THE Gadfly took lodgings outside the Roman
gate, near to which Zita was boarding. He was
evidently somewhat of a sybarite; and, though
nothing in the rooms showed any serious extravagance,
there was a tendency to luxuriousness in
trifles and to a certain fastidious daintiness in the
arrangement of everything which surprised Galli
and Riccardo. They had expected to find a man
who had lived among the wildernesses of the Amazon
more simple in his tastes, and wondered at his
spotless ties and rows of boots, and at the masses
of flowers which always stood upon his writing
table. On the whole they got on very well with
him. He was hospitable and friendly to everyone,
especially to the local members of the Mazzinian
party. To this rule Gemma, apparently, formed
an exception; he seemed to have taken a dislike to
her from the time of their first meeting, and in
every way avoided her company. On two or three
occasions he was actually rude to her, thus bringing
upon himself Martini's most cordial detestation.
There had been no love lost between the
two men from the beginning; their temperaments
appeared to be too incompatible for them to feel
anything but repugnance for each other. On
Martini's part this was fast developing into
hostility.
"I don't care about his not liking me," he said
one day to Gemma with an aggrieved air. "I
don't like him, for that matter; so there's no harm
done. But I can't stand the way he behaves to
you. If it weren't for the scandal it would make
in the party first to beg a man to come and then
to quarrel with him, I should call him to account
for it."
"Let him alone, Cesare; it isn't of any consequence,
and after all, it's as much my fault as his."
"What is your fault?"
"That he dislikes me so. I said a brutal thing
to him when we first met, that night at the
Grassinis'."
"YOU said a brutal thing? That's hard to
believe, Madonna."
"It was unintentional, of course, and I was very
sorry. I said something about people laughing at
cripples, and he took it personally. It had never
occurred to me to think of him as a cripple; he is
not so badly deformed."
"Of course not. He has one shoulder higher
than the other, and his left arm is pretty badly
disabled, but he's neither hunchbacked nor clubfooted.
As for his lameness, it isn't worth talking
about."
"Anyway, he shivered all over and changed
colour. Of course it was horribly tactless of me,
but it's odd he should be so sensitive. I wonder
if he has ever suffered from any cruel jokes of that
kind."
"Much more likely to have perpetrated them, I
should think. There's a sort of internal brutality
about that man, under all his fine manners, that
is perfectly sickening to me."
"Now, Cesare, that's downright unfair. I
don't like him any more than you do, but what is
the use of making him out worse than he is? His
manner is a little affected and irritating--I expect
he has been too much lionized--and the everlasting
smart speeches are dreadfully tiring; but I
don't believe he means any harm."
"I don't know what he means, but there's something
not clean about a man who sneers at everything. It
fairly disgusted me the other day at
Fabrizi's debate to hear the way he cried down
the reforms in Rome, just as if he wanted to find
a foul motive for everything."
Gemma sighed. "I am afraid I agreed better
with him than with you on that point," she said.
"All you good people are so full of the most
delightful hopes and expectations; you are always
ready to think that if one well-meaning middle-aged
gentleman happens to get elected Pope,
everything else will come right of itself. He has
only got to throw open the prison doors and give
his blessing to everybody all round, and we may
expect the millennium within three months. You
never seem able to see that he can't set things
right even if he would. It's the principle of the
thing that's wrong, not the behaviour of this man
or that."
"What principle? The temporal power of the
Pope?"
"Why that in particular? That's merely a part
of the general wrong. The bad principle is that
any man should hold over another the power to
bind and loose. It's a false relationship to stand
in towards one's fellows."
Martini held up his hands. "That will do, Madonna,"
he said, laughing. "I am not going to
discuss with you, once you begin talking rank
Antinomianism in that fashion. I'm sure your
ancestors must have been English Levellers in the
seventeenth century. Besides, what I came round
about is this MS."
He pulled it out of his pocket.
"Another new pamphlet?"
"A stupid thing this wretched man Rivarez
sent in to yesterday's committee. I knew we
should come to loggerheads with him before
long."
"What is the matter with it? Honestly,
Cesare, I think you are a little prejudiced. Rivarez
may be unpleasant, but he's not stupid."
"Oh, I don't deny that this is clever enough in
its way; but you had better read the thing
yourself."
