by Multatuli
“‘Just you read the court record,’ my predecessor said, ‘and then judge whether my father-in-law won’t be believed in Batavia if he accuses the Yang di-Pertuan of high treason there!’
“I read the documents. According to witness statements and the so-called confession of the accused, Si Pamaga had been bribed to go to Natal and assassinate the Tuanku, the Tuanku’s foster father, Sutan Salim, and the local Controleur. He went to the home of the Tuanku to carry out this plan and struck up a conversation about a séwah with the servants sitting on the steps of the inside veranda,92 intending to play for time until the Tuanku appeared, which he soon did, accompanied by relatives and servants. Pamaga then fell upon the Tuanku with his séwah, but, for unknown reasons, failed to carry out his homicidal plan. The Tuanku, in alarm, leapt out of a window, and Pamaga fled. He hid in the jungle and was caught a few days later by the Natal police.
“The defendant, upon being asked what had motivated this attack and the planned murder of Sutan Salim and the Controleur of Natal, replied that he had been bribed to do these deeds by Sutan Adam, acting on behalf of his brother, the Yang di-Pertuan of Mandailing.
“‘Is this clear or not?’ my predecessor asked. ‘Once the sentence was confirmed by the highest authority, it was carried out—or at any rate the lashes and the branding—and Si Pamaga is now on his way to Padang, to be sent on to Java in a chain gang. The trial documents will arrive in Batavia with him, and then the authorities there will see who this man is, whose accusations led to my father-in-law’s suspension! General Vandamme can’t annul that judgment, much as he may wish to.’
“I took over the administration of the Natal regency, and my predecessor departed. After some time, I received word that Vandamme was planning a trip to the north in a warship, which would call at Natal. He came striding to my house with a large retinue and demanded to be shown the original documents regarding the trial of ‘that poor man’ who had been ‘so cruelly mistreated,’ adding that ‘it was they themselves who deserved to be lashed and branded!’
“I was utterly bewildered. You see, the reasons underlying the conflict over the Yang di-Pertuan were unknown to me at that time, nor could I imagine that my predecessor would have deliberately imposed such a harsh sentence upon an innocent man, or that General Vandamme would shield a criminal from a just conviction. I was ordered to have Sutan Salim and the Tuanku taken prisoner. Since the young Tuanku was much loved by the people and our fort had only a small garrison, I asked for permission to leave him at liberty, which was granted. But for Sutan Salim, archenemy of the Yang di-Pertuan, there was no mercy. This caused great unrest among the locals. The people of Natal suspected the General of lowering himself to act as the tool of Mandailing hatred. It was these circumstances that occasionally enabled me to show what the General called ‘firm resolve,’ especially as he declined to offer me the protection of the few men who could be spared from the fort or his own detachment of marines, which I needed when traveling to places where there were angry mobs. I noticed then that General Vandamme made very careful provisions for his own safety, so I can’t confirm his reputation for bravery until I have seen more examples of it, or different ones.
“In great haste he formed a council of his own, which I might fairly call ad hoc. The members were a few adjutants, other officers, the public prosecutor he had brought with him from Padang, and myself. This council was instructed to investigate my predecessor’s conduct in the trial of Si Pamaga. I was ordered to summon all the witnesses whose testimony was considered essential. The General—presiding, of course—handled the questioning. The official reports were written by the public prosecutor, but since he had little grasp of Malay—and none at all of the Malay of northern Sumatra—it was often necessary to translate the witnesses’ answers for him, a task the General usually took upon himself. This council’s records seem to provide incontrovertible proof that Si Pamaga had never intended to murder anyone, that he had never seen or known Sutan Adam or the Yang di-Pertuan, that he had never pounced upon the Tuanku of Natal, that the latter had not fled through the window . . . and so forth! Furthermore: that the verdict against the hapless Si Pamaga had been given under pressure from the presiding judge—my predecessor—and council member Sutan Salim, who had fabricated Si Pamaga’s purported crime to give the suspended Assistant Resident of Mandailing a weapon in his own defense, and to vent their hatred of the Yang di-Pertuan.
