THE JUNE MEADOWS
“The showers are over, the skiffing showers,
Come, let us rise and go
Where the happy mountain flowers,
Children of the young June hours,
In their sweet haunts blow.”
PRINCIPAL SHAIRP.
“On prête aux riches,” and here is Nature lending yet more wealth to
fields that were already so wealthy! It is simply amazing with what
doting enthusiasm she pours her floral riches upon the Alps! Many who
know only the June fields in England think that we who write of the
Swiss fields at this season are either in a chronic state of hysteria,
or else do wilfully point our story as if it were a snake story or
the story of a tiger-hunt. But, let the fact be known, in writing or
speaking upon this subject, the exigencies of the English language
oblige us to be temperate; it is quite impossible to exaggerate.
We may use all the adjectives in Webster, yet have we not even then
said enough. Acutely conscious of our ineffectual effort, we have,
nevertheless, done our best. We could say no more: the rest we must
feel, and endeavour that our readers shall feel with us.
[Illustration: In the EARLY JULY FIELDS at Champex.]
Maybe it is with us as it was with Robert Louis Stevenson when he was
at Davos in search of a remedy for the malady that afterwards drove
him to Samoa and to an early grave upon her mountains—maybe all our
“little fishes talk like whales”; but, believe us, whale-talk is the
only talk befitting. If Stevenson finds “it is the Alps who are to
blame,” we find it is quite as much the fault of the Alpine flora;
and if Stevenson found comfort in the fact that he was not alone in
being forced to “this yeasty inflation, this stiff and strutting
architecture of the sentence,” so also can we.
We English are not the only ones to find ourselves at the ineffectual
extreme of language. The German tourist—and he is nowadays more
enterprisingly early than are we in visiting the Alps—is equally at a
loss, as he stands in wonderment and, with characteristic emphasis,
repeatedly utters the one resounding word “Kolossal!” Even the
Englishman loses his habitual reserve, and, if he does not voice his
wonderment as loudly as does his Teutonic brother, he is at least
amazed in his own insular way. Assuredly, if these flowers themselves
could speak, and speak out frankly, they would declare our seemingly
over-coloured appreciation a very tame performance; they would vouch
that we are a long way from being in the shoes of the proverbial
amateur fisherman.
But let me, without further ado, attempt to describe some of the cause
for this. Let me turn again for example to Champex and to notes made
on the spot, and speak of a seven-hours’ walk down the rapid southern
slopes which fall away from the lake, by the village of Prassorny,
along the Val Ferret to Praz de Fort and the _massif_ of Saleinaz,
and back again to Champex by that scramble of a path which mounts
the slopes directly from the village of Ville d’Issert. This walk
takes us from 4,800 feet down to some 3,300 feet, and affords us as
representative a range of slopes and fields as we could find anywhere.
Starting amid rolling _hectares_ of Orchids and Lilies, passing
along wide slopes bestrewn with Lychnis and Anthericum, winding
through copse and forest-edge peopled with Everlasting Pea and Alpine
Eglantine, we arrive by entrancing stages amid crowded meadows of
Salvia, Bistort, Ranunculus, Campion, Marguerite, Geranium, Campanula,
and Phyteuma—meadows which, in long and wide-flung swell, sweep like
a multi-coloured wave to lave the snowy sides and graceful, flowing
forms of the Groupe du Grand Saint-Bernard and Grand Golliaz.
Used as I am to the glories of the mountain flora, I am moved afresh
to wonder each time I come intimately amongst them, and such a walk
as I took this day, the 15th of June, is always a revelation. From
the very start to the very finish there was a continuous procession
of as amazingly rich and variedly coloured fields as, surely, any
quarter of the globe would find it difficult to surpass. Sometimes
the predominant colour was clear yellow, sometimes rich French blue,
and not infrequently, when there was no such distinct predominance,
the fields, especially when the sun was at the back of me, were
as bewildering as, I imagine, would be fields flashing with a
profusion of every known gem. Steep grassy slopes—in places almost
perpendicular; long, hot stretches of grass-grown grit and rubble;
rich ousy dips and hollows; undulating acres of wavy, feather-light
meadows—all were decked alike in such kaleidoscopic abundance as
forced me repeatedly to exclaim: “Oh that some of this loveliness
could be translated as fields to England! If only England would try!”
