The Rose
洛根·皮尔索尔·史密斯 / Logan Pearsall Smith
The old lady had always been proud of the great rose-tree in her garden， and was fond of telling how it had grown from a cutting she had brought years before from Italy， when she was first married. She and her husband had been travelling back in their carriage from Rome (it was before the time of railways)， and on a bad piece of road south of Siena they had broken down， and had been forced to pass the night in a little house by the roadside. The accommodation was wretched of course； she had spent a sleepless night， and rising early had stood， wrapped up， at her window， with the cool air blowing on her face， to watch the dawn. She could still， after all these years， remember the blue mountains with the bright moon above them， and how a far-off town on one of the peaks had gradually grown whiter and whiter， till the moon faded， the mountains were touched with the pink of the rising sun， and suddenly the town was lit as by an illumination， one window after another catching and ref？lecting the sun’s beams， till at last the whole little city twinkled and sparkled up in the sky like a nest of stars.
That morning， f？inding they would have to wait while their carriage was being repaired， they had driven in a local conveyance up to the city on the mountain， where they had been told they would f？ind better quarters； and there they had stayed two or three days. It was one of the miniature Italian cities with a high church， a pretentious piazza， a few narrow streets and little palaces， perched， all compact and complete， on the top of a mountain， within an enclosure of walls hardly larger than an English kitchen garden. But it was full of life and noise， echoing all day and all night with the sounds of feet and voices.
The Cafe of the simple inn where they stayed was the meeting-place of the notabilities of the little city； the Sindaco， the avvocato， the doctor， and a few others； and among them they noticed a beautiful， slim， talkative old man， with bright black eyes and snow-white hair—tall and straight and still with the f？igure of a youth， although the waiter told them with pride that the Conte was molto vecchio—would in fact be eighty in the following year. He was the last of his family， the waiter added—they had once been great and rich people—but he had no descendants； in fact the waiter mentioned with complacency， as if it were a story on which the locality prided itself， that the Conte had been unfortunate in love， and had never married.
The old gentleman， however， seemed cheerful enough； and it was plain that he took an interest in the strangers， and wished to make their acquaintance. This was soon effected by the friendly waiter； and after a little talk the old man invited them to visit his villa and garden which were just outside the walls of the town. So the next afternoon， when the sun began to descend， and they saw in glimpses through doorways and windows， blue shadows beginning to spread over the brown mountains， they went to pay their visit. It was not much of a place， a small， modernized， stucco villa， with a hot pebbly garden， and in it a stone basin with torpid gold f？ish， and a statue of Diana and her hounds against the wall. But what gave a glory to it was a gigantic rose-tree which clambered over the house， almost smothering the windows， and f？illing the air with the perfume of its sweetness. Yet， it was a f？ine rose， the Conte said proudly when they praised it， and he would tell the Signora about it. And as they sat there， drinking the wine he offered them， he alluded with the cheerful indifference of old age to his love affair， as though he took for granted that they had heard of it already.
