turning his glance towards his bulbs, — objects of much
greater importance to him than all those muskets, standards,
drums, and proclamations, which he conceived only to be fit
to disturb the minds of honest people, — he said: —
“These are, indeed, beautiful bulbs; how smooth they are,
how well formed; there is that air of melancholy about them
which promises to produce a flower of the colour of ebony.
On their skin you cannot even distinguish the circulating
veins with the naked eye. Certainly, certainly, not a light
spot will disfigure the tulip which I have called into
existence. And by what name shall we call this offspring of
my sleepless nights, of my labour and my thought? Tulipa
nigra Barlaensis?
“Yes Barlaensis: a fine name. All the tulip-fanciers — that
is to say, all the intelligent people of Europe — will feel
a thrill of excitement when the rumour spreads to the four
quarters of the globe: The grand black tulip is found! ‘How
is it called?’ the fanciers will ask. — ‘Tulipa nigra
Barlaensis!’ — ‘Why Barlaensis?’ — ‘After its grower, Van
Baerle,’ will be the answer. — ‘And who is this Van
Baerle?’ — ‘It is the same who has already produced five
new tulips: the Jane, the John de Witt, the Cornelius de
Witt, etc.’ Well, that is what I call my ambition. It will
cause tears to no one. And people will talk of my Tulipa
nigra Barlaensis when perhaps my godfather, this sublime
politician, is only known from the tulip to which I have
given his name.
“Oh! these darling bulbs!
“When my tulip has flowered,” Baerle continued in his
soliloquy, “and when tranquillity is restored in Holland, I
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shall give to the poor only fifty thousand guilders, which,
after all, is a goodly sum for a man who is under no
obligation whatever. Then, with the remaining fifty thousand
guilders, I shall make experiments. With them I shall
succeed in imparting scent to the tulip. Ah! if I succeed in
giving it the odour of the rose or the carnation, or, what
would be still better, a completely new scent; if I restored
to this queen of flowers its natural distinctive perfume,
which she has lost in passing from her Eastern to her
European throne, and which she must have in the Indian
peninsula at Goa, Bombay, and Madras, and especially in that
island which in olden times, as is asserted, was the
terrestrial paradise, and which is called Ceylon, — oh,
what glory! I must say, I would then rather be Cornelius van
Baerle than Alexander, Caesar, or Maximilian.
“Oh the admirable bulbs!”
Thus Cornelius indulged in the delights of contemplation,
and was carried away by the sweetest dreams.
Suddenly the bell of his cabinet was rung much more
violently than usual.
Cornelius, startled, laid his hands on his bulbs, and turned
round.
“Who is here?” he asked.
“Sir,” answered the servant, “it is a messenger from the
Hague.”
“A messenger from the Hague! What does he want?”
“Sir, it is Craeke.”
“Craeke! the confidential servant of Mynheer John de Witt?
Good, let him wait.”
“I cannot wait,” said a voice in the lobby.
And at the same time forcing his way in, Craeke rushed into
the dry-room.
This abrupt entrance was such an infringement on the
established rules of the household of Cornelius van Baerle,
that the latter, at the sight of Craeke, almost convulsively
moved his hand which covered the bulbs, so that two of them
fell on the floor, one of them rolling under a small table,
and the other into the fireplace.
“Zounds!” said Cornelius, eagerly picking up his precious
bulbs, “what’s the matter?”
“The matter, sir!” said Craeke, laying a paper on the large
table, on which the third bulb was lying, — “the matter is,
that you are requested to read this paper without losing one
moment.”
And Craeke, who thought he had remarked in the streets of
Dort symptoms of a tumult similar to that which he had
witnessed before his departure from the Hague, ran off
without even looking behind him.
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