The pamphlet was a skit on the wild enthusiasm
over the new Pope with which Italy was still
ringing. Like all the Gadfly's writing, it was
bitter and vindictive; but, notwithstanding her
irritation at the style, Gemma could not help
recognizing in her heart the justice of the criticism.
"I quite agree with you that it is detestably
malicious," she said, laying down the manuscript.
"But the worst thing about it is that it's all true."
"Gemma!"
"Yes, but it is. The man's a cold-blooded eel,
if you like; but he's got the truth on his side.
There is no use in our trying to persuade ourselves
that this doesn't hit the mark--it does!"
"Then do you suggest that we should print it?"
"Ah! that's quite another matter. I certainly
don't think we ought to print it as it stands; it
would hurt and alienate everybody and do no
good. But if he would rewrite it and cut out the
personal attacks, I think it might be made into a
really valuable piece of work. As political criticism
it is very fine. I had no idea he could write
so well. He says things which need saying and
which none of us have had the courage to say.
This passage, where he compares Italy to a tipsy
man weeping with tenderness on the neck of the
thief who is picking his pocket, is splendidly
written."
"Gemma! The very worst bit in the whole
thing! I hate that ill-natured yelping at everything
and everybody!"
"So do I; but that's not the point. Rivarez
has a very disagreeable style, and as a human being
he is not attractive; but when he says that we have
made ourselves drunk with processions and embracing
and shouting about love and reconciliation, and that
the Jesuits and Sanfedists are the people who will
profit by it all, he's right a thousand times. I
wish I could have been at the committee yesterday.
What decision did you finally arrive at?"
"What I have come here about: to ask you to
go and talk it over with him and persuade him to
soften the thing."
"Me? But I hardly know the man; and besides
that, he detests me. Why should I go, of all
people?"
"Simply because there's no one else to do it
to-day. Besides, you are more reasonable than
the rest of us, and won't get into useless arguments
and quarrel with him, as we should."
"I shan't do that, certainly. Well, I will go if
you like, though I have not much hope of success."
"I am sure you will be able to manage him if
you try. Yes, and tell him that the committee
all admired the thing from a literary point of view.
That will put him into a good humour, and it's perfectly
true, too."
. . . . .
The Gadfly was sitting beside a table covered
with flowers and ferns, staring absently at the
floor, with an open letter on his knee. A shaggy
collie dog, lying on a rug at his feet, raised its
head and growled as Gemma knocked at the open
door, and the Gadfly rose hastily and bowed in a
stiff, ceremonious way. His face had suddenly
grown hard and expressionless.
"You are too kind," he said in his most chilling
manner. "If you had let me know that you
wanted to speak to me I would have called on
you."
Seeing that he evidently wished her at the end
of the earth, Gemma hastened to state her business.
He bowed again and placed a chair for her.
"The committee wished me to call upon you,"
she began, "because there has been a certain difference
of opinion about your pamphlet."
"So I expected." He smiled and sat down opposite
to her, drawing a large vase of chrysanthemums
between his face and the light.
"Most of the members agreed that, however
much they may admire the pamphlet as a literary
composition, they do not think that in its present
form it is quite suitable for publication. They fear
that the vehemence of its tone may give offence,
and alienate persons whose help and support are
valuable to the party."
He pulled a chrysanthemum from the vase and
began slowly plucking off one white petal after
another. As her eyes happened to catch the
movement of the slim right hand dropping the
petals, one by one, an uncomfortable sensation
came over Gemma, as though she had somewhere
seen that gesture before.
"As a literary composition," he remarked in
his soft, cold voice, "it is utterly worthless, and
could be admired only by persons who know nothing
about literature. As for its giving offence,
that is the very thing I intended it to do."
"That I quite understand. The question is
whether you may not succeed in giving offence to
the wrong people."
He shrugged his shoulders and put a torn-off
petal between his teeth. "I think you are mistaken,"
he said. "The question is: For what purpose did
your committee invite me to come here? I understood,
to expose and ridicule the Jesuits. I fulfil my
obligation to the best of my ability."
"And I can assure you that no one has any
doubt as to either the ability or the good-will.
