Max Havelaar

by Multatuli

  “But it’s only natural,” Havelaar continued, taking Max on his arm. “In Cikande and Bolang they’re very glad of it . . . and so are the rebels in the Lampungs.32 I’d be most grateful for your cooperation, Controleur Verbrugge! The Adipati is getting on in years, and so . . . By the way, is his son-in-law still the district chief? All things considered, I think he’s someone we should make allowances for . . . the Adipati, I mean. It’s a great pleasure to be in such a backward and poverty-stricken place, and . . . and I hope to remain here for a long time.”

  At this he shook hands with Verbrugge. As the two men made their way back to the table where Resident Slymering, the Adipati, and Mrs. Havelaar were seated, Verbrugge became aware, more keenly than five minutes earlier, that this Havelaar fellow was far less of a fool than Commander Duclari made him out to be. Verbrugge was by no means lacking in intelligence, and, knowing the Lebak regency as well any one man can know an area of that size without a printing press, it began to dawn on him that Havelaar’s apparent non sequiturs made good sense after all, and also that the new Assistant Resident knew quite a lot about his new posting even though he’d never been there before. He was still puzzled by Havelaar’s enthusiastic remark about the poverty of Lebak, but told himself he must have got it wrong. Afterwards, however, when Havelaar said the same thing again on several occasions, Verbrugge came to realize how magnanimous and noble the new Assistant Resident’s enthusiasm was.

  Havelaar and Verbrugge took their seats at the table and drank tea, engaging in small talk until Dongso appeared, informing Resident Slymering that a fresh team of horses had been harnessed. They all squeezed into the coach as best they could, and off they went. All the jolting and shaking made conversation difficult. Little Max was kept quiet with a pisang,33 and his mother, holding him on her lap, refused outright to admit she was tired when Havelaar offered to relieve her of the heavy child. During a delay in a mudhole Verbrugge asked the Resident whether he had already discussed Mrs. Slotering with the new Assistant Resident.

  “Mr. Havelaar. Said . . .”

  “By all means, Verbrugge, why not? The lady can stay with us. I would never . . .”

  “It. Is. All. Right,” the Resident drawled, with considerable effort.

  “Never would I turn away a lady in her circumstances. That goes without saying, doesn’t it, Tina?”

  Tina agreed that it went without saying.

  “You have two houses in Rangkasbitung,” Verbrugge said. “There’s plenty of room for two families.”

  “But even if there weren’t . . .”

  “I. Did. Not. Dare . . .”

  “Oh, Resident Slymering,” cried Mrs. Havelaar, “there’s no doubt about it!”

  “Promise. It. To Her. Because. It. Is.”

  “Even if there were ten of them, as long as they take us as we are.”

  “A. Great. Inconvenience. And. She. Is.”

  “But she’s in no condition to travel, Resident Slymering!”

  The violent jolt as the coach was pulled free from the mud served as an exclamation mark to Tina’s assertion that traveling was impossible for Mrs. Slotering. Everyone heaved a deep sigh, which is customary following a jolt of that kind, while little Max retrieved the fruit that had fallen from his hand into his mother’s lap, and they were well on their way to the next mudhole before the Resident could bring himself to finish his sentence by adding:

  “A. Native. Woman.”

  “Oh, that makes no difference,” Mrs. Havelaar said, struggling to make herself heard. The Resident nodded, as though pleased with himself for having settled the matter. Conversation being so effortful, they all fell silent.

  This Mrs. Slotering was the widow of Havelaar’s predecessor, the Assistant Resident who had died two months previously. Verbrugge had been appointed as his temporary replacement, in which capacity he was entitled to occupy the large house which, in Rangkasbitung as elsewhere, was provided by the government for the head of the regional administration. However, he hadn’t moved into the large house, partly to avoid having to move out again soon after, and partly so that the widow and her children wouldn’t be obliged to vacate the premises. Not that that would have been necessary, because there was, within the grounds of the spacious official residence, another building, which had formerly served the same purpose and which, though somewhat rundown, was still perfectly habitable.

