Max Havelaar

by Multatuli

  But as for the underlying truth of my tale—oh, if only I were called upon to defend what I have written! Oh, if only people would say, “You made that story about Saijah up . . . he never sang that song . . . there was no Adinda living in Badur!” If only someone would demand a full accounting, someone with the intent and power to see justice done as soon as I cleared my name!

  Is the parable of the Good Samaritan a lie simply because there may never have been a traveler who fell among thieves and was taken into a Samaritan home? Is the parable of the sower a lie, because no farmer would think of scattering seeds on stony ground? Or—to bend closer to the level of my own book—can anyone deny the truth underlying Uncle Tom’s Cabin, simply because it is possible that no Evangeline ever existed? Would anyone say to the author of that timeless clarion call—timeless not for its skill or artfulness, but for its message and force—“You have lied! The slaves aren’t mistreated, because . . . parts of your book aren’t true. It’s a novel!” Wasn’t she too called upon to write not a catalog of dry facts, but a story that dressed up those facts, to impress the need for reform deep into the hearts of her readers? Would anyone have read her book if she had given it the form of a deposition? Is it her fault—or mine—that for the truth to be accepted, it must so often cloak itself in lies?

  And to any who may claim that I’ve idealized Saijah and his love, I would say, what makes you so sure of that? After all, very few Europeans think it worth taking note of the emotions of the coffee- and sugar-producing machines known as “natives.” Yet even if there were some truth in this argument, if it were leveled against the main point of my book, I’d win a great victory. For here is the essence of that argument: “The evil you oppose doesn’t exist, or isn’t as bad as all that, because the natives aren’t like your Saijah. The maltreatment of the Javanese is not as evil as it would be if your portrait of Saijah were closer to the truth. The Sundanese don’t sing such songs, know such love, feel such feelings, and therefore . . .”

  No, Minister of Colonies, no, retired Governors-General, that is not what you have to prove! You have to prove that the population is not maltreated, regardless of whether that population includes any sentimental Saijahs. Or would you dare to claim that a buffalo may be stolen as long as its owner is not in love, does not sing sorrowful tunes, is not sentimental?121

  If attacked on literary grounds, I’d defend the accuracy of my sketch of Saijah, but in the political sphere I at once accept any and all criticisms of its accuracy, so as not to distract attention from the crucial question. It makes no difference at all to me whether I’m thought to be an incompetent artist, as long as it’s acknowledged that the maltreatment of the natives is OUTRAGEOUS! That’s the exact word used in the report by Havelaar’s predecessor that he showed to Controleur Verbrugge, a report I have here before me.120

  But I have other evidence! And a good thing, too, because Havelaar’s predecessor could have been mistaken.

  But if he was mistaken, then, sad to say, he paid a high price for it. He was murdered.

  *This refers to the vulgar Indonesian expression anak sundal, literally “son of a whore.”

  †The translator Roy Edwards corrected a factual error in Multatuli’s description of the batiking process in his 1967 translation; we have gratefully adopted his correction here.

  ‡Hats woven from Manila hemp (also known as tagal straw) and similar in style to Panama hats were popular at the time.

  §A reference to Le Juif errant (The Wandering Jew, 1844), an anticlerical novel by Eugène Sue in which the Indian prince Djalma and his beloved Adrienne de Cardoville, persecuted by the Jesuits, commit suicide together in a scene reminiscent of Romeo and Juliet.

  EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

  IT WAS afternoon. Havelaar came out of his study and found Tina on the front veranda, waiting for him with tea. Mrs. Slotering came out of her house and seemed to be on her way to visit the Havelaars. Abruptly, she veered towards the gate, where a man had just entered, and began to shoo him off, waving her arms wildly. She stood guard there until she was sure he had left before making her way back across the lawn to Havelaar’s house.

  “It’s high time I got to the bottom of this!” Havelaar said, and after they had exchanged greetings he questioned her in a lighthearted tone, so she wouldn’t think he begrudged her a little authority over the grounds that had once been hers: “Won’t you tell me, madam, why you’re sending away the people who come through the gate? What if that fellow just now had chickens for sale, or something else we may need in the kitchen?”

