by Multatuli
Now, it’s a firm principle of mine never to read anything that’s not addressed to me, because that wouldn’t be respectable. So I never do it if I have no interest in the matter. But this time I had a feeling it was my duty to take a good look, as the letter could contain information relevant to my philanthropic reasons for visiting Shawlman. It struck me that the Lord is always with His chosen ones and had offered me an unexpected opportunity to learn a little more about this man, so as to protect me from the danger of doing a good turn for an immoral person. I pay close attention to such pointers from the Lord, which have often proved useful to me in business. To my astonishment, I saw that Shawlman’s wife came from a very good family—at least, the letter was signed by a relative of hers who has quite a distinguished name in the Netherlands, and let me tell you, that letter’s splendid contents brought joy to my heart. The writer seemed to be one of the Lord’s industrious stewards: he wrote that Shawlman’s wife should seek a separation from the wretch who’d dragged her into poverty, who couldn’t provide for his family, and was a villain to boot—in that he was in debt. The writer went on to say that he was sorry for her misfortune, even though she had only herself to blame, seeing as she’d forsaken the Lord to follow Shawlman. She was advised to return to the Lord, in which case the whole family might unite their efforts and find some needlework for her to do. But first, she would have to separate from that Shawlman, who was a positive disgrace to the family.
In short, even a church service couldn’t have been more edifying than that letter.
I knew enough, and was grateful to have been warned so miraculously. Without that warning I would surely have fallen victim to my tender heart. So I decided once again to retain Bastiaans until I found a suitable replacement, because I’d hate to throw a man out on the street—and we can’t do without a clerk just now, with business as brisk as it is.
The reader must be wondering how I fared at our last social gathering and whether I mastered the three-peg variation. The fact is, I didn’t attend. Wondrous things have come to pass; I’ve been to Driebergen with my wife and Marie. My father-in-law, old Burden, the son of the original Burden—back when the Meyers were still in it, but they’ve been out for a long time now—had been saying for quite a while that he’d like to see my wife and Marie. The weather was fair, and in my dread of the love story that Stern had been holding over our heads, I thought back to that invitation.
I discussed my dilemma with our bookkeeper, who’s a very resourceful man, and after due deliberation he advised me to sleep on it. I resolved at once to do so, for when I’ve made a decision I act fast. The next day, it was already clear to me how wise his counsel had been, because it had come to me in the night that the very best thing would be to put off the decision until Friday. To make a long story short, after carefully pondering the plan—there was much to be said for it, and no less against it—we left on Saturday afternoon and returned on Monday morning.
I wouldn’t go into such detail about the whole business, were it not so closely connected to my book. First of all, I must explain why I haven’t protested against the nonsense that assuredly poured from Stern’s lips again last Sunday. What kind of tale is that, about a person who thinks he’ll hear things when he’s dead? Marie was talking about it. She’d heard it from the Rosemeyer girls, who are in sugar. Second, I’ve now regained the firm conviction that all those reports of misery and unrest in the Orient are barefaced lies. It goes to show how travel helps a man get to the bottom of things.
Here’s what happened: my father-in-law had accepted an invitation for Saturday night from a gentleman who was once a Resident out in the East and now lives in a big country house near Driebergen. So that’s where we went, and I truly cannot praise his hospitality enough. He’d sent his carriage to fetch us, and the coachman wore a red waistcoat. It was still a trifle too chilly to tour the estate, which is said to be magnificent in the summer, but the house left nothing to be desired. It was filled with all the pleasures of life: a billiard room, a library, a conservatory of iron and glass, and a silver perch for the cockatoo. I’d never seen anything like it and couldn’t help but remark that, in the end, virtue is always rewarded. This man must have taken excellent care of business, considering he had three knighthoods. He owned this marvelous country house and, on top of that, a place in Amsterdam. At supper, there were truffles in every course, and even the servants at table wore red waistcoats, like the coachman.
Being keenly interested in East Indies affairs—on account of the coffee—I turned the conversation to that subject and very soon learned what to think of it all. The Resident told me he’d always lived very comfortably in the Orient, so there can’t be any truth in all that talk about popular unrest. I mentioned Shawlman. He knew him, and what he knew was highly unfavorable. He reassured me that I’d been very wise to send the fellow packing, because he was a true malcontent, always carping and caviling, even though his own conduct was far from irreproachable. He kept making off with girls and then taking them home to his wife, and he didn’t pay his debts, a most unseemly habit. Since I knew, from the letter I’d just read, how true all these accusations were, it delighted me to learn that I’d shown such good judgment, and I was very pleased with myself. I’m well known for that at my pillar—for my judgment, I mean.*
The Resident and his wife were dear, generous people, who told us many things about their way of life in the East. It must be an agreeable place after all. They said their estate in Driebergen was not half the size of their “grounds” in the interior of Java, where they’d needed a staff of more than a hundred for upkeep. But—and this shows how beloved they were—all those people worked for nothing, out of pure devotion. They also told us that, when they left, the sale of their furniture yielded more than ten times its value, because the native chiefs were so eager to buy souvenirs of a Resident who’d been so good to them. I later mentioned this to Stern, who claimed it had been a case of coercion, and that he could prove it with evidence from Shawlman’s parcel.127 But I told him Shawlman is a slanderer, that he made off with girls—same as that young German at Busselinck & Waterman—that his opinion held no weight whatsoever with me, now that I’d heard from no one less than a Resident how matters really stood, and, in conclusion, that I had nothing to learn from Mr. Shawlman.