Here I must beg leave to make a slight digression from the strictness
of my subject. At one spot in the steep descent, just outside the
tiny hamlet of Prassorny, I came upon a blaze of colour which stood
out from all else—a pre-eminently arresting object in the landscape.
It was, of all things, our old friend the scarlet Field Poppy! To
come upon this inimitable flower spread in serried numbers over
a large square of ground on a steep slope at an altitude of over
4,000 feet, was not a little surprising. Waving its battalions of
fiery blossoms against the grey mist-filled valley beneath, with
old sun and wind-stained châlets standing just beside, it was an
irresistible _motif_ for a painter. Seemingly as much at home as
in any field in England, it appeared of even greater brilliance
than with us—having, perhaps, caught something of the humour of the
Gentian. That this Poppy can possibly intensify its hue over and
above what we know it can achieve in the cornfields of the plains,
will seem incredible—another instance of whale-talk on the writer’s
part! And yet such is certainly the case—as, indeed, it is the case
with many another lowland flower whose powers will allow it to climb.
These poppies, here on this slope, stood witness for the fact; and
so, too, did the other lowland flowers growing with them. There
were Cornflowers and Larkspur of a blue more rich and radiant than
it is even in the plains; and _Viola tricolor_, too, the Pansy of
our own cornfields, was of a purple and yellow more deep than we
are accustomed to have it. There was, also, the exquisite _Adonis
aestivalis_ of most vivid salmon-orange—its dainty blossoms standing
like fire-flies against the rich blue masses of _Salvia pratensis_.i>.
Yet this was not a corn-patch (one can scarcely call them cornfields
at this altitude, where they are mere terraces, many of them, like
potato-patches, standing almost at an angle of 45°, carved from out
the steep mountain-side by generations of thrifty peasants). In all
probability, however, this particular terrace with its wealth of
cornfield flowers had in quite recent years been sown with oats
or rye. Anyway, it were well worth taking note of this Poppy’s
presence hereabouts, if only because on the slope next door was the
Bell-Gentian!
After this “parenthetic enthusiasm” over so homely an intruder, we
will hie us back to the more usual denizens of these slopes and
fields. Perhaps enough has already been said to show what a poor
thing language is when in the presence of such splendours as June
spreads before us in the Alps. Very few, if any, of the flowers were
growing singly or even sparsely; they were usually in dense bright
masses, or close and broad-spread legions, forming an “infinite floral
broidery” stretching above, below, in front, and behind as far as eye
could reach. What a difficult, almost impossible matter it has been
to select for pictorial presentation such sections of this wealthy
panorama as shall give some small idea of the whole, will readily be
understood. Halting attempts, however, will be found in the pictures
facing pages 32 and 48. And to supplement and reinforce these, there
is, at the end of this chapter, a short list of the chief grass-land
flowers met with during my walk. The rock-plants, and those liking the
poorest of soil, though they certainly add an important quota to the
brilliant prospect, have not been taken into account, as they fall
somewhat outside our present purpose.
* * * * *
In his poem, “In Praise of June,” Leigh Hunt sings:
“May, by coming first in sight,
Half defrauds thee of thy right;
For her best is shared by thee
With a wealthier potency;
So that thou dost bring us in
A sort of May-time masculine.”
But this is only in small part true of these Alpine fields. There
is, to be sure, something of the May fields in the June fields, but
all of May’s best is certainly not shared by June—not, that is to
say, unless we climb up higher than we intend to do. The Crocus and
Soldanella have gone; they came “to show the paths that June must
tread,” not to tread those paths with the Orchid and the Lily. Gone,
also, is the pure yellow-petalled Mountain Geum. The Marsh Marigold,
too, is no longer with us in rich, golden crowds; nor does the Mealy
Primula spread its rosy carpet over acre upon acre. One misses, also,
the bright white presence of Micheli’s Daisy; and the Vernal Gentian,
“blue with the beauty of windless skies,” though still lingering
here and there, is, for the most part, hidden by the Grasses and the
Clovers.
