Max Havelaar

by Multatuli

  I have said nothing as yet of Max Havelaar and his wife—they were the two passengers who alighted after Resident Slymering, along with their little boy and the nursemaid. As for their appearance and character, I could probably leave the description thereof to the course of events or to the reader’s imagination, but now that I’m in an expressive mood I’ll say that Mrs. Havelaar was not beautiful. Still, there was a marked sweetness to her glance and tone, and her easy manner was an unmistakable sign of worldliness and of belonging to the upper classes of society. There was none of that stiffness and strain so typical of the genteel middle classes, who persist in embarrassing themselves and others with fussy manners simply to pass as “distinguished,” for she, unlike many women, set little store by social graces. In her dress, too, she was a model of simplicity. Her traveling costume consisted of a white muslin tunic and a blue wrap, which I believe would be called a peignoir in Europe, and at her throat she wore a silk cord with two small lockets that were largely hidden from view in the folds of her clothing; her hair was smoothed back in the Chinese manner, with a circlet of jasmine round the chignon.

  I mentioned that she wasn’t beautiful, but I wouldn’t want you to think she was the opposite. I trust you’ll appreciate her beauty as soon as I have the opportunity to portray her ablaze with indignation over what she called the “misunderstood genius” of her beloved Max, or whenever her child’s well-being was at stake. The human face has been called the mirror of the soul too often for anyone still to prize a blank expression, which has nothing to mirror because there’s no soul in it. Well then, her soul was beautiful, and you had to be blind not to see the beauty of her face when it mirrored her soul.

  Havelaar was a man of thirty-five. He was slim, and nimble in his movements. Aside from his short, mobile upper lip and his large, pale blue eyes, which had a dreamy look when he was calm but shot fire when seized with a great idea, there was nothing unusual about his appearance. His fair hair lay flat along his temples, and I can well understand that few people would be inclined to think at first sight that they were in the presence of a man whose heart and mind were both exceptional. He was a veritable “bundle of contradictions.” Sharp as a knife and gentle as a girl, he was always the first to feel the hurt inflicted by his harsh words, and suffered more than the victim. Sharp-witted, he was quick to grasp the loftiest, most complex matters, and took pleasure in finding answers to difficult questions, no matter how much exertion, study, or commitment was required . . . and yet he was often baffled by the simplest things a child could have explained to him. Devoted to truth and justice, he often neglected his most immediate duties purely for the sake of redressing a wrong lying higher or further or deeper, which seemed to hold more attraction on account of the greater effort involved. He was chivalrous and brave, but, like the original Don Quixote, he often wasted his valor tilting at windmills. He burned with an insatiable ambition, which made him dismissive of all the normal distinctions in society, yet he regarded a life of calm, secluded domesticity as his greatest happiness. A poet in the highest sense of the word, he could, from a mere spark, dream up an entire solar system peopled with creatures of his own invention, and fancy himself the lord of a world he himself had called into existence . . . and yet, on the instant, he could switch to a down-to-earth discussion of the price of rice, the rules of grammar, or the economic advantages of an Egyptian poultry farm. There was no branch of knowledge entirely foreign to him. He inferred what he didn’t know, and had a talent for using what little he did know—no one knows a great deal, and he, though perhaps knowing more than the average man, was no exception to this rule—as a means of compounding his knowledge. He was precise and orderly, and also extremely patient, but that was only because precision, order, and patience didn’t come easily to him, for he had a wayward spirit. He was unhurried and circumspect in his judgments, although this wasn’t apparent from his briskness in stating his conclusions. His views were too whimsical for people to believe in their durability, and yet he was frequently able to prove them durable. He was drawn to all that was great and uplifting, and at the same time could be as ignorant and naive as a child. He was honest, particularly where honesty leans towards generosity, leaving unpaid a debt of hundreds simply because he’d given thousands away. Witty and entertaining when he felt himself among kindred spirits, he was otherwise aloof and withdrawn. Warmhearted to his friends, he was ready—sometimes too ready—to befriend the needy. He was sensitive to love and affection . . . true to his word . . . weak in small things, but resolute to the point of obstinacy when he considered it expedient to show character . . . modest and amenable to those who acknowledged his intellectual superiority, but disagreeable to those who challenged it . . . frank out of pride, and reticent only when he feared that his candor would be mistaken for naivety . . . susceptible to the sensual and the spiritual in equal measure . . . timid and halting when he thought he was not understood, but eloquent when he felt that his words were falling on fertile soil . . . slow when not spurred on by his own soul, but otherwise hardworking, ardent, and determined . . . furthermore, he was friendly, well mannered, and of irreproachable conduct: such, more or less, was Havelaar!