There were other people from the Orient there, including a gentleman who is very rich and still earns a great deal of money from tea, which the Javanese are made to grow for him for very little money, and which the government buys from him at a high price to encourage the Javanese to continue their labors. That gentleman, too, was very angry with all the malcontents who are always speaking and writing against the government. He couldn’t praise the Colonial Administration highly enough and said he was certain the government lost a fortune on the tea he sold them, and that it was truly noble to persist in paying such a high price for such a worthless commodity, which he didn’t even drink himself—he prefers Chinese tea. He also said that the Governor-General—who had renewed the tea contracts, despite having seen the calculation of how much the state had lost on the whole business—was a very competent, dependable chap, and above all faultlessly loyal to the friends of his youth. You see, that governor-general hadn’t given a second thought to all the gossip about losses on tea, and he’d done this gentleman a great favor when there was talk of terminating the contracts—in 1846, I think it was—by declaring that the government would go on buying his tea in spite of everything. “Yes,” the gentleman exclaimed, “my heart bleeds when I hear such fine men slandered! If not for him, my wife and children and I would have been reduced to going about on foot.”128 Then he sent for his carriage, which looked so smart with the horses so well-fed, that I can easily understand why he glowed with gratitude towards his governor-general. It does the soul good when the eye beholds such warm affection, especially if you compare it to the accursed grumbling and groaning of people like Shawlman.
The next day the Resident returned ou
r visit, along with the gentleman for whom the Javanese make tea. They are fine, upstanding people, and yet so very well bred! They both asked, at the same time, when our train was expected to reach Amsterdam. We had no idea what this signified, but it later became clear. When we alighted at the station on Monday morning, there were two servants there, one in a red and one in a yellow waistcoat, each of whom said he’d received orders by telegraph to meet us with a carriage. My wife was in a state, and I tried to imagine what Busselinck and Waterman would have said if they’d seen it . . . seen the two carriages waiting for us, I mean. All the same, it was a difficult choice, because I couldn’t offend either party by turning down such a thoughtful gesture. Faced with this latest quandary, I was briefly at a loss, but I managed to extricate myself once more. I put my wife and Marie in the red carriage—the carriage with the red waistcoat, I mean—and I sat myself down in the yellow one . . . the yellow carriage, I mean.
How those horses could trot! In Weesperstraat, where it’s always so filthy, they threw up great sheets of mud to the left and right, and—as if on cue—there was that tramp Shawlman, hunched over, head bowed, and I saw him raise the sleeve of his threadbare jacket to wipe the spatters from his pale face. Seldom have I had a more pleasant outing, and my wife felt the same.
*The pillar next to which Drystubble works at the Exchange, also mentioned in his earlier chapters.
NINETEENTH CHAPTER
IN THE private note Mr. Slymering sent to Havelaar, he said that in spite of his “pressing engagements” he would come to Rangkasbitung the next day to discuss what was to be done. Havelaar, who understood only too well what this type of discussion meant—his predecessor had so often “conferred” with the Resident of Banten!—wrote the following reply, which he sent ahead so that the Resident could read it before arriving in Rangkasbitung. The document speaks for itself.
No 91. secret. urgent.
Rangkasbitung, February 25, 1856, 11 p.m.
Yesterday at noon I had the honor of sending you my urgent missive No 88, stating in brief that I—after lengthy investigation and fruitless attempts to dissuade the person in question from misconduct through gentle persuasion—felt obligated by my oath of office to accuse the Adipati of Lebak of abusing his authority, and to declare that I suspect him of extortion.
In that letter, I took the liberty of proposing that you summon the Adipati to Serang, so that after his departure from this locale, and after neutralizing the pernicious influence of his extended family, you could open an investigation of the truth of my allegation and my suspicion.129
I took this step only after long deliberation—or, more precisely, much deliberation.
It had been brought to your attention, through my efforts, that I had warned and threatened the old Adipati, hoping to spare him from misfortune and disgrace and myself from the bitter sorrow of being its cause—even if only its immediate cause.
Yet on the other hand I saw the common people, who have been exploited and grievously oppressed for years; I thought of the necessity of setting an example—because I will have many other cases of exploitation to report to you, at least if this case does not lead to their redress; and, I repeat, after thorough deliberation I did what I regarded as my duty.
I have just received your kind and much appreciated private note informing me that you will be here tomorrow and hinting that I should have dealt with this matter privately beforehand.
So I will have the honor of seeing you tomorrow, and precisely for that reason, I now take the liberty of sending you this letter, in order to state the following prior to our meeting.