“General Vandamme’s manner in examining the witnesses on that occasion reminded me of the game of whist played by the Emperor of Morocco, who told his partner, ‘Play hearts, or I’ll cut your throat.’ His translations, which he dictated to the public prosecutor, also left much to be desired.
“I don’t know whether Sutan Salim and my predecessor put pressure on the judicial council in Natal to convict Si Pamaga. But I do know that the General put pressure on witnesses to testify to his innocence. Even though at that stage I didn’t understand the General’s motives, I did object to his . . . inaccuracy, which went so far that I had to refuse to sign some of the official reports. That was how I ‘so rudely crossed’ him. Now you understand what I meant, in my response to the criticisms of my financial management, when I concluded by asking that no generous allowances be made for me.”
“That was certainly a very strong statement for a young man like you,” Duclari said.93
“I thought it only natural. Still, General Vandamme was clearly not accustomed to that sort of thing. So I suffered a good deal from the repercussions of that incident. Oh, no, Verbrugge, I know what you’re going to say, but I never felt any remorse. In fact, I’d have gone further than protesting against the way the General examined the witnesses and refusing to sign a few reports if only I’d known then what I discovered later—namely that the whole thing was a premeditated scheme to incriminate my predecessor. I had the impression that the General was so convinced of Si Pamaga’s innocence that he was swayed by the commendable wish to rescue a blameless victim from a miscarriage of justice, insofar as that was still possible after the lashes and the branding. This impression didn’t stop me from objecting to falsehoods, but I wasn’t nearly as outraged as I would have been had I known that the General’s intent was not by any means to save an innocent man, but to destroy evidence that would have harmed his political career, at the expense of my predecessor’s honor and welfare.”
“And what happened to your predecessor after that?” Verbrugge asked.
“Fortunately for him, he had left for Java by the time the General arrived back in Padang. He defended his actions successfully before the government in Batavia, it seems; at any rate, he remained in the civil service. The Resident of Ayer Bangies, who had given the judgment his fiat, was—”
“Suspended?”
“Of course! So you see, I wasn’t that far off the mark when I wrote in my epigram that the governor ruled us by suspension.”
“And what became of all those suspended officials?”
“Oh, there were many others! All of them were reinstated sooner or later. A few eventually rose to very high office.”94
“And Sutan Salim?”
“The General took him to Padang as his prisoner, and from there he was exiled to Java. Even now he remains in Cianjur, in the Priangan regencies. I visited him when I was there in 1846. Can you remember why I went to Cianjur, Tina?”
“No, Max, it has slipped my mind completely.”
“Well, nobody’s memory is perfect. Gentlemen, I was married there!”
“But now that you’re telling us all this,” Duclari said, “may I ask whether it’s true that you fought so many duels in Padang?”
“Yes, very many indeed, and I had my reasons. As I said earlier, in an outpost like that, the governor’s graces often determine how well other people treat you. So most people were unfriendly to me, to the point of rudeness. For my part, I was very thin-skinned. An unanswered greeting, a quip about the ‘lunacy of picking a fight with General Vandamme,’ a remark about my
poverty, or my empty stomach, or the meager nourishment provided by moral independence . . . all this embittered me, as you may imagine. Many people there, especially officers, knew that the General appreciated a good duel, especially with someone so much in disgrace as I. So perhaps they took deliberate advantage of my quick temper. I also fought a few duels on behalf of others I believed had been wronged. In any case, duels were a daily occurrence there at that time, and it happened a few times that I had two appointments on the same morning. Oh, there’s something very appealing about dueling, especially with sabers—dueling sabers, I mean, which of course are completely different from military sabers . . . Obviously I’d never do such a thing nowadays, even if the provocation were as great as it was then . . . Come over here, Max—no, stop chasing that thing—come here! Listen, you mustn’t go chasing butterflies. That poor creature used to be a caterpillar, crawling around on a tree day after day—what sort of life is that? Now it has just grown wings and wants to flit about a little, and enjoy itself, and search for food in the flowers, without hurting a soul . . . Look, isn’t it ever so much nicer to see it fluttering around like that?”
