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

how to answer

her. Yes, Gemma was right; he had got his life into

a tangle that he would have hard work to undo.

 

“Sit down and let us talk about it quietly,” he

said, coming back after a moment. “I think we

have misunderstood each other; of course I should

not have laughed if I had thought you were serious.

Try to tell me plainly what is troubling you;

and then, if there is any misunderstanding, we

may be able to clear it up.”

 

“There’s nothing to clear up. I can see you

don’t care a brass farthing for me.”

 

“My dear child, we had better be quite frank

with each other. I have always tried to be honest

about our relationship, and I think I have never

deceived you as to–-”

 

“Oh, no! you have been honest enough; you

have never even pretended to think of me as anything

else but a prostitute,—a trumpery bit of

second-hand finery that plenty of other men have

had before you—”

 

“Hush, Zita! I have never thought that way

about any living thing.”

 

“You have never loved me,” she insisted sullenly.

 

“No, I have never loved you. Listen to me,

and try to think as little harm of me as you can.”

 

“Who said I thought any harm of you? I–-”

 

“Wait a minute. This is what I want to say:

I have no belief whatever in conventional moral

codes, and no respect for them. To me the relations

between men and women are simply questions of

personal likes and dislikes––”

 

“And of money,” she interrupted with a harsh

little laugh. He winced and hesitated a moment.

 

“That, of course, is the ugly part of the matter.

But believe me, if I had thought that you disliked

me, or felt any repulsion to the thing, I would

never have suggested it, or taken advantage of

your position to persuade you to it. I have never

done that to any woman in my life, and I have

never told a woman a lie about my feeling for her.

You may trust me that I am speaking the truth–-”

 

He paused a moment, but she did not answer.

 

“I thought,” he went on; “that if a man is

alone in the world and feels the need of—of a

woman’s presence about him, and if he can find

a woman who is attractive to him and to whom he

is not repulsive, he has a right to accept, in a grateful

and friendly spirit, such pleasure as that woman

is willing to give him, without entering into any

closer bond. I saw no harm in the thing, provided

only there is no unfairness or insult or deceit

on either side. As for your having been in that

relation with other men before I met you, I did

not think about that. I merely thought that the

connexion would be a pleasant and harmless one

for both of us, and that either was free to break

it as soon as it became irksome. If I was mistaken

—if you have grown to look upon it differently—

then–-”

 

He paused again.

 

“Then?” she whispered, without looking up.

 

“Then I have done you a wrong, and I am very

sorry. But I did not mean to do it.”

 

“You ‘did not mean’ and you ‘thought’–-

Felice, are you made of cast iron? Have you never

been in love with a woman in your life that you

can’t see I love you?”

 

A sudden thrill went through him; it was so

long since anyone had said to him: “I love you.”

Instantly she started up and flung her arms round

him.

 

“Felice, come away with me! Come away from

this dreadful country and all these people and their

politics! What have we got to do with them?

Come away, and we will be happy together. Let

us go to South America, where you used to live.”

 

The physical horror of association startled

him back into self-control; he unclasped her hands

from his neck and held them in a steady grasp.

 

“Zita! Try to understand what I am saying

to you. I do not love you; and if I did I would

not come away with you. I have my work in

Italy, and my comrades–-”

 

“And someone else that you love better than

me!” she cried out fiercely. “Oh, I could kill

you! It is not your comrades you care about;

 

it’s–- I know who it is!”

 

“Hush!” he said quietly. “You are excited

and imagining things that are not true.”

 

“You suppose I am thinking of Signora Bolla?

I’m not so easily duped! You only talk politics

with her; you care no more for her than you do for

me. It’s that Cardinal!”

 

The Gadfly started as if he had been shot.

 

“Cardinal?” he repeated mechanically.

 

“Cardinal Montanelli, that came here preaching

in the autumn. Do you think I didn’t see your

face when his carriage passed? You were as white

as my pocket-handkerchief! Why, you’re shaking

like a leaf now because I mentioned his name!”

 

He stood up.

 

“You don’t know what you are talking about,”

he said very slowly and softly. “I—hate the

Cardinal. He is the worst enemy I have.”

 

“Enemy or no, you love him better than you

love anyone else in the world. Look me in the

face and say that is not true, if you can!”

 

He turned away, and looked out into the garden.

She watched him furtively, half-scared at

what she had done; there was something terrifying

in his silence. At last she stole up to him,

like a frightened child, and timidly pulled his

sleeve. He turned round.

 

“It is true,” he said.

 

CHAPTER XI.

 

“BUT c-c-can’t I meet him somewhere in the

hills? Brisighella is a risky place for me.”

 

“Every inch of ground in the Romagna is

risky for you; but just at this moment Brisighella

is safer for you than any other place.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I’ll tell you in a minute. Don’t let that man

with the blue jacket see your face; he’s dangerous.

