‘Please do not think that I regard them seriously as insect-perverts,’ Edith wrote. ‘I think it is absurd in the extreme to apply to insects the rules that govern our own lives. In the majority of cases they act, I feel sure, mechanically.’
She was not prevented from describing what she saw by squeamishness or prudery or tradition. Observation trumps convention.
‘Until comparatively recently we were taught that animals differ from plants in their power of movement,’ Edith wrote. ‘We know now that plants do not lack this power when movement is useful to them.’
It is all about scale, both physical and temporal. Look under a microscope or speed up time and plants become incredibly active. But aside from ordinary growth, Edith argued that other movements ‘seem almost purposive, in view of the benefits secured by them’.
For Edith, plants are not passive recipients of environmental whims but active agents in their environment, opening and closing to suit particular pollinators, flinging their seeds afar, wilting at a touch, or pushing stones off a wall in their quest for growth.
‘One of the best forms of gardening, surely, is to know plants as living, moving, acting individuals, rather than patches of colour – to know what plants do, how they live, rather than their relationships.’
Edith always said she was a botanist – a taxonomist even. But she was much more than that. She was an ecologist. She was too aware of the interconnections between species, of their habits, behaviours and relationships, to ever be purely a taxonomist. Ecology might have precursors in Haeckel, Möbius, Humboldt and van Leeuwenhoek, but it emerges, a rich community of its own, from between the cracks of twentieth-century systematics, fertilised by the growing urgency of protection and conservation.
I can find no evidence, in the published literature, that Edith’s work on pseudocopulation was in any way disregarded or dismissed because she was a woman, a colonial or an amateur. Her work might initially have been viewed with some scepticism, but it was assessed on its merits, subjected to rigorous scrutiny and accepted. Scientists have a way of letting you know, in their writing, if they are not overly impressed with someone’s work. There is no hint of that in the pseudocopulation literature.
That’s not to say that science isn’t sexist or subject to snobbery. Science is as much a reflection of society as any other occupation. But I wonder how much that battle takes place, not so much in the intellectual spaces of the scientific journals, but in the halls of academia. Edith was not competing for space, resources or position at the University of Melbourne. She was only competing for ideas – no money and only a little prestige in a rather obscure field of botany. Perhaps she picked her battleground wisely.
Spring is late this year, delayed by gales and flooding rain. By mid-September the paulownia tree is usually wreathed a haze of purple-blue and bees, but this year the hairy buds sit tight-closed against biting winds. The gales blew down several electricity pylons up the coast, blacking out the state for days. Roads were washed away, not just an edge or soft shoulder, but an entire creek redirected down a gouged gully that was previously smooth black tarmac, plates of asphalt lifted, tipped and relocated. Sheets of mud slid uninvited down hills, through back doors, into kitchens and lounge rooms.
But the seasons turn with determined regularity and the sun has finally forced its way through the clouds. The rain is good for the orchids. Nodding greenhoods (Pterostylis nutans) shelter under trees, umbrellaed from the weather. Dark maroon ‘bulldogs’ (Diuris orientis) replace the more common yellow donkey orchids (Diuris pardina) which normally predominate. Swathes of lilac waxlips (Glossodia major) cover the hillside, their white labellum offering bright yellow stamens to passing pollinators. Starry clusters of milkmaids (Burchardia umbellata), members of the lilaeacea family, are profligate with their underappreciated charms.
And the spider orchids have appeared in their hundreds, in places I’ve never seen them before. We find just a few king spider orchids each season – Caladenia tentaculata, aptly reclassified as Arachnorchis. But this year they seem to have appeared everywhere. It takes a while to get your ‘orchid eye’ in. I spot one, thrilled, then see a cluster. Dropping to the ground, I look up the hillside at a swathe, a delicate translucent cloak of spiky white, green and purple swaying a foot above the ground. There are hundreds of them.
