House of Glass

by Pramoedya Ananta Toer

  He was not arrested, let alone exiled. But he was always prepared to be arrested. His Excellency had his own way of dealing with these rebellious types. He was very careful in what he said and did. He had no interest in using unofficial terrorist gangs to help the government. Neither he nor I knew whether or not this policy would continue for long. Everybody would have to wait to see how things developed.

  In the meantime Marco did not appear at public meetings. Neither did he appear in any ketoprak performances. He hid away and wrote and wrote, publishing everything anonymously. But Pangemanann would never forget his style nor his vocabulary nor who his friends were. The tone of his articles was becoming more and more extreme all the time. They were increasingly confrontational and encouraged people to cause trouble.

  In these times of increasing social unrest, the government deliberately avoided taking harsh action as it had in the past. I myself had come to the conclusion that this was indeed the official policy of Her Majesty’s government in the Netherlands. It was obvious that they were worried that any harsh action could result in even worse unrest.

  I was able to get reports on some of what Marco was saying and it seemed that one of the reasons for his return to Java was so that he could make sure that his late teacher, Raden Mas Minke, received the recognition he deserved. But he did not talk anymore about Siti Soendari. And when he arrived in Surabaya from Europe, not having gone ashore at Betawi, he went straight to Solo. He felt no need to go to see Mas Tjokro while he was in Surabaya. But Mas Marco did not carry out his intentions as regards his teacher.

  After he received a letter from Europe asking why he had done nothing, he told two of his friends: “At this stage of our struggle we cannot afford to waste energy on sentimentality.”

  Nobody knew who sent him the letter. He never replied to it. He had angrily burned it. And he did not answer his friends’ questions as to who his teacher was. But why didn’t he reply to the letter from Europe? Perhaps it was from Siti Soendari, and perhaps too he did not dare do anything that would attract too much attention and result in the government taking action against him.

  Come on, Marco, once again you have entered my house of glass. You too are someone who can never be still, just like your teacher. How lucky you are that His Excellency Van Limburg Stirum has forgotten that leaflet on gray-green paper that you once wrote. And perhaps it was not only because he brought a softer policy from the Netherlands. Maybe your behavior, based as it was on such inadequate education, stirred feelings of pity in him.

  With such a restless spirit as yours, you would not have been happy for long if you had been able to take Siti Soendari as your wife. After a little while you would be restless again, wanting to do something, to take action, to act. Who knows what else you would have decided to do. If you had really made it to the state of holy matrimony, you would also have come to realize how great was the gap in education between the two of you and you would have suffered all your life.

  You were right to decide to return home to the Indies. Without Soendari you could be your whole self again, without other things on your mind. And it was right too that you intended to rehabilitate your teacher’s reputation. The situation in the Indies has changed, that’s for sure. But there was an easier way for you to carry out your intention, except that you are haunted by the possibility that the government might act against you. If you only knew that His Excellency the governor-general and the Royal Netherlands government were so afraid of the Indies bursting into flames . . . they both had grave doubts about the loyalty of the soldiers of the Royal Netherlands Indies Army and the Indies marines because of the increasing influence of Sneevliet.

  The government’s assessment was that the most likely place for trouble to start was around Solo, where the Mangkunegaran Legion lived. There were whispering campaigns in the Secretariat calling for the legion not to be allowed new intakes of recruits. Gradually the legion would become a battalion of grandfathers incapable of even carrying a rifle. But you, Marco, you are haunted by the images of the machine gun just at the very moment when you should be taking action, doing something, and striking out, which is what your restlessness demands of you.

  If you are able to do this, Marco, to rehabilitate the reputation of your teacher, then you might even end up making clear to the Sarekat something that Raden Mas Minke always wanted to make clear but never dared put down on paper. The Sarekat would receive some guidance as to what stance it should be taking. Perhaps this would have come about, perhaps not.

  And if you had studied medicine in your youth and then had gone to interview Goenawan, you would have been amazed. How could a former medical student die of dysentery in a city like Betawi? Nobody would have known better than Raden Mas Minke himself that he did not have dysentery. He knew what illness he was suffering from. And he would not have told Goenawan because he would not have wanted to give his family any wrong ideas. He wanted to go to see a doctor of his own choice. But the illness worked faster than he had calculated. He died, Marco. And then you came, yes, you came but you have done nothing for him. . . .

  He didn’t even come to Betawi to pay homage at the grave. It was I who did that, alone, as a mark of respect for a man who had set new things in motion in the Indies. I had gone there as a student and an admirer, bearing a wreath of flowers. And that was just ten days after he died. And on the wreath was a black ribbon with white writing as a sign of respect and veneration: “From somebody you do not know to somebody who is truly respected and esteemed.”

  I knew I had wronged him and done ill toward him. And I had no regret that I had carried out those things I could not avoid carrying out. He was a leader, someone in the vanguard; he should have been able to outwit me. In this game of chess he had lost all his men, from pawns to his king, and now he had even lost himself. All I had lost was my principles. And what is the price of principles!