Ah! yes, the Clovers—pink, rose-red, crimson, cream, white, yellow:
we must not forget these! Of goodly and varied company, they are
such important units in the rich composition of most Alpine meadows,
and, where they grow, they form so compact a groundwork of colouring
and so admirable a setting for many of the taller flowers, that
it were, indeed, a dereliction of memory to overlook them! What
could be lovelier than a wide area of these Clovers in June sown
with lilac, rose-tinted, and white Orchids, deep, lustrous-blue
Phyteumas, paper-white Paradise Lilies, and infinite hosts of the
bright and fascinating little Euphrasia? Or in July, when the orange
Arnica, the porcelain-blue _Campanula barbata_, and the graceful,
distinguished-looking little _Thesium alpinum_ make their ever-welcome
appearance in the fields? Of course, there are degrees even in natural
felicity, and the Orchids—with the exception of the creamy-white
Butterfly Orchis—are not at their best if the predominant Clover
be red. But, speaking generally, the groundwork of Clovers is a
most valuable element in the colouring of these pastures. Were this
groundwork removed we should wonder why the fields and slopes looked
so meagre and thin. And this is also true of _Euphrasia officinalis_,
the Eyebright, a very precious, though humble denizen of the fields
in July. This plant, by the way, owes its English name, not to its
flower (as in the case of the little bright-blue Speedwell, _Veronica
Chamædrys_, often erroneously called Eyebright), but to an infusion
of the plant which long ago was supposed to cure defective vision.
Milton, indeed, causes the Archangel Michael to use it upon Adam:
“... then purged with Euphrasy and Rue
The visual nerve, for he had much to see.”
[Illustration: EVENING among the fields of pink Bistort at Lac
Champex; sunset-glow on the Grand Combin, July. ]
Like the Clovers, the Eyebright should certainly not be ignored,
though it is easy to do so. It may be numbered amongst those things we
should miss without being able to say _what_ we do miss—those things
of a high and unobtrusive value, partly composed of half the worth of
things in greater evidence. In other words, it is amongst those things
which, in a quiet, self-effacing way, enhance their surroundings.
In applying the term “distinguished-looking” to the little Thesium,
I am minded to do so because, just as with the flowers of the plain,
there is an _élite_ among Alpines. One can hardly explain why. Like
the Roman Emperor who, when asked to define time, said, “I know when
you do not ask me,” one feels there is an _élite_ among flowers,
though one is scarcely able to define it. And the feeling is real and
undoubtedly well-founded. Nor, to feel this, is it necessary to go to
florist’s garden-flowers, where vulgarity is rampant (though often
highly prized and priced). The feeling comes in the presence of any
field of wild flowers—the feeling that, by their form and bearing,
some plants are more well-bred than others. This cannot be altogether
accounted for by their colour or conspicuousness. The little Thesium,
or the little silver-leaved Alchemilla are neither of them bright,
conspicuous plants. It is the general habit that impresses: the
“atmosphere” with which they surround themselves. How manifest this
is when one meets with the Paradise Lily surrounded by a sea of
Hieracium, Bistort, Blue Bottle, Trollius, Geranium, and Salvia.
One singles out the Lily at once, though it be close beside the
exquisite white Marguerite; and one’s heart goes out to it, above its
companions, as a thing of greater breeding—a thing taking rank with
any Lœlia or Dendrobium.
A cat is not a horse because it is born in a stable; and all Alpines
are not of the same caste because they are born in the Alps. Among
things Alpine, as among things of the plain, there is degree in
attainment. Some things have had occasion to travel along lines that
have led them to greater refinement than others—just as man, himself,
is evidently the product of particular occasion for such travel. We
cannot blink ourselves to the fact that there are weeds even among the
Alpines—though there are not so many as 280, the number said to exist
in England.
