by Multatuli
“Go on, Frits! Oh yes, Frits, do go on!” That’s how it went until Frits gave in. As I dislike all those tricks to keep readers on tenterhooks, I might as well tell you straightaway that Frits and Marie had inspected Shawlman’s parcel at home, and had picked up from it a sauciness and a sentimentality that were to cause me no end of bother later on. Yet I must confess, reader, that the novel you are reading now also derives from that parcel. I shall render proper account of this circumstance in due course, for I cherish my reputation as a man of truth with a good head for business. (And our business is Burden & Co, coffee brokers, No 37 Lauriergracht).
Then Frits recited something that was nonsense from start to finish. On second thought, it had neither start nor finish. A young man writes to his mother telling her that he’d fallen in love, and that the girl had married somebody else—good for her, I thought—but that he, in spite of everything, had never stopped loving his mother. Are these last three lines clear or not? Does the subject require a lot of fuss and feathers, would you say? Well, I had eaten a cheese sandwich, peeled two pears, and was halfway through consuming the third by the time Frits reached the end of his recital. But Louise was in tears again, and the ladies said it was splendid. Then Frits, who I’m sure thought he’d performed quite a feat, told us he had found the thing in the parcel from the man with the shawl, whereupon I explained how the parcel came to be in my possession. But I didn’t mention the Greek girl, because Frits was present, nor did I say anything about going down that alley. Everyone agreed that I had been quite right to wash my hands of the fellow. In due course you will find that the parcel also contained material of a more serious nature, some of which will be included in this book, on account of its bearing on the Coffee Auctions of the Dutch Trading Company. Because my life is my work.
Afterwards the publisher asked me to insert what Frits had recited. I don’t mind, as long as it’s clear that I don’t normally concern myself with matters of this sort.4 Lies and tomfoolery! I will refrain from offering my own comments, or my book will be too long. All I will say here is that the poem was apparently composed in 1843 or thereabouts, in the region of Padang, and Padang is not premium grade. The coffee, I mean.
O Mother, ’tis so far away—
The country where my life began,
The country where my first tears ran,
Where I grew taller day by day,
Where you, with your maternal hand,
Stood by me as a loving guide,
Patiently watching by my side,
And, when I fell, helped me to stand.
Now fate has torn me from your hands,
Cutting the ties twixt you and me,
And now I walk on foreign sands,
With only God for company . . .
Yet, mother, howsoe’er I grieve,
Whate’er my share of joys or pains,
Still, mother dear, you must believe,
That all my love for you remains!
Not many years ago—but four—
I last stood on that distant shore,
Staring in silence at the sea,
And wond’ring what life held for me.
When I imagined all the glories
That future years would surely bring
The present seemed a dismal thing
Beside those magic fairy-stories,
And so, despite th’ adversity
I knew I’d find ahead of me,
My heart pressed on through all of this,
Made fearless by its dream of bliss.
But since our last farewells were made,
Time—though it flees us like a colt,
Elusive as a lightning bolt,
And weightless as a fleeting shade—
Has left a bitter mark behind,
A face that’s deeply, deeply lined!
I’ve tasted joy and sorrow in one;
I’ve thought profoundly, braved the fray,
I’ve raised a cheer and knelt to pray—
Centuries, it seems, have come and gone!
A happy life—that was my plan.
My happiness was won and lost,
And I, a callow youth, was tossed
Through years of grief in one hour’s span!
And yet, dear mother, do believe me—
I swear to heaven it is true—
Mother! Won’t you please believe me—
Your boy has not forgotten you!
I loved a girl. Love made my life
A thing of beauty in my eyes.
I saw her as a shining prize,
The great reward for years of strife,
Ordained by God to be my wife.
Delighted with this flawless treasure
Bestowed upon me by His grace,
A gift beyond all mortal measure,
I thanked Him with a tearstained face.
Love and religion were as one;
My spirit rose up to the sky
In joyful thanks to God on high,
In thanks and prayer for her alone!
Yet passion weighed me down with care.
My soul was wracked with agony;
The pangs of grief that tore at me
Were hard for my weak heart to bear.
Suffering and fear awaited there
Where ecstasy was what I’d sought;
The happiness for which I’d fought
Held only venom and despair . . .
My silent suffering brought me pleasure!
Hopeful and staunch, I stood before her.
Those trials made love a greater treasure;
How glad I was to suffer for her!
And heedless of catastrophe
I wrested joy from grief again,
Resigned to suffer any pain,
As long as fate left her with me!
I thought her image was the best
The world could offer, and I wore it
Where I could faithfully adore it—
A priceless jewel within my breast.
And yet her charms, however winning,
To me were always foreign sights
And even if my love holds fast
Until my final breath unites
Us in a better place at last . . .
My love for her had a beginning!
And what is love that had a start
Compared to love that God first stirred
Within a babe’s unsullied heart
Before he spoke a single word?
