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I've always had an interest in gardens and in the natural world. I soon realized that these were more than just flowers to me, but people, places, pictures, history, thoughts...
Starting from a detail seen during one of my visits, unexpected worlds come out, sometimes turned to the past, others to the future.

Travel in a Garden invites you to discover them.

Monday, March 28, 2011

The lumber room - Saki

The gooseberry garden is abruptly introduced at the beginning of this short story by the nameless aunt. Punished for having put a frog in his milk bowl during breakfast, Nicholas cannot enter into it. I imagine this square garden with the clipped gooseberry shrubs lined up along the perimeter, with round translucent green berries and small spring-green leaves that hide sharp spines. The compact rows are interrupted just in proximity of the two doors that allow the entrance into the garden. These are flanked by large ball of glossy-green buxus and framed by scented roses and clematis. Unrestrained plants grow inside the geometric area disturbing the ordered perspective. Over grown artichokes, excessive raspberry canes and other fruit bushes create a screen around this “…forbidden paradise.” They hide beds of vegetables, maybe zucchini, spinach and carrots or potatoes and tomatoes or salads, onions and abundant flowers. Buzzing bees, annoying flies and lonely butterflies are not mentioned, nor is the smell of the earth and the grass, or the drip of water in the watering can. Hector Hugh Munro, the British novelist known by the pen-name Saki, does not linger on this picture full of life, as Nicholas does not attempt to enter into the forbidden garden but twice, after the departure of his cousins and younger brother for an afternoon expedition to Jagborough cove. He has other plans. Finally, when he is sure that the aunt alarmed by his sorties is firmly settled in the garden occupied in “… trivial gardening operations”, Nicholas takes a key and enters into a place “… carefully sealed from youthful eyes and concerning which no questions were ever answered”: the lumber-room. 

The contrast between the garden and the room is striking: outside life flows in the sunshine while the large room is dimly lighted, damp and maybe cold. But, “… it came up to his expectations.” Beautiful and useless objects, banished from the house to prevent their damaging, lie forgotten in the dust. In his imaginative mind, these wonders recall exotic unknown worlds he can create to his fancy: Indian hangings with hunting scenes, “… twisted candlesticks in the shape of snakes, and a teapot fashioned like a china duck..”, ”… little brass figures, hump-necked bulls, and peacocks and goblins delightful to see and to handle…” A large anonymous square book “… full of coloured pictures of birds.” The gooseberry garden becomes a “…stale delight, a mere material pleasure” compared to this “…unknown land”.

His aunt’s shrieks catch his attention, and he leaves the secret room for the garden. She is calling for help: she slipped in the rain-water tank while she was looking for him, and now she is not able to get out of it. Nicholas’s revenge is firm but measured. And sweet, as he skillfully turns against her all those arguments she usually says to control and scare the children. So, he cannot fetch the ladder to help her because he is an obedient and respectful child who has been told not to enter the garden. Besides, her strange voice awakes his suspicions: is the Evil One hidden in the garden to tempt him? He promptly proves his assertion with a trick, then, satisfied, leaves the garden and the task to rescue the angry woman to a maid who is looking for parsley. 

It is easy to love this brave child who challenges the adult world to test its consistency and follow his fantasies. He does not dispute rules and punishments, but this does not prevent him to reason about the “older, wiser and better people”. He observes them concluding with “childish discernment” that they make mistakes, they are unfair and they contradict themselves. But he is a child. He lives the present. The aunt, actually his cousins’ aunt but with extended educational powers on him too, was inspired by the real author’s aunt. She exerts a tyrannical authority that reveals her hypocrisy and unfair character. She has no love and is not able to understand or communicate with these children. She banished beauty, fancy and enjoyment from their lives and with perverse pleasure restraints their education to absurd punishments and prohibitions.

The end of the day is the epilogue of the short story. They gather around the table for the tea in a cold atmosphere and “in a fearsome silence.” His aunt is still angry for the fall in the water-tank and the other children complain a disastrous expedition to the cove. Nicholas does not care. He is absorbed in the magic world he discovered behind the door, in a hunting scene with hounds, wolves and a wounded stag.
This is the only real world for a child and certainly the only impossible world for adults.

This short story is included in the collection “Beasts and Super-Beasts”, published for the first time in 1914. I am currently searching this book, I hope to find more about the gooseberry garden in the other 36 short stories.



Photos:
Travelinagarden.

Monday, February 28, 2011

"If winter comes, can spring be far behind?"

During the week-end, I raked dried leaves, cut dried stems of iris sibirica and pruned hydrangeas.

Facing old shrubs of hydrangea with pruning shears and saw marks the official beginning of spring. There is a first group of hydrangea macrophylla Mopheads close to the house, against a wall with primroses at their feet. The second group is in a hidden corner, exuberant hydrangeas quercifiolia with their long rusty-brown panicles intact after the freeze of winter. The third and last group of unhappy hydrangea macrophylla Lacecap is in the back of the house, in an open lawn too exposed and besieged by uncontrollable weeds to develop properly. 

I eliminated old wood and dead branches, proceeding fast and determined to behead faded blooms reducing the length of the lateral branches to the suggested number of buds. At least, for the first three or four shrubs.


Primroses and narcissus are just an idea in this north exposed area where snow lingers for long time. I spread a generous layer of manure at the base of these old shrubs in the hope of immediate abundant rains and summer gorgeous flowers. I stopped for a cup of mid-morning coffee and wasted time in the vain search for the book where I had read a romantic and improbable story about this shrub. With the name Hortense, the French plant hunter and botanist Philibert Commerson celebrated in 1771 his brave and reliable assistant Jean Baret. In Thaiti, circumstances forced Jean to reveal his true nature of young woman. When the dangerous expedition around the world finished, Jeanne changed her name in Hortense and assisted her master till his death. Then, she returned in Paris and married.

I moved to the hydrangea quercifolia after lunch. I heard someone calling me when I was deciding if two peonies needed to be transplanted a little farer from the expanding hydrangeas. My neighbour, with red summer shoes and glossy red hairs, had appeared close to the fence. She was happy to see me after the long winter months and we updated each other following a random list of names that included relative, friends and acquaintances. Then, we talked about the plants that had died during winter. A cruel fate, she remarked but, from her wise seventy years old, she affirmed that it was better their dead to our and disappeared among her clipped azaleas. The magic moment of decision was gone. I thought I needed to know more about the growth of hydrangea quercifolia and I decided to suspend any radical action in this area crammed with epimediums, peonies, anemone japonica and spring bulbs.


The third group was waiting for its moment of attention and care but it was late and I was tired. I looked at these frail shrubs knowing that they deserve energy and concentration.

I put down pruning shears and saw, rake and wheelbarrow and I took my time for the last task of the day: smelling the white lonicera fragrantissima, investigating the growth of the red buds of peonies, finding the first narcissus exactly where it was last year, counting snowdrops, cyclamens and iris ungucularis and touching the fat blooms of daphne. The sun was hidden by soft, grey clouds and it was getting cold again. But...


“If winter comes, can spring be far behind?”(1)


Note:
(1) Ode to the West Wind, Percy Bysshe Shelley, written in 1819 near Florence, Italy.

Photos:
Travelinagarden.