A one-act play, based on a short story by Nathaniel Hawthorne.
To Leonora Carrington
Prologue
The garden of DR. RAPPACCINI. At one side, part of an old building where GIOVANNI’s room is. The stage is set so that the audience can see inside the room: tall and narrow, a large mirror covered with dust, a desolate atmosphere. Flanked by worn curtains, a balcony opens on to the garden. A magical tree stands centre stage. As the curtain rises, the stage remains in darkness, except in the space occupied by THE MESSENGER, a hermaphroditic character dressed like one of the Tarot figures, though not any particular one.
THE MESSENGER. My name does not matter. Nor does my origin. In fact, I don’t have a name, or a sex, or an age, or a country. Man or woman; young or old; yesterday or tomorrow; north or south; the two genders, the three tenses, the four ages and the four cardinal points converge in me and in me dissolve. My soul is transparent: if you peer into it you will sink into a cold and dizzy clarity; and you will find nothing of me at the bottom. Nothing except the image of your desire, that until now you did not know. I am the meeting place; all roads lead to me. Space! Pure space, null and void! I am here, but I am also there; everything is here, everything is there; I am at every electric point in space and in every charged fragment of time: yesterday is today; tomorrow, today; everything which was, everything which shall be, is happening right now, here on earth or there in the heavens. The meeting: two gazes which cross until they are no more than a glowing point, two wills which entwine and form a knot of flames.
Unions and separations: souls that unite and form a constellation which sings for a fraction of a second in the centre of time, worlds which break up like the seeds of a pomegranate scattered on the grass.
Takes out a Tarot card.2
And here, at the centre of the dance, as the constant star, I have the Queen of the Night, the lady of hell, who governs the growth of the plants, the pull of the tides and the shifting of the sky; moon huntress, shepherdess of the dead in the underground valleys; mother of harvests and springs, who sleeps for half the year and then awakes resplendent in bracelets of water, sometimes golden, sometimes dark.
Takes out two cards.
And here we have her enemies: the King of this world, seated on a throne of manure and money, the book of laws and the moral code lying on his trembling knees, the whip within his reach – the just and virtuous King, who gives to Caesar what is Caesar’s and denies the Spirit what is the Spirit’s. And facing him the Hermit: worshipper of the triangle and the sphere, learned in Chaldean writings and ignorant of the language of blood, lost in his labyrinth of syllogisms, prisoner of himself.
Takes out another card.
And here we have the Minstrel, the young man; asleep, his head resting on his own childhood. He hears the Lady’s night-time song and wakes. Guided by that song, he walks over the abyss with his eyes shut, balancing on the tightrope. He walks with confidence in search of his dream and his steps lead towards me, I who do not exist. If he slips, he will fall headlong. And here is the last card; the Lovers. Two figures, one the colour of day, the other the colour of night. Two paths. Love is choice: death or life?
THE MESSENGER exits.
Scene I
The garden remains in darkness. The room is lit by a dim light; the balcony curtain is drawn.
ISABELA (comes in and shows the room). We’re here at last, my young sir. (Reacting to his dispirited silence.) It’s years since anyone has lived here, which is why it feels abandoned. But you will give it life. The walls are strong . . .
GIOVANNI. Perhaps too strong. High and thick . . .
ISABELA. Good for keeping out the noise from the street. Nothing better for a young student.
GIOVANNI. Thick and damp. It will be hard to get used to the damp and the silence, though there are some who say thought feeds on solitude.
ISABELA. I promise that you’ll soon feel at home.
GIOVANNI. In Naples my room was big and my bed was as tall and spacious as a ship. Every night when I closed my eyes, I sailed over nameless seas, unsettled lands, continents of shadow and fog. At times, I was frightened by the idea of never coming back and I saw myself lost and alone in the middle of a black ocean. But my bed slid with silent certainty over the crest of the night, and every morning I was deposited on the same happy shore. I slept with the window open; at daybreak the sun and the sea breeze would spill into my room.
ISABELA. Well, there’s no sea in Padua. But we’ve got gardens. The most beautiful in Italy.
GIOVANNI (to himself). The sea and the sun on the sea. This room is too dark.
ISABELA. That’s because the curtains are closed. When they’re open, the light dazzles you.
