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

“If you wish for any further

explanation, you had better apply in person to the

chief of police.”

 

Julia snatched the paper from her husband,

glanced over it, and flew at Arthur like nothing

else in the world but a fashionable lady in a

rage.

 

“So it’s you that have disgraced the family!”

she screamed; “setting all the rabble in the town

gaping and staring as if the thing were a show?

So you have turned jail-bird, now, with all your

piety! It’s what we might have expected from

that Popish woman’s child–-”

 

“You must not speak to a prisoner in a foreign

language, madam,” the officer interrupted; but

his remonstrance was hardly audible under the torrent

of Julia’s vociferous English.

 

“Just what we might have expected! Fasting

and prayer and saintly meditation; and this is what

was underneath it all! I thought that would be

the end of it.”

 

Dr. Warren had once compared Julia to a salad

into which the cook had upset the vinegar cruet.

The sound of her thin, hard voice set Arthur’s

teeth on edge, and the simile suddenly popped up

in his memory.

 

“There’s no use in this kind of talk,” he said.

“You need not be afraid of any unpleasantness;

everyone will understand that you are all quite

innocent. I suppose, gentlemen, you want to

search my things. I have nothing to hide.”

 

While the gendarmes ransacked the room, reading

his letters, examining his college papers, and

turning out drawers and boxes, he sat waiting on

the edge of the bed, a little flushed with excitement,

but in no way distressed. The search did

not disquiet him. He had always burned letters

which could possibly compromise anyone, and beyond

a few manuscript verses, half revolutionary,

half mystical, and two or three numbers of Young

Italy, the gendarmes found nothing to repay them

for their trouble. Julia, after a long resistance,

yielded to the entreaties of her brother-in-law and

went back to bed, sweeping past Arthur with

magnificent disdain, James meekly following.

 

When they had left the room, Thomas, who all

this while had been tramping up and down, trying

to look indifferent, approached the officer and

asked permission to speak to the prisoner.

Receiving a nod in answer, he went up to Arthur

and muttered in a rather husky voice:

 

“I say; this is an infernally awkward business.

I’m very sorry about it.”

 

Arthur looked up with a face as serene as a summer

morning. “You have always been good to

me,” he said. “There’s nothing to be sorry

about. I shall be safe enough.”

 

“Look here, Arthur!” Thomas gave his moustache

a hard pull and plunged head first into the

awkward question. “Is—all this anything to do

with—money? Because, if it is, I–-”

 

“With money! Why, no! What could it have

to do–-”

 

“Then it’s some political tomfoolery? I

thought so. Well, don’t you get down in the

mouth—and never mind all the stuff Julia talks.

It’s only her spiteful tongue; and if you want

help,—cash, or anything,—let me know, will

you?”

 

Arthur held out his hand in silence, and Thomas

left the room with a carefully made-up expression

of unconcern that rendered his face more stolid

than ever.

 

The gendarmes, meanwhile, had finished their

search, and the officer in charge requested Arthur

to put on his outdoor clothes. He obeyed at once

and turned to leave the room; then stopped with

sudden hesitation. It seemed hard to take leave

of his mother’s oratory in the presence of these

officials.

 

“Have you any objection to leaving the room

for a moment?” he asked. “You see that I cannot

escape and that there is nothing to conceal.”

 

“I am sorry, but it is forbidden to leave a

prisoner alone.”

 

“Very well, it doesn’t matter.”

 

He went into the alcove, and, kneeling down,

kissed the feet and pedestal of the crucifix, whispering

softly: “Lord, keep me faithful unto death.”

 

When he rose, the officer was standing by the

table, examining Montanelli’s portrait. “Is this

a relative of yours?” he asked.

 

“No; it is my confessor, the new Bishop of

Brisighella.”

 

On the staircase the Italian servants were waiting,

anxious and sorrowful. They all loved Arthur

for his own sake and his mother’s, and crowded

round him, kissing his hands and dress with

passionate grief. Gian Battista stood by, the

tears dripping down his gray moustache. None

of the Burtons came out to take leave of him.

Their coldness accentuated the tenderness and

sympathy of the servants, and Arthur was near to

breaking down as he pressed the hands held out

to him.

 

“Good-bye, Gian Battista. Kiss the little ones

for me. Good-bye, Teresa. Pray for me, all of

you; and God keep you! Good-bye, good-bye!”

 

He ran hastily downstairs to the front door. A

moment later only a little group of silent men and

sobbing women stood on the doorstep watching

the carriage as it drove away.

 

CHAPTER VI.

 

ARTHUR was taken to the huge mediaeval fortress

at the harbour’s mouth. He found prison life

fairly endurable. His cell was unpleasantly damp

and dark; but he had been brought up in a palace

in the Via Borra, and neither close air, rats, nor

foul smells were novelties to him. The food, also,

was both bad and insufficient; but James soon obtained

permission to send him all the necessaries of

life from home. He was kept in solitary confinement,

and, though the vigilance of the warders

was less strict than he had expected, he failed to

obtain any explanation of the cause of his arrest.

Nevertheless, the tranquil frame of mind in which

he had entered the fortress did not change. Not

being allowed books, he spent his time in prayer

and devout meditation, and waited without impatience

or anxiety for the further course of events.

