”
“That is why Mussolini is trying to make it sound like Italy has no choice. His speech sought to leave the clear impression that he does not want war. It is the democracies in their fury against Germany and Italy, who are at fault here. They provoked it, he claims.”
“Nonsense,” said Virginia. “Propaganda!”
“He has been selling that for years,” claimed Iris. “Rearmament is necessary as a measure of self protection, to safeguard the peace in Europe,” mocked Iris, standing with her hand out, mimicking Il Duce.
“So, he goes into Greece and Albania, and Africa before that, to safeguard the peace in Europe?” asked Virginia, sarcastically.
“He claims that the democracies are hypocritical,” offered Antonio. “They criticize the Italians and the Germans for taking land as a means of self-protection, yet they squat their fat English behinds in Gibraltar, in Palestine, and wherever the hell else they damn well please, as if they alone were destined to rule the world.”
“True, Antonio, but no one took Gibraltar or Palestine by force, while killing off the population in those places,” offered Iris.
“Well, now, who is being naïve, my dear?” asked Antonio. “Who says the English did not force the issue?”
“I suppose there is a certain naiveté of a more dangerous kind in denying any idealistic motives to one's opponent,” said Virginia.
“He had a point, in his speech, I would say,” offered Antonio. “If there is a war, the democracies will be fighting for their privileges, while Italy and Germany for their lives. He presents the whole problem as an economic one. The democratic countries, the “haves,” are permanently blocking the way of the “have-nots” to economic expansion. Germany and Italy must fight or submit to suffocation. Are not the Japanese, halfway around the World, saying the same thing?”
“He dwelled on that encirclement theme again,” followed Iris. “He is trying to convince everyone, including himself, that the encirclement of Italy and Germany by non-Fascist democracies is fatal to the continuation of the Italian and German way of life.”
“More propaganda!” yelled Virginia. “No one wants war, on either side. The Germans are counting on that in pushing the envelope as far as they can. So far, it has worked. Austria, Czechoslovakia, the Rhine, all taken with nary a shot fired, and now Poland, France, and the Low Countries. Where will it end? Where someone does more than just say “stop”? The fight for our way of life is inevitable, I am afraid. Pass the wine, Antonio, I am getting more depressed by the minute.”
“What is the attitude of the everyday Italian people towards Mussolini, and to Germany?” asked Mac.
“The Italians hate the Germans, Mac,” said Iris. “It is in their blood, in their heredity. The Hapsburgs had dominated the Italians for so long, there is a natural hatred between the two peoples. Our workers here on La Foce cannot believe that Italy would sacrifice its young men on behalf of an ally who is so generally detested.”
“So, why do they tolerate it?” asked Mac.
“Mussolini rules with an iron fist, Mac,” said Iris. “The Squadristi are everywhere, in the streets, on the trains, in the bars, and they are always listening. I am sure you have seen it. If you speak out, you may just simply disappear. Everyone is afraid, and rightly so. Some Italians hope for a war just to rid us of the fascists.”
“There is discontent everywhere,” said Antonio. “Men are being shipped out every day, their women clinging to them out in public. People are openly calling Mussolini and Hitler “gli due assassini,” saying they will desert to the other side before they would fight for those murderers. Women are asking, “What's the use of struggling? They take our husbands, and soon they will take our babies.” Families are happy to have little girls, so they do not have to worry about losing a child in some foreign land. One girl here on the farm that is expecting her first baby, prays daily it will be a girl. She asked me “what's the use of having boys if they’ll take them away from me and kill them?” What do I say to that?”
“Our workers came here to listen to Mussolini speak on the radio last night,” said Iris. The men have colorless, guarded expressions, while the women an undisguised anxiety. One old man told me that if his four sons who work his farm are called up, he might as well drown himself in the ditch at once.”
“The point is, I suppose, Mac, no one here wants war, not even Mussolini,” said Antonio. “It is destroying our way of life here in Tuscany. And, for what? No one cares about Mussolini's ambitions anymore. He was great for this country. He brought us together, and he kept stability. But now, he rips us apart. He governs now by fear alone. The Italian people will welcome his coming demise. And it is sure to come to that. There is no other way this can end.”
“Darlings, who is being morose now?” asked Virginia. The world is at war, but your little slice of paradise remains intact, for now, anyway. Let's enjoy it while it lasts. Antonio, more Chardonnay, please!”
The party continued through the afternoon, as the warmth and the company were enchanting.