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."
"Perhaps he may give me a few hints, though,
or introduce me to a friendly sailor or two," the
Gadfly had answered. "Anyway, it's worth while
to try."
One day at the end of the month he came into
her study less carefully dressed than usual, and she
saw at once from his face that he had good news
to tell.
"Ah, at last! I was beginning to think something
must have happened to you!"
"I thought it safer not to write, and I couldn't
get back sooner."
"You have just arrived?"
"Yes; I am straight from the diligence; I
looked in to tell you that the affair is all settled."
"Do you mean that Bailey has really consented
to help?"
"More than to help; he has undertaken the
whole thing,--packing, transports,--everything.
The rifles will be hidden in bales of merchandise
and will come straight through from England.
His partner, Williams, who is a great friend of his,
has consented to see the transport off from Southampton,
and Bailey will slip it through the
custom house at Leghorn. That is why I have
been such a long time; Williams was just starting
for Southampton, and I went with him as far as
Genoa."
"To talk over details on the way?"
"Yes, as long as I wasn't too sea-sick to talk
about anything."
"Are you a bad sailor?" she asked quickly, remembering
how Arthur had suffered from sea-sickness one day when her
father had taken them both for a pleasure-trip.
"About as bad as is possible, in spite of having
been at sea so much. But we had a talk
while they were loading at Genoa. You know
Williams, I think? He's a thoroughly good fellow,
trustworthy and sensible; so is Bailey, for
that matter; and they both know how to hold
their tongues."
"It seems to me, though, that Bailey is running
a serious risk in doing a thing like this."
"So I told him, and he only looked sulky and
said: 'What business is that of yours?' Just the
sort of thing one would expect him to say. If I
met Bailey in Timbuctoo, I should go up to him
and say: 'Good-morning, Englishman.'"
"But I can't conceive how you managed to get
their consent; Williams, too; the last man I
should have thought of."
"Yes, he objected strongly at first; not on the
ground of danger, though, but because the thing
is 'so unbusiness-like.' But I managed to win
him over after a bit. And now we will go into
details."
. . . . .
When the Gadfly reached his lodgings the sun
had set, and the blossoming pyrus japonica that
hung over the garden wall looked dark in the fading
light. He gathered a few sprays and carried
them into the house. As he opened the study
door, Zita started up from a chair in the corner and
ran towards him.
"Oh, Felice; I thought you were never coming!"
His first impulse was to ask her sharply what
business she had in his study; but, remembering
that he had not seen her for three weeks, he held
out his hand and said, rather frigidly:
"Good-evening, Zita; how are you?"
She put up her face to be kissed, but he moved
past as though he had not seen the gesture, and
took up a vase to put the pyrus in. The next
instant the door was flung wide open, and the
collie, rushing into the room, performed an ecstatic
dance round him, barking and whining with delight.
He put down the flowers and stooped to pat the dog.
"Well, Shaitan, how are you, old man? Yes,
it's really I. Shake hands, like a good dog!"
The hard, sullen look came into Zita's face.
"Shall we go to dinner?" she asked coldly. "I
ordered it for you at my place, as you wrote that
you were coming this evening."
He turned round quickly.
"I am v-v-very sorry; you sh-should not have
waited for me! I will just get a bit tidy and
come round at once. P-perhaps you would not
mind putting these into water."
When he came into Zita's dining room she was
standing before a mirror, fastening one of the
sprays into her dress. She had apparently made
up her mind to be good-humoured, and came up to
him with a little cluster of crimson buds tied
together.
"Here is a buttonhole for you; let me put it in
your coat."
All through dinner-time he did his best to be
amiable, and kept up a flow of small-talk, to which
she responded with radiant smiles. Her evident
joy at his return somewhat embarrassed him;
he had grown so accustomed to the idea that she
led her own life apart from his, among such friends
and companions as were congenial to her, that it
had never occurred to him to imagine her as missing
him. And yet she must have felt dull to be
so much excited now.
"Let us have coffee up on the terrace," she said;
"it is quite warm this evening."
"Very well. Shall I take your guitar? Perhaps
you will sing."
She flushed with delight; he was critical about
music and did not often ask her to sing.
On the terrace was a broad wooden bench running
round the walls. The Gadfly chose a corner
with a good view of the hills, and Zita, seating herself
on the low wall with her feet on the bench,
leaned back against a pillar of the roof. She did
not care much for scenery; she preferred to look at
the Gadfly.
"Give me a cigarette," she said. "I don't believe
I have smoked once since you went away."
"Happy thought! It's just s-s-smoke I want
to complete my bliss."
