Аttalea princeps
In a large city there was a botanical garden, in this garden there was a vast greenhouse made out of metal and glass. It was beautiful: thin, spiral columns supported whole building; light patterned arches rested on them intertwined with each other with an intricate web of iron frames into which glass was inserted. The greenhouse was especially beautiful during sunset when the sun was illuminating it with red light. It was as if it were burning during these moments, red reflections played and shimmered, as if in a giant, finely polished precious stone.
Through thick clear glass you could see the imprisoned plants. Despite the size of the greenhouse they felt cramped. Their roots were entangled depriving each other from food and moisture. Branches of the trees interfered with, bent and broke big leaves of the palm trees, and themselves, leaning against the iron frames, were bending and breaking. Gardeners regularly trimmed the branches, they used wires to tie the leaves and prevent them from growing to where they wanted but it didn’t help much. Plants needed wide open space of their native lands, they needed freedom. Being from the warm climate countries, gentle, luxurious creatures; they remembered their homeland and yearned for it. No matter how clear the glass roof is, it’s not a blue sky. Sometimes in winter when windows were frosting over it made the greenhouse feel especially dark. The wind was howling, beating metal frames making them tremble. The roof was covered with swept snow. The plants stood and listened to the howling of the wind and remembered that there was another kind of wind, warm moist, wind that used to give them life and strength. And they wanted to feel it’s breath again, they wanted it to shake their branches, play with their leaves. But in the greenhouse the air was still, except for a few occasions where winter storm broke the glass letting in a sharp, cold, full of hoarfrost stream. A touch of this stream made leaves turn pale, shrink and wither.
But the glass was fixed very quickly. The Botanical Garden was run by an excellent science director and he did not allow any disorder, despite the fact that he spent most of his time studying with a microscope in a special glass booth arranged in the greenhouse.
There was one palm tree among the plants, tallest of them all and more beautiful than all. The director, who was sitting in the booth, called her in Latin — Attalea! But this name wasn’t her native: botanists came up with it. Botanists didn’t know the native name, and it wasn’t written in soot on a white board nailed to the trunk of a palm tree. Once a visitor came to the botanical garden from that warm climate country where the palm tree was originally from; when he saw her he smiled, because she reminded him of his homeland.
Ah! — he said. — I know this tree. And he called it by it’s native name.
— Excuse me, — the director shouted to him from his booth, while carefully cutting some stalk with a razor, — you are mistaken. The tree that you wished to pronounce doesn’t exist. This is Attalea princeps, originally from Brazil.
— Oh, yes, — said visitor, — I believe that botanists call it Attalea, but it also has a native, real name.
— The real name is the one given by science, — the botanist said dryly and locked the door of the booth so that people wouldn’t bother him anymore. People who didn’t even understand that if a man of science said something then all that’s required of them is to agree and shut up.
The visitor was becoming sadder and sadder as as he continued to stay there and look at the tree. He remembered his homeland, it’s sun and sky, it’s magnificent forests with wonderful animals and birds, its deserts, its wonderful southern nights. And he also remembered that he had never been happy anywhere except for his home country, and he had traveled all over the world. He touched the palm tree with his hand as if he was saying goodbye to it and left the garden, and the next day he was already on the steamship on his way home.
But the palm tree remained. It became unbearable for her, although even before this discovery it was already very difficult. She was all alone. She towered five fathoms above the tops of all other plants, and these other plants didn’t love her, they envied her and considered her proud. This height gave her only grief. Besides the fact that everyone was together and she was alone, she remembered her native sky best of all and yearned for it most of all because she was closest to that thing that replaced it: the ugly glass roof. She could sometimes see something blue through the glass, it was the sky, though alien and pale but still a real blue sky. And when the plants gossiped among themselves Attalea was always silent, yearning and thinking only about how good it would be to stand even under this pale sky.
— Tell me, please, will we be watered soon? — asked the Metroxylon palm, which was very fond of dampness. — I it seems, will dry up today.
— Your words surprise me, neighbor, — said the pot-bellied cactus. — Is it really not enough for you? You have a huge amount of water dumped on you every day. Look at me: they give me very little, but I’m still fresh and juicy.
— We are not accustomed to frugality, — replied the Metroxylon palm. — We can’t grow in soil as dry and rotten as some cacti. We are not accustomed to just getting by. And besides all this, I will tell you that no one asked you for your opinion.
Having said this, the Metroxylon palm got offended and fell silent.