  Such things as principles are good only for knowing about, not implementing. To know where the sun lies and the reason why it lies there does not mean you have to try to grab hold of it. In any case Minke should have known that the pieces I had on the chessboard would never be his. He should have thrown the chessboard away and challenged me to a fight, or eliminated me altogether.

  Marco still did nothing to carry out his intentions.

  The Sarekat Islam was silent. Its headquarters in Surabaya was also silent. Mas Tjokro, the emperor without a crown, the inheritor of this kingdom, was also silent. And this silence signaled their return to the embrace of Javanism, the embrace of darkness, as if reason had been thrown away, as if the Sarekat had sprung forth from cracks in the rocks at the command of some god, as if there had been no person who had pioneered it and begun the whole process. Samadi said nothing either. And neither did Thamrin Mohammed Thabrie, who had preceded Minke in departing this world.

  How different were these peoples of the Indies from Europeans, especially the French. In France everyone who has contributed something new to humankind receives a respected position in the world and in its history as a matter of course. In the Indies, among the people of the Indies, it seems that everyone is afraid he will not have any place in history and spends all his time trying to control it.

  The teacher was a personality whom I admired and respected. After he was separated from his followers for just five years, they have forgotten him.

  Modern Pitung, if it turns out there is nobody but me who will remember you, then you will be remembered in history in whatever way you want. One day I will often be mentioning your name. One day. Not now. I pray that God receives and gives you a place in accord with all the good you have done. . . .

  I kept to myself my speculation that Marco’s return would reactivate the Semarang-Solo-Jogja wing. I had made a promise to myself that I would not lay a hand upon him. I would make him the next object of my studies. I just prayed that my superiors would not issue orders that would destroy my plans.

  The situation was becoming more and more tense. There were
outbreaks of violence everywhere. A number of the gang leaders who were arrested turned out to be criminals who had shared cells with political prisoners during the Idenburg period. There were signs that in a number of places criminality and politics were becoming intertwined in a close embrace.

  The arson attacks on the houses of district officials were no coincidence. The villages along the Semarang-Solo-Jogja axis also showed signs of restlessness. Meanwhile the rajas of Java showed no signs of concern.

  This governor-general tended to seek political solutions to such developments but he had not yet found the right path. He hadn’t even tried to discuss it with the staff at the Algemeene Secretariat. Van Limburg Stirum remained a mysterious figure. It seemed that his view was that to take administrative action rather than political action would only stir up the situation.

  It had been possible to estimate the governor-general’s position on these questions, but the news that arrived from Holland shook everybody—the Kingdom of the Netherlands promised to give self-government to the Indies, providing the Indies was able to defend itself and maintain law and order until the world war was finished. Representatives of Indies organizations would be given positions in the new governing councils.

  I knew that this promise was the fruit of the hard work and striving of the Indies organizations between 1906 and 1917, while the basis of this proposal was the report I myself had written and which I had later asked my boss to return to me for revision. Or was there some other commission which I knew nothing about that had prepared a similar proposal? I don’t know.

  It was a very impressive promise. Governor-General Van Limburg Stirum was very enthusiastic about this and threw off his mantle of mystery. Orders were issued for us to summon representatives from all the important Indies organizations, European and Native. Delegation after delegation arrived at the palace but I was never invited to attend.

  These developments truly discouraged me. My new boss did not seem to know I existed or that I received a salary from the Algemeene Secretariat. He never came to see me and never summoned me to his office. The new steps being taken by the home government and the governor-general did not seem to need Pangemanann.

  How it hurt to realize that the government had shut its eyes to the services I had rendered all this time. Would my fate be no better than some rag discarded because it was covered in unholy filth?

  Couldn’t it happen that one day, if the Native organizations gained their self-confidence, they too would establish their own commissions? Then they would hire European lawyers and there could be no doubt that one of these commissions would summon me and examine my hands, my fingers, my thoughts and feelings, and . . . whatever else there was left of me. Where could I run to hide then?

  Why did the promise of self-government fill me with such fear and anxiety? Was it because I thought too highly of my own knowledge? Under self-government all the Native organizations would sit in the government councils, would join in the formulating of laws, would oversee the courts and other mechanisms for control. This would certainly be the case if they truly meant self-government. My house of glass would be empty, or perhaps I would end up its new resident. All this time I had been the observer, but if things got out of hand, the situation might be reversed and everyone could end up observing me inside.

  But what did they really mean by self-government? As each day passed I tried to worm some more information from them. But to no avail. They kept it a secret or they were as ignorant as I on this question. And I knew for sure that the Native organizations knew no more about what was intended than I. And if it did come about, they would all probably turn upon everything and everybody they had ever disliked. Natives who had grown used to living in a world of illusions, who had surrendered all their reason and emotions to such illusions, could turn into wild beasts whose ferocity knew no bounds. The Indies was not Europe. And how I longed for Europe today, where every individual was respected and valued, and more than that, where everybody had their place in the sun and their rights acknowledged.

  Self-government would be a beautiful dream for every Native, no matter whom, because they would have the chance to fulfill their dreams to let loose all the animal passions that they had suppressed because of their fear of the government. I was ready to bet that they did not even know that the promise of self-government stemmed from their own activity during the past years, activity reaching a climax now with the heating up of the Semarang-Solo-Jogjakarta axis.

