Prolog
| Aan E. H. v. W. "J'ai souvent entendu plaindre les femmes de poëte, et sans doute, pour tenir dignement dans la vie ce difficile emploi, aucune qualité n'est de trop. Le plus rare ensemble de mérites n'est que le strict nécessaire, et ne suffit même pas toujours au commun bonheur. Voir sans cesse la muse en tiers dans vos plus familiers entretiens, - recueiller dans ses bras et soigner ce poëte qui est votre mari, quand il vous revient meurtri par les déceptions de sa tâche; - ou bien le voir s'envoler à la poursuite de sa chimère ... voilà l'ordinaire de l'existence pour une femme de poëte. Oui, mais aussi il y a le chapître des compensations, l'heure des lauriers qu'il a gagnés à la sueur de son génie, et qu'il dépose pieusement aux pieds de la femme légitimement aimée, aux genoux de l'Antigone qui sert de guide en ce monde à cet "aveugle errant;" Car, ne vous-y-trompez pas: presque tous les petits-fils d'Homère sont plus ou moins aveugles à leur façon;--ils voient ce que nous ne voyons pas; leurs regards pénètrent plus haut et plus au fond que les nôtres; mais ils ne savent pas voir droit devant eux leur petit bonhomme de chemin, et ils seraient capables de trébucher et de se casser le nez sur le moindre caillou, s'il leur fallait cheminer sans soutien, dans ces vallées de prose où demeure la vie." (HENRY DE PÈNE) | To Everdine Huberta van Wijnbergen I often heard complaints from a poet's wife, and without doubt, to continue this difficult task in life in a worthy way, no quality is too much. The rarest combination of merits is just the bare necessity, and is not really sufficient for common luck. Seeing continuously the muse as the third person in your most private moments - taking in your arms and caring for the poet who is your husband, when he comes back to you, hurt by the disappointments of his task; - or seeing him flying when he chases his illusion - that's what it is to be the a poet's wife. Yes, but there is also the chapter of compensations, the time of laurels which he has deserved in the sweat of his genius, which he lays with devotion at the feet of his wife whom he loves legally, on the knees of the Antigone who is his guide in this world of the "erring blind". But be not mistaken: almost all of Homer's grandsons were more or less blind in their way; - they saw what we do not see; their looks penetrate higher and deeper than ours; but they cannot see the little man of the road straight ahead, and they will be able to trip over the smallest pebble and break their noses, if they will walk without support, in these valleys of prose where life lives. (HENRY DE PÈNE) |
POLICE OFFICER. Mr Judge, this is the man who murdered Barbertje.
JUDGE. That man shall be hanged. How did he do it?
POLICE OFFICER. He cut her into small pieces, and he pickled her.
JUDGE. He did a great wrong. He shall hang.
LOTHARIO. Judge, I did not kill Barbertje! I fed her, I clothed her, I cared for her. There are witnesses to testify that I am a good man, not a murderer.
JUDGE. Man, thou shalt hang! Thou makest thy crime worse by self-satisfaction. It isn’t proper for one who stands accused of something, to call himself a good man.
LOTHARIO. But, judge, there are witnesses who will confirm it. And while I am accused of murder ...
JUDGE. Thou shalt hang! Thou hast cut Barbertje into pieces, thou pickled her, and thou art satisfied with thyself … three capital crimes! … Who art thou, lady?
LADY. I am Barbertje.
LOTHARIO. Thank God! Judge, thou seest that I did not kill her!
JUDGE. Hm ... yes ... so! But the pickling?
BARBERTJE. No judge, he did not pickle me. Instead, he hath been very good to me. He is a really righteous man!
LOTHARIO. Thou hearest, judge, she sayth that I am a good man.
JUDGE. Hm ... so the third crime still stands. Police officer, take this man away, he shall hang. He is guilty of self-satisfaction. Clerk, quote in the premises the jurisprudence of Lessing's patriarch.
(Unissued stage play)
Chapter I
I am a coffee broker and I live at 37 Laurier Canal. It is not my habit to write novels or similar things, and therefore it took some time before I decided to order some reams of paper and started writing the book that you, dear reader, have just opened, and that you should read if you are a coffee broker, or if you are anything else. Not just that I never wrote something that looked like a novel, but I even do not like to read such a thing. Because I am a man of business. For many years I have wondered what is the purpose of those things, and I am amazed at the effrontery of a poet or novelist who tries to tell you something that never happened, and usually will not happen. If I in my job – I am a coffee broker and I live at 37 Laurier Canal – gave a principal – a principal is someone who sells coffee – a report which contained only a small portion of the lies which are a major part of what is written in poets and novels, he would immediately go to Busselinck & Waterman. Those are coffee brokers too, but you need not know their address. So I am careful not to write novels or to present false reports. I have always seen that people who do such things, usually get bad results. I am 43 years old, I have gone to the exchange market for twenty years, so I can be called for if someone is needed who has some experience. I have seen quite a few houses fall! And usually, when I investigated the causes, I found that these were to be found in the wrong guidance most of them had obtained in their childhoods.
I say: truth and common sense; and I stick to it. The Scripture is an exception, of course. The error starts with Van Alphen, immediately at the first line about those "good little girls". What devil could move the old man to present himself as an adorer of my sister Truitje who had sore eyes, or of my brother Gerrit who always played with his nose? And yet, he says: "that he sang those songs, pressed by love". As a child I always thought: "man, I’d like to meet you, and if you’d refuse to give me the marbles I asked, or my name in pastry letters – my name is Batavus – I’d call you a liar. But I never saw Van Alphen. I think he was already dead when he told us that my father was my best friend – I liked Pauweltje Winser more, our neighbour in Batavierstraat – and that my little dog was so grateful. We had no dogs, because they are so unclean.
All lies! And that’s how education continues. The new greengrocer’s sister came in a big cabbage. All Dutchmen are brave and generous. The Romans were glad that the Batavians didn’t kill them. The Beg of Tunis got sick when he heard the flapping of the Dutch flag. The Duke of Alva was a monster. The ebb, in 1672 I think, lasted a bit longer to protect the Netherlands. Lies! Netherland remained Netherland because the old people took care of their affairs and because they had the true faith. That’s how it is!
And then there are more lies. A girl is an angel. The first person to discover that, never had sisters. Love is a delight. One flies with some object to the end of the earth. The earth has no end, and that love is madness too. Nobody will say that I do not live well with my wife – she is a daughter of Last & Co, coffee brokers – nobody can find any fault in our marriage. I am a member of Artis she has a long shawl of 92 guilders, and between us there has never been such a foolish love that wants to live somewhere in the end of the earth. When we married, we made a trip to The Hague, we bought flannel of which I still wear shirts – and love never chased us further into the world. So it’s all madness and lies!
And would my marriage be less happy than of the people who obtain consumption out of love, or pull the hair from their own heads? Or do you think that my household would be a bit worse than it would have been if, seventeen years ago, I had told my girl in verse that I wanted to marry her? Madness! I could have done it in the same way as anyone else, for writing poetry is a skill which is certainly easier than milling ivory. How else could the ulevellen with rhymes be so cheap? – Frits says "Uhlefeldjes" I don’t know why – And now enquire after the price of a set of billiard balls!
I have nothing against verses themselves. If one wants to order the words, fine! But don’t say anything that’s not true. "I'm on the first floor. It is quarter past four." I agree with that if you are truly on the first floor on quarter past four. But if it is quarter to three, I can, since I do not order my words, easily say: "I'm on the first floor and it is quarter to three". The poet is bound: because he is on the first floor, the time must be something past four. For him it must be seven of eighteen past four, or he must be somewhere else. One past four cannot be used because of the metre. So he starts tampering. The location must be changed, or the time. So either will be a lie.
It's not only poetry that lures the youth into lies. Go to the theatre and see what kind of lies are sold there. The hero of the story is saved from drowning by someone who is almost bankrupt. He gives his saviour half his possessions. That cannot be true. The other day, when at Prinsengracht my hat was blown into the water – Frits says blowed – I gave ten cents to the man who gave it back to me, and he was satisfied. I know that I should have given a bit more if he had saved my own body, but certainly not half my fortune. It is obvious that you only need to fall in the water twice to be penniless. The worst thing with such shows is that the audience gets used to it, it likes them and cheers them. I felt like throwing everyone into the theatre in the water, if only to see how many of them were serious. I praise the truth, and I warn everyone that I will not pay so much money for fishing my person out of the canal. If that does not satisfy you, leave me there. Only on Sunday would I give a bit more, because I wear a fine watch chain, and a different cloak.
Yes, the stage spoils a lot, even more than novels. It is so obvious. With some fake gold and lace made of paper it looks very attractive. For children, I mean, and for people who are not in business. Even if those stage players want to represent poverty, they present an untrue show. A girl whose father got bankrupt, works to maintain her family. Very good. There she is sewing, knitting, embroidering. But try to count how many stitches she makes during an entire act. She talks, she sighs, she walks to the window, but she doesn’t work. When a family can live of so much labour, it doesn't need much. Of course that girl is the heroine. She threw some lovers down the steps and all the time she calls: "oh my mother, oh my mother!" so she represents virtue. What kind of virtue is that, when it needs a full year for a pair of woollen stockings? Does this not give a false idea of virtue and "working for a living"? All madness and lies!
Then her first lover returns – he used to be a clerk at the copy book, but he is now very wealthy – and he marries her. Lies again. Whoso has money, does not marry a girl from a bankrupted family. And if you think that such an exception is allowed on the stage, I cannot help but say that this spoils what people think of truth, because they accept the exception as the rule, and that it undermines the public chasteness, because the people get used to applaud something on stage, which every decent broker of merchant would consider a ridiculous madness in the world. When I married, there were thirteen in my father-in-law's office – Last & Co – and there was a lot to do!
And still more lies on stage. When the hero leaves with his stiff comedian's pace to save the oppressed country, why does the double door open by itself? Furthermore, when a person speaks in verses, how can he predict what the other will answer to make rhyming easy for him? When a captain says to the princess: "my lady, the enemy is nigh, I am aware" how can he know in advance that she will say: "Well, come on, undaunted, let the sword be bare"? For if she, on hearing that the enemy was coming, would reply that it would be sensible to hide, or to fly away, what would remain of metre and rhyme? Isn't it a pure lie that the captain looks to the princess, wondering what she will do after seeing the enemy? Again, if the woman felt like going to sleep, instead of baring anything? All lies!
And then the rewarded virtue! Oh, oh, oh! For 17 years I have been a coffee broker – 37 Laurier Canal – and I have seen many things, but it is terrible to see how people bend the good, dear truth. Rewarded virtue? Isn't it to make a trade article out of virtue? The world is not like that, and it is good that it isn't so. What would one deserve if virtue was rewarded? What is the purpose of all those infamous lies?
For example there is Lucas, our warehouse servant who had worked there since the time of the father of Last & Co – at that time it was Last & Meyer, but the Meyers aren't there any more. Now there was really a virtuous man. There was never a bean short, he diligently attended church, and he did not drink. When my father-in-law was in Driebergen, he took care of the house, the cash, everything. One day the bank gave him 17 guilders too much, and he gave them back. He is old and suffers from gout now, so he cannot serve any more. He has nothing now, for there is a lot to do and we need young workers. Well, I find this Lucas very virtuous, but is he rewarded? Is there a prince to give him diamonds, or a fairy to spread his sandwiches? Not at all! He is poor and will be poor, and that's how it must be. I cannot help him – we need young workers, because there is a lot to do, but even if I could, what would he earn if he could live an easy life now that he is old? All warehouse servants would become virtuous, and everyone, and God cannot intend that, because no particular reward would remain for the good people in the hereafter. But on the stage they change that… all lies!
I am virtuous too, but do I ask for a reward? When my business is prosperous – and it is – when my wife and children are healthy, so that I have no trouble with the physician and the apothecary, when I can save some money every year for my old days, when Frits grows up well so that he can take my place when I go to Driebergen, lo, I will be satisfied. But this is a natural cause of my circumstances, and because I take care of my business. I require nothing for my virtue.
And yet I am virtuous, as you can see from my love for truth. This is, after my devotion to faith, my main tendency. And I hope you are convinced of this, reader, because it is the motive for writing this book.
Another tendency, which rules me as much as my devotion to truth, is the passion for my profession. I am a coffee broker, 37 Laurier Canal. Well, reader, it is due to my unbendable love for truth, and to my zeal for business, that these sheets have been written. I'll tell you how it went. For this moment I need to leave you – I'll go to the exchange market – but I invite you to the second chapter. Goodbye then!
Prithee, take this – it's a small thing – it might be handy. Lo, here it is, a business card! The Co is me, since the Meyers are no more in business. The old Last is my father-in-law.