  Mrs. Slotering gave a kind of wince, which didn’t escape Havelaar. “Oh,” she said, “there are so many bad people!”

  “That’s true wherever you go. But if we make things so difficult for them, the good ones will stay away too. Come now, Mrs. Slotering, give me a straight answer. Why do you keep such a strict watch over the grounds?”

  Havelaar looked into her moist eyes, trying in vain to read the answer there. Again, more insistently this time, he demanded an explanation. The widow burst into tears and said her husband had been poisoned in the home of the District Chief in Parangkujang.

  “He wanted to do the right thing, Mr. Havelaar,” the poor woman went on. “He wanted to put a stop to the abuses under which the people suffer. He reprimanded and threatened the chiefs, in meetings and in writing—you must have found his letters in the files?”

  Yes, Havelaar had read those letters, copies of which lie before me.120

  “He spoke to Resident Slymering about it many times,” the widow continued, “but always in vain. Since it was general knowledge that this villainy was taking place for the benefit and under the protection of the Adipati, and the Resident had no intention of presenting the charges against him to the government, all those conversations led to nothing but maltreatment of the complainants. So my poor husband decided that if the situation didn’t improve by the end of the year, he’d go directly to the Governor-General. That was in November. Soon afterwards, he went on a tour of inspection and had lunch at the house of the Demang of Parangkujang. That afternoon, he was brought home in a pitiable state, clutching his belly and shouting, ‘Fire, fire!’ A few hours later he was dead—a man who’d always been the very picture of health.”

  “Did you send for the doctor in Serang?” Havelaar asked.

  “Yes, but he didn’t have much chance to help, since my husband died soon after he arrived. I didn’t dare tell the doctor about my suspicions, because I knew I wouldn’t be able to leave this place any time soon in my condition, and I feared vengeance. Ever since I heard that you, like my husband, oppose the abuses that prevail here, I haven’t had a moment’s peace. I wanted to hide all this from you so as not to alarm you and your wife, so I decided to keep an eye on the garden and the grounds, so that no strangers could find their way into the kitchen.”

  Now it was clear to Tina why Mrs. Slotering had maintained a separate household and not even wanted to use their kitchen, despite Tina’s protests that there was plenty of room.

  Havelaar sent for Controleur Verbrugge. While he waited, he wrote to the physician in Serang to request a medical report on Slotering’s death. The reply he later received did not corroborate the widow’s suspicions. According to the doctor, Slotering had died of an “abscess of the liver.” Yet I’ve found no evidence that this condition can appear out of nowhere and lead to death in a few short hours. Mrs. Slotering said that her husband had always been in good health before then, and it seems to me this statement merits serious consideration. But even if we brush it aside—after all, “health” is such a subjective term, especially outside the medical profession—a crucial question remains. Can a man die of an “abscess of the liver” the day after riding out on horseback to inspect a mountainous region twenty hours from end to end in some directions? The doctor who treated Slotering may have been a capable physician and still have misinterpreted his symptoms, since he had no reason to suspect foul play.122

  Whatever the c
ase may be, I can’t prove that Havelaar’s predecessor was poisoned, since Havelaar was not given the time to clear up the matter. But I can prove that the people close to him believed he had been poisoned, partly because they knew of his fervent desire to fight Injustice.

  •

  Controleur Verbrugge came into Havelaar’s study. Havelaar asked him, gruffly, “What was the cause of Mr. Slotering’s death?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Was he poisoned?”

  “I don’t know, but . . .”

  “Out with it, Verbrugge!”

  “But he made an effort to combat the abuses here, as you have, Mr. Havelaar, and . . . and . . .”

  “Well? Go on!”

  “I firmly believe that he . . . would have been poisoned if he’d been here any longer.”

  “Put that in writing!”

  Verbrugge wrote down what he’d said. His statement lies before me!120

  “Another thing. Is it true or false that extortion takes place in Lebak?”

  Verbrugge did not reply.

  “Answer me, Verbrugge!”

  “I don’t dare.”

  “Put that in writing—that you don’t dare!”

