Whilst the burghers of the Hague were tearing in pieces thebodies of John and Cornelius de Witt, and whilst William ofOrange, after having made sure that his two antagonists werereally dead, was galloping over the Leyden road, followed byCaptain van Deken, whom he found a little too compassionateto honour him any longer with his confidence, Craeke, thefaithful servant, mounted on a good horse, and littlesuspecting what terrible events had taken place since hisdeparture, proceeded along the high road lined with trees,until he was clear of the town and the neighbouringvillages.
Being once safe, he left his horse at a livery stable inorder not to arouse suspicion, and tranquilly continued hisjourney on the canal-boats, which conveyed him by easystages to Dort, pursuing their way under skilful guidance bythe shortest possible routes through the windings of theriver, which held in its watery embrace so many enchantinglittle islands, edged with willows and rushes, and aboundingin luxurious vegetation, whereon flocks of fat sheep browsedin peaceful sleepiness. Craeke from afar off recognisedDort, the smiling city, at the foot of a hill dotted withwindmills. He saw the fine red brick houses, mortared inwhite lines, standing on the edge of the water, and theirbalconies, open towards the river, decked out with silktapestry embroidered with gold flowers, the wonderfulmanufacture of India and China; and near these brilliantstuffs, large lines set to catch the voracious eels, whichare attracted towards the houses by the garbage thrown everyday from the kitchens into the river.
Craeke, standing on the deck of the boat, saw, across themoving sails of the windmills, on the slope of the hill, thered and pink house which was the goal of his errand. Theoutlines of its roof were merging in the yellow foliage of acurtain of poplar trees, the whole habitation having forbackground a dark grove of gigantic elms. The mansion wassituated in such a way that the sun, falling on it as into afunnel, dried up, warmed, and fertilised the mist which theverdant screen could not prevent the river wind fromcarrying there every morning and evening.
Having disembarked unobserved amid the usual bustle of thecity, Craeke at once directed his steps towards the housewhich we have just described, and which -- white, trim, andtidy, even more cleanly scoured and more carefully waxed inthe hidden corners than in the places which were exposed toview -- enclosed a truly happy mortal.
This happy mortal, rara avis, was Dr. van Baerle, the godsonof Cornelius de Witt. He had inhabited the same house eversince his childhood, for it was the house in which hisfather and grandfather, old established princely merchantsof the princely city of Dort, were born.
Mynheer van Baerle the father had amassed in the Indiantrade three or four hundred thousand guilders, which Mynheervan Baerle the son, at the death of his dear and worthyparents, found still quite new, although one set of thembore the date of coinage of 1640, and the other that of1610, a fact which proved that they were guilders of VanBaerle the father and of Van Baerle the grandfather; but wewill inform the reader at once that these three or fourhundred thousand guilders were only the pocket money, orsort of purse, for Cornelius van Baerle, the hero of thisstory, as his landed property in the province yielded him anincome of about ten thousand guilders a year.
When the worthy citizen, the father of Cornelius, passedfrom time into eternity, three months after having buriedhis wife, who seemed to have departed first to smooth forhim the path of death as she had smoothed for him the pathof life, he said to his son, as he embraced him for the lasttime, --"Eat, drink, and spend your money, if you wish to know whatlife really is, for as to toiling from morn to evening on awooden stool, or a leathern chair, in a counting-house or alaboratory, that certainly is not living. Your time to diewill also come; and if you are not then so fortunate as tohave a son, you will let my name grow extinct, and myguilders, which no one has ever fingered but my father,myself, and the coiner, will have the surprise of passing toan unknown master. And least of all, imitate the example ofyour godfather, Cornelius de Witt, who has plunged intopolitics, the most ungrateful of all careers, and who willcertainly come to an untimely end."Having given utterance to this paternal advice, the worthyMynheer van Baerle died, to the intense grief of his sonCornelius, who cared very little for the guilders, and verymuch for his father.
Cornelius then remained alone in his large house. In vainhis 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 embarkwith De Ruyter upon "The Seven Provinces," the flagship of afleet of one hundred and thirty-nine sail, with which thefamous admiral set out to contend singlehanded against thecombined forces of France and England. When, guided by thepilot 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 welldirected an attack that the Duke, perceiving that his vesselwould soon have to strike, made the best of his way aboardthe "Saint Michael"; when he had seen the "Saint Michael,"riddled and shattered by the Dutch broadside, drift out ofthe line; when he had witnessed the sinking of the "Earl ofSandwich," and the death by fire or drowning of four hundredsailors; when he realized that the result of all thisdestruction -- after twenty ships had been blown to pieces,three thousand men killed and five thousand injured -- wasthat nothing was decided, that both sides claimed thevictory, that the fighting would soon begin again, and thatjust one more name, that of Southwold Bay, had been added tothe list of battles; when he had estimated how much time islost simply in shutting his eyes and ears by a man who likesto use his reflective powers even while his fellow creaturesare cannonading one another; -- Cornelius bade farewell toDe Ruyter, to the Ruart de Pulten, and to glory, kissed theknees of the Grand Pensionary, for whom he entertained thedeepest veneration, and retired to his house at Dort, richin his well-earned repose, his twenty-eight years, an ironconstitution and keen perceptions, and his capital of morethan four hundred thousands of florins and income of tenthousand, convinced that a man is always endowed by Heavenwith too much for his own happiness, and just enough to makehim miserable.