Chapter 2
There was little to do at the exchange market, but the spring auction will change that. Please do not think we have little business. At Busselinck & Waterman it's a lot worse. It's a strange world! You see such things if you have been visiting the exchange markets for twenty years. Imagine that they have attempted – Busselinck & Waterman, I mean – to take Ludwig Stern away from me. Since I do not know whether you are acquainted with the exchange market, I'll explain that Stern is a major coffee merchant in Hamburg, which has always been served by Last & Co. I discovered that by coincidence – the tampering by Busselinck & Waterman, I mean. They wanted to drop a quarter percent of the brokerage – interlopers they are, nothing else! – and behold what I did to defend myself. Someone else would have written to Stern that he'd also drop some brokerage, hoping for consideration because Last & Co served him such a long time – I calculated that the firm has, for fifty years, earned 400,000 guilders from Stern. That connection dates from the continental system, when we smuggled colonial goods from Helgoland. Yes, who knows what someone else would have written. But no, I will not be an interloper. I've gone to Polen, asked for pen and paper and wrote:
- That the great enhancement of our businesses in recent times, in particular because of the many honoured orders from the North of Germany (It's the plain truth.) that this enhancement required that we employ more staff. (It's the truth! Yesterday evening the bookkeeper was in the office after eleven, to search his spectacles.) That there was in particular need of decent, well-educated young men to help with correspondence in German. That there are any German youth in Amsterdam with the required skills, but that a self-respecting firm (It's the plain truth!) with the enhancing levity and indecency of young people, with the daily increase of the number of fortune seekers, and thinking of the need of solidity of conduct, hand in hand with solidity of execution, of the given orders, (It is, truly, all the plain truth.) that such a firm – I mean Last & Co, coffee brokers, 37 Laurier Canal – should be extremely careful when employing individuals.
- That I had the honour to hear from Mr Saffeler – Saffeler travels for Stern – that the esteemed chairman of the firm, Mr Ludwig Stern, had a son, Mr Ernest Stern, who wanted to complete his commercial knowledge by being employed in a Dutch house. That I, regarding the … (And I repeated the indecentness, and I told about the daughter of Busselinck & Waterman. It doesn't matter if they know, I think.) that I, regarding that, wanted nothing else but having Mr Ernest Stern to do the German correspondence of our firm.
- That, if Mr Ernest Stern would accept to stay at our house – 37 Laurier Canal – my wife would be willing to care for him like a mother, and that his clothing would be mended at home.
- That we serve the Lord.
Now back to my book. Some time ago I walked in the evening through Kalverstraat, and I looked at the shop of a grocer, who was displaying some Java, ordinary, fine-yellow, Cheribonard, a bit broken, with sweepings, which interested me, since I pay attention to everything. Than suddenly I saw a gentleman who stood in front of a bookshop, and I thought I had seen him before. I also seemed to recognise me, for our glances met for some time. I must admit that I was more interested in the sweepings, so I did not see immediately what I saw only later, that he wore rather insufficient clothing. Otherwise I would have left the case. But suddenly I thought that he could be a travelling salesman from a German firm, searching for a trustable broker. He looked a bit like a German, and like a traveller. His hair was fair, his eyes were blue, and his stature and clothing showed that he was a stranger. He had no proper winter coat but only a kind of shawl over his shoulder – Frits says "sjaal" but I don't – as if he had just arrived from a voyage. I thought he might be a customer and I gave him my business card: Last & Co, coffee brokers, 37 Laurier Canal. He held it near a lantern and said: "Thank you, I must be wrong. I thought to have the pleasure of seeing an old schoolfellow, but Last, that's not the name."
Pardon, I said – for I am always polite – I am Mr Drystubble, Batavus Drystubble. Last & Co is the name of the firm, coffee brokers, 37 Laurier...
"Well, Drystubble, don't you remember me? Look at me."
The more I looked at him, the more I remembered seeing him before. But, strange, his face made me think that I smelled strange perfumes. Do not laugh about that, reader, soon you will see why. I am sure that he carried no perfumes at all, and yet I smelt something pleasant, something strong, something that reminded me of – that was it!
"Are you the one, I said, who saved me from the Greek?"
"For sure," he said, "that was me. And how are you?"
I told him that there were thirteen in the office, and that there was a lot of business. And I asked about him, and I was sorry about that afterwards, since it appeared that he was not in good circumstances, and I dislike poor people, since they are usually to blame themselves, since the Lord would never leave someone who had served him faithfully. If I had simply said: "There are thirteen in the office... have a nice evening", I would have been rid of him. But all the questions and answers made it so much more difficult – Frits says: the longer the more difficult, but I don't - much more difficult to get rid of him. On the other hand I must admit that you would not have read this book, for it was a result of this meeting. I like to remark the good things; those who don't are unsatisfied people whom I dislike.
Yes, yes, he was the one who saved me from the hands of a Greek! You should not think that I have ever been captured by pirates, or that I have been fighting in the Levant. I already told you that after our wedding I went with my wife to The Hague. We saw the Mauritshuis and we bought flannel in Veenestraat. That's the only trip we ever afforded ourselves, because we have such a busy office. No it was in Amsterdam where he hit a Greek on the nose for my sake. He always interfered with things which were not his business.
It was in '33 or '34, I think, and in September, for there was a fair in Amsterdam. Because my folks intended to make me a preacher, I learned Latin. Later I always wondered why one must understand Latin to say in Dutch "God is good". Well, I had been to the Latin school – today called grammar school – and there was a fair – In Amsterdam I mean. There were stalls in Westermarkt, and if you are an Amsterdammer, reader, and approximately of my age, you will remember that there was one who drew attention by the black eyes and the long tresses of a girl who was dressed like a Greek. Her father was a Greek too, or at least he looked like a Greek. They sold all kinds of perfumes.
I was just old enough to like the girl, but I lacked the courage to speak to her. It would not have helped either, for girls of eighteen years regard a sixteen-year-old boy as a child. And they are right. And yet we, boys from quarta, went to Westermarkt every evening to see that girl.
Well, he who stood there with his shawl was there too, although he was a few years younger than the others and still to childish to look to the Greek girl. But he was the primus of our grade – for he was clever, I must admit – and he liked playing, frolicking and fighting. So he was among us. While we – there were ten of us – were at some distance from the stall, looking at the Greek girl, and considering how we were going to court her, we decided to put some money together and to buy something in that stall. But good advice was needed to know who was going to be the bold one to speak to the girl. Everyone wanted, but nobody dared. We drew lots, and I was chosen. Well, I admit that I am not the one who likes to face dangers. I am a man and a father, and I consider anyone who seeks out danger to be a fool, whatever is written in the Scripture. It is pleasant to me to remark that I never changed in my ideas about dangers and similar things, that I have today still the same opinion as that evening when I stood at the Greek's stall, with in my hand the twelve pennies which we had gathered But see, out of shame I did not dare to say that I did not dare, and besides I had to go, for my friends forced me to, and soon I stood in front of the stall.
I did not see the girl: I saw nothing! Everything swam before my eyes. I stammered a aoristus primus of some unknown verb...
"Plaît-il?" she said.
I recovered a bit and continued:
"Meenin aeide theós", and that Egypt was a gift of the Nile.
I am convinced that I would have succeeded had not at that time one of my friends, in childish wantonness, had given me a big push in the back, which made me fly into the display case, which stood in front of the stall. I felt someone grasp my neck, another grasp somewhere else, I floated for a moment, and before I understood what had happened, I was in the Greek's stall, who said in clear French that I was a gamin, and that he'd call the police. Well, I was very near to the girl, but I did not enjoy it. I wept, and I begged for mercy, for I was in a terrible panic. But to no avail. The Greek held me by the arm and kicked me. I searched for my friends – that morning we had learned about Scaevola, who put his hand in the fire, and in their Latin essays they had enjoyed the story – yes! Nobody had remained to put a hand in the fire for me.
So I thought. But suddenly, there was my Shawlman who flew through the back door into the stall. He was neither big nor strong, and only thirteen years old, but he was quick and brave. I still see his eyes shining – usually they were faint – he gave the Greek a punch and I was saved. Later I heard that the Greek had given him a fair beating, but I am a man of principles, I never interfere with things which are not my business, so I ran away. I never saw what happened.
That was the reason why his features reminded me of perfumes, and how you can fight in Amsterdam with a Greek. When I saw the man and his stall in later fairs, I always went to find amusement elsewhere.
Because I like philosophical remarks, I must tell you, reader, how wonderful the things in this world are connected together. Had the eyes of that girl not been so black, had her tresses been shorter, had I not been thrown into the display case, you would not have read this book. So be thankful that it happened. Believe me, everything in the world is good, as it is, and unsatisfied people who keep complaining are not my friends. For example Busselinck & Waterman ... but I must go on, the book must be finished before the spring auction.
Frankly said – for I praise the truth – it was not unpleasant to me to see that man again. I immediately saw that he was not a solid connection. He was very pale, and when I asked what time it was, he did not know. Those are things a man pays attention to when he has visited the exchange market for twenty years and has experienced so much. I saw quite a few houses fall!
I thought that he'd turn right and I said I would go left. But behold, he also turned left, so the conversation could not be avoided. But all the time I thought that he did not know what time it was, and I also saw that his coat had been buttoned up to his chin – a very bad indication – and so I attempted to make the conversation rather faint. He told me that he had been to the Indies, that he was married, that he had children. I have nothing against those things, but I do not find them important. At Kapelsteeg - I never go through that street, since it isn’t proper for a decent man, in my opinion – but this time I wanted to turn right at Kapelsteeg. I waited until we had almost passed that street, to make sure that he wanted to go straight ahead, and I said politely – for I am always polite, you never know whether you may need someone afterwards:
"It was really pleasant to see you again, Mr r r! And – and – and – I recommend! I go this way."
He looked at me in a funny way, sighed, and suddenly grabbed a button of my coat.
"Dear Drystubble," he said, "I want to ask you something."
I felt a shiver. He did not know what time it was and he wanted to ask something. Of course I replied that I had no time, I had to go to the exchange market, although it was evening. But if you have visited the market for twenty years and someone wants to ask you something, without knowing what time it is…
I loosened my button, said politely goodbye – for I am always polite – and went into Kapelsteeg, which I wouldn't normally do, because it isn’t decent, and decency is all-important to me. I hope no-one saw it.
Chapter 3
When I came home from the exchange market, Frits said that there had been someone to see me. The description was Shawlman's. How he had found me… well, the business card! I considered to take my children out of school, since it is painful to be followed twenty, thirty years afterwards by a school friend who wears a shawl instead of a coat and who doesn't know what time it is. I also forbade Frits to go to Westermarkt when there are stalls. The next day I received a letter with a big packet. I'll show you the letter:
- Dear Drystubble!
- Yesterday I visited you with the intention of asking for a favour. It appears that you are in good circumstances...
- ...and I wished to use your credit to complete an affair which is of great importance to me.
- Due to several circumstances I am currently a bit shy of money.
- I cannot give my dear consort everything that's needed to make life more pleasant, and the education of my children is, from a financial standpoint, not as I wish.
- Since I have the obligation to take care of the needs of my family, I have decided to use a talent which, I believe, has been given to me. I am a poet…
- ... and a writer. Since my childhood I have expressed my feelings in verses, and later I still wrote down every day what happened in my soul. I believe that there are some essays which are valuable, and I am looking for a publisher. But that's the problem. The audience doesn't know me, and the publishers judge a manuscript by the settled name of the author, not by its contents.
- So if I may assume that my work is not completely without merit, this would not show until after the publication, and the bookshopkeepers want payment of printing etc. in advance
- ... and this is currently inconvenient to me. However, I am convinced that my labour will cover the cost, I dare to pawn my word, and therefore, encouraged by our meeting the day before yesterday...
- ... I have decided to ask you to vouch for the cost of a first publication, even if it is only a small book. I leave the choice completely to you. In the attached packet you will find many manuscripts, and you will see that I thought, worked and observed a lot...
- ... and if the gift of expression is not completely missing, it will certainly not be because of want of impressions that I would not succeed.
- Waiting for a kind reply, I call myself sincerely your old school friend...
Dear reader, you understand what crazy thoughts I had when someone wanted to promote me to a poetry broker. I am sure that this Shawlman – that's how I'll call him – if he had seen me by day, would not have asked such a thing of me. For dignity and decency cannot be hidden. But it was in the evening, so I don't bother.
Of course I wanted to have no business with this folly. I would have told Frits to take the packet back, but I did not know his address, and I did not see him again. I thought that he was sick, or dead, or something else.
Last week we had a circle meeting at the Rosemeijers, who are sugar merchants. Frits had joined us for the first time. He is sixteen, and it is good if a young man goes out into the world. Otherwise he'd only go to Westermarkt or similar things. The girls had played the piano and sung, and at dessert they teased each other with something that seemed to have happened in the parlour, while we were playing whist, something in which Frits was involved. "Yes, yes, Louise," said Bethsy Rosemeijer, "you wept! Papa, Frits made Louise cry."
My wife said that Frits would not join us any more to the circle. She thought that he had pinched Louise, or some other misbehaviour, and I also prepared to have a word to him, when Louise said:
"No, no, Frits has been very nice. I wish he'd do it again!"
What then? He had not pinched her, he had recited, that's it.
Of course the lady of the house likes to see that something nice happens during dessert. It fills. Mrs Rosemeijer – the Rosemeijers are called Mrs because they are sugar merchants and have shares in a ship – Mrs Rosemeijer understood that the thing that made Louise cry, would also please us, and she asked Frits to repeat it. He became as red as a turkey. For the entire world I could not guess what he had said, for I knew his entire repertoire. That was: the wedding of the gods, the rhymed books of the Old Testament, and an episode from the wedding of Kamacho, which the boys enjoy so much, because there is something like a "brillekiek" in it. Which of these could cause tears, was a mystery to me. But it's true that a girl cries easily.
