by Multatuli
No indeed, their duty is by no means easy! This is amply demonstrated by the fact that the propensity among native chiefs to make unlawful demands on their subjects’ labor and possessions is openly acknowledged everywhere . . . that all Assistant Residents take the oath to combat such criminal practices . . . and that it is nevertheless very rare for a regent to be charged with despotism or abuse of power.
In sum, keeping the oath “to protect the native population against extortion and enslavement” is well-nigh impossible.
SIXTH CHAPTER
CONTROLEUR Verbrugge was a good man. Sitting there in his dress suit of blue broadcloth with embroidered oak and orange branches on the collar and cuffs, he could hardly be mistaken for anyone but the type of Hollander common in the Indies—a type that, as it happens, is very different from the Hollanders in Holland. Indolent as long as there was nothing to do and quite free from the meddlesome habits that pass for diligence in Europe, but diligent when action was required . . . unassuming but cordial with those around him . . . forthcoming, helpful, and hospitable . . . well mannered but not stiff . . . open to good impressions . . . honest and sincere, but without any desire to become a martyr to these qualities . . . in short, he was the kind of man who would fit in anywhere. No one would think of naming the century after him, but then that was not what he was after.
He was seated in the center of the pendopo, by the table spread with a white cloth and laden with refreshments. He was growing impatient, and kept turning to the overseer—who is head of the police and office staff in the regency—to inquire, in the words of Bluebeard’s wife’s sister, whether he could see anyone approaching. He rose to his feet, tried in vain to rattle his spurs by stamping on the earthen floor of the pendopo, lit his cigar for the twentieth time, and sat down again, as though disappointed. He spoke little.
And yet he could have spoken, for he was not alone. I am not referring to his company of twenty or thirty Javanese servants, mantris, and other officials squatting in and around the pendopo, nor to all the people constantly coming and going, nor to the numerous natives of various ranks pacing to and fro on horseback or standing about holding their mounts—no, seated facing him was the Regent of Lebak in person, Raden Adipati Karta Natta Negara.
Waiting is always tiresome. Fifteen minutes last an hour, an hour lasts a half day, and so on. And the Controleur might have been a little more forthcoming. The Regent of Lebak was a dignified old man who could converse on many topics with intelligence and discernment. One look at him sufficed to show that the majority of Europeans coming into contact with him could learn more from him than vice versa. The fire in his dark eyes belied his worn features and gray hair. He seldom spoke without premeditation—a peculiarity common among cultured Orientals—and in conversation with him you couldn’t help feeling his pronouncements were like epistles, drafts of which he kept in his files for reference just in case. While this may sound disconcerting to anyone unaccustomed to communicating with Javanese grandees, in reality it’s quite easy to avoid alluding to anything that might cause offense as they never change the subject abruptly, since doing so would, by oriental standards, be bad form. So anyone with reason to skirt a particular issue can simply ramble on about trifles, safe in the knowledge that no Javanese chief will spring any surprises by steering the conversation in undesirable directions.
However, opinions differ as to the best way of engaging with a regent. To me it seems that simple forthrightness is to be preferred, without aiming at diplomatic caution.21
Be that as it may, Controleur Verbrugge began with a trivial comment on the weather and the rain.
“Yes, Mr. Controleur, it is the southwest monsoon.”
This was not news to Verbrugge, as it was January,22 but neither had his remark about the rain been news to the Adipati. More silence ensued. Then, with an almost imperceptible nod of his head, the Adipati summoned one of the pages squatting by the entrance to the pendopo: a small boy charmingly attired in a blue velvet tunic and white trousers, with a golden waistband securing his lavish sarong around the hips and an attractive printed headcloth, beneath which glinted a pair of mischievous dark eyes. The young page came forward on his haunches, bearing the gold box with the ingredients of the betel quid—tobacco, lime, sirih, pinang, and gambier—which he placed at the Adipati’s feet. He made the selamat, touching both hands to his deeply bowed forehead in greeting, and proceeded to offer his lord the precious box.23
“The road will be difficult after so much rain,” said the Adipati, by way of explanation for the long wait. He took a betel leaf and began to spread it with lime.
