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Dr. Cima paused before the entrance to the public gardens which rose on a hill on the outskirts of town. He lingered a moment, looking at the rustic gate, an iron bar suspended between columns. Two melancholy cypress trees loomed behind them, melancholy despite the rambler roses twining in and out of their dark branches. A steep path led from the gate to the top of the hill where a pergola stood out among the trees.

Enjoying the warmth of the early sun, he waited lazily for his inertia to pass so that he could stroll in that old deserted garden. In the cool shade of the northern slope of the hill the air was heavy with the mingled fragrance of mint, sage and wild plum; the birds twittered incessantly in the nearby trees, welcoming the return of spring. The doctor gratefully breathed in the scented air, then started slowly up the path. New green bursting from all the plants, white butterflies fluttering over the flower beds—all gave a misty, dreamlike turn to his unhappy thoughts. How beautiful it was, this peaceful garden where few if any ever came to stroll!

If it were only mine, he thought, and this yearning was echoed by a prolonged sigh.

How many, like himself, had come here to walk and to sigh, If it were only mine? It is fate that whatever belongs to everyone never belongs to anyone in particular. At every turn a sign was posted: DON’T WALK ON THE FLOWER BEDS. DON’T DAMAGE THE PLANTS. DON’T PICK THE FLOWERS. You could take a look in passing! Ownership means “I” not “we,” and only one person could say “I” here: the gardener. In a sense, he was the true proprietor and for this he was paid, given a house to live in and allowed to pick the flowers which belonged to everybody and to no one, some of which he sold for his own profit.

The singing notes of one particular bird, soaring high above the others, suddenly reminded the doctor of a long-ago vacation he had spent on a dairy farm lost among trees in open country near the sea. He had been only a small boy, but how he loved hunting! Who could remember how many little birds he had shot and killed that summer!

The everyday cares and problems of his profession were set aside for the moment, but not the fact that he had turned forty his last birthday. For him, he thought, the better part of life was over and, unfortunately, he could not say he had ever really enjoyed being young. There were so many wonderful things in life! It could be so beautiful. A radiant morning like this made up for many sorrows, many disappointments.

An idea suddenly occurred to him and he paused: Should he run back to the house for his young wife? They had been married seven months now, and he would have liked to share this enchanting walk with her. But after a moment’s indecision, he continued slowly along the path. No. This enchantment must be for him alone.

His wife might have felt it, had she come here to walk by herself and without his having suggested it. Together, the charm would be lost. Even now, as he thought about it, some of the radiance had faded. A bitter taste of sorrow, vaguely sensed before, rose in his throat.

He could not reproach his wife for anything, poor dear; certainly she was not to blame for the gray hair at his temples and streaking his beard. She was all goodness. But she was only twenty-two, eighteen years younger than he. He hoped the affectionate regard she had shown for him during their brief engagement would naturally turn to love once they were married and she realized how much he loved her—like a young man despite his gray head. She was the first; he had never loved another woman.

Idle dreams! Love, real love, he had never been able to awaken in his wife—and never would, perhaps. She smiled when he appeared and she showed in many thoughtful little ways that she liked him, but this was not love.

His pain might have been less poignant were it not aggravated by an incident in his wife’s life which he was unable to treat with the same gentle indulgence he usually showed for most other things.

With all the fervor of her eighteen years, she had fallen in love with a young student who had died of typhus. He knew this because he had been the doctor called to the boy’s bedside. And he also knew that she had almost lost her mind, locking herself in her room in the dark, refusing to see anyone and never leaving the house. She even wanted to become a nun. Everybody at the time talked of nothing else but the sad fate of those two young lovers parted by death. The boy had been popular for his easy wit and charming, polite manner, while she who wept unconsolably after him was considered one of the most beautiful girls in the town.

A year passed before her family was able to persuade her to attend a few gatherings. Everyone was moved by her demeanor, her sad expression and soft smile—especially the men. To be loved by her, to rouse her from her obsessive loss, to restore her to life, to youth, became the dream, the ambition of all of them.

But she clung to her mourning. Malicious rumors began to circulate that, for all her modesty and humility, she must take a certain pride in her grief, realizing the love and admiration it inspired. But this was idle talk, prompted by jealousy and resentment. That her feelings were genuine was proven when, within a few months, she refused four or five offers of marriage from the more eligible young men.

But two years after the tragedy, by which time no one dared present himself because of the certainty of being refused, Dr. Francesco Cima proposed and was immediately accepted.

After the first surprise, however, everyone tried to explain his victory: she had said yes because the doctor was no longer young, and no one would imagine that she had married him for love, true love; she had said yes because, as a rational man, he would not expect to be loved like a young man and would be satisfied if she accorded him affection, devoted respect and gratitude.

He soon found out how true this was, and it hurt. He had to check himself constantly to keep from blurting out some remark which might betray his suffering. It was torture to feel young and not to be able to express his passion for fear of losing her esteem.

