Edith Holden

I WENT for a walk in our suburban neighborhood the other evening, a golden hour when the intoxicating scent of roses and honeysuckle vines drifted upward. Since I needed some exercise, I headed up a hill that once belonged to a large estate, many years ago, and is now a street of fastidious, expensive colonials, with parked cars and manicured turf. Pick-up trucks visit each outdoor carpet once a week and, with their arsenal of mowers, blowers and trimmers, landscape workers obliterate every trace of botanical insubordination.

The old estate house remains, in a state of decrepitude, consolingly unkempt. It is not an ugly street, and it would be considered a very pleasant place to live by many, but Thoreau’s point that human beings have an inborn need for wilderness seems so true here. Everything is according to plan. The trees, the shrubs, the flowers — they are more furniture than plants. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a butterfly.

This night, shortly after I had walked by the old house, speculating for the thousandth time about the plans of the current owners, I came upon a truly astounding sight.  A garbage can by the curb was overflowing, filled past the brim with flowers. They were pink and white peonies in full bloom and had clearly just been cut. I walked by casually at first, to hide my amazement and curiosity, and went to the bottom of the hill. I then turned and walked back up again. I stopped before the trash can. Yes, they were fresh-cut peonies, the giant, drowsy pink and white heads and dark green foliage lying in an immense disorderly pile. The trim, sterile flower bed from which they came was a few feet away.

I took as many as flowers as I could hold, gathering up what would have easily sold for $150 at a florist’s shop. I walked home with an enormous, luxurious bouquet, my arms overflowing. When my husband saw part of this elegant bouquet in a vase, he asked where the flowers came from, and I told him the story. He speculated that the owner was “sick of spring.” Peonies are messy when they shed their petals. The owner of the house probably considered them a nuisance and cut them before they could shed, when they were at their height of extravagant beauty.

Peonies similar to the ones I found. Mine were also white.

My walk reminded me of a book, The Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady, by Edith Holden, a British artist, teacher and self-taught naturalist who wrote and illustrated this homey diary of her excursions in 1906 in the countryside surrounding her home in Olton, Warwickshire.

Holden, who is not known by her married name of Smith, had an intense interest in the local flora and fauna. She was from a family of Unitarians who practiced Spiritualism. She reportedly held seances in an attempt to communicate with her dead mother. Nevertheless, she must have been a great walking companion. She was interested not in exercise, but in everything that teemed around her and the countryside near her home provided plenty of interest. If she could have joined me, she would have agreed that the street I walked on was not beautiful, but she would nevertherless have found birds, insects and plants to hold her attention. And she would have been overjoyed to find a garbage can filled with peonies.

Here is part of Holden’s entry for June 25, 1906:

Went for a long country walk through Catherine deBarnes, Hampton in Arden, Bickenhill and Elmdon. Everywhere the lanes were fragrant with Wild Roses, and Honeysuckle, and the breeze came to us over the hedges laden with the perfume of the clover fields and grass meadows. The grasses of all kinds were lovely, all along the wayside.

Holden could never have been sick of spring. In fact, she died from the exact opposite of what afflicted the owner of the peonies. She was over-enthusiastic. From Wikipedia, a description of the day of her death at the age of 49:

When Ernest [her husband] returned home that evening his wife was out but the table had been laid for the evening meal, and Ernest assumed that she was with friends. It was not until the next morning that he learned the truth. Her body had been found at six o’clock on the Tuesday morning. The inquest established that she had tried to reach a branch of chestnut buds. The bough was out of reach and with the aid of her umbrella Edith had tried to break it off, fallen forward into the river and drowned.

Here is a watercolor of foxglove and trailing rose included in Holden’s lovely book:

— Comments —

Karen I. writes:

I live in an apartment complex, as it is the only way I can afford to stay home, but we are very lucky because our unit is surrounded by dense woods from a state forest on both sides as well as large patches of grass for my kids to play. Those things, along with the fact that we are allowed to keep small gardens and plant whatever we want in them make the situation much more bearable. The woods are old and filled with wildlife, and there is a river nearby. I can see wildlife from my kitchen window because the woods are just a few feet from my apartment. So far, this spring, we’ve seen bears, wild turkeys, a woodchuck, skunks, a bobcat and all kinds of birds, including a pileated woodpecker. We throw bread and crackers out to squirrels of every color, including red. We have also seen deer and foxes in the past, but not lately. When I open my window, in the morning, I never know what I will see out there and my children don’t need to go to a wildlife center to see nature.

Every summer, wealthy New Yorkers descend on my county to stay in cottages that cost a staggering amount of money. They drive 90+ miles to see the turkeys and lakes I see all the time. They are good, quiet visitors who tend to keep to themselves. Every Sunday, starting around five, they clog the roads in luxury vehicles to make the long drive home. It is a difficult drive, and it must get tiring, but that does not stop them from flooding back the following weekend and doing it all over again. They have it all, but they long to see the country and go to a lot of trouble to do so.

Anita Kern writes:

Interesting bit about Edith Holden. I have her Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady – and even an extra copy to give to a friend anon.

I recently discovered that a TV movie had been made about her in England. Plan to get it one of these days. Did you know about this movie?

 Laura writes:

No, I didn’t know about the movie. I bought the book a number of years ago at a used book sale.

Mary writes:

I thought you would be interested in this artist if you are not already acquainted with her. When Mary Delany lost her husband in 1772 (she was 72 years old), in order to deal with her grief she started making cut paper flower collages, usually on black paper. They are gorgeous and truly astonishing and are now housed in the British Museum.

 Alan writes:

The garbage can you found filled with flowers is a perfect metaphor for modern culture: Beauty is in the trash can, while ugliness is glorified in art, architecture, music, entertainment, manners, clothing, and speech.

Laura writes:

Exactly.

Beauty asks too much. The owner of the peonies must have felt this.

Kimberly writes:

I bought that book by Edith Holden just a few months ago! I’m afraid it was rather depressing for me. Her country and her times seemed so much more beautiful than mine. In the suburbs of Denver I have found that there is very little variety when it comes to plants and trees. At the same time, the more I learn, the more I notice, but that is depressing, too! I can’t believe how little we were taught in school about the beauty of nature! It points too directly at God for public schools to teach. If we look to closely at nature we won’t be so easily corrupted, and that’s not going to work in a system that thrives on our corruption.

The beauty disappears, because my generation knows nothing about it and has not thought twice about preserving it. They’re too busy with Facebook (high school online) to get fresh air and make a connection with the Creator.

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