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Rappachini’s Daughter

After Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804–1864)

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 did not have very many gold ducats in his pocket, took lodgings in a high and gloomy room of an old house which looked worthy to have been the palace of a Paduan noble, in fact, a family mansion. Being heartbroken, which was natural to a young man for the first time out of his native places, Giovanni sighed heavily as he looked around the empty and ill-furnished apartment.

“Holy Virgin, signor!” cried old Signora Lisabetta, who, won by the youth’s remarkable beauty, was kindly trying to give the room a habitable air. “Why should a young man sigh like that? Do you find this old mansion gloomy? 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 with a variety of plants, which seemed to have been cultivated with exceeding care.

“Does this garden belong to the house?” asked Giovanni.

“No; that garden is cultivated by the own hands of Signor Giacomo Rappaccini, the famous doctor, who has been heard of as far as Naples. It is said that he turns these plants into medicines that are as strong as a charm. Often you may see the signor doctor at work, and perhaps the signora, his daughter, too, gathering the flowers that grow in the garden,” answered old Lisabetta.

The old woman had now done what she could to make the room look better; and left.

Giovanni looked down into the garden beneath his window. From its appearance, he judged it to be one of those botanic gardens which had been in Padua earlier than anywhere in Italy or in the world. Or, probably, it might once have been the garden of a rich family; for there was the ruin of a marble fountain in the centre, but so shattered that it was impossible to see the original design from the chaos of remaining fragments. The water, however, continued to sparkle in the sun. All about the pool into which the water fell grew various plants, that seemed to require plenty of moisture for the gigantic leaves and gorgeous flowers. There was one shrub in particular, set in a marble vase in the middle of the pool, that had purple blossoms, each of which seemed bright enough to illuminate the garden. Every portion of the garden had plants and herbs, carefully cultivated.

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 came into view. It was a tall, emaciated, and sickly-looking man, dressed in a scholar’s black cloak. He was elderly, with gray hair, a thin, gray beard, and a face singularly marked with intellect, but which could never, even in his more younger days, have expressed much warmth of heart.

This scientific gardener examined every shrub with great care: it seemed as if he was looking into their nature, and discovering why one leaf grew in this shape and another in that, and why such and such flowers differed among themselves in color and perfume. Nevertheless, in spite of his deep interest, there was no intimacy between himself and these plants. On the contrary, he avoided their actual touch or the direct inhaling of their odors with a caution that impressed Giovanni most disagreeably. The man behavior was as if he was walking among savage beasts, or deadly snakes, or evil spirits, which, should he allow them one moment of license, would wreak upon him some terrible fatality. The young man was frightened to see such an attitude in a person cultivating a garden, the most simple and innocent of human actions. Was this garden, the Eden of the present world? And this man, seeing harm in what his own hands grew, – was he the Adam?

The gardener, while plucking away the dead leaves or pruning the shrubs, defended his hands with a pair of thick gloves. When he came to the magnificent plant that hung its purple blossoms beside the marble fountain, he placed a mask over his mouth and nose. Finding his task still too dangerous, he drew back, and called loudly, “Beatrice! Beatrice!”

“Here am I, my father. What do you want?” cried a rich and young voice from the window of the opposite house. “Are you in the garden?”

“Yes, Beatrice,” answered the gardener, “and I need your help.”

Soon there emerged from under a portal the figure of a young girl, dressed with taste like a flower, beautiful as the day. She looked full of life, health, and energy. Yet Giovanni looked down into the garden; he had an impression as if here was another flower, as beautiful as other flowers, more beautiful than the richest of them, but still to be touched only with a glove, not to be approached without a mask. As Beatrice came down the garden path, he saw her inhale the odor of several of the plants which her father had avoided.

“Here, Beatrice,” said the father, “much work must be done to our chief treasure. Yet, I am not strong enough for it. I fear, this plant must be consigned to your sole charge.”

“And will gladly I do it,” cried again the rich tones of the young lady, as she came up to the magnificent plant and opened her arms as if to embrace it. “Yes, my sister, it will be Beatrice’s task to serve you; and you will reward her with your kisses and perfumed breath.”

Then, with all the tenderness in her manner, she took care of the plant.

