Max Havelaar;

MAX HAVELAAR.

EDINBURGH: PRINTED BY THOMAS CONSTABLE,
FOR
EDMONSTON AND DOUGLAS.

JAVA

Edmonston & Douglas. Edinburgh.

MAX HAVELAAR

OR THE COFFEE AUCTIONS OF THE DUTCH TRADING COMPANY.

BY
Multatuli.
Translated from the Original Manuscript by
BARON ALPHONSE NAHUIJS.

EDINBURGH
EDMONSTON & DOUGLAS
1868.
[All rights reserved]

[[v]]

PREFACE.

Max Havelaar was published a few years ago, and caused such a sensation in Holland as was never before experienced in that country. The author wrote it under the pseudonym of Multatuli, but his real name, Eduard Douwes Dekker, formerly Assistant Resident of the Dutch Government in Java, at once became known. Full of fire, and overflowing with enthusiasm, the author presented it to his countrymen in the form of a novel, —a book wherein he made them acquainted with the incredible extortions and tyranny of which the natives of the Dutch Indies, “that magnificent empire of Insulind, which winds about the equator like a garland of emeralds,” are the victims, and how he tried in vain, while still in the service of the Government, to put an end to the cruel oppressions that happen every day in those countries. Though some considered his book to be merely an interesting and captivating [[vi]]novel, the author maintained that it contained nothing but facts. He boldly asked the Dutch Government to prove the substance of his book to be false, but its truth has never been disputed. At the International Congress for the promotion of Social Sciences at Amsterdam, in 1863, he challenged his countrymen to refute him, but there was no champion to accept the challenge. In short, Mr. Douwes Dekker, who had been a functionary in the service of the Dutch Government for the space of seventeen years, rather understated than overstated the truth. Not a single fact was ever contested in Holland, and he is still ready to prove his statements.[1] In the Dutch Parliament nobody answered a single word, but Mr. Van Twist, ex-Governor-General of the Dutch Indies, who, on being appealed to by the Baron Van Hoevell, said that he could perhaps refute Max Havelaar, but that it was not his interest to do so.

The book proves that what was formerly written in Uncle Tom’s Cabin of the cruelties perpetrated upon the [[vii]]slaves in America, is nothing in comparison to what happens every day in the Dutch Indies.

“Max Havelaar” is the name under which the author chooses to describe his experiences in the East; in the first chapters of the book he has just returned from India, and he meets an old school-companion, at that time a coffee-broker, a Mr. Drystubble. This Mr. Drystubble is very rich, and the author being just then very poor, the latter asks his old school-fellow to be security for the publishing of his book. At first Mr. Drystubble will not hear of this, but afterwards, when he perceives that it will be of some advantage to himself, he consents. Drystubble is a very characteristic person, knowing nothing beyond his trade, a great egotist, and is represented by the author with true wit and humour, in order to show the extreme contrast between himself and … some of his countrymen, whom he may perhaps have met with since his return from Java. At that time the author wears a plaid or shawl, and Mr. Drystubble therefore speaks always of him as Mr. Shawlman. A few months after the publication of Max Havelaar, one of the most eminent members of the Dutch Parliament avowed that this book had struck the whole country with horror. In vain the Dutch tried to [[viii]]make a party question of it. The author openly declared that he belonged neither to the Liberal nor to the Conservative party; but that he placed himself under the banner of RIGHT, EQUITY, and HUMANITY. As soon, however, as he professed to be a mere friend of mankind, without bias to any political party, the official world avoided even to pronounce his name, and affected to have forgotten the man whose conduct had before been considered as a reproof, and whose influence menaced danger to people in place. Instead of accepting the challenge, it seemed more worthy to fight the battle out with the vile weapons of abuse and slander. Of course the reader will not regard Mr. Drystubble’s nonsensical and hypocritical observations as the sentiments of our author. It is precisely Multatuli’s intention to make Drystubble odious, and his philosophy absurd, though sometimes he speaks truth and common-sense—for he is a type of a part of the Dutch nation.

So much for the tendency of the book. Need I say that it will do honour to the literature of any language, and that it may be read as well for profit as for amusement? But Max Havelaar is immortal, not because of literary art or talent, but because of the cause he advocates. I think that every one who admires Harriet Beecher Stowe’s [[ix]]immortal pleading, ought likewise to read Multatuli’s accusation. I compare Max Havelaar to Uncle Tom’s Cabin, but I do not compare Multatuli, the champion and the martyr of humanity and justice, to Mrs. Stowe, for I am not aware that that lady, with all her merits, has sacrificed future fortune, and all that makes life agreeable, for a principle—for right and equity—as has been done by Eduard Douwes Dekker. Max Havelaar bears evidence of having been written by a genius of that order which only appears at long intervals in the world’s history. His mind embraces in its intellectual compass all mankind, regardless of race or caste. By the diffusion of this book a bond will be formed embracing all lovers of genius and justice throughout the world.

It was the intention of the author to have had his work translated into all the European languages. Unfortunately he unwittingly disposed of the property of his own book, and if it had not thus been “legally” withheld from the people of Holland, it is probable that I should not have been its translator; but I have been constrained to make known as widely as possible the sad truth regarding the mal-administration of laws in themselves good, by the Dutch Government in her Indian dependencies. To the British nation the facts will be new, as the books published [[x]]in England on Dutch India are few in number, superficial in character, and give no idea of the condition of the native population. I cannot judge of English politics or about British India, but however perfect British rule may be, it cannot be so perfect that it has nothing more to learn.

ALPHONSE JOHAN BERNARD HORSTMAR NAHUIJS.

