began to guess the reason of the Gadfly's sudden fancy to take his holidays
in the depth of winter. He came back to Florence when the riots had been
quelled, and, meeting Riccardo in the street, remarked affably:
"I hear you were inquiring for me in Leghorn; I was staying in Pisa.
What a pretty old town it is! There's something quite Arcadian about it."
In Christmas week he attended an afternoon meeting of the literary
committee which was held in Dr. Riccardo's lodgings near the Porta alla
Croce. The meeting was a full one, and when he came in, a little late, with
an apologetic bow and smile, there seemed to be no seat empty. Riccardo rose
to fetch a chair from the next room, but the Gadfly stopped him. "Don't
trouble about it," he said; "I shall be quite comfortable here"; and
crossing the room to a window beside which Gemma had placed her chair, he
sat down on the sill, leaning his head indolently back against the shutter.
As he looked down at Gemma, smiling with half-shut eyes, in the subtle,
sphinx-like way that gave him the look of a Leonardo da Vinci portrait, the
instinctive distrust with which he inspired her deepened into a sense of
unreasoning fear.
The proposal under discussion was that a pamphlet be issued setting
forth the committee's views on the dearth with which Tuscany was threatened
and the measures which should be taken to meet it. The matter was a somewhat
difficult one to decide, because, as usual, the committee's views upon the
subject were much divided. The more advanced section, to which Gemma,
Martini, and Riccardo belonged, was in favour of an energetic appeal to both
government and public to take adequate measures at once for the relief of
the peasantry. The moderate division--including, of course, Grassini--feared
that an over-emphatic tone might irritate rather than convince the ministry.
"It is all very well, gentlemen, to want the people helped at once," he
said, looking round upon the red-hot radicals with his calm and pitying air.
"We most of us want a good many things that we are not likely to get; but if
we start with the tone you propose to adopt, the government is very likely
not to begin any relief measures at all till there is actual famine. If we
could only induce the ministry to make an inquiry into the state of the
crops it would be a step in advance."
Galli, in his corner by the stove, jumped up to answer his enemy.
"A step in advance--yes, my dear sir; but if there's going to be a
famine, it won't wait for us to advance at that pace. The people might all
starve before we got to any actual relief."
"It would be interesting to know----" Sacconi began; but several voices
interrupted him.
"Speak up; we can't hear!"
"I should think not, with such an infernal row in the street," said
Galli, irritably. "Is that window shut, Riccardo? One can't hear one's self
speak!"
Gemma looked round. "Yes," she said, "the window is quite shut. I think
there is a variety show, or some such thing, passing."
The sounds of shouting and laughter, of the tinkling of bells and
trampling of feet, resounded from the street below, mixed with the braying
of a villainous brass band and the unmerciful banging of a drum.
"It can't be helped these few days," said Riccardo; "we must expect
noise at Christmas time. What were you saying, Sacconi?"
"I said it would be interesting to hear what is thought about the
matter in Pisa and Leghorn. Perhaps Signor Rivarez can tell us something; he
has just come from there."
The Gadfly did not answer. He was staring out of the window and
appeared not to have heard what had been said.
"Signor Rivarez!" said Gemma. She was the only person sitting near to
him, and as he remained silent she bent forward and touched him on the arm.
He slowly turned his face to her, and she started as she saw its fixed and
awful immobility. For a moment it was like the face of a corpse; then the
lips moved in a strange, lifeless way.
"Yes," he whispered; "a variety show."
Her first instinct was to shield him from the curiosity of the others.
Without understanding what was the matter with him, she realized that some
frightful fancy or hallucination had seized upon him, and that, for the
moment, he was at its mercy, body and soul. She rose quickly and, standing
between him and the company, threw the window open as if to look out. No one
but herself had seen his face.
In the street a travelling circus was passing, with mountebanks on
donkeys and harlequins in parti-coloured dresses. The crowd of holiday
masqueraders, laughing and shoving, was exchanging jests and showers of
paper ribbon with the clowns and flinging little bags of sugar-plums to the
columbine, who sat in her car, tricked out in tinsel and feathers, with
artificial curls on her forehead and an artificial smile on her painted
lips. Behind the car came a motley string of figures-- street Arabs,
beggars, clowns turning somersaults, and costermongers hawking their wares.
They were jostling, pelting, and applauding a figure which at first Gemma
could not see for the pushing and swaying of the crowd. The next moment,
however, she saw plainly what it was--a hunchback, dwarfish and ugly,
grotesquely attired in a fool's dress, with paper cap and bells. He
evidently belonged to the strolling company, and was amusing the crowd with
hideous grimaces and contortions.
"What is going on out there?" asked Riccardo, approaching the window.
"You seem very much interested."
He was a little surprised at their keeping the whole committee waiting
to look at a strolling company of mountebanks. Gemma turned round.
"It is nothing interesting," she said; "only a variety show; but they
made such a noise that I thought it must be something else."
She was standing with one hand upon the window-sill, and suddenly felt
the Gadfly's cold fingers press the hand with a passionate clasp. "Thank
you!" he whispered softly; and then, closing the window, sat down again upon
the sill.
"I'm afraid," he said in his airy manner, "that I have interrupted you,
gentlemen. I was l-looking at the variety show; it is s-such a p-pretty
sight."
"Sacconi was asking you a question," said Martini gruffly. The Gadfly's
behaviour seemed to him an absurd piece of affectation, and he was annoyed
that Gemma should have been tactless enough to follow his example. It was
not like her.
The Gadfly disclaimed all knowledge of the state of feeling in Pisa,
explaining that he had been there "only on a holiday." He then plunged at
once into an animated discussion, first of agricultural prospects, then of
the pamphlet question; and continued pouring out a flood of stammering talk
till the others were quite tired. He seemed to find some feverish delight in
the sound of his own voice.
When the meeting ended and the members of the committee rose to go,
Riccardo came up to Martini.
"Will you stop to dinner with me? Fabrizi and Sacconi have promised to
stay."
"Thanks; but I was going to see Signora Bolla home."
"Are you really afraid I can't get home by myself?" she asked, rising
and putting on her wrap. "Of course he will stay with you, Dr. Riccardo;
it's good for him to get a change. He doesn't go out half enough."
"If you will allow me, I will see you home," the Gadfly interposed; "I
am going in that direction."
"If you really are going that way----"
"I suppose you won't have time to drop in here in the course of the
evening, will you, Rivarez?" asked Riccardo, as he opened the door for them.
The Gadfly looked back over his shoulder, laughing. "I, my dear fellow?
I'm going to see the variety show!"
"What a strange creature that is; and what an odd affection for
mountebanks!" said Riccardo, coming back to his visitors.
"Case of a fellow-feeling, I should think," said Martini; "the man's a
mountebank himself, if ever I saw one."
"I wish I could think he was only that," Fabrizi interposed, with a
grave face. "If he is a mountebank I am afraid he's a very dangerous one."
"Dangerous in what way?"
"Well, I don't like those mysterious little pleasure trips that he is
so fond of taking. This is the third time, you know; and I don't believe he
has been in Pisa at all."