What the committee fears is that the liberal party
may take offence, and also that the town workmen
may withdraw their moral support. You may have
meant the pamphlet for an attack upon the Sanfedists:
but many readers will construe it as an
attack upon the Church and the new Pope; and
this, as a matter of political tactics, the
committee does not consider desirable."
"I begin to understand. So long as I keep to
the particular set of clerical gentlemen with whom
the party is just now on bad terms, I may speak
sooth if the fancy takes me; but directly I touch
upon the committee's own pet priests--'truth's a
dog must to kennel; he must be whipped out,
when the--Holy Father may stand by the fire
and-----' Yes, the fool was right; I'd rather be
any kind of a thing than a fool. Of course I
must bow to the committee's decision, but I
continue to think that it has pared its wit o' both
sides and left--M-mon-signor M-m-montan-n-nelli
in the middle."
"Montanelli?" Gemma repeated. "I don't understand
you. Do you mean the Bishop of Brisighella?"
"Yes; the new Pope has just created him a
Cardinal, you know. I have a letter about him
here. Would you care to hear it? The writer is
a friend of mine on the other side of the frontier."
"The Papal frontier?"
"Yes. This is what he writes----" He took
up the letter which had been in his hand when she
entered, and read aloud, suddenly beginning to
stammer violently:
"'Y-o-you will s-s-s-soon have the p-pleasure
of m-m-meeting one of our w-w-worst enemies,
C-cardinal Lorenzo M-montan-n-nelli, the
B-b-bishop of Brisig-g-hella. He int-t----'"
He broke off, paused a moment, and began
again, very slowly and drawling insufferably, but
no longer stammering:
"'He intends to visit Tuscany during the coming
month on a mission of reconciliation. He will
preach first in Florence, where he will stay for
about three weeks; then will go on to Siena and
Pisa, and return to the Romagna by Pistoja. He
ostensibly belongs to the liberal party in the
Church, and is a personal friend of the Pope and
Cardinal Feretti. Under Gregory he was out of
favour, and was kept out of sight in a little hole
in the Apennines. Now he has come suddenly to
the front. Really, of course, he is as much pulled
by Jesuit wires as any Sanfedist in the country.
This mission was suggested by some of the Jesuit
fathers. He is one of the most brilliant preachers
in the Church, and as mischievous in his way as
Lambruschini himself. His business is to keep
the popular enthusiasm over the Pope from subsiding,
and to occupy the public attention until
the Grand Duke has signed a project which the
agents of the Jesuits are preparing to lay before
him. What this project is I have been unable to
discover.' Then, further on, it says: 'Whether
Montanelli understands for what purpose he is
being sent to Tuscany, or whether the Jesuits are
playing on him, I cannot make out. He is either
an uncommonly clever knave, or the biggest ass
that was ever foaled. The odd thing is that, so
far as I can discover, he neither takes bribes nor
keeps mistresses--the first time I ever came
across such a thing.'"
He laid down the letter and sat looking at her
with half-shut eyes, waiting, apparently, for her to
speak.
"Are you satisfied that your informant is correct
in his facts?" she asked after a moment.
"As to the irreproachable character of Monsignor
M-mon-t-tan-nelli's private life? No; but
neither is he. As you will observe, he puts in the
s-s-saving clause: 'So far as I c-can discover----
"I was not speaking of that," she interposed
coldly, "but of the part about this mission."
"I can fully trust the writer. He is an old
friend of mine--one of my comrades of '43, and he
is in a position which gives him exceptional
opportunities for finding out things of that kind."
"Some official at the Vatican," thought Gemma
quickly. "So that's the kind of connections you
have? I guessed there was something of that sort."
"This letter is, of course, a private one," the
Gadfly went on; "and you understand that the
information is to be kept strictly to the members
of your committee."
"That hardly needs saying. Then about the
pamphlet: may I tell the committee that you consent
to make a few alterations and soften it a little,
or that----"
"Don't you think the alterations may succeed
in spoiling the beauty of the 'literary composition,'
signora, as well as in reducing the vehemence
of the tone?"
"You are asking my personal opinion. What
I have come here to express is that of the committee
as a whole."
"Does that imply that y-y-you disagree with the
committee as a whole?" He had put the letter
into his pocket and was now leaning forward and
looking at her with an eager, concentrated expression
which quite changed the character of his
face. "You think----"
"If you care to know what I personally think
--I disagree with the majority on both points. I
do not at all admire the pamphlet from a literary
point of view, and I do think it true as a presentation
of facts and wise as a matter of tactics."
