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?