Pollination remained one of Edith’s favourite topics mostly, but not exclusively, in orchids. She published over 30 papers on pollination, with a good deal more under the guise of ‘floral marriage’ for a general audience.
‘The more closely one studies the orchids, the more convinced one becomes that a life-time would not exhaust the wonders of the various mechanisms by which their pollination is effected.’
Something of the subtle thrill of orchidology is conveyed by Edith’s description of a ‘sensation’ from Rushworth in the early 1920s when ‘certain members of the brownbeard family had been found without their beards’. Brownbeards, or bearded orchids as they are more commonly known today, are characterised by their densely fringed labella, of the Calochilus genus – meaning beautiful lip. They come in a range of delicately varied forms: swampbeards, strapbeards, redbeards, purplebeards and copperbeards, the latter being described by Edith as ‘a handsome orchid, with a steely-blue sheen on its rich copper-colored beard’.
But these new specimens were entirely different from their hirsute cousins. Rather than being clad in their characteristically shaggy purple-brown beards, these bearded orchids were entirely smooth. One or two such anomalies in the infamously variable orchid world might well be regarded as ‘freaks’ or mutants but a few weeks later, another naked beard orchid was found in Bayswater, causing ‘quite a flutter . . . in orchid circles’.
‘The children of the Rushworth enthusiast who discovered the strangers have always called their brownbeards by the delightfully apt name of “Father Christmas,” and they promptly bestowed upon the newcomer the appropriate name of “Mrs Christmas”.’
Purplebeard orchids (Calochilus robertsonii) 1923, from Rogers’ collection
The children’s name was indeed apt. Bearded orchids do often look just like little hairy men, tucked beneath a cap formed by the dorsal sepal and earning them the nickname of ‘bushrangers’. On several species, two conspicuous dots perched on either side of the long thin anther cap complete the image of eyes glaring over a nose above their shaggy beards. By contrast, the naked beard orchid’s smooth, friendly ‘face’ resembles a simple line drawing, encircled by a green and red striped bonnet. Only the tiniest wisp of imagination transforms it into Mrs Christmas.
This anomaly was not seen again for a few years, but in 1925 – an outstanding season for orchids in Victoria – a flurry of new records were again reported from Rushworth. The new orchid was duly christened by Rogers with the specific name of imberbis – without beards – and Calochilus imberbis, the naked beard orchid, entered the scientific register.
In 1928 Arthur Lea sent a copy of Edith’s paper to Professor E. B. Poulton. Lea included his own comments on her work, as well as several letters from Edith containing further information. Professor Poulton found the work particularly interesting and decided to republish her paper in the Transactions of the Royal Entomological Society of London.
‘I have extracted from these letters and others written to me a number of paragraphs which have been incorporated in Mrs. Coleman’s paper or added as supplementary notes,’ Poulton declared. ‘I regret that there has been no opportunity to consult with the authoress on the arrangements, but hope that it will meet with her approval.’
In 1929, Edith’s work appeared in another international journal, the Journal of Botany. This one appeared ‘with note by Col. M. J. Godfery’. The note confirmed that Edith’s work supported and extended his own and Pouyanne’s work on Old World orchid species. But even Godfery’s word was not enough. In the London Orchid Review, Godfery reassured his potentially sceptical readers that he had ‘an independent and unbiased witness’ to Edith’s work. The ‘well-known author on Australian Orchids who, moreover, was “only gently tolerant” of Mrs. Coleman’s ideas’. Dr Richard S. Rogers visited Edith at Healesville in 1929 to confirm the phenomenon himself.
‘We are in complete agreement with regard to the facts,’ reported Rogers to Godfery, ‘and I fail to see what other interpretation can be placed on them.’
To Edith, Rogers was more fulsome in his praise.
‘You have treated a difficult and rather delicate subject with a discretion and judgement that will leave little room for outside criticism,’ he wrote.
The papers in the international journals were published under Edith’s name. There was no question about the value of her work, nor the recognition that scientists have subsequently given it. But the editorial commentaries of Poulton and Godfery put parentheses around these papers – as if they were not confident that the work could withstand scrutiny in its own right, that it needed the imprimatur of authority.
Edith was an unknown housewife from a place that would, for many years yet, be seen as an intellectual colony of England. The commentaries by the English experts on Edith’s work in the international journals were faintly patronising, albeit in the nicest possible way. Was it because she was a woman? A colonial? Or an amateur? Pouyanne, the Algerian judge, was subject to this patronage by Godfery, who repackaged his work for an English audience, and by Correvon, who helped him publish in French. Pouyanne, too, was a colonial and an amateur.
