by Multatuli
“Doesn’t it sadden you to journey from here all the way to the south coast and see mountain slopes without water, and plains where no buffalo ever drew a plow?
“Yes, I say unto you that your soul and mine are saddened by these things! And it is for that very reason that we are grateful to Allah for enabling us to work here.
“For in this land there are fields for many, while the people are few. And it isn’t rain that is lacking, for the mountaintops draw the clouds down from heaven to earth. And it’s not everywhere that the ground is too stony for plants to take root, for in many places the soil is soft and fertile, crying out for the seed that will be returned as a grain-laden stalk. And there’s no war in the land to trample the paddy while it’s still green, nor disease that renders the hoe useless. Nor are the sun’s rays hotter than necessary to ripen the grain to feed you and your children, and there are no floods to make you wail, ‘Oh, where is the place where I have sown?’49
“Where Allah sends torrents that wash away the fields . . . where He makes the soil as hard as stone . . . where He makes the sun scorch the land, where He sends war to devastate the fields . . . where He strikes with diseases that leave the hands limp, or with drought that kills the ripening ear . . . there, Chiefs of Lebak, we humbly bow our heads and say: ‘His will be done!’
“But it is not so in South Banten!
“I was sent here to be your friend, your elder brother. Wouldn’t you warn your younger brother if you saw a tiger in his path?
“Chiefs of Lebak, we have often been at fault, and our land is poor as a result of our faults.
“For there are many people who have gone away, even though they were born here, in places like Cikande and Bolang, or in the Karawang region, or around Batavia.50
“Why do they look for work far from the earth where they buried their fathers? Why do they abandon the villages where they were circumcised? Why do they prefer the cool shade of the tree that grows yonder to the shade of our own forests?
“And over in the northwest, across the sea, there are many who should by rights be our sons, but who have left Lebak to roam strange shores, armed with kris and keléwang and shotgun. And they die a miserable death, for the government there has the power to crush rebellion.51
“I ask you, Chiefs of South Banten, why have so many people left, to be buried where they weren’t born? Why does the tree ask: ‘Where is the man who was once the child playing at my foot?’ ”
•
At this point Havelaar paused. You would have had to hear and see him to understand how his speech affected his listeners. When speaking of his child his voice grew gentle and indescribably tender, inviting the question: “Where oh where is the little one? Let me kiss the child who moves his father to speak in this way!” But when, shortly afterwards, he turned rather abruptly to the question of why Lebak was so poor and why so many people went away, there was an edge to his tone that recalled a gimlet boring a hole into a plank of hard wood. Yet he didn’t speak loudly, nor did he emphasize particular words. There was even a sort of monotony to his voice, and whether it was acquired or natural, it was this monotony that made his words all the more affecting to an audience so keenly receptive to such rhetoric.
His figures of speech, always taken from life, served to clarify his meaning, rather than as flourishes such as orators tend to indulge in without shedding any light whatsoever on the issue they profess to be elucidating. We are nowadays accustomed to the rather outlandish expression “as strong as a lion,” but the first European to use it didn’t draw it from a deep-seated sense of poetry, which offers images by way of argument and cannot speak otherwise: he simply copied the hackneyed phrase from some book or other featuring a lion, possibly the Bible. Given that none of his European listeners had any personal experience of a lion’s strength, it would have been far more appropriate to draw a comparison with some beast of great strength that they were familiar with.
Havelaar was undeniably a true poet. When he told of the rice fields on the mountain slopes as he gazed into the distance through the open side of the assembly hall, it was clear to everyone that he could actually see those fields in his mind’s eye. And when he spoke of the tree and the child who once played at its foot, the tree appeared before them, truly looking about for the departed inhabitants of Lebak. Moreover, he invented nothing: he could hear the tree speak, and was merely passing on what he, in poetic mood, had so distinctly heard.
