Max Havelaar

by Multatuli

  The pious gazelles come leaping,

  And hearken what we say;

  The sacred river is sweeping

  And murmuring far away.

  Beloved, let us be sinking

  Under the shady palm,

  The blissful quiet drinking

  And dreaming dreams of balm.*

  Can’t you go to Artis instead—you told your father about me being a member, didn’t you? Why can’t you go to the zoo if you’re so keen on seeing outlandish creatures? Does it have to be gazelles along the Ganges? They’d be far easier to observe in a neat enclosure of tarred railings than in the wild. Why call those animals pious? I grant you, they don’t go in for silly versification—but pious? What do you mean? Aren’t you misusing a hallowed word that should be reserved for those of true faith? And what about that sacred river? Should you be telling Marie things that could turn her into a heathen? Should you be shaking her conviction that there’s no holy water except that of baptism, and no sacred river but the Jordan? Honestly, aren’t you undermining morality, virtue, religion, Christendom, and respectability?

  Think about it, Stern! Your father runs a reputable firm, and I’m sure he’d approve of my appealing to your better nature, and that he prefers doing business with a man who stands up for virtue and religion. Yes, principles are sacred to me, and I have no qualms about saying what I think. So there’s no need to make a secret of my advice. You can write and tell your father that you’re living with a respectable family, and that I encourage good behavior. And have you ever asked yourself what would have become of you if you’d fallen into the clutches of Busselinck & Waterman? You’d have recited the same verses there, but no one would have appealed to your better nature, because they’re such cheats. You can write and tell your father so, too, because where principles are concerned I spare no one. The girls there would have taken you up on your invitation to the Ganges, and you’d be lying under that tree in the soggy grass, whereas now, thanks to my fatherly warnings, you’re staying here with us in a respectable house. Write and tell all this to your father, and tell him how grateful you are to be here with us, and that I look after you very well, and that Busselinck & Waterman’s daughter has run off, and give him my kind regards, and tell him I’ll lower my brokerage fee to one-sixteenth of a percent under what they’re offering, because I can’t stand cheats who steal the bread from a competitor’s mouth by offering more favorable conditions.

  And do me a favor, next time you read us something from Shawlman’s parcel please make sure it has more substance to it. I noticed the parcel also contains reports on coffee yields all over Java for the last twenty years—now that would be worthwhile! It would give the Rosemeyers, who are in sugar, a chance to hear what really goes on in the world. And you mustn’t treat the girls and the rest of us like cannibals who have devoured bits of you—it isn’t respectable, my dear boy. Do take it from a man who knows the ways of the world! I was already serving your father before you were born—his firm, I mean, no . . . our firm: Burden & Co—it used to be Burden & Meyer, but the Meyers left ages ago—so you can see I have your best interests at heart. And do encourage Frits to behave himself, and don’t teach him how to write poetry, or pretend not to notice when he does things like pull faces at the bookkeeper. Set him a good example, because you’re so much older, and do try to impress upon him the need to be well mannered and sedate, since he’ll have to become a broker.

  Yours sincerely, your fatherly friend,

  Batavus Drystubble.

  (Burden & Co, coffee brokers, No 37 Lauriergracht)

  *Heinrich Heine, “Auf Flügeln des Gesanges,” translated as “On Wings of Song” by Margarete Munsterberg in A Harvest of German Verse (1917). This very popular poem influenced the work of many young poets and was set to music by Mendelssohn. Several minor errors in Multatuli’s version suggest that he had learned it by heart and was reproducing it from memory.

  ELEVENTH CHAPTER

  ALL I WISH to say, then—to quote Abraham Blankaart—is that I consider this chapter “essential,” because I believe it will give the reader a better understanding of Havelaar—the man, who, after all, is to be the hero of our story.

  “Tina, what sort of ketimun is that? Dear girl, you should never add vegetable acid to fruit! Cucumbers go best with salt, just like pineapple, or grapefruit, or anything else that grows in the ground. Vinegar is for fish and meat—there’s something in Liebig about that.”

