The Gadfly, E. L. Voynich [best books to read for self development .txt] 📗

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of the wooden posts of the tent. “It seems to

me–-”

 

She broke off and remained looking at him

silently. Except when she had stood with Montanelli

at the garden gate in Leghorn, she had

never seen a human face express such fathomless,

hopeless misery. She thought of Dante’s hell as

she watched him.

 

Presently the hunchback, receiving a kick from

one of the clowns, turned a somersault and tumbled

in a grotesque heap outside the ring. A dialogue

between two clowns began, and the Gadfly

seemed to wake out of a dream.

 

“Shall we go?” he asked; “or would you like

to see more?”

 

“I would rather go.”

 

They left the tent, and walked across the dark

green to the river. For a few moments neither

spoke.

 

“What did you think of the show?” the Gadfly

asked presently.

 

“I thought it rather a dreary business; and

part of it seemed to me positively unpleasant.”

 

“Which part?”

 

“Well, all those grimaces and contortions.

They are simply ugly; there is nothing clever

about them.”

 

“Do you mean the hunchback’s performance?”

 

Remembering his peculiar sensitiveness on the

subject of his own physical defects, she had

avoided mentioning this particular bit of the

entertainment; but now that he had touched upon

the subject himself, she answered: “Yes; I did

not like that part at all.”

 

“That was the part the people enjoyed most.”

 

“I dare say; and that is just the worst thing

about it.”

 

“Because it was inartistic?”

 

“N-no; it was all inartistic. I meant—because

it was cruel.”

 

He smiled.

 

“Cruel? Do you mean to the hunchback?”

 

“I mean–- Of course the man himself was

quite indifferent; no doubt, it is to him just a way

of getting a living, like the circus-rider’s way or

the columbine’s. But the thing makes one feel

unhappy. It is humiliating; it is the degradation

of a human being.”

 

“He probably is not any more degraded than

he was to start with. Most of us are degraded in

one way or another.”

 

“Yes; but this—I dare say you will think it

an absurd prejudice; but a human body, to me, is

a sacred thing; I don’t like to see it treated

irreverently and made hideous.”

 

“And a human soul?”

 

He had stopped short, and was standing with

one hand on the stone balustrade of the embankment,

looking straight at her.

 

“A soul?” she repeated, stopping in her turn

to look at him in wonder.

 

He flung out both hands with a sudden, passionate gesture.

 

“Has it never occurred to you that that miserable

clown may have a soul—a living, struggling,

human soul, tied down into that crooked hulk of

a body and forced to slave for it? You that are so

tender-hearted to everything—you that pity the

body in its fool’s dress and bells—have you never

thought of the wretched soul that has not even

motley to cover its horrible nakedness? Think

of it shivering with cold, stilled with shame and

misery, before all those people—feeling their jeers

that cut like a whip—their laughter, that burns

like red-hot iron on the bare flesh! Think of it

looking round—so helpless before them all—for

the mountains that will not fall on it—for the rocks

that have not the heart to cover it—envying the

rats that can creep into some hole in the earth

and hide; and remember that a soul is dumb—it

has no voice to cry out—it must endure, and endure,

and endure. Oh! I’m talking nonsense!

Why on earth don’t you laugh? You have no

sense of humour!”

 

Slowly and in dead silence she turned and

walked on along the river side. During the whole

evening it had not once occurred to her to connect

his trouble, whatever it might be, with the

variety show; and now that some dim picture of

his inner life had been revealed to her by this sudden

outburst, she could not find, in her overwhelming

pity for him, one word to say. He

walked on beside her, with his head turned away,

and looked into the water.

 

“I want you, please, to understand,” he began

suddenly, turning to her with a defiant air, “that

everything I have just been saying to you is pure

imagination. I’m rather given to romancing, but

I don’t like people to take it seriously.”

 

She made no answer, and they walked on in

silence. As they passed by the gateway of the

Uffizi, he crossed the road and stooped down

over a dark bundle that was lying against the

railings.

 

“What is the matter, little one?” he asked,

more gently than she had ever heard him speak.

“Why don’t you go home?”

 

The bundle moved, and answered something in

a low, moaning voice. Gemma came across to

look, and saw a child of about six years old,

ragged and dirty, crouching on the pavement like a

frightened animal. The Gadfly was bending down

with his hand on the unkempt head.

 

“What is it?” he said, stooping lower to catch

the unintelligible answer. “You ought to go

home to bed; little boys have no business out of

doors at night; you’ll be quite frozen! Give me

your hand and jump up like a man! Where do

you live?”

 

He took the child’s arm to raise him. The result

was a sharp scream and a quick shrinking away.

 

“Why, what is it?” the Gadfly asked, kneeling

down on the pavement. “Ah! Signora, look

here!”

 

The child’s shoulder and jacket were covered

with blood.

 

“Tell me what has happened?” the Gadfly

went on caressingly. “It wasn’t a fall, was it?

No? Someone’s been beating you? I thought

so! Who was it?”

 

“My uncle.”

 

“Ah, yes! And when was it?”

