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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.
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