He had been young for only one woman: his old mother, who had died three years before. She would have shared his joy in this beautiful morning, and he would have run to get her without giving it a second thought. That blessed old woman! He would have found her huddled in a corner, rosary in hand, praying for all the sick under his care. Dr. Cima smiled wistfully, shaking his head as he climbed the path up the hill. In praying for his patients, his saintly old mother had shown little confidence in him or his training. Jokingly he accused her of this once and she was quick to reply that she was not praying for his patients at all but was simply asking God to help him care for them!

“So you think that without God’s help … “he began, but she did not let him finish.

“What are you saying? We need God’s help always, my son!”

And so she prayed from morning until night. He almost wished he had had fewer patients, so as not to tire her so much. His smile returned. Remembering his mother, his thoughts resumed the airy unreality of a dream, and the enchantment of the day was restored.

Suddenly his train of thought was interrupted by the new gardener, weeding up above in a grassy plot.

“I’m here, Signor Dottore. Have you been looking for me long?”

“I? No, really … ”

“It’s ready—ready and waiting ever since eight o’clock,” the gardener said, stepping forward, cap in hand, his forehead pearled with sweat. “If you want to see it, it’s right here in the pagoda. We can go there now.”

“See what?” asked the doctor, halting. “I don’t know … ”

“But, Signor Doctor—the wreath!”

“Wreath?”

The gardener looked at him, equally astonished.

“Excuse me, but isn’t today the twelfth?”

“Yes. What of it?”

“You sent your maid day before yesterday to order a wreath for today. Remember?”

“I? For the twelfth? Ah, yes, yes,” said the doctor, pretending to remember. “I … yes, I sent the maid, of course.”

“Violets and roses, don’t you remember?” the gardener said, smiling at the doctor’s absent-mindedness. “It’s been ready since eight this morning. Come and see it.”

Fortunately the gardener walked ahead, so he was unaware of the sudden change in Francesco Cima’s face as he followed along mechanically, dazed and distressed.

A wreath? His wife must have secretly ordered a wreath. The twelfth, of course—the anniversary of that boy’s death. Still such grieving, after three years? She wanted to send a wreath in secret, even now that she was married to him! She who was so timid, so modest, and yet so bold! So she still loved that boy! Would she carry his memory in her heart for life? Why had she ever married him? Why, if her heart belonged to that dead boy and always would? Why? Why? Why?

He raged inwardly as he walked along. He wanted to see the wreath, yes, see it with his own eyes before he was willing to believe his wife capable of such deception, such treachery.

When he saw it on an iron table propped against the wall, it seemed as though it were intended for him and he stood there a long, long time gazing at it.

The gardener, in his own way, mistook his silence for admiration.

“Beautiful, huh? All fresh roses and violets, you know, picked at dawn. A hundred lire, Doctor. Do you know how much work it is to put all those little violets together one by one? And the roses. They’re scarce in winter and as soon as the season comes on everybody wants them. A hundred lire is very little. It’s really worth at least another twenty.”

The doctor tried to speak, but he had no voice left. His lips parted in a pitiful smile and finally he managed to get out, “I’ll pay you for it. A hundred lire—too little. Roses and violets, yes. Here are a hundred and twenty.”

“Thank you, Signor Doctor,” said the gardener, quickly taking the money. “I think it’s well worth it.”

“Keep it here,” the doctor said, putting his wallet back into his pocket. “If the maid comes, don’t give it to her. I will return for it myself.”

He went out of the pagoda and down the winding path. As soon as he was alone and unseen, he stopped and clenched his fists, his face twisting into a sobbing laugh. “And I’m the one who paid for it!”

What should he do now? Take his wife back to her father’s house without, of course, saying anything to hurt her? That was what she deserved. Let her go off and cry for that dead boy at a distance without playing unfairly with the heart of an honest man whom it was her duty to respect, if nothing else. Neither love nor respect? She refused the younger men and accepted him because to her he seemed old, and she was sure he would not dream of claiming her love. With that grizzled beard, he would shut an eye, even both eyes, on her consuming sorrow. An old man couldn’t object to anything. So she had planned to send a wreath on the sly. Now that she was married, at least she had not thought it fitting to go herself. Yet, however old her husband might be in her eyes, this was carrying things too far. She had sent the maid to order the wreath in proof of her undying love, and the maid would then have taken it to the boy’s tomb.

How unjust the death of that boy had been! Had he lived, had he grown to be a man and become familiar with all the little deceits of life and had married his dear, loving girl, she would soon have discovered that it is one thing to make love from a window at eighteen and quite another to face stern, everyday realities when the first ardor cools and the tedium of daily living leads to quarrels. That’s when a young husband grows bored and first considers being unfaithful to his wife. Ah, if only she had known such an experience with that young man, then, perhaps, this “old” one …

He clenched his hands so hard that the nails dug into his palms. Looking down at his white, trembling hands, he got hold of himself. The first shock had passed. He stood there staring; then, seeing a bench not far off, he went over stiffly and sat down.

