“So you don’t know,” Sarah said insultingly. “Or you’re in doubt?”
Miriam burst into a fit of uncontrolled giggling.
Very well, I would confront this satanic conspiracy. So this was the value of the honored and sensational invitation from the assistant resident. Very well, because I didn’t know, I answered as reasonably as possible.
“I only know of Eduard Douwes Dekker, whose pen name is Multatuli. If there is any other Douwes Dekker I truly don’t know of him.”
“Indeed, there is,” Sarah resumed again. Miriam hid her face in a silk handkerchief. “But more importantly, who is he? Don’t be confused, don’t go pale,” she teased. “You know, don’t you, you’re just pretending not to know.”
“I truly don’t know,” I answered impatiently.
“Then your teacher Miss Magda Peters, whom you so greatly praise, has insufficient general knowledge. Listen, and remember not to shame your seniors. Don’t forget this. The other Douwes Dekker, who is more important than Multatuli, is a youth . . .”
“He’s still a youth?”
“Of course he’s still a youth. He’s on board a ship. Or perhaps he’s already in South Africa, fighting with the Dutch against the British. Have you heard of him?”
“No. What has he written?” I asked humbly.
“He’s still a youth. So he can, of course, be forgiven if he hasn’t yet written anything,” answered Sarah, then she too giggled.
“So why should I know about him?” I protested. “People become known because of their works.” Now I was getting the chance to defend myself. “Hundreds of millions of people on this earth have not produced works that would have made them famous, so they are not famous.”
“Actually he’s produced a lot of writings too. But there’s only one reader. Here she is, that most faithful of all readers: Miriam de la Croix. He is her boyfriend, understand?”
I swore in my heart. What have I got to do with him if he’s only Miriam’s boyfriend? These two wouldn’t know who Annelies Mellema was either. I’d bet on it!
“Come on, Mir, tell us about your boyfriend,” coaxed Sarah in high spirits.
“No.” Miriam refused. “It’s not anything to do with our guest. Let’s talk about something else. You’re a pure Native, aren’t you Minke?” I was silent, not answering. I felt that, without knocking, they were about to open the door of humiliation. “A Native who has obtained European education. Very good. And you already know so much about Europe. Perhaps you don’t know as much about your own country. Perhaps. True? I’m not wrong, am I?”
The humiliation has now begun, I thought.
“Your ancestors,” Miriam de la Croix continued,“—I’m sorry, it’s not my intention to insult anyone—your ancestors, generation after generation, have believed that thunder is the explosion caused by the angels trying to capture the devil. It’s so, yes? Why are you silent? Are you ashamed of your own ancestors’ beliefs?”
Sarah de la Croix had stopped laughing. She put on a serious face, and observed me as if I were some mysterious animal.
“There’s no need to single out my ancestors,” I answered her. “Your European and Dutch ancestors in prehistoric times were no less ignorant.”
“Ah,” Sarah intervened, “just as I suspected. You two are going to fight about your ancestors.”
“Yes, we’re like cattle, Minke,” Miriam continued. “Fight at our first meeting, but be friends afterwards, perhaps forever. That’s right, yes?”
A very adroit girl! My suspicions began to subside.
“My ancestors may have been more stupid than your ancestors, Minke. Your ancestors were building paddy fields and irrigation systems when mine were still living in caves. But that’s not what we want to discuss. Look, at school you’re taught that thunder is only the clash of positive and negative clouds. Benjamin Franklin is now even able to build a lightning rod. Yes? While your ancestors have a beautiful legend—the story that I have heard—about Ki Ageng Sela, who was able to capture the thunder and then lock it up in a chicken coop.”
Sarah burst into laughter. Miriam became even more serious, observing my face as twilight reached its climax. Then she let fly her puzzle:
“I believe you can accept the teachings about positive and negative clouds because you need the marks to pass. But be honest, do you believe in the truth of this explanation?”
Now I knew that she was testing my inner character. Yes, a real test. To be frank, I’d never asked myself such a question. Everything had just seemed to flow smoothly, requiring no questioning.
Now Sarah interfered:
“Of course I believe that you know and have mastered this natural science lesson. But now the problem is: Do you believe it or not?”
“I must believe it,” I answered.
“Must believe it only because you’ve got to pass the exams. Must! So you don’t yet believe.”
“My teacher, Miss Magda Peters . . .”
“Magda Peters again,” cut in Sarah.
“She is my teacher. According to her, everything comes from being taught,” I answered, “and from practice. Even beliefs. You two would not ever have come to believe in Jesus Christ without being taught and then practicing to believe.”
“Yes, yes, perhaps your teacher is right.” Sarah was confused.
Miriam, on the other hand, watched me as if she were looking at her lover’s portrait. “This year we’ve begun hearing a new word: modern. Do you know what it means?” The aggressive Miriam began again, forgetting all about the question of thunder.
“I know. But only from Miss Magda Peters.”
“It seems you don’t have any other teachers,” interrupted Sarah.
“What’s to be done? It’s she who can answer your question.”
“Then what does this fantastic teacher of yours mean by modern?” Miriam cut in.
