Delphi complete works of.., p.1134
Delphi Complete Works of William Dean Howells, page 1134
The Florist: “The Pridte.”
The Young Man, uncertainly: “Oh!” The lady moves a little way up the counter toward the window, but keeps looking at the young man from time to time. She cannot help hearing all that he says. “Haven’t you any white rose with a little color in it? Just the faintest tinge, the merest touch.”
The Florist: “No, no; they are whidte, or they are yellow; dtea-rhoces; Marshal Niel” —
The Young Man: “Ah, I don’t want anything of that kind. What is the palest pink rose you have?”
The Florist, indicating the different kinds in the vases, where the lady has been looking at them: “Well, there is nothing lighder than the Matame Cousine, or the Matame Watterville, here; they are sister rhoces” —
The Young Man: “Yes, yes; very beautiful; but too dark.” He stops before the Madame Hoste: “What a strange flower! It is almost black! What is it for? Funerals?”
The Florist: “No; a good many people lige them. We don’t sell them much for funerals; they are too cloomy. They uce whidte ones for that: Marshal Niel, dtea-rhoces, this Pridte here, and other whidte ones.”
The Young Man, with an accent of repulsion: “Oh!” He goes toward the window, and looks at a mass of Easter lilies in a vase there. He speaks as if thinking aloud: “If they had a little color — But they would be dreadful with color! Why, you ought to have something!” He continues musingly, as he returns to the florist: “Haven’t you got something very delicate, and slender, about the color of pale apple blossoms? If you had them light enough, some kind of azaleas” —
The Lady, involuntarily: “Ah!”
The Florist, after a moment, in which he and the young man both glance at the lady, and she makes a sound in her throat to show that she is not thinking of them, and had not spoken in reference to what they were saying: “The only azaleas I haf are these pink ones, and those whidte ones.”
The Young Man: “And they are too pink and too white. Isn’t there anything tall, and very delicate? Something, well — something like the old-fashioned blush-rose? But with very long stems!”
The Florist: “No, there is noding lige that which gomes in a crheenhouse rhoce. We got a whidte rhoce here” — he goes to his refrigerator, and brings back a long box of roses— “that I didn’t think of before.” He gives the lady an apologetic glance. “You see there is chost the least sdain of rhet on the etch of the leafs.”
The Young Man, examining the petals of the roses: “Ah, that is very curious. It is a caprice, though.”
The Florist: “Yes, it is a kind of sbordt. That rhoce should be berfectly whidte.”
The Young Man: “On the whole, I don’t think it will do. I will take some of those pure white ones. Bride, did you call them?”
The Florist: “Yes, Pridte. How many?”
The Young Man: “Oh, a dozen — two dozen; I don’t know! I want very long, slender stems, and the flowers with loose open petals; none of those stout, tough-looking little buds. Here! This, and this, and all these; no, I don’t want any of those at all.” He selects the different stems of roses, and while the florist gets a box, and prepares it with a lining of cotton and tissue-paper, he leans over and writes on a card. He pauses and puts up his pencil; then he takes it out again and covers the card with writing. He gives it to the florist. “I wish that to go into the box where it will be found the first thing.” He turns away, and encounters the lady’s eyes as she chances to look toward him. “I beg your pardon! But” —
The Lady, smiling, and extending her hand: “I felt almost sure it was you! But I couldn’t believe my senses. All the other authorities report you in Rome.”
The Young Man: “I returned rather suddenly. I just got in this morning. Our steamer was due yesterday, but there was so much ice in the harbor that we didn’t work up till a few hours ago.”
The Lady: “You will take all your friends by surprise.”
The Young Man: “I’m a good deal taken by surprise myself. Two weeks ago I didn’t dream of being here. But I made up my mind to come, and — I came.”
The Lady, laughing: “Evidently! Well, now you must come to my Saturdays; you are just in time for the first one. Some one you know is going to pour tea for me. That ought to be some consolation to you for not having stayed away long enough to escape my hospitalities.”
The Young Man, blushing and smiling: “Oh, it’s a very charming welcome home. I shall be sure to come. She is — everybody is — well, I hope?”
