The Gadfly

by E. L. Voynich

  CHAPTER III.

  THE autumn and winter passed uneventfully. Arthur was reading hard andhad little spare time. He contrived to get a glimpse of Montanelli onceor oftener in every week, if only for a few minutes. From time to timehe would come in to ask for help with some difficult book; but on theseoccasions the subject of study was strictly adhered to. Montanelli,feeling, rather than observing, the slight, impalpable barrier thathad come between them, shrank from everything which might seem like anattempt to retain the old close relationship. Arthur's visits now causedhim more distress than pleasure, so trying was the constant effort toappear at ease and to behave as if nothing were altered. Arthur, for hispart, noticed, hardly understanding it, the subtle change in the Padre'smanner; and, vaguely feeling that it had some connection with the vexedquestion of the "new ideas," avoided all mention of the subject withwhich his thoughts were constantly filled. Yet he had neverloved Montanelli so deeply as now. The dim, persistent sense ofdissatisfaction, of spiritual emptiness, which he had tried so hard tostifle under a load of theology and ritual, had vanished into nothing atthe touch of Young Italy. All the unhealthy fancies born of lonelinessand sick-room watching had passed away, and the doubts against which heused to pray had gone without the need of exorcism. With the awakeningof a new enthusiasm, a clearer, fresher religious ideal (for it was morein this light than in that of a political development that thestudents' movement had appeared to him), had come a sense of rest andcompleteness, of peace on earth and good will towards men; and in thismood of solemn and tender exaltation all the world seemed to him full oflight. He found a new element of something lovable in the persons whomhe had most disliked; and Montanelli, who for five years had been hisideal hero, was now in his eyes surrounded with an additional halo, asa potential prophet of the new faith. He listened with passionateeagerness to the Padre's sermons, trying to find in them some trace ofinner kinship with the republican ideal; and pored over the Gospels,rejoicing in the democratic tendencies of Christianity at its origin.

  One day in January he called at the seminary to return a book which hehad borrowed. Hearing that the Father Director was out, he went up toMontanelli's private study, placed the volume on its shelf, and wasabout to leave the room when the title of a book lying on the tablecaught his eyes. It was Dante's "De Monarchia." He began to read it andsoon became so absorbed that when the door opened and shut he did nothear. He was aroused from his preoccupation by Montanelli's voice behindhim.

  "I did not expect you to-day," said the Padre, glancing at the title ofthe book. "I was just going to send and ask if you could come to me thisevening."

  "Is it anything important? I have an engagement for this evening; but Iwill miss it if------"

  "No; to-morrow will do. I want to see you because I am going away onTuesday. I have been sent for to Rome."

  "To Rome? For long?"

  "The letter says, 'till after Easter.' It is from the Vatican. I wouldhave let you know at once, but have been very busy settling up thingsabout the seminary and making arrangements for the new Director."

  "But, Padre, surely you are not giving up the seminary?"

  "It will have to be so; but I shall probably come back to Pisa, for sometime at least."

  "But why are you giving it up?"

  "Well, it is not yet officially announced; but I am offered abishopric."

  "Padre! Where?"

  "That is the point about which I have to go to Rome. It is not yetdecided whether I am to take a see in the Apennines, or to remain hereas Suffragan."

  "And is the new Director chosen yet?"

  "Father Cardi has been nominated and arrives here to-morrow."

  "Is not that rather sudden?"

  "Yes; but----The decisions of the Vatican are sometimes not communicatedtill the last moment."

  "Do you know the new Director?"

  "Not personally; but he is very highly spoken of. Monsignor Belloni, whowrites, says that he is a man of great erudition."

  "The seminary will miss you terribly."

  "I don't know about the seminary, but I am sure you will miss me,carino; perhaps almost as much as I shall miss you."

  "I shall indeed; but I am very glad, for all that."

  "Are you? I don't know that I am." He sat down at the table with a wearylook on his face; not the look of a man who is expecting high promotion.

