The Golden Tulip

by Rosalind Laker

  It seemed strange to her that although they had been cultivated in the exotic gardens of Persia and Turkey, it was not until just over a hundred years before her birth that the tulip had reached Europe. An ambassador to Turkey from the Court of the Holy Roman Emperor had been so impressed by the tulip that when he returned home to Vienna he took with him some seeds and bulbs, which he presented to Ferdinand I. These grew and flourished until soon other countries were transplanting this new flower shaped like an eastern turban. There were many tales as to how it eventually came to Holland, but the most likely was that a cargo of bulbs arrived by ship in Amsterdam. Whatever its means of travel, the tulip took to Dutch soil as if Holland were its natural habitat and it had always belonged there.

  Red, yellow and also white tulips, as well as some striped ones, had grown in the Visser garden for as long as Francesca could remember. She had no real preference in color, finding something to admire in every one, but she looked forward to the bloom that would be produced by the recently delivered bulbs. It was to be a shaded crimson with feathered petals, and was more expensive than any she would have chosen. At least it did not come into the category of the rare hues that commanded top prices and had made many a horticulturist extremely prosperous. Yet never again would bulbs fetch the exorbitant prices they had done some years ago when what had become known as “tulipomania” had swept the country. People from all walks of life became speculators in bulbs expected to bring forth new patterns or exceptional colors and that might soon become worth their weight in gold. Houses with all their contents were exchanged for a single bulb; livestock from farms, tools of trade and premises and family heirlooms all went in the general madness as fortunes were made overnight. Often a bulb changed hands figuratively several times, the buyers and the sellers never seeing the actual product, exactly as financial deals were carried out at the Exchange in Amsterdam, and at those in London, Paris and elsewhere.

  This horticultural madness came about through the cultivated tulip’s unique way of producing its own variations through a natural breaking down of the bulb into new forms, the colors of the offsets staying virtually steadfast. Those who had never gambled in their lives before threw caution aside and the wild speculation was maintained throughout every month of the three years that the fever lasted, giving opportunities to tricksters and swindlers in a whirlwind of fraud. When the market crashed many were left without a roof over their heads. Hendrick had been in the first years of his apprenticeship, but he had gambled a small inheritance and, with the good luck that rallied to him at certain times, he had emerged from the chaos with a thousand florins more than the sum with which he had started.

  Francesca rose from her knees, brushed dirt from her apron and picked up the rug. Her task was done. In the early spring she would come out each day to watch the first shoots emerge. She went back indoors with a lighthearted step.

  When Aletta returned home she had made several detailed sketches. Francesca looked at them with interest. “You have worked hard, Aletta.”

  She did not notice the gleam of excitement in her sister’s eyes. “I’m going to have no time for anything else except work now,” Aletta said as she took the sketches from Francesca and carried them away upstairs.

  To Francesca’s surprise Hendrick had taken more note of her suggestion about making a trip to Haarlem than she had supposed. As his spirits recovered once more, he made the announcement at breakfast one morning that there was to be a family outing to the old city of his apprenticeship.

  “We’ll go tomorrow to pay our respects at my old master’s tomb and then take a look around. It will be Saturday, so there’ll be lots to see. I’ll borrow a horse and sporting cart to get us there. Its owner owes me a favor.” It was not the most comfortable form of transport, being much like a wooden tub on wheels, and passengers were rocked about, but it was much quicker than the canal boat and it was free.

  Sybylla clapped her hands excitedly. “An outing! What a treat!”

  Aletta looked uncertain. “It’s getting colder every day. Suppose it should snow and hinder our return.”

  Francesca thought it was unusual for Aletta to make such a comment. It was almost as if she were seeking any sort of excuse to prevent the trip. “I don’t think we need worry about that,” she said firmly.

  “Indeed not!” Hendrick endorsed. In any case, once he had decided on a course of action that suited him personally he could rarely be persuaded otherwise. He raised a quizzical eyebrow at Francesca. “We can afford it, can’t we?”