“It isn’t in the dictionary. But according to this fantastic teacher of mine it is the name for a spirit, an attitude, a way of looking at things that emphasizes the qualities of scholarship, aesthetics, and efficiency. I don’t know any other explanation. She is a member of the schismatic group in the Catholic Church that’s been expelled by the Pope. Perhaps there’s another explanation?” I asked finally.
Sarah and Miriam stared at each other. I couldn’t see their faces clearly. Twilight had arrived, though it had seemed ages in coming. And now they just sat silently, exchanging looks, and they began busily to eliminate mosquitoes getting overfriendly with their skin.
“These mosquitoes!” Sarah frowned. “They think I’m a restaurant.”
Now it was I who burst into laughter.
“Ah, we’ve forgotten our drinks,” said Sarah. “Please!”
And the tension began to subside. I began to breathe freely again. And I remembered the servant dressed in white who had put the glasses and cakes on the garden table a while ago. For the first time I smiled to myself. Not only because the tension was subsiding, but because I knew that they knew no more than I did.
“Do you know who Dr. Snouck Hurgronje is?” Once again Miriam attacked.
If the assistant resident turned up now, I would be saved from this torment. Where are you, my savior? Why don’t you appear? And these children of yours are no less fierce than the twilight mosquitoes. Or did you deliberately invite me here so that your daughters, my seniors, could do me in? These thoughts suddenly made me understand: The assistant resident was deliberately confronting me with his two daughters as a test. He probably had some specific purpose in mind.
“How about if I have a turn asking a question now?”
Sarah and Miriam burst into laughter again.
“Just a minute,” forbade Miriam. “Answer first. Your beloved teacher is indeed extraordinary. You, her student, are no less extraordinary. It’s only natural you’re so fond of her. Perhaps I also would be as fond of her as you are. Now, about my last question, perhaps your beloved teacher has spoken about him too.”
“A pity, but no,” I answered briefly. “Tell me.”
It appeared she had long awaited this opportunity to come forward as a teacher. Skillfully, she told this story:
Dr. Snouck Hurgronje was a jewel of a scholar—daring to think, daring to act, daring to risk himself for the advancement of knowledge—and was an important adviser in ensuring a Dutch victory in the Aceh war. It’s a pity he was now involved in an argument with General Van Heutz. An argument about Aceh. What’s the meaning of this argument? There isn’t any, said Miriam. The important thing is that he has undertaken a valuable experiment with three Native youths. The purpose: to find out if Natives are able truly to understand and bring to life within themselves European learning and science. The three students are going to a European school. He interviews them every week to try to find out if there is any change in their inner character and whether they are able to absorb it all, whether their scientific knowledge and learning from school is only a thin, dry, easily shattered coating on the surface, or something that has really taken root. This scholar has not yet come to a decision.
Now it was I who laughed again. These two misses were aping the scholar. And I was the guinea pig caught by them along the side of the road. Incredible! But they might be doing it on their father’s orders, which were probably not ill-intended, so I restrained my desire to launch a counterattack. I continued listening to Miriam’s story. Not as a junior, nor as a student—but as an observer.
All was still and calm. Sarah did not speak. Then:
“Have you heard about the Association Theory?”
“Miss Miriam, you are now my teacher,” I answered quickly, avoiding the question.
“No, not a teacher,” she said with a sudden humility. “These days it’s only normal that there should be an exchange of views between educated people. Yes, isn’t that right? So you’ve never heard about it?”
“Not yet.”
“Very well. This theory comes from that scholar. A new theory. His idea is that if the experiment succeeds, the Netherlands Indies government could put his theory into practice. That’s right, isn’t it, Sarah?”
“Tell it yourself,” said Sarah, avoiding the question.
“Association means direct cooperation, based on European ways, between European officials and educated Natives. Those of you who have advanced would be invited to join together with us in governing the Indies. So the responsibility would no longer be the burden of the white race alone. So there would no longer be a need for the position of the controller as a liaison between Native and white administrations. The bupatis could cooperate directly with the white government. Do you understand?”
“Keep going,” I said.
“What’s your opinion?”
“Very simple,” I answered. “We Natives have read what you have not read: our chronicle Babad Tanah Jawi. Reading and writing Javanese has long been something our families have studied. Look, in E.L.S. and H.B.S. we are taught to admire the Indies Army’s brilliance in subjugating us, the Natives.”
“The Indies Army is indeed outstanding. That’s a fact.” Miriam defended her nation.
“Yes, indeed, it’s a fact. Do you know that the chronicles written by the Natives tell of how we withstood your attacks for centuries?”
“But were always defeated?” charged Miriam.
“Yes, indeed, always defeated.” Suddenly the courage to continue my words disappeared. Instead I came out with a question:
“Why didn’t you come up with this theory three centuries ago? When no Native would have had any objection to Europeans sharing responsibility with them?”
“I don’t quite understand what you mean?” interrupted Sarah.
“I mean, this fantastic scholar, Doctor . . . what’s his name again? . . . he’s three hundred years behind the Natives of that time,” I answered proudly.
And with that I excused myself, leaving those two annoying seniors sitting there.
