Insulinde: Selected Translations from Dutch Writers of Three Centuries on the Indonesia Archipelago 9780824891565

Table of contents :
Contents
Introduction
1. WILLEM YSBRANDTSZOON BONTEKOE
2. JOHAN SPLINTER STAVORINUS
3. MULTATULI (EDUARD DOUWES DEKKER)
4. LOUIS MARIE ANNE COUPERUS
5. AUGUSTA DE WIT
6. JOHAN FABRICIUS
7. CHARLES EDGAR DU PERRON
8. ELISABETH (BEB) DE WILLIGEN-VUYK
9. HERMAN J. FRIEDERICY
10. ALBERT ALBERTS
11. MARIA DERMOOT-INGERMAN
Glossary of Indonesian, Javanese, and Dutch Words Occurring in the Stories
Bibliography of Translations of Dutch Literary Works about the East Indies/Indonesia

Citation preview

Insulinde: Selected Translations from Dutch Writers of Three Centuries on the Indonesian Archipelago

Asian Studies at Hawaii, No. 20

INSULINDE

Selected Translations from Dutch Writers of Three Centuries on the Indonesian Archipelago edited by Cornelia Niekus Moore

ASIAN STUDIES PROGRAM UNIVERSITY OF H A W A n

The University Press of Hawaii

Copyright © 1978 by The University Press of Hawaii All rights reserved Manufactured in the United States of America Simultaneously published by The University Press of Hawaii, Honolulu, and the Australian National University Press, Canberra. Frontispiece courtesy of Lewis H. Moore Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Main entry under title: Insulinde : selected translations from Dutch writers of three centuries on the Indonesian archipelago. (Asian studies at Hawaii ; no. 20) "Bibliography of translations of Dutch literary works about the East Indies/Indonesia" : p. CONTENTS: Introduction.—Bontekoe, W. Y. Memorable description of the East-Indian voyage, 1618-1625.— Stavorinus, J. S. Voyages to the East Indies, [etc.] 1. Indonesian prose literature (Dutch)—Translations into English. 2. English prose literature—Translations from Dutch. I. Moore, Cornelia Niekus, 1938II. Series. DS3.A2A82 no. 20 [PT5927] 950'.08s [839.3'1'08] ISBN 0-8248-0564-X

78-139

Contents

Introduction 1.

Willem Ysbrandtszoon Bontekoe Memorable Description of the East-Indian Voyage 1618-1625

vii 1 4

2.

Johan Splinter Stavorinus Voyages to the East Indies

18 20

3.

Multatuli (Eduard Douwes Dekker) The Sermon of the Reverend Blatherer The Story of Saijah and Adinda

24 28 35

4.

Louis Marie Anne Couperus The Hidden Force

55 57

5.

Augusta De Wit The Three Women in the Sacred Grove

76 78

6.

Johan Fabricius Java Ho!

100 102

7.

Charles Edgar du Perron The Land of Origin

112 114

8.

Elisabeth (Beb) de Willigen-Vuyk All Our Yesterdays

136 138

9.

Herman J. Friedericy The Heron Dance

144 146

vi

CONTENTS

10.

Albert Alberts The Chase

150 152

11.

Maria Dermoflt-Ingerman The Sirens

168 169

Glossary of Indonesian, Javanese, and Dutch Words Occurring in the Stories

179

Bibliography of Translations of Dutch Literary Works about the East Indies/Indonesia

183

Introduction

For more than three centuries, the presence of the Dutch was felt in an Asian archipelago much larger than their own European territory. Known as Indonesia today, the Dutch called it the Indies, the Dutch East-Indies, or Insulinde, the name Multatuli gave it in his famous work, Max Havelaar. Although works by others might give us an adequate insight into Dutch colonization in Asia, only by reading Dutch literature can we realize the tremendous impact of colonization on the colonizers themselves. The excerpts and short stories in this anthology have been chosen to elucidate the impact of the colonies on the Dutchman who left his own country to spend time in Asia. In most of these selections, therefore, the Dutchman is the protagonist. The chronological arrangement shows the progression from an attitude of European superiority to an appreciation of the foreign culture in spite of a growing awareness of polarization. But whatever the attitude toward the colony was, the colonial experience changed all those who went. Insight into the reaction of the Dutch toward their new surroundings is made easier by the fact that their accounts are primarily autobiographic. The literary forms they chose are indicative of this: travel narratives, informative works, letters, essays, etc. Even the novels and short stories set against an Indonesian background are either frankly autobiographical or thinly veiled romans d clef describing situations which were in all likelihood experienced by the authors themselves or their acquaintances during their Indonesian years. This immediacy between impression and expression may also account for the fact that there is little poetry or drama in Dutch colonial literature.

viii

INTRODUCTION

Another factor that enhances the reliability of the authors' accounts is their experience. Most of them were no bystanders, but rather took an active part in the trade expansion and colonization by the Dutch. Bontekoe and Stavorinus for example were captains of the V.O.C., the Far East Indian Company. Multatuli was an official of the Dutch colonial government. Couperus belonged to a family with a long record of service in the Indies. Alberts and Friedericy both had government functions. Thus, the authors, by virtue of their colonial experience, are in an ideal position to show their fellow-countrymen the changes they experience in themselves during and after their stay in the tropics; and the heroes of their works, both autobiographical and imaginary, are clear exponents of these changes. However, it is an injustice to these authors to regard their creations solely as a source of political, sociological, and cross-cultural information. As the selections in this anthology prove, these works offer keen literary pleasure. Traditionally, this literature has had a wide appeal, and there were many reprints and translations of the earlier works in their own time. Travel narratives like Bontekoe's provided the reader with the same literary pleasure as did other fictional and factual travel accounts. The publisher of Memorable Voyages complained that he could not keep up with the demand for books like Bontekoe's. Stavorinus's wellinformed account and others like it were meant for the enlightened eighteenth century reader. Stavorinus's work was translated into French and English immediately after its Dutch publication. Multatuli's Max Havelaar with its biting wit left a lasting mark not only on the colonial scene but also on Dutch literature. D. H. Lawrence hailed it as a great work of literature. Augusta de Wit and Maria Dermoüt were read by a large circle of Dutch readers. Their works can be described as popular classics. And children's books like Java Ho! by Fabricius remain favorites with children to this day. Their continuing appeal in the Netherlands thirty years after Indonesian independence is one more factor which attests to the quality and timelessness of many of these works. Most of Couperus's works have recently been published again. The complete works of du Perron and Multatuli are presently in preparation and several volumes have already been published. Although only a portion of the works of these authors can be classified as "colonial literature," few of their literary endeavors can be understood or appreciated without the recognition of the authors' colonial experience. Most other writers represented in this anthology and others are available in paperback in Dutch; colonial literature shows no signs of dying out as many of the modern authors continue to publish works about their own experiences.

INTRODUCTION

ix

The person most responsible for the recognition of colonial writing as a separate form of literature is Robert Nieuwenhuys, although he was not the first, Gerard Brom having published his Java in onze kunst in 1931. In his Oost-Indische Spiegel (Amsterdam, 1972), Nieuwenhuys provides the reader with an excellent literary history which begins with the early travel narratives of the seventeenth century and takes the reader through three centuries of colonial literature to the authors of the fifties and the sixties and their memories of what has been. Scholarly works like Nieuwenhuys's have established colonial literature as a respected genre, and the continued interest by the Dutch reading public attests to the readability of this genre. Dutch colonial literature differs from other colonial literatures because of the particular composition of the colonial population in the East Indies and the contribution that each group made to literature. Roughly, the population in the Indonesian archipelago could be divided into three groups: The Dutch Caucasians, the Indo-Europeans, called Indisch, and the Indonesians. It is beyond the framework of this introduction to discuss at length the ramifications of this stratified society and the interactions between the different groups. These deserve a more subtle and lengthy treatment than is possible here. What is relevant for this introduction is the participation of each group in the literary process. In this respect it is of importance that until the twentieth century most Dutch literary contributions regarding the colonies were made by those Dutchmen who went to the Indies to serve their term and then returned to Holland. Unlike the North American continent, there was no large scale settlement of Dutch families in the Indies. J. P. Coen's grandiose visions of populating Java with Dutch families never materialized. Mostly men chose to go, and even if they married in the colonies or fathered children, they returned to Holland alone. At the beginning of the twentieth century a larger number of Dutch women started to accompany their husbands who had been employed for work in the colonies, and we then see the publication of their works, known as ladies' novels. These couples also returned in the end. The major portion of Dutch colonial literature therefore is written by Dutch authors who are newcomers to the Asian scene, who never lose touch with the homeland, and who return to Holland. Their works are published not in the Indies but in cities like Amsterdam and The Hague, and their reading public are the Dutch "at home." The major literary consequence is that the authors have to describe sights their readers have never seen, explain lifestyles alien to their own, and beliefs difficult to comprehend. They also are compelled to explain how this has affected them to an audience which has not undergone this

X

INTRODUCTION

same experience. Dutch colonial literature through the ages shows a continuing attempt to explain the unexplainable, to familiarize the reader with the unfamiliar, and most of all, to describe phenomena, impressions, opinions. The Dutch people understood or misunderstood, enjoyed or rejected the alien world which was thus offered to them, and basked in the awareness of being a world power in spite of the size of their little country. In those parts of the world where Europeans, especially European families, actually settled (like the North American continent) there slowly developed a literary scene intended for the population who had migrated to the new land and were familiar with the circumstances there. Cr6ve-Coeur's Letters of an American Farmer and Dickens's satirical accounts of his American travels belong to the few works intended for European consumption. With Nathaniel Hawthorne and contemporaries, there develops a literature specifically written for the American society itself which is familiar with circumstances described and can appreciate the hardships and pleasures of American life. The Dutch colonial writers, however, kept looking to the Netherlands for their audience. The Indisch society did not partake in the literary scene until well into the twentieth century. This is certainly regrettable for they had developed a distinct culture over three hundred years of colonial living, and a rich form of spoken Dutch Creole. They could have contributed extensively to the understanding of the colonies in Holland. However, discriminated against by the colonial government who preferred officials from Holland to carry out its tasks, and with a high rate of illiteracy, most had neither the economic nor the intellectual power to make themselves heard. Only in the twentieth century do Indisch authors familiarize the Dutch reader with what life was like for those who had made the Indies their permanent home, and in this short time span their contributions were outstanding. Most of these modern authors came from the more affluent social strata, which had maintained strong ties with the Netherlands, and the Indisch Creole is used only occasionally for local flavor. Political circumstances related to Indonesian independence made it necessary for this group to declare allegiance to the Indonesians or to the Dutch, an impossible choice to make, for they were racially linked to both and were actually neither. Many moved to Holland where presently journals and individual authors attempt to keep alive the Indisch literature which had only just begun. There exists, therefore, in the Dutch Indies, no equivalent to the South American writers of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries who either influenced the Spanish literary scene (Ruiz de Alarc6n and Garcilaso the Inca) or who felt themselves sufficiently different from the old world to

xi

INTRODUCTION

try to create a new Spanish American literature (like the poet Bernardo de Balbuena). However, in the twentieth century authors born and raised in the Indies start to leave their impact on the Dutch literary scene, one outstanding example being du Perron. The Dutch never attempted to impose their language upon the native population in the Indies. At the turn of the century only five percent of the total population spoke Dutch. So, unlike South America, the native population in the Indies never partook in the creation of Dutch literature, with two notable exceptions: Raden Noto Suroto and Raden Ajeng Kartini. Again, the intended audience of these authors is the Dutch, not the Indonesians. This seems to be somewhat similar to the literary situation in other Asian colonies, with the possible exception of the Philippines where the literary use of Spanish and English co-exists with the increasingly stronger Pilipino literature. In summarizing, one can therefore say that Dutch colonial literature was written to a large extent by the Dutch and for the Dutch. Given the valuable insight into the effects of colonization and the literary pleasure which can be derived from these works, it is amazing that so little of this literature is currently available in English, although the influence of an Asian civilization on a Western nation has assumed greater relevance for us today because of the involvement of the United States in Asia. Judging from the number of previous translations, they were popular before. However, only one item, a reprint of an old translation of Stavorinus's work, is currently in print. It is for this reason that I have undertaken to compile this anthology. Two new translations were provided for this anthology. The others have appeared in print before. Indonesian words appearing in the text have been changed to conform 10 a single spelling system. Through this anthology I have tried to give interested readers greater access to literature which has already proved its value and interest. Cornelia N. Moore

1. WILLEM YSBRANDTSZOON BONTEKOE

INTRODUCTION

Willem Ysbrandtszoon Bontekoe was born June 1587 in the city of Hoorn, now a quiet inland port on the former Zuyderzee, but at that time a busy harbor from which ships sailed for the Orient and the Indies. As his middle name indicates, he was the son of Ysbrandt who had adopted the last name of Bontekoe, probably because of a shield hanging outside of his residence portraying a piebald cow. A sea captain like his father, Willem Bontekoe was commissioned in 1618 to sail the ship De Nieu-Hoorn laden with strategic material, most of it gunpowder, to the Indies. The journey was not without mishaps. There was serious damage to the mast. The ship was in need of repair several times during the journey. Incidences of scurvy occurred. The worst disaster struck the ship, however, in the Strait of Sunda when a careless mate held a lighted candle too close to part of the cargo. In the ensuing fire, the gunpowder was ignited and the ship exploded. Captain Bontekoe literally flew through the air and landed in the ocean. The morale of the crew seems to have been depleted rather early in the fight to save the ship because several sailors had secretly lowered themselves into the longboat and the yawl (which had been towed by the ship) and were at some distance from the ship when it blew up. This treacherous act saved Bontekoe in the end, since yawl and longboat were not damaged when the explosion occurred and Bontekoe was picked up by the men in the yawl. After many adventures, they arrived safely in the newly founded city of Batavia (December 1619). On a Dutch ship, the schipper (captain) dealt with matters of sea. But

2

WILLEM YSBRANDTSZOON BONTEKOE

Schipper Bontekoe was not the only master on his ship. The Dutch sailed the seas not in pursuit of colonies but in search of trade and wares, and they had gone to the Indies after de Houtman's successful voyage (1596)1 to establish trade monopolies as they had effectively done in Europe. Matters of business were therefore of utmost importance and they were taken care of by the merchant, who saw to it that actions were taken in the best interest of the cargo. It is plain to see that schipper and merchant were bound to be at odds, and Bontekoe's own narrative shows incidences of his impatience with the merchant. It was at the insistence of the merchant that the gunpowder remained on board after the fire broke out, even though Bontekoe had requested that it be jettisoned. The merchant had to answer to those who had stayed at home and had invested their fortunes in ship and cargo as a business venture. Because the Dutch people were city dwellers and the rising middle class felt allegiance foremost to its own city, not to the country, the Dutch cities had ventured out into the world on their own. This state of affairs not only proved detrimental to profits, since the individual cities competed for wares in foreign ports, but it also harmed the national aspirations of the Low Countries since, at the time of Bontekoe's travels, the Low Countries were engaged in a war of independence from the Spanish, with whom they had been politically aligned since Charles the Fifth (1515-1555). The central government of the emerging Dutch republic was therefore at pains to unite the cities in a national chamber of commerce and it succeeded in helping create the United Dutch Far East Indian Company, the V.O.C., in 1602 with chambers in six Dutch cities. The participating cities retained a large share of independence. After the establishment of this trade company, trade excursions aided the political aspirations of the Dutch, since any harm done to the Spanish and Portuguese merchant fleets would further the cause of independence (the Portuguese had been united with the Spanish under one monarchy since 1580). After his safe arrival in Batavia,2 having been appointed captain of another ship, Bontekoe took part in several raids against the Portuguese and the Chinese.' He also transported stones for the newly erected fort of Batavia. Eventually he requested leave to return home, and after another difficult voyage he arrived safely in Hoorn (1625). He probably did not undertake any voyage after that, and when the printer Johan Deutel contacted him, he had been living quietly in Hoorn for twenty years. Johan Deutel had acquired part of Bontekoe's logbooks and wanted to publish the full account of Bontekoe's travels. At first Bontekoe declined. He was not much of an author, he said; the events in question had taken place long ago and he would only bore his audience. At Deutel's

DESCRIPTION OF THE EAST-INDIAN VOYAGE

3

insistence, the account was published and enjoyed immediate popularity both in and outside of the Netherlands. It told the home front about strange exotic places, the glory and the courage of the Dutch, and the fantastic world beyond the dunes and dikes. Travel narratives like these, hastily printed and cheaply edited, full of mishaps, shipwrecks, deserted islands, "savages," exotic continents and tropical climates gave the well dressed Dutchman behind his potbelly stove a window to horizons wider than even his flat country could provide. It also gave him a taste of the glorious role the Dutch were playing in the world. That these voyagers might be trampling upon the liberty of others did not occur to the proud Dutch, who themselves had just wrested independence from the Spanish Habsburgs and the Holy Roman Empire. Bontekoe, although he looks more with curiosity than disdain upon the "savages" he meets, considers only those of "true faith" to be at his own human level. Although he is able to recognize nobility of behavior in the Chinese, he never questions his participation in raids upon Chinese villages to force the Chinese emperor into trade agreements. And there is an aura of glorious patriotic respect in his account of his meeting with Jan Pieterszoon Coen.4 I have made the following translation from an excerpt taken from Willem Ysbrandtszoon Bontekoe's Journalen van de Gedenkcwaerdige Reisen van Willem Ijsbrandtszoon Bontekoe (1618-1625). It relates the story of the fire on the ship, the ordeal at sea after the explosion of the gunpowder, and the famous episode of Bontekoe's attempt to show his composure by singing a song while two Sumatrans paddle him back to his shipmates. NOTES 1. 2.

3.

4.

June 23, 1596, Cornelis de Houtman reached the port of Bantam with four Dutch ships. Jan Pieterszoon Coen (1586-1629) had started to build a fortress at Jacatra, a vassal town of Bantam. During an ensuing battle with Bantam, Jacatra was destroyed and Coen founded Batavia (May 1619). From 1622 until 1629, the Dutch held futile raids on mainland China in an effort to force the Chinese emperor into a trade agreement. Finally, the Dutch made Formosa trade headquarters for that part of the Pacific. Jan Pieterszoon Coen was one of the first governor generals sent by the Far East Indian Company to oversee their interests in the Indies (Bontekoe calls him General). Bontekoe must have known Jan Pieterszoon Coen from Hoorn. They were born there in the same year, and likely attended school together. Incidentally, De Nieu-Hoorn was the ship on which Coen made his first trip to the Indies in 1607.

Memorable Description of the East-Indian Voyage 1618-1625

Presently there was a cry of "Fire! Fire!" I was lying on the poop deck at the time, and looked through the railing. Hearing a commotion, I went at once down into the hold. Seeing nothing when I got there, I asked, "Where's the fire?" Someone said, "Look, Captain! In the cask over there." I reached an arm into the cask, but could feel no heat. The fire had been started by the steward's mate. His name was Keelemeyn, and he came from Hoorn. He had brought a couple of jugs of water and dumped them over the flames. So it looked as if the fire was out. All the same I called for more water from above. This was immediately brought in leather buckets and poured into the cask until we could find no further sign of fire. But about half an hour after we had left the hold we again heard shouts of fire. Nonplussed, we went back down into the hold, where we saw flames blazing upward because the casks were stacked three or four high. The fire had traveled through the brandy and was now in the smith's coal. As before, we fell to work dousing it from the leather buckets. Everyone was amazed at the amount of water we used. But more trouble was in store: the water we were pouring over the smith's coal made such a stinking sulfurous smoke that we were now in danger of being asphyxiated. I stayed down in the hold most of the time to keep order, and periodically had fresh men come down and relieve those who needed a break. I regret to say there were many who never made it out of the hold but choked to death because they could not find their way up to the hatches. I myself had the same trouble, and more than once lay my head on the casks to catch my breath, turning my face up to the hatches. Eventually I got out of the place and went to the mer-

DESCRIPTION OF THE EAST-INDIAN VOYAGE

5

chant Heyn Rol. " M a t e , " I said to him, "we'd better throw the gunpowder overboard." He had trouble making up his mind. " I f we throw it overboard," he replied, "we'll be able to put the fire out. But if we get into a skirmish with our enemies and are taken—since we have no powder—how'll we answer for it?" It proved impossible to put the fire out, and no one was able to stay down in the hold for any length of time because of the suffocating smoke—as I have said before. We drilled holes in the orlop deck and poured more water through them and also through the hatches. But nothing helped. Three weeks before we had set the longboat out and were now towing it. The yawl which normally stood on the poop deck had also been put out since it was in the way of the water brigade. You can imagine the anxiety that reigned among the men on board, with the fire and the water right before our eyes. We were all alone, with no land or ship in sight, and there was not a living soul who could come to our aid. Many of the crew therefore went overboard. Creeping with their heads below the chain walls so as not to be seen, they lowered themselves into the water and swam out to the longboat and yawl. Once there, they climbed in and hid under the thwarts and decks until they had taken in as many men as they thought sufficient. When the merchant Heyn Rol came to the stern walk, he was surprised to see so many of the men in the two boats. They called out to him and said they intended to row off; if he wished to come along he should lower himself down the manrope and join them. Persuaded to do so, Heyn Rol climbed down the manrope. " M e n , " he told them, "let's wait until the captain comes, t o o . " Unfortunately, he had no control over them. As soon as they had Heyn Rol with them they cut the hawsers and rowed away as fast as they could. While I was busy helping the others quench the fire some of them came running up and exclaimed with great alarm, " O dear Captain, what's happening? What'll we do? The yawl and the longboat have been cut loose and are rowing off. The men in them don't mean to come b a c k ! " I hurried above and saw they were indeed moving off. The ship's sails were now hugging the mast, the mainsail being brailed up. I at once called out, "Haul the sails around! Let's see if we can overtake them and run them down. The devil take them all!" We set sail with the wind and moved after them. When they saw we were approaching they changed course and rowed into the wind so that we were unable to follow, as they had no wish to be anywhere near us. I then said, "Men, other than God we have no one but ourselves to get us out of this. Let each one of you set to work as best he can to put the fire out. G o at once to the powder room and get the gunpowder over the side, so the fire doesn't touch it o f f . " This was done.

6

WILLEM YSBRANDTSZOON BONTEKOE

I next went over the side with the ship's carpenters. We had in mind to bore holes in the sides with augers and chisels and let a fathom and a half of water in to quench the fire from the bottom up. We were unable to get through the hull because there was too much metalwork in the way. It is truly impossible to describe the terror that reigned over the ship. The cries and screams were absolutely fearful. The water brigade managed to step up its pace and the fire seemed to be getting under control. Soon afterwards, however, the oil caught fire. At this our courage failed us completely, for the more water we poured onto it the more the fire seemed to increase. The flames raced over the oil. The cries, groans and shrieks heard about the ship were frightful; so great were the fear and terror that cold sweat broke out on many a brow. We nonetheless went on pouring out water and throwing the powder over the side until the bitter end, when the remaining powder blew up. We had managed to throw sixty half-casks overboard but there were some three hundred more in the ship when it exploded. The ship burst into a hundred thousand pieces. One hundred and nineteen souls were aboard at the time. I was standing near the main gangway on deck, while some sixty men were standing before the mast and forming a line for the water buckets. These were simply blown to pieces. I, Willem Ysbrandtsz Bontekoe, captain at the time, was hurled into the air along with the ship, conscious of nothing except that I was about to die. I raised my arms to Heaven and said, "Here I go, O Lord! Have mercy upon your sinner." Although I thought this was the end, I remained quite lucid. While flying upward I seemed to sense a lightness in my soul mixed with a slight joy. I came down in the water amidst the planks and fragments of the vessel, which had been blown completely apart. Floating in the water, I somehow gained such new courage that I felt as if I had been born again. Looking around me, I saw the mainmast on one side and the foremast on the other. I clambered onto the mainmast, lay down, and gazed around me. " O L o r d , ' " I thought to myself, "how this beautiful ship has perished like Sodom and Gomorrah." Bontekoe is picked up by the men in the longboat. twelve days on the open sea.

They spend the next

Time passed, and our distress became so great that we could no longer stand it. Our state was such that we often thought, "If only we were ashore we could eat grass." I did my best to keep up the crew's morale with as much comforting talk as I could think of. I told them they had to keep up their courage, that the Lord would provide. I, of little faith myself, thus had to console the others while I stood in such need of consolation on my own account. My heart was simply not in the things I told

DESCRIPTION OF THE EAST-INDIAN VOYAGE

7

them. And so we endured and suffered together until we were so worn out and feeble we could scarcely stand. The merchant Heyn Rol was so far gone that he simply sat where he was and could not get up. I had just enough strength left to move from the bow to the stern. Thus we drifted, left to the mercy of our Lord, until the second of December 1619, the thirteenth day after we had lost the ship. The skies were grey with a light drizzle. Unfurling the sails, we spread them over the boat, huddled together beneath them, and collected the rain water in our barrels. Since they had left in such a rush, the men had few clothes with them, and their shirts had been turned into sails. Most of them were wearing little more than linen drawers, and were naked above the waist. To keep warm they had to crowd together under the sails. I was standing at the tiller, and had a premonition that we were nearing land. I had hoped it would clear up while it was my watch but it remained foggy and gave no sign of clearing. I grew so cold in the fog and rain I was unable to stay at the tiller, and called out, "Someone come here and take over. I can't stand it any longer." The quartermaster came to relieve me, and I crept in among the crew to warm up. The quartermaster had been at the helm for hardly an hour when the weather cleared. He looked around and immediately made out land. Joyfully, he called, "Men! Come out! There's land ahead! Land! Land!" You can imagine how fast we crawled out from under the canvas. Setting up the sails again, we made for the land and reached it the same day. May Almighty God be praised and honored. He had answered our prayers. We had been praying every morning and every night with particular devotion and had sung a psalm before and after each prayer, since some of the men had brought their psalmbooks along with them. I myself had been the leader at first; but later on we rescued the ship's official leader, and after that he usually led our prayers. As we neared the shore we saw that the sea ran so high onto the beach that we should not have dared to land. Eventually, however, we found an inlet on the lee side of the island—for it was an island—and there we dropped anchor. We also had a small grapnel aboard which we fixed up on the beach, so that the boat was moored head and stern. Then all of us jumped out, as well as we could, onto land, and each went his own way in search of food. As soon as I hit the shore, I fell onto my knees, kissed the earth with joy, and thanked God for His grace and mercy in not trying us beyond our capacity but guiding us thus far. For the crew had resolved that on the next day they were going to take the boys and eat them. This shows that the Lord is the best of all helmsmen, for, as I have said, He led us and guided us in such a way that we found land. We found many coconuts on the island. What we really wanted, how-

8

WILLEM YSBRANDTSZOON BONTEKOE

ever, was fresh water, and this we could not find. So we made do with the milk of the young coconuts, which was truly a fine drink, and ate the older ones—those with the hardened flesh. However, we were somewhat too hasty and ate too much, for that night all of us were very sick indeed with such painful cramps in the belly we thought we would burst. We huddled together on the sand, each one complaining louder than the others. In time our bowels began to move, and we felt immediate relief. The next day, in fact, we felt refreshed and walked around most of the island. Although we met with no people, we did find traces of people having been there. There was nothing at all to eat but coconuts. Some of the men claimed they had seen a snake that was a fathom thick; I myself did not see it. Our island lay fourteen or fifteen miles off the Sumatra coast. By way of revictualing, we loaded as many coconuts as we could into the boat, the old ones to eat, the young ones for their milk. At nightfall we set out from the island for Sumatra, and caught sight of it the following day. As we approached we bore in along the shore with the wind behind us, and held east until our coconuts were all gone. The men then wanted to land again. We went on past the breakers along the coast but could find no place to land, since the sea ran too high. We resolved that four or five men should jump over the side and see if they could swim to land through the breakers, after which they would walk down the beach looking for an opening for the boat to come in. This was done. They jumped overboard and managed to reach the shore through the breakers. Then they started walking along the beach, we following them in the boat. In the end they found a river. Taking off their trousers, they waved them to signal that we should come in. As soon as we saw this, we sailed in. Moving closer, we saw that a bank lay right before the river mouth. The breakers at this point were so fearsome I told the others, "Men, I don't intend to go in there without your consent. If the boat capsizes, I don't want you blaming me for it." I then asked each man his opinion. They answered to a man that, yes, they would venture it. "I'll stake my life with yours," I replied, and immediately ordered them to put out one oar from each side of the stern, with two men on each oar. I stood at the helm to keep a straight course, and so we moved directly into the breakers. The first wave to hit us filled us half-full of water. "Bail, men! Bail!" I called, and they started bailing with hats, with shoes, and with the empty casks that were in the boat. They succeeded in throwing out most of the water. Then the second wave came, filling the boat almost to the thwarts. It lay so deep as to threaten to sink us. "Keep still, men!" I cried. "Keep still and bail! Bail! Or we'll be gone for sure!" We managed to hold the boat straight in and bailed as much water as we could.

