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

threadbare coat, was saying

to her. During the last few months she had

changed and developed greatly, and now looked a

grown-up young woman, though the dense black

plaits still hung down her back in schoolgirl

fashion. She was dressed all in black, and had

thrown a black scarf over her head, as the room

was cold and draughty. At her breast was a spray

of cypress, the emblem of Young Italy. The

initiator was passionately describing to her the

misery of the Calabrian peasantry; and she sat

listening silently, her chin resting on one hand

and her eyes on the ground. To Arthur she

seemed a melancholy vision of Liberty mourning

for the lost Republic. (Julia would have seen in

her only an overgrown hoyden, with a sallow complexion,

an irregular nose, and an old stuff frock

that was too short for her.)

 

“You here, Jim!” he said, coming up to her

when the initiator had been called to the other end

of the room. “Jim” was a childish corruption of

her curious baptismal name: Jennifer. Her Italian

schoolmates called her “Gemma.”

 

She raised her head with a start.

 

“Arthur! Oh, I didn’t know you—belonged

here!”

 

“And I had no idea about you. Jim, since when

have you–-?”

 

“You don’t understand!” she interposed

quickly. “I am not a member. It is only that

I have done one or two little things. You see, I

met Bini—you know Carlo Bini?”

 

“Yes, of course.” Bini was the organizer of the

Leghorn branch; and all Young Italy knew him.

 

“Well, he began talking to me about these

things; and I asked him to let me go to a students’

meeting. The other day he wrote to me to

Florence––Didn’t you know I had been to

Florence for the Christmas holidays?”

 

“I don’t often hear from home now.”

 

“Ah, yes! Anyhow, I went to stay with the

Wrights.” (The Wrights were old schoolfellows

of hers who had moved to Florence.) “Then Bini

wrote and told me to pass through Pisa to-day on

my way home, so that I could come here. Ah!

they’re going to begin.”

 

The lecture was upon the ideal Republic and

the duty of the young to fit themselves for it.

The lecturer’s comprehension of his subject was

somewhat vague; but Arthur listened with devout

admiration. His mind at this period was curiously

uncritical; when he accepted a moral ideal

he swallowed it whole without stopping to think

whether it was quite digestible. When the lecture

and the long discussion which followed it were

finished and the students began to disperse, he

went up to Gemma, who was still sitting in the

corner of the room.

 

“Let me walk with you, Jim. Where are you

staying?”

 

“With Marietta.”

 

“Your father’s old housekeeper?”

 

“Yes; she lives a good way from here.”

 

They walked for some time in silence. Then

Arthur said suddenly:

 

“You are seventeen, now, aren’t you?”

 

“I was seventeen in October.”

 

“I always knew you would not grow up like

other girls and begin wanting to go to balls and

all that sort of thing. Jim, dear, I have so often

wondered whether you would ever come to be

one of us.”

 

“So have I.”

 

“You said you had done things for Bini; I

didn’t know you even knew him.”

 

“It wasn’t for Bini; it was for the other one”

 

“Which other one?”

 

“The one that was talking to me to-night—

Bolla.”

 

“Do you know him well?” Arthur put in with

a little touch of jealousy. Bolla was a sore subject

with him; there had been a rivalry between them

about some work which the committee of Young

Italy had finally intrusted to Bolla, declaring

Arthur too young and inexperienced.

 

“I know him pretty well; and I like him very

much. He has been staying in Leghorn.”

 

“I know; he went there in November––”

 

“Because of the steamers. Arthur, don’t you

think your house would be safer than ours for that

work? Nobody would suspect a rich shipping

family like yours; and you know everyone at the

docks–-”

 

“Hush! not so loud, dear! So it was in your

house the books from Marseilles were hidden?”

 

“Only for one day. Oh! perhaps I oughtn’t to

have told you.”

 

“Why not? You know I belong to the society.

Gemma, dear, there is nothing in all the world that

would make me so happy as for you to join us—

you and the Padre.”

 

“Your Padre! Surely he–-”

 

“No; he thinks differently. But I have sometimes

fancied—that is—hoped—I don’t know–-”

 

“But, Arthur! he’s a priest.”

 

“What of that? There are priests in the society

—two of them write in the paper. And why

not? It is the mission of the priesthood to lead

the world to higher ideals and aims, and what else

does the society try to do? It is, after all, more

a religious and moral question than a political one.

If people are fit to be free and responsible citizens,

no one can keep them enslaved.”

 

Gemma knit her brows. “It seems to me,

Arthur,” she said, “that there’s a muddle somewhere

in your logic. A priest teaches religious

doctrine. I don’t see what that has to do with

getting rid of the Austrians.”

 

“A priest is a teacher of Christianity, and the

greatest of all revolutionists was Christ.”

 

“Do you know, I was talking about priests to

father the other day, and he said–-”

 

“Gemma, your father is a Protestant.”

 

After a little pause she looked round at him

frankly.

 

“Look here, we had better leave this subject

alone. You are always intolerant when you talk

about Protestants.”

