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.