"I suppose it is almost an open secret that it's into the mountains he
goes," said Sacconi. "He has hardly taken the trouble to deny that he is
still in relations with the smugglers he got to know in the Savigno affair,
and it's quite natural he should take advantage of their friendship to get
his leaflets across the Papal frontier."
"For my part," said Riccardo; "what I wanted to talk to you about is
this very question. It occurred to me that we could hardly do better than
ask Rivarez to undertake the management of our own smuggling. That press at
Pistoja is very inefficiently managed, to my thinking; and the way the
leaflets are taken across, always rolled in those everlasting cigars, is
more than primitive."
"It has answered pretty well up till now," said Martini contumaciously.
He was getting wearied of hearing Galli and Riccardo always put the Gadfly
forward as a model to copy, and inclined to think that the world had gone
well enough before this "lackadaisical buccaneer" turned up to set everyone
to rights.
"It has answered so far well that we have been satisfied with it for
want of anything better; but you know there have been plenty of arrests and
confiscations. Now I believe that if Rivarez undertook the business for us,
there would be less of that."
"Why do you think so?"
"In the first place, the smugglers look upon us as strangers to do
business with, or as sheep to fleece, whereas Rivarez is their personal
friend, very likely their leader, whom they look up to and trust. You may be
sure every smuggler in the Apennines will do for a man who was in the
Savigno revolt what he will not do for us. In the next place, there's hardly
a man among us that knows the mountains as Rivarez does. Remember, he has
been a fugitive among them, and knows the smugglers' paths by heart. No
smuggler would dare to cheat him, even if he wished to, and no smuggler
could cheat him if he dared to try."
"Then is your proposal that we should ask him to take over the whole
management of our literature on the other side of the
frontier--distribution, addresses, hiding-places, everything--or simply that
we should ask him to put the things across for us?"
"Well, as for addresses and hiding-places, he probably knows already
all the ones that we have and a good many more that we have not. I don't
suppose we should be able to teach him much in that line. As for
distribution, it's as the others prefer, of course. The important question,
to my mind, is the actual smuggling itself. Once the books are safe in
Bologna, it's a comparatively simple matter to circulate them."
"For my part," said Martini, "I am against the plan. In the first
place, all this about his skilfulness is mere conjecture; we have not
actually seen him engaged in frontier work and do not know whether he keeps
his head in critical moments."
"Oh, you needn't have any doubt of that!" Riccardo put in. "The history
of the Savigno affair proves that he keeps his head."
"And then," Martini went on; "I do not feel at all inclined, from what
little I know of Rivarez, to intrust him with all the party's secrets. He
seems to me feather-brained and theatrical. To give the whole management of
a party's contraband work into a man's hands is a serious matter. Fabrizi,
what do you think?"
"If I had only such objections as yours, Martini," replied the
professor, "I should certainly waive them in the case of a man really
possessing, as Rivarez undoubtedly does, all the qualifications Riccardo
speaks of. For my part, I have not the slightest doubt as to either his
courage, his honesty, or his presence of mind; and that he knows both
mountains and mountaineers we have had ample proof. But there is another
objection. I do not feel sure that it is only for the smuggling of pamphlets
he goes into the mountains. I have begun to doubt whether he has not another
purpose. This is, of course, entirely between ourselves. It is a mere
suspicion. It seems to me just possible that he is in connexion with some
one of the 'sects,' and perhaps with the most dangerous of them."
"Which one do you mean--the 'Red Girdles'?"
"No; the 'Occoltellatori.'"
"The 'Knifers'! But that is a little body of outlaws--peasants, most of
them, with neither education nor political experience."
"So were the insurgents of Savigno; but they had a few educated men as
leaders, and this little society may have the same. And remember, it's
pretty well known that most of the members of those more violent sects in
the Romagna are survivors of the Savigno affair, who found themselves too
weak to fight the Churchmen in open insurrection, and so have fallen back on
assassination. Their hands are not strong enough for guns, and they take to
knives instead."
"But what makes you suppose Rivarez to be connected with them?"
"I don't suppose, I merely suspect. In any case, I think we had better
find out for certain before we intrust our smuggling to him. If he attempted
to do both kinds of work at once he would injure our party most terribly; he
would simply destroy its reputation and accomplish nothing. However, we will
talk of that another time. I wanted to speak to you about the news from
Rome. It is said that a commission is to be appointed to draw up a project
for a municipal constitution."PART II: CHAPTER VI.
GEMMA and the Gadfly walked silently along the Lung'Arno. His feverish
talkativeness seemed to have quite spent itself; he had hardly spoken a word
since they left Riccardo's door, and Gemma was heartily glad of his silence.
She always felt embarrassed in his company, and to-day more so than usual,
for his strange behaviour at the committee meeting had greatly perplexed
her.
By the Uffizi palace he suddenly stopped and turned to her.
"Are you tired?"
"No; why?"
"Nor especially busy this evening?"
"No."
"I want to ask a favour of you; I want you to come for a walk with me."
"Where to?"
"Nowhere in particular; anywhere you like."
"But what for?"
He hesitated.
"I--can't tell you--at least, it's very difficult; but please come if
you can."
He raised his eyes suddenly from the ground, and she saw how strange
their expression was.
"There is something the matter with you," she said gently. He pulled a
leaf from the flower in his button-hole, and began tearing it to pieces. Who
was it that he was so oddly like? Someone who had that same trick of the
fingers and hurried, nervous gesture.
"I am in trouble," he said, looking down at his hands and speaking in a
hardly audible voice. "I --don't want to be alone this evening. Will you
come?"
"Yes, certainly, unless you would rather go to my lodgings."
"No; come and dine with me at a restaurant. There's one on the
Signoria. Please don't refuse, now; you've promised!"
They went into a restaurant, where he ordered dinner, but hardly
touched his own share, and remained obstinately silent, crumbling the bread
over the cloth, and fidgeting with the fringe of his table napkin. Gemma
felt thoroughly uncomfortable, and began to wish she had refused to come;
the silence was growing awkward; yet she could not begin to make small-talk
with a person who seemed to have forgotten her presence. At last he looked
up and said abruptly:
"Would you like to see the variety show?"
She stared at him in astonishment. What had he got into his head about
variety shows?
"Have you ever seen one?" he asked before she had time to speak.
"No; I don't think so. I didn't suppose they were interesting."
"They are very interesting. I don't think anyone can study the life of
the people without seeing them. Let us go back to the Porta alla Croce."
When they arrived the mountebanks had set up their tent beside the town
gate, and an abominable scraping of fiddles and banging of drums announced
that the performance had begun.
The entertainment was of the roughest kind. A few clowns, harlequins,
and acrobats, a circus-rider jumping through hoops, the painted columbine,
and the hunchback performing various dull and foolish antics, represented
the entire force of the company. The jokes were not, on the whole, coarse or
offensive; but they were very tame and stale, and there was a depressing
flatness about the whole thing. The audience laughed and clapped from their
innate Tuscan courtesy; but the only part which they seemed really to enjoy
was the performance of the hunchback, in which Gemma could find nothing
either witty or skilful. It was merely a series of grotesque and hideous
contortions, which the spectators mimicked, holding up children on their
shoulders that the little ones might see the "ugly man."