Degree in refinement is, perhaps, to some extent indicated by the
way a plant will take care of itself. All plants have some means of
fending for themselves, and these means are as varied in morality as
are such means among human beings. Some are born fighters, brazen,
pushing, and quarrelsome; others win through life by comparative
self-effacement. Some elbow their way to any place they want; others,
seemingly, are content to be where they are wanted. All, of course,
battle more or less faithfully, but some are forceful, self-assertive,
while others resign themselves to unobtrusiveness. No plant can accept
with entire equanimity what does not altogether agree with it; but
many can rough it, putting up with conditions that will kill others or
compel them to retire. Hence we have weeds: rough-souled invaders who
make themselves too common.
Although “the invariable mark of wisdom is to see the miraculous
in the common,” and although, therefore, we may admire, and quite
reasonably admire, all that so capably wrestles with extremes of
circumstance as do the Alpines, yet we can and must admit that some
are more “classy” than others. For instance, the Alpine Plantain is,
according to our instinct and possibly according to fact, on a lower
rung of the ladder of vegetable society than is the Alpine Auricula.
Both struggle with much the same rigours and disabilities, but we feel
obliged to find that the latter has evolved greater refinement than
the former from its struggles. In short, Maeterlinck’s “_goût du mieux
de la Nature_” is as pronounced in degree among Alpines as it is
among valley flowers; there is an aristocracy even in the Alps.
And how admirable, for the most part, are the names these plants
bear; how befitting the romantic character and circumstance which
surrounds them. Linaria, Saponaria, Salvia, Ajuga, Anthyllis,
Potentilla, Artemisia—what could be more charming? Are they not
a thousand times more suggestive and more æsthetic than their
English counterparts—Toadflax, Soapwort, Sage, Bugle, Kidney Vetch,
Cinquefoil, Wormwood? Indeed, I am not sure but that, taking them as a
whole, Latin names are not more satisfactory and picturesque for every
kind of flower—quite apart from the important and simplifying question
of a common vantage ground for gardener, scientist, and general
public. The anonymous writer of “Studies in Gardening,” an admirable
series of essays contributed to the _Times_, pleads persuasively for
the use, as far as possible, of English names in both gardening books
and papers. He holds—and in so doing he is by no means singular—that
“the rage for Latin names has gone so far that you will now sometimes
see lilies called liliums”; he bemoans the growing use of Sedum
instead of Stone-crop, and of Antirrhinum instead of Snapdragon, and
he calls it an “unnecessary use of botanical terms,” and thinks that
“the want of beautiful English names to many beautiful flowers seems
a reproach to their beauty.” But there are other authorities, equally
numerous, who hold a contrary view, considering that too much is being
made of English names, and that “confusion worst confounded” is a very
natural consequence. One catches the sound of more than two voices in
the discussion: one hears not only the several plaints of botanist
and flower-lover, but also the claims of the champion of folk-lore,
the mere amateur gardener, the uncompromising patriot, and the
incorrigible sentimentalist. And something in reason is said by each
one of them—although honours are not so easy as to enable one to call
it a case of six of one and half-a-dozen of the other. For, perhaps,
those who strive for a _langue bleu_ in this domain and choose Latin
have the weightier cause at heart. George Crabbe, the poet, once wrote
an English treatise on botany, but never published it, because of
the remonstrances of the Master of Trinity College, Cambridge, who
objected to degrading the science of botany by treating it in a modern
language. Such rigorous adhesion to Latin is of the relatively narrow
past; nor is this dead tongue likely ever again to be a subject for
such blind idolatry. No doubt in time a becoming compromise will be
arrived at by the two camps—a compromise that will allow a rose to be
a rose, and not oblige it to be always and only a _Rosa_.
