The Gadfly by E. L. Voynich (ebook reader android TXT) 📕

as these—for these

false and slavish people, these dumb and soulless

gods—that he had suffered all these tortures of

shame and passion and despair; had made a rope

to hang himself, forsooth, because one priest was

a liar. As if they were not all liars! Well, all that

was done with; he was wiser now. He need only

shake off these vermin and begin life afresh.

 

There were plenty of goods vessels in the docks;

it would be an easy matter to stow himself away

in one of them, and get across to Canada, Australia,

Cape Colony—anywhere. It was no matter

for the country, if only it was far enough; and, as

for the life out there, he could see, and if it did not

suit him he could try some other place.

 

He took out his purse. Only thirty-three paoli;

but his watch was a good one. That would help

him along a bit; and in any case it was of no

consequence—he should pull through somehow. But

they would search for him, all these people; they

would be sure to make inquiries at the docks. No;

he must put them on a false scent—make them

believe him dead; then he should be quite free—

quite free. He laughed softly to himself at the

thought of the Burtons searching for his corpse.

What a farce the whole thing was!

 

Taking a sheet of paper, he wrote the first words

that occurred to him:

 

“I believed in you as I believed in God. God

is a thing made of clay, that I can smash with a

hammer; and you have fooled me with a lie.”

 

He folded up the paper, directed it to Montanelli,

and, taking another sheet, wrote across it:

“Look for my body in Darsena.” Then he put on

his hat and went out of the room. Passing his

mother’s portrait, he looked up with a laugh

and a shrug of his shoulders. She, too, had lied

to him.

 

He crept softly along the corridor, and, slipping

back the door-bolts, went out on to the great,

dark, echoing marble staircase. It seemed to

yawn beneath him like a black pit as he descended.

 

He crossed the courtyard, treading cautiously

for fear of waking Gian Battista, who slept on the

ground floor. In the wood-cellar at the back was

a little grated window, opening on the canal and

not more than four feet from the ground. He

remembered that the rusty grating had broken away

on one side; by pushing a little he could make an

aperture wide enough to climb out by.

 

The grating was strong, and he grazed his

hands badly and tore the sleeve of his coat; but

that was no matter. He looked up and down the

street; there was no one in sight, and the canal

lay black and silent, an ugly trench between two

straight and slimy walls. The untried universe

might prove a dismal hole, but it could hardly be

more flat and sordid than the corner which he was

leaving behind him. There was nothing to regret;

nothing to look back upon. It had been a pestilent

little stagnant world, full of squalid lies and clumsy

cheats and foul-smelling ditches that were not

even deep enough to drown a man.

 

He walked along the canal bank, and came out

upon the tiny square by the Medici palace. It was

here that Gemma had run up to him with her vivid

face, her outstretched hands. Here was the little

flight of wet stone steps leading down to the moat;

and there the fortress scowling across the strip of

dirty water. He had never noticed before how

squat and mean it looked.

 

Passing through the narrow streets he reached

the Darsena shipping-basin, where he took off his

hat and flung it into the water. It would be

found, of course, when they dragged for his body.

Then he walked on along the water’s edge, considering

perplexedly what to do next. He must

contrive to hide on some ship; but it was a difficult

thing to do. His only chance would be to

get on to the huge old Medici breakwater and

walk along to the further end of it. There was a

low-class tavern on the point; probably he should

find some sailor there who could be bribed.

 

But the dock gates were closed. How should

he get past them, and past the customs officials?

His stock of money would not furnish the high

bribe that they would demand for letting him

through at night and without a passport. Besides

they might recognize him.

 

As he passed the bronze statue of the “Four

Moors,” a man’s figure emerged from an old house

on the opposite side of the shipping basin and

approached the bridge. Arthur slipped at once

into the deep shadow behind the group of statuary

and crouched down in the darkness, peeping

cautiously round the corner of the pedestal.

 

It was a soft spring night, warm and starlit.

The water lapped against the stone walls of the

basin and swirled in gentle eddies round the steps

with a sound as of low laughter. Somewhere near

a chain creaked, swinging slowly to and fro. A

huge iron crane towered up, tall and melancholy

in the dimness. Black on a shimmering expanse of

starry sky and pearly cloud-wreaths, the figures

of the fettered, struggling slaves stood out in

vain and vehement protest against a merciless

doom.

 

The man approached unsteadily along the water

side, shouting an English street song. He was

evidently a sailor returning from a carouse at some

tavern. No one else was within sight. As he

drew near, Arthur stood up and stepped into the

middle of the roadway. The sailor broke off in

his song with an oath, and stopped short.

 

“I want to speak to you,” Arthur said in

Italian. “Do you understand me?”

 

The man shook his head. “It’s no use talking

that patter to me,” he said; then, plunging into

bad French, asked sullenly: “What do you want?

Why can’t you let me pass?”

 

“Just come out of the light here a minute; I

want to speak to you.”

 

“Ah! wouldn’t you like it? Out of the light!

