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Updated: May 31, 2025
"Charlie!" she protested. He turned from her and sat down at the piano. His fingers began to caress the keys, and then in a moment the old sweet melody that he had played to her in the long ago days came softly through the room. Her lips formed the words as he played, but she made no sound. "There has fallen a splendid tear From the passion-flower at the gate.
There is a lovely little native daisy called tupapa, and a blue lily known as rengarenga, also a green and yellow passion-flower named by the aborigines kowhaia. A glutinous, golden buttercup is known as anata, nearly as abundant as its namesake in America. All these are wild-flowers, cultivated only by Nature's hand.
Mamma Sendel had bestowed her blessing upon the happy pair, and in the ardour of her maternal accolades had nearly extinguished her future son-in-law's left ogle with the wire stalk of an artificial passion-flower. The first burst of benevolence over, and the effervescence of feeling a little subsided, the bridegroom elect, who could not afford delays, pressed for an early day.
But she is no lily in her most enchanting movements, but rather an ardent passion-flower burning and palpitating in the sun. Her skin, which is milk-white, has strange flushes in it, and her eyes, which never look at you twice with the same meaning, are blue, or gray, or black, as her feeling varies and the soul informing them is in a state of joy, or trouble.
But there are other strong phrases that recall not Stevenson but rather their common master, Virgil "Tears from the depths of some divine despair" "There is fallen a splendid tear from the passion-flower at the gate" "Was a great water; and the moon was full" "God made Himself an awful rose of dawn." These do not depend on a word but on an idea: they might even be translated.
If he saw, there'd be hell at least," replied Barry Whalen, scornfully. "He's as blind as a bat," sighed Fleming. "He got into the wrong garden and picked the wrong flower wrong for him," said another voice. "A passion-flower, not the flower her name is," added De Lancy Scovel, with a reflective cynicism. "They they there's no doubt about it she's throwing herself away.
There is nothing to frighten you, my passion-flower. If you had only come to me sooner it would have made it easier for you. But now there is no time." The soothing note in his voice sounded oddly strained, as though an undernote of fever throbbed below it. "You're not going to fail me," he urged softly. "Think how much it means to you to me! And there is only half an hour left, dear.
Fancy that lovely opal Venetian vase going to that big bony Scotswoman, Mr. M'Vie's mother." "Indeed! That is a pity. If I had known it would be raffled for, I would have sent a private commission, though I don't know if Julius would have let me. He says it is gambling. What became of the Spa work-box, with the passion-flower wreath?" "I don't know.
"The flower obviously indicated is the passion-flower; that unique blossom, of a purplish blue, its seed-vessel simulating the Cross, its styles and stigma the Nails; its stamens mimicking the Hammer, its thread-like fringe the Crown of thorns in short, it represents all the instruments of the Passion.
Then the Sun-dew denied her pity; the blue Forget-me not, constancy; the Iris, pride; the Butter-cup, gold; the Passion-flower, love; the Amaranth, hope: all because the Spark should gift her with every one of these, and burn the gift in deeply. So they all dropped and died; and she could never know the flowers of life, only its fires.
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