The Hague,
January 17, 1868. [[xi]]

[1] Mr. Veth, the well-known learned Orientalist at Leyden, who made a special study of Indian matters, declared that Multatuli understated the truth, and quoted many authors, such as Mr. Vitalis and others, who had published accounts of scenes and facts much more shocking than he had depicted. Mr. Veth complimented Multatuli upon his moderation, saying that he displayed a mastership of art in not exhausting the subject. [↑]

TO

Everdine Huberte, Baroness Wijnbergen.

“J’ai souvent entendu plaindre les femmes de poëte, et sans doute, pour tenir dignement dans la vie ce difficile emploi, aucune qualité n’est de trop. Le plus rare ensemble de mérites n’est que le strict nécessaire, et ne suffit même pas toujours au commun bonheur. Voir sans cesse la muse en tiers dans vos plus familiers entretiens,—recueillir dans ses bras et soigner ce poëte qui est votre mari, quand il vous revient meurtri par les déceptions de sa tâche;—ou bien le voir s’envoler à la poursuite de sa chimère … voilà l’ordinaire de l’existence pour une femme de poëte. Oui, mais aussi il y a le chapître des compensations, l’heure des lauriers qu’il a gagnés à la sueur de son génie, et qu’il dépose pieusement aux pieds de la femme légitimement aimée, aux genoux de l’Antigone qui sert de guide en ce monde à cet ‘aveugle errant;’—

“Car, ne vous-y-trompez-pas: presque tous les petit-fils d’Homère sont plus ou moins aveugles à leur façon;—ils voient ce que nous ne voyons pas; leurs regards pénètrent plus haut et plus au fond que les nôtres; mais ils ne savent pas voir droit devant eux leur petit bonhomme de chemin, et il seraient capables de trébucher et de se casser le nez sur le moindre caillou, s’il leur fallait cheminer sans soutien, dans ces vallées de prose où demeure la vie.”

(Henry de Pène.) [[xii]]

OFFICER. My Lord, this is the man who murdered Betsy.

JUDGE. He must hang for it. How did he do it?

OFFICER. He cut up her body in little pieces, and salted them.

JUDGE. He is a great criminal. He must hang for it.

LOTHARIO. My Lord, I did not murder Betsy: I fed and clothed and cherished her. I can call witnesses who will prove me to be a good man, and no murderer.

JUDGE. You must hang. You blacken your crime by your self-sufficiency. It ill becomes one who … is accused of anything to set up for a good man.

LOTHARIO. But, my Lord, … there are witnesses to prove it; and as I am now accused of murder.…

JUDGE. You must hang for it. You cut up Betsy—you salted the pieces—and you are satisfied with your conduct,—three capital counts——who are you, my good woman?

WOMAN. I am Betsy.

LOTHARIO. Thank God! You see, my Lord, that I did not murder her.

JUDGE. Humph!——ay——what!——What about the salting?

BETSY. No, my Lord, he did not salt me:——on the contrary, he did many things for me … he is a worthy man!

LOTHARIO. You hear, my Lord, she says I am an honest man.

JUDGE. Humph!——the third count remains. Officer, remove the prisoner, he must hang for it; he is guilty of self-conceit.

(Unpublished Play.)

[[1]]

CHAPTER I.

I am a coffee-broker, and live at No. 37 Laurier Canal, Amsterdam. I am not accustomed to write novels or works of that kind; therefore it took me a long time before I could resolve to order a few extra quires of paper and begin this book, which you, dear reader, have just taken in hand, and which you must finish, whether you are a coffee-broker or anything else. Not only that I never wrote anything that resembled a novel, but I even do not like to read such things, because I am a man of business. For many years I have asked myself what is the use of such works, and I am astonished at the impudence with which many a poet or novelist dares to tell you stories which never happened, and often never could have happened at all. If I in my position,—I am a coffee-broker, and live at No. 37 Laurier Canal,—made a statement to a Principal, that is, a person who sells coffee, in which I related only a small part of the lies which form the greater part of poems and novels, he [[2]]would immediately cease to employ me, and go over to Busselinck and Waterman, who are likewise coffee-brokers,—but you need not know their address. Therefore I take good care not to write any novels, nor to advance any false statements. I have always remarked that persons who do so are often badly off. I am forty-three years of age, I have visited the Exchange for the last twenty years, and, therefore, I can come forward whenever you are in want of a person of experience. How many firms do I know which have been utterly ruined! And generally, when looking for the causes of their failure, it appeared to me that they must be attributed to the wrong direction which most of them followed in the beginning.

My maxims are, and will always be, Truth and Common-sense; making, of course, an exception with regard to the Holy Scriptures. The origin of this fault may be traced to our children’s poet, Van Alphen,[1] in his very first line, about “dear little babies.” What the deuce could make that old gentleman declare himself to be an adorer of my little sister Gertrude, who had weak eyes, or of my brother Gerard, who always played with his nose? and yet, he says, “that he sang those poems inspired by love.” I often thought when a child, “My dear fellow, I should like to meet you once, and if you refused me the marbles which I should ask you for, or the [[3]]initials of my name in chocolate—my name is Batavus—then I should believe you to be a liar.” But I never saw Van Alphen; he was dead, I think, when he told us that my father was my best friend, and that my little dog was so grateful (we never kept any dogs, they are so very dirty); although I was much fonder of little Paul Winser, who lived near us in Batavier Street.

All lies! And yet in this manner education goes on:—“The new little sister came from the vegetable-woman in a big cabbage.” “All Dutchmen are brave and generous.” “The Romans were glad that the Batavians allowed them to live.” “The Bey of Tunis got a colic when he heard the Dutch colours flapping.” “The Duke of Alva was a monster.”[2] “The ebb-tide (in 1672, I believe) lasted a little longer than usual, only to protect the Netherlands.” Nonsense! Holland has remained Holland because our forefathers knew how to manage their affairs, and because they had the true religion—that is the reason. And then came other lies. “A girl is an angel.” Whoever first discovered that never had any sisters. Love is a bliss; you fly with some dear object or other to the end of the earth. The earth has no end, and such love is all nonsense. Nobody can say that I do not live on good terms with my wife,—she is a daughter of Last and Co., coffee-brokers,—nobody can find fault with our marriage. I am a member of the [[4]]fashionable “Artis” club,[3] and she has an Indian shawl which cost £7, 13s. 4d., but yet we never indulged in such a foolish love as would have urged us to fly to the extremities of the earth. When we married, we made an excursion to the Hague. She there bought some flannel, of which I still wear shirts; and further our love has never driven us. So, I say, it is all nonsense and lies! And should my marriage now be less happy than that of those persons who out of pure love become consumptive, or tear the hair out of their heads? Or do you think that my household is less orderly than it would be, if seventeen years ago I had promised my bride in verse that I should marry her? Stuff and nonsense! yet I could have done such a thing as well as any one else; for the making of verses is a profession certainly less difficult than ivory-turning, otherwise how could bon-bons with mottoes be so cheap? Only compare their price with that of two billiard-balls. I have no objection to verses. If you like to put the words into a line, very well; but do not say anything beyond the truth; thus,—

“The clock strikes four

And it rains no more.”

I will not say anything against that, if it is indeed four [[5]]o’clock, and it has really stopped raining. But if it is a quarter to three, then I, who do not put my words in verse, can say, “It is a quarter to three, and it has stopped raining.” But the rhymer, because it rains “no more,” is bound to say “four.” Either the time or the weather must be changed, and a lie is the result. And it is not rhyming alone that allures young people to untruth. Go to the theatre, and listen to all the lies they tell you. The hero of the piece is saved from being drowned by a person who is on the point of becoming a bankrupt. Then, as we are told, he gives his preserver half his fortune,—a statement that cannot be true, as I proceed to show. When lately my hat was blown by the wind into the Prinsen Canal, I gave the man twopence who brought it back to me, and he was satisfied. I know very well that I ought to have given a little more if he had saved my own self from drowning, but certainly not half my fortune; for it is evident that in such a case, falling twice into the water would quite ruin me. The worst of these scenes on the stage is, that people become so much accustomed to untruths, that they get into the habit of admiring and applauding them. I should like to throw all such applauders into the water, to see how many of them really meant that applause. I, who love truth, hereby give notice, that I won’t pay half my fortune for being fished up. He who is not satisfied with less, need not touch me. On Sundays only I should give a little more, on account [[6]]of my gold chain and best coat. Yes! many persons become corrupted by the stage, much more than by novels, for seeing is believing. With tinsel and lace cut out in paper, all looks so very attractive, that is to say, for children and men who are not accustomed to business. And even when they want to represent poverty, their representation is generally a lie. A girl whose father has become a bankrupt, works to support her family. Very well; you see her on the stage, sewing, knitting, or embroidering. Now, do count the stitches which she makes during a whole act. She talks, she sighs, she runs to the window, she does everything except work. Surely the family that can live by such work needs very little. This girl is, of course, the heroine. She has pushed some seducers down-stairs, and cries continually, “Oh, mother, mother!” and thus she represents Virtue. A nice virtue indeed, which takes a year in making a pair of stockings! Does not all this serve to give you false ideas of virtue, and of “labour for daily bread?” All folly and lies! Then her first lover, who was formerly a copying-clerk, but is now immensely rich, returns suddenly, and marries her. Lies again. He who has money does not marry a bankrupt’s daughter. You think that such a scene will do on the stage, as an exceptional case, but the audience will mistake the exception for the rule, and thus become demoralized by accustoming themselves to applaud on the stage, that which in the [[7]]world every respectable broker or merchant considers to be ridiculous madness. When I was married, we were thirteen of us at the office of my father-in-law, Last and Co.,—and a good deal of business was done there, I can assure you. And now for more lies on the stage:—When the hero walks away in a stiff, stage-like manner, to serve his native country, why does the back-door always open of itself?

And then this Virtue rewarded!—oh, oh! I have been these seventeen years a coffee-broker, at No. 37 Laurier Canal, and I have had a great deal of experience, but I am always much shocked when I see the dear, good truth so distorted. Rewarded Virtue, forsooth! just as if virtue was a trade commodity! It is not so in the world, and it is very good that it is not so, for where would be the real merit if virtue were always rewarded? Why then always invent such shameful lies? There is, for instance, Lucas, the warehouse-porter, who had been in the employ of Last and Co.’s father,—the firm was then Last and Meyer, but the Meyers are no longer in it,—he was really an honest man, in my opinion. Never was a single coffee-bean missing; he went to church very punctually; and was a teetotaller. When my father-in-law was at his country seat at Driebergen, this man kept the house, the cash, and everything. Once the bank paid him seventeen guilders too much, and he returned them. He is now too old and gouty to work, [[8]]and therefore starves, for our large business transactions require young men. Well, this Lucas has been a very virtuous man—but is he rewarded? Does a prince give him diamonds, or a fairy nice dinners? Certainly not; he is poor, and he remains poor, and that must be so. I cannot help him. We want active young men for our extensive business; but if I could do anything for him, his merit would be rewarded in an easy life, now that he is old. Then if all warehouse-porters, and everybody else became virtuous, all would be rewarded in this world, and there would remain no special reward for the good people hereafter. But on the stage they distort everything—turn everything into lies.

