This Earth of Mankind

by Pramoedya Ananta Toer

  “I don’t like this house. I don’t like this country either. Too hot. I like the snow better. This country is too hot. I’ll go home to Europe. Sail. Travel the world. As soon as I board my first ship, I’ll tattoo my chest and arms.”

  “That’d be great,” I said. “I’d like to see other countries too.”

  “The same. So we could sail around the world together. You and me, Minke. We could make a plan, yes? It’s a pity you’re a Native. Look at the picture of this ship. A friend gave it to me.” His spirits picked up. “He was a sailor on the Caribou. I met him by coincidence at Tanjung Perak. Spoke a lot, mainly about Canada. I was ready to join him. He wouldn’t let me. ‘What’s the point in you becoming a sailor. You’re the son of a wealthy man. Stay at home. You could buy your own ship if you wanted to.’” He gazed at me with dreaming eyes. “That was two years ago. And he’s never put in at Perak again. Hasn’t sent any letters either. Perhaps he’s drowned.”

  “Maybe Mama won’t allow you to go,” I said. “Who’ll look after this big business.”

  “I’m an adult,” he hissed, “with the right to decide for myself. But I’m still unsure. I don’t know why.”

  “It’s better you talk it over with Mama first.” He shook his head. “Or with Papa,” I suggested.

  “A pity.” He sighed deeply.

  “I’ve never seen you talk with Mama. Perhaps it’d be all right if I told her?”

  “No. Thank you. I hear from Suurhof you’re a bit of a crocodile with the ladies.”

  I felt my face pound as my blood galloped through my veins. I knew at once I’d got to his sensitive spot. Now his true intentions were being revealed.

  “Everyone has been judged good or bad by a third party at some time or other. Equally, on the other hand, everyone has passed judgment on other people too. I have. You have. Suurhof has,” I said.

  “Me? No,” he answered firmly. “I’ve never cared about what other people say or do. Especially not about what people say of you. And even less so about what they say of me. But Suurhof said: Be careful of that filthy Native Minke, a ‘low-class crocodile.’”

  “He’s right, everybody has a duty to be careful. Suurhof too. Nor am I any less careful of you, Rob.”

  “Look, I’ve never dreamed of sleeping in another person’s house because of a woman. Even if I had been invited.”

  “I’ve already told you, I like your sister. Mama asked me to stay here.”

  “Good. As long as you know it wasn’t me that invited you.”

  “I fully understand, Rob. I’ve still got Mama’s letter.”

  “Let me read it.”

  “It’s for me, Rob, not for you. A pity.”

  As time went on, his attitude and his voice increasingly showed his hatred. He was trying to frighten me.

  “I don’t know if you will marry my sister in the end or not. It seems Mama and Annelies like you. Even so, you must remember, I’m the male and the eldest child in this family.”

  He stammered and carefully scratched his head, afraid of messing up his hair.

  “I know, you also know, all the people here are against me. Everyone ignores me. All this is not without its cause. Now you arrive. You’re with them, no doubt. I stand alone here. It’s best you never forget what a person standing alone can do,” he said threateningly, with smiling lips.

  “Yes, Rob, and don’t forget your own words either, because they’re directed at yourself as well.” His eyes now dreamily gazed at me as he took the measure of my strength, and I followed his example, also smiling. I followed all his movements. At the slightest indication of a suspicious move, I’d be up and out the window. He would no longer find me in the room.

  “Good,” he said nodding. “And don’t you forget either, you’re only a Native.”

  “Oh, I’ll certainly always remember that, Rob. Don’t worry. Don’t you forget either, in your veins runs Native blood too. I’m indeed not an Indo, not a Mixed-Blood European; but while I’m studying at European schools, there’s European knowledge and learning inside me too, if it’s European things that you value so much.”

  “You’re clever, Minke, fit to be an H.B.S. student.”

  That short conversation felt as if it had gone on tensely for hours. Then I realized it had lasted only ten minutes. Luckily Annelies called from outside, and I excused myself.

