CHAPTER IX.
A FEW days later, the Gadfly, still rather pale and limping more thanusual, entered the reading room of the public library and asked forCardinal Montanelli's sermons. Riccardo, who was reading at a table nearhim, looked up. He liked the Gadfly very much, but could not digest thisone trait in him--this curious personal maliciousness.
"Are you preparing another volley against that unlucky Cardinal?" heasked half irritably.
"My dear fellow, why do you a-a-always attribute evil m-m-motives topeople? It's m-most unchristian. I am preparing an essay on contemporarytheology for the n-n-new paper."
"What new paper?" Riccardo frowned. It was perhaps an open secret thata new press-law was expected and that the Opposition was preparing toastonish the town with a radical newspaper; but still it was, formally,a secret.
"The Swindlers' Gazette, of course, or the Church Calendar."
"Sh-sh! Rivarez, we are disturbing the other readers."
"Well then, stick to your surgery, if that's your subject, and l-l-leaveme to th-theology--that's mine. I d-d-don't interfere with yourtreatment of broken bones, though I know a p-p-precious lot more aboutthem than you do."
He sat down to his volume of sermons with an intent and preoccupiedface. One of the librarians came up to him.
"Signor Rivarez! I think you were in the Duprez expedition, exploringthe tributaries of the Amazon? Perhaps you will kindly help us in adifficulty. A lady has been inquiring for the records of the expedition,and they are at the binder's."
"What does she want to know?"
"Only in what year the expedition started and when it passed throughEcuador."
"It started from Paris in the autumn of 1837, and passed through Quitoin April, 1838. We were three years in Brazil; then went down to Rio andgot back to Paris in the summer of 1841. Does the lady want the dates ofthe separate discoveries?"
"No, thank you; only these. I have written them down. Beppo, take thispaper to Signora Bolla, please. Many thanks, Signor Rivarez. I am sorryto have troubled you."
The Gadfly leaned back in his chair with a perplexed frown. What did shewant the dates for? When they passed through Ecuador----
Gemma went home with the slip of paper in her hand. April, 1838--andArthur had died in May, 1833. Five years--
She began pacing up and down her room. She had slept badly the last fewnights, and there were dark shadows under her eyes.
Five years;--and an "overluxurious home"--and "someone he had trustedhad deceived him"--had deceived him--and he had found it out----
She stopped and put up both hands to her head. Oh, this was utterlymad--it was not possible--it was absurd----
And yet, how they had dragged that harbour!
Five years--and he was "not twenty-one" when the Lascar---- Then he musthave been nineteen when he ran away from home. Had he not said: "A yearand a half----" Where did he get those blue eyes from, and thatnervous restlessness of the fingers? And why was he so bitter againstMontanelli? Five years--five years------
If she could but know that he was drowned--if she could but have seenthe body; some day, surely, the old wound would have left off aching,the old memory would have lost its terrors. Perhaps in another twentyyears she would have learned to look back without shrinking.
All her youth had been poisoned by the thought of what she had done.Resolutely, day after day and year after year, she had fought againstthe demon of remorse. Always she had remembered that her work lay in thefuture; always had shut her eyes and ears to the haunting spectre of thepast. And day after day, year after year, the image of the drowned bodydrifting out to sea had never left her, and the bitter cry that shecould not silence had risen in her heart: "I have killed Arthur! Arthuris dead!" Sometimes it had seemed to her that her burden was too heavyto be borne.
Now she would have given half her life to have that burden back again.If she had killed him--that was a familiar grief; she had endured it toolong to sink under it now. But if she had driven him, not into the waterbut into------ She sat down, covering her eyes with both hands. And herlife had been darkened for his sake, because he was dead! If she hadbrought upon him nothing worse than death----
Steadily, pitilessly she went back, step by step, through the hell ofhis past life. It was as vivid to her as though she had seen and feltit all; the helpless shivering of the naked soul, the mockery thatwas bitterer than death, the horror of loneliness, the slow, grinding,relentless agony. It was as vivid as if she had sat beside him in thefilthy Indian hut; as if she had suffered with him in the silver-mines,the coffee fields, the horrible variety show--
The variety show---- No, she must shut out that image, at least; it wasenough to drive one mad to sit and think of it.