DESCRIPTION OF THE EAST-INDIAN VOYAGE

9

Then came the third wave, which fell short of us. So this time we did not take in as much sea as before. After that we found ourselves in calmer water. Overjoyed, we moored the boat on the river's right bank. As we came ashore we saw that the land was overgrown with tall grass. In the grass we noticed small beans, which looked like French beans. Every man was busy looking for them and eating them. I joined in the hunt, looking as hard as the rest, thinking to get my share. Some of us walked a little distance on toward a bend in the river, and there found a fire with some tobacco lying beside it. We were delighted. Some of the inhabitants had evidently been there, had made a fire and smoked tobacco, and had left some behind either by accident or on purpose. In the boat we had two axes. With these we chopped down some trees, cut off their branches, and made fires in five or six places. This done, the men sat or stood around them in groups of ten or a dozen and smoked the tobacco. At nightfall it became very dark, since there was no moon, so we made bonfires and set out a watch in three places. This same night we were again so sick from all the beans we had eaten we thought we should burst from the pain and cramps in our bellies, as had happened to us in the case of the coconuts. While we lay there groaning the inhabitants appeared on the scene, thinking—as you will hear shortly—to massacre us. The pickets we had set out saw them just in time. They came running up, exclaiming, "Men! What'll we do? Here they come!" We had no weapons other than the two axes and a rusty dagger; and, as you know, we were still sick from the beans. We decided nonetheless that we did not care to die without a fight. So we took up burning sticks in our hands and set off after them into the night. Sparks and embers spilled onto the ground as we moved out, and this was a frightening sight in the dark. Also, they did not know we had no weapons. So they took cover behind the trees, and we returned to our fires. After this incident we sat and stood around the fires for the rest of the night, sorely afraid. Not feeling safe on land, the merchant Heyn Rol and I went into the boat. When the sun rose next morning three of the inhabitants came out of the forest and onto the beach where we were. We sent three of the crew out toward them, men who could speak a little Malay since they had been in the Indies before and had acquired some knowledge of the language. When the two parties met the inhabitants asked us who we were. Our men told them, "We're Hollanders who have lost our ship in a fire and have come to trade for provisions if you have any." They answered that they had hens and rice which we should like. They then approached the boat and asked if we had weapons. We assured them, "Oh yes! Plenty of weapons. Muskets, powder, and shot." I had previously ordered the sails to be spread over the boat so they could not see inside. After this they brought us boiled rice and several chickens. We took stock among us and

10

WILLEM YSBRANDTSZOON BONTEKOE

pooled our money. One man brought out five pieces of eight, another six, another twelve, some more, others fewer, so that all told we had some eighty reales.1 Out of this we paid for the chickens and rice they had brought. After receiving these I said to the crew, "Now, men, let's gather and fill our bellies. Then we'll see what's to be done." And so we did. When we had finished eating we discussed what we ought to do to supply ourselves further with what we needed. Unsure of where we were, we asked them the name of their country. We could not understand them very well, and could only make out that we were on Sumatra. They waved their hands off toward Java, and named Jan Coen, 2 mentioning that he was our "chief" there; and this was true, for Jan Pietersz Coen was General at the time. Thus, we at least had a rough bearing, and were sure we were to the windward of Java. Since the disaster we had had no compass and had been in constant doubt regarding the accuracy of our measurements. Now we were reassured to find they were correct. But we had to have more provisions if we were to continue our voyage. We therefore decided that four of the crew and I should sail up the river in a small prau to a village that lay in that direction and buy up as many provisions as possible with the money we had left. So we proceeded upriver. When we got to the village we purchased rice and chickens and sent these back to the merchant Heyn Rol to divide equally among the men so as to avoid all bickering. While in the village the four crewmen and I had two or three fowls boiled with rice; we sat down together and ate to our hearts' content. There was also a drink which they tap from trees,3 so strong that a man can well get drunk on it. After eating, we all had some of it. As we ate the villagers sat around and watched every bite we took. After our meal I purchased a buffalo for five and a half pieces of eight and paid for it. However, after paying for the animal we could not catch him, as he was so wild. We were losing time over this, and, as it was getting late, I wanted to get back to the boat with the men. I reckoned I could get the buffalo the next day. But the four men begged me to let them stay there overnight, saying they could secure the beast after it lay down at night. Though I advised against this, they persisted and I finally agreed. I took my leave, and wished each of them a good night. When I came down to the riverbank where the prau was tied up I found a large gathering of the villagers chattering excitedly among themselves. It seemed that some wanted me to leave while others did not. I seized one or two of them by the arm as if I were their master, though I was hardly more than a servant, and pushed them toward the prau to help me sail. Despite the fact that they had the appearance of ruffians of the worst sort, they obeyed; two of them got into the prau with me, one

DESCRIPTION OF THE EAST-INDIAN VOYAGE

11

sitting in the bow, the other in the stem. Each had a paddle in hand, and together we set out. Each of them also had at his side a kris, a dagger-like weapon with a wavy blade. After we had gone a little distance, the man in the stern came toward me—I was sitting in the middle—and made gestures indicating that he wanted money. I reached into my pocket, took out a quarter piece, and handed it to him. He stood there looking at it, and did not know what to do; he ended by taking it and folding it up in the cloth he wore around his loins. The man in the bow, seeing his mate get something, then came back to me and motioned that he too wanted something. At this I took another quarter out of my pocket and gave it to him. He too stood there looking at it. He appeared to be hesitating between taking the money and attacking me. He could have done this very easily since I was unarmed and each of them—as I have said—carried a kris. There I sat, like a sheep among wolves, beset by a thousand fears. The Lord only knows how I felt. We continued to move downriver in a strong current. About halfway they fell to jabbering and shouting at each other, and by all the signs it appeared that they wanted to make an end of me. When I realized this I was so frightened my heart quaked with fear, so I turned to God and prayed for His mercy and asked that He should guide me in this situation. Something inside of me then told me to sing, which I proceeded to do. Afraid though I was, I sang so loud my voice echoed through the trees and undergrowth overgrowing both banks of the river. When they saw and heard me performing so, they began to laugh and gaped in such a manner that one could see down their throats. They evidently thought I stood in no fear of them, though inwardly I felt quite otherwise. It was out there that I learned a man can sing even in fear and trepidation. We went on our way until I could finally see the boat, whereupon I got to my feet and waved at the crew standing beside it. As soon as they saw me they started walking up along the riverbank. I motioned to my two companions to head the prau in. Once on land, I had them walk in front of me, thinking, "This way you at least won't be able to stab me in the back." And so I rejoined our men. After I had—by God's grace—passed through these perils and terrors, we were back at the boat when the two villagers asked where the men slept. "Under the tents," we told them, for the crew had put up leaf shelters and had been sleeping under them. They then asked where Heyn Rol and I slept. "In the boat," we said, "under the sail." After this they headed back to their village. I told Heyn Rol and the others how I had fared; that I had bought a buffalo in the village but that we were unable to catch it; that the four who had gone with me had begged to stay overnight in order to catch the animal as it lay down and bring it back in the

12

WILLEM YSBRANDTSZOON BONTEKOE

boat; and that 1 had agreed to this after long deliberation and only on condition that they return with the animal early the next morning. When I had finished relating this and all else that had happened, we lay down to sleep for the remainder of the night. The next morning, and long after the sun had risen, there was no sign either of the men or of the animal. We were alarmed, fearing that all was not well with the four men. After some time, however, we saw two villagers coming toward us and driving a buffalo in front of them. When they had come nearer I took a look at the beast. I told them this was not the animal I had bought and asked them where the men were—that is, the four who had stayed behind in the village. They explained that they had not been able to catch the buffalo and that our men were coming up behind with another animal. This satisfied us somewhat. Since the animal the two blacks had brought was knocking about so wildly, I said to Willem van Galen, the sergeant, "Take an axe and hamstring him so he can't escape. We can't afford any more losses." He taking an axe and hamstringing the animal, it fell to the ground. At this the two blacks set up a terrible hue and cry and, as they did so, two or three hundred of their fellows came dashing out of the forest with the idea of cutting us off from the boat and slaughtering us. Fortunately, they were seen in time by three of our crew, who had been making a fire a short distance from us. They came on the run and warned us who was coming. Stepping a short distance out from the trees, I saw a group of about forty of them coming out of the forest. "Stand fast," I told the crew. " W e don't have to fear these people. We've men enough." They nonetheless fell upon us in such numbers and kept up their attack for so long we thought it would never end. With their shields and swords they looked like regular bogeymen. Dismayed, I called out, "Men, get to the boat as quick as you can! If they cut us off, we're dead m e n ! " All of us started running for the boat. Those who could not reach it took to the river and swam. The villagers followed us down to the boat. As we climbed in, we realized it was quite unprepared to help us get away from the riverbank without delay. The sails were still spread out like a tent. The villagers were on our heels as we clambered over the side, and our assailants ran through those trying to board with their spears in such a way that their bowels spilled out. We defended ourselves as best we could with our two axes. The rusty dagger also saw service, for one enormous man (our baker) standing in the stern did a magnificent job holding them off with it. We had a grapnel at the stern and another to seaward at the bow. I had come aboard at about where the mast was, and I now called out to the

DESCRIPTION OF THE EAST-INDIAN VOYAGE

13

baker, "Cut the line! Cut the grapnel line!" It would not be cut. Seeing this, I went aft, took up the line, laid it flat on the gunwale, and said, "Now cut it!" This time he did so. Our men in the bow near the other grapnel line then pulled the boat out away from the shore. The blacks came after us into the water. However, the bottom was very shelving, so they were soon unable to stand up and had to let go. We picked up the rest of our men from the river and hauled them aboard. Hardly were they in the boat when God Almighty caused the wind to come suddenly from the land, whereas until then it had come from the sea. Truly a marvelous sign of God's merciful hand! We hoisted the sails and headed straight out of the inlet in one tack, through the high breakers and over the bank, which, as related, had caused us so much peril on our way in. This time we took in very little water. The blacks, or inhabitants of the country, were confident we should not be able to get away, and ran out to a point of land where they thought they could capture and kill us. But such was clearly not God's will, for the boat rode high and straight and sprang up against the waves. And so we made our escape, with the help of God, out of the inlet. Once we were outside, the baker—who had fought so well with the dagger in the stern of the boat—began to turn blue in the face. He had been wounded in the belly, over the navel, and the weapon had been poisoned; the area around the wound was hence turning blue. I cut around the wound to keep the poison from spreading, but to no avail, for he died before our eyes. Once he was dead, we put him over the side to float off. Counting the men on board, we found that we had lost sixteen, namely, eleven who had been killed in the fray ashore; the baker who had just been put overboard; and the four others who had stayed behind in the village. We were deeply aggrieved at this, and lamented over those who had died; but we also thanked the Lord that not all of us had perished there. For my part I felt that, next to God, the four who had remained in the village had saved my life. If they had come down to the boat with me when I had left, the blacks would have slaughtered all five of us. I truly believe this, for as I was standing on the riverbank with the big crowd of them, they were arguing (as related) whether to let me leave. I deceived them by indicating I should come back the next day with all the crew. They evidently thought, "Let's not make an issue of this now. We'll be able to capture and kill them easily later." They assumed I would not abandon my four men, and looked upon the latter as good hostages. But they were wrong. For all that, it saddened me to leave our men behind, and I supposed they had been killed already. We set our course and sailed before the wind along the coast. We had

14

WILLEM YSBRANDTSZOON BONTEKOE

eight chickens and some rice with us, and this had to do for fifty-six men. Hardly enough for so many people. Each man was given his share of the food. When this was gone we agreed between us that we had better land again, for all of us were still very hungry and at the time there was nothing to be had from the sea. So we again turned into land and, seeing a bay, sailed into it. From a distance we could make out many people standing together on the shore, but as we headed for them they did not wait for us but ran off. We were therefore unable to pick up any victuals there; we did, however, find fresh water and drank our fill of that. After filling our two caskets, we sailed around the cliffs. There we found small oysters and winkles, and stuffed our pockets full of these. At the place where we had lost so many of our men I had purchased a hat full of peppers, and these now served us well as seasoning for the oysters and left a hearty glow in our bellies. Sailing out of the bay, we headed out to sea to continue our voyage. A short distance out from land, a storm came up, obliging us to lower our sails. These we furled across the boat and all of us crept underneath and let ourselves drift at God's mercy until some two hours before dawn, when the storm abated and the weather improved. Crawling out from our cover, we hoisted the sails again. We then met a headwind, and tacked away from shore. It appeared that God had chosen to preserve us from great peril, for if we had not encountered this storm and contrary wind, we should have sailed along the coast to land, in all likelihood, at the watering place which lay nearby on Sumatra. This had been frequented by many of us, but the local people were now bitter enemies of the Hollanders. Only a short time before this many Hollanders who had tried to take on fresh water there had been slain. When day broke we saw three islands ahead. We decided to make for them in hope that there were no people and that we might find something to eat. We reached them the same day. We immediately discovered fresh water, and found some reeds which grew as big as a man's leg. These are called bamboos. We broke through the joints with a stick, leaving the lowest intact, filled them with water, and inserted a plug at the top. In this way we were able to bring as much as two tons of water aboard. We also found some palms, the tips of which were as tender as the pith of rushes; we cut these down as well, and brought along those parts that were fit to eat. The men scoured the island looking for food, but discovered nothing else of worth. I went off by myself and, seeing a hill (the highest point on the island), climbed up and looked around me. I was very troubled and sad of heart, for it was largely up to me, I thought, to find our way, whereas I had never been in the East Indies before and had no navigation instruments—

DESCRIPTION OF THE EAST-INDIAN VOYAGE

15

in particular, as I have said, no compass. Hence, I thought it best to trust myself to the Lord, for I was truly at my wits' end, as so often before. I fell to my knees and prayed to the Lord, who had saved me and guided me under His merciful wings, who had rescued me from fire and water, from hunger and thirst, and from evil men. I besought Him in His fatherly goodness to preserve me still, and to open my eyes to the right way so that we might be restored to our nation and our friends. Indeed, with deep sighs I prayed, " O Lord, show us the way and guide us. But if in Thy wisdom Thou thinkest best not to restore me to my home land, suffer then—if it be Thy divine will—some of our company to be saved so that men will know how it fared with us and our ship." Having so spoken with God, I stood up to go back down the hill. Casting my eyes round about me as before, behold, I saw on my right hand that the clouds were dispersing away from the land so that the horizon was clearing. From my vantage point I observed two high, blue mountaintops. It immediately crossed my mind that I had heard Willem Cornelisz Schouten," who had been in the Indies two or three times, say—this was back in Hoorn—that there were two high, blue mountains at the tip of Java. We had now come along the coast of Sumatra, which lay to Java's left, while these peaks I saw were on the right, and in between there was a gap in which I saw no land at all. I knew the Sunda Strait ran between Java and Sumatra. Hence, I was persuaded that we were on the right course. I descended the hill in a cheerful frame of mind, and informed the merchant that I had seen the two mountains. As I spoke the clouds were covering them again so that they could not be seen. I also mentioned what I had heard from Willem Cornelisz Schouten and the conclusion I had drawn from this, namely, that we were just outside the Sunda Strait. "Well, Captain," the merchant answered, "if this is your conviction, let's call the men together and set out in that direction. In my opinion your reasoning and conclusion are well-founded." So we assembled the men. They brought the water in the bamboos and the palm tips we had gathered for provisions and stowed them in the boat. We then put off. Having the wind with us, we set our course straight for the foresaid gap by day and at night sailed by the stars. At midnight we made out a fire which we at first thought to be a ship, or more precisely a carack, but upon standing closer we discovered that it was a small island lying in the Sunda Strait called Dwars-in-de-weg [Right-in-the-Way]. We passed it by. A short while later we saw another fire on the other side, the starboard. We passed it as well. I thought both spots likely haunts of fishermen. In the morning at daybreak the sea grew calm, and we were on the inside of the island of Java. We had one of the men climb the mast. He looked around and called down, " I make out

16

WILLEM YSBRANDTSZOON BONTEKOE

ships lying at anchor!" He counted twenty-three of them. Hearing this, we jumped for joy. Hurriedly, we put out the oars and began rowing, for it was—as I have said—calm. If we had not sighted these ships, we should have sailed on to Bantam, and there we should have been trapped inasmuch as the people of Bantam were then at war with our country. Once again, a remarkable sign of God's providence. We thanked the Lord for His kindness. The ships were all Dutch. The commander was from the town of Alkmaar and was named Frederick Houtman.5 He was standing at the time in the narrow passage outside his cabin looking at us through his glass, much amazed at our wonderful sails and not knowing who we were. He sent out his sloop, which rowed toward us, to see what manner of men we were. As we drew up to one another, we recognized each other at once, for we had left Texel6 with them but had lost sight of them in the Spanish Sea outside the Channel. The merchant and I boarded the sloop and rowed to Houtman's ship, The Maiden of Dordrecht. Commander Houtman called us aft into his cabin, where he welcomed us and had the table laid for us to dine with him. But when I saw the bread and other food, my heart jumped into my throat and tears of joy ran down my cheeks, so that I could not eat. By this time our men had also come aboard, and were at once divided up among the ships at anchor. Houtman promptly ordered a yacht to take the merchant and me to Batavia. After we had finished relating all our adventures and misfortunes, we stepped into it and sailed away. We reached Batavia the next morning. The men on the ship had already furnished us with Indian dress, which enabled us to be suitably attired before we came into the town. Entering the town, we came up to the mansion where General Jan Pieterszoon Coen resided. We asked the halbardiers on duty to inquire if we might see the General, as we had things to discuss with him. They went off and, coming back, let us in and we were led into his presence. He had not known that we were coming but welcomed us as soon as we had introduced ourselves. We then proceeded to give him a full account, telling him that we had set sail from Texel on such and such a date in the ship The New Hoorn, that we had reached the Sunda Strait at such and such a time, that disaster struck us at such and such a position, and that our ship caught fire and was blown to bits. We told him in detail how and why everything had come about, what men we had lost, and that I myself had been blown up with the ship yet, by God's mercy, had been saved along with another man, and had been preserved until this day, the Lord be praised. Hearing all this, the General said, "There was no help for it, but it was a great misfortune." He inquired into all the circumstances,

DESCRIPTION OF THE EAST-INDIAN VOYAGE

17

and we told him everything that had happened. And still all he said was, "There was no help for it, but it was a great misfortune." After this, he called out, "Boy, bring me the golden cup." This he had filled with Spanish wine and said, "Good luck, Captain. Here's to you. You may well think your life was lost and that God has given it back to you. Please wait here until I call you or come back." He then drank to the merchant, and we had a long talk. Finally he went off, and we stayed behind, thereafter dining at the Governor's table for eight days. At the end of this time he summoned us to join him at Bantam aboard The Maiden of Dordrecht where we had been before. He sent for me first, and announced, "Captain Bontekoe, you are assigned for the time being and until further notice to the ship The Berger-Boat to take up the post of captain as you were before." I replied, "I thank the Lord General for this favor." Two or three days later he sent for the merchant Heyn Rol and told him, "Merchant, you are sent provisionally and until further notice to the ship The Berger-Boat as ship's merchant, as you were before." Hence we were together again and in command of a vessel. NOTES 1.

2. 3. 4.

5.

6.

Real: A Spanish silver coin equal to about 5 U.S. cents. There were variations of this coin called "double reales" and "four double reales." Especially the "eight double reales" were extensively used in international maritime trade. Jan Pieterszoon Coen (1586-1629). See further note p. 3. Meant here is arak, a palm wine. Willem Corneliszoon Schouten came from the same city as Bontekoe, namely Hoorn. He was the author of a published account of Jacques le Maire's voyage around the world. See Bibliography. Frederick Pieterszoon de Houtman was the younger brother of Cornelis de Houtman. (See note page 3.) The instruments described here were a great rarity at that time, binoculars having been invented only during the last years of the preceding century. Texel on the Wad, the island closest to the province of North Holland, was the last Dutch port for most ships leaving for the Indies.

2. JOHAN SPLINTER STAVORINUS

INTRODUCTION

Around 1760, the United Republic of the Netherlands had been at peace for a long time, and a career in the navy offered little excitement and only a slight possibility for advancement. This is why Johan Splinter Stavorinus (1739-1788), postmaster in the navy, requested permission to undertake a voyage to the East Indies as captain in the service of the Far East Indian Company. Between 1768 and 1778, he undertook several voyages during which he visited most of the Dutch trading posts in South Africa and Asia. Upon his return he was promoted to rear admiral in the Dutch navy, a rank he held until his death. Accounts of his travels were published posthumously, the first work in 1793, the second, and more famous, in two volumes in 1797. The French translation followed almost immediately as did the English (1798). In his foreword, the English editor complains about the many mistakes in the original which may be attributed to the fact that Stavorinus did not proofread the final edition of his works. Stavorinus saw his work foremost as a source of information, a didactic work which would enlighten the reader about Dutch endeavors in Asia. He mentions facts and figures. The enthusiasm of Bontekoe at a great and difficult voyage brought to completion and his awe at meeting courageous leaders is replaced by a critical evaluation of the eighteenth century. Stavorinus too is a captain of the V.O.C. and certainly does not lack any enthusiasm. One of his more enthusiastic accounts is that of his ascent of the Table Mountain at the Cape of Good Hope. But his evaluation of the established trading system of the Dutch and the society they

VOYAGES TO THE EAST INDIES

19

have created for themselves in the tropics is factual and often critical. He finds that life in the Indies has not been beneficial to those compatriots who chose a career there, and in Batavia social circumstances often fail to measure up to his preconceived, enlightened ideas. However, when judging he gives reasons. When describing he shows both sides of the coin. Qualifying clauses such as the following abound: "They [The women of Batavia] are commonly of a listless and lazy temper, but this ought chiefly to be ascribed to their education . . . " "They have very supple joints. . . . but this they have in common with the women of the West Indies. . . . " H e suggests that women should get more of an education when young, that their husbands should not neglect them, and that slaves should be treated humanely. He does not question the institution of slavery. This was up to a subsequent generation, and especially to Multatuli, whose accusation, Max Havelaar (1860), struck as lightning upon the seemingly sturdy colonial mansion of the Dutch. The following excerpt is taken from the second work by Stavorinus, and contains his detailed description of the Batavian society and Stavorinus's own reactions to this society.1 NOTE 1.

Johan Splinter Stavorinus, Reize van Zeeland over de Kaap de Goede Hoop naar Batavia, 1793, pp. 257-265. Trans. C. Moore.

Voyages to the East Indies

Europeans in Batavia all live in much the same way, whether they are Dutch or of other nations and regardless of their rank or station. In the morning they rise at daybreak, five o'clock or earlier. Most of them then go out and sit on their veranda for a time; others stay indoors, clad only in the kebaja or light gown in which they have slept. After drinking tea or coffee, they get dressed and leave for work. Everyone who is employed is supposed to be on the job by eight o'clock and to remain until eleven or eleven thirty. Dinner is at twelve. Then comes the afternoon nap, until four. From four to six they are either back at work or in a carriage making a tour of inspection outside the city. Around six the men gather in small groups to play games or chat until nine, when nearly everyone goes back home. Those who wish to stay are invited to do so. Eleven is the usual hour of retiring. Conviviality seems to reign everywhere. This mood is, alas, accompanied by an indefinable circumspection which is the consequence of an arbitrary government. The slightest word inadvertently uttered can have disastrous effects if it reaches the ears of someone who is insulted by it or imagines himself insulted. I have often heard it said that in this country one cannot even trust his own brother. Women folk do not take part in these get-togethers, but have gatherings of their own. In fact, husbands spend scant time with their wives, and do not show a great deal of respect for them. Most of them do not even take the trouble to instruct their wives in normal methods of housekeeping or in the ways of society. Hence, even after many years of marriage, women are often as ignorant as on their wedding day. It is not that they lack capacity, but the menfolk have little desire to develop them.

VOYAGES TO THE EAST INDIES

21

The men usually dress in Dutch fashion, and most wear black. As soon as a visitor steps into a house where he will remain for more than an hour, the host will invite him to make himself comfortable by taking off one or more articles of apparel. This is done by laying aside the musket and removing the outer coat and the wig (for most men wear wigs). The latter is replaced by a small cap usually carried around in the pocket for this purpose. When anyone goes out on foot he is attended by a slave to hold a parasol, known as a sambreel or pajung, over his head. No one below the rank of junior merchant is allowed to do this, however; such a one must carry a small parasol himself. Most of the white women seen in Batavia were bom in the Indies. Those who come from Europe at a marriageable age are few in number. I therefore confine my remarks to the former. These are the offspring either of European mothers or of Oriental female slaves who, after first serving as concubines, have married Europeans and converted to Christianity—or at least become nominal Christians. The children born of these women are easily recognizable, even in the third and fourth generations, because of the eyes in particular—which are much smaller than those of children having a European mother as well as father. Then there are children who are the offspring of Portuguese, but these are never wholly white. Children born in the Indies are distinguished from those born in Europe and are called liplaps, even though both parents may have been born in Europe. A girl is of marriageable age when she is twelve or thirteen, and sometimes even younger. They seldom remain unmarried after that age, providing they are at all pretty, have any expectations of money, or are related to those in power. Because they marry so young, they lack, as may be imagined, those qualities which enable a woman to manage her household efficiently. Many can neither read nor write or have any understanding of religion, morality or social usage. Because they marry so early, they seldom have many children and by the time they are thirty, they are considered elderly. Women who are fifty in Europe look fresher and younger than those of thirty in Batavia. Typically, the women of Batavia are of very delicate appearance and have an extremely fair skin, while their hands and faces are deadly pale. Striking beauties are not to be found among them. The most winsome of all I saw would scarcely rate as average in Europe. They have very supple joints, and can bend their fingers, hands and arms in almost any direction. But this they have in common with the women of the West Indies and other tropical climates.

22

JOHAN SPLINTER STAVORINUS

They are ordinarily of a listless, lazy disposition, though this is owing chiefly to their upbringing and to the number of slaves they employ. They rise at about half past seven or eight in the morning. They spend the forenoon idling with their female slaves, whom they are never without. One moment they will be laughing and talking with them, the next moment they will have the poor creatures mercilessly whipped for a mere trifle. Clad in a loose dress, they sprawl on a sofa or low stool or sit on the floor with their legs crossed beneath them. Meanwhile they are constantly chewing their pinang or betel, to which all women of the Indies are addicted (Java tobacco is used in the same way). In time their saliva turns crimson and, when the habit is kept up for a long time, a black edge forms along their lips. Their teeth turning black, their mouths are very unsightly, even though it is claimed that the habit cleans the teeth and prevents toothache. Inasmuch as the women of the Indies are by no means devoid of intelligence, they could become useful members of society if only they were kept from continual contact with slaves and were brought up under the supervision of parents who deemed it a duty to instill in them, from a tender age, the principles of morality and good behavior. Parents, however, are not at all disposed to take on such an onerous task. As soon as a child is born, it is turned over to the care of female slaves, who normally suckle it and rear it until it reaches the age of nine or ten. These slaves often have little more intellect than an animal, and the children acquire all their bad habits, prejudices and superstitions—which stay with them for the rest of their lives. It is not surprising that they turn out to be more like their despised slaves than the offspring of noble parents. They are unusually fond of bathing and washing. For this purpose they use an enormous tub holding some three hogsheads of water. In this they immerse their whole body at least twice a week. Some of them bathe in the morning in one of the streams flowing outside the city. Most women in the Indies are extremely jealous of any relationship between their husbands and their female slaves. If they discover the slightest intimacy between them, their rage knows no bounds and they work their revenge on the poor slaves—who in most cases have not dared resist their master's will for fear of ill treatment. They have various ways of torturing them. They have them whipped with rattan until they collapse before their eyes. Among other means, they resort to pinching the unfortunate creatures in a certain sensitive part of their anatomy with their toes (because most go barefoot inside the house), with such pressure that they faint from pain. I refrain from mentioning other instances of the extreme cruelty practiced by the women of the Indies on these poor victims of their jealousy. These have been reported to me by creditable

VOYAGES TO THE EAST INDIES

23

sources, and go beyond any feeling for and belief in humanity. Having thus avenged themselves on their slaves, they proceed next to work an equal revenge on their husbands; they accomplish this in a manner less cruel or more agreeable to themselves. The warmth of the climate, which has a strong effect on their health, and the irregular lives led by most unmarried men, are the cause of many illicit affairs undertaken by the womenfolk. Marriages in Batavia always take place on Sunday. Despite this, the newly married woman does not appear in public until the following Wednesday, when she attends evening worship. To be seen sooner than this would be in bad taste. When a woman becomes a widow and her husband's body is interred (which is generally done the day after the death), she immediately acquires a number of suitors if she is at all well to do. A certain lady who lost her husband while I was in Batavia already had her fourth lover in the fourth week of her widowhood. She remarried after three months, and would have done so sooner if the law had allowed it. Their apparel is very light and airy. They wear a cotton garment wrapped around the body and fastened under the arms. Over this goes a cotton shirt, a jacket, and a petticoat. All of this is covered by a knee-length gown or kebaja, which hangs loose. The sleeves reach the wrists, where they are fastened with six or seven gold buttons. For formal occasions, for instance a gathering attended by the wife of one of the Dutch councilmen, they wear a fine muslin kebaja which differs from the other kind in that it is full-length. When one woman invites another to any occasion she always specifies whether a short or long kebaja is to be worn. They wear no hats. Their coal black hair is worn in a coil fastened with gold or diamond pins; this coil is called a konde. The hair is combed smoothly upward from the front and sides of the head, and is oiled with coconut oil until it shines. They are very particular about this, and the female slave who does her mistress's hair best is her favorite. Sometimes on Sundays they attempt to dress in the fashion of their European homeland, with corsets and stiff petticoats, which they never normally wear. They have the greatest difficulty with these, because they are accustomed to looser attire.

3.

