Rappaccini's Daughter - Part One
Part Two
Nathaniel Hawthorne
by
Nathaniel Hawthorne
A young man, named
Giovanni Guasconti, came, very long ago, from the
more southern region of
Italy, to pursue his studies at the
University of Padua. Giovanni, who had but a scanty supply of gold
ducats in his pocket, took lodgings in a high and gloomy
chamber of an old edifice which looked not unworthy to have been the
palace of a Paduan noble, and which, in fact, exhibited over its
entrance the armorial bearings of a family long since extinct. The
young stranger, who was not unstudied in the great poem of his
country, recollected that one of the ancestors of this family, and
perhaps an occupant of this very mansion, had been pictured by Dante
as a partaker of the immortal agonies of his Inferno. These
reminiscences and associations, together with the tendency to
heartbreak natural to a young man for the first time out of his native
sphere, caused Giovanni to sigh heavily as he looked around the
desolate and
ill-furnished apartment.
"
Holy Virgin, signor!" cried old Dame
Lisabetta, who, won by the youth's remarkable
beauty of person, was
kindly endeavoring to give the chamber a habitable air, "what a sigh
was that to come out of a young man's heart! Do you find this old
mansion gloomy? For the love of
Heaven, then, put your head out of
the window, and you will see as bright sunshine as you have left in
Naples."
Guasconti mechanically did as the old woman advised, but could not
quite agree with her that the Paduan sunshine was as cheerful as that
of southern Italy. Such as it was, however, it fell upon a garden
beneath the window and expended its fostering influences on a variety
of plants, which seemed to have been cultivated with exceeding care.
"Does this
garden belong to the
house?" asked Giovanni.
"Heaven forbid, signor, unless it were fruitful of better pot herbs
than any that grow there now," answered old Lisabetta. "No; that
garden is cultivated by the own hands of Signor Giacomo Rappaccini,
the famous doctor, who, I warrant him, has been heard of as far as
Naples. It is said that he distils these plants into
medicines that are as potent as a charm. Oftentimes you may
see the signor doctor at work, and perchance the signora, his
daughter, too, gathering the
strange
flowers that grow in the garden."
The old woman had now done what she could for the aspect of the
chamber; and, commending the young man to the protection of the
saints, took her departure.
Giovanni still found no better occupation than to look down into the
garden beneath his window. From its appearance, he judged it to be one
of those botanic gardens which were of earlier date in
Padua than
elsewhere in Italy or in the world. Or, not improbably, it might once
have been the pleasure-place of an opulent family; for there was the
ruin of a marble fountain in the centre, sculptured with rare art, but
so wofully shattered that it was impossible to trace the original
design from the chaos of remaining fragments. The water, however,
continued to gush and sparkle into the sunbeams as cheerfully as ever.
A little gurgling sound ascended to the young man's window, and made
him feel as if the fountain were an
immortal spirit that sung
its song unceasingly and without heeding the vicissitudes around it,
while one century imbodied it in marble and another scattered the
perishable garniture on the soil. All about the pool into which the
water subsided grew various plants, that seemed to require a plentiful
supply of moisture for the nourishment of gigantic leaves, and, in
some instances, flowers gorgeously magnificent. There was one shrub in
particular, set in a marble vase in the midst of the pool, that bore a
profusion of purple blossoms, each of which had the lustre and
richness of a gem; and the whole together made a show so resplendent
that it seemed enough to illuminate the garden, even had there been no
sunshine. Every portion of the soil was peopled with plants and herbs,
which, if less beautiful, still bore tokens of assiduous care, as if
all had their individual virtues, known to the scientific mind that
fostered them. Some were placed in urns, rich with old carving, and
others in common garden pots; some crept serpentlike along the ground
or climbed on high, using whatever means of ascent was offered them.
One plant had wreathed itself round a statue of
Vertumnus, which was
thus quite veiled and shrouded in a drapery of hanging foliage, so
happily arranged that it might have served a sculptor for a study.
While Giovanni stood at the window he heard a rustling behind a screen
of leaves, and became aware that a person was at work in the garden.
His figure soon emerged into view, and showed itself to be that of no
common laborer, but a tall, emaciated, sallow, and sickly-looking man,
dressed in a scholar's garb of black. He was beyond the
middle term of life, with gray hair, a thin, gray beard,
and a face singularly marked with
intellect and cultivation, but
which could never, even in his more youthful days, have expressed much
warmth of heart.
