The Gadfly by Ethel Voynich (top fiction books of all time .txt) 📕

his way back from church and I am like Grassini⁠—I want to see the notability.”

“But you have just seen him.”

“Not close. There was such a crush in the cathedral, and his back was turned to us when the carriage passed. If we keep near to the bridge we shall be sure to see him well⁠—he is staying on the Lung’Arno, you know.”

“But what has given you such a sudden fancy to see Montanelli? You never used to care about famous preachers.”

“It is not famous preachers; it is the man himself; I want to see how much 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 face that he hated to see.

“Gemma, dear,” he said after a moment; “are you going to let that miserable business haunt you all your life? We have all made mistakes when we were seventeen.”

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

“I never look down at water without remembering,” she said, slowly raising her eyes to his; then with a nervous little shiver: “Let us walk on a bit, Cesare; it is chilly for standing.”

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

“What a beautiful voice that man has! There is something about it that I have never heard in any other human voice. I believe it is the secret of half his influence.”

“It is a wonderful voice,” Martini assented, catching at a subject of conversation which might lead her away from the dreadful memory called up by the river, “and he is, apart from his voice, about the finest preacher I have ever heard. But I believe the secret of his influence lies deeper than that. It is the way his life stands out from that of almost all the other prelates. I don’t know whether you could lay your hand on one other high dignitary in all the Italian Church⁠—except the Pope himself⁠—whose reputation is so utterly spotless. I remember, when I was in the Romagna last year, passing through his diocese and seeing those fierce mountaineers waiting in the rain to get a glimpse of him or touch his dress. He is venerated there almost as a saint; and that means a good deal among the Romagnols, who generally hate everything that wears a cassock. I remarked to one of the old peasants⁠—as typical a smuggler as ever I saw in my life⁠—that the people seemed very much devoted to their bishop, and he said: ‘We don’t love bishops, they are liars; we love Monsignor Montanelli. Nobody has ever known him to tell a lie or do an unjust thing.’ ”

“I wonder,” Gemma said, half to herself, “if he knows the people think that 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. They were standing still again, he leaning on the balustrade and she slowly drawing lines on the pavement with the point of her umbrella.

“Cesare, you and I have been friends for all these years, and I have never told you what really happened about Arthur.”

“There is no need to tell me, dear,” he broke in hastily; “I know all about it already.”

“Giovanni told you?”

“Yes, when he was dying. He told me about it one night when I was sitting up with him. He said⁠—Gemma, dear, I had better tell you the truth, now we have begun talking about it⁠—he said that you were always brooding over that wretched story, and he begged me to be as good a friend to you as I could and try to keep you from thinking of it. And I have 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 did not tell you about Monsignor Montanelli, then?”

“No, I didn’t know that he had anything to do with it. What he told me was about⁠—all that affair with the spy, and about⁠—”

“About my striking Arthur and his drowning himself. Well, I will tell you about Montanelli.”

They turned back towards the bridge over which the Cardinal’s carriage would have to pass. Gemma looked out steadily across the water as she spoke.

“In those days Montanelli was a canon; he was Director of the Theological Seminary at Pisa, and used to give Arthur lessons in philosophy and read with him after he went up to the Sapienza. They were perfectly devoted to each other; more like two lovers than teacher and pupil. Arthur almost worshipped the ground that Montanelli walked on, and I remember his once telling me that if he lost his ‘Padre’⁠—he always 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 and the Burtons⁠—Arthur’s stepbrothers, most detestable people⁠—spent the whole day dragging the Darsena basin for the body; and I sat in my room alone 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 we went down there was one of the students belonging to the group sitting in the consulting room, all white and shaking; and he told us about Giovanni’s second letter coming from the prison to say