The Gadfly - E. L. Voynich (phonics readers .txt) 📗

to your

ship!” grumbled the customs official. “Been out

on the spree, I suppose. What’s in your boat?”

 

“Old clothes. Got them cheap.” He held up

the waistcoat for inspection. The official, lowering

his lantern, bent over, straining his eyes to see.

 

“It’s all right, I suppose. You can pass.”

 

He lifted the barrier and the boat moved slowly

out into the dark, heaving water. At a little distance

Arthur sat up and threw off the clothes.

 

“Here she is,” the sailor whispered, after rowing

for some time in silence. “Keep close behind me

and hold your tongue.”

 

He clambered up the side of a huge black monster,

swearing under his breath at the clumsiness

of the landsman, though Arthur’s natural agility

rendered him less awkward than most people

would have been in his place. Once safely on

board, they crept cautiously between dark masses

of rigging and machinery, and came at last to a

hatchway, which the sailor softly raised.

 

“Down here!” he whispered. “I’ll be back in

a minute.”

 

The hold was not only damp and dark, but intolerably

foul. At first Arthur instinctively drew

back, half choked by the stench of raw hides and

rancid oil. Then he remembered the “punishment

cell,” and descended the ladder, shrugging

his shoulders. Life is pretty much the same

everywhere, it seemed; ugly, putrid, infested with

vermin, full of shameful secrets and dark corners.

Still, life is life, and he must make the best of it.

 

In a few minutes the sailor came back with

something in his hands which Arthur could not

distinctly see for the darkness.

 

“Now, give me the watch and money. Make

haste!”

 

Taking advantage of the darkness, Arthur succeeded

in keeping back a few coins.

 

“You must get me something to eat,” he said;

“I am half starved.”

 

“I’ve brought it. Here you are.” The sailor

handed him a pitcher, some hard biscuit, and a

piece of salt pork. “Now mind, you must hide

in this empty barrel, here, when the customs officers

come to examine to-morrow morning. Keep

as still as a mouse till we’re right out at sea. I’ll

let you know when to come out. And won’t you

just catch it when the captain sees you—that’s

all! Got the drink safe? Good-night!”

 

The hatchway closed, and Arthur, setting the

precious “drink” in a safe place, climbed on to an

oil barrel to eat his pork and biscuit. Then he

curled himself up on the dirty floor; and, for the

first time since his babyhood, settled himself to

sleep without a prayer. The rats scurried round

him in the darkness; but neither their persistent

noise nor the swaying of the ship, nor the nauseating

stench of oil, nor the prospect of to-morrow’s

sea-sickness, could keep him awake. He

cared no more for them all than for the broken and

dishonoured idols that only yesterday had been

the gods of his adoration.

 

PART II.

–––-

THIRTEEN YEARS LATER.

–––-

CHAPTER I.

 

ONE evening in July, 1846, a few acquaintances

met at Professor Fabrizi’s house in Florence to

discuss plans for future political work.

 

Several of them belonged to the Mazzinian

party and would have been satisfied with nothing

less than a democratic Republic and a United

Italy. Others were Constitutional Monarchists

and Liberals of various shades. On one point,

however, they were all agreed; that of dissatisfaction

with the Tuscan censorship; and the popular

professor had called the meeting in the hope that,

on this one subject at least, the representatives

of the dissentient parties would be able to get

through an hour’s discussion without quarrelling.

 

Only a fortnight had elapsed since the famous

amnesty which Pius IX. had granted, on his accession,

to political offenders in the Papal States; but

the wave of liberal enthusiasm caused by it was

already spreading over Italy. In Tuscany even

the government appeared to have been affected

by the astounding event. It had occurred to

Fabrizi and a few other leading Florentines that

this was a propitious moment for a bold effort to

reform the press-laws.

 

“Of course,” the dramatist Lega had said, when

the subject was first broached to him; “it would

be impossible to start a newspaper till we can

get the press-law changed; we should not bring

out the first number. But we may be able to run

some pamphlets through the censorship already;

and the sooner we begin the sooner we shall get

the law changed.”

 

He was now explaining in Fabrizi’s library his

theory of the line which should be taken by liberal

writers at the moment.

 

“There is no doubt,” interposed one of the

company, a gray-haired barrister with a rather

drawling manner of speech, “that in some way

we must take advantage of the moment. We

shall not see such a favourable one again for bringing

forward serious reforms. But I doubt the

pamphlets doing any good. They will only irritate

and frighten the government instead of winning

it over to our side, which is what we really

want to do. If once the authorities begin to think

of us as dangerous agitators our chance of getting

their help is gone.”

 

“Then what would you have us do?”

 

“Petition.”

 

“To the Grand Duke?”

 

“Yes; for an augmentation of the liberty of the

press.”

 

A keen-looking, dark man sitting by the window

turned his head round with a laugh.

 

“You’ll get a lot out of petitioning!” he said.

“I should have thought the result of the Renzi

case was enough to cure anybody of going to work

that way.”

