Rembrandt. Poor Rembrandt. During a visit to Amsterdam, I met Rembrandt van Rijn, with whom I became a confidant. My name is Franciscus de le Boë, and I am in charge of the Hortus Botanicus at Leiden University. Due to my fondness for this hortus medicus and for woods, I have adopted the name Franciscus Sylvius, for whoever doesn't have a pompous Latin moniker is nobody. Given my interest in the human body, I witnessed colleagues being portrayed by Rembrandt in 1632 in "The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Nicolaes Tulp".
Anatomy, physiology, alchemy, and botany sharpen my senses, prompting me to learn more about nature, and Rembrandt, through his art, manages to approach such revelation. I am a pupil of Adolphus Vorstius, who directs the Hortus Botanicus. Adolphus succeeded his father, Aelius Vorstius, also a physicist, in the management and preservation of this garden, created in 1590 by the no less respected French botanist Charles de l'Écluse (and, obviously, with the Latin name Carolus Clusius). In establishing the botanical garden, Clusius brought potatoes, tomatoes, and tobacco from the Americas, cultivated foxglove, mandrake, rosemary, and thyme, including daffodils and hyacinths. He was the one who planted the first tulip bulbs in our garden, a gift from the ambassador to the court of Suleiman, Ghislain de Brusbecq, after a trip to Constantinople. It is said that Clusius died of sadness when he learned that some of his tulips had been stolen, and were then cultivated without any care.
The fact is that tulips are here. Clusius was interested in the medicinal properties of plants, creating, so to speak, medical botany, now conducted by us at the University of Leiden, where Claes Pieterszoon, Dr. Nicolaes Tulp, also studied. His passion for tulips is so intense that, not content with adorning both his carriage and his home with tulips, he adopted them in his coat of arms and his own surname, since Tulp is nothing more than Tulip. If Dr. Tulip can flaunt the flower in his charm, why not bring it as a symbol of power and wealth? Whatever the case, Dr. Tulip, grateful for having been immortalized in brushstrokes by van Rijn, introduced us to Rombertus van Uylenborch, mayor of Amsterdam. And van Rijn's eyes were not colored by Rombertus's flowers, but by his daughter Saskia. They fell in love and in 1634 were married, a moment immortalized in "Flora." Rembrandt portrayed Saskia as Flora, the Roman goddess of spring, wearing an almost exotic dress and holding a scepter decorated with flowers in her right hand.
What stands out in Saskia's painting is a wreath, and within it, a tulip, protruding from the crown of flowers, hovers above her left ear. This tulip is the queen of gardens, as it presents a pattern of stripes with sharp color contrasts. Its beauty, its jewel-like quality, its rarity, accessible only to goddesses and lovers, did not only appeal to the vanity of Dr. Tulip. Poor Rembrandt. He could hardly imagine that the tulip depicted, the Semper Augustus , was in the hands of a single owner, whose value in 1623 was one thousand florins per bulb, reaching three thousand florins in 1625. And, some time later, prices increased more than twentyfold in less than a month. In "Flora," in chiaroscuro, the flaming stripes flourish in the red/white/yellow of Rembrandt's broken tulip, enchanting the Republic of the Seven United Provinces of the Netherlands. Around the same time, florists were increasingly seeking out unique tulips. Having something unique is priceless, even if it borders on the impossible. People with ties to the dividends of the East and West India Companies began buying the bulbs, not to plant them, but to sell them as a promise of future profits, to the point that, at the end of last year, the contract for the purchase of rare bulbs was worth the equivalent of the residence of the mayor of Amsterdam. This doesn't even include the person who sold their land to buy bulbs. How? Will they plant them in heaven or in madness? I have never witnessed such a thing: buying what doesn't exist, going into debt out of greed, being corrupted by immediate wealth, and selling one's own dignity.
The tulip, a graceful turban, blooms years after planting. When it blooms, its exuberance lasts for two months. The care instilled in the bulb during this waiting period, like a cocoon enclosing a beautiful moth. Thus, the buyer deposits his greed in a butterfly, which risks not flying. He incurs debts, yet believes in his tulip. Semper Augustus , for thus the rare tulip, like human beings, needs an august and majestic name. Today is March 2nd, 1637. I learned that negotiations for the future purchase of tulips, both in Amsterdam and Haarlem, have collapsed, with prices that were once those of castles now less than those of pigsties. Words and purchases are no longer honored. In an effort to understand the reasons, I sought out Renatus Cartesius, here in Leiden. Of course, the name is Latin, since he is the Frenchman René Descartes, who sought to enlighten me regarding the overcoming of error through "I think, therefore I am." In other words, was the tulip speculation an error, since it borders on the irrational? Could that be it? Descartes did not answer, however, he gave me a manuscript, "Discourse on the Method," to be published this year. He asked me for secrecy, since the intention is anonymity. Besides the Cartesian work, what else does 1637 hold for us? At that moment, Willem Piso and Georg Marcgraf visit me at the Hortus Botanicus . I ask them about the news, as long as it's not about tulips. They will sail the Atlantic, invited by Johan Maurits van Nassau-Siegen, of the West-Indische Compagnie, to reach lands conquered in 1630. They tell me that Maurice of Nassau has landed in Brazil and is waiting for them soon. "Will they bring tulips?" I ask. Perhaps, but the interest – I believe – lies in sugarcane or a new brandewijn, the sugarcane wine known as cachaça by the locals.
This text does not necessarily reflect the opinion of Unicamp.
Cover photo:
