Max Havelaar

by Multatuli

  When this buffalo was taken from Saijah’s father and slaughtered . . . (I told you, reader: my story is monotonous) . . . when this buffalo was slaughtered, Saijah was twelve years old, and Adinda was weaving sarongs and batiking them with finely wrought kepalas. She already had thoughts of her own to express with her pot of wax, and she drew sadness on her cloth, for she’d seen Saijah looking very mournful.†

  Saijah’s father was sad, too, but his mother most of all. After all, it was she who had tended to the wounded neck of the loyal beast that had brought her child home unharmed—after Adinda’s brothers had told her about Saijah being carried off by the tiger. She’d stared at that wound so often, imagining how deeply the claw that had dug into the buffalo’s tough sinews would have sunk into her child’s tender flesh, and every time she put a fresh poultice of herbs on the wound, she stroked the good and loyal buffalo and said a few kind words, so that it would know how grateful a mother can be! She hoped the buffalo had understood her, for then it would also have understood her tears later on, when it was led off to be slaughtered, and known that it wasn’t Saijah’s mother who ordered its slaughter.

  Not long after that, Saijah’s father fled the district. He was terrified of the punishment he would face for not paying his land tax, and he had no other heirlooms with which to buy a new buffalo, since his parents, having spent all their lives in Parangkujang, had not had much to leave him. His wife’s parents, too, had always lived in that district. After losing the last buffalo, he made ends meet for a few years with hired plow animals. But that is very thankless labor, and discouraging, too, for a man who has always owned his own buffalo. Saijah’s mother died of sorrow, and then, in a fit of despair, his father left Lebak and Banten to look for work around Buitenzorg. He was caned as punishment for leaving Lebak without a pass and brought back to Badur by the police. There he was thrown in prison, because he was thought to be insane—which wouldn’t have been so hard to understand—and because it was feared that in a moment of mata gelap he might run amok or make some other kind of trouble. But he wasn’t in prison for long, as soon afterwards he died.

  I don’t know what became of Saijah’s younger brothers and sisters. Their little house in Badur stood empty for a while, and soon collapsed, because it was made entirely of bamboo and roofed with atap. Dust and debris settled on the place of all that suffering. There are many such places in Lebak.

  Saijah was already fifteen years old when his father left for Buitenzorg. He didn’t go with him, because he had bigger plans. He’d been told there were many, many gentlemen in Batavia who rode about in bandies, so he might be able to find work as a handyman, a job typically given to a young man not yet fully grown, so that his weight at the back of the two-wheeled carriage won’t upset the balance. He’d been assured that well-behaved young men could earn a great deal in this job. Maybe he could even save enough, in three years, to buy two buffaloes. Excited by this prospect, he went to Adinda with a spring in his step like a man with big business in the offing, and shared his plans with her.

  “Just think,” he said, “when I return we’ll be old enough to get married, and we’ll have two buffaloes!”

  “Very good, Saijah! I’d love to marry you when you return. I’ll spend the whole time spinning, and weaving sarongs and slendangs, and batiking, and doing all sorts of useful things.”

  “Oh, I know you will, Adinda! But . . . what if I find you married?”

  “Come now, Saijah, you know I won’t marry anyone else. My father promised me to your father.”

  “But how do you feel about it?”

  “I’ll marry you, you can be sure of that!”

  “When I return, I’ll call out from a distance . . .”

  “Who will hear you, if we’re pounding rice in the village?”

  “That’s true. But Adinda . . . Oh, yes, here’s a better idea. Wait for me by the jati wood, under the ketapang tree where you gave me the jasmine flower.”

  “But Saijah, how will I know when to go to the ketapang tree to wait for you?”

  Saijah thought for a moment and said, “Count the moons. I’ll be away for three times twelve moons . . . not counting this one. Adinda, carve a notch in your rice block at each new moon. When you’ve carved three times twelve notches, I’ll arrive the next day, under the ketapang. Do you promise to be there?”

