CHAPTER X

THE AUTUMN CROCUS

“Tu viens, Automne,Tu viens ensevelir dans tes habits de fêteLes cadavres couchés au champ de leur défaite.”Aloys Blondel (the Swiss Poet).

“Tu viens, Automne,

Tu viens ensevelir dans tes habits de fête

Les cadavres couchés au champ de leur défaite.”

Aloys Blondel (the Swiss Poet).

Perhapsthe only flower to bless, and bless again, the passage of the scythe over the damp slopes and fields of Alpine Switzerland isColchicum autumnale, the so-called Autumn Crocus; for, from the close-cropped grass it pushes up its blossoms when all other field-growth has done its utmost. What sorry plight it would be in if the tall yellowing plants and grasses were still left standing, cumbering the ground with a dense and matted vegetation! It would be smothered; or, at best, it would have a fearsome struggle to see the sky. One wonders how it contrived when, in ages past, these meadows went uncut. One wonders if the active appetites of browsing animals sufficed toclear the ground in anticipation of its scheduled advent; and, should this not have been the case, one wonders if at that time it were an inhabitant of such fields as these, or whether it were denizened in more propitious places?

For as soon as the haymakers have gone their way, this lovely flower begins its apparition. Often, even within a week of the haymakers’ visit, hundreds upon hundreds of its creamy-white pointed buds will show as if by magic above the close turf; and after a day or two more of sunshine, the fields will have regained what is almost springtime life and gaiety. Many of us were sighing whilst we watched the scythe’s disastrous progress, and were saying that all was over and it was time to be moving plainwards; but those of us who knew, said: “Wait—wait! These fields have yet another trump-card to play!”

“What awe and worship follow in her wake,When Nature works wild magic all her own!”

“What awe and worship follow in her wake,

When Nature works wild magic all her own!”

A week ago we looked for colour to the autumn-infected bush and tree, and now quite suddenly, over the tired fields, there steals a pale magenta glow, almost as the spring-glow spread by the Bird’s-Eye or Mealy Primrose; a week ago welived and dreamed upon the past, and now we are startled back to the present by this, “the last that the damp earth yields”—last but not least—last but in some ways equal to the first.

This Colchicum receives, in spring, in summer, and in autumn, as much general attention as any plant in Alpine or sub-Alpine vegetation. In spring and summer the cluster of rich-green Lily-like leaves attracts the eye and raises the curiosity and expectation of even the casual observer, especially when this observer notices what he almost invariably takes to be a flower-bud nestling in the heart of the leaves; for if there is one family of plants which the world worships more than another, it is the Lily family. And this Autumn Crocus is very commonly taken for a Lily—a Lily soon to burst into rare and glorious bloom.

ROSA ALPINA, the thornless Alpine Eglantine.

But it is not the flower-bud our casual observer sees; it is the seed-head. The plant blooms, leafless, in the autumn; its seed-vessel is tucked away for the winter a foot or more beneath the surface of the ground, to rise with the leaves in the spring, and to ripen with the leaves in the summer. Yet, if our casual friend is wrong as regards the natureof the seed-head in the spring, he is right as regards the nature of the leaves; though he is again wrong in the autumn, and this time as regards the nature of the flower. For the Colchicum is not a Crocus. Although its magenta-pink blossom is of Crocus-like form, it has six stamens and three styles with which the humble-bee may busy himself; whereas the Crocus has but three stamens and one style. There does exist a purple autumnal Crocus—Crocus nudiflorus, indigenous to England, and with the same habit of flowering and producing its seed as the Colchicum’s—but this and the Colchicum belong to different natural orders.

The Colchicum is a member of the Lily family, and, as such, is related to some of the most distinguished members of the flower-world. For this reason, too, it is allied to such diverse plants as the Herb Paris, the Lily-of-the-Valley, the Asparagus, and the Spiked Star of Bethlehem (Ornithogalum pyrenaicum), an indigenous English plant whose young spring shoots are sold and eaten in Bath as “French” Asparagus. It has also as blood-relation the Onion and the Garlic, which, according to Professor G. S. Boulger, “were given divine honours by the ancient Egyptians”; also the curious Butcher’s Broom or Knee Holly,and the real Star of Bethlehem (Ornithogalum umbellatum), whose bulbs in Palestine are cooked and eaten.

