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Montrose
Mon t ro s e
life in a garden

Nancy Goodwin

with illustrations by Ippy Patterson

For e wor d by M au r e e n Qu i l liga n

Duke University Press

Durham & London

2005
 © 2005 Duke University Press

Illustrations © 2005 Ippy Patterson

All rights reserved

Printed in the United Kingdom on acid-

free paper ∞ by Butler & Tanner, Ltd.

Designed by C. H. Westmoreland

Typeset in Monotype Fournier with

Octavian display by Tseng Information

Systems, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-

Publication Data appear on the last

printed page of this book.

Duke University Press gratefully

acknowledges the support of the Mary

Duke Biddle Foundation, which provided

funds for the production and distribution

of this book.

frontispiece: Cyclamen hederifolium

 to montrose

pa s t , p r e s e n t , a n d f u t u r e
Contents
Foreword   ix
Acknowledgments   xv
Map of Montrose xvi
Introduction   1
First steps   5
Late January & February   10
March   55
April   81
May   99
June   126
July   148
August   175
September   191
October   212
November   227
December   246
January   259
Index   275
 Foreword
When my husband Michael Malone and I first came househunting in Hills-
borough, North Carolina, I was interested in the town very specifically be-
cause I knew there was a famous garden there—Nancy Goodwin’s Mon-
trose. That we subsequently bought the property adjoining Montrose was
a source of joy to me, for gardens are among the great pleasures of my life.
The day we moved into Burnside, our new home, I went to the phone book
to look up the number of Montrose. The number wasn’t there. Nancy Good-
win had closed the nursery that I had been hoping to use to stock my own
new garden. Sadly ready to make do with other sources, I was driving off to
purchase plants one morning when I passed a small sign on a brick pillar.

M-O-N-T-R-O-S-E

Craning my neck as I drove along the walled road past the entrance, I felt
a little like Satan in Milton’s Paradise Lost. I was looking in on Paradise, but
was able to see only the tops of delicious trees and the sides of the verdant
slopes. Worse, unlike Satan, I could not, however willing to do so, “oerleap
all bound.” Montrose was an Eden and I was outside it.
As it happened, because Hillsborough is a town of many extraordinary
artists, like Ippy Patterson, like Nancy Goodwin herself, a month later I
found myself invited to tour the gardens at Montrose. Learning of my inter-
est, novelist Allan Gurganus asked Michael and me over for drinks to meet
Nancy and Craufurd Goodwin. The evening was a wonderful occasion, and
although we later went to dinner at a fashionable restaurant where nobody
could hear anyone else, we struck up a rapport, and have happily become
over the years good friends as well as neighbors. Shortly after our meet-
 ing, I made my first visit to Montrose. It was the beginning of an amazing
education.
When I asked Nancy how she designed her garden, she answered, “on
my knees.” That is the same way her fellow artist and friend Ippy Patter-
son drew the illustrations for this book. All garden books give readers very
different advice—that you should start, not by planting “on your knees,”
but with a plan on graph paper. Earlier I had helped to design a border in
Connecticut in just this way. At first I didn’t know what Nancy meant by her
remark. But now I think I do. Her artistry begins in an incredible specificity,
at the scale of the fingernail on her little finger, the nail she once used to show
me a tiny cyclamen, lifting up the leaves carefully one by one, pointing out
the way the stems curled on themselves before they unfurled. I had never be-
fore paid attention in that way to life so small and so wonderfully perfect.
As has been notoriously remarked, there was never a fully charted over-
view of the garden at Montrose—not until the map drawn for this book. It
is telling and deliberate that tours of the Montrose garden did not offer such
a map. In Nancy’s view, there can be no substitute for the direct experience
of walking the garden step by physical step, moment by particular moment,
through time. As a result, we see the garden as Nancy planted it, seed by
seed, without any abstract graph imposed upon our direct and immediate
experience of individual plants in all their singularity and amazing juxta-
positions. The details of Montrose are as precise as any caesura in Milton’s
poetry, and just as Milton claimed to write by letting the “Heavenly Muse”
speak through him, so Nancy claims to let the plants plant themselves.
I trust it is clear that, as a scholar of the arts, I take gardening as seriously
as painting or poetry. Gardening—the way Nancy practices it—is, more-
over, an art that requires not only great talent but enormous discipline and
knowledge, memory and skill, as well as sustained arduous labor. Nancy is
so willing and able a teacher that one forgets, sometimes, at what a terrific
remove she is from the ordinary garden hobbyist. Whether she is standing