  “Yes, Saijah! I’ll be waiting under the ketapang by the jati wood when you return.”

  So Saijah tore a strip from his threadbare blue headcloth and gave it to Adinda to keep as a pledge. And then he left her and Badur.

  He walked for many days. He passed Rangkasbitung, which wasn’t yet the capital of Lebak, and Warunggunung, where the Assistant Resident was living at the time, and the next day he saw Pandeglang spread out before him as if set within a garden. After another day, he arrived in Serang and was amazed by the grandeur of the place, with its many brick houses and red-tiled roofs. Saijah had never seen anything like it. He rested there for a day, because he was weary, but in the cool of the night resumed his journey, and the next day he reached Tangerang before the shadow of his hat reached his lips, even though he was wearing the large one his father had left him.

  In Tangerang he bathed in the river near the ferry landing and rested in the home of a friend of his father’s, who showed him how to weave straw hats‡ just like the ones from Manila.116 He stayed there for a day to learn this craft, because he thought he might be able to earn a little money with it later if he was unsuccessful in Batavia. The next day, as the cool evening approached, he thanked his host profusely and went on his way again.

  As soon as it was pitch-black, so that no one could see, he took out the leaf in which he’d wrapped the jasmine flower Adinda had given him under the ketapang tree. He was sad that he wouldn’t see her for such a long time. The first day, and the second, he’d been less keenly aware of how alone he was, because his entire soul was caught up in his great plan of earning the price of two buffaloes, since his father had never had more than one. Besides, he’d been too preoccupied with the thought of seeing Adinda again to leave much room for sorrow at parting with her. He’d said farewell in a state of hopeful overexcitement, his mind leaping ahead to his ultimate reunion with her under the ketapang. His heart had been so full of the prospect of that reunion that, as he left Badur and passed that tree, he’d felt cheerful in a way, as though the thirty-six moons separating him from that moment had already passed. He’d felt as if he could simply turn around, as if already coming home from his journey, and find Adinda waiting for him under that tree.

  But the further he went from Badur, and the more he was struck by the terrible length of each day, the more he began to feel the span of the thirty-six moons ahead of him. There was something in his soul that slowed his pace. He felt sorrow in his knees, and even if it wasn’t despair that came over him then, it was a kind of wistfulness that’s not far removed from despair. He considered going back, but what would Adinda say about such a faint heart?

  So he walked on, though not as quickly as on the first day. He held the jasmine in his hand and often pressed it to his chest. He’d grown much older in those three days and couldn’t imagine how he’d gone about his former life so calmly, when Adinda was so close by and he could see her whenever and for as long as he wished. He certainly couldn’t be calm now, expecting to see her before him at any minute . . . nor could he imagine why, after they parted, he hadn’t gone back for one last look at her. And he recalled how, not long before, he’d quarreled with her about the string she’d spun for her brothers’ kite, which had snapped—due to a flaw in her handiwork, he’d believed—and which led to them losing a wager with the children of Cipurut. Now he wondered how he could possibly have been angry with Adinda about such a thing. Even if she really had made a mistake when spinning the string, and even if Badur had lost its wager with Cipurut for that reason, and not because of the shard of glass craftily thrown by mischievous little Jamin from his hiding place behind the hedg
e—even then, how could he have been so hard on her, and called her vulgar names? What if he died in Batavia without ever having asked her forgiveness for being so rude? He’d be remembered as a bad man who hurled abuse at a girl, and when they heard of his death in a strange land, everyone in Badur would say, “Good riddance! Remember his big mouth when he quarreled with Adinda?”

  In short, his thoughts took a course very different from his earlier overexcitement, involuntarily expressing themselves first in mumbled half-words, then in a soliloquy, and finally in a wistful song, translated below. At first I planned to use rhyme and meter in my version, but like Havelaar, I now think it better to avoid that straitjacket.

  I do not know where I will die.