Nothing could exceed the intentness with which this
scientific gardener examined every shrub which grew
in his path: it seemed as if he was looking into their inmost nature,
making observations in regard to their creative essence, and
discovering why one leaf grew in this shape and another in that, and
wherefore such and such flowers differed among themselves in hue and
perfume. Nevertheless, in spite of this deep intelligence on his part,
there was no approach to intimacy between himself and these vegetable
existences. On the contrary, he avoided their actual touch or the
direct inhaling of their odors with a caution that impressed Giovanni
most disagreeably; for the man's demeanor was that of one walking
among malignant influences, such as
savage beasts, or
deadly snakes, or evil spirits, which, should he allow
them one moment of license, would wreak upon him some terrible
fatality. It was strangely frightful to the young man's imagination to
see this air of insecurity in a person cultivating a garden, that most
simple and innocent of human toils, and which had been alike the joy
and labor of the unfallen parents of the race. Was this garden, then,
the
Eden of the present world? And this man, with
such a perception of harm in what his own hands caused to grow--was he
the
Adam?
The distrustful gardener, while plucking away the dead leaves or
pruning the too luxuriant growth of the shrubs, defended his hands
with a pair of thick gloves. Nor were these his only
armor. When, in
his walk through the garden, he came to the magnificent plant that
hung its purple gems beside the marble fountain, he placed a kind of
mask over his mouth and nostrils, as if all this beauty did but
conceal a deadlier malice; but, finding his task still too dangerous,
he drew back, removed the mask, and called loudly, but in the infirm
voice of a person affected with inward disease--
"Beatrice! Beatrice!"
"Here am I, my father. What would you?" cried a rich and youthful
voice from the window of the opposite house--a voice as rich as a
tropical sunset, and which made Giovanni, though he knew not why,
think of deep hues of purple or crimson and of
perfumes heavily delectable. "Are you in the garden?"
"Yes, Beatrice," answered the gardener, "and I need your help."
Soon there emerged from under a sculptured portal the figure of a
young girl, arrayed with as much richness of taste as the most
splendid of the flowers, beautiful as the day, and with a bloom so
deep and vivid that one shade more would have been too much. She
looked redundant with life, health, and energy; all of which
attributes were bound down and compressed, as it were, and girdled
tensely, in their luxuriance, by her virgin zone. Yet Giovanni's fancy
must have grown morbid while he looked down into the garden; for the
impression which the fair stranger made upon him was as if here were
another
flower, the human sister of those
vegetable ones, as beautiful as they, more beautiful than the richest
of them, but still to be touched only with a glove, nor to be
approached without a mask. As Beatrice came down the garden path, it
was observable that she handled and inhaled the odor of several of the
plants which her father had most sedulously avoided.
"Here, Beatrice," said the latter, "see how many needful offices
require to be done to our chief treasure. Yet, shattered as I am, my
life might pay the penalty of approaching it so closely as
circumstances demand. Henceforth, I fear, this plant must be consigned
to your sole charge."
"And gladly will I undertake it," cried again the rich tones of the
young lady, as she bent towards the magnificent plant and opened her
arms as if to embrace it. "Yes, my sister, my splendor, it shall be
Beatrice's task to nurse and serve thee; and thou shalt reward her
with thy kisses and perfumed breath, which to her is as the
breath of life."
Then, with all the tenderness in her manner that was so strikingly
expressed in her words, she busied herself with such attentions as the
plant seemed to require; and Giovanni, at his lofty window, rubbed his
eyes and almost doubted whether it were a girl tending her
favorite flower, or one sister performing the duties of
affection to another. The scene soon terminated. Whether Dr.
Rappaccini had finished his labors in the garden, or that his watchful
eye had caught the stranger's face, he now took his daughter's arm and
retired. Night was already closing in; oppressive exhalations seemed
to proceed from the plants and steal upward past the open window; and
Giovanni, closing the lattice, went to his couch and dreamed of a rich
flower and beautiful girl. Flower and maiden were different, and yet
the same, and fraught with some strange peril in either shape.
But there is an influence in the light of morning that tends to
rectify whatever errors of fancy, or even of
judgment, we may have
incurred during the sun's decline, or among the shadows of the night,
or in the less wholesome
glow of moonshine. Giovanni's first movement, on starting from
sleep, was to throw open the window and gaze down into the garden
which his dreams had made so fertile of mysteries. He was surprised
and a little ashamed to find how real and matter-of-fact an affair it
proved to be, in the
first rays of
the sun which gilded the dew-drops that hung upon leaf and blossom,
and, while giving a brighter beauty to each rare flower, brought
everything within the limits of ordinary experience. The young man
rejoiced that, in the heart of the barren city, he had the privilege
of overlooking this spot of lovely and luxuriant vegetation. It would
serve, he said to himself, as a symbolic language to keep him in
communion with Nature. Neither the sickly and thoughtworn Dr. Giacomo
Rappaccini, it is true, nor his brilliant daughter, were now visible;
so that Giovanni could not determine how much of the singularity which
he attributed to both was due to their own qualities and how much to
his wonder-working fancy; but he was inclined to take a most rational
view of the whole matter.
