GEMMA and the Gadfly walked silently along
the Lung'Arno. His feverish talkativeness seemed
to have quite spent itself; he had hardly spoken
a word since they left Riccardo's door, and
Gemma was heartily glad of his silence. She
always felt embarrassed in his company, and to-day
more so than usual, for his strange behaviour
at the committee meeting had greatly perplexed
her.
By the Uffizi palace he suddenly stopped and
turned to her.
"Are you tired?"
"No; why?"
"Nor especially busy this evening?"
"No."
"I want to ask a favour of you; I want you to
come for a walk with me."
"Where to?"
"Nowhere in particular; anywhere you like."
"But what for?"
He hesitated.
"I--can't tell you--at least, it's very difficult;
but please come if you can."
He raised his eyes suddenly from the ground,
and she saw how strange their expression was.
"There is something the matter with you," she
said gently. He pulled a leaf from the flower in
his button-hole, and began tearing it to pieces.
Who was it that he was so oddly like? Someone
who had that same trick of the fingers and hurried,
nervous gesture.
"I am in trouble," he said, looking down at his
hands and speaking in a hardly audible voice. "I
--don't want to be alone this evening. Will you
come?"
"Yes, certainly, unless you would rather go to
my lodgings."
"No; come and dine with me at a restaurant.
There's one on the Signoria. Please don't refuse,
now; you've promised!"
They went into a restaurant, where he ordered
dinner, but hardly touched his own share, and
remained obstinately silent, crumbling the bread
over the cloth, and fidgeting with the fringe of
his table napkin. Gemma felt thoroughly uncomfortable,
and began to wish she had refused to
come; the silence was growing awkward; yet she
could not begin to make small-talk with a person
who seemed to have forgotten her presence. At
last he looked up and said abruptly:
"Would you like to see the variety show?"
She stared at him in astonishment. What had
he got into his head about variety shows?
"Have you ever seen one?" he asked before she
had time to speak.
"No; I don't think so. I didn't suppose they
were interesting."
"They are very interesting. I don't think anyone
can study the life of the people without seeing
them. Let us go back to the Porta alla Croce."
When they arrived the mountebanks had set up
their tent beside the town gate, and an abominable
scraping of fiddles and banging of drums
announced that the performance had begun.
The entertainment was of the roughest kind.
A few clowns, harlequins, and acrobats, a circus-rider
jumping through hoops, the painted columbine,
and the hunchback performing various dull
and foolish antics, represented the entire force of
the company. The jokes were not, on the whole,
coarse or offensive; but they were very tame and
stale, and there was a depressing flatness about
the whole thing. The audience laughed and
clapped from their innate Tuscan courtesy; but
the only part which they seemed really to enjoy
was the performance of the hunchback, in which
Gemma could find nothing either witty or skilful.
It was merely a series of grotesque and hideous
contortions, which the spectators mimicked, holding
up children on their shoulders that the little
ones might see the "ugly man."
"Signor Rivarez, do you really think this
attractive?" said Gemma, turning to the Gadfly,
who was standing beside her, his arm round one
of the wooden posts of the tent. "It seems to
me----"
She broke off and remained looking at him
silently. Except when she had stood with Montanelli
at the garden gate in Leghorn, she had
never seen a human face express such fathomless,
hopeless misery. She thought of Dante's hell as
she watched him.
Presently the hunchback, receiving a kick from
one of the clowns, turned a somersault and tumbled
in a grotesque heap outside the ring. A dialogue
between two clowns began, and the Gadfly
seemed to wake out of a dream.
"Shall we go?" he asked; "or would you like
to see more?"
"I would rather go."
They left the tent, and walked across the dark
green to the river. For a few moments neither
spoke.
"What did you think of the show?" the Gadfly
asked presently.
"I thought it rather a dreary business; and
part of it seemed to me positively unpleasant."
"Which part?"
"Well, all those grimaces and contortions.
They are simply ugly; there is nothing clever
about them."
"Do you mean the hunchback's performance?"
Remembering his peculiar sensitiveness on the
subject of his own physical defects, she had
avoided mentioning this particular bit of the
entertainment; but now that he had touched upon
the subject himself, she answered: "Yes; I did
not like that part at all."
"That was the part the people enjoyed most."
"I dare say; and that is just the worst thing
about it."
"Because it was inartistic?"
"N-no; it was all inartistic. I meant--because
it was cruel."
He smiled.
"Cruel? Do you mean to the hunchback?"
"I mean---- Of course the man himself was
quite indifferent; no doubt, it is to him just a way
of getting a living, like the circus-rider's way or
the columbine's. But the thing makes one feel
unhappy. It is humiliating; it is the degradation
of a human being."
"He probably is not any more degraded than
he was to start with. Most of us are degraded in
one way or another."
"Yes; but this--I dare say you will think it
an absurd prejudice; but a human body, to me, is
a sacred thing; I don't like to see it treated
irreverently and made hideous."
"And a human soul?"
He had stopped short, and was standing with
one hand on the stone balustrade of the embankment,
looking straight at her.
