from Life magazine dated 15 SEP 1963
Why Nero Wolfe Likes Orchids
by Rex Stout
When people ask me why Nero Wolfe grows
orchids I ask them which they are interested in, orchids or him.
If they ask what difference that makes, I say it makes all the difference.
If they are curious about orchids, the best and simplest answer is to take
them up to the plant rooms, but if they're curious about Nero Wolfe, there
are a dozen different answers and they are all complicated.
Wolfe's flowers go all they way from the showiest
to the shyest. He has a Cattleya hybrid, bred by him, which threw
it's first flower last year, that is twice as gaudy as anything you ever
saw in a florist shop, and he has a Cymbidium hybrid, ensifolium x Sanderae,
bred by him in 1953, so coy that it makes one little flower each year:
off-white, the size of a dime, hidden down in the foliage. Once I
saw him scowling at it and muttering, "Confound you, are you too timid
or too proud?"
If he ever talks to himself he keeps it strictly private,
but I have often heard him talk to orchids. He'll cock his head at
a bench of Miltonias in full bloom and say distinctly, "Much too loud.
Why don't you learn to whisper?" Not that he ever whispers.
Wolfe started on orchids many years ago with a specimen
plant of Vanda suavis, given to him by the wife of a man he had cleared
on a murder rap. He kept it in the office and it petered out. He
got mad, built a little shed on the roof and bought 20 plants. Now
the plant rooms are 34x86, the size of the house. He hasn't bought
a plant from a commercial grower for 10 years, but he sells some --- a hundred
or more a year.
Of the four hours a day he spends up in the plants
rooms --- 9 to 11 in the morning and 4 to 6 in the afternoon --- not more than
20 minutes is spent looking at flowers. First he makes a tour through
the aisles, which are 30 inches wide instead of the usual two feet --- the
tropical room, the intermediate, and the cool --- and then on to the potting
room. He nods to Theodore, the gardener, and says, "Well?" Theodore
says either, "Well enough," or something like, "A pod of Coelogyne will
be ready in two days."
Then work. It may be real work, like bringing
a dozen old plants from one of the rooms for dividing and repotting, or
opening a bale of osmunda fiber and inspecting it; or it may be merely
getting a tape and going to the cool room to measure the panicles of Odontoglossums.
It can be any of the thousand chores that orchids take --- mixing fertilizer,
labeling, presoaking new pots, checking ventilation and humidity, adjusting
shade screens, stripping bulb sheaths, chipping charcoal, and so forth,
forever and ever with no amen. Except spraying. Wolfe hates it,
and Theodore does it when he's not there.
Of course, most of the chores are for breeding, not growing.
Buying a dozen or so orchid plants and keeping them going and blooming
in a house or apartment is no trick at all, but hybridizing is a career.
Usually an orchid flower is both male and female, so
deciding on father and mother is up to Nero Wolfe. Having cross-pollenated,
he waits seven months to a year for the seed pod to mature and ripen.
A large pod will have a million or more seeds. They are among the
smallest of all plant seeds.
The preparations in a hospital operating room for
an appendectomy are nothing compared to the fuss of planting a batch of
orchid seed. What Wolfe has to keep out is fungus. If one microscopic
fungus cell gets in a bottle with the seed, it goes to work on the nutrient
jelly in which the infant flower is planted, and goodbye seed. If
he does it right and is lucky, in nine or 10 months he scoops the tiny
half-inch seedlings out of the bottle and plants them in community pots.
A year later he transplants them to individual three-inch pots and in another
two years to 4½-inch pots, and crosses his fingers. Then five
or six or seven years since the day he put pollen to stigma, he sees an
orchid no one ever saw before. It is different from any orchid that
has ever bloomed, including those in the Garden of Eden. The differences
may be very slight, or there may be flaws, but about once in every five
times his orchid will be worthy of dad and mom, and there is one chance
in ten thousand that it will be a absolute stunner. Since he has
seen only a fraction of the many thousands of named and listed hybrids,
he can't be sure until the day some grower takes a long hard look at his
baby and says casually, "Interesting little plant. I'll give you
$400 for it." Then he'll know that in a few years orchid catalogues
will list one more named for him, or at least by him.
In the past 20 years Nero Wolfe has had that happen
14 times, and he has on his benches a total of 112 unnamed varieties bred
by him and good enough to keep. Okay, that's very satisfactory, and
it's one of the reasons he grow orchids; but it's not the main one.
He grows orchids chiefly for the same reason that he wears bright yellow
shirts: for the color.
I said he spends only 20 minutes of the four hours looking at flowers,
but that's a lot. Anyway he gets some special kind of kick from color.
He says you don't look at color, you feel it, and apparently he thinks
that really means something.
It doesn't to me, but maybe it does to you and you
know exactly how he feels as he opens the door to the plant rooms and walks
in on the big show. I have never known a day when less than a hundred
plants were in bloom, and sometimes there are a thousand, from the pure
white of dainty little Dendrobium nobile virginalis to the yellow-tan-bronze-mahogany-purple
of big and gaudy Laelia tenebrosa. It is unquestionably worth a look ---
or, if you react the same way Wolfe does, a feel.
One question I don't know the answer to and can
only guess at is why he cuts the ones he brings down to the office every
morning for the vase on his desk. Why not bring the plant, since
then the flowers would be good for another week or more? Because
he would have to take it back up again? No; he could just add that
to my daily chores. Because he thinks that particular spike or raceme
has been around long enough? No; sometimes it will be a very special
item, like the dwarf Vanda with green dots that a commercial grower offered
him $1,200 for. Because he hates to carry things? That could
be, but he carries plenty of them from the growing rooms to the potting
rooms and back again. The best guess is that he doesn't want to give
a plant a shadow of an excuse not to go on blossoming at peak efficiency.
If a Zygopetalum has a cluster of eight flowers this year, and next year
only six, it could blame it on the day in the office --- not enough light
and the temperature and humidity wrong; and although you can say pfui to
an orchid plant, and Wolfe often does, there's no real satisfaction in it.
How does he decide each morning which one he will
cut for his desk vase that day? I have had various theories, but
none of them has stood up. One was that it depended on the bank balance.
If the balance was high, say 50 grand, he would pick something extra flashy;
if it was low, down to four figures, it would be something subdued like
a brown speckled Dendrobium. That theory lasted three days.
When I told him about it he grunted and said, "The flower a woman chooses
depends on the woman. The flower a man chooses depends on the flower."