"Signor Rivarez, do you really think this attractive?" said Gemma,
turning to the Gadfly, who was standing beside her, his arm round one 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 pocket-knife, 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 Katie to set the disordered room tidy again, sat down
at the table.
"Signor Rivarez, you must take something before you go home--you had
hardly any dinner, and it's very late."
"I should like a cup of tea in the English fashion, if you have it. I'm
sorry to keep you up so late."
"Oh! that doesn't matter. Put the child down on the sofa; he will tire
you. Wait a minute; I will just lay a sheet over the cushions. What are you
going to do with him?"
"To-morrow? Find out whether he has any other relations except that
drunken brute; and if not, I suppose I must follow Mme. Reni's advice, and
take him to the Refuge. Perhaps the kindest thing to do would be to put a
stone round his neck and pitch him into the river there; but that would
expose me to unpleasant consequences. Fast asleep! What an odd little lump
of ill-luck you are, you mite--not half as capable of defending yourself as
a stray cat!"
When Katie brought in the tea-tray, the boy opened his eyes and sat up
with a bewildered air. Recognizing the Gadfly, whom he already regarded as
his natural protector, he wriggled off the sofa, and, much encumbered by the
folds of his blanket, came up to nestle against him. He was by now
sufficiently revived to be inquisitive; and, pointing to the mutilated left
hand, in which the Gadfly was holding a piece of cake, asked:
"What's that?"
"That? Cake; do you want some? I think you've had enough for now. Wait
till to-morrow, little man."
"No--that!" He stretched out his hand and touched the stumps of the
amputated fingers and the great scar on the wrist. The Gadfly put down his
cake.
"Oh, that! It's the same sort of thing as what you have on your
shoulder--a hit I got from someone stronger than I was."
"Didn't it hurt awfully?"
"Oh, I don't know--not more than other things. There, now, go to sleep
again; you have no business asking questions at this time of night."
When the carriage arrived the boy was again asleep; and the Gadfly,
without awaking him, lifted him gently and carried him out on to the stairs.
"You have been a sort of ministering angel to me to-day," he said to
Gemma, pausing at the door. "But I suppose that need not prevent us from
quarrelling to our heart's content in future."
"I have no desire to quarrel with anyone."
"Ah! but I have. Life would be unendurable without quarrels. A good
quarrel is the salt of the earth; it's better than a variety show!"
And with that he went downstairs, laughing softly to himself, with the
sleeping child in his arms.
ONE day in the first week of January Martini, who had sent round the
forms of invitation to the monthly group-meeting of the literary committee,
received from the Gadfly a laconic, pencil-scrawled "Very sorry: can't
come." He was a little annoyed, as a notice of "important business" had been
put into the invitation; this cavalier treatment seemed to him almost
insolent. Moreover, three separate letters containing bad news arrived
during the day, and the wind was in the east, so that Martini felt out of
sorts and out of temper; and when, at the group meeting, Dr. Riccardo asked,
"Isn't Rivarez here?" he answered rather sulkily: "No; he seems to have got
something more interesting on hand, and can't come, or doesn't want to."
"Really, Martini," said Galli irritably, "you are about the most
prejudiced person in Florence. Once you object to a man, everything he does
is wrong. How could Rivarez come when he's ill?"
"Who told you he was ill?"
"Didn't you know? He's been laid up for the last four days."
"What's the matter with him?"
"I don't know. He had to put off an appointment with me on Thursday on
account of illness; and last night, when I went round, I heard that he was
too ill to see anyone. I thought Riccardo would be looking after him."
"I knew nothing about it. I'll go round to-night and see if he wants
anything."
The next morning Riccardo, looking very pale and tired, came into
Gemma's little study. She was sitting at the table, reading out monotonous
strings of figures to Martini, who, with a magnifying glass in one hand and
a finely pointed pencil in the other, was making tiny marks in the pages of
a book. She made with one hand a gesture requesting silence. Riccardo,
knowing that a person who is writing in cipher must not be interrupted, sat
down on the sofa behind her and yawned like a man who can hardly keep awake.
"2, 4; 3, 7; 6, 1; 3, 5; 4> 1;" Gemma's voice went on with
machine-like evenness. "8, 4; 7, 2; 5, 1; that finishes the sentence,
Cesare."
She stuck a pin into the paper to mark the exact place, and turned
round.
"Good-morning, doctor; how fagged you look! Are you well?"
"Oh, I'm well enough--only tired out. I've had an awful night with
Rivarez."
"With Rivarez?"
"Yes; I've been up with him all night, and now I must go off to my
hospital patients. I just came round to know whether you can think of anyone
that could look after him a bit for the next few days. He's in a devil of a
state. I'll do my best, of course; but I really haven't the time; and he
won't hear of my sending in a nurse."
"What is the matter with him?"
"Well, rather a complication of things. First of all----"
"First of all, have you had any breakfast?"
"Yes, thank you. About Rivarez--no doubt, it's complicated with a lot
of nerve trouble; but the main cause of disturbance is an old injury that
seems to have been disgracefully neglected. Altogether, he's in a
frightfully knocked-about state; I suppose it was that war in South America
-- and he certainly didn't get proper care when the mischief was done.
Probably things were managed in a very rough-and-ready fashion out there;
he's lucky to be alive at all. However, there's a chronic tendency to
inflammation, and any trifle may bring on an attack----"
"Is that dangerous?"
"N-no; the chief danger in a case of that kind is of the patient
getting desperate and taking a dose of arsenic."
"It is very painful, of course?"
"It's simply horrible; I don't know how he manages to bear it. I was
obliged to stupefy him with opium in the night--a thing I hate to do with a
nervous patient; but I had to stop it somehow."
"He is nervous, I should think."
"Very, but splendidly plucky. As long as he was not actually
light-headed with the pain last night, his coolness was quite wonderful. But
I had an awful job with him towards the end. How long do you suppose this
thing has been going on? Just five nights; and not a soul within call except
that stupid landlady, who wouldn't wake if the house tumbled down, and would
be no use if she did."
"But what about the ballet-girl?"
"Yes; isn't that a curious thing? He won't let her come near him. He
has a morbid horror of her. Altogether, he's one of the most
incomprehensible creatures I ever met--a perfect mass of contradictions."
He took out his watch and looked at it with a preoccupied face. "I
shall be late at the hospital; but it can't be helped. The junior will have
to begin without me for once. I wish I had known of all this before--it
ought not to have been let go on that way night after night."
"But why on earth didn't he send to say he was ill?" Martini
interrupted. "He might have guessed we shouldn't have left him stranded in
that fashion."
"I wish, doctor," said Gemma, "that you had sent for one of us last
night, instead of wearing yourself out like this." My dear lady, I wanted to
send round to Galli; but Rivarez got so frantic at the suggestion that I
didn't dare attempt it. When I asked him whether there was anyone else he
would like fetched, he looked at me for a minute, as if he were scared out
of his wits, and then put up both hands to his eyes and said: 'Don't tell
them; they will laugh!' He seemed quite possessed with some fancy about
people laughing at something. I couldn't make out what; he kept talking
Spanish; but patients do say the oddest things sometimes."
"Who is with him now?" asked Gemma.
"No one except the landlady and her maid."