A few lie broken in the wet grass, pruned by weather, branch or passing kangaroo. I pick them up to study more closely and take them home to draw. An early blowfly buzzes around my head. I shake my head but it returns, persistent with a heavy drone. Bigger than a blowfly. Some kind of beetle? I wave my free hand, keeping the orchids steady, but the insect won’t leave. It’s unusually persistent.
I hold the orchids away from me and a large striped wasp circles in. Then another and another. They mill around then dive, simultaneously, tackling the delicate orchids like a team of rugby players. The thin stems of the orchids shiver beneath the wasps’ weight. Lumps of golden pollen cling to their bodies, they curve their abdomens around the orchids’ labellum, first one then the other, before abandoning them: a bombing squadron that disappears as quickly as it arrived. Teams of wasps reappear periodically on the walk home, repeating their bombardment, hounding me all the way up the hill as if protesting the theft of their property.
In twenty years of observing orchids, I have never witnessed pseudocopulation before, only read about it. And it is every bit as strange and astonishing to observe as it must have been when Edith first saw it, in that summer of 1926.
Wasps and orchids: A remarkable partnership
By E. C.
Instances of Nature’s wonderful partnerships in the plant and animal worlds are not at all uncommon, but recent discoveries have disclosed a singular alliance between an orchid and a certain wasp which is so strange as to appear incredible. The purpose of the partnership has so far baffled experts both in orchidology and entomology.
One learns to be surprised at little in Nature’s realm, and, though many of her ways are inscrutable, we accept them without question. Some of the means she adopts to achieve her ends are altogether beyond our ken, and none are more marvellous than her modifications and adaptations to ensure reproduction in plants and animals. Having satisfied herself that cross-pollination would add vigor to many of her plants, she set about teaching them wonderful lessons in adaptability, modifying their structure to suit the transport of pollen. The square peg was, metaphorically speaking, made to fit the round hole, and in certain plants we can follow many singular evolutions as they adapt themselves to pressing needs or changed conditions.
Flowers have endless contrivances by which insects are invited, often compelled to carry out this work of cross-pollination, and among the orchids we find some of the most remarkable of these – many so wonderful as to appear incredible and others so strangely beautiful as to compel our instant admiration.
Of the many interesting partnerships in the plant world there are some that might well be cited as object lessons in co-operation, in which the articles of association are rigidly adhered to, and where the benefit of each member is assured. In some old-established co-operations between plants and fungi both partners draw fixed dividends.
In other plant–fungi alliances the benefit to the plant is evident, though we are not quite so satisfied as to the nature of the quid pro quo for the fungi. We are all familiar with the association between insects and pollen-bearing plants. In the case of bees and flowers the purpose of the partnership is plain. In exchange for nectar and pollen the bee performs the service of pollination. Certain wasps undertake the same office in payment for nectar. But in the case of the orchid (Cryptostylis leptochila) and the wasp (Lissopimpla semipunctata), Nature seems to have excelled herself in her strange methods of achieving her results. Strictly speaking the insect is not a wasp, but belongs to the family of ichneumon flies which parasitise the larvae of other insects. Some of the males do occasionally visit flowers in search of nectar, but in the case under questio
n neither egg-laying nor nectar-feeding was the object of the visits.
Instead of entering the flowers in the orthodox way, thus removing the pollen on its head or back, the insect was observed to enter the flower ‘backwards,’ and emerged with the pollen on the end of its abdomen – always in exactly the same position!
Having satisfied ourselves that this was actually taking place we set about to discover the purpose of such an unusual partnership, the object of the wasp’s visit – the payment it exacted for the service it undoubtedly rendered the orchid.
Close observation showed that the insect evinced no interest in the nectar secreted by the flower, for its head was always turned in the opposite direction; and careful search failed to reveal any larva imbedded in the flower in which it might deposit its egg; and which would act as host to its offspring in its larval stage. We took nothing for granted, and though we felt confident that our wasp was too wise to risk its egg in vegetable matter which might dry long before her larva reached maturity, we made a careful examination of the viscid matter of the orchid, but the microscope showed nothing that we could isolate as an egg.