In the morning, Giovanni’s first movement was to throw open the window and gaze down into the garden which had seemed so mysterious in the previous evening. He was surprised and a little ashamed to find how real and matter-of-fact the garden proved to be. The young man was happy that, in the heart of the city, he had the privilege of enjoying this place of lovely vegetation. Neither Dr. Giacomo Rappaccini, nor his brilliant daughter, were now visible.

On that day he paid a visit to Signor Pietro Baglioni, professor of medicine in the university, a physician of eminent reputation to whom Giovanni had brought a letter of introduction. The professor was an elderly person, apparently good-natured. He kept the young man to dinner, and they had a very nice conversation, especially when warmed by wine. Giovanni, thinking that men of science, living in the same city, must be familiar with one another, mentioned the name of Dr. Rappaccini. But the professor did not respond with so much cordiality as he had expected.

“It will not do for a teacher of the art of medicine,” said Professor Pietro Baglioni, in answer to a question of Giovanni, “not to respect such a well-known physician as Rappaccini; but, on the other hand, I should not permit a worthy young man like you, Signor Giovanni, the son of an old friend, to get wrong ideas. Dr. Rappaccini has as much science as any member of the faculty 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 interested in 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 more for science than for man. His patients are interesting to him only as subjects for some new experiment. He would sacrifice human life, his own among others for the sake of adding a grain to his accumulated knowledge.”

“I think he is an awful man,” remarked Guasconti. “Are there many men capable of such a love of science?”

“God forbid,” answered the professor. “It is his theory that all medicinal virtues are in those substances which we call vegetable poisons. He cultivates them with his own hands, and they say he has even produced new varieties of poison. Now and then, he has effected a marvellous cure; but such instances of success, – to my mind, are probably the work of chance – but he should be responsible for his failures, which may justly be considered his own work.”

“I do not know, most learned professor,” said Giovanni, – “how dearly this physician may love his art; but 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 a chance 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 she already can fill a professor’s chair. Perhaps her father is preparing her for mine!”

Guasconti returned to his lodgings a little heated with the wine he had drunk, and which caused his brain to swim with strange fantasies about Dr. Rappaccini and the beautiful Beatrice. On his way he bought a bouquet of flowers.

Going up to his room, he seated himself near the window, so that he could look down into the garden with little risk of being discovered. In the sunshine, the strange plants were now and then nodding gently to one another. In the middle, by the shattered fountain, grew the magnificent shrub, with its purple flowers all over it; they looked back again out of the pool. At first there was nobody in the garden. Soon, however, – as Giovanni had half hoped, half feared – a figure appeared beneath the portal, and came down between the rows of plants, inhaling their various perfumes as if she were one of those beings of an old tale that lived upon sweet odors. On seeing Beatrice again, the young man was startled how much her beauty exceeded his recollection of it; so brilliant, its character was so vivid. Seeing her face better than on the former occasion, he was struck by its sweetness. He observed, or imagined, an analogy between the beautiful girl and the gorgeous shrub that hung its wonderful flowers over the fountain, – probably due to the color of her dress.

Approaching the shrub, she threw open her arms, and embraced its branches.

“Give me your breath, my sister,” exclaimed Beatrice; “for I am faint with common air. And give me this flower of yours, which I shall place 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 a singular incident occurred. A small orange-colored lizard was running along the path, just at the feet of Beatrice. It appeared to Giovanni, – but, at the distance from which he looked, he could scarcely see anything so small, – it appeared to him, however, that a drop or two of moisture from the broken stem of the flower fell upon the lizard’s head. For an instant the lizard started violently, and then lay motionless in the sunshine. Beatrice observed this remarkable phenomenon and crossed herself, sadly, but without surprise; nor did she hesitate to fasten the fatal flower in her bosom. Giovanni shrank back and trembled.

“Am I awake? Am I sane?” said he to himself. “What is this being? Shall I call her beautiful or terrible?”

Beatrice now walked through the garden, approaching closer beneath Giovanni’s window, so that he could see her quite well. At this moment there came a beautiful insect over the garden wall; it had, perhaps, been attracted from the city by the heavy perfumes of Dr. Rappaccini’s shrubs. Without sitting on the flowers, it flew to Beatrice, and lingered in the air above her head. Now, while Beatrice was gazing at the insect with childish delight, it grew faint and fell at her feet; it was dead – from no cause that he could see, unless it was 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 saw the beautiful head of the young man – rather a Grecian than an Italian head, with regular features, and golden hair – gazing down upon her. Scarcely knowing what he did, Giovanni threw down the bouquet which he had held in his hand.