I too am virtuous, but do I ask a reward for that? When my affairs go on well, as they generally do; when my wife and children are healthy, so that I have nothing to do with doctors; when I can put aside every year a small sum for old age; when Fred behaves well, that he may be able to take my place when I retire to my country-seat near Driebergen,—then I am quite satisfied. But all this is only a natural consequence of circumstances, and because I attend to my business. I claim nothing for my virtue; and that I am a virtuous man is evident from my love for truth, which is second only to my great inclination to my Faith—I should like to convince you of this, dear reader, because it is my excuse for writing this book. Another passion equally strong is my love of business. [[9]]I am a coffee-broker, at No. 37 Laurier Canal. Well, reader, this book owes its existence to my inviolable love for truth, and my zeal for business. I will tell you how all this has happened. But as I must now leave you for some time, being obliged to go to the Exchange, I invite you to a second chapter. Pray, take this with you; it may be of service to you. Look here,—my card,—I am the “Co.,” since the Meyers went out—old Last is my father-in-law:—

Last & Co.,
Coffee-Brokers,
No. 37 Laurier Canal. [[10]]

[1] Hieronymus Van Alphen, author of Little Poems for Children, etc., was born in 1746, died in 1803. [↑]

[2] See the History of Holland. [↑]

[3] A club at the Zoological Gardens, whose motto is “Artis Natura magistra.” [↑]

CHAPTER II.

Business is slack on the Coffee Exchange. The Spring Auction will make it right again. Don’t suppose, however, that we have nothing to do. At Busselinck and Waterman’s trade is slacker still. It is a strange world this: one gets a deal of experience by frequenting the Exchange for twenty years. Only fancy that they have tried—I mean Busselinck and Waterman—to do me out of the custom of Ludwig Stern. As I do not know whether you are familiar with the Exchange, I will tell you that Stern is an eminent coffee-merchant in Hamburg, who always employed Last and Co. Quite accidentally I found that out—I mean that bungling business of Busselinck and Waterman. They had offered to reduce the brokerage by one-fourth per cent. They are low fellows—nothing else. And now look what I have done to stop them. Any one in my place would perhaps have written to Ludwig Stern, “that we too would diminish the brokerage, and that we hoped for consideration on account of the long services of Last and Co.” [[11]]

I have calculated that our firm, during the last fifty years, has gained four hundred thousand guilders by Stern. Our connexion dates from the beginning of the continental system, when we smuggled Colonial produce and such like things from Heligoland. No, I won’t reduce the brokerage.

I went to the Polen coffee-house, ordered pen and paper, and wrote:—

“That because of the many honoured commissions received from North Germany, our business transactions had been extended”—[it is the simple truth]—“and that this necessitated an augmentation of our staff”—[it is the truth: no more than yesterday evening our bookkeeper was in the office after eleven o’clock to look for his spectacles];—“that, above all things, we were in great want of respectable, educated young men to conduct the German correspondence. That, certainly, there were many young Germans in Amsterdam, who possessed the requisite qualifications, but that a respectable firm”—[it is the very truth],—“seeing the frivolity and immorality of young men, and the daily increasing number of adventurers, and with an eye to the necessity of making correctness of conduct go hand in hand with correctness in the execution of orders”—[it is the truth, observe, and nothing but the truth],—“that such a firm—I mean Last and Co., coffee-brokers, 37 Laurier Canal—could not be anxious enough in engaging new hands.”

All that is the simple truth, reader. Do you know [[12]]that the young German who always stood at the Exchange, near the seventeenth pillar, has eloped with the daughter of Busselinck and Waterman? Our Mary, like her, will be thirteen years old in September.

“That I had the honour to hear from Mr. Saffeler”—[Saffeler travels for Stern]—“that the honoured head of the firm, Ludwig Stern, had a son, Mr. Ernest Stern, who wished for employment for some time in a Dutch house.”

“That I, mindful of this”—[here I referred again to the immorality of employés, and also to the history of that daughter of Busselinck and Waterman; it won’t do any harm to tell it],—“that I, mindful of this, wished, with all my heart, to offer Mr. Ernest Stern the German correspondence of our firm.”

From delicacy I avoided all allusion to honorarium or salary; yet I said:—

“That if Mr. Ernest Stern would like to stay with us, at 37 Laurier Canal, my wife would care for him as a mother, and have his linen mended in the house”—[that is the very truth, for Mary sews and knits very well],—and in conclusion I said, “that we were a religious family.”

The last sentence may do good, for the Sterns are Lutherans. I posted that letter. You understand that old Mr. Stern could not very well give his custom to Busselinck and Waterman, if his son were in our office. [[13]]I am very anxious for a reply. But to return to my book. Some time ago I walked one evening through Kalver Street, and stopped looking into a shop where a grocer was diligently sorting a quantity of—

“Java middling, fine, yellow, Cheribon coffee, slightly damaged,”

which interested me much, for I am very inquisitive. Suddenly I observed a gentleman standing next to me in front of a bookseller’s shop, whom I thought I had seen before, though I endeavoured in vain to recollect him. He, too, seemed to recognise me; for every moment we looked at one another. I must confess, that I really was too much interested in the adulterated coffee immediately to observe, what I saw afterwards, viz., that his clothes were very shabby; otherwise I should not have taken any notice of him; but all of a sudden I thought, perhaps he is a commercial traveller for a German firm, which is in need of a trustworthy broker. He had rather a German face, and appeared something of a traveller too; he was very fair, with blue eyes, and had something about him which made you think that he was a foreigner. Instead of a respectable winter-coat he wore a shawl or plaid, and looked as if he had just ended a long journey. I thought I saw a customer, and gave him an address card, “Last and Co., Coffee-brokers, 37 Laurier Canal.” He took it, and holding it near the gaslight looked at it, and said, [[14]]“I thank you, but I was mistaken; I thought I had the pleasure of seeing an old school-fellow, but … Last … that is not the right name.”