So the conversation turned from dueling to butterflies, and then to the righteous who show mercy to their beasts, to cruelty to animals, to the loi Grammont,* to the National Assembly that passed the law, to the French Republic, and what have you!
Finally, Havelaar got up and excused himself, saying he had business to attend to. The next day, when the Controleur went to Havelaar’s office, he was surprised to learn that after their conversation on the veranda the day before, the new Assistant Resident had ridden out to Parangkujang, the district of the “outrageous abuses,” and had not returned until early that morning.
•
I beg the reader to take it from me that Havelaar was too well mannered to have talked at such length at his own table as I have suggested in these past few chapters, which make it seem as if he monopolized the conversation, neglecting his duty as host to allow, or give, his guests the opportunity to “shine.” From the mass of material at my disposal I have taken only a few examples, and could have had the table talk go on for much longer, with less trouble than it took me to cut it short. I trust, however, that the foregoing examples will go some way towards justifying my earlier description of Havelaar’s character and qualities, and that the reader’s interest will therefore be sufficiently aroused to hear how he and his family fared in Rangkasbitung.
The little family led a quiet life. Havelaar was usually out during the day and would spend half the night at his desk. He had a very cordial relationship with the commander of the small garrison, and his everyday dealings with the Controleur showed none of the insistence on rank that so often made social intercourse in the Indies stiff and awkward. Furthermore, Havelaar’s compulsion to be of all possible assistance often served the purposes of the Regent Adipati, who was therefore very pleased with his “elder brother.” And finally, Mrs. Havelaar’s sweet nature greatly contributed to pleasant relations with the few Europeans living there as well as the native chiefs. Havelaar’s official correspondence with the Resident in Serang bespoke their mutual goodwill, and the Resident’s orders, phrased courteously, were carried out promptly.
Tina’s household was soon in order. After a long wait, the furniture had arrived from Batavia, the acar timun had been pickled, and when Max launched into a story at the table, it was no longer for lack of eggs for the omelet, though it was plain to see from his little family’s way of life that they were strictly adhering to their resolution to live frugally.
Mrs. Slotering rarely left her house and took tea with the Havelaars on their veranda only a few times. She rarely spoke and kept a watchful eye on anyone who came near her house or Havelaar’s. But having grown used to what they called her “monomania,” they very soon gave no more thought to it.
Everything seemed bathed in a kind of serenity. You see, for Max and Tina, it was a relative trifle to adjust to the inevitable hardships of an outpost far from the main road. Since no bread was baked there, they ate no bread. They could have had it brought in from Serang, but the costs of delivery were too high. Max knew as well as anybody else that there were many ways of having bread delivered to Rangkasbitung without paying for it, but he abhorred unpaid labor, that plague of the Indies. In Lebak, many things could be had free of charge through the exercise of authority, but were not for sale at a reasonable price, and faced with this fact, Havelaar and his Tina were happy to do without. They had endured hardships of a different order! Had that poor woman not spent months aboard an Arab vessel, with no place to lay her head but the deck, and no shelter from the heat of the sun or the southwest monsoons, other than a small table to crouch under? Had she not had to make do, on that ship, with a small ration of dry rice and stale water? And had she not always been contented, under those circumstances and many others, as long as she and her Max could be together?
Yet there was one circumstance in Lebak that grieved her: little Max couldn’t play in the garden, because it was full of snakes. When she noticed this and complained of it to Havelaar, he offered the servants a reward for each snake they caught, but in the first few days alone he had to pay so many bounties that he withdrew his promise. Even under ordinary circumstances, without the pressing need to economize, the costs would quickly have overrun his means. So they decided that from then on little Max was to not leave the house, and that for fresh air he could play on the veranda. Despite this precaution, Tina was always nervous, especially after dark, since snakes are well known for creeping into houses and hiding in bedrooms in search of warmth.
