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

I asked for a d-dose of opium—I

remember that quite distinctly; and he came in

here and said I m-might h-h-have it if I would

tell him who un-l-l-locked the gate. I remember

his saying: ‘If it’s real, you’ll consent; if you

don’t, I shall look upon it as a p-proof that you are

shamming.’ It n-n-never oc-c-curred to me before

how comic that is; it’s one of the f-f-funniest things–-”

 

He burst into a sudden fit of harsh, discordant

laughter; then, turning sharply on the silent Cardinal,

went on, more and more hurriedly, and

stammering so that the words were hardly intelligible:

 

“You d-d-don’t see that it’s f-f-funny? Of

c-course not; you r-religious people n-n-never have

any s-sense of humour—you t-take everything

t-t-tragically. F-for instance, that night in the

Cath-thedral—how solemn you were! By the way

—w-what a path-thetic figure I must have c-cut

as the pilgrim! I d-don’t believe you e-even see

anything c-c-comic in the b-business you have

c-come about this evening.”

 

Montanelli rose.

 

“I came to hear what you have to say; but I

think you are too much excited to say it to-night.

The doctor had better give you a sedative, and we

will talk to-morrow, when you have had a night’s

sleep.”

 

“S-sleep? Oh, I shall s-sleep well enough, Your

Eminence, when you g-give your c-consent to the

colonel’s plan—an ounce of l-lead is a s-splendid

sedative.”

 

“I don’t understand you,” Montanelli said,

turning to him with a startled look.

 

The Gadfly burst out laughing again.

 

“Your Eminence, Your Eminence, t-t-truth

is the c-chief of the Christian virtues! D-d-do

you th-th-think I d-d-don’t know how hard the

Governor has been trying to g-get your consent to

a courtmartial? You had b-better by half g-give

it, Your Eminence; it’s only w-what all your

b-brother prelates would do in your place. ‘Cosi

fan tutti;’ and then you would be doing s-such a

lot of good, and so l-little harm! Really, it’s n-not

worth all the sleepless nights you have been spending

over it!”

 

“Please stop laughing a minute,” Montanelli

interrupted, “and tell me how you heard all this.

Who has been talking to you about it?”

 

“H-hasn’t the colonel e-e-ever told you I am

a d-d-devil—not a man? No? He has t-told me

so often enough! Well, I am devil enough to

f-find out a little bit what p-people are thinking

about. Your E-eminence is thinking that I’m a

conf-founded nuisance, and you wish s-somebody

else had to settle what’s to be done with me, without

disturbing your s-sensitive conscience. That’s

a p-pretty fair guess, isn’t it?”

 

“Listen to me,” the Cardinal said, sitting down

again beside him, with a very grave face. “However

you found out all this, it is quite true.

Colonel Ferrari fears another rescue attempt on

the part of your friends, and wishes to forestall it

in—the way you speak of. You see, I am quite

frank with you.”

 

“Your E-eminence was always f-f-famous for

truthfulness,” the Gadfly put in bitterly.

 

“You know, of course,” Montanelli went on,

“that legally I have no jurisdiction in temporal

matters; I am a bishop, not a legate. But I have

a good deal of influence in this district; and the

colonel will not, I think, venture to take so extreme

a course unless he can get, at least, my tacit

consent to it. Up till now I have unconditionally

opposed the scheme; and he has been trying

very hard to conquer my objection by assuring me

that there is great danger of an armed attempt

on Thursday when the crowd collects for the procession

—an attempt which probably would end

in bloodshed. Do you follow me?”

 

The Gadfly was staring absently out of the

window. He looked round and answered in a

weary voice:

 

“Yes, I am listening.”

 

“Perhaps you are really not well enough to

stand this conversation to-night. Shall I come

back in the morning? It is a very serious matter,

and I want your whole attention.”

 

“I would rather get it over now,” the Gadfly

answered in the same tone. “I follow everything

you say.”

 

“Now, if it be true,” Montanelli went on, “that

there is any real danger of riots and bloodshed on

account of you, I am taking upon myself a tremendous

responsibility in opposing the colonel;

and I believe there is at least some truth in what

he says. On the other hand, I am inclined to

think that his judgment is warped, to a certain

extent, by his personal animosity against you, and

that he probably exaggerates the danger. That

seems to me the more likely since I have seen this

shameful brutality.” He glanced at the straps and

chains lying on the floor, and went on:

 

“If I consent, I kill you; if I refuse, I run the

risk of killing innocent persons. I have considered

the matter earnestly, and have sought with

all my heart for a way out of this dreadful alternative.

And now at last I have made up my mind.”

 

“To kill me and s-save the innocent persons,

of course—the only decision a Christian man

could possibly come to. ‘If thy r-right hand

offend thee,’ etc. I have n-not the honour to be

the right hand of Your Eminence, and I have

offended you; the c-c-conclusion is plain. Couldn’t

you tell me that without so much preamble?”

 

The Gadfly spoke with languid indifference and

contempt, like a man weary of the whole subject.

