Chapter 11
Cornelius van Baerle's Will
Rosa had not been mistaken; the judges came on the following
day to the Buytenhof, and proceeded with the trial of
Cornelius van Baerle. The examination, however, did not last
long, it having appeared on evidence that Cornelius had kept
at his house that fatal correspondence of the brothers De
Witt with France.
He did not deny it.
The only point about which there seemed any difficulty was
whether this correspondence had been intrusted to him by his
godfather, Cornelius de Witt.
But as, since the death of those two martyrs, Van Baerle had
no longer any reason for withholding the truth, he not only
did not deny that the parcel had been delivered to him by
Cornelius de Witt himself, but he also stated all the
circumstances under which it was done.
This confession involved the godson in the crime of the
godfather; manifest complicity being considered to exist
between Cornelius de Witt and Cornelius van Baerle.
The honest doctor did not confine himself to this avowal,
but told the whole truth with regard to his own tastes,
habits, and daily life. He described his indifference to
politics, his love of study, of the fine arts, of science,
and of flowers. He explained that, since the day when
Cornelius de Witt handed to him the parcel at Dort, he
himself had never touched, nor even noticed it.
To this it was objected, that in this respect he could not
possibly be speaking the truth, since the papers had been
deposited in a press in which both his hands and his eyes
must have been engaged every day.
Cornelius answered that it was indeed so; that, however, he
never put his hand into the press but to ascertain whether
his bulbs were dry, and that he never looked into it but to
see if they were beginning to sprout.
To this again it was objected, that his pretended
indifference respecting this deposit was not to be
reasonably entertained, as he could not have received such
papers from the hand of his godfather without being made
acquainted with their important character.
He replied that his godfather Cornelius loved him too well,
and, above all, that he was too considerate a man to have
communicated to him anything of the contents of the parcel,
well knowing that such a confidence would only have caused
anxiety to him who received it.
To this it was objected that, if De Witt had wished to act
in such a way, he would have added to the parcel, in case of
accidents, a certificate setting forth that his godson was
an entire stranger to the nature of this correspondence, or
at least he would during his trial have written a letter to
him, which might be produced as his justification.
Cornelius replied that undoubtedly his godfather could not
have thought that there was any risk for the safety of his
deposit, hidden as it was in a press which was looked upon
as sacred as the tabernacle by the whole household of Van
Baerle; and that consequently he had considered the
certificate as useless. As to a letter, he certainly had
some remembrance that some moments previous to his arrest,
whilst he was absorbed in the contemplation of one of the
rarest of his bulbs, John de Witt's servant entered his
dry-room, and handed to him a paper, but the whole was to
him only like a vague dream; the servant had disappeared,
and as to the paper, perhaps it might be found if a proper
search were made.
As far as Craeke was concerned, it was impossible to find
him, as he had left Holland.
The paper also was not very likely to be found, and no one
gave himself the trouble to look for it.
Cornelius himself did not much press this point, since, even
supposing that the paper should turn up, it could not have
any direct connection with the correspondence which
constituted the crime.
The judges wished to make it appear as though they wanted to
urge Cornelius to make a better defence; they displayed that
benevolent patience which is generally a sign of the
magistrate's being interested for the prisoner, or of a
man's having so completely got the better of his adversary
that he needs no longer any oppressive means to ruin him.
Cornelius did not accept of this hypocritical protection,
and in a last answer, which he set forth with the noble
bearing of a martyr and the calm serenity of a righteous
man, he said, --
"You ask me things, gentlemen, to which I can answer only
the exact truth. Hear it. The parcel was put into my hands
in the way I have described; I vow before God that I was,
and am still, ignorant of its contents, and that it was not
until my arrest that I learned that this deposit was the
correspondence of the Grand Pensionary with the Marquis de
Louvois. And lastly, I vow and protest that I do not
understand how any one should have known that this parcel
was in my house; and, above all, how I can be deemed
criminal for having received what my illustrious and
unfortunate godfather brought to my house."
This was Van Baerle's whole defence; after which the judges
began to deliberate on the verdict.
They considered that every offshoot of civil discord is
mischievous, because it revives the contest which it is the
interest of all to put down.
One of them, who bore the character of a profound observer,
laid down as his opinion that this young man, so phlegmatic
in appearance, must in reality be very dangerous, as under
this icy exterior he was sure to conceal an ardent desire to
avenge his friends, the De Witts.
Another observed that the love of tulips agreed perfectly
well with that of politics, and that it was proved in
history that many very dangerous men were engaged in
gardening, just as if it had been their profession, whilst
really they occupied themselves with perfectly different
concerns; witness Tarquin the Elder, who grew poppies at
Gabii, and the Great Conde, who watered his carnations at
the dungeon of Vincennes at the very moment when the former
meditated his return to Rome, and the latter his escape from
prison.