  “My dear Max,” Tina said with a smile. “How long do you reckon we’ve been here? That ketimun was provided by Mrs. Slotering.”

  Havelaar was hard put to realize they had arrived only yesterday, and that Tina couldn’t, with the best will in the world, have had enough time to get her house and kitchen properly organized. He already felt as if he’d been in Rangkasbitung for ages! Hadn’t he been up all night reading the files, and hadn’t he come across so much disturbing information about Lebak that he could hardly be expected to remember he’d only been there since yesterday? Tina understood the source of his confusion, she always could!

  “Ah, yes, you’re quite right,” he said. “Still, you really should take a look at Liebig some time. I say, Verbrugge, you have read much by Liebig?”

  “Who’s he?” asked Verbrugge.

  “A man who’s written a lot about pickled gherkins. He’s also discovered how grass can be turned into wool . . . do you follow?”

  “No,” Verbrugge and Duclari said in chorus.

  “Well, the main thing about it has always been common knowledge: send sheep out to graze . . . and there you are! But he’s found out how this transformation takes place. Not that all the experts agree with him, though. Now there’s talk of finding ways to cut out the sheep altogether . . . Oh, those clever scientists!66 Molière knew all about them . . . I’m very partial to Molière.67 We could do a course of reading together, if you like, a few evenings a week. Tina can join us, once Max has been put to bed.”

  Duclari and Verbrugge thought it a very good idea. Havelaar said he didn’t have many books, but he did have some by Schiller, Goethe, Heine, Vondel, Lamartine, Thiers, Say, Malthus, Scialoja, Smith, Shakespeare, Byron . . .

  Verbrugge said he didn’t read English.

  “Good grief, and you a man over thirty! What have you been doing all these years? It must have been quite hard for you in Padang, where so much English is spoken. Did you ever meet a Miss Mata-api?”

  “No, never heard of her.”

  “It wasn’t her real name. We just called her that, back in 1843, because of the sparkle in her eyes. She’ll be married by now, it’s all such a long time ago! I never saw her equal, except in Arles . . . now that’s where you should go! On all my travels I never saw such beauty as I did there. If you ask me, there’s nothing that makes a more profound impression of truth, of ethereal purity, than a beautiful woman. Believe me, go to Arles and Nîmes . . .”

  Duclari, Verbrugge, and—yes, I must admit!—even Tina couldn’t help laughing out loud at the idea of rushing from the west corner of Java all the way to Arles or Nîmes in the south of France. Havelaar, no doubt picturing himself on top of the tower built by the Saracens overlooking the amphitheater at Arles, had to think for a moment before he understood why they were laughing, but then he continued:

  “Yes, well . . . if you happen to be in that part of the world, I mean. It was utterly amazing. I was used to being disappointed by all the sights people praise so highly. Those waterfalls they go on and on about, for instance. I for my part felt little or nothing in Tondano, Maros, Schaffhausen, or Niagara. You need to check your guidebook to know just how impressed you’re meant to be by ‘a drop of x number of feet’ or ‘so many cubic feet of water per minute,’ and if those figures are large enough you’re supposed to say ‘Wow!’ No more waterfalls for me, not if I have to go out of my way to see them. They leave me cold. Buildings have so much more to say, especially if they represent pages of history. But their appeal is completely different: they evoke
the past, and the shades of history pass before your eyes. Some of these are horrific, and so, important as it may be, contemplating architecture doesn’t always satisfy your sense of beauty . . . or rather, it’s always with mixed feelings! Aside from history, there’s much beauty to behold in some buildings, although the effect is more often than not ruined by guides—whether of paper or flesh and blood, no difference there—droning on and on about this or that chapel built by the bishop of Munster in 1423, with pillars sixty-three feet tall resting on . . . whatever; I don’t know and I don’t care. It’s such a bore, because you know you’re supposed to have sixty-three feet of admiration at the ready, or people will take you for a Vandal or traveling salesman . . . Now, they’re a race apart!”

  “The Vandals?”