She leaned forward and looked at him earnestly.
"Are you really happy?"
The Gadfly's mobile brows went up.
"Yes; why not? I have had a good dinner; I
am looking at one of the m-most beautiful views
in Europe; and now I'm going to have coffee and
hear a Hungarian folk-song. There is nothing the
matter with either my conscience or my digestion;
what more can man desire?"
"I know another thing you desire."
"What?"
"That!" She tossed a little cardboard box
into his hand.
"B-burnt almonds! Why d-didn't you tell me
before I began to s-smoke?" he cried reproachfully.
"Why, you baby! you can eat them when you
have done smoking. There comes the coffee."
The Gadfly sipped his coffee and ate his burnt
almonds with the grave and concentrated enjoyment
of a cat drinking cream.
"How nice it is to come back to d-decent coffee,
after the s-s-stuff one gets at Leghorn!" he said
in his purring drawl.
"A very good reason for stopping at home now
you are here."
"Not much stopping for me; I'm off again
to-morrow."
The smile died on her face.
"To-morrow! What for? Where are you going to?"
"Oh! two or three p-p-places, on business."
It had been decided between him and Gemma
that he must go in person into the Apennines to
make arrangements with the smugglers of the
frontier region about the transporting of the firearms.
To cross the Papal frontier was for him a
matter of serious danger; but it had to be done if
the work was to succeed.
"Always business!" Zita sighed under her
breath; and then asked aloud:
"Shall you be gone long?"
"No; only a fortnight or three weeks, p-p-probably."
"I suppose it's some of THAT business?" she
asked abruptly.
"'That' business?"
"The business you're always trying to get your
neck broken over--the everlasting politics."
"It has something to do with p-p-politics."
Zita threw away her cigarette.
"You are fooling me," she said. "You are
going into some danger or other."
"I'm going s-s-straight into the inf-fernal regions,"
he answered languidly. "D-do you happen to have any friends
there you want to send that ivy to? You n-needn't pull it
all down, though."
She had fiercely torn off a handful of the climber
from the pillar, and now flung it down with vehement anger.
"You are going into danger," she repeated;
"and you won't even say so honestly! Do you
think I am fit for nothing but to be fooled and
joked with? You will get yourself hanged one of
these days, and never so much as say good-bye.
It's always politics and politics--I'm sick of
politics!"
"S-so am I," said the Gadfly, yawning lazily;
"and therefore we'll talk about something else--
unless you will sing."
"Well, give me the guitar, then. What shall I sing?"
"The ballad of the lost horse; it suits your voice
so well."
She began to sing the old Hungarian ballad of
the man who loses first his horse, then his home,
and then his sweetheart, and consoles himself with
the reflection that "more was lost at Mohacz
field." The song was one of the Gadfly's especial
favourites; its fierce and tragic melody and the
bitter stoicism of the refrain appealed to him as
no softer music ever did.
Zita was in excellent voice; the notes came
from her lips strong and clear, full of the vehement
desire of life. She would have sung Italian or
Slavonic music badly, and German still worse; but
she sang the Magyar folk-songs splendidly.
The Gadfly listened with wide-open eyes and
parted lips; he had never heard her sing like this
before. As she came to the last line, her voice
began suddenly to shake.
"Ah, no matter! More was lost----"
She broke down with a sob and hid her face
among the ivy leaves.
"Zita!" The Gadfly rose and took the guitar
from her hand. "What is it?"
She only sobbed convulsively, hiding her face in
both hands. He touched her on the arm.
"Tell me what is the matter," he said caressingly.
"Let me alone!" she sobbed, shrinking away.
"Let me alone!"
He went quietly back to his seat and waited till the
sobs died away. Suddenly he felt her arms about his neck;
she was kneeling on the floor beside him.
"Felice--don't go! Don't go away!"
"We will talk about that afterwards," he said,
gently extricating himself from the clinging arms.
"Tell me first what has upset you so. Has anything
been frightening you?"
She silently shook her head.
"Have I done anything to hurt you?"
"No." She put a hand up against his throat.
"What, then?"
"You will get killed," she whispered at last.
"I heard one of those men that come here say the
other day that you will get into trouble--and
when I ask you about it you laugh at me!"
"My dear child," the Gadfly said, after a little
pause of astonishment, "you have got some exaggerated
notion into your head. Very likely I shall
get killed some day--that is the natural consequence
of being a revolutionist. But there is no
reason to suppose I am g-g-going to get killed
just now. I am running no more risk than other
people."
"Other people--what are other people to me?
