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Rappaccini's Daughter
Thosetokenswhichhehadhithertoconsideredasproofsofafrightfulpeculiarityinherphysicalandmoralsystemwerenoweitherforgotten,or,bythesubtlesophistryofpassiontransmittedintoagoldencrownofenchantment,renderingBeatricethemoreadmirablebysomuchasshewasthemoreunique.Whateverhadlookeduglywasnowbeautiful;or,ifincapableofsuchachange,itstoleawayandhiditselfamongthoseshapelesshalfideaswhichthrongthedimregionbeyondthedaylightofourperfectconsciousness.Thusdidhespendthenight,norfellasleepuntilthedawnhadbeguntoawaketheslumberingflowersinDr.Rappaccini’sgarden,whitherGiovanni’sdreamsdoubtlessledhim.Uprosethesuninhisdueseason,and,flinginghisbeamsupontheyoungman’seyelids,awokehimtoasenseofpain.Whenthoroughlyaroused,hebecamesensibleofaburningandtinglingagonyinhishand—inhisrighthand—theveryhandwhichBeatricehadgraspedinherownwhenhewasonthepointofpluckingoneofthegemlikeflowers.Onthebackofthathandtherewasnowapurpleprintlikethatoffoursmallfingers,andthelikenessofaslenderthumbuponhiswrist.
Oh,howstubbornlydoeslove,—oreventhatcunningsemblanceoflovewhichflourishesintheimagination,butstrikesnodepthofrootintotheheart,—howstubbornlydoesitholditsfaithuntilthemomentcomeswhenitisdoomedtovanishintothinmist!Giovanniwrappedahandkerchiefabouthishandandwonderedwhatevilthinghadstunghim,andsoonforgothispaininareverieofBeatrice.