MULTATULI (EDUARD DOUWES DEKKER)

INTRODUCTION

The end of the eighteenth century saw the Far East Indian Company dissolved (1799) and French hegemony established in the previously powerful Dutch Republic. When the Treaty of London restored the overseas territories to the Dutch, the Far East Indian Company was not reinstituted. Instead, we find two official hierarchies in Java: the Javanese rulers and the Dutch colonial government. The traditional Javanese dynasties (the regents and their officials) governed the island under the supervision of the Dutch colonial government (the governor general, the resident, the assistant resident, etc.). The extent of this supervision varied, but was often quite considerable. The interests of the Dutch and the Javanese superiors had ultimately to be supported by the labors of the Javanese peasant. Eduard Douwes Dekker (1820-1887) was born in Amsterdam, the son of a sea captain. He grew up in that stolid Dutch middle class whose virtues and vices set the tone in nineteenth century Holland. Content with its achievements, certain of its own rights and place in society, convinced of the truth of its convictions, untouched as yet by the industrial revolution, this class molded its children in its own image. Its pedagogical insight (or lack of it) has been immortalized by Multatuli's literary creation, Woutertje Pieterse (Wally Peters). After an interrupted education (he quit school and worked in a textile shop), Douwes Dekker left for the Indies with his father and brother Jan. There, despite occasional skirmishes with his superiors, he climbed steadily through the ranks of the Dutch colonial government, only slightly hindered by his not having the required training at the Academy of

SERMON OF THE REVEREND BLATHERER

25

Delft.1 In 1856 he was appointed assistant resident of Lebak, one of the poorest districts of Java. It was a special appointment made by the governor general, Duymaer van Twist, whom Douwes Dekker knew personally. After three weeks in office it became clear to Douwes Dekker, both from personal interviews and from the records of his predecessor, that the old Javanese regent required more free labor from his subjects than the welfare of the people allowed. Douwes Dekker then accused the regent and asked for his removal so that an investigation could take place. Eventually, the "Raad van Indie," The Council of the Indies, judged that such a dismissal and investigation would not be in the interest of all involved, and that Douwes Dekker had acted rashly. He was reprimanded but not dismissed; instead, the governor general offered him a post in another region. Douwes Dekker resigned. Upon his arrival in Batavia he sought an audience with the governor general. The latter, however, left for Holland without granting him an interview. Douwes Dekker, thinking that he had done as had been expected of him in his office, felt unjustly treated. So when his efforts for exoneration remained unsuccessful even after his arrival in Holland, he wrote Max Havelaar or the Coffee Auctions of the Dutch Trading Company (1860), a sometimes satiric, sometimes romantic, mostly autobiographic, novel in which the hero undergoes the same fate as Douwes Dekker. His pseudonym: Multatuli, from the Latin multa tuli, "I have suffered much." The book begins with the now famous line: "I am a broker in coffee and live at 38 Lauriergracht." The person so introduced is the coffee broker Batavus Drystubble, the satirical prototype of the Dutch nineteenth century businessman. Although this merchant supposedly ordered the book to be written and often takes the pen himself to explain matters of importance to the dear reader, his explanations and justifications show the ignorance, greed, and hypocrisy of the Dutch exploitation of the colonies. In this realistic caricature, the Dutch reader is supposed to recognize himself and then mend his ways. In this Max Havelaar is certainly didactic. That Multatuli had a score to settle becomes evident from the chapters which take place in Indonesia. There the romantic hero Max Havelaar lives with his wife Tine and son little Max in the assistant resident's house in Lebak. As the successor of a man who was supposedly murdered, he tries to bring justice to his surroundings and better the lot of the Javanese peasants, who are oppressed by their own superior lords. Justice is not rendered at the end of the book; the hero, Max Havelaar—that is Multatuli—has not received the exoneration to which he is entitled; the author exhorts the king, in the name of justice, to see that justice is done. Multatuli wrote the work in about four weeks, using some material he

26

MULTATULI

had previously written. An acquaintance, Jacob van Lennep, a popular author and critic, judged the book on its literary merit and saw to it that it was published. However, sensing potentially explosive political repercussions, he tried to strike a deal with the government: the book would not be published if Douwes Dekker were reinstated. However, Douwes Dekker's demands grew, the government declined, and Max Havelaar was published after much editing by van Lennep, who reduced most of the geographical names to initials and eliminated the last digits of most dates mentioned. After the publication of Max Havelaar, Multatuli began his life of wandering, estranged from his wife and family, taking up unpopular causes, destined to be a poor and restless author, knight without fear, defender of the oppressed. Ironically, Multatuli had been afraid that his book would be read only because it was so well written, and indeed, its popularity should be attributed largely to its literary qualities. It presented the reader with a sharp and witty argument and a direct and natural style, something quite uncommon in nineteenth century Dutch literature. But Multatuli's intention had been to focus attention on the oppression of the Javanese peasant, and several efforts were undertaken to declare his account exaggerated and untrue, to accuse him of lack of insight. Others said that Douwes Dekker had not acted prudently. However, the exploitation of the Javanese peasant by the colonial government through its system of compulsory crops (kultuurstelsel)1 and by the Javanese princely hierarchies could not be denied. Others had written more scholarly accounts, but Multatuli's accusation in his literary masterpiece was widely read and could not be suppressed. If the work did not bring about the exoneration of its author and if reforms were slow in coming to the Indies, Multatuli's portrayal of the vacillations of the governing Dutch between justice and self-interest helped to influence future generations of colonial officials. Multatuli had foreseen that even if the facts were proved to be true, he would not be exonerated. Instead, he would be accused of conceit. In a fragment of a play which precedes Max Havelaar, Lothario, after having been acquitted of the charge of killing and pickling the woman Barbertje, is still declared guilty of conceit, because he had denied the original charges. Multatuli did nothing to avoid this charge of being conceited. His Max is a courageous, innocent, romantic hero, beleaguered by hostile, immoral, incompetent superiors. Indeed Max Havelaar has rightly been called an "autohagiography." Two hundred years lie between Bontekoe's somewhat bemused account of the "savages" and Multatuli's outcry: "The Javanese is oppressed, my dear reader." Most striking in this book is the dual portrayal

SERMON O F THE REVEREND BLATHERER

27

of the ignorant, bigoted Dutch burgher who enjoys his colonial prosperity in Holland and the Javanese who has to support this prosperity and that of his own princes. Multatuli's division is not primarily along color lines: it is a division between the Drystubbles and the Havelaars, the bigots and the honest officials, between those who want to get rich and those who want to help the suppressed native population. Our first excerpt from Max Havelaar takes place in Holland. In the preceding chapter, Drystubble has related how an old schoolmate of his (the hero Max Havelaar) has visited him. He calls the visitor Scarfman, because he has no overcoat but only a scarf to protect himself against the winter cold. This Scarfman has hit upon hard times and has left with Drystubble some manuscripts which seem to contain information about coffee production in the colonies. Drystubble has asked his German houseguest Stern, who is also an apprentice in his firm, to sort out the manuscript and arrange whatever seems of interest. The second excerpt contains the famous tale of Sa'ijah and Adinda, a parable which shows the arbitrary oppression of the regent, who takes away the buffaloes needed to cultivate the soil. Multatuli was reproached for attributing Western feelings to an Asian couple; he responded that it was not his intent to show the Javanese as they were, but to see that justice was done. The tremendous impact the book had was due not to its clear description of the Indies, but to its factual content, its biting wit, its realistic caricature of the Dutch and its insistence that the Javanese are human and capable of feelings—if not Western feelings.3 NOTES 1.

2. 3.

In 1839, the minister of the colonies decreed that all higher government positions had to be held by those who had a European education (radikaal). This directive prevented many of the Indo-Europeans who were born in the Indies from attaining higher government posts. The regulation was withdrawn in 1876. Introduced in 1830. Both excerpts are taken from Multatuli, Max Havelaar or the Coffee Auctions of the Dutch Trading Company, trans. Roy Edwards (Leyden: Sijthoff; London: Heinemann; New York: House and Maxwell; 1969), pp. 136-143 and pp. 255279. Reprinted with permission of the publishers.

The Sermon of the Reverend Blatherer

I am surprised to learn from Stern's scribblings—and he has shown me that it is true, from Scarfman's parcel—that no coffee is grown in that Division of Lebak. This is a great mistake, and I shall consider my trouble amply rewarded if my book succeeds in drawing the Government's attention to that mistake. Scarfman's papers apparently prove that the soil in those parts is not suitable for coffee-growing. But that is absolutely no excuse, and I maintain that the Government is guilty of unpardonable neglect of duty towards Holland in general and the coffee brokers in particular, ay, even towards the Javanese themselves, for not either changing that soil—after all, the Javanese have nothing else to do anyway—or, if they think that's not practicable, for not sending the people who live there to other parts where the soil is good for coffee. I never say anything I have not thoroughly considered, and I dare swear in this case that I am speaking with authority, as I have given mature reflection to the matter, especially since hearing Parson Blatherer's sermon at the special service for the conversion of the heathen. That was last Wednesday night. You must know, reader, that I am strict in carrying out my duties as a father, and that the moral training of my children is a thing very near to my heart. Now, for some time past there has been something in Frits' tone and manner that doesn't please me—it all comes from Scarfman's pestilential parcel! So I gave him a good sound lecture that day, and said: 'Frits, I am not satisfied with you! I have always shown you the right path, and yet you will stray off it. You are priggish and tiresome, you write verses, and you have given Betsy Rosemeyer a kiss. The fear of the Lord is

SERMON OF THE REVEREND BLATHERER

29

the beginning of wisdom, so you mustn't kiss the Rosemeyers, and you mustn't be such a prig. Immorality leads to perdition, my lad. Read the Scriptures, and mark that Scarfman! He left the ways of the Lord; now he is poor, and lives in a wretched garret . . . lo, these are the consequences of immorality and misconduct! He wrote unseemly articles in the Indépendance, and he dropped the Aglaias.' T h a t ' s what you come to when you're wise in your own eyes. Now he doesn't even know the time, and his little boy has only half a pair of trousers. Remember that your body is the temple of the Holy Ghost, and that your father has always had to work hard for a living—it's the truth!—so lift up your eyes to Heaven, and try to grow u p to be a respectable broker by the time I retire to Driebergen. 2 And do take note of all those people who won't listen to good advice, who trample religion and morality underfoot, and let them be a warning to you. And don't put yourself on a level with Stern—his father is rich, and he'll have enough money in any case, even if he doesn't want to be a broker and even if he does do something wrong occasionally. Do remember that all evil is punished; again, take that Scarfman, who has no overcoat and looks like a broken-down actor. Do pay attention in church, don't sit there wriggling in all directions on your seat as if you were bored, my boy; what must God think of that? The church is His sanctuary, d'you see? And don't wait for young girls when the service is over, for that takes away all the edification. And don't make Marie giggle either, when I read the Scripture at breakfast time. All that sort of thing is out of place in a respectable household; oh, and you drew funny figures on Bastiaans's blotter, when he hadn't turned up again—because he's always having rheumatism- -that keeps the men in the office from their work, and it says in Holy Writ that such follies lead to perdition. That fellow Scarfman also did wrong things when he was young; as a child, he struck a Greek in the Westermarket . . . and now he is lazy, cocky and sickly, you see! 3 So don't always be joining in Stern's jokes, my boy, his father is rich. Pretend not to see, when he's pulling faces at the bookkeeper. And outside office hours, when he's busy making verses, just remark to him, casually-like, that he would be better employed in writing to his father to tell him he is very comfortable with us and that Marie has embroidered a pair of slippers for him with real floss silk. Ask him—quite spontaneously, you know!—whether he thinks his father is likely to go to Busselinck & Waterman, and tell him they're tricksters. You see, that way you'll put him on the right path . . . one owes it to one's neighbour, and all that versifying is nonsense. D o be good and obedient, Frits, and don't pull the maid by her skirt when she brings the tea into the office and put me to shame, for then she spills the tea, and Saint Paul says a son should never cause his father sorrow. I've been on 'Change for twenty years, and I think I may say that I'm respected at my pillar there. So listen to my words of warning, Frits, and get your hat, and put on your coat, and come along with me to the prayer meeting, that will do you good! '

That was how I spoke to him; and I'm convinced I made an impression,

30

MULTATULI

especially as Parson Blatherer had chosen for the subject of his address: The love of God, manifested by His rage against unbelievers, with reference to Samuel's rebuke to Saul: 1 Sam. 15:33. As I listened to that sermon, I kept thinking what a world of difference there is between human and divine wisdom. I have already said that in Scarfman's parcel, among a lot of rubbish, there were certainly one or two items which were conspicuous for their soundness of reasoning. But oh, of how little account are such things when compared with language like Parson Blatherer's! And it is not by his own power that he speaks thus—I know Blatherer, and believe me, he'll never set the Thames on fire; no—it is by the power that comes from above! The difference was all the more marked because he touched upon certain matters which had also been dealt with by Scarfman—as you have seen, there was a great deal in his parcel about the Javanese and other heathens. (Frits says the Javanese are not heathens, but I call anyone a heathen who has the wrong faith. For I hold to Jesus Christ, and Him crucified, and I have no doubt every respectable reader does the same.) It is from Blatherer's sermon that I have drawn my conclusion about the wrongfulness of abandoning coffee cultivation in Lebak, to which I shall revert presently. Moreover, as an honest man, I don't want the reader to receive absolutely nothing for his money. So I shall give him here a few passages from the sermon which were particularly striking. Blatherer briefly proved the love of God from the words of the text, and very soon passed on to the real point at issue, the conversion of Javanese, Malays, whatever else those people call themselves. And this is what he said: 'Such, my Belovfcd, was the glorious mission of Israel!'—he meant the extermination of the inhabitants of Canaan—'and such is also the mission of Holland! No, it shall not be said that the light which shines upon us will be hidden under a bushel, nor that we are niggardly in sharing with others the bread of eternal life! Cast your eyes upon the islands of the Indian Ocean, inhabited by millions upon millions of the children of the accursed son—the rightly accursed son—of the noble Noah, who found grace in the eyes of the Lord! There they crawl about in the loathsome snakepits of heathenish ignorance—there they bow the black, frizzy head under the yoke of self-seeking priests! There they pray to God, invoking a false prophet who is an abomination in the sight of the Lord! And, Belovdd! as though it were not enough to obey a false prophet, there are even those among them who worship another God, nay, other gods, gods of wood and stone, which they themselves have made after their own image, black, horrible, with flat noses, and devilish! Yea, Belovfed . . . tears almost keep me from continuing; deeper even than this is the depravity of the Children of Ham! There

SERMON OF THE REVEREND BLATHERER

31

are those a m o n g them who know no god, under whatever name! W h o think it sufficient to obey the laws of civil society! W h o deem a harvest song, wherein they express their joy over the success of their labours, sufficient thanks to the Supreme Being by W h o m that harvest was allowed to ripen! Out there live lost ones, stray sheep, my Belovéd, who assert that it is enough to love wife and child, and not to take f r o m their neighbour what is not theirs, in order to be able at night to lay down their heads to sleep in peace! D o you not shudder at that picture? D o your hearts not shrink with terror at the thought of what the fate will be of all those fools as soon as the trumpet shall sound, waking the dead for the sundering of the just f r o m the unjust? Hear ye not? Yea, ye d o hear, for f r o m the text I have read ye have seen that the Lord thy God is a mighty God, and a God of righteous retribution—yea, ye hear the cracking of the bones and the crackle of the flames in the eternal Gehenna where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth! There, there they burn, and perish not, for their punishment is everlasting! There, with never-sated tongue, the flames lick at the screaming victims of unbelief! There the worm dieth not that gnaws their hearts through and through without ever destroying them, so that forever there will be a heart to gnaw at in the breast of the godless! See how the black skin is stripped f r o m the unbaptized child that, scarce born, was flung away f r o m the breast of the mother into the pool of everlasting damnation. . . . '

Here a woman fainted. 'But, Belovéd,' continued Parson Blatherer, ' G o d is a God of Love! He wills not that the sinner shall be lost, but that he shall be saved by grace, in Christ, through Faith! And therefore our Holland has been chosen to save what may be saved of those wretched ones! Therefore has God, in His inscrutable Wisdom, given power to a land of small compass but great and strong in the knowledge of Him, power over the dwellers in those regions, that by the holy, ever-inestimable Gospel they may be delivered f r o m the pains of hell! The ships of our Holland sail the great waters, to bring civilization, religion, Christianity, to the misguided Javanese! Nay, our happy Fatherland does not covet eternal bliss for itself alone: we wish to share it also with the wretched creatures on those distant shores who lie bound in the fetters of unbelief, superstition and immorality! Consideration of the duties that are laid upon us to this end shall f o r m the seventh part of my address.'

(For what you have just read was the sixth.) The duties we had to perform on behalf of those poor heathens included the following: 1. Making liberal contributions in money to the Misssionary Society. 2. Supporting the Bible Societies, to enable them to distribute Bibles in Java. 3. Furthering prayer meetings at Harderwijk, for the benefit of the colonial army recruiting depot.

32

MULTATULI 4. Writing sermons and hymns, suitable for our soldiers and sailors to read and sing to the Javanese. 5. Formation of a society of influential men whose task it should be to petition our gracious king: a. To appoint as governors, officers and officials only such men as may be considered steadfast in the true faith; b. To have permission granted to the Javanese to visit the barracks, and also the men-of-war and merchantmen lying in the ports, so that by intercourse with Dutch soldiers and sailors they may be prepared for the Kingdom of God; c. To prohibit the acceptance of Bibles or religious tracts in public houses in payment for drink; d. To make it a condition of the granting of opium licences in Java that in every opium house there shall be kept a stock of Bibles in proportion to the probable number of visitors to the institution, and that the licensee shall undertake to sell no opium unless the purchaser takes a religious tract at the same time; e. To command that the Javanese shall be brought to God by labour. 6. Making liberal contributions to the Missionary Society.

I know I have already given this last item under no. 1; but he repeated it, and in the heat of his discourse such superfluity appears to me quite understandable. But, reader, have you noticed no. 5e? Well, that proposal reminded me so strongly of the coffee auctions, and of the alleged unsuitability of the soil in Lebak, that it will now no longer seem strange to you when I assure you that since Wednesday night point 5e has not been out of my thoughts for a moment. Parson Blatherer read out the missionaries' reports; so nobody can deny he has a thorough knowledge of these matters. Well then, if he, with those reports before him and his eye on the Almighty, maintains that much work will favourably influence the conquest of Javanese souls for the Kingdom of God, then surely I may conclude that I am not altogether wide of the mark when I say that coffee can perfectly well be grown in Lebak and, furthermore, that it is even possible the Supreme Being has made the soil there unsuitable for coffee growing for no other purpose than that the population of those parts shall be made fit for Heaven through the labour that will be necessary to transport different soil to them? I can't help hoping my book will come to the eye of the king, and that soon bigger auctions will testify how closely the knowledge of God is connected with the proper interests of all respectable citizens! Just see how a simple and humble man like Blatherer, devoid of the wisdom of this world—the man has never been in the Exchange in his life—but enlightened by the Gospel, which is a lamp unto his path, has suddenly

SERMON O F T H E REVEREND BLATHERER

33

given me, a coffee broker, a hint which is not only important to all Holland but will enable me, if Frits behaves himself—he sat reasonably still in church—to retire to Driebergen five years earlier than I had expected. Yes, labour, labour, that's my watchword! Labour for the Javanese, that's my principle! And my principles are sacred to me. Is not the Gospel our highest good? Is there anything more important than salvation? So isn't it our duty to bring those people salvation? And when, as a means thereto, labour is necessary—I myself have laboured on 'Change for twenty years—may we then refuse labour to the Javanese, knowing that his soul is so urgently in need of it to escape the everlasting fire hereafter? It would be selfishness, abominable selfishness, if we didn't make every effort to preserve those poor lost sheep from the terrible future Parson Blatherer so eloquently described. A lady fainted when he spoke of that black child . . . perhaps she had a little boy with a rather dark complexion. Women are like that! And why shouldn't I insist upon labour, I who do nothing but think of business from morning till night? Isn't this book, even—which Stern is making such a headache for me—a proof of the goodness of my intentions for the welfare of our Fatherland, proof of how I would sacrifice everything to that? And when / have to labour so hard, I, who have been baptized—in the Amstelkerk—isn't it lawful, then, to demand from the Javanese that he, who still has to win his salvation, shall put his hand to the plough? If that society—I mean the one in 5e—is formed, I'll join it. And I'll try to get the Rosemeyers to join as well, because the interests of sugar refiners are concerned too, though I don't think they're very sound in their principles—the Rosemeyers, I mean—for they keep a Roman Catholic maidservant. Anyhow, I intend to do my duty. I promised myself that when I went home from church with Frits. In my house the Lord shall be served, I'll see to that. And with all the more zeal because I realize more and more how wisely everything is ordered, how loving are the ways by which we are led at God's hand, and how He wishes to save us for both the eternal and the temporal life; for that soil in Lebak can very easily be made suitable for coffee. NOTES 1.

2.

The Aglaias. Drystubble's son Frits and the houseguest Stern have discovered that Scarfman works at a book auction. They have witnessed how Scarfman dropped some bound volumes of Aglaia, a popular ladies journal, and how the auctioneer had severely reprimanded him for this. [Ed.] Driebergen. Fashionable village in the province of Utrecht, where the well-to-do retire. [Trans.]

34 3.

MULTATULI While still schoolboys, Drystubble, Scarfman and some others had tried to make the acquaintance of a Greek girl who worked her father's booth at the Westermarket fair. On that occasion Scarfman had rescued Drystubble from the hands of the Greek father. Drystubble himself relates this incident in chapter 1. [Ed.]

The Story of SaTjah and Adinda

Saijah's father had a buffalo with which he worked his field. When this buffalo was taken from him by the district chief of Parang-Kujang he was very sad, and said not a word for many days. For ploughing time was drawing near and it was to be feared that, if the sawah was not prepared soon enough, sowing time would also pass by, and in the end there would be no paddy to cut and to store in the barn. For the benefit of the readers who know Java but do not know Bantam, I must point out here that in this residency there is such a thing as personal ownership of land, which is not the case elsewhere. Well then, Saijah's father was greatly distressed. He feared that his wife would lack rice, and also Sa'ijah, who was still a child, and the little brothers and sisters of Sa'ijah. Moreover, the district chief would report him to the assistant resident if he was behindhand in paying his land tax. For that is punishable by law. Then Saijah's father took a kris which was pusaka left him by his father. The kris was not a very beautiful one, but there were silver bands round the sheath, and a small silver plate at the tip of the sheath. He sold this kris to a Chinaman who lived in the divisional capital, and came home with twenty-four guilders, which is about two pounds in English money, for which sum he bought another buffalo. Sa'ijah, who was then about seven years old, soon struck up a friendship with the new buffalo. Not inadvisedly do I use the word "friendship"; for it is indeed touching to see how attached the Javanese buffalo becomes to the little boy who minds and takes care of him. Presently I shall give an example of this attachment. The great strong animal meekly

36

MULTATULI

bends his heavy head to right or left or downward, in response to the pressure of the finger of the child whom he knows, whom he understands, with whom he has grown up. And such friendship, then, did little Sa'ijah rapidly inspire in the newcomer, and Sa'fjah's encouraging child's voice seemed to give even greater power to the powerful shoulders of the animal as it tore open the heavy clay soil and marked its passage in deep, sharp furrows. The buffalo turned docilely round when it reached the end, and lost not an inch of ground in ploughing the new furrow, which always lay right next to the old one as though the rice field were a garden plot which had been raked by a giant. Beside this sawah lay those of Adinda's father, the father of the child who was to marry Sa'ijah. And when Adinda's little brothers reached the border between the fields, at the same moment that Sa'ijah was there too with his plough, they called out to each other merrily, and in friendly rivalry bragged of the strength and obedience of their respective buffaloes. But I believe Sa'ijah's was the best, perhaps because he knew how to speak to it better than the others did. For buffaloes are very susceptible to kind words. Sa'ijah was nine years old, and Adinda already six, when that buffalo was taken from Sa'ijah's father by the district chief of Parang-Kujang. This time Sa'ijah's father, who was very poor, sold to a Chinaman two silver kelambu-hooks—pusaka from the parents of his wife—for eighteen guilders. And with that money he bought a new buffalo. But Sa'ijah was sick at heart. For he knew from Adinda's brothers that the last buffalo had been driven off to the divisional center, and he had asked his father whether he had not seen the animal when he was there selling the kelambu-hooks. To which question Sa'ijah's father had not chosen to reply. And therefore Sa'ijah feared that his buffalo had been slaughtered, like the other buffaloes which the district chief took from the people. And Sa'ijah wept much when he thought of the poor buffalo with which he had lived so intimately for two years. And he could not eat for a long time, because his throat was too tight when he tried to swallow. You must remember that Sa'ijah was only a child. The new buffalo got to know Sa'ijah and very soon took the place of the old one in the child's affections . . . too soon, really. For, alas, the impressions made on the wax of our hearts are so easily smoothed out to make room for other writing! Anyway, even though the new buffalo was not so strong as the old one . . . even though the old yoke was too wide for its shoulders . . . yet the poor animal was as tractable as its predecessor which had been slaughtered; and though Sa'ijah could no longer boast

SAlJAH AND ADINDA

37

of the strength of his buffalo when he met Adinda's brothers at the edge of the fields, he still maintained that no other buffalo surpassed his in willingness. And when the furrows did not run as straight as before, or when the animal walked round clods of earth, leaving them unbroken, Sa'ijah gladly remedied all that with his patjul, to the best of his ability. Besides, no buffalo had such an user-useran as Saijah's buffalo! No less an authority than the penghulu had said that there was untung in the pattern of those whorls of hair on its withers. One day when they were out in the field, Saijah shouted in vain to his buffalo to get a move on. The beast had stopped dead. Saijah, annoyed at such great and, what was more, such unusual insubordination, could not refrain from insulting it. "A-s-!" He exclaimed. Anyone who has been in the Indies will know what I mean, and those who do not know what I mean can only benefit by my sparing them the explanation of a coarse expression. Sa'ijah meant no harm by it. He only said it because he had so often heard it said by others when they were dissatisfied with their buffaloes. But he need not have said it, for it was of no avail: his buffalo did not budge. The animal shook its head, as though to throw off the yoke . . . you could see the breath steaming from its nostrils . . . it snorted, trembled, shook . . . there was fear in its blue eye, and its upper lip was drawn back baring the gums. . . . "Run, run!" Adinda's brothers suddenly cried. "Sa'ijah, run! There's a tiger!" And all unyoked their buffaloes, swung themselves on to the animal's broad backs, and galloped away over sawahs, across galengans, through mud, through scrub and bush and alang-alang, by fields and roads. But when they rode panting and sweating into the village of Badur, Sa'ijah was not with them. For when he had freed his buffalo from the yoke and mounted it like the others, in order to flee as they had done, the buffalo suddenly leapt forward, throwing Sa'ijah off his balance. He fell to the ground. The tiger was very near. . . . Saijah's buffalo, carried on by its own speed, rushed several leaps past the place where his little master waited for death. But only through its own speed, and not through its own will, had it gone farther than Sa'ijah. For scarcely had it overcome the momentum that propels all matter even after cessation of the cause that set it in motion than it turned back, planted its clumsy body on its clumsy feet above the child like a roof, and turned its horned head to the tiger. The tiger sprang . . . but for the last time. The buffalo caught it on its horns and only lost some flesh ripped from its neck. The aggressor lay on the ground with its belly torn open,

38

MULTATULI

and Saijah was saved. There had indeed been untung in that buffalo's user-useran\ When this buffalo was taken from Saijah's father and slaughtered. . . . I told you, reader, that my story is monotonous. . . . When this buffalo was killed, Saijah had already seen twelve summers, and Adinda was already weaving sarongs, and bat iking geometrical designs on the kepala, the wide band across one end of the sarong. She already had thoughts to express in the pattern she traced on the fabric with her little cup of wax, and she drew sorrow, for she had seen Saijah very sorrowful. And Saijah's father was also deeply grieved, but his mother most of all. For it was she who had healed the wound on the neck of the faithful animal that had brought home her child unhurt, after she had thought, from hearing the tidings of Adinda's brothers, that Saijah had been carried off by the tiger. So often had she contemplated that wound, thinking how deep the claw that had penetrated so far into the tough thews of the buffalo would have been driven into the tender body of her child; and every time she had laid fresh healing herbs on the wound she had stroked the buffalo, and spoken kind words to it, so that the good, faithful animal should know how grateful a mother can be! She now hoped with all her heart that the buffalo might have understood her, for then it would also have understood why she wept when it was taken away to be killed, and it would have known that Saijah's mother was not the one who had ordered it to be killed. Eventually, Saijah's father fled the country. For he was much afraid of being punished for not paying his land tax, and he had no more pusaka with which to buy a new buffalo as his parents had always lived in Parang-Kujang and had therefore had little to leave him. And the parents of his wife had also always lived in that same district. Nevertheless, after the loss of his last buffalo he still kept going for a few years by ploughing with hired animals. But that is a very thankless kind of labour, and especially galling to a man who once had buffaloes of his own. Saijah's mother died of a broken heart; and it was then that his father, in a moment of despondency, ran away from Lebak, and from Bantam, to look for work in the Buitenzorg region. He was flogged with rattan for leaving Lebak without a pass, and brought back to Badur by the police. There he was thrown into jail, because they took him to be mad (which would not have been beyond all comprehension) and because they were afraid that, in a fit of insanity, he might run amuk or commit some other offence. But he was not a prisoner for long, as he died soon afterwards. What became of Saijah's little brothers and sisters I do not know. The

