Chapter 5
The Tulip-fancier and his Neighbour
Whilst the burghers of the Hague were tearing in pieces the
bodies of John and Cornelius de Witt, and whilst William of
Orange, after having made sure that his two antagonists were
really dead, was galloping over the Leyden road, followed by
Captain van Deken, whom he found a little too compassionate
to honour him any longer with his confidence, Craeke, the
faithful servant, mounted on a good horse, and little
suspecting what terrible events had taken place since his
departure, proceeded along the high road lined with trees,
until he was clear of the town and the neighbouring
villages.
Being once safe, he left his horse at a livery stable in
order not to arouse suspicion, and tranquilly continued his
journey on the canal-boats, which conveyed him by easy
stages to Dort, pursuing their way under skilful guidance by
the shortest possible routes through the windings of the
river, which held in its watery embrace so many enchanting
little islands, edged with willows and rushes, and abounding
in luxurious vegetation, whereon flocks of fat sheep browsed
in peaceful sleepiness. Craeke from afar off recognised
Dort, the smiling city, at the foot of a hill dotted with
windmills. He saw the fine red brick houses, mortared in
white lines, standing on the edge of the water, and their
balconies, open towards the river, decked out with silk
tapestry embroidered with gold flowers, the wonderful
manufacture of India and China; and near these brilliant
stuffs, large lines set to catch the voracious eels, which
are attracted towards the houses by the garbage thrown every
day from the kitchens into the river.
Craeke, standing on the deck of the boat, saw, across the
moving sails of the windmills, on the slope of the hill, the
red and pink house which was the goal of his errand. The
outlines of its roof were merging in the yellow foliage of a
curtain of poplar trees, the whole habitation having for
background a dark grove of gigantic elms. The mansion was
situated in such a way that the sun, falling on it as into a
funnel, dried up, warmed, and fertilised the mist which the
verdant screen could not prevent the river wind from
carrying there every morning and evening.
Having disembarked unobserved amid the usual bustle of the
city, Craeke at once directed his steps towards the house
which we have just described, and which -- white, trim, and
tidy, even more cleanly scoured and more carefully waxed in
the hidden corners than in the places which were exposed to
view -- enclosed a truly happy mortal.
This happy mortal, rara avis, was Dr. van Baerle, the godson
of Cornelius de Witt. He had inhabited the same house ever
since his childhood, for it was the house in which his
father and grandfather, old established princely merchants
of the princely city of Dort, were born.
Mynheer van Baerle the father had amassed in the Indian
trade three or four hundred thousand guilders, which Mynheer
van Baerle the son, at the death of his dear and worthy
parents, found still quite new, although one set of them
bore the date of coinage of 1640, and the other that of
1610, a fact which proved that they were guilders of Van
Baerle the father and of Van Baerle the grandfather; but we
will inform the reader at once that these three or four
hundred thousand guilders were only the pocket money, or
sort of purse, for Cornelius van Baerle, the hero of this
story, as his landed property in the province yielded him an
income of about ten thousand guilders a year.
When the worthy citizen, the father of Cornelius, passed
from time into eternity, three months after having buried
his wife, who seemed to have departed first to smooth for
him the path of death as she had smoothed for him the path
of life, he said to his son, as he embraced him for the last
time, --
"Eat, drink, and spend your money, if you wish to know what
life really is, for as to toiling from morn to evening on a
wooden stool, or a leathern chair, in a counting-house or a
laboratory, that certainly is not living. Your time to die
will also come; and if you are not then so fortunate as to
have a son, you will let my name grow extinct, and my
guilders, which no one has ever fingered but my father,
myself, and the coiner, will have the surprise of passing to
an unknown master. And least of all, imitate the example of
your godfather, Cornelius de Witt, who has plunged into
politics, the most ungrateful of all careers, and who will
certainly come to an untimely end."
Having given utterance to this paternal advice, the worthy
Mynheer van Baerle died, to the intense grief of his son
Cornelius, who cared very little for the guilders, and very
much for his father.
Cornelius then remained alone in his large house. In vain
his godfather offered to him a place in the public service,
-- in vain did he try to give him a taste for glory, --
although Cornelius, to gratify his godfather, did embark
with De Ruyter upon "The Seven Provinces," the flagship of a
fleet of one hundred and thirty-nine sail, with which the
famous admiral set out to contend singlehanded against the
combined forces of France and England. When, guided by the
pilot Leger, he had come within musket-shot of the "Prince,"
with the Duke of York (the English king's brother) aboard,
upon which De Ruyter, his mentor, made so sharp and well
directed an attack that the Duke, perceiving that his vessel
would soon have to strike, made the best of his way aboard
the "Saint Michael"; when he had seen the "Saint Michael,"
riddled and shattered by the Dutch broadside, drift out of
the line; when he had witnessed the sinking of the "Earl of
Sandwich," and the death by fire or drowning of four hundred
sailors; when he realized that the result of all this
destruction -- after twenty ships had been blown to pieces,
three thousand men killed and five thousand injured -- was
that nothing was decided, that both sides claimed the
victory, that the fighting would soon begin again, and that
just one more name, that of Southwold Bay, had been added to
the list of battles; when he had estimated how much time is
lost simply in shutting his eyes and ears by a man who likes
to use his reflective powers even while his fellow creatures
are cannonading one another; -- Cornelius bade farewell to
De Ruyter, to the Ruart de Pulten, and to glory, kissed the
knees of the Grand Pensionary, for whom he entertained the
deepest veneration, and retired to his house at Dort, rich
in his well-earned repose, his twenty-eight years, an iron
constitution and keen perceptions, and his capital of more
than four hundred thousands of florins and income of ten
thousand, convinced that a man is always endowed by Heaven
with too much for his own happiness, and just enough to make
him miserable.