In the course of the day he paid his respects to Signor Pietro
Baglioni, professor of medicine in the university, a physician of
eminent repute, to whom Giovanni had brought a letter of introduction.
The
professor was an elderly personage,
apparently of genial nature and habits that might almost be called
jovial. He kept the young man to dinner, and made himself very
agreeable by the freedom and liveliness of his conversation,
especially when warmed by a flask or two of Tuscan wine. Giovanni,
conceiving that men of science, inhabitants of the same city, must
needs be on familiar terms with one another, took an opportunity to
mention the name of Dr. Rappaccini. But the professor did not respond
with so much cordiality as he had anticipated.
"Ill would it become a teacher of the
divine art of medicine," said Professor Pietro Baglioni,
in answer to a question of Giovanni, "to withhold due and
well-considered praise of a physician so eminently skilled as
Rappaccini; but, on the other hand, I should answer it but scantily to
my conscience were I to permit a worthy youth like yourself, Signor
Giovanni, the son of an ancient friend, to imbibe erroneous ideas
respecting a man who might hereafter chance to hold your life and
death in his hands. The truth is, our worshipful Dr. Rappaccini has as
much science as any member of the faculty--with perhaps one single
exception--in Padua, or all Italy; but there are certain grave
objections to his professional character."
"And what are they?" asked the young man.
"Has my friend Giovanni any
disease of body or heart, that he is so
inquisitive about physicians?" said the professor, with a smile. "But
as for Rappaccini, it is said of him--and I, who know the man well,
can answer for its truth--that he cares infinitely more for science
than for mankind. His patients are interesting to him only as subjects
for some new experiment. He would sacrifice human life, his own among
the rest, or whatever else was dearest to him, for the sake of adding
so much as a
grain of mustard seed to the great heap
of his accumulated knowledge."
"Methinks he is an awful man indeed," remarked Guasconti, mentally
recalling the cold and purely intellectual aspect of Rappaccini. "And
yet, worshipful professor, is it not a noble spirit? Are there many
men capable of so spiritual a
love of
science?"
"God forbid," answered the professor, somewhat testily; "at least,
unless they take sounder views of the
healing art than
those adopted by Rappaccini. It is his theory that all medicinal
virtues are comprised within those substances which we term vegetable
poisons. These he cultivates with his own hands, and is said even to
have produced
new varieties
of poison, more horribly deleterious than Nature, without the
assistance of this learned person, would ever have plagued the world
withal. That the signor doctor does less mischief than might be
expected with such dangerous substances is undeniable. Now and then,
it must be owned, he has effected, or seemed to effect, a marvellous
cure; but, to tell you my private mind, Signor Giovanni, he should
receive little credit for such instances of success--they being
probably the work of chance--but should be held strictly accountable
for his failures, which may justly be considered his own work."
The youth might have taken Baglioni's opinions with many grains of
allowance had he known that there was a professional warfare of long
continuance between him and Dr. Rappaccini, in which the latter was
generally thought to have gained the advantage. If the reader be
inclined to judge for himself, we refer him to certain black-letter
tracts on both sides, preserved in the medical department of the
University of Padua.
"I know not, most learned professor," returned Giovanni, after musing
on what had been said of Rappaccini's exclusive zeal for science--"I
know not how dearly this physician may love his art; but surely there
is one object more dear to him. He has a daughter."
"Aha!" cried the professor, with a laugh. "So now our friend
Giovanni's secret is out. You have heard of this daughter, whom all
the young men in Padua are wild about, though not half a dozen have
ever had the good hap to see her face. I know little of the Signora
Beatrice save that Rappaccini is said to have instructed her deeply in
his science, and that, young and beautiful as fame reports her, she is
already qualified to fill a professor's chair. Perchance her father
destines her for mine! Other absurd rumors there be, not worth talking
about or listening to. So now, Signor Giovanni, drink off your glass
of lachryma."
Guasconti returned to his lodgings somewhat heated with the wine he
had quaffed, and which caused his brain to swim with
strange fantasies in reference
to Dr. Rappaccini and the beautiful Beatrice. On his way, happening to
pass by a florist's, he bought a
fresh
bouquet of flowers.