  I have seen the great sea on the southern coast, when I went there with my father to make salt.

  If I die at sea and my body is cast into deep waters, sharks will find it.

  They will circle my corpse and ask, “Which of us shall devour that body sinking there?”

  I will not hear.

  I do not know where I will die.

  I have seen Pa-ansu’s house burning, after he set it on fire himself because he was mata gelap.

  If I die in a burning house, blazing pieces of wood will fall onto my corpse.

  And outside the house, there will be a great clamor of people throwing water to kill the fire.

  I will not hear.

  I do not know where I will die.

  I have seen little Si-unah fall from a kelapa tree while picking a kelapa for his mother.

  If I fall from a kelapa tree, I will lie dead at its foot, in the bushes, like Si-unah.

  Then my mother will not weep, for she is dead. But others will shout, “Look, there lies Saijah!”

  I will not hear.

  I do not know where I will die.

  I have seen the corpse of Pa-lisu, who died of extreme old age, for his hair was white.

  If I die of old age, with white hair, the wailing women will crowd round my corpse.

  And they will raise a clamor like the wailing women around Pa-lisu’s corpse. And the grandchildren will weep too, very loudly.

  I will not hear.

  I do not know where I will die.

  I have seen many people in Badur who had died. They were wrapped in white sheets and buried in the earth.

  If I die in Badur and they bury me outside the village, beside the hill to the east where the grass is high,

  Then Adinda will pass by, and whenever she does, the edge of her sarong will brush softly over the grass . . .

  I will hear.

  Saijah arrived in Batavia. He asked a gentleman to hire him, and the gentleman did so at once, because he had no idea what Saijah was saying. You see, in Batavia they prefer servants who don’t speak Malay, as they haven’t been spoiled by long exposure to European civilization. Saijah quickly learned Malay, but he remained well behaved, always fixing his mind on those two buffaloes he hoped to buy, and on Adinda. He grew big and strong because he ate every day, which wasn’t always possible in Badur. He was admired in the stable and would certainly not have been refused if he’d asked the coachman for his daughter’s hand in marriage. Saijah’s master, too, thought highly of him and soon promoted him to house servant. His wages were raised, and he was always receiving presents, because people were so exceptionally pleased with his work. The lady of the house had read the novel by Eugène Sue which briefly caused such a stir,§ and every time she looked at Saijah she thought of Prince Djalma. The young girls, likewise, understood better than before why the Javanese painter Raden Saleh had met with such enthusiasm in Paris.

  But they thought Saijah ungrateful when, after nearly three years of service, he gave notice and asked for a testimonial of good conduct. Still, they couldn’t refuse, and Saijah went on his way with a light heart.

  He passed Pising, where Havelaar had once lived, long before. But Saijah didn’t know that. And even if he had, there was something else entirely that occupied his soul. He counted the treasures he was taking home. He had his pass and testimonial in a bamboo roll. In a small case attached to a leather strap, there was something heavy that seemed to be constantly bumping into his shoulder, but he enjoyed the feeling—I can well imagine! It held thirty Spanish dollars, enough to buy three buffaloes. Just think what Adinda would say! And that wasn’t all. Strapped to his back was a sheath with silver fittings for a kris he wore in his belt. The hilt must have been made of richly carved kemuning, because he’d carefully wrapped it in silk. And those weren’t his only treasures. In the fold of the kain around his loins, he kept a chain of large silver links with an ikat-pending of gold. It was a short chain, true, but then again, she had such a slender waist . . . oh, Adinda!

  And suspended from a cord around his neck, under the front of his tunic, he had a small silk purse that held a few dried jasmine flowers.

