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

you don’t choose to

answer?”

 

“No; only that I think I have a right to know

why you ask me that.”

 

“Why? Good God, man, can’t you see why?”

 

“Ah!” He laid down his cigar and looked

steadily at Martini. “Yes,” he said at last,

slowly and softly. “I am in love with her. But

you needn’t think I am going to make love to

her, or worry about it. I am only going

to–-”

 

His voice died away in a strange, faint whisper.

Martini came a step nearer.

 

“Only going—to–-”

 

“To die.”

 

He was staring straight before him with a cold,

fixed look, as if he were dead already. When he

spoke again his voice was curiously lifeless and even.

 

“You needn’t worry her about it beforehand,”

he said; “but there’s not the ghost of a chance for

me. It’s dangerous for everyone; that she knows

as well as I do; but the smugglers will do their

best to prevent her getting taken. They are good

fellows, though they are a bit rough. As for me,

the rope is round my neck, and when I cross the

frontier I pull the noose.”

 

“Rivarez, what do you mean? Of course it’s

dangerous, and particularly so for you; I understand

that; but you have often crossed the frontier

before and always been successful.”

 

“Yes, and this time I shall fail.”

 

“But why? How can you know?”

 

The Gadfly smiled drearily.

 

“Do you remember the German legend of the

man that died when he met his own Double? No?

It appeared to him at night in a lonely place,

wringing its hands in despair. Well, I met mine

the last time I was in the hills; and when I cross

the frontier again I shan’t come back.”

 

Martini came up to him and put a hand on the

back of his chair.

 

“Listen, Rivarez; I don’t understand a word

of all this metaphysical stuff, but I do understand

one thing: If you feel about it that way, you are

not in a fit state to go. The surest way to get

taken is to go with a conviction that you will be

taken. You must be ill, or out of sorts somehow,

to get maggots of that kind into your head. Suppose

I go instead of you? I can do any practical

work there is to be done, and you can send a

message to your men, explaining––”

 

“And let you get killed instead? That would

be very clever.”

 

“Oh, I’m not likely to get killed! They don’t

know me as they do you. And, besides, even if

I did––”

 

He stopped, and the Gadfly looked up with a

slow, inquiring gaze. Martini’s hand dropped by

his side.

 

“She very likely wouldn’t miss me as much as

she would you,” he said in his most matter-of-fact

voice. “And then, besides, Rivarez, this is public

business, and we have to look at it from the point

of view of utility—the greatest good of the greatest

number. Your ‘final value’–isn’t that what

the economists call it?—is higher than mine; I

have brains enough to see that, though I haven’t

any cause to be particularly fond of you. You

are a bigger man than I am; I’m not sure that

you are a better one, but there’s more of you,

and your death would be a greater loss than mine.”

 

From the way he spoke he might have been discussing

the value of shares on the Exchange. The

Gadfly looked up, shivering as if with cold.

 

“Would you have me wait till my grave opens

of itself to swallow me up?

 

“If I must die,

I will encounter darkness as a bride–-

 

Look here, Martini, you and I are talking nonsense.”

 

“You are, certainly,” said Martini gruffly.

 

“Yes, and so are you. For Heaven’s sake, don’t

let’s go in for romantic self-sacrifice, like Don

Carlos and Marquis Posa. This is the nineteenth

century; and if it’s my business to die, I have got

to do it.”

 

“And if it’s my business to live, I have got to

do that, I suppose. You’re the lucky one,

Rivarez.”

 

“Yes,” the Gadfly assented laconically; “I was

always lucky.”

 

They smoked in silence for a few minutes, and

then began to talk of business details. When

Gemma came up to call them to dinner, neither

of them betrayed in face or manner that their

conversation had been in any way unusual.

After dinner they sat discussing plans and making

necessary arrangements till eleven o’clock, when

Martini rose and took his hat.

 

“I will go home and fetch that riding-cloak of

mine, Rivarez. I think you will be less recognizable

in it than in your light suit. I want to

reconnoitre a bit, too, and make sure there are no

spies about before we start.”

 

“Are you coming with me to the barrier?”

 

“Yes; it’s safer to have four eyes than two in

case of anyone following you. I’ll be back by

twelve. Be sure you don’t start without me. I

had better take the key, Gemma, so as not to wake

anyone by ringing.”

 

She raised her eyes to his face as he took the

keys. She understood that he had invented a pretext

in order to leave her alone with the Gadfly.

 

“You and I will talk to-morrow,” she said.

“We shall have time in the morning, when my

packing is finished.”

 

“Oh, yes! Plenty of time. There are two or

three little things I want to ask you about, Rivarez;

but we can talk them over on our way to the

barrier. You had better send Katie to bed,

Gemma; and be as quiet as you can, both of you.

Good-bye till twelve, then.”

 

He went away with a little nod and smile, banging

the door after him to let the neighbours hear

that Signora Bolla’s visitor was gone.

