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 Gillyflower, 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.