But if the bulbs and young shoots of some members of this singularly “mixed” family are esteemed as table delicacies, not so the bulbs and shoots of the Colchicum, for these are poisonous to a high degree—in fact, the whole of the plant may be labelled “Dangerous.” Although the flower is less poisonous than the seed and the bulb, yet many a time I have seen bees which had sought refuge from the night or from rough and stormy weather, lying prone and stark within the lovely pink chalices, victims of a misplaced confidence. The seed contains a deadly alkaloid (colchicin), used especially in cases of gout. Where the plant grows in quantities it depreciates the value of the meadows; for the cattle, wiser in their generation than the bees, give it a wide berth at all seasons. And it is no easy subject to drive from the fields when once it has gained firm footing. It buries its dark chestnut-coloured, scaly bulb at least a foot down in the peaty soil, necessitating the cutting of a good-sized hole before it can be extirpated. Hence, if it is growing as it almost invariably does, in fairly close-packed abundance,the meadow will have to be deep-dug all over; and such radical measure as this the peasants as a rule refuse to take, contenting themselves with pulling up the leaf and stalk before the fields are cut, or with sorting them out from the new-mown hay.

As a plant indigenous to the British Isles it is very local, though widely distributed. Saffron Walden, in Essex, is named after it, and it is found in Ireland and in some parts of Scotland, especially upon the damp meadows of limestone districts.

The name Colchicum, of Greek origin, is said to be derived from Colchis, a province in Asia famous for poisonous herbs. In England, besides the names of Autumn Crocus and Meadow Saffron (Crocus sativusis really the true Saffron Crocus), its flower is known in some parts of the country as Naked Boy, and in Dorset as Naked Lucy, an allusion, of course, to it being bare of leaves. In France its popular names are seemingly more various, and besides the general one ofColchique, it has those ofVeilleuse,Veillotte,Violon,Vache,andTue-chien; while in the patois of Marseilles it is known asBramo-Vaco, and in that of Gascony asSafra dès prats. InGermany its best-known appellation isHerbst-Zeitlose.

There is an Alpine form of the Meadow Saffron—Colchicum alpinum—and this is to be found upon the fields from an altitude of about 3,000 feet to some 4,500 feet, according to M. Henry Correvon, and from about 1,800 feet to some 6,000 feet, according to Professor Flahault. Mr. Newell Arber calls it a rare plant “sometimes found in Canton Tessin and the Valais,” but my own experience is that it is local rather than rare, and that it is fairly frequent in Canton Valais, especially in non-limestone regions. Its habit is the same as that ofautumnale: two to three upright leaves surrounding the fruit in the spring, and the flowers appearing “naked” in autumn upon “dim fields fresh with blooming dew.” But the leaves are narrower than those ofautumnale, and the flower is smaller, daintier, morepetite, with a suspicion of canary-yellow tinting the stem, which, inautumnale, is white or creamy-white.

I have sometimes noted the two—autumnaleandalpinum—hob-nobbing upon the same slope or field. Such fraternity exists, for instance, quite near to the snug little village of Trient, beneaththe Col de la Forclaz and the Col de Balme, and again on a rich grassy slope by the lake of Champex; and where this occurs the difference between the two flowers is manifest.Colchicum alpinummay be only the Alpine form ofautumnale, but if it is, it is, I believe, a fixed form—a form which, unlike some Alpine forms of lowland flowers (such as, for example,Anthyllis vulneraria), steadfastly maintains its highland character when transported to the gardens of the plain. For if instability exists, why should we find upon the fields where both do congregate, no intermediate forms marking the passage ofautumnaletoalpinumand vice versa? I believe it to be as constant as isGentiana brachyphylla, although this is said to be but a high Alpine form ofG. verna. I believe it to be as “constant as the northern star.”

In a poem to “Noon,” Michael Field sings:

“... Sharply on my mindPresses the sorrow; fern and flower are blind”;

“... Sharply on my mind

Presses the sorrow; fern and flower are blind”;

and this is no uncommon thought, no uncommon “sorrow” for others than poets to have. Pity for the dear, blind flowers; pity, therefore, forsuch a flower as the Autumn Crocus; is it justified? I imagine it is not. I venture even to say I am sure it is not.

Here is a flower that is exceptional. It defies the general rule, the usual sequence of life for flowers. It reverses the customary order of events and, so to speak, turns day into night. And it does so with the utmost felicity. Its well-being is ideal, for it shows perfect adaptation to its circumstance. What, then, have we? “What rumour of what mystery?” Can it be a rumour of disability through blindness? Is it a rumour of the mystery of justice? Is it, that is to say, a rumour of “injustice”? I think not; nay, I am sure not. It is, if you ask me, a rumour of that wide and many-sided efficiency to which we refer when we declare: “There are more ways than one of killing a cat.”