"A soul?" she repeated, stopping in her turn
to look at him in wonder.
He flung out both hands with a sudden, passionate gesture.
"Has it never occurred to you that that miserable
clown may have a soul--a living, struggling,
human soul, tied down into that crooked hulk of
a body and forced to slave for it? You that are so
tender-hearted to everything--you that pity the
body in its fool's dress and bells--have you never
thought of the wretched soul that has not even
motley to cover its horrible nakedness? Think
of it shivering with cold, stilled with shame and
misery, before all those people--feeling their jeers
that cut like a whip--their laughter, that burns
like red-hot iron on the bare flesh! Think of it
looking round--so helpless before them all--for
the mountains that will not fall on it--for the rocks
that have not the heart to cover it--envying the
rats that can creep into some hole in the earth
and hide; and remember that a soul is dumb--it
has no voice to cry out--it must endure, and endure,
and endure. Oh! I'm talking nonsense!
Why on earth don't you laugh? You have no
sense of humour!"
Slowly and in dead silence she turned and
walked on along the river side. During the whole
evening it had not once occurred to her to connect
his trouble, whatever it might be, with the
variety show; and now that some dim picture of
his inner life had been revealed to her by this sudden
outburst, she could not find, in her overwhelming
pity for him, one word to say. He
walked on beside her, with his head turned away,
and looked into the water.
"I want you, please, to understand," he began
suddenly, turning to her with a defiant air, "that
everything I have just been saying to you is pure
imagination. I'm rather given to romancing, but
I don't like people to take it seriously."
She made no answer, and they walked on in
silence. As they passed by the gateway of the
Uffizi, he crossed the road and stooped down
over a dark bundle that was lying against the
railings.
"What is the matter, little one?" he asked,
more gently than she had ever heard him speak.
"Why don't you go home?"
The bundle moved, and answered something in
a low, moaning voice. Gemma came across to
look, and saw a child of about six years old,
ragged and dirty, crouching on the pavement like a
frightened animal. The Gadfly was bending down
with his hand on the unkempt head.
"What is it?" he said, stooping lower to catch
the unintelligible answer. "You ought to go
home to bed; little boys have no business out of
doors at night; you'll be quite frozen! Give me
your hand and jump up like a man! Where do
you live?"
He took the child's arm to raise him. The result
was a sharp scream and a quick shrinking away.
"Why, what is it?" the Gadfly asked, kneeling
down on the pavement. "Ah! Signora, look
here!"
The child's shoulder and jacket were covered
with blood.
"Tell me what has happened?" the Gadfly
went on caressingly. "It wasn't a fall, was it?
No? Someone's been beating you? I thought
so! Who was it?"
"My uncle."
"Ah, yes! And when was it?"
"This morning. He was drunk, and I--I----"
"And you got in his way--was that it? You
shouldn't get in people's way when they are
drunk, little man; they don't like it. What shall
we do with this poor mite, signora? Come here
to the light, sonny, and let me look at that
shoulder. Put your arm round my neck; I won't
hurt you. There we are!"
He lifted the boy in his arms, and, carrying him
across the street, set him down on the wide stone
balustrade. Then, taking out a pocket-knife, he
deftly ripped up the torn sleeve, supporting the
child's head against his breast, while Gemma held
the injured arm. The shoulder was badly bruised
and grazed, and there was a deep gash on the arm.
"That's an ugly cut to give a mite like you,"
said the Gadfly, fastening his handkerchief round
the wound to prevent the jacket from rubbing
against it. "What did he do it with?"
"The shovel. I went to ask him to give me a
soldo to get some polenta at the corner shop, and
he hit me with the shovel."
The Gadfly shuddered. "Ah!" he said softly,
"that hurts; doesn't it, little one?"
"He hit me with the shovel--and I ran away--
I ran away--because he hit me."
"And you've been wandering about ever since,
without any dinner?"
Instead of answering, the child began to sob
violently. The Gadfly lifted him off the balustrade.
"There, there! We'll soon set all that straight.
I wonder if we can get a cab anywhere. I'm afraid
they'll all be waiting by the theatre; there's a
grand performance going on to-night. I am sorry
to drag you about so, signora; but----"
"I would rather come with you. You may
want help. Do you think you can carry him so
far? Isn't he very heavy?"
"Oh, I can manage, thank you."
At the theatre door they found only a few cabs
waiting, and these were all engaged. The performance
was over, and most of the audience had
gone. Zita's name was printed in large letters on
the wall-placards; she had been dancing in the
ballet. Asking Gemma to wait for him a moment,
the Gadfly went round to the performers' entrance,
and spoke to an attendant.
"Has Mme. Reni gone yet?"
"No, sir," the man answered, staring blankly
at the spectacle of a well-dressed gentleman carrying
a ragged street child in his arms, "Mme.
Reni is just coming out, I think; her carriage is
waiting for her. Yes; there she comes."
