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

“It would be interesting to know⁠—” Sacconi began; but several voices interrupted him.

“Speak up; we can’t hear!”

“I should think not, with such an infernal row in the street,” said Galli, irritably. “Is that window shut, Riccardo? One can’t hear one’s self speak!”

Gemma looked round. “Yes,” she said, “the window is quite shut. I think there is a variety show, or some such thing, passing.”

The sounds of shouting and laughter, of the tinkling of bells and trampling of feet, resounded from the street below, mixed with the braying of a villainous brass band and the unmerciful banging of a drum.

“It can’t be helped these few days,” said Riccardo; “we must expect noise at Christmas time. What were you saying, Sacconi?”

“I said it would be interesting to hear what is thought about the matter in Pisa and Leghorn. Perhaps Signor Rivarez can tell us something; he has just come from there.”

The Gadfly did not answer. He was staring out of the window and appeared not to have heard what had been said.

“Signor Rivarez!” said Gemma. She was the only person sitting near to him, and as he remained silent she bent forward and touched him on the arm. He slowly turned his face to her, and she started as she saw its fixed and awful immobility. For a moment it was like the face of a corpse; then the lips moved in a strange, lifeless way.

“Yes,” he whispered; “a variety show.”

Her first instinct was to shield him from the curiosity of the others. Without understanding what was the matter with him, she realized that some frightful fancy or hallucination had seized upon him, and that, for the moment, he was at its mercy, body and soul. She rose quickly and, standing between him and the company, threw the window open as if to look out. No one but herself had seen his face.

In the street a travelling circus was passing, with mountebanks on donkeys and harlequins in particoloured dresses. The crowd of holiday masqueraders, laughing and shoving, was exchanging jests and showers of paper ribbon with the clowns and flinging little bags of sugarplums to the columbine, who sat in her car, tricked out in tinsel and feathers, with artificial curls on her forehead and an artificial smile on her painted lips. Behind the car came a motley string of figures⁠—street Arabs, beggars, clowns turning somersaults, and costermongers hawking their wares. They were jostling, pelting, and applauding a figure which at first Gemma could not see for the pushing and swaying of the crowd. The next moment, however, she saw plainly what it was⁠—a hunchback, dwarfish and ugly, grotesquely attired in a fool’s dress, with paper cap and bells. He evidently belonged to the strolling company, and was amusing the crowd with hideous grimaces and contortions.

“What is going on out there?” asked Riccardo, approaching the window. “You seem very much interested.”

He was a little surprised at their keeping the whole committee waiting to look at a strolling company of mountebanks. Gemma turned round.

“It is nothing interesting,” she said; “only a variety show; but they made such a noise that I thought it must be something else.”

She was standing with one hand upon the windowsill, and suddenly felt the Gadfly’s cold fingers press the hand with a passionate clasp. “Thank you!” he whispered softly; and then, closing the window, sat down again upon the sill.

“I’m afraid,” he said in his airy manner, “that I have interrupted you, gentlemen. I was l-looking at the variety show; it is s-such a p-pretty sight.”

“Sacconi was asking you a question,” said Martini gruffly. The Gadfly’s behaviour seemed to him an absurd piece of affectation, and he was annoyed that Gemma should have been tactless enough to follow his example. It was not like her.

The Gadfly disclaimed all knowledge of the state of feeling in Pisa, explaining that he had been there “only on a holiday.” He then plunged at once into an animated discussion, first of agricultural prospects, then of the pamphlet question; and continued pouring out a flood of stammering talk till the others were quite tired. He seemed to find some feverish delight in the sound of his own voice.

When the meeting ended and the members of the committee rose to go, Riccardo came up to Martini.

“Will you stop to dinner with me? Fabrizi and Sacconi have promised to stay.”

“Thanks; but I was going to see Signora Bolla home.”

“Are you really afraid I can’t get home by myself?” she asked, rising and putting on her wrap. “Of course he will stay with you, Dr. Riccardo; it’s good for him to get a change. He doesn’t go out half enough.”

“If you will allow me, I will see you home,” the Gadfly interposed; “I am going in that direction.”

“If you really are going that way⁠—”

“I suppose you won’t have time to drop in here in the course of the evening, will you, Rivarez?” asked Riccardo, as he opened the door for them.

The Gadfly looked back over his shoulder, laughing. “I, my dear fellow? I’m going to see the variety show!”

“What a strange creature that is; and what an odd affection for mountebanks!” said Riccardo, coming back to his visitors.

“Case of a fellow-feeling, I should think,” said Martini; “the man’s a mountebank himself, if ever I saw one.”

“I wish I could think he was only that,” Fabrizi interposed, with a grave face. “If he is a mountebank I am afraid he’s a very dangerous one.”

“Dangerous in what way?”

“Well, I don’t like those mysterious little pleasure trips that he is so fond of taking. This is the third time, you know; and I don’t believe he has been in Pisa at all.”

“I suppose it is almost an open secret that it’s into the mountains he goes,” said Sacconi. “He has hardly taken the trouble to deny that he is still in relations with the smugglers he got to know in the Savigno affair, and it’s quite natural he should take advantage of their friendship to get his