 

Gemma went out into the kitchen to say good-night

to Katie, and came back with black coffee on a tray.

 

“Would you like to lie down a bit?” she said.

“You won’t have any sleep the rest of the night.”

 

“Oh, dear no! I shall sleep at San Lorenzo

while the men are getting my disguise ready.”

 

“Then have some coffee. Wait a minute; I

will get you out the biscuits.”

 

As she knelt down at the sideboard he suddenly

stooped over her shoulder.

 

“Whatever have you got there? Chocolate

creams and English toffee! Why, this is l-luxury

for a king!”

 

She looked up, smiling faintly at his enthusiastic tone.

 

“Are you fond of sweets? I always keep them

for Cesare; he is a perfect baby over any kind of

lollipops.”

 

“R-r-really? Well, you must get him s-some

more to-morrow and give me these to take with

me. No, let me p-p-put the toffee in my pocket;

it will console me for all the lost joys of life. I

d-do hope they’ll give me a bit of toffee to suck

the day I’m hanged.”

 

“Oh, do let me find a cardboard box for it, at

least, before you put it in your pocket! You

will be so sticky! Shall I put the chocolates in, too?”

 

“No, I want to eat them now, with you.”

 

“But I don’t like chocolate, and I want you to

come and sit down like a reasonable human being.

We very likely shan’t have another chance to talk

quietly before one or other of us is killed, and––”

 

“She d-d-doesn’t like chocolate!” he murmured

under his breath. “Then I must be greedy

all by myself. This is a case of the hangman’s

supper, isn’t it? You are going to humour all my

whims to-night. First of all, I want you to sit

on this easy-chair, and, as you said I might lie

down, I shall lie here and be comfortable.”

 

He threw himself down on the rug at her feet,

leaning his elbow on the chair and looking up into

her face.

 

“How pale you are!” he said. “That’s because

you take life sadly, and don’t like chocolate–-”

 

“Do be serious for just five minutes! After all,

it is a matter of life and death.”

 

“Not even for two minutes, dear; neither life

nor death is worth it.”

 

He had taken hold of both her hands and was

stroking them with the tips of his fingers.

 

“Don’t look so grave, Minerva! You’ll make

me cry in a minute, and then you’ll be sorry. I do

wish you’d smile again; you have such a d-delightfully

unexpected smile. There now, don’t scold

me, dear! Let us eat our biscuits together, like

two good children, without quarrelling over them

—for to-morrow we die.”

 

He took a sweet biscuit from the plate and

carefully halved it, breaking the sugar ornament

down the middle with scrupulous exactness.

 

“This is a kind of sacrament, like what the

goody-goody people have in church. ‘Take, eat;

this is my body.’ And we must d-drink the wine

out of the s-s-same glass, you know—yes, that is

right. ‘Do this in remembrance–-’”

 

She put down the glass.

 

“Don’t!” she said, with almost a sob. He

looked up, and took her hands again.

 

“Hush, then! Let us be quiet for a little bit.

When one of us dies, the other will remember this.

We will forget this loud, insistent world that howls

about our ears; we will go away together, hand in

hand; we will go away into the secret halls of

death, and lie among the poppy-flowers. Hush!

We will be quite still.”

 

He laid his head down against her knee and covered

his face. In the silence she bent over him,

her hand on the black head. So the time slipped

on and on; and they neither moved nor spoke.

 

“Dear, it is almost twelve,” she said at last.

He raised his head.

 

“We have only a few minutes more; Martini

will be back presently. Perhaps we shall never

see each other again. Have you nothing to say

to me?”

 

He slowly rose and walked away to the other

side of the room. There was a moment’s silence.

 

“I have one thing to say,” he began in a hardly

audible voice; “one thing—to tell you–-”

 

He stopped and sat down by the window, hiding

his face in both hands.

 

“You have been a long time deciding to be

merciful,” she said softly.

 

“I have not seen much mercy in my life; and I

thought—at first—you wouldn’t care–-”

 

“You don’t think that now.”

 

She waited a moment for him to speak and then

crossed the room and stood beside him.

 

“Tell me the truth at last,” she whispered.

“Think, if you are killed and I not—I should have

to go through all my life and never know—never

be quite sure–-”

 

He took her hands and clasped them tightly.

 

“If I am killed–- You see, when I went to

South America–- Ah, Martini!”

 

He broke away with a violent start and threw

open the door of the room. Martini was rubbing

his boots on the mat.

 

“Punctual to the m-m-minute, as usual!

You’re an an-n-nimated chronometer, Martini. Is

that the r-r-riding-cloak?”

 

“Yes; and two or three other things. I have

kept them as dry as I could, but it’s pouring with

rain. You will have a most uncomfortable ride,

I’m afraid.”

 

“Oh, that’s no matter. Is the street clear?”

 

“Yes; all the spies seem to have gone to bed.

I don’t much wonder either, on such a villainous

night. Is that coffee, Gemma? He ought to

have something