In 1559 in the hilly Bavarian city of Augsburg, an even-tempered scientist named Conrad Gessner sauntered through a private garden. A long gray beard framed his weathered face like a lion’s mane as his gaze danced across the spread of exotic plants rare in the gardens of 16th-century Germans. For the passionate naturalist now regarded as the father of modern zoology, the experience had to be every bit as personally fulfilling as it was professionally interesting. Among the plants he observed that day, one blossom in particular caught his eye. Gessner was smitten by the rare specimen, as he could not recall ever encountering such a beauty. Like a child on Christmas morning, Gessner hurried over to quiz the garden’s owner about the flower’s origins. His flattered host, the well-to-do Councilor Herwart, was more than happy to indulge his distinguished guest’s curiosity. Proudly relaying tales of his travels, Herwart explained that he had the flower shipped to him all the way from the capital of the flourishing Ottoman Empire, Constantinople. He called the delicate, bell-shaped bulb a “tulip.” Still basking in the glow of Gessner’s admiration, Herwart continued, recalling that the tulip derived its name from the Turkish headwear the flower resembled, known in English as a turban.

Gessner immediately began touting the merits of the frail, but radiant-colored tulip bulbs. Before long, the elite of western Europe were having bulbs shipped to them from Constantinople just as Councilor Herwart had done. Less than a decade later, the tulip had become the absolute must-have garden fixture of every wealthy person in Germany, Holland, England, and France. For the next five years, Gessner watched his prized discovery paint itself into the landscape of prosperous European life. At the same time, the proud father, Gessner, was awarded a position as a distinguished lecturer in his hometown of Zurich, Switzerland. Gessner’s career appeared to have soared to a new height, but his fortune quickly bottomed out. In the winter of 1565, just one year after his appointment, Gessner came down with a fever accompanied by a throbbing headache and severe nausea. Days later, he was dead. A small outbreak of the bubonic plague had swept into Zurich and robbed Gessner of his twilight years. Although his beloved tulips were just beginning to reach full blossom in high society, Gessner’s fatal bout with the Black Death was an eerie sign of things to come for his cherished tulip.