Max Havelaar

by Multatuli

  Marie is just as mixed-up. Can you imagine, earlier this week—when it was her turn to read aloud at breakfast, and we came to the story of Lot—she suddenly stopped and refused to go on reading. My wife, who sets as much store by religion as I do, tried gently to persuade her to be obedient, for such willfulness is unbecoming in a modest young girl. All in vain! Then it was my duty as her father to give her a stern talking-to, because her willfulness was spoiling the edifying tone of our breakfast, and that always takes its toll on the rest of the day. But nothing helped; she even went so far as to say she’d rather be struck dead than go on reading. I punished her with three days’ detention in her room on bread and coffee, and I hope it will do her some good. To make this punishment conducive to her moral improvement, I ordered her to copy out the chapter she’d refused to read, ten times. I was especially severe because I can see she’s been getting ideas—maybe from Stern, I don’t know—that pose a threat—or so I fear—to morality, by which my wife and I set so much store. For one thing, I’ve heard her singing a French tune—by Béranger, I believe—about the sad fate of a poor old beggar woman who sang in a theater in her youth,* and yesterday she came to breakfast without a corset—Marie did, I mean. That’s not what I call decent.

  I also have to admit that the prayer meeting hasn’t done Frits much good. I was pretty well satisfied with how he sat still in church. He didn’t move a muscle or look away from the pastor for an instant. But then I heard that Betsy Rosemeyer had been sitting right next to the pulpit. I didn’t say anything because it doesn’t do to be overly strict with youngsters, and the Rosemeyers are a respectable firm. Their eldest daughter—who married Bruggeman, a druggist—carried a nice little dowry, so my opinion is that this sort of thing keeps Frits away from the Westermarkt, which pleases me no end, because I set so much store by morality.

  But all the same, it frustrates me to see Frits hardening his heart like Pharaoh, who wasn’t as much to blame because he had no father to guide him so persistently in the path of righteousness—after all, the Scriptures don’t say anything about Pharaoh Senior. Pastor Waffler complains that he’s full of himself—Frits, I mean. The boy apparently made some smart remark in Sunday school—another thing he learned from Shawlman’s parcel!—which drove kindly old Waffler into a rage. It’s sad to see how that worthy man, who often takes coffee with us, keeps trying to appeal to Frits’s better nature, and how time and again that insolent boy comes up with new questions that show just how hardheaded he is . . . and it all comes straight out of Shawlman’s damned parcel! With tears of emotion on his cheeks, the zealous servant of the Gospel tries to persuade him to renounce the wisdom of men and be inducted into the mysteries of God’s wisdom. He pleads with the boy, softly and tenderly, not to refuse the bread of eternal life and fall into the clutches of Satan, who dwells with his angels in the fire prepared for him unto all eternity. “Oh,” he said yesterday—Waffler, that is—“oh, my young friend, won’t you open your eyes and ears to hear and see what the Lord has ordained that you should see and hear from my lips. Hearken to the testimony of the saints who died for the true religion! See Saint Stephen as he sinks beneath the hail of stones! See how his eyes are raised to heaven, how the psalms still roll from his tongue . . .”

  “I’d have thrown those stones back at them instead!” Frits replied. Reader, what am I to do with that boy?

  After a moment, Waffler made a fresh start, for he is a most zealous servant and never ceases from his labors. “Oh,” he said, “my young friend, won’t you open . . .” etc.—starting out as he had the last time. “But,” he went on, “how can you remain so hard-hearted when you consider what will become of you once you are set among the goats on the left . . .”