  Verbrugge put it in writing. It lies before me.120

  “Well, then! One more thing. You didn’t dare answer that last question, but you did tell me recently, when there was a case of poisoning, that your sisters in Batavia depend entirely on your support, isn’t that right? Could that be the reason for your timidity, the cause of what I’ve always called your halfness?”

  “Yes!”

  “Put that in writing.”

  Verbrugge put it in writing. His statement lies before me!120

  “Very well,” said Havelaar, “now I know enough.” And Verbrugge was dismissed.

  •

  Havelaar went outside and played with little Max, kissing the boy more tenderly than ever. After Mrs. Slotering left, he sent the child away and asked Tina to come into his study.

  “Dearest Tina, I have a favor to ask of you! I’d like you to go to Batavia with Max. I’m going to bring charges against the Adipati today.”

  She flung her arms around his neck and, for the first time, disobeyed him, loudly sobbing: “No, Max, no, Max, I won’t do it . . . I won’t! We eat and drink together!”

  Was Havelaar wrong when he told her she had as little right to blow her nose as the women of Arles?

  He wrote and sent the letter I reproduce below. Having sketched the circumstances under which this letter was written, I see no need to dwell on the resolute sense of duty that radiates from it, nor on the forgiving nature that led Havelaar to argue that the Adipati’s punishment should not be too severe. Yet it may be useful to point out his circumspection. He kept silent about the discovery he’d just made, so that his uncertainty about an important but still unproved accusation would not weaken the force of his charges. His intention was to have his predecessor’s body exhumed and medically examined as soon as the Adipati had been removed from office and his accomplices rendered harmless. But he would not be granted this opportunity.123

  In my copies of official letters—copies that otherwise correspond with the originals word for word—I’ve seen fit to replace absurd honorifics with simple pronouns. I expect my readers to have the good taste to appreciate this change.

  No 88. SECRET. URGENT.

  Rangkasbitung, February 24, 1856

  To Resident Slymering of Banten:

  Since accepting my appointment here one month ago, I have spent most of my time investigating how the native chiefs meet their obligations to their people with regard to statute labor, appropriations, and the like.124

  I very quickly realized that the Regent Adipati, on his own authority and for his own benefit, calls on many more workers than the number of pancens and kemits permitted to him by law.125

  I was torn between the desire to make an official report without delay and the hope that gentle persuasion—or, in a later stage, threats—might induce the Adipati to mend his ways, thus stopping the abuses without recourse to measures too severe for a longtime servant of the government. One should not lose sight of the many bad examples I believe he was given, and to the special circumstance that he is expecting a visit from two relatives, the regents of Buitenzorg and of Cianjur, or at least from the latter, who I believe is already en route with a large retinue. Consequently he is presented with a greater temptation than usual—in fact, given his exhausted finances, it must seem a necessity—to resort to illegal means to make the requisite preparations for that visit.

  All this led me to look mildly on his past transgressions, but not to show any leniency for the future. I urged him to desist from all illegal activities at once. This initial attempt to remind the Adipati of his duties in a gentle manner was described to you in an earlier, private communication.

  Now, however, having seen the brazen shamelessness with which he casts all these admonitions to the wind, I feel obliged by my oath of office to inform you

  that I accuse the Regent of Lebak, Raden Adipati Karta Natta Negara,

  of abusing his authority by making unlawful claims on the labor

  of his subjects, and suspect him of extortion through requisitions

  of personal property without payment, or for arbitrary, insufficient payment;

  that I also suspect the Demang of Parangkujang, his son-in-law, of complicity in the aforementioned crimes.

  To build an adequate case against both suspects, I take the liberty of proposing that you instruct me:

  1. to summon the Regent of Lebak to appear in Serang as swiftly as possible and make certain that he has no opportunity, either before his departure or during his journey, to influence, by bribery or otherwise, the witnesses whose testimony I must obtain;

  2. to hold the Demang of Parangkujang in provisional detention;

  3. likewise to detain persons of lesser rank who belong to the Regent’s family and can be expected to use their influence to compromise the objectivity of the investigation;

  4. to carry out the said investigation forthwith and submit a comprehensive report on the findings.