— As for me, — Cinnamon tree intervened, — I am almost content with my position. True, it’s a bit boring here, but at least I’m sure that no one will rip me off.
— But we weren’t all ripped off, — said the fern. — Of course, this prison may also seem like paradise to many after the miserable existence that they have led in the wild.
Here the Cinnamon tree, forgetting that she had constantly been getting ripped off, got offended and began to argue. Some plants stood up for her, some for the fern, and a heated altercation ensued. If they could move they would certainly fight.
— Why are you arguing? — said Attalea — Do you think bickering will help much? This anger and irritation will only increase your misery. It’s better to put your disagreements aside and think about the case. Listen to me: you need to grow taller and wider, you need to scatter branches, push against the metal frames and glass. To find our freedom we can make our greenhouse crumble to pieces. If one branch hits the glass then of course, it will be cut off but what will be done with a hundred strong and courageous trunks? We just need to work together for victory to be ours.
At first no one objected to the palm, everyone was silent and didn’t know what to say. Finally the Metroxylon palm decided.
— It’s all nonsense, — she said.
— Nonsense! Nonsense! — the trees spoke, and all at once began to prove to Attalea that she was proposing a terrible nonsense. — An impossible dream! they shouted. — Nonsense! Ridiculous! The frames are strong, and we will never break them, and even if we did, so what? People will come with knives and axes. They will cut our branches, fix metal frames, and everything will go on as before. It will only result in us missing our limbs…
— Well, as you wish! — answered Attalea. — Now I know what to do. I’ll leave you alone: live as you like, grumble at each other, argue over water supplies and stay forever in a glass jar. I will find my own way. I want to see the sky and the sun not through these bars and glass — and I will!
And the palm tree proudly glanced with its green top over the forest of comrades spread out under it. None of them dared to say anything to her, only the Metroxylon palm quietly said to the neighbor Bottle Tree:
— uh, we’ll see. We’ll see how arrogant you will be after they cut your big proud head off!
The rest, though silent, were still angry with Attalea for her proud words. Only one little grass was not angry with the palm tree and wasn’t offended by her speeches. It was the most miserable and contemptible of all the greenhouse plants: friable, pale, creeping, with sluggish plump leaves. There was nothing remarkable about her, and she was only used in the greenhouse to cover the bare ground. She wrapped herself around the foot of the large palm tree, listened to her carefully thinking that Attalea was right. She didn’t know the southern nature, but she also loved the air and freedom. The greenhouse was a prison for her too. “If I, an insignificant, sluggish grass, suffer so much without my gray sky, without the pale sun and cold rain, then what must this beautiful and mighty tree experience in captivity! — so she thought, and tenderly wrapped herself around the palm tree and caressed it. — Why am I not a big tree? I would have listened to the advice. We would’ve grown together and together we would’ve gone free. The rest would see that Attalea was right.”
But she was just a small and sluggish grass, not a big tree. She could only wrap herself even more tenderly around the trunk of Attalea and whisper her love and wish for happiness in her attempts to find freedom.
— Of course, it’s not as warm here, the sky is not as clear, the rains are not as luxurious as in your country but still we have the sky, and the sun, and the wind. We don’t have such lush plants as yourself and your comrades with such huge leaves and beautiful flowers, but there are also good trees here: pines, firs and birches. I am a small weed and will never get to freedom, but you are so great and strong! Your trunk is solid, and it won’t be long before you grow close to the glass roof. You will break through it and go out into the light of God. Then you will tell me of everything, if it’s as beautiful as you thought it will be. I’ll be happy with that too.
— Why don’t you want to grow out with me, little grass? My trunk is hard and strong: lean on it, crawl over me. It means nothing to me to carry you up.
— No, where I’d go! Look how lethargic and weak I am: I can’t lift even one of my own branches. No, I’m not your comrade in this endeavor. Grow up, be happy. I only ask of you that when you are released, remember your little friend sometimes!
Then the palm tree began to grow. Even before her decision visitors were surprised by her size, and now she started to grow taller and taller every month. The director of the botanical garden attributed such rapid growth to his good care and was proud of the knowledge with which he set up a greenhouse and conducted his business.
— Yes, look at Attalea princeps, — he said. — Such tall specimens are rare in Brazil. We have applied all our knowledge so that the plants develop in the greenhouse just as freely as in the wild, and I think we have achieved some success.
At the same time, he patted the trunk with his cane with a satisfied look on his face. These blows resounded loudly through the greenhouse making leaves of the palm tremble. Oh if she could moan, what a cry of rage the botanist would hear!