She opened a little drawer in her writing-desk. It contained the fewpersonal relics which she could not bring herself to destroy. Shewas not given to the hoarding up of sentimental trifles; and thepreservation of these keepsakes was a concession to that weaker side ofher nature which she kept under with so steady a hand. She very seldomallowed herself to look at them.
Now she took them out, one after another: Giovanni's first letter toher, and the flowers that had lain in his dead hand; a lock of herbaby's hair and a withered leaf from her father's grave. At the back ofthe drawer was a miniature portrait of Arthur at ten years old--the onlyexisting likeness of him.
She sat down with it in her hands and looked at the beautiful childishhead, till the face of the real Arthur rose up afresh before her. Howclear it was in every detail! The sensitive lines of the mouth, thewide, earnest eyes, the seraphic purity of expression--they were gravenin upon her memory, as though he had died yesterday. Slowly the blindingtears welled up and hid the portrait.
Oh, how could she have thought such a thing! It was like sacrilege evento dream of this bright, far-off spirit, bound to the sordid miseries oflife. Surely the gods had loved him a little, and had let him die young!Better a thousand times that he should pass into utter nothingness thanthat he should live and be the Gadfly--the Gadfly, with his faultlessneckties and his doubtful witticisms, his bitter tongue and his balletgirl! No, no! It was all a horrible, senseless fancy; and she had vexedher heart with vain imaginings. Arthur was dead.
"May I come in?" asked a soft voice at the door.
She started so that the portrait fell from her hand, and the Gadfly,limping across the room, picked it up and handed it to her.
"How you startled me!" she said.
"I am s-so sorry. Perhaps I am disturbing you?"
"No. I was only turning over some old things."
She hesitated for a moment; then handed him back the miniature.
"What do you think of that head?"
While he looked at it she watched his face as though her life dependedupon its expression; but it was merely negative and critical.
"You have set me a difficult task," he said. "The portrait is faded,and a child's face is always hard to read. But I should think that childwould grow into an unlucky man, and the wisest thing he could do wouldbe to abstain from growing into a man at all."
"Why?"
"Look at the line of the under-lip. Th-th-that is the sort of naturethat feels pain as pain and wrong as wrong; and the world has nor-r-room for such people; it needs people who feel nothing but theirwork."
"Is it at all like anyone you know?"
He looked at the portrait more closely.
"Yes. What a curious thing! Of course it is; very like."
"Like whom?"
"C-c-cardinal Montan-nelli. I wonder whether his irreproachable Eminencehas any nephews, by the way? Who is it, if I may ask?"
"It is a portrait, taken in childhood, of the friend I told you aboutthe other day----"
"Whom you killed?"
She winced in spite of herself. How lightly, how cruelly he used thatdreadful word!
"Yes, whom I killed--if he is really dead."
"If?"
She kept her eyes on his face.
"I have somet
imes doubted," she said. "The body was never found. He mayhave run away from home, like you, and gone to South America."
"Let us hope not. That would be a bad memory to carry about with you. Ihave d-d-done some hard fighting in my t-time, and have sent m-more thanone man to Hades, perhaps; but if I had it on my conscience that I hadsent any l-living thing to South America, I should sleep badly----"
"Then do you believe," she interrupted, coming nearer to him withclasped hands, "that if he were not drowned,--if he had been throughyour experience instead,--he would never come back and let the pastgo? Do you believe he would NEVER forget? Remember, it has cost mesomething, too. Look!"
She pushed back the heavy waves of hair from her forehead. Through theblack locks ran a broad white streak.
There was a long silence.
"I think," the Gadfly said slowly, "that the dead are better dead.Forgetting some things is a difficult matter. And if I were in the placeof your dead friend, I would s-s-stay dead. The REVENANT is an uglyspectre."
She put the portrait back into its drawer and locked the desk.
"That is hard doctrine," she said. "And now we will talk about somethingelse."
"I came to have a little business talk with you, if I may--a privateone, about a plan that I have in my head."
She drew a chair to the table and sat down. "What do you think of theprojected press-law?" he began, without a trace of his usual stammer.
"What I think of it? I think it will not be of much value, but half aloaf is better than no bread."
"Undoubtedly. Then do you intend to work on one of the new papers thesegood folk here are preparing to start?"
"I thought of doing so. There is always a great deal of practical workto be done in starting any paper--printing and circulation arrangementsand----"
"How long are you going to waste your mental gifts in that fashion?"