SAlJAH AND ADINDA

39

hut in which they lived at Badur stood empty for a while, but soon collapsed, since it was only built of bamboo roofed with palm leaves. A little dust and dirt covered the spot which had seen much suffering. There are many such spots in Lebak. Sa'ijah was fifteen when his father left for Buitenzorg. He did not go with him, because he had bigger plans in his head. He had been told that in Batavia there were so many gentlemen who rode in bendis and hence he would easily find a place there as bendi boy, for which someone is usually chosen who is still young, not full-grown, so that he will not upset the balance of the light, two-wheeled vehicle by adding too much weight at the back of it. He had been assured that there was much to be earned in such service, provided one behaved oneself. In fact, in this manner he might even save enough money in three years to buy two buffaloes. The prospect looked rosy to him. With proud step, the step of a man with great affairs on hand, he entered Adinda's house, after his father had gone, and informed her of his scheme. "Just think," he said, "when I return, we shall be old enough to get married, and we shall have two buffaloes!" "That is very good, Sa'ijah! I shall be pleased to marry you when you come back. I shall spin, and weave sarongs and slendangs, and batik cloths, and be very industrious all that time." "Oh, that I believe, Adinda! But . . . suppose I find you married?" "Sa'ijah, you know perfectly well that I shall marry no one else. My father promised me to your father." "But what do you think?" "I shall marry you, rest assured of that!" "When I come back, I shall call from afar. . . . " "Who can hear that, when we are pounding rice in the village?" "That is true. But Adinda . . . oh yes, I have a better idea: Wait for me near the djati wood, under the ketapang tree, where you gave me the melati flower." "But, Sa'ijah, how shall I know when I must go and wait for you at the ketapangV Saijah thought for a moment, and said: "Count the moons. I shall be away thrice twelve moons . . . not counting this one. Look, Adinda—cut a notch in your rice block at the coming of every new moon. When you shall have cut thrice twelve notches, I shall arrive under the ketapang on the following day. Will you promise to be there?" "Yes, Sa'ijah! I shall be under the ketapang near the djati wood when you return!" Then Sa'ijah tore a strip from his blue turban, which was very thread-

40

MULTATULI

bare. And he gave that scrap of linen to Adinda, to keep as a pledge. And then he left her and Badur. He walked for many days. He passed Rangkas-Betung, which was not yet the administrative centre of Lebak, and Warung-Gunung, where the assistant resident then lived, and the following day he saw Pandeglang, lying as in a garden. Yet another day and he arrived at Serang, and stood amazed at the splendour of so large a place, with so many houses, built of stone and roofed with red tiles. Sa'ijah had never seen anything like it before. He stayed there for a day because he was tired, but at night, when it was cool, he went on, and next day he came to Tangerang, before the shadow had descended to his lips, although he wore the big tudung which his father had left behind for him. At Tangerang he bathed in the river near the ferry, and then rested in the house of an acquaintance of his father's, who showed him how to plait straw hats like those that come from Manila. He stayed one day to learn this, because he thought he might be able to earn some money at it later if he should not succeed in Batavia. The following day, towards nightfall, as it grew cool, he thanked his host heartily, and travelled on. As soon as it was quite dark and no one could see, he took out the leaf in which he kept the melati that Adinda had given him under the ketapang tree. For the thought that he would not be seeing her again for such a long time had made him heavyhearted. On the first day, and even on the second, he had not felt his loneliness so deeply, because his soul had been wholly wrapped up in the idea of earning money with which to buy two buffaloes—a grand design indeed, since his father had never had more than one; and his thoughts had been too strongly concentrated on seeing Adinda again to leave room for very great sadness about parting from her. He had bidden her farewell with overexalted hopes, and his thoughts had linked that farewell with the ultimate reunion under the ketapang. For so great a part did the prospect of that reunion play in his heart that he felt quite cheerful when he passed the tree on leaving Badur, as though they were already past, those six-and-thirty moons which separated him from that moment. It had seemed to him that he only had to turn round, as if coming back from the journey, to see Adinda waiting for him under the tree. But the further he went from Badur, and the more he felt the terrible length of only one day, the longer he began to find the six-and-thirty moons that lay before him. There was something in his soul that made him stride along less quickly. He felt a sadness in his knees, and, though it was not despondency that came over him, still it was melancholy, which is not far removed from despondency. He thought of turning back; but what would Adinda have said to such faintheartedness? So he walked on, although less swiftly than on the first day. He held

SAlJAH AND ADINDA

41

the melati in his hand, and often pressed it to his breast. In those three days he had grown much older, and could no longer understand how he could have been so calm in the past, when Adinda had lived so close to him and he could see her as often and as long as he liked! For now he would not be calm, if he could have expected that presently she would stand before him! Nor did he understand why, after their leave-taking, he had not turned round and gone back again to gaze on her just once more. And also he remembered how, only recently, he had quarrelled with her about the cord she had spun for her brothers' lajang-lajang' which had broken because, he maintained, there had been a flaw in her weaving, and that had lost them a wager with the children from Chipurut. "How in the world," he thought, "could I have got angry with Adinda over that? For even if she had spun a flaw in the cord, and if the match between Badur and Chipurut had been lost through that, and not through the piece of glass so naughtily and dexterously thrown by little Jamin, hidden behind the pager—was I, even then, justified in behaving so harshly towards her and calling her ill names? Suppose I die in Batavia without having asked her pardon for such gross rudeness? Shan't I be remembered as an evil man, who flung abuse at girls? And when they hear that I died in a strange land, will not everyone at Badur say: It is a good thing Sa'ijah died, for he gave Adinda the rough edge of his tongue?" Thus his thoughts took a course that differed widely from their previous exaltation; and involuntarily they found expression, first in broken words that were scarcely audible, but soon in a monologue, and finally in the sorrowful chant the translation of which I give here. My original intention was to introduce some metre and rhyme into my version, but, like Havelaar, I think it will be better without such a corset: I do not know where I shall die. I have seen the great sea of the South Coast, when I was there making salt with my father; If I die on the sea, and they throw my body into the deep water, sharks will come. They will swim round about my corpse, and ask: "Which of us shall devour this body, descending through the water?" I shall not hear. I do not know where I shall die. I have seen the burning house of Pa-Ansu, which he had set on fire himself because he was demented. If I die in a burning house, the flaming timbers will fall down on my corpse, and outside the house there will be a hue and cry of people, throwing water to kill the fire. I shall not hear.

42

MULTATULI I do not know where I shall die. I have seen little Si-Unah fall from the kelapa tree, when he was picking a kelapa for his mother. If I fall from a kelapa tree I shall lie dead at its foot, in the bushes, like SiUnah. My mother will not cry out for me, for she is dead. But others will cry with loud voices: "Lo, there lies Saijah!" I shall not hear. I do not know where I shall die. I have seen the dead body of Pa-lisu, who had died of old age, for his hair was white. If I die of old age, with white hair, the keening women will stand round my body. And loudly they will lament, like the keening women round Pa-Lisu's body. And the grandchildren will also weep, very loudly. I shall not hear. I do not know where I shall die. I have seen many at Badur who had died. They were wrapped in a white garment, and were buried in the earth. If I die at Badur, and they bury me outside the village, eastward against the hill, where the grass is high, then will Adinda pass that way, and the hem of her sarong will softly sweep the grass in passing. . . . And I shall hear.

Saijah arrived in Batavia. He asked a gentleman to take him into his service as groom, which the gentleman promptly did, because he did not understand Saijah's language, Sundanese. For in Batavia people like to have servants who have not yet learnt Malay, and consequently are not yet so corrupted as others who have been longer in contact with European civilization. Saijah soon learned Malay, but he behaved in an exemplary manner, for he never ceased to think of the two buffaloes he wanted to buy, and of Adinda. He grew tall and strong because he ate everyday, which was not always possible at Badur. He was popular in the stables, and would certainly not have been rejected if he had asked the hand of the coachman's daughter in marriage. And his master, too, liked Saijah so much that he soon promoted him to the position of houseboy. His wages were raised, and he was constantly being given presents, for people were extremely satisfied with his work. The mistress of the house had read Sue's novel The Wandering Jew, that nine days' wonder, and could not help thinking of Prince Djalma when she saw Saijah. And the young ladies also understood better than before why the Javanese painter Radhen Saleh had had such a vogue in Paris.

SAl J AH AND ADINDA

43

But they thought Sa'ijah ungrateful when, after nearly three years' service, he gave notice and asked for a certificate of good conduct. However, they could not refuse him this; and Sai'jah set out for his native village with a joyful heart. He passed Pising, where Havelaar had once lived, long before. But that Sai'jah did not know. And even if he had known, he carried in his soul quite different things to occupy him. He counted the treasures he was taking home. In a bamboo roll he had his pass and his master's testimonial. In a small cylindrical case, attached to a leather strap, something heavy seemed to be constantly nudging his shoulder, but he liked to feel it . . . and no wonder! In it were thirty Spanish dollars, enough to buy three buffaloes. What would Adinda say?! And that was not all. On his back could be seen the silver-mounted sheath of a kris which he carried in his belt. The hilt was undoubtedly of finely carved kemuning, for he had wrapped it most carefully in a piece of silk. And he had still more treasures. In the knot of his loincloth he was keeping a woman's girdle of broad silver links with a gold ikat-pending or clasp. To be sure, the girdle was short, but then she was so slender . . . Adinda! And hanging from a thin cord round his neck, beneath his vest, he carried a little silk bag containing some dried melati. Was it surprising that he tarried no longer at Tangferang than was necessary to visit the friend of his father who made such fine straw hats? Was it surprising that he had little to say to the girls he met on the road, who asked him "Whither and whence?" which is the customary greeting in those parts? Was it surprising that he no longer thought Serang so splendid, now that he had come to know Batavia? That he no longer crept away into the pager as he had done three years before, when the resident drove past, now that he had seen the much greater Lord who lives at Buitenzorg and is the grandfather of the Susuhunan of Solo? 2 Was it surprising that he paid little attention to the stories of the fellow travellers who walked part of the way with him and were full of all the news of Bantan-Kidul? That he scarcely listened when they told him that the attempts to grow coffee had been entirely abandoned, after much fruitless labour? That the district chief of Parang-Kujang had been sentenced to fourteen days' detention in his father-in-law's house for highway robbery? That the divisional centre was now Rangkas-Betung? That a new assistant resident had arrived because the previous one had died a few months before? And how the new official had spoken at the first Sebah meeting? How for some time now nobody had been punished for complaining, and how the people hoped that all that had been stolen would be returned or made good? No . . . he had sweeter visions before his mind's eye. He scanned the

44

MULTATOLI

clouds for the ketapang tree, as he was still too far off to see it at Badur. He clutched at the surrounding air as though wishing to embrace the form he would find waiting for him under that tree. He pictured to himself Adinda's face, her head, her shoulder . . . he saw the heavy konde, so black and glossy, caught in its own snare, hanging down her neck . . . he saw her great eyes, lustrous in dark reflection . . . the nostrils she had so haughtily wrinkled as a child whenever he teased her—how was it possible—and the corner of her mouth, in which she stored a smile. He saw her breast, which by now would be swelling under the kebaja . . . he saw how the sarong, which she herself had woven, tightly sheathed her hips and, following the curve of the thigh, descended past the knee in exquisite undulation to her small foot. . . . No, he heard but little of what people said to him. He heard quite different tones. He heard Adinda say: "Welcome to you, Saijah! I have thought of you while spinning and weaving, and while pounding rice in the block that carries thrice twelve notches made by my hand. Here am I, under the ketapang on the first day of the new moon. Welcome to you, Saijah: I will be your wife!" That was the music which sounded so delicious in his ear, and made him deaf to all the news the people told him on his way. At last he saw the ketapang. Or rather, he saw a great dark patch which hid many stars from his eyes. That could only be the djati wood, near the tree where he was to see Adinda again, at sunrise tomorrow. He searched in the dark, feeling with his hands the trunks of many trees. It was not long before he found a familiar roughness on the south side of one, and he put his finger into the slit which Si-Panteh had hacked in it with his parang, to exorcize the pontianak who was responsible for the toothache of Panteh's mother, shortly before his little brother was born. This was the ketapang Saijah sought. Yes, this was indeed the spot where he had seen Adinda for the first time with other eyes than the rest of his playfellows, because there she had refused for the first time to take part in a game which she had played with all the children—boys and girls—only a little while before. And it was there that she had given him the melati. He sat down at the foot of the tree, and looked up at the stars. And when one shot across the sky, he took it to be a greeting to him on his return to Badur. And he wondered whether Adinda would now be asleep? And whether she had correctly marked the moons in her rice block? It would grieve him so deeply if she had missed one, as though they had not been enough . . . six-and-thirty! And he wondered whether she had batiked pretty sarongs and slendangsl And he also asked himself, with some curiosity, who might now be living in his father's house? And his childhood came back to him, and his mother, and how that buffalo had

SAlJAH AND ADINDA

45

saved him from the tiger, and he could not help musing on what might have become of Adinda if the buffalo had been less staunch. He paid close attention to the setting of the stars in the west, and with every star that vanished below the horizon he calculated how much nearer the sun was to rising in the east, and how much nearer he was himself to seeing Adinda again. For she would be sure to come at the first gleam, yes, she would already be there in the grey of early dawn . . . oh why had she not come to the tree the day before? It grieved him that she had not anticipated it—the glorious moment which had shone before him with ineffable radiance for three long years. And, unjust as he was in the selfishness of his love, it seemed to him that Adinda should have been there, waiting for him, who now complained— and before the appointed time, at that!—because he had to wait for her. He complained without cause. For the sun had still not yet risen, the Eye of Day had still not cast a first glance on the plain. To be sure, the stars were paling up there above his head, mortified over the approaching end of their reign . . . to be sure, strange colours streamed across the summits of the mountains, which looked darker the more sharply they were outlined against a lighter background . . . to be sure, something glowing fleeted hither and thither through the clouds in the east—arrows of gold and fire were being shot to and fro, following the skyline. But they vanished again, seeming to drop down behind the incomprehensible curtain that continued to veil the day from Sa'ijah's eyes. And nevertheless it gradually grew lighter and lighter around him. He could already see the landscape, and he could already make out the tufted crest of the kelapa wood in which Badur lies hidden . . . there slept Adinda! No, she slept no longer! How could she sleep? Did she not know Saijah would be waiting for her? Assuredly she had not slept at all that night! Doubtless the village watchman had knocked at the door to ask why the pelita was still burning in her little house; and with a sweet laugh she had told him that a vow was keeping her up to finish weaving the slendang she was working on, which had to be ready for the first day of the new moon. . . . Or she had spent the night in darkness, sitting on her rice block and counting with eager fingers to make sure there really were six-and-thirty deep notches carved in it, side by side. And she had amused herself with a pretense of fright, imagining she might have miscounted and that perhaps one of them was still wanting . . . so that again, and yet again, and over and over again, she could revel in the glorious certainty that without a shadow of doubt thrice twelve moons had passed since she had last seen Sai'jah.

46

MULTATULI

She, too, because it was already growing so light, would strain her eyes in a vain endeavour to send her glances down over the horizon, that they might meet the sun, the laggard sun, which tarried . . . tarried. . . . There came a streak of bluish red that fastened on to the clouds, and their rims lit up and glowed. And lightning flashed, and once again fiery arrows shot through the air, but this time they did not fall, they fixed themselves firmly on the dark background, and shed their glow around them in wider and wider circles, and met, crossing, swinging, winding, wandering, and they fused together in fiery sheaves, and flashed and shimmered in golden gleams on a ground of nacre, and there was red, and blue, and yellow, and silver, and purple, and azure in it all. . . . Oh God! That was the dawn; that was the coming of Adinda! Sa'ijah had never learnt to pray, and it would have been a pity to teach him, for holier prayers and more fervent thanksgiving than were found in the speechless ecstasy of his soul could not have been expressed in human language. He did not want to go to Badur. To see Adinda again appeared to him less glorious than to be sure of seeing her again. He made himself comfortable at the foot of the ketapang, and let his eyes stray over the countryside. Nature smiled on him, and seemed to bid him welcome as a mother welcomes her returning child. And just as the mother depicts her joy by deliberately recalling past sorrow, by showing what she had preserved as a keepsake during her child's absence, so did Sa'ijah delight himself by looking again at so many spots that had witnessed episodes in his short life. But however much his eyes or his thoughts might wander round, his gaze and his longing returned every time to the path that leads from Badur to the ketapang tree. All that his senses perceived bore the name Adinda. He saw the precipice on the left, where the earth was so yellow and where a young buffalo had once slid into the depths: there the villages had come together to save the animal—for it is no trivial matter to lose a young buffalo—and they had let each other down on strong rattan cords. Adinda's father had been the bravest . . . oh, how Adinda had clapped her hands! And over there, on the other side, where the clump of coconut palms waved above the huts of the village, somewhere there Si-Unah had fallen from a tree and died. How his mother had wept: "because Si-Unah was still so small," she wailed . . . as though she would have grieved less if he has been bigger! But it was true, he was small, for he was smaller and more fragile even than Adinda. . . . No one came along the path that led from Badur to the ketapang. But she would come by and by; it was still very early. Sa'ijah saw a bajing darting to and fro about the trunk of a kelapa tree, with frisky nimbleness. The little creature—a plague to the owner of the

SAlJAH a n d a d i n d a

47

tree, but so charming in its appearance and movements—clambered tirelessly up and down. Sai'jah saw it and forced himself to keep looking at it, because that gave his mind some rest from the hard labour in which it had been engaged since sunrise . . . rest from the exhausting strain of waiting. Anon his impressions took the form of words; and he sang of what was passing in his soul. I would sooner read his song to you in Malay, that Italian of the East; but here is the translation: See how the bajing seeks food to sustain him in the kelapa tree. He climbs, descends, darts to left and right, he goes round the tree, leaps, falls, rises and falls again: he has no wings, and yet is swift as a bird. Happiness to you, my bajing, may bliss befall you! You will certainly find the food you seek . . . but I sit alone by the djati wood, waiting for the food of my heart. Long has the belly of my bajing been filled. . . . Long has he been back in the comfort of his nest. . . . But ever my soul and my heart are bitterly sad . . . Adinda

And still there was no one on the path leading from Badur to the ketapang. . . . Saijah's eye fell on the butterfly, that seemed to rejoice at the growing warmth of the day: See how the butterfly flits hither and thither. His tiny wings gleam like a many-tinted flower. His little heart loves the blossom of the kenari: surely he is seeking his fragrant belovdd! Happiness to you, my butterfly, may bliss befall you! You will certainly find what you seek. . . . But I sit alone by the djati wood, waiting for the love of my heart. Long ago has the butterfly kissed the kenari blossom he so much adores. . . . But ever my soul and my heart are bitterly sad . . . Adinda!

And there was no one on the path leading from Badur to the ketapang. The sun was already high . . . there was already heat in the air. See how the sun glitters yonder: high, high above the hill of waringin trees!

48

MULTATULI

She feels too warm, she would sink down, to sleep in the sea, as in the arms of a spouse. Happiness to you, O sun, may bliss befall you! What you seek you will certainly find. . . . But I sit alone by the djati wood, waiting for rest for my heart. Long will the sun have gone down, and sleep in the sea, when all is dark. . . . And ever my soul and my heart will be bitterly sad . . . Adinda! Still there was no one on the path leading from Badur to the

ketapang.

When butterflies no longer flit hither and thither, when the stars no longer twinkle, when the melati is no longer fragrant, when there are no more sad hearts, nor wild beasts in the wood . . . when the sun shall stray from her path, and the moon forget what east and west are . . . if then Adinda has still not come, then shall an angel with dazzling wings come down to earth, seeking what stayed behind. Then shall my body lie here, under the ketapang. . . . My soul is bitterly sad . . . Adinda! And still, still there was no one on the path leading from Badur to the ketapang. Then shall my body be seen by the angel. He will point it out to his brothers, and will say: 'See, there a man has died and been forgotten! His cold, stiff mouth kisses a melati flower. Come, let us lift him up and take him to heaven, him, who waited for Adinda till he died. Surely he should not be left behind here, whose heart had strength to love so deeply!' Then shall once more my stiff, cold mouth open to call Adinda, love of my heart. . . . Once more, once more shall I kiss the melati given to me by her . . . Adinda . . . Adinda! There was no one on the path leading from Badur to the ketapang. Oh, she had undoubtedly fallen asleep towards dawn, worn out with watching through the night, with watching through many long nights!

SAl J AH AND ADIND A

49

She had probably not slept for weeks: that was it! Should he arise, and go to Badur? No! Was it to seem as though he doubted she would come? Suppose he called to the man yonder, who was driving his buffalo to the field? But the man was too far away. And besides, Sa'ijah did not want to talk about Adinda, did not want to ask after Adinda. . . . He wanted to see her, her only, her first! Oh surely, surely she would come soon! He would wait, wait. . . . But what if she were ill, or . . . dead? Like a wounded deer, Sa'ijah flew up the path that leads from the ketapang to the village where Adinda lived. He saw nothing and heard nothing, and yet he could have heard something, for there were people standing in the road at the entrance to the village who called "Sa'ijah, Sa'ijah!" But . . . was it his haste, his passion, which prevented him from finding Adinda's house? In his headlong dash he had reached the end of the road, where the village stops, and like a madman he returned, and smote his forehead because he had been able to pass her house without seeing it! But again he was back at the entrance to Badur, and—God, God, was it a dream?—again he had not found Adinda's house! Once more he flew back, and all at once he stood still, grasped his head with both his hands as though to press out of it the frenzy that overcame him, and cried loudly: "Drunk . . . drunk . . . I am drunk!" And the women of Badur came out of their houses, and with pity they saw poor Sa'ijah standing there, for they recognized him and realized that he was looking for Adinda's house, and they knew that there was no house of Adinda's in the village of Badur. For, when the district chief of Parang-Kujang took the buffalo of Adinda's father. . . . I told you, reader, that my tale is monotonous. . . . Then Adinda's mother had died of heartbreak. And her youngest sister had died, because she had no mother to suckle her. And Adinda's father, who was afraid of being punished for not paying his land tax. . . . I know, I know, my tale is monotonous! . . . Adinda's father had fled the country. He had taken Adinda with him, and her brothers. But he had heard how Saijah's father had been punished with rattan strips at Buitenzorg because he had left Badur without a pass. And therefore Adinda's father had not gone to Buitenzorg, nor to Krawang, nor to the Preanger nor to the Batavian districts. . . . He had gone to Chilangkahan, the district of Lebak which borders on the sea. There he had hidden in the woods and awaited the arrival of Pa- En-

50

MULTATULI

to, Pa-Lontah, Si-Uniah, Pa-Ansiu, Abdul-Isma and a few more who had been robbed of their buffaloes by the district chief of Parang-Kujang and were all afraid of being punished for not paying their land tax. During the night they had seized a fishing prau there, and had put out to sea. They had steered a westerly course, keeping the land to starboard as far as Java Head. Thence they had steered northwards, until they sighted Tanah-Itam, which European sailors call Princes Island. They had skirted the eastern coast of that island, and then they had made for Kaiser's Bay, taking their bearings by the high peak in the Lampong Districts. That, at any rate, was the route which people in Lebak whispered into each other's ears whenever there was talk of "official" buffalo-theft and unpaid land tax. But the dazed Sa'ijah did not clearly understand what was said to him. He did not even quite grasp the news of his father's death. There was a buzzing in his ears, as though someone had beaten a gong in his head. He felt the blood being forced in jerks through the veins at his temples, which threatened to burst under the pressure. He did not speak, and stared dully about him, without seeing any of the things that were near him; and at last he burst into ghastly laughter. An old woman took him along to her hut, and tended the poor crazy wretch. It was not long before he stopped laughing so horribly; but still he did not speak. Only during the night were those who shared the hut with him startled into wakefulness by his voice, when he sang tonelessly: "I do not know where I shall die. " A n d some of the inhabitants of Badur put money together to pay for a sacrifice to the crocodiles of the Chiujung for the recovery of Sa'ijah, whom they looked upon as demented. But he was not demented. For one night, when the moon was shining brightly, he rose from his bale-bate and stole softly out, and searched for the place where Adinda had lived. It was not easy to find, because so many houses had fallen into ruins. But he seemed to recognize the place from the width of the angle which certain beams of light through the trees formed in meeting his eye, as the mariner takes his bearings from lighthouses or prominent mountain peaks. Yes, it must be there . . . Adinda had lived therel Stumbling over half-decayed bamboo and fragments of the fallen roof, he cleared a way for himself to the sanctuary he sought. And indeed, he still found portions of the upright wall beside which Adinda's bale-bale had stood, and stuck in that wall there was still the bamboo peg on which he had hung her dress when she lay down to sleep. . . . But the bale-bale had collapsed like the house, and was almost gone to dust. He picked up a handful of that dust, pressed it to his open lips, and drew a deep, deep breath. . . .

SAlJAH AND ADINDA

51

Next day he asked the old woman who had looked after him where the rice block was that had stood in the compound before Adinda's house. The woman was delighted to hear him speak, and went all round the village to find the block. When she was able to tell Sa'ijah who the new owner was, he followed her in silence, and, when he had been taken to the rice block, he counted on it two-and-thirty notches. . . . Then he gave the old woman as many Spanish dollars as would buy a buffalo, and left Badur. At Chilangkahan he bought a fisherman's prau, and in it, after a few days' sailing, he reached the Lampong Districts, where rebels were resisting the Dutch Government. He joined a group of Bantammers, not so much in order to fight as to find Adinda. For he was gentle by nature, and more susceptible to sorrow than to rancour. One day, when the rebels had again been defeated, he wandered about in a village that had just been taken by the Dutch army and was therefore in flames. Sa'ijah knew that the band which had been annihilated there had consisted largely of men from Bantam. Like a ghost he roamed around in the huts which had not yet been entirely destroyed by the fire, and found the corpse of Adinda's father, with a Are/ewa/jg-bayonet wound in the chest. Beside him Sa'ijah saw the three murdered brothers of Adinda, youths, hardly more than children still; and a little farther away, the body of Adinda, naked, horribly abused. . . . A narrow strip of blue linen protruded from the gaping wound in her breast that seemed to have ended a long struggle. . . . Then Sa'ijah rushed towards some Dutch soldiers who, with levelled rifles, were driving the last surviving rebels into the fire of the blazing houses. With open arms he ran on to the broad sword-bayonets, pressed forward with all his might, and by a final effort even pushed the soldiers back, until the hilts of the bayonets grated against his breastbone. And there was great rejoicing in Batavia over the latest victory, which had added fresh laurels to those already won by the Dutch East Indian Army. And the governor general wrote to the Motherland to say that peace had been restored in the Lampong Districts. And the king of the Netherlands, advised by his ministers, once again rewarded so much heroism with many decorations. And doubtless, at Sunday service or prayer meeting, hymns of thanksgiving rose to heaven from the hearts of the godly on learning that the "Lord of Hosts" had again fought under the Dutch banner. . . . "But, moved by so much woe, that day God turned their offerings away!"

I have made the end of Saijah's story shorter than I need have done if I had felt inclined to depict horrors. The reader will have noticed how I

52

MULTATULI

lingered over my hero's sojourn under the ketapang as though unwilling to face the tragic denouement, which I touched on only superficially, with aversion. And yet that was not my intention when I started to write about Sa'ijah. At first I feared I should need stronger colours if I was to move the reader when describing such strange conditions. Little by little, however, I realized that it would be an insult to my public to believe that they would like to have more blood spilt in my picture. And yet I could have done so, for I have documents before me . . . but no: I would sooner make a confession. Yes, a confession! Reader . . . I do not know whether Sa'ijah loved Adinda. Nor whether he went to Batavia. Nor whether he was murdered in the Lampong Districts by Dutch bayonets. I do not know whether his father succumbed as a result of the rattan flogging he received for leaving Badur without a pass. I do not know whether Adinda counted the moons by notches in her rice block. I do not know all this! But I know more. I know, and I can prove, that there were many Adindas and many Sa'fjahs, and that what is fiction in particular is truth in general. I have already said that I can give the names of persons who were driven from their homes by oppression, like the fathers of Sa'ijah and Adinda. It is not my purpose in this work to make statements such as would be required by a tribunal sitting to pronounce judgment on the manner in which Dutch authority is exercised in the East Indies—statements which would only have power to convince those who had the patience to read through them with an attention and interest not to be expected from a public that reads for pleasure. Hence, instead of bare names of persons and places, with dates—instead of a copy of the list of thefts and extortions which lies before me— instead of these, I have tried to give a sketch of what may go on in the hearts of poor people robbed of their means of subsistence, or, more precisely: I have only suggested what may go on in their hearts, fearing that I might be too wide of the mark if I firmly delineated emotions which I never felt myself. But . . . as regards the underlying truth? O that I were summoned to substantiate what I have written! O that people would say: "You have invented this Sa'ijah . . . he never sang that song . . . no Adinda ever lived at Badur!" But then, again. . . . O that such might be said by those with the power and the desire to do justice as soon as I had proved I was no slanderer! Is the parable of the good Samaritan a lie because perhaps no despoiled traveller was ever received into a Samaritan house? Is the parable of the Sower a lie because—as everyone realizes—no husbandman would ever cast his seed on stony ground? Or—to come down to a level nearer

SAÏJAH AND ADINDA

53

that of my book—may one deny the truth which underlies Uncle Tom's Cabin because Little Eva never existed? Shall it be said to the authoress of that immortal plea—immortal not on account of art or talent, but because of its purpose and the impression it makes—shall it be said to her: "You have lied, the slaves are not ill-treated, for . . . not all of your book is true: it's a novel!" Was not she, too, compelled to give, instead of an enumeration of dry facts, a story embodying those facts, so that the realization of the need for reform might penetrate the hearts of her readers? Would her book have been read if she had given it the form of a court deposition? Is it her fault—or mine—that truth, in order to find an entrance, so often has to borrow the guise of a lie? And to others, who will perhaps contend that I have idealized Sa'ijah and his love, I must put the question: "How do you know?" For it is a fact that very few Europeans think it worth their trouble to stoop and observe the emotions of those coffee- and sugar-producing machines we call "natives." But, even supposing this objection was well-founded, he who brings it forward as evidence against the main thesis of my book gives me a great victory. For, translated, these considerations are as follows: "The evil you combat does not exist, or is not so very bad, because the native is not like your Sa'ijah . . . the ill-treatment of the Javanese is not so great an evil as it would be if you had drawn your Saïjah more accurately. The Sundanese does not sing such songs; does not love like that; does not feel like that; and therefore. . . . " No, minister for the colonies. . . . No, governors general (retired) . . . that is not what you have to prove! You have to prove that the people are not ill-treated, irrespective of whether there are sentimental Saïjahs among them or not. Or would you dare maintain that it is lawful to steal buffaloes from people who do not love, who sing no melancholy songs, who are not sentimental? If I were attacked on literary grounds I should defend the accuracy of my picture of Sa'ijah. But in a political context I would at once concede the truth of any strictures on that accuracy, in order to prevent the main argument from being shifted on to a wrong basis. It is all the same to me whether I am considered an incompetent artist, provided the admission be made that the ill-treatment of the native is: outrageous! For that was the word used in the notes by Havelaar's predecessor, as shown to Contrôleur Verbrugge—a note which I have before me. But I have other evidence! And that is just as well, for Havelaar's predecessor might also have been wrong. Alas! \ï he was wrong, he paid very dearly for it!

