A GARDEN IN VENICE 



In a warm climate there are few things more 

 enjoyable than a stroll, even in August, under a 

 vine pergola. You walk in deep shade, the fierce 

 sun held outside, the big bunches of grapes, black 

 and purple, yellow and golden, all the promise of 

 a rich harvest, hanging down to knock your hat, 

 to blob your nose, feast your eye, and tempt 

 your lips. 



The rose, too, needs support, and this should 

 be given so as to show the beauty of the plant 

 and the redundance of its bloom. But under the 

 pergola you see nothing but what you should not 

 see; the unhealthy leaves, pining for light and 

 air, and possibly an occasional blossom fading 

 and colourless. The pendant growth of the grape 

 brings its fruit into sight, the upward shoot of 

 the rose carries its flowers out of touch and view. 

 So that to see a rose, much more to pick one, 

 you must go outside the pergola that holds it. 



The support, then, in the nature of a pergola, 

 best fitted for the rose is not a pergola but an 

 arbour. Coming to such a leafy rose-house the 

 wealth of blossom on either side, and even on the 



29 