“The road through Pandeglang isn’t all that bad,” replied Verbrugge. This was a little careless of him, at least if he wished to avoid touching upon delicate matters, as he should have known that no Regent of Lebak would like to hear anything remotely in favor of the roads in Pandeglang, even if they were in fact better than those in Lebak.
The Adipati didn’t make the mistake of an overhasty response. The page retreated, still facing his master and still on his haunches, to join the others at the pendopo entrance. By the time the Adipati opened his mouth to reply his lips and few remaining teeth were already stained with betel juice:
“Yes, there are many people in Pandeglang.”
To anyone already acquainted with any regent and controleur, and who had any knowledge of the situation in Lebak, it would have been obvious that the conversation had already taken a combative turn, given that any allusion to the superior condition of the roads in the neighboring regency was likely to be taken as hinting at the neglect of the roads in Lebak. But the Adipati had a point: there were indeed many people in Pandeglang, which was densely populated, especially in relation to its size, so that roadwork there was easier to undertake than in the much larger regency of Lebak with only seventy thousand inhabitants.
“That’s true,” Verbrugge said. “We do have fewer people here. However . . .”
The Adipati glared, as though expecting an attack. He knew that whatever came after that “however” was likely to displease him, he who had served as Regent of Lebak for the past thirty years. But Verbrugge didn’t seem inclined to press the point for the moment. At any rate, he broke off the conversation, and asked the overseer yet again whether he could see anyone coming.
“No sign of anything from the Pandeglang side, Mr. Controleur, but over there, on the other side, there’s someone on horseback. Ah, it’s the commander.”
“So it is, Dongso,” Verbrugge said, peering outside. “The commander! He hunts in these parts and set out early this morning. I say, Duclari! Duclari!”
“He heard you, sir, he’s coming this way. His boy is riding close behind, with a deer slung over the back of his saddle.”24
“Go and hold Commander Duclari’s horse,” Verbrugge ordered one of the servants sitting outside. “Good day, Duclari! Did you get wet? What did you shoot? Do step in!”
The man stepping into the pendopo was of strong build, aged thirty, and had a military air, although he wasn’t in any kind of uniform. He was First Lieutenant Duclari, commander of the small garrison of Rangkasbitung. He and Verbrugge were friends, the more so for Duclari being quartered in Verbrugge’s house until the new fort was completed. He shook Verbrugge’s hand, greeted the Adipati with courtesy, and sat down, asking: “Well, what’s on offer?”
“Fancy a cup of tea, Duclari?”
“No thanks, I’m feeling hot enough as it is. D’you have any coconut milk?25 It’s more refreshing.”
“I’d rather not serve you that. Coconut milk is very bad for you when you’re hot, I believe. It makes you stiff and gouty. Think of those coolies carrying their heavy loads over the mountains: they keep fit and agile by drinking hot water, or kopi dahun. But ginger tea’s even better.”26
“Kopi dahun? What does that mean, tea from coffee leaves? Never heard of it.”
“That’s because you never served in Sumatra. It’s quite common over there.”
/> “Well, I’ll have tea then . . . but not made from coffee leaves, please, and not from ginger either. Yes, you were in Sumatra, and so was our new Assistant Resident, I gather.”
This conversation was conducted in Dutch, a language the Adipati didn’t understand. Then Duclari, perhaps feeling it was a touch impolite to exclude him, switched abruptly to Malay to ask him a question.
“Did you know, Mr. Adipati, that our Controleur here, Mr. Verbrugge, is acquainted with the new Assistant Resident?”
“Oh, I didn’t say that! I don’t know him,” exclaimed Verbrugge, likewise in Malay. “I’ve never set eyes on him. He served in Sumatra a few years before me. I said I’d heard a lot about him while I was there, that’s all!”
“Well, it amounts to the same thing. You don’t need to see a person to know him. What are your views on this, Mr. Adipati?”
Just then the Adipati felt the need to summon a servant, so it took him a while to say he agreed with Commander Duclari, but did believe it was often necessary to see a person before forming an opinion of him.
“Generally speaking, that may be true,” Duclari said, reverting to Dutch—either because he felt more at home in that language and had made enough effort to be polite, or because he didn’t want the Adipati to understand what he was saying. “But as far as Havelaar is concerned there’s no need for personal acquaintance . . . the man is a fool!”
