From the book
'For Love of a Rose'

by Antonia Ridge

A story of remarkable coincidence, or superb American timing, or a truth far more amazing, far more moving than any far fetched feat of fiction?

Antoine Meilland, and his son Francis, most distinguished rose growers who lived near Lyons, had devoted their lives to growing and propagating roses; beautiful, charming roses; they would cross one rose with another, and one day would make all other professional rose-growers gasp with surprise to behold a glorious new rose created by Monsieur Antoine Meilland. But as war loomed, the trial beds had to be almost emptied of roses. And all the roses they dug up had to be discarded on a scrap heap; roses they had been nurturing for many years. Now, they had to grow vegetables instead.

Just before all normal communications in Europe were cut, though, Antoine had managed to send out three small parcels; one to his rose-grower friend in Italy, and another to the one in Germany; the third was sent to his American friend, Robert Pyle, at the American Consulate in Lyons, a friendly and most generous man, who was about to leave France hurriedly for America. In each of the three parcels was a bundle of roses which had been budded from one rose, selected along with 49 others, from a batch of eight hundred seedlings a few years earlier to be grown on in one of the trial beds to see if it possessed any qualities which exceeded those of the other roses. And only a few months ago a group of rose growers from all over the world had gathered at the Meilland's home and had expressed admiration for this rose which had been labelled with an identification number of 3 - 35 - 40. Each and every rose-grower had wished to try it out as soon as budded stock became available. It had proved to be a regal rose with the most handsome buds slowly opening into most generous blooms shading from ivory to pale gold, and fringed with delicate pink; and the colours seemed to vary from hour to hour and from flower to flower.

In the months that followed they wondered what had become of the three small consignments. Had they arrived safely, or had some Gauleiter in Germany or some Blackshirt in Italy intercepted them and tossed them out to die? Had that very last Clipper to leave unhappy France for America arrived safely?

Because there had been no possibility of discussing it with the other rose-growers to whom he had sent the three batches, Antoine Meilland chose a name, the only name for 3 - 35 - 40. There had been none of the usual family discussions, no putting together of heads. The name was to be 'Madame A. Meilland', after Claudia, Antoines' wife.

Eventually, news trickled through to them that their friendly German client had not only received his consignment of 3 - 35 - 40 safely, but in spite of all crippling restrictions had even managed to try it out in his own garden; and he was so much in love with it that he, too, had given it a name: Gloria Dei. And it was being sold under that name in Hitler's Germany. And Glory be to God, indeed, that he had dared to give it so significant, so lovely a name, courageously ignoring the 'All Highest War Lord' now lording it over sullen, hungry, occupied Europe.

Then came still more news; and this trickled through to them in an equally roundabout way - from Italy this time. Their rose-grower there had also safely received his consignment of 3 - 35 - 40; he, too, had managed to test it, prove its wonderful qualities, and he had given it the happiest of Italian names: Gioia! Joy!

This too warmed their hearts, for who in their senses would associate joy with bellowing Duce Mussolini. But no news whatsoever came trickling through about the last clipper to America, that small one pound consignment addressed to Robert Pyle.

By the end of August the Parisians were singing and weeping for joy along their boulevards. Their city was free again. And presently Germany herself was tasting invasion by the Russians to the East and the Allies to the West.

A month to the day after the liberation of France, a letter arrived with an American stamp on it. Francis tore it open and stood very still and silent looking down at it. It was from Robert Pyle of Pennsylvania, America.

And this is what he had written:

'Whilst dictating this letter my eyes are fixed in fascinated admiration on a glorious rose, its pale gold, cream and ivory petals blending to a lightly ruffled edge of delicate carmine.
There it is before me, majestic, full of promise, and I am convinced it will be the greatest rose of the century.'

Robert Pyle had wasted no time. He had not only promptly propagated 3 - 35 - 40, planted it out and tested it on its own trial beds, he had also sent supplies to be tested by many other eminent professional rose-growers with gardens up and down the United States of America. In short it had been rigorously tested in all manner of American soils, in all kinds of American weather, and in every rose field it had been a success; it had won the hearts of all rose-growers everywhere.

The American Rose Society had then studied reports sent in by their members who between them represented every state in America, and they had been so assured of the exceptional qualities of 3 - 35 - 40 that they decided to pay the warmest of tributes to this outstanding rose that had literally arrived out of the blue from desolate, enemy-occupied France. They agreed to organise a name giving ceremony for it at the Pacific Rose Society's Exhibition at Pasadena, California, on Sunday, April 29th, 1945, this date having to be decided many months in advance.