 

“My dear sir, I am as much grieved as you are

that we did not succeed in preventing the extradition

of Renzi. But really—I do not wish to

hurt the sensibilities of anyone, but I cannot help

thinking that our failure in that case was largely

due to the impatience and vehemence of some

persons among our number. I should certainly

hesitate–-”

 

“As every Piedmontese always does,” the dark

man interrupted sharply. “I don’t know where

the vehemence and impatience lay, unless you

found them in the strings of meek petitions we

sent in. That may be vehemence for Tuscany or

Piedmont, but we should not call it particularly

vehement in Naples.”

 

“Fortunately,” remarked the Piedmontese,

“Neapolitan vehemence is peculiar to Naples.”

 

“There, there, gentlemen, that will do!” the

professor put in. “Neapolitan customs are very

good things in their way and Piedmontese customs

in theirs; but just now we are in Tuscany,

and the Tuscan custom is to stick to the

matter in hand. Grassini votes for petitions and

Galli against them. What do you think, Dr.

Riccardo?”

 

“I see no harm in petitions, and if Grassini gets

one up I’ll sign it with all the pleasure in life.

But I don’t think mere petitioning and nothing

else will accomplish much. Why can’t we have

both petitions and pamphlets?”

 

“Simply because the pamphlets will put the

government into a state of mind in which it won’t

grant the petitions,” said Grassini.

 

“It won’t do that anyhow.” The Neapolitan

rose and came across to the table. “Gentlemen,

you’re on the wrong tack. Conciliating the government

will do no good. What we must do is to

rouse the people.”

 

“That’s easier said than done; how are you

going to start?”

 

“Fancy asking Galli that! Of course he’d start

by knocking the censor on the head.”

 

“No, indeed, I shouldn’t,” said Galli stoutly.

“You always think if a man comes from down

south he must believe in no argument but cold

steel.”

 

“Well, what do you propose, then? Sh! Attention,

gentlemen! Galli has a proposal to make.”

 

The whole company, which had broken up into

little knots of twos and threes, carrying on separate

discussions, collected round the table to

listen. Galli raised his hands in expostulation.

 

“No, gentlemen, it is not a proposal; it is merely

a suggestion. It appears to me that there is a

great practical danger in all this rejoicing over

the new Pope. People seem to think that, because

he has struck out a new line and granted

this amnesty, we have only to throw ourselves—

all of us, the whole of Italy—into his arms and he

will carry us to the promised land. Now, I am

second to no one in admiration of the Pope’s

behaviour; the amnesty was a splendid action.”

 

“I am sure His Holiness ought to feel flattered–-”

Grassini began contemptuously.

 

“There, Grassini, do let the man speak!”

Riccardo interrupted in his turn. “It’s a most

extraordinary thing that you two never can

keep from sparring like a cat and dog. Get on,

Galli!”

 

“What I wanted to say is this,” continued the

Neapolitan. “The Holy Father, undoubtedly, is

acting with the best intentions; but how far he

will succeed in carrying his reforms is another

question. Just now it’s smooth enough and, of

course, the reactionists all over Italy will lie quiet

for a month or two till the excitement about the

amnesty blows over; but they are not likely to

let the power be taken out of their hands without

a fight, and my own belief is that before the winter

is half over we shall have Jesuits and Gregorians

and Sanfedists and all the rest of the crew about

our ears, plotting and intriguing, and poisoning

off everybody they can’t bribe.”

 

“That’s likely enough.”

 

“Very well, then; shall we wait here, meekly

sending in petitions, till Lambruschini and his

pack have persuaded the Grand Duke to put us

bodily under Jesuit rule, with perhaps a few Austrian

hussars to patrol the streets and keep us

in order; or shall we forestall them and take advantage

of their momentary discomfiture to strike

the first blow?”

 

“Tell us first what blow you propose?”

 

“I would suggest that we start an organized

propaganda and agitation against the Jesuits.”

 

“A pamphleteering declaration of war, in

fact?”

 

“Yes; exposing their intrigues, ferreting out

their secrets, and calling upon the people to make

common cause against them.”

 

“But there are no Jesuits here to expose.”

 

“Aren’t there? Wait three months and see

how many we shall have. It’ll be too late to keep

them out then.”

 

“But really to rouse the town against the

Jesuits one must speak plainly; and if you do that

how will you evade the censorship?”

 

“I wouldn’t evade it; I would defy it.”

 

“You would print the pamphlets anonymously?

That’s all very well, but the fact is, we have all

seen enough of the clandestine press to know–-”

 

“I did not mean that. I would print the pamphlets

openly, with our names and addresses, and

let them prosecute us if they dare.”

 

“The project is a perfectly mad one,” Grassini

exclaimed. “It is simply putting one’s head into

the lion’s mouth out of sheer wantonness.”

 

“Oh, you needn’t be afraid!” Galli cut in

sharply; “we shouldn’t ask you to go to prison

for our pamphlets.”

 

“Hold your tongue, Galli!” said Riccardo.

“It’s not a question of being afraid; we’re all as

ready as you are to go to prison if there’s any good

to be got by it, but it is childish to run into danger

for nothing. For my part, I have an amendment

to the proposal to suggest.”

 

“Well, what is it?”

 

“I think we might contrive, with care, to fight

the Jesuits without coming into collision with the

censorship.”

 

“I don’t see how you are going to manage it.”

 

“I think that it is possible to clothe what one

has to say in so roundabout a form that–-”

 

“That the censorship won’t understand it?

And then you’ll expect every