The Gadfly - E. L. Voynich (phonics readers .txt) 📗
- Author: E. L. Voynich
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knifing is that it becomes a habit. The people get
to look upon it as an everyday occurrence, and
their sense of the sacredness of human life gets
blunted. I have not been much in the Romagna,
but what little I have seen of the people has given
me the impression that they have got, or are getting,
into a mechanical habit of violence.”
“Surely even that is better than a mechanical
habit of obedience and submission.”
“I don’t think so. All mechanical habits are
bad and slavish, and this one is ferocious as well.
Of course, if you look upon the work of the revolutionist
as the mere wresting of certain definite
concessions from the government, then the secret
sect and the knife must seem to you the best weapons,
for there is nothing else which all governments
so dread. But if you think, as I do, that to
force the government’s hand is not an end in itself,
but only a means to an end, and that what we
really need to reform is the relation between man
and man, then you must go differently to work.
Accustoming ignorant people to the sight of blood
is not the way to raise the value they put on human
life.”
“And the value they put on religion?”
“I don’t understand.”
He smiled.
“I think we differ as to where the root of the
mischief lies. You place it in a lack of appreciation
of the value of human life.”
“Rather of the sacredness of human personality.”
“Put it as you like. To me the great cause of
our muddles and mistakes seems to lie in the
mental disease called religion.”
“Do you mean any religion in particular?”
“Oh, no! That is a mere question of external
symptoms. The disease itself is what is called a
religious attitude of mind. It is the morbid
desire to set up a fetich and adore it, to fall down
and worship something. It makes little difference
whether the something be Jesus or Buddha or a
tum-tum tree. You don’t agree with me, of
course. You may be atheist or agnostic or anything
you like, but I could feel the religious temperament
in you at five yards. However, it is of
no use for us to discuss that. But you are quite
mistaken in thinking that I, for one, look upon the
knifing as merely a means of removing objectionable
officials—it is, above all, a means, and I think
the best means, of undermining the prestige of the
Church and of accustoming people to look upon
clerical agents as upon any other vermin.”
“And when you have accomplished that; when
you have roused the wild beast that sleeps in the
people and set it on the Church; then–-”
“Then I shall have done the work that makes it
worth my while to live.”
“Is THAT the work you spoke of the other day?”
“Yes, just that.”
She shivered and turned away.
“You are disappointed in me?” he said, looking
up with a smile.
“No; not exactly that. I am—I think—a little
afraid of you.”
She turned round after a moment and said in
her ordinary business voice:
“This is an unprofitable discussion. Our standpoints
are too different. For my part, I believe
in propaganda, propaganda, and propaganda; and
when you can get it, open insurrection.”
“Then let us come back to the question of my
plan; it has something to do with propaganda and
more with insurrection.”
“Yes?”
“As I tell you, a good many volunteers are going
from the Romagna to join the Venetians.
We do not know yet how soon the insurrection
will break out. It may not be till the autumn
or winter; but the volunteers in the Apennines
must be armed and ready, so that they may be
able to start for the plains directly they are
sent for. I have undertaken to smuggle the
firearms and ammunition on to Papal territory for
them–-”
“Wait a minute. How do you come to be
working with that set? The revolutionists in
Lombardy and Venetia are all in favour of the new
Pope. They are going in for liberal reforms, hand
in hand with the progressive movement in the
Church. How can a ‘no-compromise’ anti-clerical
like you get on with them?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “What is it to me
if they like to amuse themselves with a rag-doll,
so long as they do their work? Of course they
will take the Pope for a figurehead. What have
I to do with that, if only the insurrection gets
under way somehow? Any stick will do to beat
a dog with, I suppose, and any cry to set the people
on the Austrians.”
“What is it you want me to do?”
“Chiefly to help me get the firearms across.”
“But how could I do that?”
“You are just the person who could do it best.
I think of buying the arms in England, and there
is a good deal of difficulty about bringing them
over. It’s impossible to get them through any
of the Pontifical sea-ports; they must come by
Tuscany, and go across the Apennines.”
“That makes two frontiers to cross instead of
one.”
“Yes; but the other way is hopeless; you can’t
smuggle a big transport in at a harbour where there
is no trade, and you know the whole shipping of
Civita Vecchia amounts to about three row-boats
and a fishing smack. If we once get the things
across Tuscany, I can manage the Papal frontier;
my men know every path in the mountains, and we
have plenty of hiding-places. The transport must
come by sea to Leghorn, and that is my great difficulty;
I am not in with the smugglers there, and
I believe you are.”