“Signora,” said he, “Wear them for the sake of Giovanni Guasconti.”

“Thanks, signor,” replied Beatrice, with her rich voice, that sounded like music. “I accept your gift, and would reward you with this precious purple flower; but if I throw it into the air it will not reach you. So Signor Guasconti must content himself with my thanks.”

She lifted the bouquet from the ground, and then passed through the garden. But few as the moments were, it seemed to Giovanni, when she was entering the portal, that his beautiful bouquet was already beginning to fade in her hand.

For many days after this incident the young man avoided the window that looked into Dr. Rappaccini’s garden, as if he could see something ugly and monstrous there. The wisest thing to do would be, if his heart were in any real danger, to leave his lodgings and Padua at once. But Guasconti had not a deep heart; but he had a quick fancy, and a southern temperament, which rose every instant to a higher pitch. Whether or no Beatrice possessed that fatal breath, that Giovanni had witnessed, she had got a fierce poison into his system. It was not love, although her rich beauty was a madness to him; nor horror; but a wild mixture of both love and horror. Giovanni did not know what to fear; still less did he know what to hope; yet hope and fear kept a warfare in his heart.

Sometimes he had a walk through the streets of Padua or beyond its gates. One day he felt his arm seized by a person, who had recognized the young man.

“Signor Giovanni! Stay, my young friend!” cried he. “Have you forgotten me? That might happen if I were as much changed as you are.”

It was Baglioni, whom Giovanni had avoided ever since their first meeting, fearing that the professor would look too deeply into his secrets.

“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 watching the young man closely. “Didn’t 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.”

Now, while they were speaking there came a man in black along the street, moving like a person in poor health. His face wore an expression of such active intellect that an observer might easily overlook his physical weakness and see only this wonderful energy. As he passed, this person exchanged a cold salutation with Baglioni, but fixed his eyes upon Giovanni. Nevertheless, his look did not show any 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. “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 as he bends over a bird, a mouse, or a butterfly, which, in 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, you are the subject of one of Rappaccini’s experiments!”

“Will you make a fool of me?” cried Giovanni, passionately.

“I tell you, my poor Giovanni, that Rappaccini has a scientific interest in you. You have fallen into terrible hands! And the Signora Beatrice, – what part does she act in this mystery?”

But Guasconti, finding Baglioni intolerable, broke away, and was gone before the professor could again seize his arm. He looked after the young man and shook his head.

“This must not be,” said Baglioni to himself. “He is the son of my old friend, and must not suffer from any harm from which the medical science can preserve him. Besides, why should Rappaccini take the boy out of my own hands, as I may say, and use him for his experiments. This daughter of his! It shall be looked to!”

Giovanni, after a short walk, found himself at the door of his lodgings. As he crossed the threshold he was met by old Lisabetta, who smiled, and was evidently eager to attract his attention.

“Signor! signor!” whispered she. “Listen, signor! There is a private entrance into the garden!”

“What do you say?” exclaimed Giovanni, turning quickly about. “A private entrance into Dr. Rappaccini’s garden?”

“Hush! hush! not so loud!” whispered Lisabetta, putting her hand over his mouth. “Yes; into the doctor’s garden, where you may see all his fine plants. Many young men 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.

His conversation with Baglioni made him think that this might be connected with the intrigue, in which Dr. Rappaccini was involving him. But such a suspicion, though it disturbed Giovanni, it did not stop him. The instant that he was aware of the possibility of approaching Beatrice, it seemed necessary to do so. It did not matter whether she were angel or demon; he was within her sphere; and yet, strange to say, there came across him a sudden doubt whether this intense interest was really so deep and positive; whether it was not the fantasy of a young man.

He paused, hesitated, but again went on. His guide led him to a door, through which, as it was opened, he saw leaves, and sunshine glimmering among them. Giovanni stepped and stood beneath his own window in Dr. Rappaccini’s garden.

He looked around the garden to discover if Beatrice or her father were present, and, seeing that he was alone, began a critical observation of the plants.

