Лучшие любовные истории / The Best Love Stories - стр. 6
“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[18] 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.[19] 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.