"Why 'waste'?"
"Because it is waste. You know quite well that you have a far betterhead than most of the men you are working with, and you let them make aregular drudge and Johannes factotum of you. Intellectually you are asfar ahead of Grassini and Galli as if they were schoolboys; yet you sitcorrecting their proofs like a printer's devil."
"In the first place, I don't spend all my time in correcting proofs; andmoreover it seems to me that you exaggerate my mental capacities. Theyare by no means so brilliant as you think."
"I don't think them brilliant at all," he answered quietly; "but I dothink them sound and solid, which is of much more importance. At thosedreary committee meetings it is always you who put your finger on theweak spot in everybody's logic."
"You are not fair to the others. Martini, for instance, has a verylogical head, and there is no doubt about the capacities of Fabriziand Lega. Then Grassini has a sounder knowledge of Italian economicstatistics than any official in the country, perhaps."
"Well, that's not saying much; but let us lay them and their capacitiesaside. The fact remains that you, with such gifts as you possess,might do more important work and fill a more responsible post than atpresent."
"I am quite satisfied with my position. The work I am doing is not ofvery much value, perhaps, but we all do what we can."
"Signora Bolla, you and I have gone too far to play at compliments andmodest denials now. Tell me honestly, do you recognize that you areusing up your brain on work which persons inferior to you could do aswell?"
"Since you press me for an answer--yes, to some extent."
"Then why do you let that go on?"
No answer.
"Why do you let it go on?"
"Because--I can't help it."
"Why?"
She looked up reproachfully. "That is unkind--it's not fair to press meso."
"But all the same you are going to tell me why."
"If you must have it, then--because my life has been smashed intopieces, and I have not the energy to start anything REAL, now. Iam about fit to be a revolutionary cab-horse, and do the party'sdrudge-work. At least I do it conscientiously, and it must be done bysomebody."
"Certainly it must be done by somebody; but not always by the sameperson."
"It's about all I'm fit for."
He looked at her with half-shut eyes, inscrutably. Presently she raisedher head.
"We are returning to the old subject; and this was to be a businesstalk. It is quite useless, I assure you, to tell me I might have doneall sorts of things. I shall never do them now. But I may be able tohelp you in thinking out your plan. What is it?"
"You begin by telling me that it is useless for me to suggest anything,and then ask what I want to suggest. My plan requires your help inaction, not only in thinking out."
"Let me hear it and then we will discuss."
"Tell me first whether you have heard anything about schemes for arising in Venetia."
"I have heard of nothing but schemes for risings and Sanfedist plotsever since the amnesty, and I fear I am as sceptical about the one asabout the other."
"So am I, in most cases; but I am speaking of really seriouspreparations for a rising of the whole province against the Austrians.A good many young fellows in the Papal States--particularly in theFour Legations--are secretly preparing to get across there and join asvolunteers. And I hear from my friends in the Romagna----"
"Tell me," she interrupted, "are you quite sure that these friends ofyours can be trusted?"
"Quite sure. I know them personally, and have worked with them."
"That is, they are members of the 'sect' to which you belong? Forgivemy scepticism, but I am always a little doubtful as to the accuracyof information received from secret societies. It seems to me that thehabit----"
"Who told you I belonged to a 'sect'?" he interrupted sharply.
"No one; I guessed it."
"Ah!" He leaned back in his chair and looked at her, frowning. "Do youalways guess people's private affairs?" he said after a moment.
"Very often. I am rather observant, and have a habit of putting thingstogether. I tell you that so that you may be careful when you don't wantme to know a thing."
"I don't mind your knowing anything so long as it goes no further. Isuppose this has not----"
She lifted her head with a gesture of half-offended surprise. "Surelythat is an unnecessary question!" she said.
"Of course I know you would not speak of anything to outsiders; but Ithought that perhaps, to the members of your party----"
"The party's business is with facts, not with my personal conjecturesand fancies. Of course I have never mentioned the subject to anyone."
"Thank you. Do you happen to have guessed which sect I belong to?"
"I hope--you must not take offence at my frankness; it was you whostarted this talk, you know---- I do hope it is not the 'Knifers.'"
"Why do you hope that?"
"Because you are fit for better things."