The fault is quite a common one with us. We fall into it each time we talk of animals—the “poor, dumb animals.” Wherefore poor? Wherefore dumb? Man, noisily verbose, condescends to commiserate with anything less noisy or less verbose than himself. To him, an absence of capacity for a volubility matching his own marks unhappiness. What, he asks, would not a cowgive for humanity’s gift of the gab? Anything short of a garrulous chatterbox of a mouse must be a wretched mouse!

How contorted a view to take when every living thing (except, perhaps, man) is capable of adequate communion with its kind, and when that which is adequate is happy! The method of communication may not be man’s method; he may not understand a sound of it, and there may even be no sound for him to hear; nevertheless there is language clear and effective—perhaps more clear and more effective than his own. Who shall say the language of the ant or the bee is not more developed and more efficient than either English or Chinese? Efficiency does not ultimately lie in complexity, neither does it ultimately depend upon noise.

I have no doubt that a horse, unless he has better sense, feels the profoundest pity for his garrulous master, and counts him among the most unhappy of his acquaintances. A lion’s roar or a bat’s squeak may contain a wealth of information such as it would take Man an hour’s hard talking to translate; and both may indicate a world of happiness.

Man, the rowdiest animal in Creation, is alsothe most conceited. He is for ever thanking his stars he is not as others are; and this enables him to misplace a vast amount of pity. I warrant the poor, dumb, grunting pig is perfectly happy—far happier than the most glib of human orators; and far more to the point. Poor, dumb animals? Why, what a poor, talkative creature is man! And how unmindful of his own proverb about “little pitchers”!

Eyes are not everything, ears are not everything, tongues are not everything. Neither are eyes, ears, and tongues together everything. There is sight without eyes, hearing without ears, and speech without tongues. Science can prove it, when Science chooses. For there is sense behind our senses—sense as unerring as any declared by our senses. I have, indeed, a shrewd suspicion that we may be poor beside the ant; and I have a somewhat uncomfortable feeling that in some ways we may be paupers beside poor, blindColchicum autumnale.

Young plants ofVERATRUM ALBUM, together withSALVIA PRATENSIS,PHYTEUMA BETONICÆFOLIUM,P. ORBICULARE, the white and the yellow Euphrasia, and the yellow Clover, drawn on the spot at the beginning of July.

Have you ever stayed for autumn in the Alps? Have you seen the Bilberry glowing among the stolid Rhododendron; the Eglantine and Berberis bowing beneath the weight of their fiery fruit; the long-tailed and the crested titmouse huntingin tuneful bands from sombre Pine to yellowing Larch; the massed companies of piping choughs surveying for food-stuff upon the open slopes; and the dark grey or russet viper basking boldly on the sun-baked path? Have you known the mists and mystery that soften the great and gorgeous carnival with which Nature celebrates the closing of the round of her live seasons? If you have, then you will, I know, bear witness with me to the fullness of this season’s allure; you will agree that everything around you is in rich accord to sing a glad, gay pæan ere taking a meed of well-earned repose; and you will admit that, as an item in this splendid spectacle, nothing is more important, more appropriate, thanColchicum autumnaleandalpinum.

Among the most delightful of life’s moments are many of life’s surprises, and in the floral world few surprises can supply more delightful moments than the unexpected advent of this “Crocus”

“... fashioned in the secret mint of thingsAnd bidden to be here.”

“... fashioned in the secret mint of things

And bidden to be here.”

Spring tries hard to repeat herself in the two Meadow Saffrons. One day

“The meadows are waving highWith plumy grasses of grey”;

“The meadows are waving high

With plumy grasses of grey”;

the next, the scythe comes, and, like Harlequin’swand, passes restless athwart the ripe scene—and, hey, presto! the fields have all the closeness of the fields in springtime, and are studded with countless rosy stars of the Autumn Crocus, just as, in the first days of the year, they are studded with the myriad rosy stars ofBulbocodium vernum, near relative of our tardyColchique. It is September struggling to be May or, even, April. It is the goddess of the flower-fields bidding us to a rosy hope in her recurrent reign.

And yet, and yet—autumn is noticeably in the blood of things. This is not quite the rosiness of the year’s youth. There is something of mauve in it; something of a becoming consideration for old age. It is obviously an autumnal pink—a pink which falls without ado into the glorious colour-scheme of Nature’s kindling funeral-pyre. It has something of the spirit of the colouring surrounding a Chinese burial. There is sadness, if you will; but there is gladness, whether you will or not. Chopin’s famous Funeral March might have been inspired by autumn’s pale-magenta “Crocus.”

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