Max Havelaar

by Multatuli

  Then right away I’ll tell you what I dreamed

  And ask you what it meant . . . But mother, listen,

  What was that sound?

  —A falling coconut.

  —Do coconuts feel pain?

  —I don’t believe so,

  They say that fruits, and stones, do not have feelings.

  —And flowers? Don’t they feel things?

  —No, they don’t.

  I’m told they do not feel.

  —But why, then, mother,

  Yesterday, when I crushed the pukul empat,

  Did you say to me, “Stop, don’t hurt the flower”?102

  —My child, the pukul empat was so lovely,

  I saw you tear apart its tender petals,

  And I felt pity for the little flower.

  Although the flower itself does not have feelings,

  The flower’s beauty made me feel its pain.

  —But, mother, are you beautiful as well?

  —I do not think so, child.

  —But you have feelings?

  —Yes, people do . . . some people more than others.

  —And can you hurt yourself? Do you feel pain

  Because my heavy head is in your lap?

  —Oh no, that doesn’t hurt!

  —But, mother, tell me,

  Do I have feelings too?

  —Of course! Remember

  The time you stumbled on a stone and fell?

  You scraped your hands and cried. You also cried

  When Saudin said that in the hills out yonder

  A lamb had fallen deep in a ravine

  And died. You wept and wept . . . then you had feelings.

  —But do you mean that feelings hurt?

  —Yes, often!

  Well, sometimes, but not always. Think of when

  Your baby sister grabs you by the hair

  And with a screech she pulls your face to hers.

  You laugh with joy then. That’s a feeling too.

  —My sister . . . say, why does she cry so much?

  Is she in pain? Does she have feelings too?

  —Perhaps, my dear. We cannot know for sure.

  She is too small to tell us what she feels.

  —But, mother . . . listen, what was that?

  —A deer

  Out in the forest, running late. And now

  It hurries homeward so that it may sleep

  Beside the other deer it loves.

  —And, mother,

  Does that deer have a baby sister too?

  And does it have a mother?

  —I don’t know, child.

  —How sad it would be not to have a mother!

  But, mother, what’s that light there in the bush?

  Look at it leap and dance . . . Is that a spark?

  —No, that’s a firefly.

  —May I try to catch it?

  —You may, but fireflies are so delicate

  You’re sure to hurt it. At the first rough touch

  It will grow sick and die, and lose its glow.

  —No, that would be too bad! I’ll leave it be!

  Oh look, it’s flying away . . . No, here it comes . . .

  No, I won’t catch it. There it goes again.

  It must be very glad I didn’t catch it!

  How high it flies. Far up above . . . what’s that?

  Are those all fireflies up there?

  —Those are stars.

  —One, two, three, ten, a thousand! Do you know

  How many stars there are?

  —No, I do not.

  I’m sure no one has ever counted them.

  —But, Mother, surely He has counted them?

  —No, dear, not even He has.

  —Is it far

  To where the stars are?

  —Very, very far.

  —But do those stars up there have feelings too?

  And if you reached your hand up to the sky

  And touched them, would it hurt, and would they lose

  Their glow, just like the firefly?—There it goes!—

  But tell me, could I hurt the stars?

  —Oh, no,

  That couldn’t hurt the stars! And anyway,

  Your little hand could never reach that far.

  —Can He reach out His hand and catch the stars?

  —Not even He can. No one can!

  —How sad!

  I’d love to give you one! When I grow up,

  Then I will love you so much that I can.

  The child soon fell asleep and dreamed of feelings,

  And stars that he could take up in his hand.

  The mother sat awake for hours! But she

  Was dreaming too, of someone far away . . .

  Yes, I chose to include these lines here, even knowing that they might seem out of place. I wouldn’t pass up any opportunity to acquaint you with the man who plays the leading role in my story, for I wish you to take some interest in him later, when dark clouds gather over his head.

  *The first French legislation regarding cruelty to animals, enacted in 1850.

  †This is a reference to the Sepoy Mutiny of 1857–58, a major uprising in India against British rule through the East India Company, sometimes called the country’s First War of Independence. Both sides committed atrocities. The casualties were much higher on the Indian side and included hundreds of thousands of civilian deaths, at a minimum. Amaresh Misra has argued that almost ten million rebels and civilians were killed by British forces.

  FIFTEENTH CHAPTER

  WHILE the intentions of Havelaar’s predecessor had certainly been good, he had evidently felt some trepidation about the government’s displeasure—for the man had many children, and limited means. So he preferred to speak to the Resident about what he called outrageous abuses, rather than naming them outright in an official document. He knew that no Resident ever welcomes a written report, because it will linger in the archives and perhaps one day serve as evidence that he was informed promptly of some inconvenient fact, whereas an oral communication presents no such risk and leaves it up to him whether or not he responds to the grievance. In the case of Lebak, such oral communications generally led to an audience with the Adipati, who of course denied everything and demanded proof. Then the people who had been so ill-behaved as to complain would be summoned, and would grovel at the Adipati’s feet, begging forgiveness. “No, I didn’t have to give away my buffalo for nothing; I’m sure I’ll be paid double for it.” “No, I wasn’t ordered to abandon my own fields to go and work in those of the Adipati. I knew I could count on the Adipati generously rewarding me in due course.” “I made that accusation in a fit of unwarranted resentment . . . I was out of my mind and beg to be punished for such gross disrespect!”

