TULIP FEVER

A pallid account of adultery and deception somewhat enriched—but not much—by its 17th-century Dutch setting.

Young Sophia has saved herself and her family by marrying wealthy, amiable Cornelis Sandvoort, 40 years her senior. After three years of marriage, with as yet no heir, Cornelis tries for the next best route to immortality by engaging Jan van Loos to paint the couple’s portrait. With this one display of vanity begins the twisting plot of a moral fable that dooms all the players involved, transforming their tidy Amsterdam into a watery labyrinth of deceit. Shortly after meeting for the first sitting, Jan and Sophia begin a torrid affair. They steal through the streets in disguise and pass notes through servants, risking everything for just the briefest contact. When Sophia’s maid, Maria, becomes pregnant, the lovers concoct an outlandish plan they hope will buy their freedom. With a pillow tucked under her gown, Sophia pretends also to be pregnant; she plans to pawn off Maria’s illegitimate baby as her own, to “die” in childbirth, then run off with Jan. The novel’s title suggests the historical phenomenon that may aid the illicit pair. Gripped in “tulip fever,” the Amsterdam of 1636 uses bulbs as a trading commodity, their value based on rareness of color and singularity of bloom. The flowers can make or break futures in an afternoon, and it’s on this chaotic fluctuation that Jan and Sophia depend to make their fortune. Immersed in the language of flowers and the imagery of Dutch still lifes, the story’s best moments mimic the stilled perfection of painting. But at the same time, more often than not, Moggach’s reserved, objectified tone distances the reader. An interesting conceit with little emotional impact, making for a tale more reserved and two-dimensional than burgeoning

with its lives.