Violets
Homer describes Persephone as collecting bunches of roses, crocus, wild violet, iris, narcissus and hyacinths before Hades drags her down to the underworld. This seems to me an unlikely and lumpy bouquet and it is disappointing that out of season roses (no doubt imported) have been an inescapable feature of floristry since ancient times. I suppose that, as the goddess of spring, Persephone excelled in getting flowers to grow, not necessarily in arranging them.
The Ancient Greek violets must have grown an awful lot taller than the Viola odorata in my garden which, reaching about 10cm, wouldn’t add much to a mixed bouquet. They have come to symbolise modesty because of the way their flowers are often tucked away, hidden amongst the leaves, but their diminutive size and humble habit do not diminish my respect for this little plant which fills all sorts of nooks and crannies in the garden and is extremely useful.
They may not be showy but they are as tough as old boots. They tolerate mowing, moving, poor soil, sun or shade and dry or moist conditions (though a damp and shady spot will prolong their flowering). Several times I have lifted a clump and forgotten about them, found them with bare roots on the garden path the next day, bunged them in a dingy corner and hey presto. They’re a great option for spaces that get a lot of rough use. They sit comfortably around the compost heap and whilst most plants take umbrage at being trampled and wheeled over, the little violets carpet the ground with foliage throughout the year and provide deep purple flowers in the earliest days of spring when even the tiniest bloom can hold the stage.
Violets take their name circuitously from Io, mistress of Zeus, whom he transformed into a cow, hiding her from Hera’s wrath. Accustomed to the delicacies of palace life, Io wept on tasting the bitter grass which was now her breakfast, lunch and supper until, as a parting gift, Zeus transformed her tears into sweet violets on which she could graze. The story of Io has always left me with the image of a rather pampered heifer with a terrible sweet tooth. An appropriately fragrant diet for a divine mistress, violets are edible to mere mortals too. Their sugary scent has long been prized and more recently abused in confection, from the rather lurid ‘creme de violette’ liqueur to the sickening Parma Violet sweets named after the wild violet’s rather frou-frou and heavily scented frilly French cousin. There are classier ways to use violets in the kitchen. Their leaves, apparently packed with vitamin C, can be added to salads, and their flowers can be preserved in sugar, crystallised to decorate cakes, or turned into a home made subtle ‘Creme de violette’ equivalent by being steeped in Vodka. Bear in mind that the famous odour of Viola odorata can vary considerably and in many cases has been lost, so homemade liqueur or sweets are likely to be only subtle in fragrance but a very decorative colour.
Cleistogamous violet flowers
For a plant representing modesty, the Viola has a remarkably deviant sex life and wantonly reproduces twice a year. In spring its flowers open and it interbreeds with abandon, the seed heads rising up before popping open and flinging seeds widely. By contrast in autumn the viola produces small closed flower buds and, hidden beneath the covers of its rosette of leaves, furtively self pollinates. This autumnal reproduction is a-sexual and the flowers cleistogamous (from the Greek kleistos meaning closed). These flower heads grow beneath the soil, blanched and blind, looking like alien body parts. The upshot of this double reproduction is that the rather seedy violet tends to spread, but the young plants are easily dug out and are no threat if monitored. I tend to just plant them in the bare corners where they can self pollinate or fling their seed freely without causing offence.
Poor Ophelia floats down steam, a chain of violets around her neck, plucked before their time, destined never to set seed.
Reproducing twice a year might all seem a bit weird for a plant that plays such a fragrant and innocent role in myth and literature, but given that the violet’s poor spring flowers have been plucked by almost every literary maiden since Persephone herself, it makes sense to have a back up should spring pollination fail.
At this time of year one sees violets everywhere, so if you’re not too fussy perhaps the easiest option is to find a patch you like the look/smell of in a neighbour’s garden somewhere and ask if you can have some. For the purist there are heritage varieties available such as ‘Queen Charlotte’ that have kept their scent. Seeds will need stratifying, or else will need to be sown in Autumn and left out to the seasons, but once they get going they should self seed or spread by stolons, giving you plenty of future plants. I inherited my violets when I moved in and for some reason they always grow in the one part of the garden where I definitely don’t want them: I dig them up and shuffle them all down to the shady end only to find more doggedly growing where I had removed them the year before. This is no great problem as they are easy to move and, so far, I can always use more of them. Popping up in inhospitable corners, putting on a brave face after a close encounter with a wheelbarrow and blooming with spangles of purple in the coldest months of the year, it is this dogged determination that I love most about them.
