By all appreciable signs, they loved; they had looked love, witheyes that conveyed the holy secret from the depths of one soul intothe depths of the other, as if it were too sacred to be whispered bythe way; they had even spoken love, in those gushes of passion whentheir spirits darted forth in articulated breath, like tongues oflong-hidden flame; and yet there had been no seal of lips, no clasp ofhands, nor any slightest caress, such as love claims and hallows. Hehad never touched one of the gleaming ringlets of her hair; hergarment- so marked was the physical barrier between them- had neverbeen waved against him by a breeze. On the few occasions when Giovannihad seemed tempted to overstep the limit, Beatrice grew so sad, sostern, and withal wore such a look of desolate separation,shuddering at itself, that not a spoken word was requisite to repelhim. At such times, he was startled at the horrible suspicions thatrose, monster-like, out of the caverns of his heart, and stared him inthe face; his love grew thin and faint as the morning-mist; his doubtsalone had substance. But when Beatrice's face brightened again,after the momentary shadow, she was transformed at once from themysterious, questionable being, whom he had watched with so much aweand horror; she was now the beautiful and unsophisticated girl, whomhe felt that his spirit knew with a certainty beyond all otherknowledge.
A considerable time had now passed since Giovanni's last meetingwith Baglioni. One morning, however, he was disagreeably surprisedby a visit from the Professor, whom he had scarcely thought of forwhole weeks, and would willingly have forgotten still longer. Givenup, as he had long been, to a pervading excitement, he couldtolerate no companions, except upon condition of their perfectsympathy with his present state of feeling. Such sympathy was not tobe expected from Professor Baglioni.
The visitor chatted carelessly, for a few moments, about the gossipof the city and the University, and then took up another topic.
"I have been reading an old classic author lately," said he, "andmet with a story that strangely interested me. Possibly you mayremember it. It is of an Indian prince, who sent a beautiful womanas a present to Alexander the Great. She was as lovely as the dawn,and gorgeous as the sunset; but what especially distinguished herwas a certain rich perfume in her breath- richer than a garden ofPersian roses. Alexander, as was natural to a youthful conqueror, fellin love at first sight with this magnificent stranger. But a certainsage physician, happening to be present, discovered a terriblesecret in regard to her.""And what was that?" asked Giovanni, turning his eyes downward toavoid those of the Professor.
"That this lovely woman," continued Baglioni, with emphasis, "hadbeen nourished with poisons from her birth upward, until her wholenature was so imbued with them, that she herself had become thedeadliest poison in existence. Poison was her element of life. Withthat rich perfume of her breath, she blasted the very air. Her lovewould have been poison! her embrace death! Is not this a marvelloustale?""A childish fable," answered Giovanni, nervously starting fromhis chair. "I marvel how your worship finds time to read suchnonsense, among your graver studies.""By the bye," said the Professor, looking uneasily about him, "whatsingular fragrance is this in your apartment? Is it the perfume ofyour gloves? It is faint, but delicious, and yet, after all, by nomeans agreeable. Were I to breathe it long, methinks it would makeme ill. It is like the breath of a flower- but I see no flowers in thechamber.""Nor are there any," replied Giovanni, who had turned pale as theProfessor spoke; "nor, I think, is there any fragrance, except in yourworship's imagination. Odors, being a sort of element combined ofthe sensual and the spiritual, are apt to deceive us in this manner.
The recollection of a perfume- the bare idea of it- may easily bemistaken for a present reality.""Aye; but my sober imagination does not often play such tricks,"said Baglioni; "and were I to fancy any kind of odor, it would be thatof some vile apothecary drug, wherewith my fingers are likely enoughto be imbued. Our worshipful friend Rappaccini, as I have heard,tinctures his medicaments with odors richer than those of Araby.
Doubtless, likewise, the fair and learned Signora Beatrice wouldminister to her patients with draughts as sweet as a maiden'sbreath. But wo to him that sips them!"Giovanni's face evinced many contending emotions. The tone in whichthe Professor alluded to the pure and lovely daughter of Rappacciniwas a torture to his soul; and yet, the intimation of a view of hercharacter, opposite to his own, gave instantaneous distinctness to athousand dim suspicions, which now grinned at him like so many demons.
But he strove hard to quell them, and to respond to Baglioni with atrue lover's perfect faith.
"Signor Professor," said he, "you were my father's friend-perchance, too, it is your purpose to act a friendly part towardshis son. I would fain feel nothing towards you save respect anddeference. But I pray you to observe, Signor, that there is onesubject on which we must not speak. You know not the Signora Beatrice.
You cannot, therefore, estimate the wrong- the blasphemy, I may evensay- that is offered to her character by a light or injurious word.""Giovanni! my poor Giovanni!" answered the Professor, with a calmexpression of pity, "I know this wretched girl far better thanyourself. You shall hear the truth in respect to the poisonerRappaccini, and his poisonous daughter. Yes; poisonous as she isbeautiful! Listen; for even should you do violence to my gray hairs,it shall not silence me. That old fable of the Indian woman has becomea truth, by the deep and deadly science of Rappaccini, and in theperson of the lovely Beatrice!"Giovanni groaned and hid his face.