All my investigations of the Adipati have been kept strictly secret. He himself and the Patih were the only ones who knew, because loyalty demanded that I give some advance warning. Even the Controleur is at present only partly aware of the outcome of my inquiries. The purpose of this secrecy was twofold. At first I still hoped to dissuade the Adipati from his chosen path, and if my efforts succeeded, I did not wish to incriminate him. The Patih even thanked me, on the Adipati’s behalf, for my discretion—that was on the 12th inst. But later, when I began to despair of a good outcome—or more precisely, when I heard of yet another incident and could no longer contain my indignation130—when continued silence would have made me an accomplice—secrecy became necessary for my own sake, because I also have obligations to myself and my loved ones.
For after writing yesterday’s missive, I would surely be unworthy of serving the government if the claims made in it were empty, baseless fabrications. And how could or can I prove that I have done “as behooves an Assistant Resident,”131 that I am worthy of the office bestowed on me, that I have not rashly and frivolously jeopardized my career—and, more importantly, the interests of my wife and child—after seventeen arduous years of service . . . how can I prove all this unless my inquiries are cloaked in profound secrecy and the guilty party is prevented from covering his tracks, as the expression goes?132
If the Adipati has even the slightest suspicion, he will send a special messenger to his nephew, who is en route and has a material interest in his uncle’s welfare. He will ask for money, at any price, distribute it lavishly to everyone he has wronged in recent months, and the result would be—I hope I need not say “will be”—that I have judged rashly and am unfit to serve my country . . . if nothing worse is said of me.
This letter is my safeguard against that eventuality. I hold you in the greatest esteem, but I am familiar with what might be called “the spirit of East Indies officialdom,” a spirit I do not possess!133
Your hint that it would have been preferable to deal with the matter privately beforehand makes me apprehensive about our meeting. What I said in yesterday’s letter is true, but it might appear untrue if my accusation and suspicion were made public knowledge before the Adipati has been removed from the area.
I cannot in good conscience deny that the very fact of your unexpected visit—in response to the letter I sent to Serang yesterday by special messenger—makes me fear that the guilty party, who refused to heed my earlier warnings, will now be alerted to do whatever he can to exculpate himself.134
I have the honor of still holding to every word of yesterday’s letter but take the liberty of pointing out that my missive also included the proposal to remove the Adipati before the investigation and see to it that his dependents can do no harm. I do not consider myself responsible for what I put forward in that letter unless you see fit to accept my proposal regarding the manner of investigation: open, impartial, and above all free.
Such freedom cannot exist until the Adipati has been removed, and in my humble opinion there is no danger in that. After all, he can be told that I am the source of the allegations and suspicions, that I am the one in danger, and not he, if he is innocent. For I myself believe I ought to be dismissed from the civil service if it is shown that I have acted frivolously, or even prematurely.135
Prematurely! After years and years of misrule!
Prematurely! As if an honest man could sleep soundly and enjoy his life while those whose welfare he is bound to protect, those who are, in the purest sense, his neighbors, are exploited and sucked dry!
True, I have been here for only a short time, but I hope the ultimate question will be what was done and whether it was done well, and not whether it was done in too short a time. To me any span of time is too long if marked by extortion and oppression, and every second weighs heavily on me if others spend it in misery owing to my negligence, my dereliction of duty, my desire to “finesse.”
I regret the days that I allowed to pass before sending you my official report, and I ask your forgiveness for that lapse.
I take the liberty of requesting that you give me the opportunity to justify yesterday’s letter and that you take action to forestall the failure of my attempts to rescue the Lebak regency from the worms that have gnawed at its riches throughout human memory.
That is why I take the further liberty of requesting that you approve
my actions in this matter—which amounts to no more than investigating, reporting, and proposing a course of action136—that you remove the Adipati of Lebak from the area without any advance warning, direct or indirect, and that you open an investigation of the facts I reported in my letter No 88, sent yesterday.137
The Assistant Resident of Lebak,
MAX HAVELAAR
This entreaty not to protect the guilty parties reached Resident Slymering while he was en route. An hour after arriving in Rangkasbitung, he paid a brief visit to the Adipati and asked him whether he had any complaints about Havelaar and whether he was short of funds. To the first question the Adipati replied, “No complaints, I swear it!” He answered the second in the affirmative, upon which the Resident produced a couple of banknotes—brought along for that purpose!—from his waistcoat pocket. The reader will understand that all this took place without Havelaar’s knowledge, and we will soon see how he learned of this shameful course of action.138
When Resident Slymering alighted at Havelaar’s home, he was paler than usual, and his words were further apart than ever. Of course it was no small matter, for a man so greatly skilled in “finessing” and producing peaceable annual reports, to suddenly receive letters showing no trace either of the customary official optimism, or of distortion of the facts, or of any fear of incurring the government’s displeasure by “embarrassing” it with unwelcome news. Mr. Slymering was shocked, and if you will forgive me the vulgarity of the image for the sake of its accuracy, I am tempted to compare him to a guttersnipe complaining that ancient custom has been violated because an eccentric comrade has punched him without calling him names first.