Got a knife anywhere about you?”

 

“No, no, man! Can’t you see I only want your

help? I’ll pay you for it?”

 

“Eh? What? And dressed like a swell,

too––” The sailor had relapsed into English.

He now moved into the shadow and leaned against

the railing of the pedestal.

 

“Well,” he said, returning to his atrocious

French; “and what is it you want?”

 

“I want to get away from here–-”

 

“Aha! Stowaway! Want me to hide you?

Been up to something, I suppose. Stuck a knife

into somebody, eh? Just like these foreigners!

And where might you be wanting to go? Not

to the police station, I fancy?”

 

He laughed in his tipsy way, and winked one eye.

 

“What vessel do you belong to?”

 

“Carlotta—Leghorn to Buenos Ayres; shipping

oil one way and hides the other. She’s over

there”—pointing in the direction of the breakwater

—“beastly old hulk!”

 

“Buenos Ayres—yes! Can you hide me anywhere on board?”

 

“How much can you give?”

 

“Not very much; I have only a few paoli.”

 

“No. Can’t do it under fifty—and cheap at

that, too—a swell like you.”

 

“What do you mean by a swell? If you like my

clothes you may change with me, but I can’t give

you more money than I have got.”

 

“You have a watch there. Hand it over.”

 

Arthur took out a lady’s gold watch, delicately

chased and enamelled, with the initials “G. B.” on

the back. It had been his mother’s—but what

did that matter now?

 

“Ah!” remarked the sailor with a quick glance

at it. “Stolen, of course! Let me look!”

 

Arthur drew his hand away. “No,” he said.

“I will give you the watch when we are on board;

not before.”

 

“You’re not such a fool as you look, after all!

I’ll bet it’s your first scrape, though, eh?”

 

“That is my business. Ah! there comes the

watchman.”

 

They crouched down behind the group of statuary

and waited till the watchman had passed.

Then the sailor rose, and, telling Arthur to follow

him, walked on, laughing foolishly to himself.

Arthur followed in silence.

 

The sailor led him back to the little irregular

square by the Medici palace; and, stopping in a

dark corner, mumbled in what was intended for a

cautious whisper:

 

“Wait here; those soldier fellows will see you

if you come further.”

 

“What are you going to do?”

 

“Get you some clothes. I’m not going to take

you on board with that bloody coatsleeve.”

 

Arthur glanced down at the sleeve which had

been torn by the window grating. A little blood

from the grazed hand had fallen upon it. Evidently

the man thought him a murderer. Well,

it was of no consequence what people thought.

 

After some time the sailor came back, triumphant,

with a bundle under his arm.

 

“Change,” he whispered; “and make haste

about it. I must get back, and that old Jew has

kept me bargaining and haggling for half an

hour.”

 

Arthur obeyed, shrinking with instinctive disgust

at the first touch of second-hand clothes.

Fortunately these, though rough and coarse, were

fairly clean. When he stepped into the light in

his new attire, the sailor looked at him with tipsy

solemnity and gravely nodded his approval.

 

“You’ll do,” he said. “This way, and don’t

make a noise.” Arthur, carrying his discarded

clothes, followed him through a labyrinth of winding

canals and dark narrow alleys; the mediaeval

slum quarter which the people of Leghorn call

“New Venice.” Here and there a gloomy old

palace, solitary among the squalid houses and

filthy courts, stood between two noisome ditches,

with a forlorn air of trying to preserve its ancient

dignity and yet of knowing the effort to be a hopeless

one. Some of the alleys, he knew, were

notorious dens of thieves, cut-throats, and smugglers;

others were merely wretched and poverty-stricken.

 

Beside one of the little bridges the sailor

stopped, and, looking round to see that they were

not observed, descended a flight of stone steps to

a narrow landing stage. Under the bridge was a

dirty, crazy old boat. Sharply ordering Arthur

to jump in and lie down, he seated himself in the

boat and began rowing towards the harbour’s

mouth. Arthur lay still on the wet and leaky

planks, hidden by the clothes which the man had

thrown over him, and peeping out from under

them at the familiar streets and houses.

 

Presently they passed under a bridge and

entered that part of the canal which forms a moat

for the fortress. The massive walls rose out of

the water, broad at the base and narrowing upward

to the frowning turrets. How strong, how

threatening they had seemed to him a few hours

ago! And now–-

 

He laughed softly as he lay in the bottom of the

boat.

 

“Hold your noise,” the sailor whispered, “and

keep your head covered! We’re close to the

custom house.”

 

Arthur drew the clothes over his head. A few

yards further on the boat stopped before a row of

masts chained together, which lay across the surface

of the canal, blocking the narrow waterway

between the custom house and the fortress wall.

A sleepy official came out yawning and bent over

the water’s edge with a lantern in his hand.

 

“Passports, please.”

 

The sailor handed up his official papers.

Arthur, half stifled under the clothes, held his

breath, listening.

 

“A nice time of night to come back