"Come on! Oh yes! Come on, Frits!" That's how it went, and Frits began. I do not like to test the reader's curiosity, so I'll say immediately that they had opened Shawlman's packet at home, and Frits and Marie had obtained an amount of cheekiness and sentimentality from it, which later caused me a lot of trouble. And yet I must admit, reader, that this book is from the packet as well, and I'll certainly account for this afterwards, because I appreciate that people know me as someone who loves the truth, and who cares well for his matters. The firm is Last & Co, Coffee brokers, 37 Laurier Canal.
And then Frits recited something that was nothing but nonsense. A young man wrote to his mother that he had been in love and that his girl had married someone else – she was quite right, I think – but that, in spite of that, he still loved his mother. Are those last three lines clear or not? Do you think that a lot of words are needed to say all that? Well, I ate a sandwich with cheese, pealed two pears, and I had almost finished the third before Frits had completed his story. But Louise cried again, and the ladies said that it was wonderful. And then Frits said, I believe he thought that he had recited a masterpiece, that he had found the thing in the packet from the man who wore a shawl, and I explained to the gentlemen how it came to be in my house. But I said nothing about the Greek girl, because Frits was among us, and I also said nothing about Kapelsteeg. Everyone agreed that I had done well to get rid of that man. Soon you will see that there were other things in that packet which were more solid, and some parts of that will be included in my book, because it is related to the Coffee auctions of the Trade company. For I live for my profession.
Later the publisher suggested that I include what Frits had recited. I'll do it, but know that I have no business with these things. It's all lies and madness! I shall not give any comments, lest the book become too thick. I only want to say that the story was written in the neighbourhood of Padang, in 1843, and that this is an inferior brand. The coffee, I mean.
-
- Mother, far from my native land
- Where I a stripling youth did grow
- Where first my childish tears did flow
- Where caressed was I by your dear hand
- Where a mother's virtue most of all
- Gave to me her growing boy
- Abundant stores of love and joy
- And guidance at times when I did fall
- But cruel Fate - apart it tore
- The bond we two had known
- And here I stand on foreign shores
- With my God ... alone. [1]
- And yet, mother, what grieved me, (iefde)
- What gave me joy or sorrow, (iet)
- Mother, do not doubt the love, (iefde)
- On the heart of thy son! (iet)
- It is hardly two pairs of years (aren)
- When I stood on yonder ground (ond)
- Silently on the shore (ond)
- To stare into the future (aren).
- When I called the fair one to me (iep)
- That I expected from the future, (achtte)
- Boldly despising the present (achtte)
- And created paradises for me (iep)
- When, through all disturbances (een)
- Which occurred before my steps (een)
- The heart courageously found a way out (aande)
- And imagined itself dreaming in happiness (aande)
- But that time, since the last farewell (el)
- How quickly removed from us (ogen)
- Ununderstandable, fast as lightning, (el)
- Flown by like a spirit (ogen).
- Oh, when it went forward (aan)
- It left deep, deep traces! (aan)
- I tasted joy and sorrow at once (een)
- I thought, and I fought (eden)
- I rejoiced, and I prayed: (eden)
- It appears that centuries went past! (een)
- I fought for hail in life (eefd)
- I found and I lost (oren)
- A child, only a moment ago (oren)
- Lived years within an hour! (eefd)
- And yet, mother, do believe (oven)
- By heaven, which sees me (ziet)
- Mother do please believe (oven)
- No, thy child did not forget thee! (iet)
- I loved a girl. All my life (even)
- Appeared fair through that love. (oon)
- I saw her in a crown of honour (oon)
- As the final reward of my striving (even)
- Given to me by God as a purpose (even)
- Happy by the fair treasure (at)
- Which His care weighed to me (ogen)
- Which his favour had given (ad)
- I thanked with tears in the eyes (ogen)
- Love was one with religion. (een)
- And the feelings that with joy (ogen)
- With thanks rose up high (ogen)
- Thanked and prayed for her alone! (een)
- That love gave me much trouble (iefde)
- Restless my heart was tortured, (art)
- And unbearable was the pain (art)
- Which cut through my weak feelings. (iefde)
- I only gathered fear and sorrow (aard)
- Where I expected the highest pleasure (achtte)
- And in spite of the joy I attempted, (achtte)
- There was poison and pain for me (aard)
- I found joy in the suffering silence! (ijgen)
- I stood there, perseverent, hoping (aar)
- Bad luck made the price rise (ijgen)
- I carried and suffered dearly for her! (aar)
- I counted neither disasters nor bad luck (agen)
- I created joy from sorrow (iet)
- Everything, everything I wanted to carry (agen).
- If fate would not rob her from me! (iet)
- And that image, fairest on the earth to me (aarde)
- That I carried in my feelings (oed)
- As a priceless possession, (oed)
- And stored in my heart. (aarde)
- Strange it was to my senses! (innen)
- And even if love perseveres (and)
- Until the last breath of my life (even)
- Me in a better home country (and)
- Eventually will return her. (even)
- I had only started to love her! (innen)
-
- What is love which once begun (on),
- Near love with life (leven)
- The child, driven by God in the heart (even)
- Before it was able to talk? (kon)
- When it on the mother's breast (orst)
- Hardly free from the mother's womb (ogen)
- Found the first drink for its thirst (orst)
- the first light in mother's eyes? (ogen)
-
- No, no link binds better (indt)
- holds hearts together (oten)
- Than the link, created by God (oten)
- Between mother's heart and child! (ind)
- And a heart that was so affected (echtte)
- To the beauty that was shining (onk)
- That gave me noting but thorns (onk)
- And did not weave a single flower. (echtte)
- Would that same heart forget (ouw)
- A motherheart's faith? (eten)
- And the love of the woman (ouw)
- Who heard my first children's cries (eten)
- In a careful mind? (oed)
- Who comforted me, when I wept (uste)
- Kissed the tears from my cheeks, (uste)
- Who fed me with her blood? (oed)
- Mother! Do not believe it, (oven)
- By heaven who sees me, (iet)
- Mother! Do not believe it, (oven)
- No, your child did not forget thee! (iet)
- I am here, far from what life (even)
- Can give us of sweetness and fairness (even)
- And the enjoyment of the first time (ijd),
- Often praised and honoured (ezen)
- Cannot be my art here (ezen)
- In my sad loneliness. (eid – rhymes with ijd)
- Steep and thony are my paths (aden)
- Bad luck presses me doen (eer)
- And the burden I carry (aden)
- Swueezes me, and makes my hart hurt (eer)
- Let it only be my tears (uigen)
- When so many sad hour (uur)
- Makes me in nature's bosom, (uur)
- Bend my head so sadly (uigen).
- Often, when I lost courage, (onk)
- The willingness almost fled from me (oden)
- "Father give me with the dead (oden)
- What life did not give me! (onk)
- Father give me on yonder side (ijde)
- When the mouth of dead kisses me (ust)
- Father give me on yonder side (ijde)
- What I could not obtain here... Rest!" (ust)
- But, dying away on my lips (ippen)
- My prayer did not rise up to the Lord. (eer)
- I did bend both my knees down (eer)
- I felt that a sigh escaped from me (ippen)
- But it was: "not yet, o Lord! (eer)
- 'First give me my mother back!" (eer)
Chapter 4
Before I go on, I must say that the young Stern has come. He is a nice chap. He is quick and skilled, but I believe that he courts. Marie is thirteen years old. His inventory is very neat. I let him work on the copybook, so he can practice the Dutch style. I wonder whether Ludwig Stern will soon send me orders. Marie will embroider slippers for him – for the young Stern, I mean. Busselinck & Waterman won't have his orders. A decent broker is not an interloper, I say!
The day after the circle meeting at the Rosemeijers, who are sugar merchants, I called Frits and asked him to bring Shawlman's packet. You must know, reader, that I am very strict in my family when it comes to religion and chasteness. Well, last night, just when I had peeled the first pear, I saw on the face of one of the girls that there was something in the verse that was a bit fishy. I had not been listening to the thing, but I did see that Bethsy crumbled her bread, and that was clear enough. You will see, reader, that I am a person who knows what's going on in the world. So I told Frits to show me that fine piece from the previous night, and very soon I found the line that had crumbled Bethsy's bread. The poem told about a child that's on his mother's breast – that's acceptable – but also "hardly had appeared from the mother's womb", well and that was no good – to talk about that, I mean – and my wife agrees with me. Marie is thirteen years old. We do not speak about cabbages or storks in our house, but saying things so clearly, that's indecent, because I appreciate chastity. Frits knows the thing "outside", as Stern calls it, and I let him promise that he'd never again say it – at least until he is a member of Doctrina, because no young girls are admitted there, I stored it in my desk, I mean the poem. But I wanted to know whether there wasn't more in the packet that could be offending. So I searched and browsed through it. I could not read everything, since there were languages which I did not understand, but behold, my eye fell on an article titled Report of the coffee culture in the Residence Menado.
My heart jumped up, because I am a coffee broker – 37 Laurier Canal – and Menado is a good brand. So that Shawlman, who makes such indecent poems, had also worked with coffee. I saw the packet now in a very different way, and I discovered many articles. I did not understand all of them, but they certainly showed knowledge and skill. There were tables, reports, calculations with digits without any rhyme, and everything was edited very carefully, so that I, to be frank – for I appreciate truth – got the idea that this Shawlman, when our third clerk was unavailable – which is not unlikely, since he gets older – might very well take his place. It's a matter of course that I'd inquire first as to honesty, faith and decency, since I want no-one in the office before I am sure of that. That's my strict principle. You saw that in my letter to Ludwig Stern.
I did not want Frits to know that I got interested in the contents of the packet, so I sent him away. It was really dazzling, when I picked up the articles one by one and read the titles. It is true, there was poetry in it, but many things were useful, and I was amazed by the diversity of subjects. I admit – for I appreciate truth – that I, who have always traded coffee, am unable to judge the value of all these things, but even without this judgement it is obvious that the list of titles alone is remarkable. I told you the history of the Greek, so you know that I had some Latin education in my childhood, and although I prefer to have no quotations in my correspondence – it would not be fitting in a broker's office – I thought when I saw all that: multa, non multum. Or: de omnibus aliquid, de toto nihil.
But this was actually merely a kind of resentment, and a desire to speak to all that wisdom that lay before me, to speak to it in Latin, more than that I exactly meant what I said. Because, when I looked with some care to an article, I had to admit that the author seemed to know what he was talking about, and that his considerations showed a lot of solidity.
There were articles and essays:
- On Sanskrit, as the mother of the Germanic languages.
- On the penalty clauses for child murder.
- On the origin of nobility.
- On the difference between 'Infinite time' and 'Eternity'
- On calculation of probability.
- On the book Job. (There was some more about Job, but that was poetry
- On protein in the atmospheric air.
- On the state of Russia.
- On vowels.
- On cellular prisons.
- On the old theorems of horror vacui.
- On the desirability of the abolition of punishment for slander.
- On the causes of the revolt of the Netherlands against Spain, apart from the desire for religious or national freedom.
- On perpetual motion machines, the squaring of the circle and the root of rootless numbers.
- On the weight of light.
- On the decline of civilisation since the advent of Christianity.
- On the mythology of Iceland.
- On the Émile by Rousseau.
- On the civil legal procedures, in matters of commerce.
- On Sirius being the centre of a solar system.
- On import duties being ineffective, uncouth, unrighteous and indecent. (I had never heard about that)
- On poetry as the oldest language. (I don't beliieve that)
- On white ants.
- On the unnaturalness of schools.
- On prostitution within marriage. (This is an outrageous article)
- On hydraulic subjects in relation to rice culture.
- On the seeming superiority of the Western civilisation.
- On land registry, registration and seal.
- On books for children, fables and fairy-tales. (I'd like to read that since he insists on truth)
- On intermediaries in trade. (I really dislike this. It appears that he wants to abolish brokers. But yet I put this aside, since it contains some things that I can use in my book.)
- On succession rights.
- On the invention of chastity. (I do not understand this)
- On multiplication. (It's a simple title, but there is a lot in this article of which I had never thought before)
- On a kind of funnyness of the French, based on the poverty of their language. (I agree – Funnyness and poverty, he would know it)
- On the relation between the novels by August Lafontaine and consumption. (I'd like to read that, since there are books by Lafontaine in the attic. But he says that the influence will not be revealed until the second generation. My grandfather did not read.)
- On the power of the English outside Europe.
- On trial by ordeal in the Middle Ages and today.
- On calculation by the Romans.
- On musicians and their paucity of poetry.
- On pietism, biology and table-lifting.
- On contagious diseases.
- On Moorish architecture.
- On the power of prejudices, as can be seen from diseases caused by draught. (Didn’t I say that the list was remarkable?)
- On the German unity.
- On longitude at sea. (I think that things have the same length at sea and on the shore)
- On the duties of the government at public entertainments.
- On the similarities between the Scottish and Frisian languages.
- On prosody.
