“Nothing could exceed the intentness with which this scientific gardener examined every shrub which grew in his path: it seemed as if he was looking into their inmost nature, making observations in regard to their creative essence, and discovering why one leaf grew in this shape and another in that, and wherefore such and such flowers differed among themselves in hue and perfume. Nevertheless, in spite of this deep intelligence on his part, there was no approach to intimacy between himself and these vegetable existences. On the contrary, he avoided their actual touch or the direct inhaling of their odors with a caution that impressed Giovanni most disagreeably; for the man’s demeanor was that of one walking among malignant influences, such as savage beasts, or deadly snakes, or evil spirits, which, should he allow them one moment of license, would wreak upon him some terrible fatality. It was strangely frightful to the young man’s imagination to see this air of insecurity in a person cultivating a garden, that most simple and innocent of human toils, and which had been alike the joy and labor of the unfallen parents of the race. Was this garden, then, the Eden of the present world? And this man, with such a perception of harm in what his own hands caused to grow,—was he the Adam?”
The above quote is from Rappaccini’s Daughter by Nathaniel Hawthorne, a Gothic romance involving a fair young maiden who has dwelled too long in the poisonous garden of her mad botanist father, and a young man attracted to her potentially deadly embrace. The story does not specifically identify the toxic plants growing in Rappaccini’s garden, but it isn’t hard to imagine that one of them was a modified version of night jessamine, Cestrum nocturnum.
Cestrum nocturnum is also known as night-blooming jasmine, which is a misleading name as it is not a true jasmine. What it does have in common with many members of the genus Jasminum is a powerful sweet fragrance, one of the most incredible you can treat yourself to as a gardener, whether indoors or out.
C. nocturnum is a vigorous woody shrub, attaining 10-15 feet in height with similar spread in tropical regions. It’s also adapted to subtropical zones (reportedly hardy as far north as zone 8) and has naturalized in parts of the lower South. It has a well-branched habit and has slender, glossy green lanceolate leaves. Most importantly, it produces clusters of white to greenish-white narrow tubular flowers. These unfurl at night and are unimpressive-looking, apart from the exotic, heady fragrance. A small potted plant acquired years ago from Logees in Danielson, CT graced the back of my garden in southeast Texas, getting knocked back most winters to a couple of feet by lows in the mid-20s to low 30s, but in one memorable year following a near frost-free winter reached 6 feet tall and was full of flowers on and off during the growing season. At night the scent wafted strongly as much as 100 feet from the plant.
So what is it about C. nocturnum that inspires musings about Hawthorne’s tale? The fact is, it combines a heavenly aroma with an ominous-sounding chemical makeup and a mildly sinister reputation. C. nocturnum’s Wikipedia entry notes that: “Flowers distilled oil contains phenylethyl alcohol (27%), benzyl alcohol (12%), eicosane (5.6%), eugenol (5.6%), n-tetracosane (4.4%), caryophyllene oxide (3.1%), 1-hexadecanol (2.7%), methoxyeugenol (2.45%), benzaldehyde (2.32%. Flowers alcohol extract contains cytotoxic steroids.” This brew renders the plant toxic to humans and animals when its parts (especially the berries) are consumed; there’s an account of an unfortunate cow that died after feasting on C. nocturnum. None of this however should dissuade us from enjoying C. nocturnum’s fragrance, as I can find no reports of anyone wafting off to never-never land after sniffing the blooms, or even falling into a stupor like travelers in The Wizard of Oz.
While getting sustained flowering from night jessamine isn’t as easy in northern climates as it is in the tropics, it performs well under the right conditions. To get one to bloom indoors, it’s advisable to provide at least an 8-inch pot and a sunny window; better yet, summer it outdoors in as sunny a spot as possible. While flowers can be produced on fairly small plants, the best results are with sizable specimens. It may take until late summer/early fall for clusters of buds to appear. In 2022 a sprawling specimen in an 8-inch pot set buds not long before frost. Indoors at the edge of a fluorescent/LED light stand, it flowered for several weeks, powerfully perfuming much of the upstairs at night. That fragrance might be too much for some people; I remember encountering a French gardener in an online forum who complained that the scent of the flowering night jessamine shrub under her window was overpowering. That’s the kind of problem I enjoy having.
Currently I have three plants of C. nocturnum. The granddaddy of the three, a six-footer grown in a tub the last several years, summered and flowered in the annex bed in 2023, having grown half-inch woody stems at its base. With heavy mulching and hopes of a mild winter, we’ll see if it can come back next spring. Plant #2 is the vigorous specimen that flowered lushly indoors last fall and has been moved to the large tub that grandpa occupied up until this spring. It has bloomed abundantly this year in two flushes occurring in late summer and early fall, extending into the first week of October. When the first fall frost looms, it will be cut back and brought in to a cool sunporch and remain there, semidormant until it warms sufficiently next spring to bring it back outdoors. Specimen #3 is a young plant in a six-inch pot that occupies a sunny window inside.
Other ornamental Cestrums include the white-flowered C. diurnum, C. newellii with clusters of red flowers and C. aurantiacum (yellow-orange blooms). The latter two reputedly have scant fragrance. I recently acquired Cestrum “Moonglow”, a pale yellow-flowered hybrid between C. nocturnum and C. diurnum, which is said to combine excellent fragrance with a fall-blooming habit.
Cestrum nocturnum readily propagates itself from seed, leading to its spread in warm regions where some even regard it as a weed. While that outcome is exceedingly unlikely here in central Kentucky, propagation is simple: take cuttings of limber green stems at any time when plants are in active growth, place in moist soilless medium and cover the pot with either a plastic bag or a plastic dome to provide high humidity. Cuttings root rapidly. Prune back as needed to maintain a shapely plant; once it gets to the size you want, refrain from further trimming to allow buds and flowers to develop.
Cestrum nocturnum, once experienced in full bloom after dark, is one of those plants you’ll never want to be without. Beatrice Rappaccini could’ve cultivated and inhaled its fragrance without experiencing anything but delight.