The Gadfly

by E. L. Voynich

  CHAPTER IV.

  MONSIGNOR MONTANELLI arrived in Florence in the first week of October.His visit caused a little flutter of excitement throughout the town. Hewas a famous preacher and a representative of the reformed Papacy; andpeople looked eagerly to him for an exposition of the "new doctrine,"the gospel of love and reconciliation which was to cure the sorrows ofItaly. The nomination of Cardinal Gizzi to the Roman State Secretaryshipin place of the universally detested Lambruschini had raised the publicenthusiasm to its highest pitch; and Montanelli was just the man whocould most easily sustain it. The irreproachable strictness of his lifewas a phenomenon sufficiently rare among the high dignitaries of theRoman Church to attract the attention of people accustomed to regardblackmailing, peculation, and disreputable intrigues as almostinvariable adjuncts to the career of a prelate. Moreover, his talent asa preacher was really great; and with his beautiful voice and magneticpersonality, he would in any time and place have made his mark.

  Grassini, as usual, strained every nerve to get the newly arrivedcelebrity to his house; but Montanelli was no easy game to catch. Toall invitations he replied with the same courteous but positive refusal,saying that his health was bad and his time fully occupied, and that hehad neither strength nor leisure for going into society.

  "What omnivorous creatures those Grassinis are!" Martini saidcontemptuously to Gemma as they crossed the Signoria square one bright,cold Sunday morning. "Did you notice the way Grassini bowed when theCardinal's carriage drove up? It's all one to them who a man is, so longas he's talked about. I never saw such lion-hunters in my life. Onlylast August it was the Gadfly; now it's Montanelli. I hope His Eminencefeels flattered at the attention; a precious lot of adventurers haveshared it with him."

  They had been hearing Montanelli preach in the Cathedral; and the greatbuilding had been so thronged with eager listeners that Martini, fearinga return of Gemma's troublesome headaches, had persuaded her to comeaway before the Mass was over. The sunny morning, the first after a weekof rain, offered him an excuse for suggesting a walk among the gardenslopes by San Niccolo.

  "No," she answered; "I should like a walk if you have time; but not tothe hills. Let us keep along the Lung'Arno; Montanelli will pass onhis way back from church and I am like Grassini--I want to see thenotability."

  "But you have just seen him."

  "Not close. There was such a crush in the Cathedral, and his back wasturned to us when the carriage passed. If we keep near to the bridgewe shall be sure to see him well--he is staying on the Lung'Arno, youknow."

  "But what has given you such a sudden fancy to see Montanelli? You neverused to care about famous preachers."

  "It is not famous preachers; it is the man himself; I want to see howmuch he has changed since I saw him last."

  "When was that?"

  "Two days after Arthur's death."

  Martini glanced at her anxiously. They had come out on to the Lung'Arno,and she was staring absently across the water, with a look on her facethat he hated to see.

  "Gemma, dear," he said after a moment; "are you going to let thatmiserable business haunt you all your life? We have all made mistakeswhen we were seventeen."

  "We have not all killed our dearest friend when we were seventeen," sheanswered wearily; and, leaning her arm on the stone balustrade of thebridge, looked down into the river. Martini held his tongue; he wasalmost afraid to speak to her when this mood was on her.

  "I never look down at water without remembering," she said, slowlyraising her eyes to his; then with a nervous little shiver: "Let us walkon a bit, Cesare; it is chilly for standing."

  They crossed the bridge in silence and walked on along the river-side.After a few minutes she spoke again.

  "What a beautiful voice that man has! There is something about it that Ihave never heard in any other human voice. I believe it is the secret ofhalf his influence."

  "It is a wonderful voice," Martini assented, catching at a subject ofconversation which might lead her away from the dreadful memory calledup by the river, "and he is, apart from his voice, about the finestpreacher I have ever heard. But I believe the secret of his influencelies deeper than that. It is the way his life stands out from that ofalmost all the other prelates. I don't know whether you could lay yourhand on one other high dignitary in all the Italian Church--except thePope himself--whose reputation is so utterly spotless. I remember, whenI was in the Romagna last year, passing through his diocese and seeingthose fierce mountaineers waiting in the rain to get a glimpse of him ortouch his dress. He is venerated there almost as a saint; and that meansa good deal among the Romagnols, who generally hate everything thatwears a cassock. I remarked to one of the old peasants,--as typical asmuggler as ever I saw in my life,--that the people seemed very muchdevoted to their bishop, and he said: 'We don't love bishops, they areliars; we love Monsignor Montanelli. Nobody has ever known him to tell alie or do an unjust thing.'"

  "I wonder," Gemma said, half to herself, "if he knows the people thinkthat about him."

  "Why shouldn't he know it? Do you think it is not true?"

  "I know it is not true."

  "How do you know it?"