If any of my readers were to argue that Havelaar’s mode of expression wasn’t all that original, recalling as it did the style of the Old Testament prophets, I’d remind them of my earlier observation that, when he got carried away, he actually sounded rather like a seer. Nourished as he was by impressions gained from living in forests and mountains and the poetry-laden atmosphere of the East, and drawing from a source like that of the prophets of old, to whom he was sometimes compared, he would probably not have spoken otherwise even if he’d never read the melodious verses of the Old Testament. For even in his juvenile poetry we find lines such as the following, written on Mount Salak—one of the giants, but not the tallest, of the Priangan peaks—where he starts out with tender emotion before suddenly turning to the thunder he hears down below:
Loud praise to God seems sweeter here to me:
O’er hills and mountainsides our prayers resound.
The heart takes wing so much more easily,
And Heav’n is closer on this higher ground!
Here He made His own temple, His own altar;
No human foot has spoiled their sanctity.
The raging storm sings from the Lord’s own psalter . . .
Its rolling thunder cries, “Your Majesty!”
The reader senses, surely, that in writing those closing lines he truly believed it was God’s thunder reverberating through the mountains that dictated the words to him.
But he was not partial to verse. He dismissed it as “a stifling strait-jacket,” and when persuaded to read out something he had “indulged in,” as he put it, he’d take pleasure in spoiling his own work, either by reciting it in a jocular tone or by breaking off to throw in a joke, preferably in the middle of a highly serious passage. This would pain his listeners, whereas to him it was merely a biting satire on the discrepancy between the straitjacket and his stifled soul.
Few of the chiefs touched the refreshments that were brought in following a nod from Havelaar: trays went round with the customary fare of tea and sweetmeats.52 His timing seemed deliberate, so that the interlude would follow his last sentence. And for good reason. He wanted the chiefs to ask themselves, “How does he know about all those people who have left our regency with bitterness in their hearts? He already knows how many families have fled to neighboring lands to escape poverty. He even knows that there are many Bantenese among those hoisting the flag of revolt against Dutch governance in the Lampungs. What does he want? What does he mean? To whom do his questions apply?”
And there were some in the audience who stared at Raden Wira Kusuma, the Chief of Parangkujang. But the majority lowered their eyes.53
“Come here, Max!” Havelaar called, catching sight of his son playing in the yard, and the Adipati drew the child onto his lap. But little Max was too high-spirited to stay there long and jumped up to run around the large circle, amusing the chiefs with his patter and fingering the hilts of their krisses. Then, attracted by an exceptionally lavish costume,54 he approached the Jaksa, who appeared to notice something unusual on the top of the child’s head, which he pointed out to the Kliwon beside him with a whispered comment. The Kliwon seemed to agree.
“Off you go now, Max,” Havelaar said. “Papa has something to tell these gentlemen.”
And the child trotted off, blowing kisses.
After this, Havelaar resumed his speech:
•
“Chiefs of Lebak! We are all in the service of the King of the Netherlands. But the King, who is righteous, and who wishes us to do our duty, is far away. Th
irty times a thousand thousand souls, yes, even more than that number, are bound to obey his orders, but he can’t be near to all who depend on his will.
“Likewise, the Great Lord in Buitenzorg is righteous, and wishes every man to do his duty. But neither can he—mighty though he is, and in command of all those with authority in the towns and all the village elders, as well as having an army at his disposal and ships at sea55—neither can he see where Injustice is done, for it is far away from him.
“And Resident Slymering at Serang, who is lord over Banten with its population of five times a hundred thousand, wishes justice to be done and righteousness to reign in his lands. But he resides far from where Injustice takes place. And whoever does wrong hides from his sight, for fear of punishment.
“And the honorable Adipati, Regent of South Banten, wishes all people of good conduct to live in peace, and that no shame shall come upon the lands of his regency. And I, who yesterday called upon God Almighty to witness that I shall be righteous and merciful, that I shall administer justice without fear or hatred, and that I shall be ‘a good Assistant Resident’. . . I too wish to do my duty.