  I also take the liberty of suggesting that you countermand the visit by the Regent of Cianjur.

  Finally, I have the honor of assuring you—a needless assurance, considering that you know the regency of Lebak better than I possibly could at this stage—that there is absolutely no political objection to handling this case in strict accordance with the demands of justice, and that I would be more concerned about the risks of not resolving it satisfactorily. For I have been informed that the General population is, in the words of one witness, pusing from this harassment and has long been hoping for rescue.126

  I have drawn the strength to complete the difficult task of writing this letter in part from the hope that in due course I will be permitted to present some mitigating evidence in support of the elderly Adipati, for whose predicament—albeit of his own making—I feel deep sympathy.

  The Assistant Resident of Lebak,

  MAX HAVELAAR

  The next day he received . . . not an official reply from Resident Slymering of Banten, ah, no—it was a private letter from Mr. Slymering!

  This reply makes a valuable contribution to our understanding of how the Dutch East Indies are governed. In it Mr. Slymering complained that Havelaar had failed to “apprise him orally” beforehand of “the matter alluded to in letter No 88.” This would, of course, have made it easier for Slymering to “finesse” the situation. He also wrote that Havelaar had “distracted” him from his “pressing business”!

  He must have been writing an annual report about peaceable peace! I have his letter here before me and can scarcely believe my eyes.120 I am now rereading the letter from the Assistant Resident of Lebak . . . I am placing his words next to those of the Resident of Banten—Havelaar and Slymering, side by side ...........................................................................................

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  That Shawlman is a common tramp! I must tell you, reader, that Bastiaans has returned to his habit of staying home from work because of his gout. As I feel very strongly about squandering the funds of my firm, Burden & Co—for I’m a man of uncompromising principles—it occurred to me yesterday that Shawlman has fairly decent handwriting and, since he looks so shabby, could be had for moderate wages. So then, feeling I owed it to the firm to replace Bastiaans as cheaply as possible, I went to Lange-leidsche-dwarsstraat.

  The woman was outside her shop but didn’t seem to recognize me, even though I had recently told her very clearly that I am Mr. Drystubble, coffee broker, of Lauriergracht. Not being recognized is always a bit insulting, but seeing as the weather is mild these days—unlike last time, when I was wearing my fur-trimmed coat—let me assume that was the reason and shrug it off—the insult, I mean. So I said, once again, that I am Mr. Drystubble, coffee broker, of Lauriergracht, and I asked her to go and see whether that Shawlman fellow was at home—since I had no wish for another run-in with his wife, who’s a malcontent. But the shop woman refused to go and fetch him, saying, “I can’t be climbing stairs the livelong day for those moochers. You’ll have to go up there yourself.” And once again she launched into her description of the stairs and landings, which I could perfectly well have done without, since I always recognize a place I’ve seen before, because I pay such close attention to everything. That’s a habit I’ve acquired in business.

  So I climbed the stairs and knocked on the familiar door, which swung open. I entered the room and, since no one was there, had a look around. Well, there wasn’t much to see. A child’s short trousers with an embroidered strip were draped over a chair. What call is there for such people to wear embroidered trousers? In one corner was a suitcase, not too heavy—I absentmindedly lifted it up by the handle—and on the mantelpiece lay a few books, through which I browsed. A peculiar collection! A few volumes of Byron, Horace, Bastiat, Béranger, and . . . care to guess? A Bible, complete with the Apocrypha! I hadn’t expected that from Shawlman. It seemed he’d even read bits of it; I found loose sheets of paper with many notes on Scripture. He claims Eve came into the world twice—the man is crazy! Anyway, it was all in the same handwriting as the documents in that blasted parcel. He must have studied the book of Job with particular care, because it fell open to those pages. I suppose he’s beginning to feel the hand of the Lord and hopes to make peace with Him by reading the holy books. Fine with me. But while I was waiting, my eye fell on a sewing box on the table. I took a closer look, suspecting nothing. It held a pair of half-finished children’s stockings and a lot of silly verses, as well as a letter addressed to Shawlman’s wife. The letter had been opened and, judging by appearances, crumpled in a fit of temper.