- On the beauty of the women in Nîmes and Arles, with an investigation of Phoenician colonisation.
- On agriculture contacts in Java.
- On the power of a new kind of pump.
- On legitimacy of dynasties.
- On the people's literature in Javanese rhapsodists.
- On a new way of reefing.
- On percussion, used on grenades. (This was written in 1847, before Orsini)
- On the understanding of honour.
- On the Apocrypha.
- On the laws of Solon, Lycurgus, Zoroaster and Confucius.
- On the authority of parents.
- On Shakespeare as a historian.
- On slavery in Europe. (I do not understand what he means by this)
- On helix watermills.
- On the sovereign's right of mercy.
- On the chemical components of cinnamon from Ceylon.
- On discipline on merchant ships.
- On opium lease on Java.
- On conditions regarding the sale of poison.
- On cutting through the isthmus of Suez, and its consequences.
- On payment of land rent in kind.
- On the coffee culture in Menado. (I already mentioned this)
- On the rupture of the Roman Empire.
- On the 'Gemüthlichkeit' of the Germans.
- On the Scandinavian Edda.
- On the duty of France to create in the Indian Archipelago a counterforce against England. (This was in French, I don't know why)
- On the making of vinegar.
- On honouring Schiller and Göthe by the German tradesmen.
- On the right of Man to happiness.
- On the right to revolt in times of oppression. (This was in Javanese. I learned the meaning of the title later)
- On ministerial responsibility.
- On some points of criminal justice.
- On the right of a people that the taxes paid by them be used for their benefit. (This was again in Javanese)
- On the double A and the Greek Eta.
- On the existence of an impersonal God in the hearts of people.
- On style.
- On a constitution for the empire Insulinde. (I never heard of that empire)
- On the lack of attraction in our language rules.
- On pedantry. (I think this was written with authority)
- On the debt of Europe to the Portuguese.
- On sounds in the forest.
- On the flammability of water. (I think he means strong water)
- On the Milksea. (I neer heard of that. It appears to be near Banda.)
- On seers and prophets.
- On electricity as a moving power, without iron.
- On ebb and flow of civilisation.
- On epidemical rot in economies.
- On privileged trade companies. (This contains some topics that I need for my book)
- On etymology as a resource for ethnological investigations.
- On the cliffs with bird's nests on the South shore of Java.
- On the place where the day begins. (I do not understand this)
- On personal understanding to measure responsibility in a chaste world.
- On gallantry.
- On the poetry of the Hebrews.
- On the century of inventions by the Viscount of Worcester.
- On the not-eating people of the island of Roti near Timor. (Life must be cheap there)
- On the cannibalism of the Battahs and headhunting of the Alfuros.
- On mistrust on public decency. I think he wants to abolish the locksmiths. I am against that.)
- On 'the right' and 'the rights'.
- On the philosopher Béranger. (Again something I don't understand)
- On the aversion of the Malaysians by the Javanese.
- On the worthlessness of education by so-called high schools.
- On the loveless spirit of our ancestors, as can be seen from their understanding of God.
- On the relation between the senses. (It's true, when I saw him, I smelt attar of roses)
- On the taproot of the coffeeplant. (I put this aside for my book)
- On sense and sensibility ('sensiblerie', 'empfindelei').
- On confusion between mythology and religion.
- On the saguweer tree in the Moluccas.
- On the future of the Dutch trade. (In fact this is the article that inspired me to write the book. He says that there will not always be big coffee auctions, and I live for my profession.)
- On Genesis. (An outrageous article!)
- On the secret brotherhoods of the Chinese.
- On drawing as a natural way of writing.
- On truth in poetry. (For sure!)
- On the unpopularity of rice peeling mills in Java.
- On the relation between poetry and the mathematical sciences.
- On the wayang puppets of the Chinese.
- On the price of Java coffee. (I put this aside)
- On a European currency.
- On irrigation of common fields.
- On the influence of mixing of races on the spirit.
- On equilibrium in trade. (He writes about exchange premiums. I put it aside for my book.)
- On persistency of Asian customs. (He says that Jesus wore a turban)
- On the ideas of Malthus about the number of people, in relation to means of maintenance.
- On the original people of America.
- On the piers in Batavia, Samarang and Surabaya.
- On architecture to express ideas.
- On the relation between European officials and the regents of Java (Part of this will be used in my book)
- On living in basements in Amsterdam.
- On the power of error.
- On the idleness of a supreme being, when the laws of nature are perfect.
- On the monopoly on salt in Java.
- On the worms in the sago-palm.
- On Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, the Song of Solomon and the Pantun verses of the Javanese.
- On the 'jus primi occupantis'.
- On the poverty of painting.
- On the indecency of fishing. (Did you ever hear of such?)
- On crimes of the Europeans outside Europe.
- On the weapons of weaker species.
- On 'jus talionis'.
As I said, I had put some articles aside because it appeared that I could use them in my profession, and I live for my profession. But I must admit that I was a bit wary of the rest. I could not return the packet to him, for I did not know where he lived. It had now been opened. I could not deny that I had seen it, and I would not have denied it anyhow, since I prefer to be truthful. Besides, I did not succeed in packing it up again so that you could not see that it had been opened. Furthermore I cannot deny that some articles were about coffee, so they had my interest, and I was eager to use them. Every day I read some random pages and every day I was more convinced that one should be a coffee broker, so one can find out what happens in the world. I am sure that the Rosemeijers, who are sugar merchants, have never seen such a thing.
I was a bit afraid that Shawlman would one day stand in front of me, and that he wanted to say something. I was feeling sorry that I had run away that evening into Kapelsteeg and I understood that one should never leave a decent road. Of course he would have asked for money, and talked about his packet. Perhaps I would have given him something, and if he had sent me all those writings the next day, it would have been my legal property. I could have separated the wheat from the chaff, I would have removed the articles which I needed for my book and burned all the rest, or thrown them in the waste basket, something I could not do now. For if he came back, I had to produce something, and when he saw that I was interested in some of his articles, he'd certainly require too much for it. Nothing puts a seller in a more advantageous position than discovering that the buyer is eager for his goods. A merchant who knows what to do, will always attempt to avoid such a position.
Another idea – I have already spoken of it – that may prove how a visit to the exchange market can make someone susceptible to charitable impressions, is this. Bastiaans – that's our third servant, who is getting old and infirm – had last month not been here for more than 25 days, and when he is in the office, he performs badly. As an honest man it is my obligation towards the firm – Last & Co, since the Meijers have left – to make sure that everyone does his task, and it would be bad to throw the firm's money away out of misunderstood pity or oversensitivity. That's my principle, I'd rather give Bastiaans three guilders out of my own pocket than continue to pay 700 guilders a year which he doesn’t deserve. I calculated that the man has worked here 34 years – at Last & Co, it used to be Last & Meijer, but the Meijers have left – and earned almost 15,000 guilders, quite a lot for a common man. There are few from his community who have so much money. So he has no reason to complain. I could do this calculation with the help of Shawlman's article on multiplication.
That Shawlman is a good writer, I thought. Furthermore, he appeared to be poor, and he did not know what time it was. What would it be like to give him Bastiaans' job? In that case I'd tell him to call me 'Sir', but I think he'd understand that himself, a servant cannot call his employer by name, and he would be helped for the rest of his life. He could start with 400 or 500 guilders – our Bastiaans also worked a long time before he earned 700 – and I would have done a good deed. I could even start with 300 guilders, for he has never been in business and he can consider the first years as an education. That's quite fair, for he cannot be equated to people who have a lot of experience. I am sure that he would be satisfied with 200 guilders. But I have some doubts about his conduct – he wore a shawl. And besides, I did not know where he lived.
Chapter 5
A few days afterwards the young Stern and Frits visited a book sale in het Wapen van Bern. I had forbidden Frits to buy anything, but Stern, who has sufficient pocket money, came home with some worthless things. That's his business. But behold, Frits told me that he had seen Shawlman, who appeared to be employed at the book seller's. He took the books from the cases and pushed them on a long table to the auctioneer. Frits said that he was very pale, and he had seen a man who appeared to be the governor who rebuked Shawlman when he had dropped a few volumes of the Aglaia. That was clumsy indeed, for this is a really nice collection of needlework for ladies. Marie has it with the Rosemeijers, who are sugar merchants. She embroiders from it – from the Aglaia I mean. But when he was being rebuked, Frits had heard that he earned 15 pennies a day. "Do you want me to throw 15 pennies away on you?" the man had said. I calculated that 15 pennies a day – I presume that Sundays don't count, for in that case the employer would have named an amount per month or per year – comes to 225 guilders a year. I take my decisions quickly – when one is an experienced businessman, one always knows immediately what to do – and the next morning I was at Gaafzuiger's. That's the name of the bookseller who held the sale. I asked for the man who had dropped the Aglaia.
"He has been fired," said Gaafzuiger. "He was lazy, pedantic and sickly."
I bought a box of wafers and decided immediately to be more patient with Bastiaans. I could not decide to fire an old man. Strict, but when it is possible also meek, that has always been my principle. However, I never fail to enquire into things I need to know, so I asked Gaafzuiger where Shawlman lived. He gave me the address and I wrote it down.
I thought for a long time about my book, but because I appreciate the truth, I must admit that I did not know how to start this job. One thing was sure: the materials which had been found in Shawlman's packet were important for coffee brokers. The question was how to separate and order those materials. Every broker knows that a good ordering is of primary importance.
But writing, apart from my reports to principals, is not really my thing, and yet I felt that I had to write, because the future of my profession might depend on it. The information which I found in Shawlman's articles is of such a nature that Last & Co could use it for its own benefit. If that were so, everyone will understand that I would not go through the trouble of having a book printed which would also be read by Busselinck & Waterman, for one must be crazy to help a competitor. That's one of my strict principles. No, I saw that there is a danger which might spoil the entire coffee market, something which can only be prevented with the united forces of all brokers, and it is even possible that these forces will be insufficient and that the sugar refinadors (Frits says "refiners", but I write "refinadors". So do the Rosemeijers, and they are sugar traders. I know that one says "a refined rascal", not "a refinaded rascal", but that's because anyone who has to do with rascals wants to be rid of them as soon as possible) that the sugar refinadors and the traders in indigo will also be needed.
While writing I think about this, and it could be that shipowning companies might also be involved, and the merchant fleet – sure, this is so! And the sailmakers and the Minister of Finance, and the poor relief, and the other ministers, and the pastry bakers, and the galantry sellers, and the women, and the ship builders, and the wholesalers, and the retailers, and the housekeepers and the gardeners.
And, it is strange what thoughts come to one's mind while writing – my book is also of interest to millers, and preachers, and those who sell Holloway-pills, and brandy distillers, and tilers, and the people who live on charity, and pump-makers, and rope-makers, and weavers, and butchers, and the clerks in a broker's office, and the shareholders of the Dutch Trade Company and actually, well understood, all the others too.
And the king too, yes, the King in particular!
My book must go into the world. There is simply no choice. Let Busselinck & Waterman read it too – jealousy is not my case. But tamperers and interlopers they are, I say! Today I said it to young Stern, when I introduced him to Artis. He may write it to his father.
So I was, for a few days, in terrible consideration about the book, and lo, Frits helped me along the way. I did not tell him this, since it isn't good to let someone know that one is obliged to him – that's one of my principles – but it is true. He said that Stern was such a charming boy, and that he learned the language quickly, that he had translated German poems by Shawlman into Dutch. You see, I had the wrong world in my house: the Dutchman had written in German and the German translated into Dutch. It would have been much simpler if everyone had stuck to his own language. But, I thought, what if I had Stern write my book? If I want to add something, I can write a chapter now and then. Frits can help too – he has a list of words which must be written with a double E, and Marie can do the handwriting. That also guarantees that the book will be decent, for you understand that a broker will not give his daughter anything to read that is not decent or chaste.
I informed the two boys about my plan, and they agreed. However, Stern, who has some knowledge of with literature – like so many Germans – wanted to have a vote in the result. I did not really like that, but the spring auction is nigh, and I have no orders from Ludwig Stern yet, so I did not want to oppose him. He said that: "if his breast swelled with feelings for truth and beauty, no power in the world could prevent him from speaking the words which matched that feelings, and he preferred to be silent, rather than to see his words limited by the dishonouring shackles of everydaynes" – Frits says dayness but I don't, the word is long enough. – It was a bit crazy of Stern but my profession is more important than anything else, and the Old One is a good house. So we decided:
- That each week he would deliver a few chapters for my book.
- That I would change nothing in his writing.
- That Frits would correct the spelling errors.
- That I would write a chapter now and then, so the book would look better.
- That the title would be: The coffee auctions of the Dutch Trading Company.
- That Marie would do the writing for the printer, but that we would bear with her when the laundry came.
- That the finished chapters would be read each week on the circle meeting.
- That all indecency would be avoided.
- That my name would not be on the frontispiece, because I am a broker.
- That Stern would be allowed to publish a German, a French and an English translation of the book, because – as he said – such works will be beer understood abroad.
- (Stern insisted on doing this) That I'd send Shawlman a ream of paper, a box of pens and a jar of ink.