  Catching me entirely by surprise, Robert, still sitting, said calmly:

  “Go, your nyai is looking for you.”

  I stopped at the door and looked at him in astonishment. He only smiled.

  “She’s your sister, Rob. You shouldn’t talk like that. I too have my honor . . .”

  Annelies hurriedly pulled me away to the back room as if something important had occurred there. We sat on the thickcushioned sofa. The cover had a floral pattern on a cream base. She clung to me and whispered.

  “Don’t see too much of Robert, let alone go into his room. I worry. Each day he changes more. Twice now Mama has refused to pay his debts, Mas.”

  “Do you have to be enemies with your own brother?”

  “It’s not that. He must work to earn his living. He could if he wanted to. But he doesn’t want to.”

  “Yes, but why must you two be enemies.”

  “It doesn’t come from my side. Mama is right in everything. He doesn’t want to acknowledge that Mama is right just because she is a Native. So what must I do?”

  I didn’t press her further. But I thought to myself then: What was that handsome youth getting from this family? From his mother nothing, from his father nothing. Let alone his sister. Neither sympathy nor love. I come to his home, and he’s jealous of me. It’s only natural.

  “Why don’t you try to be the peacemaker, Ann?”

  “What for? He’s gone too far, made me curse him.”

  “Curse him? You’ve cursed him?”

  “I don’t want to even look at his face. Before I was still prepared to be good to him. Now, for as long as I live—never. Never, Mas.”

  I regretted having tried to interfere. And her face, which all of a sudden reddened, showed her anger.

  Nyai joined us. She had a copy of the Surabaya Daily News in her hand. She pointed out to me a short story, “Een Buitengewoon Gewoone Nyai die Ik ken,” (“An Extraordinary Ordinary Nyai That I knew”).

  “Have you read this story, Nyo?”

  “Yes, Mama, at school.”

  “I think I recognize the person described in this story.”

  Perhaps I went pale on hearing her words. Although the title had been changed, that was my own writing, my first short story published in other than an auction paper. A few words and sentences had been improved, but it was still my work. The material wasn’t from Annelies, but my own imaginings based on Mama’s day-to-day life.

  “Who’s the author, Mama?” I asked, pretending.

  “Max Tollenaar. Is it true you only write advertisements?”

  Before the conversation became involved I quickly confessed:

  “Yes, I wrote it, Ma.”

  “I thought so. You’re indeed clever, Nyo. Not one in a hundred people can write like that. Though if you mean me in that story . . .”

  “I based my imaginings on Mama,” I answered quickly.

  “I see. It’s not surprising then that there are a lot of incorrect things in it. As a story it’s indeed good, Nyo. Let’s hope you become a writer, like Victor Hugo.”

  And I was embarrassed to ask who Victor Hugo was. And she could praise the strengths of a story. When did she ever study story-writing? Or is it all just pretense?

  “Have you read Francis? G. Francis?”

  I felt truly at a loss. I’d never heard of him either.

  “It seems Sinyo never reads Malay.”

  “Malay books, Mama? Are there such things?”

  “It’s a pity you don’t know. He’s written many Malay books. I think he’s a Pure or a Mixed-Blood, not a Native. It would be a real pity, Nyo, if you never read
any of his books.”

  She spoke still more about the world of fiction. And the more she spoke, the more I doubted her. She might be just parroting everything ever taught to her by Herman Mellema. My teachers taught us quite a lot about Dutch language and literature. They had never touched on the things that she was discussing. And my favorite teacher, Miss Magda Peters, must know more than any nyai. This nyai was even trying to talk about literary language as well!

  “Francis wrote Nyai Dasima, a truly European-style novel. But in Malay. I’ve got the book. Perhaps you’d like to study it.”

  I mechanically replied yes. What did she know about the literary world? And why did she want to read stories, interfere in the affairs of the imaginary characters of the world of writers, even commenting on the language they used, while under her own eyes her own son Robert was neglected? It gave me cause to have doubts.