The judge summed up with the following dilemma: --
"Either Cornelius van Baerle is a great lover of tulips, or
a great lover of politics; in either case, he has told us a
falsehood; first, because his having occupied himself with
politics is proved by the letters which were found at his
house; and secondly, because his having occupied himself
with tulips is proved by the bulbs which leave no doubt of
the fact. And herein lies the enormity of the case. As
Cornelius van Baerle was concerned in the growing of tulips
and in the pursuit of politics at one and the same time, the
prisoner is of hybrid character, of an amphibious
organisation, working with equal ardour at politics and at
tulips, which proves him to belong to the class of men most
dangerous to public tranquillity, and shows a certain, or
rather a complete, analogy between his character and that of
those master minds of which Tarquin the Elder and the Great
Conde have been felicitously quoted as examples."
The upshot of all these reasonings was, that his Highness
the Prince Stadtholder of Holland would feel infinitely
obliged to the magistracy of the Hague if they simplified
for him the government of the Seven Provinces by destroying
even the least germ of conspiracy against his authority.
This argument capped all the others, and, in order so much
the more effectually to destroy the germ of conspiracy,
sentence of death was unanimously pronounced against
Cornelius van Baerle, as being arraigned, and convicted, for
having, under the innocent appearance of a tulip-fancier,
participated in the detestable intrigues and abominable
plots of the brothers De Witt against Dutch nationality and
in their secret relations with their French enemy.
A supplementary clause was tacked to the sentence, to the
effect that "the aforesaid Cornelius van Baerle should be
led from the prison of the Buytenhof to the scaffold in the
yard of the same name, where the public executioner would
cut off his head."
As this deliberation was a most serious affair, it lasted a
full half-hour, during which the prisoner was remanded to
his cell.
There the Recorder of the States came to read the sentence
to him.
Master Gryphus was detained in bed by the fever caused by
the fracture of his arm. His keys passed into the hands of
one of his assistants. Behind this turnkey, who introduced
the Recorder, Rosa, the fair Frisian maid, had slipped into
the recess of the door, with a handkerchief to her mouth to
stifle her sobs.
Cornelius listened to the sentence with an expression rather
of surprise than sadness.
After the sentence was read, the Recorder asked him whether
he had anything to answer.
"Indeed, I have not," he replied. "Only I confess that,
among all the causes of death against which a cautious man
may guard, I should never have supposed this to be
comprised."
On this answer, the Recorder saluted Van Baerle with all
that consideration which such functionaries generally bestow
upon great criminals of every sort.
But whilst he was about to withdraw, Cornelius asked, "By
the bye, Mr. Recorder, what day is the thing -- you know
what I mean -- to take place?"
"Why, to-day," answered the Recorder, a little surprised by
the self-possession of the condemned man.
A sob was heard behind the door, and Cornelius turned round
to look from whom it came; but Rosa, who had foreseen this
movement, had fallen back.
"And," continued Cornelius, "what hour is appointed?"
"Twelve o'clock, sir."
"Indeed," said Cornelius, "I think I heard the clock strike
ten about twenty minutes ago; I have not much time to
spare."
"Indeed you have not, if you wish to make your peace with
God," said the Recorder, bowing to the ground. "You may ask
for any clergyman you please."
Saying these words he went out backwards, and the assistant
turnkey was going to follow him, and to lock the door of
Cornelius's cell, when a white and trembling arm interposed
between him and the heavy door.
Cornelius saw nothing but the golden brocade cap, tipped
with lace, such as the Frisian girls wore; he heard nothing
but some one whispering into the ear of the turnkey. But the
latter put his heavy keys into the white hand which was
stretched out to receive them, and, descending some steps,
sat down on the staircase which was thus guarded above by
himself, and below by the dog. The head-dress turned round,
and Cornelius beheld the face of Rosa, blanched with grief,
and her beautiful eyes streaming with tears.
She went up to Cornelius, crossing her arms on her heaving
breast.
"Oh, sir, sir!" she said, but sobs choked her utterance.
"My good girl," Cornelius replied with emotion, "what do you
wish? I may tell you that my time on earth is short."
"I come to ask a favour of you," said Rosa, extending her
arms partly towards him and partly towards heaven.
"Don't weep so, Rosa," said the prisoner, "for your tears go
much more to my heart than my approaching fate, and you
know, the less guilty a prisoner is, the more it is his duty
to die calmly, and even joyfully, as he dies a martyr. Come,
there's a dear, don't cry any more, and tell me what you
want, my pretty Rosa."
She fell on her knees. "Forgive my father," she said.
"Your father, your father!" said Cornelius, astonished.