  “No, the others. Of course you can keep your guide in your pocket, if it’s a printed one that is, or else tell him to wait outside or to keep his mouth shut. On the other hand, you often need a certain amount of information before you can form a sound opinion. But even if you could dispense with the guide, you wouldn’t find anything in a building to satisfy your sense of beauty for longer than a very brief moment, simply because it doesn’t move. The same applies, I believe, to sculpture and painting. Nature equals motion. Growth, hunger, thinking, feeling, all are motion. Death is motionless! Without motion there’s no pain, no pleasure, no emotion! Try sitting perfectly still for a while and before you know it you’ll be making a ghostly impression on everyone, including yourself. Even the finest tableau vivant soon makes you long for the next entertainment, no matter how dazzling the first impression. As our thirst for beauty isn’t slaked by just one look at a beautiful object, but requires a series of looks at beauty in motion, we tend to feel let down when beholding art of the static class. And that’s why I say that a beautiful woman—not in a static pose—comes closest to the ideal of the divine. How great the need for motion is may be inferred from the nauseating sight of a dancer pretending to be an Elssler or a Taglioni* as she balances on one leg and smirks at the audience in conclusion of her performance.”

  “That doesn’t count,” Verbrugge said, “because it’s utterly hideous.”

  “I agree. Yet the dancer presents it as a moment of beauty, as a climax to all that has gone before, which may well have included many beautiful moments. She presents it as the point of the epigram, as the rallying cry of the anthem she’s been singing with her feet, as the whisper of willows on the grave of the lover she’s just danced to death. Oh, it’s enough to make you sick! And since audiences are wont to base their taste on custom and imitation—we all are, more or less—they consider that particular moment to be the most touching. You can tell by the burst of applause just at that moment, as if to say, ‘It was all quite splendid before, but now I simply can’t contain my admiration!’ You were saying that the final pose was ugly in the extreme—I agree!—but why do we think so? Because the dancer has stopped moving, and consequently stopped telling a story. Believe me, inertia is death!”

  “But,” Duclari broke in, “you also say waterfalls don’t count as expressions of beauty. And you can’t say waterfalls don’t move!”

  “Indeed, but there’s no narrative there. They’re in motion, but they don’t move from one place to another. They’re like a rocking horse, staying put. You can hear them, but they don’t speak. They go whoosh, whoosh, whoosh—it’s always the same! Try saying whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, for the next six thousand years . . . and see how many friends you have left to listen to what you have to say.”

  “I’d rather not risk it,” Duclari said. “But I beg to disagree regarding the absolute necessity of motion. I grant you the waterfalls, but a good painting, I think, can have a lot of expressive force.”

  “Of course, but only very briefly. Let me try to explain what I mean by giving you an example. Today is the 18th of February, 15 . . .”

  “No, it’s not,” Verbrugge said. “It’s still January.”

  “No, no, today is the 18th of February, 1587, and you’re a prisoner at Fotheringhay Castle.”68

  “Me?” Duclari asked, thinking he’d misheard.

  “Yes, you. You’re bored, and you want some distraction. You notice a hole in the wall, but it’s too high up for you to look through it, and you’re curious. So you push your table beneath it, and on top of the table you put a chair with three legs, one of which is rather rickety. You once saw an acrobat at a fair piling up seven chairs and then doing a headstand on the top one. Vanity and boredom inspire you to do something similar. You clamber unsteadily onto the chair . . . reach your goal . . . peer through the hole and cry, ‘Oh my God!’ And you lose your balance and fall! Can you tell me now why you said ‘Oh my God’ and why you fell?”

  “The third leg of the chair must have broken,” Verbrugge said.

  “Well, yes, the leg may have broken, but that wasn’t why you fell. That leg broke because you fell. If you’d been looking through any other hole you could have remained standing there for a whole year, but in this case you simply had to fall, even if the chair had been fitted with thirteen legs, certainly, even if you’d been standing on the floor!”

  “I can see you’ve set your mind on making me fall, regardless,” Duclari said. “So there I am, sprawled on the floor . . . and I really have no idea why!”