  As if she could read my thoughts, she said:

  “Perhaps you want to write about Robert too.”

  “Why, Mama?”

  “Because of your youth. You’ll want to write, of course, about the people you know around you. Who interest you. Who excite your sympathy or antipathy. I think Rob will certainly attract your attention.”

  Luckily that rather unpleasant conversation was soon followed by dinner. Robert didn’t join us. Both Mama and Annelies were not surprised, nor did they inquire after him. The servant didn’t ask any questions either.

  In the middle of dinner I was about to tell them of Robert’s desire to become a sailor, to go home to Europe. At that moment Nyai spoke instead.

  “Write, Nyo, always about humanity, humanity’s life, not humanity’s death. Yes, whether it’s animals, ogres, gods, or ghosts that you present, there’s nothing more difficult to understand than humanity. That’s why there is no end to the telling of stories on this earth. Every day there are more. I don’t know a lot about this myself. But once I read something that said, more or less, the following:

  Do not underestimate the human being, who sometimes appears so simple. Even with sight as sharp as an eagle, a mind as sharp as a razor, senses more powerful than the gods, hearing that can catch the music and the lamentations of life, your knowledge of humanity will never be total.

  Mama had stopped eating altogether. The spoon with its load still hovered in midair under her chin. “It’s true that during the last ten years I’ve read more fiction. It’s as if every book is concerned with people’s efforts and striving to escape or overcome some difficulty. Stories about happy things are never interesting. They are not stories about people and their lives, but about heaven, and clearly do not take place on this earth of ours.”

  Mama resumed eating. I had concentrated all my attention in order to catch every one of her words. At that time she was really an unofficial teacher whose lessons were delivered officially enough.

  After dinner she resumed:

  “Because of all this, you are no doubt interested in Robert. He always seeks trouble and then can’t get out of it. I think, if I’m not wrong, that’s what’s called tragic. The same as his father. Perhaps through your writings—if he was willing to read them—he could see himself as in a mirror. Perhaps he could change his ways. Who knows? Only, I ask, before you publish them, let me see them first. Of course, that’s if you don’t mind. You never know but that there might be some false impressions or assumptions that could be avoided.”

  * * *

  As it happened I was indeed working on a piece about Robert. Nyai’s warning rather startled me. It was if her eagle eyes saw my every move. I also felt that she was invading my privacy as a storyteller. The publication of my first story had raised my spirits. But the enthusiasm that success had generated could not now spur on my writings about Robert. Mama, with her eagle eyes, had blocked that progress in the middle of its journey.

  The discussion at dinner made me submerge myself in reflections. It was clear that she had read a great deal. Probably Mr. Herman Mellema was a truly wise and patient teacher. Nyai was a good pupil, and she had the ability to develop herself, after having obtained some capital in the form of understanding from her master. What I can’t obtain from school, I will harvest in the midst of this concubine’s family. Who would ever have guessed? Perhaps, too, she does understand Robert Mellema better than I can. What she had said about the Native-hating youth pointed to a deep compassion for her eldest child.

  I still didn’t know much about that tall youth. Perhaps he too read a lot, like his mother. The magazine he gave me turned out to be no ordinary magazine but a copy of a well-known scholarly historical journal. It could have come from Mama’s library, or have been taken from the postman and not handed over to Mama. Maybe, too, he hadn’t finished reading it either. I don’t know for sure. All the articles in it were about the Netherlands Indies. One among them was about Japan’s relations—whether they are limited or extensive—with the Indies.

  That article greatly enriched my notes about Japan—a country that had been very much discussed during those preceding few months. None of my school friends had paid any attention to that country even though it had been touched upon in discussions at school. My friends still did not consider Japan as worthy of discussion. They offhandedly equated Japan with the prostitutes who filled up the Kembang Jepun, and with the little cafes, restaurants, and barber shops, with the hawker and his goods. None of these reflected the Japan that was challenging modern science and learning.