After all, wasn’t this “old” man proposing to act like any young blood—make a scene, create a situation? And all those who had so readily pieced together her reasons for accepting him would then exclaim, “For shame! What on earth for? A wreath of flowers? Why not? She always sent a wreath to the cemetery on the twelfth, but the new gardener didn’t know that. This year too she remembered, naturally, because the doctor has not been able to make her forget. It was wrong of her, no doubt, but one cannot reason with the heart. And after all the boy is dead!”

That is about what it would amount to.

Then what should he do? Let it go? Pretend to know nothing about it? Go back to the gardener and tell him to give the wreath to the maid, the wreath Cima had intended to keep there to confront her with?

No. Not that. He would then have to get his money back from the man and take him into his confidence.

Well, what then? Go back to the house and demand useless explanations? Face his wife with her poor subterfuge? Punish her? How contemptible all that was! How distasteful!

It was serious, and it went deep—serious because of the ridicule it would cause were his wife’s true feelings for him to become known. He must control himself and realize that it did no good to feel young as long as everyone considered you mature, almost on the shelf. A very young man might have made a scene, but at his age he must win his wife’s respect another way.

He got up, perfectly calm now, yet with a feeling of listlessness. The birds continued to twitter gaily in the garden, but where was the enchantment of a moment ago?

Francesco Cima walked out of the garden and started home. When he came to his own front door his calm vanished. Suddenly breathless, he wondered how he had ever managed the steps on such shaky legs. The idea of seeing his wife again now … She must be feeling sadder than usual today, but she would probably know how to conceal her sorrow. He loved her—oh, how he loved her! And deep within himself he knew that she deserved to be loved because she was good, just as good as the perfection of her delicate features showed her to be, and the depth of her velvety black eyes, the pallor of her lovely face.

The maid opened the door. The sight of her disconcerted him, for the old woman was in on the secret, a sort of accomplice. She had served his wife’s parents for many years and was now devoted to her, so it was likely she would not talk. And certainly she would not be able to assess, nor even to understand, what he was about to do. In any case, she was an outsider. He wanted this to be a secret between his wife and himself.

He went straight to her room and found her combing her hair before the mirror. Between her raised arms he caught sight of her face, reflecting a look of surprise to see him home at this hour.

“I came back,” he said, “to invite you to come out with me.”

“Now?” she asked, turning around without lowering her arms, smiling faintly, with that lovely mass of soft black hair piled loosely on her head.

Her pale smile upset him almost to the point of tears. He imagined it held a profound pity for him, for his love of her, as well as her own sorrow.

“Yes, now,” he replied. “It is so beautiful out of doors. Hurry. We’ll go to the little garden, then farther on, into the country. We’ll take a carriage.”

“Why?” she asked almost unconsciously. “Why today?”

At that question, he feared his expression would surely betray him. It was already a struggle to keep his voice calm.

“Wouldn’t you like to go today?” he said. “It will do you good. Hurry! I want you to come with me.” He went to the door and turned. “I’ll wait for you in the office.”

In a short time she was ready. For that matter, she always did as he wished except where her heart was concerned, and there he had no power. She had put up that timid opposition: Why today? Yet even today, despite the sadness she must be feeling, she had obeyed him and was ready to go for a ride in the country, wherever he wished.

They went out and walked awhile through the small town; then he hired a carriage and ordered the driver to stop at the little garden. He went up alone, asking his wife gently to wait for him there a moment.

Dismayed when she saw him coming down the path followed by the gardener with the wreath, she almost fainted. But he encouraged her with a look.

“To the cemetery!” he said to the driver, jumping into the carriage.

As soon as they started off, she burst into tears and covered her face with her handkerchief.

“Don’t cry,” he said softly. “I didn’t want to speak about it at home, and I don’t want to say anything now. Please don’t cry. It came about by accident. I had gone for a walk in the garden and the gardener, thinking I had ordered the wreath, mentioned it. Don’t cry any more. We will go and leave it there together.”

She kept her eyes hidden in the handkerchief until the carriage came to a stop at the gate of the cemetery.

He helped her down, then picked up the wreath and walked in with her.

“Come,” he said, taking the first path to the left and looking at the graves, one by one, along the row.

It was the next to the last grave along that path. He took off his hat to lay the wreath at the foot of the grave, then stepped back quietly and withdrew to give her time to say a prayer. But she stayed there, silent, with the handkerchief still pressed to her eyes. She had not a thought, not a tear, for the dead boy. As though lost, she suddenly turned and looked at her husband as she had never looked at him before.

“Forgive me! Forgive me, Francesco! Take me home,” she cried, clinging to his arm.