Stern had hardly started when he came in trouble. Apart from the big job to select and order the abundance of materials, he found in the manuscripts words and expressions which he did not understand, and neither did I. Usually it was Javanese or Malay. Furthermore there were abbreviations which were hard to decipher. I saw that we needed Shawlman. I find it indecent that a young man makes wrong connections, so I wanted to send neither Stern nor Frits. I took some sweets, which had remained from the previous circle meeting – I always think of everything – and I went to his home. It wasn't a wonderful home, but the equality of all men, also what concerns their homes, is an illusion. He had said so himself in an article about the right on happiness. Besides, I dislike people who are never satisfied.
It was in Lange Leidschedwarsstraat, a back room. Below lived a junk shop dealer who sold all kinds of things, cups, saucers, furniture, old books, cutlery, portraits of Van Speyk and much more. I was careful not to break anything, for in that case those people always require more money than the actual value. There was a little girl on the porch, dressing her doll. I asked whether Mr Shawlman lived there. She ran away and the mother came.
"Yes, he loives here, misser. Just go up the stairs, affer the foirst landing, and den de steps to de second landing, and den another stair, and you're dere, very easy. Mijntje, go and sye that dere's a gennelman. Who can she sye you are, misser?"
I said that I was Mr Drystubble, coffee broker, from Laurier Canal, but that I'd introduce myself. I climbed as high as I had been told. On the third landing I heard a child's voice singing: "soon comes papa, dear good papa". I knocked and it was opened by a woman or a lady – I'm not sure what to say. She was very pale. Her features showed traces of fatigue and reminded me of my wife when the laundry is finished. She was clothed in a long white shirt, a jacket without front, which hung till her knees, which had been fixed on the front with a black pin. Instead of a proper dress or skirt, she wore underneath a flowered cloth, which appeared to be wrapped several times around her body, and which was rather tight around her hips and knees. There was no trace of folds, width or size, as is proper for a woman. I was glad that I had not sent Frits, for her clothing appeared really indecent to me, and it was even stranger that she moved easily, as if she found it quite proper. The woman did not appear to know that she did not look like other women. It also appeared to me that she was not shy at all with my unexpected coming. She hid nothing under the table, did not move chairs, she did nothing that could be expected when a distinguished-looking stranger comes.
She had, like a Chinese, combed her hair backwards. Behind her head it was tied in a kind of knot. Later I heard that her clothing was common in the Indies, which they call sarong and kabaai, but I found it very ugly.
"Are you Miss Shawlman?" I asked.
"With whom do I have the honour of speaking?" she asked, and her tone seemed to imply that I also had to mention something about honour.
Well, I dislike compliments. It's different with a principal, and I have been long enough in business to know my affairs. But to use a lot of unneeded conversation, there on the third floor, seemed rather futile to me. So I said shortly that I was Mr Drystubble, coffee broker, 37 Laurier Canal, and that I wanted to see her husband. Why yes, why need I say more?
She showed me a reed chair, and she took a little girl in her lap, who had been playing on the floor. The little boy, who had been singing, looked at me and inspected me from top to bottom. He did not appear to be shy either! He was a boy of about six years, also in strange clothing. His wide shorts barely reached halfway down his thighs,, and his legs were bare to the ankles. Very indecent, I thought. "Dost thou come to see papa?" he suddenly asked, and I saw immediately that his education was imperfect, otherwise he would have said: "Do you come". But I was uncertain of myself and wanted to talk a bit, so I replied:
"Yes, lad, I come to see your papa. Do you think he'll soon be back?"
"I don't know, He went out to find money to buy a paintbox for me" (Frits says: payntbox, but I don't. Paint is paint, not paynt).
"Hush, my boy," the woman said. "Go and play with your pictures or the Chinese musical box."
"Thou knowest that that gentleman took everything yesterday."
To his mother he also said thou and it appeared that there had been a 'gentleman' who had 'taken everything away' … a pleasant visitor! The woman did not appear to be happy either, I saw her wiping an eye, while she took the little girl to her brother. "There," she said, "play with Nonni." A strange name. And he did so.
"Well, Miss," I asked, "do you expect your husband soon?"
"I cannot tell," she replied.
Then suddenly the little boy, who had been pretending he was in a boat with his sister, left her alone and asked me:
"Sir, why dost thou say Miss to mama?"
"Why then, lad, what else am I to say?"
Well, like everyone else! The miss is downstairs, she sells saucers and tops.
Well, I am a coffee broker – Last & Co, 37 Laurier Canal – there are thirteen in our office, and when I count Stern, who receives no salary, there are fourteen. Well, my wife is miss, so was I to call that woman mistress? That could not be! Everyone has his standing, and what's more, yesterday the bailiffs had carried everything away! I found my miss perfectly correct and I stuck to it.
I asked why Shawlman had not come to me to get his packet back. She seemed to know about it and said they had been travelling, to Brussels. He had been working for the Indépendance but could not stay because his articles were often rejected at the French borders. A few days ago they had returned to Amsterdam, because Shawlman got a job here.
"At Gaafzuiger's?" I asked.
"Yes that was it! But it had been a disappointment," she said. Well, I knew more about it than she. He had dropped the Aglaia and he was lazy, pedantic and sickly. That's why he had been sacked.
"And," she continued, "he would certainly soon come and see me, perhaps he was there at this moment, to get a reply from me for what he had asked."
I said that Shawlman should certainly come, but that he should refrain from ringing at the door, because it bothers the bell-girl. If he waited a moment, I said, the door would be opened, when someone wanted to leave. And I left the house, taking the sweets with me, for, frankly said, I did not like that place. I did not feel at ease. A broker is not a carrier, I think, and I say that I look very good. I wore my fur coat, and yet she sat there so simply, talking plainly with her children, as if she was on her own. And it seemed that she had wept, and I dislike dissatisfied people. It was cold and unpleasant there – of course because everything had been carried away – and I like a pleasant atmosphere in a house. While I went home I decided to bear with Bastiaans; I dislike to fire someone.
Here comes Stern's first week. It is a matter of course that there is a lot in it that I dislike. But I am bound by article 2, and the Rosemeijers like it. I believe that they admire Stern, because he has an uncle in Hamburg who is a sugar merchant.
Indeed, Shawlman had been there. He had spoken with Stern, and explained some words and cases which he did not understand. Stern didn't understand, I mean. I now ask the reader to struggle through the following chapters, and soon there will be something of a more solid nature, by me, Batavus Drystubble, coffee broker: Last & Co, 37 Laurier Canal.
Chapter 6
In the morning at ten there was an unusual commotion on the main road which leads from the department Pandeglang to Lebak. 'Main road' is perhaps a bit of an exaggeration, since it was a wide footpath, which, for want of something better, was called the 'road'. But when a coach with four horses left from Serang, the capital of the residence Bantam, with the intention of going to Rangkas-Betoeng, the new capital of Lebak, one could be almost sure to arrive there sometime. So it was a road. It's true, every now and then one got stuck in the mud, which in the lowlands of Bantam is heavy, like clay, and sticky, so one was forced to call for help from the nearby villages – which weren't really nearby, for villages are rare in that area – but if one had succeeded in gathering a score of farmers from the area, it usually did not last long before horse and coach were back on solid ground. The driver would clack his whip, the runners – in Europe they would be called "grooms" or rather, there is no similar person in Europe – those incomparable runners, with their short thick whips, jumped on the sides of the four horses, screamed indescribable cries, and hit the horses on the bellies to encourage them. That's how one when forth for some time, until the sad moment that the coach sank to the axles in the mud. The cry for help could begin again. One waited patiently for that help, and the journey continued.
Very often, when I went along that road, I felt that I would soon find a coach with travellers from the previous century, down in the mud, forgotten. But it never happened. So I presume that all who went this road, eventually arrived at the place where they wanted to be.
It would be a mistake if one were to judge the entire big road on Java by that road in Lebak. The actual military highway, with its many branches, which had been constructed by Marshall Daendels, sacrificing many of his people, is truly a wonderful masterpiece, and one can be amazed at the spiritual power of the man who, in spite of all objections from his envious opponents in the motherland, fought against the unwilling people and their unsatisfied masters, to produce something which until today deserves to be admired by any visitor.
No mail service in Europe – not even in England, Russia or Hungary – can be compared with the one in Java. Over high mountaintops, along valleys which make you tremble, the heavily-packed carrier gallops continuously. The driver appears to be nailed to his seat, hours, yes many days continuously, and he brandishes the heavy whip with his iron arm. He knows how to calculate where and when he must steady the running horses, when he flies from a mountain slope, there at the bend…
"My God, the road is gone! We go into an abyss!" screams the inexperienced traveller, "there is no road, there is nothing!"
Yes, it appears to be. The road bends, and a few galloping steps further, when you expect that the front horses lose fixed soil under their feet, the horses turn and swing the vehicle around the bend. They fly up another slope, which you did not see a moment ago and the abyss is behind you.
At such a time there are moments when the coach rests only on the wheels on the outside of the bend – the centrifugal force has lifted the wheels on the inside. It takes a lot of courage to keep your eyes open, and whoso travels in Java for the first time, writes to his family that he has been in very dangerous situations. But whoso lives there, just laughs about that fear.
I do not have the intention, while my story has just begun, to bore the reader with a description of places, countries or buildings. I am afraid I'd frighten the reader, who would find the book long-winded, and only afterwards, when I feel that I have the reader's interest, when I see from his looks and his attitude that he is interested in the fate of the heroine who jumps from the balcony of the fourth floor, I, boldly despising all laws of gravity, let her float in the air between heaven and earth, until my heart has given a careful description of the beauty of the country, or of the building that appears to be built there under pretext of being a multi-page story on Mediaeval architecture. All those castles are similar. Unchangeable and of a different order. The corps de logis is always from a previous government than the additions which have been built afterwards under the reign of this or that king. The towers are decaying.
Dear reader, there are no towers. A tower is an idea, a dream, an ideal, a fiction, unbearable boasting! There are half towers and turrets.
The fanatism that thought that towers had to be built on buildings which were erected to honour this or that Saint, did not last long enough to complete them, and the pinnacle which had to show believers where heaven is, is supported, a few storeys below, on a fixed base, which reminds us of the man without thighs whom we saw at the fair. Only the turrets, little needles on village churches, have been completed.
It is truly not flattering for Western civilisation that the idea of completing a great work could not continue long enough to see that work completed. I do not speak about enterprises which had to be completed to cover the cost. He who wants to know what I mean, should go and see the Dom of Cologne. Admire the great view of that building, in the soul of the architect Gerhard von Riehl, of the faith in the heart of the people, which made it possible for him to start that work and to continue it, admire the influence of the views which needed such a big building to represent the unseen religious feeling, compare the span with the direction, which resulted a few centuries afterwards in the birth of the moment that the work was abandoned.
There is a deep chasm between Erwin van Steinbach and our architects! I know that they are at work to fill this gap. Even in Cologne one continues to work on the Dom. But will it be possible to attach a broken thread? Will one find in our days what used to be the power of a churchwarden and an architect? I don't think so. Money can be obtained, and you can buy bricks and mortar. You can pay the artist who designs a plan, and the mason who lays the bricks. But not for sale is the lost and yet respectable feeling that saw a building as a poem, a poem of granite, which spoke aloud to the people, a poem in marble, which stood there motionless, like a continuing eternal prayer.
Chapter 7
One morning there was an unusual commotion on the boundary between Lebak and Pandeglang. Hundreds of horses in harness covered the road and at least a thousand people – a lot for that place – were eagerly waiting and walking to and fro. We saw the chiefs of the villages, the district chiefs of Lebak, with their entourages, and, as could be judged from the fair half-breed Arabian which, in its rich harness, nibbled a silver snaffle, there was also a chief of higher rank. That was true. The Regent of Lebak, Radhen Adhipatti Karta Natta Negara had left Rangkas-Betoeng with his entourage, and in spite of his age he had covered the twelve or fourteen pales which separated his home from the boundaries of the neighbouring department Pandeglang.
A new Assistant-Resident was expected, and the custom, which in the Indies has more than anywhere else the power of law, requires that the official who takes care of the government of a department, receives a celebratory reception when he arrives. The Controller, a man of middle age, who had substituted for the government for several months after the death of the previous Assistant-Resident, being the next lower in rank, was present as well.
As soon as the moment of arrival of the new Assistant-Resident was known, a pendoppo had been erected in a hurry. A table and some chairs where placed there, and there were some refreshments ready. In this pendoppo the Regent and the Controller waited for their new superior.
After a hat with a wide brim, an umbrella or a hollow tree, a pendoppo is surely the simplest way to make a roof. Imagine four or six bamboe poles hammered into the ground, connected on top by other bamboes, covered with the long leaves of a waterpalm, which is in this area known as atap, that's a pendoppo. It is, as you see, as simple as possible, and it was supposed to be a simple pied à terre for the European and native officials who were to welcome their new superior near the border.
I made a slight error when I called the Assistant-Resident their superior, also of the Regent. An explanation of the mechanism of the government in this area is necessary, for a good understanding of what follows.
