GIOVANNI. I have never felt better. Last night, for example, I left the door to the balcony open and slept like a log.
BAGLIONI. The air in Padua is very pure . . . As for Rappaccini . . .
GIOVANNI. It is natural that since I have just arrived in this city his personality should have aroused my curiosity. He is my neighbour. And people talk so much about his extraordinary love for science.
BAGLIONI. I wish people would talk more about the consequences of that foolish love.
GIOVANNI (violently). There is an object on earth more precious to Rappaccini than all his science, and for it he would sacrifice all his knowledge.
BAGLIONI. What’s that?
GIOVANNI. His daughter.
BAGLIONI. At last, my dear boy, I have discovered your secret! So, the beautiful Beatrice is the real reason behind all these questions!
GIOVANNI. I have hardly spoken to her, only yesterday afternoon.
BAGLIONI. No, no need to apologise. I don’t know the girl. I’ve been told that several young men of Padua would kill for her . . . even though they’ve never met her. I’ve also been told that she is not just a paragon of beauty, but also a fountain of knowledge, capable in spite of her years of holding a professorship at the university. (Laughs.) Mine maybe . . . But that’s enough idle gossip. (Walks to the balcony.) What a gloomy garden.
GIOVANNI. It may seem wrong to us, but you cannot deny that this garden displays a love – how can I put it – a wild love for truth, a passion for the infinite. That’s why it makes your head spin.
BAGLIONI. Shh! Rappaccini just walked into his garden.
RAPPACCINI comes out and examines the plants. Feeling himself watched, he raises his head and fixes his eyes on the balcony. BAGLIONI greets him coldly, but receives no reply. For a moment, RAPPACCINI stares at GIOVANNI, ignoring BAGLIONI. Then he exits.
BAGLIONI. He saw us and didn’t even condescend to return my greeting. He can’t have recognised me; he just saw you. Does he know you?
GIOVANNI. How could he know me if I have just arrived.
BAGLIONI. I don’t know, but I’ll swear he is interested in you. A . . . scientific interest. And what role does Beatrice have in this conspiracy?
GIOVANNI. Professor, don’t you think you’re taking this a bit far? Neither father nor daughter know that I exist.
BAGLIONI. You never know with Rappaccini. I will reflect on what I have just seen. I don’t want anything to happen to the son of an old friend.
GIOVANNI. What do you mean, sir?
BAGLIONI. Nothing, for the moment. Just a suspicion . . . and yet, almost a certainty. But it must be getting late and I’m expected at the university. Will I have the pleasure of seeing you at my home soon?
GIOVANNI. I would be honoured, Doctor Baglioni.
BAGLIONI. Then goodbye for now.
BAGLIONI exits. GIOVANNI goes over to the balcony. Before he gets there BAGLIONI returns.
BAGLIONI. The net that holds you is invisible but it can strangle you. If you help me, I will tear it apart!
BAGLIONI exits.
Scene VI
GIOVANNI remains pensive. He waves aside his thoughts, walks out on to the balcony, goes back inside, paces about, goes back to the balcony and, his mind made up, jumps down into the garden. He examines the plants with curiosity and suspicion. All of his movements are those of an intruder and, at the same time, of a man who is wary of unseen dangers. He leans over to look at a flower. At this moment BEATRICE appears.
BEATRICE. Good morning! I see our neighbour is also interested in flowers and plants.
GIOVANNI. I can’t apologise enough for my impudence. I’m not a troublemaker; the truth is I was fascinated by this unusual vegetation; I couldn’t resist the temptation. Almost without thinking I jumped down . . . And here I am!
BEATRICE. Don’t apologise. I understand your curiosity and I am sure that my father wouldn’t mind either. For him, curiosity is the mother of all science.
GIOVANNI. I don’t want to lie to you. I’m not interested in botany and the mysteries of nature do not keep me awake at night. I came to Padua to study law. Fate has made us neighbours and yesterday I saw you – do you remember – strolling among all these plants. It was then I discovered my true vocation.
BEATRICE. I have to admit I don’t quite understand you. Just one look at the garden and you discovered your vocation? Well, my father will be very proud . . .
