“Green Flowers and Herb Trees,” by Bunny Mellon, was originally published in the December 1965 issue of Vogue.
For more of the best from Vogue’s archive, sign up for our Nostalgia newsletter here.
Too much should not be explained about a garden. Its greatest reality is not reality, for a garden, hovering always in a state of becoming, sums its own past and its future. A garden, like a library, is a whole made up of separate interests and mysteries: among these mysteries are green flowers and the shaping of some herbs into small trees.
Green flowers are enchanted flowers, magic flowers, the witches of the garden. They give an impression of reflected sunlight, the light of a Bonnard painting. Truly green, these flowers range from the color of emeralds to the color of moonlight on white flowers. Mixed with flowers in other more expected colors they add a secret formula of air and life.
Some flowers have always been green: the Ixia viridiflora; the long, fringed orchid Platyclinis filiformis; the Cymbidium miretta, variety ‘Glendessary,’ grandparent of all green orchids; and the lacy Alchemilla major—the lady’s-mantle which is well known in England and, I think, not enough appreciated in America. Some flowers suddenly become green: green zinnias, for instance, appeared unexpectedly among their family of wild, clear colors. A gardener will catch and encourage such serendipity by taking care to protect and isolate the seeds. The tulip ‘Artist,’ and nicotiana ‘Lime’ came about from just such sports. The lilies, ‘Green Dragon’ and the Green Magic strain resulted from careful, deliberate experi- ments as did green auriculas. (In the eighteenth century auriculas were the subjects of great collections like those orchids form today.)
With the help of our inspired and scholarly gardener, Mr. Charles Pecora, and a greenhouse, we have green flowers all year. Neither in bouquets nor in flowerbeds do we use all green flowers together, for they deepen, brighten, and add subtlety to other colours. They have a mystery like true love that wants to hide but is betrayed by its own joy.
A gardener plans at least eighteen months ahead. To keep a garden is to create, to care, and to hope. Years ago I experimented with growing rosemary, thyme, myrtle, and santolina into small standards in the shape of bay trees, varying from ten inches to three feet in height. When we began, as far as I know, they were unique in America, although I have read references to such trees in my old gardening books.