The thus named Nederlandsch Indie – the adjective Nederlandsch appears inexact to me, but it has officially been accepted – can, what regards the relation between the motherland and the people, be separated in two main parts. One part consists of the tribes whose princes and dukes accepted the sovereign authority of the Netherlands, but who more or less retained a direct control in the hands of the native chiefs. The other part, which – with perhaps a very slight exception – includes all of Java, is immediately subject to the Netherlands. There are no levies or tributes here. The Javanese is a subject of the Netherlands. The King of the Netherlands is his King. The descendants of earlier princes and lords are Dutch clerks. They are appointed, moved and promoted by the Governor-General who reigns in name of the King. The criminal is sentenced and executed according to laws which came from The Hague. The taxes, paid by the Javanese, go to the treasury of the Netherlands.
These pages will mainly deal with the Dutch possessions in this part, which is truly part of the Kingdom of the Netherlands.
The Governor-General has a council, which cannot uverrule his decisions. In Batavia the different branches of the government are divided in "departments", each managed by a Director, who is the link between the Governor-General and the residents in the departments. When a case of political nature must be dealt with, these Directors consult the Governor-General immediately.
The name Resident dates from the time when the Netherlands ruled indirectly over the people, who were represented by residents in the courts of the reigning princes. Those princes aren't there any more, and the residents have become, being residents, local governors or prefects, managers of areas. The circle of control has changed, the name has remained.
It's these residents, who actually represent the authority of the Dutch over the people of Java. The people do not know the Governor-General, nor the councils of the Indies, nor the Directors in Batavia. They know only the Resident, and the clerks who are his subordinates.
Such a residency – some of them have almost a million people – is divided into three, four or five departments, under control of an Assistant-Resident. An Assistant-Resident is helped by controllers, supervisors and other officials who are needed to receive taxes, to supervise agriculture, to erect buildings, waterworks, police and administer justice.
In each department there is a native chief of high rank with the title Regent, to help the Assistant-Resident. Such a Regent, although his relation to the government is that of a paid official, always belongs to the high nobility of the country, and often to the family of the princes who used to reign, independently, over that area. This means that the ancient feudal influence has been retained – this is in all Asia of great importance, and in most tribes it is part of their religion – while appointing these chiefs as government officials creates a hierarchy, with the Dutch authority at the top, represented by the Governor-General.
There is nothing new under the Sun. Weren't the counts, earls and viscounts of the German empire appointed in the same way by the Emperor, usually chosen from the rich families? Without talking of the origin of nobility, which is in our nature, I'll reserve some room to remark how, both in our continent and in yonder remote India, the same causes had the same consequences. A country must be ruled remotely, and this requires officials who represent the central authority. Under the system of military arbitrariness, the Romans chose prefects, initially the captains of the legions which had subdued the country. Those areas remained departments, that is colonies for profit. But as soon as the central authority of the German empire found the need to be linked to a remote people, not only by material superiority - as soon as a remote region was regarded as belonging to the empire, being of equal rank, language and customs, it was found necessary to appoint a supervisor, who not only belonged to that region, but who also had a higher position than his fellow-citizens, so that the Emperor's orders were readily obeyed, because the people were used to being subject to the person who took care of the execution of the orders. This also partly or completely avoided the expense of an army, paid for out of the Emperor's treasury, or as usually happened, paid for by the departments themselves who had to be monitored by that army. That's how the first counts were elected from the barons of the country, and strictly speaking the word count is not a title of nobility, but only the name of a person with a certain task. Therefore I believe that one had an opinion in the Middle Ages that the German Emperor had the right to appoint counts (for authority over the land) and dukes (for authority over the army), but that the barons stated, because of their birth, that they were equal to the Emperor and subject only to God, apart from the obligation to serve the Emperor, insofar as he had been chosen with their permission and from their number. A Count was invested with an office, declared by the Emperor. A baron was that by the grace of God. The counts represented the Emperor and carried his banner, the colours of the empire. The barons could call people under their own banner, as bannerlords.
The circumstance that counts and dukes are usually chosen from amongst the barons, meant that they could use the influence which they had by right of birth. Probably, in particular when the offices were hereditary, these titles were considered superior to that of baron. Even today many a family of freelords – without a patent from King or Emperor, that's a family which is noble because of the existence of the country, which was always noble because it was noble – autochthonous – would reject a raising to the peerage, finding it derogating. There are examples of it.
The persons who took care of the government of such a county would, of course, hope that the Emperor would assign their sons, or for want of sons other kin – as their successors. So this usually happened, although I do not believe that this succession had ever been recognised as a right, as far as it is for the officials in the Netherlands, for example the counts of Holland, Zeeland, Hainault or Flanders, the dukes of Brabant, Guelderland etc. Initially it was a favour, afterwards a custom, eventually a necessity, but it was never a law that nobility was hereditary.
Almost in the same way – as regards the choice of persons, because there is no equality in tasks, although there is certain similarity – The chief of a department in Java is a native official. He obtained a rank from the government which he combines with his autochthonous influence, and this makes the government easy for the European official, who represents the Dutch authority. And here too it has become a custom that the office is hereditary. While a Regent is still alive, the succession has already been arranged, and it is considered a reward for his zeal and faith when he gets the promise that he will be succeeded by his son. There must be very important reasons to appoint another successor, and even if it happens, one still chooses a successor from the members of the same family.
Chapter 8
The relation between European officials and Javanese peers is of a very delicate nature. The Assistant Resident of a department is responsible. He has instructions and is assumed to be the chief of the department This does not prevent that the Regent, by virtue of his local knowledge, by birth, by influence on the people, by financial undertakings and a similar standard of living, is far exalted above him. And the Regent, being the representative of the Javanese element of the region, expected to speak on behalf of a hundred or more thousand souls, who live under his regentship, is also in the eyes of the government a much more important person than the simple European official, whose dissatisfaction need not be feared, since he is easily replaced, while a bad mood of the Regent could result in a major revolt.
This results in the strange circumstances that the inferior gives orders to the superior. The Assistant Resident commands the Regent to produce reports. He commands him to send people to labour on bridges and roads. He commands him to collect taxes. He calls him to assist in the Land Council. He rebukes him when he neglects his duty. But this peculiar relationship is only possible through very polite rituals, which need exclude neither kindness nor, when it is needed, strictness, and I believe that the tone which must be in this relationship is quite well indicated in the official instruction: The European official treats the native clerk, who is his helper, like a younger brother.
But he must not forget that this younger brother is very much loved – or feared – by the elders, and that in case of a disagreement, his older age is considered a reason to blame him for treating his younger brother with insufficient consideration or tact.
However, the inborn politeness of the Javanese – even the lowly Javanese is much politer than his European peer - makes this apparently complicated relationship more bearable than it would otherwise be.
The European should be well-educated and careful, he should behave with kind dignity, and then he can be sure that the Regent will not make ruling hard for him. Quick orders, always expressed as a request, will be strictly executed. The difference in social position, birth, or wealth, is erased by the Regent himself, who elevates the European, representative of the King in the Netherlands. Eventually a relationship which, at a glance, would seem inevitably to cause a collision, is in reality often the source of pleasant cooperation.
I said that these regents also have priority over the European official because of wealth, and this is natural. The European, when he is called to govern a province with an area equal to many German duchies, is usually someone of middle age or older, married and a father. His office is his profession. His wages are just sufficient, and often less than adequate, to give his family what they need. The Regent is: Tommongong, Adhipatti, yes even Pangerang, a Javanese Prince. For him the question is not that he lives, but he should live in the way that the people is wont to see in its aristocracy. While the European lives in a house, he lives in a Kratoon, with many houses and villages, While the European has one wife and three of four children, he maintains a host of women with all that belongs to it. While the European travels, followed by a few officials, no more than are needed for an inspection, the Regent is accompanied by a train of hundreds. This is, in the eyes of his people, a requirement for his high rank. The European lives as a civilian, the Regent lives – or is expected to live – like a prince.
But all this must be paid for. The Dutch government, which is founded on the influence of those regents, knows this. So nothing is more natural than that the Regent's wages have been raised to a level which any non-Indian would find exaggerated, but in reality it is seldom sufficient to pay the cost of the way of life of a native chief. It is not uncommon that a Regent who earns 200,000 or 300,000 guilders, is in want of money. This is also caused by the, truly princely, way they waste money, by neglecting to take care of their subjects, their extravagance and in particular the abuse - for the Europeans often abuse this situation.
The income of the Javanese chiefs can be divided into four parts. First of all, the fixed monthly stipend. Next, a fixed compensation for the rights which have been transferred to the Dutch government. Third, a reward, proportional to the products of his area, such as coffee, sugar, indigo, cinnamon, etc. And last, the option of making arbitrary demands on the labour and possessions of the peasants.
The two last sources need some explanation. A Javanese is principally a farmer. The soil where he was born, which promises much for little labour, entices him, and he is completely devoted to cultivating his rice fields, in which he is therefore very skilled. He grows up in the middle of his sawahs and gagahs and tipars, accompanies his father to the field from a very early age, where he helps him in his labour with plough and spade, with dikes and water conducts to irrigate his fields. He counts his years by the harvest time, he reckons the time by the colour of his growing ears on the field, he feels at home among his friends who cut padie with him, he finds his wife among the girls of the dessah, who beat the rice in the evening, singing happily, to remove the hulls. The idea of possessing a few water buffaloes to pull his plough appeals to him. In short, the rice culture is to a Javanese what the wine harvest is in the area of the Rhine and the South of France.
But there were strangers from the West, who made themselves lords of the country. They wished to have advantage of the soil's fertility, and commanded the natives to devote part of their labour and their time to the production of other things, which would be more profitable on the European markets. It required only a little political science to get the simple man to do this. He obeys his chiefs, so it was sufficient to persuade those chiefs by promising part of the profits – and that succeeded.
Take a look at the incredible quantity of Javanese products you see on the markets in the Netherlands, and you will be convinced that this policy has been very successful, even if you don't find it noble. For, if anyone asks whether the farmer himself obtains any reward, proportional to his labour, I must give a negative answer. The government requires him to cultivate on his soil what the government pleases, he is even punished if he sells his products to anyone else, and the government decides the price that will be paid. The cost of transport to Europe, with the intermediary of a privileged trade organisation, is high. The money paid to the chiefs to encourage them, make the price even higher and – because we want profits after all, this profit can only be found by paying the Javanese a minimum amount, lest he starve, for that would diminish the producing power of the nation.
European officials also obtain a profit which is proportional to the yield.
The poor Javanese if often burdened by two authorities. Often he is pulled away from his rice fields, often a famine is caused by these measures, but the flags are happily flapping in Batavia, in Samarang, in Surabaya, in Passaroean, in Bezoeki, in Probolingo, in Patjitan, in Tjilatjap and on board of the ships which are loaded with the harvest to make the Netherlands richer.
Famine? In the rich, fertile, blessed Java, famine? Yes, dear reader. A few years ago entire districts have starved. Mothers offered their children for sale to obtain food. Mothers have eaten their children.
But the motherland interfered. There has been dissatisfaction in the councils of parliament, and the Governor at that time should have ordered that the so-called European market products would not again be expanded to the point of causing a famine.
It made me feel bitter. What would you think of someone who could write such things without feeling bitterness?
Now I must explain about the last and most important source of revenue for the native chiefs: possessing arbitrarily of the persons and properties of their subjects.
According to general understanding in all Asia, a subject and everything he possesses, belongs to the Prince. This is also the case in Java, and the descendants and kin of earlier Princes happily use the illiterate people, who do not understand that their Tommongong or Adhipatti or Pangerang is today a paid official who has sold his own right for a certain revenue, and that the poorly-paid labour in coffee garden or sugar field has come in place of the taxes which used to be required by the chiefs of the land. It is extremely common that hundreds of families are called from a remote distance to work without payment in the fields which belong to the Regent. It is extremely common that food is supplied without payment to the court of the Regent. And when the Regent happens to cast a gracious eye on a horse, a water buffalo, the daughter, the wife of a little man, it would be bad-mannered to refuse to give the coveted object unconditionally.
There are regents who make a very moderate use of such arbitrary demands – they require no more from the common man than they need to maintain their standard of living. Others go a bit further, and there is no place where this unlawfulness is missing completely. It is therefore hard, even impossible, to eradicate this abuse completely, for it is deeply rooted in the nature of the people itself which suffers it. The Javanese is generous, in particular when he wants to prove how much he is attached to his chief, to the descendant of the one who was obeyed by his fathers. Yes, he would think he would fail in his devotion which he owes the hereditary master, if he entered his kratoon without any gifts. These gifts are often of so little value that it would be humiliating to reject them, and often this custom can sooner be compared to the homage of a child who shows his love for his father by offering a little present, than to a tribute to despotic arbitrariness.
But... the result is that a good custom prevents the abolishment of abuse. If the aloen-aloen in front of the Regent's house were neglected, the nearby people would feel ashamed about that, and a lot of authority would be needed to prevent the people from removing the weeds from the Regent's garden, so that it is restored into the condition which befits a person with a Regent's rank. It would be considered offensive to give any payment for it. But beside that aloen-aloen, and elsewhere, are the sawahs waiting for the plough, or for a water conduit to produce water, perhaps from many miles away, and those sawahs belong to the Regent. To cultivate and irrigate his fields he calls everyone from a village, whose own sawahs also need to be cultivated. And that's the abuse.
The government knows this and whoso reads the state papers, which contain the laws, instructions and manuals for the officials, cheers at the charity which played an important role when they were written. Thus the European, who had authority in the inner country, gets his dearest obligation, to protect the people against its own submissiveness and the greed of their chiefs. And if it were not sufficient to prescribe this obligation in general, they require of the Assistant Residents, when they accept the government of a department, an additional oath, that they will see this parental care for the people as their first and primary duty.
This is certainly a fair vocation. In favour of justice, protect the little one against the powerful, the weak one against the force majeure of the strong one, requiring that the poor man's lamb be given back from the stables of the princely robbers – behold, it makes the heart glow with pleasure, the idea that one has been called for such a fair task. And whoso may be unsatisfied with his position or reward in the inner country of Java, he nee only glance at his exalted duty, the wonderful joy of fulfilling such a task, and he will not covet any reward.
But this duty is not easy. First of all one must judge where use stopped and was replaced by abuse And where abuse exists, where robbing and arbitrariness have been found, the victims are often guilty themselves, either because they subject themselves too much, or because they fear, or because they mistrust the willingness or the power of the person who should offer protection. Everyone knows that the European official can be called at any time to another place, while the Regent, the powerful Regent, remains there. And there are so many ways to take the property of a poor, stupid man! When a mantrie tells him that the Regent covets his horse, with the result that the coveted animal is soon found in the Regent's stables, this does not prove at all that he did not have the intention – oh sure – to pay a high price for it – some time. When hundreds of people are labouring on the Regent's field, without getting payment, this does not prove that he allowed this to happen in is own favour. Perhaps he had the intention of leaving them the harvest, since he had calculated that his field was in a more favourable position and more fertile, so that their labour would produce a better reward.
Furthermore, where will the European official get the witnesses who have the courage to testify against their lord, the feared Regent? And if he ventured an accusation, without being able to prove it, what will then remain of the relation of elder brother, who without reason had offended the younger brother in his honour? What remains of the favour of the government, which gives him bread for his service, but fires him and considers him incompetent, when he rashly suspects or accuses an important person like a Tommongong, Adhipatti or Pangerang?
No, no, this duty is not easy! This can be seen from the inclination of the native chiefs to overstep the boundaries of allowed usage of labour and property of their subjects, which is admitted everywhere – that all Assistant Residents take an oath that they will fight against that criminal idiosyncrasy – and that very rarely is a Regent actually accused because of arbitrariness or abuse of authority.
It appears that there is an almost unsurpassable trouble in fulfilling the oath: "to protect the native people against exploitation and extortion."
Chapter 9
The Controller Verbrugge was a good man. If one saw him there in his blue clothing, with embroidered oak and orange branches on the collar and the cuffs, it was hard to mistake the type which is common among the Hollanders in the Indies – a kind of man who is very different from the Hollanders in Holland. He took his ease as long as there was nothing to do, and he was remote from the organising zeal which is in Europe called industrious, but he was industrious when work was needed – eager to give information and to help, hospitable – well-mannered but not stiff – candid – honest and righteous, without being a martyr to these properties – in short, he was a man who, as it is said, would fit in anywhere, although one would not consider naming the age after him, which he did not desire.
He was sitting in the centre of the pendoppo, near the table which was covered with a white cloth and loaded with food. A bit impatiently he asked the mandoor-caretaker, the chief of the police and office servants in the assistant-residency, in the words of Bluebeard's wife, whether no-one was coming? Then he stood up, tried in vain to make his spurs rattle on the clay floor of the pendoppo, lit his cigar for the twentieth time and sat down again, disappointed. He spoke little.
And yet he could have spoken, for he was not alone. I do not mean that he was accompanied by twenty or thirty Javanese servants, mantries and caretakers who were squatting in and around the pendoppo, or by the many people who walked in and out continuously, or by the many natives of different rank who held the horses outside or rode around on horseback – no, the Regent of Lebak Radhen Adhipatti Karta Natta Nagara was with him.
Waiting is always boring. Fifteen minutes last an hour, an hour lasts a half day, and so on. Verbrugge could have been a bit more loquacious. The Regent of Lebak was a civilised old man, who could speak sensibly about many things. If one only looked at him, one would be convinced that most of the Europeans, who met him, could learn more from him than they could teach him. His vivid, dark eyes contradicted by their fire the fatigue in the features of his face and the greyness of his hair. When he spoke, he usually had thought a long time about it – a peculiarity which is common for a civilised Asian – and when one talked with him, one felt that his words had to be considered as epistles, of which he kept a copy in his archive, so he could refer to it. This may appear unpleasant for someone who is not familiar with the Javanese princes, but it is not hard to avoid all topics which might be offending, in particular because they will never suddenly change the topic of a conversation is, since that would, according to Asian etiquette, be contrary to good behaviour. So if one has a reason to avoid speaking about a certain topic, he only need to speak about unimportant matters, and he can be sure that a Javanese chief will not, by an undesired change in the conversation, enter an area which he'd rather not enter.
However, there are several opinions about the best way to deal with the chiefs. It appears to me that simple honesty, without attempt to diplomatic care, should be preferred.
However it be, Verbrugge started with a simple remark about the weather and the rain.
"Yes, toean Controller, it's the West monsoon."
Verbrugge knew that; it was January. But what he had said about the rain, the Regent knew as well. It was followed by some silence. The Regent beckoned with a slight movement of his head to one of the servants who were squatting at the entrance of the pendoppo. A little boy, wonderfully clothed in a blue velvet shirt, white trousers and a golden girdle which held his precious sarong round his loins, on his head the convenient kain kapala which barely hid is naughty black eyes, crawled squatting to the Regent's feet and put there the gold box which contained tobacco, lime, sirie, pinang, and gambier. He made a slamat, by lifting both hands together to his forehead and offered his lord the precious box.
"Travelling will be hard after so much rain," the Regent said, as if the long waiting had to be explained, while spreading lime on a betel leaf.
"In Pandeglang the road is not so bad," replied Verbrugge. That reply was a bit careless if Verbrugge wanted to avoid giving offence. He should have known that a Regent of Lebak does not like to hear something good about the roads in Pandeglang, even though these are certainly better than the roads in Lebak.
The Adhipatti did not make the error of answering quickly. The little maas had crawled squatting backwards to the entrance of the pendoppo, where he joined his fellows. The Regent had already dyed his lips and his few teeth with the spittle of the sirie before he said:
"Yes there are a lot of people in Pandeglang."
For those who know the Regent and the Controller, for whom the situation in Lebak was not a secret, it should have been clear that the conversation had already become a fight. A remark about the better condition of the roads in a neighbouring department seemed to be caused by vain attempts to construct similar roads in Lebak, or to maintain the existing roads better. But the Regent was right, Pandeglang had a denser population, certainly when compared to the smaller area, which made labour on the roads much easier than in Lebak, a department with only 70,000 inhabitants in an area of many hundreds of pales.
"It is true," Verbrugge said, "that we lack people, but..."
The Adhipatti looked at him, as if he waited for an attack. He knew that something had to come after that 'but' which would be unpleasant for him, who had been a Regent in Lebak for thirty years. But it appeared that Verbrugge did not want to continue his attack at that time. Anyhow, he did not finish his sentence and asked the mandoor-caretaker again if he saw nothing coming.
"I see nothing on the side of Pandeglang, toean Controller, but there on the other side is someone on horseback – it is the Commander."
"For sure, Dongso," said Verbrugge, looking outside, "it's the Commander! He his hunting in this area, and he went out early this morning. Hi, Duclari... Duclari!"
"He hears you, Sir, he comes this way. His boy follows him, with a kidang behind him on the horse."
"Hold Mr commander's horse," commanded Verbrugge to one of the servants who were squatting outside. "Bonjour, Duclari! Are you wet? Did you shoot something? Come in!"
A strong man, thirty years old, with a military attitude, although there was no trace of a uniform, entered the pendoppo. It was the First Lieutenant Duclari, commander of the small garrison at Rangkas-Betoeng. Verbrugge and he were friends, and they felt that even more, because Duclari had lived for some time in Verbrugge's house, while waiting for the completion of a fortress. He shook Verbrugge's hand, politely greeted the Regent and sat down, asking: "well, what have you got here?"
"Do you want tea, Duclari?"
"Why no, I'm feeling so hot. Do you have coconut milk? That's more refreshing."
"I won't give you that. If one is hot, I judge that coconut milk is bad. It makes you stiff and gouty. Behold how the coolies carry those have burdens over the mountains – they keep themselves quick by drinking hot water, or koppi dahoen. But ginger tea is even better."
"What? Koppi dahoen, tea from coffee leaves? I never saw that."
"You never served on Sumatra. It's common there."
"Give me tea then – but not from coffee leaves, and no ginger tea. Yes, you've been to Sumatra, and so has the new Assistant Resident, hasn't he?"
This conversation was in Dutch, which the Regent did not understand. Perhaps Duclari felt that it was a bit impolite to shut the Regent out of the conversation, or perhaps he had another intention, but suddenly he continued in Malay:
"Does toean Adhipatti know that the Controller knows the new Assistant Resident?"
"Why no, I never said that," cried Verbrugge, also in Malay. "I never saw him. He served some time before me on Sumatra. I only told you that I heard a lot about him there, nothing else!"
"Well, it makes no difference. It isn't needed to see a person to know him. What does toean Adhipatti think about it?"
The Adhipatti just needed to call a servant, so it took some time before he could say that he agreed with Mr Commander, but that it is often needed to see someone in order to be able to judge him.
"In general this may be true," Duclari continued in Dutch – either because he knew this language better and he thought that he had done enough to be polite, or because he wanted only Verbrugge to understand, "in general this may be true, but it isn't needed to meet Havelaar personally – he is a fool!"
"I never said that, Duclari!"
"No, you didn't say that, but I say it after all the things you told me about him. If someone jumps in the water to save a dog from sharks, I call him a fool."
"Well, it isn't sensible. But…"
"And listen, that poem against General Vandamme. It was really inappropriate!"
"It was funny."
"At your service! But a young man should not be funny to a General."
"You must remember that he was still very young. It was fourteen years ago. He was only 22 years old."
"And the turkey he stole!"
"That was to tease the General."
"Right! A young man should not tease a General, he, being a civil Governor, was his superior. The other poem was cute, but the eternal duelling!"
"Usually he did it for the other. He always defended the weakest party."
"Well, let anyone duel for himself, if he wants to do it at all. Personally I think a duel is very rarely needed. When it cannot be avoided, I'd certainly accept a challenge, and perhaps I'd challenge myself, but doing such a thing almost every day – no thanks. I hope he has changed in this aspect."
"No doubt. He is so much older now, has been married for some time, and an Assistant-Resident. Furthermore I always heard that he was good-hearted and that was concerned for justice."
"Well, that could be useful in Lebak! Something happened there, that... does the Regent understand us?"
"I don't think so. Show me something from your game bag – he'll think we're talking about that."
Duclari took his game bag and produced a few forest doves. Feeling those birds as if he was speaking about hunting, he told Verbrugge that a moment ago he had been followed by a Javanese, who had asked him to do something to lighten the people's burden.
"And," he continued, "this is very strong, Verbrugge! I am not really amazed about it myself. I lived long enough in Bantam to know what happens here, but it was a simple Javanese, who should be expected to be very careful and cautious when he talks about his chiefs, and he asks such a thing of someone who is not involved at all. That amazes me!"
"What did you answer, Duclari?"
"Well, that I wasn't involved. That he had to go to you, or to the new Assistant Resident, when he had arrived in Rangkas-Betoeng. That was the person to complain to."
"There they come!" shouted the caretaker Dongso. "I see a mantrie waving his toedoeng."
All stood up. Duclari did not want to make the impression, by being in the pendoppo, that he had come to the boundaries to welcome the Assistant Resident, who was of higher rank but not his superior, and even a fool. So he mounted his horse and rode away, followed by his servant.
The Adhipatti and Verbrugge stood at the entrance of the pendoppo. They saw a coach, pulled by four horses, which soon stopped near the bamboe building, covered with mud.
Chapter 10
It would have been hard to guess what could be found in that coach before Dongso, helped by the runners and many other servants who belonged to the Regent's train, had loosened all the belts and knots which covered the vehicle with a black leather casing which reminded one of the discretion which used to be common when lions and tigers entered the city, when zoological gardens were still travelling animal shows. There were neither lions nor tigers in that coach. Everything had only been closed up carefully because it was the West monsoon, so one had to be prepared for rain. Alighting from a coach, after a long bumpy journey over the road, is not as easy as one would imagine if one had never travelled. Almost like the old dinosaurs from prehistoric times, who after a long time have became an integral part of the clay, in which they had not come with the intention of staying there, something happens with the travellers, who have been a long time in a cramped space in a travelling coach, which I might call assimilation. In the end one does not know any more where the leather cushion of the coach stops and the ego starts, yes, the idea is not strange to me that one can have some toothache in such a coach which is mistaken for a moth in the clothing, or the other way round.