  At this point the cheeky fellow burst out laughing—Frits, I mean—and Marie started laughing too. I even thought I discerned something resembling a smile on the face of my wife. But then I came to Waffler’s assistance, punishing Frits with a fine from his money box, to be sent to the Missionary Society.113

  Oh, reader, all this pains me deeply. And in the midst of such suffering, how could I find amusement in tales of buffaloes—Frits says “buffalo”—and Javanese? What is a buffalo, compared to Frits’s immortal soul? What do I care about the affairs of those faraway people, when I fear that Frits will ruin my business with his unbelief, and that he’ll never make a sound broker? For as Waffler himself has said, God ordains everything so that righteousness leads to riches. “Look around you,” he said, “isn’t there a lot of wealth here in the Netherlands? That’s thanks to the true religion. Isn’t France rife with murder nowadays? That’s because they’re Roman Catholics. Aren’t the Javanese poor? That’s because they’re heathens. The longer the Dutch people associate with the Javanese, the more wealth will come our way, and the more poverty theirs. That’s God’s will!”

  I am impressed by Waffler’s insight into business. For it’s true that I, who am a stickler for religion, see my business flourish year in, year out, while Busselinck & Waterman, a godless firm, will remain cheats all their lives. Likewise, the Rosemeyers, who are in sugar and have a Catholic maid, recently had to settle for 27 percent of the estate of a ruined Jew. The more I reflect, the more progress I make in finding out God’s unsearchable ways. The latest figures show another thirty million netted on the sale of products supplied by the heathens, and that’s not even counting my own profits, or those of the many others who make a living in this business. Isn’t it just as if the Lord were saying, “Here’s thirty million as a reward for your faith”? Isn’t it obvious this is the hand of God, making the sinners work that the righteous may prosper? Isn’t this a sign to follow the straight and narrow? To keep up full production over there and persevere in the true religion here? “Pray and work”—doesn’t that mean that we must pray, and have the work done by the black folk who don’t know the Lord’s Prayer?

  Oh, how right Waffler is to say God’s yoke is easy! How light the burden is made for all who believe! I’m still in my forties, but I could hang up my hat if I wished, and retire to Driebergen, and meanwhile, just look what becomes of those who forsake the Lord. Yesterday I saw Shawlman with his wife and little boy. They looked like specters. He is pale as death, his eyes bulging and his cheeks hollow. His shoulders are stooped, even though he’s younger than I am. She, too, was very shabbily dressed and seemed to have been crying again. Now, I’d figured out right away that she was a malcontent by nature, because I can read a person’s character at a glance—all thanks to practical experience. She was wearing a light coat of black silk, even though it was chilly out. No sign of a hoop skirt. Her thin dress hung slack over her knees, and the hem was frayed. He didn’t even have his shawl on, and seemed to be dressed for the summer. Yet he still had a kind of pride: he gave alms to a poor woman sitting on the lock—Frits says “bridge,” but if it’s made of stone and isn’t a drawbridge, I call it a lock—and when you have so little, it’s sinful to give it away. Besides, I never hand out money in the street—it’s a principle of mine—because whenever I see a poor person I say to myself, “Who knows, it may be their own fault, and I mustn’t encourage wrongdoing.” On Sundays I give twice: once for the poor, and once for the church. That’s how it’s meant to be! I don’t know whether Shawlman saw me, but I hurried by, and looked up to heaven, and thought about the righteousness of God, who surely wouldn’t let him roam around town without a winter coat if he’d taken better care and not been so lazy, sickly, and pedantic.

  Now, as for my book, I must beg the reader’s pardon for Stern’s unforgivable abuse of our contract. I must admit that I dread our next get-together and that love story of Saijah. The reader is already aware of my healthful views on love . . . recall, if you will, my critique of that outing to the Ganges. I can well imagine that young girls find such things charming, but I fail to see how men of riper years can listen to such rubbish without feeling sick to their stomach. No doubt at the next get-together I’ll master the three-peg variation on my
game of solitaire.