  In one discussion, when my teacher, Mr. Lastendienst, tried to get the students interested, most just chatted lazily to each other. He said that Japan was also experiencing a flowering in the field of science. Kitazato had discovered the plague bacteria, Shiga had discovered dysentery bacteria—and in that manner Japan, too, had been of service to humanity. He compared it with the Dutch nation’s contribution to civilization. Seeing that I was fully engaged in the subject and was taking notes, Mr. Lastendienst asked me in an accusing tone of voice, “Eh, Minke, the Javanese delegate in this room, what has your nation contributed to humanity?” I would not have been alone in being so startled to hear that sudden question; in all likelihood all the gods in the chest of the shadow play puppet-master would have exhausted their energy just to answer. So the best way of getting out of my difficulty was to utter the following sentence: “Yes, Mr. Lastendienst, I can’t answer at this time.” And my teacher reacted to this with a sweet smile—very sweet.

  That’s just a little from my notes about Japan. Now with the articles in the magazine Robert gave me, my notes had been supplemented by quite a bit of extra information about the current developments in Japan and the struggle over its defense strategy. I didn’t understand much about those things. Precisely because of that I noted it all down. At the very least it would be excellent material for use in a school discussion.

  It said there had been competition between the Japanese Army and Navy. A maritime defense strategy was then chosen. And the army, with its centuries-old samurai tradition, was dissatisfied.

  And the Indies itself? In the article it said the Netherlands Indies has no navy, only an army. Japan is made up of islands. The Netherlands Indies is just a great string of them. Why does Japan emphasize naval defense while the Indies emphasize the land? Isn’t the problem of defense (against the outside) the same? Didn’t the Indies fall into the hands of the English a hundred years ago precisely because of the weakness of the Indies Navy? Why hasn’t that lesson been learned?

  The warships that sailed back and forth in Indies waters did not belong to the Netherlands Indies but to the Kingdom of the Netherlands. Governor-General Daendels had made Surabaya a navel base in a period when he had not a single ship! Almost a hundred years later still no one gave any thought to the Indies having its own navy. The honorable gentlemen in charge put their trust in the British naval defenses of Singapore and the American naval defenses of the Philippines.

  The article speculated about war with Japan. In what kind of position would the Indies be with its un
defended waterways? While the Royal Dutch Navy carried out only irregular patrols? Could not the experience of 1811, when the Indies fell into British hands, be repeated once again to Holland’s loss?

  I don’t know whether Robert ever read and studied the article. Seeing that he wanted to travel the world as a sailor, perhaps he had read it. And as someone who believed in European superiority, he would no doubt put his faith in the white race. The article also said that Japan was trying to imitate the English on the seas. And the writer warned people that they should stop insulting the Japanese by calling them imitating monkeys. At the beginning of all growth, everything imitates. All of us, when we were children, also only imitated. But children grow up and begin their own development.

  And the same theme occurred in a conversation between Jean Marais and Telinga that I once overhead, and I noted it down like this:

  Jean Marais: Roles shift from one generation to another, from one nation to another. Previously, colored peoples conquered the white peoples. Now the white peoples conquered the colored peoples.

  Telinga: The whites had never been beaten in three centuries by coloreds. Three centuries! Indeed it could happen that one white people could conquer another white people. But a colored people could never conquer whites. Not in the next five centuries. Not ever.

  And Robert wanted to become a sailor, a European. He dreamed of sailing on the Caribou, under the flag of England—a country of no great size, with a sun that never set.

  7

  It felt as if I hadn’t been asleep for long. Nervous knocking on the door jolted me awake.

  “Minke, wake up.” It was Nyai’s voice.

  I found Mama standing at the door, carrying a candle. Her hair was a bit of a mess. In the morning darkness the tick-tock of the pendulum clock reigned over the room.

  “What’s the time, Mama?”

  “Four. Someone is looking for you.”

  A person was sitting on the settee in the gloom. The closer Mama’s candle came, the clearer the person became: a police officer! He stood up out of respect, then immediately spoke in Malay but with a Javanese accent: