In “Otho the Archer” is found a repetition of the Knight and Swan legend so familiar to all. It has been before—and since—a prolific source of supply to authors of all ranks and nationalities: Goethe, Schiller, Hoffman, Brentano, Fouqué, Scott, and others.
The book first appeared in 1840, before even “Monte Cristo” and “Les Trois Mousquetaires” were published as feuilletons, and hence, whatever its merits may be, it is to be classed as one of his immature efforts, rather than as a piece of profound romancing.
The story of adventure, of battle, and of love-making is all there, but his picture of the scenery and life of the middle ages on the Rhine are, of course, as purely imaginary as is the romantic background of myth and legend.
Of all the works dealing with foreign lands,—or, at least, foreign to his pen,—Dumas’ “Black Tulip” will ever take a preëminent rank. Therein are pictures of Holland life and of the Hollandaise which, like the pen-drawings of Stevenson in “Catriona,” will live far more vividly in the minds of most readers than volumes of mere dissertation written by others.
The story opens with a recounting of the tragedy of the brothers Cornelius and Jacobus de Windt, which, though not differing greatly from historical fact, is as vivid and terrible an account of the persecutions of mortal man as any similar incident in romance itself, of whatever age and by whomever written.
Dumas was in Amsterdam, in 1849, at the coronation of William III., where it has been said—by Flotow, the composer—that the king remarked to Dumas that none of the scenes of his romances had as yet been laid in the Netherlands, and thereupon told him what was substantially the story of “La Tulipe Noire.” This first appeared as the product of Dumas’ hand and brain in 1850.
This is perhaps more or less a legendary account of its inception; like many another of the reasons for being of Dumas’ romances, but it is sufficiently plausible and well authenticated to warrant acceptance, though it has been said, too, that it was to Paul Lacroix—“Bibliophile Jacob”—that Dumas owed the idea of the tale.
At all events, it is a charming pen-picture of Holland; shows a wonderful love and knowledge of the national flower, the tulip, and is one of the most popular of all Dumas’ tales, if we except the three cycles of romances, whose scenes and incidents are based on the history of French court life.
Not for many years did the translators leave “La Tulipe Noire” unnoticed, and for over a half-century it has enjoyed a vogue which is at least comprehensible.
Its plot and characters are most ingeniously and dextrously handled, but its greatest charm is incident to the process of evolving the famous black tulip from among the indigenous varieties which, at the time of the scene of the novel, had not got beyond the brilliantly variegated yellows and reds. From the various stages of mauve, purple, brown, and, finally, something very nearly akin to black, the flowering bulb finally took form, as first presented to a wide-spread public by Dumas.