“Men of science are pitiless tyrants,” says Alphonse Karr in “Les
Fleurs Animées.” “See what they have done for Botany, that charming
and graceful study!... Without pity or mercy, they have brutally
seized upon the frail daughters of sky and dew; they have crushed and
mutilated them; they have thrown them into the crucible of Etymology,
and after all these awful tortures, and as if to assure themselves of
impunity, they have hidden their victims beneath a heap of barbarous
names. Thus, thanks to them, the Hawthorn, that symbol of virginity
and hope, sighs under the dreadful name _Mespilus oxyacantha_....
All that is frightful, is it not?... Unfortunately, it is all very
necessary. To admire is not to know, and, in order to know, system
and method are indispensable.... How could we do without the help of
Etymology? Pardon, then, these men of science, who have done nothing
but obey the law of necessity, and enter into the beautiful domain
from which they have dissipated the darkness.” This is delightfully
put and is all very true. Latin nomenclature does tend immensely to
dispel confusion, though in certain quarters it may wound the sense of
sentiment, and we shall no doubt always have confirmed adherents of
popular names.
But, however it may be with the use of popular names in England,
I venture to think we have better things to do than to Anglicise
the Alpines in their Swiss home, and that—as says a well-known
botanist—“when English names are coined for species which do not
even occur in Britain, the result is sometimes ridiculous, _e.g._
‘Dodonœus’s French Willow’ for an Epilobium.” And it is not alone
ridiculous: it is often paltry and in the worst of taste, and it will
frequently drive romance and beauty from the Alpine landscape. What
is there æsthetic, or even useful, about “Mignonette-leaved Lady’s
Smock” for _Cardamine resedifolia_; “Neglected Pinkwort” for _Dianthus
neglectus_; “Doronic Groundsel” for _Senecio Doronicum_; or “Glacier’s
Yarrow” for _Achillea nana_? Are not the Latin names truer and more
beautiful? And are they not as easy of retention as their English
substitutes? Shall we say that _Campanula barbata_ is not a truer
title than “Bearded Harebell” for a plant that has nothing of the
English Harebell about it except “family”? Or shall we say that it
is not just as easy, as the botanist already quoted points out, to
remember _Atriplex deltoidea_ as “Deltoid-leaved Orache”? Those who,
advocating English nomenclature to this extent in the Alps, plead the
cause of intelligible simplicity, irresistibly recall the complicated
efforts of those who aim at the Simple Life. And, on the whole, their
efforts are no less ugly.
[Illustration: HAYMAKING at Champex in the middle of July.]
But let us not stand haggling over such contentious matter. _Revenons
à nos moutons!_
Scanning these fields and slopes, noting “the lavish hand of June,”
and remembering that July’s hand will be no whit less lavish, we
realise without any difficulty that there are more than twice as many
flowering plants indigenous to Switzerland as in the whole of the
British Isles. Indeed, June alone could easily convince us of this.
What wealth! One feels that the proper way, the only adequate way of
enjoying it is to abjure hotels and camp out in the midst of it all.
When the meal-time bell rings out from the Hôtel-Pension, one turns
in answer to it with reluctance, declaring:
“I could be content to see
June and no variety,
Loitering here, and living there,
With a book and frugal fare,
With a finer gypsy time,
And a cuckoo in the clime.”
And when the end of June arrives, and with it the Arnica, the Greater
Astrantia, the orange-red Hawkweed, the Burnet butterfly, and the
passage of the bell-decked cows to the higher Alpine pastures—“Liauba!
Liauba! _por alpa!_”—we may tremble for the coming of the scythe.
Already it will be commencing its deadly work 2,000 feet below, and
its advance is rapid and quite regardless of all we flower-lovers may
mutter under our breath, or more probably say aloud. However, we must
be reasonable. Complaints of this description are not in order. The
world must be helped round: hay must be made, and the flowers are not,
and cannot be, our all-in-all. We benefit most by being seasonable;
sufficient for the day is the good thereof; and the good of a day
need not die with the day. We take our fill of these flowers whilst
we reasonably may; recollection does the rest for us in the gap of
seasons. An emotion passed is yet part of our life—our life’s memory;
and, in Meredith’s words,
“Dead seasons quicken in one petal spot of colour unforgot.”
