"Signora," said he, "there are pure and healthful flowers. Wearthem for the sake of Giovanni Guasconti!""Thanks, Signor," replied Beatrice, with her rich voice that cameforth as it were like a gush of music; and with a mirthfulexpression half childish and half woman-like. "I accept your gift, andwould fain recompense it with this precious purple flower; but if Itoss it into the air, it will not reach you. So Signor Guascontimust even content himself with my thanks."She lifted the bouquet from the ground, and then as if inwardlyashamed at having stepped aside from her maidenly reserve to respondto a stranger's greeting, passed swiftly homeward through thegarden. But, few as the moments were, it seemed to Giovanni when shewas on the point of vanishing beneath the sculptured portal, thathis beautiful bouquet was already beginning to wither in her grasp. Itwas an idle thought; there could be no possibility of distinguishing afaded flower from a fresh one, at so great a distance.
For many days after this incident, the young man avoided the windowthat looked into Doctor Rappaccini's garden, as if something uglyand monstrous would have blasted his eye-sight, had he been betrayedinto a glance. He felt conscious of having put himself, to a certainextent, within the influence of an unintelligible power, by thecommunication which he had opened with Beatrice. The wisest coursewould have been, if his heart were in any real danger, to quit hislodgings and Padua itself, at once; the next wiser, to have accustomedhimself, as far as possible, to the familiar and day-light view ofBeatrice; thus bringing her rigidly and systematically within thelimits of ordinary experience. Least of all, while avoiding her sight,should Giovanni have remained so near this extraordinary being, thatthe proximity and possibility even of intercourse, should give akind of substance and reality to the wild vagaries which hisimagination ran riot continually in producing. Guasconti had not adeep heart- or at all events, its depths were not sounded now- buthe had a quick fancy, and an ardent southern temperament, which roseevery instant to a higher fever-pitch. Whether or no Beatricepossessed those terrible attributes- that fatal breath- the affinitywith those so beautiful and deadly flowers- which were indicated bywhat Giovanni had witnessed, she had at least instilled a fierce andsubtle poison into his system. It was not love, although her richbeauty was a madness to him; nor horror, even while he fancied herspirit to be imbued with the same baneful essence that seemed topervade her physical frame; but a wild offspring of both love andhorror that had each parent in it, and burned like one and shiveredlike the other. Giovanni knew not what to dread; still less did heknow what to hope; yet hope and dread kept a continual warfare inhis breast, alternately vanquishing one another and starting up afreshto renew the contest. Blessed are all ****** emotions, be they dark orbright! It is the lurid intermixture of the two that produces theilluminating blaze of the infernal regions.
Sometimes he endeavored to assuage the fever of his spirit by arapid walk through the streets of Padua, or beyond its gates; hisfootsteps kept time with the throbbings of his brain, so that the walkwas apt to accelerate itself to a race. One day, he found himselfarrested; his arm was seized by a portly personage who had turned backon recognizing the young man, and expended much breath in overtakinghim.
"Signor Giovanni! stay, my young friend!" cried he. "Have youforgotten me? That might well be the case, if I were as much alteredas yourself."It was Baglioni, whom Giovanni had avoided, ever since theirfirst meeting, from a doubt that the Professor's sagacity would looktoo deeply into his secrets. Endeavoring to recover himself, he staredforth wildly from his inner world into the outer one, and spoke like aman 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 theProfessor, smiling, but at the same time scrutinizing the youth withan 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 ofPadua? Stand still, Signor Giovanni; for we must have a word or twobefore we part.""Speedily, then, most worshipful Professor, speedily!" saidGiovanni, with feverish impatience. "Does not your worship see thatI am in haste?"Now, while he was speaking, there came a man in black along thestreet, stooping and moving feebly, like a person in inferiorhealth. His face was all overspread with a most sickly and sallow hue,but yet so pervaded with an expression of piercing and activeintellect, that an observer might easily have overlooked the merelyphysical attributes, and have seen only this wonderful energy. As hepassed, this person exchanged a cold and distant salutation withBaglioni, but fixed his eyes upon Giovanni with an intentness thatseemed to bring out whatever was within him worthy of notice.
Nevertheless, there was a peculiar quietness in the look, as if takingmerely a speculative, not a human interest, in the young man.
"It is Doctor Rappaccini!" whispered the Professor, when thestranger 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 ****** a study ofyou. I know that look of his! It is the same that coldly illuminateshis 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 aflower- a look as deep as nature itself, but without nature's warmthof love. Signor Giovanni, I will stake my life upon it, you are thesubject of one of Rappaccini's experiments!""Will you make a fool of me?" cried Giovanni, passionately.
