by Arthur Japin
“Eyes shut!” Herr Professor Deckwitz instructed, as he positioned the points of his callipers on the outer rims of my eye sockets. He tightened the screw until the legs were clamped on the bone. “Extraordinary!”
The professor, a short man, wore a white smock buttoned at the back, like a slaughterer or a surgeon. He held his little fingers aloft and his arms akimbo, as if he were pouring tea from the finest eggshell porcelain. He was engaged in determining the conformation of my skull and clicked his tongue as he made a note of the distance between my cheekbones. Kwame, who was to be measured next, watched the proceedings along with Sophie.
Herr Professor Deckwitz was famous in Italy for his description of Dante Alighieri’s finger bones, which are kept in the library at Florence. In France he had gained popularity with his study of Descartes’ skull, from which he inferred great intelligence, and with the rediscovery of the penis of Abélard, on which subject he had little to say because, being a phrenologist, he drew conclusions exclusively from bone structures. His treatise titled Tendencies of Physiognomy, in which the facial features of humans are correlated with those of animals and their respective characters, was an international success. Since then Herr Deckwitz had been travelling all over Europe lecturing at universities and demonstrating his skills for the nobility.
Sophie had attended one of his demonstrations during her last visit to her aunt in Weimar. Ever fascinated by new inventions, she had decided, together with her cousin Carl Alexander, to have her skull measured. She turned out to be “cheerful by nature and blessed with talent, kindhearted and strong-willed, exceptionally intelligent and straightforward.” I could have told him that myself.
The princess had returned from Weimar full of enthusiasm. For weeks she regaled us with accounts of the cultural goings-on in the fairy-tale setting of the castle in the mountains. There had been artists and architects, poets and singers. Concerts and plays provided entertainment every evening. She had met Hans Christian Andersen, the Danish writer, with whom she sat in the park designed by Goethe while he tried out new stories on her. She had tramped across mountains and valleys which bore the names of her mother and her aunt. Deep in the forest she had fancied herself to be utterly alone and imagined what it would be like to survive in the wild. Sometimes, when her narrative flagged, I would beg her to go back to the beginning, just for the sake of seeing her eyes sparkle again.
So, when we heard of Deckwitz’s arrival in The Hague in January 1842, it was clear what would transpire. One freezing afternoon we presented ourselves at the Queen’s Pavilion with a view to enriching the Deckwitz collection with our unique skulls.
After the professor had established the conformation of my cranium he took me aside and pronounced upon the content, although he confessed to some reservations, as the African skull was totally novel to him. The reason for his popularity was obvious: he said only what people most wanted to hear. His manner reminded me of the psychic medium who only recently attended the crown princess after the birth of Willem Alexander’s son Wiwill, the fourth Willem in a row. Deckwitz’s words were too flattering to be repeated. However, there were two comments that made the blood rush to my head: the first (“You are steadfast in friendship”) because I had recently proved him wrong, and the second—he leaned over and whispered man to man—because it struck home: “You are inclined to give in to certain temptations of the flesh.” Hardly a far-fetched oracle for a boy of nearly fifteen, but it left me as flustered as if I had been caught red-handed.
In those days I had eyes only for Sophie, and could spare hardly a thought for Kwame. I made myself comfortable in my little room and tried to forget my cousin’s lonely nights. It irked me to see Kwame red-eyed at breakfast. I would even go out of my way to rile him on occasion. Since the heir apparent had married Sophie von Württemberg, for instance, I had taken to referring to our own princess as “my Sophie,” to distinguish her from the former. Kwame usually pretended not to hear the first time I did so, but at the second mention he would seethe with rage and at the third he would explode. So when he gave me one of his accusing, mournful looks I retaliated by saying “my Sophie” twenty-four times before the end of breakfast. I had surrendered one friendship and embraced another. The new-found privacy of my own bed offered the opportunity of discovering my body, which was reaching maturity at that time. I was possessed of a vivid imagination, which was entirely focused on Sophie. I held on to the images crossing my mind in the daytime, storing them carefully so that I could invoke them at will in the night.