Consequently, and to indulge his own idea of happiness,
Cornelius began to be interested in the study of plants and
insects, collected and classified the Flora of all the Dutch
islands, arranged the whole entomology of the province, on
which he wrote a treatise, with plates drawn by his own
hands; and at last, being at a loss what to do with his
time, and especially with his money, which went on
accumulating at a most alarming rate, he took it into his
head to select for himself, from all the follies of his
country and of his age, one of the most elegant and
expensive, -- he became a tulip-fancier.
It was the time when the Dutch and the Portuguese, rivalling
each other in this branch of horticulture, had begun to
worship that flower, and to make more of a cult of it than
ever naturalists dared to make of the human race for fear of
arousing the jealousy of God.
Soon people from Dort to Mons began to talk of Mynheer van
Baerle's tulips; and his beds, pits, drying-rooms, and
drawers of bulbs were visited, as the galleries and
libraries of Alexandria were by illustrious Roman
travellers.
Van Baerle began by expending his yearly revenue in laying
the groundwork of his collection, after which he broke in
upon his new guilders to bring it to perfection. His
exertions, indeed, were crowned with a most magnificent
result: he produced three new tulips, which he called the
"Jane," after his mother; the "Van Baerle," after his
father; and the "Cornelius," after his godfather; the other
names have escaped us, but the fanciers will be sure to find
them in the catalogues of the times.
In the beginning of the year 1672, Cornelius de Witt came to
Dort for three months, to live at his old family mansion;
for not only was he born in that city, but his family had
been resident there for centuries.
Cornelius, at that period, as William of Orange said, began
to enjoy the most perfect unpopularity. To his fellow
citizens, the good burghers of Dort, however, he did not
appear in the light of a criminal who deserved to be hung.
It is true, they did not particularly like his somewhat
austere republicanism, but they were proud of his valour;
and when he made his entrance into their town, the cup of
honour was offered to him, readily enough, in the name of
the city.
After having thanked his fellow citizens, Cornelius
proceeded to his old paternal house, and gave directions for
some repairs, which he wished to have executed before the
arrival of his wife and children; and thence he wended his
way to the house of his godson, who perhaps was the only
person in Dort as yet unacquainted with the presence of
Cornelius in the town.
In the same degree as Cornelius de Witt had excited the
hatred of the people by sowing those evil seeds which are
called political passions, Van Baerle had gained the
affections of his fellow citizens by completely shunning the
pursuit of politics, absorbed as he was in the peaceful
pursuit of cultivating tulips.
Van Baerle was truly beloved by his servants and labourers;
nor had he any conception that there was in this world a man
who wished ill to another.
And yet it must be said, to the disgrace of mankind, that
Cornelius van Baerle, without being aware of the fact, had a
much more ferocious, fierce, and implacable enemy than the
Grand Pensionary and his brother had among the Orange party,
who were most hostile to the devoted brothers, who had never
been sundered by the least misunderstanding during their
lives, and by their mutual devotion in the face of death
made sure the existence of their brotherly affection beyond
the grave.
At the time when Cornelius van Baerle began to devote
himself to tulip-growing, expending on this hobby his yearly
revenue and the guilders of his father, there was at Dort,
living next door to him, a citizen of the name of Isaac
Boxtel who from the age when he was able to think for
himself had indulged the same fancy, and who was in
ecstasies at the mere mention of the word "tulban," which
(as we are assured by the "Floriste Francaise," the most
highly considered authority in matters relating to this
flower) is the first word in the Cingalese tongue which was
ever used to designate that masterpiece of floriculture
which is now called the tulip.
Boxtel had not the good fortune of being rich, like Van
Baerle. He had therefore, with great care and patience, and
by dint of strenuous exertions, laid out near his house at
Dort a garden fit for the culture of his cherished flower;
he had mixed the soil according to the most approved
prescriptions, and given to his hotbeds just as much heat
and fresh air as the strictest rules of horticulture exact.
Isaac knew the temperature of his frames to the twentieth
part of a degree. He knew the strength of the current of
air, and tempered it so as to adapt it to the wave of the
stems of his flowers. His productions also began to meet
with the favour of the public. They were beautiful, nay,
distinguished. Several fanciers had come to see Boxtel's
tulips. At last he had even started amongst all the
Linnaeuses and Tourneforts a tulip which bore his name, and
which, after having travelled all through France, had found
its way into Spain, and penetrated as far as Portugal; and
the King, Don Alfonso VI. -- who, being expelled from
Lisbon, had retired to the island of Terceira, where he
amused himself, not, like the great Conde, with watering his
carnations, but with growing tulips -- had, on seeing the
Boxtel tulip, exclaimed, "Not so bad, by any means!"
All at once, Cornelius van Baerle, who, after all his
learned pursuits, had been seized with the tulipomania, made
some changes in his house at Dort, which, as we have stated,
was next door to that of Boxtel. He raised a certain
building in his court-yard by a story, which shutting out
the sun, took half a degree of warmth from Boxtel's garden,
and, on the other hand, added half a degree of cold in
winter; not to mention that it cut the wind, and disturbed
all the horticultural calculations and arrangements of his
neighbour.
After all, this mishap appeared to Boxtel of no great
consequence. Van Baerle was but a painter, a sort of fool
who tried to reproduce and disfigure on canvas the wonders
of nature. The painter, he thought, had raised his studio by
a story to get better light, and thus far he had only been
in the right. Mynheer van Baerle was a painter, as Mynheer
Boxtel was a tulip-grower; he wanted somewhat more sun for
his paintings, and he took half a degree from his
neighbour's tulips.
The law was for Van Baerle, and Boxtel had to abide by it.
Besides, Isaac had made the discovery that too much sun was
injurious to tulips, and that this flower grew quicker, and
had a better colouring, with the temperate warmth of
morning, than with the powerful heat of the midday sun. He
therefore felt almost grateful to Cornelius van Baerle for
having given him a screen gratis.
Maybe this was not quite in accordance with the true state
of things in general, and of Isaac Boxtel's feelings in
particular. It is certainly astonishing what rich comfort
great minds, in the midst of momentous catastrophes, will
derive from the consolations of philosophy.
But alas! What was the agony of the unfortunate Boxtel on
seeing the windows of the new story set out with bulbs and
seedlings of tulips for the border, and tulips in pots; in
short, with everything pertaining to the pursuits of a
tulip-monomaniac!
There were bundles of labels, cupboards, and drawers with
compartments, and wire guards for the cupboards, to allow
free access to the air whilst keeping out slugs, mice,
dormice, and rats, all of them very curious fanciers of
tulips at two thousand francs a bulb.
Boxtel was quite amazed when he saw all this apparatus, but
he was not as yet aware of the full extent of his
misfortune. Van Baerle was known to be fond of everything
that pleases the eye. He studied Nature in all her aspects
for the benefit of his paintings, which were as minutely
finished as those of Gerard Dow, his master, and of Mieris,
his friend. Was it not possible, that, having to paint the
interior of a tulip-grower's, he had collected in his new
studio all the accessories of decoration?
Yet, although thus consoling himself with illusory
suppositions, Boxtel was not able to resist the burning
curiosity which was devouring him. In the evening,
therefore, he placed a ladder against the partition wall
between their gardens, and, looking into that of his
neighbour Van Baerle, he convinced himself that the soil of
a large square bed, which had formerly been occupied by
different plants, was removed, and the ground disposed in
beds of loam mixed with river mud (a combination which is
particularly favourable to the tulip), and the whole
surrounded by a border of turf to keep the soil in its
place. Besides this, sufficient shade to temper the noonday
heat; aspect south-southwest; water in abundant supply, and
at hand; in short, every requirement to insure not only
success but also progress. There could not be a doubt that
Van Baerle had become a tulip-grower.
Boxtel at once pictured to himself this learned man, with a
capital of four hundred thousand and a yearly income of ten
thousand guilders, devoting all his intellectual and
financial resources to the cultivation of the tulip. He
foresaw his neighbour's success, and he felt such a pang at
the mere idea of this success that his hands dropped
powerless, his knees trembled, and he fell in despair from
the ladder.
And thus it was not for the sake of painted tulips, but for
real ones, that Van Baerle took from him half a degree of
warmth. And thus Van Baerle was to have the most admirably
fitted aspect, and, besides, a large, airy, and well
ventilated chamber where to preserve his bulbs and
seedlings; while he, Boxtel, had been obliged to give up for
this purpose his bedroom, and, lest his sleeping in the same
apartment might injure his bulbs and seedlings, had taken up
his abode in a miserable garret.
Boxtel, then, was to have next door to him a rival and
successful competitor; and his rival, instead of being some
unknown, obscure gardener, was the godson of Mynheer
Cornelius de Witt, that is to say, a celebrity.
Boxtel, as the reader may see, was not possessed of the
spirit of Porus, who, on being conquered by Alexander,
consoled himself with the celebrity of his conqueror.
And now if Van Baerle produced a new tulip, and named it the
John de Witt, after having named one the Cornelius? It was
indeed enough to choke one with rage.
Thus Boxtel, with jealous foreboding, became the prophet of
his own misfortune. And, after having made this melancholy
discovery, he passed the most wretched night imaginable.