Then came our biggest puzzle, for a leading entomologist identified our insects as males, so that the egg-placing theory fell through, and we could lay hold of nothing but the one outstanding fact, new, we believe, to science, that the ichneumon fly does, in this unusual manner, perform faithfully the service of pollination for the orchid. It would appear to be a perfect partnership for which the orchid has specially modified its shape.
There is no apparent search on the part of the insect for either nectar or caterpillar, or any evident choice of flower. Possibly possessing keen eyesight or a wonderful sense of smell, the wasp flies directly to the flower selected, taking up the necessary position so easily and surely that one feels it must be answering some natural impulse, whether calculated or mechanical, or obeying some powerful urge. As the orchid matures and when one concludes the moment has arrived for the services of the wasp, the labellum of the flower assumes a strange curve – curiously adapted, one would say, to the needs of the wasp, suggesting a vegetable intelligence that knows and plays upon ‘the passion of insects’. As an instance of insect cunning or obedience to some involuntary prompting it appears unparalleled.
It is without doubt a strange partnership and the benefit to the wasp is still shrouded in mystery.
The solution is no doubt simple when it is worked out, but the season of the orchid having closed further investigations are held up for some months.
Chapter 9
ACROSS THE CONTINENT
‘Looking ahead, the gleaming silver ribbons stretch endlessly as far as the eye can see, merging together on the horizon. At night it seems eerie to travel hour after hour without seeing a single light other than that of the moon or the stars. There is a feeling of unreality about this part of the journey.’
December 1929
Edith presses her face against the window of the train. There is so much to see, from first to last as the train rolls on, mile over mile. The country throws up a succession of sharp contrasts. You never know what to expect around each bend.
They travelled from Adelaide to Terowie, where the land was as beautiful as you please. It rose and fell in softly rounded hills and dreamy pasture lands, so invitingly cool and green. But once they passed Quorn, the land turned dry and harsh.
‘One might think that rain had never fallen in these parts,’ jots Edith in her notebook, ‘were it not for an occasional suspicion of green in small areas that had benefited by slight showers.’
They trek out into the ‘great wastes’ of ‘never never’ country until they reach Port Augusta. From here they head out across the Nullarbor.
‘Not a tree rises above the saltbush or bluebush to break the line,’ Edith writes. ‘By day the sun touches the grey vegetation with a misty purple that is at no time monotonous, and the moon transforms each tussock or bush into strange silver shapes belonging, one fancies, to some other world. Sunrise over the plain is something to remember – a dream of rose and saffron on which the inward vision will dwell for many a day. Here and there white everlasting daisies mantle the ground like a heavy frost. Sometimes patches of pink ones add a new colour note.’
As the train pulls into the station, Edith notices a group of Aboriginal people, upturned palms soliciting coins. Someone throws some coppers which are inspected with a disdainful shrug. They turn their attention to the cook’s quarters, where huge bones are being handed out and carted off with enthusiastic energy.
Further away, an older woman stands, regal and aloof, watching the proceedings with an enviable impassivity. Edith snaps a photo of her through the window and the woman looks up, her expression unreadable before turning away.
Edith withdraws the camera. She can’t help but feel somehow responsible for their plight, the sad degeneration that ‘civilisation’ has wrought on a once proud and fearless tribe.
The train moves off, the figure disappearing into the distance, and they head into an impressionistic repetition of sandhills, limestone plains and the grey vegetation of bluebush, saltbush and spinifex until they reach Kalgoorlie.
EDITH TRAVELLED A great deal. She says she drove thousands of miles with James in their early days. But I don’t know where. There are only hints here and there of destinations and locations in her articles and letters: Eden and Goulburn in New South Wales, and regional areas of Victoria – Wilsons Promontory in 1926, a trip to Bendigo with Gladys in 1918.
Dorothy, too, was a keen traveller. In 1940, The Age social notes report that she had ‘just returned from an enjoyable motoring holiday to Sydney and Canberra’. Her travels are linked to Edith’s. Often it was Dorothy who drove Edith where she needed to go. I had assumed that Edith’s trip to Sydney, discussed in ‘Along an Agreeable Road’, was taken with James. But a little note in the paper disabuses me of that notion.