Just as a youth trains the muscles of lower back, shoulders and arms to prepare himself to bear an adult burden, so he stimulates other parts of the body with a view to future service. At the van Moock establishment these practices were common, to the extent that the boys discussed them amongst themselves without shame, indeed with a certain measure of pride. Cornelius de Groot, being the oldest pupil, was considered by most of us to be an example in these matters, and the size of his manhood, which he did not attempt to conceal in the washroom, made us all the readier to believe his monstrous stories. Although we shuddered at the thought of behaving in such a way ourselves, we were all so eager to know more that Cornelius started providing illustrations. That winter I bought several prints for a few cents. In later years I came across my little collection of pictures each time I moved house, but could never bring myself to part with them. They are a reminder of my sweetest discoveries, which were untempered by reality and full of promise. I admit that in my mind’s eye the crude figures were overlaid by Sophie’s delicate features, but I deny most sincerely that I ever disrespected her. I discovered the highest and lowest of sentiments at the same time. Desire of the body nurtures desire of the mind. Love presents itself in both forms. All the better when they coincide, of course, but each gives satisfaction on its own, too. If the one is lacking, you still have the other.
When he had finished with me, Deckwitz wished to examine my cousin. I sat down next to Sophie. My knee touched hers, but she did not move away. I was very conscious of Kwame watching us. We were sitting directly facing the examining apparatus. The professor adjusted the callipers and noted the width of the boyish jaw with incredulity. Sophie pinched me. She wanted me to whisper the outcome of my cranial proportions to her, but I pretended to be absorbed in the process of measurement.
“Well?” she said impatiently, nudging my leg with her knee.
“It was fine,” I said.
She snorted and kicked my shins like a mare held on a too short rein. Laughing. As if I were teasing her.
“I’m intelligent,” I whispered in her ear.
“Of course you are.”
“More intelligent than some people—he was very clear on that score—more intelligent than some he had measured last year at Weimar . . .”
She provoked me further with a prod of her elbow and if we had been alone we would have been rolling over the floor the next minute. Tickling—that was something she could not abide. I restrained myself, but regretted it at once, for she grabbed me by the scruff of the neck saying: “I’m warning you!”
The professor followed us from the corner of his eye, but did not dare voice his disapproval.
“Ouch!” Kwame cried. The callipers were clamped on too tight. Deckwitz apologized and said he had been distracted by the small scar which was more visible on Kwame’s cheek than on mine. We explained about the small cut that is sometimes made in the face of the newborn in Kumasi. Firstly, this makes the infant less appealing to spirits seeking to claim its soul. Secondly, medicinal herbs are smeared into the wound by way of prevention against all sorts of ailments. The professor showed some surprise at the notion of making cuts in a sound body to protect against disease, but Sophie said it was a wonderful idea and well worth trying.
The phrenological examination proceeded. Sophie’s gown rustled when she pressed her elbow against mine.
“Seriously, Aquasi, I want to know. Did he say nice things about you? I’m interested. Hone
stly,” she whispered, staring fixedly ahead. I believe I shut my eyes for an instant so as not to contemplate my own impertinence.
“Something very nice,” I said, and heard my temples throb as I screwed up courage. “He said I’m in love.”
She stared at me open-mouthed. Then she shut her mouth and glanced away, but after a few seconds her eyes were drawn to me again.
“How can he tell?”
“By my ears.”
“By your ears?” She inspected the one nearest to her but discovered nothing out of the ordinary.
“That’s what he said. Up to my ears in love.”
On her guard, she peered through her eyelashes.
“Did he say with whom?”
“No, for that I must consult a specialist in affairs of the heart.”
I had thought she would blush or at least burst out laughing, but she slumped back in her chair.