  Mrs. Slotering had asked Resident Slymering to speak to her husband’s successor on her behalf, so that she might stay in the official residence until after her confinement, which would take place a few months later. It was this request that Havelaar and his wife had so readily granted, for it was in their nature to be hospitable and helpful in the highest degree.

  We have heard the Resident mention that Mrs. Slotering was a “native woman.” Some explanation is called for here for the benefit of the non–East Indian reader, who might otherwise jump to the conclusion that she was a full-blooded Javanese.

  European society in the Dutch Indies may be divided into two quite separate groups: the true Europeans on the one hand, and on the other those who—although legally enjoying the same rights—were not born in Europe and have some native blood in their veins. In fairness to the notions of humanity prevailing in the Indies, I hasten to add that, however sharply the line is drawn between the two types of individuals, both regarded as Hollanders by the native population,34 the divide in no way resembles the barbarian practices of segregation seen in America. I don’t deny there is still much in these social relations that is hateful and unfair, and that the term liplap has often grated on my ears as proof of how far removed the non-liplap, the white man himself, is from being civilized. True, the liplap is seldom admitted to social gatherings, and is mostly looked down on, but you seldom hear anybody advocating such exclusion or disparagement on principle. Everyone is, of course, free to choose his own environment and company, and you can’t really blame the true European for preferring to consort with his peers rather than with people who—regardless of their moral and intellectual merit—don’t share his way of thinking, or—and this seems to be what supposed differences in civilization often amount to—whose prejudices have taken a different direction from his own.35

  A liplap—a more polite term would be “so-called native,” but please allow me to use the vernacular expression that appears to be born of alliteration, without wishing to cause any offense, and besides, what does the word actually mean? In any case, there’s much to be said for the liplap. For the European, too. There’s also much to be said against both, and in this too they’re alike. But they differ too much in both their good and their bad parts to take pleasure, generally speaking, in each other’s company. Moreover—and this is largely the government’s fault—the liplap is often poorly educated. The question is not what the European would be like if he’d been similarly hindered in his development; be that as it may, there’s no doubt that it is in most cases the liplap’s schooling that bars him from achieving equality, for all that he, as an individual, may be seen as deserving precedence over certain Europeans in terms of civilization, science, or art.

  Again, there’s nothing new here. It was, for instance, William the Conqueror’s policy to raise the status of the lowliest Norman above that of the most civilized Saxon, so that every Norman could, by appealing to the superiority of the Normans in general, assert himself in areas where he would have been ignored but for the dominant influence of his clan.

  Such a state of affairs inevitably puts a certain strain on social intercourse, which could be alleviated only by philosophical, broad-minded attitudes and measures on the part of the government.36

  Needless to say, the European, having the upper hand in these relationships, is quick to embrace his artificial superiority. But it is often hilarious to hear a man whose culture and language were largely acquired in the backstreets of Rotterdam making fun of a liplap for his or her mistakes in Dutch grammar.

  A liplap may be civilized, well educated, even
learned—yes, they exist! But when a European upstart who jumps ship by feigning illness to avoid washing dishes and whose speech is of the commonest kind rises to become head of the trading company that made such huge profits on indigo in 1800—no, long before he even started his toko dealing in hams and hunting rifles—when such a European notices that the most well-bred liplap has difficulty telling certain Dutch gutturals apart, his reaction is to laugh at the stupidity of not knowing the difference between a g and an h.

  But he wouldn’t have laughed had he known that in Arabic and Malay both sounds are written the same way, that Hieronymus passed via Geronimo into Jérôme, that we have turned huano into guano, that a hostel employs ostlers, and that for Guild Heaume the Dutch say Huillem or Willem. That would be too much erudition to expect from a man who makes his fortune in indigo and owes his betterment to luck in playing dice . . . or worse!