  "Because he told me so."

  "HE told you? Montanelli? Gemma, what do you mean?"

  She pushed the hair back from her forehead and turned towards him. Theywere standing still again, he leaning on the balustrade and she slowlydrawing lines on the pavement with the point of her umbrella.

  "Cesare, you and I have been friends for all these years, and I havenever told you what really happened about Arthur."

  "There is no need to tell me, dear," he broke in hastily; "I know allabout it already."

  "Giovanni told you?"

  "Yes, when he was dying. He told me about it one night when I wassitting up with him. He said---- Gemma, dear, I had better tell you thetruth, now we have begun talking about it--he said that you were alwaysbrooding over that wretched story, and he begged me to be as good afriend to you as I could and try to keep you from thinking of it. And Ihave tried to, dear, though I may not have succeeded--I have, indeed."

  "I know you have," she answered softly, raising her eyes for a moment;"I should have been badly off without your friendship. But--Giovanni didnot tell you about Monsignor Montanelli, then?"

  "No, I didn't know that he had anything to do with it. What he told mewas about--all that affair with the spy, and about----"

  "About my striking Arthur and his drowning himself. Well, I will tellyou about Montanelli."

  They turned back towards the bridge over which the Cardinal's carriagewould have to pass. Gemma looked out steadily across the water as shespoke.

  "In those days Montanelli was a canon; he was Director of theTheological Seminary at Pisa, and used to give Arthur lessons inphilosophy and read with him after he went up to the Sapienza. They wereperfectly devoted to each other; more like two lovers than teacher andpupil. Arthur almost worshipped the ground that Montanelli walked on,and I remember his once telling me that if he lost his 'Padre'--healways used to call Montanelli so--he should go and drown himself. Well,then you know what happened about the spy. The next day, my father andthe Burtons--Arthur's step-brothers, most detestable people--spent thewhole day dragging the Darsena basin for the body; and I sat in my roomalone and thought of what I had done----"

  She paused a moment, and went on again:

  "Late in the evening my father came into my room and said: 'Gemma,child, come downstairs; there's a man I want you to see.' And when wewent down there was one of the students belonging to the group sittingin the consulting room, all white and shaking; and he told us aboutGiovanni's second letter coming from the prison to say that they hadheard from the jailer about Cardi, and that Arthur had been tricked inthe confessional. I remember the student saying to me: 'It is at leastsome consolation that we know he was innocent' My father held my handsand tried to comfort me; he did not know then about the blow. Then Iwent back to my room and sat there all night alone. In the morning my
father went out again with the Burtons to see the harbour dragged. Theyhad some hope of finding the body there."

  "It was never found, was it?"

  "No; it must have got washed out to sea; but they thought there was achance. I was alone in my room and the servant came up to say that a'reverendissimo padre' had called and she had told him my father was atthe docks and he had gone away. I knew it must be Montanelli; so I ranout at the back door and caught him up at the garden gate. When I said:'Canon Montanelli, I want to speak to you,' he just stopped and waitedsilently for me to speak. Oh, Cesare, if you had seen his face--ithaunted me for months afterwards! I said: 'I am Dr. Warren's daughter,and I have come to tell you that it is I who have killed Arthur.' I toldhim everything, and he stood and listened, like a figure cut in stone,till I had finished; then he said: 'Set your heart at rest, my child; itis I that am a murderer, not you. I deceived him and he found it out.'And with that he turned and went out at the gate without another word."

  "And then?"

  "I don't know what happened to him after that; I heard the same eveningthat he had fallen down in the street in a kind of fit and had beencarried into a house near the docks; but that is all I know. My fatherdid everything he could for me; when I told him about it he threw uphis practice and took me away to England at once, so that I should neverhear anything that could remind me. He was afraid I should end in thewater, too; and indeed I believe I was near it at one time. But then,you know, when we found out that my father had cancer I was obliged tocome to myself--there was no one else to nurse him. And after he diedI was left with the little ones on my hands until my elder brother wasable to give them a home. Then there was Giovanni. Do you know, whenhe came to England we were almost afraid to meet each other with thatfrightful memory between us. He was so bitterly remorseful for his sharein it all--that unhappy letter he wrote from prison. But I believe,really, it was our common trouble that drew us together."

  Martini smiled and shook his head.

  "It may have been so on your side," he said; "but Giovanni had made uphis mind from the first time he ever saw you. I remember his coming backto Milan after that first visit to Leghorn and raving about you to metill I was perfectly sick of hearing of the English Gemma. I thought Ishould hate you. Ah! there it comes!"