For enough is far better than a feast. It is one thing to be
spiritually sentimental; it is quite another thing to know where to
draw a right line in spiritual sentiment. Happy the man who is endowed
with the double capacity; happy the man who can allow these flowers
to lift him to a higher plane of being; and then, when reasonableness
begins to flag, turn to his floral cicerones and say with firmness:
“Excuse me, but I must now be getting back to dinner. And you, in
your turn, you know, must be preparing to be dinner for the cows.”
─────────────────────────────────
SOME PROMINENT PASTURE FLOWERS IN BLOOM AROUND CHAMPEX, JUNE 15, 1910
_Ajuga pyramidalis_ (Alpine Bugle).
_Alchemilla alpina._
” _vulgaris_ (Lady’s Mantle).
_Anemone narcissiflora._
” _sulphurea._
_Antennaria dioica_ (Cudweed; Cat’s-ear).
_Anthericum Liliago._
” _ramosum._
_Anthyllis vulneraria, forma alpestris_ (Kidney Vetch or
Ladies’ Fingers).
_Biscutella lævigata._
_Campanula rhomboidalis._
” _rotundifolia._
_Centaurea montana_ (Bluebottle; Knapweed; Mountain Cornflower).
_Cerastium arvense_ (Field Mouse-ear).
_Dianthus Carthusianorum_ (Carthusian Pink).
_Echium vulgare_ (Viper’s Bugloss).
_Euphrasia alpina._
” _minima_ (Yellow Eyebright).
” _officinalis_ (Eyebright).
_Geranium sylvaticum_ (Wood Crane’s-bill).
_Geum rivale_ (Water Avens).
_Globularia cordifolia._
_Hippocrepis comosa_ (Horseshoe Vetch).
_Lathyrus heterophyllus_ (Mountain Everlasting Pea).
” _sylvestris_ (Wood Everlasting Pea).
_Linum alpinum_ (Alpine Flax).
_Lotus corniculatus_ (Bird’s-foot Trefoil).
_Lychnis dioica_ (Wood Campion).
” _Flos-cuculi_ (Ragged Robin).
” _viscaria_ (Red Catchfly).
_Muscari comosum._
_Myosotis alpestris_ (Alpine Forget-me-not).
_Onobrychis viciæfolia_ (Sainfoin).
ORCHIDS:
_Cephalanthera ensifolia_ }
} Helleborine.
” _rubra_ }
_Gymnadenia odoratissima_ and _G. conopsea_.
_Habenaria (Cœloglossum) viridis_ (Frog Orchis).
_Nigritella nigra (angustifolia)_ (Vanilla Orchis).
_Orchis latifolia._
” _maculata._
” _ustulata._
_Plantanthera_ or _Habenaria bifolia_ (Butterfly Orchis).
_Paradisia Liliastrum_ (Paradise or St. Bruno’s Lily).
_Pedicularis tuberosa_ (Yellow Lousewort).
_Phyteuma betonicifolium_ }
} Rampion
” _orbiculare_ }
_Pimpinella magna rosea._
_Polygala alpestris_ }
} Milkwort.
” _vulgaris_ }
_Polygonum Bistorta_ (Snake-root; Bistort).
”_ viviparum_ (Alpine Knotweed).
_Potentilla rupestris_ (Strawberry-flowered Cinquefoil).
_Ranunculus aconitifolius_ (Fair Maid of France).
_Reseda luteola_ (Mignonette; Weld or Dyer’s Weed).
_Rhinanthus angustifolius_ (Yellow Rattle).
_Rosa alpina_ (Alpine Brier or Eglantine).
_Salvia pratensis_ (Meadow Sage; Clary)
_Scabiosa lucida._
_Silene inflata_ (Bladder Campion).
_Trollius europæus_ (Globe-Flower).
_Valeriana tripteris_ (Trefoil Valerian).