“Give me five minutes to think.”
She leaned forward, resting one elbow on her
knee, and supporting the chin on the raised hand.
After a few moments’ silence she looked up.
“It is possible that I might be of some use in
that part of the work,” she said; “but before we go
any further, I want to ask you a question. Can
you give me your word that this business is not
connected with any stabbing or secret violence of
any kind?”
“Certainly. It goes without saying that I
should not have asked you to join in a thing of
which I know you disapprove.”
“When do you want a definite answer from
me?”
“There is not much time to lose; but I can give
you a few days to decide in.”
“Are you free next Saturday evening?”
“Let me see—to-day is Thursday; yes.”
“Then come here. I will think the matter over
and give you a final answer.”
… . .
On the following Sunday Gemma sent in to the
committee of the Florentine branch of the Mazzinian
party a statement that she wished to undertake
a special work of a political nature, which
would for a few months prevent her from performing
the functions for which she had up till now
been responsible to the party.
Some surprise was felt at this announcement,
but the committee raised no objection; she had
been known in the party for several years as a person
whose judgment might be trusted; and the
members agreed that if Signora Bolla took an unexpected
step, she probably had good reasons for it.
To Martini she said frankly that she had undertaken
to help the Gadfly with some “frontier
work.” She had stipulated for the right to tell her
old friend this much, in order that there might be
no misunderstanding or painful sense of doubt and
mystery between them. It seemed to her that she
owed him this proof of confidence. He made no
comment when she told him; but she saw, without
knowing why, that the news had wounded
him deeply.
They were sitting on the terrace of her lodging,
looking out over the red roofs to Fiesole. After
a long silence, Martini rose and began tramping
up and down with his hands in his pockets, whistling
to himself—a sure sign with him of mental agitation.
She sat looking at him for a little while.
“Cesare, you are worried about this affair,” she
said at last. “I am very sorry you feel so despondent
over it; but I could decide only as seemed
right to me.”
“It is not the affair,” he answered, sullenly;
“I know nothing about it, and it probably is all
right, once you have consented to go into it. It’s
the MAN I distrust.”
“I think you misunderstand him; I did till I
got to know him better. He is far from perfect,
but there is much more good in him than you
think.”
“Very likely.” For a moment he tramped to
and fro in silence, then suddenly stopped beside
her.
“Gemma, give it up! Give it up before it is too
late! Don’t let that man drag you into things
you will repent afterwards.”
“Cesare,” she said gently, “you are not thinking
what you are saying. No one is dragging me
into anything. I have made this decision of my
own will, after thinking the matter well over alone.
You have a personal dislike to Rivarez, I know;
but we are talking of politics now, not of persons.”
“Madonna! Give it up! That man is dangerous;
he is secret, and cruel, and unscrupulous—
and he is in love with you!”
She drew back.
“Cesare, how can you get such fancies into your
head?”
“He is in love with you,” Martini repeated.
“Keep clear of him, Madonna!”
“Dear Cesare, I can’t keep clear of him; and I
can’t explain to you why. We are tied together—
not by any wish or doing of our own.”
“If you are tied, there is nothing more to say,”
Martini answered wearily.
He went away, saying that he was busy, and
tramped for hours up and down the muddy streets.
The world looked very black to him that evening.
One poor ewe-lamb—and this slippery creature
had stepped in and stolen it away.
CHAPTER X.
TOWARDS the middle of February the Gadfly
went to Leghorn. Gemma had introduced him to
a young Englishman there, a shipping-agent of
liberal views, whom she and her husband had
known in England. He had on several occasions
performed little services for the Florentine radicals:
had lent money to meet an unforeseen emergency,
had allowed his business address to be used
for the party’s letters, etc.; but always through
Gemma’s mediumship, and as a private friend of
hers. She was, therefore, according to party
etiquette, free to make use of the connexion in
any way that might seem good to her. Whether
any use could be got out of it was quite another
question. To ask a friendly sympathizer to lend
his address for letters from Sicily or to keep a
few documents in a corner of his counting-house
safe was one thing; to ask him to smuggle over a
transport of firearms for an insurrection was
another; and she had very little hope of his
consenting.
“You can but try,” she had said to the Gadfly;
“but I don’t think anything will come of it. If
you were to go to him with that recommendation
and ask for five hundred scudi, I dare say he’d give
them to you at once—he’s exceedingly generous,
—and perhaps at a pinch he would lend you
his passport or hide a fugitive in his cellar; but if
you mention such a thing as rifles he will stare at
you and think we’re both demented.”
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