“Excuse me,” I said, for I am always polite, “I am Mr. Drystubble—Batavus Drystubble; Last and Co. is the firm, coffee-brokers, at No. 37 Laurier Canal.”

“Well, Drystubble, don’t you know me? Look me straight in the face.”

The more I looked him in the face, the more I remembered having seen him before; but, strange to say, his face made an impression on me as if I smelt foreign perfumes. Do not laugh at that, reader; by and by you will see how that was. I feel quite assured that he had not a drop of perfumery about him, and yet I smelt something very strong, something which reminded me of——then I knew him!

“Was it you,” I said, “who rescued me from the Greek?”

“To be sure,” said he, “and how are you?”

I told him that we were thirteen of us in our office, and that we had plenty to do, and then I asked him how he had got on, which I felt quite sorry for afterwards, for it appeared that his pecuniary circumstances were not prosperous, and I dislike poor people, because it is for the most part their own fault, as the Lord would not forsake a person who had served Him faithfully. If I had only said, “We are thirteen of us,” and “I wish you good-night,” then I should have got rid of him; but these [[15]]questions and replies made it every minute more difficult to shake him off. However, I must confess, that if I had shaken him off you would not have had this book to read, for it owes its existence to that meeting! I like to look at the bright side of everything, and those who do not are discontented creatures: I can’t bear them. Yes, yes, it was the same person who had rescued me out of the clutches of the Greek! Don’t think, however, that I had been taken prisoner by pirates, or that I had had a brawl in the Levant. I have told you already that I went, after my marriage, with my wife to the Hague, where we saw the Museum, and bought flannel in Veene Street,—the only excursion that my extensive business at Amsterdam ever allowed me. No; it was on my account that he gave a Greek a bloody nose, for always interfering with other people’s business. It was in the year 1834 I think, and in September, the annual fair-time at Amsterdam. As my parents intended to make a clergyman of me, I learned Latin. Afterwards, I often wondered why you must understand Latin to say in Dutch, “God is good.” Enough, I went to the Latin school, now called the Gymnasium, and there was the fair,—in Amsterdam, I mean. On the Wester Market were booths; and if you, reader, are an Amsterdammer, and about my age, you will remember that in one of them was a most beautiful girl with black eyes, dressed as a Greek; her father too was a Greek, or at least he had the appearance [[16]]of a Greek. They sold all sorts of perfumes. I was just old enough to think the girl very beautiful, without having the courage to speak to her. Such an attempt would have been fruitless; for a girl of eighteen thinks a boy of sixteen a child, and there she is quite right. Yet we schoolboys always went to the Wester Market to see that girl.

Now, he who stood before me with the plaid was once with us, though some years younger than the rest, and therefore too childish to look at the Grecian girl; but he was dux of our class,—for he was very clever, that I must confess,—and he was very fond of playing, romping, and fighting; therefore he was with us. While we looked from a distance at the Grecian girl (I think we were ten of us), and deliberated how we should set about making acquaintance with her, we made up our minds to put our money together to buy something. But then it was very difficult to know who should be so bold as to speak to the girl. Every one liked it, but nobody dared attempt it. We cast lots, and I was chosen. Now, I confess that I do not like to brave dangers; I am a husband and a father, and think every one who braves danger to be a fool: this you may read in the Bible. It is a great satisfaction for me to find that I think about danger and suchlike things exactly as I did many years ago. I have still the same opinion as I had on that very evening when I stood close to the Greek’s booth, with the twelve pence we had put together in my hand. But because of false shame, I dared [[17]]not say that I had not the courage to do it; besides, I had to advance against my will, for my companions pushed me, and soon I was standing before the booth.

I did not see the girl; I saw nothing. All became green and yellow before my eyes … I stammered out the First Aorist of I do not know which verb.…

“Plait-il?” said she. I recovered a little and continued,—“Μῆνιν ἀεῖδε, θεά,” and “that Egypt was a present from the Nile.”… I feel quite sure that I should have made her acquaintance if one of my companions had not at that moment given me such a punch in the back that I stumbled with much violence against the booth. I felt a grasp at my neck, a second one much lower, and before I had time to think about my position, I was inside the tent with the Greek, who told me in very intelligible French, that I was a “gamin,” and that he would call the “police.” Now, I was very near the girl, but it gave me no pleasure at all. I cried, and prayed for mercy, for I was much afraid. But there was no help for it; the Greek took hold of my arm, and kicked me. I looked for my comrades. We had just read that morning about Scævola, who put his hand in the fire——and in our Latin themes we thought it so fine and so elevated——Pooh! nobody stayed to put his hand in the fire for me!! So I thought. But all of a sudden, our friend of the Plaid, or Shawlman, as we shall call him, rushed through the back entrance into the booth. He was then neither [[18]]tall nor strong, and only thirteen years old, but he was a brave and nimble little fellow. I still see the sparkling of his eyes; he gave the Greek a blow with his fist, and I was saved. Afterwards I heard that the Greek drubbed him soundly, but as I have a steady principle never to meddle with other people’s business, I ran away immediately, and so I did not see it.