 

“This morning. He was drunk, and I—I–-”

 

“And you got in his way—was that it? You

shouldn’t get in people’s way when they are

drunk, little man; they don’t like it. What shall

we do with this poor mite, signora? Come here

to the light, sonny, and let me look at that

shoulder. Put your arm round my neck; I won’t

hurt you. There we are!”

 

He lifted the boy in his arms, and, carrying him

across the street, set him down on the wide stone

balustrade. Then, taking out a pocketknife, he

deftly ripped up the torn sleeve, supporting the

child’s head against his breast, while Gemma held

the injured arm. The shoulder was badly bruised

and grazed, and there was a deep gash on the arm.

 

“That’s an ugly cut to give a mite like you,”

said the Gadfly, fastening his handkerchief round

the wound to prevent the jacket from rubbing

against it. “What did he do it with?”

 

“The shovel. I went to ask him to give me a

soldo to get some polenta at the corner shop, and

he hit me with the shovel.”

 

The Gadfly shuddered. “Ah!” he said softly,

“that hurts; doesn’t it, little one?”

 

“He hit me with the shovel—and I ran away—

I ran away—because he hit me.”

 

“And you’ve been wandering about ever since,

without any dinner?”

 

Instead of answering, the child began to sob

violently. The Gadfly lifted him off the balustrade.

 

“There, there! We’ll soon set all that straight.

I wonder if we can get a cab anywhere. I’m afraid

they’ll all be waiting by the theatre; there’s a

grand performance going on to-night. I am sorry

to drag you about so, signora; but–-”

 

“I would rather come with you. You may

want help. Do you think you can carry him so

far? Isn’t he very heavy?”

 

“Oh, I can manage, thank you.”

 

At the theatre door they found only a few cabs

waiting, and these were all engaged. The performance

was over, and most of the audience had

gone. Zita’s name was printed in large letters on

the wall-placards; she had been dancing in the

ballet. Asking Gemma to wait for him a moment,

the Gadfly went round to the performers’ entrance,

and spoke to an attendant.

 

“Has Mme. Reni gone yet?”

 

“No, sir,” the man answered, staring blankly

at the spectacle of a well-dressed gentleman carrying

a ragged street child in his arms, “Mme.

Reni is just coming out, I think; her carriage is

waiting for her. Yes; there she comes.”

 

Zita descended the stairs, leaning on the arm of

a young cavalry officer. She looked superbly

handsome, with an opera cloak of flame-coloured

velvet thrown over her evening dress, and a great

fan of ostrich plumes hanging from her waist. In

the entry she stopped short, and, drawing her

hand away from the officer’s arm, approached the

Gadfly in amazement.

 

“Felice!” she exclaimed under her breath,

“what HAVE you got there?”

 

“I have picked up this child in the street. It is

hurt and starving; and I want to get it home as

quickly as possible. There is not a cab to be got

anywhere, so I want to have your carriage.”

 

“Felice! you are not going to take a horrid

beggar-child into your rooms! Send for a policeman,

and let him carry it to the Refuge or whatever

is the proper place for it. You can’t have all

the paupers in the town–-”

 

“It is hurt,” the Gadfly repeated; “it can go

to the Refuge to-morrow, if necessary, but I must

see to the child first and give it some food.”

 

Zita made a little grimace of disgust. “You’ve

got its head right against your shirt! How CAN

you? It is dirty!”

 

The Gadfly looked up with a sudden flash of anger.

 

“It is hungry,” he said fiercely. “You don’t

know what that means, do you?”

 

“Signer Rivarez,” interposed Gemma, coming

forward, “my lodgings are quite close. Let us

take the child in there. Then, if you cannot find

a vettura, I will manage to put it up for the

night.”

 

He turned round quickly. “You don’t mind?”

 

“Of course not. Good-night, Mme. Reni!”

 

The gipsy, with a stiff bow and an angry shrug

of her shoulders, took her officer’s arm again, and,

gathering up the train of her dress, swept past

them to the contested carriage.

 

“I will send it back to fetch you and the child,

if you like, M. Rivarez,” she said, pausing on the

doorstep.

 

“Very well; I will give the address.” He came

out on to the pavement, gave the address to the

driver, and walked back to Gemma with his burden.

 

Katie was waiting up for her mistress; and, on

hearing what had happened, ran for warm water

and other necessaries. Placing the child on a

chair, the Gadfly knelt down beside him, and,

deftly slipping off the ragged clothing, bathed

and bandaged the wound with tender, skilful

hands. He had just finished washing the boy, and

was wrapping him in a warm blanket, when

Gemma came in with a tray in her hands.

 

“Is your patient ready for his supper?” she

asked, smiling at the strange little figure. “I

have been cooking it for him.”

 

The Gadfly stood up and rolled the dirty rags

together. “I’m afraid we have made a terrible

mess in your room,” he said. “As for these, they

had better go straight into the fire, and I will buy

him some new clothes to-morrow. Have you any

brandy in the house, signora? I think he ought

to have a little. I will just wash my hands, if you

will allow me.”

 

When the child had finished his supper, he

immediately went to sleep in the Gadfly’s arms, with

his rough head against the white shirt-front.

Gemma, who had been helping