54 NOTES 1.

2.

MULTATULI

Kite. In Java it is not only the children who play with this toy. The lalayang [sic] has no tail, and describes all kinds of gyrations, which can be controlled to a certain extent by the person holding the cord. The object of the game referred to is to cut the opponent's cord in the air. The efforts made to do this result in a sort of fight, which is very entertaining to watch and stimulates the onlookers into taking sides enthusiastically. Saijah's supposition that "little Jamin" could have cheated is just another (commonly held) East Indian delusion, in view of the skill in throwing that would have been required to cut the cord in this way. [Multatuli] This footnote is one of the many which Multatuli added to his edition of 1881. Most of the footnotes for this selection have been made superfluous by the wordlist in the back of this anthology. Footnotes like the above show an interest in the customs of the Indonesian people, even if the information revealed in them is not always accurate, as in a previous one, where Multatuli explains that in the process of batik, paint is poured out of a little can over the material. [Ed.] Susuhunan of Solo. The emperor of Surakarta. In his official correspondence he calls the governor general by a number of titles including that of "grandfather." [Multatuli]

4.

LOUIS MARIE ANNE COUPERUS

INTRODUCTION

Louis Couperus (1863-1923) was born in the Hague in that social circle consisting of Dutchmen who had spent most of their lives in the Indies. Couperus's father had been a government official for most of his career. Two of Couperus's brothers received their education at the Academy in Delft and returned to the Indies. When Couperus was nine years old, his parents decided to move back to the Indies to be closer to the children who had returned there and to look after the family property. Couperus attended the gymnasium in Batavia and, upon return to Holland, a Dutch high school. Although a later degree entitled him to teach Dutch, Couperus actually never taught, but devoted all his time to writing. Although his study must certainly have familiarized him with the trends in Dutch literature, it is difficult to place Couperus within one of the numerous Dutch trends of his time. Several factors contributed to this, principally his Indisch experience. Although he spent only six years of his youth in the colonies, this sojourn occurred at a crucial, formative stage in his life (ages nine to fifteen). And even when not in the Indies, Couperus was part of the Indisch world as it gathered in the Hague, set apart from the numerous other other social circles of that city. This Indisch world inside of Holland appears in many of Couperus's works. For Couperus, leaving Holland was a prerequisite for writing. His best works were created while he was in Italy and southern France. The Hidden Force was written in 1899, during Couperus's second stay in the Indies. Several years earlier, he had married his cousin Elisabeth Baud, who had also spent her childhood in the Indies. Together they returned

56

LOUIS COUPERUS

for a prolonged visit and lived for some time with Couperus's sister, who had married the resident of Pasuruan. It was this environment which Couperus recreated in The Hidden Force. In this novel, Otto Van Oudijck, the resident of Labuwangi, is living in the resident's mansion with his second wife Léonie. They have no children, but Van Oudijck has several children from his first marriage: Theo and Doddie who live with their father and stepmother, and the twins René and Ricus who are away at boarding school. Van Oudijck's former wife, now living in Batavia, is part Indonesian and Van Oudijck's children show this racial mixture in their appearance as well as in their speech. Their upbringing has been that of Indisch children. Léonie van Oudijck, although of Dutch parentage, was born in the Indies. Van Oudijck himself is the totok, the Dutchman from Holland, the outsider in this story, albeit he is also its tragic hero, who subdues the "hidden force," but can never be the victor. This work is not perverse, as Gerard Brom has suggested in Java in onze kunst. It relates the hopeless struggle of the Dutch European in dealing with forces he does not understand, the existence of which he does not even acknowledge. These forces nevertheless manage to invade his life and confront him as he tries to carry out his official duties in a foreign culture. But these hidden forces are not always entirely foreign. In Van Oudijck's own family there is a driving force, an erotic desire, which unites Van Oudijck's second wife Léonie and his son Theo. Here again Van Oudijck fails to notice. Couperus does not harshly judge the resident. Indeed he draws out our sympathy for the tragic stance of a lone, just man. But the hero's downfall is nevertheless created by his own lack of appreciation of forces which are beyond his grasp.1 NOTE 1.

The following excerpt was taken from Louis Couperus, The Hidden Force, trans. Alexander Teixeira de Mattos (London: Cape, 1922), pp. 213-243. Reprinted with permission from the publisher.

The Hidden Force

The early hours of the day were often cool, washed clean by the abundant rains; and in the young sunshine of those morning hours the earth emitted a tender haze, a blue softening of every hard line and colour, so that the Lange Laan, with its villa residences and fenced gardens seemed to be surrounded with the vagueness and beauty of a dream-avenue: the dream-columns rose insubstantially like a vision of pillared tranquillity; the lines of the roofs acquired distinction in their indefiniteness; the hues of the trees and the outlines of their leafy tops were etherealized into tender pastels of misty rose and even mistier blue, with a single brighter gleam of morning yellow and a distant purple streak of dawn. And over all this morning world fell a cool dew, like a fountain that rose from that drenched ground and fell back in pearly drops in the childlike gentleness of the first sunbeams. It was as though every morning the earth and her people were newly created, as though mankind were newly born to a youth of innocence and paradisal unconsciousness. But the illusion of the dawn lasted but a minute, barely a few moments: the sun, rising higher in the sky, shone forth from the virginal mist; boastfully it unfurled its proud halo of piercing rays, pouring down its burning gold, full of godlike pride because it was reigning over its brief moment of the day for the clouds were already mustering, greyly advancing like battle-hordes of dark phantoms, pressing eerily onwards: deep bluish-black and heavy lead-grey phantoms, overmastering the sun and crushing the earth under white torrents of rain. And the evening twilight, short and hurried, letting fall veil upon veil of crape, was like an overwhelming melancholy of earth, nature and life, in which they forgot that paradisal moment of the

58

LOUIS COUPERUS

morning; the white rain rustled down like an inundating tide of melancholy; the road and gardens were dripping, drinking up the falling torrents until they shone like marshy pools and flooded meadows in the dusky evening; a chill, spectral mist rose on high with a slow movement as of ghostly draperies, which hovered over the pools; and the chilly houses, scantily lit with their smoking lamps, round which clouds of insects swarmed, falling on every hand and dying with singed wings, became filled with a yet chillier sadness, an overshadowing fear of the menacing world out of doors, of the all-powerful cloud-herds, of the boundless immensity that came whispering on the gusty winds from the far-off unknown, high as the heavens, wide as the firmament, against which the open houses appeared unprotected, while the inmates were small and petty, for all their civilization and science and soulful feelings, small as wriggling insects, insignificant, abandoned to the play of the giant mysteries blowing up from the distance. Leonie van Oudijck, in the half-lit back verandah of the residency, was talking to Theo in a soft voice: and Oorip squatted beside her. " I t ' s nonsense, Oorip!" she cried, peevishly. "Really not, kandjeng," said the maid. " I t ' s not nonsense. I hear them every evening." "Where?" asked Theo. " I n the waringin tree behind the house, high up, in the top branches." " I t ' s luaks," said Theo. " I t ' s not luaks, tuan," the maid insisted. "Massa! As if Oorip didn't know how wild cats mew! Kriow, kriow: that's how they go. What we hear every night is the pontianaks. It's the little children crying in the trees. The souls of the little children, crying in the trees." " I t ' s the wind, Oorip." "Massa, kandjeng, as if Oorip couldn't hear the wind! Boo-ooh: that's how the wind goes; and then the branches move. But this is the little children, moaning in the top boughs; and the branches don't move them. This is tjelaka, kandjeng." "And why should it be tjelaka?" "Oorip knows but dares not tell. Tentu, the kandjeng will be angry." "Come, Oorip, tell m e . " "It's because of the kandjeng tuan, the kandjeng residin." "Why?" "The other day with the pasar malam in the alun-alun and the pasar malam for the orang Blanda, in the kebon-kota.'' "Well, what about it?" "The day wasn't well chosen, according to the petangans. It was an unlucky day. . . . And with the new well. . . . "

THE HIDDEN FORCE

59

"What about the new well?" "There was no sedekah. So no one uses the new well. Every one fetches water from the old well. . . . The water's not good either. For from the new well the woman rises with the bleeding hole in her breast. . . . And Miss Doddie. . . . " " W h a t of h e r ? " "Miss Doddie has seen the white hadji going by! The white hadji is not a good hadji. He's a ghost. . . . Miss Doddie saw him twice: at Patjaram and here. . . . Listen, kandjeng!" "What?" " D o n ' t you hear? The children's little souls are moaning in the top boughs. There's no wind blowing at this moment. Listen, listen: That's not luaksl The luaks go kriow, kriow, when they're courting! These are the little souls!" They all three listened. Léonie mechanically pressed closer to Theo. She looked deathly pale. The roomy back verandah, with the table always laid, stretched away in the dim light of a single hanging lamp. The half-swamped back garden gleamed wet out of the darkness of the waringim, full of pattering drops but motionless in the impenetrable masses of their velvety foliage. And an inexplicable, almost imperceptible crooning, like a gentle mystery of little tormented souls, whimpered high above their heads, as though in the sky or in the topmost branches of the trees. Now it was a short cry, then a moan as of a little sick child, then a soft sobbing as of little girl children in misery. " W h a t sort of animal can it b e ? " asked Theo. "Is it birds or insects?" The moaning and sobbing was very distinct. Léonie looked white as a sheet and was trembling all over. " D o n ' t be so frightened," said Theo. " O f course it's animals." But he himself was white as chalk with fear; and, when they looked each other in the eyes, she understood that he too was afraid. She clutched his arm, nestled up against him. The maid squatted low, humbly, as though accepting all fate as an impenetrable mystery. She did not wish to run away. But the eyes of the white man and woman held only one idea, the idea of escaping. Suddenly, both of them, the stepmother and the stepson, who were bringing shame upon the house, were afraid, as with a single fear, afraid as of a threatening punishment. They did not speak, they said nothing to each other; they leant against each other, understanding each other's trembling, two white children of this mysterious Indian soil, who from their childhood had breathed the mystic air of Java and had unconsciously heard the vague, stealthily approaching mystery as an accustomed music, a music which they had not noticed, as though mystery were an accustomed thing. As they stood thus, trembling

60

LOUIS COUPERUS

and looking at each other, the wind rose, bearing away with it the secret of the tiny souls, bearing away with it the little souls themselves: the interlacing branches swayed angrily and the rain began to fall once more. A shuddering chill came fanning up, filling the house; a sudden draught blew out the lamp. And they remained in the dark, a little longer, she, despite the openness of the verandah, almost in the arms of her stepson and lover; the maid crouching at their feet. But then she flung off his arm, flung off the black oppression of darkness and fear, filled with the rustling of the rain; the wind was cold and shivery and she staggered indoors, on the verge of fainting. Theo and Oorip followed her. The middle gallery was lighted. Van Oudijck's office was open. He was working. L6onie stood irresolute, with Theo, not knowing what to do. The maid disappeared, muttering. It was then that she heard a whizzing sound and a small round stone flew through the gallery, fell somewhere near at hand. She gave a cry; and, behind the screen which divided the gallery from the office where Van Oudijck sat at his writing table, she flung herself once more into Theo's arms, abandoning all her caution. They stood shivering in each other's arms. Van Oudijck had heard her: he stood up, came from behind the screen. His eyes blinked, as though tired with working. L6onie and Theo had recovered themselves. "What is it, L6onie?" "Nothing," she said, not daring to tell him of the little souls or of the stone, afraid of the threatening punishment. She and Theo stood there like criminals, both of them white and trembling. Van Oudijck, his mind still on his work, did not notice anything. "Nothing," she repeated. "The mat is frayed and . . . and I nearly stumbled. But there was something I wanted to tell you, Otto." Her voice shook, but he did not hear it, blind to what she did, deaf to what she said, still absorbed in his papers. "What's that?" "Oorip has suggested that the servants would like to have a sedekah, because a new well has been built in the grounds. . . . " "That well which is two months old?" "They don't make use of the water." "Why not?" "They are superstitious, you know; they refuse to use the water before the sedekah has been given.'' "Then it ought to have been done at once. Why didn't they tell Kario at once to ask me? I can't think of all that nonsense myself. But I would have given them the sedekah then. Now it's like mustard after meat. The well is two months old." "It would be a good thing all the same, Papa," said Theo. " Y o u know

THE HIDDEN FORCE

61

what the Javanese are like: they won't use the well as long as they've not bad asedekah." " N o , " said Van Oudijck, unwillingly, shaking his head. " T o give a sedekah now would have no sense in it. I would have done so gladly; but now, after two months, it would be absurd. They ought to have asked for it at once." " D o , O t t o , " Leonie entreated. " I should give them the sedekah. You'll please me if you d o . " "Mamma half promised Oorip," Theo insisted gently. They stood trembling before him, white in the face, like petitioners. But he, weary and thinking of his papers, was seized with a stubborn unwillingness, though he was seldom able to refuse his wife anything. "No, Lfconie," he said, decidedly. " A n d you must never promise things of which you're not certain." He turned away, went round the screen and sat down to his work. They looked at each other, the mother and the stepson. Slowly, aimlessly, they moved away, to the front verandah, where a moist, dripping darkness drifted between the stately pillars. They saw a white form coming through the swamped garden. They started, for they were now afraid of everything, thinking at the sight of every figure of the chastisement that would overtake them like a strange thing, so long as they remained in the paternal house which they had covered with shame. But, when they looked more closely, they saw it was Doddie. She had come home; she said, trembling, that she had been at Eva Eldersma's. Actually she had been walking with Addie de Luce; and they had sheltered from the rain in the compound. She was very pale, she was trembling; but Leonie and Theo did not notice it in the dark verandah, even as she herself did not see that her stepmother and Theo were pale. She was trembling like that because in the garden—Addie had brought her to the gate—stones had been thrown at her. It must have been some impudent Javanese, who hated her father and his house and his household; but, in the dark verandah, where she saw her stepmother and her brother sitting side by side in silence, as though in despair, she suddenly felt, she did not know why, that it was not an impudent Javanese. . . . She sat down by them, silently. They looked out at the damp, dark garden, over which the spacious night was hovering as on the wings of a gigantic bat. And in the mute melancholy which drifted like a grey twilight between the stately white pillars, all three of them—Doddie singly, but the stepmother and stepson together—felt frightened to death and crushed by the strange thing that was about to befall them. . . . And, despite their anxiety, the two sought each other all the oftener,

62

LOUIS COUPERUS

feeling themselves now bound by indissoluble bonds. In the afternoon he would steal to her room; and, despite their anxiety, they lost themselves in wild embraces and then remained close together. "It must be nonsense, Lfconie," he whispered. "Yes, but then what is it?" she murmured in return. "After all, I heard the moaning and heard the stone whizz through the air." "And then?" "What?" "If it is something . . . suppose it is something that we can't explain." "But I don't believe in it!" "Nor I. . . . Only. . . . " "What?" "If it's something . . . if it's something that we can't explain, then. . . . " "Then what?" "Then . . . it's not because of usV' he whispered, almost inaudibly. "Why, Oorip said so herself! It's because of papa!" "Oh, but it's too silly!" "I don't believe in that nonsense either." "The moaning . . . of those animals." "And that stone . . . must have been thrown by some wretched fellow . . . one of the servants, a beggar who is putting himself forward . . . or who has been bribed. . . . " "Bribed? . . . By whom?" "By . . . by the regent. . . . " "Why, Theo!" "Oorip said the moaning came from the kabupaten. ..." "What do you mean?" "And that they wanted to torment papa from there. . . . " " T o torment him?" "Because the regent of Ngadjiwa has been dismissed." "Does Oorip say that?" "No, / do. Oorip said that the regent had occult powers. That's nonsense, of course. The fellow's a scoundrel. He has bribed people . . . to worry papa." "But papa notices none of it. . . . " "No. . . . We mustn't tell him either. . . .That's the best thing to do. . . . We must ignore it." "And the white hadji, Theo, whom Doddie saw twice. . . . And, when they do table-turning at Van Helderen's, Ida sees him too. . . . " "Oh, another tool of the regent's, of course!" "Yes, I expect that's true. . . . But it's wretched all the same, Theo. . . . My own Theo, I'm so frightened!"

THE HIDDEN FORCE

63

"Of that nonsense? Come, come!" "If it's anything, Theo . . . it has nothing to do with us, you say?" He laughed: "What next? What could it have to do with us? I tell you, it's a practical joke of the regent's. . . . " "We oughtn't to be together any more." "No, no, I love you, I'm mad with love for you!" He kissed her fiercely. They were both afraid. But he rallied L6onie: "Come, Leonie, don't be so superstitious." "When I was a child, my babu told me. . . . " She whispered a story in his ear. He turned pale: "L6onie, what rot!" "Strange things happen here, in India. . . . If they bury something belonging to you, a pocket-handkerchief or a lock of hair, they are able— simply by witchcraft—to make you fall ill and pine away and die . . . and not a doctor can tell what the illness is. . . . " "That's rubbish!" "It's really true!" "I didn't know you were so superstitious!" "I used never to think of it. I've begun to think of it just lately. . . . Theo, can there be anything?" "There's nothing . . . but kissing." "No, Theo, don't, be quiet, I'm frightened. . . . It's quite late. It gets dark so quickly. Papa has finished his sleep, Theo. Go away now, Theo . . . through the boudoir. I want to take my bath quickly. I'm frightened nowadays when it gets dark. There's no twilight, with the rains. The evenings come all of a sudden. . . . The other day, I had not told them to bring a light into the bathroom . . . and already it was so dark . . . at only half past five . . . and two bats were flying all over the place: I was so afraid that they would catch in my hair. . . . Hush! Is that papa?" "No, it's Doddie: she's playing with her cockatoo." "Go now, Theo." He went through the boudoir, and wandered into the garden. She got up, flung a kimono over the sarong which she had knotted loosely under her arms and called Oorip: "Bawa barang mandi!" "Kandjeng!" "Where are you, Oorip?" "Here, kandjeng.'' "Where were you?" "Here, outside the garden door, kandjeng. . . . I was waiting," said the girl, meaningly, implying that she was waiting until Theo had gone.

64

LOUIS COUPERUS

" I s the kandjeng tuan u p ? " "Sudah . . . had his bath, kandjeng.'" "Then fetch the things for my bath. . . . Light the little lamp in the bathroom. . . . Yesterday evening the glass was broken and the lamp was not filled. . . . " " T h e kandjeng never used to have the lamp lit in the bathroom." " O o r i p . . . has anything happened . . . this afternoon?" " N o , everything has been quiet. . . . But oh, when the night comes! . . . All the servants are frightened, kandjeng. . . . The koki says she won't stay. . . . " " O h , what a susah! . . . Oorip, promise her five guilders . . . as a present . . . if she stays. . . . " " T h e spen is frightened too, kandjeng." " O h , what asusah! . . . I've never had such a susah, Oorip. . . . " " N o , kandjeng." " I have always been able to arrange matters so well. . . . But these are things! . . . " "Apa » » boleh buat, kandjeng? . . . Things are stronger than men. "Mightn't it really be luaks . . . and a man throwing stones?" "Massa, kandjeng!" " W e l l , bring my bath things. . . . Don't forget to light the little lamp. . . . " The maid left the room. The dusk began to fall softly through the air, soft as velvet after the rain. The great residency stood still as death amid the darkness of its giant waringim. And the lamps were not yet lit. In the front verandah, Van Oudijck, by himself, lay in his pyjamas on a wicker chair, drinking tea. In the garden the dense shadows were gathering like strips of immaterial velvet falling heavily from the trees. "Tukang-lampu!" "Kandjeng?" " C o m e , light the lamps! W h y do you begin so late? Light the lamp in my bedroom first. . . . " She went to the bathroom. She went past the long row of gudangs and servants' rooms which shut o f f the back garden. She looked up at the waringins in whose top branches she had heard the little souls moaning. The branches did not move, there was not a breath of wind, the air was sultry and oppressive with a threatening storm, with rain too heavy to fall. In the bathroom, Oorip was lighting the little lamp. " H a v e you brought everything, O o r i p ? " "Saja, kandjeng." " H a v e n ' t you forgotten the big bottle with the white airwangi?"

THE HIDDEN FORCE

65

"Isn't this it, kandjeng?" "Yes, that's right. . . . But do give me a fine towel for my face in future. I'm always telling you to give me a fine towel. I hate these coarse ones. . . . " "I'll run and fetch one." " N o , no! Stay here, stay and sit by the d o o r . " "Saja, kandjeng." "And you must have the keys seen to by a tukang-besi. We can't lock the bathroom door. . . . It's too silly, when there are visitors." " I ' l l remember tomorrow." "Mind you don't forget." She shut the door. The maid squatted down outside the closed door, patient and resigned under the big and little things of life, knowing nothing but loyalty to her mistress, who gave her pretty sarongs and paid her wages in advance as often as she wanted them. In the bathroom the little nickel lamp gleamed faintly over the pale green marble of the wet floor; over the water brimming in the square sunk bath. "I'll have my evening bath a little earlier in f u t u r e , " thought Leonie. She removed her kimono and sarong; and, standing naked, she glanced in the mirror at her soft, milk white contours, the rounded outlines of an amorous woman. Her fair hair shone like gold; and a pearly lustre spread from her shoulders down over her bosom and vanished in the shadow of her small, round breasts. She lifted her hair, admiring herself, examining herself for a chance wrinkle, feeling whether her flesh was hard and firm. One of her hips arched outwards, as she rested her weight on one leg; and a long white highlight curved caressingly past her thigh and knee, disappearing at the instep. But she gave a start as she stood thus absorbed in admiration: she had meant to hurry. She quickly tied her hair into a knot, covered herself with a lather of soap and, taking the gajung, poured the water over her body. It flowed heavily over her in long smooth streams; and her gleaming shoulders, breasts and hips shone like marble in the light of the little lamp. . . . Yes, she would bathe earlier in future. It was already dark outside. She dried herself hurriedly, with a rough towel. She just rubbed herself, briskly, with the white ointment which Oorip always prepared, her magic elixir of youth, suppleness and firm whiteness. . . . At that movement, she saw on her thigh a small red spot. She paid no attention to it, thinking that there must have been something in the water, a tiny leaf, a dead insect. She rubbed it off. But, while rubbing herself, she saw two or three larger spots, deep scarlet, on her chest. She turned suddenly cold, not knowing what it was, not understanding. She rubbed herself down

66

LOUIS COUPERUS

again; and she took the towel, on which the spots had left something slimy, like clotted blood. A shiver ran over her from head to foot. And suddenly she saw. The spots came out of the corners of the b a t h r o o m how and where she did not see—first small, then large, as though spat out by a dribbling, betel-chewing mouth. Cold as ice, she gave a scream. The spots, now closer together, became full, like blobs of purple saliva spat against her. Her body was soiled and filthy with a grimy, dribbling redness. One spot struck her in the eye. . . . The slimy blobs of spittle marked the greenish white of the floor and floated in the water that had not yet run off. They also fouled the water in the bath and dissolved in filth. She was all red, stained and unclean, as though defiled by a foul scarlet shame which invisible betel-chewing mouths hawked and spat upon her from the corners of the room, aiming at her hair, her eyes, her breasts, her flanks. She uttered yell upon yell, driven crazy by the strangeness of what was happening. She rushed to the door, tried to open it, but there was something amiss with the handle. For the key was not turned in the lock, the bolt was not shot. She felt her back spat upon again and again; and the red dripped off her. She screamed for Oorip and heard the girl outside the door, pulling and pushing. At last the door yielded. And, desperate, mad, distraught, insane, naked, befouled, she threw herself into her maid's arms. The servants came running up. She saw Van Oudijck, Theo and Doddie hastening from the back verandah. In her utter madness, with her eyes staring widely, she felt ashamed not of her nudity but of her defilement. The maid had snatched the kimono, also befouled, from the handle of the door and threw it round her mistress. "Keep away!" L6onie yelled, desperately. "Don't come any nearer!" she screamed madly. "Oorip, Oorip, take me to the swimming bath! A lamp, a lamp . . . in the swimming bath!" "What is it, L6onie?" She refused to say: "I've . . . trodden . . . on a . . . toad!" she screamed. "I'm afraid . . . of itch! . . . Don't come any nearer! I've got nothing on! . . . Keep away! Keep away! . . . A lamp, a lamp . . . a lamp, I tell you . . . in the swimming bath! . . . No, Otto! Keep away! Keep away! I'm undressed! Keep away! Bawa . . . la-a-ampu!" The servants scurried past one another. One of them brought a lamp to the swimming bath. "Oorip! Oorip!" She clutched her maid: "They've spat at me . . . with sirih!. . . They've s p a t . . . at me . . . with sirih! . . . They've spat . . . at me with sirih!"

THE HIDDEN FORCE

67

"Hush, kandjeng!. . . Come along . . . to the swimming bath!" "Wash me, Oorip! . . . Oorip, my hair, my eyes! O God. I can taste it in my mouth! . . . " She sobbed despairingly; the maid dragged her along. "Oorip! First look . . . periksa if they're spitting . . . in the swimming bath too!" The maid went in, shivering: "There's nothing there, kandjeng." "Quick then, Oorip, bathe me, wash me." She flung off the kimono; her beautiful body became visible in the light of the lamp, as though soiled with dirty blood. "Oorip, wash me. . . . No, don't go for soap: water will do! . . . Don't leave me alone! Oorip, wash me here, can't you? . . . Burn the kimono! Oorip!" She ducked in the swimming bath and swam round desperately: the maid, half-undressed, went in after her and washed her. "Quick, Oorip! Quick: only the worst places! . . . I'm frightened! Presently . . . presently they'll be spitting here! . . . In the bedroom next, Oorip! . . . Call out that there's to be no one in the garden! I won't put the kimono on again! Quickly, Oorip, call out! I want to get away!" The maid called across the garden, in Javanese. Leonie, all dripping, stepped out of the water and, naked and wet, flew past the servants' rooms, with the maid behind her. Inside the house, Van Oudijck, frantic with anxiety, came running towards her. "Go away, Otto! Leave me alone! I've . . . I've got nothing on!" she screamed. And she rushed into her room and, when Oorip had followed her, locked all the doors. In the garden the servants crept together, under the sloping roof of the verandah, close to the house. The thunder was muttering softly and a silent rain was beginning to fall. . . . L6onie kept her bed for a couple of days with nervous fever. People at Labuwangi said that the residency was haunted. At the weekly assemblies in the municipal garden, when the band played and the children and the young people danced on the open-air stone floor, there were whispered conversations around the refreshment tables touching the strange happenings in the residency. Dr. Rantzow was asked many questions, but could only tell what the resident had told him, what Mrs. van Oudijck herself had told him, of her being frightened in the bathroom by an enormous toad, on which she had trodden and stumbled. There was more known through the servants, however; though, when one spoke of the stone-throwing and the sirih spitting, another laughed and called it all

68

LOUIS COUPERUS

babu talk. And so uncertainty prevailed. Nevertheless, the papers throughout the country, from Surabaya to Batavia, contained short paragraphs of a curious nature, which were not very lucid but which suggested a good deal. Van Oudijck himself discussed the matter with nobody, neither with his wife and his children, nor with the officials or with the servants. But on one occasion he came out of the bathroom looking deathly pale, with eyes staring wildly. He went indoors quietly, however, and pulled himself together: and no one noticed anything. Then he spoke to the chief of police. There was an old graveyard next to the residency grounds. This was now watched day and night; also the outer wall of the bathroom. The bathroom itself was no longer used; they took their baths instead in the visitors' bathroom. As soon as Mrs. van Oudijck had recovered, she went to stay with friends at Surabaya. She did not return. She had gradually, and unostentatiously, without a word to Van Oudijck, made Oorip pack up her clothes and all sorts of knicknacks to which she was attached. Trunk upon trunk was sent after her. When Van Oudijck happened to go to her bedroom one day, he found it empty of all but the furniture. Numberless things had disappeared from her boudoir also. He had not observed the dispatch of the trunks, but he now understood that she would not return. He cancelled his next reception. It was December; and René and Ricus were to come from Batavia for the Christmas holidays, for a week or ten days; but he cancelled the boys' visit. Then Doddie was invited to stay at Patjaram, with the De Luce family. Although, with the instinct of a fullblooded Hollander, he did not like the De Luces, he consented. They were fond of Doddie there: she would have a better time than at Labuwangi. He had given up his idea, the hope that Doddie would not become Indianized. Suddenly, Theo also went away: through Léonie's influence with commercial magnates at Surabaya, he at once obtained a well paid berth in an export and import business. Van Oudijck was left all alone in his big house. As the koki and the spen had run away, Eldersma and Eva constantly asked him to meals, both to lunch and dinner. He never mentioned his house at their table and it was never discussed. What he discussed confidentially with Eldersma, as secretary, and with Van Helderen, as controller, these two never mentioned, treating it all as an official secret. The chief of police, who had been accustomed daily to make his brief report—that nothing particular had happened, or that there had been a fire, or that a man had been wounded—now made long, secret reports, with the doors of the office locked, to prevent the oppassers outside from listening. Gradually all the servants ran away, departing stealthily in the night, with their fami-

THE HIDDEN FORCE

69

lies and their household belongings, leaving their huts in the compound empty and dirty. They did not even stay in the residency. Van Oudijck let them go. He kept only Kario and the oppassers; and the prisoners tended the garden daily. Thus the house remained apparently unaltered, outside. But, inside, where nothing was looked after, the dust lay thick on the furniture, white ants devoured the mats, mildew and patches of moisture came through the walls. The resident never went through the house, occupying only his bedroom and his office. His face began to wear a look of gloom, like a bitter, silent doubt. He worked more conscientiously than ever and stimulated his subordinates more actively, as though he were thinking of nothing but the interests of Labuwangi. In his isolated position, he had no friend and sought none. He bore everything alone, on his own shoulders, on his own back, which grew bent with approaching age; the heavy burden of his house, which was being destroyed, and of his family life, which was breaking up amid the strange happenings that escaped his police, his watchmen, his personal vigilance and his secret spies. He discovered nothing. Nobody told him anything. No one threw any light on anything. And the strange happenings continued. A mirror was smashed by a great stone. Calmly he had the pieces cleared away. It was not his nature to believe in the supernatural character of possibilities; and he did not believe in it. He was secretly enraged at being unable to discover the culprits and an explanation of the events. But he refused to believe. He did not believe when he found his bed soiled and Kario, squatting at his feet, swore that he did not know how it had happened. He did not believe when the tumbler which he lifted broke into slivers. He did not believe when he heard a constant irritating hammering overhead. But his bed was soiled, his glass did break, the hammering was a fact. He investigated all these facts, as punctiliously as though he were investigating a criminal case, and nothing came to light. He remained unperturbed in his relations with his European and native officials and with the regent. No one remarked anything in his behaviour; and in the evenings he worked on, defiantly, at his writing table, while the hammering continued and the night fell softly in the garden, as by enchantment. On the steps outside, the oppassers crept together, listening and whispering, glancing round timorously at their master who sat writing, with a frown of concentration on his brows: "Doesn't he hear it?" "Yes, yes, he's not deaf." "He must hear it." "He thinks he can find it out through djagas." "There are soldiers coming from Ngadjiwa."