  "Are you busy this afternoon, Arthur?" he said after a moment. "If not,I wish you would stay with me for a while, as you can't come to-night.I am a little out of sorts, I think; and I want to see as much of you aspossible before leaving."

  "Yes, I can stay a bit. I am due at six."

  "One of your meetings?"

  Arthur nodded; and Montanelli changed the subject hastily.

  "I want to speak to you about yourself," he said. "You will need anotherconfessor in my absence."

  "When you come back I may go on confessing to you, may I not?"

  "My dear boy, how can you ask? Of course I am speaking only of the threeor four months that I shall be away. Will you go to one of the Fathersof Santa Caterina?"

  "Very well."

  They talked of other matters for a little while; then Arthur rose.

  "I must go, Padre; the students will be waiting for me."

  The haggard look came back to Montanelli's face.

  "Already? You had almost charmed away my black mood. Well, good-bye."

  "Good-bye. I will be sure to come to-morrow."

  "Try to come early, so that I may have time to see you alone. FatherCardi will be here. Arthur, my dear boy, be careful while I am gone;don't be led into doing anything rash, at least before I come back. Youcannot think how anxious I feel about leaving you."

  "There is no need, Padre; everything is quite quiet. It will be a longtime yet."

  "Good-bye," Montanelli said abruptly, and sat down to his writing.

  The first person upon whom Arthur's eyes fell, as he entered the roomwhere the students' little gatherings were held, was his old playmate,Dr. Warren's daughter. She was sitting in a corner by the window,listening with an absorbed and earnest face to what one of the"initiators," a tall young Lombard in a threadbare coat, was saying toher. During the last few months she had changed and developed greatly,and now looked a grown-up young woman, though the dense black plaitsstill hung down her back in school-girl fashion. She was dressed all inblack, and had thrown a black scarf over her head, as the room was coldand draughty. At her breast was a spray of cypress, the emblem of YoungItaly. The initiator was passionately describing to her the miseryof the Calabrian peasantry; and she sat listening silently, her chinresting on one hand and her eyes on the ground. To Arthur she seemeda melancholy vision of Liberty mourning for the lost Republic.(Julia would have seen in her only an overgrown hoyden, with a sallowcomplexion, an irregular nose, and an old stuff frock that was too shortfor her.)

  "You here, Jim!" he said, coming up to her when the initiator had beencalled to the other end of the room. "Jim" was a childish corruption ofher curious baptismal name: Jennifer. Her Italian schoolmates called her"Gemma."

  She raised her head with a start.

  "Arthur! Oh, I didn't know you--belonged here!"

  "And I had no idea about you. Jim, since when have you----?"

  "You don't understand!" she interposed quickly. "I am not a member.It is only that I have done one or two little things. You see, I metBini--you know Carlo Bini?"

  "Yes, of course." Bini was the organizer of the Leghorn branch; and allYoung Italy knew him.

  "Well, he began talking to me about these things; and I asked him tolet me go to a students' meeting. The other day he wrote to me toFlorence------Didn't you know I had been to Florence for the Christmasholidays?"

  "I don't often hear from home now."

  "Ah, yes! Anyhow, I went to stay with the Wrights." (The Wrights wereold schoolfellows of hers who had moved to Florence.) "Then Bini wroteand told me to pass through Pisa to-day on my way home, so that I couldcome here. Ah! they're g
oing to begin."

  The lecture was upon the ideal Republic and the duty of the young tofit themselves for it. The lecturer's comprehension of his subject wassomewhat vague; but Arthur listened with devout admiration. His mind atthis period was curiously uncritical; when he accepted a moral idealhe swallowed it whole without stopping to think whether it was quitedigestible. When the lecture and the long discussion which followed itwere finished and the students began to disperse, he went up to Gemma,who was still sitting in the corner of the room.

  "Let me walk with you, Jim. Where are you staying?"

  "With Marietta."

  "Your father's old housekeeper?"

  "Yes; she lives a good way from here."

  They walked for some time in silence. Then Arthur said suddenly:

  "You are seventeen, now, aren't you?"

  "I was seventeen in October."