  “Oh! Yes!” she replied with a laugh, excited herself at the prospect. It was the custom at the week’s end for families to pour out of the towns and cities for picnics in summer, or to country taverns and the entertainments provided there when the weather was colder. As a family in the past there had been many such expeditions, but since Anna had died there had been none. Hendrick had not been able to endure any avoidable occasion that emphasized her absence. Francesca was sure that this outing would be good for him and for all of them. Neither she nor her sisters had ever been to Haarlem, although it was only thirteen miles away. “We’ll take a picnic!”

  “Be sure you include a bottle of wine with the food,” Hendrick insisted jovially.

  Francesca had another thought. There was only one outstanding debt in her household ledger and that was for the bulbs. “Do you happen to know whereabouts near Haarlem I could find the premises of the tulip grower van Doorne, who supplied the new bulbs?”

  Hendrick shook his head, puzzled as to why she should have asked. “I ordered them at the market here in Amsterdam. Do you need more?”

  “No, there are plenty, but I would like to pay him.”

  Hendrick’s gesture tossed such an unimportant matter aside. “He’ll be back for his money soon enough.”

  That was what she hoped to avoid. By making direct payment at van Doorne’s premises it would be a way of erasing all those distressing times when she and all the household, except Hendrick, who usually managed to disappear, had been pestered for money. At least van Doorne’s location should not be hard to discover once she was in Haarlem.

  Maria sighed. “My old bones won’t allow me to go on this outing.”

  Francesca sympathized and then Aletta spoke up defensively. “I won’t be going tomorrow either.”

  They all looked at her in surprise. “Why not?” Hendrick asked.

  “I want to finish my painting of the bridge over the Amstel.”

  “There’ll be other days.”

  “No.” She had her obstinate look. “If I’m to be a serious artist I can’t drop everything for a day of frivolity.”

  Sybylla looked at her pityingly. Aletta was becoming as old in her ways as Maria. She herself was not interested in visiting Hals’s tomb, but she was in seeing the shops and whatever Haarlem had to offer, particularly in its young men. Maria kept far too close an eye on her at home and it would be wonderful to be free of her for once.

  “You’re becoming more of a stick-in-the-mud every day, Aletta,” she gibed.

  “Better that than to think of nothing else except ogling anything in breeches that walks along the street!” Aletta countered fiercely.

  Sybylla’s face flushed a guilty scarlet. “Listen to that viperish tongue! Can I help it if men look at me and not at you?”

  It was not entirely true, for it was only Aletta’s natural hauteur that discouraged advances. At the moment there was a flush of angry pink in her cheeks. “I’m not interested in riffraff, Sybylla!”

  Hendrick had become exasperated. He had no tolerance of quarrels that he himself had not instigated. “Be silent both of you! Aletta shall stay at home if that is what she wishes. I’ll not discourage anyone from work.” His faintly pious note might have led a stranger to suppose he was never away from his easel himself. “At least Aletta will be here if Willem can’t hold back any longer from collecting the painting.”

  It was decided that an early start should be made. Even so, Aletta w
as up before anyone else in the morning and already in the studio at work when breakfast was served.

  “Aren’t you coming to eat?” Sybylla asked, looking in at the door. She had Hendrick’s virtue in never sulking and, again like him, she quite enjoyed a clash of temperaments, feeling invigorated by it. This morning she would willingly have embraced her sister in reconciliation if it had been necessary, but Aletta had already forgotten their tiff.

  “I’ve eaten.” Aletta did not glance away from her canvas, but continued to paint steadily. “I told you yesterday that I wanted to get this painting finished.”

  Sybylla noticed a half-eaten slice of bread and cheese on a plate that must have forced a space for itself on the cluttered side table. Whatever drink had been left in a cup was now cold and soaked up into a carelessly cast-aside paint rag that had landed across it. “I’ll fetch you a fresh drink anyway. There’s hot chocolate this morning.” She went across to pick up the cup and then stood to study the painting of the bridge and neighboring buildings. “What’s so vital about this one? Why the rush? Have you a buyer for it?” Her words had been intended as a jest, but Aletta looked so startled that Sybylla paused, grinning triumphantly at her. “So that’s it!”

