The Black Tulip/Chapter 31
CHAPTER XXXI.
Haarlem.
The fifteenth of May, 1673, was a great day for the good city of Haarlem. It had to celebrate a three-fold festival. In the first place, the black tulip had been produced; secondly, the Prince William of Orange, as a true Hollander, had promised to be present at the ceremony of its inauguration; and, thirdly, it was a point of honour with the States to show to the French, at the conclusion of such a disastrous war as that of 1672, that the flooring of the Batavian Republic was solid enough for its people to dance on it, with the accompaniment of the eannon of their fleets.
The Horticultural Society of Haarlem had shown itself worthy of its fame, by giving a hundred thousand guilders for the bulb of a tulip. The town, which did not wish to remain behindhand, voted a like sum, which was placed in the hands of that notable body to solemnise the auspicious event.
And, indeed, on the Sunday fixed for this ceremony, there was such a stir among the people, and such an enthusiasm among the townsfolk, that even a Frenchman, who laughs at everything at all times, could not have helped admiring the character of those honest Hollanders, who were equally ready to spend their money for the construction of a man-of-war, that is to say, for the support of national honour, as they were to reward the grower of a new flower, destined to bloom for one day, and to serve during that day to divert the ladies, the learned, and the curious.
At the head of the Notables and of the Horticultural Committee shone Mynheer Van Herysen, dressed in his richest habiliments.
The worthy man had done his best to resemble his favourite flower, in the sombre and stern elegance of his garments; and we are bound to record, to his honour, that he had perfectly succeeded in his object.
Dark crimson velvet, dark purple silk, and jet-black cloth, with linen of dazzling whiteness, composed the festive dress of the President, who marched at the head of his Committee, carrying an enormous nosegay, like that which, a hundred and twenty-one years later, Monsieur de Robespierre displayed at the festival of “The Supreme Being.”
There was, however, a little difference between the two very different from the French tribune, whose heart was so full of hatred and ambitious vindictiveness, the honest President carried in his bosom a heart as innocent as the flowers which he held in his hand.
Behind the Committee, who were as gay as a meadow, and as fragrant as a garden in spring, marched the learned societies of the town, the magistrates, the military, the nobles, and the boors.
The people, even among the respected republicans of the Seven Provinces, had no place assigned to them in the procession: they merely lined the streets.
This is the place for the multitude which, with true philosophic spirit, waits until the triumphal pageants have passed, to know what to say of them, and sometimes also to know what to do.
This time, however, there was no question either of the triumph of Pompey or of Cæsar; neither of the defeat of Mithridates, nor of the conquest of Gaul. The procession was as placid as the passing of a flock of lambs, and as inoffensive as a flight of birds sweeping through the air.
Haarlem had no other triumphers, except its gardeners. Worshipping flowers, Haarlem idolized the florist. black tulip was seen, carried on a litter which was covered with white velvet and fringed with gold.
It was arranged that the Prince Stadtholder himself should give the prize of a hundred thousand guilders, which interested the people at large, and it was thought that, perhaps, he would make a speech which interested more particularly his friends and enemies.
The whole population of Haarlem, swelled by that of the neighbourhood, had arranged itself along the beautiful avenues of trees, with the fixed resolution, this time, to applaud neither the heroes of war, nor those of science, but merely the conqueror of nature, who had forced her to produce the black tulip.
Nothing, however, is more fickle than such a resolution of the people. When a crowd is once in the humour to cheer, it is just the same as when it begins to hiss. It never knows when to stop.
It, therefore, in the first place, cheered Van Herysen and his nosegay, then the corporations, then followed a cheer for the people; and at last, and for once with great justice, there was one for the excellent music with which the gentlemen of the town council generously treated the assemblage at every halt.
All eyes were on the look-out for the hero of the day,—of course we mean the grower of the tulip.
This hero made his appearance at the conclusion of the reading of the report, which we have seen Van Herysen drawing up with such conscientiousness; and he produced almost a greater sensation than the Stadtholder himself.
There he walked, covered with flowers down to his girdle; well combed and brushed and entirely dressed in scarlet, a colour which contrasted strongly with his black hair and yellow complexion.
This hero, radiant with rapturous joy, who had the distinguished honour of making the people forget the speech of Van Herysen, and even the presence of the Stadtholder, was Isaac Boxtel, who saw, carried on his right before him, the black tulip, his pretended daughter; and on his left, in a large purse, the hundred thousand guilders in glittering gold pieces, towards which he was constantly squinting, fearful of losing sight of them for one moment.
Another quarter of an hour and the Prince will arrive, and the procession will halt for the last time; after the tulip is placed on its throne, the Prince, yielding precedence to this rival for the popular adoration, will take a magnificently-emblazoned parchment, on which is written the name of the grower; and His Highness, in a loud and audible tone, will proclaim him to be the discoverer of a wonder that Holland, by the instrumentality of him, Boxtel, has forced nature to produce a black flower, which shall henceforth be called Tulipa nigra Boxtellea.
From time to time, however, Boxtel withdrew his eyes for a moment from the tulip and the purse, timidly looking among the crowd, for, more than anything, he dreaded to descry there the pale face of the pretty Frisian girl.
She would have been a spectre spoiling the joy of the festival for him, just as Banquo’s ghost did that of Macbeth.
And yet, if the truth must be told, this wretch, who had stolen what was the boast of a man, and the dowry of a woman, did not consider himself as a thief. He had so intently watched this tulip, followed it so eagerly from the drawer in Cornelius’s dry-room to the scaffold of the Buitenhof, and from the scaffold to the fortress of Lœvestein; he had seen it bud and grow in Rosa’s window, and so often warmed the air round it with his breath, that he felt as if no one had a better right to call himself its producer than he had; and any one who would now take the black tulip from him, would have appeared to him as a thief.
Yet he did not perceive Rosa; his joy, therefore, was not spoiled.
In the centre of a circle of magnificent trees, which were decorated with garlands and inscriptions, the procession halted, amidst the sounds of lively music; and the young damsels of Haarlem made their appearance to escort the tulip to the raised seat which it was to occupy on the platform, by the side of the gilded chair of His Highness the Stadtholder.
And the proud tulip, raised on its pedestal, soon overlooked the assembled crowd of people, who clapped their hands, and made the old town of Haarlem reecho with their tremendous cheers.