The look of them dissatisfied him; their gorgeousness seemed fierce, passionate, and even unnatural. Several also might shock one by an artificial appearance indicating that there had been a mixture of various vegetable species, that the production was no longer of God’s making, but of man’s fancy. They were probably the result of experiment. Giovanni recognized two or three plants that he knew to be poisonous. While busy with these thoughts he heard the rustling of a silk dress and, turning, saw Beatrice emerging from beneath the portal.

She came along the path and met him near the broken fountain. There was surprise in her face, but also a simple and kind expression of pleasure.

“You are a connoisseur in flowers, signor,” said Beatrice, with a smile, meaning the bouquet which he had thrown her from the window. “It is no marvel, therefore, if you have come to take a nearer view of my father’s rare collection. 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, “they say, – you are skilled in growing plants with these rich blossoms and these perfumes. If you were my instructress, I should be a better pupil than if taught by Signor Rappaccini himself.”

“Do they say so?” asked Beatrice, with a pleasant laugh. “Do people say that I am skilled in my father’s science of plants? No; though I have grown up among these flowers, I know no more of them than their color and perfume. Signor, do not believe these stories about my science.”

“And must I believe all that I have seen with my own eyes?” asked Giovanni, while the recollection of former scenes made him shrink.

“Forget what you may have fancied about me. But the words of Beatrice Rappaccini’s lips are true. You may believe them.”

While she spoke there was a fragrance in the atmosphere around her, rich and delightful. Could it be Beatrice’s breath which had the odor of the flowers? Giovanni felt faint for an instant.

Beatrice asked Giovanni about his distant home, his friends, his mother, and his sisters. He was surprised that he was walking side by side with the girl, whom he had idealized in such terror, in whom he had witnessed such dreadful abilities, – that he was talking with Beatrice like a brother, and found her so human and so womanly.

They came to the shattered fountain, beside which grew the magnificent shrub, with its purple blossoms. There was a fragrance around it which Giovanni recognized as identical with that of to Beatrice’s breath, but more powerful. As her eyes fell upon it, Giovanni saw her press her hand to her bosom.

“For the first time in my life,” murmured she, addressing the shrub, “I had forgotten you.”

“I remember, signora,” said Giovanni, “that you once promised to reward me with one of these living treasures for the bouquet which I threw to your feet. Let me now pluck it to remember this interview.”

He made a step towards the shrub; but Beatrice rushed forward, with a shriek that went through his heart like a dagger. She caught his hand and drew it back.

“Do not touch it!” exclaimed she, in a voice of agony. “It is fatal!”

Then, she fled from him and disappeared beneath the portal. As Giovanni followed her with his eyes, he saw Dr. Rappaccini, who had been watching the scene, he did not know how long, within the shadow of the entrance.

No sooner was Guasconti alone in his room than the image of Beatrice came back to his mind. She was human, gentle and womanly; she was capable of the heroism of love. Her frightful abilities were now either forgotten, or, even made her more unique. What had looked ugly was now beautiful; or it hid itself among other half ideas at the back of his mind. Thus did he spend the night. Up rose the sun, and the young man woke up with pain in his hand – in his right hand – the very hand which Beatrice had taken in her own when he was about to pluck one of the purple flowers. On the back of that hand there was now a purple print like that of four small fingers, and the print of a thumb upon his wrist.

Oh, how stubbornly does love hold its faith until the moment comes when it cannot do so any more! Giovanni wrapped a handkerchief about his hand and wondered what insect had stung him, and soon forgot his pain thinking of Beatrice.

After the first interview, there was a second. A third; a fourth; and a meeting with Beatrice in the garden was no longer an incident in Giovanni’s daily life, but the space in which he lived. Nor was it otherwise with the daughter of Rappaccini. She waited for the young man’s appearance. If, by any chance, he failed to come at the appointed moment, she stood beneath the window and sent up her rich voice: “Giovanni! Giovanni! Come down!” And down he went into that Eden of poisonous flowers.

But there was still such a reserve in Beatrice’s behavior, that the idea of breaking through it scarcely occurred to his mind. They loved; their eyes conveyed the holy secret from one soul to the other; and yet there had been no touch of lips, or hands. He had never touched one of the ringlets of her hair or dress – so great was the physical barrier between them. On the few occasions when Giovanni was about to overstep the limit, Beatrice grew so sad, that not a word was necessary to stop him. At such times he was startled at the horrible suspicions that rose, monster-like, in his heart; his love grew thin and faint as the morning mist. But, when Beatrice’s face brightened again, she was no longer the mysterious, questionable being whom he had watched with so much horror; she was now the beautiful girl whom he knew.