  Aletta rushed to the door and closed it to avoid anyone overhearing before she came back to where her sister stood. “I think I have. That day I was sketching at the bridge I included a row of property with a bakery in the foreground. The baker’s wife came by, looked over my shoulder as people do, and offered to buy my sketch. I told her it was for a painting and she became quite excited and said if it was good she would buy it as a surprise gift for her husband’s fiftieth birthday. He would be so proud to have such a painting to hang in his shop.”

  “What!” Sybylla was as outraged as their father would have been. “As a family we’ve been in low straits more times than I care to remember, but never has a painting or drawing or etching signed with the name of Visser been displayed over a shop counter!”

  “Maybe if it had, life would have been easier for Mama without all the scrimping and saving she had to do and which Francesca has had to carry on doing ever since!” Aletta’s eyes flashed like streak lightning. “I’ve no false pride. I want money for a reason of my own and if my painting becomes covered with flour and sultanas until it looks like a bun I shall not care in the least.”

  Sybylla gave a gurgle of laughter. “I think you would!”

  An unwilling smile came to Aletta’s lips and she inclined her head in agreement. “You’re right,” she said more calmly, “but it makes no difference to my wanting the sale to go through. I asked a good price and had to hide my surprise when the woman agreed without hesitation to pay it.” Abruptly she gripped Sybylla’s arm. “Don’t tell Father or Francesca about this, will you?”

  For once Sybylla did not taunt or tease as she liked to do whenever an opportunity presented itself. From personal experience she understood the importance of money to those who had never had any, since she could number herself among them. “I won’t say anything,” she promised, “but isn’t it a rule of the Guild that anything painted by pupils in a studio belongs to the master in charge?”

  “Yes, it is, but I don’t consider myself to be Father’s pupil any longer!” Aletta spoke fiercely. “It’s many weeks since he last made a remark about my work and it was neither helpful nor constructive. So I’m taking the risk. He need never know.”

  “But why are you doing this? Do you want to buy something fine to wear?”

  Aletta smiled again. “Nothing like that! What I want costs far more than a garment. When I’ve saved enough I’ll tell you what it’s for.”

  “It’s quite a while since we shared a secret. Last time was when I told you Jacob wanted to marry me.”

  “And I told you not to raise your hopes.”

  Sybylla made a rueful little grimace. “You were right, of course. But I’ll not tell you the same, because I’m sure the baker’s wife is going to be pleased with what you’ve done. I’ll fetch your hot chocolate now.”

  “No, wait!” Aletta removed her painting smock. “I’ll come with you. If Father should look in here before leaving for Haarlem he would see that I’ve almost finished and insist on my going too.”

  “Yes, he would.”

  Companionably, the two girls went from the studio together. Half an hour later Aletta stood with Maria to wave her father and sisters on their way in the sporting cart. Griet rose from her knees where she was scrubbing the stoop and waved in a shower of soapsuds white as snow.

  The recent cold, dry weather had made the rutted road hard and the wheels of the sporting cart sped along. Francesca and Sybylla shrieked and held on to each other with laughter as they were almost bounced off the seat at times. The October sun was pale in a sky atumble with clouds, for the wind was strong and the great sails of the windmills were all turning. It did not matter that the countryside was totally flat as far as the eye could see, for it was a lush green and there was always a gleam of water as if large opals had been sprinkled everywhere. With much of the land below sea level it was a constant battle to save it from flooding and the huge dikes, built of earth and rock, were sometimes overcome by exceptionally rough tides, which resulted in the loss of life and livestock. Here and there little bridges gave access across canals and waterways, the wooden passageways being constructed so each could be raised to allow laden barges and small boats to pass underneath.