She opens the curtains, and the garden appears before the audience, lit up.
GIOVANNI (dazzled). Now that is something! What a golden light! (Walks to the balcony.) And there’s a garden. Does it belong to the house?
ISABELA. It used to be part of the palace. Now it’s owned by the famous Doctor Rappaccini.
GIOVANNI (leaning over the balcony). That is not a garden. At least, not a Neapolitan garden. It’s like a bad dream.
ISABELA. A lot of people say that, sir. But don’t be alarmed. Doctor Rappaccini doesn’t grow ordinary flowers; everything you see is medicinal plants and herbs.
GIOVANNI. And yet the air is delicious. Cool and warm at the same time, subtle and light; it has no weight and scarcely any fragrance. I must admit that even if he knows nothing of the art of pleasing the eye, this Rappaccini certainly understands the secrets of perfume. What kind of a man is he?
ISABELA. A wise man, a very wise man. They say there’s no other doctor like him. And they say other things . . .
GIOVANNI. What things?
ISABELA. You must judge for yourself, sir. You’ll see him today or tomorrow, from this balcony. Every day he goes out to tend to his plants. Sometimes his daughter goes with him.
GIOVANNI. No, I’m certain I won’t like him. (Draws the curtain.) And Rappaccini’s daughter? Is she like her father?
ISABELA. Beatrice is one of the most beautiful creatures these old eyes have ever seen. Many men admire her, but from far away, because her father doesn’t let them near her. And she is shy. The minute she sees a stranger, she disappears. Can I do anything else for you, sir? I’d be happy to serve you in any way I can. You’re so young and handsome. And you must feel so lonely . . .
GIOVANNI. Thank you but no, Isabela. Solitude does no harm.
ISABELA exits.
Scene II
GIOVANNI. I shall try to get used to this cave. As long as it doesn’t turn me into a bat.
He goes over to the mirror and blows away a layer of dust. He imitates the movements of a bat, laughs, then is serious. At this moment ISABELA comes in, which surprises him.
ISABELA. Excuse the interruption, sir. I felt so bad leaving you all alone, so I decided to bring you this bouquet of roses. Maybe they’ll cheer you up. I picked them myself this morning.
GIOVANNI (takes the flowers). Thank you, Isabela, thank you very much.
ISABELA exits.
GIOVANNI. What a kind gesture! They are beautiful, but I don’t have anyone to give them to.
He throws them into the air, smiles, picks them up, goes over to the mirror, looks at himself with delight, bows, offers the flowers to an imaginary girl and pirouettes. Motionless, he hesitates; then he jumps up, opens the curtains and leans over the balcony. He spots RAPPACCINI, and positions himself so that he can spy on the garden unobserved.
Scene III
RAPPACCINI examines the plants. Leans over a flower.
RAPPACCINI. Just looking at you makes you blush like a shy little girl. What sensitivity! And what a flirt you are! You’re going red but you’re well armed: if someone touches you, they would soon see their skin covered in a rash of blue spots. (Jumps up and sees some other plants, intertwined.) The lovers, kissing like an adulterous couple. (Separates them and picks o
ne.) You are going to be very lonely from now on, and your fierce desire will provoke a restless, parched madness in anyone that smells you: the madness of mirrors! (Jumps up and sees another plant.) Are you life or death? (Shrugs his shoulders.) Who knows? And aren’t they the same thing? When we are born our body starts to die; when we die, it starts to live . . . a different sort of life. Who could dare say that a corpse is dead? You should ask the worms’ opinion. They will say that they have never enjoyed better health. Poisons and antidotes, they are one and the same. Deadly nightshade, monkshood, hemlock, black henbane, hellebore. What an endless wealth of forms and what a variety of effects. The poisonous milk caps, the lecherous mandrake, mildew, the false Morel, the hypocritical coralline, the death cap and Satan’s boletus. And by their side, separated by a millimetre on the scale of the species, the lycopodium and the lungwort, oriental moss and verdigris agaric, terror of all cooks. And yet the principle remains the same: a small change, a slight alteration and a poison becomes an elixir of life. Death and life: names, names!3 (Jumps up again and stands in front of the tree.) Beatrice, child!
