Max Havelaar

by Multatuli

  He began by asking the Controleur why he hadn’t tried to stop Havelaar from making his accusation. Poor Verbrugge said he knew nothing about it, but he wasn’t believed. Mr. Slymering found it impossible to imagine that a person acting alone, on his own responsibility, could have decided to perform his duties in such an un-orthodox manner without long-drawn-out deliberation or tête-à-têtes. But as Verbrugge persisted in claiming—quite truthfully—that he had no knowledge of Havelaar’s letters, the Resident, after many protestations of astonished disbelief, eventually had to give in, and he proceeded—don’t ask me why—to read the letters aloud.

  Verbrugge’s agony as he listened must have been beyond description. He was an honest man and would certainly not have lied if Havelaar had called on him to confirm the truth of their contents. And quite apart from his honesty, he had often been unable to avoid telling the truth in his written reports, even when the truth was dangerous. What would become of him if Havelaar referred to those reports?

  After reading the letters aloud, Resident Slymering said he would appreciate it if Havelaar retracted them, so it would be as if they’d never been written. Havelaar politely but firmly refused, whereupon Slymering, after trying and failing to change Havelaar’s mind, declared he had no other choice but to open an investigation into the truth of the charges, and would therefore have to demand that Havelaar summon the witnesses who could substantiate his accusations.

  Oh, you poor souls whose flesh was torn on the thornbushes in the ravine, how your hearts would have pounded with fear if you’d heard that demand!

  Poor Verbrugge! You, first witness, chief witness, witness by office and by oath! Witness who had already testified in writing! The statement was there, on the table, under Havelaar’s hand . . .

  Havelaar replied, “Resident Slymering, I am the Assistant Resident of Lebak, I have promised to protect the people from extortion and violent oppression, I have accused the Adipati and his son-in-law in Parangkujang, I will prove the truth of my charges as soon as I’m given the opportunity proposed in my letters, and I am guilty of defamation if my accusation is false!”

  How Verbrugge sighed in relief!

  And how strange Havelaar’s words sounded to the Resident!

  The conversation dragged on. The Resident used his courtesy—for he was nothing if not courteous and well bred—to try to persuade Havelaar to abandon his perverse principles. But Havelaar, with equal courtesy, remained adamant. Ultimately, the Resident had to give in, and the threat he then uttered set the seal on Havelaar’s victory: he would be obliged to bring the letters in question to the attention of the government.

  The meeting was closed. The Resident visited the Adipati—we have already heard what his business was there!—and then joined the Havelaars for lunch at their frugal table. Immediately afterwards he returned to Serang in a great hurry: Because. He. Was. So. Terribly. Busy.

  The next day, Havelaar received a letter from the Resident of Banten, the contents of which will be clear from the reply transcribed here:

  No 93. SECRET.

  Rangkasbitung, February 28, 1856

  I have had the honor of receiving your urgent and secret communication of the 26th inst. (file O), stating in brief

  that you have reasons not to act on the proposals made in my official letters of

  the 24th and 25th inst., Nos 88 and 91;

  that you would have preferred to be informed confidentially in advance;

  and that you disapprove of my actions as described in those two letters.

  Instructions follow.

  I also have the honor once again, as I did in person at our meeting two days ago, of assuring you

  that I fully respect your lawful authority to decide whether or not to adopt my proposals;

  that the instructions received will be obeyed promptly and, where necessary, contrary to my own wishes, as if you were observing everything I do and say, or more precisely, everything I refrain from doing and saying.

  I know you are confident of my loyalty in this regard.139

  But I take the liberty of solemnly protesting the least whisper of disapproval of any action, any word, any phrase that I, in this matter, have performed, uttered, or written.

  I am convinced that I have done my duty—in both my aims and my chosen methods—my whole duty, and nothing but my duty, without the slightest deviation.

  Only after long reflection did I act—that is to say, I investigated, reported, and proposed—and if I have fallen short in the slightest . . . my fault was not haste.

  Under similar circumstances I would again do exactly the same, to the very letter, only a bit more promptly.

  Even if a higher authority than yours disapproved of any aspect of what I have done—aside, perhaps, from the idiosyncrasy of my style, which is part of myself, a flaw for which I can no more take responsibility than the stutterer for his—even in the face of such disapproval . . . but no, it’s unthinkable, yet even if it were so, I have done my duty!

  In any case, I am saddened—though not surprised—that you take a different view. If this were a personal matter, I would simply resign myself to what I see as your misjudgment—yet this is a matter of principle, and my conscience demands a verdict on whose opinion is correct, yours or mine.

  I cannot serve in any other fashion than I have in Lebak. If the government wishes to be served differently, then as a man of integrity, I must respectfully ask for my discharge. In that case, at the age of thirty-six, I will have to try to begin a new career. Then—after seventeen years, seventeen difficult, demanding years of service, having sacrificed the prime of my life to what I considered my duty—I will once again have to ask society to provide me with bread for my wife and child, bread in exchange for my ideas, bread in exchange, perhaps, for labor with a wheelbarrow or spade, if the strength of my arm is deemed more valuable than the power of my spirit.