"Yes, he has been so harsh to you; but it is his nature, he
is so to every one, and you are not the only one whom he has
bullied."
"He is punished, my dear Rosa, more than punished, by the
accident that has befallen him, and I forgive him."
"I thank you, sir," said Rosa. "And now tell me -- oh, tell
me -- can I do anything for you?"
"You can dry your beautiful eyes, my dear child," answered
Cornelius, with a good-tempered smile.
"But what can I do for you, -- for you I mean?"
"A man who has only one hour longer to live must be a great
Sybarite still to want anything, my dear Rosa."
"The clergyman whom they have proposed to you?"
"I have worshipped God all my life, I have worshipped Him in
His works, and praised Him in His decrees. I am at peace
with Him and do not wish for a clergyman. The last thought
which occupies my mind, however has reference to the glory
of the Almighty, and, indeed, my dear, I should ask you to
help me in carrying out this last thought."
"Oh, Mynheer Cornelius, speak, speak!" exclaimed Rosa, still
bathed in tears.
"Give me your hand, and promise me not to laugh, my dear
child."
"Laugh," exclaimed Rosa, frantic with grief, "laugh at this
moment! do you not see my tears?"
"Rosa, you are no stranger to me. I have not seen much of
you, but that little is enough to make me appreciate your
character. I have never seen a woman more fair or more pure
than you are, and if from this moment I take no more notice
of you, forgive me; it is only because, on leaving this
world, I do not wish to have any further regret."
Rosa felt a shudder creeping over her frame, for, whilst the
prisoner pronounced these words, the belfry clock of the
Buytenhof struck eleven.
Cornelius understood her. "Yes, yes, let us make haste," he
said, "you are right, Rosa."
Then, taking the paper with the three suckers from his
breast, where he had again put it, since he had no longer
any fear of being searched, he said: "My dear girl, I have
been very fond of flowers. That was at a time when I did not
know that there was anything else to be loved. Don't blush,
Rosa, nor turn away; and even if I were making you a
declaration of love, alas! poor dear, it would be of no more
consequence. Down there in the yard, there is an instrument
of steel, which in sixty minutes will put an end to my
boldness. Well, Rosa, I loved flowers dearly, and I have
found, or at least I believe so, the secret of the great
black tulip, which it has been considered impossible to
grow, and for which, as you know, or may not know, a prize
of a hundred thousand guilders has been offered by the
Horticultural Society of Haarlem. These hundred thousand
guilders -- and Heaven knows I do not regret them -- these
hundred thousand guilders I have here in this paper, for
they are won by the three bulbs wrapped up in it, which you
may take, Rosa, as I make you a present of them."
"Mynheer Cornelius!"
"Yes, yes, Rosa, you may take them; you are not wronging any
one, my child. I am alone in this world; my parents are
dead; I never had a sister or a brother. I have never had a
thought of loving any one with what is called love, and if
any one has loved me, I have not known it. However, you see
well, Rosa, that I am abandoned by everybody, as in this sad
hour you alone are with me in my prison, consoling and
assisting me."
"But, sir, a hundred thousand guilders!"
"Well, let us talk seriously, my dear child: those hundred
thousand guilders will be a nice marriage portion, with your
pretty face; you shall have them, Rosa, dear Rosa, and I ask
nothing in return but your promise that you will marry a
fine young man, whom you love, and who will love you, as
dearly as I loved my flowers. Don't interrupt me, Rosa dear,
I have only a few minutes more."
The poor girl was nearly choking with her sobs.
Cornelius took her by the hand.
"Listen to me," he continued: "I'll tell you how to manage
it. Go to Dort and ask Butruysheim, my gardener, for soil
from my border number six, fill a deep box with it, and
plant in it these three bulbs. They will flower next May,
that is to say, in seven months; and, when you see the
flower forming on the stem, be careful at night to protect
them from the wind, and by day to screen them from the sun.
They will flower black, I am quite sure of it. You are then
to apprise the President of the Haarlem Society. He will
cause the color of the flower to be proved before a
committee and these hundred thousand guilders will be paid
to you."
Rosa heaved a deep sigh.
"And now," continued Cornelius, -- wiping away a tear which
was glistening in his eye, and which was shed much more for
that marvellous black tulip which he was not to see than for
the life which he was about to lose, -- "I have no wish
left, except that the tulip should be called Rosa
Barlaensis, that is to say, that its name should combine
yours and mine; and as, of course, you do not understand
Latin, and might therefore forget this name, try to get for
me pencil and paper, that I may write it down for you."
Rosa sobbed afresh, and handed to him a book, bound in
shagreen, which bore the initials C. W.
"What is this?" asked the prisoner.