GIOVANNI. No, not the garden. I recognised you, among so many unknown plants. You were as familiar to me as a flower, and yet also remote. Life budding between the rocks of a desert, with the simplicity with which spring surprises us every year. My whole being blossomed. My head, so long a sad engine of confused thoughts, melted into a lake. Since then, I have not thought: I reflect. Eyes open or eyes closed, I see only your image.
BEATRICE. I am not familiar with the customs of the world. I have lived on my own since I was a little girl, and I don’t know how to reply. I don’t know how to lie either. And even if I did know how, I would never lie. Your words have confused me, but they have not surprised me. I was expecting them, I knew that you had to say them . . . today or tomorrow.
GIOVANNI. Beatrice!
BEATRICE. How strange my name sounds on your lips! Nobody has ever pronounced it like that.
GIOVANNI. It’s a bird. I say: Beatrice, and it opens its wings and starts to fly. Where to I don’t know. Away from here . . .
BEATRICE. When I saw you, it was as if many doors were opening. I was surrounded, walled in. Suddenly, a gust of wind blew the doors and windows open, and they made me want to jump and dance. Last night I felt I was flying. But I landed here, in the garden. I felt that the scents of all these plants had been woven together into a net of invisible threads, which softly, smoothly enveloped me. I am tied to the ground. I am one of these plants. If I am picked, I will die. Go away, leave me here!
GIOVANNI (drawing aside the imaginary net of perfumes). I will cut a path through this thicket of perfumes. I will tear down the tangled branches of the invisible wood. With my nails and teeth I will dig a tunnel beneath the wall. I will become a sword and with one slash will cut the curtain in two. I will untie the knot. I will show you the world. We will go south. The sea will swell up from her bed to greet you and will wave her plume of salt. The pine trees on my street will bow down at your footfall . . .
BEATRICE. No, I don’t know the world. The open air would suffocate me. (Points to the garden.) Its scent gives me life. If I shine, it is because of its light. I am made from its essence. Stay here!
GIOVANNI. To surround you as a river embraces an island, to drink the light that your mouth drinks. You look at me and your eyes weave me a fresh armour of reflections. To travel endlessly over your body, sleep between your breasts, dawn in your throat, sail up the canal of your back, lose myself around your neck, glide down to your belly. Lose myself in you, only to find myself waiting on the other shore. Be born in you, die in you.
BEATRICE. Spin tirelessly around you, me the planet and you the sun
GIOVANNI. Facing each other always, like two trees
BEATRICE. Growing, bearing fruit, ripening
GIOVANNI. Entwining our roots
BEATRICE. Entwining our branches
GIOVANNI. One tree
BEATRICE. The sunlight settles in our cup and sings
GIOVANNI. His song is a fan which unfurls itself slowly
BEATRICE. We are made of sun
GIOVANNI. We walk and the world opens up at our footsteps
BEATRICE (waking up). No, not that. The world begins in you and ends in you. And this garden is our whole horizon.
GIOVANNI. The world is infinite. It begins at your toenails and ends at the tips of your hair. You have no end.
BEATRICE. When I saw you, I also remembered. I remembered something which had been lost for a long time. But its mark is indelible, like a secret wound; something which suddenly appeared in front of me and said: look at me, remember me, you forg
ot me at birth, I am here.
GIOVANNI (staring intently at her). I would like to breach the wall of your brow and lose myself among your thoughts, get through to you, to your centre. Who are you?
BEATRICE. In my brow you can read all your own thoughts. My brow is a mirror which never tires of reflecting you. Your desire lives inside me. Before knowing you I knew nobody, not even myself. I didn’t know that there was a sun, a moon, water, lips. I was one of these plants. I talked to this tree sometimes. He was the only friend I had. Yesterday you gave me some roses . . . What can I give you in return?
GIOVANNI. A bouquet of flowers from this tree. Having them next to my pillow tonight will be like having you there.
Goes up to the tree and reaches out his hand to pick a flower.
BEATRICE. No, don’t touch it! It will kill you!
As she says these words, she brushes GIOVANNI’s hand. As if she had received an electric shock, she draws back sharply. BEATRICE hides her head in her hands, terrified. GIOVANNI tries to approach her. She gestures him away and runs to the house. GIOVANNI tries to follow her, but RAPPACCINI appears in the doorway.
GIOVANNI. Sorry . . . for being here . . . I’m too confused to make excuses . . .