  But I cannot and will not believe that your opinion is shared by His Excellency the Governor-General, and I am therefore obliged, before resorting to the bitter extremity described in the previous paragraph, respectfully to ask that you propose to the government

  to instruct the Resident of Banten to approve the actions of the Assistant Resident of Lebak relating to his missives of the 24th and 25th inst., Nos 88 and 91,

  or alternatively,

  to call on the said Assistant Resident to respond to grounds for disapproval to be stated by the Resident of Banten.

  Lastly, I have the honor of gratefully assuring you that if anything could dissuade me from the principles to which, after much consideration, I calmly yet passionately adhere in this affair . . . in all sincerity, it would be the truly winning way you argued against those principles at our meeting the day before yesterday.

  The Assistant Resident of Lebak,

  MAX HAVELAAR

  Without taking a stand on the truth of the widow Slotering’s suspicions about the events that had orphaned her children, and assuming only what can be proved—namely, that in Lebak there was a close connection between performance of one’s duties and poison, even if only a surmised connection140—it will be clear to all that for Max and Tina the days following the Resident’s visit were a distressing time. There is no need, I am sure, for me to dwell on the anxiety of a mother who, with each meal she sets before her child, is racked by doubt as to whether she might be poisoning her darling. And little Max was a long-awaited gift, born seven years into their marriage, as if the rascal had sensed the danger of coming into the world as the child of such parents!

  Havelaar waited twenty-nine long days for the Governor-General’s reply . . . but I’m running ahead of our story.

  One day shortly after the fruitless efforts to persuade Havelaar to retract his letters or betray the poor souls who had trusted in his magnanimity, Verbrugge came into his office. That fine fellow was deathly pale and could hardly speak.

  “I’ve been to see the Adipati,” he said, “and—oh, it’s vile!—but you mustn’t betr
ay me.”

  “What do you mean? How could I betray you?”

  “Will you give me your word you won’t make use of what I tell you?”

  “This is halfness again,” Havelaar said, “but . . .very well! I give you my word.”

  And then Verbrugge told him what the reader already knows: that the Resident had asked the Adipati if he had anything against Havelaar and, on that same occasion, had unexpectedly offered and given him money. Verbrugge had heard this from the Adipati himself, who wondered what on earth had made the Resident ask such a thing. Havelaar was infuriated, but . . . he had given his word.

  Verbrugge returned the next day, saying Duclari had pointed out how unfair it was to leave Havelaar with no defense whatsoever against adversaries of that stripe, and so he had come to release Havelaar from the obligation to keep his word.

  “Good,” Havelaar cried, “put that in writing!”

  Verbrugge put it in writing. I have that statement, too, here before me.141

  I am sure the reader figured out some time ago why I so readily relinquished any claim to the legal accuracy of the story of Saijah?

  It was remarkable to see how thoroughly the timid Verbrugge—before he was reprimanded by Duclari—trusted Havelaar’s word in a situation that offered such strong incentives for breaking one’s word!

  And one more thing. Years have passed since the events of this narrative, years in which Havelaar has suffered much; he has seen his family suffer—the documents here before me are proof of that!—and it appears he has bided his time . . . Consider this note, written in his hand:

  I have read in the newspapers that Mr. Slymering has been made a Knight in the Order of the Netherlands Lion. It seems he has been appointed Resident of Yogyakarta. So I could now return to the Lebak affair without any danger to Verbrugge.

  TWENTIETH CHAPTER

  EVENING had come. Tina was reading in the inner gallery, and Havelaar was drawing an embroidery pattern. A jigsaw puzzle was magically coming together under the hands of little Max, who was pouting because he couldn’t find “that lady’s red tummy.”

  “Do you think it’s all right now, Tina?” Havelaar asked. “Look, I’ve made the palm branch a little larger . . . it’s precisely Hogarth’s ‘line of beauty,’ isn’t it?”*

  “So it is, Max! But those eyelets are too close together.”

  “Like this, then? And what about the other strips? Max, let me see your breeches! Dear me, are you wearing that strip? I remember where you embroidered that one, Tina!”

  “I don’t. Where?”

  “In The Hague, when Max was ill and we’d had a nasty shock—the doctor had said the shape of his head was so unusual that we’d have to take special care to keep the blood from rushing to his brain. It was then that you were doing that embroidery.”

  Tina went to her child and kissed him.

  “I found it, I found her belly,” the boy cried triumphantly, and the red lady was complete.

  “Who else can hear the striking of the tamtam?” his mother asked.142

  “I can,” said little Max.

  “And what does that mean?”

  “Bedtime! But . . . I haven’t eaten yet.”

  “Of course, dear, you’ll have your supper first.”

  And she went to bring him his simple meal, which she fetched from what must have been a securely fastened cupboard in her room, for the click of several locks could be heard.

  “What’s that you’re giving him?” Havelaar asked.