"We are all fit for better things than we ever do. There is your ownanswer back again. However, it is not the 'Knifers' that I belong to,but the 'Red Girdles.' They are a steadier lot, and take their work moreseriously."
"Do you mean the work of knifing?"
"That, among other things. Knives are very useful in their way; but onlywhen you have a good, organized propaganda behind them. That is what Idislike in the other sect. They think a knife can settle all the world'sdifficulties; and that's a mistake. It can settle a good many, but notall."
"Do you honestly believe that it settles any?"
He looked at her in surprise.
"Of course," she went on, "it eliminates, for the moment, the practicaldifficulty caused by the presence of a clever spy or objectionableofficial; but whether it does not create worse difficulties in place ofthe one removed is another question. It seems to me like the parable ofthe swept and garnished house and the seven devils. Every assassinationonly makes the police more vicious and the people more accustomed toviolence and brutality, and the last state of the community may be worsethan the first."
&n
bsp; "What do you think will happen when the revolution comes? Do you supposethe people won't have to get accustomed to violence then? War is war."
"Yes, but open revolution is another matter. It is one moment in thepeople's life, and it is the price we have to pay for all our progress.No doubt fearful things will happen; they must in every revolution.But they will be isolated facts--exceptional features of an exceptionalmoment. The horrible thing about this promiscuous knifing is thatit becomes a habit. The people get to look upon it as an every-dayoccurrence, and their sense of the sacredness of human life getsblunted. I have not been much in the Romagna, but what little I haveseen of the people has given me the impression that they have got, orare getting, into a mechanical habit of violence."
"Surely even that is better than a mechanical habit of obedience andsubmission."
"I don't think so. All mechanical habits are bad and slavish, and thisone is ferocious as well. Of course, if you look upon the work of therevolutionist as the mere wresting of certain definite concessions fromthe government, then the secret sect and the knife must seem to you thebest weapons, for there is nothing else which all governments so dread.But if you think, as I do, that to force the government's hand is not anend in itself, but only a means to an end, and that what we reallyneed to reform is the relation between man and man, then you must godifferently to work. Accustoming ignorant people to the sight of bloodis not the way to raise the value they put on human life."
"And the value they put on religion?"
"I don't understand."
He smiled.
"I think we differ as to where the root of the mischief lies. You placeit in a lack of appreciation of the value of human life."
"Rather of the sacredness of human personality."
"Put it as you like. To me the great cause of our muddles and mistakesseems to lie in the mental disease called religion."
"Do you mean any religion in particular?"
"Oh, no! That is a mere question of external symptoms. The diseaseitself is what is called a religious attitude of mind. It is themorbid desire to set up a fetich and adore it, to fall down and worshipsomething. It makes little difference whether the something be Jesus orBuddha or a tum-tum tree. You don't agree with me, of course. You may beatheist or agnostic or anything you like, but I could feel the religioustemperament in you at five yards. However, it is of no use for us todiscuss that. But you are quite mistaken in thinking that I, for one,look upon the knifing as merely a means of removing objectionableofficials--it is, above all, a means, and I think the best means, ofundermining the prestige of the Church and of accustoming people to lookupon clerical agents as upon any other vermin."
"And when you have accomplished that; when you have roused the wildbeast that sleeps in the people and set it on the Church; then----"
"Then I shall have done the work that makes it worth my while to live."
"Is THAT the work you spoke of the other day?"
"Yes, just that."
She shivered and turned away.
"You are disappointed in me?" he said, looking up with a smile.
"No; not exactly that. I am--I think--a little afraid of you."
She turned round after a moment and said in her ordinary business voice:
"This is an unprofitable discussion. Our standpoints are too different.For my part, I believe in propaganda, propaganda, and propaganda; andwhen you can get it, open insurrection."
"Then let us come back to the question of my plan; it has something todo with propaganda and more with insurrection."
"Yes?"
"As I tell you, a good many volunteers are going from the Romagna tojoin the Venetians. We do not know yet how soon the insurrection willbreak out. It may not be till the autumn or winter; but the volunteersin the Apennines must be armed and ready, so that they may be able tostart for the plains directly they are sent for. I have undertaken tosmuggle the firearms and ammunition on to Papal territory for them----"
"Wait a minute. How do you come to be working with that set? Therevolutionists in Lombardy and Venetia are all in favour of the newPope. They are going in for liberal reforms, hand in hand withthe progressive movement in the Church. How can a 'no-compromise'anti-clerical like you get on with them?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "What is it to me if they like to amusethemselves with a rag-doll, so long as they do their work? Of coursethey will take the Pope for a figurehead. What have I to do with that,if only the insurrection gets under way somehow? Any stick will doto beat a dog with, I suppose, and any cry to set the people on theAustrians."