If you loved me you wouldn't go off this way and
leave me to lie awake at night, wondering whether
you're arrested, or dream you are dead whenever
I go to sleep. You don't care as much for me as
for that dog there!"
The Gadfly rose and walked slowly to the other
end of the terrace. He was quite unprepared for
such a scene as this and at a loss how to answer
her. Yes, Gemma was right; he had got his life into
a tangle that he would have hard work to undo.
"Sit down and let us talk about it quietly," he
said, coming back after a moment. "I think we
have misunderstood each other; of course I should
not have laughed if I had thought you were serious.
Try to tell me plainly what is troubling you;
and then, if there is any misunderstanding, we
may be able to clear it up."
"There's nothing to clear up. I can see you
don't care a brass farthing for me."
"My dear child, we had better be quite frank
with each other. I have always tried to be honest
about our relationship, and I think I have never
deceived you as to----"
"Oh, no! you have been honest enough; you
have never even pretended to think of me as anything
else but a prostitute,--a trumpery bit of
second-hand finery that plenty of other men have
had before you--"
"Hush, Zita! I have never thought that way
about any living thing."
"You have never loved me," she insisted sullenly.
"No, I have never loved you. Listen to me,
and try to think as little harm of me as you can."
"Who said I thought any harm of you? I----"
"Wait a minute. This is what I want to say:
I have no belief whatever in conventional moral
codes, and no respect for them. To me the relations
between men and women are simply questions of
personal likes and dislikes------"
"And of money," she interrupted with a harsh
little laugh. He winced and hesitated a moment.
"That, of course, is the ugly part of the matter.
But believe me, if I had thought that you disliked
me, or felt any repulsion to the thing, I would
never have suggested it, or taken advantage of
your position to persuade you to it. I have never
done that to any woman in my life, and I have
never told a woman a lie about my feeling for her.
You may trust me that I am speaking the truth----"
He paused a moment, but she did not answer.
"I thought," he went on; "that if a man is
alone in the world and feels the need of--of a
woman's presence about him, and if he can find
a woman who is attractive to him and to whom he
is not repulsive, he has a right to accept, in a grateful
and friendly spirit, such pleasure as that woman
is willing to give him, without entering into any
closer bond. I saw no harm in the thing, provided
only there is no unfairness or insult or deceit
on either side. As for your having been in that
relation with other men before I met you, I did
not think about that. I merely thought that the
connexion would be a pleasant and harmless one
for both of us, and that either was free to break
it as soon as it became irksome. If I was mistaken
--if you have grown to look upon it differently--
then----"
He paused again.
"Then?" she whispered, without looking up.
"Then I have done you a wrong, and I am very
sorry. But I did not mean to do it."
"You 'did not mean' and you 'thought'----
Felice, are you made of cast iron? Have you never
been in love with a woman in your life that you
can't see I love you?"
A sudden thrill went through him; it was so
long since anyone had said to him: "I love you."
Instantly she started up and flung her arms round
him.
"Felice, come away with me! Come away from
this dreadful country and all these people and their
politics! What have we got to do with them?
Come away, and we will be happy together. Let
us go to South America, where you used to live."
The physical horror of association startled
him back into self-control; he unclasped her hands
from his neck and held them in a steady grasp.
"Zita! Try to understand what I am saying
to you. I do not love you; and if I did I would
not come away with you. I have my work in
Italy, and my comrades----"
"And someone else that you love better than
me!" she cried out fiercely. "Oh, I could kill
you! It is not your comrades you care about;
it's---- I know who it is!"
"Hush!" he said quietly. "You are excited
and imagining things that are not true."
"You suppose I am thinking of Signora Bolla?
I'm not so easily duped! You only talk politics
with her; you care no more for her than you do for
me. It's that Cardinal!"
The Gadfly started as if he had been shot.
"Cardinal?" he repeated mechanically.
"Cardinal Montanelli, that came here preaching
in the autumn. Do you think I didn't see your
face when his carriage passed? You were as white
as my pocket-handkerchief! Why, you're shaking
like a leaf now because I mentioned his name!"
He stood up.
"You don't know what you are talking about,"
he said very slowly and softly. "I--hate the
Cardinal. He is the worst enemy I have."
"Enemy or no, you love him better than you
love anyone else in the world. Look me in the
face and say that is not true, if you can!"
He turned away, and looked out into the garden.
She watched him furtively, half-scared at
what she had done; there was something terrifying
in his silence. At last she stole up to him,
like a frightened child, and timidly pulled his
sleeve. He turned round.
"It is true," he said.