  The Resident knew perfectly well what to think when a complaint was withdrawn in this way, but nonetheless it offered him a welcome opportunity to leave the Adipati in possession of his honor and his office, and spared him the unpleasant task of “embarrassing” the authorities with bad news. The reckless complainants were punished by caning, the Adipati reigned triumphant, and the Resident returned to the capital with the comfortable sense that he had “finessed” the situation once again.

  But what was the Assistant Resident to do when new complainants came to him the very next day? Or when, as often happened, the same complainants returned and withdrew their withdrawals? Was he supposed to mention the matter in his report yet again, so that he could have a quiet word with the Resident about it yet again, and go through the entire farce yet again, at the risk of being regarded as someone who—foolishly and maliciously, no doubt—kept bringing forward unfounded accusations, which invariably had to be dismissed? What would become of the amicable, and vital, relationship between the preeminent native chief and the highest European official if the latter were constantly investigating false charges against the former? And above all, what would become of the poor complainants when they returned to their villages and were once again und
er the thumb of the district or village chief they had accused of acting upon the Adipati’s tyrannical wishes?

  Well, what did become of those complainants? Those who could flee, fled. That was why there were so many Bantenese at large in the neighboring provinces! That was why there were so many people from Lebak among the rebels in the Lampung districts. That was why, in his address to the chiefs, Havelaar had asked, “Why is it that so many houses stand empty in the villages, and why do so many people prefer the shade of distant jungles to their own cool forests of South Banten?”

  But not everyone could flee. The man whose corpse was found drifting downriver the morning after he had secretly, reluctantly, fearfully, asked to speak to the Assistant Resident . . . he no longer had any need to flee.103 Perhaps his death was a mercy, since it reprieved him from the short remainder of his life. He was spared the beating he’d have received when he returned to his village, as well as the caning that awaited all who supposed, even for an instant, that they were not beasts, not soulless pieces of wood or stone. That was the punishment for all who supposed, in a fit of madness, that there was justice to be had in the land, and that the Assistant Resident had the will, and the power, to see justice done . . .

  Wasn’t it better, in fact, to prevent this man from returning to the Assistant Resident the next day—as he had been invited to do—and to drown his complaints in the yellow waters of the Ciujung, which would carry him gently to the river mouth, accustomed as it was to bearing such brotherly offerings from the sharks upriver to the sharks in the sea?

  And Havelaar knew all of this! Can the reader imagine the torment in his mind, knowing that he was called upon to do justice, while being answerable to a higher power than a government that prescribed justice in its laws but wasn’t always willing to see those laws applied? Can the reader sense how he was racked by doubt, not about what he should do, but about how he should do it?104

  He had begun with gentleness. He had spoken to the Adipati as an elder brother would, and if you suspect that I, in my admiration for the hero of my tale, am making too much of his manner of speaking, consider this: after one such meeting, the Adipati sent his Patih to Havelaar to thank him for his sympathetic words, and long afterwards that same Patih, in conversation with Controleur Verbrugge—by which time Max Havelaar was no longer the Assistant Resident of Lebak, and the Adipati had nothing more to hope or fear from him —recalled those words and was moved to declare, “No other gentleman has ever spoken as he did!”

  Yes, Havelaar wanted to help, to guide, to save the Adipati—not to ruin him! He felt sympathy for the man—he who knew how distressing money troubles can be, especially when they lead to humiliation and slander—and tried to find excuses for the actions of the native leader, who was an old man, the head of a family living in grand style in the neighboring provinces, where a large volume of coffee was harvested and therefore large bonuses were enjoyed. What a blow to his pride, having to endure a standard of living far below that of his younger relations! To make matters worse, in his old age he had come to believe, under the influence of religious fanaticism, that he could buy his way into paradise by sponsoring pilgrimages to Mecca and paying alms to prayer-singing sluggards. Nor had the Dutch officials who had preceded Havelaar in Lebak always set a good example. And, finally, the sheer size of the Adipati’s family in Lebak, whose maintenance rested squarely on his shoulders, made it hard for him to return to the right path.

  So Havelaar cast about for reasons to postpone severity and, time after time, to see how much he could achieve with gentleness. In fact, he went beyond gentleness, showing a generosity of spirit that smacked of the errors that had left him poor. He was constantly lending his own money to the Adipati, so that need would not be such a pressing incentive to exploit the people, and as usual, Havelaar had so little thought for his own welfare that he was prepared to limit himself and his dear ones to a bare minimum so as to be able to use his meager savings to assist the Adipati.

