What flowers, then, blossomed in the gardens of our fathers? Very few,
no doubt, and very small and very humble, scarce to be distinguished
from those of the roads, the fields and the glades. Before the sixteenth
century, those gardens were almost bare; and, later, Versailles itself,
the splendid Versailles, could have shown us only what is shown to-day
by the poorest village. Alone, the Violet, the Garden Daisy, the Lily of
the Valley, the Marigold, the Poppy, a few Crocuses, a few Irises, a
few Colchicums, the Foxglove, the Valerian, the Larkspur, the
Cornflower, the Clove, the Forget-me-not, the Gilly-flower, the Mallow,
the Rose, still almost a Sweetbriar, and the great silver Lily, the
spontaneous finery of our woods and of our snow-frightened,
wind-frightened fields: these alone smiled upon our forefathers, who,
for that matter, were unaware of their poverty. Man had not yet learnt
to look around him, to enjoy the life of nature. Then came the
Renascence, the great voyages, the discovery and invasion of the
sunlight. All the flowers of the world, the successful efforts, the
deep, inmost beauties, the joyful thoughts and wishes of the planet rose
up to us, borne on a shaft of light that, in spite of its heavenly
wonder, issued from our own earth. Man ventured forth from the cloister,
the crypt, the town of brick and stone, the gloomy stronghold in which
he had slept. He went down into the garden, which became peopled with
azure, purple and perfumes, opened his eyes, astounded like a child
escaping from the dreams of the night; and the forest, the plain, the
sea and the mountains and, lastly, the birds and the flowers, that speak
in the name of all a more human language which he already understood,
greeted his awakening.