 xi

in freezing cold demonstrating to a class how to untangle with discarded

dental tools the tiny roots of seedlings, or is speaking through a megaphone
to a large troop of garden tourists, she is so unpretentious and accessible that
one can forget just how august her mastery of her art is.
Some time ago, I asked casually why she happened to be going to the
Philadelphia Flower Show—an annual event I had never missed while I
lived in Philadelphia, especially because the judges’ remarks—often posted
next to each exhibit—were such enjoyable studies in acerbic critique. When
she responded, “I go to judge it,” noting that she’d done so before, I thought,
“Of course!” It was delightful to imagine a few of the Main Line matrons
I had met years earlier, trembling before the knowledge and the style that
Nancy would bring to her analysis of their offerings. For Nancy is as brilliant
a writer as she is a gardener. She is able to create, in the words of a paragraph,
portraits of experience that are as particular and as intense as the flowers
she plants. Two artists created this book together. The drawings of Ippy
Patterson both illustrate Nancy’s garden and illuminate Nancy’s prose. I first
encountered Ippy’s literally eye-catching talent while dining in a restaurant
where strong and beautiful line drawings filled the walls. Throughout the
evening I was unable to stop staring at these pictures—although seldom do
I notice art in restaurants at all, except, usually, to regret that they are there.
Subsequently, as tends to happen in Hillsborough, I had the good fortune
to meet Ippy at an elegant private home where there was prominently dis-
played a drawing by her of the seven deadly sins. Ippy’s finely detailed sins
were so witty, grotesque, and compelling that again I found myself unable
to stop looking at the work, even in the midst of a social bustle. It was a
surprise to learn that these intricate knotted tangles of wittily sinful chaos
had been drawn by the same artist whose sweeping line had etched out the
smooth, innocently naked figures on the restaurant walls. What is always
striking about Ippy’s art is her control of line at any scale. In this gift, she is
very much like Nancy, who works in such various dimensions, from single
 miniscule plants to alleys of large trees. Ippy has mastered the enigmas of the
tiniest botanical detail. It is a perfect mirror of Nancy’s small-scale miracles.
Similarly, just as Montrose is, as a whole, a dazzling unity, so Ippy’s work
reflects her understanding of interlaced structure across vast interlinking
segments. It is seeing the whole that allows her to be able to see the details
so well. Nancy, who is also an accomplished pianist, told me once that she
wanted to play the Goldberg Variations on her harpsichord before she died.
To me that comment made her “perfect” as an artist. She is someone who
has never stopped trying to make all parts of her life into art. Ippy shares that
kind of perfection; her gift is visible in her own beauty, in her home, in her
contributions to her community, artistic, social, and civic, just as it is present
in her paintings and drawings. For both Ippy and Nancy, even as their art
constantly changes and evolves, it is at every moment full and complete
and present to them. Montrose, the place you will come to know through
Nancy’s words and Ippy’s drawings, is not only home to the exquisite flora
that makes it a world-class garden; it is also a house, and a home. The ele-
gant house itself is historic, important to the heritage of North Carolina.
The Goodwins have filled its rooms with important collections of domestic
art and antiques: coverlets, brass candlesticks, and a large assemblage of
Bloomsbury art. It is significant that, in addition to paintings by such artists
as Duncan Grant, Roger Fry, and Vanessa Bell, the Goodwin collection in-
cludes domestic artifacts often not thought of as high art—painted shutters,
tiles from Virginia Woolf ’s garden table, dinnerware and crockery of all
types (hand-painted cups, bowls, plates, and dishes). These pieces have their
home in the kind of domestic interior spaces in which Bloomsbury art was
meant to be used and seen. At Montrose, art is both lived and lived in. The
preservation of all great artistic works, of course, depends upon the nurture
of subsequent generations. But the garden is a form of art particularly sus-
ceptible to the ravages of time, and for a garden to be uncared for by even one
generation risks its loss. Having been selected as a preservation project of

xii
 xiii

the Garden Conservancy, Montrose is poised to have its posterity preserved

both as garden and as a house museum. But beyond that, this book is itself
not only a work of art but also a means of preserving another work of art,
the garden of Montrose. Together Nancy Goodwin’s words and Ippy Patter-
son’s illustrations serve to stave off time by taking us in precise, elegant detail
through time, by offering us crisp, wise testimony to what a year at Mont­
rose feels like as it passes. Montrose is located in “Historic Hillsborough,”
the eighteenth-century capital of Orange County, North Carolina. That
the town retains many of its beautiful eighteenth- and nineteenth-century
houses is due in part to the efforts of William Alexander Graham, former
governor of North Carolina and owner of Montrose. Today Hillsborough is
(like Concord, Massachusetts, long ago) a small town where a large number
of prominent artists—novelists, poets, essayists, painters, musicians, and
workers in crafts—make a home and a community. It is a town in which
Nancy may appear on a Friday night as the maid in an amateur play produc-
tion for which Ippy has painted the sets, and then on Saturday afternoon be
welcoming hundreds of visitors to Open Day at Montrose, while in her own
home Ippy is hosting a gathering of eminent scientists. The lives of both
these women are filled with the activities of art. One evening, seated in the
midst of a dinner conversation among fellow Hillsborough artists, Nancy
remarked, “I hope this never ends.” On the pages of the beautiful book that
Ippy and she have created together, the year at Montrose passes by us in all
the transient particularities of its seasonal changes. But Montrose as a work
of art never ends.