"That is------"
"I quite agree with you that Italy is being led
away by a will-o'-the-wisp and that all this enthusiasm
and rejoicing will probably land her in a
terrible bog; and I should be most heartily glad
to have that openly and boldly said, even at the
cost of offending or alienating some of our present
supporters. But as a member of a body the large
majority of which holds the opposite view, I cannot
insist upon my personal opinion; and I certainly
think that if things of that kind are to be
said at all, they should be said temperately and
quietly; not in the tone adopted in this pamphlet."
"Will you wait a minute while I look through
the manuscript?"
He took it up and glanced down the pages. A
dissatisfied frown settled on his face.
"Yes, of course, you are perfectly right. The
thing's written like a cafe chantant skit, not a
political satire. But what's a man to do? If I
write decently the public won't understand it;
they will say it's dull if it isn't spiteful enough."
"Don't you think spitefulness manages to be
dull when we get too much of it?"
He threw a keen, rapid glance at her, and burst
out laughing.
"Apparently the signora belongs to the dreadful
category of people who are always right!
Then if I yield to the temptation to be spiteful, I
may come in time to be as dull as Signora Grassini?
Heavens, what a fate! No, you needn't
frown. I know you don't like me, and I am going
to keep to business. What it comes to, then,
is practically this: if I cut out the personalities and
leave the essential part of the thing as it is, the
committee will very much regret that they can't
take the responsibility of printing it. If I cut out
the political truth and make all the hard names
apply to no one but the party's enemies, the committee
will praise the thing up to the skies, and
you and I will know it's not worth printing.
Rather a nice point of metaphysics: Which is the
more desirable condition, to be printed and not be
worth it, or to be worth it and not be printed?
Well, signora?"
"I do not think you are tied to any such alternative.
I believe that if you were to cut out the
personalities the committee would consent to
print the pamphlet, though the majority would,
of course, not agree with it; and I am convinced
that it would be very useful. But you would have
to lay aside the spitefulness. If you are going to
say a thing the substance of which is a big pill for
your readers to swallow, there is no use in frightening
them at the beginning by the form."
He sighed and shrugged his shoulders resignedly.
"I submit, signora; but on one condition.
If you rob me of my laugh now, I must have it
out next time. When His Eminence, the irreproachable
Cardinal, turns up in Florence, neither
you nor your committee must object to my being
as spiteful as I like. It's my due!"
He spoke in his lightest, coldest manner, pulling
the chrysanthemums out of their vase and
holding them up to watch the light through the
translucent petals. "What an unsteady hand he
has," she thought, seeing how the flowers shook
and quivered. "Surely he doesn't drink!"
"You had better discuss the matter with the
other members of the committee," she said, rising.
"I cannot form any opinion as to what they will
think about it."
"And you?" He had risen too, and was leaning
against the table, pressing the flowers to his face
She hesitated. The question distressed her,
bringing up old and miserable associations. "I
--hardly know," she said at last. "Many years
ago I used to know something about Monsignor
Montanelli. He was only a canon at that time,
and Director of the theological seminary in the
province where I lived as a girl. I heard a great
deal about him from--someone who knew him
very intimately; and I never heard anything of him
that was not good. I believe that, in those days
at least, he was really a most remarkable man.
But that was long ago, and he may have changed.
Irresponsible power corrupts so many people."
The Gadfly raised his head from the flowers, and
looked at her with a steady face.
"At any rate," he said, "if Monsignor Montanelli
is not himself a scoundrel, he is a tool in
scoundrelly hands. It is all one to me which he
is--and to my friends across the frontier. A stone
in the path may have the best intentions, but it
must be kicked out of the path, for all that.
Allow me, signora!" He rang the bell, and, limping
to the door, opened it for her to pass out.
"It was very kind of you to call, signora. May
I send for a vettura? No? Good-afternoon, then!
Bianca, open the hall-door, please."
Gemma went out into the street, pondering
anxiously. "My friends across the frontier"--
who were they? And how was the stone to be
kicked out of the path? If with satire only, why
had he said it with such dangerous eyes?
