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

Sheba? That’s not the

way to keep clear of spies.”

 

“You’ll never be able to personate the stupid

society woman if you try for ever. But it doesn’t

matter, after all; you’re too fair to look upon for

spies to guess your opinions, even though you

can’t simper and hide behind your fan like Signora

Grassini.”

 

“Now Cesare, let that poor woman alone!

There, take some more barley-sugar to sweeten

your temper. Are you ready? Then we had

better start.”

 

Martini had been quite right in saying that the

conversazione would be both crowded and dull.

The literary men talked polite small-talk and

looked hopelessly bored, while the “nondescript

crowd of tourists and Russian princes” fluttered

up and down the rooms, asking each other who

were the various celebrities and trying to carry on

intellectual conversation. Grassini was receiving

his guests with a manner as carefully polished as

his boots; but his cold face lighted up at the sight

of Gemma. He did not really like her and indeed

was secretly a little afraid of her; but he realized

that without her his drawing room would lack a

great attraction. He had risen high in his profession,

and now that he was rich and well known

his chief ambition was to make of his house a

centre of liberal and intellectual society. He was

painfully conscious that the insignificant, overdressed

little woman whom in his youth he had

made the mistake of marrying was not fit, with

her vapid talk and faded prettiness, to be the

mistress of a great literary salon. When he could

prevail upon Gemma to come he always felt that

the evening would be a success. Her quiet

graciousness of manner set the guests at their ease,

and her very presence seemed to lay the spectre

of vulgarity which always, in his imagination,

haunted the house.

 

Signora Grassini greeted Gemma affectionately,

exclaiming in a loud whisper: “How charming

you look to-night!” and examining the white

cashmere with viciously critical eyes. She hated

her visitor rancourously, for the very things for

which Martini loved her; for her quiet strength

of character; for her grave, sincere directness;

for the steady balance of her mind; for the very

expression of her face. And when Signora Grassini

hated a woman, she showed it by effusive tenderness.

Gemma took the compliments and

endearments for what they were worth, and

troubled her head no more about them. What

is called “going into society” was in her eyes one

of the wearisome and rather unpleasant tasks

which a conspirator who wishes not to attract the

notice of spies must conscientiously fulfil. She

classed it together with the laborious work of

writing in cipher; and, knowing how valuable a

practical safeguard against suspicion is the reputation

of being a well-dressed woman, studied the

fashion-plates as carefully as she did the keys of

her ciphers.

 

The bored and melancholy literary lions brightened

up a little at the sound of Gemma’s name;

she was very popular among them; and the radical

journalists, especially, gravitated at once to her

end of the long room. But she was far too practised

a conspirator to let them monopolize her.

Radicals could be had any day; and now, when

they came crowding round her, she gently sent

them about their business, reminding them with a

smile that they need not waste their time on converting

her when there were so many tourists in

need of instruction. For her part, she devoted

herself to an English M. P. whose sympathies the

republican party was anxious to gain; and, knowing

him to be a specialist on finance, she first won

his attention by asking his opinion on a technical

point concerning the Austrian currency, and then

deftly turned the conversation to the condition of

the Lombardo-Venetian revenue. The Englishman,

who had expected to be bored with small-talk,

looked askance at her, evidently fearing that

he had fallen into the clutches of a blue-stocking;

but finding that she was both pleasant to look at

and interesting to talk to, surrendered completely

and plunged into as grave a discussion of Italian

finance as if she had been Metternich. When

Grassini brought up a Frenchman “who wishes to

ask Signora Bolla something about the history of

Young Italy,” the M. P. rose with a bewildered

sense that perhaps there was more ground for

Italian discontent than he had supposed.

 

Later in the evening Gemma slipped out on to

the terrace under the drawing-room windows to

sit alone for a few moments among the great

camellias and oleanders. The close air and continually

shifting crowd in the rooms were beginning to give her

a headache. At the further end of the terrace stood a

row of palms and tree-ferns, planted in large tubs

which were hidden by a bank of lilies and other

flowering plants. The whole formed a complete screen,

behind which was a little nook commanding a beautiful

view out across the valley. The branches of a pomegranate

tree, clustered with late blossoms, hung beside the

narrow opening between the plants.

 

In this nook Gemma took refuge, hoping that

no one would guess her whereabouts until she had

secured herself against the threatening headache

by a little rest and silence. The night was warm

and beautifully still; but coming out from the

hot, close rooms she felt it cool, and drew her lace

scarf about her head.

 

Presently the sounds of voices and footsteps

approaching along the terrace roused her from the

dreamy state into which she had fallen. She drew

back into the shadow, hoping to escape notice and

get a few more precious minutes of silence before

again having to rack her tired brain for conversation.

To her great annoyance the footsteps

paused near to the screen; then Signora Grassini’s

thin, piping little voice broke off for a moment in

its stream of chatter.

 

The other voice, a man’s, was remarkably soft

and musical; but its sweetness of tone was marred

by a peculiar, purring drawl, perhaps mere affectation,

more probably the result of a habitual

effort to conquer some impediment of speech, but

in any case very unpleasant.