Consequently, and to indulge his own idea of happiness,Cornelius began to be interested in the study of plants andinsects, collected and classified the Flora of all the Dutchislands, arranged the whole entomology of the province, onwhich he wrote a treatise, with plates drawn by his ownhands; and at last, being at a loss what to do with histime, and especially with his money, which went onaccumulating at a most alarming rate, he took it into hishead to select for himself, from all the follies of hiscountry and of his age, one of the most elegant andexpensive, -- he became a tulip-fancier.
It was the time when the Dutch and the Portuguese, rivallingeach other in this branch of horticulture, had begun toworship that flower, and to make more of a cult of it thanever naturalists dared to make of the human race for fear ofarousing the jealousy of God.
Soon people from Dort to Mons began to talk of Mynheer vanBaerle's tulips; and his beds, pits, drying-rooms, anddrawers of bulbs were visited, as the galleries andlibraries of Alexandria were by illustrious Romantravellers.
Van Baerle began by expending his yearly revenue in layingthe groundwork of his collection, after which he broke inupon his new guilders to bring it to perfection. Hisexertions, indeed, were crowned with a most magnificentresult: he produced three new tulips, which he called the"Jane," after his mother; the "Van Baerle," after hisfather; and the "Cornelius," after his godfather; the othernames have escaped us, but the fanciers will be sure to findthem in the catalogues of the times.
In the beginning of the year 1672, Cornelius de Witt came toDort for three months, to live at his old family mansion;for not only was he born in that city, but his family hadbeen resident there for centuries.
Cornelius, at that period, as William of Orange said, beganto enjoy the most perfect unpopularity. To his fellowcitizens, the good burghers of Dort, however, he did notappear in the light of a criminal who deserved to be hung.
It is true, they did not particularly like his somewhataustere republicanism, but they were proud of his valour;and when he made his entrance into their town, the cup ofhonour was offered to him, readily enough, in the name ofthe city.
After having thanked his fellow citizens, Corneliusproceeded to his old paternal house, and gave directions forsome repairs, which he wished to have executed before thearrival of his wife and children; and thence he wended hisway to the house of his godson, who perhaps was the onlyperson in Dort as yet unacquainted with the presence ofCornelius in the town.
In the same degree as Cornelius de Witt had excited thehatred of the people by sowing those evil seeds which arecalled political passions, Van Baerle had gained theaffections of his fellow citizens by completely shunning thepursuit of politics, absorbed as he was in the peacefulpursuit 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 manwho wished ill to another.
And yet it must be said, to the disgrace of mankind, thatCornelius van Baerle, without being aware of the fact, had amuch more ferocious, fierce, and implacable enemy than theGrand Pensionary and his brother had among the Orange party,who were most hostile to the devoted brothers, who had neverbeen sundered by the least misunderstanding during theirlives, and by their mutual devotion in the face of deathmade sure the existence of their brotherly affection beyondthe grave.
At the time when Cornelius van Baerle began to devotehimself to tulip-growing, expending on this hobby his yearlyrevenue and the guilders of his father, there was at Dort,living next door to him, a citizen of the name of IsaacBoxtel who from the age when he was able to think forhimself had indulged the same fancy, and who was inecstasies at the mere mention of the word "tulban," which(as we are assured by the "Floriste Francaise," the mosthighly considered authority in matters relating to thisflower) is the first word in the Cingalese tongue which wasever used to designate that masterpiece of floriculturewhich is now called the tulip.
Boxtel had not the good fortune of being rich, like VanBaerle. He had therefore, with great care and patience, andby dint of strenuous exertions, laid out near his house atDort a garden fit for the culture of his cherished flower;he had mixed the soil according to the most approvedprescriptions, and given to his hotbeds just as much heatand fresh air as the strictest rules of horticulture exact.