  Should any further evidence be required for the gentle spirit in which Havelaar performed his demanding duties, it can be found in an oral message he passed on through Controleur Verbrugge, just as the latter was leaving for Serang: “Tell the Resident that, if he hears of the abuses taking place here, he must not think I am indifferent to them. I am not yet ready to report them officially because I feel some compassion for the Adipati and wish to protect him from excessive severity, by first attempting to remind him gently of his duties.”

  Havelaar was often away for days on end, and when at home he was usually in room seven on our floor plan of the house.

  There he spent most of his time writing and receiving visitors who wished to speak to him. He had chosen it as his study because it was close to Tina, who was usually to be found in the next room. The bonds of affection between them were so strong that, even when he was working on something requiring concentration and effort, he felt a continual need to see or hear her. It was sometimes comical how he’d suddenly give voice to a thought that arose in his mind about the subjects that preoccupied him, and how quickly she, without knowing what he was referring to, would grasp his essential point—which he generally left unsaid, as if he took it for granted that she’d know what he meant. And frequently, when he was dissatisfied with his own work or upset by some sad news, he’d leap up and make a cutting remark to her, even though she was in no way to blame for his dissatisfaction! And yet she was always pleased when this happened, because it demonstrated yet again how closely Max identified with her. He never showed any remorse for this seeming harshness, and she never offered forgiveness. That would have seemed as strange to them as a man begging his own pardon for slapping his forehead in exasperation.

  In fact, she knew him so well that she could tell exactly when she should be there to offer him a moment’s diversion, exactly when he needed her advice, and—just as exactly—when she should leave him alone.

  One morning, Havelaar was at work in that room when the Controleur walked in, holding a letter he had just received.

  “It’s a difficult matter, Mr. Havelaar,” he said as he came in. “Very difficult!”

  If I say the letter in question simply contained instructions from Havelaar to explain the reason for a change in the prices of woodwork and labor, the reader will conclude that Controleur Verbrugge was very quick to call a matter difficult. So I hasten to add that many an official would have found it just as difficult to answer that simple question.

  A few years earlier, a prison had been built in Rangkasbitung. It is common knowledge that officials in the interior of Java have a knack for erecting buildings worth thousands without spending more than the same number of hundreds. This gives them a reputation for competence and diligence in their country’s service. The difference between the expenditure and the value of the building consists in unpaid materials and unpaid labor. A few years ago, regulations were made that prohibit this practice. Let us not go into the question of whether the rules are followed, or whether the government itself wants them followed so strictly as to burden the budget of the public-works department. No doubt these regulations are taken in much the same spirit as many others that look equally humanitarian on paper.

  Now, there were many other buildings to be erected in Rangkasbitung, and the engineers responsible for making the plans had asked for estimates of local wages and material costs. Havelaar had instructed the Controleur to look into the matter thoroughly and report the true costs, regardless of what had been done in the past. The outcome was clear: that the actual costs didn’t match the statements from previous years. Havelaar had asked what the reason was for the discrepancy, and that is what Verbrugge found so difficult to explain. Havelaar, who knew perfectly well what lay behind this seemingly straightforward matter, said he would put his views on the problem in writing, and the documents here before me include a copy of the letter that apparently issued from this promise.

  Should my reader feel that I’m wasting his valuable time on an irreleva
nt piece of correspondence about the price of woodwork, then I must ask him not to overlook the fact that something else entirely is at issue here, namely the state of the entire official financial administration of the Indies. This letter of Havelaar’s not only sheds yet another ray of light on the artificial optimism of which I have spoken, but also illustrates the difficulties facing anyone who, like him, endeavored to follow his own path, straight ahead and without looking back.

  No 114

  Rangkasbitung, March 15, 1856

  To the Controleur of Lebak:

  When I passed on the letter to you from the Director of Public Works (No 271/354, dated the 16th of February of this year), I requested that you reply to the questions therein, after consulting with the Regent, and having regard to the contents of my note of the 5th inst., No 97.

  That note contained some general indications of what may be considered fair and just in calculating the prices of materials to be supplied by native people to, and by order of, the government.

  In your note of the 8th inst., No 6, you complied with that request, and I believe you replied to the best of your knowledge. Confident in your understanding of local conditions, as well as the Regent’s, I presented the information that you had gathered to the Resident.

  The said Resident, in his note of the 11th inst., No 326, then requested an explanation of the discrepancy between the prices I had submitted and those paid for the construction of a prison in 1853 and 1854.

  I passed on that letter to you, of course, and gave you oral instructions to substantiate your original statement, a task I imagined would not be particularly difficult, considering that you could refer to the instructions in my letter to you of the 5th inst., which we discussed in person several times at length.