Ascending to his chamber, he seated himself near the window, but
within the shadow thrown by the depth of the wall, so that he could
look down into the garden with little risk of being discovered. All
beneath his eye was a solitude. The strange plants were basking in the
sunshine, and now and then nodding gently to one another, as if in
acknowledgment of sympathy and kindred. In the midst, by the shattered
fountain, grew the magnificent shrub, with its purple gems clustering
all over it; they glowed in the air, and gleamed back again out of the
depths of the pool, which thus seemed to overflow with colored
radiance from the rich reflection that was steeped in it. At first, as
we have said, the garden was a solitude. Soon, however--as Giovanni
had half hoped, half feared, would be the case--a figure appeared
beneath the antique sculptured portal, and came down between the rows
of plants, inhaling their various perfumes as if she were one of those
beings of old classic fable that lived upon sweet odors. On again
beholding Beatrice, the young man was even startled to perceive how
much her beauty exceeded his recollection of it; so brilliant, so
vivid, was its character, that she glowed amid the sunlight, and, as
Giovanni whispered to himself, positively illuminated the more shadowy
intervals of the garden path. Her face being now more revealed than on
the former occasion, he was struck by its expression of simplicity and
sweetness--qualities that had not entered into his idea of her
character, and which made him ask anew what manner of mortal she might
be. Nor did he fail again to observe, or imagine, an analogy between
the beautiful girl and the gorgeous shrub that hung its gemlike
flowers over the fountain--a resemblance which Beatrice seemed to have
indulged a fantastic humor in heightening, both by the arrangement of
her dress and the selection of its hues.
Approaching the shrub, she threw open her arms, as with a passionate
ardor, and drew its branches into an intimate embrace--so intimate
that her features were hidden in its
leafy bosom and her glistening ringlets
all intermingled with the flowers.
"Give me thy breath, my sister," exclaimed Beatrice; "for I am faint
with common air. And give me this flower of thine, which I separate
with gentlest fingers from the stem and place it close beside my
heart."
With these words the beautiful daughter of Rappaccini plucked one of
the richest blossoms of the shrub, and was about to fasten it in her
bosom. But now, unless Giovanni's draughts of wine had bewildered his
senses, a singular incident occurred. A small orange-colored reptile,
of the lizard or chameleon species, chanced to be creeping along the
path, just at the feet of Beatrice. It appeared to Giovanni--but, at
the distance from which he gazed, he could scarcely have seen anything
so minute--it appeared to him, however, that a drop or two of moisture
from the broken stem of the flower descended upon the lizard's head.
For an instant the
reptile contorted itself
violently, and then lay motionless in the sunshine. Beatrice observed
this remarkable phenomenon, and crossed herself, sadly, but without
surprise; nor did she therefore hesitate to arrange the fatal flower
in her bosom. There it blushed, and almost glimmered with the dazzling
effect of a precious stone, adding to her dress and aspect the one
appropriate charm which nothing else in the world could have supplied.
But Giovanni, out of the shadow of his window, bent forward and shrank
back, and murmured and trembled.
"Am I awake? Have I my senses?" said he to himself. "What is this
being? Beautiful shall I call her, or inexpressibly terrible?"
Beatrice now strayed carelessly through the garden, approaching closer
beneath Giovanni's window, so that he was compelled to thrust his head
quite out of its concealment in order to gratify the intense and
painful curiosity which she excited. At this moment there came a
beautiful insect over the garden wall; it had, perhaps, wandered
through the city, and found no flowers or verdure among those antique
haunts of men until the heavy perfumes of Dr. Rappaccini's shrubs had
lured it from afar. Without alighting on the flowers, this winged
brightness seemed to be attracted by Beatrice, and lingered in the air
and fluttered about her head. Now, here it could not be but that
Giovanni Guasconti's eyes deceived him. Be that as it might, he
fancied that, while Beatrice was gazing at the insect with childish
delight, it grew faint and fell at her feet; its bright wings
shivered; it was dead--from no cause that he could discern, unless it
were the atmosphere of her breath. Again Beatrice crossed herself and
sighed heavily as she bent over the dead insect.
An impulsive movement of Giovanni drew her eyes to the window. There
she beheld the beautiful head of the young man--rather a
Grecian than an Italian head, with fair, regular
features, and a glistening of gold among his ringlets--gazing down
upon her like a being that hovered in mid air. Scarcely knowing what
he did, Giovanni
threw down the
bouquet which he had hitherto held in his hand.
"Signora," said he, "there are pure and healthful flowers. Wear them
for the sake of Giovanni Guasconti."
"Thanks, signor," replied Beatrice, with her rich voice, that came
forth as it were like a gush of music, and with a mirthful expression
half childish and half woman-like. "I accept your gift, and would fain
recompense it with this precious purple flower; but if I toss it into
the air it will not reach you. So Signor Guasconti must even content
himself with my thanks."
She lifted the bouquet from the ground, and then, as if inwardly
ashamed at having stepped aside from her maidenly reserve to respond
to a stranger's greeting, passed swiftly homeward through the garden.
But few as the moments were, it seemed to Giovanni, when she was on
the point of vanishing beneath the sculptured portal, that his
beautiful bouquet was already beginning to wither in her grasp. It was
an idle thought; there could be no possibility of distinguishing
a faded flower from a fresh one at
so great a distance.