 

“I didn’t mean to be intolerant. But I think

Protestants are generally intolerant when they

talk about priests.”

 

“I dare say. Anyhow, we have so often quarreled

over this subject that it is not worth while to

begin again. What did you think of the lecture?”

 

“I liked it very much—especially the last part.

I was glad he spoke so strongly about the

need of living the Republic, not dreaming of it.

It is as Christ said: ‘The Kingdom of Heaven is

within you.’”

 

“It was just that part that I didn’t like. He

talked so much of the wonderful things we ought

to think and feel and be, but he never told us practically

what we ought to do.”

 

“When the time of crisis comes there will be

plenty for us to do; but we must be patient; these

great changes are not made in a day.”

 

“The longer a thing is to take doing, the more

reason to begin at once. You talk about being

fit for freedom—did you ever know anyone so fit

for it as your mother? Wasn’t she the most perfectly

angelic woman you ever saw? And what use

was all her goodness? She was a slave till the day

she died—bullied and worried and insulted by your

brother James and his wife. It would have been

much better for her if she had not been so sweet

and patient; they would never have treated her

so. That’s just the way with Italy; it’s not

patience that’s wanted—it’s for somebody to get

up and defend themselves––”

 

“Jim, dear, if anger and passion could have

saved Italy she would have been free long ago;

it is not hatred that she needs, it is love.”

 

As he said the word a sudden flush went up

to his forehead and died out again. Gemma

did not see it; she was looking straight before

her with knitted brows and set mouth.

 

“You think I am wrong, Arthur,” she said

after a pause; “but I am right, and you will grow

to see it some day. This is the house. Will you

come in?”

 

“No; it’s late. Good-night, dear!”

 

He was standing on the doorstep, clasping her

hand in both of his.

 

“For God and the people–-”

 

Slowly and gravely she completed the unfinished

motto:

 

“Now and forever.”

 

Then she pulled away her hand and ran into

the house. When the door had closed behind her

he stooped and picked up the spray of cypress

which had fallen from her breast.

 

CHAPTER IV.

 

ARTHUR went back to his lodgings feeling as

though he had wings. He was absolutely, cloudlessly

happy. At the meeting there had been

hints of preparations for armed insurrection; and

now Gemma was a comrade, and he loved her.

They could work together, possibly even die together,

for the Republic that was to be. The

blossoming time of their hope was come, and the

Padre would see it and believe.

 

The next morning, however, he awoke in a

soberer mood and remembered that Gemma was

going to Leghorn and the Padre to Rome. January,

February, March—three long months to

Easter! And if Gemma should fall under “Protestant”

influences at home (in Arthur’s vocabulary

“Protestant” stood for “Philistine”)––

No, Gemma would never learn to flirt and simper

and captivate tourists and bald-headed shipowners,

like the other English girls in Leghorn; she was

made of different stuff. But she might be very

miserable; she was so young, so friendless, so

utterly alone among all those wooden people. If

only mother had lived–-

 

In the evening he went to the seminary, where

he found Montanelli entertaining the new Director

and looking both tired and bored. Instead

of lighting up, as usual, at the sight of Arthur, the

Padre’s face grew darker.

 

“This is the student I spoke to you about,” he

said, introducing Arthur stiffly. “I shall be much

obliged if you will allow him to continue using the

library.”

 

Father Cardi, a benevolent-looking elderly

priest, at once began talking to Arthur about the

Sapienza, with an ease and familiarity which

showed him to be well acquainted with college

life. The conversation soon drifted into a discussion

of university regulations, a burning question

of that day. To Arthur’s great delight, the new

Director spoke strongly against the custom

adopted by the university authorities of constantly

worrying the students by senseless and vexatious

restrictions.

 

“I have had a good deal of experience in guiding

young people,” he said; “and I make it a

rule never to prohibit anything without a good

reason. There are very few young men who will

give much trouble if proper consideration and respect

for their personality are shown to them.

But, of course, the most docile horse will kick if

you are always jerking at the rein.”

 

Arthur opened his eyes wide; he had not expected

to hear the students’ cause pleaded by the

new Director. Montanelli took no part in the discussion;

its subject, apparently, did not interest

him. The expression of his face was so unutterably

hopeless and weary that Father Cardi broke

off suddenly.

 

“I am afraid I have overtired you, Canon. You

must forgive my talkativeness; I am hot upon this

subject and forget that others may grow weary

of it.”

 

“On the contrary, I was much interested.”

Montanelli was not given to stereotyped politeness,

and his tone jarred uncomfortably upon

Arthur.

 

When Father Cardi went to his own room

Montanelli turned to Arthur with the intent and

brooding look that his face had worn all the

evening.

 

“Arthur, my dear boy,” he began slowly; “I

have something to tell you.”

 

“He must have had bad news,” flashed through

Arthur’s mind, as he looked anxiously at the haggard

face. There was a long pause.

 

“How do you like the new Director?” Montanelli

asked suddenly.

 

The question was so unexpected that, for a moment,

Arthur was at a loss how to reply to