  “Well, it’s perfectly simple. You caught sight of a woman kneeling before a block, her head bowed, her neck silver-white against the black velvet of her dress. And there was a man raising a great sword as he stared at that pale neck, and he gauged the arc the sword would describe before it struck, there . . . there, between the vertebrae, with precision and force . . . and that’s when you fell, Duclari. You lost your balance because you saw it all happening, and that’s why you cried ‘Oh my God!’ It wasn’t because the chair had only three legs, certainly not. And long after you were released from Fotheringhay—thanks to your cousin’s intervention, I imagine, or because people got tired of keeping you fed like a canary in a cage—long afterwards, yes, until this very day you have waking dreams of that woman, and even in your sleep you sit bolt upright, only to fall back on your bed because you’re trying to grab the executioner’s arm . . . Am I right?”

  “If you say so, but I can’t be sure, as I’ve never peered through a hole in a wall at Fotheringhay.”

  “All right then, nor have I. But now let’s take a picture of Mary Stuart’s beheading. Let’s assume the scene is perfectly painted. There she is, hanging in a gilt frame, or from a red cord if you prefer . . . oh, I know what you’re thinking! No, no, you don’t see the frame, you forget leaving your walking stick at the gallery entrance, you forget your name, your child, the newfangled constable cap, you forget everything, so it’s no longer a painting you’re looking at but Mary Stuart herself, exactly as she was at Fotheringhay. The executioner stands at the ready, just as he must have stood in reality, yes, I’ll even go so far as to say that you’re flailing your arm to ward off the blow! I’ll go so far to say that you’re shouting, ‘Let the woman live, she may still mend her ways!’ You see, I’ll give it to you that it’s painted as skillfully as you please.”

  “Yes, but then what? Isn’t the impression just as sensational as seeing the real thing going on at Fotheringhay?”

  “No, not at all—because in this case there’s no need to get up on a three-legged chair. You take a chair—with four legs this time, and preferably an armchair—you sit yourself down in front of the painting to enjoy it at leisure—because we do enjoy a bit of horror—and what kind of impression does the painting make on you, d’you suppose?”

  “Well, shock, terror, compassion, distress . . . same as when I peered through the hole in the wall. You said the scene was perfectly portrayed, so the painting should make the same impression on me as the real thing.”

  “No! Within two minutes your right arm will be aching out of sympathy with the executioner, for having to raise that hefty steel blade for so long without moving.”

  “Sympat
hy for the executioner?”

  “Yes. Shared suffering, shared feeling, you know! Sympathy also for the woman having to prostrate herself at length in that uncomfortable pose, and no doubt in an uncomfortable state of mind, too. You still feel sorry for her, but this time not because her head is to be chopped off, but because she has to wait so long for it to happen. And, if at this juncture there was anything you’d say or cry out—assuming you felt an urge to intervene—it would simply be, ‘For goodness’ sake, man, bring down that ax, the woman’s waiting!’ And then, each time you saw the picture again the first thing you’d think was, ‘Not over and done with yet? Is he still standing there over the kneeling victim?’ ”

  “So, what sort of motion is there in the beauty of the women in Arles?” Verbrugge asked.

  “Oh, that’s completely different! Those women tell a story with their features. Carthage blossoms and builds ships on their brow . . . hark unto Hannibal’s oath against Rome . . . here they plait bowstrings . . . there the city burns . . .”

  “Max, Max, I do believe you lost your heart in Arles,” Tina said teasingly.

  “So I did, temporarily . . . but I found it again, as you shall hear. Imagine . . . I’m not saying I saw a woman there who was beautiful in this or that way, no, they were all beautiful, and so it was impossible for me to fall in love, because each woman I set eyes on was lovelier than the last, and I honestly thought of that story about Caligula—or was it Tiberius—who wished the entire human race had only one head. In fact, I couldn’t help wishing that all the women of—”

  “Had only one head between them?”

  “Yes.”

  “To chop off?”