  I’ll try to not to hear one word about that Saijah fellow, and I hope the man will get himself married fast, at least if he’s the hero of the love story. It was rather good of Stern to give advance warning that the tale will be monotonous. As soon as he goes on to something else, I’ll start listening again. But all the talk of the evils of the administration bores me almost as much as love stories. It’s as clear as day that Stern is young and has little practical experience. To judge matters wisely, one has to see them at firsthand. When I got married I went to The Hague myself, and my wife and I visited the Mauritshuis. I encountered all classes of society there, for I saw the Minister of Finance ride past, and we bought flannel together on Veenestraat—my wife and I, I mean—and nowhere did I see the least hint of dissatisfaction with the powers that be. The woman in the shop looked well off and contented enough, so when, back in 1848, some people tried to make us believe that not everything in The Hague was as it should be, I spoke my mind about that discontent at one of our get-togethers. And I was taken seriously, because everyone knew I was speaking from practical experience. During the trip home in the stagecoach, the conductor trumpeted that old tune “Take Joy,”† and I’m sure he wouldn’t have done that if so many things were going wrong. That’s how closely I’ve always paid attention to everything, so I knew right away what to think of all that grousing in 1848.

  Across the street from us lives an old maid whose nephew runs a toko in the Orient—that’s what they call a shop out there. So if everything were going as badly as Stern makes out, she’d know about it, yet she seems very satisfied with the state of affairs, for I never hear her complain. On the contrary, she says her nephew lives on an estate out there and is a member of the consistory, and that he sent her a peacock-feather cigar case he’d made himself, out of bamboo. Surely this goes to show how baseless those complaints about misgovernment must be? It also demonstrates that for those who take care, there is still money to be made in those parts, and Mr. Shawlman must already have been lazy, sickly, and pedantic during his time there, because otherwise he wouldn’t be so poor that he goes around Amsterdam without a winter coat. And the nephew of the lady across the street isn’t the only one who’s made his fortune in the Orient. At Café Polen I see all sorts of people who’ve been there and now cut a very fine figure indeed. But it hardly need be said—business must be attended to, whether here or there. There are no pots of gold for the taking in Java; you have to work! And those who will not are poor, and stay poor; that’s only natural.

  *The French poet Pierre-Jean de Béranger (1780–1857) was popular throughout Europe for his songs, which often had political themes and a satirical tone. He is mentioned in the fourth chapter as the subject of one of Multatuli’s essays. “La pauvre femme” was about an old, blind beggar woman who in her youth had been a celebrated singer and done great acts of charity.

  †The Dutch title “Schep vreugd’ ” refers to the well-known proverb “Schep vreugd’ in ’t leven” (“Take joy in life”). This may have been a version of the German round “Freut euch des Lebens” by the Swiss poet J. M. Usteri.

  SEVENTEENTH CHAPTER

  SAIJAH’S father had a buffalo, with which he worked his field. When this buffalo was taken from him by the Chief of the Parangkujang district, he was very sad and didn’t speak a word for many days. For the plowing season was approaching, and if the rice field wasn’t plowed in time it would be too late for sowing, and in the end there would be no paddy to cut and keep in storage.114

  For readers familiar with Java but not Banten, I should explain that there is individual ownership of land in this residency, unlike elsewhere.115

  Now, Saijah’s father was very distressed. For he feared that his wife would lack rice, and so would Saijah—who was still a boy—and Saijah’s little brothers and sisters. Besides, the District Chief would report Saijah’s father to the Assistant Resident if he fell behind with his land tax, because that is punishable by law.

  Then Saijah’s father took a kris that was an heirloom from his father. It wasn’t much to look at, but the sheath had bands of silver and was tipped with silver plate. He sold this dagger to a Chinese man who lived in the local capital and came home with twenty-four guilders, which he used to buy another buffalo.

  Saijah, who was then about seven years old, soon struck up a friendship with the new buffalo. I don’t use the word “friendship” lightly: it’s touching to see how attached the Javanese buffalo becomes to the little boy who looks after him. The strong animal bows its head obediently to the right or the left or the ground at the slightest pressure from the finger of the child he knows, and understands, and has grown up with.

  This kind of friendship soon flourished between Saijah and their new guest, and when the boy urged on the animal in his childish voice, he seemed to lend even greater strength to its powerful shoulders as it broke up the heavy clay soil, marking its progress with deep, sharp furrows. The buffalo turned obediently when it reached the edge of the field and never missed an inch of soil when it turned to plow the next furrow, which always ran straight alongside the last, as if the sawah were a garden plot raked by a giant.

