Лучшие любовные истории / The Best Love Stories - стр. 7

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[20] 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,[21] 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,[22] 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,