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

promiscuous

knifing is that it becomes a habit. The people get

to look upon it as an everyday occurrence, and

their sense of the sacredness of human life gets

blunted. I have not been much in the Romagna,

but what little I have seen of the people has given

me the impression that they have got, or are getting,

into a mechanical habit of violence.”

 

“Surely even that is better than a mechanical

habit of obedience and submission.”

 

“I don’t think so. All mechanical habits are

bad and slavish, and this one is ferocious as well.

Of course, if you look upon the work of the revolutionist

as the mere wresting of certain definite

concessions from the government, then the secret

sect and the knife must seem to you the best 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 an end in itself,

but only a means to an end, and that what we

really need to reform is the relation between man

and man, then you must go differently to work.

Accustoming ignorant people to the sight of blood

is 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 place it 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 mistakes seems 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 disease itself is what is called a

religious attitude of mind. It is the morbid

desire to set up a fetich and adore it, to fall down

and worship something. It makes little difference

whether the something be Jesus or Buddha or a

tum-tum tree. You don’t agree with me, of

course. You may be atheist or agnostic or anything

you like, but I could feel the religious temperament

in you at five yards. However, it is of

no use for us to discuss that. But you are quite

mistaken in thinking that I, for one, look upon the

knifing as merely a means of removing objectionable

officials—it is, above all, a means, and I think

the best means, of undermining the prestige of the

Church and of accustoming people to look upon

clerical agents as upon any other vermin.”

 

“And when you have accomplished that; when

you have roused the wild beast 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; and

when you can get it, open insurrection.”

 

“Then let us come back to the question of my

plan; it has something to do with propaganda and

more with insurrection.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“As I tell you, a good many volunteers are going

from the Romagna to join the Venetians.

We do not know yet how soon the insurrection

will break out. It may not be till the autumn

or winter; but the volunteers in the Apennines

must be armed and ready, so that they may be

able to start for the plains directly they are

sent for. I have undertaken to smuggle the

firearms and ammunition on to Papal territory for

them–-”

 

“Wait a minute. How do you come to be

working with that set? The revolutionists in

Lombardy and Venetia are all in favour of the new

Pope. They are going in for liberal reforms, hand

in hand with the 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 amuse themselves with a rag-doll,

so long as they do their work? Of course they

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 do to beat

a dog with, I suppose, and any cry to set the people

on the Austrians.”

 

“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 the arms in England, and there

is a good deal of difficulty about bringing them

over. It’s impossible to get them through any

of the Pontifical sea-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 transport in at a harbour where there

is no trade, and you know the whole shipping of

Civita Vecchia amounts to about three row-boats

and a fishing smack. If we once get the things

across Tuscany, I can manage the Papal frontier;

my men know every path in the mountains, and we

have plenty of hiding-places. The transport must

come by sea to Leghorn, and that is my great difficulty;

I am not in with the smugglers there, and

I believe you are.”

 

“Give me five minutes to think.”

 

She leaned forward, resting one elbow on her

knee, and supporting the chin 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 any stabbing or secret violence of

any kind?”

 

“Certainly. It goes without saying that I

should not have asked you to join 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 decide in.”

 

“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 final answer.”

 

… . .

 

On the following Sunday Gemma sent in to the

committee of the Florentine branch of the Mazzinian

party a statement that she wished to undertake

a special work of a political nature, which

would for a few months prevent her from performing

the functions for which she had up till now

been responsible to the party.

 

Some surprise was felt at this announcement,

but the committee raised no objection; she had

been known in the party for several years as a person

whose judgment might be trusted; and the

members agreed that if Signora Bolla took an unexpected

step, she probably had good reasons for it.

 

To Martini she said frankly that she had undertaken

to help the Gadfly with some “frontier

work.” She had stipulated for the right to tell her

old friend this much, in order that there might be

no misunderstanding or painful sense of doubt and

mystery between them. It seemed to her that she

owed him this proof of confidence. He made no

comment when she told him; but she saw, without

knowing why, that the news had wounded

him deeply.

 

They were sitting on the terrace of her lodging,

looking out over the red roofs to Fiesole. After

a long silence, Martini rose and began tramping

up and down with his hands in his pockets, whistling

to himself—a sure sign with him of mental agitation.

She sat looking at him for a little while.

 

“Cesare, you are worried about this affair,” she

said at last. “I am very sorry you feel so despondent

over it; but I could decide only as seemed

right to me.”

 

“It is not the affair,” he answered, sullenly;

“I know nothing about it, and it probably is all

right, once you have consented to go into it. It’s

the MAN I distrust.”

 

“I think you misunderstand him; I did till I

got to know him better. He is 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, then suddenly stopped beside

her.

 

“Gemma, give it up! Give it up before it is too

late! Don’t let that man drag 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 my

own will, after thinking the matter well over alone.

You have a personal dislike to Rivarez, I know;

but we are talking of politics now, not of persons.”

 

“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 answered wearily.

 

He went away, saying that he was busy, and

tramped for hours up and down the muddy streets.

The world looked very black to him that evening.

One poor ewe-lamb—and this slippery creature

had stepped in and stolen it away.

 

CHAPTER X.

 

TOWARDS the middle of February the Gadfly

went to Leghorn. Gemma had introduced him to

a young Englishman there, a shipping-agent of

liberal views, whom she and her husband had

known in England. He had on several occasions

performed little services for the Florentine radicals:

had lent money to meet an unforeseen emergency,

had allowed his business address to be used

for the party’s letters, etc.; but always through

Gemma’s mediumship, and as a private friend of

hers. She was, therefore, according to party

etiquette, free to make use of the connexion in

any way that might seem good to her. Whether

any use could be got out of it was quite another

question. To ask a friendly sympathizer to lend

his address for letters from Sicily or to keep a

few documents in a corner of his counting-house

safe was one thing; to ask him to smuggle over a

transport of firearms for an insurrection was

another; and she had very little hope of his

consenting.

 

“You can but try,” she had said to the Gadfly;

“but I don’t think anything will come of it. If

you were to go to him with that recommendation

and ask for five hundred scudi, I dare say he’d give

them to you at once—he’s exceedingly generous,

—and perhaps at a pinch he would lend you

his passport or hide a fugitive in his cellar; but if

you mention such a thing as rifles he will stare at

you and think we’re both demented.”