February Crocuses
BY ELEANOUR SINCLAIR ROHDE.
IN February the constellations of the crocuses shine forth in their firmament of green. They are amongst the loveliest and most gladsome of spring flowers. Each crocus cup is not only of exceeding beauty, but within its petals the orange-coloured crocuses seem to hold the quintessence of sunlight in luminous gold, and their scent is the scent of sunlight. It is curious how colour seems to alter the character of a crocus flower. Yellow and golden crocuses look almost riotously happy, but all the mauve varieties have a placid, dreamy appearance.
Most crocuses have a faint, warm scent, but only on really sunny days or in a warm room. Many people do not regard them as scented flowers, but Virgil knew their exquisite scent in Italian sunshine. Sometimes one wonders whether our modern eyes are dimmed to the amazing beauty of these flowers, especially the orange- coloured varieties. Homer's carpet of the gods was of hyacinths and crocuses and lotus flowers, and all the classical writers used " crocus-coloured " to describe a glowing orange-golden colour for which indeed there is no other word. The golden crocus turns the earth to sheets of living flame. To quote Homer—" the flaming crocus made the mountain glow." Saffron-yellow, the colour of light, was apparently the royal and sacred colour of the most ancient days. The Persian kings wore saffron-yellow shoes, in imitation of the still older Babylonio-Median costume. In Aeschylus' " Persians " Darius is summoned from the nether-world by the chorus, " Rise, ancient ruler, rise ; come with the saffron-dyed shoes on thy feet . . . . a royal tiara on thy head.'• When Roman luxury was at its height crocus scent and crocus flowers were used as lavishly as rose-petals. Helio- gabalus bathed in saffron-water, and his guests reclined on cushions stuffed with crocus petals.
We do not know when crocuses were introduced into this country, but it is quite likely that the Romans brought bulbs of such favourite flowers to adorn the gardens of their villas in this island during the first centuries of our era. In the Middle Ages, when they were again introduced, the autumn-flowering crocus (crocus sativus) was certainly known and grown in this country long before the spring-flowering varieties. According to tradition, the saffron bulb was introduced into England in the reign of Edward III by a pilgrim, who brought it concealed in the hollow of his staff. Even in the sixteenth century herbalists described the spring- flowering crocus as saffron of the spring—" saffron of the Spring with yellow flowers." Three hundred years ago Gerard wrote of the crocus : " It hath flowers of a most perfect shining yellow colour, seeming afar off to be a hot glowing coal of fire. That pleasant plant was sent unto me from Robinius of Paris, that painful and most curious searcher of simples."
Crocuses never look happy if they are grown singly. Thick close clumps of them, fifteen and twenty together, growing naturally with masses of their lovely golden chalices full of sunlight, look gloriously happy, but planted out singly there is always something depressing about them. They look forlorn and tidy. For they are companionable flowers, and they seem to enjoy huddling together. Picking crocuses planted out singly makes one feel guilty of a crime, but picking them from fat, neg- lected clumps is a joy. To-day is one of those glorious sunny days which always come in February, and for which one is so much more grateful than for a whole week of summer sun. And I have just been counting the number of flowers on the largest clump of golden crocuses (C. vernus) by the apple-trees in our garden. There are at least seventy-eight flowers fully out on that one clump, though how they had managed to crowd themselves into a space measuring only about nine inches by twelve is little short of a miracle. The flowers are as large as any grown singly and very long stalked, and pushing aside the fully expanded flowers one could see that there were masses more coming on. The scent of the crocuses would be almost imperceptible from the single flowers, but from the mass it is warm and exquisite, and in the sun- light the clumps looked like masses of translucent gold, caught, not out of the sunlight, but out of the sun itself. When I came there were eight or nine bees working at the flowers, and watching the bees for some time it was delightful to see how often the same bees, after a hurried visit to smaller clumps, returned to feast on the riches spread before them on the largest clumps. The words of an Elizabethan madrigal came into my mind :- "I like the bee with Toil and Pain Fly humbly o'er the flow'ry Plain And with the Busy Throng The little sweets my Labours gain I work into a song."
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