  I could see now that my fate would not be better than yours, my teacher, Raden Mas Minke. And it would have been no better either had you agreed to sign that letter. But you preferred Karet Cemetery to surrendering your self-respect. You were brave and not at all tactical. It should have been you, had you been able to please the governor-general, whom he summoned to discuss all sorts of matters. Yes, that was what politics was like. Today you are a friend, tomorrow an enemy, depending on the needs of the moment. I was the only one who did not turn like the wheel of a cart. I could only be trusted by one kind of power. Only a power as stupid as the Indies buffalo could ever put its trust in such as me.

  But it eventuated that the promise of self-government did not result in the unrest along the Semarang-Solo-Jogjakarta axis receding. It was I who was most happy to see this. I used all my influence and connections to whip things up as much as possible. Yes, it is true, I always used to be suppressing those whom the government did not like. But now the government had to understand that the promise of self-government would not satisfy the hotheads of the Sarekat’s young generation. The government had to withdraw its promise. It had to. It was permissible for me to use any and every means at my disposal to protect my position, which was now in danger.

  Cor Oosterhof was my commander in the field, and he worked without rest. I had given him the authority to find finances from whatever source and with whatever methods he deemed necessary, as long as he was not found out by the authorities. If that did happen, then all links with me would have to be ended, even if it meant silencing him with the point of a dagger or the puncture of a bullet.

  The S-S-J axis was becoming more and more active. A young boy, aged just sixteen, short in body, who a few years before had waited on people in the Semarang Tram and Rail Workers’ Union office, better equipped than others because he had read some Dutch books and had considerable oratory skills, had now come forward as a prospective agitator of great power. The young lad’s name was Semaoen. It was he who reminded people with the most force and the greatest passion that the promise of self-government was nothing but an admission of weakness on the part of both the Indies government and the home government. He explained that the Native organizations therefore should not respond to the Kingdom of the Netherlands’ offer.

  This young lad, much younger even than my own last-born, had brought a fresh wind to my otherwise dismal thoughts and feelings. It was essential that I ensure that his views be supported. It was essential that the Native organizations not believe in the government’s promise. But was Cor Oosterhof capable of carrying out such a political task as this?

  In a meeting with him in Betawi, the following conversation took place.

  “You know this young boy in Semarang called Semaoen?”

  “Of course, Meneer. He is being quite useful to us, yes?”

  “It’s not for you to be asking me questions. Listen to me. Do you think you can get more people to support him?”

  He didn’t answer. I knew very well that he had no experience in political work. All he knew was how to wield force. I ordered him to arrange for the whole of the Central Java membership to bring their support behind Semaoen. He just shook his head.

  “There is no way we can do that.”

  I knew that he wouldn’t be able to do it.

  “You haven’t even tried yet.”

  “Even if you put a pistol to my head, Meneer, I would still have to say that it is impossible.”

  “But you can keep your mouth shut.”

 
“Of course. You have already taught me what the rules are in this game.”

  And I knew that there was no way I could use official government channels for this.

  I spent over two hours explaining to him what it was that he would have to do. The more I explained the more impressed he became. But the more and more impressed he became, the less he understood. In this kind of work, he was just a snotty-nosed school kid. If he was let loose, he would probably turn out even more stupid than Robert Suurhof.

  When I realized that this task was beyond his capabilities, I instructed him instead to continue with his old work, except that he had to intensify it.

  “Do whatever you can to convince the young hotheads that the government has lost the capacity to take action against them.”

  And so more outbreaks of unrest occurred along the S-S-J axis. Semaoen became more and more outspoken, as if the whole world was his and all the people’s hearts had united with his. If His Excellency Governor-General Idenburg had been in power, I think the boy would have ended up spending his youth in exile. It was from the mouth of this young boy that the Natives first heard such new supernatural words as imperialism, capitalism, nationalism, and internationalism. I never believed myself that this young teenager fully understood the meaning of these, his favorite words.

  Thank God it turned out to be unnecessary to organize support for Semaoen. Things developed in such a way that distrust of the government’s promise soon became widespread anyway.

  Semaoen himself continued to rise, and his call became more and more shrill. My private object of study, Mas Marco Kartodikromo, had long since been left behind. The S-S-J axis, that I referred to in my reports as the S-J axis, also fell under Semaoen’s influence, and it was as if the island of Java were split in two along that axis.

  His Excellency Governor-General Van Limburg Stirum could not be convinced, even when shown the facts, that the Natives did not believe his promise. Instead, he expressed great admiration for Semaoen. Indeed, it went further than that. Just as it had been with Dr. Snouck Hurgronje, and with the resident of Bojonegoro, and with me also, he wanted to adopt that boy as his own private object of scientific study. Snouck Hurgronje had Achmad Djajadiningrat, de le Croix and van Heutsz had Minke, and I myself had Marco and Siti Soendari. And these were all now out-of-date items. How quickly each generation of Natives sped to new horizons, no longer tied by traditions, each seeming to take off from a different platform, which was in fact the same one—Europe.