“Oh Aquasi!” After about a minute she repeated my name, sighing this time, from the bottom of her heart. “Oh Aquasi!” She didn’t say another word during the whole session. Afterwards she sent us away as soon as courtesy permitted. At the time I didn’t mind. I had stopped thinking. Having spoken out made me walk on air.
“If you ask me,” Kwame said, “she’ll spend the rest of the afternoon inflicting ritual wounds on herself, rubbing medicines into them all and leaping up and down around a bonfire. You have to be so careful with what you say to her.” I pushed him into a ditch for punishment.
The time came that there was not very much left that van Moock could teach me. It happened increasingly often that I put him a question he was unable to answer. At one point I even made a pretence of ignorance, merely to boost his morale.
In the meantime preparations were underway for our baptism by Dominee Molenkamp, who was out to impress his superiors. He was sure we would make excellent missionaries to spread the word of God among the Ashanti. However, he had not foreseen Kwame’s cool response, by which he was so disappointed that he postponed the baptism for an indefinite period. Mine too, although I had done nothing untoward.
Kwame was not less intelligent than I, he merely seemed to have lost all interest in our school subjects, even Scripture and Morality, which required not only brains but above all the will to reflect. He read the texts dutifully, but was unaffected by them. He also turned against all science subjects, preferring to devote his time to solitary occupations such as drawing and making music. He exchanged his textbooks for novels. I tried, without success, to raise his flagging spirits, and reminded him of my father’s wish. “Do you think he sent us to Holland to learn to draw and play music and daydream?” I said gruffly. I thought he had withdrawn into his shell just to punish me. In the end I decided it was time for me to mind my own business.
Now that our education was coming to an end, the correspondence between van Moock, the Wesleyan Missionary Society in London and the Ministry of Colonies grew in length and frequency. The latter intended to send us back to the Gold Coast within the next two years, in order that the Dutch government might recoup some of the monies that had been spent on us. The Reverend Beecham of the Wesleyan Society recommended a period of practical training combining instruction in medicine, architecture and agricultural skills. “Their model,” he wrote, “should be Peter the Great of Russia.” Even Queen Anna burst out laughing when we told her of his reference to her ancestor.
The Royal Academy of Science had been founded earlier that year, in Delft. Its patron was Crown Prince Willem Alexander, and it was at his instigation that van Moock informed us of the various courses on offer. The dean of the academy considered missionary work a waste of time and was more in favour of converting souls to his own cause. He had even recruited Cornelius de Groot for a general engineering course, although the boy could only pay for his tuition by taking employment as a night watchman. Kwame and I had meetings with several of the professors. With the rich ores on the Gold Coast foremost in their minds, they sought to arouse our interest in regional and practical geology, geophysics and engineering. They seemed to welcome the chance to enhance the prestige of their academy with the attendance of two foreign princes. The fact that we were rather young—sixteen by the time we enrolled—would be overlooked.
For the first time we saw an opportunity to do something for the good of our country. Kwame’s enthusiasm was fired at last. He even made an effort to do better in class, but had lagged too far behind to make up for past inattention. I realized that by focusing my studies on the Gold Coast I would be able to fulfil my father’s expectations. At the same time, the idea of returning to Africa made me uneasy.
All those years at school I had permitted myself only vague memories of home. It was safer that way: the blur dulled the pain. Whenever I could not avoid picturing my mother in sharp detail, stooping with pursed lips and brushing my nose with hers to press a kiss on my cheek, I would shut my eyes tight and force myself to think of other things—Dutch things. When Sophie caught me doing this once, she thought it very odd indeed. Still, it worked, and I became quite skilled at this trick. After a while it was enough merely to turn away as soon as my mother loomed, and if I still wept it was for the loss of a mother, not my mother. In due course other memories dimmed, too, and I was left only with shadowy figures in the place of my loved ones.
On the few occasions that I was still visited by dreams of being reunited with my family, the figures running towards me were faceless. I did not understand their words of greeting, nor they mine. We ran dumbly across a landscape in which I had lost my bearings. Unlike Kwame I had never imagined what it would be like to return. Now that I attempted to do so, I found I had no memory of the Asantehene’s features. His clothing I could recall, and the Golden Stool, and how his rings were embedded in his plump fingers. Nothing else.