The love that child imbibed, when first—
Still newly wrenched from Mother’s womb—
He drank her milk to quench his thirst
And in her eyes saw brightness bloom?
No other bond can quite so surely
Connect two hearts and make them one
As that which God has forged securely
Between a mother and her son!
And could my heart, that had the power
To cling to beauty’s transient spark—
A thornbush in a wintry park,
Which never bore a single flower—
I ask you, could that heart do less
For a mother’s love, which never dies?
Or for the one who heard my cries
And came to me in my distress
With gentle murmurs, low and mild?
The one who soothed my boyish fears,
The one who kissed away my tears,
And gave her blood to feed her child?
Mother dear, do not believe it!
I swear to heaven, it’s not true.
Mother dear, do not believe it!
Your child has not forgotten you!
Far from the sweet and lovely things
Which life across the ocean brings,
I never feel the young man’s gladness
That poets of all ages praise.
Here no such mirth can fill my days:
A lonely heart knows only sadness.
Yes, steep and thorny is my road
And all the trouble fate has sent
Weighs down on me, a heavy load;
My heart aches, and my back is bent . . .
Oh, may the tears that I have shed
Alone bear witness to the hours
I pass among the trees and flowers
In anguish, bowing down my head . . .
So often, when despair drew near,
I nearly turned to heaven and said,
“Father! Grant me, among the dead
What life would never grant me here!
Father! Grant me, beyond the grave,
When death’s sweet lips my lips have pressed,
Father! Grant me, beyond the grave,
What I have never tasted . . . Rest!”
But those words never reached the air;
No, God’s ears never heard those pleas,
Instead I fell upon my knees
And offered up a different prayer:
“Not yet, O Lord! I’ll face the worst,
But give me back my Mother first!”
FOURTH CHAPTER
BEFORE going on, I should inform you that young Stern has arrived. A likeable lad. He seems quick and capable, but I have the impression he’s the sentimental type. And Marie is thirteen years old . . . He’s very neatly turned out. I’ve set him to work on the copybook so he can practice a correct Dutch style. I’m curious as to when we’ll start getting orders from Ludwig Stern. Marie is going to embroider a pair of slippers for him . . . for young Stern, I mean. Busselinck & Waterman have missed the boat. No respectable broker undercuts, that’s what I say!
The day after our gathering at the Rosemeyers, who are in sugar, I summoned Frits and told him to bring me that parcel of Shawlman’s. Please note, reader, that I always insist on godliness and good morals in my house. Now then, the previous evening, just as I finished peeling my first pear, I could tell by the expression on one of the girls’ faces that there was something amiss with the poem. I hadn’t bothered to listen myself, but I did notice that Betsy was crumbling her bread roll, which said enough. It will be clear to you, reader, that you’re dealing with a man who’s familiar with the ways of the world. So I got Frits to show me the fancy poem he’d recited, and very soon I found the line that caused Betsy to crumble her roll. There was mention of a woman nursing her child, which is just barely acceptable, but then came: “still newly wrenched from Mother’s womb,” which I disapprove of—to speak of such matters, I mean—as does my wife. Marie is only thirteen. Not that there’s any talk of cabbages or storks at our house, but to be quite so down-to-earth about such matters is offensive to me, given the importance I attach to moral rectitude. I made Frits, who knew the thing “out of his head,” as Stern puts it, promise never to recite it again, or anyway, not until he’s a member of the Doctrina student club—no girls allowed there—and I put it away in my desk. But I needed to know if there was anything else in the parcel that might cause offense. So I began riffling through the contents. I couldn’t read everything as there were some papers in languages I couldn’t make out, but then my eye fell on a manuscript entitled “Report on Coffee Growing in the Manado Residency.”
My heart leaped, seeing as I’m a coffee broker—No 37 Lauriergracht—and Manado is good quality. So that Shawlman fellow, as well as writing immoral verse, had also been in coffee. I now examined the parcel with entirely different eyes, and came across writings which, though I didn’t understand all of them, displayed genuine knowledge of the field. There were lists, statements, and calculations with figures I could make neither head nor tail of, all set out with such care and precision that, in truth—for I hold with the truth—it occurred to me that, should the third clerk drop out—which could happen, as he’s getting old and doddery—Shawlman might make a fine replacement. Needless to say, I’d start by making inquiries as to his honesty, religion, and respectability, as I never take anybody on at the office unless I’m assured of those particular qualities. This is a firm principle of mine, as you can tell by my letter to Ludwig Stern.