  I said: more or less. Giving definitions is difficult enough as it is, and rarely more so than when describing a person who deviates greatly from the everyday mold. That is probably why novelists tend to present their heroes as either devils or angels. Black and white are easy to paint; more difficult to achieve is the correct rendering of the gradations in between, in particular when you’re bound by veracity and must therefore avoid making the portrait too dark or too light. The sketch I have attempted to give of Havelaar is, I fear, sorely deficient. So diverse are the raw materials at my disposal that judgment is hindered by an embarrassment of riches; to paint the full picture I may have to revisit them in the course of telling my story. One thing is certain: he was an unusual man, and worthy of observation. I notice I have failed to mention one of his main traits: that he was just as quick to see the ludicrous as the serious side of things, and that this added a touch of humor to his conversation, which, without his knowing it, left his listeners in doubt as to whether they were moved by the strength of feeling in his words or amused by an abrupt flash of wit subverting the earnestness of what he had just said.

  It was remarkable that his appearance, and even his sentiments, bore so few traces of the life he’d led. Vaunting one’s experience has become a risible commonplace. There are those who drift along on the same stream—they claim to be swimming—for fifty or sixty years, yet have little to say about all those years other than that they moved from Canal A to Street B. There’s nothing more common than hearing people boast about what they went through, particularly if they came by their gray hairs lightly. Others claim wide experience on the grounds of some fate that has befallen them, without that fateful event having left the faintest mark on the soul. Indeed I can quite imagine that witnessing a major upheaval, or even being a party to it, has little or no effect on the state of mind of people who lack the ability to absorb impressions and learn from them. Anyone who doubts this should ask himself whether it is fair to attribute wide experience to every French citizen between forty and fifty years old in 1815, all of whom had not only seen the great drama unfold in 1789, but had also played some major or minor role in it.

  And conversely: think of all those people who experience a whole range of sentiments without any external circumstances appearing to warrant them. Think of the Crusoe novels, of Silvio Pellico’s imprisonment, of Saintine’s adorable Picciola,* of the turmoil in the breast of an “old maid” with a lifelong passion for a man yet never breathing a word to anyone about her heartache, think of the friend of humanity who, without any personal motive, takes a fiery interest in the welfare of his fellow citizens or fellow men. Think how he hopes and fears by turns, observing every change, how passionately he professes a noble idea and how he burns with indignation when that idea is pushed aside by other notions whose
gravitas, for a moment at least, outweighs that of his own. Think of the philosopher in his cell, trying to teach the meaning of truth and finding his voice drowned out by sanctimonious hypocrites or money-grubbing charlatans. Imagine Socrates—not drinking the cup of poison, for I’m referring to the experience of inner emotion, and not of outward events—and think how bitterly his soul must have grieved when he who sought after rightness and truth found himself accused of “corrupting the young and despising the gods.”

  Or better still: think of Jesus gazing towards Jerusalem, and lamenting that the people “would not” take heed. Such a grievous cry—in advance of the poisoned cup or the wooden cross—doesn’t arise from an unaffected heart. It speaks of suffering, much suffering, it speaks of experience!

  This tirade has escaped me . . . now that it is written, let it stand. Havelaar was a man of wide experience. Would you care for something more spectacular than moving from Canal A to Street B? Well, he had been shipwrecked—more than once, for that matter. His diary was strewn with fires, uproar, assassinations, war, duels, wealth, poverty, famine, cholera, love, and “loves.” He had traveled widely and had mixed with people of all races, ranks, customs, prejudices, creeds, and complexions.

  The circumstances of his life, then, had put him in a position to gain much experience. And gain it he did, for his quick mind and open heart ensured that he didn’t go through life without absorbing the abundance of impressions that it offered him.

  What surprised everyone who knew or could guess how much he had seen and endured was that so little of it could be read in his face. True, there was a certain weariness in his features, but this was more suggestive of careworn youth than of the approach of old age. And yet he was approaching old age, for in the Indies a man of thirty-five is no longer young.

  As I mentioned before, his sentiments, too, had remained youthful. He would happily play with a child, and showed the petulance of a child himself at times, as when he complained about “little Max” not being old enough to fly kites whereas he, “big Max,” took such pleasure in it. He was happy to leapfrog with boys and to draw embroidering patterns for girls. He would even take the needle from them and work some threads himself for the fun of it, although he often said that surely they had better things to do than “mechanically counting stitches.” In the company of eighteen-year-olds he was a just another young student joining them in songs like “Patriam canimus” or “Gaudeamus igitur”. . . I’ve heard it said that only a short while ago, while on leave in Amsterdam, he tore down a tobacconist’s shop sign, out of displeasure at the picture of a Negro in chains at the feet of a European smoking a long pipe, captioned, unsurprisingly, as: “The Young Merchant Smoker.”

  The babu he helped down from the coach was no different from any other domestic in the Indies, for they’re all alike when old. If you’re familiar with this type of servant I needn’t describe what she looked like. But if you aren’t, never mind. The only difference between her and all the other nursemaids in the Indies was that she had very little work to do: Mrs. Havelaar took exemplary care of her child, and whatever had to be done with or for little Max she did herself, much to the surprise of the other ladies, who were inclined to disapprove of a mother being “a slave to her children.”