  “Oh, Max, don’t worry. It’s a rusk from a can we bought in Batavia. And the sugar’s been locked up the whole time too.”

  Havelaar’s thoughts returned to the point where they had been interrupted.

  “Do you realize,” he continued, “we still haven’t paid that doctor’s bill—oh, it’s hard to bear!”

  “Dearest Max, we live so frugally here, we’ll soon be able to pay off all our debts! Besides, it won’t be long before you’re appointed Resident, and then all our troubles will be over.”

  “That’s part of what worries me,” Havelaar said. “I’d hate to leave Lebak . . . and I’ll tell you why. Little Max’s illness made us love him even more, don’t you agree? So imagine how much I’ll love poor Lebak once it’s been cured of its cancer, after so many years of suffering. The idea of promotion rattles my nerves; they can’t do without me here, Tina! But on the other hand, when I think of our debts . . .”

  “Everything will work out for the best, Max! Even if you do have to leave, you can help Lebak later, when you’re governor-general.”

  The lines of Havelaar’s embroidery pattern began to zigzag wildly! There was fury in those nosegays; the eyelets became angular and jagged, like snapping teeth.

  Tina realized she’d said something wrong.

  “Dear Max . . .” she began, warmly.

  “Damn it! D’you want the poor wretches to go on starving all those years? Could you live on sand?”

  “Dearest Max!”

  But he sprang from his chair, and there was no more drawing that evening. He paced the inner gallery in a rage, until finally he spoke in a tone that would have sounded gruff and harsh to anyone who didn’t know him, but which made a very different impression on Tina:

  “Damn their indifference, their scandalous indifference! For the past month I’ve been waiting for justice to be done, and meanwhile the poor people here are suffering terribly. The Adipati seems certain that no one will dare to challenge him! Just look—”

  He went to his office and returned with a letter, which I have here before me, reader!

  “Look, in this letter he has the gall to tell me what sort of labor he would like to have done by the people he’s summoned unlawfully. Surely he’s taken his shamelessness a step too far this time!143 And d’you know who these people are? They’re women with small children, with nursing infants, pregnant women driven out of Parangkujang to the local capital to work for him! There are no men left! And they have no food, and they sleep on the road and eat sand! Can you eat sand? Are they supposed to go on eating sand till I’m governor-general? Damn it all!”

  Tina knew very well the true cause of Max’s rage when he spoke like this to the woman he loved.

  “And what’s worse,” Havelaar continued, “all this is going on under my authority! If some of those poor wretches happen to straggle by, right now, and see the glow of our lamps, they’ll say, ‘There’s the home of the villain who was supposed to protect us! There he sits calmly with his wife and child, drawing embroidery patterns, while we lie out here in the road with our children and starve like stray dogs!’ Yes, I can hear them, I can hear them calling down vengeance on my head! Come here, Max, come here!”

  And he kissed his child so fiercely as to frighten him.

  “My child, if they tell you I’m a villain who lacked the courage to do justice—that I was responsible for the death of so many mothers—if they tell you your father’s neglect of duty stole the blessing from your head—oh, Max, oh, Max, tell them how I suffered!”

  And he burst into tears, which Tina kissed away. Then she took little Max to his bed—a pallet of straw—and when she returned, she found Havelaar in conversation with Verbrugge and Duclari, who had just arrived. They were discussing the expected decision by the government.

  “To be sure, I understand that this puts the Resident in a difficult position,” Duclari said. “He can’t advise the government to accept your proposals, because then too many things would come to light. I’ve lived in the Banten area a long time and know a great deal about these matters, even more than you, Mr. Havelaar! I came here as a noncom, and military men hear things the natives don’t dare tell officials. But if an open investigation exposes all that, you can be sure the Governor-General will take Resident Slymering to task for his failure, during two years, to catch wind of what was obvious to you from the outset. So he obviously wants to make sure there’ll be no investigation . . .”

  “That had occurred to me,” Have
laar replied, “and once my eyes were opened by his attempt to persuade the Adipati to speak against me—which suggests he wants to divert attention from the affair by accusing me of goodness knows what—I took steps to protect myself, sending copies of my letters directly to the government. In one of them, I ask to be called to account for my actions if ever any accusations of wrongdoing come my way. Now, if Slymering attacks me, common fairness demands that they hear what I have to say before making their decision. Even a criminal has that right, and since I’ve done nothing wrong . . .”

  “The mail has arrived!” Verbrugge exclaimed.

  Yes, it was the mail! The mail, which included the following letter from the Governor-General of the Dutch East Indies to the former Assistant Resident of Lebak, Havelaar:

  The Office of the Governor-General. No 54

  Buitenzorg, March 23, 1856

  Your methods, upon discovering or suspecting malicious practices by the chiefs in the Lebak regency, in combination with your attitude towards your superior, the Resident of Banten, have incurred my profound dissatisfaction.

  The actions in question show a lack not only of the mature reflection, discretion, and prudence so essential to an official charged with the exercise of authority [sic] in the interior, but also of a proper understanding of your subordination to your immediate superior.