The Lady: “Yes, or everybody was on Monday when I saw them. Everybody is looking very beautiful this winter, lovelier than ever, if possible. But so spiritual! Too spiritual! But that spirit of hers will carry her — I mean everybody, of course! — through everything. I feel almost wicked to have asked her to pour tea for me, when I think of how much else she is doing! Do you know, I was just ordering the flowers for my Saturday, and I had decided to take her for my key-note in the decorations. But that made it so difficult! There doesn’t seem anything delicate and pure and sweet enough for her. There ought to be some flower created just to express her! But as yet there isn’t.”
The Young Man: “No, no; there isn’t. But now I must run away. I haven’t been to my hotel yet; I was just driving up from the ship, and I saw the flowers in the window, and — stopped. Good-by!”
The Lady: “Good-by! What devotion to somebody — everybody! Don’t forget my Saturday!”
The Young Man: “No, no; I won’t. Good-by!” He hurries out of the door, and his carriage is heard driving away.
The Florist: “I wondter if he but the attress on the cart? No; there is noding!” He turns the card helplessly over. “What am I coing to do about these flowers?”
The Lady: “Why, didn’t he say where to send them?”
The Florist: “No, he rhon away and dtidn’t leaf the attress.”
The Lady: “That was my fault! I confused him, poor fellow, by talking to him. What are you going to do?”
The Florist: “That is what I lige to know! Do you know what hotel he stobs at?”
The Lady: “No; he didn’t say. I have no idea where he is going. But wait a moment! I think I know where he meant to send the flowers.”
The Florist: “Oh, well; that is all I want to know.”
The Lady: “Yes, but I am not certain.” After a moment’s thought. “I know he wants them to go at once; a great deal may depend upon it — everything.” Suddenly: “Could you let me see that card?”
The Florist, throwing it on the counter before her: “Why, soddonly; if he is a frhiendt of yours” —
The Lady, shrinking back: “Ah, it isn’t so simple! That makes it all the worse. It would be a kind of sacrilege! I have no right — or, wait! I will just glance at the first word. It may be a clew. And I want you to bear me witness, Mr. Eichenlaub, that I didn’t read a word more.” She catches up a piece of paper, and covers all the card except the first two words. “Yes! It is she! Oh, how perfectly delightful! It’s charming, charming! It’s one of the prettiest things that ever happened! And I shall be the means — no, not the means, quite, but the accident — of bringing them together! Put the card into the box, Mr. Eichenlaub, and don’t let me see it an instant longer, or I shall read every word of it, in spite of myself!” She gives him the card, and turns, swiftly, and makes some paces toward the door.
The Florist, calling after her: “But the attress, matam. You forgot.”
The Lady, returning: “Oh, yes! Give me your pencil.” She writes on a piece of the white wrapping-paper. “There! That is it.” She stands irresolute, with the pencil at her lip. “There was something else that I seem to have forgotten.”
The Florist: “Your flowers?”
The Lady: “Oh, yes, my flowers. I nearly went away without deciding. Let me see. Where are those white roses with the pink tinge on the edge of the petals?” The florist pushes the box towards her, and she looks down at the roses. “No, they won’t do. They look somehow — cruel! I don’t wonder he wouldn’t have them. They are totally out of character. I will take those white Bride roses, too. It seems a fatality, but there really isn’t anything else, and I can laugh with her about them, if it all turns out well.” She talks to herself rather than the florist, who stands patient behind the counter, and repeats, dreamily, “Laugh with her!”
The Florist: “How many shall I sendt you, matam?”
The Lady: “Oh, loads. As many as you think I ought to have. I shall not have any other flowers, and I mean to toss them on the table in loose heaps. Perhaps I shall have some smilax to go with them.”
The Florist: “Yes; or cypress wine.”
The Lady: “No; that is too crapy and creepy. Smilax, or nothing; and yet I don’t like that hard, shiny, varnishy look of smilax either. You wouldn’t possibly have anything like that wild vine, it’s scarcely more than a golden thread, that trails over the wayside bushes in New England? Dodder, they call it.”
The Florist: “I nefer heardt off it.”