  *What Defoe’s hero Robinson Crusoe (1719), the Italian poet Silvio Pellico (1789– 1854), and the French writer Saintine (pen name of Joseph-Xavier Boniface, 1795– 1865) have in common is the striking contrast between a man’s imposed isolation and the attendant raising of his moral and religious awareness.

  SEVENTH CHAPTER

  RESIDENT Slymering of Banten introduced the Adipati and Controleur Verbrugge to Havelaar, who, as the new Assistant Resident, greeted both officials courteously, and spoke a few kindly words to Verbrugge—meeting a new superior is always a little intimidating—as though wishing to establish right off the sort of amicable relationship that would facilitate their future dealings. Havelaar’s conduct was properly attuned to making the acquaintance of a man who is not only entitled to using the gilded payung, or sunshade,30 but is also meant to be his “younger brother.” With an air of dignified indulgence he chided the Adipati for his exaggerated effort in coming such a very long way to meet him, considering the weather conditions. For there was, strictly speaking, no need for him to do so according to the rules of etiquette.

  “Truly, Mr. Adipati, I’m rather cross with you for having gone to so much trouble on my behalf! I didn’t expect to see you until I got to Rangkasbitung.”

  “I wished to meet you at the earliest opportunity, so that we might become friends,” the Adipati replied.

  “Indeed, indeed, I’m greatly honored. But it pains me to see someone of your rank and age exerting himself unduly. You even came on horseback!”

  “Oh yes, Mr. Havelaar! When duty calls, I am still quick and strong.”

  “But you ask too much of yourself! Don’t you agree, Mr. Slymering?”

  “The. Adipati. Is. Most.”

  “True, but there are limits.”

  “Dutiful,” Resident Slymering said, belatedly.

  “True, but there are limits,” Havelaar repeated, almost as though to swallow his previous words. “If you have no objection, Mr. Slymering, we could make room in the coach. The babu can stay behind, we’ll send a sedan chair for her from Rangkasbitung. My wife will take young Max on her knee, won’t you, Tina? That way we can all fit in.”

  “All. Right. With.”

  “Verbrugge, you can come along too. I don’t see why . . .”

  “Me!” concluded the Resident.

  “I don’t see why you should go splashing through the mud on horseback, there’s room enough for us all. We can get to know each other. What d’you say, Tina, we can fit everybody in, can’t we? Come here, Max . . . well, Verbrugge, isn’t this little fellow charming? This is my son, this is Max!”

  Meanwhile, the Resident and the Adipati had seated themselves in the pendopo. Havelaar beckoned Verbrugge and asked who the owner of the white horse with the red saddlecloth was. Then, as Verbrugge started towards the entrance of the pendopo to check which white horse was meant, Havelaar laid a hand on his shoulder, asking:

  “Is the Adipati always so dutiful?”

  “He’s a strong man for his age, Mr. Havelaar, and he wants to make a good impression, as you can imagine.”

  “Yes, I realize that. I’ve heard much in his favor. He’s quite civilized, I gather?”

  “Oh yes . . .”

  “And does he have an extended family?”

  Verbrugge gave Havelaar a questioning look, for he didn’t see the connection. In fact many people experienced this difficulty when meeting Havelaar for the first time. The speed of his thinking caused him to leap ahead in the course of a conversation, and no matter how gradual the transition in his own mind, you could hardly blame interlocutors with less mental agility for staring at him with the unspoken question on their lips: are you mad . . . or, what’s the matter with you?

  That was roughly the expression on Verbrugge’s face, and Havelaar had to repeat his question before getting an answer.

  “Yes, he has a very extended family.”

  “And are they building any masjids in the regency?” Havelaar went on, again in a tone hinting at some kind of connection between mosques and the number of the Adipati’s relatives.

  Verbrugge replied that the construction of mosques was well underway.

  “Ah yes, I knew that already!” Havelaar exclaimed. “Now tell me, are there bad arrears in payment of land tax?”

  “Well, things could be better . . .”

  “Indeed they could, especially around Parangkujang,” Havelaar said, as if he thought he might as well answer his question himself. “What is the levy for this year?” he continued, and, noting Verbrugge’s hesitation as he tried to formulate a reply, cut him short by continuing in the same breath:

  “All right, all right, I know . . . Eighty-six thousand and a few hundred . . . fifteen thousan
d up from last year . . . but only six thousand up from ’45. Since ’43 we’ve only gone up by eight thousand . . . and the population, too, is very sparse . . . Malthus, don’t you know! In twelve years we’ve seen a rise of only 11 percent, if that, because the census figures used to be very inaccurate . . . and still are!31 From ’50 to ’51 there was even a decline. No improvement in livestock either . . . not a good sign. Why, Verbrugge! Just look at that horse rearing up, I think it’s got the staggers . . . Come here, Max, take a look!”

  Verbrugge could see that there was little the new Assistant Resident would be learning from him, and that his own “local seniority” was not going to make any difference—not that the good fellow was bothered about that.