RAPPACCINI (smiling). You don’t have to say sorry to a neighbour.
GIOVANNI. I came into your garden without thinking, attracted by these plants. The garden was stronger than my will. And then I spent too long . . . Maybe I should go.
RAPPACCINI. As you wish. But I warn you, it will be difficult to go back the way you came. Better if I show you the way out.
GIOVANNI. Thank you, thank you.
RAPPACCINI (showing him the way). This way.
They both exit. Lights fade slowly to black.
Scene VII
A dim light comes up. GIOVANNI and BEATRICE are upstage. While THE MESSENGER speaks, the couple use movements and gestures to imitate the actions indicated by the words.
THE MESSENGER. Distanced from the world, they wander among the mysterious flowers and breathe in their strange fumes which unfold like the cloak of delirium and then evaporate without a trace, as the images of a dream dissolve in the water of dawn. And in the same way, within a few hours, there appeared and disappeared on Giovanni’s hand – the same hand that Beatrice had brushed the day before – five small red blotches, which looked like five tiny flowers. But they don’t ask questions, they don’t doubt, they don’t even dream: they contemplate each other, they breathe each other. Are they breathing death or life? Neither Giovanni nor Beatrice thinks about death or life, about God or the Devil. They don’t care about saving their souls or gaining wealth or power, being happy or making others happy. Just looking in each other’s eyes is enough for them. He whirls around her, and she spins around herself; the circles that he draws get smaller and smaller; she falls silent and starts to close up like a flower of the night, petal by petal, until she is impenetrable. Hesitant, he wavers between desire and horror, until at last he leans over her; and his helpless gaze opens her up again and she unfolds and spins around her beloved, who stays quiet, fascinated. But they never touch, condemned to spin endlessly, propelled by two enemy powers, which separate and unite them. No kiss, no caress. Just eyes devouring eyes.
Scene VIII
The garden is empty. GIOVANNI and BAGLIONI are in the room.
BAGLIONI. I hope this isn’t a bad time. One of my patients lives nearby and I thought I might drop round for a few minutes on my way.
GIOVANNI. Doctor, you will always be welcome here.
BAGLIONI. No, I’m not fooling myself. The young are almost always bored by the old. We try to encourage them but end up annoying them. There is no solution. That is life. (Pause.) I have been waiting for you in vain.
GIOVANNI. Doctor, I promise my absence over the last few days doesn’t mean that I have forgotten, it’s just that I have been studying. I spend the whole day studying.
BAGLIONI. Law, history or . . . botany?
GIOVANNI. Languages, doctor, foreign languages.
BAGLIONI. Greek, Latin, Hebrew or . . . the language of birds? Goodness, what strange and lovely perfume!
GIOVANNI. Perfume?
BAGLIONI. Yes, a perfume, very light but very powerful. It comes and goes, appears and disappears, it penetrates deep into the lungs and dissolves in the blood like pure air . . .
GIOVANNI. Sometimes the imagination makes us see things, even smell things . . .
BAGLIONI (interrupting him). No, dear boy. This perfume is not a fancy of my spirit but a reality of my nose. I’m serious: the aroma which floods in to your room so intriguingly comes from there! It rises from that garden! And it comes out of your mouth: you exhale it every time you open your lips. Rappaccini and his daughter, the astute Beatrice, administer death to their patients, and it is wrapped in a perfumed mantle!
GIOVANNI. Say what you like about Rappaccini but don’t mention Beatrice.
BAGLIONI. Rappaccini is a poisoner and his fatal obsession has led him to a wicked deed: he has turned his own daughter into a phial of poison.
GIOVANNI. You’re lying! Beatrice is innocent.
BAGLIONI. Innocent or guilty, that girl lives and breathes death.
GIOVANNI. Beatrice is pure.
BAGLIONI. Accomplice or victim, it makes no difference. What is clear is that Rappaccini has chosen you as the subject of a new and terrible experiment. His daughter is the bait.
GIOVANNI. You’re making it up! It’s too horrible to be true.
BAGLIONI. And if it were?
GIOVANNI. I would be lost. There would be no escape . . .
