For three days there has been such an excitement of desire within me that I couldn’t interpret it or its cause at all.
I couldn’t succeed in calming my nerves. Finally—even though I knew well the sorrow and grief that would arise from my husband’s inability to gratify my whim—I decided. That evening when he came from the bank where he worked, as always, tired and sweating, before offering my customary kiss of affection I cried out: “A rose!”
He was looking at my face, astonished and questioning: “A rose, a rose… I need it so much, a rose, a spring flower…”
And I explained further. Shaking his head sadly, he was saying: “From a village… a rose in winter…”
I was insisting so much that I got angry that very evening and insisted on not speaking until the rose arrived. Finally, laughing and mockingly, he agreed: “Let’s write to our friend Viscount (K.) in Paris. Perhaps it will arrive here without wilting…”
We women are strange. Despite this agreement, I had vowed to continue being angry until it arrived. My eyes were fixed on the postal carriage every day.
**
Strange desire… I thought that this one rose would be a spring of pleasure for me. But a week had passed and still no news had come. Now I was feeling anger and resentment toward him. Naturally, while a malaise and a preoccupation were calming my nerves for about a week, when I opened my eyes after the first moment of pain, I felt that the first beat in my heart consisted of a need for a rose. Our quarrel was still continuing. But I sensed such deep happiness in my husband that I thought he was definitely doing this deliberately against me and I grew even more angry.
The next evening the Viscount descended from the postal carriage with his old exalted and dignified manner. I had stretched out by the window. My excitement was so intense that I couldn’t speak. Now I remembered. When I asked for the rose, we had also invited the Viscount to the baptism ceremony of our baby—which caused my suffering—which was soon to take place.
Though we sat together, neither he, nor I, nor my husband opened any subject about the rose. I didn’t dare. But I was also terribly bored… As a result, he hadn’t brought the rose; if he had brought it, he should have given it by now. Now I was truly angry.
**
The next day they were to perform the baptism ceremony with the village priest and a few acquaintances. At one point when the priest turned his head to my husband, he was smiling, happy and content.
My husband signaled to the Viscount and—putting his left hand in his vest pocket as he does when he’s most pleased—was looking at me carefully, carefully, and smiling.
At that moment the Viscount, bending over the little one and performing the particular ceremony, said in a loud and sweet voice, sharply: “La rose!”
My husband was still smiling and looking into my eyes gently. I immediately understood and trembled, and reaching out my hand, I squeezed my husband’s sacred and respected hand of affection. This was proof that I had made peace.
**
Ah, this gift, this rose that calmed all my nerves… And I was thinking as I walked along: A rose, a few seconds, at most one spring would perfume and delight me. But this one will make my whole life bloom, this rose will be an eternal pleasure and happiness for me…
Ömer Seyfettin