— He imagines that I am growing for his pleasure, — thought Attalea. — Well, I’ll let him imagine! .. for now”
And she continued growing up spending all the juices only to stretch out, while depriving her roots and leaves. Sometimes it seemed to her that the distance to the glass frames did not decrease. She then strained concentrating all her willpower. The frames got closer and closer, and finally one of the young leaves touched the cold glass and iron.
— Look, look! — the plants began to whisper, — look at where she is! Will she dare to escape?
— How terribly tall she has grown, — said the fern.
— She grew tall and what? Nothing special. If she could grow wide like me that would be something! — said Bottle Tree, with a trunk that looked like a barrel. — And what’s the point of all this stretching? It’s not like she’ll be able to do anything anyway. Metal frame is too strong and glass is too thick.
Another month has passed. Attalea grew. Finally she started to firmly rest against the frames. There was nowhere else to grow. Then her trunk began to bend. Its leafy top crumpled, the cold rods of the frame dug into the tender young leaves, cutting and mutilating them but the tree was stubborn. She didn’t spare her leaves. In spite of everything she continued to press on metal frame and although it was made of iron it started to move.
Her little grass-friend watched her fight freezing with excitement.
— Tell me, doesn’t it hurt? Metal frames are too strong, maybe it’s better to retreat? — she asked the palm tree.
— Hurt? What does physical pain really mean when you want to be free? Didn’t you yourself encourage me? — the palm answered.
— Yes, I encouraged you, but I had no idea how difficult will be. I’m so sorry. I can’t bear seeing you suffering this much.
— Shut up, you are weak! Don’t you dare feeling sorry for me! I will either die or be free.
And at that moment there was a loud bang. A thick strip of iron burst. Shards of glass rained down and rang. One of them hit the botanist on his way out of the greenhouse.
— What? What’s happening? — he cried shuddering as he saw pieces of glass flying through the air. He ran outside to check the roof and saw a green crown of the straightened palm tree proudly towering above the glass vault.
— And this is it? — she thought. — And I languished and suffered so long for this? Was this really the highest goal I wanted to achieve?
It was late fall when Attalea straightened its top through a punched hole in greenhouse’s roof. Piercing wind was chasing low gray clouds. She felt how drizzle of a fine mixture of rain and snow started to embrace her. Bare trees looked like mutilated corpses and only pines and firs were showing weak signs of life with their dark green needles. Greenhouse plants stared terrified at the palm tree: “We’ll freeze!” — as if they were screaming to her. — You don’t know what frost is. We can’t survive it! Why did you do this?”
And Attalea realized that it was all over for her. She was freezing. Go back under the roof again? But she couldn’t come back, it was impossible. She had to stand in the cold wind, feel it’s gusts and the sharp touch of snowflakes, look at the dirty sky, at the impoverished nature, at the messy backyard of the botanical garden, at the boring dark city seen in the fog, and wait for people who were running around down there in the greenhouse to figure out what to do next.
As countless hours passed, people running around down there were desperately trying to save the plants that were in other sections of the greenhouse.
Botanist ordered to cut the palm tree.
— Maybe it were possible to raise the greenhouse vault around her? — botanist said, — but again, for how long? She would grow and break everything again. And besides, it’s not something that we could afford. We need to cut her down now, I’m losing my garden! — he screamed.
They secured the palm tree with ropes so it wouldn’t bring down the rest of the walls of the greenhouse, and sawed it low, at the very root. The little grass that wrapped itself around the palm tree trunk couldn’t let them separate her from her friend and also fell under the saw. When the palm tree was pulled out of the greenhouse crushed stalks and leaves freezing on the section of the remaining stump was all that’s left of her.
— Clean this place up and throw everything away, — said the botanist. — Everything either froze or already turned yellow, we shouldn’t have watered this section so much. I’ll see what we can plant here next after the roof is fixed.
One of the gardeners proceeded with deft blows of his spade tearing out frozen plants and a few trees. If he only could hear them cry. He put everything into a wheelbarrow, wheeled it out and emptied it in the backyard. Right on top of a dead palm tree that was laying there in the mud already half-covered with snow.
Аttalea princeps by Vsevolod Garshin, 1879
Original text in Russian: az.lib.ru/g/garshin_w_m/text_0020.shtml
Translated and edited by Rinat U. 12.2022
Please keep in mind growing revolutionary movement of Bolsheviks in Tsarists Russian Empire in 1870–1880s as original context for this piece.