"Alas!" replied Rosa, "it is the Bible of your poor
godfather, Cornelius de Witt. From it he derived strength to
endure the torture, and to bear his sentence without
flinching. I found it in this cell, after the death of the
martyr, and have preserved it as a relic. To-day I brought
it to you, for it seemed to me that this book must possess
in itself a divine power. Write in it what you have to
write, Mynheer Cornelius; and though, unfortunately, I am
not able to read, I will take care that what you write shall
be accomplished."
Cornelius took the Bible, and kissed it reverently.
"With what shall I write?" asked Cornelius.
"There is a pencil in the Bible," said Rosa.
This was the pencil which John de Witt had lent to his
brother, and which he had forgotten to take away with him.
Cornelius took it, and on the second fly leaf (for it will
be remembered that the first was torn out), drawing near his
end like his godfather, he wrote with a no less firm hand:
--
"On this day, the 23d of August, 1672, being on the point of
rendering, although innocent, my soul to God on the
scaffold, I bequeath to Rosa Gryphus the only worldly goods
which remain to me of all that I have possessed in this
world, the rest having been confiscated; I bequeath, I say,
to Rosa Gryphus three bulbs, which I am convinced must
produce, in the next May, the Grand Black Tulip for which a
prize of a hundred thousand guilders has been offered by the
Haarlem Society, requesting that she may be paid the same
sum in my stead, as my sole heiress, under the only
condition of her marrying a respectable young man of about
my age, who loves her, and whom she loves, and of her giving
the black tulip, which will constitute a new species, the
name of Rosa Barlaensis, that is to say, hers and mine
combined.
"So may God grant me mercy, and to her health and long life!
"Cornelius van Baerle."
The prisoner then, giving the Bible to Rosa, said, --
"Read."
"Alas!" she answered, "I have already told you I cannot
read."
Cornelius then read to Rosa the testament that he had just
made.
The agony of the poor girl almost overpowered her.
"Do you accept my conditions?" asked the prisoner, with a
melancholy smile, kissing the trembling hands of the
afflicted girl.
"Oh, I don't know, sir," she stammered.
"You don't know, child, and why not?"
"Because there is one condition which I am afraid I cannot
keep."
"Which? I should have thought that all was settled between
us."
"You give me the hundred thousand guilders as a marriage
portion, don't you?
"And under the condition of my marrying a man whom I love?"
"Certainly."
"Well, then, sir, this money cannot belong to me. I shall
never love any one; neither shall I marry."
And, after having with difficulty uttered these words, Rosa
almost swooned away in the violence of her grief.
Cornelius, frightened at seeing her so pale and sinking, was
going to take her in his arms, when a heavy step, followed
by other dismal sounds, was heard on the staircase, amidst
the continued barking of the dog.
"They are coming to fetch you. Oh God! Oh God!" cried Rosa,
wringing her hands. "And have you nothing more to tell me?"
She fell on her knees with her face buried in her hands and
became almost senseless.
"I have only to say, that I wish you to preserve these bulbs
as a most precious treasure, and carefully to treat them
according to the directions I have given you. Do it for my
sake, and now farewell, Rosa."
"Yes, yes," she said, without raising her head, "I will do
anything you bid me, except marrying," she added, in a low
voice, "for that, oh! that is impossible for me."
She then put the cherished treasure next her beating heart.
The noise on the staircase which Cornelius and Rosa had
heard was caused by the Recorder, who was coming for the
prisoner. He was followed by the executioner, by the
soldiers who were to form the guard round the scaffold, and
by some curious hangers-on of the prison.
Cornelius, without showing any weakness, but likewise
without any bravado, received them rather as friends than as
persecutors, and quietly submitted to all those preparations
which these men were obliged to make in performance of their
duty.
Then, casting a glance into the yard through the narrow
iron-barred window of his cell, he perceived the scaffold,
and, at twenty paces distant from it, the gibbet, from
which, by order of the Stadtholder, the outraged remains of
the two brothers De Witt had been taken down.
When the moment came to descend in order to follow the
guards, Cornelius sought with his eyes the angelic look of
Rosa, but he saw, behind the swords and halberds, only a
form lying outstretched near a wooden bench, and a deathlike
face half covered with long golden locks.
But Rosa, whilst falling down senseless, still obeying her
friend, had pressed her hand on her velvet bodice and,
forgetting everything in the world besides, instinctively
grasped the precious deposit which Cornelius had intrusted
to her care.
Leaving the cell, the young man could still see in the
convulsively clinched fingers of Rosa the yellowish leaf
from that Bible on which Cornelius de Witt had with such
difficulty and pain written these few lines, which, if Van
Baerle had read them, would undoubtedly have been the saving
of a man and a tulip.