That is the reason why his face reminded me so much of perfumes, and how easy it is in Amsterdam to quarrel with a Greek.

Afterwards, whenever that man was with his booth on the Wester Market, I always went elsewhere to amuse myself.

As I am very fond of philosophical observations, I must be allowed to remark how strangely all things hang together in this world. If the eyes of that girl had been lighter, if her tresses had been shorter, or the boys had not pushed me against the booth, you would not now be reading this book: therefore be thankful for all that happened. Believe me, everything in the world is good, as it is, and those discontented men who are always full of complaints are not my friends. There you have Busselinck and Waterman …; but I must go on, for I have to finish my book before the great Spring Coffee Auction. To speak the truth—for I like truth—I felt it very unpleasant to meet that person again. I saw in a moment that he was not an acquaintance to be proud of. He looked very [[19]]pale, and when I asked him what o’clock it was, he didn’t know! These things a man observes who has frequented the Exchange for twenty years or so, and transacted business there.——I’ve witnessed many a crash.

I thought he would turn to the right, and therefore I went to the left; but, lo, he too turned to the left, and so I was in for a conversation with him; but I bore in mind that he did not know what o’clock it was, and perceived at the same time that his coat was buttoned up to his chin, which is a very bad sign, so I did not speak much. He told me that he had been in India, that he was married, and had children. All very well; but this was not very interesting to me. At the Kapelsteeg,[1]—I never before went through that steeg,[2] because it is not considered respectable,—but this time I intended to turn to the right, and pass through the Kapelsteeg,—I waited till that little street was just behind us, to make him understand that his way was straight on, and then I said very politely—for I am always polite: one never knows whether he may not afterwards want to use a person:—“I am very much pleased that I have seen you again, Sir, … and … and, good-bye.… I have to go this way.” Then he looked like an idiot at me and sighed, and all of a sudden took hold of one of the buttons of my coat … “Dear Drystubble,” said he, “I have to ask you something.” [[20]]

I trembled all over. He did not know what o’clock it was, and had to ask me something! Of course I replied that “I had no time to spare, and had to go to the Exchange,” though it was evening;—but if you have frequented the Exchange for some twenty years … and a person asks you something without knowing what o’clock it is … I disengaged the button, bade him farewell in a polite manner—for I am always polite—and went through the Kapelsteeg, which I otherwise never do, because it is not fashionable, and fashionableness I like above all things. I hope that nobody saw me. [[21]]

[1] Kapelsteeg = Butterfly Lane. [↑]

[2] Steeg = Lane. [↑]

CHAPTER III.

The following day, when I came home from the Exchange, Fred told me that somebody had called to speak to me. According to the description it was Shawlman. How could he have found me out——oh, yes, I see, the card!

This made me think of taking my children away from school, for it is very annoying to be troubled twenty or thirty years afterwards by a school-companion who wears a shawl instead of a coat, and who does not know what o’clock it is. I have also forbidden Fred to go to the Wester Market when there are booths.

Next day I received a letter with a large parcel. I began at once to read:

“Dear Drystubble!” [I think he ought to have written ‘Sir,’ because I am a broker.] “Yesterday I called at your house with the intention of asking you a favour. I believe you are in good circumstances”—[that is true; we are thirteen of us in our office],—“and I should like to use your credit to bring about a matter of great importance [[22]]to me.”—[Should you not think that he would rather have given me a commission for the Spring Auction?]—“Through many misfortunes I stand somewhat in need of money.”—[Somewhat! he had no shirt on his back; this is what he calls somewhat!]—“I cannot give my dear wife everything that is necessary to make life agreeable, and the education of my children is, from pecuniary impediments, not as I should like it to be.”—[To make life agreeable——? education of children——? Do you think that he wishes to take a season ticket for his wife at the opera, and place his children in a gymnasium at Geneva? It was autumn, and very cold,—he lived in a garret, and without fire. When I received that letter I was ignorant of this, but afterwards I went to him, and I am still angry at the foolish style of his letter. What the deuce!——Whoever is poor may say it;——there must be poor people; that is necessary in society. If he does not ask charity, if he annoys nobody, I don’t care for his poverty, but disguising the matter is very improper. Now, let us see what more he has to say.]—“As I am obliged to provide for my household, I have resolved to make use of a talent which, as I believe, I am in possession of. I am a poet——”—[Pshaw! you know, reader, how I and all reasonable men think about that] “——and writer. Since childhood I have expressed my feelings in verse, and afterwards, too, I always wrote down in poetry the sensations of my soul. [[23]]I believe that I have made some valuable pieces, and I want a publisher for them. This, then, is the difficulty. I am unknown to the public, and the publishers judge of works more according to the reputation of the author than the value of the contents.”—[Exactly as we judge of the coffee, according to the reputation of the trademarks.]—“The merit of my work can only be established by publication; and the booksellers require payment in advance of all the expenses”—[There they are quite right]—“which is at present not convenient to me. I am, however, so convinced that my book would clear the expenses, that I could pledge my word for it, and as I am encouraged by our meeting of the day before yesterday,”—[That is what he calls being encouraged!]—“I have resolved to ask you to be surety for me to a bookseller for the expenses of a first edition, even if it were only a small book. I give you the choice of works for that first experiment. In the accompanying parcel you will find many manuscripts; from which you will see that I have thought, worked, and experienced much”—[I never heard that he had any business at all];—“and if I am not a stranger to the talent of expressing myself well, my ill success will not be due to any want of impressions. In hopes of a kind answer, I remain your old school-fellow”——[And he signed this with his name; but I make a secret of that, because I do not like to bring discredit on any one.] [[24]]

Dear reader, you can understand how foolish I looked in being made all at once a broker in verses. I am quite sure that if Shawlman—so I will continue to call him—had seen me by daylight, he would not have dared to ask me such a favour; for respectability and dignity cannot be concealed; but it was evening, and therefore I don’t mind.