For many days after this incident the young man avoided the window
that looked into Dr. Rappaccini's garden, as if something ugly and
monstrous would have blasted his eyesight had he been betrayed into a
glance. He felt conscious of having put himself, to a certain extent,
within the influence of an unintelligible power by the communication
which he had opened with Beatrice. The wisest course would have been,
if his heart were in any real danger, to quit his lodgings and Padua
itself at once; the next wiser, to have accustomed himself, as far as
possible, to the familiar and daylight view of Beatrice--thus bringing
her rigidly and systematically within the limits of ordinary
experience. Least of all, while avoiding her sight, ought Giovanni to
have remained so near this extraordinary being that the proximity and
possibility even of intercourse should give a kind of substance and
reality to the wild vagaries which his imagination ran riot
continually in producing. Guasconti had not a deep heart--or, at all
events, its depths were not sounded now; but he had a quick fancy, and
an ardent southern temperament, which rose every instant to a higher
fever pitch. Whether or no Beatrice possessed those terrible
attributes, that fatal breath, the affinity with those so beautiful
and deadly flowers which were indicated by what Giovanni had
witnessed, she had at least instilled a fierce and
subtle poison into his system. It was not love, although her
rich beauty was a madness to him; nor horror, even while he fancied
her spirit to be imbued with the same baneful essence that seemed to
pervade her physical frame; but a wild offspring of both love and
horror that had each parent in it, and burned like one and shivered
like the other. Giovanni knew not what to dread; still less did he
know what to hope; yet hope and dread kept a continual warfare in his
breast, alternately vanquishing one another and starting up afresh to
renew the contest. Blessed are all simple emotions, be they dark or
bright! It is the lurid intermixture of the two that produces the
illuminating blaze of the infernal regions.
Sometimes he endeavored to assuage the fever of his spirit by a rapid
walk through the streets of Padua or beyond its gates: his footsteps
kept time with the throbbings of his brain, so that the walk was apt
to accelerate itself to a race. One day he found himself arrested; his
arm was seized by a portly personage, who had turned back on
recognizing the young man and expended much breath in overtaking him.
"Signor Giovanni! Stay, my young friend!" cried he. "Have you
forgotten me? That might well be the case if I were as much altered as
yourself."
It was Baglioni, whom Giovanni had avoided ever since their first
meeting, from a doubt that the professor's sagacity would look too
deeply into his secrets. Endeavoring to recover
himself, he stared forth wildly from his inner world into the outer
one and spoke like a man in a dream.
"Yes; I am Giovanni Guasconti. You are Professor Pietro Baglioni. Now
let me pass!"
"Not yet, not yet, Signor Giovanni Guasconti," said the professor,
smiling, but at the same time scrutinizing the youth with an earnest
glance. "What! did I grow up side by side with your father? and shall
his son pass me like a stranger in these old streets of Padua? Stand
still, Signor Giovanni; for we must have a word or two before we
part."
"Speedily, then, most worshipful professor, speedily," said Giovanni,
with feverish impatience. "Does not your worship see that I am in
haste?"
Now, while he was speaking there came a man in black along the street,
stopping and moving feebly like a person in inferior health. His face
was all overspread with a most sickly and sallow hue, but yet so
pervaded with an expression of piercing and active intellect that an
observer might easily have overlooked the merely physical attributes
and have seen only this
wonderful energy. As he
passed, this person exchanged a cold and distant salutation with
Baglioni, but fixed his eyes upon Giovanni with an intentness that
seemed to bring out whatever was within him worthy of notice.
Nevertheless, there was a peculiar quietness in the look, as if taking
merely a speculative, not a human, interest in the young man.
"It is Dr. Rappaccini!" whispered the professor when the stranger had
passed. "Has he ever seen your face before?"
"Not that I know," answered Giovanni, starting at the name.
"He has seen you! he must have seen you!" said Baglioni, hastily. "For
some purpose or other, this man of science is making a study of you. I
know that look of his! It is the same that coldly illuminates his face
as he bends over a
bird, a mouse, or a
butterfly, which,
in pursuance of some experiment, he has killed by the perfume of a
flower; a look as deep as Nature itself, but without Nature's warmth
of love. Signor Giovanni, I will stake my life upon it, you are the
subject of one of Rappaccini's experiments!"
"Will you make a fool of me?" cried Giovanni, passionately. "That,
signor professor, were an untoward
experiment."
"Patience! patience!" replied the imperturbable professor. "I tell
thee, my poor Giovanni, that Rappaccini has a
scientific interest in thee. Thou hast fallen
into fearful hands! And the Signora Beatrice--what part does she act
in this mystery?"
But Guasconti, finding Baglioni's pertinacity intolerable, here broke
away, and was gone before the professor could again seize his arm. He
looked after the young man intently and shook his head.
"This must not be," said Baglioni to himself. "The youth is the son of
my old friend, and shall not come to any harm from which the
arcana of medical science can preserve him. Besides, it is too
insufferable an impertinence in Rappaccini, thus to snatch the lad out
of my own hands, as I may say, and make use of him for his
infernal
experiments. This daughter of his! It shall be looked to. Perchance,
most learned Rappaccini, I may foil you where you little dream of it!"