  So a European of that ilk can hardly be expected to consort with a mere liplap!

  I can see how William derives from Guillaume, and I must say I’ve met many liplaps, especially in the Moluccas, who astonished me with the extent of their knowledge, and who gave me the idea that we Europeans, notwithstanding all our resources, are often far behind those unfortunate pariahs who from the very cradle must contend with artificial, unfair discrimination and the absurd prejudice against the color of their skin. Mrs. Slotering, however, was in no danger of making mistakes in Dutch, for she always spoke Malay. We will meet her in the next chapter having tea with Havelaar, Tina, and little Max on the porch of their home in Rangkasbitung, where our travelers arrived safely at last, much jostled by their long journey.

  Resident Slymering, who had come along only to install the new Assistant Resident in his office, announced that he wanted to return to Serang on the same day.

  “Because. I,” he managed to drag out, at which Havelaar declared that he was all in favor of expedience.

  “Am. Very. Busy,” spoke the Resident, haltingly.

  They then agreed to meet in a half hour on the Adipati’s spacious front veranda. Verbrugge was prepared for this, and had, several days in advance, issued summons to all the district chiefs, the patih, the kliwon, the jaksa,37 the tax collector, several overseers, and any other native officials whose presence was required at the ceremony, to assemble in the regional capital.

  The Adipati said goodbye and rode off to his house. Mrs. Havelaar took a look around her new abode; she was greatly pleased, especially with the sizable garden, which meant plenty of fresh air for little Max. The Resident and Havelaar went to their quarters to change into the official attire required for the ceremony. Milling around the house were hundreds of people who had either escorted the Resident’s coach on horseback, or were in the retinues of the assembled chiefs, while heads of police and office staff hurried to and fro. In short, the tedium of that forgotten corner of west Java was temporarily dispelled by bustle and ado.

  It was not long before the handsome carriage sent by the Adipati entered the forecourt. The Resident and Havelaar, glittering with gold and silver but in danger of tripping over their sabers, boarded the vehicle, which was met with gongs and gamelan music at the Adipati’s home.38 Controleur Verbrugge had already arrived, having changed out of his muddy clothes earlier. The lesser chiefs sat, oriental-fashion, in a large circle on the mat-covered floor, while the chairs around a table at the far end of the long veranda were occupied by Resident Slymering, the Adipati, the new Assistant Resident, Verbrugge, and half a dozen chiefs. Tea and cake were served, and the simple ceremony began.

  Resident Slymering stood up and proceeded to intone the Governor-General’s order appointing Max Havelaar as Assistant Resident in the regency of South Banten, or Banten Kidul, as Lebak is called by the natives. He then read out the usual oath of office printed in the Government Gazette, which included the statement “that with a view to his appointment or promotion to the office of ***** he must not have made any gifts or promises to anyone; that he will bear true faith to His Majesty the King of the Netherlands and obey His Majesty’s representative in the East Indies; that he will strictly uphold and cause to be upheld the laws and regulations applicable now and in the future, and that in all matters he will conduct himself as befits a good *****” (in this instance: a good Assistant Resident). This was, of course, followed by the sacramental “So help me God Almighty.”

  Havelaar repeated the phrases as they were read out. The oath should by rights be taken to imply the promise to protect the native population against extortion and oppression. For when swearing to abide by the existing laws and regulations, one had only to glance at the numerous provisions thereof to see that a separate oath wasn’t really necessary. But the legislator apparently deemed that one cannot have too much of a good thing, because an additional oath is indeed required of an Assistant Resident to reiterate his duty towards the common man. So Havelaar had once more to call upon “God Almighty” to witness his promise to “protect the native people against oppression, ill treatment, and extortion.”