A considerable time had now passed since Giovanni’s last meeting with Baglioni. One morning, however, he was unpleasantly surprised by a visit from the professor, whom he had scarcely thought of for whole weeks, and would gladly forget still longer. He could tolerate no companions except those having sympathy with his present feeling. Such sympathy was not to be expected from Professor Baglioni.

The visitor talked carelessly for a few moments about the gossip of the city and the university, and then took up another topic.

“I have been reading an old classic author lately,” said he, “and met with a story that strangely interested me. Possibly you may remember it. It is of an Indian prince, who sent a beautiful woman as a present to Alexander the Great. She was as lovely as the dawn and gorgeous as the sunset; but what was special about her was a certain rich perfume in her breath – richer than a garden of Persian roses. Alexander fell in love at first sight with this magnificent stranger; but a physician, happening to be present, discovered a terrible secret of her.”

“And what was that?” asked Giovanni, turning his eyes down to avoid those of the professor.

“That this lovely woman,” continued Baglioni, “had been fed with poisons from her birth upward, until her whole body was so full of them that she herself had become the deadliest poison in the world. Poison was her element of life. With the rich perfume of her breath she poisoned the very air. Her love would have been poison – her embrace death. Is not this a marvellous tale?”

“A childish tale,” answered Giovanni, nervously starting from his chair. “I marvel how you, Professor, find time to read such nonsense among your studies.”

“By the way,” said the professor, looking about him, “what singular fragrance is this in your apartment? Is it the perfume of your gloves? It is faint, but delicious; and yet, after all, not pleasant. Were I to breathe it long, I think it would make me ill. It is like the breath of a flower; but I see no flowers in the room.”

“There are not any,” replied Giovanni, who had turned pale as the professor spoke; “I do not think, there is any fragrance except in your imagination. The recollection of a perfume, the idea of it, may easily be mistaken for a present reality.”

“Ay; but my sober imagination does not often play such tricks,” said Baglioni. “Our friend Rappaccini, as I have heard, makes medicines with rich odors. Doubtless, the learned Signora Beatrice would give her patients draughts as sweet as a girl’s breath; but woe to him that sips them!”

Giovanni’s face showed many emotions. The tone in which the professor spoke of the lovely daughter of Rappaccini was hard for him to hear; and yet the view of her character opposite to his own gave way to a thousand suspicions. But he tried hard not to pay attention to them and to respond to Baglioni with a true lover’s perfect faith.

“Signor professor,” said he, “you were my father’s friend; perhaps, too, you want to behave like a true friend of his son. I should feel nothing towards you save respect; but, signor, there is one subject on which we must not speak. You do not know the Signora Beatrice.”

“Giovanni! my poor Giovanni!” answered the professor, with an expression of pity, “I know this girl better than yourself. You must hear the truth about the poisoner Rappaccini and his poisonous daughter; yes, as poisonous as she is beautiful. Listen; for, even should you do violence to my gray hairs, it shall not silence me. That old tale of the Indian woman has become a truth by the deadly science of Rappaccini and in the person of the lovely Beatrice.”

Giovanni hid his face.

“Her father’s natural love for his child,” continued Baglioni, “did not stop him from making her the victim of his insane zeal for science; for, let us do him justice, he is as true a man of science. What, then, will be your fate? Beyond a doubt you are selected as the material of some new experiment. Perhaps the result is to be death; perhaps a fate more awful still. Rappaccini, with what he calls the interest of science, will hesitate at nothing.”

“It is a dream,” murmured Giovanni to himself; “it must be a dream.”

“But,” said the professor, “cheer up, son of my friend. It is not yet too late for the rescue. Possibly we may even bring back this miserable child within the limits of ordinary nature, from which her father’s madness has taken her. Look at this little silver vase! It was made by the hands of the famous Benvenuto Cellini, and is worthy to be a love gift to the most beautiful girl in Italy. But its contents are invaluable. One little sip of this antidote would make the most virulent poisons of the Borgias harmless. I do not doubt that it will be as effective against those of Rappaccini. Give the vase to your Beatrice, and wait for the result.”

Baglioni put a small silver vase on the table and went out, leaving what he had said to produce its effect upon the young man’s mind.

