Nature has thought fit to produce many clumsy plants, and the well-balanced mind raises no objection so long as they remain in their proper place. A pumpkin is not a thing of grace, but then nobody calls on us to admire it. There is little to choose between an Anguloa and a pumpkin in the way of beauty; yet a multitude of people, not less sane to all appearance than their neighbours, invite one to mark and linger over its charms. This always seems very strange to me. I remember a painting of Adam in Paradise, exhibited by an Academician famous in his day—less perhaps for talent than for the popular belief that he wrote certain wailing letters signed ‘A British Matron,’ which the Times published occasionally. Adam was sitting on a flowery bank. The good Academician had all the Asiatic realm of botany before him, wherein to choose blooms appropriate for Paradise; he spurned them all, crossed the Atlantic, surveyed the treasures of the New World, and from the lovely host selected—Anguloa Clowesii! Upon a bed of these Adam sat—of these alone; nothing else was worthy of a place beside them. Evidently Anguloas have a fascination. But my soul is blind to it. We have all the species here.
STORY OF SOBRALIA KIENASTIANA
There are startling flowers of divers sort. Some astonish by mere size, as Rafflesia Arnoldii, which is a yard across and weighs fifteen to twenty pounds, or Amorphophallus Titanum, eight feet high and fifteen inches thick. The stench of these is not less impressive than their bulk; an artist who insisted upon sketching the latter at Kew fainted over her work. But many of the giants are beautiful, as the Aristolochias, like a bag of silk cretonne with mouth of velvet, wherein a lady might stow her equipment for an informal dance—shoes, gloves, fan, handkerchief, scarf, and, if need be, a bouquet; Bomarias, the Peruvian wonder, trailing a scarlet tassel three feet long and thick in proportion. Others are surprising without qualification, like Nepenthes, which dangle a water jug at the tip of every leaf. But among orchids alone you see flowers of familiar shape and ordinary class, which startle you by the mere perfection of their beauty. One of these is Sobralia Kienastiana. My first sight of it at the Temple Show is not to be forgotten. I had been thrilling and raving over a specimen of Cattleya intermedia Parthenia, ‘chaste as ice and pure as snow,’ when, turning to Baron Schröder’s exhibit, I beheld this glory of Nature. It has all the advantage of ‘setting’ denied to so many among the loveliest of its fellows. That divine Parthenia must be regarded alone. It has no charm of environment. But the Sobralia is a thicket, green and strong and pleasant to the eye, crowned with the flowers of Paradise, snow-white, several inches broad, but tender and dainty as the lily of the valley. Though open to the widest, and exquisitely frilled, their petals are crumpled; you might think fairies had been gauffering them and left the work incomplete, surprised by dawn. Baron Schröder and Mr. Wilson of Westbrook, Sheffield, had the only plants in England then; M. Kienast-Zolly, Consul at Zurich, the only plant known elsewhere—a piece cut off when he sold the bulk. That such a marvel had a legend I did not doubt. It is, in fact, an albino of the common Sobralia macrantha; in speaking of it, by the way, to scientific persons, or in referring to books, the word ‘macrantha’ must be introduced. The family is Central American, and examples reach this country especially from Mexico. A variety so rare and so charming would be found in some hardly known spot. But orchids do not live in the desert. It would be strange if Indians had not noticed such a wonder, and if they noticed, assuredly they would prize it. They would not allow the plant to be removed under ordinary conditions; if a price were accepted it would be very high, but more probably no sum would tempt them. Therefore did I conclude at sight that Sobralia Kienastiana had its legend. And I traced without difficulty the outline which I have filled up.
M. Kienast-Zolly dwelt many years at Orizaba in Mexico, where he collected orchids with enthusiasm for his own delight. An Indian servant gave zealous help, partly, doubtless, for love of the flowers, but partly also for love of the master whose ‘bread he had eaten’ from childhood—and still eats, I believe. This man, Pablo, ceaselessly inquired for rarities among his own people, made journeys, bargained, bought, and by times, they say—but stole is not the proper word to use when an object has no owner nor intrinsic value. Pablo had a younger brother, a priest, in the neighbourhood of Tehuacan. They had not met since his ordination, until, once on a time, M. Kienast-Zolly visited those parts, and Pablo took the opportunity to spend a day and night at the Indian village, Nidiri, where his brother was priest. This ecclesiastic was an earnest man. He found no satisfaction in compounding the heathen practices of his flock for money, as do his fellows. His legitimate dues sufficed him—I daresay they reached ten pounds a year. He found a melancholy diversion in writing plaintive memorials to the Bishop. Week by week the good man raised his moan. He could not see very deep. It did not occur to him that the Christian faith itself, as the Indians understand it, is but a form of heathendom. The doings of which he complained were acts of positive worship towards the old idols. He demanded an investigation, special magistrates; in brief, the re-establishment of the Inquisition. The Bishop had long ceased to acknowledge these dolorous reports; doubtless they contained nothing new to him.
Out of the fulness of his heart a man speaketh, and after discussing family affairs, the Cura broached his spiritual sorrows. Pablo had not been trained at a seminary, and religious questions did not interest him. As a townsman, also, he had picked up some liberal ideas, and when the brother talked of converting his flock from their evil ways by force, he observed that opinions are free in Mexico nowadays. Then the Cura grew warm. Opinions? Rising hurriedly, he produced horrid little figures of clay or wood, actual idols, found and confiscated, not without opposition. When Pablo did not seem much impressed by these things—not unfamiliar, probably—he hinted suspicions more awful. There was a spot somewhere in the hills, frequented at certain seasons by these wretches, where they performed sacrifice. Blood was shed, and the Cura had reason to think—he dropped his voice, and bent across the little table to whisper awfully in his brother’s ear.
‘Why,’ said Pablo, ‘if you can prove that, the Government will interfere fast enough. It’s murder!’
‘I am not quite certain. But give me authority to arrest the Cacique—the head-man of the village—and some others! They held one of their impious festivals only last week. I met them returning just after dawn, crowned with flowers, all the men intoxicated. Oh no, it wasn’t a mere drinking bout. The Cacique and that vile Manuele—whom I believe to be the priest—carried nosegays of the accursed flower the demons give them. I know it! They used formerly—the sons of perdition!—to bring it to my church and offer it upon the holy altar. And I—Heaven pardon me!—rejoiced in its beauty. With prayers and thanksgivings I laid the Devil’s Flower before the Blessed Mother. I did not know! It will not be counted against me for a sin, brother?’ So he went on, bemoaning his unconscious offence.
Pablo woke up instantly. What did the Cacique do with his nosegay since he was not allowed to deposit it on the altar? What sort of flower was it? All this seemed trivial to the agitated Cura. With difficulty he was brought to the statement that it resembled the Flor de San Lorenzo, but snow-white. Then Pablo showed much concern. These shocking practices must be made to cease; but first they must have evidence. That mysterious spot on the hills? Did his brother know where it was? No, he had only pieced together hints and fragmentary observations. They suggested a certain neighbourhood. It had never occurred to him to look for it. If his conjectures were sound, the place was desert. Indians always choose a barren unpeopled site for their ancestral worship, as Pablo knew.