  Was it any wonder he stopped in Tangerang only as long as necessary to pay his respects to his father’s acquaintance who wove such fine straw hats? Was it any wonder he said so little to the girls along the way, asking “Where from, where to?” the traditional greeting in those parts? Was it any wonder he no longer thought Serang so splendid, having seen Batavia? That he no longer slunk off behind the hedge, as he had for three years, when the Resident came riding by, he who had seen the much more exalted gentleman who lives in Buitenzorg and is the grandfather of the Susuhunan of Solo? Was it any wonder that he paid little attention to the stories of people who walked by his side for a while, talking of all the news in southern Banten? That he hardly listened when he was told that coffee cultivation had, after much wasted effort, been given up entirely? That the District Chief of Parangkujang had been convicted of highway robbery and sentenced to fourteen days’ confinement in the home of his father-in-law? That the capital had been moved to Rangkasbitung? That a new Assistant Resident had arrived, because the previous one had died a few months earlier? That this new official had made a remarkable speech at the first sebah? That for some time no one had been punished for submitting a complaint, and that the people were hoping that all the stolen property would be returned, or that they would be compensated?

  No, sweeter visions entered his mind’s eye. He searched for the ketapang tree in the clouds, since he was still too far away to look for it in Badur. He grasped at the air around him, as if trying to embrace the figure that would be waiting for him under that tree. He pictured Adinda’s features, her head, her shoulder . . . He saw the heavy kondé, glossy and black, caught in its own knot, trailing down to the nape of her neck . . . He saw her large eyes, glimmering with dark luster . . . the nostrils she would flare so proudly as a child when he teased her—how could he have done it?—and the corner of her mouth where she kept her smile. He saw her bosom, which would now be swelling under her kebaya . . . He saw her sarong, which she’d woven herself, wrapped tightly around her hips, tracing the curve of her thigh, spilling over her knee, and falling in a glorious wave to her dainty foot . . .

  No, he heard little of what was said to him. He heard completely different tones. He heard how Adinda would say, “I bid you welcome, Saijah! I thought of you while I was spinning, and weaving, and pounding rice on the block carved with three times twelve notches by my hand. Here I am, under the ketapang, on the first day of the new moon. I bid you welcome, Saijah: I wish to be your wife!”

  Such was the music that rang in his ears and made him deaf to all the news he was told along the way.

  At last he found the ketapang tree. To be precise, he saw a patch of darkness that blotted out many stars. He knew it must be the jati wood near the tree where the next day, just after sunrise, he would be reunited with Adinda. He groped in the darkness, running his hand over trunk after trunk. Soon he found a familiar roughness on the south side of a tree and ran his finger along a cleft that Si-Panteh had hacked into it to ward off the ghost responsible for his mother’s toothache, just before the birth of his little brother. This was the ketapang he’d been searchin
g for.

  Yes, this was where he’d first looked at Adinda with other eyes than his playmates, when she refused to join in a game that not long before she’d played with all the children, boys and girls alike. This was where she’d given him the jasmine flower.

  He sat down at the foot of the tree and looked up at the stars. And when one of them shot through the sky, he took it as a greeting to mark his return to Badur. And he wondered whether Adinda was sleeping, and if she’d kept careful count of the notches in her rice block. How hurt he would be if she’d missed one moon, as if there hadn’t been enough of them . . . thirty-six! And had she been batiking beautiful sarongs and slendangs? And who, he wondered, is living in my father’s house now? And his thoughts went back to his childhood, and his mother, and how the buffalo had saved him from the tiger, and he brooded on what might have become of Adinda if the buffalo had been less loyal.

  He watched closely as the stars set in the west, and with each star that reached the horizon, he reckoned how much closer the sun was to rising in the east, and how much closer he was to seeing Adinda again.

  For surely she would come at the first ray of dawn, yes, she would be there by the morning twilight . . . oh, why hadn’t she come the day before?

  It saddened him that she hadn’t come early, in anticipation of that wondrous moment whose indescribable glow had lit the way for his soul those past three years. And in the unreasonable self-absorption of his love, he felt that Adinda should have been there, waiting for him, instead of him feeling sorry for himself—even before the hour of their meeting!—because he had to wait for her.