It came as a blow to me to realize that the curtain I had let down between me and my childhood had obscured the faces of my past for ever. That night I visited Kwame’s bedroom for the last time. I slipped into bed with him but, as I was drawing up the covers, he turned away from me.
“No, Kwasi,” he said, “not any more.” And he lay motionless, listening to my stumbling retreat.
After our encounter with the phrenologist I did not see my Sophie again until mid-March, which is not to say that she was absent from my ardent imagination. The vividness of the pictures in my head was sometimes almost as gratifying as if I had seen her in the flesh. The court was in some disarray. The old king who had abdicated was in Berlin, where he had fallen gravely ill in the arms of his lady-love. While the royal family were making up their minds whether the dying man was to be ignored or forgiven, all social engagements were postponed. During those months of separation I wrote Sophie three long letters, to which she replied affectionately but in keeping with court etiquette; she did not refer to what had passed between us during our session with Professor Deckwitz. It was not until Easter that we received an invitation from the crown princess to a thé dansant, at which my Sophie was to declaim some verses by German poets. I would have been equally thrilled by the chance to hear her read the weather forecast in Mongolian!
Although anyone who had to put up with Willem Alexander’s temperament deserved sympathy, Sophie von Württemberg never inspired affection in me. It was clear that she saw us as belonging to her mother-in-law’s camp, along with her two brothers-in-law and her sister-in-law. She thought Prince Alexander weak and spoiled. She detested Prince Hendrik, whom I liked for his probing mind and sincere interest in our well-being. I never knew my Sophie to say a word against her brother’s wife, but she too was regarded as an enemy.
Nevertheless, I tried to form an unbiased opinion of Sophie von Württemberg, who would after all be queen one day. Relations between her and her husband were strained. Since I was in the throes of love myself, I felt sympathy for anyone not thus favoured, although I was perturbed by her dislike of Holland, which she found small and unappealing and full of dull folk. In later years people assured me that she
was a good soul who suffered an unjust fate and a boorish husband, but in general her melancholy inspired more irritation than sympathy. Indeed, when she had asked Grand Duchess Maria Pavlovna, aunt to both Sophies, for advice concerning her intended marriage to Willem Alexander of Orange, whom she doubted would make her happy, the grand duchess had merely said: “Well my dear, what right would you have to happiness?” This was the sort of reaction she elicited.
However, as a hostess she could not be faulted. With her little son Wiwill on her arm, she personally conducted the search party for Easter eggs. This did not take long, for the gardens of her royal residence, which differed from a gentleman’s mansion only in the prevailing atmosphere of gloom, were not large.
My Sophie read aloud from the German poet Schiller. Afterwards she came to my side. She had something to tell me, she said, but was waylaid by Mrs. van Moock, which good lady was delighted to have us under her wing for the afternoon and under considerable pressure from the Prussian ambassador’s wife to arrange for Kwame and me to grace one of the embassy soirées with our presence. Under cover of their animated chatter, I reached out for Sophie’s hand, but she shrank from my touch. She rose abruptly, and invited Kwame to accompany her on the piano while she sang.
King Willem II arrived at around four wearing his favourite Russian cap, which usually betokened a good humour. He embraced his daughter-in-law warmly, who recoiled from the smell of tobacco. The king had just inspected the new wing that was being built on to the palace. He had drawn up the plans himself, wholly in accordance with the modern Gothic mode. He unrolled his blueprints and sketches of ornamental features. I enquired after the architectural calculations and the amount of tension sustained by the arches, but his evasive answers told me that he was better at sketching than at calculating. The conversation soon turned to the king’s collection of paintings, which he wished to open to the public. He even offered us a private viewing in the near future, and Kwame’s response was so warm that there was no way we could decline the invitation when it came.