 

“English, did you say?” it asked. “But

surely the name is quite Italian. What was it—

Bolla?”

 

“Yes; she is the widow of poor Giovanni Bolla,

who died in England about four years ago,—

don’t you remember? Ah, I forgot—you lead

such a wandering life; we can’t expect you to

know of all our unhappy country’s martyrs—they

are so many!”

 

Signora Grassini sighed. She always talked in

this style to strangers; the role of a patriotic

mourner for the sorrows of Italy formed an effective

combination with her boarding-school manner and

pretty infantine pout.

 

“Died in England!” repeated the other voice.

“Was he a refugee, then? I seem to recognize

the name, somehow; was he not connected with

Young Italy in its early days?”

 

“Yes; he was one of the unfortunate young

men who were arrested in ‘33—you remember

that sad affair? He was released in a few months;

then, two or three years later, when there was a

warrant out against him again, he escaped to

England. The next we heard was that he was

married there. It was a most romantic affair altogether,

but poor Bolla always was romantic.”

 

“And then he died in England, you say?”

 

“Yes, of consumption; he could not stand that

terrible English climate. And she lost her only

child just before his death; it caught scarlet fever.

Very sad, is it not? And we are all so fond of

dear Gemma! She is a little stiff, poor thing; the

English always are, you know; but I think her

troubles have made her melancholy, and–-”

 

Gemma stood up and pushed back the boughs

of the pomegranate tree. This retailing of her

private sorrows for purposes of small-talk was

almost unbearable to her, and there was visible

annoyance in her face as she stepped into the

light.

 

“Ah! here she is!” exclaimed the hostess, with

admirable coolness. “Gemma, dear, I was wondering

where you could have disappeared to.

Signor Felice Rivarez wishes to make your

acquaintance.”

 

“So it’s the Gadfly,” thought Gemma, looking

at him with some curiosity. He bowed to her

decorously enough, but his eyes glanced over her

face and figure with a look which seemed to

her insolently keen and inquisitorial.

 

“You have found a d-d-delightful little nook

here,” he remarked, looking at the thick screen;

“and w-w-what a charming view!”

 

“Yes; it’s a pretty corner. I came out here to

get some air.”

 

“It seems almost ungrateful to the good God

to stay indoors on such a lovely night,” said the

hostess, raising her eyes to the stars. (She had

good eyelashes and liked to show them.) “Look,

signore! Would not our sweet Italy be heaven

on earth if only she were free? To think that she

should be a bond-slave, with such flowers and such

skies!”

 

“And such patriotic women!” the Gadfly murmured

in his soft, languid drawl.

 

Gemma glanced round at him in some trepidation;

his impudence was too glaring, surely, to

deceive anyone. But she had underrated Signora

Grassini’s appetite for compliments; the poor

woman cast down her lashes with a sigh.

 

“Ah, signore, it is so little that a woman can

do! Perhaps some day I may prove my right to

the name of an Italian—who knows? And now

I must go back to my social duties; the French

ambassador has begged me to introduce his ward

to all the notabilities; you must come in presently

and see her. She is a most charming girl.

Gemma, dear, I brought Signor Rivarez out to

show him our beautiful view; I must leave him

under your care. I know you will look after him

and introduce him to everyone. Ah! there is

that delightful Russian prince! Have you met

him? They say he is a great favourite of the

Emperor Nicholas. He is military commander

of some Polish town with a name that nobody can

pronounce. Quelle nuit magnifique! N’est-ce-pas,

mon prince?”

 

She fluttered away, chattering volubly to a

bull-necked man with a heavy jaw and a coat glittering

with orders; and her plaintive dirges for

“notre malheureuse patrie,” interpolated with

“charmant” and “mon prince,” died away along

the terrace.

 

Gemma stood quite still beside the pomegranate

tree. She was sorry for the poor, silly

little woman, and annoyed at the Gadfly’s languid

insolence. He was watching the retreating figures

with an expression of face that angered her; it

seemed ungenerous to mock at such pitiable creatures.

 

“There go Italian and—Russian patriotism,”

he said, turning to her with a smile; “arm in arm

and mightily pleased with each other’s company.

Which do you prefer?”

 

She frowned slightly and made no answer.

 

“Of c-course,” he went on; “it’s all a question

of p-personal taste; but I think, of the two, I like

the Russian variety best—it’s so thorough. If

Russia had to depend on flowers and skies for her

supremacy instead of on powder and shot, how

long do you think ‘mon prince’ would k-keep

that Polish fortress?”

 

“I think,” she answered coldly, “that we can

hold our personal opinions without ridiculing a

woman whose guests we are.”

 

“Ah, yes! I f-forgot the obligations of hospitality

here in Italy; they are a wonderfully hospitable

people, these Italians. I’m sure the

Austrians find them so. Won’t you sit down?”

 

He limped across the terrace to fetch a chair

for her, and placed himself opposite to her, leaning

against the balustrade. The light from a

window was shining full on his face; and she was

able to study it at her leisure.

 

She was disappointed. She had expected to

see a striking and powerful, if not pleasant face;

but the