BAGLIONI. There is one. We will trick Rappaccini. Here. (Takes out a phial from his pocket.) This phial contains an antidote more powerful than the famous Bezoar stone, or the earth of Lemnos, or the syrup of Ipecac.4 It is the fruit of many sleepless nights and many years of study. If Beatrice is innocent, give it to her to drink. In a short time she will be back to her original self. And now, good-bye! Your fate rests in your own hands.
GIOVANNI tries to say something. BAGLIONI silences him with a finger, gives him the flask and exits.
Scene IX
GIOVANNI. It’s a fairy tale, a jealous fabrication . . . But the bouquet of roses, the marks on my hand? (Stares at his hand.) No, nothing. I am in perfect health. I am strong, I love life, life loves me. And if it’s true..? How can I find out . . . ? (Paces around indecisively. Suddenly he shouts.) Isabela! Madam! Come quickly, I need you!
VOICE OF ISABELA. Coming, coming! (While ISABELA is coming upstairs, GIOVANNI looks at himself in the mirror and feels himself.)
ISABELA: What can I do for you, sir?
GIOVANNI. Nothing, a small thing. Would you get me a rose? Like the ones you gave me the day I arrived.
ISABELA. A rose?
GIOVANNI. Yes, a red rose, a rose with dewdrops on it . . .
ISABELA. Goodness me! The gentleman is in love.
GIOVANNI. A freshly cut rose!
ISABELA. Right away, sir. (Exits.)
GIOVANNI. Even if Baglioni is right and Beatrice is fed on poison, I am fit and strong. The air of Naples protects me . . . And if it all turns out to be lies, I will cut out your distinguished tongue, Doctor Baglioni . . .
ISABELA (holding the rose). I couldn’t find a prettier rose than this. Look at it, it’s almost alive!
GIOVANNI (interrupting her). Thank you, Isabela. (Gives her some coins.) And now leave me, I want to be alone.
ISABELA. My goodness, you’re moody! Young men are mad! (Exits.)
GIOVANNI (holding the rose in his hand). Red rose, little heart trembling in my hands. Thirsty rose. (Blows on it.) Revive, breathe in life! (The rose turns black. Horrified, he drops it.) It’s true, it’s true! My breath kills, I’m carrying death in my blood! I’m cursed, cut off from life! A wall of poison separates me from the world . . . and unites me with a monster.
BEATRICE (from the garden). Giovanni, Giovanni! The sun is up and the plants are calling us.
GIOVANNI (dubious, then resolved). Wait, I’ll be there in a moment. (Jumps down.)
BEATRICE. I’ve been counting the hours to see you since dawn. The garden doesn’t seem mine any more without you. I talk to you in my dreams and you don’t answer: you speak in the language of trees, and instead of speaking words, you bear fruit.
GIOVANNI (worried). What kind of fruit?
BEATRICE. Big, golden fruit, dream-fruit. Didn’t I tell you I dreamt it? (Seeing a plant.) Look, it’s changed colour. And just smell it! Its aroma makes the whole garden sleepy.
GIOVANNI (angrily). It must be a very powerful drug.
BEATRICE (simply). I don’t know. I don’t know much about the properties of the plants. And my father doesn’t know all of their secrets either, even if he says he does. Of course, they are new.
GIOVANNI. New? What do you mean?
BEATRICE. What a question? Don’t you know? They are plants which didn’t exist before, species invented by my father. He corrects nature, makes it richer, as if he were giving life to life.
GIOVANNI. Or rather he is making death richer. This garden is an arsenal. Every leaf, every flower, every root is a lethal weapon, an instrument of torture. We wander calmly through the executioner’s home and are touched by his creations . . .
BEATRICE. Stop it! What you’re saying is horrible!
GIOVANNI. Is there anything more horrible than this garden? Anything more horrible than us? Listen to me, poor Beatrice. Don’t you realise who you are and how you live? The plague, typhoid, leprosy, mysterious illnesses which cover the body with scarlet jewels, lianas of fever, spiders of madness, rotten eyes which burst at midday, green slime . . . they’re all here. This garden is a tumour in the heart of the city . . .
BEATRICE. Listen to me! You can’t condemn me without listening to me . . .
GIOVANNI. Get back! Don’t touch me! Rotten apple, poison apple. Dead, and dressed up in the shape of life.
BEATRICE. I was alone . . .
Latin American Plays Page 5