“I never said that, Duclari!”
“No, you didn’t, but I’m saying so, after everything you told me about him. I call a man a fool if he dives in the water to rescue a dog from sharks.”
“Well, it’s hardly a sensible thing to do, but still . . .”
“And then that rhyme about General Vandamme . . . it was most inappropriate!”
“It was funny.”
“Of course it was! But young men aren’t supposed to be funny at the expense of generals.”
“Don’t forget he was very young at the time, it was fourteen years ago. He was only twenty-two.”
“And then he stole that turkey!”
“That was just him playing a joke on General Vandamme.”
“Exactly! A young man has no business playing jokes on an army general who was the civil governor besides being his boss. I quite liked the other rhyme, but . . . all those duels!”
“Most of which were fought on behalf of other people. He always stood up for the weaker party.”
“Well, let every man fight his own duels, if he must! Personally I think there’s rarely any need for a duel. When impossible to avoid, I’d take up the challenge, and might even throw down the gauntlet myself under certain circumstances, but to make a habit of that sort of thing . . . no thanks! Let’s hope he’s changed in that respect.”
“Oh yes, there’s no doubt he’s changed! He’s so much older now, been married for years, and Assistant Resident to boot. Besides, I’ve always heard that his heart was in the right place, and that he had a warm sense of justice.”
“Then that’ll stand him in good stead in Lebak! Something happened this morning, and . . . Can the Adipati follow what we’re saying?”
“I don’t think so. But why don’t you show me something from your game bag, then he’ll think we’re talking about that.”
Duclari reached for his bag and drew out a couple of wood pigeons. Handling the birds as though discussing his trophies, he told Verbrugge that while he was out hunting he was accosted by a Javanese man, asking if anything could be done to ease the burden weighing on the population.27
“And,” he continued, “this is quite remarkable, Verbrugge! Not that I was surprised by what he said. I’ve been in Banten long enough to know what goes on here, but that a lowly Javanese, who’s normally so cautious and reticent with regard to his chiefs, should put such a question to someone who has nothing to do with the matter, that’s what amazes me!”
“What did you tell him, Duclari?”
“Well, that it was nothing to do with me. That he should go to you, or else to the new Assistant Resident in Rangkasbitung and make his complaint there.”
“There they are!” cried Dongso, the overseer. “I can see somebody waving his hat.”28
Everyone stood up. Duclari jumped into the saddle and rode off, as he didn’t want his presence in the pendopo being taken to mean that he’d come all the way for the express purpose of welcoming the new Assistant Resident, who, though of higher rank, was not his boss and moreover a fool.
The Adipati and Controleur Verbrugge posted themselves at the entrance to the pendopo and watched the mud-spattered coach-and-four grind to a halt in front of them.
It was hard to tell what or who was inside that coach until Dongso, assisted by various servants from the Adipati’s retinue, finished untying all the straps and knots on the black leather blinds, as the entire vehicle was covered up in a way recalling the secrecy surrounding the arrival of caged lions and tigers in the old days, when zoological gardens were still itinerant animal shows. There were neither lions nor tigers in the coach. The covers had been put on because it was the southwest monsoon, and they had to be prepared for rain. Alighting from a coach after being shaken about for too long isn’t as easy as the inexperienced traveler would imagine. Much as the poor old dinosaurs were fated to become part of the very earth they once trod, passengers packed closely together in a vehicle for any length of time undergo a process I propose to call assimilation. In the end you can’t tell where the leather padding ends and the self begins—in fact I can quite imagine the occupants of a coach being unable to distinguish between uncomfortable upholstery and a bout of toothache or cramps.
There are few circumstances in the material world that don’t give a thinking man cause to use his brain, and I’ve often wondered, for instance, whether all the unfairness we accept as law and all the “crookedness” we consider “straight” could be attributable to spending too much time with the same people in the same vehicle. The leg you have to poke sideways between the hatbox and the basket of cherries . . . the knee you keep jammed against the door in case the lady opposite suspects you of planning an assault on crinoline or virtue . . . the foot with corns that shrinks from the heels of the traveling salesman beside you . . . the neck you must crane to the left on account of the drips . . . and you always end up as a twist of knees, neck, feet, and all. Hence my recommendation to change vehicles, seats, and traveling companions from time to time. Then at least you can hold your neck at a different angle and shift your knee now and then, and you might even find yourself sitting next to a young lady in dancing shoes, or a little lad whose legs don’t reach the floor. And it improves your chances of thinking straight and walking straight once your feet hit terra firma.
