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Giovanni
still
found
no
better
occupation
than
to
look
down
into
the
garden
beneath
his
window
.
From
its
appearance
,
he
judged
it
to
be
one
of
those
botanic
gardens
which
were
of
earlier
date
in
Padua
than
elsewhere
in
Italy
or
in
the
world
.
Or
,
not
improbably
,
it
might
once
have
been
the
pleasure
-
place
of
an
opulent
family
;
for
there
was
the
ruin
of
a
marble
fountain
in
the
centre
,
sculptured
with
rare
art
,
but
so
wofully
shattered
that
it
was
impossible
to
trace
the
original
design
from
the
chaos
of
remaining
fragments
.
The
water
,
however
,
continued
to
gush
and
sparkle
into
the
sunbeams
as
cheerfully
as
ever
.
A
little
gurgling
sound
ascended
to
the
young
man
’
s
window
,
and
made
him
feel
as
if
the
fountain
were
an
immortal
spirit
that
sung
its
song
unceasingly
and
without
heeding
the
vicissitudes
around
it
,
while
one
century
imbodied
it
in
marble
and
another
scattered
the
perishable
garniture
on
the
soil
.
All
about
the
pool
into
which
the
water
subsided
grew
various
plants
,
that
seemed
to
require
a
plentiful
supply
of
moisture
for
the
nourishment
of
gigantic
leaves
,
and
in
some
instances
,
flowers
gorgeously
magnificent
.
There
was
one
shrub
in
particular
,
set
in
a
marble
vase
in
the
midst
of
the
pool
,
that
bore
a
profusion
of
purple
blossoms
,
each
of
which
had
the
lustre
and
richness
of
a
gem
;
and
the
whole
together
made
a
show
so
resplendent
that
it
seemed
enough
to
illuminate
the
garden
,
even
had
there
been
no
sunshine
.
Every
portion
of
the
soil
was
peopled
with
plants
and
herbs
,
which
,
if
less
beautiful
,
still
bore
tokens
of
assiduous
care
,
as
if
all
had
their
individual
virtues
,
known
to
the
scientific
mind
that
fostered
them
.
Some
were
placed
in
urns
,
rich
with
old
carving
,
and
others
in
common
garden
pots
;
some
crept
serpent
-
like
along
the
ground
or
climbed
on
high
,
using
whatever
means
of
ascent
was
offered
them
.
One
plant
had
wreathed
itself
round
a
statue
of
Vertumnus
,
which
was
thus
quite
veiled
and
shrouded
in
a
drapery
of
hanging
foliage
,
so
happily
arranged
that
it
might
have
served
a
sculptor
for
a
study
.
While
Giovanni
stood
at
the
window
he
heard
a
rustling
behind
a
screen
of
leaves
,
and
became
aware
that
a
person
was
at
work
in
the
garden
.
His
figure
soon
emerged
into
view
,
and
showed
itself
to
be
that
of
no
common
laborer
,
but
a
tall
,
emaciated
,
sallow
,
and
sickly
-
looking
man
,
dressed
in
a
scholar
’
s
garb
of
black
.
He
was
beyond
the
middle
term
of
life
,
with
gray
hair
,
a
thin
,
gray
beard
,
and
a
face
singularly
marked
with
intellect
and
cultivation
,
but
which
could
never
,
even
in
his
more
youthful
days
,
have
expressed
much
warmth
of
heart
.
Nothing
could
exceed
the
intentness
with
which
this
scientific
gardener
examined
every
shrub
which
grew
in
his
path
:
it
seemed
as
if
he
was
looking
into
their
inmost
nature
,
making
observations
in
regard
to
their
creative
essence
,
and
discovering
why
one
leaf
grew
in
this
shape
and
another
in
that
,
and
wherefore
such
and
such
flowers
differed
among
themselves
in
hue
and
perfume
.
Nevertheless
,
in
spite
of
this
deep
intelligence
on
his
part
,
there
was
no
approach
to
intimacy
between
himself
and
these
vegetable
existences
.
On
the
contrary
,
he
avoided
their
actual
touch
or
the
direct
inhaling
of
their
odors
with
a
caution
that
impressed
Giovanni
most
disagreeably
;
for
the
man
’
s
demeanor
was
that
of
one
walking
among
malignant
influences
,
such
as
savage
beasts
,
or
deadly
snakes
,
or
evil
spirits
,
which
,
should
he
allow
them
one
moment
of
license
,
would
wreak
upon
him
some
terrible
fatality
.
It
was
strangely
frightful
to
the
young
man
’
s
imagination
to
see
this
air
of
insecurity
in
a
person
cultivating
a
garden
,
that
most
simple
and
innocent
of
human
toils
,
and
which
had
been
alike
the
joy
and
labor
of
the
unfallen
parents
of
the
race
.
Was
this
garden
,
then
,
the
Eden
of
the
present
world
?
And
this
man
,
with
such
a
perception
of
harm
in
what
his
own
hands
caused
to
grow
,
—
was
he
the
Adam
?
The
distrustful
gardener
,
while
plucking
away
the
dead
leaves
or
pruning
the
too
luxuriant
growth
of
the
shrubs
,
defended
his
hands
with
a
pair
of
thick
gloves
.
Nor
were
these
his
only
armor
.
When
,
in
his
walk
through
the
garden
,
he
came
to
the
magnificent
plant
that
hung
its
purple
gems
beside
the
marble
fountain
,
he
placed
a
kind
of
mask
over
his
mouth
and
nostrils
,
as
if
all
this
beauty
did
but
conceal
a
deadlier
malice
;
but
,
finding
his
task
still
too
dangerous
,
he
drew
back
,
removed
the
mask
,
and
called
loudly
,
but
in
the
infirm
voice
of
a
person
affected
with
inward
disease
,
"
Beatrice
!
Beatrice
!
"
"
Here
am
I
,
my
father
.
What
would
you
?
"
cried
a
rich
and
youthful
voice
from
the
window
of
the
opposite
house
—
a
voice
as
rich
as
a
tropical
sunset
,
and
which
made
Giovanni
,
though
he
knew
not
why
,
think
of
deep
hues
of
purple
or
crimson
and
of
perfumes
heavily
delectable
.
"
Are
you
in
the
garden
?
"
"
Yes
,
Beatrice
,
"
answered
the
gardener
,
"
and
I
need
your
help
.
"
