I know nothing about roses,
not even their names. I know only the name Rose; and Rose is
(in every sense of the word) a Christian name. It is Christian
in the one absolute and primordial sense of Christian--that it comes
down from the age of pagans. The rose can be seen, and even smelt,
in Greek, Latin, Provencal, Gothic, Renascence, and Puritan poems.
Beyond this mere word Rose, which (like wine and other noble words)
is the same in all the tongues of white men, I know literally nothing.
I have heard the more evident and advertised names. I know there is
a flower which calls itself the Glory of Dijon--which I had supposed
to be its cathedral. In any case, to have produced a rose and a cathedral
is to have produced not only two very glorious and humane things,
but also (as I maintain) two very soldierly and defiant things.
I also know there is a rose called Marechal Niel--note once more
the military ring.
And when I was walking round my garden the other day I spoke
to my gardener (an enterprise of no little valour) and asked him
the name of a strange dark rose that had somehow oddly taken my fancy.
It was almost as if it reminded me of some turbid element in
history and the soul. Its red was not only swarthy, but smoky;
there was something congested and wrathful about its colour.
It was at once theatrical and sulky. The gardener told me it was
called Victor Hugo.
Pages:
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80