Whether the coach stopping in front of the pendopo contained any obstruction to the so-called “dissolution of continuity” I don’t know, but it was certainly a long time before anyone got out. A contest of civilities appeared to be in progress, with cries of “If you please, dear lady!,” “oh, Mr. Resident!” and the like. Emerging at last was a gentleman whose posture and appearance had something that recalled the aforementioned dinosaurs. As we’ll be meeting him again, I may as well tell you right away that his impassive demeanor was not due simply to his assimilation with the coach, for even when there was no vehicle in sight for miles he still emanated the kind of stolid, imperturbable watchfulness that would have put a dinosaur to shame, but which to many people signifies breeding, self-confidence, and wisdom. He was, like most Europeans in the Indies, very pale, although that doesn’t count as a sign of ill health in those parts, and his finely drawn features were those of a man of some intellectual development. But there was a coldness to his gaze, something recalling a logarithm table, and although his overall appearance was not in the least disagreeable or repellent, you couldn’t help wondering whether his rather large, thin nose wasn’t bored stiff with his expressionless countenance . . .
He courteously offered his hand to the lady emerging from the coach, to whom someo
ne inside the vehicle passed a flaxen-haired toddler, after which they stepped into the pendopo. The child’s father followed suit, but not before—and this is remarkable to anyone familiar with Java—waiting to help an elderly Javanese babu to descend.29 In the meantime three servants had extricated themselves from the leather box clinging to the back of the coach like a young oyster to the back of its mama.
The gentleman who had been the first to alight turned to the Adipati and Controleur Verbrugge, extending his hand, which they shook respectfully. They were clearly somewhat in awe of their visitor. He was the Resident of Banten, the large territory within which Lebak constitutes a regency, or, as it is officially known, an assistant-residency.
With regard to works of fiction I have often been irked by the author’s low opinion of the taste of his readers, and never more so than when his intention is to produce something supposedly droll or farcical, not to say humorous, a quality too often confused with comical. Characters turn up who don’t understand the language, or who mispronounce words, such as a Frenchman saying “Zees eez much bigger zan zat.” Failing a Frenchman, they take someone with a stammer, or they “create” a figure who keeps repeating the same phrase. I’ve known the most inane vaudeville show to carry the day thanks to an actor saying “My name is Meyer” over and over. I find that kind of angling for laughs rather too facile, and to be honest I’d hold it against you if you thought it amusing.
But now I myself have something of that nature to offer you. Now and then I’m obliged to introduce a character (though I’ll avoid it if possible) who did in fact speak in a way that sounds rather like an unsuccessful attempt on my part to make you laugh. So I must assure you most emphatically that it’s not my fault if the illustrious Resident of Banten (it is to him that I’m referring) spoke in such a curious way that I can hardly reproduce it here without appearing to do so for comical effect. For he had what you might call a tic. He spoke as though each word were followed by a period, or a long dash. I can’t think of a better comparison to the intervals between his words than the hush after the “amen” to a long prayer in church, which, as everybody knows, signals an opportunity to shift in your seat, cough, or blow your nose. What he said was for the most part well considered, and would have sounded quite reasonable, at least from a rhetorical point of view, if he’d been able to avoid those awkward pauses. But all that disjointedness, the halting, stumbling delivery, made him decidedly hard to follow, which often gave rise to complications. Because if you began to reply, thinking he’d reached the end of his sentence or was leaving the rest for you to infer, the missing words would come up anyway after a time, like the stragglers of a defeated army, which made you feel you’d been impolite by interrupting him. In Serang, the capital of the regency, his diction was held to be “slimy” by all—unless they were in the colonial service, which tends to be somewhat inhibiting. The adjective is not in very good taste, in my opinion, but I must admit it qualifies the locution of Mr. Slymering, the Resident, rather well.