The war was still raging in Europe, communications were still cut, and there was no way of knowing if Antoine Meilland and Francis were still alive, or if their rose gardens at Tassin, near Lyons still existed. Robert Pyle had therefore consulted other eminent professional rose-growers, and between them they had drawn up this moving statement:

'We are persuaded that this greatest new rose of our time should be named for the World's greatest desire: PEACE.
'We believe that this rose is destined to live on as a classic in our grandchildren's gardens for generations to come. We would use the word "Peace" to preserve the knowledge that we have gained the hard way that peace is increasingly essential to all mankind, to be treasured with greater wisdom, watchfulness, and foresight than the human race has so far been able to maintain for any great length of time.
Towards that end, with our hopes for the future, we dedicate this lovely new rose to:
                                'PEACE'

And on that sunny day, April 29th, 1945, before a great gathering of rose-lovers who had travelled to Pasadena from all over America, two white doves were set free and soared high into the blue Californian sky as 3 - 35 - 40 was solemnly given its lovely American name, 'Peace'.

And call it singular coincidence or what you will, but on that day, fixed so long ago in advance, Berlin fell.

Peace Rose

Robert Pyle then wound up his letter by saying how much he was hoping and praying it would safely reach them, and how warmly delighted he would now be to have news of them, good news.

Antoine Meilland says that never before could there have been a more welcome and friendly letter from America. But all he himself could do was get up abruptly, go down to the cellar, and bring up a hidden bottle and pour them all a festive and steadying little glass; and they drank to peace and freedom, and Robert Pyle and all other rose-growers the wide World over.

That night Francis took his pen and strove to find words to set down all that was in their hearts.

'Fate has willed,' he wrote, 'that our rose, 3 - 35 - 40, should be known under different names in different countries, but each of these names surely shows that in seeing such a lovely rose, men of good will will cry "Gloria Dei", be moved to "Joy" and will most truly desire "Peace".
And here in France our rose will bloom to the lovely memory of a beloved wife and mother: Madame A. Meilland.'

This welcome post-war letter was the first of many that now came fast one after the other. Imagine how they felt for instance to learn that when the forty nine delegates to the newly formed United Nations first met in San Francisco, as each delegate came into the hotel room reserved for him, he saw in a vase on a table a beautiful rose with this message before it from the Secretary of the American Rose Society:

'This is the rose "Peace" which received its name the day Berlin fell. May it help to move all men of goodwill to strive for peace on Earth for all mankind.'

And on that day, that very day, a truce was declared in devastated Europe. On that day for the first time in six long cruel years, no bombs fell, the guns were silent; and that night no sirens wailed and the children of Europe slept in peace.

Then came another memorable day when the most critical and discerning of American judges of roses gave the All-American Award to the new rose 'Peace'. On that day the war in Japan came to an end.

A month later for the very first time in its history, the American Rose Society gave its supreme award, its gold medal, to a new rose. That rose was 'Peace'. And on that day a peace treaty was signed in Japan. Superb American timing? Impossible, for the dates of all famous rose-shows are always fixed months in advance.

So cry remarkable coincidence or what one may, but here again the truth was far more amazing, far more moving than any far fetched feat of fiction.

Just as rewarding and even more heart-warming than all the medals were the letters that began to pour in from all over the World. Peace roses were being planted on graves from the Philippines to Rotterdam, and beds of roses the World over were blooming around hospitals and in public parks and gardens where old people sit in the sun and children play. But for what reason? Surely not because it had become all the rage, or even because of its gentle name? No, maybe the English naturalist Richard Jeffries had put his finger on it when he wrote:'The hours when the soul is absorbed by beauty are the only hours when we truly live.'

For six endless years, hideous destruction and death had had their savage fling, and now just to stand for a moment absorbed, caught up in the tranquil beauty of a new rose, perhaps people caught again a glimpse of what it was to live again, truly live.

Nine years after the Americans gave it its lovely name, thirty million 'Peace' rosebushes were flowering all over the World; and Francis wrote in his diary:

'How rewarding it is for an ordinary working gardener to know his rose is growing in cottage gardens, in the grounds of mansions, and mosques and hospitals, and in public parks; and to think that so many people are now seeing the rose he alone once saw in his mind as he strove to create it. How strange to think too that all these millions of rose bushes sprang from one tiny seed no bigger than the head of a pin, a seed which might so easily have been overlooked, or neglected in a moment of inattention.'

One could argue of course that this is the eternal miracle of the survival of all living things.

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