“We will fight Rappaccini,” thought he, as he went down the stairs; “but, to tell the truth of him, he is a wonderful man – a wonderful man not to be tolerated by those who respect the good old rules of the medical profession.”

As long as Giovanni had known Beatrice, he had had some doubts as to her character; yet she seemed to him such a simple and natural girl, that the image now held up by Professor Baglioni looked strange and incredible. True, he could not quite forget the bouquet that faded in her hands, and the insect killed in the air by the fragrance of her breath. These incidents, however, were now taken as mistaken fantasies. There is something truer and more real than what we can see with the eyes and touch with the finger. On such better evidence had Giovanni built his faith in Beatrice. But now he was not able to stay at the height to which the early enthusiasm of passion had raised him; he fell down, suffering from doubts. Not that he gave her up; he did but distrust. He decided to make a test that would satisfy him, once for all, whether there was something dreadful in her physical nature and something monstrous in her soul. His eyes, gazing down afar, might have deceived him as to the lizard, the insect, and the flowers; but if he could witness, at the distance of a few steps, the sudden fading of one fresh flower in Beatrice’s hand, there would be room for no further question. With this idea he bought a bouquet of fresh flowers cut only that morning.

It was now the usual hour of his daily interview with Beatrice. Before going down into the garden, Giovanni looked at his figure in the mirror, – only natural for a beautiful young man, yet this, probably, proved a certain shallowness of feeling and insincerity of character. He said to himself that his features had never before been so good, nor his eyes so bright.

“At least,” thought he, “her poison has not yet got into my system. I am no flower to die in her hands.”

With that thought he turned his eyes on the bouquet, which he had held in his hand for some time. A thrill of horror shot through him when he saw that those flowers were already beginning to fade. Giovanni grew white as marble, and stood motionless before the mirror, staring at his own reflection there as at something frightful. He remembered Baglioni’s remark about the fragrance that he felt in the room. It must have been the poison in his breath! Recovering from his stupor, he began to look for a spider in the corners of his room. He saw an active spider and breathed at it. The spider suddenly stopped moving; the web vibrated together with its body, and the spider hung dead in the web.

“Cursed! cursed!” murmured Giovanni, addressing himself. “Have you grown so poisonous that this deadly insect is killed by your breath?”

At that moment a rich, sweet voice came up from the garden.

“Giovanni! Giovanni! Come down!”

“Yes,” murmured Giovanni again. “She is the only being whom my breath may not kill! Would that it might!”

He rushed down, and in an instant was standing before the bright and loving eyes of Beatrice. A moment ago his rage and despair had been so fierce that he desired nothing so much as to kill her by a glance; but in her presence all this ugly mystery seemed an illusion, and he believed that the real Beatrice was an angel. He was not able to reach such high faith, still her presence had not lost its magic for him. Giovanni’s rage had left him, but the young man was gloomy. Beatrice immediately felt that there was blackness between them which neither he nor she could pass. They walked on together, sad and silent, and came to the marble fountain and to its pool of water on the ground, where grew the shrub with the purple blossoms. Giovanni was frightened by his delight – the appetite – with which he was inhaling the fragrance of the flowers.

“Beatrice,” asked he, “where did this shrub come from?”

“My father created it,” answered she simply.

“Created it! created it!” repeated Giovanni. “What do you mean, Beatrice?”

“He knows the secrets of Nature,” replied Beatrice; “and, at the hour when I was born, this plant sprang from the ground, the child of his science, of his intellect, while I was but his human child. Do not approach it!” continued she, observing with terror that Giovanni was coming nearer to the shrub. “I, dearest Giovanni, – I grew up and blossomed with the plant, and I inhaled its breath. It was my sister, and I loved it as if it were human. Alas! – did you not suspect it?”

Here Giovanni looked so darkly upon her that Beatrice paused and trembled. But her faith in his love was so great that she had no doubt for an instant.

“There was an awful doom,” she continued, “the effect of my father’s fatal love of science, which estranged me from all society of my kind. Until Heaven sent you, dearest Giovanni, oh, how lonely was your poor Beatrice!”

“Was it a hard doom?” asked Giovanni, fixing his eyes upon her.

“Only lately have I known how hard it was,” answered she, tenderly. “Oh, yes; but my heart was quiet.”

Giovanni’s rage broke through like a lightning out of a dark cloud.