 

One day a soldier unlocked the door of his cell

and called to him: “This way, please!” After two

or three questions, to which he got no answer but,

“Talking is forbidden,” Arthur resigned himself

to the inevitable and followed the soldier through

a labyrinth of courtyards, corridors, and stairs, all

more or less musty-smelling, into a large, light

room in which three persons in military uniform

sat at a long table covered with green baize and littered

with papers, chatting in a languid, desultory

way. They put on a stiff, business air as he came

in, and the oldest of them, a foppish-looking man

with gray whiskers and a colonel’s uniform,

pointed to a chair on the other side of the table

and began the preliminary interrogation.

 

Arthur had expected to be threatened, abused,

and sworn at, and had prepared himself to

answer with dignity and patience; but he was pleasantly

disappointed. The colonel was stiff, cold

and formal, but perfectly courteous. The usual

questions as to his name, age, nationality, and

social position were put and answered, and the

replies written down in monotonous succession.

He was beginning to feel bored and impatient,

when the colonel asked:

 

“And now, Mr. Burton, what do you know

about Young Italy?”

 

“I know that it is a society which publishes a

newspaper in Marseilles and circulates it in Italy,

with the object of inducing people to revolt and

drive the Austrian army out of the country.”

 

“You have read this paper, I think?”

 

“Yes; I am interested in the subject.”

 

“When you read it you realized that you were

committing an illegal action?”

 

“Certainly.”

 

“Where did you get the copies which were

found in your room?”

 

“That I cannot tell you.”

 

“Mr. Burton, you must not say ‘I cannot tell’

here; you are bound to answer my questions.”

 

“I will not, then, if you object to ‘cannot.’”

 

“You will regret it if you permit yourself to

use such expressions,” remarked the colonel. As

Arthur made no reply, he went on:

 

“I may as well tell you that evidence has come

into our hands proving your connection with this

society to be much more intimate than is implied

by the mere reading of forbidden literature. It

will be to your advantage to confess frankly. In

any case the truth will be sure to come out, and

you will find it useless to screen yourself behind

evasion and denials.”

 

“I have no desire to screen myself. What is it

you want to know?”

 

“Firstly, how did you, a foreigner, come to be

implicated in matters of this kind?”

 

“I thought about the subject and read everything

I could get hold of, and formed my own

conclusions.”

 

“Who persuaded you to join this society?”

 

“No one; I wished to join it.”

 

“You are shilly-shallying with me,” said the

colonel, sharply; his patience was evidently beginning

to give out. “No one can join a society by

himself. To whom did you communicate your wish

to join it?”

 

Silence.

 

“Will you have the kindness to answer me?”

 

“Not when you ask questions of that kind.”

 

Arthur spoke sullenly; a curious, nervous irritability

was taking possession of him. He knew by

this time that many arrests had been made in both

Leghorn and Pisa; and, though still ignorant of

the extent of the calamity, he had already heard

enough to put him into a fever of anxiety for the

safety of Gemma and his other friends. The

studied politeness of the officers, the dull game of

fencing and parrying, of insidious questions and

evasive answers, worried and annoyed him, and the

clumsy tramping backward and forward of the

sentinel outside the door jarred detestably upon

his ear.

 

“Oh, by the bye, when did you last meet Giovanni

Bolla?” asked the colonel, after a little more

bandying of words. “Just before you left Pisa,

was it?”

 

“I know no one of that name.”

 

“What! Giovanni Bolla? Surely you know him

—a tall young fellow, closely shaven. Why, he

is one of your fellow-students.”

 

“There are many students in the university

whom I don’t know.”

 

“Oh, but you must know Bolla, surely! Look,

this is his handwriting. You see, he knows you

well enough.”

 

The colonel carelessly handed him a paper

headed: “Protocol,” and signed: “Giovanni

Bolla.” Glancing down it Arthur came upon his

own name. He looked up in surprise. “Am I to

read it?”

 

“Yes, you may as well; it concerns you.”

 

He began to read, while the officers sat silently

watching his face. The document appeared to

consist of depositions in answer to a long string of

questions. Evidently Bolla, too, must have been

arrested. The first depositions were of the usual

stereotyped character; then followed a short account

of Bolla’s connection with the society, of the

dissemination of prohibited literature in Leghorn,

and of the students’ meetings. Next came

“Among those who joined us was a young Englishman,

Arthur Burton, who belongs to one of

the rich shipowning families.”

 

The blood rushed into Arthur’s face. Bolla had

betrayed him! Bolla, who had taken upon himself

the solemn duties of an initiator—Bolla, who had

converted Gemma—who was in love with her!

He laid down the paper and stared at the floor.

 

“I hope that little document has refreshed

your memory?” hinted the colonel politely.

 

Arthur shook his head. “I know no one of that

name,” he repeated in a dull, hard voice. “There

must be some mistake.”

 

“Mistake? Oh, nonsense! Come, Mr. Burton,

chivalry and quixotism are very fine things in

their way; but there’s no use in overdoing them.

It’s an error all you young people fall into at first.

Come, think! What good is it for you to compromise

yourself and spoil your prospects in life over

a simple formality about