  There was plenty to see on the road itself. People trudged along on foot, and they passed farm carts filled with produce. Now and again Hendrick would draw aside to let the lumbering coaches of the wealthy burghers go by, the paintwork agleam. He had to give way again whenever they met a stage wagon racing along at full speed, for the coachmen took a pride in keeping down the time taken from one destination to another, no matter that the passengers were tossed about like dice in a box. These vehicles raised a small sail as soon as they were out of town, if the wind was in the right direction, which allowed the horses to maintain a full gallop as if the load they were pulling was weightless. It was not uncommon for accidents to happen on the rough roads. The highlight of the journey for Sybylla was when she and Francesca received waves from two young officers of the Guard on horseback, handsome in their huge black hats and velvet and lace, white teeth flashing between thin mustaches and arrow-sharp beards. She looked after them wistfully as they disappeared ahead into the distance.

  At Haarlem, Hendrick drove through the fourteenth-century gate with its helm roofs and octagonal towers, smiling to be entering the territory of his youth again. He looked about him whenever the traffic allowed, memories of petticoat chasing and carousals coming back to him. Frans Hals had been strict enough in the studio, but he still had such weaknesses himself in those days and turned a blind eye to the lusty activities of his apprentices as long as they were sober and on time in the morning and worked hard under his tuition.

  Haarlem followed the layout of most Dutch towns in having a large central square with the church facing the town hall across it. Medieval buildings flanked the two remaining sides and brightly painted signs were suspended over the doors of those that had been put to commercial use. A busy market was at its height and Sybylla looked at it eagerly as Hendrick drove past and into the old vegetable market alongside the Church of St. Bavo, where small shops were set against its walls. Vertical shutters had been lowered to form counters on which were piled fabrics and lace and other fancy wares that caught her eye. Hendrick tied up the horse and helped his daughters alight from the sporting cart. Sybylla would have darted across to the little shops if Francesca had not restrained her, for Hendrick was waiting for them to follow him into the church. He removed his hat as he entered.

  Within it was a place of light with its double rows of immensely high windows of clear glass and almost every slab of the great floor was a memorial stone to those interred beneath.

  Hendrick located the last resting place of Frans Hals in the choir by the high gil
ded screen. As he stood with his daughters, looking down at the plain black stone inscribed with his late master’s name, he bowed his head in respect, memories flooding back. He remembered that merry, drink-raddled face, the hearty laugh that had rocked the whole of the man’s broad frame and the generous praise freely given when a pupil’s work was well done.

  The wealthiest and the grandest of Haarlem’s citizens had commissioned their portraits from Hals, whose work had blazed with life and wit and sometimes irony. Not for him the quiet landscape or the history painting. He had liked to paint people from all walks of life: the topers he got drunk with, the tavern maids who fought his hand up their skirts, the jokers who told a jolly tale and anyone else who reminded him that life was for living to the full. And always those stately and often self-satisfied faces of the rich, some of whom never suspected he had painted them with his tongue in his cheek!

  Hendrick wiped a tear from his eye and took out a kerchief to blow his nose vigorously. In the end this genius of a man had had to beg for a charity stipend from the city to keep him and his wife from starvation in their old age. Finally, the bill for his funeral had, through necessity, been on the city’s accounts—he who had given Haarlem more in his lifetime than any other man who had ever been born there. Francesca, who had brought a small bunch of foliage and a few late flowers from home, laid the bouquet on the tomb.

  As soon as they emerged from the church, Sybylla made a beeline for the stalls selling fripperies. Hendrick followed his daughters around quite amiably, although with the bored expression common to men while their womenfolk shop. Several purchases were made, including a blue shawl for Maria and a string of colored beads for Griet, gifts to be kept for St. Nicholaes’s Day. They ate their picnic on a bench by a canal and afterward Hendrick showed his daughters Hals’s old house, where he had served his apprenticeship, narrowly missing being run down by horses and a wagon when he stepped into the street to point out which windows had been those of the studio.