The Lady: “No, but that would have been just the thing. It suggests the color of her hair; it would go with her. Well, I will have the smilax too, though I don’t like it. I don’t see why all the flowers should take to being so inexpressive. Send all the smilax you judge best. It’s quite a long table, nine or ten feet, and I want the vine going pretty much all about it.”
The Florist: “Perhaps I better sendt somebody to see?”
The Lady: “Yes, that would be the best. Good-morning.”
The Florist: “Goodt — morning, matam. I will sendt rhoundt this afternoon.”
The Lady: “Very well.” She is at the door, and she is about to open it, when it is opened from the outside, and another lady, deeply veiled, presses hurriedly in, and passes down the shop to the counter, where the florist stands sorting the long-stemmed Bride roses in the box before him. The first lady does not go out; she lingers at the door, looking after the lady who has just come in; then, with a little hesitation, she slowly returns, as if she had forgotten something, and waits by the stove until the florist shall have attended to the new-comer.
The Second Lady, throwing back her veil, and bending over to look at the box of roses: “What beautiful roses! What do you call these?”
The Florist: “That is a new rhoce: the Pridte. It is jost oudt. It is coing to be a very bopular rhoce.”
The Second Lady: “How very white it is! It seems not to have the least touch of color in it! Like snow! No; it is too cold!”
The Florist: “It iss gold-looging.”
The Second Lady: “What do they use this rose for? For — for” —
The Florist: “For everything! Weddtings, theatre barties, afternoon dteas, dtinners, funerals” —
The Second Lady: “Ah, that is shocking! I can’t have it, then. I want to send some flowers to a friend who has lost her only child — a young girl — and I wish it to be something expressive — characteristic — something that won’t wound them with other associations. Have you nothing — nothing of that kind? I want something that shall be significant; something that shall be like a young girl, and yet — Haven’t you some very tall, slender, delicate flowers? Not this deathly white, but with, a little color in it? Isn’t there some kind of lily?”
The Florist: “Easder lilies? Lily-off-the-valley? Chonquils? Azaleas? Hyacinths? Marcuerites?”
The Second Lady: “No, no; they won’t do, any of them! Haven’t you any other kind of roses, that won’t be so terribly — terribly” — She looks round over the shelves and the windows banked with flowers.
The Florist: “Yes, we haf dtea-rhoces, all kindts; Marshal Niel; Matame Watterville and Matame Cousine — these pink ones; they are sister rhoces; Matame Hoste, this plack one; the Midio, here; Chacks” —
The Second Lady: “No, no! They won’t any of them do. There ought to be a flower invented that would say something — pity, sympathy — that wouldn’t hurt more than it helped. Isn’t there anything? Some flowering vine?”
The Florist: “Here is the chasmin. That is a very peautiful wine, with that sdtar-shaped flower; and the berfume” —
The Second Lady, looking at a length of the jasmine vine which he trails on the counter before her: “Yes, that is very beautiful; and it is girlish, and like — But no, it wouldn’t do! That perfume is heartbreaking! Don’t send that!”
The Florist, patiently: “Cypress wine? Smilax?”
The Second Lady, shaking her head vaguely: “Some other flowering vine.”
The Florist: “Well, we have cot noding in, at present. I coult get you some of that other chasmin — kindt of push, that gifs its berfume after dtark” —
The Second Lady: “At night? Yes, I know. That might do. But those pale green flowers, that are not like flowers — no, they wouldn’t do! I shall have to come back to your Pride roses! Why do they call it Pride?”
The Florist: “It is Pridte, not Bridte, matam.”
The Second Lady, with mystification: “Oh! Well, let me have a great many of them. Have you plenty?”
The Florist: “As many as you lige.”
The Second Lady: “Well, I don’t want any of these hard little buds. I want very long stems, and slender, with the flowers fully open, and fragile-looking — something like her.” The first lady starts. “Yes: like this — and this — and this. Be sure you get them all like these. And send them — I will give you the address.” She writes on a piece of the paper before her. “There, that is it. Here is my card. I want it to go with them.” She turns from the florist with a sigh, and presses her handkerchief to her eyes.