"I'll go to him at once," said Martini.
"Thank you. I'll look round again in the evening. You'll find a paper
of written directions in the table-drawer by the large window, and the opium
is on the shelf in the next room. If the pain comes on again, give him
another dose--not more than one; but don't leave the bottle where he can get
at it, whatever you do; he might be tempted to take too much."
When Martini entered the darkened room, the Gadfly turned his head
round quickly, and, holding out to him a burning hand, began, in a bad
imitation of his usual flippant manner:
"Ah, Martini! You have come to rout me out about those proofs. It's no
use swearing at me for missing the committee last night; the fact is, I have
not been quite well, and----"
"Never mind the committee. I have just seen Riccardo, and have come to
know if I can be of any use."
The Gadfly set his face like a flint.
"Oh, really! that is very kind of you; but it wasn't worth the trouble.
I'm only a little out of sorts."
"So I understood from Riccardo. He was up with you all night, I
believe."
The Gadfly bit his lip savagely.
"I am quite comfortable, thank you, and don't want anything."
"Very well; then I will sit in the other room; perhaps you would rather
be alone. I will leave the door ajar, in case you call me."
"Please don't trouble about it; I really shan't want anything. I should
be wasting your time for nothing."
"Nonsense, man!" Martini broke in roughly. "What's the use of trying to
fool me that way? Do you think I have no eyes? Lie still and go to sleep, if
you can."
He went into the adjoining room, and, leaving the door open, sat down
with a book. Presently he heard the Gadfly move restlessly two or three
times. He put down his book and listened. There was a short silence, then
another restless movement; then the quick, heavy, panting breath of a man
clenching his teeth to suppress a groan. He went back into the room.
"Can I do anything for you, Rivarez?"
There was no answer, and he crossed the room to the bed-side. The
Gadfly, with a ghastly, livid face, looked at him for a moment, and silently
shook his head.
"Shall I give you some more opium? Riccardo said you were to have it if
the pain got very bad."
"No, thank you; I can bear it a bit longer. It may be worse later on."
Martini shrugged his shoulders and sat down beside the bed. For an
interminable hour he watched in silence; then he rose and fetched the opium.
"Rivarez, I won't let this go on any longer; if you can stand it, I
can't. You must have the stuff."
The Gadfly took it without speaking. Then he turned away and closed his
eyes. Martini sat down again, and listened as the breathing became gradually
deep and even.
The Gadfly was too much exhausted to wake easily when once asleep. Hour
after hour he lay absolutely motionless. Martini approached him several
times during the day and evening, and looked at the still figure; but,
except the breathing, there was no sign of life. The face was so wan and
colourless that at last a sudden fear seized upon him; what if he had given
too much opium? The injured left arm lay on the coverlet, and he shook it
gently to rouse the sleeper. As he did so, the unfastened sleeve fell back,
showing a series of deep and fearful scars covering the arm from wrist to
elbow.
"That arm must have been in a pleasant condition when those marks were
fresh," said Riccardo's voice behind him.
"Ah, there you are at last! Look here, Riccardo; ought this man to
sleep forever? I gave him a dose about ten hours ago, and he hasn't moved a
muscle since."
Riccardo stooped down and listened for a moment.
"No; he is breathing quite properly; it's nothing but sheer
exhaustion--what you might expect after such a night. There may be another
paroxysm before morning. Someone will sit up, I hope?"
"Galli will; he has sent to say he will be here by ten."
"It's nearly that now. Ah, he's waking! Just see the maidservant gets
that broth hot. Gently --gently, Rivarez! There, there, you needn't fight,
man; I'm not a bishop!"
The Gadfly started up with a shrinking, scared look. "Is it my turn?"
he said hurriedly in Spanish. "Keep the people amused a minute; I---- Ah! I
didn't see you, Riccardo." He looked round the room and drew one hand across
his forehead as if bewildered. "Martini! Why, I thought you had gone away. I
must have been asleep."
"You have been sleeping like the beauty in the fairy story for the last
ten hours; and now you are to have some broth and go to sleep again."
"Ten hours! Martini, surely you haven't been here all that time?"
"Yes; I was beginning to wonder whether I hadn't given you an overdose
of opium."
The Gadfly shot a sly glance at him.
"No such luck! Wouldn't you have nice quiet committee-meetings? What
the devil do you want, Riccardo? Do for mercy's sake leave me in peace,
can't you? I hate being mauled about by doctors."
"Well then, drink this and I'll leave you in peace. I shall come round
in a day or two, though, and give you a thorough overhauling. I think you
have pulled through the worst of this business now; you don't look quite so
much like a death's head at a feast."
"Oh, I shall be all right soon, thanks. Who's that--Galli? I seem to
have a collection of all the graces here to-night."
"I have come to stop the night with you."
"Nonsense! I don't want anyone. Go home, all the lot of you. Even if
the thing should come on again, you can't help me; I won't keep taking
opium. It's all very well once in a way."
"I'm afraid you're right," Riccardo said. "But that's not always an
easy resolution to stick to."
The Gadfly looked up, smiling. "No fear! If I'd been going in for that
sort of thing, I should have done it long ago."
"Anyway, you are not going to be left alone," Riccardo answered drily.
"Come into the other room a minute, Galli; I want to speak to you.
Good-night, Rivarez; I'll look in to-morrow."
Martini was following them out of the room when he heard his name
softly called. The Gadfly was holding out a hand to him.
"Thank you!"
"Oh, stuff! Go to sleep."
When Riccardo had gone, Martini remained a few minutes in the outer
room, talking with Galli. As he opened the front door of the house he heard
a carriage stop at the garden gate and saw a woman's figure get out and come
up the path. It was Zita, returning, evidently, from some evening
entertainment. He lifted his hat and stood aside to let her pass, then went
out into the dark lane leading from the house to the Poggio Imperiale.
Presently the gate clicked and rapid footsteps came down the lane.
"Wait a minute!" she said.
When he turned back to meet her she stopped short, and then came slowly
towards him, dragging one hand after her along the hedge. There was a single
street-lamp at the corner, and he saw by its light that she was hanging her
head down as though embarrassed or ashamed.
"How is he?" she asked without looking up.
"Much better than he was this morning. He has been asleep most of the
day and seems less exhausted. I think the attack is passing over."
She still kept her eyes on the ground.
"Has it been very bad this time?"
"About as bad as it can well be, I should think."
"I thought so. When he won't let me come into the room, that always
means it's bad."
"Does he often have attacks like this?"
"That depends---- It's so irregular. Last summer, in Switzerland, he
was quite well; but the winter before, when we were in Vienna, it was awful.
He wouldn't let me come near him for days together. He hates to have me
about when he's ill."
She glanced up for a moment, and, dropping her eyes again, went on:
"He always used to send me off to a ball, or concert, or something, on
one pretext or another, when he felt it coming on. Then he would lock
himself into his room. I used to slip back and sit outside the door--he
would have been furious if he'd known. He'd let the dog come in if it
whined, but not me. He cares more for it, I think."
There was a curious, sullen defiance in her manner.
"Well, I hope it won't be so bad any more," said Martini kindly. "Dr.