  The neighboring sawahs belonged to Adinda’s father, whose daughter was promised to Saijah. And when Adinda’s brothers came to the boundary between the fields just as Saijah was at work there with his plow, they would call out to each other cheerfully, and each would boast of the strength and obedience of his own buffalo. But I believe Saijah’s was the best, maybe because its master knew better than the others how to speak to it. A buffalo responds very well when spoken to properly.

  Saijah was nine years old and Adinda six by the time this buffalo was taken from Saijah’s father by the District Chief of Parangkujang.

  Saijah’s father, who was very poor, then sold his two silver kelambu hooks, an heirloom from his wife’s parents, to a Chinese man for eighteen guilders. And with that money he bought a new buffalo.

  But Saijah was sad, for he’d heard from Adinda’s little brothers that the last buffalo had been driven off to the local capital, and he’d asked his father whether he’d seen the animal when he went into town to sell the silver curtain hooks. Saijah’s father had made no reply. So Saijah feared that his buffalo had been slaughtered, like the others that the Chief had taken from the people.

  And Saijah often wept at the thought of the poor buffalo that, for two years, had been his closest friend. And for a long time he couldn’t eat, because his throat would tighten when he tried to swallow.

  Remember, Saijah was a child.

  The new buffalo got to know Saijah and soon replaced the old one in the child’s affections—too soon, actually. Unfortunately, the impressions on our heart, like marks in wax, are all too easy to smooth away and replace with new writing. Be that as it may, the new buffalo wasn’t as strong as the old one, and the old yoke was too wide for its shoulders—but the poor animal was as obedient as its slaughtered predecessor, and although Saijah could no longer boast of his buffalo’s strength when he ran into Adinda’s little brothers at the boundary, he could still say that no other buffalo matched his own for good will. And if the furrows weren’t as straight as they’d been, or if some clods of earth were left unbroken, he was happy to break them up with his own hoe as best he could. Besides, no other buffalo had any user-useran like his. The priest himself had said that there was good fortune in the pattern of the whorls of hair on its hindquarters.

  •

  One day, in the field, Saijah called out in vain to his buffalo to hurry up. The animal stood stock-still. Saijah, frustrated by its serious and uncharacteristic defiance, couldn’t help shouting an insult: “A*** s***!”* Anyone who has spent time in the Indies will know what I mean. And anyone who hasn’t can do without an explanation of a coarse expression.

  But Saijah didn’t mean any harm. He said it only because he’d so often heard other people say it when they were upset with their buffaloes. Still, he might as well never have said
it, because it did no good; his buffalo would not budge. It shook its head as if to throw off the yoke; you could see its breath rising from its nostrils; it snorted, shuddered, trembled; there was fear in its blue eyes; and it drew back its upper lip, baring its gums . . .

  “Flee, flee,” Adinda’s little brothers suddenly shouted. “Flee, Saijah! There’s a tiger!”

  And they all unyoked their buffaloes, vaulted onto the animals’ broad backs, and galloped away across sawahs, over galangans, through mud, brushwood, forest, and alang-alang, past roads and fields. And when they arrived, panting and sweating, in the village of Badur, Saijah was not among them.

  For when Saijah had unyoked his buffalo and mounted it so he could flee with the others, the animal had made an unexpected leap, throwing him off balance and sending him hurtling to the ground. The tiger was very close by . . .

  Saijah’s buffalo, driven by its own momentum, bounded past the place where its young master was waiting to die. But it was only its momentum, and not its will, that sent the animal further than Saijah. No sooner had it overcome the force that governs all matter, even after the original impulse has ceased, than it turned back, settling its hulking body on its hulking legs like a roof over the child and turning its horned head to the attacker. The tiger pounced . . . but would never pounce again. The buffalo caught it on its horns, losing only a little flesh that was clawed from its neck. The tiger fell to the ground, its belly torn open, and Saijah was saved. There really was good fortune in that buffalo’s user-useran!