Yes; it was a terrible storm; I don’t remember to

have seen the vines so bad for a long time.”

 

The Gadfly spread his arms on the table, and

laid his face upon them, like a man overcome with

fatigue or wine; and the dangerous new-comer in

the blue jacket, glancing swiftly round, saw only

two farmers discussing their crops over a flask of

wine and a sleepy mountaineer with his head on

the table. It was the usual sort of thing to see in

little places like Marradi; and the owner of the

blue jacket apparently made up his mind that

nothing could be gained by listening; for he drank

his wine at a gulp and sauntered into the outer

room. There he stood leaning on the counter and

gossiping lazily with the landlord, glancing every

now and then out of the corner of one eye through

the open door, beyond which sat the three figures

at the table. The two farmers went on sipping

their wine and discussing the weather in the local

dialect, and the Gadfly snored like a man whose

conscience is sound.

 

At last the spy seemed to make up his mind that

there was nothing in the wine-shop worth further

waste of his time. He paid his reckoning, and,

lounging out of the house, sauntered away down

the narrow street. The Gadfly, yawning and

stretching, lifted himself up and sleepily rubbed

the sleeve of his linen blouse across his eyes.

 

“Pretty sharp practice that,” he said, pulling

a clasp-knife out of his pocket and cutting off a

chunk from the rye-loaf on the table. “Have

they been worrying you much lately, Michele?”

 

“They’ve been worse than mosquitos in August.

There’s no getting a minute’s peace; wherever

one goes, there’s always a spy hanging about.

Even right up in the hills, where they used to be

so shy about venturing, they have taken to coming

in bands of three or four—haven’t they, Gino?

That’s why we arranged for you to meet Domenichino

in the town.”

 

“Yes; but why Brisighella? A frontier town

is always full of spies.”

 

“Brisighella just now is a capital place. It’s

swarming with pilgrims from all parts of the country.”

 

“But it’s not on the way to anywhere.”

 

“It’s not far out of the way to Rome, and many

of the Easter Pilgrims are going round to hear

Mass there.”

 

“I d-d-didn’t know there was anything special

in Brisighella.”

 

“There’s the Cardinal. Don’t you remember

his going to Florence to preach last December?

It’s that same Cardinal Montanelli. They say he

made a great sensation.”

 

“I dare say; I don’t go to hear sermons.”

 

“Well, he has the reputation of being a saint,

you see.”

 

“How does he manage that?”

 

“I don’t know. I suppose it’s because he gives

away all his income, and lives like a parish priest

with four or five hundred scudi a year.”

 

“Ah!” interposed the man called Gino; “but

it’s more than that. He doesn’t only give away

money; he spends his whole life in looking after

the poor, and seeing the sick are properly treated,

and hearing complaints and grievances from morning

till night. I’m no fonder of priests than you

are, Michele, but Monsignor Montanelli is not like

other Cardinals.”

 

“Oh, I dare say he’s more fool than knave!”

said Michele. “Anyhow, the people are mad after

him, and the last new freak is for the pilgrims to

go round that way to ask his blessing. Domenichino

thought of going as a pedlar, with a basket

of cheap crosses and rosaries. The people like to

buy those things and ask the Cardinal to touch

them; then they put them round their babies’

necks to keep off the evil eye.”

 

“Wait a minute. How am I to go—as a pilgrim?

This make-up suits me p-pretty well, I think; but

it w-won’t do for me to show myself in Brisighella

in the same character that I had here; it would be

ev-v-vidence against you if I get taken.”

 

“You won’t get taken; we have a splendid

disguise for you, with a passport and all complete.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“An old Spanish pilgrim—a repentant brigand

from the Sierras. He fell ill in Ancona last year,

and one of our friends took him on board a trading-vessel

out of charity, and set him down in Venice, where he had

friends, and he left his papers with us to show his

gratitude. They will just do for you.”

 

“A repentant b-b-brigand? But w-what about

the police?”

 

“Oh, that’s all right! He finished his term of

the galleys some years ago, and has been going

about to Jerusalem and all sorts of places saving

his soul ever since. He killed his son by mistake

for somebody else, and gave himself up to the

police in a fit of remorse.”

 

“Was he quite old?”

 

“Yes; but a white beard and wig will set that

right, and the description suits you to perfection

in every other respect. He was an old soldier,

with a lame foot and a sabre-cut across the face

like yours; and then his being a Spaniard, too—

you see, if you meet any Spanish pilgrims, you can

talk to them all right.”

 

“Where am I to meet Domenichino?”

 

“You join the pilgrims at the cross-road that

we will show you on the map, saying you had lost

your way in the hills. Then, when you reach the

town, you go with the rest of them into the