Лучшие любовные истории / The Best Love Stories. Джек Лондон
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,[23] 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![24]”
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.[25] 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,[26] 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,[27] 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[28] 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[29] 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.[30] He decided to make a test that would satisfy him, once for all,[31] 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.[32] 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![33]”
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
were I to breathe it long – если бы мне долго пришлось вдыхать его
but woe to him that sips them – но горе испившему от них
even should you do violence to my gray hairs, it shall not silence me – даже если вы станете оскорблять мои седины, это не заставит меня замолчать
let us do him justice – давайте отдадим ему должное
Benvenuto Cellini – Бенвенуто Челлини (1500–1574) –
poisons of the Borgias – яды Борджиа –
a wonderful man not to be tolerated by those – замечательный человек, которого не должны терпеть те
not that he gave her up; he did but distrust – не то, чтобы он отказался от неё, но он перестал доверять ей
once for all – один раз и навсегда
there would be room for no further question – не останется места для дальнейших сомнений
Would that it might! – Хотел бы я, чтоб это было иначе!