  "I always knew you would not grow up like other girls and begin wantingto go to balls and all that sort of thing. Jim, dear, I have so oftenwondered whether you would ever come to be one of us."

  "So have I."

  "You said you had done things for Bini; I didn't know you even knewhim."

  "It wasn't for Bini; it was for the other one."

  "Which other one?"

  "The one that was talking to me to-night--Bolla."

  "Do you know him well?" Arthur put in with a little touch of jealousy.Bolla was a sore subject with him; there had been a rivalry between themabout some work which the committee of Young Italy had finally intrustedto Bolla, declaring Arthur too young and inexperienced.

  "I know him pretty well; and I like him very much. He has been stayingin Leghorn."

  "I know; he went there in November------"

  "Because of the steamers. Arthur, don't you think your house would besafer than ours for that work? Nobody would suspect a rich shippingfamily like yours; and you know everyone at the docks----"

  "Hush! not so loud, dear! So it was in your house the books fromMarseilles were hidden?"

  "Only for one day. Oh! perhaps I oughtn't to have told you."

  "Why not? You know I belong to the society. Gemma, dear, there isnothing in all the world that would make me so happy as for you to joinus--you and the Padre."

  "Your Padre! Surely he----"

  "No; he thinks differently. But I have sometimes fancied--thatis--hoped--I don't know----"

  "But, Arthur! he's a priest."

  "What of that? There are priests in the society--two of them write inthe paper. And why not? It is the mission of the priesthood to lead theworld to higher ideals and aims, and what else does the society tryto do? It is, after all, more a religious and moral question than apolitical one. If people are fit to be free and responsible citizens, noone can keep them enslaved."

  Gemma knit her brows. "It seems to me, Arthur," she said, "that there'sa muddle somewhere in your logic. A priest teaches religious doctrine. Idon't see what that has to do with getting rid of the Austrians."

  "A priest is a teacher of Christianity, and the greatest of allrevolutionists was Christ."

  "Do you know, I was talking about priests to father the other day, andhe said----"

  "Gemma, your father is a Protestant."

  After a little pause she looked round at him frankly.

  "Look here, we had better leave this subject alone. You are alwaysintolerant when you talk about Protestants."

  "I didn't mean to be intolerant. But I think Protestants are generallyintolerant when they talk about priests."

  "I dare say. Anyhow, we have so often quarreled over this subjectthat it is not worth while to begin again. What did you think of thelecture?"

  "I liked it very much--especially the last part. I was glad he spoke sostrongly about the need of living the Republic, not dreaming of it. Itis as Christ said: 'The Kingdom of Heaven is within you.'"

  "It was just that part that I didn't like. He talked so much of thewonderful things we ought to think and feel and be, but he never told uspractically what we ought to do."

  "When the time of crisis comes there will be plenty for us to do; but wemust be patient; these great changes are not made in a day."

  "The longer a thing is to take doing, the more reason to begin at once.You talk about being fit for freedom--did you ever know anyone so fitfor it as your mother? Wasn't she the most perfectly angelic woman youever saw? And what use was all her goodness? She was a slave till theday she died--bullied and worried and insulted by your brother James andhis wife. It would have been much better for her if she had not been sosweet and patient; they would never have treated her so. That's just theway with Italy; it's not patience that's wanted--it's for somebody toget up and defend themselves------"

  "Jim, dear, if anger and passion could have saved Italy she would havebeen free long ago; it is not hatred that she needs, it is love."

  As he said the word a sudden flush went up to his forehead and died outagain. Gemma did not see it; she was looking straight before her withknitted brows and set mouth.

  "You think I am wrong, Arthur," she said after a pause; "but I am right,and you will grow to see it some day. This is the house. Will you comein?"

  "No; it's late. Good-night, dear!"

  He was standing on the doorstep, clasping her hand in both of his.

  "For God and the people----"

  Slowly and gravely she completed the unfinished motto:

  "Now and forever."

  Then she pulled away her hand and ran into the house. When the door hadclosed behind her he stooped and picked up the spray of cypress whichhad fallen from her breast.