Isaac knew the temperature of his frames to the twentiethpart of a degree. He knew the strength of the current ofair, and tempered it so as to adapt it to the wave of thestems of his flowers. His productions also began to meetwith the favour of the public. They were beautiful, nay,distinguished. Several fanciers had come to see Boxtel'stulips. At last he had even started amongst all theLinnaeuses and Tourneforts a tulip which bore his name, andwhich, after having travelled all through France, had foundits way into Spain, and penetrated as far as Portugal; andthe King, Don Alfonso VI. -- who, being expelled fromLisbon, had retired to the island of Terceira, where heamused himself, not, like the great Conde, with watering hiscarnations, but with growing tulips -- had, on seeing theBoxtel tulip, exclaimed, "Not so bad, by any means!"All at once, Cornelius van Baerle, who, after all hislearned pursuits, had been seized with the tulipomania, madesome changes in his house at Dort, which, as we have stated,was next door to that of Boxtel. He raised a certainbuilding in his court-yard by a story, which shutting outthe sun, took half a degree of warmth from Boxtel's garden,and, on the other hand, added half a degree of cold inwinter; not to mention that it cut the wind, and disturbedall the horticultural calculations and arrangements of hisneighbour.
After all, this mishap appeared to Boxtel of no greatconsequence. Van Baerle was but a painter, a sort of foolwho tried to reproduce and disfigure on canvas the wondersof nature. The painter, he thought, had raised his studio bya story to get better light, and thus far he had only beenin the right. Mynheer van Baerle was a painter, as MynheerBoxtel was a tulip-grower; he wanted somewhat more sun forhis paintings, and he took half a degree from hisneighbour'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 wasinjurious to tulips, and that this flower grew quicker, andhad a better colouring, with the temperate warmth ofmorning, than with the powerful heat of the midday sun. Hetherefore felt almost grateful to Cornelius van Baerle forhaving given him a screen gratis.
Maybe this was not quite in accordance with the true stateof things in general, and of Isaac Boxtel's feelings inparticular. It is certainly astonishing what rich comfortgreat minds, in the midst of momentous catastrophes, willderive from the consolations of philosophy.
But alas! What was the agony of the unfortunate Boxtel onseeing the windows of the new story set out with bulbs andseedlings of tulips for the border, and tulips in pots; inshort, with everything pertaining to the pursuits of atulip-monomaniac!
There were bundles of labels, cupboards, and drawers withcompartments, and wire guards for the cupboards, to allowfree access to the air whilst keeping out slugs, mice,dormice, and rats, all of them very curious fanciers oftulips at two thousand francs a bulb.
Boxtel was quite amazed when he saw all this apparatus, buthe was not as yet aware of the full extent of hismisfortune. Van Baerle was known to be fond of everythingthat pleases the eye. He studied Nature in all her aspectsfor the benefit of his paintings, which were as minutelyfinished as those of Gerard Dow, his master, and of Mieris,his friend. Was it not possible, that, having to paint theinterior of a tulip-grower's, he had collected in his newstudio all the accessories of decoration?
Yet, although thus consoling himself with illusorysuppositions, Boxtel was not able to resist the burningcuriosity which was devouring him. In the evening,therefore, he placed a ladder against the partition wallbetween their gardens, and, looking into that of hisneighbour Van Baerle, he convinced himself that the soil ofa large square bed, which had formerly been occupied bydifferent plants, was removed, and the ground disposed inbeds of loam mixed with river mud (a combination which isparticularly favourable to the tulip), and the wholesurrounded by a border of turf to keep the soil in itsplace. Besides this, sufficient shade to temper the noondayheat; aspect south-southwest; water in abundant supply, andat hand; in short, every requirement to insure not onlysuccess but also progress. There could not be a doubt thatVan Baerle had become a tulip-grower.
Boxtel at once pictured to himself this learned man, with acapital of four hundred thousand and a yearly income of tenthousand guilders, devoting all his intellectual andfinancial resources to the cultivation of the tulip. Heforesaw his neighbour's success, and he felt such a pang atthe mere idea of this success that his hands droppedpowerless, his knees trembled, and he fell in despair fromthe ladder.
And thus it was not for the sake of painted tulips, but forreal ones, that Van Baerle took from him half a degree ofwarmth. And thus Van Baerle was to have the most admirablyfitted aspect, and, besides, a large, airy, and wellventilated chamber where to preserve his bulbs andseedlings; while he, Boxtel, had been obliged to give up forthis purpose his bedroom, and, lest his sleeping in the sameapartment might injure his bulbs and seedlings, had taken uphis abode in a miserable garret.
Boxtel, then, was to have next door to him a rival andsuccessful competitor; and his rival, instead of being someunknown, obscure gardener, was the godson of MynheerCornelius de Witt, that is to say, a celebrity.
Boxtel, as the reader may see, was not possessed of thespirit 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 theJohn de Witt, after having named one the Cornelius? It wasindeed enough to choke one with rage.
Thus Boxtel, with jealous foreboding, became the prophet ofhis own misfortune. And, after having made this melancholydiscovery, he passed the most wretched night imaginable.