‘Mrs J. G. Coleman, Walsham Blackburn, and her daughter Miss Dorothy Coleman, with Miss Freda Price, will leave for Sydney on May 17. They intend making the journey there and back by motor, and expect to be away for nearly three weeks.’
Letters to the botanical artist George V. Scammel reveal plans to collect orchids in the Blue Mountains depending on ‘distances and the state of the roads’. They had hoped for seventeen days to see something of Sydney and the surrounding areas but in the end had only three days in the city as ‘the road was so alluring’, with orchids no doubt.
I cannot untangle Edith’s trajectory from the paths of her daughters. They are invisibly intertwined in so many ways. Ultimately, I can only rely on Edith to tell me about her experiences, about her travels. And she writes in detail about only three trips: the trip to Sydney via the Princes Highway; one to Central Australia; and the first, to Western Australia on the Trans Australian Railway in 1929, following the trail of her wasp-pollinated orchids.
NM class steam locomotive on the Trans Australian Railway near Quorn, as used on Edith’s trip to Perth in 1929
Edith’s arrival in the west was greeted in the papers with infectious enthusiasm.
‘Australia’s greatest orchid expert.’
‘One of the foremost of our women naturalists.’
Edith’s pioneering work on pseudocopulation was only in its first year. Her career was still in its infancy, and she had only just begun writing regularly for The Age in the last two years. Her fame spread remarkably fast.
‘Mrs Edith Coleman of Melbourne arrived in Perth by the Great Western Express on Sunday morning,’ announced the West Australian. ‘Mrs Coleman is an orchid specialist and regular contributor to the Melbourne Press of articles dealing with Australian native flowers. Prior to her departure yesterday for Busselton, where she will be the guest of Mrs E. Bryant at the Manse, Mrs Coleman was entertained by Colonel and Mrs Goadby, at their home at Cottesloe Beach. It is Mrs Coleman’s intention to attend the Wildflower Show to be opened in the Town Hall Perth on September 24.’
Her
host, Lieutenant-Colonel Bede Theodore Goadby, had been born in India, but arrived in Australia in 1895 at the age of 33 as a Royal Engineer, charged with laying mines across the entrance of Albany harbour. Explosives were not his primary passion. While at Albany he sent seeds to Sir Joseph Hooker at Kew, from which they grew the boomerang trigger plant Stylidium crassifolium, with its pretty whirligig wings, and the many-starred Crowea angustifolia. After World War I, Goadby returned to Perth with his wife Mary Emma, and pursued his passion for orchidology. He didn’t look much like a retired soldier.
‘Slight, white-haired, courteous, with quick but uncertain movements,’ Rica Erickson described him. ‘His papers and collections in fair order and neatness, but not always arranged to make it easy to find a particular item immediately, depending more on his memory than his system to retrieve it.’
Edith stayed the night with the hospitable Goadbys at their pretty Harvey Street residence near Cottesloe beach. She doesn’t describe her visit to the Goadbys’ but I imagine it might have been somewhat similar to Rica’s first visit there.
‘Col. Goadby gave me afternoon tea (Mrs G. being momentarily away),’ Rica said. ‘He managed the tray very well – but forgot the water boiling away – being so absorbed in the topic of orchids. A man of humour who delighted in teasing his wife in a youthful manner – after her return and reprimand re the teatray. Her reply to his remarks with amiable repartee; turning his teasing on him. Both very keen to help – very alive and satisfied with their family circle.’
I can only assume that Edith’s conversation with the Goadbys was dominated by her nascent work on pseudocopulation in orchids. If her theory was correct, she reasoned, the phenomenon should be widespread and found in many Australian orchids that appeared to have extravagant floral displays but no nectar for their insect visitors. Goadby was solicited for the cause. In a letter written just a few months after her visit, Goadby confirmed her findings.
The Wasp and the Orchid Page 16