"That, Signor Professor, were an untoward experiment.""Patience, patience!" replied the imperturbable Professor. "Itell thee, my poor Giovanni, that Rappaccini has a scientific interestin thee. Thou hast fallen into fearful hands! And the SignoraBeatrice? What part does she act in this mystery?"But Guasconti, finding Baglioni's pertinacity intolerable, herebroke away, and was gone before the Professor could again seize hisarm. He looked after the young man intently, and shook his head.
"This must not be," said Baglioni to himself. "The youth is the sonof my old friend, and shall not come to any harm from which the arcanaof medical science can preserve him. Besides, it is too insufferablean impertinence in Rappaccini thus to snatch the lad out of my ownhands, as I may say, and make use of him for his infernal experiments.
This daughter of his! It shall be looked to. Perchance, most learnedRappaccini, I may foil you where you little dream of it!"Meanwhile, Giovanni had pursued a circuitous route, and at lengthfound himself at the door of his lodgings. As he crossed thethreshold, he was met by old Lisabetta, who smirked and smiled, andwas evidently desirous to attract his attention; vainly, however, asthe ebullition of his feelings had momentarily subsided into a coldand dull vacuity. He turned his eyes full upon the withered facethat was puckering itself into a smile, but seemed to behold it not.
The old dame, therefore, laid her grasp upon his cloak.
"Signor! Signor!" whispered she, still with a smile over thewhole breadth of her visage, so that it looked not unlike agrotesque carving in wood, darkened by centuries- "Listen, Signor!
There is a private entrance into the garden!""What do you say?" exclaimed Giovanni, turning quickly about, as ifan inanimate thing should start into feverish life. "A privateentrance into Doctor Rappaccini's garden!""Hush! hush! not so loud!" whispered Lisabetta, putting her handover his mouth. "Yes; into the worshipful Doctor's garden, where youmay see all his fine shrubbery. Many a young man in Padua would givegold to be admitted among those flowers."Giovanni put a piece of gold into her hand.
"Show me the way," said he.
A surmise, probably excited by his conversation with Baglioni,crossed his mind, that this interposition of old Lisabetta mightperchance be connected with the intrigue, whatever were its nature, inwhich the Professor seemed to suppose that Doctor Rappaccini wasinvolving him. But such a suspicion, though it disturbed Giovanni, wasinadequate to restrain him. The instant he was aware of thepossibility of approaching Beatrice, it seemed an absolute necessityof his existence to do so. It mattered not whether she were angel ordemon; he was irrevocably within her sphere, and must obey the lawthat whirled him onward, in ever lessening circles, towards a resultwhich he did not attempt to foreshadow. And yet, strange to say, therecame across him a sudden doubt, whether this intense interest on hispart were not delusory- whether it were really of so deep and positivea nature as to justify him in now thrusting himself into anincalculable position- whether it were not merely the fantasy of ayoung man's brain, only slightly, or not at all, connected with hisheart!
He paused- hesitated- turned half about- but again went on. Hiswithered guide led him along several obscure passages, and finallyundid a door, through which, as it was opened, there came the sightand sound of rustling leaves, with the broken sunshine glimmeringamong them. Giovanni stepped forth, and forcing himself through theentanglement of a shrub that wreathed its tendrils over the hiddenentrance, he stood beneath his own window, in the open area ofDoctor Rappaccini's garden.
How often is it the case, that, when impossibilities have come topass, and dreams have condensed their misty substance into tangiblerealities, we find ourselves calm, and even coldly self-possessed,amid circumstances which it would have been a delirium of joy or agonyto anticipate! Fate delights to thwart us thus. Passion will choosehis own time to rush upon the scene, and lingers sluggishly behind,when an appropriate adjustment of events would seem to summon hisappearance. So was it now with Giovanni. Day after day, his pulses hadthrobbed with feverish blood, at the improbable idea of an interviewwith Beatrice, and of standing with her, face to face, in this verygarden, basking in the oriental sunshine of her beauty, andsnatching from her full gaze the mystery which he deemed the riddle ofhis own existence. But now there was a singular and untimelyequanimity within his breast. He threw a glance around the garden todiscover if Beatrice or her father were present, and perceiving thathe was alone, began a critical observation of the plants.