Zita descended the stairs, leaning on the arm of
a young cavalry officer. She looked superbly
handsome, with an opera cloak of flame-coloured
velvet thrown over her evening dress, and a great
fan of ostrich plumes hanging from her waist. In
the entry she stopped short, and, drawing her
hand away from the officer's arm, approached the
Gadfly in amazement.
"Felice!" she exclaimed under her breath,
"what HAVE you got there?"
"I have picked up this child in the street. It is
hurt and starving; and I want to get it home as
quickly as possible. There is not a cab to be got
anywhere, so I want to have your carriage."
"Felice! you are not going to take a horrid
beggar-child into your rooms! Send for a policeman,
and let him carry it to the Refuge or whatever
is the proper place for it. You can't have all
the paupers in the town----"
"It is hurt," the Gadfly repeated; "it can go
to the Refuge to-morrow, if necessary, but I must
see to the child first and give it some food."
Zita made a little grimace of disgust. "You've
got its head right against your shirt! How CAN
you? It is dirty!"
The Gadfly looked up with a sudden flash of anger.
"It is hungry," he said fiercely. "You don't
know what that means, do you?"
"Signer Rivarez," interposed Gemma, coming
forward, "my lodgings are quite close. Let us
take the child in there. Then, if you cannot find
a vettura, I will manage to put it up for the
night."
He turned round quickly. "You don't mind?"
"Of course not. Good-night, Mme. Reni!"
The gipsy, with a stiff bow and an angry shrug
of her shoulders, took her officer's arm again, and,
gathering up the train of her dress, swept past
them to the contested carriage.
"I will send it back to fetch you and the child,
if you like, M. Rivarez," she said, pausing on the
doorstep.
"Very well; I will give the address." He came
out on to the pavement, gave the address to the
driver, and walked back to Gemma with his burden.
Katie was waiting up for her mistress; and, on
hearing what had happened, ran for warm water
and other necessaries. Placing the child on a
chair, the Gadfly knelt down beside him, and,
deftly slipping off the ragged clothing, bathed
and bandaged the wound with tender, skilful
hands. He had just finished washing the boy, and
was wrapping him in a warm blanket, when
Gemma came in with a tray in her hands.
"Is your patient ready for his supper?" she
asked, smiling at the strange little figure. "I
have been cooking it for him."
The Gadfly stood up and rolled the dirty rags
together. "I'm afraid we have made a terrible
mess in your room," he said. "As for these, they
had better go straight into the fire, and I will buy
him some new clothes to-morrow. Have you any
brandy in the house, signora? I think he ought
to have a little. I will just wash my hands, if you
will allow me."
When the child had finished his supper, he
immediately went to sleep in the Gadfly's arms, with
his rough head against the white shirt-front.
Gemma, who had been helping Katie to set the
disordered room tidy again, sat down at the table.
"Signor Rivarez, you must take something
before you go home--you had hardly any dinner,
and it's very late."
"I should like a cup of tea in the English fashion,
if you have it. I'm sorry to keep you up so late."
"Oh! that doesn't matter. Put the child down
on the sofa; he will tire you. Wait a minute; I
will just lay a sheet over the cushions. What are
you going to do with him?"
"To-morrow? Find out whether he has any
other relations except that drunken brute; and
if not, I suppose I must follow Mme. Reni's advice,
and take him to the Refuge. Perhaps the
kindest thing to do would be to put a stone round
his neck and pitch him into the river there; but
that would expose me to unpleasant consequences.
Fast asleep! What an odd little lump of ill-luck
you are, you mite--not half as capable of defending
yourself as a stray cat!"
When Katie brought in the tea-tray, the boy
opened his eyes and sat up with a bewildered air.
Recognizing the Gadfly, whom he already regarded
as his natural protector, he wriggled off
the sofa, and, much encumbered by the folds of
his blanket, came up to nestle against him. He
was by now sufficiently revived to be inquisitive;
and, pointing to the mutilated left hand, in which
the Gadfly was holding a piece of cake, asked:
"What's that?"
"That? Cake; do you want some? I think
you've had enough for now. Wait till to-morrow,
little man."
"No--that!" He stretched out his hand and
touched the stumps of the amputated fingers and
the great scar on the wrist. The Gadfly put down
his cake.
"Oh, that! It's the same sort of thing as what
you have on your shoulder--a hit I got from
someone stronger than I was."
"Didn't it hurt awfully?"
"Oh, I don't know--not more than other
things. There, now, go to sleep again; you have
no business asking questions at this time of night."
When the carriage arrived the boy was again
asleep; and the Gadfly, without awaking him,
lifted him gently and carried him out on to the
stairs.
"You have been a sort of ministering angel to
me to-day," he said to Gemma, pausing at the
door. "But I suppose that need not prevent us
from quarrelling to our heart's content in future."
"I have no desire to quarrel with anyone."
"Ah! but I have. Life would be unendurable
without quarrels. A good quarrel is the salt of
the earth; it's better than a variety show!"
And with that he went downstairs, laughing
softly to himself, with the sleeping child in his
arms.