“The cursed one!” cried he with anger. “You have cut me also from all the warmth of life and dragged me into your region of horror!”

“Giovanni!” exclaimed Beatrice, turning her large bright eyes upon his face.

“Yes, poisonous thing!” repeated Giovanni, beside himself with passion. “You have done it! You have filled my veins with poison! You have made me as hateful, as ugly and deadly as yourself – a world’s monster! Now, if our breath is as fatal to ourselves as to all others, let us join our lips in one kiss of hatred, and so die!”

“What has happened to me?” murmured Beatrice. “Holy Virgin, pity me, a poor heart-broken child!”

“Do you pray?” cried Giovanni, still with the same rage. “Your prayers, as they come from your lips, fill the atmosphere with death. Yes, yes; let us pray! Let us go to church! They that come after us will be killed!”

“Giovanni,” said Beatrice, “why do you join yourself with me in those terrible words? I, it is true, am horrible, as you say. But you, – you can go out of the garden and forget there ever was on earth such a monster as poor Beatrice?”

“Do you pretend ignorance?” asked Giovanni. “Look! I have received this power from the daughter of Rappaccini.”

There were some insects flying through the air, and round Giovanni’s head, and were evidently attracted towards him by the same fragrance as that of the shrubs. He breathed at them, and smiled bitterly at Beatrice as some of the insects fell dead upon the ground.

“I see it! I see it!” shrieked Beatrice. “It is my father’s fatal science! No, no, Giovanni; it was not I! Never! never! I dreamed only to love you and be with you a little time, and to let you go away, leaving your image in my heart; for, Giovanni, believe it, though my body is filled with poison, my soul belongs to God, and wants love as its daily food. Kill me! Oh, what is death after such words as yours? But it was not I. I would never have done it.”

They stood, cut off from all the human race. If they were cruel to one another, who would be kind to them? Besides, thought Giovanni, there was still a hope of his returning within the limits of ordinary nature, and leading Beatrice by the hand? O, weak, and selfish, and unworthy man, that could dream of an earthly happiness, after such deep love had been shattered as was Beatrice’s love by Giovanni’s cruel words! No, no; there could be no such hope. She must pass heavily, with that broken heart, across the borders of Time – she must forget her grief in the light of immortality.

But Giovanni did not know it.

“Dear Beatrice,” said he, approaching her, while she shrank away as always at his approach, but now with a different impulse, “dearest Beatrice, our fate is not yet so desperate. Look! there is a medicine, made up of ingredients opposite to those by which your awful father has brought this trouble upon you and me. Let us take it together and be saved!”

“Give it me!” said Beatrice. She added, “I will drink it; wait for the result.”

She put Baglioni’s antidote to her lips; and, at the same moment, the figure of Rappaccini emerged from the portal and came slowly towards the marble fountain. As he came near, the pale man of science seemed to gaze with a triumphant expression at the beautiful young man and girl, as might an artist who had spent his life in painting a picture and finally was satisfied with his success. He paused; he held his hands over them; and those were the same hands that had thrown poison into their veins. Giovanni trembled. Beatrice pressed her hand upon her heart.

“My daughter,” said Rappaccini, “you are no longer lonely in the world. Pluck one of those flowers from your sister shrub and let your bridegroom wear it. It will not harm him now. My science and the sympathy between you and him have so changed his system that he now is different from common men, as you are from ordinary women. Pass on through the world, most dear to one another and dreadful to all others!”

“My father,” said Beatrice, weakly, – and still as she spoke she kept her hand upon her heart, “why did you bring this doom upon your child?”

“Doom!” exclaimed Rappaccini. “What do you mean, foolish girl? Do you call doom the power that no enemy has – doom, to be as terrible as you are beautiful? Would you prefer to be a weak woman?”

“I would prefer to be loved, not feared,” murmured Beatrice, sinking down upon the ground. “But now it does not matter. I am going, father, where the evil which you put in me will pass away like a dream – like the fragrance of these poisonous flowers, which will no longer poison my breath among the flowers of Eden. Farewell, Giovanni! Your words of hatred are like lead within my heart; but they, too, will fall away as I go up. Oh, was there not, from the first, more poison in your nature than in mine?”

To Beatrice, for whom poison had been life, the powerful antidote was death; and thus the poor victim of man’s zeal for science died there, at the feet of her father and Giovanni.