70

LOUIS COUPERUS

"From Ngadjiwa!" "Yes, he does not trust the djagas. He has written to the tuan major." " T o send soldiers?" "Yes, there are soldiers coming." "Look at him frowning." ' 'And he just goes on working!'' " I ' m frightened. I should never dare to stay if I hadn't got to." " I ' m not afraid to stay, as long as he's there." "Yes, . . . he's brave." "He's plucky." "He's a brave man.'' "But he doesn't understand it." "No, he doesn't know what it is." "He thinks it's rats." "Yes, he has had a search made for rats upstairs, under the roof." "Those Hollanders don't know things." "No, they don't understand." "He smokes a lot." "Yes, quite twelve cigars a day." "He doesn't drink much." " N o . . . only his whisky and soda of an evening." "He'll ask for it presently." "No one has stayed with him." "No. The others understood. They've all left." "He goes to bed very late." "Yes, he's working hard." "He never sleeps at night, only in the afternoon." "Look at him frowning." "He never stops working." "Oppas!" "He's calling." "Kandjeng?" "Bawa whisky and soda." One of the oppassers rose, to fetch the drink. He had everything ready to hand, in the visitors' wing, to avoid having to go through the house. The others pressed closer together and went on whispering. The moon pierced the clouds and lit up the garden and the pond as with a humid vapour of silent enchantment. The oppasser had mixed the drink; he returned, squatted and offered it to the resident. "Put it down," said Van Oudijck. The oppasser stood the tumbler on the writing table and crept away. The other oppassers whispered together.

THE HIDDEN FORCE

71

"Oppas!" cried Van Oudijck. "Kandjeng?" "What have you put in this glass?" The man trembled and shrank away at Van Oudijck's feet: "Kangjeng, it's not poison; I swear it by my life, by my death; I can't help it, kandjeng. Kick me, kill me; I can't help it, kandjeng." The glass was a dull yellow. "Fetch another tumbler and fill it before me." The oppasser went away, trembling. The others sat close together, feeling the contact of one another's bodies through the sweat soaked cloth of their liveries, and stared before them in dismay. The moon rose from its clouds, laughing and mocking like a wicked fairy; its moist and silent enchantment shone silver over the wide garden. In the distance, from the garden at the back, a plaintive cry rang out, as though a child were being throttled. "And how are you, mevrouwtje? How's the depression? Is India suiting you any better today?'' His words sounded cheerful to Eva, as she saw him coming through the garden, on the stroke of eight, for dinner. His tone expressed nothing more than the gay greeting of a man who has been working hard at his desk and is delighted to see a pretty woman at whose table he is about to sit. She was filled with surprise and admiration. There was not a suggestion of a man who is plagued all day long, in a deserted house, by strange and incomprehensible happenings. There was hardly a shadow of dejection on his wide forehead, hardly a care seemed to rest upon his broad, slightly bowed back: and the jovial, smiling line about his thick moustache was there as usual. Eldersma came up; and Eva divined in his greeting, in his pressure of the hand, a silent freemasonry of things known, of confidences shared in common. And Van Oudijck drank his gin and bitters in a perfectly normal manner, spoke of a letter from his wife, who was probably going on to Batavia, said that René and Ricus were staying in the Preanger with friends who had a plantation there. He did not speak of the reason why they were not with him, why he had been entirely abandoned by his family and servants. In the intimacy of their circle, which he now visited twice a day for his meals, he had never spoken of this. And, though Eva did not ask any questions, it was making her extremely nervous. So close to the house, the haunted house, whose pillars she could see by day in the distance, gleaming through the foliage of the trees, she became more nervous every day. All day long, the servants whispered around her and peered timidly at the haunted residinan. At night, unable to sleep, she strained her ears to hear whether she could de-

72

LOUIS COUPERUS

tect anything strange, the moaning of the little children. The Indian night was so full of voices that it could but make her shudder on her bed. Through the imperious roaring of the frogs for rain and rain and more rain still, the constant croaking on the one roaring note, she heard thousands of ghostly sounds that kept her from sleeping. Through it all the tokkés and geckos emitted their clockwork strokes, like strange mysterious timepieces. She thought of it all day long. Eldersma did not speak of it either. But, when she saw Van Oudijck come to lunch or dinner, she had to compress her lips lest she should question him. A n d the conversation touched upon all sorts of topics, but never upon the strange happenings. After lunch, Van Oudijck went across to the residency again; after dinner, at ten o'clock, she saw him once more vanish into the haunting shadow of the garden. With a calm step, every evening he went back, through the enchanted night, to his wretched, deserted house, where the oppasser and Kario sat squatting close together outside his office; and he worked until late in the night. He never complained. He pursued his enquiries closely, all through the kota, but nothing came to light. Everything continued to happen in impenetrable mystery. " A n d how does India suit you this evening, mevrouwtje?" It was always more or less the same pleasantry; but each time she admired his tone. Courage, robust self-confidence, a certainty in his own knowledge, a belief in what he knew for certain: all these rang in his voice with metallic clearness. Miserable though he must feel—he, the man of profoundly domestic inclinations and of cool, practical sense—in a house deserted by those who belonged to him and full of inexplicable happenings, there was not a trace of doubt or dejection in his unfailing masculine simplicity. He went his way and did his work, more conscientiously than ever; he continued his investigations. A n d at Eva's table he always kept up an animated conversation, on politics in India and the new craze for having India ruled from Holland by laymen who did not know even the A . B . C . of the business. A n d he talked with an easy, pleasant vivacity, free from all effort, till Eva came to admire him daily more and more. But with her, a sensitive woman, this became a nervous obsession. A n d once, in the evening, as she was walking a little way with him, she asked him if it wasn't terrible, if he couldn't leave the house, if he couldn't go on circuit, for a good long time. She saw his face clouding at her questions. But still he answered kindly, saying that it was not so bad, even though it was all inexplicable, and that he would back himself to get to the bottom of the conjuring. A n d he added that he really ought to be going on circuit, but that he would not go, lest he should seem to be running away. Then he hurriedly pressed her hand and told her not to upset

THE HIDDEN FORCE

73

herself and not to think about it any more or talk about it. T h e last words sounded like a friendly admonition. She pressed his hand once more, with tears in her eyes. A n d she watched him walk away, with his calm, firm step, and disappear in the darkness o f his garden, where the enchantment must be creeping in through the croaking o f the frogs. But standing there like that made her shudder; and she hurried indoors. A n d she felt that her house, that roomy house o f hers, was small and unduly open and defenseless against the vast Indian night, which could enter f r o m every side. But she was not the only person obsessed by the mysterious happenings. Their inexplicable nature lay like an oppression over the whole town, so completely did it clash with the things o f everyday life. T h e mystery was discussed in every house, but only in a whisper, lest the children should be frightened and the servants perceive that people were impressed by the Javanese conjuring, as the resident himself had called it. A n d the uneasiness and depression were making everybody ill with nervous apprehension and listening when the darkness was teeming with voices in the night, which drifted d o w n on the town in a dense, velvety greyness; and the town seemed to be hiding itself more deeply than ever in the foliage o f its gardens, seemed, in these moist evening twilights, to be shrinking away altogether in dull, silent resignation, bowing before the mystery. Then Van Oudijck thought it time to take strong measures. H e wrote to the m a j o r commanding the garrison at N g a d j i w a to come over with a captain, a couple o f lieutenants and a company o f soldiers. That evening, the officers, with the resident and V a n Helderen, dined at the Eldersmas'. T h e y hurried through their meal; and Eva, standing at the garden gate, saw them all—the resident, the secretary, the controller and the four o f f i c e r s — g o into the dark garden o f the haunted house. T h e residency grounds were shut o f f , the house surrounded and the churchyard watched. T h e men went to the bathroom by themselves. They remained there all through the night. A n d all through the night the grounds and house remained shut o f f and surrounded. T h e y came out at about five o'clock and went straight to the swimming bath and bathed, all o f them together. W h a t had happened to them they did not say, but they had had a terrible night. That morning the bathroom was pulled d o w n . They had all promised Van Oudijck not to speak about that night; and Eldersma would not tell anything to Eva, nor Van Helderen to Ida. T h e officers t o o , on their return to N g a d j i w a , were silent. T h e y merely said that their night in the bathroom was t o o improbable f o r any one to believe the story. A t last one o f the young lieutenants allowed a hint o f his

74

LOUIS COUPERUS

adventures to escape him. And a tale of s/W/i-spitting and stone-throwing, of a floor that heaved, while they struck at it with sticks and swords, and of something more, something unutterably horrible that had happened in the water of the bath, went the rounds. Every one now added something to it. When the story reached Van Oudijck's ears, he hardly recognized it as an account of the terrible night, which had been terrible enough without any additions. Meanwhile Eldersma had written a report of their united vigil; and they all signed the improbable story. Van Oudijck himself took the report to Batavia and delivered it to the governor general with his own hands. Thenceforth it slumbered in the secret archives of the government. The governor general advised Van Oudijck to go to Holland on leave for a short period, assuring him that this leave would have no influence on his promotion to a residency of the first class, which was nearly due. He refused this favour, however, and returned to Labuwangi. The only concession which he made was to move into Eldersma's house until the residency should be thoroughly cleaned. But the flag continued to wave from the flagstaff in the residency grounds. On his return from Batavia, Van Oudijck often met Sunario, the regent, on matters of business. And, in his intercourse with the regent, the resident remained stem and formal. Then he had a brief interview, first with the regent and afterwards with his mother, the Raden-Aju Pangéran. The two conversations did not last longer than twenty minutes. But it appeared that those few words were of great and portentous moment. For the strange happenings ceased. When everything had been cleaned and repaired, under Eva's supervision, Van Oudijck compelled Léonie to come back, because he wished to give a great ball on New Year's Day. In the morning, the resident received all his European and native officials. In the evening, the guests streamed into the brightly lit galleries from every part of the town, still inclined to shudder and very inquisitive and instinctively looking around and above them. And, while the champagne went round, Van Oudijck himself took a glass and offered it to the regent, with a deliberate breach of etiquette; and, in a tone of solemn admonition mingled with good-humoured jest, he uttered these words, which were seized upon and repeated on every hand and which continued to be repeated for months throughout Labuwangi: "Drink with an easy mind, regent. I give you my word of honour that no more glasses will be broken in my house, except by accident or carelessness." He was able to say this because he knew that—this time—he had been

THE HIDDEN FORCE

75

too strong for the hidden force, merely through his simple courage as an official, a Hollander and a man. But in the regent's gaze, as he drank, there was still a very slight gleam of irony, intimating that, though the hidden force had not conquered— this time—it would yet remain an enigma, forever inexplicable to the shortsighted eyes of the Europeans. . . .

5.

AUGUSTA DE WIT

INTRODUCTION

Of the authors in this anthology, Augusta de Wit (1864-1939) is the first one who was born in the Indies (Siboga, Sumatra). She spent the first ten years of her life there and then returned with her parents to Holland. Later she was employed as a teacher in Batavia (1894-1896) and revisited the Indies as a journalist (1910). Her first stories were originally written in English. They appeared in the Singapore Times and were published under the title Java, Facts and Fancies. Her work is relatively untouched by the prevalent European trends of her time, not—as in the case of Multatuli—because she had spent years away from Europe, but because her subject matter was largely Indonesian. Augusta de Wit's Java is not that of her contemporary, Couperus. His subject matter was the European and his reaction toward the colony which history had bequeathed him. Augusta de Wit focused on the Javanese and their reaction to the European element, still foreign after three hundred years of intervention. She belonged to a group of intellectuals called the Ethici, who, because of their admiration for the archipelago, its inhabitants, and its culture, sought to improve conditions in the colonies. 1 To her Dutch readers, Augusta de Wit says that the Dutch element can actually be a destructive force. In her most famous work,Orpheus in de Dessa (1902), the engineer Bake is ultimately responsible for the death of the flute player Si-Bengkok. In the story related here, the resident wants to exhume the body, thereby destroying a "miracle" which is supposed to have taken place.

THE T H R E E WOMEN IN T H E SACRED GROVE

77

Most of Augusta de Wit's readers had not visited the continent she describes, and so she introduces them to this other world as one explains to a blind man the changing patterns of a kaleidoscope. In this foreign civilization, the reader nevertheless recognizes feelings he can comprehend: the pleasures of motherhood, the pride of the batik artist, the shame of the barren girl. Slowly the reader is lured into taking sides. Although he is aware that a miracle has not taken place, he nevertheless agrees that an exhumation of the body to prove the "facts" is not in the best interest of all concerned. In addition to the aesthetic pleasure which her stories provide, it is Augusta de Wit's accomplishment to create an appreciation of a foreign culture, heretofore inaccessible. 2 NOTES 1.

2.

In 1902, the Dutch government appointed a committee to investigate causes for poverty in Holland and Indonesia. The ensuing report detailed extensively the poverty at home as well as abroad. Gradually government measures were taken to improve conditions. This change in government policy coincided with and was encouraged by a loosely knit group of government officials, professionals, and authors called "Ethici" who advocated a sympathetic understanding of Indonesian culture and a more humane treatment of the Indonesians. The following short story was taken from a collection of short stories by Augusta de Wit, Island India (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1923), pp. 3-28. Reprinted with permission. Copyright © Yale University Press (1923).

The Three Women in the Sacred Grove

If the country folk around Sangean hold in reverence the wood upon the steep hillside and believe it to be the haunt of nymphs and good genii, it is for the sake of the God-fearing prince who, many centuries agone, lived there a hermit, and whose tomb, as tradition has it, is the mossgrown mound on the skirt of the wood, between a clear well and a whiteflowering kambodja thicket that strews the mound with its lustrous and fragrant chalices. The verses which the dalang, the poet-musician of Sangean, sings about him of an evening when many listeners are gathered about the flickering oil wick that illumines the manuscript—the children on the sleeping-mat in the dark corner stay awake to listen, the tale is so beautiful—say that he was a mild and gracious king over the many nations which his armies had subjected to his rule, and that from early youth upward he willed well and did well toward as many as approached him. But when he had reached the noon-height of his sunlike life, he forsook wealth, rule, and glory, and chose a hermit's life, for the sake of perfection. For well he knew, this man of most noble understanding, that the truth concerning the soul and the world and very virtue is not attainable by the man who is a lord over other men, and who never, as fellowin-work and fellow-in-joy and fellow-in-sorrow of those whom yet God created his fellows, may build heart to heart together with them at the ever fairer edifice of the world. When, therefore, he had given his last counsels to his son, and had laid his son's son, whom the women brought to him, back again on the breast of the palely smiling mother, blessing him, he said, "Fare ye well!" to his

THE THREE WOMEN IN THE SACRED GROVE

79

faithful vassals, his victorious captains, and his well-tried counsellors, and left his splendid palace, followed of none, woman nor servant; for in the utmost shadow of the gate he, with an inexorable gentleness, had put aside the weeping ones who embraced his feet and pressed against their foreheads the hem of his poor garment. A little rice and salt, which he begged at the gate of a village, and water, dipped up out of a brook in the halved shell of a coconut, were fare enough for him on the journey to the hill-wood of Sangean, where a dream had shown him as his abode the spot between a kambodja thicket and a clear well. Here he built himself a hut of branches and woven leaves. The fruit of the forest was his food, the water of the well his drink, thinking upon mankind and the world his life. He considered the many experiences of his life, the teachings of the wise, the songs of the poets, and words heard from children at play and from women who thought themselves unwatched. And whatsoever he perceived in the forest, by night or by day, the budding and the flourishing and the fading of the leafage, the blooming in the morning dew of blossoms, and the ripening of fruit and its wondrous perishing unto a new existence, and the life of the many animals, the strong ones and the timid, upon the ground, and in the branches the merry birds—all this too he considered well; and, that he might understand the law of their movements, he observed the powers that encompass and rule the earth and all lives thereon, the sky and the sun, the stars, the clouds, the rain, and the wind. As the shuttle which an able weaver throws forward and backward through the tense threads of her loom—threads it was, silk it grows to be—even so his thought moved forward and backward through things seen and remembered—things it was, wisdom it grew to be. The rumour went through all the land: "The great King lives as a hermit in the wood of Sangean!" Then the many came to him who had not dared to approach him in the days of his power and glory. They begged wisdom of him—knowledge concerning what is good and concerning the right way of living. And he gave to every one according to his need and to the measure of his understanding. There came no one so darkened in thought, so sore with hatred, so wearied by manifold erring, but he went back walking lightly, his eyes ashine, and his hands longing to caress and to give; pure and mild as the water of the well he felt his heart within him. And thus, for many months and for many years, many hundreds and many thousands came sad and went away rejoicing, until, one morning before sunrise, first comers found not the hermit, but only his body, pale and transparently thin as a fallen petal. All the people dug his grave and built his mound, every one desiring for himself, no one grudging any one else, the pious honour of doing an

80

AUGUSTA DE WIT

only and last service to him who had served all by his wisdom and gentle virtue. As they laid him to rest they remembered and repeated his words, remembered the grace and pleasantness that had come thereof, peace of heart in sorrow as in gladness, and sweet security of fraternal life in labour as in pleasure; so that enemies forgot the evil they had planned to do unto each other, and mighty ones promised redress to the poor man they had oppressed, and such as sorrowed over an unforgettable loss felt a new strength arise in their hearts and were lonely no longer. Then it seemed to them that the well-beloved one had not altogether departed. Some rays of his soul's light still shone on the spot of his dwelling and of his long rest. Henceforth, even as hitherto, whosoever came in longing won his blessing, and his grave was sought by pilgrims as for many years his cell had been. So it is even at this present day. Longing ones come, each with his own longing, for great and permanent things the one, for small things the other. The shepherd boy who rears a singing dove for the match—secretly, for his father frowns when he sees the child standing head on one side, listening to the cooing from a cage hung up in a tree, and all his thoughts about doves, whilst the buffalo wanders unheeded into the sprouting field—the shepherd boy hides his dove in the kambodja thicket near the grave, to the end that the virtue of the holy place may impart to her voice the true high ring which takes the prize at the match. The merchant about to undertake a perilous voyage over sea lays his offering upon the grave. Women go thither to pray for a child. And many are the tales and experiences of good fortune fallen to them who invoked the memory of the bountiful king. Therefore Mboq-Inten of Kjalang Tiga nowise doubted that the dream spelled truth which showed her her daughter Inten, who had died in childbirth, seated at the grave in the Sacred Grove, smiling and crowned with flowers like a bride. And all men and women of Soombertingghi said this about poor Sameerah—Sameerah who in her happy days was so much like Inten (the Jewel, as her name rightly declared her to be) that even old friends greeted one girl with the other's name—if Sameerah had been allowed to perform a pilgrimage to the tomb, as she so fervently desired to do, then she would have become a mother, and the shame of sterility and the sorrow of her heart would never have addled her poor wits. The young wife of the resident of Sangean, Elizabeth of the fair face which would bend over in so sisterly a way toward dusky faces, loved to listen to the many tales about the miraculous tomb of the King who, for fraternity's sake, became a beggar. But when a woman whose child she had cured of a heavy sickness told her of poor Sameerah's longing and sorrow, and of Mboq-Inten's constant hope, she looked up with a new

THE THREE WOMEN IN THE SACRED GROVE

81

light in her eyes. And after that day her husband often found her alone and silent, deep in thought. When the wise woman who had driven life, together with the child, out of Inten's tortured body, laid the newborn babe upon Mboq-Inten's lap, she never looked at her grandchild. She never took her eyes off that closed face and that passive body, still at last from weeping and writhing. The women who folded the white grave-cloth around the dead one had to loosen the chilled hand out of the mother's clasp. She sat stunned when the babe's father called together kinsmen and neighbours for the choosing of the name, and did not even look up when a young friend of Inten, who had just become a mother herself, laid little Kai'ran to her breast, and took him away to her home, to nurse him together with her own child. But then the dream came. Crowned with flowers like a bride, and her long tresses that flowed over her shoulders and her knees so profusely interwoven with flowers that she seemed to be clothed in blossoms, Inten was seated at the grave, and she herself, holding little Kai'ran by the hand, was hastening toward her, crying: " O my child, art thou then at last come back?" Mboq-Inten woke up with that cry of joy. She ran to Kairan's foster mother. The kindhearted young wife was suckling him; he drank eagerly. Jealously she looked on. Would she had been able to do it herself, would she could have fed Inten's child with her own life! With a passionate tenderness she stroked the soft little body. "Ah! how I will take care of him! How I will feed him and foster him, that he may grow up tall and handsome, that thou mayest rejoice when thou seest him again, my jewel!" She could hardly await the day for fetching him home. She would sit with the child in her lap, feeding him with rice and banana kneaded together into sweetly nourishing mouthfuls. All day long she carried the little one about with her, lying in her carefully arranged slendang as in a hanging cradle. He slept by her side on the bale-bale, which she had spread with a new sleeping mat. The first thing she saw on awaking at dawn was the little round downy black head; the eyes lay closed, the long lashes on the cheeks like two delicately striped streaks of shadow. The mouth was a little open, the tiny white teeth showing. Mboq-Inten raised herself on her elbow to gaze at him for a long while. She let her eyes have their fill of him. And still, when looking thus upon Inten's child, she would think of the days when she had looked in this same way upon Inten. Paq-Inten had marked the grave with two ornamental wooden posts finely carved and sculptured, at head and foot, that Mboq-Inten might find it when, on the many Days of Remembrance that mothers hallow,

82

AUGUSTA DE WIT

she would bring to Inten's grave the sacrifice of food by which souls are sustained in the Land of Shadows. Mboq-Inten, however, observed such days only as are strictly prescribed by the Adat, the Law of Ancient Custom; and after a while she altogether ceased visiting the grave. But to the Sacred Grove she would go again and again; and as she laid the wreath of jessamine on the tomb and strewed handfuls of rose leaves over the moss she would whisper, her eyes full of tears: "Do not stay away for too long a time, child of my heart! Come back soon, ah! soon! to thy dear mother!" Kai'ran was far too little a child as yet to understand; but all the same she put flowers into his small hands sometimes and made him lay them on the tomb, and then she would say that this was to make his mother come back the sooner, and that when she came she would bring him whatever he wanted or could think of for a present. Paq-Kai'ran did not busy himself much with his child. And he never spoke of Inten. He went in and out of his parents-in-law's house and the chamber where he had lived together with Inten, as if everything within were still as it had always been. Mboq-Inten thought that this was because he, like herself, was waiting for Inten's return, though he would neither hear nor speak of it, and though his face would darken when she said to little Kai'ran: "When Mother comes back—!" But one morning he went out of the house as if he were going to the pasar at Sangean, to look on and lay wagers at the cockfight, and did not come back at night, nor next morning. It became time to plough the sawah—but he did not come home. And Paq-Inten, sighing and shaking his head, took to the pawn-house gear that he could not well dispense with, in order to get money to hire a helper in his son-in-law's stead. Some weeks after, a villager who had made the journey from Sumatra with the pilgrims' ship came and told Paq-Inten and Mboq-Inten how he had seen Paq-Kai'ran in Medan. He was earning a good deal of money on a tobacco estate; and he had married a Matak women out there. Mboq-Inten cried shame upon him. The old man only sighed and said that it was too bad. What was to become of the fieldwork now, and the day's wages growing higher and higher and his limbs growing stiffer and stiffer? He kept on lamenting long after Mboq-Inten had put away all thought of the man who had abandoned her daughter; there were many men far better than he in Java! Inten would have a husband for the choosing, when she came back! But the loss which Paq-Inten was for ever bemoaning must be made good again; Inten should not return to a beggared home! And the mother took up again the delicate work which, a few years agone, she had left to her daughter's younger eyes and suppler fingers, but which formerly she had done surpassingly well herself: the batikxng

THE THREE WOMEN IN THE SACRED GROVE

83

of sarongs and head-kerchiefs and slendangs. T h e C h i n a m a n in t o w n how sharply he used to look at the work through his large horn-rimmed spectacles!—always gave more f o r hers than f o r that o f any o f the other women. She feared, it is true, that she should n o longer be able to d o it so well. But with the thought o f Inten in her heart she did her utmost. Her batikdng-frame stood under the eaves, there where the shadow stayed longest. She squatted d o w n before the length o f white cotton cloth hanging f r o m the frame, and, intent upon the w o r k , began drawing the figures o f the design she had planned. The fine jet of molten w a x running from the spout o f the tiny ¿raMing-bowl, no larger than the cup o f an acorn, fashioned l e a f y tendrils o n the web, and flowers, and all manner of wonderful birds fluttering on butterflylike wings. Blue, brown, bright yellow, and purple the dye-vats gleamed in the shadow of the lemon thicket. H o w many times f r o m childhood onward had she not prepared those dyes, after the same prescription always; how often with the little jet of molten w a x , blackened by reiterated use, and scraping o f f , and melting d o w n again, traced that design exactly as she had seen it growing under her mother's 6ofr'Adng-bowl, and as she well knew that her mother's mother had traced it in her day! Over a thousand years old the pattern was, she had often heard it said. A princess had imagined it as she sat all alone amongst the flowers and birds and small animals o f the Sacred G r o v e , where she chose to live rather than in the kraton of her father the sultan. T h e nymphs w h o have their abode in the w o o d were her companions. She never stood in need o f f o o d or o f the things necessary to her work; for the wood-doves brought her plenty o f sweet berries and nuts out o f the tall trees; the grey monkeys knew when she was thirsty and came to her carrying in their hands " t h e little cool wellspring that hovers in the a i r , " the ripe fruit of the c o c o palm, that has sweetly flavoured water within its kernel; and the tiny bees, which neither sting nor buzz, made their nest in the tree overshadowing her, so that she need but stretch out her hand for the w a x with which to trace her design, whilst on all the bushes the most beautiful flowers bloomed f o r her to gather and prepare dyes f r o m . T h e little jester of the w o o d , the dwarf hart, that is wittier and merrier than all other animals, would caper and frolic before her and tell her all manner o f stories, the drollest it could think o f . Whoever knew about this would easily recognize it all in the batik-design; although much o f it had been lost at the hands o f careless batikzrs, whose thoughts were o f other things, so that the true shape of what the Princess-in-the-Wood had imagined no longer appeared u p o n their cloth, but only a shadow as unsteady and distorted as the shadows upon the wall when the flickering oil wick is lit. N o r had Mboq-Inten