"What is it you want me to do?"
"Chiefly to help me get the firearms across."
"But how could I do that?"
"You are just the person who could do it best. I think of buying thearms in England, and there is a good deal of difficulty about bringingthem over. It's impossible to get them through any of the Pontificalsea-ports; they must come by Tuscany, and go across the Apennines."
"That makes two frontiers to cross instead of one."
"Yes; but the other way is hopeless; you can't smuggle a big transportin at a harbour where there is no trade, and you know the whole shippingof Civita Vecchia amounts to about three row-boats and a fishingsmack. If we once get the things across Tuscany, I can manage the Papalfrontier; my men know every path in the mountains, and we have plenty ofhiding-places. The transport must come by sea to Leghorn, and that ismy great difficulty; I am not in with the smugglers there, and I believeyou are."
"Give me five minutes to think."
She leaned forward, resting one elbow on her knee, and supporting thechin on the raised hand. After a few moments' silence she looked up.
"It is possible that I might be of some use in that part of the work,"she said; "but before we go any further, I want to ask you a question.Can you give me your word that this business is not connected with anystabbing or secret violence of any kind?"
"Certainly. It goes without saying that I should not have asked you tojoin in a thing of which I know you disapprove."
"When do you want a definite answer from me?"
"There is not much time to lose; but I can give you a few days to decidein."
"Are you free next Saturday evening?"
"Let me see--to-day is Thursday; yes."
"Then come here. I will think the matter over and give you a finalanswer."
*****
On the following Sunday Gemma sent in to the committee of the Florentinebranch of the Mazzinian party a statement that she wished to undertake aspecial work of a political nature, which would for a few months preventher from performing the functions for which she had up till now beenresponsible to the party.
Some surprise was felt at this announcement, but the committee raised noobjection; she had been known in the party for several years as a personwhose judgment might be trusted; and the members agreed that if SignoraBolla took an unexpected step, she probably had good reasons for it.
To Martini she said frankly that she had undertaken to help the Gadflywith some "frontier work." She had stipulated for the right to tell herold friend this much, in order that there might be no misunderstandingor painful sense of doubt and mystery between them. It seemed to herthat she owed him this proof of confidence. He made no comment when shetold him; but she saw, without knowing why, that the news had woundedhim deeply.
They were sitting on the terrace of her lodging, looking out over thered roofs to Fiesole. After a long silence, Martini rose and begantramping up and down with his hands in his pockets, whistling tohimself--a sure sign with him of mental agitation. She sat looking athim for a little while.
"Cesare, you are worried about this affair," she said at last. "I amvery sorry you feel so despondent over it; but I could decide only asseemed right to me."
"It is not the affair," he answered, sullenly; "I know nothing aboutit, and it probably is all right, once you have consented to go into it.It's the MAN I distrust."
"I think you misund
erstand him; I did till I got to know him better. Heis far from perfect, but there is much more good in him than you think."
"Very likely." For a moment he tramped to and fro in silence, thensuddenly stopped beside her.
"Gemma, give it up! Give it up before it is too late! Don't let that mandrag you into things you will repent afterwards."
"Cesare," she said gently, "you are not thinking what you are saying.No one is dragging me into anything. I have made this decision of myown will, after thinking the matter well over alone. You have a personaldislike to Rivarez, I know; but we are talking of politics now, not ofpersons."
"Madonna! Give it up! That man is dangerous; he is secret, and cruel,and unscrupulous--and he is in love with you!"
She drew back.
"Cesare, how can you get such fancies into your head?"
"He is in love with you," Martini repeated. "Keep clear of him,Madonna!"
"Dear Cesare, I can't keep clear of him; and I can't explain to you why.We are tied together--not by any wish or doing of our own."
"If you are tied, there is nothing more to say," Martini answeredwearily.
He went away, saying that he was busy, and tramped for hours up and downthe muddy streets. The world looked very black to him that evening. Onepoor ewe-lamb--and this slippery creature had stepped in and stolen itaway.