The Rose
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--- Logan Pearsall Smith ( 1865-1946 ) 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 road-side. 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 reflecting the sun's beam, till at last the whole little city twinkled and sparkled up in the sky like a nest of stars. That morning, finding 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 find 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 and enclosure of walls hardly larger than an English kitchen garden. But it was full of life and nose, 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 figure of a youth, although the waiter told them with pride that the Conte was molto vecchio — would in fact be eightey 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 door-ways 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-fish, 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 filling the air with the perfume of its sweetness. Yes, it was a fine 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. "The lady lived across the valley there beyond that hill. I was a young man then, for it was many years ago. I used to ride over to see her; it was a long way, but I rode fast, for young men, as no doubt the Signora knows, are impatient. But the lady was not kind, she would keep me waiting, oh, for hours; and one day when I had waited very long I grew very angry, and as I walked up and down in the garden where she had told me she would see me, I broke one of her roses, broke a branch from it ; and when I saw what I had done, I hid it inside my coat — so —; and when I came home I planted it, and the Signora sees how it has grown. If the Signora admires it, I must give her a cutting to plant also in her garden; I am told the English have beautiful gardens that are green, and not burnt with the sun like ours." The next day, when their mended carriage had come up to fetch them, and they were just starting to drive away from the inn, the Conte's old servant appeared with the rose-cutting neatly wrapped up, and the compliments and wishes for a buon viaggio from her master. The town collected to see them depart, and the children heard a rush of feet behind them for a few moments, but soon they were far down towards the valley; the little town with all its noise and life was high above them on its mountain peak. She had planted the rose at home, where it had grown and flourished in a wonderful manner; and every June the great mass of leaves and shoots still broke out into a passionate splendour of scent and crimson colour, as if in its root and fibres there still burnt the anger and thwarted desire of that Italian lover. Of course the old Conte must have died many years ago; she had forgotten his name, and had even forgotten the name of the mountain city that she had stayed in, after first seeing it twinkling at dawn in the sky, like a nest of stars. Siena: 意大利城镇名 piazza: 特指意大利都市中的广场或市场 Sindaco: 意语，市长 avvocato: 意语，律师 Conte: 意语，伯爵 molto vecchio: 意语，very old Signora：意语，夫人 buon viaggio: =good journey. 参考译文： 老太太一直为她园中那株蔷薇树感到骄傲，好对人讲，这树是怎么从一根由意大利带回的枝条上长起来的，那是好多年以前的事，那时她刚结婚。 她和她丈夫正从罗马乘坐马车回国（那时还没有火车），一天在辛拿城南一段崎岖的路上，车子出了毛病，不得已只好暂时到路边一所小宅院去过夜。 设备当然是简陋极了；她度过了一个不眠之夜，次日很早起身，披衣凝立窗前，在拂面的习习晨风中，注视天色破晓。 虽然事隔多年，她仍然记得青山让一轮皓月，远山之颠的一座城镇，逐渐泛白，继而月落，山边为徐徐升起的朝阳染成绯红；不久，城镇恍然似为巨焰所映，斗然大亮，窗扉一扇扇在朝霞的照耀下，光晶泛彩。 最后整个小城在天宇之间闪烁辉耀起来，宛若一团星群。 由于修车尚待时日，那天早上他们便搭乘当地车辆去了那座山城，那里据说可以觅到较好住处；他们在那里逗留了两三天。 那座城是典型意大利式的小城，有一座高耸的教堂，一个矜饰的广场，几条狭窄的街道，几所矮小的楼房，紧凑齐全，毕集于一座山头之上，周围还有城墙环绕，占地比一个英国的家厨菜园也大不许多。 然而这里却充满生机，非常热闹，轮蹄喧哗，彻夜不休。 他们下榻的一家普通旅店中的餐馆为城中名流聚会之地；包括市长，律师，医生，以及一些其他人物；这些人中他们遇见了一位风姿翩翩，消瘦健谈的老人，乌黑的眸子炯炯有神，头发已经雪白 —— 他的体格修长挺立，仍然具有年轻人的身段，虽然侍者骄傲地对他们讲，这位伯爵已经molto vecchio （年纪很大）了 —— 实际上翌年即满八十。 他是他家族的最后一人，侍者补充到 —— 他家曾经是富贵望族 —— 但他没有后代；伯爵在爱情上受过挫折，并从此未曾结婚，云云。 实际上侍者提及此事时面有得意之色，仿佛这是当地人民引以为荣的一段故事。 这为老先生兴致很高；显然他对这两位陌生人很感兴趣，并愿意结识他们。 这事随即由友好的侍者促成；于是，在一次短暂的交谈之后，老人便邀请他们去他的别墅与花园做客，地址即在城墙之外不远的地方。 于是次日下午，当夕阳开始西沉，门窗启处，兰色暗影已渐渐笼罩棕褐的山岭时，他们遂欣然命驾。 那里地势局促 —— 一座不大的现代式灰墁别墅而外，另有一个炎澳的软石路面的花园，石砌水池之中浮游着一些懒散的金鱼，池旁靠墙处并有一尊女猎神及其猎犬的雕像等等。 但是足为这小园增色的是其中一巨株蔷薇，树身过屋，绿荫翳窗，使院中沁满浓香。 的确，这是一株不错的蔷薇，伯爵听了客人夸奖之后得意地说，并说他乐意把树的来历讲给夫人听听。 于是当他们坐定之后，一边饮着酒时，他便以老年人满不在乎的欣然神情，略微提了提他的一段旧情，仿佛他相信他们对此一定早有所闻似的。 “女士就住在青山背后的河谷对岸。 那时我还是个少年，因为这已是多年前的事了。 我常常骑马过去看她；路途不近，但我骑得很快，这点夫人当然理解，年轻人总是性急的。 但这位女士心地不善良，喜欢叫人等个不休，往往一等就是几个小时；一天，我因为等得过久而生气起来。 当我在她叫我等她的那个花园中踱来踱去时，我折了她的一朵，应该说一枝，蔷薇；当我发现自己做了这么一件事时，我便把那枝蔷薇藏在外衣里面 —— 就像这样 ——；回来以后我就把它种上，而夫人也已看到，它长得多好。 如果夫人喜爱的话，我当然要奉赠一枝，好把它栽在园里；听说英国人的花园非常美丽，青葱翠绿，不象我们此地给太阳晒得那么燥热。” 第二天，修好了的马车来迎接他们。 正当他们即将离开旅社之际，伯爵的老仆赶来，奉上包扎精致的蔷薇枝条一束，并代其主人转致一路平安之意。 城中的人也都跑来向他们道别，儿童尾随在车子后面，一直跟出城外。 他们听见车后的脚步声乱哄了一阵，但不久车子已经往下走了很远，进入河谷地带，而这座喧闹的山顶小城则早已高高地在他们头顶之上了。 她把蔷薇栽在家中，蔷薇长得枝遂叶茂，十分美丽；每逢六月到来，浓碧的枝叶丛中，猩红馥郁，蔚成一派情如火灼的奇观，仿佛它的根茎之间依旧燃烧着那位意大利情人的愤怒与郁悒。 当然那老伯爵此时肯定早已去世多年；而她也记不起他的名字，甚至连她所住过的那座山城叫什么名字，她也都记不起了，虽然她曾经在拂晓之时看它在空中闪烁发光，宛若一团星群。 |