84

AUGUSTA DE WIT

herself ever seen a good design or made one herself, although her work, which she did lovingly, excelled that of the other women. But as now she set about her task, her heart full of that vision of Inten in the Sacred Grove, the slack lines regained vigour, shrivelled contours unfolded, clumsiness was changed into grace. The loveliness of a heart at peace with itself and the loveliness of the forest blossomed forth under the flow from the tiny 6a//Adng-bowl. Wondering and rejoicing, she saw how the flowers she traced with yellow wax upon white cloth nevertheless resembled the splendidly coloured blossoms amongst the green leafage of the forest, and how the design on the wings of her butterflies verily was the jewel-like scintillation that so alluringly flashes out and again vanishes fluttering athwart the dappled shades and the sudden sunbeams there. The rippling gleams of the wellspring broke forth from wavy circlets and serpentine meanders. She remembered stories of nymphs and heroes and high adventures in the wood, when the dragon she had drawn with a long twisting body and gripping talons opened his perilous eyes and looked upon her. The bird that sailed so stately, his gorgeous wings outspread, was a messenger of the gods. There were five colours in Mboq-Inten's pattern; five times she had to dip the sarong into one of the five dyes corresponding to the part of the design in hand, all the others being covered with wax; and as each time a different part was stained, and again covered up with wax, whilst another was laid bare and, after another immersion, changed from white into its appointed glow of red or blue or rich brown—the ground being a lucid yellow, and a touch of black emphasizing an important feature here and there—Mboq-Inten each time saw a different element of the design appearing in a vigour and purity hitherto unknown. But as, after the fifth immersion and the removal of all the wax, it shone out in its full perfection and harmony, she stood motionless with joyous surprise. And the women of the village, one calling to another to come and see MboqInten's sarong-batik, exclaimed that a regent's consort, ay, a princess in the kraton at Djogjakarta, might well be glad to wear so rich a garment! The Chinaman in town wiped his spectacles on his grey silk badju, the better to inspect the batik as Mboq-Inten spread it out on his counter. And in his eagerness to possess it he hastily named a high price, so that he at once had to take back his word. But Mboq-Inten, who used to stand in so great fear of him, drew away the sarong from under his hands and left the shop with it, and he ran after her as far as the pasar, with the money heavy and shining in his hand. Mboq-Inten went home well content. It made her proud to feel how heavily little Ka'iran, asleep in the hanging cradle of the slendang, weighed upon her hip. Soon he would be big enough to walk all the long way! She could give him what his little mouth

THE THREE WOMEN IN THE SACRED GROVE

85

would savour, what his little heart would have; enough of everything there would be for him. Oh, how Inten would smile, when she saw him so tall and so handsome! The offering she laid on the tomb in the Sacred Grove that day was even richer than the usual one. How long still would the time be, ah! how long? But she wiped away the tears that rose to her eyes, scalding. She would wait, she would wait patiently. Even thus the husbandman waits who has sown his rice. He does not think of the emptiness in his barn; he thinks of the coming fullness on his field. But after a very different manner did she wait who in the days of her happy girlhood had been Inten's very image, and as comely and as merry of heart as she; after a very different manner poor Sameerah waited for salvation out of the Sacred Grove; in vain longing, helpless, scorned. A t the same time as Inten's parents, the parents of Sameerah had prepared their daughter's marriage, in the good time of the year, the glad time, the time of plenty, the rice-harvest. It is the marriage feast of the Rice. The two tallest and finest ears in the field, which have been tied together with a garland of flowers and set under a little dais of tressed leaves, are carried to the garner in a procession, surrounded by a guard of honour. A n d they who celebrate the feast, youths and maidens, promise each other their own marriage. Parents consult the learned concerning the omens, intermediaries come and go, presents are offered and accepted ceremoniously. Then the musicians make the merry marriage music to resound out of their bronze instruments, neighbours and friends bring gifts for the wedding banquet, the two who were alone in longing, far from one another, sit side by side in the place of honour crowned with flowers. A n d when once more the marriage of the Rice is celebrated, proud mothers appear amongst the shy girls in the harvest field. A t last year's feast they carried a sheaf of riceears in their arm; at this, they carry a child. Thus Inten and Sameerah had held their wedding feast on the same day in the same year. Not knowing about each other and what had happened to each other, they were as twin sisters in fate, even as they were twin sisters in form and face. But when the next harvest of the rice came, Inten's companions mourned for her. A n d Sameerah's place remained empty in the file of young women walking to the rice field. She kept within the house, empty-armed, disgraced. Another harvest feast came. She would not go to the field so poor as she would have stood there, the one woman childless amongst so many mothers. Her husband had not as yet reproached her, though his mother

86

AUGUSTA DE WIT

often spoke bitter words. But when, on the way to the pasar or to the field, she saw him turn his head to look after a woman walking proudly with a baby in her carrying scarf, she felt her heart shrink till her breast ached; and in the night her sleeping-mat would be wet with tears. A good-natured neighbour had advised her to go in pilgrimage to the King Eremite's tomb. And ah! how she longed to go! When she went out at the village gate and took the main road, her eyes would seek the distance, where the hill-wood was dark against the sky. But her husband's mother, old Mboq-Noordin, kept the money of the family, and Sameerah did not dare ask for any, even of what she had earned herself, to pay for the journey with the fire-car to Sangean; she well knew she should meet with a contemptuous refusal. Mboq-Noordin hated her with a hatred that grew ever bitterer; as she believed, because Sameerah bore her no grandchild, but of a truth because Sameerah was unhappy and ashamed. Even as the fowls in the garden hacked with sharp beaks at a sick hen till the wound with which it would have hidden itself lay open and bleeding—strong healthy creatures that crowded out of life a feeble and ailing thing—thus she with her contemptuous glance and scornful words hacked at Sameerah's barrenness. Those eyes, always cast down and so often red with crying, that timid attitude, goaded her into a venomous rage. She could not bear that poor weak sickly thing near her, she wanted it gone from the world, she must needs thrust at it with the sharpness of her eyes and her voice, with words that were like the sting of a scorpion. And because of the evil she did to Sameerah in her hatred, she hated her all the more. She gave Noordin no peace, she was forever begging and urging him to repudiate Sameerah—a woman whom Tuan Allah rejected, whom he had marked with the shame of barrenness! In her wretchedness Sameerah at last plucked up courage for a deed. One day when Mboq-Noordin and Noordin had gone together to a distant pasar, she stole to the kindhearted neighbour and begged the loan of a little money for the journey to Sangean. And the good woman not only gave her the money, and that at a very low rate, but when Sameerah said, sadly, that Mboq-Noordin had taken away to the pasar all the finest fruits in the garden, and had counted all the others one by one, so that she dared not take a single one, she also gave her some bananas for an offering upon the Saint's tomb, and even some precious balm upon a leaf, that the offering might be the more acceptable. Sameerah put on festive raiment; she fastened a silver pin to her kebaja, an oleander blossom in her hair. On the village road she smiled at the children. Soon, soon, she too would have a little one like that in her arms! Confidently she took her place in the long file of women walking

THE THREE WOMEN IN THE SACRED GROVE

87

down the main road to the station. But a suspicious fancy had caused Mboq-Noordin to turn back on her way to the pasar. Suddenly she stood before her daughter-in-law. The very last women in the file heard the names she called her, in so loud a voice did she shriek out her fury. They shook their heads at it; Mboq-Noordin insulted her son's wife in ail too vile a manner, truly. And there were Hollanders upon the highway who heard—did she never notice? It was the carriage of the tuan resident that drove past just now. Stricken dumb with terror and shame, Sameerah suffered herself to be driven back home. The old woman threatened: if Noordin heard what she had secretly dared to do, he would grind her knees against one another so that it would take a month to heal the wounds; he would tie her to a post of the house, when he went on a day's journey again! Sameerah answered not a word; not even with a look did she defend herself. Truly there was no need for the mother-in-law to take away her good clothes, leaving her nothing but outworn dingy things in which no decent woman would show herself out of doors; there was no need for her so to burden Sameerah with toil that from dawn to dusk she found no time even to go to the river where the women bathed. Sameerah felt too deeply ashamed at that public humiliation to venture out amongst people. She hid away even from the kind neighbour when she went to pound the rice in the back garden: she had heard the word Mboq-Noordin threw at her, over the hedge! Within the house she glided along the walls like a shadow. Her husband and his mother hardly knew whether she was or was not there. Noordin but rarely spoke to her; his mother never but to give her harsh words, to which she had no answer. By and by she lost the habit of speech. There was but one happy moment in her day: at dawn, when she went to feed the turtledove that sat high in its little bamboo cage in the cotton tree by the well. Within the silent house Noordin and Mboq-Noordin still lay asleep. On the darkling jessamine shrubs that chilled her ankles with dew as she brushed past, the white starlike blossoms unfolded, sending forth an arrowy fragrance. As she loosened and paid out the rope and the cage came down, dark, and swinging a little, the sky into which she looked up grew even whiter. The dove sat cowering, benumbed with cold and darkness; she held the little creature to her throat, bending down her cheek upon it, fondled it, talked baby talk to it. She let it peck grains of rice from her fingertips and from her lips. When, with a last caressing touch on its silky feathers, she had put it back into the cage, she would linger to see how it rejoiced in the new sunshine, how it threw out its downy breast, preened its wings, and, its black eyes all aglisten, turned its delicate little head hither and thither, gracefully.

88

AUGUSTA DE WIT

She heard Mboq-Noordin's shrewish voice; hastily she hoisted the cage to its place in the tree and hurried into the house to prepare the morning meal. The villagers, catching a glimpse of her as she stole along the hedge, in dingy clothes, her hair rough and carelessly twisted, dull-eyed and dumb always, never answering even a word of friendly greeting, said amongst each other, pitying her, that her great sorrow had darkened her mind. And perhaps she had indeed, as the unhappy days went on, grown to be different from other people. She seemed no longer to feel MboqNoordin's taunts and cruelties, nor Noordin's contempt, which sometimes turned to rough usage. Her face grew still and rigid as the countenance of the stone images in the great temple, the Borobuddhur. At the sight of children, only, it quickened. Naked little ones, toddling on plump legs, played at the garden gate. One dangled a cockchafer tied to a thread; another held a cricket clutched in his chubby little fist, and laughed to see it angrily grasping with its hooked feet at the blade of grass with which he tickled it; a third had a bow made of a shred of palm leaf and fibre twisted into a string, which made a shrill whirring sound as he swung it through the air with a twirl, as he had seen his big brother do. Sameerah softly crept nearer. What chagrin it was to her that she had nothing to tempt a baby with, no flower, no fruit, no piece of sweetmeat! Her arms ached with longing for such a smooth soft little body. With a beseeching smile and hands outstretched she squatted down before the child. It stood still and looked at her dubiously. An anxious voice called it; it toddled away, never looking back. Sameerah stole away, her eyes full of tears. Afterward she was even duller and more listless than usually. But that passive and silent obedience gradually began to chafe Noordin even worse than his mother's ceaseless urging of a divorce. And one evening—it was the third rice-harvest after the wedding—when handsome Sedoot, the hadji moneylender's daughter, had smiled at him, standing between the sheaves on her father's field, he came home with an evil look in his eyes. Sameerah had been doing rough work, late as it was in the day. There was dust on her unkempt hair; her sarong, which she had gathered up and fastened under her naked arms, hung slovenly about her. With eyes cast down she set the evening meal before her husband. He thrust her away. "Thy face irks me! Get thee gone! Leave my house!" Frightened, she looked into his scowling face. But Mboq-Noordin pounced upon her, seizing her by the arm. " W h y tarriest, thou! Dost thou not hear what my son says?" She feared that perhaps he might forget his anger if the divorce had to wait for the

THE THREE WOMEN IN THE SACRED GROVE

89

Modin and his decision. As Sameerah stood there in her beggarly clothes, tired out with labour, empty-handed, she thrust her out of the house. She stood all alone on the empty village road. It was almost night. She never hesitated, never turned her head. Thoughtlessly sure as one who walks in his sleep, she went out at the village gate and took the road to the Sacred Grove. It is a way of many miles from Soombertingghi to Sangean. She walked all night. She went on without resting; she felt no fatigue. It was dark at first and lonely; she never knew. Then it grew light, and the highway was full of people; she never knew. She knew of one thing only: of her longing for the miraculous tomb where she would find happiness. The desire was as an inmost spot of smarting life within her, all around it numb, dead. It was pasar day at Sangean. From all the villages of the neighbourhood, market folk were on their way. Along the footpath on either side of the wide road, where bullock carts were slowly jolting on and horsemen cantered past, long files of women walked, bearing on their heads flat baskets heaped with fruit and confectionery, or carrying on their hips bundles of sarongs and scarves. Each had a baby in her carryingscarf; children trotted after them; their ceaseless chatter about goods and prices made a sound like a brooklet clucking. The men walked with arms swinging idly, at leisure. Many carried a pigeon in a small cage overspread with a silk kerchief; a match of singing doves was to be held at the pasar. Every man praised his bird's voice, but they whispered about the goldsmith of Sangean, who made a practice of passing over his dove's bill and tongue a golden ring on which magic characters were graven, in order to give her a fine voice; was not it sure to be the winner? As they overtook Sameerah, who walked ever more slowly, men and women and even children turned the head to look at her, wondering at this woman who was going the way to the pasar empty-handed and so dirty and poorly dressed, and whose dull eyes had a look as if they did not see. They pointed her out to one another: " E h ! a crazy woman!" The resident and his lady drove past on their daily morning tour, in the gleaming carriage with the tall Australian horses. At the approaching hoofbeat native horsemen dismounted, drivers of bullock carts guided their team to the side of the road, and the horde of pedestrians squatted down in the dust. And the resident too looked with amazement at the native woman, continuing her way, all alone, through the humbly motionless crowd; and he too judged that she must be of diseased mind. Even Elizabeth almost thought so, as, stirred by a faint remembrance, she looked back at the pitiable figure, wandering alone with failing gait. Sameerah never saw, nor heard, nor felt. As the river flows past a

90

AUGUSTA DE WIT

stone that in flood time has been washed down from the green bank and left on a sandy shallow, where not one of the countless wavelets quickens it into new freshness and sprouting greenery, while dry and dead it lies in the scorching heat of the sun—so that full river of human beings, with all their desires and energies and joys, flowed past her without stirring her to a single emotion. The market folk overtook her, passed, disappeared into the distant flicker of sunlight between the shadows of the tamarinds on either side the highway. The last had vanished as she attained the steep that ascends to the tomb in the grove. Out of the deep shadow it shone on her, all alight with flowers. She stretched forth her arms, and sank against it. It was very still in the wood. The multitudinous jubilation of song that had burst out in the enrapturing red of dawn had fallen silent before the ever higher, ever hotter ascent of the sun over the treetops. No least breath of wind stirred the leafage. The murmuring of the spring was all but inaudible. A cool smell rose out of it, the smell of water over stones, which lured the butterflies. Big black and yellow ones, like a play of sunshine amidst shadows, and crowds of very tiny ones, coloured a dull and tender blue, came fluttering and drank. Others alighted upon the harvest of flowers heaped up on the tomb, their little airy shadows gliding over Sameerah's head, sunk back among the flowers, over her closed eyelids. For a long while she lay thus, motionless. But then a sound broke upon the great silence which awakened her dull senses: very softly, a turtle cooed in the kambodja tree over her head. It was the singing dove belonging to Marjoos of Sangean, the little son of the dalang, the poet-musician, who, of an evening, would recite so many and beautiful poems about the Sacred Grove and its nymphs and good genii. The small boy kept his bird in the kambodja tree, hidden away from every one. He secretly took to it carefully selected food, and water out of the sacred well, every morning when he drove the buffalo herd of the village to the pasture on the yonder side of the wood. Thorny twigs and bunches of prickly leaves, twisted around the branch on which the cage was hung, kept off small beasts of prey that climb the trees; the kambodja leafage screened it from peering eyes. Marjoos himself could not discover it when, on going, he lingered yet a little while among the bushes to listen to the contented cooing and crooning of his little songster. It was the hour when he was wont to come; the turtle was calling for him. It seemed to Sameerah that she heard her own dove. Her poor heart, which had kept itself closed shut for so long, because nothing ever came near but to hurt it, unfolded. And as, with a dawning smile, she listened

THE THREE WOMEN IN THE SACRED GROVE

91

to that gentle cooing, all the manifold pleasantness of the wood softly stole upon her quickening perception. She breathed the subtle scent of water and cool moist earth, of leafage in damp shadow, of flowers just blooming, out of which the first whiff of odour ascended together with the vanishing dews of night; she gazed at the butterflies that sat drinking on the wet stones on the brink of the bubbling spring, wings tremulously erect, and suddenly fluttered away, through sunbeams and airy shadows; she gazed at the flowers here and there, small specks of clear colour shining through the green dimness of the wood. She heard a woodpecker hammering and sought and found the green bird amongst the green leaves; his head, hastily hammering, flickered like a green jewel. Two squirrels, chasing each other along the branches of a kenari tree—they had paused in their game of flight and pursuit at her coming, but begun again when they saw her so very quiet—leapt and darted athwart the lightly stirred leafage, out of which the ripe nuts fell down with a soft rustle. The grey monkeys, to which the country folk bring sacrifices, came; as usually, the women going to the pasar had laid down fruits for them on the open space before the tomb. They suffered the mothers to go first, who carried their little ones hanging to their breasts, the tiny hands grasping their fur, the small heads, with the pale, naked ears, pressed to their dugs. The troop waited patiently whilst those who gave food fed themselves. Not as a thought, as a sensation only, indistinct, but deep and strong, there welled up in Sameerah an assurance of happiness, of which there was enough in the world for her too. It seemed as if it would come soon. Here in the Sacred Grove, at the tomb of the good prince who, of his loving-kindness, had conferred happiness upon so many unhappy ones—here it would come to her. She must adorn herself for it as girls in harvest-time adorn themselves for coming happiness, as a bride adorns herself for her bridegroom. She must be cleanly and crowned with flowers. She rose and, descending into the sacred well, bathed. Then, going hither and thither wherever a flower shone, she gathered all she could find. And returning to the tomb with her arms full of buds and blossoms, she sat down in the kambodja shade and began to weave a garland. It grew into circlets that fitted her arms a little way under the shoulder, at the place where a bride wears the solemn ornament. And then she made smaller wreaths for her wrists; then a necklace so long that it went around her neck thrice, as a bride's necklace does, all but covering her shoulders and hanging down over her bosom, strand under flowery strand. Finding a long trailing spray on which clusters of purple chalices shone, she bent it around her brow like a diadem. And still her lap was full of flowers, and out of the kambodja branches more flowers fell

92

AUGUSTA DE WIT

down upon her and all around her—great white blossoms that lay lustrous among the shadows of the sparse set rosettes of pointed leaves overhead. She picked up one and, inhaling its subtly sweet scent, set it in the deep fold of the sarong between her breasts. Her hair had slid out of its coil. As she felt it gliding over her shoulder, she spread it all around her and with deft fingertips hung among the long black tresses small flowers and leaflets and softly clinging rose petals and jessamine buds that had fluttered out of the sacrificial wreaths on the tomb, until as she gazed down upon it the flower-spangled darkness looked to her like a rich black silk scarf cunningly wrought with pelangi-work in purple, white, blue, and green, such as in the happy days of long ago she herself had made and proudly worn. Meet ornament it seemed to her for the feast of her life. Suddenly the dove in the kambodja tree uttered a loud, joyful note, then was silent. Marjoos had come. With eager hands the small boy loosed the knot by which the cage hung. The hour had come to match his pet against the singing doves of all the countryside. He had seen the goldsmith going to the pasar, with his dove in a cage under a red silk kerchief, and that golden ring of his with the magic characters on his finger. Ah! would not the virtue of the Sacred Grove prove more potent? As, carefully shielding the cage, he made his way through the undergrowth around the kambodja, Marjoos rapidly recited once more the invocation with which supplicants implore aid from the Sultan Hermit and from the most gracious of all gentle genii, the Princess-in-the-Forest. He emerged in the open space by the tomb, and stood still, startled. There, in a robe of flowers, and with a crown of purple flowers on her head, sat the Princess-in-the-Forest! Rapt in her dream, Sameerah had not heard the slight rustle among the bushes. But before her cast down eyes a shadow appeared upon the sunlit ground—the motionless shadow of a child with a birdcage in his hand, and, behind the delicate little shadows of the trellis, the shadow of a dove turning hither and thither its head and ruffling its feathers. She looked up. At that deep still gaze Marjoos felt his heart give a great throb and stand still. With a sobbing gasp for breath he fled. The highway was empty. Never daring to look back, he ran until he reached the pasar. There, plucking up courage again at the sight of so many people, and of his father seated within the ring of onlookers and bettors at the match of the singing doves, he made his way through the crowd, and, trembling and panting, stammered out the story of his wonderful adventure. In an instant it had spread all over the pasar. Men and women left their

THE THREE WOMEN IN THE SACRED GROVE

93

talk, their meal, and their chaffering to hear it with their own ears from the lips of Marjoos, who had to repeat it again and again as he stood there within the ring of pigeon fanciers, forgetful of their birds and their bets. The crowd hesitated between eager belief and contemptuous disbelief, some saying with a shrug that this was the mere daydream of a goodfor-nothing boy who had idled away his morning in the wood instead of minding the buffaloes; and others contending that nevertheless such things had been, and why should not Marjoos be favoured with a sight of the heavenly one, good little lad as he was, and a son moreover to the dalang, the learned one, well versed in secret lore, who had by heart, and sang passing well, so many and beautiful poems in praise of the divine batiker for whose sake flowers bloom in the Sacred Grove—even the Princess-in-the-Forest? Suddenly someone cried that he was going to make sure; and at once a score of people were with him on the way to the wood. Then all the pasar followed—folk of Sangean, folk of Djalang Tiga, folk of Soombertingghi, men, women, and the smallest of small children that could walk alone, all hastened toward the Sacred Grove. The modin was amongst the crowd, the regulator-of-hours at the mosque, who used to shake his head in so grave a disapproval at tales of genii and nymphs haunting the wood. And, followed by his servant, who carried the box of condiments for s/r/A-chewing, the assistant wedana led the way, a scion of a most noble family. From the kewedanaan, whither a clerk, sent out to enquire about the cause of the turmoil on the pasar, had brought the tidings, the wedana himself came hurrying on horseback. He whipped up his pony, much disquieted by these extraordinary events and desirous of obtaining immediate certainty that no harm could come thereof, nor anything for which who could tell but he might be held responsible, as having authority over the native population of the district? Gathering volume as it went, like some rivulet swelling to a river as from either side brooks come pouring into it, the crowd, swelled by groups hastening toward it out of fields and houses, had become a multitude before its leaders reached the Sacred Grove. Mboq-Inten, who, holding little Kai'ran by the hand, and followed by Paq-Inten, was coming down the road from Djalang Tiga, bearing a flower offering for the Sultan Hermit's tomb, stood aside, amazed, from the approach of the tuan wedana, the assistant wedana, and the modin. As soon as, for good manners, she dared, she asked a passerby for what cause all these many people, leaving the pasar, too, were going to the Sacred Grove. "Eh! hast thou not heard, Mother-of-Inten, that the Princess-in-the-

94

AUGUSTA DE WIT

Forest is there? Marjoos the dalang's son saw her, sitting by the Sultan's tomb, all clothed in flowers and crowned with flowers like a bride." Mboq-Inten uttered a cry that made the hastening throng to stand still and look up with startled faces. "Not the Princess-in-the-Forest, not the Princess-in-the-Forest, but Inten, Inten, my dear daughter, come back to me at last!" Sobbing and laughing, the tears running down her face as again and again she called out Inten's name in a desperate jubilation, the old woman, catching her grandchild up to her breast, ran up the hill with the light-footed speed of a girl. Sameerah, awakened from her dreamy trance by that sudden multitude that filled the forest with a rumour as of surging waters, sat gazing wide-eyed, slowly paling under her purple crown. Hundreds of faces were bent upon her. She put both hands over her eyes and shrank back into herself, bowing down so deeply as all but to disappear under her hair, which fell forward in a soft cloud of flowerstarred darkness. But even as it vanished Mboq-Inten had recognized the face which, throughout the days and the nights of three long years, had smiled upon her steadfast hope. And, falling on her knees by the side of that cowering shape, she seized Sameerah in both arms and through flowers and locks kissed her forehead and eyes and cheeks with passionately tender kisses, saying over and over again the same words of endearment: " O Inten, O my child, O my heart's jewel, at last, at last, at last thou art come! Alas, wherefore didst thou not return at once to thy mother? I have been longing for thee these three long years!" And, raising in both hands the face, from which she gently put the hair back, she gazed into the shy eyes, and began again to weep for happiness. "In no wise art thou changed, my little golden daughter! Ah! I cannot satiate my old eyes with the sight of thee! How have I longed, all these many years, to feel thee again, thus, close against me! Of a truth, child of my heart, I would not have remained alive, after thou hadst died; nay, I myself too would have died of sorrow, but for the dream of thy return which Tuan Allah sent me. Thus, thus I saw thee in my dream, crowned like a bride, here, on this very spot—waiting for me and for thy child. Behold him, my Inten! look upon him! Thou didst not see him when thou broughtest him forth, thou my poor one! thy eyes were dark with death, already. Rejoice in him now! Is he not tall and handsome?" She had set Kai'ran in Sameerah's lap; shy and half afraid, he looked at the strange woman. Smiling out of tear-dimmed eyes, Mboq-Inten gazed upon the two. "Well? What does Kai'ran say to his sweet mother?" Sameerah's arms closed round the child, round the soft little body that felt warm against her breast. She did not think, she did not attempt to

THE THREE WOMEN IN THE SACRED GROVE

95

understand or to guess, she did not even wonder—this small creature that she was pressing against her was her child. Her lips that had forgotten speech began to murmur softly. "So sweet!" she whispered, "so sweet!" Ka'iran took courage. He thought of the many things that had been promised him for mother's return. Between vanishing shyness and beginning confidence he peeped up at her from under his eyelashes. "What has Mother brought Ka'iran?" A deep laughter welled up into Sameerah's throat, a light broke from her eyes. "Say that again, ah! do say that again, my little heart—say 'Mother' to me!" Somewhat confused and doubtingly the child obeyed. "Mother!" Then hastily: "Has Mother brought Ka'iran a dove?" For, even now upon the highway, Mboq-Inten, who could not get him away from the caged turtle of a passerby, had promised that mother would bring him one when she came home. She said, laughing proudly: "He is so clever, the little one! He remembers everything! So thou wert too, my child, wise from childhood onward. He is like thee in all things." Sameerah looked at the woman who had put the child in her lap so kindly; gratefully she smiled at her. Mboq-Inten took her hand and stroked her own face with it. "Do thou also say 'Mother, dear Mother,' now. Dost know thou hast not yet greeted me with a single little word, my child?" Will-less and happy, Sameerah repeated: "Mother! dear Mother!" Mboq-Inten turned toward the multitude. "Be witness, all of ye, that Inten has recognized me, and that she has recognized her child! Come, Paq-Inten! come hither! Here is our daughter." The people stood silent. They were at a loss what to think. Was this not, indeed, Inten, having Inten's face, Inten's shape? There were many folk from Djalang Tiga who had known Inten from a child, and women who had seen her die, and men who had carried her to the grave. But nonetheless, there they beheld her, even as it had been prophesied that they would behold her, crowned with flowers like a bride, sitting by the tomb in the Sacred Grove; they beheld her living and smiling, holding in her arms Ka'iran as her child, and herself held in Mboq-Inten's arms, as in her mother's arms a daughter. No nymph of the woods this, as Marjoos had believed and still maintained, all but crying with disappointment; no heavenly apparition, but in very deed and truth Inten, risen from the grave! There were, indeed, people from Soombertingghi too, who had heard Mboq-Noordin's frightened exclamation, "It is Sameerah!" as, together with Noordin and Sedoot, they hastily fled out of the wood. But in that

96

AUGUSTA DE WIT

smiling happy one, a mother and a daughter, caressing and caressed, none recognized poor lonely Sameerah whose eyes were always red with weeping, and who shrank so shyly from Mboq-Noordin's reviling; in that radiant apparation, flower-crowned and clad in flowers, was to be traced no likeness to the wretched sloven toiling in Noordin's house. And they too thought this must be the fair one who in the happy days of her girlhood was Sameerah's counterpart—even that same Inten who used to be hailed by Sameerah's name, being so like her. Many miracles had happened at the Sultan Hermit's tomb: why, then, not this one of Inten returning from the grave? So that as Paq-Inten, irresolute and something afraid, came forward, the crowd urging him on encouragingly, everyone expected him to declare: "This is, truly, my daughter Inten." He saw it. And, in his heart, he had thought of how he should fare if, in presence of so many people and of the headman of the village and of the wedana himself, he dared to gainsay Mboq-Inten—Mboq-Inten who brought such a great deal of money into the house, and managed the household so exceedingly well, and had her way in all things and with everyone! And at the same time he reflected that, with so fair a daughter in the house, he should not have to wait much longer for a son-in-law who would help him in the field. And as, with these many thoughts in his mind, he looked at the young woman whom Mboq-Inten was holding in her embrace, he said in all sincerity: "Truly, this is Inten!—Come, our daughter, come home with us, and we will prepare a feast and offer up a sacrifice to the spirits, in order that all our friends and thy playmates of past days may rejoice with us over thy return from the Land of Shadows." He raised her. Then all saw how fair she was as, with Kai'ran in her arms and smiling for happiness, she stood in the mantle of her long hair all pranked and pied with flowers and about her brow the purple radiance of her wreath, that shone transparent in the sunlight. No wonder, said more than one, that Marjoos should have believed her to be a nymph, a widadari! She was fair as the bride of the God of Love! Joyfully the villagers of Djalang Tiga formed into a procession to conduct her home. But, suddenly, all changed. The wedana, able no longer to bear the sense of his responsibility and his anxiety as to the possible result of the affair to himself—how carefully he had to watch over the chances of a promotion, hoped for, ah! for how long a time, which of a certainty would be ruined if there occurred any disturbance whatsoever in his district!—the wedana had ridden to the resident in hot haste, mercilessly whipping up his pony and muttering in-