Maureen Quilligan
 Ac k n o w l e d g m e n t s
Cathy Dykes and Cheryl Traylor work without complaint to maintain the
garden. Their skill, knowledge, and energy give me the time to record our
activities and write about the joy of living with other creatures in a garden.
Joanne Ferguson, Allan Gurganus, Maureen Quilligan, Reynolds Smith, and
Daisy Thorp read the manuscript and made perceptive suggestions, which
we followed. Malcolm Grear showed us how art and text could flow together
and form an integrated work. Neil Patterson and Craufurd Goodwin en-
couraged us and gave us the constructive criticisms that led us in the right
direction. Without any of these friends this book would not be possible. Ippy
and I are enormously grateful.
I have attempted to verify the botanical names as they exist in 2004.
Botanical taxonomy and nomenclature are under constant revision and some
of the current names may have changed by the time this book is published.
My primary reference is the RHS Plant Finder 2004–2005. When a plant
is not listed there, I consult encyclopedias and botanical floras, primarily
The New York Botanical Garden Illustrated Encyclopedia of Horticulture, The
New Royal Horticultural Society Dictionary of Gardening, and Manual of the
Vascular Flora of the Carolinas.
 [
Entrance from St. Marys Road mon t ro s e ga r de n pla n
a. Rock garden
b. Circle garden
c. Dianthus walk
a d. Nandinaland
e. Metasequoia garden
f. Scree garden
d g. Boxwood border
h. Wood splitter garden
b i. May garden
j. Tropical garden
k. Albert memorial urn
l. Lath house
c m. Jo’s memorial garden
n. Aster border
e o. Color garden
p. Big urn
1 q. Blue and Yellow garden
r. Snowdrop woods
s. Snowdrop walk
6 f t. Rohdea slope
7 8 u. Yucca bank
v. Woods garden
g 2
5
w. Mother-in-law walk
x. Planted steps
3 4 9 y. Hellebore slope
h
10 Buildings
11
1. Main house, ca.1898
i j 2. Law office, ca.1820, 1897
12
3. Pump house
m 4. Smoke house, ca.1840
k l
5. Old kitchen, ca.1840
n q 6. Garage, ca.1928
p 7. Greenhouse
8. Cold frames and nursery
o
9. Old kitchen, ca.1835
10. Animal shelter
11. Machine storage
r 12. Barn, ca.1840
u v

t x
y

s
w Eno River
based on a map drawn
by Gabrielle McDermit
Montrose
 Introduction
For most of my life I wondered what lay behind the fence covered with vines
separating and hiding Montrose from St. Marys Road. When I was a child,
my father drove our family in our old Studebaker to Hillsborough as a spe-
cial treat. We always came into town along that road and I often saw men
with picks, mattocks, and swing blades walking along the front edge of the
property. They cleared away excess growth on the bank but didn’t remove
enough for us to see into the grounds.
My parents saw the garden the year the Grahams opened it for Hills-
borough’s spring tour. They didn’t forget a detail. No matter where my
husband, Craufurd, and I looked for a house, my father said, we should try
to live at Montrose. He spoke of the rich, clay loam soil, the splendid old
trees, and Mr. Graham’s tomato frames. “With your love of gardening, you
should move there.” He repeated it again and again. “But it isn’t for sale!”
I protested.
Nature, especially plants, has always been the core of my life. My earliest
and happiest childhood memories include the time when my parents discov-
ered a patch of yellow lady slippers growing wild in Durham County. My
parents had been so intent on finding the rare flowers, they weren’t aware
that we had wandered too close to a moonshine camp until we heard shots
and realized that we were the targets. Even lady slippers aren’t worth dying
for. The first time we found atamasco lilies in a damp field near our house in
Durham, a bull chased us all the way to the road. The sight of elegant white
flowers tinged with pink growing in soggy soil was worth the heart-thump-
ing run. When we reached the end of our five-hundred-(plus)-mile drives
to visit my grandparents in middle Tennessee or south Georgia, we got out
of the car and went straight into their gardens. The fact that we had driven
for more than thirteen hours, had five or more flat tires, and hadn’t eaten a
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