BEATRICE appears at the door and comes forward.
BEATRICE. Here I am, father.
RAPPACCINI. Look how our tree has grown. Every day taller and more elegant. And heavy with fruit.
BEATRICE (in front of the tree). He’s so beautiful! So handsome! My little brother, how you have grown. (Hugs the tree, placing her cheek against the trunk.) You don’t speak but you answer in your own way: your sap flows faster. (To her father.) I can hear it throbbing, as if he were alive.
RAPPACCINI. He is alive.
BEATRICE. I meant alive like you and me. Alive like a child. (Holds up a leaf and inhales it.) Let me breathe in your perfume and steal some of your life!
RAPPACCINI. I was just saying to myself: what is life to some is death to others. We only see half the sphere. But the sphere is made of life and death. If I could hit on the right measures and proportions, I could infuse portions of life into death; then the two halves could unite and we would be as gods. If my experiment . . .
BEATRICE. No! Don’t talk to me about that! I’m content with my fate and I’m happy in this garden, with these plants. They are my only family! And yet sometimes I would like to hold a rose and smell it; lace my hair with jasmine; or pick a daisy’s petals without them catching fire in my hands.
RAPPACCINI. Roses, daisies, violets, carnations: a frost wilts such plants, a breeze strips them bare. Ours are immortal.
BEATRICE. Fragile! That is why they are adorable! Gardens buzzing with blue flies and yellow bees; grass singing with crickets and cicadas . . . In our garden there are no birds, or insects or baby lizards sunning on the fences, no chameleons, no pigeons . . .
RAPPACCINI. Enough, enough. You can’t have everything. And our plants are better. Their unexpected shapes have the beauty of feverish visions; their growth is as sure and fatal as the slow progress of a mysterious illness. Flowers and fruits shining like jewels. But emeralds, diamonds, and rubies are all inert matter, dead stones. Our jewels are alive. Fire flows through their veins and changes colour like the light in underwater caverns. Garden of fire! Garden where life and death embrace and exchange their secrets!
BEATRICE. Yes, all that is true . . . but I would like to have a cat and stroke his back until he turns into a soft electric ball. I would like to have a chameleon and put him on my skirt and watch him change colour. A cat, a chameleon, a green and yellow parrot who jumps on my shoulder and shouts: ‘Who’s a pretty girl then?’ A little bird that I can hide between my breasts. I would like . . . (Sobs.)
RAPPACCINI. Don’t cry, child. I’m too sensitive and I can’t bear to see suffering in others. I would drink your tears . . .
BEATRICE (angrily). You can’t, you know you can’t. They would burn you like aqua regia. (To the tree.) Only you, my brother, only you can soak up my tears. (Hugs the tree.) Take my weeping, take a long draught of my life and give me a little of yours. (Picks a fruit and eats it.) Sorry for eating you; it’s as if I were eating a piece of myself. (Laughs.)
RAPPACCINI (to himself). There, that’s got that over with! (Shrugs his shoulders and exits.)
BEATRICE (to the tree). I’m ashamed, brother. How can I complain? No other girl in the city can wander through a garden like this one, or breathe in these perfumes or eat the fruit that I eat. When I come here, I feel as if I’m entering into myself. The air envelops me like a vast impalpable body, the vapour of the plants is as warm as the smell of a pure mouth, the moisture strokes me. I suffocate over there in the house, my head starts to pound, I get dizzy. If you could walk you would sleep with me: your breath would dissolve all my nightmares. If you could walk, we could stroll together through the garden; if you could talk, we could tell each other things and laugh together. (Strokes the tree.) You would be tall and handsome. You would have white teeth. The hair on your chest would be a handful of herbs. Tall and serious. And there would be no danger of you liking anyone else: you couldn’t. And neither could I. (To herself.) I’m condemned to wandering in this garden, alone, talking to myself. (To the tree.) Talk to me, say something, even just ‘good afternoon’.
GIOVANNI (appearing on the balcony). Good afternoon!
BEATRICE (runs away, stifling a scream, but then returns and curtsies). Good afternoon!
GIOVANNI (throwing her down the bouquet). They are freshly cut roses. If you smell them, they will tell you my name.
BEATRICE. Thank you, sir. My name is Beatrice.