8
Father and Mother were very proud that I had received an invitation from Assistant Resident Herbert de la Croix.
Invitations from local Native notables continued to arrive at our house.
It was better that my parents didn’t know how their son, of whom they were so proud, was made to look a fool.
With all my might I resisted their demands that I tell them what had happened. Instead, I announced that I would quickly be returning to Surabaya.
I was busy replying to all the invitations.
My father was no longer angry with me. The invitation from the assistant resident absolved me of all my sins.
I had telegraphed Wonokromo, giving them the day and time of my return to Surabaya, and asking that I be met at the station by a carriage.
Father and Mother weren’t able, and perhaps also didn’t feel it proper, to delay my departure. There were no further accusations relating to the issue of Nyai Ontosoroh. Someone who had received an invitation from the assistant resident was immediately immune; it was impossible for him to have done wrong. On the contrary it was as if a sign had appeared over the gateway to his future proclaiming the certainty of his attainment of a high and important position. But they did insist I take leave of and say goodbye to the European official.
I didn’t want to go but left for his house anyway. Once again I had to meet with Sarah and Miriam de la Croix. It turned out that when around their father they were not aggressive, but instead orderly and polite.
“Your school director used to be my school friend,” said the official. “When you get back to school, pass on my greetings and respects.”
Then he explained that his children wanted to go home to the Netherlands. They had been without a mother for the last ten years. If they went, he would be very lonely. Because of that:
“Write to me often about how you’re getting on. I will be very happy to read your letters. And correspond with Sarah and Miriam too,” he requested. “These days people should exchange views, shouldn’t they? Who knows, perhaps such discussions could turn out to be the foundation for a better life later on? Especially if you all become important people!”
I promised I would write.
“Minke, if you maintain your present attitude, I mean your European attitude, not a slavish attitude like most Javanese, perhaps one day you will be an important person. You can become a leader, a pioneer, an example to your race. You, as an educated person, surely understand that your people have fallen very low, humiliatingly low. Europeans can no longer do anything to help. The Natives themselves must begin to do something.”
His words hurt. Yes, every time the essence of Java was insulted, offended by outsiders, my feelings were also hurt. I felt so totally Javanese. But when the ignorance and stupidity of Java was mentioned, I felt European. So these messages, which had brought me so many thoughts, I took with me in my heart on the train back to Surabaya.
If Mr. de la Croix had been Javanese, it would have been easy to guess his intention: He wanted me as a son-in-law. But he was a European, so that was impossible, especially as both Sarah and Miriam were several years older than I. The colonial official hoped I would become a leader, a pioneer, an example to my people. Like in a fairy tale! Nothing like this was ever mentioned in the tales of my ancestors. Is it possible that there could be a European who truly desired such a thing? In the history of the Indies no such thing had ever occurred. The Dutch Army had never rested its rifles and cannons for a single moment during their three hundred years in the Indies. Suddenly there was a European who wanted me to become a leader, a pioneer, and an example to my people. An uninteresting fairy story. An unfunny joke. It appeared he wanted to make me a guinea pig in an experiment to test the Association Theory of Dr. Snouck Hurgronje. To the devil with it all! Nothing to do with me. It’s lucky I liked to make notes, so I had a treasury that at every moment could supply me with guidelines and warnings.
I groped in my suitcase to find and read those letters that I had still not yet read. It was true, they told of
the plan for a reception for the investiture of Father, and ordered and requested that I come home quickly. With my brother’s letter there was even a note to my school director requesting leave.
Suddenly, on the train, I noticed a fat man with rather slanted eyes, watching only me. His clothes were made from brown drill, both his shirt and his trousers. His shoes were brown too—shoes that were normal for first-class carriages. His hat, made from felt, with a silk hatband, never left his head, but was sometimes lowered to cover his forehead in order to give him the freedom to look around the carriage as he liked. His baggage consisted of a small leather case that had been placed on the rack over his head. And he sat on the bench over there, on the other side. When the conductor was checking the tickets, Fatso handed over his white ticket, but his eyes glanced across at me.
Between B and Surabaya there were only a few places where the express train stopped. And Fatso didn’t get off, nor were there any signs he was getting ready to do so. He was obviously heading for the last station. “Stop!” I thought to myself. I’m not going to take any notice of him. I want to enjoy this trip, as if it were a holiday. I wanted to sleep deeply. I needed my strength and health.
The train hissed on rapidly towards Surabaya. By five in the evening Surabaya rattled under our wheels. The train shot past the cemetery and stopped at the station. The platform looked deserted. Just a few people were standing or sitting, waiting or walking back and forth.
“Ann! Annelies!” I called from my window. She was there to meet me.
Annelies ran to my carriage, stopped below it, and put out her hand.
“Everything’s all right, Mas?” she asked.
Fatso passed me carrying his little case. He alighted first, looked briefly at Annelies, then slowly walked towards the station exit. I followed him with my eyes. He didn’t go out, but stopped and glanced back at us.
“Come on, get out. What else are you waiting for?” coaxed Annelies.
I alighted. The coolie followed, carrying my baggage.
“Come on, Darsam has been waiting for a long time.”
This Earth of Mankind Page 16