Riccardo is taking the case seriously in hand. Perhaps he will be able to
in the depth of winter. He came back to Florence when the riots had been
quelled, and, meeting Riccardo in the street, remarked affably:
"I hear you were inquiring for me in Leghorn; I was staying in Pisa.
What a pretty old town it is! There's something quite Arcadian about it."
In Christmas week he attended an afternoon meeting of the literary
committee which was held in Dr. Riccardo's lodgings near the Porta alla
Croce. The meeting was a full one, and when he came in, a little late, with
an apologetic bow and smile, there seemed to be no seat empty. Riccardo rose
to fetch a chair from the next room, but the Gadfly stopped him. "Don't
trouble about it," he said; "I shall be quite comfortable here"; and
crossing the room to a window beside which Gemma had placed her chair, he
sat down on the sill, leaning his head indolently back against the shutter.
As he looked down at Gemma, smiling with half-shut eyes, in the subtle,
sphinx-like way that gave him the look of a Leonardo da Vinci portrait, the
instinctive distrust with which he inspired her deepened into a sense of
unreasoning fear.
The proposal under discussion was that a pamphlet be issued setting
forth the committee's views on the dearth with which Tuscany was threatened
and the measures which should be taken to meet it. The matter was a somewhat
difficult one to decide, because, as usual, the committee's views upon the
subject were much divided. The more advanced section, to which Gemma,
Martini, and Riccardo belonged, was in favour of an energetic appeal to both
government and public to take adequate measures at once for the relief of
the peasantry. The moderate division--including, of course, Grassini--feared
that an over-emphatic tone might irritate rather than convince the ministry.
"It is all very well, gentlemen, to want the people helped at once," he
said, looking round upon the red-hot radicals with his calm and pitying air.
"We most of us want a good many things that we are not likely to get; but if
we start with the tone you propose to adopt, the government is very likely
not to begin any relief measures at all till there is actual famine. If we
could only induce the ministry to make an inquiry into the state of the
crops it would be a step in advance."
Galli, in his corner by the stove, jumped up to answer his enemy.
"A step in advance--yes, my dear sir; but if there's going to be a
famine, it won't wait for us to advance at that pace. The people might all
starve before we got to any actual relief."
"It would be interesting to know----" Sacconi began; but several voices
interrupted him.
"Speak up; we can't hear!"
"I should think not, with such an infernal row in the street," said
Galli, irritably. "Is that window shut, Riccardo? One can't hear one's self
speak!"
Gemma looked round. "Yes," she said, "the window is quite shut. I think
there is a variety show, or some such thing, passing."
The sounds of shouting and laughter, of the tinkling of bells and
trampling of feet, resounded from the street below, mixed with the braying
of a villainous brass band and the unmerciful banging of a drum.
"It can't be helped these few days," said Riccardo; "we must expect
noise at Christmas time. What were you saying, Sacconi?"
"I said it would be interesting to hear what is thought about the
matter in Pisa and Leghorn. Perhaps Signor Rivarez can tell us something; he
has just come from there."
The Gadfly did not answer. He was staring out of the window and
appeared not to have heard what had been said.
"Signor Rivarez!" said Gemma. She was the only person sitting near to
him, and as he remained silent she bent forward and touched him on the arm.
He slowly turned his face to her, and she started as she saw its fixed and
awful immobility. For a moment it was like the face of a corpse; then the
lips moved in a strange, lifeless way.
"Yes," he whispered; "a variety show."
Her first instinct was to shield him from the curiosity of the others.
Without understanding what was the matter with him, she realized that some
frightful fancy or hallucination had seized upon him, and that, for the
moment, he was at its mercy, body and soul. She rose quickly and, standing
between him and the company, threw the window open as if to look out. No one
but herself had seen his face.
In the street a travelling circus was passing, with mountebanks on
donkeys and harlequins in parti-coloured dresses. The crowd of holiday
masqueraders, laughing and shoving, was exchanging jests and showers of
paper ribbon with the clowns and flinging little bags of sugar-plums to the
columbine, who sat in her car, tricked out in tinsel and feathers, with
artificial curls on her forehead and an artificial smile on her painted
lips. Behind the car came a motley string of figures-- street Arabs,
beggars, clowns turning somersaults, and costermongers hawking their wares.
They were jostling, pelting, and applauding a figure which at first Gemma
could not see for the pushing and swaying of the crowd. The next moment,
however, she saw plainly what it was--a hunchback, dwarfish and ugly,
grotesquely attired in a fool's dress, with paper cap and bells. He
evidently belonged to the strolling company, and was amusing the crowd with
hideous grimaces and contortions.
"What is going on out there?" asked Riccardo, approaching the window.
"You seem very much interested."
He was a little surprised at their keeping the whole committee waiting
to look at a strolling company of mountebanks. Gemma turned round.
"It is nothing interesting," she said; "only a variety show; but they
made such a noise that I thought it must be something else."
She was standing with one hand upon the window-sill, and suddenly felt
the Gadfly's cold fingers press the hand with a passionate clasp. "Thank
you!" he whispered softly; and then, closing the window, sat down again upon
the sill.
"I'm afraid," he said in his airy manner, "that I have interrupted you,
gentlemen. I was l-looking at the variety show; it is s-such a p-pretty
sight."
"Sacconi was asking you a question," said Martini gruffly. The Gadfly's
behaviour seemed to him an absurd piece of affectation, and he was annoyed
that Gemma should have been tactless enough to follow his example. It was
not like her.
The Gadfly disclaimed all knowledge of the state of feeling in Pisa,
explaining that he had been there "only on a holiday." He then plunged at
once into an animated discussion, first of agricultural prospects, then of
the pamphlet question; and continued pouring out a flood of stammering talk
till the others were quite tired. He seemed to find some feverish delight in
the sound of his own voice.
When the meeting ended and the members of the committee rose to go,
Riccardo came up to Martini.
"Will you stop to dinner with me? Fabrizi and Sacconi have promised to
stay."
"Thanks; but I was going to see Signora Bolla home."
"Are you really afraid I can't get home by myself?" she asked, rising
and putting on her wrap. "Of course he will stay with you, Dr. Riccardo;
it's good for him to get a change. He doesn't go out half enough."
"If you will allow me, I will see you home," the Gadfly interposed; "I
am going in that direction."
"If you really are going that way----"
"I suppose you won't have time to drop in here in the course of the
evening, will you, Rivarez?" asked Riccardo, as he opened the door for them.
The Gadfly looked back over his shoulder, laughing. "I, my dear fellow?
I'm going to see the variety show!"
"What a strange creature that is; and what an odd affection for
mountebanks!" said Riccardo, coming back to his visitors.
"Case of a fellow-feeling, I should think," said Martini; "the man's a
mountebank himself, if ever I saw one."
"I wish I could think he was only that," Fabrizi interposed, with a
grave face. "If he is a mountebank I am afraid he's a very dangerous one."
"Dangerous in what way?"
"Well, I don't like those mysterious little pleasure trips that he is
so fond of taking. This is the third time, you know; and I don't believe he
has been in Pisa at all."
"I suppose it is almost an open secret that it's into the mountains he
goes," said Sacconi. "He has hardly taken the trouble to deny that he is
still in relations with the smugglers he got to know in the Savigno affair,
and it's quite natural he should take advantage of their friendship to get
his leaflets across the Papal frontier."
"For my part," said Riccardo; "what I wanted to talk to you about is
this very question. It occurred to me that we could hardly do better than
ask Rivarez to undertake the management of our own smuggling. That press at
Pistoja is very inefficiently managed, to my thinking; and the way the
leaflets are taken across, always rolled in those everlasting cigars, is
more than primitive."
"It has answered pretty well up till now," said Martini contumaciously.
He was getting wearied of hearing Galli and Riccardo always put the Gadfly
forward as a model to copy, and inclined to think that the world had gone
well enough before this "lackadaisical buccaneer" turned up to set everyone
to rights.
"It has answered so far well that we have been satisfied with it for
want of anything better; but you know there have been plenty of arrests and
confiscations. Now I believe that if Rivarez undertook the business for us,
there would be less of that."
"Why do you think so?"
"In the first place, the smugglers look upon us as strangers to do
business with, or as sheep to fleece, whereas Rivarez is their personal
friend, very likely their leader, whom they look up to and trust. You may be
sure every smuggler in the Apennines will do for a man who was in the
Savigno revolt what he will not do for us. In the next place, there's hardly
a man among us that knows the mountains as Rivarez does. Remember, he has
been a fugitive among them, and knows the smugglers' paths by heart. No
smuggler would dare to cheat him, even if he wished to, and no smuggler
could cheat him if he dared to try."
"Then is your proposal that we should ask him to take over the whole
management of our literature on the other side of the
frontier--distribution, addresses, hiding-places, everything--or simply that
we should ask him to put the things across for us?"
"Well, as for addresses and hiding-places, he probably knows already
all the ones that we have and a good many more that we have not. I don't
suppose we should be able to teach him much in that line. As for
distribution, it's as the others prefer, of course. The important question,
to my mind, is the actual smuggling itself. Once the books are safe in
Bologna, it's a comparatively simple matter to circulate them."
"For my part," said Martini, "I am against the plan. In the first
place, all this about his skilfulness is mere conjecture; we have not
actually seen him engaged in frontier work and do not know whether he keeps
his head in critical moments."
"Oh, you needn't have any doubt of that!" Riccardo put in. "The history
of the Savigno affair proves that he keeps his head."
"And then," Martini went on; "I do not feel at all inclined, from what
little I know of Rivarez, to intrust him with all the party's secrets. He
seems to me feather-brained and theatrical. To give the whole management of
a party's contraband work into a man's hands is a serious matter. Fabrizi,
what do you think?"
"If I had only such objections as yours, Martini," replied the
professor, "I should certainly waive them in the case of a man really
possessing, as Rivarez undoubtedly does, all the qualifications Riccardo
speaks of. For my part, I have not the slightest doubt as to either his
courage, his honesty, or his presence of mind; and that he knows both
mountains and mountaineers we have had ample proof. But there is another
objection. I do not feel sure that it is only for the smuggling of pamphlets
he goes into the mountains. I have begun to doubt whether he has not another
purpose. This is, of course, entirely between ourselves. It is a mere
suspicion. It seems to me just possible that he is in connexion with some
one of the 'sects,' and perhaps with the most dangerous of them."
"Which one do you mean--the 'Red Girdles'?"
"No; the 'Occoltellatori.'"
"The 'Knifers'! But that is a little body of outlaws--peasants, most of
them, with neither education nor political experience."
"So were the insurgents of Savigno; but they had a few educated men as
leaders, and this little society may have the same. And remember, it's
pretty well known that most of the members of those more violent sects in
the Romagna are survivors of the Savigno affair, who found themselves too
weak to fight the Churchmen in open insurrection, and so have fallen back on
assassination. Their hands are not strong enough for guns, and they take to
knives instead."
"But what makes you suppose Rivarez to be connected with them?"
"I don't suppose, I merely suspect. In any case, I think we had better
find out for certain before we intrust our smuggling to him. If he attempted
to do both kinds of work at once he would injure our party most terribly; he
would simply destroy its reputation and accomplish nothing. However, we will
talk of that another time. I wanted to speak to you about the news from
Rome. It is said that a commission is to be appointed to draw up a project
for a municipal constitution."PART II: CHAPTER VI.
GEMMA and the Gadfly walked silently along the Lung'Arno. His feverish
talkativeness seemed to have quite spent itself; he had hardly spoken a word
since they left Riccardo's door, and Gemma was heartily glad of his silence.
She always felt embarrassed in his company, and to-day more so than usual,
for his strange behaviour at the committee meeting had greatly perplexed
her.
By the Uffizi palace he suddenly stopped and turned to her.
"Are you tired?"
"No; why?"
"Nor especially busy this evening?"
"No."
"I want to ask a favour of you; I want you to come for a walk with me."
"Where to?"
"Nowhere in particular; anywhere you like."
"But what for?"
He hesitated.
"I--can't tell you--at least, it's very difficult; but please come if
you can."
He raised his eyes suddenly from the ground, and she saw how strange
their expression was.
"There is something the matter with you," she said gently. He pulled a
leaf from the flower in his button-hole, and began tearing it to pieces. Who
was it that he was so oddly like? Someone who had that same trick of the
fingers and hurried, nervous gesture.
"I am in trouble," he said, looking down at his hands and speaking in a
hardly audible voice. "I --don't want to be alone this evening. Will you
come?"
"Yes, certainly, unless you would rather go to my lodgings."
"No; come and dine with me at a restaurant. There's one on the
Signoria. Please don't refuse, now; you've promised!"
They went into a restaurant, where he ordered dinner, but hardly
touched his own share, and remained obstinately silent, crumbling the bread
over the cloth, and fidgeting with the fringe of his table napkin. Gemma
felt thoroughly uncomfortable, and began to wish she had refused to come;
the silence was growing awkward; yet she could not begin to make small-talk
with a person who seemed to have forgotten her presence. At last he looked
up and said abruptly:
"Would you like to see the variety show?"
She stared at him in astonishment. What had he got into his head about
variety shows?
"Have you ever seen one?" he asked before she had time to speak.
"No; I don't think so. I didn't suppose they were interesting."
"They are very interesting. I don't think anyone can study the life of
the people without seeing them. Let us go back to the Porta alla Croce."
When they arrived the mountebanks had set up their tent beside the town
gate, and an abominable scraping of fiddles and banging of drums announced
that the performance had begun.
The entertainment was of the roughest kind. A few clowns, harlequins,
and acrobats, a circus-rider jumping through hoops, the painted columbine,
and the hunchback performing various dull and foolish antics, represented
the entire force of the company. The jokes were not, on the whole, coarse or
offensive; but they were very tame and stale, and there was a depressing
flatness about the whole thing. The audience laughed and clapped from their
innate Tuscan courtesy; but the only part which they seemed really to enjoy
was the performance of the hunchback, in which Gemma could find nothing
either witty or skilful. It was merely a series of grotesque and hideous
contortions, which the spectators mimicked, holding up children on their
shoulders that the little ones might see the "ugly man."
"Signor Rivarez, do you really think this attractive?" said Gemma,
turning to the Gadfly, who was standing beside her, his arm round one 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 pocket-knife, 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 Katie to set the disordered room tidy again, sat down
at the table.
"Signor Rivarez, you must take something before you go home--you had
hardly any dinner, and it's very late."
"I should like a cup of tea in the English fashion, if you have it. I'm
sorry to keep you up so late."
"Oh! that doesn't matter. Put the child down on the sofa; he will tire
you. Wait a minute; I will just lay a sheet over the cushions. What are you
going to do with him?"
"To-morrow? Find out whether he has any other relations except that
drunken brute; and if not, I suppose I must follow Mme. Reni's advice, and
take him to the Refuge. Perhaps the kindest thing to do would be to put a
stone round his neck and pitch him into the river there; but that would
expose me to unpleasant consequences. Fast asleep! What an odd little lump
of ill-luck you are, you mite--not half as capable of defending yourself as
a stray cat!"
When Katie brought in the tea-tray, the boy opened his eyes and sat up
with a bewildered air. Recognizing the Gadfly, whom he already regarded as
his natural protector, he wriggled off the sofa, and, much encumbered by the
folds of his blanket, came up to nestle against him. He was by now
sufficiently revived to be inquisitive; and, pointing to the mutilated left
hand, in which the Gadfly was holding a piece of cake, asked:
"What's that?"
"That? Cake; do you want some? I think you've had enough for now. Wait
till to-morrow, little man."
"No--that!" He stretched out his hand and touched the stumps of the
amputated fingers and the great scar on the wrist. The Gadfly put down his
cake.
"Oh, that! It's the same sort of thing as what you have on your
shoulder--a hit I got from someone stronger than I was."
"Didn't it hurt awfully?"
"Oh, I don't know--not more than other things. There, now, go to sleep
again; you have no business asking questions at this time of night."
When the carriage arrived the boy was again asleep; and the Gadfly,
without awaking him, lifted him gently and carried him out on to the stairs.
"You have been a sort of ministering angel to me to-day," he said to
Gemma, pausing at the door. "But I suppose that need not prevent us from
quarrelling to our heart's content in future."
"I have no desire to quarrel with anyone."
"Ah! but I have. Life would be unendurable without quarrels. A good
quarrel is the salt of the earth; it's better than a variety show!"
And with that he went downstairs, laughing softly to himself, with the
sleeping child in his arms.
ONE day in the first week of January Martini, who had sent round the
forms of invitation to the monthly group-meeting of the literary committee,
received from the Gadfly a laconic, pencil-scrawled "Very sorry: can't
come." He was a little annoyed, as a notice of "important business" had been
put into the invitation; this cavalier treatment seemed to him almost
insolent. Moreover, three separate letters containing bad news arrived
during the day, and the wind was in the east, so that Martini felt out of
sorts and out of temper; and when, at the group meeting, Dr. Riccardo asked,
"Isn't Rivarez here?" he answered rather sulkily: "No; he seems to have got
something more interesting on hand, and can't come, or doesn't want to."
"Really, Martini," said Galli irritably, "you are about the most
prejudiced person in Florence. Once you object to a man, everything he does
is wrong. How could Rivarez come when he's ill?"
"Who told you he was ill?"
"Didn't you know? He's been laid up for the last four days."
"What's the matter with him?"
"I don't know. He had to put off an appointment with me on Thursday on
account of illness; and last night, when I went round, I heard that he was
too ill to see anyone. I thought Riccardo would be looking after him."
"I knew nothing about it. I'll go round to-night and see if he wants
anything."
The next morning Riccardo, looking very pale and tired, came into
Gemma's little study. She was sitting at the table, reading out monotonous
strings of figures to Martini, who, with a magnifying glass in one hand and
a finely pointed pencil in the other, was making tiny marks in the pages of
a book. She made with one hand a gesture requesting silence. Riccardo,
knowing that a person who is writing in cipher must not be interrupted, sat
down on the sofa behind her and yawned like a man who can hardly keep awake.
"2, 4; 3, 7; 6, 1; 3, 5; 4> 1;" Gemma's voice went on with
machine-like evenness. "8, 4; 7, 2; 5, 1; that finishes the sentence,
Cesare."
She stuck a pin into the paper to mark the exact place, and turned
round.
"Good-morning, doctor; how fagged you look! Are you well?"
"Oh, I'm well enough--only tired out. I've had an awful night with
Rivarez."
"With Rivarez?"
"Yes; I've been up with him all night, and now I must go off to my
hospital patients. I just came round to know whether you can think of anyone
that could look after him a bit for the next few days. He's in a devil of a
state. I'll do my best, of course; but I really haven't the time; and he
won't hear of my sending in a nurse."
"What is the matter with him?"
"Well, rather a complication of things. First of all----"
"First of all, have you had any breakfast?"
"Yes, thank you. About Rivarez--no doubt, it's complicated with a lot
of nerve trouble; but the main cause of disturbance is an old injury that
seems to have been disgracefully neglected. Altogether, he's in a
frightfully knocked-about state; I suppose it was that war in South America
-- and he certainly didn't get proper care when the mischief was done.
Probably things were managed in a very rough-and-ready fashion out there;
he's lucky to be alive at all. However, there's a chronic tendency to
inflammation, and any trifle may bring on an attack----"
"Is that dangerous?"
"N-no; the chief danger in a case of that kind is of the patient
getting desperate and taking a dose of arsenic."
"It is very painful, of course?"
"It's simply horrible; I don't know how he manages to bear it. I was
obliged to stupefy him with opium in the night--a thing I hate to do with a
nervous patient; but I had to stop it somehow."
"He is nervous, I should think."
"Very, but splendidly plucky. As long as he was not actually
light-headed with the pain last night, his coolness was quite wonderful. But
I had an awful job with him towards the end. How long do you suppose this
thing has been going on? Just five nights; and not a soul within call except
that stupid landlady, who wouldn't wake if the house tumbled down, and would
be no use if she did."
"But what about the ballet-girl?"
"Yes; isn't that a curious thing? He won't let her come near him. He
has a morbid horror of her. Altogether, he's one of the most
incomprehensible creatures I ever met--a perfect mass of contradictions."
He took out his watch and looked at it with a preoccupied face. "I
shall be late at the hospital; but it can't be helped. The junior will have
to begin without me for once. I wish I had known of all this before--it
ought not to have been let go on that way night after night."
"But why on earth didn't he send to say he was ill?" Martini
interrupted. "He might have guessed we shouldn't have left him stranded in
that fashion."
"I wish, doctor," said Gemma, "that you had sent for one of us last
night, instead of wearing yourself out like this." My dear lady, I wanted to
send round to Galli; but Rivarez got so frantic at the suggestion that I
didn't dare attempt it. When I asked him whether there was anyone else he
would like fetched, he looked at me for a minute, as if he were scared out
of his wits, and then put up both hands to his eyes and said: 'Don't tell
them; they will laugh!' He seemed quite possessed with some fancy about
people laughing at something. I couldn't make out what; he kept talking
Spanish; but patients do say the oddest things sometimes."
"Who is with him now?" asked Gemma.
"No one except the landlady and her maid."
"I'll go to him at once," said Martini.