THE THREE WOMEN IN THE SACRED GROVE

97

cantations all the while to make it carry him more swiftly than the wind. And the day was a lucky one! He was hardly out of the shadows of the Sacred Grove when he saw the gleaming carriage, with the police mandur on the box, the yellow of his uniform all ashine, and the pair of tall horses, powerfully trotting, come down the road in a whirling cloud of dust. Hastily dismounting, he stood bareheaded by the roadside, where the kandjeng resident's gaze might fall on him. Ah! what to say now, so that even the faintest semblance of a fault might be far from him? The tall horses stopped; he heard the imperious voice. Eyes cast down, he stammered. And the day was lucky indeed! The kandjeng resident laughed. The wedana risked a stealthy glance and felt the thumping of his heart abate. The njonja besar was with the kandjeng. She greeted him with a kindly look. Being a prudent man, the wedana had never let any Hollander perceive that he knew Dutch; and he modestly kept his eyes on the ground, and waited as one who lets alien sounds go past him, and does not desire to know more than his betters judge meet that he should know, whilst, entirely reassured, he heard the resident say to his lady that, really, only in a district like Sangean, all overshadowed with legends and superstition, was a thing like this possible: that a street dancer adorning herself for a feast in a secluded spot should by a little buffalo-herd be worshipped for a nymph, and embraced for her daughter, risen from the grave, by an old mother who for many years had mourned that daughter's death. To the cursory question about this foolish old woman's name the wedana said, boldly, Mboq-Inten from Djalang Tiga, a village just outside the boundary of his district. And as to the woman in the wood, some believed her to be Sameerah from Soombertingghi, Noordin's wife, who for this long time past had been said to be darkened in mind, being childless and greatly despised on account of this. Elizabeth uttered an exclamation at the two names. Oh, truly a miracle at the tomb of the royal Saint, this happy illusion that so graciously saved two lives lost to wretchedness already, and of two sadly solitary ones made a mother and a daughter! But the resident, who at first had indulgently shrugged his shoulders, frowned at a sudden reflection. Was this child's talk about a woman risen from the grave as harmless as it appeared? He thought of disturbances that had originated in a similar tale of wonder—refusal to pay taxes and to obey orders at the behest of one risen from the dead, attempts at the overthrow of lawful authority in favour of some descendant of a sultan's family, extinct long since. He would crush the dangerous folly in the germ. As if she felt a menace to her new-won happiness at the approach of that tall, white-clad man with the severe face advancing through the

98

AUGUSTA DE WIT

crowd of natives, who as they made room for him, timorously squatted down, Mboq-Inten retreated toward the tomb; and, sitting down at the foot, she took into her lap her whom she would have for her daughter, thus proclaiming and maintaining her right to her in presence of all the village folk and of the wedana and of the kandjeng resident himself. Elizabeth touched her husband's arm. It was she, it was the poor brainsick wanderer on the highway of that morning, crazed perhaps by who could tell what unbearable sorrow from which she was seeking deliverance at the tomb of the merciful Saint; it was the weeping one whom she had seen ill-treated by the cruel old woman—the despised childless wife, smiling now with a child in her arms! And her hand upon her husband's arm, her eyes upon his, implored: "Suffer these roses of imagination to become daily bread, to live by!" But with an impatient gesture he warded off the unspoken prayer. No indulgence toward such superstitions, no weak shirking of the ruler's duty to maintain the established order in spiritual things as well as in material. He addressed Mboq-Inten severely. "How dost thou dare, ancient one! to say this woman is thy daughter, whereas all men and women in thy village know that she died in childbirth, three years ago now, and the men are here who buried her? Enough of this folly! Let this stranger go, and do thou return to thy own house!" Mboq-Inten looked up. She did not speak. But an unconquerable will stood in her eyes. Sameerah, frightened, hid herself against that one being who was kind to her; and she held Ka'iran tight-locked in her arms. Her gesture and deathly pale face touched the official. And certainly it was no rebellious desire for freedom such as he would have quelled, but only a childish love of the miraculous, which he noted in the many faces timorously gazing at him. But he was a guardian and educator of those eternally infantile ones: it was his duty to cure them of that childish craving for the impossible which loves to soothe and delude itself with a specious semblance, that conscious shirking of the truth for the sake of desire. And he said, though somewhat less severely: "If I cause thy daughter's grave to be opened, and show thee her bones within the grave, wilt thou then confess that she is dead and turned to dust? And that it is a stranger whom thou art holding embraced now?" Fearlessly Mboq-Inten made answer: "Let the grave be opened in which Inten has lain! And let me stand by the open grave! I shall behold no bones in it; for she who died and was buried is arisen, and I hold her in my arms." The dull red of annoyance flushed the Hollander's face. He gave an abrupt order. The men went silently.

THE THREE WOMEN IN THE SACRED GROVE

99

But Elizabeth caught at his hand. "Oh, why do a thing like this? Shall, then, a poor handful of death avail against life and the truth of life? Look, look at the love in Mboq-Inten's eyes! Her love it is that is arisen from the grave, her love it is that lives! That, surely, is the great miracle, that love always arises again in the heart that once has loved. It does not decay in any grave; no long years, no bitter sorrow, have power over it, to weaken or to discourage it. And forever and ever again love is the mother, and forever and ever again love is the child. And by love only we live and have our being, all of us, all of us, as many as we are human beings upon this world in need of love." She uttered the helpless disconnected words in a voice deeper than her own; she groped her way toward her thought; as one blinded with an excess of light she reached for a truth in comparison with which that other truth which men meant when they spoke of reality and justice and law was a little and empty thing, an ephemeral semblance. She stood pale and tremulous as a flame, herself a ray of that great light, its glories shining through her. The native folk who did not understand her words yet understood herself, her pallor, the dark and fervid tenderness in her eyes, and her passionate voice. As toward their salvation, Mboq-Inten and Sameerah raised their eyes toward her. Elizabeth went up to them and gently took a hand of each into her hands. Thus she looked at her husband beseechingly. He stood in doubt still, dark. But then he looked into her eyes. The men who were to open the grave had stood still. He made the gesture for which he saw they were waiting. Well content, they receded into the crowd. The three women smiled at one another. Elizabeth and Mboq-Inten saw the calm light of reason dawning in the face of her who had been called Sameerah, but who, from this hour on, was Mother-of-Kai'ran. So fair a miracle, all the folk thought, was never yet wrought in the Sacred Grove.

6.

JOHAN FABRICIUS

INTRODUCTION

Johan Fabricius (1899-) was born in Bandung, the son of another well known author, Jan Fabricius. Originally intent on being an artist, Fabricius's first literary endeavors consisted of letters written from the Austro-Hungarian front where he had gone as a war illustrator. De scheepsjongens van Bontekoe (The Shipmates of Bontekoe), from which this excerpt is taken, was his first novel and an instant success. It remains a popular children's classic. Fabricius's literary contributions are manifold, and he continues to be one of the most widely read modern Dutch authors. All of his novels take place outside of Holland, but only in his later career did Fabricius choose the Indies once again as a background for several of his novels: Setuwo de tijger, De heilige paarden, and Schimmenspel. De scheepsjongens van Bontekoe is the fictional tale of three boys from the city of Hoorn who sign on as crew on Bontekoe's ship about to leave for its famous journey to the Indies. A fourth boy—a visitor to the ship who fails to disembark before departure—is forced to go along on this fateful voyage. The plot adheres more or less to Bontekoe's travelogue. In Bontekoe's account there is mention of a Padde Kelemeyn who inadvertently sets the ship afire. This Padde becomes one of the boy heroes of Fabricius's tale. According to Bontekoe, four shipmates were left in the Sumatran village and were later presumed dead. Not so, says Fabricius's tale: these were our four boys who escaped with the help of the girl Dolimah. After an adventurous journey accompanied by the girl, the dog Joppie, and a village boy, Saleiman, they arrive at the south tip

JAVA HO!

101

of the island of Sumatra and are able to make the crossing to Java. It all makes for an adventurous tale of the tropics, one which has held the attention of many a Dutch child on a rainy afternoon. 1 NOTE 1.

The following excerpt is taken from Johan Fabricius, Java Ho! The Adventures of Four Boys Amid Fire, Storm and Shipwreck, trans. M. C. Darnton (London: Methuen and Co., 1933); pp. 258-270. Reprinted with permission from the author.

Java Ho!

The next day Harmen sprang up with a shout: "The sun! The sun is shining." There stood the sun, high above the mountains, gleaming like gold. The valley was steaming. The blue sky seemed to be moist still—as if its colors were not quite dry. The trees looked as if they had been newly painted green and the flowers like red, white, yellow and blue splashes on the bushes. Little green parrots, bronze green pigeons, turtledoves tumbled about in the trees, sending down a shower of diamonds. Great butterflies fluttered from flower to flower, spreading their wings or folding them with infinite grace, coquetting with the sunlight and shadow, kissing the hearts of the blossoms. The boys sat at the entrance of the cave, letting their clothes dry and looking with delight over the ravine and the plateau. How did all this life and color return so suddenly? Even the trees seemed to be stretching themselves and the flowers, that lay so bent and broken yesterday, raised their heads proudly. Suddenly Padde came creeping out. The others were frightened to see how pale and thin he had become, how dull were his eyes. They made him lie down in the sun. It was plain that they could not continue their journey for the present. Though H a j o and Harmen had gone every day to look at their snare, they had not caught the deer, as they hoped. But on the way back this morning, Harmen stumbled over a pheasant, splendidly marked, with black tail feathers a yard and a half long. Rolf admired their catch.

JAVA HO!

103

"We'll have a fine dinner n o w ! " he cried. "This pheasant with rice, maize, dried fish, two eggs for Padde. . . and Dolimah is gathering herbs and f r u i t . " Rolf had become very domestic. He had laid dry grass on the floor of the cave as a carpet and fastened the panther skin to a few poles as a sort of canopy under which Padde could lie in the shade, while enjoying the fresh air. Now he suggested that they make a bench and table. H a j o agreed to help him, but Harmen felt too restless. Armed with his faithful spear, he went forth to hunt. He failed to catch a lizard and a partridge. He bit boldly into a long, green fruit, as he thought it, only to feel the tears gushing from his eyes and his tongue smarting from pepper. He spat it out with disgust and walked on. Suddenly he heard the sound of bleating. Could it be a sheep? He advanced cautiously and, peering between the trees, saw a young kid! It was tied fast to a wooden peg and stood in a sort of gangway. Heavy wooden beams had been driven into the ground to form it. What did it mean! A kid tied up in the jungle—why, a tiger might come along. . . . And the rope was so short that it could scarcely graze. And what was this gangway? Ah, of course—it was a tiger trap! Harmen now noticed, half hidden by the foliage, a trapdoor on each side. When the tiger jumped in to devour the kid, the trapdoors would fall and the tiger would be caught. "Ma-a-ah." bleated the poor little kid. " I ' m coming," called Harmen gently. " H a r m e n won't let the bad tiger eat you, no, no! Harmen will take you. . . .Be still, I'm coming." "Ma-a-ah!" bleated the kid joyfully. "Goodness!" said Harmen, "those doors are thick! How'll I get to you without getting into the trap? Oh, now I know!" He held out his long spear and began to file the rotan rope with its sharp blade. The kid helped him, without knowing it, by drawing the rope tight as it strained away from the spear; yet he made slow progress. But at last it was nearly cut through; the kid tugged with all its might and rebounded against the wooden beams. The rope had yielded. The kid seemed so dazed by the shock that it turned on Harmen, with horns lowered, but suddenly changed its mind and began gamboling away with sprightly leaps and bounds. "Here, come back!" shouted Harmen angrily and flew after it. But as he raced through the gangway, one of the beams yielded a little; he stumbled and heard two heavy thuds. When he looked up, the trapdoors had fallen. He was a prisoner. He seized his spear and threw it with all his strength against the door. His spear shivered and fell, but the door stood firm. It was made of djati

104

J O H A N FABRICIUS

wood which even defies the destructive attacks of white ants. Harmen stood erect, breathing hard, with clenched teeth and tears in his eyes. He must get out. But how? The wooden walls were at least five ells high. The floor, as well as the walls, was made of heavy beams placed beneath the side walls, so that there was no chance of raising them and burrowing out. He tried to cut notches into the wood, but after working hard for half an hour, he saw how hopeless this was. He threw himself into a corner and raged. Then it occurred to him to call for help. " H o ! Ho! Help!. . . he roared. But Echo alone answered. Then he heard a pitiful bleat in the distance: "Ma-a-ah!" He screamed until he was hoarse, quickly, so that he should not hear the echo. But when he stopped from sheer exhaustion, he heard on every side: "Ho-ho! Help! I'm caught!" He put his fingers in his ears—the sound frightened him. He braced himself against one of the doors and pushed and pushed. He tried the other. They stood firm. In a sudden fury, he began to kick against the door with his heels until they turned blue and purple. "Get away!" he yelled wildly—and he heard "Get away!" repeated on every side. He had a new idea. He would use his spear as a vaulting pole and jump . . . ! Careful now! He walked to the farthest corner of the trap, planted his spear in a crack, and leaped. With his hands clutching the shaft, he swung himself up in a curve . . . and then . . . the shaft broke and with a wild cry, Harmen fell heavily on the wooden floor. He stumbled to his feet, tried to stand, tottered, fell over and remained lying there. When he opened his eyes again, it was late afternoon. The birds were warbling once more after the silence of the noonday heat. His head ached. At first he looked around in surprise. Then an uneasy feeling seized him and he clutched his head to collect his thoughts. He tried to rise, trembled, and fell back again. He waited until he felt better. Then he opened his eyes and saw the walls enclosing him. He was caught . . . .Tomorrow or the next day the cannibals who had set the trap would come and eat him up. Harmen sighed—and the sigh turned into sobbing. "Help! Help!" he called again, and listened. The birds stopped trilling for a moment and then went on singing, drowning the echo of his cries. He sat staring at the wall opposite. Would his friends search for him? How far was he from the cave? He had walked to the west. First there had been the lizard, then the partridge. . . . He began to exercise his imagination and concocted a tale of a fight with a tiger, of his heroism. . . . Suddenly he jumped up enraged at himself, at mankind, at the world. Here he was cooking up a drama in which he was to strut before

JAVA HO!

105

the others. The whole world seemed a Punch and Judy show in which men could not distinguish between a jest and the serious side of life. So Harmen blamed the world and men for his own stupidity in getting caught in a trap which was not even meant for him. Twilight fell, then it grew dark, and the paie moon began to gleam through the bamboo clusters. Crickets chirped. Insects buzzed around his head. A frog joined in the concert, then came other musicians of the dark. Harmen listened to the solemn song of this Indian night and even began to compose a poem about his fate. Suddenly he pricked his ears and started up. Something was clambering up the wooden wall outside! Was it a beast of prey? He seized the part of his broken spear with the shaft and stood waiting. There! Something black appeared above the boards—a brown face with great, frightened eyes and flap ears framed in the light of the moon. It was Saleiman.

When Harmen had left his companions, Hajo and Rolf at once began to busy themselves with the manufacture of kitchen utensils. With their poor implements they made a bamboo table and goblets, and spoons and dishes of coconut shells. Dolimah, who had gone in the meantime to look for herbs and fruits for Padde, met Saleiman coming towards the cave with a live chicken under his arm. She thanked him, but asked whether the villagers were not beginning to notice his thefts. He explained that they blamed the evil spirits which seemed very busy at the moment, for a tiger had stolen one of the dogs. But the villagers had just set a trap for this robber! Dolimah now begged her faithful admirer to induce the medicine man of his village to come to Padde's aid. This seemed to amaze Saleiman, but when she promised that the dukun should have the panther skin as a reward, he agreed to try. Padde's face was burning with fever when she returned to the cave and he still refused to eat. Dolimah told the two boys of the probable visit of the dukun and of her promise to give him the panther skin, and a warm feeling of gratitude rose in their breasts. Her unending help touched them deeply. Now she busied herself with preparing a dinner of pheasant, rice, herbs and fruit. They had been wondering why Harmen remained away so long but now, when they were ready to sit down at their table for the first time, they became seriously alarmed about his absence. Though the meal was much better than any they had tasted in months, no one was in the mood to enjoy it. As soon as they had finished, Rolf

106

J O H A N FABRICIUS

and Hajo set out to look for Harmen, taking the same way that he had followed. Though they called and searched everywhere, they saw no trace of him and so they returned to the cave, hoping to hear that he had returned. But instead they were greeted by Padde's delirious cries. He had grown much worse since morning and was tossing about feverishly and crying out "Fire! Fire!" in piercing tones. When he was not raving about the burning of the ship, he mumbled confused snatches about life at home in Hoorn or sobbed convulsively because he could not keep up with the others. Rolf and Hajo cooled his forehead with water, but they felt utterly helpless before this danger. Suddenly someone outside the cave coughed and Dolimah whispered: "The dukun!" At the entrance of the cave, like a shadow in the twilight, stood an ancient native with a white beard, as thin as a skeleton. Dolimah addressed him politely, praising his skill, and he nodded, thoughtfully spitting a red juice on the gray stones. "Where is the sick boy?" "In the cave, Pa-Samirah." "Where is the panther skin?" ''Above you, good sir." He looked up, nodded, and spat again. "The whites must stay outside. You must help me," he ordered in a hoarse voice that sounded like the creaking of an old cart. The boys withdrew, with a sense of oppression in leaving Padde to this sinister being; but, after all, Dolimah was with him. More than ever they felt themselves lost in this strange land. Dolimah, Saleiman, the dukun were at home here, they knew the birds, the plants, the animals—and the spirits! Spirits . . . ! Dolimah had made them feel that there were spirits. And now this old man had come to drive the evil spirits out of Padde! What a strange authority he had exerted over them when he had asked them to depart. And he could command the spirits! The two Dutch boys began to feel very small. Even Saleiman understood the soul of fire, stream and rain; and the animals understood him, down to the snake which had answered his call. A piercing scream reached them from within the cave. They ran towards it, but Dolimah whispered: "The dukun is with him," and tried to stop them. Hajo brushed past her none the less, but when the old man, who sat by Padde, turned his head, mumbled, and stared at him with fixed, unseeing eyes, he fell back. Murmuring and humming monotonously, the dukun turned again to the patient. Gradually the screams subsided, but the even sing-song of the old man went on. After an eternity of waiting, Dolimah tiptoed out and whis-

JAVA HO!

107

pered: "The spirits are fleeing! He had me grate some herbs for him!" Then she returned to the cave and they waited again. At last the old dukun came out like an Old Man of the Mountain—but they stood in too much awe of him to thank him. They went softly into the cave—Padde was fast asleep, breathing peacefully. The miracle man stood outstide, waiting for his panther skin. While Hajo rolled it up, Hajo tried to thank him but the words stuck in his throat as he looked into this dull, dead countenance, as old as eternity. The dukun slowly spat forth more of the red juice that looked like blood. His slack mouth revealed a toothless jaw; his gray eyebrows were lifted high on his wrinkled forehead. He took the panther skin in silence, fastened his sarong and climbed up the rope ladder. "Do you understand all this?" asked Hajo. "Not in the least," replied Rolf. "How in the world could he. . . . " He stopped thoughtfully. Suddenly he spoke: "Hajo! Where can Harmen be?" "Oh, ye-yes," stammered Hajo, "I'd forgotten about him." The two boys looked greatly disturbed. After Si-Kampret had guided the dukun to the cave, he had started for home again. Suddenly he heard a plaintive bleating and ran towards it. He found a kid with a rotan rope around its neck and knew at once that this was the kid from the tiger trap. He must find out what had happened. Was an evil spirit at work? But he had a talisman on his finger against the spirits of the forest, so he felt brave. The way to the trap was long and roundabout but he entertained himself by thinking of all the food he would sneak for Dolimah tomorrow—eggs and rice and dried meat. The moon was shining behind him and he watched his shadow as it ran along. His ears stuck out more than ever in the moonlight and he stared sadly and angrily at his image. Just then a bat flew above his head and the two shadows met. Saleiman muttered a curse as he saw them and ran on under the trees where he need not watch himself. How he wished he might find a tiger in the trap . . . and kill him with a long bamboo stake which he would heat in a fire and put out the tiger's eyes! Then they wouldn't call him "Bat-ears" any longer . . . . Dolimah always called him Saleiman—he felt happier when he remembered that. Now he had come to the trap and he climbed up along its side. Then he tumbled down again from sheer surprise. "Saleiman!" roared Harmen. "Where are you? Here, cut down a bamboo rod and stick it down." And he threw his knife out so that it almost struck Saleiman's skull. But Saleiman had a better plan. He cut a rotan rope, bound one end on

108

J O H A N FABRICIUS

a branch and threw it down to Harmen who worked his way up and out while Saleiman was still climbing down the tree. Harmen gave a deep sigh when he stood on the ground once more, thanked Saleiman briefly, took his knife and ran. It was not easy to find his way in the dark and he thought the way would never end. But at last he found a path between the trees—and then he heard a sound. Careful! He hid in the bushes and watched the approaching figure. It was a Malay. And . . . and . . . what was he carrying there? Harmen snorted with rage: it was his panther skin! The man stopped. Bony and crooked, his shadow looked threatening in the moonlight. "Who is there?" he asked. " I ! " said Harmen, springing out, and he dealt the Malay a blow, snatched the skin and ran in the direction from which the native had come before he had taken time to think. But he was sure that the fellow had stolen his skin. He reached the plateau, scrambled down the ladder, fell, picked himself up again and rushed into the cave. "Harmen." Harmen panted as he threw the skin on the ground. "There's your skin again! Anything to eat here?" They stared at him wide-eyed.

"We must get out as fast as we can," said Rolf as soon as they had heard Harmen's story. "The dukunwon't pass this by!" "What will we do with Padde?" "Carry him. We'll stretch the panther skin between two poles and make a litter. "Come on!" and he quietly explained to Dolimah what had happened. Hajo and Harmen prepared the litter, binding the skin to the poles with rotan, while Rolf gathered up the food and utensils and fastened them to a staff. "Ready? Then wake Padde!" he ordered. At that moment Saleiman came running in and announced that the angry dukun was approaching with a crowd of natives. Harmen picked Padde up—the boy was still fast asleep and hung limp in his arms. With the help of the others he got him up and on the litter. Hajo and Rolf picked it up and they started off. Saleiman led the way, carrying the staff across his shoulder and walking with the easy, quick tread of those used to carrying heavy loads. Dolimah and Harmen bore the weapons and Joppie ran joyfully ahead. It was a strange caravan.

JAVA HO!

109

Now they heard the cry of a beast. " I t ' s my deer," exclaimed Harmen joyfully and he ran after Joppie to the spot where he had set his snare. In the lower sling struggled a young wild pig, at which Joppie barked furiously. " A pig!" murmured Harmen in disgust. "Come, I'll help y o u . " But the little pig almost strangled itself in its efforts to free itself. Harmen seized it, bound its hind legs together, and carried it back. "Let's see the deer," said Rolf. " I t ' s not a deer," replied Harmen, " b u t it's good to eat just the same." The boys took turns in carrying the litter and once, when Rolf saw how tired Dolimah seemed, he suggested that they rest. But Saleiman seemed so disturbed that they pushed on. The forest came to an end and the soil became rocky. Only a few shrubs grew here. Then they came to a ravine at the bottom of which sparkled a little stream. Beyond stretched a plateau surrounded by a wall of mountains. " T h e r e ! " said Saleiman and he pointed to a bridge. It was a sort of hammock, made of rotan, stretched across the ravine at its narrowest point. "You must cut down the bridge when you've crossed over," he said They had all had the same idea. Now Harmen was the first to step on it. It began to swing violently, but Dolimah assured them that it was strong. It was time to say farewell to Saleiman. " H e couldn't get back," explained Dolimah, "after we've broken it down behind u s . " " H o w about you?" asked Rolf, looking at her. " I can't go back anyway," she replied softly. "Why n o t ? " asked Saleiman shyly. " O h , it's much too far to my village," she answered gently. "I'll take you there!" promised Saleiman quickly. She looked at him affectionately but sadly. " I thank you Saleiman— for everything. But I can't go back." The others crossed the swinging bridge with great difficulty and when they had reached the other side, Harmen cut the ropes. The bottom dropped out of it and a few bamboo sticks shot down into the river like arrows. They had cut off their pursuers and were safe! " G o o d b y ! " they called across to Saleiman, standing alone in the moonlight. He did not answer. But when the boys had turned to the south he called: "Dolimah, I'll wait here . . . every evening . . . till it's new moon . . . till the beginning of the Fasting Month . . . ! " "But I won't come back. . . . " answered Dolimah. He did not reply but they saw him standing like a statue in the moonlight as long as they could mark the spot where the bridge had hung.

110

JOHAN FABRICIUS

Now that the danger of pursuit was past, they realized how tired they were. They lay down near a bush and fell asleep beneath the starry sky. When they awoke the next morning, the sun was shining directly upon them. There were no sheltering trees, no birds, no butterflies, nothing but cold, hard stones . . . and in the distance the blue mountains. They ate some rice and dried fish and started on again. Padde was still sleeping, breathing quietly, and they could not help thinking of the dukun whom they had rewarded so badly. There was not a cloud in the sky and the sun was hot although it was still early. Dolimah was very silent nor did she hum as usual on the inarch. When Rolf asked her of what she was thinking, she shook her head. But later she began speaking of her little brothers and sisters, especially of her little brother Dajik. "He'll be grieving that I'm gone," she sighed. " H e loves everybody, and he knows all the flowers and the trees and the animals. . . . " She gazed dreamily at the distant mountains and added: "If I should ever return to my village, Dajik would say: 'I knew she'd come back. . . .' " The sun grew so hot that they began to stumble. The very air seemed to be trembling with the heat and so they lay down to rest. Their throats were parched but they did not feel like eating. When they awoke it was cooler and they could enjoy the chicken which Harmen had killed and roasted for them before a fire made by Dolimah. Padde was still sleeping and Harmen began to suspect him of keeping his eyes closed in order to escape walking. The rocky plain seemed endless and the mountains looked just as far away as they had looked that morning. That night they built a big fire, for the stones beneath their feet were damp and cold though it had been so hot all day. Dolimah began talking about her brother Dajik again and about the festival month approaching at the new moon, and the boys knew that she was feeling homesick. Suddenly Hajo pointed to the west. "Look! Sea gulls!" They sprang up in surprise. The word touched a sensitive cord in their breasts. Sea gulls! There, far in the west, they soared in their evening flight. If you held your breath, you could almost hear them saying: "Tschiep! . . . the sea is here still! It sends you greetings and asks why you are so long on the way! Tschiep! . . . " One of them waved his wings at them and flew away. But the boys felt happier in their hearts now. The sea! There, in the west, not far away, lay the sea. Now they knew how they had longed for it when they had wandered through all this green jungle of trees, creepers, and flowers. How oppressive, how impenetrable were these green

JAVA HO!

Ill

walls, rising one close behind the other, where native spirits mocked at them while they were sighing for their home! But now they were near the sea again! Tomorrow morning they would turn westward, they would let their glances travel far over the water and breathe the fresh, salty air with deep breaths. Westward tomorrow! The sea tomorrow! They forgot the hard stones on which they lay as they fell asleep and dreamed of the sea and its distant roar.

7.

CHARLES EDGAR DU PERRON

INTRODUCTION

The beginning of the twentieth century saw the emergence of authors who, like du Perron, were part of a civilization which had started as far back as the seventeenth century. It was a civilization of the Dutchman who chose to stay in the Indies, whose offspring was often racially mixed and whose language, although Dutch, reflected distance from the motherland and adaptation to a different lifestyle. This Indisch society ceased after Indonesian independence, when it had hardly had time to emerge in literature. It was a distinct society, profoundly influenced by a country and civilization of which it was never fully a part, racially linked to two peoples, neither of which accepted it fully. With a distinctive cultural heritage—the extent of which has not yet been fully explored—the Indisch child, like the one described by du Perron in his autobiographical novel Het land van herkomst (The Land of Origin) is destined to spend most of his high school years in Holland, away from his family, among children with dissimilar interests and different background. 1 Charles Edgar du Perron's family had lived in Indonesia for several generations before his birth. Unlike the Couperus family they did not pursue careers in government service, nor did they retire to Holland: they were landowners and "blijvers" (those that stayed). Du Perron was born at a time (1899) in which this landowning class still enjoyed the power and lifestyle of the wealthy, although their days were numbered because of the changing economic structure of the colony. At the age of twenty-two, du Perron left the colony for Europe. He won himself an influential reputation in Dutch literary circles as an

THE LAND OF ORIGIN

113

author and literary critic and highlighted this early career by helping to found the literary journal Forum. In 1936, he returned to Indonesia, where he found the colony quite changed. However, by virtue of his background and understanding he was able to establish contacts among the Indonesian and the Dutch intellectuals, and was a frequent contributor to the journal Kritiek en Opbouw and to the Bataviaasch Nieuwsblad. His affinity with Multatuli is expressed in his Multatuli biography De Man van Lebak (1937), and subsequently in Multatuli, tweede pleidooi (1938) and De Bewijzen uit het pak van Sjaalman (1940). Other literary works related to the Indies are his anthology of Dutch colonial literature De Muze van Jan Companie (1939) and a historical novel about Onno Zwier van Haren (the author of Agon de Sultan van Bantam