 

“Well?” he added after a little pause. “Was

that the decision, Your Eminence?”

 

“No.”

 

The Gadfly shifted his position, putting both

hands behind his head, and looked at Montanelli

with half-shut eyes. The Cardinal, with his head

sunk down as in deep thought, was softly beating

one hand on the arm of his chair. Ah, that old,

familiar gesture!

 

“I have decided,” he said, raising his head at

last, “to do, I suppose, an utterly unprecedented

thing. When I heard that you had asked to see

me, I resolved to come here and tell you everything,

as I have done, and to place the matter in

your own hands.”

 

“In—my hands?”

 

“Signor Rivarez, I have not come to you as

cardinal, or as bishop, or as judge; I have come

to you as one man to another. I do not ask you

to tell me whether you know of any such scheme

as the colonel apprehends. I understand quite

well that, if you do, it is your secret and you will

not tell it. But I do ask you to put yourself in

my place. I am old, and, no doubt, have not much

longer to live. I would go down to my grave

without blood on my hands.”

 

“Is there none on them as yet, Your Eminence?”

 

Montanelli grew a shade paler, but went on

quietly:

 

“All my life I have opposed repressive measures

and cruelty wherever I have met with them.

I have always disapproved of capital punishment

in all its forms; I have protested earnestly and

repeatedly against the military commissions in the

last reign, and have been out of favour on account

of doing so. Up till now such influence and power

as I have possessed have always been employed on

the side of mercy. I ask you to believe me, at

least, that I am speaking the truth. Now, I am

placed in this dilemma. By refusing, I am exposing

the town to the danger of riots and all their

consequences; and this to save the life of a man

who blasphemes against my religion, who has

slandered and wronged and insulted me personally

(though that is comparatively a trifle), and

who, as I firmly believe, will put that life to a bad

use when it is given to him. But—it is to save a

man’s life.”

 

He paused a moment, and went on again:

 

“Signor Rivarez, everything that I know of

your career seems to me bad and mischievous; and

I have long believed you to be reckless and violent

and unscrupulous. To some extent I hold that

opinion of you still. But during this last fortnight

you have shown me that you are a brave

man and that you can be faithful to your friends.

You have made the soldiers love and admire you,

too; and not every man could have done that. I

think that perhaps I have misjudged you, and that

there is in you something better than what you

show outside. To that better self in you I appeal,

and solemnly entreat you, on your conscience, to

tell me truthfully—in my place, what would you do?”

 

A long silence followed; then the Gadfly looked up.

 

“At least, I would decide my own actions for

myself, and take the consequences of them. I

would not come sneaking to other people, in the

cowardly Christian way, asking them to solve my

problems for me!”

 

The onslaught was so sudden, and its extraordinary

vehemence and passion were in such startling

contrast to the languid affectation of a

moment before, that it was as though he had

thrown off a mask.

 

“We atheists,” he went on fiercely, “understand

that if a man has a thing to bear, he must

bear it as best he can; and if he sinks under it—

why, so much the worse for him. But a Christian

comes whining to his God, or his saints; or, if they

won’t help him, to his enemies—he can always

find a back to shift his burdens on to. Isn’t there

a rule to go by in your Bible, or your Missal, or

any of your canting theology books, that you

must come to me to tell you what to do?

Heavens and earth, man! Haven’t I enough as

it is, without your laying your responsibilities on

my shoulders? Go back to your Jesus; he exacted

the uttermost farthing, and you’d better do

the same. After all, you’ll only be killing an

atheist—a man who boggles over ‘shibboleth’; and

that’s no great crime, surely!”

 

He broke off, panting for breath, and then

burst out again:

 

“And YOU to talk of cruelty! Why, that

p-p-pudding-headed ass couldn’t hurt me as much as you

do if he tried for a year; he hasn’t got the brains.

All he can think of is to pull a strap tight, and

when he can’t get it any tighter he’s at the end

of his resources. Any fool can do that! But

you–- ‘Sign your own death sentence, please;

I’m too tender-hearted to do it myself.’ Oh! it

would take a Christian to hit on that—a gentle,

compassionate Christian, that turns pale at the

sight of a strap pulled too tight! I might have

known when you came in, like an angel of mercy—

so shocked at the colonel’s ‘barbarity’—that the

real thing was going to begin! Why do you look

at me that way? Consent, man, of course, and

go home to your dinner; the thing’s not worth all

this fuss. Tell your colonel he can have me shot,

or hanged, or whatever comes handiest—roasted

alive, if it’s any amusement to him—and be done

with it!”

 

The Gadfly was hardly recognizable; he was

beside himself with rage and desperation, panting

and quivering, his eyes glittering with green reflections

like the eyes of an angry cat.

 

Montanelli had risen, and was looking down at

him silently. He did not understand the drift of

the frenzied reproaches, but he understood out of

what extremity they were uttered; and, understanding

that, forgave all past insults.

 

“Hush!” he said. “I did not want to hurt you

so. Indeed, I never meant to shift my burden

on to you, who have too much already. I have

never consciously done that to any