“Chiefs of Lebak! We all wish this!
“But if there should happen to be in our midst some who neglect their duties for gain, who sell justice for money, who seize the poor man’s buffalo, and the fruits that belong to the hungry . . . who is to punish them?
“If any of you heard of such wrongdoing, you would prevent it. Nor would any regent allow it within his regency. And I too shall prevent it wherever I can. But if neither you, nor the Adipati, nor I are ever told about such things . . .
“Chiefs of Lebak! Then who will do justice in South Banten?
“Listen to me, and I will tell you how justice will be done.
“The day will come that our women and children weep as they prepare our shroud, and the passerby will say: ‘A man has died in that house.’ And a traveler to the villages will bring tidings of death, and those who offer him lodging will ask: ‘Who was the man who died?’
“And the answer will be: ‘He was good and righteous. He passed judgment and turned no claimant from his door. He listened with patience to those who appealed to him, and restored what had been taken from them. And he would go out and help search for the buffalo stolen from the stable of a man, who was therefore unable to plow the soil, and when a daughter was abducted from her mother’s house he’d seek out the culprit and bring the girl back. Where labor was done he didn’t withhold payment, nor did he take the fruits from those who planted the trees. He didn’t clothe himself with fabric intended for clothing others, nor did he eat the food that belonged to the poor.’
“Then the villagers will say, ‘Allah is great, Allah has taken him unto Himself. His will be done . . . a good man has died.’
“But another time the passerby will stop at a house and ask, ‘What is this, that the gamelan is silent, why are there no girls singing?’ And again the answer will be: ‘A man has died.’
“And he who journeys to the villages will sit with his host at dusk, surrounded by the sons and daughters of the house and the children of the village, and he will say, ‘A man has died who vowed to be just, but he sold justice to those who gave him money. He manured his fields with the sweat of the workmen he summoned from their own fields. He denied the workmen their wages, and ate the food of the poor. He grew rich from the poverty of others. He possessed gold and silver and precious stones aplenty, yet the peasant couldn’t still the hunger of his child. He smiled with happiness, but there was gnashing of teeth from the claimants seeking justice. There was contentment on his face, but no milk in the nursing mothers’ breasts.’
“And the villagers will say, ‘Allah is great . . . we curse no one!’
“Chiefs of Lebak, death comes to us all one day!
“Then what will they say in the villages under our authority? What will they say at our funeral? And what will be our answer, when a voice speaks to our soul after death, asking, ‘Why is there weeping in the fields, and why are the young men hiding? Who took the harvest from the barns, and who seized the buffalo needed for plowing? What have you done to the brother I entrusted to your care? Why does the poor man grieve and curse his wife’s fertility?’ ”
Here Havelaar paused again. After some moments he continued in the blandest of tones, as though what he’d just been saying was of no consequence whatsoever.
“As it’s my sincere wish to live in good fellowship with you, I ask you to look upon me as your friend. Anyone who has made mistakes can count on leniency from me. Since I myself have often been mistaken, I won’t be harsh . . . that is, not in cases of ordinary malfeasance or negligence. Only where neglect of duty is habitual will I take action. I’m not referring to serious crimes, such as extortion and oppression. Nothing of that kind goes on here, does it, Mr. Adipati?”
“Oh no, Mr. Assistant Resident, nothing of that kind goes on in Lebak.”
‘‘Well then, gentlemen, Chiefs of South Banten, let us give thanks for the poverty and backwardness of our regency. We have noble work to do. If Allah spares us, we’ll make sure that prosperity comes. The soil is fertile enough, and the people are willing. If everybody is left in peace to enjoy the fruits of their labor, there’s no doubt the population will soon grow in number as well as in property and civilization, for these usually go together. Once more I ask you to look upon me as a friend who will help wherever he can, especially where Injustice must be fought. And in this I will be most grateful for your support.