While snakes and similar pests can be found throughout the Indies, they are, of course, rarer in large towns, which are more densely populated than wilder places such as Rangkasbitung. If Havelaar could have his property cleared of all the weeds, right up to the edge of the ravine, his garden would still have been visited by snakes from time to time, but not in such large numbers. By nature, snakes prefer darkness and concealment to open, well-lit places, so if Havelaar’s grounds had been well kept, the snakes wouldn’t have lost their way, as it were, and strayed from the overgrown ravine. But Havelaar’s grounds were not well kept, and I wish to explore the reason they were not, because it will shed more light on the abuses that prevail almost everywhere in the Dutch East Indies.
The houses of senior officials in the interior are built on land belonging to the local community, if one can speak of community property in a country where the government lays claim to everything. Suffice it to say that the land does not belong to the official who lives there. If it did, he’d make sure not to buy or rent a parcel he couldn’t maintain. If the grounds of the house assigned to him are too large to be properly maintained, the rampant tropical vegetation soon transforms them into a wilderness. And yet the grounds of such houses are rarely seen in poor condition. In fact, travelers are often amazed by the beautiful parks surrounding the homes of officials. There is not one official in the interior with the income to pay a decent wage for the work required, and since the home of the highest authority must nonetheless present a stately aspect—so that the natives, who set great store by appearances, won’t despise him for his slovenliness—the question is how to achieve that goal. In most places, these officials have a chain gang at their disposal—made up of convicts from other regions—but such laborers were unavailable in Banten for political reasons, valid or otherwise. And even in places where convict laborers are available, there are rarely enough of them to maintain a large plot of land. Other ways must therefore be found, the most obvious one being to summon workers for corvée labor. Any regent or demang who receives such a summons will hasten to comply, because he knows very well that an official who abuses his authority will find it difficult to punish a native chief for doing likewise. So one man’s offense becomes another’s carte blanche.
It seems to me, however, that in some cases the official in question shouldn’t be punished too severely, and certainly not
by European standards. The natives themselves would think it very strange—perhaps because they’re unaccustomed to such behavior—if an official always and in every case strictly followed the rules on the number of corvée laborers available for his property. After all, circumstances may arise that the rule makers did not anticipate. But once the limit of the strictly lawful has been exceeded, it becomes difficult to determine at what point such excesses amount to criminal misconduct. Great circumspection is thus called for, especially considering that the chiefs are on the lookout for any bad example, so that they may take it a step further to their own advantage. There is a legend of a king who insisted that when he passed through a region at the head of his army every grain of salt in his humble repast should be paid for—because, so he claimed, anything short of that would set off a chain of Injustice that would ultimately topple his entire kingdom. Whether his name was Tamerlane, Nur al-Din, or Genghis Khan, the fable—or if it is no fable, the anecdote—is certainly of Asiatic origin. And just as the sight of a seawall suggests the possibility of floods, it’s reasonable to assume a tendency towards such misconduct in a country where such lessons are taught.
The few workers who, by law, were at Havelaar’s disposal could keep no more than a tiny part of his property right next to the house free of weeds and undergrowth. Within a few weeks, the rest would be a complete wilderness. Havelaar wrote to his superior, asking him to find additional resources for this purpose—either by sending funds, or by proposing to the government that chain gangs be put to work in Banten just as they were elsewhere. This request was denied, with the comment that Havelaar was entitled to have people work on his grounds whom he had sentenced in police court to “labor on the public roads.” He knew that already, or at least he was well aware that using convicts in that way was a thoroughly accepted practice, but he had never—not in Rangkasbitung, nor in Ambon, nor in Manado, nor in Natal—wished to avail himself of that so-called right. It was offensive to him to have his garden tended as a penalty for some misdemeanor, and he had often wondered how the government could allow such provisions to remain in existence when they tempted officials to punish small, forgivable errors in proportion not to the offense, but to the condition or extent of their grounds. Even if the punishment was fair, the convict might imagine that self-interest was at work, and whenever Havelaar had to pass sentence, that thought alone made him prefer imprisonment—which is otherwise abhorrent.95