There's a giant fuchsia next to the greenhouse, just outside the fence. It winters in the greenhouse but come spring it's carried by cart to a prominent position, near the front door. It's vulnerable situated here outside the deer fence, and since it's covered with flowers it should be attracting deer, but it doesn't; perhaps it's the dog who likes to bark at all things animal, even the birds flying overhead.
Speaking of fuchsias, Proust mentions the flower (a purple one, mine is more light pink) while he is in the midst of a description of the town of Chambray, a discussion that focuses on the church and the steeple of Saint-Hilaire. I like this sentence, and I include it to contrast the Moncrieff translation and the more recent Davis translation.
In vain might Mme. Loiseau deck her window-sills with fuchsias, which developed the bad habit of letting their branches trail at all times and in all directions, head downwards, and whose flowers had no more important business, when they were big enough to taste the joys of life, than to go and cool their purple, congested cheeks against the dark front of the church; to me such conduct sanctified the fuchsias not at all; between the flowers and the blackened stones towards which they leaned, if my eyes could discern no interval, my mind preserved the impression of an abyss.
Swann's Way, C. K. Scott Moncrieff translation
Even though Mme Loiseau might have at her window fuchsias which developed the bad habit of forever allowing their branches to run all over with heads lowered, and whose flowers had no business more pressing, when they were large enough, than to go and cool their flushed, violet cheeks against the dark front of the church, for me the fuchsias did not for this reason become holy; between the flowers and the blackened stone against which they leaned, if my eyes perceived no interval, my mind reserved an abyss.
The Way by Swann's, Lydia Davis translation