GIOVANNI: And my name is Giovanni, I come from Naples and these roses . . .
BEATRICE picks up the roses, hides them in her breast, and exits running, leaving GIOVANNI in mid-sentence. The lights fade to black.
Scene IV
The stage is in shadows. GIOVANNI’s room is dimly lit. He mimes the words of THE MESSENGER.
THE MESSENGER. Let him sleep, and while he sleeps, let him battle with himself. Has he noticed that the bouquet of roses turned black the moment Beatrice took them in her arms, as if they had been struck by lightning? In the trembling twilight, and with his head spinning from the scents of the garden, it is not easy to distinguish a dry rose from one freshly cut. Let him sleep! Sleep! Dream of the sea covered by the sun’s red and purple streaks, dream of green hills, run along the beach . . . No, every time you dream, you move further away from familiar landscapes. You wander through a city carved out of rock crystal. You are thirsty and thirst breeds patterned hallucinations. Lost in transparent corridors, you cross circular squares, terraces where melancholy obelisks watch over mercury fountains, streets that lead into the same street. Walls of glass close in and imprison you; your image is reflected a thousand times in a thousand mirrors which are themselves reflected a thousand times in another thousand mirrors. You are condemned never to leave yourself, condemned to search for yourself in glass-fronted galleries, always in view, never attainable: whatever is there before you, whoever looks at you with eyes pleading for a signal, a sign of brotherhood and recognition, that is not you, but your image. Condemned to sleep with your eyes open. Close them, go back, back to the darkness, beyond your infancy, further back, back to the source! Waves of time crashing against your soul! Row against them, row back, ride through the current, close your eyes, go down towards the seed. Someone has closed your eyelids. The transparent prison shatters, the crystal walls lie at your feet, transformed into a pool of still water. Drink without fear, sleep, sail, let yourself be guided by the river of closed eyes. Morning will be born at your side.
Scene V
ISABELA. Sir, Doctor Baglioni wants to see you.
GIOVANNI. What, Doctor Baglioni, my father’s friend?
ISABELA. The great doctor, sir, the star of the university.
GIOVANNI. Show him in, show him in! Or rather, ask him to wait a moment. I’ll tidy myself up a bit and then meet him in the sitting room.
BAGLIONI (entering). No need, dear boy. Your father was my room-mate and study partner in this very c
ity. His son is my son.
ISABELA curtsies and leaves without speaking.
GIOVANNI. Your visit has caught me off guard, sir. Please forgive the emptiness of this poor student room. Circumstances . . .
BAGLIONI. I understand everything and I forgive everything. At last, my friend, you are in Padua and the spitting image of your father.
GIOVANNI. I am touched by your kindness, doctor. I will tell you the reason for my trip: I came with the intention of studying law; I arrived yesterday and couldn’t afford anywhere to stay apart from this poor room which you now honour with your presence . . .
BAGLIONI. It looks like a beautiful view: there is a garden next door.
GIOVANNI. A unique garden. I have never seen anything like it. It belongs to the famous Rappaccini.
BAGLIONI. Rappaccini?
GIOVANNI. I’m told he is a wise man, the master of marvellous natural secrets.
BAGLIONI. I see you know a lot about our luminaries, even those who don’t deserve that description. In fact, Rappaccini is a genuine man of science. Nobody at the university can rival him . . . with just one exception.
GIOVANNI. You clearly know him then. Living together in the same city and sharing a love of science, you must be very good friends.
BAGLIONI. Steady on, impetuous boy. Rappaccini loves science, I grant you. But the very violence of that love, or some monstruous amorality, I don’t know which, has overshadowed his soul. Men are instruments to him, opportunities for dubious experiments which, I have to say, are almost always unsuccessful.
GIOVANNI. He must be a dangerous man.
BAGLIONI. He is.
GIOVANNI. But what an amazing way to love science!
BAGLIONI. My dear boy, science was made for man, not man for science.
GIOVANNI. Which doesn’t stop Rappaccini discovering some surprising cures.
BAGLIONI. He has been lucky at times. On the other hand, I know of some instances . . . But why are you so interested in your mysterious neighbour? You’re not feeling ill, I hope?
Latin American Plays Page 4