“Another new pamphlet?”
“A stupid thing this wretched man Rivarez sent in to yesterday's committee. I knew we should come to loggerheads with him before long.”
“What is the matter with it? Honestly, Cesare, I think you are a little prejudiced. Rivarez may be unpleasant, but he's not stupid.”
“Oh, I don't deny that this is clever enough in its way; but you had better read the thing yourself.”
The pamphlet was a skit on the wild enthusiasm over the new Pope with which Italy was still ringing. Like all the Gadfly's writing, it was bitter and vindictive; but, notwithstanding her irritation at the style, Gemma could not help recognizing in her heart the justice of the criticism.
“I quite agree with you that it is detestably malicious,” she said, laying down the manuscript. “But the worst thing about it is that it's all true.”
“Gemma!”
“Yes, but it is. The man's a cold-blooded eel, if you like; but he's got the truth on his side. There is no use in our trying to persuade ourselves that this doesn't hit the mark—it does!”
“Then do you suggest that we should print it?”
“Ah! that's quite another matter. I certainly don't think we ought to print it as it stands; it would hurt and alienate everybody and do no good. But if he would rewrite it and cut out the personal attacks, I think it might be made into a really valuable piece of work. As political criticism it is very fine. I had no idea he could write so well. He says things which need saying and which none of us have had the courage to say. This passage, where he compares Italy to a tipsy man weeping with tenderness on the neck of the thief who is picking his pocket, is splendidly written.”