Of course, I would have nothing to do with this nonsense. I should have returned the parcel, but that I did not know where he lived, and I heard nothing of him. I thought that he was ill, or dead. Last week there was a party at the Rosemeyers, who are sugar-brokers. Fred went out for the first time with us; he is sixteen, and I think it right that a young man at that age should see something of the world; otherwise he will go to the Wester Market, or somewhere else. The girls had been playing on the piano and singing, and at dessert they teased each other about something that seemed to have happened in the front room while we played at whist in the back room—something in which Fred was concerned.

“Yes, yes, Louise,” said Betsy Rosemeyer; “you did cry. Papa, Fred made Louise cry.”

My wife said that Fred should not go out again if he was so naughty; she thought that he had pinched Louise, or something like that, which is not proper, and I, too, made preparations to say a few words about it, [[25]]when Louise said: “No, no, Fred was very kind; I should like him to do it again!”

“What then?” He had not pinched her; he had been reciting, that was all. Of course the mistress of the house likes to have some fun at dessert,—it enlivens the company. Mrs. Rosemeyer thought that what had made Louise cry would amuse us too, and therefore asked Fred, who was as red as a turkey-cock, to repeat it. I could not understand what he had done; I knew his whole répertoire, which consisted of the “Wedding-Party of the Gods,” the books of the Old Testament in rhyme, and an episode from the “Wedding of Camacho,” which boys always like so much, because it is rather funny; and what there was in all this that could make any one cry was a riddle to me; it is true, a girl of that age weeps very soon.—“Come, Fred! Please do!”—and Fred began. As I do not like to stretch the curiosity of the reader, I will here at once state, that before leaving home they had opened Shawlman’s parcel, and Fred and Mary had picked out of it a piece of sentimentality, which afterwards gave me a great deal of trouble. This book owes its existence to that parcel, and in due time I will account for it quite becomingly; for I like to make it known that I love truth, and am a good man of business.—[Last and Co., coffee-brokers, at No. 37 Laurier Canal.]

Fred recited a thing full of nonsense. A young man wrote to his mother that he had been in love, and that [[26]]his sweetheart had married another—[there she was quite right I think]—yet that he nevertheless always loved his mother very much. Is that statement true or not? Do you think so many words are wanted to say that? At all events I had eaten a piece of bread and cheese, and nearly finished my second pear, before Fred finished his story. But Louise cried again, and the ladies said that it was very beautiful.

Then Fred, who, I believe, thought he had brought out a masterpiece, told them that he found it in a parcel sent to my house by the man with the shawl; and I explained to the gentlemen how that happened, but I said nothing about the Grecian girl, because Fred was present, neither did I speak of the Kapelsteeg. Every one thought that it was quite right on my part to get rid of that man. Presently you will see that there were other things in the parcel of more solid worth, some of which will appear in this book, because they concern the coffee-auctions of the Company.

Afterwards, the publisher asked me whether I would not add to the work the piece or poem which Fred had recited. I consented, but I wish it to be known that I am not responsible for the sentiments expressed. All stuff and nonsense. However, I withhold my observations from want of space. I will only remark that the poem was written at “Padang,” in 1843, and that this is of inferior mark—I mean the Padang coffee:— [[27]]

Moeder! ’k ben wel ver van ’t land,

Waar mij ’t leven werd geschonken,

Waar mijne eerste tranen blonken,

Waar ik opwies aan uw hand;

Waar uw moedertrouw der ziel

Van den knaap haar zorgen wijdde

En hem liefdrijk stond ter zijde,

En hem ophief als hij viel;

Schijnbaar scheurde ’t lot de banden,

Die ons bonden, wreed van een,…

’k Sta hier wel aan vreemde stranden

Met mij zelf, en God … alleen,…

Maar toch, moeder, wat me griefde,

Wat mij vreugd gaf of verdriet,

Moeder! twijfel aan de liefde,

Aan het hart uws lievlings niet!

’t Is nog naauwlijks twee paar jaren,

Toen ik ’t laatst op gindschen grond

Zwijgend aan den oever stond

Om de toekomst in te staren;

Toen ik ’t schoone tot mij riep

Dat ik van die toekomst wachtte

En het heden stout verachtte

En mij paradijzen schiep;

Toen, door alle stoornis heen

Die zich opdeed voor mijn schreên,

’t Hart zich koen een uitweg baande,

En zich droomend zalig waande …

Maar die tijd, sinds ’t laatst vaarwel

Hoe gezwind ons ook onttogen,

Onbevatbaar bliksemsnel,

Als een schim voorbijgevlogen,…

O, hij liet in ’t voorwaartsgaan,

Diepe, diepe sporen staan!

’k Proefde vreugde en smart met één,

’k Heb gedacht en ’k heb gestreden,

’k Heb gejuicht en ’k heb gebeden,…

’t Is me als vlogen eeuwen heen!