There are few circumstances in the material world, which give a thinking man a reason to make remarks in a sensible area, and thus I often wondered whether there are not many errors which have the power of a law among us, many crooked things which we consider straight, caused because we have been too long with the same company in the same travelling coach. The leg that you had to stick out on the left, between the hat box and the basket of cherries, the knee you pushed against the door, to prevent the lady across the way from thinking that you intended an attack on crinoline or virtue, the callus which was so afraid of the soles of the commis-voyageur beside you, the neck which you had to turn to the left, because it drips on the right, behold, they all eventually become necks and knees and feet which get something crooked. I think it is a good idea to change every now and then to another coach, another seat and other fellow-travellers. It allows you to turn your head, you can move your knee every now and then, and perhaps there is a young lady beside you with dancing shoes, or a little boy whose legs do not touch the floor. It gives you a chance to see straight and walk straight as soon as you have fixed ground under your feet.
I do not know whether in that coach, which now stopped in front of the pendoppo, there was something that was contrary to the 'solution of continuity', but it is certain that it took a long time before something appeared. It seemed there was a contest of politeness. One heard words like "If you please, my lady!" and "Resident!" However, eventually a man alighted, whose stature and attitude reminded one a bit of the dinosaurs, of which I spoke a moment ago. Since we will soon see him again, I'll tell you right now that his motionlessness was not only caused by his assimilation with the coach, but also that he showed a caution and deliberateness when there was no vehicle within many miles. It would make many dinosaurs jealous and in the eyes of many it would have been a sign of distinction and wisdom. He was, like most Europeans in the Indies, very pale, which in that part of the world is certainly not a sign of bad health, and he had fine features which showed a good development. But there was something cold in his looks, something which reminded one of a logarithm table, and although his appearance was certainly not unpleasant or repelling, one could not help thinking that his rather big, pointed nose was bored on that face, because there was so little to do there.
He politely offered his hand to a lady to help her alighting, and after taking a child from a man who was still in the coach, a little, fair-haired boy of about three years, they entered the pendoppo. Eventually there followed the gentleman himself, and whoso knew Java, would have found it remarkable that he waited at the door to help an old Javanese baboe to alight. Three servants had loosened themselves from the leather box that had been stuck on the back of the coach like a young oyster on the back of its mother.
The gentleman who alighted first had offered his hand to the Regent and to Controller Verbrugge, which was politely accepted, and the entire attitude showed that they felt themselves to be in the presence of an important person. It was the Resident of Bantam, the big region of which Lebak is a department, a regentship, or as one officially says, an assistant-residency.
While reading poetical stories, I am often annoyed because the authors pay so little attention to the taste of the reader. That happened in particular when they indicated that they wanted to produce something that was supposed to be droll or burlesque, to avoid the word humour, a peculiarity which is in a wretched way confused with funny. A person speaks who does not understand the language or pronounces it badly, a Frenchman says: "ka kauw na de krote krak" or "krietje kooit keen kare kroente kraak wek." If there is not a Frenchman, the author takes someone who stammers, or he creates a person who always uses the same words again. I saw a very foolish vaudeville which was successful because there was a man in it who said nothing but "My name is Meyer". This kind of comedy appears rather cheap to me, and, to say the truth, it makes me angry if you find them funny.
But now I must introduce you to something like that. Every now and then I must bring someone on the stage – I'll avoid it as much as possible – who really had a way of speaking which makes me fear that you will accuse me of a failed attempt to make you laugh. Therefore I assure you that it is not my fault, when the most distinguished Resident of Bantam, for that's the person I mean, had such a peculiarity of speaking that it is really hard to represent it here, without making you think that I attempt to find something funny in a person's quirk. He namely talked as if there was a full stop after every word, or even a long pause, and I can only compare the space between his words to the silence that follows when a preacher has said "amen" after a long prayer, which as you know, is a sign for everyone to change position, to cough or to blow his nose. What he said, was usually very well considered, and if he could have avoided those pauses, his words would usually have been quite sound. But all that breaking apart, that bumpiness, made it hard to listen to him. People often complained about it. For usually, if one started to reply, thinking that he had finished speaking, or that he left the last few words to be filled in by the listener's acuteness, the last few words came like trainards from a beaten army, which made you feel that you had interrupted him, and that is always unpleasant. The people in the capital Serang, as far as they were not in the government's service – a circumstance which makes people a bit cautious – called his way of speaking slimy. It is not a very tasteful word, but I must admit that it was a clear expression of the Resident's eloquence.
I have still said nothing of Max Havelaar and his wife – the two persons who had alighted from the coach with their child and the baboe – and perhaps it is better to leave a description of their appearances and characters to the reader's imagination. However, I was just giving a description, and therefore I can say that Mrs Havelaar was not beautiful, but her glance and her speech showed some loveliness, and the easy informality of her manners was a clear sign that she had been in the world, and that she belonged to the upper classes of society. She lacked the stiffness and unpleasantness of civilian manners, which in order to appear 'distinguished' teases himself and others with shame, and therefore she was not concerned with outward appearance, something that appears to be very important to other women. Her clothing was also an example of simplicity. A white, muslin baadjoe with a blue cordelière – I think they'd call it a peignoir in Europe – was her travel cloth. Around her neck she wore a blue silk thread with two small lockets, which, however, could not be seen, because they were hidden in the folds of her clothing. Further, her hair was à la chinoise, and she wore a garland of melatti in the kondeh and that was all.
I said that she wasn't beautiful, but yet I do not want you to think the opposite. I hope that you will find her fair, as soon as I have the opportunity to represent her, burning with indignation at what she called "misunderstanding of genius" when her dear Max was talked about, when she thought of an idea which was related to the well-being of her child. It has been said too often that the face is the mirror of the soul, so we cannot appreciate the portrait of a motionless face, in which nothing can be reflected because there is no soul in it. Well, she had a fair soul, and one had to be blind if one did not consider her face beautiful, if her soul was reflected in it.
Havelaar was a man of 35 years. He was slender and his movements were quick. Apart from his short, mobile upper lip, and his big faint-blue eyes, which appeared to be dreaming when he was in a calm mood, but blazed when an idea possessed him, there was nothing peculiar about him. His fair hair hung straight down at his temples, and I can understand that some people, who saw him for the first time, had the idea that they had met someone who belonged to a rare species, both in head and in heart. He was a barrel full of contradictions. Sharp as a knife, soft as a girl, he was always first to inspect the wound which his bitter words had caused, and he suffered more from them than the injured person. He had a quick understanding, which immediately grabbed the highest and most complicated thing, liked to play with the solution of complicated questions, for which he sacrificed all the time he had, and yet he often did not understand simple cases, which were so simple that a child could explain them. Full of love for truth and righteousness, he often neglected his simple immediate obligations, to restore an injustice which was higher or further or deeper, and which attracted him more because it probably required more effort. He was knightly and courageous, but, like Don Quixote, often spent his courage tilting at windmills. He burned with unquenchable ambition which made him disregard all common distinctions in social life, and yet his greatest fortune was a calm, snug life at home. A poet in the highest sense of the word, dreaming of solar systems near a spark, peopled with creatures he made himself, he felt himself lord of the world which he had himseld called to life, and yet he could, without any daydream, discuss the price of rice, the rules of a language, or the economic advantages of an Egyptian chicken farm. No science was unknown to him, he was interested in things he did not know – everyone knows little, and he, perhaps knowing more than others, was no exception to this - to be able to use those few things in a way which augmented his knowledge. He was neat and precise, and extremely patient, but that was because he found neatness, precision and patience hard, since his spirit had a wildness to it. He was slow and careful when judging cases, although it appeared different to those who hurriedly heard him draw conclusions. His impressions were too vivid to be considered lasting, and yet he often proved that they were lasting. He was attracted by anything that was great and exalted, and at the same time he was silly and naïve like a child. He was honest, in particular when honesty became generosity, and he would have left unpaid a debts of hundreds because he had given away thousands. He was witty and entertaining when he felt that his spirit was understood, but otherwise surly and solitary. Being kind to his friends he often made – sometimes too quickly – a friend of everyone who suffered. He was sensitive to love and affection – true to his word – weak in small things, but perseverant and stubborn when he found it worth while to show his character – humble and kind to those who recognised his spiritual superiority, but troublesome when one tried to oppose him – straightforward out of pride, and sometimes tight-lipped, since he was afraid that his candour would be misunderstood for stupidity – shy and ill-speaking when he thought he wasn’t understood, but eloquent when he felt that his words fell in good soil – slow when he was not inspired by an incentive from his own soul, but industrious, ardent and vigorous when he was – furthermore kind, civilised in his manners, and irreproachable in his conduct: well, that was almost Havelaar!
I say: almost. A description is hard, in particular when it is a description of a person who differs greatly from the basic pattern. That may be the reason why novelists usually describe their heroes as devils or angels. Black and white are easy to paint, while it is very hard to show the gradations in between, in particular when one wants to be truthful, which means that the painting should be neither too dark nor too bright. I really feel that I gave a very imperfect description of Havelaar. Lots of materials are in front of me, and these are so diverse and give me such a lot of information, that they make my judgement only harder. Perhaps I will, while I develop the events which I wish to tell, add some things to it. One thing is sure: he was an unusual man, and worthy of examination. I already see that I neglected to mention one of his major features, that he'd consider the ridiculous and serious sides of things with the same speed and at the same time, a feature which gave his way of speaking, while he did not realise it, a kind of humour, leaving his listeners to doubt whether they were moved by the deep feeling in his words or whether they had to laugh about the fun which suddenly made an end to the seriousness.
It was remarkable that his appearance, and even his wants, showed so few traces of his past. Boasting of the past has become very common. There are people who floated fifty or sixty years on a stream, thinking that they are swimming, while all the time they can only tell that they moved from A Canal to B Street. Nothing is more common than hearing people who boast of the past, in particular by people who obtained their grey hairs so easily. Others think that they have experience because their fates had really changed, but there is no evidence that these changes influenced their souls. I can imagine that being near an important event – or even being part of it – has little or no influence on a certain sort of feeling, in people who are not able to perceive and process those impressions. Whoso doubts this, may wonder whether one can assume that experience could be found in the inhabitants of France, who were 40 or 50 years old in 1815. After all, they had all witnessed the important tragedy that started in 1789, and some had even played an important role in it.
And, the other way around, many obtain diseases, although the external circumstances give no reason for it. Think of the novels about Crusoe, of the imprisonment of Silvio Pellico and of the sweet Picciola by Saintine, of the fight in the breast of an old crone who had one passion all her life, without ever betraying to anyone what happened in her heart, of the feelings of the philanthropist who, without apparently being involved in the course of events, is ardently interested in the well-being of a fellow-citizen. Imagine how he hopes and fears, how he watches every change, gets excited about a fair idea and burns with anger when he sees it pushed away and trampled by those who, for a moment, were stronger than those fair ideas. Think of the philosopher who, from his cell, attempts to teach people what truth is, while finding that his voice is shouted down by pious hypocrisy or fortune-seeking quacksalvers. Imagine Socrates – not when he empties the poisonous cup, for I'm thinking of the experience of feelings, and not those which are immediately caused by external circumstances – how bitterly sad his soul must have been when he searched for the good and true one and was called "a spoiler of youth and a despiser of Gods."
Or better still: think of Jesus, who stares sadly towards Jerusalem, saying "that it did not desire it."
Such a sad cry – before poisoned cup or wooden cross – does not emerge from an innocent heart. There must have been suffering, there, a lot of experience!
I had to say this. It's there now and there it will remain. Havelaar had suffered aplenty. Do you want something that outweighs moving from A Canal to B Street? He had been in shipwrecks, more than once. There were fires, uproar, assassination, war, duels, wealth, poverty, hunger, cholera, love and "loves" in his diary. He had visited many countries, he had met people of all races and all levels of society, morals, prejudices, religion and skin colour.
As regards circumstances of life, he could have experienced much. And that he had really experienced them, that he had not walked through life without noticing the impressions which were offered abundantly, that may be proven by the quickness of his spirit, and the susceptibility of his mind.
One thing roused the amazement of all those who knew or could guess how much he had experienced or suffered. There was little to see of it on his face. However, his features showed some fatigue, but this seemed more like a prematurely-ended childhood than like approaching old age. And yet it had to be an approaching old age; in the Indies a 35-year-old man is no longer young.
His behaviour had remained youthful too. He could play with a child, and like a child. Often he complained that his "little Max" was too young to fly kites, something the "big Max" enjoyed so much. With boys he played leapfrog and he gladly drew an embroidering pattern for the girls. He even handled the needle himself and enjoyed that work, although he often said that there were better things to do than simply counting stitches. With 18-year-old young men he was a young student who enjoyed singing his Patriam canimus or Gaudeamus igitur; yes, I am not quite sure whether he did not, when he was on holiday in Amsterdam, destroy a signboard at a shop, because it displeased him that it showed a negro, tied to the feet of a European with a long pipe in his mouth, and underneath the text the smoking, young merchant.
The baboe whom he had helped to alight, was like all baboes in the Indies when they are old. If you know these kinds of servants, I need not tell you what she looked like. And if you do not know them, I cannot tell you. Only this made her different from all nannies in the Indies: she had very little to do. Mrs Havelaar herself took examplary care of her child, and whatever was done with little Max, she did it herself, which greatly amazed other ladies, who could not conceive that a mother was the slave of her children.
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