I didn’t want Frits to notice that I had any interest in the contents of the parcel, so I sent him away. My mind reeled as I took up one pile of papers after another and read the headings. There were numerous poems, admittedly, but I also came across much that was useful, and was amazed at the diversity of topics. I confess—I’m a man of truth—that I, having been in coffee all my life, am not in a position to judge the merits of it all, but even so, the list of headings was intriguing. As I’ve already given an account of the incident with the Greek, you already know that I became somewhat Latinized in my youth, and although I refrain from giving quotations in my correspondence—and they have no place in a broker’s office either—the thought entering my mind at the sight of it all was: multa, non multum, or: de omnibus aliquid, de toto nihil. In other words: quantity, not quality.
This, however, had more to do with a sense of frustration, and a desire to counter all that learnedness with my own knowledge of Latin, than with expressing my honest opinion. Each time I looked at something in more detail, I had to admit that the author appeared to be equal to his task, and even displayed considerable soundness of reasoning.
I encountered the following essays and articles:
“On Sanskrit as the Mother of the Germanic Languages.”
“On the Penalties for Infanticide.”
“On the Origins of the Aristocracy.”
“On the Difference between the Notions of Endless Time and Eternity.”
“On the Theory of Probability.”
“On the Book of Job.” (I came across Job several more times, but that was in verse.)
“On Protein in the Atmosphere.”
“On the Russian State System.”
“On Vowels.”
“On Cellular Prisons.”
“On the Old Theories concerning the Horror Vacui.”
“On the Advantages of Abolishing Penalties for Slander.”
“On the Causes of the Dutch Revolt against Spain, Which Did Not Include Religious or Political Liberty.”
“On the Perpetuum Mobile, the Squaring of the Circle, and the Square Roots of Surds.”
“On the Weight of Light.”
“On the Decline of Civilization since the Emergence of Christianity.” (What?)
“On Icelandic Mythology.”
“On Emile by Rousseau.”
“On Civil Procedure in Matters of Commercial Acquisition.”
“On Sirius as the Center of a Solar System.”
“On Import Duties Being Ineffectual, Distasteful, Unjust, and Immoral.” (I have never heard any such thing.)
“On Verse as the Oldest Language.” (I don’t believe this.)
“On White Ants.”
“On the Unnaturalness of Educational Institutions.”
“On Prostitution within Marriage.” (This is a scandalous article.)
“On Hydraulic Matters Relating to Rice Cultivation.”
“On the Ostensible Superiority of Western Civilization.”
“On Cadastral Surveying, Registration, and Stamp Duty.”
“On Books for Children, Fables, and Fairy Tales.” (I am curious about this, because he insists on truthfulness.)
“On Middlemen in Commerce.” (I don’t like this one bit. I believe he wants to do away with brokers. But I have put it to one side anyway, because there are one or two things in it I can use for my book.)
“On Inheritance Tax, One of the Best Taxes.”
“On the Invention of Chastity.” (I do not understand this.)
“On Multiplication.” (This title sounds simple enough, but there is a lot in there that had never occurred to me.)
“On a Certain Kind of French Wit, Resulting from the Poverty of Their Language.” (I’ll take his word for it. Wit and poverty—he ought to know.)
“On the Connection between the Novels of Auguste Lafontaine* and Consumption.” (I want to read this, because we have some books by Lafontaine lying in the attic. But he says
the influence does not reveal itself until the second generation. My grandfather did not read.)
“On the Power of the British outside Europe.”
“On Trial by Ordeal in the Middle Ages and Today.”
“On the Arithmetic of the Romans.”
“On the Lack of Poetry among Composers.”
“On Pietism, Mesmerism, and Table-Turning.”
“On Contagious Diseases.”
“On the Moorish Style of Architecture.”
“On the Force of Prejudice, as Evinced by Diseases Attributed to Draft.” (Didn’t I say the list was remarkable?)
“On German Unity.”
“On Longitude at Sea.” (I don’t see why things at sea should be any longer than on land.)
“On the Duties of the Government with Regard to Public Entertainments.”
“On the Similarities between the Scottish and Frisian Languages.”
“On Prosody.”
“On the Beauty of the Women of Nîmes and Arles, with an Inquiry into Phoenician Colonization.”
“On Agricultural Contracts in Java.”
“On the Suction Capacity of a New Kind of Pump.”
“On the Legitimacy of Dynasties.”
“On Folk Literature in Javanese Rhapsodies.”
“On the New Method of Reefing.”
“On Percussion, as Applied to Grenades.” (This was written in 1847, i.e., before Orsini.)
“On the Understanding of Honor.”
“On the Apocrypha.”
“On the Laws of Solon, Lycurgus, Zoroaster, and Confucius.”
“On Parental Authority.”
“On Shakespeare as a Historian.”
“On Slavery in Europe.” (I don’t understand this—well, it isn’t the only thing I don’t understand.)
“On Screw-Watermills.”
“On the Sovereign Prerogative of Pardon.”
“On the Chemical Components of Ceylon Cinnamon.”
“On Discipline aboard Merchant Ships.”
“On Opium Licensing in Java.”
“On Conditions Regarding the Sale of Poison.”