’k Heb naar levensheil gestreefd,

’k Heb gevonden en verloren,

En, een kind nog kort te voren,

Jaren in één uur doorleefd.…

* * *

’k Minde een meisje. Heel mijn leven

Scheen mij door die liefde schoon;

’k Zag in haar een eerekroon,

Als een eindloon van mijn streven,

Mij door God ten doel gegeven;—

Zalig door den reinen schat, [[28]]

Die Zijn zorg mij toegewogen,

Die Zijn gunst geschonken had,

Dankte ik met een traan in de oogen;…

Liefde was met godsdienst één,

En ’t gemoed, dat opgetogen,

Dankend opsteeg tot den Hoogen

Dankte en bad voor haar alleen!…

Zorgen baarde mij die liefde,

Onrust kwelde mij het hart,

En ondraaglijk was de smart,

Die mij ’t week gemoed doorgriefde.

’k Heb slechts angst en leed gegaêrd,

Waar ik ’t hoogst genot verwachtte,

En voor ’t heil waarnaar ik trachtte,

Was mij gif en wee bewaard.…

’k Vond genot in ’t lijdend zwijgen!

’k Stond standvastig hopend daar;

Onspoed deed den prijs mij stijgen,…

’k Droeg en leed zoo graag voor haar!

’k Telde ramp noch onspoedsslagen,

Vreugde schiep ik in verdriet,

Alles, alles wilde ik dragen,…

Roofde ’t lot mij haar slechts niet.

* * *

Wat is min die eens begon,

Bij de liefde mèt het leven

’t Kind door God in ’t hart gedreven

Toen het nog niet staam’len kon?.. Toen het aan de moederborst,

Naauw den moederschoot onttogen,

’t Eerste vocht vond voor den dorst,

’t Eerste licht in Moederoogen?…

Neen, geen band die vaster bindt,

Vaster harten houdt omsloten,

Dan de band, door God gesloten,

Tusschen ’t moederhart en ’t kind

En een hart, dat zóó zich hechtte

Aan het schoon, dat even blonk,

Dat mij niets dan doornen schonk,

En geen enkel bloempje vlechtte,…

Zou datzelfde hart de trouw

Van het moederhart vergeten;—

En de liefde van de vrouw,

Die mijne eerste kinderkreten

Opving in ’t bezorgd gemoed,—

Die mij, als ik weende, suste,

Traantjes van de wangen kuste,…

Die mij voedde met haar bloed?…

* * *

’k Ben hier vèr van wat het leven

Ginds ons zoets en schoons kan geven;

En ’t genot van d’ eerste jeugd,

Vaak geroemd en hoog geprezen,

Kan wel hier mijn deel niet wezen;

’t Eenzaam harte kent geen vreugd.

Steil en doornig zijn mijn paden,

Onspoed drukt mij diep ter neêr,

En de last mij opgeladen

Knelt me, en doet het hart mij zeer;—

Laat het slechts mijn tranen tuigen, [[29]]

Als zoo menig moed’loos uur

Me in den boezem der Natuur,

’t Hoofd zoo treurig neêr doet buigen,…

Vaak als mij de moed ontzonk,

Is de zucht mij schier ontvloden:

“Vader! schenk mij bij de dooden,

Wat het leven mij niet schonk!—

Vader! geef me aan gene zijde,

Als de mond des doods mij kust,—

Vader! geef me aan gene zijde

Wat ik hier niet smaakte … RUST!”

Maar, bestervend op mijn lippen,

Steeg die beê niet tot den Heer,…

’k Boog wel beî mijn knieën neer,—

’k Voelde wel een zucht me ontglippen,—

Maar het was: “nog niet, o Heer!

Geef mij eerst mijn moeder weêr!”

[The translator ventures with great diffidence, for he knows how much beauty and tenderness have been lost in the translation, to give an English version of the Poem.]

O mother dear, I’m far from home,

The land that gave me birth:

All hopeless and forlorn I roam,

A stranger upon earth.

’Twas in that home the dewy tear

First glistened in mine eyes,

Thy gentle hand dispelled my fear:

A mother’s love ne’er dies!

’Twas there thy faithful soul watched o’er

Thy helpless little child,

Guiding the feet untried before,

With word and look so mild.

But Destiny destroyed the band

That joined us two in one;

And now upon a foreign strand

I am, with God, alone!

Thy love, my mother dear, does still

In sorrow and in joy,

With undiminished ardour fill

The heart of thy loved boy.

At home, ’tis scarce four years ago,—

I stand upon the shore,

And think I see in future scenes,

Beauties unknown before.

[[30]]

At once the present I despise,

And dreaming, think me blest:

I make myself a Paradise,

Regardless of the rest.

I said farewell: I rue it now:

’Twas all that phantom scene,

Which disappeared so soon! O how

Deluded I have been!

And time which fled with lightning’s wing,

Deep traces left behind:

It dried up the affections’ spring—

Destroyed my peace of mind.

I’ve tested joy, I’ve tested grief,

I’ve thought, and I have striven,

With earnest prayer have sought relief,

But still I’m tempest-driven.

I’ve striven after bliss in life,

I’ve found and lost the power:

I am a child grown old in strife—

Whole ages in an hour.

O mother dear, will you believe?

(God knows that I lie not),

O mother dear, as truth receive,

That you are not forgot.

I loved a girl who seemed to be

A treasure from on high,

By God Almighty given me,

I knew not how or why.

And Him I thanked with happy tears,

For making her my own,

My sighs were lost in transient joy,

I prayed for her alone.

Yet love induced a weight of care,

And trouble filled my breast;

I found but pain and sorrow there,

Where I had looked for rest!

I suffered gladly for her sake,

In sorrows doubly dear;—

No sacrifice but I would make

So fate would leave her here!

Her image rooted in my heart,

Till life’s last sigh shall stand,

When we shall join no more to part

In her dear fatherland.

But what is such a blighted love,

To that with life begun—

A love implanted from above—