"Thank you. I'll look round again in the evening. You'll find a paper
of written directions in the table-drawer by the large window, and the opium
is on the shelf in the next room. If the pain comes on again, give him
another dose--not more than one; but don't leave the bottle where he can get
at it, whatever you do; he might be tempted to take too much."
When Martini entered the darkened room, the Gadfly turned his head
round quickly, and, holding out to him a burning hand, began, in a bad
imitation of his usual flippant manner:
"Ah, Martini! You have come to rout me out about those proofs. It's no
use swearing at me for missing the committee last night; the fact is, I have
not been quite well, and----"
"Never mind the committee. I have just seen Riccardo, and have come to
know if I can be of any use."
The Gadfly set his face like a flint.
"Oh, really! that is very kind of you; but it wasn't worth the trouble.
I'm only a little out of sorts."
"So I understood from Riccardo. He was up with you all night, I
believe."
The Gadfly bit his lip savagely.
"I am quite comfortable, thank you, and don't want anything."
"Very well; then I will sit in the other room; perhaps you would rather
be alone. I will leave the door ajar, in case you call me."
"Please don't trouble about it; I really shan't want anything. I should
be wasting your time for nothing."
"Nonsense, man!" Martini broke in roughly. "What's the use of trying to
fool me that way? Do you think I have no eyes? Lie still and go to sleep, if
you can."
He went into the adjoining room, and, leaving the door open, sat down
with a book. Presently he heard the Gadfly move restlessly two or three
times. He put down his book and listened. There was a short silence, then
another restless movement; then the quick, heavy, panting breath of a man
clenching his teeth to suppress a groan. He went back into the room.
"Can I do anything for you, Rivarez?"
There was no answer, and he crossed the room to the bed-side. The
Gadfly, with a ghastly, livid face, looked at him for a moment, and silently
shook his head.
"Shall I give you some more opium? Riccardo said you were to have it if
the pain got very bad."
"No, thank you; I can bear it a bit longer. It may be worse later on."
Martini shrugged his shoulders and sat down beside the bed. For an
interminable hour he watched in silence; then he rose and fetched the opium.
"Rivarez, I won't let this go on any longer; if you can stand it, I
can't. You must have the stuff."
The Gadfly took it without speaking. Then he turned away and closed his
eyes. Martini sat down again, and listened as the breathing became gradually
deep and even.
The Gadfly was too much exhausted to wake easily when once asleep. Hour
after hour he lay absolutely motionless. Martini approached him several
times during the day and evening, and looked at the still figure; but,
except the breathing, there was no sign of life. The face was so wan and
colourless that at last a sudden fear seized upon him; what if he had given
too much opium? The injured left arm lay on the coverlet, and he shook it
gently to rouse the sleeper. As he did so, the unfastened sleeve fell back,
showing a series of deep and fearful scars covering the arm from wrist to
elbow.
"That arm must have been in a pleasant condition when those marks were
fresh," said Riccardo's voice behind him.
"Ah, there you are at last! Look here, Riccardo; ought this man to
sleep forever? I gave him a dose about ten hours ago, and he hasn't moved a
muscle since."
Riccardo stooped down and listened for a moment.
"No; he is breathing quite properly; it's nothing but sheer
exhaustion--what you might expect after such a night. There may be another
paroxysm before morning. Someone will sit up, I hope?"
"Galli will; he has sent to say he will be here by ten."
"It's nearly that now. Ah, he's waking! Just see the maidservant gets
that broth hot. Gently --gently, Rivarez! There, there, you needn't fight,
man; I'm not a bishop!"
The Gadfly started up with a shrinking, scared look. "Is it my turn?"
he said hurriedly in Spanish. "Keep the people amused a minute; I---- Ah! I
didn't see you, Riccardo." He looked round the room and drew one hand across
his forehead as if bewildered. "Martini! Why, I thought you had gone away. I
must have been asleep."
"You have been sleeping like the beauty in the fairy story for the last
ten hours; and now you are to have some broth and go to sleep again."
"Ten hours! Martini, surely you haven't been here all that time?"
"Yes; I was beginning to wonder whether I hadn't given you an overdose
of opium."
The Gadfly shot a sly glance at him.
"No such luck! Wouldn't you have nice quiet committee-meetings? What
the devil do you want, Riccardo? Do for mercy's sake leave me in peace,
can't you? I hate being mauled about by doctors."
"Well then, drink this and I'll leave you in peace. I shall come round
in a day or two, though, and give you a thorough overhauling. I think you
have pulled through the worst of this business now; you don't look quite so
much like a death's head at a feast."
"Oh, I shall be all right soon, thanks. Who's that--Galli? I seem to
have a collection of all the graces here to-night."
"I have come to stop the night with you."
"Nonsense! I don't want anyone. Go home, all the lot of you. Even if
the thing should come on again, you can't help me; I won't keep taking
opium. It's all very well once in a way."
"I'm afraid you're right," Riccardo said. "But that's not always an
easy resolution to stick to."
The Gadfly looked up, smiling. "No fear! If I'd been going in for that
sort of thing, I should have done it long ago."
"Anyway, you are not going to be left alone," Riccardo answered drily.
"Come into the other room a minute, Galli; I want to speak to you.
Good-night, Rivarez; I'll look in to-morrow."
Martini was following them out of the room when he heard his name
softly called. The Gadfly was holding out a hand to him.
"Thank you!"
"Oh, stuff! Go to sleep."
When Riccardo had gone, Martini remained a few minutes in the outer
room, talking with Galli. As he opened the front door of the house he heard
a carriage stop at the garden gate and saw a woman's figure get out and come
up the path. It was Zita, returning, evidently, from some evening
entertainment. He lifted his hat and stood aside to let her pass, then went
out into the dark lane leading from the house to the Poggio Imperiale.
Presently the gate clicked and rapid footsteps came down the lane.
"Wait a minute!" she said.
When he turned back to meet her she stopped short, and then came slowly
towards him, dragging one hand after her along the hedge. There was a single
street-lamp at the corner, and he saw by its light that she was hanging her
head down as though embarrassed or ashamed.
"How is he?" she asked without looking up.
"Much better than he was this morning. He has been asleep most of the
day and seems less exhausted. I think the attack is passing over."
She still kept her eyes on the ground.
"Has it been very bad this time?"
"About as bad as it can well be, I should think."
"I thought so. When he won't let me come into the room, that always
means it's bad."
"Does he often have attacks like this?"
"That depends---- It's so irregular. Last summer, in Switzerland, he
was quite well; but the winter before, when we were in Vienna, it was awful.
He wouldn't let me come near him for days together. He hates to have me
about when he's ill."
She glanced up for a moment, and, dropping her eyes again, went on:
"He always used to send me off to a ball, or concert, or something, on
one pretext or another, when he felt it coming on. Then he would lock
himself into his room. I used to slip back and sit outside the door--he
would have been furious if he'd known. He'd let the dog come in if it
whined, but not me. He cares more for it, I think."
There was a curious, sullen defiance in her manner.
"Well, I hope it won't be so bad any more," said Martini kindly. "Dr.
Riccardo is taking the case seriously in hand. Perhaps he will be able to