Meanwhile Giovanni had pursued a circuitous route, and at length found
himself at the door of his lodgings. As he crossed the threshold he
was met by old Lisabetta, who smirked and smiled, and was evidently
desirous to attract his attention; vainly, however, as the ebullition
of his feelings had momentarily subsided into a cold and dull vacuity.
He turned his eyes full upon the withered face that was puckering
itself into a smile, but seemed to behold it not. The old dame,
therefore, laid her grasp upon his cloak.
"Signor! signor!" whispered she, still with a smile over the whole
breath of her visage, so that it looked not unlike a grotesque carving
in wood, darkened by centuries. "Listen, signor! There is a private
entrance into the garden!"
"What do you say?" exclaimed Giovanni, turning quickly about, as if an
inanimate thing should start into feverish life. "A private entrance
into Dr. Rappaccini's garden?"
"Hush! hush! not so loud!" whispered Lisabetta, putting her hand over
his mouth. "Yes; into the worshipful doctor's garden, where you may
see all his fine shrubbery. Many a young man in Padua would give gold
to be admitted among those flowers."
Giovanni put a piece of gold into her hand.
"Show me the way," said he.
A surmise, probably excited by his conversation with Baglioni, crossed
his mind, that this interposition of old Lisabetta might perchance be
connected with the intrigue, whatever were its
nature, in which the
professor seemed to suppose that Dr. Rappaccini was involving him. But
such a
suspicion, though it disturbed
Giovanni, was inadequate to restrain him. The instant that he was
aware of the possibility of approaching Beatrice, it seemed an
absolute necessity of his existence to do so. It mattered not whether
she were
angel or demon; he was irrevocably within her sphere,
and must obey the law that whirled him onward, in ever-lessening
circles, towards a result which he did not attempt to foreshadow; and
yet, strange to say, there came across him a sudden doubt whether this
intense interest on his part were not delusory; whether it were really
of so deep and positive a nature as to justify him in now thrusting
himself into an incalculable position; whether it were not merely the
fantasy of a young man's brain, only slightly or not at all connected
with his heart.
He paused, hesitated, turned half about, but again went on. His
withered
guide led him along several
obscure passages, and
finally undid a door, through which, as it was opened, there came the
sight and sound of rustling leaves, with the broken sunshine
glimmering among them. Giovanni stepped forth, and, forcing himself
through the entanglement of a shrub that wreathed its tendrils over
the hidden entrance, stood beneath his own window in the open area of
Dr. Rappaccini's garden.
How often is it the case that, when impossibilities have come to pass
and
dreams have condensed their misty
substance into tangible realities, we find ourselves calm, and even
coldly self-possessed, amid circumstances which it would have been a
delirium of joy or agony to anticipate!
Fate delights to thwart us thus.
Passion will choose his own time to rush upon the scene, and lingers
sluggishly behind when an appropriate adjustment of events would seem
to summon his appearance.
So was it now with Giovanni. Day after day his pulses had
throbbed with feverish blood at the improbable idea of an interview
with Beatrice, and of standing with her, face to face, in this very
garden, basking in the Oriental
sunshine of
her beauty, and snatching from her full gaze the mystery which he
deemed the riddle of his own existence. But now there was a singular
and untimely equanimity within his breast. He threw a glance around
the garden to discover if Beatrice or her father were present, and,
perceiving that he was alone, began a critical
observation of the plants.
The aspect of one and all of them dissatisfied him; their gorgeousness
seemed fierce, passionate, and even unnatural. There was hardly an
individual shrub which a wanderer, straying by himself through a
forest, would not have been startled to find
growing wild, as if an unearthly
face had glared at him out of the thicket. Several also would have
shocked a delicate instinct by an appearance of artificialness
indicating that there had been such commixture, and, as it were,
adultery, of various vegetable species, that the production was no
longer of God's making, but the monstrous offspring of man's depraved
fancy, glowing with only an evil mockery of beauty. They were probably
the result of experiment, which in one or two cases had succeeded in
mingling plants individually lovely into a compound possessing the
questionable and ominous character that distinguished the whole growth
of the garden. In fine, Giovanni recognized but two or three plants in
the collection, and those of a kind that he well knew to be poisonous.
While busy with these contemplations he heard the rustling of a silken
garment, and, turning, beheld Beatrice emerging from beneath the
sculptured portal.
Giovanni had not considered with himself what should be his
deportment; whether he should apologize for his intrusion into the
garden, or assume that he was there with the privity at least, if not
by the desire, of Dr. Rappaccini or his daughter; but Beatrice's
manner placed him at his ease, though leaving him still in doubt by
what agency he had gained admittance. She came lightly along the path
and met him near the broken fountain. There was surprise in her face,
but brightened by a simple and kind expression of pleasure.
