Rapaccinni's Daughter (NHB Modern Plays)

Octavio Paz, Sebastian Doggart

• Publisher: Nick Hern Books
• Year: 2017
• ISBN:
  9781780019505
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Drama
• Index: Literature

The only play by Latin America's foremost living poet and the Mexican Nobel laureate.

Based on a short story by Nathaniel Hawthorne. When Giovanni comes to stay in a room overlooking the strange overgrown garden of Dr Rappaccini, he has eyes only for his host's beautiful daughter. But many men before have been warned away from her, and slowly he discovers the terrible truth: that her father is using her as part of an experiment on the human will to live, and has turned her into a living phial of poison.

Taken from the collection, Latin American Plays, an essential introduction to the fascinating but largely unexplored theatre of Latin America, Rappaccini's Daughter by Octavio Paz is a dramatic poem about love and the loss of innocence.

The full collection features new translations of five contemporary plays written by some of the region's most exciting writers. Each play is accompanied by an illuminating interview with its author conducted by the theatre director, Sebastian Doggart, who has also selected and translated the plays and provided an introductory history of Latin American drama.

The collection also includes:

Night of the Assassins by José Triana
A controversial Cuban play in which three siblings plot the murder of their parents.

Saying Yes by Griselda Gambaro
A controversial Cuban play in which three siblings plot the murder of their parents.

Orchids in the Moonlight by Carlos Fuentes
A grotesque comedy from Argentina about man's inhumanity to man.

Mistress of Desires by Mario Vargas Llosa
Peru's most acclaimed writer interweaves reality and fantasy in an erotically charged tale.

RAPPACCINI’S DAUGHTER

by Octavio Paz

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 one.) 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 ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Contents
• An Introduction to Latin American Theatre
• Select Bibliography
• Rappaccini’s Daughter
• Interview with Octavio Paz
• Copyright and Performing Rights Information