  The carriage crossed the bridge and drove up to a large house on theLung'Arno. Montanelli was leaning back on the cushions as if too tiredto care any longer for the enthusiastic crowd which had collected roundthe door to catch a glimpse of him. The inspired look that his face hadworn in the Cathedral had faded quite away and the sunlight showed thelines of care and fatigue. When he had alighted and passed, with theheavy, spiritless tread of weary and heart-sick old age, into the house,Gemma turned away and walked slowly to the bridge. Her face seemed fora moment to reflect the withered, hopeless look of his. Martini walkedbeside her in silence.

  "I have so often wondered," she began again after a little pause; "whathe meant about the deception. It has sometimes occurred to me----"

  "Yes?"

  "Well, it is very strange; there was the most extraordinary personalresemblance between them."

  "Between whom?"

  "Arthur and Montanelli. It was not only I who noticed it. And there wassomething mysterious in the relationship between the members of thathousehold. Mrs. Burton, Arthur's mother, was one of the sweetest womenI ever knew. Her face had the same spiritual look as Arthur's, and Ibelieve they were alike in character, too. But she always seemed halffrightened, like a detected criminal; and her step-son's wife used totreat her as no decent person treats a dog. And then Arthur himself wassuch a startling contrast to all those vulgar Burtons. Of course, whenone is a child one takes everything for granted; but looking back on itafterwards I have often wondered whether Arthur was really a Burton."

  "Possibly he found out something about his mother--that may easilyhave been the cause of his death, not the Cardi affair at all," Martiniinterposed, offering the only consolation he could think of at themoment. Gemma shook her head.

  "If you could have seen his face after I struck him, Cesare, you wouldnot think that. It may be all true about Montanelli--very likely itis--but what I have done I have done."

  They walked on a little way without speaking.

  "My dear," Martini said at last; "if there were any way on earth to undoa thing that is once done, it would be worth while to brood over our oldmistakes; but as it is, let the dead bury their dead. It is a terriblestory, but at least the poor lad is out of it now, and luckier than someof those that are left--the ones that are in exile and in prison. Youand I have them to think of, we have no right to eat out our hearts forthe dead. Remember what your own Shelley says: 'The past is Death's,the future is thine own.' Take it, while it is still yours, and fix yourmind, not on what you may have done long ago to hurt, but on what youcan do now to help."

  In his earnestness he had taken her hand. He dropped it suddenly anddrew back at the sound of a soft, cold, drawling voice behind him.

  "Monsignor Montan-n-nelli," murmured this languid voice, "is undoubtedlyall you say, my dear doctor. In fact, he appears to be so much too goodfor this world that he ought to be politely escorted into the next. Iam sure he would cause as great a sensation there as he has done here;there are p-p-probably many old-established ghosts who have never seensuch a thing as an honest cardinal. And there is nothing that ghostslove as they do novelties----"

  "How do you know that?" asked Dr. Riccardo's voice in a tone ofill-suppressed irritation.

  "From Holy Writ, my dear sir. If the Gospel is to be trusted, even themost respectable of all Ghosts had a f-f-fancy for capricious alliances.Now, honesty and c-c-cardinals--that seems to me a somewhat capriciousalliance, and rather an uncomfortable one, like shrimps and liquorice.Ah, Signor Martini, and Signora Bolla! Lovely weather after the rain, isit not? Have you been to hear the n-new Savonarola, too?"

  Martini turned round sharply. The Gadfly, with a cigar in his mouth anda hot-house flower in his buttonhole, was holding out to him a slender,carefully-gloved hand. With the sunlight reflected in his immaculateboots and glancing back from the water on to his smiling face, he lookedto Martini less lame and more conceited than usual. They were shakinghands, affably on the one side and rather sulkily on the other, whenRiccardo hastily exclaimed:

  "I am afraid Signora Bolla is not well!"

  She was so pale that her face looked almost livid under the shadow ofher bonnet, and the ribbon at her throat fluttered perceptibly from theviolent beating of the heart.

  "I will go home," she said faintly.

  A cab was called and Martini got in with her to see her safely home. Asthe Gadfly bent down to arrange her cloak, which was hanging over thewheel, he raised his eyes suddenly to her face, and Martini saw that sheshrank away with a look of something like terror.

  "Gemma, what is the matter with you?" he asked, in English, when theyhad started. "What did that scoundrel say to you?"

  "Nothing, Cesare; it was no fault of his. I--I--had a fright----"

  "A fright?"

  "Yes; I fancied----" She put one hand over her eyes, and he waitedsilently till she should recover her self-command. Her face was alreadyregaining its natural colour.

  "You are quite right," she said at last, turning to him and speaking inher usual voice; "it is worse than useless to look back at a horriblepast. It plays tricks with one's nerves and makes one imagine all sortsof impossible things. We will NEVER talk about that subject again,Cesare, or I shall see fantastic likenesses to Arthur in every face Imeet. It is a kind of hallucination, like a nightmare in broad daylight.Just now, when that odious little fop came up, I fancied it was Arthur."