"You are a
connoisseur
in flowers, signor," said Beatrice, with a smile, alluding to the
bouquet which he had flung her from the window. "It is no marvel,
therefore, if the sight of my father's rare collection has tempted you
to take a nearer view. If he were here, he could tell you many strange
and interesting facts as to the nature and habits of these shrubs; for
he has spent a lifetime in such studies, and this garden is his
world."
"And yourself, lady," observed Giovanni, "if fame says true--you
likewise are deeply skilled in
the
virtues indicated by these rich blossoms and these spicy perfumes.
Would you deign to be my instructress, I should prove an apter scholar
than if taught by Signor Rappaccini himself."
"Are there such idle rumors?" asked Beatrice, with the music of a
pleasant laugh. "Do people say that I am skilled in my father's
science of plants? What a
jest is there! No; though I
have grown up among these flowers, I know no more of them than their
hues and perfume; and sometimes methinks I would fain rid myself of
even that small knowledge. There are many flowers here, and those not
the least brilliant, that shock and offend me when they meet my eye.
But pray, signor, do not believe these stories about my science.
Believe nothing of me save what you see with your own eyes."
"And must I believe all that I have seen with my own eyes?" asked
Giovanni, pointedly, while the recollection of former scenes made him
shrink. "No, signora; you demand too little of me. Bid me believe
nothing save what comes from your own lips."
It would appear that Beatrice understood him. There came a deep flush
to her cheek; but she looked full into Giovanni's eyes, and responded
to his gaze of uneasy suspicion with a
queenlike haughtiness.
"I do so bid you, signor," she replied. "Forget whatever you may have
fancied in regard to me. If true to the outward senses, still it may
be false in its essence; but the words of Beatrice Rappaccini's lips
are true from the depths of the heart outward. Those you may believe."
A fervor glowed in her whole aspect and beamed upon Giovanni's
consciousness like the
light of truth itself;
but while she spoke there was a fragrance in the atmosphere around
her, rich and delightful, though evanescent, yet which the young man,
from an indefinable reluctance, scarcely dared to draw into his lungs.
It might be the odor of the flowers. Could it be Beatrice's breath
which thus embalmed her words with a strange richness, as if by
steeping them in her heart? A faintness passed like a shadow over
Giovanni and flitted away; he seemed to gaze through the beautiful
girl's eyes into her transparent soul, and felt no more doubt or fear.
The tinge of passion that had colored Beatrice's manner vanished; she
became gay, and appeared to derive a pure delight from her communion
with the youth not unlike what the
maiden of a lonely
island might have felt conversing with
a voyager from the
civilized world. Evidently her experience of life had been confined
within the limits of that garden. She talked now about matters as
simple as the daylight or summer clouds, and now asked questions in
reference to the city, or Giovanni's distant home, his friends, his
mother, and his sisters--questions indicating such seclusion, and such
lack of familiarity with modes and forms, that Giovanni responded as
if to an infant. Her spirit gushed out before him like a fresh rill
that was just catching its first glimpse of the sunlight and wondering
at the reflections of earth and sky which were flung into its bosom.
There came thoughts, too, from a deep source, and fantasies of a
gemlike brilliancy, as if diamonds and rubies sparkled upward among
the bubbles of the fountain. Ever and anon there gleamed across the
young man's mind a sense of wonder that he should be walking side by
side with the being who had so wrought upon his imagination, whom he
had idealized in such hues of terror, in whom he had positively
witnessed such manifestations of dreadful attributes--that he should
be conversing with Beatrice like a brother, and should find her so
human and so maidenlike. But such reflections were only momentary; the
effect of her character was too real not to make itself familiar at
once.
In this free intercourse they had strayed through the garden, and now,
after many turns among its avenues, were come to the shattered
fountain, beside which grew the magnificent shrub, with its treasury
of glowing blossoms. A fragrance was diffused from it which Giovanni
recognized as identical with that which he had attributed to
Beatrice's breath, but incomparably more powerful. As her eyes fell
upon it, Giovanni beheld her press her hand to her bosom as if her
heart were throbbing suddenly and painfully.
"For the first time in my life," murmured she, addressing the shrub,
"I had forgotten thee."
"I remember, signora," said Giovanni, "that you once promised to
reward me with one of these living gems for the bouquet which I had
the happy boldness to fling to your feet. Permit me now to pluck it as
a memorial of this interview."
He made a step towards the shrub with extended hand; but Beatrice
darted forward, uttering a shriek that went through his heart like a
dagger. She caught
his hand and drew it back with the whole force of her slender figure.
Giovanni felt her touch thrilling through his fibres.
"Touch it not!" exclaimed she, in a voice of agony. "Not for thy life!
