Чорний тюльпан
Cornelius van Baerle’s Will
Don’tblush,Rosa,norturnaway;andevenifIweremakingyouadeclarationoflove,alas!poordear,itwouldbeofnomoreconsequence.Downthereintheyard,thereisaninstrumentofsteel,whichinsixtyminuteswillputanendtomyboldness.Well,Rosa,Ilovedflowersdearly,andIhavefound,oratleastIbelieveso,thesecretofthegreatblacktulip,whichithasbeenconsideredimpossibletogrow,andforwhich,asyouknow,ormaynotknow,aprizeofahundredthousandguildershasbeenofferedbytheHorticulturalSocietyofHaarlem.Thesehundredthousandguilders—andHeavenknowsIdonotregretthem—thesehundredthousandguildersIhavehereinthispaper,fortheyarewonbythethreebulbswrappedupinit,whichyoumaytake,Rosa,asImakeyouapresentofthem.”
“MynheerCornelius!”
“Yes,yes,Rosa,youmaytakethem;youarenotwronginganyone,mychild.Iamaloneinthisworld;myparentsaredead;Ineverhadasisterorabrother.Ihaveneverhadathoughtoflovinganyonewithwhatiscalledlove,andifanyonehaslovedme,Ihavenotknownit.However,youseewell,Rosa,thatIamabandonedbyeverybody,asinthissadhouryoualonearewithmeinmyprison,consolingandassistingme.”
“But,sir,ahundredthousandguilders!”
“Well,letustalkseriously,mydearchild:thosehundredthousandguilderswillbeanicemarriageportion,withyourprettyface;youshallhavethem,Rosa,dearRosa,andIasknothinginreturnbutyourpromisethatyouwillmarryafineyoungman,whomyoulove,andwhowillloveyou,asdearlyasIlovedmyflowers.