The Florist: “You want them to go rhighdt away?” He takes up the card, and looks at it absently, and then puts it down, and examines the roses one after another. “I don’t know whether I cot enough of these oben ones on handt, already” —
The Second Lady: “Oh, you mustn’t send them to-day! I forgot. It isn’t to be till to-morrow. You must send them in the morning. But I am going out of town to-day, and so I came in to order them now. Be very careful not to send them to-day!”
The Florist: “All rhighdt. I loog oudt.”
The Second Lady: “I am so glad you happened to ask me. It has all been so dreadfully sudden, and I am quite bewildered. Let me think if there is anything more!” As she stands with her finger to her lip, the first lady makes a movement as if about to speak, but does not say anything. “No, there is nothing more, I believe.”
The Florist, to the First Lady: “Was there somet’ing?”
The First Lady: “No. There is no hurry.”
The Second Lady, turning towards her: “Oh, I beg your pardon! I have been keeping you” —
The First Lady: “Not at all. I merely returned to — But it isn’t of the least consequence. Don’t let me hurry you!”
The Second Lady: “Oh, I have quite finished, I believe. But I can hardly realize anything, and I was afraid of going away and forgetting something, for I am on my way to the station. My husband is very ill, and I am going South with him; and this has been so sudden, so terribly unexpected. The only daughter of a friend” —
The First Lady: “The only” —
The Second Lady: “Yes, it is too much! But perhaps you have come — I ought to have thought of it; you may have come on the same kind of sad errand yourself; you will know how to excuse” —
The First Lady, with a certain resentment: “Not at all! I was just ordering some flowers for a reception.”
The Second Lady: “Oh! Then I beg your pardon! But there seems nothing else in the world but — death. I am very sorry. I beg your pardon!” She hastens out of the shop, and the first lady remains, looking a moment at the door after she has vanished. Then she goes slowly to the counter.
The Lady, severely: “Mr. Eichenlaub, I have changed my mind about the roses and the smilax. I will not have either. I want you to send me all of that jasmine vine that you can get. I will have my whole decorations of that. I wonder I didn’t think of that before. Mr. Eichenlaub!” She hesitates. “Who was that lady?”
The Florist, looking about among the loose papers before him: “Why, I dton’t know. I cot her cart here, somewhere.”
The Lady, very nervously: “Never mind about the card! I don’t wish to know who she was. I have no right to ask. No! I won’t look at it.” She refuses the card, which he has found, and which he offers to her. “I don’t care for her name, but — Where was she sending the flowers?”
The Florist, tossing about the sheets of paper on the counter: “She dtidn’t say, but she wrhote it down here, somewhere” —
The Lady, shrinking back: “No, no! I don’t want to see it! But what right had she to ask me such a thing as that? It was very bad taste; very obtuse, — whoever she was. Have you — ah — found it?”
The Florist, offering her a paper across the counter: “Yes; here it iss.”
The Lady, catching it from him, and then, after a glance at it, starting back with a shriek: “Ah-h-h! How terrible! But it can’t be! Oh, I don’t know what to think — It is the most dreadful thing that ever — It’s impossible!” She glances at the paper again, and breaks into a hysterical laugh: “Ah, ha, ha, ha, ha! Why, this is the address that I wrote out for that young gentleman’s flowers! You have made a terrible mistake, Mr. Eichenlaub — you have almost killed me. I thought — I thought that woman was sending her funeral flowers to — to” — She holds her hand over her heart, and sinks into the chair beside the counter, where she lets fall the paper. “You have almost killed me.”
The Florist: “I am very sorry. I dtidn’t subbose — But the oder attress must be here. I will fint it” — He begins tossing the papers about again.
The Lady, springing to her feet: “No, no! I wouldn’t look at it now for the world! I have had one escape. Send me all jasmine, remember.”
The Florist: “Yes, all chasmin.” The lady goes slowly and absently toward the door, where she stops, and then she turns and goes back slowly, and as if forcing herself.
The Lady: “Mr. Eichenlaub.”
The Florist: “Yes, matam.”
The Lady: “Have you — plenty — of those white — Bride roses?”