It is
fatal!"
Then, hiding her face, she fled from him and vanished beneath the
sculptured portal. As Giovanni followed her with his eyes, he beheld
the emaciated figure and pale intelligence of Dr. Rappaccini, who had
been watching the scene, he knew not how long, within the shadow of
the entrance.
No sooner was Guasconti alone in his chamber than the image of
Beatrice came back to his passionate musings, invested with all the
witchery that had been gathering around it ever since his first
glimpse of her, and now likewise imbued with a tender warmth of
girlish womanhood. She was human; her nature was endowed with all
gentle and feminine qualities; she was worthiest to be worshipped; she
was capable, surely, on her part, of the height and heroism of love.
Those tokens which he had hitherto considered as proofs of a frightful
peculiarity in her physical and moral system were now either
forgotten, or, by the subtle sophistry of passion transmitted into a
golden crown of enchantment, rendering Beatrice the more admirable by
so much as she was the more unique. Whatever had looked ugly was now
beautiful; or, if incapable of such a change, it stole away, and hid
itself among those shapeless half ideas which throng the dim region
beyond the daylight of our perfect consciousness. Thus did he spend
the night, nor fell asleep until the dawn had begun to awake the
slumbering flowers in Dr. Rappaccini's garden, whither Giovanni's
dreams doubtless led him. Up rose the sun in his due season, and,
flinging his beams upon the young man's eyelids, awoke him to a sense
of pain. When thoroughly aroused, he became sensible of a burning and
tingling agony in his hand--in his right hand--the very hand which
Beatrice had grasped in her own when he was on the point of plucking
one of the gemlike flowers. On the back of that hand there was now a
purple print like that of four small fingers, and the likeness of a
slender thumb upon his wrist.
Oh, how stubbornly does love--or even that cunning semblance of love
which flourishes in the imagination, but strikes no depth of root into
the heart--how stubbornly does it hold its
faith until the moment comes
when it is doomed to vanish into thin mist! Giovanni wrapped a
handkerchief about his hand and wondered what evil thing had stung
him, and soon forgot his pain in a reverie of Beatrice.
After the first interview, a second was in the inevitable course of
what we call
fate. A
third; a fourth; and a meeting with Beatrice in the garden was no
longer an incident in Giovanni's daily life, but the whole space in
which he might be said to live; for the anticipation and memory of
that ecstatic hour made up the remainder. Nor was it otherwise with
the daughter of Rappaccini. She watched for the youth's appearance,
and flew to his side with confidence as unreserved as if they had been
playmates from early infancy--as if they were such playmates still.
If, by any unwonted chance, he failed to come at the appointed moment,
she stood beneath the window and sent up the rich sweetness of her
tones to float around him in his chamber and echo and reverberate
throughout his heart: "Giovanni! Giovanni! Why tarriest thou? Come
down!" And down he hastened into that
Eden of poisonous flowers.
But, with all this intimate familiarity, there was still a reserve in
Beatrice's demeanor, so rigidly and invariably sustained that the idea
of infringing it scarcely occurred to his imagination. By all
appreciable signs, they loved; they had looked love with eyes that
conveyed the
holy secret from the depths of one
soul into the depths of the other, as if it were too sacred to be
whispered by the way; they had even spoken love in those gushes of
passion when their spirits darted forth in articulated breath like
tongues of long-hidden flame; and yet there had been no seal of lips,
no clasp of hands, nor any slightest caress such as love claims and
hallows. He had never touched one of the gleaming ringlets of her
hair; her garment--so marked was the physical barrier between
them--had never been waved against him by a breeze. On the few
occasions when Giovanni had seemed tempted to overstep the limit,
Beatrice grew so sad, so stern, and withal wore such a look of
desolate separation, shuddering at itself, that not a spoken word was
requisite to repel him. At such times he was started at the horrible
suspicions that rose, monster-like, out of the caverns of his heart
and stared him in the face; his love grew thin and faint as the
morning mist, his doubts alone had substance. But, when Beatrice's
face brightened again after the momentary
shadow, she was transformed at
once from the mysterious, questionable being whom he had watched with
so much awe and horror; she was now the beautiful and unsophisticated
girl whom he felt that his spirit knew with a certainty beyond all
other knowledge.
A considerable time had now passed since Giovanni's last meeting with
Baglioni. One morning, however, he was disagreeably surprised by a
visit from the professor, whom he had scarcely thought of for whole
weeks, and would willingly have forgotten still longer. Given up as he
had long been to a pervading excitement, he could tolerate no
companions except upon condition of their perfect sympathy with his
present state of feeling. Such sympathy was not to be expected from
Professor Baglioni.
The visitor chatted carelessly for a few moments about the gossip of
the city and the university, and then took up another topic.
Rappachini's Daughter - Part One
Part Two
Nathaniel Hawthorne