“The reports I have received on farming, livestock, police, and the courts will be returned to you along with my decisions.
“Chiefs of South Banten! I have spoken. You may return, each to his own home. My warmest greetings to you all!”56
•
He bowed, offered his arm to the old Adipati and escorted him across the grounds to his house, where Tina stood waiting on the front veranda.
“Come now, Verbrugge, don’t go home just yet! How about a glass of Madeira? And . . . oh yes, there’s something I’m curious to know . . . Raden Jaksa, could you spare me a moment?”
Havelaar said this as all the chiefs, after much bowing and scraping, prepared to return home. Verbrugge too was on the point of leaving, but he now he turned back with the Jaksa in tow.
“Tina, I’d like a glass of Madeira, and so would Verbrugge. Now, Raden Jaksa, please tell me what you were saying to the Kliwon about my little boy?”
“Pardon me, I was looking at the top of his head, because of what you said in your speech.”
“What the deuce has his head got to do with it? I’ve already clean forgotten what I said.”
“Sir, I said to the Kliwon . . .”
Tina leaned in: it was her little Max they were discussing, after all.
“Sir, I said to the Kliwon that the sinyo was a royal child.”57
Tina was delighted: quite so, she thought!
The Adipati in turn proceeded to inspect the child’s head, and, sure enough, he too noticed the twin whorls of hair, which, according to Javanese superstition, are destined to wear a royal crown.
Since etiquette didn’t allow for a jaksa to be offered a seat in the Regent’s presence, the Jaksa took his leave. For some time the conversation continued without touching upon anything relating to the “ceremony.” Then suddenly—and hence contrary to the highly courteous nature of the Javanese—the Adipati inquired whether certain sums of money that were due to the tax collector could be paid out forthwith.
“Oh no, Mr. Adipati,” Verbrugge exclaimed, “you know it can’t be done before the accounts have been verified.”
Havelaar was playing with little Max, but that didn’t stop him from registering the Adipati’s frown of displeasure at Verbrugge’s reply.
“Come now, Verbrugge, let’s not be difficult,” he said, and sent for a clerk from the office. “We may as well pay out now . . . Those accounts are bound to be approved.”
As soon as the Adipat
i had left, Verbrugge, who revered the statute books, said: “But Mr. Havelaar, it’s not allowed! The collector’s accounts are still in Serang, awaiting inspection . . . what if there’s a shortfall?”
“Then I’ll make up for it,” Havelaar said.
Verbrugge was perplexed by this extraordinary show of leniency towards the tax collector. The clerk soon reappeared with some papers, which Havelaar signed, saying that payment should be made without delay.
“Listen, Verbrugge, I’ll tell you why I’m doing this! The Adipati is penniless, his secretary told me so himself, and besides . . . the urgency of his request! The situation is clear. He needs the money for himself, and the collector has promised him an advance. I’d rather take the responsibility for breaking a rule than see a man of his age and status humiliated. Besides, Verbrugge, gross abuse of authority is endemic in Lebak. You should know that. Do you?”
Verbrugge didn’t reply. He knew.58
“Because I do know,” Havelaar went on, “I know all about it! Mr. Slotering died last November, didn’t he? Well, the very next day the Adipati summoned a labor force to work in his sawahs . . . without payment! You should have been aware of that, Verbrugge. Were you?”
Verbrugge was not.
“It was your duty as controleur to know about it! I knew. Look, here are the monthly returns,” Havelaar went on, pointing to the bundle of reports he had received at the meeting. “As you can see, I haven’t opened them yet. Among them are the figures for the workers sent to the capital for statute labor. Well, are those figures correct?”
“I haven’t seen them yet . . .”
“Nor have I! But I’m asking you anyway. Are they correct? Were last month’s reports correct?”
Verbrugge kept silent.
“Take it from me: they were false. The number of men called up for work was three times greater than allowed by the regulations for statute labor, and of course they didn’t dare put that in the returns. Is it true what I’m saying?”