  The attentive listener would have been interested to note the disparity in attitude and tone of Resident Slymering and Havelaar on this occasion. Both men had attended such ceremonies before. So the disparity I am referring to did not lie in their responses to the novelty or anomaly of the occasion; rather, it was caused exclusively by the difference in character and outlook of the two men. Although the Resident spoke a little less haltingly than usual, as he was merely required to read out the order of appointment and the oaths, which saved him the trouble of having to grope for words to finish his sentences, he conducted the whole ceremony with such solemn dignity as to impress the superficial onlooker with his sincerity. Havelaar, by contrast, raising his finger as he repeated the oath, expressed in his face, tone, and bearing something like: “All that stuff goes without saying—I would do it anyway, even without God Almighty,” so that anyone with an understanding of human nature would have had more confidence in his ease of manner and apparent aloofness than in the Resident’s gravity. After all, surely it’s absurd to assume that the man called upon to do justice, the man whose task is to watch over the welfare of thousands, should feel honor bound by uttering a few syllables if he didn’t already feel bound by his own conscience? We believe that Havelaar would have protected the poor and downtrodden wherever he went, even if he had sworn by “God Almighty” to do the opposite.

  Then followed the Resident’s speech addressed to the chiefs, in which he introduced the new Assistant Resident as the head of the regency, enjoining them to obey him and fulfill their obligations with rigor, and so forth. The chiefs were subsequently presented one by one to Havelaar. He shook hands with each of them in turn, and the “installation” was over.

  The midday meal was served indoors at the Adipati’s home, where Commander Duclari was among the guests. The Resident took his leave immediately afterwards, as he wanted to be back in Serang that evening: “Because. I. Am. So. Extremely. Busy.”

  Once the Resident’s coach departed, Rangkasbitung subsided into tranquility once more, as may be expected of a government station in the interior of Java that is neither home to many Europeans nor situated on a main road.

  It was not long before Duclari and Havelaar felt at ease with each other; meanwhile, the Adipati showed signs of being pleased with his new “elder brother,” and Verbrugge reported afterwards that the Resident, whom he had escorted part of the way back to Serang, had spoken most favorably of the Havelaars, who had stayed at his house for a few days on their way to Lebak. He also said that Havelaar, given his good reputation with the government, would most likely be promoted to higher office in the near future, or at least transferred to a more “advantageous” post.

  Max Havelaar and “his Tina” had only just returned from Europe, and were tired of “living out of a suitcase,” as I once heard it curiously described. So it was a relief to them, after all their travels, to find themselves in a place they could call home. Before their European visit Havelaar
had served as Assistant Resident in Ambon, where he had faced considerable difficulties, because the islanders were in a state of ferment and rebellion as a result of all the injudicious measures recently taken there. He had managed to quell the spirit of revolt, not least thanks to his resilience, but he was pained by the scant assistance accorded to him in this affair by the authorities, and annoyed at the miserable government that, for centuries, has been causing the depopulation and spoilage of those lovely Moluccan islands . . .

  The interested reader is advised to consult what was written on this subject as long ago as 1825 by Baron Van der Capellen, the humanitarian whose articles were published in that year’s East Indies Gazette. The situation has not improved since!

  As it was, Havelaar had done all he could within his remit in Ambon, but his exasperation at the lack of cooperation from those whose first duty was to support his efforts had made him ill, whereupon he decided to go to Europe on furlough.39 On his reposting he had, strictly speaking, been entitled to a better place than the poor, by no means thriving regency of Lebak, as his position in Ambon had been of more consequence. He had had sole authority there, without a Resident senior to him. Besides, even before his appointment in Ambon there had been talk of a promotion, and there was some surprise when he was sent to a regency that yielded so little in the way of plantation bonuses, since a post was usually valued by the income attached to it. Havelaar himself raised no objections, having no ambition to grovel for a higher rank or income.40

  He had spent what little money he’d saved over the past years on his travels in Europe, and had even run into debt there; he was, in a word, poor. But he had never thought of his office in terms of financial gain, and on his appointment to Lebak he told himself he’d make up his arrears by thrift, in which resolve his wife, having such modest tastes and needs, would be happy to support him.